The Zine, Attempt 7

Zine

return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition also : something that evokes nostalgia 2: the state of being homesick

Zine Team

Creative Director & Production Manager - Lindsey Roberts

Editor-in-Chief - Jeff Mijo-Burch

Managing Editor - Sydney Marchand Business Manager - Stephan Saint Amour

Production Assistant & Illustrator - Niusha Naderi

Copy Editor - Aasha Khoyratty Distributor - Gurtaj Dhami

Illustrator - Brielle Quon

Illustrator - Adria Quon Illustrator - Gabriela Gonzales

The Cascade is the University of the Fraser Valley’s autonomous student newspaper and an alternative press for the Fraser Valley, located in the traditional and unceded land of the Stó:lō people. The Zine is a biannual semester-end edition of The Cascade’s regular biweekly newspaper, featuring pieces of creative writing, journalism, and visual art from UFV students, alumni, and community members.

For our seventh iteration of The Zine, we polled nearly 300 UFV students on which theme they connected with, and from a range of choices, they chose “nostalgia” as their favourite. With that theme front and centre, we put out the call to our community.

Nostalgia is a powerful thing. In the pages of this edition of The Zine, our writers, and artists explore memories and ideas that the word conjures up. Some are warm and cozy

memories of childhood. Others are bittersweet looks back at times that will never exist again, or never did in the first place. We reach into the abstract, and to the idea of being nostalgic for things that haven’t even happened yet.

The Zine exists to give the creative, artistic people living in the Fraser Valley an opportunity to see their work published, to express their voices, and to find an audience. With this edition, we hope to shine a light onto the shared experiences amongst individuals. While not every experience is universal, many of the sentiments expressed are.

We hope that the works within this publication will move, inspire, or entertain you, and encourage you to support the artists whose work you find within these pages, and the work of other creatives in your own community.

Cover illustration by Gabriela Gonzalez

Contributors

Andrew Majka is a fourthyear student at UFV studying Computer Information Systems. His favourite pastime is taking photos of trees and stuff. The further away from civilization he is, the happier he gets.

Autumn Wieler is in the BA program at UFV. She is majoring in English and loves writing poetry in her free time. She was in a few creative writing classes that made her really dig deep and understand the concepts of analyzing poetry and how to make the words come to life on the page for the reader.

Bradley Duncan is a thirdyear history major who got 13-Going-on-30’d a decade ago and has been stuck in this rapidly degenerating body ever since. He enjoys berating himself for staying up too late most nights — apparently — because he just keeps doing it.

Brianna Collins is an illustrator-designer based in the Lower Mainland of British Columbia. Brianna graduated from Emily Carr University of Art+Design in 2018 with a bachelor's degree in communication design. Currently, Brianna is a student at the University of the Fraser Valley. While her usual practice is in character design using a variety of different digital mediums, she is known for being a versatile artist who dabbles in many different mediums such as sculpture,

pen and ink, watercolour, acrylic painting, and bookbinding. She has been practicing professionally since 2016, but has been drawing since anyone can remember.

Carolina Talcan is an Abbotsford-based Chilean aspirational artist who has self-studied traditional and digital art for over four years. Currently a full-time international student in the bachelor of fine arts program at the University of the Fraser Valley. Seeking a creative opportunity to keep learning about the big diversity of the art field. Main interests and explorations focused in the nowadays art, classic art techniques, photography, digital design, and traditional and digital illustration.

Catherine Friesen is a writer and editor living on the side of a mountain. Their work has been published in a number of magazines and their debut chapbook was recently published through Bottlecap Press. When they’re not writing, they can be found baking cakes or getting lost in the woods.

Cobi Timmermans is a lensbased artist working with film photography and analog collage on the traditional, unceded territory of the Stó:lō People. She has received a visual arts diploma from the University of the Fraser Valley and is currently

completing a bachelor of fine arts there.

Emili Moriah Kaplin was born in Ashdod, Israel in 2002. She now lives with her family in Abbotsford, B.C., where she studies at the University of the Fraser Valley by day and writes by night. She works with contemporary fiction fueled by her own life experiences.

Emmaline Spencer is an aspiring English teacher that likes to share her story of life through creative writing. Her work is often influenced by both her own life and the lives of those dear to her. She hopes that people who read her work find a sense of understanding and connection.

Eva Davey is a student and a writer. Nostalgia hits her in waves, so she tends to avoid the ocean.

Gerry Eggert at the age of 80 enrolled at UFV for the Summer 2022 session and is currently carrying on with courses in the Fall 2022 session to be followed with enrollment for Winter 2023. Gerry last attended university in 1965-1966 at UBC while in the Royal Canadian Navy on an Officer Training Program. He aspires to complete a bachelor of integrated studies (BIS) degree at UFV with hopes of possibly graduating with his youngest granddaughter.

Gurtaj Dhami is a fourthyear student pursuing a

bachelor of science degree in biology. During her free time, she enjoys capturing photographs of the natural scenery.

Jeff Mijo-Burch has been involved with The Cascade for a long, long time. When the first edition of The Zine came out he thought he was almost done studying at UFV. Now, with this seventh edition, he is celebrating being almost done studying at UFV. As much as he likes it here, he hopes it actually sticks this time.

Joshua Lepon is Bisdak, — a native from the province of Cebu, Philippines — is a current Computer Information Systems international student with a deep passion for written art. He does his best to transpose his emotions into words. In this poem, he writes a letter to a place he misses but has never been to; a letter to that sudden yet unexplainable feeling of nostalgia for a something, a somewhere, or a sometime.

Laurel Logan is a UFV alumni and current student teacher of high school English. She enjoys watching and thinking about movies, reading and writing poetry, and laughing until she cries.

Lee (Liam) Cook is a ninthyear Psychology student at UFV completing their second bachelor of arts degree. They have spent their free time pursuing poetry and personal

writings based on lived experiences. They believe in sharing these experiences to help express and speak about their inner emotions.

Lindsey Roberts is a secondyear Graphic and Digital Design student at UFV. She is passionate about all things creative and will try any medium at least once. Her true loves are digital illustration, photography, pencil, and watercolor. If she’s not doing school work or creating something cool, you can find her on a beach or designing sick Paradise Island houses on Animal Crossing.

Piper Hornall is passionate about reading, writing, and creativity in general. Despite not really knowing what to do with her life, Piper is pretty cool. Her extensive collection of Crayola crayons could tell you that, though!

