Symposium Fall 2022

SYMPOSIUM SYMPOSIUM

AN ARTS AND HUMANITIES STUDENTS’ COUNCIL PUBLICATION

WHAT WE

RE ABOUT

Symposium and Semicolon are the official publications of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council at Western University, published bi-annually. To view previous editions or for more information about our publications, please contact the AHSC in Room 2135 at University College. Publications can also be viewed virtually at issuu.com/ahscpubs.

Symposium features creative work from Arts and Humanities undergraduate students. It accepts inventive creative writing and visual art.

Sharing one’s work can often be daunting, so the Publications Team would like to thank all stu dents who submitted their creative pieces. Thank you for trusting us with your art.

Editor-in-Chief: Safaa Ali

Academic Managing Editor: Abbie Faseruk

Creative Managing Editor: Demitra Marsillo

Copy Editor: Samantha Ellis

Copy Editor: Julia Piquet

Layout Designer: Jadyn Smith

Graphic Designer and Cover Design: Bryn Lewis

VP Communications: Michelle Sadorsky

AN ARTS AND HUMANITIES STUDENTS’ COUNCIL PUBLICATION

SYMPOSIUM SYMPOSIUM

VOLUME 10 ISSUE 1 Fall 2022

Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The responsibility for the con tent in this publication remains with the artists and authors. The content does not reflect the opinions of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students’ Council (USC).

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

First things first, I’d like to say thanks to you, the reader. It’s been quite a semester, so thank you for taking the time to pick up our AHSC publications.

Our theme for this semester was “The Fantastical.” Pieces in this issue catapult the human condition into the realm of the fantastical through intricate metaphor, careful sculpting, and visceral emotion. Like all excellent art, “The Fantastical” encourages the beholder to embrace fresh perspectives and ideas.

A final thank-you must be imparted to the brilliant and dedicated Publications team for pulling out all the stops this semester. You guys are truly fantastical.

Until next semester, keep well, enjoy the snowfall, and curl up with some lovely pieces courtesy of your Western peers.

All the best, and happy reading.

Safaa Ali Editor-in-Chief

The Moss

By Miles Obilo Reality Transfigured

By Nicole Godlewski Hennigar Cardiac Bouquet By Emma Hardy Strawberries and Table Sugar By Abigail Scott Enchanted By Julia Piquet Freeway By Bridget Koza Cosmic Summer By Claudia Kindrachuk History is a Series of

open book

By Pujita Verma We’re All Crazy After Nightfall By Katherine Barbour House Full of Roses By Chloe Baird Mother Gaia By Emma Hardy her sunflower By Katherine Barbour Sun Eater By Abigail Scott Filthy Creatures By Chloe Serenko

Lewis Art Students by Thames River By Jack Cocker “white blanket” By Jules Lee The Dullest Star By Gray Brogden

The Moss

By Miles Obilo

Reality Transfigured

By Nicole Godlewski Hennigar

I close my eyes and the atmosphere morphs.. This reverie grasps my soul, pulling me in. My world’s axis tilts, equilibrium shifting ever so slightly.

Shadows dance on the dimly lit pavement, and my reflection ripples in the water. A sweetness fills the air, mingling with the earthy spices.

I stand with feet so light I could simply float if I pushed off the ground— and I do. With each inhale, I fall deeper and deeper into the endless sky. My surroundings rush toward me like a cascading waterfall.

Stars spin among the evergreens. Streetlights become soft, casting a haze over the world. Shimmering dewdrops trickle down from the golden glow above.

A trilling echoes in the distance, singing about bliss and harmony.

The melodies course through my system in waves. In this world, emotions are entities, a kaleidoscope of colours reaching out in curious patterns to find a connection.

My hand moves to touch them, but gravity shifts once more, and I drift back to the ground. Vibrations thrum beneath my feet, across the soil. I am myself once more, grounded by the earth.

Cardiac Bouquet

By Emma Hardy

“Cardiac Bouquet” clay, wire, paper, acrylic paint, on wood, 12” x 7” x 3.5”, 2019. This is an anatomically accurate sculpture of a human heart, with handmade origami flowers sprouting out of the veins and arteries, and vines growing on the heart in place of the cardiac vein. This piece was inspired by learning about the circulatory system in my Biology class, and how the heart sustains life by creating its own myogenic electri cal impulses. It represents the integration of flora and fauna; of animal and plant cells, and displays the subtle similarities between them. These two elements work in harmony in this sculpture and in nature.

