Rachel in Love

Rachel in Love

By Pat Murphy

The rain lets up. The clouds rise like fairly castles in the distance, and the rising sun tints them pink and gold and gives them faling red banners. Rachel remembers when she was younger and Aaron read her the story of Pinnochio, the little pupper who wanted to be a boy. At the end of his adventures, Pinnochio, who has been brave and kind, gets his wish. He becomes a real boy.

Rachel had cried at the end of the story and when Aaron asked why, she had rubbed her eyes on the backs of her hairy hands. – I want to be a real girl, she signed to him. – A real girl.

“You are a real girl,” Aaron had told her, but somehow she had never believed him.

The sun rises higher and illuminates the broken rock turrets of the desert. There is a magic in this barren land of unassuming grandeur. Some cultures send their young people to the desert to seek visions and guidance, searching for true thinking spawned by the opening of the place, the loneliness, the beauty of emptiness.

Rachel drowses in the warm sun and dreams a vision that has the clarity of truth. In the dream, her father comes to her. “Rachel,” he says to her, “it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of you. You’re my daughter.”

A girl in love. Illustration by Elena

– I want to be a real girl, she signs.

“You are real”, her father says. “And you don’t need some two-bit drunken janitor to prove it to you.” She knows she is dreaming, but she also knows that her father speaks the truth. She is warm and happy, and she doesn’t need Jake at all. The sunlight warms her and a lizard watches her from a rock that lies on the floor of the cave. Idly, she scratches on the dark red sandstone wall of the cave. A lopsided heart shape. Within it, awkwardly printed: Rachel and Johnson, leaving scores of fine lines on the smooth rock surface. Then, late in the morning, soothed by the warmth of the day, she sleeps.

…

Shortly after dark, an elderly rancher in a pickup truck spots two apes in a remote corner of his ranch. They run away and lose him in the rocks, but not until he has a good look at them. He calls the police, the newspaper, and the Primate Center.

(The Year`s Best Science Fiction, edited by Gardner Dozois. St. Martins`s Press, New York)

Dinosaurs

Dinosaurs

By Walter Jon Williams

President Gram considered this. ”Memories,” she said. “You’ve been using the term, but I’m not sure I understand.“

“Stored information is vast, and even though human bodies are large we cannot always have all the information we need to function efficiently even in our specialized tasks,” Drill said. “Our human brains have been separated as to function. I have a Lowrain, which is on my spinal cord above my pelvis. Lowbrain handles motor control of my lower body, routine monitoring of my body’s condition, eating, excretion, and sex. My perceptual centers, short-term memory, personality, and reasoning functions are handled by the brain in my skull – the classical brain, if you like. Long-term and specialized memory is the function of the large knob you see moving on my head, my Memory. My Memory records all that happens in great detail, and can recapitulate it any point. It has also been supplied with information concerning the human species’ contacts with other non-human groups. It attaches itself easily to my nervous system and draws nourishment from my body. Specific memories can be communicated from one living Memory to another, or if it proves necessary I can simply give my Memory to another human, a complete transfer. I have another Memory aboard that I’m not using at the moment, a pilot Memory that can navigate and handle Ship, and I wore this Memory while in transit. I also have spare memories in case my primary Memories fall ill. So you see, our specialization does not rule out adaptability – and piece of information needed by any of us can easily be transferred, and in far greater detail than by any mechanical medium.”

“So you could return to your base and send out pilot Memories to out planets,” Gram said. « Memories that could halt your terraforming ships. »

« That is correct. »

(The Year`s Best Science Fiction, edited by Gardner Dozois. St. Martins`s Press, New York)

Dinosaur. Photo by Elena

At the Cross-Time Jaunters’ Ball

At the Cross-Time Jaunters’ Ball

By Alexander Jablokov

The various portions of the Chancellery Gardens of Laoyin harmonized not only in space, but in time. The arrangement of dells and lily ponds, of individual Dawn Redwoods, laboriously dug, full grown, in the fastness of Old China and brought here up the Lao River, which I knew as the Columbia, in barges built for the purpose, of stone temples with green bronze cupolas, and of spreads of native prairie, seemingly engaged in a devious wilderness but actually existing because of the efforts of dedicated gardeners, took on meaning only when observed at a receptive stroll. I emerged from the yellow-green of a stand of ginkgoes, descended a gorge alongside a stream, and arrived at the rocky shore of a lake, its verge guarded by cunningly twisted pines and Amur maples. I trod the gravel path further, and felt uneasy. While I strolled, too many others strode purposefully, usually in tight groups of three or four. The vistas were ignored by men who muttered and gestured to each other. Either trouble was brewing, or the inhabitants of this Shadow had decidedly odd ideas of how to enjoy a sunny afternoon in the park.

