Symposium Fall 2020

SYMPOSIUM

AN ARTS AND HUMANITIES STUDENTS’ COUNCIL PUBLICATION

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Dear readers and writers, Thank you for taking the time to open this publication—whether it’s a physical copy in your hands or you’re reading it online; whether you’re in London or abroad.

We hope these stories inspire you.

2020 will be remembered for a lot of things, but between these pages, I want 2020 to be remembered for its stories. I want 2020 to be remembered for the voices of writers like you. While this year has distanced us physically, we have come together under one goal: the love of writing. This is the year of the creative. To everyone who submitted their work, thank you for sharing your stories with us. Finally, thank you to the publications team whose hard work allowed Symposium and Semicolon to come together.

With care, Courtney Ward-Zbeetnoff Editor-in-Chief

WHAT WE’RE ABOUT Symposium is made up of a collection of short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry that are original, inventive, well-written, and allow for a variety of personal interpretations. Symposium accepts creative work from any Arts and Humanities undergraduate student within the University of Western Ontario.

Symposium and Semicolon are published bi-annually by the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council of the University of Western Ontario. The Publications Team would like to thank the students who submitted their creative works, and the rest of the Publications Committee who volunteered for the creative review board.

To view previous editions or for more information about Symposium, please contact the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council in Room 2135 in the University College Building. Publications can be viewed virtually at issuu.com/ahscpubs.

Editor-in-Chief: Courtney Ward-Zbeetnoff Academic Managing Editor: Kaitlyn Lonnee Creative Managing Editor: Neha Khoral Copy Editor: Britney Forget Layout Editor: Cherin Chung

The Chronicles of Migration Through the Valley of Light By: Tia Bates

Dark Longing By: Finn Rose You are not allowed boats. It’s not The Rule, nothing recorded, but it’s something unspoken you must follow. To most this is a non-issue; after all, the good ones have no need for them, fish are netted from the shores and the rest of your life takes place deep inside the island. The elders in charge had discussed putting up walls in the early days, when the night was darkest and the quietest - and loudest - slipped into it, sometimes with warning, often without. Eventually, the elders learned the correct phrases to preach, learned the signs of Dark Longing, and walls were deemed unnecessary, letting the view remain uncensored as the waters flow off the edge into Nothing. Or so it’s said, only those with Dark Longing know, and they are never seen once given into the Longing. Boats aren’t allowed because you will go into Nothing, and that is the real Rule; do not enter Nothing.

Inside, the island is phantoms beyond human imagination; understandable, humans exist only in yellowed parchments in the records room, present since light opened your eyes. The Creator keeps Nothing below you, your gardens bountiful, animals healthy, and island blissful. “Our life is perfect,” their sermons insist, “there’s nothing to want that The Creator doesn’t provide.” Few speak of the ever-present edge of the world, the idea of what lay beyond erased from daily wonderings. It’s a good life, eternal as it is, and the price isn’t questioned, small as it is.

The collar is an extension of one’s self, it’s explained to the new ones that appear in craters at sunrise, confusedly scratching the itch of the pure silver band around their throats. Collars are like hair, they say, though it’s a weak metaphor; hair needs tending and trimming; the collars do not dull or dirty, shining even in dark. Collars make you The Creator’s, above humans with their weak, bare throats, and animals, some with no necks at all. They don’t tell the new ones the itching never stops. They make balms of soothing words that didn’t exist before the Night Longing was tamed. Some get rashes along their throats from the itching. Those that may hope of altering the greatest gift are watched closely. You learn to brush your hair every time you ache to scratch.

One morning, someone is gone. The news sweeps over the island like heavenly fire. They were the first in three hundred years; the elders take it personally.

You survey the shore with dozens, looking (praying) for a clue. The sea turtles on the eastern shore are missing their largest member; the whole family is slaughtered before the sun reaches its peak.

To even think of building a boat is dangerous, to go through with it, impossible. Yet there’s a promise in Nothing, a whispering of bared throats free of burning.

The whispers began with the elders themselves, before realizing their condemning of broken collars didn’t sound as they wished. Later they alter their lessons, insisting the broken halves of the collar are embedded in the skull, killing free will. You are as old as the elders, you know they’re lying. You don’t know to what extent. Hundreds of years pass, years of choking on fire and brushing your hair, of knowing but not doing, and you are so goddamn angry one night you tug at the collar until your fingers snap. They heal in minutes and you tug again - snap again - until the sun rises.

There’s one hundred more years of preparation. You cannot be too cautious gathering supplies and knowledge. Animalistic fear has not plagued you since you opened your eyes thousands of years ago, it follows you now with paranoia. If you could die, the stress of those one hundred years would have slain you. There are no writings on boats, no paintings or sculptures, not a single clue of what they look like. The night waters swirling against the rocks tell you what they know - they are lonely too. One hundred years later you are thankful for your inhuman strength as you carry your boat to the shore. You scratch with abandon as you walk. Blood flows down your clothes, coating your hands. You eagerly wait for the wounds to heal to open your throat again. Your last mark will be your bloody footsteps from doorway to beach. It feels amazing. There is no moon, no stars. They do not bless this pilgrimage. The night waters, however, call to you loudly, too loudly. A torch in the distance is the first warning, a shout at newfound blood. One hundred years of preparation won’t go to waste. You don’t know how to swim, no one does; you throw yourself into the waters, boat in hand. They can only enter the waters as far as they can stand. The waters are on your side, grasping your boat with possessive hands, already beginning to deliver you. The torches miss by inches. You have been alive so terribly, boringly long, yet those mere minutes of panic are the longest centuries of your life. As you escape, they scream and cry, swords threatening to burn the island down and you feel nothing. Your send-off party is dyed red in the water - your throat carries your blood behind you like a comet tail, the second last connection between you and them.

The edge is not quiet as it gathers you nearer. Why you assumed it would be you don’t know, nor do you know if Nothing is screaming or laughing, you’ve heard so little of either in so long. Some part of you tells you to be afraid, to still listen to the elders. There is blood on your clothes, your hands, your boat. You have spent the last hundred, thousand, millions of years afraid. Your collar weighs on you as it always has, would have always. Before the boat can tip, you jump, one hand on your collar, one reaching into Nothing.

Marian Devotions By: Kathleen Roffey halo headed eyes dripping did i call to you? have you come for me weeping? with borrowed faces our divine duality fixed in steadfast mourning i think i love you now i know i love you now through this mimicry of devotion haunted as you are holy as you are your opacity still astounds me you, with hands reaching through you, with mouth open silent scream i look into you see your transfiguration and mine in the pitch dark we conspire together know together what it means to be a vessel to be a passing ship to be a conjuring dream

I & They By: Michelle Sadorsky I excavated artifacts, Unlocked years of knowledge, Captured an old language But they thought it abstract.

I brought unity to the populi, Told stories with meaning Counted Scripts of reasoning But it was division they would ratify.

I wanted to be Great, to soar.

So, I sang dynasties, imposed monarchies.

Ruled empires and governed democracies.

But they hungered for more.

I sought change and new beginnings, Yelled up at the earth and to the stars below: “We matter!”

Many believed. Strived to grow.

But they only jeered: “Such idle chatter!”

I glowed with peace and order, Put my warmth to pen and paper Spoke of dazzling rights and inky errors, But they beamed at civil and war.

I found knowledge. They abstracted it.

I brought unity. They divided it.

I crooned greatness. They clawed at it.

I sought new dawns. They evaded it.

I shone with peace. They blotted it.

But I and they Are one and the same Looking through the same glass, An antique, candid glass.

Theirs is chipped, but so is mine Look now, I pray.

We have a name.

A good name, a bad name, A vexing name, a modest name.

We call that name Our Human name.

Unknown By: Rylee Loucks trying so hard to stick with it I aid their perception as they strip me of mine warned him about his behaviour offered an apology for his it is a sin to write this as if we were speaking alone to no ears but our own I see the curious rapid change of the light and shade that shadow; my likeness. the worst moments are when I’ve lost all feeling of identity start seeing my exact being in everyone else. it’s only a matter of time before you get caught again everybody eventually gets caught the walls are cracked, and water runs upon them in thin threads without sound, black and glistening as blood it is dark here. it all seems beautiful to me you built it, or though, it has been built for you building on a negative behaviour and nurturing it to be something more sinister not evil, not healthy. ordered he have no weapons, for the rest of his life lectured by a judge about his future it is a fearful word, alone we think that there are mysteries in the sky and under the water and in the plants which grow of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching be it as if I were with you in being true to myself whether conventional or nonconventional

sentence of two years less one day the reason for his addiction our hand groping along the iron line to see where it would head our eyes become used to the darkness, but we could not believe what we saw I that was invisible am became invisible I know all and expose it I will only exist in this plane for so long to always experience 6 am on May 25th you will never get off the radar in the darkness, in the secret hour, when we awoke in the night we closed our eyes and we held our lips shout, and we stopped our breath the efflux of the soul comes from within through empower’d gates in the darkness why are they? while they are nigh me the sunlight expands my blood? then came the day when the sky turned white, as if the sun had burst and spread its flame if it be death, we shall die My spirit has pass’d in compassion and determination around the whole earth I have look’d for equals and lovers and found them ready for me in all lands and they would destroy us and our light we looked upon them and we laughed out of the dark confinement! out from behind the screen I see the place of the idea of the Deity incarnated by avatars in human forms My soul vibrated back to me.

