Symposium Symposium
Onceuponatime...
Symposium
AnAHSCPublication
Issue2|Spring2026
Copyrights remain with the artists and authors. The responsibility for the content remains with the artists and authors. The content in this publication does not reflect the opinions of the Arts and Humanities Student Council (AHSC) or the University Student Council (USC).
What We’re About
Vice President Publications
Nicole Godlewski Hennigar
Associate Vice President Publications
Alyssa Naoum
Creative Managing Editor
Tanya Matviyiva
Academic Managing Editor
Lina Drummond
Layout Editor
Evan Rogers
Cover Designer
Kendra Jackson
Copy Editors
Khadeejah Abdul-Khadir
Afrah Fatima
Cadence Desmarais
Iris Zhao
Social Media Coordinator
Beatrix Nemec
Alumni Relations Commissioner
Paige Hammond
Symposium and Semicolon are official publications of the Arts and Humanities Students’ Council, published bi-annually. To view previous editions or for more information about our publications, please contact us at the AHSC council office in University College 2135. Publications can also be viewed virtually at issuu.com/ahscpubs
Symposium is the AHSC’s creative journal. It accepts outstanding poetry, prose, and visual art created by students enrolled in at least one 0.5 A&H credit.
Editor’s Letter
Dearest reader,
We all need a bit of magic in our lives. A dream… a wish… a light to guide us through hopeless times. We need a place where the impossible becomes possible, a story that transports us to a vivid new world.
We need a fairytale.
For this issue, we asked for pieces that embody this wonder And what a wonder it has been to receive and weave together these stories Each piece demonstrates the exceptional creative and academic skills of our A&H students, the utter necessity of the arts and humanities in a world of chaos
It has been my honour to serve as the AHSC’s Vice President of Publications for the 2025/2026 term, and I am thrilled to present you with our final publications of the academic year the happily ever after. This issue would not have been possible without the Publications team working hard behind the scenes: Alyssa, our AVP; Kendra, our cover designer; Evan, our layout editor; Tanya and Lina, our managing editors; and our copy editors, Khadeejah, Iris, Cadence, and Afrah.
A special thank you goes out to all the contributing writers and artists and everyone who submitted That engagement is the magic that brings our publications to life
Finally, I would like to thank you, dear reader Whether or not your work lies in these pages, your support means the world to the AHSC Publications team I hope that this issue grants you a little fairytale magic, that you walk away with a sprinkle of pixie dust or a surge of courage to get you your happily ever after.
NicoleHennigar VicePresidentofPublications
able of Con ents
6-7 8-9 10-11
The Deer by Teryn Romanick and The Coat of Many Falsehoods: A Confession from the Girl Who Cried Wolf by Hollie Rosewood
Conquest by Gabriella Ramirez and She is a Faerie, Just Like You! by DeeDee El-Hage
A Practice in Drowning by Cyrus Bechtold
in the midnight hour (with a rebel yell) by Sofia Dehar 12-15
16-17
Cruel Sorceress and Young Maiden by Morgan Kerr and Mother’s Monster by DeeDee El-Hage
Castles in the Air by Jennifer Warren and Ella Mann 18-19
20-21
The Spark by Ainsley Scott and Selenophile by Gabriella Ramirez
Eros and Psyche by Georgia Craven and Penury by Julia Latella 22-25
26-27
28-29
30-31
Witches Brew by Cipher Bridger and Her Hands Remember by Linda Long and Horse Brothers by Mannyng of Troia Nova
The Melancholic Swan by Kiana Delsooz and The Piece of Wood by Linda Long
The Revisionist by Sirena Van Schaik
Romanick (she/her)
TheCoatofManyFalsehoods:AConfession fromtheGirlWhoCriedWolf
I was born with a little red faux-fur hood
It had been kept in a case, in case my mother should have another girl to replace the one she lost but of course, no girl could, no matter how good
she was My mother stitched me up a basket
I marched in circles and picked up scraps the cat left teeth and talons scattered the yard and lodged in fences whose great, solemn posts enshrined the grim casket
it was How I had been nurtured to expect candy for my candor so when I saw the loitering wolf, cat in maw, I pulled my hood down ‘round my face and cried, “Bloody m
murder Was the perfect explanation for the fangs in the fence but my translation? It came out like a childish fabrication that sets snowpants on fire, red as the skin
of my cheeks Blushing from the cold, Incredulity made my mouth more bold:
I knew what I’d seen and professed it profusely but the stone-cold truth just wasn’t the gold
it had seemed The first time I wove a falsehood, the first fib that flew from my scarf was: “I’m going to clean the yard; I just have to do my coat up, ” when really I would hop the fence to run in the woods
with the wolves And soon my false tufts turned to real ones, as I scampered through snow and ran from shotguns [Blast!]
