KINDRED by Iconoclast Collective

ki N d re d+ winter 2020 volume 8

Cover Art Katherine Butler

Directors + Editors Veronica Botnick Jerika Caduhada Catherine Cassels

Photography Diyana Noory + Veronica Botnick Assistant Directors + Editors Aidan Gugula Celine Tsang

Copy Editor Abby Stevenson

Head of Graphics + Layout Jerika Caduhada Graphic Designers Sally Gotlieb Arteen Haddad Bridget Koza Tiffany Lin Catrina Tang Sophie Wu Shirley Jiang

The sole responsibility for the content of this publication lies with the authors. Its contents do not reflect the opinion of the University Students’ Council of the University of Western Ontario (“USC”). The USC assumes no responsibility or liability for any error, inaccuracy, omission, or comment contained in this publication or for any use that may be made of such information by the reader.

art by AVA WORKMAN

EDITORS' To a kindred spirit,

LETTER

In the twelfth grade, in a classroom alight with the spring sun, we learned from John Donne the romanticism of gold and the drawing compass. He wrote of two souls being one: like gold stretched to the thinness of air, these souls undergo not a breach but an expansion upon distance, and like twin compasses, they move in unison, one forever curving toward the other. This makes us think of you—or, perhaps more accurately, us together. Perhaps we scarcely see each other, Reader, but there is a trace of soulmate in this relationship of ours. After all, art is a transaction of souls; pieces of yours for pieces of ours. For us, our understanding of soulmates began with the Greeks; centuries ago they spoke of humans being born fused with another. An act of god divided each pair, leaving each half to search infinitely for the other to be remade whole. Society today tends to reject this concept of needing another to be complete. Born whole, with no mission vested upon us to find our destined ‘one’, our lives overflow with choices on what to do with our wholeness. We choose what, when, who, why, and how to love—love, in this sense, being the verb of loving, an action that requires an exercise of agency, rather than the noun of being in a state of love, an emotion that is frighteningly out of our control. We are in an era of redefining. We are constantly reimagining new ways of relating to and therefore simply being in the world. In the conceptualization of love as a verb, as a choice one makes, love becomes more tied to the individual; unlike a noun, the verb of love necessitates a subject to do. Sarah Tiller’s “Best Friends with Kids” celebrates exactly this individuality by capturing the unique intricacies of love that arise in the beautiful mundanity of being understood. Shifting from the uniqueness of love between a pair to that of a group, Joyce Leung’s “The Gathering” offers a captivating twist in the way in which familial love specifically is framed: with a visual focus on the table as a place of gathering, her piece reflects upon the connective and divisive dimensions of family. However, while both Sarah and Joyce’s works discuss more commonly represented relationship units (that of marriage and biological family), held within the 24 pages of this letter from us to you are also glimpses into other relationships in all of their free, ephemeral, and ever-changing glory. Every page overlays one human connection with another. With your letters to us we have entwined life with life with life; this is our kindred. The question ultimately comes to this, Reader: What do we owe to each other? As individually whole as we may be, we cannot neglect the inextricable ties we have to one another. There is something of both fate and free will in this obligation we hold to the web of humanity into which we were woven. This publication is what we owe to you. Keep close; this one’s just for us. Love, Veronica, Jerika, and Catherine

s t n e t n o c table of 4

Photo by Stephanie Fattori (wa)lid by Anaa Gulzar

sleepover by Sophie Wu peripherals by Celine Tsang 10 things I hate about you and 7 things I also hate and like about you by Shelby Hohmann

Art by Josette Joseph D+11 by Erin Anderson

photography by DIYANA NOORY

Art and Photo by Bridget Koza Best Friends with Kids by Sarah Tiller

Art by Ashley Staines 14 Art by Jerika Caduhada My Daily Routine come(less) by Anaa Gulzar by Catrina Tang The Gathering by Joyce Leung Poetry by Jerika Caduhada 16 Photo i t by Katie Butwinick Gat y Chloe b e s e o t L o Not so platonic 18 Pphortraits by Lauarerniver by Katriana Koch-Cochran line is d o o l b Photo by Grace Campbell My ruk ail Fase ig b A endless by Kaitlyn Lonnee y b otnick B a ic k n Vero otnic otos by ronica B cNamara e h V P y b 20 smol gratien eM by Clair zalez w o n e on lon weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a op by Diego G i think T ountain On A M

