Safe by The Fire

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            The world outside has fallen away. I hear not the creatures of the night, nor the cars passing by. A single set of sounds occupies my mind, created by the space within this house. There’s too much to hear inside for me to focus on anything else.

           Within these walls, I can hear a soft wind blowing, and if I open my eyes, I know I’ll see strands of light dancing for the invisible flowing… But I can never see the strange wind. I can only hear it from beneath closed eyelids.

            There’s a soft crackling accompanying the audible breeze as if it’s been carrying crumbs of special treats and dropping them on the hardwood floor for me. I wouldn’t eat these crumbs though if they fell, they’re usually darker than the night sky that makes stars shine, and would burn my tongue if I even tried. I know I won’t be making that same mistake twice.

            But perhaps the loveliest sound of all comes from the one that breathes, even breaths stroking their lungs as they begin to fall asleep. I sit with my arms and legs curled beneath me, small enough to lay perched on a human tummy. I hear a voice of pure silk whispering, and though I can’t understand a thing, I know exactly what they’re saying. “Sweet dreams, kitty.”

It doesn’t matter that we’re still on the couch. This is where we like to sleep… nestled together for warmth even though there’s never been a more welcoming heat. I relax the rest of my body, smelling the burning wood mix with my human’s natural perfume, “Goodnight.” I mewl in my own tongue, with a yawn, and let my jaw settle down so my human’s favourite sound from within me can carry on.

That’s how I drift asleep. Purring and smiling, safe within my home, safe by the fire.


Jasper Compton

Jasper loves to explore different types of art – especially writing. It’s a passion that brings joy and serves as an outlet of self-expression. It’s a place to go, a realm of self-creation, beyond the ordinary.

A Bridge Between Two Worlds


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What does it mean to be human? 

I can’t quite find the words or the...feelings. 

Everything is different now. When the androids first claimed to feel, to think for themselves, the world went up in flames. And so did I. I don’t know what came over me but when I saw the grenade the only thing I thought to do was to push her out of the way and take the brunt of the explosion. 

I’m sure the world thinks that I’m crazy about saving the life of what they see as a machine but who am I to say whether their lives are less than ours? I did what I thought was right and I don’t regret it for a second. 

Everyone thought I died. 

I should have died but I didn’t. By some miracle, I woke up to find that my body had healed from all of the injuries I sustained from the explosion. All of my burns, which I swear that I saw through delirious eyes as I came to and from consciousness, were completely healed. Pieces of my flesh which had been blown away to reveal the bone underneath were repaired. It had been as though I had never jumped into the line of fire. 

The first thing that came to mind was that I had, in fact, died and that I had awoken in some version of the afterlife. But there were machines beeping and familiar voices chattering away exactly ten feet to my right. I thought when I woke that I would feel thirsty or hungry or tired but as I pushed myself upright I realized that I felt...neutral. 

I could feel the scratchy sheets on my newly reformed skin and wisps of my hair on my cheeks but there wasn’t a hint of any internal feeling beyond fear and confusion. I brought my hands to my face, feeling where shrapnel and pieces of pavement had hit me only to find that there was nothing but oddly perfect skin. 

Something felt wrong. 

I felt wrong. I no longer felt…like myself. 

“Ah you’re awake.” A man in a tailored suit appeared at the end of my bed with the familiar face of my father at his side. “Good. How do you feel?”

I glanced between my father and the stranger.  

“What happened? What did you do to me?”

“We saved you, Abigail.” 

“How? I should have died and now I’m sitting here completely unscathed like the whole thing never happened!”

The anger came pouring out of my mouth in bitter words that made my father flinch. 

I looked directly at the man in the suit now, glaring. He looked at me with a cool, collective calm and smiled.

“Think of it as preventative health care. As in we prevented you from dying...ever.”

My chest heaved as fear mingled with rage. 

“What. Did. You. Do?”

“Abby, I’m sorry.” My father stepped forward and with tears in his eyes, he said, “I couldn’t lose you like I lost your brother.”