A million tiny grains white lies puffed and sludge-stained black like dirty change; old coins on the hunt
for new palms They came so easily to me Lies to please and to appease; they were my currency Hard-to-swallow pills with cotton-candy deceit, sugar-coating and re-coding facts to fit my needs
I was born with a little red faux-fur hood
It droops over my eyes, hangs lower than it should I peer into the ice, but my reflection only shows a lone, no-good wolf where once a girl had stood
Written by Hollie Rosewood (she/her)
I met an angel once With wings as white as bone and Calloused hands that had known toil
We wrestled in the dark
Our bodies slick with sweat Forehead pressed against mine As the weight of his divine body Pinned me to the barren earth
I had fallen from grace Into the underbelly of creation I desperately clung to his frame
CONQUEST
Digging my fingers into the spaces between each rib
As I begged for salvation
Liberty from a fate that had carved its way into my spine the same way his Fingers hooked themselves into the crevice of my exposed clavicle
Written by Gabriella Ramirez (she/her)
He was Beautiful
The kind of seraphic beauty One could not help but yield to We wrestled throughout the night The heavens unwilling to offer the mercy of light Outstretched limbs twisted into knots as we reached Blindly for the warmth of flesh to prove our existence
By the time dawn pulled itself over the ridge of his shoulder He breathed heavily a ragged, almost mortal sound That rose and fell against my throat
As he removed his body from Mine
He grazed the socket of my hip with a touch so soft I could have sworn it was a fallen feather until the joint slipped and my body rearranged itself in the shape of the cosmos
Morning found me crippled by the kiss of an angel. A wound so tender I kept mistaking it for grace.
SheisaFaerie,JustLikeYou!
Written by DeeDee El-Hage (she/her)
she bears the characteristically long limbs of the fae the points on her ears aren’t purchased from Amazon orange looks really beautiful on her but she looks just as pretty in pink wings glitter, glamour, glimmer, glitz to match those wings, a closet of outfits
she rotates between lounging on her bed made of plush and grading papers at her sage green, rainbow-shaped desk she grades in silence, but back on the plush, she’s rewatching seasons of her favourite reality shows she’s showered twice since her azure-winged male left to the mainlands fourteen days ago her legs are prickled in shimmery hairs that she no longer has to slice off with shears she’s eaten instant petals for days now the weather too bright and her heart too dim for groceries she needs to stop smoking pollen and she knows it switching to nectar isn’t any better
her reality shows though, opal noise to her books romality is her favourite genre the local library leprechaun judges her love for human smut; gawks at her when she flutters up and out towards her twinkling-tulip-topped home clutching the romality books to her peony tutu-dress
also amongst the books is her journal where she writes in glitter gel pens about missing the azure-winged male and realitizing about the fictional human males instead
yeah, she’s got friends, but she’d rather not talk to them, not because she doesn’t like them she grades, lounges, watches, reads, writes, then reaches over to her daisy-shaped nightstand, lifts up the stem and grabs the periwinkle vibrator
A Practice in Drowning
Written by Cyrus Bechtold (he/him)
Whenever Beth was upset, she came to the lake. She lunged pleadingly for the water, her eyes stinging and her arms fresh with bruises, in an attempt to dilute her tears in the lake’s expanse. She was, at once, on two sides of a war: one hand holding her head down, fighting against her body that yearned for air, and the other grasping desperately behind her at the surrounding grass, begging to fill her lungs once again with life. To her dismay, it was always the former that gave up first. She was stuck, panting and hacking, yearning for any sensation to replace those that she hated; a cigarette to ward off the chilling touch of cold leather on her skin, the gentle sound of birds to replace the screams, a knife to cut away the parts of her marred by others. It was in these moments, when she seemed to most need them, that the messages started to appear
They came in small glass bottles twinkling under the starlight as they softly bobbed to shore and gently stopped near Beth’s soaking form. They started as simple messages, and Beth likely would have ignored them were it not for the distraction they provided—which she so desperately craved—and the fact that they were addressed to her by name. Eventually, she found herself returning these messages—first out of curiosity, and then something deeper They gradually turned into more meaningful conversations until Beth started to find herself at the lake with no excuse, brought back only by the potential of conversing with this mystery. Her Mystery
With every message she received and every bottle she urgently opened, her Mystery seemed to fill something within her—to heal some aspect Beth previously thought incurable. Every compliment aided her hand in the grass, fighting the urge to stay below the lake’s surface. Every bit of reassurance challenged the nights she had spent alone in the bathroom, only herself and her pain, as she tried to remove the first with the second.
Beth wrote back frantically each time with questions to piece together this enigma. She would ask what their name was, the colour of their hair, their height, anything to add to the image she yearned to construct in her mind. She threw the bottle back across the lake as far as her arms would allow, but often unsatisfied she would swim out and throw it again, until she was certain it would reach her Mystery But the answers she received were always vague, serving only to deepen the inexplicable draw she felt to this person on the other end.
It continued like this for a time, Beth’s war expanding beyond just her hands. Now her mind was like the dark expanse of the lake, calling her, pushing her below the surface, seeking to release one last breath, a final disturbance on an otherwise pristine world. But her heart, rather than grasping desperately at her surroundings as her hand had been, had found a safety line. It had latched onto this person she wrote to, slowly clawing its way closer and out of the lake. And magically, it seemed to be working.
Until her heart's pull became too strong. ***
Beth has finished writing her most recent letter, but can't get it far enough across the lake. With every throw, she grows more frustrated, each seeming more feeble than the last, and it is on her fourth time treading back into the water to grab the bottle that she seems to forget about it entirely She is overwhelmed, but with what she is unsure. Desire is too simple; it goes deeper than a simple yearning. She is a being overcome with a sole purpose, everything
else cast aside or forgotten. She needs to reach the other side, to meet her Mystery, so she swims past the bottle and continues. She swims frantically, illogically, not thinking of anything but who she hopes to meet.