Rachel Kelly is a third-year UFV student pursuing a bachelor of arts degree, with a French major and Global Development Studies minor. Outside of their studies, they have always had a passion for creative writing through music and poetry. Their first listener is always their cat, Ellie, but they are glad to present their work to a wider audience through The Zine.

Sabrina Morgan has been working hard through high school and her first semester here at UFV learning and

mastering visual arts. She is currently in the media arts program and wants to use her creativity to inspire people around the world. She is thrilled about the opportunity to collaborate with such a wide variety of artists. The piece included in The Zine holds a special place in her heart and she is thankful she can share it with her peers.

Skylar Janzen is another directionless millennial who figures that writing what they know is cheaper than therapy. One of their high school writing teachers described their work as “subtle shades of sorrow and searching” in the class anthology and they’ve been trying to recapture that for the past decade.

Veronica Powell is a first-year student at UFV and is still getting used to the changes that university brings. She’s very creative as her passions are writing, photography and dancing. She is working

To the place I’ve never been

I remember your auburn hair

I caught a glimpse of the setting heavens Interlocked within your weaves translucent, In my mind forever etched is the sleepy sun’s scent

I remember when But I do not remember where I remember in my days nascent I saw you Within a dream Or in between slumber and a kiss

I remember then I fell for you unforgettably As Summer does for Winter

Relentlessly with every passing year

My heart yearns; A sudden fleeting yet lingering great wistfulness An indescribable gravitation A futile remembrance

And my heart aches; A pining I do not understand For what, I do not know To whom, I may never meet

But my feet are restless homeward to you To somewhere in this vast cosmos of unknown For something perhaps nonexistent Whose sole proof of existence is this inexplicable longing, That I feel only for you –Joshua Lepon

Zoe. Zoe.

I LOVE the relationship we have now

We used to share the same room and talk to our imaginary friends together

We DON’T need to have matching outfits to get along we used to wear matching clothes and have our own secret language

You were my best friend, we used to tell each other everything used to lay with you as you fell asleep, under pink blankets and warm sheets

We DON’T have to be into the same things to talk

The moment Mia was born everything changed YOU are my sister and nothing can change that

She followed you around like you were magnetic, she never followed me

YOU still love me just as much as you did back then

You showed her things that I didn't like YOU still remember all the things that we did back then.

You taught her to climb trees and to draw YOU still are happy and giddy as you were back then

She became more like you than she was of me

YOU still gossip with me and dance with me to songs. As we grew older you two were more alike With you our time together was different

We bonded over other things, boys, movies and friends

As much as I miss our childhood together

I still remember that time and how I looked into your glassy blue eyes and how your lips matched the colour of your nightgown, and how your arms hugged my torso.

– Autumn Wieler

Nostalgia used to be a positive feeling It was embedded with warmth and safety I could remember the sound of your sleeping And your fingers upon my skin tracing

Nostalgia came at our gaze of the popcorn ceiling We traced out all these silly shapes mainly But I remember the stories that we were reading And your body and mine in sync breathing

Nostalgia used to be a positive feeling It never made me cry or feel crazy I now wish to forget the footsteps of your leaving And the feeling of my neverending anger seething

Nostalgia came at my late midnights cleaning I found your T-shirt, fitted me so baggy I could still smell you, though it was weaning And the feel of the cotton, made my skin gleaming

Nostalgia used to be a positive feeling It now wakes me in the night tearfully I remember now all your screaming Lying, Crying, and your Manipulating

Nostalgia now comes when I’m dating His smile, his touch, becomes like poison ivy I’m trying to forget you by undressing He is so sweet but I don’t know why my love is drifting

Nostalgia used to be a positive feeling

It always left me reminiscing But nostalgia is a lie made for double guessing God I wish your love was neverlasting

– Rachel Kelly

History in our hands

Carolina Talcan color pencil over paper. 21 x 29.7 cm

Offspring Carolina Talcan Graphite pencil over paper. 9 x 14 cm

Views From Hotel Windows

i. Drops of water form contours on the outside of the pane; lights from the street, orange-hued glow, refracted and dissipating. Uneven skyline lit up by luminescent clouds, sunlight trickling through the cracks. Footsteps along the cobblestones below and the hum of a train in the distance.

ii. A vast oak bending sideways over a brief concrete lot and beyond, hard-packed dirt trail bordered by ferns guiding to the sea. A boat with a break in the hull; names carved into a downed birch; bioluminescence in the tide. Nothing but saltwater and the call of gulls and a great, hulking horizon.

iii. Snow when there shouldn’t be. Old train station where cabs stand abandoned, overtaken by Canada bluegrass and buttercups. Stone steps down to a thin beach of dead salmon and bird bones. An A-frame cabin hidden among the saplings and a boathouse

with no boats. A train going by on top of the mountain, obscured by trees. iv. The faces of buildings: red brick, narrow, smeared windows and neon signs. A curtain floating through a window, ghost-like in the breeze and the hum of an air conditioner. Concrete below and too many cars. Tin cans in plastic bags; shopping carts; someone shrieking at a car alarm before the sun comes up. No skyline. v.

Alien landscape of desert hues. Skyscrapers drenched in neon and glass, lights blinking, disembodied music from too many places coalesce and drop heavy to concrete below. Too many colours, not enough space. Far off, burnt cliffs cut with memories of somewhere else.

– Catherine Freisen

I didn’t get enough sleep last night and something about deprivation has me feeling hungover, my body purging sleep it didn’t even get while dogs howl at nothing and elsewhere, bodies sleep deeply, dream of blue mountains and of not having to wake up. Now, hours later, I’m here: paint-splattered and rosy-hued, spiraling while I slap floating lily on a primary green shelf, the one that’s lived in punk houses and seen too much shit and now holds my dried baby’s breath, my fireball, my laptop, stagnant below clay lemons and floating oranges and a tropical plant I always forget to water. Now, hours later, the shelf dries and the sun sets and the fireworks that shouldn’t be happening shatter against a stern, indigo skyline while I sit delirious from sleeplessness and paint fumes and count the minutes until I fall asleep.

– Catherine Freisen

Sunrise 5:30am, 08/5/2021

Peaceful morning sounds

The Pier Encore

Sun rising from the east, against the dark night before Shining stars are the least, along a pastel sky, to adore Having the sight, at last, I recall the inshore

Blue water under the pier, not far from shore Birds flying from the rear, chirping more and more One day in the year, calling me even more

Standing tall and still, with light breezes to explore Feeling the chill, one last time, before, Coming back to fulfil, the memories encore

– Gurtaj Dhami

Fresh waves and pigeons singing

White Rock Pier, B.C.

questions whether we should be nostalgic for pre-covid “normal” life, or if there are societal changes that canbe made for a different and better future.

