Issue 2.0 | Limitations

Issue 2.0 of flo. online marks the second year of flo.’s online publication. This issue considers the limitations we impose on ourselves and others—and how they shape our lives. Whether they are physical limitations, emotional limitations or even the limitations of our own memories, the obstacles we face create our identities and build our worlds. In this particular issue, we encourage you to consider your own world building and how it may be shaped by your limitations, just as these incredible contributors have considered their own experiences and limitations.

call me an Uber

Julie Hobbs

Julie Hobbs is a painter from Ottawa who works primarily with acrylics. All her art is painted for family and friends from places that were significant to them.

Ticking first-love

Ligia Garcia

A girl crisscrossed under a weeping tree, her orange backdrop dozing off into a deep blue state of night. Leaves softly rustling off into the distance, contrasting the loud thumps of a confused mind. Can the end be more than a sudden regret? 3 weeks have passed and she hasn’t found the courage to address her rapidly beating heart.

A mere locking of eyes soon enough turned to meticulous attention. Two melting ice creams by the decaying gazebo of the market’s square. Shy giggles whilst in line at the historical museum. Timid implications of affection harbouring in the wholeness of this aged midwestern town. The scorching sun persistently eats everything around, as they run the fastest they’ve ever had; Pushing and tossing, kids hungrily conquering newfound grassy hills. Amid screams and games, a newborn eagerness for connection wove into a grander sense of what’s intended to be

She admired that air of laissez-faire, the mocking kind of smile, a way of dangling words around without a second thought behind. Enticing falls short of describing the youthful fantasies of true contact. Devising from afar her only tool of hope, and time a comforting blanket of endless possibility. One day she’ll say it. The diary knows. The gossip has travelled in whispered unison. Heck even her parents might maybe hear about it one day.

 “I’ll say hi on my way to the pool.”

“Next week I SWEAR I’ll join the same table.”

“We are on the same team, there’s no way we won’t talk…”

A foreign ticking echoed louder with each missed encounter. She had never felt before such fear from contemplating the passing of seasons. The tones of bright yellow mellowing down into creamy golds and crimson. The lingering of first love’s excitement persists, as an eternity of optimistic time suddenly breaches its end.

Pen and paper at hand, pages overflowing with sweet summer daydreams. The girl thought all the stories and emotions would effortlessly pop out of the diary. Manifest in a wave of colours and attraction, opening her inner world for love to wonder and wish it could step inside. But closed off are the pages resting under her sweaty hands. Heavier becomes the lump in her throat, as the innermost confessions rest coldly on her stretched thighs.

Tugging on a shirt that’s a little too tight, ruminating on the unconfessed. The sun submerges as the chilly air announces the first long evening. A sharp ticking remains in mind as the girl enters the shared bunkers for one last night of summer camp.

Ligia Garcia is fascinated by the intersection of meaning-making and mental health struggles. Through descriptive prose and tangled language, she wishes to explore feelings often hard to grasp and digest. She grew up an avid bookworm, finding comfort in reading about a wide variety of life experiences and struggles. She is currently interested in existentialist authors, photography, and developing her substack @abeingonline. You can also follow Ligia on social media @abeingonline.

Knickknacks

Tuesday Taylor-York

I have more knickknacks on my desk than I have friends because somehow I hope that buying

plastic figurines will make me less lonely.

I have 8 pairs of sunglasses but I only ever wear the green pair (the ones that I accidentally

snapped in half and had to glue back together) because I didn’t even really want the 7 others.

There’s just something about owning things that

allows me to trick myself into believing I’ll feel better if I have them.

Sort of like... I can blanket my loneliness with limited-edition versions of books I already own

and then, when I’m inevitably alone in bed at night, it might not hurt as much.

I save receipts and gum wrappers and flyers and anything that looks pretty because “maybe it’ll

come in handy someday.”

It won't.

But as long as I can pretend that it’s possible for me to glue myself back together like my stupid

green sunglasses and stick myself between the pages of my scrapbook like I’m a lucky penny or

a fruit sticker, then I might feel okay.

Tuesday Taylor-York (they/them) is a first-year student in the Library and Information Technician program at Algonquin College. An aspiring poet, they find solace in the art of free-verse poetry. When not occupied by their studies, Tuesday enjoys scrapbooking, list-making, and going to the movie theatre either alone or with friends!