But her body is unable to match the drive of her heart. Her legs pull her down, and her arms slow, until her mission to reach the other side becomes an attempt to stay above the surface. She knows she can’t make it, slowly becoming a captive to the ironic cruelty of the lake—the lake that had rejected her so many times and is only accepting her now that she has something else to live for
She will awaken back on shore, coughing and heaving, sopping head to toe. It is in this state that she will grab the letter left beside her, not hers, but in writing she could now recognize anywhere. Her dripping hair will start to smudge the ink, and by the time she is done reading, her tears will ensure that it is unreadable.
It will be from her Mystery, of course, but this final message will reopen the wound the earlier messages had worked so hard to close, tearing through Beth like she is as limp and fragile as the letters themselves, made of nothing more than the paper she clings to. It will be a goodbye and an apology, as her Mystery will take the blame for Beth nearly dying. Beth will know that they were the one who saved her, that they had been so close and yet unreachable. And Beth will imagine the feeling of their hands on her skin but will know that they are gone. With them she might be gone too—as what was the point of her Mystery saving her if Beth could not have them any longer?
This will be the final blow, and her mind will finally win against her heart. She will try to fight off its torturous propositions, but every day that she returns to the lake, screaming, crying, and flinging glass bottles as far as she can to no avail, she will have to give in. And so it will be that Beth returns one last time to the lake, but with a rope instead of a pen, and a simple grief instead of a burning desire. She will finally decide to give herself to the lake one last time, tying one end of the rope around the biggest rock she can find and the other around her ankle. But as its fray tightens and bites into her skin, she will hear a voice behind her. Feminine, soft, and above all, familiar
Whipping around, she will know this has to be her Mystery, and at once there will be a spark again in her heart, a single drop of water sending ripples through the expanse of darkness in her mind.
It will be much more than her presence that shocks Beth, though. It will be her hair, her height, her eyes. It will be her smile, which, although Beth has not seen it in a long time, she will recognize as her own, if only with a few more wrinkles. And looking at this mystery— her Mystery, her purpose—Beth will know she is looking at herself
It won’t make sense, but nonetheless, the drop of water will grow into a crashing wave, driving back the murky call of the lake and the sweet death held there. How could it win, her mind that hated itself so much, if the only person she had loved, the person that gave her something to live for, had been herself?
inthemidnighthour(witharebelyell)
Written by Sofia Dehar (she/her)
Fredrick cut through another tangle of branches Almost instantly, they began growing back and tangling together He pushed through As he ventured deeper into the Bush, the branches grew denser His small dagger was just barely getting him through
The map in his pocket showed his destination in the middle of the Bush Why he was given a map for a place that was unnavigable was lost on him The only clue he had: about three days from the perimeter and you’ll know you ’ re close when the branches push you out
“Three days time,” the prophet had told him. “Three days to reach the centre. Two and a half if you ' re fast. Or if you have a magical shovel or pickaxe that can carve a path for you Do you have a magical shovel or pickaxe that can carve a path for you, Prince Fredrick?”
“Uh, no sir,” Fredrick replied He just had his sword and dagger
The prophet nodded and handed him the map
Only a few people had ever ventured into the Bush, and even less had made it out The last few were a team, only one of whom came back He raved about his colleagues’ bodies being ripped apart by the branches before his very eyes Fredrick was glad he had yet to come across them
Above him, Silena made her way across the treetops, coming from the opposite end of the Bush She could see the thinner patch of branches above the centre clearing As she moved forward, Silena could hear another person cutting through the bushes from the other side She could see the branches rustling Whoever was in the Bush was close But she was closer She also had the advantage of being on top of the Bush rather than inside of it; nothing here was trying to keep her out
As Silena softly dropped down through the trees and into the clearing, she thought of the rumour that Prince Fredrick was on a quest to find the Emblem of Power that she’d heard in a tavern a few days prior She thought that was all it was: tavern talk But there was a good chance that it was Prince Fredrick on his way through the Bush right now And almost through, impressively
As Fredrick finally burst through the trees, his gaze landed on a young woman with golden eyes, holding a chest The very chest he was sent to retrieve by his father A split second later, she was gone, running atop the trees
Fredrick cursed and ran back through the Bush He debated what he should do By the time he was out, surely, she’d be gone It took three days to get through the Bush There was no chance he could catch her There was also no chance he could go back to the kingdom emptyhanded and without having tried If he tried and failed, he would be understood If he went home now, he would be shunned
After a surprisingly quick and easy way out, he mounted his horse and rode around the Bush On the other side, there was a small village To his surprise, he could see the woman dressed in black, vaulting herself over the rooftops
The village was still and silent. The figure was a little bit easier to spot because of that. Fredrick noticed that her bright red hair was no longer visible.
He urged his horse faster, running through the roads of the village A few lamps brightened the windows Some people poked their heads out of windows and doors No one tried to stop him He caught up quickly, calling out to her Surprised, Silena stumbled She caught herself on a window and climbed back onto the sloped roof It had not taken the stranger three days to get back out of the Bush
Miss, if you please,” the man called up
Silena nodded, urging him to speak She needed to get to the ruins
“Can you, uh, come down?” Fredrick asked, looking up at the strange woman in the trees. She was tall and lean, with fiery hair and golden eyes. A black hood and mask hid the rest of her face. Under her arm was the chest Fredrick was sent to retrieve.
