What Comes After The Signature
One town’s uneasy march towards separation
Lloydminster was split—by geography, by politics, by what came next.
The town, straddling the Alberta-Saskatchewan border, sat at the epicenter of Alberta's secession debate. Premier Ellis stood behind the folding table turned podium, the Alberta flag draped loosely across it. The mic was slightly too short, but she didn’t adjust it. Let them see her as she was—tired, tall, and firm.
“I stand before you not as a proponent of separation, but as a servant of democracy,” Ellis began. “If the people of Alberta desire a referendum, I will not stand in their way.”
She expected applause but received an awkward silence.
“We just want a fair chance to control our resources,” she said, her voice firmer now. “Our choices. Our future.”
A hand shot up near the front. George Cavanaugh—retired teacher. “My pension comes from the federal government. What happens to my pension if this actually goes through?”
“I can’t promise anything yet,” Ellis replied. “Negotiations would follow.”
A teenager stepped forward. “Will I need a passport just to see my cousins in Vancouver?”
Ellis nodded, her expression arranged into something that looked like concern.
“Fair questions,” she said, her voice steadier now. “The path’s unclear—but this gives us the bargaining power we need. A way we can finally be heard.”
Linda didn’t move from her place near the aisle. A waitress at the local diner, she had seen the divide firsthand. Each morning, patrons clashed over coffee, arguing about the merits and pitfalls of secession. She'd heard every opinion, from passionate calls for independence to pleas for unity. Her Métis grandmother used to say the prairies weren’t something you could own—only borrow.
Her eyes fixed on Ellis. “You keep saying ‘we’ like we’re a single voice. But some of us never asked to be part of this shouting match.”
Ellis nodded, jaw tight, her voice calm but clipped. “That’s why we’re having this conversation. Why we’re doing town halls.”
“But if you start this fire,” Linda said, “are you ready to control it when it spreads?”
Ellis kept her smile fixed, though her stomach tightened. She gripped the sides of the podium, looking at the cameras recording the event.
“We’re not here to rush anything,” she said, carefully measured. “We’re here to listen. To gather the voices of Albertans. And that’s exactly what we’ll do.”
It sounded thoughtful. Reasoned. Even she nearly believed it.
She thought of the rigs near Medicine Hat, the crude oil futures, and her father’s voice years ago on a drive to Drayton Valley. “You can’t drill your way out of loneliness,” he said. She didn’t understand it then. She wouldn’t reflect on it now. But the line had been surfacing more often. She pushed it aside. There would be no room for doubt tonight.
After the speech ended, volunteers began sorting referendum kits into cardboard boxes. One labeled Zone 3 - Rural North tipped over, spilling clipboards and Sharpies onto the floor. The pens rolled, the clipboards lay scattered, and still no one stooped to gather them.
The volunteers moved through the aisles, handing out forms for signatures. People signed… some hesitated, but most signed and dropped the form back into a box. A few volunteers taped glossy slogans onto the walls, bulletin boards, windows, and even the gym’s old basketball backboards.
When the crowd thinned and the last chairs were folded, Ellis moved toward the exit. She slowed, noticing a “Make Alberta Ours Again” poster near the gym’s entrance fluttering in the draft. Her eyes snagged on the jagged black lettering sprayed across it.
She paused.
For just a second, a flicker of doubt passed through her. But it vanished, buried beneath the practiced mask she wore so well. She adjusted her coat, smoothed her expression, and walked on.
Behind her, the poster flapped once more. Someone had spray-painted over its slogan in thick, hurried strokes. The words were simple. Unmistakable.
Then what?
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