Photos by Diyana Noory Saviour by Kaitlin Sonneveld

Photos by Stephanie Fattori Grace Campbell Katie Butwinick Diyana Noory Maya India

photography by STEPHANIE FATTORI

(wa)lid. at the age of six, i inquired, what could possibly be seen on closed lids when he sleeps?

but now i hesitate and i fail to tell him that the illusion in my mind is rather distorted.

at the age of sixteen, my puzzled expression gave away my question.

he was not wrong but neither was i,

and the answer i received

we point fingers and we end trying to figure the other out.

whether those lids let dew drops pass in the early morning hours, and they did. when he answered that he does not dream, i never realized that he did, indeed. and where he hesitates i know i am in that dream’s delusion. and he fails to tell me yet he does rather, wrongly. that is what i used to believe.

apparently.

my heart cracks at the thought of him returning any sentiment. and i yearn for the day eyelids cry at the triumph they see. not sorrow, not sorrow but pride.

(wa)lid [father] those eyelids once wept at the sight of me. they host memories i can never understand- but how do i say what i’ve been meaning to? how do i say i have had enough silence? how do i stop wavering? how does he stand so strong, still— wall —and my voice cracks everytime i approach him.

text by ANAA GULZAR

goodbye hugs and fierce hellos strange tan lines and worn out soles spotify playlists and goodnight texts the same stuffed animal on two distant desks

disjointed calls and caffeinated highs thumbs rubbing circles on unfathomed thighs from warm chuckled laughter deep in the evening to waves of missing that collapse into drowning unspoken thoughts and longing gazes fleeting stubble and implied grazes hitch breathed departures and smiling waltzing eyes construction lot fences under technicolour skies bleary daylight dreaming and constant ink-spilled thoughts words running over to synapses fraught expectations flipped on their head unending suprise its replacement instead the sudden realization i want you for longer iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll always wish i met you when we were older

peripherals

the feeling of frisson on chilly autumn nights park benches illuminated by dimming daylight

your misplaced reservation but endearing overconfidence endless captivation beside comfortable silence a gaping ravine meets its first droplet of dew teach me how i could ever get enough of you

text by CELINE TSANG art by SOPHIE WU

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

AND 7 THINGS I ALSO LIKE ABOUT YOU text by SHELBY HOHMANN

art by JOSETTE JOSEPH

D-11

I’m seventy-three and I’d never been on an airplane before yesterday. In fact, I hadn’t even spent much time in a car since they took away my license and I was forced to sell my white ’87 Camaro convertible. My vision fails me a little more each day; the glaucoma is setting in. I can’t even read my stories anymore, and I keep being scolded

for burning holes in the pink carpet when my ashes don’t quite make it into the ashtray. My youngest boy, George, and his wife, Marie, who have been my caregivers for the past few years, surprised me one day, saying, “Pack your bags. We’re going to see Ernie.” “In Victoria?” “No, Mum, not your brother.” I could not believe what I was hearing. I hadn’t seen him since—a lifetime ago. Not since the day he left for France. Now George and Marie were telling me that I

was to go with them to Bény-Sur-Mer, to say a goodbye that was 50 years in the making. They must think I’m ready to kick the bucket or something. To be honest, I haven’t got much to live for these days. Ernie was my first husband. A British expat, he chose to enlist in the Queen’s Own Rifles of Canada. He was a wonderful man and my family adored him as much as I did. I’m not sure who was more heartbroken when we got the news. My sister, Dorothy, who I had always suspected had him in her affections, wept beside me as the shock permeated my body. I swore I would never remarry, but when I returned to Toronto after the war, my friend Betty immediately (and suggestively) introduced me to Red, who had also served in the war, but in the less prestigious role of ambulance driver. He was sweet though, and while my family didn’t approve—constantly comparing him to Ernie—we were married less than a year later. Stanley was born first, arriving so quickly that I laboured and birthed him on our kitchen table. Less than a year after that, we had Jane and our family was complete. Or so we thought. Danny was born in ’57 and George surprised us again in ‘61. To think, I wouldn’t be here right now with you, Ernie, if it weren’t for him. I was eighteen when the war began. The oldest of ten, I wasn’t in school long. So, when Dorothy asked if I would join the RCAF with her, I figured why not. But I never forgot about the glorious, carefree days of school—the sturdy brick building providing the backdrop for my memories. At least in that world, I still have my sight. When Red died, I enrolled at Parkhill Collegiate to get my high school diploma. Maybe I could get a job in an office or the library. The kids seemed amused when I walked down to their smoking pit and sparked up a Matinée. Bitchsticks, they’d call them. I was only a few credits shy of graduating, so I didn’t stick around long, but I have fond memories of my time there. My last day, one of the boys, Jose—young enough to be my grandson, though they all were—ran up to me in the parking lot. “Mrs. Stonehouse—that your ride? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” I chuckled. “Well,” he focused on the scuff on his left Converse All-Star as he spoke. “I got you this. I know you like books and stuff.” He pulled a rumpled paperback out of the pocket of his jean jacket. From Here to Eternity. I didn’t have the heart to tell the boy I had enough memories of the war to last me a lifetime.

