Incite Magazine - September 2023

incite

VOLUME XXV

ISSUE 2

mot ion

Time has been transformed, and we have changed; it has advanced and set us in motion ; it has unveiled its face, inspiring us with bewilderment and exhilaration.

~ Khalil Gibran

motion INCITE VOLUME

25

ISSUE 2

Dear reader,

Well, well, well, it looks like you’ve picked up our latest issue-- Motion! I can already tell you that you’ll be in for a real treat (and that you have excellent taste in art literature). As you move through the pages, let yourself be guided by the flow of your thoughts, emotions, and everything else in between. Motion, motion, motion, it seems like we are always on the move, aren’t we? Places to be, people to meet, and time never seems to stop. When is the right time to take a breather? To take a step back?

At times, I feel as if everything and everyone is moving faster than I can keep up with. Some days I’m up and about, bursting with excitement about things that I look forward to doing and people who I look forward to seeing. Other days I can’t bring myself to leave my room (one thing about me, I’ll make sure to get my rent money’s worth).

The thing with motion is that all it takes is a little push. A bit of momentum to get things started. What does that push look like for you, reader? Is it your pet cat named Frog who likes to bite people’s ankles? A strawberry matcha latte with oat milk and a shot of caramel made by your favorite barista?

Motion isn’t without its twists and turns, and sometimes, you might just find yourself stationary. What happens during these moments? Perhaps you’re observing. Taking everyone and everything in. Reflecting on things around you that remind you of life’s little treasures. Watching Barbie movies until 2am. The list goes on.

Keep this in mind as you explore Motion, where every movement and every moment of stillness is captured through an array of visual stories and vibrant narratives.

I would like to extend my greatest thanks to our magnificent editorial team, layout team, art managers, and content editors—we have shared many laughs and I am so grateful for everyone’s hard work. Most of all, I am beyond proud of what we have accomplished together this year.

To our absolutely outstanding community of contributors, cheers to your creative talents and continuous enthusiasm towards Incite, your support has meant so much to the team and we are so honoured to continue being a platform for you to share your stories.

That’s all folks, let’s get this reading into motion!

Sincerely,

Editor-in-Chief (Arts and Production) Sandy Luu

Dear reader,

Tha nk you for picking up this copy of Incite. Throughout my four years at McMaster, Incite has provided me with the wonderful opportunity to publish my work and collaborate with other students. I love that Incite highlights student creativity. We have a beautiful issue in store for you!

So what is Motion? To me, Motion represents the future. Moving forward. Stepping out of my comfort zone and into the light of a new day. I look forward to the future while dreading change. When I think about Motion, I think about the ever-changing nature of our world. If change is constant, then life is always in motion. Motion can be exciting, terrifying, rewarding, and confusing. Motion reminds us of the past and brings us new experiences.

Volume 25 holds a special place in my heart because I had the privilege of working on the Editorial Board. I believe the theme Motion is perfect for our end-of-year issue, as it encapsulates new beginnings. I want to thank our staff - the Editorial Board, Content Editors, Art Managers, Layout Team - as well as all our contributors. Your dedication to Incite and vivid imaginations are irreplaceable.

I hope you enjoy Motion and the stories, art, and reflection that it entails. Happy reading!

Sincerely,

Editor-in-Chief (Content)

Gillian Hodge

content

staff question

cold case Alan Minkovich

nature’s mace Harmil Kalia

the rustle of leaves Jawaria Karim

upwards Bianca Magdalinis

a vision in a dream Crystal Lu

conversations Maya Khodr Ali

autopilot Elizabeth Zhou

amongst the wine Elizabeth Winstanley

left behind, -- ---- ---- Roya Motazedian

a day at school Dora Xu

metamorphosis P.R.

the wall between us Jessica Kim

the mathematician Matthew Nicholson

on the run HJ Prest

fleeting Anna Samson

life on the move with lizzie Aliyah Sumar

strawberry seeds Ria Patel

blink and you’ll miss it Gillian Hodge

freediver Mara Li

a garden of hearts Hannah Taylor

baba P.R.

intersection introspection Gail Del Castillo

yesterday’s present Quinn Ha

an end of sorts Alan Minkovich

standing still Manal Effendi

a story about a tree that’s not really about a tree Jessica Kim board games Mikaela Grahlman

changes Maya Khodr Ali

art

untitled 1 Thomas Ruffo

mid form Aditya Kalra

nature’s mace Harmil Kalia

three musketeers Jawaria Karim

levitate Mahek Marker

derealisation Lauren Ferreira

imaginary companions Helen Le

conversations Maya Khodr Ali

just need to get through this week Sandy Luu

untitled Elizabeth Winstanley

still life Mara Li

midnights in the city Dora Xu

isolated at eventide Harmela Celestin

ocean quiver Shreya Chauhan

all for you Natalia Laxamana

paramour Mara Li

bicycles art1UI3 winter 2023

untitled Michelle Nicol

time is running away Sandy Luu

naus Mahek Marker

lifeline Janelle Pualengco

unfamiliar sensations Rushaida Khan

still Gillian Hodge

untitled 3 Thomas Ruffo

prey Mara Li

it’s all moving berry fast Sandy Luu

race against time Mahek Marker

untitled 2 Thomas Ruffo

point 5 Quinn Ha

down the bunny hill Yilin Jiang

loud thoughts Lauren Ferreira

carpe diem Mahek Marker

gethsemane Mara Li

energy spread Sandy Luu

changes Maya Khodr Ali

Naiha Ali

Manwa Laage by Shreya Ghoshal

Layout Director

Anna Samson

Coast by Hailee Steinfeld ft. Anderson Paak

Content Editor

Misaal Mehboob

Party Rock Anthem by LMFAO

Content Editor

Gillian Hodge

Lavender Haze by Taylor Swift

Editor-in-Chief (Content)

Sana Gupta

Don’t Stop the Music by Rihanna Communications Director

Mara Li

Jaded by defsharp

Art Manager

brought down, lapels and hoods were brought up. He, however, didn’t have an umbrella. The despicable weather was secondary to him at this moment...he was on the job. The client had come to him with a simple problem; she suspected her husband of adultery. She hired a private investigator to document her husband’s every move. This type of work was well suited for the PI. Find the target. Follow. Move. Money.

He had lost track of the husband a few kilometres back. The PI moved through the crowd, pushing his way through the blurs of figures. This part of the job is what he really lived for: chasing the lead. Everyone around him became a mish-mash of shapes and dark shadows that passed him by and paid him no attention. He went through the motions of walking completely unconsciously, picking up pace as he got closer to his target. He did not want to look at the faces of those around him. He did not want to see a familiar face. While on the job, he could forget about the faces of his past. Right now there was only one visage that concerned him: the client’s husband.

Reaching an intersection, the PI emerged from the crowd, and finally found an opening to look ahead. On the other side of the street, he spotted the husband: he was waiting for someone outside the cafe. The PI turned and found an alleyway with a direct line of sight.

He took out his camera, zooming in on the husband, and waited for his mistress to emerge from the crowd. Dozens of people walked past the lens. Shadows whizzed by faster than he could blink, as though the whole city was passing by. He paid no attention to them. He was waiting for the final prize. Finally, a woman emerged and approached the husband. They embraced and slowly made their way inside. The PI snapped as many images as he could get, waiting for the woman to show her face. For a brief moment, she looked back at the city street behind her. As she turned around and the PI photographed as many images as he could get, all stopped. He could feel a shiver running down his spine as he laid eyes on who the husband was seeing. A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead.

It was her

How could it be her? What was she doing with him? He hadn’t seen her since...all of a sudden, he began to feel his own presence, seeing the faces surrounding him. He felt like they were staring with disgust at him. The shadows swishing by all of a sudden became a stampede of meat and bone, clobbering over each other on their way to work. He was breathless, struggling to formulate a thought or an action. Could he approach her? Surely not, under these circumstances.

