Incite Magazine - February 2019

VOLUME 21 ISSUE 2

self.

FEAR IS INEVITABLE, I HAVE TO ACCEPT THAT, BUT I CANNOT ALLOW IT TO PARALYZE ME. — ISABEL ALLENDE

Fear is a beast that lives within us all. For some, this beast is provoked by that which is tangible – a scent, a place, a thing. For others, it is an idea or concept – public speaking, uncertainty, failure. Fear can transcend one’s highest barriers and deepest resistance to reach vulnerabilities hidden within. Fear can be crippling. Fear can be destructive. Fear can drive behaviours unwanted by and unrecognizable to both you and I. But fear can also be a catalyst. Fear can be overcome. When confronted rather than avoided, fear can give rise to a version of ourselves that is stronger than ever before.

What drives us to push ourselves to challenge our limitations? What causes us to resist succumbing to fear? I suppose that’s bravery, grit, and strength. These are the foils that tame the beast.

In this issue of Incite Magazine, students embraced the theme of fear to present their most intimate of self-portraits. Among its pages, we read about existential fear, fear of failure, fear of going off the beaten path, personal insecurities, and loss.

Highlighted within are also tales involving one contributor’s fear of centipedes and another’s fear of running out of toilet paper. Through these poignant accounts, what quickly becomes clear is that the undercurrent of ‘fear’ on these pages belies a deeper narrative, and that is our triumph over it.

The second of our triannual publication, Fear represents the intermediary stage of this yearlong journey of introspection. With Self, we pondered each of our selfconcepts – the raw material that makes us who we are. In this issue, we shine light on adversity and the aftermath that ensues. Courage and resilience in the face of fear is highlighted as a theme that unites us all.

As always, this publication would not have been possible without the immense support of our staff team, contributors, and readers in the McMaster community and beyond. The pages before you are made possible by student funding and support from university partners, a gift which we will never take for granted. Thank you for your continued support, and we hope you enjoy the read. x

Sincerely,

Sabrina Lin Editor-in-Chief (Art & Production)

contents 3 4 6 8 11 12 14 16 19 20 21 23 25 26 28 30 32 34 36 38 41 42 44 46 48 51 52 54 57 59 60 62 64 66 67 68 69 71 72 74 76

staff stories untitled by lauren di vencenzo & sarah coker our mother by yina shan populations of a ghost town by coryn urquhart untitled by nikki huynh rejection by j.a.f.p. (alejandra fernandez) remembering mom by afsha siddiqui spare change by mackenzie green the dead man by sabrina macklai eleven by m.n. on cognitive behavioural therapy by maisie babiski untitled by gillian maltz elements by sneha wadhwani moment by moment by simrit saini the urge by nicholas schmid drowning by tiffany tse he whispers by kashyap patel untitled by ann kang cosmic wanderers by owen dan luo the other end by colline do like daughter by suffia malik i’m not afraid of death by dem like clockwork by natalie chen a conditioned response by fredde untitled by lauren crawford him by sarah coker untitled by neda pirouzmand a little ways away by takhliq amir devilish deception by sara emira the allure of the world by zara partovi sleepless by michelle yao 2am thoughts by yvonne syed red velvet boots by ariella ruby you told me once by shadman khan hate by amit nehru falling by hayley vandermaarl centipede by grace kang the ghost of childhoods past by valerie luetke lost light by virginia ford-roy crime and punishment by nikhita singhal scribe and cat by dong ba

STAFF STORIES WHAT DO YOU FEAR?

SABRINA LIN

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF (ART & PRODUCTION)

SOWMITHREE RAGOTHAMAN

CONTENT EDITOR

Complacency. In both myself and the world. I fear the might-have-beens. I fear that I might stop pushing to be the best version of myself, or that I might stagnate in my pursuits of dreams and ambitions, and instead let them pass me by. I fear that the world might go that way too; becoming more ignorant, more desensitized, content with the bare minimum. I fight this fear everyday, some days more successfully than others. But I hope that we’ll never lose sight of our aspirations as individuals and as a society, and continue to strive towards them.

NICHOLAS SCHMID

CONTENT EDITOR

The smell of coffee.

Imagine waking up in the morning after a long, refreshing rest. You are not fully awake, and as you amble your way out of bed and down the stairs, your senses are not quite functioning. Then a scent wafts towards you through the air. Not a nice, welcoming scent to ease you out of your slumber. Rather, it is a foul, bitter, and noxious stench drifting from the kitchen. Someone is brewing coffee. The only thing scarier than such an awakening, is that I suffer through this every morning.

I fear being debilitated by fear. So I guess you could say I fear ‘fear’ itself? Is that too meta?

MARIUM SHAHANA

LAYOUT EDITOR

I’d like to say I don’t fear many things but when I see a dog I startle, when I’m on a roller-coaster I close my eyes, and when I look around to ask a question my heart rate increases. I get scared of many things but fearing them was not something I considered I did, until I did. I fear disappointment and rejection.

I fear public speaking and embarrassment. I fear so many things that I cannot even keep track anymore.

Most aren’t tangible, but reside in my heart only to be brought out when I least expect them to.

MATTY FLADER

ART MANAGER yes.

SABRINA MACKLAI

CONTENT EDITOR

GRACE KANG

CONTENT EDITOR

I’m afraid of losing things, I guess. A few days ago I lost my Nintendo Switch controller grip, and in the process of looking for it, I realized that I’d also lost my two Presto cards (including my HSR bus pass) and a debit card. When the lady at the bank asked me for my driver’s ID so she could give me a new debit card, I found I’d lost that too. The next thing I was about to lose was my damn mind. Thankfully, I ended up finding a few things, but I’m still traumatized.

FOMO The fear of missing out is so common among our generation that the word “FOMO” was even added to the Oxford dictionary back in 2013. It makes sense. With so much going on in our lives, we’re always bound to miss out on one thing or another.

I guess FOMO is the reason I’m so anxious about making decisions — there’s always a lingering “what if”. What if I went to that party? What if all my friends are having fun without me? What if I chose a different major? What if all my decisions were wrong? What if?

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WORDS by LAUREN DI VINCENZO & SARAH COKER ART by LAUREN DI VENCENZO

I’m being crushed by a deafening silence.

