Open discussion of any politics but those of Sir John A. MacDonald often ended in a number of disastrous ways.

The answer came simply. “I ain’t no johnny law.”

And there is no 14th Street hill in Calgary. There’s the 14th Street crater.

Imperial Canada didn’t make it easy for any non-citizen to survive, especially when most people in Canada didn’t and couldn’t hold citizenship unless they chose to serve in one of the imperial ministries.

Gentle whirs and hisses sounded in alternating fashion as the dealer’s cybernetic wrist moved in precise fashion.

Even the cold carried its own charm.

The air was cold enough to kill a man in his tracks, but at least it was a dry cold.

The crosswalk lit up, signalling to cross, and across he went, born a saint and forever wondering why.

Saint couldn’t help but notice the man’s boots on his feet, the parka he wore, along with the mittens on his hands, and the toque on his head.

Instead, he’d been forced to get in line at Tim Hortons—the Canadian institution—and order their finest hot water with dirt in it. To many Canadians, simple preference for better coffee—even for similar, fast-food quality coffee—amounted to sedition, if not wholesale treason.

The full moon hung high in the empty winter sky above Calgary, Alberta, its faint light cascading upon the quiet downtown of the city frozen in the small hours of the morning.