Strawberries and Table Sugar

By Abigail Scott

I am sitting across from my grandmother.

The repetitive shush-shunk of the washing machine seeps up through the linoleum to mingle with the birdsong filtering in through the open door. We eat fresh strawberries from the small blue bowls that have lived in the cupboard for longer than I’ve been alive; I sprinkled sugar on mine, and it crunches between my teeth, sweetness.

I stand when I am done, ready to clean up, but she takes the empty bowl from my hands. “No, you sit down,” she says. “I was already going.”

Enchanted

By Julia Piquet

My mom says elves are fantastical creatures. Small as a cut blade of grass, with hands as sticky as sweets, these mischievous fellows raise chaos whenever they feel like it. And there’s nothing they love more than making your day just a tad inconvenient.

Unlike my mother, I never had much luck around elves. Things tend to disappear mysteriously around me. Be it my favourite pair of shiny golden earrings; a soft, still warm-from-the-dryer white sock; or a sparkly purple mechanical pencil I just had in my hand. The elves can’t help themselves. My mom would always warn me to “just wait it out. Maybe they’ll be feeling nicer tomorrow.”

I never doubted the existence of elves. My mom would tell me tales about worlds in which there were no borders around what is and what isn’t possible. Worlds in which fairies, talking animals, and humans could all co-exist, under upside-down floating islands or amidst bustling bright real-life cities. Who, but the elves, would move my bookmark just enough chapters back so that I would have to re-read the same scenes?

As I grew older, the world around me changed and I stopped believing. My mom never did.

When I was an angsty teen, who thought the world was conspiring against her happiness, my mom would talk of the elves. She would complain about how they stole her polka-dot cotton scarf, and how they were prob ably using it to stage their own little fashion show. She would repeat, over and over, how unlucky she was that the elves loved to pick-pocket her things. She would repeat how lucky I was that my favourite sweater, a slightly-torn-up, bright orange sweater seemed to always be in its spot in my closet.

When I was upset about a poor grade, she’d ask the elves to drop off gifts to make me feel better (it was always dark, pure chocolate). When I was in a rush to grow older and have fun with my friends, she’d remind me that elves would worry if I was not there to witness their mischievousness. The elves were there at every step, every change in my life.

As I grew even older, my belief was rekindled. I started associating the elves with the biggest events of my life, and in doing so, I remembered my mom and her sweet, kind smile at the times I needed it the most: When I had my first kiss (witnessed by the elves hiding in the cup holders of the cinema) and when I got accepted into university (and my letter of acceptance was mysteriously intact although the package was all bent and dirty with mud). As I lived, the elves and my mom watched.

I also watched, but Mom didn’t like it when I did. She always placed me outside her personal bubble with the elves, because she didn’t want me to worry about grown-up things. But she should have known they would tell me of her secrets. They never kept mine.

I watched as the elves comforted her with surprise chocolates (her favourite treat) as she cried herself to sleep, overworked by her job. I watched as she bought hair-loss shampoos because her hair was falling out due to stress, and how the elves would collect every little strand, so she didn’t see a single one lying around. I watched as the elves took care of my mom when the world was too much for her, just like they always looked out for me.

My mom had an enchanted view of the world, as I would later learn in one of my university courses. Enchant ment is a theory by Charles Taylor in A Secular Age that speaks about how we view the world as believers of magic amidst the rise of scientific thinking. My mom saw the world beyond reason, into the inexplicable.

She accepted there are things bigger than whatever challenge, stress, or inconvenience we might be facing. She knew as long as we lived in the fairy tale she had built for us, she guaranteed us a happy ending. No mat ter how many bad grades, lost nights of sleep, or tricky elves we had to face along the way.

Because of her, I am an enchanted thinker. Because of her, I believe in elves.

Freeway

By Bridget Koza

Cosmic Summer

By Claudia Kindrachuk

All those sick July nights Became my favourite twisted delights. Starship Nostalgia makes them a planet To return to when I’m missing you. I ate the pomegranate And learned growing up is forgiving you.

When the black hole yawned, We became scattered planetary debris. But we were strong, Pulled back together by our own gravity and Exchanging our atoms ’Til we couldn’t tell who was who Or what happened— Amnesiac twin moons.