Bless you, Ernie Dear. Please, God. It was not in vain.

I still remember the day the telegram came in. June 23rd. It was a Friday afternoon. I was advised that Ernie had been reported missing. But I already knew he was gone; your gut can’t be fooled. Sitting here now, I can’t help but wonder— as I’ve done countless times over the years—what my life might have been like had he come back to me. I loved Red, don’t get me wrong, but our life together was filled with strife. I worked two jobs while he was out on the road, not to mention tending to the house and children. My favourite job I think I ever had was a taxi driver. Stanley worried for my safety, bless his heart, but I never did come into any trouble. Toronto was a different place back then, after all. The people I met, especially when my fares required transportation to and from the airport, fascinated me, and allowed me to fantasize about my own adventures, which never did materialize. That’s not to say we stayed put. I think we must have up and moved at least once every year or two, but never far outside the city. Always some hodunk little town where no one looked at you sideways if you married your first cousin. Being the eldest, and one of only two daughters, my family had high expectations of what I might accomplish. I seemed to excel in school, while I attended anyway, and everyone told me I was beautiful, though I didn’t see it. I almost won Miss Toronto in 1938, but my sister Dorothy, the jealous minger, had me disqualified by telling the judges I was in fact married. It must have been her anyway, but it seems pointless to blame the poor dear when she’s been gone so long. Wasted potential, just like me, perhaps. Though at least she can’t be blamed, as it was pneumonia that took her when she wasn’t even 40 years old. I glance up and over the horizon, where I can just barely see the Atlantic. Or rather, the English Channel, which connects Ernie’s grave to the place where my memories of him rest. A cool breeze raises the flesh on the backs of my arms under my silk blouse. I wonder if he knows I’m here, and wants to know what took me so long.

E.W. Cranfield. 17th June 1944. Executed by firing squad. Canadian war hero. Love of my life. “Mum?” George wrapped my wool shawl around my shoulders. He always was my most sensitive child. I’m not sure I could possibly express my gratitude to him for this, but something tells me I don’t need to. He’s like my Ernie that way.

text by ERIN ANDERSON

art by ASHLEY STAINES

The cafeteria has tofu for lunch today; I thought it would taste like my Momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tofu dish, But instead, it is much too salty And leaves a peculiar aftertaste in my mouth.

I shower every day now, Because my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hair, Thick and coarse, Is no longer constantly clogging the drain.

Walking to class, I think about The structure of a Petrarchan sonnet, The electrical activity of neurons, And whether or not my Dad is still having trouble sleeping.

I go to bed, In sheets that smell foreign, And let my memories lull me to sleep.

text by CATRINA TANG

Is it possible to exist in two places at once?

At fifteen years livin g love poti ons were a daily re Thin, sch cip oolgirl fin gers learn e curl into ed to themselv es, half moo ns into vir carve gin palms One sip s queezed the heart Victorian like a corset; I c ould neve Until the second r last

text by JERIKA CAD U

HADA

There wa s little to love with potions; out love we took o ur sips, li line, watc ne hed with childish e by the wishin yes g Love poti of the world from on people sight to love: h had plen ty alf-pillow sleepers smiles cro with o when the ked as flaws yâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re easy to forgive Lips upo n scars u p on lovely wh en they to skin upon heart re the wh ole world apart At eighte en years living love poti ons grew scarce incompa tible with the bodie blood an s of dw Nestled a ire m Remnants ong wood and lea ther ; on love po with such fury did w tions simply to e shatter know we once live d.

