Creations 2021

Creations 2021 The Literary Journal of Dawson College

Editors: Julie Jacques Jessica Geary Mayan Godmaire Cover and illustration by Maija Baroni With faculty support from: Andrea Strudensky, Department of English Liana Bellon, Department of English Pauline Morel, Department of English Tavish McDonell, Department of English

We would like to thank the following people for their generous support: Cheryl Simon, ALC Program coordinator Natalie Olanick, ALC Festival coordinator Andréa Cole, Dean of Creative and Applied Arts

We also thank Chris Georgieff and Jeff Gandell for their technical assistance.

Editorial Esteemed readers, Thank you for being here.

It has been hard to stay in touch, and harder still to reach out, yet you have decided to open up this webpage, and perhaps will go on to peruse it, so thank you.

This year, the Creations Journal asked its contributors to give us a part of their own microclimate. These we stitched together as a form of quilt connecting each individual experience into a whole.

The talented creators of ALC gave generously. This edition features poems revolving around the self, the self's ways to escape, family, missed friends, and a myriad versions of home.

We extend our thanks to Dr. Andrea Strudensky. Without her patience and her guidance, this journal would not have risen from the ashes. We also send our thanks to Dr. Pauline Morel, the Literature Profile coordinator, for giving us the reach of the arm needed to snap up the best submissions, as well as her dedication to supplying us with memorable events and journals, despite the challenges.

Your editors, Julie Jacques, Jessica Gearey, Mayan Godmaire _____________________________________________________________________________

My Effigy, A Cigarette Tree by Victor Caraman Snow piles high, here, where dreams die. Nothing else matters when you’re locked in a trailer west of Juneau.

“Wanna get married?” she sings out through her little mouth all sudden-like. She’s funny as hell.

Imagine wanting to marry me; I fuckin’ suck.

“You ask the dumbest questions sometimes, you know that?”

She winces when I call her dumb. First the wince, then the frown, then the eye-roll up at the trailer ceiling. Shit, I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings, but like; she does say dumb shit sometimes. She’s so sensitive and easy to hurt- the nicest people always are. She sighs in chorus with the howling wind. We’re totally locked in by the way, snow’s piled up against the door and I think I might have to break a window to get to work tomorrow. The funny thing is, the meaner I am to her, the more I love her. When I see her face drop (she looks like a horse when that happens), I can tell her heart breaks a little and I suddenly want to grab her and hold her or something- hug the hurt out of her. I hope that doesn’t sound bad, I’m not actively trying to hurt her, but when I do, her pain is comforting a little- it reminds me that she’s real. Like really real, and that she’s mine; that she’s here, with me. She’s realer than everyone else.

“I don’t know, I don’t think it’s THAT dumb…” she mumbles. I don’t think she was trying to be funny.

“But I fuckin’ suck.”

She doesn’t buy that.

“No you don’t.”

You heard it here folks: I don’t fuckin’ suck, confirmation provided from the courtesy of my girlfriend. I raise my face off of her shoulder and look around the trailer a bit for something to distract her. The walls are covered with band posters and tie-dye curtains and tarps and it looks… y’know, nice. I can’t tell one room from another usually, but she has a way of making each one special. She liked to decorate things until she moved in with me, in this little mobile home parked west of Juneau, and there hasn’t been much wall-space for her hobby. She wanted to be an interior decorator and got a scholarship and everything, and threw it all away to run away with me.

I don’t know, I wish she stayed. I wish she stayed in school. I wish she stayed on course. I wish she gave up on me. I wish- I wish… I wish.

“Are you even listening?!”

“Hmmm? Yeah baby, I’m listening, god’s honest…”

“Cause I think what I’m saying is really important...”

“Yeah baby, yeah. I’m listening, I swear…”

Uhhh… Here we go- pack of Marlboros. While she drawls on, I’ll just, y’know, turn her into a masterpiece. A work of art if you will.

“I really love you…” I place a cigarette in her right ear. “And you know no one matters to me but you…” I place a cigarette in her left ear. “I wouldn’t really want to spend my life with anyone else…” I place one behind each ear. “And we only really live once, y’know…” I stick one in each nostril. “And it’d make me really happy…” I place the final piece of the puzzle, the last step to my chef-d’oeuvre. A cigarette now stands out from her belly button. “You don’t even care!”

She stands up all quick-wise and I now see my work displayed as a whole. She’s a little, skinny cigarette tree. The statue of our time. An effigy of our generation’s collective depression; each cigarette stands out as a representative of the lost and directionless. She looks pretty as hell staring at me all furious-like with two cigarettes hanging from her nose. She takes a look at herself in the mirror and cries out “Oh my god, fuck you!”

She throws herself on a chair at the other side of the trailer and buries her face in her arms.

The cigarettes got scattered everywhere. God, I love you.

“Hey baby?”

“Whaa…” she whines through her arms.

“I’ve got an idea, y’know?”

“Whatever.” She grumbles. I’m now on my knees behind her for some fuckin’ reason. I wrap my arms tight around her waist. She sits up and looks over her shoulder at me. There’s one cigarette left, hanging from her nose.

“Wanna get married?” _____________________________________________________________________________

To Raphael by Eli Lysander Turcotte Where are the lilies of childhood lost?

I used to hum to your sleeping form.

My ignorant lips didn't know how To whistle. To soothe you, I would hum, Warmly pressing my head against you.

Gentle fingers tapping, playing, with the rhythm of your unsteady ones.

I suspect that, far from my sight, you Would flop, steadily, as bunnies do.

Melting like the golden butter on A heated crepe, but their innocence Cannot compare to the imagined Might of yours. Had I been wiser I Would have offered the world's wonders To sate your thirst of Leviathans.

Regale you with Ariadne's wit And with Achilles' heroics Of godly curses and boons and how, Sometimes, Zeus grants stupid wishes.

And I wish he'd heard mine.

We would've disappeared into the

Labyrinth. You might've hated it, At first. Goblin King, Goblin King take My brother away, I'd sing, haughty, Laughing. But later, you'd have loved it.

To fall into a strange, unknown world, And live an adventure, to save a Brother gone. I wish I had been her.

I wished, to describe you, but only, And only if, you want drunk me to Waste poetry about you. Too late if, You’d prefer dealing with sober me.

We hugged you, tenderly, as One does a paper crane when we saw Your rosy skin. Never to pale, like The lilies laid beside you as your Open casket greeted the heavens From the center of the solemn church.

I was left, a child, clutching a red Teddy, drowning it between small fists.

It could never replace you nor could It dry my sorrows. My lonely Tears flooded the heavens, to let you Know that I miss you, little brother.

Monsters by Ryan Drudik My father used to tell me of monsters Of how he was bullied for being a german Of my grandfather, interned in prison camps, starving to death How his mother prostituted herself to bring back single bread crusts I used to imagine these monsters, with great teeth and claws that sunk into flesh never letting go I grew up, and the monsters became scarier. They spoke words and gave themselves names.

