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PRISM Western’s queer arts magaz i n e
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INSIDE E E
It’s All In Your Head
J. Sally Co
THIS VOLUME OF pRISM is possible thanks to the generous support from:
C o n t e n t 01
J. Sally Co
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Dalia Assi Lament to the Great Sea
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Anonymous Soft and Sweet Anxiety / Lying next to Lauren
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Lost In Translation
Matthew Myles Predication
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Diyana Noory Nicole Schredl photos
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Blythe Hope 3am Blues
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Callie To My Harshest Critic
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Rayne Cauchi Pansy
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Diyana Noory Dalla Zhao photos
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Amy Gerster What Love Looks Like
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Va l e n t i n e W i l d e Pride synesthesia
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Sydney Dawson Barriers/Balancing Act
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Elizabeth Sak Searching for Salvation in Coffee Foam Temptation
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Chengyu Guo Champion Girl
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Bridget Whelan Can Everything Be Holy?
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Armin Wong Top and Bottom/Sometimes I Dream of Going to the Beach
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Va l e n t i n e W i l d e Opernplatz
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T.F. A Swimmer’s Build
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James Gagnon Lost Love Poem #317
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Vivianne Quang Pride
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Reilly Knowles Spiral Dance
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LETTER From
the Editor-
i n -c h ief
L i l y Wilde
I started this project because I believed that Western has many brilliant queer writers, artists, and creators of all sorts. Western has a lot of wonderful student publications, but I wanted to create something explicitly by and for Western’s LGBTQ+ community. I felt that there were many marginalized voices that previously lacked a platform to speak, and I wanted to hear what they had to say. This magazine is the result. I’ve been overwhelmed with the number and quality of submissions we received, as well as the depth of emotion many of them convey. Almost every queer person I know has a story that involves pain, rejection, and internalized shame, and many of those stories are reflected here. I am so proud of everyone who shared their stories and put their vulnerability on full display, whether they did so anonymously or not. Your stories show that we still have a long way to go to create a more just world, a queerer world. We create that world, one word at a time, whenever we share our stories.
Lost In Translation
J. Sally Co
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PRISM wants to thank you all for holding our first issue in your hands. From the beginning, we wanted to provide a space for queer people to artistically express and celebrate their identity. This issue is full of queer creators sharing their stories and works with the greater community, and for that we are excited and grateful for their contribution and dedication to a community that at times can lack these works. It is our vision that Western’s queer community take this issue and remember the many talented queer artists that often don’t have the chance to be heard. The amount of submissions and interest from campus that we have received have been overwhelming. Your support means the world to us, and it is incredibly fulfilling to work on a project that is impacting Western’s queer community in such a positive way. The works that you will come across in this issue are powerful, emotional, and vulnerable, and we want to thank our writers for allowing us to share that. We hope that these works will inspire you to express your own vulnerabilities with the world. We hear you, and we support you. Lily Wilde, your Editor in Chief; Emily Hayward, Nara Monterio, and Rebecca Seaby, your PRISM editors; and the rest of the PRISM team
LETTER From
the Prism
TEAM Our Team Editor-in-Chief Lily Wilde Editors Emily Hayward Nara Monteiro Rebecca Seaby Social Media Dal Assi Digital Design Teodora Marginean Print Layout Sade Stacey
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Lament to The Great Sea
PRISM
it’s as if
Dalia Assi
The world is a hazy orange, the way the embers glow at the tip of your burning cigarette methanol, pink lipstick stained Puffs of this grey fog surround me, I inhale the burning tobacco, ammonia, poison I let the lethargy consume me I dreamt of you again My water in a wildfire Humming siren songs behind closed lips Legs gliding the way a blooming flower spreads I watch as water drips down your chin as you draught after it As if you haven’t seen water in years, As if you’ve forgotten the way the waves explode against the rocks on the shore, I linger For you, The Great Sea, the all-encompassing life, to remember to come back home to remind me that you exist outside of my reveries, to put out the fire, relieve my lungs of this black smoke The water drips down your chin, And I’ve been waiting lifetimes for you to collapse against me
I made you up
But you consume men with sandy beards rusty voices, and calloused hands tangled in your seaweed hair I dreamt I was a man so you could love me with your tobacco stained fingertips, Your honeyed lips I would step out of this body and into another for you to see me as the center of your deep-sea world but you cradle your fawning body in the safety of his arms The smoke ascends into the orange sky, you drift away with another lover and you are tongue to honey, mouth to neck It’s as if I made you up inside my head
inside my head
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Soft and Sweet
A n x i e t y / Lying next to
L a u r e n She’s soft, A peach. Sticky pollen Delicious, Sweet. Dipped in sugar Dripping down my fingers. Her stomach is smooth, but the hairs on her legs feel like home And I’m afraid to unlock the door Because I know this fruit— It’s sour And sweet, Its curves were held by men before me.
