Symposium art to soothe your soul an arts and humanities students’ council publication
volume 3 issue 1 fall 2015 Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The sole responsiblity for the content in this publications remains with the authors and artists. The content does not reflect the opinions if the Arts & Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students’ Council (USC). The AHSC and USC assume no liablity for any errors, inaccuracies, or ommisions contained in this publication.
a letter from the editor This year, our theme for Symposium was IDENTITY. We decided to share what IDENTITY truly means to all of us with all of you.
- Sarah
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history
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Editor-in-Chief Academic Managing Editor Creative Managing Editor Copy Editor Layout Editor Special Thanks To
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I T awareness C E Nunappolo N getic Orecon sideration truthkindess iqueconfidence
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Y T I T N
Sarah Botelho Lauren Sayers Katie Fowler Emma Lammers Julia Vance Massimo Perruzza, Alicia Johnson, and Hina Afzaal
Directions to Here, Now Jasmeen Siddiqui
1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.
Crawl 2 weeks late onto Waking St. Take 2 steps forward and one step back for 1095 m. Head right on Nuclear Family Cres. for 2190 m. Make a slight left onto Low Income St. and continue on indefinitely. Reach a fork in the road of Mom Ave. and Dad Dr. Keep heading straight on Mom Ave. for 550 m. Merge onto Stability Highway 101. Ignore potholes and caution signs for 1800 m. Make a slight left into the carpool lane and don’t you dare spill anything in your stepdad’s Nissan or so help me God your ass will be grass, just like your mother’s. 9. Take Exit F-That. 10. Don’t look back. 11. Okay, you should have kept your eyes on the road a little. 12. Get airlifted to the nearest hospital. Try to stay conscious. 13. Wheel along Self St. and be cautious of construction for 730 m. 14. Exit onto High School Blvd. for 1460 m and fill tank using minimum wage, quarters, and dime bags. 15. Stop at the intersection of High School Blvd. and University Ave. Try something new. 16. Ride a lilac Pegasus into the neon laughing forest and fly to the second star on the right and straight on till morning. 17. Get pulled over. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. 18. Merge onto Academic High Road. Pay $30,000 toll. 19. Pick up a boy with dark eyes and a lot of baggage. Drive blindly for who knows how long. 20. Make two wrong turns. 21. Try to make a right. 22. Look out the rear-view mirror and forget what you look like. Look out the windows and grow doubtful. Continue with pupils dilated for 270 m. 23. Wake up heading south on Heartbreak Gdns. 24. Heartbreak Gdns. turns right after 808 m and becomes Memory Lane. 25. Make a sharp left onto Fleeting St. and run every red light for 700 m. 26. Pull over and get an oil check. Tune your engine, clear your dashboard, and empty your glove compartment. 27. Notice that the road signs have disappeared for quite some time now.
art by Ella Gonzales
Thing Miriam Ahmad-Gawel
One Look in the mirror. By the sink, there are people in this bathroom, so she makes sure she doesn’t look for too long. Is her lipstick still visible and natural-looking? that is, working as a stain. What is that — a makeup brush hair on her cheek? it looks like an abnormally thick, long, misplaced human hair as if from an eyebrow. Grotesque, unappealing. A hair not where it should be is an intimate incongruity hinting at how she tends to her hairy areas. She plucks her eyebrows and this stray brush hair looks like she doesn’t know how to do it properly. Would this be easier if she were just covered head to toe in fur, not having to pluck at all; would this be easier if she were a dog, you mean? What’s ‘this’? living. She makes no adjustments to her appearance in front of the sink mirror and goes instead into a stall where she sweeps away the synthetic strand, looking in a pocket mirror taken from her school bag. She sees her face in planes of circular reflected skin, not as a whole. Pores. Follicles. Ugly words. Separate from her. Words to be hidden and then treated until the words don’t exist. Hide then treat, repeat. She takes out a lipstick that is a few shades darker than her own mouth. She applies the colour and takes a square of single ply toilet paper, cheap, to dab away excess. She folds the paper in half and closes her lips around the crease to blot. One last look in the pocket mirror. Nice lips. Attractive. Almost foreign — they too are separate from the face by a silver metal border. Her face. She puts both mirror and cosmetic back into her bag and flushes away her square of soiled paper. She sticks her thumb in her mouth to remove any lipstick from the lining of her lips so she won’t get any on her teeth. She sucks her thumb like she would suck a pathetic dick. Lipstick on teeth looks like dirt, as if she doesn’t know how to brush her teeth in the morning. Exiting the stall she washes her hands, in case anyone heard her flush. Don’t look up, in the mirror, don’t be vain. As she leaves, she cannot help but take a quick, desperate glance to see a, her, backside briefly as it leaves the bathroom. Wait, whose? Two Look in the mirror. By the sink, her friends left their drinks on the counter. One two four drinks, does she remember which four she had come with? They are all so similar sometimes… In the mirror she sees one of them sitting on the floor of a stall, next to a toilet, about to vomit. Another one of them is standing over the seated one. The standing one is talking quietly to the sick one. Why can’t she recall their namessssss. She trails in her thoughts and turns from their reflections to the drinks on the counter and picks one up. A fizzy, dark purple number, it smells of grape and has a cherry swimming in it. Makes no sense. She drinks. Where are the other two? Is she supposed to know? Is it her responsibility to keep tabs on them, while they’re clearly not concerned about their sick friend? Pretty shitty people, they seem to be. She wonders who brought them. She sets down the glass and looks in the mirror, past a, her, face, and to the people in the stall. She sees one of them sitting on the floor, next to a toilet, about to vomit. Another one of them is standing over the seated one. The standing one is talking quietly to the sick one. Wait, those are
