Saraswati

EXT. MEADOW BY THE TRAIN TRACKS - MORNING 2019

Saraswati and her father, Evelyn, walk along the shoulder of an abandoned railroad. It is mid-spring, the trees are in bloom and pollen sifts in the dewed air.

                  EVELYN         ... in the simplest way, shooting

        stars, meteoroids exactly, just are         merely pieces cosmic dust floating         around the universe untouched.

                  SARASWATI         How can dust travel so fast?

                  EVELYN         Speed is relative, especially when you

        consider the immensity of the         universe. What's fast for you would         then be slow for an entire galaxy.

                  SARASWATI         So you're trying to tell me...

        shooting stars are just dust? Like the         stuff I find on my bookshelf?

Correct.

Prove it.

EVELYN

SARASWATI

                  EVELYN         I have a degree in astrophysics as

        well as astronomy. Need I say else?

                  SARASWATI              (laughs)

        So you believe in textbooks and the         stuff teachers say.

                  EVELYN         One way or another.

Father and daughter pause their trek as the path intercepts with the train tracks. Saraswati turns pale and falls into a concrete silence.

                  EVELYN         The meadow should be just across this

        track, if I am correct. What a

        beautiful day to be outside! Saraswati remains stiff in her place.

                  EVELYN         Saraswati? My fleur?

Evelyn takes a step towards her and takes Saraswati's hand.

                  EVELYN         What is it now my love?

Tears form on the side of Saraswati's face. Evelyn places his hand on her scarred cheek.

EXT. NIGHT - OUTSKIRTS OF CITY AND TRAIN TRACKS, KERALA INDIA (FLASHBACK SCENE) 2001

Saraswati, covered in dirt and coal-stained clothes, runs along the train tracks while men shout and chase behind her.

                  TRAFFICKER #1              (Spoken in Hindi)

        Stop! Stop if you - if you know what         is good - for you!

                  TRAFFICKER #2         Saraswati! Get back here this instant!

Saraswati turns point blank into a bush on the side of the road.

                  TRAFFICKER #1              (Angrily)

        Saraswati! You wretched fool!

The traffickers follow the girl into the bush and search relentlessly for her while she hides swiftly tucked behind a shrub. Saraswati holds her short breath while the men listen carefully for a sign of her presence.

One of the men swiftly identifies her from behind her peripheral vision and snatches her ankle, dragging her body in the dirt. Numerous wounds form on her cheek.

                  TRAFFICKER #2         This should teach you!

The man helps Saraswati to stability forcefully.

2.

                  TRAFFICKER #1              (Under his breath)

        Imbred demon.

Trafficker #2 holds Saraswati so that she is unable to move while the second man scolds her.

                  TRAFFICKER #1         So you really thought you could, ah?

        Run away without a word. Escape from         your home where we feed you! Cloth         you! Clean you! And this is how you         respect your guardians!

                  SARASWATI              (In between sobs)

        I'm sorry Baba Rajan. I really am. I         won't ever -

                  TRAFFICKER #1         Lies! Nothing but it!

The man, or otherwise Rajan, turns away to light a cigarette. He inhales long and thoroughly, remaining calm. It seems as his anger has subsides, and he flashes a sinister smile.

                  TRAFFICKER #1         I suppose it's time you repay us.

Rajan leans forward and puffs a cloud of smoke in to Saraswati's face. He then burns out the cigarette on Saraswati's arm.

Saraswati remains screaming. As one of the men reaches for her arm to enslave her, Saraswati manages to escape and runs towards the lights of the city nearby.

                  TRAFFICKER #1              (Yelling)

Saraswati!

As Saraswati reaches the outskirts of the city, she shelters behind a building, seemingly a restaurant, illuminated with it's evening lights. She peers secretively in the window and notices a woman playing a piano, smiling.

EXT. MEADOW BY THE TRAIN TRACKS - MORNING 2019 (CONTINUED)

                  EVELYN         Come on dear, take my hand. We'll be

        home briefly.

3.

Saraswati manages a subtle smile and takes her father's hand as they walk towards the home.

                  SARASWATI         I'm sorry... I just...

                  EVELYN         No need to apologize. I understand.

        Was it a trigger? Saraswati nods.

                  SARASWATI         A bad one too.

                  EVELYN         Ah, I see. Remember to breathe. Four

        beats per measure, remember?

                  SARASWATI              (After smiling)

        Of course I do. The pair walk through the shortcut to the way home. INT. HOME - DAY

Father and daughter enter the home. Making their way to the piano room, they place their coats on the chairs. Sunlight beams into the room and obscures each other's faces with shadows. Evelyn begins to play, soft and gracefully.

                  SARASWATI         Claire de Lune.

                  EVELYN         My favourite. So full of splendour.

        The embrace of each chord... it's         absolutely wonderful.

                  SARASWATI         It reminds me of childhood. Don't you

        remember when we used to play?                   EVELYN

Clearly.

                  SARASWATI         On the old, oakwood Stuart and Vivaldi

4.

        in the corner of the literature         section at the library?

                  EVELYN         Like it was yesterday!

                  SARASWATI         We would go on Sundays. Right after

        lunch. And after we'd stop by the         florist.

