October 2014

FREE

October 2014

absynthe magazine 1

STAFF President Bakhtawar Riaz Editor-in-Chief Caitlin P. Jones Production Manager Sara Ostrowska Copy Editor Emma Labelle

Staff Writers Candace Ellison Amanda Ferreira Zafer Izer Jack Smye Contributors Jennifer Boon Tara Henley Ryan Knowles Cover Art: Jennifer Boon

Secretary Sobia Riaz

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CONT ENTS 4. Editor's Letter 5. Mandate/ Submission Guidelines 6. Two of a Kind 8. Eschatological Misunderstanding 10. Celebrity Graveyard 12. Cultural Appropriation on Halloween 14. Horrorscopes 15. Family Legends 16. I Don’t Believe in Ghosts 18. J’ai Bu Assez Jean Macé 21. What to Watch

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editor’s letter

h W

e've had a rough start to our 2014/2015 year here at absynthe. As many people know we've had to move to a new office, though we are thrilled with our new location in Sadleir House Office 305. We’re lucky enough to share space with Rock Camp for Girls Peterborough. If you haven’t had a chance to research them, please do so.

More than that, Sadleir House is an important and integral part of the Trent and Peterborough communities. Students at Trent are incredibly lucky to have this space to create/cultivate/experience.

After our move we had the misfortune of having our main production computer crash with our templates and all of digital files included. So, that is where we have been.

This year we chose to try mainly producing digital copies.

Which we are still experimenting with. But we are still here to publish student work. We are willing to accept work of all genres, and hope that you will flex your creative muscles with us.

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The mandate of Absynthe Magazine is to encourage constructive dialogue and critical thinking within the Trent community. As an on-campus publication, Absynthe shall strive to represent as many people of the community as possible by presenting varying views on all matters that are of importance to the community and especially the student body. In the spirit of free and independent press, Absynthe shall strive for the highest degree of journalistic integrity and excellence while providing a medium for creative and alter- native expression. It will actively stimulate and encourage discussion through itself or any other means available to members of the Trent community.

Submission Guidelines: Absynthe is a submissions-based magazine. Any Trent student who wishes to be published can send their work to us at trentbasynthe@gmail.com.

Submissions can be any length, and can be written in any style. Submissions will be subject to editing for spelling and grammar as well as verified for appropriate content.

Please include your name for publication, as well as a word count, and title. Please submit filenames as LastName_ MonthYear. Photos and images are encouraged, but are required to have a minimum resolution of 300dpi. Articles may be held for publication at a later date.

absynthe magazine 5

Two of a Kind I

Amanda Ferreira

loved the way her skin lay supple against her hers, drove me wild. I was louder, I was stronger; bones. It was just the sight of it, so taunt, so it rarely worked out that way. clear, so fair — it was like she was made of “I’m beginning to think you’re just teasing glass. I wanted to run my fingers along her me,” she said, keeping her eyes down, the steam cheek, down her throat, across her collar; I want- from her coffee cup rising up and colouring her ed to push my nose into her hair, press my lips glasses a deathly grey. “I don’t remember reading against her shoulder, force my arms around her that warning on your profile. Is there anything else ears. Maybe she would struggle, frantic and des- about you I should know?” perate; maybe she would claw against me, with I grinned, wolfish and wide. Could she see her long nails and delicate hands. I liked the look it, I wonder? Did the air around me shift somehow, of her teeth, pearls all in a row. Would she bite me? tipping her off? Could she hear my muscles movWould she scream? I ing under my skin, imagined the sound “Her fingers were unsteady, and in moments or smell my breath as it escaped around they began to tremble, as if she were afraid to as it escaped her tongue, red and touch me, as if she were afraid I’d suddenly be from between my swollen and blisteeth?

Whatevgone.” tering. The thought er the truth, she made me shiver like raised her hand, a man deranged. just then, and reached out for me. Her fingers

“Will you smile for me?” I asked her, plac- were unsteady, and in moments they began to ing my palm on the back of her hand. “Just once?” tremble, as if she were afraid to touch me, as if

She laughed in response to that, expos- she were afraid I’d suddenly be gone. ing the sloping depressions along her throat. Her “I’m right here,” I said to her, keeping my necklace, made of sterling silver, glinted in the voice low. I pushed my face forward, under her fading sunlight—I wanted it tight around my fist, hand, and she shivered at the contact. the little charm at its center impressed against the “I’d have found you,” she assured me, but skin of her jaw. “You must not be watching,” she she was blushing now, her fingers running along said. “I smile more than you, I think. Now who’s my cheekbone to find my lips, tracing the ridges the blind one?” there, all the way along. “You’re so handsome,”

I decided to laugh with her, because the she said, the tint to her skin growing more prosound of my voice, deep and rough, mixing with nounced. “I can’t believe you agreed to go out

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with me.”