Her face. Her friends. She goes over to the two in the stall to help them. ‘Friends.’ What does that title mean to her? She crouches down and holds back the hair of the puking one, giving a light pat on the back, as if she were helping out a stranger. She looks up towards the standing one. Ah yes, she knows that face. It’s… The puke is purple. Does she remember what she drank tonight? anything funny looking, novelty like that… wait, didn’t she have a grape thing? The sick one stops vomiting and rests against the toilet seat. The standing one goes out into the club to get some bottled water. She stands up and gravitates towards the mirror. Before she can look in it, she hurls into the sink. Purple… purple, what did she drink that was purple?! She coughs, acrid remains in her throat; lips are so dry, she feels the skin peeling away from itself. She picks at the skin on her lips. She looks up into the mirror and she sees a face. Who is that? She gets a fright. It’s a, her, reflection, her makeup has almost entirely sweated off and it’s hair is sweaty and has frizzed. Funny how it almost didn’t recognize herself. She’s too drunk. Hopefully she didn’t fuck anyone. Three Look in the mirror. By the sink, on the left side, she always keeps her toothbrush and paste and floss and mouthwash. They are all spearmint flavoured and they used to burn her mouth when she first started using them in combination. Now it’s a good burn. On the right side it, she, always keeps her birth control, — did it, she, remember to take it this afternoon? no… this morning? — face wash, bar soap, and moisturizer. It’s nighttime and she’s, it’s, tired. She it flosses her its teeth. Feel the string go between each tooth, sinking into the gums; gliding under each one, slipping under the soft pink stuff like raw meat. Up and down up and down, feels like it could cut all the way under to the root of the tooth. She tastes iron. How long has it she been flossing for? Did she already floss? Before she spits red into the sink it looks down and sees saliva and food particles. Huh. Did she already floss? She flosses her teeth. Feel the string go between each tooth, sinking into the gums; gliding under each one, cutting cutting, sharp needlelike pain, actually more like a saw, hacking, ow! Before it spits red into the sink it looks down and sees lots of blood. She stops flossing and sits down on the toilet seat. She looks at the floor as its mouth screams in pain. Did she already floss? Why is it bleeding profusely. She picks at the skin on her lips. So dry. It feels the skin peeling away from itself. When did they get so dry. She it picks at the skin on the lips and rips away at the flakes. When its fingers touch the lips they return to her line of vision red. When did they get so dry. She gets up and goes towards the mirror. It looks for mouthwash. It looks at the right side of her counter and is confused. Where is it. She finds it on the left side, next to the toothbrush, which is wet, and a box of floss. There appears to be blood on the white box of floss. She picks it up and looks at it. Where did that come from? And why is the box already empty? She IT hadn’t flossed yet. She she she. Hers hers hers. It’s. She looks up at her window. She seems to have forgotten having one. It is surprised and horrified to see someone looking directly back at it, right into its eyes. HER EYES. Widening, they are bulbous and huge, bloodshot to the point they are akin to maraschino cherries, unlike any other eyes she has ever seen before. Eyelashes form wet triangles on the lids. She opens her mouth as if to scream, only to see the stranger open theirs as well, their cracked and peeling lips parting, a heaving sound released from their throat. Blood seeps from their gums, staining their lips and teeth bright red. What is happening to her, she spins around. Before her is the bathroom sink. It looks up to see the stranger again, closer this time. She is talking. What are her thoughts and what is she saying? It spins around. Before her is the bathroom sink. It looks up at its window. It is disgusted to see a stranger looking right back at her. It spins around. She spins around. She spins around. Before it is the bathroom sink.
Disclosure Hannah Briggs
I’m in the cold, sticky 70’s-inspired turquoise armchair when a voice prompts, “How have you changed?” I wander back 3 months into my mind’s museum. Past the front doors made of stained glass and secrets, I spot the exhibit: An artifact of my past. I snatch the snowy sheet that hides a marble box. It is flawless at first glance, but the shiny exterior is cracked, concealed by cheap plaster and lazy handiwork. I carefully open the box, and all four walls fall flat. The sound of marble slabs on the solid ground is like simultaneous slaps to multiple faces. If the box could speak, it would scream. Thin crimson beads dribble out and taint the pearly floor tiles. The exhibit is now open to the public. “Doctor,” My voice echoes across the museum, “How haven’t I changed?”
art by Sofia Berger
All The World Megan Gerrett And when all the world is lonely will any light there be, left among these hollow graves and bitter, empty houses? And when all the war has died down will any light sink in, the clouds covering the blood-stains to recover what hope that fled? Fled from hearts of women and men who tried, oh very hard to fight for peace, to fight for rights what good did fighting do? And when all the world is darkness will any light shine through? to tell us God is watching whispering love to those that choose
And when all the world has given in will any light save you? you, who refuse to acknowledge unless you have proof? how much proof do you need? look around, it's delivered to you Delivered, but not needed, If the heart remains true And, when my time has faded will any light remain? how will I know they're sheltered? not crushed, in their own domain And when all the world is lonely, will any light there be left to pierce the soundless heartbeat?