–Cobi Timmermans

alcohol. She feels stuck and desires to leave her present and escape to the past, but through her romanticism, she forgets the hardships of the past that prevailed. This series, inspired by vintage films, was photographed in 2020 and

In this series, Yearning for Yesterday, the main character longs for what she believes to be better times in the past. She is nostalgic for an era and a version of herself that is gone and is thus isolated with her vices such as cigarettes and

Yesterday and Tomorrow

By: Bradley Duncan

I’ll call tomorrow. Don’t be stupid! No. That’s what you said yesterday — you promised yourself — and now yesterday is today. Ten digits. Ten digits hastily scrawled across a yearbook page beneath a generic “have a great summer” declaration. Just call. Just. Call. Just call! Ha! It’s been weeks and you’re still in the same holding-pattern. You’ll never know if you don’t call. What if that number doesn’t mean what you think? You don’t even know what you think it means! A clammy hand picks up the receiver just to place it back in the cradle. Who would even answer? What if her dad answers and I get grilled on the phone? What if her brother answers? What if she’s not home and I have to leave a message, and they ask why I’m calling? Jesus Christ, I can’t just call. We had one dance. One dance and an obligatory note in a yearbook with a phone number. She was probably just being nice. No, she was definitely just being nice. She’s both notoriously nice and notoriously out of your league. Not to mention, she doesn’t live remotely close to you, so you’ll never just run into her. This is it. Now or never. Just call. Wipe your goddamn hands. What if she asks why you’re calling? Are you asking her out on a date, you carless peasant? You have literally nothing to offer. No job. No money. You said a dozen words to her in five years of high school. Five of them were: Do You Want To Dance? She probably thinks you’re a monosyllabic troll. She was just being nice — but she also said yes. And you remember the way her waist felt, and the

way her hair cascaded over your shoulder when she leaned close. You were too nervous to enjoy it then, and now every few days you play that Bon Jovi song — the song it took you hours to download off of Napster because your sister kept picking up the phone. Well you’re hung up now, buddy. Just do it. Just call. Be bold, and brave, and just pick up the phone — and call. You’ve got nothing to lose but the anxiety. I’ll call. I promise. Tomorrow. I promise I’ll call tomorrow.

The Mother’s Sun

By Emmaline Spencer

Content warning: The following story contains depictions of suicide, reader discretion is advised.

The boy in the photo has infiltrated my dreams. The sun shines down on him, making the dirty blond hair of his glow in an angelic way. The warmth feels so real; Is this really a dream at all? A light breeze flows in the air, bringing the smell of salt mixed with the bitterness of iron. Seagulls can be heard squawking in the nearby distance. The waves roll gently onto the sand before splashing back unto themselves and settling back into the ocean blue. Shells that washed up onto the shore from the ocean create a cascading path along where the water meets the sand. He walks along the path with a bucket in hand. Occasionally he picks up a shell and admires its beauty and colour before placing the shell in his bucket.

The nostalgic scene makes me never want to wake up. This is a paradise that I barely remember. I don’t know where I am in this dream, but I get to follow the boy. I feel like a cameraman watching through the lens and capturing every moment. I am condemned to stay behind the lens and to never interfere or meet the boy. A glass wall keeps us separate.

The boy has finally filled his bucket with shells; all of different sizes and colours. The joy on his face is so bright — he could be a sun himself. Suddenly he breaks away from staring at his shells to search the surrounding area. He starts to look around; Will he see me, or am I invisible to him? Mom? Mom, where are you?” the boy calls out, as he looks around the beach. He seems excited to find her when she doesn’t respond. He walks along the beach, seeking his mother. As he walks, the scenery changes slightly and ever-soslowly, the closer he gets to the end of the beach. The wind picks up a little and the boy lets go of his bucket of treasures. He grabs tightly to his jacket to keep warm. The noise of squawking seagulls shifts into the screeching of vultures and the noise only grows louder the further he walks. Clouds roll in

without notice and cover the sun until no rays are let through and the area loses its idyllic atmosphere. The clouds grow darker as if a storm is brewing. I want to wake up. No more. No more. No more.

Tears fall from the boy’s eyes as he calls out for his mother again, this time louder. Mom! Please stop hiding!” There is no reply once again. The excitement of hide and seek has lost its flare as the boy is sniffling and still searching. The beach has come to an end as the sand blends with grass. He stands at the bottom of a grassy hill and holds tighter onto his jacket before taking a step forward away from the beach and closer to the sounds of vultures. The smell of iron is nauseating. It’s no longer just a scent; I can almost taste it in my mouth. A water droplet falls on the boy’s forehead as he walks cautiously up the hill. A few more droplets fall until it is fully raining and the tears on the boy's face are indistinguishable to the falling rain. Make it stop. Go back to the beach. Don’t dig any deeper, please.

Everything grows darker and blurry as he reaches the top of the hill. At the summit of the hill is a cliff side. Don’t look. He looks over the edge, being careful not to fall. The vultures are circling around something at the bottom of the precipice. At first all that can be seen are jagged rocks and water that violently rushes against the cliff side, splashing and sloshing between the rocks. As the vultures widen their circle, more can be seen. Not even all of the ocean waves could wash away the disasters below.

She would be completely unrecognizable if it weren’t for her green sundress decorated in blue daisies. The dress is soaked red now, but the pattern is unforgettable. The bleeding red blends into the surrounding water until it completely disappears. Her woven straw hat sits in the claws of a vulture. The boy’s seemingly endless spout of tears come to a striking halt. He stares blankly at the horrific mess of red. A vulture releases her untainted straw hat and it floats gently down.

“Mom?”

I wake up in a cold sweat. I feel like my breath is caught in my throat as my shallow breaths barely escape my dry mouth. My heartbeat is still racing away. I lay in my bed unmoving,

waiting for my heart to calm down and for the tremors to stop. I stare at the white ceiling, noticing every detail of it, every bump and ridge. I close my eyes for a minute and breathe slowly, as the doctor had recommended to me. It was just a dream. It was a dream and nothing more.