“You’re quite a beauty yourself,” I replied, hating the moment she broke our contact. She was so warm, her skin so smooth, her touch so docile, so eager. Was the skin on her back like that? Lithe and tender and sensitive? Would it crack under my hand, rip and bleed and tear? Would she like the smell as it filled her nose? Would she gag?

It took me a moment to realize she was talking again, but by now, I could hardly keep my attention in check. Did she want to go back to my car? Of course I would drive her home. Of course I had had a good time. Would she mind if I turned on the radio?

With the seat belt across her chest, between her elbows, I could better follow the lines of her body, the freckles that bunched around her knees, the little scar that puckered on her right thigh. How would those look crossed with carpet burns? Would I like the way the red and blue and black clashed with the brown and white? I stared at her feet whenever we hit a stop sign.

How would her broken toes feel in my hand? How far back would they bend if I forced them? What sound would they make when the bones broke the skin?

In her driveway, I hurried around the car to open her door. “I can walk you in,” I said, “so you won’t need to use your stick.”

“Aren’t you the gentleman?” she whispered, her eyes searching the space around my head for my face. I tried to catch her gaze, but through the dark tint of her glasses it was hard to see her eyes, let alone find recognition there. This was almost too easy. Would she like me to put the key into the lock? Should I hold back her dog?

Could I maybe come in for a few minutes to use the bathroom?

I don’t know why she let me in. They’re always so stupid like that.

Her toilet was a strange off-pink colour, her tub a hideous Tiffany blue. There were curtains (a garish vomit green) and a rug (had it been purple once?). I laughed aloud as I zipped up my jeans; it was like a blind person had decorated in here.

She was sitting on her couch when I got back, the television on, the described video almost too loud to follow.

“You mentioned liking crime shows,” I said, walking over to touch her shoulder. Her shirt

crinkled under my hand, the sequins rubbing together like the joints on a suit of armour. “Maybe I’ll watch with you?”

“That’s a lot for a first date,” she said with a laugh, but from the way she spoke, she seemed to say, no, that’s not too far—in fact, it was nowhere near far enough.

When she walked me out, I kissed her in the doorway. I didn’t like warnings, and she didn’t seem to like receiving them. “Not so rough,” she murmured against my lips, letting me lead her back inside, letting me push her gently up the stairs. “Be careful with me.”

In her room there was only a single window, too small for sound to carry, even to the street, not more than a dozen feet away. She complained of a draft, so she let me shut it; her body stilled as I moved away, her legs tangling in the bunched up sheets near the bottom of her mattress.

“Let me take off my glasses,” she said softly, pulling away from me when I returned, retreating to the back corner of the room where a tiny dresser stood all on its own. She paused a moment, one hand on the light switch. “Do you need…anything?”

“Only you,” I said, coming up behind her, a thin-handled blade grasped tightly between my fingers. She laughed.

“You never did tell me if there was anything else about you I should know,” she said, her frames making a small metal chink on the polished wood. “Now’s your chance.”

She kept her back angled towards me, but I preferred it that way. I raised my weapon.

“You might not believe me,” I whispered harshly into the darkness. “But—”

The light clicked. Overhead, a single bulb exploded to life, illuminating my tiny knife, and her massive gun.

She smiled, her eyes locked on my face, her gaze intent, her hands steady. “You’re a murderer,” she said softly. “So am I. Now what are the odds of that?” ■

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Eschatological Misunderstanding Ryan Knowles

But your dead will live; their bodies will rise. You, who dwell in the dust, wake up and shout for joy.

Your dew is like the dew of the morning; the earth will give birth to her dead. (Isaiah 26:18-20)

T

he attack came quickly, without warning. Without mercy. They came in the late afternoon and had spread like a swarm of locusts, covering the entire city, and in mere hours we were all stranded in the city’s centre. From the graves and barrows of old rose horrid dead, most naught but skeletons, some with rotting flesh still clinging to their bones. All had eyes glowing like coals, and all were relentlessly headed towards the heart of the city. That was where the city’s populace was cowering.

That was where we would make our stand.

