The Inaugural Issue (Winter 2015)

THE PAPER ST. JOURNAL ART - MUSIC - Photography - SHORT STORIES - FICTION - POETRY

THE INAUGURAL ISSUE

VOLUME ONE ISSUE ONE WINTER 2015

Editor’s Editor’s NoteNote S

omewhere off in the distance, tucked away in the smallest crevices of a city left in the shadows of pollution and the Toronto skyline, lies a group a students, writers, photographers, and artists hungry to display their talents to the world...

After recognizing the need for a distinctly Canadian approach to the arts, local artists and students William Dorey, James Puntillo, and Eric Tarquinio came together to co-found The Paper Street Journal, an inclusive arts publication that strives to highlight the beauty and magnificence of the Canadian arts scene. With a focus on the diversity of art and artistry, The Paper Street Journal strives to emphasize the importance of the arts by highlighting the best-of-the-best from Canadian writers, artists, essayists, and photographers alike.

The reception and support that we have received from the Hamilton community has been beyond staggering. We cannot even begin to explain how much your unwavering support has meant to this project. By reaching out to us, you have showed us just how important the arts community is to Hamilton and, conversely, how important Hamilton is to the arts community. So, from every member of The Paper Street Journal, thank you so much for your support.

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Disclaimer: The views of the contributors are not necessarily shared by that of the publishers.

Unsolicited manuscripts, submissions, artwork are accepted on the understanding that the publishers incur no liability for their storage or return. Unsolicited content submitted for use in the Paper Street Journal will be decided upon at the discretion of the publishers. The contents of this magazine are fully protected by copyright law and may not be reproduced without our permission.

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Table of Contents

4 Four Clicks: Or, a Portrait of the Mind 8 Life Painting 16 Ship Wreck & Trapped 17 Untitled Poetry 19 Scattered 20 Vanitas II, Adios, Amigo!

22 Mac Attack 24 Planetary Bonds 26 A Paradox Wreath 28 30 Untitled Photos 32 Primrose The Transformation 48 50 Letting Go Blues 53 One More Thing

It’s a Good Day for Maple Trees & Evergreens Kaylyn Roloson William Dorey

Jessica Lawson Jessica Lawson Eric Tarquinio Jesse Wright

Jenna Shamoon Maxine Gravina

Miguel Sa

Ryan Pratt

Shayne Lee Katie Luke

Anthony Butler

The Mackinaws

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It’s a Good Day for

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MAPLE TREES & EVERGREENS Kaylyn Roloson intends to generate an embodied experience with her art, where the viewer and herself are able to become emotionally involved in the experience. She hopes to achieve this by using vibrant colours, diverse textures, and layered materials that invite the viewer to investigate her pieces. She is interested in pushing the boundaries of how to piece an image together and what is constituted as a painting versus a sculpture.

Kaylyn grew up in Hagersville and received her undergraduate degree from McMaster University for Studio Art and Art History in 2013. Since graduating she has begun showing her work in Hamilton and surrounding areas.

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WILLIAM DOREY

is a novelist, essayist, and student currently pursuing his MA in English Literature at McMaster University, with special interests in Experimental Literature, discourses of mental illness, and creative writing.

Through his art, William tries to push the boundaries of both form and content, ultimately hoping to explore subjects that are generally considered taboo in Western culture. In his spare time, William enjoys sunsets, long walks on the beach, and criticizing the unnecessarily incoherent (yet brilliant) ramblings of Jacques Derrida.

For more information about William Dorey, visit: Email: jessedorey@gmail.com Twitter: @JesseDorey15 WordPress: consultingtheorist.wordpress.com

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FOUR CLICKS: OR, A PORTRAIT OF THE MIND “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”

– Dr. Samuel Johnson 9

Present Day

I was supposed to be like this. They made me into the man I’ve become. All of those teachers hiding behind their report card comments, they made me like this. Your son is a really gifted student, they’d tell us. But he has some attitude issues that need to be addressed.

Classic. How’s a gas-powered semi-automatic rifle for your so-called ‘attitude problems’, Mrs. Jackson? When you’re staring at someone through the crosshairs of a rifle’s scope, you begin to see the world a whole lot clearer.

I take two steps forward and plant one between Mrs. Jackson’s eyes. The inside of her head paints the blackboard. The face people make when they’re about to die is surprisingly calming—it’s as if they’re finally realizing what they’ve been putting me through this entire time.

Pause. Thank God my dad taught me how to shoot this thing. Imagine if he were here right now, watching his little sissy child gun down everyone that so much as breathed in his direction. I wonder if he’d change anything.

In the case of a lockdown, the person in charge of the school must first assess the situation to make sure that a full lockdown is the right decision. After weighing their options, the person in charge must alert the entire community that the school is being placed in a state of a lockdown. This warning can come in the form of a school-wide announcement, an alarm, or, in very unique cases, a song. After the school has been notified, teachers must ensure that their students hide under their desks while the teacher locks all of their doors and covers an y windows.

If a student or teacher is in the hallways at the time of announcement, they must enter the nearest unlocked classroom and hide until the lockout is lifted. Once this task is complete, the teacher takes cover under their desk, waiting there in complete and total silence until the lockdown is lifted. I’ve always found the idea of a lockdown hilarious.

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I mean, it’s 10:30 in the morning on a

Wednesday, but you want me to believe that no one’s in the school? Sorry, but I’m calling onehundred-percent bullshit on that one.

Play. I put my headphones on to block out the deafening sound of the lockdown alarm.

Pause. If I were to randomly run into the principal now, I wonder if he’d still give me detention for wearing my headphones inside.

Play. I can’t believe it’s taken the cops so long to get here. You’d think that a force that is trained to deal with these matters in a swift and effective manner would have a better reaction time than they’re currently showing. Colour me surprised.

Pause.

19 October 2013

Today’s been a bit of a better day. Yes, I’ve been stuck in my bedroom all day trying to avoid listening to my parents fight—they’re accusing each other of cheating again—but at least it’s given me some time to work on my art.

Between school and the chores and the beatings, I don’t get much time to draw anymore.

You see, my dad works a lot. Or so he says. My mom thinks he’s cheating though.

Pause. If you were to ask me, I’d say my mom’s the cheater. I’ve seen so many men come in and out of the house the past few months that I’ve lost count. She told me they’re repairman, but I’m not a two year old anymore and this isn’t some kind of porno movie. I wouldn’t dare tell my dad though. My beatings would double if I did. I mean, I already have a black eye. I can’t afford another one. Play.

Anyways, my dad’s been really stressed with his work lately and my mom’s been going crazy over these accusations, so I’ve been getting more beatings lately. Sometimes, if I look at my dad the wrong way or don’t do well on a test or something, I’ll receive a weeks worth of beatings in one go.

