Ultraviolet Magazine Volume 18 by Ultraviolet Magazine

COVER ART | PAUL by Emily Zielke

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Dear Ultraviolet Readers, We have had an incredible year continuing the Ultraviolet Magazine tradition of supporting and promoting student art. It has been an extremely rewarding experience to be able to build our dynamic, hard-working Editorial Board team from the bottom up, and fundraise through our bake sales and Open Mic Night. We are gratified to see our efforts reflected in this physical copy of Ultraviolet Magazine, which is the first print copy in many years, and we are so thankful to everyone who has helped to make this version of the magazine possible. Firstly, we want to thank our terrific editorial board for being such an amazing team. This year, and this publication, would have been nothing without their creative energy and commitment. We want to thank every person who has donated to our cause, as we would not be printing this year without those contributions. All of the support we have received during our bake sales and our Open Mic Night has been overwhelming, and we wish we could thank every supporter individually. Finally, we want to thank all of the writers, artists, and photographers whose work you will find in the following pages. We are happy to wrap up our period as Co-Editors with this fantastic final product, and are even more optimistic about Ultraviolet Magazineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s future. We have loved every moment of putting this issue together, and hope that you will enjoy reading it just as much! Love, Madeeha & Rya Co-Editors 2013-2014

Editorial Board Members 2013-2014 Co- Editors: Madeeha Hashmi Rya Marrelli Editorial Board: Marena Bray Kasey Caines Kylie Dickinson Elizabeth Heinricks Laura Keeble Meg McCarthy Kate Moore Peter Reimer Rae Schneider Gina Zampino

Table of Contents Paul - Emily Zielke

Cover

What We Do Not Hear - Rachel Lallouz

Bodworld - Hannah French

MoM by Dominique Wilson

Rudy - Alexandria Schneider

A Night at the Carnival - Brittany Thrasher

Emergency Vehicles - Kasey Caines

Wishes - Nicole Clydesdale

Untitled Art - Maria Hayes

Andromeda - Nicole Clydesdale

Untitled Art - Stuart Davis

Desultory - Corey Stewart

The Mirror - Mishi Hassan

Dark Reflections - Samantha Dewaele

Untitled Art - Stuart Davis

Bonnie - Corey Stewart

Virginia - Louise Hill

Liftgest - Hannah French

View from East 14th and 3rd Avenue - Nicole CLydesdale

Winter Stroll - Brittany Thrasher

Watermelon on the Ice - Zoe Hoskin

Untitled Art - Stuart Davis

Brimming - Corey Stewart

Preen - Corey Stewart

Goldfinger - Sophie Gong

Us - Alexandra Greene

Awake in the Fire - Magdalena Slabosz

By Candlelight - Jesse Shewfelt

Closely Entwined - Madgalena Slabosz

Taken - Rachel Lallouz

Untitled Art - Stuart Davis

The Diver - Megan Scarth

Untitled - Corey Stewart

Shadowed - Danah Collins

The Mermaid of the Black Forest Fen - Rachel Lallouz

Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Nothing Better - Rachel Lallouz

Ferris Wheel - Brittany Thrasher

Laughter - Hannah French

Spot the Alcoholic - Sarah Robert

Salvation - Tamarra Wallace

Untitled Art - Lauren DeVries

Tower - Hannah French

Fish Thinks This Must Be Heaven - Corey Stewart

Jagged Waves - Mishi Hassan

Bamfield - Hannah French

Untitled Art - Stuart Davis

Peas - Hannah French

Peppers - Hannah French

Red Red Fox - Rachel Lallouz

what we do not hear by Rachel Lallouz My soul is bone Said the moon to the crow I’m humble. I’ll wax and I’ll wane with the meeting of the covens Of your murders Down the dark way A forest submerged. Said the crow: Tied to the life of a tree my nest Three blue eggs stolen, one’s gone off I can tell

A little lighter than the others

And soon to reek of sulfur.

Listen, I’ve spent my life shining the shoes of the devil Square-toed boots hide the cloven soles best I’ll die happy knowing that for one more moment I Could have the harvest moon on my back again Ride the night sky Just a gypsy, patched knees and fried pickerel Lured from the depths By the curl of worm not yet limp on its hook. Venus, gorged on summer, Interjected I see you both, half removed I’m the vein of amber in a siren’s eye I’m the glint of light on a new bead of Venom

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m the messenger Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m the heat, the heat The stars, they spoke in unison Always an echo, crying Oh, to be born. Amongst the strangle of roots Whispered the skull into the deafened earth Softly, softly It will take us all.

ART | BODWORLD by Hannah French

MoM

by Dominique Wilson

i, Love my Upside Down Double You Oh Double You, When i’m, bad She corrects me until i bleed, She always knows just what i need, Sometimes She doesn’t feed me, To make sure i don’t get fat, my tummy screams at me so i read, The book by a doctor named the Cat In The Hat, Just to ignore its painful plead, Yet i always thank Her for Her thoughtful deed, i, Love my Upside Down Double You Oh Double You, She gives me cough syrup to keep me asleep, i almost never make a peep, Not even a beep, i try to shutup so i won’t get beat, i am the best at the quiet game and i almost never cheat, i, Love my Upside Down Double You Oh Double You Claws and all, She has no flaws In Her long white dress She stalks the halls She even walks through walls