Anxiety
Stefani Tom And here it was on this fateful night, I was lonely but I was not alone, I had my shadow following me around, He goes by the name of Anxiety.
I realize that I am lost in a trance, I am lost in his voice, I am enslaved by his predictions, I have become a prisoner.
You see Anxiety is pretty selfish, The only way he feels good is to take my happiness away, And as his confidence builds, Mine shatters like glass that was too fragile to begin with. And as he is given life, my lungs constrict and my heart races, As though there is not enough room for us both, In this messed up mine field I call my mind.
He controls my thoughts, My breaths, My life. It is as though to survive, he steals the water from my body. They escape in the form of tears. Tears that cannot stop even as my eyes grow tired.
As he whispers in my ear,
Anxiety and I don’t have a good relationship. I’m not me when he’s around. He’s a bully of the worst kind, The kind that is impossible to escape because he is manifested from my own imagination.
art by Jill Smith
There’s Something Different Elizabeth Hirb
It's been twenty-three days since your tour ended and you're still not sure it's real. If you and Max are really sitting in his kitchen, doing shots like dying men in the desert, with nothing to worry about except what time the game starts. Max tops up your glass again (because what else are best friends for?) and you decide not to worry about it for the moment; you just suck back the finger of whiskey and let your glass hit the table with a soft clink. It's not really soft, but you think it sounds that way because your only comparison is the dry desert heat and the snap of bullets that break the haze. And that's loud. That rings in your ears for days, so everything else is just sort of quiet now. You're not sure you like the quiet. But maybe you do. You did. Once. You'll learn to like it again. It's what the therapist tells you. The therapist is crazier than you are. "It's weird," Max says, swirling his amber drink with a contemplating stare. "Being back. I don't know what to do with myself." "Get a job," you say, though you've yet to update your own resume. You don't know what you'd add anyway. Something about being resourceful. Learning to sleep on cots under the hot desert sun. Eating MRE meals for days on end. Hiking sand-dunes with eighty pounds of gear. Thirty-four feels old to you now. Years and miles and mountains old. But you also feel like there's nothing for you to offer the world. Like your experience has left you as cookie-cutter as you were before joining the army. Like nothing about you and your life is any different, even though it should be. But maybe that's the thing you should be thankful for. That you feel exactly the same. You've seen different. You've been there for Max as he adjusted to his different. It's not always good. Your knee cracks as you shift in your seat and Max gives you a tight-lipped smile, raising the stump of his left arm in a toast. "Stray bullets," he says. You clink your glass against his. That's when she comes in, carrying a few bags of groceries. Max's baby cousin, though she's not quite a baby anymore. Twenty-eight. Wavy hair. Colour of the week is pale pink. With her big brown eyes she looks like a Valentine's Day card. She smiles, nods, and packs the groceries into the fridge, mentioning something about lasagna and if you're staying for dinner. You think you manage to nod. "You know she's a real piece of work," Max says when his cousin's gone off in search of some classic rock and a good book. "Just warning you now." You shrug and nod, scoffing into the shot glass because you're playing it off like you don't know what he's talking about, but really you do, and for the first time since coming home you wonder about what you're going to wear. Max tries to distract you with pondering and more drinking. Eventually there's reminiscing, which leaves your face flushed, but when she pokes her head back into the kitchen you can't remember what Max just said and you're surprisingly okay with that. Dinner is good, slightly burnt, but better than you've had in a long time. The conversation is even better, especially when Max nods off into his post-dinner coffee and there's just you and her. Closer up she's an array of colours. Her eyes: gold and green inside the brown. Her hair: pink
twisted with strands of palest blonde. It's like new flowers after the spring rain. Or the blush on a porcelain doll. And as you smile across the table at her, you see the edges of her cheeks flush almost the exact same shade as her hair. Pink is your new favourite colour. That's when you should have known something was different, but like most things in your life you choose to ignore this one, and instead offer to do the dishes. She accepts and tells you she'll dry; so you stand, shoulder-to-shoulder, and make small talk while Max snores on. You decide to stay with Max for a few weeks and, after three years of getting up with the dawn, you should have suspected something when you start showing up to breakfast late. Consequently it's the same time every day that she stumbles into the kitchen for a cup of earl grey and some toast. Today she's wearing a faded The Who shirt with her plaid pajama bottoms and you wonder how many more band tees she's got packed away in her closet. "Morning," she mumbles as you pass her the jam and you like that she's not a morning person. Max stares at you over the paper where he's pretending to do the crossword but you know he's really spying, and if you were paying attention you would have known Max knew there was something different. You shift your gaze to her again to find that she's engrossed in the funnies, the page spread out across her plate and yours. She's biting her lip and smiling and you think bed-head has never looked so good. There's a flutter in your chest that should tell you there's something different, but maybe you mistake it for hunger and swallow down the rest of the scrambled eggs and coffee. Eventually you get an apartment because seeing this much of Max makes you not want to see him and considering the best-friend thing you have, it doesn't quite work. His cousin is the first to drop by with a house warming present and though you have no food