Time stopped moving properly–he could’ve been there for five seconds or five hours. But suddenly, he saw the husband emerge from the cafe, hurrying away somewhere. The PI’s breaths began to accelerate, sharper than a knife to the chest. She was alone now. Almost by some divine intervention, he glided toward the cafe, unaware of the steps he was taking and of what he was doing.

He entered. A server greeted him, “Would you like a table?”. He paid them no mind, floating towards the table where she was seated. As he approached, he observed her face; the details had changed, but the overall portrait had not changed since the last time he saw her. He stood above her table, and she finally looked up and noticed.

“Hi”.

It was the first time he heard her speak since they parted ways. He responded back, “Hi”.

“It’s been a long time,” she said. “Join me.” He sat down across from her. He took a breath in, and was hit with her scent, reminding him of what once was. The feeling was overwhelming, if not a bit noxious. He didn’t know what to say. She finally broke the silence. “Y’know, I ran into John the other day. He hasn’t heard from you in a long time. No one has.” He took a second before responding, “I’ve been working.” She smirked. “Still snooping on people?” “Yes, and apparently you’re seeing someone who’s happily married.” She looked away. “I just-”. She thought for a moment before meeting his glance, “After things ended, I just needed to keep moving. And he was right there”. She was quiet for another moment before piercing the tension in the air, “And what about you? You look exhausted. Why can’t anyone get a hold of you? What happened?”

He took a moment to look at her face. He observed the wrinkles and tones that alone meant nothing, but together created an image he was all too familiar with. “Same as you. I just needed to keep moving”.x

WORDS by ALAN MINKOVICH

ART by ADITYA KALRA

nature’s mace

the wizened trees feel agitate, with the wicked roots aching an ill-fate, as the lumber cries during the wait. alas, the beads of revival congregate to conquer the adharmic.

other droplets descend to dwell, relaxed, ensuing the quell. convening at the fork in uniformity, trickling the crust in tranquility. within the loam, the droplets glean. life prospers, so serene.

from droplet to torrent-like spear, the effort for resurgence, ever so sincere. its solicitude revitalized the aura, in the once anguished, but now lush, flora. stream en voyage, in full view for the fauna, all parts of the environs reach nirvana.x

WORDS by HARMIL KALIA ART by HARMIL KALIA

The Rustle of Leaves

~ Happy Birthday baby girls

Her mother watched her from the window at the back of the house Even though she had snuck out as quietly as a mouse

She did this because her mother watched her like a thief For she had deemed her daughter’s heart a stolen timepiece

She had tried to rip it from her daughter’s chest But she couldn’t get it out, though she tried her best

So the mother looked at her daughter with disgust As she ran away with any last trust

And the daughter, she never looked back In fear that it would prompt another attack

So, she ran and ran and never stopped Even as she tripped and fell over countless rocks

Even when the Owl asked her where she was going She ran right past him without slowing

She ran even when the pebbles turned into shards that cut her feet Even when the shards turned into mud that caked her knees

The mud eventually turned into snow And then melted into a stream, where fish swam below

Desperately, she prayed for the fish to help But they were just fish, who swam around in kelp

One day, when she could run no more She sank to her knees on the forest floor

She cried and cried and could not stop Because her heart was still broken, her emotions chopped

She cried until moss grew up her legs and between her thighs Until mushrooms grew under her nails and in her eyes

Until she had flowers and leaves and insects that called her home Until the forest decorated her feet with little gnomes

Until her sorrow became the hollow trunk of a tree Her tangled hair the branches, the knots her knobbly knees

And one day a little girl walked by It was her younger self, so she let out a cry

But now, she was just a tree

So the most she could do was rustle her leaves

Despite this, the little girl understood She sat on the roots and carved into the wood

“We are free” And so they werex

ART by JAWARIA KARIM

WORDS by JAWARIA KARIM

ndeniably, there is the P ossibility she will fall W hile climbing mountains; A wareness that R egardless of a misstep, D aring to conquer S erves highest importancex

WORDS by BIANCA MAGDALINIS

ART by MAHEK MARKER

ART by LAUREN FERREIRA

A Vision in a Dream

Speaking in a strange serpent language, She follows me home, whispering An unfinished to-do list

That I work at until I feel bitterly satisfied: A lukewarm sense of accomplishment. I let her sink me in a murky pool As a ghost stains my lips, Surrounded by overgrown, Emerald verdure.

In my moth-eaten bedroom, I discover a bookshelf crafted from elm, Sagging in the centre, As if it were balancing the world. Digging through its contents, I find tattered brown journals, Filled with forgotten pages That I had, at some point, Stopped writing, Like my own story

That lies suspended in time, While ink smears my palms, But never the pages.

In the bathroom, Illuminated by reflective white tiles, I glance at the glass, And a mime smiles back, Waiting for my next command. As I bite back a scream, It peers back at me, With its stolen brown eyes And grotesque scarecrow body From years of starving To feel full of failed contentment.

I have always been alone, But never lonely, When suddenly, As I am eating dinner, An over salted fried rice That could never live up to Mom’s, It comes to me.

Blinking in the dim yellow kitchen light While the moon smiles and dances Like a broken kaleidoscope, A breathless vision in a dream, That everything has changed.x

WORDS by CRYSTAL LU ART by HELEN LE

C O N V E R

S A T I O N S

Going through these conversations

Building all these foundations

Commencing all these relations

Relations that cease to exist

Becoming and unbecoming

Those are my expectations

Your emotions go through many fluctuations

Struggling to read your mind

Towards your soul, I feel inclined

Inclined to get to know you

But that is rather one sided

Within our conversations, I am blinded

Creating a false illusion with your words

Listening to you like a broken record

The illusory feeling of understanding

Giving me your life story, chapter after chapter

One after the other, too many vinyls

The music of our conversations, spinning around in circles

Sound vibrations becoming those of electrical signals

Electrifying between us

Signals amplified with our vibrations

Place the stylus into the grooves of our album

Reading every part of each other:

Our discussions, amplifying

These moments, gratifying

Our discourses, clarifying

Clearing our state of mind

Take this moment to unwind

There is no one else—

No other I would like to converse with.x

WORDS by MAYA KHODR ALI

ART by MAYA KHODR ALI

Autopilot

empty head aching muscles fully drained but still running mind on, a million tabs open

vibrant melodies sugar cookies sustain the mental acrobatics spinning more and more out of control

chaos erupts everywhere alarms blast nonstop— three tests tomorrow, incoming migraine attack, hide from helicopter boss, urgent call from family chat, cancel plans with Karen, health battery at 8%

smiles are lies

lips are paralyzed

eyes are bleeding the alphabet

ears are echoing words, 2X speed don’t think don’t blink don’t stop don’t sleep just rinse and repeat.x

WORDS by ELIZABETH ZHOU

ART by SANDY LUU

Amongst the Wine

She watched the train and the wind hit her face. There was security, like she was wearing a helmet. She promised she would keep the momentum, But for a moment there, everything was— Still.

Her future was but a set of constellations. They spun blurry and let go of her.

So much so, she threw glass outside the house. She needed to know if it was real like they said. If she closed her eyes, she saw herself laying down in a meadow. The grass was cushionary like the sofa from her old house. But once she opened them, she saw four white walls.

She sat down.

Guests lined the long table. Mahogany or oak. There was chatter, like white noise. The murmurs settled low to the floor and she heard her own thoughts pour amongst the Wine.

ART by ELIZABETH WINSTANLEY WORDS by ELIZABETH WINSTANLEY

Left behind, -- ---- ----?

in our wake, we leave behind the things that ache, carrying our deepest secrets.

i came home and found my old bed metal headboard rusted same yellow sheets the pillow i’ve had since i was born shriveled in the corner was it just me or did my bed seem so much (c)older?

after i argued with my husband i noticed the clock hanging in the dining room had stopped working 10:10 stuck in a permanent smile watching us while my family slowly fell apart was it just me or did the clock seem so much sadder?

i went to the auto shop to check my car after the accident the side was smashed in the headrest previously decorated with daisies torn to shreds hanging in front of the rearview mirror the hanging grizz charm ripped in half my sweater still sat in the back my dirty nikes still below them some things scathed some things untouched was it just me or did my car seem so much emptier?

in my wake, i left a trail of memories, the things i couldn’t bring with me but can’t live withoutx

WORDS by ROYA MOTAZEDIAN ART by MARA LI

A Day at School

A building made with many halls I really do not want to play a wicked game of grades today. Chipped paint and traces mar the walls.

