The "Metamorphosis" Issue 2.2

St. Thomas More College’s literary magazine since 1995

The “Metamorphosis” Issue

Vol. 26, No. 2.2 March 2022

in medias res is a student-led literary magazine at St. Thomas More College that aims to publish content to reflect the identities of the campus community, its complexities and diversities. Our mission is to be a forum for community expression that showcases the high-quality work of artists in the University of Saskatchewan community.

Our title describes the experience of university life, in which we are always caught “in the middle of things.”

What are you thinking about? What worries you? What moves you? We want to hear the artistic voices that make up our community and help put their work out into the world.

EDITORIAL BOARD Editor-in-Chief Hannah Tran Fiction Editor Annie Liu Nonfiction Editor Olivia Kerslake Poetry Editor Douglas Barclay Visual Art Editor Aeydan Yee Associate Editor Jenna Roesch Brand Manager Kyungsoo Ryu Events Manager Chloe Hunchak Visual Art Team Breena Hebron Namya Jain Staff Advisor Linda Huard

Our office is located in room 158 of St. Thomas More College in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. We acknowledge that we are on Treaty 6 Territory and the Homeland of the Métis. We pay our respect to the First Nations and Métis ancestors of this place and reaffirm our relationship with one another.

As part of their mission statement, St. Thomas More College says that “the work of our college is not an end in itself, but must find application for the good of humanity.” We ask all readers to consider how they benefit from settler institutions such as the university and how they can apply their learning not towards maintaining the status quo but instead towards change and meaningful reconciliation.

Cover Art | River of Stars – 星河

by Suki Yu Photograph by Namya Jain Watercolour, acrylic and mixed media (silica gel, rice paper, paper towel, plastic wrap, gold foil) on canvas 30.5 x 91.5 cm

Illustrations by Breena Hebron Namya Jain

Visit us online at stmcollege.ca/imr Visit us on social media @inmediasresstm Contact us at inmediasres@stmcollege.ca

The views expressed in this publication do not necessarily represent those of the in medias res editorial board.

Individual copyrights belong to the contributors.

EDITOR’S NOTE Dear readers, As a university community, we are accustomed to the rapid changes of university life. Immersing ourselves in academia, we come out as people with new character, values and ideas.

This winter, we asked contributors to think about these changes, and what we found was that there is no good way to define metamorphosis — so much so that we are excited to release our second-ever double issue of in medias res. “Metamorphosis” 2.1 and “Metamorphosis” 2.2 demonstrate a diversity of metamorphoses that we were unable to contain in a single publication. We hope you take the time to read the full anthology and appreciate the vulnerabilities that our contributors have taken the time to share.

In the pages ahead, members of our university campus — undergraduate students, graduate students, staff and alumni — explore metamorphosis in ways we never could have imagined. Using fiction, nonfiction, poetry and visual art, our contributors demonstrate the ebbs and flows of our ever-changing lives.

As you read through “Metamorphosis,” ask yourself: What changes have you undergone in your life?

What or who have you seen transform before your very eyes? What feelings have mutated within you as you felt them? Which of your relationships were born or lost before you even knew it? Have you ever looked in the mirror, suddenly not knowing who you were anymore?

These are the questions that this issue contends with, as it spans diverse themes including love, gender, heartbreak, self, nature, relationships, family, growth, art and more.

Ironically, “Metamorphosis” also highlights that change is paradoxically one of the most constant occurrences in human life. Indeed, this issue’s intertextual nature draws inspiration from across the centuries, ranging from Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” (8 AD), Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis (1915), Earle Birney’s “Vancouver Lights” (2006) and Daniel Caesar’s Praise Break (2014).

This is the last issue of in medias res with the 2021-2022 editorial board, and we can truly say that we — and our magazine — have gone through a metamorphosis in putting together this issue. Learning from our mistakes and growing from the challenges we have faced, we are proud to present the “Metamorphosis” issue as evidence that we, too, have changed.

These changes, of course, would not be possible without the collective support of our editorial board, our talented contributors, those who help promote our magazine, St. Thomas More College and our readers. We thank you for your support and appreciate all you do to support the literary arts.

“Metamorphosis” asks you to contemplate processes of change — the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly and everything in-between.

With that in mind, I hope that this issue brings metamorphosis to your life, if only for a brief minute.

Hannah Tran Editor-in-Chief | 2021-2022

Table of Contents Fiction

Nonfiction

12-13 The Nursery

by Herman Aamir

2-3

19-25 Thief

by Kristine Scarrow

16-17 Why the Dead Matter: Virtually Digging Up the Past

by Fawkes Becker

Poetry 1

my beloved crumbs

by Beatrice-Grace Domingo

5

Joni

by Ashlynn Weisberg

6 6 8-9 11 15 27

Magic Mushroom Romance

by Kaitlyn Clark

Visual Art Cover River of Stars – 星河

by Suki Yu 4

An Over-Shadow

by Olive Scott

[01101110 01101111 01101110] Bones

by Challen Gladman

7

Imitation

by Sarah Kelly

This was me someday.

by Narges Porsandekhial

10

The Fruit and the Water

by Nolan Long

Beautiful Demise

by Renelle Morelli

10

A Long Time Coming

by John Cody

Change of Heart

by Breena Hebron

14

annus mirabilis - a notable year

by Monique Martin

18

Cocoon

by David Sanscartier

26

Petunia

by Kas Rea

26

Sugar, Chocolate Icing, and Change (2022)

by Jasmine Redford

The Wind

by Tania Alazawi Let it Go

by Bethani Jade

28-29 Dear Friend,

by Emily Lischynski

To learn more about the featured authors and artists, hear their thoughts on their pieces and learn where to find them online, check out their bios at the end of this issue.

POETRY

DOMINGO

my beloved crumbs

BY BEATRICE-GRACE DOMINGO

A sigh escapes my eyes when I look up from my hands.

I see my nocturne star rise and peak without me.

I thought the world woke up while I slept in the afterglow.

The fiery pupil dulls red behind The bleak midwinter canvas and my frosted window sill.

I no longer believe in mornings.

New beginnings have only laughed at the tears on my sheets, the coffee on my table, and the sleep under my lids.

When Kafka knocked at my door, he asked me, “Do poets dream to be loved?”

My lips shed a tear to frame a response.

“If poetry was a feast, My love dearly kisses my cheek while insects crown my last supper.”

He nodded, clinking his red against mine.

As the drink slides against my mandibles, I burrow beneath my paper blankets for the last time.

/ 01

NONFICTION

CLARK

Magic Mushroom Romance

BY KAITLYN CLARK Trigger warning: Drug use

Burt’s Bees lip balm, a black BIC lighter, the barcode on the bottom of a plain white mug and a ten of clubs stare back at me. I lay stargazing from the coffee-stained rug underneath the glass-top coffee table they rest upon.

A voice nearby calls to me in vibrations — the other half of a relationship that was planted on the premise of “Why not?”

I inch out like a caterpillar and the lip balm tips over. ⁂ He has a glow about him that makes the beige loveseat we share begin to disappear. His pupils have dilated into cosmic black holes, opening and drawing me in like the moon to the Earth. His breath gets heavier, as does mine — we flood the air in synchronicity. Our muted thoughts swim above us amidst invisible dust particles. I can smell his walls; he can taste my curiosity. We invade each other’s space, crawling under skin and propping up each other’s arm hairs from opposite ends of an invisible couch.

Sensory overload.

As the innervation spreads, our presence suffocates one another. We fight to resist what might happen if we actually touched. ⁂

02 \

Our combining shades of skin sink into a limitless void where emotions have become the governors of time.

I’m crying. I don’t think he’s there yet — his feelings still choke on masculinity. But he absorbs my tears, nonetheless. I cry about nothing by crying about everything I never could cry about. He soaks it all up, catching every single drop of nothing.

My dirty blonde hair is filled with snot and points in all directions. I’ve ingested nature’s forbidden fungus and am growing wild just the same.

He says I look sublime in slime. ⁂ The sun is setting so we retreat to the bathroom for illumination.