Are you afraid?

Works Cited Gamble, Susan. “Drug Dealer Sent to Prison”. The Expositor: 15 January 2019.

Loucks, Rylee. Meditation Journal Entry. 8 January 2019.

Rand, Ayn. Anthem. www.gutenberg.org: Ebook. 1938.

Whitman, Walt. Leaves of Grass. www.gutenberg.org: Ebook. 1855.

Artist Statement: Rylee wanted to write something that gave the opinion of a contemplation of life and our perception of death as we get older. This contemplation works through the poem because it is an existentialism and self-reflection as well as it’s imposing thought onto the reader and causing them to be introspective of their own perception of aging. Rylee has incorporated stanza’s while forgoing the traditional senses of rhyme. Her first thought while creating this was to write down lines and stanzas from the pieces she borrowed from and then create from what she liked. As a result, Rylee feels connected to this poem because of the way she was able to connect her own meditative thought to the other pieces and definitely found this to be an effective form of self-expression just as writing with solely her own content would have been.

Spice And Dust By: Isabella Elias

I was trying to process the fact that I almost got engaged today. My friends were probably waking up hungover after the party they went to last night. Maybe waking up with the boys they flirted with. Most likely struggling through breakfast while saying I swear I’m never drinking again. I wished I was with them but I’m on the other side of the world and I know my mom’s looking for me, and I know she’s disappointed. Don’t you want to make your grandparents happy? Do you want to go on like this forever?

An hour ago, I was in my grandparents’ backyard. I sat under the giant canopy, and socialized with their guests. Or at least I tried to. We ate rice and curry on banana leaves while they asked me what are you studying in university? and I said English Literature and they offered me a judgmental-but-polite nod, and said so you want to be a teacher and I lied and said yes that’s exactly what I want in the best broken Malayalam I could muster.

When I felt like they approved of this version of me, I left. There was a Thing in my throat asking me for attention but I swallowed it down, because I’m in India and it’s so green and beautiful. I didn’t want to think of anything else.

I climbed up to the terrace to be alone. I watched the sun setting behind the thousands of palm trees that filled up the distance between us. That’s something I love about Kerala. Nature overflows on land, and the people just live in it. The air smelled warm and tropical, with a hint of spice and dust. Now is not the right time to have a breakdown.

I checked my phone and saw four long paragraphs from my friend and she’s mad at me for something I didn’t know about. But now is not the right time for a breakdown.

My mom said there you are, I was looking for you everywhere as she climbed up the stairs towards me. She looked beautiful in her vibrant pink sari. Her dark hair adorned with jasmine flowers. Her gold jewelry glimmered in the orange of the sunset. She smiled, and I knew she was going to ask me for something, and the Thing in my throat kept clawing.

I knew what was coming. There was something about it that reminded me of the last time we came to India, ten years ago, for a visit that lasted months. When my parents told me that they were considering abandoning my life in Canada so that we can build a new one in India forever. I felt so much dread that it came bursting out of my ten-year-old body and onto the hardwood floor. I rolled around sobbing, telling them you can’t do that to me! while the lizard on the ceiling finally ate the bug it was eyeing, and the chants grew louder from the temple nearby, and a train whistle blew in the distance, and my parents said be

quiet, you don’t get to make these kinds of decisions.

My mom said remember the man I told you about? His family wants to offer you a proposal. The inside of my body went aflame. I said I already told you I’m not getting married. Not for years. Not through an arranged marriage and she asked well, are there any other men in your life?

The first person I thought of was the old man in my Instagram dm’s asking me to be his sugar baby. The second person I thought of was the guy I’ve been talking to for months. And it’s not that I don’t like him. He’s cute and he laughs at my jokes sometimes. In most of our conversations, he talks about his problems, and I listen for hours while occasionally offering him advice. He says he thinks he’s in love with me, even though he doesn’t try to know me. I go along with it because someone thinks they love me, and an internal part of me wanted his approval, even if it isn’t real. Even when I know he’s not what I want.

I said I don’t want to meet this guy or his family. She said just think about how your grandparents feel. It’s their wish to see you married before they pass.

The Thing ripped out through my throat. “That’s not my problem.”

She looked disappointed in me. Really disappointed. And usually I’d feel so guilty about it, but this time it felt more like anger.

“They came all the way here to see you, and if you reject him, he’ll feel bad.

Just see how it goes.” She said.

The panic was overwhelming.

“I’m not trying to make him feel bad, but I really don’t want to do this.

Please don’t make me.”

My voice cracked and the panic was rising and she sighed, “I just want to see you happy. I got married when I was your age—” “And how did that turn out?”

I knew I stepped too far.

I said “If you push this, my relationship with you will be ruined forever.”

She looked like she’s been stung and I felt really awful but now is not the right time for a breakdown. The sun was setting and I had to get out of there.

I got to the beach just in time to watch the red sun bleed into the horizon.

I felt the adrenaline still coursing through me. What if I just did what I wanted?

Just said what I fucking wanted? Take responsibility for your own happiness, or whatever those philosophers said.

Before I knew it, I picked up my phone. I texted my friend we both know this friendship is over, so let’s go our own ways and I texted the guy I was talking to you’re cool but I don’t see anything working out between us romantically. For good measure, I texted the group chat back home I miss you and love you guys,

I turned off my phone and decided looking at everyone’s responses is a problem for future-me. I took a seat on one of the giant rocks, and a few deep breaths, slow like the waves that washed up against them. In the distance, I can see the silhouettes of fishermen on their boats coming home from their day on the sea, while crows cried up overhead. The aroma of it all was enticing. The sunset sky was so all-consuming that I felt like I was a part of something greater than myself. As if I was just as integral to the Earth as much as the seashells and the sand and the palm trees and the salty air. The Thing was gone, and I felt just as grand as the sun. And then the breakdown began.

Spider Women By: Rylee Loucks natural, living things are sacred. left ravaged depleted life that is sustained; inability to experience empathy frowned upon demonstrate a need to act the femme fatale where they exist in control of herself she demands attention. human; imagine that she is human femme fatale; the woman. her motives are pure she is far from the typical image she is successful and he cannot kill her the thing standing in the way from achieving his own goals the threat she plays capable of something humans exploit beauty takes great pride and joy seeing it pulled apart everything you have been told is a lie.

Peace and other drugs: femininity, mental illness, and the curse of being both By: Eva Alie Hello _____, I understand that Eva has had a challenging semester with her mental health, especially after the election, but I am having difficulty accommodating her academic requests as I saw her at a USC event and she seemed fine – please make sure that she is prioritizing her school rather than her social agenda.

Best, ______ that was an email my therapist received from an academic counsellor a mere 12 days after Bell Let’s Talk Day. i am destined to not win – i am too sad, too happy, too social, too withdrawn, too outspoken, too complacent. too much. i had just won a campus wide election in which my sexual history and experiences of rape become public fodder online, strangers picking apart the pictures i posted, the outfits i wore, even the way i spoke. i was “too dramatic” with my focus on mental health and “sexist” for challenging hetero men to hold each other to a higher standard in regard to misogyny. for three weeks, i watched the comments flood in. strangers, scorned exes, and friends i had trusted could agree only on one thing: i was a dumb bimbo who needed to be taught a lesson. i learned that everything i was and stood for was going to both take me where i belonged and make the path on the way there an absolute hell. i cannot forget a class two weeks later in which my professor nonchalantly explained how mental illness was a disability and the ways in which women have been seen as failures if they admit that their minds are any less than the yellow-brick-road-fantasy of joy that we are taught to expect of ourselves and each other; i cried afterwards for two hours in the first-floor bathroom in Talbot College. i felt understood when i didn’t know i had been misunderstood. i also felt like a statistic, a stereotype of every woman who has been mocked for being passionate, discarded for being sad. it had been an expectation from the day that i was born that i, like all the others, was to be a happy little girl. isn’t it funny how the words we use to punish women for their mental illnesses have evolved? victorian era scientists called it female hysteria and modern men label it as just being a psycho bitch, but when you boil down their words, they are all saying the same thing: you are not an acceptable iteration of what it means to be a person, especially a woman. fix yourself for you are broken. they sold me my illness, blamed me for buying it, and now

want none of the credit for their work. the lines of my autonomy are blurred, and the soft parting of my mouth has been sealed shut, for they are threats to the idea that i cannot experience the disability of mental illness and be an equal member of this campus or culture. i am torn between the folds of my mind being steeped in the dull fading of depression, and being swept away by the expectations of what a “good” woman should be. we villainize the differences we see and fear the ones that we cannot. I am a woman with strong opinions who refuses to shut up, and it infuriates those who would have had me become a fragile and submissive version of myself; I revel in your steeped disdain.

