Grub Street Creation, Destruction, and Everything in Between
2012/2013 Edition
Grub Street
2012/2013 Edition
The Huron Literary Society
Grub Street 2012/2013 Edition ‘Creation, Destruction, and Everything in Between’
“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” - William Wordsworth
We at Grub Street and The Huron Literary Society wish to share the beauty of creative writing. All those who have work in this booklet have shown their souls through the words they put onto the page. It is for this reason that we are proud to share this year’s edition of Grub Street. - Caitlin Cooper, Michelle Taekema, and Sarah Harrison
Edited, Designed, and Created by: Caitlin Cooper, Michelle Taekema, and Sarah Harrison Contact: getlitsociety@gmail.com Sponsored by: The HUCSC at Huron University College Printed by: Double Q Printing and Graphics On the Cover: The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo Copyright © 2013 by Grub Street and the writers within Grub Street.
1 Free Fall
By: Sawayra Owais
You would assume I’m free Overflowing with liberty You would assume I feel safe But, it’s these venomous veins that chafe How I wish I were alive During the night and, Dead during the day
Yet, even though I’m fey Sooner than later Perhaps in the middle of the day That’s when my saviour arrives Desperate to discover the end I am tired of this life
A magnificent thing, assistant suicide I think, as I thrust myself closer to my ally Attempting to be more appealing
Oh, how lucky they are! As he goes pluck! pluck! Plucking along Ripping their hearts out Oh, he’s in a good mood today My hopes are high As I prepare for below But, unfortunately, Through my green eyes, I realize, I can still see My verdant envy glows
2 As I eye the free ones, down below This life is truly a thief But soon I will be free I am, after all, a leaf.
3
Grounded Hatchling
I have a broken left wing. The bone is cut clean through, flight feathers frayed and flustered: faulty. I cannot fly. Pricked by twigs and pine needles, I sit heavy in the nest, while others soar against the bright blue sky and drift through weightless clouds, lifted by strong winds, while I make do with stagnant air
Maybe I could fly. It would be more like falling; spinning downwards in circles –the dog chasing his tail – getting nowhere, nowhere but the ground; the rush of the wind, over too soon. Caw. Caw. Splat. Silence. Dead.
Even the blind mole can dig and dig and dig and wiggle his nose in the dirt and he can’t even see. But I can see the blue and the green and the sky and the clouds and the trees and the world that I can’t touch
The worms I eat lack flavour, have only half the taste; I’ve never smelt the cool ground after a fresh morning shower, nor felt the cold wind through my feathers
I do not touch, nor taste, nor smell But I think
And nurse my broken wing.
By: Evan Pebesma
Made-in-China Souls By: Brent Holmes
4
Were the Baby Boomers made in God’s image? Did Adam and Eve climb trees and work to get their food before the Devil in a slick tuxedo showed them a Wal-Mart where they could get it for less? Was the real original sin Creation’s attempt to outsmart the world or have we evolved with our texting thumbs into creatures no longer a part of creation? Will God get lead poisoning from our Made-in-China souls when he plays with us in Heaven? Will Jesus have buyer’s remorse when he sees that free salvation produces a mentality that does not value it? Who will buy a Made-in-China soul and let their children play with it? I heard once that the Chinese have millions and millions of refrigerators stockpiled somewhere. There will never be a refrigerator shortage. I’ve got faith; I believe. I don’t know in what but I’ve got it stored somewhere. In one of those refrigerators in China. I don’t know which one, but I know it’s there. There will never be a faith shortage. There will be no bust cycle: just constant booming, constant banging. A human with arms raised high in constant soulgasm as the guitarist sings the same vese for the twenty-fourth time. A singer holding a note for an eternity. A facebook status for every second of the day.
5 A cheaper price for apples.
A real Protestant work-ethic. A Christianity where God has to work in a sweatshop to make a cheaper theology for your Made-in-China soul.