I avoid looking at myself in the mirror until I find myself really looking at myself in the mirror — a risky move.

We stand side by side, his shoulder just above mine. Our bodies, golden. Our skin’s salt sparkles and our youth shines brighter than our stress lines.

I feel as though I’ve just emerged from a swim in the ocean, both cooled off and not cold. The strands of my hair fan out like the sun’s rays, generating electric-

NONFICTION

ity like a power source. He’s motionless, but his mind sprints. Through our reflections, I search his cosmic eyes and ask, “What do you feel?”

With the rise of his chin, a tear falls down his face. He radiates a potential to open up. I burn beside a version of him he has yet to meet.

His emotions speak without sound. Desperate to excavate the unsaid, I venture into the dark in search of a pen and paper.

“Don’t follow me,” I shout. “It’s scary out here, stay where you are.”

I’m not afraid of the dark, but my immediate independence makes my heart beat like a runner’s fast feet. Without sight, I use my hands and imagination like instincts. I feel each crack along the walls until I bump my knee into what I think is my desk. Loneliness continues to loom over me, its bony fingers weighing on my shoulders. My cold yet sweaty hands drift like crashing waves across the desk’s surface until I find what I’ve been looking for.

I hand him a dehydrated blue highlighter and a City of Saskatoon envelope, then tell him to start digging. ⁂ Holding hands, we step barefoot into the dark.

Unable to see anything, we see each other anew. His silhouette glows a deep red and blue and hums around his every groove. Mine is light green surrounded by a layer of light blue. I know this, somehow.

Our incarnated human essences have vanished, but we’ve emerged with colour in darkness — even if it has yet to be deciphered.

CLARK

⁂ We lie in bed, and I stare back at the full moon that sits in the top left windowpane. As it transitions into each new pane, crossing each border, I witness each stage of the moon’s life before my eyes. Again and again, it transforms — sometimes for worse and sometimes for better.

I ask him about the envelope: “Can I read it?”— read you. He tells me no, maybe later.

I howl for the moon so I can tell it that I want him to say the unsayable, say the most human of things. But the mundane rises with the sun. He’s fallen asleep, tucked in tight. I want his sheets to unfold.

What felt like weeks was maybe five hours. I whisper, “I love you ’til the sun dies.” ⁂ It’s been many moons later and we haven’t stopped looking at ourselves in the mirror. Increase the level of abstraction to a mirror, and it becomes the possibility for transformation.

We drink coffee from plain white mugs and he deals me a ten of clubs. Not knowing what he will deal me next, I surrender to the uncertainty.

But my lips aren’t chapped anymore and I no longer feel like smoking.

/ 03

VISUAL ART

[01101110 01101111 01101110] Bones

by Challen Gladman Paper, acrylic, graphite, and English Breakfast tea 14.5 x 20 cm This piece expresses the personal journey of its queer, non-binary artist to transform their internal sense of self into something visible and artistic.

As a genderless being in a societally gendered mortal form, Challen’s everyday experiences with erasure — interpersonal, sociocultural, architectural, medical, legal, and even internal (though they’re working on that last one!) — inspire them to turn themselves inside out on the page and ask: Where is the binary in these bones? They hope that this painting will inspire other enbies (and allies!) to do the same.

04 \

GLADMAN

POETRY

WEISBERG

Joni

BY ASHLYNN WEISBERG After Praise Break by Daniel Caesar Violet in the goddamn sun, days gone by, I remember you.

Your tongue in my ear, now and then you miss it, you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

Did you see me, on that signboard that sits in between our beginning and end?

The crows bring to me roses, pouring wine into the river.

You seem to enjoy a pseudo-life, filled with silence, pride will swallow you.

Vinegar smiles and eyes caked with purple haze, drunk on fame and falsity.

Can you see me?

Do I move as a vision for you, an apparition, clothed in lace and daisies?

Speak me into dust, forgive my fragrance.

You didn’t believe me, when I said I was born between venus and mercury.

Violet in the goddamn sun, days gone by, I remember you.

I wrap my overgrown tendrils like ivy around your memory, how cloth hung, pressed against the crease, an offer unripe, a rind refusing to break.

Crumbs on my chest, he burned himself alive for me, hand on the stove, I still bleed.

Settle in the morning, the ashes of demons made a fool, pseudo men on pedestals.

Ripen at the source, drip from the mountain overspill. Take a bite, days gone by.

Do you remember me?

/ 05

POETRY

SCOTT / KELLY

An Over-Shadow

BY OLIVE SCOTT Ghost along the wall where light refracts semi-gloss state. Someone is there.

Before you sleep, dance with your shadow.

Small beauty of a narrow body, outlined.

You are surprised you think of her like this.

Shape in Stygian, no flaws found there.

Shadow girl, phantom girl, umbra marrow, squid-ink skin, willow body, a foreign spirit within.

Undress. Even under your gaze, she is a nude, glamorized by one lone witness.

This bold figure, a stranger still, is swift to follow; free of will, sewn as she is to you.

How sweet and somatic it must be to split from your melancholic vessel.

She could be any woman, and yet she is you.

Twin forms dare not remain two.

Imitation

BY SARAH KELLY I don’t know many things about the way we should live about mastering each day a resurrection to mimic the light’s ascension all I know is when the sun slants shade on my body when my skin falls heavy on the horizon I will have sung of its sweet embrace and hung wide the wings we rise in then to be short of heights Icarian falling from peak ascension this persistent resurrection

06 \

is overcome by moon’s faded sorrow

VISUAL ART

PORSANDEKHIAL

This is me someday.

by Narges Porsandekhial Acrylic on unstretched canvas 18 x 26 cm This was me someday. refers to the surprising feeling of facing yourself in different stages of life. Trying to accept that you are still the same person and the changes you have witnessed are a part of you, the artist accepts the inconvenient nature of metamorphosis.

/ 07

POETRY

LONG

The Fruit and the Water

BY NOLAN LONG My dual occupation with these two enchanting bodies, Being torn in two from the inside out, my tongue forking itself Down the middle, splitting with blood splattering.

Eyes darting from the space above me, filled with lush life And the oceanic rivers under me, I am entirely divided.

With his arms outstretched between paganism and the divine, Adam would not have known such indecision, More enraptured with division than the choice itself.

Union crumbles into dust, and is no longer seen.

Like an ass caught between food and drink, Or a child between his mother and father, I stand like a Taoist, one arm stretched up And caressing the skin of an apple above me.

The other reaching down, fingertips licking the lapping water.

I am surer of unsureness than one or the other.

But in my death, as in my life, torture must run its course eventually, And it finds its life in my rotting soul by inspiring biased proclivity.

My salivating mouth aches with anticipation as my hand Plucks a ripe apple from the branch above me and brings it to my lips.

Biting into it, I feel the sweet and glorious juices fall down my face, Running like rain down my body.

I lick the cavity I have bitten into the fruit, Running my tongue along the indents of my own teeth.

But as I take my second bite, something has changed, For that fruit is now entirely bitter, and harbours no sweetness.

When I open my eyes from pleasure to dissatisfaction, I see that the character of the fruit is different now: It is covered in brownish bruises, and its flesh is dripping with blood.

08 \

POETRY

LONG

I look above me at the branches which have yielded such A contradictory nourishment, being sweet and bitter at once, But that greenery has receded so far in my temporary infatuation That I can no longer make out its character.

Only blurry distortions of what was once clear to me, And a sickly reminder in my hand of all that I know for sure.

I cast that bitter apple out in the wastelands ahead of me, And watch it bounce out of sight.

To know such a sweetness only once, and then to have it taken from me, What a terrible curse, which I would not have remain beside me.

But in its absence, and in the tree’s stealing away, I grow lonely, And what’s more, I grow incredibly parched, As though the juices of that apple were keeping me alive.

In the absence of one, I no longer feel anxiety over choosing the other; Only a blunted guilt which pangs within my chest every now and then.

But I stoop down, breaking my back to bring my lips to the low But not receding water.