Rudy

by Alexandria Schneider

Rudy was lying in the grass one Sunday night. He was resting on his back, a quiet wind rustled the leaves as they dangled then dropped from the tree. His tree fort was out here but it currently held no interest. He couldn’t see the half rusted metal fence that wound endlessly around his backyard. Nor could he smell the back where the ground was exceptionally damp and left off a muddy, dank smell. He could smell however the faintness of burgers, being understandably charred as his neighbor attempted to stop the dog from running up the tree to eat the local squirrels. He liked to focus on that sound. Rudy tickled the tangled grass as it pulled and slipped through his fingers. The time was lost on him. Soon the nearby barking muffled as the neighboring family closed tight their screen door, then the glass door, the sound disappearing behind it. Rudy began to count instead because next to listening to his neighbours, it was his very favourite thing to do. He reached up as far as his arm could stretch and counted: one star, two star, one hundred stars….there was far too many to count as he lowered his hand back down. One red button, two red button, three red buttons…there were too few to count as he slipped his fingers down his jacket. One voice, he counted, two voices…angry voices. See Rudy had been counting since he could talk. This week he counted one fight, two fights…five fights. This was their fifth fight this week and it was only Tuesday. See Rudy had been counting…counting and noticing things he tried not to notice. One day, Nick said to his close playground pals that his parents had “Thirteen fights in one whole week!”, and then his Dad moved out. Rudy was not very good at math but he could see his odds were not in his favor. Rudy began to count down instead this time. He began to countdown to what he saw as the end of his childhood days. He decided he didn’t like listening or counting at all.

A Night at the Carnival by Brittany Thrasher

Emergency vehicles by Kasey Caines When I was a boy, I loved emergency vehicles. I loved them more than anything in the world. I had a bucket of dinky cars full of them: fire trucks and ambulances and police cars of black and red and white. But these little, metal figurines didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t compare to those in real life, the ones with flashing lights in white and red and blue whose brilliance reflected off the pavement below. They demanded attention. They demanded submission. They were an unstoppable force, and for that I loved them all the more. What I loved most was how they made the world stop. When one materialized with sirens blaring and tires racing, it was as though the pause button had been pressed on life. Everything would freeze. Everything would stop. Every car would halt in its tracks, perfectly silent, perfectly still. Every head would turn, would watch, but not a word would be spoken. Some people even ceased their breath. The only movement that could be found in that very moment was that of the vehicle racing through the sea of cars. It was almost magical, I had thought, the way that one moment could hang in suspension for what seemed like eternity. And it was almost magical, I had thought, that a single person could make this happen. It was a long time ago that I discovered the miracle of these vehicles, and today, I am experiencing that miracle for myself. I stare up at the blank white ceiling and pray with every ounce of my being that the moment the flashing lights are seen, the moment the shrieking siren is heard, the world will come to a stop. That the people in their cars who hurry about their busy lives will stop. I pray that a little boy is watching from his car, watching the way I once did, and learning to sacrifice a few small moments of his life in order to save anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Because one day, he just might be the young man lying in the back of an ambulance, bullet in his chest, wondering if the world will stop for him too.

Wishes by Nicole Clydesdale on a day like today, nothing acts as it should. the sun commands the wind and the moon shines down because it can. children try to catch sunbeams on their tongues and make wishes on passing clouds (they won’t come true) everyone listens but nobody speaks, welcoming silence as if it were laughter and strangers as if they were lovers. people weep openly on the streets and covet their tears like precious diamonds (blood diamonds) while smiles are hidden away as if they were forbidden (forbidden fruit) on a day like today, everything acts as it shouldn’t and nothing could be more beautiful (it won’t come true)

ART | Maria Hayes

Andromeda by Nicole Clydesdale a gaze soft with the rawness of sleep falls from your thin-lidded eyes to my blooded lips, birthing a fleck of hope too bright to swallow, so it waits.

it lies,

lingering on my breath, staining each word i leave at your feet. i taste the sweet gnashing of a hope too hopeless to cease, a wanting too close to needing for me to feel safe. youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve snared me in a nest of sticks and bones, flesh and mud, and the winding footsteps of Andromeda: goddess of man, her astral projection a sheath, a shadow protecting her one pleasure: he whom i wish to consume and be consumed by, whole.

ART | Stuart Davis

Desultory by Corey Stewart skeletal birches among evergreens branches grasping up and over the straight and narrow reaching for something

feet disguised in crawling earth

remnants of the storm keep to themselves

a little more destruction

all the things Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done to you I did to myself first purge me of my mischance every drop of disquiet plant me for the early harvest and wash me with rain; the rain makes things a little bit more