But I know now, that even those were not the monsters my father told me of. He tried his best to warn me, but the day you learn what the monsters are is the hardest. the true monsters, are the ones you bring home with you I sit here alone on a late evening, thinking of the first time my father opened up to me.

He cried. _____________________________________________________________________________

It Takes a Lot to Change by Kerina Mediati Trish told me there was a party tonight at Logan’s house. This means there would be weed and booze. I do not get why she would think this would appeal to me? A lot has changed in a year. At the same time, why would Trish want to miss out on her best client?

It doesn't really matter because I still decide to go. Once I arrive at Logan’s, I am greeted by many people I used to hang out with. None of these people were really my friends. Just really good ‘high’ buddies. I mean, what fun is it being high if you’re all alone?

“Hey! I was wondering if you were going to show up,” said Trish.

I turn around to look at her. She has the same one purple streak in her raven hair and booty shorts that seem to always get guys’ attention. Yet again, that’s the point. I mean they never got mine.

Seduction is truly the best advertisement.

“Yup, I am here.”

“That’s awesome,” she hugs me. “Are you going to smoke anything tonight?”

Of course she wanted me here for that. She was probably running low on income these days.

“And here I thought you just wanted to catch up with an old friend,” I say.

She laughs tossing her head back.

“Oh, come on, Tyler. You know that’s not why I asked.”

Yeah, sure it isn’t. I roll my eyes at her and walk away. I rummage through the crowd of sweaty bodies on the dance floor with people pressed up against one another.

I pass by everyone in the house, trying to find somewhere more fun than where I was. I ended up reaching the smokers den– probably not my smartest choice.

“I knew you would stop here.” Trish said. I had not realized she was following me this whole time. How wonderful.

“I was looking for the bathroom,” I lie.

“Sure, you were.” She walks over to the others, probably to collect owed money.

I sniff the air and it smells of bad memories and stupid mistakes. For me, it never felt more like home. Trish was looking over at me while talking to some girl with a nose piercing. I realize that for someone who was looking for the bathroom, I was still standing in this low lighting den filled with so much smoke you would think the oil stained couches were on fire. Trish walks over to me and gestures to the object she is holding– a perfectly rolled joint.

At this moment I see my parents disappointment and the reason for me being sent back to rehab between her fingers.

“Just do it, Tyler,” Trish encourages. She stares deeply into my lime green eyes and I stare back at her grey ones. “No one here will judge you.”

No one here would cast judgement because they were just like me. Teenagers, lost and depressed, who have an addiction to stimulate the happiness they crave. “

You are the worst kind of person, you know that?” I growl at her. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Why, because I am honest and know what people need? Often parents are angry at us for being an inadequate student or an ungrateful child. Do not even get me started on high school which is a big popularity contest everyday that drains energy. Why wouldn’t someone want to escape their troubles?” Trish explains.

I stare at her for minutes and I hate myself for agreeing with her. Being gone for a year those troubles were no longer there. My parents hired a tutor to homeschool me last year so I could focus on getting better. There was no pressure and no one to look down on me. There were just people who were going through the same stuff and those who were paid not to cast judgement.

I look back down. Just like that the joint went back to being what it was. It also felt less and less of a mistake once I was in a whole other world. **** The next day I wake up with this terrible headache, lying on Logan’s front porch. The sun is beaming down on my pale skin. My once combed back brunette hair sticks to my forehead in a sweaty mess. I remember being here late at night but not how I fell asleep on his stairs. I open and close my mouth repeatedly trying to rid myself of dry mouth.

I look down at my phone seeing ten missed calls from my mother and a text from my dad saying, “Where are you?” What really scares me was the reminder that I totally forgot about. It was a notification that tonight was the big Welcome Back party my parents were setting up for me, with all my friends and family. It had started two hours ago.

Now, I must figure out a way to get home without my parents knowing where I had been all night. As well as taking a shower without them seeing me because they will smell my mistake all over my clothes. A year sober and now all of that is down the drain after one night. I am such an idiot.

Trish walks out of the front porch, holding a stack of cash and counting. Her manicured black nails flip happily at each bill. She finally notices me next to her and stops to grin down at me.

Trish bends down within my eye level and I sit up slowly towards her.

“Welcome back Ty.” She smirks. “Don’t worry; this was your homecoming present, totally on me.”

She stands back up and walks down the steps.

Abuelita Blanca by Rubi Veronica Huamani Quispe Light filters through the branches Of the tree at the center of the world The leaves dance sweetly as The wind blows through the arches of the past Children run along stairs that Haven’t been used in decades Stairs that creek and strain under a weight That it has not known since the end Corn husks litter as the kernels Fall in the bag near her As another moves the stone back and forth Grinding the spices that I have never tasted The sun goes down in a whirlwind of colors And the cool night air makes its way Into the courtyard of the past Moonlight shines over the meal Made by the hands of the ancients And she remains like a portrait Of a time long gone And all that is left is but the memory Of a woman I never met

Remnants of my Grandmother’s Riches by Kristina Wong Kwan Chuen A photograph of Popo at ninety-eight, sitting on the couch with my niece, the only greatgrandchild she lived to meet. She had many names, my grandmother. My cousins, my siblings and I all called her Popo, which means grandmother in Hakka, and sometimes referred to her as Lim Po, to differentiate her from our other grandmothers. My niece called her Po Tai, for greatgrandmother. My mother and her siblings only ever called her Ma. Tea biscuits and chocolates, wrapped in paper napkins. My grandmother had a sweet tooth, and in the last few years of her life, we never could deny her a pleasure as simple as this. But Popo knew about hunger. She knew about scarcity, about surviving on whatever table scraps were left after her brothers had been fed. She knew about the importance of saving something, anything, to account for the times when every plate on the table was licked clean, without even a bone or a chunk of fat to gnaw on.

Slippers with soles worn smooth. My grandmother didn’t like new things. Whenever we tried to give her clothes or shoes, she would say: “Mo pa bizin, mo pou mor bientot.” I don’t need it, I will die soon. She said it every day for years, like a mantra or a prophecy. I will die soon, she said, daring death to show its face. She said it when she was still healthy and strong, still cooking batch after batch of homemade noodles, still walking me to and from school every day. We always laughed when she said it, because none of us believed her. In the end she was right, I suppose. What are a few years, less than a decade, to a near century?

A green folding fan hat that she carried from China to Mauritius to Canada.

A simple black purse, onto which a plastic bag was sewn, for protection. Inside of the bag, there is a banana, a few crackers, a pair of hand-knit mittens, a wallet with a few dollars, and a card with a message in my mother’s handwriting: My name is Choon Shein Lim Lun. I am ninetyfour years old, and sometimes I get lost on my way back home. If that is the case, please call my daughter, P—, at XXX-XXX-XXXX. I live in [CITY], at XXXX [STREET]. There is also a bus pass holder, but it is empty. We had to take out the card around the third time Popo was escorted back home by a police officer.

