Light of the Stars

“The rising sun will never set on the stars.”

My mother used to say that when the moon rose and the monsters came to my room. It was a reminder of the light’s imminent return. It was hard to remember the light when the shadows stole it away.

The silver moon hung lonely in the sky, the stars making no appearance to further break the solid darkness above. Candles burned faintly behind closed shutters.

Each step of mine crunched as gravel shifted beneath my feet. No faces peered from within houses. The world stayed still and silent, oppressive against my skin. The cool night air made an image of my breath as it left my mouth.

I saw no sun nor stars as I walked to the graveyard, cloak pulled over my head. I searched for light amid the tombstones but found none. The note in hand, I opened the gate with care.

“Hello?”

My call carried, hollow on the wind. I wandered past tombstones, my bones shaking as I moved among the ghosts of those since passed on. I froze as a black cat crossed my path, green eyes glowing like lamps.

“Jules? Where are you?”

I looked down, the exaggerated cursive instructing me to head for the farthest crypt in the yard. The weathered stone loomed ominously above me. It was bad enough being the new girl at school, I could only hope this wasn’t all an elaborate prank.

“Jules, I’m here!”

I hesitated before using a cloak covered hand to open the door, the cold seeped through anyways. I walked into the darkness with a forced confidence, my heels clicking so loudly it made me want to cringe.

“Come on guys, this isn’t funny, turn on the lights.”

The scrape of a match sounded behind me, and I turned, relieved that I wasn’t alone. Then I tensed.

“You aren’t Jules.”

The woman smiled at me as she lit one of the candles. Her teeth flashed, the same white as her skin hiding behind her deep red lips. 

“No, honey. Afraid not. But don’t worry, we can still have fun.”

Her eyes flashed with the same light as the cat and I flinched away, instinctively searching for the stars. But the sun had set on me, leaving me trapped in this tomb. When she attacked, I didn’t bother with trying to scream.

<><><>

Down the street from the cemetery, a small house stood decorated like a crypt. The lawn was covered in fake tombstones and children. Teenagers ran amuck, bobbing for apples and dancing to Halloween themed music that played.

One girl stood at the end of the driveway, frowning down the street despite her iridescent mermaid makeup.

“Hey Jules, what’s the matter? Waiting on the new girl?”

“She should’ve been here by now.”

“Maybe she changed her mind.”

Jules sighed and her childhood friend took that as a dismissal.

The wind screamed silently, unheard over the music. The new girl never arrived.

---

Emily-Rose Moskau

Emily-Rose Moskau is a student at Algonquin College. Her favourite genre is fantasy, and in her free time she can be found surrounded by various creative projects.

A Stormy Night

Rain dropped heavily on the city's streets. The sky was dark, and when the rain fell like a flood, it brought a deep chill to those who weren’t prepared to defend themselves from it. The downtown roads remained under heavy traffic, while some pedestrians wielding umbrellas endured the downpour, running through the muddy streets to safety.

During the storm, a stray cat was left to fend for himself. He fled into the night, running past people walking in the wet streets in his panic. 

Eventually, he returned to the alley and crawled through a hole in the broken fenced gate.

He was very unhappy with how destroyed the area was and searched for his home. His box, however, was damaged by the storm. 

Photo by Valeria Strogoteanu

He laid on the ground. The brown-haired tabby cat felt like he was drowning in freezing cold water, looked down on by the gloomy clouds in the sky. He yowled at the sky as if asking it why he existed if only to suffer. The sky didn't answer, as if it heard, but it had plans for him that it was keeping secret.

Then he heard voices behind him.

"Look mommy, there's the kitty! I told you he'd come back!" said the little girl that the tabby remembered seeing at the store he usually stole food from.

The little girl scooped him up before he ran away.

"Amy, come here! It’s late, and you’ll get sick!" her mother called, holding an umbrella.

“Mommy, he’s my friend! Can we keep him?!” the girl said, her brown pigtails bouncing as she ran back to her.