The Mirror

by Mishi Hassan

Addie’s fingers twitched in anticipation. The second hand on the clock ticked strenuously, marking another second of infinity. Her eyes flickered to the window. Rain sheeted the suburban streets. It never stopped raining in Clearwater, the small, inconsequential town just outside of Charlottetown. Many things were washed ashore because of the ever-pour. It was while standing on Cloudsmith beach, where Cloudsmith lighthouse drew in boats and drifters from the rain, that Addie found the mirror. Things black and green coiled themselves around your ankles when you walked through the sodden sand. Addie had seen the mirror flash in the darkness as rain pelted down. She had released her mother’s warm hand to bend down and pluck the shining object from the dirt. Her father had always told her that you could find many treasures by the ocean. Her plump lips had reflected off the glass as her father’s boat pulled into the dock. She had slipped it into the pocket of her red rain slicker to run into her father’s arms as he stepped onto the beach. The chandelier flickered as Addie glanced again at the clock. Her small feet swung from the chair as she waited for dinner to arrive. Finally Addie’s mother strolled through the door, a plate of macaroni and cheese in her hands. Her brown curls bounced around her heart shaped face as she placed it on the dining table. Addie smiled as her mother sat down. “Is daddy joining us?” she asked. Her mother’s eyes softened and she gave a small smile. “I’m afraid not, he’ll be out on the boat tonight.” Addie frowned as a bowl of steaming macaroni was placed in front of her. The cheese coated the macaroni and dripped off in strings. She clutched the mirror in her hand and took a big bite of her dinner. As she smiled at her mother around her cheese filled lips, the mirror flashed. But, Addie, what about the other children? Addie glanced down at the mirror; she saw her round face reflected in its scratched glass. They’ll laugh at you again. If you keep eating the cheese, they’ll point at your pudgy ankles and laugh. Her wide eyes narrowed in the reflection, her plump lips pulling into a wicked sneer.

the mirror cont. “What’s wrong, Addie?” her mother asked as lightning flashed in the window behind her. Addie looked up, her eyes beginning to brim with tears, her lips quivering. “I don’t want this,” she choked, pushing her plate away. She clutched the mirror to her chest. Addie’s mother furrowed her eyebrows. “But why not? It’s your favourite! Is that that filthy mirror in your hands? Put it away, Addie, and eat your dinner.” Addie shook her head, her frizzy hair bobbing from left to right. “The other kids will laugh at me.” “What do you mean?” she pushed the plate back to where it was. “All this cheese will make me pudgy, and then they’ll laugh at me again.” Her chair scraped the wooden floor as she pushed it back and waddled up the stairs. Her mother called behind her but she slammed her door, blocking out all noise. She flicked the lock and crawled into her bed. It’s alright, Addie. I’ll make it alright. I’ll be here for you. Her reflection whispered in her head, eyes still narrowed, wicked sneer dissolving into a complacent smirk. Gray clouds loomed over Clearwater Elementary as Addie’s mother kissed her forehead and tightened her scarf. “Eat all your lunch, okay? There’s no cheese in it, I promise.” Addie nodded, her mirror snug in her pocket. She filed in with the wave of children, ants floating through the doors. Her mother watched as she disappeared in the flood of rain coats. The floors were wet and sloshy from the dirt off of the children’s boots. Addie hummed quietly under her breath as she began to store her things in her locker. She grabbed her Cloudsmith beach lunchbox from her bag – a gift from her father. She reached to place it on the top shelf of her locker when a group of chuckling boys came rushing her way. They were tossing a red rubber ball between each other, the plastic wet and shiny from the rain. A freckled, red headed boy with long, spindly arms thrust the ball to a smaller boy. The smaller boy gasped and ducked; the red rubber ball shot into Addie’s back. Her lunch box fell out of her hands, strewing the contents over the linoleum floors.

the mirror cont. The boys burst into a boisterous laugh as Addie’s Wagon Wheels slid into a puddle beside a pair of dripping boots. “Go grab your fat cakes pudgy,” the red head snickered, crushing them with his boots as he grabbed the ball and continued tossing it between the other boys. Addie stood, her hands contorting into fists. Her body trembled as the boys continued chuckling about her fat cakes, skipping away. They disappeared into the crowd, the red rubber ball still bouncing back and forth. She grabbed the mirror and slammed her locker door; the other lockers shook from the force. She pushed into the girls’ bathroom, locking herself in a stall and curling up on the ground. “What should I do,” she whispered to her mirror, sniffing as tears streaked down her face. I’ll help you Addie. “Then help me,” she murmured between sobs. You have to let me. Just let me help you. Addie bit her lip, turning the mirror over in her small fingers. Her reflection grinned, eyes pulling into vicious slits. You know what to do…... her reflection whispered. The sharp edge of the mirror flashed, and Addie pressed it to the inside of her wrist. She dragged it back and forth, letting it graze the top of her skin. She paused, pressing it harder, letting the pointed edge draw out drops of deep, red blood. She continued dragging the mirror across her pale skin, creating a thin line of budding red. The scarlet splattered glass clattered to the floor as blood trickled down her arm. The chandelier flickered again as thunder rolled rowdily. Addie sat at the table, waiting for dinner. The smell of meat loaf filled her nose as her stomach grumbled. The woolen sleeves of her crimson sweater were pulled purposefully over her hands. The mirror rested on her lap, newly washed and wiped. “I hope you’re hungry!” her mother sang, placing meatloaf and mashed potatoes on the table. “Daddy?” Addie wondered. Her mother shook her head. “He was supposed to get in today, but he called and said that a bad storm is

