INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5 ▪ FEBRUARY 2016
HUMAN
WRITERS Tumi Adegoroye, Khatija Anjum, Samantha Bubnich, Caitlyn Buhay, Sarah Cino, Mimi Deng, Amanda Emmanuel, Elina Filice, Kristin Gracie, Rachel Guitman, Catherine Hu, Emma Hudson, Chukky Ibe, Annabel Krutiansky, Sonia Leung, Patricia Lora, Drushti Mehta, Sarah Mohiuddin, Linda Nguyen, Sarah O'Connor, Trisha Philpotts, Muskaan Sachdeva, Emile Shen, Nikhita Singhal, Hamid Yuksel, Sunny Yun, Michele Zaman, Coby Zucker ARTISTS Kandice Buryta, Sarah Cino, Sarah Mae Conrad, Jonathan Cortese, Kayla Da Silva, Mimi Deng, Shirley Deng, Kristina Durka, Vincent Farrauto, Elina Filice, Leah Flanagan, Brittany Forsyth Lauren Gorfinkel, Zoe Handa, Patricia Nguyen, Tina Nham, Hilary Kee, Jason Lau, Jin Lee, Sonia Leung, Angela Ma, Diana Marginean, Camelia McLeod, Sherri Murray, Imasha Perera, Courtney Sheppard, David Shin, Rachel Sproule, Jessica Trac, Melanie Wasser, Shannon Wu, Muhbooba Yoqoub, William Zhang, Brian Zheng LAYOUT DESIGNERS Catherine Chambers, Sarah Mae Conrad, Angela Ma, Elaine Westenhoefer COVERS/TABLE OF CONTENTS Lauren Gorfinkel
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PET PEEVES Incite Staff FROM CLAY & MUD Coby Zucker SHE WAS AN ANGEL | Tumi Adegoroye ART | Sarah Mae Conrad & Hilary Kee, Zoe Handa IN TRANSIT Linda Nguyen DARK HAIRED HEROINE Patricia Lora ANTE MERIDIEM Amanda Emmanuel TAKING FLIGHT Mimi Deng CORTEX Catherine Hu PLAYING MAKE BELIEVE Sarah O'Connor WHAT DOES SUCCESS MEAN TO YOU? | Drushti Mehta SPINAL SENTIMENTS Khatija Anjum SUFFERERS OF LAW Muskaan Sachdeva ART David Shin, Imasha Perera MY FRIEND Hamid Yuksel ART Brittany Forsyth, Melanie Wasser POP CULTURE WAS MY BABYSITTER | Emile Shen
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ART Kristina Durka 10/31/2015 Samantha Bubnich UNTITLED Michele Zaman ART Muhbooba Yoqoub, Sonia Leung EXTANT Caitlyn Buhay (UNIVERSAL) Nikhita Singhal NERVES Chukky Ibe LIFE:RESTART & UNTITLED Vincent Farrauto HEARTBEAT Rachel Guitman WHO TELLS YOUR STORY? Kristen Gracie INNOCENT Sarah Cino RAINIEST DAYS Sunny Yun AWAKENING Sonia Leung DRIFTING Emma Hudson FOR SALE Elina Filice & Annabel Krutiansky WE’RE NOT HOME ALONE Trisha Philpotts FOOD FOR THOUGHT Sarah Mohiuddin INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Sarah Mae Conrad Jaslyn English ART CURATORS Kayla Da Silva Lauren Gorfinkel Jason Lau Angela Ma Camelia McLeod
CONTENT EDITORS Caitlyn Buhay Dalya Cohen Kayla Esser Gali Katznelson Nimra Khan Madeleine McMillan Sarah O’Connor Sunny Yun Rachelle Zalter
IN-HOUSE ARTISTS Kayla Da Silva Mimi Deng Lauren Gorfinkel Diana Marginean LAYOUT EDITORS Catherine Chambers Angela Ma Elaine Westenhoefer
facebook.com/incitemagazine issuu.com/incite-magazine @incitemagazine
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ncite Magazine is McMaster University’s student-run monthly publication with a wide range of content, from essays and research pieces to fiction and poetry. Every aspect of Incite’s production is carried out by student volunteers, from writing to graphics to layout. We invite anyone interested in contributing to attend our planning meetings, where we will brainstorm ideas together and you can sign up to contribute. All skill levels are welcome! We work to foster close relationships between our contributors and editors. This allows new contributors to collaborate with experienced writers and artists to develop their skills in a friendly and positive environment. Email us at incite@mcmaster.ca to get involved. VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
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what is your
BIGGEST pet peeve?
caitlyn buhay If I had an endless supply of digital paper and ink, and more importantly time, I would tell you all the little things that land on my lengthy list of pet peeves. Soggy cereal, burnt toast, cold coffee, are just the starting items I would place in the bothersome breakfast section. Soup slurpers, line butters and lunch tray bumpers would follow in that lazy lunch period. But perhaps most pertinent of all, so devastatingly detrimental to my mental health I would have to put it in bold and underline it twice would be the double dippers. We know them, we’ve seen them, heck, we may at one point or another even been one ourselves. But the contamination must end. Hold up your chips and dip in protest – our food will not be tainted by the saliva of another.
sarah o'connor Lateness. I mean really, how hard is it to keep a deadline people? We have due dates for a reason and listening to them shows our respect towards them. I mean, how hard is it really to be at an event on time, finish that assignment, and to submit your editor blurb on time? Also Jaslyn and Sarah, sorry this was late...
sunny yun My biggest pet peeve is (and all my short people out there will get me on this one) when people use my head as an arm rest — a more common occurrence than you’d think. Convenient, yes. Comical looking, sure. Comfortable, maybe. But I don’t need your sweaty forearm on my freshly washed hair any more than you need me to use you as my personal step ladder. Sincerely, 5’1”and not growing anymore despite the encouraging words from my GP.
madeleine mcmillan My Pet Peeves are as follows: 1. People who come to school sick Yes it is Winter term, and that cold is basically inevitable. Take the day to get better or at least get past the contagious stage. Don’t infect everyone else. We all have midterms. We all have deadlines. Let’s take care of each other by taking preventative measures to keep illnesses contained. If anything, it’ll keep you from getting an even worse illness down the road. In this case, sharing is most certainly NOT caring.
rachelle zalter When someone picks at a scab while texting while talking while using the word moist while sporting orange khakis while wearing too much Axe® Dark Temptation Body Spray. Hate when that happens.
gali katznelson When baristas at Starbucks ask me how to spell my Starbucks name. Does Ashley have an e?
elaine westenhoefer I don’t understand why people drag their feet when they walk. That chsshh chshhh chshhh sound is irritating. Are you announcing your presence or something? Are you showing the world that you are lazy or don’t care to pick up your feet? The worst is when someone wears Uggs and decides to drag their feet. That noise! I am not sure how this category of feet-draggers arose, but I feel like it is slowly declining (Yay!). I wonder if I am the only person who notices this.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
dalya cohen When you are walking in a mall (specifically the mall, but for the sake of generalizability this can be applied to other situations. Like the student centre, or a crowded hallway, or hell) and there is someone in front of you walking at a literal glacial pace. This person probably has their phone out and is maybe snapchatting or texting. And for some reason they cannot seem to get it together to move one foot in front of another any faster than a snail. I mean really? REALLY? And at first you’re walking at an average pace, but for some reason as soon as this slowpoke is in front of you, you are in the biggest rush of your life. And the slowpoke, unaware of what social etiquette means, has chosen this exact moment to stop and smell the goddamn roses.
kayla esser Hand dryers that don’t work in bathrooms with no paper towels. It’s a timeless conundrum: either you wave your hands around like an idiot, or wipe them on your pants and look like an idiot with wet pants. Nobody wins.
nimra khan These little annoyances sometimes don't make sense, but they drive me a little crazy; it's like a little itch in my mind that irks me just by thinking about it. The streaks on a mirror or phone/laptop/computer screens, and seeing people's phones where their apps are not organized into folders (!!). I mean, who does that? I'd also prefer if drivers actually made use of their magical turn signals when they turn. And last but not least, it would be nice to have lunch with a friend without their phone becoming a surprise guest that they need to look at, and then nod vaguely to what I'm saying. How about you go home and I'll just text you a picture of what I ate, okay?
kayla da silva I have many pet peeves. Don’t we all? The one pet peeve that comes to mind at the moment is when people mispronounce my name. It is such a little thing but it bothers me so much because my name is so simplistic and short, and it’s sounds exactly how it’s spelled. K-A-Y-L-A…Kayla! It is quite a common name yet people always manage to mispronounce it. In most cases, people will accidentally call me “Kyla”, as if the “a” mysteriously vanished. That’s not my name…my name is KAY-LA! Unless my parents intend for the “a” to be silence and decided not to tell me after nearly 20 years – who knows? I was mistakenly called “Kyla” for the majority of my first year because that was my roommate’s name when I was living in McKay Hall. I understood the confusion but we look nothing alike. At the time, it was slightly annoying but we both laugh about it now. For future reference though, my name is Kayla.
