Creations Journal 2023

THANK YOU TO…

Our teachers Pauline Morel & Christian Charette for encouraging us to explore our creativity, and to grow into our most beautiful, accomplished selves. The Creation Journal would not exist if not for them.

We are ever so grateful to the Dean of Creative and Applied Arts Andréa Cole, the Associate Dean of CAA Tommy Diamantakos, ALC Festival Coordinator Sarah Del Seronde and the Coordinator of ALC Cheryl Simon for making this project possible.

Thank you to Matthew Ste. Marie from the Print Shop, for making it possible to hold this Creation Journal between our hands, real and true.

Thank you to the members of the editorial board of the Creation Journal 2023; Esther Forbes, Myrlie D. Rémy, Naomi Labbé-Baddeley and Patricia Manekeng.

Thank you to our graphic designers; Hanako Brierley, Cienna Nemeth, Jerry Huang, Sarah Foster, Tasha Clarke and Cole Emerick. The art for the cover was made by the one and only Wesley Pastuszko!

Thank you to our team of editors; Élodie Lavictoire, Marisa Bernado, Maya Jadah, Michaëla Charbonneau, Nanor Pilibossian and Wesley Pastuszko.

Thank you to our communication team; Aya Hafeda, Brittainy Jones, Hadia Sy, Ryan Schwartz, Samantha Rainone and Stella Da Silva.

Thank you to all who have submitted to the Creation Journal. As Vincent Van Gogh once said, “Great things are done by a series of small things brought together” and without those people’s ideas and creations, this journal would be quite uninteresting.

A special thank you to Eden Daniels and Emma Majaury for helping with the organization of the Creative Writing Reading and the official launch of this Creation Journal.

And congratulations to the winning essays of the Literature Profile Academic Conference: Stephanie Capozzo and Noémie Brisson.

Best of luck in your future creative endeavors,

Nemesis Jarry, Head Editor

LPAC

Literature Profile Academic Conference

Dawson College, Montreal, Quebec

Panel One & Two: Tuesday, May 2nd, 4:00-6:00, 5B.13

Panel Three: Thursday, May 4th, 4:00-6:00, 5B.13

As part of the Arts, Literature, and Communication Festival, Literature Profile graduating students in Liana Bellon’s Integrating Activity course present their end-of-term projects

Welcome statement: Emmy Rubin

Panel One: Considering Character

This first panel, moderated by Esther Forbes, focuses on iconic literary characters

Jamie Lee Lamothe

When Obsession Writes

Angels: Dante’s Idealization of Beatrice in La Vita Nuova

Will Dusablon Girard A Body of Mixed Identities: And Analysis of Woolf’s Orlando

Hannah Dane Christianity in Salinger’s Franny and Zooey and Eugenides’ The Virgin Suicides

Panel Two: Literature, Justice, and the Law

This panel, moderated by Aya Hafeda, is concerned with social justice and power imbalances in literature

Cienna Nemeth

Accountability in Literature: A Comparative Analysis of Ogden’s “The Hangman” and Poe’s A Tell-Tale Heart

Eden Daniel Abuse and Domestic Violence in Bronte’s Wuthering Heights and Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire

Emma Majaury

The Importance of Symbols and Choices in Glaspell’s Trifles and Johnson’s Plumes

Panel Three: Thinking Comparatively

This panel, moderated by Naomi Labbé-Baddeley, considers pairs of texts for their most significant differences

Tasha Clarke

An Analysis of Miller’s Galatea and Atwood’s The Penelopiad

Lea-Seanna Ruiz Gastin

The Metamorphosis of a Princess: An Analysis of The Princess and the Frog and Mulan

Noémie Brisson

An Analysis of Justice in Sophocles’ Antigone and Euripedes’ Medea

Stephanie Capozzo

How ‘Bad’ Books Birth Better Literature: An Analysis of Ros’ Irene

Iddesleigh and Theis’ The Eye of Argon

Transformation

by Anne Jubuisson

Transformation. I’ve thought for a long time about what that meant for me. To become, to transform intosomethingotherthan…. intosomeonebetterthanwho Iaminthismoment. IthinkmyTRANSFORMATIONisto

T urn into her, the person I want to become, which I can’t do without

R eflecting and being

A ware of the things about me I’d like not to repeat; to

N eglect the constant pessimistic voice in my head, and to stop

S haming myself of who I used to be…there’s no point in that. For once I

F orm a plan; I will be

O perating dierently. I’ll

R epeat the good things and LET GO of

M y mistakes. TRANSFORMATION is also the

A bility to

T ap into, and

I nteract with my future self, to be

O pen to criticism, to ocially LET GO of

N egativity.