I open my eyes again and flip the bed covers off myself. I sit up on the edge of the bed and take one last deep breath before getting up and starting my morning routine. Going through the motions, I take a shower, brush my teeth, comb my hair, and get dressed for another day of studying and working. I make sure to change my bed sheets and throw the dirty set in the wash before I head down to the kitchen. I double check the contents of my backpack. After making sure everything is in its place, I grab a red apple to eat on my bus ride to campus.

I write in a journal for my doctor on the way to school: People will tell you that, “if you ever need anything, anything at all” to just call them. They will say that over time the pain fades away and that things will get better. They will say to you that they understand what you’re going through. They will be at your hand and foot for a month, and then they will move on because none of them ever really cared. They will act as if everything is okay and that the agony you feel has magically stopped. They will stop asking in a gentle and concerned voice, “how are you doing?” and will revert to a casual “what’s up?” and a fist bump as if they don’t remember what happened. One year will go by and no one will send you a card with heartfelt wishes anymore. Instead you will be alone. You’ll go to your class and smile for show. You won’t tell anyone that you cry every night and that the nightmares never stopped. You will cut off the sadness you feel, but only when others are around. You will distract yourself with whatever you can during the daylight hours. You will talk to people whether you like them or not, just so that you won’t be alone with your thoughts. You will do things you didn’t do before. You will stop doing things you did before. You will do whatever it takes to feel like you aren’t you because being yourself hurts more than anything in the world right now.

The doc asked me to write whatever I felt like and to not hold back. Doc also promised he would be the only one to read it. He hasn’t given me bad advice yet, so I write as he tells me to and follow his directions.

I attend my classes and give smiles and head nods to people in the hallways. I never say ‘hello’ because I don’t remember their names. I eat my lunch, not because of hunger, but because it’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m meant to be normal and have the same white picket fence appearance of everyone else. God forbid I have emotions outside of being happy and cheerful. I read books or play games on my phone between classes; even five minutes alone is too much. I go to work and do the best that I can. My boss might not believe that the work I do is my best, but it is the best I can do right now. I go to my house and say hello to a cold and empty apartment. I don’t eat dinner. No one is watching anymore, so why act? It’s already 10 p.m. by the time I finish my homework and make lunch for tomorrow. I will have to get up early again tomorrow to repeat the mundane activities of life. I sit in my bed holding the bottle of sleeping pills and question whether I could ever handle going to sleep without them again. I open the bottle and pop out a capsule. I stick the sleeping pill on my tongue and drink some water to get it down. I lay down in bed and wait for sleep to take me.

The sun shines down on the boy creating an angelic halo around his head. The warmth of the sun feels humid and overbearing. The cloudless sky looks far too bright and blue. The ocean is calm with only the softest of riffles and splashes made from the creatures within. Seashells on the sand lead on like a cookie crumb trail tailored just for the boy. The boy follows the trail of shells, picking up each one and placing them in his bucket. The air is unmoving in the humid heat. A bluebird’s sweet song can be heard despite being at the beach. The trail of shells leads up a grassy hill, to the cliff side. Please, not again. With an innocent smile on his face he happily reaches the top. His bucket is full of shells, he couldn’t be happier about how every shell fits in perfectly. His hair is damp from the heat and from all of the walking.

Bluebirds flitter about the edge of the cliff. The bluebirds keep singing and the sky remains blue as can be. The boy looks over the edge. There she is. Her body is mangled and the blood won’t stop turning the surrounding water into a crimson red. The green dress with blue daisies somehow remains unscathed and untainted, as if nothing could dirty it. Her woven straw hat is splattered with fresh blood as it falls from the sky and floats down gently to cover the massacre of her face.

The boy keeps smiling. He looks excitedly down at the mangled mess below. His face is the same as if she had her arms open wide and had just come to pick him up from daycare. Why are you smiling? She’s gone and not coming back. Stop it. “Mom!” he says with a smile right before dropping his bucket and walking off the ledge. The boy joins in the horrors below. His beautiful seashells scatter on the ground of the cliff, some of which roll off the edge as well.

I awake and my face is wet with tears. The tears soak my pillow and my hands are clenched onto my blanket. The dreams are driving me mad. They haunt my sleep and shadow me throughout my day. The dreams leave me with nothing and no one. Forever incomplete, there is no resolve to be found. By the end of the day I will have forgotten this dream and I’ll be met with a new one.

I reset my mind and close my eyes for a minute before going on with my daily tasks. Again and again, the cycle never ends. On my way out the door I turn the photo face down. I can’t look at it anymore.

I write another entry in my journal for the doctor: Today, I will throw myself into my work. Tomorrow, I will keep breathing and moving. I have to keep moving or the ghosts will choke me again. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I will eat enough to stay alive; anymore and I think I’d vomit. I won’t cry in front of anyone — that would scare them. I will lie to them and be the actor with the world as both my stage cast and audience. I’ll take the skeletons out of my closet and have a yard sale, if it keeps them from looking for the fresh bodies I keep hidden under the floorboards. I will be who they need me to be.

Study, socialize, smile, laugh, eat, study,

work, and go home. Another day has gone by. My memories of the incident stay with me during the day as a reminder of these chains I put myself in. These shackles hold me hostage and I yearn for freedom. Who was I before? I finish my work for the day. Here I am again, sitting on the side of my bed debating taking tonight's sleeping pill. Maybe I could handle sleep on my own this time. I put the pills on my wardrobe in case I need them.

I lay in my bed and look at the empty ceiling. This bed feels empty. I feel empty. Am I just a shell of a human? Was there anything I could have done to change the outcome? I can still remember it vividly. I touch my face and realize I am crying again. I choke back the sobs trying to escape from me and wipe away the tears. Maybe I should take the sleeping pill; at least it’s better than this living hell. I grab the photo and the bottle of sleeping pills from my wardrobe across the room. I put the photo on my bed for a moment while I open the bottle up and swallow a pill. I put the bottle on my night stand and hold onto the photo as I lay in bed.

The sun is shining on the boy and his mother. She sits on a blanket with a sun umbrella by her side. Seagulls fly by in the sky and the boy points to them. The mother smiles endearingly at the boy and stands up to chase the boy on the beach. They play together and make sand castles. The boy uses shells to decorate the castle. It’s a world in which only they exist. Together they stand on the beach, watching the ocean waves roll up onto the sand and their feet. They laugh and smile as the sun begins to set.

The scene changes and the boy disappears. I’m at the front door of my apartment. I knock on the door. The mom still in her green dress opens the door.

