Posted in 2018-2019, Fiction, Issue 02

The Death of Life

by Gabriella Ganoe

Fall has always felt like a wake to me. A preview, a screening of the death to come, a way to see what living without the Sun will feel like, before its official. The falling leaves are like our heavy tears, the shriveling plants are the words we regret not saying. The wind is the coffin. It’s come to take the life away.

Winter is the funeral. Cold, the tears turned to rain or snow, the grass letting everyone walk right over it. There is no color, only gray. There is no Sun. The Moon has taken over, and even it seems tired. Winter lasts the longest too. They say it’s supposed to last a few months, but the time bleeds into itself, and before you know it, the whole year has been winter. Coats and hats and gloves appear on every street corner, like eulogies or wishful stories. But nothing can keep the frigid chill from seeping into your bones, the ice from frosting over your chest. This is where you lose hope. This is where you’re buried.

Spring comes as the reception. Not everyone has one, and they’re not always what they should be. Sometimes the foods bad, and sometimes, no ones in the mood to talk. Words are stuffed down throats by the cold that lingers under doorways or in corners. Regardless, this is where hope is nurtured. Words are exchanged like thank you cards, hugs are given in all directions. The color begins to return, and your heart begins to thaw. Spring is a promise.

Summer is the car ride home. Company and heat and unanswered questions. You can feel better, but still ache. Whole, but not completed. Around you are the reminders of the things you still have to lose, and the silence reminds you that you will. Summer is a distraction. It causes you to be too busy with the Sun in your eyes to notice the wind beginning to settle over the Earth. It’ll take life as easily as it has all the other times winter has won.

Posted in 2018-2019, Fiction, Issue 02


by Gabriella Ganoe

I can feel the power coursing through my veins. It burns, and tugs at the insides of my veins, a beast clawing its way out of my body. But I’m in pain. There is something about it that feels normal, like it’s was working with me. This power is mine. And I don’t have to contain it anymore.

There’s a series of shouts that crowd the air, thick and staggering voices that hit the air behind me. Dad’s probably already called the police; he’s done everything he can to keep me locked away. But now that I know, now that my body is radiating what I was always meant to be, they can’t stop me. Nothing can. Not the years of lies, the constant physiological torture. Not the hand pressing against my chest. It all feels so far away, despite the fact I’ve only run a few meters. The binding is gone. I’m free.

I suddenly feel weightless, an untethered balloon ready to set off to space. The pounding of my feet on the pavement is replaced by the rush of wind against my ears, the ground becoming nothing but a distant memory. The electricity stuck in my veins explodes out through my hands, encircling my fingers like a moth to a flame. I’m the flame. I’m on fire. And I’m burning through the clouds.

Posted in 2018-2019, Fiction, November 2018

The Feeling of Waiting

By Gabriella Ganoe

Quick footed leaves darted between the currents of the wind, their bellies displaying a sunny yellow, while the edges looked to have been burned by a dark crimson. Smells of freshly picked apples and rising bread follow the leaves, carrying the fall air throughout the town. One lands at my feet, nudging my boot until I give it attention. I pick it up, and slide it in my pocket, careful not to curl the corners and tear a gash in the middle. It lay silent in the safety of my jeans.

The innocent shouts of playful youth cut through the endearing scents of the season, their delightful squeals joining the symphony of squirrels scuttering up the trees. I come upon the children playing in their yard, their mother eyeing them as she hangs an obligatory Halloween sign. She has a smile on her lips, but her eyes read tired.

I walk a bit faster, seeing as the sun is beginning to drape low in the sky, peeking through the slender fingers of branches. I know I need to hurry.

The oaky smell of wood was stirred into the cacophony, briskly followed by the accompanying pound of an ax against a tree. My face drew back into a wince, disgusted and fuming at the loss of unfulfilled life.

With my legs moving quickly, and the tired sun leaning onto the mountains far off in the distance, I make it to my haven. A hill. On top it lies a tree, just a single tree, abandoned by his buddies but refusing to leave his post. They look like they are waiting for someone, their bone arms grasping out for something it will never reach. Just like me. It also seems that whatever they’re staying so patiently for, is never coming back. Just like with me. So, I’ve decided, we wait together.

I make my way up the hill, boots digging into the chunks of frosted grass splintering under my weight. I find my way onto the thickest branch of the tree, my legs swinging from under me. My dangling limbs look like leaves clinging to its branches, and my warm yet stoic expression, looks like the bark weaving patterns into the face of the tree. We are the same in so many ways, needing warmth and light and something to stay rooted to. We both feel the sun rays brush against our cheeks, and we both peer out of what’s left of the town that we call home.