Mytransformation… thatisshe.

How ‘Bad’ Books Birth Better Literature: An Analysis of Ros’ Irene Iddesleigh and Theis’ The Eye of Argon

By Stefanie Cappozzo

The arts, when approached in an academic setting, distinguishes itself from other forms of study for being more concerned with interpretations of life’s truths than the truth itself. It would appear that there are no objective rules in art, but that is not the case. In particular, literature is an art form with explicit rules, like grammar. However, people also have an implicit sense of how a story should unfold. It is rare, but not unheard of, that these unspoken notions converge to determine the universal verdict of a text’s quality. Amanda McKittrick Ros was an Irish author who became a cultural phenomenon starting in the late nineteenth century. Socialites held dinners in her “honour,” where they would recite passages from her 1898 novel Delina Delaney to mock its flowery prose (Loudan 52). Fifty years later, writer C.S. Lewis would challenge members of his literary discussion group The Inklings to read aloud from Ros’s 1897 novel Irene Iddesleigh for as long as possible without laughing (Carpenter 225-26). The unintended humour of Ros’s circumlocutory writing and melodrama is what grabbed the attention of many at the time of its publication (Gorman and Mateer 78-9). Jim Theis’s fantasy novelette The Eye of Argon, first published in 1970 in The Ozark Science Fiction Association’s fanzine (OSFan), has also garnered an infamous reputation for its ornate and choppy style. As in the case of Irene Iddesleigh, reading The Eye of Argon without laughing became a game, often played at science fiction conventions (Weinstein 7). Through an analysis of the texts’ weaknesses in narrative structure, character development, and their use of literary devices, I will argue that comparing these dierent works can bring about a deeper understanding of what distinguishes literature as a skilled art form, and thus that they are just as deserving of the attention that other texts receive in academia.

TheOriginsofStorytellingandNarrative

Aristotle’s Poetics (c. 335 BCE) is considered the origin of Western literary criticism (Castaldy[1]). In the text, he states that tragedy “is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life,” and emphasizes the importance of dividing plot into a beginning,

a middle and an end (Aristotle 9-10). Inspired by Aristotle’s narrative model, German novelist Gustav Freytag wrote Technique ofthe Drama (1863), which further dissects the notion of plot. He asserts that dramas have five distinct parts: “[an] introduction, rise, climax, return or fall, [and] catastrophe” (Freytag 115). The book includes a diagram that labels these components on sections of a pyramid, with the climax being the middle point (115). Three scenic movements also weave the plot together; the most important being, for our intents and purposes, the “exciting force,” or the hero’s motivation to act which triggers the rising action (121).

AnAnalysisofIrene Iddesleigh

Written in the late nineteenth century, Irene Iddesleighcontains thematic elements that are commonly found in Victorian literature. The main focus of the story is Irene’s marriage to Sir John Dunfern. He is a nobleman, while she is an orphan of low birth who is adopted by Lord and Lady Dilworth. The couple’s relationship is flawed; within the span of one chapter, Dunfern transitions from a man who “never yet had entertained the thought of yielding up his bacheloric ideas” (Ros 14) to being struck by “his first hopes of matrimony” (20) after seeing Irene at a party at Dilworth Castle. It is revealed that she never wanted to marry the nobleman and has been writing to her beloved tutor, Oscar Otwell, about eloping with him (78). Dunfern responds to Irene's infidelity by locking her in one of his mansion’s many unused rooms, called a “room of death” (85). After a year of imprisonment, she is able to escape with the help of Oscar and her maid Marjory Mason. This series of events provides ample material for commentary about social hierarchies and women’s independence, which were pressing issues in the Victorian era (Comstock[2]), but these topics are never addressed. Irene is met with nothing but derision for her actions, being called a “wretch of wicked and wilful treachery” (180) by her son and implored by Oscar to “cast [her]self at the feet” (158) of her captor and apologize for betraying his love.

