by Chad Pelley
Marcel, a sensitive sniper, knew his life was missing something. But he didn't know what until he set his crosshairs on it: Violet Caine. A ginger-headed lover of Thai food, wanted dead simply because her brother messed with the wrong bike gang. It's a story of redemption coming too late, and the ways happenstance can turn a warm man cold. Then warm again. Whether fate wrote his troubled life, or he wrote it himself, he wants Violet Caine to be the end of it - be it figuratively or literally.
HER HAIR WAS THE colour of sunshine hitting pennies. There was a sheen. He’d been moving in, closer and closer, and saw it in detail: how it looped five times, in lush copper curls, before resting on her collarbones. They were violent collarbones, the kind you’d see on an anorexic, poking up through her skin like they might tear it. But her hair was the striking detail, because it was different than it was in the photo he was given; in the photo, it was jet black and shorter. Watching her through his scope, he zoomed in to her freckles to confirm she was a natural ginger. The freckles were as big and wildly cast as cookie crumbs, and he imagined each had its own topography. He imagined that a lover could map a constellation of her face, and the thought felt obsessive and strange, and he wondered if that’s what love was—strange affection—or if there was something aberrant about his thoughts.
Everyone else had cooking classes or book clubs or children with their own schedules to memorize. Everyone else at least had a cat or a weird hobby that gave their lives meaning. There was one guy in Sackville who had a train set in his basement, and he’d watch the thing spin around ‘til his eyes went dizzy. Violet didn’t even knit or have a Facebook account or play Solitaire. Throughout his career, Marcel had noticed that people as lonely as Violet tended to find company at church. God’s invisible companionship had worked for one old man he’d killed in Halifax in 2007.
Seven years now, he’s been a hit man. Bang bang. Nothing to it. He puts a single bullet into the hearts of his targets, to allow their families an open-casket wake. They’re perfect strangers, these people, and they deserve that measure of respect. He lost sleep over his first few victims; he stalked their families to be sure they could carry on without their loved ones. Mostly, they could. Except for the good mothers. They loved beyond the anatomical breadth and bounds of their own big red hearts. There’d been one woman in Saskatchewan. She’d gone grey before her son’s wake. Marcel couldn’t believe it, looked twice and a third time, squinted his eyes. He hung back in the crowd, staring at her hair as she wept on her daughter’s pudgy shoulders. The woman’s hair had gone from pavement black to sidewalk grey in three days.
But he knows, first-hand, how resilient people can be in the face of lost loved ones. He was a teenager when his own mother and sister died in a subway mugging gone wrong. There was a tug on his mother’s purse, they all turned around, and there were three gunshots. They sounded like the cracks he’d hear at the batting cage downtown, except these rumbled like earthquakes in the subway, and they slowed time way down. And he swears to this day that he saw his sister’s soul leave her body. It was nothing ghostly; it was like something gaseous distorting his vision, temporarily, as if he was looking through a Ziploc bag. Then, poof. Gone. Hers was the headshot, presumably a mistake, a stray bullet. His mother took two in the chest, and her lungs fought like hell but failed. It looked like she was drowning on dry land: gasping and gurgling for air, swimming around on the pavement. Marcel remembers crying so hard that the people walking by looked like they were on the other side of a kaleidoscope. They were dropping their jaws and coffees, and gulping air and staring at this helpless, heartbroken little boy, covered in his mother’s blood. He remembers one shocked-white stranger hugging him and rocking back and forth with him on the dirty ground. Cigarette butts and worse clinging to their hands and clothes. She was getting red blood all over her white Lawton’s Pharmacy work shirt just to comfort this kid because the scene broke her heart too. That kind of human kindness haunts him whenever he points his gun at a person. He always thinks, What if the person he’s taking aim at is that nameless woman from the subway? or, What if she was going to be that woman for some other kid?
THE MAN WHO’D HIRED Marcel to shoot Violet was some kind of biker-gang guy. And the prick was pushy, impatient. He had an unkempt and asymmetrical moustache—it drooped past the lower lip on the left but not the right, like a tipped bow tie—so Marcel didn’t take him seriously.
“Do it yet?”
“I told you, twice, that talking on phones makes me paranoid. I know I did.”
“Too bad. Fifty grand is too much money to trust someone with.”
“How’d you get this number?”