We weren’t all trained. Some were office people, trembling with fear as they tightly gripped whatever had been closest to them that could be used as a weapon. Some were farmers, lucky enough to make it into the city, brandishing pitchforks and shovels with a fierce determination that could come from nothing else but desperation.

I for one was trained as a member of the riot police. I and the few other trained fighters had spread ourselves thinly throughout the crowd that had gotten up the nerve to fight. We had used some cars and debris to make a sort of barricade between us and them. We had also managed to salvage enough tactical shields to make a ring around the survivors. I was in this ring, with my baton at the ready and my shotgun slung over my back. Those who had firearms, from pistols to shotguns to rifles, formed a second ring behind us.

There was no sound when the floodlights we’d rigged up illuminated the first wave. Not like the movies 8 absynthe magazine

with all the moaning and sputtering. Just silence.

Personally, I would have preferred the moans and sputtering. They advanced faster than anticipated. The rotting corpses surged over the futile barricades like an unholy tide and were on us in an instant. Bones clashed on shields and shots rang out as the skeletal army clashed with our meagre defences.

We held briefly. My baton was torn from my grasp after getting lodged in the head of the first zombie that got close enough. My shield was an encumbrance, the sheer mass of bodies weighing down on it making it useless. I readied my shotgun and fired. I didn’t bother to aim. I didn’t need to. The horde of cadavers in front of me offered easy targets. I fired once, twice, three times. I stood like a rock in the rapids, holding my own as the undead rushed passed me, only to meet the remorseless rain of bullets from the gunners and the frantic stabbing of improvised spears from the citizens.

I clothes-lined a zombie with my gun, stepped on its chest, and shot its head. I looked up to see that the first wave had been slaughtered, without any human casualties. We were victorious. We were lucky. We were so overwhelmed with emotion that we barely saw the second wave approaching.

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We were swept away. Literally. The tide of death and decay ploughed us over. The defence was futile. The defence had failed. I rose from the flood of rotting creatures to see once again that, other than some scrapes and bruises, the survivors were unharmed. Looking towards the city’s populace, sure in my mind that I would see a blood bath, I was surprised to see that the dead had passed them by, and were now crowding around a boy.

The boy was Middle-Eastern, with nut-brown skin and raven black hair. He seemed to glow faintly, as though there was a light shining behind him, or from inside him. He smiled a small, beautiful smile, and said, “You have waited long. Go now in peace to the house that my father has made for you.”

The undead army looked up in unison, and I followed their gaze. Up above, a piece of the night had been torn from the sky, giving way to a blazing light and the faint sound of music echoing from within.

I gazed at that gap in the sky, I heard that faint music, and smiled. The night of horrors had gone and given way to glorious morning. ■

DE

AD

LIN 1ST E: MA , 20 R 15 CH

SHORT STORY CONTEST 2015 750-1100 Words

a

(Cash Prizes)

Must include these words: flummoxed, osculate, tautology, urbane, desultory

absynthe magazine 9

Celebrity

Like every other year 2014 has taken some of our favourite (and least favourite) celebrities. Here at absynthe we’re always tasteful and wish to say RIP to some of those people we’ve lost.

James Garner 1928-2014 Joan Rivers 1933-2014

Mickey Rooney 1920-2014 Shirley Temple Black 1928-2014

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Harold Ramis 1944-2014

Graveyard Ruby Dee 1922-2014 Lauren Bacall 1924-2014

Richard Kiel 1939-2014

Pete Seeger 1919-2014

Richard Attenborough 1923-2014

absynthe magazine 11

Cultural Appropriation on Halloween: A One Night Stand that Only Stimulates Stereotypes Candace Ellison

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n North America, although pumpkin carving, trick-or-treating, haunted houses, and scary movies are all important Halloween traditions, the October holiday is probably best known as the one night of the year we are given the opportunity to shed our own identities and become someone (or something) else. Needless to say, those who enjoy this cultural practice often take costume choice pretty seriously. But does anyone ever stop to think about the socio-cultural implications of cultural appropriation when choosing the ideal Halloween costume?

If you find yourself thinking that you do in fact choose your costumes in a culturally sensitive way from year to year, you deserve a high-five. I imagine, however, that most are wondering what kind of socio-cultural implications I’m referring to, why critical thought about Halloween costumes matters (after all, it’s “just” Halloween), or what cultural appropriation even means. The reason I make this assumption is because prior to a recent conversation I shared with a roommate of mine, I was also to blame for never putting enough thought into how problematic and offensive some classic Halloween costumes can be.