My arts pretty much the only thing that helps me get away from it for a while.

It’s not their fault though. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I really do love my parents; they’re just in a tough spot right now. Like I said, work is stressful and their fights are just making it worse. It’s not a huge problem. I just want to see them happy.

If this is what it takes, then so be it. Plus, my dad promised that he’d take me to the gun range for my birthday, so that’s a good thing. He wants me to learn how to shoot a rifle, just like his dad taught him. That’ll be a good day.

Present Day

Play. I turn off my music and put my headphones away. Room T-112. Woodshop. Or, as I like to call it, the class where all the football players go because they can’t pass anything else but need to be reassured that playing their stupid little children’s game is worthwhile. What a waste.

The lights in the room are off. I try the door a few times, but no luck. All it takes is a few bullets and the handle flies off the door.

The students in the back of the room scream bloody murder as I kick the door in. Pause. This particular teacher decided to push all of their desks to the back of the room and have the entire class hide behind them. That’s a much better idea than the normal lockdown procedure. Good for them. I think it’s about time he gets a raise. Play.

“Where is Brad Mills?” I call out.

No answer. Just screams.

“I will only say this one more time. Where the fuck is Brad Mills?” Still no answer. Only more screams.

I really don’t have time for this. I unload my magazine into the PA box in the far corner of the classroom. My magazine makes a loud bang as it crashes against the concrete floor.

More screaming. As smart as it may have seemed at the time, their clever little hiding spot has them trapped. I take back what I said about

the teacher deserving a raise. The parents will be comforted by the fact that they can sue the shit out of the school board though, seeing as this particular teacher didn’t follow the correct lockdown protocol. These students, cowering behind the mound of desks in front of me, they’re my blank canvas now. I load a new clip into my gun and fire into the desks. The glorious sound of bullets ripping through wood and flesh helps drown out their screams. The last thing I need is to be deafened by these children.

Pause. The ArmaLite AR-10 Carbine gaspowered, rotating bolt, semi-automatic rifle is a thing of beauty. This particular bolt action rifle fires upwards of 700 rounds per minute. That’s 700 of the most magnificent bullets you will ever see flying through the air at over 800 metres per second. If you were shot at point blank range, you quite literally would not know what had just hit you. The bullets would rip through your body almost instantaneously and, within seconds, you’d be just another notch in my belt. I hold firm that there’s nothing more beautiful than this gun. This is an art, really. The school is my blank canvas—my tabula rasa, if you will— and my rifle is my paintbrush. This is my great performance piece. I paint the walls with the blood of my subjects.

Play. I don’t stop firing until I’ve pumped every bullet into the crowd. I pull the trigger a few more times to make sure there are no more bullets kicking around. Four clicks. Empty.

And then there was silence. No more screams, no more gunfire. With a bitof finetuning, maybe this teacher’s makeshift lockdown fort idea could’ve worked. Instead, a steady stream of blood flows out from underneath it.

I would stand there and admire my work some more, but I don’t want the blood to stain my boots. I take one last look at my performance and leave the classroom, making sure to close the door behind. Wouldn’t want people thinking there are students in there, now would we!

With nothing but the lockdown warning

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alarm blasting out of the PA boxes in the hallway, the silence of this whole thing begins to weigh down on me. I’ve always hated awkward silences, and nothing makes for a more awkward silence than a bad combination of fear, a lockdown alarm, and boots stomping on a cold concrete floor. I decide to decorate my canvas with bullet holes as I walk into the hallway. This masks the sounds of my heavy footsteps. I don’t like the sound of my boots stomping on the floor anyways. It’s always seemed a bit too violent for me. The bullets run out. Empty magazine. Time to pick another class. Pause.

3 May 2012

“Hey, dipshit. Get back here! I’m not done with you,” shouts Brad Mills, resident tough guy.

I try to speed up to avoid dealing with him, but I should’ve known that would be useless. He’s a football player. Obviously the guy can run. What a waste of breath.

Next thing I know, I feel a hand on my shoulder and I’m thrown to the ground. My books fall out of my hands and crash to the ground, scattering all around the hall. I’m greeted first with a fist to the stomach followed by another one to the jaw, and I smash the side of my head off of the concrete floor. Before I can do anything, Brad climbs on top of me and starts feeding me punches to the face. After the fifth punch, I feel my nose shatter into pieces. A steady stream of blood flows from my nostrils to my chin. I start coughing blood. After the tenth, I feel my eye socket explode. All I can taste is blood. After the twelfth, I lose count.

“Brad, enough!” cries the girl standing beside him.

“You’re lucky she’s here. Next time I see you, I’ll kill you,” whispers Brad as he gets back to his feet. I watch as Brad wraps his arm around his girlfriend. The two of them continue to walk through the hallway doors and out the back of

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the school.

I try to collect my books, but I’m too disoriented to gain my balance. The people around me are too shocked to say anything. I stagger to my feet and look around. Everything’s blurry. Nothing seems right. I leave the books and stumble into the bathroom to clean myself up. I stand in front of the mirror and grab some paper towel. I wipe off the blood that is pouring out of my nose. I cough up blood into the sink.

Everything’s a blur. I press down on my nose to stop the bleeding, but I push down a little bit too hard. Everything’s dark.

The next thing I know, I’m in the back of an ambulance on the way to the hospital. The ambulance driver tells me that I hit my head on the sink on my way down and that I have a broken nose, a concussion, and may be bleeding internally. The paramedic asks what happened to me. I fell down the stairs, I reply. I lie. I don’t understand why Brad hates me. I guess I must have done something without realizing it. And now, left with my thoughts in the back of an ambulance, with my arms, legs, and head strapped to a hospital gurney, all I could think was great, my parents are going to kill me.

Present Day

Play. I can hear the police sirens blaring just outside the school. I guess the cops finally got their shit together. I probably have time to do one more class before they find me. With their reaction time, I could probably do ten more and they still wouldn’t catch up to me.

I silently walk through the halls trying to figure out which classroom to do next. How about Room 120, I think to myself. Why not?

I load a new clip into my rifle and break down the wooden door in front of me. An entirely empty classroom? Wow. I certainly did not expect that. Pause. You know, with all of the overcrowding issues we have in this terrible building, you think they’d at least use all of the

available space they have at all times. What a waste. Now they’re going to have to fix this door too. If I had known it was going to be empty I never would have broken it down. Such a waste.

Play. Second floor, I think. Time to go upstairs. I want these ones to be surprised by my presence, so I silently climb the stairs. Silence is golden, after all. That God-awful lockdown alarm, still ringing in the background, is actually kind of disorienting. It’s just way too highpitched for my liking. I can feel a headache coming on. Ever since my incident with Brad Mills I’ve been getting headaches on the daily.

