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Volume 14, Issue 4 March 2015

Looking Back


CONTENTS

VOLUME 14 ISSUE 4 MARCH 2015

What’s past is prologue. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

POETRY

PROSE

4

Piedad (Devotion)

8

Ephemeral Eternity

5

Write the Pain

10

History (His-Story)

6

My Grandfather’s Empress Faustina Sestertius

16

Borderlands, Long Ago

13

Everywhere My Grandmother Has Ever Run Away From

18

The Worm

14

Little Hands

20

The Crossroads Letters

15

reminisce/ruminate

17

Discover the Grandeur of Grand River Woods

CINTHYA FERNANDES

DONNIQUE WILLIAMS

AMANDA SCHEIFELE

CARINA RAMPELT ALEX HANSON

SANDRA ATA

JENN SCHLEICH

SHELLEY BULMER JESSICA GROOM

KATIE PARKER

JOSEPH BRANNAN

Front Cover

Joshua Awolade

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JOSHUA HOWE

Back Cover

Joshua Awolade


EDITORIAL

Looking Back

Editor-in-Chief Jessica Groom jessica.groom@blueprintmagazine.ca

Production Manager Breanna Kettles

Everyone has defining moments in their lives.

breanna.kettles@blueprintmagazine.ca

Literary Editor Joseph Brannan joseph.brannan@blueprintmagazine.ca

Art/Photography Manager Carina Rampelt carina.rampelt@blueprintmagazine.ca

Promotions Manager Rachael Hargan rachael.hargan@blueprintmagazine.ca

Web Editor Roxanne Nicolussi roxanne.nicolussi@blueprintmagazine.ca

Brantford Manager Brittany Bennett brittany.bennett@blueprintmagazine.ca

Radio Manager Brendan Fardy brendan.fardy@blueprintmagazine.ca

STAFF CONTRIBUTORS

Amanda Scheifele, Shelley Bulmer, Donnique Williams, Cinthya Fernandes, Joseph Brannan, Carina Rampelt, Jessica Groom

First words. Meeting your best friends. Heading off to a new school. Falling in love, falling out of it. What has gotten you to this point? Where have you been? What have you seen, heard, felt? Defining moments shape not only who we have been in the past, but who we will become Some of these may have been filled with tears and heartache, but they are no less important than the moments that filled our hearts with pure joy. They are not mutually exclusive. They do not counteract one another. This issue is a collection of such moments, whether fictional or real. Blink, and the moment’s gone.

CONTRIBUTORS

Jessica Groom Editor-in-Chief

Matt Smith, Victoria Parker, Nathanael Lewis, Alex Hanson, Katie Parker, Joshua Howe, Sandra Ata, Jenn Schleich

ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Dani Saad Executive Director Bryn Ossington Advertising Manager Tammy Rowe Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Treasurer John Pehar Director Taylor Berzins Director Shelby Blackley Director Angela Foster Director Fred Kuntz Director Neha Soni Corporate Secretary Laura Buck

CONTACT Blueprint Magazine 75 University Ave W Waterloo ON N2L 3C5 p 519.884.0710 x3564 blueprintmagazine.ca Advertise trowe@wlu.ca blueprintmagazine.ca/advertise Contribute submissions@blueprintmagazine.ca blueprintmagazine.ca/contribute

COLOPHON

COVER Looking Back by JOSHUA AWOLADE This presents a sense of understanding and analyzing the past self. We take a log of ourselves over time, pulling apart what works and what doesn’t.

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

NEXT ISSUE Under The Sea On stands Summer 2015

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Piedad (Devotion) CINTHYA FERNANDES Her smile shines brightly Her voice is always sweet Full of wisdom and knowing She kindly receives everyone she meets. Hardworking and fair Steadfast in her beliefs A woman with so much flare For compassion and honesty. Although time has passed And she is no longer there, Her fire lives on through The family she built. She smiles on from heaven To those whose lives she’s touched Never far from our thoughts Giving strength from up above.

MATT SMITH

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Write the Pain DONNIQUE WILLIAMS Write the pain, they said. As if with my pen I could write it out of existence. Write the way your chest rose and fell. Write the way we rose and fell like Troy who let the deception in. Write the way your eyes searched me. Write the way your eyes danced towards the sky and I willed myself to dance along. Write the way your arms held mine, the way you flew and made my fly, held my heart, my hope, and dropped them both. Write the way you said good bye. Write they way you said I did… I will… I am… But forgot to mention you always lied.

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My Grandfather’s Empress Faustina i Sestertius ii i) His choppy breath echoed at the back of his eyes as he ran, cobbled stones pressed back against his toes. Got you! He choked on his heartbeat as the garrotte from behind forced his head to meet the ground.

AMANDA SCHEIFELE

ii) As a flint clicks in the black, the horse could be heard unseen. It didn’t matter, the message was in his bag, protected. The knot was lose though and the snake was big—WOA! Hey! easy there easy... The bag flipped over—but don’t worry, the message was delivered. iii) Scents of dripping pig and deep grapes made his eyes water and he walked more, bouncing, sandals pitterpat the road. The purse on his side was hard and it when became his pendulum it was a side relief when it felt 25 grams lighter. The sestertius rolled unsure from the curled hand, still warm and wet, unlooked for. The money that fell out was worth no more than a sigh—some others would find it soon enough. The coin winked once at the moon and sang its way into the dirt. Two young boys were bent double, noses almost abrading the ground as if they weren’t dirty enough. The woodstones were petrified in the ground, hardened over 1832 years— could be sighted if you glance long enough. The long, blond banged, bowl-cut haired boy who sucked the ends of his hair was used to playing hide-and-go-seek. The coin had been easy to spot because they had been glancing. Dirty and cold, it was lackluster and had probably lacked proper mold. It was heavy and big like a crabapple compressed by a cabbie. I think I saw it once. Scavenging thorough my Grandma’s jewelry box like a little magpie, searching for tiaras that were actually necklaces. I was Princess Jasmine! I may have seen it amid the opal resting on the sapphire alongside the ruby. It would have been a round sallow coin stained black around the Empress’ face like wet ash. Not to be compared with the emerald— I wouldn’t have seen its allure amidst the amethyst and the alexandrite. But here’s fact: It is valued at $25.00

__________________________________________________ i Empress Faustina lived about 100-140 AD and married Antonius Pius who became emperor from 138-161 AD ii A sestertius is a large bronze Roman coin worth about 8 asses (there are 16 asses in a denarius, the main silver Roman coin)