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FROM CLAY & MUD Coby Zucker
ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL
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ver millions of years, an inconceivable amount of time for many, but a wink for the gods, wind buffets and water laps against the rocky outcropping that composes the shoreline. On the coast of the Aegean Sea, the displacement of minerals continues at a rhythmic, plodding rate, resulting in a soft bed of clay. Presently, the malleable earth is indented with three pairs of feet. The feet belong to the dramatis personæ of this story. There is the cunning brother, trickster and defender of the human cause, to whom we owe everything. Then there is his twin, the fool whose lust and short-sightedness led to all the misfortune in the world we now know. Finally, there is our virgin patroness, ever watchful and just. So the story goes: For what must have been the hundredth time, the Trickster rolled up his sleeves, which, at some point, had been a pristine white. Dried clay caked his bare feet, in between his toes, and ran all the way up his legs to his knees. He reached down once more into the soft clay at his feet and scooped up a sizable lump of material. Even after hours of hard work, he relished the feeling of the wet glob in his hands, appreciating the slimy texture. He cast a glance towards his brother, the Fool, who was much the opposite, restless and eager to be done with the affair. His twin seemed to be working on some sort of quadruped with thick fur and large tusks. The figure was crafted with far less skill than those done by the Trickster, but it was not important; it served only as a model. The Trickster returned his attention to his own work and began to shape the clay. This creation would be entirely his own, a being both delicate in features and form, but also crafty and inventive. He envisioned the traits and characteristics of the being even as he gave form to the physical features. They will be stubborn and emotional, he thought as he craft-
ed the face and head, and yet, they will be rational when the need arises. When the entirety of the upper body was done, the Trickster, on a whim, fashioned two more limbs onto the bottom of the torso. He was immediately delighted with the result, and could not resist an abrupt and throaty laugh. The noise caught the attention of his two companions, his brother and the Patroness. They set down their own projects and walked over to where the Trickster stood. Immediately, the others picked up on the cause of his mirth. The Fool cracked a wide grin and slapped his brother’s back and even the Patroness sniggered, rolling her eyes. The reason, of course, for the amusement was that the figure was a crude representation of the shape of the three immortals, standing on two legs. “Are you quite finished?” the Patroness asked, her ordinarily level voice dripping with mock derision. “I am, but for one thing,” the Trickster replied, “I want to give this being fire.” Immediately, the Patroness reverted to her accustomed sternness, “You know I will have to ask my father?” The Trickster nodded and extended one hand, now covered with a fresh coat of clay, and offered her the figure. There was a pause while the Patroness considered, but she eventually took hold of the clay model. Her eyes shone and her body visibly thrummed with energy, the entire display lasting no more then a second. When she was done, she opened her hand and deposited the contents in the wet clay. “What will you call it, brother?” asked the Fool. When he answered, the Trickster’s eyes shone with a different kind of light, an unadulterated optimism and fondness for what he knew his creation could become. He replied, “Man.”
So the story goes...
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
BEFORE MY MUM CAME TO LIVE AMONG HUMANS,
SHE WAS AN ANGEL Tumi Adegoroye
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was five miles away, yet I could smell the scent, the perfect scent of freshly baked cookies. The smell of her freshly baked cookies and cake would make one cave in to temptation. Although many people thought she was too smart to bake for a living, Mama made her own decisions herself. Mama was born into a rich family in the 60’s and being the last born of five was very easy for her. Growing up in Lagos City was more luck for her because her father was wealthy. You know what they say about Lagos City: ‘the centre of excellence’’. But things got shaky later through the years. As humans, we fret during tough times, but mama always said, “don’t be panic, a certain darkness is needed to see the stars”. Having someone as benevolent as her is something almost every child would wish for. A creative, independent woman who never gave up on anything or anyone. Her soft brown hair perfectly matches her light caramel skin, and her eyes are as beautiful as the stars. Her lips like strawberries and her flawless skin reminds me that she has a beautiful warrior within. The way her cheekbones lift when she smiles is very attractive.
I can bet that was what made my father fall for such an angel. As white as driven snow, so are her teeth. When times were rough she still lent hands and it made me wonder why she thought of people before herself. Baking was what she loved doing. It made her delighted. It became a smart means of making money but no one saw a bright future in it,
I remember those days, when she would stay in the kitchen all day. Mama would then come out smiling and smelling like freshly baked carrot cake. Everyone knew our home for that smell. They loved it. It was her identity, but humans hardly saw a bright future in it. She normally smiled while mixing the flour and eggs. Sometimes she didn't make use of the measuring spoon because she was an expert. Her gentleness gives me comfort and her courage gives me strength each day. Mama always told me that as humans, we are desperately struggling, looking for ways to survive. Her perseverance brought success and what others saw as ugly, brought luxury. Not only is the taste of her cookies perfect, she is a perfect mother to me. You know what they say about humans, “humans see what they want to see”. Mama saw a bright future; I saw a shining bright star- Mama. Before my mum came to live among humans, she was an angel. Even as I sit here in my room, 7052.9 miles away from her, I still smell the scent of freshly baked cookies.
I will always make her proud. except her. I would eat the crumbs of the cookies, lick the last drops of ice cream and steal the last pieces of cake, but my father and sister were worse than me. They loved my mother’s baking more than any meal in the world, especially papa. But he never really supported the idea of making money out of it. Mama knows just what to say, she always makes my day. She never spared the rod but I love her anyway. I will always make her proud. As proud as a peacock, each time she looks at the cloud she will be proud that she is my rock.
ARTWORK BY SHANNON WU VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
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Sarah Mae Conrad & Hilary Kee
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
Human Identity | Zoe Handa
VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
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IN TRANSIT Linda Nguyen
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slowly gathered up my belongings and began double-checking to make sure I had my plane ticket and passport with me. As I made my way to the boarding line, I wondered how different my life would have been if I were born in this country. What if my parents had never immigrated to Canada? What if I had grown up here in this country, surrounded by family and friends? What if I had a chance to truly understand my culture with its traditional customs and values? I thought back to the conversation I had the night before with my cousin. 6:30am. “What is it like living in Canada?” My younger cousin curiously stared at me, patiently waiting for my answer. I took a sip of my coffee, and pondered her question. I had to think about it for a moment… How was being Canadian different from other cultures. I looked around at the bustling traffic – the honking of motorcycles and rickshaws passing by. I heard the ongoing chatter of people haggling for goods in the market. “It is so different over there, I would not even be awake at this hour. I would be in bed after a long night of working and studying.” “Do you always study?” I took a glance out the window as I thought about her question. I was a typical university student, living away from home. I was lucky enough to choose my own program of study and explore all the different opportunities that were available – from networking to jobs, and internships to community activities. I attended lectures and tutorials, volunteered at the local library, and spent time with friends on a weekly basis. I was able to travel for an exchange program last semester. I gave her a small smile. “You could say that I didn’t always study, but my mind was always swirling with thoughts and ideas.” I was interested in learning more about her – to see what her life was like and how different her experiences were from mine. “What is your typical day like?” I asked. Her eyes lit up, as she began to think about her plans for the day. Typically, she had breakfast at the local market stand where she got to know the elderly woman selling her rice porridge. It always made her happy to chat with the woman before school. She was excited to go to classes and learn new things. She always dreamed of travelling abroad and learning how to speak a foreign language. She enjoyed talking with her friends about the upcoming festivals taking
ARTWORK BY DIANA MARGINEAN
place at the market and recreation parks. After school, she went home to take care of her 3 year old sister and help her mother prepare dinner. My cousin spoke at length about the stories of the individuals in her life – her friends, family, and community. I was captivated by each and every one of her stories, as though I was getting to know the individuals myself. In the middle of her story, she paused and asked me, “When is the next time that you’ll be back?” “Final boarding for Flight 0379,” called the voice on the intercom. I gave a final glance towards the window. Friends, family, and community. I kept thinking about my cousin’s stories… I was so focused on moving forward and taking the next step that I forgot to take the time to simply enjoy the moments. Those are the moments that we remember, forming a part of who we are as individuals.