6
The Museum of Yesterday By: Sean Gilmore
They say that the last flower was picked just the other day. They say you can see it for a charge, behind a frozen glass display. They say it’s preserved in a case, that protects it from disease Inside of the natural science museum, very last tree. For in there it will remain safe, and flourish naturally while it’s injected with a daily doses of synthetic sun beams. For it’s a new mark of beauty and one for the masses to observe, Just like the petrified whales at the “Museum of See World”. It’s a spectacle for all, in fact you don’t have to travel far. To find it just ask your GPS, it’s “where all the wild things are”. Just take a U-turn at imagination and cross the bridge of yesterday, Pay the toll of moderation, and a receive the change of better ways. So come see the newest installment of natural display and observe the things we take advantage of for a limited time only. But make sure you buy in advance, for the tickets, they go fast. Why. what’s that you have there child? Why, it’s the last blade of grass.
7
Curvature
my body curves around yours, our naked chests pressed against each other. your arm circles around my waist, and i melt into that spot i know too well.
we lay for a few moments, soaking in each other’s company before time rudely rips us apart.
you stand up, begin to dress, leaving me tucked beneath your sheets, admiring every little way your body moves
we say nothing, a smile of contentment, a sigh of pleasure, and a kiss of love.
this is the way we were meant to be, this is the time i admire most, the hushed conversations we have when my eyes tell the tales of how much i love you.
By: Christine Gruenbauer
8
Novel
Make me into a novel.
Make us into a novel.
Our arms are the covers, our passion is the bindings. Our future is the dedication to the story of our findings.
Make this into a novel.
The pages feel of ecstasy, the words taste of adoration. We will read this story in our every incarnation.
By: Caitlin Cooper
Your lips are the pen, your love is the ink. My skin is the paper on which your words sink.
9
The Passage of Time By: Kerrie Winegarden
The passage of time is now measured in increments of longing. Do I want you now as much as I did yesterday? Yes, and forever. Nostalgia consumes me. I search for you in memories, constantly. As often as I breathe, my mind works on your resurrection. Inside I have you. Outside, I have shadows that dance away as I grasp for their hands. They tease me with a cloud of your scent when no one is around. They make me see your face on a body that isn’t yours. I turn quickly, only to find that you have vanished once more. Sometimes I dial your old number. At the cottage, the answering machine still has a recording of your voice. I don’t tell anyone this. Perhaps we all keep it from one another in hopes that no one will think to move on and erase it. I kept an assortment of things that you left behind: Pots, candles, empty perfume bottles, a bracelet that I bought you for Christmas. Many years later, I realize that most of what I took was meaningless.
The only thing that I needed was the knowledge that they once belonged to you. I have parted with much of it now, but I still have something of yours in every room of my house. I keep waiting, counting days and years in moments without you, for you to leave me completely. I dread that moment while also yearning for it. If I could forget then I could be free.
10
11
Ms.
By: Bailey McKenny
Me and my dear love Lit candles I stood at the alter Alone He never came to take my hand I waited for him To come to me Hoped That soon he would start to see That he is the one And I love him
So I go home With champagne And my dress Waiting years for him In this mess
My ivory dress Does fade to gray My finger is naked Sometimes a dream
That he is still here Beside my bed He takes my hand, kissing it softly Loving me once more
When I wake my eyes are sore What had I expected? My tired body slides to the floor Because I don’t know What it is I wait for
12 The champagne bottle smashed at my side Its jagged edges gleam I found the answer to my dream
13
That Summer in London
That summer in London every phone box I tried was occupied by tourists posing to be photographed which is why I never called and anyway we both already knew that there was nothing left to say
Alba
When morning comes you will at last be here your nascent lover doubtless drowsing still beneath his twisted sheets. The morning sun will cut the sun-worn blinds; the dew upon the window glistens; shrouds of mould spread slow upon the sill. Your place beside him there will yet be warm, as from his arms you come to me, where even now I wait for you. Yet soon you will take tea and toast in bed, throw up the blind, and greet the day. Then I’ll pack up the implements, transcriptions of confessions, picture postcards of our hate, and in a breath we will abandon these distinctions of betrayer and betrayed.
By: Caleb Armstrong
By: Caleb Armstrong
14
Paint Swatches
By: Bryton McKinnon Part I I couldn’t sleep last night. At 3:30am I walked into my frightened friend Who lay coiled on my couch. She was in London for a couple days.
“My thoughts keep coming and I’m frazzled as the frizz.”
“What I like doing is taking all my thoughts, And painting over them. Take a roller, and paint one colour. Then fixate on that colour and nothing else.”
I agreed I’d do just that in my exhausted, illusive state. I felt asleep soon thereafter.