Doodles

Eden Osmar

They live their life spinning in circles

Always moving but going nowhere

Stillness when there should be flow

Pain when there should be peace

Spiralling out when things don’t go their way

But the line I’m making

While filled with zigs here and zags there

Is always moving

Forward and up

Born in Canada, Eden Osmar is a marketing copywriter and content writer. Creative writing is her outlet, along with fitness, travelling, and the outdoors.

Peaceful Kayak on Lake Clear

Julie Hobbs

Air Space

Brody Alix

Crossing spring bridges

The last patches of frozen river are thrown shutters

And sun-bleached organza.

The call to prayer in Marrakech

Where we would go up to the roof in the morning

For syrupy pancakes and tea.

Rough feet in leather sandals

Suffocating next to schoolchildren

In their down winter coats.

Loitering, young and western

Choisir nos dieux

Over sterile cokes near the medina.

In every shade of heaven

You, sparse beside me.

Brody Alix is a Canadian writer and poet. She holds an MA in English Literature from University College London. Her work has appeared in flo. literary magazine, Common Ground Review, and was featured as part of Pride Toronto 2022. You can find her on Instagram @brodyalix.

You

Marisa Dowswell

sun catches on green eyes

and I look so hard for you

I turn inside out

blood on stone

a tidal wave

raging against a monotony of

indifference

a numbing of the body politic

but let's leave that

for now / you say

that is tomorrow's fight

and in this moment

you are here

and I disappear

Marisa Dowswell is grateful to live where the Ottawa and Rideau rivers meet. She has worked as a lawyer, human rights advocate and intersectional feminist. She travels many places, searching for new adventures but keeps returning to the world of words.

Last Call

Masanda

She arrived, disheveled and hurried, her heels clicking across the carpet as she shuffled to an open seat to organize her things. Upturning her satchel onto the small, rectangular miniature table, letting items tumble and roll off onto the floor below. Eventually the wooden table was filled with the contents of her small handbag: a handkerchief, small lip balm, wallet, an assortment of used tissues, loose set of keys, small bottle of perfume. Then she caught a hold of her reflection, staring back through the windowpane contrasted by the pitch dark of the night. Her hands began to attempt to straighten her hair. She slumped in the chair and began to tumble through her thoughts. What was I thinking? What was I doing? What was she doing? She was trying to straighten the wrinkles on her jeans. Dust her jacket. Let her shirt hang.

A short breath and she was ready to stand, sidestepping the zigzag of chairs to get to the teller.

He was behind plexiglass, facing away doing some paperwork on an ancient computer. “E-excuse me.”

He didn’t turn around, but rather spoke through the microphone right beside him, “Yes?”

“Do you have any trains coming through?” she murmured through the speaker.

“Yes, ma’am, we have the red eye coming in at 3 o’clock.”

“Alright, then. I’ll take one ticket.”

He frowned. “Do you want to know where the train is going, ma’am?”

“No, sir.”

“Alright, then,” he sighed, “That’ll be 5.”

“5 what?” she queried.

“Just 5.”

She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out 50. “Keep the change.”

The ticket was dispensed through the small slit at the bottom of the teller window. It was small, printed in an old font on paper that could’ve been mistaken for fool’s scrap. Her head darted up to the clock at the front of the station. 12:05. Or, at least that’s what she thought, given the clock was hard to read and she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She reached into her purse to pull them out. 12:15. 2 hours, 45 minutes. She started to pace, both to keep time and keep her nerves in check. One lap around the chairs. Then two more. And three to follow. She started switching chairs over and over. Grabbed nearly every magazine and slowly started flipping through the pages, looking at all the glitzy ads and fluff pieces between those glitzy ads littering the pages. Birds were chirping outside. She started again on her hair and tried to find a mirror or a bathroom to check on herself. The bathroom looked as if a tornado had hit that exact spot. Went back and switched seats again. There were only 10 chairs in the room, all bundled together. Like a game, she began to swap her sitting positions, the chairs. Focused on the windows, the grey walls, the teller, the rail tracks, the pitch black darkness. Re-read the thinner stack of magazines, all out of date but more interesting. Her eyes then darted to the telephone pole just outside of the station, lit only by the single, halogen lamppost. She stared at it for a long time. A very long time. She then instinctually looked down at her wrist to check the time and realized her watch was missing. “Where did I put it?” she wondered as she emptied out her purse on the seat next to her. A bulky wallet, her glasses and case, some breath spray and gum, loose change, and nail polish. She freaked out. Started pulling at her skirt like it would grow pockets. Went back to the clerk to ask if he saw a dainty gold watch embezzled with initials. He was gone.

