Grub street 2010 by Huron University College

2010

Grubstreet

GRUBSTREET 2010 A GET LIT. SOCIETY PUBLICATION HURON UNIVERSITY COLLEGE

EDITORS MICHAEL SPARROW ANDREW PEL SAMANTHA POLLAK

GRUBSTREET 2010

PUBLICATION BY THE GET LIT. SOCIETY A HURON UNIVERSITY COLLEGE CREATIVE WRITING JOURNAL |

EDITORS

COVER PHOTOGRAPHER

MICHAEL SPARROW

DAVID RUDNER

APRIL 2010

ANDREW PEL SAMANTHA POLLAK

GRUBSTREET ACCEPTS FICTION, POETRY, CREATIVE NON-FICTION, DRAMA, ETC., BY CURRENT AND RECENTLY GRADUATED UNIVERSITY OF WESTERN ONTARIO AND AFFILIATE COLLEGE STUDENTS. PLEASE SEND INQUIRIES TO GET LIT. SOCIETY AT HURON UNIVERSITY COLLEGE <GETLITSOCIETY@GMAIL.COM>. PLEASE SEND SUBMISSIONS BY EMAIL AS A WORD "DOC." PUBLICATION OF THIS ISSUE HAS BEEN MADE POSSIBLE THANKS TO CONTRIBUTIONS FROM HURON UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, PRINCIPAL RAMONA LUMPKIN, DR. CORINNE DAVIES, DR. NEIL BROOKS, THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT AT HURON, AND THE HUCSC. COPYRIGHTS REMAIN WITH THE AUTHOR OR ARTIST WHO GRANTS GRUBSTREET PERMISSION TO PUBLISH HIS/HER WORK. GRUBSTREET RESERVES THE RIGHT TO REJECT A PIECE OF WRITING IF DEEMED NECESSARY. NO PART OF THIS JOURNAL MAY BE REPRODUCED WITHOUT EXPLICIT CONSENT OF THE AUTHOR(S) AND EDITORS. ANY OPINIONS OR VIEWS EXPRESSED IN GRUBSTREET ARE SOLELY THOSE OF THE AUTHORS AND DO NOT NECESSARILY REFLECT THE VIEWS OF OR OPINIONS OF HURON UNIVERSITY COLLEGE OR THE EDITORS.

TYPESETTING AND LAYOUT BY GRUBSTREET

GRUBSTREET 2010

Table of Contents Letter From the Editors ......................................................................................................................................................... 6 Raven Aravandino .................................................................................................................................................................. 7 What Do I Say Now? ........................................................................................................................................................... 7 Alex Assaly .............................................................................................................................................................................. 8 Don't Eat a Rabbit - Be a Rabbit ........................................................................................................................................ 9 Excerpt from The Apostle ............................................................................................................................................... 10 Patrick Barfoot ...................................................................................................................................................................... 12 DEUS EX MACHINA ........................................................................................................................................................... 12 Play Excerpt ....................................................................................................................................................................... 13 A Convoluted Letter from the Prince of Darkness Referring to Mr. Melville's Most Flagrant Paragraph ...................14 Haiti ........................................................................................................................................................................................ 15 Operation Haitian Liberation ............................................................................................................................................ 15 Pou Ayiti & Transliteration by G. .................................................................................................................................... 16 Laura McClelland .................................................................................................................................................................. 19 Written About a Girl I Know ............................................................................................................................................ 19 Faith .................................................................................................................................................................................. 20 Cleaver .................................................................................................................................................................................. 22 Winter's Edge ................................................................................................................................................................... 22 Margaret Coons ................................................................................................................................................................... 23 Smiling Like a Cheshire .................................................................................................................................................... 23 Angela Easby ........................................................................................................................................................................ 23 Wake Up Call .................................................................................................................................................................... 24 Wednesday Morning Fog ................................................................................................................................................ 25 Tarek El-Chabib..................................................................................................................................................................... 26 Duality ............................................................................................................................................................................... 26 G. ........................................................................................................................................................................................... 28 To Change the World ....................................................................................................................................................... 28 Sharon Lam .......................................................................................................................................................................... 29 Chinese Chess ................................................................................................................................................................... 29 Crosswalk ......................................................................................................................................................................... 30 Playtime ............................................................................................................................................................................. 31 Jonathan Lees ...................................................................................................................................................................... 32 Beauty's End ..................................................................................................................................................................... 32 David Maisel ......................................................................................................................................................................... 35 Running Man's Dream ..................................................................................................................................................... 35 What is She? ..................................................................................................................................................................... 36 Jennifer Lauren Munoz........................................................................................................................................................ 37

GRUBSTREET 2010

Table of Contents The Meeting ..................................................................................................................................................................... 37 The Ribbon Dancer .......................................................................................................................................................... 39 Andrew Pel ........................................................................................................................................................................... 40 Elephant............................................................................................................................................................................ 40 Private I..............................................................................................................................................................................41 Index of Sources .............................................................................................................................................................. 42 If Only I Could Date the Starbucks Mermaid .................................................................................................................. 43 Sam Pollak ............................................................................................................................................................................ 44 I'm Raspberry ................................................................................................................................................................... 44 I'm Sorry from Sudan ....................................................................................................................................................... 45 Just One More Day........................................................................................................................................................... 46 Kimberly K Rodda ................................................................................................................................................................ 48 Call Me 250 461 733 .......................................................................................................................................................... 48 He Pretends to Be an Artist ............................................................................................................................................. 49 Thoughts as Butterflies.................................................................................................................................................... 50 A View From My Window ................................................................................................................................................. 51 David Rudner ........................................................................................................................................................................ 52 Golden Gate Bridge .......................................................................................................................................................... 52 River in Amsterdam ......................................................................................................................................................... 53 Reflections........................................................................................................................................................................ 54 Adam Shwartz ...................................................................................................................................................................... 55 Thoughts About Whatever .............................................................................................................................................. 55 Door Man.......................................................................................................................................................................... 56 Jennifer Rose Smuck............................................................................................................................................................ 57 Taken from the Dunes of Juno Beach............................................................................................................................. 57 Jordan Alexander Stanton................................................................................................................................................... 58 That Job...Is Up To You .................................................................................................................................................... 58 Mountaintop Oasis .......................................................................................................................................................... 59 The Bench ......................................................................................................................................................................... 60 The Goose ......................................................................................................................................................................... 61 Rebecca Ostrowski .............................................................................................................................................................. 62 San Francisco, CA ............................................................................................................................................................. 62 SoHo, New York ............................................................................................................................................................... 63 Central Park, New York .................................................................................................................................................... 64 Tom Walters ......................................................................................................................................................................... 65 Mackerel Sky .................................................................................................................................................................... 65 Morning Glory .................................................................................................................................................................. 67

GRUBSTREET 2010

Letter from the Editors Letter From the Editors

Dear Readers, Sometime in January we were asked tackle the publication of this fine journal; cold calling to be sure, but the chance to share our passion for all things creative became a sort of guiding star, drawing us on throughout the winter months. And so we scribbled in Molskines and tapped away at keyboards, called for photography, artwork, and student submissions, spoke at length in poetry pubs. We tasted spring (or perhaps Rickard’s White), and dreamt longingly of warmer weather and freshly-printed copies. Now we have both; so thank you, Huron. While our expectations weren’t extraordinary at the outset, the talent we encountered throughout the community speaks volumes not only to the caliber of student we have amongst us, but the passionate professors who guide us all along the way. We realized then that this book is more than just an “arts journal.” Grubstreet is a Huron publication. It must be relevant to and represent all of us, and not only students of the Humanities. So beware Business, Global Studies, Economics majors, and the rest of you too – we want to hear your voice. So for those who ask us the “point” of our degree; you’re holding it in your hand. Special thanks are due to several of our terrific faculty members. To Dr. Brooks and Dr. Davies: our warmest thanks for your wisdom, commitment, and guidance throughout. Protect ya neck! - The Editors

Favourite Quotations You must read, you must preserve, you must sit up nights, you must inquire, and exert the utmost power of your mind. If one way does not lead to the desired meaning, take another; if obstacles arise, then still another; until, if your strength holds out, you will find that clear which at first looked dark. Giovanni Boccaccio

He who seeks rest finds boredom. He who seeks work finds rest. Dylan Thomas And Alexander wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer Hans Gruber, Die Hard

GRUBSTREET 2010

Raven Aravandino What Do I Say Now? Raven Aravandino

When did it all change? I could never really remember when it did. Never could put my finger on that exact moment. One day we were happy, talking; invincible. The world couldn't touch us; not us. We were exempt from all the rules of reality, after all, we had our own. Then it happened. Arguments about everything. The little things, the big things... things that didn’t really matter, the never-ending fights. Where had the magic gone? What had we done wrong? All we ever wanted, all I ever wanted, was us, together forever. I don’t remember how it ended, if it ever really ended. I remember the look on his face, the sadness, the hopelessness. He was defeated. I searched, searched so hard for what used to be there. I couldn’t find it. “I can’t do it anymore,” he whispered, “I don’t know what I can do.” Tears, unwanted tears, slid down my face. I shook my head. This can’t be happening. Not to us. Not to what we have. That’s all I remember… I see him in the halls, in my dreams, in my fondest memories. I can’t escape him. He haunts me in my every moment. I try to erase the memory of him, yet it lingers still. I pass him by. He smiles. I turn away. It’s still too soon… Who knew standing at the bus stop could be so lonely? Never seemed that way before. Too many things taken for granted. He walks up beside me. I don’t say anything. Silence, awkward silence. Never understood what that was until now. I heard him sigh. “You going to avoid me forever?” he asked without turning to face me, still staring out into the road watching the cars pass us by. “What else can I do?” I replied “Talk.” I shook my head, “Too hard.” “Listen?” Shrugging I replied “Just as hard.” “It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.” “No it wasn’t.” “Don’t push me away.” I looked away, “I can’t be near you.” Silence. That was all there was between us. The wind howled, there was  a chill in the air. Winter was coming, the plants were beginning to die, the trees becoming bare, but in my life, it seemed like so much was dying. Finally, he turned slightly and looked at me. “I want to be friends.” “That’s asking too much.” I replied quickly before my heart blurted out what it really wanted to say. Yes “Where did we go wrong?” I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t move, and I didn’t look at him. I knew I had to be strong, I couldn’t show any weakness. “I don’t know. I guess we wanted too much.” “We still want too much.” I cracked a small smile. “It happens.” “I don’t want to let you go.” “Neither do I.” I agreed, though I was beginning to question myself if that was admitting too much. “Then why is this happening?” My eyebrows narrowed and finally, I turned to face him. “You’re the one with that answer. You ended it.” I said sourly. I could hear the emotion starting to rise in my voice. “We weren’t happy.” He argued back. “I thought if we were apart something would happen. It would fix itself and become what it was before.” It turned away from him and crossed my arms over my chest. “Things don’t work that way.” “I know.” I was beginning to get frustrated. I glanced at him from the side. “If you know, then why did you do it?” I questioned, though I knew the answer deep down. “I gave up.”

