Volume 4 Issue 6 - The Seasons Issue by Free Lit Magazine

CONTENTS 4

February Reverie RICK BLUM

Seasons SAJEDA MANZOOR

Choke KATE CHARRETTE

Zephyr’s Whisper, Revision III KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

Forgetting is a burden to those who must never forget JACOB BUTLETT

Decay’s Cycle SARAH SULLIVAN

Scattering ROBERT GRANT

a season change BRUCE KAUFFMAN

A Dream of Rabbits

The Night’s Breath is More Liquid DAH

Life, Seasons and Desires EDILSON A. FERREIRA

Winter is Coming ANDREW SCOTT

sun birds BOB MACKENZIE

Songs from New England JOAN MCNERNEY

Moon Shapes LYNN WHITE

Spin Cycle NICOLE KING

Missing in Action ANN CHRISTINE TABAKA

By the Light of the Silvery Moon FRANCES FROMMER

Unseasonal LIN LUNE

Summer Vacation Memories ‘66 LINDA IMBLER

Crystal Swan JUSTIN PATRICK

Blackout 2010 INGRID BRUCK

October Rain:Midnight Jazz #1 and #2 EUGENE CORNACCHIA

The Leaves KYLE CLIMANS

the song you knew well LINDA M. CRATE

Goodbye, Little School MEG FREER

FEATURE

ALYSSA COOPER

Wish Book JOHN TAVARES

Front Cover

DANIELLA MANNINO 2 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

Back Cover

EMEL KARAKOZAK

Inside Back Cover NICK ROMEO

FREE LIT MEditor-in-Chief AGAZINE Ashley Newton

Literary Editor Eunice Kim

Staff Writers

Kyle Climans, Alyssa Cooper, Bruce Kauffman

Contributors

Rick Blum, Ingrid Bruck, Jacob Butlett, Yara Chard, Kate Charrette, Eugene Cornacchia, Linda M. Crate, Dah, Duska Dragosavac, Ken Allan Dronsfield, Edilson A. Ferreira, Meg Freer, Frances Frommer, Robert Grant, Linda Imbler, Emel Karakozak, Nicole King, Lin Lune, Bob MacKenzie, Daniella Mannino, Sajeda Manzoor, Joan McNerney, Justin Patrick, Nick Romeo, Andrew Scott, Sarah Sullivan, Ann Christine Tabaka, John Tavares, Lynn White

Colophon

Free Lit Magazine is a digital literary magazine committed to the accessibility of literature for readers and the enrichment of writing for writers. Its mission is to form an online creative community by encouraging writers, artists, and photogrphers to practice their passion in a medium that anyone can access and appreciate.

Seasons

We’ve all faced the changing of seasons. We see, time and time again, the way the world around us shifts, adapts, and leans into nature’s way. It has no choice but to continuously evolve; to avoid stagnation. These are all things that seem difficult for many of us as humans. We push back and resist, handle change poorly (at times), and to our detriment, fail to let things just be. I think the biggest thing we all think about when we think of the seasons is change. Some of us take the onset of a new season as a symbol of making new goals. Others mourn the loss and take a bit more time to catch up. We often hesitate to embrace those changes, but once we face them, we see they weren’t so bad after all. With the growing concerns over the future of our world, it’s time for us to acknowledge that we cannot be stagnant. We must shift, adapt, and lean. Only in doing so will we learn how to better care for ourselves, the people around us, and the planet we inhabit. Ashley Newton Editor-in-Chief

Contact

editor@freelitmagazine.com

Next Issue

The Technology Issue January 2019 VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 3

February Reverie RICK BLUM

Last night temperatures settled in well south of the demarcation line between liquid and solid H2O; this morning a wind-whipped clipper began blanketing the bare ground with an ocean of white crystals, which will confine me to indoor environs until the driveway’s black sheen is once again revealed. Sitting at the breakfast table, I pull out the sports section of the paper – to be assaulted by a half-page, color photo of man-boys cavorting on rich green grass, cleaved by a crescent of red clay, under the headline: Spring Training has Sprung Immediately, I am transported back to aimless days of scooping mercurial grounders, and tracking cloud-skimming fly balls just for the satisfaction of small successes. And in my reverie, premonitions of the morass of sleet and slush still to come fade into the ether like Alice’s curiously confounding cat, leaving just the evanescent odor of oiled leather lingering in the still air.

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Choke

KATE CHARRETTE

irds swoop low over cars clogging the roads. Bodies, half decomposed, sink through cracks in the asphalt and into the dirt; others are wrapped in greenery, thick vines swallowing their limbs; some burst with wildflowers, petals pushing through their skin, bodies lost in the bloom. A woman stumbles through the downtown streets, tripping over vines and curling roots; the mask covering her mouth and nose is torn and stained with blood, fresh red dripping from the cloth as she doubles over, a choking cough making her whole body convulse. She crumples suddenly, twitching against the ground as her face turns to the sky, necking snapping. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, and green stems unfurl from her throat. The woman’s body jerks as sunflowers fill her mouth, yellow petals blooming past her stretched lips. They shift on her tongue, heads stretching to find the sun. Amelia’s lungs burn as she runs, feet pounding a muted rhythm over the greenery covering the road. Go Amelia, go. Ragged breath is loud in her ears, blocking out the hush of vines and stems slithering across the city. She whips around the front of a car, metal groaning in the grip of thick roots; glancing through the window she sees a body in the front seat, vines pouring past its lips, pink flowers bursting from its stomach. White seeds drift from another woman’s open corpse, skin split from collarbone to belly button. A pod; whenever she sees them she’s nauseous, remembers how she used to crack open seedpods when she was young, run her fingers over their silky innards. A loud crack snaps through the air; an office building’s window breaks. Thick tree branches slowly unfurl out of the open space, stretching towards the sky as moss pours down the building, red blossoms nestled in the dark green. Amelia is distracted by it, looking up and not in front of her, and she trips across a thick root. She sprawls forward, catching herself just before her body slams into a woman’s corpse, hands pressed into the soft piles of warm leaves on either side of her. Sunflowers grow out of the woman’s broken jaw, roots curling down her neck; Amelia can feel the petals brushing against the mask covering her nose and mouth. The blood vessels in the woman’s eyes are green, empty pupils staring. Amelia holds her breath, suspended above the woman; white seeds drift slowly up the sunflower stems, curling into the dark center of each, before creeping across each yellow petal. She can feel them against her mask, pushing insistently against her lips and nostrils. What’s your favorite flower, Lia? It was always sunflowers; the way they searched for the sun and replicated it with their yellow petals, spreading a light of their own. Every spring she’d beg for help planting them. So her mom knew what the answer would be because it was always the same; still, she asked, smiling at Amelia where she knelt in the dirt. Amelia would say sunflowers, and then but what’s your favorite flower? Every time, her mom answered: You. She choked to death on roses in the spring. Amelia tried to pluck them from her mother’s mouth. Thorns pricked her fingers; her blood was dark against each pale pink petal, tears turning the tissue translucent. The roots came free, slick and bloody, but another rose grew to replace the one in her hand. A white seed drifted up off the flowers and into Amelia’s mouth as she gagged above her mother’s corpse, but when she vomited onto the floor it shot back out. She thought about picking it up, swallowing it whole, lying down beside her mother. Maybe it’ll be sunflowers. But she covered her mouth and nose with her free hand, protecting her airways. Her mother’s favorite flower was a lily. VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 5