                  EVELYN              (Laughing)

        To think of all the money we spent on         orange Gerbera daisies.

Evelyn sighs contently. He looks at Saraswati with a sincere sort of admiration.

                  EVELYN         Piano, the wonder it was. It was

        because of it we had first bonded. You         were five years old, and a few weeks         after I had adopted you. There was         something about it you adored, like         you were...

                  SARASWATI              (In unison with Evelyn)

        Floating on clouds, where not a thing         could ever bother me.

                  EVELYN         Aha! That was the first complete

        sentence you ever spoke to me.

                  SARASWATI         I think, if I remember right, it was

        from an ancient Hindi poem my mother         used to read me.

Evelyn and Saraswati sit at the piano for hours as the morning drifts into the afternoon.

INT. HOME - NIGHT (FLASHBACK SCENE) 2002

A quiet distills the air as the household remains asleep. Shockingly, the scream of a child interrupts the silence, sending Evelyn into the hall, alarmed.

5.

                  EVELYN         Saraswati? Saraswati?

The screaming continues. Evelyn quickly goes to Saraswati's bedroom to find her curled in a fetal position, crying and punching herself on the side of her head.

                  EVELYN         Saraswati! It's okay! It's okay!

Unaware of what to do, Evelyn takes his daughter into his lap and strokes the side of her face.

                  EVELYN         It's okay, my love. Cry all the tears

        you need to. I will be here. It's         okay, it's going to be okay.

Saraswati continues to sob. Evelyn looks into her eyes thoroughly for a few moments.

                  EVELYN         How about we go play some piano, huh?

        Just a melody or two?

Evelyn's voice is reassuring and patient, comforting Saraswati as she gradually stops her crying.

Evelyn smiles as he stands and takes Saraswati into his arms, rubbing her back as they walk into the piano room.

                  EVELYN              (Humming and singing to 'Three              Little Birds' by Bob Marley)

        Don't worry... 'bout a thing... 'cause         every little thing's gonna be         alright...

Evelyn sits on the piano pedestal and places Saraswati unto his lap, relaxing her tired posture.

                  EVELYN         Breathe, slowly, in and out like this.

Evelyn exemplifies.

                  EVELYN         Almost like a song right? Four beats

        per measure. Inhale four notes,         breathe out four notes. Inhale four         notes, breathe out four notes. Almost

6.

like you're a metronome.

Saraswati starts to calm as she breathes to her father playing 'Claire de Lune' softly.

7.

Reflect but never forget to project, for there is no light quite like your own.

Aurora

For Hillary

October 11th, 1940, Belfountain, Ontario

“Careful now. Almost there. Easy steps, just a moment now!” Aurora says as she guides blindfolded Benjamin down the riverbank.

“Might I ask,” he says between lengthy breaths, trying his best not to fall upon the maze of rocks and twigs on the forest floor. “Just exactly - where is it - we are headed?”

“I’ve already told you. It’s a simply going to be surprise!”

“‘It’s simply going to be a surprise’, is not a place, if I am correct. Besides, it is nearly noon, shouldn’t we be -”

“Just hold my hand! I promise, it’s going to be beautiful.”

Beautiful. Benjamin stumbled with the word momentarily. Beauty had never been of value in this early life of his. At least it hadn’t just yet.

Aurora, left hand in Benjamin’s right, pauses where the trail met the water and sits him by the rocks.

“Tell me, dear, fearful Benjamin” She states rhetorically, with a hidden smile. “What is it you see.”

“How could I possibly see? You’ve put a blindfold on me!”

She laughs, a laugh that is so familiar to Benjamin he could practically see it with his eyes closed: her soft dimples meeting her cheekbones, her green eyes momentarily closing behind wrinkled eyelids.

“Listen to the birds’ symphony behind the trees. And the gentle lapsing of the water by the lakeside. Isn’t it just magnificent? Oh! The vivid colours of autumn never cease to astonish me. Like a grand cacophony of colour - reds, oranges, yellows - it’s a harmony of beauty! You’ve got to picture it in your mind as if it’s a painting, every avid detail in the bark on the trees, to the sounds in the distance, and the softness in the ground.” Aurora speaks with a fiery passion in her words, swinging her arms in the air, nearly falling into a patch of wildflowers. “You’ve got to be grateful for every aspect that makes the now beautiful before it turns into what was.”

For a moment the forest seemed to cease of all time, and all was quiet except for the rustling of Aurora’s oil paint set opening.

“Well. I can smell the odour of those oils of yours.” Benjamin comments. “But I am still unsure about what it is you’d like me to do. Could I take this blindfold off now?”

“It’s not about what you see. It’s about how you feel.” Aurora says, staring in to the sky. “Tell me. What does the world make you feel?”

Benjamin, confused, tried to colour a picture in his mind. “I - I don’t know. I can’t describe it.” “Let it come to you naturally. Art takes time. Patience.” Aurora begins to clean her paintbrushes, unfolds her easel steadily along the pebbles,

and places on it a fresh powdery canvas.

“Well, I think I see clouds, yes, lots of clouds. They’re floating between an extravagant blue sky. Sunlight is beaming right behind them, turning them into silhouettes, casting shadows on all the trees.” Benjamin says silently.