A Bodhisattva blessed my exit with bland beneficence. In contrast to the serene order of the Chancellor`s garden, the city streets beyond were a tangle. What had been intended as triumphal throughfares were blocked every hundred paces by merchant`s stalls, religious shrines or entire shanty towns, complete with chickens and screaming children. Under other circumstances, it would have been a swirling, delightful mess.

Two loonies. Photo by Elena

However, the streets had the same feeling of oppression as the park. Everywhere there were knots of people discussing dark matters. A scuffle broke out between two groups, one with dark skin and bulbous, deformed Mayan heads, shouting loudly and striking out clumsily, the other short, sibilant, with narrow carlike eyes and flat noses, darting with precisely placed energy. Suddenly abashed by the attention they aroused, both groups melted into the surrounding crowds.

”The Prince is dead.” Everywhere I heard the murmur. `The Prince murdered. Vengeance, for our Prince. Where is his murderer?” He must be found. He must be killed. The. Prince. Is. Dead.” Each word was a call of anguish.

I emerged onto a wide street that had been kept clear. Flat fronted buildings of basalt bulked on either side, all identical.

(The Year`s Best Science Fiction, edited by Gardner Dozois. St. Martins`s Press, New York)

Grief Takes Time

Grief Takes Time

More often than not, grief takes much more time than society has been willing to allow.

We need to set our own pace for the journey. It might have seemed to someone looking on from the outside that we are walking in place, or even dragging our feet, for we are not ready to turn our attention to the future. But from inside the experience, we are moving as quickly as we can, covering enormous segments of land with a rapidity that used all our energy. Only I can know how much time I need to make each leg of the journey.

Only you can know how much time you need. Other people expect us to get "over it" in a relatively short time. However the intense reactions of grief may take years to resolve it.

We are all different. Not everyone goes through the identical process, and no one travels at the identical speed.

You have begun your journey. Sometimes it may seem that the road is too difficult and too long. You may be wondering if you will make to. The answer is: You can if you want to. Although that may not be the answer you expected or wanted, it is realistic.

The purpose of a grief process is to enable us to come to terms with our lost hopes and open our eyes to new ones.

Every time we experience a death or a loss, we confront a dragon. We have to choose whether to slay the dragon or  be vanquished by it.

While we can do nothing to change the fact of our loss, we can choose what we are going to do in the circumstances. Loss is inevitable, but recovery is optional.

The real question is: will we allow what has happened to force us into the role of victim, or aid us in becoming victorious? Every time we are willing to allow even the most adverse circumstances to move us deeper into discovering who we are, we slay the dragon.

Your mourning is helping you to come to the place where you can choose life. You are never given a wish without also being given the power to make it true.

Grief can be a challenging experience, but not more powerful than your ability to work your way through your many emotions. No one else knows how you fee.

Do not let anyone try to squeeze you into their expectations of what grief should be like. Express your grief in a way that is right for you.

No doubt you wish you could be over the pain and the hurt of your loss. You wish that you could just finish this grief process and move on. But you may have to work for it, however.

Robin's Mill

Robin's Mill

All the pictures have been taken by Elena.

Roblin's Mill 1842. Original location: Ameliasburg, Ontario (Prince Edward County).

The original timbers, flooring and machinery were salvaged and moved to Black Creek Pioneer Village in 1964.

Roblin's Mill was built in 1842 by Owen Roblin, the grandson of a United Empire Loyalist. When purchased by the Metro Toronto and Region Conservation Authority, the mill was scheduled for demolition.

When the Mill was moved to Black Creek Pioneer Village it was established that the original 1848 wheel measuring 30 ft. in diameter was not necessary to achieve the same results. Today, Roblin's Mill is the only operating stone mill in Toronto.

Tools used to make and repair carriages, wheels and various other agriculture tools.

A log cabin in the Black Creek village, near the Robin's Mill.

From that small beginning the museum has grown to over 50,000 artifacts, acquired from thousands of donors.

Rose Blacksmith Shop c. 1855 Original Location: Nobleton, Ontario. The Blacksmith was considerd one of the most essential tradesmen in an early community.

Saddler and Harness Maker.

Named for Thomas Blackwood, a highly respected Freemason in the community at that time, the Masonic Lodge was used regularly throughout the 1870's. In 1900 the building was moved back from the street In 1983 it was dismantled and brought to BCPV for restoration.

Be a part of this unique historical village located in North Toronto.

House of Wheels,

Working shop, our pioneers used to work in this ambiance.

Tinsmith Shop and Masonic Lodge was built circa 1850. A joint project between the Freemasons of Ontario and The Metropolitan Toronto and Region Conservation Authority, the restored building was opened to the public in 1984.