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AMANDA SCHEIFELE

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Ephemeral Eternity JOSHUA HOWE December 21st, 2009. A high school Christmas Concert. He found a seat with his friends in the cold cement stands. They’re joking. They don’t care about what’s going on down on the gymnasium floor below them. Something about Santa Claus. Something about Jesus. Something about hope. Then he sees her. Her friends are with her. They’re joking too. Some of her friends see him staring; wave him over. They’re all smiles. He slips away from his group and joins theirs. No big deal. He’s flexible. Popular. He fits in anywhere. To an outside looker, she fits in so well that she might be passed over. Not with him. She’s all he sees. All he can look at. He laughs with them all, but his eyes wander to her every few seconds. Her foot; her hand; her thigh. Fragments that make him hunger for the whole. Then their eyes meet. She smiles. He dazzlingly responds. Doom falls upon them. February 19th, 2010. Her bedroom. It’s the day before her birthday. He’s just surprised her with gifts: a bouquet of roses and two tickets to a local theatre production of a little known play. He knows she loves theatre. She wants to be an actress someday. She grins. Her whole face lights up like a shooting star and in her bright eyes are fireworks. Then she hugs him. Tight. He responds at once with a squeeze, pleased at her reaction. They look into each other’s eyes. Short-lived eternity. His lips meet hers first, just a little over halfway. Fizz fizz fizz! Firecrackers! Boom boom boom! War drums! Vroom vroom vroom! Race car engines! Their lips part. Blank eyes refill with colour. They beam at each other. Yes, virgin lips are sensitive. March 2nd, 2010. An old barn. He watches her bustle about the place, to and fro between six horse paddocks. Her family owns horses. She rides. She loves them. One of them, Woodchip, belongs to her. He is her baby; her furry treasure. He helps her clean the paddocks. He doesn’t know much about horses, but he’s learning. He likes them. The scent of the barn will never leave him. Not completely. He winks at her as he cleans. It only takes a moment for the space between them to close. Arms around her waist. Arms about his neck. Their breath visible as the Word is breathed. He said it first. She says it too. The internal lightning has a short, unworthy name. May 15th, 2011. Her kitchen. Dread is in his heart. She lies before him on a couch, hand over her eyes. Her teeth are gritted in pain; her feet twitch every few seconds. Tear stains mark her cheeks. It’s late at night. Her mother is there too. She looks on sadly. She tells him that there is nothing they can do but wait. The doctor said she’d be fine. The doctor said. Eventually. But he is not fine. He shares her pain. He tries to hug her. She tries to respond, but the pain in her sides is too much. She shudders, releases him and tries not to cry too loudly in front of him. Her mother tells him he can go home. It’s late. He looks at her mother and sees her eyes widen. He knows it’s because of his expression; he knows it’s because she’s just realized. He looks back down at her. Takes her hand. Stares at it. He spends the night in silence, the thudding of his heart an effective antidote for drowsiness. July 26th, 2011. His bedroom. They’re arguing. Something about space. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, stiff, hands clasped together. She’s sitting across from him on the carpeted floor, back to the wall, one knee drawn up to her stomach. It’s sweltering. The window is open. The steady hum of his father’s lawnmower wafts in; settles upon the thick layer of tension. Their eyes are locked. Their lips are drawn. Both are stubborn. So, so stubborn. It takes a while. At some point, he gives up. He tries to apologize to her. She rejects it. She’s too proud. He feels the anger rise again. It commands his mouth once more. As always, she follows suit. They turn their heads from one another. She hugs herself. October 10th, 2011. A high school classroom. They share the same class. School’s almost over. She’s nervous. She fidgets with her pencil, gnawing it and drumming it on her wrist. Her backpack sits open beside her. She can see the white tip of heaven. She calls to him as the bell rings. He comes to her. She asks if they can step outside. He agrees. She pulls him out into the hallway, round a corner, and into another tiny hall that culminates in a dead end. The tears have begun. Her voice wavers, then drops off. She holds out a white envelope. It has his name written on it. She tells him to read it; that she’s sorry. Then emotion takes her completely, and she runs off with her head in her hands.

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He’s stunned. He looks at the envelope. His knees give out, and he pushes himself back against the concrete wall. He opens the envelope; pulls out a letter. It’s five pages long. He misses his bus. November 4th, 2011. His bedroom. He texts her. He wants to see her. She responds with a refusal. He texts again; tries to sway her. She begins to ignore him. He throws his phone at the wall. He grabs a handful of his hair in each hand. His mother calls from downstairs, asking if he’s okay. His phone goes off. A text from her. Or not. It explains that it’s from a guy named Mark. It explains that Mark’s strong. It explains that Mark can kill him if he keeps texting her. He doesn’t respond. He finds the letter, folds it up and places it neatly in his desk drawer. Then he curls up in bed, turns off all the lights, and loses himself.

VICTORIA PARKER

March 1st, 2015. His new bedroom. He sits behind a keyboard. He yawns, stretches and looks at the clock. It’s late. He scans typed words. He’s unsure about their rawness. Their simple form. Their vulnerability. After a moment, he decides he likes them. A bit of his history, on display. He glances at his desk drawer. The letter is no longer there. He burned it back in the summer. He had watched it blacken and shrivel. A piece of him had gone with it, resurrected only now in memory. He’s not quite done typing. He has a few lines to go. There’s another page open on his screen. Something about dreams. Something about posterity. Something about nostalgia. Nothing about hope.

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History (His-story) SANDRA ATA So let me tell you about my story with History. You see, I have a past of believing that I make sensible, responsible decisions about men –and oh have I been proven wrong, time and time again. When I fall in love, it’s always been a long process; I’ve fallen in love slowly, measuring all the risks involved to ensure minimum damage (or so I believed.) I can count the times I’ve fallen in love with what I thought was the highest potential of a man. I’ve desperately clung on to several relationships for far longer than I’m comfortable admitting to, waiting for the men in question to surpass the emotional range of a goldfish. Many times in romance, I have been duped by my own optimism –which leads me to my long and complicated relationship with History. History was a dear friend, someone I secretly lusted for, and a lover. I had fallen in love with him for his words. He had such an eloquent way with them, it’s how he first caught my attention. The way he writes is light, his words fluttering the air around you, entangling themselves into your mouth so that it makes it nearly impossible to resist reading them out loud. Yet, for someone who adored words, he had very little to say to me. His complete abeyance of emotions forced me to constantly hide my heart in my pocket. History came into my life at a confusing time. It was perhaps in the lazy lull of summer through a veil of whiskey and a crackling fire that we had all too quickly fallen in love with each other over the weekend –and hell, was it ever electrifying. He helped me tear my walls down (only to later on help me build them up higher than they had ever been) and wrecked so much havoc in my life that I was beginning to question myself as a person. I barely recognized him anymore; shifty eyes, a set jaw, square shoulders, self-medicating with marijuana and alcohol –it was as

