Symposium Spring 2022 by AHSC Publications

SYMPOSIUM AN Arts and Humanities Students’ Council Publication Volume 9 Issue 2 Spring 2022

Arts and Humanities Students’ Council Publication

SYMPOSIUM Symposium

Volume 9 Issue 2 Spring 2022 Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The responsibility for the content in this publication remains with the artist and authors. The content does not reflect the opinions of the Art and Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students’ Council (USC). The AHSC and USC assume no liability for any errors, inaccuracies, or omissions contained in this publication.

letter from the editor To our valued readers and contributors, For my final term as Editor-in-Chief, I have chosen the theme Identity. I believe that Identity is fragile, uncertain and something that is unbelievably personal and unique to every individual. Our Identity should be respected by all. Our Identity is ours to choose, and express. The most challenging assignment we are tasked with as University students is to find an Identity that we can be proud of and that will reflect our feelings, and our passions. This assignment has no due date, it comes with no rubric, and has no Professor or TA to assist us; it is daunting and challenging, and will be a lifelong work in progress. My goal for all the students in the Arts & Humanities Faculty is to find an Identity that they feel best expresses them and find a creative or academic way to publish that for the members of the Western University community to read. Enjoy. Erin Paschos Editor-in-Chief

what we’re about Published by the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council, Symposium is a bi-annual creative arts journal composed of short stories, creative non-fiction, poetry, and visual art. We accept submissions from any undergraduate student currently enrolled in at least 0.5 courses in the Arts and Humanities faculty. We are proud to offer a platform to share the hard work of our university’s undergraduate creative writers, poets, photographers, artists, and more. We believe that great works of creativity have the power to reach inside a person, leaving them with something new to think about and feel. Whether it’s an old assignment collecting dust or something special you’ve been tinkering with, we want to read your work and help get it out into the world for others to appreciate. To enjoy previous years’ virtual editions of Symposium (and its sibling journal, Semicolon), visit https://issuu.com/ahscpubs. If you have any questions about our publications, please email ahscpubs@ gmail.com or drop by the AHSC council office in the University College building, Room 2135. Thank you to our tireless Publications Team, dedicated Publications Committee, talented authors and artists, and of course, our lovely readers. We hope you enjoy!

VP Communications: Bridget Koza Editor-in-Chief: Erin Paschos Copy Editor: Sydney Force Copy Editor: Demitra Marsillo Layout Designer: Stephanie Fattori Creative Managing Editor: Kaitlyn Lonnee Academic Managing Editor: Samar El Masri Cover Photo by Stephanie Fattori

Table of contents 1 Rhapsody

By Asia Porcu

4 For Twenty Year Olds

Who Have Never Been Loved By Izzy Siebert

5 i don’t cry honey By Jack Bradley

6 Like Rabbits

By Rain Bloodworth

7 The Celestial AUX Cord By Kaitlyn Lonnee 8 Constellations

By Helena Nikitopolous

10 Entering the River By Isabel Pasila

11 Grow as We Go By Eryn Lonnee

12 You Could Never For-

get What It’s Like to be Here By Michael Schmidt

13 Suburban Serenade By Kaitlyn Lonnee 14 Happy Hours

By Roveena Jassal

15 I Was Six Years Old

When I Came To Be By Isabella E, Isabag

and Faded 15 Old By Abbie Faseruk

16 Orange

By Bridget Koza

17 Keep On

By Matthew Dawkins

18 Heir To a Garden Heart By Ziyana Kotadia

24 The Little Moments Matter By Alyssa Thulmann

25 Where the...

By Eryn Lonnee

26 Connecting with Nature: An Autobiographical Account By Renata Lazcano Acevedo

28 Spice Cabinet

By Abigail Scott

29 Water Bodies By Isabel Pasila 30 Foretress of Childhood By Michael Schmidt

31 pears, bees, and nintendo By Jack Bradley

32 Untitled

By Roveena Jassal

33 Drifting is Not

Drowning By Alyssa Thulmann

36 Masquerade

By Sariyah Hines

38 Yellow, White, Purple, and Black By Chloe Baird

39 Soulmates

By Chloe Serenko

40 April

By Gray Brogden

41 An Icicle Stabbed Me, Once By Asia Porcu

42 Expectations

By Demitra Marsillo

43 A Life = A Canvas By Abbie Faseruk

44 Prism

By Gray Brogden

45 After the eighth Mark By Matthew Dawkins

Rhapsody By Asia Porcu “Alia.” “A lot of vowels,” says Ilya, balancing her ankle against the back of the couch and blocking any irony with the Home and Garden magazine permanently glued to her hand. Sorting through her pack of Crayola markers, Monica wrinkles her nose. “The Alia at my Church ate all my mom’s Gizzada and hid the dish.” She swaps her murky green for a blinding shade of purple. “I found it wedged behind the Garden of Gethsemane.” “Rebecca?” “There’s one on my street.” Ilya flips the page with a shrug, stretching her other leg. “She owns three budgies and a parrot, and I swear she can put it on a leash.” Wedged comfortably underneath Ilya’s toes, Lucas scribbles a line through her paper. The Sharpie shines with the same ugly wetness as the shell of a beetle; she can feel it bleeding through the opposite side. Lucas had finally brought out her little piece of paper the moment they had collapsed on the couch in Monica’s basement, the mid-July heat driving them off their bicycles and onto its sweating leather. She wasn’t nervous; her hands were barely shaking. Besides, it was her public speaking skills—paired with Monica’s carefully decorated tri-fold and Ilya’s improvised interpretive dance—that had won them an A in Mr. Graham’s English class. “Why do you want us to do this?” Monica adjusts her colouring book and nudges their knees together. The hem of her shorts has a little wet spot from the lemonade her mother had brought down. “It’s your name, shouldn’t you be the one to choose it?” “Think of it like this,” says Lucas, staring at the foggy pitcher on the coffee table, “if you’re gonna give my eulogy when I inevitably die in a shootout with The Rock—” (“I knew we shouldn’t have watched The Fast and the Furious,” sighs Ilya.) “—then you’re gonna want to call me something you like. Not something your least favourite cousin is also called or whatever.” Trading the purple for sky-blue, Monica nods to Lucas’s paper, the carefully penned names and harsh lines of Sharpie now joined by a greyish sweat-stain on the corner. But that’s just the heat. Lucas isn’t nervous. The thumping of her heart in her ears is certainly just excitement. “When do you need to submit it?” “Er,” says Lucas eloquently. She rubs at the grainy surface of her Transformers watch. “Like, two hours?” Monica’s marker bounces to the floor and flees across the vinyl with a clatter. “Two hours?” “Give or take.” Ilya swings her foot off the couch to rescue the marker rolling determinedly to the other side. Emerging from underneath its leather depths, she closes her magazine with an unambiguous snap. Flicking the homescreen of her phone (still a selfie of her and John Chang, eugh), Monica glares at

