ISSUE 1.2 Photography Art Poetry Music Short Fiction Reviews Essays
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2 Photography by The Paper Street Journal
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he Paper Street Journal is coming down from the proverbial ‘high’ of our Inaugural Issue in Winter 2015. Things have changed a little since then: the ice on Lake Ontario has melted, the school year is on its way out, writing continues at a frantic—but conceivably more spacious and sunny—pace, and the Twitter feed sees just a little bit less action on account of the warm weather. But reading never stops. This figurative ‘change’ also marks a more profound shift in the kind of content in this season’s issue of the journal. There’s something edgier about it, something darker and more insidious peeking around the corner. It’s hard to impose a theme on this issue, but we’ve characterized a ‘dampness’ in many of the pieces in the pages that follow; they contain a life force that doesn’t seem to putter out or dry up. Every one of them is ripe with a refreshing responsibility to be understood. We like that about them. Let me hold your attention for just a moment longer. I recently came across an editor’s note (from a publication that I really enjoy reading, but that will go unnamed in this case) on the rearguard after pundits attacked its overabundant depiction of heteronormative content—an honest concern that was rebutted by an editor’s very honest response. But in their honesty, they let slip a little-known fact about literary magazines that deserves mention here: while most journals ascribe to the equal-playing-field model for submissions, the truth is that the editors solicit most of what you read. For the artist, this means that the hours they’ve spent agonizing over which prepositional phrase they’ll use to introduce their short story gets little more than a glance over. It’s not always the case, but… scratch that, it’s mostly the case. Now, this isn’t meant to be a more-holier-than-thou statement on the state of literary journalism. Far from it. Good writing is really good writing. But there’s no standard on taste. Everything that you see before you in the Summer Issue of The Paper Street Journal is unsolicited and hand-selected by our editors after countless hours of lengthy (sometimes too lengthy) conversation about the merits and niggles of any one submission. It’s our philosophy that things coalesce into a seductive harmony, regardless of how it lands on your mantel. (Don’t ask where it came from.) In this regard, the curated collection before you is an extension what you’ve seen from us in the past, but also something new, fresh, and socially current that, we feel, should tickle every one of your senses. Enjoy. 3
Table of Contents 16
12 34
8 26
4
6. Jesse Valvasori Photography
8. Miguel Sa Photography
9. Rachel Dengate
Betting on the Zebra - Poetry
10. Rachel Dengate
The Mechanical Writer - Poetry
11. Jennifer Shamo
and Poetry by Nichole Fanara
14. Lani McDonagh The Pianist - Poetry
16. Caitlin Lam Photography
19. Lee Callaghan Music
20. Elizabeth DiEmanuele Her Death - Short Fiction
24. Heather Warren
We were worn with salt - Poetry
25. Heather Warren
Fluidity and Damage - Poetry
26. Sarah Goldrup
Field Work Series - Visual Art
27. Sarah Goldrup
Bare Teeth Series - Visual Art
30. Vannessa Barnier Photography
31. Anna Kozak
My Oasis - Poetry
32. Katie Luke Photography
35. Sarah O’Connor Arachne’s Lament
44. Jennifer Walker Photography
46. The Castor Troys Music
47. Artist Biographies 50. Final Remarks
Photography by Jenna Shamoon5
6
Jesse Valvasori
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Miguel Sa 8
Betting on the Zebra Rachel Dengate
This Sometimes feels like a horse race The odds not in your favour Though reality might be And it’s easy to be swayed By numbers Numbers of filled seats Numbers of ratios and gambles Numbers of bets and values on your ticket And so many go back to the ticket vendor Don’t know what they were thinking Maybe take it back Put it on the thoroughbred The quarter horse The paint and pinto Anything But not on the zebra Don’t bet on the zebra The cheers are for the others The jeers are from the others To look side to side Is a sucker punch And a kick to the groin The fingers around the ticket tremble No control on the outcome Just a hope Mirroring every other hope With a few thousand riding on it And a few thousand written on it Written on that ticket The bet That can’t be taken back if the odds play out That can’t be taken back if the horses play out That can’t ever be taken back After the race. So as the riders line up The ticket creases in a sweaty pinch As the reins are gathered up on the track By a striped jockey Who might just Win I’ll be betting on the zebra.