She looked at the time. 11:45. Her senses went into overdrive. Running, pacing, panting. The lights got brighter. The sound of birds tapping against the window got louder, more cacophonous. Was she in an air tunnel? Running, pacing, panting.

She blinked. 2:53.

She stumbled and fell onto the floor. Six seats, all spread haphazardly across the room. She wanted to cry. Her eyes darted back to the telephone pole. By her own will, she stood outside in the cold in front of the payphone. She dropped the quarters in the slot and hesitated for a moment before dialing the number. No one but her could hear anything but a deep, thrumming static that cracked and buzzed into the night. What words were spoken only she knew.

Then she hung up. Letting the phone hang from the booth, the tone getting louder, harder, harsher. She walked back to the station, staggered at first but then with an almost calm demeanor. She didn’t notice that the chairs had disappeared. Or that the teller was splattered on the till. Or that her clothes had vanished, and her hair fell to the floor as a wig.

The platform was long and short, jutting down to the ground as quick as it started. She stood at the edge for what felt like an eternity before she stepped off, letting her bare feet touch the rocks and the rail. There was no sound. Not even the smallest breeze flowed by. Just still air and the sound of cicadas buzzing away. She simply waited. And waited. What was a dot in the distance churned louder.

The station itself was gone, leaving an empty field of grass that stood as still as time. The light came closer and shone brighter. Closer, brighter. And she stared until she simply couldn’t anymore.

Masanda is a multi-disciplinary artist. He works in all genres and formats but focuses on literary and experimental fiction. He has been published in bywords and currently lives in Ottawa.

The end of a wonderful vacation, sunrise in Santorini

Julie Hobbs

Cosmic Suggestion Box

Brandon Marlon

Sometimes the world seems like

a rough draft that never got revised.

Yet what might humankind propose

on its own behalf to the divine playmaker

who scants all knowledge of His nature

among beings yearning yet benighted?

With all due respect, in all humility,

perhaps for starters one could recommend

the nullification of evil and free rein,

whose marriage guarantees injustice

and mocks the assumed goodness of the great?

One could, modestly, advocate

a swift end to natural disasters, cataclysms

indelicately termed by insurers

as acts of God, who is, after all,

ultimately responsible even if not culpable.

I, for one, could readily do without

meaningless and undeserved suffering,

meaningless and undeserved struggle,

and the bitter misery these engender.

But, admittedly, it occurs to me that

we ought to refrain from passing judgment

on what we can’t begin to comprehend;

should we not give the benefit of the doubt

to the One from whom we seek the same?

Sometimes I wonder whether the one thing

that the Creator can’t possibly know

is what it’s like to be only human…

Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 300+ publications in 32 countries.

Door of Patrick’s Basilica Ottawa

Julie Hobbs

Intrusions

Simon A. Smith

All morning, Danielle zips back and forth between the bedroom and kitchen, hoping not to find that she’s accidentally bundled the baby up in a trash bag and tossed it in the dumpster. She is plagued by horrifying thoughts. What if she puts the baby in the oven instead of the frozen casserole and doesn’t notice? She worries about wrapping the baby’s head in the quilt and cutting off its air supply. Another sweaty dash down the hallway, dizzy with dread.

She’s old by childbearing standards, past forty and already shot through with panic and hounded by shadowy ailments. Her own mom, Bonnie, doesn’t help. Bonnie stays up all night watching news about onrushing immigrants and soaring egg prices. Fresh out of bed, she goes straight for the remote.

“Faulty gadgets,” Bonnie says. The TV screen behind her projects a snapshot of an exploded iPad. “This is our next huge threat. Stop what you’re doing and unplug all your devices!” Shocks of unwashed hair spring from her head.

Danielle has bigger problems. Her bathrobe’s been undone for God knows how long, and she is naked underneath. She’s passed by the glass door many times, boobs dangling, bush protruding. Her flesh is still plump and curdled. Perverts and prowlers have been reported in the neighbourhood. Her mom heard about it on Good Day Chicago. She needs a third opinion.

