Incite Magazine – October 2017

incite VOLUME 20 ISSUE 1

BURN

E DI T O R I A L

What is it to burn? To burn is to consume and to be consumed, to grow and to die, to create and to destroy. We flare up in youth and smoulder with age. It’s a transition from one state to the next. When we think of burning, we think of a fire in the night, lightning in a storm, a dry desert sun, a held glance, a secret, admiration, embarrassment, resentment. Now more than ever, the language of fire seems to shape the world around us. Our oceans warm by the day. Forest fires fill the sky with soot. Love is found on Tinder. It creeps into our speech and writing as we speak of fighting fire with fire, going down in flames, or getting burnt. The purpose of this issue is to use this language as a prism through which we can refract our experiences to create new images and stories.

The word “burn” entails an end and a beginning. In the same way, this issue represents both an end and a beginning. This year, we hope to take Incite in a direction that’s both new and familiar, one which regular contributors and readers will recognize, but in which new ideas and concepts will readily find their place. In this issue, we seek both to celebrate the creativity and honesty of past iterations of Incite and to move on to something entirely new. Here, we hope to speak to the energy and volatility of our own lives as students, of the magazine itself, and of the world around us. This issue of Incite is also the first in a three-part, year-long narrative. Through these issues, we hope to develop a cohesive narrative to bind the year together—so keep an eye on us.

The Editorial Board is proud to follow in the footsteps of Incite’s previous Editors-inChief, Sunny Yun and Jason Lau, and we feel lucky to have inherited, in a sense, all of the things that they did for the magazine. We are also grateful to have such an excellent and hardworking team of content editors, art managers, layout editors, and communications people to make this magazine possible. Finally, and most importantly, we are endlessly proud of our wonderful and creative contributors. Without you, Incite would not exist.

We hope you enjoy the issue. x

Sincerely,

Harry Krahn Editor-in-Chief (Content) 2017–18

CONTENTS

3 4 6 8 10 11 12 14 16 19 20 22 24 25 26 28 30 32 34 36 38 41 42 44 46 48 50 52 54 56 58 59 60 62 64 66

ART Jin Lee STAFF STORIES A DANCE WITH DARKNESS Adrienne Klein THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL Michelle Yao FIFTH DEGREE Manveer Kalirai WALLS TO ASHES Jane Lee A LATE JUNE TRADITION Michael Swanson SOMEONE ASKED ME ONCE, “WHO ARE YOU?” Michele Zaman LIGHT MY FIRE Srikripa Krishna Prasad REBIRTH Nikhita Singhal THEATRE OF THE MIND Sonia Leung LABYRINTH Nicholas Schmid THE FIRE WITHIN Tiffany Tse WOUNDED WOMAN Shaista Obaidullah FADING WITH TIME Annecy Pang INCENSE Catherine Hu PYROPHYTE Zoe Handa ONE LAST CAPSULE TO PUT OUT THE FIRE Rachel Tran THE FIRST 48 Vania Void THE CLEARER COLOURS OF THE DISTANCE Takhliq Amir THE SCARS SHE WORE Meghan Bird FIRE ALARM Yu Fei Xia FIREMAN Antonio Vianna MR. PRIESTLY’S SPACE AGE INSIGHT Coby Zucker STEPS Vanessa Polejac ART David Shin & Allyya Shahid SHOOTING STARS Katelyn Johnstone 425 DEGREES Emily Meilleur-Rivers TESTIMONY Kristen Gracie MIDNIGHT OIL Leah Sather FROM PASSION TO ASHES: A FOREST AFFAIR Aranya Iyer ON DARK SKIN Evra Ali FIREWORKS Tiffany Sun FIRE & FREEDOM Faris Mecklai ASHES Valerie Luetke ART Tressa Mastroianni & Grace Huang

ART by JIN LEE

INCITE STAFF STORIES

Tell us about a time that an end became a beginning.

YU FEI XIA

I

CONTENT EDITOR

obtained my current part-time job through a series of unlikely events. I was visiting New York City when I received an interview invite but could not make it in person, being outside the country. Instead, I requested a phone interview and was kindly accommodated. Turns out, the interview time coincided with when we would be in Central Park.

So there I was, sitting on a bench in the middle of Manhattan, feeling part romcom heroine, part homeless (though I suppose those two characteristics are not mutually exclusive) while trying to impress my future employers. Conducting a phone interview over ducks and tourists was inconvenient, to say the least, and unsurprisingly I was informed the following day that I would not be offered the position. This was a shame because I did not have any other interviews and it would’ve made a good story if I had gotten the job.

However, as you know, my story ends with the beginning of my employment. On my first day back at school, I received a call informing me that it didn’t work out with the first candidate and I was their next choice. I got the job! x

TRAM NGUYEN

P

LAYOUT EDITOR

romptly after quitting gymnastics due to a head injury, I spent much more time exploring photography and graphic design communities.....which leads to where I am now (Layout Editor at Incite and art hobbyist)! x

SABRINA LIN

I

LAYOUT EDITOR

was 8 when my parents told me. “We are moving,” they said.

We were leaving my friends, my school, and my country to move across the ocean. What is Canada? Where is Canada? Not where my friends were, I thought. I had nightmares when I slept, plagued by a fear of imminent isolation. I counted down the days until the dreaded flight. I said goodbye to all my friends.

What I didn’t know, at the time, was that beyond the ocean lay the rest of my life. Recesses playing tetherball; birthday parties at the pool. Summer days of ball hitting leather; frosty winters of blade hitting ice. August 10, 2006 was the end. But also the first day of new beginning. x

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NEDA PIROUZMAND

T

CONTENT EDITOR

hinking about ends and beginnings made me realize a lot about who I was before and after coming to McMaster.

I thought about the end of CHEM 1A03 labs (so good), the beginning of second year, the end of friendships, and the beginning of my obsession with Starbucks PSCTLs (if you’re reading this, it’s not too late to try it). I also realized something else. I don’t really want to separate my life into ends and beginnings because it feels like closing chapters and leaving parts of me behind with them. Life is life and it will always be throwing changes at us either because we are meant to go in a different direction or because we are stuck at a dead end.

Whether good or bad, I want to see continuity between the parts of my life rather than distinct starts and finishes. I try to accept that not every end has to have a beginning. But after saying all this, there is one end and beginning that I will always be grateful for. The end of every day gives the chance to reflect on anything and everything (or nothing at all), and the beginning of each day is a chance to experience something new. x

SRIKRIPA KRISHNA PRASAD COPY EDITOR

W

hen I was little, I wasn’t much of a writer. I daydreamed a lot and I was a voracious reader, but I didn’t find writing that appealing. When I was 9, however, I read a British kids’ novel called The Birthday Wish, and it changed my view on creative writing forever. The novel seemed like a silly, feel-good story at first, but it had gut-punching depth to it that completely enchanted me in a way I hadn’t been before. I remember that the very last line of the book—which I can still quote verbatim— literally took my breath away. The end of this book sparked the beginning of my desire to write and to take people’s breath away with my stories, just as this book did for me, and I will forever be grateful to it. x

CARISSA SIU

A

ART MANAGER

s dinner came to an end, I realized dessert was about to begin. x

IMASHA PERERA

I

ART MANAGER

was born in Sri Lanka, AKA the pearl of the Indian ocean. My time there was filled with hot and humid weather, running around chasing chickens, and being surrounded by people that looked just like me. I only have happy memories of my tiny little island but for my parents it was a war-torn place of fading opportunity. So my family and I packed our bags and got on the first plane I had ever been in. As a seven-year-old, I was too distracted by the awe of flying, just like I did in my dreams, to realize how much my life would change. In my new life, I speak English, not Sinhalese. I’m juggling the idea of being an individual in a western world while fitting into my collectivist family and embracing my cultural background. I am constantly arguing with my family about how I don’t want them to make decisions for me. I would have probably never had such problems had I stayed in Sri Lanka; I would have easily blended into society. I would have made decisions based on keeping my family’s honour rather than decisions based on my own passions and goals. I would have probably let my parents make huge life decisions, such as who I would marry, because that’s a cultural norm in Srilanka. It’s hard to explain my new beginning; it’s full of happiness, confusion, and the realization that somehow I am more privileged now because of that one plane ride. It’s weird to think that in a parallel universe where I continued to live on a little island in the Indian ocean, I would be leading a completely different life with different experiences and different values. x

ALLYYA SHAHID ART MANAGER

T

he worst feeling (at least for me) is drifting apart from a friend. It was one of those things that just happened; my interests changed, developed and adjusted. We didn’t fight or have a falling out. We simply didn’t share the same interests anymore. It sucked. But it also led me to my best friend. We shared a lot of classes together, spent most of our time together, and discovered a mutual love of “Froyo-for-lunch.” Without being too mushy, I’m thankful for whatever changes happened in the past because I know that my best friend and I support each other with no reservations. Even if we don’t see eye-to-eye all the time or share the same passions and interests. x

EMILY MEILLEUR-RIVERS CONTENT EDITOR

I

t took me a while to think about this specific ending as a beginning in its own right—it wasn’t until months later that I realized it was a positive change at all. The first year of my undergrad, I studied at the University of Ottawa with the intention of staying there for all four years. Obviously, I no longer study there. After first year, I moved home and transferred to McMaster with my financial interests in mind.

I loved every moment of living away from home; there is something so special about living with friends and carving out a space that is entirely your own. The feelings of heartbreak and failure associated with leaving Ottawa were suffocating at the time and are still painful. What I could then have never predicted was that McMaster would ever feel like where I’m supposed to be. The academic foundation I’m building for myself, though cobbled together, feels stronger for the shift it bore. I’m incredibly thankful I had the experiences that I did in my first year as they continue to inform my studies. But if given the chance, I would go back and tell myself that I would end up equally happy to be where I am now. x

ANNIE YU

H

COMMUNICATIONS DIRECTOR

aving spent most of my formative years in boarding school, I barely had time with my career-driven parents.