Part II I left the downward dog classroom Where I sat atop the Unprepared practice Hearing the professionals. The compassion in their eyes Seemed weakened by the Textbooks they’d read And that I’d lived.
The triggers reverberated from gunshots In the quiet, somber sadness As people furiously scrawled notes Seeing a new world burden blossom
I felt my face tense, nose run, and eye lids Take on the weight on a new atmosphere. I reached into my pocket. You sat there in all your honesty
15
Telling me about the makeshift blanket fort you made The hashtag read #yesiam25 I brazenly yet gracefully dashed to the door Not wanting to interrupt the second-hand learners
I escaped to a board room. Cold with mahogany and leather. I sat out of sight, looking up at the egg-shell decor I felt showed that cracks of my psyche How beautiful it looked. I wonder what was on the underside
Part III I remembered a whole 2nd year of psych I spent filling multiple choice tests and spending my spare time Between entertainment and catharsis writing.
I looked up, and remembered his breathe-a-stench. The neck-grabs that grinded me to halts even after he left.
I remembered how I’d beaten him unlike he’d beat me. In mental endurance, strength and humility.
I remembered my friend’s salty tears infused in the wool. The fabric was radioactive. It protected her, was meant to comfort.
The interview she had in two hours meant nothing Though I pretended it did. I pointed all my attentive mights at her. And dragged her thoughts from her mother Who lay dying in the Kingston hospital.
I said, “you’re a historian! You’re academically adept to self-importance. Just tell them about how awesome you are.”
16
That’s when I took her paint roller. She was so close to falling into a wholesome colour swatch. I ripped the rough, cloth lengthwise and padded the aluminium steps. Brought her down from the ladder she’d climbed In her post-secondary handedness. I escorted her down. One hand on hers. The other on the paint-roller reminding us, “We’re not alone.”
17 Fleeting Thought By: Sarah Harrison
Her brittle white-speckled hands – the skin raw, dried blood emerging from dark crevasses – run across the faded yellow fast food napkin, the black ball point pen threatening to tear apart its muse. She thinks such dark, beautiful thoughts at work, splattered in ketchup and fake smiles, smelling of cleaning chemicals and French fries. So she plays her part, and diligently carries the roll of paper towel, and blue multi-purpose cleaner, and white and red bleach, into the deserted bathroom with an abused urinal and handicap stall – there, all while being paid $9.60 an hour, she catalogues all her witty, devilish phrases. All her deep, transcendent thoughts, that flitted into her mind while she was firing through brown salty trays.
Somehow the monotony made her spirit speak to her sweet observations that obligated her to return to her secret closet, with ears perked for the sound of a door or the scuffle scuffle of feet, ruining her floors, interrupting her process.
Of course she could never write like this at home or anywhere but the yellow, smiling napkin. At home her mind became blank, awake, and nothing else. It was like a thick smoke suddenly seeping through an open window, leaving her only with a cold breeze. She would have gone mad by now without the release, but what upset her most was that the words could run away, like they never needed her at all – they chose her as a muse, then left her corpse for a more suitable body; it seemed evident, at least, they did not live in her – so she must, sneak and write and always carry napkins and pens.
I am not that girl. This is not that napkin. I am at home in bed, wishing for my words to choose me again, wondering where they live without me. That girl would be fired, or at least that’s what I tell myself, to keep me from being that girl. My mind is blank and numb.
And none of this had a point.
Because she doesn’t exist, and I’ve lost the words.
18
The Crumbling Crown
A self proclaimed liberator and by his own nature, a dictator. And by some twisted vision of reality, he sees himself as a king, living contently.
With or without a queen, his life draped with silk and cashmere, so comfortable and pristine. Not once did he believe the streets would be filled with his own people to have his palace under siege. He was always too preoccupied with his power, wealth and prestige.