“Whatever you wish to say to me, you can tell me while I’m up here,” she replied “And while you ’ re down there ”
“Right,” Fredrick said “Well, um, may I know who you are?” he asked
The woman didn’t reply for a moment Fredrick was beginning to wonder if she heard him before she spoke up again “Is this vital information to you?” she asked
“Well, no, I just thought to be polite,” Fredrick replied
“There is no need, stranger,” she called down
“Alright,” Fredrick replied “Well, you can call me Fre Fred If you’d like ”
“What is it you want?” the woman asked.
“That chest that is under your arm ”
“What do you want with it?”
“Well,” Fredrick said “I’m not too sure, to tell you the truth I was sent to find it Sent by the king ”
Fredrick decided that the woman in the trees didn’t need to know that he was the prince
“Are you the prince?” she asked
Well, damn
“No,” Fredrick said “One of his army I happen to have a similar name ”
The woman eyed him weirdly “You don’t know what’s in here?” she asked
“No,” Fredrick responded.
Silena didn’t know what to make the strange man below her On one hand, he wore the king’s crest and called himself Fred On the other, he had explanations for both
“The king said that whatever is in here is vital to the kingdom’s future,” the man continued after Silena said nothing
“Did he also tell you that he plans to use it to wipe out the rebel force?” Silena asked “Or the other kingdoms?”
“What?” Fred asked “No, he isn’t ”
“You sound so sure ”
“How do I know that you are telling the truth?” Fredrick asked
“You don’t,” the woman replied. “And you don’t have to trust me. But if you want, I can show you what your darling king is doing.”
Fredrick thought about it for a second He didn’t entirely trust the woman in the trees, but at the same time, she gave him more of a reason for anything than his father did
“I’ll take you up on that offer,” he finally said
The woman nodded and she jumped down from the trees
“Off the horse,” she said “Follow me ”
Fredrick did as she asked The strange woman started off down the pathway, continuing the way she was going
“Miss?” Fredrick called “What shall I call you?”
The woman didn’t answer right away. Fredrick was beginning to think she hadn’t heard her.
“You do not need to call me anything,” the woman told him
“Oh, but I’d like to,” Fredrick replied “I was always taught that it was rude to not ask who you are speaking with ”
“And I was taught that it’s rude to press a subject the other person doesn’t wish to engage in ”
“I suppose we ’ re both right, then,” Fredrick said
Fred was silent for a moment “Are we almost there yet?” he said
“For heaven’s sake, do you ever stop talking?” Silena asked
“Afraid not,” Fred replied “It’s quite an issue, I will admit ”
“Well, no, we ’ re not almost there yet,” Silena said, answering his question
“When do you estimate we will be there?”
“I dunno,” Silena replied She did know They’d get to the heart of the village in only a few minutes She’d rather that he didn’t know that, for the sake of her own entertainment
Once they’d made it to the heart of the village, the sun was already rising Silena could see the windows of houses yawning and people beginning to open up their shops
“Mornin’ Lena,” someone called
“Good morning, Mr Graymore,” Silena replied “Everything alright?”
“All good,” Mr. Graymore replied. “Found that key I lost last week.”
“That’s good,” Silena replied
“Who’s your friend?” Mr Graymore asked
“Fred of the Gavaria Kingdom’s guard,” Silena quietly replied “I’m taking him to the ruins ”
“Ah,” Mr Graymore acknowledged If there was anyone to trust with anything, it was Mr Graymore “Good luck ”
Silena thanked him with a nod, wished him luck on his day’s sales, and continued down the road
“Lena? That’s your name?” Fredrick asked
The woman turned around and fixed him with a hard stare She still hadn’t removed her mask She turned back around and nodded, continuing once again
“What are the ruins?”