How to Eat an Elephant By: Mackenzie Emberley My therapist says to start small. Apparently, you eat an elephant one bite at a time. I was under the impression that you don’t eat elephants at all because that’s cruel. He said that what’s even crueler is letting yourself starve, especially when the last bite tastes so good and the first bite tastes so necessary. Apparently, necessity has a taste.

I’ve come to realize that it tastes exactly like what you think an elephant would taste like. It’s tough, chewy, and it’s dripping with viscous nerves that electrocute your tongue when you try to swallow. The first bite never wants to go down because then your body needs to deal with it. You need to break it down, mull it over, squish it and poke it until you can move on. Perhaps that first bite is too big.

This is me starting smaller.

Starting smaller.

Smaller.

Small.

That’s perfect. This will be my starting point. Just one word. Maybe that word is red, or sky, or legs, or hi. Okay slow down. Hi. Next, he says to take another bite. This one tastes just as leathery and wrinkled. It gets stuck in your teeth or drips off your chin, but most of it goes down. He says to breathe in between bites or else you’ll choke. It doesn’t have to be huge; it doesn’t have to be good. It’s not supposed to taste good remember because necessity is as bitter as molasses and just as sticky.

The second bite is a little bit bigger.

A little bit bigger Bit bigger.

Smile a bit bigger and say ‘cheese’ because it’s time for the picture. It’s

fine if the picture is blurred or off centered. For some it might look like a red drop on a simple white background. For others, it looks like a rope bridge, but you can’t be sure. Maybe your picture is hand-drawn in the style of your favourite cartoon. It wobbles in and out of reality until those hairy legs and pincers look almost funny.

My picture is mind-drawn. Imagination isn’t so scary when escape is just a thought away, no passport required. I picture it in my mind: The voices, the smiles, the social cues.

It’s getting easier, you tell yourself. Even if that’s a lie, it helps you with the next bites. There’s less of this beast on your plate, but you’re getting full, you don’t know how much more you can eat. He says we can stop for the day, and eat the leftovers later. So that’s what you do. You give yourself time to digest and try again tomorrow, whatever tomorrow means for you. Elephants probably don’t understand the concept of time anyway.

Tomorrow is the day for trying again and getting closer to the end.

Trying again and getting closer to the end.

Now it gets harder as you go deeper into the meal. The bones are dense, and the muscles are thick. It’s scary. You trudge through the animal’s lungs, hoping to take some of its remaining stale air as your own. We all have different elephants, with different textures to squish our forks into. Perhaps that texture is the feeling of warm blood that blooms like a flower on your arm. It could be the feeling of wind pulling your cheeks away from your teeth as you stand at the top of a hill. Maybe it’s the flesh-tingling sensation of hairy steps on your palm. For me, it’s the heat in my cheeks, the eyes like telescopes that analyse my actions. It’s always feeling like people jot down my mistakes. It’s the marathon of worries that run in my head whenever I say my opinion. But in reality, it’s just another person with a similar set of worries and fears. It’s not an elephant, but if it were, it couldn’t be eaten in a day.

It needs to be eaten slowly, one mouthful at a time until the last bite is gone.

A Gardeners Guide to Not Giving Up By: Augustine Mendes The earth screams below my feet, every dark thing crawling beneath me wails as I take another step. This ground is unfamiliar, but it is steeped in blood, just like home. I weep softly, cradle the droplets in my palms, careful not to water the foreign soil with my enemy tears. They burned my jungle back home, they said it would make the dirt better, whole villages swallowed to make room for alien crops.

A concrete jungle, sprawls of grey space to cover the dirt, whole villages swallowed to hide the aliens. Their armies marched on Mumbai, today another brown boy is

returned to the ground, their armies put him there you know. I watch as the dust settles, I know that I have settled, there are nations that stood here before me.

White men have grown deaf to the laments of the land, their version of landback is to put the children back in the land. We the scorned, us with earth toned bodies, those who came from clay and sod, we will arise from their fields. Crack their concrete with our fingers, tonight they will hear the earth scream.

I AM FORBIDDEN By: Cassy Player He reaches for the glass of wine on the table between us.

With a cigarette in his other hand, he waves like he’s swatting away a fly, it’s Haram, he says – a word he frequently repeats to me.

My shoulders slump in defeat because he doesn’t mention the baby’s heartbeat.

Instead, he scratches his words above my heart using only his finger nails on my skin, if you really love me…

I want to wrap my hands around his neck but I’m too late.

His mother’s hands were already there, you’ll have an abortion.

A Valediction By: Liam Waterman Addressed to the one I love.

In four AM darkness I left you. I slipped out into the hallway, past your room, and floated up the stairs into the night. With the world silent and asleep, I crept down the road. I saw the shadow of our front door, the blank windows of empty houses and worn pavement, and heard the muffled sounds of cars speeding by.

Under the glow of the streetlights, I made my way to the bus stop. It was snowing, just barely, little flakes falling faintly through me, on to the still ground. I made

no depression in their thin white cover, instead I looked back on the path of perfect serenity, still undisturbed by morning walkers. I held a ticket in my freezing hand, I thumbed it back and forth. I held on. It was still dark when I ascended the steps onto the bus, still quiet when I set down my bag and took my seat. There was no one else there, my only living companions the driver, and that little world outside the square window.

Everything seems so different now. Imposing high rises and run-down stores become silent monoliths, guardians, friends. Daylight brings rough edges, the look of worn bricks, worn people. Let the world stay dark. I study the city streets, I count the dotted white lines, the road signs. Cars pass, and I pretend that they are empty.

Silent grey and black, the light will stay away, if dawn never comes.

You may worry, but know that I am not alone. There are other ghosts here with me. This one is David, this other one is Matthew. I met David in a book; he wears a fantastic red coat with gold trim. We have conversations at length, and he whispers words into my ear. He told me that I may not exist, that this world that I look out on may also not exist. Custom and habit hold us together; but why should the sun rise tomorrow morning at all? No answer. Henry is here too; he holds my hand, and he leads me down to the river, where no one ever goes. He takes me boating in the starlight, he holds the oars. I dip my hand in the cool water, I see the blurred outlines of reeds, and tree branches extending off of the shore. A lily flower brushes my fingers, he slows down so I can hold its petals softly. Where is that city now? Like a dream, I forgot that it ever was real, it fades into memory, from memory into nothing. Those things we do, the things we say; what did they ever really mean?

The bus is leaving the city now. I see bare forests, empty fields covered in snow. I’ve been up all night, and tired, I incline to sleep, with my eyes open, still staring out the tiny window.

A lonely mailbox, a lamp post, A broken fence. These things lie Just beyond my vision, the edge Of the road barren and empty.

I wrote a message on the glass, I held my hands in my pockets.

I thought, I forgot the way you looked At me as if I were nothing.

Matthew’s voice echoes in my ear:

He tells me that the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, Has really neither love, nor light, Nor peace, nor certitude, nor trust, Nor help for pain.

And here we stand; do you see The traditions that we cherish Out there in the snow, and the night?

I see nothing but my own face, Reflected back to me.

I used to wait by your door. I went to work, like everyone else; I existed, perceived, and was perceived. Bound by norms and obligations, I followed a path laid in by a million footprints. It led back to our house, then out again. On one clear night I had the idea to follow it, and I found that it led into the future. On either side there were fires and broken branches, framed by upside down swords which sunk into the wet earth. A truly well worn path it was, it was trod in so deep that its edges blocked all sight, and its bottom gradually descended until it gave way, and I fell out of the world.

Drifting, falling.

I am not here.

Rather, I am walking through a dark forest; Stars above me, I carry A bright crescent moon on a string.

I am jolted awake by a bump in the road, and my head taps the window frame. It’s still dark out, but the snow has stopped, and the stars are beginning to emerge, one by one. I will make my way to Henry’s pond, to the river; I will live in the company of natural objects, as a poor misanthrope, and most melancholy man.

I can’t hold your hand anymore, or whisper poetry in your ear, or count your eyelashes. I wanted to write you this letter, when I was on that bus ride. I wanted to keep it short and meaningful. Two sentences is all I wanted you to have, for you are ever dearest to me, and our love does not require many words. Listen:

My love.

I have broken free.

Illusion By: Bridget Koza

Music For An Estranged Friend By: Angelina Havaris Opus. 20, No. 1 The friend who faded over distance: You and I are like two hands at the piano Playing scales in contrary motion Moving in opposite direction of each other Once, we would’ve been playing together Ascending and descending the keys to the metronome of time But now the notes between us speak louder than the music that we once made

Opus. 20, No. 2 The friend from the fallout: What started out soft gradually became a crescendo Rising and falling as tensions renewed As we struck each other’s chords We failed to find the rhythm that we had before Dissonance, the only thing between us now Looking back, I wish I’d kept my feelings under control Instead however, I let my song overpower yours until our time together reached a coda

Opus. 20, No 3 The friend I think about every now and then: On the rare occasion that I choose to sit down And relive our time as friends It’s a song I can play from memory Closing my eyes, I know this part Like how I once knew you At some point though, I hit a measure I can’t recall Try as I might, at the end of the day, I still forget that you were ever there at all

But That’s Crazy By: Asia Porcu Here is what I imagine: I am in the shower, alone, And there is a person outside. Watching me.

