Never Miss

 Snow runs red where the bullet fell,

Echoes ring like a warning bell.
In the northern dark, there’s no escape,
Canadians hunt with a cold, clean slate.

Chorus
Never miss the shot, blood runs hot,
Cold steel hands, they take their lot.
Through the frost where the wanted rot,
Canadians never miss the shot.

Verse 2
Tracks in the pines where the shadows crawl,
Names carved deep on the cabin wall.
One by one, the hunted drop,
Justice rains and it won’t be stopped.

Chorus
Never miss the shot, eyes like flame,
Marking the guilty, calling their name.
Through the smoke when the hammer drops,
Canadians never miss the shot.

Bridge
It’s not mercy, it’s the northern law,
What you break, they’ll make you draw.
Blood in the snow, bodies forgot,
They ride on, never miss the shot.

Final Chorus
Never miss the shot, hearts turn black,
Once they’re hunting, there’s no turning back.
Through the silence, through the rot,
Canadians never miss the shot.

“Nothing About It”

They said,
"Don’t make it about race."
As the chalk outlines spoke louder
than our names,
and sirens carved silence into our streets
like it was justice
sharpened to a blade.

They said,
"It’s just a few bad apples,"
while the orchard rotted root to leaf,
and uniforms became armor
against truth,
not against crime.

They said,
"You should’ve complied."
As knees crushed necks
and bullets answered
questions never asked.
Compliance was a coffin,
and even silence
was too loud.

They said,
"Why are you so angry?"
But never asked what it’s like
to be hunted in your own skin,
to teach your children
how not to die
in the presence of a badge.

They said,
"Don’t protest like that."
As if mourning
needs permission.
As if grief must wear a smile
to be heard.

They said,
"There’s nothing wrong."
While bodies fall,
names become hashtags,
and the blindfold of Lady Justice
slips conveniently
to one side.

They said,
"Don’t make it about race."
But racism made it
about everything—
and they did nothing
about it.

"Strong Side, Still Standing"

For the Black Fems Rugby Club and My husbands Fight with MS

Three years now, this shadow’s danced beside him,

A storm with no warning, no playbook, no plea.

MS came sudden, stole ground from his stride—

But it didn’t know the fire I hold inside.

He found his footing where the cleats dig deep,

With the Black Fems, bold, where no one’s weak.

We hit the line like thunder cracks,

Skin like armor, hearts at our backs.

They call us fierce, too loud, too proud,

But we wear that truth like a battle shroud.

In mud and motion, we find our grace,

In bruised-up knees and a steady pace.

Some days, his legs betray their role,

Muscles like wires that forgot control.

But I lace my boots and rise up still—

My spine may shake, but not his will.

Each pass, each scrum, each cry of "Push!"

Echoes louder than the hush

Of doctor’s words or the sleepless nights,

'Cause here, I'm more than the silent fights.

I am tackled, yes, but never downed.

I’ve learned to fight on unsteady ground.

With sisters who carry me when I fall,

And celebrate me when I give my all.

Black Fems, we don’t just play—we prove.

That power is rhythm, resilience, and groove.

And I, with MS, still dance in this storm—

Unbroken. Unyielding. Reborn and reborn.

So bring the whistle, the bruises, the rain.

I'll meet it with laughter, love, and pain.

‘Cause on this field, I’ve come to see:

Even slowed, I run wild. Even broken, he is free

“Red and White, and What Was Stolen”

 The skies erupt in red and white,

A nation's pride, a gleaming sight.
Fireworks crackle over trees,
But silence whispers in the breeze.

For underneath the flags that wave,
Are buried stories, scars, and graves.
Before the anthem ever played,
A thousand treaties were betrayed.

The drumbeat of the Earth was drowned,
By boots that tore through sacred ground.
The children taken, names erased,
Their tongues and culture laid to waste.

We light our sparklers, cheer with glee,
While others mourn what used to be.
The maple leaf, so bold, so bright—
But not for all, a symbol of right.

Remember those who watched the flame
Devour their homes, deny their name.
Whose ancient songs were called “uncivil,”
Whose truths were buried, cold and brittle.

So raise your voice, but raise it true,
Let Canada be red and blue—
The blood that's spilled, the bruises made,
The cries that still have not yet swayed.

This day can hold both pride and pain,
But only if we break the chain.
Not just a party, not just cheer—
But space for truth, and hearts sincere.

So when you see the fireworks fly,
Look deeper at the smoky sky.
Ask who was here, and what was lost,
And how we might share every cost.

"To the Flames They Stand" In Honor of Canada's Firefighters and Volunteers 2025

When summer skies burned bitter red,
And forests wept with ash and dread,
They rose with courage, hearts of steel,
To face the fire, to never kneel.