Maybe I should see my doctor about it.

Trying to pick which room to do next is the hardest part of this process. I’ve already dealt with Math and Tech. Is English the next logical step? How about History? Maybe even Geography? I mean, I haven’t had Geography since I was a freshman, but I’m sure they still offer those classes, no?

I hear some movement coming from one of the classrooms across from me and I stop dead in my tracks. I’ve got you now, I think to myself. I crouch down to the floor, close my eyes, and listen. I can hear whispers coming from the classroom to my left. Bingo. Thank you for making my decision that much easier. Pause. You see, silence is so underrated. It’s in our moments of silence that we find exactly what we’re looking for. Now if only they’d shut off that hideous alarm.

Play. I turn the handle, and to my surprise the door flies open. I guess this teacher wasn’t following official policy either. What is with the teachers at this school? It’s as if these teachers weren’t even trained for this kind of thing. The high-pitched screams probably alert the rest of the floor that I’m here. Maybe even the cops too, if they’re here yet. After all, I haven’t heard their sirens in a while. As I look onto the sea of innocent lives crouched under their desks, I get this sinking feeling, this knot in my stomach, like something falling off inside of me. Maybe

what I’m doing isn’t right. Clearly I’m what the experts would call ‘mentally unstable’. Well, I personally like to call it enlightened, but to each their own, I suppose. I swallow hard. I guess you could call this my mid-performance crisis.

But then again, every performance needs its grand finale. I shake my brief moment of hesitation off, walk to the teacher’s desk, and grab him by the hair. He’s shaking. He’s praying.

He’s sweating. If I had any decency left, I might feel bad for this man. Unfortunately, I don’t. I’ve come too far. Luckily for him though, I don’t know who he is. I’ve never had this guy as a teacher before and I’ve never seen him around the school. He must be a supply teacher. And, judging by the unfamiliar faces in the room, I’m going to guess this is a grade nine class. I guess that whole wrong place, wrong time cliché fits perfectly here. I just love when life and cliché matches up perfectly. It’s so romantic. I do have to admit though, I hate scaring the little Niners like this. My initiation was pushing a penny on a moving bus. I think I’d take that over what they’re about to experience any day.

The people in this room never really did anything to me. That’s why, luckily for them, they get to be the grand finale. My final act.

Maybe they’ll be spared, maybe they won’t.

We’ll see.

“Listen up, everyone,” I shout. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you, and I’ll let you all walk out of here with your lives.”

Complete silence. This doesn’t surprise me. Enlightenment is a scary thing. It took me a while to become enlightened, after all. Maybe I should give them another shot.

“One. More. Chance. I don’t know any of you, so I have every reason to just walk out that door and never come back. But, that is not how this thing works. So, I need you to tell me why you all deserve to live, or I will kill each and every one of you, starting with your teacher.”

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Silence once again. They nervously look at one another. Finally, one young man stands up.

I can see the promise of hope and dreams and a future in his eyes. How pathetic. He’s just like the rest of them. Scum. The worst of the worst. A waste of space.

“Then, there was nothing.

Blackness.

Silence.

Peace at last.

Pause.”

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“What you’re doing is wrong. We have our whole lives ahead of us, who are you to take that away from us?” he says.

Well, he’s not entirely wrong. I am no God. And I do applaud his bravery. Pause. Who am I kidding? I’m the guy with the gun. I make the rules, not this little bastard. Dying is true salvation. Self-destruction is being forced to live.

Play. “You know, I admire your guts kid.

But, unfortunately for you and your little friends here, that wasn’t the answer I was looking for.”

I throw the substitute teacher to the ground and unload a round into the back of his head.

Their screams are deafening. I can’t hear a single thing. I drown out their screams with screams of my own. The humming of the bullets tearing through the air and flesh and walls block out the children’s screams until there are no more children left to scream. I don’t take my finger off of the trigger until the gun clicks four times. Out of bullets. Empty.

I step in a puddle of blood that was once that poor supply teacher. Goddamn it, I think to myself. This bastard ruined my boots. I beat his lifeless body with the butt of my gun.

I walk out the door and into the hallway, carrying a trail of bloody boot marks with me.

I can hear the sound of running feet coming up the stairwells. At any minute, I’m going to be surrounded. If only I had some more bullets. At least I could’ve gone out in a hail of gunfire. I always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. That would have been fitting.

“Freeze!”

“No shit,” I reply with my head down,

defeated.

“Sir, we’re going to need you to put the gun down right now…”

“I believe you’re mistaken, officer. I’m no sir,” I say. “Sir is what I used to call my father, and if you knew anything about me at all, you’d know how much I hate my father.”

I drop my gun and charge at them. Pause.

I don’t know what was going through my mind at this point. No bullets. No other weapons.

This was a losing battle. If I had the chance to rethink this, I probably wouldn’t have made that decision. But it’s too late for that. In this world, there’s no such thing as a second chance. There’s no do-overs. Especially when you run screaming at a group of cops.

Play. I block out the shouting and the running and the footsteps in favour of the soothing sound of bullets flying through the air and ripping through my body at over 800 metres per second. I’m knocked off my feet before my gun even hits the floor.

Then, there was nothing. Blackness.

Silence. Peace at last. Pause.

20 October 2013

The target is 300 yards away. I know that if I just take a deep breath and steady my hand, I can finally make my dad proud. I grip the rifle properly. I stare down the centre of the target through the crosshairs. I adjust for recoil ect. I take a deep breath. Fire. Miss. Again.

“You son of a bitch,” says my dad. “You just wasted another round of ammo. You are never going to get this. I can’t believe I even brought you here. You’re nothing but a failure.”

right side of my face is the tingling sensation left from my dad’s palm.

“When you get home, you’re going straight to your bedroom. No dinner. Nothing. I don’t even know if I ever want to see you again.

Just the look of you makes me sick. My little sissy child. I can’t even believe I still call you my son.

You’re nothing but a disgrace to me.”

My dad jumps in the car and drives away without me. Looks like I’m walking home. Happy birthday to me, I guess.

Present Day

Play. The sound of the school bell is deafening. I guess anything is disorienting when it wakes you up from a deep sleep in the middle of math class. Everyone else had already left. I guess we got dismissed early today. I must’ve slept through it.

“Good to see you’re still alive,” says Mrs. Jackson. “Just don’t let it happen again, okay?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Jackson, I didn’t get much sleep last night. It won’t happen again.”

“How’d you get that black eye? Is everything okay with you honey?” she asks.

“Yeah, yeah. I just fell down some stairs.

I’m a bit clumsy when I’m tired.”

I smile, grab my bag, and get up to leave.

