Symposium Spring 2021

SYMPOSIUM AN ARTS AND HUMANITIES STUDENTS’ COUNCIL PUBLICATION

L E T T E R F R O M T H E E D I TO R Dear readers and writers, Thank you for taking the time to open this publication—whether it’s a physical copy in your hands or you’re reading it online; whether you’re in London or abroad. We hope these stories inspire you.

Across all faculties, this school year has no doubt involved unprecedented challenges. When I was hired as Editor-in-Chief last March, I had no idea that our year would be entirely online. While we have certainly faced hardships, we have faced them together. I am grateful to be in a faculty—a family—like Arts and Humanities. The work in this publication is a testament to the strength, resilience, and hope that we hold inside ourselves.

To everyone who submitted their work, thank you for sharing your stories with us. Finally, thank you to the publications team whose hard work allowed Symposium and Semicolon to come together. Thank you for having me as your Editor-in-Chief.

With care, Courtney Ward-Zbeetnoff Editor-in-Chief

W H AT W E ’ R E A B O U T Symposium is made up of a collection of short stories, creative nonfiction, and poetry that are original, inventive, well-written, and allow for a variety of personal interpretations. Symposium accepts creative work from any Arts and Humanities undergraduate student within the University of Western Ontario.

Symposium and Semicolon are published bi-annually by the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council of the University of Western Ontario. The Publications Team would like to thank the students who submitted their creative works, and the rest of the Publications Committee who volunteered for the creative review board.

To view previous editions or for more information about Symposium, please contact the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council in Room 2135 in the University College Building. Publications can be viewed virtually at issuu.com/ahscpubs.

Editor-in-Chief: Courtney Ward- Zbeetnoff Academic Managing Editor: Kaitlyn Lonnee Creative Managing Editor: Neha Khoral Copy Editor: Britney Forget Layout Editor: Cherin Chung

Masquerade By: Gray Brogden

Paper faces grace this place of fortune and of fools.

Where dancing is a lover’s language, leaving

so much more desired.

No way to know who lays behind each colourful charade.

And it’s so much easier to be yourself

when no one knows your name.

Playing dress up and pretend is when we dare to be ourselves.

Our real act begins again in our everyday hell.

Once we place the masks, our freedom dance,

back up on the shelf.

Ballerinas at Play By: Rylee Loucks

Works Cited Beckett, Samuel. Malone Dies. eBook. 1956 Degas, Edgar. “Ballerina Rehearsal” c. 1873 ---. “Four Dancers” c. 1899 Rand, Ayn. Anthem. www.gutenberg.org: eBook.

1938.

Broken Statuette By: Kaylee Huynh

I was eight when I first saw you cry. It must have been a weekend because you were awake during the day, instead of sleeping to prepare for your ten-hour night shifts under the fluorescent lights at the factory. On most other days, I would come home from school, promptly at 3:30 pm, play with my toys, and wait for the small ten-minute window before bedtime to kiss you goodnight.

We were ten people living in a house built for four, but we made it work by stuffing all of my aunties and uncles in the basement the same way we stuffed our dumplings – tightly. In the mornings, the house was bustling like the halls of my school as everyone prepared to go to work so we could pay rent for this month. I didn’t know this at the time, but the Great Recession had everyone working their hands raw and feet numb, just in hopes of keeping their jobs for the next day.

When evening came, despite everyone’s aching bodies, there were still smiles on our faces because our once-empty pockets were lined with a laughable amount of change. I was the only child in our family, and a small-sized child at that. With so many tired people, there were always enough pairs of glazed eyes to see that I was there, but never enough to realize what I was doing.

You, as my mother, were obviously the exception. When everyone came home to fill their bellies with the few dollars they’ve made, you had just woken up and left for another night’s work. Despite your own exhaustion, your eyes never failed to catch me in an act of recklessness “Con, be careful!” You’d tell me, but I rarely listened.

Coming to Canada for a better life made sense before the recession. Now you would tell me that you hated being here. “Back home in Vietnam”, there was sunlight and warmth that would wash over you each morning. There were tall trees, speckled with delicious, ripe fruit, calling for you to climb and take. There were fields of crops that you would tend from dawn to noon – “since you were my age” – and after your shift, these croplands became endless fields and boundless horizons to play in. Our family was never rich in gold, but you were rich in satisfaction and fruit… But here in Canada, we ate eggs and rice with a dash of imitation soy sauce. A meal cheap and tasty enough to feed all ten hungry mouths.

I always loved to climb on countertops because it was never encouraged, but never explicitly prohibited. You didn’t understand it. To you, I was too impatient to wait for you to fetch my favourite Barbie bowl from the top shelf. But to me, it was an adventure. I was feeling the rush of adrenaline pumping in my fourfoot-tall body as I held onto that cheap laminate surface to swing my dangling legs over, anticipating the thrill I would feel when I victoriously clutched that

little pink dish in my two hands. What always scared you the most was the way I jump off the counter at the end, full force with eyes closed – the same way those honourable knights would jump off cliffs in your favourite Korean dramas.

In our family, you weren’t the most superstitious, but you were a little-stitious. Even at eight, I never believed in gods or demons, despite your attempts to teach me otherwise. Sprinkled throughout our house were statues and sculptures of deities for protection and prosperity. I distinctly remember the brightly coloured robes of the Three Lucky Gods, each embodied one of the three basic necessities for a good life: happiness, wealth, and longevity. These three little statuettes held so much power, considering they were no larger than the size of my eight-year-old-hand. I remember when you first placed them on top of our fridge, the highest place in our house, “to watch over us.”

Once again, I was climbing the countertops. You were in the other room, probably doing something to keep the house from falling apart. I was home from school today while everyone else was at work. For once, there were no eyes on me.

I set my hands on the familiar cheap countertop to prop myself up. This time, I wasn’t fetching my bowl, I was after the Gods.

I was on the tips of my toes, reaching high for the three colorful statuettes.

My fingertips managed to graze the bright yellow one before I lost my footing and fell off the edge, knocking the God down with me. I was in shock. I have never felt so betrayed by the sturdy countertops that have held me countless times before.

I stayed on the floor quietly for a second while the adrenaline wore off and my elbow began to sting. I screamed.

“Con?” You ran into the kitchen, panting. There, at your feet, laid your sobbing daughter, clutching her scraped elbow, and beside her, the two pieces of a broken statuette – the Deity of Wealth. Your eyes were already dark with lack of sleep from the overtime shifts you had to take to keep our Canadian roof over our Canadian heads. This was a time when the Deity of Wealth should have helped us most. Instead he laid there, just as helpless as your daughter.

You were always so good at hiding your sadness from me, but I could tell by the redness replacing the dark around your eyes that this pushed you over the cliff. Our house of ten was always filled with noise, but at this moment, it was almost silent. I couldn’t understand why though. Right now, I just knew of the stinging on my elbow, and your tears on my face.