I then outgrew the age when I could share every aspect of my life with my parents, so it wasn’t surprising that I felt more and more estranged from them as the years passed. Yet, after a small earthquake in my hometown last year, I am optimistic that we can grow closer. Before I had even noticed that the ground was shaking, I felt the firm push from my father’s hands that put me into a safer corner. I had seen the fear in his eyes when he tried to cover my head with his strong arms. Thankfully, neither of us were hurt. Although the earthquake soon ended, I knew it was the beginning of a journey to pull our family closer together. x

BURN

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WORDS by ADRIENNE KLEIN ART by IMASHA PERERA

A DANCE WITH DARKNESS I am drawn to you.

Entranced by your light, you are too bright for me.

Blinding all my faculties until I am dizzy and dazed and don’t know where I am, until I don’t know who I am.

Are you meant to cleanse me?

Your vibrant light dances across my skin and burns up my darkness.

You don’t understand what you’ve done or why I am so afraid to touch you, because you are a clear sky and I have storms on my fingertips that are waiting to engulf your sun.

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A fire so pure is dangerous around something so tainted.

Because the strength of a flame relies on what it burns and I can feel your flames burning my insides.

When I look at you I see something beautiful, but fragile.

I have never been good around precious things.

Does light fear darkness the way darkness fears light?

I can’t imagine so, because if it did you never would have let your light trickle into my shadowy corners.

I fear that eventually your fire, blood, and water, will wash over me and burn me up until all I am to you, is dust and ashes.

And yet, I stay in the hopes that my darkness and your light can learn to dance together without either one in control.

Just like night flows into day, and day flows into night. x

BURN

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THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL ART by COLLINE DO WORDS by MICHELLE YAO

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he and I are a story itching to be told, and I toss in every twig in sight so this apparition never ends…

Mary Shelley was wrong; the modern Prometheus is not a monster.

He’s not chained to the rock he stands on—he just likes telling his tall tales from an equally tall podium. There are whisperings from below, from where I stare, about the debauchery that usually ravages these woods. But despite the hellish flush of the flames we’ve encircled, tonight we teenagers are gathered for a matter most innocent: a bonfire. Replete with s’moresstained handholding, we tell stories just like this.

Our tight circle still doesn’t keep the wind out, so I light another match because I’ve read him line by line and I know he hates the cold.

The stories into which he breathes his fire are not forbidden knowledge to us mortals. But it’s how he speaks that drowns the gods out, the legends overthrown by these animated retellings, by how the imagery he paints puts the Impressionists to shame.

It’s how we still recoil at his plot twists, our circle’s petals peeling back like a moonflower’s, even though we already know the words that follow by heart. It’s how his eyes rival the dripping contents of the Big Dipper, which dangles like a celestial pendulum above his head.

How I can see his stories playing out in the embers between us: When he arrives at Houyi, the divine archer who shot nine suns and saved mankind, an arrow shatters the flames’ golden veil and pierces my chest. My veins are gasoline.

Houyi is exiled for snuffing out those extra sun gods. Houyi is reincarnated into our world. Houyi is standing before me with a backpack slung across broad shoulders, where a bow case previously rested.

According to him, when a star falls to Earth, a soul goes up to Heaven. Is that the tradeoff that brought him here? The one that’ll take him back?

The bonfire dims. The flare beneath my skin doesn’t. I have to keep the sparks going, keep him going. I strike another match.

A second round of marshmallows starts him on a fable about a monkey and a cat. The monkey sweet-talks the cat into retrieving roasted chestnuts for him from a scorching fireplace. The cat burns its paws. The soot I imagine matting its fur matches the ash between my fingers. All the while his voice remains a siren’s call, daring me to walk across the coals dividing us.

I’m about to reach over when the literal firewall goes out in smoke. There’s nothing stopping me now.

There’s also nothing stopping him from leaving.

I flick through all of the remaining matches. The resulting inferno is a pyromaniac’s dream. I can’t hear him anymore above the tinder’s crackling, but I can see him in the flames’ canvas; he and I are a story itching to be told, and I toss in every twig in sight so this apparition never ends…

Too much of my kindling, torn pages from the past, consists of stories I wish I never wrote. But he’s molded a phoenix from their ashes and now this girl of cinders will dance on broken glass for him, turn around after midnight for him, just to reach that happily ever after he loves reciting so much.

Me, I’ve never been one for endings. But here is our true end: before that last fire cleared, he’d disappeared.

The circle had dissipated while I’d stayed frozen in one spot. I’d blown through my matches too quickly, then acted too slowly, too consumed by fantasies to notice my reality stagnating. Too slowly to notice the streak of fire slicing the sky in two, marking the death of something unborn. x

BURN

11

fifth degree WORDS by MANVEER K ALIRAI

Not what you want to be, she said, tell me who you want to become. For a moment, I did not say anything because finding the answer to that question feels a lot like listening for a whisper in a storm; knowing full well the voice you hear is real, that it’s out there, but not knowing where to even begin looking. Needle in a haystack. Drop in the ocean. First thought, best thought, she said.

So I sat quite still and thought of Bukowski and summer nights in New England, watching the moths. Moths to a flame. Martyrs; finding what they most love and letting it kill them. I tell her: I want to burn. Yes, blood is thicker than water, but so is gasoline in its crudest form. Burn. That is the only way to live.

Body burning, soul on fire. That is what I want, I say, to be that matchstick girl that sets this world alight. x

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walls to ashes WORDS by J A N E L E E

I have seen many walls in my life. Built by the very people they protect, they exist to defend against the condemning judgment of others. The walls seem impenetrable and make it even easier to forget about my existence, a light burning brightly in a world of darkness. A fire fuelled by sources such as kindness, patience, and acceptance, I burn walls down from the coldest poles to the heart of the equator. A while ago, I met a girl. Quiet by nature, any social interaction would send her into a cold sweat, every conversation a test to determine her worthiness as a person. She soon found her escape from the world in books, attracted by the idea that in this world she was the one who made judgments.

As her time in this world grew, others started staying away, interpreting her panicked looks at even the slightest look from another person as annoyance at being interrupted. What they did not realize was that it was fear that kept her in the world of books. Crippling social anxiety continued to feed her fears, and her wall. Even the shortest conversation sent thoughts of others’ criticisms of her social skills and outward appearance shooting through her mind. The final judgment was always inferior human, with plenty of flaws to support this assertion.

Her wall grew so quickly that it soon became a castle, she the queen of isolation. Every day she was surrounded on all sides by her wall and blamed everyone but herself for its construction.

She was desperate to be free and placed the responsibility of her liberation onto others, not realizing that freedom was within her power and love was the answer. I still remember burning her wall, the flames so bright it was like a rescue flare lighting the darkness, except instead of a call for help it was a declaration of victory. The flames illuminated her face and one look told me that she was ready to take on the world as herself. With love burning inside her, others’ opinions mattered no longer. Love continues to burn down walls and exist as the fire that speaks to you now. I am love. x

BURN

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WORDS by MICHAEL SWANSON ART by CARISSA SIU

A Late June Tradition “Luther Williams?”

“Oh gross. I hated Luther.”

Two friends, two bottles of wine, and a third in the fridge just in case. There was a new energy in the air as if it were a hot summer night in the city rather than a back patio. Another year had ended, and with it came the comfort of conclusion.

“What about Janine Matthews?”

“Well Janine was sweet, but I almost found it hard to not giggle when she spoke sometimes. That lisp was just so harsh.”

Guilty laughter erupted. Laughter suggesting both women understood the dishonourable nature of laughing at an elevenyear-old but still found it irresistible. Nine years of working at Kennedy Public Elementary had passed. Meanwhile, Leanne and Susan could not stop their favourite June ritual: gossip night.

“But you know who was the worst of them all?” Susan began as she opened the second bottle of wine. “Carson Edwards. How can we be expected to teach with those teeth staring back at us?”

Leanne grinned, but did not laugh.

Another glass, another student, another comment worthy of dismissal in the ears of their superiors.

“Did you like—” Leanne paused to take a big sip of wine and then a second sip to finish her glass. “Did you like Joan Shaw?”

Susan sat up and leaned forward. “I didn’t dislike Joan, but I didn’t really like her either. She was weird, you know what I mean? What sixth grader reeks that badly of cigarettes?

Leanne quickly interjected, “I’m sure she doesn’t smoke though.”

“You don’t think?” Susan responded.

“God no. She isn’t Luther.”

“Maybe. Her hair looked weird too.”

Leanne did not respond. She made a strange face, which suggested that while she agreed with Susan, she regretted mentioning Joan at all.

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Susan continued, “It was weird. But it looked like she was pulling out her hair. It was patchy and sometimes it looked like it had been torn and ripped in half. Maybe it was all the stress from trying to quit smoking.”

While Susan laughed in a hideous manner, Leanne looked away.

“And you know what was even weirder than her hair?” Susan continued. “I swear she must have worn pants and a turtleneck sweater every day. With her sleeves down to her wrist, every single day. September to June.”

“I think—I think I might know why she dressed that way,” Leanne mumbled.

Susan quickly finished pouring her next glass and placed it down to listen in.

“One day, months ago, maybe in the fall, no, it was the winter. I’m sure it was December. Or maybe January. I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t know.” Frantically, Leanne spoke.

“Anyway, one day, months ago, Joan tripped and scraped up her arm. It wasn’t too bad. Just a scrape, not too bad. She was at the sink cleaning it up so I went over to make sure she was okay. As soon as I approached, she ripped her sleeve down over her wet and bloodied arm.”

Susan’s attention was regained as she finished her next glass.

“Before I could speak, she assured me that she would be ok and asked me to leave. However, before she grabbed her sleeve, I noticed little circular scars on the inside of her forearm. A lot of them.”

Leanne looked for a response from Susan, who seemed more focused on finishing the second bottle of wine.

“I’m sure it was nothing. Bryce Hawthorne was annoying too, don’t you think?” Susan replied.

Emptiness loomed over Leanne. She attempted to take of sip of wine, hesitated, and then drank the whole glass. She found solace in the thought of that third bottle in the fridge. x

BURN

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ART by ANABEL YEUNG WORDS by MICHELE ZAMAN

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Someone asked me once, “Who are you?” w h o a r e y o u?

I stared right into his not quite brown yet not quite green eyes as those three sweet words left his lips They clung onto his beautiful teeth, slowly letting go, leaving behind all the moisture and travelling slowly in-between all the spaces that tore us apart w h o a r e y o u?