I’ve become an embodiment of white noise.

They walk around me.

Am I a ghost? Haunting everyone and everything around me?

It’s a more interesting explanation at least.

They walk through me.

But a bigger, more logical part of me knows it is my dullness that makes me uninteresting; Erased.

They don’t see me.

If I don’t care for my own company, how will anyone else?

I really don’t want to grow old alone.

They don’t hear me.

But I can’t be seen, and that makes this very difficult. x

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I once heard a tale of the woman who embodied an ethereal elegance the universe could never reimagine —

Our Mother

GENESIS

WORDS by YINA SHAN

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With bare hands sharp mind and tender heart she sculpted her world — her work of art Dancing trees that stirred their feet freeing fruits once kissed by breeze Streaming falls that chased soft granite feeding soil that laid underneath EMBRACE Lifting the veil from her temple of refuge she let all enter — a promise of mutual guardianship So they vowed to protect her pristine being with unwavering devotion for eternity and onward NURTURE She taught them to dance with her trees savour her fruits cleanse in her falls bloom from her soils They held her roots gazing in emerald eyes bathing in blue blood — and were gifted with life

POSSESSION

DEATH

In paradise they consumed but hunger unsettled lust untamed in her love their greed grew

They crowned themselves with lifeless remains of the one who nourished who gave them life

Vying for her — a piece of her they rationed, took, then stole scavenging dying forests and seas until she crumbled

and rejoiced amidst the ruins of barren land ‘til the flames blackened against the sinking sun

DEPLETION

DESOLATION

and collapsed

Soon they clutched her remnants caskets of rotting fruit pails of stagnant blood sacks of brittle soil

weeping in agony suffering in betrayal begging for solace protection of her temple But her sacred body turned a callous battlefield of silent screams buried deep in ashes DEMOLITION They watched as she burned remorseless tore her flesh mined her core tied her limbs sank her soul

staggering, they sought a second gift of life but finally collapsed as did their first and only mother — I once heard a tale that stripped away hope and left me in fear We can retell this tale of our mother, Earth. x

leaving her skeleton a broken haven her shell a hollow vessel

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WORDS by CORYN URQUHART ART by SHANNON WU

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POPULATIONS OF A GHOST TOWN CONTENT WARNING: SUICIDE It was half-past nine in the evening when Daryl Winters appeared in my front yard to share his secrets.

“Wirt shot himself ‘cos he was gay.”

If there was anything I’d expected, it wasn’t that.

Wirt Fischer was three years older’n me, ‘fore he wasn’t three years older’n anyone, anymore – he was just dead. He was as corn-fed as all the other hicks Daryl and I had gone to school with. Reserved, a little emotionally stunted, two left feet on the dance floor. He’d killed himself in his family’s barn. Apparently they’d done a closed casket and there was much debate over whether or not there was anything actually in the casket, since he’d used a shotgun and had blown his brains all over the heifers.

Daryl Winters had been the only person on earth that could put up with Wirt Fischer every minute of every day. He’d worked on the Fischer family farm since he was old enough to lend a hand, and the two of ‘em had been something of an iconic duo ‘round town. If you were lookin’ for one, you were liable to find both. Now I understood why.

He looked like he was waitin’ to get slapped. “I’m…he was…y’know…” his fingers shook, “gay.”

I’d known Winters my entire life and I’d never seen him look scared, not once, not even when throwin’ hands with six guys after a rowdy Buck & Doe. He looked fuckin’ terrified, then.

“Don’t tell anybody.”

“Jesus, Daryl, no, of course not.”

“We’d been…together,” he said it like it was a cuss word, “fer a few years. But I guess he couldn’t deal with it anymore. Pretendin’. So he just…” He trailed off. “Couple’a guys breezed through town ‘bout two weeks ‘fore he did it, caught us together down at the weepin’ tree. I don’t think they cared. But, Christ, Wirt was fuckin’ terrified. He started tryin’ to fight ‘em, tryin’ to keep ‘em quiet, or scare ‘em enough to make ‘em leave. They did.

Far as I know they didn’t say anythin’ to anybody, but I think the paranoia just…got to him.”

A cicada burst into screams and Daryl swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what to do.”

I blinked. “Are you askin’ me? Why the hell would you even tell me?”

“I guess I figured you were most likely the person who’d understand.”

“Why?” “You don’t live here anymore.” He sank down into the grass. “I had to tell somebody.

It’s been eatin’ me from the inside-out. I keep thinkin’ — I was the one who started it. I always knew he was soft. But he was just ignorin’ it. He dated around, and nobody gave much of a damn unless he chased a skirt every once in a while. Me, well —” I knew what he meant without elaboration. There’d been a couple rumours, weak ones, ‘round town. Daryl’d never had a girlfriend.

“I can’t stop myself from thinkin’ that it was my fault.” His hands clasped ‘round the back of his neck, like he was bent in prayer, or contrition. I sat down in the grass next to him.

“Christ, Daryl, it wasn’t yer fault. He shot himself. That’s not on you. If anything, you kept him here longer’n he would’ve been otherwise.”

“How do you figure that, then?” His voice was hoarse, but his eyes were dry.

“Dar, can you imagine how much harder his life would’ve been if he’d been alone? If he felt like there was nobody who got it? You did that fer him. Fer years.”

There had been no question of either of them comin’ out, not here. Guy in our high school had worn a David Bowie teeshirt once; seniors busted his nose fer bein’ too

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“queer”. They would’a killed ‘em. They literally would have killed Wirt and Daryl both.

And the town would’a turned a blind eye.

“Dar, what’re you gonna do?”

“What do you mean?” It was like he’d never considered the question.

“You can’t stay here. God, it’ll destroy you.”

His eyes went dark. “Where the fuck would I go? I’ve got a high school diploma, and I’ve only ever had one job in my life. What the hell would I do?”

We watched the sky grow darker. I shook my head.

“I don’t know, Daryl, but you can’t stay here. You couldn’t change ‘em. Not all by yerself.” Somewhere in the distance, somebody let off a firework. We watched it explode in the sky. There weren’t any more. I looked at him. “Come stay with me.”

He stared at me. “What?”