in the fridge, the champagne goes fine with pizza. You're pleasantly surprised to find that you both enjoy mushrooms and bad reality television. She knows there's something different when you ask her to go to the movies that night. You haven't been in ages and the theater is a stone's throw from your place so you decide to walk. It's a cool night and you reach out and close your hand around hers and it's nice. There's warmth in your veins that you attribute to the alcohol, but she knows better, and if you did too, you would have seen it in her smile. Still, you're oblivious to it all, even when she's the one waking you up after the nightmares and dragging you out to the small galley kitchen for a middle of the night tea. You swore you'd never drink the stuff, but she places the mug in front of you and runs a hand over your head. It's sweet, like her, so you drink it. You drink it every time. And sometimes in the mornings you find yourself making tea instead of coffee. When one well used mug in the cupboard became two, you should have known. But you're too busy going over all the different kinds of tea now, because really, who knew there were so many? You take some green tea out of the cupboard and drop it into your mug. You find her nail polish spread out on the living room floor one afternoon and have to tiptoe around the array of brightly coloured bottles to reach your favourite chair before the game starts. She returns to the room, nail file in hand, and sits down in front of you. "Red," she says, holding up a bottle for you to inspect. "Or blue?" "Red," you say without a thought. And then you wonder about the dexterity and flexibility required of the seemingly simple task as she hunches over her knees to reach her toes. You should have known that something was different when Max asked you about the game the next day and you realized that you never even watched it. Then there's the day her cat moves in. It's black with yellow eyes and you're pretty sure the way it looks at you means it wants to claw your eyeballs out. You give the thing a wide berth. If Max
were here to see you, he would laugh like a maniac and throw something at your head. But this cat is evil, you can just tell, and when she told you she was going to be away for the weekend and reminded you to feed it and you said, "Sure", you should have known. After dinner, when you've collapsed on the couch, the cat crawls onto your chest and for a moment you consider the will you never got around to finishing, but then the cat spins and promptly settles itself down to sleep. You inhale and exhale and after an hour of this you decide the cat isn't so bad. You should have realized every time she looks at you from under those black lashes and your mouth finds hers, but you don't because you're so caught up in the moment and the feel of her hair slipping through your fingers that you forget to notice how far you've come. It's so far, in fact, that you decide to buy a ring. The day she walks towards you, bouquet in hand, and Max on her arm, it should have hit you like a flying sack of bricks, but you were too busy holding your breath and depriving your brain of oxygen that it didn’t. You think you managed to cough out the word beautiful a few times over the night: once as you took her hand in yours, once as you twirled her on the dance floor, and once as you squashed cake all over her face; still, you're not sure because you're still breathless from it all. But when you wake up next to her the following morning, a ring on her finger, and her arm around your waist, you stare and wonder and flop back down on the pillow, letting out an amazed breath. And finally, finally, you know there's something different and you decide that it's the best feeling in the world. It's the moment you decide that it's real.
photography by Daniel Welch
art by Andrea Holstein
Forwards and Backwards
I’m Late
Julia Sebastien Again All over I'd fall for you When we were together, But every time That we had Bad times They erased all The good times They are powerless now All the obstacles Overpower You and I Enough Was never Enough I wanted to be with you But always It was impossible
Gabriella DeBono Unuttered and never known my unsaid words do not explode they are like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole skirt over eyes blind mind to the shrinking, squeezing, growing lost in caterpillar smoke blowing different dirt kissed than sun hugged So grab a mug with the Mad Hatter sanity not a question of the matter heart tarts missing and off with my tongue
(Now reread it in reverse order)
Brie Berry Pescetarian
“Why is it that we do not see all lives as equal,” the fisherman’s wife asks, watching their children play along the pier. he shrugs. turns away, loosing the insides from the belly of a trout. she cleans the mess he wipes his knife
5. A metalepsis is a competing set of discourses Or, The answer to how rain is an apology
Paper People
artwork by Rosalie Elphick description by Jasmeen Siddiqui
Dehumanization Carly Bruckner
Did you hear? Shes so easy What a slut I heard she slept with two guys last week Shes one of those girls Skank, hoe, floozy, tramp, slag I don’t deserve your respect because I enjoy casual sex I should be ashamed of my body I’m damaged goods I should stop giving it away because that’s all woman has to offer define me by what I choose to do in the bedroom and how often I do it because somehow that’s the worlds business look at me as less of a person because I am not afraid of my sexuality because I am a woman who is not afraid of her sexuality my hopes, my dreams, my ambitions, my passions they don’t matter brand me as inferior, as shameful I am a one-night stand I am a nude photo I am a girl at a bar who might go home with someone I am a choice, but it is my choice I am a student I am a daughter I am a sister I am a best friend I am my favourite song I am the way I scream it too loud in the car I am the first time I fell in love I am the way I bicker with my siblings I am the warmth of a long needed embrace I am the look in my mother’s eyes when she cries I am a woman I am human I am a beating heart I am a slut, a hoe, a floozy, a tramp, a slag I am one of those girls I slept with two guys last week I am so easy Did you hear?