NATHANAEL LEWIS

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if he was preparing to fight a war of his own every time we spoke. In our relationship, I felt so desperate and out of control that I was forced to make a change. Simply put, he came into my life and ruined every perception I’ve ever had on love. And then he left. The problem was accepting that our relationship had an expiration date. Those countless nights of talks and laughter had me convinced that things were going well. Lying under those homemade mattress forts gave me a false sense of security, like maybe this time it would be different. This time we could make it work. Turns out he was merely lonely and looking for a nostalgia fuck. There came a time where I felt the tension. I constantly felt like I was walking on eggshells; jumping at shadows, sneaking nervous side-glances, carefully coiffing my hair and dressing myself according to what I thought he would like. Sometimes, it would hit me out of nowhere, this overwhelming sadness that would rush over me and I would get discouraged and upset. I felt hopeless, sad, and hurt. All I wanted was for History to really pay attention. Instead, I felt like the harder I tried the more repulsed he became by my company. Being with History during the hard times left my heart bloated and aching. My attempts at small talk would be met with cold perfunctory dismissals. The hot sting of douche-baggery was one that always lingered. Even the briefest of touches had him contorting his body to ensure that not an inch would ever be near me. On a cool October night, History told me he loved me. I wanted to say it first, but feared scaring him off and so mid-sentence, I changed my mind. A few silent moments passed and he shyly said my name aloud as I inhaled the sour scent of beer on his breath. I could hear the uncertainty in his voice as those three words came out: I love you. My heart skipped a thousand beats, as it always did whenever he said my name or touched the small of my back. When I didn’t immediately respond he panicked, as he often did, and took it back, blaming it on the alcohol. The next morning, regret and guilt filled the air. Regardless, I decided to gather up my courage and dive heart first for once. We were lying on his living room couch, his arms wrapped around me and I finally said it back. He didn’t remember saying it but that didn’t surprise me…he forgot a lot of things. So I patiently waited for him to come around. Waiting for History to come around was like pining after Harry Styles from One Direction: tremendously pathetic and disappointing. If I wasn’t careful, this illusion of a man was going to make my life miserable. I would have preferred to have been with a self-righteous and vindictive fellow who deserved every synonym in the world for insensitive rather than try being alone. Being alone was scarier than letting go of the last bits of History because then I was to really admit to myself that I was wrong about him, like I had been wrong about the other men. Eventually, I realized that having a broken heart, now that’s a good sign. It meant that I tried for something. History doesn’t understand heartbreak; he avoids it with all his might because he doesn’t understand it. He wishes for an easy, clean slate every time a new relationship begins. He hopes that using another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for his own unfulfilled yearnings will grant him the happiness he so desperately wants. After all, he wishes to be happy. And that’s his problem: History wishes too much. He really needs to stop wearing his wishbone where his backbone ought to be. Women are much more than a body he can borrow. And if he keeps exhausting people’s bodies and emotions, he will notice very quickly that History is bound to repeat himself.

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VICTORIA PARKER

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Everywhere My Grandmother Has Ever Run Away From CARINA RAMPELT My grandmother has always been running— 1. escaping barefoot to turn over rocks and twigs instead of clods of earth. Then 2. fifteen, tired of tilling she left to be a kindermädchen in the city 3. where the Russians came a few years later. Under the cover of fright she set off for the Third Reich, learned to sprint 4. her fingers along typewriter keys STOP And rest them between those of a young Fritz or Dieter or Hans-Jürgen, until the lentil-soup evening 5. she met Hermann. One war and 4000 kilometres later, her biggest break: to this strange country where people eat corn like only cows eat 6. back home. She missed the melodies of village life so she filled her house with The Sound of Music, stopping after the wedding scene every time to hide-and-seek 7. her memories. Now, in a hospital room the colour of forget-me-nots, the nurses keep her winter coat and boots locked away. Distract her 8. with coffee and shortbread, because at ninety-two she is still an escape artist.

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Little Hands ALEX HANSON

Buddy thought he was a bear -loved shitting in the woods. We followed him past the slide you’d

Green trees and a brown dog, your hand on the leash, the other in mine. You had such little hands.

pushed your cousin off as a kid, into the green trees with the brown dog. My hormones

The neighbourhood was fresh to me, an island I had never been to before, though I’d passed it everyday

loved you then, wanted you like Buddy wanted to walk. Natural. Pure. Our child lips met and held

when my father drove me to school. People said we looked the same. It bugged me then, but I know its true.

for a moment, maybe for the second or third time. “Sure,” you said. “Kiss me in the

Two long-haired, blue-eyed hippies not yet indulging in the hippie part. That stuff didn’t get to us for a couple

dead part.” And you laughed. When I opened my eyes, I let them see the barren trees

of years. Not ‘til after I’d made the phone cry. Twice. Not ‘til after we felt old and God was just a series of Dad jokes.

marked with graffiti and rot, wilting under the pressure of the sky. We had such little hands.

MATT SMITH

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reminisce/ruminate KATIE PARKER

Nostalgia is like a funny friend who arrives unexpected and overstays their welcome, bringing with them memories, daydreams and visions of days gone by.

CARINA RAMPELT

Nostalgia never lets you forget your fondest memories but hides the worst in darkness, pushed far back, deep into the closet of your mind. Nostalgia fights back when you try to ignore it, banging on your chest, dancing in your stomach, demanding your attention, refusing to be silenced. Nostalgia feels like lazy euphoria, soft and sweet, gentle and calm. It’s smiling when you remember the first time you acted out or fell in love. Nostalgia is coming home to your favourite memories, when you didn’t know you’d gone anywhere or that you’d missed them at all. It’s like feeling the summer sun when you didn’t know you were cold In memory even winters are warm.