Her mother looked at the soaked cat. She hesitated but agreed to letting him stay inside their apartment for the night.

They left the alley and walked to a tall building with many floors. The tabby squirmed in Amy's grasp as they walked inside the building. The mother took him gently into her arms. 

He looked at her strangely, not understanding what was going on. He heard a door unlocking and was brought into a strange new environment. “Before we think about taking him in, we’ll get him checked at the vet in the morning,” her mother told her eager daughter.

“Why?” Amy whined.

“If you want to keep him, you need to take care of him.” She brought the cat to her daughter’s room and put him on her bed. “Come on, back to bed.”

“Okay, mommy.” Amy then climbed into bed. She petted the stray, and he winced at first, but then he relaxed. “I’m going to call him Sunny!” 

Her mother smiled, then she tucked her eight-year-old daughter into bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Goodnight, Amy.”

“Say goodnight to Sunny, too!” young Amy reminded her mother.

“Goodnight, Sunny,” her mother said, then turned off the light.

Sunny meowed, as if saying goodnight. Sleeping to the sounds of the storm, Sunny and Amy slept through the night as he finally found a place to call home.

---

When she's not getting lost in the fictional worlds of her favourite books and video games, Ashley is busy creating her own worlds and writing stories for others to read and enjoy. She is a student of the Professional Writing Program at Algonquin College and hopes to become a successful author someday, sharing her love of fantasy and steampunk with others.

Best Friends Forever

Hey there you! We’ve been through a lot.

Like two laces, tied in a knot.

Sharing one space all intertwined.

Like all things should be, so aligned.

Things are rocky and not always fine. 

Some are your fault, but some are mine.

Hey! we’re human, we make mistakes.

But things are rocky and sometimes ache.

Friendship is a roller coaster,

Ups and downs go fast and faster.

You’d know since you’re the other half.

This fight can end with a quick laugh.

Hard to fight with your friend, so true.

Easy to end it all, who knew…

---

Nicholas Carchidi

Nick is a second year professional writing student at Algonquin College, hoping to pursue work in either journalism or scriptwriting. Nick hopes to become someone that makes his readers ponder about the many things in which life has to offer. In his down time, you can find him playing on his Nintendo switch, organizing his many Pokemon cards, or obsessively writing one of his many stories--most notably Radio Heads, a young adult drama about musicians.

Speed Demon

don’t use taciturn strategy or calculated empathy

don’t stretch before or make a plan of attack 

my words are not checkpoints along the way

my back is not your racetrack

my hair is not your starting flag 

my legs are not your goal posts 

I am not an opponent to defeat 

or a time to beat

being with me is not a race

and my mattress is not the finish line.

---

Nicoline Antonovitch

Nicoline Antonovitch studies Professional Writing at Algonquin College and has appeared in Blank Spaces and other small publications. She writes with the vulnerability of an exposed nerve and cries at the drop of a hat. Her stubbornness, bushy black eyebrows, and love of sour cream all stem from her Slavic-European background.

The Day Ahead

From his little blue seat, he sees his own reflection,

Subtly painted on the window, in great imperfection.

It whispers at him, advice for good or for ill,

Commanding him with all its great zeal. 

In his mind, rushing images of stories past, 

Thoughts of moments that could not last.

Why should this all be? 

Though acceptance is the only key. 

Among the people, he sits there and ponders 

About the world and all its wonders. 

His eagerness rises, like the tide under a full moon, 

But he doesn’t show it—he’s still as a tomb. 

Expectation and hope, 

It will soon come,

Seeing whom he loves most. 

Not so quickly! The door is still closed!

Brakes screech; this is his stop. 

Two feet down and then he walks. 

Eyes held high; all hopes up.

Ready for the day ahead.

---

After finishing a Bachelor of Business Administration and a Graduate Diploma in Digital Marketing, Raf ventured into the exciting world of professional writing. Some of Raf’s interests include travel, photography, history, languages, and dogs.