the time like it’s about to reach through the glass and rip her colouring book to shreds. “What if it’s late?” Folding the edge of her page, Lucas’s heart plummets right into the neon-pink toes of her Walmart socks. “I’ll have to wait another three months for a new application to be processed.” The paper tears a little along a crease, and she switches to fiddling with the plastic strap of her watch—far less likely to break under her irresponsible fingers. Overtop of her head, Monica and Ilya exchange a wordless conversation that Lucas politely ignores with a sudden intrigue in Monica’s colouring. It’s very avant-garde; the sunset over her landscape is a nauseating array of green. Despite her convincing performance, Lucas knows exactly what her friends are wordlessly exchanging. That school would start again in less than two months, and she would start the tenth grade as Lucas. That on every attendance sheet and every field trip form and every yearbook, she would still be Lucas—despite asking her teachers or classmates to call her otherwise. Tucking a braid behind her ear, Monica turns back to face her, the same wrinkle pressed into her forehead as when they were caught doing bicycle wheelies in the staff parking lot. “How many names do we have left?” Ilya folds herself over the back of the couch. With her friends on either side, how hard could this be? The submission form is waiting on the laptop squeezed into her backpack. The thinking candle—a companion to many frantic studying sessions—has been lit since they trudged inside. The lemonade is critically depleted, but Monica’s mother is nothing if not punctual with her snacks. Now, all Lucas has to do is pick her name. It takes them thirty minutes to get from Tiana to Leanna. Christina reminds Monica of a classmate that once brought rotten eggplant for lunch. Gertrude (“Why is that even on here?”) and Violet are too old. Carly sounds like the noise Ilya’s dog makes when he’s choking on his food. “Michaela?” asks Lucas, her voice gummy and overused as they cross the hour mark. They’ve demolished an entire plate of scones and have wasted fifteen futile minutes on babynames.com. Ilya smothers a crumb between her elegant fingers. “I once knew a Michaela. During Halloween, she clogged a toilet with her—” “Okay,” says Lucas, adding another Sharpie line with ferocity, “scratch that. Abigail?” “Too common.” “Brooklyn?” “Too chic.” “I thought this was the shortlist!” cries Monica for the third time, flopping back against the cushions with her hands flung in the air. “It is the shortlist.” Lucas subverts the urge to chew on the end of her Sharpie by snatching another piece of mango instead. “Then pick one.” Ilya undoes the twist in her platinum hair before starting another. Nibbling at her mango, everything Lucas feels cycles past her like bits of sand through a furling wave. Trying to grasp the grains in the water only sweeps them faster through her fingers. “It just needs to feel right. Like a coat that’s my size, perfectly.”

“You’re right.” Monica lifts the paper from Lucas’s hands. “It needs to fit you, not us. And you only have, like,” she checks her phone, “wow, um, thirty-four minutes.” As Lucas sits, playing with her sleeves, wondering if she should bring out her laptop and stare at the submission form, Monica calls her Laura, Brianna, and Willow. She lets each name melt into her like the ice at the bottom of the empty lemonade jug. She thinks Laura feels a size too big and Willow, a tad itchy. She wears out the syllables with her tongue. Then Ilya does the same with Katie, Diana, and Ann Marie. Katie tastes like a mouthful of sugar, achingly sweet, and Ann Marie, a mouthful of flour. Lucas rolls them like dice in her mind. She pictures Mr. Graham saying, “Congratulations, Diana,” and frowns when it falls flat. “Nellie?” Monica calls her, and it’s an almost-perfect puzzle piece. They cycle back through old names. Gertrude is the paisley tablecloth at her Nonna’s house; Leanna is the sticky floor of the icecream parlour. “I don’t get it.” There are fifteen minutes left, and Lucas contemplates folding her list into a paper hat—which might prove more useful under the circumstances. “Your names are both flawless.” She points to Ilya hunting for names in her Home and Garden magazine and Monica reading the back of the Crayola box for inspiration (Indigo and Scarlet have already been hastily shot down). “You’re Ilya, and you’re Monica. I can’t imagine you any other way.” Tapping the cardboard with her finger, Monica raises an eyebrow. “Cerulean? Oh, I always thought I could be an Angelina.” “I wanted to be a Miroslava,” laments Ilya, pausing traitorously over a selection of watering cans. “But I guess you can always change your name again.” “What?” says Lucas, midway through her origami hat. “Timberwolf,” says Monica. “Apricot. Periwinkle.” “Your name,” Ilya repeats, her eyes too fiery to be Periwinkle, exactly. “It’s your choice, and you can make it again. You can make it as many times as you want.” “Goldenrod,” Monica suggests. “Violet.” With a leap in her pulse, Lucas unfolds the list and traces it all the way down, the letters easier to feel through the press of her pen than to see through the unmoving line of Sharpie. She finds who she is looking for: Violet. Violet crackles with energy, like the crest of a wave and a thousand beads of sand. The syllables crescendo like the last violent notes of an orchestra, like the bray of some familiar dog, like the wind between her ears. Violet rolls over her teeth like a piece of vanilla scone; it drains down her throat like the last dregs of lemonade. It fits like her dad’s well-worn ball cap and smells sharp and metal like her mom’s favourite cogs and gears. Violet is afternoons in Monica’s basement with a fat yellow couch and a lucky candle. It is summer sun and flowers crushed beneath bike wheels and screaming karaoke with her best friends. Spreading her piece of paper and hoisting her laptop onto the coffee table, Violet checks the ticking hands of her Transformers wristwatch and begins to type.

For Twenty Year Olds Who Have Never Been Loved By Izzy Siebert A year ago, I saved an Instagram post: a well-intentioned hymn composed to honour “twenty-year-olds who have never been loved.” With an honest voice, it confessed I wasn’t the only one yet loveless, and it ended with a prophecy for the lonely: “Yes, you’ve got a soulmate out there, and when you find them, you’ll finally be whole.” I found pale comfort in the words then, but now, the vision falls flat. I no longer believe in those divinations, and I don’t believe I need to. I had always taken the hand I’d been dealt, matching pairs of kings and queens, defined by their hearts. I was surrounded by templates of marriage, blueprints of suburban love, and the people I loved sketched subtle scaffolding for this future home. My world was made of “when”s. “When” you find the one, “when” you get married. No “if ”s were presented, no alternate paths traced. Then I left home. For the first time, I really was alone, and I finally fell in love. Not with some faceless prince or a missing half of me, but with the person I found myself to be. I took myself on long walks in the forest, I stargazed with my shadow. I gifted myself the kiss of a sunset and the promise of a secondhand book. I scrawled poetry and wrote love songs to my own mind’s tangled workings. In all of this, I have found I can be happy. I can be whole in a world that tells me I’m inherently incomplete. Even as I discard the traditional definition of a happy ending, the people I love will continue to care for me. Today, I think that post was written wrong. It should not have been addressed to “twenty-year-olds who have never been loved.” Yes, I have never been in love. Maybe I never will be. But I love and have been loved, and that is enough.

i don’t cry honey By Jack Bradley i’ve imagined this fantasy version of myself a parallel boy so whimsically in tune with Nature that he could have stepped out of a storybook this boy breathes cold mountain winds and he cries tears of golden honey they cling to his lashes and drip to the earth and gladiolas and snapdragons and daisies blossom from the ground at his feet his ribs are interwoven with vines and freshwater cascades down his spine and he’s not real. and i thought, if i can’t be him then why should I give Nature the time of day? and even as i acted this way she would comfort me with golden rays or raindrops on the skylight depending on the mood i now laugh at how i once centred myself and i’ve since come to accept that maybe it’s okay it’s okay that i don’t cry honey and that my spine isn’t a waterfall and that Nature carries on with or without me now, i’m extra careful when i walk as to not step on red ladybugs and i pick up mcdonald’s wrappers from ms. cheng’s lawn and some days, that’s enough