The less she knows the better, for everyone involved. I glance back at Mrs. Jackson as I leave and shoot her a smile. She smiles back. The face people make when they’re genuinely concerned about you is surprisingly calming.

“Dad, please give me one more chance.”

Next thing I know, an open hand slashes across my jaw. The only feeling I have on the

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THROUGH THE LENS OF

My name is Jessica Lawson and I have a passion for photography. I became completely passionate about photography when I was in a black and white film class in grade 10. Being able to take the steps to develop the film and watch the images form onto the paper slowly made me fall in love with it even more.

To me, photography is something that enables you to capture and share moments that you cherish and love while giving you the ability to show others the beauty that you see at any given moment. Being behind a camera allows me to escape—it is a relaxing and rewarding experience that allows me to connect with others on a different level. While I do not have a distinct style yet, I am always exploring different techniques and looking for potential moments to capture, since you never stop learning when it comes to photography.

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JESSI

ICA LAWSON

DADDY LONG LEGS17

Jessica Lawson, “LIFE PAINTING”

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Jessica Lawson, “SHIP WRECKED”

Eric Tarquinio

is a graduate student at McMaster University in the MA History programme whose focus is 1960s America. Recently graduated from McMaster with a combined H. English/CSCT and History degree, he spends his spare time wondering what it would be like to be a cat.

Untitled

Loving you is easy, because you’re burning down the white house.

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JESSE

Wright I’ll smile and sleep when I’m dead, when I’ve said that long goodnight. Until then, I am cynicism etched in stone and released through concentrated critical theory and expressive personal art. The human condition is my archenemy and therefore my greatest friend, as it provides me with infinite raw materials for study and critique.

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S C A T T E RE D Scattered like the ashes of loved ones on the White House lawn are my thoughts.

Anxious like the wait for a test to come back negative is my soul.

Heavy like the ball and chain that immobilizes the prisoner is my heart.

Sick like the victims of a pick-and-choose government am I. I am not well.

Leaves change readily without remorse or regret; they have no mind.

Weather changes freely without fear or finitude; It has no memory.

Seasons change painlessly without panic or perturbation; they have no conscience.

Their motives could not be further from ours, but like us, they do change necessarily.

Maybe I am well and just don’t know.

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Jenna Shamoon is a Hamilton-based artist with a Bachelor’s Degree in Art History and English from McMaster University.

Her artworks address issues regarding trauma, loss of innocence, and the powers of imagination. Aside from her two-dimensional works, she has also experimented with performance, tackling issues regarding viewer interaction and participation with art.

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Vanitas II:

Adios, Amigo!

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MACATTA

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ACK

Maxine Gravina is a student at McMaster University. She is enrolled in the combined Multimedia/ Communications program and minoring in Art History. Born and raised in Hamilton Ontario, Maxine’s influences with her work include travel, music, athletics, Nintendo 64 and Matt Groening. She has experience with video and photography working under her media brand THEWETDOGMEDIA. She spends the rest of her time training with the McMaster Cross Country team.

For more information about Maxine’s work, check out: www.facebook.com/TheWet.Dog.Media www.youtube.com/user/THEWETDOGMEDIA instagram.com/maxinegravina maxgravina@live.ca

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Hello, my name is

Miguel Sa

,

and I am originally from Toronto but grew up in Hamilton. Poetry gave me a means to express feelings lucidly and without restraint. To me, it’s much easier to tell a piece of paper how you feel than a person.

I’m currently enrolled at McMaster and the Ontario College of Health and Technology. Literature and the Arts will always play a crucial role in my life, and if and when I retire I plan on writing books until I die (hopefully the book I’m working on will be done before I retire!)

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PLANETARY BONDS the moon curves its elliptical swerves around its companion the earth together in motion in this cosmic dance floating through the milky way silent journeyers until the sun explodes inhabitants on the surface see many shapes from the crescent to the whole moonlight lovers hold this seamlessly still embrace the times it may not be illumined by the sun’s rays it gives chase to live another day entombed by the earth's shadow eventually eclipsing the other no harm could ever be done to brothers it's the give and take of the universe that makes this relationship work complimentary beings freeing each other from night and day it is always safe to say have faith in the moon it will always come soon

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RYAN PRATT

lives in Hamilton, Canada. A contributing reviewer for Town Crier and Ottawa Poetry Newsletter, Ryan’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in CV2, Quiddity, Bywords Quarterly Journal, The Puritan, Ottawater and The Steel Chisel.

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A

Paradox Wreath Stubborn pricks in tinsel. The cheery and maddening evaporate, ink heaves the calendar off the fridge. I ball up belongings in drugstore tape, breakdown on the twenty-third. Keep a lease per spine, bookmarks unread, palms up instead of fists. There’s so much to cup, spill over.

December soars on: no acknowledgement. Labyrinthine, cardboard walls absorb talk of “home”. I like the ring of it already. King Street lies over rush hour, a drawbridge to Westdale. Tea blend, identification. Retrace midafternoon, the sediment of neon lobbies, latched consonants.

Foreign, the fog exhales, coughs. Between lake and ledge, crouched, this metropolis barely aware of its body. Alone, in a sidewalk square: ponder the richness of being left of middle, whatever that entails. It’s an asymmetry, being thankful. The escarpment rises out of a hill.

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Hello, my name is

Shayne Lee,

and I am currently studying photography at Sheridan College. I first became interested in photography at a young age and continue to work on perfecting my technique. I love every second that I get to spend with photography, and hope to inspire and influence others around me through my work.

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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 genre.

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 now lives in Hamilton, but is most at home when she’s travelling somewhere new, camera in hand.

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PRIMROSE PRIMROSE November, 1935

She was one hell of a fast runner. Can’t argue with that.

Ah, but we’ll get to that a little later. Patience, now.

The rocking horse was a pretty little thing, dappled with white and shod with real

brass. A mane of horsehair, the whitest of whites. On bright red rockers it swung to and fro, and creaked that floorboard that never lay flat. She liked to sit on it and absently rock, watching as the snow banked hard against the grimy attic window, as though it were climbing the side of the house and begging to be let in. Such a wild, wild thing it was, and whisked around in spirals the same starched white as the sky, howling a wind-song that mourned blue skies.

I suppose this was why summer always enthralled her so. To live hand-in-hand with

General Winter was to watch the sun turn a very cold shoulder, and feel the sting of that neglect.

Oftentimes she enjoyed the rocking horse alone, but occasionally her father would join her at the peak of their run-down home and write in his little book, whistling between his teeth. He did this whenever he was concentrating.

A late November evening was one of those occasional times. She perched on the

rocking horse, watching him and the snow, the snow and him. There was no noise but the creak of the rockers and the floorboard, singing softly as if to fill the stark silence between man and girl.

