Incite Magazine - October 2015 by Incite Magazine

INCITE MAGAZINE VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2 ▪ OCTOBER 2015

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LAYOUT DESIGNERS Catherine Chambers, Sarah Mae Conrad, Colline Do, Leah Olivia Flannigan, Lauren Gorfinkel, Catherine Hu, Phebe Li, Angela Ma, Nasreen Mody, Elaine Westenhoefer, Annie Yu, Sunny Yun COVERS/TABLE OF CONTENTS Lauren Gorfinkel

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF Sarah Mae Conrad Jaslyn English ART CURATORS Kayla Da Silva Lauren Gorfinkel Jason Lau Angela Ma CONTENT EDITORS Caitlyn Buhay Dalya Cohen Kayla Esser Gali Katznelson Nimra Khan Madeleine McMillan Sarah O’Connor Sunny Yun Rachelle Zalter IN-HOUSE ARTISTS Kayla Da Silva Mimi Deng Lauren Gorfinkel Diana Marginean LAYOUT EDITORS Catherine Chambers Angela Ma Elaine Westenhoefer

04 06 07 08 09 10 11 12

WRITERS Evra A., Kainat Amir, Takhliq Amir, Khatija Anjum, Matthew Bassett, Sam Bubnic, Caitlyn Buhay, Colline Do, Korry Garvy, Rachel Guitman, Catherine Hu, Emma Hudson, Emile Shen, Chukky Ibe, Sadiyah Jamal, Osmond Jian, Nimra Khan, Harry Krahn, Sonia Leung, Kyle MacDonald, Alexandra Marcaccio, Diana Marginean, Arakel Minassian, Linda Nguyen, Sarah O’Connor, Trisha Philpotts, Ryan Rupnarain, Gagandeep Saini, Alicia Serrano, Lindsay Stitt, Sophia Topper, Matt Yau, Hamid Yuksel, Sunny Yun, Rachelle Zalter, Michele Zaman

LASTING IMPRESSIONS Incite Staff

THE CHOICES WE MAKE Arakel Minassian

IDENTITY & ART IN THE 21ST CENTURY | Harry Krahn

FIRST DAY FEARS Lindsay Stitt

PICKLES, HIPPIES AND THE WEST COAST | Korry Garvy

SURVIVOR’S GUILT Chukky Ibe

BUNDY Evra

INDECISIVE GIRL Michele Zaman

13 14 15 16 17 18 19

PATHWAYS Gagandeep Saini

THINGS LEFT UNSAID Trisha Philpottts

ART Camelia McLeod

TURNING A NEW LEAF Colline Do

LEFTOVER FALL FRITTATA Diana Marginean

THE ESCAPE Catherine Hu

NEW CITY NEW ME Ryan Rupnarain INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

ARTISTS Sarah Mae Conrad, Kayla Da Silva, Mimi Deng, Shirley Deng, Colline Do, Leah Olivia Flannigan, Korry Garvy, Lauren Gorfinkel, Lynda Gutierrez, Zoe Handa, Nimra Khan, Rachel Kwok, Jason Lau, Ellen Li, Diana Marginean, Camelia McLeod, Sherri Murray, Patricia Nguyen, Tina Nham, Theresa Orsini, Rahul Sadavarte, Alicia Serrano, Whyishnave Suthagar, David Jonghyuk Shin, Franco Simões, Michael Sun, Jessica Trac, Melanie Wasser, Shannon Wu, William Zhang, Brian Zheng

20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

LEFT BRAIN Mimi Deng

CREATE YOURSELF Rachel Guitman

WHAT I MEANT WHEN I SAID “I DON’T KNOW” | Rachelle Zalter

WILD STARS Sunny Yun

THE INHERENT CORKSCREW Kyle MacDonald

SCHOOLHOUSE RUMBLES Khatija A.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE Alexandra Marcaccio

ART | Lynda Gutierrez, Whyishnave Suthagar

CIRCLE Sonia Leung

CENTRIPETAL Emma Hudson

LEFT OUT Kainat Amir

ncite Magazine is McMaster University’s student-run monthly publication with a wide range of content, from essays and research pieces to fiction and poetry. Every aspect of Incite’s production is carried out by student volunteers, from content to design to photography to layout. We invite anyone interested in writing or graphics to come to our planning meetings, where we will brainstorm ideas together and you can sign up to contribute. All skill levels are welcome! We work to foster close relationships between our contributors and editors. This allows new contributors to collaborate with experienced writers and artists to develop their skills in a friendly and positive environment. Email us at incite@mcmaster.ca to get involved. 

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND Sophia Topper

WHAT REMAINS & NUMB Sam Bubnic

LEAVING HOME Alicia Serrano

ART Sherri Murray, Rachel Kwok

AN EMPTY MEMORY Linda Nguyen

FAR AWAY FROM HOME Emile Shen

DARE TO STAY Takhliq Amir

IF WALLS COULD TALK... Nimra Khan

BERNIE SANDERS Matt Yau

TREATING A NON AMBITURNER | Matthew Bassett

COMPLEMENTARY OPPOSITES Sadiya Jamal

HORROR FICTION Osmond Jian, Hamid Yuksel, Caitlyn Buhay, Sarah O’Connor

issuu.com/incite-magazine facebook.com/incitemagazine @incitemagazine 3

t a h t g in h t t s la e what was th ion on you? left an impress

SUNNY YUN

NIMRA KHAN

This summer I worked at a children’s day camp. One day, a camper who was usually very reserved came up to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and looked me square in the eye. Very seriously and slowly, he whispered, “Sunny. Wake up. You’re in a dream.” Then he walked away. Throughout the rest of the week, he would come up to me at the same time each day and tell me to wake up, never once cracking up or following with a “kidding!” Two months later, I still think about this, and I wonder how an eight year old kid whose favourite colour was “pepperoni pizza” could make me question everything I know about life. 

The last thing that left an impression on me was the feeling I had after reading “Uprooted” by Naomi Novik. It was a story I enjoyed so thoroughly that, with my personal aspirations to have my own book published one day, I slammed the book shut and thought “Why didn’t I think of that?!” It inspired me in the best way that good stories can: to want to keep writing – even just a little bit a day. Hopefully one day my dreams will become a reality. 

JASLYN ENGLISH The last thing that left an im-

KAYLA DA SILVA

pression on me was sleep. Sorry, I misspoke. Not sleep, but my sheets after I have slept on them. We’ve all been there, walking to class, eyes half open, freshly applied mascara already smudging, giving you the look of having gone out the night before without the effort of actually going out at all. And there, on your cheek, lies the distinct imprint of minimum thread count sheets and, on your forehead, a mirror image of the delicately stitched pattern on your embroidered pillow. Just know this: when you are trudging through McMaster with three hours under your belt and the binding of your notebook stamped into your cheek after having passed out in the library, I appreciate it. I’m declaring it a mark of honour, a tribute to being sleep deprived for four years, and a symbol of the dedication we have given to our degrees. Truth be told, it’s more accurately a consequence of staying up until four am watching bad Netflix movies but, hey, who’s counting? 

Fall leaves an impression on me every year (and no, I am not talking about the anticipated return of the “Pumpkin Spice Latte”). It is a time when the days get shorter, the air becomes crisper and the temperature drops yet the leaves on the trees fall with a colourful elegance. Although it is a season of decay and death in nature, fall possesses so much beauty. Autumn always reminds me of how important it is to let things go and how there is so much wonder and awe in change. When autumn comes around, I embrace every comforting and cozy moment because it is a delicate reminder that new beginnings may just be around the corner. 

RACHELLE ZALTER

“The Cheater’s Guide to Love”, which is a short story by Junot Diaz, ~9000 words (but a fast read), and the perfect way to procrastinate on a Sunday afternoon. It’s smart. It’s funny. It’s just the right amount of offensive. Go read it now. (Also, nobody is paying me for this endorsement.) 

ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

GALI KATZNELSON Though Renoir

did not leave much of an impression on a group of protestors outside the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston demanding the removal of his art from the gallery, I think he should stay. 

DALYA COHEN The last thing that left an

impression on me was this absolutely amazing, superbly succulent, dazzlingly delicious milk chocolate peanut butter malt ball. Let me just tell you, if you ever find yourself lazily perusing the bulk foods section of our local Fortino’s, then you absolutely HAVE to hit up the stand in the middle, and grab yourself 1 to 17 milk chocolate peanut butter malt balls. Take my word for it. They’re just fabulous. (Did I mention they’re giant? Well they’re pretty darn massive and pretty darn great.) 

MADDY MCMILLAN Go Team! I re-

member getting, quite literally, knocked off my feet. As in through the air, to the ground, limbs tangled. The impact of two bodies colliding and being the lesser of the two certainly has its effects. This was the first and single time I had made any sort of attempt at a team sport while at university. It was during warm up before my first game, and I somehow managed to run into a football player. Both of us were running backwards, which made collision inevitable. Next thing I know my vision jolts and I’m on the ground in a heap. Popping right back up so as not to draw attention to myself, my ego is far more damaged than my physical body. Everyone within the vicinity was stock still, many with mouth agape. The guy had a good foot on my height, so I found myself surprised that I hadn’t snapped in half. It wasn’t until a few days after the incident that I started finding bruises working up and down my arm, continuing across my shoulder and back. You could say trying to participate in team sports left an impression on me. 

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

SARAH O’CONNOR

I was young, it was near Halloween, and the movie The Witches (1990) was on T.V. I was never a child who was afraid of witches, I always thought it would be cool to be like Sabrina and have magical powers, a talking cat, maybe even fly on a broom. I guess when I started watching the movie I was expecting something like that, something fun, but I was wrong. For those who haven’t seen the movie, it begins with the story of a little girl who for whatever reason pissed off a witch and was trapped inside of a painting, grew up in the painting, and disappeared meaning she died. The witches trapped her in a painting and she died. She. DIED! Okay, not really it was fictional but I was terrified that I would piss off a witch I didn’t know was a witch and die in a painting like that girl in the movie. I can’t even watch the movie now when it comes on. I still like witches though, just not the trap-you-in-paintings kind of witches. Give me Sabrina and Salem anyday over these crazy ladies. 

CAITLYN BUHAY

A lasting impression is a beautiful thing. And I know something beautiful when I see it. So the last thing that filled me with impression-filled joy was my handsome cup of coffee. I’ve been thinking about it a latte. It was hot, but not too hot. Flavoured slightly, but not enough to say that I can’t handle a strong standalone type of java. It kept me awake when I was trying to finish that project, in that library, with all that noise. I couldn’t have tuned out the racket without it-a perfect cup of coffee consumes all conscious thought. Coffee, oh coffee, may you always be mine. I know you are strong enough to get up and walk away, but please never leave me to face the alternative of… green tea. No coffee, you are the one for me – tall, dark, and mysteriously delicious. If you keep me up all night, I don’t mind. So hold the sugar, my coffee is sweet enough for the both of us. 