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The Mechanical Writer Rachel Dengate So. I want to start dreaming again. Dreaming bigger. Dreaming brighter. Can I still do that with words? Or with lines? Cross hatching ink and criss-hatching colour That let my characters out into worlds that have those unique little magical twists that make the reader go: “Oh!” “Oh, if only I’d thought of it first!” I want to give someone else A place to explore In between the pages And ink-nests of my books. Want to give someone’s imagination a spin and a spark. But my gears have ground to a halt. And my thoughts are rusty with all the months of disuse the raining commitments the musty air of wasted time So I’ll dip my fingers in oil Dip my pen in an inkwell (It’s time to start) (Again)
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Jennifer Shamo
Poetry by Nichole Fanara
Part 1 His eyes made haste, in luscious depth To edge away, the cliff’s edge close by A dark hole on the horizon, named Kate. What books she reads What slumber she seeks Out of madness, out of silence Into home. His heart hiccupped in his hands A blur between his memories; For fate became the frenzy Appearance became the plea Appellation left withered in beauty Another close call Remains novel. The see-saw rocks within His bloodstream boils Her fluidity danced away A picture rose His eyes blurred before a rainbow Clear as a teardrop, Without colour.
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Part 2 One small cut; a spill some would say A far-fetched blush of spring and emotion Whispered beside a heart made of gold Screamed out loud to a heat filled of stone Kindness kills. Imagine breathing sharp, Air consumed by the soaked-sun stream, Swallow within, flutter into the core, A landscape dancing, emulating, colour Dissipate within. Welcome‌ to the end of solitary existence.
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Part 3 Forget the whispers of knowledge imparted into the world For endings were never meant to be If the saddest man sang a song of regret Then the joyous laughter would collapse Into a supposed inevitable end. 13
The Pianist Lani McDonagh
She had pushed her wild curls in front of her face to hide her countenance. She needed to brush the tangled strands. Part the stage curtains. I lowered my gaze. I watched her fingers move so fast, they blurred in action. No one else was watching her. How could they resist? I wondered. She played her siren song and lured me in. Her body convulsed in passionate shudders as she hamme In the rage she produced the softest of sounds. In the middle of the station A symphony. People passed by as if she were invisible As if they were deaf to her melody.
The guard came over snarled and shut the lid of the piano. The wood nipped at her fingertips as they retracted from He turned the lock and shooed her away like a rodent. She had been playing since the morning but no one had listened. Stupid pest. Vermin Virtuoso. As she left the seat She shrunk in size and shed her confidence as if it were a jacket she had bee 14
.
ered the keys aggressively.
the ebony and ivory.
