Portfolio
Heirloom (Flash Fiction)
TW: Fantasy Violence; Horror
In a few words: A man recounts the tragedy of his father and the parcel he possessed.
Context: Created for a flash fiction competition requiring we use a silver sword and a book with a gem in the story.
I remember my father as a joyous man, when he was still human. He used to take my little sister and me on his trips to port to check on the family company’s mercantile vessels. Our ships imported various cargo from overseas, such as saffron, textiles, and wool. Occasionally, there were artifacts to be delivered to the Royal Museum of Metaphysical History in Arcanthrost, an academically rich society of arcane practitioners. It lay in the far north, separated from other lands by a month-long journey at sea.
My father was proud of his work, family, and traditions. He kept a reminder in the form of a silver sword above a mantel in his study. The sword had been passed down from parent to child for centuries. He would treat it with great care, as though it actually were his child. Its blade was always sharp and polished; it reflected like a silver pool of water. My father would say that he could simply stare into the reflecting blade and instantly know himself better – a belief held by each new inheritor of the sword.
My father’s change began the day our family lost almost everything. A wild storm swept south through the trading routes that most of our vessels took to neighbouring ports. The chaos claimed every ship and soul aboard. Our family was left with only a single vessel that had just returned from Arcanthrost, in the north. We began to fall into economic ruin. My parents feared all would be lost.
After visiting that single ship at dock, my father returned clutching a mysterious package. He brought news of another family attempting to salvage their fortune by selling their remaining vessels. In spite of our newfound lack of means, he had miraculously managed to acquire those vessels. We were overcome with both joy and sorrow at once, as our family’s salvation had come by way of another’s tragedy. Curious, I asked my father how our family could afford it. He simply replied that we had been fortunate in our last trade from Arcanthrost. I was naïve, so probed no further. All I knew was that the mysterious package from that ship was somehow responsible for our survival, and my father treated it as such.
Five years passed, and our family’s good fortune had ascended us from the brink of ruin to incredible prosperity. Meanwhile, the unattended sword hanging in the study grew murky, its silver blade reflecting less clearly with each passing day. One year was like ten to my father, who grew frail. In the final days that I saw him, his eyes, which had once reflected the blue of the sea, had turned black; his hair, once dark brown, had become stark white; and his skin had tightened around his form, giving him an almost skeletal appearance.
My father secluded himself in his study for months. My mother, sister, and I grew increasingly worried. I needed to confront him and uncover whatever truth he was hiding before it consumed him. I approached the study and tried the doorknob; it was locked, as usual. I could hear mumbled speech through the wooden door, though I couldn’t understand it. I called out but received no response. Desperate, I kicked at the lock on the door until the wood splintered and gave way.
I saw before me what could only be described as a monster: A skeleton with human skin enveloped in a dark purple cloak torn by sharp protrusions of the spine. Its hair was sparse with only a few strands of white. Its hands grew black nails which clenched a rubied book whose jewel pulsated in rhythm with the strange words that the creature – my father – uttered. Its attention was fixated on the book; it paid me no mind as I rushed to the fireplace, swiftly removing the sword from above the mantel and clutching it in my trembling hands. Still unnoticed, I attempted to swing at the book, but was suddenly knocked against a wall by the creature, now enraged. In panic, I raised the sword. The creature – my father – lunged at me, impaling himself upon the silver blade.
I now stand here in the study beside the corpse of my father, having flung the accursed ruby book into the roaring fireplace, grasping the family sword drenched in his blood. As I mourn the man he once was, I witness the blood wash over the blade and can once again see myself in its reflection.
Through the Trees (Short Story)
TW: Depression; Suicide
In a few words: A young man reacts to death of an old friend.
I’m in between classes during the winter of my final year of undergrad at the University of Toronto. I read a friend’s status on social media; I do not recognize the author. The post is long, at first glance, and features a few photos of him and someone else—Ana, whom I haven’t spoken to in close to eight years. The post starts by sharing fond memories that the author has of Ana. The two were in the same college program, so it seems. I’m sure this might be Ana’s partner gushing about how awesome they are together, but then the post starts referring to Ana in the past tense. It talks about how bright a smile she had, how she used to make people laugh, how she was so talented—“was” as opposed to “is”. Tense is important, especially in this circumstance, because this person is saying that Ana is either no longer these things because she is a different person—the two broke up, there was some sort of fight—or she is no longer these things because she is dead. “Rest in peace”, along with a little heart emoji to top off the sentiments of the poster, is the last thing the post has to say. Ana is dead.
I pause for a minute, taking in the news and checking myself for any sudden reactions, lingering emotions, or unspoken feelings. I’m trying to be more mindful of my emotions, these days; the school counsellor I see every couple of months said it’s something I should work on. When nothing comes up, I spend another minute remembering Ana before I move on to looking at what’s trending today day: climate change is destroying our planet; Russia is interfering in the U.S. election; a vlogger I’ve never heard of is apologizing for some reason; and one new person I don’t recognize is following me. I don’t follow back. The day passes as it normally does, I attend classes then sit in the student centre and browse the internet for an hour before heading to another lecture and then home.