Warm pale yellow, Winter Flesh Cut to the core in agony. Her sickly scent calls my mouth to her skin, But I don’t let my teeth sink in Because my tender flesh is still sore— Heavy hands held me before. I know her pit is rough and dark I know her fruit was torn apart I know Calloused fingers and pearing knives Thick rough lips And Earthy eyes When I met you, Slightly bruised, I knew that you weren’t handled gently But you came from the same tree as me so I’ll love you, Tenderly.
An on ym ous
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“pREDICATION”
Matthew Myles
For every homophobic comment there’s some fake pseudoscience bullshit Some two-week juice detox Some root that will cure the cancer Some other root that’s definitely “better than any vaccine I’ve ever had, let me tell you” This will fix them, In the way that they want to be fixed: There’s comfort in believing you’re right I don’t have the patience to let people believe In a treatment that cures, Let me check the records here: Absolutely nothing Because sure It’s not hurting me or you But there’s this culture of distrust in what they say And not they as in them but they as in the people they don’t believe in Doctors, scientists, academics, people who give a shit And you! And me! And every other queer person on this fucking planet They’re afraid And not in the “ooh poor widdle ol me” kinda way In the way that makes me want to fucking throttle them Afraid they’re wrong Afraid of facts, and reason, and health and love andtrustanddecencyandRESPECT Above all else So I don’t have the time Throw out your jilly juice All 28,008 milligrams of sodium And do something else Anything else
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Diyana Noory (photographer) Nicole Schredl (model)
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3am b lues when I was five, I thought the girl with golden hair was going to one day be my bride because we used to play ‘family’ I was always the husband but I never wanted to be the husband because I liked it when she played with my hair and picked out my barbies, and you know. I’ll never forget that sweet tingly feeling I felt whenever we played because play was a break from what was supposed to be a home but was really hell covering up my bruises for Sunday church to hide what mumma had done the night before all I knew was that I wanted to be with her because she was my little sunshine vanilla sparkle of happiness and her eyes were like cool Christmas lights that the cool moms would have on their trees and she was love and when I was thirteen I held hands with the one but it was lowkey by accident because I was trying to grab a Nancy Drew book from the library because Nancy Drew is a badass and who wouldn’t smash— oops anyway when our hands touched she apologized and I laughed and from that day on we ran through city streets spending long summer nights reminiscing
about how abusive our childhoods were, happily sharing scars and laughing but also crying because how could our lives be that fucked up? the worst was when I held her as she cried and told me she wanted to die because how could the most beautiful person want to end such a beautiful life? when she met him it was all over our forever was only one summer she was my reason for living, you know? like, it sucked and now I’m eighteen years old, ugly gross worthless it’s the same god damned narrative I will never find someone to love because I am far too broken and bruised but maybe someday I’ll find my Hazel Grace or whatever hopefully they’ll be into Vines and unicorns and Marvel films and hopefully they’ll like Hayley Kiyoko as much as I do —lesbian Jesus, yo. But for now I’m so lonely that my bed is no longer home to me and I’m so unhappy I don’t know what to do with myself but I keep getting up in the morning to eat shitty caf food and go to my shitty classes because someday I’ll be happy with my queer self and someday I’ll find a girl but first I have to love me and once I see the beauty in myself I can find my golden girl
Blythe Hope because someday I’ll be happy with my queer self
PRISM
