Volume 16, Issue 3 February 2017
The Hidden Issue
VOLUME 16 ISSUE 3 FEBRUARY 2017
Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times if one only remembers to turn on the light. ALBUS DUMBLEDORE (1881-1997)
Where is Webster?
Cat’s Eye View
Are you ready to talk about her?
Within the Trees
Mary Smith, Occupation: Knocker-Upper
Hidden Due to Fear
You Know When...
On A Dedicated Search for Love
CORA VANESSA HAVEN MANREET LACHHAR MADELINE MCINNIS JUDY BARAZI
DANIELLA CAVALLINI ELIZA HEENEY
JOVANA DJERMANOVIC CHARIS HESKETH EAKAMJIT GILL SARAH CAMERON EN119 TUTORIAL 1
AMANDA SCHEIFELE KATARINA PETROVIC REBECCA ALLISON FELICITY SHIPP
BRITTANY TENHAGE KIMBERLY CHUNG
CORA VANESSA HAVEN
DONNIQUE WILLIAMS Inside Back
EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Breanna Kettles firstname.lastname@example.org
Production Manager Amanda Scheifele email@example.com
Literary Editor Manreet Lachhar firstname.lastname@example.org
Art/Photography Manager Carina Rampelt email@example.com
Promotions Manager Erica Parnis firstname.lastname@example.org
Web Editor Vacant
Intern Stephanie Silva
The Hidden Issue Can you keep a secret? Because trust is so important to secrets, and buried treasure, and other hidden things. It seems like trust is a rare commodity in a very cynical society. We keep our dreams and identities close to our chests because being vulnerable is scary. But I trust you, dear reader. So I’ll be honest with you. I have no idea what I’m doing.
Breanna Kettles Editor-in-Chief
Art/Photography Intern Vacant email@example.com
Rebecca Allison, Kimberly Chung, Jonathan Collie, Eliza Heeney, Charis Hesketh, Madeline McInnis, Carina Rampelt, Amanda Scheifele, Donnique Williams,
Elliot Alder, Caroline Alpert, Judy Barazi, Sarah Cameron, Daniella Cavallini, Jovana Djermanovic, Eakamjit Gill, Cora Vanessa Haven, Aruba Khurshid, Erica Parnis, Katarina Petrovic, Brittany Tenhage, Grace Wallace
ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Meghan Roach Executive Director Lakyn Barton HR Manager Taylor Berzins Finance Manager Randy Moore Advertising Manager Care Schummer Treasurer John Pehar Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Director Maddy Cutts Director Mynt Marsellus Director Matt Burley Community Director Fred Kuntz Community Director Gary Doyle
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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.
by JONATHAN COLLIE
Life is a journey full of surprising and unexpected opportunities. As we travel through life, we pass by doors that lead can us to unknown places. What’s fearful about these doors is imagining what might be hiding on the other side of them. Every door hides an unseen opportunity which awaits to be discovered. Opening up new opportunities for yourself could be just as simple as building up the courage to open one up.
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NEXT ISSUE Harmony On stands March 2017
Where is Webster? REBECCA ALLISON
Faith, noun My arms have gone. Looked up too long. Searching for a message amongst the branches. The magnifying glass didnâ€™t help. Light at the end of the tunnel. Bare branches welcome my gaze. Might be overthrowing. Must be an answer. My eyes close. Nothing more in darkness than in light. Iâ€™ll wait.
Firecracker CORA VANESSA HAVEN A firecracker, you say. Thatâ€™s what you think when you see me. Fiery, warm, bright. The brightest star in the universe, in fact. I am a ball of sparks, hurtling towards the sky. The world is waiting for me to explode, to sprinkle you all with a mini meteor shower of elated embers. But, oh darling, would it surprise you to know that, hidden inside, I am cold? To know that when no one looks, the chill from outside seeps into my bones and hardens to ice in my veins? I drown in frost and under snowstorms and I may never break free again. Does that surprise you? Of course it does. You see thunder and lightning. I am the sun personified -- cheerful but too bright to look at, warm but too scalding to be near. I am fire that can melt the freezing sadness around your heart. But will it melt the freezing sadness around mine?