art by Ella Gonzales
Girls Night Out Joanna Shepherd
the night is young as we take screen shots of the stupid things boys write in text messages and we laugh until we cry and the fun has just started we’re sprawled on the couch the drinking has started elephants didn’t sit on our chests when we were younger pulled pigtails and lingering eyes never made us cry but we drown the taste of boys unwanted tongues with vodka shots and mechanical laughter pretend this is a better story we are writing. we huddle together as we write the caption we don’t know how to start so we laugh because that’s what you do when you’re young and can’t explain the cadaver eyes in the camera shot act like mascara never leaked when we cried about the way our skin cries its desire to be clean smudged words written on our rear windows we haemorrhage from shots fired already starting from the mouths of old men on the street “young ladies, why don’t you smile?” we laugh and until they’re out of sight, we keep laughing because if we stop we just might cry and we walk a bit faster this is not a young habit we stay close together and stare right ahead of ourselves startled every time a horn blares gun shots. once in we take tequila shots which burn our chests so much that we laugh we dance before the alcohol starts to sink in “BEST NIGHT EVER!” if we say it enough, it’s true with a key, on a table we write “we are fearless we are young” words ring out like shots “bitches and sluts and prudes” the boys cry we laugh like we can re-write the victors and our lives have just started but we aren’t young.
Ruindays.com Tamara Spencer
Mark Grubley cracks his neck carefully and groans. He looks up at the black speaker tucked into the top corner of the wall and then to the clipboard in his hands. His assignments for the day. He can’t stop himself from chuckling as the opening beats of Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off ” begin to play. He makes a tick in the corner of his assignment sheet. The radio station has played this song twelve times since he’s been at work: almost a new record. A pair of Italian leather loafers shuffles into Mark’s sightline. He puts the clipboard down expectantly. “Morning, Grubley! How’s my Chief Glitter Bomber?” “This is the ninth time they’ve played Taylor Swift today,” is all Mark can manage in response. Brent laughs and slaps Mark’s shoulder. Mark recoils. “You’re losing your touch, Grubs! Counting T-Swift spins instead of doing your job… if this were Santa’s workshop you’d have the strap by now.” “You really think Santa’s that perverted?” Mark asks, unflinching. “You don’t?” Brent crows. Mark tries to pretend he thinks it’s funny while Brent’s laugh reverberates off the warehouse walls. This is their routine. “Morning, Grubs!” “Morning, boss.” Remark that could potentially be grounds for a harassment charge. Awkward laughter. Depart. Mark believes it’s impossible to like a guy who owns Italian leather loafers, and Brent is no exception. He’s completely useless in every way that actually counts. Every Christmas Brent tries to get involved with the production line: “To speed things up and shit,” he says. So, every year without fail, Mark has slowly run through the steps of his process. He’s shown Brent exactly what to do, exactly how to assemble the product Brent created. And for six Christmases Mark’s been cleaning up Brent’s half-assed attempts to work the line. Maybe Brent wasn’t too far off comparing this place to Santa’s sadistic sex workshop. He pictures Brent, dressed in a baggy red jumpsuit, trots around the warehouse holding his Italian leather whip. The string of his fake beard makes a sharp indent in the back of his head. All of his elves are strewn bottom-up across flimsy wooden chairs. “Grubs first!” Brent calls, laughing jollily. The laugh is three octaves lower than his usual guffaw. Mark looks down at his Nike runners. There’s a small hole developing near the big toe of his right foot. He decides that he needs to stop thinking about Brent-Santa whipping his bare ass, because the thought is enough to kill any shred of productive energy he has left. He picks up the package he’d been working on in an attempt to get some clarity. He has fifty-seven more orders to complete today, so he knows he needs to speed up. It really is a beautiful thing to watch Mark work. Every movement is made with precision. Mark likes to thinks of himself as a surgeon performing a textbook craniotomy: laborious, methodical, and dedicated to his craft. Just as the gallery fills above Dr. McDreamy’s head, so too should spectators give themselves over to the Mark Grubley: Chief Glitter Bomber experience. His process can be broken down into three main steps. First, he picks up a twelve-inch cardboard tube and checks for any snags. Clear. Next, the spring. He picks it up between his index finger and his thumb, careful not to bend any of the metal. He attaches the spring to a nine point five inch strip of cardboard and then lodges it into the tube. Secure. Finally, the best part. The money shot. The glitter.