It splashes into my mouth and over the rest of my face, And I quite surely feel refreshed and perhaps less lonely as well.

But as I now return to my upright and rigid position, I notice that as soon as I left that water, I was dry again, and so very thirsty once more.

I once again bend down low, cracking my bones in the process, And lap up the water like I am dying of thirst, Craving it more than I ever could have imagined.

And once more, upon leaving the water, I become thirsty.

I drop to my knees in the low river, cutting them on the rocky ground, And sink my hands into the water, splashing it into my mouth and onto my face, Sitting there in constant need.

And shall this be my curse for a life of infantile drifting?

Am I not deserving of something kinder Than having known perfection and having it taken by disaster, And total desperation for something so mediocre?

But I am an unclean man in an unclean world, Forced to desperation by these terrible people.

/ 09

VISUAL ART

MORELLI / HEBRON

Change of Heart

by Breena Hebron (below) Acrylic on canvas 35.5 x 28 cm

Beautiful Demise

by Renelle Morelli (above) Graphite and charcoal 40.5 x 51 cm Beautiful Demise is a drawing of an angel falling from the sky, composed of charcoal and graphite mediums. The falling angel is representative of losing oneself or control over what you used to take for granted. It shows the transformation from good to evil, of being free to chained by the weight of yourself, and it shows the realization and pain of falling to a place you may not be able to return from.

10 \

Change of Heart is an acrylic painting about the change of mindset one can experience when hope is found again after a period without it.

POETRY

CODY

A Long Time Coming

BY JOHN CODY And I said, “Today’s The Day!” And Tomorrow, I did nothing.

Such is, A Brain of thoughts, but no action.

A Mouth of words, but no speech.

A pair of Ears, in constant ignorance.

A Soul.

Nascent.

Oriented?

Conflicted.

Unsure?

All is, A Mind, an incestuous circle.

A cyclical chamber of Doubt, Guilt, Grief, Fear, Regret, Apathy, Contradictory Pride.

— Ego. — Self-fulfilled Comeuppance.

And I said, “Today’s The Day!” And Tomorrow, was a long time coming.

/ 11

FICTION

AAMIR

The Nursery

BY HERMAN AAMIR “Charles, what have you done?”

Panting, I looked around the room. Everything was clean, tidy. The room looked bigger.

Brighter. The window was open. The white, dusty sheets that once covered the furniture were gone.

In disbelief, I waddled in. I stumbled when the hardwood led to the plush, woven ground. A carpet?

“Careful now, Willa-Jean.” Charles said, “You might wanna take yer slippers off. Don’t wanna get the new rug dirty.”

I shuffled off my slippers. He picked them up and put them near the door. I went further and felt the soft, strong weaves of the carpet beneath my feet. It was definitely not something that was found here. It looked foreign, from a place far away. The rich blues and reds and greens, the geometric design. This carpet should have been somewhere in a bazaar, filled with passersby and merchants, with wafts of spices and cloth of every kind for sale. Not here. Not covering up the scratches and grime of the old hardwood in the upstairs room of a rural, prairie farmhouse.

A room that was supposed to be empty.

I looked up. I realized it was still empty. Void.

Lifeless.

Charles chuckled, “I knew this would surprise ya!” He eyed the carpet.

“Thought I’d add in that “culture” yer always talk’n ‘bout when ya read yer fancy books.

12 \

Boy, oh boy, was this a hard thing to come by.

Had to get Jonah to source it all the way out east.

He made sure to get a damn good one, too. But boy, did he ask for a pretty penny in return, the bastard!” He lit a cigarette, taking a whiff. His tall, lean figure reclined against the doorway.

“But ya know how them migrants charge a fortune for their antiques. They don’t even talk right. Jonah said it took a while to bargain the rug. It’s a bit tattered by the edges, but ya know everyone’s gotta make a living. Even bastard salesmen.”

Charles walked across the room toward the open window and took another whiff. There were no dark, heavy drapes nailed to the frame anymore. Instead, there were flowing, light curtains properly hung above the window and caressing the floor, extenuating the walls. Their sheerness allowed sunlight to flood the room.

The light made its way to every nook, making everything in the room more visible, more vibrant, more picturesque. More happy. Or, at least, an attempt at it.

The furniture. The armoire beside the window, the stool in the corner, the shelf along the left wall. All new, smelling of fresh wood. All with a beautiful brown hue in the light.

Charles looked smug as he watched me brush my hand along the pieces in astonishment, tears in my eyes. “I got them woodsman brothers from Harrison to make ‘em.” He disheveled his

FICTION

cigarette, discarding it out the window.

Crossing the room, he made his way to the armoire. He took a moment to grip the handles of the armoire, proving their sturdiness.

Then, he opened the doors wide, closed them, opened them again, muttering “good joints”. He tapped the wood with his fingers, “Oak. Strong.

Did a great job with the finish too, don’t ya think?

Now these are what a king would have in his palace. Much better than that flimsy rug ya call ‘art,’ Willa-Jean.”

He chuckled and came toward me. He pulled me closer, putting an arm around my back.

He nestled his forehead against mine. He put one hand along my belly and murmured “You know what, Willa-Jean? You know why I spent so much? Cuz all this stuff ’s gonna last. Maybe three, no, five generations ahead of our time. Our son sure will have some proud lookin’ homestead, huh?”

Suddenly, I felt nauseous. The smell of tobacco whirling from Charles’s mouth became too potent, his hand on my belly, too heavy. I wheezed, my eyes filled with water. Charles took a step back, his eyes filled with concern, “Are you all right there, Willa-Jean?”

He took my hand and led me to the chair.

The old chair, untouched by its spot under the window. Its familiar wobble startling me as I sat down, gripping Charles’s hand. It had been months since I had sat on this chair. Heck, it had been months since I had been in this room. A full winter had gone by. A lonely, cold, miserable winter. Numbing. Even the sun warming my back or the light draft wisping strands of hair afloat could not penetrate me. I was numb. A stone. Rubble.

AAMIR

A battered down, muted, piece of rubble.

Charles knelt at my feet. He took my hands and kissed them. He kissed my belly.

He waited until I had visibly calmed down and said, chuckling, “Like a queen, Willa-Jean.

You remember that?” I didn’t choose to reminisce. I had already let myself remember too much. I had tried so hard to remain distant. I shut my eyes, clenching my jaw.

“Look here, Willa Jean,” Charles quickly pointed to the corner. Another old piece. The crib. Her crib. “I got the one leg finally fixed. Ya remember, the one that came loose? I thought I’d get that done, ‘wise you’d be naggin’ me all over again, ha.” He went on.

The crib had her quilt. The one I had sewn for her. To keep her warm. To keep her safe.

To think of her was to mourn her all over again. Every time. A weight I could not shift off myself. A burden. And when I let myself go too far in remembering, I became part of the past.

Now, I could see her unruly mop of copper hair at my feet, waiting to be cleaned, brushed, and braided. Her, distracted, fingering the beaded fringe of her dress, ripping up the hemline.

I could hear her giggles. Faint. Her cries.

Loud. Then the cold, its relentless touch. Whimpers. Then silence.

A sob rose within my throat. Then another. Charles looked at me, his grip hardening. “No, Willa-Jean. Enough with the cryin’. No cryin’.

Hush.”

“Charles!” I choked, “What have you done?”

/ 13

VISUAL ART

MARTIN

annus mirabilis - a notable year

by Monique Martin Ink on paper, silkscreen (hand-drawn transparency technique) Installation Transformation is the deep time of things when life hangs like a question mark, fragile and always changing. A single moment in time can determine a life, but it can also take years and decades to form a life. Transformation is a process within human existence. This process allows us to live in the continuous present as we know we will not be the same person tomorrow that we were today. The arithmetic of life can be looked at as continuous subtraction or as continuous transformation.

When we die, there is a universe inside our head that evolved and changed as we experienced life. When parts of our life run thin like the transparent chrysalis of a butterfly there is room for transformation, change, growth and movement.