I know they’re there, I want them there.

I press myself against the door, The barest touch Of my bottom lip, Pushing pink - and then white, against the glossy sheen of droplet-painted glass.

Then they step inside.

What do they look like?

It doesn’t matter. A big nose. I’ve always liked big noses.

And I like legs, Thick legs, Muscular legs.

And waists and hips.

The area right above the hip - where the waist meets it. I’ve always liked that.

The water hits them with a sound like static, and then we kiss.

I adore kissing. I like how it brings you in closer to one another.

Their hands will be full of me, I want them to get tangled in my hair, I want them to be breathless.

Then-

If it’s a man?

If it’s a man, he’ll pull me against him, he’ll want That closeness, Especially below

The waist.

The kissing will be hard, he’ll leave fingerprints against my skin.

Our legs will intertwine, and my back will be flush against The shower wall.

Then he’ll turn me around and -

And I’m there for it.

I am absolute, I am necessary.

They cling to me Like I’m pulling them from storm torn waters, a saviour.

And they will want it.

If it’s a woman?

Me. And not just my body, But also the shape of me, the sound of me, the taste and touch.

If it’s a woman, she’ll pull me against her, she’ll want That closeness.

My hands will go to her chest, to her legs, to Her waist.

We’ll move with a rhythm like a heartbeat.

I’ll press her back against The shower wall.

And my hand will dip between her legs, And the softness of her inner thigh And her lips will part with a gasp as I-

That’s different than I thought.

It’s more of the same.

What I really want Is to feel it: The way they can’t let me goCan’t separate themselves from me, Until they have that moment Of clear-headed, Pristine, Untouchable Pleasure.

And at the end, I imagine they want me even closer.

Until I can only feel them, And their shaking breath against my neck.

My Mediocre View By: Matthew Simic Fortune fades with the wipe of a windshield, Such greatness erased with the press of a button.

And today came but sure took its time leaving, But now, As they say, “It is late.”

I wish there was a name for this feeling, I feel it up through the ceiling and in the floors.

The window reminding me that we’re all still here.

Cars pass by and hiss their twilight lullaby A dismal choir fills the room.

The concrete blows me kisses goodnight.

As I sink and tighten I realize, This house was never really my friend.

I hear the embryos of thunder to the distant right.

I’ll fall asleep to rain again— I wish there was a name for this feeling.

Steady Hands By: Matthew Simic Steady hands to hold your soul, But never to seclude.

Sing me songs meant to console, And keep my thoughts subdued.

Water Lunged By: Matthew Simic I stand on shores of divine love with a sea on either side.

Waiting for that Full Moon glow to pull with it the tide.

this is what the MADD presentation told me to do– were you not watching?

By: Francesca DeNoble You’re seventeen and at a barn party with the same kids you’ve been going to school with since kindergarten. It’s cold and your only semblance of warmth is coming from your half-empty mickey of Smirnoff when the door opens and a handful of guys you’ve never seen before walk in. Heads turn – there’s a collective register that they’re not from around here, but you’re finally at a good buzz and don’t care to share the girls’ excitement about the hot new blond.

Until eventually, when the room begins to empty and you’re feeling bold, you do.

You and Claire walk over. You introduce yourselves. You start talking hockey because apparently that’s why they’re here and you both play for the school team and well, you’re just not like other girls. The boys play for the Junior team crafted of international athletes and are as close to excitement as you’ll get in this town. The leader of the pack introduces himself – Ruskin – and oh, now you get it. He’s British.

And the textbook definition of conventionally attractive. But he’s not the one that caught your eye.

No, the one that caught your eye rocked a buzzcut and a mess of tattoos and, let’s be honest, looked like a total asshole. He was the captain of the team, the dancer and the jokester. He was very on brand for you.

You introduce yourself, again. And as Hayden tells you about his life, about the little sister he left back home and what Calgary’s like and what his tattoos mean, you think to yourself, huh. Granted, he’s wasted, but his face has lightened up with a smile that makes you forget where you are. It falters when Ruskin sticks his head in to interrupt. “We should leave,” “No thanks.”

You catch a muscle in Ruskin’s jaw twitch but don’t think about it. A friendly disagreement between the team captain and the guy who doesn’t wear a letter on his jersey and spends too much time in the penalty box.

“We have a game tomorrow and you’re drunk,” Ruskin turns to you. “I need your help to get him out. Will you ask him to walk you to your car? He’ll do it for you,” You like the implications of that. You’re high on the attention. Claire meets your eyes from where she sits across the barn with her ex and you motion you’ll

return in a few minutes before leaving with the boys and a girl that’s hanging off one of their arms like a leech.

Hayden doesn’t notice when you walk not to your non-existent car, but to his own parked on the street. The moon makes up for the absence of streetlights as you stand there talking, flirting. Time doesn’t exist as the boy you just met pulls you close and points out constellations in the sky. “Will I see you tomorrow?” He wraps you in a hug that lifts your feet off the ground. Holy shit, you think. I’m in love.

And then he pulls his keys from his pocket and opens the driver’s side door.

You blink as though you saw it wrong. “What’re you doing?”

“Driving,” “No, you’re not,” You spin around to the others, instantly sober and on the verge of panicking. “No, he’s not.”

Ruskin steps forward. Yes, you think, he’s going to stop him. Instead, he places a hand on your shoulder – “It’s okay, Hayden does this all the time” – and you jerk back. Notice that the others wear similarly blank expressions. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut at the realization that you’re going to have to do this alone.

You don’t start screaming until everything else fails. You’re reaching through his window to keep him from leaving, trying to joke with him, seduce him. You tell him you’ll pay for his cab, that you’ll take him home with you. You bring up his sister, ask him how she’d feel about receiving a phone call informing her of her brother’s death. You can see his patience failing, his jaw setting. He’s getting angry.

You shout, getting in his face. You’re hysterical now, crying, and everyone around you is so calm you start to question whether or not you’re overreacting.

And then Claire calls your name, emerging from the dark with fear in her voice because all she knows is that you walked out with a group of boys and now, you’re screaming.

Then it’s the two of your crawling through Hayden’s back seat and trying to rip the keys from the ignition. People leave the party. Nobody steps in. Everyone watches though, taking in the two frantic girls getting physical with a boy twice their size. You’re furious. Everyone’s an idiot.

Hayden gets aggressive. Finally – finally – his teammates step in. He tosses one around by the collar of his shirt, the fabric ripping, but doesn’t throw a punch.

Everyone’s waiting for the punch. You get in his way again, trying to block him from getting in the car. His hands are flying, near misses for you and Claire. You’re being stupid, provocative, but you almost want him to do it so someone will step in and this ridiculous night will come to an end.

But he just gets back in the driver’s seat. You reach for the door but Ruskin wraps an arm around your middle and yanks you back as the car jerks forward.

“Go after him!” you scream, but they don’t move. They squirm under your gaze; defeated, guilty.

Claire dials 911. Your eyes meet Ruskin’s as you feed her information, his expression pleading. You don’t care. You tell them to leave before the cops arrive and they do.

Claire’s ex steps forward to take her hand and you blink. You’d forgotten he was there. He’d done nothing. He’d let you jump into the fray – let her jump into the fray.

The cops arrive and tell you both you’ve done a good thing, but how can that be true when he still got away? You feel sick and angry. They tell you there’s a Ride Program out tonight – they’ll catch him.

You knew that they wouldn’t.

You, Claire, and the ex pile into a cab. You sit up front with the driver so she can comfort him because he is shaking as though he actually helped.

Your hands form fists in your lap.

We did a good thing, you and Claire tell each other. We did the right thing.

But nothing comes of it. You wake up and check the news, expecting an arrest or, worse, an accident. Nothing.

When your mother asks why she heard you enter the house well past 4:00 AM, you tell her what happened. It almost feels like you’re lying, that the things that take place between the hours of two and four in the morning don’t actually exist in this world.

You go to the game that evening. You feel like a fool but you’re grappling with the reality of the situation and are telling yourself that if you can just see their faces, see the guilt in their eyes, then you’ll know you’ve done a good thing.

Three of them sit in the stands dressed in button downs and ties. Only one ducks his head and refuses to meet your gaze. The other two barely acknowledge you.

At some point in the game, Hayden receives a penalty. As he slams the door shut to the box and you see remnants of the anger that makes him think it’s okay to drink and drive, you feel like an idiot. You will him to turn his head in your direction. His eyes meet yours. Nothing registers. Perhaps he doesn’t remember. Perhaps he was so drunk he woke up and didn’t even question how he got home. You suppose that for him it was just another Friday night, but you’re angry, because for you and Claire, it meant that doing good doesn’t change anything.

