Incite Magazine - July 2020 by Incite Magazine

EDITORIAL

Hello,

Our second and final issue of the 2019-2020 year, Power, is finally here. It had humble beginnings, starting out as just a brainstorm bubble in a BSB room. We think the final product turned out pretty well (if we do say so ourselves). This year has been a force to be reckoned with. Wherever you are, we hope that this issue offers what you are looking for — and maybe even a hint of what you didn’t know you needed. Art may not solve every problem, but it remains a powerful way to send a message to ourselves and to others. If you have been using art as a medium for expression, keep going. Whether it be serious or lighthearted, messy or clean, ordinary or unusual, KEEP GOING. Your art is your voice. There are few things in this world that match the sincere expression behind art. Thank you for letting us share a piece of that world with you. With the completion of Power, our 2019-2020 Editorial Board is handing off the ropes to next year’s team. We can’t wait to see what the future holds. Thank you so much to everyone who made this year possible. Never forget what art can bring out in you. x

Neda Pirouzmand Editor-in-Chief (Content)

CONTENTS

force of nature tiffany tse 08 the conjurer kashyap patel 09 habits liberty liu 10 the moth zainab husain 12 let us take the long way home faris mecklai & rhea jangra

hopeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sign nisha gill 17 snake eyes riley marshall 20 my phone is dying roya motazedian 21 pawn to g4 r.m. 23 chemical castles michelle yao 24 see you soon aislinn huang 27 sent from above natalie laxamana 28 mother madeleine randmaa 31 fever dream vivian wu 35 change seun orenuga 38 sealed sanya grover 41 what will you do? xxx trisha 42 to be strong ariella ruby 44 the heroes are assembled lubna najm 46 free range labiqah iftikhar 49 a swiftian enterprise tenzin gyaltsen 50 quoted love gail del castillo 52 deity archer stephens 55 after school ava corey 56 the student revolution sheridan fong 58 my name gillian maltz 60 spiders katerina simatirakis 63 up to you lyan abdul 65 a dream teshan dias 66 darling evra ali 69 the mystery of mankind mikaela grahlman 70 accidental birthrights sneha wadhwani 72 lights out morgan martin 74 parental supervision required patrick mcarthur 77 chaos never really left... fatima raza 79

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CONTENTS

can we learn to love the dark? nikisha browne 80 to err is human nimasha de silva 82 thief zara nadeem khan 84 onus jessica qiu 86 lead me melissa kolodziej 87 hymn to persephone suzany manimaran 90 black life conflicted aicha issa 91 brilliant white bryan wong 92 caveman elena wells 95 resuscitation jawaria karim 97 doll alex chen 99 the art of not writing alan minkovich 100 an unlikely sanctuary matthew lukasz fredericks 103 my kind of coming out lisa shen 106 laughter conrad arnold 109 why-oh-you (y.o.u.) sandy luu 110 liberating yvonne syed 111 king of kings vicky xie 112 mind over matter keily johnson 114 ablaze aaryaman anand 115 eulerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s identity sharang sharma 116 breaking free simrit saini 119 writing about men // feminism meghan bird 122 canadian rocky mountains jason waddle 124 medusa sarah stewart 125 prayer to st. michael the archangel deborah hernandez 128 potent but not content adrienne yau 133 to love the night too fondly srikripa krishna prasad 135 lights, camera, representation! nikita chang 139 in the the gentle lighting katie ann lee 140 backstage gillian hodge 142 this is a war weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never stop fighting for zoya pal 144 overwriting love julianna marr 146 friends by chance, sisters by choice b.d. lily 148

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staff stories

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HOW DO YOU POWER THROUGH TOUGH TIMES? 04

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SANDY LUU ART MANAGER

Doing artsy things and feeding off Reddit.

SABRINA JIVANI ART MANAGER

Doing my best to stay calm and making sure that I eat and drink water no matter what.

MATTY FLADER

E.I.C. (CREATIVE + PRODUCTION)

LUBNA NAJM

CONTENT EDITOR Imagine, if you will, an engulfing darkness. Not a light to be seen, not an emotion to be felt, nothing. As if hope has been swallowed by fear, and you lie there, powerless. In that powerless darkness, there is no hope… A guitar riff, a note on a piano, a vocal tune, reaches your ears. Emotions are breathed into you once again. The tap of your foot, so unconscious yet so enjoyable, as the beat takes over your body. In that powerless darkness, there is the freedom of music.

Reality TV and rocking back and forth in a ball.

ARIELLA RUBY SABRINA JIVANI ART MANAGER

Doing my best to stay calm and making sure that I eat and drink water no matter what.

NEDA PIROUZMAND E.I.C. (CONTENT)

Start the mornings right with a workout until I’m dripping in sweat.

TENZIN GYALTSEN TREASURER

I just go with the flow (shoutout to Vol 22 Issue 1.5).

SARA EMIRA

CONTENT EDITOR I write. Whether it’s creative writing or just journaling, putting my feelings into words helps me understand them better. Once all the emotions are out of the way, I can think more rationally and figure out what I need in order to feel better. Sometimes seeing everything written out makes me realize that the situation isn’t that bad after all! Whatever the case may be, I think it’s always important to focus on the things that you can control rather than those which you have no power over.

CONTENT EDITOR

You hold the three-pronged fork And send forth sparks When you’re ill-used. You blink in flashing red And greet the dead With your short fuse. Devil bedamned You do the work of the witch. With your brew you raise the dead From the brink of the abyss. They guzzle electrons Until your cup is half-empty. You’re a negative-blooded Cornucopia of plenty. You rev the engines of the stagnant Who eschew gasoline. You breath life into the batteries Of the gallery machines. You animate the insensate Who have died of overuse. In simpler terms, you charge my shit When it has run out of juice. — From a human to her power bar That’s right, I power through difficult times with an abundance of electricity. Shout out to my power bar, the real MVP. Without you, there would be no Netflix, Instagram, or even Avenue. (Tragic, I know.)

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CMYK CMYK CMYK CMYK 06

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ART by ELENA WELLS

FORCES OF NATURE WORDS by TIFFANY TSE

A violent gust of wind engulfs me, pushing, pulling, tossing me. The incessant beat of the rainfall surrounds me, drenching, drowning, wrecking me. Battered, torn and forgotten: I have lost control. These forces of nature hold strength, energy beyond what I have: I am defeated. Yet, I know â&#x20AC;&#x201D; A fire burns within me, flickering, flaring, rekindling my spirit. The roots of the earth find me, centering, collecting, grounding my thoughts. I hold control. I hold strength. I hold energy. 08

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I am the elements of nature. x

THE CONJURER

ART by 27xcv WORDS by KASHYAP PATEL

His hands float in silence As he conjures up celestial sounds His face contorts as the music Takes him into the cosmos Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s agony, anger and A hint of wonder He punches to summon trumpets, Opens his palms to inspire the flute. His fingers raise the sea of fiddles His eyes alone bring in the clarinets His fists will stop the whole show â&#x20AC;&#x201D; He plays the ensemble with only his mind He stands over them: a musical master And in the corner by the marimba, my love plays the lone horn Against the backdrop of starry images From the Hubble. Interval. x

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WORDS by LIBERTY LIU

The fables drum: one foot in front of the other wins the race against the quick who rest. Engrained are the morals, grown and stemming from our predecessors, little prepared to bloom within their own time. Given flowers are ephemeral, evanescent â&#x20AC;&#x201D; pretty words we say to convince the high justifies them, blindly pruned perish. The angry din grows. How long until we run out of breath? Smothered by possessed hands manufacturing, advocating, consuming the very mass that suffocates our heads. Reason yells at empty trenches of the world, through us, never to leave satisfied x

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ART by MATTY FLADER

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THE MOTH

WORDS by ZAINAB HUSAIN ART by SARAH STEWART

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Amid the quiet humming of the monitors you watch the drop of condensation crawl its way down to the base of your coffee mug. The tapping of keyboards around you continues, matching the steady drum of rain falling heavily outside. You know how these restless mornings go; they stretch back as far as you can remember. There is an aching in your back between your shoulder blades. You push the ache into the back of your mind, wishing to numb yourself of its presence; the years have not been kind to you. You turn and stare out the window into the storm clouds, waiting for the world to speed up.

No one else sees it. The gaping black hole in the sky.

No one else feels the pull as it threatens to swallow you whole. Is it only you? Lightning cracks in the distance and hurricane winds swirl the papers on your desk into disarray. You spot a distant twinkling light in the center of the void. The other workers type away, unfazed. Tearing your eyes away from the window, you bring your attention back to your monitor, and try your best to return to your work. Still, you feel the sky shifting and the shining glimmer on the horizon growing dazzlingly brighter. You look around to see if anyone else feels the swells of trumpets in their stomach as the midday sky dissolves to glittering gold dusk. Everything outside the window is changing before your very eyes. Cement streets fall away into nothingness. Trees and lamp posts rip themselves free of the ground and float away. Soon the world outside is black and empty besides the pulsing light, just too far away to see clearly from your vantage point. Maybe if you got closer, maybe it would all make sense. You imagine running down the stairs, climbing into your aging Volkswagen and speeding towards it, trying to make sense of its magnificence. You can picture it, hearing the swells of harp music growing louder and louder as you drive closer to the beauty you imagined existed only in dreams. Hypnotized, you walk towards the stairway door. Eyes locked on the handle, the steps feel like wading through waist-deep sludge. The air is getting thicker by the second. The other workers turn to look at you; their glares pierce shards of doubt through your determination. The seconds on the clock boom louder and louder, drowning out the music coming from behind the door, drowning your every thought till all you hear is the tick echoing in your mind. They slow down, each tick an eternity apart. Throat dry, hands sweaty, you remove your blazer and let it crumple to the floor. Between your shoulders translucent wings begin to sprout.

You turn the knob and walk. x

LET US TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME

ART by H.M. WORDS by FARIS MECKLAI & RHEA JANGRA

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Let us take the long way home We are of sound mind but want to be left alone, able to come to know our own volition. In solitude and in these realms — That would be nice. Air blooming quietly, gently here. Perhaps it is up to us to find truth in this paradise. I want to be in the company of beings that know secret things. With animals and orchestras, sibyls and tongues; Foreign souls the poets have long stopped writing about, whose voices the aspens continue to whisper. Draw your courage from the circles or else from birdsong; Never from the unabridged sun, stretching to measure incohesion. You simmer in my dreams, fragmented and confused and radiant; Rest your body and take a break here. Let the moonlight veil you in her pashmina, spun from innocence and kashmir — dilute, phosphene-drenched and swathed in soft light. As we walk, ¿will you cry? Through valleys, mountains, crevasses and hollows — here we find bothersome echoing retrospection burgeoning with futile nyctophilic hope. ¿Or will you grin? Like the watercolour, candle-eyed child you once were. You try to climb the remains of every lost country, but I am still here, all this ache beneath my eyelids, night stifling the wind. It will never annoy me when you ask, “Are we there yet?” I want to know if you welcome the silent moments, When the nearest lights to you are the satellites and you openly embrace the reticence of night. Or do you hide under duvets of aggregating sounds, stitched together and eventually harmonious; held by the comfort you find in the chaos of unfamiliar faces and cityscapes that shroud the world away. Tell me what you find in the centre of your own spirit For, if there you find yourself, and yourself alone and you greet each other without fear of shame, I will know we are the same. We sink here, together, under grey skies — like raindrops suspended in midair. Here I only think of warm things — of constant rebirth; laugh like wildflower dreams. Wear your crown of moonlight and nightingale song; Today the clouds look like willow paint and illuminate the morning. Hold on to this feeling and remember — declare, I am not there, seldom alone; and I am relieved. The sovereign of myself. A Bolder voice - you will disturb universes. We’ve arrived Here at Daydreamer’s Corner But our ballad is nowhere near done. My dear; the symphony are still tuning their instruments, and the oracles still readying their lips to proclaim riddles. So as indelible as we think we are, I must confess: In the wake of it all, at the end of the world, Uncertain of a continuance — breath by breath, We may still catch a glimpse of something always more significant than this. x

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HOPEâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S SIGHT ART by DHVANIL JOSHI WORDS by NISHA GILL

The world is dark and bleak. There is corruption and destruction, fear and fire, violence and violation. There is horror and injustice, terror and trauma, storms and sickness. In many ways, the world is crumbling away, piece by piece. These broken pieces are, often, all we can see. However, this is not what Hope sees, Hope can only see the world that could be — the bright and beautiful world that could be made from all these broken pieces. Hope is an essence or a spirit, present in everything and anything. From their spirit comes Hope’s greatest strength: their vision. It is their duty to share it with everyone they can. Hope has always lent others pieces of their spirit and vision to encourage and guide them to see the world as they do, and work towards it in ways that Hope cannot. So, in these dark days, Hope gives, and gives, and gives, handing over pieces of themselves to those who need them, with ease. And without thought. … As they are handing over pieces of themselves, Hope stumbles and pieces of themselves slip from their grasp, tumbling down into the cracks in the universe, joining the shattered pieces of the rest of the world. It is getting darker, and even those, to whom Hope has given so many pieces of themselves, grow more and more afraid. They have hoped, and hoped, and hoped for so long, but so little has changed; their efforts systematically and stubbornly undone by others with different visions, imbued with strength from different spirits. So, heedless of their own unsteadiness, Hope steels themselves and gives, and gives, and gives some more, desperate and determined to help others see the world as they do. … Everything comes crashing down. The last piece that was propping up the world is nothing but dust, crushed beneath the weight of everything else. Hope sways and looks around. They can no longer see the brightness and beauty that they have always seen. All they can see now is darkness and desolation. It dances across their vision, mocking and teasing. And just as before, it consumes all of their sight, Hope sees Hate, Doubt, Despair and Death, flickering at the corners. … Hope comes back to awareness in increments, piece by piece, slowly seeing and feeling again. They look around and there is Despair, waiting. Despair spreads their hands, gesturing around them, at the broken world. Hope glares. Despair shrugs and then stands, holding out a hand. The two of them have never needed words, they understand each other; they are a pair, like Hate and Love, Death and Life. Hope stares for a moment and then shakes their head. Despair deflates and dissolves, dissipates, blown away by something less than a breath. Hope tries to stand, but the world spins, spiraling away, and Hope is lost to the darkness again. … When Hope wakes, it is with a start, sudden. They lever themselves up slowly and look around. This time they are alone. They shiver, everything is barren and cold, dark and desolate. They try to see more, to remind themselves what they used to see, what they have always believed could be, only to stumble again and shiver more. They close their eyes — they don’t want to see this — and they take a few more unsteady steps. They continue with eyes closed until, even through their closed lids, they notice a change in the lighting.