To my harshest critic, You tell me that I’ve never understood paradoxes, That you’ll never be a fan of my work. It’s not because you hate me, you say. It’s not because you don’t know me, you lie. It’s not because I contradict you I scream Why, Callum, are you my harshest critic? Why can’t I just let you go? Why can’t I just move on? I promised mom and dad that I would take care of me The way I should have taken care of you That Callie would be the story of my life, And Callum, just a footnote in chapter one. I promised myself that I would be kinder, that I would forgive you for everything Because it was never your fault. I’m not religious but I promised God I would get it right this time. And so I stand here, showing you my work, Begging you, “Give me one last chance.” Mirrors have never been very good at conversation, have they? To break a mirror is to have seven years of bad luck, So I must have broken a couple in my life. I’ve never been very good at creating, Except for the false faces I paint on, Wishing that one day maybe they will actually stick. I’ve never been very good at appreciating what I have either, I never stopped to appreciate you Because here we are Arguing When one of us doesn’t exist, and the other wishes not to. Callum, you are the man I’ve hated the most But the one who I wanted to love me the most. I’m told you aren’t supposed to crucify someone For crimes they never committed. Innocent until proven guilty. But you were on death row before you even learned to speak. And here I am, trying to give you your eulogy while refusing to let you die. I guess I’ve never really understood paradoxes. So, to my harshest critic, I beg you. Please give me one more chance. Read so I can stop writing. Die so I can start living. Hold on to this so I can finally let go.
Callie
To My Harshest Critic
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Rayne Rabbit
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r e t s r e G Amy What Love Looks Like I was seven years old when I had my first kiss. My best friend at the time and I giggled together in my room, slathering on layer after layer of flavoured lip gloss, our lips sticky and pink. Then we kissed. It was barely a peck, a split second of lips against lips. We jumped away, shrieking with laughter. My mother came in to ask what was so funny. “Nothing,” we said simultaneously, our cheeks flushed with laughter. It should have been nothing. It wasn’t. I was nine years old when I first learned the word gay. My friends snickered at another girl in our class. Her hair was chopped short and her clothes were bought from the boys’ section. When my mother picked me up from school that day I asked her, “What does gay mean, mommy?” My mother gasped, startled. “Why are you asking that?” “I think I might be that,” I told her. She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh sweetie, you’re not gay, don’t worry!” “But what if I want to be it?” I said.
“Honey, no one wants to be gay,” she said, forcing the conversation to a close. “Just try not to think about it, and eventually this will pass.” I tried to stop thinking about it. I didn’t. I tried to make it pass. It didn’t. I was twelve years old when I had my first crush. It was January, and a girl named Tracy sat in front of me, hair pulled into a high ponytail, ears pink from the cold. She turned and looked at me, eyes glinting with mischief. “So, you’re dating my brother?” she said. I nodded. “You must really like him,” she said. I nodded. But what I thought was, “No.” What I thought was, “I like you.” I didn’t say it, though. Of course I didn’t. I couldn’t. It wasn’t right. I was sixteen years old when my world turned upside down. It was the second week of school when she walked in. She was tough around the edges, all leather and laces and rips in her jeans. She was blood red hair, slim legs, and delicate pale skin. The sight of her made my top teeth lock on to my bottom lip. I wrenched my gaze away from her and swallowed. I
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Dalla Zhao (model)
Diyana Noory (photographer)
I didn’t.
wanted was to be curled around her, surrounded by her, and I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t become this completely different person. But wasn’t I already?
It was one week before we spoke. I glanced down nervously, complimenting her shirt, my voice too low, having to repeat myself. She thanked me, and her lopsided smirk made my heart shudder. I smiled sheepishly and took my seat. My cheeks burned for the rest of the day.
And then one day we lay on my bed, limbs tangled together. Her heart raced in her chest. “Are you okay?” I asked her. “Yeah,” she said. “I was just thinking about how much I love you,” she said.
I was sixteen years old when I realized I was in love. Days became weeks became months. Flirtatious texts became sidelong glances became all night conversations. We were sitting on her bedroom floor for hours, and then we were kissing, and then I was falling.
And I cried. I cried for my seven-year-old self, kissing her friends instead of the boys. I cried for my nine-year-old self, who felt the sting of her friend’s words against her skin, even though they were meant for another girl. I cried for my fourteen-year-old self, trying to be someone she wasn’t.
begged myself to listen to my mother for once and I tried to forget.