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Borderlands, Long Ago JENN SCHLEICH Childhood has two worlds. There is the known world, where you find safety, security, and familiarity; a world that stems from your immediate surroundings and normal routines. The school yard, friends’ houses, home, the well-beaten sidewalks of your neighbourhood, the local shops your mother frequents, the ice-cream store where dad takes you, the near-by park and your backyard. Around all the familiar places is a boundary, and outside is the other world; the unknown world. Larger and harbouring hidden dangers, it is always hovering on the periphery of life. As the years dwindle by it intrudes, with increasing frequency, upon the known world, which has been built with such care. The boundary isn’t a line scratched in the dirt. It’s a shadowy space, ever varying in shape and size, as unknowable as the world beyond it. Yet it emanates something familiar, like the sound of a voice you once knew or a half-remembered scent. This is the place where adventure unfolds. The back woods. It was behind Beth’s house; the kind of place that grows with you. We played tag, hide-n-seek and capture the flag there. We explored the dark crevices and undergrowth, crawling through brambles and over crooked trees. Picked blackberries, tobogganed, shared secrets, earned scars, smoked pot. It was a shortcut – a back door to other corners of our neighbourhood. At first a wild forest we didn’t know, it became part of our psyche. Two happy labs and two little brothers always at our heels; we explored every inch until it belonged to us, or rather, until we belonged to it. Other houses bordered the woods. We’d peek through the foliage into backyards, into other people’s lives. With daring, we would take it in turns to dart out into the yards and just as swiftly back into the shelter of the trees. We thought ourselves sneaky and brave. There a house with a pond, another with stone walls, and one that seemed to grow right up out of the ground. In the heart of the woods there was a collection of half-finished forts, which told the story of kids who’d come before us. Sometimes this place seemed to belong to someone else. Climbing up on the largest platform made me nervous but she was fearless and did it with ease. Here we had tentative encounters with older neighbourhood kids; meetings that were neither friendly nor hostile, yet always left behind a feeling of disquiet. The railroad tracks. Spider-webbing through town were rough wooden and iron roads running off in every direction, promising to take you anywhere else. You could walk the tracks for hours looking for undiscovered places, looking for something to do, dangerous though it was. We learned to listen for distant whistling or watch for gently hopping rocks. We once visited someone’s house. They had tracks behind the backyard and I remember finding flattened pennies among the rocks. One had a hole in it, and I strung it on a necklace. The tracks led to the quarries, through fields of wildflowers, where we swam and took breathstealing leaps off cliffs. They bordered the golf course where we borrowed golf carts in the dark of night and engaged in other elicit deeds. They led to the old train station, boarded up, forgotten, covered in spray paint. The frozen creek. Dangerous and taunting; frozen rivers still haunt me. I feel guilty that I ignored this stern warning. I imagine my kids playing on frozen rivers because I know they will, because I know the lure of this glistening, cold and otherworldly place. I still remember boots slipping through thin ice, remember half-running home, shivering cold and wet, to throw our socks and pants in Beth’s dryer more than once. The park was our familiar playground, but in the winter it was a sharp-toothed creature. In the summer we waded in those creeks and rivers, cool and refreshing reprieves from the blistering July sun. Catching crayfish and meandering at our own pace, hopping rock to rock for great distances along winding waterways. A silly boy catching a frog and dropping it down my shirt, thick patches of thistle, wet shoes, bikes left lying on the bank, tadpoles in buckets and an enormous weeping willow throwing her shade over the gurgling and bubbling miniature rapids. The underside of bridges. Towering expanses of concrete stamped on top of nature. Exploring the creeks inevitably meant encountering these shadowy arched worlds. We’d climb onto huge jagged rocks jutting out of the water and sit for a rest. Tiny man-made waterfalls and dams to control the spring runoff often barred our path. Graffiti scorned the walls, reminding us we were in someone else’s stomping ground – older kids came to these places. Moss clung to the walls and made the floor under our feet slippery. The cemetery. It bordered our corner of town. Surrounded by wild fields to the east, the quarry to the north and a farm to the west, it was sprawling and hilly. Reached by bicycle, we would pause to watch the lonely black stallion cantering around in his pasture before passing under the arched entranceway. Bright peacocks could often be spotted strutting in and out of view at the end of a dirt driveway just beyond the paddock, and occasionally we’d find enough courage to approach the barn. I was never sure if we were actually welcome or not. The farm seemed an inviting place but was strange and foreign to our urban taste buds. The cemetery itself was modern and had a well-kept air about it. In hindsight I wonder if we ever offended anyone, but at the time death and grief weren’t easily understood and the hilly paved streets devoid of traffic were too enticing. Kings and queens of the road, we’d speed along with the wind at our backs and without helmets on our heads or fingers on the handlebars. We found a small mausoleum cut into the back of a hillside, perched precariously on a crumbling bank above a creek. Strung with cobwebs, it was dark and forlorn and smelled earthy. In my mind we had discovered a long-forgotten ruin of another time and I believed us to be the only people who knew it was there. Like a crumbled castle overgrown with weeds, broken and battered, it still had the remembered air of grandeur. At some time this place had meant something, though what we didn’t know. We often played there, winding about the trees, jumping across the creek and making a fortress of the hill in our imaginations. These borderlands were the shaping forces of our youth.

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MATT SMITH

Discover the Grandeur of Grand River Woods JOSEPH BRANNAN Muddy carcasses lay crushed and bitten, twisted in heaps by a forester’s steel maw monster. In the span of a workday hundreds had fallen, kin and neighbours slain, rank on rank cut at the knee and flung on a bed of thorns, and I smelled the blood of your sap run fresh in the spring snow. You shed your leaf-haired dignity, they pulled out your abattoir heart and left only the keening of a kittiwake screaming for her young. I saw your children run, the deer harried by the bulldozers, the meek disinherited from the earth as you choked on sawdust. I watched a Caterpillar crunch your bones as its namesake fled inch by inch, and your metamorphosis began. Drawn and quartered by a surveyor’s hand, coffined in concrete, ‘developed,’ you sprouted slick modern homes, swanky parasites furnished to the gills, complete with full hardwood flooring.