“Same way I get whatever I want, like that bitch dead. I’m watching you. I’d do it myself, but we’re under police surveillance lately, twenty-four seven. All week long.”
“I have a method. I’ve got to stalk these people before I do what I do. Learn habits, scan neighbourhoods for bored little kids, nosy old neighbours—”
“You’ve got five days. The idea is you kill her before she grows old and dies of natural causes.”
about the author
CHAD PELLEY is an award-winning author, songwriter, and photographer from St. John’s. His debut novel, Away from Everywhere, was a Coles bestseller, was recognized by three awards, has been adopted by university courses, and a film adaptation is underway. His second novel, Every Little Thing, was released in March 2013. His short fiction has been published in journals, textbooks, anthologies, and recognized by several awards. Chad is the founder of Salty Ink and President of the Writers Alliance of Newfoundland & Labrador.<
from the library
If You Waited Here, You Would
See Almost Everything
by Danny Goodman
After Ray collapses on the sidewalk outside a New York coffee shop, the bittersweet vagaries of his long marriage come into focus, one heartbeat at a time. From his new vantage point, flat on his back, all their conflicts are laid out against a canvas of sky, contrasting miscommunications and infidelities against something slower, steadier, and ultimately much vaster than he ever realized.
A man in the throes of a breakup is selling all of his possessions on Kijiji and Craigslist. Greg’s couch, his VHS tapes, obsolete desktop computer, and cow-shaped clock – it all must go. Between pot smoking, pizza eating, and watching Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope, he meets with would-be buyers, taking his old life apart piece by discount piece in order to figure out what went wrong.
Romance is candlelight on cheekbones, blurring gazes and the press of heels on strange sheets. But what happens a year later? You’re sharing bath towels and bickering over who forgot to buy a light bulb. There is beauty in a familiar hand on the nape of your neck. There is love in waking up under a shared blanket. This story is about the romance of domesticity.
“Kirsty is one of the best and brightest . . . when I read her stuff I feel like I could taste it, chew it, roll it around on my tongue, the language is so delicious and sturdy and musical. She also has a knack for getting relationships exactly right in her writing, whether between parent and child or lovers or friends.”
— Amber Sparks, Fiction Editor at Emprise Review
Having lived a long, eventful life, Charlie Weinheimer’s only regret is that he has no one to carry on after him. After a near-death experience, he resolves to find out whether a secret buried in his past is proof he has a legacy after all.
“Margoshes gives us the life of Charlie Weinheimer: quadruple bypass patient, widower whose children all die tragically young, but not a whiner. In his hospital bed at age seventy-seven, he’s seen it all, right? Well, maybe not. Watch as Margoshes calls upon his raconteur skills to thicken the plot.”
— David Carpenter, winner of the 2010 Saskatchewan Book Award for A Hunter’s Confession
An imaginative and resonant work of speculative literature from ReLit Award-winning author Darren Greer. Twin brothers, born on an oppressive family farm, discover a miraculous way to escape the dreariness of their lives, charting a course that promises equal measures of wonder and heartbreak.
Health care workers on a night out unwind, allowing the anxieties and passions they've had to suppress on the job finally uncoil, like tendrils creeping out into the world - and into each other. Written with empathy and panache, this story is a portrait of briefly flaring humanity - of people granted a temporary reprieve from professionalism, and not quite knowing what to do with it.
“At the Bar is Rosenblum at her best - exploring the complicated nature of work and relationships with her trademark perceptiveness, humour, and compassion, and creating characters that will stay with you long after the story is over.”
— Amy Jones, author of What Boys Like and Other Stories
After twenty years of running, Betty quietly returns to her hometown of Arbford, thinking it a solid place to finally put down some roots. But the adage 'you can't go home again' proves true, as Betty finds that her mere presence is more than enough to disrupt the stagnant lives of everyone around her.
“In this cautionary suburban fairy tale, a big-city refugee searching for home finds herself in a nest of multiple Mikes and Pyrex-wielding vipers. With enchanting style and snort-causing wit, Grace O’Connell does casserole-studded claustrophobia like nobody’s business.”
— Jessica Westhead, author of And Also Sharks and Pulpy & Midge
In a suburb that is nowhere and everywhere, Jorgen deals with the feelings of alienation and frustration from his collapsing relationship by getting into his car, putting on Patti Smith, and searching for meaning and belonging anywhere he can — regardless of whether he is welcome or wanted.