Winner: Watching Ruby

I made an old man cry. The best part is that neither one of us was expecting it.

He woke up that morning, all alone in his double bed, slipped into his slacks, pressed shirt and tie, and had a cup of tea before three ladies from the Catholic Women’s Club came to pick him up. This was the same Saturday morning he’d been having ever since Ruby passed away. How long had it been now? Three months? Four? The ladies from the club wouldn’t let him be. They insisted on taking him for breakfast every Saturday.

I woke up that morning, single in my single bed, tossed on my wrinkled uniform, ran a comb through my hair, and brushed my teeth. Walked to work trying to forget I was walking to work.
Through the door, apron on, name tag pinned, coffee made, tables wiped. Door chimes.

“Party of four,” says one lady.

“Take your pick,” I say, smiling.

Menus, coffees (tea for the gentleman), orders taken, delivered, cleaned-up. No complaints, no fuss, just breakfast.

Then, as the women got themselves into their coats, the man approached me, placed a hand on my shoulder and in a barely audible whisper said: thank you.

“You’re welcome. Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Not thank you for the food. Your smile. Your walk. How your hands moved when you spoke. It was like I was watching my wife.”

He stood there staring at me. I said nothing, but felt something.

Not just breakfast.

By Shauna DeGagne

Distorted Reflection

I stare at the reflection in the mirror. My pale face and grey eyes stare back. The same lips, same limp ash hair…
           

Twins die at the same time, on the same day; it is a well known fact, but sometimes things happen in life that we cannot explain. I felt the pain when that car hit you, the pressure on my chest, the cool pavement mixed with the sticky warmth as you bled out. I felt that with you. I felt the suffocating claustrophobia when they placed you in the ground. We always did have an uncanny connection, something only twins could understand.
           

Still, I wonder as I stare at my reflection…I try to focus on my grey eyes, I want to see my reflection in them, but I can’t. Have I always blinked so much? The rapid motion is making me dizzy, so I close them for a moment. It takes my reflection only a split second longer to reopen theirs, but I catch it. Grieving and confused. That is what my mother said. I notice that my eyes are a bit blood shot and they are puffy. I must be seeing things because of the tears; they must be blurring my vision. I watch them roll down my cheeks in my reflection. But I am not crying! I place my hand on the mirror, but my reflection does not do the same, instead she turns from me and walks out of the room.

By Coral Ann Izon

The Visitors

They talked much of far off places, talking late into the night. They bored us half to tears, half to madness, and then they showed us photographs. When we offered tea they said “Already?” And they stayed on.

“Your brother wears a bowtie.” I discriminated in the kitchen, sloshing ice and lime juice in a glass. I brought the pitcher of cool lime water to the table where conversation wavered in the heat, where he told us of a Tim Horton’s in London’s Heathrow with strange attenuated pride; where he told us of a plane crash in Argentina and its impact on their flight plans. 48 survivors, 130 dead.  “Of the survivors,” he remarked, “two described the the vis insita, their inertia during the crash in radically opposing terms. One described the feeling of flying, the other of floating.” Adjusting his bowtie he pleaded how can two such opposing sensations be felt by people experiencing the same thing?

I smoke outside on the balcony as is my habit. “Your husband has a penchant for inconsequential stories.” I say because I am drunk on wine and Irish whiskey, as is my habit.  She leans against the railing ignoring the bird excrement. “Our whole life is inconsequential.” She answered and then she fumbled with a gum packet. Slowly removing the wrapper she observed “it’s double sided.” I wondered what that meant as the plastic thing fluttered out, floating on the humid air. She offered me a piece but because I was still smoking I declined.     

                                                       
by Michael Dodiak

Keep Going, Mom!

She came to say good night. She smiled, but I did not buy it. I’m five years old and I’m not a dummy. Inside she was like a guitar string – tense and stressful. I could not sleep. I told my Teddy I would be back and tiptoed to her bedroom. She was on the floor. A vodka bottle and some pills were on the carpet. She uttered “poison” and closed her eyes. I called 911 and said “poison”. The police came earlier than paramedics. I told them that my mom was upset because our dog had died. I did not mention her breaking-up with my third father. My first left before I was born. My second moved out last fall.

The police called to my uncle. Doctors took us to hospital. I looked at my mom with tubes hooked up to her, wondering why she didn’t think about me before she did what she did. I will pretend I am not hurt. Mom is beautiful. Her heart is glowing with kindness. Her soul is radiant with love. But her mind is distorted with sadness and multiple problems. Anxiety, failed relationships and pressure strike out her brain with a black net of despair. How many big words I know!

After my uncle goes back to his farm to take care of his horses I will take care of my mom. I will be the man in the household. Together we’ll fix everything. Maybe we’ll have a new puppy.

by Farida Samerkhanova