They crack their eyes open just a bit and just a ways ahead, they see a small light. They hesitate, before opening their eyes fully and moving towards the light. … Sitting beside a fire, coaxing the embers into something more, is Death. They look up from the ashes and gesture to the space beside them. “Come. Sit,” Death encourages. Hope takes a step back, startled. “We’ve waited for you, Life and us. But Life had to leave. This place — “Death sighs, “Life can never wait very long.” “Why did you stay?” Death doesn’t reply right away, and continues to nurse the fire. Hope hesitates and then takes a tentative step forward, coming to sit beside Death. “You overextended yourself. We have limits too, you know. Just like everything else,” Death says finally. “But I had to. The people needed me. They couldn’t see — ” “Couldn’t they?” “Yes, but they wouldn’t see more.” “You mean they saw, but they didn’t see what you did.” “They didn’t see anything!” Death studies Hope calmly, “They saw what you have always refused to see.” Hope frowns, “What do you mean?” “Your sight, little one, is a beautiful gift, a wonderful strength. But also a delicate, dangerous one. You cannot be selective, only seeing before or after, and never now. There needs to be a balance of vision and presence.” Hope stares at the other spirit, confused, “It’s just — there’s so much. And so much of it is awful.” “But it is what is. You cannot expect to create change if you cannot first see this world for what it is. The awesome, the awful and the bits in between.” Hope falls silent, considering. They look around again, and try to see again. “You said there needs to be balance,” Hope says slowly. “There always needs to be balance.” “Presence and vision. Looking and seeing.” Death smiles serenely. Hope looks around again, seeing truly, but they still feel unsteady. “I failed before,” Hope whispers. “Before has passed, you cannot change it, but you can remember it and learn. After all, there is always now,” Death replies. x

snake eyes ART by MATTY FLADER WORDS by RILEY MARSHALL

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Eyes, they follow Picking her out, Tracing the movement of hips waist legs. Disregarding the face, Chiseled of stone, Young, yet marble against the world. His lips move, “The dress — No, her stockings! Her neckline plunges…” words whispers touches. The wanting grew, her, urging for it to all stop, For him to stop, A silent plea, in a moment of need Ah, but answered wrong — sinister cursed befitting. Now, he — no all — say that “Snake eyes Scales for lips and serpent locks — Oh, how gruesome!” Her, unable to see past the forks scales slits. Sobbing, under moon, misunderstanding “Why this curse?” she screams, “Why bring upon me this?” I plea for help And now I am condemned a monster a freak ugly. A fool made of me! Now a myth One they name Medusa!”

Prayers upon ears, Upon wet eyes. To give a curse, so disguised, A blessing within — To avoid wrath — Oh how she, Yes, she! So, so, so clever smart intelligent For a woman Had to hide these things. It takes time, As all things do, for her — snake eyes — to grow past, To grasp what it is. “A defense,” she whispered, The stars listening avidly, “Against so, so, so many — against the world against men against touches.” Stone eyes cannot follow, Statue faces unable to trace, But she, yes she, Can see herself, eyes nose her singularity. Forged from serpents, that wreaths her face. Making perfection, Creating her own outlet. Yes, men still came to yank stare freeze. But she never cared for them, and their smells, anyway Preferring, instead, the hers shes ladies Who didn’t want her to change. x

MY PHONE IS DYING

WORDS by ROYA MOTAZEDIAN

hey how are you? i’m ok, been a long day haha. i’m so stressed, so much is happening. You don’t even know the half of it, but i’ll save you from having to know

it’s okayy

Meh. how are you?

Oh :(( it happens to everyone, don’t worry I’m really bad at giving advice, don’t take it to heart Also, I’m worried about a lot of my own things right now

Well I’m tired. Goodnight. I’m busy, it’s been a long day.

oh man i’m sorry about that :( Please don’t unload all of your stress on me again I get really worried and sad for you When you’re sad, I can’t function I’m waiting for you to ask me how i feel too. I know it feels so overwhelming, but you can do this. like you always have

Finally! Do it! Open up! a lot of unlucky things have just happened and I feel super frustrated. Things with my family and other stuff. i feel like crying.. i genuinely don’t feel good

Wow! I feel so much better!! Oh yeah haha exactly what i wanted to hear!! I’m never telling you anything ever again!

Oh, goodnight! Okay my day REALLY wasn’t good. I feel like I’m being pulled into a black hole. I feel so horrible and I have no one to talk to but you; I guess now I really don’t have anyone to talk to because you clearly don’t care.

I care for you but I’m so worried about myself. It’s hard for me to think of others while I’m having a hard time. I always want to hear you out but you never hear me out. You never give me a chance to. You never trust me. I’M NOT OK!! PLEASE! RESPOND PLEASE [Message could not be delivered] x

ART by SINA KAZEROONIZAND

PAWN TO G4 WORDS by R.M.

My father taught me how to play chess. Those moments were the only time I ever saw him so patient. Normally, he is loud, loud, loud. He tells me things about my mother, details about their marriage that no thirteen year old should ever hear. I look at him and the first word that comes to mind isn’t ‘love’, but ‘hate’. At the chess board, he is quiet. He sits, watches and praises — sighing only when the timer goes off. He never lets me win, and the three times that I do, I know it’s because I actually deserve it. I find myself reaching for the chess board more and more, if only to somehow find him again. If only to have my dad back. He gives me a chessboard for my fourteenth birthday. It is custom-made, imported from relatives in Hungary, and is engraved with my name. It is the only gift that my father has ever given me. My best friend of three months invites me over for New Years. Her father isn’t just loving across the chessboard. He teases her, and when she teases back, he breaks into laughter instead of slamming the door. I come to realise that my father is a chess master, using me as a pawn in his game against my mother. At sixteen, I no longer want to play chess anymore. My father tells me he doesn’t like who I’ve become. “Mean-spirited” is how he describes me. I do not know how to tell him that I would prefer for him to say that he didn’t love me. It is not the type of thing daughters wish for their fathers to say. But I would rather he liked who I was than love me out of compulsion. It would hurt a lot less. When I look at him, it feels like the end of a chess game, when he has my king huddled up in a corner as my eyes look frantically for every option, over and over again, only to realise that it is the end. Checkmate. I look at him to try and find a piece of the father I once knew. But I am out of moves. Three hundred and seventy-seven days later, we pack our bags. I leave my chessboard behind. x

I. So there’s this tweet I read claiming that the number of times you’ve been to Disneyworld serves as a precise measurement of your socioeconomic status. Where I’m from, we have our own Cinderella’s castle — countless chemical plants that melded together into one fiery fortress. At night, you can measure the height of the sky by the height of the refineries. Golden gas flares cut through the smoke, brighter than any Epcot fireworks. Distillation columns light up Chemical Valley, winding and wondrous like the bones of fallen stars. II. A fallen star himself, my father had been one of the architects of this venomous Versailles. At his funeral, as a gift, his company put a picture of the last refinery he designed right next to his coffin — like burying an axe right next to their murder victim before extracting themselves from the scene of the crime. They watched the evidence burn from the closeby comfort of their fantasyland greenery. Their noses all grew three sizes that day (as did their wallets). III. As the towers of terror keep rising, I realize that we won’t even get to fly before we fall from them. We won’t need to wait for the sun to scorch us; the air will kill us first. Still, the wax wings that Dad had furnished for me will melt all the same when midnight arrives. Still, we’ll keep building, as if the fossils fuelling us could bring us back from the dead afterwards. We’ll stay still, pretend it’s all unbreakable. If only we could go back and someday make it unbroken once more. IV. We visit his gravestone downtown every year, but his legacy is everywhere — everywhere I go, everything I am. I know that his name is still carved into the last castle he’d designed. That castle is still pumping oil and blood as we speak, powering and polluting in equal measure. Its reach spreads far beyond our city, like veins in the ground or channels we aren’t attuned to. To my untrained eye, it’s magic, and it’s the reason why I’m here — why I can study chemistry, as if the chemicals in my brain and blood aren’t ticking time bombs hidden in a haunted manor. V. Cinderella ran from her castle with no guarantee of ever returning. I eventually shattered my slippers and scurried here, knowing that the sooty skies and white faces would still catch up to me. Was Cinderella a better ruler because of her torment? Did she ever return to her old, haunted home and swear that nothing like this would ever happen in her kingdom again? I think so, but it would have been nice if she’d never suffered in the first place. VI. So come one, come all, to this park of fatal attractions! We’ve got escape rooms with no solutions and industry-funded conservation areas to protect against conversations. You can leave, or you can stay, but my ghost will remain here long after I’ve left — The happiest place on Earth. x 24

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CHEMICAL CASTLES WORDS by MICHELLE YAO ART by SANDY LUU

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ART by TEODOR ZETKO

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see you soon

WORDS by AISLINN HUANG

Hello? Hey, honey, it’s dad. I know dad, I have caller ID. Oh. Well, then why did you say ‘hello’ like a question? Because it’s just what everyone says, okay? Well, I’m not everyone else. Yeah, I know, dad, but people don’t normally pick up the phone and immediately say, “Hello, John, how is the Statistics department doing today?” Well, have you ever tried it? Um, well, no...I suppose not. Then how do you know it’s weird? I didn’t say — ugh, you’re so annoying. You know, honey, you never think something you do is weird until people tell you it is. I didn’t say you’re weird, dad. Mhm. Except you totally are. I am unique. There is no one like me. Life is definitely more interesting with you. Exactly! There you go. You are unique too, you know. Thanks, dad. Now you say it. Dad, I’m on the bus! Congratulations, now say it like you believe it. i am unique. there is no one like me.

Sorry, I don’t think I heard you, the static was in the way. I am unique. There is no one like me. Did you say it? I still can’t hear. I am unique. There is no one like me. Pardon? I AM UNIQUE. THERE IS NO ONE LIKE ME. Aha! That you are, honey. I can hear your smug face through the phone. No smug face, just pride. Yeah, yeah. I’m really proud of you, honey...everything you’re doing with school and your volunteer program this summer. You’re going to do so many good things. I know, dad, I know. I love you too. … ... Was your trip okay? How was your presentation? Yeah, it was fine, same as last year. I met the CEO, though. That’s so cool. Then I called her the wrong name. Oh my god, dad! Oh, it was fine. She laughed and we’re going to play golf next month with her karaoke group. I can’t believe you did that. You’re at the boarding lounge now? Yes, ma’am. Just watching the snow falling outside. It’s snowing here too. See anyone interesting? Hmm...oh! What’s that chap’s name from the wizard movie? Daniel Radcliffe? Are you serious?! Right, so what could be his cousin is sitting by the window. Haha, you’re so funny with your clickbait. What’s clickbait? I’ll explain it when you get home. Okay, honey. They’re starting to board the plane now. Okay, I’ll hang up. Can you bring me a bag of those corn chips if they have them? Pretty please? Of course. Thanks, dad. Call me as soon as you land, okay? I will. Okay, love you, dad. Love you too, honey. See you soon. I’ll be there before you know it. x POWER

SENT FROM ABOVE WORDS by NATALIA LAXAMANA ART by SANDY LUU

I like to think that there are almighty beings that walk this earth. They live among us â&#x20AC;&#x201D; we see them in our classes, on our morning routes and sometimes even in our own homes. They exude brilliance, with the ability to light up an entire room. With their hearts sewn onto their sleeves, they can heal those around them. They view the world through a lens of compassion â&#x20AC;&#x201D; taking in both the glory and the gore. But with this openness comes vulnerability. Sometimes these divine creatures fail to recognize their own potential. With great ability comes great responsibility. They feel a constant pull towards humanity, What others may deem as remarkably considerate they see as the bare minimum. But one can only go above and beyond only so many times before the point of burnout. x

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mother ART by TAYLOR TABRY-DORZEK WORDS by MADELEINE RANDMAA

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Ella followed Mother to the next painting on the wall to inspect it. Mother, dressed in a black cashmere coat, walked in towering heels. The rhythm of clicks and clacks on the floor beneath her was steady and echoed through the room. Mother turned to Ella and asked if she liked it. The sound of Mother’s voice made Ella feel small. She shifted her weight to her toes and rose up so she was almost at eye level with the painting. It was white and monochromatic, reminding Ella of a dreary day’s sky. There wasn’t enough there of what Ella liked in a painting, but Mother didn’t know this. Ella was attracted to vibrant stains of colour thrown onto canvases, contrasted by precise lines drawn by the most delicate hand. She liked the illustrative ones, the paintings and drawings, etchings and sketches that told a story, ones she could imagine in her head. Ella tilted her head upwards to look at Mother. Commanding the edges of her mouth to form a wide smile — a skill she had learned well — she said it was amazing. The floors were hard concrete and the air light and cool. Glossed-over canvases lined the spacious rooms, so shiny one could almost see their reflection. The walls were tall and white, wide and engulfing, intersecting with high ceilings. Though spacious and empty, the rooms almost felt like they were closing in; Ella felt trapped and claustrophobic. The gallery’s paintings were paired with transparent stickers that had tiny black letters one had to stand too close to read. Ella's home had paintings that were very similar to those in the gallery, but they didn't have the stickers. Of course, Mother was always happy to tell visitors who the artist was, and their response was often one of awe and admiration. Mother walked with her chin raised slightly higher than normal and had to peer downwards to look at the art on the wall. The gallery attendant approached Mother and they had a brief conversation, Mother taking up most of the space. The attendant took the white, monochromatic painting off the wall and walked it through a series of seemingly endless, desolate rooms, only to end up at the back to be wrapped in brown paper. All to adorn a wall at home, where one already hung. This great accumulation of things made Ella question the worth of her own things, primarily her thoughts and ideas. As a result, Ella never felt like she could talk to Mother about ‘nonsense times’ she shared with her friends, or the reason behind the sadness she knew she wore on her face. It was only when she talked about her “A grades” and “abundance of friends” that Mother drew close to admire her, as she would with her acquired paintings. Mother seemed to treat everything around her like an object, only tending to them when she needed something. Her possessions were so important; they had so much value. She never thought to imagine that her own daughter was worth so much more, so neither did Ella. Ella always held it all in, bottled up, contained in a frame just like the pictures. The gallery attendant returned with the framed painting underneath their arm. Mother called their driver. The painting was carefully lifted into the car, followed by Mother, then Ella. Ella’s feet hung from the leather seat, while Mother’s heels dug into the carpeted floor. When they settled in, Mother said, “I am so absolutely pleased with that work…I have wanted one for such a long time, but they just weren’t on the market.” Ella found an opening, a momentary bubble that let her confidence inflate like a balloon. She wanted to break through Mother’s cold indifference. She turned to Mother and snapped, “I hate it.” Mother was scrolling through her phone. She mumbled, “What was that, dear?” Ella’s cheeks flushed redder than normal. “Nothing. Nothing, Mother.” Her balloon was already floating away into the white, monochromatic sky. x 32

INCITE

MOTHER SEEMED TO TREAT EVERYTHING AROUND HER LIKE AN OBJECT, ONLY TENDING TO THEM WHEN SHE NEEDED SOMETHING.

POWER

INCITE

FEVER DREAM ART by KIAN KOOCHEKI WORDS by VIVIAN WU POWER

I hear it again. A light scratching. Muffled tapping. Some quiet rattling in the walls. The sounds are so faint, I’m unsure if they’re real or part of a hazy dream. I can’t fall asleep these days, often staring blankly into the darkness until dawn creeps through the blinds. Irritated, I roll out from under the covers and stand from the bed. A rush of dizziness swirls around me for a moment. My body burns with the scorching heat of a fever, and I reach up to wipe beads of sweat off my forehead. Fumbling in the dark, I manage to slide my feet into a pair of slippers and make my way into the kitchen, shuffling slowly across the tiles. The taste of a rich, milky malt drink floats through my memory. An orange jar of Ovaltine waits in the cupboard. Maybe it’ll put me to sleep. I stand in the deep blackness of my kitchen for a long time. The hum of the microwave has long faded, but I can’t bring myself to open it and remove the mug of steaming liquid. Part of me doesn’t want to disturb the stillness, and soon I can’t remember how long I’ve been standing here, body limp against the counter. The drink is cool when I finally take it out. I don’t want it anymore, but it would be a waste to pour down the sink. Sluggishly, I raise the ceramic to my lips. It’s almost there when I feel something skitter over my slipper. The feeling startles me, and I let out a shriek. The mug falls from my hands and explodes into a mass of shards. The crash cuts through my feverish haze for a brief moment. Kicking away the sharp fragments, I stumble clumsily over to the wall and flick on the light with a shaky hand. A brown mouse races towards a hole in the corner of my crumbling wall. I take one glance at its scrawny appearance, and nausea rocks the sea of acid in my stomach. It stops to stare back at me, eyes beady, bony ribs rising and falling with the rhythm of its breaths. I fall to my knees, nearly retching in disgust. I can’t stand the sight of its thin, angular rib bones, all bunched together at the sides. I’m repulsed, but I can’t tear my eyes away. “Are you going to kill me?” I blink at the mouse, unnerved by its sharp stare. Slowly and wordlessly, I shake my head. The acid begins to ascend the column of my throat. “I couldn’t,” I say. It tilts its head at me curiously in response. I’m slowly counting the ribs in my head, while my fever rages on in the background. The acid stings, waves teasing the shore of my mouth. “Why? You’ve done it before.” I have, but I can neither deny or confirm it when I’m faced with the truth.