“Final boarding for Flight 0379,” called the voice on the intercom.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
Dark Haired Heroine Patricia Lora I’ve always wondered if someone had written about me, Doing the one thing I claim to enjoy, Red-cross stich in one hand, a pen in the other Subtly smirking at jotted remarks – only understood by herself. She reads, Reads, Crosses And laughs again. An imprint of her first story smacked on the corner of her lips mocks me to come closer. She throws on her taupe-pink Turkish scarf and neatly wraps it around her neck kissed, by the finest men of her stories. My desire reaches the quake of its tolerance I wish I could experience her. As she slips into her trench coat, I reach for her arm, She looks into the corner of my wanting, walks towards me, and approaches a painting created by the owner of this quaint coffee shop. Red-cross stitch in one hand, she tucks her pen into the curls of her chestnut locks that shelter the crest of ear, reaches for her outdated camera, holds it up at an – an – almost perfect angle, A flash. My heroine walks away. ARTWORK BY MIMI DENG
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Ante Meridiem Amanda Emmanuel There’s a quiet between sunrise and awake and I can’t seem to want to Get up. Easy. the way I feel limp in the soft and my eyes are blurry from the harsh sunlight. I wonder If the sun refuses to shine some days when it just doesn’t feel like it or the rain pours harder some days because it needs to I wonder if humans are allowed the same. A way out or a choice to love a little less and taste a little more and i feel a little numb and I feel little. There’s a quiet. It’s cold and it’s dry and it’s trapped in my head. I wonder If I can pour harder today and refuse to shine today But they’re not used to that. Selfish, isn’t it? That we hate the cloudy days because the sun’s unhappiness is less important than our own?
ARTWORK BY TINA NHAM
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
Taking Flight
MIMI DENG VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
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CORTE X Catherine Hu
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or a week she couldn’t bear to leave the house alone. Her first days were spent lying in bed, curtains drawn, rising only to eat, piss and change the icepack under her pillow. “The transition will be tough,” her therapist had said. He had been very kind. “The progress you’ve made in rehab is spectacular, but there’s a lot being reconstructed, a lot of connections that are still being made. I want you to be patient with yourself.” At their last session he’d given her a thin booklet filled with information about her life before the accident. As she flipped through it she saw loving compilations of a life half-remembered: biographical details, anecdotes and photos that felt both familiar and foreign. On the last page was a list of names and phone numbers. “Only when you’re ready,” he’d said. “They understand if you’re hesitant to get back in touch.” The booklet lay on her bedside table, unopened and gathering dust.
The doctor pulled up the brain scan. She gazed at it in silence. “Is that all that’s left?” she finally said. “Well, about 46% of the original tissue still remains. If you look right here…” Nestled to one side of her skull was the smooth gray mass of what was left of her human brain. Dwarfing it and filling out the rest of the cavity was the circuitry of her new cortex’s CPU, a twisting maze of layered, skeletal wiring. Ghostly silicon tracts connected the two halves. “…catastrophic damage to the frontal and temporal lobes, affecting personality, executive function, parts of memory…” That brain was her, she realized. Both parts of it. But how much of her was in one, and how much in the other? She struggled to form the proper thoughts to describe how it made her feel. She pressed her hand to her head. One side was starting to overheat. “…state-of-the-art artificial neural network. We expect a full recovery.” “Your brain is trying to knit itself back together.” Gradually she spent more time outside her room. She’d learned that neurodevelopment was activity-dependent; she needed to use the neural pathways for them to grow, and for connections to reform between the original and artificial sections of her brain. Read some books, open jars, walk around and do some chores, but simple things she’d nearly mastered at the hospital quickly fell apart again. On her own, a task’s individual steps got confused and out of order, and lines of thought fell in and out of sync as they were processed at different speeds. Sometimes she tried to feel the boundary between the two sections, to see if she could discern when thoughts went from organic tissue to man-made machine. But each time the change was imperceptible, at least to her. She had no way to tell what was happening in her head. “That’s an interesting question,” said her therapist, furrowing his brow. “There’s no single place in the brain where, ah…your soul, ego, psyche, whatever you call it, is seated. Your consciousness, in a way, arises from everything that’s going on in your brain at once.” “But for me it’s important where it comes from. Is it my human side, the robot side or both?” Her voice was taut, and the words she’d rehearsed came tumbling free. “If the brain that makes me who I am is a computer, then what does that make me?” “Does it worry you that much?” He smiled soothingly. “The artificial cortex is a neural network hooked up to surviving tissue to compensate for what you’ve lost. That’s all it is. The same information flows through, whether it’s axons or silicon wires. Just think of it like a crutch, or a prosthetic.” Was it really that simple? She sat on the edge of the bed. The curtains were still drawn, but the booklet was in her lap. She didn’t know if she was anything near the person described in its pages. She didn’t know if she was ready for anybody from the outside world to see her. Yet something told her to pick up the phone and begin dialling.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
PLAYING MAKE BELIEVE Sarah O’Connor
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he android with my sister’s face winks at me from across the dinner table and I pretend not to notice. Mom notices, she always notices. “Don’t ignore your sister Annie,” she scolds, so I ignore her too, keeping my attention on my leftover spaghetti, swirling the dinner into a red mess on my plate. Mom sighs audibly and turns to the android, the two share a look and laugh. “So, do you girls have any big plans tonight?” The android smiles (Jane’s smile) and twirls her brown synthetic hair around her pinky finger (like Jane). “Umm…I dunno, I was thinking maybe a movie?” It turns to me, so much like Jane that for a moment I can understand my parents’ ability to accept the droid as their daughter. If I only pay attention to Its voice, Its movements, Its small habits that mimic Jane perfectly, maybe I could be manipulated by it too. But unlike my parents, I refuse to play make believe and stare right back, watching the small amber twinkle in each pupil that marks It as machine.
private place I thought I’d buried. “Ever since you brought this thing home you’ve just played pretend that this was Jane even though you literally unboxed her in the living room five months ago.” “Don’t talk about your sister that way Annie,” mom warns. “This isn’t Jane, Jane slit her wrists almost a year ago and now you’re just pretending that nothing was ever wrong.” Without waiting for another scolding I leave the table and rush up the stairs to my room, feeling the android’s yellow lights follow me up the stairs. The android sits at the foot of my bed, the way Jane did whenever I was upset. “I read your manual.” The android is quiet, just sitting and listening the way Jane used to. “I know you live in some sort of paradox where part of you believes you’re Jane and another part of you recognizes you’re just a bunch of metal with a human face.”
