The Escape Issue

Page 1

The Escape Issue Volume 19, Issue 3, January 2020


They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night

EDGAR ALLEN POE (1809 - 1849)




4 to sleep, to dream

6 Little Piece of Heaven



8-9 Wanderlost

7 The Western Front, March 1917 TYRA FORDE


10 Vanish

12 a series of new beginnings.

18 The Art of Leaving

14 Afraid to Fly

29 A Letter to Cletus

15 First Night

32 If You Love Something...

17 Of Treetops and Flying Beasts

35 The Curiosity Collective

21 Breakthrough

36 I finally told the truth.

22 My Home, My Provenance












25 forget you.


27 Dreaming


30 Laps


36 Carousel SCOTT LU

38 No man’s land EMILY BUCCIONI

ART AND PHOTOGRAPHY 5, 28, 33 34 19, 20 16



8-9, 22-23, 37


Front Cover


14 7, 31 24


30 11 13



Inside Back


The Escape Issue EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Stephanie Silva

Like any proper English major, stories are my escape.

Production Manager Camille Dehghan

Literary Editor Rachel Panico

Art/Photography Manager Kelly Xu

Romotions Manager Desiree Streef

On stressful, heartbreaking, disappointing days, I give myself over to my imagination. I’ve walked through Earth’s lost empires and seen how small my world really is from the summit of Mount Everest. I’ve haunted the moorlands of Wuthering Heights and danced with fairies on Midsummer Nights. I’ve felt the powers of the great romances of the ages as if they belonged to my own heart.

Events Manager Diane Taylor

Web Editor Arman Aryanpour

Interns Isabella Andrade, Alicia Lavigne, Kiara Yllescas, Grace Bilodeau, Emma McVicar


Stephanie Silva, Isabella Andrade, Rachel Panico, Zhijung Xu, Tyra Forde, Emma McVicar, Harrison Edgar, Grace Bilodeau. Kiara Yllescas, Domenique Barbaro, Preye Aduwari


Scott Lu, Almas Muqueem, Emily Buccioni, Avril Murray, Grace Maguire, Sandhya Vikram, Joanna Hiemstra, Maria Sayde, Max Pond, Manaal Azhar, Mathew Sackrider, Sidney MacDonald, Zvril Murray, James Silk, Bukunmi Oyewole

But, like any proper English major, stories are also my curse. Bicycle-crash scraped knees and tumbles down stairs are long forgotten, but the day I turned eleven and my Hogwarts letter didn’t come has lived with me, always. There’s a place in the back of my mind filled with faraway lands from the stories into which I’ve escaped. This dream world has become an inescapable part of me and I’d be cursed to wander it alone if it weren’t for storytelling. Like countless others, writing or painting or drawing has allowed me to invite other people to escape into my daydreams; to find me in the magic. Thank you to everyone who submitted to this issue and invited our readers to do the same. Stephanie Silva Editor-in-Chief

ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher, & Chair Aaron Hagey Executive Director Lakyn Barton HR Manager Maneesha Suresh Finance Manager Randy Moore Advertising Manager Kurtis Rideout Web Manager Sam Nabi Director Alyssa Di Sabatino Community Director Emily Crump, Rosalind Horne, Arshy Mann

CONTACT Blueprint Magazine 75 University Ave W Waterloo ON N2L 3C5 p 519.884.0710 x3564 Advertise Contribute

COLOPHON Blueprint is the official student magazine of the Wilfrid Laurier University community. Founded in 2002, Blueprint is an editorially independent magazine published by Wilfrid Laurier University Student Publications, Waterloo, a corporation without share capital. WLUSP is governed by its board of directors. Content appearing in Blueprint bears the copyright expressly of their creator(s) and may not be used without written consent. Blueprint reserves the right to re-publish submissions in print or online.

Escape by Sidney MacDonald Growing up, travel was emphasized as an important part of my education. Travelling at a young age sparked my interest in photography, as I wanted to document everything about the places I visited. During a recent trip to Vienna, my love for history and photography combined as I found myself capturing many historical buildings scattered throughout the city. The photo on the cover of the Escape Issue shows a facade of the Vienna State Opera house, taken from the steps leading to the Albertina Museum. The building’s architectural ornaments, and the old lampposts that surround it, perfectly capture historical Vienna. To view more of my travel photography, head to @sidneyelizabethphotography on Instagram.