Mark loves the glitter part the most because he thinks of it as the stuff Vegas couldn’t keep secret within its borders. The glitter makes him feel like a newly legal dude-bro walking down the Vegas strip, “Girls! Girls! Girls!” marquees turning his face a sickly kind of orange. The lights are so overwhelming that he really can’t decide which strip club to go into first, but he eventually enters an establishment that looks promising. His feet stick to the floor as he walks inside. His buddies egging him on, he sits at the front of the room. “Your first lap dance’s on me!” one screams above the music. The strobe lights shift from purple to blue to dark red, and he closes his eyes as he feels delicate fingers touch his shoulder. Ever so gently, Mark loads one packet of glitter into the spring. Once the glitter is in place, he jams the cap onto the open end of the tube. He sticks the tube in the bin at the top of his work desk, designated for packages ready for shipment. He reviews his clipboard and takes an impressively Zen breath, checking off this order from his list. One more day ruined. His shift continues in much the same fashion. Mark doesn’t really notice much of anything as he works, save for keeping up with the Taylor Swift tally. Mostly he thinks about how it must feel to be on the receiving end of one of his masterpieces. He thinks about Susann Cranston in Baltimore, Maryland, sitting at home watching Ellen reruns while her children fight over the last grape juice box in the fridge. She doesn’t really notice much of anything as she watches. That is, until the doorbell rings. She gets off the couch, opens the door, and sees a reasonably attractive UPS guy with a small, cylindrical package. She takes the pen out of the delivery guy’s hands before he has a chance to exchange pleasantries and then she’s slamming the door, propelling herself to the pliable couch cushion reserved for her behind. She sits, puts her feet up on the cat scratched coffee table, and opens the tube. Glitter. Glitter everywhere. In her hair, in her mouth, on the floor, in her eyes. Everywhere. She’ll never get it out. She’ll spend months trying to clean it and just when she thinks she’s finally kicked the little flecked demon, it’ll reappear. On her white fleece sweater. On her child’s eyelash. Nestled between her butt and the couch’s armrest. Susann Cranston and Glitter, till death do them part. Add her to the list of all the days he’s ruined. What Mark would really love is a collage of all the glitter-soaked bastards whose lives he’s touched. The end of his shift nearing, Mark begins to pack up for the day. He transports his bin filled with ninety-eight Glitter Bombs to the shipping bay of the warehouse. He knows they’re out of his hands now. He breathes in the smell of AC and rotting pineapples from someone’s forgotten lunch and makes his way to his locker. He pulls out his Chicago Bears hat and fits it onto his head. He grabs his sunglasses and windbreaker and turns toward the building’s solitary “Exit” sign. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. The security of imminent release. But before he can get to the door, he hears it again. That high school football game drum beat. That irritating, anti-Siren voice. Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off.” He walks back to his desk and grabs his clipboard. He makes a tick in the corner of his assignment sheet. He admires his work. Twenty-two ticks. “Huh. New record,” he says. He puts in his ear buds and leaves the warehouse.
Out Of The Red Amy Skodak
My triptych, Out of the Red is comprised of three self portraits; created using photo transfers on canvas, with a painted red dress in acrylic to create selective colour. The idiom, “Out of the Red” is meant to communicate a sense of solid stability after being at a loss. This reflects the current time in my life – a reflection of the assuredness and grounded confidence I have in myself after overcoming a series of personal obstacles.
In contrast however, my use of the colour red is meant to communicate the extreme passion and drive I now feel compelled to exert. My works are meant to evoke a sense of knowing, maturity and transformation – the beginning of an epic resurface of oneself.
The Comedian Megan Levine
I was that girl who got a comedian on her career test. I watched as all my friends sighed with relief, a nod of approval from their parents illuminating each screen. We treated these tests as our fortune tellers. They could see past our present: unraveling the fate that was pressed tightly in their hands. While everyone I knew was skipping down a collage of dollar bills and firmly pressed ties, smiles as wide as their mansions, I was headed straight to clown college. I took this as a sign that my life was a joke. When I was younger, I used to have debates with my dad, trying my hardest to convince him that there were aliens watching our lives through a television screen. No one was real: we were simply a figment of someone else’s imagination. I wanted to believe so badly that I wasn’t the only one being controlled by strings: a comedic puppet doing whatever their master pleased. These discussions turned into more serious ones. I began to question my faith and if I believed in anything at all. I didn’t understand why I was here, and for a while, I contemplated cutting off every connection I had until it was just me and my mind, tied together by a rope, dangling over monstrous waves filled with deadly sea creatures. I spent years trying to figure out who I was. In grade five, I decided to write a book. Consisting of 100 pages of misspelled words and grammar errors, I read the entire effort to my class, proud to call it my own. It was so easy back then. You could write a story that’s been told too many times before and have it be treated like it should win every literary award. I got a hundred gold stars that day and I pressed them proudly on the corners of each page. In high school, I decided I would write music. Each song insisted through every image, melody, and beat that it wasn’t about me. And yet, there was always a small piece of myself found in each one. I didn’t realize until recently that I was hidden in the spaces between words that held experiences unlived. I gave everything to them, but I felt like I got nothing in return. Maybe this was because I never paid attention to compliments. I always assumed that if I didn’t believe the things people said about me, they couldn’t be true. Just like I did with the aliens and the television screens, I tried to make others believe that I wasn’t as intelligent, as talented, and even as cool as they deemed me to be. When I looked at myself in every mirror, every puddle, and every window, I saw the complete opposite. I saw a girl that was lost and confused, with the knowledge that had been grinded and engraved into her mind ever since she first understood how to criticize herself: You are unimportant. It took me those five years and an entire semester of cegep to escape the prison of those three words. So I stopped fighting with myself. I stopped worrying about where my life was headed and began to focus on where my life was now. I thought my future had to have been decided for me the second the results of that career test came in. I was wrong. The girl that got a comedian on her career test didn’t have to go to clown college, but she didn’t have to go down the same road as everyone else either. Instead, when the time came, and everything felt right, she would create her own. Because after spending years of figuring out who I was, I have given up on trying. And that is okay. It has to be okay.