“Aren’t you scared?” I ask dumbly. The exhaustion settles back over me, and I’ve lost my grasp on my rare moment of clarity. I’ve finished counting the ribs now. The mouse’s brow seems to furrow and its nose wrinkles at the sight of me. Nothing makes sense. Leisurely, it shifts itself onto its hind legs and spits on the tiles in front of me. I’m the one on my knees, hunched over, desperately trying to keep my vomit inside my mouth. “Do I look like someone who has something to lose? Why would I be afraid? Is there something wrong with that brain of yours?” I shake my head weakly. Minutes tick by before I’m finally met with a reply. “You’re the same as the ones within the walls. The Grey, they don’t care about us. They live on the inside, and they’ve got us to do their bidding for them. Life is easy for them, and things must be simple for you, too.” “I’m sorry?” I can’t understand. I blink blearily at the brown mouse. All I can think of is how sickly and skeletal it looks. I don’t know if I have feelings of pity, or only disgust. No matter which it is, I’m unable to act. “I’m talking about the grey mice, human! The ones that live within the walls. The Grey rule over us brown mice. We live outside the wall, and we’re tasked with risking our lives to bring them all the food they need.” A beat of silence follows before the mouse follows up with another comment, “Don’t act like you don’t know.” “I don’t know. But would it matter if I did?.” The mouse’s face twists into a menacing sneer. Nervously, I wipe my slick, clammy palms on my knees. “That’s right. Because you wouldn’t lift a finger to help us either way. Anyhow, don’t worry your empty little head. We know what humans are like. That’s why we’ve decided to change things ourselves. Revolution is the only answer for us. We’re doomed if we don’t act, and we’re doomed if we fail. That’s why…” I can only watch as the mouse flicks its tail, and hundreds of brown mice stream out of the kitchen shadows towards the tiny hole in the wall. “We will win,” it says with certainty before disappearing into the writhing mass. I can’t hold it back anymore, and I lurch forwards violently. Everything comes pouring out onto the tiles. If my stomach contains an ocean of acid, then the chunks of partially digested dinner are the boats, and the whole spew of liquid is a tsunami. I heave, continuously, heavily, desperately. Endless bony bodies surge forward in a unified mass. I can’t stand the sight, but I can’t look away. In a pathetic attempt to hoist myself up, I grip the kitchen counter weakly. I can’t do it. Sliding back onto my hands and knees, I’m left bleeding onto the ceramic shards after all the brown mice have passed by. x

change 38

INCITE

ART by SANDY LUU WORDS by SEUN ORENUGA

When I was in elementary school, I was always afraid of change. Change was my kryptonite. Having to change a routine, a mindset, or a classroom scared me. I believed everything should stay the same and be consistent. That was how I kept my mind at ease. The trouble I had with change was completely kept to myself as I would internalize my fears about every new situation. It would completely occupy my thoughts and affect the choices that I made. Soon enough, my fear of change graduated to generalized anxiety about life. I would get preoccupied with every last detail until I started to worry about things that were simply out of my control. I realized life simply cannot be lived this way — in fear, in doubt, in worry. I was hesitant to try new things. I was hesitant to go after opportunities. I didn’t feel like myself anymore. I started to feel very minimized and dissatisfied with my life choices. It was in high school that I found poetry. Poetry was different. Poetry was unique. It gave me a way to express myself and my inner thoughts that I simply never had. Poetry returned my confidence. The first time I performed at a poetry slam in high school, I felt the greatest force of anxiety I had ever experienced in my life. Before they called my name up to the stage, I ran out of the room and into the washroom. You can assume what happened next. I walked back into the room and was called to perform. This was it. It was go time. I had jerky knees, fidgeting fingers, and sweaty palms. Luckily, I was not using cue cards. Once I spoke the first line of my piece, everything disappeared. The fear, anxiety and nervous motion were all gone. All of a sudden, as I spoke on a stage in front of 50 people, I was confident and empowered. I put on a show that ended in a standing ovation. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, what I was hearing. This was the first time I had ever done something this different, and people loved it. I couldn’t let this feeling go away. I developed my passion. I would write more often, watch poetry slams, and even perform every once in a while. My investment into my writing passion coincided with an increased confidence and changed outlook in other areas of my life. Poetry gave me an “escape” to pour out my thoughts and maintain my wellbeing. Watching poetry being performed gave me a chance to reflect and understand other people’s perspectives and backgrounds. Suffice to say, poetry has changed me. Now, change is my accomplice in being my best self. Change helped me put things in perspective. Change helped me find my passion and pushed my life in the right direction. Sow the seeds of small changes to reap big differences in the long-term view of life. So, step out of your comfort zone and embrace change. The only constant in life is change. x POWER

INCITE

ART by ABDULLAH EL-SAYES WORDS by SANYA GROVER your wandering words somersault out as I try to grasp them with my tender gaze toppling left and right, what is their route? my mind tries to solve this intricate maze in, out, in, out — through the flesh and back around a latent layer of letters develops as they fill the air, one by one wondering if they will be enveloped fear not for my arms have already begun in, out, in, out — is that blood I see now? cradled in my closure, so sheepishly now they start to dance on my skin your heart feels lighter, you don’t know how as i start to absorb them in in, out, in, out — through the flesh and back around they run through the track that is my veins their oxygen mixing with mine becoming one, i finally understand your pain to simply listen is so divine in, out, in, out — is that blood I see now? i smile but quickly feel a tug the stitches poking now flashbacks of the needle being dug crisscrossing, as per my vow in, out, in, out — through the flesh and back around

SEALED

my lips a piece of embroidery, shut tight not blood, but rich rose petals drip in sight in, out, in, out — sealed. x

POWER

WORDS by XXX TRISHA ART by JULIANNA MARR

WHAT WILL YOU DO? What will you do with so much dominance when there is no one left? When things are left barren without a trace. What will you do with so much strength When you lose their respect When you are hated by your own men. What will you do with so much privilege When you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have freedom When everyone is latched in cages. What will you do with so much authority When you are surrounded by guilt When you can not see past red silk. What will you do with so much command When it destroys you When it hypnotizes you. What will you do with such jurisdiction that does no good A jurisdiction that eats you from inside Deprives you of moral price Makes you a king and a beggar. Prestige is something one should know how to handle Handle with respect and it will make you flourish, Treat it like a quest and it will demolish you Because if you use authority, it will use you too. x 42

INCITE

POWER

I am the son of a strongman. We are both named Levi, my father and I. I have a Mama and thirteen older sisters. I love them all very much, those sisters and that Mama. They coddle me and scold me, cook hot soup for me and spank me when I am forgetful or foolish. Mama is round like a kettle, and she also starts screeching when she gets too hot inside. In the warm months, those girls are the only company I’ve got. Papa says I’ve grown soft from spending too much time in the company of women. This summer, I am very lonely. Papa works for the travelling circus; they call him Levi the Strong. He will only return home when the frost comes in, the soil grows too hard for the farmers to plow, and they have no coins left in their pockets to pay for delight. Mama does not want me in the kitchen because she has enough help already. I sit alone in the vegetable garden every day, playing with my sackcloth doll and scanning the dusty road for any sign of my Papa. “Young Levi!” Mama hollers through the open shutters every night, “Come in for your supper!”. I eat the soup, go to sleep, rise in the morning, and wait for Papa again. My sisters nag me. “Young Levi, you ought to be playing with boys your own age.” “What use is a brother too short to reach the frying pan from the highest shelf?” “You’re more of a girl than I!” On a cloudy October morning, Anya challenges me to an arm wrestle. All the sisters crowd around, cheering and banging on the kitchen table. Anya beats me on her first try. Hot tears of humiliation pour down my cheeks. If I stay here for a minute longer, their laughter will tear me to bits, so I flee the room. I hurtle down the road, past the vegetable garden, past the front gate, running, running. I continue past the fields that I know, into a foreign place. My chest is burning and I’m huffing like a chimney, but I can’t stop. I can’t stay here. I will find Papa, and I will join the circus! He will beg the ringmaster to let me stay. I lose myself in this daydream although I can feel my feet throttling onwards; they are swollen like cucumbers after a rainfall. I think back to all the lessons my Papa ever taught me, in those bitter winter months when the world swirled around us and the fire kept the ice at bay. “Young Levi, to show emotion is to be weak. One day, you will be a man, and so there will be no room for weakness. The best way to avoid weakness is to display your strength. After all, a man who can lift a thousand pounds has no need to cry. To be the strongest man in the room is to eliminate even the possibility of weakness. A strongman knows — “Ow! I have run straight into a wall, and the impact is jarring. I’m too dreamy, always daydreaming, I“Young Levi?” says the wall. I know that voice. I look up and see that it is in fact not a wall it is my Papa. He is big as ever, thick cords of muscle winding their way up his arms and chest. “You’ve come back” I exclaim, “to fetch me!” I wrap my arms half-way around his waist — that’s as far as they can reach — and press my face into his rough tunic. We stay like that for a moment, his oven-mitt hand patting my back fondly. Then he starts to pull away and I tighten my grip, instinctively. He detaches me as easily as though I were a burr that had latched onto his pants. “Now, my son, explain to me. What are you doing here, so far from home?” “I, well — ” I begin breathlessly, “I’ve run away. I cannot be Young Levi anymore. I have come to join you, Papa!” “Join me?” he repeats incredulously. “Yes, to join the circus. I want to be a strongman, like you!” His eyebrows are raised in displeasure, but I press on. “So please, don’t call me Young Levi anymore. Call me Levi the Young, son of the strongman, Levi the Strong!” I grin, satisfied. With a name like that, those sisters of mine could not tease me anymore. I might be the smallest, the youngest, the weakest of the brood, but if the Levi comes before the Young then that makes Levi the master of his own youth. Why should it be a weakness, when it can be a strength? I can be strong. Like Papa. He smiles back at me, yellow teeth gleaming through his bristly beard. For a moment, I’m so happy. I am Levi the Young, master of my own destiny! Papa’s smile spreads, growing wider and wider. He forces his mouth shut and attempts to frown. “Levi the Young,” he begins, but a chuckle escapes his open teeth, and then a booming laugh erupts from deep within his gut. “What a foolish little boy you are. Your youth possesses you, not the other way around.” My heart is aching. Papa laughed at me! My lip trembles; tears gather in my eyes. “Oh Papa, I just want to be strong, like you!” “Come Levi, wipe those tears. Do you want to know a secret?” I nod. “It’s your Mama who’s the strong one, not me. She’s mighty like a mama bear, looking out for you and her thirteen she-cubs. One day, you will be strong like your Mama. Now come boy, let’s go home.” Papa lifts me up and places me on his shoulder. The sun is setting, hurting my watery eyes, but I smile a little. I am Young Levi, the son of a strongman and a Mama who is stronger still. x 44

INCITE

TO BE STRONG WORDS by ARIELLA RUBY ART by SARA STEWART

POWER

THE HEROES ARE ASSEMBLED

ART by EMILY WANG WORDS by LUBNA NAJM

The heroes are assembled Lining a round table like the knights of King Arthur’s Court, donned in their starlight costumes. Bold dragging capes, neon tights and pastel underwear, like real-life sketches from a comic artist’s hand. The heroes are assembled Every experience collected and served on a golden platter, rescues completed, cities resurrected, galaxies uplifted. The people in need are now needless, and the whole world praises our names. All those stories shared on one page tonight. The heroes are assembled Hiding behind supernatural characters, they feel born to act on life’s movie theatre screens. Levitation, magic, telekinesis, shape-shifting, sonic speed, invisibility . . . all sparkle at one table, gathered in this miniature galaxy of celebrities as our journeys intersect. The heroes are assembled Gathered in the dark, in this hidden cavern of the world, shrouded in dim light. I sit and watch, as heroes, having finished dinner, stand and start meaningless conversations. Here, anyone can see the heroes slowly remove the glamour of being a hero, true identities exposed to the cavern and to each other. They become nothing but abnormal beings existing in this world. . .living. . .breathing. . .being. Our secrets are trapped in these cave walls. The heroes are assembled In this stone prison, they discard their confident cool demeanor for chaotic tones, arguing, laughing, sitting in silence. Emotions mold each face — gone are those statue smiles, the persona of perfection, the weight of the world’s responsibility lightened for just one evening. They become who they really are. . . There are no heroes assembled. There are no heroes in the world. I sip my coffee. It’s not bitter enough. It’s not dark enough . . . The “heroes” are assembled I don’t think they realize the way they hide their darkness. That without the identity of “hero”, we heroes aren’t as heroic as we seem to be. Are we heroes at all? Are we just? Strong? Brave?. . . Selfless? But then why the fake personas — is it not selfish to hide our humanity in order to flaunt our strengths? I need darker, stronger coffee . . . I listen to the drumming conversations, sitting alone, concealed in the darkest corner of the most hidden cavern of the world. The monsters are assembled Rising from the depths. Heroes look so heroic, but only in the light. The light is gone now — it’s seeped away and they don’t even realize it. They don’t realize the absence of light because we are all so comfortable in the dark. The coffee isn’t strong enough. . .doesn’t hit me hard enough. . .It isn't dark enough. From my costume, I take a bottle of midnight liquid laced with starry bubbles which rise to its rim. I pour the poison in my coffee mug. I drink. . .I drown myself in the darkest, most addictive toxin. It takes over me. I am no better than the false heroes that are assembled. Darkness is a comfort to which you lose your soul. . .is it wrong to succumb to it? Is it wrong that we are monsters disguised as heroes? x 48

INCITE

free range

WORDS by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR

I’m rowing my boat

against the current.

Crashing waves on jagged rock. Their thundering sounds jolt my being. My thin, wooden oar

Sticks out like an unwanted thorn

On a flower’s stem.

The world only desires to cut it,

And smoothe me down with sandpaper

And pull my roots out of their dirt haven

And stick me in a clear glass vase

To stand, doomed to slow decay

Petals wither under artificial light

Misplaced. Yet, I still find a way to grow, To heal — My cicatrices are a sign

Of experience and strength.

I’m a banded canary,

But they don’t own me.