After a while, she stopped rocking. She liked the silence. There was not a lot of

silence anywhere else.

He raised his head. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

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He smiled a smile of valor, of youth. “Well, come on, now. Your mother and I must

pry you off that damn horse after you fall asleep on it. Why did you stop rocking?”

She wiped her pale hair off her face, watery blue eyes grabbing the light from the

window.

“What do you write, Papa? In that little book?”

“I’ve told you,” he said. “I write stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

He shut the book, took to his feet, and swept her six-year-old body from the

back of the horse and into his arms. He held her like one might juggle a football, such a spectacularly large man was he. “Stories about magical lands, and mystical people.”

“Like what?” she squealed, when he bounced her vigorously on his hip. “Like who?”

“Mister Rasputin,” he growled, as he bent forward and held her upside down. Her

face bloomed red and from her mouth fell an odd noise, a choky sort of laugh. “And Babushka. And the fairies who live in the woods and eat little girls who ask too many questions.”

She shrieked and he tossed her into the air, but caught her effortlessly in his arms. At

the summit of the commotion there came a bang on the floor, as the kitchen ceiling took a thrashing from Mama’s broom.

“Quiet! Quieten down!”

Papa shucked her on to his hip and carried her downstairs, with his little book

tucked into the back of his slacks. She looked at it over his shoulder, not quite convinced of the story she’d been fed.

Papa liked to jest her, but he had an energy that other papas didn’t. Her parents were

absurdly young, having conceived her in their late teenage years despite being beaten over the head with incessant anti-coitus finger-shaking of generation GI. At twenty-two, Papa was a dreamer, tall and narrow with thick hair the color of sand, and a squarish face. He passed this innate Belarusian beauty to his daughter, who would carry it forevermore.

From one set of arms to another the girl was passed, half asleep. Mama’s sticklike

frame was a far cry from Papa’s muscled one, but Mama had a soft scent, like flowered soap. Together, they made for the bathroom, and Mama whispered, “Are you sleepy?”

“Mhm.”

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“Don’t sleep yet, Yula,” Mama whispered, as she took off the child’s clothes and

dropped them on the bathroom floor. “Must wash those knots from your hair first.”

Mama lifted Yula into the steel bathtub, which was always rough on her behind. Yula

would laugh about this, as it was one of the most pungent memories of such early youth: the scratching of that big metal tub on her tiny little bottom.

Mama undressed too, and climbed into the tub. The water was hot, boiled in the

kettle and emptied into the tub. They would bathe together, for it would take Mama hours on end to fill that great big thing, with only one kettle that sat on the stove.

Mama sat behind Yula, working through the knots in the girl’s hair with her callused

fingers. Her fingers were rough, she’d say, like birch twigs. In fact, Mama was treelike in many ways. Yes, she was small, but she was rough, upright, slender. White-blonde, with severe features.

“What on earth have you been doing in that attic?” Mama sighed. “Dust. Dust

everywhere. There are cobwebs in your hair.”

Mama sat with her feet planted on either side of Yula, and she laid her little hands

on her mother’s ankles. They were still for a while, before Mama’s arms hugged tight around the girl. It was such a simple thing, a swaddling cloth of skin.

Back and forth they swayed, until Yula whispered, “Tell me the story.”

“You’ve heard the story many times.”

“I want to hear it again.”

And so in the very next breath, Mama said, “Once upon a time, there lived a little

girl. The little girl lived in a little house, with a little goat, and she was very happy. But then one day the king came to see her, and told her that she must kill the goat and build a bigger house, a house made of swords. She said no. She would never kill her goat and she would never change her house.”

Yula opened her eyes. “What did he do?”

“He turned her into a crow. He said that if she would not do as he pleased, she could

spend the rest of her days in misery as an ugly black bird, the kind that everyone is afraid of.”

“And then what?”

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“And then the girl took to the air, and flew up and up into the blue sky, where the

sun shone every day. Her feathers grew long and sleek, and her wings wide and full. And everyone in the little town where she lived would watch her fly by, and they would smile at her. They would say, ‘what a pretty, pretty bird.’”

Yula shut her eyes again, and Mama’s mouth rested on top of the girl’s blonde head.

After the story was told, no other words were exchanged. I expect that Mama had more than said her piece.

Horki was a misfit town, dumped in the middle of the Belarusian hinterlands. Filled

with a motley crew of hardy children who would bury themselves in snow for fun, it was a little rough and ready, but nonetheless home.

Yula would dance down those snow-packed streets, twirling under the drifting sky

with her arms spread wide. This was how those Horki youngsters whiled away the winter months: catching snowflakes in their small sweaty palms, and fighting over who could snatch the biggest.

None of the other children danced as they did so, but Yula was not the other

children. Yula had Tiotia Nadia on her side.

Speaking of Tiotia Nadia, toward her little cottage was where Yula was headed.

It was four o’clock, and she’d been shooed from the house with gusto, lest Tiotia Nadia approach Papa and give him a hiding for keeping Yula away. The house itself was crooked, caving under its own weight like an elderly donkey. From the chimney puffed black smoke, as Tiotia Nadia liked to burn evergreens and didn’t much care about complaints from her neighbors.

The door was open, and in Yula went. Now, the house was set out oddly—there was

very little furniture and no radio, and in the kitchen sat an overstuffed armchair piled high with balls of yarn and half-finished sweaters that Tiotia Nadia would start to knit but never finish.

“Yula?”

Yula wandered into what was meant to be the living room, but had been stripped

down to the hardwood floor and emptied of all furniture, save for the cracked floor-length mirrors lining the western wall, and the cold steel bar that Tiotia Nadia had bolted to

36

them.

“Come on,” Tiotia Nadia called, as she stood in her leotard on the mirrored wall.

“Hurry up. It’s after four.”

Yula peeled off her layers of outdoor clothing to reveal a similar get-up to Tiotia

Nadia’s—black leotard, black tights covered in seams where Mama had been forced to repair them rather than buy her a new pair, and dirty white slippers tied with string, not ribbons.

“First position,” Tiotia Nadia said, and Yula assumed it.

You see, Tiotia Nadia was a shady sort. She was the sort that everyone talked about,

but no one talked to. Beautiful like her brother, she lived rather a sparse life in her little cottage, but was never one to cry loneliness.

After all, she had Katja.

“I like Katja,” Yula said one afternoon to Mama as she kneaded together old slivers

of soap to make a new bar. It was a messy, fascinating business, Mama’s soap-making.

“Mama, why does Katja live with Tiotia Nadia?”

“Because they are very, very good friends,” Mama said. “The very best of friends.”

“Can my friends come live here?”

Mama laughed. “No, darling.”

“Why not?”