A walker, that she loathed and refused to use. Once she could no longer walk without it, she would insist on hammering the floor with every step she took, furious and determined to make her anger known.

An old pair of boots, as shiny, polished and clean as they’ve ever been over twenty years after she bought them. Popo took care of her boots, cleaned them every single time she used them.

Popo had pants nearly entirely made of patches. Popo once saw my sister in ripped jeans, and offered to sew them for her, all the while insisting that she take some money to buy new ones in the meantime.

An empty Jack Daniel’s bottle. Popo didn’t drink. She’d just found it in the kitchen pantry one night, and tried to bring it to her room. When I tried to gently take it from her hand, she did not let go. She swung the bottle back and forth, waiting for me to lose my grip, and when I did, the bottle hit my cheek. I blinked, and she threw it at my head. Tired and dazed, I brought the bottle back to the kitchen and left it on the counter. She came back fifteen minutes later, and shot me a curious look, having completely forgotten the incident. She took the bottle back to her room. I didn’t try to stop her.

Another photograph, this time, a blurry picture of a picture in sepia tones. I am told that it is Popo with Gung Gung, my grandfather, along with my mother, my two aunts and my uncle.

Popo used to sit next to me and spin stories about this picture. They were all in Hakka though, a Chinese dialect that I never thought to learn. I would ask her to tell them in Creole, and she would simply chuckle and look away.

Stacks of plates, and an old parmesan container repurposed to hold spoons, forks and chopsticks.

From the nights she spent going through all of the kitchen’s drawers and cabinets, taking everything that she could carry back to her room.

A wooden French style rolling pin, that she brought from Mauritius, gave to my mother then took back on one of those nights. She used to make the most delicious roti, best eaten still hot from the pan and filled with curry, rougaille, or just a spoonful of butter.

A library, filled with knickknacks she found around the house. My cousin’s old comic books. A neon green toy dispenser ring. An old Chinese music cassette.

Flame Food by Émeraude Zénobie Calas I hate Wednesdays. I am aware that it is with Monday that most people have an issue, but Wednesdays are just not great for me. There is something about it being the middle of the week that just irritates me. The week is then too close and too far from the weekend all at once.

I should list things that happen on Wednesdays.

- Laundry - Garbage day - Pay day.

One would think that pay day is good but really it is not. I wonder if the powers that be enjoys watching me receive a paycheck and then have most of the money be gone in within hours. As I look around my small two-bedroom apartment with its three-chair dinner table and the awful manly couch in the living room I wonder why I still live here and still pay rent.

It is certainly not because of my pride that I stay there. I could go home to my parents and make a life there. I don’t understand why I spend all this money on an empty place that vaguely smells like man cologne and nail polish. I don’t even wear nail polish or cologne so it must come from the spare bedroom. I won’t go in there.

Since it is laundry day, I do laundry and, in the process, I tidy up a bit. I generally sort my laundry by colors and urgency but today is special because there is an extra pile of clothes that I have mentally labelled “fire started.” I do laundry as usual and then I get comfortable next to the tiny fireplace. I have my “fire started” pile on hand to keep the fire alive. I gradually toss in a shirt, a pair of boxers, a pair of panties that are not mine.

I think the fire is beautiful, or maybe it is ugly, but I can’t see it because of the tears. My pile is slowly but surely diminishing. All that is left is a tie, a valentine’s day teddy bear, and a bra that is two sizes too small. Soon enough I am down to the final items. I still have to burn an old football jersey and a friendship bracelet I got in middle school.

I decide I should put on the jersey one last time before I burn it. I put it on and a wave of sadness washes over me. There is no reason for me to cry again, but I do it anyway. I add new tears to the ones I already left on the jersey. The fabric is not soft but rather a bit harsh because of so many washes over the years. The smell of cologne is now wrapped around me.

“One last time,” I whisper to myself. I try to soothe myself by joining my hands together on my lap and squeezing, but it is no help.

This time I am not sure of whether I did it on purpose or not, but I have placed the bracelet in my eyesight and I cannot look away. The worn-out colors and scuffed up beads of the bracelet probably make for the prettiest handcuffs ever. I simply cannot burn his jersey or her bracelet.

After one week, I have come to that conclusion, and I think that is fine.

I put out the fire and go out for ice cream. ____________________________________________________________________________

Precipitation in the Closet by Emma Campbell Lightning spiderwebs across the sofa, a blizzard blocks the view from the kitchen sink, ten toes lift from the frosted tiles slapping to the milk.

Heat waves in the bedroom vibrating ‘round a fan with one leg shorter rocking slightly as it blows arid tumbleweeds of socks.

Stay in bed will you?

I'm pretty sure there are icicles in the toilet, and the kettle sounds like it’s clogged with sand again.

One foot in powder and the other in grain that's when I saw the tsunami in the closet, how many towels do we have again?

Winter in June by Yara Ajeeb widowed roses, confront the dirt interlocked roots, embracing the frigid turf no lovers to cradle, winter creeps into our shelters the city mourns, over weeping mothers emerald skies, no moon to pray to implore reminiscing a time when flowers bloomed inside our dreams, when summer met June nothing remains, but enmity June bangs the walls of our minds, planting snow on our doorsteps under a trembling God, we plead mercy nervous thunder, paints our roof earnest demise, greets our nights

Insomnia By Teodora Maria Hogman It was a rainy night at three in the morning when I was dusting the shelf of the living room.

Another night of insomnia, it seemed! I had forgotten the last time I had a good night of sleep, this former only coming to me as the sun rose each morning.

To cope with the long sleepless nights, I had begun to pick up the hobby of cleaning.

From washing the dishes, to wiping the floors, to dusting the bookshelves, it kept my mind busy in the dark hours, rather than occupied by existential dread.

Tonight, I had found myself dusting the old maple cabinet, the one full of memories.

In the dim light of the small lamp, I could see souvenirs and memorabilia, all from different times and people.

What caught my attention, however, was a crumpling album, resting on a shelf.

The wrinkled old thing was falling apart from the decades of wear and tear, from collecting and storing all of these pictures. The visual history of my family in this one album…

Picking it up out of curiosity and nostalgia, I felt a certain chill down my spine. Most of the relatives present throughout these pages have long been deceased. Looking through old pictures of long-gone people in the dead of the night might not be the best idea for an insomniac, but it seemed like it should be another interesting way to pass time.

As I flipped through the black, white and brown album, I recognized various people from my childhood. Grandparents, aunts and uncles and their various pets, from dogs to snakes.

In some of the pictures, there are people that I do not recognize… …but there is something strange.

In every single background of these pictures, there is a blurry, shapeless person that I do not recognize.

Another chill was felt throughout my entire body as I squint my eyes at the unfamiliar figure standing behind all of my relatives in every picture.