GRUBSTREET 2010

Raven Aravandino Looking away, I spoke a lie. “And I’ve given up.” “Where does that leave us?” “Here.” “What now?” I didn’t pause, I already prepared myself for this, “We let each other go.” “Is that what you want?” “Yes and no.” I admitted. I wanted to let go, I wanted the pain to stop, I was tired. It had been too long. Yet... deep down, I knew that I still loved him. “What does that mean?” I took a deep breath, I was beginning to lose my brave face, I was beginning to admit the truth to him. “I want us back, but we can’t have that. Can’t be your friend, that’s torture; I can’t get better that way. So, I let you go. I need to find a me... without you.” I explained. “What if I can’t do that?” “Then you never cared.” I lied. It was coming back, my cold emotionless voice. The mask. “That’s not true!” “Then let me go.” I replied simply “It’s not easy.” “Think I don’t know that!” my voice cracked. “You broke my heart!” I shot him an angry look “Think it wasn’t hard for me to do what I had to do?” “Of course I know it was hard!” I argued “We can’t live like this. I can’t live like this.” I turned away. It was hard enough to look at him, his sad face, his sorry face. He knew what he did to me. He knew he hurt me more than anyone could have. There was a pause before he continued “This is it?” “I guess it is.” “Will it be forever?” “That depends.” I said coldly “On what?” I shrugged. “Don’t know yet.” I glanced back at him. I saw the pain, the regret on his face. I felt the same. He looked down and tucked his hands in his pockets. He smiled sadly. I began to feel tears coming. I held them back. I couldn’t cry... but it was too late. I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I closed my eyes until I felt a hand linger on my cheek as he wiped it away. He didn’t move his hand for a moment. His smile now bittersweet. “What do I say now?” he asked sadly “You say goodbye.” I replied trying to blink the tears back. “Just goodbye?” I closed my eyes and looked down. “Just goodbye.” I repeated “Sounds easy.” “Yeah.” I lied. “But doing it isn’t” “No one said it would.” I glanced up to see his face. He looked into my eyes searching just as I had that day. He took a deep breath and sighed removing his hand from my cheek. He tried to develop the courage neither of us had. Say the words, I thought to myself, please say the words. “Goodbye.” “Goodbye.” I watched him walk away. He turned around and waved goodbye one last time. He stood there for a moment. Seemed like forever before he turned around again. I didn’t see him anymore. He’s gone. Still alive in me, my memories, my heart, yet gone forever. I didn’t feel too scared, I didn’t feel so alone. It was time, time to move on. Alex Assaly

GRUBSTREET 2010

Alex Assaly Don't Eat a Rabbit - Be a Rabbit Dear Vegetarian Girls, I don’t mind when you preach meat While wearing leather boots and A handbag to go Because – well - you know I love you Vegetarian Girls And hate the butcher all you want Because the fisherman is fine “I’m vegetarian: Celery sticks and anything caught at the end of a fishing line. We all know cows have feelings and salmon don’t moo Not only that, but pesce tarianism is a big word to chew” So I’ll let you off just this one time Because I like all of you The wonderful Vegetarian Girls Tofu burgers – that’s cool with me But may I quote Shakespeare? It’s just to compare thee to a lesbian who uses a dildo Or maybe a ‘Fuck The Capitalists’ smoking cigarettes and having McDonalds for breakfast But come over anyway I’ll throw a few on the barbeque Because there’s nothing wrong with loving Vegetarian Girls And when they ask me down to Richmond row I always meet them at Veg Out I don’t mind at all – I kind of like the taste down there I’ll even pay the bill No problems at all While carnivores bash the beauties For caring for too much about their cats and dogs I sympathize with all the girls and love them all the same Because in the end you always know Respecting your meat is their claim to fame

GRUBSTREET 2010

Alex Assaly Excerpt from The Apostle I “Mr. Thomas?” The knock that proceeded caused trembling hands to fumble for its necessitous hardwood cane. With feeble strength, the man who once sat comfortably in his grey armchair laboriously rose to his feet, his knees cracking as he straightened himself upright. He slid his slippered feet across the carpeted floor; the wrinkled knuckles on his right hand turning white as he gripped his cane. The left arm he positioned in front of him, searching for the door afar. He let the grain of the wooden door dig into the palm of his left hand before clasping the cold doorknob. With a cough he cleared his throat. The rusted hinges let out a loud screech as the door opened. “Mr. Thomas. Um, hello. You think we could sit down a moment?” “Who?” “Um, us. Sorry. I am Father Elsegood from St. Katherine’s church on Westmount…and this is one of the altar boys, William Anderson.” Father Elsegood took the old man by the arm and helped him back into the comfort of his grey armchair. The old man restlessly searched for an agreeable position, found one, then gently rested his head on the back of the chair. He pressed his hand against his aging face and rubbed the skin of his left cheek. Father Elsegood leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows against his thighs. He tensed his face at the sight of the old man’s idiosyncrasy. “Are the beggars out yet? On the streets that is.” Mr. Thomas tugged at the furrowed fabric of the cushion under him. His shoulders jumped as he chuckled, “I know spring has arrived when the beggars are out.” Unsure of how to answer, Father Elsegood hesitantly responded, “yes, they’ve been out for some time now. Even during the winter I saw a few. The hostels seem to be increasingly, um…to be filling up more each year.” The priest used his black cassock to wipe off the sweat that had accumulated on his hands. Mr. Thomas sat quietly, unaware of Father Elsegood’s discomfort. “Your brother told me to visit you, I believe he thinks you are sick.” Before the man who sat beside him could answer, Father Elsegood continued, “He says you concern yourself with mundane worries; that you have lost all sense of certainty.” Mr. Thomas smiled and shook his head. “Sick? No…no, I would have called him if I were sick. Don’t you think that is only proper?” Father Elsegood nodded, filling the room with still silence. The morning air was all that broke the tranquility, whistling as it passed through the half-open window. Through wide eyes, William looked uncomfortably around the room. The living room was small: a leather couch, the old man’s armchair, and a crooked bookshelf. On the offwhite walls hung paintings of abstract landscapes and cubed-apples. William, leaning over the armrest of the couch, drew a cross in the dust that had accumulated on the cream-colored lampshade. He felt the priest’s eyes looking at the back of his head, paused, then sat back in place. “And the mundane. Have you forgotten how to question…Father?” He rubbed his left knuckles with the palm of the opposite hand, “it’s my job to question the world Mr. Thomas. And to find those answers according to God.” His rubbing quickened, “Certainty in all Gods answers.” The silence that followed was quickly cut short. “And the church? How is the church Father?” “Not the same without you,” he smiled. “I haven’t seen you since your father passed. Have you changed locations perhaps?” “No. It’s just difficult for me to leave my apartment, hard for me even to answer the door. Not only that, but my father always-” “Mr. Thomas,” the man in the black cassock had taken out his pocket watch and studied each hand’s position intently. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your morning. The church misses you. God bless Mr. Thomas.” The old man nodded his head, waving his hand as the two thanked him for his hospitality. After the door had closed and the sound of footsteps had ceased, Mr. Thomas fidgeted in his armchair before finding another comfortable position. He rested his head against the back of the chair, as he normally did, and intentionally started taking deeper breathes. The wind had stopped whistling. With his nose towards the ceiling, he tried hard to listen;

GRUBSTREET 2010

Alex Assaly to hear any sound possible. From the room above coins clanged against the wooden floor, the sound of dragging feet soon after. Silence. II The rattling of the door’s lock forced Mr. Thomas to fix his posture. Immediately, the door swung open revealing a young woman dressed in white. Her hair curled down the sides of her face and stopped above her bosom. Her bright red lipstick matched the leather purse that hung from her shoulder. She seemed content. “Would you like some soup Mr. Thomas? You look cold.” Without lifting his head he accepted her offer with a quick sigh. Lunch always began with the same question, “Mr. Thomas! Wine or water?” And every day she received the same reply: neither. She walked back into the living room carrying a cup of soup. She placed it on the couch side table then clasped his cold hands, preparing them to hold the warm cup. The old man was calmed by the touch of her hands despite them quickly being retracted. She sat down on the couch beside him. “How do you feel today Mr. Thomas?” He raised the cup towards his face, smelt it, and brought it back down. “Demi,” he paused and blew on his soup to cool it down, “does someone live above me? I think someone might live above me.” The nurse went from sitting rigidly to leaning her chest over both legs, head in hands. “There is no one living above you Mr. Thomas. I told you the same last week, rememb-” “But don’t you think it's possible that someone lives above me?” Demi rose from the couch and walked into the kitchen. She soon returned holding a cleaning cloth and began wiping the dust off the crooked bookcase: the windowsill as well. “It’s impossible! No one lives in the apartment above you, the last man who lived there left years before you even arrived.” She removed the dust from the lampshade, straightened the paintings, and then sat back down. Her face tense, Demi watched as the old man took tiny sips of soup from his cup. She watched as he sat in silence, perhaps contemplating the existence of a neighbor. Mr. Thomas finished his soup then handed the cup to the woman who sat beside him. Before walking to the kitchen, she chose a book from the crocked bookshelf and handed it to Mr. Thomas. She paused before the swinging door and watched as he quickly dragged his index finger across the page, carefully reading into each word. She disappeared behind the door.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Patrick Barfoot Patrick Barfoot

DEUS EX MACHINA And there he stood, to cut,   To release the life, the blood,   As crimson as a stone   In the altar burning. And then, from above,  The wings; ethereal, light and feather.   The wings, the wings   That sew the clothe of heaven  While seamstress sleep. Pray, sounds the Angel,  Do not raise arms to crash   Upon flesh and bone.  If he that has stolen the stars   At dawn has not whispered this,   Then by me it shall be trumpeted. And so the fall of hands,   And with stolen respire   The blade drops   And under sandal breaks. For the Brethren,   Whose soul to foul,  Whose flesh to rip,  Or blood to thirst,   Is not of Sarah’s genitivity,  But of another nativity   To which shall tear the cinders   To smoke and steam and cloud,  As if an altar was an aged cloth-curtain.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Patrick Barfoot Play Excerpt Narcissus—made famous by the never tiring imagination of Freud—was a lad in Greek myth who gazed a little too long at his reflection in the water. He, as the myth has it, fell in love with himself, but whenever he grew thirsty and drew his hand to the water, his reflection—his love—him self – would fade. So, he died of thirst. I know what your think; this seems opposite to the problem at hand-- oddly inverse. But that is sometimes how the universe works, isn’t it? I think it was during first year when I had a group of friends in my room. One of the girls would continually snap shots of herself. She’d pose in different ways and then look at the image and pose again, until another one of my friends quipped, “someone likes themselves.” I thought differently though and said," Sometimes people stare at themselves too much, not because they like what they see, but because they don’t." Makes you think doesn’t it? Maybe Narcissus didn’t fall in love with himself, but rather, upon looking, was so unsatisfied that he stared, waiting, hoping that the light and angle would become perfect, so that he would finally fall in love with who he was.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Patrick Barfoot A Convoluted Letter from the Prince of Darkness Referring to Mr. Melville's Most Flagrant Paragraph Look not too long in the face of the fire, O man! Never dream with thy hand on the helm! Turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its redness makes all things look ghastly. Tomorrow, in the natural sun, the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp--all others but liars! Herman Melville, Moby Dick