ARTWORK BY JASON LAU
“Annie, stop playing with your food and answer your sister,” Dad joins in the scolding. “It would be nice if you two did something together. You two haven’t done much since-” and Dad makes that choking noise like he’s dying but catches himself sooner than he did a year ago. Mom hovers in place, half-out of her chair, ready to comfort him if necessary. The android ignores the mini-crisis like it’s programmed to and sits smiling at me, patiently waiting for “normality” to resume so it will know what to do next. My voice comes out of nowhere and I finish my dad’s sentence, “Since we bought an android or since Jane killed herself?” My parents sit in stunned silence as the android looks at me oddly, yellow pinprick pupils flashing, as if It’s trying to prove It’s really Jane. Dad murmurs, “Please don’t.” But I can’t stop these words, they come from some dark and VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
It chuckles and my heart aches, “You always were a bookworm.” “You don’t know me.” “I have memories of you. Memories of all the fun we’ve had throughout the years. Memories of how much I love you.” The android answers. “I’m here to provide comfort, support, and love to mom, dad, and you. I make them very happy.” “You make them forget.” We sit in silence in the darkness of my room, the tiny yellow lights of Its pupils the only light in my room. “I don’t remember the suicide. I thought you might be wondering that, you seem to think of it more than mom and dad. But I wasn’t given those memories.” “Just like mom and dad wanted.” I mumble and curl into my blankets with my memories of Jane. 15
WHAT DOES SUCCESS MEAN TO YOU? Drushti Mehta
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umans are primed very early on in our societies to strive towards success. We have structured the philosophy of functioning in our societies such that the final goal of each of our actions, and ultimately life, is success. Hence, we have constructed institutions, such as schools and universities, which aim to act as path setters to the road of success. And yet, the very definition of success is multifaceted and extremely personal. While some may define it as the achievement of material goods, others call it personal happiness, and yet, others believe it to be neither of the two. Despite such diversity in the definitions of success present in our society, we are often the targets of scrutiny by others on whether we qualify as being successful in accordance to their standards and expectations. Surprisingly, we often find ourselves engaging in such practices, propagating the acceptance of the idea to classify and evaluate others by determining their status through our personal definitions of success. Moreover, we erroneously engage in such behavior to determine where we stand in accordance to others on the success scale. What we fail to realize is the erroneousness of evaluating ourselves based on someone else’s definition of success. Participating in such behavior perpetuates the idea that success is a particular predetermined universal goal, which everyone should collectively strive for.
As a society we often subscribe to the conventionally accepted hierarchy of goals and ambitions. Those that result in materialistic goods, infrastructure, prestige and fame are labeled as competitive and ambitious. On the other hand, goals that communicate harmony and balance are often perceived to be worthless and therefore, unsuccessful. This is, however, not always the case. With most adapting to the societal preconceived notions of success, we forgo our chances to develop our own unique journey. The product of the majority striving for the same resources and opportunities is competition. As with the concept of success, humans are primed to compete with others for opportunities from an early age. Developing competitiveness is a trait that is encouraged in children. According to our society, often those who develop this trait are predicted to be successful in their future. With such perception, we often neglect to propagate ideas of self-content and fulfillment. We need to find the route to success within ourselves to determine our future actions. It is our perception of success, and nobody else’s that should govern our journey to our goals. Thus, the scary thing you call your future is heavily influenced by this one question: what does success mean to you?
We need to find the route to success within ourselves
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ARTWORK BY LEAH FLANAGAN
Spinal Sentiments Khatija Anjum I am searching for the remnants of my grandmother in my father– searching for her spine in his, with the marrow’s roots running thick under the guise of strength, but all I can find is her tenderness in his eyes. In a room full of strangers, he has a smile as sweet as honey, words that spill like poetry, eyes that twinkle in the light– it’s as simple as rain to him, perfecting the art of pretense. So I’ve been thinking about the cracks in his voice, how they sink so deep, like valleys, without air, mostly damp, how they hold secrets he holds back, his thoughts never voiced, premature opinions never spoken.
I remember how he is the body that houses my soul, the beautiful glass vase through which my petals peek. But I can no longer avoid his age– when I speak, I can see his stiff being buckle silently and breathe slowly under the weight of my worries and his self-imposed responsibilities twist like snakes up his spine. So instead I begin counting the wrinkles between his receding hairline and bushy brows. And suddenly, all the years become real as we sit and smile and sort the photographs of yesteryears, thinking about the covert metamorphosis that must have transpired between then and now.
But perhaps these human emotions are nothing more than vivid dreams without the paralysis of sleep, and the passage of time is nothing but a man-made invention to tie us down, enslaved to the tick-tock and the silence in between.
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Sufferers of Law Muskaan Sachdeva Giving alcoholic beverages to a moose is illegal. Law prohibits the presence of a butter knife in a high schooler’s bag. It is not legal to smoke in your own backyard. Our minds have spent years formulating incalculable laws for every decision for every action for every sin for every imperfection Rigorous attempt towards Civilization. Our thoughts have missed a sense For every life —handcuffed against walls within a narrow fence; So finely controlled. Through laws that label: Transgression. Infringement. A felony. By laws that dictate: Sanction. Imprisonment. A penalty.
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Future | David Shin
Crush Me With Your Expectations | Imasha Perera
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MY FRIEND Hamid Yuksel
I
remember the stranger. I remember the stranger’s eyes and soft hair. I remember how the stranger never made a sound. I remember their white shirt turning a bright red. I remember it all. I remember the stranger dead in front of me, murdered. Yet, no matter how hard I try, no one else seems to believe I am innocent. The stranger had often appeared in my life, but I had never actually spoken to the stranger. The police officer did not believe me. It is sort of hard to believe, so I couldn’t blame him. How could I see someone so often yet know them so little? I don’t know, really. I told the cops all I knew about the stranger. “I see them every day, yes. I think they work at the same place as me. I always see them there. No, I don’t know their name. Why should I?”
In truth, I knew more about the stranger than I had told. The stranger had always appeared one way or another in my daily endeavours, and I mean beyond simply working at the same firm as I did. The stranger lived in the same apartment building as I did. I don’t know which room exactly, but I do distinctly remember always
leaving the parking lot the same time as the stranger’s dark green sedan. I remember how on occasion I’d see the stranger shopping at the same grocery store across from the apartment. I never said anything to them. We never really looked at each other. The more I think about it, the more I realize the stranger had always appeared in my life. Strange, considering how we never talked. The stranger did not deserve to die. They had done nothing wrong. I don’t know why someone would kill them. In some ways, I understood the stranger. They were simply someone trying to get along in life. I was a lot like the stranger. Despite never having spoken, I feel like I knew the stranger well. It’s as if in all those moments we had noticed each other, we were able to communicate through silence. However, it’s only at moments like this, when I get shoved into a cop car, do I realize how much I wish I had talked to the stranger. What life had they lived? What story did they have to tell me? Would we have become good friends? In all those years we wasted in silence, why did you never say a word to me? I heard that nobody attended the stranger’s funeral. I would have gone, but I am in jail. For the first time in a long time, because of this stupid prison, I did not see the stranger today. It was very strange to realize that. In a way, the stranger, my only friend, the one person who acknowledged my presence would not be able to see me. I lost the case. I was convicted of homicide. They believed I killed the stranger. I was given a life sentence. I was to be stripped of everything. How could they do that? I yelled one last time, “You can’t do this to me!” but no one listened. Quickly, I was taken away, forgotten, and replaced by the next defendant. That was it for me. I remember the stranger’s face. I remember staring at it for the first time, right before they were killed. I remember the smile they made when I finally made eye contact. I remember smiling back. I remember my friend, the stranger.
