Home Search

gabriela - search results

If you're not happy with the results, please do another search

Editorial

Team Canada serves up a big victory

Teryn Midzain -

May 11, 2023

"The Mario Bros."
By Jeff Mijo-Burch

Memory is fragile, fallible, and frankly unreliable. But within a memory are snippets and details that are so specific that they must be true, even if the context we recall them in might bear little resemblance to what really happened. Yet from those pieces, those details that make up the whole, we build a memory so clear we can relive it in full detail.

I remember when I was young, about eight (but I always seem to be about eight in my childhood memories). It was the evening, a dark day, perhaps winter. And my brother and I were playing Super Mario Bros. on our NES (the original Nintendo Entertainment System). We were always at least a decade behind the times on video game consoles, finding most of our games at garage sales and tucked away in the back of thrift stores.

Our TV (a 30ish inch CRT that weighed more than me and whined at a very specific frequency) was in the basement. And that presented a problem: the basement was scary. It was dark and unfinished, with uneven cement floors, a ceiling perfect for cobwebs, and very little natural light. We didn’t go into the basement alone. Especially not after dark.

There was a loveseat in front of the TV. An off-white one with a floral pattern, which wasn’t nice enough to go upstairs but was perfect for watching movies. But if we sat there, we’d never be safe from whatever nameless, unspoken horrors the basement held (and also the very tangible horrors of an unexpected house spider). Thankfully, we had a solution.

After finding some brief courage, we dashed down to the TV, pulled up a chair, and set the NES on its seat, as far from the TV as its cord would reach. Then I hurried halfway up the stairs (which had no back, and conveniently faced the TV). My brother passed up the controller, reaching it in between two of the top steps, almost the full extent of the cord’s reach, but just enough. Then he hurried up too.

We sat on the stairs, if our pose could be considered sitting: stomach down, knees on one step, elbows a few steps higher, holding the controller that passed in between steps. It’s a good thing we didn’t need glasses yet, because the TV was well over 20 feet away. We ate dinner there, passing the controller back and forth (he was Mario, I was Luigi, like younger siblings always have to be). It was fish and chips (or rather, Highliner breaded fish sticks and frozen french fries), with a side of corn. Our unconventional table, with its avocado-coloured shag carpet, was at the perfect height to minimize the distance between plate and mouth, so we could eat our meal without disrupting the game in any major way.

We played the game for a long time (relative to how long we normally played games, back when screen time was something to be monitored by parents). And in my memory, those hours are vivid, and playing games like that, eating food on the stairs, and straining to see a TV that was too far away, was a large part of my childhood at that age. In reality, I couldn’t tell you if we did that once or a hundred times. But it doesn’t really matter.

