THE GLIMMERING SOMETHING HE ALWAYS CRAVED

The store was a mess when I arrived. Strewn pumps and stilettos and, in the middle of it all, twisted wings, blood pooling like spilled oil—a crow, haloed by shattered glass. 

My stomach was a pit: I recognized the white patch on his chest. This is Charlie. 

Janelle, the ratty shopgirl, said something, muffled by the roaring in my ears. It couldn’t be Charlie. Charlie, my lunch break companion. Charlie, who coveted bits of foil. I even gave him my engagement ring after my husband passed—skydiving accident near Lake Superior. His chute was faulty, rigged. I was a wreck when that happened. Yikes. I’d tried to sue the skydiving company, then the instructor, then the people I’d bought him the parachute from. I’d even gone after the pilot.  

“He knew the risks, Ms. Rothscowitz. He loved the sport, and he knew the risks.” 

Without Charlie, I’d have lost my mind for sure. 

“He wouldn’t have hit the window.” I heard myself say. 

“What?” Jenelle said. 

“Too smart,” I murmured. 

And I was right. Charlie knew when my lunch breaks were.  

He could unwrap a caramel. The window couldn’t fool him. I looked around the ruined store. Someone did this.  

“What a mess.” It was Corbin, the store owner. Gaunt, tired eyes. He gestured at the flapping banner beyond the broken glass. “On sale day too.” 

I sobbed. Sale day. Just yesterday, I’d given Charlie one of the shiny brass tacks I’d used to hang the banner. 

“She’s gonna freak,” Janelle hissed to Corbin. I wiped my eyes. 

“Well,” Corbin stammered, shrilly. “Anything with blood’s gotta go. And, the bird,” he added nervously. 

Janelle fell to collect the ruined shoes. “I’m vegan,” she explained, slinging the black plastic bag over her shoulder and leaving me with Charlie. 

I picked up the carnage. Charlie must’ve been thrown, I reasoned. He wouldn’t have flown into the window. Someone must have thrown him. 

I looked at his body again and sobbed. I couldn’t work like this. I lifted him into a shoebox and rushed outside. 

Across the asphalt, Janelle was rummaging near the dumpster. 

“What are you doing?” I asked, creeping up behind her. 

Quickly, she shoved the bag of ruined shoes into a bush. “He said to sell them anyways!” 

I gasped. 

Janelle touched my arm. “Listen,” she pleaded. “We can split the profits!”  

I flinched away, imagining traces of Charlie’s blood on my cardigan.   

“Murderer!” My pulse pounded in my ears. “Want the shoes for yourself, so you cover them in blood, make it look like a mistake!”  

Janelle blinked, feigning confusion. “Sorry?” 

“Murderer,” I shouted again, speeding towards the office. 

“Crazy bird bitch!” Janelle shouted behind me. 

“It was Janelle!” I shouted, bursting into the office. “She threw Charlie through the window! For the shoes!” 

Corbin frowned. “What?” 

I took a breath. “She broke the window, smeared Charlie’s bloo–” 

“Charlie?” 

I held up the box. 

Corbin paled. “Lenore, no.” 

“She–” 

“Lenore!” Corbin rubbed his eyes. “Please.” 

“She killed him! For the shoes!” 

“As far as I’m concerned, those shoes are garbage.” Corbin shook his head. “Please. You’re telling stories again. A bird hit a window. Take a seat outside and come back when you’re calm.” 

I sat in the parking lot, shaking. Micah, the lanky warehouse boy, eyed me from the railing. Usually, Charlie perched on that railing. 

Most days Micah cawed at me and threw crumbs of bread like I was a pigeon. Today, he spoke. 

“The insurance’ll be nuts.”  

I straightened. Insurance.  

A line of ants marched between his feet, and he began crushing them. “Like, really nuts” 

Yes. Too good to be true. The way he smeared the poor bugs made me think: Janelle was opportunistic, skeevy, but no killer. Her words echoed back to me: 

“I’m vegan.” 

Corbin though. A failing business could drive people to murder, no doubt about it. But I needed proof 

“I’m going to the restroom,” I said. 

Micah grunted. 

Corbin was at lunch. I had to act quickly. I crept towards the office door and darted inside. 

Corbin’s desk looked like the work of a deranged mind: papers, receipts, reminders, crushed empty coffee cups. I stood transfixed. He must have been the killer. 

“Lenore?” 

My head snapped up. Hulking and backlit was the stooped silhouette of Corbin.  

I opened and closed my mouth. Then, with a steadiness I cannot explain, I spoke. 

“I know about the insurance scheme.” 

“What are you talking about?” He stepped into the darkness. Despite the desk between us, my heart hammered. I could picture Corbin’s hairy hands squeezing the life out of poor, shivering Charlie. 

“You killed Charlie.” My voice was impossibly calm. “For the insurance on the store. I know about people like you, hurting innocent people to make a buck. When my Edgar–” 

“Lenore,” Corbin said slowly. “I don’t even have an insurance policy.” 

The silence was crushing.  

I stood, frozen. “No insurance policy?” 

He shook his head. “This is ridiculous. You’re fired. Leave your name tag and go.” 

I put the shiny brass tag on his desk, fighting back tears as I ducked through the still ruined shoe store. If they had no insurance, why kill Charlie? Why all this blood and shattered glass? 

Janelle scowled as I passed, my neck red with shame, and it hit me:  

Crazy crow bitch. Telling stories again. Micah’s taunting caws. This wasn’t for insurance. It was far simpler: they wanted me to go. 

My reeling thoughts froze when I got to the SALE banner. 

Before me was a wall of glitter, a shining, shimmering expanse. For the first time, I saw the world through my friend’s eyes, and it was magical. 

I’d been wrong: Charlie hadn’t been thrown away. He’d seen the shine and plunged through it. No scheme to resell shoes. No phony insurance claim. No mystery. 

But there was a killer. With tacks and a hammer, I’d laid this trap. 

At first, I was wracked with sobs, but the minutes passed, and my wailing did too.  

I realized that Charlie died happy. He died chasing that glimmering something he’d always craved. 

#fiction #halloween #jessiWood #lenore #shortStory #zackMason

GRAINS OF RED SAND

You begin bouldering when you are 11. Your first time at the climbing gym, you gaze at the plastic holds, like candies, your mouth agape.   

You take to it quickly, and before long, you’re the gym’s pet. You scamper, awed by men and women with vein-roped forearms, standing cock-hipped, hands folded in front of them, perpetually dipping in and out of chalk buckets. They are easy eyed, strong bodied, fearless, muscles twitch in their backs.  