Like Rabbits By Rain Bloodworth

The Celestial AUX Cord By Kaitlyn Lonnee It’s 12:06 a.m., and I’m getting ready to go in the shower. It’s been a long and exhausting day, good for the most part, but my intrusive thoughts are starting to get rough: jostling against my barriers, shrieking for attention, pressing in on all sides. Whenever this happens, I like to say that “My head’s going around,” picturing a turntable with OCD’s Greatest Hits under the needle. Thoughts like You’re a horrible person, and Morality means nothing, and Existence is a lie, all rotating round and around on repeat, and I know that it’s because of the chemicals in my brain, but there’s only so much a person can take, you know? It’s 12:11 a.m., and I decide it’s time for a bathroom pep talk, an aloud one where the thoughts can’t argue back. So, wrapping strong arms around my anxious body, I reassure myself that I am not a terrible, horrible person. That things matter. That people matter. That the person who I am is not my intrusive thoughts. I take a few minutes to deep-breathe and whisper, “Thoughts are not facts,” my personal mantra, until I feel a little better. Then, hitting shuffle on my phone’s music app, I get in the shower… and experience something that’s difficult to explain. Now, I am not a religious or spiritual person; I’d probably describe myself as halfway between an agnostic and an atheist. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that on my bad, worse, and worst days, something—for the sake of argument, let’s say God—communicates with me through music, putting together a personalized playlist to comfort me, to reassure me, to make me feel loved. I’ve had shitty days where I hit shuffle before going in the shower and out comes blaring “Don’t Stop Me Now” by Queen. Another lousy time, another rotten day, and it’s “Don’t Worry Baby” (the Billy Joel cover version, of course) and Paul McCartney singing “Let It Be.” I know, I know, it’s most likely nothing: a random shuffle that tells me what I want to hear. But it gives me comfort to imagine or pretend or believe that something—maybe God, maybe not—is looking out for me, checking in, doing little things to make life more bearable. I can’t describe the feeling of singing along to “Fight the Good Fight” by Triumph after a day of intrusive thoughts. The sentiment behind these feel-good songs, as well as the music itself, soothes my soul, and that’s something I don’t have to be religious about. So, God or DJ Deity, if you’re listening, you do you. After all, if people can see Jesus in a slice of toast, then maybe hearing God in music isn’t so strange after all. It’s 12:33 a.m., and I step out of the shower to dry off, feeling lighter, clearer, and for now, at peace.

Constellations By Helena Nikitopolous *TW: Self-harm* I desperately wanted to wake up that morning and realize that none of it was true. That my heart hadn’t been yanked out of my chest and that I hadn’t cried until three in the morning. But, as my eyes took in the morning light, I remembered it all. It was November 6th. He didn’t look at me the way he always did. He looked annoyed, and his cold eyes flashed back at me with resentment. He stood several feet away from me, his hands tucked into the back of his jeans. I tried to talk him out of it, reminding him of the memories we shared, the nicknames he used to call me. more.

But he kept shaking his head, saying that “it wasn’t enough” and that he couldn’t do it any-

Standing in the pouring rain, watching his body reject mine, I knew then that he had made up his mind. I lifted my defeated body out of my stain-coloured sheets and walked over to the fulllength mirror that stood in the centre of my room. I stared at myself for a long time. Who was this sad, deformed creature with red thunderstorms for eyes and undissolved tears on her skin? I traced the conspicuous scars on my arms, all of which formed their own constellations. A tear tugged slowly down my cheek, replicating the downward movement of a raindrop on a car window. Ava, didn’t I tell you to stop being so dramatic? I sighed heavily and wiped the tear away.

Much better. Walking out of what I think was my Child Development psychology class, I reached for my phone, wondering if he had texted me saying, “I want you back” or “I’m an idiot, I can’t live without you.” All I saw was a blank screen. Tears started to well up in my eyes. Suddenly, I felt the air stiffen in the hall as students’ loud, obnoxious chatter collided with my quiet, anxious thoughts. You never deserved me. I began to walk toward the end of the hall, keeping my head down to hide my tears. You just have to be the centre of attention all the time, don’t you? The world suddenly shrank, and I could feel my whole body tremble under the weight of my sorrows. I felt my tears soak my shirt, my hair, my neck. This is exactly why I left you—’cause you’re so damn selfish. Suddenly, I ran out of the building, away from everyone and everything. me.

After reaching a cluster of trees, I fell to the ground as my knees collapsed underneath

I closed my eyes and tried to picture his pale skin and his green eyes under the sunlight, hoping it would give me a sense of peace. Instead, his furrowed eyebrows and cold stare paralyzed me. I envied the stars that existed miles away from Earth, without worry, without ceaseless thoughts, and without pain.

Entering the River By Isabel Pasila Emma— Look. The spines of the trees are thick with longing for the warmth of the earth, raw branches heaving skyward like lungs or wings or hands, empty and opening. I am a thousand miles from the intimacy of my own flesh. Do you remember the way we would trudge through heavy snow to get here, how they would drag us out into the dawn like Eve thrashing from Eden, how the closeness they offered was not gentle or forgiving or kind? I am sorry for the distant bodies that raised you like a flower, flailing, into the startling wilderness of the world. Look. Shards of the river are glistening as it moves through the immensity of the trees, fragmented between their pale bodies. Downhill, and the wind is churning, and my shoulder is a sparrow wrestling with light, writhing between purpled shadows. Do you remember the stories that were woven here, cast into our skin, when we were too young to know that language, like sight, is alive with promise? Do you remember, too, how our bodies became vessels for violated dreams and how softness is so easily moulded into someone else’s memories? I am walking toward the shore now, the grasses rasping like creased skin in the wind. Do you remember the stones we would throw into the river, searching, even then, for prayer? Look, now: my hand blue with river water, my hand flickering with light, my hand alive with the certainty of my own breathing. Look how I grasp the stones from the shore like words and flail them into the swollen and fluid song of the mother tongue, fleshed of its own tired bones. Look how they plunge into fluid darkness. And look—a bird shines quietly on the opposite bank, and I swear, Emma, I hear her whisper, over the throng of the flood: What have you ever learned of light that wasn’t taught by shadow?