In a fancy metal cage, I refuse to sing, Stop clipping my wings to tame me. x POWER

INCITE

a swiftian enterprise

ART by MATTY FLADER WORDS by TENZIN GYALTSEN

An alien continent looms large in the distance, Its lifeforms abound, and lakes glisten, Windswept hills, and subtle flora burgeon. The crewmen shout, joyous and enlivened. Crass seagulls herald an untouched frontier, Beneath excitement cowers a primal fear, Unknown toxins or lethal fauna, Shrouded behind a veiled enigma. There lies great strength in mystery, Freedom of agency, and to express freely, Potential untapped, and will unchecked, Discrete quanta collide, greet and coalesce. Keep close the secrets you harbour, Steal yourself in its lustrous armour, To be understood fully is to be frail, Cast away, no wind to guide your sails. x POWER

QUOTED LOVE

INCITE

ART by LAUREN CRAWFORD WORDS by GAIL DEL CASTILLO

her first love young, naïve and pure she scribed this love on the notebook strung to her heart a titanic feeling, unquestioned, fueled by cliché despite this, she didn’t believe that one falls in love but rather to love someone is a choice these defiant thoughts validate her mistakes as she stays blinded by the waterfall that fills her eyes deafened by her own cries that fill the room the pillow like a seashell, echoes every night stained by the crashing of waves waiting for the tide to recede “It’ll get better” “you need to love yourself before you love another” like her love, that quote screamed cliché but she learned how true it was a lesson from the pain pain was never physical a hand never raised to strike but was rather held in another’s they provided as much love as their heart could

they both became reliant on happiness defined by an implication argument “they make me feel happy, therefore I am happy”

the pain stemmed from the emptiness within unable to be filled by her love she poured her cup out to the last drop until she was empty

her reflection scared her unrecognizable in the eyes of the beholder old pictures made her sad where did she go yet she couldn’t leave her own happiness bound in theirs the timing never right and the strength in her had already left “if you loved them, then you should have let them go” letting go was like navigating without a map no clear directions having to detour in a traffic jam of emotions one break after another temporary pit stops never enough to fill past quarter tank but just enough to realize that to only boulevard to growth a road to change an avenue to learn was to leave x POWER

DEITY Let all go to grey; Let the flowers wilt, Let the sun dim. For she colours my soul in the richest rose, My steps in a shimmering gold, my heart in the warmest tones imaginable. She taught me to be content, not selfish. I learned to be sated without being full. I don’t need to be complete, but I don’t need to be repaired. We aren’t how we used to be, And we aren’t there yet. We live in the presence of each other, And that is enough. To not long for more, to be happy in the present. We do not lack, we simply live. Our love is sacred. x

ART by REBECCA ZHONG WORDS by ARCHER STEPHENS

AFTER SCHOOL

INCITE

ART by AAYMAN KARIM WORDS by AVA COREY

Do you remember When we would fall asleep on the attic floor? There, under the house’s ribcage, Bare bones of home. Swallowed refuge from the swollen oceans Of our parents' divorces. The clocks stopped. We lay down our heads Together in the attic. We could be bored together And compare ourselves. Put down the book, pull out the paint And draw ourselves again. Notice how my small hands Have grown into long fingers That belong to a woman. Notice my heart Still in its red crayon shape. I walk by The house that doesn’t belong to you, Pass by the gentle screams In the high voices of our childhood. Wish you were here to walk me home. Wish you were here to stop my clock So I could spend a moment with you here. Let’s grow old. Swim back to safety In the belly of the attic. Leave a piece of our art In the belly of the attic. x

POWER

THE STUDENT REVOLUTION Good morning, beautiful, you are alive Living the blessed life of a Mac student You may not see your privilege but just try The loans, the debt, they all make you prudent

We are not just educated on books But are shown the strong effects of knowledge Society values not brains but looks But we must redefine what is acknowledged

Brains should be the currency we desire But in a corrupt system, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re the pawn Brains alone just do not get us hired Beware, the revolution is at dawn

Be grateful for you have authority Now light the path for the minority x

INCITE

ART by STEVEN KENNY WORDS by SHERIDAN FONG

ART by LAUREN CRAWFORD

POWER

my name

WORDS by GILLIAN MALTZ

My name is Marsha, but Ernie would never call me that. Neither would the kids. “Maaaaaaaaa!” they would scream from the basement as they pulled each other’s hair. I told them every day of my damned life to stop yelling in my house. Then Ernie would remind me it was his house. Then I would ask him, Ernie, who cleans these fakakta wooden floors every single Sunday? Who makes you your corned beef sandwich just the way you like it? And he would say, stop being such an ungrateful little bitch. That would usually make me be quiet.

My mother’s mother was Malka. She lived through the pogroms and passed her borscht recipe on to my mother, who passed it on to me. Ma

would slap my tush with the curved end of a wooden spoon if I chopped the beets unevenly. It would sting against the mahogany benches in shul but I didn’t say anything. You think you have it hard? Be glad you didn’t see your father shoved into a gas chamber, she used to hiss. The rabbi’s voice would wobble up from the bimah to the balcony. I shifted underneath my long black skirt.

Anyway, so my mother gave me Marsha, after Malka. I never thought much about it. No one really called me Marsha. Leah and Rachele

wouldn’t. Instead, they would call to me from across the street to come play with them: “Marshhhhh!” Each day, we played hopscotch and talked about the boys we saw leaving the cheder. Ernie was one of them. He would tuck his tallis under his arm so carefully, protecting the blue velvet from snow and rain. His father owned the shoe store by the Minsker. He was quiet and tall. Leah and Rachele thought he was strange.

“That boy. He looks like he’s seen Eliyahu.” Rachele skipped over a crack in the road.

Leah snorted. “He probably is Eliyahu.” They laughed louder than a shofar.

I crossed my arms. “Stop gossiping. He’s probably just shy.”

Leah and Rachele just kept snorting and spewing leshon hora.

Two years later I saw Ernie smoking a cigarette outside his father’s store. The skin under his eyes was dark and sunken. Shoeshine stained his

white-button down.

I fixed my blouse. I had quite a figure back then, you know. At least that’s what Ernie used to tell me.

I walked up to him and leaned against the store window. “Can I?”

Ernie passed me the cigarette. I felt the back of his hand graze mine. His knuckles felt worn and slightly hairy.

“I’m surprised that you smoke.” Ernie blew a thin stream of smoke towards the ground.

“Oh really?” I inhaled deeply. Even with my goddamn asthma, I was determined, for god’s sake. The things I would have done for that idiot.

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“Yeah. You look real studious.”

“Maybe I could teach you a thing or two.” I was a real smooth talker too, back then.

Ernie turned bright red, the way he did when the kids would run around the house naked.

“So,” I said, suppressing a cough, “You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“I haven’t,” Ernie said to the sidewalk. “I’ve been thinking about this girl.”

I knew it was me. I could tell just by the look he was giving me.

“Oh really? What’s she like?”

Ernie gave me that stupid grin like he did when he was about to tell some dumb joke about the rabbi, the priest, and the monk. “I get the

feeling she’s a real pain in the ass. But she has a nice face.”

I laughed.

We got married four weeks later at Sha’ar Shamayim. When Ernie stomped on the glass under the chuppah, the shards went everywhere and

nearly stabbed my mother in the ankle. I never heard the end of it.

When the kids weren’t listening or didn’t practice their piano, Ernie was always sitting in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. Stop smoking that

shit in my house, Ernie, I swear to God, I would say to him. It’s my house and don’t you ever forget it, he would yell. Stop raising your voice, you’re going to scare the children, I would say, coughing. Ernie knew that shit could give me an asthma attack, but he didn’t care. Then he would get up and drive the Mercedes away. He would come home about three hours later, stinking up the foyer with the smell of booze and cigars. Then he would hug me and call me Marshale. Never Marsha.

When Ernie started to get confused, I thought he was joking around. “Stop it, Ern,” I would say, when his eyes looked all cloudy each morn-

ing. Then he stopped looking up when I came in the room, even when I wore my blue chiffon dress and did my lipstick. That’s when I knew.

The dementia lasted for two years. It took the life out of Ernie, but it took the life out of me, too. There’s only so many times you can see your

husband of sixty years shit himself until you really start to lose it. There’s only so many times he can look at you and forget your face, or the names of your children and grandchildren — your aynecluck — before you start to forget the days when he would remember. When he would remember to take out the garbage, or to meet Willy at the Y to play squash. When he would remember to hide his little box of cigarettes in his underwear drawer, nestled between his tighty-whities, thinking that you’d never find them there. Which you always did.

I started smoking six weeks after Ernie died. The kids went back to the States after the shiva and I had nothing to do but play piano and walk

by the old shoe store. It was about to be knocked down so they could build a condo. Enough with these fakakta condos, if you ask me.

I don’t really mind that no one calls me Marsha.

I wish Ernie would call me Marshale again though. And wrap his boozy arms around me. In fact, I would kill to be called an ungrateful bitch.

The cigarettes will have to do for now. They’re better than gornisht. x POWER

ART by LARISSA SHULAR WORDS by KATERINA SIMANTIRAKIS 62

INCITE

SPIDERS

I'm used to spiders. I knew about spiders before I ever saw one in real-life. They filled pictures and billboards. I saw them in shows and movies. I was well aware that they existed , but I hoped I would never meet one. Their movements and shape terrified me, with their lanky legs and large bodies. Their eight eyes, fangs, and egg sacks. I had never seen a spider in real life until I moved away from home. Back home, we were so far north that spiders couldn’t survive. That didn’t stop me from being afraid of them. My family used to tease me because I was afraid of seeing spiders in the basement. When I was eight years old, I watched a scary movie in which the heroine descended into a dark basement filled with spiders. Since then, I refused to enter our basement. Our basement had all the cleaning supplies, so my parents were convinced I was avoiding going down there to put off my chores (typical). When I moved away from home, I was moving into a warmer area. It was in my new house that I saw my first spider. At night when I couldn't sleep, the sight of that first spider terrified me. A handful of spiders soon became hundreds. Every morning, I wake with tiny bite marks all over my body. I can’t brush through my hair without a few falling out onto my desk or into my lap. At first, I only found them at home, but they began following me outside. I’ll never forget the first time it happened. A classmate asked to borrow a pen, and I unzipped my pencil case just to see long, fuzzy, brown legs slowly crawl out. I threw the case in my backpack and ran out of the room before class started. Nowadays, I try to keep them trapped in my room. I do a good enough job of brushing out my hair and keeping my clothes clean, but every day I come home, dreading the opening of my bedroom door. I can feel them waiting for me on the other side. As I swing open the door, I am greeted by hundreds of thousands of tiny legs and chattering fangs. I’ve tried my best to sleep with my mouth shut, but sometimes they still find their way in. I check every mug before I take a sip and every forkful of food before I bite. Despite all of this, my bedroom still isn’t the worst room of my house. The biggest spiders I’ve seen have scurried into the basement. Spiders as large as car tires, their legs scuttling along the floors as they make their way around the deep and damp basement. I’m used to spiders, but that doesn’t mean I have to be. Today I’m going into the basement. I’m taking a match and gasoline. x

POWER

ART by STEVEN KENNY

UP TO YOU ART by LARISSA SHULAR WORDS by LYAN ABDUL

Finally, it was over! I had done so terrible on my presentation; I forgot my lines, and I struggled to get the words out. I couldn’t answer a question for the life of me. I slowly walked out of class, avoiding eye contact with my classmates. I entered my room, sat on my bed, closed my eyes. I laid there, replaying the presentation in my head, over and over again. I knew I could do one of two things: I could sit there and try to forget about the experience, or I could look back and think about it. I could critically evaluate myself and reflect on what went well and what didn’t. I decided on the latter. I felt lighter — like a balloon floating in the sky. Adrenaline was pumping through my veins, and my mind was racing with all the ways I could improve — gather books, practice in front of my friends, record myself talking. There were so many possibilities! I knew that if I followed through, I could do better. The failure was difficult, but it was a much needed wake-up call. Nothing motivated me more than failing, and that refreshing burst felt better than success. x

POWER

a dream ART by ELENA WELLS WORDS by TESHAN DIAS

INCITE

He woke up to the sound of rigid explosions, as he laid there, still in the darkness. His hands clenched, and his body was paralyzed as he braced for impact. Sweat dripped slowly down his body, sending shocks up his spine. It was a feeling he hadn’t forgotten and a feeling his body was so familiar with. After a couple minutes, he was able to breathe again, and he gasped for every inch of air that his lungs could contain. “It was just a dream,” he told himself. Such vivid pictures were etched into his memory from those days of conflict, where his nightmares were once realities. He dragged himself out of his bed and carefully walked towards the mirror in the corner of his room. Each step created a creaking sound from the old hardwood floors of the apartment. Each step brought back the memories of him hiding away, avoiding the war that was just outside his window, back home in Sudan. He grabbed his toothbrush and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. For a second, he saw his family looking back at him, proud of the man he had become. Tears flooded down his face as he remembered the times of peace before he lost them to the war — the times where it was safe to play soccer outside and school was actually a place of learning. He missed the days where political beliefs were aligned. He stood in front of the mirror, a refugee, for he had left his family behind in the pursuit of freedom. With every tear unleashed, a regret flowed with it, making him wish he had never left his family in the first place. But this is what his parents wanted. His parents wanted their son to live in true peace and happiness and to carry on the legacy that they left for him. He came to Canada with a dream, surviving the odds and looking forward to the days of ecstasy and salvation. However, it was another obstacle, just like the war. Society was so different in Canada. It was something he had never seen coming; he felt like he never belonged. Just then, the fan across the room blew a cold, frigid breeze that left him shivering. It reminded him of the winter weather he was not prepared for. But he always thought, anything is better than the war back home. Although he had escaped conflict, there were many barriers that prevented him from being himself. He walked over to the answering machine laying still on top of his rustic desk. He played back the messages in its history. Each message reminded him of the English that he never knew how to speak when he first came. But he always thought, anything is better than the war back home. Life was so different, but he had to adjust. It was hard to find anyone who shared similar values and cultural beliefs as him, especially in the area he had moved to. He looked at the clothes he chose to wear today as the sun started to peak over the horizon. The piercing colours reflected sunlight, representing the country that he came from. A traditional scarf embraced the colours of his homeland, which he was proud to wear and represent. However, it also represented how different and how much of an outlier he was in this new society. He now must wear suits and ties to look presentable for his job, which was so different to the traditional robes he used to wear in the city. But he always thought, anything is better than the war back home. While he got dressed, he remembered the times where he felt so different from everyone, as if he should have never come in the first place. But he always thought, anything is better than the war back home. With each hurdle, he learned. Each experience added to his overall identity. In a place that he thought made him free, his true identity was obstructed in a different way than the war. He walked toward the door of his apartment, knowing he was late for work. It’s unknown what type of barrier he would face today, but he remembered that he was living free. Each experience he learned from and each struggle he overcame aided in fulfilling his ultimate dream. As he stepped out the door, he embraced his past but also looked forward to what the future held for him. x POWER

DARLING Throw me on like clean laundry and I will drink you until we both can't breathe. A deal between moon and mars. Between your hips and my tongue. Spit me out and lather me in your prayers. Use me before God. Tell him I was dreadfully happy to undress you like dessert after dinner. I want you to come to me. Don't kiss me. Possess me. Take my tender heart in your tired hands and let's work something out. But first, we fuck. x

ART by ELI MOSER WORDS by EVRA ALI

THE MYSTERY OF MANKIND Our destiny will be denied in time, and our quest for meaning will forever be lost in the inevitable abyss of our generation’s lies. Are we capable of provoking change and creating a world where nothing ever remains the same? Like moths to a flame, the bad gain strength when the good say nothing. Tell me it’s not too late, to undo our godforsaken fate. The despair of humanity is running a tad late, and with that, I’ll leave you with a parting question: Will the demise of mankind lead us to the stake or will we all be haunted by another man’s mistake? x

INCITE

WORDS by MIKAELA GRAHLMAN ART by LARISSA SHULAR

POWER

ACCIDENTAL BIRTHRIGHTS 72

INCITE

ART by SARAH STEWART WORDS by SNEHA WADHWANI

8 Palsikar Colony Indore, Madhya Pradesh, India Was the first place I called home. I was born in Lifeline Hospital With a four leaf clover on my cheek My mother could afford to see a doctor regularly Could afford to get a blood transplant When my weight in her womb became too heavy I do not know if I would be alive if their wallets had been more empty. Their wallets fed our watchman’s family Who lived in a one-bedroom wooden construction near our house gate Their daughter’s name was Ashna Our lives were separated by a few feet Yet we lived worlds apart My world Was my grandfather taking me to the corner store each night To savour the taste of my favourite mango juice Was my father wearing crisply ironed, button-up tee-shirts to work Was my parents leaving it all behind to give my sister and me the promise of North America Her world Was hoping dinner today would vary from the usual rice Was wearing hand-me-downs with holes in them Was hoping one day she would be able to afford school Our worlds Were our parents sacrificing everything they could To see our mouths curl up Were playing tag till the earth echoed with our laughter Our worlds Were not all that different But my family bore an accidental birthright The four leaf clover on my cheek, a mirage Each time my fingertips tried to meet its leaves It disappeared The luck it brought, an illusion It is a trick of the light You cannot see its darkness Until it’s within you I am not the owner of this mark The queen, not the owner of her crown Nor the CEO of his office chair Our accessories are passengers Chose us by chance I Am plucking the leaves off Am dismantling the roots of entitlement Am realizing I am not exactly privileged; Just lucky. x POWER

LIGHTS OUT ART by REBECCA ZHONG WORDS by MORGAN MARTIN 74

INCITE

Boom. A crash of thunder wakes me from my sleep. I open my eyes and it seems like they are still closed. I am en-

compassed by darkness. A pitch black reality. Booooooom. Its deep, threatening voice commands the room. I want to fall back into my peaceful sleep, but I know this thunderstorm will not allow it. With every muscle in

my body, I manage to sit up and reach for the light switch. Flick. Nothing. Flick. Flick. Flick. Great…the lights are out. I know I have a flashlight somewhere. Slowly but surely, one leg at a time appears from under the

covers and I shiver as they greet the cold air above. I push up with all my strength to stand…and boom. This one’s not from the thunder. I fall to the ground, so swiftly I almost don’t notice, as if something is pulling me down.