White paint accompanied with a touch of blue contrast on the side of Aurora’s palette. She mixes them into a subtle tone of blue and begins to fill delicate brushstrokes into the sky.

“Tell me more!” She exclaims, holding a paintbrush in one hand and her palette in the other.

“The trees, they stand so - imperfectly. They don’t need to flower to be pretty. They are just their authentic selves, with their withered bark and spanning branches. And the forest floor below them is a medley of autumn colours. It reminds me of childhood - on Sunday afternoons in the glen near our home, collecting leaves and arranging them by colour.” Benjamin pauses to smile. “It feels like home.”

Aurora’s brush paints the mahogany of tree trunks and their entwining roots into the surface of leaves on the ground. With each bristle she creates the brilliant texture in the withered brown bark on the branches and trunks, tracing each crevice, each knot. Below them, she contrasts a sea of orange, brown, and green to imitate the myriad of fallen leaves resting about the forest floor.

“The water is still as glass, reflecting the forest’s colours in a crisp manner. The air is calm, and the wind is soft. One by one, leaves fall slowly unto the surface of the water, like the trees are saying one last goodbye before winter.” Benjamin said, fluently this time.

Using his words as a guide, Aurora paints swiftly the mirrored reflection of the lake, softening the tones of blue as they interlace with the flaming colours of the trees. Squinting, she pencils in the hidden details in the ripples around the floating leaves, the established networks of roots and few birds dancing in the sky.

A silence.

“Benjamin, it’s beautiful.” She says, stepping a few steps back and marvelling what they had created. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“What is?” “What you’ve made.” “What I have made?” Aurora, distracted by the bewilderment of the painting, could not answer - she couldn’t

possibly formulate an answer for something as incredible as what stood before them. “I don’t quite understand.” Benjamin mutters. Aurora brushes his curly brown hair to the left, carefully removing the blue blindfold

from behind his freckled ears. He opens his eyes slowly, adjusting to the midday light.

December 4th, 1940, Toronto, Ontario

Aurora stares out the frosted window, searching for stars in the frigid winter night, but her peripheral vision can only obscure into spheres of colourful light - she cannot find any; for there are tears in her eyes.

In the shadows, Benjamin lies upon a bed of floral linen, unconscious of the world around him, the future that lies inevitably ahead.

Aurora places a chair by the bedside as she lights a lantern, carefully and silently placing it on a coffee table by the window, orienting it in just the right angle to illuminate Benjamin’s resting body with a glare of golden light.

So innocent, so fragile. she thinks. Like a teardrop in the sea.

Outside their home, just few minutes walk away, awaits a train. The next morning it will depart, destined for Nova Scotia. From there, a battalion of men will be escorted to ship aboard the S.S. Warspite, accompanied by the British forces, expected to arrive in Norway in two weeks time. Miles and miles, an entire continent and one ocean away, Benjamin sleeps with a ticket in his left coat pocket, with the words UNION STATION: HALIFAX WED DEC 5TH 1940. ONE WAY inscribed in gold lettering.

Despite the momentary squeaks in the wooden floorboards, Aurora keeps quiet enough to walk across the room without disturbing Benjamin’s slumber. On the desk, she ruffles about a clutter of unfinished sketches and pencils, looking for a paintbrush and some water-colours. In the corner of her teary eyes, where the lantern’s light is barely able to reach, she spots a pile of folded clothing in a recognizable forest green. She sighs as she holds a red beret to her heart, letting a tear fall down the bridge of her nose, around her cheekbones and onto the wooden floor.

In the hallway, an array of Aurora’s finished works line tidily along the walls. Arranged in chronological order, they appear from oldest near the entrance, transforming gradually into more recent paintings as one nears the room. She walks to them, placing her hand softly on their elegant silver frames, one by one. Winter, a landscape painting of silver birch trees on a snow covered pasture, catches her eye. She smiles, remembering that day clearly; the refreshening cold in the breeze, the crisp blue of the sky. Solstice, a composition of green and yellow watercolours creating a halcyon evening in Summer by the ocean of Prince Edward Island, stuns her with a sudden nostalgia - a strong sense of belonging to shelter in the safety of the past.

As she reaches the end of the hall, reliving her life’s timeless captures stored safely in frames, she notices a vacancy - a space left unoccupied by the maroon painted walls. Just enough room for one more painting, she thinks.

December 5th, 1940, Union Station, Toronto, Ontario

“It won’t be so long.” Benjamin says, his voice crystallizing into icy air. “I promise.”

The train station is rather busy for a Wednesday morning. Crowds of maroon, navy and brown coats scatter busily about the platform. Mothers kiss the blushing cheeks of well-groomed young men in military uniforms, babies bundled in wool-knit blankets cry, doves fly unnoticed above the scene. For many of these people, it would be the last time they would see their brothers, sons and friends again, becoming lost somewhere overseas.

Aurora plays with Benjamin’s yellow scarf, tying it and untying it again. She cannot bare to look in his eyes as static nerves fill her blood.

“Are you afraid?” Benjamin asks. “Afraid of what?” Aurora says, this time staring at the ground. “That I won’t come back.” “I am afraid,” Aurora says, battling her tears, “That you will come back different.”