Opinions in Blueprint are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect those of Blueprint’s management, Blueprint, WLUSP, or WLU. Blueprint is created using Macintosh computers running Adobe Creative Suite.



to sleep, to dream MAX POND

ascending to the bliss beyond this day this life this body as the mind retreats within finding frolicking through that too seductive fantasy a world imagined conceived and beheld by senses so illusory as creation subsumes the creator immersed in my very own myth never found in a world so a power uncontrolled a pleasure and oh a satisfaction how i almost wish that i might stay an eternity that the taste of fruit might always linger upon my tongue, that the scents of spices and steaming, fresh coffee could never leave my nostrils, that i could dissolve into the textures of velveteen and silk, that the flowers would forever bloom, and the sun never finish setting a place i may be free (finally) of the rage, the anguish, the helplessness of despair


and yet, i always wake



Little Piece of Heaven GRACE MAGUIRE

The driveway makes a hole in the thick forest. It’s littered with small pebbles that wedge themselves between the grooves of tires. Every winter, without fail, they wash out and every spring someone has to rake them up to the top. The owners didn’t know that when they bought the plot, some 60 years ago. They just knew it was two lots in their price range on Georgian Bay, with a secluded rocky beach and a soft, towering maple tree that marked the middle. The couple that purchased the lot had three children. The first two were grown and married, and the other a child. The older daughters and their husbands helped their parents assemble each plank of wood to build the cottage as it stands now; a small, five-room square building hovering upon cinder blocks. This place, insulated from the chaos of the outside world by dense forest, is my family’s hideaway. My Grandma calls it her little piece of Heaven. The first lot was vacant. When I was a child, I imagined it into a baseball diamond, badminton court, art studio, dance floor - whatever my brother, cousin and I desired. I fondly remember the paint wars and the sandcastle competitions. The cottage was my favourite place on earth. I also remember the breaking points: six-years-old, sitting on the beach, my body planted in a wooden Muskoka chair, my legs barely touching the ground. Mosquitos danced upon my skin. A breeze off the lake made the tiny hairs on my legs stand at attention. My focus was unwavering as my Aunt told me falsified stories about my parents’ divorce, demonizing my mother. I don’t know why she did it, but she did. Maybe she wanted to hurt my mom after she left my dad. Or maybe she just wanted to be the centre of attention, to capture the gaze of a six-year-old as her world was corrupted like the algae that clouded the lake. The cottage is the place that tainted my childhood. Each blade of grass is a memory, a calculated weapon that sliced through my relationship with my mother until there was almost nothing left.

surrounded only by the memories of those he believed had betrayed him. My Grandma asks him not to bring alcohol here. She asks him not to hide it in his room, where the light from the window can’t illuminate the dark panelled walls that remind him of his childhood. Hiding the past, hiding his insecurities with a bottle in the darkness. Looming just outside the forest, behind the decaying bones of our skeletal treehouse, is a cross we built in honour of my Grandpa shortly after he died. A heart attack took him while my Dad was at the cottage. Part of me still wonders if the cottage became a placeholder for the last moments he didn’t spend with his father. The cottage, our little piece of Heaven, has become a lonely place where ghosts dance with the wind. My grandma doesn’t want to change anything. She wants to leave things how they were, touched by those who are no longer with us. The soft maple tree in the middle of the lots died and was cut down around the time my Grandpa passed away. A large thing ripped from the skyline just like he was ripped from our lives. The tree died slowly; the leaves turned brown one fall and then never grew back. The bark split in places it used to be solid and eventually it seemed to sway in the wind rather than stand rigid. When my Grandpa died, it was the opposite: unexpected death, unexpected loss. I wonder how the rest of my family sees this place. Is it just me that sees the rain more than the sun? After the winter, the runoff from the pastures floods the first lot to a point where it’s not usable for months. As a kid, this time used to pass quickly. It wasn’t long before our imaginations could run wild again. Now, it is August before the grass stops drowning and grows green, when the tires of cars don’t imprint the muddy earth. This cottage tells stories and shapes the people who are connected to it. It links our family to the past.

As I grew older, I stepped away from this place. Not just because of my Aunt’s stories but for many reasons: summer jobs, boys, fights with my dad. I watched the darkness overtake the light. The sunset didn’t kiss the horizon out in the water but disappeared into the night without warning.