Rockabye

IMAGE FROM UPSPLASH

From time to time,

I like to lay on my bed,

Flat on my stomach

With my head in my hands.

As much as I want to,

I do not sleep,

For regret and drowsiness

Were sure to follow.

I just

Cradle

My head

Ever-

so-slightly.

Time has passed.

The baby stops weeping,

And for a brief moment,

There is peace.

---

Shireen Agharazi-Dormani

Shireen Agharazi-Dormani is an artist with strong opinions, a fear of social interactions, and one hell of a sweet tooth. Needs at least 10 hours of sleep and lots of hugs. Handle with care: very sensitive.

The Mirror of God

In a 13th century treatise on the magical properties of mirrors, the author known only as Garantius writes of a free-standing obsidian glass, framed in willow, kept in the reliquary at the abbey of St Dymphna, deep in the valley of Cloche. A mirror which, when placed in the dark, will show the image of a single pillar of fire. “Bisecting the Glasse,” writes Garantius, “like the latitudinous eye of some Infernalle Wyrm.” Students of comparative religion may make a connection with the myth of the flaming cyclone that hunted Dog-Runner during his search for the Cactus Flower of Self-Possession. The 9th century Persian poet Taqjar similarly sang of how, “to know thyself is to disappear/to meet the flaming tower.” Self-knowledge, like anything it would seem, is not without a cost.

Considering these accounts, let us turn our attention to a Livonian legend recorded by Kārlis Briedis in his 1994 book Heroic Tales of the Eastern Baltic. 

“When the god Pērkons was away in battle with his nemesis, the cloud-spirit Jods,” writes Briedis, “the forces of darkness were free to roam the land. All manner of demon and shapeshifter came out of hiding, spoiling oat fields, poisoning wells, turning beets into blood. 

“A warrior named Vilis came home from battle abroad to find his farmstead destroyed and his family slaughtered by a vilkati, a man-wolf that terrorized the countryside. Vilis wept and pleaded to the gods for aid. The goddess Laima appeared above, at the foot of the Mountain of Sky, and presented Vilis with a gift. ‘This is Dieva Spogulis, a glass wherein will show the children of light. And the children of light will aid you.’ 

Suddenly, a small hand mirror appeared before him, caught in the boughs of a birch tree, the kind one might find in a lady’s chamber. The glass was solid black, the frame of sturdy willow. Vilis was confused but the goddess simply smiled before ascending the Mountain to weave with her sisters in heaven. 

“At that moment, the vilkati appeared, loping out of the woods, pink tongue trailing spit, blood clinging to its snout.

“‘Ah, man-thing,” it said to Vilis, ‘you will be the dessert to my feast. I particularly enjoyed the taste of your son’s liver. Sweeter than rupjmaizes.’

Vilis grabbed the mirror off of the tree and held it before the creature. What the vilkati saw in the glass chilled its wolfish blood. A hideous hybrid, jaws flecked with viscera; it beheld its own monstrous reflection and was terrified.

And though Vilis could not see it, something else had joined the beast in the mirror. A single pillar of fire arose behind the vilkati’s reflection, a spinning vortex of ash and belching flame which consumed the stricken creature as though it were made of paper. With the Dieva Spogulis in hand, Vilis set about ridding the land of evil.”

Now, for your essays, I would like you to consider other ways in which periods of self-reflection may present some considerable risk to your lives. You may begin.

---

Matt Smith

Matt is a writer and musician from somewhere in eastern Ontario. He enjoys the shadows of things more than the things themselves, loud music, quiet music, children’s artwork, crime, stone tapes and sigils. He writes in order to hallucinate.

Chefs of Affection

They served up bliss and healing,

Selflessness and comfort,

Wonder and pride.

They had built a special type of kitchen,

Where they prepared stories,

Apportioned attention,

Deposited tenderness,

And dealt forgiveness.