THE CHOICES WE MAKE Arakel Minassian

oros Toursarkissian was born in Lebanon in 1930. His parents were Armenian refugees who immigrated at the peak of the Armenian Genocide in 1915. When they settled in Beirut, they had nothing. The eldest boy, Toros, carried the burden of supporting his entire family, cultivating in him a strict work ethic. He was educated by the Lasallian brothers, and became the first Toursarkissian to attend university. He had four children, and named the oldest Aghassi. When Aghassi was five, civil war broke out in Lebanon. Knowing the power of education, his parents went to all lengths to ensure that he attend school, hoping that a future work placement could lift him above the desperate conditions in Lebanon. Every day, as the family crossed the bridge between militia territories to the only open school, bullets would ring near the automobile. Aghassi’s mother yelled, “Duck!” and the children obliged. However dedicated Aghassi was to his studies, his thoughts were occupied by a different, to him even higher fantasy. His ancestors were forced out of Armenia at the point of a gun, and what little he knew about his homeland was only what he had heard in stories, or seen in pictures. Yet for some reason Aghassi could not shake the feeling that he had lost a part of himself in Armenia. He longed to roam the mountainous greenery, the infinite forests, the sprawling cities, the ancient churches, to take in the history and societal life of a civilization once great, but now brought low by a fearsome neighbour. When he informed his parents of this dream, they dismissed it as youthful romanticism which, undoubtedly, it was. A life of poverty and displacement taught his father a kind of wisdom that was unknown to Aghassi. Regardless of his desire to leave for Armenia, Aghassi was by no means independent. And he did not have the heart to destroy his parents by taking off unannounced, and wasting the future they had molded for him through their personal sacrifices. Anyways, he had met a woman in school and quickly fallen in love. So Aghassi focused on his studies, earning an undergraduate degree in biology, as well as a medical school placement in Canada. In 1991, he arrived as a refugee in Montreal, and married his sweetheart. The couple had a daughter on the way. That year, Armenia and Azerbaijan went to war over a contested piece of land called Nagorno-Karabakh. Armenians from around the world, dispersed by genocide, rallied to defend this remnant of Armenian heritage.

ARTWORK BY SHIRLEY DENG

Aghassi was torn. This call to arms renewed fantasies about his ancestral homeland, and from the day war broke out, he thought only of leaving for Armenia. This was his chance to make good on his dreams, and sacrifice himself for a land that was to him, purely mythical, and a nation that he knew only through legend. But his wife pulled him back. She reminded him of his parents’ struggles, their efforts to free him from war-torn Lebanon, and of his obligations as a soon-to-be father. He was grateful for his parents’ sacrifices but, at the same time, he resented them for forcing him into this position of responsibility. Aghassi saw two roads before him. He could go right, and follow his passion to return to Armenia and fight, or left, and honour his parents’ investment in his life, an investment that cost much more than mere coin. He chose to go left. He had two children, both of whom attended university and became successful Canadian citizens. 

Every day, as the family crossed the bridge between militia territories to the only open school, bullets would ring near the automobile. Aghassi’s mother yelled, “Duck!” and the children obliged.

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

IDENTITY & ART IN THE 21ST CENTURY Harry Krahn

n the 21st century, expressing yourself has become a euphemism for art, mainly because it is easier to tell an anecdote than it is to create something new. For many artists, the creative process is now inseparable from identity. Many good things can come from this kind of art. For example, the common reading program at McMaster often spotlights novels in which identity plays a large role, such as last year’s Indian Horse, which tells the tragic journey of a young Ojibwe boy through residential schools, abuse, and addiction. But while novels like these make the readers appreciate new perspectives, are they necessarily good pieces of art? What if someone’s personal and symbolic struggle is an awful novel? What if someone thoroughly despicable writes the next Ulysses? In other words, to what extent should identity factor into our judgment of art? The issue with identity is that the larger a role it plays in a piece, the harder it is to separate its aesthetic and normative qualities. Additionally, even if an artist tries to focus on aesthetics, identity can often lead to normative values seeping in. Since art is now seen as a reflection of the artist,

If I had started this essay by attacking you with my opinions, many of you would have quit reading immediately. it is confusing to try and understand how a work’s different qualities are related and how the work as a whole should be interpreted. In the current political climate, it would be impossible to publicly criticize the aesthetic values of a novel like Indian Horse without being called prejudiced, since the author’s identity has mixed them so completely with the novel’s normative values. Another issue with identity is that, like first-person narration, it severely limits perspective. If I had started this essay by attacking you with my opinions, many of you would have quit reading immediately. You would have to either agree or disagree part and parcel with me, rather than being able to pick apart my ideas and see whether they hold true. Identity effectively limits our

discussions to ourselves, not our ideas. Finally, the normative values that identity confuses with aesthetic values detract from what art essentially should be. Good art should be able to stand on its own, in the artist’s best subjective approximation of objective beauty. Art that tells you what to think of itself is not good art at all. And that is perfectly fine; Ai Weiwei does not need to be a particularly gifted artist because his activism is so important. Conversely, whether Jane Eyre was written by Charlotte Bronte or her pseudonym Currer Bell makes no difference in its quality. In the age of self-centeredness, we need to be able to distinguish between who we like and what we like if we want to know what, essentially, makes art good.  ARTWORK BY PATRICIA NGUYEN

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

FIRST DAY FEARS Lindsay Stitt

regory walked in on the first day of school and took a deep breath in. His lips quivered as he exhaled, but he kept a stern look on his face. He hoped that no one in the room could hear the quick beating of his heart in his chest, or see the tears about to form on the corners of his eyes. “New friends” he thought to himself. “It’s time to make new friends. Grown up now. New friends.” Gregory slowly and silently stepped over to the closest chair. “Hmph” He nearly collapsed in the chair as he sat down with his shoulders hunched. Nothing in the room looked familiar. Nothing was like what he knew. The pain in Gregory’s throat grew as he told himself to be brave. Gregory turned his head to get a better look at his new teacher. She looked mean. She looked like…someone who might get mad if he forgets his notebook. Or someone who might not let him eat his cookies at lunch. She looked different from his old teacher. It wouldn’t be the same.

Nothing was like what he knew. The pain in Gregory’s throat grew as he told himself to be brave. Gregory looked over at the carpet next to the desks. He loved the carpet in his old classroom, but this one was smaller, not the same. The entire classroom was a bit colder. The chairs were different sizes and felt weird on his bum. Gregory’s foot was twitching and he began scratching at a mark on the table to make it look like he was busy, hoping no one would come up and talk to him. His stomach was turning and he wondered if he might feel sick enough to go home? But missing the first day was not a good idea. It would attract too much attention tomorrow when no one recognized him. Gregory realized he had been holding his breath and slowly let out a long, slow breath through his pursed lips. “Be brave,” he said to himself. “You can do this. I believe in you.” Gregory slowly looked up to see a boy coming through the door. He recognized the boy, Ben, who had been in his class last year. “This will be alright,” Gregory told himself. “Go over, be friendly, the first day of school will be over soon. It all gets better from here.” Gregory slowly stood up and started walking towards the cubbies where Ben was putting his bag away. This is the first day of school. A new beginning. By the end of the year he won’t mind this class so much. The teacher will grow on him. Gregory is brave. Gregory can do this. He walked over to Ben with his head held high, and a smile on his face. He hoped his exterior happiness would be strong enough to eliminate his interior panic. He hoped all his fears would be left behind.  8

ARTWORK BY COLLINE DO

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

PICKLES, HIPPIES AND THE WEST COAST Korry Garvy

ARTWORK BY KORRY GARVY

“Y

ou seem like someone from British Columbia.” While slightly confused, I accepted this statement with contentment,

And so, with the idea in my mind that in another life, I come from British Columbia, I began to take note of the province. People speak positively of British Columbia, all the time.

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Ironically, people think my last name is Yukon, but I am a BC man. I grew up near Vancouver and then moved to the interior, and now I camp by glaciers and climb mountains, all the time. – Yukon, aspiring mountain guide

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I moved to BC at 23 to go to a welding program that was open only to local applicants, mostly high school boys, but somehow I was accepted as an out-of-province student. I lived in a tent for three weeks in the mountains before finding a basement apartment, and I spend every weekend hiking and drinking Busch, and it is better than anything in the world. – Derk, atypical girl from Ontario



We hitchhiked from Montreal and it took four days. I worked on a resort for rich people, guiding horseback and mountain bike excursions, and it was amazing, but my boss was a prick. So I bought a van for $800, travelled around the province with people I met along the way, and may now potentially have a job in a grow-op. – Laurie, fantastic lunatic “Now I'm waving goodbye to my city, My lover and my friend, Vancouver, they're tearing us apart.” – Said the Whale, Big Wave Goodbye

With such enticing stories, how are we, the people of the rest of the world, supposed to disregard its presence? I booked a flight to Vancouver eight days prior to departure. A friend living nearby in Ontario said to me, “I told my prof I’m going to BC for two weeks due to family issues, but I’m really going to visit Derk Wain.” So I decided to tag along (for a casual cross-country trip). When I arrived, I carried around a jar of pickles for three days because the pickles VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

mainly because the person who spoke it dances like a god and spends his time building mountain bike trails and becoming an architect. And he’s from British Columbia.

weren’t crunchy, so we ate them slowly, and with regret. I met some hippies on a beach doing LSD who were making loud music with pots and pans. I managed to keep my phone dry after a rainy night in a tent, but then I dropped it in a puddle when I got out of the tent. We discovered a flat on our rental car. Perhaps that occurred because we inexcusably drove down a logging road. We spent four hours one night sitting on a bench staring out at the Georgia Strait,

listening to “Oh Holy Night” by Celine Dion, admiring the illuminated sky, which was likely caused by Vancouver’s light pollution. There is nothing better than enjoying the rain, and the sun, and the face level clouds, and the night sky, and the mountains, and the salmon run, and the hippies, and excessively drinking Busch with friends in BC. And so what is left? Nothing but the Pacific Ocean.  9

SURVIVOR’S GUILT Chukky Ibe

have always had an estranged relationship with my father’s childhood home. A place the kids from the city called “the village”. Every Christmas, my father takes me here. The red sand on the ground was familiar as the blood in my palms. I hope to be buried here one day. The grass here is long enough to feed the chickens in our backyard. When the

We have come to know the world from a very different kind of sorrow. I will never pretend to know yours, and you must never pretend to know mine.

chickens were fat, I would cut their throat with a knife, bleed it into the ground and skin it with hot water and my bare hands. Behind our house, there was a pasture, a poultry farm, and a well. This is where we got our sustenance from. When the water is out in the well, the children travel several miles to the Uzi stream to fetch water. On their walk to the stream, they sing songs of kind war and celestial romance. They clutch their bowls and ceramic pots on their heads like it was their destiny. By the way they manoeuvre the slippery rock-carved stairs, you would know they had done this before. I call them by their true name, Igbo, and pray they call me the same. But by the way their songs crashed on my lips and the rocks broke on my feet, they would have known where I am from. Where I am from, these children are taught to fight over their father’s names and mother tongues. They are taught to read the many bibles in their tired libraries. They taught the foreign God our native tongue. They smile with the foreigners when we pose for pictures and add “vigour” to their library. They smile as we teach them to pronounce words properly. They do not care who teaches; they only care to be taught. They smile when my father is dressed up as Santa and they cheer as he donates to the church. They laugh at my accent. They tell me I speak the tongues of our forefathers with a foreigner’s voice. They ask me what am I still doing here after the foreigners are tired of building and taking pictures. They smile and wave good-bye when we leave every Christmas. My father never completely leaves. His altruistic donations to the local government are used to buy land and elections for corrupted officials. He has since learned foreigners are not the only sinners here. He

does not worry about them taking our jobs because they are no jobs to take. It does not matter who starts building because nothing gets built. Where I am from, you can never trust power to stay on to find out if winter ever came or how Dick finally screwed Jane. Here, words like voluntarism and cultural appropriation are things kids like me from the city complain about. They are a kind type of suffering. Not much has changed in my village. The buildings are still not complete. The local politicians are still in office. The kids now try to speak with my accent. Their Nike shirts just did it, and their Gucci’s were made by Prada. By the way they walked and talked, you would know they had not done this before. Now that I live in Hamilton, I buy my chicken and water in grocery stores. The kids here talk about how winter finally came, and cultural appropriation and voluntourism. They expect the tap to work when it is time to bathe, they expect to see completed buildings, and they have jobs foreigners can take. They protest white people who go to countries they colonised and take pictures with children, and build houses that never get finished, and disrupt local economies and teach English and go on self-serving missions. We have come to know the world from a very different kind of sorrow. I will never pretend to know yours, and you must never pretend to know mine. The children in my village do not protest when Vogue claims the dashiki or when white women lock their hair. In my father’s childhood home you only need to be from the city to be foreign and culture is not a commodity. All they really want are these damn buildings built and easy water to bathe with before the morning. 