“I’m goin’ back to school in a week. My place ain’t big, but I could fit ya. Fer a while, anyway, while you sorted yerself out. You could get a job on a worksite or somethin’. I’ve got some friends, I could ask ‘round.”

“What the hell would I tell everybody here?”

“Tell ‘em we’re elopin’.” It was a joke, but it fell flat. He shook his head.

“I dunno.”

“City’s a big place, Dar. It’d be better fer you than here.”

“How d’you fuckin’ know that? It could be just as shit out there as it is here.”

“You don’t actually believe that.”

“How’d you know?”

“Cos you wouldn’t have told me, if you did.” I took a shaky breath. “Look, what happened to Wirt was fuckin’…hell, there isn’t a word for it. But you can’t stay here, sleepin’ in the same town as his ghost and yer guilt. It’ll kill you, Daryl. You’ll end up like him. A person can’t spend their entire life pretendin’ they’re not something they are. What kind of existence is that?”

Daryl knotted his hands together. “He did it.” He wasn’t in favour of it. It was just the truth.

— “You sure you’ve got everythin’?” My dad was only askin’ as a formality. I closed the bed on the truck and stared down the road. Clear, as far as the eye could see. It was a perfect day, cloudless, the smell of freshly harvested barley carryin’ on the breeze.

I adjusted my rearview and waited to see if he’d show. x

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ART by NIKKI HUYNH

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ART by MATTY FLADER

WORDS by J.A.F.P. (ALEJANDRA FERNANDEZ)

REJECTION Have you ever noticed how we, as humans, enjoy the company of one another? We go out for coffee, have study groups, or even enjoy a nice dinner. We are constantly spending time with a group of people and like to be surrounded by others. However, we are not always welcome everywhere. As students, we start a new chapter in our lives when starting university. Everything is completely new and we have to begin all over. For a lot of people, making new friends is a big challenge and we often face rejection.

Rejection has become one of the main issues that cause anxiety and depression.

Humans beings are not used to being rejected. When it happens, it creates fear and insecurity, which affect our overall health. So, how can we face that fear? How can we get everyone to accept us?

Unfortunately, rejection is inevitable. We all experience it at any point of our lives. It becomes a big obstacle, which we have to learn to face. To begin with, we need to stop thinking that we should be liked by everyone we meet. We all have different personalities and ways of thinking, which makes us, sometimes, disagree with one another. It is normal, however, to take it personally when we get rejected. This is how our self-esteem starts getting hurt.

Another important thing is to remember those who do understand and care for us.

Those people are the ones who can help us through rejection. Friends and family are very important during that process because they are easy to talk to, and help us not feel alone. They can be a great support system, as they can help us get through anxiety and depression.

All things aside, the most important key of all is to be confident about who we are and what we stand for. Do not let others influence you or change you just because you are afraid to be rejected. Changing for others is not going to make the fear of rejection go away. It will make those feelings and thoughts which are locked inside come out, causing a burst of emotions. It can be harmful for yourself or others and thus can create more rejection.

Rejection is very painful. It is a fear, which sadly everyone is vulnerable and exposed to. We should not feel ashamed to share those feelings with our support systems.

By sharing, the fear of rejection reminds us that we are humans that feel and care, capable of healing and moving forward. x

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WORDS by AFSHA SIDDIQUI

This past April, I lost my mom to ovarian cancer. It’s easy to understand how my mom was the light of our house. She was an elementary school teacher, and you could truly see her personality in the classroom. She loved working with children and would enthusiastically share stories of their antics at home.

While at school, she’d devote herself to her students, ensuring that her classroom was full of handmade posters of the Hungry Caterpillar and other classic characters. She also insisted on taking care of her colleagues. Just as with my brother and I, she insisted on feeding them at any given opportunity. She particularly loved sharing her infamous samosas and traditional Indian kebabs. That’s how I remember her, as someone that was always laughing and cooking.

Two summers ago, my mom, that bundle of energy, was diagnosed with stage 3 ovarian cancer. It all began with an unsuspecting cough. To her doctors, it seemed as though her asthma was acting up. They prescribed puffer after puffer, to no avail. It took a trip to the emergency ward to realize that her cough was a sign of a serious underlying issue. While in the ICU, she was diagnosed with cancer, and given a three-year prognosis. That was the day that our lives were turned upside down. It was also the first time that we saw my dad cry. However, we approached her illness as a team and took each complication in stride. My mom underwent three rounds of chemotherapy, two surgeries, and radiation therapy in order to fight her cancer. She fought with bravery and strength. Even after the cancer spread to her brain, she refused to suspend her membership with the Ontario College of Teachers, insisting that she’d be back on her feet soon. However, cancer is unforgiving. Despite the prognosis and treatments, we lost my mom after a one and a half year battle.

It’s been seven months since she passed away and her absence is ever palpable. Without her, our house feels remarkably empty; it lacks the warmth of her cooking and the sound of her laugh. We’re still in the process of learning to function as a family of three. Since her death, cancer has taken 14

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on a particularly dark meaning. I infinitely fear having to face that battle once more. Each cough from a family member now feels as though it has the potential to be so much worse than what it is. WebMD definitely doesn’t help. As my mom’s only female offspring, I also fear developing the same cancer that took her life. Ovarian cancer is particularly difficult to diagnose because it doesn’t present many symptoms in its early stages.

The unfortunate reality is that family history can be a risk factor for developing this cancer. It’s difficult to not be afraid.

It’s hard to discern cancer from death after having experienced a loss. The reality of the situation is that nearly 1 in 2 Canadians will be diagnosed with cancer in their lifetime. However, each cancer journey is unique and not everyone will lose their fight with cancer. There are over a hundred types of cancer and five different stages. Controlling my thoughts means thinking about the statistics rationally. I’ve personally found that one way to tackle my own fear was to regain a sense of control over my body.

For me, this meant seeking genetic counselling and being tested for the BRCA1 and BRCA2 gene test. This tests for an inherited mutation which can increase one’s likelihood of developing breast or ovarian cancer. It’s unfortunate that the test is largely inaccessible in Canada, but programs such as the Prevent Ovarian Cancer Program at Princess Margaret Hospital help test individuals with an increased risk. For me, genetic risk assessment provided me with science-based answers to soothe my anxieties.