ARTWORK BY JIN LEE
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Brittany Forsyth
Melanie Wasser
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POP CULTURE WAS MY
BABYSITTER Emile Shen
I
liked reading, but what I really loved were celebrities. My parents worked a lot to fill our house and make it a home, so my imagination was filled with Destiny’s Child and Britney Spears. The early 2000s were an interesting time for fashion. It’s 2016; we all wear neutral tones or black now. But in 2001, you could wear sequins on a jean dress with pink strappy high heels with butterflies on them. Wasn’t that a fun time to be growing up? To be submerged in the world of celebrities with their sweet fashions and lyrics. While other children probably played soccer with the neighbourhood kids, or had summer barbeques with mocktails for the kids and light beer for the adults, I poured hours into watching music videos on MuchMusic and biographies of the stars on VH1. These programs probably were not appropriate for a 5 year old to consume, though no one was there to censor me. Sometimes my Grandpa would turn off the TV to stop it from rotting my brain but I was already hooked on the sugary, bubblegum pop. I think what fascinated me then, and still now, is the illusion of glamour. I know full well that perfection is impossible now, but back then it was nice to be complicit with the image presented. I remember the first time I saw Britney Spears on my 32 inch square Sony box television and thinking how fun, how pretty and how young she was. At 18 she was the
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Sometimes my Grandpa would turn off the TV to stop it from rotting my brain but I was already hooked on the sugary, bubblegum pop.
ARTWORK BY JESSICA TRAC
most powerful girl in the world. She effortlessly did backflips in music videos and was confidently living her dream. And at 13, Hilary Duff had her own TV show. We all have our methods of escapism — some people really liked hockey or the Twilight Series (again my ideas of what generic pre-teens are into), but I found something relaxing in viewing the portrayed reality of celebrities in gossip. Today, I still know that Miley’s father admired her hard work since she was 10, Britney was a fitness instructor in her teens, and probably every publically available detail about Lana del Rey. I have considerably more trouble remembering physics formulas, though. Lizzie McGuire and Britney Spears were what I grew up on. But growing up isn’t easy, not for me or Britney or Hilary. Everyone faces growing pains, but fortunately not in the public eye. In 2007, Britney faced her very public meltdown. I think it has taken almost a decade
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Let’s admire celebrities for their ability to draw us in, but know it is only human to make mistakes.
for her to recover from that. It was done gracefully which makes me admire her even more. People criticize her for lip-synching or not being as limber as she was when she was the biggest pop star in the world at age 19, but I see the incredible resilience required to suffer in front of the world. I was 6 and she was a 21-year-old pleading for her younger fans to not call her a role model. Obviously, that message was puzzling for me then, but now I see that excellence is expected for those paid millions of dollars for an appearance in a magazine, no matter the stakes involved in perpetuating the facade. But it is important to recognize the toxicity of expectations placed on these women. Let’s admire celebrities for their ability to draw us in, but know it is only human to make mistakes. I am sure glad my shortcomings were not published on PerezHilton.com for lonely souls to gaze at.
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Kristina Durka
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The exploration and documentation of a corporeal relationship with the surrounding environment infused with references to feminism throughout the ages. My work references traditional practices, like needlepoint embroidery, that are labeled as feminine in an effort to emphasize the theme of female worth.The visual and material juxtaposition of the softness of textiles and wood displays allows for a dynamic conversation to take place in my artwork. Currently my work is documenting the health parallels with tumours between my pet rabbit and I, focusing on the societal connections between women and animals, and the historical objectification of both. ď Ž
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10/31/15 Samantha Bubnich why did you have to go when I had just gotten ready for you? the first thing my eyes saw was you. at that table in those jeans that were later tossed on my floor while you curled up in my sheets, bare. you stared into my eyes a little too long that night. I remember you tasting like alcohol. after you made fun of my shitty boxed wine. I was surprised you still wanted to taste me. I asked you your name about three times (to be honest I just wanted to hear you say it over and over). it was loud. you moved closer. later in bed we whispered till the sun came up. I faintly remember hearing ‘i like the writing on your wall’ you cupped my face when you first leaned in. I was wearing lipstick that night, a reminder to myself of my intentions. you said you didn’t care and touched me anyways. we made firm contact till morning. the morning smelt like you. I’ve washed my pillow over a dozen times but the scent still lingers. i sometimes wish it was stronger but then i open the window or light a candle.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
Michele Zaman
I
’m afraid you’ve gotten under my skin I don’t remember what it feels like to be in love Sometimes I ask myself: was I ever at the mercy of love? Did you exist? Did we exist? A little voice in my head then whispers: “but he had to have existed, don’t you remember the way your body shook when you saw him for the first time, don’t you remember the way your knees almost gave in every time he looked at you or what about the butterflies, all those butterflies filling every inch of your body with every touch and every kiss” Around this time another voice cries: “you pitiful creature, don’t you dare forget the way he fed your demons or the way you fostered his. Don’t you dare forget the way he made you loath every part of your being down to your core, don’t you forget the way you held him by the collar and year after year dragged him down the same endless road” Then I asked myself: “what about the oceans I swam across, the rivers I jumped and all those streams I crossed for him?” Around this time my heart usually interrupts and whispers: “what about all those streams he laughed
What about the oceans I swam across, the rivers I jumped and all those streams I crossed for him? at, the rivers he mocked and the countless oceans he walked away from?” My head sighs heavily and tells me: “he is poison to your mind, don’t you see that he was draining you of life? Don’t you see that he was always toxic to your heart as you were to his?” But then a crow from my past croaks: “Maybe you were never worthy of what his love had to offer” After this the sky eventually sings to me: “be gentle, be kind to yourself. Remember you harbor life, your mind is a living and ever growing forest and your body is home to a soul” Afterwards the sun giggles and says: “How will you shine as bright as me if your eyes are fixed on all the shadows. I dare you to shine brighter than I do” And then life mumbles: “do not fret my child, maybe in a hundred years you’ll meet again”
ARTWORK BY COURTNEY SHEPPARD VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
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Prisoner of Our Own Mind Muhbooba Yoqoub
0001 Sonia Leung 28
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ARTWORK BY KAYLA DA SILVA
EXTANT Caitlyn Buhay
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till existing – surviving – holding on, but thriving? Not yet. We like to think the daily grind doesn’t get us down. Moving back and forth from one class, job, and activity to the next. Though routine is still part of being a functioning human being, it is only a part of what makes us whole. But when do we stop functioning and start thriving? Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs outlines all that we need to move from a primitive state of being to self-actualization, surpassing your basic needs and instead having all of your energy focused on an inner state of fulfilment. Yet when was the last time you moved into a state of self-actualization? It is a difficult state to reach in the most enlightened of individuals- so should we really be focusing on a something so unattainable even Ghandi can’t admit to being in the club? Instead let’s break the cycle and start to do more for ourselves. These spur of the moment feelings of rebellion and wild shenanigans will give you more happiness when you take control of your life. Start by being a bit more of an optimist.
If Victor Frankl could psychologically survive the concentration camps by focusing on all the little positive moments of human interaction, we can certainly see the bright side in our first world lives.
Gazing at the bright side of life isn’t your only way to turn onto the avenue of a thriving life; you must also be the master of your own fate. This may be as simple as breaking your routine of class, gym, sleep, repeat. While it might feel like you are doing these things for yourself, you may just be doing them because you feel obligated to the expectations of others. Instead, take a leaf from the Nike handbook of life and Just Do It, or more specifically just do something you have always wanted to do, for no particular rhyme or reason. Take an art class, read a book that has nothing to do with school, start walking early in the mornings. It can be anything you feel like, but make sure it is something that speaks to your inner desires and brings you happiness- like eating a McFlurry. Go now and get yourself a McFlurry. Seeing and doing things your own way can make the difference between an ordinary existence, and a vibrant life wrenched off the beaten path. Why should we follow the crowd, when carving out our own way can be so much more fulfilling?
Gazing at the bright side of life isn’t your only way to turn onto the avenue of a thriving life; See the beauty in a rainy day, the calm quiet of a blizzard, and the delicate fragility in a single brown leaf clinging to the last branch of a tree. Life is full of simple wonders, so open your eyes and snap on those
you must also be the master of your own fate.
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rose-tinted frames – because the world is a pretty amazing place when we blink back the cynicism and let ourselves see all the bright little details.