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

 Bundy Evra A. All-American boy. Draped in white, red, and blue. I was okay. Nobody knew. Bubbling through me like rumbling lava, you’d infest and possess. All basic nirvana. Horrified are my hands when they feel what you’ve done, tearing pulses from wrists and taking no from no one.

You are the alien inside me skinning breath from bare bones. An inherent monster? No. I am your son. I am your daughter. A pathological heart breaker.

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artwork by Tina Nham

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

ARTWORK BY RAHUL SADAVARTE

INDECISIVE GIRL Michele Zaman

oving through the motions of life, looking straight ahead because it never does anyone any good to look back. Not that I have never looked back, on the contrary I’ve spent years on years just staring at roads that could have been, hills that I could have crossed, mountains that I chose not to climb, rivers that I never gave a chance, oceans that I’ve never swam in and bridges, oh the countless bridges that I have burned. People used to pass by me all the time. Some would sit with me and make me laugh till my whole world shook with happiness. Some would not give me the time of day, I never knew why but time after time I would try to chase those who ignored me; I would claw and scream, trying to get their attention but they never looked back. Why did I feel that I could connect to the souls who treated me with the most disregard? I still do not know to this day. The cruelest moments were when I would follow the ones who never looked back and they would stop in their tracks,

cup my face, lift my chin and kiss me. For the briefest moment in time I felt pure joy, overwhelmed with possibilities. But just as quickly as the night turns to day or the day turns to night they, in one way or another, would leave and the joy would be sucked out of me. Some would hold my hand and

The longer I sat there though the less the stars would dance, the less the trees would sing, the less I would shine. Panic would possess me; some days I flung myself off the ground and would run towards the hills and the mountains till I could not breathe anymore. Never have I been able to get a hold of the oceans and rivers that I have passed. I would be lying to you if I told you I never looked forward, for hours on hours I sat there looking forward. The darkness was astounding, like a blanket covering every inch of the road, which way would I even go? The only illumination I had were the bursts of hope and my failing stars – oh my failing stars. I thought endlessly about these stars, why was it that the only true aspect of my life was fading? After my many years I have learned that life is about how gracefully one lets go of that which is not meant to be. Instead of mourning over the ashes of bridges that I’ve burned I have learned to long over the rivers that could be. 

Panic would posses me; some days I flung myself off the ground and would run towards the hills and the mountains till I could not breathe anymore.

walk with me; the funny part is that I never realized we were walking! This would go on for days on days, until I would finally realize and then I always ran back to my spot, my haven– or so I thought. My favourite part used to be looking up at the stars, I would get the best view of the stars – or so I thought; I would lie there for hours on hours just watching them dance.

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

 Pathways Gagandeep Saini Sometimes pathways diverge and Right and Left are the only choices. Going Right is what is known to be right while going Left should be left And left alone. But Right is so well-worn and Left is so novel that Left makes more sense than Right. And Right is chosen by those who don’t go Left enough or at all. So Left is wrong and Right is right. But changing directions makes Right Left and Left Right. So in some cases Left is Right and Right is Left and right becomes wrong. So, maybe there is no Left and there is no Right. There is only our instance and direction in time and sometimes wrong decisions lead onto the Right path. Then faltering footsteps shouldn’t falter or fear the Left path, especially when it feels right. And diverging paths wouldn’t diverge and instead be a different path for different people. Because your Left can be my Right and neither of us are wrong. It’s all a matter of perspective.

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artwork by Zoe Handa

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

THINGS LEFT UNSAID Trisha Philpotts

risp morning air creeps through the forgotten crack in the bedroom window as the sun’s premature rays illuminate the pristine white of our walls. I wake to the sounding alarm clock on the nightstand. “Just five more minutes,” Elaine protests in response. The fall air which stowed away beneath the sheets hoping to seek refuge in our warmth creates an icy barrier between Elaine and I. It gives no allure to the idea of hitting snooze for just five more minutes. Elaine stretches and rests her head on my shoulder disrupting the barrier of frost if only for a second. I want to embrace her, but I don’t. Her head feels foreign on my shoulder this morning. On cue Elaine and I rise, beginning our usual routine. I head to the home gym in our finished basement for an hour on the treadmill. Elaine lays out our days outfits selected from a closet full of muted tones, and then meets me in the gym for forty five minutes on the elliptical. I stare over at her, sweaty and determined to lose twelve pounds by Thanksgiving ever since Carol asked if she recently gained some weight. She is beautiful in her concentration. I open my mouth to speak, to tell her ‘you are beautiful’, but I shut my mouth just as quick. Had the words slipped my heart would be acting in defiance of my mind. I haven’t said ‘I love you’ in thirty-nine days and Elaine hasn’t noticed. I do love her, but such words will only complicate things now. I know that he has loved her better in six months than I have loved her in six years. I mull over thoughts of this mystery man often. I wonder what it is about him that she admires, and what it is about me that isn’t good enough. I wonder why she keeps up this lie and why she returns to our bed night after night growing less familiar each time. I found the papers in the spare room, hidden, but without too much care as if secretly she was hoping I would find them. Secretly longing for me to pry the truth from her; freeing her conscience from the burden of this lie and her finger from the weight of this ring. I will sign them when she asks, but I will not tell her truth for her. In the kitchen I fix us egg whites on rye. Elaine now sports a white blouse and an off white pencil skirt with her hair pulled neatly into a bun. Having made partner in less than two years, business Elaine was a force to be reckoned with. Early on in our marriage Elaine would make sure that the outfits she laid out for us each morning matched – she would lay me out a beige tie if she were wearing a beige blouse or a white button-up if she were wearing a white dress. She said it made us look like the power couple we would one day be when I was just starting out as a broker and she was in her final year of law school. Today my outfit is navy blue and gray. Her navy blue dress still hangs in the back of the closet. “Babe, do you want Thai or Italian for dinner?” she asks, looking through the take-out brochures that came in yesterday’s mail. I know that take-out means she will be home late. I know that she will blame it on a late meeting, or an important case, or joining the girls for drinks. “Italian sounds good” I reply, playing my part in this charade. “I’m going to be a little late coming home this evening, I prom-

ised Carol I would help plan Patricia’s baby shower” she says. I nod after the lie fixes a plate and settles down between us at the table. I almost admire the effort she still puts into playing her part. “What happened to your skirt?” I ask inquiring about it’s off white colour. “Can you believe your red shirt got into my laundry as I was bleaching my whites?” she grimaces. “By the way, I left it and a box of clothes for Goodwill by the door. Can you drop them off on your way to work?” “Of course” I say, clearing the table. “Love you,” she says habitually as she heads out. I don’t return the sentiment. She doesn’t notice. I pick up the box of clothes by the door ready to beat the rushhour traffic in to the office. The red shirt with white bleach stains stands out on top glaring at me as I am at it – I do not own a red shirt, but I will play my part. 

I haven’t said ‘I love you’ in thirty-nine days and Elaine hasn’t noticed.

ARTWORK BY DIANA MARGINEAN

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

Camelia McLeod

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

TURNING A NEW LEAF Colline Do

ave you ever wondered why leaves fall from the trees? Why not stay like the needles and pines of evergreens do? Though it does give a nice show each year, and there’s no satisfaction quite like finding that one perfectly red leaf on your walk— you know, the one that you press into your heavy old textbooks for keepsakes and memories or just sheer delight? It isn’t like the leaves fall just so we can breathe a happy sigh, go buy a Pumpkin Spice Latte,

leaves leave comes not from outside, but from within. The tree that is. People aren’t the only ones to get snippy when the days get shorter and the nights long. When trees detect less sunlight, they start to build cells between the branches and the base of leaves’ stems, very slowly until the leaves are no longer connected to the branches. It’s a gentle eviction, and there’s a bit of kindness to the process since the trees don’t actually kick the leaves off of them but rather let them linger a bit more until a strong wind blows. So why the hassle? Why the depar-

and so the tree shall slowly die if it cannot replace it’s leaves. All that old baggage from last year would hold it down. So it is best to let the leaves go, while they’re still gold and able to imbue the world with rich harvest hues. Winter sleeps, Spring awakens, Summer blooms, but Autumn leaves. Autumn leaves drifting by the window in gold and scarlet flurries. The cold and bleakness of the next season seems distant in the mind as we step around in this beautiful time. We

The truth is leaves don’t actually leave; leaves are cut off. and show off our new kicks. The truth is leaves don’t actually leave; leaves are cut off. If I told you that there are harvest sprites going about and snipping off the leaves with tiny pairs of scissors, you probably wouldn’t believe me. And rightly so, since the existence of magical sprites has not been proven (yet). More importantly, the real reason

tures and goodbyes? Realistically speaking, it is better this way for the tree. If the leaves were kept, the tree would have to expend energy during the scarce winter to keep them through the freezing rain and heavy snow. If they survive to spring, there’s no guarantee that the plant cells won’t be destroyed in the thawing. The leaves might be ineffective in photosynthesizing for the tree,

like to float about in this buoyant weather, forgetting that there will come a time again where we’re stamping our frozen feet in the bus stall, shivering next to strangers all waiting for the HSR bus to arrive. No, those Winter worries are worlds away. Fall is here now and in full swing with leaves dancing around in the air, a beautiful and delicate parting gift. 

ARTWORK BY SARAH MAE CONRAD

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

leftover FALL FRITTATA Diana Marginean

hanksgiving weekend is over and you are probably still daydreaming in class about all of that food you so happily devoured. The oh-so yummy turkey paired with a blend of mixed vegetables and fluffy mashed potatoes covered in a delicious gravy. Are you hungry yet? Not to worry! Here is a super easy, delicious, and nutritious recipe you can make during your busy schedule from your leftover thanksgiving frenzy. 