Who is this person? …Or should I say, what is this creature?

The only features resembling a human that this being seems to possess are a thin mouth, a small nose and dark, unsettling eyes, all sitting on top of a wrinkled, disproportioned face.

For a second, I was starting to believe that my tiredness was getting to me, for I had never seen this thing in the background of my family’s pictures before, and I did not understand why it had to appear now.

I had always feared ghost stories and other unsettling stories about creepy creatures. Why, oh, why did it have to happen at night?

Refusing to inspect the album further for fear of seeing more disturbing things on this wretched night, I slammed the old thing back on its shelf and left the room.

As I walk through the house in a weary daze, I feel my body yearning for my bed, to lie down and to go to sleep.

I reach my room, where I instantly collapse on my pillow, too tired to turn off the lights.

But before I close my eyes for good, I glance at the vanity in my room, where an unfamiliar, shapeless figure, with dark unsettling eyes stares back at me from the mirror.

Blue Like Beach Waves by Maija Baroni “You talk in your sleep, you know,” I told Molly, as I brushed my hair, looking at myself in the mirror. She stared at me through the dusty reflection before falling back onto the bed with a thud, the blanket making a faint creasing noise as she pulled it over her head.

“I do not.” Embarrassment was laced in her throaty voice, thick from sleep and salt water.

I snorted. “I swear! At like, two in the morning.”

Barefoot, I walked towards her and shivered as the beach breeze snuck in through the window, wisping up my pajama sleeve and down my back.

“What did I say?”

I chuckled at the memory of her mumbling in the dark, the booming crashes of the waves below making her nonsense almost inaudible. “ I don’t know—Mostly gibberish. Something about your college application getting lost.”

“Ew, Soph. Never.” she sputtered immediately with a sour face. “That sounds way more like you —being worried about school and stuff.” she giggled, lazily crossing her legs under the covers.

“You don’t think you’ll ever want to go to college?”

Molly’s eyes ran across the room towards the window where she paused for a moment, listening to the foamy waves brush against the shore with a hiss before retreating to the ocean’s boundless body.

“I’m not sure. I don’t really want to worry about it right now, anyway.” she concluded, finally dragging herself out of bed.

In the room, our clothing and towels made a fort around the edges of the carpet, catching the drops of damp bikinis hung on the walls.

Every year she invited me to the beach house, the room seemed to shrink as we grew taller.

When I started coming six years ago, before our first year of high school, the slanted roof of the attic bedroom protectively hovered over our heads as we slept under it. Now, we created a new chip in its yellowed paint every time we accidentally banged our foreheads against it.

Next to me, Molly inhaled the scent of coffee and bacon wafting up the staircase and under our door.

“I can barely keep my eyes open,” she rubbed her face. “I need that coffee.” She walked to the mirror and combed her fingers through her matted hair.

“Meet you downstairs? I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Alright.” I closed the door behind me, its rusted hinges screaming. Before I was able to take a step down, I heard something shatter, followed by a gasp.

I opened the door again to find the mirror in pieces on the floor, the irregularly shaped shards hurling sunlight in different directions. One of their beams hit Molly’s frown as she towered over them, bending down to pick one up.

“Soph, what do I do?” she whimpered, like a lost child. She took the biggest pieces and tried rearranging them within the cracked, white plastic frame. “I’ve had this mirror here since I was little. I can’t lose it.”

I sat down next to her. Together, we tried mending the shards back together, briefly catching distorted glimpses of the wrinkles between our eyebrows as we repeatedly failed. No matter how we placed them, a hole gaped right in the center, the remaining parts too small to fill the void.

I looked at Molly through the glass and the gap erased one of her green eyes, much more alert than they were a few minutes ago.

With a defeated huff, she crossed her arms over her body.

“Should I try to glue it back? My dad probably has gorilla glue somewhere.”

“I don’t know, Mol…There’s a lot of tiny pieces in the carpet.”

Molly had stuck a blue heart sticker on the mirror frame when she was younger, and my eyes darted around to see where it had gone. I spotted the piece and pulled it out between the hairs of the carpet.

“I remember the day I stuck it there,” she murmured, blankly staring at the tiny heart in my palm.

“It was the first year we bought the house. I was so excited to finally have a room of my own that I begged my parents to buy it, so I could decorate my room by myself. It made me feel all grown up.”

“And blue has always been your favorite color.”

“Yeah. Always has been and always will be.” she nodded, letting her fingertips graze the rigid edge of the shard “There must be a way to fix it.”

I shrugged, twirling the plastic between my fingers. “We can try to find a similar one at the antique shop?”

She shook her head.

“Never mind... It won’t be the same.” Slowly, she started picking up the pieces around the room, stuffing them into one of our dry t-shirts on the floor. I trailed behind her, getting the smaller ones and storing them in my hands.

As I went to pick up the last few by the window, the wind returned with its cool caress, sweeping the grains of glass and the piece with the blue sticker out of my palm and out the opening, the heart dancing in the breeze of the high tide before plummeting down towards the shore.

“I think I got everything,” Molly said behind me, cradling the filled shirt in her arms. “We’ll vacuum later. Let’s just go get some coffee.”

I hummed in approval and followed her out the room. Before closing the door, she looked back over my shoulder at the empty wall where the mirror used to be, the small silver hook slightly protruding.

“I kind of like it bare anyways.” she stated, giving me a sad smile.

“Me too.”

The wind shut the door behind us.

The Same Sky by Molly Greenblatt The Warsaw sky always felt magical A fireworks show each night As the sunset revealed tones of blue, pink, and purple A masterpiece appearing right before my eyes I don’t see the sky here, Montreal It was one of the first things I noticed Almost completely covered by trees and tall buildings So all I can see are pockets of sunshine peeking through There is only one sky in our world One blanket that covers us all The mesmerizing Warsaw sky is somehow The same as the lackluster sky in Montreal I refuse to believe these are the same sky, and instead I long for my return to the magic of a Warsaw sunset

Self-doubt by Mayan Godmaire She’s with her friends. I’ve been one of hers for some time now, but I don’t know if she knows me. She’s with her friends now. She glows with health and a shining smile; her eyes almost sparkle. She’s happy to talk about a little bit of nothing and a little bit of something. She's been blessed with understanding and open-minded friends that are whole or nearly whole in love and expression. She got a boyfriend some time ago; she’s never been alone. I wonder if I’m the only one who sees her fog. It’s weird, but it’s like a living pet. Moving. Excited. She’s got darkrimmed blue eyes and when she looks right through me I see the fog frolicking around behind them. I wonder if to anyone else she appears as distant as she is from me. I observe the others around her too but it’s difficult when she’s around, and I’m always around her. I never get to spend time with her friends. She’s magnetising. Maybe she feels my gaze on her, when she changes her mind. Or when she doesn’t know. They’re four on the bed. Sharing time of existence. I feel her distance more than they do, I’m sure. After all, I know her best. And she, I assume, knows me best. She knows I’m only a tool. I look at her from the shadows and Fog wraps around her obsessively. He’s got her wrapped around her finger, sometimes. I’d ask one of her friends for an outsider’s opinion, but I’m scared of how they'd react. I am not a reliable narrator. I am biased. I am in love. I am a fool and a tool and a dreamer. I am that which I am. I am. That’s all. I watch her, now. A few months ago, I lost sight of her. Maybe I fell asleep or Fog whisked her away, but I have more of a tendency to blame myself. I napped and she continued without me. I dreamed of her. Empathic connections. I was unconscious but felt her loss. She missed me. Then I awoke to sunshine and springtime, the coming high-tide of seasons. All was golden and I saw her, from close. She looked at me, emotionless but sympathetic, unsure, and fumbled for my hand. We touched. Brushed fingers, then her hand, her solid hand, clasped mine.