My hands are planted firmly on the floor. With everything I have, I try to push myself up. Again, nothing. I

almost feel glued down. As if gravity is stronger than ever. Is this real life? Am I on the moon? Am I dreaming? I begin to crawl. Every limb feels 100 pounds heavier than ever before. Where is my flashlight? It must be in my dresser...but where is that? My sense of direction seems to have dissipated within my slumber. I reach

my hands out to feel for something…anything at this point. Nothing. My bed is no longer within reach, yet it feels like I haven’t moved an inch. Boom! This one shakes me and my arms give up. Another boom as my

chin hits the carpet. Oh, wait, that one was in my head. I don’t even try to get up this time. I let myself lie here aimlessly gazing into the darkness. Aren’t your eyes supposed to adjust to the darkness after a while?

I feel like I’ve been here before. Deja-vu is what they call it, right? Have I had this dream before? BOOM.

Louder than ever. It rattles me to my core and I curl into a ball. I’m sure the next roar of thunder will swal-

low me alive. Boom. Boom. Boom. Three in a row. I feel the ground vibrate like the skin of a drum moving to the beat. If only I had my headphones. It’s what I usually use to block out noise. When I don’t want to talk to

anyone or just want to be alone with my thoughts. Life can get overwhelming without them. Especially when

you’re surrounded by everyone’s opinions and expectations of what you should be. And what you can be. But what about what I want to be? No one seems to care. I’m just along for the ride of my life. Everyone else is fighting for the steering wheel...You just can’t escape it.

Alright. I need to stand up. How long have I been lying here? It feels like forever. What is that? From across the room, I can see the tiniest glimmer of light appearing from my window. Am I imagining it? I must be delusional. Slowly, it stretches closer and closer towards me, extending its arm in invitation. Is the storm over? The outlines of the objects in my room begin to come into appearance. My bed. My dresser. The weight is

slowly lifted off my limbs. I can kneel. Should I try to stand? As I shift my weight onto my foot, I hesitate. I fear falling again harder than before. But I know it’s the only way to overcome this feeling of helplessness. I have to muster the courage. Three, two…the fear stops me once again. Come on…you can do it…you have to.

Three…two…one. I am on my feet. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to control my own body. It feels like I am off the ground. Floating in midair. Have I made it to the moon? I am free. I hear no thunder. x POWER

ART by GEOFF SHAW WORDS by PATRICK MCARTHUR

INCITE

I am an adult. Legally, I am an adult. And I have been For a few years. So, I have a question: Where is my Supervision? When I was younger I assumed I would grow up — eventually — And get it. *snap* Like that. Suddenly, I would see Who I was And who I could be A plan for my future And some certainty About what I should do. But, I am an adult, and I am still stumbling around in the dark unsure of my footing turning blind into a busy intersection with no guide dog. Lost. I thought that by now, I would have it. I’m beginning to think Adult Supervision is a misnomer, and it’s really Parental Supervision. x POWER

ART by LYAN ABDUL WORDS by FATIMA RAZA 78

INCITE

CHAOS NEVER REALLY LEFT... Zeus, Angry that Prometheus would ever defy him, decided to punish his creation — humans. Human — the closest entity to god, albeit without thunderbolts on their side or the control of the storms and the skies. But it was the humans who had feelings, the power to make their own decisions. So he filled them with rage and jealousy and despair and disease. It wasn’t until the humans had destroyed each other, and he had flooded the earth, and the great waters had wiped the last trace of mankind, That he felt full. But now he looks down upon his earth, On this new civilization of humans, And watches as they repeat his mistakes: Causing wars among themselves Killing each other on the orders of someone Desperately trying to take his place. And he wonders if maybe if he had let his anger go, left Prometheus alone with his creation, perhaps his earth would not be annihilating itself. x

POWER

We have never been afraid of the light. In a morning’s sunrise, we kiss the sun and frolic under her rays until she blinds us. When she leaves, we cling tightly to her memory, and sleep to escape the bewildering darkness that clothes us in her absence. As children we slept with nightlights, taught to equate darkness with hidden monsters, crime and unknowns, Continually craving the light that beckons us to everyone, but ourselves. We view light as safety, but is it not in darkness that we experience the clearest thoughts? We learned to use light to distract us from truths and to escape resolutions, clinging to the familiar rather than confronting the unknown And in doing so, we learned to be afraid of the dark. As a child rises in light and nightfall, so too, should we allow ourselves to face what we have learned to fear, Maybe the “monsters” in the dark are people that can no longer be ignored, Maybe it’s not that only light brings joy, but that we are never awake to understand the dark. I wish for a day that light and dark are not viewed as sunrise and nightfall, Where light meets dark and harbours no fear towards her, Where sun and moon embrace, and we learn to become friends with them both. Sadly, innocent black lives falling while white ones continue to rise Is not the eclipse I asked for. x

Can we learn to love the dark?

WORDS by NIKISHA BROWNE ART by KIAN KOOCHEKI

INCITE

POWER

TO ERR IS HUMAN

ART by SARAH STEWART WORDS by NIMASHA DE SILVA

It was the same crippling fear that he felt every time he was faced with a crowd. A violent tornado was crashing through his entire body. All he could do was stand helplessly, watching it destroy everything. Only he was privy to those intrusive, destructive emotions, for the audience was none the wiser. His chest felt heavy, weighted down by his fear of failure, his fear of judgment, and his fear of his reputation being forever ruined. He knew that some of his thoughts were irrational, untrue and completely exaggerated. Still, at that moment, when he stood in front of his colleagues, all he felt was absolute and unfiltered fear.

There was nothing special about his audience. At the end of the day, they were people, just like him. They

were human. However, he felt as if it was him against the world. When faced with this situation, his mind perceived them to be monsters — a threat to his survival. His body reacted the only way it knew — fight or flight. Adrenaline was coursing through his body. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, the pulse at his neck, and his heart skipping beats. The more he tried to ignore the fear, the stronger it became. Inside him was a beast so threatened that it was ready to wreak havoc to his body.

In his mind, he could hear the ignorant words of his high school superior, “Remember that you are always

under a microscope. People are watching, and it’s best you remember that”.

These were the words that transformed his life for the worst. He remembered how proud he had been to

become a prefect at one of the most prestigious schools in England. He was only 16. But, all it took were those two sentences and an unfortunate incident of shaking violently when forced to read the morning prayers through the school sound system, to cause irrevocable damage to his self-confidence. It made him succumb to the insecurities that plague everyone during adolescence. From that point on, all he could ever see or pay attention to was how others saw him. He felt as if everyone’s eyes were on him to scrutinize and judge his every move. When he was a kid, he could sing, read, and act in front of others. Yet, here he was, reduced to a crumbling mess like when he was sixteen.

He remembered his sister’s encouraging words, “Oftentimes, fear has the ability to blow things out of

proportion, and out of reality.” She had advised him to latch on to anything he could find in his surroundings to bring him back to the present moment. He frantically looked around the sterile, white room. There was a framed photo pinned to the wall, with a quote that said: “Be not the slave of your own past — plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with new self-respect, with new power, and with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.”

He took a deep breath. He found it funny that inspirational quotes never actually gave him the encour-

agement to push forward, especially when he most needed it. Fear does that to people, he supposed. But the fact that he was still here, in front of these ordinary-looking people, willing to plunge into the unknown, was enough to prove that he was still in control. He may be overcome by his emotions, but he was still calling the shots. He was scared, but he was strong enough to keep moving forward. For him, that’s all that mattered. x

Remember! A girl flew a kite Orange kite blazed across the blue Notice the clouds dance. Orange turns to bridal red Her hands, henna stained, cover glassy eyes. Golden chains adorn her chaste neck. You steal her metaphors of a kite strung; of a thief named time. Charred words. They sing and dance and speak. You cannot read. Her room had no walls nor doors, but iron bars, so she could taste sun and life. Like a kite she bathed in sun Till time stole her away. And she scratched words out with nails on concrete floor. Blood rust. Her fingertips sting. Her room had no walls. Iron barred, she could taste the air. No walls. You steal her metaphors of a kite strung; of a thief named time. Her words, charred, sing and call, but you never learnt to read. Look! Hard flames tear through tender words. Black ink turns to black ash in an orange blaze. She only burns. Not a sound but the whisper of flame Enough to drown out her rage. Your rage. The sight bewitches you. Burning words: Desecration. x 84

INCITE

thief WORDS by ZARA NADEEM KHAN ART by SABRINA JIVANI

ART by CHRIS CHAN

POWER

ONUS

WORDS by JESSICA QIU

you did not want someone to love you you just wanted someone to watch you die. to come as a lover, and stay as a witness, to be your remnant, your relic, your monument; your screaming eulogy. but i did not want to carry two legacies on my shoulders one: the phantom weight of things you could only say from my mouth two: my own, still blooming i did not want to carry two legacies on my shoulders, especially not one like yours aching, bleeding, human — heavy. even Atlas could hold only one and although it was the weight of the whole sky it was only his burden one burden. i’m no Titan, no legend, no wonder so no wonder i could only sit and exhale as my whole body sighed in relief when you decided to stay to heal to hope to let the unsaid crawl out of your own raw throat so that i would not choke and i? i still cannot take two but i can take half of yours if you take half of mine. 86

INCITE

— there is strength in staying. x

I am walking aimlessly — One foot in front of the other, Not quite sure of my direction. Weathered mind, Like an old leather jacket. Pushing through the storm To, one day, find the calm once again. Missing the serenity, When air blows swiftly, And sunlight prickles my skin — When mistakes were merely a misstep, And peace was able to bring me back to my feet. Thousands of doors — Opening to different futures, Leading to different paths, Guiding me to old friends or new beginnings. But which do I choose? Are they even open? What if they’re locked? What if I choose the wrong one?

LEAD ME WORDS by MELISSA KOLODZIEJ ART by SABRINA JIVANI

There is no way of knowing — Until the knob turns, Or the lock clicks, Or the wood creaks. The door guides me to my direction, Where each footstep lands with purpose, And my efforts finally have meaning. x POWER

ART by TAYLOR TABRY-DORZEK

HYMN TO PERSEPHONE WORDS by SUZANY MANIMARAN

A maiden is stolen from her mother’s garden by the god of death. A young goddess, trapped in the underworld. A girl; a goddess; a battlefield on which heaven and hell wage a war, as her mother Demeter plunges the mortal world into an eternal winter. In this story, she is a damsel in distress, a prisoner of the underworld. Millions of stories are lost to the ages, but the myth of Persephone continues to echo through time, passed down from mother to daughter as a cautionary tale about girls that wander too far, of the monstrous things that lurk in the dark. But stories are only as mighty as the voices that tell them. Across generations, these words are shaped and moulded over and over, taking on a new light in the process. And so, thousands of years later, the narrative shifts. A young woman, beloved by the gods, feels trapped in the protective paradise her mother built. Persephone longs for something else, there must be more to this world than the garden she has lived in her whole life. Perhaps she takes fate into her own hands. Perhaps she rewrites her own story, doing what teenage girls do: fight with their parents, pack a bag, and skip town. Persephone rebels, defies heaven and earth for what she seeks: not the adoration of her mother and disciples, but the freedom to be herself in a kingdom of her own. She braves the underworld in a quest for her identity. Demeter’s daughter was born Kore, Greek for “maiden”. She then marries the god of death and baptizes herself in the River Styx as Persephone. Meaning the “bringer of destruction”. The goddess of the undead. The Queen of Hell. May heaven help anyone that dares to defy her. x 90

INCITE

Black Life Conflicted I am a caricature created by The left hand of controversy And my skin is a battlefield I carry the scars of slavery And fear of the Men and women in Black and Blue Black Black Black I am Black And I am not ashamed Because I am a beautiful Black girl A sun-absorbing Black girl Teeth-white, Mustard yellow loving Black girl I am the descendant of royalty I am ...Black girl Yet the whispers of society Tell me to hide In the womb of my mother Because it is safer to hide my face Than to complain about the mistreatment that paints my heart in shades of red But my heart is Lion Gold and covered in my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mane And his father before him Because we are nothing less than The rich soil which made us And the Goddesses who bore us Black men like tender berries And Black women like honeysuckle I am not ashamed to be Black but They tell me otherwise so I am just A Black Life Conflicted Black Life Conflicted x