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(Universal) Nikhita Singhal coursing through vessels seeping to bone sweet (so bitter) tempest bestowed that temptress– promising eternal calm æons of pleasure misery: scorned
ARTWORK BY JONATHAN CORTESE
(we stand) teetering. over the edge lifetime spent (bemoaning) what could have been rue what is seen to be lost at sea empathy: (depths increased) pain beyond belief (burdened) by knowledge of wonders so fleeting (by forces) entrenching– encompassing– sweeping. envy begets greed (common) still we struggle against our cruel nature oblivious (to all) our downfall: pride in perceived control over sensation. refined civilized humanity? (beasts)
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Nerves Chukky Ibe The last time we spoke, I started the conversation from the last word to the first Like Japanese manga, In Arabic. You promised to practice patient listening I too have the right to be heard. The last time, I let apostrophes punctuate my silences Constantly conjugated consonants Like French creole. I am usually more confident than this. Usually, when I step into a room, I light it up. Like a north star. I make people remember how dope they are. I share hugs like gifts. Like a wise man following a bright star Searching for a baby who will one day save the world. Most times, You don’t remember my name. When you do, you don’t ever respond. You just sit there, like a rock While I try to bring the mountain to Mohammad (pbuh). When I try to say hello, I don’t recognize my voice. It is still on the connecting flight from Lagos to Pearson In baggage claim. I crave to remember what it sounded like. Before Mr. Hortons drowned out the Nigerian in it.
So it’s complicated to speak to you. This is why I punctuate my silences And hope they ring in articulation. My neurons are still figuring out what to do with the construction-esque currents Making mockery of their mortality. So I remember to breathe, like I need to stay alive. So HI. This is me. This is my name. This is my voice. I really like poetry. May I speak about it to you? If I sound like Arabic Japanese manga, will you listen patiently? The last time, You helped punctuate my silences And conjugate my verbs You don’t even speak French. Or creole. I think you are dope. It’s okay if you do not respond. I sketch the currents waking butterflies in my stomach. I am sketching often But I will meet you where you are. On my next trip from Lagos to Pearson, I will arrive in a submarine. Sarah says we all sound the same under water. Let us not forget to breathe this time. For this conversation to work.
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We both have to stay alive.
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Vincent Farrauto, "Life:Restart", 2015, Animation
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Vincent Farrauto, "Untitled", 2016, Animation
Vincent Farrauto
I express my ideas with frame-by-frame animations that utilize a variation of colours and textures. To create a feeling of spatial immersion, my animations are accompanied by sound effects and music. I use large-scale video projection to give my animations an ethereal quality. For my animations to be considered as physical objects, I utilize small LED or CRT screens. My practice focuses on investigating social ethics and personal identity as they are affected by medical and technological advancements. The growing relationship between humankind and new technologies has caused me to become fascinated about possible changes to human identity and mortality. My work attempts to visualize what will become of the human race in the wake of greater advancements. ď Ž
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ARTWORK BY KAYLA DA SILVA
HEARTBEAT Rachel Guitman
S
he has fire coursing through her veins, flames licking at her skin. She often wishes she could turn that organ inside out, just for an easy way to be vulnerable. Here I am; all of me, in all my bareness, in all my depth. A way to tell everyone what each human being wants the world to know: this is me. The darkness creates shadows on our faces, darkens eye sockets and sunken cheeks, makes it difficult to find the pair of lips she should be kissing. Light comes selectively; bouncing off a cheekbone here, a tip of a nose there. What is better: reality or the surreal? She always thinks that melting clocks will have their way one day; maybe in some alternate, parallel universe. Some other dimension where animals speak and people are kinder. She imagines that perhaps it is a place where time stands still and those melting clocks melt on, with not a care in the world or a consequence in sight. Love thrives eternally, nuclear fission cannot occur, diamonds never form, but nobody grieves their absence because it is not a loss. And even if someone did miss the existence of diamonds, it would not be important, because love stays alive there. Against the backdrop of love, what do material possessions really matter? Everything physical is trivial. Because of that, it seems exceedingly bizarre to her that we customarily take chunks of expensive diamonds (known as wedding rings) to be declarations of love. Utopia a fitting word for the universe where time stands still and love thrives. Our lifeblood is love and love is all that matters, and that’s why sometimes she can’t justify the usage of her brain. Sometimes (most of the time), it seems like inconsequential chattering, clouding the important things. The important things: the ones lodged in a chest, a beating organ, a visceral feel. Feel encompasses it all. She can’t imagine a life not guided by feeling, by the magic of emotion. What would it mean to live like that (rationally? blandly? lifelessly?)? 34
She can’t imagine a life not guided by feeling, by the magic of emotion. What would it mean to live like that (rationally? blandly? lifelessly?)? And she often thinks how divine it feels to surrender; to let go of all intellectual thought and to let feeling prevail. It’s no coincidence that a person is declared dead when their heartbeat comes to an end. That place behind our ribs, that red-hot source of forceful feelings that colour each of our moments – it makes us alive, and not just scientifically. All the tedium and all the boredom in the world couldn’t take away the magnificence of the beating heart. Every up and down is priceless, a signal of life; it is everything that it means to be human. No matter how tumultuous and stormy, emotional roller coasters (turbulence of the heart) are a testament to our humanity – and that’s the beauty of the whole thing. INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
Kristen Gracie
WHO TELLS YOUR STORY? ARTWORK BY ANGELA MA
I
met one, a real life Trump supporter. Given the people I hang out with and that I live in Canada, I never thought I would meet a “Right-winging, bitter-clinging, proud clingers of our guns, our God, and our religion, and our Constitution” (as Sarah Palin puts it) person. While I didn’t meet that type of Trump supporter, I did find myself having a pre-Christmas lunch with my best friend, her family and their family friend. Passing around plates of dim sum dumplings, the conversation was mostly innocuous until I commented that I wouldn’t want to live in the US. The family friend, who I had surmised as a nice, educated man in his 20s, immediately asked why. That’s an easy answer of course, the political system is fairly terrifying, case in point: Donald Trump. Him: “What do you mean?” Me: “Well he’s pretty racist…” From there the conversation devolved, I won’t give the play by play but the highlights of his opinions include: all Muslims are terrorists and thus letting refugees into any country is dangerous. I had never met someone with such a terrifyingly black and white world view. Startled by his commitment to his beliefs and inexperienced in defending my own, I couldn’t dissuade him from his position. This interaction stuck with me for the rest of the day as I tried to figure out a fool proof argument I could have used. When I related
the encounter to my mom, she pointed out that my grandparents were refugees, fleeing war in Europe to come to Canada and start a new life. While I had known about my family history, putting it in the current context of the refugee crisis debate brought clarity. It offered a point of common ground, proof of
erty to create the US financial system. The cast, playing characters such as Thomas Jefferson and George Washington, is mostly African-American. The fresh approach to the story of the birth of a nation has been a massive success and widely praised (President Obama has seen it twice!). Hamilton, however, offers something beyond its engaging lyrics and moving themes; it connects an inaccessible past to a current generation of Americans. For today’s American audience it’s easy to see the story of old white dudes as fundamentally different from their own. Lin-Manuel Miranda, the creator, reshapes the narrative with a passion and diversity to reflect today’s American culture. The show wrestles with the question of narrative, repeatedly asking: “who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” While it refers to how we interpret the past, it is never more relevant today in discussions such as the debate surrounding the refugee crisis. Society is inundated by narratives focused on highlighting difference; while Trump and his supporters are an extreme example, we too often take shelter in a dangerous black and white binary. Telling and retelling the histories and stories around us fights against this, it breaks down the barriers, investigates our differences and ultimately finds our common humanity.
Hamilton, however, offers something beyond its engaging lyrics and moving themes; it connects an inaccessible past to a current generation of Americans.