The halls are filled with seas to face. I would be better at the stress, if only we had more time, not less. I wish I had that sort of grace.

A constant loop day after day I want to truly be good, And stop doubting if I could. Do we ever get a say in what we do in school today?

This is just like my yesterday. My brain is dead, tired, and sore. I wish they won’t give us work anymore. Why do I come here everyday?

The crowds of people in the halls, feelings and secrets on the walls. I can never tell when I will fall; I do not want to see them all.

Only one thing will make me stay: I think maybe they’ll never see, why this is so important to me. I wonder if they’re here today.x

WORDS by DORA XU

ART by DORA XU

metamorphosis

Butterflies cocooned and bloomed, Crawling out of cages from which they grew, Without a care in the world, Completely ignorant to their doom.

Metamorphosis came to life, Ignite. As if liberty had arrived. The two, side by side, The monarchs and my love set flight.

Hand in hand, we danced and sang, I held her as she wept and rang, Through whispered secrets, promised thoughts, Acquainted through our new remarks, We shared some aliquots of woes, With the highs, Juxtaposed.

And though untouched, Her walls came crashing down. Torments escaped, Finding home, And taking shape, Amidst my heart: agape.

Through this all, I held a rotting truth inside: A lullaby to internalize, How I faced Love with lie.

My intentions were so pure and bold, Yet my uncertainties were true and cold –Tainted with a corrupting hold.

Most haunting was the final night, I caught a naive butterfly, Blue alike the sea or sky, A flick of green, to match her eye. She pulled me in, her face aglow And whispered softly, “I love you so.”

I hesitated, feeling unsure And pulled away, without a word: Vain dances to avoid her pain, A formulated waltz, to hide the shame.

When she drew the curtains back, I could not wince, scream, nor shout. Perhaps it was forgotten dates, Or occasions I came back late, Perfume or foreign locks on my estate.

Without contest, it was clear: I tied myself to bear this fate.

Our gaze intertwined, Coursing shivers along my spine. “Please, let’s try this one more time”: A demoralizing chime commemorates a heinous crime.

A crimson heartbreak on the stand, Through thickened blood, She squirmed, grabbed, choked, and drowned.

A heart once set aflame, now impaled, Guilting evidence soaked the blade, My hands, it held:

Cold, and grave. x

WORDS by P.R.

ART by HARMELA CELESTIN

ART by SHREYA CHAUHAN

The Wall Between Us

The wall between us Is big and thick. I built it myself, Brick by brick.

Every “what if?”

Every doubt in my mind Is engraved in each stone Line by line.

The bricks pile up quick! But ever since I met you, I stack them one by one Instead of two by two.

The wall between us Grows and grows More slowly, mind you, but still Row by row.

You try to knock it down. You try to break through. But the wall is too thick, too strong, Even for you.

What am I to do?

I’ve constructed this wall for years. All the stones thrown at me Now shield me from my fears.

But I forgot a small detail, A detail most people forget about: I forgot to leave a small hole For you to crawl in and out.

You tell me to stop. You tell me “It’s okay.”

“Stop stacking those bricks! Make them go away!”

“I can’t!” I cry back, Hoping you can hear. “These stones are too strong! They’re made of blood, sweat, and tears.”

I stack another brick, Adding this doubt to the wall. How can I ever be loved With a wall so tall?

But you, sweet you, Begin to pick at the brick. You watch the little crumbs fall From the wall so thick.

You pick at it today, You pick at it tomorrow, And I let you sweep away Those little crumbs of sorrow.

The wall between us Is still very thick Is still very tall Built brick by brick.

But you pick at it now, And you picked at it then. Why, oh why, do you Pick at it again?

There is still so much wall Left for you to undo But slowly I find myself Picking at it too.

You talk to me – pick You hold my hand – a crumb You stick around – falls And slowly I understand

That the wall between us Will never go away. The wall between us Is here to stay.

But the hope that such a wall Could crumble and fall Makes me wonder, believe, hope That maybe this is what love is–after all.x

WORDS by JESSICA KIM

ART by MARA LI

incite

Sensitive Content: This work contains sensitive content which some people may find offensive or disturbing.

The Mathematician

1975. The colloquium.

A vast auditorium with a sloping concrete ceiling and exposed trusses. Harsh lights and a spotlight on the podium. Stale cigarette smoke, perspiration, and chalk run through the HVAC air currents. Eddies of smoke and dust swirl like cyclones in the yellow light of that spotlight. This is the conference where “P vs. NP” will be proven. Not disproven. Proof. Not the million-dollar question but the five-million-dollar question, the fields medal question, the one that will put it all to rest, and you can take your cardboard box and your severance pay and ship off to Vancouver to live in a Lincoln log cabin in the Pacific rainforest. A complete theorem for the proof of P vs. NP will be presented tonight by a nobody borderline schizophrenic mathematician from New England with a flimsy PhD publication in a university print and some post-doctoral research that was poorly received and never led anywhere. Dots and lines on a grid spread thinly and with no narrative: incoherent.

Eight clean blackboards. A sliding ladder. An unopened box of chalk sticks, and a carton of filter less camels on the podium. A wiry man in a three-piece suit. Dark spots under his arms and under his eyes. A paranoid fixation with touching his face. Slicked back hair and a forehead glistening with sweat. So the story goes. He pulls the first board down from the top left corner, a couple of feet above his outstretched arm with a boat hook, and brings it level with his hand. A long thin stick of chalk in between the thumb and index, a long thin stick of tobacco in between the middle and ring, burning already to the knuckle as the mathematician drags long hard hits on it like he’s afraid it’ll grow wings and fly away.

He’s filled the first board.

Before he can push it away and start the next one, the journalists file into the front row with their Mamiya press cams and snap blinding flash photos of the board. These contact sheets will be archived as “Board 1-PNP” or something like that. The mathematician flinches at every slap of the shutter. At every flash of the bulb. I am a caged animal. I am kingdom come and I am the inferno. He restarts scratching out his theorem on the next chalk board. Silence returns to the auditorium.

The sixth board.

Half a carton of unfiltered camels, a dozen sticks of chalk, and six contact sheets for the journalists to archive. The attendees have filled their composition notebooks by now. They are Watching in awe. It is a symphony. It is a piano concerto. It is Charlie Bird Parker playing Caravan in the back of a jazz club. The mathematician has a puddle at his feet. Not a metaphysical puddle. Not a literary metaphor of a puddle. A salty puddle of sweat at his feet and dripping over his hard bottom shoes. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his oil slick nose after every symbol he carves into the blackboard. If you were bold enough to think at that moment, you might think he was getting sloppy up there. The mathematician was in a rhythm. A broken-spoke, clipped wing rhythm. A syncopated rhythm. scratch push drag scratch push drag scratch push drag. I am a caged animal. I am kingdom come. I am the inferno. A cough at the back of the room breaks the mathematician’s concentration. He slips up. The piece of chalk loosely gripped between his thumb and index is momentarily swapped with the cigarette between his middle and ring; one misfire, one synapse that didn’t quite reach threshold. The mathematician plants the stick of chalk between his sweat-soaked, dehydrated lips and drags. In the same motion, he stabs the chalkboard with the cigarette, snubbing it out into an epsilon. The mathematician’s shoulders tense.

A laugh escapes from the first row. An anxious unintentional please-let-thisbe-over-did-that-really-happen-laugh that creeps out of your throat before you realize that you’re laughing at. Another a few rows back. More now. More as the tension in the room is finally released in this brief instant of comic relief.