And now his streets are flooded with the angry masses, of his own country. To shake and destroy his foundations, to throw him off this ladder of hierarchy. And as he falls down, so does his crumbling crown. To rip him out of his delusion, to end his tyranny
By: Tarek El-Chabib
He now finds himself amongst his own people, knee deep into something‌ Revolutionary. Something, far greater than he will ever be, victim and witness to the unity of an entire country
Witness to a people’s frustration, victim to the unity of an entire nation. As he walks away from his people, defeated. On a brokepiece of gold, a reflection of himself he begins to see. A remembrance of his delusional fantasy, of a time that used to be. He places the broken pieces of the crown, onto the ground. The same land, which he once ruled. He then thinks to himself:
19 “These people should not be fooled! If history were to repeat itself, someone will come back and put these pieces back together. If these people are not careful. The crown will return more corrupt than ever.�
20
Pairs
By: Hana Niwari
They stood ten feet apart, facing each other. Their eyes were locked on each other, all their surroundings irrelevant. Not the people mattered, nor the trees, the rustling wind, or the rain. It was all part of a different scene, almost as if the background noises were something playing on a TV screen far away in the corner. All that mattered was the two of them. Oh, and the gun in between them, that was sort of important too. One pair of eyes was almost sparkling with amusement, although it was plain to see that their owner was struggling to tuck away all emotion and maintain neutrality. It wasn’t working very well. The other pair of eyes was guarded, tense, and apprehensive. “Do it. Come on, I’m just standing here,” the voice was light, calm, as though discussing the weather, “You know I won’t hurt you. . . not yet anyway.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Yes you do. You know you do.”
“You’re better equipped to answer that than I am, aren’t you? I wouldn’t trust me if I were you,” the thin lips quirked up in a smirk. “But you do trust me.” Once more, silence lapsed, but the silent communication going back and forth between their eyes never stopped. Questions, comments, concerns, and thoughts, all was present. But then it all stopped. Neither could really pinpoint when exactly it happened, but something changed. Both pairs of eyes went dead, malicious.
And then the gunshot went off.
21
Star Light, Star Bright By: Taylor Calder
They burst like tiny stars and when they did they screamed. A scream that didn’t end even after the star had died and the dust had fallen from the air to show you the emptiness that remained. A vanishing act, and there was always another to follow it. And another. And another. Pummeling. Ripping. For hours the bombs fell. Flesh and glass and concrete shredded, transformed back into raw nothing. It was August 21st, 4:26 AM, and we were being freed.
My sister was the first to go. It happened between blinks. I thought she had found shelter from the explosion until I saw her left hand and her right foot twenty meters apart. As though each part of her body had tried to escape, but in a different direction.
At first I wanted to cry but the dust wouldn’t let me, so I laid there, taking shelter in the womb of a crumbled building, until I realized that it was actually quite nice how had she died.
Think of all the stress and sadness and disappointment locked inside the chest of one person. A burden they must always carry around. And hers was gone in a burst of light. Evaporated. Too quickly for it to hurt.
The second one was a stranger. An old man. Confused and bewildered in the street, I watched him wonder back and forth for half an hour before a blast caught him.
Idiot, I thought. He deserved it.
It was an hour before I saw the third. The third one was a child.
I don’t know how old he was – 10, maybe. Old enough to understand the risks.
And yet I saw him walk into the street as though it were a wondrous dreamscape, the bombs and death belonging to some other world. His face was clean. His clothes were new. The city was glowing orange, and not only from the fire. It was daybreak.
22 He looked at me, and smiled. And then he died. And I was jealous. Jealous that he got to leave so peacefully. A lifetime a pain awaited him and it had it been swept away, like crumbs f rom a table. You bastard, I thought. I shook with rage. I had enough. I crawled out from the rubble and walked into the street. It was my time. I deserved it as much as anybody else. I was the one who was forced to lay there, curled up under the layers of concrete, and watch the three of them have their suffering permanently removed. I saw all of it. I still saw chunks of them scattered among the wreckage. I still heard the bombs scream.
It was my time. I spread my arms and looked up at the orange sky, waiting for the stars to take me.
And that’s when the screaming stopped.
The bombing was over. It had left without me.
I tried to yell but only dust came out, and when I cried my tears were black and painful, thick with soot. Buildings burned in the distance. People began to leave their shelters. And still I stood in the street, weeping. As the orange sky turned dark purple, the color of a bruised corpse, I thought of all that it had taken to make this city, and all that it would take to make it again. It would take time. The hands that would do it were not yet born. But one day the scar tissue would be gone, the corpses and the rubble, and no one would ever know that on one August morning, at this very spot, three people had been turned to dust, and another one had died.
Long ago, the Sun burned as it watched our cities begin to rise. That day I saw the opposite.