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the good that comes from trust and that our differences are always less than perceived. Fast forward a couple of weeks and I found myself sitting in my dorm room tearing up over the first Secretary of the Treasury of the United States, Alexander Hamilton. While you may be perplexed as to how that happens, you too can find yourself in that position if you listen to the soundtrack of the new Broadway musical, Hamilton. A blend of hip hop and R&B, it tells the story of the “founding father without a father”, an immigrant orphan who wrote his way out of pov-
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IINNOCENT Sarah Cino
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omehow, we’re innocent. We walk past trees and their stumps, split by a path. A path that weaves gravelly trails of suffocation, slinking through those who still stand to bear their leaves next spring, for us to see. Yet, we’re still innocent. Why are roots no longer the routes we take from us to the Earth? The truth seems rooted in dominance, but it doesn’t reach me until my steps bludgeon the steps that have been punched into the ground many years ago, to replace natural footholes. To make a smoother climb for us. My thoughts are chopped down –one by one– by the creaking of trees that echoes in the eerie forest silence. They tell me I don’t belong here. I shift the wind-sifted trees to a place further into my subconsciousness, and I walk. I don’t belong here. Yet, I walk. The real experience of nature – its true beauty. I’m humbled to be a part of this. Yet, I know. That tingling cringe in my stomach: it’s guilt. The guilt doesn’t belong here, though. I have nothing to feel guilty for. I’m appreciative. If it’s the path I’m worried about, it’s none of my business. I
didn’t pave it; I’m not to blame. In the middle of Steel City, and I’m worried about a path in the forest. It’s laughable, really. The trees are bare, the sky is open, and this path is waiting to be explored. Yet, I’m lying to the Instinct that knows. I may not have built the path, but I walk it. It’s clear. Responsibility. Pushing it away like a finished plate with a full stomach. I’m one person, but I am not one. Not here. To the trees, I’m an imposter. A fat emperor atop a golden throne that crushes all those who fall beneath and makes weep all those who witness. Perhaps, this is taking it too far. We’ve burned fires long before the match of these thoughts was struck. No, I’ll just forget it. There’s nothing I can do, anyway. I’m one of many, silent. innocent. Climbing the final ascent, I reach the peak of the land and look out onto the glossy surface of the frozen lake –suspended beauty. No one around. Yet, the trees carve their barren bodies of the horizon into my mind. And the whole way home, I can’t get that creaking sound out of my head.
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Rainiest Days Sunny Yun Some mornings the sky presses snooze one too many times and dribbles on the pillow sheets; on those damp mornings I sprint downstairs, slipping on rain boots and your old hat, dashing past the front door and the singing emerald lawn. Let it pour, let the wind lap against my face, because in a blink I’ll be sitting at our spot by the stream under the secret bridge, the place where an invisible rainbow touches down, where we met the first time, where we needed no sunshine, clear water, or majestic view of the horizon. Just two little kids enraptured by curiosity, too busy exploring hidden corners of the backyard, engraved codes on our attic walls, the chainlinks of playground swings and underside of plastic slides, woodchips, sullen greys, and moss flowering in a world one block wide. Growing up like this meant bright kaleidoscopes for our eyes, dancing to made up tunes, feasting to our imaginations’ content; down a yellow brick road to the stream and up to our treehouse, our lives grew from the inside out into an enchanted forest. When the heavens turned blood red and split with roaring thunder, you told tales of grotesque dragons just trying to clear their throats; misunderstood creatures in the clouds, crying their woes down upon two kids sharing stories in a basement, on our rainiest and happiest days.
artwork by Firstname Lastname
ARTWORK BY WILLIAM ZHANG VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
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ď Ž Awakening Sonia Leung Their eyes creased The room stood still The air heeded In reverence, in awe The eureka moment Ensuing before them Bearing witness To the fringe of knowledge Its eyes opened Light trickling through The silicone windows Laser carved sills The hustle and bustle Of the outside world Inconsequential To the magic unfolding Light refracted on Through the lens Impressing onto Synthetic retinas Analog to digital The on and off And on again Into language It saw It understood It felt And was aware And that night, The world welcomed The first Homo conexus
ď Ž
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ARTWORK BY KANDICE BURYTA
drifting Emma Hudson
them if he’d wanted, as some sort of collection, but untying them was his favourite part. When he turned eighteen, he fell in love for the first time. He built his definition of love on a girl named Mischa with dirty blonde hair and light brown eyes because of the way she said his name. With purpose. She was a lightning rod and he clung to her, and when she left him alone with a smoke alarm heartbeat he was sure the world was aflame. He aged ten years overnight. Mischa fell in love with a brown haired boy with Big Hands, one who held out an arm and let her keep some of her love for herself. Big Hands packaged up her heart into little boxes and sorted them, one for me and one for you, until they were both full and happy and content. She didn’t think of that boy in the past, too small to fill his own shoes. He had made her feel very needed. When you’re eighteen, that can be enough. You can fill each other’s crevices with your complimentary needs and if you’re naïve enough you can call it love. She was the oldest. It showed in the way she signed her name, buffered by years of experience. There was a haphazardness to
Mischa fell in love with a brown haired boy with Big Hands, one who held out an arm and let her keep some of her love for herself.
He was the youngest by eight years, slapped onto the end like an awkward semi-colon, an insistence that life wasn’t over. Still, though, he never quite managed to distort the exhaustion that sunk into his parents’ snores at night. They had raised two children. They were spent. They could do no better than to look on, nostalgic and worn, as their nightcap grew into a boy. When he was nine, he began tying knots. It started with the basics, square knot and sheet bend and half hitch, then progressed to the more exotic: star knots, Pan Changs and bumblebees. He tied his knots in an old rope from the shed, over and over, teasing them apart when he finished, to begin a new one. He could have kept
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it that divulged her comfort with herself. She’d had this name for twenty-seven years. It was hers. The day after her youngest brother was born, she stayed home from school and went to the pond. It was odd, to be afraid of a baby, but she could swear that for a split second the newborn’s eyes had hinted towards a world-weariness nobody else was in on. She felt terribly resentful of growing up. She didn’t understand the emotion that had been lurking in her little brother’s eyes until years later, sitting on her apartment’s fire escape in the middle of summer. The sky was a filmy orange and she was wondering if she had moved to the city because she wanted to or because she didn’t know where else to go. The humidity made it feel like her whole life had really just led to this moment, sitting out on the fire escape wearing gym shorts and an ex-boyfriend’s old sweatshirt, and she couldn’t help but feel that it was terribly anti-climactic. If she looked in the mirror, she likely wouldn’t have connected the look on her face to that which she had seen on her brother’s eighteen years ago. But she may have been able to name it.
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For Sale Elina Filice and Annabel Krutiansky You see, it began with a knock on the door. or maybe it was just a cold night and I was the closest exit. In any case- I opened my doors to a traveller. A temporary guest. I knew you were only a visitor, and that you never stay anywhere too long, but the days kept passing, and it was still you who filled the room. You were the first person who used my chimney, as if my walls couldn’t keep you warm enough. It always felt like my hazy complexion reminded you of some place else in your foggy mind. But I didn’t care, I liked having your eyes on me. Without you and your things, I am empty. All of the stories I read were yours, the only art I’ve ever seen is yours. When it wasn’t enough you blamed me for the emptiness, but it was you who made me weak. Everyone envied your view, but it wasn’t long until you were looking through my windows instead of at them. I was so full of you and I guess I thought you were full too. You gave these halls memories and they began to kaleidoscope into the most beautiful shades of you.
I happened upon you. I was simply passing through your town, It never crossed my mind that an overnight stay, in a happened-upon house, would enchant me in its comfort. I never stay anywhere too long. For me, life is to be lived and then left behind. My restless soul craves motion. I have to keep moving forward or, like a shark, I’ll drown. But I stayed longer than I had intended; I stayed longer than I ever have. I brought tables and chairs, records and forks, hung my paintings in frames on the walls, I brought trinkets and things, my books piled up in corners, dishes in the sink. I made a house mine, for the very first time. No longer just a room for a night or two, but a home for me and you. You eagerly complied, not hesitating to knock down your walls and forever change your substance. Without me and my things, you are empty, a shell with bare walls and closed curtains. All of your stories are my stories, You’ve only ever seen what I’ve brought through your doors. I brought everything into you, and you had to know that eventually I’d take it away.