I felt the spring wind when I looked at her from so close.

“I’m trying to know you,” I read in her eyes. I saw the fog lurked. I saw he was hers and she was his, til one death do them part. Since, I’ve watched them in their grapple. Sometimes she clears him away like a thinning, a hole in the clouds. Sometimes he overcasts, translucent. Imposing distance. Right now she’s veiled. Distant, sunken, Fog running courses and loops. I feel far from

her. Do her friends feel close? I look at them. I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s not fair. She’s never been alone. She’s never been alone, and I don’t know how to tell her I love her. I want him to die. I sit filled with rage and want to hold her hands. Her palms are empty since fog has no hands. Her distance hurts me. Her fog knows me best and knows how to hurt me, drugging her just out of reach. I wish he would die. I wish he would die. I wish he would die and I love her. I wish he would die and I want to be with her, entangled. I want to be her tool, her own, her partner, her admirer, her loving slave. I know she knows I know she would love me too.

Maybe, I’m dreaming, but I see her clasping my hands with assurance. I see her steady look, I see her seeing me fully in sunshine, admiring the curves of my face and body, and the wind. I see her love in the wind, is the wind. Strong, caressing. I dream. To be accepted into her arms and her trust. To love closely, tenderly. Her dark-rimmed blue blue eyes, ever-so-beloved simile of the stormy sea, open, true. Every emotion dancing in those depths, unblocked from the depths to the surface, clear as a crystal pond with algae and life. I can even hope for fish. Goldfish, carp, minnows, even the stately koi. Green sunfish. Catfish. Bottom-feeders, snails, crawdads darting.

A blue whale. Everything in the sea of her eyes. The ocean of her eyes. Even storms that clap with thunder and dart dangerous lightning, stirring the waters, rough, choppy, wind. Hurricanes.

Craving. The deep current pull of want. Rip-tides when she changes her mind. Tsunamis, outbursts. Compassion, caressing, lapping like wind and water and flame. The steadiness of weight and presence and element. I hold her hands and she lets me bring them to my mouth, my brow, kiss them. Her heartbeat is wild. Skittish animal. Let me bring you close to me. Let me bring you close to me. I want to live with you. I want to be with you. I want… you. I hold her arms, she looks at me, then away. Shy eye contact. Unsure. Fog, let go. It’s useless to stay. I see her eyes. They swallow me. I feel her touch. Ecstasy of waves against a cliffside. Her fingers on my back. She’s scared still. Of what? Of nothing, there is nothing to be scared of. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Love me. Love me. I ask only this. I feel her nose on mine, a welling up of water from her wells, emotion. Her mouth cracks in an easy smile, unwatched. She takes my hands and clasps them, assuredly. Golden sunshine. Peace. Overjoy. You’re my abundance. I want you forever forever forever. Love me. Love me. Love me.

Loneliness is Bliss by Julie Jacques Sometimes it's good to be alone –no one to unravel the lies you tell others (or yourself)– You make your own happiness.

The lights are off, the house silent, no one to keep you awake.

Sometimes, it's good to be alone.

When the coffee date is cancelled, and the food court closes around you, at 6PM. You wait for the bus in the dark, and, well, I guessYou make our own happiness.

And don't think "it'd be nice to have company": An empty apartment always eating what you want to eat (but no one to do dishes with).

Sometimes it's good to be alone.

Tell yourself– at dinnertime, in an empty parking lot, the harsh neon glow of golden arches illuminating your dirty dashboard– You make your own happiness.

You can’t break yourself in two– There’s only you.

Sometimes, it's good– to be alone, And make your own happiness.

Dear Diary By Jessica Gearey Dear diary, Do you like the secrets you hold?

With their weight and scandal, a time capsule.

Do you understand that they’re old?

Dear diary, I’m not who I used to be– With my temper and anxiety.

You hold the anger and hate, I once held toward cream-coloured walls.

Dear diary, Do you like that I’m still in pain?

I can’t let go of the strain of old habits, pressing my buttons like I’m a machine.

Dear diary, Do you like that I’ve never found me?

I keep writing on your off white pages, ink plotting your form words pressing into your lines.

Dear diary, You’re still ruining me.

This Cloud I Call a Room by Raven Edwards-Brown Grand window with water dripping down the sides of the screen, foggy glass, cluttered window sill.

I wipe my hand in a circle to look outside. Branches moving slowly. Rabbit paws imprinted in the snow. Hope my cat isn’t hunting.

It’s a slow day. Cars on the road, everyone has a place to go.

I can smell clean clothes in my hamper, folded, wrinkled, heavy.

I smell tea beside me in my baby blue cart; minty, sweet, coconut, as I relax.

I smell my caramel popcorn candles heated by a lightbulb as it sits in my owl candle warmer.

The smell of sage and pine tree brussels.

These dark red blood sheets hold me while I weep, while I sleep, as my dreams creep up bleeding me skin deep.

A soft bright red Christmas blanket reminding me of my travels, of being up in the clouds, of being loved.

Gray walls, grey clouds, grey medicine bowl, grey newspaper print with identity tattoo designs.

A blue jean jacket rests on my chair, feeling the warmth of the sherpa as it wraps around beautifully.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee in my purple Akwesasne cup with words that best describe my home; “The blue house”, “Hatskwi” and “Sugarbush.”

Taped to my wall with way too much tape is my black and white NF poster, handcrafted.

Lavender flowered gift bag, Orange rustic dusty guitar that both sit in the corner.

There are no strings to be strung.

Everything locked in stillness.

Pried open the window, pushing off the ice as I smell the winter air, seeing my breath appear in front of me with nowhere to go.

Construction nearby, the beeping of a FedEx truck backing up, ice melting on the pond.

All appear to be in the right spot.

I feel heavy, haven't brushed my teeth yet, haven't brushed my hair yet, haven’t, beside myself with guilt and grief.

Most things in my room are not mine.