Benjamin chuckles. “I used to tell my mother as a child time ago, during this time of year, Ma, what has happened to our garden? The flowers are gone. It used to be so pretty. And she would smile and say, Benjamin, the garden you see now is just as pretty as the garden you have seen in summer. It will be the same garden next year too, when the flowers finally bloom again.”

Aurora manages a subtle smile, cascading into a mixture of happy and solemn tears. They embrace tightly, Benjamin resting his cheek on Auroras neck, arms in arms, heart by heart.

The station’s timekeeper exclaims 8 o’clock with a few single notes of a bell: fifteen minutes until departure. Men gather there belongings and wave off their accompanies, some with distraught faces as cold as the day, some are brightened as they chase a new horizon into another world.

Aurora shuffles in her backpack, bringing out a rectangular package tied with string and a bow. “Merry Christmas Benjamin!” She says, finding the last of her joy, hidden somewhere inside her. “Don’t open it until the morning of the 25th, okay? Or else.”

“Or else what?” Benjamin says with a smirk.

“Or I’ll - I’ll, wear your favourite sweater while drinking a cup of coffee. You know just about how obnoxious I am, especially with coffee, don’t you? Spilling it everywhere. It’d be a shame I got it on your tidy white sweater.”

“Okay, okay, you got me. I just hope it’s not those terrible blue socks you’d got me last year. They make my feet smell.”

Aurora laughs, the same bright laugh he had known all his life. I won’t ever forget that smile. He thinks, stencilling the outline of her lips as if his memory were a sketchbook.

Aurora coughs, straightening her posture. “Now, you better be off now you.”

Benjamin looks down. “One more thing.” He reaches in his left pocket, taking out a compact box containing a candle in it. He hands it to Aurora.

The entire station, rustling with madness and shouts, simply becomes white noise. “Promise me” Benjamin starts, “that you’ll be my light.” He makes his way, disappearing into the crowd before the train. Aurora stands still,

trying to relocate him with her wandering eyes, finally finding his head appear inside a square window, their eyes meeting once again.

“I promise.” Aurora says, as the train slowly begins on it’s route. -

December 24th, 1940, Northeastern Norway

The moonrise casts a silver incandescence onto the adjacent sides of the arrays of Nordic mountains, turning the snow into thousands of individual lanterns reflecting the sea of starry sky above. Besides the occasional rabbit scurrying by and the odd sparrow in the afternoon sky, Benjamin is alone, not a soul in the nearest proximity to speak to, not a sign of life. All that lingers in the air is a frozen solitude, and the silent whispers of the ghosts lost in the Arctic ice.

In the distance a village burns. Benjamin lies, half immobilized by the frost and a wounded arm, in a small patch of fir trees miles away from the attack. The Soviet forces had

withstood that of the British, occupying the town and sending it into a bright flame. The troops, at least the last he knew of them, had either perished in the fire or had fled south towards the ship. He himself had hardly made it out the grim scene; angry fire igniting every forefront, thousands of untamed bullets flying in the air around him and helpless screams - voices that could have easily been his. He had managed to flee from the crossfire with the grace of the north star above him, following it until there wasn’t a threat in sight. Sheltered under the hospitality of a dozen Christmas trees, he lies, unsure he will survive this night alone.

In his side-pack there is just enough room for the small boxed gift Aurora had gave him the morning he had left. Though its package had been ruined by the snow and smeared with his own blood, the contents remain intact enough to survive the wintry cold.

Behind a paralyzed face and despite all he had witnessed, Benjamin tries to smile. He opens the present, stumbling with his numb fingers.

I’m sorry Aurora. He thinks. He hasn’t the energy to speak, not even to himself. I said I would hold it to the morning of the twenty fifth, but I’m not sure I can... survive, that is. It is Christmas after all. I truly hope it has been wonderful for you and your family this year.

After multiple attempts, Benjamin is able to open the wooden box. Inside it, not to his surprise, reveals a rich collection of watercolours, three paintbrushes and one canvas - a complete professional grade watercolour set. Attached to it with string is an envelope, signed elegantly in cursive: Benjamin, Love Aurora.

He tries to comprehend exactly what it was Aurora wanted to with a watercolour set while at war in the arctic. Yet he knew that Aurora had a mysterious ways of surprising him, especially with the most amazing gift of all - happiness.

Excitedly, he opens the envelope, anxious to read what is written inside.

Dear Benjamin,

I suppose that you are reading this on the morning of December 25th, like you had said you would. I also hope that Christmas in the mountains (How incredibly jealous I am of you! Painting in the arctic should be astonishing!) is full of joy and bliss. I will miss you unconditionally. Not that I can’t get by on my own, you know I am one hell of a woman, but your presence will dearly missed.

Use this watercolour set. I won’t say how, or why, definitely not what you should use it for. Just use it. Trust me.

And make sure to go to bed on time. 8:30.

Love, Aurora

Like a lantern filling a room with a burst of golden light, inside Benjamin ignites a feeling, a feeling that could illuminate the entire dark world around him with a spark of hope.