To understand the nature of this issue, we need to get back to basics. In a broad sense, the term “cultural appropriation” is defined as “the adoption or theft of icons, rituals, aesthetic standards, and behaviour from one culture or subculture by another” and is rooted in increased 12 absynthe magazine

contact between cultures due to colonization and globalization (Unsettling America, 2011). It is important to note that those whose cultures are appropriated are typically politically, economically, and/or socially subordinate to those doing the appropriating. Before moving forward with this issue, I should take the opportunity to admit my own problematic position in addressing the issues concerning Indigenous cultural appropriation. I am a young, white, Canadian woman who constitutes part of the “dominant” culture, and because I take issue with it, I hope to draw your attention to cultural appropriation and open onceblind eyes to the importance of the decolonization of thought in understanding the socio-cultural consequences of appropriation.

Keeping in mind the definition of cultural appropriation, one of the trendiest (and most ignorant) examples seen during Halloween is the use of culturally significant Indigenous clothing and sacred ceremonial dress as templates for costumes. (At least in the context of North America and the continent’s history of promoting forced cultural assimilation and turning a blind eye to Indigenous human rights abuses.) These costumes are harmful and ignorant in more ways than most people care to realize. Although some like to think that systematic racism has been virtually eradicated in North American society in the face of globalization and multiculturalism, Indigenous costumes, “[…] an extension of centuries of racism,

genocide and oppression” (Unsettling America, 2011), are evidence against this misguided belief.

Cultural appropriation is one of innumerable ways in which neo-assimilation encourages the acquisition of marginalized cultures by the dominant culture (Unsettling America, 2011). The more markers of marginalized cultures are mainstreamed by appropriation, the less they remain distinct cultural markers that separate one culture from another. Take, for example, the commodification of imitation Indigenous headdresses for commercial sale in October. The sale of such culturally significant items encourages uneducated appropriation and dishonour of the cultural symbol. The offence here is that the consumer is more than likely unaware of the symbolic meaning associated with Indigenous headdress and therefore (according to many) has no right to adorn themselves with one in the form of costume. In its cultural context, the headdress is earned, and almost always by an accomplished male (Êkosi, 2012). And the inappropriate and damaging representations of Indigenous culture on Halloween do not stop here.

Looking through a gendered lens, it is clear to see that representations of Indigenous women in Halloween costumes are equally, if not more problematic.

To add insult to injury, not only do these costumes commodify culture, perpetuate cultural stereotypes and racism, and sustain neo-assimilation, but women’s versions of the classic Indigenous costumes almost always over-sexualize the Indigenous woman. This is blatantly evident in even the names given to these costumes, such as “Sexy Pow Wow Indian,” “Sexy Pocahontas,” or “Temptress Indian,” to name a few. I bet you’re thinking that almost all women’s costumes in general are over-sexualized, and I would agree with you. However, there are more severe implications when representations of already discriminated against, over-sexualized, and abused Indigenous women encourage their continued marginalization. Those who haven’t yet taken a Gender and Women’s Studies course or two at Trent, or heard about these issues in the media, may not realize that, in Canada, the rates of sexual abuse and violence against Indigenous women is much higher relative to non-Indigenous women. To be more specific: “According to the 2004 General Social Survey (GSS), Aboriginal women 15 and older are

three and a half times more likely to experience violence (defined as physical and sexual assault) than non-Aboriginal women” (Native Women’s Association of Canada, 2010, pp.4). This gendered example demonstrates the power structural discrimination has to influence even something as seemingly insignificant as a Halloween costume and the ignorance associated with the appropriation and sexualization of Indigenous cultural dress.

Cultural racism and sexism are deeply ingrained in North America’s colonial history, and are just as prevalent in today’s neo-colonial societies despite deceitful discourse that may argue otherwise. Discrimination and cultural insensitivity affect us all whether we chose to realize this fact or ignore it, but it is important to remember that cultural insensitivity in all forms, including cultural appropriation, whether it be deliberate or unintentional, can have detrimental socio-cultural consequences. So this Halloween, before you decide on a costume, think twice, consider culture, and decolonize your ideas. ■ Êkosi. (2012). An Open Letter to Non-Natives in Headdresses. Retrieved from "http:// apihtawiko"http://apihtawiko s i s a n . com/hall-of-shame/an-open-letter-to-non-natives-in-headdresses/.

Native Women’s Association of Canada. (2010).

Sisters in Spirit: 2010 Research Findings. Pp. 4.