Silence By: Gray Brogden My heart Beat beats Like the tick tick of the wretched wall clock Beat beats Like the relentless pulse of my wrist watch Beat beats like time, tick, tock, speeding up Beat beats Like Silence I saw you and Silence No more tick tick ticking, wretched pulse time, relentless racing time, clock counting time Stopped My world turned to black and white, shades of grey You were a rainbow prism, washed blue jeans, faded green tee shirt, paired with golden blonde hair and dark chocolate eyes The earth stopped spinning The people stood in suspended motion My feet planted to the ground,

roots of rationality the only thing that kept me from running, sprinting, racing towards You But if my legs were petrified statue, my hands were jitter- bug, quickstep Shaking, dancing, leaping bounded through still air Sparked with electricity Did you see me standing there?

Or was I just a blur, inconsequential A spec on the edge of your vision A dot on the playing field of your mind A footnote in the story of You The story ofMy heart Beat beats Like your pulse pounding footsteps Beat beats Like formed forehead beads of sweat Beat beats Like not knowing what to keep, what to forget Beat beats Like Love But was it love?

Silence

justice By: Francesca DeNoble

Let’s Play God By: Jillian Nash Won’t you come play god with me?

Turn our sticks and stones into swords and shields. We’ll fight wars to determine the fate of the universe, and make sure good always triumphs before we’re called home for dinner.

Could you please play god for me?

Everything looks just like everything else. I wish there were demons to challenge and fight, but the monsters of this life lie just out of sight.

Won’t you come play god with me?

Paintings come alive just to dance around our living rooms. They’ll smile and laugh and sing for us, and they’ll return to their pages before they ever know death.

Could you please play god for me?

The pages of my days are all smudged and wrinkled. Every line is marred by streaks of grey; I’m missing the colour, but I’m told it dulls with age.

Won’t you come play god with me?

Let’s craft stories to transport us to faraway places. Every new scene we find will reward us with friends, who will stick around long after the book reaches its end.

Could you please play god for me?

Jumping at shadows has become a dangerous game. They tell me “now real things give you reasons to worry,” but I’m still left here wondering why they’re in such a hurry.

Won’t you come play god with me?

I can dream us up a whole world. Mythical creatures wander in the dead of night, and they’ll be sure to protect us until morning’s first light.

Could you please play god for me?

Sleep is no longer a safe place for dreams. When I wake my body settles into exhaustion; I wish to wander through stories but it seems like I’ve lost them.

Won’t you come play god with me?

Look up at the sky and bask in its grandness. Let us doze on white clouds in the

daytime while dancing amidst the stars becomes our nightlife.

Could you please play god for me?

I think I’ve forgotten how to make myself believe. I find myself confined to four walls and a door, and I can’t remember if it ever used to be more.

Three-Second Theory By: Sorina Leila This is not a poem about that day.

No not June seventeenth, Twenty and nineteen, I noted the time, somewhere around three, I think.

Like the seconds it took to realize— At one, I thought it might’ve been a rabid animal amongst The masses of black and red.

No, it was bigger than that.

At two, I thought it could’ve been a natural disaster, Us standing at the epicenter, while the seismic waves Split the sea of spectators, as they watched the earth Rupture and splinter, but No, it was less consequential than that.

At three, I knew what it was.

Although it wasn’t natural it was nothing short of a Disaster.

I quickly did the math, One of the most popular areas, in one of the most populated cities, Millions of people crowding the streets like the TTC during Rush hour, A day of elation, accomplishment, patriotism, Faces of pure fear, distress, with the immediate need to run away, So they did.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve always been a city girl, That I got it so quickly, We lived across from the St. Lawrence, down the street from the Distillery, A few blocks away from St. Michael’s, the Hospital where my Mum walked herself to give birth, I’ve always been aware, a little too accustomed, to the likelihood.

“What lurks in the shadows,” is outdated,

Today, tragedy is brave, it craves attention, It walks upright, and blends in.

Maybe it’s just inherent to our generation, Drills and lockdowns, Where you’re taught to hide under a desk, quietly, so that No one can hear you, Before you could even tie your shoes.

Desensitized to headlines, “At least 17”— Benumbed to a lack of change, “How many more”— Again, and again, and again, and Then you move on. Or at least Some people get to.

Moving on is a privilege.

Processing, forgetting, healing, My perpetual present is in your recycling bin, It’s further up your timeline, Read, re-tweeted, and forgotten.

So no, this is not a poem about that day.

This is a poem about all the days, All the other days, their days, The days since then, and the days to come, But no this isn’t a poem about that day.

Only Onward

To oil up this cold machine.

I’ll always be a man of means.

By: Matthew Simic Certain of uncertainty— And nothing ever, waits for me.

The past is like an ancient ghost— Of all the things that I want most.

Certain of the shopping malls, With cheap perfumes and aerosols.

Lay me down in faux lagoons, With waxy candle scented fumes.

Certain of all my vaccines— Of adderall and nicotine.

Certain when I clap my hands, The echo will come back again.

It comes back once, and then it goes, On to a place, that I don’t know.

Certain of uncertainty— And nothing ever, waits for me.

My past is like an empty ghost— Of all the things that I want most.

I can’t turn back and see the dead, As all directions— lead ahead.

Here Lies Magdalene By: Nicole Paldino Here lies Magdalene On polished pink stone As the rain continues to drone Slick with pathetic fallacy

Here lies Magdalene I loved her too much It was her hand that I clutched When she used to return my love

Here lies Magdalene “She knew she’d die young” She predicted 21 People wailing, wallowing, whispered

Here lies Magdalene She’d never answer when you’d call She could tell you how you’d Fall But she didn’t predict my descent

Here lies Magdalene Her father’s favourite daughter Only daughter as he saw her But favourite nonetheless

Here lies Magdalene Who actually found another Only God knows how I’ve suffered Where’s her new pet now?

Here lies Magdalene Crazy thoughts and a brilliant mind, With peony cheeks and shining eyes Crucifix gold hair

Here lies Magdalene You’d never call her a lady Never thought she would betray me But backstabbers get stabbed back

Here lies Magdalene Only ever had one lover No man ever really loved her And she never loved them

Here lies Magdalene If she’s an angel it’s in Hell I hope her demons treat her well Though I’d like to watch her burn

Here lies Magdalene Spoke like a mourning banshee If she sang it was off key Became a woman too fast

Here lies Magdalene I watch her coffin drown in dirt My raptured gaze I can’t avert As I trace her gravestone Here lies Magdalene

Here lies Magdalene Others thought she was a fool She was characteristically cruel Gave herself half her worth

Building Blocks By: Margaret Huntley Despite the relentless assaults from the icy December wind, we remained outside. There was an igloo to be built and only one weekend to do so. In previous years, my brother James and I were forced to build igloos with just the two of us, but this year was different. This year we had the Mays: our new neighbours from Thailand.

Well, I actually wasn’t sure where they were from because they said they moved from Thailand, except they didn’t speak Thai. They spoke Karen, which is a language from Burma. My teacher had called them refugees, whatever that meant. I never really asked because I never really cared that much. They seemed like normal kids to me and I was just excited to have new friends to take on projects with. Projects like real-life man tracker, straw bale forts, binge-watching Gilligan’s Island, and most importantly: igloo building.

Constructing an igloo was a tedious yet rewarding job. It was vital for the igloo to be completed by Monday for two reasons. The first being that by then our packing snow would turn to ice and, as every kid knows, that’s no good for building.

The second, of course, was the glory.

There was no higher honour in our small town than being the best snow fort builders. Recesses from December through March cultivated a conflict like none other. The Snow Fort Wars were ruthless. Snowballs were stolen, thrown, and destroyed left, right, and centre. One year, after refusing to return my fort’s snowballs, a girl threatened to break her own nose just to get me in trouble. Thankfully, she did no such thing and returned our snowballs during afternoon recess. It just goes to show that no one was ever safe at the school. But a fort in our front yard would be protected from any attack. No one would dare trespass on private property which would inevitably involve parents, not even the Snow Fort Wars were that brutal.

Yet, the igloo was still visible to kids on the bus, so word could spread. It wouldn’t take long until the whole town knew that the Huntleys and the Mays had built the best snow fort in all of Brock Township.

This was the motivation which kept us outside during those long, cold hours of December 2009. James, the project foreman, obtained special permission from Dad to use the big shovel to pile snow for easy access. He worked away until he exposed the entirety of our lawn’s dead grass. All the while, he barked orders at

the rest of us.

Christine usually preferred to stay indoors and read. But today she was a block-maker alongside her brother Chrit K’ Taw. The two of them brought their blocks to Angela, Wah Yae Paw, and I so we could pack them firmly into place.

We were truly a well-oiled machine.

I enjoyed being able to talk to the Mays while working because James was never a conversationalist. With them, I could talk about boys, school, TV shows, but never their life in Thailand. I didn’t know much about their life over there. I wanted to hear about their adventures riding elephants or eating at big Asian buffets. But the only stories I got were about Wah Yae Paw being afraid of garbage and Christine listening to her mother scream while Angela was being born. One time I asked why their dad had a fish tattoo on his arm. Christine told me it was to cover up the writing of the Karen Army so he could forget about it. But that didn’t make any sense to me because I thought army people had assemblies with poppies. Why would you want to forget that?