December 24th, 1940, Toronto, Ontario

A lavender scented candle in the corner of the room is just enough of a light-source for Aurora to paint in. First, she outlines the profile of his face with a 2B pencil, making sure each

crevice, each flaw is accounted for - his uneven jawline and the blemishes around his left cheek just under his eye. She wants to paint him raw; entirely, unconditionally authentic.

But she cannot contain it all; the worries, the sadness. Aurora had found herself in Benjamin, unknowingly, her entire life, and now he is thousands of miles away, across the world. Her hand trembles with desperation, causing her to knock the canvas from it’s easel, sending paint jars crashing on the floor. She collapses into the oily mess, pulling the ends of her hair off her scalp, slamming the hardwood floor with her knuckles. Placing her nose on the floor, she cries the rest of her tears. She screams, but no one can hear. It is only her now, alone.

In the darkness of the small room, the candlelight steadily continues its flame. It casts shaking shadows across the right side of the room, painting the rest with a delicate gold coating.

“I will be your light.” Aurora says, and then quietly falls to sleep. December 27th, 1940, Northeastern Norway

I wonder where it is you might be right now, Benjamin thinks, facing westward towards the stars.

A trail of footprints follows his lonesome shadow, traveling into the horizon of an open field of arctic tundra. For all he can see, there are no mountains, no fjords or trees; just a vastness of crystal blue.

For days Benjamin has been walking, with no concrete direction in mind, searching for hope, somewhere beyond the snow and ice. But his exhaustion has worn him down, turning his legs into icicles taking in the wind and shattering onto the floor with a sharp numbness. The entire left side of his face, the beautiful features that Aurora had learned to adore, had fell into a frostbitten sleep, his skin degrading as the night gets colder.

This would be a nice place to die, he thinks, under all these stars.

Benjamin lies in the snow as a myriad of snowflakes slowly dance in the air, landing on his sore body, burying him gradually in a soft coat of death.

Like a delicate paintbrush filling in the sky, a vivid stroke of green appears between the stars. It continues its luminous streak from one horizon to another, as if the cosmos had become one harmonious masquerade, dancing, shimmering as the night lingers on. Then, with a bright entrance, a dash of purple intertwines with the green, spinning into a blend of astonishing light.

Despite the resistance of the icy cold mending his eyelashes into crystals, Benjamin opens them, watching the beauty unfold itself out before him.

June 8th, 1968, Tobermory, Ontario

The doorbell rings.

Aurora is in the living room, setting a few mugs neatly on the doily that envelopes her cedar wood table. She is startled by the suddenness of the company, as they weren’t to be expected until three. It is only noon.

She takes a breath to calm her nerves and bites her smiling lip. The doorbell rings once again.

Stepping onto the threshold, she rehearses the lines in her scattered mind.

Hello there, old friend. How nice it is to see you. Come, come inside! Would that be coffee or tea?

She opens the door with a shaking wrist, letting the golden sunshine rush into the house, unto the walls and of course, illuminating a visible path for her personal exhibit of finished artworks decorating the entirety of the hallway.

Outside, a man in navy corduroy overalls sits in a wheelchair, half smiling.

“Miss Aurora! A delight. How long has it been? Not that it should matter. I’ve missed you ever since!”

“Sir Benjamin,” she pirouettes as if greeting a King or a Princess. “How do you do?”

The reunited couple laugh in unison, the laugh they had been waiting to let out of their lungs for almost three long decades.

Almost as if it was yesterday we were in the train station, Benjamin thinks as he marvels Aurora’s glistening smile, dimple to dimple.

“Come inside now you! This coffee has only been waiting twenty eight years.” She helps him in the door and walks him down the corridor of paintings. Together they sit in the living room by the vast windows that exhibit Aurora’s lush, vibrant garden, letting the afternoon sun kiss their aged skin.

“Those peonies, they truly are beautiful. I tried to plant them last year, except it is quite challenging to maintain a garden while in a wheelchair. Although, I would love to learn from your expertise.” Benjamin says, taking a bite of lemon loaf.

Aurora pauses before speaking. “Beautiful. I have never, not once in all of our endeavours, heard you use that word.” She cannot help but laugh.

Benjamin happily sighs, as if he knew she would ask this question all along. “I owe it to you. You’ve taught me a thing or too about that word.” He says. “Have I?” “You indeed have. You know, it hasn’t been easy, living like this.”

“It mustn’t be.”

“And after all these years, I’ve come to realize I wouldn’t change a single thing. Not about going to war. Not anything about this life of mine.”

For a moment, the house is quiet, except for a few birds singing in the trees.

“And it’s because of you, Aurora. You’ve taught me a way to see the beautiful things, even amidst the terrible.” Benjamin starts again. “I’ve kept you close to me throughout all these years. That’s why I’m here today. It’s why I’ve become an artist.”

Aurora begins to cry joyfully. Both their hands interlock naturally, like roots of a tree entwining into the ground.

“Here,” Benjamin says as he pulls a rectangular canvas from his side-pack. “I want you to have this.” He shows her a painting, blossoming with green and purple, imitating a galaxy of stars over an arctic tundra scene. It is a watercolour painting of the Aurora Borealis.

In the corner signs: To Aurora, Love Benjamin in a penciled cursive. Aurora smiles. “I know just the place for it.” she says.