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The Worm

SHELLEY BULMER

Sometimes you just have to hit someone with your car. That’s what Tallulah had known ever since Joe had thrown a truck at her head. It was ten times worse to be leveled by a semi than a Volkswagen. Punch buggy no punch backs, right? Without missing a beat, Joe ripped Brigitte out of the driver’s seat and twisted off her head. Tallulah screamed and made a grab for the remains, now swinging gruesomely from Joe’s hand. Joe danced away and slowly swung the golden tresses in front of her, a macabre pendulum with Colgate teeth and Covergirl eyes. Easy, breezy, beautiful – cadaver girl. “Serves you right,” Joe proudly displayed spinach teeth as he surveyed her, “You hit me with your car. The law says you have to pay me.” “No it doesn’t! Not if it’s your fault! If you weren’t so dumb…” “You have to pay me or I’m gonna cut her hair off.” Tallulah began to cry. She cried until snot ran down her face, but she didn’t notice. Right now, Brigitte was all she could think of. Not only was she the best of her Barbies, she was brand new too. All her others were so old. She’d had to alter Rachel and Michelle’s clothes until they frayed at the ends; she’d been forced to take her mom’s iron to Jessica’s hair until it stuck out at stupid angles like Muppet hair. To make matters worse she was already dealing with Ken’s recent handicap, having pulled off his arm in an unfortunate twist. The loss of Brigitte took her to the end of her tether, just as the snot reached the end of her chin and bungeed to freedom. Joe had discovered a worm. It oozed in his hand ever so slightly as he devoured it with his eyes. “Did you know if you cut a worm in half, both halves stay alive?” Joe took this opportunity to begin prodding his specimen with a stick. “That’s not true.” Tallulah regarded the creature in front of her. Oozing jam, paste and a misguided amount of self-confidence, she wondered if Joe would take well to being prodded with a stick. “Yes it is, that’s how they make baby worms. See?” Joe carefully measured it half and half and, raising the twig to his mouth, bit off a great chunk. She’d thought it was bad enough watching him slurp spaghetti. “See,” he pulled the new half out of his teeth as it twitched like self-aware dental floss, “I made a baby.” “That’s disgusting.” “Yeah, that’s a baby.” Tallulah wrinkled her little nose and stared at the obviously demented boy licking his fingers. “Mom says you’re troubled. She says I should be nice to you though cause Jesus loves everyone, especially the slow ones.” “You’re not nice to me.” Joe plopped himself back on the ground and resumed his archeological dig, perhaps searching for his next meal. “You’re not slow. You’re always chasing after me.” “Oh thanks!” Joe looked up in surprise. “Yeah I told my mom that too. I said you’re just stupid.” “Am not!” Joe pulled himself up to his full four-foot gait. It looked strenuous and his soccer ball gut stuck out when he finally made it up. “I’m smarter than you’ll ever be. Know how I know?” “How?” “Cause you’re just a girl.” He clearly took this to be a matter of fact. “Girls are way smarter than boys!” He didn’t even miss a beat: “Prove it.” Joe and Tallulah stood staring at the bare wire in front of them. Every four seconds they could hear a quiet cracking coming from it. One, two, three, snap. One, two, three, snap. “Do you even know what this is?” Joe raised his eyebrow and crossed his arms, partly to stop the shaking, she thought. “Duh.” “Prove it,” he smirked at her all the more cruelly for the nervous blinks he couldn’t control. “You have to count to three and then let go. Do you even know how to count?” “Of course I can count! You probably can’t that’s why you’re not touching it,” A cow turned its head lazily towards the strange scene. Joe looked with steely eyes but shaky hands at the electric fence, which continued to snap at them mockingly. “Both of us.” After a pause the two of them stepped towards the wire, shaking and pale as they approached their objective. The cow chewed its cud slowly and contented itself with observing this bizarre exchange. “Ready… now!” Joe reached out his hand and firmly grasped the wire. Nothing happened. Relief dawned on his face and he looked at Tallulah with an exultant “HA”. He had won; he had proven he was smarter. Served her right for thinking girls would ever be --Joe shrieked, released the wire, and went charging backwards with a surprising leap. He had counted for one second too long. Tallulah collapsed in a heap and quaked with laughter. He was such a dork! How loudly he had squealed, just like a piglet. His voice was finally beginning to match his girth. To think he claimed to know more than her! “Yeah well you didn’t even try!” Joe said and gave her a swift kick in the shin. This succeeded in getting her to stop laughing. Unfortunately he hadn’t reckoned on the crying. She shoved him away and stood up. With a whip of her hair she turned and was gone, already across the road and back in the yard, with Joe left to try and catch up. The cow threw up its meal and began the second cycle of chewing. Strange, it thought. There was a game of Russian roulette going on in the garden. Bursts of red sprayed in every direction. “You next.” Joe made no attempt at wiping his face. He merely beamed at her with sticky hands and a belly full of berries hanging over his

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pants: a gone to seed cabbage patch kid. “That’s a strawberry, stupid.” “Duh, and if you’re so smart you’ll know which ones aren’t poisonous too.” She slowly turned to survey the rows of berries in front of her. She’d read in stories of little girls who put strange things in their mouths, mushrooms, berries, bewitched frogs with visions of grandeur. She picked a small, red berry from the shrub and examined it closely. Was this a currant? Those were safe right? “Come on scaredy-cat.” She closed her eyes and bit the bullet. Down the berry went and a silence fell with it. How long would they have to wait until she died? Not long. Joe’s face had turned ghastly white. “You’re turning blue!” His eyes were wide with horror and he grabbed her by the shoulders. Tallulah knew at once that it must be true. She felt her pulse quicken, her face grow hot and her knees grow weak. She fell to the ground with a pathetic thud and, clutching her throat, gasped frantically for air. Joe was backing away and then he too had sunk to his knees and was shaking with sobs. He lifted his head slowly and she prepared herself for goodbye. “You should have seen your face!” The little twerp was guffawing with riotous laughter that set off every nerve in her body. “Scared of an itty bitty currant, are you?” Very slowly, Tallulah stood to her feet. With a dark scowl at him, she knew how completely she loathed him. There were no words she could think of to force through her gritted teeth. Instead, as she glared at him and he blinked back, the only sound was of Joe picking at his jeans. “Do you even know what a kiss is?” Joe smirked and rocked back and forth on his heels in a maddeningly pompous fashion. “Duh!” This may have been more convincing had blushing not been the worst of her newfound abilities. Dad once told her girls were made with built in blushes so boys would at least have a clue what they thought. Mom had swatted him for that. Though Tallulah didn’t really understand, she was never averse to clipping Joe upside the head. “You do not.” Joe rolled his eyes and started to saunter away. She was not ok with this. If anyone was going to walk away it would be her. “You’re so stupid Joe, I hate you!” The mini romantic stopped and slowly turned to look at her. That hateful smirk was on his face again, and with one quick swoop he kissed her right on the lips. Worms and spinach. That was all she could taste. She paused and took in the boy standing over her. So that was a kiss? Tallulah was stumped. What did she say now? There was only one thing for it, and with a deep breath she looked into Joe’s eyes. “That’s disgusting.” “Yeah, that’s a kiss.” Joe grinned and walked away.

MATT SMITH

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The Crossroads Let ters JESSICA GROOM

Dear Baby, I found out that I was pregnant with you today. Little you, who is about the size of a pea right now. Or so they tell me; I don’t really understand these things. What I do understand is that you are beautiful and I love you more than anything. I want you to grow up safe, happy, and healthy. I want you to have the entire world at the tip of your fingers. I can’t wait to meet you, Baby. Love you through all of time and space, Your Mommy Dear Baby Girl, My little angel, Mommy’s little princess, I will protect you with everything I have. The doctors say that you’re tiny still, but you should grow. I’m not worried—you’re a fighter. You are my little fighter, my little warrior girl. You will take the world by storm, Baby Girl, I know that you will. Love you through all of time and space, Your Mommy Dear Baby Girl, I need to give you a name sweetheart. You deserve one. I’m just scared. I’m doing this alone, and I need to do it right. Your name needs to be strong—it needs to be the right choice for you. I want to give you your best chance in this world, once you arrive. You are an angel right now, and I want every single person to know how special you are going to be. Love you through all of time and space, Your Mommy Dear Ellie, My beautiful tiny Eleanor—you arrived this evening, just as the stars came out in the night sky. I love the stars; they are inspiring. They are gorgeous. They tell stories about places that are a million miles away. They form patterns. But none of that matters tonight, not when you are less than two feet away, wrapped up in a fuzzy white blanket. And you know what? I have my own little star now, and she is the one that shines the brightest and stays right here with me. Love you through all of time and space, Your Mommy

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The Crossroads Let ters JESSICA GROOM

