Incite Magazine - January 2020 by Incite Magazine

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TWO POSSIBILITIES EXIST: EITHER WE ARE ALONE IN THE UNIVERSE OR WE ARE NOT. BOTH ARE EQUALLY TERRIFYING. ARTHUR C. CLARKE

EDITORIAL

Hello,

Thank you for picking up Alien, our first issue of the 2019-2020 school year. If you are a regular to our magazine, welcome back. If you are picking up Incite for the first time, we hope to see you again soon. Similar to many student groups at McMaster, our funds have been reduced this year. Even so, we will continue to do what we always have: give student creativity a platform. I wouldn’t be able to do the talent that is contained within these pages justice, at least not through my words. It would be best if you experience it for yourself. From sci-fi life forms to the unfamiliar, “alien”can mean many things. We hope that this issue makes you feel something—anything— and that you walk away with stories and interpretations of your own. On behalf of our editorial board, content editors, layout editors, art managers and contributors, we hope you enjoy Alien as much as we enjoyed creating it. So, carry on, turn the page and see where this issue takes you. x

Sincerely,

Neda Pirouzmand Editor-in-Chief (Content)

ART by KELLY-ANNE DELA CUEVA

ART by RACHEL MACDOUGALL

INCITE

CONTENTS imagine saadia shahid 08 was it worth it? lyan abdul 10 the haunt jason waddle 11 bengali-canadian yvonne syed 14 of sound body and mind simrit saini 15 itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 12:02 am on a friday night zoya pal 18 welcome home keily johnson 20 see-hyphen-saw dave benzon 21 the heaviness i carry neeloufar grami 26 distorted reflection arjun moorthy 28 spring air gillian hodge 29 take me in sara emira 32 aliens exist and they are us aislinn huang 34 december julie leroux 36 the alien within nimasha de silva 37 isolation mikaela grahlman 38 stellar solitude rochelle rosales 39 sombra neda pirouzmand 41 borderless sneha wadhwani 45 community tiffany tse 46 al(zhe)i(m)e(rs)n sowmithree ragothaman 47 the unknown teshan dias 50 indecisive sarah coker 52 in memoriam emily wang 54 unsaid suffia malik

a love poem to an alien (from an alien) jerry miller 58 liminal alien sharang sharma 59 humanly inhuman roya motazedian 62 crushed beetles cynthia gu 63 i feel like an alien natalia laxamana 64 spider-woman a.i. 66 this land i call home elisa do 68 rhymes for good limes evra ali 71 among the stars allison wren 72 book of celina liu 74 shell gail del castillo 75 milky wayfinding nozomi 76 extraterrestrials and the beacons of giza omar hamed 77 the disappeared sarah ingram 79 fractional seun orenuga 82 journal entry 03.14.1592653 alex chen 83 let go katie lee 85 second star to the right michelle yao 88 happiness is like a mug gillian maltz 89 lifeblood ariella ruby 91

ALIEN

staff stories

IF YOU WERE AN ALIEN THAT HAD JUST LANDED ANYWHERE ON EARTH, WHAT WOULD BE THE FIRST THING THAT YOU WOULD THINK ABOUT, DO, OR SAY? 05

INCITE

ADAM SAPA

CONTENT EDITOR

What they called the “movies” sounded like a good place to start. They were playing something called “Alien”. I don’t know what that means, we don’t have that word on Neptune. But man, those big things with all the teeth and the two mouths are super scary. Earthlings should really do something about that quick.

LUBNA NAJM

CONTENT EDITOR

Walk around the streets and pretend to be human. Go to bookstores or libraries, explore the shelves. Wonder what it is that humans think or feel. Lose myself in scenery. In humans. In little snippets of conversations. In the smells and sounds and tastes of Earth. Find a way to understand what being human actually means.

GRACE KANG

MATTY FLADER

Damn, y’all still racist. I’m outie.

ur boyfriend like mike n ike’s?

ARIELLA RUBY

SARA EMIRA

CONTENT EDITOR

I would land on top of a tree, thinking that it was a soft, springy landing pad. For a few seconds, I’d watch leaves twirl away, enchanted — until the thin tangle of branches gave way under-

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF (ART & PRODUCTION)

CONTENT EDITOR “Okay, Google. Where’s the nearest art gallery?” Realistically, I’d probably grab a snack first. Never tour an art gallery on an empty stomach!

neath me. I’d plummet to the ground, probably cracking a few ribs or at least spraining an ankle along the way. Splayed out on the turf, a strange bushy-tailed creature would scamper over my arm — I’d inquire of him whether he knew the location of the nearest walk-in clinic.

MANVEER KALIRAI LAYOUT DIRECTOR

People-watch. I’d sit on a bench in the thick of a city, and watch

KATIE LEE

CONTENT EDITOR

people go about their days. I’d observe closely (and discretely) how people react to the world outside of them — how they display their identity in obvious and non-obvious ways, how they carry themselves through the streets, how their faces change dynamically as they talk on the phone, how they love and laugh

Look at them thinking and feeling. Aren’t they beautiful?

and suffer and sadden in complicated ways. I’m sure I’d begin to understand humanity better than humans themselves.

IMAGINE ART by REBECCA ZHONG WORDS by SAADIA SHAHID

I imagine Love to be Of happiness and bursting colours An interaction of two people’s Wholesome thoughts. Touches, non-physical. Joys, unfathomable. Perplexing yet plausible, That is love to me. But with you, I tried To communicate my mind, To talk about the world, And our place in it. I spoke my language and you spoke yours. I tried to know you, the whole you. I wanted to instill in you, who I really was. It was fruitless, emotional turmoil at the cost of my well-being. It was stretched hours and days, on standby. It was staring at my phone screen, And nausea bubbling of anticipation. Then, with a custom notification, My phone would ring. And your response to my questions Would make no sense. With every word I’d read, My heart would sink In the black hole of the dilemma That I was battling with; To let go or to fix this. I’d ask what’s wrong And you’d say you love me. But if this was love, I wouldn’t be hurting. You called yourself mine And wanted me to be yours. But to hand myself over to flakiness, I couldn’t comply. I was consumed by your yearning But it wasn’t working. Your so-called love was made of sweet nothings. You wouldn’t talk about yourself Or what you were thinking. It went on for too long When it had ended before its start. I wondered how you loved me When you had barely known me. I’d tell you something about me You’d hear, you weren’t listening. You said I was perfect Your ideal everything Then tell me, dear someone, Why did you leave me? x

ART by OLIVIA MALETIC WORDS by LYAN ABDUL

INCITE

Was It Worth It? I had failed my first midterm and I was in shock. I didn’t think I would do that badly. But I still had a belief that I could do better. I just needed to maximize my time. Be as efficient as possible. I knew it would be a long journey, but I was ready for the sacrifice. The little things were what mattered now. If I saw someone I knew, I’d have a quick conversation. Much shorter than usual. If my conversation lasted too long, I would feel so guilty. I had to make up the time by studying longer. All I would do was wake up, go to class, go to the library, go back home and repeat. I was in my own world for two months. I needed to make sure I was ready for my exam. Late December. I logged on to Mosaic. Clicked on the “Grades” tab. My heart was pounding as I clicked on “Fall 2018”. Waited for what seemed like an hour. And there it was, right beside my course. An A+. I had never felt that proud of myself. All the hours I had spent studying were validated. And it all happened because I believed in myself. I wanted to tell someone, to maybe motivate them by telling them my story. To show them that even with one bad grade, it was still possible to do well. I reached for my phone to call someone. But there was no one. I hadn’t talked to anyone for the past two months. Even if I shared this with them, it wouldn’t matter. I was a stranger in their eyes. x

ALIEN 10

The Haunt We are all haunted, in between the dark and the light; they both take turns around their space capsule, switching moods upon human sleep cycles. The haunt is the haunt during the day and at night. It is feeding off your brain equally between shifts. You do not get a break, so the haunt is relentless. You remember your parentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chastisements. Even though dead they have been for years, they continue to feed off your brain. They are

stronger when deadâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; they hunger in your head: every memory with its loose end lives on. We humans live a life of hauntings. The past is full of ghosts who roam to perform a mentalsodimize. It would be curative if the doc could lobotomize, but we will not get out of the haunt so easily. Our minds are our most precious places, and because we are alive, the haunt occupies those places. x

ART by RACHEL MACDOUGALL WORDS by JASON WADDLE

ART by LARISSA SHULAR WORDS by YVONNE SYED 13

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BENGALI-CANADIAN I am the first of the first generation Canadian-born children in my lineage, Born and raised in North America. I am not foreign to this land, I am part of the diaspora, we are scattered across the globe With the blood that once rushed through the veins of our ancestors. But I am foreign to a culture of which I have not known entirely I speak Bengali almost fluently, and I have no problem understanding what’s being said I have my mother to thank for teaching me But I am unable to write but a word in my ancestral language, without the help of Google translate Growing up, I did not fancy the fancy ethnic clothing, Back then, I found the clothes too itchy, a little heavy, and the bottoms of a shalwar kameez, a little too loose and too poofy I found the concept of sarees too complicated to wrap my head around, Let alone, to wrap around my body. Now, I’ve grown to appreciate the unique designs, beading and embroidery, Wearing them and representing my culture Alas, The number of times I’ve gotten “But… you don’t look Bengali” When revealing my ethnicity Has only made me feel more detached from my identity I struggled to fit into the traditions of the people that came before me Unlike most Desis, I’ve never been able to stand the heat of diverse South Asian spices Trust me, I’ve tried to acquire the taste, but have never been quite successful So I’ve stuck to mild, yet flavourful foods (but I do love bhaat and chingree) And yes, my roots may be from Bengal, but I’ve never even tried a bite of ilish maach, And I have never even worn a saree (but I’d like to some day) When offered rasgullas, I back away, timidly For me, Bengali sweets are sweet, too sweet But as I’ve grown up, I’ve taken steps to educate and enlighten myself about where I came from After all, it is the people before me that wove me into being And I realize, I may be a foreigner, but I can always discover new planets And so I work to rediscover my culture Explore my heritage A history of the people that led to my existence I am foreign to a legacy I only found out about this year, After almost nineteen years, I now know about the efforts of Bangladeshi soldiers in the 1940s Fighting for the freedom of language And it was the Bangladeshis that pushed for an International Mother Language Day To celebrate the freedom of language Although I may feel like a stranger to my own culture at times, If there’s one thing I hope to preserve for generations onwards Is the gift of speaking a language Passed down for generations, To me And those before me. x

Key words: Shalwar Kameez Saree Desis Bhaat Chingree Ilish maach Rasgullas

Traditional dress Traditional dress People from the Indian subcontinent and their diaspora Rice Shrimp Ilish fish, the national fish of Bangladesh A kind of Bengali sweet

ALIEN

OF SOUND BODY AND MIND I was at my lowest low, While you were at your highest high. Who were you? Who was I? I felt like we were one, But we diverged. For how could we be one, if we were nothing alike? You pushed me away. I pulled you back. I tried to lean on you, but I was a burden. As you continued to blossom, I was left to die. I wanted to please you, but you wanted nothing to do with me. You ignored me. As you danced in the sun, I hid in the dark. As you laughed in the meadows, I dug my grave. I wanted to be your friend, but you made me your enemy. You left me alone. I still helped you when you were down. I thought I needed you. But really, you needed me. After ignoring me, you fell apart. Your beauty faded, your radiance became dull. Your smile turned into tears. You may have been the blossoming flower, but I was your root. After I stopped being cared for, you started fading away too. When you came back to me, I was scared. Would you leave me again? But you helped me. You nurtured me. We became one again. You and I became whole. Our body and mind are one. x