You meet Q. He’s 26. He’s tall. His arms hang from his body like steel chords and he’s different from the other boulder rats. Stronger. Intense. They say he was raised in a cave in Red Rocks, Nevada. Trained in the dark and became a beast. Your child-eyes flit darkly, absorbing everything Q does.   

He says his secret is a small bag of red sand and rubs the grains between his hands like he’s washing them.  

“Dark magic,” he laughs. “Good luck.”  

You watch the sand trickle as though grains in an hourglass.  

At 13, you beg Q to be your coach.  

“Will you train hard?” he asks.  

You nod vigorously.  

“These are your best years,” Q warns. “But only if you work.”  

He becomes your coach. Who knew? Rock climbing? Rock climbing isn’t a job, but you’re getting so good that Q says it could be. Your eyes glitter, picturing what he describes: sponsorships, stipends, world travel, medals, pushing the limits of human possibility.   

Your first national comp comes. In the car, you gaze at Q, telling stories of his own competitions, training, his time in the cave.  

The comp starts and you’re alone in the spotlight. Over the crowd and DJ and screaming MC, Q is a silent, intense presence of focus, watching slack-faced, like the dark waters of a stagnant pool.   

You approach the boulder, hands shaking, but on the wall, silence. You flow through movement, until your toenail folds backwards inside your shoe, slick blood mixing with foot sweat. Pain tears through, and when you hit the mat, chalk erupting in a cloud, you search the crowd for Q and find his back turned, walking away.  

After, in Q’s car, you wonder what’s next. He turns to you, the shadows around his eyes hang low, and his skin is waxy and slick. He looks like he’s wearing a mask of his own face, and his voice comes flat and hollow.  

“Come back when you’ll try hard.”  

“But!”  

You gesture at your injured toe, you present your palms, worn from the holds, irritated and pink.  

“Training is a war we wage against our bodies. Pain convinces it to transform.”  

“I want to be great.”  

Gravel crunches as Q steers to the shoulder. He turns to you, face shadowed.  

He tilts back your head, opening your mouth, and he presses a pinch of red sand onto your tongue, like medicine, like sacrament. The sand is gritty, crystalline, tinkling as you grind it with your teeth. The slurry slides down your throat, plummets to your belly’s depths.   

The rest of the drive home is silent. Q is reptilian in the driver’s seat, and you turn to wood beside him, silt sloshing in your stomach with every pothole and bend.  

At the climbing gym, Q ignores you. You watch him take on other pupils, starry eyed 12- and 13-year-olds, rearing for competition. Your face burns red with shame. You’re getting sick. At night, you toss, cough grit in the bathroom sink, but never all of it. You can still feel the sand sloshing in your belly, and the skin on your hands is thinning, turning pink, turning red. You can’t stop training. There is a voice inside you, and though you try not to listen, it whispers.   

You need a red-sanded cave of your own.  

You begin roving at night, collecting pallet wood, collecting fibre glass, collecting scrap metal. You climb to the steepled ceilings of your attic and screw the garbage to the walls, making your own gym. Endlessly, you climb laps, tracing an infinity symbol, your shoes filling with blood and sweat and fungus. You abandon the gym with the candy holds. You turn inside.  

Q’s words echo: Training is a war we wage against our bodies. Pain convinces it to transform. You feel his focus, blank, opaque, grating.   

As the weeks drag and summer comes, hot, close, heavy, you disappear deeper into your attic. A smell hangs thick against the slanted walls, sour, fungal, mildewed, rotting. Climbing shoes, yes, but there’s another scent too. Something darkens and twists and latches in your mind. Crouched in your homemade cave you inspect your bloodied fingers, eyes blank.  

You’ll have less to carry if your body becomes smaller. You stop eating, your hair thins, teeth loosen and fall out, your bones turn brittle, and you continue to train. Your face becomes hollow and waxy and masklike. Your elbows and fingers stiffen, curl into claws.   

Your toes break. They are like flaccid bags of meat and gravel, and you hunch over them, whimpering between attempts on the wall. Your shoulder blades peel and wing from your ribcage, your spine between them, knuckled and glassy.  

You’re dying.  

And you know it.   

You want the sand out of you, but it never leaves, red grains worming their ways to every nook, every cranny, grinding between your joints and the emptiness behind your eyes.  

You need to stop, need to slow the momentum, to rest, but the sand itches you to push through, sharp fractals like seed crystals, geometrics between sinew and fibre and neuron.  

In a haze, you stumble through darkness to your old gym with its candy holds. On broken feet, you lurch, unaccustomed to walking.  

You find Q, parting the crowd around him, presenting yourself, your body twisted and mangled.  

When he sees you gazing up at him, ghoulish, squinting, cowering, he stares back, placid and blank. Someone screams.  

Q turns his back. Weeping, you turn yours as well, dragging yourself home to train. 

#collectingScrapMetal #fibreGlass #nevada #redRocks #ZackMason

ZAPPED

Every day, the inflatable tubeman flailed in advertisements of “USED CARS,” and “HOT DEALS”.

“DREAM CARS!” read his sign. “HIGH END! CHEAP!”

Cars screamed past at horrifying speeds and he flailed until six o’clock when Wilf, the owner, would flick the big red switch at the tubeman’s base and watch his long orange body wilt.

One day the tubeman watched a woman pull into the dealership. She was grinning and pear shaped, with a floppy hat. She had ringlets of grey curls and thick cateye glasses and lots of red lipstick and she was absolutely radiant with joy.

“Wilfieeeeee,” she squealed, bouncing into the dealership.

Six o’clock came and went and Wilf didn’t come out to turn off the tubeman.

As the sales team left, and darkness crept over the parking lot, the tubeman’s flailing became imperceptibly panicked. Traffic thinned, and his wide eyes got wider. His inviting grin shifted to teeth gritting terror. Wilf always turned him off before sunset, and, as dusk rolled in, the tubeman thought the world was ending.

But as the stars came out, and bats flitted in the cool air the tubeman gazed in awe and wondered at the night, this cool, quiet, peaceful thing he’d never experienced before. He was struck.

Finally, Wilf and the woman strolled outside. She was holding his arm, and Wilf sauntered with a straight back.

“Tammy,” Wilf said.

“Yes?” Tammy had lipstick smeared all across her teeth.

“I know it’s silly,” he started. His grey moustache trembled. “We hardly know each other, but you make me feel young again.”