Jupiter can laugh cruelly, Neptune can weep crocodile tears but I still believe in you, truly— Libra’s golden scale doesn’t measure years.

The huge summer passed Like a snake swallowing the moon. A black hole, burning cold so vast, Could not destroy our sun at high noon. No, our heat was intense; in it, I nearly drowned. I came up for air, incensed, That in dangerous waters love abounds.

There is no one to blame, nor Any reason for such deep shame. It’s all just the shift and flow of energy. And despite everything, I love you endlessly.

History is a Series of Tragedies

(after This Is How You Lose The Time War)

By Izzy Siebert

When I carve another obituary on the inside of my skull, I’ll sing your name with every bloodied stroke. I already have, and I am, and I will.

See, I have lost you again and again, shreds of sky slipping through my fingers. I have studied stars, trying to turn myself Into a pomegranate seed or a golden coin to set on your dying lips.

Myths are just as true as any history— I’ve swallowed dozens in every universe. Truth told me once, “tragedy suits the taste of all authors,” And I believed her, I believed her.

But, Love, I want to carve a space out of time Where we can drink tea red as blood. I want to be the honey in your cup, But I’d settle for the sugar on your tongue.

Instead of a story, I write you a letter, So my words won’t weave an ending. I sign my love and become an ear, Straining for your echo.

Love, R.

Shadow Man

By Chloe Serenko

(This is not about a Storm)

By Kiersten Fay

The clouds hold a distressing pain I am told not to touch. I feel it regardless as it festers behind the clouds, building, splitting the earth open.

Oh, I am well-versed in thunder, knowing to count the seconds between its roars to avoid flashes of emotion. It is a threatening beauty to behold and contain.

Though, what if I were brave enough to dance through the raindrops? What if we huddled closer? Pressed ourselves tighter together? Refusing to let it part us?

open book

By Pujita Verma

We

re All Crazy After Nightfall

By Katherine Barbour

At night I go to sleep, and listen to the man who stalks the street outside my house. His screams make my window rattle like a rock smashing into a river. I visit him in my dreams, through the cobwebs of my subconscious. I join him on the curb and take his hand, under the moon’s silver searchlight. He teaches me how to tilt my head back and bare my teeth. He tells me there is always someone crazier but it’s fun to try to be the best. So he tells me to scream, to wake up the babies in their cribs. Who cares about the people behind the curtains? Scream until your throat constricts and your lungs contract in a way that feels like a heartbeat. He tells me everything I do should feel like a heartbeat. The rhythm should pound up my body in time with a song I once knew.

The man smells like sweet pungent sweat but I will never tell him. We split an orange under a streetlight’s halo, and feast until we are left sucking on crescent peels. He tells me about the time his father passed him on the street and didn’t recognize his own son in the sunburnt glare of day. I tell him I’ve only ever loved the ideas of men. That all my dance partners have been ghosts and we always sway in silence. I tell him he might be one of them.

After I wake I still feel his callouses that scraped against my palm. Still smell the zest on my skin. Still feel the bone of my teeth in the night air as he taught me to scream.

House Full of Roses

By Chloe Baird Content warning: self-harm

There was a girl who kept roses. As time passed, The leaves would wither and die, But new blossoms were sure to come.

The little girl would pick off the dead leaves, But on the roses more hidden, The thorns would cut the girl’s skin when she tried to help.

As the girl grew older, she grew braver, And would pick the dead leaves off the tricky middle roses. But life was not kind to the girl.

As her sadness deepened, The longer she tended to her roses. One day, her emotions became too strong. As the girl picked off the dead leaves, teary-eyed, The thorns sank deep into her arm. But she didn’t flinch.

In fact, she reached in further, Until her whole arm was a porcupine of thorns.

As the days go by, The girl tended to her beautiful roses, Not caring about her poor arms that got littered with scars. Her roses were thriving, And that’s all that mattered to her.