INCITE

ART by LARISSA SHULAR WORDS by SIMRIT SAINI

ALIEN

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 12:02 am on a friday night. i have no one to spend it with and i have never felt more alone ART by DAVID SHIN WORDS by ZOYA PAL 17

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always other, always different jigsaw piece that doesn’t fit the puzzle, i try to jam myself in take a chisel to my foundation, shave off edges, break off bits, try to sculpt myself into something more than just this and with every desperate hit of the unforgiving mallet, i begin to break away, slowly losing more and more of myself, i no longer know where my desire to belong ends or where my will to go on begins

but i’ve struck too hard, and the scaffold falls apart, the weight of the world is something this foundation cannot hold and so i disintegrate, cave into my dilapidated weary soul unable to salvage any scraps that remained, i have lost far more than i could have gained, the home i tried to build out of myself is left in ruin, and now there is a stranger wearing my skin perhaps this wasn’t cut out for me. you see, a spade is a spade and i’ve lived in houses, not homes the only comfort i’ve ever known is in being alone x

ALIEN

ART by LAUREN MARSH WORDS by KEILY JOHNSON

INCITE

I find myself in a new location, This has happened to me many times before. It feels bizarre and disparate, And so very far from home. I do not recall the first time I experienced this, Perhaps I was too small to feel the shift, To notice the new smells, And see the new faces. Or maybe I just don’t remember the fear. As I got older, I remember being nervous, About new schools and new friends, But I also remember excitement, New adventures have that effect. The general trend was the same, I hated it at first. Then, suddenly it was mine, Until I was gone again. I have concluded it is not something you can decide or force, One day you just realize the change. The new place has become home, It’s a profound entwining of environment and spirit. It’s looking outside and knowing the temperature. It’s navigating with your eyes closed. Reliving memories when you look at a particular tree, And recognizing the first signs of spring. Home is not where the heart is, Home is history, and memories and familiarity. So yes, this new location will feel like home, But so will the places that shaped me, That can never change. x

ALIEN

see-hyphen-saw ART by MAYA KHODR-ALI WORDS by DAVID BENZON

A hyphen - in many ways, is a seesaw Reacting to two opposing masses Filipino-Canadian Two dichotomous identities. Tethered. Linked. Filipinadian? Canadipino? But yet to be fused. A hyphen “-” symbolic of the valiant uprooting of my family there. And the invasiveness of their replanting here. My grandmother’s garden reduced to meager pots. - is straight in composition yet fails to capture the twists, detours, and spins which lead us astray My parents still gawk at rollercoasters. - attempts to balance the deadweight of generational traditions and flavours with Costco Rotisserie chicken. Imagine not knowing how your food was made. A hyphen - prefaces my “Canadianness” with something so unlike it. Where are you from? “Scarborough. But do you mean…oh. The Philippines …I guess.” A hyphen - in many ways, a seesaw One end descends to give rise to the other Our identities dynamic As is the struggle to define them. x

INCITE

ART by ELENA WELLS

ALIEN

ART by KIAN KOOCHEKI

THE HEAVINESS I CARRY ART by STEVEN KENNY WORDS by NEELOUFAR GRAMI

INCITE

I put on this mask An eternal fixed smile You think that I have it all together And that I’m fine I don’t let you see the caution sign I seem happy Some days, even joyful But no one knows what is hidden beneath I look at myself I don’t even recognize who I am This isn’t me, I want to shout I am better than this, I want to yell I’d give anything to heal In this vacuum, no one can hear me Worse yet, no one would believe me I carry this heaviness over my head Living in my own personal hell I wonder, how did everything get like this? Along the way, I lost myself A labyrinth with no exit I allowed the voices around me to infiltrate my mind People say, “distance yourself from what makes you sad.” But when everything makes you sad You just end up alone

I cannot continue to live like this I cannot breath I cannot sleep I cannot see How do I go home? A place where I knew who I was How do I go back? A time where I was happy with myself I want to go back to who I was before this mess But there is no back. There is only forward. I have a choice I can sit in the remains of my shattered life I really can Or I can choose to keep moving forward Putting myself back together Piece by piece I can become the person I want to be Change, this time, for myself As I hang up my mask for good I wonder and I hope That maybe, just maybe, it is true Life changes for the better, when I do. x -B.D. Lily

ALIEN

DISTORTED REFLECTION ART by LARISSA SHULAR WORDS by ARJUN MOORTHY

INCITE

Molly had become afraid to look in the mirror. At first, this aversion had no substance — at least none that she

could put into words. All she could identify was a vague feeling that the person looking back at her was somehow not herself. This small discomfort made its way into her mind like a worm, and she was beginning to notice it. Sitting down to do her makeup, she adjusted the mirror on her vanity. As soon as her eyes met themselves, she’d already noticed something off. A slight twitch. For a moment, it was as if the corner of her lips had formed a slight smile. She squinted hard at the mirror, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. Rubbing her eyes, she muttered to herself.

“You’re going crazy.”

It had been happening more lately, and Molly had a theory. In truth, she thought that it had been happening for a

while and she had only just started to notice. See, in Molly’s childhood playroom, one of the walls housed a large antique mirror. She loved to play in front of it, having her mother place the mirror at ground level so she could arrange her dolls around herself in front of it. To the child it was like seeing herself in a play, and even as she grew older, her love of her own reflection stayed. She could not resist the urge to obsess over her own appearance, finding new minute flaws to iron out with each glance. Maybe in looking so intently, she’d seen something she shouldn’t have. Putting the nervous knot in her stomach aside, she finished her makeup as quickly as she could and turned away from the vanity. She was breathing hard now. That was three more times, she thought. Three more deviations that she had noticed just there.

Molly avoided the washrooms at school that day. She felt relieved to be among her classmates, reminded that life

was still going on. It was only as the students shuffled out that Molly found herself alone, standing in front of the mirror that hung within her locker. She had avoided it all day, quickly hanging her bag over it in the morning. As she took her bag down, the mirror now glared at her. As she looked into her own eyes, she found an unshakable dread that something else was looking back. Then, she saw a twitch. Her mouth had transformed into a smile. Molly jumped back from the mirror. She felt like she was going to cry.

“Is there someone in there?”

She asked a question into the empty hallway, praying it would not get a response. She looked at the mirror hard,

but found nothing. Breathing out, she looked left, then right, hoping there was someone nearby so she could feel a little safer. When she turned back to the mirror, she found herself looking at a vision of her own face twisted with a gleeful malice, glaring at her. Falling back with shock, she hit her head on the locker behind her. In a dazed panic, she looked up, barely able to see through her tears. “Please.” …

Ella heard a bang, and came running. She was worried about her friend. Molly had been acting strange recent-

ly, she thought. Emma found Molly closing her locker. Slowing to a walk, Emma could hear a muffled thumping as she glanced at the locker. Looking back at Molly, she found that she looked different, somehow. Her smile was off. x

ALIEN

SPRING AIR I’m sitting on the porch steps, In the early spring air, And I realize, I didn’t live this winter. I may have breathed in the cold each night, And locked my door before hurrying upstairs, And listened to the wind slam against the shutters, But I didn’t really live. My home was a skeleton, empty and bare. What once was joyous, simply existed. The tiles beneath my feet were made of pills That I’d thrown to the ground in anger. My mother couldn’t fathom Why my eyes were so hollow, Or why the child she saw Wasn’t the child she knew. I could trace the fluorescent lights, And grey curtains, And peeling posters in the hallways, If I was unseen. I could hear the hushed tones, And the scratching of pens on paper, And the shrill laughter of someone next door, While I gripped the tabletop and swayed. I’d lost myself, surely. I didn’t recognize my own quavering voice. I couldn’t justify my unruly thoughts, They insisted on breaking free, So predictable And terrifying And desperate for attention And cruel And taunting Vindictive. They swore they cared, Yet they wouldn’t slow Even when I screamed. It was as if my mind had been infiltrated, Some malicious force had taken over. It tried to trick me into being something else, Into spending my life as a shadow. But now the tulips are blooming, Soft pink in golden light, Petals swaying in the breeze. My wounds aren’t quite as jarring.

INCITE

Here I am, in the spring air. Perhaps I am broken but not fully aware, Or, perhaps I’ve begun to heal after winter.

ART by KIAN KOOCHEKI WORDS by GILLAN HODGE

INCITE

TAKE ME IN In loving memory of Daisy. Thank you for being the sister I never had. Lonely and full of fear, I wandered Only to be taken in by you And brought to your world A world once so out of reach But one that I would eventually (by some miracle) Learn to call home. It was there that I Learned to love myself. Bloomed effortlessly. Glowed with endless joy. (And most of all,) Felt safer than I had in ages. Until the storm hit And undid the intricate stitches that held us together The stitches weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d sewn, For each song, Each painting, Every laugh we once shared, For our secrets, The promises we made, And the sisterhood weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d found in each other. My fingers caressed the torn seams, Longing for the warmth of your presence The assurance of your guidance And the guarantee that I would always have a home to come back to It was then that I learned You were my home.

ART by IVAN KREDL WORDS by SARA EMIRA

So now I wander, Lonely and full of fear, Waiting for you to come back And take me in. x

ALIEN

INCITE

ALIENS EXIST AND THEY ARE US. ART by SINA KAZEROONIZAND WORDS by AISLINN HUANG

ALIEN

Is my hair a mess? Can these people tell that I’m in first-year? Are these people in first-year? Was my comment

in tutorial wrong? Should I have worded it differently? Why don’t I recognize anyone on my floor? Would it be too stalker-ish if I followed that person to the lecture hall because I forgot where it is? Should I apply for that position? Am I going to make friends?

After a month and a half of asking myself questions about university expectations , I’ve realized that it’s okay if

my hair is a bit wonky, or that I look like I’m lost. It’s okay if I have different interests and can’t quite find my place. Most importantly, my quirks are what make me unique.

Growing up, I assumed that I’d find myself and my community in the first week of starting university. Now,

there’s so much pressure to find “the one”. But, how do you know what “the one” is for you? How do you know if that one friend you made in class will be “the one” you make the Maid of Honour at your wedding? How do you know if this program is “the one” for you? Is that random guy in your Calculus class “the one”, the love of your life? You begin viewing your life through the lens of a movie, when life is anything but Hollywood. Indecision is tied to isolation and it sucks because you want to feel like you belong.

Like you matter.

Like this is your place.

When you are isolated, you are unknown and that anonymity is quite powerful. Your unique combination of abili-

ties, experiences and knowledge is what makes you special. Therefore, always wanting to fit in can be dangerous because anonymity is where you learn about yourself. Where you begin to feel happy and excited about your life. Fitting in is nice, and belonging to a community feels even better, but I fear that you will become too comfortable if you constantly take up the position of a chameleon. It would be better to keep yourself on your toes, and to question your beliefs.