Grow as We Go By Eryn Lonnee

You Could Never Forget What It’s Like to be Here By Michael Schmidt Look at the way the waves slap against the shore, gentle, unyielding. They carve at the rock, leaving holes and cracks and broken chunks everywhere, some of them brittle and sharp— painful to walk on barefoot. The sky seems bigger here, the clouds painted by a blush brush. When you stand at the world’s edge, looking at the flat line of the horizon, you imagine for a moment that there is no end and nothing can exist on the other side. Ships become miniature, serenely disappearing somewhere in the blue on blue. You breathe in. The air smells fresher than any other place you’ve been to. The first time you open the car doors after a long drive, this aroma of cedar and freshwater hits you, a fragrance like no other. The lake has its moods, like anyone. At times, it can be calm and still, so calm that you hear the cries of terns flying high above distant waves. Sound carries far and wide across the water. What two kayakers discuss a half-kilometre from shore, you can hear, too, at the beach. It’s easy to unwittingly eavesdrop on secrets spilled. Other times, the lake roars and fumes in a violent tantrum. Foaming waves crash in opposition with the land, disturbing driftwood, pushing rocks to new places. You’ve always found it fascinating, watching the thunderclouds roll in and reflecting on the water’s surface, turning it dark. Then, there’s that perfect medium, the way the lake always sounds to you in your memory when you’re away. It’s constantly talking in its own way: steady waves blended with the wind, an ever-present murmur. It lulls you to sleep on warm summer nights when clouds of pullulating mayflies make the air thick with their winged bodies. You could never forget what it’s like to be here. Even the calls of seagulls, no matter where you hear them, in farmers’ tilled fields or in parking lots behind fast-food restaurants, always remind you of this place. After all, this is where you learned to walk, running over misshapen boulders and leaping across fissures—a two-legged mountain goat in shorts and a sun-hat. You could traverse the rocks blindfolded, even now, without falling; your feet remember the rough terrain, are confident where others would tumble. There’s an unseen essence to this place that you haven’t found anywhere else. The whispering waves and cedar groves fuel your creativity, help it flourish. You’ve come up with your best ideas here. The expanse of restless water is a wellspring that never runs dry. Though the years may change you, the lake will stay the same, and that is its greatest gift of all.

Suburban Serenade By Kaitlyn Lonnee A cardinal’s scooping song steals through the screen door, joined in holy chorus by the sparrows and robins and the soft whistling oooh oooh of morning doves. The brisk breeze brushes my bare thighs, stirring the curtains as the late afternoon sun slips behind clouds in a sky the colour of forget-me-nots, and I remember everything, except who I am meant to be. And my sister shapes quiet guitar chords that float over the fence to serenade the neighbourhood. They mingle with the gentle white noise of traffic where …Big wheels keep on turning... …Carry me home to see my kin… Soft twangs flutter away as her fingers dance along the strings, and I’m jealous because I’ve never known how to dance. But then a car door slams, the spell is broken, and my dog sighs, his paws twitching in dream.

Happy Hours By Roveena Jassal To me, happy hours look like long showers or flowers your man plants in your hands, feeling love’s powers whispering to devour, lips locked till tomorrow in your own tower of tangled sheets and weed sours. To me, happy hours look like friends walking in the sun at the beach having rum with volleyball games for fun, screaming into the sunshine, sweat makin’ bodies fine, splashing into the waves—pacific vibes are so divine. To me, happy hours look like running outside for peace of mind in downtime when fresh breeze feels better than wine -ing about loneliness, being dismissed, or falling within life’s abyss, knowing I’m more than just the daily grind. To me, happy hours look like hugging generational blood lines of cousins and aunts who’ve gifted worn-out hoods. Family connections, Thanksgiving blessings, wedding receptions, Mama’s affections—found my happy hours, I got the best of ’em.

I Was Six Years Old When I Came To Be By Isabella E, Isabage I was six years old when I came to be On the corner couch in my parents’ old house In confusion, I sat aware that i had been but not knowing or remembering how Even now I don’t know who I am I believe that i would not recognize I now Why does the soul write ? Perhaps the longing to know And the one who sees The one come to terms with the limits of what she knows may also know too She may never know or ever be okay nor satisfied with who she has become

Old and Faded By Abbie Faseruk I play the reel in my mind. It is old and faded, but I watch my grandpa push me down the slide And I see my childhood friends who are different people now My shirt and shorts are pastel Recess is cold and we are forced to go out We draw on the side of the school with chalk I run my hands through the fur of my dog I put too much ketchup on my plate My parents look younger The grass is longer The trees are smaller My dolls are on my bed instead of in the Goodwill I don’t know how to ride a bike The badminton rackets are new I turn the reel off, but it is still recording. Perhaps in twenty years, I will watch this moment.

Orange By Bridget Koza

Keep On By Matthew Dawkins Before me is a road just as dark and lonely as Everyone said it would be When I left all my belongings that could not fit into a single suitcase Back home, Discarded and refusing to be forgotten. So, it is a good thing there is a light Shining from within my chest when I walk, And it is as bright as I need it to be, Stretching as far as I will it to go, And there is no rock or shadow That is able to out it as long as My chest is out, My head is raised, And I keep on going,

Heir To a Garden Heart By Ziyana Kotadia Originally Written in 2018 part 1: (child) When I was a child, my favourite flower was Tulipa tarda, these tiny, pale-yellow, star-shaped blossoms. In the spring, they are the first to bloom and the first to die, their petals falling open in the early morning just before the dewdrops form, their pale-gold gleam like scatterings of sunlight in the soil. I don’t remember why I loved them so much, only that they felt like home to me. They were my grandmother’s favourite, too. I used to sit barefoot with her in the garden, watching her hands dance in the soil, wearing sunbeams in her hair like ribbons. I’ve always liked the way our hair looks in the sun— golden, like there are flames catching in it— but still I knew there were prettier ways of being: I wanted skin like white roses, eyes that were cornflower blue, hair as light and lovely as those Tulipa tarda. Once, I slipped windflower seeds between my lips because I wanted them to grow inside of me, all white and weightless and dainty— after all, some things in life are so lovely you just want to become them— but my mother saw, made me spit them out, told me with thorns in her voice that windflowers were toxic, and afterward, my mouth ached for days. My grandmother laughed when I told her what happened. When she laughed,

I could see pansies in her eyes and daisies on her cheeks; my grandmother’s flowers flourished best in her own skin, her fingertips soft with snowdrops her tongue sharp with rosemary. This is the woman who taught me to read and to sing, who first grafted her own daisies onto me, planting prayers like primrose onto my tongue and words like gardenias onto my lips. Flowers are my inheritance, you see, petals like heirlooms, passed down from my grandmother to my mother, passed down from my mother to me, five-year-old child carrying soft little lamb’s ear leaves around in her pockets like talismans, bringing posies of dandelions home in her backpack because she didn’t want to leave them alone in the schoolyard. I always did have a habit of holding on to the things I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to yet, even then. Childhood was proudly carrying watering cans back and forth for the women who planted seeds for a green thumb in me. part 2: (girl) There are some things I have always known without being able to explain how I know them. I know my veins are purple because wisteria has taken root in my heart, climbing the lattice of my ribcage and growing vines through my veins; I know bleeding hearts are a kind of flower but also a condition you can die from; and I know, without a doubt, I have lived my life a thousand times before. I would count my lives out in flower petals, but I couldn’t carry enough blossoms to do it. I feel centuries in my bones,

a perennial plant, reborn every year— and for a flower child of the most unconventional kind, there was something very isolating about having memories older than I was. I was a flower bud with petals spreading cautiously. I was a girl pressing myself thin like blossoms dried in the pages between atlases, lips a graveyard for all the words that died upon them, swallowing bouquets of my own poetry, hiding away in the garden of my chest, tongue well-trained in the art of sitting still and standing by while I was force-fed lily-of-the-valley, inhaling hemlock leaves, feeling this small, unmistakable ache inside me, just beneath my ribcage. It felt like the pricking of a finger on a rose bush, only somehow deeper and more silent. My girlhood tasted like pain and poetry; after all, they are taste buds on my tongue as much as bitterness and sweetness are. I was always much too sweet for my own good, empathy running rampant, wearing my heart like a corsage around my wrist, watching people pluck my petals one by one, a flower unfolding herself, falling and withering, flowerhead empty— this was feeling like I wasn’t good enough smart enough pretty enough, trying to escape my body, escape my gender, resenting the red rose petals that would fall from between my legs every month, because something about all that blood made me feel wounded. I was born on June 20th, a day that is sometimes the last day of spring, a day that is sometimes the summer solstice, so I have always known what it is to exist in the in-betweens. But living through girlhood, existing in between child and woman,