Mother Gaia

By Emma Hardy

“Mother Gaia” cardboard, construction paper, glue, wire, on wood with acrylic paint, 11” x 6” x 11.5”, 2020. This sculpture is my interpretation of Mother Earth; serene, vivacious, and colourful, with handmade origami flowers dripping from her dreadlocks. I got the inspiration for this piece while in class, while observing how one of my classmates’ dreadlocks were arranged to fall down her neck like branches. I made this sculpture entirely out of paper and paper products (other than the wooden board and glue) to stick close to the theme of nature. I named this piece “Mother Gaia” after the primordial deity Gaia who is the personification of Earth and the mother of the Titans in Greek mythology.

her sunflower

By Katherine Barbour

my mother always loved sunflowers she wanted to plant a wall of them outside our house grow a golden fence made up of gilded warriors that stood ten feet tall and drank water straight from the cloud’s mouth she wanted everything dripping in amber honey, every edge smooth sugar she refused to complain when we moved before spring could come the ground was hard and cold and shrunk in our rearview mirror but she always had me with her same tawny hair and the way I would twist and turn to face her warmth and bask in her sunlight

Sun

Eater

By Abigail Scott

The sun rests on the horizon, round and orange as the yolk of a soft-boiled egg. Season it with salt and pepper, reach out with a fork in hand and shear it in half— let it melt on your tongue. Sun-eater, night-bringer, world-ender. The ancient Egyptians thought that the sun died every night when it sank out of view: they were wrong. I swallowed it whole, and I relished it.

The bus jerks into motion again, creeping forward, and the sun disappears behind a building.

I blink.

I am still hungry.

Filthy Creatures

By Chloe Serenko

I miss the melancholia

By Palina Radzioshkina

I miss the melancholia. It busied my mind, otherwise, each day is the same and I don’t know how to cope. Waking up, I don’t have to conceal my pain or my decomposing reflection. There is nothing to hide. Now, I just see myself as the clothes, accessories, and makeup I wear. But who am I really looking at? Without the weight of sadness, I am as light as a feather.

Sitting on the little yellow couch in my therapist’s office, I glanced up at the clock before regurgitat ing my answer to yet another question.

“I feel like I move between one day and the next, and it all seems very normal, like I am functioning as I am supposed to,” I said. “Would you say you are experiencing your emotions one day at a time, letting them flow rather than internalizing them?” she asked.

“I believe it’s simpler than that. I am what they call living in the moment.”

“Does that kind of life appeal to you?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“What do you think about?”

“The constant passing of time.”

I thought of describing my state as trapped in an hourglass. As if now, each moment in my life has been reduced to a grain of sand that drops to the bottom of the transparent droplet. Such a vision of time slipping away should elicit frantic panic, but I don’t know what to do with myself. Figuring my life out is a stinging bother, like a fresh open wound. I didn’t have such pains, being a melancholic.

Later she asked when I began the journey of overcoming my depression. I couldn’t answer and decided not to return for a subsequent session. It was only my second one, but I could tell she didn’t be lieve my implied normalcy. Normal people don’t long for sadness. They experience it as a passing emotion, which is not the same thing as wishing it would never pass.

There was no elevator, only stairs in my apartment building. I was up on the third floor when I made eye contact with a descending woman wearing a floral blouse.

“Hi, Violet,” she said.

“Hi, Jane.”

I ascended the rest of the way, wanting to cry, but no tears came out. It was the result of a flicker in memory, as if Jane herself reminded me of how I used to hold back my tears in the stairwell, preferring to cry alone. I made it to the fifth floor and fished out the keys from my purse.

In the dim light, my apartment appeared smaller. Even when I was sad and wouldn’t leave my bed, I thought so. Books were stacked on the floor against the wall, next to the charging outlets. I plugged in my phone, resting it on the stack. I couldn’t remember which books I had read. They all seemed like one dragged-on plot. Walking over to the fridge, I thought of the pasta leftovers I didn’t want to eat stored in an opaque plastic container. It would take longer to cook something fresh than to wait two minutes and eat something hot. Later that night, I fell asleep after checking my alarms, one for seven twenty and another set for seven thirty-five.

While drinking my coffee the next morning, I turned on the news and muted it, only reading the headlines. I live in a bubble, one not of my own making, unless you consider it a kind of protection. I keep myself within this bubble because it is safe. But I know it can also be fatal, as I am prone to suffocation. Everything I see that is not in my immediate reality, a media frenzy about some stranger snipping human limitations like an umbilical cord, is outside of my bubble and so isn’t real. I can’t imagine someone going about their day, being photographed, and plastered on billboards. Those people seem like cartoon characters to me, drawn figments of the imagination. It’s almost impossible to fathom people going to work to kill or save lives, like my therapist, who seemed to be doing both. I just exist, here and there, and nowhere but in my bubble.

