Part One: Arrival Birdy trailed a teabag through lukewarm water. Her granddaughter Missy, recently back from nursing school, held up a large cell phone: on it, a skeleton of a human, its joints lit up like jellyfish. “Osteoarthritis,” Missy said solemnly. “Damage in the place where two bones come together.” Birdy looked out the window at the bird feeder. “It’s them I worry about. The birds haven’t been fed for some time now. I used to make my own suet, and now—” “Sweat?” asked Missy. They stared at each other, two distanced generations weighing the intelligence of the other. “You do need regular exercise.” Birdy folded her hands in her lap. Missy with her purple hair and too-short shorts seemed to imagine Birdy was looking for something and not finding it; like a princess waiting for the second shoe, Birdy’s granddaughter walked around barefoot, unkempt, paint in her hair and always a different boyfriend. Birdy wanted to tell her that she knew what adventure was too, and she had gone and done it, hadn’t she? …

The judge Jam smeared and restless, the judge banged his gavel.  “Order! Order in the court!”  The agitated spectators filling the pews on either side of the aisle fell quiet. A few more bangs of the gavel because the judge liked the sharp noise. Time to bring out the accused. The courtroom was brilliant white. The walls and ceiling were the white of ivory chess pieces and gossamer angel wings. But the white of the judges glorious high chair was dirtied, tagged with sticky strawberry residue, cookie crumbles, and streaks of crayon. He pawed with pudgy fingers through a container of cheerios. He wanted every eye in the room to be on him. Wanted the air to be so fraught with anticipation they would all get headaches from the strain of it. He crammed too many cheerios into his mouth and some fell  into his bib, lodged in the fleshy crevices of his skin, or stuck to the coagulated jam on his arms. When the quiet reached its most absolute he said, “Bring in the …

Shadows of deep crimson enveloped the landscape, like a blanket of thin fog. All was mostly visible, but the only thing that one could truly see was the neon and faint aura of a single lonely building. A sign flickered just off of the russet-coloured road on which he stood, which simply read “DINER” in glowing yellow-orange letters. How he had gotten here, he did not remember, but off in the distance on each end of the road rested a low mountain, in which a dark tunnel’s mouth opened, leading to places unknown. There was no traffic. No vehicles of any kind. There was no parking lot around the diner either, merely an empty road, not newly paved, but there was no wear either–simply in an awkward state of inbetween. The sky around grows ever darker as he looks towards its mahogany peak directly above, starting at a faint glowing red on the horizon. The diner seemed increasingly more alluring each second, and gradually he began to amble nearer, the drone of the lights growing …

Mrs. Baker had never before thought of silence nor detected the subtle melodies that emanate from it. She’d never noticed its whisper and burble, its tranquil rush and swell, nor been able to feel the texture and fluidity of the millions of motes of sound that compose it. She’d never perceived how it sweeps and surges and folds in upon itself, like a murmuration of starlings, now undulating and collapsing, now twisting and exploding. Yet it was only here, at this advanced moment of life, that she could see silence for what it was: the swirling undercurrent of existence, as audible and beautiful as a symphony, yet with a secret sound all its own, varied and infinite. The hum of life itself. Never again could she return to her former indifference. Never again would she feel the pull of diversion. Each moment had become infinitely interesting. She couldn’t help but smile at the irony she would not live to enjoy this.                             …

Choose the day wisely. Don’t tell them on Sunday because of church. Monday’s no good because they’ll be mulling over the sermon from God’s Day. Tuesday, Dad has prayer circle. Wednesday, Mom has bible study…click to read more

A young woman stood over a freshly painted yellow crib, carefully adjusting some stuffed toys…Click to read more.

(Written by Rhianna Rimmer)

I drive in silence. My fingers itch to press the car stereo on, craving something to pay attention to and occupy my time…Click to read more (Written by Sarah Wensink)

When I became fatherless at twelve years old due to Daddy’s intoxicated joyride that led to his wrapped around a telephone pole death, my fate became clear. I would grow up as Honey Paterson, absentee of father-daughter dances, punchline of prostitute and stripper jokes, and likely future gold-digger with an unshakeable daddy complex…Click to read more. (Written by Danielle LaRocque)

February is my least favourite month.  Everything about it is wrong.  It is the runt of the calendar’s litter…Click to read more.
Written by: Christine Deynaka