14 \

POETRY

ALAZAWI

The Wind

BY TANIA ALAZAWI Last winter smells like today.

Velvet seats, frozen smoothies, your eyes, my lips, your hands and my doubt.

My body - a mirage I thought looked tempting to you instead of a woman that looked worthy of myself.

I am broken there but feel whole.

Today I am whole but feel broken.

There is no truth in memory, or in your words; and I am a woman of truth now. The only thing I trust this bleeding cold, that existed before us and will exist after.

I try to match your old footprints in the muddied snow, slipping my shoes into your ancient prints. But the year has changed the ice, nothing fits the same, and I slip instead of soar.

The snow is melting now and sometimes I worry that our love has taught me nothing but how to be horrified of the wind.

I have told myself that healing is winter’s curse because she looks too much like death and not enough like rebirth. But even rebirth is overrated.

My dreams are not of growth from you or of spring’s hand; my dreams are thick white stockings and delicate lace that make me fall in love with myself again. Because the me I was when winter last froze, is not me at all.

I am not a single word or a single smile, but I am certainly more than you.

I am she who shall not be burdened by shallow sorrows built by such shallow men.

I am me. I am us.

I am renewed but not because, or for, you.

I am renewed.

/ 15

NONFICTION

BECKER

Why the Dead Matter: Virtually Digging Up the Past

BY FAWKES BECKER My first memories of Woodlawn Cemetery are very ordinary. I must have been driving out of town on my way to a rainy summer vacation, or perhaps I was on my way home from the hardware store. Maybe I noticed a hare or two hopping through the mist in the graveyard, and maybe I felt a slight chill down my neck. Some of my friends told me that they tried to hold their breath the entire drive to keep death away.

My next experience at Woodlawn Cemetery didn’t have the same feel to it. After my grandma passed away from dementia and complications from COVID-19, I decided to visit her grave. However, the harshness of the Saskatchewan winter descended upon us all, and I had to wait to visit. It was agony, feeling like I was unable to say goodbye that whole time. In the springtime, I could finally hop on a bus to see my grandma and I leaped at the chance.

On my way there, I realized a few things.

First, the bus route to Woodlawn Cemetery is not very friendly for pedestrians and I should have asked for a ride. Second, I should not have gone alone, as visiting a grave in the throes of grief is not advisable for anyone. Third, Woodlawn Cemetery is huge. Operating since 1905 and with a footprint of 94 acres, I was greeted by a city of the dead. Passing the graves on foot felt like walking into a world of its own. The me-

16 \

morial trees loom over you, and the headstones felt like houses, buildings and little shops waiting to invite you in. The caretakers of this village are respectful, minding their business and leaving you to marvel at the sheer scale of it all.

It was after this visit that I realized that I was not prepared for the passing of my grandma, nor, later in the year, a family friend who took care of me as a child. Our culture doesn’t discuss death. We hold our breath when we hear its name. We avert our eyes when we see it. This cultural attitude did me no favours when the time came. Because her family status was “just a grandparent,” many people in my life assumed that she was distant and that my grief would pass quickly. I believe that culturally — and especially institutionally — we need to recognize multiple family styles; we need to push ourselves to recognize that grief will impact people differently.

Before my grandma passed away, I did a 23andMe DNA test kit. I didn’t think much of it, but my grandma loved the idea of it. She was fascinated by genealogy and was the “record keeper” in our family. She didn’t get to see the results, but I know that this advancement in technology is something she would have loved.

Using what knowledge I had from her, I was able to use this information to track down a detailed family tree.

NONFICTION Some of the oldest relatives that I found were buried at Woodlawn Cemetery, sleeping, waiting for me to discover them. As I dove deeper into their backgrounds, I found that I was more and more invested in their lively stories. One ancestor I found was a Red Cross nurse during World War I who worked out of a small building in downtown Saskatoon. My great-uncle, Basil, a navy veteran and a chiropractor, was the only one who was smiling with teeth in his military photo. After seeing their houses, their census records and their photos, I felt like I knew them. After getting to know them, I began to feel their losses, the losses of their children, of their spouses and of their lives.

How long had it been since someone had visited or tended to their graves? These people were no longer spooky stones in a field; they were alive again through their stories. It was like I saw their whole lives from beginning to end, and I wanted to visit them.

It was through these ancestry websites that I also found an entire community — a family of people dedicated to being record keepers. My late grandma’s cousin kept physical copies of all kinds of documents and needed help accessing the digital ones. My third cousin reached out to discuss an old family business that had since been closed down. My partner was able to discuss with me the style of printmaking and photography that was used to make the etchings and photos safeguarded by my other cousins.

And last, but certainly not least, many people were updating the digital family records to include birthdates, death dates and pictures of gravestones for those of us who couldn’t visit in person.

BECKER Around this time, I also discovered the TikTok hashtag #GraveTok, an entire community dedicated to caring for and restoring these forgotten graves. These short videos would tell the stories (when possible) of the inscriptions on the graves. Most of the graves they cleaned had been forgotten to time or had been abandoned by the families of the deceased. Some of the caretakers had a difficult time getting permission from the families as records had been lost or because the families were difficult to track down. The caretakers would also share cleaning tips with anyone interested in caring for relatives’ graves themselves.

Death is not something I want to continue to hold my breath over — it is a natural part of life, and connecting to our past is something that can enrich our current life in ways we cannot even quantify. I believe that over the course of the pandemic, we have further shut down the discussion of death out of fear of inviting it in. I fear if we continue down this path it will lead to larger consequences for mental health, grief and the preservation of these beautiful stories. In tarot, death is not grounded in the physical realm.

It is a sign of metamorphosis, of change and of transformation. These people are not truly gone — their time here has not vanished yet. They have left behind little gifts for us to find— we only have to look.

/ 17

VISUAL ART

Cocoon

by David Sanscartier Plaster of Paris, dried sunflowers, natural pigments, oil and spray fixative 20 x 12 x 10 cm Cocoon was made as a sculpture class project.

Sunflowers were bundled together and covered with plaster. Charcoal made of sunflower and other natural pigments were applied to the plaster.

Cocoon alludes to renewal concealed under a protective shell.

18 \

SANSCARTIER

FICTION

SCARROW

Thief

BY KRISTINE SCARROW

“Martin Thompson? This is Constable Lee Swain. We need you to come down to the Safeway to pick up your wife.”

“Eleanor? What’s happened?” The colour drained from Martin’s face. “Is she okay?” She’d been fine when he’d dropped her off to shop while he went home to let the dog out.

“You need to get down here immediately.”

“I’ll be right there!” Martin had barely finished his sentence before ending the call.

He drove their Buick as though it were a Ferrari through the sleepy suburban streets of Saskatoon. He hadn’t even changed from church; his soleworn spit-shined leather oxfords kept slipping on the gas pedal as his foot, frantic, pressed the car for more. Countless scenarios blazed through his mind.

What on earth could have taken place? Eleanor must be terrified, he thought, all alone at the store. She’d always been uncomfortable around police officers — jittery — even though she had nothing to hide.

At the Safeway, the vehicle lurched forward as Martin slammed the brakes. He had barely set the car to park when he noticed a young officer, probably a rookie, standing at the front door. He bolted toward him, his uncertain legs gaining a momentum they hadn’t seen for decades.

“Mr. Thompson?”

“Yes! That’s me,” Martin wheezed. He followed the officer inside. His eyes, wild, scanned the store. His stomach wrenched. The officer led him to

a glassed office space next to the customer service desk. After a series of doors, they found Eleanor sitting on a metal chair next to another officer and the store manager.

“Eleanor! Are you okay?” Martin’s voice cracked. His heart slowed a little when he saw her unharmed. It took a moment for him to realize that she was in handcuffs. His lips trembled.

“Handcuffs? What’s going on here?”

“Hello, Mr. Thompson. I’m Joe, the store manager. Our loss prevention officer, Dale, witnessed your wife shoplifting today.”

Martin’s eyebrows rose. He absorbed the words for a minute, slapped his knee and broke into rolling laughter. The officer and the store manager exchanged glances.