Cancer is a largely sensitive topic. It’s difficult because there aren’t always answers. My mom’s cancer journey was traumatic for everyone involved. Even now, it’s hard not to think about cancer in an anxiety-inducing manner. But I know that I am not alone in this fear. I have connected with so many females who have lost a sister, an aunt, a mother or a grandmother to breast or ovarian cancer. Tackling these feelings begins with an acceptance of the unknown nature of the future and a conscious decision to live day-by-day. I choose to move forward by trying to embody my mother’s love for life, despite the lingering feeling of loss. x

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WORDS by MACKENZIE GREEN ART by VANIA PAGNIELLO

Spare Change

Andrew sits on the bus beside a man in a beat-up raincoat and shoes patched with duct tape. The radiator blasts from behind their seats as the bus shudders along through the chilly November night, bouncing in and out of potholes.

Andrew’s mum is going to be mad that he’s getting home after dark. “You never know what kind of people you’ll run into wandering around outside at night,” she always tells him. She’s right. They don’t live in the safest neighbourhood — there was a stabbing a few blocks away only two weeks ago. I’ll just keep to myself and I’ll be fine. No talking to anyone. Don’t make eye contact. The man in the raincoat suddenly swivels his head towards Andrew, like an owl.

“Do you have any spare change?” His pale blue eyes meet Andrew’s with a vacant expression. Andrew jumps up from his seat as the bus begins to slow. It’s one stop too early, but something in the man’s empty gaze makes Andrew nervous.

“Sorry, I don’t have anything with me,” Andrew blurts out.

The back doors hiss open and Andrew steps into the cool air.

The street is empty except for an older woman pushing a cart.

Heading towards his apartment building, Andrew is about to brush past the woman when she raises her head and looks straight into his eyes, her pupils small and dark, like a rodent’s.

“Do you have any spare change?” the woman asks. Her voice is monotone, face expressionless, with the same uninterrupted gaze of the man on the bus. Andrew’s breath catches in his throat. It’s just a little old woman, she’s not going to hurt you. He tosses the woman an apology and rushes off down the street. As he steps into the glow of a streetlight, a woman wearing earmuffs

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approaches from the opposite direction. She has a pretty face, her hair falling in soft curls onto a stylish jacket that’s cinched at the waist. She stops a few feet ahead of Andrew and steps into his path.

“Do you have any spare change?” For a moment Andrew is taken aback — then his stomach clenches, surprise melting to fear, as he recognizes the woman’s absent expression. This time Andrew doesn’t respond. He takes off at a steady gallop, his backpack jerking up and down with each footfall. He reaches the apartment building and jams his key into the lock at the front entrance. Catching his breath in the elevator, he begins to formulate an array of excuses to give to his mother.

When Andrew bursts through the door, his mum is on the couch. She’s watching something on TV, but the room is quiet, the images moving silently across the screen. She doesn’t turn her head as he comes in. Great, she’s probably furious. Somehow, the room looks darker than usual and the window above the kitchen sink is cracked open several inches, inviting an icy draft into the apartment. Tossing his coat onto a nearby chair, Andrew drops onto the couch next to his mother.

“I’m really sorry…” Andrew begins. His mother’s gaze still hasn’t left the screen. After a moment, her head slowly pivots towards him, her eyes glazed over. In the low light, her face appears eerily pale. Andrew jerks back in alarm, muscles tensing.

“Is everything alright?” his mother asks, breaking her stare.

“I’m glad you’re home; the sound on the TV isn’t working.” She prods the volume button on the remote. Andrew leans back into the couch, a long exhale escaping his mouth. x

Andrew leans back into the couch, a long exhale escaping his mouth.

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the

man WORDS by SABRINA MACKLAI ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

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“27-year-old male. Renal failure. Good luck,” said Nurse Katz as she handed Doctor Walsh the manila folder. The doctor sighed at her retreating form and opened the door to room 214. Nurse Katz was the toughest nurse on call — if she was wishing him luck with a patient, he’d probably need it.

“How goes it, doc?” asked the patient with a hint of sarcasm.

He looked like your average 27-year-old male. If it weren’t for the blue gown and deep, dark circles under his eyes, Doctor Walsh would have mistaken him as healthy. He skimmed the file in his hands for a name: Shane Johnson.

“Doing well, Mr. Johnson. How are you feeling?”

“Let’s cut the crap. I’ve seen enough medical dramas to know I’m in a pretty shit condition.”

“Well, you see —” “What? Are you here to fix me all up? Tell me everything is going to be okay?”

Doctor Walsh sighed again, realizing the cause for Nurse Katz’ earlier behaviour. In his twenty something years of practice, he had never lost his temper with a patient and this was a pattern he did not intend to break. Breathe, he thought to himself.

“Mr. Johnson, you —” “Shane. Call me Shane. Goddammit, I can’t stand you white coats and your formalities. Let loose a little, will you?”

“Shane. I’m sorry to say that your kidneys are failing. We can likely keep you stable for a week — two even, if we start treatment today.” Noticing the sudden silence that filled the room, Doctor Walsh looked up from his file. The patient’s face, drained of colour, was directly turned to him.

“You married, doc? Got a nice partner and set of kids back at home?”

“No, I’m not married. Your best option is immediate dialysis.

I can have the nurse —” “Shame. Hobbies? A life outside these ugly walls?”

“Look, Shane, I have other patients to attend to. I’ll send in the nurse to get your consent before we can start the dialysis.”

With that, Doctor Walsh closed the file and turned to leave. As he was about to pull the door handle, the sound of obnoxious laughter filled the room.

“Isn’t that so funny, doc? I’m lying on my deathbed, but between the two of us, I’m the only one who’s ever lived. Life is funny that way, ain’t it?”

Against his better judgement, Doctor Walsh turned around.

“I’m sorry you’re dying. We’ll do our best to prolong your life.”

The patient shook his head. “You know, at least I can say I died happy. A life without regrets. Can you say that?”

“I like my job.”