The difference between being an alien and feeling alienated is that one is a malleable state while the other is an

unyielding effect. As an alien, you have mobility to stretch your limits and boundaries, like choosing to go to that party or talk to that girl. With feelings of alienation, those possibilities seem like they’re too far out of reach. As though you’ve been purposefully isolated to feel this way. Both are opportunities to challenge yourself.

Alienation is inevitable in first-year, but not everyone experiences it at the same time or to the same degree.

Sometimes it’s the feeling you’re missing out on opportunities, yet you just can’t push yourself to take them. Other times, it’s when you’re in a large group or at a party, and suddenly you’ve lost your friend. Or you don’t feel like anybody is listening to what you’re saying. Or nobody laughs at your joke because they don’t quite get your sense of humour yet. But everyone is an alien, no matter who or where they are. Whether it be moving from a small town to a big city, or class, culture, mindset, gender identification, sexuality, sports, and academics—being an alien is not a bad thing. In fact, it’s what makes us even more human. x

INCITE

DECEMBER ART by ELI MOSER WORDS by JULIE LEROUX

Maybe we make it in every universe except for this one. x

ALIEN

ART by OLIVIA MALETIC WORDS by NIMASHA DE SILVA

WITHIN

The younger days were peaceful It was the calm before the storm They skipped through gardens as equals With no rhyme nor reason to conform

The growing pains continue to harden the heart and soul While pride is prioritized over sincerity Stronger grows the need to show complete control Lessening the innocent desire for solidarity

Loved by those who were dearest and near They were never birds confined by a cage of othersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; opinions And so, with plenty of chances to ere They were truly ones amongst billions

The wall of ice starts to crack under the external pressure Until it slowly melts into a thin sheet of winter shimmer The two selves no longer separated by a concrete measure Distort their identity, causing the light to get dimmer

The years passed by and the seasons changed Soon the doorway to the real world was opened wide The once daring voice gradually scrutinized A mask was slowly chiseled to match the tide

The reflections bounce off the murky inner waters Even the near and dear are no longer privy to their true nature The start and the end of their icy partition merge Giving rise to someone who they can no longer savor

Now a thick, icy wall divides the inner conscious One part unapologetic among the familiar faces Showing colors that are quirky and obnoxious And another, carefully sculpted for the masses

Losing oneself to have others like something so fabricated Robs the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s privilege of witnessing their grandeur Their true nature replaced by a poor soul so isolated And so, an alien within is created to persevere. x

INCITE

ISOLATION ART by SAADIA SHAHID WORDS by MIKAELA GRAHLMAN

Unspeakable truths denied when lips part, for loose lies do spread and confide in naive minds. Bloodshot eyes and sunken souls, do not rhyme with the inevitable passing of time. And should I further continue, I may oblige, for no words could recount the misery your ‘honesty’ induced. How can one's bitterness be condemned by solitude? I wish I only knew. x

ALIEN

my voice travels softly each decibel is lost searching for a home in black holes and galaxies my tears fill the empty shadows surrounding me until i am soaked to my core but nobody hears the sobbing of a stranger — Pluto echoes my serenades but i long for the embrace of Earth. Flesh and Blood, Soil and Crop, i long to hear a pulse, a rhythm of life.

STELLAR SOLITUDE ART by STEVEN KENNY WORDS by ROCHELLE ROSALES

my routine does not change my signals grow unheard, my desperation stretches eternal, each wail becomes an anthem — each note disappears into a void of darkness i am once again just a glowing speck in Their night armed with “technology and knowledge”, determined to “destroy”. in Truth, i am a rippling spark of Music, an enchanting flame. i can wait for tomorrow. let the seasons change, witness orbits upon orbits, until the passing of time carries my melodies to Earth. in my isolation, in my habitat of dim, i will shine until my voice is heard. x

INCITE

SOMBRA

ART by LARISSA SHULAR WORDS by NEDA PIROUZMAND

ALIEN

“Everyone, please stay with me! He wrote, and I quote, ‘Everyone carries a shadow

Everyone carries a shadow

and the less it is embodied in the individual’s conscious life and the less it is embodied in the individual's the blacker and denser it is.’”

the blacker and denser it is.

conscious life

Before Mr. Abey’s tongue reached the roof of his mouth to form the “s” in “denser”, most people were nearly finished packing up. Clearly, seniors were too busy to sit still for another 30 seconds of Carl Jung. It was as if they were rushing to cure cancer, or something. No one in that room, except for the girl who sat at the front, was going to have the homework done for the next class — the homework that Mr. Abey was determined to announce over the noise of 24 students not caring. I brought my hand over my desk in an attempt to smoothly slide my notebook into my bag, forgetting about the pencils and pens that were underneath. A score of Muji-labelled supplies went scattering across the ground. One pen landed at Krishna’s feet. Oh no, I thought. I couldn’t even look her in the face. Uh, right, okay so, this will be fine. Just. Act. Normal. “I was going to say that you’re probably going to need this, but considering you have so many . . . , ” Krishna was smiling. Like always, I couldn’t help but notice the right side of her face, which was slighly asymmetrical compared to the left. I thought it made her beautiful, although I would never dare tell her that. She would start crying. Snowboarding accident. “Thanks.” I was nervous. Why was I nervous? I didn’t know what else to say. I was fighting with myself. I couldn’t even be certain that I was smiling back at her. When I tried to lift the corners of my mouth, I was met with extreme resistance. I probably looked like I was about to cry. What drove me crazy was that I felt like crying. “Okayy, well, I’m having some people over this weekend. I invited Darrien and Matt, so I assumed they were going to tell you anyway.” If I stayed silent for too long, she would definitely hear how hard my heart was pounding. “Sure, yeah, I will, uh, yeah, I’ll try to stop by with them.” *** “If you turn to the next page of your course packet, perhaps things will be clearer to you all,” chimed Mr. Abey. “And I quote, ‘The king

The King

constantly needs

INCITE

the renewal

that begins with a descent into his own darkness.’”

that begins with a descent into his own darkness.

Mr. Andy waved his hands to signal that we were to begin our small group discussions, which he never failed to remind us as being key components of our final grade. There were two kinds of small group discussions that teachers would get from my senior class. First off, you had the ones where students were engaged, excited about the content and not afraid to nerd it out with each other. Then there were the other 99%. You know the ones I’m talking about. Today, unfortunately, I was contributing to the 99%. All I could think about was Krishna’s party. *** 11:00 P.M. It was pitch black. My room was covered in a blanket of shadows. There was no light, but I could see the dark. I’d had trouble sleeping lately, to the point where my regular bed-time had become 3:00 A.M. All I could do was close my eyes and hope that the shadows would take me away. *** I was at a party. It felt like I had just landed here, right in the middle of the pack. People were everywhere. Dancing. Yelling. Laughing. Trying to see who was the highest in the room. I glanced at the cold, brown spot on my white shirt. Even though I couldn’t remember how, I knew the guy across the counter in the blue shirt had spilled his beer on me without even apologizing. Dick. But I was talking to Krishna. Blue shirt guy could have spilled five more times on me and I would not have cared. She was so pretty. Among all the girls blowing up my phone, asking me when I was going to get to the party, my eyes only found her. The pack was leaving the lodge. It had to be less than 23 degrees outside, and somehow everyone was convinced that this was a good idea. People were grabbing toboggans from the back shed and running for the top of the hill. Girls were running for the hot tub, a trail of clothes left in their steps. Phones were out, with flash of course, ready to catch the perfect moment for Snapchat or Instagram, or both. I don’t think Facebook stories had caught up yet, but hey, maybe there was someone using that too. There was no question that everyone and their mother would know about this party by tomorrow. Time passes in a blur. From the other side of the pack, my eyes find blue shirt boy. He winks at me. The gaps start to fill themselves in, like a dream within a dream. About an hour ago, I’m leaning against the counter. I’m trying to act like I’m not looking around. Half an hour ago, I’m grabbing drinks. Blue shirt guy sneaks some powder in hers. Don’t worry, he says, just a little fun. This is what he was known for. And no one has ever gotten hurt at one of his parties. It was fine. I did nothing. Fifteen minutes ago Krishna is running up the hill with her friends. Five minutes ago she is lying still and there is a lot of blood. Now, I am running to her, and I see blue shirt boy wink at me. Drenched in sweat. I opened my eyes and wiped my face. I ran to the bathroom, because it’s what everyone does when they need a break. With my back against the wall, I knew I only had to stay still. They had been waiting for me for some time now. From above my head, the shadow of a hand as big as me crept down the wall. Two more appeared on either side of me, gliding over the cracked beige paint of the washroom walls. This is it, I thought to myself. I took a deep breath in. The air had never tasted so good. They were going to start wrapping around me, slowly, until — x

ALIEN

ART by SABRINA

INCITE

ART by REBECCA ZHONG

ALIEN

borderless ART by REBECCA ZHONG WORDS by SNEHA WADHWANI I am standing in the Lincoln Tunnel One foot in New Jersey, one in New York My body torn in two by a border drawn in chalk The line is a tightrope But I am unsure I want to reach either end If I try hard enough I can smudge it out But my lungs are still filled with chalk dust When I was five years old, My parents drew a border Seven thousand five hundred and thirty four miles long It swallowed me whole. Two ocean shorelines lay between my past and my future I am still stuck somewhere in between Still learning to swim Where I was born, Rain floods the streets three months each year Where I am now, the water is a little colder Falls in soft crystals that rest on your fingertips like the gentle pangs of homesickness I used to build snow forts As another way to cover myself in white Accents melt on my tongue like snowflakes I use them to speak poetry in a language once used to imprison my people My tongue used to hate the taste of macaroni and cheese Only knew daal and chapati I learned to tone down my spice in more ways than one I celebrate Diwali, the Festival of Lights But tell my friends the bulbs hanging from our rooftop are Christmas decorations They will tell you Canada is a mosaic What they will not tell you Is that you have to put the pieces together yourself. My childhood is a tapestry of almosts Indian, but almost Canadian Lost, but almost found Sometimes there truly is no place like home As in, maybe home is not a place Our ancestors built shelter from wood and stone But I will do it with flesh and blood I am at home Here Within. x 45

INCITE

How did this come to be? Friends, family — gone. I am alone. Words attack me, making me want to explode. I am worthless abandoned I am Other. I curl into a ball swimming in thoughts. Confused, doubtful and most of all — lonely.

community

They fear me, calling me crazy. But they don’t know me – they don’t even? try. I simply feel alienated. Where is my home? Who is my home? I try to remember the warmth, the comfort, the light — All the happiness that comes from a community. x

WORDS by TIFFANY TSE ART by MADELINE KOMAR

ALIEN

Al(zhe)i(m)e(rs)n WORDS by SOWMITHREE RAGOTHAMAN ART by EMILY WANG

I...am....? Awake... Am I?

World

The world is a kaleidoscopic nightmare of blinding white lights and colourful forms that dart in and out of vision.

Who?