8 eggs 1 cup of milk chopped parsley salt + pepper ½ cup of leftover stuffing bread 2 cups of leftover cooked vegetables (broccoli/cauliflower) ½ cup of leftover turkey pieces 2 tablespoons of olive oil 2 tablespoons of grated cheddar

1. Mix all ingredients together 2. Heat olive oil in a non-stick skillet on medium-high 3. Add egg mixture and cook for 2 minutes 4. Reduce heat to medium-low and top with grated cheddar 5. Cook for 10 minutes and broil for 3 minutes

Slice and ENJOY!

e this omit to mak iendly! fr n ia ar et veg

ARTWORK BY DIANA MARGINEAN

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

THE ESCAPE Catherine Hu

ammy strode into the room and set the bloodstained bag down on Hamrick’s desk. Hamrick reached out a slender, manicured hand and gently tugged the bag open, and a cascade of hundred dollar bills came tumbling out. “Very good,” he murmured. “Now, where’s the rest?” The room was dead silent. The men crowding the walls looked nervously towards Sammy. Her arms were folded, her face a blank slate. “There was a delay in collecting the rest of the payment,” she said flatly. “Jameson has it coming in an armoured truck. Make sure they let it through the gates.” Hamrick gave the order over intercom for the gates to be prepared. The criminal kingpin leaned back in his chair and lit a long, thin cigar. “Besides that?” Sammy’s mouth twitched. “Mission success. We left none alive.” “And that is why I always trust you to get the job done,” Hamrick said, smiling wide. “People need to know you don’t cheat Hamrick

Jinx out of a weapons deal and get away with it. Especially not with such a spectacular amount of money involved.” He paused. “You say the rest of it is coming?” “Should be here any minute.” “Excellent. With that cleared up…I’d like to talk about our little discussion this morning. You said this was the last job you were ever going to do for me.” “That’s correct.” Hamrick’s eyes narrowed. “And do you still stand by that?” “I do.” “I must say I’m surprised.” He relaxed back into his usual grin, but his eyes remained hard and cold. “Tell me, what prompted this? Have the last few missions left a bad taste in your mouth? After all these years, are you finally getting soft?” “Certain opportunities came up, and I thought I should take them while I could,” Sammy said lightly. She was watching Hamrick carefully and measuring the weight of her words. “Certain pieces fell in place like they’d never done before. But yes, you could say I’ve gotten soft.” “Such a pity. I don’t think I’ll ever again meet a talent for death quite like yours.” “I’ve done enough of your dirty work, Hamrick,” Sammy coolly replied. “I’m starting fresh. Murder, extortion, criminal dealings…they have no place in the life I’m about to lead.” Hamrick’s eyebrows rose. “Ah, yes. This new life of yours! A civilian one, I suppose. How charming. Do you really think it will be that simple? The police will hunt you down all your life. You of all people should know how hard it is to escape your pa–” At that moment, the piercing sound of the alarm began wailing through the compound. “What’s going on?” Hamrick shouted over the noise. He began to stand, only to find Sammy with a gun pointed directly at his face. As Hamrick lowered himself back into his seat, the compound’s intercom system crackled to life. “We have been infiltrated by police! I repeat, there are po–” The intercom suddenly cut off. “The police?” said Hamrick. “But how…?” Sammy cracked a smile. “That’ll be the truck you so kindly allowed into the compound.” Hamrick’s eyes widened. “You made a deal with them,” he spat out in disgust. “A deal that’s my escape,” Sammy replied, and she pulled the trigger. A single gunshot, and it was done. Sammy slid a fresh clip into her gun. “Good job, men,” she said, turning to face the former henchmen all around her. “I’ve paid you well to follow me this far. Help me take this compound, and I’ll see the cops wipe your records clean, as they did for mine. Any objections?” The men said nothing, but their steely faces told Sammy all she needed to know. They were free. More importantly, they were rich; the amount she’d paid them out of the weapons deal money was more than any would have seen in a lifetime under Hamrick. And right now, they were ready. “None? Then follow me,” she said, walking out of the room. “Let’s burn this place to the ground.” 

“Such a pity. I don’t think I’ll ever again meet a talent for death quite like yours.”

ARTWORK BY MIMI DENG

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

NEW CITY NEW ME Ryan Rupnarain

hey'd been driving along the highway for about twenty minutes when the driver finally decided to try talking to the hitchhiker she had just picked up. She would have tried sooner, but for the entirety of the trip the hitchhiker had been plugged into her headphones, loudly listening to an audio book repeating the same mantra again and again. “New city, new me, new city, new -” “So, what are you listening to?” She dislodged an ear bud and leaned in, the mantra droning on at high volume. “Beg pardon?” The driver repeated herself. “It's a self-help tape, the self-help tape. 'Purging the Toxins of the Soul.' Check it out, total life changer.” “What is it about?” The hitchhiker took a deep breath... “So like, our entire lives are based off these two emotions of love and fear. See, fear is the cause of all of the negativity in our lives. And do you know what we have to do? We have to just drop all of that negativity and start from scratch with the positives. All of those problems that pop up in your life are all a product of your fear. So when things get bad, what you have to do is get as far away from negativity as possible, then replace it with positivity! So now I'm gonna getting rid of everything that's ever brought me down!” Both looked back to the city in the distance. The car's rear window now obscured by towers of duffle bags and backpacks. With no trunk, all of her luggage had to be stacked in the backseat until there was only but a small silver to view the back-road. “And I definitely won't look back..” This made the driver raise an eyebrow. “So what's your final destination, honey?” The hitchhiker paused. “Depends. Where are you headed?” “Straight for a long time.”

“Tell you what, keep going straight and the first left you take, drop me off there.” She smiled to her companion. “Bit of the old wanderlust, eh?” Her companion cocked her head to the side. “Wander what?” “Wanderlust; the urge to travel, go out there, see the world. The feeling like you can never stay in one place for too long.” “Nope. Total opposite. I’m looking to settle down.” “You're starting over to settle down?” “I guess so.” “For what it's worth, I grew up back there, same with my kids. It's a great place to raise a family.” “No it isn't.” “Beg pardon?” “Back there is no place to raise anything.” “So what? Didn't like it back there?” “I didn't like the people, I didn't like the place, I didn't like the damned scent. It's like, no matter where I go, there's only places like this.” She shrunk down into her seat. “Now come on, there are good people back there who would have loved to help no matter what.” “No!” “And why exactly is that?” “Because it's all the same! That place before this left me a wreck. The place before that left me even worse. No one should call any of those places home!” “So you’ve done this three times before? Left then left then left now left?” A nod emerged under the sunken head of hair. “Honey, that’s a square...” 

So when things get bad, what you have to do is get as far away from negativity as possible, then replace it with positivity!

ARTWORK BY SHANNON WU

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

Mimi Deng | Left Brain 20

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

CREATE YOURSELF Rachel Guitman

dread difficult decisions. They’re time consuming, nerve-wracking, and beyond stressful. The worst of these are definitely the choices that have the potential to set your life on an alternate path. Take choosing a school, for example; as everyone in uni-

than that, it brings discovery; of yourself, of the world around you, and of everything in between. Coming to university, which is evidently a huge change from high school, is terrifying in a lot of ways, but it also presents an immense learning opportunity. The

For me, the fact that there is no clear answer adds an immense amount of pressure to the final decision. versity knows, it is a tough, tough decision. And a huge reason the choice is so difficult is that one option is not empirically better than the other. Whether a decision is “good” or “bad” is painfully subjective. For me, the fact that there is no clear answer adds an immense amount of pressure to the final decision. (Because, you know, what if I pick the wrong thing and screw up my entire life?!) It certainly doesn’t help that I’m a very indecisive person. A while ago, however, I read an article that framed difficult choices as a gift. The author’s rationale was that because one option is not empirically better than the other, the choice you make is a way for you to define yourself as a person. We make life choices based on our personal values and proclivities. And every time we make these choices, we get to choose who we will become. Every difficult, impactful decision you make is one more building block to add to the person you hope to be. This idea can certainly be unnerving if you focus on the potential for making the wrong choice and developing into a subpar version of yourself. However, I also think it can be beautiful, inspiring, and exciting if it is framed as a way to create positive personal transformation. After all, change often brings improvement, and more

newness of the situation allows you to gain perspective, see from alternate viewpoints, and experience the world in a new way that

ultimately allows you to learn and grow. The same thing can be said for subsequent life stages and milestones. The ever-changing landscape of our lives can be chaotic, but at the end of the day, it forces us to become better versions of ourselves. So I maintain that difficult choices allow us to create ourselves in constructive ways. This is my new perspective, and I can definitely say it adds a certain beauty to every challenging crossroad. After all, life is beautiful if only one chooses to see its beauty. And in my opinion, the magnificence of living really manifests when you can see the tedious and onerous as wonderful in some way. The dilemma of choice is not something we can run from – but considering all of the potential it brings, it inevitability seems to me like something to be grateful for. 

And in my opinion, the magnificence of living really manifests when you can see the tedious and onerous as wonderful in some way.

ARTWORK BY TINA NHAM

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

WHAT I MEANT WHEN I SAID

“I DON’T KNOW” Rachelle Zalter

1. I always like you more when you’re ten pounds lighter. Sure, it slims your face and forms space in your worn out shirts, But mostly it makes you poised. The last time you were self-assured I told you I loved you and meant it. 2. Your Redwings shirt needs to be thrown out.

8. I regret most of the kisses we’ve shared. 9. There was a girl in my grade school who carried a discoloured doll with a purple dress, buttons for eyes, and a smile as tentative as hers. Maybe the girl carried it because it made her feel safe. Less alone. Less fragile. Or maybe it felt nice to hold something.

3. I hate the pet names you give me. I hate the voice you take when you say them. I hate knowing that’s how much you care. I hate your uncle.

10. I enjoy most of the kisses we share.

4. I don’t ask you to brush your teeth because you’ve eaten animal products, I ask because your breath smells.

12. Why must you eat with your fingers?

5. Fourteen times I told you to get a laundry bin. 6. You think I’ve a lousy memory— I couldn’t remember that song you played, or the story you mentioned last week. It’s cuz you’re thinking of us before bed, Creating a shelf for our history. My shelf is filled with books, homework, due dates, him. I prefer to clear the clutter.

11. I sometimes wonder where we’d be if your mom never got sick.

13. There are so many conversations I wish we could have. Instead you ask me who to vote for, You ask, “What’s the difference between philosophy and psychology?” I ask, “Who are the Minnesota Vikings?” We quit humouring ourselves and open my laptop to Netflix. 14. You could be quieter in the bedroom.

7. When my friends make the same mistakes you make, I take it out on the wrong person.

15. I’m not being cute when I tell you that you deserve better. 16. There’s a dresser in my room where I used to keep your letters. About a year ago, I replaced them with my socks.

They have nothing to do with it. They’re never the problem.

17. I don’t know. 

I hate the pet names you give me. I hate the voice you take when you say them. I hate knowing that’s how much you care.

ARTWORK BY WILLIAM ZHANG

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

WILD STARS Sunny Yun

t night, we lie on the fiery sand and count the stars. They fill an infinite space, shimmering, dancing, and leaping in a rooftop performance both stunning and fearsome. The visual lullaby coaxes us into rest, quieting our worries. The wind peters out. Darkness overtakes us. Too soon, the arrival of stark daylight forces our eyelids open again. Thoughts shoot back to a familiar place: Where did we end up today, so far removed from the weather-beaten trail? We collectively wonder, but dare not ask aloud—are we transients without a cause? Once upon an earlier time, we fit in line with the rest. Like wind-up toys, we filed down long and narrow hallways, bags strapped tightly to our backs, fists clutching charts and to-do lists. We were robots, programmed to respond to every “How are you?” with “Fine.” Our role models were shiny faces on television who preached love, yet donned suits and gowns as they walked past children in rags. We obeyed rules without question—yes ma’am, no sir—and turned up plastic radios to drown out the sound of our hearts yearning for more. With the last word of lecture timed to the sunset, we packed up and drove past those orange horizons as fast as possible. We hurried back to our little boxes for cold soup, then set our alarms for seven. At some point between then and now, we renounced all that we knew. We gave ourselves entirely to the enticement of an ever-changing, iridescent skyline. We are the non-complacent artists, liberating ourselves from comfort. It is unavoidable when our inspiration is everywhere. It is in the brown dog-eared pages of books, the lush terrains of foreign lands, and the unexplored corners of our university town. It waits with the silence of arid wastelands and pops with the clanging of graffitied alleyways. It radiates from the smile of a stranger, the flinch of a hand; from the wrinkles in a

dress, and the sunlight beyond drawn blinds. Whether the smell of fresh coffee or the stench of the city subway, each raw scene is frame-worthy. We spend our days fanatically weaving the interplay between mind and place into our concrete forms. We erase, tinker, and sometimes throw ourselves down in the process, questioning our commitment to constructions so fragile. Yet the digging and exploring and expressing continue. It is invigorating. The messiest and most vulnerable feelings serve as perfect muses for beautifully imperfect work. Critics have called us fools for throwing away “all that they have invested in us,” but we know that we are far from a mere technical or economic return. True enough, maybe no one will materialize to tell us if and why we are on the right path. Sometimes we even lose sight of one another. This can lead to long days of feeling scared and lost. That is okay. When our pens scratch the paper, we inhale the breath of life; as the spotlight hits our bodies, we sense the electric exhilaration; at the moment the brush stroke dyes the white canvas, we confess the entire weight of our stories. Filling an infinite space, we light up the sky and it is there where we find our community. We are the rooftop performers, both stunning and fearsome. 