the mirror cont. headed. He’ll be back soon, sweetie.” Addie looked down at her hands, pulling at her sleeves. Her full lips pressed into a thin line. Addie’s mother sat down and took Addie’s hands in hers. “He’s safe, honey, don’t worry about Daddy. He’ll be home soon.” The sleeves of Addie’s sweater slid up her wrists, and the thin pink marks of the mirror caught her mother’s eye. She clutched Addie’s hand and pushed her sleeve up. She gasped. “What happened, Addie?” Addie yanked her arm back, looking down at the table. “Nothing, mommy. I fell.” “Addie! Don’t lie to me,” she said, raising her voice. “I’m not! It’s the truth!” Addie yelled. “I just fell!” Addie’s mother grew still, looking over her daughter with wide, teary eyes. “What’s wrong, Addie?” she murmured. Addie sat in anger for a few moments. Then, she grabbed the mir ror and ran up the stairs. “I want daddy!” she shouted behind her, slamming her door. She crawled under her blanket, her fingers smudging the distorted reflection. “I want daddy.” she pled to the mirror. “I want him to come home.” Her reflection became adamant; the face of the girl in the mirror coloured with determination. Then go to him. Addie’s brows furrowed. “But how?” Just go. If he can’t come home, you go to him, Addie. You know it’s what you want. Addie bit her lip and glanced at her window. “Mommy would never let me.” Just go, Addie. She’ll understand. Addie listened close and heard her mother’s clacking heels pace back and forth, her voice crying to someone over the phone. Addie sighed and pulled on her red rain slicker. She threw open her window, and stepped warily onto the overhang. She crab-walked down the roof, and grabbed the branch of the adjacent tree. She jumped onto the tree and crawled her way to the ground. The rain pelted against her body as she stumbled her way through the mist, heading towards Cloudsmith beach.

the mirror cont. She found her way through the darkness, the path lodged in her memory from accompanying her mother all her life. The wind ripped against her short frame like the tides ripped against the shore. She dragged her feet through the muddy sand as the crashing of the black waves filled her ears. The ocean tossed violently. For a few heartbeats, Addie stood, watching as the water twisted and the darkness undulated in shades of black. Her eyes fixed on a light in the distance, a small beacon in the ever-pour. It shined through the quaking waves, iridescent against the night. “Daddy?” Addie mumbled, squinting into the rain. Go to him. “Daddy!” she bellowed, her ten-year-old voice drowned away by the sounds of the sea. Go. Addie stepped into the water, an instant chill crawling up her body - her eyes still fixed on the fading light. “Daddy…” she whispered as she splashed deeper into the ocean. The waves carried her away, into the night. She felt something attached to her nose when consciousness drifted in. Her eyes fluttered open, the white walls fading in and out. She saw the IV’s and the needles poking out from her arms. She struggled against her starchy hospital gown. Her mother was asleep on the couch beside her - mouth hanging open, brown curls dishevelled. Addie smiled at the sight. Her eyes flicked to the nightstand. A stack of magazines lay beside a few bouquets of flowers; Teddy bears sat frowning. A box of Kleenex was beside Addie’s head. And there, poking out from behind the tissues, lay her shiny, scratched mirror. Addie’s reflection flashed a wicked grin, eyes narrowing into slits.

Dark Reflections

by Samantha Dewaele

ART | Stuart Davis

Bonnie by Corey Stewart The speed of the chase and a moment of freedom it drew her to him at the first irresistibility in motion blood coursed a blooming rawness and their laughter painted air she laughed as they crashed limbs mincing gravel suspended in the belt tears still fresh in her eyes battery acid drips through to her bones coursing burning a scar through the only days of her life

Virginia by Louise Hill Crisp March morning Pockets full of rocks You close the door behind you Do you lock it? The walk to the river is long or maybe too short The sky is deep gray Seems fitting You walk with shoulders hunched under the weight of rocks and pain gone on too long You hear a pulse in your ears Funny, it’s still there But it’s drowned in heavy footsteps and the clatter of rocks You reach the water’s edge and pause It looks cold and still Seems fitting Maybe a bit of young sun breaks through the deep gray

and turns the water gold Or maybe not Do you flinch as the icy numbness fills your boots? Maybe it feels just right Maybe it feels like nothing It’s at your waist The stubborn body shakes Do you turn and look back? No, I think not But I hope you catch that glimpse of sun I hope it is there to bear witness to turn the water gold before chest—neck—nose under Pain and light and sucking lungs Oh Virginia, did you fight it? When air turned to water did you feel regret or ecstasy?

Liftgest

by Hannah French

View from East 14th and 3rd Avenue by Nicole Clydesdale a bird flew into my window today. I felt its body against mine and shared its last breath before it returned to where it came and I wished my window didn’t exist at all. if my window didn’t exist then I wouldn’t have watched you die. I wouldn’t have seen the tiny streetlights in your eyes flicker each time your heart relinquished its beating. I wouldn’t have had to choose whether to steal your breath or give you my own. there is blood on my hands, betraying where I loved and was loved too much. I am drowning in blossoms of red and all you can say is, “I’ll be better next time.” love rots and it softens over time, and I am that bird, plummeting maybe towards heaven, but probably hell, and I don’t know why I saved you.