From coast to coast, the sirens cried,
Through choking smoke, where hope had died,
They carved a path with hose and hand—
The guardians of this aching land.

With boots in mud and eyes aflame,
They asked for neither praise nor fame,
Just grit and gear, a steady breath,
And strength to dance so close to death.

And by their side, the selfless came,
Volunteers with no need for name,
Who cooked and hauled and soothed the pain,
In towns that may not rise again.

Oh Canada, lift high your gaze,
To those who braved these harrowing days.
Salute the ones who would not yield,
Who held the line, who healed the field.

We thank you for each sleepless night,
For every ember met with fight,
For love that burned as fierce as flame,
You honor us—you earn your name.

So let the mountains echo wide,
And rivers sing with grateful pride:
To all who faced the fire's breath—
We owe you life, we owe you depth.

"November 11th Is Veterans Day" (By a Canadian Veteran) (CFB Chilliwack, British Columbia, Canada)

It’s not some slogan on a screen,
Not just a poppy worn for scene.
It’s blood and sweat, it’s scars and pride—
The ones who served, the ones who died.

It’s not just Flanders, though we care—
We stood in Flanders, we stood everywhere.
From Vimy’s heights to Afghan dust,
We served with honour, grit, and trust.

This day’s for all who wore the thread,
For all who marched where angels dread.
For those who stood when few would dare—
In snow, in sand, in smoky air.

It’s Veterans Day, not World War One Day,
Don’t twist the truth, don’t lose the way.
We honour all who answered the call—
Not just the fallen from one long war.

So Trump, or anyone bold enough
To rename this day with rhetoric rough,
Know this from me and those I led—
This day stands firm for our living and dead.

Canadian boots in NATO ground,
In peace patrols, where mines are found.
We didn’t fight for fame or flash—
We fought for freedom, not for cash.

We bled in silence, we carried pain,
So kids back home could smile again.
So don’t you dare rewrite this day—
We earned November in every way.

And if you try to steal that right,
You’ll hear from us — we still can fight.
With truth, with pride, with voices strong—
You’ll find you’ve messed with the wrong damn throng.

Because up here, and all around,
Veterans stand on solid ground.
And no, we won’t just fade away—
November 11th is Veterans Day.

"November 11th Is Veterans Day" 1

It’s not just poppies on a coat,
Or stories in a history note.
It’s not just silence at eleven—
It’s the living, breathing proof of heaven.

It’s boots that marched through foreign lands,
It’s weary eyes and calloused hands.
It’s sacrifice, both near and far—
Not a slogan, not a PR star.

November 11th is not some trend,
It doesn’t shift, it doesn’t bend.
It’s Veterans Day, not some charade,
Not just a nod to one war made.

World War One, we honor still—
But that’s not all who climbed the hill.
From Normandy to Kandahar,
From deserts wide to lands bizarre,
The oath was sworn, the price was paid—
In peace or war, they never swayed.

So Mr. Trump, or anyone—
This day is not for partisan fun.
You cannot steal, you can’t reframe
The weight behind Veterans Day’s name.

We stand for all who wore the boots,
Not just for one war’s solemn roots.
And if you try to twist that truth,
You’ll hear from us—old strength, uncouth.

Because we know what duty means,
What lies behind the war-time scenes.
And we won't let the meaning stray—
November 11th is Veterans Day.

The warmth of little hands

 Copyright © 2025 by Marcelle Trinkaus

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced.

Chapter One: The Man with the Red Scarf

Sophie pressed her nose against the school bus window, watching the world rush by in a blur of color and sound. It was Monday again, cold and gray, with just a whisper of winter in the air. As the bus stopped at the corner of Elm and Fifth, Sophie saw him again—the man with the red scarf.

He sat on the same bench every morning, wrapped in an old brown coat with patches on the elbows. His boots were too big, and he always had a paper cup beside him, even though no one ever seemed to stop.

"Why does that man sit there all the time?" Sophie asked aloud.

Liam, her little brother, was sitting beside her with his backpack on his lap. "Maybe he's waiting for someone?" he guessed.

Sophie wasn’t so sure. Every day for the last two weeks, she'd seen him. Same bench. Same scarf. Same faraway look in his eyes. She had a feeling he wasn’t waiting for anyone.

That night at dinner, Sophie brought it up.
"Mom, there's a man on the bench at Elm and Fifth. He looks cold."

Her mom paused, spoon halfway to her mouth. "That’s probably Mr. Ray. He’s homeless. He used to live in an apartment nearby, but it burned down last year. The shelters are full lately."