not quite enough of either, not quite enough of anything! It felt just a little too infinite to be an in-between. Childhood was proudly carrying watering cans back and forth for the women who planted seeds for a green thumb in me, but girlhood was not knowing that beautiful things aren’t always pretty and wishing away the birthright of this body. part 3: (woman) The first time I understood that having eyes the colour of the sun and skin the colour of the soil my hands were made to dance in was a blessing, I was tracing the vines of my lineage back to East Africa, following my roots as they spread over the ocean. In Kenya, there were flowers everywhere. Every day, I would wear blossoms with names I did not know in my hair, and to this day, the fragrance of those nameless flowers still lingers on my skin. This skin is something I am just beginning to learn how to worship, how to praise the way it sighs and falls like silk over flower petal bones; this body and the plants growing from it are a family heirloom far too precious to be dismissed: a stray vein of lotus blossoms planted along the garden bed of my spine, lavender blooming in my lungs, red roses and coriander alight on my hips, snapdragons burning in my throat. This collarbone is my grandmother’s, and the primrose spilling over it is her love and her kindness; this jawline is my mother’s, and the ivy crawling up my neck to frame my face is her endurance.

This body is mine, and I am heir to my garden heart, a flower bed with a blossom for every woman who has taught me to be proud of being woman; after all, by our very biology, we are the most creative instruments of god! Life blooming inside of us, inside of me, flowers bursting open, swooning in the wake of their fullness. I’m only now understanding the bravery it takes to love myself enough to see my own magic, because lately, loving has started to feel less like pulling teeth and more like picking flowers, and lately, I could swear when the people I love stop breathing, it’s only because of the forget-me-nots catching in their throats. I am learning the freedom that comes from sitting naked in a flower garden, bare legs wrapped around an old oak tree, wearing nothing but sunlight like a gossamer negligee, dancing my blue-note melody among the moonflowers, learning how to live life smiling with all of my teeth, feeling as beautiful as the way my name sounds when my grandmother says it. This is memorizing the feeling of goodbyes at my fingertips, tracing them into the soil I will soon be swept away from, like the seeds of the dandelions I so carefully plucked as a child, dancing away in the wind of a dying summer, carried to my mother’s forest city, to the garden she grew up in, the garden she was proposed to in, not wanting to leave because I have always had a habit of holding on to things I am not ready to say goodbye to yet, but not wanting to stop it either, because I feel like I am going home. This is watching poetry fall from my fingertips like purple rain, the words blooming on the page

like passionflowers. I am rainmaker and writer and goddess and woman and five-year-old girl kissing the petals of the Tulipa tarda and swallowing seeds so she can plant a garden in her stomach. This is what I want to give to my own daughter someday: I want to plant her a garden, give her posies of everything I have learned, show her what grace and gratitude look like, and watch my lineage stretch out in front of me like the clematis vines that have climbed their way up to my bedroom window. Childhood was proudly carrying watering cans back and forth for the women who planted seeds for a green thumb in me, and girlhood was not knowing that beautiful things aren’t always pretty, but womanhood has been learning, loving, and losing. My life has been and will always be a beautiful rooting, growing, blooming, wilting, and growing again, I am a child, girl, woman—I am a garden.

The Little Moments Matter By Alyssa Thulman When I was young, I didn’t know it existed: That little caterpillar tucked into my chest. It curled inside my heart and lay in the warmth of childhood ignorance. Later, it became curious about the ways the body felt, It stretched its limbs and shook its home, Gushing blood to the cheeks of a young girl watching Ghost Whisperer. In my teens, the caterpillar attached itself to the base of my heart; Its chrysalis was tough, grey, and crusted shut By internalized language from unknowing fathers and friends. By the time I was nearly eighteen, I had felt the chrysalis shaking But forced it closed with my own speech, Encasing it in thorny vines so it dangled as if dead. At nineteen, I loosened my grip so the chains fell, And the grey encasing cracked to reveal colourful guts That pulsed to the beat of songs I’d only ever played in private. Just before twenty, sitting in a field with new friends, They pull embroidery thread from plastic to showcase their colourful hearts, So happily displaying their bracelets that I take some string too. It was no specific moment that turned the chrysalis to ash, But a few young artists and humans with such open words Warmed the blood until the heart birthed a butterfly painted in pink, purple, and blue.

Where the... By Eryn Lonnee 25

Connecting with Nature: An Autobiographical Account By Renata Lazcano Acevedo A year, seven months, and twenty-four days—that is how long it has been since I received the email and saw the news that the university would be switching from in-person classes to online learning. The virus I was hearing rumours about and naively hoping would not reach us had become rampant; it had infected essentially every country on the globe, killing millions of people. My first response was to sink under the gravity of the situation, feeling as if the world around me was crumbling under the strain of not knowing what the future held. The reality, however, is that a year, seven months, and twenty-four days ago represents the beginning of my reconnection with the natural world. Although Covid took away daily activities and privileges I had taken for granted, such as shopping for groceries and going to the movie theatre, it was during this time that I was able to think back to what my relationship used to be with nature as a kid and why I had distanced myself. Before the pandemic, I did not have a close relationship with nature. As a kid, I would visit my homeland, Mexico, in the tiny town of Ixtlahuaca de Rayón, where the streets are packed with vendors in the mornings and the nights are filled with howls from street dogs. During my summers here, I would happily explore the ranch and all of its treasures, finding and learning something new every day and discovering the many beautiful niches hiding in the expansivity that was my grandparents’ estate. Unlike my cousins, who lived in the nearby city and would come visit just to stick to the television, I would be out and about chasing geckos, reading in my favourite tree, picking native berries called “capulines,” and learning how to deal with garden snakes without hurting them. Exploring the nature around me felt natural—with so much open space and greenery, how could I not feel a sense of ease when surrounded by so much organic beauty? However, after two months of bliss, I knew the school year would draw near, and I would fly back to Ontario and lose that connection to the earth. Unlike the pretty, red-toned stones carefully placed in cement that led your every step in Ixtlahuaca, grey streets dominated in Milton. With its sprawling white and yellow lines, there was never a chance that the green would ever offset the beige tones from the buildings and the greys from the lanes. Although a poor excuse, in Mexico, the connection was intimate, while in Milton, I never felt the need to explore the land, as I felt it all looked the same. However, if Covid has taught me anything, it is that in any city, in any suburban area, there is still so much nature to be explored and lots to be learned from the animals and the earth. As the lockdowns took place and I moved back home, although I could still only perceive the flatness of Ontario, my family persevered and discovered many Ontarian hikes and trails near our home. During these colder, winter months, we would head out to one of five trails we had found, and during each walk, we would experience different feelings. Some days, we would walk with loud steps, laughing with each other and hearing our echoes travel down through the bare trees. Other days, we would walk quietly, seeing different animal prints im-