“I like my job,” mocked the patient. “Goddammit, doc! Your life shouldn’t be your job! Let me guess, you were one of those smart kids in high school, the ones everyone just expected would do great things? And how could you disappoint? So you did the whole nine yards. Who cares about your passions?”

Isn’t that so funny, doc?

I’m lying on my deathbed, but between the two of us, I’m the only one who’s ever lived.

“Look where it’s got me!” snapped the doctor. “People look up to me, respect me. I’ve saved thousands of lives.”

“But you couldn’t save your own, eh? A life ruled by fear isn’t living, doc.”

Doctor Walsh was stunned; it was true. Sure, he liked medicine, or at least he learned to like medicine, but it was never truly his passion. Who was he to complain, though? There was no certainty in following one’s passions — no, he had made the safe decision, the correct decision, when he had decided to pursue medicine all those years ago.

He turned to leave the room when he knocked the patient’s bag off its table, spilling its contents across the floor. As he knelt down to clean it up, he paused at a paintbrush. He held it tentatively, as if it would burst into flames. Doctor Walsh hadn’t held a paintbrush in years.

“Keep it, doc. Or don’t. I really don’t care. What use does a dead man have for art, anyways?”

Closing the door behind him, Doctor Walsh pocketed the paintbrush. The rest of his day was normal by all standards; he lost a patient and saved two others. Later that day, he was on his way to assist in surgery when he walked past room 214. To his shock, the bed was empty.

“Nurse Katz, where was the patient moved?”

“Mortuary. Time of death was called less than an hour ago,” she responded stoically. Glancing at Doctor Walsh’s shaken face, she nodded her head. “He refused the treatment. Odd kid. Oh well, the bed will be filled soon. You better run along, they’re expecting you in surgery.”

Doctor Walsh hummed in acknowledgement. Another long night ahead. He spared another glance at room 214 before walking through the double doors of the surgery unit.

As he stood outside the operating room, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his scalpel and to his surprise, removed the paintbrush he had pocketed hours earlier. Through his gloves, he fingered the bristles, hardened by years of devotion.

If only, he thought.

“Doctor Walsh, we need to start the surgery immediately.

Let me assist you with the sterilization process,” said a nearby nurse, breaking his trance.

Doctor Walsh nodded, chucking the paintbrush into the trash. What use did a dead man have for art, anyways? x

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ELEVEN ART by ELISABETTA PAIANO WORDS by M.N.

On that Saturday I was the harbinger of death.

He was always on me to stop reading the news.

It just makes you miserable, he said.

I know, I’d reply and go back to my reading.

Which is why I was the one, that unremarkable Saturday morning, who stood staring at the headline, “BREAKING NEWS out of Pittsburgh…”

I was the one who turned on the TV, the one who cried first.

We watched, transfixed for hours as the death toll rose.

12 injured, four dead, Then six, Then eight, Then ten.

I prayed it would stop and finally it does.

Eleven murdered in a synagogue in Pittsburgh.

We sit sobbing quietly, afraid to drown out the news anchors, but for all their experts and their flashy graphics they can’t answer the only question that matters.

And now I am afraid.

I return to campus and can’t help but study faces.

Who will be the next in a long line of people to decide that we Jews must die?

Everything has become irrelevant, unreal but no one else seems to notice Did you hear about the plane crash on Sunday?

No, I reply. I’ve stopped reading the news.

I will myself past tables of students – laughing, eating, some fundraiser.

And suddenly I am no longer afraid. I am frenzied every inch of me burns with a rage I did not know my frail body could contain.

I walk through campus, a marionette strung along by electrical wires.

And I hate everyone who doesn’t hurt like I hurt.

This anger is blinding, and I choke on the scream that keeps trying to claw its way out of my throat.

I see stars and realize I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

I felt like this burning will consume me.

But just as quickly the fire dies.

As we begin on chapter 11 I remember the bodies and my rage dissolves into tears.

Because the bodies of the dead are never supposed to be left alone.

The bodies are supposed to be buried whole.

But how can they be buried when a piece of them and of me makes a mockery of the place we once called a Sanctuary?

I flee the lecture hall where every slide bears the number 11, twin daggers that trace their way along the scars of old wounds which never quite seem to heal.

I collapse in the hallway but a brutal hand grabs the back of my shirt and wrenches me upwards.

She too wears a star around her neck.

We go on, she says, We go on. x

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ON COGNITIVE BEHAVIOURAL THERAPY WORDS by MAISIE BABISKI ART by GRACE MACASKILL

every day, conquer something that you are afraid of. breathing, to me, is like crawling up the river with every splash I make I brace for a different kind of chill to add to the collection in my bones. chattering teeth and sleepless nights are my prizes, not to mention the right to present myself as the fearless girl who is fearless because she’s afraid of everything who can and must conquer anything as the circus creature whose circus looks like her therapist’s office white walls with the dirt washed away in her head, there’s a motto on the wall I’ve climbed over that says If you’re afraid of something, it probably means you’ll make yourself better by being brave all the way through it. x

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UNTITLED WORDS by GILLIAN MALTZ

I don’t know how to ride a bike.

I never learned. It was one of those things my parents never taught me.

Or maybe they just gave up after they realized I can barely stand on one foot without teetering over.

I don’t know how to drive either.

Never got my license. When all my friends rushed to the DMV, I stayed home.

Scared to control spokes on a wheel, how could I control a racing metal death machine?

My dad always bothers me about it.

“See? Look at all those people riding their bikes! Riding a bike is the best thing in the world,” he chides me, as we sit in his 30-year-old Mercedes Benz (sometimes I think he’s afraid to get a new car).

I stay silent, staring at the cracked leather mat under my feet.

It’s not often that I’m quiet. My dad picks up on this.

“Why don’t you learn? Come on, I’ll teach you!”

Because learning means I’ll have to fall, I want to say.

I’ll have to lift both feet off the ground and pedal. Pedal until, one day, maybe as I’m turning a curb on the way to my best friend’s house, the front wheel will jerk at a sharp angle and I’ll lose my balance.

And I’ll fall.

My hands and knees will hit the pavement, which shows no remorse.

Some skin will come off. There will probably be some blood too.

The aftermath isn’t nearly as bad as the moments before the fall.

Fall into the unforgiving, grey gravel.