Silena didn’t answer
“Is this how I die?” Fredrick wondered aloud, looking around at the changing scenery
“If what you say is true, there are people waiting for you, ” Lena replied She glanced back at him “And I don’t want to take that chance So, I guess you’ll just have to wait and find out ”
Cruel Sorceress and Young Maiden by Morgan Kerr (she/they)
Mother’sMonster
covered in limbs that look awkward no matter how you position them
long and slender and lanky and contradictory jagged and sharp but also squishy and stretched. seven eyes, and they don’t stay on my face
there’s one on my left shoulder one on each of my palms there’s one at the bottom of my hair-covered back and another atop my right knock-knee i have very brown teeth, only ten in total i have five legs which makes it even more
Written by DeeDee El-Hage (she/her)
awkward to position them
arms so long that my fingertips graze the floor when I’m standing upright there’s an engraving on my chest where my breasts should be that says, “hate me, i’ve been fucked!” an infinite web of drool slides from my always hanging jaw
gooey, yellow-green grime builds up in the corners of all my eyes everyone who passes aren’t monsters not stained, ruined, or disgusting so they stare in horror with only two eyes that widen then narrow to a judgemental glare i don’t take up much
physical space but no one comes within six feet that’s how she looks at
Castles In The Air
Rhea Swift knew she could fly
She didn’t have wings or feathers or hollow bones, but she could fly with Wren Flying was her sister’s favourite game Sometimes Wren told Rhea to pretend like they were flying, flying so far away from Blossom Hill Farms and so far above the town that they couldn’t see the village square over the sleepy little town of Silkford, far from the small farms and even smaller people They would fly somewhere so far away that their family farm was nothing more than a distant dream A nightmare full of loudness and heavy hearts Of things better left unnamed They could pretend that Blossom Hill Farms was a bad dream, and when they woke, they could run to their parents' rooms, and they would let them curl up in bed with them As it was, their parents locked their bedroom doors at night
Playing tag with your sister must be tons better than sitting in the kitchen, listening to a dragon snarl and snap his jaws at your mother, and watching the light and warmth she used to exude with ease slowly leave her eyes Rhea much preferred being outside the farmhouse, playing in the overgrown wheat fields Her sister joined her often Rhea knew Wren didn’t much enjoy playing with her, especially when Rhea’s imagination got her in trouble with the dragon Her mother used to say Rhea was her little rascal, a mischief-maker Now she says nothing She always looks so sad when the dragon gets upset She never really seems to be happy anymore
When Wren did play with Rhea, she wanted to run She wanted to run fast and hard and away from the plot of land that held the simmering volcano the dragon seemed to thrive in If only she had wings like their namesake She would stay in the air, unwilling to rest so she could fly faster and further than any little girl had ever before. Wren liked to pretend that they didn’t have to worry about anything. Not the day the dragon found his fire, twisting towards Wren as if she’d be eaten up for supper
Wren took Rhea’s hand as they fled to the castle, spinning tall tales of captive princesses, and they, the brave knights they were, needed to defeat the dragon The castle was so large that Wren couldn’t see the top of the towers, despite her being a whole lot taller than Rhea Maybe their mom could see the top She was even taller than Wren Rhea just knew the dragon could see the top He could fly!
Written by Jennifer Warren (she/her) and Ella Mann (she/her)
Rhea’s hands grew sweaty in Wren’s palm as Wren glanced furtively behind them There was a distant slam of a door as they quickly entered the castle gates, but Rhea ignored it in favour of fighting valiantly as they made their way up the stairs She heard the dragon’s stomping footsteps against the stone floor underneath them Rhea was just about to slay the final beast when she lost her balance and, unable to get a handhold, fell backwards down the stairs
But what had she to fear? With Wren, Rhea could fly She unfurled her wings, hands outstretched, arms reaching far above her when Wren screamed, and the dream shattered Rhea hit the barn floor with a sickening crack
Wren peered over the railing Rhea was still, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath her Wren’s face crumbled, and then hardened. Rhea thought Wren looked just like their mother, then, right before the dragon slashes his claws across her face. Wren’s breathing hitched as she watched the dragon descend on her little sister, fire spewing from his lips, before lurching for the stairs Wren glanced at her sister, Rhea begging her to stay, then back towards the scorching flames before clambering towards the window of the attic and down the cascading vines
Wren flew towards the woods behind the wheatfields and didn't stop Not when she heard the barn door slam open and felt the fire licking at her heels Not when she heard the loud steps and the roaring voice of her father following her If Wren looked back, she would see her sister’s blood staining her father’s undershirt But Wren did not look back
She kept her eyes forward, kept running, flying towards the woods beyond Blossom Hill Farms She ran until the heavy footfalls following her petered out Until she found herself alone, great elms towering above her, the sky grim beyond them
Alone If only she could pretend, if she could just imagine, she could believe that this was freedom If only Rheas could fly
Written by Ainsley Scott (she/her)
Your fatal attraction, my uncontrollable passion. The burning in my heart, my hands, my soul, piercing my skin, turning me to coal, a product of your control.
ou claim your love runs deep yet my river runs dry My measly pebbles fail to keep you in place, lost.
Casting the last lure, catching insincere devotion unable to escape your face.
I want to be free. No longer the woman you only wish to see. I know I can change to fit your every need.
I vow to light my own fire, no longer striking your matches. Our desire is a deadly flame. Beautiful from a distance, noxious to most, lethal to those daring to come too close.
My passion wields no peace. The words you once spoke, the parts you once touched, the ways you once controlled me, I vow to calm the storm, in which only I can see.
From this day forward, I vow to no longer be the fixed foot to your compass. I shall command my own path. Our love expands beyond acres of land. Your distance is no match for me. My magnet leads beyond your map.