Unsettling America. (2011, September 16). Cultural Appreciation or Cultural Appropriation? Re -trieved from http://unsettlingamerica.wordpress. com/2011/09/16/cultural-appreciation-or- cultural-appropriation/.

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Horrorscopes Scorpio (October 21st -November 21st) If you would like to keep your life on the right track you will have to skin three of your closest friends and create a lovely chair from their hides. What?

I didn't come up with it. The stars did.

Pisces (February 19th -March 20th) If it were possible for your parents to rewind your conception, they absolutely would. It's not too late for you to pull a Menendez.

Aries (March 21st -April 19th) Your roommate has spiked all of the liquids in your house. The next drink you take will make your skin fall off, and your flesh turn to goo.

Sagittarius (November 22nd - December 21st) I know that you believe that the world revolves around you. And soon enough it will. Unfortunately, that will mean the death of billions.

Taurus (April 20th -May 20th) Your future is showing me Capricorn (December 22nd nothing but pain and misery, - January 19th) You feel like but according to your exeveryone in your life is mov- girlfriend you're into that. ing on without you. Don't worry, it's not that you're a Gemini (May 21st -June major failure, though you 20th) You're going to witwere. It's that you're already ness someone choking on a dead. chicken wing and do nothing to save them. This will awakAquarius (January 20th - en all of those impulses that February 18th) Your death is you have been trying to deny inevitable. The man lurking for so long. Make sure to in your bathroom has just wear gloves when you finally made it more pressing. give in. And maybe shave all of your body hair. And burn off your finger prints.

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Leo (July 23rd - August 22nd) I am your judge, jury, and executioner. Confess all of your sins to absynthe in the form of submitted articles and I may spare you.

Virgo (August 23rd -September 22nd) You bed is a nest for giant spiders. They're currently burrowing into your mattress, and they will come out when you least expect it. Don't be afraid. They only want to use your body as a vessel.

Libra (September 23rd -October 22nd) Why? Don't we make ya laugh? Aren't we fuckin' funny? You best come up with an answer, cos I'm gonna come back here and check on you and your momma and if you ain't got a reason why you hate clowns, I'm gonna kill your whole fucking family.

Cancer (June 21st - July 22nd) It's finally time for you to retire. From existence.

Family Legends Tara Henley

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hile most of the ghost stories you’ve way to the theatre. This was a theatre we didn’t heard are undoubtedly fiction, here go to often, and it was very out of our way. In is one that is not. I heard it from my fact, it was out of the way of everything. To get grandmother, Virginia Henley, who there, we had to pass through a long, winding grew up in an old house in the north of Eng- road that made its way through farmers’ fields. land. Her mother, my great-grandmother, was I remember that it was a very dark night and we rumoured to have been psychic. She couldn’t were running a bit late — you can blame your tell you what you were thinking, but she knew granddad for that! I’m sure Arthur was speedwhen she was about to receive a letter from a ing a little because we didn’t want to miss the mysterious sender, among other trivial things. beginning.

My grandma always told me that her mother We were going around a sharp bend when sudwelcomed spirits. denly a large black dog jumped out from the Grandma is now a retired author living in Flori- corn field! Although Arthur hit the breaks as da, but every time “There was no blood on the front of our car quickly as he could, we I venture down hit the poor thing. and there were no footprints in the mud. We south to visit So we sat there for a her, I always ask decided, after many minutes of searching, while in shock – I was in her to tell me the that we both must have imagined the dog, or tears as we tried to figit must have gotten away.” “ghostly” things ure out what to do. she experienced “Well,” your grandwhile growing up in England. On my last trip dad said to me, “I suppose I should go out and to Tampa to visit her, she told me a story that get him so I can take him to his owner.” changed my life forever. My granddad, who was I agreed, and together we left the car. Arstill alive at the time, vouched for the authen- thur bent down near the back wheels and, even ticity of this tale. My great-grandmother could though it was very dark, I saw his face turn pale. have as well, although she has been dead now I didn’t think it indicated anything other than his for many years. uneasiness at seeing the dead dog lying there

My grandma, being the dramatic woman (possibly mutilated) until he cleared his throat that she is, pulled me aside, sat me down, and and called me over. told me the following story in a solemn voice:

“Virginia,” he said urgently, “there’s noth I was with Granddad and we were on our ing there.” continued on page 17

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I Don't Believe in Ghosts Jack Smye