Dear Herman Melville, I resent your allegory of goodness and light, Mr. Melville. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you know of my work? Your convolutions don’t make up for your inadequate notions. Your vague metaphors do little but confuse and mislead. Here, pay heed, now listen to my reasoning. See what faults and fallacies plague you. See that even I, yes I the greatest deceiver, think you a deceiver. Look, look long in the face of the fire, O man. Keep it, restrain it; it shall only char your poor troubled stove. It shall only bite the hearth that holds it, and blacken the walls with a thick skin of soot. It only kindles a fire that burns on your tongue that makes sores and blisters, because the fire must not be expelled from within? And what of the conflagrations that collide within the mind; it does no harm in its confinement. Verily, you are made of brick, solid and obstinate. You are made to hold and to stand cold. Keep it, O Man. restrain it. Look, look long in the face of the fire. By all means the best dreams are dreamt at the helm. Stealing dreams, dreams that melt mountains into meadows and meadows into oceans. I say turn that wheel one degree it has never turned. Now march through the new oceans. Worry not for the others on board who only see land. They don’t see what you see. Lead them. Let the bow exalt the stern. Let the stern blindly lead the bow to the new oceans. Who says that the albatross is clumsy on land? Who says that fish can’t stand —I know of one who says they can and have? By all means dream at the helm, O man, dream perilous dreams. The stars await; ground is warming just for your brother’s spade to dig your grave. Now this I can agree with. A back to the compass is like a path grown in. Do you want to risk yourself becoming lost? The forest is deep and without snow or frost. Each step is alone, and for all other steps they are that lone step. Yes, Yes, very foolish to step on the grass. No good shall be found, O man. The compass points north and only north for a reason. No good will come of south or east or west. And is it not easier to walk the flat and straight? The grass doth slow your steps and its growing-green takes too much of your mind and attention-unnecessary, O man. And the new landscape that you’ll walk; sure it is lush; it may take your breath, but really, what breathe is there to waste. Waste not a breath to breathlessness, I say, in fact hold your breath by all means and turn not your back to the compass. I’ll be honest; my tiller is hitching right now. It always hitches. It even hitches when there is no current below or wind in the air. You see, O man, it is you who makes the hitch hitch or the tiller twitch. You and you alone cause those cold pulls that wake your idle hands. Spare yourself from the needless sensitivity; lay that hand firm and unyielding. Again, do not accept the first hint of hitching. Hints are just hints; they are subtle. All that is subtle is to be recognized, yet not recognized. Subtlety is but hypocrisy! Therefore, if you feel a hint, O man, it is either nothing or it is something. If it is something it is therefore not a hint, because no hint is explicit. So hints must be nothing, for only the devil can be both explicate and hidden and if the devil were not subtle he would not be the devil. ‘All others but lairs?’ Why do you have to say something like that? That hurts. The natural light is no purer then the burning flame. What can you see more with sun light than you can with the burning red lights of the flame? It is luminosity that concerns you? Bring me all the lamps of the world and let me light them one by one until it out shine the sun. You’ll see, O man, the devils are still devils. Even if we drag the sun to the zenith at midnight, they would still be devils. So pay no attention to your own mumbles. Your reasoning’s are wanting, your notions are depraved, and yet you show not a hint of your weakened bricks. O man, at least the devil reasons with enough sense to show he is the devil. What do you take me for? Do you not know who I am?

GRUBSTREET 2010

Haiti Haiti

Operation Haitian Liberation A humble island that is no more than a speck on a map has been struck by the merciless and ruthless might of nature. An earthquake measuring 7.0 magnitude on the Richter scale has shattered what was once a peaceful and placid nation. Its people, though battered and bruised, bleeding and heart-broken, now serve as a beacon of hope as they seek to ride out the anarchy and chaos through sheer bravery and might. yet this is no fight than any nation should have to face alone. Once more the world must band together to see off the dark clouds of bitter despair. Seldom will this world offer you an opportunity to step forth and make a difference, to rise above all others in a struggle that can quite easily end with the liberation and restoration of good faith amongst a brave yet struggling people. Today, as they take look around their tiny island, they will see a great many things. They will see destruction, yet all will envision salvation; they will see despair, yet all will envision hope. They will see a nation united under one cause, unwavering, rock steady and determined to once again restore all that has been lost. No one demands you take action, they only ask that you react. Whether your abilities lie within the camera, the paintbrush or the pen. You can offer up your talents in the form of aid, to turn your creative intuitiveness into something far more valuable than any mere offering of kind words and affection. Though they are in great need of love right now, they're in far greater need of aid in the form of fresh water and food. For how lonely of a place it must be, to be trapped within a nightmare with no end in sight and to be surrounded only by the vast depths of the oceans. Take it upon yourselves to offer them a glimmer of hope, offer them a light at the end of the tunnel, offer them a helping hand so that they may once again rise up and seek out a brighter tomorrow. Liberate your minds and in doing so, you shall liberate a nation.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Haiti Pou Ayiti & Transliteration by G. Pou ayiti Ayiti Si w wè jodi vini Se sijè w ke-m shwazi Se paske m'ap soufri Si-w wè ke melodi W'ap tande yon jan tris Se konsa mwen santi m Mwen la devan-w cheri M ape gade w k'ap depafini Mwen pa ka menm itil Chagrin, tristès met ak remo Pou yo fin ak lavi m Alo m pran plim Pou m ekri w, ekri-w Pou m mande w padon Mande w padon Pou kou ak kalot frè-m yo ba ou Padone yo ti chou (padone-m) Pou rad ou yo chire Pou kay ou yo maltrete Yo fè sa san panse Anmwe! Mwen ta rele, rele anmwe! Kilès ki pral koute-m Pou vin delivre m Se sèl detwa ti mo, mwen ka pote Sou yon ti bout papye Pou m di-w ke mwen dezole Kwè mwen, mwen dezole se vre Yon ti chante pou Ayiti Pou-m di l' m santi sa-l santi Yon ti chante pou Ayiti pou m di l' m'avèk li O Ayiti ! Konsyans mwen fè Ke mwen pa ka lage w' Avè-w ma va lite O wi! O wi! Bri a va kouri Nouvèl la va gaye Lè sa tout Ayisyen ansan-m A mete men nan men Pou n'fè yon sèl chimen Mesaj la va pase Lè na libere, ya tande Fos nou nan linyon l ye

GRUBSTREET 2010

Haiti Nan linyon, nan linyon, nan linyon Nan linyon li ye Mwen pap ka rete Papye a fin mouye Vizyon m-trouble O non! m'ale Yon ti chante, pou Ayiti Yon ti limyè, pou Ayiti Yon ti priyè,pou Ayiti Yon ti pitye, pou Ayiti Transliteration: Haiti If you see that today it’s you as my theme, it’s because I suffer. If you see that the melody you’re hearing is sad it’s how I feel. I’m right in front of you watching you falling to pieces. Useless. Sadness and remorse intersect to end my life so I take a pen to write to you begging forgiveness. Begging forgiveness for my brothers’ abuses. Forgive them. Forgive me. For your dress that they shred, Dear God I am useless. They act without thought. I could yell, Who would listen? Who would deliver? I can just write on this paper To tell you I’m sorry, believe me. A song for Haiti, to tell her I feel her. A song for Haiti, to tell her I’m with her. O Haiti, my conscience keeps me from leaving

GRUBSTREET 2010

Haiti With you I am fighting Yes! Rumors will sprout Passion will grow Haitians will unite And together will go. The message rings clear when weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re free theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll hear Our strength is in union In union In union Our strength is in union In unity But I cannot stay The paper is soaked My vision is troubled It seems I must go A song for Haiti A light for Haiti A prayer for Haiti Some pity for Haiti

GRUBSTREET 2010

Laura McClelland Written About a Girl I Know Laura McClelland

You, my dear are beautiful, A modern-day Venus, my immaculate Muse, To you I’ll sing this canticle, In hopes that it will much amuse. Chocolate-brown Uggs cover your feet, How cute! Shoes with a name The way a Caveman would greet. Your impeccable style just adds to your fame. Tight black pants, possibly athletic wear, Something one sees at a gym. Oh, you svelte angel, of course you care To keep that faultless body so trim. Your chest, O, your heavenly chest Clothed in AE, Abercrombie or Hollister Decked out as if in Sunday best, You’re simply refined, many will concur. My dear, you even have a halo, A confirmation of your divinity Your spray-on tan gives an orange glow Accentuating your femininity. Your hair, a ray of sunshine! (Don’t worry, you barely see the brown roots.) And even if you peek beyond the blonde, that’s fine At least the true colour matches your brown boots. So there is your body, a picture of perfection This description of you shall last throughout time To continue to give many men stark erections; And give us a glimpse of the truly sublime.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Laura McClelland Faith ‘I’m going to quit smoking, eh?’ I’ve known him long enough to know that this is a lie. Every two months or so he asserts his noble goal to improve his health, fails miserably, and then guiltily returns to his cigarettes, grumbling all the while. At this point of the cycle, you are required to congratulate him; he wants his courageous and responsible actions justified by others. ‘That’s great. Smoking is bad for your health, I’m glad you’re deciding to quit.’ (I have said this ten times before; he does not notice it is always the same line.) This was the first time I had seen Greg since we left for university, but he appeared unchanged, like Dorian Gray, but without polished speech or a sense of aesthetics. His swarthy, leprechaun face seemed addled with mischief as he sipped his beer, and the cross around his neck was gaudy, like he had transformed his pot of gold into a religious ornament. Standing at his stocky five foot six, I realized I should have worn flats so I wouldn’t tower over him. I sat down so he wouldn’t feel emasculated. ‘Yeah, it just seemed like the right time you know? Disgusting habit.’ He took a drag of his cigarette before continuing. ‘I’ll quit when I finish this pack, no need to waste good cigarettes, right?’ ‘True, they are really expensive.’ ‘You have no idea.’ He paused for a moment to sip his beer, and to slyly look me up and down out of the corner of his eye. 'Isn’t it nice we get this time to catch up? It’s been so long.’ ‘Well university is a busy place; I barely have any time to come home. But yeah, I’m glad we got to do this,’ I said, smiling reassuringly. ‘You got a boyfriend?’ ‘Yes, actually. We’re very happy,’ I added with emphasis, knowing Greg’s persistence with women. ‘Ah. That’s cool. Glad you got rid of your last guy, he was awful.’ ‘Thanks,’ I raised an eyebrow, recalling Greg asking me to break up with him numerous times, so he could ask me out. ‘But I think you may be a little biased.’ ‘What? I’m not biased at all! What would make you think that?’ I searched his face for any presence of sarcasm, and not finding any, decided to change the subject. ‘So do you like the music?’ I asked, pointing to the band. ‘It’s alright, I guess. But it gets repetitive after awhile. Do you want to go back to my place, have a couple drinks and watch a movie or something? Just for a change of scene, you know?’ Considering that I am in fact, more intelligent than a bag of hammers, I saw through his thinly-veiled request for sex and with a rueful look on my face replied, ‘Like I said before, I have a boyfriend, and I don’t think he would really like that.’ ‘Oh.’ He appeared surprised, but the look of surprise soon turned into a storm cloud of dissatisfaction, so I realized I would again have to change the subject again or risk Greg becoming offended and thus unbearable to spend any more time with. His sporadic temper made conversations a minefield, I had forgotten how softly you had to tread. I wondered once more why I had agreed to meet him at all. Probably because there was nothing on TV and I had naively forgotten his quirks in the four months since I’d seen him. ‘Anyways, do you still want to be a youth pastor? I remember before, you couldn’t stop talking about it.’ His face brightened. ‘Yeah, of course, I feel it’s my calling. I really want to help kids get onto the right track. I feel I could be a great role model.’ I smiled, more from the relief of averting an awkward situation than from his words. ‘That’s really cute.’ He shrugged and put his cigarette in the ashtray, lending nothing to our dialogue. I knocked back my drink as quickly as I could, listening as the lead singer sang mournfully, It all went wrong again... ‘So how is university going for you? You haven’t mentioned anything about what your experience has been like.’ ‘I dropped out,’ he said glibly. ‘What?’ I was rightly shocked considering how much Greg had stressed over being accepted, how he had to receive special permission from the school because his average was slightly below minimum requirement. It