“Wilfie!” Tammy planted a huge, wet kiss right on Wilf’s lips. When she finally pulled away, the two panted, Wilf with a big smear of red across his mouth.

Tammy was breathless.

“I feel like I’m in my forties again! Or my twenties! Or high school! Quick,” she said. “Let’s screw in my car!”

The tubeman had no idea what ‘screw’ meant, but as the blue car began to rock and the windows fogged, he watched with equal parts horror, joy and amazement.

For the next couple weeks, Wilf came to work with a sparkle in his eye. He started wearing a tight red golf shirt and would pause at his reflection in the dealership door.

Things continued like this. Every day at lunch, Tammy came bouncing into the dealership, Wilf’s name operatic on her lips. She’d tip her hat at the tubeman flailing in the heat. She and
Wilf giggled, and kissed and screwed in Tammy’s car, always leaving the tubeman on, to whirl blissfully in the night air.

Then Wilf came to work with tension in his walk. When he glanced at his reflection in the dealership door, he glanced quickly, like he was touching something hot and didn’t want to burn his fingers. He tugged at his red golf shirt where it was tucked into his khakis.

At lunch when Tammy arrived, her gaze was downcast. She didn’t tip her hat at the tubeman, and she slouched into the dealership, hands clasped in front of her.

She left a few minutes later, wiping her eyes with the backs of her soft hands. Tammy wasn’t bouncing at all.

“Wait!” Wilf called, running after her. “Don’t worry, it was silly, I’ll return them.”

“Acupulco’s not the point,” Tammy called from her car. “I thought we were on the same page!”

She left.

Wilf hung his head and cried, fat tears marking his red golf shirt.

After that day, an urgency filled Wilf like a fan was blowing it in. His movements were calm, but inside, Wilf was flailing.

The boxes came on trucks and they were beige and unassuming and anonymous. But inside, they contained bright colours, tassels, grins. Wilf was buying dozens of tubepeople.

His employees gossiped and frowned, but he carried on, plugging them in and standing back as they unfurled into wriggling life. By the end of a month, Wilf had 23.

One night, after everyone left, Wilf came out and sat under his 23 tubepeople, swigging a bottle of rye.

“It makes sense,” he grimaced. “She wanted to screw in her car, and I wanted to have dinner and take her and her daughter to Acupulco.”

The tubepeople spun around him.

“Guess,” he said, hiccuping. “Guess I just thought at our age, we’d have something a little steadier.”

Night was falling, and the tubepeople’s twisting bodies cast long shadows on the pavement. Fireflies were starting to wink, and the day’s heat radiated against the night’s coolness.

Wilf rubbed his nose. “When I was seventeen years old, I was doing dishes. Our kitchen looked out on this big field of the people next door, covered in muck and chopped off corn stalks. There were a few clouds in the sky, but it wasn’t even raining, and I saw our neighbour, Tom, walking out across that field, and all the sudden, he got struck by lightning.”

Wilf took a long drink and burped through his nose.

“Bolt just hit him in the head, and his body went writhing around, like he was one of you. But I swear to god, maybe it was the electrical current making his muscles go funny, but he was smiling the whole time. Like this.”

Wilf looked up at the tubepeople, grinning.

The tubepeople grinned back.

“When I met Tammy, I felt like neighbour Tom. Like something great and magnificent had come out of nowhere and smote me, and all I could do was flail around and smile. But now that she’s left, I feel the same way– totally zapped.”

Wilf went to drink again, but found the bottle empty. He giggled, slumped back on the steps, and started to snore.

The tubepeople didn’t really understand Wilf’s point. Actually, they didn’t understand anything at all. But they enjoyed his company and the cool night air. And as Wilf drifted off into his drunken stupor, he did too, his broken heart easing in the grove of multicoloured flailing bodies.

#Cars #Fiction #flailing #JessiWood #multicoloured #olderAdults #relationships #story #tubepeople #ZackMason

JUN-KAN PERMACULTURE IS ON A MISSION OF REPAIR

Just off Notre-Dame Rd. in Petersburg, Ontario is the Jun-kan Permaculture Garden. The garden sits on one of 20 acres in the Petersburg Community Garden, and volunteers tend permaculture food forests and annual vegetable terraces.   

The garden was started in 2022 when the land’s owner, Daryl Dore decided he no longer wanted to rent his fields to cash-cropping commercial farmers. Dore contacted Doug Jones of the Waterloo Regional Community Garden Network and proposed that his land be available to individuals, especially new Canadians.  

While the proposal was eagerly accepted, years of cash cropping and heavy pesticide use had left the soil damaged.  

“In a word, this soil was dead. And poisoned,” Barbara Hankins, one of Jun-kan’s volunteers, said.  

Permaculture gardening operates on the basis of symbiosis and diversity. A wide array of individual species are planted in cooperative guilds to work in concert with each other and the environment. Together, they thrive and improve the quality of the land they are growing on.   

This is where the name Jun-kan comes from. The garden’s website explains, it is a Japanese word that translates roughly to “the universe,” or “the cycle of life”. In accordance with the principles of permaculture, Jun-kan’s first step was to plant swaths of five distinct cover crops: clover, alfalfa, buckwheat, field peas, and rye. Quickly, the earth began to heal and the gardeners started producing food, still with permaculture in mind.  

“[We ask ourselves,] ‘what does the ground need? What do the plants need? How can I give to them because they are giving to me?’,” Hankins said.  

In turn, the land gives back to its farmers, not just in food, but in a more existential way as well. This is especially helpful at Jun-kan, where many of the volunteers are new Canadians and do not own their own land. People are given the opportunity to form a relationship with the land they may not otherwise have been able to. This is crucial for a sense of belonging.  

“This garden supports a huge diversity of growers from around the world, and it’s nourishing to see how the diversity of culturally relevant foods, approaches, skills, stories…the diversity enhances our resilience as a community of gardeners,” Nikola Barsoum, one of Jun-kan’s founding volunteers, said.  

The ethos of repair and repurposing extends beyond physical gardening and the dignity of the volunteers as well. In 2023, ongoing war in Lebanon put Hankins’ family in danger, and here in KW, her house burned down. The garden provided the family with relief, repairing them in the wake of the tragedies. The bricks from their home were salvaged and used to cobble Jun-kan’s community fire pit.  

“We went through so much that year. This was my therapy. Coming out here, and just being with the land, with the earth, with the butterflies, and feeding the insects and the birds… Watching things grow is very therapeutic,” Hankins said.  