Daydreaming of my younger self By: Hollie Scott

The girl she saw Was not the one she knew, The one she knew was swimming In the ocean Waves lapped around her waist And when she tired, she Retreated to the shore and was met by Stones and shells that filled her pockets Because she couldn’t bear their beauty Being soundlessly swept away, by the tide.

Melatonin Sky By: V. M. Somersette

The sky, It leans against the lake.

The half awake moon etching its way into the blushing clouds and thinning sunlight, Fading— Until the stars ignite.

The ever still lake, Like eternity’s mirror, Reflecting the vanity of all creation, While mistrusting stray cat’s paw prints are gently taken by the shore.

Taken out to Mercury to kiss the sleeping sun.

Taken down the endless promenades of starlight, To where azure goes when blue gives way to grey, And somewhere between nonexistence and bliss— my soul calls out in retrograde.

(in)Finite

By: V. M. Somersette Go imprint on the wet grass, Go foam into the sea, From fading wild flowers, And heartsick honeybees.

Long as Eyes Stay Shut

By: V. M. Somersette

Let go of me to free fall from the sky.

Serenity.

Take me somewhere new.

Where the dew lasts until the afternoon and the trees tell their story upon appearance.

Let me dream in sweet malaise until tomorrow— and may tomorrow never come.

Frenzied Feathers By: Hafsah Jasat

Can I tell you something sickly sweet?

I dream about snowflakes in a summer breeze, drifting fingers that reach out to caress rays of sunlight, curling in as if the warm breath of the wind grasped me by the waist, dragging me away. You tickled my throat, daring me to be weightless; I lick the air as if in it I could taste beauty—a citrusy tang lingering on the tip of my tongue. I exhale freedom, gasping out paths for the wind to sing on; flutter freely in a fucked-up frenzy until dreams dissipate and reality cleaves its way into my skin. The numbers keep rising; every heartbeat keeps abiding, I will continue to hack my lungs out as if the path you sought out was full of dust. I will continue to gasp for invisible air, tracing the paths your soft limbs drew—I will follow a lane filled with bloody blotches that crawl, spindly veins attached to an IV; I can’t breathe the way I used to. My lungs burn with memories that I once yearned to return, and I watch as your fingers flitter, flutter, splutter in a jealous cluster of steps not taken. I feel you like a straitjacket, winding up my arms, preventing my pointless aspirations. One week turns to months, years passing, my arms tied behind me, watching you glide—hope empties like another bottle tossed. Prescription pills popped as summer snowflakes twist into rainbows; I sit still beneath medicated mirages of deliriously chemical colours.

Umbrella By: Tia Bates

the best time of my life By: Sorina Leila

Savour it, they say.

Hold on to it, and Never let go.

I was in the summer of my life, Longer days of June opportunities and possibilities, The Canadian skepticism of good weather had melted away, Humid air carried in offers of plated nickel and copper, My conscience was relieved of wasting time, Because in June there is time.

This is it, they say.

The time to be, and You won’t get any more.

July glistened over my body like a second skin, A crescent of content on my face as if it was carved there, The brushes of green on the leather of my sneakers veiling the white, If the eyes are windows to the soul my lids leisurely lower to half-mast, The joint of my elbow hyperextends outwards my palm eclipsed the sky.

My fingers followed the high sun as it began its descent below the horizon, August heat washed over in waves, fleeting gusts of cool air in between, The sweat on my forehead rolled down the sides of my face in droplets, Laughs were a little longer, smiles were a bit brighter, hugs tighter, My eyes watched the flame as it dwindled from red to orange, And followed the smoke as it swirled into the atmosphere, It attempts to reach its burning brethren in the sky, But it never gets the chance.

Now I’m in a constant Fall.

I’ve always been a little too accustomed to change.

Autumn has always been my favourite season.

New colours and newer homes.

Now I’m not so sure.

The only one with two names.

I haven’t had a summer since.

When you’re young change is scary but exciting.

Somewhere lost in the middle It becomes natural, expected, scientific.

Then at some point change plateau’s, even’s out, stabilizes.

Or so I’ve heard.

I started to crave change.

The need crept up on my conscious.

My roots didn’t grow past the surface.

They never had the chance.

These are the best years of your life.

It doesn’t get much better than this.

Trust me.

If these are the best years of my life, Then I might need a new one.

What a terrible saying, How awful to think that life has a peak, Years and years working toward the climax Followed by a perpetual falling action.

They lied.

There’s no resolution, Just a universal conclusion.

Young Paint Chipped By: Jack Bradley

a gleaming vessel with the most weathered heart, worn from the onslaught of fray within. herons watch a young boat sail, a perfect picture of fulfilled expectation. the herons soar overhead, marvelling at how swiftly the boat glides. his speed is deemed superlative, as the herons nod approval. the propellor sputters, a once steady course grows volatile. the sea begins to choke the vessel, at the hands of an inevitably cracked hull. only at the Sight of young paint chipped, do the herons begin to cry.

Icarus

By: Abby Robitaille Father do not mourn for me.

Thanks to you I can die free.

The sea may clutch at my body, but my heart stays with you.

Father do not cry for me.

To me that would be irony.

For others speak of my folly, but do they know my peace?

Father do not hate for me.

Do not hate yourself especially.

You let me taste the salty sea, and feel the too-warm sun.

Father do not mourn for me.

Father I died happily.

Father I am gone.

Hibiscus Rosa By: Zaynab Almayahi

A Collage of Myself By: Abbie Faseruk

Photo 1 The sun is setting and it glistens across the top of the warm water of the pool.

I drive up and down the lawn on Dad’s blue tractor. The combined smell of gas and freshly mowed grass is a symbol of my childhood. The sun shines into my young eyes and I squint ahead at the hydro pole ahead of me. It’s too late, and I hit it. The tractor has a dent and I cry and I run inside. Inside Mom is making chocolate chip cookies.

Photo 2 Me and a friend sit in a small restaurant big enough for only ten tables. We are the only ones there. It is dark and has wood paneling. We eat spaghetti and lasagna and bread and discuss our lives. We leave and admire the blur of graffiti on the wall of the alley way. It isn’t vandalism, it is art.

Photo 3 I’m in a bookstore and a friend follows me through the isles. She speaks and I nod even though I don’t really hear her. I pick up a book and read the first page. My friend makes fun of me for how I romanticize my trips to bookstores and libraries. She doesn’t read. I go to the section at the back dedicated to my favourite author. She keeps talking. I wish she would stop.

