“I’ll back my car up” by Julia at her desk

Friday, May 11, 2018
9:31pm
5 minutes
Catching the Westbound
Corvin Thomas

It was a nice time to drive then
you behind the wheel and me out the window tracking waterfalls
(There, another, did you see that one? On your left. I said on your left!)
I suppose I wasn’t doing any of the driving
too much fear built up over the years, too many MVA and physio
You never wanted to ride shot-gun, and I don’t think it’s because
you liked the sound of me narrating the outdoors to you, the roadside, the clouds
You liked the finger feeding, the tiny snack bites of cheese and olive
You liked choosing the music
You liked letting me sleep
And it was a good time with a car that was ours for the first trip of our lives
It was good after that with the duct tape holding up the under side of the car
(I call it that to this day because neither of us know much about automobiles, or whatever they’re calling them these days. Human carriers? Life holders? Vessels of transformation and transport?)
But soon after you were screaming your frustration into the pillow
Geeva had died again on the Lion’s Gate Bridge.
And we mourned her then: her and her licence plate namesake

“A queen travels” by Julia in T’s car

Saturday, February 24, 2018

12:57am

5 minutes

Winter Watch

Jennifer Elise Foerster

A queen travels in the backseat of a Honda Civic. The front two seats have zebra print covers. The heat doesn’t work. She falls asleep with her neck jammed to the right. She is mushed up, her bones all squeaky.

A queen takes her shoes off because her socks are wet from the tiny hole in her boot. She spreads herself out when she thinks she’s earned it. After reminding herself how many conversations she attempted to start; how many thick silences she endured. At the border she smiles at the man on duty. She lets the others do the talking. She shakes her head from highway sleep.

“Hitchhiking” by Julia on Jessica’s couch

Monday January 1, 2018

10:38pm

5 minutes

Trek: A Publication of Alumni UBC

Have you ever hitchhiked? Have you ever held out your best thumb and thought, I might die trying to get myself from this roadside to, I don’t know, say, Philadelphia? I’ve never done it. I would be the kind of person who makes the other person nervous because I’d be so awkward. I also think I’m afraid of being kidnaped by the wrong person. The kind of person who’s been driving back and forth on dirt roads looking for the most naive person to steal. I used to think I could ask anyone for a ride. But then again you don’t hear too many stories about the bad-lucked girl who invited herself into a murderer’s pick up truck. I mean, you hear those stories, but by then it’s too late.

“He Was A Spy” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Tuesday January 21, 2014
10:32pm
5 minutes
Tweet from The New York Times

When he got the call, he wasn’t ready. “We’re here, Mr. Martinez.” He surveyed the table where Rosa used to stuff empanadas and where Ricky would do his math homework. Maria would be coming later that afternoon to pack the rest of the furniture and drive it to San Francisco in the morning. She’d come and see him that evening. He didn’t know if he’d be able to offer her tea, or beer. He shuffled to the front door and kissed the wall that had kept them warm for thirty six years. The driver rushed out to meet him. “I’m fine,” he said, resisting the help. “Mr. Martinez, we’re really looking forward to having you at Bridgewater. Your son has gotten your apartment all set up. I think, once you’re settled in, you’ll really like the community we have. There are lots of fascinating people…” He shot the driver a look that told him to shut up. As they drove away, he watched his green roof disappear. “Don’t small talk me,” he said, not looking to the left or right, keeping his eyes on the meridian, the yellow of his future.