“Did George put you up to this?” Their friend, George, was the manager at a different location. Had he set this up somehow? “George Griffin.

The manager at the store on 8th Street. He’s a real prankster. But this … this is going too far.”

“I’m sorry, sir?” The store manager knit his brows. “This situation is real, I’m afraid.”

Martin waited for someone to interject with the real explanation of why he was here, but the room remained silent. Martin’s eyes searched the room, certain he was on one of those hidden camera shows; this had to be a prank. There was a gross misunderstanding of some sort — his quiet, sweet wife was no criminal — of that he was sure.

/ 19

FICTION

SCARROW “We found these items in her sweater.” The

never experienced before.

manager pointed to a pack of Energizer batteries and

“What if I did?” She challenged.

gold foil-wrapped triangles of brie in a red mesh bag.

“How could you? We have more than enough

Martin looked at Eleanor. Her steel-grey eyes met his.

money,” his voice trailed off. His hands shook de-

Her gaze bore into his so deeply, he looked away. For

spite his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

once, he did not know how to read her.

Eleanor wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so mad.

He could see the young officer sizing him up.

Didn’t Martin understand that this had noth-

He was happy he hadn’t changed into his loungewear

ing to do with money? That it was her one thing?

as he’d planned to before he got the call. He didn’t

The thing that was all hers. It had become a skill

want to come off as a lazy bum who didn’t provide

— something she was good at. No one suspected a

for his family. A man who petitioned his wife to steal

smiling, sweet old lady to steal something. And so as

cheese. Martin had spent thirty years toiling at a job

such, she’d gotten away with it many times.

he’d hated to make sure that they were taken care of in their golden years.

stealth, unassuming. No one had ever thought much

“We’re prepared to let her go,” the officer said. “The manager does not wish to press charges.”

“On the condition that she is to stay out of

more of her than the dependable Eleanor — family cook, competent knitter, excellent housekeeper. Her floors, citrus-scented and gleaming — a source of

this store,” the manager finished. “We’ll be posting a

pride — were so clean that one could eat off them at

notice to look out for her.”

any time of day. Eleanor thought monkeys could do

Martin nodded numbly as they set Eleanor

the kind of work she did. It didn’t set her apart from

free. He thought he’d known embarrassment before:

any other housewife on their block. It was expected

when David Pranson pants-ed him on the baseball

of her.

field in front of their Grade 8 class, when he’d shit

To Eleanor, her cooking was subpar; Martin

himself in the car on the way to a business meeting,

was fussy. He was a simple meat and potatoes kind

and when his dentures fell out during his retirement

of guy, eschewing any other foods as being too exotic

speech. Nothing could have prepared him for this

for him. She was bored stiff with boiled potatoes and

lurch in the gut.

fried hamburger. She dreamed of cooking in kalei-

“That won’t be necessary,” Martin said.

doscopes of colour and taste — bright cherry red

“Mrs. Thompson?” The store manager wait-

peppers, the warm scent of curry, the lemon-tinged

ed for her to acknowledge what he’d said but Eleanor

melt of salmon on the tongue.

breezed past them all and exited the store, leaving the

Their house was the same. A typical 1960s

men standing in the office and Martin dumbfounded.

ranch bungalow with an identical layout as almost

⁂ “Eleanor Grace. You. Did. Not.” Martin’s

20 \

In that regard, she was proud of it. She felt

every other house in the neighbourhood. It was covered in dingy grey stucco. The walls were Eternal

teeth ground together. She could see his jawbone

White. She dreamed of terracotta tiles in shades of

dancing in his cheek, an electricity in the car she’d

amber and magenta – not the serviceable beige that

FICTION

SCARROW

Martin insisted on for resale value. The idea that

frames? Were the coasters on their coffee table sto-

there was more to her thrilled her.

len? How long had this been going on? How much

“We need to talk about this,” Martin said through clenched teeth. Eleanor wanted to drop

of his life was built by deceit and missing items from their local stores or perhaps someone else’s home?

the whole thing. She’d never get him to understand.

When Eleanor called him up for lunch, he

They drove in silence; the steady hum of the motor

found her humming to the country tune on the radio.

and the ticking of the signal lights providing the

Her eyes were bright and playful. He was flummoxed.

soundtrack to the ride home.

Had she gone crazy? Was she sick? He’d heard of this kind of thing happening to people before an Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Kleptomania caused by some underlying health concern. He would call the doctor first thing in the morning. Martin slid into the captain’s chair at their dining room table and waited for Eleanor to seat herself before filling his plate.

“Batteries? Cheese cubes?” Martin said incredulously.

He blinked a few times as though the answers he wanted might suddenly materialize. But Eleanor kept her face blank.

“Have I not always provided for you? Have you not been able to buy whatever you’ve needed?”

When they entered their house, Martin went straight to the basement. He needed some distance

It was true. Although Martin took care of the finances, she knew that they’d never lacked.

from Eleanor. He could hear her pulling out the

But these acts of daring had nothing to do

frying pan for their Sunday lunch. They were far past

with money. It was the thrill of taking items for free.

their regular lunch time — he didn’t have the stom-

The pleasure of seeing how easily things could be

ach for food now anyhow. He replayed the scene in

taken.

his mind over and over. What bugged him most was

“I don’t even know if the plate I’m eating

Eleanor’s reaction to it all. She showed no remorse or

on was obtained legally,” Martin’s voice was bitter.

embarrassment. In fact, she’d almost looked proud

Eleanor considered telling him that the plate was, but

of it.

his fork wasn’t, then thought better of it.

Martin stared at the photo gallery of their

family on the wall; he glanced at the built-in bookcases that lined the other side of the room. For the first time he saw his home in an entirely new light. Had

“I think after lunch, we should sit down and have a real conversation about this.”

“I’m headed to Judy’s after lunch. I’m helping with her garage sale, remember?”

those books been purchased? How about the picture

/ 21

FICTION

SCARROW Martin choked on his bacon. He coughed

and took a quick sip of water to help it down his

to university, obtained a degree, travelled extensively

constricting throat. What if she came home with

and had never married. She had a long-time beau

a trunk load of stuff ? Or worse, what if she came

named Ed, but there were no plans for marriage.

home with a wad of cash she didn’t have before?

All her possessions suited Eleanor very well: her red

Surely, she wouldn’t steal from Judy.

glasses, her chic blonde bob, her purple face-fram-

“I’ll drive you,” Martin said. “Maybe Ed will

ing highlights, her Spanish-style house, her eccentric wardrobe, and the lime green colour of her cute

need a hand.”

“Ed’s gone golfing.”

compact car. Martin thought Judy’s car looked like a

“Well, maybe people need a hand carrying

booger and that Judy had dreadful hair and dressed

things to their vehicles. I think I should go too.”

Eleanor set down her fork. “I’m fine going on my own, Martin.”

like a hippie, but Eleanor paid that no mind.

After reading over her script in the notebook, Eleanor’s eyes caught a tangerine-coloured tunic on

When lunch was over and she’d cleaned the

a clothing rack. The neckline was lined with beads in

kitchen, he watched her put her blue sneakers on. He

shimmery turquoise and red. She rose from her seat

was pleased; he recognized them as the ones they’d

to examine it closer. She fingered the silky material

purchased at the mall together recently. He knew

and marvelled at its originality.

those ones had been paid for. His stomach clenched again. Martin hated this newfound feeling of distrust.

⁂ Over at Judy’s, Eleanor scrawled details of each purchase into a small, coiled notebook. Judy would be able to scan the list and see what sold and

“I bought that in Mexico,” Judy said.

“Doesn’t fit me anymore.”

“It’s lovely!”

“If you want it, it’s yours.”

Eleanor slipped it off its hanger. She’d never owned anything like this before.

for how much. It would be an easy way to keep track

“Try it on,” Judy said.

of her sales and reconcile the cash box that she’d left

Eleanor slipped the tunic right over her plain

Eleanor in charge of.