It would have been easy if these words just crashed into me, like most do Instead they sank into my skin, found home in my bones, seeped their way into the deepest parts of me I thought, I really thought before I whispered “I am like a phoenix” his head tilts, his mouth opens, “how so?” he laughs His laugh ever so gently left his mouth, taking an eternity to find me His words did not crash into me, they took me back, they brought back all the bitter in my mouth Don’t be alarmed, it was only for a moment I caught a glimpse of who, who I used to be Only for a slight moment, I felt myself burn Thought of my entire body burning I saw myself surrounded by my old shadows, For a moment, I remembered what it felt like as I took my last breath, as every part of me turned to ash Only for a moment, I promise h o w s o?

I let myself remember my rebirth Let myself remember every root, every hand that tried to hold me down And how the sun kissed me, filling every inch of me with light I let myself remember my first breath as I rose for my own sweet ashes I laugh, tilt my head ever so slightly “I am a phoenix” I say “A survivor” I whisper x

BURN

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ART by RABEEA AHMAR WORDS by SRIKRIPA KRISHNA PRASAD

Light My Fire Gabriella Reyes walked into Akari’s political science class on the first day of Akari’s second year of university, bright-eyed and lovely. Akari stared breathlessly at her from her seat, dumbstruck.

“Hey!” said Gabriella as she passed by, smiling widely. “Akari, right?”

Akari nodded mutely. Gabriella had pronounced it the right way, the Japanese way, not elongating the second syllable the way most people did. “Cool,” Gabriella continued. “I’ll see you around!”

Akari nodded again. Her face grew hot.

Under her beanie, her hair burst into flames.

Fuck.

— After class, Akari marched up to her best friend’s table in the library and collapsed beside him, dumping the charred remains of her beanie in front of him. Jasper stared at it, then at her, and then at the top of her head, which was still smoking slightly. A wild grin stretched up his face. “No way.”

Akari nodded miserably.

Jasper let out a hoot of laughter, prompting hisses and shushes from around them. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Gabriella Reyes,” Akari sighed. “She’s amazing, and pretty and, ugh, I’m going to keep bursting into flames around her because I have no control over them. She’s going to think I’m a loser!”

Jasper snorted loudly and pulled her into a hug. Akari huffed and leaned against him, not minding that his afro was tickling her nose.

“Chill out, Akari,” he said. “You’ll get there. Controlling your fire takes time.”

Easy for you to say, Akari was about to respond, but she bit it back, wincing. Jasper had been forced to control his fire since he was ten, because with homophobic parents, bursting into flames around your crush was a huge problem. Akari knew that he still struggled with expressing himself around his boyfriend,

that he was still sometimes afraid to let his flames go. She felt her stomach twist with guilt.

Jasper drew back. “Hey,” he said reassuringly. “Chin up. I bet it’ll get better.”

“Yeah, okay,” Akari said, trying to believe it. “You’re right. It’ll be fine.”

— It was not fine.

The next lecture, their professor assigned group work, and Gabriella asked Akari to work together. Akari’s pant leg started smouldering, prompting a panicked trip to the bathroom.

Another time, Akari told Gabriella a joke that made her belly laugh for two minutes, and Akari was so pleased that her cheeks literally burned up. A few lectures later, Gabriella leaned in close to her to whisper something and Akari’s mind went so blank that she didn’t notice flames licking her fingers. It was never-ending.

“What am I going to do?” Akari wailed to Jasper almost three months into the semester. “She’ll figure it out soon!”

Jasper opened his mouth to respond but froze as his eyes looked behind her. “Uh, Akari,” he said. “Incoming.”

Akari turned in her seat and nearly squeaked when she saw Gabriella approaching.

“Hey, partner,” Gabriella said. “Mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all,” Akari said faintly, discreetly flipping Jasper off as he waggled his eyebrows from behind his book. As they talked, Akari started to relax. Nothing was happening. Maybe she was finally learning to control this— Her thoughts were cut off by a torrent of water dropped on her head.

“Um,” Jasper said to stunned silence, lowering his empty water bottle. “There was…a bug?”

Akari pushed away the hair dripping in her eyes, her stomach >> BURN

19

Akari pushed away the hair dripping in her eyes, her stomach dropping.

Gabriella was staring at her in shock, but there was something knowing in her gaze.

dropping. Gabriella was staring at her in shock, but there was something knowing in her gaze.

Tears blurred Akari’s vision as she shoved her chair back. “I have to go,” she mumbled and ran.

She was gasping for breath when she stopped. “Stupid, I’m so stupid!” she shouted.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Gabriella’s voice said from behind her. Akari swore viciously and spun around.

“I am,” she said wetly, wiping her eyes. “I can’t get this stupid crush or my stupid fire under control and I look like an idiot in front of you.” Akari registered her own words and blanched, ducking her head.

“Akari,” Gabriella said. There was something in her voice that made Akari look up at her. Gabriella walked closer to her so that they were face-to-face, her eyes soft. She lifted her hands. “Look.”

Akari watched, breath hitching, as Gabriella’s hands began to glow soft, light blue.

Her own hands burst into amber flames. “You—?”

Gabriella laughed. “I wanted to be around you all the time. I thought I was being obvious.”

“You weren’t,” Akari replied, disbelieving. A wide, giddy grin stretched across her face. Hesitantly, she reached forward and took Gabriella’s hand, marveling at how their fires flickered and danced against each other.

“Get dinner with me?” she asked Gabriella, who nodded and stole closer to press a kiss against her cheek.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she murmured, the light of her smile brighter than the flames connecting them. x

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WORDS by NIKHITA SINGHAL ART by CARISSA SIU

R E BIRTH

fall (cinder) rise (ash) blaze abates scorched remains baiting death with every breath cataclysm: kindled dormant embers purr to life. inferno swells— (ripe) with strife. glorious… transcendent beast lies

beyond mere mortal r e a

c

hx

BURN

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THEATRE OF THE MIND WORDS & ART by SONIA LEUNG

If you close your eyes You are a cubicle The skull is finite but the mind is not You are the Room of Requirement What colour are the walls?

Is it spacious?

Are there echoes?

Is there music?

Real estate is only as useful as the design What kind of architect are you?

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Are you alone in the room?

Is anyone watching?

Loneliness is torment, But no one is singular Are you a director, playwright, an actor?

Stage designer, critic, audience member?

You are all of the above, Or any number of permutations in-between But no mind is singular The fortress mind weaves its layers Few enter, few leave Perpetually under siege The island mind privileges privacy One is the loneliest number But one is also prime The labyrinth calculates, modulates This mind orchestrates as the song is playing, An irrational number that never repeats itself

The museum is a tell all A thoroughfare, the meandering veins All emptying past the bridge over riddled water There is no constant, no absolute Not in the real estate of brainwaves The evolutionary affinity for adaptation precludes this Though there is solace in the familiar All minds act in performance Even if there is no external audience What have you choreographed for today?

The play must go on Did you enjoy the show? x

BURN

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Labyrinth ART by CARISSA SIU WORDS by NICHOLAS SCHMID “The key is not to get too close.”

Gaze drifting around the hut, my father’s lecture soon faded into an echo, hidden by the fire crackling in the hearth. I sat, back warmed by the stones as I slouched against its side. My eyes’ search found nothing more interesting than the last time I had looked, little more than thirty seconds ago. Just as my father’s voice was an echo, so too was our home. An echo of what had once been.

In the corner was a bunk bed, two platforms covered by a meagre lining of straw with the upper one looking ready to collapse at the slightest touch. A small window let in the dusk, low light filtering through to dance with the dust hanging in the air. There was a washing basin to the right of the door, but besides the hearth, the only other feature in our one-room home was the massive table where my father sat working. Small wonder that nothing could hold my attention.

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“Are you listening to me?” came my father’s rebuke. “‘Course,” I mumbled, thankful that he was preoccupied by his work. From the little that I could see, the tabletop looked to be a labyrinth of string and feathers scattered across the surface around a candle. Wax was dripping down the candle to pool in the tray as if it were being collected. It was.

My father looked up from his work for the first time that evening. “It’s almost ready,” he said.

I nodded for lack of anything to say. My excitement at his project had dulled in the endless hours that he had been working. I noticed a moth fly cautiously around the top of the candle, drawn towards the flame yet reluctant to get too close.

“Neither do you want to be too low. The dampness is just as dangerous as the heat,” continued my father.

I nodded again, watching as the moth’s curiosity overcame its reluctance and it flew closer to the candle.

“And go only as far as necessary,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” I snapped, “You’ve said this all before.”

“It never hurts to think everything through.”

The moth seemed to think better of flying too near to the candle flame and it drifted away. It may have recognized trouble, but I did not. Or maybe I just elected to ignore the warning.

“Never hurts to think everything through? Maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess if you had even thought one thing through!” My fury was seething hot, and while I knew why, I did not know why it had ignited now.

“Maybe,” admitted my father, voice steadier than stone as he kept his focus on his work, “but that helps us little anymore.”

The admission cooled my temper, and with the outburst dissipating I felt better. My gaze searched around the room once more, trying to pick out the moth again. Night was quickly forcing its way into the hut, and only after several moments was I able to discern the tiny fluttering wings near the rafters above my head. The moth flapped itself higher until it came to rest on one of the tendrils of straw creeping down from the ceiling.

“Fine,” I said, “Is there anything you need help with?”

“Only your promise that in the morning, you will do as I say.”

I gave my word, well aware how much that meant.

Taking off from its perch, the moth began to fly along the nearest rafter. A cobweb reached out, the trap of some spider that had ensnared as many victims as my father’s former work once had. Seeing the web at the last moment, the moth flew lower and continued down, perhaps spooked at how close it had come to disaster up high.

My father reached a brush into the pool of melted wax and began to swirl, keeping the wax flowing. Satisfied, he brought out another tool and transferred a large gob onto his work. With strokes that were too deft to be called slathering, yet too quick to be called careful, he spread the wax in the dedicated spots amongst the feathers. Or at least that was what I assumed he was doing. From my vantage point by the hearth, all I could see was his back and an occasional glimpse of the table when he reached for more wax.

The moth’s worries about the candle flame seemed to have lessened during its journey to the rafters, and it was once again venturing close to the light.

My father stood up and moved to the side, allowing me a quick peek at the table before he stooped to give the strings a last tighten.

Satisfied, he stepped back again, this time with an air of finality.