GRUBSTREET 2010

Laura McClelland seemed inconceivable that he would leave after working so hard to get in. ‘Why? I thought you really wanted to be there!’ ‘Yeah, I did, but I just realized that it definitely wasn’t for me. I mean, there was so much work! And on top of that, they would have made me take all sorts of electives, like, I wouldn’t be able to study just theology.’ ‘Well, that’s normal for university; usually you’re going to have electives, especially in first year.’ Greg paused for a moment, as if he had never heard that before. ‘But they would have made me take all these pointless courses that have nothing to do with theology at all! I mean, I would have had to take biology, and what does biology have to do with God? Nothing, absolutely nothing, it’s so stupid. Why would I need to learn about anything else but our Creator, the Bible and the Church? That’s all that matters. Anything else is just a waste of time.’ I had so much I wanted to say in response to his question that I was struck dumb for a moment, but before I could utter anything he continued. ‘I’ll probably just go to Bible College instead. I mean, that’s all I need to be a pastor, right?’ After that, conversation continued for awhile, but after the band stopped playing I lied, telling Greg I was tired and wanted to get up early the next day to work on a term paper. On the way home, reflecting on the evening, all I could feel was a sense of hope for the future of the church. I would sleep well tonight knowing that such wellrounded, curious and sensitive individuals like Greg would be serving as role models for the generation of tomorrow. It was encounters like that, with people from my past that gave me faith. Wait did I say faith? I meant the opposite.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Cleaver Cleaver

Winter's Edge Flicker, the planks neatly sit in a row, bobbing buoyantly on the gravel. Misty charcoal paints even the water longing to mirror the summer’s sky. Uselessly waiting at the lake’s edge enduring the snow and ice patiently. Temporary obsolesce fitting for dismal day waiting to plunge into summer’s waters. Flicker, and the sky resonates robin's egg blue, the lake still a glossy grey. Breath stops to drink in the possibility of colour resting in the dreams of summer’s day. The endless wait continues, repetition of want cuts optimism like the damp Huron cold. Light fades but the sun does not set no oranges, no pinks, none of summer’s brilliance.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Margaret Coons Margaret Coons

Smiling Like a Cheshire She arches her back and Gasps for air She’s a drowning cat She’s clawing at stairs Trying to climb At the top she sees light Glancing back down She feels comfort, delight Sucking up water Saturated with sound She arches her back Slowly turning around And with one final glance She dives right back down. This doesn’t come as surprise It feels so good in here. Trudging through water Fur matted, unkempt She dove into somewhere She feels to repent Arching her back up into the air And exposing her chest She’s not looking for stares Tripping along behind what feels best The ache of escape to be out of the thresh Where is she now? A feline put to the test Desire and despair she purrs and she mews, “Does anybody in here feel the way I do?” Smiling like a Cheshire She spies the cobweb of empire She Always tries to get out But Already dove right back in Into a shard of the mirror The prism’s fractals encompassing When attempted escape Accessed just another level A cyclical untangling of reason’s shape The yarn unravels too - it’s pleasurable But she’s still another cat, chasing her tail Obedient and orgiastic. Angela Easby

GRUBSTREET 2010

Angela Easby Wake Up Call Waking up To the dark dirty haze Of March grey skies Alone Cold sheets, hot heart Beating a soliloquy Though the worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s flat lining Recalling The place, the time, the face That peels souls like blood oranges Strewn across the wee hours of the night A weight Of pain, dulled by cold grey sun A soft sorrow, pooling slowly For midnight foggy things undone.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Angela Easby Wednesday Morning Fog Feeling all the back drain Running in my head Who can say Till we’re back again But we are, Already, aren’t we? -she said (or I did in my head) He shouldn’t need to Cater, wait, divine As I, Oh I Puppet, flit, act blind Dance down the middle of the street Eyes stuck shut Someone else’s feet Running through my mind (Bitterly, quand-même) Till we tangle, inevitably so On our paths at the pavement To bored, to bed, and back And this is where we get Wednesday Morning Fog.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Tarek El-Chabib Duality Tarek El-Chabib

Where to begin, what to talk about, how can we relate What fills you with happiness what engulfs you with hate Life, love, money Thinking of a memory, cracking a smile thinking it’s funny

We all start the same Vulnerable, clueless and small As babies, worry free, cute and all Innocent, happy, living life curious You begin to grow up thinking lives unfair Then you get mad and become furious

As you get older, there’s a question on which an answer you thrive, Why am I here, give me the answer I’m alive To gain a sense of purpose, a noble cause, a fulfilling goal. Maybe to enrich the body mind and soul

To find your cause is a Crucial key, to complete yourself as one entity, and unfortunately no one said it will be easy, so prepare to put your best foot forward and maintain a mind in a state of clarity

Everyone has obstacles, problems are never the best A part of everyday life, only to test Testing your will, ambition, power Always up to the challenge, never to cower.

Along the way you are left with the choices of the right and wrong A dilemma in your head going back and forth like a game of ping pong Right and wrong, the difference between the two Is made by yourself and only you

Facing these challenges we learn to grow

GRUBSTREET 2010

Tarek El-Chabib The more we progress, the more of life we begin to know Experience, knowledge the wise contain, we only begin to see From the way we walk, talk, act, the way we become to be

Knowledge is power, yet ignorance is bliss Life is of choice Aim for that hit, prepare for that miss

Personally, I love to ponder on the beauty of philosophy From the way I touch taste smell hear and see can it truly be an accurate depiction of the world that surrounds me?

To what extent do believe everything you see and hear. To really understand the rationale behind everything you fear. Of everything you love, of all that which you hate. To be aware of the intentions behind the words people try to manipulate

I talk about reality of what it is, and what it seems I speak of balance, I speak of the extremes Remember that Motivation is one, obsession is another The key is to separate yourself between one, and the other

I wake up thinking, another day in attempts of getting closer to my goal To handle stress I write poetry to calm my mind and ease my soul I learn from what I have done, and strive towards the man I wish become

Life is what you make it out to be Set your sights on a goal, a purpose and based on your character you will see You will be the reason why your dream have become a reality And that is my Duality.

GRUBSTREET 2010

G. G.

To Change the World To change the world? Don’t be absurdwhy would you even bother? To challenge equilibrium and fight the powers: moon and sun, wind and rain, Princip’s gun? The inertia of the dead, it’s said, is hurled from every living bed; apples are kicked from the basket and birds fall close to the tree. Adolph’s dad killed millions and Marc Lepine’s: fourteen. The great-great gramps of Johnny Booth spilt blood behind the screen. The hands of time, indifferent, yawn to see the same face every dawn and I can’t fault their weariness with all our noble acts deranged if just the names and dates have changed.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Sharon Lam Sharon Lam

Chinese Chess

GRUBSTREET 2010

Sharon Lam

Crosswalk

GRUBSTREET 2010

Sharon Lam

Playtime

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jonathan Lees Beauty's End Jonathan Lees

My mind often wanders to a time of childhood fantasy and perfection, a time of false optimism and delusions that the world truly is a great place. Stories and lies that kept me going, that led me to a woman... Oh, to have seen her face when she smiled; it was the little piece of Heaven I wouldn’t need to pray to attain. What a smart reply or a gentle joke could provide! Like coffee before the world has awoken and the day has truly begun. To describe what she was is an injustice, for my education and the limits of language cannot confine such beauty within such logical boundaries. But it feels to me that it would be a larger injustice not to at least attempt to describe her... as nothing was more breathtaking than the radiance of her rich, emerald eyes. Her appearance could rob words – and often time itself – with such a peculiar depth that every care in the world slips away as your gaze is locked within an infinite struggle between reality and an emerald dream. Those many nights that I would lay awake in bed thinking of the vast arrays of events where I would amaze her with sharp bouts of wit. However, the sun would rise, as it always does, and I would rise with it. Still thinking of those different events from the morning, later, in passing, I would wonder why I could rarely perform as in my dreams. Perhaps I was too absorbed with the future, planning too far ahead and canceling the very wit I sought to harness. Or perhaps I was waiting for an excuse, or… perhaps I’m just less than the man that I think I am. For my sake, I’ll believe that I was too absorbed with the way she moved her body with such fluid grace— a way in which no other woman I had ever seen could do. Such careful, precise, almost calculated movements which exuded such tremendous amounts of self-confidence and pride I could only wonder why it wasn’t contagious! Ah yes, it must be that I am shallow. I did notice that this behaviour of hers had a powerful and noticeable effect on those around her, frightening her competitors and exciting admirers; she was a wild animal, seemingly interested in no man but attracting every man. If it wasn’t the confidence in her body language that would produce this effect, it would have to be in the eloquence of her enunciation, her obvious lack of any need to dig deep and grasp, constructing her perfectly moulded sentences, describing the way she felt at any given moment. It’s almost as if language itself just wanted to flow off her very curves and linger, just for a moment, in the ears and minds of those around to witness. To describe her pains me greatly, for those were better days. She’s different now, as she says and as I know… though it’s impossible to deny she lies in the centre of a small cell designed to maintain physical well-being. The cell has clearly robbed her mind of any sensual stimuli that it was once so addicted to, what it needed in order to remain human. I spoke to her for the first time since she was detained there, which gave me the chance to sit with her alone... with the exception of her attendant. For the first time my mind would allow me to believe what I had heard and a chill ran down my spine. It was horrifically romantic, the thought... when I first set my gaze upon her, it was much different than my mind’s construction. My world collapsed as images shattered, the glass cutting through surrounding memories leaving me to feel fragmented and consumed. No amount of grief could satiate the feelings produced when every feeling that I had felt as if it had been chastised. I was greeted with a disconsolate gaze that pierced my soul; her words did not flow off her curves, but instead struck the glass of reality, talking straight at my shattered soul. Her emerald eyes shimmered with a cruel facade of vitality that masked a cold and disconnected woman. I revered her so, but when I heard her story, I was convinced that she, and my image of perfect, are forever lost... and it will forever scar my mind. Her story, as she told me, takes place in Africa. She coughed before telling the story, almost with purpose. Presumably, she may have hoped that I would retract my intentions of hearing it... just to speak to her like the woman that she was, to speak to her the way no other man would. But when I said nothing, desiring only the story, the reason that I now stand hollow, she sighed and began reciting her tale. You know, I was never the type to be a humanitarian. I’ll never understand how my parents talked me into it, but I imagine that it must have been to impress father’s shareholders. My parents signed me up… as a volunteer no less! Imagine that? Didn’t I already tell you that, though? I think I did. Anyway, I was sent on a relief mission to Africa for the three weeks that I was off. The flight I had boarded was delayed, so when I finally landed in the late afternoon, the others had already left to set up camp near the local town. I was greeted by an assigned transport that would take me to the destination. Time and fate came together to conspire against my life and mind when my transport fell off course by such a