A creeping boredom of the commencing summer limbo ate away at me. The university term ended, and I didn’t yet have a job. I thought about reinstating myself as a common face among local socialites. Searching up Nadia’s name in Messenger, I read our texts from two nights ago.

“hey Nad you’ve been busy?”

“swamped but I always have time for you V!”

“should we get lunch?”

“yes! some girlfriends recommended trying this new salad bar” “let’s go friday?” It was Wednesday evening then.

“ill send you the location hold on”

Mid-text, Nadia had called me, and I had picked up. She expressed how wonderful it would be, catching up and gossiping, making it seem as though it was her idea. We settled on Friday at one in the af ternoon. I was used to girls like Nadia, where the friendship was superficial and didn’t require much upkeep. I didn’t feel socially isolated and was invited out with a recognizable crowd, not expected to share anything personal. Nadia either knew of my prior depression or didn’t pay it any attention, like a no diving sign at the public pool.

Turning off the TV, I stepped over to the sink while holding the empty coffee cup. Pouring a drop of liquid dish soap onto a sponge, I thought of what I was going to wear on the lunch date, trying on various combinations of jeans and tops in my head. Nadia praised trendy and coordinated elegance. Her face would contort at the sight of anything distasteful, as if she swallowed something rotten and was too polite to spit it out. I always maintained ostensible composure around her. Mutual friends regarded Nadia as a local fashion icon, and I often found myself scrolling through her Instagram for instruction. I hadn’t posted in a year, but she had over fifty thousand followers. Nadia was pretty, her almond-shaped face accented with bright rosy blush and framed by ashy blonde hair. There was a red tattoo on her left wrist that read believe, though I was never sure what she meant to believe in. She didn’t seem to have any confidence issues, and I figured if she was making a religious proclamation, she would use the word faith.

My phone was still in my hand, open to Nadia’s Instagram, and I focused on something she wore four months ago. I had a similar outfit. Making a mental note, I sat at the tiny white desk in my room and turned on my laptop to start compiling points for my resume. The concluding event for the university’s busi ness club was a resume-building workshop which I didn’t go to, but was sent a PDF file with their best tips. Reading over the PDF and comparing it to some online articles, most of the club’s suggestions lacked origi nality. I figured, “what do college students know about getting a job?” and deleted the file. I got ready wearing minimal makeup, a pair of black flared dress pants, and a white button-down, securing my hair away from my face with a solid black headband. Checking my phone, I still had thirty minutes of waiting. There was enough time to get unready and ready again. I sat on the bed. Sometimes I thought about being a business owner or a corporate pawn. Would I enjoy the role of operator, dictator, ad visor, or profiteer? The problem was I didn’t want any kind of standard job. I wanted to revolt against capitalism, a system in which I was either the owner of some profit-generating machine or in the assembly line. Five minutes before I had to leave, I placed my keys in my purse and checked if I had forgotten anything. It was a force of habit. I didn’t even need a purse; it was empty for the most part.

Surrounded

By Pujita Verma

Strawberry Blond

By Abigail Scott

i won’t claim that i love everybody because i love you; i won’t saddle you with that responsibility. that weight. but the sound of my name in your mouth, the warmth in your eyes when you look at me— those little things are what make all the rainy days worth enduring. and all i want, darling, is a life in your shape— so come back to bed. the car will still be there when we’re both ready to leave. come lie down next to me again in the impression you left, the green smell of crushed grass rising around us. i have a wildflower to tuck behind your ear.

Alive and Beyond

By Siddharth Maheshwari

They must be alive

Say howling winds and ion storms

Terraforming oddities, Glowing in colors I can touch Is it life that makes worlds beautiful? Or beauty that makes life? Moving, twirling, circling What but breath, gives that quality Water borne of sand Vegetation from destruction What if not tenacity of the soul Can surmount such odds?