They were known as the Chefs of Affection,

And they didn’t mind if they starved,

So long as their kin were satisfied.

---

Chad Hetherington

A fashion enthusiast and leisurely, self-directed pupil of philosophy, Chad loves nothing more than love itself. I guess he also enjoys writing.

A Man and His Cow

He knew that his family would judge him. He knew that his friends would make fun of him. Hell, if this goes through, he’ll probably be dead to them. But he just didn’t care anymore.

For David, Betsy was the love of his life. He didn’t care that she was a cow. She understood him, and she was always there for him. After Linda left with the kids, it was Betsy that stood by him.

David was already aware that society would never accept a man being with his cow, but he couldn’t sit by idly anymore. He had to tell Betsy how he felt. It was now or never.

So, he plucked up the courage after dinner and popped the question.

“Betsy,” his voice quivered a little with nervousness, but he swallowed it up and pushed through. “We’ve known each other for quite some time now, and I think it’s about time I told you how I really feel.”

Betsy looked over at him lazily, whipping her tail around to swat at the flies congregating at her thighs. David could tell that she was listening, even though she didn’t say anything. That’s what he loved about her: she always listened to what he had to say.

He got down on one knee and pulled out a large box. When he opened it, he revealed a large, silver cowbell. “Will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

Betsy looked over at David, nervous and sweating with hope gleaming in his eyes. She jerked her head up and let out a low moo. He cried with happiness and threw his arms around her large neck. 

She said yes. Well, she didn’t say the actual words, but he knew what she meant. This was the best day of his life!

---

Amal Sheikhmusse

Amal Sheikhmusse is an aspiring editor that is currently studying under the Professional Writing Program at Algonquin. She would also like to express her sincerest apologies to the readers that were understandably disturbed by“a Man and His Cow”, feeling the need to point out that it is a work of pure fiction. Any similarities it may bear to real-life incidences are purely coincidental.

Orange Mystery (Rubiyat)

The cat came out of the bush,

the wind gave him a little push.

What great company to have met,

quiet world for a shush.

When the sun is ready to set,

he came to me for one last pet,

then went back to chase the night.

For his pure soul, I did not fret.

The pale orange and all its might,

companionship and delight.

Soon he will return to my eyes,

without a doubt, he would not bite.

At first the cat let out some cries,

he and I will create new ties.

He called for me and my attention,

a feline sweet like pumpkin pies.

This small creature with greater vision,

can see in my good intention.

How great to have a tiny cat friend,

with ultimate comprehension.

---

Biography

Kaydence Marie is a writer attending the professional writing program at Algonquin College. Although she is ardent for reading and writing, she is also very interested in photography, music, and animals. Kaydence can most likely be spotted reading her tarot cards while checking out a restaurant's latest vegan options.

Wanderlust

Thora stepped from the mossy earth onto the dirt and stone of the ruins.

Her aimless wandering had led her straight here, through the mountains and past a whole sea, to stand in front of the ruins of something that looked mechanical. Not mechanical, but it definitely did something once. It could have been a marvel of technology for the time.

Now it sat in rust and years of soiling, completely ruined by time.

There was something poetic about that; how all time can do is ruin, but she was not a poet. She was a girl who ran away from her responsibilities. She ran so fast she forgot to grab a blanket on her way out and found herself standing in front of ruins that could not protect her from the cold wind off the water behind her.

It smelled like the sea and wet sand. Everything was wet this close to the cliff's edge. The sea spray could reach at least this high when the waves came in hard enough.

How would she write a poem about this?

Sea spray like rain? Like a torrent of emotion? Like tears?

She was not a poet, but she tried to find meaning in the ruins as she wandered past more metal and stone. She could only come up with half-baked prose and pathetic metaphors that would have earned a ruler to her palms at home. At the very least, it served as a distraction as the first patter of rain hit her shoulders.