Time will tell. Until then, Iâ€™ll keep trying to warm everything I touch until it all burns.
Cat’s Eye View MANREET LACHHAR
The first time she walks in, Nix initially does not pay much attention to her. She is simply another customer for Lilith to deal with while he plays with the plastic mouse. Her back is to him, and from his place between the aisles he can see red – the tint of the other girl’s hair, but also Lilith’s face the longer the two girls talk. This is strange behaviour for his human, and he’d be worried if she wasn’t smiling. The girl gets some lavender from the aisle over for a potion, Lilith does the transaction, and the girl leaves. Lilith is still smiling, still red-faced, and sighing. Maybe she’s enchanted? Nix decides to be on the lookout for this customer. The second time she comes in, it’s three weeks later and Nix is people-watching in the windowsill. She doesn’t notice him (probably because she’s still outside), but he recognizes her right away. He’s less worried – the enchantment on Lilith ran out by the end of the day, he knew – but is still on his guard. Lilith is outside, tending to some herbs kept outside the shop, and the girl addresses her. Nix can see the hesitant recognition flicker through their eyes and he sees the enchantment starting to bloom on Lilith’s face again. He is ready to scratch the window, try to escape the shop, do something to stop it, when he notices – there’s an enchantment spreading on the girl’s face as well. She wouldn’t enchant herself, would she? They come inside, Lilith rings up her purchase, and the girl leaves. Nix is very confused. By the sixth time she visits, Nix is hiding in the cupboard and not worried at all. He’s come to realize that the girl is harmless. Whatever she does to Lilith, it’s mutual, and the only effect it has on Lilith is putting her in a good mood for the rest of the day. In a way, he’s come to appreciate this strawberry-blonde girl – she makes Lilith happy, so Nix can focus on other things, like catching mice for his human. He’s waiting for the right moment to catch his prey and half-heartedly listening to their conversation. The girl asks for a jar of fish gills and tells Lilith about her latest concoction – a charm for breathing underwater. Nix peeks his head out of the cupboard and sees that Lilith is enraptured, laughing too loudly. He is so bewildered by the exchange he nearly misses the mouse. It’s the eighth visit when Nix finally realizes what is going on. He is asleep atop a shelf, woken by the musical sounds of the front door’s wind chimes. He sees the girl walk in with a determined look in her eye, on a mission. She doesn’t greet Lilith like she usually does, instead just grabbing what she’s come for. Nix can see from his perch that Lilith looks hurt, but she plasters a smile on her face. It’s tighter and smaller than usual, but Nix doubts the girl will notice – he only knows because she’s his human. The girl brings her items up and explains the competition she’s in with a friend, a bet she wants to win. They’re practicing love potions, not to use on anyone, but to prove who is better at them. Halfway through her rant, she stops and asks about Lilith, says she’s not as cheerful as usual. Suddenly, Lilith is turning red again, saying she’s fine. Nix sees the girl’s face as she leaves, smiling and biting on her lip. Oh. The humans are in love. By the twelfth visit, Nix is frustrated. Now that he knows what’s going on, he’s equal parts exasperated and bored by their obliviousness. They dance around each other, blushing and laughing, awkwardly talking over each other in bumbling attempts at conversation. He peeks around the counter, nudging his ball of yarn around as he watches them talk. Then, suddenly, something new transpires: the girl asks for some fox tongues, and Lilith tells her they’re out of stock. It’s a rarity, but it does happen. However, if she gives her name and phone number, Lilith can place an order specifically for her and call her when they’re in. The girl says her name is Mallory and writes a number down for Lilith. Nix is pleased as he unravels the yarn with his paws – maybe he won’t have to get involved after all. Lilith always says number thirteen is lucky, and it’s a lucky thirteenth visit indeed. The girl – Mallory – comes, walks straight to the counter to pick up her order, and once she’s got it, she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Nix, who’s hidden between jars of onyx stones on a storefront shelf, can see that Lilith is ready to ask if she’s alright when the girl asks for Lilith’s name in one rushed breath. Lilith confusedly gives it to her and Mallory asks if she has a phone number to go with it. Neither of them notice Nix, so he jumps off the shelf. He knows where this is going and decides it best to give them some privacy – he loves his human, but he knows she will stumble over her words and jitter nervously, and he does not want to see that. That doesn’t stop the smile on his face as he walks into the backroom to find a toy. The fourteenth time, Mallory walks in with Lilith, and Nix is in a cauldron. He pokes his head out to see the two of them holding hands and giggling. Mallory bites her lip as though she is trying to pluck up her courage and then plunges forward, kissing Lilith’s cheek. Lilith’s eyes widens, her face goes red again (maybe it’ll permanently turn that colour?), and Mallory merrily skips out the door, calling out a promise to talk soon. Lilith, who bids her a star-struck goodbye, turns around and startles at the sight of Nix. She immediately walks over and scoops him up, petting his black fur and cooing.