Up until a couple years ago, I thought my parents’ relationship was, well, wrong. I always watched movies and TV that showed grown-up couples always hugging, kissing, getting each other presents, and going out on dates every Friday. I thought it was weird because I never saw my parents do any of that stuff: no grand gestures, spontaneous dates, or flowers at work. It’s been twenty-five years, but they never even had a wedding. I’ve sort of realized that it’s not always about all that stuff; you can show someone that you love them with flowers and gifts, sure, but there’s so many other ways. Every day my dad wakes up before the birds even start to chirp. He sneaks out and leaves my mom to sleep peacefully for that extra hour or so without the sound of his snoring.

REASON #1 HOW THEY LOVE EACH OTHER: My mom sleeps next to my dad no matter how loudly he snores; my dad keeps the house silent while my mom naps every afternoon. Then, my dad will head up to the kitchen and start his day. He puts on a pot of tea, makes breakfast, feeds the pets, and packs a lunch for both of them.

REASON #2 HOW THEY LOVE EACH OTHER: My dad refills the tea each time the pot’s empty, even though my mom takes the last cup. They leave separately for work, and at the end of the day he gets home before her.

REASON #3 HOW THEY LOVE EACH OTHER: Although she’ll be home in an hour, my mom calls my dad on her way home from work just to talk about their day. When they get off the phone I say, “How close is Mom?” And he’ll say, “In the driveway.” Every Christmas my dad digs out the red and green bins from the garage and we put on the Elvis Christmas CD. The three of us decorate the living room and Christmas tree with the same baubles and tinsel we’ve been using for my whole life.

art by BRIDGET KOZA

REASON #4 HOW THEY LOVE EACH OTHER: Twenty-five Christmases later, my mom and dad still sing and dance to the same Elvis CD. They pretend like they didn’t get each other presents, but they always do. My dad likes to cook and clean; my mom does not. He’s a pretty good cook, except he always makes the same things and doesn’t know how to make anything else. He also has this funny habit where if you like something, he’ll then make it for you every single day and then be confused when you don’t like it after a month.

REASON #5 HOW THEY LOVE EACH

OTHER: No matter how many pounds of my dad’s“classic” banana bread she’s eaten over the years, my mom eats it every time he makes it. Before I was born, my parents both had (short) marriages with other people. When they found each other, they figured that marriage and weddings were a hoax — so they never bothered.

REASON #6 HOW THEY LOVE EACH OTHER: There’s no sheet of paper binding my parents together forever. Their kids are adults now; they’re not together for us. My parents are together because they want to be.

text by SARAH TILLER

the gathering

text by JOYCE LEUNG

Family was at first the table as a small, transparent battleground, its glass surface a canvas of my tears as I battled through the piles of exercise books, the progressive ticking of the mechanical clock breaking the close confrontations between me and my parents’ irritated efforts. “This one is for the kids only.” Family was then the table as a simple wooden space, tiny in size but just large enough for my cousins and I: pork chops and lotus root soups left cold by never-ending conversations and ongoing card games on the side in our hearty little village house, where we sat away from the adults during dinnertime. In the beginning of every year, family was when the table donned a garment of red and pink with blazing gold linings, where relatives were not just aunts and uncles but your grandparents’ siblings’ children. Every corner of the table was a different waltz of multi-coloured delicacies and steamed festivity, every chopstick marking a familial congregation celebrating the upsurge of annual luck and prosperity. Sometimes family was the table as a forest green warzone, the light brown borders overlooking the violent clash between the white mahjong tiles, gazing upon the shifting faces of surprise and anguish. Indeed the tables have turned. Yet family is the makeshift table as the coarse matted seats, sitting above the rumbling heaters and below the wide-open windows where our friends journeyed through trials of Scrabbles and crosswords in the yellow school bus. “What’s going to happen next?” Every now and then, family is the randomly arranged tables of rainbow mats, each table ordering bowls of scattered popcorns with a side dish of euphoria as my friends and I watched movie screenings in the echoing school gym. At the end of every year, family is the long market tables as a buffet of alfredo pastas and cheese soup that sends a saturated wave of warmth onto our frosted fingers, where cousins and in-laws are only defined by the affections we share for each other. Every gap left on the table is decorated by the falling snowflakes, everywhere to be found, every fork and spoon performing a harmonizing melody with the jovial carols in the background. Regardless of which table it is, family all began as the metallic table, its crisp exterior bearing my first solid contact with the world, the weight of the being marking its territories on the teal surgical drape — through flesh and blood.