Sophie felt her stomach twist. “But… doesn’t anyone help him?”

Her dad sighed. “People try. But it’s hard. There are more people needing help than there are places for them to go.”

Sophie looked at Liam. He was frowning too. She had never really thought about people not having a home. A warm bed. A table full of spaghetti and garlic bread like they had now.

That night, under her warm blankets, Sophie thought about Mr. Ray and his red scarf. She thought about the way he always looked down when people passed him.

And that’s when she had the idea.

“What if we helped?”

Chapter Two: The Kindness Club

Sophie could hardly sit still during school the next day. She scribbled ideas in the margin of her notebook instead of copying down her math problems.

Blankets. Sandwiches. Hot chocolate. Gloves. Notes?

At lunch, she pulled Liam aside and whispered her plan. His eyes got wide.

“You want to help Mr. Ray? Like… bring him stuff?”

“Yeah,” Sophie said. “But not just us. What if we ask the class? Or maybe the whole school?”

Liam blinked. “You think other kids will care?”

Sophie wasn’t sure. Some kids barely noticed Mr. Ray. Others made jokes. But she had to try.

That afternoon, Sophie asked her teacher, Miss Tran, if she could talk to the class. Miss Tran smiled and nodded.

When Sophie stood at the front of the room, her hands were shaking a little.

“Um, hi. I wanted to tell you about a man I see on my way to school. He’s homeless. His name is Mr. Ray, and he sits on a bench on Elm and Fifth. It’s getting really cold, and I thought maybe… maybe we could do something to help.”

The room was quiet. Then a hand shot up. It was Jamal.

“What can we do? We’re just kids.”

Sophie took a deep breath. “We could make care kits. You know, like a bag with socks and snacks and maybe a note. My mom said we have extra gloves at home.”

“I’ve got a bunch of little shampoo bottles from when we travel,” said Olivia. “We could use those!”

“Hot chocolate packs,” added Ethan. “My dad buys them in huge boxes.”

Miss Tran clapped her hands together. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a mission! Let’s call it the Kindness Club.”

Liam grinned at Sophie. “You started a club.”

Sophie’s heart soared.

---

Chapter Three: Operation Warmth

That weekend, Sophie and Liam’s living room turned into a care-kit factory. Their parents helped too, buying socks and mini first-aid kits from the dollar store. Miss Tran had sent a letter home, and kids from all grades were bringing in things: granola bars, scarves, tissues, hand warmers, even cheerful notes with crayon hearts and smiley faces.

Each bag had a label:
YOU MATTER. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. – From the Kindness Club

On Sunday afternoon, Sophie stood by the window holding a cloth bag stuffed with one of the kits.

“Ready?” her dad asked.

She nodded. Her heart was thudding.

They drove to the bench on Elm and Fifth. Mr. Ray was there, as always. His scarf was pulled up to his nose. When he saw Sophie step out of the car, he blinked in surprise.

“Hi, Mr. Ray,” she said softly. “I’m Sophie. We made this for you.”

She handed him the bag. He looked down, then up at her again.

“You made this?”

Sophie nodded.

His eyes filled with tears. “No one’s called me by my name in months.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she just smiled. “There’s more, too. We made lots. You can share with your friends if you want.”

He held the bag to his chest. “Thank you, little one. You reminded me that there’s still good in the world.”

As they walked back to the car, Sophie felt warmer than she ever had, even though the wind was sharp and cold.

Chapter Four: News Travels Fast

On Monday morning, something strange happened. As Sophie walked into school, the principal, Mr. Gardner, was waiting by the front doors.

“You’re the one who started the Kindness Club?” he asked with a big smile.

Sophie nodded, a little nervous.

“I got a call from a reporter,” he said. “The local paper wants to do a story on what you and your classmates are doing.”

Sophie’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Really. They’ll be here Friday morning to talk to you and Miss Tran’s class.”

By lunch, everyone was buzzing about it. Olivia was already planning what to wear, and Ethan was practicing what he’d say if he got interviewed.

But Sophie wasn’t thinking about cameras or newspapers. She was thinking about Mr. Ray. She hoped he was okay. She hoped he stayed warm last night.

That afternoon, they made more care kits. Other classes wanted to join too. Fourth graders made cards. Second graders collected winter hats. Even the kindergarteners got involved, drawing pictures with stick figures holding hands under rainbows.

The Kindness Club had started with one small idea.

Now it was filling the whole school.

---

Chapter Five: The Interview

On Friday, the classroom felt like a movie set. The reporter, Ms. Garcia, brought a camera crew and a notebook. She knelt down to Sophie’s height.

“Why did you start this project?”