Amelia runs from the sunflower woman. She can’t hear the looters anymore; one of them was burning flowers, using a lighter and an aerosol can, two more were taking cans of food from a man they’d knocked to the ground. Another man was dragging a woman by the arm, into an abandoned doorway, vines hanging across the space like a curtain. She tries to picture that woman’s face, but all she can see is a sunflower where her head used to be. She hopes the looters get the Choke – that flowers block their throats, that their bodies burst with seeds and blossoms, that vines dissolve them into dirt - but still she runs. She doesn’t stop until the sunlight is fading, climbing through a broken back window into an abandoned car filled with soft tulips. Breathing hard she checks her mask, securing it over her nose and mouth. The sunflower woman is her new nightmare. It’s always been her mother, since the first night of the Choke, handing Amelia a bloody rose to pull out of her open mouth, hand over hand, roots making a sickening hush against her tongue. Tonight, the sunflower woman stands close enough to kiss her. Green roots grow from her empty eye sockets, her mouth is open, jaw broken, and she spits bloody seeds into Amelia’s mouth. She jolts awake each time the wet seeds hit her tongue, making sure her mask is secure even as she slips back to sleep. She wakes up covered in sweat. The sun pushes through the cars back window, light filtered green by the layers of vines; beads of water collect against the cars ceiling, hot droplets raining onto her skin. She pushes aside the leaf that’s grown across the broken window; cool morning air makes her shiver. She hears a laugh and tenses – but it’s only a bird, chirruping loudly as it flies above her, before leaving her alone once more. She was different before, never alone; living with her mom, then her cycle of roommates, then her boyfriend turned fiancé. Jared. Amelia thinks about him sometimes, wonders how things would be if she’d stayed. I told him sunflowers and he bought me roses, Amelia joked as explanation. It was easier than saying she didn’t know what happened, where things started to end. She can’t remember the last time they kissed, anymore. After Jared, she was living at home again, still not alone. Now she’s always by herself; it’s safer this way. At first she tried to find others. Get help, she thought, stumbling away from her mother’s rose covered corpse and outside. She passed a man clawing at his throat, nails bloody; a woman trembled against the sidewalk, daffodils filling her mouth; a tiny body was half pulled into the dirt, a small running shoe and toy car lost in the vines. She tried to ask for help – stretched out a hand to a woman who smacked her arm away as she ran past – tried to tell another man he was bleeding, the cut above his eye deep and fresh, and he yelled at her to get away. She didn’t realize her mother’s rose was still in her hand until someone tried to take it from her and a thorn stuck in her skin. “Sorry, sorry!” The woman had green eyes, lighter than the vines. Amelia saw she was still on her street. She could see the front door she’d left open, bright yellow. Sunflower yellow. Her mom had painted it that way. “Are you okay?” the woman was speaking, “I’m Maya.” She cocked her head at Amelia, who tried to answer but the t-shirt she’d tied around the lower half of her face caught most of her name. Only ‘Lia’ made it to Maya’s ears and when “Lia,” was what she repeated, Amelia only nodded. She sat with Maya at the fire that night; a group of people left in the neighborhood gathered in an empty house. They’d decided to leave body collection until the next morning and Maya offered to keep watch while Amelia slept, only closing her own eyes for a few hours before sunrise. Together the next morning, they carried Amelia’s mother out of her house, added her corpse to the row of them along the sidewalk – roses, daisies, daffodils, peonies and 6 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

orchids grew from the bodies. She helped carry Maya’s brother and wife outside, both with lilies on their tongues. There wasn’t a single sun-flowered corpse. A young boy ran between the clusters of people, a few shovels in his arms. “We’ll take turns,” one woman called out, people nodding in agreement. Before the first group could sink their shovels into the dirt, the young boy gave a yelp, as the vines started moving. They wrapped around limp limbs and stiff necks, growing over the corpses, pulling them into the dirt until only their flowers could be seen above ground. There were two pink roses nestled in the green vines and Amelia couldn’t tell which one was her mother. Amelia lifts herself out of the car’s broken window, into the fall chill. She peeks around each corner before darting between cars and shimmying down alleyways, heading towards the city center, stopping at the edge of an alley beside the abandoned mall. Petals drift through the air to land in Amelia’s hair, against her mask. Maya’s gone now and daisies grow from her corpse, blossoms forming arms, hands, legs and feet, the shape of her face. When they filled her mouth the white blossoms were stained pink with blood; she can’t see the first daisies anymore, buried beneath new flowers. Amelia crouches beside the alley wall beside Maya’s grave, pushing aside the vines to find the loose brick smeared with blood. She knew to mark Maya’s grave so she can always find it. The seed she carries grows heavy in her pocket. It’s stuffed inside an empty perfume sampler, bottle slimmer than her pinky finger. Amelia pulls it out, rolling the small tube in her palm, wonders what flower would grow if she let it root in her throat. What’s your favorite flower? When she thinks of her mother, of Maya, all she can see is vine filled eye sockets, lips stretched to bleeding, roses and daisies pouring off their tongues. She can’t picture what they looked like, before the Choke. Amelia tightens her mask. She tucks the seed into her back pocket, peers around the alley’s edge and moves back out into the city. She keeps moving, avoiding the sunflower woman’s street, avoiding survivors and looters, until daylight starts to fade. Only then does she slip back into the empty car, lie in the moonlight and listen to the vines grow. Every day, the city slowly dissolves into the dirt. More flowers grow, more vines creep across the city, breaking buildings and decomposing bodies into pieces. Bees bumble from flower to flower, heavy with pollen. Foxes dart beneath cars, chasing mice and chipmunks. One day she watches an eagle spiral across the sky, swoop into the city streets and climb again with a white rabbit in its talons. For a second the sun seems to balance on its wings. When she brings her eyes back down, a doe darts across the street – Amelia tracks its leap over a corpse mangled by purple irises. Every day she looks at the seed, wonders what flower would grow from it, what petals she’d choke on. It came from the daisies that choked Maya in the summer. They’d been moving through downtown for a day or two, following directions to a safe house a week’s walk from the edge of the city. Yelling came from a side street, and passing they saw a stand off, one man holding a woman by the hair, two other women with their hands up in calming gestures. “Come on, Lia,” Maya had ignored Amelia’s tugs on her arm. She always wanted to help, to save, and to take care of other survivors. “Don’t you see – it’s simple!” The attacking man held a hand out to the women, eyes wild, a handful of seeds in his palm. “It’s the next step in our evolution. The plants have adapted, they’ve taken back the earth from us.” “Seriously?” one of the women whispers, Maya and Amelia close enough to hear her. VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 7

“Mother Nature’s behind it all?” “Shut up shut up!” the man yanked the woman back as Maya stepped towards them. “Don’t worry-” her voice was soft, “I hear you.” The man’s fingers loosened in the woman’s hair, enough that she could wrench herself free. “We should welcome it,” the man was focused on Maya, holding the seeds out. He was frantic, sweat down his face. “We can evolve! We’ll be part of this earth – more than we ever were. And the world will be saved, you see? Take the seeds!” He moved, reaching for Maya, bringing the seeds toward her mouth. Before Maya could speak a deafening shot resounded. Maya turned as the man reached for her, fingers pulling her mask free as he fell, blood blooming across his stomach from the bullet. The shooter ran after her companions; Maya gasped, and a single seed, loose in the air, was sucked past her lips. The daisies grew quickly. She choked in Amelia’s arms, white petals pouring out of her mouth. Her throat bulged with their roots; her body twitched and went still as a single seed climbed up the daisies, the single seed Amelia keeps. She almost drops it now, slipping out of her car one morning, a sudden pop pop pop of gunshots making her wince. Then she’s running, confused as the shots bounce off the cities brick walls and glass buildings. Someone’s crying, loud wrenching sobs, and more people are yelling, cheering somewhere behind her. Quickly she rounds a corner, whipping past a car - and the sunflower woman is in front of her. Her body is only half pulled into the ground, the vines taking longer to break the asphalt. A young girl is crouched at her head, sobbing against the woman’s neck, her mask soaked with tears. Mama. It’s her mother – the sunflower woman is a mother. The girl is skin and bones, tears leaving tracks through the dirt on her cheeks. Amelia wonders where she’s been, too scared to look for food, too scared to look for her mother. The girl clutches one of the flowers in her hand, roots bloody. What’s your favorite flower? Amelia imagines flowers pouring out of the little girls mouth. Her legs tremble, her brain telling her to run, to run again, and keep running. She hears her mother, what’s your favorite flower? The yells and gunshots are close, so close - and Amelia lunges forward, picking up the young girl and holding her tight against her chest. She’s still holding the sunflower in her small hand, yellow petals soft against Amelia’s cheek. “It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re going to be okay.” Amelia drops the seed from her hand, squishing it beneath her heel as she starts to run, the sunflower woman’s daughter in her arms.

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Forgetting is a burden to those who must never forget JACOB BUTLETT

In the park I sit under a maple tree, whose leaves age under the morning sky. Yellow warblers sing to the quiet rhapsody of my breathing as I think of him, when he held my hand in the arboretum, when he held the door open on our last date, when he held me in his arms under this maple tree— just the other day, it seems. I try to forget them—promises abandoned, expectations of love no longer expected. I bought him a gold ring before he died. He bought a thirteen-knotted rope. My life has wilted like petals in the memory of his life, his life a stream stagnant with loss, his life a church long since fallen. And I still don’t know what to do without him— to guide me, to hold me safely against his breathing. He’d want me to move on, I feel. He’d want me to stand up from this maple tree, take a walk around and through the park, admire the dewy blueberry bushes, the white crocuses, the loud ovenbirds along the way—anything to distract me. I will take a walk and I will try to move on, but when I stand up, I notice a catacomb of leaves at my feet, large autumn leaves, and it is there I see my mortality, his mortality, leaves soon to darken into death. I cry into my hands, wanting to fall into the leaves, join him in his casket, hold him once more. But I can’t. As a member of the living, I can’t. So I go for my walk, entering the heart of the park with dried tears on my face.

VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 9

BOB MACKENZIE

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Missing in Action

ANN CHRISTINE TABAKA Another moment passes as if it did not exist. Vanished from time eternal, the past is a dream. Did I walk those fields of green, or touch that ancient ruin, one wonders, questioning sanity. Looking back at images, was I really there? Remains of glorious vacations, now filed in boxes on a shelf. Glimpses of a distant yesterday, fragment then coalesce. Trees no longer climbed, except in oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind. Memories of past events, now wandering illusions. Fleeting emotions grasp at obscure bits of recognition, while trying to capture shadows, evaporating in front of me. The past so quickly fades as reality takes over, for all we really ever have is this present moment.

VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 11

By the Light of the Silvery Moon FRANCES FROMMER

id you know that Indigenous peoples use a lunar calendar to note the changing seasons and the passage of time? The moon completes 13 lunar cycles between summers. It takes 28 days to go from a full moon to a full moon. Traditionally, the Ojibway, Cree and Mohawk are some peoples who have followed the 13 moon lunar cycle. At the start of each cycle, the people tell stories about events that occurred since the last full moon. These stories are passed on from generation to generation. Each moon has a name along with a cultural teaching that explains the life cycle with cultural teachings related to nature for each season. Moon names vary from group to group with differences in climate, terrain or important local events. Most calendars today use the 12-month cycle, but traditionally, the Ojibway, Cree and Mohawk follow the 13-moon lunar cycle. The shell of the turtle is used to guide the people. There are 13 large scutes or sections on the turtle’s inner shell. The Elder Moon is the first moon of creation—a time when the people ask Grandmother Moon for special guidance and protection throughout the winter. The Eagle Moon is when people who were blessed with bird names feast and honor the return of the eagle. This bird is the creature that is closest to the Creator. The Goose Moon represents the beginning of a new year as the return of the geese reveals that spring is on its way. The Frog Moon is when the frogs sing the welcoming songs of spring. This Grandmother Moon brings warmth to Mother Earth and awakens all living creatures and plants. The Budding Moon reveals that summer is just around the corner as buds open on trees and many flowers, shrubs and trees are starting to bloom. The Blossom Moon is when the trees have leaves again and flowers are in full bloom. New plant life covers Mother Earth during this summer season. The Berry Moon occurs when all berries are ripe and ready for picking. Preserving begins for the long winter ahead. The Harvest Moon is honored in late summer as the people work together leading to social interaction and a sense of community. The Fall Moon is when the leaves of the trees turn into glorious colours as plant life withers. Creation prepares the people to endure the coming season of winter. The Migrating Moon is when the weather starts to get cooler and birds begin to migrate south for the winter months. The Frost Moon is when frost appears and all Mother Earth’s creatures and plant life are resting for the winter moons ahead. The Frozen Moon is honored as winter begins and ice on lakes and rivers is frozen. The Spirit Moon is a time for giving thanks to the Creator for all the gifts received throughout the year. People ask this Grandmother Moon to keep their families alive and safe. The scutes or sections on the turtle’s outer shell are used to note the passage of a cycle of the moon. The Thirteen Grandmother Moon Teachings present a name for each cycle plus offer guidance and lessons on living. The first moon of Creation is Spirit Moon (January). It is manifested through the Northern Lights. It is a time to honour the silence and realize our place within all of the Great Mystery’s creatures. The second moon of Creation is the Bear Moon (February). It is manifested during one 12 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

morning of as heavy fog. It is a time to honour the vision quest that began in the fall to discover how to see beyond reality and to commune through energy instead of sound to learn about the birth of bear cubs. The third moon of Creation is the Sugar Moon (March). The maple sap starts to run. We learn one of the main ingredients of the main medicines given to the Anishnabe which balances our blood for healing. We are encouraged to balance our lives as we would our blood sugar levels. So we are guided by Divine Law. The fourth moon of Creation is the Sucker Moon (April) when the sucker fish goes to the Spirit World to receive cleansing on the earth. Then, we are purified and so are all our water beings. We can learn to become healed healers. The fifth moon of Creation (May) is the Flower Moon when all plants display their spirit sides. This life-giving energy is one of the most powerful healing medicines on Mother Earth. We are encouraged to explore our spiritual essences. The sixth moon of Creation is the Strawberry Moon (June). The medicine of the strawberry is reconciliation. Many communities would hold annual feasts. All are welcomed home, regardless of their differences as judgment and/or self-righteousness. The seventh moon of Creation is the Raspberry Moon (July). Changes begin. We learn to be gentle and kind. We might pass through the thorns of its bush and harvest its fruit and gain knowledge to help with raising our families. The eighth moon of Creation is the Thimbleberry Moon (August).We honour the thimbleberry as it gives fruit every three years. Its purpose is to protect the Sacred Circle of Life by allowing us to both recognize and understand the teachings that come from the Spirit World. The ninth moon of Creation is the Corn Moon. (September). Each cob of corn has 13 rows of multi-coloured seeds, representing all the spirits waiting to begin their Earth Walk. We learn about the cycle of life and prepare for future generations. The tenth moon of Creation is the Falling Leaves Moon (October). It is a time when the Star Nation is closest to us. Mother Earth manifests wondrous colours. We become aware of all the miracles of Creation and our spiritual energies are again awakened as all of Creation makes their offerings to her. The eleventh moon of Creation is the Freezing Moon (November). The Star Nation is closest to us. It is a time to prepare for the coming fasting grounds and our spiritual path by learning the sacred teachings and songs that will sustain us. The twelfth moon of Creation is the Little Spirit Moon (December). This a time of healing. As we receive vision of the spirits and good health, we may then walk the Red Road with the purest intentions to share this positive energy with our families and friends. So, all benefit. The thirteenth moon of Creation is the Big Spirit Moon. The aim is to purify us and heal all of Creation . This journey may take three months. The people receive instructions on the healing powers of the universe and transform them into their own vision of truth. I am so moved by how the Indigenous peoples have such a respect for and commitment to the earth plus a close attachments to nature. Their sensitivity to the shifts of the seasons and observations of changes can direct our awareness to our surroundings and urge us to respect to the treasures of the earth. REFERENCES Thirteen Grandmother Moon Teachings by Arlene Barry, from her series of compiled teachings “Kinoomaadiewinan Anishinaabe Bimaadinzinwin”, Book Two, pages 17-18. In 13 MOONS-Teacher’s Guide. For more information and diagrams, Google “Teachings of the thirteen Moons Indigenous people of Canada and click on “THIRTEEN MOONS-Ontario Literacy Coalition” and “Thirteen Moons On Turtle’s Back – Native Reflections” VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 13

Unseasonal LIN LUNE

ou’ve made it this far, halfway down Main Street aleardy, the fur lined hood of your parka bobbing up and down, sticky resin trailing down your left shoulder as you drag the pine tree behind you, a perfect specimen. Fallen needles cover the grass and sidewalk as you stroll along. Passerby hang around in their t-shirts and shorts, some following you, some crossing the street. You greet everyone, saying what a festive day this is, blue sky with sun shining down, and it’s the perfect time for a Christmas tree. Attach the firehose to the tank of paint, then flip on the pump. Water pressure fills the hose that travels up the porch railings to the grey roof, and you’re up there, drenching that 90-year-old maple tree in sunset red. Fall will arrive early in your yard this year. You surf across the lake at breakneck speed, carving your board left and right behind the plume of powder the jet ski sends up. You hang on to the rope and snowboard across the ice. Fly home for a self-prescribed holiday, pack suitcases full of souvenirs and digital photo albums. Get all the extended family together in your grandparents’ apartment, cook a New Year’s feast, and leave the neighbours wondering why firecrackers decorate your doors and red ribbons trail from your windows at this time of year. No reasons are needed to start a family get-together, and you invite the nosey neighbour in too. Flights are too expensive in Febuary anyways. Construct snowmen out of sand, give it a summer scarf and a toque. Ask your grocery store why there are no carveable pumpkins in July but there’s still pineapples in October. Sport that cold weather longcoat the second it delivered at a discount because of the time of year. Drink hot chocolate and watch The Polar Express on your couch because no one wants to go outside in this heatwave. Stockpile Valentines’ day cards when they appear in stores so you can send one a week for the rest of the year. The moon is always somewhere around, full or not, so eat some mooncake if you want to. Cut out flowers from green and yellow paper, stick them in a hanging pot, bouquet-like, and dangle them from your balcony. Wear fingerless gloves to handle the knots better without freezing. Fold origami daffodils, carnations, make a garden you can see when you look out the terrace. Mix green and red with black and orange. Rainbow stockings and sandals. Turkey and ice cream. Why do the seasons still confine you? There is no set order to experience all the joys in life.