I sit in bed and remain upheld, no voice but mine fills this room, no thoughts but mine fill this room, no.

Asking myself in the fingerprinted mirror what it feels like to lose someone who is still alive.

I feel tired, I didn't wake up too long ago. My pillow is still warm. _____________________________________________________________________________

Family Tree by Fatme Ayoub Not all closed eyes are sleeping, nor open eyes are seeing.

Eyes closed pretending to sleep so your dad can carry you to bed.

Some of us stay dreaming while others notice.

Growing up feels like a bad tv sitcom.

Reruns of the past mistakes handed down through the bloodline.

Not all closed eyes are sleeping, nor open eyes are seeing.

Watching mom’s nicotine addiction and taking it up like tradition.

Having my father’s hazel eyes and anger towards the world.

Some of us stay dreaming while others notice.

Resentment grows like moss on an old oak tree.

Each branch is later consumed by it.

Not all closed eyes are sleeping, nor open eyes are seeing.

My dad would tell me when I grow up, I’ll understand.

Understanding is like learning to ride a bike and realizing you can’t fly.

Some of us stay dreaming while others notice.

Time is not on my side, And the clock always strikes 12.

Not all closed eyes are sleeping, nor open eyes are seeing.

Some of us stay dreaming while others notice. _____________________________________________________________________________

As part of the Literature Profile Integrating Activity course, graduating students write a 10-page paper. The following two excellent papers, by Madison Melanson and Jeanne Hope, are the presentation versions delivered at the Literature Profile Conference during the ALC Festival. This year’s conference programme appears in the final pages of this journal. _____________________________________________________________________________

Feminine Rage, Monstrous Women, and Gothic Literature: An Analysis of Stephen King’s Carrie and Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Madison Melanson In the introduction to her book The Monstrous Feminine, academic and film commentator Barbara Creed questions the lack of discussion around female monsters within the horror genre and over-emphasis on the “woman as victim of the (mainly male) monster” (26). The monstrousfeminine is present in nearly all human societies, ranging from femme fatales like Lilith in Judeo-Christian myth, to the Hannya demonesses of Ancient Japan, Greek mythology’s famed

man-killing gorgon, Medusa, and Baba Yaga, the child-eating witch of Slavic folklore. I am far more enticed by these women than I am by the slasher film’s Final Girl, the virginal victim who ultimately defeats the killer, and as such, I have decided to analyze two novels that feature unapologetically angry, monstrous women who wreak havoc in their attempts to overthrow the oppressive forces that threaten them. Through an analysis of gender in the horror genre, as well as a close-reading of Stephen King’s Carrie and Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle as works descended from the Female Gothic, I will argue that the figure of the Monstrous Woman is presented simultaneously as a force of destruction and as one of preservation.

The “Female Gothic,” a term first coined by literary scholar Ellen Moers in her 1976 book Literary Women, was initially defined as “the work that women writers have done in the literary mode that, since the eighteenth century, we have called the Gothic,” and acted as an expression of women’s fear of entrapment, especially in regards to childbirth, motherhood, and domestic life (90). Examples of the Female Gothic in popular literature include Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Rebecca, and the works of Ann Radcliffe, a pioneer of the Gothic genre, though the first Gothic novel is attributed to Horace Walpole and his 1764 novel The Castle of Otranto. Moers has more difficulty deciding on an exact definition for “the Gothic” and concludes that it simply has to do “with fear … fantasy predominates over reality, the strange over the commonplace, and the supernatural over the natural, with one definite auctorial intent: to scare” (90). As it turns out, the public enjoys being frightened, and “the Gothic” and its modern, Horror equivalent still hold sway. Sir Walter Scott might suggest that it is the sensation of the fear that draws people in, as he once compared reading Ann Radcliffe to drug consumption, suggesting that one should not make a habit of it due to its dangerous nature, but

one must also “consider the quantity of actual pleasure which it produces, and the much greater proportion of real sorrow and distress which it alleviates” (Moers 92). Aside from the sensual element, though, I would argue that the real appeal of “the Gothic” is its inherent transgression of boundaries, making it the perfect vehicle for social commentary.

Literary scholar Anne Williams expands on Moers’ ideas in her book, The Art of Darkness: A Poetics of Gothic. Williams focuses on how the Male Gothic and Female Gothic traditions differ due to how “in patriarchal culture the male subject and the female subject necessarily have a different experience,” with “each liv[ing] in a somewhat different world” (100). A notable aspect of this is that “the male … experiences his psychological boundaries as fixed and distinct, while the female’s feel more permeable, indeterminate, and problematic” (Williams 100). This can be attributed to King’s Carrie in that Carrie’s telekinetic abilities represent the permeability of her psychological boundaries, in that her internal will is enacted and externalized through mental manipulation rather than physical manipulation. The ability is described in its earlier stages as a “curious mental bending,” and immediately following this description, Carrie, angry at her neighbour’s dislike of her mother, causes the window of the woman’s house “to ripple” (King 28-29). The warping of the window, a physical boundary between outside and in, is an external representation of Carrie’s boundary troubles. Aviva Briefel sums this up nicely in her essay “Monster Pains: Masochism, Menstruation, and Identification in the Horror Film,” in which she writes: “Carrie’s telekinetic powers project outwards and eliminate the space between herself and those around her. It is a supernatural manifestation of the aggressive demands of sympathy” (23). This supernatural outreach speaks to Carrie’s desire to be

known and to eliminate the boundaries that isolate her, whilst at the same time preserving an external, physical distance.

As for Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle, the boundary issue is represented

by Merricat’s obsession with the rituals she performs in order to ensure the boundary between the Blackwood estate and the village stands, separating her and Constance from the patriarchal outside world they have sequestered themselves away from. This boundary proves to be permeable too, though, and over the course of the novel is penetrated by both Charles Blackwood and a violent mob of villagers. Merricat believes that their “wall of safety had cracked” because she had neglected to replace a book that had fallen from the tree she had nailed it to as part of one of her rituals, which act as means to control the world around her (Jackson 58). It is Constance’s psychological boundary that gives in to Charles, their cousin and “the first [outsider] who had ever gotten inside” — Merricat notes that it was because “Constance had let him in,” a statement reflected in the ways in which Charles influences Constance, encouraging a romantic relationship between them primarily in an effort to recover the Blackwood fortune (Jackson 57). A rift is driven between the sisters, and Constance begins to internalize Charles’ judgement toward their way of life, expressing regret for having let Merricat “run wild” and suggesting that it had been “all [her] fault,” and that she had been “wrong” (Jackson 79).