Restoring the land, offering a dignified community for newcomers and a sanctuary for its volunteers, Jun-Kan is on a mission of repair. For more information, the garden can be found on Instagram @junkanpermaculture, or on their website. 

#agriculture #BarbaraHankins #belonging #dougJones #Gardening #junKan #nikolaBarsoum #Ontario #permaculture #Petersburg #RandyMoore #waterlooRegionalCommunityGarden #ZackMason

OUT OF THE BOX COUNSELLING CATERS TO MARGINALIZED COMMUNITIES

Out of the Box Counselling and Collaborations is a counseling and support
service for Two Spirit, LGBTQIA+, Neurodivergent and Nonspeaking people, and those who love them. They provide one-on-one counseling, group counseling, Spelling to Communicate (S2C) work and workshops rooted in principles of Indigenous sovereignty, anti- oppression, Disability, Trans and Queer rights. Their mission is to reframe disability and celebrate the diverse ways people live, love, and think.

Out of the Box was originally conceived in 2021 by Krystal Hilchey-Muise. As a Neurodivergent and Queer person, Hilchey-Muise was struggling to find a work environment that was accessible to them. They wanted to create a Neurodivergent-affirming space for clients and decided to start
a practice that aligned with a framework of Disability justice,

Neurodivergent affirming, Queer affirming, decolonial and anti- oppressive values.

“What [Hilchey-Muise] was being told to offer in some of their past work environments wasn’t what [Neuroqueer] clients were needing,” Monica van Schaik, Hilchey-Muise’s business partner, said.

Van Schaik joined Out of the Box the next year in 2022 after completing their master’s thesis on Dyslexic narratives of Neurodiversity.

“Our collaboration together is so based on our neurotypes,” van Schaik said. “There are certain things that [Hilchey-Muise is] super good at that they do, and there are certain things that I’m good at that they struggle with.”

Their own Neuroqueer identities are part of what make Hilchey-Muise and van Schaik well suited to their work. They have a personal understanding of where their clients come from.

Rather than approaching the counseling they give from a position of authority, they offer guidance in a non- hierarchal way, drawing on lived experiences as well as their extensive training and education to help their clients.

Mirroring their own journeys, they seek to help people understand and accept themselves in a culture that often forces assimilation. “We actually have diversity within the human community, and we’re looking to figure out how to embrace that,” van Schaik said. “What does it mean to be ourselves? What does it mean to learn about ourselves when we haven’t been provided with opportunities to do so? Because the focus is often on how to fix us, to make us someone else.”

For more information, visit https://outoftheboxcounselling. ca/.

#decolonial #disability #hilcheyMuise #indigenousSovereignty #JessiWood #LGBTQIA_ #neurodivergent #nonSpeakingPeople #outOfTheBoxCounselling #queerRights #trans #twoSpirit #vanSchaik #ZackMason

WATERLOO REGION COMMUNITY RALLIES FOR WILLOW RIVER CENTRE

Downtown Kitchener’s Willow River Centre (WRC), an Indigiqueer led community center, and the brick-and-mortar base for Land Back Camp, was recently in imminent danger of closing.   

After receiving less grant money than anticipated, the WRC’s budget could no longer sustain their rent. For an organization whose mission is largely to provide a safe space for marginalized people, this issue presented a very formidable challenge.  

In an effort mainly organized by the Palestinian Youth Movement, a banquet and fundraiser were organized in a short time.  

“We had nothing to do with it, either…We just gave them our social media passwords, and they ran with it,” Bangishimo, co-founder of the centre said.  

With 200 tickets sold, 12 community sponsors, 86 donated raffle items, a meal provided by nine local businesses and plenty of volunteers, the fundraiser brought in over $27,000. The WRC was able to stay alive.  

“It was the most on point organizing I’ve ever seen,” Amy Smoke, the WRC’s other co-founder, said.  

The fundraiser was a triumph for the centre and the region at large.   

 A large portion of the WRC’s funding comes from the Upstream Fund, a fund created in 2022 to support community organizations and build a more harmonious and happier Waterloo Region.  

Upstream draws its money from the regional budget and aims to prioritize groups that service underrepresented, racialized, or marginalized people.  

Initially, the Community Edition reported in the June issue that the WRC’s funding issues were caused by Upstream extending their eligibility beyond Indigenous and Black organizations. With a greater pool of people to compete for funds, less money overall could be distributed to each individual group.  

This however, has proven to be untrue. While many of Upstream’s recipients are and have been Black and Indigenous, they have never been exclusively so. Furthermore, Upstream is not currently providing funds to more people than before. Their records consistently show cohorts numbering between 30 and 40 members each year since they started.   

According to the WRC’s grant writer, Robyn Schwarz, hard times are coming for nonprofits across the board. With a conservative government, whose mandate is to cut taxes, money for publicly funded services is drying up.  

“[The majority of Regional Council] wants a five per cent increase, but that’s actually a cut, because in order to keep current services where they are, we need about 12 per cent,” Schwarz said.  

Schwarz said nonprofits are particularly affected because Ontario’s provincial government and Canada’s federal government currently prioritize business support over social services.  

With only a five per cent tax increase (less than half of what Schwarz predicts is needed) nonprofits are the first to lose funding. Upstream gets cut, and by extension, so does the WRC.  

“Basically, the thing to blame is that we’re under a government right now that doesn’t want to tax things and doesn’t want to fund the nonprofit sector,” Schwarz said.  

Regardless of government funding, a substantial portion of the community wants to support organizations like the WRC, and that support was felt by Smoke and Bangishimo.  

“We were wrapped in care, and it was really lovely to be held by other people,” Smoke said.  

Despite the economic instability and the challenges of working as a nonprofit under a conservative government, the WRC is committed to keep working.  

“We’re still grant writing, still getting funds to continue doing what we need to do. Regardless of what happens in a brick and mortar, Land Back is a movement. We’re not going anywhere,” Smoke said. 

#AmySmoke #Bangishimo #BangishimoJohnston #blackAndIndigenous #ChristoffLeRoux #DowntownKitchener #Indigiqueer #landbackCamp #localActivism #PalestinianYouthMovement #RobynSchwarz #upstream #willowRiverCenter #wrc #ZackMason

SANCTUARY

The summer Rupert turned 15, his parents decided to sell their house on Finkle street. Rupert had been born on Finkle Street, and up to that point, never been forced to venture outside.  

As a child, when the world became too much, Rupert would duck into his bedroom closet. He’d close the door quietly and nestle down into his small, dark, fabric scented sanctuary. On moving day, Ruper ducked into his (now empty) closet one last time, and tried not to cry.  