Tell Me You Remember: Rachel Goldstein
Do you remember when I loved you? When my world revolved around your fleeting visits When your perfect smile paralyzed me And your perfect laugh rang like a sweet chiming bell, forever echoing in my ears Your golden hair had captured me and your dark eyes had drowned me
Do you remember when my love turned to worship? When your acne scars made you more beautiful to me Because it proved that even angels could have flaws When your firm grasp on my waist sent shivers through my childlike body When your single kiss fed me for the winter months and your touch was a godly warmth spread ing through my mild soul Do you remember when I got older? And my childlike love turned to youthful lust When I imagined your kiss again and again as if the more I imagined it, the more likely it was to come When my thoughts turned to you for asylum. You were the embassy in my mind; a no man's land on the boarder of insanity and the mundane I was Alice and you were wonderland. My mind was the rabbit hole and I was always a few years late to the tea party You loved me like a sister and I loved you the way Gatsby loved the colour green Do you remember when I stopped loving you? When I saw through the flashing green light to the house behind it When I realized your imperfections were just that I had painted your roses red when you'd been telling me they were white all along And when the white of the petals shone through, I needed to stop loving you So that I could learn to love you again, but this time in the way that you deserved
photography by Daniel Welch
Pecking Order Matt Prout
One thread of hair-thin spider silk lightly hoists steel strands; one silken-band stops Jumbo Jets; one sticky shirt is a bulletproof vest.
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Tiny hummingbird with swift metabolism spies the world in slow motion, mulling endlessly over life’s sluggishness.
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A turritopsis jellyfish metamorphose to polyp: nerve cells become eggs, which grow to blobs, that balloon to jellyfish.
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Millimeter-long tardigrade goes years without eating, squirms naked in Space, and returns to Earth with all eight legs and nine kids.
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Titanic right whale breaches surface for a breath while foot-long kelp gulls swoop down with razor-point beaks to slash skin and peck blubber.
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An infinitely
Punchline Alero Ogbeide
You don’t bury survivors. They bury themselves Their dreams, beliefs, values, Are all crushed Turned to nothing For what they survived Plagues them Always. We are all survivors Surrounded by our failures And sadness And deceit And lies And love. Somehow, We have all survived love The worst killer of them all Murders recklessly Swarming us with This concept Of something That doesn’t exist Love is what kills. Love is what we need to survive.
Frostbite
Laura Brooks
I was in that stinging state of cold, not quite cold enough to be numb, but the kind of red swollen cold that vibrates through your body. The arena was silent except for the dull humming of the lights, which accompanied the faint chemical smell that filled the air. “Jacket.” Mark reminded me in that flat tone he reserved for occasions such as this. The sleeves of his jacket puffed out where the arms weren’t crossed together. The rink always felt different on Test Day. The stands were empty, the ice seemed harder, and the coaches were stiff and solemn. Obediently, I peeled off my protective outer layer. Mark announced my name and the level of my program as I stepped out onto the ice and began to swerve towards my spot. I waited in the uncannily bright lights and held my opening pose. Music began blaring from the speakers. I jolted to a start and rushed the first movement to stay on time. From then on, my thoughts fragmented themselves in short bursts and monosyllables. Turn. Smile. Curve. Crosscut. Crosscut. I approached the first double jump of the program. Two doubles and you pass. Two doubles and you pass. Wait. Turn. Curve a bit. Jump. One. Two. Cold. Wet. Try again. I went on with the program. One fall was okay. There was a strange discrepancy in figure skating. You performed your program in front of the judges and they gave you a sheet of paper with comments about how you could improve, but when it came to a straight pass or fail, you knew. You knew the whole time you skated. The tempo of the music slowed and violins drawled out softly. The next double was coming up. I reminded myself to breathe slowly; I felt the frigid air burning my throat. Back straight. Toe in. Snap into position. One. Two. I’m still on my feet. Leg back. Arms out. That was one double down and one checkmark on the test sheet. I had one attempt left to put in my second double. The violin cut out of the music and heavy short beats broke in. I slowed down and reminded myself to smile. One jump and you pass. One jump and you pass. Slow down. Take your time. Bend the supporting leg. Keep the other close. Twist the hips. Turn. Shoulders and hips square. Now wait… wait…But what if I? No. Too early. My toes remained slack in my boot, instead of propelling me higher off the ice. My shoulders twisted to left and my hips, still facing forward, couldn’t catch up. I knew in the air that I wouldn’t be landing on my feet. I had believed that hard work was the antithesis of failure. I folded the creased piece of paper with a checkmark next to 'retry' and sat on the cold plastic chair at the end of the rink. I watched the next group of skaters grin broadly for the judges as they took the ice for their warmup.