ART | WINTER STROLL by Brittany Thrasher

Watermelon on the Ice by Zoe Hoskin Your cousins are in town, his mother had said. Why don’t you call them your nieces and nephews? I thought in isolation. They’re just as much your nieces and nephews are they are my cousins. I sought my black mittens with more aggression than ever before. This fucking hat. Fucking, I thought and repeated the word in my mind until it was replaced by echoes of my mother’s voice: We’ll only be there for half an hour. I clung to this tidbit, sweet and sickly sharp as it was, because I knew I could use it against her when I slumped in bitterness on the drive home, surely at least an hour after we’d arrived, mostly likely after a stop for hot chocolate and poutine. Adults always felt that to be obligatory. “How are your blades doing, bud?” Dad asked as I descended the stairs. “They’re fine,” I said, hoping he’d ask me if they were too small. “Are they getting too small for you?” “Yes. My toes stub the ends,” I replied with satisfaction. My mom looked up from the bag of clementines and bananas she was packing. “Give Leonard’s a try--they’re in the garage to the left of the door.” “Whatever, it’s fine. I’ll just wear thin socks.” My mother shrugged and turned to the fridge to pull out a sack of whole carrots. I started to think about Leonard, off at University. Off. He studies at the University of Toronto, six hours south of Montreal. He was the star pupil in English and now he takes all his classes in that language. That must be what all the hard work is for: one high school career of working his ass off and now he’s got the family completely out of his hair. “Everyone ready?” my mom asked me and the other person in the room. I avoided saying anything and waited for dad to cheer “Mmm-hmm!” We got into the car and set off. The rink was forty minutes away: a convenient meeting point for my uncle, aunt and cousins after one of them had a debate competition in The West Island, and my mom convinced us to casually tag along like we were out there anyway to pick up our morning bagels.

watermelon on the ice cont. When we got there, my cousins were all laced up and lined up on the bench. The littlest two hopped to their blades and started staggering towards the ice before they were instructed by my uncle Paul to “sit back down and wait for Cousin Marc to put on his skates.” I tried to smile. Laced up in a minute, I lead the pack of my younger cousins onto the ice. It was fresh and clear like white marble. One again I got excited about cutting it all up, and I slid out to the left, following the clockwise current of the other skaters. I went fast, not looking back at my little cousins. On the ice I could be alone, making headway, gliding on my unmarked piece of territory. I caught up with the rear of my cousins and poked one in the side as I curved around and in front of them, still picking up speed. I twisted, shaving the ice and wobbled my knees over the momentum I’d picked up in my feet. “Cool! The watermelon!” My cousin shouted from across the rink. “Teach me!” I swiveled frontwards and slowed pace to wham softly into his winter-padded body. He teetered but didn’t fall. “Teach me,” he said. I pulled up beside him and said, “Turn.” Then facing backwards, I squared up hips with the little man. “It’s all in the knees. Direct from your knees and let your ankles follow.” The movement of my knees pulled me backwards in flow and Léon, my little cousin, flowed too. Then I heard my mom’s voice across the ice. I could pick it out from the warble of laughter and speech and noises-the aahs and eehs of people one-by-one catching on to their own movements. Her voice in the public, like an obscene rack of drying underwear at a party, said, “It looks like Marc’s enjoying himself now doesn’t it?” Of course I couldn’t look at them because I knew they were looking at me in that moment. I assume dad nodded or smiled. I didn’t turn to face them or shoot them a look, I just glided to the nearest exist and slouched off the ice. Taking a seat on a sideline bench, I debated removing my skates but figured my watchful mother would find that action melodramatic and I would become the brunt of another grin or chuckle between my parents. I didn’t even want to look up to see them skating hand-in-hand and smiling shamelessly at me. How could they be so insensitive?

watermelon on the ice cont. From inside my fuzzy coat pocket, I pulled out my cell phone and checked up on my texts, email, Facebook and Twitter accounts. Naturally, this provided some relief. Down by the other end of the rink there was a little twostall washroom which I took advantage of. And when I washed my hands and came back to the rink, I felt much better. I sat on a different bench and watched as people skated around and around. This is what I saw: Around the edges were mostly coloured people who gripped the rails for stability. There was also an older couple who clung to each other tighter than during sex. There were beautiful young women with straightened hair and argyle canvassed tight over their bellies and arms. And in the centre of the rink were those hockey boys, the ones who grew up on the ice, possibly at some local lake that was frozen solid seven months in a year. They had no chance of making it to eighteen without a scar or stitch on every protrusion of their body: chin, nose, knees and elbows. In the centre too was a prancing black man in figure skates, breaking up my race-based skating theory. Repeatedly, he lifted off, gathering all his weight upwards with him, he twisted into a corkscrew or a star, and landed on one foot then the other. And there was the music. Girlfriends and boyfriends, and husbands, cousins, daughters, wives, and best friends all whirled around the rink under the skylight. I looked down at my hands, smiling. Then I heard a searing loud scrape of the ice. I blinked and my boots were covered in white shavings, my red hands were dotted with bits of the powder that melted into clear droplets in seconds. I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t sure if I wanted to look up to see this wipe out. When I did, probably with my eyes wide and my mouth agape, I just saw this girl beaming at me. She was wearing a red toque and a white coat that matched her skates. She wore purple leggings and her hands were bare, rosy. More importantly, she was fully upright and her skates were on the ice and angled towards me with the blades cloaked in white powder.

watermelon on the ice cont. I was a moment behind her but my face broke into a huge smile and I realized how my heart rate had quickened at the sound of the scraped ice and the thought that accompanied it. I was relieved that I didn’t have to worry now and that I hadn’t had to be worried at all. It was quite peaceful to experience that I could misunderstand and a--gorgeous--stranger would smile it off with me. That I could have visceral sympathy for someone whom I thought had fallen. I stepped backed onto the ice and quietly glided up behind parents. They had their arms in a T-shape, holding hands at the ends of strong outstretched arms. Just before reaching them I lifted one leg out behind me and tipped my torso forwards and parallel to the ice. I slid underneath their arms in a move I frankly had never shown the rest of the world, besides my two pals Cédric and Hugo. “Marc,” I heard my dad breathe. “That’s wonderful, son.” I wiggled around in watermelon to face them. My mother was smiling and for once her smile didn’t cut into me. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m having lots of fun.”