come come [less] say less as i approach the orbit of your eyes say less as i arrive within vicinity of your gaze lowered, respectfully, of course. say less as i pause ever-so-slightly, a tilt of my chin, and i nod. say less as i come to terms with the seas of my skin deep, dark and beautiful. come and forget the words they make you memorize. and start spouting the language of your unconditional

emotion to me. say less to the world and say no more to me.... ‘o’ listen! as i come and the silence speaks.

come or “kum” - less in Urdu

text by AISHA KHAN art by JERIKA CADUHADA

Not so platonic. text by KATRIANA

KOCH-COCHRAN

photo by KATIE BU TWINICK

is blurred The line between us ry ap over the bounda really mean and we hop, skip, le to the two of us to ore significant, n m ig re ng hi fo et o m to so ’s d at th an d o stuck in a wor between friendship big, too strange, to o to s em se at th se something el anything – back and look at us and it makes me sit eaning, ifically – at too abstract m th in ith w y bl look at you, spec rta fo com can fit somewhere doing and wonder if we e t we wer always ha w ’s at th be ay wonder if m ’t see, and we just couldn a love, what we had was at th ll te ’t dn ul co ing, solid and unwaver thin, o but stretched to en technicalities. too many unspok h at ne be d rie bu and stuck

endless I wish I could live in those moments when everything feels endless— loud and inexplicably present, suddenly aware that time is something that can’t really be felt as it slips between grasping fingers. Sitting in the backseat of a little car while two good friends hold hands over the stick shift in the front, and it’s pouring like the night the flood waters came down. Distant headlights blur into twin stars, exploding to supernovas as they pass, slices of life swept away by the night— a lonely lane in the country can lead everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Rain trembles on the windshield as I shake off the October chill, and in my ears is the rush of the road, soft sci-fi strings and saxophone, the squeak of windshield wipers.

The sky pulses with lightning. My feeling of being endless intensifies. Tears prick at the backs of my eyelids, and I really couldn’t tell you why, except that I’m laughing at something I’ll soon forget, said by friends I’m missing before I even have to leave, missing while I’m still sitting in their car. I wish I could live in these moments when everything feels endless— but for now, I’ll just have to be happy by keeping them close to my heart.

text by KAITLYN LONNEE

photo by GRACE CAMPBELL

The water swirls and flows together, mixing together the blood from past generations. We are all as one, never to be separated. We do not stretch upward like the trees and their reaching branches that continuously split off from each other. The further they reach into the air the further theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re looking into the past of their ancestors. It is a blooming shrine to generations and its connections. But this is not the case for me. My bloodline is the murky waters of a river, hiding all the unknown creatures and thoughts lurking beneath it. As time goes on the river splits off into smaller creeks and streams; some areas of it dirtying even more, and some so clear its visitors can see themselves reflected back. A tree blooms and sprouts leaves in a cycle every year, and people marvel at its class and monstrosity, praising all the past and present people that make up its beauty. But people do not marvel at a river. They stand back so as to not get too close, and only dare to approach its cleanest parts when theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re ready to take. If people take from a tree, its limbs will grow back, but once the original blood of the river is taken, it is lost forever. Those born into the ancestry of the tree are lucky, through no choice of their own. They reach up higher than anyone else, as if they are on a pedestal. Their success waves at all below as their leaves dance in the wind. At the times when the wind is too strong, and one of its leaves stray and are forced down by the howling wind, my river catches it. The water carries it warmly through the current, never for a second letting it sink.