Mommy, It was the first day of school. I missed you. Ellie Mommy, The new ballet shoes you bought me are so pretty—all the girls in my dance class were jealous. I think they made me dance better. Ellie Mom, Everyone made fun of me today. They said no one is going to like me because I’m weird and I’m flat. It isn’t true...Is it? Ellie Mom, I wish you could have seen that pirouette. The ballet recital was beautiful, like all those dancers were angels dancing among the stars. I want to dance like that someday. I’ll get there, right? You always say that I can do anything that I put my mind to. Eleanor Mom, I came in second place at the dance competition today. I wish you weren’t sick and you could have come to see. The dancer who won was gorgeous. I know you always tell me that I’m the best, but Mom, this one was even better. I have work to do, and I’m nervous now. I’m nervous that I’ll never get there, never be good enough. Eleanor Mom, I had my audition today, for the National Ballet. I know that you’d be proud of me. I’m proud of me. I just hope that I was good enough to get in. I just hope that I can go if I do get in, I know that it’s very expensive. I hope that you get better soon, Mom. But in the meantime, enjoy the flowers and the DVD of my audition. Eleanor Dear Mommy, I miss you more than words can say. You are the strongest person that I have ever known, or will ever know. Those ballet slippers that you bought me all those years ago are in a framed case now, and they’ll be on my wall above my bed forever. They’re worn out…but they’re a reminder of how far I’ve come. They remind me of you, and I need that now more than ever. The letter from the National Ballet came today. I got in and I have to move in two weeks. I don’t want to leave you, but I know that if you were here you’d tell me that I have to follow my heart and my dreams. I’ll always love you, and I’ll always miss you. I know you’re watching, wherever you are. I look forward, at the end of all this, to seeing you again. Love you through all of time and space, Ellie

CARINA RAMPELT

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Praesentarius MILES SMITH I take the path less travelled, Though it may be filled with gnarling branches and faces frozen in time. The road proves broken, tested, Though going through little test on its own. It instills fright within me, Similar to the raven in the window Or the lynx changing colour with the season. I camouflage, attempting to become one with my surroundings But the ever changing landscape makes it difficult to do so. I try to look forward to the future, Preempt what might come, so I shall be ready, But alas, ’tis only a fleeting second. I look back to the past, To try to find a pattern, But objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. The only place I can look in straight on, The only time I can live is the present. Though the path may be difficult, treacherous evenThere is no possibility of a u-turn.

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MATT SMITH


The Window DONNIQUE WILLIAMS

The breeze is cool and frightening here. An uninvited air of uncertainty intrudes my balmy room. I shiver in spite of myself. Unaware of how stuffy my place had become. Unaware of how much I needed to crack that window. But never me not me. I don’t open the windows. Not anymore. Because every time I do my room is filled with uninvited guests. But they’re not uninvited because I choose to let air in. I always choose wrong. Or it feels that way when that breeze blows in And I shiver. Shiver in spite of myself. Isn’t it always harder to close than it is to open? Yet, this breeze is different. Because instead of rushing to the window struggling fruitlessly to close it, instead of creeping back quietly until the cold dissipates back into stuffy stillness, I find myself basking in the breeze in the gentle air of uncertainty. The fresh, invisible presence that calls me forth from my complacent surroundings. To something else to something more something that I need something I desire. So in spite of my fear in spite of the cool I step forward instead of back. I cover my head and step through the window into the light into the wind.

LEKHA SRIRAGURAJAH

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MATT SMITH

Today is Different RACHAEL HARGAN Twenty-one years of picturing the future. Eyes full of wonder, What will I be like in high school, in my senior year – university? So distant. Always one step closer but not yet there. Oh the joys of dreaming. Letting my imagination run wild while staying still, But the time to dream without action is trickling away All my dreams and hopes are a grasp from reach What I have dreamt of becoming Begins today.

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“Like we always do at this time” STEVEN ARNOTT

“Hey, what will you do when you graduate?” she asked, like it was a question, like it wasn’t a punch to the gut. I shrugged. “Do you ever get dreams where you’re back in high school, or even grade school?” she asked. “Everything is so small, and you feel scared, and ashamed, you know something is wrong, that you should have left.” I shivered. “But right before I wake,” she said, “I get a weird sort of hope like those dreams where you find a new room in an old home.” “I dunno,” I said “I don’t remember my dreams.” “Do you think maybe someday we’ll dream of today with shame and fear and some strange hope?” “Oh god,” I laughed “I sure hope not.”

JOHNATHAN COLLIE

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Everything Is On The Table ALEXANDRIA CLEMENT I We wanted to be the stars but today we are the first-floor people, the quietest streets. I waited for the bus but now I walk back home, and I drop my change in the grates. “War all the time.” but we are fine – no duck and cover, no H-Bomb, no other letter-Bomb either, and we will allow a little morale, maybe. Born in a different time – our buses have no soldiers riding, our homes have no shelters waiting, and our cities keep our lights on all night long. We were born from stars, and that was as long as we could hang onto the cosmos, and we came as steel-people, carrying swords, launching spears. II I wanted to see if I could make you feel like nothing had changed at all but today we cannot lock eyes for more than a glance. I waited for the night to change, but now I walk back home, and I leave prints in the dirt. “War is crouching at your door.” but we are fine – no vain offerings, no restless wandering, none, and we will try a little morale, maybe. Born in a different time – our hands forge nothing, not bronze or iron, brothers carry no rocks in their arms, and our cities keep our lights on all night long. We were born from sand, and that was as long as we could be held down, and we came as the darkened round of the earth, where the sun meets the set, and where it will meet it again and again, until our time is reset.

CARINA RAMPELT

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SARA RODGERS

Always Focus, On(e) Forever. SARA RODGERS

Forever. And eternity Always looking forward If I could paint then it would be Swaths of colour on an always blank canvas

Focus. Brings clarity On an otherwise deep And entrenched structure Can I show a world that paints itself?

Besides, one can hardly look back On their human experience And not see the shades Of a different One.

If I could paint this town it would be Blonde, brown, grey and white Swaths of colour on A blank canvas Always.