pressed in the stillness of the snow on the ground. Seeing the frozen nature around me gave me a reality check: the world around me was moving forward with or without me, and if I did not want to fall behind, I needed to appreciate every moment of the present. Nevertheless, I was adversely affected by the inability to see my friends and my significant other, and in addition, my abuela needed emergency surgery and no international flights were allowed. Although the situation felt dire in Ontario, we knew too many acquaintances back in Mexico who would drop off a family member at the hospital only to be greeted with a body bag the next day—I agonized for many weeks over this new reality. As a deeply empathetic person, I heal and move forward by being alongside the people I love, and without an external outlet for my emotions, I had a hard time taking care of myself without being reminded to do so. As such, I came face to face with my own flaws, and I recognized I needed to learn how to properly manage my emotions, which is most likely why I found myself gravitating towards houseplants. Slowly, plants replaced people, and I fell head over heels for gardening. Figuring out how to manage my own emotions came more naturally once I learned how to care for my plants and their tangible issues—if they droop after not getting enough sun or because they are overwatered, then isn’t the only way to help them to act? In turn, I learned how to interpret my own needs and act as soon as I felt my body was shutting down. The main lesson I learned through caring for my plants was that if I treated a plant the way I was treating myself, it would wither. In essence, nature saved me. Without the sunlight during the winter months of the lockdowns, without the company of plants, without my memories of my childhood in the open air, there would not be much to live for. Nature has always been part of me, deeply embedded in my sense of self, but without the pandemic, I am not sure I would have ever felt its presence and how strongly it influences my day-to-day life and activities. Though the world around me was changing into something no one could have expected and I felt we were required to stay the same— continuing to work, study, and survive—I can recognize now what it is that truly matters: my mental health, the health of the world around me, and my loved ones.

Spice Cabinet By Abigail Scott Smell this, says my mother, says my father. Sage. Rosemary. Thyme. Paprika. Marjoram. Oregano. I’m small, “helping” with dinner; dutifully, I take the glass jar Offered to me in both hands (careful, don’t spill) and inhale deeply. I never learned—the potency always surprised me. I’d rear away, nose tingling, and we’d laugh at my reaction To dry mustard, to nutmeg, to clove: Warm, familiar scents turned shocking and eye-watering at close range. If using dry herbs, decrease the amount to one teaspoon, the recipes warn. Be cautious: these powders and flakes are distilled. They pack a punch. You will underestimate their power. These are not the tender green leaves you pick from your garden Or buy in plastic packages in the produce section of your grocery store. They have been plucked from their beds, Shrivelled and dried under the harsh light of the sun or The roiling, oppressive heat of an oven, Been ground to dust or crumbled into bits And packed away in small spaces. Is it any wonder my curiosity was met with aggression? I don’t think so. It doesn’t sound like a very pleasant process. Sense memory is an incredible thing— Simply crack open a new jar of garam masala Or get a hint of cinnamon or chili powder And suddenly, you’re transported, Brought back in time to the warmth of the kitchen When your chin barely cleared the counter and You watched with wide eyes as your mother, your father Chopped and mixed and seasoned: Mundane alchemy on a school night. That’s why I keep my spice cabinet well stocked— It’s where I keep all my memories, too. They curl up inside the jars, Keeping the desiccated leaves and Powdery barks company. Life in death, Past in present. And I think they add a little something to the food, too.

Water Bodies By Isabel Pasila This is the body you think you know—until you go down to the heaving shore, and your lungs grow wild with night, and you have somehow misplaced your own heart in the crossfire. The stars that used to make you feel so close to the world now startle you, their light so distant it makes you ravenous for the distorted image you saw in the mirror at midnight. The ocean is intoxicated by its own fluid flesh. Did you really think it swallowed the shore without first thirsting for the lamb-lips of the sand? These hands are stiff with winter air. They are beginning to blue like the texture of the night, and I do not recognize them. I cup my palms like flowers and fill them with breath, but don’t we all know that clinging to air is not enough to make frozen limbs warm again? Sometimes, I fill my chest with so much of it that my collarbone snaps open like a fisted clasp or a promise, broken. The wind slips like water through the charred grasses, and I am a thousand bodies away from the pulsing of the world. I approach the shore now, I lurch down toward the frothing waves; the only thing alive is the night pooling in my eyes. And I stay here, staring, until the bruised light of dawn weaves a blessing out of the morning, and the purple at the corner of my eyes hovers like wings flitting toward a distant depth. The sea flushes around me. And the light says, This is the body you have been searching for.

Foretress of Childhood By Michael Schmidt Plenty of kids who spend their childhood growing up on a farm know the joys of having a treehouse to play in or have at least wished they had one. I was lucky to have a treehouse that I could call my own, built by my grandfather, although it wasn’t actually constructed in the boughs of a tree. It was more of a loft built atop the woodshed in our backyard, but it had everything: two glass windows, a metal roof to withstand the weather, and a flight of wooden stairs leading up to a carefully carved doorway. The interior was decked out the same as any modest apartment room, too. If I needed a kitchen cabinet or lots of shelving for storage, it was there. Or if I wanted to enjoy a snack, I could sit down at the little metal table with its matching red-cushioned chairs. The whole treehouse had been constructed out of wooden boards, and the floor was made of plywood, rough and rustic. It was a young boy’s haven. I haven’t been inside the old tree fort in a long time. I imagine it looks just the same as it always did—messy with leaves and milkweed seeds, dirty from our shoes tramping all over the farm without restraint, cluttered with all sorts of unusual objects we’d find while out exploring in the woods. Anyone with a sense of tidiness would have a conniption if they saw the peculiar-looking sticks, pretty rocks, jars of expired cooking spices, bird feathers, old toys, and stinky mushrooms lying about the place in a veritable treasure hoard of childhood adventures—but who could afford to waste time keeping anything clean when there was fun to be had? My brother and I spent many an hour in that treehouse. It was our own space to escape the drudgery of school and let our imaginations run free. We were debonair cowboys, brave knights armed with wooden swords, secret agents in black suits. The tree fort would transform into whatever it needed to be. Sometimes, it was the private hermitage of a king or a guardhouse where warriors sat over a tankard of hot chocolate. Other times, it was a secret hideout where spies could safely hide from their enemies. We could be inside it all year, even on the coldest of winter days—all we had to do was put up a canvas curtain over the doorway to prevent snow from blowing in, and we were set to endure a harsh winter afternoon. But the tree fort lies cold and vacant now. Dust gathers on every surface, and cobwebs dangle from the support beams. The various objects lying around are a disused clutter, and they haven’t been moved from their places in years. The treehouse has become just another abandoned building. It had to be left behind. My brother was the first to grow out of it, since he’s three years older than me. I came to play in the place above our woodshed less and less after he moved on to other things, until soon enough I too stopped visiting it. Recently, I decided to go up there and clean it, to sweep away the dust and get rid of the unwanted things so the space could be used for a practical purpose. It was then that I realized this

sanctuary had become a relic of a bygone age and would perhaps never again be used as it once was. I wonder, does the tree fort remember the joys it shared with two boys who hadn’t yet left their childhood behind? I believe so. The memories ingrained in the very fibres of those wooden boards will never fade as long as we remember them, no matter how much time passes. I can go back to my treehouse whenever I want, break out the wooden swords and decks of cards, and make it a haven once more. Someday, there can be knights and spies in there again.