What.....who? Where I Am? The forms slowly begin to morph into something recognizable as the eye adjusts to its surroundings. A face. A hand. Two creatures. Woman and child. Who are they? The ears follow suit, ushering in the mild cacophony of creaks, rustles, and beeps. The life forms whisper to each other in their unintelligible language. Back and forth. Back and forth. As time goes on, a seed of anger sprouts into full red-hot bloom, ferocious in its desire to be unleashed. What are they saying? One comes closer. The younger one. Water droplets fall down her cheek, forming rivers that drip from her chin and neck. Why? Are her eyes raining? “Grandma!” The word hits painfully, like shards of glass digging themselves deeper into wounds. Mutilating tissue, cutting bone. And just for a moment, a distant memory bubbles up from some far-away recess in the brain, as if to say, Remember me? But then it’s gone, just as quickly as it arrived. There is everything, and yet there is nothing in this space. The young girl becomes hysterical, waving her arms around in the air and continuing to babble in that incoherent voice. The sense of unease continues to grow. What is she saying?

Why

don’t I understand?

The older woman bundles the child in her arms, whispering softly and moving away. Another figure comes into view. This time, it’s a man. Nurse. The world suddenly becomes clearer.

When? Why?

Nurse They Where?

W h a t “Sorry about that, Doctor,” Rachel sighs. “I wanted to bring her just to say her goodbyes, but Stella… she’s stubborn, you know? Ironically my mother was — is — the same way.” He nods, sympathetically. “Of course. Come on in, take a seat. Where is Stella?” “Oh, uh — ” Rachel starts, and then collects herself. “Sorry. I’ve been so distracted I’m starting to forget things myself. Where did I — oh, she’s with her dad right now. Yes. Um. So...how’s Mom doing, Doctor? Be honest with me.” “It’s hard to really say. She seems to be recovering well from that bout of pneumonia, but her immune system is extremely weak. It’s very likely that re-infection will occur, and she won’t be able to fight it again…” “How long do you think she’s got?” The doctor’s voice is resigned. “At this point, the best we can hope for is that we’re keeping her comfortable, really. It could be days or weeks. A few months, maybe, if we’re being optimistic.” Rachel nods, her eyes glassy with tears. “I could see it, you know, the split second that she recognized the language. My mother was actually an English teacher, believe it or not.” He laughs, in spite of himself. “Wow.” She smiles fondly. “She could talk about it for hours on end. She’d scold me for using semicolons where colons were much more appropriate. And now the concept of a word, let alone a whole language, is so alien to her…” she trails off. He smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in it. “Well, that’s Alzheimer’s, unfortunately.” x

ART by MATTY FLADER WORDS by TESHAN DIAS

INCITE

the unknown With every step, more of the barren land resurfaces. It was not so long ago that neighborhoods existed here, teeming with various houses and roads. But now only rubble and debris are found in their place. Everything has been wiped away. If there was ever a time where I felt completely alone, it would be right now. With every step, the ground crumbles beneath my feet as I think about the home I once knew on this planet. The darkness becomes more concentrated as my search comes to an end. I have searched far and wide across the planet, not a single soul in sight. Only the silence and frigid breeze, that leaves my legs quivering, remains constant.

Father always told me to never leave Mars because of the many dangers lurking outside the planet. However,

what was once a red ball of peace and tranquility, is no more. I tell myself that I must move on. I could call myself the lone survivor, but it doesn’t feel as special as I thought it would. Chills begin to trickle down my spine as I look up at the starry night sky.

What is out there?

I feel like I’m paralyzed — although my mind knows what I have to do, my body is in denial. We always hid so well

when Earth sent their spies to try and capture our home. There it is, gleaming in the sky, demanding my attention.

Should I go to Earth?

It’s the only other habitable place I know. Growing up, I heard stories about the evil creatures on Earth. But

deep down, some part of me always questioned it. I always thought: you have to experience it to believe it. But living in fear prevented me from living out my thoughts and dreams.

I remember my first day of school, where I was the new kid on the block. I remember my first crush, her face

so pure and soft. Her bright piercing green eyes always left me mesmerized. An unbearable apprehensive feeling in my body always held me back from talking to her. I remember my first tryout for a sports team. I remember so many instances in my life where I felt petrified. It’s the same feeling that consumes my body right now.

I want to scream and tell it to go away. I want to be able to try anything I want without fearing the

consequences. But what am I fearing? I know I need to embark on this journey, to represent my family and the home that I come from. No one knows about the civilization on Mars, but they’ll never know if I don’t leave. And yet, what if...? There are so many “what if’s”.

What if Earth is not habitable?

What if my ship fails in space?

What if I can’t breathe?

My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest. I hear the rapid pulsing sound against the stillness. I look back

into the emptiness. There’s nothing there.

I take a slow, deep breath, setting my mind free. I run towards my airship, every step holding back the doubts

flooding into my mind. With the push of a button, I blast off into the unknown. x

ALIEN

indecisive ART by RACHEL BETTENCOURT WORDS by SARAH COKER I am finally beginning to see in technicolor. The fall leaves seem brighter than ever And for once, I radiate warmth. I long for the feeling of icy fingertips. I am happy after this summer. Now with a boy who treats me better than ever. I feel myself around him — he accepts me for who I am and what I love. Are my breasts too small? Am I not thin enough for him? Does he like my quirks? My interests? The relationship is so beautiful. He’s so beautiful. Yet, why do I have the urge to run away? I want to be touched, I want to feel love, But what is love when you can’t show it? When all you’re consumed with is the thought that he might leave you? It’s nothing he’s done, hell, I only see good things in him. And I don’t want that. I don’t like it. The fights, possessiveness and heartbreak — Why do I love that more than anything? Is that coldness seeping back into the world I built? Maybe I’m a masochist. Stop — I can’t — I can’t go back to the days where I’m resentful, alone, and empty. the emotions — overwhelming. Wanting to cry because it hurts so much but dry eyed at the same time. Everything was bleak. I need everything dark to extinguish the peacefulness in my heart. I don’t want to abandon the life I’ve worked so hard to achieve. I’m between two seasons — one more forgiving than the other. x

INCITE

ALIEN

(you wake up every morning wondering why you can’t seem to feel human again). x

maybe one day indeed, the crow will stop talking, the butterflies and bumblebees will start dancing, and then they’ll all come knocking.

and you think to yourself: this was a dreadful mistake! of misplaced jigsaw pieces, of peaches and snakes.

“the sun will still rise, the planet will still spin; the drumming raindrop’s misery — can you not come home again?”

in the corner of a place further than existence, you hear yourself weep. the earth stands still for a moment, until the cuckoo bird speaks:

(they say it’s better to be alone than lonely with someone, but it’s 3:23 am and the crow won’t stop talking).

ART by LAUREN RYDER WORDS by EMILY WANG

IN MEMORIAM

UNSAID ART by LAUREN CRAWFORD WORDS by SUFFIA MALIK 55

INCITE

“When is your flight?”

She knew what happened. Her second grade class had watched the news, while her teacher sobbed in the hallway. Some of the boys in her class were not

“Tomorrow at 8,” Asad replied; his hands gripped his empty mug tightly.

allowed to go home at the end of the day. Rizwan hated not being able to explain things. His wife took that responsibility when she was still alive. Instead, his

“Why so soon?” his father asked.

daughter hugged him as he silently wept. The explanation could wait.

“It’s not too soon.” Asad’s voice rose in urgency. “We are under attack

...

now.” “Rizwan,” his father’s voice broke through the silence. “Why didn’t you mention anything before you booked the tickets?” “Abba, nothing is final yet.” Asad peered into his mug, averting his eyes from his father’s. “What do you mean nothing is final yet? Asad is saying the flight is “Asad, you cannot leave all of us here.”

tomorrow, and everything is final?” Abba’s voice was loud with an anger that was meant more for Asad than Rizwan.

“I’m not going alone. Rizwan and Wardah are coming with us.” “It means Asad asked me to come with him, did not let me answer, and Asad’s older brother, Rizwan, glanced at his daughter, Wardah. Her eyes

then went behind my back to buy tickets for Wardah and me. I was planning on

met his, and her glassy eyes threatened to overflow over her snowy cheeks. Asad

giving him a response today, but here we are here with a slur painted on our own

had trapped Rizwan on the phone two days ago, demanding a response to his

apartment door and nowhere else to go!”

idea. When he said he didn’t have one yet, Asad hung up. Rizwan had meant to ask Wardah eventually — after he built up the courage.

Asad stood up from his seat. “The door is the reason I thought you were here! I thought you were coming to say yes because of it!”

Rizwan could leave his life here and restart; he was used to that. Two years before landing in Canada, his wife moved back to Islamabad. Her death a

“I don’t know!”

year later was a convenient way to explain her disappearance to Wardah. Wardah believed she would come back from her “trip” to Islamabad soon, but there

Rizwan seethed. It was as if the air suddenly caught fire, and the flames

was always some reason why her trip was delayed. He told himself that his wife

were roaring through his lungs. Rizwan never asked to be the eldest; he never

wasn’t evil, but it was selfish of her to die and leave him to continue the illusion

asked to take on the burden of responsibility. Burden was the wrong word, but

that she would one day be back. Perhaps this was his own doing, but he felt less

he hated Asad’s selfish anger. He hated his brother’s self-importance when

guilty, giving her one last shred of power over his life. She was like a hydrangea,

Rizwan’s wife left, as if to say, “I may not be the oldest, but at least I can protect

spreading her beauty like she deserved all the space in the world. She died like

my family.”

one too, maintaining her reach even in death. “When you decide,” Asad said as he grabbed his jacket from the couch Rizwan’s father was less forgiving, but the elder man could not deny

and bunched it in his hands, “let us know.” He stormed out of the apartment and

Rizwan’s affliction for his wife forever. That man, perhaps now too lost in

onto the balcony. The smell of smoke slipped under the balcony door, creating a

Pakistan, was approved to immigrate to Canada, and several years later, to

haze over the room. Rizwan felt the smoke settle into the fog in his mind.

invite his father as well. Wardah adjusted the easiest; the young ones always did. Rizwan, on the other hand, lay awake at night, listening to aircrafts take off from

The living room emptied soon after. Wardah turned to rest her head on

the Pearson airport nearby. They roared off the runway, shaking the thin walls of

the couch and stared at her father, who paced alone on the old rug. She watched

his Etobicoke apartment. Rizwan counted them by the half hour. He dreamed of

as her father circled around, following the flower pattern along the floor. As he

the day he could take one of those planes to Pakistan and perhaps find where he

walked, she was reminded of when her mother first disappeared in Pakistan. The

left the pieces of his soul.

way her father had too. She was convinced he would never return to his normal self. When he didn’t stop pacing, Wardah allowed her eyes to rest over the large

That dream would have to wait. Last Tuesday changed everything. He

white flower at the centre of the rug.

bussed home late that night. He could feel unease coating the air, as he heard of nothing, but the attack all day.

When Rizwan’s father emerged from his room, the eldest son stopped walking. A weary expression folded into the wrinkles of his father’s face.

Attack, he reminded himself. This was not merely an accident. It was an attack. A sinking, clawing feeling settled into his stomach. The news already

Displacement was part of his history, and he was again, preparing to be lost. “Rizwan, we cannot survive in this country without you. If you decide to

knew something about who was behind it. Rizwan knew, too. So did the people on

go back, we come with you. We have fought in the past…” the elder man said as

the bus. Enough to stare openly. He walked back to his apartment and knocked

he looked upon Wardah staring indignantly back at him, “…things have turned

on his Lebanese neighbour’s door. His daughter emerged and in silence, the two

out okay.”

weary, brown bodies entered their apartment and collapsed on the carpet.