It is dicult to discern what Ros was trying to convey about the characters in Irene Iddesleigh because none are given Freytag’s “exciting force.” They do not have motivations of their own besides those that are dictated by the plot. For example, when

Irene and Oscar move to New York, the tutor squanders the money he acquired from selling his home in England. He gets a job at a public school to earn the money back, but eventually resigns due to his alcoholism (151). Oliver’s intemperance makes him abusive and he hits Irene (152). These behaviors were never hinted at in Oscar’s letters or earlier appearances. Rather than being “under the compulsion of some part of the action” (Freytag 267), he is made into a plot device. It is impossible for this narrative to make any observation about the human condition because the characters function as tools rather than an imitation of mankind. They cannot change; they can only bend to the plot’s will. This is an indication of the novel’s weak structure. Unlike what is illustrated in Freytag’s pyramid, there is no gradual incline towards a climax. Instead, Ros bombards the audience with several major events in rapid succession. As Irene is met with more tragedies, the probability and necessity of these events decreases, thus decreasing what Aristotle would call the “magnitude” of the story’s action (Aristotle 10). In sum, Irene Iddesleigh neglects the foundations of Aristotle and Freytag’s definitions of narrative, relying on a slough of hardships to convey emotion rather than storytelling.

Ros’s novels have also received substantial criticism for their ornate prose which “fails to convey clear thought” (Gorman and Mateer 82). This is due to the author’s excessive use of alliteration and conceptual metaphors. In the book’s opening paragraph, she writes:

Cast your sympathy on the chill waves of troubled waters; fling it on the oases of futurity; dash it against the rock of gossip; or, better still, allow it to remain within the false and faithless bosom of buried scorn. Such were a few remarks of Irene as she paced the beach of limited freedom, alone and unprotected. (Ros 9)

It is unclear what her comparison intends to communicate. Beaches are often vast, which makes them a strange choice to symbolize constraint. Furthermore, to be alone and unprotected implies that Irene does have freedom. If she is by herself, then there is nobody to stop her from doing as she chooses. Ros’s propensity for alliteration is made evident in this passage, especially with the line “false and faithless bosom of buried scorn.” While alliteration is a good tool for “creat[ing] some sort of emphasis” (Clark 56), it can be distracting when overused. Ros’s descriptions of common actions often contain

the same flowery awkwardness. A character does not go to bed, she “put[s] herself in a position to guarantee slumber” (Ros 109); a man does not die, he “resign[s]” from his “worldly career” (155). While her writing is a testament to her broad vocabulary, Ros’s artistic choices only make her vague narrative more dicult to follow. A close reading of Irene Iddesleigh makes the complexities of “good” stories become more apparent. The reader can sense what components of Ros’s narrative are missing or lacking, making them aware of the structural precision present in all renowned writing. Therefore, the act of critiquing a weak text can instill an appreciation for literature as a skilled art.

HowThe Eye of Argon Compares

Although The Eye of Argon and Irene Iddesleigh were written for very dierent audiences, both received similar critiques and infamy, which calls attention to the universality of fiction’s implicit rules. The fantasy novelette does little to introduce its protagonist, Grignr the barbarian, his backstory, or any of the settings he travels through. The reader is given the names of locations like Gorzom and Crin (Theis 28), but no expository details are oered about these places. Likewise, all that readers are told about Grignr is that he is fleeing Crin after soldiers “were leashed upon him by a faithless concubine he had wooed” (28). He is given no depth as a character; he is violent and sex-crazed because that is who Theis writes him to be. Grignr gets into several physical altercations throughout the story, all of which he handles with ease. From “loping o the confused head of his senseless tormentor” (29) to murdering all of his shaman captors with a single ax (41), the reader is never given the opportunity to question whether Grignr will be strong enough to defeat a foe. The repetitive battles that occur throughout the story are characteristic of what Aristotle would describe as an episodic plot (Aristotle 12). He considered this kind of structure meandering, as the longer the sequence of events is extended, the less probable or necessary it becomes (12). Reading about how Grignr is always able to overcome the enemy parallels how Irene is constantly faced with tragic events; eventually, the reader can predict how such stories will proceed and stops caring.