The new neighbourhood was a maze of cul-du-sacs, filled with identical houses, and maple trees pruned like lollipops. Rupert hermitted in the blasting air conditioning and watched people outside.  

There was a woman with dark glasses. She walked a little dog, and whenever it got tired, the dog would lay down on its side, and the woman would keep plodding along, dragging it behind her like it was a mop.  

There was a boy about Rupert’s age too. He loped lankily along the sidewalk, and always wore his shoes without socks. When he passed, Rupert would withdraw from the window, just in case.  

To help Rupert’s listlessness, his parents gifted him a little cage filled with hay, and a wheel, and a clear plastic tube, and a hamster. The hamster was grey with quivering, bulbous black eyes.  

Looking at that hamster in that cage all day made Rupert want to scream. In his distress, he left the new house and roamed, pedalling up and down the cul-de-sacs and courts.  

This was how Rupert found Wildgrove Creek.  

Wildgrove Creek wasn’t very wild, and it wasn’t much of a creek. Rupert only knew it was Wildgrove Creek because of a little sign that said so. Really, it was a cement lined ditch behind a stripmall, with slow, shallow water that trickled and disappeared through some sewer pipes and under the highway.  

The creek was smelly, full of blackflies and frogs and a snapping turtle.  

Rupert was transfixed.  

From atop the cement bank, he watched the turtle float and bask. It had dragon claws and a muscular tail covered in swaying mats of algae. It blinked at him like it had been waiting for a meal since the dawn of time and could wait an eternity more. It was a dinosaur, a hermit, its shelter on its back, its round, reptilian eyes like mossy crystal balls. It was not concerned with the past or future, and it was not afraid.  

Over the next days, Rupert told the turtle stories and rolled hotdogs down the side of the basin, watching as the leathery neck extended, the maw gaped, the beak came snapping shut.  

“You’re lucky to have a shell,” he told it. “A hiding place wherever you go.”  

The turtle blinked up from the cement basin with its ancient swampy eyes.  

This went on until the day before Rupert was to start grade 10. That morning, he woke up cold and sweating. He knew that as the school year came on, he would have less time, less energy to see his turtle. This terrified him.  

“I’ll just have to bring it here,” he told his bedroom ceiling. “Then I can see it all the time.”  

That afternoon, when Rupert biked to Wildgrove Creek, the turtle was waiting for him, water flowing around its shell, staring up with a beatific, benevolent smile.  

“I’m going to bring you home,” Rupert said, “I’ll dig you a pond and you can live with me.”  

The turtle gazed up at him like a begging dog. It blinked one murky eye, which Rupert took as agreement.  

He stooped to grab the snapper, and the turtle, now accustomed to eating hot dogs, extending its leathery neck, gaped its maw, and snapped its jaws shut, lopping off Rupert’s pinky.  

Rupert screamed. He stared down at his gushing stump and went weak in the knees.   

The turtle blinked up at him lazily.   

“Ugh!” Holding his bleeding hand, Rupert stumbled up the bank of the creek. All he wanted was to go home. Not to his new house, but to his real home, his bedroom closet on Finkle street.  

But he was losing blood, and he thought he might throw up, and someone else lived there now. He stumbled to the closest house.  

“Help!” Rupert screamed.  

“Arf!” yapped a dog in response.  

Rupert’s heart dropped when he saw who opened the door: the old woman with the dark glasses. Her dog jumped and yapped and snarled .  

“My hand!” Cried Rupert. “I need a doctor!”  

The old woman couldn’t see Rupert’s mangled hand, but she had a grandson who could, and he retched when he saw it.  

He was the lanky boy who wore his shoes without socks. He’d just got his driver’s license. He drove Rupert to the ER and sat with him for nearly eight hours.  

Afterwards, the boy called Rupert ‘Stumps.’  

The two would sit by the creek and laugh. By October, Rupert walked the cul-de-sacs with ease. By January, they started holding hands, by March, they kissed each other, and by June, the boy graduated. He moved. The two broke up.  

The day the boy left, he awkwardly shook Rupert’s pinkiless hand, got into his crappy little car, and left.  

“It’s been good, Stumps.”  

Rupert sniffed. He cried. He wandered, trying to recapture his heart   

Eventually, he found himself on the banks of Wildgrove Creek.  

The turtle was long gone, but the trickle of dirty water sparkled, and the gnats hung in shafts of sun as Rupert stepped in. He followed it, through the dark sewer pipes, and under the rushing drone of the highway, and when Rupert emerged into sunlight at the other end of the tunnel, he found the cement lining gone, and his sobbing eased. The creek opened into a river with dappled, mucky banks. A quiet, peaceful place. A sanctuary.  

He wondered if he’d become more or less like the turtle in the past year. The question made him smile.  

#2SLGBTQIA_ #cement #comingOfAge #culDeSacs #hamster #JessiWood #Neighbourhood #sanctuary #shortFiction #shortStory #story #Summer #ZackMason

RIBFEST RETURNS TO THE REGION

Friday, July 18 marked the beginning of Kitchener-Waterloo’s Ribfest and Craft Beer Show by Nedlaw Roofs (henceforth known as ‘Ribfest’). The event was hosted in Willow River Park and spanned three days. Stands touting anything from fountain drinks to beer, to live music were all dwarfed by the main attraction: the ribs.  

Churning out 100 racks per hour, rib experts flanked the field, each blaring music, cranking grills, ringing bells, shouting orders, and slinging sides of pork so surprisingly unique, that we took it upon ourselves to write an entire article about the experience of sampling each one.  

That’s right—we subjected ourselves to ribs from all six stands at Ribfest. It was a symphony of taste and an assault to the arteries. Here are our thoughts:  

Zack’s winning pick was unequivocally Fat Boys BBQ. Zack’s all about nuanced flavour, and Fat Boys delivered: Hickory smoke, chili, balanced acidity and sweetness. With just the right amount of delicious sauce and tender, shred-able meat, Fat Boys Barbecue can’t be beatbeaten! Fat Boys was Ayden’s second pick – close but no cigar.   

Second up for Zack was Dinosaur BBQ. Dino’s used a smokey sauce with notes of apple (actually!). The real drawdraw, however, was the char. These ribs were flame-kissed. Never mind carcinogens! That bitter bite had us drooling. This was Ayden’s pick for the best rack of ribs. He loves burnt food.   