A wave. A tidal wave. A tsunami. The mathematician is awash in the wake of the laughter at his back. The laughter he can’t face. He could never face. The waves knock him down and he can’t scramble to his knees before losing his balance again. In a last-ditch effort to regain composure; to get some sort of control over this— the mathematician looks to the low rafters above him. How sweet it would be. How lovely it would be. To take that thick twelve-foot extension cord from the podium. To toss it over the rafters and tie a beautiful noose. No turning back now. Face the music. Step up on that podium. Take off your jacket and your vest. Slip it around your neck. The laughter is impossibly loud. The punchline is coming, and the audience can’t wait. This is the divine comedy. Talk about crowd control. In a final act of bravery, the mathematician turns around on his perch atop the high podium— his makeshift gallows and faces the audience. The mathematician steps off the podium falling six feet from the raised platform and is arrested instantly by the cable with his feet missing the linoleum floor by a centimetre.

The mathematician’s lifeless body swings back and forth between the beam of the spotlight. A strobing puppet show on the seventh chalk board. The pendulum in a grandfather clock. Illuminating and darkening the ashy epsilon. The unfinished proof that lived in the mathematician’s brain and on his tallow legal pad that he burned in a garbage bin six hours ago. The theorem that would never be proved because there would never be a mind like this because there was never a mind like this. Not before we start killing each other on a scorched earth and no one gives a damn about mathematics because they’re too busy killing each other. This is kingdom come. This is the heavens splitting the sky with preternatural light and the ground cracking open to the sulfuric hot flesh of the earth. This is the eternal binary.

The red faces of the audience members clutching their stomachs in discomfort from their laughter. Wiping tears from their eyes. Retching. Suffocating. Falling from their seats or just slumping quietly off to the comfort of that chair and the comfort of the hypoxic laughter. The warmth of the release of not knowing. Of never knowing again.x

WORDS by MATTHEW NICHOLSON ART by MICHELLE NICOL

Have you ever stolen a moment of it, and thought about what you were taking?

That second.

That year.

The time you stole. Run, little thief, run.

But for what, I wonder?

What would you steal time for? Who would you steal time for?

Poor little thief, I hope it was worth it.

Because the world never stops turning And time doesn’t have a final destination

You do

So run, little thief, run

Steal time, memories and so many opportunities

Steal it all.

Because the world never stops turningx

WORDS by HJ PREST

ART by SANDY LUU

Fleeting

I only feel motivated in the hours between late night and early morning. When everyone but the birds are asleep. It is then that I become overwhelmed...

With a desire to make something of my life. To do something that would bring me joy, And hopefully, make a difference.

This euphoria lasts for what feels like a lifetime And the blink of an eye all at the same time.

And as the sun comes up, My ennui and anxieties return. As if I had never had faith in myself. As if I hadn’t felt invincible mere moments ago.

I wait for these moments to strike, Hoping to keep the memory of my confidence alive. So that I can achieve happiness...

And one day look at the rising sun in triumph. Because I found success and joy, despite its stealthy rays.x

ART by MAHEK MARKER

WORDS by ANNA SAMSON

Life on the Move with Lizzie

I’m sure everyone here knows that life is always on the move. Time flies when you’re having fun, right? I know mine does, at least. But I’m sure you are also aware that movement usually means friction, and friction means trouble. That’s why I, Lizzie, am here to help you with all the natural problems in life, when you feel that friction overpowering your movement. You write in, telling me about your deepest, darkest secrets, your love triangles, your family struggles, anything you could possibly be dealing with, and I write back telling you what might help. Don’t forget, we have three fresh submissions every week, so don’t hesitate to write in, maybe I can help!

Daniel writes:

“Dear Lizzie, I’ve been petrified to tell anyone this, but I figured you were the best person to tell first. I’m gay. I can handle telling my friends and family, but there’s one person left… how do I tell my girlfriend I’m gay? Also, how do I tell my boyfriend I’ve been cheating on him with my girlfriend?”

Dear Daniel,

That’s quite the pickle! In this case, the only advice I can offer is to just rip the bandaid off quickly, don’t make it worse for you or her. You both deserve to be happy and it’s unfortunately one of those scenarios where you both may hurt for a bit. Make it a time where she can reach out to others for support and just be honest. And for the cheating, just don’t tell him! What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Secrets to protect others are always the best way to go, in my opinion. Good luck, Daniel!

Samantha writes:

“Dear Lizzie, my boyfriend hasn’t told his friends about us and doesn’t know why I’m so upset about it. We’ve been together for five months and hasn’t even mentioned that he’s seeing anyone. I’ve seen on his phone that they even try to set him up with other girls and he never says anything, just makes excuses about being too busy or not interested. I don’t want to live a lie, and I feel like he just doesn’t want to commit to me, but I’m not ready to give up on the relationship.”

Dear Samantha,

That’s a tough position to be in! It’s hard when someone you care about and respect doesn’t give that same treatment back. Especially because, as I’m sure all the readers here can agree, five months is a long time to wait. Have you stopped to think about why he doesn’t want to tell his friends about you? The first thing that comes to mind is a friend I had in a similar position. Her boyfriend was paranoid because all post relationships had ended right after he had told his friends about them. He was convinced he would “jinx” the relationship by sharing it with others and he didn’t want to risk losing what they had by sharing it with friends and family. What actually happened, though, was she ended up helping him through it and they told his family soon after! Unfortunately, they broke up just one week later, so maybe he was right. I’m not saying that’s a likely scenario, but it’s always a possibility that he’s acting on some sort of fear, right? At the end of the day, only you know your boyfriend, not me, and not any of the readers, so it’s up to you to decide if it’s something like that, or something a little fishier. Maybe his friends are the problem; do you think any of them could be dangerous or predatory? Make sure you’re acting with caution if this is the case. Alternatively, there’s always the possibility that he’s hiding a bigger part of his life from you because he’s breaking your trust. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but have you considering he could be cheating? Oftentimes we want to look on the bright side, or hope it’s the best-case scenario, but don’t just see the best option and go with that. Follow your gut and seek out answers! It seems like you guys need to sit down and have a good, long chat. If you don’t get any answers from that, search his phone, reach out to his friends, or blackmail him if you must. I know it’s not always the best route to go down, but sometimes we need to beat cheaters at their own game.

Mandy writes:

“Dear Lizzie, I don’t know what to do. At school, I’m the head cheerleader, the prom queen, the queen bee. Everyone thinks I’m feminine, and pretty, and girly but I’m not! I feel like I’m not even me, just what I’m supposed to be. I want to be masculine, and join the wrestling team. I want to be muscular. I want to be the real me, but I’m scared my boyfriend will leave me if I stop being feminine and my friends will think I’m weird.

Dear Mandy,

I say, just go for it. Chop your hair, get some box dye, change your look, cut up your clothes, quit cheer, join wrestling, or wear a suit to prom if that’s what makes you happy. Do what you have to, to feel like yourself. If your friends leave you, they weren’t friends to begin with. If your boyfriend isn’t into it, it’s okay to outgrow your partners sometimes, don’t hold yourself back because of it. Whether or not your friends and family agrees doesn’t matter! Just be you, I say it’s okay! At the end of the day, if you lose all your friends and your boyfriend leaves you, I’m sure the kids you may have thought were weird will embrace you with open arms. They’re just like anyone else, finding new ways to express themselves even if it means not fitting in. I’m sure there are more people at your school like you than you think. Wrestling will be full of new connections and it’s worth exploring who you might want to be, in case it’s who you really are. At the end of the day, to anyone that leaves, f*ck them!x

WORDS by ALIYAH SUMAR

ART by JANELLE PUALENGCO

strawberry seeds

constantly pumping. losing herself with every push being picked at like strawberries on a bush this heart expels love the goodness and purity within her it wishes to keep beating but cannot ensure this will occur as her veins return empty she does not receive back what she gives now with a closing void inside her every heartbeat, may be the last one she lives life is a cycle powered by love like strawberries, it can be sweet but unless you plant some more seeds there may no longer be a treat x

ART by RUSHAIDA KHAN WORDS by RIA PATEL

blink and you’ll miss it incite

Perhaps I’ll finally come to terms with fate

Relentless, the worries of a fraught mind

ART by THOMAS RUFFO

freediver

WORDS by MARA LI

ART by MARA LI

i want to dive into the deep in the dream of my slumberless sleep may i rage and writhe and forget i’m alive when i let myself dive to the deep

i want to dive into the dark where the ache of my thoughts can be far let me silence my voice and forfeit all choice when i let myself dive to the dark

i want to dive into the dredge so i may drift down past the edge

to a forest of waves

and the feral mermaids when i let myself dive to the dredge

i want to dive into the dire and float in the light of the mire that pale glow will seek out the tears on my cheek when i let myself dive to the dire

i want to dive into the depths where my heartbeat and footsteps and breaths can be swallowed whole by the pressures below when i let myself dive to the depths

i want to dive into the dim where the currents and riptides within can tear me apart from my treacherous heart when i let myself dive to the dim

i want to dive into my doom where i can return with the moon to a dream from afar and the skies and the stars when i let myself dive to my doomx

A Garden of Hearts

ART

by

SANDY LUU

WORDS by HANNAH TAYLOR

A flower bloomed inside my heart for you: First pink, then red, as my blood seeped through. A carnation, bright and bold, For you, to have and hold.