“Icarus,” said my father, “They are ready.”

Sensing my cue, I heaved myself away from the warmth of the hearth and approached the table. I noticed that the moth was now hovering dangerously close to the flame, but my long-held-back excitement was now forth too much for me to care.

Set on the table to dry was a pair of wings, an array of feathers held together by wax and a few strings. Spread out over the tabletop for the wax to dry, their span was so wide that the tips folded over the edge of the table. Looking down on the wings in the candlelight, I grinned to think how tomorrow they would carry me away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the moth grow greedy and stray too close to the flame of the candle. Its singed wings failing, the moth dropped to drown amongst the wax at the bottom of the candle.

“Dumb bug,” I muttered. x

BURN

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WORDS by TIFFANY TSE ART by CARRISA SIU

T HE F IR E WI T H I N

Flickering ever so slowly, the flame within glows.

Forever changing, never constant: red, blue, orange— yet it is always present.

Burning brighter with every heartbeat, your ideas bounce back and forth, like a pendulum swinging.

Your passions, desires: all merging together to form the fire within.

Drivers of change, your passions hold so much potential— like opposite charges repelling each other, bound together by forces stronger than ever; together, they hold power.

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Desires swirling within you, their interactions are dynamic and constantly changing; yet, their presence is perpetual: a steady light within, wistfully yearning to depart, striving to make impact with those around you.

Together, they form a flame, warming the surrounding air, scorching those they touch.

Always changing, but never leaving— the fire within. x

WORDS by SHAISTA OBAIDULLAH ART by RABEENA OBAIDULLAH

Wounded Woman You were my third degree burn. Extending through the dermis and killing all my cells; a wound that caused me pain.

You came quickly into my life. Breaking down my walls, you invaded my life and quickly killed every part of it that made me whole.

I learned that in order to prevent infection for the wounds, debridement is necessary.

But you made me keep all the lifeless pieces and allowed more to die. You convinced me to bottle up more pain.

So instead, I just put a band-aid on and the infection began to fester, and under the cover of the band-aid, it worsened.

You were not the infection but you were the cause of it. I was the infection, radiating the pain all throughout my life as I was the one that allowed you in.

All I needed to do was take off the band-aid.

And then I met him.

The doctor came to take a look and saw my infected wound.

He stayed with me and held my hand through it, sorting through what was salvageable in my life.

He stitched the wound and put me on antibiotics, bringing me closer to recovery.

He put my life together and spread happiness throughout my body, healing me.

I thought after you I could see no recovery, but he is helping me heal. x

BURN

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FADING WITH TIME ART by JASMYNE SMITH WORDS by ANNECY PANG

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They all had to go. I picked up his tee that I used as a pajama shirt, the souvenir he got me from Paris last year, the photograph of us at a Second City performance in Toronto. I wanted him out of my life and the piece of my heart back.

We wanted different things in life; we didn’t see eye to eye on too many things.

But we complemented each other so well. Where I was quieter, he was louder.

When I was still deliberating, he pushed me to be spontaneous. We balanced each other out. He made me happy when we were around each other and when we weren’t.

I remember when we met. It was one of those moments where you bumped into a friendly face on campus and they happened to be walking with someone unfamiliar who you would never have guessed to see again. But from that day on, we saw each other in classes and ended up in the same extracurriculars.

But none of this meant anything. None of it was real. It’s over and there’s no point in rehashing the details. I can’t dial his number and expect him to pick up within 2 rings like he used to. I need to stop myself from messaging him when I see something that makes me laugh. We are not those same people that we were when we bumped into each other. It’s hard to break these habits. It’s much much harder than I ever could have imagined it to be I lit the fire in my backyard, the smoke choking me up and the flames bright and hot on my face. There are so many memories contained in each of the items; I don’t think I can let go. I’m worried they will be trapped in my iron grip forever.

But I have to.

So the memories of us hiking and laughing as the leaves changed colour slowly faded away with the smoke. Through the flames I watched as our arguments and my tearful nights burned away.

As the last few embers glitter in the pit, I don’t feel the sense of relief that I expected to feel. While the physical reminders of our time together are gone, the remnants of our memories together remain in my mind and heart.

I thought the burning would be cathartic. I don’t have a t-shirt to cling onto anymore but I still remember the feel of his body next to mine, the safety I felt whenever I was around him.

While the ashes will cool in the next hour or so, it won’t be nearly as quick for my heart to heal. The remnants of the fire and our time together will always remain—at least a little bit—with me. x

BURN

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Incense WORDS by CATHERINE HU ART by CARISSA SIU

Ling was eighteen when her best friend Suyi died quietly in her sleep.

One week later, Ling used her day off to accompany Suyi’s ashes to the village where they grew up. She stood under the blazing sun in the village’s mountainside cemetery, sweat dripping into her eyes, humidity heavy in the thick summer air. In one hand she clutched a single, smouldering stick of incense as she stood before her friend’s grave and listened to Suyi’s parents cry.

As she stood there, Ling felt something unfurl beneath her ribs, something small and painful which made it difficult to breathe. At eighteen years old, she was still trying to understand the feeling of loss. She was still trying to understand how what she loved so much could mean so little, and how what she clung to so dearly could mean nothing.

She was still trying to understand Suyi, who loved spicy food and pretty clothes, who was insecure about her teeth, who teased her mercilessly about her height, who had been her best friend since they were five years old, and how someone like that could now be dead and sealed beneath the earth after a year of softly wasting away.

Ling set down her incense on Suyi’s headstone with the rest. She felt that small, painful something loosen in her chest, and then settle.

That evening, Ling took the train into the city, and she was back at work early the next morning. At work she sat in a windowless room with rows of other men and

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women, cleaning hundreds of motherboards per hour with industrial solvent. The worst part was the smell. Every minute Ling pushed her paper mask back over her nose, trying to keep out the cloying sweetness as she poured the clear pungent liquid. At 11:30 PM, her day finally ended and she stumbled back to the dorms with her clothes reeking of the chemical that killed her friend.

Ling was eighteen when her best friend Suyi died of benzeneinduced leukaemia, and a part of herself died along with her.

— Ling was nineteen the first time she sat in the office of the local labour bureau. A small group of them had gathered the courage to bring forward a list of complaints, and Ling watched the official’s attention wander as he listened to them speak.

“We sleep ten people in a room.”

“I work 15 hours in a day.”

“I get back to the dorms, and I can barely breathe.”

Ling watched the man twirl his pen between his fingers, and realized he had heard all these complaints hundreds of times before. She felt the urge to scream.

In the end, the official turned them away. “If you don’t want to work, there’s always somebody else who does,” he said, as he dismissed them and shut the door.

— When she was twenty-one Ling was arrested at a worker’s protest and spent the night in jail. She had her own persistent cough by then, one that rattled in her lungs as she tried getting comfortable on the cold metal bench.

She couldn’t sleep, and she wasn’t alone. A young girl from the protest was in the cell with her, one with wide, panicked, glistening eyes, and she edged closer to Ling so they could talk.

The girl was sixteen. She worked in semiconductors and had been diagnosed with leukaemia, and every time Ling looked at her she felt a sick pang of déjà-vu.

“Ling…” the girl eventually whispered in the darkness. “Ling, I’m so scared.”

“It’s okay,” Ling murmured, wondering when she got so good at lying. Beside her, the girl started to cry.

She thought of the day Suyi started losing her hair, when they’d lain together in bed with Suyi’s head nestled in her lap.

“No, it’s not okay. I’m sick. I’m dying. My parents can’t afford my treatment, and the factory refuses to pay anything. How can that be okay?”

“Don’t say you’re going to die.” Ling’s voice was tight. “It’s not true.”

“You don’t understand—” “I do understand. You don’t know how well I understand.”

The girl was quiet. Ling drew a steadying breath, and gently pulled her over so her head lay in her lap.

“You’re not going to die,” she said, almost to herself. “Calm down and go to sleep. I know you’re tired. I will take care of you.”

As the girl fell asleep, Ling thought for the first time in months of Suyi. She thought of the day Suyi started losing her hair, when they’d lain together in bed with Suyi’s head nestled in her lap.

I’m dying, Suyi had cried. I’m dying, Ling, I’m so scared…

You’re not going to die, Ling insisted, clutching her tight. Your parents are fighting the factory. They’ll get the money for that treatment the doctor told us about, you’ll get healthy again, and then you can go back home. Hear that? We’ll go home together.

The money never came, and Suyi died a few months later.

That night in the jail cell, as Ling watched over the sleeping young girl, she felt something shift inside her chest and begin to grow.

— Four years after Suyi’s death, down to the day, Ling stood in a far corner of the factory grounds. She checked her watch. It was almost three in the morning. She turned her face to the night sky, and waited.

As she waited, Ling’s thoughts wandered to her home village.

She thought of Suyi’s grave, cradled against the mountainside.

She thought of the sticks of incense that would have been left there that day, releasing tendrils of fragrant smoke as they slowly, slowly smouldered away.

Ling checked her watch again. It was three o’clock. She turned to face the crowd of workers who had quietly evacuated from the nearby dorms and gave them a nod.

Behind her, one of the factory buildings began to burn. x

BURN

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WORDS by ZOE HANDA ART by IMASHA PERERA

Pyrophyte Pyrophyte. Def: a woody plant with unusual resistance to fire because of exceptionally thick bark (Merriam Webster)

There are plants that have adapted to withstand fire. What was once a destructive and life-altering force becomes a mere nuisance. Outer bark grows thick and strong to protect the more delicate goings-on inside. These plants have adapted to the circumstances around them. Instead of migrating to new territory safe from the dangers of frequent flames, they turn inwards and protect themselves. They stay put. They don’t run away.

Other plants actually thrive on fire. The high temperatures and smoke trigger their reproduction. Instead of a dangerous indication of a smouldering and painful death, fire becomes the catalyst to life. Without the flames, regeneration of the plants cannot occur. They would become stagnant and die leaving nothing of themselves behind. And that would be even more tragic than to simply succumb to flames – leaving no future living beings to carry on where they left off.

So, this boy, he is not fire. He is not made of heat, reaching out to burn your skin. He does not sweep hillsides, leaving a path of destruction in his wake. He does not displace families, he does not destroy homes. Maybe it’s dramatic, comparing him to flames. Set aside the drama. Here are the facts.