pears, bees, and nintendo By Jack Bradley at seven years old, i had this unmatched love for nature i would tromp through the knee-high, untamed grass in the hydro field that i called my backyard fearlessly, i would pick up fallen pears pears that had fifty busy bees swarming their surfaces i would say hello! and the bees wouldn’t sting me long and messy hair fell to my shoulders and my shirtless, bony body was ripe with melanin from hours in the sun in the sun with the bees and the grass and where i felt most safe but when i was nicknamed Mowgli when i realized how dark i was compared to my siblings when a rusty nail infiltrated the grassy fields and pierced clean through my foot i retreated from my safe place the next summer was spent entirely indoors playing Pokémon on my new Nintendo DS™ being as dissimilar to Mowgli as one could be i chopped off my hair and now i always wear a shirt

Untitled By Roveena Jassal

Drifting is Not Drowning By Alyssa Thulman Goosebumps bubble to the surface of Catherine’s skin; she smooths her hands up and down the sides of each opposing arm so that the warmth of her palms can dull each bump momentarily before the cool air hits the surface again. This spring has been warm, and the Peterson Art Gallery didn’t hesitate to crank the thermostat down with the classic exaggeration of the artists they showcase. Although the floors, walls, and ceilings are a shiny white, so bright it’s nearly blinding, the art on the walls is in stark contrast. It was the theme of this gallery event that piqued the interest of Amanda, Catherine’s roommate. She rambled on for half an hour about “finding your deepest self ” through the navy blues, greys, and reds of the scenes currently decorating these sterile walls. At the time, Catherine had been curled up on the couch, distracting her spiraling thoughts with cheap rosé and a rerun of Boy Meets World; her agreement to come had been more of a method to get Amanda to shut up. Nonetheless, now she paces, arms tucked in, trying to warm her body with itself. She lost Amanda twenty minutes ago and has been wandering ever since. None of this art seems right to her; she doesn’t know what she likes, but this isn’t it. It’s not that the work isn’t beautiful. It just seems “off.” Until, that is, she finds a piece hidden away in a back corner. In truth, she’d been looking for a spot to hunker down and ride out the exhibit, but this painting catches her eye in the way it differs from every other in the room. Tucked away like the rebellious child in a family photo, this painting is softer. A beautiful woman with thick, curly hair and dark skin sits in a spring meadow. It looks to be dusk, with little flecks of lightning bugs peppered throughout the willow trees, lavender plants, and tall grass. Her dress is meant to be white but appears to be a periwinkle blue in the evening light and pours down her body in waterfalls of satin to pool around her knees, which she sits on as she looks into the teal waters of a small pond. The painting itself seems to ripple like it is a reflection. Catherine stares at it so long that her peripheral vision becomes blurred and the painting looks like it’s moving, flowing. The woman in the image blinks slowly and moves her arm toward the water as if she’s about to plunge her hand into it. Catherine takes a step back and squints her eyes tightly before looking again. The woman in the painting is no longer looking at the lake but is now facing Catherine, looking at her with a faint “O” shape to her plump, brown lips, left eyebrow lifted a little higher than the right.

The goosebumps across Catherine’s skin begin to pulse. Without permission from her consciousness, her legs stumble toward the painting. She lifts her arm to touch its surface, forgetting all gallery protocols and etiquette. Before making contact, however, she’s stilled by more movement from within the artwork. The woman gets to her feet and walks around the edges of the pond, toward the foreground of the painting, with strong and steady steps. As she moves closer, Catherine’s eyes dance around her form, taking in the details as they reveal themselves. Her hair is tinged with streaks of gold and silver, and her face is lightly freckled across the nose. Chin up, back straight, legs strong and muscular where they peek out of her dress’s skirt, which is lined with a few hidden slits, she is a goddess. Catherine can’t look away, back away, or form a full thought. The woman approaches Catherine but stops a few feet away within the art. Her stoic face transforms into a welcoming grin, and she raises her hand to beckon Catherine in. Shaking her head ever so slightly, Catherine whispers, “I can’t.” ing.

The woman simply laughs and turns around, moving back toward the pond as if float-

Catherine looks around but doesn’t see anybody near this hidden corner. Then, she presses her hand to the painting. Instead of meeting the hard, scratchy surface of canvas, her hand moves right through the layers of paint as if she is dipping her hand into a pool. The surface tension breaks so easily that she stumbles forward; it pulls her in with the guiding force of a river current. She hits the grass knees-first, but the forest floor is so soft it barely makes a sound. Looking around, she sees that the clearing is walled in with trees so thick that there’s no outside world apart from that presented in the ornate frame hung on the bark of a nearby willow. Inside the frame is an image of the art gallery Catherine was in moments before. The velvet laugh of the mysterious woman pulls Catherine’s gaze forward and back to the pond, where the goddess lounges again. Her gaze falls upon Catherine, and she winks. Catherine gets to her feet and makes her way to the woman, whom she kneels beside. “Who are you?” she asks, her voice barely scratching above a whisper. The goddess shakes her head and gestures to the pond with one hand; with the other, she grabs Catherine’s hand. Her palms are warm with a heat that spreads up Catherine’s arm and through her entire body, filling her with a deep breath of fresh air and the scent of lavender. When Catherine continues to stare at her, the goddess shakes her head with a coy smile and gestures to the pond again with a sharp movement of her chin.

The pond is murky but smooth-looking and reflects the teal palette of its surroundings. The goddess is reflected perfectly against the surface of the water; however, Catherine is startled by her own image. Her golden hair is hanging loosely down her shoulders, which aren’t covered with more than her skin. The makeup she put on this morning is gone, and her eyebrows are grown out to their full potential. A silent gasp bubbles from her lips. “It’s me,” she says, “but it isn’t me right now”. The woman nods and places her other palm upon the one that holds Catherine’s so that her right hand is sandwiched between the goddess’s. Her voice is deep but smooth as she speaks: “It is blank. It is a portrait with many brushstrokes to come.” Catherine shakes her head very slightly, struggling to grasp the meaning. “Catherine,” the woman pronounces sternly, pulling the attention away from the reflection and toward her suddenly tight facial features. “Breathe,” she instructs. The goddess then melts into a smile before silently pushing Catherine over the edge of the grass and into the cool water of the pond. There’s no time to understand what is happening before teal dissolves into nothing. Finally, black blinks into white as Catherine opens her eyes to the familiar marble of the art gallery. She’s slumped against the wall in the back corner. The fuzziness around the edges of her mind sharpens into realization, and Catherine lurches forward onto her feet. Pitching around to face the painting, she’s met with the familiar scene of a willow- and lavender-infused wood. By the pond, displayed in the centre of it all, sits a goddess, smiling to herself as she peers into the water, completely still.