Sophie glanced at her classmates. “Because I saw someone who needed help. And I didn’t want to just walk by.”

Ms. Garcia smiled warmly. “And what do you hope people learn from this?”

“That kids can help too,” Liam piped up from beside her. “We might be small, but our hearts are big.”

The reporter laughed and scribbled something down. After the interview, she took pictures of the care kits, the kids holding up their signs, and the giant poster they’d made that said:

KINDNESS IS CONTAGIOUS. PASS IT ON.

The story ran in the newspaper that weekend, and by Monday, the school had received dozens of letters. Some were from people who wanted to donate supplies. One was from a man who had once been homeless himself.

Another was from Mr. Ray.

It was written in shaky handwriting on lined paper:

"Dear Kindness Club,
I’ve lived in the shadows for a long time. People don’t usually see me.
But you did. You saw me. And that changed everything.
Thank you for reminding me I matter.
—Ray"

---

Chapter Six: A New Beginning

A few weeks later, something incredible happened.

Mr. Ray wasn’t at the bench anymore.

At first, Sophie worried. But her mom showed her a post from the shelter’s Facebook page. It had a photo of Mr. Ray—clean-shaven, wearing a warm jacket—and standing in front of a small building with a sign that said “Transitional Housing – Room 3.”

The caption read:
Thanks to the growing community support, Ray has a roof over his head and a fresh start. Special thanks to the young hearts at Riverstone Elementary’s Kindness Club.

Sophie printed the photo and taped it to the Kindness Club wall in the hallway. Above it, she wrote in bold letters:

“One kind act can change someone’s world.”

The Kindness Club didn’t stop with Mr. Ray. That winter, they made over 100 care kits. In the spring, they organized a clothing drive. In the summer, they held a lemonade stand fundraiser for the shelter.

And through it all, Sophie remembered the first time she saw the man with the red scarf. And how a question turned into an idea.

And how that idea turned into a wave of warmth that kept growing… one small hand at a time.

---

The End

Still Standing: A Journey Through Shadows

 

Copyright Page

Still Standing: A Journey Through Shadows
Copyright © 2025 by Marcelle Trinkaus

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of creative nonfiction. While based on true events, certain characters, events, and details have been altered or fictionalized for the purposes of narrative clarity and emotional truth.

For permissions, inquiries, or rights, please contact: lurchwashere@gmail.com

Cover design by Chantel Chaboyer
First Edition
Printed in CANADA

---

Still Standing: A Journey Through Shadows

---

Prologue – The Diagnosis

The doctor’s office smelled sterile—like bleach, paper, and dread. At fifty-one, he had grown used to unexpected battles, but nothing prepared him for the words: "You have Multiple Sclerosis." He sat still, eyes fixed on a motivational poster about hope taped to the far wall. It felt cruel. The kind of irony only life could deliver to a man already weighed down by PTSD, a man who had seen more than his share of war—both in his childhood home and on the battlefield.

As the neurologist spoke, his mind wandered, peeling back years like pages of a book no one should have to read. From a broken home to a broken mind, and now, a breaking body. Yet somewhere within the ache and bitterness, he remembered: love. Her. January 8, 2020. That day had shone like a lighthouse in a lifetime of storms.

---

Chapter One – The Last Night at Home

Sixteen. Too young to know what the world had waiting, too old to keep pretending it would change. The shouting was routine by then—his father's slurred threats, the sharp sting of backhanded blows. But that night was different. It wasn't the worst beating he'd taken, but something snapped inside him. The bruises no longer hurt as much as the hopelessness.

He packed a small duffel—two t-shirts, a pair of jeans, an old photo of his mom before she left. He slipped out the back door without looking back. He knew if he did, he might hesitate, might stay, might die.

---

Chapter Two – Street Lessons

The streets didn’t welcome him. They tolerated him. Nights on benches. Days spent dodging predators and pity. Hunger was constant, but loneliness was worse. He learned quickly: never show weakness, never stay in one place too long, and always watch your back.

There were moments of kindness—a café owner who gave him leftovers, an older homeless vet named Carl who taught him how to stay warm in winter. But even kindness came with strings or stories, most of them sad. Still, he survived.

---

Chapter Three – A Uniform and a New Life

The military didn't care about his past. Only whether he could endure, follow orders, become something more. For the first time in his life, he had structure. Meals, clothing, a bed. It was heaven compared to the street.

Training broke him down and rebuilt him stronger. His body hardened, but his mind—scarred from childhood—saw echoes of old pain in every shout, every drill. But he pushed through. He made it. And for a while, he believed he had escaped his past.