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jonathan Lees degree that we ended up heading towards a completely different town than we had intended. The man driving the truck seemed to be in his early twenties… and not much of a man at that; slender arms that seemed to cave in places one would not expect, yet he surprisingly maintained quite a waistline. I wasn’t exactly sure why I didn’t scrutinize him further as he was the man whom I would be entrusting my life with, albeit temporarily. However, it was growing darker and I was exhausted from the flight, so I closed my eyes and hoped that the situation would correct itself as I fell ignorant to my surroundings; I knew nothing of the area’s geography, so how could I be of any help anyway? In the waning night, a loud bang to my right aroused me from my slumber, sending chunks of rubber into the ditch – I wanted to scream, but was forced silent from horror when I noticed the driver couldn’t recover the vehicle’s trajectory. We were out of control, leaving the pavement and connecting with a tree. I was knocked unconscious from the impact. I don’t know how soon after the impact the driver had died, but I can’t imagine that it was without pain. When I awoke, I saw the driver was long dead; the steering column had impaled his lower abdomen. The smell of death and petroleum filled the air, permeating my consciousness and devouring my rationality. With the car destroyed, my escort dead, and untold minor injuries – I screamed and kicked helplessly at the dashboard, hoping for someone to tell me it was a dream, hoping to be shaken awake and be taken back to the world I love. “Great!” I screamed to the emptiness around me, not without the hope that something would steal me from this place. The moment of denial and self pity hadn’t even had time to be absorbed or reflected upon when the sound of footsteps scampering behind me broke the silence. I turned around sharply, sending a pain deep into my skull. My eyes frantically searched for the life that creates such a familiar sound, but there was nothing there. I turned back around to unbuckle the seatbelt and exit the vehicle, when I heard the laughter of a child. I... I... Her head twitched as her face contorted into an expression of grief and pain. She brought her arms up to her chest and crossed them in front of her as if her stomach were in pain. The attendant overseeing the meeting came rushing to her aid at this point, not even really paying attention to me as he began treating his patient. He looked to me briefly and said, almost rehearsed, “She’s tired, you’ll need to come back tomorrow after she has had some rest.” Without question, I did exactly as the attendant asked of me and came back the next day to visit.  “I’m sorry for yesterday,” she told me immediately. I explained to her that it was alright and the apology should be mine for asking her to recollect, although I was so intrigued by her tale and had no desire for the story to have ended yesterday. Apologies were widely disconnected at that moment; curiosity was leading my every thought and guiding my words to get her to continue. She wasn’t even human to me anymore by the way my imagination kept insisting for a completed tale. She continued, with some assistance as to where she left off, her tale from the day before. ...I exited the vehicle and made my way towards a faint flicker of light in the small ditch on the other side of the road. I couldn’t quite assess the depth of the ditch for the lack of light, but I discovered a small, lit candle… and a child. But the laughter I thought I heard couldn’t have been laughter, by any means. This child looked awful. Though I was still a small distance from the child, he looked at me with a single eye before speaking. “Be careful – don’t come into the light,” he said, and in a distant tone added, “it’s through weakened eyes that a weakness hides.” I took a step closer to him, unsure of what he meant – just to get a closer look as curiosity demanded I find out why such a child could be left so far from anywhere with nothing but a candle. Upon closer examination, what was there wasn’t living, it was a corpse. One eye plucked, and his chest cavity hollow. I realized that this was the ravaged corpse of a child, left for carrion. I took a few steps back, disoriented and unable to rid the image and those sounds… that voice. I must have impacted my head harder than I realized. I turned around to see another child, similar in age but dissimilar in manner and appearance. This one was chomping at the air, “Ehn, ehn, ehn…”, as his eyes failed to ever focus on me, though the child looked to be trying, but every time he did one eye strayed off completely and the other followed as if chasing it. The child collapsed to the ground and began to shake. I made a quick decision on instinct to run to the child and help. As I drew closer, however, I noticed that the child’s arm had distinct chunks missing from it, and his fingers had been bitten off his hands. I didn’t notice from the darkness how much blood he must have been losing while he was chomping at the air, but the child had died in front of me. The footsteps I heard initially occurred again… this time, however, I didn’t turn around. What would I find this

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jonathan Lees time? Another corpse? Another child? But, in a sick way, I was comforted when I heard the same voice from earlier speak up. “His face will never talk again; his voice a distant memory, only to be forgotten. Time’s relief is death to those who have not lived.” I looked more deeply into the child’s eyes that passed on in front of me when I felt as if they were focusing on me. I slid away from the body quickly, and he too began to speak. “But death allows others to enjoy life. The youth would say, ‘it’s to see them die…’” and he trailed off into a low mumble, chortling quietly, almost to provide relief from his statement. I turned around and noticed the half decomposed corpse of the other child, which now affirmed that his chest had, in fact, been eaten. But was the child murdered, or did he die naturally? It didn’t much matter what the answer to that was as I was already fleeing for what comfort the broken vehicle could provide.  I had started running towards the vehicle, but stopped dead when I saw my escort start getting out of the transport. Images of him with the steering column sticking out of his chest, as if nailing him to the seat, kept flashing before my eyes. Now it was as if it had never been there. With inhuman strength and speed, he made his way to me, his mouth opened wide as if to steal from me my flesh and life. But at that moment, everything went black as a rock cracked the back of my skull, diffusing my reality.  All kinds of voices… over and over again, they kept coming – chiming in with intermittent laughter, crying, bloodsoaked screams... I kept hearing: “silent bodies, now heed the light.”… “They bring them pain.”…“To see them die.”…”Children hide,”…”Don’t come into the light.”… “But in darkness,”… “Your eyes are weak.”… “And your weaknesses will come to light.” From there, I could tell that her tale was pretty much over. I could make out no signs of abuse and no one in her family even knew about her trip to Africa, assuming she had even gone. She trailed off and mumbled things beneath her breath in a manner that I couldn’t really understand. It appeared as though she was speaking a different language. Nothing but a shadow of what she used to be, I mused heartlessly and painfully to myself. Her hair a ratty mess, her eyes no longer carrying the same glitter, and her smile is absent. The events that she claims to have transpired have stolen what passion and love one could possibly contain for that little piece of joy and leaving rot within the husk of what I defined as beautiful. On my last visit’s arrival, she lay alone, crying, spread eagle in the centre of that cell… I couldn’t avoid feeling violated for her as to how revealing her position was, how badly it stripped her of her former womanhood. I stopped a moment as the thought lingered in my mind, apparently too long for she saw me leaving. The sound of her quickly getting up and banging on the door echoed down the hall, her shouting “Peter, Peter!” echoed after me in a desperate cry for attention – for human contact. It was then that I realized that, when I saw her, it took a little bit away from her memory (removed comma) and reminded me of the man that I had become. I still visit… but not so much anymore. As she is already dead... to me.

GRUBSTREET 2010

David Maisel Running Man's Dream David Maisel

You're in my head You're at the tip of my tongue You're in my bed You’ve got the cold cold blood You're in my dreams Your rockin’ my boat Your smile gleams You’ve got to stay afloat The running man’s syndrome One cannot escape The continuous motion He cannot be saved.

GRUBSTREET 2010

David Maisel What is She? She’s the queen of the jungle Swinging branch to branch She’s so sweet and humble Got me in a trance She’s the yin in a yang sign Within a greater whole I’m the yang trying to find The heart of my soul She’s the smaller of two spoons Cozy in my arms She’s the one that I did lose Cause I was alarmed She’s the drop in my eye Pouring over the lid She’s the blue in the sky That cannot be rid She’s the past of my present The future’s unknown But I’ve learned my lesson That I can be alone.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jennifer Lauren Munoz The Meeting Jennifer Lauren Munoz

The woman sat quietly in an uncomfortable office chair in the corner of the room, bent over her notes. Every so often, she would dart a glance at the tall man standing at the head of the table, giving his presentation to the potential clients. When the darkness of the room suddenly disappeared and bright light flooded her eyes, she had to blink for a few seconds before she could see again. As she stooped to collect her papers, she didn’t hear the man walking up behind her until she straightened and turned around. She visibly jumped. “Sorry, Anne. Didn’t mean to startle you.” “Oh, that’s all right sir, I don’t mind.” She stopped and closed her eyes for a moment, then cleared her throat. “I mean, it’s OK, sir. Don’t worry about it.” “Good, then. So, how do you think they took it?” “Very well, I thought. The CEO especially seemed to be very interested – you could tell by the questions he asked. You’re an excellent presenter, sir.” “Thanks, Anne.” “It’s partly the voice – you’re very pleasant to listen to.” Color washed along her cheekbones. “I mean, it has a nice timbre to it. You know, objectively.” Her face flushed even brighter, and she turned around under the pretense of shutting off the projector. The man came up beside her and picked up his briefcase. “Listen, when can you have that transcript ready for me?’ “Whenever you want it. Sir.” “Yes?” “Er, nothing. I just forgot to say ‘sir’ at the end of that sentence. Sir.” “Anne, would you please just give in and call me Matthew?” “I – I’m sorry, I can’t. It wouldn’t feel right. Sir.” “Why not? We’ve worked together for years, you know me better than most of my friends. God knows I like you better than most of them, too.” He chuckled softly, inviting her to share the joke, but she kept her gaze on the floor as she began to stammer. “Sir, I - ” “Please, Anne?” He rested his finger under her chin and lifted it so that her eyes met his. “Just say it once. That’s easy, isn’t it?” She swallowed hard. His forefinger slid gently along the curve her throat to her shoulder. Her gaze faltered and she looked away. He took his hand away abruptly, as if suddenly realizing just what he had done. He looked down and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, backing away. “I’m sorry if…if I’ve offended you or… or frightened you in any way. That was really inappropriate. I…I’m sorry, again.” He turned away quickly and grabbed his coat off the hanger. As he finished shrugging it on, he heard her soft voice from behind him. “You didn’t offend me.” A pause. Then a shallow intake of breath. “Matthew.” He looked back over his shoulder. She looked shocked at her own words, standing with her hand pressed to her mouth, as if to stop any further speech. “Are you sure, Anne?” This time, the pause was even longer. “Yes.” “You’re completely certain?” “Yes.” “Positive?” “Yes!” He turned fully and stared at her. She raised her head and glared at him. When she spoke, it was with a hurt, bitter tone that he had never heard from her before. “Happy now?” “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean. You have to.” “No.” “No, ‘you don’t know’, or no, ‘you don’t have to’?”