Not even animals were stupid enough to call this place home. There were no signs of life outside of the ancient structure that reached from the earth in tendrils of grotesquely mangled metal.

If she were lucky, she’d die of exposure out here. She wasn't a poet, but it would be a poet’s death to die in a place like this.

---

About the author

Caitlyn is a 2nd year professional writing student known for her hyper fixations, obsessive writings, and pink hair. She is an avid fantasy reader, writer, and finds inspirations in all aspects of life.

A Game of Chess

All I can see is pitch black when I open my eyes. When I look around, I notice an illuminated table, two chairs, a chessboard, and a black-cloaked figure sitting at the table. The board is set. Sixteen pawns, four rooks, four knights, four bishops, two queens and two kings. All set up accordingly. I’ve been practicing all of my life, but I’ve never played an opponent as fearful as this.

“I usually prefer to play black,” said the black-cloaked figure.

“That’s fine. I can play white,” I replied.

“Good. I always let my opponent go first.”

I put my hand on the pawn at G2 (in front of the right-most knight) and moved it ahead two spaces to G4.

I could not see this person's face. They were wearing a black robe that left everything to the imagination. They move their arm forward, and from the black robe emerges a skeletal hand. This hand was missing everything on the body except the bones. No muscle, no flesh, just bones. They take their pawn at H7 (in front of the right rook) and move it one space forward to H6.

“Do you know who I am?” asks the ominous figure.

“I think so. You’re Death.”

“Very good, and do you know why you’re playing against me?”

"To see who will win," I say with arrogance.

“Not quite,” Death responds. “You are indeed playing to win, but what is the prize?”

I think about it for a second. I am playing a chess game against the taker of souls, the one who makes living eternal impossible. There can only be one reason.

“The prize is my life.”

“Precisely; shall we continue?”

The game went on. The game got heated. My bishop took their knight, their rook to my bishop, my queen took two of their pawns, my knight took their rook, their remaining rook took three of my pawns. We played and played until there were five pieces left on the board. Both of our kings, both of our queens, and one of their rooks remained. This is not looking good.

“Check!” said Death.

I curse under my breath and move my king to avoid his queen, which was positioned in a straight line from my king before I moved it. When I move my king, he pauses for a second to take a look at the board.

“You never were a good sport. You won many games, but you could never handle losing.”

“What’s your point?” I say, now annoyed.

“You put up a good fight, but it looks like you won’t overcome your final challenge.”

They were right. Even if this game were to go on for a few more rounds, all he needs to do is keep chasing my king with his queen before he eventually corners me. I’ve lost. I knock over my king in surrender.

Death looked into my soul with a newly visible grin. "Checkmate.”

---

Garrett considers himself to be an average Joe who writes, plays video games, is an avid lover of The Golden Girls, and sleeps way too much. He also watches anime, and aspires to become a cat lady before the next apocalypse. He hates people who are misogynistic, racist, homophobic, and trans-phobic, people who wake him up too early, and things that smell bad.

My Grandfather's Watch

I have a watch that used to be my grandfather’s. It has an old leather band and a scratched face and hands that go tick, tick, tick. Well, it doesn’t go tick, tick, tick anymore, but it still looks good strapped on my wrist or lying on my dresser. Besides, it doesn’t need to tick anymore. There’s phones and microwaves and TVs and ovens and fridges all trying to tell you the time. Nobody asks watches like this one what time it is anymore.

My grandfather always did. He would wear this watch wherever he went and he would always ask it what time it was. He would wear it when we all went out to dinner together every Friday. He’d wear it to church on Sunday morning. Everywhere he went, people would stop him and tell him how much they liked his watch. Sometimes, they would show him their watches and they would compare them. “Mine goes tick, tick, tick,” my grandfather would say, and they would say, “Mine goes tock, tock, tock.” My grandfather told me never to trust someone whose watch goes tock, tock, tock. But fewer and fewer people would stop my grandfather with watches that went tock, tock, tock. Fewer and fewer people had watches at all. They had phones and microwaves and TVs and ovens and fridges and no watches. My grandfather’s watch grew lonely.