I

don’t believe in ghosts. The carbon cycle is angry person dies in a house and creepy crucia comforting and very real phenomenon that fixes are strewn around like supporting beams. explains any questions I have had or may I get it. You don’t have to believe me. have about life as I know it. A good friend of Things were off in the house. It was mine used to take on a serious expression and shoddily built, and rooms were put together in proclaim, “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” a strange, helter-skelter fashion. My brother’s We generally used this adage for romantic gos- room was off of the living room, in between the sip until I started realizing it held a lot of truth kitchen and my father’s room. It had no winin other aspects of my life. While I root for the dows, but featured a line of doors along one wall carbon cycle, I will acknowledge when occur- (four!) that all opened into the same long closet. rences are so clear and in my face that it would My room was upstairs, and the walls housed take some kind of superpower-ed ignorance to an infestation of ladybugs that made pinging blame it on the wind sounds as they or old floor boards. I “My eyes widened when I heard the sounds fell out onto the don’t fancy myself an of gruff laughter (note that my brother is a floor. Lights flickignorant person, and ered, magnets grump, but not gruff).” this is my ghost story. rearranged, the

My uncle lives in a one and a half sto- fire would restart after being put out, the dog ry house in a small Ontario town. He bought it howled if she was brought in the house – usual, for the low, low price of $36,000 and it came explainable stuff that ends up being annoying completely furnished. He struck bachelor gold rather than spooky. and we made a game of counting how many One night, I was awake studying and my crucifixes hung in each room (at least five). As brother and uncle had gone to bed. It was about any good ghost story goes, the house previ- eleven at night and I could hear my brother rusously belonged to a woman and her husband. tling around in his room. The light went on and Neighbours confirmed that he was a dear old off from under the crack in his door. I wasn’t man and she was a really nasty piece of work about to pop my head in because he’s a bit of who outlived him by a few years. This woman a grump and I was on a roll with my studying. died in the house. I recognize that I have the The lightshow began to intensify, though. In trappings of every clichéd ghost story out there: between abnormally fast flickers, I could hear

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one of the closet doors open and close. Then another. Then another. After a few moments there was a cacophony of closet doors opening and closing, alongside light flickers. I closed my book and stared dumbly at his door. My eyes widened when I heard the sounds of gruff laughter (note that my brother is a grump, but not gruff). I wish I could say that I was overtired and needed some stimulation outside of my psychology text, but that was sadly not the case. I called out to my uncle, who was sleeping in the room next door. He had been listening to it all, and shouted that he would “go in after me.” As previously mentioned, I don’t fancy myself an ignorant person, or an idiotic one, so I did not go in.

My brother was really, really pissed off when I told him what happened the next morning. I confirmed with him that I did indeed care about him, but that was too creepy to interrupt and did he blame me?

Since that night, the house took on an even creepier vibe. I could hear footsteps from

my room to the living room. I could hear the wood in the basement being picked up and dropped (but undisturbed the next day). Doors opened and closed. The ladybugs dropped from the ceiling and were found in everything.

My uncle’s dog stopped coming in the house.

Crucifixes kept turning up, even after we had gotten rid of them.

A friend of mine advised me to try asking it to stop. I figured it couldn’t hurt. Wood planks crashing in the basement make for a sleepless night, as do the footsteps coming close to my room and leaving again. It sounds unbelievable, but you enter this stage beyond being scared shitless and it’s mighty close to being royally pissed off. One night, after being kept up by ghostly shenanigans for hours (and having my dad confirm that he wasn’t about to head into the basement) I tried asking it (them?) to stop. I was polite: I simply said, “Please stop.”

It stopped.

But just for that night. ■

continued from page 15

“What do you mean there’s nothing there?” I snapped, bending down to take a look.

There was no sign of a dog anywhere.

We checked both sides of the road, we checked the corn nearby, we even whistled. But we never found any trace of a dog having been hit.

There was no blood on the front of our car and there were no footprints in the mud. We decided, after many minutes of searching, that we both must have imagined the dog, or it must have gotten away.

On our way back from the theatre, we stopped at my mother’s house. When she asked if we’d had any trouble finding the theatre, I replied, ‘No, but there was this dog we thought we hit on the way over…’

As I told her the story, I watched her face

turn as pale as Arthur’s had when he’d looked under the car. Slowly, my mother stood up and handed me a newspaper she had on her desk.

‘Read this,’ she commanded, and so I read.

“Ghost Dog Causes Accidents,” the title declared. In the article, there were testimonies from several other people who claimed to have hit a black dog late at night, right at the very bend where Arthur and I had been.