"Apophenia"
By Skylar Janzen

I have fallen into the habit of drowning. The water calls to me, although it is not the only thing. I tell you this so you do not worry about me. This is not me admitting defeat; I’m just looking for some answers. Because here’s the thing, nobody visits my hometown unintentionally. It was never a pit stop, always the destination. The winding bridge descending into town is the only clear point of entry. Nowhere to go from here but up, right? I suppose that is what I convinced myself every time I came back. Every visit held the possibility that this time, something would be different. I see myself everywhere. Ghostly versions from years past. As I drive past the beach, I catch sight of myself again. Flick the blinker on. Follow suit. The parking lot is empty; the crisp fall air is not the most indicative of beach weather. I try to envision the version of the lake my younger self stares toward aimlessly. Gingerly sit next to myself at the end of the dock. In time they break the silence as they hop off the deck, and silently slip into the lake. Turn. Offer me their hand. So I take it. I walk into the water, and I don’t stop walking. The water nips at my ankles, entangles my legs, chills my chest, and eventually slips in past my lips. Salt. Not from the source itself, but from the bodies and memories it has cradled over the years. The tears it has tasted. The stories it has been told. Closing my eyes, I let it encase me. Eventually the cold of the water feels like little more than a distant memory. Instead, I feel the warmth of the sun on my cheek. Something strikes me, and I feel my cheeks flush. Look over to the fragmented group of memories I once called friends. Next to me is Evan, propped up on her arms in the sand. Her freckles emboldened against her summer skin. God, I have thought of this face often. We are surrounded by laughter so joyous I can’t believe I ever dared to try to best it. A lightness I have not felt in years. I feel the electricity of her leg as it presses against mine as she adjusts. Nothing will make you feel so alive as the innocent presence, the simple reminder of another human against you that you have not yet been given the grace to touch freely, boldly. It is the purest sense of longing that can be felt. Do you remember your first love? The first time you found yourself caring about another person other than yourself? Without obligation. The first love that was up to you (as if any of us have any say in the matter). We love the familiar, don’t we? We remember the newness of infatuation fondly, but neglect the bad. We hold onto the idea that things would be different, better, easier, if only we could just do it again. We would love them better. I do not know how to describe to you the melancholy of having to experience the memory of falling in love for the first time again. As present as I try to be in the past, as much as I try to smile and laugh and joke at the right moments, try to take in the beauty of friends I would grow to take for granted, it is all tinted with inevitability. At that age, Evan would have never believed me if I told her that I would be the last one to leave. That I would become trapped in the town’s pull over the years — visits with friends over university breaks and summer jobs eventually dwindling as they found their lives outside of this fiction we had fostered. After they made their own realities. Restless bones always settled somewhere. Whether voluntarily or not, I know that rest will find me. Or at least I hope it will. I kick my feet in the water. Realize I am alone. I meander through town. Unable to make myself enter any of the old haunts, I need somewhere to make myself feel grounded. I find myself overlooking the lake, on a rock where I once kissed a boy who did not deserve my mixed signals. The arena and main street are behind me, the train tracks and tourist homes below. A strange precipice. I can see the blurs of figures and emotions this place has witnessed, a blur of long exposure. Teenage debauchery leaving hockey games, families wielding warm drinks while waiting for fireworks, underpaid locals vying for the bench on their lunch breaks. I feel it all as a hazy memory. The details are forgotten but the general form still holds. Despite the goosebumps on my prior skin, the alcohol kept something alight within me. The arrogance. The hubris of it all. Recalling it all, I wish I had a drink now. Something a little too sweet, a little too carbonated. Something that would make me wish in the morning that I had known when to stop. I want a drink that feels like summers at the lake, swapping secrets while we truly see the stars for the first time. I sigh. I keep walking. Run my fingers through the helicopter leaves as I breeze down the hill, wonder what would happen if I did run. Attempt to fly. My nails are cut to the quick. As I make my way back to the water, I fidget. I falter. I grip at ghostly flesh and realize how much it hurts to hold on. Even after all these years, I find myself wishing I could love her now. Find myself wondering how much better I could be at it. I have been broken down and reborn more times than I can count. What ego must I have to assume one person could fill another’s voids entirely? That as we break, and change, and grow, we could continue to intertwine like plant life blossoming through a skull. Water spilling into soft lungs. Bold of me to assume that it was not enough to simply exist. To just be. To share the time we have together, love it so, but have the grace to release it again. I toss a stone in the water; it does not even skip once. I watch as the ripples distort my reflection from the shore, dying unending deaths of their own. I have never had success with letting go. The girl I once loved no longer exists. I know that now. Even the version of myself held by others no longer exists. But this is not me admitting defeat. I walk into the water.

"What a Time to be Eight Years Old"
By Veronica Powell

Everything was better when we were eight.

When there’s a storm, it’s raining with thunder and lightning. We get scared, but our parents are always there to cuddle up under a blanket with us to protect us. They always said, “don’t worry, it’s God moving furniture around.” You would pause for a moment, wondering if that was true. Then you’d shrug your shoulders, and suddenly you were a little less scared. When we would watch a movie, our moms would make us hot chocolate with peppermint and put it in our favourite mug. She would say, “careful, it’s hot. Don’t burn yourself.” You’d smile and feel the warmth of the drink brush your face. She’d say, “do we need popcorn?“ You felt a tingle inside your stomach at the thought of it. “Oh yes!” you would say.

When we were going to do some shopping, our parents would help us into the car and strap us in, making sure it was secure. “Ready?” they would say. “Yup,” was all we said.

As we drove on a fall day, we would watch the rain droplets land on the window and look deeply into the clear drop. We would watch as gravity forced the drop to trickle down the window until you couldn’t see it anymore.

When we were at the store, we would watch our parents intently as they picked out each item off of the shelf. You’d say, “can I get this, Mummy?” Your mom would say, “no, honey. Maybe next time.” Then you would ask Dad. “Daddy, can I get this?” He would smile. “No honey, listen to Mummy.” You would get upset for a moment and dreadfully put it back. You would hang on to the cart to make sure you didn’t lose them.