Fall into bad grades and pitchy notes during my solo in the school play.

Fall into someone, only to have them look back at me with disgusting pity in their eyes and admit, “Sorry. I just don’t feel the same way.”

The fall means that there will be pain. My knee, my voice, and my heart will hurt.

And I’m not sure the hurt is worth pedaling under a green canopy of trees on my street during an early summer evening. Even if the sky has been painted a perfect pink and the chestnut tree on my front lawn is just beginning to let its bounty fall to the ground.

But then I remember the saying: “It’s like riding a bike. You never forget.”

And I know I’ll never forget the euphoric rush of being on stage.

Or the blushing excitement of someone new.

Or how my best friend will probably laugh and give me a SpongeBob band-aid when I arrive at her house.

By bike, of course.

Bloody knees and all.

The next time my Dad offered to teach me, I said yes.

Because I know I’ll never forget how to ride a bike.

And I’ll never forget how to fall. x

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Can you keep a secret?

Last night, I saw a girl with sun hair Hydrogen combusting in every strand A heat my body did not know how to take.

Her smile engulfed me in flames; A heat no one could feel but us.

Can you keep a secret?

My first love had eyes like swimming pools I drowned in them each time I saw him.

Yet somehow, he always managed to save me.

Isn’t it funny how the criminal and victim can sometimes be the same person?

Funny how sometimes you can be that person?

I think love is the most liberating prison.

I am criminal, key, and guard all in one, Told to choose my fate But I think I would rather set this cell on fire.

ELEMENTS ART by K A T R I N A H A S S WORDS by SNEHA WADHWANI

Can you keep a secret?

When I say I’m bisexual, I mean internalized homophobia Is a forest fire waiting for the right spark to take flame.

I am determined to make it rain each time it ignites.

Can you keep a secret?

If you asked me how I would rather die: Engulfed in flames Or lungs filled with water I’d say both.

Some nights in my childhood, the spark took the form of my father’s voice Telling me attraction to people of the same gender didn’t make biological sense.

I crave the sensation of heat on every inch of my skin, Crave love washing over me Until I become a tidal wave And an inferno All in one.

Some nights now, It is being told to pick a side When the land beneath your feet is constructed from the collision of fire and water.

Aren’t we all Just natural disasters Waiting to collide?

Can you keep a secret?

When I say I’m bisexual, I mean fire and water exist within me, They fought for dominance for years Until I realized they could coexist.

The earth exists within me And like fire and water, I am nature’s child I am lava exploding from a volcano Greeting the ocean to form igneous rock I am creating my own communities Charting my own territory So I guess it’s no longer a secret I’m bisexual. x

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WORDS by SIMRIT SAINI

ART by ABBY LINDZON

MOMENT BY MOMENT

Here, it’s all about the money.

Does looking at the sky help me earn?

No. Does admiring blooming flowers help me earn?

No. But, getting to work early does.

I just want to slow down.

But, people would just look at me all funny.

I want to be able to explore the world.

Devour the scrumptious food.

Soak in the sun and rain.

Admire the beauty.

I want to stop.

Just for a Moment. x

Ironic, isn’t it?

People come to this city to chase their hopes and dreams.

And then there is us.

We, who are putting our hearts and souls into the grind.

Giving up on our dreams every second that goes by.

If we even stop for a minute, we are looked down at.

There is no stopping in this city.

Why?

I want to smell the flowers, prick my finger on the thorns, and be sprayed by the sprinkler.

I want to find rainbows and soak in the sun.

I want to watch birds fly gracefully across the sky and watch the clouds move into different shapes.

But, people would just look at me all funny.

It’s become a routine.

There is no walking slowly. Everybody is busy. Everyone is in a hurry.

The hustle and bustle doesn’t just stay in the streets. It continues at home, at work, even at night.

Sometimes, I want to shout: Slow down!

What’s the hurry?

But, people would just look at me all funny.

I move along with the crowd.

There are cars blazing down the black asphalt road, cyclists pedaling fast.

The horns blast and the lights flash.

The pedestrians cutting through places they shouldn’t just to save a few extra moments.

So I move along with the crowd.

The Urge ART by CATHERINE TARASYUK WORDS by NICHOLAS SCHMID

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Picture this.

It’s been a long day. A really long day. The type of day where you have been too busy to feel the urge. So far.

Anyway, the day is over. You pack up your work in Mills or wherever, and begin the walk home.

Somewhere around Main Street, the urge begins to strike.

Digging deep, you find the last reserves of your strength and pick up the pace.

The rest of the walk zips by. You are now under control of the urge.

At last you see the lights twinkling in your living room window, inviting you to enjoy some warmth and comfort. But you have a task to achieve first.

You throw open the door, not even pausing to say hi to your housemates, or answer the exclamations about the intensely concentrated expression on your face.

At last you reach the bathroom. You close the door. You sit down. You are at peace.

And then you look at the wall, and your world crumbles around you.

Sitting lithely on its stand, the empty brown cylinder of cardboard seems to

smile at you as if it were aware of your plight. Aware of the turmoil you now face.

There’s no toilet paper left.

What do you do? Your very thoughts seem paralyzed. Unable to move or call for help, you glance around in desperation, hoping in vain that there is one last roll that could be your salvation.

With the futile search over, the panic begins to bubble up. Each escape plan that forms in your mind is cast away only to be replaced by another, even more frantic idea. Answers are as scarce as toilet paper.

Beads of sweat start to form on your brow. This was the last thing you needed.

You swear that there had been at least two rolls remaining when you had left in the morning.

As despair settles in, you wonder why none of your housemates had warned you that such a doom lay waiting in the bathroom.

Defeated, all you can think is…

Well, shit.

But then again, that is precisely the problem.

You just did. x

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DR

O W

N

IN

G

It gnaws at me, slowly eating away at my chest — creeping in and filling my mind.

It wasn’t always this way, seeping into all aspects of my life; yet I now live in terror.

Wishful smiles, pillars of support — gone.

Dark thoughts, emotions pulling me everywhere, out of control.

A small boat out at sea, beaten in every direction by stormy waters.

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Grasping frantically, I try to gain control — but the winds are stronger.

I succumb, and lose myself: it is too much.