After my grandma finished her story, I had goosebumps like nobody’s business. I excused myself from the room and went into the bedroom. I was a little jumpy, so I locked the door behind me (this I remember very, very clearly).

I stood at the mirror, trying to calm myself down.

I said aloud, “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

The door flew open. ■

absynthe magazine 17

J’ai Bu Assez à Jean Macé Zafer Izer A typical conversation in my flat during the month now from all the ammonia. I should have had my gloves on, but I can’t be arsed. How did you like of September: the film?”

ME: “I’m starting to dig French cinema. It was ME: Slurring “What the fuck am I doing here.”

HER: Stern, though sympathetic “Oh dear, you’re good. Funny how the movie was about two flatmates with the guy doing all the cooking.” not becoming a sad boy on me, are you?”

ME: “I want to earn my place in France, but the se- HER: Sounding extremely British “Ooh, I’d love to mester is taking so long to start up and it’s totally be Audrey Tatou!” compounding my stress. I’ve had two lectures ME: “I don’t have a grandma for you to take care so far in all of September and they’ve been hell. of though. You’re going to have to get me back Translating the Latin subjunctive into the French for dinner another way.” subjunctive… You have no idea. The culture is to- HER: “What are you suggesting?” tally different here. Everyone has so much more ME: Finishes drink “How ‘bout a kiss?” exposure to the Classics. They pop out the womb HER: Adjusts hijab, pinches me on the cheek, reciting goddamn …uh, Tacitus. I’m butchering stands “You should go to bed, Zaf.” two foreign languages. I don’t know how I’ll pass ____ this year.”

HER: Sounding very British “I’m sure you’ll be Friday, 19th September 2014 fine! You made it all the way here, didn’t you?”

ME: “Thanks.”

Woken by the chatter of female voices, I HER: “I feel like the idiot of the lab. I’m definitely the baby – I’m the only Masters, everyone else is wheeze through my door and enter the sunlit foya Doctor or Post-Doc. I am never doing a doctor- er of my apartment in Debourg, South East Lyon. ate. But I dunno what else, because there aren’t My three housemates, two French-Moroccan arts students and an Iraqi chemist from West Lonany jobs in my field.”

ME: “Idiot of the lab? But they must love you, you don, are having lunch. Imane and Malika stand to kiss me on the cheek. Born into to the French always stay so late.” Finishes drink HER: “That’s just because it takes me so long to schooling system, which holds the humanities in higher esteem than in North America, their schedget everything done.” ule keeps them at campus most of the day. They ME: “Oh.” Pours drink HER: “Today I wasted an entire hour because I greet me pleasantly, but there is perhaps an edge was making nanoparticles in acetone, but there to Imane’s voice when she asks, as usual, was a contamination in the solution. We still “What have you done today?” don’t know what it was. I think I’m light-headed “I, uh… Just woke actually.”

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As an international I am given much more freedom over the nature and weight of my course load. When the term is in full swing I’ll have eight hours of class a week, none taking place earlier than 11:00 AM1. I have been filling time with the self-assigned task of cooking for the apartment. The Moroccans are generally too tired by the time they return from evening classes, laden with homework. Isra, the West London chemist, is completely hopeless in the kitchen, being English.

As I sit, she beams across the table, the picture of British good cheer, her eyes all but closed by her smile.

“Eugh. I smell like ammonia already. No classes today?”

“Not today. Going out.”

“Going aaooeeuwwt” Isra drawls, in a barbaric attempt at imitating my accent. I bury my face in my hands.

I spend the afternoon smoking Gauloises and trying to focus on some Latin exercises I pulled off the internet. I buy a handful of stamps and postcards but realize I haven’t done anything worth writing about yet and they stay in my back pocket for the rest of the evening. After Isra’s lab work is finished she meets me on a patio at Bellecour, where Ed and Merlin, two Oxford men, Benjie, an English teacher from Baltimore, and Anna, a biologist from University College in London, soon join us. Anna is accompanied by a willowy creature named Franka, an old friend of hers who has already been working as a researcher in Lyon for a year. As they settle on the patio, a motley brass band starts playing from the far end of the crowded square and a parade winds its way towards us. Its members are on stilts, painted garish colours, and slowly contract then pull apart in some sort of ritualistic dance while maintaining the creeping pace of the parade.

“It’s the journée de patrimoine,” Franka informs us in a delicate German accent as the strange forms float behind her expressionlessly under a steel-grey sky. “All the museums are free.

I will be your guide.”