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FACT 1:

You have withstood so much already. You can withstand this.

FACT 2:

Your skin is already thick from the pain that has come before it – from this boy and all the fires before him.

FACT 3:

Your skin is not thick enough. Not yet.

FACT 4:

You did not run away. Instead, you stayed and you grew roots without him. You thought you needed him to keep your feet on the ground, but you didn’t, and you don’t. Do not attribute that success to something outside of yourself.

FACT 5:

You will adapt. Do not doubt that. It takes a long time. Easy things often take longer with you. But you adapt eventually, and you always have. That hasn’t changed.

FACT 6 (SHOULD YOU CHOOSE TO BELIEVE IT):

You continue to exist where fire can reach you. It will again. And it will burn you. Even through that thick skin. But each time, it’ll hurt just a little less. Maybe. And you will regenerate. You, and the flames, will propel yourself forward to new growth and new life. And as long as you’re moving forward, you’re doing fine.

So, this boy, he is not fire. This will pass. x

BURN

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WORDS by RACHEL TRAN ART by KIRA SALENA

ONE LAST CAPSULE TO PUT OUT THE FIRE It’s Monday, and things have not been going well. Deadlines haven’t been met. Promises have been broken. Performance is far below expectation. Stress. Frustration. Helplessness. Rage.

They seep into me, take over my body like an illness, burning, inflaming. The symptoms are showing.

My right eye twitches.

I hear a soothing voice. It’s alright—only one twitch so far.

You’ve handled worse.

I try to regroup, try to reorganise. I follow suggestions to fight the illness, shallow words of feigned concern.

A few days later, my left eye twitches.

Don’t be so dramatic. It’s all about your mindset. If you hope that a breakdown isn’t imminent, it won’t happen—simple as that.

Whose words are these? Do they belong to me or to worried faces whose expressions I can easily tear off like old wallpaper?

Maybe both. I am losing to this sickness.

By the end of the week, three permanent lines are etched across my forehead. I can no longer feel the strain in the muscles between and around my eyebrows, though it is visible to anyone looking at me.

Let’s take some deep breaths, shall we? In, out, repeat.

It seems as if the tension in my forehead has spread to rest of my body. No one understands. No one cares. They keep adding to the pile of expectations with their words. A rope lies at the centre of my being, and with every passing day more hands grab hold of it—anonymous hands, familiar hands, unwelcome hands. Their hands. Some pull. Some tie parts of the rope into knots. Some coil the rope around their arm. Some grab sections and yank.

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Now, you can still take back the situation. Just…. You just need to find that reservoir of inner peace and tap— Oh, no.

Stop loading me with your demands. My hands are fireballs; they turn as red as the roaring rivers of blood that flow violently through my vessels and veins. The fire has travelled from the extremities of my body to vital organs. My heart hurts. There’s no other way to explain why tears of futility stream relentlessly down my cheeks.

Quickly! I need that pill bottle. I don’t care if we’re down to the last capsule. Here, take this.

I find a room for privacy in which I’m breaking, imploding. My mouth opens, but I hear nothing come out. Am I deaf now? Oh, how these shallow words have burned me.

I feel the medicine kick in immediately. My knees hit the ground. The toxic fluids of stress and anger drain out of my body. I slump forward, my face nearly hitting the rough floor beneath. I feel the hands begin to relinquish the rope, as though they are bored of playing with my sanity. Some hands graciously untie the knots they made, while others lower their coils gently. The rivers of tears and blood flow normally, as if sensing the passing of the storm.

It’s over—for now, at least. x BURN

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WORDS & ART by VANIA VOID

the first 48

An open hate letter to hookup culture, Very much like the case of a missing or murdered person, the first 48 hours after an ambiguous one-night stand are crucial.

It’s Saturday morning, the ceiling fan gently clicking as I lie in a blank white room, last night’s hookup heavily breathing beside me. Now the first 48 begins. Get your team of girlfriends ready… what’s missing? What’s been murdered, you say? Your peace of mind, now replaced with a looming expectancy.

It all started when I left the concert with an interesting guy.

We were hanging out listening to music, making out. He said we didn’t have to have sex, which was reassuring ‘cause I didn’t feel pressured. I wanted to though, so we sloppily fumbled around in the dark.

First, there is that initial anxiety of being with the same person, in the same environment, but now in a very different

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circumstance. The norms of the situation have changed. We are lost without our guiding north star—fucking. There really is no script for this. Do we make sure the following person is cool so we don’t regret this? Gauge each other’s personalities to see if we are compatible? If we want to hang out again?

Hookup culture is insane in the sense that there is this fake naturalness to it. One of the biggest norms is to be the passive “chill” participant, “down for whatever,” under the guise of business and emotional vacancy. There are some people who can actually compartmentalize intimacy and are thus more suited for this culture. But I am not one of those luckily detached souls.

There is a lot of stigma around having emotions about a stranger fucking you from behind. Having a mere expectancy, let alone a sliver of feeling, towards the night that happened is enough to make a person feel temporarily inane.

Hookup culture needs more honesty and respect for intimacy! This can be practiced by not assuming everyone has the same intentions, by having a conversation about what you expect from the person whether it be just sex for the one night, or you are interested in some potentials.

Yeah, these conversations are awkward. But just because they are awkward, does that mean they should be avoided? That they aren’t meant to happen? We definitely have a tendency to avoid uncomfortable feelings. If a norm is in place to avoid uncomfortableness, does that mean it is reasonable? In some situations, but not this one. For one thing, the norm is only there to protect our socially anxious selves. There is not a lot at stake if you are to bring this topic up.

If you are sensitive to these situations like me, do yourself a favour and spare the subsequent ruminations. I think there will

always be an uncomfortableness. Honesty can only minimize the following nervousness.

As inquisitive beings, we look for little things that speak to someone else’s personality as a whole. Thus, immediate honesty of our internal desires can be seen as strange and vulnerable.

Especially in hookup culture, where there is already minimal space to manoeuver the self, there is the social threat of being thought of as “clingy”.

Be yourself. Emotion does not oppose reason. x

BURN

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WORDS by TAKHLIQ AMIR

THE CLE ARER COLOURS OF DIS TANCE Red. No, blue. Oh, maybe the purple. Of course not the yellow.

Your hand flits from one colour to another as you debate which one to choose for your drawing. It’s an important decision, the first one; the entire fate of the image depends solely on it. Once you’ve made the absolute perfect choice, you first create an outline around the drawing in the colouring book. The pencil crayons press down hard as you trace the edges of the ocean, picturing the gentle waves gliding as the bright orange rays of the sun turn its surface into an almost translucent mirror. Once your outline has been completed, you begin to meticulously colour, strokes slowly moving in one direction. Your eyes narrow in concentration. Your lips purse together tightly. Your mind, miles ahead, has already painted the scenery, its every line and shade visible behind closed eyelids.

Then, in a moment of distraction—a loud noise or a squeaking floorboard, perhaps—your gaze drifts rightward in confusion. The next thing you know, a sharp red line glares at you from the white empty space outside of what was to be the deep red sun. You stare at the page, your eyes unblinking. You glance away and look back, hoping that it would have just been a trick of the light. Your eyes become glassy. Your lower lip quivers as you realize it isn’t.

—

The water spills across your ankles, As you stand at the edge Of the wide ocean, An endless sea of deep blue Underneath the burning red sky Blinding your closed eyelids And you tilt your head away.

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— You’re packing your old belongings into moving boxes, sifting through the crumpled papers and endless old knickknacks stuffed into the corners of your closet and room. Packing isn’t the easiest thing to do; oftentimes, the process itself is slowed by the reminiscence that comes hand-in-hand with revisiting past items, those that were cherished and those that remain merely as a product of human tendency to hold on to memories and material objects even when the human touch long fades away.

In the far left corner underneath your bed—where the monsters once lived—you pull out a wrinkled colouring book. As you pull it towards you, your nose scrunching up from dust particles that rise up, the book flips open to an old image of a sunset.

Although the picture is just one of countless others created from the imagination of your younger self, you can remember working on it clearly.

You remember the way the blue ocean felt, its salty smell in your nose, as you blended a light blue with the deep midnight shade to create a storm in the water. The pale, barely pink-yellow sky had confusion in its identity as it debated what it was meant to be in that moment. And the fiery orange sun had beautiful rays shooting out of it as it made its power known to all who could feel it. Rays, the colour of blood red, demanding to be known to all who could see them.

—

The water envelopes your legs, As you stand knee-deep Immersed completely Embraced by the wide ocean, An infinite sea of deep blue Underneath the burning red sky Warming your closed eyelids And you tilt your head upwards. x

BURN

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ART by THERESA ORSINI WORDS by MEGHAN BIRD

THE SCARS SHE WORE

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Deep, interwoven scars plastered thick across half of her face.

At one time the scars had marred her torso, right arm, and neck, dappling as high as to the ridge of her cheekbone. Now they were stretched thin, still pink, but growing shallow with age. She reached a hand up to her jawline. Sometimes she still thought they felt warm.

“Elaine Knowles,” a curt voice called from a desk in the corner. The girl stood. The cement floor was so cold she could feel a chill through the soles of her shoes.

“Who are you here to visit today?” the woman at the desk asked.

Through the holes drilled into the glass, Elaine croaked, “My father, Arnold Knowles.”

The woman shuffled some paper, marked a page with pen, then handed it to Elaine. “Sign here.”

Elaine’s signature was shaky and smeared.

The woman pointed to her left. “Go down that hallway. He’ll be in visitor room number twenty-three; it should be on your left.”

It had been fifteen years since Elaine had seen her father.

Even so, she had a well-crafted image in her mind. For years she had been hearing the stories, those that headlined the local papers, those whispered between the aisles in the grocery store.

Most importantly, however, Elaine had lapped up every word her mother spoke. She was a wild woman who wore life like how she wore her thrift shop dresses: the sleeves too short, hem pulling loose, flowing free. Those dresses clung to her body just as she clung to the memories of every fault her husband possessed.

Elaine had grown attached to those memories as well, for as a child she had heard them more often than fairytales.