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jennifer Lauren Munoz “I meant that I didn’t know. And maybe I don’t have to, but I want to.” he cleared his throat. “Believe me, I want to. Please.” She wrapped her arms around herself and looked away. Then she spoke softly. “You really don’t know.” He watched her, waiting for her to continue. Finally she shook her head. “I – I can’t. I can’t just – “ “What?” “I can’t just tell you. I’m not…I’m not brave enough.” “Anne.” A long pause. “Anne.” “Yes?” “You just told me.” A sick feeling gathered in her stomach, and she glanced toward the door, wishing herself anywhere but there. “Anne?” “Oh, what is it? Can’t you just go? This is humiliating enough - ” “You said that you couldn’t tell me. Do you think…could you show me instead?” She jerked her head up and found his warm eyes looking steadily back at her. The mortification disappeared, replaced by a slowly rising hope. He waited patiently while she gathered her courage. At last she rose up on her toes, and her hands came to rest on his shoulders. She drew one last deep breath, and quickly pressed her mouth to his. When she would have pulled away, his hand at the back of her head gently stopped her, keeping her still as he bent down and kissed her back. She parted her lips - more out of disbelief at his response than anything else - and he took full advantage, lazily exploring her mouth. Her arms slowly came up to wrap around his shoulders, and his went around her waist, pulling her close until their entire bodies were pressed together. Suddenly, the slowly burning heat shifted into something more urgent, and the kiss turned wild. When they finally broke apart, they were both panting faintly, and stared at each other for one astonished moment. Then a sweet, artless smile that he had never seen before spread over her face as she broke the stunned silence. “Was that clear enough for you?”

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jennifer Lauren Munoz The Ribbon Dancer The watcher crouched on the catwalk high above the stage. He had one arm wrapped around the railing behind him, and the other one clutched the edge of the platform. He was leaning almost too far over the side, on the verge of falling, but he didn’t care. His eyes were wide, staring down at the figure below, transfixed. He would not – could not – miss a moment of this final performance. The girl below him was unaware of the watcher. All she saw was the blinding spotlight. All she heard was the lilting performance music that was overwhelmed by the expectant, breathless silence of the audience. She breathed in deeply, and on the exhale leaped straight up into the air. As her body curved into a graceful arc, she snatched the shining length of blue fabric that hung above her. She folded into it, wrapping herself up in a silken cocoon; hung for a moment, then suddenly kicked out, swinging across the stage, spinning on the end of the twisted cloth. Her costume glittered in the bright lights. It was a gaudy, obnoxious thing of rainbow colors, but she managed to look beautiful in it. Her lithe frame and long fall of mahogany hair turned heads even when she wasn’t onstage. It always had. His face took on a fierce expression. No more. He shook his head, pulled back and composed himself. He could not become distracted. He had to watch every second, every moment of the performance below him. It would soon be over. The girl twisted and rolled in mid-air, somersaulting to end upside down with her legs anchoring her in the cloth and her arms free. As the music increased in volume and the lights moved faster, she bent herself in half, reached up and began to ascend the rope with slow, acrobatic movements. She fell once, and the audience gasped. But her graceful recovery and the sudden blackout of the lights revealed the fall for the choreographed trick it was. The watcher sneered silently. False. Just like her. The climb resumed. Now a single beam of light followed her as she rose in her aerial dance, and all else was dark. There was nothing to illuminate the knife that appeared in the watcher’s hand. There was no gleam on it as he moved slowly and silently along the catwalk, his eyes still fixed on the ribbon dancer. She was laughing silently, reveling in the attention, the awe of the audience. He wanted to wipe that smile off her face. He wanted her to see him as he watched her, and to watch that smile disappear. But no, he couldn’t. He had to remain hidden. She was almost to the top, coming ever closer. He waited, patient. After so long - a few more moments were as nothing. He lifted the knife, laid it carefully against the ribbon, and waited for her to come to him. The shot startled him. He jerked, and whipped his head up, searching vainly in the darkness for the source of the sound. He looked back down, and saw the ribbon dancer’s eyes go dark. Her grip on the band of cloth weakened, and she fell; a true fall this time. Her body was limp, limbs fluttering as she plummeted from the air. The awkwardness of the fall told the watcher what had happened more clearly than the gunshot had. She would never have knowingly let herself appear so clumsy. When she met the floor, there was a sickening, dull thud. Sprawled across the center of the stage, the sight of her lifeless body filled the watcher with rage. She had been his to kill, his to destroy. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He slashed at the ribbon in his hand furiously. It fell much more gracefully than the girl had, drifting slowly down to drape over her body in an elegant curl. The music ended with a soaring flourish. For a few excruciating moments, there was utter silence. Then, from the farthest reaches of the audience, a slow, regular clapping began. The watcher knew it had to be the gunman, mocking the man who had been cheated of a death. The slow applause reassured the audience that it was all merely an illusion, a deception. Others started to clap as well, and soon the pavilion was filled with roaring applause, cheering and whistling, paying homage to the ribbon dancer’s final performance.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Andrew Pel Andrew Pel

Elephant She there, speaking silently Pursed lips pregnant, a candour Loud like neon: commanding me Resplendent in her fading armour. Reproachful moves to quiet fury Cocked eyebrows acting judge and jury A gaze I’d hold I’ve never seen Engendering internecine. Across the table; wooded minefield Hard as anger, less course by a half Smooth and cold, its surface yields Like a bared thigh, ruined by a laugh. Cool stone, hard breasts Hard heart, down King Am I the base, graceless Courting bastard she implies? Or is conscience just the thing? Skinned, trussed, and hooked by derision Doubtful doings; pangs of indecision Dangling there; my playing fool For her to make the first incision. The goodbye hug; ironic that Though holding her, I must confide With arms around the lightening chaff My fingers glide between her Sighs – and inwardly, I laugh.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Andrew Pel Private I Startled to compunction by The misplaced midnight of Church bell brass, as if towering apes In votive readiness, were Thundering agog, hooting Knells to mark the hour I walked the evening park; skirting The wide snakestone veld Of sidewalk, thinking Down with the din! When I saw them sitting.

Andrew Pel

He there, she too Doubly-dipped in puddles Of halogen moon: they were An indivisible lovers Tangle: arms over shoulders In overlain equals signs Toppled by a decimal pair Of heads, apart A fraction only, met For an instance But the moment Had no measure! No Boiled-down, numerical pleasure.

With a Comet’s chance Of hiding on a starless night They kissed; at least, I seemed to see Something like decency blinded me Of minding other’s business, mine Or hesitation, or crime And as I stole away, and took account Of where I stood, and why I cursed the clamour, those Offending bells, for taking Granted their embrace – and laughed: For moments’ spoiled; sacristy, disgrace Are vanishing, no readers rapt To voyeur’s all, who’s witnessing Will sound and vanish, time and place.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Andrew Pel Index of Sources Shall I compare thee To a garden? Why should I? There is No second Troy, no glories Of our once-spilled blood; surely That’s thrice to slay the slain! Hail to thee, skylark! Shall We, done weeping of more than Moon, behold we know not anything? In Memoriam, the curfew tolls. I sometimes think you should swear; You, who were the darkness, rightly, Care all – mother to child: “the time Has come” – she shall be sportive But, to a mouse, this is true love! Bygone, sagest of women! Labour is blossoming among School children, awakening the Eve of the twelfth night. When I was there, an end of salvages, “What was he doing?” But – Oh! Beside this thoroughfare, Farewell, unaffected by the very model, Reverend doctors: The Pirate. Echo fair rocks sir, goodly rivers Even sketch! I bless thee, sterne superne Do not expect feathers to iron again “O where are you going?” Renouncement? I must not think they have the power To hurt, avenge, your hands! Rose kissed me: the cruel wish you, The artist as a young man, not weary Not gentle, into that good night Use – getting hysterical – little miracle My ghostly father in Flanders Speakin’ in general of the roses And larkspur; that last long ride: “It is almost time to grow up” It is not growing. My heart aches.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Andrew Pel If Only I Could Date the Starbucks Mermaid Women? Women are like coffee. Comfort? Yes. Better hot, and strong? Sure. None take them cold. They’re ubiquitous – routine – necessary. Daily matters; the morning cup’s your goodbye kiss, her Whisper beneath the sheets. They come in Different sizes, flavours. Some are bitter, some you savour, Some stick a lump in your throat – some two. Too much will give you a headache. All told, it doesn’t Matter if they come in heels in flats, Dresses or sweatpants, styrofoam, paper, Ceramic, glass, topped-up or otherwise. They can be born and stirred with A silver spoon, or a plastic one – and a stick If you get them at the bus stop. There is one constant. Only one. They keep me up.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Sam Pollak Sam Pollak

I'm Raspberry I’m a naturalist. I love nature and everything it has to offer. I love its serenity, its chaos and its escape. I love walking outside and breathing in a long sweet breath of fresh air, filling up my nostrils with the scent of the season. The possibilities of what you can find in nature are endless. I love taking long walks, but only if I have something to look at. Not tall, 30 year old buildings with a McDonalds in the middle of it, but a mixture of nature’s sensations. Tall trees that have been undisturbed for centuries, filled with birds' nests and insects. I’m filled with curiosity because just one tree contains a world bigger than my own, bursting out at all angles. I watched hundreds of trees as I walking up the cliff. As I climbed I was unable to keep up with time or distance because of all the life that infiltrated my brain. I could hear birds chirping lovable melodies, see deer peering at you through the brush. I saw nothing but small slits filled with fear and curiosity. What I enjoyed most was walking under a canopy of grass. I continue to walk till my legs were sore, till every muscle in my body stiffen making me feel like just laying down and becoming one of the many stones that covered the ground. It astounded me of the perfect way the grass covered the area making it possible for raspberries to grow. These raspberries were perfect- and that is an understatement. As I walked along there were bushes filled with bushes full of them. I had to pick every raspberry carefully otherwise they would have easily burst in my fingers. Picking one precious raspberry at a time, I rolled it in my fingers, feeling the fuzz gently tickle the tips of my fingers. When I popped it into my mouth, the sun-ripened raspberry melted into a sour and distinct taste, undeniably raspberry. Unbelievably, it was just as sweet, but neither too sour nor too sweet. The tastes complimented each other, filling me up with peace and taking me away from everything.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Sam Pollak I'm Sorry from Sudan