Masquerade By Sariyah Hines I’m awakened by the same pattern of rain every morning: Heavy, hard, and black. It tends to remind me that nothing has changed, But it’s almost silent to me now. The path I take to work humbles me when I feel too good. As my feet tire, I feel the rain run through my scalp; I feel the kinks in my coils shrivel, But I always let it hit me— Maybe I want it to wash me clean. As I get closer, I can feel the streets change From ghetto to suburban On the way to a life that does not accept me. When I arrive, the corners of my mouth flip up like a switch; I still don’t know if that ability frightens me. Like every morning, I step hesitantly up the stairs And enter through the big, gold door. Mrs. Bradley greets me. I can smell the cocoa and vanilla lifting off of her skin, All credit to me. She never fails to mention that I am special, That I am not like the others, That she has discovered my purpose; Maybe I’m supposed to thank her for a talent God imposed on me. Tonight, she is giving me an opportunity; Tonight, I will be a token. She has me dressed as well as her guests, But the mask can’t hide what I want it to. The night begins. In the first two hours, everyone passes me, which I expect. My first customer is a man. He is wearing a dark-blue suit that matches the mask that covers the top half of his face. His hair is sandy yet shiny; Every thirty seconds, the grease from his hair glistens and steals my attention. He wants me to spray a scent— He specifies that it must be female. I spray it on the inside of his veiny wrist. He pushes his nose into his wrist, as his nose hairs bathe in the not-yet-dry perfume. Nice! he says. He grabs my hand and keeps his lips resting in the middle of it;

His eyes look at me with hunger. Behind me, he notices the short-statured Mrs. Bradley; He commands her attention to jokingly ask if I’m for sale, To which she replies, Next time. He laughs and leaves, And my skin begins to itch. It’s another forty-five minutes before my second customer arrives. She walks in wearing a black dress with deep dark eyes and burgundy red hair that perfectly matches her mask. Immediately, she walks up to me. She does not greet me but demands my best scent. As I reach to spray her wrist, it jolts back as if she worries I will get too close. She looks up at me with disgust. For a moment, it feels like the world has stopped; Her eyes devaluing mine— Although the same colour, hers were pure and mine were tainted. Her piercing look made it feel like God himself was ripping my stomach open from the inside, And all I could do was feel it. The bottoms of my feet slid in my shoes through sweat. I’ve seen the look of hate, but I don’t believe I have ever felt it until this moment. When she walks away, I know what will happen: She approaches Mrs. Bradley to complain. Surprisingly, she returns. Hesitantly, she grins and asks for the scent under her breath. I stay silent and place it gently on the counter; I tell her to spray it herself. She demands I spray the sample, but my hand won’t let me do it. She says that I’m rude, and I smile— I still don’t know why. She takes the scent and sprays it on her fingernail, Which strikes me as peculiar. She breathes it in and basks in it; She explains that I am talented in a surprised, sarcastic tone. I lie about her beauty in hopes she’ll buy it, And she does. It’s funny how people like you the most when you’re not being yourself. She is my last customer— My second customer. After she leaves, all I can do is look out at the people who look just like me: Serving and Cleaning. Selling perfume did not make me special, It did not make me better. I’ve always claimed that I made scents to hide the stench of people’s ignorance, But maybe I do it because I don’t want to work the job my skin says I deserve.

Yellow, White, Purple, and Black By Chloe Baird If only I could look how I feel, Without the fear of what others will say. Be who you are, That’s what they tell me. But what if I don’t know who I am? Am I pink? Am I blue? I feel purple, but is that an option? Can I be blue but still have boobs? Can I be pink but feel like I’m not? So many questions that no one will answer. Being with the pinks makes me feel out of place; Being with the blues makes me feel like a fake. If only I could be purple. My colour varies from day to day. Sometimes, I’m magenta; Sometimes, I’m violet. Other days, I’m the grey mix in between. When other people see me, They have no doubt I’m pink. No iridescent hue of blue or name change will make a difference. I admit, It is hidden. But someday, my blue will shine through, Making me a beautiful shade of purple.

Soulmates By Chloe Serenko

April By Gray Brogden Silence snaps louder Then the hail on my window April is the stormiest month In perfect isolation I sit on my bed like an island The electricity falls through the air like a broken halo Is this what it feels like to dream? I want to know more than what is probably good for me As a child I wanted to taste everything But I liked nothing. See, but I was an angel The perfect student It’s really no wonder I found myself a way to sin Even saints can fall from Grace

An Icicle Stabbed Me, Once By Asia Porcu There is a spot on my chest that cracks now, courtesy of an elbow thrown during a game—hard enough to make me spin— and when I bend my arms back like wings and tilt my shoulders, it feels like there is a hole in my sternum wide enough to let light in. I crash over pavement with stiff ankles and swollen knees, and when I rub them, the dent in my patella catches my thumb where the ice stole a piece of me, chewed on my bone, and spit out a piece the size of a crumb. Both shins polka-dotted with purple-plum circles, I stretch my hip flexors to make sure they’re still my own and stretch the back of my neck in a curve like the swoop of the ribs I have almost broken as I confirm that one-too-many times crushing into the boards headfirst hasn’t turned my spine to stone. But I can’t slide into them anymore because there is a spot on my chest that cracks now. I can’t round the crease—tuck in my sides like a bird in flight— listen to the snick-glide blur of the swords strapped to my feet for the same reason I flinch whenever someone moves toward the shoulder on my right. We can thank the ice for that one, too. There is a spot on my chest that cracks now, and the deep-bone thud of it makes me want to demand, What is the point of my body if it can’t bow to my command?

Expectations By Demitra Marsillo Gasping for air is a familiar feeling. The hands around my throat paint my face a lovely shade of obedience— but at least they write me a name tag. A sinking anchor keeps my two feet firmly on the ground, the rigidly familiar earth, where the path is paved and well-worn, and I can place my footprints amongst those of all who went before me. Moving in this way, in step with a fixed rhythm, intimately connects me with tunes of comforting nostalgia— because where else could I go without a map? Gazing into the mirror at a face with eyes that speak of an obscure emotion, delicate enough that a single touch will spread fractures all over its surface. It is comforting to name the labels that dot my skin like beauty marks, to admire the bruises left by their pressing insistence, to recognize the way their pressure antagonizes my body. This crushing weight, if it defines me, assigns my purpose, which I bear with reluctant ease— because I am not sure if I know who I am without all of the expectations.

A Life = A Canvas By Abbie Faseruk A blank slate set upon nothingness… A quiet buzz of incomprehensible existence. A speck of blue into the nothingness The slate is no longer blank. A shape of red like a blood drop It absorbs the blue with creeping intolerance. A splatter of green It goes everywhere. Black climbs up over an edge It seeps down like running paint. More red patters down It runs like a stream under the black Stopping it in its tracks. One spot of careful yellow Where the blue once was. A different blue appears It is more friendly. White speckles that no one notices. A stroke of purple from corner to corner It mixes with the other colours Some mix beautifully Others are defeated. Last comes the rain It has no colour It makes the other colours brighter Even though they are dying.

Prism By Gray Brogden First Your “I love you” sounded red With passion and with sin And sheets twisted ’cross the bed Next Your “I love you” sounded orange Like a traffic hazard cone I wasn’t sure whether I should stay or go But Your “I love you” sounded yellow Like a spring field filled with Dandelions waiting for a wish When Your “I love you” sounded green So simple and serene I gave you my everything Until Your “I love you” sounded blue Like crying to the moon Tears staining pages I once filled with you Soon Your “I love you” sounded purple Left me aching, left me bruised And so goddamn uncertain Because

Your “I love you” sounded black Like the night the stars burnt out And we tried so hard, we fell apart Then Your “I love you” sounded white Waving loudly for a truce Asking me to trust you again Now Your “I love you” sounds grey It sounds like come back It sounds like my name

After the eighth Mark By Matthew Dawkins I see men as trees, walking, Shifting from seed to threat To a lifeless thing I climb after school. And back again.