Zack’s third place was Uncle Sam’s BBQ. Ignoring the blatant American patriotism, Uncle Sam provided the quintessential rib. Ol’ Faithful. Some could accuse them of playing it safe, but we say, “Why re-invent the wheel?” For these very reasons, Ayden had Uncle Sam in fourth place. Good, not great.   

Fourth up for Zack was Silver Bullet BBQ. We don’t know what these suppliers were feeding their hogs, but Silver Bullet hit a bull’s-eye when it came to size. Where S.B really missed the mark was in sauciness. These bones were bone dry! For Ayden, Silver Bullet came in third place. Sometimes a dry rub and porky taste hits the spot.   

While a crowd favourite, Boss Hogs ultimately didn’t measure up. Zack and Ayden agree these ribs were too sweet, and not that saucy. The cook wasn’t closing any deals, and the ribs were a bit skinny too. Unfortunately, Boss Hogs didn’t leave us squealing with delight.  

Zack and Ayden’s last place pick was Camp 31. Simply underwhelming. Not enough sauce, no char, and an overly oily texture could have been forgivable. As soon as Ayden noticed some broken bones in his portion, all bets were off. He tapped out and gave his leftovers to Zack (“Hey, a rib’s a rib!”)  

Celebrating the summer by eating as much barbequed meat as possible is a time-honoured tradition. It’s tough to say whether this experience will negatively impact our health, but the sun burns, barbeque sauce and good friends will stay with us forever. In the end, this was an amazing article to…research. 

#AydenElworthy #beer #bossHogs #craftBeerShow #dinosaurBbq #fatBoysBbq #fountainDrinks #grills #JessiWood #nedlawRoofs #ribfest #silverBulletBbq #uncleSamsBbq #ZackMason

GRAND RIVER ROCKS HOSTS BOULDERING NIGHT

Thursday, July 17, 2025, marked this year’s second Boulder Night at Grand River Rocks Waterloo. There were 144 climbers competing across male, female and non-binary categories to climb the 15 climbs, or problems, set specially for the evening. The competition was organized by Grand River Rocks itself, designed to appeal to novice, intermediate and advanced athletes.  

Bouldering is a subcategory of rock climbing, where climbers attempt to reach the top of short climbs, usually around four meters or so, without a rope. These problems often feature more intricate and creative movements than other forms of rock climbing. They are a test of an athlete’s puzzle-solving skills, rather than pure physicality.  

Grand River Rocks’ Boulder Nights use a different format than many other bouldering competitions. Rather than many climbs and points associated with each one based on difficulty, Boulder Night features only 15 problems, all worth the same amount. The competition’s winner is the climber who manages to finish, or top, the most climbs in the fewest number of attempts. 

This competition’s winners were Avery Ingram in the women’s competition, with nine tops in 15 attempts, Andrew Mendoca in the non-binary category, with seven tops in 20 attempts, and Matthew Rodriguez of the men’s contest, who finished all 15 climbs in 29 attempts.  

Boulder Night’s unique structure is designed to make climbing competitions more accessible to the public.  

“This is a great way for somebody to experience their first sort of competitive environment without having to spend a bunch of money to get into it,” Jack Szumilas, head setter of Grand River Rocks, said.  

But monetary constraints are not the only deterrent from competition for casual climbers. Contests can be intimidating, and competing against people can create an unfriendly atmosphere. Again, Boulder Night’s unique structure is designed to mitigate this issue as well.  

“One of the biggest benefits of this kind of competitive environment isn’t the actual competition itself, it’s bringing together people and giving them the opportunity to work on things together,” Szumilas said.  

“When you’re in such a large crowd, and there are such a small amount of boulders to work on, inevitably, you end up talking to somebody, or end up having to work on something together with somebody else and it’s just a good opportunity to meet people, socialize, and also try things that you normally might be too scared or intimidated to try.” 

#andrewMendoca #averyIngram #bouldering #ChristoffLeRoux #GrandRiverRocks #jackSzumilas #localGym #localSports #mathewRoderiguez #rockClimbing #ZackMason

KITCHENER WATERLOO SYMPHONY LAUNCHES 2025-2026 SEASON

September 2025 will mark the beginning of the Kitchener-Waterloo Symphony’s (KWS) 2025-26 season. Excitement in the region’s classical music scene is high and hopeful. 

“The 2025-26 season marks the next step in restoring the Kitchener-Waterloo Symphony’s prominence in Waterloo Region’s Cultural Communities,” the official 2025-26 season brochure reads. 

This restoration is in the wake of the KWS’s abrupt 2023 closure. Although the 2023 season was canceled just two days before it was set to begin, money had been an issue for some time. In 2019, the organization had a deficit of $730,000.  

Following closures due to COVID-19, subscription sales for the KWS dropped by 75 per cent— from 8,000 members to just 2,000. By April 2023, the deficit had reached $909,000 and was projected to hit $2 million by 2025. The symphony declared bankruptcy in September 2023 and all board members except the chair resigned. 

“[COVID-19] killed an already weakened symphony,” KWS’s new Board Chair, Bill Poole said. 

Rather than restart from scratch, musicians of the KWS proposed to creditors that their debts be non-payable and their bankruptcy annulled. 

“It allowed us to be the same name and organization when applying for artist council grants,” Kathy Robertson, co-chair of the Players’ Committee and french horn player, said. 

These efforts were successful, and  the symphony’s bankruptcy was annulled in October 2024. Musicians immediately got to work putting on a 2024-25 season with money from a GoFundMe campaign. 

“Internally, the players continued to do everything to put the concerts on and to pay for them. They did everything, like bringing the timpani from downstairs, getting stuff on trucks, setting up stands, striking stands,” Poole said. 

The 2025-26 season ushers in a new era for the KWS, one that is decidedly less scattered than the last, but still recovering. 

“It’s operating as a professional organization…with staff,” Robinson said. 

“As minimal staff as you can imagine,” Poole said. 

This leanness is KWS’s solution to remaining deficit-free. Post-September 2023, the board has a strict no-deficit policy, and the Centre in the Square, Waterloo Region’s main concert hall, (originally built with the KWS in mind), will no longer be a focal point in the symphony’s programming. In 2022-23, more than 40 shows were played at the Centre in the Square. In 2025-26, there will only be 3.  

“We’ve gone from the symphony playing lots of concerts in the big hall, and doing as much other stuff, outreach, as possible, to playing a lot of other stuff and a few concerts in the big hall,” Poole said. 

One of these few concerts will be the KWS Fundraising Gala, on Nov. 20, 2025. The symphony will play Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony. On the whole, things look uncertain, yet hopeful to Poole and Robinson. 