“Nix! Where have you been? I have so much to tell you.”
Nix meows knowingly.
It sits in the corner of the room. Secluded. Terrified to open Afraid of what may seep out. Gifts, pictures, feelings, you. The more it fills the emptier I am. All locked away Sitting in that box.
ENGRAVINGS DANIELLA CAVALLINI
COLLAPSED. and she collapsed onto the floor. unable to contain the tsunami within. her fingers curled and her legs bent inward towards her chest protecting whatever she had left. He said he never loved me And I just collapsed.
BLACK HOLE. She was infectious Because she had a black hole for a heart.
HC KWB DA PZISDFWBH HVWG GSQFSH ASGGOUS CB TOQSPCCY: KS VOJS WGGISG
Watch Closely ELIZA HEENEY
Mama watch closely I’m standing On the rail and I haven’t fallen yet See me step one two one two on the Edge like this see I have my arms spread wide Like a gull so I Won’t fall See mama I’m a grown up girl now Walking on the edge like this with so Many things in my pockets like I have now See the pop tabs and the Candy wrappers and the bits Of string See how I have all these things as I Walk along the edge on the rail like This Mama mama look ~~~ But turn the light on down the hall And leave the door ajar Because I am full of things that are hit hard by the darkness Whose shadows are long and run together like your watercolours mama I surprise myself at times The marbles that roll out of my mouth and The prints my boots leave in the mud I am surprised by all their edges and corners and hard parts Because they are loud in the dark. They grow greater over days Mama leave the light on down the hall ~~ I wear sunlight in my hair and it all blows me over in a fresh haze All of the things in my pockets and the things in my ribcage and the things in all the other crevices of myself that I cannot name or see or know or guess at. And I cannot help but breathe in, to make their caverns greater to give them a bit of Wiggle room To get comfortable in the Corners of my organs Where I am sure they will stay ~~ Mama look look at me Watch this
Blindfold JOVANA DJERMANOVIC My heart is black as coal Don’t look at me like you don’t know I’ve never been loved I’ve never been whole My soul is a hundred years’ old Tormented, yet kind. Rejected, left behind Though I still feel as tiny as a child But I’ve taken off my blindfold…
Anna was the most infuriating person I ever met. She took herself entirely too seriously and cried far too often. I think I saw her cry at least a dozen times before I even spoke to her once. There was just something about Anna. She had a permanent look of innocence, though you know that she’s a little firecracker inside. She’s the type that just breaks your heart without realizing what she was doing. She’d do it with a smile. That’s what I thought about her. I realized I was in love with her around two years into our friendship. I think I was in love with her the whole time, though, I just didn’t know. Is that strange, Doc? Do you have a lot of patients that don’t realize things about themselves? I mean, maybe I’m just saying that too. Maybe it makes me feel better that I always loved her. It’s hard to place a date. Before I met her, she’d been hurt. Hurt real bad, Doc. She thought she was broken. I don’t think so, though. If anything was broken, it was her heart. She just loved too much. That was her only fault. She loved too much. I just remember watching her. Her laugh, her smile. She had this incredible wonder in her eyes. She loved without limits. She was always trying to be better. She wasn’t the smartest, but she had a little bit of that spark in her, you know? She was going to change the world. And she was the most talented artist I’ve ever seen. Give her an hour, just an hour, and she’d have you on a page, I swear. She still cried way too much. But I found out that it was only because she felt too much. It could have been the happiest day of her life and she’d be crying. No matter her emotion, she was crying. Happy, sad, angry. There were always tears. She wasn’t used to receiving any kindness, just giving it, so when I offered mine to her, that’s when she cried the most, I think. I made her cry just by giving her a flower to put in her hair. It