Drowning in thoughts, I gasp for breaths, for air — but the air is too high up.

This fear of failure of losing, engulfs my mind.

Am I really living? x

ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by TIFFANY TSE

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HE WHISPERS As I walk in the cold rain, I feel a presence — a familiarity: One that speaks to me Time and time again.

It cannot be seen or felt, But rather it is heard — Death oft whispers faintly in my ear, To remind me of the sheer power He has over all those I hold so dear, At every minute, any ghastly hour.

Death oft whispers faintly in my ear, Of the countless joys he has taken, Of memories that will soon disappear, And souls that will never reawaken.

Death oft whispers faintly in my ear, The names of those he has snatched, To taunt my peace and birth a fear Of his might and his reach unmatched.

His voice may be quiet, But his words are deafening — Death screams in my ear: My joys, My memories,

My name. x

WORDS by K ASHYAP PATEL ART by ELI MOSER

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ART by ANN K ANG

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WORDS by OWEN DAN LUO ART by GRACE MACASKILL & CHARLENE FORDE-SMITH

cos

c i m

wanderers We set off; our journey began as shooting stars — dancing across the night sky.

Where are those days?

When our purpose in life was as clear as the sun rays; Our will as expansive as the Milky Way. An entire world of possibility unfolding around us — within arm’s reach, right next door, a mere stone’s throw away.

We, cosmic wayfarers, only needed to seek it.

Or so we thought.

We are now older — but not wiser.

With eyes blurred and hands bound, we proceed at the speed of light.

Without a North Star to guide us, conviction became shrouded by impotence, propelled forward not by doors we opened — but those that closed in front of us.

Shivering in the cold of limitless space, Heaving for air within an infinite vacuum.

Where can we make an impact As stars destined for eventual collapse?

Asteroids obliterated upon impact with distant planets Comets aimlessly abiding by their preordained trajectory Decisions we thought we could make for ourselves; Are now made for us — not with us, All meaning wrested from our grips.

We follow the courses charted in the cosmos, drifting aimlessly through endless galaxies, gravity tossing us back and forth.

Finding ourselves lost, We extend our worn hands, Seeking the warmth of another — only to realize we remain empty-handed.

Alone, we pray for the day that our stars align, forming the constellations we set out to create. x

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THE OTHER END

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WORDS by COLLINE DO ART by SHENG CHEN

I couldn’t help but think How awesome you were.

Your steps in time to the beat, Your movement unceasing On towards the dance’s end.

I was following; you were leading.

Astounding.

Your eyes wept milk, Your lips dripped honey; A promise sworn strongly, So carelessly.

Breathtaking.

Dauntless in sincerity, Folded into feeling; We willed to forget how Reckless the abandon.

One and the same.

Abandon the reckless Love you regret now.

Swayed by opinion, Ruthless with necessity.

Chilling.

So decidedly, You quietly severed forever.

In your eyes was stormy weather From which rain never fell.

Forbidding.

I couldn’t follow; you were leaving.

Turned from trust we couldn’t mend.

Your decision firm and unyielding To fall away from arm’s reach.

How fearsome you were, I couldn’t help but think. x

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Like Daughter WORDS by SUFFIA MALIK ART by SABRINA JIVANI

Recklessness. Why else would we strap ourselves into metal dragons and launch ourselves across the horizon? The only thing stopping us from a watery demise is an engine that pushes us at the speed of sound. It feels like life itself, moving so fast and yet never realizing we’ve moved at all until we’ve landed.

His education reminded him that physics was on his side, until he wondered if the calculations of flight came after man discovered how to suspend himself in the sky.

Instead, he reminded himself of God. His wife’s fingers pressed white lines into his hand and there was a silent understanding that they needed only to survive a few more hours. Then, in a habit that would only leave many years later, he counted all the ways he was being protected from a greater catastrophe.

And the greater ones which were possible.

You leave war, in sweating nightmares But you cannot bathe in Canadian monsoons your rite of passage is poverty and you will be like a mango tree that filters light into your home but bears rotted fruit that falls unpicked His eyes fluttered open and he realized his wife was struggling to cradle his child, his daughter. In his language, every child was lovingly called a son. Son, come over here. Son, how are your studies? But no son could have brought the luck his daughter did. She was the only reason he could bear this eighteen-hour marathon of turbulence. He feared she would be the only reason he would bear many years of turbulence afterwards.

He wrapped his arms around his child and watched as his wife’s arms relaxed. Then, gripped with fear, he began counting.

And kept counting as he disembarked. And as he held his child

through customs. And for the next twenty-one years.

— Before she weighed her luggage a final time, she counted out three anti-anxiety pills. It was several hours past her regular time but she hoped its drowsy effects would give her the sleep she needed. It was funny that the labours of her parents in getting to this side of the ocean would one day drive her to go back to find out where she was born. From where she unknowingly made the journey years ago.

She went downstairs and grabbed her father’s old poetry book. His books were to him what her medications were to her.

A chemical solace.

She had a name for her fears that her father did not, but in the pages of his book, her racing heart flew.

She did not understand all the words he used — some Urdu is more beautiful written than spoken. But she did not need to know all the words to feel the loops pressing along her beating heart. A feeling that slowed her breath. A feeling that rested her mind.

Running her hands through the pages, she came to a familiar passage, one her father wrote in a spell of homesickness.

When love was a garland of eternal roses. When holding hands was our newest adventure. When cold was a feeling, and not a nation.

We were home.

She packed his book into her luggage and set it by the door.

By then, it was already morning.

— Sunlight bounced into the airport through trees planted indoors. It was like a greenhouse — an oasis among the cold.

When it was time to go, her father cradled her. Through her, a part of him would be home soon.

She felt his arms relax. x

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I’M NOT AFRAID OF

D E AT H WORDS by DEM ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

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CONTENT WARNING: SUICIDAL IDEATION I’m not afraid of death.

Death, to me, is like a calling A beacon of release from the weight of a world that is so, so crushing.

I’m not afraid of death, Because everyday I’m dying.

Every second that passes, every breath I take, my cells move closer to their expiry date.

I’m not afraid of death, Because a part of me wants to die.