Beyond her mother’s shared recollections, Elaine had a few personal memories of her father locked away in her mind. They were of a smiling man, an image quite contradictory to the picture her mother painted. She remembered her father lifting her onto his shoulder at the carnival, her round toddler eyes mesmerized by the dancing carnival lights. Even more vividly, she remembered her mother’s screams as she ran towards their flaming family home. She tore Elaine’s small, scorched body from her husband’s arms, as he crawled out from the smoke. As the police handcuffed him he shouted, “I was trying to protect her!” >>

JUST LIK FLAMES THAT MA HOLES T EVERYTH TOUCHED BURN

41

“But your father could not protect you,” Elaine’s mother said years later. She sat on the countertop, casually crumpling up old letters, photographs, and newspaper clippings. She was ritualistically preparing these memories to be baked to an ash in their small apartment oven. “Just like the flames he made, that man burned holes through everything he touched.”

Elaine grew up an anxious child, listening to her mother’s casual talk of her father’s misdemeanour. As a young girl, Elaine avoided talking about the missing figure in her life, though she watched with fervor as the other fathers picked their children up from school. Elaine walked slowly past these other fathers as they held their daughters’ hands, and opened the car doors for them to climb into. Elaine had never had that. She had walked home from school on her own. And as she walked home, she thought about how one day she would be a grown woman, courageous enough to see the man who never came to see her. She would confront him. She would tell him what he had denied her. Finally, she would speak her mind. It was on this cool autumn morning, the orange and red leaves ablaze on the roadside branches, that Elaine drove into the countryside to the maximum-security prison where her father had been contained for the past fifteen years.

KE THE HE MADE, AN BURNED THROUGH HING HE D. 42

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She reached the end of the hallway.

She stopped at the door marked twenty-three.

She leaned forward, her clammy hands braced against the metal door.

A weak, pale man was dragged into the room. A prison guard, with jingling keys in his fist, handcuffed the man to the table.

With a free hand, the man stroked the dishevelled stubble that crawled up his jawline. He looked to the small barred window in the door with gentle eyes.

From out in the hallway, Elaine took shallow, panicked breaths. She hadn’t seen this man in fifteen years. This was the man she had imagined when she was a little girl. This was the man who she had pictured in family photos, when he clearly had not been there. However, Elaine was shocked to find that this man did not look like the father she imagined. This man’s eyes were not hard and cold as her mother had described, but kind and blue. His voice was not rough and forceful, but quiet and calm as he exchanged words with the guard. He even had the same nervous twitch as Elaine: picking at his nails in times of stress. Elaine watched through the glass, finally peering into the life of a man she had grown up missing, hating, and then missing again. She wondered what other similarities she might have with her father. Unfortunately, she never had the chance to find out. For as the prison guard began to approach the door, Elaine saw her father’s face turn, and the horrors of that night came flooding back.

It was just enough to send Elaine running off down the hall and out the prison doors.

“I’ve warned you not to visit that wretched man since you were a little girl,” Elaine’s mother said that night, dusting her flawless, pink skin with a makeup brush. “You should have listened to me.”

Elaine walked away, trying to believe her mother’s words.

But her mind was stained with the memory of standing at the window to visitor room twenty-three. She thought back to those deep, rippling burn scars that painted the side of her father’s face. She lifted a hand to her own. She wondered if his felt warm to the touch as well. x

WORDS by Y U F E I X I A ART by RYAN MAHLE

fire alarm An open letter to people who keep setting off fire alarms: Why? Are you bad at cooking? Are you leaving discarded cigarettes on your bed sheets? Do you crave excitement at the expense of all of your housemates or the entire residence? Maybe you feel your life is perpetually on fire, like in that dog meme.

Whatever it is, I can say that I understand the desire to scream out your frustration. Perhaps you choose to mock the failure of social institutions through this easily misused public service. I hear you. Boy, do I hear you. But please, My ears. My sanity. My sleep.

You may not know this, but we have quite the history. Our unfortunate relationship began all those years ago in residence. I was just an innocent, slumbering first-year. The time was 3 a.m. The skies were clear and the moon was full. You struck without warning and I barely knew what had happened as we stumbled out onto the lawn, half-asleep, our ears ringing. I wonder what you were thinking. Was it freeing? Did you feel profound spiritual enlightenment? The shadows cast by branches of the distant forest were claws creeping against the edges of my residence. Surely it was then, under the omen of a full moon, that a monster was created. The monster of my rage, I mean. You little shit.

Where do people who set off fire alarms in residence go after first year? A common question from sane, rational folk. I would like to address this for everyone’s comfort and caution. If one is unlucky enough, they go to one’s student house second year! Or third year!!

OR FOURTH YEAR!!!

Anyway, back to you. You see, you’re like the boy who cried wolf. Or the anonymous student who cried fire, if you will. The sad directionless soul who was perpetually alarmed. You should be aware that your perpetual alarm is harmful to others. Harmful with a frequency of 3-5 times a week, to be exact. My automatic instinct now is to cover my ears. One day, decades from now, my apartment will be on fire and I will be sleeping through it because I’ve become so desensitized. You cry wolf but I get eaten.

By the continuation of some cruel joke played on me by the universe, in addition to dealing with you at odd hours, the Health Sciences building regularly has fire alarms and test announcements. Is this where you plan to go after university? Sniffing about in hospitals and buildings, setting off fire alarms for “official” purposes?

WHY ARE YOU HAUNTING ME WHY WHY WHYW WYHYWH WYW ?<\; Ultimately, if the circumstances keep changing and the same thing happens, I have to look at the constants. Maybe it isn’t you.

Maybe my life has been on fire all along, and you just tag along for the ride.

Go on, announce it to the world! My shortcomings! My FAILURES! WHeN’S thE NExT ALARM?!

One day this will all go up in flames, Fei Fei x

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WORDS by ANTONIO VIANNA ART by IMASHA PERERA

FIREMAN Today was a tough day. Arson attacks are always a big deal. We are oriented to see it as a crime scene and, after all, there is a lot to find out when it comes to intentional destruction. A normal fireman would agree with the rules completely. I don’t. It doesn’t keep me from following them, of course, but for me, a perfectly architected pyre can’t be simply reduced to a crime scene. I can’t help but see it as artwork.

I should not encourage these thoughts. The situation was critical when we got there, and there was a lot of work to do. Apparently, it was a spontaneous combustion in an old townhouse. At least, that was the story. The brigade chief told us we’d have to be quick because there were people trapped inside. Afterwards, the police discovered that a man had set fire to his house in order to collect the insurance compensation. The entire building fell apart as the flames did what they do best and ran out of control.

My senses ignited when I dove into the flames. It was a hell of a mess inside. The smell of burning wood, the heat on my face, the noise of things falling apart, everything in delightful chaos. I think I’m the only firefighter who truly enjoys the hard part of this job. After the last incident, I hadn’t been in the field for a while. Again, it felt like some sort of trance, and evoked those same memories of fireworks, humming engines, burning monks, and forest fires. I hate to admit that I missed it.

The arsonist’s calculations would have been smooth if it weren’t for the fact that the house wasn’t empty when the ignition was triggered. I had to pretend that I was there to save people, saving people. To be honest, I was there simply because I desperately needed to be there. I think it is progress. In the past, I would want to be there just to be sure that the miraculous performance of the wildfire wouldn’t be interrupted by anyone.

Then, saving people from fire wouldn’t make any sense to me.

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The smell of burning wood, the heat on my face, the noise of things falling apart, everything in delightful chaos.

Fire was the salvation itself. During those times, I wasn’t tied to the duties of the job and my only concerns were related to obstinately burning instead of unwillingly extinguishing fire.

I’m being completely honest to this piece of paper because I know I’ll burn it when I finish. These letters will be nothing but ashes and all these confessions will be lost forever. This therapeutic method of writing is indeed helping me and I feel more able to control my impulses. However, I wonder if this is not a sort of nicotine pill. If I’m doing it to get better or just to have a small dose of my nasty addiction.

By the way, I should mention that I thought of quitting my job today. It wouldn’t change anything at all. Actually, it’s better that I’m doing something good out of this infinite frustration.

After all, I save people everyday. But despite what everyone thinks of my job, that’s not my true motivation. I’d rather use gasoline than water if I had the chance. And honestly, when I pull them out of the fire, I don’t think I’m saving anyone.

I get this nausea in me. It’s a cloud. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. It’s sadness. It’s volatile. The feeling of burning it all. I can’t catch it. This is fucking ironic. When the devil gave me the idea to work as a firefighter, I didn’t hesitate to accept it—even knowing, since I was a kid who felt more like burning toys than playing with them, that I was a goddamn pyromaniac. x

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ART by ALI DECATA WORDS by COBY ZUCKER

Mr. Priestlyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Space Age Insight

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All things considered, the end of the world was a rather dull affair, but the shrimp was excellent.

As the ancestral home of humanity was engulfed in a fiery supernova, Sherman Priestly was staring at the generous bosom of a strawberry-blonde in a blue cocktail dress. It is difficult to imagine how one might entirely fail to notice the titanic, apocalyptic explosion of a star, and in fact it is a feat less than a handful of people in the entirety of the universe could have managed. Happenstance placed one such individual, in the form of Mr. Priestly, on the viewing deck of the SS Augusta Hippolyta.

The ensuing death of planet Earth had been widely anticipated across the galaxy. Every tin bucket with zero-G capacity and a functioning Quantum Leap Capacitor was ferrying tourists out to witness the grand event. Of course, for every person who made the trip, there were millions more at home watching on the government-sanctioned Galactic Broadcast.

Besides being a top-of-class luxury liner, the Hippolyta came equipped with state of the art radiation and solar flare shielding. In fact, of the hundred thousand-odd ships assembled, the Hippolyta was the closest in the Solar System to the explosion. When asked for his thoughts on the spectacle, Mr. Priestly would jump to supply his own account of the event: “Absolutely astounding. Yes, of course, I witnessed it with my own two eyes! Truly remarkable. You know I was on the Hippolyta? A stone’s throw from the blast, I say. A stone’s throw!

A once in a millennium event to be sure.”

In truth, the only astronomical phenomena Mr. Priestly observed were the red giants on the chest of the gentlewomen to his left.