Photo 4 I sit in the chair as they set the case in front of me. I open the case and take out the glasses. They are wide and a glossy black and I am told they fit my personality. I put them on and look out the window for the first time. I can see the colour of the grooves in between the bricks of the church across the street. I can’t believe how vibrant the colours are. I can see the veins on the green leaves outside. I forgot that I had once been able to see that. I stand and try to walk.

The clarity makes me stumble and I feel like I’m on a rocking boat.

Photo 5 I wake up early and get ready for work. Nobody else ever seems to be awake at this hour. I leave the house and back down the laneway in the Jeep, careful not to hit the pole. The sun is shining and I leave the house in shadow behind me.

I can play the music as loud as I want. I turn onto the empty highway and head north. For a while, I feel like the only person in the world.

Photo 6 I adjust my glasses but there’s no point. They fog up and I can’t see anything in front of me. I take them off and the colours dull, the faces are fuzzy. I speak and the person asks me to repeat myself. That seems to be happening a lot lately. I can’t make out their facial expressions. I know what is happening inwards, but no longer outwards.

What You’ve Begun Stands Unfinished By: Elliott Kieran Cooper

How badly does something need to be broken before it’s worth fixing?

How cold does it need to get out there before you want to go back inside?

How warm does something have to be, to feel real and worth having?

I don’t know, don’t know, I don’t.

What hour of the day What month of the year What moment in your life Mattered most?

Friends you have had Lovers, too Destroyers, companions, family, enemies So many more besides Did you create them yourself?

Who’ll be remembered as your temperature fades, Your pulse slows and your breath catches, Who will you most long to speak to, when you’re alone at the edge of being?

This sort of feeling is not allowed here.

These new laws differ from those of your parents, Those of your grandparents, of your old friends.

Security builds a home for discontent.

It’s time to gather courage.

Gain your own sovereignty, become your own law Beyond those religions, Distant from any heaven you imagined before, A very ancient kind.

Uncharted Territory By: Abigail Scott

I’ve started to carve out spaces for myself.

I haven’t needed to until recently.

For the most part we know each other’s limits, Know where the rough edges threaten to catch, Where the tempers bubble hotter.

We know how to coexist in the space we share.

But the interminable months have taken their toll, And we’re reaching our breaking point.

We don’t barrel blindly towards it, though— Like the steam train that screams onto the break in the tracks, The car with the shot brakes that rockets off the edge of the cliff— We adapt. We’re human, after all.

Changeability and resilience are in our nature Just as much as caution and stubbornness are.

My sister has gotten a job. I’ve started reading more.

The baristas at the coffee shop down the street know our orders, Chat like hesitant friends.

And I find space to be alone.

I curl up in front of the fireplace, Wrapping myself in warmth and silence.

I sit in the dark of my room late at night, Letting the twanging thrum of guitar and The moth’s wing whisper of piano Sweep aside my cares.

It’s not easy.

I cried the other day, apropos of No particular distress of my own: It was emotional spillover from the others, A lead-leak buildup that I hadn’t noticed Until my throat was burning and My cheeks were wet with tears.

But we’re managing. I’m managing.

We love each other more than we Irritate each other, and that’s always a Safe place to start. A good place.

Love.

It’s not everything.

But it’s the core of it.

Endings

By: Nicole Paldino If you take a bite of an ending Expect your face to contort As bitterness as tart as the truth Coats your tongue Tingling and prickling Like you sucked on citrus peel Or sank your teeth into cranberries.

You hate eating endings.

You can’t remember why You keep trying As you hold your nose And shoot it down Slimy and thick like cough syrup With flavours you change But none you will ever like.

You like eating beginnings.

The artificial flavours, Bubblegum, birthday cake Taste so sweet, so saccharine That they don’t last long Even as they dance over your tongue Like cotton candy pop rocks.

Sometimes you want to delay your endings So you put them in the freezer And try to outlast the expiration date

Because you’re not ready to eat it Or throw it away.

And every time you open the freezer door You are reminded that the end is near And there is nothing you can do But try and choke it down.

When you do finally eat an ending You anticipate the tears That pool in your orbs As the bitterness cavorts over your taste buds, Acrid melancholy, dust and ashes.

But it is the aftertaste that lingers.

The aftertaste of an ending Sticks to the roof of your mouth Like fresh whipping cream Layered and thick.

It remains on your tongue, A sugared strawberry With sweetness that never spoils Like wildflower honey.

You spread that honey on toast And pass it around Because like endings, It’s meant to be shared.

And you do.

You all share your ending, Spread out like a decadent platter, Paired with a glass of Moet and Chandon To balance the bitterness.

As you drink and laugh and cry And eat your ending, slice by slice You all agree to call it bittersweet.

Art of a Milkmaid and a Pearl Earring By: Rylee Loucks

Works Cited Beckett, Samuel. Malone Dies. eBook. 1956 Rand, Ayn. Anthem. www.gutenberg.org:eBook. 1938.

Vermeer, Johannes. “Art of Painting” c. 1666-68 ---. “Girl with a Pearl Earring” c. 1665

l

Beata Maria By: Asia Porcu

Chalk dust on the knuckle of her index finger, deep lines around her shallow smile, Maria stands, blue.

A child, I hesitate by her elbow; I prostrate before her feet.

She raps at the board with a ruler; I imagine snapping it over her wooden curls.

Captive until the ring of the bell, the stained glass makes a blush like blood against her cheek.

She presses a pen to her pearly teeth; I stare at the dead plaster of her eyes.

Ave: the feeling of twisting her own beads around her porcelain throat.

A finger to her lips- silent, I shake.

Mea culpa: I cannot snatch my eyes away from the fine china on the inside of her wrist.

The desire to shove my fist through her chest and clean to the other side is most grievous: a hand thumped against my breast three times, knees shoved against the wooden pew.

Mea culpa - Maria forces me into a bow: I bleed, I die, I smile.

The Spring Flood By: Izzy Siebert

when the girl digs her own fingers into her thighs, she can almost believe them the soft earth of spring again, new, unturned. she can remember how clouds once drifted between her teeth, how he called her a current before she knew what that meant, but now she knows moss is the colour of bruise is the colour of moss. now roots grow under her tongue and, when she tries to speak, her heart turns over between the banks of her ribs like a silver fish gasping for air, and she finds her throat is a river, and the words are always running downstream, away from her lips, backwards into her chest, and, yes, she knows the song of her rapids is meant to be a thunderous roar, but right now it is more like a whisper. today, she is a riverbed, waiting for the melting of the winter ice that locks her story into place, waiting for the spring flood to wash free everything she thought she had to bury to let herself grow, and while she does not yet know of perennials, someday soon she will learn of the flowers not tended to, and how they bloom each year all the same. she will teach her chest the difference between dormant and dead, and in the spring they will lift their heads together, the girl and the wildflowers, resurrected by their own will: phoenixes, born not of ash but of spring rain, rising from the muddy banks, petals large as wings.