selenophile
Written by Gabriella Ramirez (she/her)
I have been incessantly in love since I was six years old, in places I shouldn’t be in places I shouldn’t look
Inside kitchen cabinets and behind lace curtains, I made love to the idea of love as the moon watched me from the window, its pale light sticking to the hardwood floor like wet fingers coated in spoiled milk and pancake syrup Love always came to me in unfamiliar shapes and in words I had yet to learn how to properly pronounce The clusters of consonants and vowel sounds were too advanced for my childish vocabulary, leaving me unfulfilled as I babbled in tongues, searching for the right sounds to make If the moon had the face of a man, then it was always too close to mine It wasn’t a kind face like the ones etched in children’s books who sang their children to sleep with sweet lullabies He liked to watch me from a distance, in places where I could not reach from the skylight above my bathtub or through the buttons of my jeans
Sometimes, I would try to kiss his pale lips in the dark when the stars weren’t watching out of childlike curiosity. Sometimes, he kissed me back with the command of an adult swollen lips and aching tongues that danced like moonfish in milky waters. Waves of disgust crashed harshly in between crooked kisses as I shamelessly explored his mouth for more He tasted like cold metal and red rubber bands the kind I collected and wore around my wrist His fingers weaved themselves into my mind, braiding my nerve endings with his thoughts until I too began to wane with the phases of the moon I look at boys now with the same hunger They fall to my feet like the moon at midnight, mouths pressed to my ankles like I am something holy, worthy of worship
At what point is a child's mind fully developed? Eighteen Thirty Six At what age is it acceptable to accept love from the moon? And if I love him back, what does that make me? What kind of filthy form of love is this if one can even call it such? What if I liked how it felt when he touched me in the tight spaces between my ribs, and what if I craved more? The torment of such thoughts leaves me incapacitated like the little girl who hid beneath closet shelves and bathroom sinks, begging for the desire to play with Barbie dolls and gorge on candy like little girls do To dance naked in the sun like little girls do and not feel dirty every time the moon comes out at night To not feel the ache in the crater between my legs as the tides turn the moon inwards so it may rest its head in the space where the stars cannot reach A galaxy of ecstasy, coloured within the lines of depravity and virtue, drawn with crayons as I float to another dimension where the sun never sets I count constellations as he cradles my hips in his hands, allowing him to roam into barren territories that have remained untouched He teaches me how to sing twisted harmonies that blend the garbled sounds of pleasure and pain into a singular sound. As I lay sprawled on the ground, basking in the light of the moon, Venus sings me a prayer as she weeps, and I moan.
I have had to untangle my thoughts in the mess of my bed sheets as I wrestle with the moon about where to place the blame in my lap or in the heavens I wake up with crescent bruises along my thighs where no hands have been, and I begin to taste something older than hunger And so, I open my mouth wide enough to invite his crime and let him slip through my throat the same way a child swallows a coin out of rebellion By the end, it is unclear whether I am the one consuming or being consumed Yet by morning, I suppose I will be less human than I was before
Eros and Psyche
He should be going soon.
He should be, but every fibre of his body is telling him to stay right here, where his beloved lies fast asleep and powerless
He runs his fingers through her hair Her curls are soft as silk, the strands carrying the fragrance of a sweet bouquet of flowers Would it really be a crime, he thinks, to spend a few more moments basking in her essence? With real mortal flesh, the physical reality of her Of the two of them together
She shifts in her sleep His feathers flutter in fear
Being right beside her is a sweet, pleasant pain But he endures even more torment when he has to be away from her And even then, Morpheus torments him with dreams of her Morpheus should know not to incur his wrath, for his arrows can inflict the same torture upon him
Or perhaps he is his saviour, sending him visions of his beloved when he cannot see her
He does not know which it is.
Would it be alright, then, if he just folded his wings around her? Or would the downy feathers tickle her thighs? Would the sensation on her soft skin cause her to stir or perhaps, awaken something else entirely?
The thought arouses him He shifts his body slightly, and his wings brush against her legs, eliciting a sigh from her lips He hopes the sensation travels right to her core He wants to hear her again He loves hearing the sounds they draw from each other in the dark, night after night soft gasps and muffled groans, listening for the words he longs to hear from her Touch, smell, hear, taste To open her up and let the warm love in
His eyes fall to the window Alas, the risk is too great to make love to her The grey band of dawn threatens to creep in She would see him, and all would be ruined
Touch, smell, hear, taste, see
That is the price of his defiance
He longs to beg Nyx for a few more moments of night just so he could stay here a little while more.
But then again, the gods of Olympus are not known for mercy He should know that He must content himself by drawing circles on her arm He wraps his leg around hers, their limbs bearing the marks of their shared passion Being with her makes his soul sing
He presses his lips to her mouth the perfect rose very gently, like the first time they kissed He remembers her at that moment shy and innocent, but with a burgeoning curiosity and hunger beneath it all
Then he tastes it A slip of wine and barley Kykeon
His feathers bristle Why would she trick him so? Does she not understand the consequences of her actions? Does she not know that the darkness is there to protect her, that sleep and blindness are what will keep them together, free from the outside and the others that wish them ill
He brushes his tongue against her lips. She has not taken nearly enough to do any harm. He presses his hand against her heart to hear its slow song. He trails his hand down to hear the pattering heartbeat of their child. All is well.
Soft golden light creeps in through the cracked walls Their time together runs short
What is a little more enchantment, then? Just a little spell to keep her drowsy, her eyes closed so she cannot see the truth
But yet, he knows sometimes she pretends to sleep, closing her eyes when she really is awake His mortal is too curious for her own good She does not know she plays with burning flames Why can she not content herself with their sweet stasis? Their sweet slumber from the outside world?