In her book, Female Gothic Histories: Gender, History and the Gothic, Diana Wallace writes that “women writers, aware of their exclusion from traditional historical narratives have used Gothic historical fiction as a mode of historiography which can simultaneously reinsert them into history and symbolize their exclusion” (Wallace 1). Similarly, Carrie’s rage

simultaneously rewrites the identity that has been imposed upon her by her repressive mother and judgmental schoolmates whilst also forcing her into the role of monster, the ultimate Other, and thus excluding her from society. Likewise, Merricat’s rage (most notably the act of killing all of her family members save for Constance and Uncle Julian, thus shifting the balance of power from the Blackwood men to the Blackwood women) allows for the transfer of power from masculine authority, focused on wealth, to the feminine authority, focused on self-sufficiency and security, whilst also resulting in Merricat and Constance’s isolation from the village and the masculine threat it poses.

Feminist literary critic Claire Kahane takes a critical look at the characteristics of traditional Gothic narratives in her essay “The Gothic Mirror,” and suggests that despite the fact that “most interpretations of Gothic fiction, written primarily by male critics, attribute the terror that the Gothic by definition arouses to the motif of incest within an oedipal plot,” the central feature of the Female Gothic is not an oedipal conflict, but rather a pre-oedipal one, as shown through the daughter’s search for/fear of "the spectral presence of a dead-undead mother, archaic and all encompassing, a ghost signifying the problematics of femininity which the heroine must confront” (335-336). Through this lens, Roberta Rubenstein analyzes the influence of the mother figure in Shirley Jackson’s work, writing that “the mother’s absence becomes a haunting presence that bears directly on the daughter’s difficult struggle to achieve selfhood as well as to express her unacknowledged rage or her sense of precariousness in the world” (311). The murder of their mother, father, aunt, and brother at Merricat’s hands leave only the two sisters and their Uncle Julian alive, though the latter becomes an invalid due to the effects of the poison he ingested. As such, an “ironic nuclear family” is formed, with an “incapacitated and dependent

male figure, a housebound maternal figure who soothes anxieties and provides literal and figurative nurture, and a child who lives in a fantasy world sustained by magical thinking” (Rubenstein 319). Constance is caught in a position where she acts simultaneously as a maternal figure and as the daughter to a dead mother, whose presence looms over the house, as exemplified by references to their “mother’s drawing room,” which Constance and Merricat “had never been allowed in” to before, but now take it upon themselves to tidy the room to the deceased mother’s standards (Jackson 23-24). Rubenstein writes that not only is the role of daughter split between “the saintly Constance and the ‘wicked’ Merricat” as a means to represent the daughter’s “inner division” and “ambivalent emotional relationship to the mother,” but for Merricat, “the internalized ‘mother’ is also split: between the ‘bad’ parent whom she killed and the ‘good’ mother whose place is assumed by her saintly older sister” (319-320). Lynette Carpenter, in her work on the novel, writes that the deceased mother had to be done away with in order to institute feminine authority within the home, as she was “align[ed] with the Blackwood men, who’s highest value is reserved for money,” as evidenced by Mrs Blackwood’s “deviation from her female predecessors and from her daughters in valuing the objects over the foodstuffs, the teacups over the tea itself” (33).

This pre-oedipal conflict is notable in Carrie, too, as her abusive mother, Margaret White, is the main antagonist and architect of Carrie’s repressed rage. Though it is bullying at school that sent her “over the edge,” (King 224) Carrie’s supernatural abilities are the “displaced eruption” of the sexual repression enforced by her mother, according to film critic and academic Robin Wood in his essay on Brian De Palma’s 1976 film adaptation (154). Carrie struggles to separate herself from her mother’s influence, becoming increasingly rebellious throughout the

novel yet still buying into Margaret White’s belief that all “sinners” should be violently punished, drawing on fire-and-brimstone teachings and calling for “a terrible Jesus of blood and righteousness” to “root out the evil and destroy it screaming” (King 26). Carrie has a complex relationship with her mother and goes from claiming that “only Momma [is] good” to “hat[ing] her” for halting her social and sexual development within the span of a paragraph (49). These anxieties about motherhood and the connection between mother and daughter extend to Margaret, too, as Carrie’s birth had been a traumatic one; the concept of pregnancy was “linked irrevocably in her mind with the ‘sin’ of intercourse,” and Margaret “refused to believe that such a thing could happen to her,” instead assuming that she had developed a “cancer of the womanly parts” (King 16-17). The parallel between the growth of cancer and the growth of a baby implies a parasitic relationship between mother and daughter and links King’s novel back to the core characteristics of the Female Gothic in that it suggests fears of entrapment relating to motherhood.

To understand the monstrous-feminine, one must understand that “the reasons why the monstrous-feminine horrifies her audience are quite different from the reasons why the male monster horrifies his audience” (Creed 32). Creed suggests that a new term, separate from the male monster, is necessary to specify these differences and reflect that the female monster is “defined in terms of her sexuality”. She chooses the term “monstrous-feminine” to “[emphasize] the importance of gender in the construction of [the subject’s] monstrosity” (Creed 33). Briefel suggests that the monstrous-feminine is tied inextricably to the cis-female body and that sexual development and “menstruation [herald] monstrosity,” as evidenced by Carrie’s period being shown as “a precursor — or even a prerequisite — to [her] committing acts of violence” (21).

This links to Freud’s theories of woman as castrator, in that the menstruating vagina bears a resemblance to a bleeding wound, acting as a reminder of sexual difference and eliciting terror in response to castration anxiety.

In her chapter on witches, Creed writes that “historically, the curse of a woman, particularly if she were pregnant or menstruating, was considered far more potent than a man’s curse. A ‘mother’s curse’, as it was known, meant certain death” (277). While this concept is more obviously explored in Carrie, the motif of witchcraft is present in We Have Always Lived in the Castle as well. Whether or not Merricat’s rituals held any actual power is beside the point because she embodies the role of witch, acting as both protector and destroyer just as the witch “inspir[es] both awe and dread” (Creed 275). This duality of women is an important aspect of both novels; in Carrie, the titular character is both innocent victim and monster, and in We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Constance, the docile, submissive daughter, and Merricat, the angry, dismissed daughter are two sides of the same coin. The reader is made aware of this early on in the novel, as Merricat says that had she been lucky, she would have “been born a werewolf,” a creature defined by its monstrous qualities and dual nature (Jackson 1). The fire that Carrie lets loose upon her town and the fire that Merricat sets in her father’s/Charles’ bedroom both evoke the historical practice of execution via “burning on a funeral pyre” (Creed 281). This time, however, the fires are set by the witches themselves. Both characters destroy aspects of themselves in order to preserve their power: Carrie, her non-monstrous side, and Merricat, the Blackwood house (or “castle”) so inextricably linked to the sisters that the connection may as well be physical.

Creed writes that in “patriarchal discourse,” the witch is “represented as an implacable enemy of the symbolic order … her evil powers are seen as part of her ‘feminine’ nature” (283).