BLACK LIFE CONFLICTED WORDS by AICHA ISSA

POWER

ART by MATTHEW ŁUKASZ FREDERICKS WORDS by BRYAN WONG

BRILLIANT

INCITE

Under the fluorescent lights, the royal red apple looked even more regal against the magnificence of their white coats. Dr. Reid watched as Dr. Harvey lifted the fruit and inspected its exterior for signs of bruising. “You know, sometimes you just can’t help them,” Dr. Harvey said. “‘No, Dr. Harvey! No exercise! I’ve tried that, and it just doesn’t work.’” He bit into the apple, revealing a bright white interior that shined like the whiteness of their coats. “‘Surgery, Doctor! Just suck the fat right out of me!’” Dr. Harvey sighed. “Sometimes, they just don’t listen.” Satisfied with his conclusion, he tossed the apple core in the garbage, a sticky brown centre that hid beneath the white flesh. “See you.” Dr. Reid grabbed the chart of his final patient for the day and entered the waiting room to call her name. Her mother stood up first — a short, frail woman with dark chestnut hair. Her small frame was buried underneath a puffy purple winter coat. Clutching her left hand was the patient, a little girl with the same dark chestnut hair tied neatly into pigtails held by pink bows. “Thank God. Doctor, you have to help us. We are so desperate, we — we are so scared,” the mother pleaded as Dr. Reid led the pair into his office. “Of course,” said Dr. Reid. He adjusted his white coat and checked that the lapels lined perfectly with the back of his neck. “My child, my child. She’s been so ill. My daughter has been ill for the past week, and she isn’t getting any better.” Dr. Reid lifted the little girl and gently placed her on the exam table, allowing her winter boots to dangle from the edge. The little girl began to swing her feet, and the back of her boots hit the drawers below with a small thud. Dr. Reid put on his stethoscope and listened to the little girl’s heart. It beat with the same rhythmic precision as the back of her boots against the drawers. Thud. Thud. Thud. “She first got sick last week, Doctor. Last week!” the mother said. Dr. Reid took out a tongue depressor. “Can you open your mouth for me?” he asked the little girl. “Right, just like that. Can you say, ‘Aahhh’?” “Aahhh,” the little girl said. Thud. The mother continued, “…I didn’t think much of it at first, but then her temperature. It was just so high, and she looked so pale, and…” Thud. Dr. Reid listened to the little girl’s boots as they hit the drawers. “…the doctor at the walk-in clinic told me that it was just a mild fever! They said she would get better soon, so I took her back home…” Thud. “I’m going to take your temperature now, okay? Can you lift up your arm for me — right. That’s perfect.” Dr. Reid said. Thud. The little girl’s boots splashed speckles of grey slush across the vinyl floor. He heard the mother talking in the background, “…but I know when something’s wrong with my daughter. She isn’t eating right. She doesn’t —” Dr. Reid turned to the mother. “I have checked for all the symptoms, and I am sure that it is a fever.” Thud. “Doctor, I — I don’t understand.” The mother paused. “They told me that last week, but she hasn’t —” “If you give her some Tylenol, she will be better in no —” “No, no, no! We tried that, and it doesn’t work! It doesn’t —” “Fevers take time to heal. Give her some Tylenol, and wait a few days—” “You’re not listening to me, Doctor!” Thud. “This is not a fever! She is sick!” the mother cried. Standing next to Dr. Reid, she looked so tiny in her oversized purple coat. Thud. The mother was saying something. She was saying something, and she was asking him something, and now she was begging him, but Dr. Reid did not know what she was saying. He was waiting for the swing of the little girl’s boots, the thud of her feet against the drawers, the speckles of grey slush that splashed across the vinyl floor. Thud. Without warning, the little girl bent over and vomited on Dr. Reid’s white coat, ejecting dark orange globs that soiled the brilliant whiteness of his coat. The little girl began to cry. She stopped swinging her boots. Dr. Reid turned to the mother, “I have to go now. Be sure to give her the Tylenol.” Glaring at Dr. Reid, she lifted her daughter from the exam table. Dr. Reid watched as the mother, in her puffy purple coat, walked out the door. At the end of the day, Dr. Reid left his office still wearing his stained white coat. As he walked past Dr. Harvey’s office, he heard Dr. Harvey making another joke about “these damn patients who just can’t seem to listen.” The evening was black when Dr. Reid returned to his apartment. With a surgical-like calmness, he removed his white coat and soaked it in the bathtub, washing the filth away from the whiteness. Outside the windows of his apartment, the blackness of the evening was fragmented by the blinding city lights. From thirty-four floors above, Dr. Reid noticed how small the people looked as they rushed home, and when he stared closely enough, he thought he could see a woman in a purple coat. Clutching her hand was a little girl — her daughter, perhaps — with dark chestnut hair tied neatly into pigtails held by pink bows. In a glimmering spectacle, the woman’s purple coat seemed to reflect the bright city lights. Dr. Reid watched as the pair disappeared into the whiteness of the night. x

POWER

INCITE

CAVEMAN ART by JULIA LINDSAY WORDS by ELENA WELLS

I met a guy named Caveman. He’s called Caveman because he lived in a cave for two years when he had nowhere else. At a bush party, he handed me a fistful of mushrooms and told me to “have fun, sister.” We could all learn something of hospitality from Caveman. I felt more care from the shirtless stranger that night than from the white coat I’ve known since birth. A cloudy ziplock bag offers more security than a fluorescent-orange child-locked bottle. Are you on any medications? Are you taking any drugs? Being unable to cry or cum is a side effect. Being unable to laugh or sleep is a symptom. Alcoholism is an illness. We have medications for that. A petition contains the written testimony of a population with a call for change A Petition for Special Consideration contains the opinion of one psychologist with a $100,000 education. For $225 an hour, I get as much special consideration as I want. It’s impossible to know what you’re really ingesting. The pain meds I was prescribed after my surgery sure felt familiar. Two weeks of those, and I was a fan for life. Three strikes for drug possession, and he’s in jail for the rest of his. In this cave, he is all alone. x

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ART by AIDAN KOBER

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RESUSCITATION WORDS by JAWARIA KARIM 7 years old... It was dark. “You made me do this. I had to do this for your own good,” he repeated. I lay there curled into myself, watching his retreating back with bleary eyes. He didn’t love me and I knew it. That night, I couldn’t cry. I could barely move, barely breathe. My heart had stopped beating. 14 years later... Panels of light seeped between the shutters, hitting his face in a way that made his brown eyes twinkle and my breath catch in my throat. I knew he noticed because his mouth curved up at the corners just slightly. I turned away, rubbing at my chest as an odd warmth spread there like an ache. I listened with hope, but my heart still lay silent in my chest. I flinched as I felt him shift, closing my eyes tight when I felt his warm fingertips touch my shoulder. Everything went cold and tight. He hesitated but kept going when I didn’t stop him, his touch like a feather, tracing the small scars I’m sure were there, and the bruises that stung. I waited, though I’m not sure for what. My body wanted to curl into an unreachable version of myself. To turn and stop his hand from moving. To be able to breathe and go back to a minute ago. He pushed gently on my shoulder and when I resisted with a sharp exhale, he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned down to kiss the skin where his hand had been. His lips lingered. And slowly I gave in. He lay down beside me too, both of us on our backs. We turned to face each other. My hand engulfed in his. The earlier smile gone as he watched me. We lay there, staring at each other until time did not exist. Until I was completely gone in the galaxy that was his eyes. Until he understood my hate, fear, and pain. In those moments I relived it all again and he understood without a word. The sob finally wrenched its way free of my throat. One that had been stuck there for years. I cried. I cried for my life and my heart and my soul. I cried for the evil and the pain of the world. The bruises and the hatred, but mostly for the innocent child lost. For the years of feeling powerless because I couldn’t get out. For the love that was held above my head as an explanation for rough hands and violent tendencies. And when I finally looked up from where he had gathered me in his arms, searching for the pity in his gaze, all I found were ethereal eyes staring back at me. Eyes that held the stars and took my pain. His hand trailed up my arm and neck, his thumb tracing my jaw. Leaning in, I closed my eyes as our breaths mixed. His lips were gentle as they kissed away a tear on my cheek. I let out a hiccuping breath. This feeling...this is what it was to love. My eyes snapped open as I felt the first thump in my chest. They widened as my heart started beating again. x POWER

I WAS A DOLL MAKER, SOMEONE WHO PERFORMED MANUAL LABOUR ON THE SET, PAINTING AND DRESSING ELABORATE FRAMEWORKS OF WOOD AND CLOTH. ART by SINA KAZEROONIZAND WORDS by ALEX CHEN 98

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DOLL We’d never touched before. It was a strange sensation, one that was unwelcome, unwanted and unwarranted. I was a doll maker, someone who performed manual labour on the set, painting and dressing elaborate frameworks of wood and cloth. Minimum wage, less than ten on the hour. I was a grunt worker without expectations, the sort of woman parents would point at and quietly lead their children away from. I didn’t care though; dolls were all I lived for. He was the director, the big-shot and above, all else, my employer. He was Xavier Maxwell, the zillionaire, renowned worldwide for making magic on the silver screen. Maxwell had everything: money, fame, an expansive estate, a chiselled jaw; hell, the man owned a fleet of yachts. Most importantly, and this thought echoed through my mind as his hand fondled my backside, Maxwell was married with two young children. I opened my mouth only for a finger to stop me, caressing my lips like a long lost friend. “Shh,” he murmured, “no one can hear us over the movie. You should know, almost as well as I do, that the projection room is very well insulated.” “Why — ” “Because,” Maxwell interrupted, giving my rear a firm squeeze, “I am in charge here. You, listen to me.” Maxwell stood from his seat, an imposing figure in his full suit and lavish jewelry. His face was one broadcast around the globe, transcending film, print, and television. In spite of the sound proofing, a thundering boom rang through the booth, as if to accentuate Maxwell’s stature. He timed it well. “I’ve always hated you,” Maxwell said. “Never spoke a single word to me, not even once. Everyone tries to flatter me. Everyone. So why not you? Do you think you’re better than me? Better than Xavier Maxwell?” “No — ” “Shut your pretty little trap,” he snapped. Maxwell closed what little distance there was between us. His face jutted forward hungrily like a starving wolf. Strange, I thought. I was hungry too, but I didn’t do that with my face. He pressed his lips to mine. That was when I bit; I tore into Maxwell’s perfect lips and gouged a hole out of his immaculate visage. He staggered back but I gave no respite. I dived onto him, ripping into Maxwell’s throat, spraying blood across his meticulous suit. Crimson fluid ran down my cheeks and dripped onto my dress. That was okay. My dress was red anyway. I glanced down at Maxwell, frozen in death throes with a look of shock etched into his features. Even lacerated with bloody scars, the man remained striking. He would have made an excellent doll, I thought, yet the man had been born human. What a waste. x

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THE ART OF NOT WRITING A light bulb turns on in a dark room I pick up my laptop and absorb the blue light emitting from my laptop. Today is January 31st, 2020. It has now been nineteen months since I have written a word down My writer’s block has kept the words from being scribed, the worlds from being made, the light from flickering on. I am desperate now, needing to get my fix of creativity, addicted to my favourite form of expression; words. Ink assembled in just the right way to form letters, arranged in the correct conformation to make words, stringed together to give the message brewing in my mind Words should be inherently meaningless and their message floating over the heads of readers. Who cares about some doofus studying at McMaster? And yet, the power I feel with my finger ready to tap the first keystroke is immense I am a caveman painting stories of my hunt that will be uncovered millenia from now. With the first word, I can conceive of a message that some stranger can register... I am a baby about to say their first words to eager parents. With the first sentence, a message is shaped... I am Neil Armstrong about to mutter a phrase as a human steps onto the lunar surface for the first time. Eventually, the words gain an influence, the ability to transform a person’s life, their perspectives, their aspirations... I am a founding father, signing the Declaration of Independence. And soon enough, a universe is created to my liking, where things go how I predetermine they should go... I am a god. But, a god who’s gotten most of his experience from writing fanfics. In my hand I hold the power to create and destroy, and yet, I do nothing. I choose to avoid writing, thinking I have nothing good enough to author. I don’t have the infinite wisdom of a god, I can’t even 12 a course for the life of me. How could I just casually approach this power and pretend it’s no big deal. Nothing that I make will live up to the true potential of these words, no story will live up to the stories written by authors more talented than me, no idea of mine will be worthy of the immense privilege bestowed upon me. Doing what Shakespeare does won’t make you Shakespeare... So then why write? I demand perfection from my craft, I must create something worthy of this power. I must write something great. Hmm... Maybe I’ll come back to this another time, an idea will come to me eventually... My laptop is closed. The light bulb shuts off. The room is dark. x 100

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WORDS by ALAN MINKOVICH ART by YUEQI WANG

EVENTUALLY, THE WORDS GAIN AN INFLUENCE, THE ABILITY TO TRANSFORM A PERSONâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S LIFE, THEIR PERSPECTIVES, THEIR ASPIRATIONS... POWER

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ART by ELENA WELLS WORDS by MELISSA SCHULZ

An Unlikely Sanctuary The war is over and the future promising An atom is severed Its strength unleashed Spring of â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;86 Voltage spikes Reactor erupts Concrete flies Radionuclides flood the sky The world is shocked, poisoned, scarred Humans flee Chernobyl is still at last We mourn For the end of 2,000 years of peace Woodland soldiers creep forward And find an unlikely sanctuary In a world devoid of humans Slowly Nature erases our footprint x

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ART by IVAN KREDL

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Dyke. Faggot. Lesbo. Binge. Purge. Fat. Calorie. Eating disorder. For me, it is this second string of letters that is harder to say; to this day, I still find myself choking on the syllables, swapping vowels for asterisks — this was meant to be a secret. In the same year I first crushed on a girl, I learned that weight was a bad thing; in the same year I first dreamt of holding her body close, I learned to hate mine. Thirteen years later, I can place my hand on the small of her back; I can tell her I love her; I can imagine our life together in a small, quaint apartment above a bustling city street — but when my lips try to speak the word “anorexia” they curl up into silence. So, this is me: coming out of a closet filled with skeletons I once wanted to be. First, there is the lying. I watched love transform into a battleground; my grandmother littered the dinner table with landmines that I disarmed with excuses that rang hollow even in my own deafened ears. Then, there are the rituals. I washed my hands after touching any food, because to brush a drop of oil and then my lip was a sin greater than that of a kiss; to this day, my hands must always be clean. Next, there is the cold. A bottomless chill follows you through nights of scalding hot showers, through hours sitting next to a radiator turned to full blast; it creeps beneath what’s left of your skin, fills your calcium-depleted bones, and finds a home in your chest next to that still-beating heart. Above all, there are the reasons that trap you there. Anorexia is a shade of self-harm, only instead of taking a blade to skin, you take in so much less, until what is left of you can spell the lines: “I feel alone.” Binge. Purge. Fat. Calorie. Eating disorder. I hope that these words grow to be meaningless for me; I hope that we will one day no longer have need of such things — but for now, the words stay. To this day, I carry their weight — for this illness is of the mind, not the body, and though I may no longer embody the extreme, I am marked by the story. x

ART by SINA KAZEROONIZAND WORDS by LISA SHEN

ART by JULIA LINDSAY WORDS by CONRAD ARNOLD

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laughter I laugh with life, and life laughs with me. I am chewed up by the absurdities of life, left wondering if my existence would be better off as a negative, but laughter redeems me. Sometimes I forget what life is worth, but when my cheeks hurt from smiling too much or when my sides hurt from giggling, I know that life is worth something. I could not possibly commit suicide when I was laughing, although I’ve often thought that the best way to die would be by laughing to death (sorry to be intense). Laughter is not a philosophy, although perhaps it should be. It is available to everyone, and so it is not a religion either. Laughter is not a logic, so the only thing left for it to be is a feeling. My favourite laughter comes from the belly, the producer of feeling, because my belly says Yes to life when it’s full of laughter. Those who won’t laugh say No to life, and have the worst philosophies, and I think that maybe this is because they have a constant stomach-ache. This life-affirming quality of laughter is what gives me energy (the real currency of life). Energy: I don’t always know what this word means, but I know what it does not mean. Energy does not mean: saying No to life. Energy wants life, says Yes to it every moment. But since energy is something that wants life, and since laughter makes me want life, I think that laughter is energy, or that energy is laughter, which is what I might have said at first (only now I’ve proved it to myself); and like all energy, it must be handled skillfully. Those who have mastered the skill of laughter know this most fundamental principle: that it is better to laugh with people than to laugh at them. To laugh with people is to partake in something glorious and, in my opinion, truly metaphysical. If I had a philosophy, its proclamation might be: Being laughs with Being. Did I say something unphilosophical? Let us laugh about it, instead of arguing. Let us settle our differences in the language of laughter, which is really the language of the Universe. The Universe is laughing all the time, I believe, and if we try we can hear it. Why else would it produce such strange and hilarious creatures, on such strange and hilarious planets, and in such strange and hilarious circumstances? Not everyone can laugh with existence, and to be fair not everyone should. Perhaps laughter is not for everyone, but I know it is for me. Life gives me laughter, and laughter gives me life; I continue laughing, and so I continue with life. x