All the while, my insides fought. What I wanted, and what I thought was true. My mother’s words haunted me. My sixth-grade friends’ giggles mocked me. The cross in my grandparents’ living room judged me. How could I be this person? How could I stray from everything I’d ever known? I was the person that was raised by a mom and a dad, the person whose brother had girlfriend after girlfriend, the person whose friends all whispered about the boys they thought were cute. And yet there I was, forgetting everything I’d been taught. There I was, captivated by this girl I had no business being captivated by. Day after day, all I
She held me and dried the tears from my cheeks. “It’s okay, sweetie,” she said. “Everything will be alright,” she said. I believed her. I told her I loved her too. I told her what I never thought was possible, what I never thought was right. And I knew; I knew it was true. I knew it was right. And then I cried some more. Eventually, I stopped crying. Eventually, I smiled.
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Synesthesia
Valentine Wilde
I have synesthesia:
I see numbers, letters, and words as colours or collections of colours in my head. This means I’m able to paint words as I see them without having to use text.
The word PRIDE appears to me in the lemony tones of a summer’s day when the sun is fiercely, impossibly bright. Vibrant tones of red and green slash their way through the golden-brightness of it all, like the lush green of well-watered grass, the crimson of coral – or maybe it’s the red of the blood pulsing through our veins as we dance, giving visible expression to the vividness within us. At the centre of it all is the cotton-candy blue of the sky overhead, like a reminder that, in the absence of more classical notions of paradise, we strive to build a heaven of our own.
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Barriers Butch, you may not open so easily in the hands of others; evading exploration like the seeds of a pomegranate. Butch, your shell is part of your beauty— your handsomeness lies not within the tearing of your barriers to expose the fruit, but in your tenderness when opening others. Butch, bind, readjust your collar with fear in your throat but confidence in your hands. Speak up, or don’t say a syllable. Butch, only when you are ready. You are not to be forced open before you allow yourself to grow.
Balancing act Without a whimper you take whiplash from the world. Tugging your trousers with hateful hands; you do not cry, but your femme does. Going by many names, she runs her nails through your hair, while you petrify silently, and she feels your wounds; Without seeing them Without hearing them With only a glance, she knows more than you need to say, so you don’t.
S
y e n yd
n o s w Da
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Searching for Salvation in Coffee Foam I’ve been playing at love, kissing goodnight beneath mistletoe and moonlight and molding street rafters for the sake of romantic ideals and yes, I know all the words by heart but not a single feeling is stored there. I question whether it is curable. Homeless men diagnose my laughter as genuine and claim my aura is blue, but before I can step into a doctor’s office, the words consume my reflexes and I am hurried onward to confess my seduction, the nearest café: my chapel.
I open my mouth, spewing courteous greetings and requesting a cappuccino before thinking perhaps I should switch to tea. My gaze shifts to the writer by the window, pen perched in the branches of his fingers, black dove swooping and scrolling across a bleached-white forest. And when he pauses for a moment in mid-air, hovering between thought and action, I imagine he can teach me the difference between admiration and attraction.
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Eli za be th Sa k
Temptation If a person runs a red light at an intersection, and no one is around to see it, are they still breaking the law?
I consider licking the salt from his lips, tugging fries like claws between his fingers.
Car mirrors coated with frost the color of my engagement ring. I twist the metal counterclockwise—slowly— fingers rejecting unfamiliar constraint. I am eating off the floor again; wooden splinters litter the rug. Intoxication makes me taller until the table collapses.
Imagining him tearing the buttons from my shirt, splitting the air like popcorn kernels. He catches them in his mouth and swallows. Pop! Serpents swirl in my stomach. Pop! I curl inwards from the fingers. Pop! My glow stick ribs are snapping.
He roars, showing his teeth. It was an ugly table anyway. Your body makes for much better furniture.
He examines my left hand, whispers I’ll never try to own you the way he does. I slide the ring into the change compartment. The light changes, and I drive.
Chengyu Guo
Champion Girl
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Can Everything be Holy? Can everything be holy? Even this? And even now? She rests her hand upon My back and rubs her thumb against my spine. I pull her body close—her breasts and breath Upon my own—and bare my blemished throat. The birds are blessed. The sunlight too. Even the air that whistles past our tongues Is pure, devoid of innate fault. Our lips: The sacred instrument. O most divine, My God, what does it matter if they touch?
