"The Keeper No. 1" by Julie Epp
Vikki C. | Childhood
Mostly, I wasted it, in refuse sites bright with strangers’ belongings, throwaways and
condemned vehicles. They are planning to turn the toxic lake into a freshwater reservoir.
Permission granted the summer you left. They will name it Tranquility. Introduce lush
colonies of fish to colour in the stenciled dark. Powdered pellets of sedatives skimming the
water at dusk, to send those creatures to sleep—even as light radiation peaks. The glow must
have been my mother visiting, as promised. She, another site of special scientific interest,
treated too late. Each time those harsh rays shone through her like sabers, I innocently
sketched them around another circle—to make a new sun. Below, an emerald landscape
reaching to meet it, the sprinkler set to a gentle spray. My father walking through the
rainbowed spectrum, as if returning. I would wait—longer than I counted—for his steps to
draw near, for the key to turn in the lock, and amber to pour through the crack, illuminating
the pairs of animal figures, who waited too. The ending was less than he remembers—a
rearrangement of night and TV static, the bent August heat on oily kneecapped roads. Some
alien waterlilies, like retired ballerinas, larger than a man’s fists, overtaking the sidewalks.
Surviving, rootless. Like all other variables, the experts couldn't explain such condition.
Water versus concrete. Truth versus playground. The vapour in those polished mason jars,
never too tightly sealed.
condemned vehicles. They are planning to turn the toxic lake into a freshwater reservoir.
Permission granted the summer you left. They will name it Tranquility. Introduce lush
colonies of fish to colour in the stenciled dark. Powdered pellets of sedatives skimming the
water at dusk, to send those creatures to sleep—even as light radiation peaks. The glow must
have been my mother visiting, as promised. She, another site of special scientific interest,
treated too late. Each time those harsh rays shone through her like sabers, I innocently
sketched them around another circle—to make a new sun. Below, an emerald landscape
reaching to meet it, the sprinkler set to a gentle spray. My father walking through the
rainbowed spectrum, as if returning. I would wait—longer than I counted—for his steps to
draw near, for the key to turn in the lock, and amber to pour through the crack, illuminating
the pairs of animal figures, who waited too. The ending was less than he remembers—a
rearrangement of night and TV static, the bent August heat on oily kneecapped roads. Some
alien waterlilies, like retired ballerinas, larger than a man’s fists, overtaking the sidewalks.
Surviving, rootless. Like all other variables, the experts couldn't explain such condition.
Water versus concrete. Truth versus playground. The vapour in those polished mason jars,
never too tightly sealed.
Vikki C.’s writing appears in The Inflectionist, Grain, EcoTheo, The Blue Mountain Review, Psaltery & Lyre, Sweet Literary and ONE ART, among others, and has earned nominations for The Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and the Orison Best Spiritual Literature. She’s the author of Where Sands Run Finest (DarkWinter Press, 2024).
Julie Epp is a watercolour artist based in Metro Vancouver whose intimate, dreamlike paintings explore hidden emotions and the shifting layers of identity. Through delicate, surreal imagery, she reflects on what is lost, buried, or unspoken within us. Her work invites stillness and self-examination, offering viewers a quiet space to reconnect with their inner world. http://www.julilyart.com/