The window in the nursery creaks open. The sound hits her like a smack to the head, like a train whistle inside her ears. For the first time all day, she can’t move. She is paralyzed with certainty.

“Danielle!” Bonnie shouts. “Can you hear me? Why aren’t you doing something?” Her eyes, sapped of sleep, are electric red. Sometimes it seems she hasn’t blinked them in seven years. When the stupor lifts, she finds herself on autopilot. She moves robotically toward the back exit, heads across the lawn, and walks out into the street.

Simon A. Smith teaches English to high schoolers. His stories have appeared in many journals and media outlets, including Hobart, Whiskey Island, Keyhole, Juked, and Chicago Public Radio. He has published two novels, most recently "Wellton County Hunters" in 2021. He lives in Chicago with his wife and son.

DEUTERANOPIA [UNDER THE GROUND, IT SLEPT]

Eva Prescott

we plant flowers in a house with too many rooms,

hoping the smell of glaucous leaves and black soil and bright petals

will fill the gaps between the floorboards and the holes in the wall,

where the electrical sockets and light fixtures used to be.

but the rows of potted purple thistle sitting on the windowsill

seek for an eternal sunshine

neither the humid dark home they are imprisoned in

nor the gray unmoored clouds will give.

and the whimsical white stock branches we propagated

could stand the acrid summer wind

but not the frigid touch of winter breeze

seeping through the drafty ceiling.

we pick off leaves, browned and shrivelled,

crumbling into million fragments in our fists

like translucent tissues and half-smoked rolled-up joints

littering the bottom of our garbage cans.

the roots shrink in the soil,

some crawling above the damp substrate

in the same pattern of bumpy wood grains

on barren, unpainted walls of our bedroom.

until what’s left of once blooming bundles of cells

melt, droop and wilter.

the singular stems bent, crippled, surrounded by

faded and greyed-out blossoms they shed.

none live long, yet we keep hoping.

listening for a glimpse of the plants’ heartbeats,

amongst the creaks and groans of the house hull

bracing against the harsh western wind.

but the resilient flowering fennel set on our dining table

weeps in silence for its stone-set fate.

its mane of yellow and gold rains aureate flakes

around the slender glass vase bottom.

and the young ginger buds we buried in little pods

nudging above the soil surface

stop growing, a few weeks in,

despite the gentle heat and cool water we feed.

we sweep away the remains, cold and rotting,

the spice sting our skin and bones

similar to the way black soot and red dust

burrowing in the cracks and corners of our basement does.

the colour green drains from the juvenile stalks,

leaving an empty yellow-brown husk standing

like the hollowed posts and tunneled-out crossbars

that still shoulders the weight of our home.

until the cellulose collapse into something

between stillbirth and still death,

and the nucleuses dwindled and burst en masse,

entombed within the walls of their beginnings.

none of the flowers we plant live long, yet we keep hoping.

a fresh breath of life, a new slice of existence

perhaps, anything. other than the slow throbbing of a house

on its last inhales, exhales.

Eva Prescott explores mundane human lives and insignificant moments of endurance through poems, and frequently acquires morbid fascinations with stranger topics. Her first self-published poetry book, Kairosclerosis, is available on Amazon.

Blue Jay on Macarthur Avenue

Vishesh Abeyratne

You are looking for something, perhaps,

a frantic and harried search,

as you artfully dart from branch to branch.

Or perhaps I am projecting

my own quotidian anxieties

onto your feathered front,

in which case I must ask your pardon

for my human ignorance,

my anthropocentric jackassery.

Perhaps you delight in flight for its own sake,

unbothered by traffic,

innocent of purpose.

Only saints are so whimsically absurd.

Nevertheless it is too cold a March for you to be here,

you hardy, garrulous, turquoise-crested thing.

Perhaps you fly merely to stay warm.

And so must I.

Goodbye.

Vishesh Abeyratne is a playwright and dramaturg who lives in Ottawa. His play Blood Offering recently premiered at the 2024 undercurrents festival. Other works for the stage include White Lion, Brown Tiger, The Agony Market, A Fabric of Destiny, The Kindling House, and Exposure (published by YouthPLAYS). New to the medium of poetry, he began writing during lockdown and simply forgot to stop.

Prince Edward County Country Barn

Julie Hobbs