ALIEN

Rizwan began pacing again. ... “Allahafiz.” May God protect you. These were the last words Rizwan heard from Asad’s mouth before the flight. As Rizwan watched his younger brother push the cart beyond the glass barrier, he thought to himself that Asad finally got what he wanted. He saw the back of his father’s head through the glass, and Asad’s protective hand on the elder man’s shoulder. Asad was finally going to be the eldest. Rizwan and Wardah drove in silence back to the apartment, now empty. The clouds made up a dense blanket of night that covered any chance of seeing the airplane in the sky. They could only imagine that the two men had left Canadian soil on a plane now filling the silence with its engine noise. Rizwan sat on the couch, and Wardah followed, curling her feathery frame to his side. “Wardah, do you know why Asad Chachoo and Dada left?” The smell of smoke lingered in the air; it never let them forget its presence. “Because they miss home. And because of what happened on TV…and to our house. The TV keeps saying that Muslims did it...” It was not a question, but he knew what she wanted to say. He didn’t understand anything himself so how could he explain it to her? His throat closed, but he took in a deep breath. He couldn’t hide her from this. “Wardah, there are good and bad people everywhere. It doesn’t matter if they call themselves Muslim or not.” Rizwan’s voice cracked and there was a pause. “Papa, was Mama a good person?” Rizwan patted her hair slowly. “She was a very good person. She loved you very much.” “Then why did she leave? And why did we not go back to Pakistan? I want to see her again.” The cigarette smell weaved into their clothes. They did not even notice it anymore. “We stayed because you asked me. When you cried yesterday.” “How did you know I wanted to stay?” “Because I know you, beta.” Wardah closed her eyes and exhaled, imagining the puff of air swirling above her and escaping into the balcony. She saw it rise above the clouds and sail off to a far away country. One that now lived in her nightmares. “Did you ask Mama to stay?” Rizwan did not say anything. She fell asleep before he could give her a response. x

INCITE

A love poem to a martian, from a martian. ART by MATTY FLADER WORDS by JERRY MILLER

Beep Boop Bop, Bop Bop Beep. Beepity Beep Boop. Boop Boop Boop; Beep Beep Beep. Bep Bep Bet, Beep Boop Boop? Boof. Beep Beepity Beep! Boop Boot Beet Boof. Bop Beep Bop? Bopâ&#x20AC;¦ Beep. Bop Boop Bop. Beft Boop Bot!

beep beep beep. x

ALIEN

ART by MOMNA SAJID WORDS by SHARANG SHARMA

I am an alien I might not have known until very recently, but now I know. I used to think myself human. I mean, I was surrounded by them — I existed in their space. My space? No. It took me a while to realize. I had always existed in a space outside of them, never quite setting foot where they had. I desperately wanted to land on Earth, so I always approached. Waited for them to recognize me, acknowledge me. I wanted to walk on Earth. I couldn’t. I wasn’t from Earth, so to them I was from outer space. They saw me as foreign, an invader. Or maybe just different. So, I saw myself as different. I didn’t come from Earth - I came from outer space. So I left. Retraced my steps, parallel steps. Next to me, human steps. I gave up on them. I had to find my steps. I flew out, pushing into the atmosphere, stratosphere, mesosphere and thermosphere. Out. I found my people. But they rejected me. I am an Alien, but not from outer space. I encountered my people, the Aliens. I stood by them, but never with. I was told I was an Alien, so why couldn’t I walk like the others? Once again I got stuck in the business of tracing. Tracing their steps, movements. Trying. Pretending? Failing. I wasn’t from outer space, to them I was from Earth... a human? They saw me as foreign. I didn’t understand. An invader? I didn’t understand. Maybe just different. How? I came from outer space. Foreign to the Earth. An Alien. But I wasn’t just an Alien to humans. I was an Alien to Aliens as well. I stood beside them, always occupying adjacent spaces; never crossing. I wasn’t human, didn’t live on Earth, came from outer space. But I wasn’t Alien, not from outer space. What was I? What could I be? Liminal? An Alien to humans and an Alien to Aliens. Always adjacent, acceptably close but not too close. I didn’t exist on Earth; I didn’t occupy that space. Nor did I occupy outer space. An Alien. Not from outer space, but from the space between. More human than Alien, yet more Alien than human, I resided between them. I understood both, sought to be both, yet was neither. I am not human. I am not merely an Alien. I am a liminal Alien, from a space in between spaces. x

INCITE

LIMINAL ALIEN

ALIEN

HUMANLY

INCITE

the strong voice of a child could answer, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” so much better than me. “i don’t know”, “i’m not sure” weak voice cracking and stammering though long past puberty. once, i knew exactly where i was going, had pinpointed my coordinates but now, my spaceship is lost. nowhere to go, so many places to go; lost. once, the world was my home planeta warm basket of opportunity. now, time has abducted me, taken me far away on its spaceship to an increasingly foreign galaxy. “shoot for the moon, you’ll land among the stars”, but gravity drove me deep into the ocean, where i drown in endless possibilities, where the line between capability and impossibility is blurred. the child who deemed herself writer, artist now erases every word she writes, never draws. she sees herself as nothing not even as human.

INHUMAN ART by TEODOR ZETKO WORDS by ROYA MOTAZEDIAN

it feels as though everyone walks straight paths, while mine is crooked. i bump into everyone, not sure where i’m going. self-conscious of my stumbling but unable to correct it. i was told it would all fall into place like the parting of your hair after you shower, but my parting is never the same. sometimes it’s in the middle sometimes it’s on the left, right, no, all wrong, zig-zagged and crooked. i put on a wig, pull my skin and clothes on tight act like the human i’m supposed to be head to university after high school but in reality, i’m just trying to fit in. x ALIEN

CRUSHED BEETLES WORDS by CYNTHIA GU

Bloomed with breath, sprightly shoots Erupt from a latent land And just trotting by their roots Marches a tiny beetle band A swirling medley of clouds a-brewing Painted with the light of day These quilts hide the sun from viewing And tuck the land in with their shade But the beetles, as they trot, Just work their day-to-day Appreciation, an afterthought They are blinded by their naĂŻvetĂŠ Beetle eyes: dull, unseeing Seeing no shoots or roots nor cloud Benumbedto their mother, Nature Even though she screams so loud x

INCITE

Sometimes I feel like an alien from another planet, like I see this world a little too differently, like I am too difficult for people to understand It is a strange sensation to feel unlike oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own, I do not belong to anyone, nor anything It is like a perpetual feeling of missing home But not knowing where home is, Nor how to get back to it I used to think I had a strong sense of self, but now when I look in the mirror I do not recognize the creature staring back at me, It feels as if the alien has taken control of my body I cannot understand why my words come out so harsh and my actions are so abrupt I cannot eloquently explain why my perspective on life has been glossed over in melancholy I cannot fathom what must be like to feel both alive and well Everyday my grasp onto myself weakens, And the alien grows stronger Some days it is hard to remember why I even bother trying to hold on Through an obscure lens, it seems ever so strenuous and too bothersome of a task Why not rid myself of such a burden and just let go? x

I Feel Like an Alien ART by GRACE KANG WORDS by NATALIA LAXAMANA

After Ways of Seeing by John Berger (1972)

SPIDER WOMAN

INCITE

ART by MADELINE KOMAR WORDS by A.I.

It seems this body is always a crime scene//Skin tainted by bloody murders and robberies alike //Painted red like a target//Made only to be seen//I have never been inside of my body, always outside of it//When I say this body is a crime scene//I mean somebody killed whatever soul was brave enough to carry it//Replaced it with//Faded smile lines//Darting eyes//I practice the way I say my name in the mirror//Trying to master the art of being// And even when no one is looking//I am still left watching a body that resembles my own reflection//From miles away//

When you live outside of your body for so long you stop being human//A sort of commodity// Taking up space you don’t understand how to give back//And wanting so desperately to give it back//You start getting used to the feeling of skin crawling//Like spiders have built playgrounds in your veins//Spiders embodying shame//Embodying fear//Having swallowed them as a way of//Welcoming them into a body you have never felt you owned//Telling them this is their home//Because it will never be yours//When I say robbery//I mean someone tore through the silk webs of skin// Reached for//girlhood//courage//hope//And escaped with//compassion// innocence//humanity//too//

A body is the most dangerous place for a woman//It’s too easy to lose yourself in a reflection//When was the last time you saw yourself through your own eyes?//We spend our lives practicing the art of self-erasure//Is there any other way to exist//Without tearing yourself apart//Pulling back skin until you see bone//Trying to find beauty//Telling ourselves to just keep digging deeper//

Like a ghost in the mirror//I do not exist//My body is a crime scene//Here lies the girl whosesuffering wasn’t beautiful enough//Here lies the girl who didn’t smile enough//Here lies the girl who forgot herself in the discomfort of feeling their gaze following her every move//I wonder what it would be like to take the bus//Walk down the street//Through the grocery store//Through the hallways//To the bathroom//Without thinking about what I must look like to another him//Always a different him//Usually an old him//Waiting for me to look over//So he can smile with every ounce of malice he can muster//So he can lick his dry lips// Tell me I’d look prettier if I smiled//I carry the guilt of watchful stares to bed with me//As if the blood is on my hands//That every murder committed by unwelcomed eyes is my own//I make sure to tuck them in with me//Letting them manifest into nightmares//And when I wake up they soak through my t-shirt in cold-sweats//I’ll wash the compliments that feel like shame off my skin//Make sure there’s room for tomorrow// Black swirls swimming around the drain//And everytime I step out and look into mirror//I recognize there is a body//But not the person it belongs to x

ALIEN

This Land I Call Home ART by STEVEN KENNY WORDS by ELISA DO

I live in a country that prides itself on its diversity, on its multiculturalism, the notion that endless opportunities exist for you no matter where you come from, no matter the language you speak. 1986, my parents took a chance like many of their time, and like the thousands today, they found faith in a land of unknowns. Born and raised in Richmond Hill, Ontario my first language was not English. In this land of unknowns, I was expected to know what it means to be Canadian. “First generation student” they called me. I didn’t know I was different from any other kid. But then came the differences, the distances, I began to feel the gap there was between me and those whose home was Canada for generations all along.

From eyes of confusion to looks of disgust, I began to learn my taste for culture was not for this world. From music and TV shows to every celebrity I was expected to know, I began to teach myself what it means to be Canadian in this land I call home. And most days, it feels as though I’ve made it somewhere, somewhere further away, from the alien that I am. But some days, I see my mother struggling to find her words in the face of an officer, the shaking in her hands and tremors in her eyes, as if this nation held the final say to our landing. Some days, I remember: I live in a country that prides itself on its diversity, a country where you can’t possibly roam freely without a word of English; a country where “Canadian” has become a category. x

ALIEN

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superfake

In todayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s globalized age, there is mounting pressure to look and act a certain way. Through this never ending cycle, we begin to alienate ourselves and forget the very things that make us unique. We accept the labels that are placed upon us by society and slowly become our harshest critics. The irony is that having these differences is what makes us all human.