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Summer Vacation Memories â&#x20AC;&#x2122;66 LINDA IMBLER

Bicycle card spokes fluttering with ticking thumps, sunny afternoons under sheets as tents, the click of go-go boots dancing on pavement the sound of pop music adding depth and cheer bleeping from transistor radios the lilting ice cream truck, the snap of freshly laundered damp sheets on clotheslines in the summer breeze the rumbly engine of the bookmobile saving us from ennui, telling tales in books we read, transporting us to new world when we get bored with the same old street the doppler of cars passing by as we whiz around on roller skates porch lights now shining, telling us the day is done and the tired trudge home must begin.

VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 15

Crystal Swan JUSTIN PATRICK

For once the winter’s dusk returns And trees grow bare under grey skies Cold hands will feel the icy burns Of broken clouds’ pale crystal flies. Sharp edges of footprints do stay Amid graves of pretty flowers In ever mourning as they lay To be buried by the powders And die with summertime lovers. Maybe one day, they’ll be dancing Atop heaven’s fluffy covers Yet now they rest ‘neath a white wing With all their earthly remnants gone Waiting for the next wet leaving Of Jack Frost’s nesting crystal swan

Blackout 2010 INGRID BRUCK

Dark clamps shut like a bear trap on the east coast. I can’t see my feet or hands in front of my face before moonrise in this blackout. Like water in a sinking ship, black fills up Stella Maris House, I feel my way out the back door. I can’t see the ocean drumming the ground, the house shakes, my body quakes. A lone sentry on the shore, I’m blind under a feast of stars without a moon, I look north towards the city I can’t see New York City. nothing’s there. The dark empties me. 16 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

EMEL KARAKOZAK

VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 17

October Rain: Midnight Jazz #1 and #2 EUGENE CORNACCHIA [i] gentle rain wraps itself ‘round midnight air is chill the smoke is good this peace warms me in it’s way an old man sorting memories like rare trinkets long lost now found but only for now ‘round this the witching hour cold coffee heartbeat midnight jazz somewhere a cricket dry [ii] as a child in dark of night i would lay awake to listen distant trains’ night passage midnight moaning of poets in love unrequited now - silence, with sirens wailing their dismay as entropy gains it’s way i listen for beat periodicity in the raindrops’ cycles while i ponder “where did the trains go?”

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The Leaves

KYLE CLIMANS

o many leaves to rake, he thought with despair and frustration. The autumn had come again, and his yard was a motley of yellow, orange, red, and brown. It would have been beautiful if it didn’t enrage him so. For now, he would have to clean it all up with just a flimsy old rake that he’d never bothered to replace when he’d had the money to do it. He began his task late, hoping to leave it until all the leaves had fallen from the trees, but after several weeks, the situation was intolerable. So, with great reluctance, he went out and went to work. It was a cold, grey day, with heavy clouds taunting him with the threat of rain or snow. He grumbled as he swung the rake, pulling small bunches of leaves towards himself. With a grunt or growl of frustration, he watched as half the leaves he attempted to rake fell loose before his swing was completed. Some of them were left behind in the long grass, which had still managed to grow several inches tall despite the cold weather. It was the same situation every year, he thought to himself as he bent to his task. As always, he would throw hateful looks at the trees, and fantasized swinging an axe instead of a rake. Oh, how he’d love to summon orcs and goblins to tear these trees down, be damned if it would inspire an Ent or two to step on him in revenge. Of course, this would lead his mind to drift as he worked, distracting himself from his labours. As time passed, though, he checked back in to observe his progress. Two bags of leaves were already full, and he was well on the way to filling a third. Yet, as he noticed in a fury, there seemed to be just a small dent in the amount of leaves on the ground. And that still didn’t account for all the leaves bunched up where the flowers and herbs normally grew. With a curse, he walked amongst the soil to get the worst part of this job over with. As he raked, dirt and mulch were pulled along by the leaves, like unwanted party guests who fill a room beyond capacity. The sight of the ruined garden by his own actions only soured his mood, yet he saw no viable solution which wouldn’t lengthen his work time by another hour or so. Was it expected of him to hand-pick every leaf daintily from the dirt? And even as he worked, some of the leaves clung to the soil in defiance of his wishes. How many of those were acceptable to leave behind. His rage boiled over, suddenly, and with snarls he swung the rake wildly at the leaves in the garden. They flew out en masse, leaving the black soil and a few survivors behind. It was a supremely satisfying moment for him… until he saw that the displaced leaves had scattered across the very lawn which he’d been trying to clean for the past hour before that. The rake flies out of his hand as he throws it – not drops, throws it – into a pile of leaves, but his rage is impotent; he won’t leave the job undone, it isn’t an option. He looks up as more leaves drift down from the trees, which are only two thirds bare. This won’t the be last raking of the season. Maybe the next one will be, but he can’t be sure. Would that he could will all of the multicoloured pieces of this jigsaw puzzle to come clattering to the ground. Or better yet, have them disappear in a puff of smoke. Just one and a half more rakings, the rational part of him says, the part of him which is disgusted by his childish temper at a pile of leaves. What’s the harm? You spend too much time inside anyway, it’s good to do these jobs. And anyway, winter will be here soon, and then you can light a nice fire and relax as the cold settles in. VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 19

Until you must shovel the snow, the angry part of him says, livid at the mere thought. Three months of back-breaking shovelling work to keep your driveway clean, of salting the ground as the price of the salt eats into your savings, of clearing away the slush as the winter finally thaws to make way for spring. And then it will be gardening season, unless you’d prefer your lawn and garden to be covered over in weeds. This of course, will only aggravate your allergies to the point where having your sinuses surgically removed will be a comforting thought. Then as the summer brings in the real warmth, the grass will strive to grow as quickly as possible, just so you can spend your days cutting it again and again. And lo and behold, we’re back in the fall! The cursed fall! It’s too much to think about. She isn’t even malicious, this Mother Nature. She just doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about your complaints, your whining, your aches. Just as nobody else wants to hear about you bitterly begrudging “the little things in life.” You’re thus left alone with your anger as it eats you up inside. Unless you can let it go. Or ignore it. With a sigh, he takes out his phone and turns on his music. The artists and their songs fly by on shuffle, even as he can see more and more of the grass as he goes. And all around him the leaves keep falling.

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the song you knew well LINDA M. CRATE the growth i cannot see only your decay because you introduced me to your nightmares first, and your spring’s flowers later; i cannot believe your life when you gave me nothing less than the song of death— you took your pain made it a weapon against me the heart is an arrow which you aimed true only to shatter me in songs of pain and agony, but everything was always my fault even my pain; i could never walk the path you wanted you didn’t understand me not that you ever tried— i was a girl starved of love, and you left me with a fragile ego; so easily shattered by the song of winter which you knew so well: death.

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Goodbye, Little School MEG FREER

for Mr. C, “Last Man Standing” Late October, trees burn gold, demolition begins. Tears mix with rain as crews crack open ribs, expose the heart, the grade one classroom now a gaping shell. “The Little School with a Big Heart”, beautiful St. Joseph/St. Mary. Grade one, where it all starts, pieces start to fall into place, where a man, with a heart big as the school’s, taught by example with humour and clever wit. The schoolyard—once a safe place to dream, watch a cat in long grass on the other side of the fence pretend to be a lion stalking prey— now a pile of rubble. In its last year, just seven little pairs of feet ran down the hallway, hearts beating in time with the thoughts of their teacher, the man with a big heart, “Last Man Standing”, as he said. The school ended as it began: a one-room schoolhouse, one big family with a collective spirit. Autumn rain doesn’t dampen faint hope that some of that spirit will emerge from the rubble, that future feet will feel it while walking that ground. Goodbye, little school.

