- Emma Bider
Once upon a time, a beautiful finance analyst lived at the edge of a large kingdom. Her apartment was small and occasionally infested with ants but more importantly, was only a bachelor apartment. The finance analyst had a fiancé and they were looking to settle down.
The finance analyst was well off and had a kind mother who promised to aid in her hunt for a house, but she searched the vast kingdom in vain. Decrepit, windowless homes went for over a million dollars. The most affordable ones were just as far away from the kingdom’s bustling centre as her own sad apartment, or even farther. She and her boyfriend engaged in angry bidding wars and intricate mind games with the help of their noble real estate agent.
They even went so far as to befriend an elderly woman in a desirable neighbourhood, in the hopes that they’d have an edge when she was finally forced to sell her four-bedroom two-bathroom row house and was shipped off to an old folk’s residence. Instead she died in her home. And her daughter swiftly sold the property to a developer.
The beautiful finance analyst was at a loss. She asked her father, a grocery store franchise owner, for a small loan, but he shook his head in sadness.
“I cannot help you” he said to his daughter, “I’m swamped in debt and want to retire soon. You’ll have to figure it out yourselves.”
The finance analyst was distraught. She wandered through all the best neighbourhoods in the kingdom, Ossington village, King’s West, The Town of Cabbages and Queen Leslie’s ville, her eyes puffy with tears, her heart low, staring at the houses she could never afford, with an almost painful sense of envy and despair.
Just as she was finishing her sojourn through Park Valley before beginning her long journey to her sad bachelor apartment a woman sitting on her front porch called out to the finance analyst.
“Good evening miss. Why are you crying so much?” said the woman.
She was well dressed in a cashmere sweater and her hair was silvery in the sunset. The finance analyst thought she hoped to look like that when she was older and accomplished, with a house of her own.
“Oh,” she said, “I want to buy a house and I don’t know how I can possibly do it”.
The woman gestured at the finance analyst to come onto the porch. The house was beautiful. Recently renovated, the finance analyst could tell. The porch looked made of hardwood and the chairs upon it were soft yet firm. The light that shone from the awnings above was delicate, illuminating the woman’s face in such a way that made her look far younger than her years. The woman looked towards the finance analyst, then her house, pensively.
“I’m thinking of selling the place as a matter of fact,” she said. “I was hoping to make two million dollars off it. What will you give me if I cut the price in half?” The finance analyst stared, mouth agape, at the woman, then she began a frantic search through her purse before placing her hand on her collarbone.
“I’ll give you this necklace,” she said, and she took off the gold chain with an emerald pendant, a gift from her grandmother, and handed it to the woman.
“Interesting. And what will you give me if I took off two-thirds of the price?”
“The ring on my finger” replied the finance analyst and tore off her engagement ring and handed it to the woman.
The woman smiled. She toyed with the ring before putting on her own pale, slender finger.
“And what,” she said, “will you give me if I gave you this house for free?”
The finance analyst gasped. Then tears formed once again in her eyes.
“I have nothing more I can give you,” she wept, and made to leave the beautiful woman’s beautiful porch.
“How about this,” said the woman. “Promise me, when you get settled and comfortable in this house, you will give me your first child.”
The finance analyst smiled for the first time all day. Who knows how things would turn out? She thought. She could be barren! She didn’t want children all that much anyway. And more than anything else, she was in distress and could think of no other way she would ever buy a house in such a perfect place. So, she promised the woman what she desired and the next day they went to a lawyer and had the deed turned over to the finance analyst and her fiancé.
The couple were elated. They had a house! And it was enormous with an open plan. There was plenty of light in the kitchen, a beautiful modern office for the finance analyst, and an extra bedroom, which her fiancé envisioned as the perfect child’s room.
At first the finance analyst was hesitant. But as time went by, she forgot about her promise and a year later was surprised when told by her doctor that she was pregnant. Nine months later she brought a beautiful child into the world. And still she forgot her promise.
Despite her earlier misgivings about motherhood, the finance analyst couldn’t help but love her son and when the woman appeared one morning on the porch and said “now give me what you promised” in clear and menacing tones, the finance analyst was stricken with fear.