“Nanotechnology is a relatively new discovery, Abigail. It’s only recently been approved for human trials and now we know it works. You are the first human to have successfully bonded with it. A miracle of science, a bridge between humans and androids.”

He raised his hands as though praising the gods.

“You are...immortal.”


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Sarah Clarke

Sarah is a 20-something aspiring author who has a passion for writing. She is also an avid fan of movies, TV shows, video games, and of course, books. Her favourite genres include fantasy, sci-fi, historical fiction, and various others. Why have one favourite when you can have many?

Like a Tree

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Like a Tree 

the branches are scarred, 

trunk covered in moss, 

the leaves decaying. 

yet, 

standing tall against an overcast sky, 

defiant in its resistance, 

it remains. 

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Baz

While they can often be found curled up with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate, Baz is just as often found at their desk, working away at a poem or short story. As a hopeless romantic and lover of fantasy, both of these elements often shine through in their writing.

Winter Nights of the Dancing Flame

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Outspoken hearts and reserved farts,

Idle principal, surreal introversion,

A mask we wear outside.

Volcanic erupt, rubies in the rough,

By wilderness, Charisma,

contempt left to shelter.

Blizzard, abrupt, sapphires forged sturdier.

An unsuspected encounter.

Ash begins its trickled blossom,

As varied light opens a closer dark horizon,

Tiding sky Navies time by usual yesteryear.

Fire and Ice blooming

 a ripe affinity, looming.

Scorpio & Aquarius.

A surreal introversion and an outspoken heart,

This affinity by definition.

Associates, affiliation, a monotype is born,

Communion of warmth,

weather to a stereo, whispering breeze and frozen melodies.

The honeymoon match begins awaits Spring Stakes a Miss.


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Karim Abbadi

This poem reminisces on memories of my personal adolescent experiences in high school. It talks about some of the things we might go through growing up and tells a tale of how these hardships are a trail of passage to something better when we take the time to work for it. Whichever one you read, I hope it resonances with you. Enjoy!

Life Advice for the Living

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As I lay on my deathbed, 

waiting for my spirit to fly away to the gates of heaven,

I send my words and thoughts for those living today;

The most important things you can learn, this old man will teach you.

Love is something to be grateful for each day, as I was.

Today, I will get to finally see my wife again after six years without her.

Always remember to spend much time with your partner

because life goes by very fast and it will take things away from you unexpectedly.

War is not a way to make peace.

All lives benefit when we encourage ourselves to not bring in hate.

But even if we cannot fix what made history bad before,

always understand you can make the present better and help improve the future.

Fame describes how people want much attention today.

If you do seek to have it, there will always be a price.

If you wish to join the stars,

always seek the way that will not swallow you into the dark edges of publicity.

Life & Death is something we all go through in order to be in this world.

We are born and we die old, but we do not die alone.

And even though some people die without spending much time on Earth,

always know that we will have the time to spend with them eternally as we fade, too.

Because once we are up in the heavens, 

we will always have the time to be around all our loved ones.


Richard Renaud

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RICHARD RENAUD is a second-year student in the Professional Writing class at Algonquin College. He enjoys reading, watching TV/movies, walking, and spending time with family and friends. He is the author of the poem To My Future Grandchild which was submitted on the December 2019 issue of AC Times.

The Gears of Time

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As I was walking around the ancient ruins, I noticed all the relics around. From ancient ruins to rusted steel, this site was truly a wonder to behold. But out of all the things that were here, what caught my eye the most was the giant rusty gears in the center of the site.

Judging by the size of them, they definitely could’ve been used in a large mechanism, but what machine would even need these gears? Could it have been an ancient clock tower that stood in these very ruins? I think it could be a plausible idea, but why would the gears be left over and nothing of the clock tower remains? The only answer I have is that the tower itself has degraded from time and exposure to the elements and eventually degraded into nothing. That’s the only answer I can come up with for this scenario.