“Eleanor, what would I do without you?”

white t-shirt and was pleased to see that it fit well, despite the layer of clothing underneath. She decided

Judy cooed at her when the first round of customers

to keep the tunic on. She liked the brightness of it

headed back toward their cars with their purchases.

and how the sunlight made the beads shimmer. She

“So organized.”

hoped she looked like Judy, the kind of woman who

Judy had a money belt around her pearshaped hips. From time to time, she handed the build-up of bills to Eleanor for the cash box if she’d

travelled and lived independently. A woman who took chances.

“How much do you want for this?” Eleanor

been the one to take the sale, so that bills wouldn’t

asked, pointing to the tunic as they packed up the

tumble to the pavement.

remnants of the sale for the day.

Eleanor loved the praise from her friend.

22 \

She’d always envied Judy’s carefree life. Judy had gone

“Don’t be silly,” Judy said. “I don’t know

FICTION

SCARROW

what I would have done without you. I’m just so

perplexed as he was.

grateful you were able to help.”

⁂ It was 7 p.m. Two hours past their typical

“Well, boy, I guess we have to fend for ourselves.”

Eleanor would come home, get whatever

suppertime. In forty-five years of marriage, except

was happening out of her system and tomorrow

for special occasions, the only time Eleanor had

they could go back to the way things were before the

missed making supper was the night each of their

Safeway fiasco. A life where his wife was the woman

four children had been born. Martin had paced

he thought he had married.

⁂

through the kitchen, opened the refrigerator many times, eyeing possibilities. To be honest, he couldn’t

Eleanor sat tall and sipped her wine. For the

see what items he could successfully put together in

first time in her life, she felt exotic and exciting. She’d

order to feed himself. Sundays were pot roast, and he

never dined alone before. She sampled several dishes

had no idea how to cook a roast.

knowing there’d be plenty of leftovers to take with

Eleanor had come home an hour earlier

her. She thought of Martin at home, knowing he

wearing some awful orange looking thing that re-

didn’t know how to cook. For a brief moment, she

minded him of a sparkly pumpkin — no doubt a

wondered what he’d do, and for once, she found that

cast-off of Judy’s. She was practically floating, and it

she didn’t really care.

irritated him.

She knew that Martin needed her. He’d never

“What’s for supper?” Martin gruffed.

touched a single bit of domestic duty. She loved him,

“I don’t know,” Eleanor fluffed her hair in

sure, but she’d had enough of catering to his needs

the hall entry mirror. “You’ll figure it out.”

“What on earth is going on, Eleanor?”

“I’m going out.” Eleanor had made her de-

without consideration of her own.

When the bill came, Eleanor pulled two folded twenty-dollar bills from her purse. She’d earned

cision at that moment. She felt like a new woman in

that money today and it had netted her a meal she’d

the tunic. Emboldened.

enjoyed immensely. Eleanor left a generous tip —

“Well, why didn’t you say? I’ll get my shoes.”

something Martin would never do no matter how

“I don’t think so, Martin. I’m going to that

good the service — and bid the staff a hearty good-

new Japanese restaurant. I don’t think you’d like it.”

She was right. Martin had to be careful with what he ate. Whenever he veered from his usual, he often paid for it in the bathroom. He preferred to keep things as they’d always been to limit any upset stomach.

Martin watched as she closed the front door behind her and strutted out to the car.

He gazed down at the dog who looked as

bye. She walked slowly to the entrance so that the other patrons might see her stunning tunic. For once, she felt like the woman she’d always wanted to be.

⁂ First thing Monday morning, Martin phoned the doctor’s office. He told the receptionist that Eleanor was acting strangely, but she couldn’t get them in any sooner than the following Monday. Martin took the appointment. He wasn’t sure how Eleanor

/ 23

FICTION

SCARROW

would react, so he’d wait to talk about it later in the week.

On Wednesday, two of their children phoned to check in on them. Martin took the call, of course,

On Tuesday, the two of them went to

since Eleanor was out.

Walmart for groceries. Martin was sour. He hated the big-box store. He missed the elevator music that

each of them. “We’re doing fine. Just fine.”

played through the speakers at the Safeway, the clean

He debated telling their oldest, Claire, that

and well-labelled aisles. At this Walmart, there was no

something might be wrong with their mother, but

music. The floors were dirty. The overhead fluores-

then decided it was best not to worry anybody.

cent lights flickered in places. Neither of them knew

They’d know more after the doctor’s appointment.

where anything was. Eleanor tried to send Martin

Besides, it would invite questions. And what would

to gather a few of the items on the list to speed up

Martin say? That their mother had a secret life? As a

the process, but Martin refused to leave her side.

thief ?

He watched her carefully when she bent down or

On Friday, Martin attempted to surprise El-

reached up for something. He looked for any bulges

eanor with supper after her Tai chi class. He seasoned

in her sweater pockets. He zipped her purse shut and

the ground beef with salt and pepper and onion salt.

offered to buy items that weren’t even on the list.

He’d seen Eleanor crack eggs into the meat before,

“Do you want some of those shrimp cakes

so he added a couple of eggs into the mixture. It felt

you like? Or should we get mushrooms with our

soft and squishy in his hands, and when he tried to

steak?” Perhaps if he offered her these extras, she

form a solid patty, the meat was so moist, it crum-

wouldn’t feel the need to steal something again. Elea-

bled in the pan. Smoke billowed from the aluminum.

nor shot him a death stare. This was not something

He’d had the heat too high. He remembered that he

that would be solved by mushrooms.

needed oil, but by then the patties were charred and

On Tuesday night, Eleanor left for the eve-

raw in the middle. When Eleanor walked through

ning for supper and a movie with some of her girl-

the door, she was greeted by an acrid smell and the

friends. He was shocked to find out that they’d also

incessant blare of the smoke alarm. He swatted at the

gone for a drink afterward. She was usually in bed by

smoke with a tea towel and thought for a moment

nine, so when she tiptoed into the house at eleven

that he caught her smile.

like a rebel teenager, she found him pacing, phone in hand, ready to notify the police.

In fact, she’d been finding reasons to be out

24 \

“Nothing new around here,” Martin lied to

On Saturday when Martin ran out of underwear and socks, he fashioned a neat pile by the washing machine, but Eleanor paid no attention. He

all week. She’d tell him with little to no notice, and

turned a dirty pair inside out and prayed that he’d get

there he’d be, alone in the house and trying to fend

to and from the car wash safely. He’d be mortified

for himself. He’d eaten more bran flakes than any

if he were in an accident and first responders found

grown man should have to eat. His bowels reminded

him in dirty underwear. When Martin realized that

him. If he didn’t get Eleanor cooking again soon, he

Eleanor had no intention of washing the load, he

was scared he’d waste away.

threw the clothes into the drum of the washing ma-

FICTION

SCARROW

chine and added a generous scoop of detergent. He

cautious man; she knew that could be a good thing.

had no idea how the darn thing worked. He looked

He’d taken really good care of his family over the

at the cycle names and said a prayer before pressing a

years.

button.

Eleanor watched the people as they entered

By Sunday, Eleanor looked like she was living

and exited the store while waiting for Martin. She

her best life while Martin was withdrawn and hag-

wondered what would happen if she stepped foot

gard. The week had taken a toll. When the church

in there. Did they really have a sign with her profile

service ended, Martin went straight to the car and

tacked up to alert the staff ? Would police descend

waited for Eleanor to be done visiting. He noticed

upon the place and escort her out? She wasn’t about

the way the sun played off her silver hair as she stood

to find out.

talking. The pink of her dress added a pretty glow to

When forty-five minutes went by, Eleanor

her face. He saw the way her face lit up as she smiled,

grew worried. Martin was a man who loved efficien-

and then how she threw her head back in a throaty

cy. If it took this long for a bag of onions, Martin

laugh. He caught himself grinning at the sight of her

would be livid. She shifted in her seat and tried to

and felt a swell in his heart.

be patient. When an hour passed by and Martin still

No matter how much they’d been through over the years, he’d never stopped loving her. She’d always done so much for him and their family. It was

wasn’t back, her heart started thrumming inside her chest.