When we would go for a bike ride around the park, we would pedal faster if we thought our parent was going too fast, we didn’t want to lose sight of them. “Come on, use those legs!” Our dad would say. You’d push and push, but your legs could only push so hard. When you got off the bike for a rest, you would say, “Dad, I’m hot.” He would say, “well, you can’t take your jacket off but you can unzip it. Unless you want to carry it.” You thought about it for a moment, then figured that you wouldn’t want to carry it while riding a bike.

On our first day of school, we would wait outside the classroom with our teacher for our parents to pick us up. When we saw them, we would get so excited and jump into their arms. “Mummy! Daddy! Guess what!” You couldn’t wait to tell them about your day. “What? What?” they responded. “I got a sticker for helping someone in class today!” They would give you high fives and tell you what a good job you did. They were so proud of you.

The small moments in our childhood only seem impactful when we grow older. We wish that we could go back. It’s our everyday life that, when we think about it, makes us happy. Makes us glad that we experienced it.

What a time to be eight years old.

"A Day"
By Bradley Duncan

The drop bin was filled to the brim with returns. I grabbed them in fistfuls, sorting them into neat, precariously tall stacks, and slowly transferred them to the counter. There were splendidly few VHS tapes in the bunch — the format had been mercy-killed pretty quickly since the price of DVD players had come down. Nobody at work complained. We were happy not to have to rewind them, and they were bulky and comparatively heavy to lug around.

Something Disney droned on the TVs that encircled the fishbowl of a store while I checked and scanned the returns. Open, check, close, scan, stack, repeat. One eye was always on the screen. If you mis-scanned something and didn’t notice, you could go through a whole bunch without the system acknowledging it. You always watched the screen — that and Shrek if it was playing. It wasn’t playing now. It was a promotional music video for the new Lizzie McGuire movie.

Even for a Monday it was mercifully slow. I went to the cooler and grabbed a bottle of Coke, rang it through the register, and wrapped the receipt around the bottle, securing it with an elastic band. In addition to the security cameras everywhere, regional managers would pop in randomly. Nine a.m. may seem early for a soda, but I hadn’t been sleeping much. I layed the DVD cases in a line and jammed the locks into the slots along the opening edge. Then another row, and another. Nobody stole tapes. DVDs got stolen by the boatload.

I transferred the stacks to the return cart — a black, metallic, multi-tiered, doubled-sided wagon on wheels that no self-respecting employee ever moved. The cart was, from time immemorial, just for sorting and organizing. You sectioned the returns, alphabetized them, and then carried as many as possible on your rounds. It was a rite of passage. Biggest stack wins. It was an unspoken rule.

I printed off the call-list after the returns were back in their homes and regretted not making someone newer do it. Twenty-one pages of movie names and customer details for outstanding rentals. Fifteen to twenty names to a page. Sulking, I walked to the candy display and grabbed a bag of Clodhoppers — chocolate-covered cookie things that I was mildly addicted to. Scan, pay, receipt, staple, tear, munch.

The list was easy now. Most people had answering machines these days. Fewer actual conversations. “Hello, this is Brad from Rogers Video. I’m just calling to remind you that such-and-such was due back eons ago, and you’ll probably never return it until forced to come back once you’ve done the same shit at Blockbuster and rack up an ass-load of late fees. Have a great day.” I’m paraphrasing. A few pages in, I finally got a real person.

“I returned that one last week,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s on my list as outstanding. Let me look for you real quick.” A quick jaunt out to the comedy section located the title in question. “Hi. It was Police Academy 3 right? I found it. Sorry for bothering you.”

This is what happens when you don’t keep an eye on the screen, minions. I scanned it into the system using a computer function that won’t apply late charges… since it was sitting on our shelf the whole time. It was also what the staff used when we forgot to bring back our crap. The deeper into the list I got, the more titles I found. I bought some Twizzlers.

Someone came in looking to buy a cell phone, but I was still by myself and a phone sale could take over an hour. You had to get tons of their info, fill out paper forms, call into customer service, wait for someone to help you, read all the info to them so they could enter it on their end and check their credit, set up the phone, and then actually sell it. Today, it was easier to say we just didn’t have it in stock, even though we definitely did.

