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Sugar Packets by Tammy Storey Content Warning: Mention of Suicide, Drug Use I’ve definitely got it all figured out, what it will look like when we can all safely gather again, our family of ten. There will be three generations under one roof.   The patriarch, my father-in-law, will lean back in his worn, sagging recliner, sipping straight Talisker with a drop of water. I will be observing him, wondering if he’s got his psychiatrist glasses on. The two toddlers will learn how to be patient as we each take turns doling out huge hugs, and we will bask in warm and fuzzies. My husband and I, both in our early thirties, will partake in the ritual celebration of singing along to Dolly Parton or Dylan or Queen, on repeat, until one of us goes insane. I will convince someone to play Scrabble with me, in between the ongoing Crokinole tournament, and my opponent will be in pain due to the dreaded “Crokinole finger.” If you are hoping for quiet and serene, this is not the place for you. The dog wi

    Under the Shadow of the Tent  by Helen Galloway McNicoll Under the Shadow of the Tent after Helen Galloway McNicoll summer sleeps in sorrow, autumn streaming in   shade nips a bitter breeze the women   share in stories shadows of the tent flickering under the sun   brillant with seagulls taking flight shrilling and shrieking   a collection of seashells piling up beneath the waves   a blanket is laid out now hems splaying over the silky cover    wisps of hair rush in currents over eager eyes cast on a page   waves crash the man and boy in coarse sand watch with delicate interest   a head peeks just above the swaying surface fingers fumble wings underwater   the man grasps a sixth seashell love just off shore     * Tanka: Cold Days   Every red berry, coated with delicate snow. The thought is bitter, such beauty, ah, such beauty in this frigid place. ________________ Lauren Redwood is a first year Creative Writing and Publishing Student at Sheridan College

      Content Flags [addiction]            If all my loved ones did what I wanted them to, I wouldn’t have become an addict. Unfortunately, they had the annoying habit of doing what they wanted to do and ignoring my unspoken desires. Consequently, I found myself on one hot summer morning in the Adirondack Mountains of New York state riding in the “Crazy Van” with five of my fellow addicts on our way to the gym. The van was one of those white non-descript passenger vans – full-size, not a mini-van – that you often see with the words “Something or Other Bible College” written on the side. In our case, the name was religious – Saint Jude Retreat – but the other passengers and I were anything but bible-thumpers. We were just folks who had lost our way, gotten too heavily involved with our drug of choice, and were now trying to extricate ourselves from our predicament. Most of us were there voluntarily, but some were court-ordered.          John was a meth head, one week into his reco

    Tanka: Father Father laid me in The ocean, when I was born. Like Moses, they said. But oceans grew between us And I forgot father's name. *   *   *  A Funeral, a Burglary, and a Proposal The strangest, most cringe-worthy marriage proposal I have ever received from a complete stranger is, without doubt, the one offered to me in 2008 by a police officer amid a burglary investigation in Egypt. The perpetrator (of the marriage proposal, not the break-in) was the unfortunate police officer who dragged his partner to my family apartment in Cairo on one depressing afternoon responding to my mother's seventh call to the local police station. There had been a break-in at our home and the man who conducted the botched "investigation" thought to visit my mother again days after the burglary to try his luck at asking her for my hand out of what seemed to be sheer boredom. I am not claiming that I was not flattered by the half-interested, meh-quality proposal, but let's sa