was strange. She was strange. It was the type of strange that made art so captivating and kept you staring at a masterpiece. Something about her was different, but she was so human. She just wanted to love and be loved. She wanted to be a mother. More than anything, that’s what she wanted. People laughed at her for that, and that made her cry too. But the tears were good, I think. It meant that she was alive. She was feeling something strongly enough to have a reaction. I never had the courage to tell her how I felt. I watched her fall in love with another guy. He was taller than me. More charming. More well-liked. He was handsome. He was important. He could spoil her with the things she seemed to really want, things that were unattainable to me. I really tried to be happy for her. She seemed really happy, anyways. But he was so demanding. After a few months, the look of innocence just became exhaustion. The crying stopped. I should’ve known. I should’ve known. When I asked her why she stayed with him, she told me that no one would ever love her the way that he did. I told her that if that was true, it was a good thing. She didn’t laugh. I told her that someone would love her better than he did. She asked me who could ever love someone like her better than him. I never told her. The fear of rejection was worse than the fear of living alone. I told her that she’d make someone very lucky. She told me luck doesn’t exist. I’m starting to believe her. So I kept it all inside, hidden, never knowing that she felt the same way until it was far too late. I wish I could say that my biggest regret is not telling her that I love her. That’s not true, though. My biggest regret is standing by, watching her get hurt, and doing nothing to stop it. I didn’t know how badly he was hurting her. I just knew that she wasn’t happy. Why wasn’t that enough? Maybe if I thought it was enough, she’d still be here today. I miss her. I miss her more than I’d ever admit to anyone. I’ll keep that hidden too. Until I go to join her, our love is clandestine. But, you see Doc, that’s why I’m here. I’ve spent too much of my life in surreptitious longing because I was afraid. I don’t want to be afraid any more. I’m going to try to be happy. I’m going to allow myself to cry. That’s what she would have wanted.
Are you ready to talk about her? MADELINE MCINNIS
WITHIN THE TREES CHARIS HESKETH
There is a treasure within the trees But you already know That is no secret to the world And thatâ€™s why you cut down the willow Even though the woods has given you so much life And air to breathe day and night You cut it down without a fright You use it to your advantage Then after you do your damage You take your axe and leave With the light that was inside the willow tree
Bliss EAKAMJIT GILL The ancient knowledge of the infinite was sealed and hidden Controlled by the awakened, forbidden to the bedridden They went into the mountains and started to meditate Where the destruction of ego allowed them to levitate The people were restless, envious of the yogis For the secret of happiness, they wanted the key So they set out on a journey, the goal recovery Of the ancient knowledge kept hidden from them for centuries Afraid of being told misconceptions and lies Afraid that black magic would be used to mess up their minds They went in huge numbers, to safeguard their lives But what the yogis told them was a huge surprise For contentment you see is not found externally There is no mystery knowledge hidden in secrecy Because all that you need to set your mind free Is to become one with yourself, internally
i. I am a forgotten gum wrapper, Thrown carelessly into traffic, Storm sailing with no oars, I want to be the compass. ii. I am a blackened kaleidoscope, Muddy masterpiece of stained glass, Locked basement with no windows, I want to be the attic. iii. I am a weed in a rose garden, Ugly under a cage of thorns, Orphan at the charity ball, I want to be the host. iv. I am a chunk of chipped china, Dust collector when family come, Bluebird hitting skyscraper glass, I want to be the park bench.
v. I am an empty oil lamp, Passed by smoldering matchsticks, Forest of teeth and fur, I want to be the wind.
