Irenic

She tried to talk to one of them. And she failed, again. They don't know how to listen. Instead of silent understanding she faced unnecessary advice. She wanted to scream at that face, a long, continuous sound so powerful the skin on the face would ripple. She's not one to thrive on self-proclaimed irenic words. They're an insult to her. They make her feel small and angry. As the patronising suggestions were gradually belittling and replacing her heartbroken disclosure, she felt like she was outgrowing her own body, her strength stretching beyond the boundaries of her flesh, her fury escaping the cage of her mind. Where she was expecting comfort she only found shrouded antagonism. The longer the face was wearing that phony benevolent smile, the faster the shadows in the corner of her eyes were moving. She made the decision on the spot. She had to leave, go as far away as possible from the bars of the others' thoughts.

Hélène L.

*  *  *

Canadians pride themselves on their grasp of, and use of, irony. They think this sets them apart from their American neighbours and defines them as a nation. I would like to argue – no, wait. That would be impolite – I would like to put forward the notion that it is not a well developed sense of irony that makes Canadians distinct but their tendency towards irenic negotiations. (Now that’s ironic, eh?)

Kelli B.