You kissed its petals, you inhaled its scent, Then you dropped it, and went, For there she was, with a ripe red rose, And I was merely yours to dispose.

My carnation, now yellow and old, Has withered and died in my hold. I buried it under the willow tree, and said a prayer, For all the broken-hearted ones who tread there.

Weeds sprouted up inside my heart; With a cry, I tore them all apart. Nothing shall grow in this heart of mine! Nothing, until the end of time!

The days go by, the days grow cold, Yet I have a new love to hold. Another flower has grown inside my heart, And this time, we shall never be apart.

For this flower has bloomed just for me: A beautiful, bright white lily. I stroke its petals; I caress its stem. This flower I shall never condemn.

I keep my lily inside my heart. From there, it shall never depart, For it is for the one who loves me most, And that, dear reader, is the flower’s host.x

My earliest distinct memory of baba was at four or five years old. Alone, my sister and I waited. An early clinic shift allowed him to roll in at 8:30 p.m., albeit exhausted, drained, and reeking of the sanitary scent of hospital waiting rooms. He walked in with some fresh stew – ashe sabzi – and stone-crafted Persian flatbread. We embraced baba – each of us wrapping our arms around one leg of his scrubs. He reached down and gave me a kiss on my forehead.

When we first landed in Canada, we stayed at a small hotel in PEI. I was seven. Through crying and whining relentlessly to my parents, I pleaded that we travel home to Iran. I missed my grandparents. I longed for the corner store where grandma bought me saffron ice cream sandwiches with tiny pieces of pistachios embedded inside.

I screamed and threw fits, refusing explanations about a “greater good”. Baba ended a call on his old Nokia and picked me up, throwing me up into the air like I was two again. “Be quiet now”. His face looked strained – he must’ve been talking to the immigration lawyer again. My snotty tears soaked his white tank-top as he continued rocking me over his shoulder.

On the second day, I’ll never forget the first grocery run, where baba walked four kilometers to the nearest store. The remnants of winter were present, as he trotted from our hotel suite, alone, through frosted sidewalks. I can imagine the look on his face when he entered, as he was surrounded by colourful scripture almost certainly not covered in his introductory English classes. There were no burlap sacks of basmati rice or cardamom tea, with authentic scents that required no dazzling introduction. Instead, he faced a maze of aisles, with products that seeped of artificial scents and colours – an oversaturated reality. As my sister and I kept ourselves busy with new programs on the TV, baba arrived with the breakfast groceries. But, we quickly realized the milk tasted slightly off. Although the box looked normal, a closer inspection revealed: 3.25% pasteurized goat milk. A slight oversight on his part.

In fourth grade, we moved to Toronto. After all, there weren’t many opportunities for immigrant professionals in the maritimes. The folks were nice, but openings for work, education, and overall progress could only be found in the city. The Canadian Dream doesn’t roll off the tongue quite as gracefully.

However, being shy of 10 years old, I needed someone to play with; a leg to cling to; a parent who listened. All of which are roles rarely fulfilled in the typical trajectory of an immigrant narrative; after all, there exists only so much time in a day. The cutthroat nature of city life drained maman and baba quickly, both unable to land jobs. The two of them were like discarded remnants of a previous time in an ancient land, shiny tools left untouched, accumulating rust and dust with each passing week.

Each day, they were either in class or studying at home to pass certification exams. I knew they were busy, but what had I done to deserve this? Detached from family — both those in sight and those across the ocean — I felt lonely, unloved and neglected. Voicing a need for love could never provide a proportional return.

Annoying my sister or causing mischief were always more successful at amassing the attention I needed.

As the year went on, I grew distant and cold, finding different ways to amuse myself. The slightest inconvenience pushed me over the edge and fights were sought without remorse. In the aftermath, the yelling matches always left me drained. I never quite succeeded at the redundant battles I picked, fighting without a cause.

The details always stuck out following the bloodshed. Baba’s age was showing, as a few white strands were appearing in his sideburns. Each time he walked away, I could tell that his balance was always off-kilter: his left foot always dragging slightly behind, refusing to comply.

Following a turbulent stay in Toronto, we moved to Niagara. It was an exotic town to call home, with its trademark waterfalls and lakes. My parents landed jobs, which felt like the first stable beginning in all my life. Year after year, baba persisted through both the fights and momentary ceasefires. It was only in leaving that regret set root, and guilt began to bloom.

A new job for my mom had popped up out of province, in the prairies, the summer before my leaving for university. Yet again, a new chapter. Being further away from my parents was thrilling to me – an independence I had yearned for years. You grow up quick in such a life. But, the downside is that one feels as though they need no one else. As though my triumphs and accomplishments were my true companions.

As we finished packing up the last box, I noticed baba panting and sweating as he stumbled onto the couch. He stood back up promptly and told me to stop playing on my phone: “Let’s finish this last one, I don’t want you to be late”.

When baba was tired, the stumble in his walk was much more pronounced. I winced and said goodbye. He gave me a hug and I told him to be careful, though I had never seen him fall. He turned away and went back up the stairs: Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot.

Living away ended up being the hardest moments of my life. Each time I flew over, I noticed the decline. Multiple sclerosis, MS, is characterized by a loss of insulation around the nerves. In a sense, his body sent messages that never reached their destination. In true baba style, his body was stubborn and disobliging. A tether restraining a brilliant man. To him, it was just another puzzle or surgery – an eternal game which he had yet to figure out.

In these brief encounters, I always remembered feeling like a fool. How foolish I was to overlook the love in the cakes he baked on Sunday afternoons. The fatherly advice I never took. Kisses symbolized by the bowls of pomegranates and strawberries he made when I was sick, or the tiny reading glasses he wore when helping with my homework between classes. The long walks to the grocery store –What I would give to be back in the hotel kitchen, staring at the carton of goat milk.

Perhaps the world did not deserve someone like him, and neither did I.

However, he trudged on as if it was a mere inconvenience. He never brought it up, so neither did we. Times like those made me question fairness and the creator: a childish frustration towards the imperfections in life – as if an altruistic justice could exist in this cruel world.

Martyrdom, sacrifice, and intensity. Compassion, love, and selflessness. Baba always taught through example with the highest expectations, yet never revealed the extent of his suffering. Perhaps it was the distance and time, or maybe it was the course of the disease that pulled back the curtains. It was the beginning of a rotting, growing guilt. Decisions as an ignorant child now leave me facing the consequences of those fleeting moments lost to time, a lingering regret and shame in all the chances I let pass me by. The independence I sought, when all I knew was built upon his love and thoughtfulness.

It took too long. Much too long for me to realize that Baba will not be here forever. That his stoic frame will break down, and sheer stubbornness is not sufficient to propel his machine forth. There exists time, however, to make things right.