Mama was silent for a moment of two, smiling coyly. Yula watched her nimble

hands work away at the soap, gathering it all up and squeezing it down on the kitchen counter. “Because I don’t think your friends are quite as dear to you as Katja is to Tiotia Nadia.”

When the lesson was done, Tiotia Nadia swept the papers and teacups off her kitchen table and dumped them in the sink to make room for a jug of milk and a plate of sliced stollen. There wasn’t a fridge in that kitchen, but the front porch was more than cold enough to chill the milk.

“Tiotia Nadia?”

“Yes?”

“Can I grow a mustache?”

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Tiotia Nadia spat out her milk and burst into peals of laughter. “Whatever for?”

“Mama says that these days all people need to be in charge is a mustache and a fancy

suit. I have a fancy dress already.”

“Oh. So you want to be in charge?”

“Maybe,” Yula said, with a wicked little smile. “Maybe I do.”

Tiotia Nadia winked and broke the last piece of stollen in half. “Well, when you have

your mustache and you’re in charge, remember to buy me a fur stole. I’ve been needing one for quite some time.”

Yula took her half of the stollen and nodded. “Okay, then.” ***

It was an ungodly hour, in which Yula was awoken. The sky outside was still dark, as

dark as the backs of her eyelids had been mere moments before. In her little wooden cot she sat up and listened out, for from the kitchen dribbled several voices unknown to her.

Men’s voices.

She crept on fairy feet for the top of the staircase that led to the attic, this cobweb

space she called her bedroom, and knelt to listen. What were they saying? Papa was among them, and she could tell, but the wood of the house and the whistle of the snowstorm outside coloured the conversation grey.

So Yula took flight for downstairs, as quiet as a small girl of six could ever be.

Behind the kitchen door she shrank, and listened to the chatter from within the room.

“…need to act, now.”

“How? With what? This is bigger than us.”

“You’re damn right it is,” someone snapped, not Papa. The man sounded older. “This

has gone on long enough. We have done this before, dammit, and we will do it again.”

“We are Belarusian, you fool.”

“No. Not now, we are not. They cannot have it both ways. They cannot call us

Russian when we obey, and Belarusian when we don’t.”

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“They are so close.” That was Papa. “They are breathing down our necks.”

“Which is why we have to act.”

“Yula!”

Yula whipped around, hands a nasty shade of scarlet, for Mama had caught her in

the act. In her ghostly nightgown Mama hurried down the stair, grabbed the girl by the nape of the neck, and led her back upstairs.

“Mama!” Yula hissed. “You’re tugging on my hair!”

“Get back upstairs.”

Back in the attic, Mama snatched Yula by the shoulders and knelt before her. Their

eyes were almost level this way. “What did you hear?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“But you were listening.”

“Well, it didn’t make much sense, Mama.”

Mama frowned, her face a map of shadows and skin, ever so thin and pale by the night’s light. Yula expected further argument, but no more rutting of heads ensued. Mama only lifted Yula into bed, tucked those hand-sewn quilts around her small spindly frame, and left a kiss on her forehead.

“Go back to sleep.”

But Yula did not sleep. How could she, when someone, somewhere, was breathing

down her neck?

In the cold light of morning, it seemed that everyone but Yula was desperate to keep

the night’s chatter well and truly under the rug. Papa was the one who held the broom, with his breakfast-table smile, and his little book tucked into his slacks.

“What do you want to do today, Yula?”

Someone else answered for her, as a rapping of tiny knuckles jostled the front door.

Yula rose from the table and went to answer it, and on the porch stood Aksana, a girl who hailed from two doors down and was, for her large size, ever graceful and dainty on her feet.

She did not dance at Tiotia Nadia’s, though. Her mother would not have it.

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“Are you coming out to play?”

Yula ducked back inside the house, brief respite from the stiff outdoor air. The world

was white, so very white, and the roads blended with the countryside under a swaddling cloth of snow. It seemed that the world was theirs, up for grabs; it all was field and forest, fair game to play on.

“Mama!” Yula yelled. “Can I go and play?”

“With who?”

“Aksana.”

“Alright. Be back at sunset.”

Up Yula dressed, in her wools and long socks, bound tight over her thick brown

dress and its little scalloped collar. Despite her parents having holes in their pockets, Yula was always dressed so very prettily.

So play the girls did, and it was a true day of snow. Aksana had brought her

toboggan, this old wooden thing with splinters on its seat, and they careened down the slope at the edge of town baying screams that could have touched the heavens. Yula was sure that if it had not been for the barbed wire fence that broke their momentum, they would have sledded off the edge of the earth itself.

When the sun grew sleepy, and a spill of pinks stained the sky, the girls began their

long trek home. After a long stretch of silence, Aksana said to Yula, “Was my papa at your house last night?”

Yula shrugged. “Maybe. There were a few of them at my house last night.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” The whole thing remained shrouded in unpalatable mystery. “Maybe

they were having a party.”

“They were awfully late. Parties are supposed to happen in the afternoon.”

When they reached Yula’s front doorstep, their questions burned with no less

fervour. Just what had Papa and those men been doing?

“Aksana?”

“Yeah?”

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“Does your papa have a little book that he writes in?”

Aksana frowned, her dark eyebrows knitted together. She was a dowdy sort of girl,

far less Aryan than Yula and her young family. “No. But he likes to write letters.”

“What sort of letters?”

“I don’t know. I never asked.”

With that, Yula waved her goodbye and retired inside.

It was on that very night that it happened, the great and terrible thing. The

splintering of worlds, or at least of Yula’s world, as cosy as it was. Yes, big things truly do come in remarkably small packages, and Yula would know this when she was awoken at another ungodly hour. Not to a few men and their hushed voices, but loud ones.

Loud, loud. So loud.

She screamed and rolled from her bed when a titanic crash from downstairs shook

the very foundations of the house. Panic, oh, panic—she scrambled to her feet and mad a run for the stairs, for surely the apocalypse was upon them. Papa was roaring in the kitchen, and surely those deafening bangs, the smashing glass and splintering of wood, were omens of Judgement Day itself.

“Yula!”

Up the stairs Mama tore, and lifted the starched-white Yula off the floor by the

armpits. So many footsteps were drumming downstairs, beat, beat, beat, and the number of voices was growing, as though whoever had broken into their home and was smashing things downstairs was multiplying by magic.

Mama was sweaty, panting, and so was Yula as she was dragged to the attic window.

Mama grabbed a lamp from the corner of the room and with one swift swing, smashed the window wide open. The elements roared in and snatched Yula’s pale hair up in a flurry, as though it were intent on making off with it.

“Mama!” Yula cried, now blind with burning tears and pure panic. “Mama! Mama!”

“Go. Go out. Go.”