en wearing. 15
CAITLIN LAM
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caitlin lam
Lee Callaghan Soon Cause I’m always out there wishing I’m out there thinking Why Me Why Me Its just another day, that has gone by Another moonlight Another Sunrise Everyone seems so happy Everybodys growing old I don’t see where I’m going But the world is mine, I’m told It’s easy for you to say Your bills are paid I don’t see much for me Call me insane I’ve got my plans I’ll take my chance Ya it could be worse, But I feel that I’ve been cursed
I, accept, that thats the way that it will be but now and then, I feel That someday I won’t be caught in-between this, I know, my time is coming soon One day at a time, it just feels right Ain’t nobody gonna rush me, this is my life It’s not for you to judge, my question is whats the rush Go ahead and try to push me, then you’ll see how far you’ve come Well its not for me, this life you seek and everybody is running off with girls they meet Well I’m happy for you, I wish the best for you two I, accept, that thats the way that it will be but now, and then, I feel That someday I won’t be caught in-between this, I know, my time is coming soon
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Her Death
Elizabeth DiEmanuele Annie made her own coffee. Awake at 4:44 AM. Only 15 minutes earlier than the previous night. Progress. But was it progress? How could it be progress if she still wasn’t sleeping? She could hear Bill’s snoring upstairs. Scowling, she poured her coffee into her favourite mug. It was from the set her mother gave them when they first moved into the house. Taking the mug, Annie unlocked the door to sit on their back porch. The alarm beeped twice. Air blew into the house and she shivered even though she had one of Bill’s stained sweaters on. Breathing in the thick air she exhaled, watching the misty air leave her mouth. The dream. Bill said something about her dream being stupid. He said, “Be practical”— and what else did he say? He must have compared his dreams to her own—his dreams. They were always useful. Their beautiful house. Their car. Their jobs. He didn’t dream of the empty bedroom. Didn’t he say, “Empty bedrooms don’t make a home?” The coffee was bitter. The dream. It wasn’t empty. The girl ran through the quilted lands, throwing seeds. Flowers bloomed behind her. Just trails and trails of colour. Bill argued that such a land couldn’t exist and he was probably right, but what would it be like? To live for colour? Even the air breathed colour. Bill asked, “How can a land breathe colour?” She didn’t know how to answer, she just told him that it did, but he said, “That doesn’t make sense. What you’re dreaming doesn’t make sense.” 5:52 AM. Bill would be up soon. In exactly 8 minutes. He would be down for his coffee. Annie went to make another pot. She also walked to the front door, looking for the paper. The alarm beeped twice. The paper wasn’t there.
Annie heard the quick stomping down the stairs.
He called from the kitchen, “Annie! Did you grab the paper?” Annie walked to the kitchen, “No, it isn’t here yet.” Shaking his head Bill poured his coffee, “I don’t get why we pay for it anyways. It never comes on time.” He walked to the kitchen table, sat down, and looked at the clock, “Is that clock still broken? I thought I fixed it last week.”
Not answering, Annie looked at the clock. It was broken. The doves, their voices.
“Annie, what are you doing up so early? I thought you were going to try to sleep in.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Why? Did you have another bad dream?”
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“Sort of. I’m not really sure. It was the one with the girl and the doves again.” Bill
laughed, “When are you going to get over those doves?”—she didn’t laugh—“Oh, come here. Sit with me.” Annie walked over. Bill took her to his lap and rubbed her arms, “You need to stop dreaming like that. They’re only doves. If they fly away, they’re just doing what they’re supposed to be doing. They’re birds, not humans. Stop worrying about those things okay?” He started kneading her back.
The contact felt nice, good. She let him knead her shoulders.
“Okay, Annie? You shouldn’t worry yourself over nothing.”
“Maybe,” she said, not really listening. She tuned out his voice. Perhaps this is what the girl felt like, she thought. She thought about the girl’s climb up the tallest tree in the land. Doves from all over followed. They sang together. “...could be worse. You could be dreaming about losing everything. You’re dreaming about a fictional land, with made up characters and doves, which don’t even have real emotion. You have nothing to stress out over.” Bill stopped massaging her and reached for his coffee, “Please don’t lose sleep over this anymore. If you’re gonna sleep, lose it over people who can’t.”
“It’s not like you can really control your dreams though.”
Bill laughed, “It sounds like you just need to find something better to dream about…”
Annie could feel his body hardening. She stiffened. “It’s 6:30.”
“Shit, you’re right. Later. We’ll talk later.”
“Right! We will! Later!”
