Poems by Sydney Hutt

Sydney Hutt is an English major, writer, and mom of six year-old twin girls. She loves the Victorian era, horror movies, big cups of tea, and long nighttime runs in the rain. You can find more of her writing featured on such websites as A Practical Wedding, Thought Catalog, Motherly and in Motherly’s new book This Is Motherhood, as well as on her personal blog: MySoulAjar.com

Ladybug Keychain

Twilight run, first night below zero. There are no sidewalks down here― I jog the road, skipping potholes to my pulse. Shoes collect pieces of pavement, the great diaspora of forgotten decades. Almost home, I thought I saw a guy trying the handle on my parked car. I’m so jumpy these five blocks, like when Clayton from Toronto took me to a bar and I was scared of the working woman stomping by: “Relax! She’s not here for you!” Later, I got this ladybug keychain that looks cute but will scream if you pull off its wings ― you can hold the keys between the fingers of your closed fist. I’d forgotten the keychain that night, but bolted over anyway like my sneakered feet might mimic those big heels scraping concrete, the way some women stop being scared of the dark ― or maybe they’ve just adapted, are always afraid. But when I got there I saw that he’d only drawn a shaky heart in the frost icing my passenger window. The neighbour’s maroon blanket-curtain flicked through December like a knife.

I wish I knew the boy, not just flickers of him that move like the shadows behind the windows of your neighbours’ house. I try to capture him, hold him to the light; it paints the creases around his eyes, the white slash by his brow where a hammer kissed, not long ago. Ruddy skin tattooed by the days before me are places on a world map, crossed out, coloured in. Chin, a dull knife, scrapes me raw. Bits of flaxen hair still split the brown, premonitions claiming new territory along his scalp, popping up like headstones. But he brought over potted bulbs once, said, ‘I thought you’d like to watch them bloom’ and I tasted interred sweetness that crawled aching from the soil for me.

at night her feet hang in the hook of my hands, curve warm against my palms. I never find time for this during the day, to feel the way her cheek, sticky from sleep, molds to mine, toothpaste breath sweeter than the days I stubbornly claim away from her. She’s softest here, when she stops stiffening, lets her steel frame fold against my stomach. It remembers her always; even now, though it’s been three years, it still aches for those three months.

Can’t think too much about her then, the way I’d been surprised she didn’t look like I’d expected her to. Seemed more like a misplaced organ at two pounds, neon skin stretched translucent. I knew she was mine when she cried; for us it’s mind over matter undercooked lungs that could hardly breathe, let alone scream and did it anyway. Now she’s still sharp juice, but safely sunset-hued and I must remember to remember these moments, her sound in my arms the way her bed bends and pours us back together like shadows pooling in the dark.

Spent Friday evening unclogging the vacuum. Knew it needed probiotics or something when it belched invisible smog, left my lungs all sooty from that mechanical IBS: Irritable Bag Syndrome. After some prodding it threw up the residue of plastic wrap, torn notebook pages, black screws, a ball of yarn made from human hair. But it still wouldn’t, couldn’t inhale; we have that in common. Finally found the real blockage, a blackened ball of furled fabric, lingering fragment I’d bought last winter to reupholster our dining chairs. It wasn’t near the trachea like I’d thought but held up high, trapped by the filter− the stain told me it must have been living there for a while, quietly hoarding all of our days.

I put on coat, shoes, purse, before stuffing two pairs of crumb-coated toes into worn sneakers, seal safely with Velcro. On my hips the girls are more than half of me, warm like fresh loaves. I click begrudging buckles, heat the car and soon we’re off. The twins whoop with hands against grimy windows, trying to catch the wind. They call this “mommy’s mountain” they don’t know how right they are; been scaling and sliding down it my whole life. Shoots and ladders made of “Caution: Road Ices” pavement where gravel spits from tires, splits glass and bare shins. As a kid I’d clip a card to my bike spokes, cruise these concrete waves, new engine sputtering triumphant. Back then, even a crash felt good, like you’d lived a little, tasted tangy earth. I could spend days picking pebbles out of scabs and still ache for that speed, the way the well-worn roads always seemed uncharted. Now I lurch through traffic lights, school zones, always reaching back, waiting for velvet blackness to recall that flavour of summer sweet grass, pedals’ hot impression on naked feet. I drive with my knees, lean into wide turns with a subtle lift of my hips ― still here but never again that free. Once in a while I’d take my hands off the bars and let the air undress me, arms spread eagle I could fly.

Dessa Bayrock is a Fraser Valley ex-pat who lives in Ottawa with two cats and a variety of succulents, one of which is growing at a frankly alarming rate. She used to unfold paper for a living at Library and Archives Canada and is currently a PhD student in English, studying literary awards and the production of cultural value. She really likes books and has a tattoo of Mount Cheam on her arm. You can find her, or at least learn more about her, at dessabayrock.com, or on Twitter at @yodessa.

Jennifer Hickey lives in the heart of Chilliwack, BC, where she coordinates community events. She has worked for the Chilliwack Arts Council and the Abbotsford Arts Council, and studied Visual Arts and Graphic Design at UFV, in addition to Hospitality and Event Planning Management. You can find her sampling delicious Fraser Valley food and beverages, exploring local art galleries, and observing zany occurences throughout the Lower Mainland. Aymee Leake studied visual arts at UFV, and is a staunch arts advocate in Abbotsford. She has been an enthusiastic administrator and coordinator in a variety of organizations, including the Abbotsford Arts Council and a number of galleries. In 2016, Aymee was nominated for the Christine Caldwell Outstanding Arts Advocate award. She’s quirky, passionate, and patently hilarious. These days, you can find Aymee painting eyes and firing up the kiln at the Clay Cottage.

Jessie Somers is a pradcticing artist who graduated in 2010 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts from UFV.

Katie Stobbart is the founder of Raspberry and Red Press Society. She has a B.A., Honours English in Creative Writing from UFV. On an average day, you can find her writing, painting, or tending to her apartment jungle. On a special day, she’ll be embarking on wild adventures in Dungeons & Dragons or blogging about nerddom and mental health.

Sydney Hutt is an English major, writer, and mom of six year-old twin girls. She loves the Victorian era, horror movies, big cups of tea, and long nighttime runs in the rain. You can find more of her writing featured on such websites as A Practical Wedding, Thought Catalog, Motherly and in Motherly’s new book This Is Motherhood, as well as on her personal blog: MySoulAjar.com

Kier Junos is a multimedia journalist and national television producer based in the Lower Mainland. IG: @kier.tv Twitter: @kierjunos Christopher Towler is usually buried under pugs. He has an MA in Communications & New Media where he studied toxic masculinity in gaming from McMaster and a BA in sociology from UFV. Chris used to work in theatre across Metro Vancouver. And PS: will gladly kick your ass at Super Smash Bros.

Jess Wind teaches Communications at the University of the Fraser Valley and is an editor at Raspberry. She has an M.A. from Carleton University, a B.A. from UFV, and enough zombie research to survive the apocalypse. She’s a pop-culture nerd, a retro-loving geek, and a writer of many things. She also shares a birthday with Harry Potter.

Raspberry is a magazine devoted to Fraser Valley culture and community life. Established in June 2016, Raspberry publishes reviews, event coverage, and other local content online and in print. You can follow us on social media for updates on our progress, information and insights on the Fraser Valley arts and culture scene, and more.

Red Press Society is a non-profit organization dedicated to raising the profile and stimulating the growth of Fraser Valley arts, culture, and community life.

Jess Wind PRESIDENT

Dessa Bayrock SECRETARY

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