The gears probably fell from the tower and stayed where they were, rusting and degrading from the rain in the region. Then again, how big could the tower have been? Because for all I know, this whole site could’ve just been one building that got destroyed by who knows what. Then again, that’s why I’m here. To unravel the mysteries surrounding this place and figure out how the entire area around here was destroyed. So hopefully, I’ll find my answers to what was standing in these ruins from so long ago and find out how it was destroyed.


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Ryan Kinney

I’m currently a student in the Professional Writing program. I really like writing about superheroes and on my spare time I’m usually playing video-games or reading about mythology or fantasy.

The Paper Man

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I watched as the man hurled himself from the 16th floor of the hotel. He stepped up onto the metal rungs of the balcony; those balconies with their rust stains in the corners and their rickety plastic tables decorated with ashtrays, and threw himself with no hesitation. There was determination in his eyes and sturdiness in his grip. There were no jitters or tears; no weakness in his jump. It seemed like I was the only one who noticed. In that slowed down moment, when his body embraced the cool night air, my heart sank. It sank so low I thought I’d have to pick it up off the asphalt, and in a moment of insanity I thought: maybe I could catch him. Maybe I could reach up and snag him by the scruff of the neck; the collar of his jacket all scrunched up between my fist.

And so, I did.

Reaching up, I plucked the floating man, hovering like bright paper against a dark navy canvas, out of the night sky. I folded him up until he could have been mistaken for a grocery list, and gingerly tucked him inside my breast pocket. Later that night, when I got home, I would take him out and work out all the creases. I would take a pen and rewrite what might have been a tragic story.


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Victoria Edwards

Tori is a professional writing student and aspiring author. She loves horror, dark fantasy and poetry. When not writing or drawing you can find her summoning the neighbourhood cats like a witch.

Saturday Night Frights

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The strangest things often happen when we least expect. I was a broke college student doing my laundry late one October night in my building’s laundromat, earbuds in and deaf to the world. The peeling linoleum floors beneath my worn-out slippers made the most peculiar schwick, schwick sound whenever you walked on them, and half the machines looked as though they belonged in the dark recesses of the local city dump. The walls were a dingy greyish colour, though I always imagined that if I focused hard enough, I could see the faintest hue of blue still clinging to its past vibrancy. An old boxed TV perched high up in the corner of the room, never on. One who lived in the building as long as I had known that the TV was a silent sentinel and cutthroat snitch; the landlord, after receiving complaints about people stealing laundry, placed a security camera inside the hollowed-out remains of the TV to discourage further theft. I, however, doubt the story is actually true.

It was on this unmemorable night that I encountered the strangest fellow. My earbuds were cheap, and halfway through my second load of thrift-store finds they broke on me. I sighed, crumpled them up in my fist, and stuffed them into my pocket. Without music, the clock in the room and the hum of the two machines I had chosen was like static in my ears. As I folded my last pair of socks, I heard the door open behind me.

Heavy footsteps followed by a clicking noise and heavily breathing filled my ears. I shuddered and tried to mind my own business as the newcomer shambled past me, still breathing heavy and clicking as he went. Confusion fogged my brain as I wondered why he was breathing so heavily… almost like a dog. I snuck a glance at him, only to immediately do a double-take.

There, at one of the older looking machines, was a giant furry man. Not a man in a fursuit, either; it appeared to be a giant wolfhound, standing on its back legs. I gawped, as a large clawed hand started to put much smaller articles of clothing into the machine. It was then that I had the ice-cold realization: this man is a werewolf, he’s doing laundry of all things, and I just caught him in his other form. My mind raced as I scrambled about what to do. Do I tell him that he’s changed? No, he might attack me. Do I just mind my business? How does one even do that when they’ve just seen a werewolf for the first time in their too-young-to-die life? 

My choice was made up for me when I looked back up only to bite back a scream as he suddenly was right in front of me. I looked into his golden eyes and was surprised to see coherence, along with tiredness. In a very gruff voice, he asked very politely, “May I borrow some of your washing powder? I forgot mine upstairs.”