ART by ALJEENA QURESHI, GRACE KUANG & ZEEST KADRI

ALIEN

rhymes for good limes ART & WORDS by EVRA ALI

feelin like a goddamn fool every day, every day holding back she tongue like it already done been cut can’t touch, can’t kiss can’t even stay sit — shit! gone to school down de block minglin’ thru onyx chess sets (?) and trust fund goths rainy day? pay no mine fine Calypso woman barefoot on backyard tile no pizza in this fridge no money on this bitch only scorpion red rhythm and winding mountain road x

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**************

among the stars WORDS by ALLISON WREN

there are days when i know my body is my own — watch it shift, sweat dance drift in the hollow light of the hallway, where i am one with the halogens and the heartbeat inside my chest; moments where I become the stars and the sun and all their constellations. there are other days when i simply pretend my body is my own — watch genderfluid become girl based on body parts i didn’t choose, watch skin crawl into expectations — eagle-eyed analysis of my performative gender, i become earthshaker instead of grounded. when i take the title of prince, she whispers, “but every girl wants to be the princess” and my body becomes bewilderment — baby brainwashed into believing there is beauty in binary and destruction in the absence — and these moments get stuck between cotton candy clouds and milky way mileage, a place in the night sky where nothing seems to make sense anymore.

i become poster child for confused identity the role model they do not want my starry eyes are sent to outer space where they can exist without intruding, my body becomes intergalactic travel for gender identities that do not match it, i fly into the space between the stars but watch my body become the binary it does not want to be on earth, magnetic force of fluidity too strong for a gravitational pull, i am catapulted into the chaos of comets and constellations i am a something that is too strong for earth and its containments so i find myself floating outside of it. i become collapsing stars, human life long past earth’s atmosphere, a heart too alien for the land it belongs in, so it sits where it feels free, floating, eternally fluid. and every day it is called back to earth, asked to perform for their spectators even when it doesn’t want to. life dictates my body cannot live among the stars forever, no matter how much we feel free in them. my body dictates that until life becomes a game of love, we will live among the stars, waiting. x

INCITE

According to his parents, ’s first word was — or maybe it was just , he doesn’t really know — because first words usually are born of mother. But because wasn’t English, it didn’t count when they moved to Canada and the counter reset. Else became the new baby’s first word, not quite possessed in the mother tongue. Not quite born of mother. This new word came at age five. At age five, his name was still , pronounced “Chae Heechang” and sometimes written as . The second character he shared with the cousins of his generation. The first character was his family name, capable of being simultaneously meaningful and meaningless. His parents told him his name meant “showing brightness” and in later years — when his grasp of English was no longer infantile — he would tell people it meant something closer to “exuding optimism”. According to his grandmother, who performed his first naming, a ray of sunlight had landed squarely on his forehead the moment he was ripped from his mother’s womb. Thus, was named after the miracle that was witnessed, and his name was decided: showing brightness. The meaning is lost in translation. So is the story. So is the name. becomes lost elsewhere, too, because he loses the name at age five in the middle of his apartment kitchen. His mother tells him the following:

“Pick a name, Heechang. One that your new friends will be able to say. Make sure they can relate to you”.

The quote isn’t verbatim — it’s been translated from mother to alien, from one tongue to another. The black leatherite book on the counter performs his second naming: Book of Matthews. Matthew Chae. On the first day of kindergarten, everyone makes fun of him because he doesn’t know how to spell it yet. He didn’t quite have the word to describe his teacher at the time, but the word is “complacent”. Children can be cruel; adults can be far more cruel. He never learns to write the letters of his name from his teacher. He doesn’t learn it from his parents either. Instead, it’s the black leatherite book that teaches him how to spell his first name. Later, early on in middle school, he steps out of his English class having learned the word “alias.” He wonders if or Matthew is his name. Or is it Chae? Which is the name and which is the alias? Alias: the word itself is from Old French alien, from Latin alius. Translated, aliene means foreigner, but the meaning is lost in translation. Which is to say, it belongs to someone else. Alius: “another, other, different”. It took a very long time for alien to mean extraterrestrial — it has always meant immigrant instead. Alien. Trace it back far enough, and you’ll discover it comes from the Proto-Indo-European root al-, “beyond”. This, too, is where we get “else”. Which is to say, he has always been an alien. By now, at age fifteen, he’s already forgotten what it means to live anywhere but Canada. He has memories of somebody living in Korea with a mother, but he doesn’t know whether or not he has the right to claim them. At least this time, he feels like he belongs here — in Canada, O Canada, our home and native land — even if he has had to sacrifice authenticity for relatability. And he likes it here. His mother does, too. He receives opportunities here he wouldn’t even dream of in Korea. So shouldn’t he love this country? He was made successful. He likes the seasons as they are here. Summer: there’s usually a violent smudge of sun and occasional heatstroke, but at least temperatures don’t go that far above 30 degrees. Winter: frostbitten fingers and knee-deep ice mean that snow days are common. But still, he possesses the nagging feeling that he has never — will never — escape alienhood. At some point, the memories trace far enough into the past that the phrases upon phrases of praise he sings—I love this place, I love this alias, I love this name — become anaphora and a mechanism for memory loss. And the names trace further back still.

Matthew Chae. Chae Heechang.

, alias, alien, else. x

ART by MADELINE KOMAR WORDS by CELINA LIU ALIEN

SHELL ART by SARAH STEWART WORDS by GAIL DEL CASTILLO What terrifies me the most about cooking Is not the hot oil splashes Nor the sharp knives Nor the possibility of an inedible plate of food But rather the egg. A ball of proteins Protected by a hardened white shell I prepare myself as I hold it in my hand This oblong body Staring at me Mockingly I am holding two empty shells in each hand And in the pillow of flour A sun Surrounded by a translucent glow I admire the beauty Its soft edges A yolk I continue to bake This cake from box However a foreign body floats around Arrives at the cavity of my mouth A bite down in delight So naive An egg shell x 75

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M I L K Y WAY F I N D I N G

A railroad laid out in a field of stars On it, a train that makes too many stops at Milky Way stations The flow of passengers file out at their destinations A seemingly normal astronaut with a bubble helmet gathers their pile of moonstones In their hasty exit, the moonstones spill downward into the black night Lost treasures float off to be captured into an unknown planet’s atmosphere Things that slither, armless creatures, faceless blobs of colours yet to be named, Of all the shapes the universe offers, no one is shaped like me I feel alone, wondering why they’d ever get off. I want to see where this road ends Where it started, I can’t recall Outside the window, in the distance, are constellations Stars that have been acquainted with bedroom ceilings and walls Museums on old Aquarius, cotton candy swirls trailing behind Lepus Where do I fit in, within this field of planets and forest of stars? We pass by a Black Hole and there are caution signs, like a highway closed off until further notice, that read: Will resume service once Wormhole is De-Wormed Detour after detour A single wanderer falls into the seat beside me A blond boy with a Venetian pigeon on his shoulder I tell him that I’ve always thought aliens to be blond He tells me that he and his companion are searching for the Big Dipper “How unfortunate; we just passed it.” Let’s wait for the round trip x

ART by CHRISTINE DEVINE WORDS by NOZOMI ALIEN

Extraterrestrials and The Beacons of Giza WORDS & ART by A SON WHO LOVES

Extraterrestrials. Ancient Egypt. Orion’s Belt. The Sun. For decades, authors, journalists and (pseudo-)scientists have guessed at the mysterious connection between these entities. Well, McMaster, I have finally cracked the case. “But s-sir, with the utmost respect, how can you be so sure?” you might ask. Well because I AM Egyptian. That’s right, a feeling in my pre-mummified bones tells me I’m onto something. Hear me out. Here’s a straight fact for you (the first of many): according to Harvard Egyptologist Jacquelyn Williamson, limestone blocks were polished by skilled labourers during the construction of the Pyramids. I’m not talking about the rough, brown limestone blocks that make up the Pyramids as they stand today. No. Over four thousand years ago, these white polished blocks were fitted over the steps of the pyramids and trimmed down, so that the completed structures were smooth.

Peep this diagram:

Okay…but what do aliens have to do with all this? Patience my little hrd. (That’s the ancient Egyptian word for “child”). Allow me to lay down some more contextual factualization. You may have heard of the Orion correlation theory by the absolute legend, Robert Bauval. He claimed that the three stars of Orion’s Belt aligned perfectly with the three Pyramids of Giza as if projected down onto the Earth’s surface. Crazy, right? But wait, there’s more. Bauval and this Scottish MADMAN named Graham Hancock coauthored the following statement: “...we have demonstrated with a substantial body of evidence that the pattern of stars that is ‘frozen’ on the ground at Giza [is] in the form of the three pyramids and the Sphinx ... at the moment of sunrise on the spring equinox during the astronomical ‘Age of Leo’.” Now, dear reader, let me ask you, what would be the first thing lit up by the sunrise on the Giza Plateau? The Pyramids, yes, but not just the Pyramids — the gold-capped tip of Khufu’s Pyramid (the big one)! With all else still shrouded in darkness, what would these massive reflective structures look like under the intense first sunlight of the spring equinox? They would look like white hot mini-suns sitting on the horizon, blinding half of Cairo at a glance. Very good, hrd, you catch on quickly. Cities at night are clearly visible from space, so why wouldn’t these massive shining pyramids be visible at sunrise as well? And who else could solve this Sphinx’s riddle? Who else would know about the Age of Leo or the spring equinox? Who else could read the map in the stars and find their way to my ancestors? None other than highly advanced extraterrestrial beings. The Pyramids of Giza were beacons to signal aliens. Still think I’m wrong? Google the facts I’ve been spitting, then try to prove me wrong. You won’t be able to. x

ARE YOUR FRIENDS SECRETLY ALIENS? TOP 10 SIGNS OF ALIEN POSSESSION. IF YOU SEE AN ALIEN, REPORT IT!

The posters came into focus as the

train slowed. Despite the screeching metal and the cacophony of voices, the words

seemed to be screaming themselves — red letters burning into my brain.

The doors opened, and I was pulled

along by the crowd, bits and pieces of

various conversations carried by the air. “There’s no such thing as aliens. I’ve

been alive longer than the technology used to print those damn posters. We

didn’t have aliens back in my day. It’s a conspiracy, I’m telling you...”

“... another person’s gone missing...” “This time it was the university... bet

they’re taking all the smart ones... starting a colony or something.”

“That must be why you haven’t been

taken—you haven’t got the brains.”

I ignored them, for the most part. I just

wanted to go home and sleep.

I remembered Mr. Patchett’s speech in

class. He’d just given us the governmentmandated spiel on alien safety about

looking for sudden changes in behaviour,

loss of interest in activities... the usual stuff.

“Take you away?” My eyes widened.

“You… you’re an alien.”

enough sometimes,” I offered. “If I do

empty carriage. I quickly averted my gaze,

not, I just need more practice.”

I suddenly felt very vulnerable in the

afraid she might creep into my mind somehow. “Yes. They’ve been watching me. That

must be why they wouldn’t let anyone on today. Except you, apparently.”

dangerous it is to be near them. One stray thought, one contamination—you could

slip into a downwards spiral and become possessed as well.”