“We are committed to keeping the music alive,” Poole said.

#BillPoole #CentreInTheSquare #covid19 #fundraisingGala #GoodCoProductions #KitchenerWaterlooSymphony #LocalArt #localMusic #mahlersResurrectionSymphony #seasonEras #timpani #ZackMason

FIFTH ANNUAL CHERRY FESTIVAL AT CHERRY PARK

 July 5, 2025 welcomed the fifteenth annual Cherry Festival at Cherry Park in Kitchener. Despite a high of 30°C and next to no cloud cover, over 1,400 people from Waterloo Region flocked to the park to enjoy all the festival had to offer.  

Attractions included the Cherry Train ride for children, a carousel swing ride, mini putt, rock climbing, an inflatable fun house, and more.  The festival also hosted more than 70 vendors, 12 performance acts across two stages, and even a wrestling ring, right  in the middle. 

“It started in 2008… just a small barbecue and a few games, things like that. Then they decided to add on, and build it and try to make it great,” Dan Rudow, chair of the Cherry Festival Organizing Committee, said. 

Rudow, a forklift operator at his day job, and about 100 other neighbourhood volunteers made the festival possible. Rudow finds the work rewarding. 

“It’s a fun thing to do with the neighbours, and I just wanted to provide a nice neighbourhood for my daughter to live in,” he said. 

The greatest attraction at the 2025 Cherry Festival was, of course, the cherries. Ice cream, pies, tarts, brownies, jam, squares and more were available. 

“[People] should volunteer if they think they can do better,” one patron said. “Besides, it’s moving fine!” 

And once the festival goers got their goodies, satisfaction was high. 

“The crust is good, the flavour’s good. Not too sweet, not too tart. I dig it,” TJ, another attendee, said.  

He and his partner, Amelia, were enjoying their slices in the sun as a distraction.  

“Today’s her due date. So, we’re just eating cherry pie, waiting for a baby,” he said. 

TJ and Amelia were joining a long tradition of family stories and the Cherry Festival.  

“Kids have grown up coming to this, and now they’re bringing kids of their own. It’s a really satisfying thing just to be part of something fun,” Rudow said. 

#2025CherryFestival #brownies #carouselSwing #cherryFestival #CherryPark #DanRudow #iceCream #inflatableFunHouse #miniPutt #pies #rockClimbing #squares #theCherryTrain #ZackMason

PIEROT AND THE BEAST OF GÉVAUDAN

Every night, after the king of Gévaudan began to snore, Pierrot would slip from his master’s chambers, cross the flagstones of the great hall, pass the smouldering hearth and the empty suits of armour, to stop outside Columbine’s door. Here, he’d whistle a mournful tune, the one way he allowed himself to profess his love. He would whistle beautifully, low and smooth, soaring with vibrato. After, Pierrot would scuttle down past the kitchen (where he stole bottles of wine), outside, past the cesspit (and Claude, the miserable gong farmer), and through the wrought iron gates of the menagerie. Finally, our friend would sit on the gravel path, remove his hat with its tinkling bells, and uncork his first bottle. He’d complain to the flamingos, standing like ruffled dusters in their murky pool. “Mon dieu!” he’d cry, glugging the wine. “What am I to do? All day I sing and dance to make them laugh. And, sure, they laugh, but no one cares about Pierrot!” The flamingos, trying to sleep, would hiss, and he’d shoo away their complaints and drag his wine bottle down the path to where the hippopotamus slept. “All I really want,” he’d continue, leaning over to look down at the hippo, “is someone who wants to know what I feel! What Pierrot really feels!” The hippopotamus would snort in irritation and slip noiselessly beneath the black surface of the pool. Looking down into its darkness, Pierrot’s white painted face bobbed, round and alone like the moon. He’d cry. And the still water would ripple.  

Everything changed after the hyena arrived. 

At lunch, the king was particularly listless and Pierrot particularly glum. Columbine sat at one end of the banquet table, not noticing him. As Pierrot juggled, she rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Pierrot!” the king whined. “You’re no fun today!” He darted his small, kingly eyes back and forth, settling on a fresh braise just lugged up from the kitchen. “Eat!” he demanded. “But no blowing!” 

Pierrot sighed. He’d played this game before, and he knew it was no fun. The king looked around at all his nobles, snickering and rubbing their hands together. Pierrot filled a spoon with the piping hot stew, glanced up at the ceiling in something like prayer, and took the burning food in his mouth. The king howled with laughter, as poor Pierrot turned red; his tongue burnt numb and blistered. 

Columbine was staring out the window. 

“It’s time for my nap,” said the king. “Jester! To my chambers! Sing me a lullaby!” Pierrot slunk behind the royal procession, his bells tinkling softly, the roof of his mouth beginning to peel. “Princess, what’s wrong?” Columbine’s lady in waiting was saying as Pierrot passed. “You’ve hardly touched your stew!” “I’ve barely slept this week!” Columbine groaned. “A bird whistles outside my door every night.” “Like a nightingale?” said the lady. Columbine wrinkled her nose. “Like a seagull. With a head cold. It’s a nightmare.”  

“A seagull with a head cold!” Pierrot slurred to the flamingos that night. “I was crushed!” The flamingos hissed, and Pierrot lurched to his feet, raising the bottle to throw, but something interrupted him: laughter peeling through the darkness likehell’s worst demon had heard the world’s funniest joke. As if in a trance, Pierrot marched towards the sound. In a cage at the end of the path was a beast unlike any he’d ever seen. 

Hulking, scruffy, with huge round shoulders and a neck as thick as Pierrot’s waist, it shuffled back and forth across the dirt. And it was laughing high, tittering, crazed little giggles. He considered the animal for a while, listened to its chuckles. “Now that’s nightmarish,” Pierrot said. “Beast, what do you think? Do I whistle like a sick sea bird?” Pierrot pursed his lips, and his song rang out: mournful, low and smooth, soaring with vibrato. The beast paused and listened, its head cocked to one side. When Pierrot was done, it burst into otherworldly laughter. Pierrot blushed with shame, and his shame—like shame is wont to do—twisted into hate. “Friend,” Pierrot whispered. “How would you like to play a trick?” The beast laughed some more, raising its head in the air, and in his drunken fog, Pierrot saw a nod. 