---

Chapter Four – The War Within

Combat zones weren’t just overseas. The real war waited inside his head. The things he saw, the brothers he lost, the chaos—he brought it home with him. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Rage at nothing and everything.

PTSD wasn't a term he used for a long time. To him, it was just being broken. But therapy, mandated and resisted, eventually gave him words. Understanding. A little peace. Still, it was never enough to silence the screams that only he could hear.

---

Chapter Five – Civilian Again

Transitioning to civilian life felt like stepping off a moving train. The world moved differently. People didn’t understand him, and he didn’t trust them. He held jobs, lost jobs. Tried drinking, stopped drinking. He learned to live with the noise in his head but never mastered it.

And yet, he kept moving. Because that’s what survivors do.

---

Chapter Six – A Light in the Dark

She wasn’t looking for someone like him. And he sure as hell didn’t believe he was someone worth loving. But there she was. Patient. Steady. Kind. She asked questions gently, never pushed. Over time, he opened up—not all at once, not everything—but enough.

Their relationship grew like a wildflower between cracks in concrete. Against all odds. And for once, he didn’t self-destruct. He chose her. And she chose him back.

---

Chapter Seven – January 8, 2020

It was a cold day, but his heart was warm. They stood together in a small ceremony, no fancy decorations, just the people who mattered. And her.

He said "I do" with a voice steadier than he'd ever known. For once, he wasn’t running. He wasn’t hiding. He was there. Fully. Present. Happy.

---

Chapter Eight – The Diagnosis

The tremors had started subtly. Numbness in his legs, a strange fatigue that never left. He chalked it up to aging, to the years of physical strain. But tests confirmed it: Multiple Sclerosis.

His first thought was of her. How would she handle this? Would she leave? She didn’t. Instead, she became his anchor, his advocate, his home.

The diagnosis brought fear, but also clarity. Life was finite. Every moment precious. He grieved, but he didn’t give up.

---

Chapter Nine – Acceptance, Not Defeat

He learned new routines. Adjusted. Fought the disease with the same grit that got him through war and homelessness. Some days were hell. Others, heaven.

He spoke to other vets, other MS patients. Shared his story. Found purpose in the act of telling it. If he could help one person feel less alone, it was worth it.

---

Epilogue – Still Standing

He stands now, not as the boy who was beaten, nor just the soldier, nor the broken man. He stands as all of them—healed in places, cracked in others, but still standing.

Because resilience isn’t about being untouched. It’s about rising again.

And again.

And again.

---

About the Author

Marcelle Trinkaus is a Canadian veteran and survivor of childhood trauma, PTSD, and a recent diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. After years of navigating the challenges of homelessness, military service, and personal transformation, he found love and stability later in life. Married on January 8, 2020, he now dedicates his time to writing, advocacy, and inspiring others who face life’s darkest moments.
Still Standing is his deeply personal debut—a story of pain, resilience, and the power of human endurance.

Walking HERE

Copyright © 2025 by Marcelle Trinkaus

All rights reserved. No part of this poem/song may be reproduce

 This morning I woke with pretzel in hand tripped on pigeon spilled coffee all over some guy.

He goes "Watch it" I'm like "Nah, you first!"

Shoelace undone tie stained with mustard plus a cab threw shade giving it my evil eye.
Hood smacked no fear he yelled “HEY—I’M WALKIN’ HERE!" Don't you see strut?
Lay off I see ya comin' you driving fool.
No brakes no rules just sidewalk king livin' my best life.

A tourist nearly clocked me takin' selfies; plus, a hot dog guy squirted mustard right in my eye.
Picture a mime stuck in a box then someone gives him a high five; surprisingly dude seems alive.

Stroller barreled through nearly taking my shins lady didn't seem to care.
With some style and a yell I moonwalked by shouting again "YO—I'M WALKIN' HERE!" My strut? Total block boss, a pigeon on caffeine posting TikToks.
Need crosswalk here? Nah I just vanish into traffic yelling “Still walking here!” See you creeping in your BMW: this ain't Need for Speed it's Feet for Street yo.
Two legs got unlimited rage; you got brakes?
Look I'm taking a shot here.

From curbside, saw it all: guy in robe, raccoon even had shoe.
Scooters, joggers, saxophone men—and there's that Naked Cowboy again, wouldn't you know it.

City’s wild but my path’s crystal clear,
One step at a time, with a side of beer.
Jaywalking's against books but hey my heart's in proper place so just once "I'm walkin' here!" Jaywalk, proud loud yells past clouds buses.
Uptown fancy, downtown shade a street legend's born I'm walkin' here.

"Hey grandma move it or what you wanna cross?" "No fair your turn!" I’M WALKIN’ HEEERE!!!”