“Mama, I can’t—I can’t!”

Mama grabbed the girl by the waist, and as footsteps smashed up the attic steps, she

flung her out on to the roof. Yula shrieked and rolled on to her stomach, though she had already begun to be carried away by the slope and snow.

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Mama hung out of the window and cried, “Go to Nadia’s! Nadia’s!”

When a hand grabbed Mama’s hair—a gloved hand, broad and long-fingered—Yula

gave a scream of epic proportions. Her heart might have burst from her mouth for all of its pounding, and this terror, such terror. Such terror for her wide eyes, and her pale little body, as she thumped from the roof to the bank of snow at the back of the house.

Nadia’s. Nadia’s. Not Nadia’s, no! Back to the front of the house Yula rushed, but

stopped dead in her tracks before she could reach the doorstep. She would never have made it across that threshold, for it was blocked. Blocked by something huge, that Yula could not have pushed out of the way.

It was blocked by Papa. And he was still, and he was on his back, and he was not

speaking or laughing or writing in his book.

He was bleeding from a hole in his forehead.

The world shifted under her small feet. As though the planet had been kicked out of

orbit, the image of the house and the snow spun, too fast for her to focus on. Everything had long ago splintered with her tears, and all she had left were those small feet of hers.

So she ran.

Nadia’s, Nadia’s. The road to Tiotia Nadia’s had never felt so long, and when she

stumbled upon her peeling front door, it burst open of its own volition.

“Come. Come.” Tiotia Nadia grabbed Yula by the collar and tugged her into the

house, and began swaddling the girl in coats and socks and shoes. She was sobbing with a whole heart, her body tight and trembling, and while Tiotia Nadia’s face was dry, it was marked with pain. Dark, shadowed, heavy with brow.

“Papa,” Yula was crying, over and over. “Papa. Mama. My papa. My mama.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“They—my papa, he—Tiotia Nadia!”

“I know, my darling,” Tiotia Nadia murmured, so soothingly. “I know. I know.”

Yula’s feet gave way, so Tiotia Nadia heaved the child into her arms and carried

her to the kitchen, where Katja stood with two hefty bags in her hands. She was rather a beautiful woman, that Katja—Latvian in origin, with a small face and dark hair wound into a bun at the nape of her slender neck. She, like Tiotia Nadia, was kitted out in hefty

42

woollen coat and leather boots, all set for travelling.

“You have everything?”

Katja nodded. “Everything we can carry.”

“Alright. Go.”

“Tiotia Nadia?”

“Shush,” Nadia whispered, and kept Yula’s head cradled to her shoulder. “Quiet,

now.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re taking a trip,” Katja said, as they hurried down the back yard path, beneath a

still-dark sky muffled with clouds. It was spoiling for another snowstorm, and it occurred to Yula that her mother had once said, “You must never go outside in a snowstorm. Your fingers and toes won’t stand for it. They’ll drop off and scurry away, and find somewhere warm to hide.”

It was eerie, the sleeping face of Horki. They took not the main street but the side

ones, and kept out of the glare of the streetlamps. Before long it became too much for Tiotia Nadia to carry little Yula, and the girl was lowered to her feet and asked, “Can you walk?”

Yula nodded and held Tiotia Nadia’s hand, and then the walking truly began. There

was a bus that left the town even in the very small hours of the morning, but Katja and Tiotia Nadia steered well clear of it. They took the trail that led through the western forest, and in her too-big boots borrowed from Katja and stuffed with socks, Yula felt leaden.

When would this end, all this walking?

“Where are we going?” she asked again, staring at the back of Katja’s head. They

walked almost in single file, and still the fingers of trees nipped at their coats. Yula’s hair was knotted with snowflakes, and this far from town, the nauseous moon watched their exodus with wide, watery eyes.

“We’re going to another country.”

“Katja,” Tiotia Nadia whispered, but Katja did not heed the warning in her tone.

“We’re going to Poland,” she said.

Yula blanched. “Why?”

43

“Oh, my goodness, Yula,” Tiotia Nadia hissed. “Enough questions. That’s enough for

now.”

“But—” “Enough.”

And so the walking continued in silence. Across fields and valleys they went, a

constant trudge through knee-deep snow. Yula was sweating and her feet throbbed terribly, though she daren’t ask to stop for fear of inciting further wrath from Tiotia Nadia.

At sunrise, they reached a town that they did not avoid, and as their feet touched

cobbles and not hard-packed snow, Tiotia Nadia seized Yula’s hand against her ribs.

“Don’t leave my sight,” she whispered. “Not for a moment.”

The streets were not empty, but a far cry from bustling; early morning paper rounds,

frosted windows, the clean, white smell of a new day. The peace was impossible, after what had happened the previous night. But it was there, and it left a layer of ice on Yula’s faintly damp hair.

“We’re going to the train station,” Katja explained to Yula, in hushed tones. “Okay?

You like the train. We’re taking the train.”

When they arrived there, Yula waffled, suddenly uncertain of her feelings for the

train. Katja and Tiotia Nadia were not headed for the ticket window, though. They instead entered the platform at the wrong side, the side farthest from the train, and dropped down to the tracks. This wasn’t how one boarded a train, and Yula knew it.

“We’re not supposed to do this.”

“Lift her up,” Tiotia Nadia said to Katja, as they flattened themselves against the

metal wall of the train. Balancing on the tracks by tiptoe, Katja pried open a compartment at the belly of the thing with a crowbar from her bag. Inside the compartment, luggage was stacked.

Katja did lift Yula up, and pushed her deep inside the luggage compartment.

“Cuddle in.

Get behind that bag. See that one? Yes. Good girl.”

Tiotia Nadia lifted Katja in next, but something was the matter. Something was all

over their faces, and Yula could see it even through the musky dark. What was that look?

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“Katja,” Tiotia Nadia whispered. “Katja. Katja, I can’t.”

“Nadia.”

“They’ve…” She spoke so softly, and did not look them in the eye, from where she

stood just outside the compartment. Their bags remained at her feet. “At ten o’clock.”

Katja snatched Yula by the back of the coat, but the girl was fast, and darted forward

to look out of the compartment. What was Tiotia Nadia seeing? Why was she waiting?

Men, guns. They stood at the fence the women had climbed to reach the train

platform, and they were looking at Tiotia Nadia.

Katja tore Yula back and shoved her behind a suitcase, and as she clamoured for the

exit, arms outstretched to Tiotia Nadia, there came a whisper of, “Stop.”

“Nadia,” Katja whined, and Yula could see the pulse in her neck. “Nadia. Don’t.

Please. Don’t do this.”

“I’ve been seen. Just go. You have to go.”