“My little sunspot, you’ve grown into such a big boy!” The mother smiles and greets me with a hug. “Why are you standing outside? This is your home too!” She pulls me inside.

The apartment is how I remember it used to be. Photos of myself and her everywhere, poorly drawn pictures I used to make as a child that she kept, and all of her ocean crafts all over the place. This is home.

Everything changes again. Suddenly the apartment is a mess and the mother is wearing a black dress. “Hey Mom, what’s with the new dress? Where did all your knick knacks go?” The words escape my mouth without meaning to. I look around more carefully and there are a couple empty wine bottles on the dining room table. “Don’t worry Mom, I’ll clean the place up for you. After all, you cleaned up after me my whole life,” I joke.

She gives a small smile and nods at me. “You always were my sunspot. I’ll be right back, okay? Just a few minutes for some fresh air.” She goes out on the patio while I start to tidy the place up. I pick up the laundry and put it into a bin. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and turn it on. I pick up the wine bottles and put them in the recycling bin. By the garbage can I notice an orange pill bottle that missed going into the can. What did she need antidepressants for?

“Mom? Mom, where are you?” I start to panic and look into every room in the apartment. “Mom! Please stop hiding!” I yell as I keep searching. I had searched every room before I heard the car alarm blaring. I walk onto the patio and look over the edge. The car windows are shattered from the impact. Her limbs are bent and broken. Her blood can’t be seen on her black dress, but the splatter on the car and sidewalk are undeniable. My heart is pounding uncontrollably. “Mom?”

I wake up sobbing. My breath is out of control and my chest is heaving. I never wanted to relive that day of a year ago. I still don’t know why she did it. I did everything I could to erase the memory of her except for the photo. The photo is still in my hands. I look at it once more. It was always my favourite picture. The day we had taken it had been the perfect day. I was only nine at the time and collected shells for the crafts she made and sold at farmers’ markets. We’d spent the day at the beach and took a photo together in front of the bright sunny sky. I still wonder if I had done something to cause her to jump. It was only a year ago.

I call the doctor to schedule a last minute appointment for lunch. I need to talk to someone. This life I live is unbearably painful without her. I moved in after she passed away because I couldn’t

let the place I grew up in go to someone else. I write another journal entry for the doctor before I see him this afternoon: The world is an unfair place that takes and takes and takes. It takes lives and takes the joy out of people. The world is unforgiving and bullies those who are already hurting. The world is full of sad and angry people that will bicker and fight for meaningless things if it means having a fleeting moment of happiness. This is the place we live in. A place where it’s easier to kill ourselves rather than hold

Town on a Winter Evening

This started as a poem about the town but soon turned to something else: streetlights luminous in the oily darkness; an owl calling for the night; neon lights of the gas station glowing rudely beside a drugstore open too late.

A half-moon standing half-mast in the sky, double heartbeat of stars pulsing over the mountains, the mountains hiding everything: evergreen gems on a

steep incline, slick caves, streams rumbling and slicing through rock along a winding road heading toward nothing. One cabin on the side of the mountain, its light blinking on and off. High up, snowline tumbles closer, purging colour and shadows, faint glow in the night. High up, clouds slip over the stars

like a shroud, fresh impermanence penetrated by nightfall.

– Catherine Friesen

Your Story in me

I met you at the start of a new year

A gleaming face, pure, and clear Looking to be connected, fulfilled, no sense of fear I never expected this You told me a secret That I keep in my heart Never a soul to hear For I knew the words you part A mask I remembered We walked the trails, Birds sang, while your voice rang The story you hid I felt it I talk to you, I see you, I understand you The secret, the mask, the story A reflection I remember hiding my secret Putting on the mask Locking away the story I see that in you Old pains I told that secret, I removed that mask I let that story go To have my face Past into Present In time You will have your face too I see that in you I know what you will endure To see what I see now Because the secret you told The mask you wear The story you hold Is something we both share

– Lee Cook

The Farm Wife

She glanced out the kitchen window as she baked

His favorite buns

Much older now, he still drove the tractor, true and straight The money was better, they had a farmhand He still was often out there. Prove he could She remembered back when she would walk out

Climb on behind him

Stand with arms around him as the old tractor lumbered along

True and straight

The field was smaller now

She remembered when she couldn’t see to the end of the rows

She had watched him through the years And watched the long rows grow Watched the beauty as the crop changed colours And when it was corn, she could hear it grow

It was different now

The food came differently

Came from glassed-in fields and countries afar

The children were gone Little interest in the land

Patiently waiting as the buildings and homes

Closed in around

And the crop became the land She wiped her hands on her apron Untied the strings

She would walk out to the tractor once again Climb in behind him Glassed-in and no longer lumbering She would still hold on to him

– Gerry Eggert

Divided

By Emili Moriah Kaplin

I immigrated to Canada on my ninth birthday. And on my ninth birthday, I became separated into the old me and the new me. The old me is the one that remembers my homeland like the back of my hand, remembers my friends’ faces clearly and their voices echoing in my head.

Then there’s the new me. The me that has not stepped foot on that land in over a decade. The me that doesn’t remember what the street I grew up on looks like anymore, so my mind plays tricks on me and swaps out the brick pathway for a concrete one, the palm trees for pine trees. I have been divided into two, but I can’t go back. I can’t simply go collect the old me I’ve been forced to abandon at the gate. Not without signing my life away.

I remember my fingertips grazing the rough limestone of the Western Wall as I left a note for God to read. How innocent the old me was. I remember the sunlight reflecting off the golden Dome of the Rock, being blinded by my country’s beauty.

I wish I knew to appreciate my homeland for just a couple seconds longer. I wish someone had told me I’d never see it again. I wish I knew the old me would be left behind, forever unreachable.

Piper Hornall

The many heart-wrenching, gut-punching phone calls in this world would be best suited to a classic flip-phone snap-shut ending.

Something about the tappable red circle just doesn’t do emotional turmoil justice.

What a time to be eight years old

By Veronica Powell

Everything was better when we were eight.

When there’s a storm, it’s raining with thunder and lightning. We get scared, but our parents are always there to cuddle up under a blanket with us to protect us. They always said, “don’t worry, it’s God moving furniture around.” You would pause for a moment, wondering if that was true. Then you’d shrug your shoulders, and suddenly you were a little less scared. When we would watch a movie, our moms would make us hot chocolate with peppermint and put it in our favourite mug. She would say, “careful, it’s hot. Don’t burn yourself.” You’d smile and feel the warmth of the drink brush your face. She’d say, “do we need popcorn?“ You felt a tingle inside your stomach at the thought of it. “Oh yes!” you would say.