Hidden Secrets of The Clouds and the Art of Observation

Somewhere about the cusp of earth they loom, entwining with the ancient blue. They tumble and sift and drift until their wanderings meet with the finite horizon, transcending into gradients of pink and yellow; into the atmosphere of new skies. Mystic, and full of splendour they are, often it’s wonder is lost seamlessly by the inhabitants of below. Momentary glances are paid but fall behind the illusional worth of society. Get your head out of the clouds! They’re  nothing but balls of condensed water! Yet I couldn’t help but marvel them of all their glory. I spent hours sitting by the bedroom window sketching the outlines of their ever changing silhouettes. I stood in the frigid cold photographing their effortless beauty. The way they loomed in yellow morning skies. I could only embrace the mysterious and cunning awe of their presence. Perhaps their aimless roaming can teach us a thing or two about the trajectory of our lives. Could their boundless travels be a testament to the perception of our limits? The effortless ways these beautiful giants glide, above

Stories from a Book  Store

With the last remnants of scattered memory from which I can recall, it was raining. Yet it wasn’t fully overcast, the quiet June morning remained in a sort of calm. The weather was, less than optimal of course, but more than bearable, even a bit delightful. I watched the raindrops trail slowly down the surface of the car window, and behind them the shops and houses of desolate country towns briefly appearing as we continued down the two lane highway. Book store. Book store. Please, let there be a book store. To quiet the complaints of my mother’s complaining, I rested my head on the window. That was the day I learned one should recirculate their bladder before you leave on a few hours drive to the greater area of absolutely nowhere. Trees, old fences and storm clouds entwined with the comforting sounds of piano I played through the aux chord. I remember feeling like Monet during his time in Argenteuil, painting the French countryside en plain air. I had nearly fallen asleep before I saw the sign. Flesherton. Population: few. There was a few victorian houses to the left. On the right, a cafe with an eccentric, and rather large sign of a bicycle took me aback. Although I do credit the marketer’s attention tactic, the distraction had almost cost me one of the most beautiful moments I would ever experience. Tucked next to the cafe stood a book store. I begged my mother to stop the car. “Are you kidding! I have to pee!” She said with an attitude I surely didn’t blame her for. “It’s only every once in a while you find a used book store in the middle of nowhere. Besides, I’m looking for a new read. Please?” I objected. She sighed without a word and took out her credit card. “Five minutes.” I smiled and took the card, guilty of course. I would have charged her of five painful minutes she would never get back and of her money. Five minutes isn’t nearly enough time to find a book. Nevertheless, a good one either, I thought as I scurried of the car and into the rain. I opened the door to the store I would later know by the name of ‘Speaking Volumes’. Inside appeared a man behind desk, organizing and labeling book by book and arranging them into rather unstable piles. “Hello.” I said, so quiet he could barely hear me. “I’m just going to browse for a bit.” He smiled, a kind of reassuring smile, like we were fellow members of a mutual community of readers and not the kind of smile a stranger would flash. Almost as if he understood me upon first glance. “Of course!” He said, taking off his glasses and standing. “Let me give you a tour.” I did the math in my head. How long would a tour of a used book store take? Three minutes? I’d already used about twenty three seconds. Four minutes and thirty seven seconds left. Based on my estimate, I would have one minute and thirty seconds to browse the collection. And how long to pay? A minute? Ma wouldn’t mind if I was a few minutes over her quota, would she? I wanted to google how many minutes until a human bladder would reach maximum capacity, but I had left my phone in the car. The place was relatively small, but comfortingly intimate. Arrays of wooden bookshelves occupied nearly every available space, the corners and walls were hidden behind years worth collection of literature. It looked like a messy closet, ordered only by chaos, a beautiful disaster. “Here you’ll find the History section. Over there’s literary criticism. We’ve got some non-fiction over here, organized by subtopics like horticulture and astronomy.” He spoke as if he had been guide of this own little world for generations, like he was familiar with every crevice and read every word of each book multiple times, yet never tired of it once. I admired his enthusiasm. “And here, by the window, is fiction. I’ll let you search for the rest. Enjoy!” I nodded, smiling. I hope it was an adequately affectionate nod. I wouldn’t have wanted him to feel that I was any less than appreciative of his kindness. It anticipated the silence between us would be awkward as I searched for a book, but strangely enough, I felt secure in the quiet, as if my thoughts were welcome and free to roam. I decided to The pressure of time certainly did not help in my search. I paid no more than a fraction of a second to each of the books in the fiction section, despite the phrase chanting again and again in my head; Don’t judge a book by it’s cover! I couldn’t help but become lost. I loved the way the colours of each of the spines intertwined as they stacked upon each other. The many worlds explored in each page. The stories I would never hear, and the ones I would remember forever. Here, in this little book store, I realized that time ceased to exist. I realized I could be anyone, do anything and go anywhere. I was mesmerized entirely. Any one of the hundreds of books that surround me have the power and potential to change my life.   And so with a little bit of luck, I happened upon it. Upon first impression, I adored the title. The Sea, by… I looked closer to find the author… John Banville. Interesting. Carefully, I took the book out of it’s pile, wary of it’s wobbly stance toppling. The cover. Oh the cover! I had never fell in love so instantaneously with a piece of art before. Unexplainably beautiful, the book displayed a canvas painting of a coastal scene in sandy reds and taupe greens, reminiscent of it’s title. I flipped it to it’s back to find a brief synopsis. … recent widower… summer on the Irish coast… the power of memory… or something like that; it’s challenging to read whilst on a timely budget. I had fallen in love with the impression of that book. Now, looking back on this day, I’m incredibly surprised my mother had not, you know, caused an accident. Guiltily, I laugh when I do. It must have been fifteen minutes before I again became conscious of the time (which I could not monitor, due to my phone’s momentary absence). She was angry, and credibly so. So I took the novel to the clerk, who smiled his friendly smile once again. “Just this today.” I said, returning a smirk. He brought the book into his hands, flipping it to its first page where a penciled mark of $8.00 was written in the top right corner. “Eight dollars please.” He said accordingly. I froze. My heart nearly stopped. Everything went quiet. Do used book stores generally take debit? Due to my shyness, a began to shake. What if the store only takes cash? Would I then have to feel the wrath of impatience from both my mother and the book store clerk? Or was I simply irrational? Almost every store in the contemporary retail world should have at lease have debit machine. “I… uh… I only have debit. Would that be okay?”