Termimal SARAH CAMERON
That Night JUDY BARAZI
There are moments in your life that you can remember with all your five senses. That night was one of them. Without even trying, I can still feel the air on my face as I walked to our best friend’s house. I was smiling from ear to ear and crossed the street whenever I wanted to. Our best friend was dressed as a cowboy, and he was helping me put on the darkest lipstick we could find in his mom’s makeup drawer. We were trying to make my costume look as convincing as possible. After all, I was the devil, but tonight I wanted to be forgiven for all my sins. You showed up wearing a doctor’s robe, it was so white. Our best friend had this idea that you should have some fake blood on it to make it look like a “killer doctor” costume, and he started splashing some red paint on your robe. I was sitting there on the floor, watching you close your eyes as the paint splattered everywhere, and you looked so perfect. The bar was so... red. I know it was called “Red Bar,” but the red walls, red lights, red wine. I was trying to get out of hell, and this felt like too much. I can still smell the smoke from all the cigarettes around us, it made me feel dizzy and I went outside to breathe. You came out and started walking with me in the dark alley. I can’t remember what we said, all I remember was that we walked a long way until we remembered we had left a possibly drunk friend all alone, and decided to go back. I was still dizzy, and without a warning, you held my hand. I can still feel your touch if I focus really hard, even though it has been so long since that night. We got to the bar’s door and I said I did not want to go inside yet. “Why?” you asked. “Too much red,” I answered. “I know, I don’t like red either,” you said. I smiled and then I heard my mouth say, “doesn’t your girlfriend have red hair?” You nodded and gestured that we go in, and I could hear my heart beating so fast for mentioning her. Her. Our friend was a disaster when we walked back inside, so we decided to head back home. We took a cab. You were in the passenger’s seat, while I was taking care of our friend in the back and looking at you in the side view mirror. You had a weird look on your face, and you opened your mouth twice and then closed it. The third time, you finally spoke and asked me, “How do you feel about me?” “I hate you,” I said. With the same weird look you asked me why and I said, “You are too perfect, but I can’t have you.” You started shaking your head, thinking I didn’t see you, but you reached out for my hand and held it all the way back. You kept asking me if I was okay, and I swear I did not know if I was, because in that moment I knew I had you more than she ever will. I was holding a piece of you that she will never get to hold. That night was the night I found you. The next day was a blur, all the days from that point on were, until I discovered that night was the night I lost you.
Terrobscurum Collatio A Poetic Corroboration from EN119: Reading Fiction – Tutorial #1 A J ACEY, SHALAYNA TRELFORD-LADD, EMMA STOBO, SARAH EMILY GILMET, SHAE-LYNNE THOMSON, GREG MISENER, ASHLEY LARIZZA, ALEXANDRA ZONNEVELD, CASSIDY LATIMER, GINA THOMPSON, SAMANTHA DESOUSA, HARRISON EDGAR, BLAIRE ROY, ERIN BULL, NOAH CROCKER, LINDSAY SANTORO, NICOLA GROGAN, MICHELLE GIBSON, NIKKI PTASZNIK, NATALIE HOMEWOOD They were tired and ephemeral, them gracious stars, bent upon a scree of eccentricity. Some played melancholic games with aristocratic zebras, others were morbid or notorious. They ran between the literary pages, eager for a bounty of sarcastic sunflowers – Damn ragamuffins, legitimizing awesome bullshit: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Bodacious. Royalty. Promises of salvation through complex timing. A library of lustrous liquors, creative and colourful. They were charismatic and humble, but now they’re gone. Go, girls. Grieve the nightly corruption. The nebula is hollow, its arms are wide and lilac – a cosmic never-ending. An ace clandestine, eclipsed and sequestered, hermetic and eclectic, taunts and gibes. The delicate thing is latent and obscure, juxtaposed against authoritative anguish. And yet… we live ever onward. Here and now. Waking them tired ghosts. Running and eager.
Mary Smith, Occupation: Knocker-Upper AMANDA SCHEIFELE
Mary Mary- what would they carry? When they tippity tap at the glass? A stick bamboo or a call to you To respond to the clock made of chalk.