My Bloodline Is A River

Any dirt on the leaf is washed off, and the leaf floats until it is able to catch the breeze, and get on its way. The river ventures on in different directions, sometimes travelling so far it is fused with another. The constant flowing river has met so many people. Some consider it glorious and some consider it gruesome, despite the fact that the water is flowing from the same source in the same direction throughout time. There comes a certain point when the tendrils of the river seem to end, but nobody ever looks close enough to see it is still alive. Beneath the solid earth the water seeps deep into the soil. It licks down around the different minerals, tasting its gravelly dust. It sneaks past the slimy worms and tiny insects, as it is pulled down by a force it cannot resist. The water meets the reaching offshoots of the treeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s roots and is pumped up, defying gravity, supplying the tree and its ancestry with life. The tree pulses alive, allowing it to bloom its delightful colours and scents. The tree takes and takes and takes. The river gives and gives and gives. The tree never stops taking and the river never stops giving. The river supports the tree that is so cherished by many, giving its water that is soaked up into its core. No one ever acknowledges the river, but it continues to flow. My bloodline is a river.

text by ABIGAILFASERUK

i. when the warm ache of my back strangles my spine & suffocates nerves i feel my mother’s hand brush against mine a reminder to look down don’t step on a crack ii. as my knuckles twist and snap and my wrist twitches left then right right then left i hear my brother playing beethoven’s 9th symphony a reminder that god gave me no talent iii. at the witching hour when my teeth grind and my jaw clicks a chill flows over my upper lip to remind me that i’m sharing my father’s nightmare

v. when my eyes meet in the bathroom mirror and my mind struggles to recognize its own reflection i see my grandmother’s shadow her arm stretching across my shoulder to remind me i own my body vi. the birthmark on my thigh a blemish of brown against pale white like a manufacturing error reminds me we aren’t all created equally

PORTRAITS

iv. after walking a day in the wrong shoes my feet yell in pain with blistered toes i stare at blood stained sneakers and smell vinegar a reminder that my grandfather’s words should never be taken in vain

text by LAUREN LEE art by CHLOE GATTI

SMOLGRATIEN

07/22/2019 Kigali, Rwanda

text and photography by VERONICA BOTNICK

TThis is my brother, Gratien. He lives in Rwanda. He has the biggest heart of everyone I know. There was rarely a moment when he was not smiling. And, let me tell you, that bright smile took up half of his face. Gratien had a certain way of engaging a classroom full of students. Every lesson, regardless of whether he was teaching math or Kinyarwanda, 30 pairs of eyes followed him around the room as if he were telling the world’s best story. Even Kayla, Mickey, and I, who already knew long division, could not be distracted by anything else outside of his lesson. He maintained the same amount of energy during class breaks when he would teach the boys volleyball. It was impressive how he never seemed to tire. Every teacher should be like Gratien. Over the 5 weeks of shadowing his class, my heart grew closer to his warm spirit and those of the boys. On the last day we spent together, he asked if he could share something with me, Kayla, and Mickey in his office. He played with his hands on the table. This was the only time I did not see him smile. We had no idea what he was going to say. He pulled out a white plush dog. We recognized it; he called it “smol gratien”. “When I was a kid…” he started, “I lived on the street. There was no center that could take me in. I did not have any parents, so I followed people around, just like a lost dog. Then, I got taken into Les Enfants de Dieu.” This is a rehabilitation center for street boys. This is where I gained 30 new siblings. “Years later, I got my first job as a teacher at the center. With my first paycheck, I bought myself this little dog. He represents me. I keep him on the desk to remember where I came from and how lucky I am to have this new family.”

/2019 06/23 nda , Rwa Kigali

A lump formed in my throat.Though I didn’t want to cry, I felt tears beginning to well in my eyes. Across from us was the nicest man; we did not expect any less of a kindness than what he was sharing with us, but it was still a kindness greater than what was necessary or owed. “I want to give you smol gratien,” he said. “I want to give you, my new family, something before you leave. I don’t have much money, so this is my only belonging that I can give to you. Keep him, and remember that your big brother here at Les Enfants de Dieu loves you.” Smol gratien (vicariously Gratien) has now been on a plane and seen the Rockies. A humble man who once lived on the streets is now going to visit and share his kindness to countries all over the world with the help of his three new siblings. Next up, Tokyo.

art by CLAIRE MCNAMARA

06/22/201 9 Brussels, Belgium

They’re blue and grey, these Spanish mountains. The “Fairies’ Grave” is what we called this peak, a quiet grass where white flowers bloom, and “Lovers’ Quarrel,”—a small ruin below. By the ruins of a house I found the broken pieces of what once could’ve been a dish. Ceramic pieces, smooth as milk. White and brown markings that don’t fit together. I was telling her how the Spanish had gone across the sea and had used their language to rename old places— left us with El Salvador and Mexico.

on a mountain text by DIEGO GONZALEZ

That it’s fitting then, that we’d come to Spain and named these places that are now our own.

avior

Andrew thought the church was much further out of town than it should have been. If it were his

wedding, he would have had it at the one right downtown. It was a beautiful building, and everyone would have seen them and wished they were them.