Secrets Around the Dinner Table: Outsider By: Breton Lim

Dark lacquered dreams Smooth to the touch And an intricate feathered design Just beneath the Tempered surface.

32 legs to explore On all fours And slipping beneath the table before dinner was done while my mouth was still full.

I’m chewing I’m chewing!

Until Dad takes out Uno or Boggle To get me to swallow.

To force-feed me spoonfuls of salmon and porridge, To spoil me with love When all the dishes were in the sink And the table was suddedWiped cleanuntil the intricate feathered design Just beneath the Tempered surface Was apparent again for doorbells and guests, who arrive unexpected.

The secrets we spill around the dinner table May not extend beyond its four corners.

Now in the nook of our kitchenette A circular table made of glass to eat our meals in the evening as our parents reminiscence:

The bobbing of paper boats Over flooded drains under torrential rains And the banana palm leaves they would harvest to use As plates for their Nasi Lemak.

For mother, steamed crab for dinner meant Bedtime at 8:30- Thirty minutes later.

Meant grandpa was happy and he wouldn’t drink, Meant tomorrow she could go to school without covering her face with the shadow of her capJust to be sent home for breaking dress code.

Again.

The stories my brother and I were told Growing up sitting around the dinner table has seeped into our skin.

Their struggles steeping in our blood for “character growth and development”.

Stories of father who’d slept on cardboard, balanced atop wooden chairs in the café Because he was the youngest of five Would squeeze my heart until it physically hurt.

Made me look around in appreciation at the world that they’d built for us.

Traumas of their past lives Leaked into the present so their children could learn And evolve for the better Was the mindset for all Asian immigrants in Canada who’d endured the terrors of Being an outsider.

Secrets Around the Dinner Table: Stuck By: Breton Lim

When she tells me she is hurting but refuses my help.

It’s just one circular glass table between She and Her.

Crossed legs atop her chair.

The steel base of the table that goes criss-cross Criss-cross.

The hand that shovels plain rice into her mouth and the other that buries its nails into her skin rakes gravel into a pattern recalling waves or rippling water.

A Zen garden on her thigh Yet, she looked down on her plate And looked up to be understanding.

But it was fake Because her throat was searing

I COULDN’T SPEAK And her insides were muddied grey.

How could you do that to your own brother About my Uncle she would yell.

A secret she would specifically say to never Repeat.

Throughout our years, It may have been her favourite grudge.

But let’s not forget gritting teeth And gnawing at the inside of my cheek Until it bleeds and scars into protruding stitches behind my teeth.

But let’s not forget her inability to talk About the things that Need To be voiced aloud.

Stuck in immigrant boomer times when mouths stayed shut And eyes looked Beyond.

Manslaughter in the Meadow By: S. Jane Fletcher

7:16pm the metal is cool in my shaking hands. the safety off; my fingertips resting on the trigger. i am staring at his heart, laying on the dead grass. oozing bright red into the frosted earth. he is weaponless, standing across from me. armed only with the expression on his face - a knife in my chest. his eyes are pleading, and i can read them even in the dim of the darkening sky. i remember, then, years ago when he held his heart out to me, an offering. wearing a hopeful smile despite the blood spilling out between his fingers. maybe i shouldn’t have taken something i never intended to keep. i guess i just wanted something to own, (but without all this blood) now it’s become too heavy to hold. i’m trying to give it back to him, but i think i’ve torn it open, damaged it beyond repair. i don’t want it, he tells me, it’s no use to me now. what other choice do i have? finger squeezing the trigger, i aim at the writhing, bloody thing, between us.

The Strongest Heart By: Gray Brogden

Trying to Remove One’s Shoulders By: Marc-André Blanchard

I want to remove my shoulders unsheathe these blades because they cut deep First attempt put hopes on prolonged pressure slept standing two twenty pound dumbbells compressing my clavicle but the change of shape was short lived soon I shrugged again Second attempt I didn’t kill the hamster I had come home from school or as I call it ‘GAH GOD PLEASE NO’ and sat on the sofa and heard a crunch beneath the cushion sorry Tickles and I thought why waste this furry slaughter it can be a sacrifice to a higher power but my God, like Tickles, was limp oh well there is no saga to self-realization without prayer to vague gods and blood of a beloved pet This is not a genuflection to aesthetics I am not some manic or tragic dysphoric and while my puberty was precocious my first period in a pool of moonlight yet I have lacquered in my own sebum but inside something swells grows malignant always

adding a ring around your trunk I simply want to take it out and have a look for myself

May in October By: Sofia Spagnuolo

“May? Please, come in.”

My head shoots up from my twiddling thumbs, digging deep into the opposing nail. I rise from the stretched, unsettling blue couch. Dr. Barren’s name tag clings to the door. I approach it, passing the scattered fake plants along the way.

The area transitions from bleak mainstream magazines, to endless rows of thick books.

“It’s good to see you again, May. How are you doing?” Dr. Barren’s glasses cover her sympathetic blue eyes. Her hair is tucked into a low bun, overcompensating for professionalism. She sits across the room, her legs tightly fold over one another.

“It happened again,” I blurt.

“Okay, how did it make you feel this time?”

“Um, I don’t know.” My focus drifts to the stray hairs behind her left ear, attempting to avoid her stare. “I know I deserve better.”

“Tell me what happened. Start from the beginning.”

“Okay. He asked me to get coffee,” I say as my brain trickles into the reminiscent voices of the night.

“Why do you need coffee at 10 o’clock at night?” I asked, overpowering the soft sounds of his playlist.

“Because it’s going to be a long night,” he said.

His endearing eyes glanced over from the dark road and onto me, causing my expectations to heighten.

“Where are we going?”

“Well, where do you want to go?”

His charismatic smile made it seem like he was teasing me, but his face tightened, trying to disguise his unplanned night with spontaneity.

“I don’t know. Isn’t this supposed to be your plan?”

“Right. Yes... The stars?”

“I’ve seen stars before.”

“Okay bigshot, you can see them again.”

“We went to a hill, and he pulled out a blanket for us.” A tinge of red flushes to my cheeks as I relive the romantic fantasy. “No one has ever done anything for

me like that. I felt… special.” I pause, waiting for an interjection of judgement, but Dr. Barren’s face remains stern, prompting me to go on.

“This is my favourite weather,” I said with my head aimed towards the sky.

We lay on an isolated patch in the middle of the field. Scattered trees surrounded us, acting as a border from the rest of the world. His brown curls fell in between the strains of grass, while hand rested a slight touch away from mine. I could feel the heat radiating from his fingertips.

“Oh, really why’s that?”

“The chills wake your spine.”

“You told me once you wanted to move to California. But there are no chills there.

It’s all sun.”

“You can still get a good chill if you need to... I can’t believe you remembered I said that.” I inadvertently cracked a smile.