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Jules Licari

An aspiring horror writer who hopes to one day become a ghostwriter. She loves her cats, her ever-growing makeup collection, and her friends and family.

The Latchkey Kid

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We laid side by side under the covers, close enough that I could feel her trembling.

Sleepovers were a common attribute of our friendship, and it continued even through our  adolescence. They usually took place at her house; this time it was at mine.

There was a year-and-a-half gap between the two of us. The older we got, the smaller the bed seemed and the bigger that age gap seemed to become. Sometimes it felt like I was slowing my pace so she could keep up. Not with walking, but with everything else.

She was scared, like she always was after scary movies. And I felt guilty. I was just as scared but was always able to convince myself there wasn’t a monster under the bed, no matter how much it felt like there was.

My best friend’s mom was ever-present. She redecorated the house every few months, and she stopped to talk to people at grocery stores. She had time and spent most of it on her kids.

Her mom preserved my best friend’s innocence with a fervor, skipping over sex scenes in the movies, swatting our heads when we said bad words, and bundling us up like the Michelin Man the moment the thermometer read negative.

Attention was not something I’d commonly receive, at least to the that degree. When I played with my best friend, I was also under the temporary care of a woman with lots of time. I’d drop off my stuff after school and immediately make my way over to their house. I wouldn’t ask for food, but I’d make rather obvious hints that I was hungry.

But it wasn’t just the food that I was there for, it was the conversation. Sitting on their kitchen island, grabbing handfuls of Goldfish crackers, sipping apple juice from straws, her mom would lean over on the other side and let us in on the neighbourhood gossip.

The bubble-wrapped kid and the latchkey kid. A 21st century friendship.

It sometimes felt as though my best friend’s mom knew me more than my own, but as I grew older, I knew this wasn’t the case. My mom went to work at a stressful job and came home to do her stressful paperwork. Time was a luxury she did not have even for herself, even if she wanted to give me more.

I looked over at my best friend whose fear made her cry. Sometimes it felt like the responsibility of retaining her innocence was in my hands, too. I would get glances from her mother that could only suggest that she was aware I knew more than I was letting on. Thinking of the look I got when I’d let it slip that I didn’t believe in the Old Man in Red when I was eight years old. It reminded me to avoid a similar conversation three years later when I stopped believing in the Old Man in the Sky.

It wasn’t as though I was neglected, in fact not at all, but when I came home from school, I didn’t have anyone tall enough to close the blinds; I learned how to get a chair and grab the box of cereal on the top shelf; I watched the war-torn news because it was my thumbs pressing the buttons on the remote.

Some part of me wondered if my best friend knew how lucky she was, but as I watched her trembling, I didn’t know if lucky was the right word.

I reached out, grasped her trembling hand in my steady one, and stayed awake until she fell asleep.


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Alannah Link

Alannah is a movie lover and coffee addict, often found browsing the books at the local bookstore. She’s been writing stories ever since her hand could lift a pencil. As a graduate from Carleton University’s Communication and Media studies program, she continued her education to do the one thing she truly loves to do: write.

Isolate

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Slumped in this enclosed space of quietness, Tightened and bound to the boredom of lonesomeness.

Too many days have gone and lingered, Bountiful seconds hopelessly surrendered.

Faded echoes of eerie humming, From the stillness of the streets containing nothing.

Deprived of a congested rumbling melody, Yearning for a taste of real energy.

Togetherness yet torn apart, Holding on for none to depart.

For time is our only offering, To keep safe in this world from suffering.


Colleen

Colleen is a second-year student in the professional writing program at Algonquin College. She enjoys reading, old school zombie movies, family game nights and currently found a new passion for poetry. She is either busy doing assignments or playing Mario party with her daughter on the weekends.

The Unfamiliar Face

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He walked around in no particular direction. People hurried all around him. I tried to keep an eye on him; however, a subway train blocked my view. When the train left the station, I thanked God he was still on the other side. 