Lost in thought, I wandered onto my

next train and it left the station with

a screech. When I finally looked up, I

realized it was empty That’s strange. It was usually full of students heading home.

“Are you here to take me away?” a voice

asked.

I turned to stare at the only other

passenger. She was a thin girl about my

age, with bushy hair that framed piercing dark eyes.

be taken by the light soon enough, and I’ll be able to leave this world forever.”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe? I

to learn how to be ourselves. I think it’s She pondered that for a while.

“You’re pretty strange for a human,” she

“You seem very calm about that,” I said,

finally said.

She smiled. “I am.”

ordinary person I know,” I joked.

Questions suddenly welled up inside me.

questions before. About how I feel.”

not calm at all. “But why?”

“All the disappearances…why do the

aliens take people?”

She sighed. “Earth isn’t always a nice place.” “You think you’re rescuing them? They

belong on Earth! You’re just being selfish,

“What do you mean? I’m the most “No one’s asked me these kinds of “Well they should.”

I was surprised to discover I meant it.

I dug around in my pockets for pen and

paper and scrawled down my information. “My phone number,” I explained,

taking them away from us.”

holding it out to her.

understand our thoughts. They can’t love

said, shaking her head. “They might even

“The people around us don’t

us. Why should we stay?” I shook my head.

That doesn’t make any sense! “It’s the aliens that put those thoughts

“How can you be so sure?” she snapped.

talked to.”

I was taken aback by her tone.

“The government will take it away,” she

take you away.”

I’d almost forgotten. Oh god, what

would everyone think if they knew I

was talking to an alien? No, they don’t

understand. They aren’t here. They didn’t know how human aliens could be.

“Look, if you get in trouble, you can call

me. Maybe I can help.”

She studied my face, perhaps trying

“Ok, well... if you’re an alien, how do

to gauge my sincerity. Her eyes weren’t as

She breathed in sharply.

a deep brown, like hot chocolate.

you know what love is? Can you love?”

“Of course I can love. I love the same

dark as I’d first thought. They were more of “I’ll think about it,” she conceded,

way you do. Except it hurts me. I’m not

accepting the piece of paper.

good enough. Because of what I am.”

come into view once again as the train

genuine, that I couldn’t help but believe

She stood up. “Maybe I won’t go to the last

meant to love or be loved. I’ll never be

Something in her words felt so real, so

her. I was drawn to meet her gaze once

more, and found that she had tears in her eyes. “An alien,” I finished for her. The girl nodded miserably.

I realized I wanted to understand her.

Not who she was pretending to be, but who she really was.

INCITE

supposed to be born with?”

growing up.”

“I’m probably the only alien you’ve ever

know what it’s like, and you know how

you,” she replied. “Isn’t it something you’re

“It doesn’t matter,” she shrugged. “I’ll

more attention.

“We don’t understand the aliens,” he

aliens. Only those with aliens inside them

“Being human is about what’s inside

think it’s like everything else—we have

in peoples’ heads. If you just left, they’d be fine.”

had explained. “Only aliens understand

badly on a test, I think I’m stupid. But I’m

“It was an accident.” I should have paid

“Why do the aliens want humans?” I

had interrupted.

“Well, I also worry about being good

Rows and rows of posters started to

screeched to a halt. stop today.”

And then she was gone. WATCH YOUR FRIENDS. ANYONE

COULD BE AN ALIEN. x

the disappeared ART by SANDY LUU WORDS by SARAH INGRAM

ALIEN

ART by REBECCA ZHONG WORDS by SEUN ORENUGA

FRACTIONAL My life is divided into two worlds: Social Media and Real Life. Two different feelings, Two different vibes, With this dichotomy, I struggle to feel alive. Social media controls you. Tells you what is and what isn't. It isn’t substance, it's subscription It isn’t personality, it's perception It isn’t bare necessities, it's narcissism. Social media changes you. It takes a person and makes its alterations, Modifies your feed, Feeds you its nutrition facts, Have you had your vitamin clout today? Have you posted about your hashtag best life (#bestlife?) today? You just went on vacation, but? don't you wish you were here? Social media dictates. It handcuffs your free time These devices may be wireless, But we are wired in for distraction It's a vicious cycle: Standing in line, let's check IG I can't eat till I pick a new Netflix show to binge Rinse and Repeat. More concerned with likes, than having a life More concerned about a follow back, than having someone who has my back More concerned with sharing, than caring. You want to reach out and share thoughts and prayers, But real life cares more about doers than sayers. Life requires thoughts and connections, originality and emotions, In reality, we should unplug and grab some air We should take more time to practice self-care. We should reflect more on experiences,

Yearning for success, Yearning for passion in life We should post more about the things that give life meaning. …Your post violates Community Guidelines You're showing your real self. You should want to be great You should want to strive above the simplicities of the status quo You should post about the things that make you you. …Your post violates Community Guidelines You're sharing your real thoughts. We should be allowed to feel, to express, to create, to show raw emotion uncensored by others' perspectives. We need to be unique, But on social media, you follow the status quo We think these apps keep us connected… Connected? With our collective attention span subjected, where insecurities are projected, Personal lives neglected Subjected to a standard we could never uphold. Connected? With realness rejected, Personalities corrected And mental schemas infected. Connected? We may have improved wireless connection, But we're becoming estranged to human affection A phone with the highest of resolutions, is not enough to take me out of this delusion. We must unplug from mass media and see sunlight Disconnect from wifi and see the world from our own eyes. Now I can see much clearer This is the society we live in, and I'm just holding up a mirror. x ALIEN

Journal Entry 03/14/1592653 ART by MATTY FLADER

WORDS by ALEX CHEN

Internal journal entries from [REDACTED], decrypted, deciphered and declassified to members of admiral status and higher under [REDACTED]’s orders. 03/14/1592653 It began with a probe. Strings of numbers streamed in from one of our satellites; the data was impossible to explain and unprecedented in centuries of astral exploration. The signals looped in a series of illegible patterns. Initial reports were met with skepticism. Fast repeating bursts were nothing new, but this source was impossibly close. This was the first contact with the aliens. It was a tiny metallic blip in the endless expanse of space that sent out a few waves — the cry of an infant into the night sky. We knew then that we were not alone in the cosmos. It began with a probe. The aliens were an advanced civilization, much like us. From the deepspace rocket, we were able to reverse engineer its logged path. It was a far-off galaxy, many light years away, but not one that was impossible to travel to. With the recently discovered FTL systems and wormhole induction technology, our interplanetary connections had evolved beyond the point where distance mattered. Our news channels boasted of the discovery. Our leaders postulated that the age-old question had finally been answered. The scientists worried that the civilization might be long eradicated, its lifespan vanishing during the probe’s flight. It might be the first and final wild goose chase of the universe. 83

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11/08/1592666 Fortunately, the aliens were alive and well. Their civilization was flourishing, although they were quite surprised by our arrival. Initial communication was difficult given their propensity for growling, but artificial intelligence was able to quickly grasp their language. We were to them, like they to us — the first sentient life they’d ever encountered. I, [REDACTED], was given the opportunity to be among the first to make contact, on a planet terraformed for the sake of being a historic monument for the grand summit. The aliens were some of the most bizarre creatures I’d ever encountered. The first and most striking aspect of them was their tentacles. They had an oddly regular number of them, and they were composed of a disgustingly dry and oily material. TheyIt possessed the slightest jiggle, as though their outer layers couldn’t restrain their innards, but the epidermis was stretched taut like a cloth clenched by claws at all four corners. Their bodies were disproportionately weighted towards their superior extremities, which were topped by a single bulbous orb. Gaping holes in this orb allowed glimpses at more vulnerable organs, which were left exposed to the world and only protected by thin retractable slits. It was a wonder how they’d risen to be the dominant species of their planet with so little to defend themselves. The combination of their dessicated flesh and the fur that seemed to grow only in the least useful of places — the database claimed it was what they considered visually appealing — was nauseating. The smell was somehow worse. Large pores all over their body radiated out an odour, the byproduct of millions of glands simultaneously secreting a transparent acid. My sensors told me that clinically, the aliens were hosts to almost as many pathogens as their own cells, but that they were also biologically insulated. Perhaps they kept harmful microorganisms at bay with chemicals so noxious that even viruses stayed away. I logged that in a mental note. Despite their appearance, conversation was pleasant. One might even say it was cordial, if tepid airs of silence between bursts of translated speech could be described as cordial. They were also surprisingly mentally acute. They proved significantly more intelligent than the primeval animals that they resembled from planet Eth. Bet. I asked about their culture, their people and their concerns. The aliens unfailingly gave polite, correctly false answers. Our stealth observatoration craft had uncovered things about them that they deemed unfit for conversation. They were at war with themselves, in a futile greedy struggle for more. Perhaps their lifespan was so short, being a fraction of the historical unit of time for a rotation around our home planet’s star, that they were unable to consider the future. Biological immortality may be the key to quelling their unrest. That too, I filed for reference as I detached myself from the presence of one of the aliens. The aliens possessed a bizarre social structure. Each alien who spoke introduced themselves singularly as a “prime”, but none declared themselves as anything less. It was an illogical mathematical improbability that every one of the numerous individuals could be considered the number one in their society. Worse still, each hailed from the same common house, which further damaged their claims of superiority amongst their species. I believed it was likely to be hubris. It numbered one of the many curiosities of the cultural clash. In alien society, did they select delegates based on self-confidence? Perhaps their hierarchy was oriented around the presence of these self-asserted “primes”. Although I could not distinguish the individual primes by their grotesque features, there existed minor variations in all but alleged status. It was incredibly confusing. I questioned the artificial intelligence, but it mocked my sanity in turn. I stopped asking it questions. At the close of the first of the summit’s sessions, we were allowed to return to our quarters to soak in cleansing fluid. I was pleased to find that it erased the alien stench, which clung in a mangy way. When I emerged from the bath, we received a missive; the aliens were no longer to be classified as aliens. They had a name for themselves, that high command deemed prudent to be used in communication and internal documents going forward. It was a ridiculous title for their species, with an unpleasant cadence could only be explained by an ancient historical convention. They called themselves “hewmahns”.