When we were going to do some shopping, our parents would help us into the car and strap us in, making sure it was secure. “Ready?” they would say. “Yup,” was all we said.

As we drove on a fall day, we would watch the rain droplets land on the window and look deeply into the clear drop. We would watch as gravity forced the drop to trickle down the window until you couldn’t see it anymore.

When we were at the store, we would watch our parents intently as they picked out each item off of the shelf. You’d say, “can I get this, Mummy?” Your mom would say, “no, honey. Maybe next time.” Then you would ask Dad. “Daddy, can I get this?” He would smile. “No honey, listen to Mummy.” You would get upset for a moment and dreadfully put it back. You would

hang on to the cart to make sure you didn’t lose them.

When we would go for a bike ride around the park, we would pedal faster if we thought our parent was going too fast, we didn’t want to lose sight of them. “Come on, use those legs!” Our dad would say. You’d push and push, but your legs could only push so hard. When you got off the bike for a rest, you would say, “Dad, I’m hot.” He would say, “well, you can’t take your jacket off but you can unzip it. Unless you want to carry it.” You thought about it for a moment, then figured that you wouldn’t want to carry it while riding a bike.

On our first day of school, we would wait outside the classroom with our teacher for our parents to pick us up. When we saw them, we would get so excited and jump into their arms. “Mummy! Daddy! Guess what!” You couldn’t wait to tell them about your day. “What? What?” they responded. “I got a sticker for helping someone in class today!” They would give you high fives and tell you what a good job you did. They were so proud of you.

The small moments in our childhood only seem impactful when we grow older. We wish that we could go back. It’s our everyday life that, when we think about it, makes us happy. Makes us glad that we experienced it.

What a time to be eight years old.

you shaped

my hands stones rolling down to touch my toes. from this point i don’t uncurl: stay u-shaped and heavy.

my world upside down, yet momentarily for the better; just as sleeping during the day feels better than at night.

dazed, i forget how to spell: picture the word “hearts,” but pronounce it “hurts” in a moment of confusion.

blood rushes to my head: i turn red as an aril. a hand on my side: she unfurls me like the fronds of a fern in the open air;

when my face meets hers i’m lightheaded and double visioned.

when i kiss her once, i feel her lips twice.

dry mouth

my body sleeps, wakes, when the clock strikes my knees / head / chest / twelve.

– Laurel Logan

double feature

the pillow: sour, muggy and i don't mind; earlier it lay calmly on the needlepoint chair that sits in the corner of my room. now, in the flurry and dizziness of smelling her shampoo, sweat, our heads rest against it / each other in the backseat of my car. the memory of the island doesn't wipe from my mind, but rather, vanishes with the vapour through the open windows (though i know i'm not immune to it returning) for right now, i wish to be open like i was back then, with the intention of letting her sink into me like a stone through clear water.

– Laurel Logan

– Laurel Logan

To Ash

Acrylic painting

13’ x 18’

This painting was created around the traditional idea of burning letters, as the primary reference was a mirror photo where the phone was replaced by a letter. Nostalgia is often associated with fond

memories and trying to get rid of that feeling is what this painting represents.

Getting rid of the fond memories helps a person grow and as the memories are physically burning away they are now burning away from the subject's mind.

– Sabrina Morgan

– Eva Davey

I sat on those pale floral couch cushions more times than I could ever count, and the last time I did my feet could finally reach the ground.

I picked at the wallpaper behind the armchair where no one could see,

I slept in the twin bed with itchy pink sheets, and it didn’t matter because it was at your house. and pretended I cared because you did the same with my saturday cartoons.

I remember how it seemed as though everyone knew you, and I ever had to explain how special you were.

I laughed at the plastic cap you used to keep your hair out of the rain, and though that one day I would have to do that too since that is what grannies do. and remember how excited you were for me to come here since you loved it so much.

I close my eyes and can still feel the warmth of your bungalow, and the equally comforting way you held on to me.

I wish I could sit on that couch one more time or had kept the scraps of wallpaper or feel the static of the pink sheets again.

I think back to childhood, and your face comes into view.

I used to think I was homesick until I realized it was only home because you were there, And now I’m only nostalgic.

From, Your wain – Eva Davey

Apophenia

By Skylar Janzen

I have fallen into the habit of drowning. The water calls to me, although it is not the only thing. I tell you this so you do not worry about me. This is not me admitting defeat; I’m just looking for some answers. Because here’s the thing, nobody visits my hometown unintentionally. It was never a pit stop, always the destination. The winding bridge descending into town is the only clear point of entry. Nowhere to go from here but up, right? I suppose that is what I convinced myself every time I came back. Every visit held the possibility that this time, something would be different. I see myself everywhere. Ghostly versions from years past. As I drive past the beach,

I catch sight of myself again. Flick the blinker on. Follow suit. The parking lot is empty; the crisp fall air is not the most indicative of beach weather.

I try to envision the version of the lake my younger self stares toward aimlessly. Gingerly sit next to myself at the end of the dock. In time they break the silence as they hop off the deck, and silently slip into the lake. Turn. Offer me their hand. So I take it.

I walk into the water, and I don’t stop walking. The water nips at my ankles, entangles my legs, chills my chest, and eventually slips in past my lips. Salt. Not from the source itself, but from the bodies and memories it has cradled over the years. The tears it has tasted. The stories it has been told. Closing my eyes, I let it encase me. Eventually the cold of the water feels

like little more than a distant memory. Instead, I feel the warmth of the sun on my cheek. Something strikes me, and I feel my cheeks flush. Look over to the fragmented group of memories I once called friends. Next to me is Evan, propped up on her arms in the sand. Her freckles emboldened against her summer skin. God, I have thought of this face often. We are surrounded by laughter so joyous I can’t believe I ever dared to try to best it. A lightness I have not felt in years. I feel the electricity of her leg as it presses against mine as she adjusts. Nothing will make you feel so alive as the innocent presence, the simple reminder of another human against you that you have not yet been given the grace to touch freely, boldly. It is the purest sense of longing that can be felt. Do you remember your first love? The first time you found yourself caring about another person other than yourself? Without obligation. The first love that was up to you (as if any of us have any say in the matter). We love the familiar, don’t we? We remember the newness of infatuation fondly, but neglect the bad. We hold onto the idea that things would be different, better, easier, if only we could just do it again. We would love them better. I do not know how to describe to you the melancholy of having to experience the memory of falling in love for the first time again. As present as I try to be in the past, as much as I try to smile and laugh and joke at the right moments, try to take