I live a few bus stops from the Finch subway station, so coming from St. George and Bloor can take a while pending subway delays, but I’ve forgotten my headphones and book, so am left with just my thoughts, which turn towards Ana. I remember when I first met her. It was in elementary school; it’s not a particularly amazing memory. It was on a grade 4 class field trip to a wilderness research centre a few hours north of Toronto. She was a new student in a different class so we never really had a chance to speak to each other. After viewing an exhibit on butterflies, or something of that nature. Our teacher Mrs. Zelberg broke us into groups which landed me in the same group as Ana. We were tasked with collecting firewood and starting our own fire. What this had to do with butterflies and why they would be asking 9 years old children to start fires in a forest - I have no idea. We proceeded to search for wood together in the forest, I remember we must have been goofing off from the task because there was some laughing going on, enough to distract us off the designated path. We were very much lost and I could tell this bothered Ana by how she was tearing up. It probably did not help the situation when I mentioned that wolves roamed the forest. I remember her crying and me not understanding what I did wrong. Eventually we were found by teachers 2 hours later. My classmates were upset to say the least, since they had to wait on the bus the entire time.
I didn’t get along with a great number of people in elementary school considering that the ones I do get along with, cry. So, when I hung out with her during the occasional recess, I took my time to enjoy the moment. Grade 8 was when most of my classmates got social media, so Ana became one of my friends online. We talked and joked around a bunch at first, but we then became distant because of secondary school, new friends, part-time jobs, differences of opinion, etc. Our communication slowed to a halt.
I finally arrive at Finch Station, walk down the long tunnel to the bus terminal, and get on the bus. It’s now around 5 p.m. and mid-February, so the sun is nowhere to be seen. I sit in a corner of the bus, against the window, and stare out; that way, if someone needs a seat, I won’t have to get up for them, it’ll be the person next to me who does. It also allows me to avoid the cold air that comes in from the opening of the bus doors. Damn, I really hate winter. I eventually get off at Yonge and Clark and head up a winding street to my house. I open the door and immediately catch the aroma of roasted chicken coming from the kitchen. I run up to my room to get ready for dinner.
I have a couple of minutes, so I drop my backpack, shed my winter coat, and log onto my laptop. One of Ana’s friends has posted information about an open-casket viewing. My immediate thought is that whatever happened to Ana must have left her in one piece, relatively speaking; otherwise, they couldn't have an open casket. I don’t know why this is the first thought that pops into my head upon reading the news; I guess you could call it a morbid sense of humour or just purely inappropriate. Regardless, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea for me to go, for a couple of reasons: Firstly, seeing dead bodies gives me little comfort. Secondly, I haven’t spoken to her in close to eight years, so it’s not like anyone should expect me to attend.
After dinner, I receive a text from one of my old classmates. He says a bunch of old school friends are going to the service. I immediately start to wonder how he got my number. He asks if I could come as well. I say yes. I shouldn’t have said yes. I wasn’t even friends with her online, let alone in real life, anymore. I have no business going.
The day of the service arrives. It’s rather gloomy, but that’s to be expected. Snow is still falling and its still cold outside. The parking lot outside the funeral home is mostly slush, so I bang the side of my shoe against the pavement in an attempt not to drag the slush indoors. I choose to stand in the back of the room where the service is being held—as far away from the casket as I can get. I do my best not to look at the body. I hear people chatting about how Ana took her own life. I’m waiting for some sort of reaction or tears from myself; some sort of sorrow, I suppose. I’ve never felt more alien than in this room right now. I want to cry—think it’s the proper thing to do—but I can’t. I just stand here like an idiot, looking at the storms brewing in the eyes of the people around me. What right do I have to mourn? The people around me are close childhood friends, family friends, aunts, uncles, parents, and siblings. I’m not close. I was never that close right? I should go. I head straight home. I don’t wait to reminisce with people about memories of her that I do not have. When I get home, I immediately run upstairs, open the door to my room, and fling myself onto my bed.
It has been a couple hours of me staring at the ceiling, trying to force my heart to do something; feel something. I feel absolutely numb. During those years when Ana and I never spoke, when apparently both of us were struggling, I had felt my own spirit being pulled and stretched until there was so little left that one could peer right through me. I had not known what it was for anyone else to suffer aside from me; I couldn’t recognize it, because all I knew was my own pain. It still seems that way, hearing about how Ana died. The best way I can describe these past eight years for me is like an increasingly dark and silent forest taking up more and more real estate in my mind and it is like I am lost in the forest all over again, only without Ana. You can’t see those who suffer around you because the trees you have planted have been fed so much and for so long that they now block your vision and any chance of light, any view of other people peering through the trees, is gone. You exist amongst the trees, but that’s all. Ana was in the same forest and I couldn’t see her this time.
There is a knock on my door. It’s Mum. She sees me sitting at the edge of my bed in a now-wrinkled suit. Without a word, Mum hugs me tightly as I finally start crying. Mum sees me through the trees. I can see Ana.
What Does it Take to Be a Pro Gamer?
Originally published: February 12th, 2019 on Honey's Anime website.
In a few words: Editorial covering how to make it in the e-sports industry.
What is going on with OSAP?
Originally published: March 25th, 2019 on The Centennial College Courier website and in print.
In a few words: Article reporting on recent changes to the Ontario Student Assistance Program and its impact on students.