It was in sleep that he found her Hair falling in tresses around her pillow Tears in the corners of her eyes A vision of loneliness He was blinded by her beauty, desiring not just her flesh, but to know her soul as well
There was nothing more he wanted than for her to give herself to him freely To have true love for him alone So he took the arrow he meant for her and pricked his side
He is her first love. And she is also his. For having the title as the god of desire, no one has ever made him feel quite like she does She is all his own
They talk long into the night He speaks of things he hadn’t told anyone before, depths that he did not realize he had within him And her mind, oh! Her mind is even more beautiful and wondrous than her face and form He wants them to be a family, a real family Not like his no father, a jealous and tyrannical mother who directs his every move, and not like hers who abandoned her on top of a mountain to meet her uncertain fate
But, he thinks, that is what brought her to you
Then he brushes his fingers over the slight swell of her womb The baby, yes, the baby will help He must wait until the child is born, then the gods cannot refuse his petitions, will not refuse his plea to have her entirely for his own
But then again, gods are not known for mercy
Yet, he can have what he desires Stay here with her and their children in this invisible world and be eternally happy He would never dream of harming her or forcing himself upon her against her will. He will give her anything. All she has to do is trust in him. But how can she do that, when he cannot be truthful to her? How long before she breaks? For without faith, there is no love
One day, he thinks, he will show her all of himself All of his forms The beautiful and the terrifying, rendered visible
But no, he thinks He will do no such thing That is his own act of mercy
He gazes upon her, her breathing is deep and relaxed, its rhythm lifting the rich covers on their bed
He runs his thumb across her temple, slipping soft sleep into her mind But she frowns and stirs How does she resist it? Is it the divine blood of the child their child that she carries, half mortal, half god? Or is it her own strength entirely? Perhaps
he underestimates her How wondrous his lover is She is full of surprises
She could open her eyes and look at him right now He is grateful they remain closed, but a small part of him wonders: why does she not look?
She lies fast asleep, and powerless She cannot know It will ruin all that they have built together, however meagre it is How all he asks of her is to trust him, how she knows everything about him, except his own name
Mortals are so fragile. Her bron
Maybe he is a monster after all
Bands of light fall against his sh “Must you go, husband?” she m
“I’ll stay just a moment longer,”
“Is this all just a dream?” she sa
He pauses, he cannot think of a
He sighs, “Perhaps it would be
He makes to move, careful to n
“I like that this is real.”
He looks over at her and smile child
He leans in as close to her as he
He gets up, but is jolted back lips to his Her kiss tells him o tries to open them Even as tear
She sighs, finally breaking away his servants not to wake her as h
He steps outside, the west wind
Still, he lays his eyes on the pa mercy at all
Penury by Julia Latella
Witches Brew
Written by Cipher Bridger (she/her/hers)
HerHands Remember
Written by Linda Long (she/they)
My condolences to the girl whose hands are no more She could not be called a daughter, for the man with her does not deserve to be her father
A man who struck a deal with the devil, and chose his life before his child’s autonomy
He drew the axe against her,
Cutting her hands clean
off
Have they asked you, dear child, how it felt when your bones were cut through?
How did it feel when your bones started grinding against the blade, as if pleading for another way
In your moment of sacrifice, did a little voice inside you scream?
You who offered your hands, did you do it out of love, or out of fear, Perhaps of obligation, guilted by the man’s tears.
Even now, as you live with the king and are blessed with hands again,
Does a little part of you still hold fury at the man whose fear of the devil surpassed his love for his daughter
Written by Mannyng of Troia Nova (they/them)
Tired of Aegean heroes
And Roman conquerors, I gave Birth to you, my horse brothers— Nobly uncouth, with your simple yet Powerful boldness, you will persuade Kings who crown Homer with laurel wreaths, Hengist, Horsa, today you sail away from your mother: Your fate lies beyond the World’s End and beyond Those White Cliffs, where the children of Troy Dwell in blissful innocence, to remind them
Our word for wind, our echoes of the earth, You will awaken in them that forgotten Courage to scorn the yellow death; Greater than Romulus and Remus You will never be tamed...
HorseBrothers
The Melancholic Swan by Kiana Delsooz (she/her)
ThePieceofWood
Written by Linda Long (she/they)
Once
Upon a time, there was
A prince.
A princess!
A prince who saved a princess?
No, instead
A single plank of wood
Lifeless and still
No sprayed edges nor notice of autumn chill
Not yet a real boy
No winning war with the whale Torn, split apart from its bark body
With a crash and a bang
Plunged atop the grassy grains
And placed into the carver’s rooted hands
Imagine yourself the carpenter
Your tools dulled and frayed
But what shall you make of this lumber So quiet and small
See a smile, see a frown
See a puppet, see a boy
See wood, see skin And lungs and heart and soul
No question of its state, but instead ask
What shall you make
Of this wooden shell Inside these dandelion walls?
TheRevisionist
Written by Sirena Van Schaik (she/they)
The pages were a hard lump in her hand, and she winced at the angry black ink slashed across the first page She didn’t need to read it She knew all the strife and despair that were etched across the once pristine pages Of course she did; she’d written them herself
“Out writing stories of woe, Apple,” the voice, deep and tinged with laughter, interrupted her thoughts She looked through the crowd on the busy Toronto street to see a tall man walking toward her, back slightly curved, making him appear much shorter than he was His white slacks and deep blue silk dress shirt, open at the collar, matched his light brown skin and long, dark hair His brown eyes twinkled, and he smirked at the jab he knew he’d delivered Of all the fucking nicknames She’d lived with this one for far too long One apple and she’d been tethered to it forever
“You know I can write about happiness,” she replied, “And I thought we were done with nicknames, Cocoa ” She matched the smirk he’d given her as she watched his fade from his lips “Are we not too old for these games?” she asked He nodded and his gaze fell to the pages in her hand She crushed them slightly in her grip
“Still writing, after all these years Don’t you ever get tired of it all?” His eyes filled with concern, and she felt a warmth that made her want to lie down against him, but she shook her head The book was calling to her, she could feel it
“Don’t start, Kokopelli You know we don’t have a choice in this you are a musician, after all Do you still feel the draw of your flute?” He stared at her thoughtfully, the pair ignored by the early evening crowds that parted around them, everyone completely oblivious Her gaze slid sideways, searching the faces of those who passed but they all seemed ordinary She could almost see the book, floating there in front of her She ached for it Her fingers tingled with excitement
He reached out and caught the stray tendrils of black hair from her messy bun, drawing her attention back to him, “Your hair is blacker and eyes are bluer ” She rolled her eyes; this is always the way when she meets fellow artisans They talk in circles, avoiding the truth, never answering the questions asked of them “You seem taller Have you grown, Ari?”
