You went again, then came back in my dream
I awoke - sheets tangled, like the years since you left
 
Counting aloud now, six years - and still in tears
The gravity of the void your going left in my throat
 
I remember the days when I took you for granted
I remember when I realized I would no longer do that
 
It didn’t come with a manual when your home turned to hospice
After we knew, after it began working its way through you

​In the abandoned forest clearing, no one knew that Barlow the bear was gravely injured, not even Barlow himself. His ears still rang from his spectacular fall and the resounding crash of broken branches and crackling leaves.

He lay there under the pine tree, stunned into silence. His mighty paws had always been his failsafe, so this fall came as a shock. In his excitement for the coveted honey, his springtime secret, he had forgotten himself completely. His first lucid thought crept over him like a snail: the bark must have been slippery with sap. He tentatively shook his head to clear it.

When the doorbell rings unexpectedly, most assume it’s the Girl Guides selling cookies or sports groups asking for empty bottles. I never imagined it would be two police officers letting me know they had identified a body found that morning. That body was my son. He died from a fentanyl overdose. “That can’t be true,” I said. “He’s upstairs sleeping, and he doesn’t do drugs.” My heart shattered when I discovered it was true.

My life changed that day. For weeks, I didn’t get out of bed. It had always been him and me, and now he was gone. “Why?” I repeatedly called out. On the advice of 

​The call came from an unknown number.

I had been bracing myself for news from my dad’s healthcare team, a constant undercurrent of dread threading through my days. He had been at the University of Alberta Hospital for a month, his health condition an enigma growing darker and more impenetrable with each passing day. No diagnosis, no clarity—only the endless churn of tests, speculation, and a grim kind of waiting.

​He had been medevacked from Stanton Territorial Hospital in Yellowknife to Edmonton in mid-August, the urgency of his condition necessitating a transfer 

Arlene and her children lived in a very old one-and-a-half-bedroom house. The house was in poor repair, with missing shingles and duct tape stretched over cracked windows to keep out the harsh December winds. While the children were always scrubbed and dressed in decent clothes for school, Arlene lived on Welfare.
​
Struggling with peer pressure, Arlene spent her Christmas money on gifts for all the children who attended the school and items for their parents to keep up the façade that her family was just like theirs, although everyone knew they weren’t.

​it is early morning
distant moon pale
star-dots
jewels in the sky
 
have I told you lately
how tired I am
dear time
 
running forward
running to catch up
running around
my daily circle
circle of life
 
meanwhile your steady flow
shadow and light
endless loop passing
one infinity to the next
I wonder
dear time
how your clock never stops

On a bright, sunny afternoon, Luca pedalled down the sidewalk with his mom strolling behind him. The air was filled with the crisp scent of autumn, and the satisfying crunch of leaves under his tires. As they turned the corner, Luca’s eyes widened in awe.

He gasped, “It’s the biggest tree I’ve ever seen!” His eyes sparkled with excitement as he pointed to the towering oak. “I’m going to climb to the top!”

Mom shook her head firmly, a mix of concern and amusement in her eyes. “No way! That tree is practically a skyscraper!”

​There wasn’t much to go on. One dead Terran, male, of the Caucasoid persuasion. No external trauma markers. All signs pointed to natural causes. Thomas wanted to leave it at that, but there was still the pesky matter of the weapon.

​He scanned the artifact against the Terran Archives. The results were disappointing. The database matched his scan with something called a “spork” but gave no indication of its primary function. It looked sharp enough to inflict damage if directed at soft tissue with the right 

​Astrid landed on Isle Cassiopeia a month after her grandfather passed away. It was her mother’s idea. “You should go,” she said and passed her an envelope. “He left this letter for you. Take it with you and say a proper goodbye.”

Every year the family would travel to the island for summer solstice. Her grandfather would always lead the toast on the longest day of the year. He would stand by the bonfire on the beach holding up his drink, his voice echoing across the water, “Let’s make the longest day feel like the shortest.”

Everyone would cheer. Her grandfather had a way of

​No matter how hard she concentrated, how long she practised or even after falling to her knees, praying to the heavens to help, her magic never matured beyond practical.  To have the ability to summon practical magic was not without its merits – the house was always clean and orderly, dishes done, and laundry hung.  Her meals were adequate if uninspired.  Practical magic had its place but to be able to make a love potion or conjure an effective curse on THAT WOMAN that permitted her spaniel to poop, with abandon and no pick-up, on her side yard, that would be magical.