There were manly shouts from behind, and the crunching of boots on gravel. Clicks,

whistles, and Tiotia Nadia suddenly exploding into a harried chatter that Yula could make no sense of. What was she saying?

The door of the compartment was slammed shut, and the oblivious train screeched

on its tracks. Katja was on the floor and she was sobbing, in that terrifying way that grown-ups do; Yula did not know how to manage pain in adults, so slumped against the wall of the luggage compartment with a numbness in her fingers and toes, and a blur of new tears in her tired eyes.

And then there were two. ***

The train ride was so long, and quite painful. Yula’s buttocks ached by the third hour

of rattling tracks, and though Katja had calmed to an odd and tear-stained plateau, there was still a certain hysteria in the air. Yula’s sweat had begun to freeze, and while Katja cradled her in rough woollen arms, the shivering was relentless.

When the train finally screamed to a stop, Katja wasted no time. She kicked open

the compartment door, threw the girl out, and together they tore for the countryside.

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White, swirling white—the sky was sickly, choking on clouds and smoke belching from the train. That knee-deep snow was back, and Yula spotted a rusted old sign at the fringe of the train station that read, ‘Brest.’

“Katja!” she cried, fighting to keep up with her furious gait. If their hands had not

been welded together, Yula surely would have been swallowed by the newborn snowstorm.

It covered their tracks as they headed for the horizon, and the fence that cut it off. A fence?

It was a high fence, but Katja was intent on it. It began as nothing, but grew to

dizzying heights; thrice Yula’s height with wide coils of barbed wire running along the zenith. To Yula, Katja shouted, “Almost there. Almost there, sweetheart.”

Yes, they were almost there.

So was someone else.

Yula was sure she’d imagined the voices, those carried on the wind. She had not, for

one glance behind gave face to four uniformed men with rifles at their chests, bellowing something unintelligible at the two.

“Keep going,” Katja barked, and hared for the fence, panting and gasping against

the howl of the young storm. The fence was close now, so close, and Katja did not wait to reach it before she grabbed Yula by the waist and flung her at it like a ragdoll.

“Climb!” she screamed, and shoved Yula upwards. “Climb! Climb!”

Yula was naught but nerves, pure nerves. She feared that as she climbed, everything

might fall from her and douse Katja in a bloody waterfall, so visceral was that fear inside her. That fear that churned her stomach, numbed her fingers.

It was lucky that her fingers were numb, for in her wild and unbridled panic she

grabbed at the barbed wire with her full weight. There was no pain, but blood welled from between her fingers and stained her cuffs. Katja was calling to her, words of haste, and with no foothold Yula fell over to the other side of the fence with a thud of flesh on snow.

No—no. She was alone. Alone?

“Katja!” Yula staggered to her feet, and there was a hell, that she knew. To be thrown

to that hell would be to stand here for all eternity, to look upon Katja’s frostbitten face against a backdrop of uniforms, guns, and bodies wearing them. White snow, white faces.

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“She was roaring sobs, a clean case of acute hysteria.”

The men were shouting, and one of them lifted his weapon.

“Katja!”

“Run!” Katja screamed. “Run! Yula, run! Run!”

Yula did. Yula turned, and she ran, as well as those little feet could carry her. She was

roaring sobs, a clean case of acute hysteria. Why was she alone? Why? Why?

“Run!” Katja called from behind, and the fence rattled against her furious hands.

“Run!”

And it was as she ran that she heard the gunshot. A single crack, and then no more

words of haste. Katja was silent.

Yula did not stop. She ploughed through the snow with tears frozen on her rosy

cheeks, and knew in her heart of hearts that she was the only one left. She was the only one.

And she was one hell of a fast runner. Can’t argue with that. ***

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Anthony Butler

is a Hamilton-based emerging artist, who graduated from McMaster University with a B.A. Fine Art and Classics in 2013.

He works with watercolour, pencil, and collaged text, with an interest in book arts and illustration as a storytelling medium interacting with text. An enthusiastic and unrepentant nerd, his art is influenced by video games, fantasy and speculative fiction, period illustration, terrible puns, strange things that the Byzantines did, and alternate histories.

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49

THE MACKINAWS At the heart of it, The Mackinaws are just four friends who love playing music together. In the beginning, getting together meant nothing more than jamming to our favourite cover tunes and enjoying some nice, refreshing beverages. After a while, however, we began to feel the urge to write our own songs.

After playing live for a little over a year as The Great Divide, we switched our name to The Mackinaws and headed into the Porcelain Records studio to record an entirely original eight-song album.

With the help of Grammy Award winning producer Steve Bigas, we were able to walk out of the studio with a debut album that not only combines our love of rock, blues, country, and folk music, but also showcases the songwriting, singing, and musicianship of all of our members. By alternating between three lead singers, each songs has its own distinct voice and personality.

Going forward, we hope to continue to play lives shows and support our album. This is only the beginning of the Mackinaws For more on The Mackinaws, and to listen to “Letting Go Blues,� check out: themackinaws.bandcamp.com www.themackinaws.ca

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LETTING GO BLUES Lyrics by Greg Cain

Verse 1: I’m headed to a soirée and I’ve got my liquor glass filled.

42 on the rocks and Glenora distilled.

I’m drawn in by your lips as I go in for the kiss, now.

Night of the wake is something I kind of miss, now.

Chorus: The hardest thing to let go, is some young love.

And Dylan said it best, as you can’t be wise and in love.

Verse 2: I’m driving down the highway and the sun’s shining in my mind.

Without you hear it’ll take some getting used to tonight.

I still think about your lips and your head against of his.

Walk down memory lane I can’t resist.

The hardest thing to let go, is some young love.

And Dylan said it best, as you can’t be wise and in love.

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ONE MORE THING

The executive team would just like to take a moment to thank our wonderful graphic design team of Caitlin Lam, Jenna Shamoon, and Jenna van Klaveren for their tireless commitment to the journal and all of the wonderful work they have done for us so far. We wouldn’t have been able to accomplish this without you!

From all of us here at The Paper Street Journal, we cannot thank the Hamilton community enough for all of the support that we have received since we first began our journey back in May! Since we are a relatively new arts collective, we would love to hear from you! If you are interested in joining The Paper Street Journal team (or simply want to provide feedback), please feel free to contact us at any time by e-mail or at any of our profiles, as listed below - we’d love to hear from you!

For all of you wonderful artists out there, remember that the submission window for our Spring 2015 issue is officially open! Check out thepaperstreetjournal.com/submissions for more information on submission guidelines. Happy creating!

ARTISTS, HAMILTON CITIZENS, CONTRIBUTORS:

JOIN US!

INAUGURAL ISSUE CELEBRATORY MIXER Tuesday January 13th 2015 | 7:30 PM The Strathcona Wine Bar 306-B King Street West

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