Like a message that never reached its destination, his love was always there. I just had to look.x

WORDS by P.R. ART by MAHEK MARKER

Intersection Introspection

We are like two cars honking

Each believing we have the right of way

And blinded by the headlights of our own assumptions

A fiery encounter of passion and connection when faced head on But easily forgotten by the next intersection

Without an explanation

Fleeting was this encounter like a spark plug

Umpire, please referee this match made in hell before we combust

Could you have just indicated your intentions in the first place?

Keeping that in mind, would I have even listened beyond the directions of my own GPS?

Yielding to our own perception

Onlookers stare with great curiosity at this flaming mess

U-turned my way back to you x

WORDS by GAIL DEL CASTILLO ART by THOMAS RUFFO

yesterday's present

growing up, i always imagined a man swinging from lamppost to lamppost whenever i was in my parents’ car

flipping through the sky, post to post, he sails through the gusts to match my dad’s car on cruise control

i didn’t really grow up close with my parents, and the swinging man filled the awkward silence on drives back from the extracurriculars that all asian parents put their kid through

i hated having to do so many extracurriculars, but all my immigrant parents wanted was for their son to be he/him, because they wanted me to be him

but i didn’t see that as a kid, i hated them and everything they wanted me to be

i was too focused on the swinging man while they kept pushing me to do more and more, to be more and more

trapped in a current of the present, i put my feelings in a bottle as my parents carried me through tumultuous seas, to a destination that only they knew

and i couldn’t break free of this motion. the more i fought, the deeper the current became, until the bottle popped, and a grip on my soul threw me in the air

i was sky high, on the top of the world, and the forces which trapped me were nothing but a gust of wind now

and then i started falling—

as the sky grew further, i wondered, did the swinging man fall too?

powerless and trapped by gravity, my fingers slipped away from the metal poles. how did he grab them?

and as the sky grows further, i wish i had some of currents that my parents put me through the currents that hit me when i messed up on a test, or the ones that pushed me to be more and more

but they will never be as strong as they used to be because the grey hairs in my fathers head and the wrinkles under his eyes are signs that he’s pushed me enough

and i can’t hug my mother like when i did as a kid because of her aging bones

i want to go back to the days when i would go to costco and look at all the books while my parents went shopping

and i was so stupid when i was “trapped” in the motions they put me through. it’s a dog eat dog world out here, and all they wanted was for me to eat instead of be eaten

but all dogs go to heaven, so who will feed me when they ascend to the sky?x

ART by QUINN HA

WORDS by QUINN HA

ART by YILIN JIANG

An End of Sorts

Floating endlessly through this hole in the ground

Not sure anymore if I’m falling down or flying up Things dissolving away and events passing by I don’t really know where the time has gone, but here we are I see the faces of those I knew and befriended, going onto their next chapters, floating through their own hole in the ground I’m studying in Burgundy. I got a full-time offer in the States. My internship is in London. People who intersect with your life, popping in like the supporting cast of a sitcom, are now written off, and on their own trajectory I keep going forward but can’t help but notice sometimes the crushing weight asking whether I’m making the right choice or whether I’m doing the most that I can or whether I’m being the best person I can be

But

I gotta drop that baggage like my overstuffed backpack and enjoy the walk home unbothered

There is no quota to meet

The events and eras of my past aren’t defined by large accomplishments but the minutiae of the little details

The hole in the ground is leading nowhere except where I need to be I can only act in the way I know is right and everything will come accordingly.x

ART by LAUREN FERREIRA

WORDS by ALAN MINKOVICH

Standing Still

How do I stand still in a world that never stops moving?

This question pokes and prods in the back of my mind after every inconvenience. What if I never taste the sweet nectar of standing still? This begs the question: how do I stand still? Shall I let the world move past me while I wallow in silence? How do I find balance when I have no scale?

The storm before the calm shifts everything into perspective. The broken pieces are scattered around to reveal the bigger picture, and you finally understand that the life you’ve created for yourself is a series of reflections of other people. The shadows loom over me every step of the way, beckoning me to keep going. They whisper, “This is all you’re ever going to be in life.” They push through until there’s nothing left.

The life I’ve built, the house that crumbles underneath me, the mountains I had to move to be where I am, and I cannot claim any cost since I am the sole bearer of responsibility. The life I clawed my way into is the same life that is clawing me down. The world’s weight is towering over me, taunting me of what lies ahead. I wish there was an answer lying within my question. A simple way out to eradicate all my worries from within. Society stares me in the face, awaiting my next move. Do I flow in with the crowd, or do I break free from this curse? All the possibilities that lie ahead: my dreams and passions that have been hidden in the depths of my mind finally have a glimmer of hope to escape. If only I could muster up the courage to stand still in a world that never stops moving.x

ART by MAHEK MARKER WORDS by MANAL EFFENDI

Sensitive

A Story About A Tree That’s Not Really About A Tree

Nelly only ever spoke to me three times in her life. The first time was the day we met: she was only a child then. I was brought to her apartment in a small box. It was a dark and lonely place, and the cardboard stank. My bark was sore, my roots were dry, and my leaves craved to see the sunlight. I was tired. I had travelled a long journey. One day, I was in the forest with my siblings. The next, I was uprooted and shoved into a box – completely alone. So, when Nelly lifted me out of the box, I didn’t know what to expect.

The first thing she did was hold me up high. She studied me, and I studied her. She was not particularly beautiful; she had a round face and a sharp nose. Her plain brown hair ran straight down her ears and was cut abruptly at her shoulders in a too-straight line. Freckles splattered across her face, and she pursed her thin lips tightly – I soon learned she only did this when she was thinking. Her eyes, however, caught my attention: they were a misty grey, like a cloud – but you never knew if this cloud would shield you from the sun or start pouring on you miserably.

Content: This work contains sensitive content which some people may find offensive or disturbing.

“Look mom!” she called. A woman, who looked nothing like Nelly, walked in the room. She was radiant: her blond hair glowed, and her skin was the colour of a sunset.

“Wow, a tree… Is it real?” The woman grimaced.

“Dad’s postcard says it is.”

Nelly’s mother rolled her eyes.

“Classic Dan. He can’t send us money to buy a car, but heaven forbid we need a tree!” She left the room, uninterested, as Nelly and I continued to stare at each other. Finally, she spoke aloud:

“What does a tree need?”

Suddenly, a rectangular device, the size of a hand, illuminated. Device began to speak in an automated voice: “A tree is a living organism. It has a long trunk and branches with leaves. It converts carbon dioxide into oxygen. It needs sunlight, soil, and water to survive.”

Nelly looked at Device, then me, then Device again.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She turned to me, her lips folding into a smile. I always liked it when she smiled.

“You’re going to be happy here. Want some water?”

As she weaved me through her mother’s apartment, I discovered that I was in her ‘living room’ – though there was hardly anything ‘living’ about it – and we moved to her ‘bedroom,’ though it was not much better than the living room. Her bedroom was small, very pink, and had no other trees or living things in it. She set me down on the windowsill, overlooking what the humans called ‘the concrete jungle.’ If I hadn’t known better, I would have believed that Nelly and I were the only two living souls in this strange ‘concrete jungle’ of a world.

Nelly came back with a small glass of water and poured it into the soil. I immediately sighed with relief; the water made the crusty soil soft again, and it quenched my thirst. I felt the molecules tickle the tips of my roots, then slowly rise, rejuvenating my system. I thanked her quietly.

“Dad sent you from far away. He always sends me the best most bestest gifts for my birthday.” She grabbed the life-size stuffed bear off her bed and shoved it in my face.

“He got me Beary last year! And oh! Let me show you this necklace he got me – OUCH! Stupid table… Look here, that’s a real diamond, you know.” She dangled the necklace in front of me just for a moment before putting it back hastily. She then reached under her bed and pulled out a canvas almost the size of her little body. She struggled to hold it up as she showed it to me: there was paint splattered everywhere on it, with shades of blues and greens intertwined with one another. I didn’t know exactly what it was supposed to be, and as it turned out, Nelly didn’t either.

“He got me this the year before that,” she squeaked, still struggling to hold it up. Finally, she gave up and set it down, pursing her lips. “I don’t even know what it is.”