The cottage was always a magical place that held its breath during family fights and spit us out on the other side. The whispers of our angry thoughts and hidden sadness danced with the wind in the leaves of the forest. Slowly the magic peeled away like bark from the tree that once stood at the centre of this corrupted paradise.

As I grew older still, my Dad’s drinking problem progressed to teetering back and forth on the front porch. He stared through the person standing in front of him and focused on the lake. It was as if he was deserted out there on an island,


The Western Front, March 1917 TYRA FORDE

No shots were fired, yet my new partner on sentry duty is dead. The green haze fogged his eyes, filled his lungs, and poisoned his heart. Only eighteen but engaged. The sky over No Man’s Land is pitch black with only a smatter of stars to remind of the world beyond the ground we walk, a world with no war. A home. The home where every soldier killed in battle now rests. The home where Ma rests. The home where I want to rest but I cannot sleep yet. The gates will not open for me until I earn my place in that home, if I make it to the gates. It comes as silent as a boa constrictor that slithers to its kill, noiseless yet noxious. We smell the stench of bleach and mold before we see it. Over three quarters of the way across No Man’s Land, we must be directly in front of where the Germans release it. We cannot see them tucked away in the trenches, protected by their masks. We scramble for ours as the grass coloured gas descends. Our coughs pierce the night but Sergeant Bay secures his mask in record time and I not long behind him. I pull the rubber hood, tubes, and glass lenses over my head. I can barely see him through the haze. Ed is doubled over, the contents of his webbing strewn about the battlefield. He gasps for breath as he coughs and spits into the dirt. He lifts a hand and points a finger back towards our dugout. His mouth moves. “Run.” I wrench off my mask. The tubes hit the glass and jangle about as I slam my mask onto his head. His shock disables him more than the gas. His arms reach up to fight but I’m stronger. I have something to fight for. I push him towards Bay, who nods by way of goodbye, before he drags Ed back towards our dugout. As I sink to the ground, I steal one last look at Ed. He is in the arms of Sergeant Bay. His chest heaves as he breathes. He is alive. He is able to return home to his wife and kids. Encased under the cover of gas, I wonder if this is my ticket home, too. The mist settles all around me. My eyes burn and close. I can feel the gas as it clings to my sweat. My chest grows tight and gasps loose as I inhale the toxic air. My throat is thick and raw as I roll over and empty my stomach before I fall back into the mud.



WANDERLOST ANDRÉ BOURGEOIS Daydream To disappear Never forget About freedom If you must lust



Lust to wander

And never fear Getting lost



It’s been a while since you thought about them, hasn’t it? The disappeared, the lost, the absent. Those people who you glance at once and never see again. They’re gone now. Vanished. They’ve simply left this earth and never come back. Could you have done more? Maybe. But then someone else would forget them, and your work would have been for nothing. They’re forgotten in every sense. And so, after a few years of it, they vanish. Sometimes they go with violent sounds but other times, they are as silent as the nothing they become. Others go fresh and new, but then some languish on for far longer than they should. It’s sickening. They vanish. They escape. It’s all our fault.




a series of new beginnings.


a quick glance, a feeling of euphoria. social media as the means to pursue a potential first, a potential love. nights spent with grins across our faces, our fingers eager to continue typing, to feed our addiction. touching hands, our feet meeting under tables, unable to catch a breath. minutes slowly trickled into hours, our souls frozen in time. secrets that had never been spoken aloud, intertwined thoughts, a connection as hard as stone. the words i craved, whispered into my ear, drained into my being. we were invincible, lay a finger on us— i’d like to see you try. the first time, the first time i’ve been touched, my body exploded, as fireworks trickled through my veins, i wanted you, i desired an unattainable comfort. nights spent in sheets, i felt the taste of warmth, your hydrating liquid, and suddenly i was shielded against the world. kisses along my neck, along my breasts, we were lifted into the sky, led blindly by our young ignorance. as giggles filled the quiet sky, love pumped into our hearts, we had enough, we had what we needed— each other.


attachment sprouted like a flower, as fertilizer in the form of arguments and disagreements showered us. my addiction to you was no more than my addiction to your lies, to the pain. the earliest man besides my father to hurt me in ways that could not be spelt out. you brought a hammer to my soul, crushed me into powdered ash, hollow skin. the concept of heartbreak is non-existent, only the darkening feeling of disappointment, hiding in corners, lurking for it’s chance to pounce. you’re at fault; coerced me into experiencing moments i never could have prepared for, i lived a reality that should never have occurred.