Bill left the room. She could hear him open the door, followed by the beeping of the alarm, his return inside and stomps on the stairs. The tension left her body. She was back with the doves and the girl. They sang. What were they singing? It was hard to tell without words. Whatever it was, it was soothing. Flowers continued to grow as they sang in the tree and more doves joined them. They were a tiny spec of light in a land of colour. Annie grabbed Bill’s leftover mug and brought it to the sink with her own. She washed them, listening as Bill fumbled around the house to get ready. She wasn’t working today. Maybe she would call Martha. She was always saying, “Annie, where have you been? I miss you.” She left a lot of voicemails, even on Bill’s cell phone. When was the last time she answered? Two—maybe three—weeks ago? “Annie! I’m leaving! See you later!” The door shut. Leaving. Doves. Why did they leave? Looking down, she could see she had scrubbed her hands too much. They were going to feel dry later today. Her mouth felt dry. Martha would be mad. Maybe she wouldn’t call Martha. But the phone would ring today. Could she ignore the phone again? Or, would she not call for a change? Annie looked at the phone. It was the only phone in the house. Bill and her used their cell phones. It was there for the alarm, for their empty house. Empty. Why did the doves leave the girl? Where did they go? Martha would know. But she couldn’t call Martha. Annie disconnected her phone. Her stomach growled. She left the kitchen and walked to the living room. Maybe she could read for a bit. Annie turned on
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the television. Bill had left the channel on the news. There was traffic on the 403 from a car accident. The car was totalled. There was also a shooting in Toronto at some mall. Three kids injured, one dead. “…they have not yet identified the shooter although they believe the shooter was a Caucasian man, approximately 6 ft tall, wearing black clothes, and carrying a semi-automatic revolver…” That’s it. The doves died. Well, not quite. They were fighting for something. There was darkness. It was the darkness that enveloped them… it was the texture of molasses, but black. It was moving towards the girl’s tree, staining the land black. Not quite staining, more like suffocating. Like it was almost eating away the colour until it was colourless. That was it. The black molasses—thing?—was taking away the girl’s colour. All of her flowers died. From the mountains to the plains, they just died. There was nothing. The water looked like oil pools. It was as though there was never water or colour at all, just black. Her cellphone rang. She could hear it from her bedroom. Martha. Annie walked upstairs, and turned off her phone. There. Her stomach growled. Annie grabbed her book. The woman is unhappy. She’s older, in her forty’s, and hates her husband. She seduces a younger man and gets away with it. That’s all Annie had read so far. She was halfway through. What would she do? Would she leave her husband? Would she keep both? Martha. Bill. It was almost 12. They’d probably be together soon. Wouldn’t they? Isn’t that what Annie saw last month? Isn’t that why Martha kept calling? They thought she was so naïve. Of course she knew they were meeting. Martha would probably give him a quick blow before leaving to meet Dave, her husband. Dave. It had been a couple of weeks now. He would probably call soon. But her phone was off. He would have to wait a bit longer. So would she. So would the girl in the tree. The doves were leaving and she would have to wait. For what though? For her colour to be taken too? For her voice to be choked and suffocated by the thick darkness? The woman in the novel is sneaking around with the younger man. She’s friends with his mother. The affair is messy. He’s very young, in his mid-twenties. The woman is sexy. They have sex on the friend’s lawn, after midnight, when everyone is in the house, sleeping. It’s loud, sweaty… the phone. How? Bill’s ringtone. He left his phone at the house. Annie followed the sound. It wasn’t Martha. It’s was Bill’s desk phone. He was trying to call her. She answered. “Annie, why aren’t you answering your phone? It’s lucky I left my phone at home or how else would I be able to reach you?”
“Sorry Bill, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to talk. How are you doing? You were off this morning.”
“I’m fine. Just reading.”
“Reading? Well okay. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be home late tonight. I’m going for dinner with some people from the office to talk about the strategic plan. Since I don’t have my phone you’ll have to call Greg to reach me.” He knew she wouldn’t try to reach him. “Okay, no problem.”
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“You sure everything’s alright?”