Just then, a patrol car pulled along the fire

something he’d taken for granted, and he knew that

lane and stopped. A young officer stepped out of

now. He’d have to find a way to prove to her how

the car and made his way inside. Within minutes, her

much he loved her. When Eleanor finally made her

precious Martin was being led, in handcuffs no less,

way to the car, he took her hand and squeezed it,

to the patrol car. He squinted from the sunlight. His

surprising them both.

eyes searched for hers once they’d adjusted. Eleanor

“We need onions for the pot roast,” Eleanor

fumbled for the car door handle, sure that there was

said. It had been a week since she’d been busted and,

some mistake. Her husband was no criminal, of that

in that time, so much had changed. Martin drove past

she was sure.

the mall where the Safeway was located but braked

When she ran to his side, faster than she’d

at the last exit. He steered the Buick to the nearest

done in years, he smiled larger than she’d ever seen

parking spot.

him smile.

Eleanor stared at him.

“I can still go in,” he reminded her. “Do we need anything else?”

She shook her head. She watched as Martin

“Mrs. Thompson?” the young officer said.

“Your husband has been arrested for shoplifting.”

Eleanor put her hand over her mouth. She met Martin’s hazelnut eyes. For once, she didn’t know

sauntered away from the car. He stopped and waited

how to read him. In that moment, she had never

for several cars to drive by before deciding that the

loved him more.

lane was clear enough to cross. He was always such a

/ 25

VISUAL ART

REA / REDFORD

Petunia

by Kas Rea Chalk pastel on board 20.5 x 25.5 cm Petunia represents the blossoming of spring, and the inner transformations we feel from the cold winter to warmer days. This piece was inspired by everyday life, particularly flowers in the backyard which bring much joy.

Sugar, Chocolate Icing, and Change (2022)

by Jasmine Redford Coffee, inkwash, sugar, chocolate icing, watercolours on ATC (Artist Trading Card) 6.35 x 8.89 cm Sugar, Chocolate Icing, and Change (2022) is a companion piece to (Cautiously) You Can’t Go Home Again (2021), which was published in the September 2021 issue of in medias res. Both are self-portraits of a pandemic university student, but Sugar moves beyond Cautiously from season (autumn to spring) and media (coffee/ink wash to coffee/ink/chocolate icing/sugar).

26 \

POETRY

JADE

Let it Go

BY BETHANI JADE

January is that moment when the rope swings out over the clear blue water, inviting in its effervescent cool stillness, just as gravity grabs hold of the pit of your stomach and squeezes that knot of fear held too tightly, for too long.

While your fingernails instinctively dig deep when you have to decide to grip tighter to that rough rope tearing your tender flesh red, or let go into the unknown space between you now and then.

Allowing for simple solutions, accepting things as they are, finding the easiest path, open to be vulnerable in the waiting, surrendering to the current, yielding to hidden strengths in times of struggle.

Imperfectly ingrained into the interconnected web of life.

I am learning to accept with grace, mistakes as they are made without sacrificing my integrity.

Securing a sense of self against the inevitable onslaught of insidious illusions.

It takes a lifetime to live a moment.

/ 27

POETRY

LISCHYNSKI

Dear Friend,

BY EMILY LISCHYNSKI

Do you remember how it was when we were younger?

And we walked hand in hand through the meadow grass brushing up against our skirts butterflies and blossoms in our hair.

When our youth wasn’t a burden but a blessing And the birds took our songs and spread them through the air.

Do you remember how it was when we would run alongside the train?

Seeing how fast our legs could take us and how lovely we felt afterward with our lungs burning and our spirits free.

When I broke my arm and you held my hand as I cried Telling me that we’d be laughing about it by tomorrow Oh How beautiful our laughs sounded together Do you remember when we would share our dreams?

Not just our ambitions but the secret worlds we formed as we rested How at home we felt in each other’s consciousness And how much we wept when we thought of the other leaving Do you remember growing up?

Becoming each others’ guardians Not letting how much the world was changing weaken the linking of our arms Or the strength of our conviction Our trips to the stream Through the dense mossy forest Where the deer and the rabbits would come to say hello And up to the bubbling water Whose colour echoed in our eyes Do you remember how natural it all felt?

28 \

POETRY

LISCHYNSKI

Sharing every moment Encouraging each other’s transformation From energetic and innocent children To impervious and educated young women Do you remember how it was when we walked through life together?

Companions of the earth Vagabonds of the divine Wanderers of the cosmos Kind people and curious souls Do you remember?

I’m beginning to forget It scares me So come back Come back my dear From up there in the sky Come back and remind me of how it was

/ 29

CONTRIBUTORS River of Stars – 星河 Suki Yu (she/her) is a third-year student at USask pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts (Honours) in studio art. She got the inspiration for River of Stars from a line from an ancient Chinese poem that reads, 满船清梦压星河. The poet was drunk while rafting on a lake and when he saw the stars in the sky reflected on the lake, he mistakenly thought that he was rafting in the river of stars, but it was only a dream caused by his drunkenness. Suki’s other works can be found on Instagram: @ewosuki_ “my beloved crumbs” Beatrice-Grace Domingo (she/her) is in her first year of her undergraduate studies at the University of Saskatchewan. She started writing poetry during high school by drawing inspiration from how her intersected identities influenced her perceptions of relationships, social needs, and self-worth. Her transitional period from high school, to a year off school, to university is a crucial element in “my beloved crumbs” to illustrate her own metamorphosis.

The inspiration drawn for the poem explores the notion of linear progress and examines feeling betrayed by those who “peak without” the narrator.

“Magic Mushroom Romance” Kaitlyn Clark is a sister, youth worker, student and nature-enthusiast-wino trying to emerge as a writer. After years of travelling and uncertainty, she enjoys being a third-year USask student majoring in English and minoring in French. With strong attention to detail and a weak sense of routine, Kaitlyn is mostly just trying to go with the flow.

“Magic Mushroom Romance” explores the metamorphosis of a relationship by attempting to translate the memories of an abstract shroom trip onto something as concrete as paper.

[01101110 01101111 0110110] Bones Challen Gladman (they/them) is a first-year graduate student currently living and learning on Treaty 6 Territory in pursuit of their English Masters in pop culture mythology. When their brain gets too full of books, however, they like to do art on the side — traditional, digital, original, fanart, music, you name it — in order to express the non-academic facets of themselves that can fall to the wayside.

[01101110 01101111 01101110] Bones is one such piece, articulating their experience as a non-binary person working to transform and redefine themselves within an intensely binary world.

“Joni” Ashlynn Weisberg (she/her) graduated from the University of Saskatchewan in 2019 with a BA (Honours) in Women’s and Gender tudies. She is now continuing her studies as a graduate student at the University of Alberta. Interestingly, Ashlynn held no interest toward poetry throughout her undergraduate education, during which she pursued an English minor, and actively avoided classes involving poetry. It was only in January of 2021 that she began writing for herself, beyond academic requirement,

and it was there she found poetry to be a transformative art form. In transcribing her inner world onto paper through language, Ashlynn has experienced the deep honour of reconnecting with long-lost parts of herself, a relation for which she is truly grateful.

“An Over-Shadow” Olive Scott (she/her) is an MFA candidate at the University of Saskatchewan. She was inspired to write her poem based on the opening line of Ovid’s Metamorphosis, “Of bodies changed to other forms.” She asked herself if her body had ever taken a different physical form in this lifetime, and she found that the answer was in her shadow.

“Imitation” Sarah Kelly (she/her) is a fourth-year philosophy student at the University of Saskatchewan. She lives on a small farm south of Saskatoon. Sarah is a romantic about the arts, her poems appear to her suddenly and fully formed (usually outdoors) followed by a rush to get to the page in time. Apart from school, Sarah is a community organizer and works with underprivileged youth in action sports.

This was me someday.