Afraid to Fly MANAAL AZHAR Lay down on the tarmac, stare at the sky, Planes and birds are afraid to fly No mercy for the fearful, they have to try; It is your duty to perform, even if you are shy. Planes and birds are afraid to fly When the evening vanishes into darkened sky. It’s your duty, they say, and turn a blind eye I take flight in the middle of the night with no goodbye.

The morning recovers from the darkened sky, I shake until I recover from being the bulls-eye. I leave tonight; I won’t say goodbye Lay down on the tarmac, Never stop staring at the sky.



First Night MANAAL AZHAR I stay awake as long as I can On my first night as a woman who wants to begin A new life that hurts no one but her. I stay awake in this hotel room The foreign white sheets feel cold as stone, Radio plays my memory of a distant song.

Like a freshman’s first night in a dorm, Everything feels right and wrong. There is no one here but me. The empty airport is my new home; Terminals 1 to 3, Which plane will take me?

Travelling the earth on my own, My back hurts when I sleep on stone; So, I find a car to sleep in. Hotels, Dorms, Airports, Cars, All new. I never feel at home. Like a mother laying down her baby In the crib for the first time, I ache From separation on my first night alone.




Of Treetops and Flying Beasts MATHEW SACKRIDER

Lost in the confines of the tall pines, The rushing river shields me –

from the murmurings of my own mind. The bounty of nature heals me,

as I search for not,

but what I might find.

A cold wind brushes my back, and plays upon the straps –

of my bright yellow backpack. The scent of past humidity,

and the feel of soft soil,

relieves me of all morbidity –

created by our human toil.

The sun’s rays cut through the maze,

of treetops and flying beasts.

It warms the contours of my face;

exhale tension, breathe relief.

Eternity in this paradise could be nice.

It would add some spice to life. A year away from bills to pay,

would be like visiting the afterlife. Picking at wild blueberries,

and chewing on dried cherries, makes for a sweet distraction

to all my wilder adversaries.

Except I don’t expect to be eaten tonight,

I just gamble with my time…

Eating like a savage in his prime,

searching for the perfect campsite. As the night’s sky shines high above

and as the moon begins to swoon, a warm fire flatters the land

as it feeds from my hand –

while I sing a joyous tune.

I spend my last night beneath the stars, far away from the sounds of cars. I hear a wolf cry to the sky, and I too begin to cry.

I don’t want to say goodbye.

I cry, I cry, beneath the sky.

To nature – I don’t want to say goodbye.


The Art of Leaving KIARA YLLESCAS

Thursday, 10:30pm I lay down after the long day I just had. I check my phone and see that he messaged me back. “Want to hang out?” I don’t know him too well, only that he is funny, nice, and makes cool art. He likes the song I showed him in class. He is cute. “Now?” I replied. “Half an hour, I’ll be at your place” It is the last semester of high school. I know what I have to do and what has to be done. But tonight, I just want to hang out with this new boy from my art class. “Ok” Message Sent. Official Confirmation. Half an hour, that’s how long I have. I’ve snuck out before. It’s an art. There are many things to consider. Step #1: Socks. Thick Socks. They help slide and reduce noise when generally tip-toeing around the house. Step #2: The first Door. As you pull it open, carefully place pressure with either your hand or body so the hinges don’t creak. I open the door and stare back into my room. It’s not really mine. It’s someone else’s now. We sold our house and my parents plan on moving right after I graduate. Sneaking out has become increasingly difficult with the constant renovations and newly painted doors that makes a sticky noise when I open doors. Step #3: Tip Toe Time. Step #4: Option A) Slip and Slide Option B) Ballerina I stare down at my fuzzy socks and decide Option A is the way to go. I slip all the way to the front door I grab my mother’s rain coat and see the possible demise of my entire night’s plan.