Mary Mary- isn’t it scary? Out on those streets all alone? Alone you say? In London grey? Putter-outers are still wide awake...
Mary Mary- pea or berry? How do you wake them up? A pea shooter long is my wake up song as I aim and I blow and I rap.
Mary Mary- luck of a fairy! - are you not thankful you’re here? Away from the crowds and owners proud, for while they work you can sleep sound?
Mary Mary- don’t you get weary? How then do you wake up? Three glasses dear of water clear always gets me up a’for dawn.
Close my eyes? Contrarywise, three babes have I at home. I wake and I blow so my children will grow and soon wake to a tap on the glass
“Hey” ARUBA KHURSHID
Hey Aruba, Yeah, you’re actually going to be writing a letter to yourself. Because you have things to discuss. By you, I mean me. I have things to discuss with you. I see that there is a part of you that wants to constantly smile and make others around you happy. I need to tell you that it’s okay if you can’t fill that obligation. That obligation should only be made to yourself. But, if it’s made to yourself, then that’s selfish. You honestly want to make other people happy because it makes you feel good? Get over yourself. You don’t even like everyone you come in contact with. You judge people so damn hard and you want them to think you’re a good person? Give me a break. A break is what you need, a break from keeping this charade up. You need to sit back and adequately clear your mind of this doubt. You need to be able to think clearly, and stop sweating the small stuff. Think clearly? You don’t have any time for that. You put all this pressure on yourself. It’s totally your own fault. You had all this time over the weekend to work on this submission and here you are writing it at the last moment because you’re nothing but procrastinating trash. You have so much to sort out that you want to stop thinking? Yeah, right. I promise you, your parents will be fine when they go on that drive in freezing rain. Your sisters are just fine when they are away from the house. They are safe. Everyone will be safe. You don’t need to worry yourself about circumstances you can’t control. It’s probably your own fault that things are the way they are anyway. You need to make time for learning how to prioritize yourself. You selfish bitch. You need to adequately learn how to breathe for a second. It’d be better if you stopped. No. That’s not okay. That’s absolutely not okay. What the hell is wrong with you? Yeah, what the hell are you even thinking right now? So, like I was saying, you need to learn to breathe, and by learning, I mean allowing yourself to breathe. And you know what? It’s okay to breathe. If you need to stop thinking to breathe, that’s okay too. If you need to stop what you’re doing at this very moment, that’s also okay. You want to know what else is okay? Taking time to love you. Nobody has bullied you more than you yourself. It’s not your problem if others don’t respect you, but it’s completely your own problem if you don’t respect yourself. You can’t expect to completely love others when the source of your love stems from a damaged place. The only loss endured by removing yourself from the world, is the loss of your potential in providing for it. The world owes you nothing. You, on the other hand, owe it everything. But you need to stomp the fear of thinking you’re not allowed to receive goodness when it offers it. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to get angry. You’re allowed to have an inner tantrum because your cousin ate your food. Because you are human.
Hidden Due To Fear KATARINA PETROVIC
Why do we hide Deep inside Beneath a wall Let’s showcase How we can let it fall Like so many other Structures That stood very tall Came tumbling down Some fear of the Unknown But dear, how else Should we grow I know Mystery and all Is scary for its potential fall We would still look up in the sky At the bright odd object Wonder what it is Now we would say ‘Oh geez’ While on our knees If we stay hidden due to fear Many things in life will never be clear
Shelter REBECCA ALLISON
I fell. I perceived beauty, Branches strewn with warm hues. Each tree, Observed in turn. Strong, Wise, True. As rain skipped about the forest, I hid beneath the meagre shade you offered. I looked above, A dazzling sky, Stars, Orange, yellow and red, Shimmering between the dripping rain. In gratitude, I tended the soil, Assuring your roots remained, Quenched, Nourished. A friendship, Resilient and formidable, Like the unwavering trunk, Upon which I leaned.