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MEG FREER

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Seasons

SAJEDA MANZOOR The universe covers blankets of seasons They change often With different reasons They spread in every region Summer, spring, autumn and winter They spread like fragrance In North, South, East and West In the sphere in the atmosphere With their uniqueness Represent their colours A new season is here It is a reason The best friends of the residents Every season speaks loudly I give them shelters I give them elegance To shine and gleam In heavy shower In scorching heat In soothing breeze In peak winter, spring, summer and fall I turn into unique colors When autumn winds blows The green leaves shout and blow In red, brown, yellow and Indigo The best season When the trees shake and dance The green leaves Are like chameleons They shed like tears The haunted memories appear No more I am here I am the past I give you the gift and the present Of the moments I am here as a reason As a beautiful fall Soon I will disappear 24 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

Enjoy my colours and fragrance With my elegance I am like a chameleon Soon I will change into soft fluffy layers white and aglow With signs to be steady and slow To enjoy and jump With different reasons penetrating the cold with frozen toes sometimes with hats full of snow The socks, mittens shouts Take us out We are stout To cover you out To protect you with harshness and weatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s extremity I make you to believe in yourself The Sun is out Its beautiful rays kiss the Valleys, mountains and flowers covered with snow They melt with dazzling rays Those the sun spreads It is the Charisma of the seasons The seasons change Summer knocks the door The sun shines at the shore It opens the door Wth the emerging sun rays Those spread the fragrance They enforce It is a reason They play with every individual They dwell in the heart like a rhythm They play and beat They are the seasons Summer, spring, fall and winter They are universal

Zephyr’s Whisper, Revision III KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

In the breath of a cascading waterfall... I hear the voices of child spirits reciting sonnets falling leaves landing upon browning grasses weaving colorful blankets around the meadow. Trout cruise the pools along babbling brooks I watch them dart out from the bank and feed, a single red oak leaf floats by dodging rocks gathers speed then disappears downstream. In the breath of a cascading waterfall... I observe. Chickadee’s and Nuthatches flutter in the pines as Blue Jay’s squawk at me from high branches. While walking the path, I feel a sting below the ear, the seasons last mosquito has found me out here. In the breath of a cascading waterfall... I dream. Snow white sails billowing in the warm trade winds, rolling seas of a turquoise blue, reflect silken clouds, terns and gulls from the tropical islands hover above. Flying fish leap and glide as dolphins follow behind. In the breath of a cascading waterfall... I wake. A thermos of hot tea sits next to me under the great oak, sparse of leaves now, but splendid and regal. I slowly sip my cup as a flock of geese fly over, I smile, close my eyes and find myself by the lake. In the breath of a cascading waterfall... I rest. My eyes open and focus upon the rising full moon. Twilight has crept into the day with a splash of color. The song of the night has now reached a crescendo; I stand and inhale its timeless staccato symphony. In the whisper of a cascading waterfall... Autumn!

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FEATURE STORY Wish Book JOHN TAVARES

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he Christmas carols and decorations and glittery lights in the snowscape city drove Marko to distraction with anger. His bank account virtually empty, his worn wallet filled with tattered, folded receipts, his mail full of unopened and unpaid bills, he couldn’t believe how broke he had become. He expected he’d find a job by now, but he felt as if no employer in the city wanted to hire a paramedic in general or him in particular. He would have to move to some faraway town in Northwestern Ontario and work as an air ambulance paramedic, if he wanted to find work, but he was afraid of flying and didn’t want to leave Toronto, where he was born and raised. These days he felt as if his college training was worthless, useless, a waste of time. Two years having elapsed since he graduated from college, he still had no job as an emergency medical technician. Moreover, these days he got the impression good looks were more important than specialized training to landing a job. In the waiting room for a job interview, he recently met a makeup artist, who decided to drop out of beauty school, with no experience or a college diploma or degree, who wanted to become a first responder and beat him at a job for emergency dispatcher. He even knew a repair person and a roofer hired to work as a paramedic for a private company in non-emergency patient transportation. Meanwhile, he worked part-time and casual shifts at a group home for people with intellectual disabilities. After two years of unemployment, having attended college full-time for three, he decided to try to work as a subway train operator and conductor. He pinned his last hopes on a job as a train operator with public transit, which, he noticed, paid well, but the interviewer was turned off by his style and conservative dress, including his hand-me-down shoes and double-breasted suit. He erred on the side of caution, dressing formally, but it backfired with hiring managers at the Toronto Transit Commission. The remainder of the interview was a train wreck, and he couldn’t conceal his disappointment from the manager, when he pounded his fist on his desk, since he felt desperate to land a full-time union position, with contract guarantees and job security. He even enjoyed travelling as a commuter on public transit—he studied for most of his paramedic and emergency medicine courses and tests on the subway train to Centennial College—and the idea of operating a subway train appealed to him, but he didn’t hear back from the public transit commission. When he called the transit commission’s human resources department, the assistant said they filled all vacant positions. When Marko first graduated, his girlfriend argued with him over his inability to find a job as a paramedic. In fact, he was finding it difficult to find any job that paid a living wage. Ivana protested he should take any job offered to him and insisted he find a job as a librarian since he loved books and reading. “Libraries are boring.” “Librarians are sexy,” she shouted, “and the work’s safe and secure.” A nighthawk, who loved the calm and peace of a city night, compared to the madness and crowds of the daytime crowds and mobs downtown, Marko took a job as a clerk at a convenience store and worked the graveyard shift. Ivana complained he was only paid minimum wage, and he was never home nights. He reminded her that she insisted he take any job offered him. Then, one night, he was robbed at gunpoint. Afterwards, the owner and manager decided to close the store at night; she couldn’t afford a closed-circuit camera upgrade, a security guard, or increased insurance costs, so he was laid off. Now, with Christmas a few days away, he didn’t have the funds to buy Ivana the Guess handbag she wanted. Ivana, too, was struggling, working like him, casual shifts, and holiday weekends at a group home, but she also found part-time work as a cleaner at a hospital. The group home had promised them both full-time jobs, but they barely paid their personal support workers minimum wage. Both employers had promised full-time jobs, but a conservaVOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 27

tive government was elected, and these organizations were government funded non-profit agencies, informed to expect job cuts and lay-offs instead of moving part-time and casual staff to regular full-time jobs. Now he needed to find the funds to buy Ivana her Guess handbag. He ransacked the piggy banks and coin jars he left hidden around the cramped apartment, in the rambling neoVictorian mansion. He took a box of hardcover and used academic health science books, bought for college courses, to sell to a second-hand bookstore, but the money he received was barely enough for a shopping bag of groceries. Thinking he needed to take desperate measures, he remembered his friend Danny, a fellow paramedic student, who quit his job with the Toronto emergency medical service, after thirteen months into his job, when he was one of the paramedic crews that responded to a multi-vehicle pileup on the Highway 491 with numerous gruesome casualties. For a while, Danny went on disability, after he was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, and then drove a taxi, during which he constantly visited their apartment and expressed surprised when he saw Marko take antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. Danny thought it was a blessing Marko couldn’t find work as a paramedic. He constantly replayed the scene of the gruesome expressway accident to Marko. Danny told Marko he could sell his prescription drugs for a profit, but Marko told Danny he didn’t want to become involved in a criminal enterprise. A year later, broke, essentially penniless before the Christmas holidays, when he wanted to treat Ivana special even during hard times, he thought differently, except now he could not depend on anyone, including his father, who died from agonizing cancer, medication helped alleviate. He went through the clutter of creams, lotions, colognes, perfumes, deodorants, razors, toothpaste, toothbrushes, and prescription drugs in the medicine cabinet. A while ago, his prying, probing friend Danny told him he could sell the Prozac as well as his Xanax for a tidy profit, but now Marko had only a few left, since he used the peachy pills, which he considered a life-saver in stressful, panic-stricken situations. He realized his mother probably had more prescription drugs, after his father suffered a prolonged and agonizing illness from prostate cancer that metastasized to his lung, liver, and brain. Aside from undergoing chemotherapy, his father became a patient in palliative care at home, and, to alleviate his suffering, he wound up using prescription painkillers and sleep medications before he died. Marko’s mother, moreover, tended to keep everything, including grocery and utility bill receipts from decades ago, but particularly something vital like prescription medication, no matter how dated or beyond the best before or expiry date. Deciding to pay his mother a surprise visit, Marko took the bus and subway to his mother’s house just off Bloor Street West, near Lansdowne and the Coffee Time cafe, where he did his high school homework. Having earned a degree in English literature from York University, Ivana also acquired a teaching degree from the faculty of education at the University of Toronto, just down the street, but she couldn’t find a job as a teacher. She found the discipline in Toronto crowded with job seekers, novice teachers, including graduate students with advanced degrees in disparate jobs who found they couldn’t use their degrees in their chosen field of education and competed for the few substitute teaching positions available with the Toronto school boards. She worked an overnight shift as a developmental services worker at the group home for the persons with intellectual disabilities in Etobicoke. Ivana persisted in asking what he wanted for Christmas, but Marko insisted that they should stick to their pledge not to give gifts to each other for Christmas, a pragmatic measure. She insisted he tell her or they wouldn’t make love that night. He told her, in an ideal, perfect world what he wanted for Christmas, more than anything, was an e-book reader. 28 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