Like Ros, Theis finds unique ways to describe common nouns. Blood becomes “crimson droplets of escaping life fluid” (Theis 27) and determination becomes “a store of renewed

vortexed energy in [Grignr’s] overwrought soul” (35). However, what makes Theis’s writing style an object of ridicule is not his word choices, but their purposelessness. One is able to imagine blood; there is no reason to shroud the concept in mystery. By analyzing Theis’s turns of phrase, the reader gains an awareness of the eort that goes into producing vivid but also meaningful texts.

Conclusion

Irene Iddesleigh and The Eye of Argon have rightfully earned the negative criticism that they have received. Both fail to adhere to storytelling’s traditional form, which results in weak character development and an overreliance on ornate prose to engross the reader. However, engaging with these works at a scholarly level can be rewarding, since it brings about a deeper understanding of narrative form and a greater appreciation for authors who exhibit a mastery of storytelling. Irene Iddesleighand The Eye ofArgon function as anti-classics; they are iconic examples of how not to write which have the potential to shape literary history in their own way.

Tarnish

by Nanor Pilibossian

Frankincense and myrrh

From a kindled wick by a glowing portrait,

The room grew icier; the light pecked my skin, a flame fighting for one hopeless breath.

Was it a change of heart or a shift in spirit? Following A yellow brick road

That led to more than one city of glimmering stone.

Through a gallery of familiarities, I waltzed with the ones I had once touched. Missteps and stumbles became a routine

As the dance came to an unversed tango. Why did it all become so complicated

When what we all once knew was a telephone game? Teased in a single chain of acquainted faces,

The players left as the whispers grew fainter.

Sentiments caught in an inundation

As the water turns from grey to limpid.

I gasp for air once I reach the surface,

Floundering, coughing up what I have already engulfed. Facing the glass door,

Our palms paint smears on the polished plane. The smudges and streaks sit across

The remains of a chapter left blemished.

I opt to say we grew apart

Indigo

by Élodie Lavictoire

If only the multiverse that fills this place was real.

If only we could go to these universes and live

With the characters we fell in love with.

If only we could thank them

For helping us in our darkest times.

If only life could be one of these fairy tales.

If only they could come to life

And bring joy and excitement to our daily routine, With it not being fake. A dream.

A hopeless wish.

If only they Weren’t just in our heads, Reality wouldn’t be So lonely, so bleak.

If only they weren't just Tattooed shavings of dead trees, But flesh and blood. But at least in our heads, Just for a couple of minutes, A couple of hours, they are real to us… If only…

Changeling

By Nemesis Jarry

There’s a fire crackling under my skin, when I smile at the mirror. It rips away my old bones, like the shedding skin of a great snake And when I wake up, aching and hungry

I’ll reach and eat anything that I can take.

And then I stretch, and my wings unfold, Dierent from yesterday, for I am a creature of the Unknown. You’ve never seen something quite like this before.

I'm the fog taking over the marsh on dark, rainy days.

I'm the magpie stealing your trinkets and running wild.

I'm a disheveled coureur des bois, I’m an ivy-covered statue, I’m the prettiest girl at the party

but life is the only party I’m attending!

Can I have your name?

And you, you poor fool, You give it to me.

It pours down from your lips and I savour its flavour and swallow it whole.

By Sarah Foster

All of your sculptured perceptions of perfection crumbling before your very kingdom. Built on rations and merciless winters. You wander around the promenade of deserted streets and unheard apologies. Searching for the loyal ones remaining. Seems even the greediest bourgeois refused to take what little you have left to oer. Your surroundings lack the vibrance of years past.

Every corner is more devoid of colour than the last. The underground rumblings previously unacknowledged.

Growing louder until the cobblestones burst beneath your calculated footsteps. Your loafers strewn on the surface as you flee the eruption, unclasping your mantle to shield the downpour.

As the endless rainstorm approaches its finale, The weight of your soaked frivolity is too much to trudge. Though unwilling, you've found the hope to rise yet again, walking through the darkest alleyway of your once prosperous land. You shed yet another piece of your idealized identity.