Signed, [REDACTED]x ALIEN

LET GO I’ve always wanted to have my palms read. Maybe it’s silly, but I wonder what secrets they hold — Does my life line stretch from end to superimposed end, Or are my palms parallel universes? What has been left, what will be right. I wonder if she will see you in my love line: Hands that I knew better than the back of my own. You showed me that as much as these hands can hold, sometimes, they need to be held. Held softly, held tightly, And then, we let go. If our hands met now, they’d shake, not interlace. So perhaps when she looks at my palms, she will not notice that singular crossing of our love lines, but instead, that they now reach infinitely in different directions. I do not know the person she will see in my hands, I wonder if she knows the person in yours. x

INCITE

ART by KIANOOSH KOOCHEKI WORDS by KATIE LEE

second star to the right ART by SARAH STEWART WORDS by MICHELLE YAO

It was the end of the world, and no one really gave a shit. I mean, I gave a shit. But seeing as I had been given the contentious lot of “Adopted Cyborg Princess of Planet Earth” in this life, of course I had to give some shits. And before you doth protest that giving shits isn’t a particularly regal action to take, need I remind you that I was Princess of Earth. Before First Contact, Earth may have been a bustling planet, but we now wasted our days trapping tourists with satellitebillboards that read things like “GALAXYFAMOUS HISTORICAL SITE! Come see mankind’s oldest toenail!” Our sole saving grace was a mere rumour, the rumour that somewhere in this wasteland was The Compass: a legendary machine said to be a homing beacon for locating the Shadow Planet. The Shadows went into hiding twenty years ago after the Neverland Empire attacked them for their Pixie Dust—the inciting incident in Pan’s intergalactic takeover. The stolen Dust granted Pan and his army of Lost Boys an explosive so powerful one sprinkle could demolish whole planets. But while their planet virtually vanished after that attack, the Shadows had supposedly left The Compass behind on this innocuous planet as a way for resistant fighters to track them down and harness the Dust without attracting Pan’s attention. We saw swaths of rebels venture out here for it, and we always told them no, we didn’t know anything about this Compass nonsense, but would they like to stay to visit our Robotic Wax Museum? The rumours weren’t baseless though. Ironically enough, the spaceship decals that visiting rebels bought on Earth were contributing to the search for the Shadows... Because The Compass had already been found. I would know, because I am The Compass—or, at least, thirty percent of me is. The Compass was built into my cybernetic parts, installed by a father who stumbled upon the device and wanted to guarantee a good life for his daughter by ensuring—through a surgery that melded me forever with The Compass—that I would be useful to Earth’s ruling family.

But even up until the world’s end, I couldn’t tell you how useful of an adopted daughter I really was to the Darlings. The night of Captain Hook’s second visit to my Command Tower was also the day that Earth Ship 28 was wiped out by a fleet of Lost Boys on their journey to find the Shadows. I was still mourning the crew members we’d lost when the knock came. And this is awful, but I’ll admit it wasn’t just the people I was mourning. Earth could barely afford pooling our keychain earnings towards funding these missions. It was too risky to involve too many rebel parties—and even riskier still for me to go myself. Instead, I gave orders and coordinates from my junkyard castle on Earth, shielded in body but not mind as I grew up sending one crew after another to their deaths. Hook had no sympathy for my grieving process. While I continued crying, he scratched the glass of my window with his robotic hook until it became too grating to ignore. “Finally!” he shrilled, as I cracked open the window to let him crawl through.

“Because we’ve evacuated already. It’s just The Compass that will go down now.” I whipped around to see the boy who’d spoken. It was my adoptive brother John, flanked by two Lost Boys. “While you were leading more Earthens to their death,” he continued, “I made a deal with Neverland to save our lives. We’re moving everyone to a better planet, and dispelling all groundless rumours of some silly Compass in one go.” Before I could sufficiently process — much less voice—any feelings of betrayal, one of the Lost Boys surged forward and shoved me out the open window. The world spun around me, and just as I was beginning to accept my fate, I landed. Hard. It hurt, but it had come only taut heartbeats after the push, so it was much better than splattering onto the Dustdrenched ground. But I soon realized that I’d landed on the deck of the Jolly Roger, which Hook had somehow maneuvered to hover right below my tower. Was this much better?

“Really, Princess, you don’t have time even after your precious ship just crashed?”

Hook landed like a cat beside me. “Ah, yes, I forgot to mention that Smee also picked up some correspondence between your family and the Empire. This is a rescue mission — rescuing you from the Earth that’s about to blow.”

“I — how do you know? Have you been bugging us?”

With that, he bolted to the ship’s wheel to initiate our escape.

“Oh, just a little surveillance Smee set up. It gets boring being landlocked here, waiting for you to reconsider our offer to join us. We needed the entertainment.”

We got far enough to evade the Dust’s damage, but as the Jolly Roger sailed off, I could still see my home planet erupting into ghostly green flames.

“I’m glad that the death of my friends was entertaining to you.”

“It won’t be the last planet that this happens to,” Hook mused. “That’s why we need you, Wendy. Are you ready to grow up and take Pan down with us?”

“I don’t have time for this, Hook.”

“Well, it’s not as entertaining as what’s going outside right now, that’s for sure.” I followed Hook’s gaze, and nearly toppled out of the tower. Just outside the window, Lost Boys — recognizable by their fur scarves — were swarming the palace and sprinkling glowing green powder all over the floor. Pixie Dust, I realized. They were going to blow Earth up.

I stared at Hook, the father who had turned me into this war machine and then abandoned me, and who had come back to invite me to join his quest for the Shadows twenty years later. And I didn’t know why, but for once, I felt ready for the awfully big adventure ahead. x

“Guards?” I screeched. “Guards! Why hasn’t anyone noticed this?” ALIEN

Mom tries to give me the same crimson ceramic mug every morning at the same time. My Doc Martens are resisting my heels, my denim jacket is rejecting my shoulders. I’m clutching the bannister for balance. She’s holding the mug with that same look on her face like when it’s 3 pm and I still can’t escape my purple duvet. The chalky capsules are lying flat in her other hand. “Dana.” “What?” “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Do we have to meet with Dr. Greenwald again?” It’s here that I have two choices. Option one: I can have the Argument. I know the Argument well. The Argument and I have basically done dance lessons together since we were five years old. I can clomp into my Docs and heave my jacket on my shoulders like it’s bronze-plated armour. Squeeze all the blood in my body into my face and — take a breath — begin. “I don’t give a flying FUCK about what Dr. Greenwald says, okay?” “Dana. You are sick. Sick people take medicine. We’ve had this discussion too many times.” She would still be grasping the mug, not having given up just yet. Time to escalate this shit. “This isn’t a fucking discussion, Mom. It’s MY depression. It should be MY decision.” “Really, Dana? I’m sick and tired of this. You have zero consideration for others. Do you not see how much you’re hurting me and your father? How much you’re hurting yourself?” “I’d rather feel hurt than not feel anything at all.” This normally goes nowhere but I would say it anyways. “Oh, that’s what you say now. But your grades at the end of the — ” “I TOLD YOU. I am WORKING ON IT.” At this point, one of us would usually feel little 89

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globes of water collect in the corners of our eyes. We would try to bat them away. Sometimes we would be successful. Other times, not so much. “I can’t watch you do this to yourself.” Now is when I usually remember the way she used to rub Polysporin into that scab on the back of my knee that took five weeks to heal. I was six and rode my orange bike into that ditch next to the park. The ditch looked velvety and forgiving so I wasn’t too worried. Then the gravel found its way into pockets of skin I didn’t even know could bleed. Mom cried more than I did and swiped the ointment on that mustardcoloured patch of dried pus every night. I would switch off this thought and look away because Mom’s face is making me feel like I’ve chipped her Le Creuset casserole dish. I would slam the door behind me, followed by some stomping on the front steps for extra flair. I don’t touch the mug once. Option two: I tell myself that happiness is like that mug. If I take it from Mom along with those chalky pills, I’ll bobble into my homeroom class with a blond ponytail and white tennis shoes. The guy with curly hair and a pink polo shirt who sits at the desk in the front left will turn around and ask me to the Halloween dance. Three and a half weeks later, he comes over for dinner and Mom bakes a strawberry rhubarb pie. Right after we fuck under my purple duvet he sees the orange cannister next to the stack of Harry Potter books on my bedside table. SHANNON, DANA. TAKE TWICE DAILY. What are those for? He would turn the plastic bottle over in his hands, rotating it continuously. Curiously. I pause. They just make me happy, that’s all. Like you do. All I have to do is take the fucking mug from Mom’s hand. And all I have to do is take the pills with it. The pills that stuff the space between my ears with white noise so thick that I can’t feel the carpet of my bedroom floor beneath my feet. So thick that I can’t feel when Mom lays a cool hand on the side of my cheek. Instead, I slam the door behind me, followed by some stomping on the front steps for extra flair. The mug detonates behind me. x

HAPPINESS IS LIKE A MUG ART by SINA ZAND WORDS by GILLIAN MALTZ

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ART by SARAH STEWART WORDS by ARIELLA RUBY

Our fears would be vapour We’d be lulled to bliss as the heart’s steaming fire transformed hurt to mist

If life is a science but living’s an art I’d like to examine the chemistry of the heart

If the heat were turned up If, in passion, you were thrown Your anger would boil Until flesh dripped from bone

I’ve uncovered a secret a long-forgotten flame that still burns and flickers through life’s tricky games

Surrounded by frost the water would freeze Our veins are like pipes: They’d burst and you’d cease

We’ve forgotten the hotness that fuels the heart’s thumping Yet were it extinguished your blood would stop pumping

The simplest of hazards is also most dire Should water enter heart’s chamber it would put out the fire.

The muscle’s the centre The fire’s what feeds it Rich red blood’s sent outwards so that we can bleed it

A heart without a flame is a human turned to air You’d float through life unshackled Free of burden, free of care

Our blood is amorphous It thickens and thins and clots like rust armour when life’s teeth rip the skin

That’s why we need blood We’re warm-blooded, blood can boil Our passions stain scarlet Growing richer from our toil

Blood is thicker than water So the epitaph goes But would we be cooler if water washed out our woes?

Aqua is transparent There’s no mark left as water evaporates in heart’s blaze Whereas blood just gets hotter

Think of our veins filled with clear liquid snakes An aquifer of oxygen and hydrogen, in blood’s place

Remember the red Remember the heart Remember its flicker That glows in the dark

Water is the giver the giver of life A purifying agent against blood’s filthy strife

Don’t let it peter Don’t let it fizzle Feed the flames with such life That they leap, spark and sizzle

But there’s a danger in water, its shifting of states Legato aqua counters fire They would never syncopate

Skin’s been peeled and put back over your chest where lifeblood seeps Quenching the crux of my inquiry While maintaining heartbeat’s heat x

LIFEBLOOD OR A REPORT ON THE EFFECTS OF CARDIAC CONFLAGRATION & TRANSFUSION

ALIEN

incite magazine volume 21, issue 1 “alien” Published December 2019 Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication. We aim to unite a community of creatives by promoting self-expression, collaboration, and dialogue within out university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, multimedia, and event production is carried out by our wonderful student volunteers. If you’d like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com. + @incitemagazine + facebook.com/incitemagazine + issuu.com/incite-magazine editor-in-chief (content): Neda Pirouzmand editor-in-chief (art & production): Matty Flader layout director: Manveer Kalirai treasurer: Tenzin Gyaltsen communications director: Elena Wells events planner: Shaya Sujanani content editors: Sara Emira, Grace Kang, Srikripa Krishna, Katie Lee, Lubna Najm, Arielle Ruby, Adam Sapa, Sowmithree Ragothaman art managers: Sabrina Jivani, Sandy Luu, Larissa Shular, Sarah Stewart, Rebecca Zhong layout designers: Lily Green, Saadia Shahid cover credits: Alien by Matty Flader (FRONT) Possibility by Manveer Kalirai (BACK)

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The urge to know more about the universe is overpowering; the need to find out whether this place is teeming with life to the brim, or if weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the only ones carouseling through space and time, searching for something that will never be found. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s something truly poetic about it all. The apppetite for wonder. The delusion. The humility. The hubris. Inhabitants of a small blue dot contemplating cosmic grandiosity. The need to know is irresistable. x