“Yeah, everything’s great. Bye Bill.” She hung up. His phone. Annie went through his text messages; nothing, not even a message from her. She still had his phone. Maybe she’d call Dave. It had been a couple of weeks. He’d see it as Bill’s number though, and they were
being discreet. He couldn’t be on Bill’s phone history. He’d know. But she wanted to call him. She went back to reading. The unhappy woman. The girl... The blackness took over. It choked her. It suffocated her. Then, it killed her. Or did it kill her? The doves tried to stop it. They flew into the blackness and for a brief moment their white shape was etched in the black void. But then the black took over. That’s what happened to the girl. She wasn’t exactly dead, but she wasn’t to be seen. She just existed, in the land without colour. The land had become an abyss. It was neither joyful nor joyless. It just was. That’s where her dream ended. Why did it end there? Bill said it didn’t make sense, but it must make sense. It was so detailed. The girl was so familiar. She recognized her, the way one recognizes their own child. But it wasn’t her child. They had empty bedrooms. It was something else. She wanted to shield this girl… Annie heard a knock on the door. She looked at the time, 5:00. It wasn’t Bill. It wouldn’t be Martha either, they were together, probably fucking in the back of the car she helped pay for. She walked down the stairs. She could still hear the television. She looked through the peephole. It was Dave. She opened the door, pulled him inside and kissed him deeply. He pushed her against the door and took her. “…we have now discovered that there are an additional four who were injured in the shooting, and another person dead. We have yet to find the man involved. We believe the shooter was a Caucasian man, approximately 6 ft tall, wearing black clothes, and carrying a semi-automatic revolver…”
“The blackness took over. It choked her. It suffocated her. Then, it killed her.”
Dave threw Bill’s stained sweater on the ground. It piled on top of her ripped underwear and his work clothes. He pounded into her. No condoms... empty bedrooms. He sucked on her neck and her breasts. He caressed her body. He couldn’t stop touching her. She could see him mark her body. She panted. Annie could hear Bill’s cell phone ring from the bedroom. She had an orgasm. Blackness took over.
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Heather Warren
We Were Worn with Salt down in the flat of our city closing doors against the wreck of our smooth winter shiver like we would go insane if we couldn’t dance I think I might be close to death when I watch the night waver green or pink my vision a crumpled paper cup hits the waste bucket I don’t know the name of you but you taste like melancholy If I could just know the name of you I would thank you for this satisfaction in dark this dry sweat of an evening the chilled burn that is my throat I would spin your sleep in season like some bold frostbitten lover peeled back bare stripped like birch bark
Take this night carve your name drink this down
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Fluidity and Damage Sometimes disaster strikes the back of her knees burning the cross onto her forehead as she falls sprawled facedown dirt spat tattered she points to the sky claims heaven leaves no room for the androgynous
She remembers herself as the boy shaping grief as machinery against his abdomen a bruise magnificent and perpetual
He is the secret she calculates between the days for padded bras and the days for a sock stuffed crotch 25
Sarah Goldrup Field Work Series
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Bare Teeth Series
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Vannessa Barnier 30
Imagine clear water Look how it Glistens in the sunlight You want to jump in But you fear its depths The unknown The turtles also fear The monster That wraps around them Its translucent fingers Suffocate them The six-pack you once enjoyed Contorts them Into your unattainable Hourglass figure
My Oasis Anna Kozak
I remember my childhood Crabs Jellyfish The squid that sprayed ink into my Mother’s eyes One day, I discover a small pool An oasis of my own I come closer and jump in Thousands of little fish Bob up and down The waves thrash at them But they are safe Enclosed in the rocks Like stars in the sky My mother runs over and Screams Now I realize They are Lifeless Little ghosts Swaying In the waves Like Plastic bags My oasis My illusion Shattered Why did the fish die?
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Katie Luke
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Katie Luke
Arachne’s Lament Sarah O’Connor
The spider was weaving, as always. Tiny black body scurrying Up The rough, warted branch of a dying tree, Down The dull, jagged rocks. Thin silver silk Invisible in the darkness But always there, following the spider, One with the spider. She was molding, She was designing, She was creating Her web, her home. Upside down, Crisscrossed Until it was perfect. Her webs were always perfect. Satisfied the spider sat in her web Waiting, Waiting, Waiting,
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For her prey. She sat in the corner of her web Still and silent Like death. Her delicate, furry legs Lightly balanced on her web. Waiting Waiting Waiting Twitch! The spider dashed, Eight long legs flying to the disturbance in her web. She saw the fly, Transparent wings fluttering in fear. Her mouth watered. She bit the fly, And felt the wings Slowly Slowly Slowly Stop Beating.