Suddenly, the cloud in her eyes grew thick. She shoved the artwork back under her bed.

“He thinks these gifts make me feel better, but they don’t. He wants me to forgive him for leaving mom and I, but I never will. That’s four gifts. Four birthdays gone by. I wish he would just come home.” She stood there for a moment, alone – but hardly alone – as I sat still on the windowsill and made another molecule of oxygen. And then another.

Breathe Nelly, breathe.

But it didn’t make a difference. Humans, I soon learned, tend to miss these little things.

For the first couple of days, Nelly tended to me like I was her child. She watered me every day, lightly touching my leaves here and there. It tickled, but I didn’t mind. We didn’t say much to each other, but I didn’t mind that either: it was me and Nelly – Nelly and I – against the strange concrete jungle. But eventually, Nelly grew bored. She kept checking on me, pursing her lips, as though something extraordinary might have happened overnight or while she was at school. And extraordinary things did happen: my leaves grew a millimeter longer that week; my stem grew stronger; I grew half a millimeter taller. Every day, I accepted the sun’s gift – took carbon dioxide from the air – broke the molecules –BOOM – and assembled them back together in a most intricate way no human could ever understand – but still, Nelly grew bored.

Many seasons drifted by in silence. In fact, Nelly didn’t speak to me again until she was a teenager. However, our time together was no less meaningful: I learned a lot about Nelly from the windowsill. First, I learned that Device was her best friend. They did everything together.

Device woke Nelly every morning with a sweet melody and told her the weather so that she could dress accordingly. They would go to school together, come home together, and even play games together. Whenever her mother was out, Nelly would ask Device to search for dinner recipes, and Device, in her usual automated voice, would list a couple, some of which Nelly would try, but most of the time would ignore and settle for macaroni instead. Sometimes, Nelly would bring human friends over to talk about the latest fashion trends, complain about homework, and gossip about boys. Yet, Nelly would never ask them about drugs or sex, like she asked Device. Often, when her human friends brought up topics she didn’t know about, she would just nod and follow along with them, only to later ask Device what the hell a blow job was. I sometimes wondered if she could ever be as close to a living being as she was close with Device. She clearly wanted to be, and her friends too, but it was as though they didn’t know how to – then again, humans tend to miss these little things.

It didn’t help that her mother was not around much either. That was the second thing I learned about Nelly: she regularly picked fights with her mother, whom she now started calling “Cassandra.” I rarely saw Cassandra, and Nelly saw her even less. Sometimes, Cassandra would walk into Nelly’s room while she was at school, usually muttering something like “look at this mess!” before disappearing into the bathroom to borrow some of Nelly’s jewelry. Cassandra’s Device was forever yelling at her to go out on dates to cure her of her loneliness, so she went out almost every night, seeing different men, the lucky ones twice in a row.

I could tell this bothered Nelly, but I knew it was only because she didn’t inherit her mother’s looks. In fact, every day, Nelly would stand before the mirror, picking apart her appearance, deciding which tops accentuated her small breasts and which jeans made her look fat. She applied her mother’s lipstick too, trying to mimic her face, but it was never enough.

Nelly wasn’t very good at taking care of me either. It wasn’t her fault: her mother never showed her how. Still, it didn’t change the fact that I needed her, and she needed me. The day she outgrew her training bra, I outgrew my container. I had a thick stem now, and at least thirty leaves. My roots grew so large that they got tangled with each other in the tiny pot. I was so claustrophobic, it was unbearable. Nelly didn’t water me regularly either – she’d forget about it for weeks, then dump buckets over my head whenever she remembered. Since the pot had no drainage, my roots started to feel funny, sitting in water for so long. For the first time in my life, one of my leaves turned brown, but Nelly didn’t notice – then again, humans tend to miss these little things. Her only constant was the birthday gifts. It didn’t matter if she was fighting with Cassandra; it didn’t matter if she failed her math test; it didn’t matter if she was feeling ugly or bitter that day – every year, without fail, as soon as she heard the front door knock, Nelly would rush out of her room to collect that wonderful package.

She would then return, plop down on her bed, the mist in her eyes gentle, and slowly open the cardboard box. When she was younger, she liked the gifts a lot: a doll, a charm bracelet, some story books… But, when the gifts kept coming for a little girl that was not-so little anymore, she started shoving them in her closet. This didn’t seem to bother her though – she just liked opening that cardboard box on the same day, every year.

Rather, what annoyed her was the postcards. She used to write to her father often, and he would sometimes reply, always on some corny postcard, and that was enough. But really – it wasn’t enough. I would watch her mental dilemma every time one arrived: if she was feeling nostalgic, she would add them to her birthday collection in her closet. Yet, if she was feeling particularly cross with everyone that day, her father’s postcard would be the icing on the cake. After reading his two short sentences, she would throw it out, rolling her eyes like Cassandra.

The day she got her period was the day she received the last postcard from her father. The letters had been growing even more distant apart for some time now, each one seeming more of a lie than the last. Six months ago, he had climbed Mount Everest with his buddies. Eight months before that, he was sleeping in caves under waterfalls. This time, he was in the desert living with monks. I read the postcard as Nelly tossed it in the trash: I think this is it, Nel. My days running away from loneliness are over; I am now choosing happiness. “Well good fucking for you,” was all she muttered as she buried his words with her blood-stained underwear. She didn’t even purse her lips.

Two weeks later, Cassandra broke the news.

“He loved you very much dear. He’s in a better place now.”

Nelly stayed mute. She didn’t accept nor reject her mother’s hug, but Cassandra removed her arms anyway. I now had three brown leaves. My heart clenched as I watched one of them fall.

“I sent you a therapy app to download. It can help you get through this.”

It took everything in me to make another oxygen molecule – something was definitely wrong with my roots. All the same, I focused on Nelly. I needed her, and she needed me.

Breathe Nelly, breathe.

Only when Cassandra left the room did Nelly allow herself to weep. She wept like a dog, alone – but hardly alone – on her silly pink rug. They were not silent tears – no – these were sobs: huge, pathetic sobs. Her entire body heaved as she gasped for air, staggering to her closet to let all the teddy bears, jewelry, and other birthday extravaganzas tumble on the floor. There would be no more from now on.

She clutched Beary, holding onto him for dear life, as though that stuffed animal could shield her from the pain the living suffer. But that bear knew nothing – he hadn’t been sitting on the windowsill this entire time. I reached for the light and made another oxygen molecule.

Breathe Nelly, breathe.

As if she heard, her gaze landed upon me, the cloud in her eyes thick.

“What are you looking at?” she cried, before launching Beary straight at me, knocking me down. I fell on the floor with a thump, soil spilling everywhere as the pot shattered. This was the second time Nelly spoke to me, and I was afraid: my branches were bent in odd places, and the coolness of the room weaved itself around my roots. This made Nelly weep even more. I released more oxygen molecules, but she didn’t notice –then again, humans tend to miss these little things. I watched, helplessly, as her loneliness wrapped around her like a cold, wet blanket. Eventually she dozed off, but she still tossed and turned all night – the blanket made her uncomfortable.

The next day, Nelly left her room early and came back with a large pot and some new soil. She asked Device how to re-pot a plant, and together they helped me settle into my new home. My roots felt better in the dry soil, but something was still off.

No words were exchanged, but the quality time we spent together was enough.

I sighed with relief.

She wiped away a tear.

We both felt a little better.

Then things really started to go downhill.

First, Nelly cut her hair. As she left for school, I listened to Cassandra scream at her until the front door slammed. Then, the day after, she dyed it black. There was no screaming match that time – actually, there was hardly any talking at all after that. Cassandra was barely home anymore: her new boyfriend, whom she had been dating for the past month (new record!) kept her busy and out of the apartment for most days.

That’s when Nelly went through her ‘annoyed’ phase – everything got on her nerves. Her latest victim? The colour pink. Even her room, which used to be her pink sanctuary, was now a jail cell. Since Cassandra refused to have it repainted, she plastered posters of her favourite rock bands everywhere and blasted music to drown out those screaming pink walls. I often heard Cassandra tell her Device that Nelly had an “attitude problem” and that she must be “depressed or something,” but her Device would shrug it off, saying this was normal teenage behaviour. What do teenagers know about real-life problems, anyway?