Eternal burn to gaseous churn

Drawing cosmic breaths Of push and pull Faith, in life after When empiricism is the diametrical opposite Decadence in acceleration

We can be saved by spontaneity And the apathy of meaning Like everything outside the micro We really are just grains of sand Flitting around on the beach of life

Waterton

By Bridget Koza

i am you

By Helena Nikitopoulos

I

Feeling your body against mine wasn’t enough…

I wanted to feel your blood run through my veins Feel your ribs rub against mine Your flesh stretching

Our bones cracking In the name of love

II

You saw golden skin But I saw throbbing veins And worn-out lungs

Our only r e s e m b l a n c e | e c n a l b m e s e r

Golden Boy

By Emma Hardy

“Golden Boy”, cardboard, spray paint, found objects, 12” x 9” x 8”, 2021. This is a monochromatic assemblage sculpture made from miscellaneous found objects, inspired by Haitian assemblage art. This piece is representative of toxic masculinity. The figure in the middle has flowers growing out of its neck, which illustrates the beauty of this character’s personality that he hides behind multiple layers of protec tion and defense in the form of thumbtacks and other sharp objects. The title “Golden Boy” is indicative of the great expectations of the persona to be perfect and “manly” at all times, which unfortunately hin ders his expression of vulnerability and beauty within.

Once I was an Astronaut

By Bryn Lewis

In my dreams, I’m an astronaut. I float into the abyss on a long tether that keeps me grounded, never too far from reality. I always wondered what it would be like to snap that tether, and allow myself to drift into the unknown.

The night sky was ripe with stars, a smattering of silver specks across a canvas of midnight blue. This far out of the city, I imagined I was in an entirely different world that neighboured the one in which Earth exist ed, just on the other side of Chaos.

The tall grass around me blocked the circus from view, leaving only the golden halo of its life to guide my way. Stories and speculation circled the circus’s travels for many years, yet not one person was able to speak of what they experienced. It was indescribable, the stories would say—a place to lose yourself entirely. Good, I thought.

My feet felt heavy as I trudged through the field, the light before me growing brighter with every step. The desire to feel that weight lifted was long awaited. I believed the circus would free me because nothing else had. My concrete steps found the clearing, an expanse of space where an otherworldly essence radiated.

A grand tent stood in the centre of the carnival, glowing brighter than any other, like a lighthouse guid ing the patrons into its grasp. The rest of the circus bustled with exuberance, like branches of a tree with bright ly coloured leaves at each end. To my West, a juggler threw flaming batons with one hand and caught them with the other. To my East, a vendor shouted at passersby. He opened and closed his trench coat to present his many wares with a smile as bright as the lights around him. Each time he opened his coat, new objects appeared, some familiar while others foreign, yet no less alluring. As I walked deeper into the carnival, music began to drift above me, dancing on the wind as though it were an instrument of nature. While the music played, I watched a couple spinning each other around, their steps light and practised. I wished I could dance in such a manner, where my every care could float away, the music louder than my thoughts. I wished the circus would allow me to sink into its very essence and become one with its radical and wild spirit. I found myself guided towards the main tent, the heart to the body of the circus. The tent flaps rippled in the wind as it inhaled and exhaled the life of the performers. Inside, a ring outlined the performance space and the crowd filed around it effortlessly. High above, there were dancers swinging and spinning on beautiful silks in the colour of a sun-sunken sky. There was no net to catch them should they fall, and perhaps they did not need one. What it must be, I thought, to swing so high and free above the Earth. I could imagine myself with them, dancing higher and higher until I could reach out and touch the stars.

“Welcome, to all!”

A rather short man cried, standing in the centre of the ring. He wore a long red coat, collared and em broidered with gold stitching and buttons. His hat was black and tall and his riding boots were accented with shiny buckles. In his white gloved grip, he held a long staff decorated with golden swirls, an emerald orb in the grip of a raven’s claw at its end.

“We are delighted to have you,” he said, his voice booming throughout the tent as though the walls were made from stone. “We offer many timeless wonders here that will certainly fill many of your needs for adven ture. However, should you find yourself restricted by limits of reality and wish to explore all that the Circus Festivus has to offer, your mind may lie on a different path.”

I watched as a section of the tent across the ring split down the middle and a dark hall was revealed.

“Freedom,” the conductor shouted, “is what we offer those who visit us here. Freedom from expecta tions. Freedom from that which holds you grounded to your every day.” He spread his arms wide, the emerald orb catching the light and filling the striped tent with green speckled stars.

“Here, you are lost.”