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She wrapped her prey in silver silk,
Later, later Thought the spider, Patience, patience you can wait. And the spider waited, Anger boiling in her heart. She hated this life. This creature feared by all, She missed her old life as a human, She yearned for her old life as a human. And the spider remembered after all these years, A memory seared into her brain. And as she crawled to eat her prey The spider thought of that horrid day When she was innocent and human. A weaver who was innocent and human. Innocent and human and proud. Arachne The spider thought happily of her human name. She was the best weaver in the land. People far and wide would marvel At her creations. But she was jealous, because I was better Thought the spider.
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Yes, Athena. The goddess knew of Arachne’s gift and was jealous A mortal, better than a god Impossible, wrong. So they had a weaving contest. Mortal and goddess, Arachne and Athena. Arachne won. And now Arachne was This. The spider drank the salty, copper blood of the fly Trying to quench the anger Burning in her heart. She remembered the pain God, she remembered the pain. She was on fire, She was stabbed, She was trampled by horses, She was being cut open. This was the pain Arachne felt As her human body shrunk. Her beautiful human body.
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Bones shrinking,
Eyes cut into quarters, Her legs and arms turning to small, delicate black legs Four more sprouting from inside her body, out of her skin. Jagged pincers where her mouth once was. Goddess, oh goddess please! The spider had pleaded. Please turn me back into a girl! I want to be a famous weaver! I want a husband! I want a child! I want to live! And Athena smiled cruelly, Pleasure in the goddesses eyes. Only pleasure in her icy eyes. You will be a famous weaver, Answered the goddess. You will have a husband, You will have children. Athena laughed, It cracked like lightning in the sky. And you will be feared by every human Who is born and dies on this earth. And you will live after your children
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And their children after. You will walk the earth As punishment. The spider blinked her eight eyes fast. She was in her web, In her tree, Not in front of the goddess Not in her human body. The spider thought of the goddesses promises All had come true. She was a famous weaver. She loved how the human admired Her webs, Her homes. She hated the cruel humans that would Swipe, Tear, And rip Her home apart. The spider had a husband, Actually a mate, If you could even call it that.
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The goddess gave Arachne a “husband� As she promised, But the male was not a human Tortured And turned Into a spider But a spider created by the goddess. He had no human thoughts, Only the thoughts of an animal. Eat, Sleep, Hunt, Mate. The spider had become Annoyed and Killed him Long ago. She had children, But once hatched, her beautiful, Delicate babies Fled Ignoring the spider,
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Ignoring their mother. The spider ran from them as well. And she lived. The spider lived though she yearned to die. She tried everything, Everything. She was burned, She was stabbed, She was stepped on, She was cut open But nothing worked. The spider was injured, Horrifically, Brutally Injured But she always lived. The spider looked sadly around her web, At the fďťżly carcass in front of her, The warted tree And jagged rock that kept her home Steady. The spider sighed and started weaving.
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Weaving, Weaving, Weaving. The only thing that she still loved. The only thing she enjoyed in this life. And more importantly the spider remembered. Remembered, Remembered, Remembered. For even though her memories were Horrid and Cruel She was human. She was human and innocent in her mind.
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Jennifer Walker
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The Castor Troys
LINK www.thecastortroys.ca www.instagram.com/thecastortroys www.facebook.com/thecastortroys www.twitter.com/thecastortroys www.youtube.com/thecastortroys
LP RELEASE LINK http://bit.ly/TroysCHHW 46
Artist Biographies Below are the biographies of the artists who have helped make this second issue possible through their submissions. For further reference to their work, each name is accompanied with the appropriate page number.