Lifeless trees.

Desolate crops.

Burned out lights and broken glass.

All of this, unrecognizable territory in your name.

All of this deafening silence that you rule. The significance of time never meant as little as it does in this moment.

When it feels as though every sense has lost itself on you.

A freezing substance dances its way over your toes.

Admitting defeat, you glance down at the riverbed.

You kneel before the only lively entity left, and ponder your reflection.

Darkened eyes and a clouded backdrop

What a scene!

The towering piece de resistance lay upon your emaciated countenance.

Frozen fingertips grasp your meaningless power and crown the waters. Having now regressed to what you've always truly been.

You observe what mysteries await ahead, looking back just once before letting go.

You wonder.

"What am I, but the monarch of no man's land? And when did the line between kingdom and dystopia begin to blur

An Analysis of Justice in Sophocles’ Antigone and Euripides’ Medea

By Noémie Brisson

The ancient Greek playwrights Euripides and Sophocles’ tragedies critique and explore the societal issues of their time. In Euripides’ Medea (431 BC), the eponymous character seeks revenge on her husband after he betrays her and leaves her and their children for another woman. In this portrait, Medea is painted as a skillful and powerful woman who rebels against society’s expectations of her. Sophocles builds his plays around real-world issues in ways similar to Euripides: in his Antigone (441 BC), the main character also rebels against sexism and societal expectations by refusing to adhere to King Creon’s orders not to bury her deceased brother. Although both Antigone and Medea rebel against the men who think them powerless, they are not similar. Through a close reading of Antigone and Medea’s methods of seeking fairness, and of their inner struggles, I will argue that Antigone and Medea have dierent ideals of justice. While Medea irrationally seeks to violently punish the ones who have caused harm, Antigone reasonably wishes to undo the bad that has been done.

Antigone and Medea are perceived dierently by the audience and the chorus of their respective plays due to their dierent motives and methods. The chorus of Medea can be considered as representative of the audience. At first, the chorus of Corinthian women approves of Medea’s thirst for revenge; they, too, have suered from the patriarchy, and envy her because she has the courage to rebel against it. They relate to her, as they say “I have often engaged in arguments, / And become more subtle, and perhaps more heated, / Than is suitable for women” (1082-1085). The male audience members are also forced to sympathize with her. Medea’s presence on the stage is so strong, and the unfairness of her situation is so vividly portrayed that it would be hard not to. When Jason tells his story and justifies his actions to Medea, the chorus cuts in and says “Jason, you have set your case forth very plausibly. / But to my mind—though you may be surprised at this— / You are acting wrongly in thus abandoning your wife” (Euripides 576-578). The chorus clearly

favors Medea. However, the chorus does not agree with everything Medea says; when she shares her plans of killing her children and Jason’s bride to cause him the most emotional harm, the chorus clearly opposes her by saying “Since you have told us everything, and since I want / To be your friend, and also to uphold the laws / Of human life—I tell you, you must not do this!” (Euripides 808-810) They say that they want to be her friend, which implies that the chorus does not see her intentions as completely bad; that she wishes to take revenge is good, but her methods are problematic.

In Antigone, it is King Creon’s son Haemon also known as Antigone’s cousin and fiancée who gives the audience insight on what the people of Thebes think of Antigone and her crime. He confronts his father, angry that he would condemn the one he is set to marry to death, and attempts to make him see reason. He tells him of the people’s opinion because he knows no one will dare speak against the King in his presence; he says, “[...] I have heard them / Muttering and whispering in the dark about this girl. / They say no woman has ever, so unreasonably, / Died so shameful a death for a generous act” (Sophocles 552-555). The people of Thebes do not agree with the King’s ruling, and in fact seem to admire Antigone’s bravery. It seems that in Antigone, the only people who disagree with her actions are King Creon and his chorus of old men, who are too terrified to oppose him. Antigone’s ideals of justice align with that of most Theban people; she wishes to bury her brother not only because she loved him, but also because it is primordial to the gods that every corpse be buried and mourned. While the Theban people agree with Antigone because they, too, fear the gods’ wrath, and share the same customs and beliefs, the Corinthian women disagree with Medea because they believe she is taking her revenge too far, and that her ideals of justice are too extreme.

