That Slamming Door

(may or may not be based on real events)

The slamming door behind me was only the beginning of my problems. Figures that the fire alarm had to go off again in the middle of February. As the door latched and locked behind me, I realized I had forgotten my keys, had left them on their hook by the window. Over the blaring alarm and the pounding feet in the stairwell, I could hear the approaching sirens. Three flights down my entire building was standing in the sub-zero weather, shivering against the winter winds. Looking around, I giggled quietly at the odd assortment of sleep wear. Everything from just boxers to fleece onesies. You can tell a lot about people by how they sleep. Twenty minutes later it’s obvious that the alarm was a false one. Some halfwit had used the fire exit after drinking too much and set off the building wide horn. My feet are numb, and my teeth are chattering, and I have no idea how to get back into my room. Thank goodness for neighbors with couches. Granted, it’s not nearly as comfortable as my bed, but it means I’ll catch a couple hours of sleep. So when someone knocks on the door, I don’t even think twice before answering, despite being clad in only a sleep shirt and massive bags under my eyes. I didn’t think, that is, until I actually opened the door and was greeted with tall, dark, and gorgeous. Why is this person knocking on our door? Right, this isn’t my apartment. (Bad word, bad word, bad word) I felt my face flush red in embarrassment. That slamming door was only the start of their problems.


The Legend of the Seasons: Winter

Once, a very long time ago, when humanity could speak with earth and understand the strange language of the trees, the world was free and glorious. Even the seasons were not confined to the invisibility of the skies, but walked among mankind, conversing easily with any they came across. Of all the seasons, Winter was by far the loneliest. She often tread barefoot along the forest paths, a thin cape draped and clinging to her skin. Where she walked, snow flurries drifted from her, rolling off her shoulders, and ice spread in cracked glass spider-webs over the dirt. A crown of snowbells woven by the hands of a child circled her forehead, a considerable contrast to her skin and hair. Few people ever walked with the Winter, leaving her to discover the world on her own. loneliness was a companion, but she grew accustomed to the shadow, and learned to enjoy its presence. The quiet opened her ears to the whispers in the trees and the rumblings of the earth. Some days were spent sitting to watch the sun walk across the sky, kissing the treetops in the morning and the evening. She avoided towns and searched out the wide open spaces of the North, contenting herself to watch humanity from afar, save for the few moons each year when the others gave up their domains to her icy touch. And so in the North she resides, observing the planet and watching it grow, in a glacial convent of population one.


Before I Knew The Word

Before I knew the word for sun, I had an intimate relationship with him. He was my constant companion on lazy summer days, kissing my cheeks and shoulders ’till they were quite red. My toes were warmed by his touch. Before I knew the word for winter, I recognized her coming by the sweeping glacial winds. I reveled in her chilly embrace, danced in her frozen tears, and drank in her icy swaths of land. Before I knew the word for sea, I loved her with childlike affection. Her power and strength became my motivation, her salty kisses and sandy toes were my redemption. An before I knew the word for beauty, I saw it all around me. In the love of a mother, the compassion of a father, in the darkness of midnight, and the brightness of midday. But now I know these words. Everything they are is summed up by one simple string of letters. Which leaves me to wonder: does “sun” encompass all that is warm and bright and comforting? Does “ocean” explain the feeling of openness and freedom found in the rolling waves? And can “beauty” really mean everything that we want it to mean? Have we categorized everything so neatly into boxes that the words have lost their truth? What are we avoiding?


Nature Laughs in Spring

The sunlight is knocking on our doors,

Begging us to come out and play.

The air has grown pleasant and warm

As inviting as the embrace of a friend.

The sleepy city begins to wake

And people rub their tired eyes.

The sun is chasing away the gloom of wintry weather

The darkness of the months past

And calls us into the days

Filled with life and light

And warmth and colour.

The ground awakens and bursts forth in glorious hues,

And the winds that twist around the city

Are the yawns of the earth and its great inhalations breathe energy into humanity.

There are smiles and laughter floating around the Commons

With music and voices carrying from one group to another.

The earth rejoices

And Nature laughs.



I have loved the stars too fondly to fear the night.

Through layers and layers of foggy sleep a gentle rhythm slides between the broken slices of fleeing dreams. Incessant now, it pierces the stupor and drags me into the morning.

Yawning as I mute my alarm I stretch my arms towards the ceiling, and fall back onto my pillow with a huff. It’s going to be a long day, I tell myself and scrub at my eyes with the heel of my hands. I shimmy down the ladder at the end of my bed, nearly slipping off but catching myself before I hit the ground.

Wearily I pull on a pair of running pants and peel off my tank top. I rummage through my drawers to find an exercise top and layer over it with a baggy sweatshirt. I lace up my trainers, haul on a beanie, and sneak quietly out of my room. WIth the door shut, I let out a sigh and walk downstairs.

The air outside is frigid, my breath coming out in billowing clouds. The light is still soft on the snow, taking the hard edges off the world. Down the street and a block over I open the door to the gym and swipe in, the early hour guaranteeing me quick access.

Taking to the treadmill, I spend the next forty-five minutes running until I can’t think, running until my worries and pain and indignations have dissolved into the throbbing of my legs and the heaving of my lungs.