Despite what I wanted, the conversation that day was limited to Canadian things. As per the season, the subject came to Christmas.

“What are you hoping Santa will bring this year?” I asked.

“I want a stuffed Penguin!” Wah Yae Paw responded eagerly.

“Dah Poe! You know Santa isn’t real.” Angela scolded.

I tried to mask my confusion. What did she mean he wasn’t real? How did she know?

“What? Why not?” Wah Yae Paw asked, saving me the embarrassment of having to ask myself.

Just then, Chrit K’ Taw approached with another block, “He didn’t come to us in Thailand, what makes you think he would come here?”

Wah Yae Paw fell silent, as did I. We resumed work, my mind racing with new questions.

So, Santa didn’t deliver gifts to all the good girls and boys. I mean, if James could get on the nice list, the Mays certainly deserved gifts too. There had to be something wrong.

None of it made any sense. And it couldn’t make sense to me. I didn’t understand what real poverty was like. I grew up in a middle-class family in Canada.

I didn’t know what it was like to leave your home behind for a whole new country.

I’d never even moved houses. And I especially didn’t know how it felt to be victims of an ongoing genocide.

All I knew, was how to build an igloo.

not michelangelo’s david By: Francesca DeNoble

Dada means Grandpa By: Hafsah Jasat I remember you by, salt tingling on the tip of my tongue, toes digging into the pale Durban sand; an African sun that bathed us—we were wrinkled brown leather and freckled baby skin, singed hands digging deeper, only cut by the odd, ridged sand dollar, like pieces of a broken bottle.

You showed me how to make the shells sing, a hollow music of the waves beyond the depths of my imagination— a smile stretching across your face like the ocean extended past the horizon light blue on blue, on bright yellow that dipped its way through the divide and disappeared under the tide.

Ten years later, blackened lungs cough their way through another puff of smoke— Dada, why do you insist, on kissing the very thing that is killing you? my fourteen-year-old knock knees and unbraced teeth watching a man I thought I knew wheeze his way out of existence—you will soon be embalmed on our kitchen table.

Blood continues to clot in a dying leg, a chasm of words, my one memory of you echoes through my head.

I have, but a million unspoken truths of painful black and blues you left behind, the memory of you clashing with that I now know of you—tell me that it’s not true; please, just tell me that I don’t know you.

Grandfather By: Hollie Scott Green stems, unnaturally bright Budding tulips, forced open to vivid pinks A Scottish lullaby, sung by strangers I’m asked to say goodbye.

The skin wrapping his hand, cold and thin.

Tears pool from everyone but the children Their eyes wander to the flowers, They Pull A flutter of pinks, dancing Tulip petals litter the ground Strayed from the nook of her mother She looks at me, little red hands, cradling a petal and swallows it whole

Grace By: Sorina Leila Bless us for these thy gifts that we’re about to receive from thy bounty.

I’m thankful for the company, that has gathered here today.

My roommates Mother, who drove two and a half hours to pick up her daughter, My other roommates not-so-boyfriend boyfriend whose shoes block the doorway, Aunt Flo who visits once a month.

I’m thankful for the two unheard voicemails waiting to be answered.

I’m thankful for the food in front of me, and the hands that prepared it.

The instant chicken noodle that’s always a bit undercooked, The mild burns it leaves on my tongue after every heavy lift of the spoon, The excessive amount of black pepper that fell in because the lid wasn’t on right.

I’m thankful for the lack of messy plates, mismatched cutlery and unused glasses.

I’m thankful for the roof hanging over my head.

The doors that slam too loudly, too often, The acoustics that echo every whisper, every movement, The silence, as everyone else travels to their permanent homes,

I’m thankful for the land and the lives that my ancestors stole, The wrongs that I’m left to correct.

I’m thankful for my friends and family.

From my estranged Father, and his estranged Father, My dependent Brother, to our codependent Mother, All the friends that have yet to visit, I’m thankful for the dysfunction.

I’m thankful for my health.

The lack of Serotonin and Dopamine, The extra weight because of my lack of Serotonin and Dopamine, The five doctors playing hot-potato with my file, I’m thankful for the hovering and the worried gazes.

I’m thankful for all the kindness in the world.

Red hats and white capes, Fists in the air and masks on, Stamps of hate, Symbols of justice, Knees on necks, Fingers on triggers, Truly, I’m thankful that I get to breathe while so many others can’t.

I’m thankful for your time, and that I get to stand before you today.

Amen.

I Matter By: Lara Plokhaar Content Warning: Suicide I was happy all weekend; maybe it was the fact that I knew I wouldn’t have to continue, that everything would be over and I wouldn’t ever have to deal with the constant thoughts whirring around in my brain again. All weekend I worked out the details of my plan, thinking of the best time and place. I knew the way, as there was only one way I knew I would be able to do it. I didn’t want it to be messy or loud or painful; I just wanted to slip into death.

It’s 4:30 when I get up, I don’t normally get up this early, only today so I can search the house for the pills I’m going to use. As the clock hands inch further to 6

I start to feel anxious. I have not found the big stash my mum hid a while ago, I’ve only found a handful of my mum’s antidepressants and my sleeping pills. I panic.

It’s not going to work, so I decide to try bathroom cleaner. I had previously read it in a book somewhere.

Amanda gave me a ride to school that morning, I really just wanted to get out of the house faster. The 45 minutes till class starts goes by quickly and I suddenly find myself in the bathroom swallowing the handful of pills and trying to drink the bathroom cleaner. It has a strong odour and burns as it runs down my throat. I try plugging my nose but nothing can get rid of the awful taste.

I feel like I am not in control as I look at myself in the mirror. This is not me, I don’t make quick decisions. I remind myself of the plan as I walk down the hall to Ms. McNaughton’s classroom. It feels like the calm before the storm; I feel at ease as I rehearse what I’m going to say to her when she answers the door. I knock “Hi Lara,” she says already looking concerned, “What’s up?”

“Can I give you a hug,” I say as planned I don’t want to let go; I feel safe, like nothing will happen. I’m in control again and the severity of what I’ve done finally sinks in. I start to panic; the storm has begun.

“I need you to give these letters to everyone,” I say stuttering slightly as we let go of each other.

She looks through the stark white envelopes, carefully reading each name neatly written on the front. I’m trying to back away, my plan ends here I had not planned any further. She looks up and asks me if I’m ok but all I can do is slightly shake my head. The whole world is spinning and I feel like I can’t keep myself upright much longer.

“I’m going to take you to guidance, alright?” She asks. I nod.

My legs are shaky as we begin walking down the hallway and to steady me, she puts her arm through mine. I’m scared of what will happen next. Guidance is a blur of people, even Mrs. McCullough’s office seems busy. Ms. McNaughton asks me if I have taken anything after she reads her note but I can’t reply. All I do is nod my head.

Mrs. McCullough talks and talks, seemingly without end. Her voice is loud and pierces through the empty room yet I cannot make out what she is saying. My head is swimming too much to focus on the words. My brain feels sluggish and I wish I could just tell her to quiet down. She stops after a while and I lie down on the floor exhausted.

It seems like with that simple action a pandemonium begins. I struggle to keep my eyes open but they feel too heavy and I close them. Mrs. McCullough is over top of me rubbing my back repeatedly saying that its going to be alright. She sounds scared yet her voice is filled with compassion. “No its not,” I want to say “I’m going to die! I don’t want to die!”But I can’t open my mouth to get the words out.

My body is heavy and too many people are crowding the tiny office. The storm is

definitely raging now.

The paramedics arrive and as I am being wheeled out I see my mum, tears in her eyes, standing next to my father. What did I do? I have scared and hurt everyone around me.

Even though my head was spinning I realized that I had made the biggest mistake of my life. Death was not going to solve my problems, it wasn’t going to make them disappear. I learned over the next week that there are so many people that care for me; so many people who want me to succeed. I have a whole life ahead of me filled with exciting adventures and challenges.

I won’t let one drag me down. I will succeed, no matter what life throws at me.