In short, the witch is the most horrific sort of woman with power since she is known to “unsettle boundaries,” which threatens patriarchal institutions. It is notable that for Carrie, this power develops fully around the same time as her body does: “woman’s blood is thus linked to the possession of supernatural powers, powers which historically and mythologically have been associated with the representation of woman as witch” (Creed 294). Just as these supernatural powers are borne of blood, in King’s novel Margaret White believes that Eve’s sin, “all forms of human evil … the curse of humanity” (Creed 296), is passed on through the blood, too, from mother to daughter: “And still Eve did not repent, nor all the daughters of Eve, and upon Eve did the Crafty Serpent found a kingdom of whoredoms and pestilences” (King 64). Margaret’s belief that femininity and menstruation are inherently monstrous evoke the reproductive anxieties characteristic of the female gothic. In Margaret’s eyes, the cis-female reproductive system is the source of all “evil,” preserving Eve’s sin and contributing to humanity’s moral degradation.

Stephen King’s Carrie and Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle both present female monsters in a sympathetic way and are important examples of a genre that is transgressive by nature. In presenting these monstrous women simultaneously as agents of destruction and of preservation, both writers encourage the reader to recognize the complexity of their characters and the social situations surrounding them. Merricat and Carrie both empower themselves through their rage, a feat that might not be possible for a non-monstrous character.

Ultimately, their success lies in their ability and willingness to confront the oppressive aspects of society and “watch them die” (Jackson 110).

Works Cited Primary Sources Jackson, Shirley. We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Penguin Group, 1962.

King, Stephen. Carrie. Random House, Inc., 1974.

Secondary Sources Briefel, Aviva. “Monster Pains: Masochism, Menstruation, and Identification in the Horror Film.” Film Quarterly, vol. 58, no. 3, 2005, pp. 16–27. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable 10.1525/fq.2005.58.3.16. Accessed 6 Mar. 2021.

Carpenter, Lynette. “The Establishment and Preservation of Female Power in Shirley Jackson’s ‘We Have Always Lived in the Castle.’” Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies, vol. 8, no. 1, 1984, pp. 32–38. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/3346088. Accessed 3 Mar. 2021.

Creed, Barbara. The Monstrous Feminine. Routledge, 1993.

Kahane, Claire. The (M)other Tongue: Essays in Feminist Psychoanalytic Interpretation. Cornell University Press, 1985.

Moers, Ellen. Literary Women. Oxford University Press, 1985, pp. 90-98.

Rubenstein, Roberta. “House Mothers and Haunted Daughters: Shirley Jackson and Female Gothic.” Tulsa Studies in Women's Literature, vol. 15, no. 2, 1996, pp. 309–331. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/464139. Accessed 14 Feb. 2021.

Wallace, Diana. Female Gothic Histories: Gender, History and the Gothic. 1st ed., University of Wales Press, 2013, www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt9qhbt8, Accessed 12 Mar. 2021.

Williams, Anne. Art Of Darkness: A Poetics Of Gothic. University Of Chicago Press, 1995.

Wood, Robin. Robin Wood on the Horror Film: Collected Essays and Reviews. Wayne State University Press, 2018.

Works Consulted Clover, Carol J. “Her Body, Himself: Gender in the Slasher Film.” Representations, no. 20, 1987, pp. 187–228. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/2928507. Accessed 21 Feb. 2021.

Hollinger, Karen. “The Monster as Woman: Two Generations of Cat People.” Film Criticism, vol. 13, no. 2, 1989, pp. 36–46. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/44075895. Accessed 8 Mar. 2021.

Lindsey, Shelley Stamp. “Horror, Femininity, and Carrie's Monstrous Puberty.” Journal of Film and Video, vol. 43, no. 4, 1991, pp. 33–44. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/20687952.

Accessed 3 Mar. 2021. _____________________________________________________________________________

LPAC - Literature Profile Academic Conference WEDNESDAY, May 5TH AND Friday, May 7th, 2021 from 12:00 to 2:00 Dawson College, Montreal, Quebec As part of the Arts, Literature, and Communication Festival, Literature Profile graduating students in Liana Bellon’s Integrating Activity course present their major, end-of-term projects in a series of four panels.

Welcome statements: Jessica Gearey, Beatriz de Souza Neves, and Elessia Cantara Wednesday, May 5th 12:00 to 2:00 Panel One States of Mind This first panel, moderated by Natasha Zaman, focuses on literary explorations of gender and sexuality in Gothic literature, contemporary novels, and film.

Madison Melanson Feminine Rage, Monstrous Women, and Gothic Literature: An Analysis of King’s Carrie and Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle Beth Fecteau “Pity any thing so hunted”: Vampirism as Homosexuality in Stoker’s Dracula and Schumacher’s The Lost Boys Clara Jane Brydon Definitions of Love and Morality in Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room and Jedrowski’s Swimming in the Dark Emma Campbell A “Woman in the Shape of a Monster”: How Female Authors Fight Traditional Gender Roles Through Gothic Literature Panel Two The Individual and Society This panel, moderated by Matthew Daldalian, explores how particular characters either react against or succumb to their social and political environments.

Adrian Liewfatt

“A Nonexistent Good Place”: An Analysis of Totalitarian Regimes in Orwell’s 1984 and Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale Alessandro Mortellaro ‘Utopianizing’ Dystopias: An Analysis of More’s Utopia and Palahniuk’s Fight Club Victor Caraman The Quest for the Holy Grail: The American Dream in Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and Miller’s Death of a Salesman Ryan Drudik Lamenting Mortality: An Analysis of Nabokov’s Lolita Caelean Vieira Surrendering Individualism: Totalitarian Dystopias in Huxley’s Brave New World and Orwell’s 1984 Friday May 7th 12:00 to 2:00 Panel Three The Writer’s Craft This panel, moderated by Chaily Bitton, explores classic texts from ancient Greek tragedies to Renaissance plays and poems, and on to Romantic poetry, and poetry of the First World War. Athena Tsilimigakis Characters in Tragic Plays: An Analysis of Oedipus and Hamlet Rubi Huamani Quispe The Celebration of Ancient Rome in Dante’s Divine Comedy Julie Jacques An Analysis of Religion in Wordsworth’s “The World is Too Much with Us” and Brontë’s Jane Eyre Hugo Barsacq-Camard Shifting Views of War Rhetoric in World War I Poetry and in Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory Panel Four Restraints and Freedoms This panel, moderated by Kiara Colombo, studies gender roles and shifts from innocence to experience in biblical tales, children’s literature, Gothic literature, and in literature inspired by fairy tales.

Jeanne Hope Feminine Virtue as Social Control: Moral Absolutism in Folklore Eli Turcotte Victorian Gender Roles in Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper and Chopin’s Story of an Hour Gabrielle Pilon “The child inside the book”: An Analysis of Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince and Barrie’s Peter and Wendy Saara Callum-Swain Modernizing Fairy Tales: An Analysis of Joan Didion’s Play it As it Lays and Joyce Carol Oates’s Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

Closing comments

Presentation of the Literature Profile Award for Best Papers to Madison Melanson and Jeanne Hope