“Columbine,” he said. “She has no humour. No romance.” Pierrot shook his head. “She doesn’t notice my jokes, says my love songs are nightmares.” His frown split into a twisted grin. “I say we show her a real nightmare.” The beast had stopped laughing now. It was sitting in the middle of its cage, staring at Pierrot. It seemed to be listening. “We’ll creep to her room, and I’ll whistle while you start that terrific laughter!” Pierrot felt drunk and evil and in his intoxicated mind glimmered a deeper fantasy, one where a terrified Columbine fell into his arms. “That’ll show her,” he said, rubbing his white painted hands together. 

Pierrot stumbled towards the cage like a fly drawn to Claude, the miserable gong farmer. The beast watched him quietly as he fumbled with the latch and pulled the door open with a long creak. Of course, as soon as the hyena realized it was free, it devoured Pierrot, and his ghost cartwheeled into the sky’s darkness. 

Pierrot’s ghost watched the hyena chuckle to itself as it ate his body. Then it hopped into the flamingo pool and mauled the squawking birds. He watched it giggle out of the menagerie, up the path, past Claude the miserable gong farmer and into the mountains behind the castle. Pierrot’s ghost kept tabs for months, as the hyena terrorized Gévaudan, eating cows and sheep and people, laughing all the while, inspiring stories about loose demons and Satan. At first, he enjoyed the destruction, but soon, he felt sorry for causing so much trouble. Now that he was dead, he realized things shouldn’t matter to him so much anymore. The hyena roamed around killing things until someone named Jean Chastel shot it dead. The king considered having Jean executed for damaging his property, but let him marry Columbine instead, who was pleased enough with the arrangement because Jean was brave and told her what was on his mind. Despite his newfound wisdom, Pierrot kicked himself for causing the union. Disregarding his beatitude, he smiled when Columbine yawned at the reception—she was bored: there were no jesters. Pierrot knew, being dead, he was beyond that kind of pettiness. He knew his trifles while living was nothing in the infinite universe. But still, he smiled. 

Everything changed after the hyena arrived.

At lunch, the king was particularly listless and Pierrot particularly glum. Columbine sat at one end of the banquet table, not noticing him.

As Pierrot juggled, she rubbed her eyes and yawned.
“Pierrot!” the king whined. “You’re no fun today!” He darted his small, kingly eyes back and forth, settling on a fresh braise just lugged up from the kitchen.

“Eat!” he demanded. “But no blowing!”

Pierrot sighed. He’d played this game before, and he knew it was no fun.

The king looked around at all his nobles, snickering and rubbing their hands together.

Pierrot filled a spoon with the piping hot stew, glanced up at the ceiling in something like prayer, and took the burning food in his mouth.

The king howled with laughter, as poor Pierrot turned red; his tongue burnt numb and blistered.

Columbine was staring out the window.

“It’s time for my nap,” said the king. “Jester! To my chambers! Sing me a lullaby!”

Pierrot slunk behind the royal procession, his bells tinkling softly, the roof of his mouth beginning to peel.

“Princess, what’s wrong?” Columbine’s lady in waiting was saying as Pierrot passed. “You’ve hardly touched your stew!”

“I’ve barely slept this week!” Columbine groaned. “A bird whistles outside my door every night.”

“Like a nightingale?” said the lady.

Columbine wrinkled her nose. “Like a seagull. With a head cold. It’s a nightmare.”

“A seagull with a head cold!” Pierrot slurred to the flamingos that night. “I was crushed!”

The flamingos hissed, and Pierrot lurched to his feet, raising the bottle to throw, but something interrupted him: laughter peeling through the darkness like hell’s worst demon had heard the world’s funniest joke.

As if in a trance, Pierrot marched towards the sound.

In a cage at the end of the path was a beast unlike any he’d ever seen.

Hulking, scruffy, with huge round shoulders and a neck as thick as Pierrot’s waist, it shuffled back and forth across the dirt.

And it was laughing high, tittering, crazed little giggles.

He considered the animal for a while, listened to its chuckles.

“Now that’s nightmarish,” Pierrot said. “Beast, what do you think? Do I whistle like a sick sea bird?”

Pierrot pursed his lips, and his song rang out: mournful, low and smooth, soaring with vibrato.

The beast paused and listened, its head cocked to one side. When Pierrot was done, it burst into otherworldly laughter.

Pierrot blushed with shame, and his shame—like shame is wont to do—twisted into hate.

“Friend,” Pierrot whispered. “How would you like to play a trick?”

The beast laughed some more, raising its head in the air, and in his drunken fog, Pierrot saw a nod.

“Columbine,” he said. “She has no humour. No romance.” Pierrot shook his head. “She doesn’t notice my jokes, says my love songs are nightmares.” His frown split into a twisted grin. “I say we show her a real nightmare.”

The beast had stopped laughing now. It was sitting in the middle of its cage, staring at Pierrot. It seemed to be listening.

“We’ll creep to her room, and I’ll whistle while you start that terrific laughter!” Pierrot felt drunk and evil and in his intoxicated mind glimmered a deeper fantasy, one where a terrified Columbine fell into his arms.

“That’ll show her,” he said, rubbing his white painted hands together.

Pierrot stumbled towards the cage like a fly drawn to Claude, the miserable gong farmer. The beast watched him quietly as he fumbled with the latch and pulled the door open with a long creak.

Of course, as soon as the hyena realized it was free, it devoured Pierrot, and his ghost cartwheeled into the sky’s darkness.

Pierrot’s ghost watched the hyena chuckle to itself as it ate his body. Then it hopped into the flamingo pool and mauled the squawking birds. He watched it giggle out of the menagerie, up the path, past Claude the miserable gong farmer and into the mountains behind the castle.

Pierrot’s ghost kept tabs for months, as the hyena terrorized Gévaudan, eating cows and sheep and people, laughing all the while, inspiring stories about loose demons and Satan. At first, he enjoyed the destruction, but soon, he felt sorry for causing so much trouble. Now that he was dead, he realized things shouldn’t matter to him so much anymore.

The hyena roamed around killing things until someone named Jean Chastel shot it dead.

The king considered having Jean executed for damaging his property, but let him marry Columbine instead, who was pleased enough with the arrangement because Jean was brave and told her what was on his mind.

Despite his newfound wisdom, Pierrot kicked himself for causing the union.

Disregarding his beatitude, he smiled when Columbine yawned at the reception—she was bored: there were no jesters.

Pierrot knew, being dead, he was beyond that kind of pettiness. He knew his trifles while living was nothing in the infinite universe.

But still, he smiled.

#columbinesDoor #gevadan #jeanChastel #king #Love #pierrot #satan #shortFiction #shortStory #story #wine #ZackMason