Narges Porsandekhial (she/her) is a first-year student at USask pursuing a master’s degree in Fine Arts. She is an interdisciplinary artist who tries to combine art and literature in her artworks. Having a background in different mediums of visual art and literary forms, she deals with a variety of emotional/psychological concepts and develops her medium based on the idea itself. In This was me someday., she has altered a face in a way as if it’s melting down, suggesting that this portrait was herself someday, either before or after metamorphosis. Her other works can be found on: Instagram @narrporr / Website: www.nargesporsande.com “The Fruit and the Water” Nolan Long (he/him) is a Canadian political studies undergraduate at the University of Saskatchewan. He is a Youth League author at Midwestern Marx, having published two pieces there as of March 2022 on feminism in Cuba and the film Black Orpheus. His piece included in this collection is his second published poem, after the first in volume 37 of Saskatchewan’s Windscript magazine.

Beautiful Demise Renelle Morelli (she/her) is a first-year student at the University of Saskatchewan majoring in English and planning on getting a master’s in Creative Writing. She was inspired to do this piece mostly through her fascination with mythology, specifically Greek mythology, and saw that there was poetic irony in the image of a human with wings falling instead of flying. When making this piece, it ended up being derived from her struggle with mental health in the past. For her, that drawing became a way to represent the feeling of remembering joy you once had, freedom of soul and mind, to suddenly being robbed of that and being pulled down by the weight of what once held you up and the gravity that you once defied.

Change of Heart Breena Hebron is a third-year student at the University of Saskatchewan. Breena is majoring in Studio Art and is

currently on the Visual Art Team with in medias res. Her favourite mediums to use include watercolour, acrylic, and charcoal, but she hopes to increase her skill in other mediums as well. For the issue of “Metamorphosis,” she was inspired by the change of seasons from winter to spring and the hope and growth that new seasons can bring. TikTok: @bbreenaa “A Long Time Coming” John Cody (he/him) is a third-year student at the University of Saskatchewan pursuing a Bachelor of Arts degree in political science with a minor in English. Without trying to sound cliché, he describes creativity as his lifeblood. He has written stories most of his life, played the violin for 15 years, and acted in community, university and professional theatre at any chance he could get. “A Long Time Coming” is meant to be as personal as it is meant to be impersonal. It reflects upon a procrastinatory human mind struggling with itself— toiling over stories of the past, the possibilities of the future, and the intensity of the present— all as it tries to decipher who it is and what that means.

Often, we see change as primarily external, but the internal aspects of change are their own convoluted battleground.

“The Nursery” Herman Aamir (she/her) is currently a second-year student, pursuing a BSc at the University of Saskatchewan. The idea for her short story, “The Nursery,” had unconsciously been drafting itself in her mind for several months before she finally typed it up. By taking inspiration from other literature and short films, Herman was able to flesh out certain key elements within the story such as perspective, relationship dynamics and mental illness. Writing a fictional story in her leisure was a very satisfying and thought-provoking endeavor that Herman hopes to continue doing. annus mirabilis - a notable year Monique Martin (she/her) is a multi-disciplinary artist from Saskatoon, with a 25-year exhibition history and alumni of the University of Saskatchewan. She has exhibited her artwork in more than 270 significant solo, invited and juried group exhibitions in eleven countries. More than 50 of these were solo exhibitions in public galleries. Renowned international curators have selected her artwork for various exhibitions worldwide.

Her works are held in more than 44 public and private collections in eleven different countries. annus mirabilis - a notable year was inspired by all the transformations she has watched the world go through during the pandemic.

“The Wind” Tania Alazawi previously attended the College of Kinesiology, and is now in her second year of dentistry at the University of Saskatchewan. Alongside her research and science background, she has loved reading and writing poetry since she was a child. She has published her work before in previous issues of in medias res. Originally, she is from Iraq, and has lived in Saskatoon her entire life.

“Why the Dead Matter: Virtually Digging Up the Past” Fawkes Becker (they/them) is a fourth-year sociology student at USask. After the passing of their grandma in January 2019, Fawkes was inspired to write “Why the Dead Matter: Virtually Digging Up the Past” after reflecting on death culture and the COVID-19 pandemic in contemporary society in hopes that it would encourage others to reconnect with their family’s

histories. In their spare time, Fawkes enjoys crocheting and other arts and crafts.

Cocoon David Sanscartier (he/him) is a part-time Bachelor of Fine Arts student at the University of Saskatchewan. He currently focuses on drawing and sculpture and works both representationally and non-representationally. His work examines a range of topics related to society, culture and the environment. His PhD in environmental engineering informs his artistic work. Cocoon was inspired by the artist’s dried garden in the fall.

“Thief ” Kristine Scarrow (she/her) is a second-year candidate in the MFA in Writing program and the author of four young adult novels all published by Dundurn Press. “Thief ” is a look at how there are many motivations for engaging in deviant behaviour that could arise from people you would least expect. This story is part of her emerging thesis, a short story collection that examines ethical boundaries and what might push people to behave in ways they might not otherwise.

Petunia Kas Rea is a fourth-year BFA student, a curator at the 292 Gallery at the university and is on the board for the Visual Arts Students’ Union. Additionally, she volunteers as a Student Recruitment Ambassador. Rea has been involved in the visual arts for over 12 years. Rea’s work explores themes in nature, specifically wildlife and ecosystem preservation, feminism and connections to her Bolivian roots. Since 2017, Rea has been working at Remwwai Modern. She also teaches art to children and adults at her studio and through Gail Adams School of Art. Sugar, Chocolate Icing, and Change (2022) Jasmine Redford (she/her) is an illustrator and PhD graduate student with a research focus on graphic narratives and Canadian Literature. She obtained her BFA from ECU and her BA and MA in English from the USask. She’s the artist of Siegfried: Dragon Slayer (2022), signs her work as Minjaz, and is team Oxford Comma. | Instagram @ms.minjaz / www.msminjaz.com “Let It Go” Bethani Jade (she/her) is a woman on a mission of creative transformation. She is a multi-disciplinary performance artist and poet who dabbles in audio and video art. Bethani is grateful to be from the land of the living skies, Treaty 6 Territory and to call Saskatoon her home. In January 2019, she self-published her third book of poetry Year of Yin, and she published a poetic essay in the local art zine Silence in 2016. Currently, she is completing her BA in Psychology with a minor in Women’s and Gender Studies. Stay in touch with Bethani at bethanijade.com “Dear Friend,” Emily Lischynski (she/her) is a first-year crop science student at the University of Saskatchewan. She draws inspiration for her writing from the books she reads, the music she listens to, and the world around her. She wrote her poem “Dear Friend,” for her sister, and was inspired to write it after listening to the song “Hollow in the Ferns” by Craig Armstrong. She feels very grateful to be able to share it with others. Слава Україні!

Cover Art | River of Stars – 星河

by Suki Yu

Photograph by Namya Jain Watercolour, acrylic and mixed media (silica gel, rice paper, paper towel, plastic wrap, gold foil) on canvas 30.5 x 91.5 cm This is my first mixed-media work and my first ever publication of my artwork. The process of making this piece is a record of my metamorphosis on my art journey.

I painted mainly with acrylics before and I used to doubt myself enough to burn my own artworks. But I’ve come to realize that I’m not content to paint with paints alone.

I’m glad that after so many years of struggling with a passion for art, I finally found my favourite way to paint, and I’m glad that I have the courage to show this piece to people.

in medias res is a student-led literary magazine at St. Thomas More College that aims to publish content to reflect the identities of the campus community, its complexities and diversities. Our mission is to be a forum for community expression that showcases the high-quality work of artists in the University of Saskatchewan community.

The work of 22 writers and artists is included in this anthology, part two of double issue of “Metamorphosis” that explores our ever-changing world. These pages contain fiction, nonfiction, poetry and visual art from the University of Saskatchewan community — undergraduate students, graduate students and alumni.

“Metamorphosis” asks you to contemplate processes of change — the good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly and everything in-between.

Find us at stmcollege.ca/imr

@inmediasresstm