It radiates from the smile of a stranger, the flinch of a hand; from the winkles in a dress, and the sunlight beyond drawn blinds. VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

ARTWORK BY JASON LAU

THE INHERENT CORKSCREW Kyle MacDonald

Why is symmetry so ubiquitous and yet so frequently departed from?

uch of Nature and of human invention is fundamentally asymmetric, from the flight paths of subatomic particles to the internal organs of animals or the traffic flows on our roadways. How can we reconcile our asymmetric world with our instinctive association of symmetry with beauty and order? Human bodies, along with most vertebrate bodies, have an overall mirror symmetry: a photograph of the left half of a human body is generally indistinguishable from a mirror image of the right half. This symmetric structure, however, supports asymmetries at several levels, of which handedness and placement of internal organs are probably the most obvious examples. Our inherent

handedness extends to the tools and environments that we create, from roads and vehicles to writing systems and musical instruments. Handedness is asymmetric at a higher level, with right-handed people inexplicably more common in all human societies. Asymmetry can also be found in places where we might expect greater regularity to hold sway. Most of the complicated molecules in Nature are chiral, meaning that they have an inherently asymmetric shape that distinguishes right from left, or an inherent corkscrew, distinguishing clockwise from counterclockwise. Moreover, when small particles with electric charge pass through magnetic fields, they are pulled into circular or spiraling paths. The directions of their arcs are determined by laws known as right-hand rules, for an explanation of ARTWO

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which the reader is invited to ask any student of physics or engineering. Furthermore, many processes that occur in Nature are asymmetric in time: they occur forwards, but not backwards. The classic examples of irreversible processes are cooking food and breaking glass, contrasted with melting ice and freezing water. Nothing in the laws of physics rules out the possibility of reversing these processes, only the extreme improbability and impracticality of such a thing happening. In response to the prevalence of symmetry in Nature, as well as to the striking similarities between many mathematical structures, a deep mathematical description of symmetry, known as group theory, has been developed over the last century and a half. It is a way of describing the symmetries of an object or process in the language of algebra. By treating the symmetries of an object as functions that can be added and subtracted, mathematicians have developed a precise yet overarching sense in which the prevalence of right-handedness is meaningfully similar to the irreversibility of physical processes. The connection is not merely a vague family-resemblance. The insights gained from this approach have revolutionized mathematics and all the sciences that depend on it. The depth of Nature’s preference for the asymmetric provokes several questions that a formal description of it can illuminate but never answer completely. Why is symmetry so ubiquitous and yet so frequently departed from? Why do we find it appealing? Can we value symmetry while refusing to regard asymmetry as akin to brokenness? The mathematical and scientific questions are fascinating, but they lie in the realm of specialists. The aesthetic and ethical questions are more accessible and arguably more pressing: How can we find in human asymmetries the same beauty that we find in Nature’s irregularity? Can we meaningfully understand each other while valuing both evenness and chirality? For inquiring minds, determined to know as much as possible but doomed to never know everything, symmetry and uniformity can be powerful drugs. We must not forget that a heart capable of an even pulse will be larger on one side than on the other. Asymmetry sustains us, a jagged double echo in our lifeblood’s predictable current.  INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

 Schoolhouse Rumbles Khatija A. Under the umbrella of a schoolhouse, I have always been sheltered from the cold winds of the real world. Dear school, your four walls have consistently carried my naïve feet through the prickly trails and the levelled plains of life. But your carved path is coming to an end: as I am staring out of the classroom windows, I can hear the heavy hammering of frigid hail knocking on your door I am waiting for the principal to call me down for a “talk.” The time is here and I am stepping out of your giant doors, dipping my toes into the high-tide waters of the real world sea. Following the chalky letters on blackboards and the moving mouths of your labourers – teachers and principals – I thought I was digesting all the skills I would ever need. Yet, in this desolate parking lot,

I am searching for my ride and a reflection of myself in the grainy concrete at my feet. Because, what if I get into the wrong car – falling into the hands of kidnappers, held hostage to a bad decision and a feeling of “I’ve already invested too much into this.” Desperately searching for answers, I am fabricating meanings and memories of ordinary objects; running around, frantically looking for guidance, only to find others just like me, or others too far beyond where I am now. I am at the brink of convocation – I can’t escape the anxiousness that lives in my mind like a rumbling belly, or the uncertainty that chews at my body like frostbite.

artwork by Jessica Trac

Dear school, I hope I find your hallways narrow compared to the open spaces of the real world. I hope I am ready. I hope you were enough.

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2



TO BE OR NOT TO BE

Alexandra Marcaccio ARTWORK BYBRIAN ZHENG

I check my phone for the fifth time in the last ten minutes – 10:28 – I think to myself, I’m not late yet! Although most people are in their classrooms, the crowd is still thick, which reminds me of being in a mosh pit. And just like when I’m in a mosh pit, I am quickly pushed to the outskirts, ending up in a mysterious hallway. Thinking it could be a short cut I decide to follow it, hoping that my prof won’t be too mad when I show up late. At the end of the hallway, I find an old door covered with dust. Wiping some of it away with my sleeve, I realize that it bears my classroom number. I enter, thinking I have found the second entrance. Instead, I am greeted by period costumes hanging in racks. Old men in white wigs lounge around in a thick fog of tobacco smoke. One man is without a wig, and he quickly takes notice of me. In a thick British accent, he addresses me: “Aye, you must be the contract, our Guildenstern. You’re late.” As I try to correct him, I am whisked away by two others. They measure me, muttering something about my “odd attire” and “off speech”. I give in to my curiosity, and ask, “Where am I?”

“Where am I?” Everyone stares, puzzled, then the man without the wig speaks again, “Why my strange fellow! Are you drunk? This is the Shakespeare Company! These are the men hired to perform Hamlet! Are you not the contract we hired this morning?!” My mouth drops: I must be dreaming. I shut my eyes, but when I reopen them, I am still here: This is real. I evaluate the facts: I have definitely traveled back in time. The only thing I know about Hamlet is ‘To be or not to be.’ And I’m a piss poor actor. I should probably run, but there is this part of me that is curious to know what would happen if I played along. 26

I should probably run, but there is this part of me that is curious to know what would happen if I played along. So I squeak out a “yes” and the two men at my side continue to measure and dress me. The man I’ve been talking to then introduces me to another fellow – apparently this is the man that will be playing the Rosencrantz to my Guildenstern, whatever that means. Rosencrantz asks to run lines and I oblige. At the end of our scene, I look up, proud of myself, to see a wince on his face. I guess I was that bad. We try it again. Not much improvement. I am about to suggest we try it one last time, but then the man without a wig announces, “Show time!” While watching the other actors on stage, reality hits me: I am actually going to perform in front of actual people. I should be nervous, but my quick rehearsal told me that my part is relatively small, and curiosity is getting the better of me. The man cues me in. Before leaving, I quickly make a mental note of all exits; after all, I might make an ass out of myself. I get ready to go on stage, when suddenly a new man comes racing backstage and says, panting, “Sorry to be late my good men, but I am here and ready to perform. Where is my Guildenstern dress?” To which everyone looks back and forth between this man and myself, confused. I look pointedly back at everyone else, then run towards the nearest exit, screaming, eyes closed. When I reopen them, I am in class, still screaming, and my prof is staring. Guess I dozed off.  INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

Whyishnave Suthagar Lynda Gutierrez

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

 Circles Sonia Leung Constellations in the sky, Let them know they’re not alone, They sail forth into the night, To the sea, away from home. In a hurry, fast they leave, Take no care to reminisce, Everybody leaves behind, Treasures at an exodus. In their penchant, in their pride, Fools find camaraderie, In the heavens they confide, And find solace in the sea. Under midnight’s heavy veil, Course into the open veins, Barking, chasing their own tail, Dogs know that it’s just a game. Dream of reaching yonder far, Paradise of legends past, They’ve forgotten who they are, Losing count of first and last. Onward, bravely they persist, Follow fireflies to the black,

artwork by Sherri Murray

To the somewhere in the mist, Losing sight, not keeping track. Turn and swerve at ocean’s whim, Serendipity takes hold, Fate comes in the interim, When these fools have lost control. Spin and twirl and fall in tide, Teeter starboard, then to port, Dancing graceful in its stride, Aiming high but falling short. When again the crew awakes, Night retreats to go to sleep, Another day of tempting fate, Unaware they’re in too deep. Reveal the glory of the day, And the winding course they kept, Crashed ashore on homeward bay, And realize they had never left.



INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

CENTRIPETAL Emma Hudson

here the monorail rounds the corner there is a transient centripetal force, pulling the train and its passengers towards some invisible fulcrum to keep inertia from flinging them forwards. Isabel looked at the man sitting next to her. He barely fit into his seat, and his hands were the largest she had ever seen. His face was pitted with wrinkles some sixty years in the making. He seemed to have been scowling. It was an ambiguous time of night, early for some and late for others, and the gentle lull of the train had pulled most people into a daze. Isabel had sat in the same spot in the same car every night for the past week, drawing characters in her mind with the canvases of the people sitting next to her. There was a man- a boy, really, only about 17- who looked hungry just from his eyes and the way his hands shook while he wrote. There was a waiter still in uniform, shivering uncontrollably. The streets of Venice became more splintered at night, more uncertain. Isabel never could resolve whether

“Why do you ask?” “I was just curious, is all. I enjoy getting to know new people.” Isabel’s voice trembled. The man grunted and faced forward. The night leaking through the window was black enough to

The streets of Venice became more splintered at night, more uncertain.

have taken on a purple quality. Isabel loved the smog of living in the city. She thought it was beautiful. She had arrived in Venice a year and three days ago, in the dead of summer, She remembered waking to the unbearable heat, slowly feeling her passion for the canals and the looping language fade into indifference. She remembered the aimlessness. Isabel had left home without so much as a sidelong glance. She was always awful at saying goodbye, and she didn’t have the energy to counter her mother’s cynicism. Her mother despised change, afraid that it would destroy the carefully crafted melancholy around which she’d built her identity. From a payphone on the side of a cobblestone street, ten hours after the plane had left the ground, she placed her first and last call home. “You’ve always had a selfish streak,” he mother had remarked. “What exactly do you think you’re accomplishing?” “I can’t be still forever. I needed to come somewhere, and this seemed fitting.” “How the hell did Venice seem fitting?” Isabel paused. “I read a while ago about the flooding problem.” Her mother snorted. “How terribly noble of you.” Twice in the past 368 days Isabel had considered phoning her mother again; once on her birthday, and once when her father died. Both times she was held back by the uncomfortable sensation of losing ground. She had come here to move forwards. Isabel stood to leave the train. It only went in circles, in the end, night after night after night. “It was lovely to meet you,” she said to the man with enormous hands. “Good night.” He shifted out of her way, and as Isabel left she fought the urge to justify her presence to him. She had fallen in love with the irony of Venice’s retreating shorelines; the city of love, slowly being swallowed up by the Adriatic. In the heat of the moment, as the hands of St. Mark’s pulled them towards sunrise, it almost seemed romantic. 

the apprehension of the nighttime rubbed off on the people, or if the people’s uncertainty lured them into the dark. Isabel suddenly had the sensation that the silence was overwhelming. She turned to the man on the right. “What’s your name?” The man with large hands didn’t respond right away, just glanced at her from the corner of his eye. When he did speak, his Italian accent was thick and unwieldy. She could barely make out what he was saying.