Ivana checked her bank account, but she was already deep in overdraft protection. She simply didn’t have the money to buy the e-book reader Marko wanted and desired. She thought the idea of an e-book reader made perfect sense as well; both loved reading, but he read far more than. She was tired of hauling around boxes of books every time they were forced to move from one furnished room or apartment to another. With an e-book reader all his bulky, heavy books, which consumed so much space in their living quarters, would find safe storage in digital files in the device memory, either a flash drive or the micro-SD card. She loved Marko, who emphasized he loved her for her personality and intelligence but they originally only became intimate after she wore a short tight skirt and a low-cut blouse at a Croatian soccer banquet, in the church basement, dress for which she earned a smack from her parents, so she suspected he was initially enamoured with her physicality. She remembered she even joked, when they had difficulty finding work, of working as a high-end escort, except she then found the prospect lamentable, loathsome, repulsive, and depressing, but now she was reconsidering and the idea seemed acceptable. She decided that if she was to afford a Christmas gift for him, she needed to hustle. She needed to advertise discreetly, but online, on the Internet, in classified ads, personals, women seeking men, et cetera. She looked at a website called Casual Encounters, where she placed a classified ad, trying to be discreet, for an escort and masseur. She posted an advertisement offering personal services, involving a massage with a happy ending. Within several hours, she had a response, and she quickly exchanged e-mails and text messages. Then she went to a house in the east end to hopefully make some money. Marko snapped at his mother when she started making enquiries about his personal life, but she slapped him on the face and told him she was his mother. She told him in Croatian he was better off moving back home, and his girlfriend was an unsuitable woman for someone as intelligent and promising as him. She wanted him to return home to save money and to apply to medical school at the University of Waterloo, so he could become a medical doctor. Ivana was unsuitable for him; her parents were city slickers from Zagreb, who put on airs and pretended all their family and offspring were doctors, lawyers, and bankers. “Mom, this is Toronto, Canada, and we’re both Canadian, born and raised in Boring Bloordale Village in Toronto. We met at Our Lady Queen of Croatia Church when we were teenagers, but that’s the end of it. We don’t even speak Croatian, hang out with Croatians, or go to Our Lady Queen of Croatia Church anymore.” Then he listened to worries from her about his diet and eating habits, since he looked thin, as if he lost weight, and muscle. Wondering if she was feeding him properly and looking after him well, she told him she was worried about his relationship with Ivana. He explained to his mother he was mature enough to cook his own meals and wash his own laundry. He didn’t bother telling her he and his girlfriend were thinking of getting married in a civil ceremony at city hall; she would be outraged, and, even if she approved of their relationship, she’d be disappointed they weren’t having a huge white wedding, a luxury they couldn’t afford for the foreseeable future, and which meant they wouldn’t be inviting the large number of Croatian relatives in the extended family. He went to use the washroom and found an empty bottle for OxyContin. Marko asked his mother about all the painkillers his father, suffering excruciating pain, was forced to take to alleviate the symptoms of cancer. His mother told him the painkillers were in his night table, still. She climbed upstairs, slowly, carefully, step-by-step, and found the bottles of prescription painkillers, synthetic opioids filled at the pharmacy the day his father died, he noted. His mother warned him about the painkillers, but asked no questions, VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 29

since, as far as she was concerned, her son could never do wrong. He put the prescription painkillers in his satchel bag and headed on his way. He went home to the apartment. In case he returned soon, Ivana left a note, under a magnet on the refrigerator door, telling him she left the apartment to visit her friend, when she intended to visit her first client. With only two days left until Christmas, the clock was running down, and she acted with a sense of urgency. Marko called his friend Danny, who told him he knew a stand-up guy who would buy the pills. In his thirteen months as paramedic, Danny saw more car crash victims than Mark could hear about sensibly. Danny said he would set up a meeting for his friend from the paramedic program with the buyer at the Trapper Shack Burger restaurant, located near the intersection with Finch and Yonge Street, beside the 24-7 convenience store, a short walk from Shepherd subway station. The buyer would meet him shortly after midnight. At St. George subway station, Marko boarded a late-night subway train. During the commuter trip, he decided that, if it took him a while to get acquainted with the buyer, and he missed the last southbound subway train, he would take the southbound twenty-four Blue Night bus service home back downtown. He hurried through the rain, which turned to sleet and then snow, to the fast food restaurant. Nervous, jittery, cold, shivering, anxious to use the washroom, he wished he dressed warmer and had not drunk so much coffee, since, cursing the transit system for being so parsimonious with public washrooms, he was desperate to urinate. In fact, Marko felt so anxious and edgy he took a lorazepam from his father’s medications to allay his anxiety. In the Trapper Shack Burger, Marko made a quick visit to the washroom, where a man who looked as if he was on edge tried to warn him that it was dangerous and that the end was near. Outside the restaurant washroom, Danny introduced him to the prospective buyer and hurriedly left the fast food restaurant, after he bought a soft ice cream cone, despite the chill and sleet and snow. Danny’s quick exit and the sombre weather made him even more anxious. The buyer asked Marko what he did for a living. Marko hadn’t expected the question; he thought it was inappropriate, and none of his business, a breach of dealer etiquette, but at the same time he thought he had nothing to hide, at a time when he should have been suspicious, so he said, “I’m looking for work in private security.” The man laughed, but Marko thought he was a gangster, a career criminal, which, including his stone-cold visage, was partly what made him intimidating. Bald, dressed in expensive distressed denim and polished loafers, he looked to Marko like a member of the Russian mafia. The unknown man then asked what he had, and Marko showed him the pill bottle. “These looks like oxycodone,” he said. Holding the translucent bottle beneath the table, he examined the white scored round tablets closely and flashing the light from his smartphone on the contents. “You’ll sell these to me?” Marko nodded and mouthed the words, so if he was an accurate lip reader, he would see he said he would. “You’re under arrest for possession of narcotics for the purposes of trafficking.” The man held his arm with a firm grip as he flashed a driver’s license and went through the procedures of arresting him. He handcuffed him, incredulous, and escorted him out of the Trapper Shack Burger restaurant and across the parking lot at the back to his black car. Ivana went to the house on Yonge Street, after she pushed through the turnstile and exited the Rosedale subway station into a quiet leafy side street. Initially impressed, she thought her client 30 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

lived in quite an affluent neighbourhood, but when she arrived at the actual street address she found a rundown house, between a photocopy and printing store, a bicycle repair shop, and a Starbucks café. She experienced a sense of disappointment. The man was dressed elegantly, though, and smelled of an expensive cologne, a scent subtle, nuanced, musky, but appealing. He looked rich, refined, and wore a scarf like a gentleman. After he introduced himself as a filmmaker and a movie producer, he asked if she wanted to join him on a road trip to a film festival in New York City during which he planned to visit Sofia Coppola. She didn’t know if she should believe him, but she told him she had written some poetry and essays and dabbled in creative writing for a college night course and a university seminar and had written a few articles for campus newspapers and had always been fascinated by filmmaking. The opportunity to work in film in any role appealed to her immensely. Then he asked her if she would give him a full body massage. She said she wasn’t an experienced masseur, but she would do her best. Then he asked her if she would provide him some oral pleasure. “As in deep—” she asked. “Yes, that would be even better,” he replied. “My boyfriend likes it,” she said. “How much are you willing to pay?” Whatever her rates were, he replied, as long as they were reasonable. Yes, of course, and she started to unbuckle, unbutton, and unzip his pants. He pulled out a leather wallet, opened the billfold, and showed her a shiny badge and his Toronto police identification. “You’re under arrest for communicating or attempting to communicate with a person for the purpose of engaging in or obtaining sexual services,” he recited in a dry, neutral tone, flat, emotionless. After he graduated from college four years ago, Marko, filled with hope and optimism, returned to his parent’s home, and the neighbourhood where he grew up in Bloordale Village, for the holiday weekend. He went to the House of Lancaster on Bloor Street, with friends, with whom he lost contact, since he started training to become a paramedic at Centennial College in Scarborough. Amazed the strip club, a landmark in their neighbourhood, had root beer on tap, he sipped the carbonated drink while he played billiards at the pool table in the House of Lancaster and his friends ogled the strippers, catcalling, whistling from the front row. So he ended up getting stopped, as he drove the whole gang home, on suspicion of impaired driving. He tried to explain, since he was abstemious, his friends assigned him the role of designated driver. The police officer didn’t know what “teetotaller” meant and thought he was act like a wise guy. He tried to explain he was nervous driving; his friend’s car was a standard, and he usually drove a car with an automatic transmission. The police officer, undaunted, gave him a breathalyzer, and so he blew zero. The officer told him to drive his friends home safely. He remembered the traffic stop that weekend as he tried to talk his way out of being arrested. He decided to tell the officer the truth, as he stood alongside what looked like an unusual car for a ghost cruiser, with his hands pressed against the roof. The plainclothes man frisked and searched him and handcuffed him to an unmarked motor vehicle, a Ford Mustang. “I was just trying to make enough money to buy my girlfriend a Christmas present. I haven’t been able to find a job.” Marko told him how depressing it was being unemployed, particularly since he was having difficulty finding work in the field he had a passion for and went to school for – emergency medicine. If he had a criminal record—it would be virtually impossible to find work as a paramedic, even though he sometimes received the impression the best paramedics were rogues and renegades, unafraid to go the extra distance to try VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 31