Then Nelly’s birthday came and went. There was no knock on the door. There was no cardboard box. There was no gift-opening ritual on her bed. Instead, when Device woke her with her usual sweet melody, she stayed in bed for a while, allowing Device to distract her mind. When she finally got up, she slowly trudged over to her closet. She grabbed the diamond necklace – the one she showed me long ago – and attached it around her neck. It looked like it choked her. I made another oxygen molecule.

Whenever Device wasn’t showing her new fashion trends or telling her to lose weight, Nelly did therapy sessions. I remember the first session they had: Nelly sat against the windowsill beside me, clutching Device with her sweaty palms. Device, in her usual monotone voice, assured her that her feelings were “normal” and actually “quite common” among teenagers and adults, as though that was supposed to make her feel better. She clicked on images, most of them rainy days and frowny faces. It ended with a corny quote, something like “just hang in there!” I hated these sessions – as if Device could ever understand the complex emotions that living beings experience. Nonetheless, I made another oxygen molecule. Device didn’t care for her, but I did.

I worried for Nelly; with each session, her loneliness grew, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could be there for her. My leaves were browning by the minute: my roots were drowning in the drainless pot – what the humans call “root rot.” Nelly noticed my brown leaves, but she didn’t know how to fix them. After all, she couldn’t see my roots: she didn’t know where the real problem lay.

Then, one day, she brought home a boy. He was slightly taller than Nelly, with broad shoulders and a crooked nose. His eyes were empty, and Nelly’s were clouded.

“Cool room,” the boy said, sitting on her bed.

“Thanks,” she replied, absentmindedly picking up her clothes from the floor and shoving them into her closet. When she came back, he grabbed her waist and pulled her on top of him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, kissing down her neck. She pursed her lips. His shirt came off. Then hers. He reached for her pants. She grabbed his hand, hesitant. He slowly removed it. She let him. When the bedsheets were strewn and the moon was the only light that came through the window, the body of a woman emerged from the bed, cheeks shining. She closed the bathroom door; only I could hear her muffled whimpers.

Breathe Nelly, breathe.

In the morning, I watched the boy slowly get up to leave, the sun barely touching the Earth’s surface. He tiptoed towards me, reaching for his shirt, but the creaking floorboards gave him away. Nelly jolted up in bed, the sides of her t-shirt hanging loosely at her waist.

“Where are you going?”

“Nel, I can’t stay… You know that.”

She stared at him, pursing her lips, the cloud in her eyes brewing up a storm. Of course she knew, but that didn’t make it hurt less.

She could have handled it any other way – she could have yelled at him, cried, screamed, anything! Instead, she got up and slapped him. He stumbled backward, falling on top of me.

Crack. My stem snapped. My leaves crumpled.

Nelly’s heart broke.

“What did you do?” she whispered, rushing over to examine me. My whole body ached, and my limbs flopped uselessly. Still, I reached for the sun. I made another oxygen molecule.

“Nel, it was an accident. You pushed me, I didn’t mean to–”

“Get out! Get out! Get OUT!” she raged, shoving him out the door. She tried to smooth out my branches, but it was no use: I was broken in too many places.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

I know.

“It’s not my fault!”

Breathe Nelly, breathe.

“I tried…”

I know you did.

That was the last time Nelly spoke to me.

I was there when she went to the bathroom.

I was there when she grabbed the pills.

I was there when she swallowed them all, handful by handful.

I was there when she fell, alone – but hardly alone.

I was there when the medics came.

“Overdose, how sad.”

It was not the pills that killed her. Look at her roots.

“Sudden death too, the poor mother.”

It was not a sudden death. It was a slow, lonely, and painful life. Then again, humans tend to miss these little things.

I was there when they took her body away. And then I died alone – completely alone.x

ART by MARA LI

WORDS by JESSICA KIM

B oardGames

WORDS by MIKAELA GRAHLMAN ART by SANDY LUU

When we are young, we are carried into a world where rose-coloured glasses make the most sinister appear sincere at heart. Innocent minds have not yet, bared the weight of depressive thoughts, nor attempted to conclude their fate. That is until their eyes adjust,

and the shields that protected them from the horrors, that crept into their closet and beneath their bed at night become tainted with each monster they defy.

We are misled by false perceptions of realityof beauty- of what love even means.

Soon roses turn into red flags and the strings that held us ever so tightly, wither, as most relationships tend to do. We are puzzles with missing pieces, Monopoly without money, Puppets without strings. We come to accept that we are nothing. Yet, forget that we are still playing the game of Life. Unfortunately, most choose to fold before they have even reshuffled their deck.

It’s your turn now. Will you roll the dice and continue to climb the ladder? Or allow the snakes to win?x

Changes

I moved 7 times this year. Always chasing that rush of change: a new location a new vibration

Trying to find someone that fills the void of those empty spaces

Disappearing from those miserable places

Gone with no traces-

I am unstable

You will never find me

I am here for a moment

But away for eternity

I can’t offer you clarity

When I can’t even offer it to myself

You take me to those different places: a new location a new vibration

I want you to fill the void of this empty space

At first, you’re intrigued

Then you call me crazy

But darling, you brought me to this place

Abandoning me is the only answer

Triggering my wounds

But it’s okay

In a couple days, I’ll be in a new location, with a new vibration

Replacing you with yet another drug

I can’t seem to hold onto anything

As if my touch infects everything around me Falling apart at my fingertips

I can’t hold anything together Only for a short while And then you will be gone. Once again, I am left alone I believe this is my fate

Too many changes

Running away is my only way So I want you to stay away

While I escape to a new place.x

ART by MAYA KHODR ALI

WORDS by MAYA KHODR ALI

incite magazine volume 25, issue 2 “motion”

Published August 2023

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, multimedia, and event production is carried out by our wonderful student volunteers. If you would like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com.

incitemagazine.ca issuu.com/incite-magazine

facebook.com/incitemagazine

@incitemagazine

editor in chief (content):

Gillian Hodge

editor in chief (arts and production):

Sandy Luu

layout director:

Naiha Ali

treasurer:

Tirath Kaur

communications director:

Sana Gupta

content editors:

Alan Minkovic, Aliyah Sumar, Anna Samson, Aribah

Ali, Hooriya Masood, Misaal Mehboob, Noah Yang, Sarah Sadafi, Sowmithree Ragothaman, Yumna

Ahmad

art managers:

Ayeesha Umair, Mahek Marker, Mara Li, Theodora

Oyinloye

layout editors:

Aditya Kalra

cover art:

Carnival by Naiha Ali

contributors:

(Content): Alan Minkovich, Aliyah Sumar, Anna Samson, Bianca Magdalinis, Crystal Lu, Dora Xu, Elizabeth Winstanley, Elizabeth Zhou, Gail Del Castillo, Gillian Hodge, Hannah Taylor, Harmil Kalia, HJ Prest, Jawaria Karim, Jessica Kim, Manal Effendi, Mara Li, Matthew Nicholson, Maya Khodr-Ali, Mikaela Grahlman, P.R., Quinn Ha, Ria Patel, Roya Motazedian (Artists): Aditya Kalra, Dora Xu, Elizabeth Winstanley, Gillian Hodge, Hamil Kalia, Harmela Celestin, Helen Le, Jawaria Karim, Janelle Pualengco, Lauren Ferreira, Mahek Marker, Mara Li, Maya Khodr-Ali, Michelle Nicol, Naiha Ali, Natalia Laxamana, Quinn Ha, Rushaida Khan, Sandy Luu, Shreya Chauhan, Thomas Ruffo, Yilin Jiang

incite

VOLUME XXV:II

v

Painting is concerned with all the 10 attributes of sight; which are: Darkness, Light, Solidity and Colour, Form and Position, Distance and Pripinquity, Motion and Rest

~Leonardo da Vinci