She had fallen in love with the irony of Venice’s retreating shorelines; the city of love, slowly being swallowed up by the Adriatic.

ARTWORK BY LEAH FLANAGAN

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

LEFT OUT Kainat Amir

reathe. Think. Feel. In the blur of our fast-paced lives, there is much that we leave behind, leave out. We’re always in a hurry, always needing to go somewhere, do something, be someone. We work more and sleep less. We have less time to eat, read, relax. Time. Time is so short; twenty-four hours in a day and they go by with us wishing we had a few more to finish something. Finish a call, a project, a dream. A dream of worldly achievements that requires our mind and soul, and we wish to attain it quickly, as soon as we can. We are always in a hurry. What if we could slow down? Eat a proper breakfast, go for a morning run, smell the flowers, and breathe in fresh air. Dance in the rain instead of hurriedly running from it, walk barefoot in the grass without caring about the mud, and sing a little louder because we are happy. Forget about the deadlines, restraints, stereotypes and rules. What if we live thinking we can do whatever we want, whenever we want?

Ask yourself what your life amounts to today, what it may be worth tomorrow. Would we be more alive, a little kinder, a lot more caring, a pinch happier? Would we slow down to see past us at that which surrounds us, consuming all our time? Taking it one step at a time, one day from another, and one year to the next may help put things that matter into perspective in the daily commotion of this world. Look past the tests and projects and hope for more than a perfect score. Hope for the greater cause and for a better future that you can create. Go beyond loving your family and friends, and extend a helping hand to a stranger in need. Tell yourself: I will save a pet, adopt a child, feed the poor or donate a toy; anything to feel the power of making a change in the world, big or small. Look past what you are told you can

or cannot do and be open to the endless possibilities of shaping your own future. You can start today, tomorrow or yesterday but get out there and do whatever it takes to live your dreams and passions. Look past the competition and the challenges of a crowded space and share your thoughts and actions. Spread love and create a team; a force that would follow you to success. Look past comparison between yourself and your peers and strive to be the best version of you. Give and get respect, love, loyalty and commitment. Slow down and breathe. Think. Feel. Ask yourself what your life amounts to today, what it may be worth tomorrow. Enjoy every moment and don’t waste what you’ve got on regrets and indecisions. 

ARTWORK BY DAVID JONGHYUK SHIN

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

LEAVING IT ALL BEHIND Sophia Topper

’m better at leaving than staying. Perhaps it’s in my genes. I left home for the first time at fourteen, moving to a boarding school 2,508 kilometres and one ferry ride away. I left that to come to Ontario for university, and Ontario to voyage even farther east. I wasn’t that surprised to find myself in Ukraine. My Great-Grandfather, my Dido, was probably much more surprised when he was torn away from his Ukrainian village, also as a teenager. He was conscripted into the Austrian-Hungarian army near the beginning of the First World War. He was trained in riflery and shipped to the Italian front, but once revolution broke out in Russia he walked back to his village.

I took a sleeper train to Lviv, and when I awoke I rushed to the window, captivated by the rolling golden fields. I never met my Dido but for the first time I could clearly picture him and the life he left behind. I was itching to get out and explore. We finally arrived in Lviv and for the first time I felt I had truly left home. I had left the west entirely. The cyrillic script baffled me so I wandered the station searching for an exit, following stooped old ladies in headscarves carrying massive pails of strawberries. Dido wasn’t back in his village for long before he was conscripted to the White Russian army. They didn’t trust him to fight so he became a camp follower, a cook. When a cholera epidemic struck he fell ill and the following stopped— he was left in a cave to die and the army moved on. Many died in the cave, including his father, but my Dido survived and worked in a Russian hospital, learning to read and write Russian and then Ukrainian. Eventually he was allowed to make his way back home, on foot again. I longed to visit his village, but it was too small to have any place to stay and too far to return in a day. I settled for Kremenets, the closest town to offer lodgings. I boarded a sweltering yellow bus with blue curtains, an EU flag in the back window and bunting and religious icons strewn all over the dashboard. I sat beside two girls, 16 and 11, who spoke some English and the youngest was the spitting image of my youngest cousin. The bus was full of more strawberry-toting babushkas who lived off those berries and ice-cream, speaking insufficient Ukrainian to purchase anything else. People traversed the dirt roads

I wasn’t that surprised to find myself in Ukraine.

ARTWORK BY DIANA MARGINEAN VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

in wagons and decrepit cars and one morning there was a cow grazing beneath my window. The family cow was mortgaged to pay for my Dido’s passage to Canada, and he left the East. He was the oldest of 10 children and they depended on him to find work and bring the others over. He managed to send for two sisters and a brother before the depression struck, and then WWII, and then the Iron Curtain fell, trapping his other siblings forever. But because of him, I am free as a bird, free to leave any place behind.  31

 What Remains Sam Bubnic Unused, untouched, unwanted, I am incompletely used up. Part of me remains saved for later, you have saved me for later. For now. I am no longer part of the whole. You have chewed me up and spit me out. Do I taste just as good unused, untouched, unwanted?   Numb Sam Bubnic I am not okay with the way we hold things. The way bodies take form against foreign skin and the way I tend to write your name in cursive because it looks better than print. Truth is, it makes my hand cramp. It numbs the tips of my fingers where your lips used to graze and I can’t keep your name inside my throat any longer. You’ve escaped me. 

artwork by Theresa Orsini

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

ARTWORK BY ALICIA SERRANO

LEAVING HOME Alicia Serrano

eaving home has different meanings for different people. It could mean taking a stroll down to the curb to check the mailbox. It could mean stepping out for an hour to buy groceries. It could mean moving out for the first time. Home isn’t necessarily a house you return to after a long day. Put simply, home is where you feel most comfortable. It is where routines get established and where you can be certain of many things. It is where daily happenings carry on as you’d expect them to. Home is watching the sun peek through your curtains and illuminate the walls. It is the familiar, rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee early in the morning. Home is the smell of fabric softener, the gentle hum of the heater. At home, you can keep your room messy, throw your favourite sweater over the side of your comfy chair and know that it will be there in the morning. For me, home is any place I can be sure

of. I am sure that the sun will make the same shadows on the walls as it rises. I know that I will start my day at the kitchen table with my fingers laced around my favourite mug, pressing my palms into the warm ceramic. This feeling of certainty brings solace. Home is a rock in our perpetually changing world. Regardless of how many times we

a fear. I have always wanted to get on a bus just to see where it ends up. I imagine stepping off, hearing the muffled crunch of the pavement under my sneakers, watching the smoke from cigarettes and cars blanket the street. When it clears, I imagine myself in front of a small café that I have never seen before. As the bus drives away, I stand in admiration of the busy cityscape. I don’t know why, but the unpredictability just appeals to me. Some say there is no place like home. While this is indeed true, there is also no place like the outside world, the world of which we are not so certain. Others say that home is where the heart is, but you never know: you may find your heart in tomorrow’s new discovery, one discovery that is only possible if you step away from your comfort zone for a moment. Sometimes, we need an escape from the predictability of home. So turn that doorknob, step into the world, and leave home. 

I don’t know why, but the unpredictability just appeals to me.

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

get knocked down, home will welcome us back, always in the familiar state we left it in. Leaving home means escaping familiarity. We escape familiarity by exploring unfamiliarity. Again, this is different for everybody. For some, it means going on a spontaneous nature walk, trying the new ethnic restaurant down the street, or conquering

Sherri Murray | Negative Space Rachel Kwok | Timeless “Sometimes I wish I could witness the clouds turn into rain, rain turn into pond, only if you will wait for me.”

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

 An Empty Memory Linda Nguyen So why… You picked me Me of all people And I opened myself showed that I cared Listened to your story fabricated slivers of truth interwoven with webs of lies A calm demeanor and a gentle smile Lost in your eyes filled with warmth, kindness… But wait... I heard those distant quiet bells incessant rings Cautious, hesitant, nervous Tinged with a scent of fear distinctly heavy Take a step closer and I let you in Just a small piece a sacrificial offering And yet, you took it all My silent cries useless against your strength Pieces of me blown away to the wind Broken and beaten down I take a breath Inhale… exhale Alone, scared, confused Longing, longing… waiting for a reason And here I stand Faint memories of you and unanswered questions why… Left with nothing but emptiness

artwork by Kayla Da Silva



FAR AWAY FROM HOME Emile Shen

ARTWORK BY FRANCO SIMÕES

The headlines say a flock of Syrian migrants will be arriving in Germany next week. What the headline doesn’t spell out is the trauma that comes with having to relocate to a place where no one wants you. Media is all about perceptions and how headlines are worded affect our outlooks greatly. Diction choices that describe refugees as ‘swarms’, ‘marauders’, or ‘flocks’ also associate them with masses of animals with nothing but primal instincts. Similarly, the astronomical statistical values about the crisis do not allow us to sympathize very well. Less than half of Syria’s population of 22 million remains in their homes. 4 million individuals have left the country, with 1.6 million in Lebanon, 1 million in Iran and Jordan, and 382,000 in Iraq and Egypt. The thing with these statistics is that we oftentimes fail to understand what 4 million humans looks like. We cannot fathom the number of stories extinguished when a boatload of 1000 people drowns. That is what was so provoking about the image of the 3 year-old-boy who drowned and washed ashore in Greece. Aylan Kurdi finally gave us the name and face of a victim. He reminded us that this human rights crisis affects entirely innocent people. crisis is much more tha this human rights and 36

diplomatic crisis. And furthermore, the fact that half of the refugees are children who are much younger than everyone reading this article now, highlights the urgent need for action besides the endless and sometimes, futile diplomatic debates going on currently.