All of our shoes are packed in boxes. I didn’t bring my sneakers from my room. 20 minutes left. Okay, Side Step: Unfold the box It wasn’t taped yet, but it’s still loud. I try to control every move I make, like a surgeon. Every point of pressure is vital to this operation. I finally open the box and grab the first pair of shoes I see. Slip, slip, slide to the back of the house now. 15 minutes. Step #4: Similar to Step #1, Place pressure against the direction of the sliding door so you don’t hear the jolt of the door. Ok: phone, shoes, jacket. Let’s go. 10 minutes left. Step #5: Don’t close the door all the way so you can come back in later. My door has a weird pop sound when you open it. My mom’s room has the view to the backyard. Her lights are off and the curtains are closed. I put my shoes and jacket on and proceed. Step #6: The Fence The last step to the perfect escape. I place a brick before I leave so I don’t have to climb back over. This unfortunately has happened, and I am the world’s worst fence climber. Walking to the main intersection, I realize how stupid this is. I’m leaving anyway. At full speed on a blue bicycle he rides towards me. Out of breath, but still with a full smile on his face. “Hey”




MARIA SAYDE it was difficult for them to understand the concept of working on my own self love because they were never tainted violated wronged shushed i was left contained slaving for the rest of my life to break out and break through freedom from my past self is all i seek in order to belong to myself again


My Home, My Provenance AVRIL MURRAY

Here, at the end, I seek high and low for a friend, welcoming that westward wind instead. The sky is slow, dim as sleep, the lake is limp and sickly-green— for the leaping lights of peppercorn (on which I do depend) are gone. And I have never been so torn between what was, and what may, beneath the lead-clouds butting heads, and the gulls, scudding well-fed, round the hulls berthed in the bay. I drift north, I drift south, watching the earth come in and out, like wisps of a Laurentian grave. Call it Home, a suspension of fate— where nothing at all passes, save for a changing of state: The waves, like molasses, arranging the shore of an inland town, till I open my door and see it drowning. (Mourn the sand-murals with their Edwardian girls in their Edwardian gowns). Something pounds in my bones— is it the grief of a historian? or the relief of ceding the throne? I bow my head and wish for such things as river mouths bending like string over the years. Fishflies shiver above me, kids gather at the pier, making the colonies scatter when they come running near.






forget you.

GRACE BILODEAU willing to exchange my currency of love, for your words of silver, equal, or so I thought. quickly following a trade, your coins tarnished, my debt swirled a growing black hole. each other’s presence slowly drifting, struggling to pull apart. millions of invisible strings, interlaced between our fingers through space and time; lines slowly snapping, one at a time. the thousands that continue to remain, an oozing deep, dark red, depriving me of peaceful nights and tearless eyes. violently shoved to rebuild alone, one step in front of the other, praying i’ll be able to breathe again without you as my oxygen mask. your last words to me dance in my head, reminding me of all the reasons to forget you. yet your toothy grin and clear eyes, french poems you whispered in my ears, haunt me as i lay awake in bed. forgetting; verb much easier accomplished without false promises. my father addicted to alcohol, my first love? lies became his poison of choice.


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When I dream I see your eyes I sink in cotton candy skies I soar above the earth and clouds Escaping blaring city sounds I fly past hills and gentle streams The air is warm, the sunlight gleams The sunset paints an orange sky I close my eyes and say goodbye




A Letter to Cletus PREYE ADUWARI Cletus, You can’t imagine how much I’m thinking of you. However, you should know that if you make the mistake of thinking you can escape your problems and crash into my love, then thunder will surely strike you. I know that I can’t begin to know all that life has done to you but you must heal from it before coming near me again. Isn’t it foolish to think that anybody can love a person enough to take their pain away? Yes, lovers can distract each other but they can’t do it forever. Lord knows I’ve encountered men who are effectively doing the devil’s work of being a distraction, but I digress. Remember that thing I always say? “With some things, the only way out is through.” Unfortunately, pain is one of such things, my love. Pain only rots when repressed; it never disappears. Don’t expect me—your great love—to kiss the rot away because I will surely slap you. Prisoners who escape are never really free, Cletus. You, my sweet tangerine, must work to earn your freedom. Otherwise, you only bring me a life on the run and Lord knows I can’t do that Queen and Slim shit; I’d give in immediately. I would turn us both in, tell the judge what happened and give the police your mother’s address. I am not joking Cletus, but again, I digress. So, try to find the healing you deserve and be done with your past. Then, come find me again, as a free man this time, ready to love me with everything you have—no limits, no fear. If you’re not perfect, trust me, I’ll forgive you; I will help you. I just can’t be your messiah, Cletus. I cannot love your pain away. I cannot be your escape from it. I cannot be your escape from it. Try that nonsense with me again and thunder will surely fire you there. Sincerely, Rebecca