On the night of the event, the festivities began early. Mr. Priestly had dressed in his finest tuxedo, crimson red in the fashion of the upper class of Galactic System IV, purchased in anticipation of the monumental evening. At precisely 19:00 hours, he left his suite to attend the event hall at the center of the gargantuan ship. Upon arrival, each guest was greeted by an attendant offering champagne and hors d’oeuvres in the style of old Earth. Mr. Priestly was especially fond of the shrimp and cocktail sauce.

As the anticipated hour of the blast was approaching, guests were ushered into the forward viewing deck, where an elderly

steward was droning on about the astronomical portent of the event, spouting facts like a walking infographic. To Mr. Priestly’s ears it was all gibbering nonsense about ‘solar radiation’ and ‘nucleosynthesis.’

There was only one item of note. Earth’s sun was erupting a few million years earlier than what was previously expected. This tidbit was met with frenzied whispering amongst the guests.

A rumour had been circulating the press that Queen Hippolyta, namesake of the SS Augusta Hippolyta and the present monarchic head of state, had expedited Earth’s demise.

Hippolyta, who was purportedly on the ship and set to make a speech, had recently been shrouded in these accusations, perpetuated by the gossiping and hearsay of the financial elite.

It was said that she sped up the destruction in an effort to stimulate tourism and improve economic growth. Mr. Priestly had even heard, albeit in hushed tones, that it was done out of vanity to have such a momentous occasion fall during her reign.

In any case, the steward had moved on to an exhaustive description of astrophysics and Mr. Priestly promptly lost interest. The evening stretched on and at last it was time to witness, or fail to witness in the case of Mr. Priestly, the end of Earth. The incident itself was marked by a short outburst of applause by the assembled crowd. Green and blue confetti rained from the vaulted ceiling. One might think the tone of such an occasion would perhaps be more sullen. One might also be a blithering dullard. The death of Earth severed the last ties with humanity’s archaic, barbarian forefathers and foremothers.

The night was to be the beginning of a Golden Age of prosperity, expansive colonization, and affordable Z-Gen-PleasureBots®.

Mr. Priestly was a living, breathing artifact. Medium stature, round face, watery eyes, balding at a time when hair implants were as commonplace as haircuts. Even the name, Priestly, was a reference to a long-dead religion. In an era when children grew up to pilot spaceships, terraform planets, and design cybernetic enhancements, Mr. Priestly was a divorce attorney. If he was exceptional in any manner, it was only for his un-exceptionality.

As he was brushing the last of the confetti out of his hair, Mr. Priestly had a profound thought, which was an event of no small import for a man who missed the end of the world because of excess cleavage. What was his place on this dawning era? In a new world order of previously unimaginable futurisms, who was he? These thoughts weighed heavily on Mr. Priestly’s mind until a waitress passed by with miniature cheese and spinach puffs. x

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ART by K ATRINA HASS WORDS by VA N E S S A P O L E J AC

STEPS

You take your first step on the rusty stairs near the archaic train tracks. Your heart rate increases as you extend your legs and sprint your way to the top. It’s been a little over a year since your weight loss journey began. You have climbed thousands of these identical steps. The summer is coming to an end and you feel the warm August air press its way in and out of your chest. You calculate the number of calories that slip off through the sweat that drips down the back of your neck. You’re melting. This is one of the last visits you’ll make this year. Your father waits for you at the end of the pathway. He’s so proud of you.

— You trip on the step near the broken coat rack that takes you into the living room area. You tip-toe into the kitchen. The house is noiseless and everyone is in bed. You stand in front of the stainless steel fridge door and open it. Your mouth waters, silent tears asking for food. The scent of freshly baked pita lingers in the air. Your finger gravitates to the slice that crumbles off like a piece of cheese on the mousetrap in the basement that attracts naive mice. You have almost forgotten the taste of bread, warm and filling. You convince yourself that hunger is only in your mind and quickly slam the door shut. Your grandfather is sleeping on the couch but thankfully, you don’t wake him.

—

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No matter how many steps you take, no matter the number of pounds you shed, no matter the size of the skirt you buy.

You will never be skinny enough.

You step over the bright red pool towel covered in miniature cat hairs and reach the woolly rug. You kneel over and notice the toilet seat had already been lifted by someone else. Perfect. You gently place your index, middle and ring finger a few centimetres away from your tonsils at the back of your throat. You wait a few moments and begin to cough. All of your daily calorie intake is expelled into the toilet water within the next three minutes. Three minutes turn into three hours. The putrid smell of digested cantaloupe and tuna fills the tiny room. You feel lighter. You try this almost every day. It usually does not work. Your younger sister knocks on the door. You quickly flush and tell her to wait her turn.

— You step into the beaming white clothing store; Forever Twenty-One. It specifically targets young women like yourself to use, abuse, and make a profit from your body. You push this out of your mind and look for the dress section. You reach out and grab a medium size ruffled red dress that is perfect for the summer. Your stomach folds over the top button. It won’t zip up. You have failed. Your heart tightens. You are still considered a large by clothing label standards. Mentally and physically bruised as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. You begin scrutinizing your body. Maybe the scale had been wrong the entire time. Your mom passes you the larger size over the change room door. She won’t understand.

— You sidestep the line of scurrying students attempting to make it to their next class on time. All distracted by their cellular devices, homework, and if they’re lucky, with their fellow student or friend. You feel your stomach awaken while walking to your classes and you realize that August has turned into September, eighteen has turned into nineteen, and one hundred sixty-eight pounds has turned into one hundred thirtyeight pounds. No matter how many steps you take, no matter the number of pounds you shed, no matter the size of the skirt you buy. You will never be skinny enough. You will never be pretty enough. You will never be happy enough. You’ve reached your weight loss goal this month. But now you suffer mentally and that is not beautiful. Were all those steps worth it? x

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ART by DAVID SHIN & ALLY YA SHAHID 50

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WORDS by K ATELYN JOHNSTONE ART by JASMYNE SMITH

SH O O TIN G STARS

You’re like a star, Not knowing anything but fire, Brilliant, beautiful, bright; Don’t realize you are Dazzling, living, breathing.

You light the night.

You’ve shone with starlight your whole life.

But me, I know I’m more a rock.

Hurtling through the emptiness of space Before I’m trapped by planets, Some satellite to those enchanting stars.

Falling, I ignite, Ablaze in dark night skies Before I turn to dust.

And in the moment I dissolve to ash, That second I’m on fire, People take me for a star.

That’s what separates you and I. You’re a star And I’m a rock who’s waiting for my moment to pretend. x

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ART by LINDA JOYCE OTT WORDS by E M I LY M E I L L E U R - R I V E R S

425 DEGREES The flour dancing through the sunlight in Constance Dooley’s kitchen disperses when she closes the oven door. A stained recipe card resting on the window sill reminds her to set the timer, but her heart stumbles fifty-one years backwards.

On that late August day in 1966, the sun and Constance were both determined to make themselves known. At the kitchen table in her mama’s house, Constance scooped peach filling into the carefully draped pie crust. Her mama hid how closely she watched her, but gave a nod of approval when Constance started pinching the edges of the dough with care. Thirty minutes later, the house smelled even sweeter than before and Constance beamed brighter than her yellow sundress. Her mama had packed up the pies and watched with pride as she walked towards the county fair.

Once situated at her booth, Constance shifted her weight back and forth, trying to hide her nerves. She knew it was a recipe worthy of first place, but if no one came to her booth to taste it, she’d never win the ballot. She stood up a little straighter and tried to maintain her confidence when a girl with freckles and a warm smile approached her.

“Can I offer you a slice of the best pie you’ll ever have?”

Constance pitched. She wasn’t overstating things, but her boldness surprised even herself.

“I was going to settle for your company, but who could refuse such an offer?” the girl replied, unleashing the butterflies in Constance’s stomach.

The girl made it so easy for Constance to picture what a life with her could look like. She imagined bursting to share recipes with her, instead of keeping them secret. She imagined flicking flour at her and dusting it off her freckled nose. She imagined holding her hand and strolling through the farmer’s market, unbothered by the sideways glances of the ladies her grandma went to church with. If Constance had known in that moment that she and Effie would get to spend fifty-one more summers together, she would have dropped the slice of pie she then held out with a hopeful hand.

“It’s a family recipe. My great-grandmother’s. I hope you like it.”

Constance heard the robotic quality of her voice and tried to relax.

“It’s heavenly! I mean, I’d say it was even if it wasn’t, just to see you smile again. But it’s really something special. My name’s Effie by the way.”

“I—uh, thank you! I’m Constance.” She wiped her clammy

If Constance had known in that moment that she and Effie would get to spend fifty-one more summers together, she would have dropped the slice of pie she then held out with a hopeful hand. hand on the front of her dress before offering it to Effie across the table.

“You’ll have to teach me the recipe someday.” Effie accepted her hand and held it for a moment too long.

— The saccharine smell of baking peaches sharpens and drags Constance’s attention to the oven. With a start, she opens the door and fans the smoke out the window with a nearby tea towel. She leans on the counter and hunches her shoulders towards the charred dessert. She wishes Effie was there to remind her to keep an eye on their finicky oven. As if on cue, their granddaughter barrels in through the front door and nearly knocks Constance over with the force of her hug. Effie follows behind her, with less fervency but no less love. Her melodic laughter fills the air when she spots the blackened pie still smoking on the counter. She sets a bag of peaches on the counter and wraps her arms around her wife’s waist.

“How did you ever manage to do this without me?” Effie asks playfully.

Unsure if she meant the recipe or life in general, Constance replies, “Hopefully I never have to again.” x BURN

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ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by KRISTEN GRACIE

Testimony

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How I arrived in one piece— I have no idea. I wasn’t anywhere I was supposed to be and a quick survey of the ship told me that I wouldn’t be leaving wherever I was anytime soon.

The last star in the universe was a red dwarf. As far as stars go, red dwarfs, as their name implies, are not very large. Their deaths do not have any of the flash and bang of the supergiants.

Instead, they just sort of slowly run out of fuel, like an old, beat-up car chugging along a dirt road until it slowly rolls to a stop. In its last hours, the universe worked much the same way.

It continued expanding and cooling, reaching its final resting place, a low temperature from which it would never move. The technical term for this end is the ‘heat death of the universe.’