Old Battery called Whale Bay in Bermuda

I’m sorry for being born African and I’m sorry for letting those men kill my father and two brothers. I just didn’t have the strength to fight any longer after our village was bombed and then looted. Most of all, I want to apologize to my mom. I’m sorry for telling that United Nations humanitarian aid officer my story about being raped by those six men. I know I’m just spoiled and shamed. If I had known that you would have disowned me I would have kept it as my little secret. Mom, I’m sorry that I will never get married and bring wealth and status to our name. Just understand that I thought that the United Nations officer was going to help us get out of this- so we can go back home. But really I learnt one thing and that is, I’m sorry for having hope.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Sam Pollak Just One More Day TEMPTATION: All three of us. INQUISITIVE: Present the present… DEATH: to the past. All three of us: Death, Temptation and Inquisitive. INQUISITIVE: Presenting what? DEATH: Does it matter? TEMPTATION: I don’t believe it could. INQUISITIVE: So tell me how full of shit are you? Each and every one of you? There’s no way for me to know what you’ve experienced, right? There’s no possibility of me feeling that need. Like a thousand hiding voices, whispering “look at who you are.” And you fight the obsession, the growing need rising like thunder, shivering up and down your spine, teasing and prodding to be cured- if only for a moment. But the whisper is getting louder until it howls, “NOW!” and it’s all you can hear. The only voice you can hear. And you belong to it, to these incessant murmurs. To this… TEMPTATION: Present. DEATH: Past. TEMPTATION: I’m not sure what I am, but there is something hidden within me, but it is you who hid it. I can’t find it…but it’s there…always. This. And when it calls, I feel…I’m no longer in control, but I know it’s not vanity. Half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don’t fight it. I don’t want to and I can’t. This connection is all I’ve got, because if I don’t have this, I’m left with the distorted picture of who I was made to be. You can’t bear it…especially not me. Or is that just a lie –this- whispers to me? Because I have memories when I feel…real – someone, not something. It’s like…the mask is slipping. And scars…knives…things that always mattered before are suddenly void and excessive, but then I lose sight. [Exhales sharply] It bred inside of me like a virus. I can’t control it and there’s no cure. No cure to the mirror image of m—who? You. Not necessarily you, but your control, your pictures. DEATH: Rip up the picture. INQUISITIVE: Understand the picture. TEMPTATION: What difference does it make? I yearn for it. You call. He calls. She calls. This calls. I forget my progress and the mask slips on. DEATH: Whose mask? INQUISITIVE: His mask. TEMPTATION: Your mask. [points to the audience] YOU! All full of your selves, whispering to me lies about this! What the fuck is this anyways? This, doesn’t matter. What matters is the thrill, the prodding, and the temptation. Knowing exactly what you want and taking it. Right? Look at what you made. Can you bear it? Can you live the thrill?! Let it swarm inside you like a tornado, filling all the empty spaces with this. Mmmm, feels good doesn’t it. Embrace it, even though you know the effects. You know where it will take you, back to the scars. Put your mask back on; it seems to suit you. INQUISITIVE: [sarcastically] Oh the horror! The unbelievable horror! [jokingly] Ha-ha! [suddenly serious] There are so many questions, and so little time. Or so much time, so little questions. [shrugs off] Meh. Whatever…This. Cool huh, how everything works? Haven’t you ever wondered how it all works. Well, you could inquire about your existence, but really what’s the use. Unless, how this all “works” is through existence. Really I would love to sit down and ponder questions about…this, but you guys got me so busy. Busy, no not busy, busy would mean I was really doing something. More like preoccupied. Should I smile, is this a good time to smile? [smiles big] Looks good, feels good. Why? I have nothing to smile about. Only what you gave me. Fireworks and the sorts. Really though, if I’m smiling and you don’t—or vice versa— who’s really ever going to be happy? When you smile right? If you enjoy it-- the smile I mean…well what I’m getting to is this…What I’m trying to say is...Is that you’re all little bastards. I mean that in the nicest way. Not bastards like you’re thinking. A nice bastard. [smile] Doesn’t make sense, does it? What really does? DEATH: I can think of a few things. INQUISITIVE: Nothing with definite answers.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Sam Pollak DEATH:

How about death. I’m not talking about life after death because I’m sure we can debate that. I’m talking about which way you’re going to die. Drowning is supposed to be the worse way to die. Your body naturally has convulsions; chocking for air. [pretends to choke] Contrary to the belief that being burnt alive is worse, the reality is that it isn’t that bad because once you get past your skin you don’t feel the pain and you just go into shock. Too familiar though. How about this, you’re taking a hike and all a sudden a bird with an irregularly long beak comes and stabs you right in the heart with it. No? Too unbelievable? Don’t you want to die in a fantastic way, like saving a child from being hit by a bus? How about you’re writing a book and you’re so tired that when you finish you fall asleep. As you fall asleep you go eye first onto the pen and it goes straight through your eye and punctures your brain and then you die of hemorrhaging? BUT! But because you died this way it ends up becoming the best novel in the world because people see it as a way of really dying for your art? Are you afraid to die? Afraid you are just going to decay and be gone? INQUISITIVE: But what if you had this. [pulls out money/object of symbolic importance] TEMPTATION: I could get another day with that. DEATH: Another day away from death. TEMPTATION: Another day away to fulfill my temptation. INQUISITIVE: Another day to ask questions. [All three hold the money and slowly going down] TEMPTATION: Another day to escape the past. INQUISITIVE: Another day to question the future. DEATH: Another day to live. ALL: Just one more day. [repeat until lights fade] [Blackout]

GRUBSTREET 2010

Kimberly K Rodda Call Me 250 461 733 Kimberly K Rodda

So sick and so tired of bleeding out time typing up papers so lifeless and cold that the only bit of genuine individuality detectable in them is the name on the top of the stretched-out M.L.A. formatted first page, no cover page. And then sometimes they black out even that. Cold and lifeless numbers, redefining—eliminating—my identity. The growing collection of essays: drafted, revised, handed back, spilling across the working space that is my desk. 1000 words. 1200 words. 4000 words. Though the sunny days are gone when I could call them my words. Now I can hardly tell anymore whether any are my own, or if everything I write is nothing more than a patchwork composition of all the texts—texts? forever the abstraction of texts and never the forgotten thrill of propping open a fully-there-and-concrete-tangible book and smelling the pages—I read day in and out. Too many dashes distract the reader: Learn first how to use the punctuation, then you can use it in your work, scrawled across the top of a paper [upon which] I toiled, wasted hours. The agonies of balancing rail-rod straight in an non-ergonomic chair at a fluorescent-lit desk; crinks in the neck that refuse to abate and already my eyes are failing. The skies shaking out snow all winter long and the long gray days that go on forever but never enough time to rest, until even spring seems like wishful thinking. And Procrastination becomes my middle name. I wonder sometimes if I’ll make it through my masters. Last Will and Testament: to my brother, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, though incomplete now, as one volume has gone mysteriously missing; to the English Department, all my accumulated notes from the past three years, soft and hard copies, to distribute as they see fit; to my friends, the novels on the top three shelves. The bottom shelf is theory and criticism—I doubt anyone will care to read any of that. Sell it to The Used Book Store, give any proceeds to the illiterate. Or the blind. Now, if you can excuse me, I have a few papers I have to finish. I would prefer not to. -------------So many words that used to spill gushing out of me, and now I have to rip them from the darker corners of my mind. I pick up the key phrases over and over again; soon I’ll be caught: plagiarism of self. Texts way down the shelves on my room. Texts, not stories. Heavy, mind-numbing texts. I think of gnarled hands scratching out theories on broadsheets for publication. Is there anything left to publish? Have the inkwells all run dry? My fingers cramp over computer keys. Then I gaze with dull and bloodshot eyes into distant points past the corners of lecture halls. Each year, deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine buildings. Windowless classrooms. My skin pale and wan from a Vitamin D deficiency. The coffee cup I clutch in my pen-blistered fingers is empty, and the coffee inside makes me jittery. And my frantic line of vision glances off at a boy, poised on the edge of his seat, scribbling madly, focusing completely on the droning voice of reason behind the podium. Reason made unreasonable by omission and repetition off on tangents making wildly westwards. What happened lately? Where have the lofty heights all gone? Can there be nowhere left to reach to? Have I been left behind on some ontological praecipe, and all the others flown away? The Professor stops droning. The boy stops writing. Leans back in the hard plastic of the chair. Papers strewn across the too-small desk over the carved-and-inked-in hearts and signatures and half-finished poetry. He breathes deeply, and his face makes a smile. And for a moment—a flash—I remember how it was To open a book And see stars.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Kimberly K Rodda He Pretends to Be an Artist He pretends to be an artist. Stands at an easel, splashing paint at a canvas. She finds them together in his studio. Blushing Nude. He calls it artistic license. She slams the door. And calls it trash. So much for romance.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Kimberly K Rodda Thoughts as Butterflies If I could only Capture at once All the thoughts in my mind At this one shattered moment, Spill them out onto paper, And fold the corners in and in and in to sit a diamond in my hand— Then I’d send it to you especially, so that you could maybe read and then with all my thoughts scattered out on the page in a pattern not like anything else ever written but all the words speaking just as they are meant to speak with nothing extra and nothing missing and nothing out of place; And as you read the words sounded out in your mind would peel butterfly wings off the page and flutter out your half-open window a kaleidoscope of colour against the forever of the sky, to fly off to wherever butterflies fly off to, And the sky might start to splinter With the butterfly-weight of the words Emptied out from the expanse of a mind Snowing softly with thoughts so elusive That I couldn’t ever capture them really— And still it lets me breathe, trying.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Kimberly K Rodda A View From My Window Angsty days— I stare out the window Watching the sun or the rain fall, as the case may be Trying to hear my heart breaking—rainy days most often— Over the sound of the raindrops breaking Against the deep black pool of pavement Below. Lean my forehead against the pane of the window, pressing the coolness into my mind. Then I can’t help thinking—knowing I shouldn’t—how awfully grand it would be to sink into my last year daydreams. Kicking up snow, holding mittenned hands, gasping for breath, in the crispness of the air, even at night, snow-turned-golden in the streetlight. Plunging pomegranates into cold water and sloughing off the chaff with our fingertips and the gleaming ruby seeds bursting sweet in our mouths. Isn’t there something supernatural about a pomegranate? Laughing and making affirmative noises, pretending to be completely absorbed by what is it you’re expounding upon when really I’m preoccupied with the warmth of your arm slung around me and your breath rising and falling counting heartbeats beneath the palm of my hand. Your breath on my throat and your kisses on my lips. Was I all the time only imagining? There’s a photograph I keep in a book on the shelf, folded between two pages (I won’t tell which book or what pages)—you and I leaning against that fence that runs along the farther side of campus, green wire fence, to keep the trees out. Someone cut letters out of notebook paper and shaded them in with pencil crayon: Y O U A R E B E A U T I F U L. I only take it out to look at on particularly angsty days, when I’d like to have a miserably good cry. My jeans are darkly wet up to the knees where the snow-melt’s bled upwards and the wind’s swept my hair in front of my face; your arm is around my waist and you look happy. Even on the angstiest of all my angsty days I have to try hard to keep from smiling Because outside my window there’s a girl with a yellow umbrella Splashing puddles in rubber boots, singing C’est presque printemps, presque printemps— Which means I’ll be seeing you soon.

GRUBSTREET 2010

David Rudner David Rudner

Golden Gate Bridge

GRUBSTREET 2010

David Rudner

River in Amsterdam

GRUBSTREET 2010

David Rudner

Reflections

GRUBSTREET 2010

Adam Shwartz Adam Shwartz

Thoughts About Whatever I think it happened when “how are you?” became “I know who you are from somewhere” “Good” turned into I don’t care to tell you, or Nothing most people would find interesting It's not autopilot but A kind of numbness On a bus, everyone should have something in common They are all on the same bus But nobody has anything to say People could talk about where they are going and how the same thing takes everyone somewhere completely different Instead headphones occupy minds and the silence fills the space Its quiet noise would be embarrassing Sound is not shameful but it would make you different For some reason floor tiles change colour from hall to room Splicing the hallway from the room It is the same floor but with a sign and a door Grows as different as its neighbors People like to make nothing special In the end nothing is special The sign above the door says EXIT It is the only door in the room The hallway did not say enter How did I get in here?