6. Jesse Valvasori Jesse Valvasori is a student at Sherwood Secondary School where he intends to pursue his interests in photography and music further. Jesse has been experimenting with photography for quite some time and sees it as an important facet of his artistic expression. Feel free to contact him on social media or email. Twitter: @jessevalvasori Email: jvalv14@gmail.com
8. Miguel Sa Miguel Sa is a poet, visual artist, and photographer that was originally from Toronto but spent his formative years in Hamilton. Currently enrolled at McMaster University and the Ontario College of Health and Technology, literature and the Arts will always play a crucial role in his life. Miguel’s poetry had previously been featured in the Inaugural Issue of The Paper Street Journal.
9. Rachel Dengate Rachel Dengate is a MA candidate at McMaster University, and an academic of many hats. Her interests vary from Old English literature, to psychology in literature, and to video game theory. When she is off campus, her activities are just as diverse: She can be found writing, painting, playing video games, or exploring whatever hiking trail she can find. The best days are always spent in the act of creating.
11. Jennifer Shamo Over the last four years, Jennifer Shamo has come to the realization that process and exploration are important to her art practice. This has pushed her to embrace the materiality of her work. She attempts to create an ethereal place that draws influence from the natural world through a spontaneous process. Only after completing her work does she analyze and make connections to plant biology, life cycles, and a fluidity of motion. Combining neutral tones and intense colours with organic shapes, Shamo’s art makes viewers feel as though they are within the reality of nature.
11. Nichole Fanara Nichole Fanara’s passion for telling stories ranges from imaginary tales of action and adventure, to the riveting real-life stories of Hamiltonians. She followed her passion for the written word into University where she obtained an English and History degree from McMaster. Nichole is currently finishing her first novel and continues to share interesting stories and conversations she hears in Hamilton on her blog. You can follow her on WordPress at nicholefanara@wordpress.comor on Twitter @nicholefanara
14. Lani McDonagh Lani McDonagh is an artist, writer and musician who was born in London, UK. She graduated from Brighton University with a degree in the History of Decorative Arts and Crafts in 2012 and has since had a record released on independent label NUDE. She is the lead singer of Electronic Pop band TROVES.
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16. Caitlin Lam Caitlin Lam is a London-based photographer and graphic designer. She is currently studying in the Media Theory and Production collaborative program at Western University and Fanshawe College. Caitlin has been passionate about photography since a young age and her work is often inspired by nature and natural lighting. In addition, she is also the magazine designer for The Paper Street Journal. Email: clam285@uwo.ca
19. Lee Callaghan Lee Callaghan is a local Hamilton musician living in Binbrook, ON. He refined his skills by playing in various bands throughout the years. Lee’s most recent endeavour has been the pursuit of his own musical ventures. In his repertoire, you will find various covers by groups such as Hozier, Passenger, and The Milk Carton Kids, as well as a growing collection of originals. Lee also records a lot of his own music, adhering to the DIY musical work ethic. However, when it comes to his original music, he records out of Westmoreland Recording Studios in Hamilton. Get in touch with Lee by following his Instagram and Facebook. Make sure to support this local artist at his upcoming shows. Instagram - lcallaghan1 Facebook - facebook.com/leecallaghanmusic YouTube - youtube.com/leecallaghan
20. Elizabeth DiEmanuele Elizabeth DiEmanuele is an editor, writer, and student currently finishing a Master’s Degree in English at McMaster University. While her academic and journalistic writing focuses on body politics and Canadian social justice issues, her creative work often delves into the unsayable and the surreal. When she isn’t writing, she’s drinking coffee, exploring downtown Hamilton, and catching up on her favourite legal dramas. If you would like to learn more about her work, she welcomes your enquiries via her Twittern or Linkedin pages, or by email. Twitter: @EDiEmanuele Linkedin: https://ca.linkedin.com/pub/elizabeth-diemanuele/71/96/b76 Email: elizabeth.diemanuele@gmail.com
24. Heather Warren Heather A. Warren is a poet and musician from Fairbanks, Alaska. Her poetry can be found in journals such as “Narrative Northeast”, “Skin 2 Skin” and “S/tick.” When she’s not writing poetry, she performs with the psyche-folk-hip-hop-blend band HARM. Heather holds a MFA in Poetry from the University of Alaska Fairbanks.