The Hôtel de Ville in Lyon is an imposing, turreted 17th century building of grey stone.

Queuing outside, we shuffle through the iron gate as if on a conveyor belt, accompanied by what appears to be the entire population of the Rhône Valley. The décor in the pastel-coloured palatial

chambers is dizzying; gaudy floral patterns on the carpet continue seamlessly up the silken walls, ceilings are smoothly vaulted and illustrated with baroque paintings of scenes in heaven. Marble figures peer out from under patriarchs lolling in their frames, with a baby’s expression curiously mature or a woman in Roman dress baring her breast without the faintest hint of sensuality. Isra is successively more enchanted by each room we enter. She declares that it is her top priority to find a husband with a chateau so she may live forever carefree. Ed, who is gay, agrees.

“Well, you know, I’m not really a biologist!

I sort of fake it, you know!” I hear Anna laughing nervously from the opposite end of the table. True to her word, Franka has directed us to a small riverside bouchon2, which our party has all but overwhelmed. I accept the offer of more red wine from Quentin, on my right, a local who at some point joined our party, along with his friend, François, sitting across. I ask the Frenchmen whether they too are students. They tell me they are not, looking back at me with healthy, contented faces.

Quentin is a mechanic and François makes windows.

“What do you do, Zaf?”

“Good question.”

I climb-step out of the aptly named Les Fleurs du Malt, a Vieux-Ville basement beer hall, and light a Gaulois to clear my head. Dark birds, pigeons perhaps, are circling above. Merlin, Benji and Ed emerge behind me.

“How about that cherry beer?”

“I can’t believe I was the only one of us all who hasn’t done anal.”

“I can’t believe Anna’s into girls.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing Anna.”

Anna climbs out, tangled up in her shawl.

Inexplicably, she immediately starts talking to the nearest bystander on the crowded street.

“Anna, come back!”

“What is she saying?”

“I think she’s asking about the nearest bar.”

“Anna, we just left the b--”

Then, in unison, a horrified “ANNA, NO!!!” as she picks up a discarded bottle of wine off the cobblestone and takes a swig. I’m not sure if my head is spinning or all the faceless bystanders are sliding closer, circling. I turn to Benjie.

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“This is fucked.”

“I’m out of darts.”

“The tabac at Jean Macé is open.”

Stepping back onto the sidewalk, Benjie and I face what we failed to notice on our way into the tabac: a gleaming pool-hall. We cross, but before we reach the doors a loiterer outside stops me for a lighter. The three of us spark up. Tan and stocky like so many of the locals, he introduces himself as Aziz. Like most, he takes interest in the fact that we are ENS students.

“Mais vous parlez très bien français!”

“Oh, merci. On étudie la littérature.”

Aziz and his girlfriend, a French Lyonnaise woman, challenge us to a game. Benjie, however, suddenly notices a sign on the door next to him: club privé.

“It’s alright?” He asks. “You think we’ll be allowed in?”

Aziz gives us a toothy smile. “Sure, no problem.”

“Quentin, trois Kronenbourgs s’il te plaît!”

There are no obvious signs inside that this is an exclusive club, although we are pleased when Aziz leads us past the pay-per-use tables to a glossy one right by the bar, and begins setting up a match. We lose the game by a hair. Smiles and handshakes abound. Steadying myself along the table to compensate for the rocking floor, I make it to the bar and slam my empty pint glass down for a refill.

“Cinq euros, monsieur.”

“Ah… Hold on, musta left muh wallet at the booth. Berightback.”

I turn around a little too quickly and the room punches me in the face.

I’ve got crates and barrels on every side of me now, in a space barely bigger than a closet, and a single light bulb is illuminating that bastard Aziz’s gloating face.

“You zink you’re feucking smart?” He growls, still gripping his pool cue angrily. “You zink you’re feucking smaerter zan me wiz your words!? I tell you, mec, I went to ENS too! My fazzer fought ze pieds noirs in Algérie so I could go to a good école and you know what I found? A beeeuuunnch of feucking beatnicks who drink to forget how useless zey are! I left after a year, I was so déçu. But not to worry, mec, because I ‘ave burned all your identifications and I will teach you 20 absynthe magazine

in my own école supérieure, heihhn? You’ll stay in my bar and do some manly weurk for once in your misérable life!” ■ Editor’s Note:

The above story arrived at the Absynthe office on a series of postcards scrawled in what appears to be blood and, towards the end, human feces.

Zafer Izer’s current location is unknown. He was conducting a study year abroad in Lyon, France.

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