I think the inner people-watcher in me loved the hell out of him. I enjoyed drawing unfamiliar faces and features.

Done with my staring, I decided to see if he needed assistance. I gathered up my newspaper, stuffed what I could into my purse and got up. Despite how old he looked, he walked like my nineteen-year-old son. His shoulders were slumped, and his legs moved slower than the rest of his body.  

After I got to the other side, I saw him leaning against the wall. His head hung low, and his eyes drooped slightly. The puffy jacket he wore looked deflated like his persona. 

As I inched toward him, I overheard people talking amongst themselves. They had been discussing the killing. I shrugged it off and turned to the man.

I was met with the unfamiliar face. I shivered. He didn’t utter a word. It almost looked like he was in some sort of daze. 

“Sir,” I tried.

No response. He just turned his gaze away and went back to his previous position. Maybe he didn’t hear me? 

“Sir, do you need help? I know this station like the back of my hand,” I tried again.

This time he turned towards me again. “Do you need directions?” I asked a little louder.

His eyes were a dull brown. I could tell because I couldn’t seem to look away. 

He scoffed.

My mouth opened and closed a few times. Clearly, he didn’t need help. That’s when he started to laugh. It was not a chuckle, but a bellowing laugh. 

“Who am I?” he asked.

I had no idea. I took a few steps backward, trying to be subtle so I could leave. A train rushed to a halt behind me. The station swarmed with people again. 

 “I really should get going,” I stuttered.

He chuckled bitterly, “I thought you’d recognize me. I mean, you’re looking right at me. You can see me.”

I glanced at his face a few more times, thinking it would suddenly hit me, trying to give him some benefit of the doubt. His face was worn out and his under eyes were a faint purple. Exhaustion enveloped his being. He sighed heavily, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I muttered something along the lines of “Goodbye” and turned away. I focused all my energy on the exit sign. 

“You’d think when a man is killed people will at least remember him then,” he said.

My breathing became ragged. I turned around as fast as I could only to find he had vanished into thin air. On the wall, I saw a shadowy silhouette looming over everyone. As if to calm myself down, I pulled out my notebook and pencil.



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Bio - Natasha Lanceman

My name is Natasha Lanceman. I am a University of Ottawa graduate and a second-year Professional Writing student at Algonquin College. 

Things That Make Me Think of You

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I see some stripes. I think of you.

I see the grass, green. I am blue. 

I feel lonely, your face comes to mind. 

I play with bugs, your favourite kind.

I eat a banana, warm and yellow like your smile.

I look in the mirror, it’s almost time.

I stand still and say your name three times. 

Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Beetlejuice

Now I am not lonely.

Now I smile all the time.

Now I’m beside you, until the end of time.


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Cassidy is a second-year student in Algonquin College's Professional Writing Program. Her interests include fashion, activism, and digital art. Passionate to work in a field that directly helps people. If you're looking for a debate or a gaming partner, look no further.


Upon Me

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A tattoo upon my back

Of a bird zipping through the air.

Above the clouds and the bustle below,

Whizzing by without a care.

 

A rustic watch upon my wrist

That tells the time no more.

With cracked glass and hands that sit,

Paused at half past four.

 

A small, brown hat upon my head

With tears and holes all through its rim.

A bronze ribbon across its crown, 

Dented, scratched, and dim.

 

A cigarette upon my lips

Burning brighter than the sun.

Smoke spinning and twirling high,

Never resting until I’m done. 


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Bio - Hunter Rogers-Millson 

My name is Hunter Rogers-Millson, and I am a second-year Professional Writing student who enjoys writing poetry and fantasy stories. My goal is to one day write and publish my own comic book.

Insomnia

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Your eyelids are heavy yet refuse to close 

They burn but are unwilling to end your suffering 

Closing them only feels dry and painful  

It’s insomnia, but is it really? 