I woke up to bleeping, angry alarms on just about every system on the ship and my suit. The door to the rocket had been knocked off in the journey. How I arrived in one piece—I have no idea. I wasn’t anywhere I was supposed to be and a quick survey of the ship told me that I wouldn’t be leaving wherever I was anytime soon. Trying not to panic at the fact that I was most likely stuck here and going to die a slow death, I decided to try and figure out where “here” was. After untangling myself from my straps, I gingerly stood up and lurched out of the capsule.

I stumbled away from my ship, overcome with the unnerving sense of stillness of my surroundings. It was more than just being alone on an empty street in the middle of the night, it was as if the cold planet was creeping into my suit to make me a part of it, frozen, unmoving, forever. My breaths became shallow and short as I tried to comprehend where I was. I started running,

trying to find something, anything, moving. As I staggered across the bleak and barren landscape I could feel myself giving in to the pressure around me to just give up. In my blind panic, I never saw the rock in front of me that sent me tumbling down the long slope. When I finally came to a rest on my back, my head was pounding more than it had been. It seemed as though I should just stay there. That resigned state left me momentarily unable to process that above me in the sky was a large, dim, red light. Against all odds, there was something left, alive, in this god-forsaken place.

As I lay there staring at that soft glow, it occurred to me where, or rather when, I might be. The thought wandered across my mind that this might be the last star in the universe. I chuckled at how ridiculous it was that the universe wanted an audience for its slow finale. It was ridiculous, but upon contemplation, unsurprising. That impossible glow deserved someone to see it shining against all odds, when all of its kind had long burned out.

So as the red light slowly faded, I lay there a witness to the last of the universe’s tires slowly rolling to a stop. x

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MIDN IGHT O IL

Midnight comes dark and desperate.

My mug sits empty and the next page yawns For want of words. The tide of time floods in While I stand knee-deep and stare.

We are alight at both ends Alive and itching—racing forward, Glancing back. Stop here, you said.

So we sat and watched it all around us, Burned hours sipping life— The kind of life that bends our bodies in laughter, That shakes our hearts inside our chests.

Yet here in the long space Between short days, Life is a wisp above my head That makes me cough.

Later, come blessed, dreaded daylight, We’ll laugh at each other, Under-eyes smeared dark with midnight oil.

But now: A frantic numbness.

My fingers tremble.

I long for bed. x

ART by THERESA ORSINI WORDS by LEAH SATHER

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F R O M P ASSIO N TO ASHES: A FO REST AFFAIR

WORDS by ARANYA IYER ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

When you raise your eyes to see the sun rays filtering through the green-brown tangle on my head, When you walk across my dark, muddy skin in awe at how soft it is, When you say that I am more beautiful than you could have imagined, When you say that you could get lost in me for hours, needing nothing more than my company,

We are nothing short of a harmony.

But you left my grounds.

And I stay grounded.

The problem is not that your love doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist.

The problem is that you do nothing to save me When parts of me are slashed, Uprooted, And wasted.

You stay silent.

So, I ha ve t o fizzle , cra ck le , a nd hiss.

Why are you not stopping this?

I give myself up so that you can live.

But I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t any longer.

Tha t is whe n I glow, bla ze , a nd ro a r.

Stopping me now is futile.

The fire that does the most damage is hidden from your eyes.

It is only felt.

For days, Throughout the ground In my chest That holds my beating, beaten, bloody, bleeding heart.

And it will keep beating,

Lo ng a fte r I e x t inguish your fla me . x

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ON D AR K SK I N WORDS & ART by EVRA ALI

Brown is beautiful.

Brown is supple feet splayed on creamy bedsheets.

Brown is ginger like Tobago sand, burnished like Peruvian bark.

She is gentle and dark, regarding the passiveness of anger like phases of the moon.

She is cookies warm and wet from tea; charming platters of blended nut and burnt pumpkin.

I have shucked off shame with a 1000-watt smile: I am not hard to loveâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;look at me!

Laugh with me! Feel with me!

Let it be known that we are more than our bodies.

Why is skin colour only notable for its contrast with whiteness.

If you repeat words often enough, do you sharpen their meaning?

Brownbrownbrownbrown Beautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautiful x

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Fireworks ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by TIFFANY SUN

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It starts as a sudden burst of fire and colour. The explosion burns, eating away at the black of the night sky.

(Inside the pit of your belly starts a similar, smaller flame.)

As the colours form spiralling arrays into the dark canvas, there is an erratic boom boom boom-ing in the sky that matches the excited thud thud thud-ding of your heart. What strange magic, you think.

Then a boom shakes your entire soul and you are sold—you are a victim—you are trapped in this enchantment—and you

are deaf to anything that is not thud thudâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;boomâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;thud thud and blind to all but red, yellow, green, white, blue, red, red, red, red, and You think, this must be thrill, this must be love, this must be the brilliance that you have always wished for, and if this could be forever, if only this could be always, but then, with no warning, the flames burn themselves out, the colours dissipate to black, the only pounding in your ears is your sad heartbeat stuttering as it slows. Something in you breaks (a snap buried deep beneath your ribcage) and the magic ends.

These fireworks are beautiful, but they are fickle. You never know when it all ends, and you are left with only a s h e sx BURN

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WORDS by FA R I S M E C K L A I ART by TITI HUYNH

FIRE & FREEDOM She was born a peasant, A maid of Grand Est. Her mother still innocent, A phoenix to ascend.

She ignited her comrades’ spirits, A fierce flame flickered within.

Battle was approaching, Intentions misconstrued as sin.

Saint-Michel, leader of God’s Army.

Sainte-Marguerite, reducer of pain.

Virgin Catherine d’Alexandrie, Visions to cause history’s change.

The battle was long Angels rose.

As lives were claimed, Demons dove.

The Brits had been vanquished, Sword and banner still in hand.

Her enemies lay in anguish, As Orléans remained to France.

Some said hallucinations, Some said she was unwell.

A vast conflagration, She caused her enemies Hell.

“Protect France from the English, They will burn, destroy, and kill.”

A battle between nations, Pre-determination or free will?

A century of torture, 100 years of unrest.

Let us take back our homeland.

Let the fire burn in our chests.

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A battle won by pride, By passion, loyalty, and fear.

A woman had become leader, She rallied her nation to cheer.

She fought in Paris, She fought in Reims.

She ended many men’s lives, Her last battle was Compiègne.

Fighting out of pure fury, Her flame extinguished.

The rivals had trapped her, Her nation had to languish.

Trapped in confinement To scorch, sear, and melt.

Raped, abused, and discarded, The status quo could not go undealt.

To wear a man’s clothing, To protect her from attack.

The court ruled heresy, Her lifeline had been slashed.

Moved through her home in a cage, As a prisoner of war.

Rouen would be her last standing place, Her legacy would be no more.

The first spark was cast, Her hands bound round a pillar to stand.

Her log had been burned, Surely her killer would be damned.

Her dress shattered as ash, Her flesh and skin exposed.

Yet the hottest fire burning, Was the fire in her soul.

The cross stood as her core.

A mother’s appeal, A scorched legacy.

A saviour of Orléans, A saint tried of heresy.

Declared innocent years later, Perhaps she may have lived.

A reputation purely founded, On her misread insolence.

She was canonized too late, Some feast on her day of death.

Sainthood for eternity, Years ago she took her last breath.

A renewal of faith and conviction, The inferno lead to fertile soil.

Her memory will last longer, Her new character will not broil.

A martyr of fire, Freedom took flight.

She died as a hero, Sacrificed by heat and by light. x

Body and mind set ablaze, Her soul would never combust.

She had incited France like a wildfire.

Her punishment was unjust.

Conquered by those she had defeated, All that was left was coal.

Charred, seared, black, Had she really payed her toll?

The English raked her body, A source of fuel once more.

Controlled by those she had defeated,

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A SH E S

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Grey like the weather, it’s cold.

Thumb to forehead ashes to dust that mark us to mark the day the end began.

A cross of burned things of dead things but resurrected promises.

Palms in your palm that once welcomed now send us on our way with a blessing a bow

and a smudge.

To be reminded that we were nothing and to nothingness we’ll return but in between we are everything like the ashes we burn.

So we remember to live as if there’s ashes on our head, live without fear that someday we’ll be dead like the cross rubbed off by wandering fingers or the gradual flaking away until all we’re left with is Ashes. x

ART by MATTHEW LAM WORDS by VALERIE LUETKE

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ART by TRESSA MASTROIANNI & GRACE HUANG

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INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 20, ISSUE 1 “BURN” Published October 2017 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 our university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, design, 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 (Creative & Production) Matthew Lam Editor-in-Chief (Content) Harry Krahn Art Director Ali DeCata Communications Director Annie Yu

Layout Editors Sabrina Lin, Tram Nguyen

Contributors (Writers) Evra Ali, Takhliq Amir, Meghan Bird, Kristen Gracie, Zoe Handa, Catherine Hu, Aranya Iyer, Katelyn Johnstone, Manveer Kalirai, Adrienne Klein, Jane Lee, Sonia Leung, Valerie Luetke, Faris Mecklai, Emily Meilleur-Rivers, Shaista Obaidullah, Annecy Pang, Vanessa Polejac, Srikripa KrishnaPrasad, Leah Sather, Nicholas Schmid, Nikhita Singhal, Tiffany Sun, Michael Swanson, Rachel Tran, Tiffany Tse, Antonio Vianna, Vania Void, Yu Fei Xia, Michelle Yao, Michele Zaman, Coby Zucker. (Artists) Rabeea Ahmar, Evra Ali, Ali Decata, Colline Do, Katrina Hass, Grace Huang, Titi Huynh, Matthew Lam, Jin Lee, Sonia Leung, Ryan Mahle, Tressa Mastroianni, Rabeena Obaidullah, Theresa Orsini, Linda Joyce Ott, Imasha Perera, Kira Salena, Allyya Shahid, David Shin, Carissa Siu, Jasmyne Smith, Vania Void, Anabel Yeung.

Cover Credits Art by Matthew Lam

Special Thanks to The Underground

Art Managers Theresa Orsini, Imasha Perera, Allyya Shahid, Carissa Siu Communications Grant Holt (Videographer), Matilda Kim (Photographer), Annecy Pang (PR Manager) Content Editors Takhliq Amir, Catherine Hu, Emily Meilleur-Rivers, Neda Pirouzmand, Yu Fei Xia, Coby Zucker Copy Editor Srikripa Krishna Prasad