BY HADIA KHAN
Henry sighed. This winter, this ice storm, it had taken away from their perfect Christmas dinner. He would drive over to his mum’s house in Ottawa in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for slippery roads and the dozens of trees that had blocked the roads. They had hoped the power would come back on anytime soon so they decided to stick it out. It had been two days already, and their supplies were running low.
BY JANET MONK
“Could I spend the night in your barn?”
His beard is speckled with frost and his sheepskin coat is water-stained. He must have figured out that I, unlike my neighbours, can’t turn him down. It’s courteous of him to ask for my permission nonetheless.
My wife, Hannah, said she’d try knitting Ruth’s scarf tonight. A needle falls out of her hand when she turns to wave at the man. She hasn’t made a single stitch.
“Good evening.” she says.
“Good evening Mrs. McCowan.”