Or is it something more 

Something more complex than you could ever imagine 

Like your body wants you to stay awake for no reason 

Perhaps it’s punishing you for staying awake for so long 

Or perhaps for staring at your computer screen for twelve hours

And even though you wonder this every night 

Every hour 

You always forget how your eyelids begin to droop 

And your consciousness begins to fade 

And you realize that if you’d just stay quiet 

Just stop thinking 

Then you’d fall asleep 

And so you do 


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Spela Sraka

Spela is a second-year student in the Professional Writing program at Algonquin College. She enjoys writing very much, however also finds amusements in drawing, video editing, and gaming. If she is not doing any of her hobbies, you’ll likely find her running around looking for food she can eat.

Tides of Temptation

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So alluring, the thing I love most captivates me in fear. 

Its shimmer reflects in my eyes, taunting me with its beauty. 

The mystery it holds deep within whispers to me, holding my gaze. 

Minutes, hours; it feels like days go by as we’re staring at each other, wondering in silence. 

Its silky form ripples at my feet, pulling me in. 

Embraced by its cold grip, the life force grows, talking control. 

Anticipation rushes through my body. 

Anxiety spills out. 

Its strength storms my chest, my eyes blur with salt water, the air is stripped from my lungs. 

And I am left staring into its intoxicating body. 


Jay Morrison

Jay Morrison is a poet and writer from a small town outside Ottawa. She writes to explain her thoughts and express herself through detailed imagery

A Rather Unnecessary Justification for the Creation of the Chimera

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For years, people have been asking me why I would ever create the chimera to look the way it does. They often ask me if I was high, which is silly considering that I, Gaia, am the very definition of low. I often answer with something along the lines of “I am an eternal being with power and knowledge beyond the capabilities of your entire human race combined. Besides, I don’t come to wherever you live and tell you how to roll around in cow shit or whatever it is humans do.” Anyways, I want to prevent any more of these ridiculous sorts of questions, which, quite frankly, are beginning to verge on insults. I have decided to bless you with an explanation of the creation of chimeras. The body is a lion because lions are super cool and dangerous and I’m Gaia so I can do whatever I want. Then I put a snake head on the tail because lions already existed and I didn’t want people to think that I had run out of ideas. The goat head came about because my idiot husband-son thought that the chimera “looked too scary”. I mean, you locked your children in a cave until one of them castrated you, but sure, go off about how I’m the one making poor choices. So I attached the goat head because people love goats but then to spite everyone, I made the goat breathe fire. It made for a really cool visual effect, and let’s face it, there isn’t a single problem that fire can’t solve. Some days I do look back on the creation and think maybe I did it because I wanted to see if I could get away with it, but then I remembered that I am the literal earth that all existence relies upon which means that, again, I do what I want. So now you have your answer, that’s how the Chimera was created. Though I will tell you that you are all a bunch of idiots for questioning anything that the gods and titans do. We’re bigger than you, stronger than you, and incredibly inbred so we’re not bound to make much sense at the best of times.


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Molly Desson

Molly Desson is a Professional Writing student at Algonquin College. When she’s not busy with coursework, she’s either talking to or about her dog. Some of her non-dog interests include mythology, crafts, and being outside.

Before the Winter

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Neon lights now far behind him

as he stumbles out into the night.

Above him, red-orange-yellow fall-colored

fragments spiraling in the air.


The chill of the night permeates the haze

his throat burning with everything unfelt.

Each leaf is torn away to their inevitable end

the branches naked and bare.


The leaves crunch underneath bleeding feet,

the colors fading as the liquor takes hold.

False happiness could only take him so far

as the end nears, closer and closer.


The pavement harsh against his hands

surrounded by curled brown corpses.

Among the trash and cigarette butts,

he sleeps in his bed of leaves.


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Bio - Emma Cayen

Emma Cayen is in her final year in the Professional Writing program at Algonquin. Looking forward to her future in the writing world, she even finds herself dreaming of plot bunnies in her sleep. Emma’s hobbies include writing (of course), beating her sister at a good game of Mario Party, well as spending time with her beloved cat George. He often joins Emma in her writing sessions, snoozing at her feet while she taps away at her keyboard.