While Antigone is in control of her situation and easily accomplishes what she desires, Medea struggles against others’ expectations of her, and against herself. At the beginning of both Antigone and Medea, the main characters are in control of their own stories. Antigone seems confident that everything is going the way she wants it to, even after she has been caught; in fact, she is the one who first suggests

that King Creon kill her when she says “I knew I must die, even without your decree” (Sophocles 364). She goes as far as telling him outright, only a few lines later, “Then I beg you: kill me” (394). It is likely that Antigone is looking for a way to bring honor back to her family, whose history preceding the play is one of the most horrifying in the history of Greek myths and plays. Perhaps by dying for committing such a generous crime, she would be dying an honorable death, and restore her family’s reputation. This is confirmed when Ismene, Antigone’s sister, announces that she wishes to be killed alongside Antigone; Antigone responds “You shall not lessen my death by sharing it” (439). Since Ismene refuses to help Antigone bury Polyneices, Antigone believes that Ismene will make her death less honorable and lessen the eect Antigone wishes to accomplish if she lets her die alongside her. Antigone’s ideals of justice reflect her desire to die honorably, which could be considered rather conservative within the context of Greek tragedy. On the other hand, Medea’s intent to gain back honor for women is progressive for the time.

However, while Antigone remains in control of her story throughout the whole play, Medea discovers she does not have as much control over her own situation as she previously thought. During her famous monologue, the illusion of control crumbles. Medea’s plan has worked: Jason’s new bride has died, and now all that is left is for her to kill her children. When the time comes, however, she hesitates. She says “Why should I hurt them, to make / Their father suer, when I shall suer twice as much / Myself?” (Euripides 1046-1048). In this passage, Medea realizes that the act of murdering her children will hurt her, too—not just Jason. She almost realizes that she is being irrational, and that her methods of seeking revenge are unnecessarily violent. However, she quickly dismisses the thought and says “Are my enemies / To laugh at me? Am I to let them o scot free? / I must steel myself to it” (Euripides 1049-1051). Throughout her monologue, Medea is debating which is most important: her children’s well being, or revenge. That she would think murdering her own children would bring more fairness to her situation than to stop her revenge at this point in the play is very telling about her state of mind. Medea is irrational, and her ideals of justice are completely skewed. In comparison, Antigone is confident,

knows that she is doing what most people perceive to be the right thing, and that she will gain the honor she desires.

By analyzing other characters’ reactions to Antigone and Medea’s methods of attaining fairness, we can see that while Antigone seems more reasonable and is seen as heroic, Medea’s sense of justice is tainted by her rage, and she refuses to hear reason. Therefore, beyond being rebellious women, they are not similar, because what they stand for is dierent. Antigone uses justice as a way of gaining honor back for herself and her family, while Medea uses justice as a way to avenge all women, regardless of the women’s disapproval.

Prying Thoughts

By Cole Emerick

The other night I lied awake.

Worked by prying thoughts.

Thoughts that knead your shoulder blades, up toward your ears.

Beliefs that clamp and wring your eyes.

They/beliefs? tamp the sated knots.

The thoughts that, if you disregard, mold new flaws for years

Miss. Gender

By Wesley Pastuszko

Excuse me, Miss, IOh, I’m so sorry!

I’m so very sorry!

It’s not what I meant to say! I swear.

I didn’t meanto call youOh, geez! I’m such a Horrible, pitiful, disgusting bug, A burden to humanity, The person you have every right to Kill right now, For insulting you so.

I’m begging for your forgiveness

To comfort me

And make me feel Like I didn’t commit a hate crime!

Of course, we both know I didn’t, but I’m going to keep apologising

In every way I can possibly think of Until I make you wish I had Actually committed one; Just so I’d stop floundering and Making this process even longer than it ever had to be.

I desperately need you to Keep assuring me

And telling me:

“It’s okay,”

“It’s fine,”

“No worries,”

“I promise you it’s nobigdeal.”

I need you to push aside your Discomfort

And console me

For not knowing how to talk to you,

How to approach you, To speak to you, Because I’m afraid!