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When You Can’t Sleep At Night TAYLER BUCHANAN

She remembers praying. She exhales a cloud of smoke and takes another drag from her shaking hand. Praying. She’s not even religious so why the fuck did she get on her knees and pray to some God, that she’s not even sure she believes in, to save her best friend. She throws the burnt out cigarette and crushes it under her foot. Reaching into her pocket for the pack and pulls out another. “Smoking can kill you, you know” She doesn’t even turn to look at him. This is where they always came anyway so if figures he’d show up eventually. Late at night they’d take her mom’s beat up Chevy and head down to the school’s football field. They’d sit on the bleachers and sometimes stay until the sun rose just talking about anything and everything. Ironic, actually, how this was the spot they chose considering how much they hated this place. “Maybe I’m trying to die.” Lucas takes a sit down beside her, close enough that she can smell the oil stained on his jeans and under his fingernails. After school he always worked at his dad’s shop; no matter how much he tried he could never wash away the smell, a fact that she secretly liked because it always meant she knew when he was around. Well, if you do want to die you’re choosing a slow and painful way of going” He turns to look at her and flashes a half smile that quickly dies when she doesn’t return it. His brown eyes grow somber and he turns to look back out at the field. “I’m sorry.” “Are you though, really?” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, his eyes boring a hole into the football field as if it would magically give him all the answers to whatever the hell is happening right now. “I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. And how I handled the situation, but no I’m not sorry.” “You could’ve at least given me a warning Lucas, we talked, we joked but I never thought you’d actually go through with anything.” “Grace…I said—” “No you don’t get to say anything.” Taking a deep breath she digs into her leather jacket searching for her lighter and lights another cigarette. Taking a deep inhale she breathes in the smoke. Smoking has become a sort of therapy for her now. As the smoke travels down and blackens her lungs it also seems to clear her brain. She starts again. “I was there. Not your Dad who left an hour later or your sister who nobody could seem to get a hold of. It was me, I held your hand and prayed that somehow you would come back to me Lucas. But you left, you left so suddenly that you didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t give me an explanation, like our entire friendship meant nothing to you. Like I meant nothing to you.” “You did mean something to me.” “Then why did you leave me!” Her scream reverberates around the empty field. As it echoes, he falls silent. They stare out at the field for what feels like hours. The silence deafening with only the sound of her occasional deep sigh breaking it. Lucas turns to look at her. She’s crying, heavy mascara streaks mar her otherwise beautiful face and he reaches out a hand as if to wipe them away before withdrawing, realizes that he can’t. “So what do we do now kid?” She takes a long pause and crushes her cigarette once again before standing and facing him. “You killed yourself Lucas. That’s when you and me stopped being you and me and just became me. So what do we do now? Now you leave me alone. Leave me alone and stop showing up every time I miss you. It’s not fair to me and the longer you stay around the more I want to kill myself too.” She takes a few steps toward him, centimeters away from his face now. She can see every freckle, and every eyelash and every single perfect line and blemish on his face in such detail she almost forgets that he isn’t real. “And while that may have been the only choice you thought you had – I’m choosing the slow and painful way of dying. Which is living, for as long as I can.” Grace tugs her jacket closer around her and turns, heading back to her car and away from him. As she grabs her keys and unlocks the door she turns to look back at the now empty field. No sign of life or even the remnants of life. Just silence, like no one was ever there to begin with.

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LEKHA SRIRAGURAJAH

The Theatre of Life CHARIS HESKETH Act One: A Child You have not a care in the world You know exactly what you want to do Ballerina? Yes. Spaceman? Yes. A Kitten? Sure. No one will stop you. Your biggest worry is if you get the best crayon Or if you can ride a two wheeler bike. And that you want to be a grown up Then after all this time you turn 13 and your child self takes a bow And your teen self steps on the stage now. Act Two: Teenager You have three cares in the world If that person likes you, how you can survive high school, and why mom won’t let you drive the car. Then it hits you In five years you’ll be an adult soon But that doesn’t matter, you party anyway Because well.. it’s Friday. Then you figure out that the person likes you back, you survived high school, and your mom finally let you drive the car Your teen self takes a bow and your adult self walks on stage now Act 3: Adult You’re an adult and well you have no idea what to do What on earth are taxes? And you can’t skip out on work even if you do have the flu. Then you remember that time when you were a child And you didn’t have a care in the world When you were a teenager and they told you that this life is like a pearl That the possibilities are endless and your dreams will come true And you can do anything your heart puts you up to. So know that these acts are a figure a speech And that childlike love that you have. Keep. Keep the wandering minds Because you will never know what you may find. Then the last act ends and everyone stands And the curtain call all comes out as planned There is your child self, your teen self, and your adult self too Then your adult self steps up and says: “Life is like a stage and we have just begun this journey of ours is not quite done There are dreams to be made Problems that have to be dealt with and love to be felt so as we take our bow know that it’s not over now That we have places to go and things to see And we will call you once we’ve reached victory.”

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Your memories are worthy, they stretch beneath your feet BRITTANY BENNETT They say once you move forward, never look back; create your own path. The odd boulder may weigh on your shoulders, some more than others. I say once you move forward, take a look back; there lay a colourful path. You may slow from the weight on your shoulders, some more than others. We say once you move forward, always look back; we helped build that path. These hands have been on your shoulders, some more than others.

MATT SMITH

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Five Years

REBECCA FLETCHER Where do you see yourself in five years? I am not a fan of that question, or any variation of it for that matter. Whether it’s five, ten, or fifty, I don’t want to answer it. I might make something up, say, working as an editor, married with two-point-five kids and a dog named Spot, travelling the world, rising in the ranks at an office, ready to retire. Whatever fits the situation. I know my actual answer, of course. I see a two-room cabin on the edge of Lake Superior (I don’t take up much space). A bed, a wicker chair at a paper-covered desk, a wooden bookshelf, a blackened stove, filling the room with the smell of cedar. And me. Wrapped in a cream-coloured shawl out of some Folger’s ad, pen in hand, my bare toes curling at the edge of the wicker chair. Dinner for one cooks on the stove, (I’m not too picky) and the soothing rush of water over rock fills the silence. That’s the dream, as they say. I know the other answer too. It never changes. I see a mouldy apartment somewhere, two hundred miles from any body of water (I can’t afford much space). A pull-out couch, a cardboard box table, a broken fridge, filling the room with a high-pitched whine. And me. Wrapped in an old blanket because heating bills are too high, exhausted from working two jobs that don’t matter. Dinner for one is in the microwave (surprise! It’s KD) and the domestic tiff downstairs, the college students’ party upstairs, and my next-door neighbours having sex fill the silence. That’s the nightmare. And nothing is more terrifying than only seeing one if the other should fail.