That’s why it stopped ticking. One night it worked – tick, tick, tick – and in the morning, it realized how pointless it was to go tick, tick, tick, so it stopped. But I still keep it with me. I think to myself, one day I’ll fix this watch. I’ll take it to somebody who knows how to talk to watches. I’ll take it to them and I’ll say, “this watch, it was my grandfather’s watch, but it doesn’t want to tick anymore.” And they’ll say, “you’ve come to the right place,” and I’ll give the watch to them and they’ll talk to it, and they’ll tell it how special it is, and how much my grandfather cared for it, and it’ll start to feel better, and one day it’ll start ticking again.

I’ll wear it to dinner, I’ll wear it on Sundays, I’ll show it to everyone I see. I’ll say, “this was my grandfather’s watch,” and they’ll all look at my wrist and they’ll all be very impressed with my grandfather’s watch. And it won’t matter that all the phones and microwaves and TVs and ovens and fridges are trying to tell you the time because none of those are my grandfather's watch. None of those have an old leather band and a scratched face and hands that go tick, tick, tick.

---

Alex Foster-Petrocco

Alex has a BA in History from Carleton and is currently a 2nd-year Professional Writing student at Algonquin.

Pandora's Box

I am not Pandora.

I am Pandora’s box.

I stay locked away in doomsday,

that never seems to stop.

I have been set free,

out of the whimsies of curiosity.

On a mission to teach,

the people of my county

cruelty and murder, and treachery.

I am not the innocent,

I’ve always been the plague.

I am the catalyst of evil, and I have never strayed.

I teach children hunger and adults slaves,

I am the reason for your loss and the reason for your praise.

And Yet I am the Needed.

And Yet I am the Hope.

You can’t live without me,

‘Cuz then you’ll never grow.

---

Linda is the most “fangirly” person you will likely ever meet. She’s a second-year student in Algonquin College’s Professional Writing program. She enjoys hot chocolate, rainy evenings, literature and cinema. If looking for her, you will find her on her bed; enthralled in whatever new addiction she’s developed since.

Umbrella

An umbrella has been hovering over my head since I can last remember. If it’s shielding me or covering the outside world, I still do not know. It steers me away from storms, guarding me against the rays of something bright.

The umbrella says these things are dangerous, that I shouldn't leave the space from underneath it. It says that I couldn't handle the harsh outside world without its protection. Maybe it's right; perhaps I shouldn't leave the shelter it provides me.

But I see others wander, free of their umbrellas. Striving through life, they seem at peace. I'm never at peace; the umbrella always looms over me, watching me, judging me, telling me all the things I do incorrectly. All the things I'd keep doing incorrectly if I didn't have its help – its guidance.

I'm getting too big for the umbrella though. My head’s starting to hit the top, struggling against its restraints. The umbrella doesn't understand that I no longer need its protection, that I can wander the world free of its advice. It has given me enough to survive out there.

Alone, free of its judgement, free of the condescending words it spouts out. It may have given me shade from the sun all these years, but the shadows can be a dark and lonely place to be kept in.

And soon enough, I will become an umbrella myself.

---

Desirea Caballero

Desirea is an avid reader and storyteller. As a second-year Professional Writing student, she hopes to reach and inspire people with her work.

Uncovering the Truth

I feel myself falling deeper and deeper into a dark abyss as dirt keeps filling my gaping mouth, with my mind clouded with a purple haze. It paralyzes me in darkness as I cannot find my way into the light. I can’t recall much of the incident. I clearly visualize the fiery, orange-red eyes and the Cheshire cat grin, rendering me weak and powerless. Who is he? Why is he doing this to me?