The crowd murmured in excitement, and perhaps in fear as well. It parted for the conductor. He stepped out of the ring, thrill twinkling in his eyes as though he’d waited his whole life for this moment. At the mouth of

the dark hall, he turned and shouted, “come. Free yourselves,” and disappeared within the black.

A moment of hesitation followed his departure before groups slowly began to dissipate. Most yielded to the main exit of the tent, back to the lights and music, but I felt myself sink. It was as though the Earth below me was made from quicksand, keeping me here. The beating heart of the main tent urged me on, telling me there was more to experience. I listened to it.

The moment I stepped over the boundary between the tent and the tunnel, a wave of cool air washed over me. I lost all awareness of myself and others. My arms, legs, hands, and feet became invisible to me in the blackness. I spun back, but the light was gone. The beating heart of the Circus Festivus extinguished in the dark. I began to walk, in what direction I did not know, but my feet effortlessly carried me forward as though they knew what lay ahead. Step after step I moved on, certain I’d abandoned any other form of life, for no footsteps echoed my own.

Ahead, I noted a small speck of light. A star. I reached out my hand, so close I could feel its white heat burning into my fingertips. I stood up on my toes, one foot swinging up in the air as if that would give me the leverage I needed. My finger had just grazed the edge of the star when my heels thumped back onto the ground, and directly before me stood a figure in the dark.

A mirror with a grand frame, much taller than I, perched in the dark as though the shadows held it straight. I looked the same as I always had, but the mirror told me that didn’t have to be true. Stay, it seemed to whisper. Let us guide you, and you will be free. I tilted my head. Its voice was made from shadows and magic. I watched my reflection take a deep breath and was amazed to see stars appearing behind it in the darkness. I followed suit, and more lights winked into existence, as though I were infusing myself with the peace the circus offered me.

Stay, I considered.

Stay, my reflection whispered.

I felt a small tug on my back, something calling out to me from behind. I twisted around to see nothing but blackness. A stronger, more incessant tug came again, this time yanking me hard off my feet. I fell back, waiting for the hard edge of the mirror to bite into my skin as I shattered its glass and ripped its frame, but no such feeling came.

I opened my eyes and saw I was swimming in a new kind of darkness. This abyss was cold and hard, the space before me endless. I reached out before me towards the green, blue, and white marble that floated in the black. Its existence was so prominent it seemed as though it were an image cut and pasted onto a pitch black canvas. My hands, gliding into my view, were covered in thick white gloves. I wiggled my fingers to make sure it was my hand I saw. My body was covered with a white suit, puffed up with the oxygen which kept me from suffocating outside the atmosphere. The world below looked so close, and yet I could not reach it. I swung my legs wildly, trying to kick myself towards Earth, but my feet had left the ground. That which felt so heavy mo ments ago now hung uselessly below me. The world that once clung to my legs with such suffocating force let me float away into space without a second thought.

Where excitement had gripped me previously, I was now filled with fear.

Take me back, I willed the circus.

Freedom, the conductor’s charming voice said from behind the stars, is what we offer those who choose to visit us here. Freedom from expectations. Freedom from that which holds you grounded to your every day. I don’t want this kind of freedom.

Too bad.

I used to dream I was an astronaut.

Art Students by Thames River

By Jack Cocker

white blanket

By Jules Lee

it was the time of snowy footprints and foggy street lights, a bittersweet drink, a sprinkle of cinnamon, your name at the bottom of every tea i drank. we went for a walk on the first fall of snow and i swore that despite my shivering hands, my heart was warm. we stood under the winter sky, snow in our eyelashes. i blinked for a second, maybe two, and opened them to my childhood living room. the sound of the christmas radio station, my mother’s oatmeal cookies, and the ghost of my father’s mistakes.

fourteen hours away, i thought of you and the place you grew up. an unforgiving city, your candlelit complex. you were the type of person to kiss the road before it turned to a blanket of white. it was the time of cold night longings and wintery regrets, a tinfoil token of all the decembers spent not knowing you.

The Dullest Star

By Gray Brogden

Barely visible in the night sky, it tries and tries to shine.

Its twinkle is barely discernible, and it shimmers just the slightest amount.

It is hidden somewhere deep within the milky way, and is never noticed through telescopes. The astronomers pay it no attention. The astronaut has more important things on his mind. Still, it tries and tries to shine.