Another nickname but closer She laughed, “Or your back is more curved than it used to be, so you seem shorter ”
Kokopelli laughed with her “I deserved that But I see you have work to do,” he looked pointedly at her pages “And I have a recital to get to But maybe write a happy story for once hmmm ”
Ari’s frown returned and she glared at him as he began walking away Sighing, she started to walk her eyes searching the crowded alfresco restaurants with outdoor patios that lined the King Street corridor on either side
Write happy! It wasn’t that she couldn’t draft a happy story She could but what was the point? Boring! And she had never done boring she created stories that became epic
And there it was
The book practically glowed, identifying itself as the one she’d been looking for; It was nestled against a woman standing just inside a patio, wrought iron tables and chairs filling the charming sidewalk café Her brunette hair was meticulously curled, makeup creating a perfect “natural” glow, and her brown eyes scanned the crowd as if she were looking for someone
Ari barely noticed the woman; it was the book that held all of her attention. She stepped over to it, breathing in the musky smells of an old story aching for new pages to revitalize it She opened it carefully and the tattered pages almost fell out of their binding It was clear other storytellers like her had been here, worrying at the pages, but this book was meant for Eris’s changes something much different than what the original author had penned
Grimacing, she read the first few pages filled with happiness “Fucking happy stories will be the death of me, ” she sighed Maybe Kokopelli was right Maybe she could only write stories of woe With a quick flick of her wrist, she pulled the pages free the slight whisper of tearing made her grin
“Excuse me What Are You Doing?”
The voice was angry, each word clipped, and Ari looked up into the distraught eyes of the woman the owner of the book Glancing behind her, she turned back and realized the woman was looking directly at her “Just reading a book ” She shrugged her shoulders, quickly pulling the torn pages behind her
“Is that my book?” the woman asked as she nodded toward it Ari cocked her head to the side and studied her She’d always been allowed to add her pages unbothered this was the first time anyone had caught her
“It is ”
“Then why do you have a right to read it?” The woman tore the book from her hands and clutched it to her red Ralph-Lauren-clothed chest
This is interesting, Ari thought to herself, a trill of excitement she hadn’t felt since that day she’d tossed the apple into the fray causing her to shudder “I’m just fixing the pages that are falling out ” She held up her seemingly pristine white pages and waved them toward the book Her smile widened as she felt the pull of the leather-bound tome that confirmed this was, indeed, the book fated for her chapter
Confusion crossed the woman ’ s face and her grip loosened on the book, allowing Ari to slip it into her arms “What is this?” Ari gave her a warm smile as she placed the book down on the closest table The woman followed her, mesmerized Ari had never had anyone watch while she worked her new pages of strife into completed works it was thrilling having an audience for once “This is your life, my dear Before you are even born, the pages of your life are set in ink and everything of who you are and who you’ll become is here ” She flipped through the book as she watched emotions flip across the woman ’ s face First surprise, then marvel, and finally back to confusion
“Why are so many pages blank?”
“Hmm ” Ari glanced down at the pages She’d sewn her mischief in so many books throughout history that she rarely read what she tore away The books were always predictable but as is the way of mice and men and Gods not everything should be It was her job to make things interesting Ari could see the story, but only eyes trained to see the ink could read the words “Because you haven’t reached this part of your story yet And we all know, you should never read ahead, or you’ll spoil the ending ”
The woman traced the pages as if she could find her story in braille before she drew back as though she’d been burned And maybe she had Ari had never seen anyone reading their own book “Who are you?” The question was barely a breath from the woman ’ s lips
Ari cocked her head, wondering if she should answer before she replied, “My name is Eris ”
“Strange It sounds so familiar ”
“I’m sure it does I inspire epics ” With a slight jostle of her hand, she pushed her pages into the space she’d torn free and watched as a gold light sealed them to the binding The new pages were home
“Are those pages happy?”
“They are for some ” Eris answered They were happy for her, and, at the last moment, she may have added a happy twist instead of just strife “But should life be nothing but happiness?”
The woman shook her head and Eris found herself liking her
“And will it hurt?” Sadness filled the woman ’ s eyes and Eris felt a pang of guilt as she placed her fingertips on the woman ’ s forehead She watched as her gaze went blank and then slid away from her, unseeing, having completely forgotten the image of Eris cradling her book
“Only for a moment,” she said softly as the woman moved on and Eris allowed the book to slip from her grasp The pages she had torn free, ones full of love, and laughter, and happiness, turned to ashes in her hand as she added, “And only at the end ”
Sharing one ’ s work can be daunting, so the publications team would like to thank all students who submitted. Thank you for trusting us with your pieces.
Thank You Thank You