ART | Stuart Davis

Brimming by Corey Stewart Sometimes it feels like luxury magnetic, sparking gaze alive Sometimes it feels like filigree sugar-glass screaming to split hot like midday and nauseous like the sea donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Leave me like this stuck so fast to merciless ground brimming

Preen

by Corey Stewart

I lay my feathers flat preen, inspect reorganize my shoulders picture hollow bones a lightness of being to hold me aloft over my own ocean calling it a fighting plumageâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; but the blackbird is only a blackbird when it looks like all the others

Goldfinger by Sophie Gong

Us by Alexandra Greene we are for eachother: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life’s not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis “since feeling is first,” ee cummings I remember how, in the beginning, your eyes made a great mess of time, because you held the past and present and future the same way I did my charcoalworking your fingers into my sketchbook, you would rub down the sharp points, softening the edges until everything blended well and pictures, memories, hopes flowed into one anothercontrasting without confrontation. Then one day you looked at me quite simply and said, “We are for eachother: then.” We would sit in your room on separate chairs and I would laugh and find my head falling, coming to rest on your shoulder. We would dance along narrow ballroom halls, and in the corridors of empty streets, and you would say my name so slowly, pronouncing every syllable so clearly, and you would laugh, leaning back in my arms.

We never said much because your movement spoke without need of verb nor noun. You mouthed love in the darkit sounded like the small of a back, like the center of a wave. We didn’t need to fill the space between arms and legs with “good morning” and “good night,” for life’s not a paragraph. I had decided the first day I met youwhen your hand reached out to mine as you closed around me, and our fingertip embrace lasted longer than it would have if the moment had been ordinarythis was living, this was what people waited for. Life goes beyond my language, and death I think is no parenthesis.

ART | AWAKE IN THE FIRE by Magdalena Slabosz

By Candlelight by Jesse Shewfelt He was at a kitchen table. He sat alone. As usual. Looking in on his life, you might feel sorry for him. But he was content. He was eating cold leftovers. Again, this may sound pitiful, as leftovers seem like a merciless punishment, cast upon him by a ruthless god of unfortunate dining, but it was tuna casserole. His favourite. The candlelight softly accented the smooth contours of his face. He was young. A mature looking twenty-seven year old. The lighting made him look like an epic poet. An epic poet who was contemplating the nature of a casserole. The blizzard he was observing through the window was relentless. He imagined that a car might have lost its footing. Maybe ended up amidst the shattered remains of a telephone pole with crackling power cables strewn about the sidewalk. He grabbed the thick candle from a cabinet in the front hall. He had a lighter in his pocket that he used earlier when he was on the balcony smoking a joint. He had a small backyard. The candle, reflected in the window, created a sharp but soothing contrast to the darkness beyond, like a fireplace on Christmas Eve. He finished eating, and he grabbed a napkin off the counter. He delicately patted it on the corners of his mouth. He put his dirty utensils and dish in the sink. There was a brief moment when he considered washing the dishes. Then he remembered: No power, no water pressure. A good reason for excusing himself from the chore. Temporarily anyway. He went back to his small dinner table, in the middle of which sat the candle. He still felt a lightness in his head from earlier, so the simple flickering of the candle entertained him. It amazed him. The wax disappearing into the flame. It had been burning for roughly an hour, and yet less than a fraction of it had been consumed. He looked closer. It looked as though the flame was hovering. Not above the wick, but all around it. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t touching it at all. He broke the staring contest with the flame and looked around the room. He was usually obsessed with keeping his home lit, but he realized something. Nothing remarkable. Not a revelation or anything. Just that the candle lit up the whole room perfectly. He had no trouble seeing around him. He was sure that if he were to light two or three more candles, the light would feel overwhelming. He was thinking of moving his party of one into his room under a heated blanket, but that seemed pointless.

ART | Closely Entwined by Magdalena Slabosz

by candlelight cont. The rest of his house was probably uncomfortably cold, and the candle gave off enough heat to keep him happy. He rested his head on his arms, the way you would on an office desk. Or any desk for that matter. It was ten o’clock by his best guess. The power had come back on, but he hadn’t noticed. He shut off whatever light switches he kept on, and he wasn’t facing the oven or microwave so he didn’t notice the blinking “12:00”, telling him that he should set the clocks to the right time. He was too busy admiring this flame. The one thing that had been keeping the room lit. The one thing that kept him comfortably warm. That single flame mesmerized him. Entranced him. The fire sparked in him. He felt the flame engulf him from somewhere deep in his stomach. He felt like he was part of something greater, like wax to a flame. He began to feel a burning passion. He wanted to accomplish things. He didn’t want to be bland. He wanted to inspire. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to love. He felt an unfamiliar urge to go out into the world and do things. Become a part of something. Join a charity, work in a soup kitchen, anything! His eyes widened with these incredible aspirations he never thought he had. He realized he had been holding his breath and let out a sigh. The breath blew out the candle and, with it, that flame he had so spontaneously felt inside him. He looked for it. He lit the candle again, and stared at it for a minute or so. It was lost. He couldn’t find whatever that flame had sparked in him. Whatever he had found, he had put out with his sigh.