But no, Abigail had chosen to go far out of town. Andrew sipped from his cannister, tired of the

endless apple orchards and wheat fields and white fences. It was a little much of Abigail to ask the guests of her wedding to come out this far. This was why she never should have been left alone. She made awful decisions when she was left alone. Andrew’s GPS beeped, telling him to turn, but his only option was a tree-lined laneway with more farmland and a red barn at its end. Oh. The realization hit him as he signaled his turn. Oh, Abigail. She had completely forgone a church and decided to get married in a barn. What kind of radical wedding was she trying to pull off? He told himself to calm down. Jesus had been born in a barn. Perhaps Abigail had thought up some sort of biblical metaphor as to why she should be married in a barn. Andrew parked at the end of the short row of cars along the wooden fence and took one last sip from his cannister. He left it but made sure he could still feel the cool metal of the revolver that was tucked safely in his waistband.

The red barn was empty upon inspection, but the inside was done-up. The hardwood floors were polished

with tables in a ring around a central dance floor. For a barn, it didn’t look as bad as he had imagined, but Andrew still didn’t like it. It wasn’t a church. There wasn’t even a single cross. He fished his car key out of his pocket and used the sharp end to scratch a small cross into the red paint. At least it was something. Abigail would thank him later, he was sure, for giving some value to her wedding. Leaving the barn, Andrew followed a paved path lined with the same trees as the driveway that led into a small clearing. He stayed back in the shadows, taking in the several rows of chairs that had been set up in the neatly trimmed grass. Andrew skipped over the guests seated in them, his eyes going right to the wooden arch in front of them and to the people that stood beneath it. There wasn’t even a priest.

Andrew couldn’t believe Abigail had gone this far. How could she have possibly thought this

tattooed woman could fill in as a priest to officiate? Once he had saved Abigail, he would get them a real priest: a modest man that knew the gospel. One who didn’t have to keep looking down at the script like this tattooed fraud was doing. Then, there was the second woman. Andrew had never met her, but he had seen enough pictures online. Short brown hair, a pointed chin, small stature. Demi was her name. Finally, Andrew saw Abigail. She looked so beautiful, beaming that smile of hers that had captured Andrew’s heart in the first place. But it wasn’t directed at him. Her attention was solely on Demi, clearly oblivious to how awful this whole situation was. Neither of them even wore white dresses. Both donned short, flowy dresses, as if they were guests rather than brides. Of course, of course, Andrew thought to himself. That’s exactly what was happening. They weren’t getting married. They couldn’t be getting married. God forbid it - marriage was meant to be between man and woman - and besides, Andrew was going to marry Abigail.

He had put a ring on her finger. It had been after one of their fights. Abigail had done something – she

was always doing something. Reasonably, he had gotten upset, but she couldn’t own up to what she had done. All she could do was cry. Being the good guy he was, he forgave her. He bought the ring to prove how much he loved her, no matter how many stupid things she might do.

It wasn’t long after that he came home one night after work and found the house empty. Abigail had

gone to get groceries, probably, or to buy some new lingerie to wear for him. And that was when he could only assume Demi had kidnapped her and told her so many lies. Lies about him, about herself, about their relationship. Poor, poor Abigail had believed her. Poor, poor Abigail had left his protection and look at where she got herself. At a wedding with no priest, no church, no white dress. Andrew knew what he had to do.

He stepped out of the shade, reaching for his holster, hidden inside his

waistband. The woman officiator noticed him first and stopped what she was saying. Several of the

guests twisted in their seats to see him. But he didn’t care about their stares.

Because Abigail looked.

She saw him.

“Baby,” he called out,

holding the revolver up.

“I’m here to save you.”

text by KAITLIN SONNEVELD photography by DIYANA NOORY

photography by STEPHANIE FATTORI GRACE CAMPBELL KATIE BUTWINICK DIYANA NOORY MAYA INDIA

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