Diyana Noory (photographer)
Bridget Whelan
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Top and Bottom I worried less about removing a few organs than taking off a layer of fat. I figured nobody would notice I’d traded the ability to bear children, to live by the cycle of the moon, to go without a weekly injection for the rest of my life, for the right not to be torn apart by dysphoria. I could hide the small marks made for a laparoscope.
Sometimes I Dream Of Going To The Beach Where’d you get those scars? A life-saving surgery. I didn’t know gynecomastia was life-threatening. I didn’t think it was.
But I shook when I thought about asking a man I had never met to carve a sign across my chest, irrevocably marking me as Other.
I’m glad you found your answer.
Now that the sign is there, I realize I was always afraid of both my surgeries. I simply focused my anxieties on the one that was coming first.
Armin Wong
But the nightmares haven’t stopped me, so I must be doing something right.
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I wrote these poems when I was too stressed about my upcoming hysterectomy and salpingo-oophorectomy (removal of uterus, ovaries and fallopian tubes) to sleep. The stress surprised me, because before my top surgery last year, I looked forward to my hysto/oopho as the “easier” of my surgeries. My top surgery was a bilateral mastectomy, which involves making two long cuts across the chest in order to remove chest tissue. It leaves distinct scarring that I was terrified would always single me out as trans in a cis-centered world, and only my greater fear of going without the surgery kept me going. In comparison the hysto/oopho seemed simple. My reproductive organs would be removed through my vagina, with only small visible cuts being made so that a laparoscope could be used to view the surgery area. I could pretend I wasn’t afraid because nobody would ever have to know. But of course I’m afraid. Gender-affirming surgeries are, after all, big, life-changing, permanent decisions. And sometimes I still wonder: Was any of this worth it? Will any of this be worth it? But at least now I have an answer.
Diyana Noory (photographer)
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Valentine Wilde “This was but a prelude: where they have burned books, they will in the end also burn people.” – Heinrich Heine
I
walk from the Opernplatz, and as we approached we could see a gathering crowd— visible from far down the street. Anneliese gripped my hand and urged me to move faster.
“Gretha, keep up! You’re too slow!” swear to heaven–and please, you have to Lotte regarded us with nervous eyes and believe me–that it was supposed to be little more than a fun afternoon in the town. reached out as if to bat our hands apart before she forced herself to pull back. I thought Indeed, during the hours of daylight, that’s exthe touch was innocent enough—certainactly what it was. As long as the sun shone, ly friends held hands all the time—but Lotte however weakly, and penetrated the haze was the nervous sort. “We’re almost there, of clouds over the city. It was an unremarkAnna. There’s no need to rush her,” she said. able outing to the shops. The evening was “She should have worn more suitable warm and breezy—a comfortable temperashoes if she wanted to keep up with us.” ture. We could not afford to buy much, but we had pinched enough pennies for a ser“You’re just jealous my feet look so good,” I viceable dinner and drinks with the sunset. countered. I was quite proud of my shoes. SilWe had no particular plans for the rest of the very buckles fastened straps in place, and stylish night, you understand. We didn’t know what we perforations radiating across the toe leather. I should expect when we smelled the wood smoke. was, however, aware that the high, curvy heels made it hard for me to walk. Unlike Lotte in her “Something’s not burning, is it?” Lotte asked with square-toed Oxfords, or Anneliese in her laceconcern. “I mean, something’s clearly burning, but ups, but style demands sacrifice; that’s how I it’s nothing that’s not supposed to burn, right?” thought of it then, and I adored the authoritative “I’m sure it isn’t, chickee,” Anneliese soothed. click my soles made against the stones. No mat“Actually I thought I saw the makings of a ter how bruised my ankles would feel later on. bonfire in the square when we were shopWe merged with the crowd’s edge. We were ping. A group of men were piling up wood. close enough to hear the crackling fire and feel Maybe there’s something planned for tonight. its warmth, but not near enough to see anything “We should go and see,” I said impulsive- through the shifting crowd. Somewhere off to ly. Yes, I suggested the outing, but I swear one side, a band played loud, triumphant muon my soul I did not know what to expect. sic. Horns and strings punctuated by a strange The restaurant was just a few minutes rhythm which was ill-matched to the tune.