We cannot fathom the number of stories extinguished when a boatload of 1000 people drowns. However, this crisis has only recently caught the attention of mainstream Western media because Syrian refugees have started going to continental Europe. To give a synopsis of how Syria got to this point, the problem extends further back to the very drawing of the nation’s border in 1920. In this arbitrarily drawn border, France had governance over Syria and the people within it, with various historical and social ties as the Ba’ath political party started its reign

in 1970, and has held the government ever since. The Ba’ath Party is also headed by the al-Assad family. Over time, this became more problematic as the Ba’ath party began to support the interests of the Alawite Sethi religious group specifically, meaning a struggle between the powerful minority and a disenfranchised majority. Following much the same timeline as the pro-democratic Arab Spring protests, rebel groups began to militarize. The Syrian Civil War has been growing, spreading, metastasizing for 4 years. The chemical warfare has burned the bodies of the young that have never known Syria’s ancient charm. This issue is complex, and it is a chance for the world to demonstrate itself, and show whether lofty peacekeeping goals are achievable. Humans of New York, a popular Facebook account, who shares arguably more moving stories from the world’s other hemisphere than the UN could ever hope to, is currently trying to capture the stories of refugees. I read the story of a woman’s husband who drowns in the open sea while they trying to escape the indiscriminate black night waves. I can exclaim how devastating this may be, but here I am sitting on my laptop typing this. Hovering — knowing that distant sympathy is the most I can give.  INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

 Dare to Stray Takhliq Amir In front of you, extending for miles upon miles upon miles, are footsteps. Little prints, large prints, skinny and thick, all seem to be carving paths. Through the gravel, on the grass, into the buildings, out of the dark. You take a step forward, and then a step back. And right along with you, so do the footsteps. You walk for a mile, And the footsteps curve right. You stop for a minute, They extend out of sight. You laugh and giggle, Jumping as you go, Stepping into the footsteps, Towards high and low. They provide a familiar home, A safe haven, if you will, For your little self, Unaware of any evil. So you remain a good, little child, Not saying a word, Keeping your loud silence, Like a flightless bird. Then one day, You try to move away, To find your own voice, But somehow you’re stuck, A slave to choice. You use all your strength To move to the left, But somehow your feet don’t listen, Leaving you bereft. So you silence your anger, And squash your despair, You march dejectedly, Following them anywhere. It’s been too long, though, Since this farce began, You now see the trap, The greater game plan. You look around you,

artwork by Melanie Wasser

VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

And find people of all sizes Moving through the world, Slave to the drawn paths. You wonder how you never noticed, Never saw the truth, How you never recognized, The trap for the youth. Your eyes were closed, And your mind controlled, Too captured to see, That you never fit the mould. Now your eyes are open, But you no longer see, The image of yourself, Just waiting to be. So you close your eyes, The mirrors of the world, Take a tentative step forward, And see the scene unfurled. The steps are still there, But faintly so, Curving from right to left, Straining to go. You square your shoulders, And straighten your spine, And then take large steps forward, Before you dare to fly. The footsteps may still be there, But you know you will not check, Your eyes are to the sky, And your feet have forever left the deck. In front of you, extending for miles upon miles upon miles, are footsteps. Little prints, large prints, skinny and thick, all seem to be carving paths. Through the gravel, on the grass, into the buildings, out of the dark. You take a step forward, and then a step back. And right along with you, so do the footsteps. They may follow you around, May still move as you move, But you’re no longer in despair, Because it’s your time to choose. They may still be there, Tempting to some, But your eyes are open, You’re a slave to no one. 

IF WALLS COULD TALK... Nimra Khan

f walls could talk, maybe Pharaohs would ask how well their bids for the afterlife turned out. And, perhaps, seeing how well their monuments had survived, they would be glad to have accomplished at least one thing: not being forgotten in history. Being extremely interested in ancient history, I sometimes have to pause to remind myself that people in history books aren’t just stories. Most of the people remembered today had the forethought to leave some fantastic creations behind. Ancient Egyptians understood this idea better

than most, wherein Pharaohs snagged the opportunity to leave an impression on the world; to them, the only way for the gods to remember their reign was to build the biggest monuments possible in order to be acknowledged. This idea that immortalizing someone in monuments would lead to the remembrance of their legacy was definitely understood by the unknown individuals who defaced and destroyed evidence of the rule of Akhenaten (aka the Heretic King), a Pharaoh who tried to steer Egypt toward the scandalous idea of one new god. Had

ARTWORK BY NIMRA KHAN

these individuals succeeded in their efforts, we might not even know Akhenaten’s name today. He would be just another story lost in time. Another infamous group of people are the people Pompeii. The story of Pompeii is one of tragedy; how a whole city was laid to waste by mount Vesuvius and the volcanic ash buried the city in perpetual sleep, waiting to be discovered. I was definitely not there to discover Pompeii’s remains, but it was while I was walking through the Pompeii exhibit at the ROM this summer that the full force of this destruction really hit me. Molds of the people who died in Pompeii years ago were now lying in an exhibit. They lay in the position they were in when their muscles had curled up from the intense heat, parents holding children, arms over their heads. It was as I stood staring at these casts that jarring thoughts occurred to me: what must those last moments of calm have been like before all of these people met their end? Can you tell the moment when you will just be a drop in the ocean of time? All that is left of the aristocrats, farmers, and all the things that they had worked for is a city frozen in time. Will I know when it’s my turn to become history? Will people thousands of years from now find my remains and ponder the circumstances of my death? Will the education, money, or dreams that I work for now matter? I think I already know the answer. Ancient civilizations are interesting in themselves, but I think we miss something very important by only studying their economic, agricultural, and societal impacts: they were human, and had many of the same struggles and victories as we do now. Excavations at Pompeii, Egypt, and other sites all over the world place a spotlight on how fragile human life is, and how little control we have over our world. Despite the tedious preparations that Pharaohs made for the afterlife and all the artifacts they wanted to bring with them, it has only led to researchers peering into their tombs; their mighty civilization now on display at museums. Even if they aren’t immortal rulers, at least they are immortal in the sense of being remembered. If walls could talk, maybe Pharaohs would now realize that the monumental heights they climbed to on the pyramids didn’t give them a view far enough over the horizon to see what the future held. When the dust settles and smoke clears, the world keeps turning.  INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

BERNIE SANDERS Matt Yau

74-year-old balding grandfather with a heavy Brooklyn accent (New York = New Yawk) is amassing a loyal army of vocal grassroots supporters. They include normally apathetic college students, hip-hop artists, celebrities, and working class folk without receiving a single dollar from corporations. Interested? I know you’re busy, but we need some context so bear with me. There are two major parties in United States politics: the Democratic Party (left-wing) and the Republican Party (rightwing). Each party holds mini elections called “primaries”. The winners of each primary face off in an epic duel of public relations, marketing, and punch lines financed by corporate war chests called Super PACS. When the dust settles, the American public crowns the next leader of the free world. The current frontrunner in the Republican primary is none other than America’s sweetheart himself: Donald Trump. He’s polling at around 24%, with many other Republicans hovering under

ARTWORK BY MICHAEL SUN

in the primaries. It seems clear who will win. In Iowa, New Hampshire, and Vermont, Bernie Sanders is beating Hillary Clinton. Moreover, Sanders is constantly generating 5 times the crowds than those of Clinton. The only money he uses comes from the donations of average citizens. His campaign staff is composed of hundreds of thousands of volunteers, quite literally run by the people, for the people. So why do people like him so much? For one, he sticks to his promises while many presidential candidates make promises they can’t keep. Through his consistent voting record, Bernie Sanders has consistently demonstrated that he’ll do what he says. One of his strongest campaign points in 1988 was attempting to nationalize healthcare. He continues to be one of Congress’ strongest proponents for a more public healthcare system. He voted against invading Iraq

What makes Bernie Sanders so intriguing is his weirdness. him; at this point, it’s really anyone’s game. The Democratic primary is an entirely different landscape. Hillary Clinton is significantly ahead of the other candidates: she’s polling at 40.5%. Below her is the mystery man himself: Bernie Sanders. He’s currently polling at 25.8%; this is a pretty unremarkable number. What makes Bernie Sanders so intriguing is his weirdness. He labels himself as a democratic socialist. He refuses to take any money from Super PACS (Clinton is aiming to collect $2 billion for the election). A self-described radically progressive socialist refusing any corporate funding versus a clean-cut, former secretary of state/first lady with 2 billion dollars and half of the Democratic party already pledged to support her VOLUME 18, ISSUE 2

in 2002, due to the lack of UN involvement. He voted against the Persian Gulf War in 1991, predicting that the war funds would shift billions of dollars away from Social Security and other essential programs. Even now, Sanders remains consistent in saying that an attack against ISIS must be an international effort. Another reason for his success is his dedication to equality. Sanders supported LGBTQ rights in the 1980s, back when it wasn’t ‘cool’. He recognizes racial issues as a legitimate problem in America. With regards to the antiquated penal system, Sanders wants to close all for-profit prisons, which are incentivized to keep more prisoners in jail for longer times in order to generate revenue. He also recognizes the ‘War on Drugs’ has been a complete failure, and holds the position that America should legalize medical marijuana, while decriminalizing possession of the drug. Sanders’ main platform, however, is focused on income inequality. The top 1% of the top 1% of Americans has the same cumulative wealth as the bottom 90% of Americans. He finds it ridiculous that middle class Americans pay more taxes than large corporations and hypocritical that banks can be found guilty of collusion and corruption and receive a slap on the wrist, while a kid found smoking weed might serve time. Never in American political history has someone risen from relative obscurity to rock star status in such a short time. His battle with establishment politics is a classic underdog story - will the progressives’ pro-

Another reason for his success is his dedication to equality. verbial David be able to trump the corporate might of the establishmentarian Goliath? I, for one, certainly hope so. Check out berniesander.com/issues for more info.  39

TREATING A NON AMBI-TURNER Matthew Bassett

The following is a dialogue between male supermodel Derek Zoolander and a counsellor, Dr. Lucci. L: Good morning Derek, thank you for coming to speak with me today. When Matilda booked the appointment she mentioned you’d been feeling low. Let’s work our way through some things, okay? Z: I’ve never done this before, but okay. L: Don’t worry. I’m here to help you. Can you tell me what’s been going on lately? Z: I just don’t know who I am anymore. After losing to Hansel for Male Model of the Year, I lost my three best friends Roofus, Brint, and Meekus in a freak gasoline fight accident. L: You’ve experienced loss. That’s a difficult thing to go through. Z: It all made me realize that a male model’s life is precious, and that I should look for more meaning in my life. I know there must be more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking. L: Have you thought about where you might find that meaning? Z: I thought going home would help, but after a day in the mines, my father told me I was more dead to him than my dead mother. L: How did that make you feel? Z: Hurt. L: Understandably so. What happened next? Z: I got a call from God, who turned out to be Maury, my agent, telling me that Mugatu wanted me for his Derelicte campaign. L: Was this something you wanted to do? Z: Not really, but Mugatu said he would build the Derek Zoolander Center for Kids Who Can’t Read Good, so I agreed. L: That’s exciting. How has the preparation been going? Z: It’s been alright, except that I lost to Hans-Suck-Ass in a walk-off last night. He beat me fair and square, but all he had to do was turn left. L: What do you mean all he had to do was turn left? Z: I’m not an ambi-turner. It’s a problem I’ve had since I was a baby. L: Let’s explore that for a little. Can you remember the first time you realized you couldn’t turn left? Z: Earth to Dr. Lucci, I don’t have baby memories. As Maury says, I have many talents, but hanging a Larry is just not one of them. L: But Derek, left is just a relative position in space. It is subjective. What is left to me right now is different than what is left to you. Z: Huh? L: I’ll try and explain. Left and right are opposites, right? Z: Right. L: But if you turn around, what used to be on your right is now on your left, and what used to be to the left is now on your right. So it only matters where you’re looking at any one moment in time. Does that make sense? Z: Kind of. L: Think of a compass. Z: Are those the little doohickies people use when they go hiking? L: Precisely, it tells you what direction you are moving: North, South, East, or West. I’ll draw one for you. Let’s say you were standing on the center of the compass, what would be right in front of you? Z: North. L: Good. And what would be behind you? Z: South. L: Exactly. What would be to your right? Z: West. L: And what would be to your left? Z: I don’t know. East? Can I go in that direction? L: Of course you can go East! All the directions are all around you at every moment of ARTWORK BY LAUREN GORFINKEL every day. I bet you go East more than you think. I bet you go left more than you think. Z: So should I walk the runway with a compass? L: That might help, but what I would suggest is to stop thinking about your inability to turn left. Keep looking for meaning in your life and maybe you will become an ambi-turner in the process. Can you do that for me? Z: Yeah, I guess I can do that. L: Good. Our session is up for today, but please come back next week after the Derelicte show. Until next time Derek. At the Derelicte show, Mugatu’s brain-washing plan fails, Derek retaliates after Mugatu claims he has only one look, Magnum is unveiled, and Derek saves the Prime Minister of Malaysia, with his proudest moment being that he turned left.  40

INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

ARTWORK BY LEAH FLANNIGAN

COMPLEMENTARY OPPOSITES Sadiya Jamal

hen she was a child, my sister used to write with her left hand. Or at least use her left hand for whatever it is that toddlers do with their hands. Our uncle found out and trained

years apart in age, and have always been paired together. For many years of our lives we always wore matching clothes, as if my mother thought “daughter” was some cutout shape that every daughter should fit into perfectly. I have been used as an example for my sister for as long as I can remember. Every step of the way, she has been told by my mother to be more like me. Only when we hit our teens and our differences were magnified did my mother tell me to start being more like her. Dress like her. Why don’t you put some make up on? Straighten your hair? Only then did I realise what it felt like. After moving away from home for university, I’ve been better able to see that we aren’t as different as I thought we were. I guess now that we’re not actively trying to be so different, I can see that we really are very similar. I often find myself speaking like her, or acting like her, like there’s a bit of her I always carry around with me. I find myself speaking up for myself when I have to, like she always does. I find myself stopping myself when I’m about to say something without thinking,

We are almost always on opposite sides – she is my devils advocate, and I hers. her to write with her right hand. My sister now writes with her right hand, but for every other activity, her left side is her dominant side. I, on the other hand, have always been right-handed. In fact, I cannot do much with my left hand. My left arm doesn’t even function the same way my right arm does. We’ve always been really similar but opposite, my sister and I, just like our left and right hands. In situations where I’m responsible, she’s reckless. In situations where she’s in control, I’m chaos. We are the methods to each other’s madness. I cannot remember a time when we haven’t approached a situation completely differently. If one responds one way the other has to respond in the opposing manner. We are almost always on opposite sides – she is my devil’s advocate, and I hers. Strangers see us and think we’re twins, even though I look like my mother and she like my father. We’re less than two

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because she’s always given me grief for that. This expectation of being the same, it’s been with us for so long that maybe we’ve lost sight of how similar we really are. We are often fighting each other, but whenever I look back I see that it was for the exact same thing. When I look at her and she’s doing something I could never imagine doing, I wonder: maybe she always does the opposite because she’s expected to do the same? 

I guess now that we’re not actively trying to be so different, I can see that we really are very similar.

RIGHT 2 DIE DAY 42

forgot I had this journal. I’ve read somewhere that writing down your thoughts helps with the choking feeling of depression. I vomited a lot of precious food I had tried eating from the grocery store. Life sucks. I lost my brother to the walkers. I lost my parents. I lost Mark, who tried to save me. And I lost Allison, here in this grocery store. Allison and Mark were everything to me. After my family got wiped out, they were all I had left. I can’t deal with the silence, the thoughts of regret, the feeling of being absolutely worthless and helpless. I want to hear their voices one last time. I wish I could hear Allison’s optimistic rants and Mark’s awful puns. I miss them. I wish something could stop this pain. I wish writing in this journal helps. It doesn’t.

DAY 43 The quiet in the store really bothers me. All I hear is the growling and scratching of the zombies on the outside. It forces me to remember the past, and everything I did wrong. I hate how useless I was. I hate how everyone could throw their life on the line just to save me, but I couldn’t even do a thing to save Allison when she got bitten. She sat there in the grocery store throwing up, and I just listened to her die.

ax opens the fridge. Nothing inside but leftovers. Rotten vegetable stew. Max closes the fridge. He walks around in a circle and tries the fridge again. The leftovers sit there. Max stares at them blankly. No, not yet, Max. You can’t eat that yet. As thin as a needle, Max lays against the filthy walls of the kitchen. His thin lips hang dry and scraggly. His dry hair has started falling off his head. His clothes drape off of his bony frame. Eyes bulging and red, they fit well with his emaciated face. Tired and hungry, hungry and tired. Nothing but the mere idea of eating has eroded Max’s mind. He hasn’t eaten in forever, and anything, any morsel or crumb will sate him. Max stares at the fridge. No, Max. With desperate eyes, Max looks away and starts scratching a rash on his left arm in order to occupy himself. His long grimy nails dig furiously into his sickly, yellowing skin. Glancing back at the fridge, the urge is so great. But how can he resist? Finally, Max breaks out and opens the fridge. Inside are still nothing but the leftovers. Max hates vegetables. Sad and disgusted, Max closes the fridge. Distraught, his stomach growls. Eat, Max. Please. Max wishes he could eat, but there is nothing left. Collapsing, Max starts drifting off into a hungry haze, when suddenly: DING DONG. The bell. No wait, the doorbell! With newfound energy, Max runs to the door to greet his visitor. A pizza delivery man. Finally, food at last! Tears run down Max’s face; he can finally eat! Max pulls the man inside his house and begins his long awaited feast. The man didn’t have time to scream before Max begun dining on his innards. 

H U N G R Y

Hamid Yuksel

DAY 54 Everything inside me is numb now. I forget what voices sound like. I’ve been trying to talk to the outside, but I don’t think my tongue would remember how to form words. Maybe someone will hear me and save me. But all I get are growls back. I tap the ground silently, to try and simulate some kind of music. I hum. It doesn’t sound like music, but it helps. I used to be scared of the idea that zombies would bite me, that I would turn into one of them. But, the more I listen to the silence, the more I become afraid of myself.

DAY 55 The silence got so unbearable that I went to talk to Allison’s corpse. Seeing her rotting face and being hit by her unbearable stench made me vomit. I went back to my little corner of the grocery store, decorated by plastic bags and apples in a vague attempt to try and simulate a room. I used the excess, rotting fruit to make a face, and tried talking to it. The scratching outside continues. I kept on yelling towards the outside, but it’s pointless. Everything I do is pointless. 42

DAY 57 The scratching from the zombies stopped for an hour when I gave up on yelling. The silence was unbearable. I went to the tall, open window and started yelling again, just to hear the scratching continue. The slow shuffling and the growls were comforting to hear. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t alone.

DAY 63 I continued to make noises inside to hear the sound of movement outside. I needed to hear them to remind myself of what was real and what was in my mind. There was a pattern to their growls, a method to their shuffling, something human about them. I feel like everything will make sense if I just go outside, if I see what’s going on, and wake up from this dream. Zombies don’t exist. They only exist in those video games, like Left 4 Dead. Everyone is waiting for me outside of my dream. I miss Alice’s son and Mark… I think? How did my days use to start? I’m going to open the door to see. 

Osmond Jian INCITE MAGAZINE, OCTOBER 2015

ello? Can you hear me? It’s me, Aggie. I can hear you, murmuring to your friends on the sidewalk. I can feel the rocks you pelt at my windows. Well not me, my house’s windows. Though truthfully there isn’t much difference between the house and I anymore. Are you listening? I’ll try again. It’s been so long since anyone has come to visit me, I guess I should start at the end. You see, I don’t know what I did to make Henry mad. You’d think I’d remember my last moments more clearly, but I was always forgetful. That’s why Henry always hurt me. I’d forget to get the paper in the morning; I’d forget to wash his suit for work. I tried tying ribbons around my fingers but they did nothing to help. So in the end, it must have been my fault. I remember Henry yelling at me, and I remember how I cried and promised that I would be a better wife. But I knew I couldn’t, and so did he. I remember the shotgun, and I remember the pain. But Henry didn’t mean it, I know he didn’t. I remember how he cried and held me. I remember how he whispered my name. I remember how he grabbed the ax, tore open the living room wall,

S R CA H M

y heart pounded, nearly bursting from my chest. I hammered on the door, hoping someone would be home. A young woman answered. I quickly and rather inarticulately poured out my story. There had been an accident and my wife was in our car with her left hand trapped between the pavement and the window. She was losing blood and if she didn’t get help soon, I was certain she wouldn’t survive. The woman nodded tensely, quickly locking her door and following me at a sprint. It was late October, almost Halloween and as we ran to the car the moon lit a path of cracked pumpkins and their rotting flesh smeared artlessly on the road. We ran off the road and as we came close, the pounding in my chest increased to the point I was sure she could hear it. As the woman inched closer to the car, I could see her spine stiffen. The car was neatly parked between two trees, upright, with no woman or blood in sight. Well, not yet

anyway.

As I cracked the bat over her head, I didn’t think she felt much pain, but then I always did try to be considerate with the caring ones who came to my aid. You should see what I do to the ones who decide not to follow me to the car. I hope you have learned something my dear reader. When the wolf came to grandmothers door, he wore the skin of a man. I rather do think that story came from one of my victims that got away. I also wear the skin of a man when I come to knock on your door at night. The devil likes to dress up on occasion too you know. 

Caitlyn Buhay

ARTWORK BY PATRICIA NGUYEN

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and stuffed me inside. I know this all sounds bad, but he was so gentle before he put me in there. He couldn’t stop crying when he cut me up in tiny pieces and wrapped me in my favourite duvet, bones and all, and stuffed me in the wall. He cried as he mopped up the blood. He sealed me in concrete first and then rebuilt the wall with the most beautiful oak panelling, the ones I’d always dreamed of having. So you see, Henry really was a good man. I was just dumb and pushed him too far. If only the police had understood that. I knew you could hear me! Here you are looking in my windows and peering inside. I know this isn’t a very nice story to tell, especially since we’ve only just met! But I was hoping I could ask you a favour. You see, Henry was never very good at cleaning and the police found out what he did and jailed him. Our neighbour Helen found the rags with my blood on them during her usual snooping around our house (I never did like that woman). But they couldn’t find me, I was too well hidden and police forces weren’t as high tech as they are now. No one wanted to move into this house; no matter how lovely it is, because I died here and it got the reputation of being haunted. So I became one with the house without really meaning to. I know it’s very difficult to understand, so I will give you an example. I am staring you straight in the eyes as you press your chubby nose against the front window. I am the windows, the doors, the pipes, the cabinet. I am everything. I know you can’t see me, very few can, but you can hear me, I know you can. Trust me; I’ve tried to get the attention of people in the past, the ones who eventually came and lived with me, but always left too soon. I would whisper in the floorboards as a sleepy child woke up for a glass of water in the night, I would groan with every opening and closing of a door or cabinet, I would scream and shake the pipes with every morning shower. But no one heard me, or if they did they became frightened and left. That is, until you. You see, all I need you to do is take me out of the wall. As much as I love the house, I just can’t stay here any longer. Call it cabin fever if you will, but I need to leave here immediately. You don’t have to put me anywhere special, under a tree or by a stream would be nice. It doesn’t even have to be you. Just call the police or get your father toWhere are you going? Please don’t leave, I’m sorry I’ll try again! I’ll let you take your time. Let us be friends first, let’s really talk. I know you can hear me, I can see it in you. Please, don’t let me stay here stuck behind the wall! 

Sarah O’Connor

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