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  • Writer's pictureWellington Lambert

South of Moosonee 5

Updated: Mar 23, 2023

D1 -15/-24

A group of girls were killed in a car accident a couple of nights ago. They were in a taxi coming home from a gymnastics tournament. They go to the French high school, Cite Des Jeunes.

I think of those girls, their last moments. Did they see the oncoming truck as the taxi passed the car in front of them? Did they think about how much it was going to hurt? Someone told me one of the girls survived and went to school the next day, she was messed up and didn’t speak. I don’t know if that is true.

I saw the smashed-up taxi. It was stored at this garage off the highway. It sat outside alone, like it was guilty of something. I saw a pink sneaker laying on the back seat.

I keep thinking about that sneaker.


Hide and seek is a weird game…it’s like we are preparing to be hunted.


I had that dream again last night.

I was walking down Oak Street. It was winter but it didn’t feel cold. As the dream continued something strange happened. I realized I’m dreaming. It’s like things switched from watching a movie to being in a movie, like a part of me woke up. It felt as real as being awake, but there was something delicate about it. If I didn’t focus it would slip away.

I walked down the street and saw some people go into one of the houses. I called out but they didn’t answer. I ran towards the house and walked into it. I really wanted to talk to someone. It felt like I could ask questions that I couldn’t ask in real life. The house was cold and grey, no one was in it. I looked around but I couldn’t seem to make anything happen, just move around in it. I went down a flight of stairs and ended up in what looked like a hospital basement. It was cold and bright, with several gurneys that had bodies on them, covered with white sheets. I wanted to pull the sheets off, see if I knew any of the people underneath. As I pulled the sheets off, everything started to fade.

As soon as I woke up, I wrote everything down.


Stevens and Cooper called me Fag face in the cafeteria.


My history teacher has a mark on his forehead. It looks like someone tried to shoot him, wouldn’t surprise me, he is such an asshole. I remember in grade nine going on a trip to Toronto, we were going to a museum or something. He was one of the adults supervising. One night all the kids were in our room watching porn they ordered from the tv menu. I went to bed while everyone was still watching. He came in and instead of saying anything about everyone up watching the porn, he walked up to my bed and asked me why I wasn’t up like everyone else watching it. He had a smirk on his face, like he was putting me down for something, but I couldn’t figure it out. Looking back, it all seems really fucked up.

Last month I was arguing with him about a mark he gave me on my essay. He said my points were like apples and oranges, and then he grinned, like, hey, guess what, your screwed.

I’m out of hash oil.

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