in the beauty of friends I would grow to take for granted, it is all tinted with inevitability. At that age, Evan would have never believed me if I told her that I would be the last one to leave. That I would become trapped in the town’s pull over the years — visits with friends over university breaks and summer jobs eventually dwindling as they found their lives outside of this fiction we had fostered. After they made their own realities. Restless bones always settled somewhere. Whether voluntarily or not, I know that rest will find me. Or at least I hope it will. I kick my feet in the water. Realize I am alone. I meander through town. Unable to make myself enter any of the old haunts, I need somewhere to make myself feel grounded. I find myself overlooking the lake, on a rock where I once kissed a boy who did not deserve my mixed signals. The arena and main street are behind me, the train tracks and tourist homes below. A strange precipice. I can see the blurs of figures and emotions this place has witnessed, a blur of long exposure. Teenage debauchery leaving hockey games, families wielding warm drinks while waiting for fireworks, underpaid locals vying for the bench on their lunch breaks. I feel it all as a hazy memory. The details are forgotten but the general form still holds. Despite the goosebumps on my prior skin, the alcohol kept something alight within me. The arrogance. The hubris of it all. Recalling it all, I wish I had a drink now. Something a little too sweet, a

little too carbonated. Something that would make me wish in the morning that I had known when to stop. I want a drink that feels like summers at the lake, swapping secrets while we truly see the stars for the first time. I sigh. I keep walking. Run my fingers through the helicopter leaves as I breeze down the hill, wonder what would happen if I did run. Attempt to fly. My nails are cut to the quick. As I make my way back to the water, I fidget. I falter. I grip at ghostly flesh and realize how much it hurts to hold on. Even after all these years, I find myself wishing I could love her now. Find myself wondering how much better I could be at it. I have been broken down and reborn more times than I can count. What ego must I have to assume one person could fill another’s voids entirely? That as we break, and change, and grow, we could continue to intertwine like plant life blossoming through a skull. Water spilling into soft lungs. Bold of me to assume that it was not enough to simply exist. To just be. To share the time we have together, love it so, but have the grace to release it again. I toss a stone in the water; it does not even skip once. I watch as the ripples distort my reflection from the shore, dying unending deaths of their own. I have never had success with letting go. The girl I once loved no longer exists. I know that now. Even the version of myself held by others no longer exists. But this is not me admitting defeat. I walk into the water.

The Mario Bros.

By Jeff Mijo-Burch

Memory is fragile, fallible, and frankly unreliable. But within a memory are snippets and details that are so specific that they must be true, even if the context we recall them in might bear little resemblance to what really happened. Yet from those pieces, those details that make up the whole, we build a memory so clear we can relive it in full detail.

I remember when I was young, about eight (but I always seem to be about eight in my childhood memories). It was the evening, a dark day, perhaps winter. And my brother and I were playing Super Mario Bros. on our NES (the original Nintendo Entertainment System). We were always at least a decade behind the times on video game consoles, finding most of our games at garage sales and tucked away in the back of thrift stores.

Our TV (a 30ish inch CRT that weighed more than me and whined at a very specific frequency) was in the basement. And that presented a problem: the basement was scary. It was dark and unfinished, with uneven cement floors, a ceiling perfect for cobwebs, and very little natural light. We didn’t go into the basement alone. Especially not after dark.

There was a loveseat in front of the TV. An offwhite one with a floral pattern, which wasn’t nice enough to go upstairs but was perfect for watching movies. But if we sat there, we’d never be safe from whatever nameless, unspoken horrors the basement held (and also the very tangible horrors of an unexpected house spider). Thankfully, we had a solution.

After finding some brief courage, we dashed down to the TV, pulled up a chair, and set the NES on its seat, as far from the TV as its cord would reach. Then I hurried halfway up the stairs (which had no back, and conveniently faced the TV). My brother passed up the controller, reaching it in

between two of the top steps, almost the full extent of the cord’s reach, but just enough. Then he hurried up too.

We sat on the stairs, if our pose could be considered sitting: stomach down, knees on one step, elbows a few steps higher, holding the controller that passed in between steps. It’s a good thing we didn’t need glasses yet, because the TV was well over 20 feet away.

We ate dinner there, passing the controller back and forth (he was Mario, I was Luigi, like younger siblings always have to be). It was fish and chips (or rather, Highliner breaded fish sticks and frozen french fries), with a side of corn. Our unconventional table, with its avocado-coloured shag carpet, was at the perfect height to minimize the distance between plate and mouth, so we could eat our meal without disrupting the game in any major way.

We played the game for a long time (relative to how long we normally played games, back when screen time was something to be monitored by parents). And in my memory, those hours are vivid, and playing games like that, eating food on the stairs, and straining to see a TV that was too far away, was a large part of my childhood at that age. In reality, I

Cornerstore Memory

When I was a child in the early 2000s I would go with my father to various corner stores, and while he was working I would have

a milk crate set up in the comics section with Archie comics and a refillable slushie cup. My father now is in a care home living with Parkinson’s disease, but I always look

back to these times when he was working with fondness and nostalgia, spending time with him.

— Brianna Collins

Left Behind

35mm and 120 film 2022

Nostalgia is not always a logical feeling. It can make us spend hundreds of dollars

on an old TV and long for a time in the past when things were worse, but different.

I felt nostalgia while immersed in this old home despite never stepping foot inside before. I suppose that between the old furniture

and magazines printed well before I was even born, there was enough left behind to make me feel nostalgic for the life of someone else entirely.

– Andrew Majka

It’s Called Anticipatory Nostalgia

My therapist tells me to stay in the moment

Enjoy it while it lasts Don’t think so much about the after.

How do I explain that the after is what scares me? The looming end

of a joyous occasion It holds me back from fully relaxing, savoring.

It’s me smiling and laughing with my friends On a beach watching the sunset, toes in the sand The warmth of happiness bubbling around in my chest.

A snap of realization, WAIT, I don’t want this to end

Pop, Pop, Pop, the warm bubbles burst I’m left with a sharp, cold pang of longing.

Longing for this perfect moment in time But I’m still here, it hasn’t come to an end

yet

It doesn’t matter, there will always be an after.