to save a patient’s life. This was the first time he had ever been arrested or charged with anything. The man went into his car, while Marko stood handcuffed to the passenger door handle. He emerged several minutes later and said he checked his name in the database and could find no hits. Marko thought it unusual because he heard no police radio and saw no laptop screen. “You’re lucky I haven’t called this in.” The man eyed the pills in their translucent bottle from which he peeled the labels with his sharp fingernails before he deposited the container in his leather bomber pocket. “You’re also lucky it’s practically Christmas eve.” Looking at his luxury, bejewelled wristwatch, the man saw the time was well past midnight. His breath made a huge cloud of smoke and mist in the freezing air, as he exhaled and, sighing, murmured, “In fact, it is Christmas Eve.” He unlocked the handcuffs. “You’re a persuasive talker. I don’t know why you’re not working in communications—” “I was trained as a paramedic, for—” “Yeah, but a man has to eat. You could even work as a police dispatcher—Car 19, break-in at Finch and Jane, suspects fleeing on foot—something along those lines. Whatever, dude. I just don’t want to see you on my beat again. Get out of my sight.” The man drove off, with the painkiller pills, surging out of the parking lot and, as he did an abrupt U turn, squealing tires and speeding through red lights at the intersection of Yonge with Finch Street as he turned back south downtown. Thinking he had just stepped out of a house of mirrors, Mark observed he could use some pharmacological relief about right now. When he realized he never saw the man’s identification—merely the flash of what appeared to be a plain provincial driver’s license—he wondered if it was a big assumption that he possessed a badge, if the man was indeed an undercover police officer, or if he was a retired, or fired, or a renegade or rogue cop. The most plausible explanation now seemed that the man was no cop at all, but a poser, an impersonator. Later, he told Ivana he had then what he considered a moment of clarity and insight. If he felt conned or that he had just been robbed, his grudges were petty and counterproductive, since, he understood how foolish and naïve and dangerous his actions were and since, after all, he still possessed his freedom. In the nighttime chill of the north end of North York, while light snow started to fall and powder the cement and asphalt, he walked down Yonge Street and underground into the subway station. The token and ticket collector and a security guard, in body armour, and a supervisor, in a white hat, started shouting at him, repeatedly, yelling he had missed—by a few minutes—the last subway train for the night and the next train wouldn’t be running until six in the morning. Marko left the subway station and walked to the next bus stop and boarded the twentyfour-hour bus, the vomit comet. The factory shift workers and pub crawlers, were already pushing their way through the standing room only crowd on the Blue Night bus. He rode the all-night bus home southbound along Yonge to Bloor. In a contemplative, meditative mood, he walked along Bloor Street through the falling snow to the apartment in the large rambling Victorian mansion on Huron Street downtown, which he shared with Ivana. When Ivana saw the undercover Toronto police officer identification and badge, she couldn’t believe her eyes, but she remembered the last time she saw a police badge: before she moved to the city she actually drove a used Japanese car. She lived with her parents, who didn’t charge rent, and she worked at a union job as a dietary aide in the local hospital and could afford a beat up used car, until the salt, mud, and snow on the bumpy, pothole ridden streets under construction and repair and gravel roads of the alleyways in her neighbourhood reduced the auto body to a rust bucket. She remembered, though, how she managed to talk her way out of speeding tickets. She told the police officer how she had difficulty finding work as 32 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

a teacher after graduating from university with a teaching and education degree because of an oversupply of teachers. She told him she was currently working casual and part-time shifts as a developmental services worker at a group home for the disabled, where she barely made minimum wage and worked alongside high school dropouts hired off the street. She told him that, if she was charged and had a criminal record, she would never pass a background check for a teaching position, and she could even be fired from her current position, however measly the pay. She had only decided to advertise to provide personal services this close to the holiday season to buy her boyfriend a silly e-book reader, or even a tablet, so he could read his books on a lightweight and portable computer device instead of carrying heavy paperbacks and bulky hardcover books everywhere they travelled and moved. She told the cop her boyfriend loved reading, but books were heavy, bulky, and cumbersome. Books were a major problem and inconvenience every time they were forced to move from house to apartment to rooming-house to student residence and dormitory. The plainclothes officer listened patiently and then told her he was separated from his wife because, well, for many reasons, but he currently didn’t have any outlet whatsoever. He wondered if she would be able to provide him some oral pleasure as a favor. One good deed deserving another—in return, that sort of thing. She couldn’t see any harm in the quid pro quo; the price was worth her freedom and reputation. In fact, a favour seemed like insurance against prosecution. He drove her to an underground parking garage in a nearby office building, dark, empty, with dingy walls of cement blocks and cracked floors of concrete. He unbuckled and unzipped his khaki trousers and she reached for his shrivelled member, shrunken from the damp chill. A little tipsy from cordials and liqueurs, the couple decided at the last minute to visit Our Lady Queen of Croatia Church for Midnight Mass. The gifts they received in parcels, wrapped in twine and brown paper, from their parents, they regifted and exchanged with each other. Christmas day they spent alone, together. For Christmas dinner, they got together in the huge twenty-four-hour McDonalds on Yonge Street, across from the strip club and the comic bookstore. They ordered the value meals combos, hamburgers and French Fries, and substituted hot coffee, plenty of cream and sugar, for iced Cokes, without having to pay extra. Trying to reassure each other their love was precious enough of a gift to each other they decided in the future they would try to celebrate Christmas without an exchange of gifts. They ended up feasting on bacon double cheeseburgers and fries. For dessert they had apple cream pies, two for a dollar, in paper carton packages, and soft ice cream cones, and then ordered second ice cream cones, coated with crushed peanuts and Christmas candy cane sprinkles. They gorged themselves and ate yet another round of pies, which Ivana insisted were frozen apple turnovers, reheated in their microwave oven, and soft ice cream cones. Afterwards, they felt so energized and celebratory they broke into a food fight, which a few other customers happily joined, until they were asked to leave by the manager. They passed by the Eaton Centre, where crews working cranes blocked traffic, as jacks, pulleys, and steel cables took down the huge Sears sign for the former anchor tenant, the department store chain, and Ivana shouted, with exhilaration, “Sears is bankrupt and the Wish Books is dead.” They hiked home through a storm, which, meteorologists assured television viewers, would grow into a blizzard, climbing over snow drifts on Bloor Street, throwing snowballs at each other, laughing, running along the sidewalk, surprising random passersby with hearty Christmas greetings. VOLUME 4, ISSUE 6 - THE SEASONS ISSUE 33

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DUSKA DRAGOSAVAC & YARA CHARD

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Decayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cycle SARAH SULLIVAN

Both of us believe that growth swallows decay, but I say the unsaid, that decay blankets growth from the bottom up. From within the rotting roots, the ants bore into our future, carving out time, soft sawdust fodder for ferns or other foliage. I never skipped school, but I ate Twinkies for lunch. The ferns, the skunk cabbage, the lady slippers feast on the muck. This is not triumph, I say. This is a kindergartenerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s splash of green watercolor on newspaper-print, fainter than the artist would have hoped. Twinkies and diet Coke from a can, not a glass. The leaves used to breathe. But the earth keeps boiling in the face of too long summers, in the face of too heavy silence when birds no longer fly, in the face of creeping ivy choking silvery beech trunks. You believe that the leaves can whistle, can fan fresh air across our sins and start anew. But I say the unsaid, that decay swells from the inside out, that sin is never buried deep enough. I remind you that Twinkies have an infinite shelf life, one of the first foods immune to the seasons, unfazed by place or time. You remind me that ants will eat a Twinkie, too. That even Twinkies will be rendered dirt and leaf again.