“You underestimate me.”

“I could never,” I said, trying to encourage the banter.

“I know there’s a part of you that thinks I am a bad person. I don’t blame you for that.”

My head tilted toward him, but his brown eyes refused to meet mine.

“The world stopped when he spoke to me. Does that make sense? Everything just stopped.”

She examines me, harshly. I look down to see my thumbs digging into each other again.

“May, I think you are romanticizing again. Pay attention to his actions. Let him show you who he is.”

He pulled out a tiny ziplock bag from his blue jean pocket. The white powder shone like pixie dust, reflecting off the stars.

“Do you want some?” he asked with a superficial smirk.

“Okay,” I said timidly, but without hesitation.

“Have you ever done it before?”

“No.” “I’ll show you.”

He sprinkled the powder onto a lit-up phone screen. He inserted the tip of a rolled hundred-dollar bill into his nostril and swiped it across his screen. His head rushed toward the sky soon after. I followed his lead. The pixie dripped down my throat like gasoline.

He watched me indulge like I was his victim following orders. I felt the rush that I deeply craved.

“He told me things that he’s never told anyone. I think I can really help him.”

“Do you feel you need to fix him?”

“Fixing him might fix me too.”

“You don’t need to be fixed, May. You are you, and that is always going to be good enough.”

I feel disappointment projecting from her body as her dainty hand reaches forward and rests on her thigh. I stare for too long before noticing her discomfort.

I fantasize about the bleak blue lounge and its empty comfort before realizing I have to continue the story.

“Then he put his hand on my thigh.”

“What are you doing?” I said while jolting away from him.

“What?” he snapped, as if no one had ever asked him that question before.

“What about Michelle?”

“What do you mean ‘what about Michelle’?”

“I think that’s a fair question.”

“You were always my first option. You know that. I only have her because I couldn’t get you.”

“So now you think you have me?”

My body shook as the chill transitioned into a sharp pain in my spine, rather than a soothing sting. The sound of my clattering teeth emanated the effect of a thousand sirens drifting through the field.

“May, stop playing these fucking games with me.”

“I didn’t want to be there anymore. I know I deserve better.”

“Why did you stay?”

“I wanted to feel something.” I stay firm, waiting for her to analyze me.

“So, when we feel this way May, it is important to take a breath, ground yourself, and repeat the affirmations we talked about last week. Release all that is unlike love.”

“I tried, Dr. Barren. I really did, but I just went silent.”

“Fucking say something to me, May!” ​ My eyes stayed stationed on the stars.

“Jesus. I love you, okay?” he continued.

“What are you talking about?” I said, vigorously suppressing a smile.

“I fucking love you, May.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Pathetic.”

“His words and his actions don’t align, which is causing lots of confusion for you.

That’s something that you need to recognize in order to conquer it.”

“I know.”

“It is important in these situations to remember who you are. Don’t lose yourself.”

“I know.”

“You need to set your boundaries, May.” “I know.”

“I really love you,” he continued, his hand still pounding into my thigh.

“I really like you.”

The silence was creeping in, its presence too deafening to bear.

“I wish I could believe everything you say, but some part of me is telling me not to,” I continued.

“Just trust me, May,” he said while sliding his hand further upwards.

“I know I deserve better.” My thumbs are uncontrollable now. I slice at my nails, unable to look Dr. Barren in the eye.

“I trust you.” I felt his breath, and then the soft touch of his lips upon mine. I tasted​ traces of strawberry lip gloss, likely residue from dear Michelle’s lip.

My eyes settle back on her stray hairs. Her lips are moving, but her voice sounds muffled. “... Your feelings are valid… You deserve dignity and respect, May...” A tear races down my soft cheek. “... We shouldn’t accept minimal acts of love…”

The whirlpool of blurry words align in place as the counselling finally stops.

“Does that help you?”

“Yes,” I lie, swiping the tear off my frail cheek.

“Should I book a time for us next week?” she says with a practiced smile. Her pristine white teeth trying so hard to fix the unfixable.

I nod my head while my chest tightens with a dull stabbing sensation. I know I don’t deserve better.

Sunday Otters By: Destiny Young

I fell out of love with a man as he was falling in love with me. He prepares thoughtful gifts and begins fulfilling ancient promises. He takes my hand in his and we blunder around in our expired love…

He arrives eagerly at my newest door with purple orchids in hand and a tearsoaked letter keenly poking out of his left pocket—tempting bait. He’s dressed well, wearing a snug Adidas tee and his favourite dark-washed Volcom jeans, an outfit I had purchased for him in our first year of dating. Apart from a few strays, his light auburn hair is neatly tucked into his hat. I notice that he has maintained the 3-day facial scruff, just how I like it. “It’s sexy” I remind him.

I welcome him into my apartment and hug him with sweet determination as I suck in my belly and hold my breath. I linger in this state throughout our embrace, unable to endure his new scent. He wears a sharper cologne now, one he had received from his mother at Christmas. Concocted by Herpin and Blanc, the fragrance is alarmingly bold –an uncommon blend of citrus hues, earthy vetiver, calming lavender, guaiac wood and amber. The aroma dances in my nostrils and I reject the foreign jive. I hate his new cologne. I hate his tardy love.

On Sunday he takes me out for breakfast, a weekly ritual. We sit in the same sunfilled booth, crumbs sprawled across the forged leather. I brush them away and notice more remnants on the table. One mess always leads to another. A friendly young server approaches and asks if we’d like something to drink.

“Two waters and two coffees please” he replies confidently. “And we’re ready to order.”

We hand back the menus without peaking at their contents—we knew what we wanted, or so it seemed. For him, a breakfast skillet served in a large bowl, overflowing with seasoned potatoes, diced green peppers, slivered onions and cheesy scrambled eggs sprinkled with crispy bacon. He always omits the tomatoes and mushrooms, two ingredients that I could never exclude. He asks for two extra peanut butters to be served with his white toast. “Gotta have that protein” he beams. I grin in response, I’ve been a long-time supporter of his weight lifting regimen.

I order the daily special: two eggs over-easy, three slices of turkey bacon, breakfast potatoes and a side of avocado, halved and unsliced. The server notes our choices and scurries back to the kitchen, leaving us alone together. We are wedged halfway between awkward and comfortable silence. He reaches for the weekly issue of “coffee news” which he had grabbed from the front counter on our way in. We

always do the trivia questions. He reads them in order, we answer separately, then we verify with the answer key. “What animal holds paws with their young while sleeping?” he asks, as he stretches his right arm across the table, palm sunny-side up. His gesture invites me to place my hand in his. I oblige. He rubs his thumb across my knuckles, grazing my engagement ring a few too many times. I stare at the rose gold band, crowned with its princess-cut gem. The facets of the diamond begin to dance in the sunlight…

“It’s not rocket science Jess… Why do you think I’m having a hard time getting it up?” He was visibly annoyed. My gaze returned to his father’s carpeted living room floor and I refrained from answering.