You’re an alien and I’m afraid you’ll Be angry at me Just for messing up my words. I mean, They’re just words And, like you told me, It’s fine! Not that big of a deal! So stop being so sensitive about it.

Your presence makes me uncomfortable And in order for me to get over this Harrowing experience, it is Necessary that you shrink, Becoming the bug I keep calling myself for Sympathy and pity points. It was just a mistake, and I’m Really, reallysorry this time. I promise, Next time I do this, I’ll be sure to drag on my “Sincerest apologies” for another ten minutes.

You’re a freak and I don’t want you To know that I think that. I don’t want you To know that I only call you “He” because it’ll ruin the Image I have of myself: The perfect human being, The ally, the trans rights Activist.

You know I would never Intentionally missOh, I’m so terribly sorry, Mister-gender you!

Cocoon of the Heart

By Jerry Huang

Up in the sky, among bright stars

I ask you, what do you think of those below the cloud’s scars?

You tell me, they live on the brink:

“To live amongst disaster and plague would bring inevitable conflict. I would rather they be unmade for a better world to depict.”

Your doubts and sacrilegious thoughts made me wary of what you would do. But it was no surprise when I heard you fought against them for another bloody crusade too.

It was but a matter of time when you fell below the clouds, below the scar.

As for your fate, I couldn’t tell, but I watched it play out from afar.

Goodbye, myfriend.

When I found your cocoon, it was too late. Plague and misery struck your heart, Your metamorphosis, was it fate?

I ponder as I stroke my harp.

I gently whisper into your soul, Do you remember? When you’ve fallen, lost sight of who you were and lost control?

Oh, what a pity to see how you acted back then.

But even more of a pity to see you now.

Your twitching self, your bloody body, your sobbing half, your broken hand. You rose from your cocoon to face me.

Reaching out, for justice, for it to end.

With a smile, I laid you to rest. You have done your best.

Now you can sleep, and let me weep.

Farewell, myfriend.

Born of A Cry

By Adrian Cerone

To coddle and bathe it; to love as to hate it

To see yourself at its birthday; to capture it in pictures, each year a new candle lit

To kiss it, to cradle, to heal if you’re able

To feed it to change it to burp it and to never wonder if it’s worth it

To tuck it, in

To the blanket you knit In that home you built

To plant it to pot it (and then to repot it)

To grow it, just to throw it, because your cat can probably die from it, and you didn’t wanna Google it

To prune and to move, up the wall and through it

To house it to name it

To cut it, then satay it, reheat it because you waited around for it, to finally plate it

To savor, and chew it, cut right through it

To greet it not to chase it

Like an old friend, you’ve missed it

See and embrace it, handshake it and ice-break it

Wine it and dine it and not dozen dime it

To fight it to face it; in front of thousands

Disgrace it

Own it, then control it poke at and prod it

To stab at and slash

Bite at its neck, to fall flat and to crash

Down it, pounce on it, present and then I will mount it

To kill time, to save it; then one day I ate it

Birthday Cake

By Naomi Labbé-Baddeley

My dear friend René walks up to me holding the traditional delicacy while singing the ceremonious song. Her body is restricted by my powder blue dress. Her slimy brown hair was entangled in the zipper, waiting to be ripped out. Her confection is sloppy, a white blob ready to be toppled.

I can see her hand twitching inside her red gloves. Under the smell of hot sugar, is a hint of fresh spring. Her slender arms place the cake in front of me and under the thick layers of cream I can see sprinkles of pink raspberries. A handful of vomit climbs up my throat as I absorb a whi of smoke coming from my father’s cigarette.

“Happy Birthday cupcake” my father says in between his long expirations. As his hand leaves his mouth, a string of saliva stretches gracefully.

“Go ahead, blow your candles darling” my mother adds as she points her Nikon camera at my face. Her left index placed a breath away from the shutter button.