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band’s melody. A few carried the red-and-black flag of the new regime while others carried bundles of paper to throw into the fire. I spotted a table cloaked with the same flag on a tidy dais in the distance, but the square itself was Lotte grabbed onto my sleeve to keep us from not tidy; it was littered with debris. Unusually being separated. “Don’t get yourself in trouble.” careless—I thought—for a government that was I heard her plead—too quiet for Anneliese to usually quite careful with public appearances. The men looked straight-backed and grim. hear. Of the three of us, Lotte was the most serious. She read the newspapers and listened to They were dressed in uniform pressed white the political speeches on the radio. She kept shirts and dark trousers. A few men milled herself informed. We thought she was just a about wearing old-fashioned military uniforms. worrier. Later we realized that she knew, and Most of the marchers kept their eyes firmly she wanted to spare us from what was coming. forward, but I caught a few eyeing us—pretty She saw our indictment written out before her. young girls in the front row—and at least one Anneliese was strategic. She knew how smirked and winked at me. I tried to smile back to use the empty promises of flirtation to get and hoped it was not too obvious to anyone the what she wanted from the men around us. way I crowded close to Anneliese for comfort. Anneliese tapped her foot. “I can’t see anything,” she complained. “We need to go closer.” She pulled me forward into the fray. “Come on, Lotte,” Anneliese called over her shoulder. I heard Lotte make a small sound of protest.
“Stick close to me,” she whispered. “Smile at them and be sweet, and they’ll give us what we want because you’re pretty.” I blushed when she said that, but it was different from usual: matter-of-fact and efficient. Nothing like the lazy days in our apartment when we rhapsodized one another for gentle hours, entwined in our blankets, shutting out the wind and rain that rattled against our garret windows.
She seemed not to notice; the press of the crowd was intense as the procession gave way to the main event. The men had taken their places around the bonfire. They had begun to gather up the bundles of trash on the ground and pitch them into the flames. Lotte put it together first. “Oh my God, Gretha, it’s not just trash on the ground – it’s a library. It’s books, it’s books they’re burning!”
Her strategy worked. We reached the front I glanced at her. The heat of the flames row. The three of us arrived in place as a pa- shone on her face and made it seem red. rade of young men with serious faces marched “What books? Where did they get them?” past; their solemn procession providing the offLotte shook her head—not certain—but a beat boot-stamp drum that had punctuated the solidly-built woman in the crowd behind
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us spoke, leaning in close so we would know she was answering my question. “It’s the Institute for Sex Research in Tiergarten,” she said with disdain. “The one that writes about inverts and degenerates, and tries to understand them.” With every venomous word, spittle from her mouth landed wet on my neck, where it burned like shame. I avoided looking at Anneliese or Lotte. I kept my eyes fixed on the flames. They danced ever higher as the well-dressed young men tossed more books onto the pyre. The woman continued, her voice smug. “My nephew was with the soldiers who raided the institute over the weekend. He helped gather up all this garbage, and he told me some things that would knock you flat, sweet young girls like you. The things he’s seen, it’s not fit for anything but burning.” In spite of my proximity to the fire, I felt cold all over. I felt Anneliese untwine her fingers from my own, and I knew she had heard what the stranger said. She clasped her hands tightly across her abdomen; her lips pressed together in a grim white line. My entire body tensed as I waited for the woman to continue, but she fell silent. A man on the red-cloaked dais, whose face I did not recognize, had begun to speak into a microphone. His words washed over me in echoed impressions, but I did not understand them. I could not turn away from the fire and watched the scraps of half-burned paper spark upwards towards the dark night sky, where they eddied away on the breeze. A scrap of paper, scorched about the edges, fluttered towards me and lodged itself against my breast. Gingerly, I plucked it away. It left a smudge of ash across the fabric of my dress. By the firelight I could read the bold Gothic text printed on it, a single phrase:
Die Homosexualität I dropped the paper as if I had been scalded
even though the last embers around the edges had died away as it drifted towards me. Once released, it fell to the ground, mere millimeters away from the tip of my pretty perforated shoe which—mere hours ago—had brought me so much delight. The way they clicked against the ground and made me feel strong. Now I was bereft of loss. Nothing could be bear silent witness, as burned away the entire
power, numb with its done but watch and men I did not know history of my people.