23
Moon Rock Candy By: Elorah Fangrad
There are small, simple pleasures in life we never really think much of until we can no longer have them. I began to learn this many years ago, when I was young and still on Earth.
One smoggy summer morning in the month of June, I strolled out of the house with twenty-five cents in my pocket. The sun was dim in the ash-choked sky, and fires blazed on the outskirts of the city. I did not regard any of it. I was too young to know of the disasters that had struck Earth in the past years. I was only focused on the candy that I could buy at the United Government Confectionery. As I skipped down the blackened sidewalk, I imagined ordering a swirly vanilla cone, but I soon remembered that there was no more cold left for ice cream since the Sun came too close. The scarce candy that was left would be good enough.
A tiny tarnished brass bell jingled when I opened the Confectionery’s heavy wooden door and slipped inside. The shelves were nearly bare, only stocked with tins and packages of candy that were from before. The tall glass jars on the counter only held a few pieces of handmade candy now, and they were strange crackled, sugardusted grey confections. A dusty paper label read, moon rock candy— 25¢. I removed the lid from the jar and pulled out one of the treats. I then noticed that the shopkeeper was absent. It appeared that he hadn’t been in for a long time. now realized that the checkered floors were coated with grey ash and the cabinets’ windows were grimy. My heart sank.I had desperately wanted something sweet, something different from the tasteless government rations. I should have known that there would be nothing left.
I turned to leave, but from the corner of my eye, I saw a glowing light emanating from the back room. It was white, blindingly bright, pulsating and hypnotic. My feet spun me around and scuffed across the floor, carrying me to it. I peered into the doorway and saw nothing but light. A deafening whirring tapped into my head, blanking out my thoughts. The storeroom’s candy floated up into the air and hovered. An intense heat wave surrounded me, singeing my
24 hair and making my protective yellow raincoat uncomfortably hot. The floating candy bubbled and dripped molten sugar. Out of the light came a silver wall inscribed with hieroglyphics of some alien language that shimmered and transformed before me. There was an open doorway at its centre. The place beyond looked dark, like our moonless, starless sky, but it was beckoning. A voice from behind me, in front of me, everywhere, commanded, Walk. Don’t be afraid, child. Go through the door. This is your last hope. . .our last hope. The world is ending. I stood shakily, clenching the moon rock candy. It liquefied, dripping out from between my fingers. The grey droplets splattered on the floor into a constellation that I knew well from the nights years ago when I could sit outside with a telescope and see all of the twinkling stars. Beyond this is salvation. Come with us. Look out on the streets. The final firestorm has come.
I glanced out the Confectionery’s front windows. All that I could see was ash and smoke. The sirens and screaming were quickly choked out. It was the worst yet. Fear struck me as I realized that there was no escape this time.We had always been hiding from the storms, but knew that eventually they would kill everything on Earth. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to die along with everyone else and all hope. But what if there was a new place, just like this one, where everyone else was? Was the doorway a portal to another universe? Had everyone else went into this portal to save themselves, and I’d missed it, staying inside? I turned back to the portal and reached out cautiously. “Will it be better than this?”
Do not question us. We are saving you.
I stepped forward. I, the world, and all of its candy were consumed in a searing flash of light. Now I watch the world from a new place. The stars and galaxies are spread out before me, mapped out in glowing green holograms. Heat-proof, shatter-proof, tinted glass protects me from the Sun’s heat but allows me to see the Earth burning in a ball of fire.
25 The past thirty years have been lonely with only three other humans on board, but the alien race I have never seen and still barely understand has been kind enough to provide me with as many comforts of home as possible. I am thankful now for my spacious home on Earth and the beauty it once had. When we find another planet to repopulate on, I hope that everything can be the way it once was, but I don’t know if it will matter because life on Earth seems like a distant memory now.
I have everything I need to survive here for a very long time, and I am happy to have survived, but sometimes I have an unexplainable longing for just one small piece of moon rock candy.
Grub Street thanks all those who contributed to this booklet, including its staff members and their club, The Huron Literary Society.
A special thank you to the wonderful writers.
Copyrights remain with the writer(s) who grants Grub Street permission to publish their work. No part of this journal may be reproduced without explicit consent of the writer(s) and editor(s). Any opinions or views expressed in Grub Street are solely those of the writers and do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of the staff at Grub Street, The Huron Literary Society, or Huron University college.