GRUBSTREET 2010

Adam Shwartz Door Man Is the man on the washroom door naked? The girl is wearing a dress. But the man is just an outline, nobody can be sure if he’s dressed. Apparently the major difference between boys and girls is clothes, If this were true we would probably pee in the same place. Maybe everyone is just an outline, And clothes colour us in. In that case I feel bad for nudists, But I’ll probably get over it. Some doormen are not drawings, It is their job to wear a uniform and stand by the door. Whoever is dressed the right way gets to protect whatever is on the other side. Do nudists have doormen? How could anyone protect the other side without a uniform? Would you listen to a naked doorman? He would be polite, reminding you that you’re free to do anything But you cannot go through the door. Freedom means less in cities with lots of doormen No matter how they’re dressed. Of course the man on the washroom is probably wearing pants. And I’ve wasted some of your time. You won’t get it back, and I don’t feel bad for you. I’m still worried about the naked men guarding our restrooms.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jennifer Rose Smuck Jennifer Rose Smuck

Taken From the Dunes of Juno Beach

Taken from the Dunes of Juno Beach

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jordan Alexander Stanton Jordan Alexander Stanton

That Job...Is Up To You "What the heck is that?" Mazer looked up from his artwork. "Dude! What's up?" Brian still couldn't tear his gaze from the tableau on the wall. "Nothin' really, but you still haven't answered my question. What is that?" he asked, pointing to the artwork. Adjusting his beanie, Mazer grinned back at him. "What do you think it is?" "The workings of a schizophrenic Maori." Mazer gave Brian a playful slap on the back. "You, my friend, just don't know art when you see it" Brian readjusted his belt. "You still haven't told me exactly what it is, or why you made it." "Do I have to tell you everything?" "No." "So what do you see?" "Looks like an advertisement of a brand... I don't know." "What the hell are you up to now Maze?" Nikki came trotting over. At 5'2", she was small, but her blazing fuchsia hair and her wild eyes complimented her fiery personality. "That's what I said" quipped Brian, putting his hand up for a high-five. Nikki â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;fived him with a satisfying smack. "You been smoking weed again?" Maze frowned "You guys are so close-minded. Open your eyes." Nikki and Brian both returned their gaze to the image sprawled on the concrete wall before them while Mazer returned the spray-paint cans to his backpack. "I think it says... atomic?" Nikki had a puzzled look on her face. Brian shoved her. "No way, it definitely says Arctic." "You're both right" "What?" They said in unison, turning to face Mazer. "This art is meant to be non-descript. It is meant to open your mind. What you see, what I see, what anyone sees is all different. And yet none of these interpretations are necessarily right or wrong. Just because this is my creation does not mean that I create the meaning behind it." Mazer grinned. "That job... is up to you."

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jordan Alexander Stanton Mountaintop Oasis At the top of a mountain where it constantly snows You will find an oasis where a quiet garden grows Natural dome of ice, light refracting a million rays Come and spend the hours with me, spend a hundred days They say that the worst feeling on earth is to be alone To be shut in the dark, suffer with a whimper, a moan Companionship is what you seek, my hand is what you need Lets go to the mountaintop oasis, from your life you'll be freed Here we are amidst the flowers, reflecting on what has passed Lying in the plains of grass, hoping forever this will last Place your hand in mine as we stare at the sky Who says to this Earth we should suffer a tie This time apart we spend, it's this that makes us stronger Leaves us with desperate need, to want it to last longer Palm in palm, feeling how weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re white knuckle gripped I promise you from this paradise we shan't be ripped All you need to do is relax, let the world float away With me beside you be assured that we'll be okay Yes my dear, we lounge here and waste the day You know that I love you, that's all I need to say.

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jordan Alexander Stanton

The Bench

GRUBSTREET 2010

Jordan Alexander Stanton

The Goose

GRUBSTREET 2010

Rebecca Ostrowski Rebecca Ostrowski

San Francisco, CA

GRUBSTREET 2010

Rebecca Ostrowski

SoHo, New York

GRUBSTREET 2010

Rebecca Ostrowski

Central Park, New York

GRUBSTREET 2010

Tom Walters Tom Walters

Mackerel Sky It was a Tuesday night and the earth was spinning at its normal speed, but no one in the room was taking notice. The night was like any other, darker than the daytime and a little cooler, but summer was just now ending and the air was calm and sweet. As the sun set, and streetlights began to flicker around the power lines, the lights in the houses slowly took their turns retiring for the evening. Sitting by a windowsill in the last lit house, casting shadows out on to the street like pennies into a fountain, sat two boys untouchable. Time stretched in the room where they sat. Twisting and slowing or speeding up at the boy’s will. The good times seemed to last forever, and the few moments of sorrow they had were quickly in the past before they had a chance to make any serious impression. As rooms go, this place was a haven for the bohemian and a refuse for the weary. Tapestries hung off the walls as tired skin tends to hang off exhausted bones but this simply served to emphasize the immortality of the boys inside this eternal bomb shelter. Glass bottles shimmered from all around and embers burned in ashtrays filling the room with a smoky quilt which dared the light to shine in from outside. As they danced around the room in the glow of space heaters and the shadows of the fresh dusk, they longed to push just that much further to whatever was beyond their room, without ever leaving. They strummed on ukuleles to fill the room to the fullest they dared, and when the air was packed tight, they ran together to the windows, throwing them open to make room for more. Returning to their respective couches the boys looked at each other briefly, before redirecting their gaze to the great stacks of comics strewn across a table that sat centered in the room. Grabbing at the top of the pile they each jumped into a tale of mythic heroism and for a moment the world of ink became their own. Leaping and screaming they ripped down the stairs shooting imaginary webs and throwing phantom lightning bolts in the other’s direction. The streets were bare except for a blanket of snow, in sharp contrast to the cityscape the boys were imagining, but this remained largely unnoticed. The boys leaped on tops of cars and scaled the power lines spraying onomatopoeias like live ammunition. The smaller of the two who had taken up the name Connor, planted his feet firmly atop a small red hatch back thrust one fist forward and shouted, “Bam! I fuckin’ got you that time man, looks like the end of the line for you” “Not a chance bud,” called back the other in his gruffest of gruff voices, “I’m gonna end you.” The smaller of the two recoiled with frustration. Leaping down from the car he strode towards his accomplice ready a final battle when he began to shiver. He had forgotten his coat on the way out the door and that was a mistake. In this town winter was nothing more than an extreme mood of the weather, which was seemingly bipolar. Quickly the banter decomposed into a sloppy snowball fight. Using cars as cover, the boys screamed and yelled and cursed for the empty street. In most neighbourhoods such a late night ruckus would attract negative attention from not only the neighbours but all those people who had locked themselves in doors for the night; this street was different for several reasons, the most physical of which was a yellow street sign up the block. Standing at the entrance to their narrow street was a diamond shaped sign that in black block letters read: Deaf Children Area. The sign had initially been a selling point for the neighbourhood simply for the strange almost obscene implications one might draw from such a novelty. After a few weeks living on the street, however, the boys realized the sign served a grander purpose. This overtly insensitive sign gave all on the street who would take advantage an exemption to be as loud as they wished, and all under the guise of possibly being deaf. While this exemption was not entirely thought out, the initial thrill the boys had experienced when concocting this excuse to scream still lingered, making any opportunity to take advantage a chance to holler at the top of their lungs. As the last of the boys’ energy drained away, snow from both sides of the immortal battlefield slowed; the taller of the two decided it was time to march up the stairs leading to their sanctuary amongst the power lines. As the elder of the two, he seemed at most times to be the wiser, although far less overt than Connor. As the wiser he had been rightfully given a name indicative of his lofty intellectual edge: Saint Ted (or just Ted for short) The next day started slowly, as days often tend to. Boys being what they are, morning after morning would they fought off the notion of spending the day silent and unmoving by hoisting themselves vertical. Today seemed

GRUBSTREET 2010

Tom Walters a particularly lengthy exercise of procrastination. Each having to individually go through the motions of ignoring the sunlight stampeding through their windows. Each, on their own, having to will themselves up and out of their respective corners of the house. Bored of these seemingly unimportant concerns, the boys returned to what they knew best. They sat in their spots on their respective corners of the room and began arguing the finer points of rolling a spliff. This discussion was quickly lost in a cloud of smoke. And so were the boys. The cloud persisted and people came and left; each contributing to the plume giving the ceiling the look of a mackerel sky that everyone in the house was oblivious to. The coming and going of the seemingly faceless strangers seemed, to the younger of the boys, little more than a pilgrimage, although no one seemed sure of the goal. These faceless strangers seemed to come from all over the admittedly small town, sometimes only for a few moments, to see the boys simply live their simple lives. Foolish enough to think that the waves of people came for their company, the boys were able to push any anxiety over the issue out of their minds and simply puffed and puffed and passed until the crowds left them be, and they were able to return to the corners of their rooms and sleep. Repetition was key in forming their routines. It is not difficult to see that this is usually the case in the formation of a routine, not a meticulous series of trial and error, not obsessive contemplation as to the effectiveness of repeated activity, but a comfortable numbing that slowly brings about a routine capable of distracting someone from anything new. And so it was, regardless of good intentions and the labour, the boys had put into cleaning the house when they had moved in. The cobwebs they had cleared away with such a clean sense of purpose had begun to form again and would grow if the spiders they belonged to continued with their own meticulous routines. No inclination to clean away the webs would come as long as the boys remained undisturbed. Live and let live may have become a clichĂŠ under the guise of good intentions but it remained a clichĂŠ because of the indifference of the lazy and the vicious convictions of those who wish to remain undisturbed. So the boys lay in their couches, each having laid claim to a particular spot and valleys formed beneath their weight in the cushions they had stolen from chesterfields on frat house lawns. This routine had been in practice for quite some time before Connor became conscious of the indifference he felt towards these would be pilgrims. He felt nothing towards them but was enthralled by their compulsion to be a part of his day to day activities. To say he was knotted up inside implies a level of introspection the boy was not capable of at this point in his life, but he was aware something was amiss. It seemed to him, the ability to routinely place one foot in front of the other, in the correct order, while finding his way around the home was, a feat of both locomotion and navigation far beyond his understanding. Every day he dangled his feet above the ground from his bed, unsure he would be able to decide where to go once his feet were planted. Everything leading up to this day seemed to be missing from his mind. The only thing he clearly remembered was the trip to the town that now encased him beneath an airtight film like a laminated moth. [starch, discipline, and disappointment]

GRUBSTREET 2010

Tom Walters Morning Glory Skidding into the bathroom, clad in ratty old sweats with a Jewish youth group insignia sewn onto the leg, he closed the door and started the shower. After turning on the stereo on top the toilet tank, he pulled the spliff out from behind his ear and eagerly lit the larger end. A low-fi guitar riff shook the porcelain thrown and a cloud of smoke went up to the low ceiling of the washroom. This was early morning spliff; the one and only morning glory that he knew of, and was eager to enjoy. Smoke continued to creep of the pale blue tiles lining the walls of the room and as the steam mixed with smoke, a haze filled the room, lingering around the South American style suns painted haphazardly on a few dozen of the tiles. Half way through the morning ritual smoking, he caught a glimpse of himself in the foggy mirror, swaying in place while the smoke rolled from his mouth to his nose and then out his mouth once more. The music seemed to respond to his swaying now, and full on dancing ensued. By the time the spliff had burned its way down, the boy was circling his arms like windmills, and two stepping. At some point during this euphoric spectacle, his sweats had flown his legs and landed in the far end of the bathroom, leaving him dancing in the nude, in a self induced haze. The song suddenly ends and there is nothing left to do but jump in the shower and wait for the next guitar riff to shake the room.

GRUBSTREET 2010