art by Ella Gonzales
Through The Cradle of Empty Sockets Morgan Lucas
I sit on the thin tree root that protrudes from the sand and stones. Graceland, you had called it. The water from the pond chomps away at the mud as bikers pass behind me. Maybe wondering why I was just a body and a shadow. But I knew I had to come here. To watch the rumpled leaves once green crack away like a fading smile from the branches. To see the beetles and ants cross paths on sticks and dying flowers. Would these bugs remember each other? Surely not, as the random miracle or tragedy that so brought us here would not allow small brains to have memories. What bliss that would be. I watch a duck slide its way into the river, a sharp ripple and crack before it finds its brother. I hear the sharp snap that is twigs breaking as I run from the words on this page. Just as I had run here. But the bee that is suckling the pollen from a nearby daisy – I do not run from. Which is strange, because bugs with stingers have always frightened me. I don’t know if you have noticed, but lately, I have not been able to stop projecting words that speak of only that which has been broken or maimed. And I know that it’s because of you. The rocks across the river form a tower stacking on one another, spines outstretched to reach upwards
extending to lime grass and trees which say hello to the grey sky. I do not joke with you when I say it was a rainy day. This is not melodrama – this is a portrait of the feelings I wish would decay Or, perhaps, a landscape of the feelings that already have. Was that enough closure for you? Surely not. But, what I will tell you is this: I followed the yellow line home that day. I sat in the ashen brown bench where we watched the moon do its nightly dance between the sliver of trees. Things are more colourful when you come here during the day. You wouldn’t know that. There are bananas etched on the pavement in chalk that rain and feet and tires cannot erase I rub the soles of my shoes on them for some time but they stay. If you ever return and pass by the house that looks like a midnight rectangle – know that my presence is no longer a promise, no longer an intertwining of minds and fingers, but an echo of thoughts, crunched leaves, and footsteps that have long left.
Four Generations Amy Skodak
This sketch was drawn from a photograph that I took of my hands alongside those of my sister, mother, grandmother and great grandmother. I feel that this subject matter creates content about me in the sense that these women have had a great influence on my being and are a part of the driving force behind my creativity and motivation. This piece also displays my preferred medium (graphite/pencil on paper) and depicts hands as a symbol for the act of creating and doing. This is significant to me because directing change toward the development of community involvement, creative pursuits, volunteerism and activism are passions of mine.
Chewing Through The Leather Straps Mack Hammond It is an all but completely cliché question that is often offered up unto us in the current phase of our lives. Who, and what, are we trying to become? Awkward, evasive, and apologetic answers to aunts and uncles aside, I would say that there is no straightforward answer to this question. I do wish that “ask again in ten… maybe twenty years” was an approvable response, but this is quite plainly not an option. My argument is (stated in the most cliché way possible), that the vast majority of us do not know who, or what, we are trying to become, and so we are here simply to become ourselves. I am writing this because of the overbearing ambition to see my name in print, and because it is more exciting to me than doing work that has been assigned; this speaks to who I am. Not much has changed since I came here (I am thoroughly aware that I am only a frosh), though I now sometimes tie my hair up, and the jacket I wear has a touch of leather in it, which obviously reveals to people who observe me on campus how in depth and artsy I must be. I have always felt this way on the inside, at least a little, but in the past have disclosed myself in a far more conventional manner. Perhaps this was due to the somewhat closed-mindedness that high school presented, in comparison to the general feeling of acceptance that university is composed of. But then the question arises, is this who I am becoming? When I next sit down with earlier mentioned aunts and uncles, will I still be wearing my jacket which features a touch of leather, accessorized by a tied up head of hair? Only time will tell. I assume that this encounter will reveal how proud I am of what I have so far become while away. And ultimately, when the chitchat has come to an end, I suppose that what really matters is how I feel of myself, above the snarky comments that my family members are inevitably making amongst themselves while driving home. Another question has been raised. If we are all here, becoming anything that our respective programs and degrees will allow us to become, programs and degrees that we of course chose ourselves; why is it that so many of us shy away from revealing to our elders what exactly we are trying to become? I, by now, have at least somewhat of an idea as to who I want to see myself become in the not so distant future. And it seems that the more ambitious that this person becomes, the harder it is to explain who that person in my head is; in minor reference to colleagues, and in major reference to my family. This is astonishingly frustrating, though without needing any hard data or examples to prove myself true, I know that I am not the only person who feels this way. Maybe this phenomenon is generally suited to the kids who you see walking around with tied up hair, and jackets which sport leather on their arms, but I know that there are exceptions. Somewhere, there is an ambitious business student, whose family oh-so-desperately wants their child to become a doctor, but this child is uninterested in said pursuit.
Somewhere, there is an aspiring, determined physics student, whose family craves offspring that will one day master the grand piano, but their youngster instead prefers exploring relativity. What is being explained, of course, is that there is absolutely nothing wrong with pursuing your transformation into whoever this person is. The fictitious you inside of your head, who you would undoubtedly adore to see yourself become. We crave these people for ourselves, just as much as most parents crave something that they desire for their child. Once more with the clichÊs, I simply wish that more parents would crave happiness for their children, if anything is to be craved at all. Now, at last: a reminder that countless paths will seem more reasonable, but to please stray from becoming fearful of reaching toward your passions. Do not play off your vision as an impractical idea, nor succumb to others’ scathing of your future as something unattainable. On top of becoming educated in your respective field, become unafraid and unapologetic about it. Whether it be the student in a jacket with leather sleeves, the student in a lab coat, or the student in a suit and tie‌ reach, and crave, and become!
art by Ella Gonzales
front cover art by Ella Gonzales back cover art by Sofia Berger