Time, Did not freeze with the coming gales. The once warm canopy, Which had granted me shade, Vanished. Remembered, Only by the crunching rubble beneath my feet. No barricade, From the onslaught. White fire, Streaking the sky. Each strike, Scalding my bare flesh. I ran to your trunk, Your shelter, A final hope, Dashed by the shattering bark, Splintering with each touch. I had believed you generous. Yet it was your roots, Steadfast, Firm, Beneath the ground upon which I sat. Ground, Upon which I now falter. Each step, Vanishing into the white desert. It was not the leaves.
You Know When You have that Sudden Urge to Jump? FELICITY SHIPP
Standing at the end, I look down My breath lost as a molecule. I bend just a fraction forward as my vision drowns my conscience. What I can do is diabolical. One step. One movement. Do it. Do it! I could. Watch, I really could just jump. Life belongs to me to have (we really don’t admit that a turn of the wheel or a flip of the wrist- it’s a lust) A twitch. A flinch. Only an inch- just a titch and I could fly. I could fly vertically. I can’t simply back up anymore- chose which action. It’s an actual choice certainly. Power tripping now, blood in my eyes, I stand as my brain just says GO! I take a deep breath and
H E R
BRITTANY TENHAGE She wears a mask to hide her eyes, She fights in the shadows, for she can’t in the light. An enigma behind a Mona Lisa Smile, a woman with the power to change your life, Stardust and steel in her veins, And a powerful beating heart. She whispers secrets of moonlight, and screams the dreams of the lonely, She’s a supernova in a world that wishes she wasn’t, A world that would ignore her rather than have her win. I admire her from afar, and watch her destroy everything she touches, And I love her in the shadows, for I can’t in the light.
On A Dedicated Search For Love KIMBERLY CHUNG
Love is an enigma. Various perceptions conveyed through a variety of ballads, letters, and romantic films That ingrained my thoughts since the time my friends repulsed at the existence of boys. Role-playing as mom and dad without the devoted bond as partners As a little girl, I had the notion to venture in the foreign idea of love In a constant reverie, Casting characters that revolve a large portion of their life Dancing to the alluring sound of true love’s kiss And invoking passionate confessions In front of vast crowds who spectate the game of love being won. Their lives evidently surpassed everyone else’s Including mine And then I grew inclined to drop my toys And pursue the complicated life Of my Happily Ever After. I didn’t think it was ever possible to discover love from a videogame Observing you attempt to explain the rules without overcomplicating it And though I never got the controls right Your laugh resulting from my slip-ups was my only objective. At the time I realized I didn’t want to model our love after romantic movies Or dashing princes. Thanks to you, I now describe love as a simple melody, Whenever you called me “lovely” From your sweet lips That immediately locked with mine afterwards. I did not need to prove to the world That I was profoundly in love with you. I would rather be closed off from the spectators Inviting only the warmth from the soft bedsheets, The sun that glows in awe That strengthen its rays every time you emitted your soothing voice, And your presence That gives off every blissful, hopeful, wondrous thought I have always yearned to attain.
YOU CORA VANESSA HAVEN
You are locked away in my words, hidden between dozens of lines of paragraphs and stanzas alike. Of all the “you”s I’ve written about, you are by far the most real and the most frequent. ERICA PARNIS
ERICA PARNIS I don’t know what excuse I’ll use if anyone ever asks me who you are, because how do I even begin to explain? Explaining who you are will ensure me with disdain over empty words of comfort, or horrified looks over just how heartless I am. Some might say that this is an act of love, but how can it be, when sometimes I’m not sure if I do love you?
The Parachute CARINA RAMPELT
i. After the endless buzzing night, the sky gave us a gift. It bloomed lily-white in the old pear tree like an abandoned game of cat’s cradle or a forgotten picnic blanket. ii. “Real silk,” my mother turned the great cocoon over and over. Together we tucked the corners of the empty shell, its underside flecked like a field of poppies. iii. At night I’d lie awake wondering about what happened to our escaped butterfly. Where was he now? Did he ever think about his cocoon? Did he miss it?