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A Swimmer’s Build
T. F.
Hold it in. Let every breath Feed the silence festering Within the body, and the soul Lingers at the shore of wanting Something more. It would be So easy, opening the lips— Part the teeth and slide the tongue And in the salt, be born again. Yet. I Watch the waves. Watch the waves Crash against the shoulders while Trickling, the fingers hold Their place against a shallow throat: Fiery, the lungs protest It would be so easy Opening the lips— In a swirl of bubbles, one Could disappear, and rise again, And take another name. Still. I Watch the waves. Watch the waves Push and pull and push again And in a draw of muscles, dance Above the pattern of the sea And in a froth, break free— But only for a glance. It would be too easy Drowning in a touch: Slack the heart and slake the flesh And live another day. Here. I Watch the waves. Watch the waves Banish river, stay the lake— I am found within the treading I am found within the lull Blue and blind and blithered, born Into a sea without an end Hoping for a hint of land. Yet, the current pulls.
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James Gagnon
Lost Love Poem #317 quarter past nothing in the disintegrating temple let the maggots seize victory care inside of careless the final dollar spent heading for familiar nowhere.
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Pride, to me, is warm, passionate, kind, brave, and soft like a light in the dark.
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THANK Sydney Dawson
Spiral Dance
Pronouns: She/her Sydney is a lesbian from rainy Vancouver, BC. She enjoys printmaking, photography, and volunteering with LGBTQ+ and women’s groups when she is not writing poetry or essays.
Blythe Hope
Reilly Knowles Rayne Rabbit
Pronouns: She/her Rayne is a young visual artist who strives to create compelling work that explores the issues of marginalised groups. She hopes people enjoy her paintings and drawings as much as she does making them.
Diyana Noory
Pronouns: She/her Diyana is a freelance music journalist and portrait photographer. You can find more of her work at diyananoory.com or instagram: @stargirldi.
Pronouns: She/her/They/them Blythe has had a passion for writing ever since they were young. Blythe is grateful for PRISM for giving them the opportunity to express their queer identity through the art of poetry. instagram: @blytheeex
Valentine Wilde
Pronouns: Xe/xir/They/them/val Val is a Western alum. Xe is nobody’s daughter, sister, wife, mentor, mentee, employee, property, survivor, or victim. When xe figures out what xe *is*, xe will let you know. instagram: @honorarycorvid
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VOLUME 1.0
YOU
EVERYOne
Vivianne Quang
Amy Gerster
Armin Wong
Elizabeth Sak
J. Sally Co
Reilly Knowles
Matthew Myles
Callie
Addtional thanks to those who are anonymous for this project. Your contributions are greatly appreciated.
Pronouns: They/them Vivianne is a second-year nursing student as well as a non-binary firebrand. With a passion for advocacy and art, they hope to make the world a kinder space.
Pronouns: She/her Elizabeth Sak is a fourth year creative writing student, actively searching for ways to disturb the universe. instagram: @somethingelse.entirely
Pronouns: They/them/He/him Microbiologist with a knack for bad poetry. Carrying the banner for beavers worldwide. Twitter: @GerbDing
Pronouns: She/her Amy is a first year student, and she has been writing since she was a child. She has a love for dogs, chocolate, and feminism; in that order. instagram: @amy.gerster
Pronouns: She/her Sally Co is a first-year Health Sci student who is passionate about learning about the world, helping others, and creating art. You can find her art on instagram: @sallarts.
Pronouns: They/them/She/her Callie is a proud member of the LGBTQIA+ community and is the current Residence Soph on the LGBTQIA+ floor.
Pronouns: He/him A salty little trans man grateful to be out of school. Fiercely and aromantically loves his friends
Pronouns: He/him Reilly Knowles is a third-year Visual Arts student whose work explores the human presence in the landscape and queer experience. More of his work can be found on Instagram: @ reilly_knowles
Copy Editors: Jennifer Hillhouse and Rosemary Chen