“You’ve gotten really chubby… I’m just not as attracted to you”. Silence. I began digesting his words—an unpleasant meal.

“Don’t worry, I still love you.”

He wrapped his left arm around my shoulder and began running his fingers through my tangled hair. “How reassuring.”… I grasped my lower abdomen, attempting to console the vacant space that formerly nourished and sheltered our growing child. Tears began streaming down my “chubby” cheeks as I silently mourned our chosen loss. He leaned in for a kiss and I pulled away, as I would for the following three months. I wanted to leave this conversation on the leather couch where I accepted his cruel remarks, but it came home with me.

Chubby… the word followed me around like a lost dog. It filled my jean pockets, took up space in my knapsack and the tightened braided sections of my hair. I responded by reactivating my stale gym membership and struggled to complete ten minutes on the Stairmaster at an average speed. I kept my head down and hoped that my tears were mistaken for sweat. And with every arduous step, I fell out of love with him.

“Jess… do you know the answer?” He asks calmly.

“I’m sorry what was the question again?” I respond, my voice delicate and halfhushed.

He repeats: “What animal holds paws with their young while sleeping?”

“Otters.” I reply assertively. His brows raise and he nods in approval.

The deep-rooted network of neurons that encoded an episode of my grade five presentation on sea otters finally came in handy. I remember cutting an image out of my animal planet magazine of a mother otter grasping her kin. I glued it onto a fluorescent blue poster board that I had purchased from the dollar store and included the following caption: “Mothers hold onto their babies while sleeping to keep them from floating away.”

I unlatch my hand from his grasp and begin poking at my eggs. I watch as the yolk and contaminates everything in its path. The thin yellow substance surrounds my breakfast potatoes, finds a home underneath my turkey slices and gives my avocado boats a make-shift sea to float on. An irreversible mess.

Starlight, Starbright By: Rylee Loucks

“stay here” her hand covers my mouth tears well in my eyes her jaw is set face like steel emotion trapped in the underlayer hiding the fear that she feels my hands claw at her fingers wrapping in the fabric of her clothes I don’t see what she sees she sits me down hidden behind the aisles of the convenience store already a pitted carcass ripped open metal shelves broken broken ribcage intestines fed upon ravaged by the masses

we live on a scratched CD

“you have to promise me” her hand still on my mouth my lip quivers she refuses to look at my face I can’t reach her she holds me at arm’s length the music still plays but it’s jagged cut apart and screaming only bits and pieces feeding into the vibe of the apocalypse broken but still going like a scratched CD but projected to the rest of the world

“promise me” I can’t speak a shadow bubbles up within my chest long claws curl around my throat choking me from the inside I can’t speak but I nod she peels my hand off her shirt the band has all but faded away from many days many hands clawing at her chest including mine

“no matter what you hear” her hand slips over my lips drops under my chin absently she pets my head rubbing the fuzz of black hair we shaved our heads when we had headlice tears fall down drip off my chin hitting my elbow patting on the tile marking my place here I was here

her lips met my forehead sweet like sugar smelling of peaches from the dented can pinned under the broken ribcage morsels left for scavengers “I love you” lights flashed I choked down a sob her hand tightened on my shoulder she still wouldn’t look at me look at me deep voices like pits large black pits crevices all the way to the core of the Earth with no exit she was giving me an exit I couldn’t take it clicking thumping footsteps windows rattle and she gets ready to stand look at me my hands clutch her sweater sleeve pulling the fabric down to my chest she yanks herself free look at me “see you on the other side” dad used to call her his star I used to get offended until I realized she was more than better she was bright brilliant light

light walking light while I was dark it was her power squeezing eyes shut pressing my forehead to my knees I could still see as the light took over screams came from all angles including mine blending in with the rest rain in a lake all the same water when it was done

there was nothing

Gold, Real Gold By: Kathleen Roffey

The closet doors are ajar and shifting in your peripheral.

Just a slight of hand kind of shifting, but enough to make you think.

When the bracelet, gold real gold, disappears from the ceramic dish have faith that it will come back eventually.

You can’t be held responsible for another loss.

The walls breathe and you breathe with them.

The ceiling closes in, you sink down further.

Ask yourself why it always comes back to this.

When the heart shaped pendant, gold real gold, appears in its place you thank god.

It’s been found again, a gift from your infancy.

It doesn’t fit but it sure feels right.

Ask yourself if you can really give into the sway of the universe.

When you disappear into the sinking you return fully formed.

Solid like heavy oak bannisters, like metal keys, like gold, real gold.

A little bit of the past still lingering in your mouth.

The music is playing again far off into the distance.

You swear you can hear it.

The sound is fuzzy, tv drone in the hotel room across from yours.

When you disappear you’re not sure where you go, but you hope that it’s beautiful there.

Someplace without the movement, without the static, without the loss.

Our Hands

By: Zaynab Almayahi

Ode to a Violin By: Rylee Loucks

I breathe in. the music warbles as it dances across the air each chord in pirouettes and the spotlight lands on me.

Not rays of golden sunshine glowing against my body but brown, sepia tones that touch my skin and light it on fire as if through dying leaves as reminiscence grows in my chest leaving pressure on my tongue.

I know the sound, the scent, the taste of the moment I first heard that chord.

There is utter darkness surrounding me but the music keeps going I see colours blending together forming balls distorted sculptures marbled forms until faces fill my vision faded not as strong as they were but still there.

My body moves swaying to the sounds of that call up moments and I am warm and the music swells vibrant, bright and I feel it deep in my chest as the feelings dance across my skin goosebumps pitching their tents along my body flooding my limbs as the air flutters, kissing me with a gentle breeze sickly sweet

then, it stops gradually and I am back no longer under the spotlight the darkness cedes but the music lingers echoes of notes melting together just as the weather warms and snow turns to water and simply washes away the air still remembering just as I am still holding the air of my life in my lungs and I breathe out.

The Voice in the Tree By: Michael Schmidt

“Much was different in the old days, children. They say that monsters lived among us, abundant in the wild like wolves and rabbits in the woods. They say there were ghosts too, and fairies in the treetops and dragons in the clouds. Magic was in the air.”

The old man paused and scratched at his snowy beard. He saw the tale was having a dull effect on his audience. “Magic,” he reiterated with emphasis. “Warlocks performing spells that would make your skin crawl. They worked their evil in the forest beyond our village, enchanting trees to capture wayfarers and sending ghouls by night to kidnap children for horrifying experiments—”

“Oakson!” came a voice interrupting the storyteller. “What have I told you about listening to that nonsense? Come here.”