She offered the woman all the riches she had, to empty her bank account, to sell off her stocks, but the woman was rigid with her demand and would not be dissuaded.
“I have always wanted a child,” she said, “and would rather have one than all the treasure in the world.”
“But you can’t it’s too cruel,” said the finance analyst.
Then suddenly she began to relax. She remembered how this kind of story went and could feel her hope returning.
“What if,” she said “I guessed your name. Would I be able to keep my child then?”
But the woman just rocked her head back and laughed a dark and guttural laugh. Without another word, she snatched the child from the finance analyst’s arms and strode away down the street.
“Don’t worry I’ll love him like my own,” cackled the woman.
“Stop please, you can’t do this!” cried the finance analyst, weeping.
“Sorry honey,” the woman yelled. “You have the house, now you have to live in it!”
She shrieked and laughed, rocking the child back and forth in her arms before she leapt in the air and flew away, never to be seen by the finance analyst again.
The finance analyst was beside herself with grief, but there was nothing to be done. She took to sitting on the porch for hours, wondering, plotting, waiting for another desperate soul like herself to pass by, so she could make them offer they couldn’t refuse.
A Fairytale, Emma Bider.
Emma Bider is a writer and PhD student living in Ottawa. Her poetry has been featured in Unpublishable Zine. She's currently trying to identify all the trees in her neighbourhood. Emma's collection of short stories We Animals is available at Octopus Books in Ottawa and on Amazon.
Twitter: @ebider
Instagram: @bideremma
- Jane A. Loyer
Amid their argument, there was a pause.
The crackling of the fireplace pierced through the room. Each fresh ember exploded through the airwaves, splitting the particles that held the room motionless, before disappearing onto the wooden floor below.
There was a rare moment of silence before the telephone rang. The echo of the ring cut through the room, and the sound of the fireplace faded into the background.
They stared at one another in shock, perplexed.
Neither quite knew what to do. Neither really wanted to make the first move. It was evident by the look on each of their faces, visible despite the darkness that cloaked the room. Both wanted to be able to anticipate, to react to the other’s actions rather than lead the charge.
The second ring practically blasted through the room. It reverberated off of the walls. With it, the air in the room became lighter. The heaviness that once held the room so still for so long seemed to dissipate, as though the fog that once held everything carefully in place had now begun to lift, revealing what lay underneath.
There was a surge of possibility filtering through the room. They each eventually processed the situation, then simultaneously lunged towards the telephone. Yet, she was faster.
“Hello?” She panted, barely lifting the receiver before speaking. She never allowed herself to look away from his gaze. He stared at her, threatening, the blood rushing to his face. Undoubtedly, she did not perceive him that way.
She felt the faint breath rumbling on the other end of the line, someone breathing in and out through their nostrils, as if they were trying to conceal themselves. Exhaling as though they could not hold the air any longer, as though the breath was being forced out of its body. Then unsteadily, the breath inhaled as slowly as it could. Otherwise, there was silence.
She was patient. He continued to stare at her. He tried to be as still as possible, but he could not stop his fingertips from shaking. It would have been undetectable to anyone but her.
“I know it is you.”
Her voice started off quietly, hesitantly. It grew with force. Her body relaxed into her newfound conviction. She revelled in the adrenaline.
“No one else would so much as attempt to call this line. No one else even knows that it exists. Even if they did, they would not dare to dial this number.”
The breathing on the other end of the line had stopped. It held its breath, not yet ready to come up for air. It could not manage to make any other sound.
“Well, then. I guess this is over.”
His eyes went dark but refused to shut, and he kept them locked on her. The pace of his breath quickened, now matching the pattern of breath flowing through the receiver.
“Wait.” The voice at the end of the line breathed. It spoke vehemently, compelling its audience to listen.
“What am I waiting for?”
She did not need to hesitate. She would not give the voice the satisfaction of waiting.
“I will come to you.” The voice exhaled, releasing what little clout it had left with its breath.
She paused, never once taking her eyes off him. His eyes must have been burning at this point. Still, he could not blink. They were standing only inches apart, but they might as well have been miles away from one another.
“You have an hour.” she said.
There was a crash on the other end of the line as the voice dropped the telephone to the floor. It did not bother to hang up before it started running.