Finding Peace By: Abbie Faseruk Water turned into blood as It rained onto the Earth Pumping hearts became the sound of Thunder in the sky and Silence had seized to be The creature wanted to hide To never be seen It was a monster made of Red envy and grey rage And it pleaded to disappear Solidarity would set it free The monster curled up In the moist padding of the soil It was a pit of despair And darkness But it was silent And warm

It continued to rain but The blood turned back to water As the monster absorbed it Along with the red envy and Grey rage

Hookup Culture By: Jack Bradley there are questions that you whisper to me as we lay in my bed, legs intertwined despite your fingers in my hair, we both know i’m alone here i turn to look at you in the moonlight you look so beautiful, i think to myself and i’m angry as i stare blankly through you why doesn’t your kiss lift me off of this earth you should make me feel weightless but i’ve had too many kisses and the sweetest candy turns mild if you’ve had too much on your tongue no, i tell you softly you’re perfect, beautiful boy and younger me would hate this he would yell ‘bullshit’ if he heard these words these cliché words would make his eyes roll back and earn from him a disbelieving scoff but he had lots to learn now, he’s grown to know it’s not you, it’s me

Lost Boys By: Eva Alie lost boys cling to me like a bee to honey and i make a home in their inevitability i twist myself into seventy different pretty shapes hoping that one of the seventy is shiny enough for them to hold onto i burn myself at both ends and let the droplets of my yearning-filled recklessness drip onto my own open palms to escape is to shatter the frame and watch the shards fall on soft hands and patent-leather lies i trace the scarlet weeping through each sliver on my fingertips and i remember it was never peter but wendy who lost

Jigsaw By: Rachel Fawcett Every morning she stands before a wood framed mirror collecting the pieces, fitting them together; right eye here, then the roman nose.

Now the lips, small and round.

Each piece clicks in place and like Da Vinci with brush in hand, she fills in the gaps with porcelain paint all to create the fetish shape.

Show Me Who You Are By: Hafsah Jasat

Red is Not the Colour of Love By: Hafsah Jasat Content Warning: Violence When I was younger, my mother Coated her room in blood red roses.

Plastic little things, but with Thorn-like needles, nipping your finger.

They winded up her bed, dresser, wardrobe— They were a part of her, To the point that she painted her room Red and called it love, love for us.

But it wasn’t love, it was blood, Of my sister’s broken arm Wailing when she fell off the dresser, Rust-tasting blood filling my mouth When I bit back words that I wanted to scream; Blood, of my father’s eyes when he Came home with a bottle in hand, It was the bloodshot eyes of a restless Night, in a car we now lived in; The blood red splotches under the skin Of a soon to be black and blue bruise, It was the blood dripping off the knife My mother had taken from my father, It was the bloody words slapping One another in the face with obscenity, Blood of my back hitting the glass table, Shards split, like my skin, staring at My mother in horror.

Red is not love, it’s blood.

Foggy Windows By: Sarah Brennan I got angry at my husband the other day. I called his name over the railing. He did not answer. I was wrapped in a musty towel and my hair was wet. I wanted him to come upstairs and sit on the lid of the toilet while I got ready to leave the house. I wanted him to talk to me because we don’t have a lot of time. I called him again and again and he did not come.

When I went downstairs, he was sitting on the couch staring outside the window. I asked what was so goddamned important out there. There was nothing I could see. Just snow. Miles of the stuff. Not much going on. My tone was sharp and my words were so mean. His eyes turned toward mine and I saw the now frequent fog in them. He looked unhappy at my words and yet confused as to why I was upset.

“I’m sorry hon,” he said and reached for me. I wanted to be nice. I wanted my brain to tell my mouth to shut the fuck up. I wanted to tell him it was all right and he was going to be okay and this fucking poison they were giving him to kill all those cells was going to work. I wanted to tell him he would come back to me one day. But we did not know that. All I had was anger inside. Anger that the man I married was not the man right there by the window. And what the hell was he looking at?

My husband used to do math for fun, what a guy. I stopped all that after the last grade it was mandatory. Was it eleventh? He used to play with numbers on the borders of pages and backs of hydro bills. We have a lot of bills now but it is only me who can understand them. I wish I could understand other things, too.

I had wanted him to come upstairs to be near me this morning. I am so fearful of the day he won’t around. Will he be able to hear me still, wherever he is? I shouldn’t have been short with him. I should be nice all the time but it is really hard when every day feels like a kick in the gut when we are down on the cold ground.

I went over to the window and looked outside. I am not sure why we all look to the heavens for God. Or any God. Was it the lofty height of Olympus that planted the idea in the human psyche of something way up there or the story of Christ’s ascension to the heavenly kingdom which makes us look up to the blue, blue sky?

Why not look sideways to the forests or behind the many hills? Regardless, I looked up just then through the glass dotted from many smudges of childlike fingers and saw above us it was clear. I wish my head felt as clear as what we saw out the window.

Maybe that is why my husband liked to sit there and stare out into the world.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Hot, wet tears ran in rivulets down my cheeks. Not an uncommon sight these days. My husband said it was okay. He grasped my hand and we both sat. Looking out the window to whatever out there made us feel better somewhere deep inside. I hoped we could sit for awhile just like we were.

200 Miligrams Daily By: Eva Alie It was the year of fluorescent lighting and orange plastic bottles manufactured chemicals wilting at the cusp of my skid-marked temples I found solace in the crumbs speckling my bedsheets – proof that something, even if just a testament to my chronic messiness, could still feel like myself I sat in the teal cotton waves of my queen-sized bed that lap at my pale legs but never pull away I knew I was drowning but the weight of tonnes of water on my chest slowed my heart A sensation I had forgotten for the last twelve years The bubbles of my last breath floated to the top, catching the light like stained glass Days onto weeks, it was just me and the waves, pulling me closer in our lethal dance It was the longest someone had stayed, so how were you shocked when I fell in love with the drowning? the waves come slower and softer now the orange bottles still line my kitchen cupboard my lungs are scarred from the salt water and the fluorescent lights never dimmed but I learned to float

No Food, All Thought By: Emily Mason I look across the table at Liam, who fondly examines the menu. I wonder how it must feel to be able to eat. The mere idea of consuming anything right now makes my stomach do a somersault.

“See anything you want?” he asks, looking up at me.

I paint a smile on my face. “I don’t know, everything looks so good.”

I begin fiddling with my bracelet under the table.

You can do this Margot; he doesn’t know you. To him, you’re just his partner from psych who asked him out.

“How do you think you did on last week’s midterm?” he asks, interrupting my thought.

He’s talking about school? Is he really that bored right now? God, Margot you’re boring him.

“I mean, I don’t think I failed,” I say, laughing.

I barely get the sentence out before my hands begin to shake. Looking at my reflection in the window, I see my face redden as my body temperature rises. The lights of the room begin to blur my vision and I’m suddenly aware of all the people around us.

“Yeah, I think the part about socialization was hard,” Liam continues, “I was so confused when it asked about its relation to…”

His voice fades out; all I can hear is the murmur of other people. Everyone is clearly talking about me. They all know he’s out of my league. I begin tapping my nails against the table.

Stop; people always said that was annoying.

“So, have you travelled recently?” Liam asks, snapping me back to reality.

For the love of God, Margot, pull yourself together.

“I went to Paris last summer; it was a beautiful time to see the city.” The lie tastes sour in my mouth, why did I just say that?

Liam gives me a kind look. “That sounds amazing. Did you get a chance to see Versailles?”

Before I can make up some glamourous answer, the waiter walks up.

“Are you two ready to order?”

My hands become clammy; nothing sounds at all appealing right now.

Hurry up Margot, you’re making this awkward. Be a normal relaxed person for once in your life.

You’re going to ruin this, just like all the other times.

I clear my throat. “I think I’m going to use the lady’s room; would you excuse me?” Before waiting for an answer, I get up and walk as fast as I can without running. When I’m safely in the bathroom, I lean against the wall and run my hands through my hair. My fingers suddenly get caught and I wonder why I thought all this hairspray was necessary. Approaching the mirror, I stare down my reflection.

Why did you just do that? What’s wrong with you? You’ve definitely scared him off now. That was so embarrassing. You need to leave now.

Within seconds, I find myself walking to the exit. The door pushes against my body and the cold air chills my skin. Looking out at the cars, it dawns on me that Liam

drove me here. I sink down onto the curb in defeat. What am I even doing here?

Suddenly, I hear a familiar voice.

“Are you okay?”

I look up to see Liam standing over me, my coat draped over his arm.

“Not really.” I let out a breath.

“What happened?” he asks, sounding honestly confused.

If only that were an easy question to answer.

“I’m sorry, I’m not this person. I’m not the kind of girl who wears this short of a dress and asks out cute guys in my class. I don’t take fancy vacations to Paris. I’ve never even been out of the country.” I laugh. “Also for some reason my body just forgot how to eat,” I place my hand on my forehead, “and the waiter was just sitting there expecting me to pick something and it just felt like a lot.”

Why did God give me a mouth if all I was going to say was stuff like that?

I brace myself for what I know comes next. He’ll comfort me, drive me home and then never speak to me again. But, to my surprise, when I look up, there’s kindness in his eyes.

“Why don’t we go somewhere more your speed?” he asks, reaching out his hand. “I could barely afford this place anyway.”

Being momentarily drawn to his sense of vulnerability, I find myself accepting his hand. *** I look over at Liam, surprised as we pull into the McDonald’s parking lot.

He smiles. “There’s nothing more stress-free than a trip to Don’s.”

I laugh and feel my muscles relax a little.

“Want anything?” he asks, pulling into the drive-thru.

“I’m okay, but thanks anyway,” I say, smiling. My stomach is still churning but the butterflies subside slightly.