Taken by Rachel Lallouz The gloom that had settled its haunches down onto the little town, that slow-moving mist, made me feel as though I had arrived at the murder scene of a tea party. Green leaves held unmoving in the stillness, their veins plump with moisture from the air. Beyond the park’s border figures appeared to be moving, but there was no point in calling out. The fog would swallow any echo of sound, and indeed, voices died in the air as quickly as they were born. It was a strange sort of day, the kind easily written off as bad weather. Bad weather, you might say, into the long ear of the telephone. So sorry, no, I can’t make it over. Bad weather, bad weather I’m feeling rather ill, II’ve been feeling peculiar. Early this morning I split open a clock by the mash of stone. By the mash of stone into gut, I had that clock pinned fast to the table. As a moth threaded with needle, and spread behind glass Psychonotis Caelius and Lyphra Brassolis and Toxidia Thryrrhus Ornithotera. Hasora. Laeta. Sirius. Don’t worry. There’s no need to worry. It’s the bad weather, this strange weather – So sorry, no, I can’t make it over.

ART | Stuart Davis

by Artist Name

ART | by Stuart Davis

The Diver by Megan Scarth You never minded bath time With yellow ducks and tiny boats A world as warm as an embrace

Shiny trinkets clutter your shelves Your family cheers from the crowd Up, up, up

Self-contained and

If you rise any faster

self-absorbed

Will your lungs burst?

Its depths clear and comforting Because you are no longer you Soon came the lessons

Your dreams are not your own

Front, back, sides

They sell tickets and t-shirts

Crawling, treading, bobbing

You are a living commodity

Your breath shallow in the deep

You are a personification of your country

Toes curled and cutting A pierce and a kick We are shot like harpoons Your lungs and heart have switched places Fingers crushed against pavement You break the barrier and breathe School becomes an afterthought

Your work has been accumulated Into a single day You see your parents in the swarm Same smiles, grayer hair You cling to their faces like a lifeboat An old friend sits on the edge of the pond A metal bird with a rubber beak

Friends, a distraction

You climb its runged back

You see your coaches more than your parents

Toes curled over its cold wet lips

You jettison from one day to the next

Staring into two oceans

the diver cont. Stomach bubbles like A soda can, well-shaken Crabs pinching your inner edges Only way to lessen their grip Is to bring them home A pop, a release Instinct takes over You cut through air, Twirling like a Degas painting Creating colours in the empty space The paint splatters And you are still Deaf and blind, You imagine, for a moment, The warmth of the bathtub

Untitled by Corey Stewart prudent little satellite neatening her several parts sits back on her haunches burning for approval if she only maybe— silence roiling in every interim realizing what it is to reach yield and bray and yield again and then you’re so convincing— it’s a damn, damn shame

Shadowed by Danah Collins

The Mermaid of the Black Forest Fen by Rachel Lallouz When you looked up at me, you gave everything away. Laid it all out there for me to break. Eyes clear as blue glass, burning through. Curve of your breast to nipple. Lips impossible to define, impossible windows. Tossed a rock through, tried to tip-toe around glass shards strewn in my path. Shards reflecting blue light. Light shining off the wet of your nipple, strewn glass in my path. Found myself on a river bank, leaning close to the waterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s edge. Something beautiful about it. Something manic. Then I saw you again, Lady Magdalene, half-fish sister stretched out on a rock. Scales shining silver strewn glass. Do you know that your tail has broken the moonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wake? Can you see from within those darkened hollows? Can you see me standing on the river bank, the gleam of my eyes a prayer to the moon for you? I woke up this morning in the brush, could smell the water close. There are scratches, pink and ragged, etched down over my shoulders. I can feel them burning raw on my back. There is watercress in my hair. There are scales in my mouth.

There’s Nothing Better

by Rachel Lallouz

There’s nothing better than the smell of lilacs wet with rain There’s nothing better than drowning in a vat of lemonade. There’s nothing better than limbs doped with orgasm. There’s nothing better than the prick of thorn. There’s nothing like succumbing.

Ferris Wheel

by Brittany Thrasher

Laughter by Hannah French

Spot the Alcoholic

by Sarah Robert

The hill beside the liquor store was high enough to have a good view of the entire parking lot. When there was more snow, it was high enough that kids would toboggan down it when the cars in the parking lot were all gone at night. I was perched on top of the hill with Meghan, who was twisting the ends of her dyed blue hair. My brother James was inside the liquor store with a fake ID and a crumpled twenty dollar bill. “I wonder if he’ll get served,” I said. “This new fake isn’t very good.” “Well… if you hadn’t got the other one confiscated, Paul…” “Sorry. But that bouncer was a fascist.” Meghan shrugged. “Mm. Oh well.” We sat and breathed like smokers, our breath twirling in the subzero air. “Hey,” said Meghan. “Let’s play Spot the Alcoholic.” She smiled at me. “Okay,” I said, stomping my feet to try to warm up my toes. “How do you play?” “Well,” she said, pointing at a bearded man leaving the store, “you try to guess whether or not someone’s an alcoholic.” The bearded man wrestled two cases of beer into the backseat of his dilapidated car. Meghan gestured her head toward him. I peered down. “He is.” “An alcoholic?” I said. “How do you figure?” The bearded man shut his car door loudly and drove away. “His name is Peter Kingston,” Meghan explained, sticking her hands under her armpits. “Pete, to his friends. He’s divorced, with a kid in college. He hit the kid – Ben – sometimes, when he was young. It didn’t mess Ben up too much, but Ben never forgave Pete for the one time he hit his mother. Ben’ll never know that Pete can’t forgive himself, either. So tonight he’ll drink two too many beers all by himself and fall asleep on the couch.” She stared at his car, stopped at a traffic light. “If you can’t forgive, forget. That’s his motto.” She said in the tone of the truth. Like Pete was her close personal friend, and she was spilling his secrets. I had to remind myself that I didn’t actually know the man’s name.