Shipments of new titles arrive every Tuesday, which is hands-down my favorite day of the workweek. It’s sad, but it’s like Christmas. You get all these boxes, and sometimes you know what you’re going to get — what new releases are arriving that you can take home to watch before the public gets them — but sometimes there’s some real surprises too. Sometimes you open up a box that makes your day. Tuesday is also a puzzle. It’s the day you look at the “New Release” wall and totally reconfigure it to fit the new stock. Sometimes it’s easy, and sometimes it’s a nightmare, but it’s always rewarding when it’s done well, with all the boxes straightened and orderly in perfectly arranged rows. Most people don’t put the care into it that I do. Philistines, all of ‘em.

Today, however, is not Tuesday. It’s Monday. Monday is “the pull.”

To make room for the new shit, you have to remove the excess. Hundreds of titles come off the wall, are matched with their retail cases in the back room, and painstakingly shrink-wrapped and priced. That will take up the rest of the day, and the rest of the day for everyone else too. It’s a big, tedious, dull job with one upside.

Lizzie McGuire is back on the televisions as my shift came to a close. I donated my remaining Twizzlers to the cause and the night shift gratefully accepts. We’re all sugar-addicts here. I grabbed a few of the new release titles I’m interested in owning that look pristine and unscratched, stowing them away in a corner of the back room. Shhh. They always start off at $19.99, but come down in price over time, and sometimes end up on BOGO sales. I’ve got a dozen films squirreled away, waiting until the titles get relegated to the discount bin and I can add to my swelling collection. The job had its perks. I grabbed one more bag of Clodhoppers for the road.

"The Mother’s Sun"
By Emmaline Spencer

Content warning: The following story contains depictions of suicide, reader discretion is advised.

The boy in the photo has infiltrated my dreams. The sun shines down on him, making the dirty blond hair of his glow in an angelic way. The warmth feels so real; Is this really a dream at all? A light breeze flows in the air, bringing the smell of salt mixed with the bitterness of iron. Seagulls can be heard squawking in the nearby distance. The waves roll gently onto the sand before splashing back unto themselves and settling back into the ocean blue. Shells that washed up onto the shore from the ocean create a cascading path along where the water meets the sand. He walks along the path with a bucket in hand. Occasionally he picks up a shell and admires its beauty and colour before placing the shell in his bucket.

The nostalgic scene makes me never want to wake up. This is a paradise that I barely remember. I don’t know where I am in this dream, but I get to follow the boy. I feel like a cameraman watching through the lens and capturing every moment. I am condemned to stay behind the lens and to never interfere or meet the boy. A glass wall keeps us separate.

The boy has finally filled his bucket with shells; all of different sizes and colours. The joy on his face is so bright — he could be a sun himself. Suddenly he breaks away from staring at his shells to search the surrounding area. He starts to look around; Will he see me, or am I invisible to him?

Mom? Mom, where are you?” the boy calls out, as he looks around the beach. He seems excited to find her when she doesn’t respond. He walks along the beach, seeking his mother. As he walks, the scenery changes slightly and ever-so-slowly, the closer he gets to the end of the beach. The wind picks up a little and the boy lets go of his bucket of treasures. He grabs tightly to his jacket to keep warm. The noise of squawking seagulls shifts into the screeching of vultures and the noise only grows louder the further he walks. Clouds roll in without notice and cover the sun until no rays are let through and the area loses its idyllic atmosphere. The clouds grow darker as if a storm is brewing. I want to wake up. No more. No more. No more.

Tears fall from the boy’s eyes as he calls out for his mother again, this time louder. “Mom! Please stop hiding!” There is no reply once again. The excitement of hide and seek has lost its flare as the boy is sniffling and still searching. The beach has come to an end as the sand blends with grass. He stands at the bottom of a grassy hill and holds tighter onto his jacket before taking a step forward away from the beach and closer to the sounds of vultures. The smell of iron is nauseating. It’s no longer just a scent; I can almost taste it in my mouth. A water droplet falls on the boy’s forehead as he walks cautiously up the hill. A few more droplets fall until it is fully raining and the tears on the boy’s face are indistinguishable to the falling rain. Make it stop. Go back to the beach. Don’t dig any deeper, please.

Everything grows darker and blurry as he reaches the top of the hill. At the summit of the hill is a cliff side. Don’t look. He looks over the edge, being careful not to fall. The vultures are circling around something at the bottom of the precipice. At first all that can be seen are jagged rocks and water that violently rushes against the cliff side, splashing and sloshing between the rocks. As the vultures widen their circle, more can be seen. Not even all of the ocean waves could wash away the disasters below.