A faint beeping emerged from the telephone, before the crackling of the fireplace cascaded back into the room.
"Receiver" by Jane A. Loyer.
Jane Loyer is a lawyer by day who is passionate about writing, reading, running, cycling, and music. She is from Barrie, Ontario.
Instagram: @jnlyr
- Cale Plett
In the shed, you went straight for the sledgehammer. You handed me a crowbar with a grin that convinced me that being in this together was a good thing. I remember we started on the east wall. All August, I waited around for the times you’d open my bedroom door and nod toward the basement.
“Dad’s out, let’s go get rich.” Same words every time, not that the project intrigued you every day. I couldn’t even focus on anything else. I just waited for you even though the whole job was filthy in the August heat.
The wood-paneled walls weren’t so bad. I was proud when you said I was good at removing the paneling and putting it back on after shining a flashlight on the cavities in the wall, looking for the gold T. Bryant was rumored to have filled them with. It was one compliment, and I still think of myself as good at it. But the north side, the drywall, I hated that. I was terrified every time I carried a bag of debris across the street to the empty lot. I imagined the sun beating on my aching back was Dad’s eyes and whatever meanness followed. He went after me with words, and you’d say at least he didn’t hit me, so I never thought it was so bad.
Where some people would have gotten more and more frustrated as we found nothing, your hope got worse and worse. Your contagious eagerness. Bet you can’t think of a single time I complained. When we were done for the day, I liked pretending I was Dad walking down the stairs, though I’m sure it was your idea. If I could see around the piles of junk and decaying furniture we’d arranged to cover the damage, I’d imitate his rage to make you laugh. Each part of the act terrifying and full of power.
You said I looked like a ghost coming down the stairs because I was so covered in drywall dust, plastered to my sweaty skin. The only parts of me that weren’t white were the specks of blood on my hands from torn blisters. They stung enough to make me cry when I washed all the specter off of me.
At last, you said it had to be the brick fireplace in the south wall. You had reasons behind everything, that the paneling and drywall were new since T. Bryant lived here, but the brick was original. It made sense when you said it, less as you used the sledgehammer to smash the bricks to pieces. I sat by, my strength insufficient to join in on the final stage of the destruction and too afraid of being laughed at to cover my ears. Even so, you saw Dad before I heard him coming.
And Dad punched you like you were a man, no more slapping or belts, and no questions. I kept meaning to thank you for pushing me out of sight, but I somehow never got the chance. If I’d had the bruises you did, toes of boots against my ribs, I’d have found my way someplace else where the hurt wasn’t the devil I knew. You reach a point.
When I was twelve, I went through the old cassettes you used to collect and stole my favorite ones. It was the day after you just didn’t seem like you’d be coming back. The tapes are still in my car and you still haven’t noticed. Tonight, I listened to them while I drove around town. It’s worse than when we were young. Everything’s gotten dimmer. The mine shut down the year I graduated, but I think the colors started fading about the same time we didn’t find any gold in the walls of the basement.
It was after one in the morning when I got back to Dad’s. I tried to sleep, but I wound up in the basement moving box after box until the brick fireplace was out in the open. The rest of the walls have been fixed, but the brick is still wounded. It could be we were one swing away from finding the gold in the basement, but tonight, no matter how closely I shine a flashlight over the broken bricks, I can’t tell if there’s anything there.
The Sledgehammer by Cale Plett.
Cale Plett (he/they) is a nonbinary writer who lives in Winnipeg, where they are watching and listening for stories. Some they remember, some they forget, and some they turn into poetry, prose, and lyrics. Cale’s poetry and fiction are published and/or forthcoming in Grain, CV2, The Anti-Languorous Project, and Riddle Fence. Cale on his work: "As an artist, I love telling stories in any form I know how to. While most of my published work is poetry, my favorite thing to write is YA. I'm currently in the midst of a quite hopeful queer YA project which I'm hoping to have ready to begin pitching by the end of the 2021. I also write short stories, one of which, 'Queen David,' just came out in Riddle Fence #38. I've written songs since I was a teenager, and recently I wrote the libretto for a song cycle/folk opera called Storm Cycle."