The Maynard

spring 2014

Ariadne: the untangler Fiona Mitchell

No Small Effort Joseph Dorazio

Polishing d.n. simmers

For a Dead Friend JCCortens

Ballast in Bone Kevin Spenst

The Day The Rain Stopped Jane Mellor

I Invent a Character Before Lunch Steve Klepetar

We Are At Our Best When the Rain Ceases Falling on Hanover Richard-Yves Sitoski

The Ford Takes Us to Wreck Beach Melissa Sawatsky

In the South Chilcotins The Shell Rob Taylor

Author Biographies

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Fiona Mitchell

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Ariadne: the untangler

        part I: mazes and messes

She wakes up unsettled as if from a hangover
in the seagirt Dia.
She’s surrounded by the sound
of a lick-lapping grey sea.
Her neck sore
from sleeping strangely on a rock.
Finding her black-rimmed glasses
the scene before her becomes clear.

There is no one in sight,
        just indentations
                        in the sand
        of former boats.
Stuffed in her hand
the letter he wrote:

        Dear Ariadne—

        Something came up
        had to split.
        Thanks for
        the sword
        and the ball of thread.
        Hope your dad isn’t too pissed.
        I owe ya one.

        —T

She finds her boots,
shakes off the sand
and untangles her hair
trying to make it lovely again.
She gazes across Naxos,
fumbles in her pocket to find a lighter,
lights a joint.                        Well then, what now?

        part II: mouldy grapes

Ariadne can't find Artemis on the low-voltage neon dance floor.
        I guess she left
A shrug and a surge of encrusted endorphins.
It's overflowing tonight,
sweat’s dripping down her face as Daft Punk plays and the crowd
oscillates.
Ariadne's drenched in strobe lights and in hindsight,
finishes her over-priced, over-sweet whiskey sour.
Tonight she's trying not to worry about
the pregnancy test at the bottom of her purse
creating an avalanche against her focus.

She misses Theseus
wishes she could press her body against his
wishes she could softly unravel a curl of his hair.

She stays until last call
all alone on the dance floor she
holds her empty glass in one hand
and moves her other hand above her. Closes her eyes
hoping she'll find something
and not be stuck
in all this unclear in-between.

All our loneliness is an illusion.

The red and blue ceiling lights form a ring of stars.
Here, he, unmixed with wild pupils, finds her,
He finds her hips and grabs hold.

If his breath tastes like moldy grapes,
she wondered what his bed would smell like.
It's not really dancing at this point
just swaying.

Pouring out into the street together
even though it seems dark
the sky is filled with the light of a billion years.

Here she is named,
the challenger of mazes.

Her heart, desultory.

She tears him apart like hot, crusty bread.

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The Maynard
Spring 2014

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