She would be completely unrecognizable if it weren’t for her green sundress decorated in blue daisies. The dress is soaked red now, but the pattern is unforgettable. The bleeding red blends into the surrounding water until it completely disappears. Her woven straw hat sits in the claws of a vulture. The boy’s seemingly endless spout of tears come to a striking halt. He stares blankly at the horrific mess of red. A vulture releases her untainted straw hat and it floats gently down.

“Mom?”

I wake up in a cold sweat. I feel like my breath is caught in my throat as my shallow breaths barely escape my dry mouth. My heartbeat is still racing away. I lay in my bed unmoving, waiting for my heart to calm down and for the tremors to stop. I stare at the white ceiling, noticing every detail of it, every bump and ridge. I close my eyes for a minute and breathe slowly, as the doctor had recommended to me. It was just a dream. It was a dream and nothing more.

I open my eyes again and flip the bed covers off myself. I sit up on the edge of the bed and take one last deep breath before getting up and starting my morning routine. Going through the motions, I take a shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and get dressed for another day of studying and working. I make sure to change my bed sheets and throw the dirty set in the wash before I head down to the kitchen. I double check the contents of my backpack. After making sure everything is in its place, I grab a red apple to eat on my bus ride to campus.

I write in a journal for my doctor on the way to school: People will tell you on the day of, “if you ever need anything, anything at all” to just call them. They will say that over time, the pain fades away and that things will get better. They will say to you that they understand what you’re going through. They will be at your hand and foot, for a month, and then they will move on because none of them ever really cared. They will act as if everything is okay and that the agony you feel has magically stopped. They will stop asking in a gentle and concerned voice, “how are you doing?” and will revert to a casual “what’s up?” and fist bump as if they don’t remember what happened. One year will go by and no one will send you a card with heartfelt wishes anymore. Instead you will be alone. You’ll go to your class and smile for show. You won’t tell anyone that you cry every night and that the nightmares never stopped. You will cut off the sadness you feel, but only when others are around. You will distract yourself with whatever you can during the daylight hours. You will talk to people whether you like them or not, just so that you won’t be alone with your thoughts. You will do things you didn’t do before. You will stop doing things you did before. You will do whatever it takes to feel like you aren’t you because being yourself hurts more than anything in the world right now.

The Doc asked me to write whatever I felt like and to not hold back. Doc also promised he would be the only one to read it. He hasn’t given me bad advice yet, so I write as he tells me to and follow his directions.

I attend my classes and give smiles and head nods to people in the hallways. I never say hello because I don’t remember their names. I eat my lunch, not because of hunger, but because it’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m meant to be normal and have the same white picket fence appearance of everyone else. God forbid I have emotions outside of being happy and cheerful. I read books or play games on my phone between classes; even five minutes alone is too much. I go to work and do the best that I can. My boss might not believe that the work I do is my best, but it is the best I can do right now. I go to my house and say hello to a cold and empty apartment. I don’t eat dinner. No one is watching anymore, so why act? It’s already 10 p.m. by the time I finish my homework and make lunch for tomorrow. I will have to get up early again tomorrow to repeat the mundane activities of life. I sit in my bed holding the bottle of sleeping pills and question whether I could ever handle going to sleep without them again. I open the bottle and pop out a capsule. I stick the sleeping pill on my tongue and drink some water to get it down. I lay down in bed and wait for sleep to take me.

The sun shines down on the boy creating an angelic halo around his head. The warmth of the sun feels humid and overbearing. The cloudless sky looks far too bright and blue. The ocean is calm with only the softest of riffles and splashes made from the creatures within. Seashells on the sand lead on like a cookie crumb trail tailored just for the boy. The boy follows the trail of shells, picking up each one and placing them in his bucket. The air is unmoving in the humid heat. A bluebird’s sweet song can be heard despite being at the beach.

The trail of shells leads up a grassy hill, to the cliff side. Please, not again. With an innocent smile on his face he happily reaches the top. His bucket is full of shells, he couldn’t be happier about how every shell fits in perfectly. His hair is damp from the heat and from all of the walking.

Bluebirds flitter about the edge of the cliff. The bluebirds keep singing and the sky remains blue as can be. The boy looks over the edge. There she is. Her body is mangled and the blood won’t stop turning the surrounding water into a crimson red. The green dress with blue daisies somehow remains unscathed and untainted, as if nothing could dirty it. Her woven straw hat is splattered with fresh blood as it falls from the sky and floats down gently to cover the massacre of her face.