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Scattering

ROBERT GRANT Your mother carried you up to the sea, Weighted in the rucksack on her back, Letting the day play out so patiently. We followed on, though none were dressed in black. This was to be a happier affair, To set you free from all your inner pain. We gathered close, as if without a care, Joking merrily, all just the same. The vessel took us out beyond the shore; Inside that little boat we clung for life. And, as the sea tide rolled us to our core Perhaps I sensed you in some afterlife. The pilot stopped. We held your ashes then, Passed you between your family and friends. I said goodbye again. Watched you, as your ashes were released And felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

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a season change BRUCE KAUFFMAN simply landscapes rolling this motion along atop rails of steel rolling these yellow brown fields of autumn between fences of semi-naked trees come soon thick ice will blanket these ponds layers of snow will make the pastures the meadows and fields the ponds even forget the sky and the lot of us will sit in our separate and darkened rooms with their candled light reading poems about how landscapes and seasons change

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A Dream of Rabbits ALYSSA COOPER It means that the seasons are changing; it means that I am balanced on the edge of a knife, that my brittle bones are close to breaking, that I am breathing frost and spewing flame, that the allegory of flesh and fur pulled from bone is making its way back to my surface. This is what it means when I dream of rabbits.

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The Night’s Breath is More Liquid DAH

The wind kicks up the baked sepia dust, turning it to a vigorous cloud in low motion over a thirsting ground mixing its physics into sails of circling yellow leaves and debris. I walk across the early evening light like Jesus lightly over the water, my eyes stuck on some distant crow ascending with its mouth yakking. The wind tips the bird to the right then to the left refusing to leave it alone. The air, the scent, the light emphasizes autumn’s arrangement: the night’s breath is more liquid.

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Life, Seasons and Desires EDILSON A. FERREIRA

Let me tell you a secret. Secrets are made for, at the right and appropriate time, be revealed and exposed. They twist and squirm, get tired of the imprisonment imposed and ask, if not demand, their freedom. I am a conservative man, averse to change. I would live my entire life in the same house, same friends, same loves; would have my children and their children would be equally ours, growing, assembling and sharing rooms and lives around, indifferent to strange customs of those who do not love and do not like each other. We would be like a pack of wolves that are always together and know no other world but theirs. I like the sun that does not change and it is the same every day, heating and never forgotten of us. I cannot understand the moon, its four phases and four faces, that makes us fall in love with its brightness and then, plays hide-and-seek, feminine and elusive wants and appearances. I would like to have an extended spring without summer, a fall without winter, succulent fruits the whole year, packed with gentle rains and tender winds. My hair could be white, but full and thick, not meager and thin; my desire active and predatory, voracious and powerful, facing my last season with that childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own haughtiness, still shaped as a certain book says, in the image and likeness of so noble our Creator.

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Winter is Coming ANDREW SCOTT

This animal can feel it brewing it is almost time for hoarding A harsh winter is coming so this body will not fear starving food is a must during the sheltering This animal can feel it brewing Have to slow the breathing turn off the busy mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s thinking A harsh winter is coming how long the change will be is depending on the air and what it is hiding This animal can feel it brewing there will be pillaging for the supplies for sleeping A harsh winter is coming to get for all that is needed for surviving during the lost months of hibernating This animal can feel it brewing A harsh winter is coming

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sun birds

BOB MACKENZIE they sit on folding lawn chairs a man and a woman grown old together facing the spring sun in defiance this small concrete pad seems afloat a life-raft between the brick tower walls rising upward as to heaven set against that black tar expanse where a few parked cars seem to float she lies back and stretches catlike low-cut top and short shorts baring legs and arms to a merciless sun savours the warm air and cool breeze slowly browns through the spring days a tall and handsome man in his way he sits then stands then sits again faces the sun then turns to face away rotisserie body turning in the sun his walker left in the wallâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s shadow thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s courage of a special kind here survivors of time and circumstance the man walks despite legs grown frail the woman suns to spite past skin cancer love sustains these birds in the sun they live in this tower behind them still not together after all this time separate apartments on separate floors this infinite span separating lovers afloat between a wall and a sea of tar in love for decades or for all eternity this man and this woman bask in the sun hold back the dark they know must come

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Songs from New England JOAN MCNERNEY

Spring Equinox This is when we search for color to transform cold grey. Rainfall begins its magic high lighting sky blue. We see stacks of luminous clouds as plants pop out emerald buds and forsythia busts open with sparkling yellow stalks. Trees dressed up in chic green boogie through noon breezes. Aromatic lilac bushes cluster in soft bunches. Just today a breath of warmth brought alive pink crepe myrtle branches.

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Summer Solstice Trees outline the horizon in green lace. Beneath boughs float galaxies of blue bugs. Listen to swish of branches as cicada swell and swarm. Hiding under shadow beating their wings, hissing their mating calls. Evening is coming… the dawn of darkness. We are suspended now between light and shade. Clouds rushing over heaven. Sun drops from sky. The air is fragrant with sweet blooming jasmine as star after star sets nighttime on fire.

EMEL KARAKOZAK

Fall Equinox Morning light reveals silhouettes of branches against a dove grey sky. Hurry, pick gardens of bright vegetables. Time to cook big pots of soup, yeasty breads. Wearing red, orange, yellow leaves, trees sashaying in the wind. Countless shades of leaves, shapes of leaves, sounds of leaves. Children come from school jumping in piles of foliage shouting with delight. Flying carpets of sugar maple leaves unfurl along our road as frost draws closer. Amazing how many stars fit inside my windowpane alongside a harvest moon.

Winter Solstice Hurry, short days are here, too much to do. Get ready, find gloves, hats, scarves, sweaters. Stopping to see the shape of a snowflake. Coming home to luxuriate in dim light listening to heat hissing and finding warmth from hot teas. Bundled in bed comforted by mounds of blankets, books. Finally succumbing to our northern goddess, whose black nights are long and silent as evergreens.

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Moon Shapes LYNN WHITE

Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re hanging like baubles full moon shapes in the snow frosty footballs of light and shade shining lighting up the trees on a wintry night making a forest of frost full moon shapes like fairy lights showing a way through the forest showing a way to capture a dream.

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Spin Cycle NICOLE KING

Sifting through the day and pulling hair out of my skin, But it hurts and leaves a hole where flies are living in. Holding myself down because I just want to rinse this out, I’m trapped behind the glass where I scream and shout. The metal grates my body and threatens to clean me dry. I’m afraid if I stay inside of here, I’ll spin until I die. Suds deep within my lungs, and I’m gasping for some air, There’s people outside the glass who’ve just left me there. I’m in this world of soap and water and I’m thinking deep, The dry thought to just go home where I can oversleep. Take me to the light outside this world I feel at home. If I give you everything I’ve got down to the chromosome, Will you let me be at peace with gods and goddesses alone? Please don’t be sad and act like you have ever sang my tone. The worst thing to ever happen was to lose the background song, And have it replaced with spin cycles to wash away my wrong. I’m breathing existential tragedy of who and what and where, While my brain keeps obsessing of turning to energetic air.

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DUSKA DRAGOSAVAC & YARA CHARD

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OUR CONTRIBUTORS... Without the submissions from writers, artists, and photographers, Free Lit Magazine would not be possible! Please take the time to visit other websites linked to projects our contributors have been involved in, as well as the websites/social media platforms run by some of this issueâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s contributors: INGRID BRUCK

YARA CHARD

KYLE CLIMANS

ALYSSA COOPER

DAH

DUSKA DRAGOSAVAC

ROBERT GRANT

KEN ALLAN DRONSFIELD

EDILSON A. FERREIRA

BRUCE KAUFFMAN

LIN LUNE

BOB MACKENZIE

DANIELLA MANNINO

NICK ROMEO

ANN CHRISTINE TABAKA

LYNN WHITE

Wa n t t o b e c o m e a c o n t r i b u t o r ? Email editor@freelitmagazine.com to get involved! 50 FREE LIT MAGAZINE

NICK ROMEO

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