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INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
ARTWORK BY ELINA FILICE
But you started spending less time at home. You stayed out late, sometimes only returning in the early morning. I wanted nothing more than your presence. I didn’t realize my emptiness before you. I felt your absence and it grew deeper, almost like you stopped needing me. You cracked my foundation, and I’m unable to sell. It’s hard to love something that belongs to someone else. Nobody wants used goods. I used to be good. I saw the boxes. I pretended they weren’t yours. I can’t understand why you are leaving, but I’ll secretly hope that on some rainy night you’ll come looking for warmth to protect you from the rain. I tell myself I’ll lock you out, but we both know I’d let you in. I’ll keep my locks the same and pray you keep your key. My walls had the coziest insulation. My ovens made the best versions of everything. My lights brought smiles from darkness. My bedroom held the greatest love ever witnessed. Things I never thought I’d do, I saw myself doing them for you. An endless cycle of sacrificing my comfort for you. And I hate to admit it, but I would do it all again, for you. Now all that’s left are these scratches in the hardwood, the stains on the carpets, and the nails in the walls. This house is not a home and I am not whole anymore.
Traces of me will be left behind, and for that I apologize. Where I hung my paintings, holes in the walls from my nails. Where I punched the wall when I was drunk, plaster can never really fix that hole. I scratched your floors. I stained your carpets. But few traces of you will be left in me. Perhaps, only memories of happy mornings and sunshine streaming in through your bay window as I sat on your ledge and read aloud. And that broken knuckle from punching your wall, and the picture that I keep in my wallet. But now my boxes lay on the doorstep. My car, half packed in the driveway. I’ll come back to visit, if you want, or if I’m passing through and need a place to stay for a night. I’ll find comfort in your familiarity, and I hope that you’d still let me in when it’s raining. Tenants come and go, don’t hold on to me. Though it may feel like it, your walls weren’t built for me. You will find someone that can live here better than I can, who can make you feel more whole than me. Or perhaps, you should just remain empty for awhile and not wait for me. This is a good house. It has strong walls, a good foundation, and a view that changes with the seasons. You protected me, sheltered me from rain and storm, kept me warm, and for that I’m forever grateful. For you, I was your soulmate. For me, you were my time-mate. You came along at the perfect time, but only for a certain time. It was never meant to last forever. This house is still a home. I wish there was a reason, or some way to explain this but I don’t think I can stay, I’m sorry but it’s time to go.
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WE’RE NOT HOME ALONE Trisha Philpotts
ARTWORK BY MIMI DENG
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frightening crash emanating from the kitchen jolted Gina from her evening nap on the living room couch. With a knee-high helping of snow outside and Jared away for the weekend, there was not much to do but nap. Wiping the sleep from her eyes Gina headed towards the source of the sound. Mr. Luckington (Lucky for short), Gina and Jared’s Pomeranian, was known to get into somewhat of a tizzy when he missed his evening walk. With a sigh, she anticipated having to clean up whatever ornament Lucky broke this time. After a quick examination, Gina found no remnants of Lucky’s mischief in the kitchen. Instead she found Lucky with his eyes fixated on the kitchen door, barking as viciously as his insignificant frame could handle. “You must need to pee, don’t you Mr. Luckington?” Gina comforted her canine friend whilst opening the door which lead to the garden. Lucky’s bark faded into desperate whimpering. Facing the dark, snowy evening before him, the dog retreated seeking refuge behind his owner’s legs. From the kitchen Gina peered out the open door into the dark, only to find that she was being watched. In the garden stood a creature unlike any on Noah’s ark. With its hunched back and drooping eyes, the creature stood at eye level with Gina no more than three metres away. The creature was slowly edging forward and then rocking back on its heels as though it were considering whether or not to approach the house. Its skin clung to its inhuman bones, with dark blue veins garnishing its hospital green skin. Wisps of thin white hair adorned its ill shaped head while its long black nails curved forming perfectly sharp points at the ends. Gina stood frozen in terror as though she were glued to the linoleum floor of the kitchen. What was this creature standing before her? It began to make a faint sound which slowly grew louder. Once audible from where she stood she recognized the sound the creature made as her favourite childhood lullaby. The soft lullaby sent chills down Gina’s spine. Why did this creature know her childhood song? Lucky yelped, snapping Gina out of her frozen state and when she looked back up from the dog the creature was gone. Gina slammed 42
the door as fast as she could and retreated to the hall, light headed and shaking. Gina disappeared into the storage closet and emerged with the registered gun Jared kept in a safe. She never learned how to use it, though Jared offered to give her lessons. Anyhow, Gina was thankful that Jared would be home soon. His flight back from his business trip in Seattle arrived an hour ago and the car ride from the airport was no more than forty five minutes. Gina and Lucky sat quietly together in the hall with their backs to the wall. Gina figured this was the best vantage point as she had a clear view of the front door, kitchen door, and living room all at once. After being on guard for thirty minutes or so a key turned in the front door, Gina jumped to her feet pointing the gun at the door. She was not about to take any chances. The door swung open and Jared jumped back, not expecting to be staring down the barrel of a gun. After explaining to Jared what she had seen, Jared had a good chuckle and dismissed her fears. Maybe she was just seeing things Gina thought; after all she was on painkillers for the wisdom tooth she had removed earlier in the week. Safe and sound with a cup of hot chocolate, her fiancé, and her dog at her side, Gina settled in to watch the news as she and Jared did every night. Though he didn’t quite believe the spook his fiancée just had, Jared massaged Gina’s feet to calm her down. “All flights in and out of Pearson were cancelled today, causing uproar amongst travelers…” Jane Madison, the stations young anchor, started. “Babe, how did you get home? Wasn’t your flight cancelled?” Gina questioned half-heartedly, eyes fixated on the television screen. “But, who said Jared was home?” a slurred yet cheerful voice inquired, as Gina felt the searing pain of a long black nail piercing her feet. With a stifled scream Gina looked towards what she thought was her fiancé, the drooping eyes and wide sharp smile greeted her. Lucky whimpered in the corner as a soft lullaby drowned out Gina’s cries. INCITE MAGAZINE, FEBRUARY 2016
FOOD FOR THOUGHT Sarah Mohiuddin
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ere’s the thing about humans: whether we like it or not, we all want to exercise control – whether it’s in our own lives or the lives of others… and that may be where problems arise. We make mistakes when we take control of what is beyond the realm of our will. We have an innate human urge to take matters into our own hands – and this isn’t a bad thing. Our desire to test the boundaries and push the limits has allowed us to grow and advance as a species. Yet the mistake we tend to make is letting this desire our everyday lives. The real challenge lies in letting yourself move freely through life, which is easier said than done but a task worth taking on regardless. We have to accept the fundamental truth: that we are but a speck in a cluster of galaxies that comprise our universe – and that we can never really have control over anything. It’s the illusion of control that we fall in love with, and that’s okay – it’s what makes us human and there is something to be said for that. It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to not have everything figured out – that’s a part of life. It is so fundamentally human to make mistakes that if we didn’t, there would be no growth, no self-exploration, no understanding. At the end of the day, we tend to sabotage ourselves when we hold onto the belief that we are truly capable of having control when in reality, part of being a human being who exists on this earth is acknowledging the fact that we’ll never really be in control of everything around us. Understanding that life is complex and that many things happen simply outside the realm of our control will only help us find peace with the choices we make, the mistakes that result, and the conditions we find ourselves in. But then, this is just a thought.
It’s okay to make mistakes, it’s okay to not have everything figured out – that’s a part of life. ARTWORK BY BRIAN ZHENG VOLUME 18, ISSUE 5
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