The boy keeps smiling. He looks excitedly down at the mangled mess below. His face is the same as if she had her arms open wide and had just come to pick him up from daycare. Why are you smiling? She’s gone and not coming back. Stop it.

Mom!” he says with a smile right before dropping his bucket and walking off the ledge. The boy joins in the horrors below. His beautiful seashells scatter on the ground of the cliff, some of which roll off the edge as well.

I awake and my face is wet with tears. The tears soak my pillow and my hands are clenched onto my blanket. The dreams are driving me mad. They haunt my sleep and shadow me throughout my day. The dreams leave me with nothing and no one. Forever incomplete, there is no resolve to be found. By the end of the day I will have forgotten this dream and I’ll be met with a new one.

I reset my mind again and close my eyes for a minute before going on with my daily tasks. Again and again, the cycle never ends. On my way out the door I turn the photo face down. I can’t look at it anymore.

I write another entry in my journal for the doctor: Today, I will throw myself into my work. Tomorrow, I will keep breathing and moving. I have to keep moving or the ghosts will choke me again. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I will eat enough to stay alive; anymore and I think I would vomit. I won’t cry in front of anyone — that would scare them. I will lie to them and be the actor with the world as both my stage cast and audience. I’ll take the skeletons out of my closet and have a yard sale, if it keeps them from looking for the fresh bodies I keep hidden under the floorboards. I will be who they need me to be.

Study, socialize, smile, laugh, eat, study, work, and go home. Another day has gone by. My memories of the incident stay with me during the day as a reminder of these chains I put myself in. These shackles hold me hostage and I yearn for freedom. Who was I before? I finish my work for the day. Here I am again, sitting on the side of my bed debating taking tonight’s sleeping pill. Maybe I could handle sleep on my own this time. I put the pills on my wardrobe in case I need them.

I lay in my bed and look at the empty ceiling. This bed feels empty. I feel empty. Am I just a shell of a human? Was there anything I could have done to change the outcome? I can still remember it vividly. I touch my face and realize I am crying again. I choke back the sobs trying to escape from me and wipe away the tears. Maybe I should take the sleeping pill; at least it’s better than this living hell. I grab the photo and the bottle of sleeping pills from my wardrobe across the room. I put the photo on my bed for a moment while I open the bottle up and swallow a pill. I put the bottle on my night stand and hold onto the photo as I lay in bed.

The sun is shining on the boy and his mother. She sits on a blanket with a sun umbrella by her side. Seagulls fly by in the sky and the boy points to them. The mother smiles endearingly at the boy and stands up to chase the boy on the beach. They play together and make sand castles. The boy uses shells to decorate the castle. It’s a world in which only they exist. Together they stand on the beach, watching the ocean waves roll up onto the sand and their feet. They laugh and smile as the sun begins to set.

The scene changes and the boy disappears. I’m at the front door of my apartment. I knock on the door. The mom still in her green dress opens the door.

“My little sunspot, you’ve grown into such a big boy!” The mother smiles and greets me with a hug. “Why are you standing outside? This is your home too!” She pulls me inside.

The apartment is how I remember it used to be. Photos of myself and her everywhere, poorly drawn pictures I used to make as a child that she kept, and all of her ocean crafts all over the place. This is home.

Everything changes again. Suddenly the apartment is a mess and the mother is wearing a black dress. “Hey Mom, what’s with the new dress? Where did all your knick knacks go?” The words escape my mouth without meaning to. I look around more carefully and there are a couple empty wine bottles on the dining room table. “Don’t worry Mom, I’ll clean the place up for you. After all, you cleaned up after me my whole life,” I joke.

She gives a small smile and nods at me. “You always were my sunspot. I’ll be right back, okay? Just a few minutes for some fresh air.” She goes out on the patio while I start to tidy the place up. I pick up the laundry and put it into a bin. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and turn it on. I pick up the wine bottles and put them in the recycling bin. By the garbage can I notice an orange pill bottle that missed going into the can. What did she need antidepressants for?

“Mom? Mom, where are you?” I start to panic and look into every room in the apartment. “Mom! Please stop hiding!” I yell as I keep searching. I had searched every room before I heard the car alarm blaring. I walk onto the patio and look over the edge. The car windows are shattered from the impact. Her limbs are bent and broken. Her blood can’t be seen on her black dress, but the splatter on the car and sidewalk are undeniable. My heart is pounding uncontrollably. “Mom?”