26. Sarah Goldrup Sarah Goldrup was born in Scarborough, Ontario. She grew up across the Greater Toronto Area, with her formative years spent in Caledon, Ontario. Her recent work utilizes the process of printmaking, the media themselves act as an organizing practice for the investigation of her memories. Goldrup obtained a Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree, graduating with honours from McMaster University in 2015. Her work has been shown in group exhibitions across Ontario, with a strong presence in Hamilton.
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30. Vannessa Barnier Vannessa Barnier is a photographer and writer based out of Hamilton. She shoots 35mm film exclusively, never manipulating her subjects or editing her photographs digitally. Vannessa develops some and scans all of her own negatives. She is always striving for complete authenticity in her works, which are mostly a cataloguing of the mundane. The two untitled pieces in this issue are described as being quiet photos taken in quiet moments.
31. Anna Kozak
Anna Kozak is a graduating Honours English student from McMaster University. She is entering Ryerson’s Literatures of Modernity Master’s Program next fall. Anna has published award-winning poetry in A Celebration of Young Poets anthology. Although she did not dance before she could walk, she wrote poetry before she could talk.
32. Katie Luke Katie Luke is a freelance author, photographer, and cat whisperer. She writes fantasy and science fiction novels for young adults, recognizing the need for diverse representation and feminist discourse within the genres. When she’s not saving galaxies and wielding dark magic, she’s into Italian food, fresh tattoos, and tiny footwear. Originally from the United Kingdom, she moved to Hamilton and spent a few years here before moving back to the United Kingdom, but is most at home when she’s travelling somewhere new, camera in hand. Her short story “Primrose” was also featured in the Inaugural Issue of The Paper Street Journal.
35. Sarah O’Connor Sarah O’Connor is a writer from Hamilton, Ontario. She studies English at McMaster University and writes for The Silhouette. Sarah hopes to be surrounded by stories all her life, and sees editing and writing as mainstays in her future career. You can follow her on Twitter @notsarahoconnor.
44. Jennifer Walker Jennifer Walker is a self-taught photographer originally from Hamilton, but who now resides in Northern Ontario. Her work seeks to capture the isolated cultural mentality of rural Northern Canada by relating the natural rugged landscape to the internal psychological architecture of the human mind. The juxtaposition of industry within wilderness and of order within feral nature are other themes that are exemplified in her work.
46. The Castor Troys The Castor Troys are a driving punk rock / hard rock 4-piece out of Hamilton/Burlington, Ontario. Accessible, melodic, catchy, yet uncompromising, The Castor Troys mix hard-hitting lyrics and a relentless sound that comes from careful crafting, true stories, and even truer fiction. Consisting of multi-instrumentalists and songwriters with decades of experience under their collective belt, The Castor Troys draw influence from acts like Influences of Social Distortion, the Headstones, Bad Religion and the Offspring, though the scope of their sound goes well beyond these confines.
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“One More Thing” The Paper Street Journal prefers to receive submissions on a rolling deadline—this means that the window for Issue 1.3 is officially open. If you would like to submit fine art, poetry, short fiction, non-fiction, essays, audio recordings, music, or anything that you think might jive with our editors, contact us by email or reach us on Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, and Issuu. We are eternally indebted to Caitlin Lam, Jenna Shamoon, and Jenna van Klaveren for their indomitable work behind the scenes. We’d also like to extend a warm “thank you” to our contributors, both artists and editors alike, for adding their weight behind our cause. To this last and final point, we wish to extend our well wishes to you for reading to the very end; you add some weight too. We are always looking for dedicated, spritely individuals to join our team. You can find out more about opportunities at The PSJ or enquire about anything related to the journal through our website: thepaperstreetjournal.com. Adieu. Until next time… 50
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SUBMISSIONS Fall Edition - Issue 1.3
51 Photography by Caitlin Lam
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