Transits by Jaime Forsythe

banjos and skits and bad jokes. I've seen it a hundred times. I drove home on bright, empty, nighttime streets. Sometimes I get so caught up with being lonesome and worrying about dumb girly things that I forget how much I love it up here. The Yukon's got different rules. Fuck. I'm gonna quit school and build a log cabin and grow a beard and pan for gold for the rest of my days.
    Day Four
    The grandfather clock in the living room is counting out midnight. The sky is a stupid pink and I'm thinking about staying up all night. I think I'll go out and sit in the grass and write poems about that chunk of mud that gets stuck on the end of your handle bars when you fling your bike down on the lawn, back wheel still spinning. About how I think about you when I'm rounding the corner of an aisle in the dollar store. About not sleeping.
    Day Five
    I won a free plane ride. Round trip. “Where to?” I asked.
    â€œWell, back here.” The guy thinks he's pretty funny.
    But it was amazing. A little six-seater that looked like it was made of tinfoil. We flew over the Takhini river, to the old Livingston town site where there are still a few shacks and mines, up to Mount Black, and back around. It took about an hour. Sometimes the mountains were just right there, almost scraping the wings. They were still covered in snow and there were some little frozen lakes. I sat behind the pilot, facing backwards. If I pivoted around a bit, I could look over the pilot's shoulder and out over the nose of the plane. It made me feel dizzy and happy and stupidly excited about life.
    Day Six
    I went kayaking by myself. I sat in ballet pose and used my feet to control the rudder, and my left leg went directly to sleep. When I tried to get out, the leg slowly collapsed under me and I was neck-deep in Chadburn Lake.
    Later I played ultimate frisbee in my bare feet. All the boys wore cleats and when they looked at me I said I was from the East Coast. In bed my bright green feet curled up in unrelenting cramps.
    Day Seven
    The city of Whitehorse is 2305 feet above sea level. When you bake a cake, you have to adjust the recipe to account for the elevation. I don't know what you change, though, ‘cause I don't bake cakes. Maybe the soda.
    Day Eight
    The bartender at the Kopper King, some kind of biker bar, is from Antigonish. I dreamt about Stan Rogers. A man named Larry bought me a drink. “I wanna buy you a drink....what's your name again?” He kept slurring at me. He owns the concrete empire of the Yukon. A catch for sure. After I shook his hand I pictured him peeing and not washing afterwards. He seemed disappointed in me, but honestly, what kind of lady puts out for a 2 dollar Kokanee?
    I guess I'm going home now. It's a long fucking way.
    Day Nine
    There's a photo booth here at the airport, and I have a weird desire to take pictures of myself crying. Except I'm spending my change on the internet, sending you impersonal emails that leave out all the things I'd wish you'd say to me.
    Day Ten
    At the bar at the airport in Halifax I discovered Caesars. Clamtastic! Somewhere between Vancouver and Toronto, I woke up panicky. I clawed my way out of my seat and staggered down the aisle a bit, and then passed out, hitting my head on something on the way down. I spent the rest of the flight with my head between my knees, holding a paper bag. Dehydration and exhaustion and not eating. Apparently it's common on the red eye flights. Travel exhausts me.

Proof of Loss
    by Jaime Forsythe
    Andy is secured under sheets with hospital corners and a duvet splashed with roses. It's a time for counting sheep; he counts his possessions instead. This is an easy game. The lights are out but he knows what lies scattered over the carpet of his mother's guest room. A picture frame, a stiff knapsack, a ceramic whale with a blowhole where a toothbrush may be inserted, and a soup ladle. Sale items his mother has picked up to help him get back on his feet. Things for