I wake up sobbing. My breath is out of control and my chest is heaving. I never wanted to relive that day of a year ago. I still don’t know why she did it. I did everything I could to erase the memory of her except for the photo. The photo is still in my hands. I look at it once more. It was always my favourite picture. The day we had taken it had been the perfect day. I was only nine at the time and collected shells for the crafts she made and sold at farmers’ markets. We’d spent the day at the beach and took a photo together in front of the bright sunny sky. I still wonder if I had done something to cause her to jump. It was only a year ago.

I call the doctor to schedule a last minute appointment for lunch. I need to talk to someone. This life I live is unbearably painful without her. I moved in after she passed away because I couldn’t let the place I grew up in go to someone else.

I write another journal entry for the doctor before I see him this afternoon: The world is an unfair place that takes and takes and takes. It takes lives and takes the joy out of people. The world is unforgiving and bullies those who are already hurting. The world is full of sad and angry people that will bicker and fight for meaningless things if it means having a fleeting moment of happiness. This is the place we live in. A place where it’s easier to kill ourselves rather than hold on to that sadness and wait for another moment of happiness. This world is full of bad and good. It leaves us full of questions and never gives us the answers.

I wait out on the patio and smoke a cigarette as I wait for the doctor to show up.

gabriela - search results

ABOUT US

FOLLOW US

"Views From Hotel Windows" By Catherine Friesen

"Zoe. Zoe." By Autumn Wieler

"An Ode to This Friendship Bracelet" By Eva Davey

"Nostalgia"By Rachel Kelly

"I didn’t get enough sleep last night"By Catherine Friesen

"dry mouth" By Laurel Logan

"Your Story in Me"By Lee Cook

"The Farm Wife"By Gerry Eggert

"you shaped" By Laurel Logan

"Town on a Winter Evening"By Catherine Friesen

"Let Me Stay Here" By Eva Davey

"To the place I’ve never been" By Joshua Lepon

"It’s Called Anticipatory Nostalgia" Lindsey Roberts

"double feature" By Laurel Logan

"To Evelyn" By Eva Davey

"i still remember" By Emmaline Spencer

"Yearning for Yesterday"By Cobi Timmermans

"The Pier Encore"By Gurtaj Dhami

"Left Behind"By Andrew Majka

"To Ash"By Sabrina Morgan

"Cornerstore Memory"By Brianna Collins

"Kiss Me Thru The Phone"By Piper Hornall

Carolina Talcan

"The Mario Bros."By Jeff Mijo-Burch

"Yesterday and Tomorrow"By Bradley Duncan

"Apophenia"By Skylar Janzen

"What a Time to be Eight Years Old"By Veronica Powell

"A Day"By Bradley Duncan

"Divided"By Emili Moriah Kaplin

"The Mother’s Sun" By Emmaline Spencer

About text goes here

"Views From Hotel Windows"
By Catherine Friesen

"Zoe. Zoe."
By Autumn Wieler

"An Ode to This Friendship Bracelet"
By Eva Davey

"Nostalgia"
By Rachel Kelly

"I didn’t get enough sleep last night"
By Catherine Friesen

"dry mouth"
By Laurel Logan

"Your Story in Me"
By Lee Cook

"The Farm Wife"
By Gerry Eggert

"you shaped"
By Laurel Logan

"Town on a Winter Evening"
By Catherine Friesen

"Let Me Stay Here"
By Eva Davey

"To the place I’ve never been"
By Joshua Lepon

"It’s Called Anticipatory Nostalgia"
Lindsey Roberts

"double feature"
By Laurel Logan

"To Evelyn"
By Eva Davey

"i still remember"
By Emmaline Spencer

"Yearning for Yesterday"
By Cobi Timmermans

"The Pier Encore"
By Gurtaj Dhami

"Left Behind"
By Andrew Majka

"To Ash"
By Sabrina Morgan

"Cornerstore Memory"
By Brianna Collins

"Kiss Me Thru The Phone"
By Piper Hornall

"The Mario Bros."
By Jeff Mijo-Burch

"Yesterday and Tomorrow"
By Bradley Duncan

"Apophenia"
By Skylar Janzen

"What a Time to be Eight Years Old"
By Veronica Powell

"A Day"
By Bradley Duncan

"Divided"
By Emili Moriah Kaplin

"The Mother’s Sun"
By Emmaline Spencer