34 AMANDA SCHEIFELE
Tragedy ALEXANDRA SOICA
At last she was gone, forever lost to the world. No one even heard her scream. No one would see the traces of blood left behind because no one cared to look… You wonder, where did it all begin? Well, if you dare to know… It was chilly, the sun wasn’t out, and the grey clouds swallowed the sky into a mist of what seemed like an endless winter. Icicles formed on every possible dead thing. That was the winter she went missing. She was the one who would deliver your newspaper on a Saturday morning, the one who would volunteer to help you rake your leaves in the fall. She was also the one to be polite to strangers. (Little did she know what that would bring her.) He seemed harmless, at first. She only sensed something might be unusual after he looked at her strangely. Some sort of dark intention hiding behind his brown eyes, a desire for something, almost like an itch. Not the desire you look at someone you like, but the type of desire that makes you cringe with fear and uncertainty. It started with a light touch. She said she had to leave but he grabbed her arm tightly. It was too late to escape, he already had his hands around her throat, the air out of her lungs as quickly as she could draw them in. grasping and pulling It was nightfall by then, no one knew where she was, who she was with. But she knew. The air outside was chilling to the bone now. The snow crunched on the ground as he dragged her body behind him. Her blood stained the snow a bright scarlet, the deep red appearing untainted and pure. The falling snow covered the traces of blood she left behind, leaving no sense of her existence at all. A life forgotten and left behind. He liked to play games with his victims. It was always a sport to him. All that mattered was her life, their lives, were now meaningless. He buried the body deep under the blanket of snow, the cold air hiding any scent of a rotting corpse. She became one with the ground.
She is forgotten, unmentionable. She does not exist.
You wonder why he did it. Just because he could. Life to him was so easy to take – it came naturally to pluck it away, just like the fates in Hercules. So eager to end and take life. But, I tell you. She died not then but after. Yes, you believe he killed her, not yet. Yes, her body released blood, but only enough to let her suffer in a deep agony of pain. You ask how he killed her. Guess what part of the body releases the most blood? Use your imagination. She slowly felt colder, the snow making her skin turn purple and lose its warmth. She couldn’t make a sound (had she lost her tongue?), a trickle of blood spilling out of her mouth. She wondered in her last moments what she had done to deserve such a cruel death. The answer is nothing. She had done nothing. Why her, why choose her of all he could have chosen? Was it the way she delivered his paper? The way she offered to help him with his groceries? Or was it the sweet scent of her shampoo? Only getting close enough could he smell the scent of her skin. He leant down to her as he covered her in the last blanket patch of snow. He whispered to her, “You are the doll I never had to play with. This way, you shall be forever mine.” He covered her face, tinted blue with the sign of death all over it, with the last patch of snow. And just like that. She is… Forgotten.
5D FELICITY SHIPP
A library holds the fifth dimension Sure what would I know about physics or waves space time or plains? I say a library holds the fifth dimension. 1D is the words: curly q’s and arches black as pupils who come to study pictures on the 2D covers as far as the brush strokes reach but you’ll break your nose if you endeavour look too
close from the words characters pop
seeing mint and turquoise in 3D as they move in front of your glasseyes down the darkened rows and rows of rusty books, new books, soft books, dusty booksACHOO! Spraying 4D spittle in your 4D life you chose a novel as posh as a knight chooses a page upon page in dewey decimal order they are in the fifth dimension behind the shelves. They (they) are the ones who spoon out a book for youthe swirls and dots on the cover picture show a deep checkered hall as you enjoy and are startled with dragonfire then a tear stains “The End” -and your mind is contented with 26 letter soup. It’s a library.
Look Up DONNIQUE WILLIAMS
Don’t look up. Every time a cyclist flies past. Don’t look up. Every time a little girl gives you a second glance. Don’t look up. Every time a little brown dog walks his owner. Don’t look up. Every time I swing, back and forth, and imagine you. Don’t look up. What are you listening to? Don’t look up. What are you doing here? Don’t look up. Could you love me? Don’t look up. Forget I said anything and don’t look up. You wouldn’t like me anyways so don’t look up. I have to pass you to leave so don’t look up. Will I find love? Don’t look up. Will I find love if I don’t look up?
39 CARINA RAMPELT
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