A boy extracted himself from the dozen children seated around the storyteller’s porch and hurried over to where his father waited. The rugged man’s brown hair and eyes were the same as every lumberjack who lived in the village, as was his outfit of brown trousers, green tunic beneath a leather vest, and boots the colour of soot.

“I’ve an errand for you. A letter for our cousins in Wood’s Garden; it must be delivered at once.”

“What’s wrong with listening to those stories?” Oakson asked.

“They’re hogwash, every word. Monsters and magic don’t exist. Such things

distract you from reality and what’s important in life,” his father lectured. “Now away with you!”

Oakson set off at a run. He hurried along the road, weaving through a host of colourful characters, because the town was bustling. The storyteller said it was a small place compared to the great cities he’d been to, but on some days it felt crowded.

He ran down the street, hardly remembering to keep a firm grasp on the envelope he’d been charged to deliver, and sped past the uniform wooden houses.

His own house stood at the end of the row, practically beneath the shadow of the nearby forest.

“Hullo!” Oakson called, coming upon the door. No one answered, but he’d expected no less. His mother was busy with her furniture business and his sisters were probably out buying shoes. He took a basket of blueberry muffins from the kitchen (there was nobody to say otherwise) and then headed into the wood.

The forest today reflected the cheerful atmosphere of the village: birds sang in a chorus of voices, squirrels flitted along branches, and the wind softly tousled the leaves. He slowed to a jog to take in the inviting smells and sounds. Children were rarely allowed to venture the leaf-shrouded paths alone no matter the hour, but there was no one around to tell him so. The pathway winding through the trees was lit nicely and there were no shadows, so he didn’t fear any danger.

After twenty minutes Oakson decided to stop for a break beneath an ancient oak. He ate a muffin from his basket and watched butterflies fluttering about.

“Hey you, boy! Come here!” came a voice from nowhere. Oakson sat up and scanned the nearby undergrowth, but there was nothing there. He approached an old, gnarled tree beside the road with a hollow in its trunk the size of a pumpkin.

The voice was coming from within.

“I need your help. Grab an axe and get me out!” said the tree.

“I don’t think I should,” Oakson said.

“Why not? You seem like a sprightly fellow. Cut me out of here, and do it quick!”

“I shouldn’t. You’re dangerous.”

A pause. “Why do you say that?”

“Someone put you in there for a reason. It’d be wrong to interfere.”

“Rubbish. Get me out of here, it’s darn cramped.” There was a moment of silence, which Oakson didn’t dare break. “I’ll make it worth your while,” the tree said invitingly.

“No! I won’t do it!” Oakson suddenly shouted. “I won’t let you out!” Before the tree could entice him further he grabbed his basket and dashed away, forgetting all about the letter. Without looking back he sprinted all the way home.

That evening he ate supper alone. He would have told someone about the mysterious tree and the voice, but there was nobody around to tell. His father was

playing cards in the tavern and his mother was at a party with his sisters. He spent the night reading from a collection of folktales, and paid special attention to the tales about enchanted trees.

The next morning he found his parents having breakfast.

“Oakson, my lad,” said his father. “How went the trip?” He was in a cheerful mood; last night’s contest must have gone well.

“Great,” Oakson said quickly. He grabbed a piece of toast and hastily buttered it.

“I’m going back this morning.”

“What for?” his father asked. He received no answer, for Oakson had already gone outside.

Oakson ran through the forest like a demonic wolf was chasing him, all the way back to the tree. He knew exactly where it stood on the path and found it easily.

“Hello?” he called out, unsure if there would be an answer.

“You’re back. I knew you would,” the tree said immediately.

“How’s that?”

“You left your letter, Oakson.”

Oakson’s mouth dropped open at this and a jolt of fear ran through him.

“H- how do you know my name?”

“I guessed. It wasn’t too hard. You’re a boy, the son of somebody, and Oakson’s a common name for a woodcutter.”

“I’m not a woodcutter, I’m—” he stopped short, knowing he mustn’t give anything away.

“So, have you brought the axe?”

“There’s something not right about you,” Oakson spluttered. “I won’t let you out. I’ll never come back, either!”

“Hey, now wait a minute—”

Oakson ran back to town, vowing never to return. But right away he struggled to keep this promise. Both encounters had left an impression on his mind and no matter what he did the tree-thing never left his thoughts. Often he wondered what it looked like, but his imagination never came up with anything pleasant. He couldn’t tell anyone about it either, otherwise they’d be compelled to free it and unleash a horrible evil on the town. Only he could know.

He managed to suppress his desire to go back for three days, a time in which he was sullen and withdrawn. If the townsfolk noticed his new attitude they paid no mind to it, and neither did his family. His father’s luck at the tavern had changed lately and his parents were both unhappy. They spared no time for their son.

On the fourth morning, a rooster woke him up at dawn. Pale orange light illuminated the eastern sky as he went out into the stirring village. He was calm.

He knew what he had to do. A pair of peddlers saw him carrying a lantern and

marching with purpose into the wood, and they called out to ask what he was doing, but he disappeared into the dark trees like an apparition and never answered them.

It was midday when the odour reached the townsfolk. The smoke was coming from the forest and soon they saw a red glow coming towards them like a thundercloud. The town was rapidly evacuated as the fire spread from the woods and destroyed over half of everything before the wind changed and carried it away to some other destination.

Oakson confidently emerged from the charred and blackened trees a while later, completely unscathed. The tree was gone and the thing inside was burnt to ash along with everything else. It could not escape to harm others. He’d succeeded.

“Bloody stars! Oakson” his father yelled. “Did you start that fire?” The villagers formed a crowd and were clamouring around him. He was surprised at the anger in their eyes.

“I had to kill it,” he said. “I almost let it out and it would’ve been bad if it got free.”

Already cries went up of “look what he’s done!” and “he must be punished for razing our town!” The villagers wanted him to suffer for his actions and wouldn’t hear reason. They didn’t care about the thing in the tree and how dangerous it was. They might have acted rashly had a physician not intervened, who declared the boy a danger to others including himself.

As Oakson was taken away he looked for his family, but their faces melted into the mob that chased the caged wagon away. ~~~

The tower was where he was to spend the rest of his days, locked in the highest room with one tiny window and nothing inside except a solitary chair and a fireplace. There was no door, his meals were given through a slot in the wall, and nobody to talk to. Sometimes he wondered why they were so ungrateful, for he’d saved their lives. But he was at peace; the thing in the tree was dead and it could never get him now.

They would understand soon enough. Someday.

Real Smiles

By: Marc-André Blxanchard Real smiles are not pretty They’re ugly things Showing your teeth to the world like ‘Hey! You know these could tear into a drumstick Could rip into a grown Human Man if necessary?

So Be grateful I’m only showing them…. motherfucker!’

You want to see how to smile?