A Poem for Emily

They blossom of you,

Behind your ears and below your cheeks.

Blue petals on green sepals, 

Decorating your hips, crowning your feet.

I wish that I could tell you.

I truly hope that you know.

The subtleties you bear,

The beauty that you grow.

Let The Moon Carry This Message

By Jackson Corzato

This piece was inspired by someone incredible in my life. I don’t get to see her very often, yet it feels as though her presence stands by me everyday, throughout every peril. This story is a subtle reminder that the special people in our lives are closer than you could ever think, only if you are willing to find them in the world around you. That is a promise. Cherish the sentiments they give, as well as every moment, for life is ephemeral, but love is eternal.    

Thank you Hillary, this story is for you. <3

For a moment, the universe was calm, For all eyes could see. The stars danced with brightness, In an ever-glowing glee.

  Then, the sun appeared beyond the dark Illuminating her golden light. For some it became morning, And others it was night.

Underneath a dusk-ridden sky, Past the fields, beyond the lea. Hymnal took his blue painted boat, And sailed gracefully into the sea.

Between the monstrous mountains tall, In the stillness of the night. Autumn stood upon a pinnacle, Above a beautiful sight. Shimmering yellow, blue and red. The clouds floated on by. Yet Hymnal hung his head, He just didn't know why.

The landscape was profound, It never ceased to stun. Yet Autumn began to cry, For she missed someone.

I remember, Hymnal pondered, Your eyes, they were green. How, it has been so long, Since the last time we have seen!

I remember, Autumn thought, Your shining, wonderful smile. I wish I could see it again, For it sure has been a while.

We used to explore Just to smell the flowers. And climb the limbs of giant trees Dancing all night in rain showers.

  We would run across, The yellow beaches where we’d play. Painting pretty pictures, Singing the day away.

We made a piano song, I played as you wrote. So beautiful it was, I can remember every note.

I wrote you a letter, Just before we said goodbye. The sun and the moon belong, As do you and I.

In the flash of a moment, The ocean did glisten. Hymnal sent out a message, And hoped someone would listen.

Out in the distance, A voice had called. Autumn opened her heart, Receiving it, enthralled.

Wherever it is you are, However you might be. Let the moon carry this message, Sincerely, from me.

So every morning, When the sun does loom. Let it be a reminder That my love shines for you.

Whatever you do, With whomever you might go, Let me receive your message, Ever happily so.

So every night, When the clouds gently weep. Let my voice sing to you, Contently to sleep.

With one last beam of red, The sun kissed Hymnal goodnight. The stars and moon reflected upon the ocean, Like everlasting light.

Softly, with the dusk, He drifted into reverie. For he knew that she was here, Wherever he might be.

It illuminated upon the mountains, How yellow was the sky! The meadows and the valleys, Harmonized in a morning cry.

The dawn had blossomed, As Autumn sighed. For she knew she was not alone, When she closed her eyes.