I’m covering the same ground delivering mail, just following the gravel track around. One, two, twenty-four, I’ve lost count of mailboxes, letters, Angus cattle. I’m covering the same ground. I turn left on Culloden, slow down, unpack my ambitions, but before I keep following the gravel track around I tuck one inside the box. Stones pound against my van, thrown by a rundown truck, covering the same ground as me. Why is it so easy to accept drought and let my dreams collect dust? All I’ve done is follow the gravel track around this small town with its rural ruts. I should be done covering the same ground. Can I quit following the gravel track around?





If You Love Something... RACHEL PANICO

Once upon a time, there were three grey sisters living deep in the grey woods. They had grey eyes, grey hair, and grey skin. One day, two of the sisters took a walk in the woods, under the grey sky. Under the grey trees, they found a little yellow bird with a broken wing. It hopped along the grey ground and fluttered as best it could but it did not fly. The sisters thought it might have fallen from a grey branch. They decided to take the little yellow bird home and take care of it. They gathered it in their grey sweaters and took it back to their grey house. The third sister was knitting while they were gone, and they walked in just when she was about to snip the grey thread. When she saw the little yellow bird, she dropped her grey scissors. The three sisters kept the bird fed and warm in their home, and bought it a lovely gilded golden cage, to match the bright sheen of its soft feathers. Eventually, the bird’s wing healed and it was able to fly around the house while the sisters knit their pastel pieces. One day, the little yellow bird perched on one of the sister’s shoulders and pecked lovingly at her ear. When she looked up, the bird was staring out into the grey sunset. The bird had forgotten what it was like to feel the rush of air through its feathers, to call to the clouds, to rest on the eaves. The sisters exchanged a glance. They knew it was time for the bird to be free. So, they took the little yellow bird, opened the grey window and let it go. As time went by, the cage collected grey dust in the corner of the grey room. The little yellow bird never returned but when the grey sisters found colourful gifts on their grey steps, they knew it was still their friend.







The world is full of little magics and curious things. The smell after rain, the crackle of a fire, the sky so full of stars it’s like they burn bright inside you and shine out through your eyes when you smile. Little puddles of oil turn into rainbows and when the light hits your face just right, the shadows make your eyelashes into spiderwebs.

The way the snow seems to shimmer under streetlights when you lie on your back looking into the yellow glow; it’s all just another way of shadow-casting. We went for a walk the other day in a strange part of town and the houses were topsy-turvy and bright and heavy with history that we’ll never know. The trees in the park whisper secrets in a language that we don’t understand. This, the wonder, the open field in the springtime and the moss beneath our feet, is the great unknown. The simple fact that we are here should be met with amazement.

That we are here and that we breathe, that we cast shadows and ask each other questions about the universe, that we create magic with love in a language we’ll never understand.


Carousel SCOTT LU

we all want to escape i mean, we live in waterloo but lately im not trapped by boredom as much as i am by emotion not the good kind either the pangs won’t stop bullseye desperately desiring something i know will come sometimes, it feels like black and white my future undisguised it never lasts though and im tired of being plunged into the gray tired of relearning lessons having things come and go if i take the mask off will they still be in the picture?

I finally told the truth. CAMILLE DEHGHAN

I crawled into the light. I collapsed in your arms. I cried. I told you the truth. I told you the truth. I told you the truth. Something I had never done before. It all built up inside of me. You let me let it go. All of it. So, when you disentangled me from yourself, I won’t lie and say I wasn’t surprised. When you scowled and ridiculed me for my stupidity, I won’t lie and say I didn’t die. When you left me there more uncertain and vulnerable than I had ever been before, I won’t lie and say I got back up.




No man’s land EMILY BUCCIONI

no man has ever dared set foot here before in this place ripe with berries this pond well-suited for a midnight swim where the girls unravel feel the water on their skin feel their magic from within poised on the grassy bank with giggles and whispers on the tips of their tongues reflections daring them to jump holding hands taking the first step together and squealing at the cold and later, cherries to paint their lips red. this is where it begins sticky sweet underwater eyes open awaken.


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