And the after is what makes me sad, makes me scared A rollercoaster of bliss all the way to the top of the tracks Except the drop comes too early and I’m falling before everyone else.

This is what holds me back from staying in the moment My mind is scared to let go of these things that bring me joy Even if that means never fully experiencing them, I guess.

Nostalgia before it’s actually time to be nostalgic The after getting in the way of my right now I want to stay in the moment and enjoy it while it lasts.

I just don’t know how to, when everything good must come to an end.

– Lindsey Roberts

A Day

By: Bradley Duncan

The drop bin was filled to the brim with returns. I grabbed them in fistfuls, sorting them into neat, precariously tall stacks, and slowly transferred them to the counter. There were splendidly few VHS tapes in the bunch — the format had been mercykilled pretty quickly since the price of DVD players had come down. Nobody at work complained. We were happy not to have to rewind them, and they were bulky and comparatively heavy to lug around.

Something Disney droned on the TVs that encircled the fishbowl of a store while I checked and scanned the returns. Open, check, close, scan, stack, repeat. One eye was always on the screen. If you misscanned something and didn’t notice, you could go through a whole bunch without the system acknowledging it. You always watched the screen — that and Shrek if it was playing. It wasn’t playing now. It was a promotional music video for the new Lizzie McGuire movie.

Even for a Monday it was mercifully slow. I went to the cooler and grabbed a bottle of Coke, rang it through the register, and wrapped the receipt around the bottle, securing it with an elastic band. In addition to the security cameras everywhere, regional managers would pop in randomly. Nine a.m. may seem early for a soda, but I hadn’t been sleeping much. I layed the DVD cases in a line and jammed the locks into the slots along the opening edge. Then another row, and another. Nobody stole tapes. DVDs got stolen by the boatload.

I transferred the stacks to the return cart — a black, metallic, multi-tiered, doubledsided wagon on wheels that no selfrespecting employee ever moved. The cart

was, from time immemorial, just for sorting and organizing. You sectioned the returns, alphabetized them, and then carried as many as possible on your rounds. It was a rite of passage. Biggest stack wins. It was an unspoken rule.

I printed off the call-list after the returns were back in their homes and regretted not making someone newer do it. Twentyone pages of movie names and customer details for outstanding rentals. Fifteen to twenty names to a page. Sulking, I walked to the candy display and grabbed a bag of Clodhoppers — chocolate-covered cookie things that I was mildly addicted to. Scan, pay, receipt, staple, tear, munch.

The list was easy now. Most people had answering machines these days. Fewer actual conversations. “Hello, this is Brad from Rogers Video. I’m just calling to remind you that such-and-such was due back eons ago, and you’ll probably never return it until forced to come back once you’ve done the same shit at Blockbuster and rack up an ass-load of late fees. Have a great day.” I’m paraphrasing. A few pages in, I finally got a real person.

“I returned that one last week,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s on my list as outstanding. Let me look for you real quick.” A quick jaunt out to the comedy section located the title in question. “Hi. It was Police Academy 3 right? I found it. Sorry for bothering you.”

This is what happens when you don’t keep an eye on the screen, minions. I scanned it into the system using a computer function that won’t apply late charges… since it was

sitting on our shelf the whole time. It was also what the staff used when we forgot to bring back our crap. The deeper into the list I got, the more titles I found. I bought some Twizzlers.

Someone came in looking to buy a cell phone, but I was still by myself and a phone sale could take over an hour. You had to get tons of their info, fill out paper forms, call into customer service, wait for someone to help you, read all the info to them so they could enter it on their end and check their credit, set up the phone, and then actually sell it. Today, it was easier to say we just didn’t have it in stock, even though we definitely did.

Shipments of new titles arrive every Tuesday, which is hands-down my favorite day of the workweek. It’s sad, but it’s like Christmas. You get all these boxes, and sometimes you know what you’re going to get — what new releases are arriving that you can take home to watch before the public gets them — but sometimes there’s some real surprises too. Sometimes you open up a box that makes your day. Tuesday is also a puzzle. It’s the day you look at the “New Release” wall and totally reconfigure it to fit the new stock. Sometimes it’s easy, and sometimes it’s a nightmare, but it’s always rewarding when it’s done well, with all the boxes straightened and orderly in perfectly arranged rows. Most people don’t put the care into it that I do. Philistines, all of ‘em.

Today, however, is not Tuesday. It’s Monday. Monday is “the pull.” To make room for the new shit, you have to remove the excess. Hundreds of

titles come off the wall, are matched with their retail cases in the back room, and painstakingly shrink-wrapped and priced. That will take up the rest of the day, and the rest of the day for everyone else too. It’s a big, tedious, dull job with one upside.

Lizzie McGuire is back on the televisions as my shift came to a close. I donated my remaining Twizzlers to the cause and the night shift gratefully accepts. We’re all sugar-addicts here. I grabbed a few of the new release titles I’m interested in owning that look pristine and unscratched, stowing them away in a corner of the back room. Shhh. They always start off at $19.99, but come down in price over time, and sometimes end up on BOGO sales. I’ve got a dozen films squirreled away, waiting until the titles get relegated to the discount bin and I can add to my swelling collection. The job had its perks. I grabbed one more bag of Clodhoppers for the road.

i still remember

the day we first met you were so small you cried more than you laughed but youd hold me tight no matter what the glimmer in your eyes hid a mischievous glint that was as sharp as the scissors youd one day use to cut my fluffy fur

i watched you take your first steps each one more confident than the last along with your height marks on the doorframe you grew more clever and courageous i was lonely but youd always come back and hug me tight when the days were bad ive been in the dark for so long now my once fluffy fur has become matted and coated in layers of dust in this damp attic i now call my home some of my filling is loose and seeps out of the tear from my arm you swung me by youre so much older now and have little wrinkles starting to appear but the glimmer is still in your eyes when you pat off the dust from my fur your first gift to me in years is a fresh wash and a careful sewing job to patch me up

you hand me over to a little girl she looks just like you when we first met she hugs me just as tight as you and i know this is the start of my next adventure she will take me with her everywhere and we will watch her grow together

– Emmaline Spencer

What's nostalgic for you?

Thank you.

The Zine is published twice a year by The Cascade Journalism Society. Regular bi-weekly editions of The Cascade Newspaper can be found on stands and benches across UFV campuses and local businesses around the Fraser Valley. For more information visit ufvcascade.ca