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To all the people whose words flow out of their mouths like honey, Sweet but just as artificial, There’s nothing beneficial about your superficial stories that you use to Persuade her As you play her Like the worn-out strings on your cheap guitar. You’re no longer the reason why her chest thumps like a marching band, why it constricts when you Leave. She stops searching For someone to find something beautiful About her overflowing mind, her empty soul Because she knows not to cling to people who shuffle through people like they do their playlists. To those like you, who wear two-faces, yet remain unaware Of the existence of those like her because People like you, Don’t Look Back. To all the people who claim they will never hurt her: She knows how sharp words your words can be, when they pierce through her paper-thin skin And stab at the wounds she tries to conceal because she wants to heal but she can’t Feel Anything Anymore. Finally, to all girls who are tuned out, worn-down and in doubt, Don’t listen to them like you do your favourite song. Tune in to y.o.u. x

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WORDS by SANDY LUU ART by 27xcv

LIBERATING LIBERATING LIBERATING That words can be combined Ever so intricately, Eloquently, Beautifully To touch hearts, To move them To caress, cradle and awaken in them Warmth and joy Brighten parts of the heart That were previously Obscured in the dark

ART by SIMRAN RAKHRA WORDS by YVONNE SYED

Liberating. Is the way I’d describe The first time I picked up a pen And wrote a poem

I channeled all my frustration into scrawling Each word on to paper Used my salt water tears to write them Writing, for me, is derived from emotion I do not wish to write if not with passion I have never felt more human, more empowered Than when allowing myself to feel Every emotion on the spectrum of feeling, Without judgment A practice of mindfulness, if you will Best achieved, for me, With a pen in hand And paper in front of me Writing is a gift and a therapy Not long after I began to write I realized,

The right words can shed light Upon matters otherwise left unspoken, Making the closed-off want to trust again Making the cold and bitter Want to love again With poetry, I unleash My fears from the deepest corners of the soul I make sense of the chaos in my head Tame my dragons And light fire to my emotions I learned writing is a gift, When I started to express my love To those whom I loved Those who I thought were deserving of my love I wrote poems that spoke for me More than my mouth ever could Words capturing the rush I felt The intensity flowing through my veins I realized a few heartfelt words Could make a person putting on a front for the world to see Weak in the knees Melt the chambers in their heart Thaw the frost left behind From past lovers’ frostbite Make vulnerability easy To make showing emotion, Or rather, The pressure to suppress them, Less of a burden to carry You see, when it comes to writing It’s the words that hold the most weight The act itself is weightless Carefree and beyond limits x POWER

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KING OF KINGS

he existed, as he always had, in the spaces between man and man, between slave and master, between the weak and the strong. he was poison, a disease, a noose, a shackle; he was salvation, a shield, a miracle, a drug. he was the gilded trap into which they fell, the sweet siren in their ears â&#x20AC;&#x201D; they called him a god, or they called him the devil, because they could not see beyond themselves, could not see that he was something far greater and far lesser. first came the kings and emperors, swathed in their gold and fineries and divine rights, and he came too, drawn to their strength like a wolf to fresh blood. the kings welcomed him eagerly, and he wrapped around them like a fine fur cloak, or maybe like a viper around a shrew. when they hungered for more and found him lacking, they crushed and consumed until they choked on their own ambition. he preferred others. each of them as different as the last, he wound around them in innumerable ways. in some, he was easy to spot; there he lay in the insignias of their cloaks, or in the cut of their cloth. those individuals wore him on their sleeves like a warning or a boast or a promise, clear as ice to the rest of the world. in others he was more subtle, more insidious; he was in their smiles and laughs, in the way they carried themselves, like princes and not paupers. sometimes they became drunk on his gifts, and threw themselves into the great game that the kings and queens played; but for the most part they savoured their allotted shares, until his fire in them would inevitably fade. and yet there were those in whom he never burned at all â&#x20AC;&#x201D; and that, he thought, was the most pitiable of all. because that was to be invisible, to be insignificant; to be so weak as to have no impact on even a single life, not even oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s own, and what was living if not stirring life? still, even the half-dead were not exempt from his reach. every great player requires instruments upon which to play, after all. instead they became the fuel through which he stoked the potential of others, and dead twigs made for the best kindling. and so he looked upon the world, and saw that he was everywhere: from the smallest hamlet to the largest empire, there he was, a web of fault lines connecting the first consciousness to the last and everything in between. he would aid all of them, insofar as they aided themselves. and they would keep on fighting amongst each other in their eternal struggle to reach an undefined summit, the only inevitability of human nature in a world where even civilizations ebb and flow like the tide. they would always be searching for him, for more of him. and he would always remain nothing more than a trick of the mind, an empty prize, everlasting ephemerality; that hollow king of kings. x

WORDS by VICKY XIE ART by SARAH MARSHALL 112

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mind over matter there are days when i wake up drained the part that sustains me scooped out leaving me empty and hollow an echoing chasm on these days i go out into the world unsure of myself walk through the day like an impersonator try to laugh like i normally would but it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t crinkle my eyes

i analyze my interactions with others are they mad at me i think iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m unworthy of the space i take up do i even belong controlling my perception is a battle one i can win when the sun rises the next day when the blue filter turns gold and the truth unfolds x

the feeling is like a wave i can see it coming and i know it will go but when it crashes down around me all i can do is keep my head above water

ART by GRACE KANG WORDS by KEILY JOHNSON

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ABLAZE Cold. That was how I used to feel. Cold to my work, to my peers, to myself. A sense of desolation came down on me. I stopped feeling human; I felt more like a puppet made of flesh and blood, my strings in the hands of the universe. The most inconsequential actions drove me to insanity. I felt like I was in a never ending loop, my melancholy feeding my soullessness. But I did something unnatural — I accepted it. My fears were isolating me from befriending anyone, so instead I befriended them. I accepted my worries and flaws, recognizing them as mere tools that make me human. I have made a lot of mistakes, but if you had asked me if I wanted to go back in time and change them, I would say no — for these mistakes taught me more than anyone could have. In the chilly wind of sorrow, I felt the warmth of hope. I never knew how strong hope was until I found it. Hope gave me the strength to fight — to keep going until the deed was done. To go on for miles and miles. Hope was the fire that I needed to truly believe in myself. They say that you need to love yourself a fire, for that fire will warm you as you march down the snow-laden streets of life. Hope is that fire. Hope gave me the strength not just to fight, but to conquer my vices. I found strength of mind and with that I found something I was missing for a long time — my soul. Now I feel warm. I can feel the blood pulsing through my veins. I look forward to each and every moment I live. I feel purposeful. I feel human. x

WORDS by AARYAMAN ANAND ART by CARLA ARBELAEZ

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The world’s most beautiful equation graced Hamilton Hall’s blackboards that day. It hovered there, lonely, surrounded by traces of equations past — nothing but their spirits, almost completely erased, on the brink of non-existence. But the lonely equation was not faint. On the contrary, the thick white lines making up each brush-stroke of this shockingly short equation called out through the hallways; its echoes reverberated, and pulled me towards it. That’s when I saw Matt, similarly entranced, staring at the equation with a seemingly eternal silence that the loudest noise in the world couldn’t even dream to interrupt. I tried anyways. We exchanged greetings and talked about our days, but it was clear, the second my voice entered into the thick fog of silence, it became just as lost as everything else in it. I’d seen the equation before, but I never really knew what it was. Euler’s identity, but to me, a mystery. I knew it was beautiful and that others had neatly stuck that label onto it. I knew of it, but I couldn’t say I ever knew it. I couldn’t explain it, understand it, or see its beauty. To me, it was a mystery, or honestly, even less. It was letters, numbers, and signs on an empty blackboard, struggling to pack in meaning that I did not have the keys to. It was nothing more than the sum of its parts, a whole that lacked in anything more. I wish I could appreciate it, but it bored me. I questioned Matt, asking if he could give me the gift of even knowing in which direction I should be thinking; where should I look to find the beauty in this identity? The silence shattered. He told me everything — exponential functions, complex numbers, the complex plane. Every word he said began competing for space in that quickly shrinking room; the words bearing little more meaning than the equation did itself. And once again, I have to be honest, I didn’t really listen. Instead, I saw. I didn’t see what he saw, but I did see that he saw so much more than I did. While I could only nervously observe this equation from afar, he let his eyes rest and mingle with it; he let it speak to him just as much as he talked back. e wasn’t just a number. i not just an idea. π not just a concept he learned in middle school. 1 not just the first number he learnt, and 0 was not just nothing. Each little piece of that equation had its own beauty; not a beauty found in calculating and processing. Not a beauty found by finding the equation somewhere in nature, our reality. Their beauty was in their purity, their own fundamental reality, in relation to nothing but themselves — their beauty was their own . But together? Together their beauty ascended, transcending the infinite beauty of each part until that blackboard burst open, ripped apart by the awe-inspiring beauty of that little, lonely equation. He saw them enter into that divine dance, moving to the music they, themselves, were making and only for a select few to hear. Matt saw it all. In every word he explained their beauty, I saw in his eyes the reflection of love itself, ricocheting until I caught at least a glimpse of something beautiful. And then he finished, slowly falling back into the silence in which I saw a new beauty. x 116

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WORDS by SHARANG SHARMA ART by LAUREN CRAFWORD

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So she stays.

Her friends run away. They find amusement elsewhere. She looks their way, but I continue to stare at her.

She must stop playing with the others. I approach them and step on their sand castle. “Oops,” I say, knowing it was intentional. Her gaze slides to the ground.

I cannot allow it.

She moves when I want her to move. She walks when I want her to walk. I watch as she plays with other kids, I watch her be happy.

one day she decides to walk

Until...

Everyday is the same. She goes where I want her to, even when others leave. She does not abandon me.

Nothing changes.

away.

I move to the green apple tree. I look up at the ruby red ball hanging from the golden branch. Desperately, I try to reach it. I wait for her to make her move. And she does — so easily. She reaches up towards the sky and hands me my desire.

ART by S.M. WORDS by SIMRIT SAINI

She broke free. x

I realize — she is no longer in my grasp. I cannot control her.

I try to pull her back — but she only moves further away. I try to make her move — but she stops. She has left me. Alone.

I watch her approach the green apple tree and take what I want for herself. She does not even look my way. She does not answer to me anymore.

Breaking Free

SHE TAKES MY HAND AND GUIDES ME THROUGH THE DARKNESS THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND EXCEPT SHE KNOWS WHERE WE’RE GOING AND IT DOESN’T LOOK PRETTY I’M NOT QUITE SURE WHY I HAVE MORE FAITH IN HER THAN IN MY OWN INTUITION BUT HER LIES ECHO IN MY HEAD GIVING ME A SENSE OF REASSURANCE THAT I HAVE YET TO FIND ELSEWHERE

SOMEDAY I’LL REBEL BREAK FREE TAKE CHARGE BUT NOT TODAY TODAY, ONCE AGAIN, I SURRENDER AND JUST DO AS SHE SAYS x

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WORDS by SARAH EMIRA ART by SARAH EMIRA

Writing About Men // Feminism

I felt the fast release of my bra clasp As his fingers fumbled in the dark. With his lips against my neck, The last boy I had sex with said, Wow. It’s so fucking hot that you’re a writer. Weeks later, he found flattened sheets of poetry Lining the bottom of my underwear drawer. He looked at me, shivering on white sheets. How am I supposed to trust a writer? You better not write about me. The first boy to light a spark in my life was my first muse. From him I learned the art of translation I rendered the sound of his laugh into the language of clacking keys. Spun the rhythm of heartbeats into the rhyming of poetry. You should never apologize for being honest with me. He burned down my whole village. So, I let my poems burn. When I released my smoking words to the wind, he said I’ve lost all trust in you. Being around you makes me uncomfortable. In response, I wrote in faint cursive Rounded my softened spine Folded myself into the margins. My poems tucked away into comfortable little boxes, I don’t want my words to make men uncomfortable. Sara Ahmed, feminist theorist, wrote that To be a feminist is to be the wrong sort of woman. The one who speaks her mind Who causes disruption and discomfort Feminism is poetry. I saw myself mirrored in her words and finally I understood Why men fear the notepad and pens on my bedside table: A woman who writes seizes territory with inked fingertips and bends borders with ballpoint. A woman who writes incites importance in prose and commands authority with autobiography. A woman who writes does not utter a single word, yet she speaks as loud as any man.

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A woman who writes is a feminist. x

WORDS by MEGHAN BIRD ART by DAVIN SHIN

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CANADIAN ROCKY MOUNTAINS The mountains of the Rockies with their crystal clear waters and fresh mountain morning air that spreads across its shoulders and the great trees too. A grizzly bear shows how to hunt deep in the forest woods while her young stand straight with the wooded fortress. The great grey rocks pierce the air while a mist of white surrounds its slopes. A mountain goat descends down the slant and small rocks find their place at the bottom of the mountain. Mother bear stops her lessons momentarily to pick up the scent. She stands as assuredly as the mountains and just as rugged, yet no less beautiful. Up here, life is clearer when allowed to run wild. Wild, though not out of control â&#x20AC;&#x201D; symbiotic with what nature offers. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s free and most people are not soaking it up. Nature can tell us a lot about who we are as individuals: at the top of a mountain do you feel so small, or so big? x

WORDS by JASON WADDLE ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR

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ART by SARAH STEWART WORDS by CONOR GOULDEN

With each gust of mistrust, and with gut-wrenching disgust, I step further into your iniquity. I mistook the many hisses for your kisses, which never truly welcomed me home.

MEDUSA

The ophidian grasp you lay upon my head combined with your beady, flashing eyes of white torture. I was not made to be your foundation; You held me in place, along with Her (past lovers) and Lodbrok. This ling-chi continues even though I’ve seen past you — I’ve seen daylight.

I’ve survived. x

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ART by GRAEME FISHMAN

Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel

St. Michael the Archangel, may He have mercy on the souls of these savages defend us in battle and help us conquer in the name of God by the Word of God Be our defense against the wickedness in these godless lands, far from home far from His Grace far from all that is good and snares of the Devil. lurking in these thick jungles drowning in humid heaviness stifling heat barbaric tongues wretchedness of the likes we have never seen

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May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, as we embark on our mission â&#x20AC;&#x201D; to pray for their souls heal their wounds forgive them Father for they know not what they do and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, we humbly pray and kneel down before Him bleed as He bled weep as He wept that they atone for their sins and idolatrous ways by the power of God, for it is Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Will to civilize the uncivilized convert the pagans teach them the Word of God made flesh we must first eradicate their godless rituals

thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, forgive them for their wicked ways who prowl about the world for it is our duty to spread the Word of God and gain entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven seeking the ruin of souls. by saving them from eternal damnation and hellfire Amen. x

WORDS by DEBORAH HERNANDEZ ART by REBECCA ZHONG

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ART by ToThe9s

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ART by REBECCA ZHONG WORDS by ADRIENNE YAU

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potent but not content

He looked up at the sky filled with stardust Proclaiming one day he would take the moon. No one around him believed he could As they called him an airheaded balloon. But much like red cherry tomatoes He clawed his way up from the ground Wrapping and encompassing everything Until everyone wanted him around. Idly hanging from the vines he made They gladly gobbled up the fruit he bore. This was the life everyone wanted; They, the consumers, calling him for one more encore. Yet thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s only so much one can do. The fruits may be great, the vines nice But what can he do once the leaves fall; What can he do once the ground becomes ice? The answer is simple; he can only do nothing. With winter his vines will prune He will be unable to produce any fruit He will be what they once called him; a buffoon. The strength he once attained is long gone Further than the moon he once searched for. He will merely be forgotten under the dirt Just like bottles from the seashore. x

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TO LOVE THE NIGHT TOO FONDLY ART by NATALIA LAXAMANA WORDS by SRIKRIPA KRISHNA PRASAD

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An hour’s drive from the edge of the city, there sits an enormous hill where the star-dusted night sky can be seen in all its infinite, shining glory. Derek took Neil there on their fifth date; one of the most magical nights of his life. This is where Derek goes to meet Neil in his dreams. Neil’s silhouette is faint on the hill, even with the ghostly white glow surrounding him. Just like always, Derek’s heart leaps at the sight. He takes a seat beside him and sends him a sideways smile. Neil smiles back tiredly. Derek pretends not to notice. “Sorry I’m late,” Derek murmurs. “Work ran a little long today. Got some new hires coming in a little bit, and I’ve been assigned one of them to train.” Neil nods. “What time was it when you went to sleep?” His voice is tight. “Around six. Like I said, late. Sorry.” Neil’s lips thin. “That’s not why I’m —” He sighs. “Don’t you think it’s strange that you go to sleep so early? You don’t hang out with Annie or Ayesha or any of our other friends anymore. You’re twenty-eight, Derek. You should have a social life.” Derek shrugs casually, even as his stomach drops. “More time to spend with you. You know that.” Neil turns to look him in the eyes for the first time that night. “Derek.” He looks troubled, at a loss for words like he so rarely is. “Don’t you think — have you ever thought that maybe this — ” “Oh, you have to hear what Sasha did today,” Derek cuts him off, keenly aware of the rising panic in his voice. “She knocked on John’s door while he was in a meeting, and…” He rambles on and on, and Neil lets him. Neil lets him, just like he always does. This is how their nights go, Derek and Neil side by side, together and in love, pretending that nothing is wrong, that nothing has changed.