I jerk awake covered in sweat from the continuous nightmare. That is my new reality. Ever since that night, I can’t seem to grasp what is happening to me. My doctor said I have slight amnesia from some head trauma, and it may take a while until my brain is ready to uncover the truth.

After the incident, I can’t shake the feeling that something is terribly wrong. I hear creaking in the floorboards while I’m trying to sleep. I feel eyes on me whenever I have my back turned, but when I look back, there is nothing there. I don’t live with anyone, and I don’t have any pets, so I fear that I am just being paranoid. The lack of sleep isn’t helping my disposition.

I untangle myself out of the sheets and stumble into the bathroom to take a shower and try to ready myself for another day. Once I turn off the water, I blindly reach into the bathroom closet for a towel. The towel is suddenly snatched from my hand! My mouth springs open as I try to scream, but no sound came out. An orange creature with black stripes jumps out of the closet and lands on the counter in front of me. His fierce, fiery, orange-red eyes bore into mine. That one look alone has managed to piece together my memory from that night. It all came together like pieces in a puzzle.

This orange devil-cat pushed a flowerpot off my picnic table, which landed on my head, causing dirt to fall into my mouth as I fell to the ground. Oh, how I hate my neighbour’s cat!

---

Cassandra Purcell

Cassandra is a second-year student in the Professional Writing program at Algonquin College. She loves writing real-life horror stories, being anti-social, and watching American Horror Story.

In The After

When the world wakes up again, 

when it lets us all breathe a sigh of relief, 

when it releases us from a six-foot hold, 

I’ll have places to wear a necklace 

and a pair of earrings 

and I’ll touch his face and kiss his lips 

in public. 

I’ll go to more thrift stores 

and less malls, 

and take more pictures of people and places 

and less of myself. 

I’ll let the simple things stay simple. 

I’ll take all the solitude I can carry in these two hands 

and release it, 

give it a new name. 

Call it power. 

---

Peyton Scott

Peyton Scott is a full-time student, part-time writer and partial night owl. She falls in love with everything at least once, but especially (and in no particular order): words, furry creatures, empty notebooks, true crime, hikes (and probably you).

Arch

The clouds have shed,

A brilliant, beautiful arch emerges. 

A portion to complement the burning flame, roaring and untouchable.

A slice to complement the citrus fruit, ripe and ready.

A sliver to complement the sun above, proud and unyielding.

A wedge to complement the tall trees, fierce and mighty.

A section to complement the afternoon sky, bright and serene. 

A segment to complement the vast ocean, angry and tumultuous.

A piece to complement the tiny flowers, fragrant and exquisite.

Just as suddenly as it appeared, it vanishes. 

Withholding its beauty until another day.

---

Lillian Knoops

Lillian Knoops is a second-year Professional Writing student who struggles to remember how to pronounce “poutine” based on whether she’s back home near Stratford, Ontario or here in the Ottawa area.

This Day: On Infinite Repeat

It’s not the perfect day; it’s just a day that feels like it. I have nothing to do and nowhere to be, my alarm isn’t set, and I wake up whenever—sometime around 08:00 AM. There are coffee and filters; life is good. I putter around the house, which is one of my favourite things. I think, at about 10:00 AM, to check phone messages and email and stuff like that. I received an invitation to a used book sale from a coworker. I’ve been in love with her for a while. She may feel the same way if the kiss in the lunchroom last week is any indication.  

The used book shop is in a two-story Victorian home on the outskirts, so we have a bit of a drive to get there. The old guy who owns it looks like a collector’s edition. After I stuff a bag full of Anne Rice, Stephen King, Mary Higgins-Clark and a couple of Agatha Christies (which were a total score), we get food. It’s fancy food, gluten-free, vegan stuff that you eat because the girl you like is into it. I’m not complaining—it’s actually quite good. Still, there is zero chance I’d be in this narrow, albeit sun-filled eatery of my own accord. 