spot the alcoholc cont. “Yeah?” I pointed down at a woman exiting the store. “What about her?” She was carrying her purchases in a plastic bag. Her hair was blonde and coiffed. Her car was black and shiny in spite of the slushy roads. “No, no. That’s Miranda Hayes. She’s celebrating. She’ll leave her two kids with a sitter and her and her friends will get tipsy on white wine and eat crackers and cheese. Her husband just got a promotion, you see.” Meghan’s eyes glistened. “Little does she know her hubby got that promotion by sleeping with his boss.” “He… did? I mean – do any of these stories have a happy ending?” She shrugged. “Well, these aren’t fairytales. It’s a game.” Meghan’s hair was a deep shade of blue. Almost indigo. It’d been pink up until about a month ago. The ends looked kind of damaged – frayed – but it was a lovely colour. It nicely complemented her dark brown eyes. She was wearing James’ coat, an olive army-style jacket. It was too big for her. “Your turn, Paul,” she said, nudging me with a knee. “What?” I felt sweat form on the back of my neck. “You give it a go.” I squinted down at the glass door, waiting for my victim to emerge. She stared at me, expecting me to be brilliant like her. Name. I had to prepare a name – Ben – no, wait, we already… Josh. If it’s a male, then Josh… Josh who… Smith? No… The door began to open. I gulped. I don’t think I’d ever been so happy to see James in my life. “Well,” I said. “That’s James Koval.” James glanced up in our direction and flashed us a thumbs-up, a 6-pack clutched in his other hand. “He just used a fake ID to purchase some cheap beer. He’s not an alcoholic… yet.” Meghan threw back her head and laughed. She got to her feet, offering her hands. I took them, and she pulled me to my feet, her warm fingers curling slightly around my cold ones. She cocked her head to one side. “You’re funny,” she pronounced. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

spot the alcoholc cont. She laughed again. “C’mon!” James shouted up at us, his cheeks flush with the cold and with triumph. “Hurry up or I’ll drink them all myself.” “Race you,” she said. I ran down the hill just a step behind her, arms pinwheeling. Meghan halted when she collided with James, laughing, wrapping her arms around his waist. He put his free arm around her, kissing her forcefully on the forehead. Stamping her with his lips. I skidded to a stop nearby, almost losing my balance and toppling over. “You lose!” Meghan said. She smiled at me from her place against James’ chest. I smiled lopsidedly, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Guess so,” I said. My hands trembled. I usually hated the taste of the cheap, foamy beers that James picked out, but right now I was eager to drink a few, to tamp down the feeling rising up from the pit of my stomach

Salvation

by Tamarra Wallace

Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always sleeping, never warm Hides her face to shield the storm Chooses sweaters that flatter arms Blue eyes, blonde hair was meant to charm Stands sideways against the mirror Acai juice was meant to clear her Mousse, perfume, make-up, nail care Could part of her not be there? Trudges towards birthday dinner Tempted by bread, sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a sinner Stuffs appetizers, two apiece Licks her fingers to taste the grease Intake of blame, she starts to weigh Her decisions against its prey Among the diners, first to leave Walks down the hall, chest starts to heave Slams the door and behind the stall Hair let loose and she gives it all On the floor, she starts to kneel Hand embraces knob of steel After restaurant, time for Church Her empty stomach starts to lurch Ruby wine, Communion wafer Body of Christ, never safer Approaches priest Regrets her feast Condemns her splurge Provoked to purge No more consumption is her damnation Choosing emptiness is her salvation

ART | Lauren DeVries

ART | TOWER by Hannah French

Fish Thinks This Must be Heaven by Corey Stewart Spit at the edge of the water flung into the entire weight of the air opening choking on

so much

oxygen delirium heaving, wild finally meeting the world never having suspected all that sun it might feel like a greeting if it werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t so unbearably bright.

ART | BAMFIELD by Hannah French

Jagged Waves by Mishi Hassan I come back up To see Angry clouds With their black crippling mist And no silver lining They shouted thunder And conjured lightning They singed the wind and sent it running The trees bent backwards to avoid their bitter words of misery and hate And now as I’m carried By a jagged wave I think to myself Why did I come back To this And as the pressure Pulls me under Makes my skin ripple And takes away my breath I think to myself This isn’t so bad Why can’t I stay here Underneath the water With the black pools of sin And no judging eyes Just me and the water And the friends who want my flesh.

It’s better than up there.

ART | Stuart Davis

ART | PEAS by Hannah French

ART | PEPPERS by Hannah French

Red red fox by Rachel Lallouz Cardinal, Captain, Busy as you are following orders on this fine winter’s night Have you seen a red red fox? Our beggar friend must settle a debt. Jaws full of flesh, the wiggling jowls of chicken Hastened from coop by the light of the moon To put it politely. Red red fox, I won’t mince words, I’ve gone mad with the hunt The color of new-born desire, my friend. The color of anger. Splatter on hands. But mine are clean, friend, fox. Mine are clean. It is you who has stained the snow.