After getting the food, Liam parks and starts playing the Rent soundtrack. Happy to know we’re both into musicals, I settle into my seat and kick off my heels.

Well, at least this is better than the restaurant.

“So, how are you feeling?” he asks sweetly.

“I’m okay,” I say.

He shoots me a look, clearly not believing me.

I start playing with the sleeve of my jacket. “I just find it hard to let people in.”

I’m surprised by how open I’m being, but something about sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot is oddly relaxing.

“My nervousness always gets in the way. I guess I’m just worried that if I show someone who I am, they’ll find my anxiety annoying and leave.”

He looks down at my hands which are clearly still shaking.

“Margot, do me a favour and name five things you can see right now.”

How could that possibly help right now?

“Don’t think about it, just do it,” he says calmly.

Taking a deep breath, I look around the car.

“The windshield, the seat, the McDonald’s sign, the clock, the radio.”

“Now four things you can feel.”

“My hair, my jacket, my dress, the seat warmer.”

“Three things you can hear.”

“The heater, music, other cars.”

“Two things you can smell.”

“French fries, the perfume I’m wearing.”

“And one thing you can taste.”

“The lemon from my water at the restaurant.”

My body suddenly relaxes as if someone let go of a rubber band.

What just happened? How did he do that?

As if reading my mind he says, “My roommate used to get panic attacks. That was basically just an exercise to make you aware of your surroundings. It reminds your brain that you’re in a safe place.”

My lips part and I stare at him in shock.

He laughs. “I’m a psych major, remember? Understanding people is just what I do.”

I sigh. “I guess now’s a good time to tell you I’m taking psych as my elective.”

He smiles. “I mean, I kind of figured.”

My mind stops spinning. He isn’t scared. He’s already seen me at my worst and somehow, he’s still here.

Can I trust him? I don’t know. I can try.

“Thanks for tonight,” I say, meeting his eyes, “and thank you for talking me off my ledge.”

“You say that like it’s a chore,” he says, smirking at me.

Suddenly I find myself grabbing a fry from the bag and popping it in my mouth.

Tokophobia By: Isabella Kennedy Babies are like aliens, the head always looks weird. Honestly I don’t know if I can find ASK US ABOUT SAFE SEX someone to reproduce with. My dating profile says ‘Not right now’. My friends want ASK US ABOUT BIRTH CONTROL kids, desperately. Maybe I have tokophobia, the fear of childbirth, maybe it’s just all PREGNANT AND DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO? the books. The themes: mothering as oppressive, mothering as stifling— is it weird FIND HELP HERE I don’t think I want kids? I have dreams about pools of blood, the home birth documentary with the pools of blood, just breathe through it they said as NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE? she was screaming.

My mother was depressive, my brother’s baby chest was sawed open— it’s complicated. Besides, I’m not the kind of person

RELATIONSHIP COUNSELLING HERE anyone sees a future a with. He said eventually, he wanted kids eventually, it’s beautiful. It’s nature. It’s natural, ASK US ABOUT THE PILL the screaming, the cracked hips, the doctors swarming around the opening like wasps around fresh fruit. Or the other NEED A PLAN B? way. The knife through the abdomen, the lifting of the mass from the mess, then the knife again, the flash and snip and the clean quick stitches.x ASK US ABOUT ABSTINENCE It’s beautiful, I guess, sacrificial.

It’s not that I’m pro-life 99.9% EFFECTIVE IF TAKEN PROPERLY but birth control is like burying myself alive, the dirt in my mouth like the pill on my tongue and for some reason KNOW YOUR OPTIONS the clinic feels run over with ghosts and there are babies screaming in my dreams and men go hunting at night, prowling around my drinks and I can’t PREGNANT AND SCARED?

walk to my car alone because there are too many women missing and I might have cysts on my ovaries, growths hung like decorations. They might be from the copper shoved up my cervix, or maybe it was the bleeding for 4 months straight. All I’m trying ASK US FOR HELP to say is no, I don’t want kids.

Home Is Where the H.E.A.R.T Is By: Jenny Yang Sometimes he wished he could feel nothing, rubbing the bleeding heart flower in his hands—as if that alone could rub away his fear.

The room was small and barren. He’d already tapped around, trying to find an exit, but there was none now that the door was locked. He still felt restless though, unable to ignore the stinging of the cold, metal floor.

He hated metal.

It made him shiver, feeling like artificial ice against his skin. It was just another reminder of the dead world around him.

He thought of his old room, which was still dark and cold—but sometimes the walls had at least glittered, as if they were full of stars. Here, only the blossom in his hands held any light.

The door clicking open interrupted his thoughts, and icy blue eyes stared down at him. He searched them for pity, but there was only emptiness. “Dr. Hopewell will see you now.”

He hesitated before smiling slightly. “Thank you.”

As expected, the newcomer didn’t respond, just watching as he walked out.

The noise of the slamming door penetrated the silent halls, distracting him for a split second from the smell of disinfectant. The scent was so familiar it almost felt like home, and yet the fear it invoked was the exact opposite feeling.

When he stopped in front of a familiar silver door, the gears in his mind whirred as they told him to run. But his hand didn’t listen, knocking steadily instead.

“Come in,” a voice sang.

He stepped inside. The lab was unnerving, causing his sight to become unfocused.

“I’ve wanted to see you for some time now,” the doctor said, standing up with a grin. She shook out her frizzy red hair and peeled off her gloves, the plastic snapping against her skin.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. There’s been a lot going on inside your little mind, hasn’t there?” Dr. Hopewell’s eyes held an intensity that made him squirm. “That’s why you’ve been thinking so much; disregarding your duties, refusing treatments…”

“My duties are to test my empathy—” “But it’s dangerous to ignore what you know is best for you!” She grabbed his wrist. “I want to help you.”

“I like myself just the way I am, thanks.”

“See, this is part of the problem. I need to know you’re on board, do you understand?”

He nodded, hoping she’d let go.

Instead, her grip only tightened as her lips stretched wide, showing off her teeth. He wondered how she got them to be so shiny, gleaming like metal under the fluorescent lights. “Good. I’ll be assigning you a new treatment. Sit down.”

He obeyed, rubbing his hands again while Dr. Hopewell picked up some of her tools. There was the distinct feeling that he should bolt up and run, hurtling across the room, full of vitality—driven by a determination that would save him.

And for once he could be fearless and brave, fighting back even as the alarms rang and the building teemed with workers trying to drag him back inside.

But in reality, he could not bolt or run or hurtle.

In reality, his hands were still gripped tightly together, no alarms were ringing except those in his mind, and the screwdriver had already been inserted in the nails embedded in him. They twisted, forcing his thoughts to a crawl.

Dr. Hopewell’s voice sounded faded as she mused, “Where did all these lamprocapnos spectabilis flowers come from?”

He couldn’t tell her there was a garden outside that still bloomed sometimes, even in this desolate wasteland. He couldn’t tell her how many flowers he’d picked in the past few months, later inserting these pieces of life wherever he could: in his room in the walls and his workbench and his computers. Even in his own head, which she’d now cracked open.

He turned to see his reflection in one of the many metal bodies piled high on the ground. Its inanimate posture and gaze mirrored his own.

With the night encroaching his vision, he finally let go of any life he had left.

Maybe he’d get to dream of stars somewhere far away, having been programmed to have a heart capable of imagining a home.

Alienate the Creature By: Rylee Loucks she touches promethean ambition alienation listen to his story his detachment, the explanation for his behaviour since creation; wishes would fulfil his desire what he learns; perception of the world is limited his witness is beautiful pity repayment beyond the way he naturally exists the reason why he is despised by humankind recognizing fear and hatred, the creature he is will not be accepted a desire for pity he shows his perception destroying the ideas of humanity the idea of human imploring pity from his creator promises to take it away he becomes the monster he is believed to be the creature humanity feared he was

Call me by your name By: Stephanie Fattori

Re-Occupation By: Amy Wang When I was four, the plane looped around the earth, The great golden lóng curled around the sun.

They brought us to a place that was upside down.

It was there, in BC, I almost jumped into the harbour, Into the ghostly jellyfish, into the watery sky where I might belong and die, My stepping feet sharing my mother’s nostalgia for her Yantai seas.

Péizàng, we call the desire to accompany even in death: The burying of wives with husbands, soldiers with emperors, Subjects with nations. I wondered if I was even fit to die in the land of the free, My lungs with the Jinán air in them.

My polluted body. And my little yellow face Turned towards the jellyfish, knowing the land wasn’t ours, doubting if even water could be.

On their land in their schools I would call the teacher laoshï, The chingchong sounds slipping out of my mouth: Language the possessive (theirtheirtheir). And possessory – it spoke to me: The harsh, discordant consonants of Chinese Quietly dominated by the powerful Language that my mother still can’t quite speak.

The language that I now write in, Because I lack the Chinese words that my mother has too many of, And because you can’t write the true north language right to left or upside down.

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VOLUME 8

ISSUE 1

FALL 2020

Copyrights remain with the artists and authors.

The responsibility for the content 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).