CARINA RAMPELT

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MATT SMITH

Is this the dream or is this the nightmare? 6


JONATHAN COLLIE

sweetness and light KATIE PARKER I’m five years old and starting my first day of school. Red-eyed and ruddy-faced, I am at once excited and anxious, dreading such drastic change but excited about big girl school. I wave goodbye to my mum, whose own eyes are probably brimming with tears. This is growing up. I’m eight years old and I chase my friends around the playground. The tarmac is rough; we’ve got the scraped knees to prove it. I refuse to wear jeans and scrawl vague shapes on the rubber toes of my Chuck Taylors. Later, I cover them with white out. I’m twelve years old and everything is uncomfortable. Every motion feels awkward, every sentence spoken aloud painful and annoying. My teeth are crooked, my limbs hang uselessly. I get my first pair of glasses — semi-rimless and pale green. I am thankful to turn thirteen. I’m fourteen and I just started high school. Everything is huge and overwhelming, except for me. I eat lunch in a corner outside of the cafeteria, too timid to enter the room. I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself floundering in the centre, all eyes on me. I take up rugby to surprise people; I surprise myself when I discover how much I hate the skin I’m living in. I start to figure out what I like and what I value. This, too, is growing up. I’m fifteen and more indecisive than ever. I get my braces off. I start to feel better about myself. Fewer things scare me. I get a job. I stand up straighter. I fall in love with music and film and the things that are alive. Fifteen is my favourite number, but not my favourite year. I’m sixteen and I feel detached. I come alive this spring. I fall in love with my friends and I learn to be tender. I pierce my ears — twice. I get my license and learn what it feels like to be in control. I have fierce opinions and I am learning how to share them. I sit at the end of a dock with a boy I care about, wondering if he’ll make a move. He does. I see my friends go off to university. I’ve still got another year at home. I turn seventeen with tears in my eyes. I’m seventeen and I know the next year is important. I find a group of friends as solid as stone. I hurt and I feel empty and I learn how hard it can be to put yourself first. I learn how important that is too. I aggressively practice self-love — eventually, it’ll stick. I spend a lot of time at concerts and behind books. I figure things (including myself) out. I immerse myself in what little nature exists in suburbia and try not to live in retrospect. I grow and grow and grow, and some-times I hit a wall. Sometimes, I flourish. I am eighteen and I am here. I am fresh and new and surrounded by unfamiliarity. Sometimes I miss the familiar but try not to dwell. I’m not afraid to tell people I love them or to dance in public. I only own dark lipstick. I cut my hair short and get a tattoo. I look forward, but I do a lot of looking back. Amidst all the looking, I try to be present. I struggle to exist right now. I am learning. I am learning and every moment I am growing.

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Self-Portrait ANDREW SAVORY

He’s like a mirror, An imperfect portrait of what I once was, We stare blankly at one another, Amidst the stiffening silence of a child’s bedroom. Little red planes hang from the ceiling fan, A flick of the switch from mother and they begin to swirl, Round and round my eyes follow their hypnotizing twirl, As their spin comes to a close, my reflection looks upon me, a broken man. If I tell him what happens next, Will life lose its luster? He does not know what to expect, What little words can he possibly muster? Words rise and fall beneath his chest, His lips quiver eagerly, Filled with youthful zest, A vision of life that passed me by so easily. Perhaps he has a chance, Or will his feet tread within my familiar soles? Destined to live in a passive trance, Falling infinitely towards the sea of lost souls. He searches for answers in my reflection, Clues as to where I went wrong, He knows that I am far from perfection, And that his life will be the same old song. Whether it be the greying of my hair, The fraying of my clothes, He doesn’t seem to care, For all that is done he already knows.

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EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Jessica Groom

Looking Forward “Home is behind, the world ahead.”

jessica.groom@blueprintmagazine.ca

Production Manager Breanna Kettles breanna.kettles@blueprintmagazine.ca

Literary Editor Joseph Brannan joseph.brannan@blueprintmagazine.ca

Art/Photography Manager Carina Rampelt carina.rampelt@blueprintmagazine.ca

Promotions Manager Rachael Hargan rachael.hargan@blueprintmagazine.ca

Web Editor Roxanne Nicolussi roxanne.nicolussi@blueprintmagazine.ca

Brantford Manager Brittany Bennett brittany.bennett@blueprintmagazine.ca

Radio Manager Brendan Fardy brendan.fardy@blueprintmagazine.ca

STAFF CONTRIBUTORS

Tayler Buchanan, Donnique Williams, Lekha Sriragurajah, Brittany Bennett, Rachael Hargan, Jessica Groom, Andrew Savory, Charis Hesketh

CONTRIBUTORS

This time around, Blueprint is a hello and a goodbye. It’s fitting for this time of year, as many of us are saying goodbye to our time at Laurier and moving on to new heights. This is my last issue of Blueprint as Editor-In-Chief, and my last term at Laurier. It’s funny, because when I first got involved with Blueprint in second year I never imagined I’d feel the way I am now. I never imagined that I’d have this home away from home. There’s a melancholic feeling stirring, but also a strong sense of accomplishment and pride in the work that’s been put in over the past year at Blueprint. I’d tip my hat to everyone who has been a part of this creative niche...if I was wearing one. Today it’s all about looking back on events that make up our past, but looking towards the infinite future that lies ahead. One chapter is closing, but the next one is just beginning. Everything from this point on is unwritten. You’ve got the pen. “And there are many paths to tread.”

Matt Smith, Sara Rodgers, Rebecca Fletcher, Miles Smith, Katie Parker, Alexandria Clement, Steven Arnott

Jessica Groom Editor-in-Chief

ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Dani Saad Executive Director Bryn Ossington Advertising Manager Tammy Rowe Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Treasurer John Pehar Director Taylor Berzins Director Shelby Blackley Director Angela Foster Director Fred Kuntz Director Neha Soni Corporate Secretary Laura Buck

COVER

CONTACT Blueprint Magazine 75 University Ave W Waterloo ON N2L 3C5 p 519.884.0710 x3564 blueprintmagazine.ca

Looking Forward by JOSHUA AWOLADE This is a visualization of the uncertainty of the future, whether one second or five years ahead. That person is unformed: we decide who that person is going to be and where they’re going. This is an optimistic perspective, of course.

Advertise trowe@wlu.ca blueprintmagazine.ca/advertise Contribute submissions@blueprintmagazine.ca blueprintmagazine.ca/contribute

COLOPHON Blueprint is the official student magazine of the Wilfrid Laurier University community.

Both pieces are linked. Elements of who we were before influence our decisions and the person we will ultimately become.

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

NEXT ISSUE Under the Sea On stands Summer 2015

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CONTENTS

VOLUME 14 ISSUE 4 MARCH 2015

POETRY 4 5 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 18

“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” J.R.R. TOLKIEN

PROSE 7

Self-Portrait

ANDREW SAVORY

sweetness and light

10

KATIE PARKER

Your memories are worthy, they stretch beneath your feet BRITTANY BENNETT

20

Five Years

REBECCA FLETCHER

When You Can’t Sleep At Night TAYLER BUCHANAN

The Crossroads Letters JESSICA GROOM

The Theatre of Life CHARIS HESKETH

Always Focus, On(e) Forever. SARA RODGERS

Everything is on the Table ALEXANDRIA CLEMENT

“Like we always do at this time” STEVEN ARNOTT

Today is Different RACHAEL HARGAN

The Window

DONNIQUE WILLIAMS

Praesentarius MILES SMITH

Front Cover

Joshua Awolade

Back Cover

Joshua Awolade

3


Volume 14, Issue 4 March 2015

Looking Forward

Looking Back  

Volume 14 Issue 4 (Part 2)

Looking Back  

Volume 14 Issue 4 (Part 2)

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