After lunch, we take a walk. We get a little lost in the woods looking for an old car dump, but I don’t mind, nobody is out there, and it feels like we’re the only two people on the planet. I wonder if she feels me studying her, taking in every little detail, in case the planets realign themselves and she vanishes. I try to act casual. She takes many pictures: an old wringer washer, some broken bottles, metal fenders and all manner of decomposing automotive rubble. I haven’t been this enthralled since I was eleven years old.

We head back to her place and watch a few episodes of DS9, looking for the one where Weyoun’s eyeball is pointing sideways. But we forget what we’re looking for and make out on the couch for a while. It takes an hour to say goodnight because I don’t really want to go, but this is new to me, and I’m not ready to stay either. 

It’s late by the time I get home; I pour myself a glass of wine from a bottle out of my budget (way out) that a client gave me a while back. I cut myself a thick slice of Balderson’s Cheddar that I did splurge for. I sit awhile writing about the day in my journal, savouring it all. When I’m done, I have a bath and crawl into bed with a ragged copy of Agatha Christie’s Nemesis—it smells of old bookshops, which is next door to heaven if you ask me. A lot like this day.

---

Marsha Masseau

Creativity has been Marsha’s driving force: in writing and life. That force guides her to the depths of self-reflection. Sometimes she gets lost down there and needs to write her way back to the light.

Saying Goodbye

Change, for many people, can be the sign of a new start, an opportunity to get away from one’s tormenting past to start anew with a bright future. Some may see my situation as the most golden of all opportunities. But to be perfectly honest, the thought of even the slightest change in my life terrifies me. The young couple that always took a peaceful stroll down our street with their beautiful newborn child is a sight I fear I will never see again. The long hours of joyous adventures and stressful moments that would only be resolved with a dice roll now serve as distant memories of happier times. The faces of the friends that I shared those happy memories with may, in time, fade and become an anomaly, forever unanswered. It is wrong. I’m leaving so much behind without even the chance to say goodbye. So many things I still have to do. Without even a moment’s hesitation, I rose from my seat, ready to dart to the exit of the plane but only to be stopped by the firm grasp of my mother’s hand on my wrist.

“Where are you going, Isaac?” She asked with a stern look in her eye.

“Back home,” I said.

 Her expression changed from strict to sympathetic, as if she knew what was going on inside my head.

“Isaac, you know we can’t go back.”

I was never one to shout or disobey my mother, so when she eased me back down into my chair, I didn't resist.  

“I know what you’re feeling. I wish we could stay here for the rest of our lives, that your children could create wondrous memories here just as you have. But we have no choice.” 

I knew it was true. It was a fact I will never be able to change. In the face of defeat, tears began to fall down the sides of my face. Even when powerless, we are at least allowed the freedom to weep. Suddenly, I felt a warm touch wipe away the tears and then brush the side of my bushy hair. I opened my eyes to find my mother not filled with sorrow and despair but cheerful with a smile on her face.

“Remember what we always say?” She asked. “No matter what happens today, never lose faith in what the future may bring.”

As soon as she finished, the plane began to rumble. When the rumbling stopped, gravity had ceased. The shutter from my window began to lift, and the sight of our precious Earth and the vast void of space was a sight to behold. Thirty seconds was all we had left, thirty precious seconds, and they passed in a blink. An overpowering light flashed across the outside of the plane when it finally faded away, Earth, our home, was gone. Everyone that was left behind to their doom didn't even see it happen. There were no signs that a planet had once been there, no signs of destruction. It simply vanished without a trace, never to return. I doubt we will ever find anything quite like Earth, but change can sometimes be a good thing.

---

Aidan Conners

Aidan Conners is a short story writer, currently taking the Professional Writing course at Algonquin. He is also a fan of comics, animals, video games, 90’s rock, horror movies, riddles, and reading. Aidan's all-time favourite genres are Sci-Fi, Horror, and Animal Point of View, and if you ask him why his answer will always be the same: Because of the philosophies that they present.