If I do so I will die. Rene will take my place, my room and sweat in my polka dot sheets. The cake’s sweet icing droops onto the wooden table. The very one my dad made from my childhood safe haven. Iknow her alltoo well. After I blow out those candles, she will make me cut a piece and I will have to eat it. The tender berries will slowly descend my gastrointestinal tract and party with my digestive juice. When my

body least expects it, they will attack my blood pressure and squeeze my airways. Only after swallowing, will I taste the forbidden fruit. Then, it will be too late. Her crooked smile paralyses my entire body. Her chapped lips mouth a message of encouragement. Her stolen heals click forward and she places a hand on my shoulder. “C’mon Ju, your candles are melting” my dear friend says.

My mother clasped her camera's lens and slowly turned it to the left, leaving me cornered. “Smile” she asks insistently.

My cheeks contract to the best of my abilities but all I can see in the reflection of her non-symmetrical glasses is a plastered look of terror. My coarse hair is spiraling, attempting to escape imminent death.

The cake’s lifeless shape deflates and the candles are now seats for my last wishes. Maybe ifIletthe candles disintegrate into the mushycake, theywon’tmakemeeat it. My nails grip the table’s border, and my left pinky plunges into a puddle of honey leftover from my mother’s breakfast.

“Blow the damn candles!” my father says, choking on his own breath.

The icing is now splattered far from its original body, and I can see seeds sitting still complicit.

Imustfindanexcuse.

I can feel her manicured nails pressing into my trapezius muscle. If I refuse, she will probably just take the cutlery and end me right here. I look back and I catch her glaring down at the row of forks placed in order of heights. The smallestisprobably thesharpest.

The only source of light comes from the 20 cramped candles. They’re glow was quickly lessening, and I could see my own shadow towering over the cake. WhatIamthinking.

Rene’s hand softens and I finally swallow a gulp of saliva. I look up to my mother’s camera, fill up my lungs to the rim, and slowly bring the room into complete darkness.

April, Come She Will

By Ryan Schwartz

April came, and it was the first. We all thought we would be saved by April. By 10 degrees and the will to live to see another flower bloom without the knowledge that another snowfall might still come. April was everything and April could be nothing if we chose. We didn’t know how to not be hopeful. Our buds burst and broke through the final intolerable layer of muddened soil to find the rejuvenation we had so desperately been looking for. For years it seemed, if only a year could be mere months. We were happy and stupid and in love with ourselves and had no idea what we were going to do tomorrow, if it rained, or if winter tried to come back, and stay this time. By the time summer came it would be humid and we’d come home smelling like rain. The damp trees would perfume the outside air like our childhood coee tables, if you were willing to get close enough. Spring would come and save us all. It was April and everyone was ready. We’d wake up one morning and it would be May before it was June and we would silently mourn every day we had ever spent hoping for spring. Now it was here and summer was around the corner and life had never been anything other than what it was in this moment, when spring came.

Rise

By Marisa Bernardo

How can it end ever not this way when all I wanted was to change? But now death and destruction lay at her feet with all my rage.

Everything that she was striving for burned away faster than the driest leaves in the flames I could not ignore. All that came from her expecting ease.

And the end of all her eorts are the blackened remains of all I was. Trying to be as the experts that never showcased any flaws.

Watchme burn out. I have fire in my veins, and sheis who burns me down.

She, who will never let me advance.

I, who will always hold me back

Someday I will watch her fall. And you will watch me rise.

If I am taken into school

Will they pull my hair? Or ask me to play?

And if I dress a certain way

Will you stare And make me stay?

If I am taken out of school

What shall I do with my day?

Shall I read Or shall I play?

Viewer Discretion Is Advised

I was born a villain

The gashes in my skin

Let it out Oozing black air

Crack

The same substance seeps

From your Throat

Crack

When your face

Meets mine

Crack I breathe it in

Who did it come from; I wonder.

Crack.

Will You?

By Tasha Clarke

La brume noir revient Avec sa sœur rouge

She is Cold

Crack

She oozes down my Face Drips

Onto my lips

Into my mouth

Viewer Discretion Is Advised

Was it wrong That I found it fun

When I hit you in the head With a bottle of rum?

La brume noir revient Avec sa sœur rouge

She is warm Crash

If I am taken into the woods

Will I run?

Will I hide?

Will you?

Too good for this world Or

A dangerous girl?

An eternal debate

Infernal

The black mist returns With its red sister

She stains.