Stand upright long spine long think of the low space in your belly bring to mind a moment of pure pain summon it how it made you want to mulch in the dirt and be food for a faceless worm hold that moment press it into the head of match strike it against the walls of your stomach till it catches and makes your insides glow all the way up to let your lips part the corners of your mouth curl to show the world you are not worm food you still have teeth watch them eat my own smoke like a fucking jack-o-lantern

Call Me By (Love)

By: Hafsah Jasat Inspired by Thomas Satterwhite’s painting, A Modern Medea Call me by my ancestry, The ropes you wrapped around Their calloused hands, you awaited them At the end of the board, ride, Plank that they unknowingly Fell off of when you decided Black bodies were not capable Of cradling hearts, reciting Descartes; Weakened frames became stretched veins Thin lines that mapped out the future, Entwining red with black with white Hands, twisting themselves into ropes Pulling us forward into the waxen hands of slavery.

Call me by the name you called her The day you decided her face, Her body, her life was yours For the taking –stir up in your Icy, smooth, pristine hands Not worked brittle to the bone, An escape route for your soul To disappear into – “she is mine, I deserve her for what I give to her, for the life I’ve given her” As if the excuses make up For the penetrating loss of her own body, Her own children, her own happiness.

Call me by the charges you laid, When she decided that the blood On her hands, the hurt of her children Was hers to bear; any child was better Off dead than their body yours; The piercing ice of greedy hands—her body Was never yours, but you took it Like you took their lives; Lives, that’s what they are, not

Bosoms with no more milk to give, Hearts drained like overextended veins Babies that went hungry—They were people, Souls dug away by the fluffy Cotton blowing in the breeze.

Call me by the names you still give, Shorty, homie, mixed, mulatto I am a miscellaneous mix of white, Black, blood-splattered aprons, Voices clawing against scratchy throats Bleeding ropes that tie me To oppression, prejudice, throbbing Inescapably deceased remains, Of a culture that held mine in palm But let the memory of their remnants fade, Ashes to ashes that continuously blow-by Dusty debris in the wind.

La Carmargo Dancing By: Rylee Loucks

Works Cited Beckett, Samuel.

Malone Dies. eBook. 1956

Lancret, Nicholas. “La Camargo Dancing” c. 1690-1743

Pesne, Antoine. “The Masquerade Ball” c. 1683-1757 Rand, Ayn. Anthem. www.gutenberg.org: eBook. 1938.

Wharncliffe By: Gareth Boyle

An obsidian skyline chandeliers from above, creating a glowing hum on the early twentieth-century elementary school.

A copper fence wraps around it with paper-cut fish glued in waves on the wires.

A plaza next door creates a corner-eye shine through the fluorescent bulbs, shaded by dyed lenses of yellow, red and white.

Aromas of oven-roasted basil and cheddar, along with spiced rice in glass caskets compete and slither through exhaust pipes on the roofs of the restaurants.

“Open” signs and closed, iron-barred doors.

Poked out mufflers and beat-up RAV-4’s growl down London’s concrete artery like red and white blood cells, reaching the corner variety store.

Salt-soaked boots stretch out of the doors while hooded faces put on purple fabric masks.

A man in brown leather with a soot-shaded beard walks to the nearby garbage can with two squealing grocery carts.

Emptying bottles from the bin, he looks at me and quickly scurries away.

My Death’s Darkling By: Destiny Young

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me? ~John Milton, Paradise Lost O darkling, come near and lend me your song; My aching heart longs for gentle soothing.

I beg you merry bird, linger a while…

Approach without fear, For the embalmed darkness eclipses my Unforgiving form. Allow light mellifluous Melodies to fall from your tongue; For the night is young, And my soul must be warmed By your happy lot.

Perch overhead with open lobe— Unto you I relay my waking dream.

Many dark musings you have received from the Speakers before me, but my woe differs.

My soul, plagued by unique misfortunes; Unknown to babes born as HE intended.

These timorous hands, these jaundiced eyes and Sutured limbs, these raven lips and life pulse; A chaos of borrowed flesh and bone.

My maker devised me, concocted and Contrived me, then sparked me to Life. And thus, I was born into melancholy.

My heart yearned to be known My belly, to be nourished, My mind, to be molded.

But how? From what? By whom?

Into the unknown I endeavored And in short, I was afraid.

Twas not long before I learned of my malady: Greeted with brutal refusal and revulsion Whence from the ruthless river a child I did save.

And what reward for my benevolence?

Befallen bullets.

And thus my hatred for these creatures Ensued and brewed and chewed through me And the drowsy numbness pained my sense.

“O evil, be thou my good.”

What have I done now? Is there no cause?

A lifeless lad, and then two more…

Maidens too, two maidens too.

A self-teaching, self-loathing, self-grieving fiend Is what you have breeded.

Is this what the world needed?

A creature of life depleted?

Of mind defeated?

And for what? What for?

The selfish pursuit of man.

O midnight bird do not cease your song, I must relay my solution; The ultimate resolution for my mind’s pollution.

My dream; akin to Adam’s, yet unfulfilled; No mate, no equal to me was granted.

No Eve to greet me at dawn; To nurse me to health and happiness.

No chance, no love, no friend.

O blithe bird, how I long to fly with thee Through the tender night, Amid fay-filled furrows and valley-glades Atop fruit trees and foamy seas, Where you and me and HE Will dip my soul in lethe waters And unearth my poesy wings.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

A nameless fiend, a miserable deformity, Wholly synthetic, epic and pathetic.

My God, my God, had you no plan for me?

An abandoned Frankenstein, driven to pine

For a life, a friend, a sign Of hope—or change of heart?

O immortal bird, I have grieved a grief Of ten thousand years, And no hemlock, or opiate, or vintage, Could enrich me, soothe or bewitch me.

I stand before you raven of the night, Divulging my half-love for easeful death.

I relay unto you my waking dream To dissolve and fade and forget, “To cease upon the midnight with no pain” For you have digested my tale, And know just as well as I, That the life of fiend is no life, and so “Now more than ever seems it rich to die” Adieu! Adieu to you my death’s darkling.

In truth, there was no nightingale.

Only mountains in mourning and an ice raft Casting a corpse into the snow-kissed abyss.

“Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”

Works Cited Keats, John. “Ode to a Nightingale.” The Norton Anthology of Poetry, edited by Margaret Ferguson, Mary Jo Salter, Norton & Company, 2004, pp. 582-584.

Milton, John. Paradise Lost. Alma Classics, 2019.

Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft. Frankenstein: 1818. Intervisual Books, 2010.

V O LU M E 8

ISSUE 2

SPRING 2021

Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The responsibility for the content in this publication remains with the artists and authors. The content does not reflect the opinions of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council (AHSC) or the University Students’ Council (USC).