These Moments That Are Lost

by Jackson Corzato

It was the day after summer solstice. We - my Dad and I - drove our car along the backroads of the place I call home. The world seemed to only consist of us and the trees I saw out the window, blurred like a smudge of green paint. The majority of the sky embodied families of sleepy off-white clouds. Hope blinked in second long frames between the blue breaks in the sky. How I wished I could carelessly take with the wind as they do. My father and I did not talk, not very much at least, our quiet presence together was enough to content our silence, the beauty we passed were enough words for the both of us. There was an aura of interconnection that I felt - me, my father, the sky, the meadows, the wildflowers, the vanishing road underneath our feet - we were all woven in to what seemed a singular watercolour painting, healing tones of yellow, green and grey. This was the composition of a moment, the moments of now, evanescing into memories of once before. I did not know then what would become of this errand, that the motions in front of my eyes would soon be published and framed for the wall of our happy past. It was only a concern of the unbeknownst ahead of me, quickly and anxiously challenging the welcoming horizon of these lonely roads. But was I to blame for my own ignorance? Possibly, if only holding the acquisition to myself. To another, it would be an inadequate use of valuable time. There were many matters, or distractions as I call them, to be attended to. Why immerse myself in the briefly mortal magnificence of now? I could be on Instagram, or better, working for the benefit of nothing. I found it fulfilling to love the present. So here I rest my chin on the window, feeling the air kiss upon my hair and massaging my under-cheeks. I see the afternoon light cast gold against each adjacent side of dancing grass. The wind awakes, and the ancient willow trees sway their tired arms in the soft white sky. I wondered how many cars they watch go by this road without acknowledging their friendly greetings, driving off into the bend of forest, like a moment, or candidate for a memory, lost in time. I tell Dad to stop on the shoulder for a minute at least, after all, willow trees are his favourite trees. Their gentle leaves brush the top of the car, I watch their soft embrace amongst us out the sun-roof. I slowly step out, with my camera of course, below the mighty presence of a sombre and elegant willow tree. The air is an angelic cool, not much more than I could ask of a mid-June day. I took a slow breath, the nostalgia of summers long ago invested in my lungs. I do not like summer, not at all, but these waves of foreign memory remind me of sweet honey’s after-taste in my throat and the sound of talking wind chimes - the little bits of happiness I cherished as a child. Will I ever be nostalgic for this very moment, the one I am living now? I believe I will. Dad tells me to look up. The willows divide the sun’s glory in to individual beams of dust and yellow, their shadows paint my face. I stand in the grass and think: One day I will die. These elder trees rooted in years of wisdom will watch the world go on; I will simply become ash, biodegrade in to the nutrients of future. Where will all the memories go when I am gone? The trees don’t answer, but I suspect they must be listening. Their stance, their patience, such genuine beings they are. I touch an outreached palm as if thanking it for it’s time. Time. I realized that this marvel of nature was once a seed. Everything was once a seed. The beckoning brings a smile to my still lips. This moment is a seed. The sense of time I experienced here, on this grassy side of the road, felt an eternity, a thousand years at least, although it was only about a minute at most. Such oddity, the beauty of these moments. It was then the tide of immortality rose, I could feel it’s presence, and as if out of devastation I would get my ankles wet in the cold water, I took my camera out. It was the only solution to keeping this moment forever, in the form of a bound-to-be lost photograph, if nothing else. Within the lens I followed the quaint old fence, knit among the inconsistency of the green glen, making its way around the willow trees. I took a few pictures, but none to the beautiful extent of my still memory. I am now living in the moment that lies between thousands of old photographs on the bookshelf in my room, collecting dust, until I come upon it in twenty years time. Saying these words - thinking these words - created a feeling I would remember, a feeling I would lust for in days of sadness. This intimate connection between me and memory would enact as a light of belief, belief that there are so many beautiful moments yet to be harboured. So with a last goodbye, I opened the door into what would become, leaving what was. As I locked my seatbelt I pretended I was locking this day into my heart forever. My father slowly drove back on to the empty road, there was no one else to be seen except ghosts of moments that were lost. As if nothing ever happened, we went on about the road. Dad hadn’t noticed my brief intimacy with memory, was it even possible that he could have? I was the only person in the entirety of the world who had experienced that very moment. Just me, my camera, and the willow trees of June. I watched everything go by. We were supposedly going home, but I have found home in so many more places than our brick house with marble countertops and white rectangle doors. I used to have memories of a home, different then the one we live in now. They were all lost after the renovations. The cracked paint among the windowsills where I used to put vases of flowers vanished into a synthetic glass room where the TV now stood. My favourite painting of the abandoned field with wildflowers freckled across the grass was put away, somewhere that we knew that we wouldn’t remember, for another wall of overcast grey. These, and countless other happy memories, were lost some place among the rubble. How could I even begin another reign of memories? Another life of beautiful moments? The thought took the slight motivation to my immerse myself in the given present out of my heart. I had to live in the broken past. I imagined what the road ahead of us would look like in autumn or winter. I wished away all bliss of the actual present, my heart was absent. I never really liked summer anyways. I noticed a white flower making it’s way about the cracked concrete of a driveway. Soon, it would become simply a lost memory. I would forget about it, it would bloom, and then it will die. What significance would it be to me? I try to remember all the memories I have lost. How I miss their grace. The fragile beauty of what was, what might not ever be again. The next morning I awoke to a specific sort of feeling, an incredible one. The rain made a tap dancing sound on the window and roof, while the birds were happily conversing about the miracle of weather. I was, happy, or content maybe, to simply close my eyes and listen to the song of morning. On most days of grey such as thus, it would be near impossible to smuggle any bit of light, the weeping clouds had took that away from me. But today, or yesterday, or the Saturday of June 23rd I might call it, was a different day. In withering light of dawn I remembered the memories of the day before, the delicate brush of green willow against the car, the minimal hints of bright blue in the skies behind landscapes of sleeping field, the awe of silence me and my father shared. I would not - I could not - let another yesterday evanesce in to a place of disrememberance. These are the moments that too often are lost. In a place I would never search for again, a place I would not find. And so I sat down, and began to write.