This is how their nights go, ever since Neil died. Derek tries to go through his waking hours as quickly as possible. He eats mechanically, watches the clock near-obsessively during work, maintains a polite distance between himself and other people to prevent any social obligations. His routine is meticulously crafted, and it doesn’t have room for interruptions. “Anil,” he says through gritted teeth. “Will you please hurry up so we can get you a parking pass before the office closes?” The new hire has been getting on his nerves already with his incessant cheer, and this is pushing Derek’s restraint. Anil hums. He has his face tipped up to look at the blue sky, a soft smile on his lips. Derek’s heart lurches suddenly; he’s reminded, viscerally, of Neil. But where Neil’s eyes are always searching the sky, straining to take in all the beauty, Anil is quiet, unhurried, soaking in the moment. Derek finds himself tracing Anil’s profile with his eyes, the roundness of his face and body, the thickness of his eyelashes, the warm brown of his skin. Anil inhales loudly, jerking Derek out of his thoughts. “Spring’s coming,” he says softly, casting his gaze at a nearby tree. Derek shakes away his momentary trance and follows Anil’s gaze to the tree, whose branches are filled with tiny green buds. Spring, already? When did that happen?

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“Yes,” he says shortly, hiding his unease. “Now, parking pass.” Anil gives him an amused glance and gestures at him to lead the way. Neil is quiet that night when Derek tells him about the strangeness of the day. “Spring,” he says. His voice is sad. “Almost a year.” Derek looks away. He doesn’t want to think about it. “I wouldn’t have realized it if Anil hadn’t pointed it out.” Neil’s eyes go calculating. “Anil,” he says, drawing out the name. “He seems interesting.” Derek tries not to stiffen. Does Neil know about that strange lapse he had today, looking at his coworker? “He’s not. He’s mainly annoying. Always smiling and blabbing on about something.” Neil sighs. “Almost a year,” he murmurs again, apropos of nothing. “Derek, do you remember our first date here?” Derek grins involuntarily. “How could I not? I asked you if you would be my boyfriend.” Neil laughs. “I asked you, meathead. And then you said — ” “I would burn down the world for you. I would do anything for you,” Derek quotes himself. He laughs. “I just said the first thing that popped into my head! You don’t know what you looked like that night! I wasn’t thinking straight.” Neil’s hands come up to hold his face. His touch is ice cold, his eyes grave. “Did you mean it?” Derek’s breath escapes him in a whoosh. No more avoidance. “Neil — ” “Did you mean it?” Derek closes his eyes. “Yes,” he whispers. Neil nods. “Then let me go. Move on. I can’t do this anymore. Neither can you.” “No.” Derek pushes Neil away. “How could you? How could you ask me that? This is our second chance! This is what we wanted!” “This is what you wanted, Derek. I did it because I love you, because I thought it made you happy. But you’re not happy, and I’m certainly not happy to be trapped in your head forever!” Derek stops short. “You’re not trapped,” he says weakly. Neil laughs, short. “I only exist in your dreams, Derek. Do you think there’s peace for me outside of that?” He’s crying now, tears slipping down his cheeks in silver streams. “I would have lived with it if you were thriving, but you’re not. You don’t feel joy unless you’re here. That’s not healthy. You’re living half a life.” “It’s worth it,” Derek chokes out. “Please, Neil.”

Neil shakes his head. “Let me go,” he says. He leans in so his forehead rests against Derek’s, their tears mingling together. “Let us both find peace.” 136

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Derek calls in sick the next day. He spends the day weeping, hugging his pillow to his chest as his heart breaks in two for the second time. When night falls, he downs an aspirin, grabs his coat and gets into his car to drive to the hill. The sky is clear, stars spilling across the velvet night. The light covers him, and he holds the warmth of this place close. Slowly, he tips his back and lets his mind drift through memories of Neil, imagining them floating up, up, up to take their place among the lights above. “I love you,” he says softly. “Goodbye.”

That night, he doesn’t dream. When Derek opens his eyes, his breath catches in his throat. For one moment, the stars all blaze brightly in unison until Derek is enveloped in glittering brilliance. Neil’s final farewell. Derek cries all the way back home. The world turns, and Derek finally lets himself turn with it. He reconnects with his friends, forcing himself through awkward but sincere apologies. They’re hurt but, in the end, understanding. The first night he really spends time with them after his absence, he laughs himself to tears more than once and leaves feeling tons lighter. He connects anew with his coworkers, and they become friends, too. He starts going to therapy, and that...helps. His sessions often end with him in tears, but they leave him lighter, more in tune with himself than he has been in years. He gets a midnight black cat that he names Star. She takes to sleeping on his chest every night, and her purrs and headbutts each morning make it easier for him to get out of bed, even on the worst days. He pushes through the pain and finally lives. Before he knows it, it’s late summer, just edging into fall. As they leave for their cars after work, Derek is the one to point it out to Anil this time, gesturing at the leaves changing colour. Anil inhales again, closing his eyes. Derek waits patiently. There’s no rush, now, no irritation. Only warmth and content. “Smells like it,” Anil murmurs. He laughs softly, one of his silly, warm ones that come straight from his chest. Derek’s heart squeezes. “Anil,” he says. “Have you ever been stargazing?” His friend tilts his head, giving Derek an assessing look. “Not properly. Too much light pollution.” “I know a place,” Derek says casually, pretending his heart isn’t hammering. “I can take you one day, if you’d like.” Anil’s smile is slow and sweet and as bright as the stars. x

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Lights, Camera, Representation! When I saw the movie Crazy Rich Asians directed by John M. Chu, I cried. I truly felt like I was witnessing history because I had never seen a Hollywood blockbuster with multiple Asian actors showcased in a variety of roles. Hollywood has a history of typecasting, whitewashing and reinforcing racist stereotypes about Asian people and other people of colour. Before Crazy Rich Asians, I had only seen Asian people portrayed as nerds, martial arts masters or background characters with accents who were used as cheap comedic relief. Hollywood has come up with a formula to deculturalize foreign stories and acculturalize them into a more relatable package that appeals to a variety of audiences. In doing so, it generalizes an entire culture into a one-dimensional identity that is used as a prop for the white narrative. Growing up, I did not have many Asian celebrities to look up to, and I started to buy into all of the stereotypes about Asian people because that was all I would ever see on TV and in the movies. This misrepresentation is why accurate representation is important. The way Hollywood portrays minorities in entertainment is outdated and one-dimensional; it makes the underrepresented and misrepresented feel ashamed and embarrassed of who they are. Crazy Rich Asians was important to me and the Asian community because it was not an Asian movie for Asian people, but a movie with an Asian cast that was meant for everybody. I saw a variety of different people at the movie theatre and it felt good to take back the narrative and show that Asian culture is not one-dimensional and that we are not confined to outdated Hollywood perceptions. x

ART by ALICIA ANGLIN WORDS by NIKITA CHANG

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;

in the gentle lighting WORDS by KATIE ANN LEE ART by REBECCA ZHONG

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i used to believe that i was the sum of my secrets. i’d hide them in closed fists, behind my back: guess which hand holds my truth! to be elusive was safer than to be known; they cannot hurt me if they do not know me, and so i’d veil my words with yours, and his, and hers until they lost meaning. but then, in the gentle lighting, you poured a cup of tea, and between sips, you laid words that could only be yours into the space between us. there was courage in your vulnerability, and it drew me in. for the first time, i found myself thinking out loud — honest thoughts to words to you in one unbroken breath. and so the distance closed, and the greatest secret revealed — to love is to know; and to be loved is to be known, and in the warmth of the small room, the world was ours. x

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BACKSTAGE “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players” ~ William Shakespeare I can feel the pulse of the air around me The sound of a thousand hearts beating in synchrony, Hidden from view by a red velvet wall. My hands tremble in anticipation, But my emotions are hidden and cast away. The curtain rises, rippling in the air... A thin layer of sparkling colour masks my face From the harsh reality of two thousand eyes. They can see my figure, but they can’t see me. And it’s as if the room is made of mirrors, Because I can only see myself reflected back. My movements are elegant, and the silk of my dress billows, Like an enticing wisp of smoke. A trembling gasp hangs in the air as I slip, But I swiftly regain my sense of balance. As soon as it begins, it is over. The red velvet wall protects my insecurities once more, Hiding my true self from those Who spend endless nights watching my every move. I can still feel the pulse, the anticipation… As I slink to the side of the stage, desperate to run. My hands continue to shake, not from excitement but relief, As I am finally protected from the harsh scrutiny Of those who claim to love me. Tonight, I shall wash myself of the colours That paint me into a picture for their enjoyment, And gaze out of my own eyes at myself. x

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WORDS by GILLIAN HODGE ART by YUMNA AFAQ POWER

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ART by CYNTHIA GU WORDS by ZOYA PAL

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THIS IS A WAR WE’LL NEVER STOP FIGHTING FOR THIS IS A WAR WE’LL NEVER STOP FIGHTING FOR THIS IS A WAR WE’LL NEVER STOP FIGHTING FOR there is blood on our teeth from when we pried our stitched lips apart, and the aftertaste of the words we could never say seeps like poison into our veins, wrath is embedded into our very marrow, and our bruised bones ache with centuries-old grief. the helplessness we learned is rotting beneath our fingernails, and every haggard breath we heave from our collapsing lungs burns with just one promise: we’ll take it back. with bloody hands, bloody mouths, bloody hearts we’ll take back what was ripped right out of our feeble, delicate palms, flesh skinned from bone, with what remains are left of us we’ll take back who we were and what we could never own, come heaven, come hell, come a god we no longer believe in or the devil himself, we will rise from our ashes and unleash the storm. because before the lightning comes the thunder and before they can stop us we’ll rip them asunder. x

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ART by EVRA ALI

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WORDS by JULIANNA MARR

foolish & ferocious & fleeting & frivolous & frightening & fond & focused & feathery & fair & fiery Being in love really is a detriment to one’s daily productivity. While one (who is madly in love) should be studying for a midterm, You will instead find her writing you these words. While one is trying to meticulously review her three hundred lines of code, You will instead find her using her computer mouse as a microphone to scream the words to the Bangles’ “Eternal Flame”. neurotic & nostalgic & natural & naked & noisy & nourishing & nestling & normal & neoteric & necessary Our brains have not yet learned how to overwrite love. For everything I write somehow hath his heart laced through the words. Every sound, every song, every breeze hath his breath dancing to it. Every sunrise, every cloud every moon holds his crinkled twinkling eyes that smile down at me. Even in the faces of strangers I somehow find his lovely carved profile. You see, my foolish head could never overwrite his beautiful heart. intoxicating & innocent & invigorating & incandescent & incredible & insane & illuminating & inquisitive & instinctual Swallow thy pride, inhale this joy & gulp down this moment. Let the flames lick us, bathe us in sunlight & let this light in. Flutter thy branches of sweet maple & smoky ash over me. Capture every curve every stroke every line & fill me in. The heart always wins. unbridled & uninhibited & universal & understated & unhinging & ubiquitous & unbeaten & unfailing & united His heart is strong & fragile & bent & it hath been broken. Oh yes it hath. By many a thing. Because he loves many a thing. broken & benevolent & bursting & bubbling & befuddling & boggling & breathtaking & bold & beautiful But I don’t want to break his heart. I want to warm it with my kisses sing it beautiful songs & make it sweat & beat in rhythm with mine. robust & raw & royal & ravishing & restless & reckless & rambling & rosy & righteous & risky & ruthless & rough You see now, how his heart hath turned my head to scribbles, Spewing nonsense & proclaiming lunacy. His torrid love hath scrambled my brain, captured my soul, Tousled my hair & swallowed me whole. These sentences could flow on forever, If not for the pesky restraint of human limits. Every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year I love him. But that is what love does. It makes blabbering fools of us all. Is it not simply, beautifully, earnestly, ardently, unbearingly brilliant? x

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FRIENDS BY CHANCE, SISTERS BY CHOICE We will build you, From the bottom up. This will not break you. This will not hurt you.

*Knock Knock Knock*

You’ve taught me that I am only as strong as my mind. That reframing is how we find happiness, And hope can be found as long as we have the courage to look for it. But here is a lesson you may not know, You are much stronger than what you are able to show.

I know exactly who it is, Only one person comes to check on me To make sure I’m okay To genuinely ask about my day.

A heart made purely of compassion, Eyes that look for the best, A soul that is uncommonly kind, How rare it is to have such an open-mind.

Tell me what you’ve been keeping inside, Such news must have been painful to hide. Why did it take so long to reach out? Didn’t you want to scream and shout?

You are beautiful in a way most people are not. Not just in the way you look, But in the way you look at life — In the way you see beauty In everyone and everything. You are my first day of spring.

I would like to remind you, You do not deserve this. Do not think of what you will miss. For the world spins on, And tomorrow, we will start again Because, my friend, you are not alone, Nor will you ever be. I’m here to listen, To provide support in this rough time, To bring you sunshine. You look up and see that the skies are grey, A whisper, barely above a hush, says “You’re okay.” And sometimes that’s all we need to hear For the fear to disappear. To talk, not talk, To embrace, not embrace, Support comes in many forms, Unique to us all. I will never let you fall.

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How can one person be so empathetic, Beyond magnetic. So strong. I wish you could see what I have been able to see all along. You are wanted, needed, And so, so deeply loved. x

WORDS by B.D. LILY ART by SABRINA JIVANI

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incite magazine volume 22, issue 2 “power” Published July 2020 Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication. We aim to unite a community of creatives by promoting self-expression, collaboration, and dialogue within out university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, multimedia, and event production is carried out by our wonderful student volunteers. If you’d like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com. + @incitemagazine + facebook.com/incitemagazine + issuu.com/incite-magazine editor-in-chief (content): Neda Pirouzmand editor-in-chief (art & production): Matty Flader layout director: Manveer Kalirai treasurer: Tenzin Gyaltsen communications director: Elena Wells events planner: Shaya Sujanani content editors: Sara Emira, Grace Kang, Srikripa Krishna, Katie Lee, Lubna Najm, Arielle Ruby, Adam Sapa, Sowmithree Ragothaman art managers: Sabrina Jivani, Sandy Luu, Larissa Shular, Sarah Stewart, Rebecca Zhong layout designers: Lily Green, Saadia Shahid cover credits: Power by Matty Flader (FRONT) Nebula by Manveer Kalirai (BACK)

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xxii:ii

And I have only just begun. x