To swallow the pills, to jump off the bridge To finally grasp the knife in my hands and plunge it within, A part of me wants to end it all.

I may not be afraid of death, But I am afraid of loss.

I’m afraid of losing the people around me I’m afraid of being alone.

I’m terrified of their silence I’m terrified of their departure How will I survive when they’ve moved on without me?

But as I stand on the edge of the roof, With the ground waiting to swallow me With the release so close I realize How will they survive without me?

How can I move on without them — how could I leave them behind?

The world sort of sucks But it sucks so much less with them beside me And maybe it hurts, and maybe I’m not scared of going, But if I were them I’d be scared of losing me.

I think I’ll keep holding on.

I may not be afraid of dying, But I want to be.

I want to love myself To see what they see I want to be afraid of losing myself.

Maybe one day that fear will come But for now, I’ll keep holding on. x

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WORDS by NATALIE CHEN ART by GRACE K ANG

clockwork There is something exhilarating about watching the minutes turn into hours as the world fades into darkness. It’s the feeling of control that is born once the city grows quiet and the street lights turn off. The feeling of elation as the next few hours are dedicated to nothing but everything: nothing immediate or important or substantial, but everything that makes you feel alive. These next hours are not confined to the minutes of the day, not guarded by the hands of a clock that only draw another deadline closer. These hours?

They are quiet, they are unregulated and they are fluid.

But as I watch the skies lighten from black to indigo from underneath my drowsy lids, I become filled with an indescribable sense of gloom. I cannot pinpoint its exact location, nor do I know if it originates from my chest or my brain. I am unsure if this feeling will ever disappear or if it will permanently belong to me. It is a pain that brings out my inner demons — my uncertainties, my jealousies, my insecurities. It takes away my comfort, my calmness and forces me to catch up. To run.

It is the sun.

It is the sun that forces me to wake up, pulling me out of my covers and into real life. It is the sun that regulates my hours, driving my schedule and controlling the path I take. It seems as if once the world awakens, my sense of independence fades. I no longer have the power to do whatever I want, and I must adhere to the rules of society. I can feel the sun rising but I want the moon to stay. I can see the fog slowly permeating the morning sky, and I feel fear. Fear that once again, I will no longer have the upper hand.

But as the sun peers through my curtains, prompting me to wake up, I do not succumb to its light. I succumb to the logic of childhood immaturity — of believing that things I cannot see will not notice me. I force my eyes shut and count to ten as my mind aimlessly drifts towards something better than reality. I think of it as a form of subtle defiance, of being able to overcome the demands forced on me by the world. But in reality, I am not a rebel.

I am a coward. x

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A Conditioned Response WORDS by FREDDE

ART by DAVID SHIN

“Remember to keep looking at the road, just like the doctor said,” she told her son

while navigating her old Honda out of the suburbs.

“Try not to think about it.” She

regretted the suggestion as soon as she

said it. Her son shot a wide-eyed look up at her — now what had to be avoided would be at the forefront of both of their minds.

long ago that she had to hold his hand

throughout an entire check-up. She had wished he would ask her to.

“It sounds like he has motion sickness,”

the doctor had offered. “Lots of people

have it while driving. The trick is to just

keep your eyes focused on the road.” She chewed the inner corner of her mouth

while listening, then had looked at her son.

“ARE YOU SURE?” SHE ASKED. “IT DOESN’T SEEM LIKE NAUSEA… ONCE WE GET OUT OF THE CAR, HE STARTS TO SHAKE AND DRY-HEAVE. SOMETIMES, IT’S LIKE HE CAN’T EVEN HEAR US.” At first, she suspected he was doing

He was looking at the floor.

it on purpose. She tossed that theory in

older son was half-awake in the back

seem like nausea… once we get out of

son during one of his episodes. His eyes

you, Jesus!” she thought as Cyndi Lauper

Sometimes, it’s like he can’t even hear us.”

She turned the radio on. Sometimes pop songs could be a viable distraction. Her

seat. Turning the dial, she prayed. “Thank came through the speakers. Her older son was likely to protest, or worse, tease his

younger brother about his music taste. She

wouldn’t tolerate teasing this morning. Her younger son up front, eyes trained on the

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It doesn’t

the car, he starts to shake and dry-heave.

“Try Gravol,” the doctor said. “Make

sure he takes it before you leave. My brother in-law has the same thing.”

They were now about halfway to her

road, was chewing his thumb. She admired

sister-in-law’s house. Their aunt was a kind

one another. Their father didn’t seem to

during the summer while she worked. The

that her boys were uniquely different from share this sentiment.

The week prior, they had been at the

doctor’s office. Her son, besides having

a delicate disposition, was healthy. Well, except for the dry-heaving and distress

he faced almost every morning lately. She had looked at him while the doctor was 46

listening to his heartbeat. It was not that

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woman who had offered to watch her boys arrangement seemed perfect at first. Their aunt had a son in his mid-twenties who

liked video games and comic books, so he knew how to keep her sons entertained.

She always made sure they were well-fed and cared for. Not so much as a scraped knee under her watch. Then, the dryheaving started.

the garbage when she really looked at her showed pure distress. He wasn’t faking. He also wasn’t dry-heaving any other time.

“Motion-sickness, my ass,” she thought.

She remembered her own childhood.

There were uncles and cousins she

instinctively felt she had to avoid, never fully knowing why. In car rides to their

houses, a feeling of dread would wash over her. Now, as a mother, she thought her

sons wouldn’t have to be careful around

the men in her family. Cigarette in hand,

their older cousin would delight her boys

with his comic book knowledge. She didn’t know enough about Catwoman to follow

their conversation. Instead, she eyed him

as he smoked, wondering if she was being naïve. She had started smelling cigarette

smoke on her younger son, but never the older son.

In the car now, was her son fighting

off the same dread? She tried not to think

about it. Next summer, they would be old

enough to stay at home on their own. She

would call them a hundred times a day and be able to go home on her lunch break. It would work itself out.

Then there was the mortgage, a

souvenir picked up from their move into the suburbs along with her having to

return to work. Everyone seemed to be

in the same financial boat. A ‘recession,’ they said on the news. But she thought

her husband had overshot their ability to move that far up the social ladder. Now

they fought about money constantly. She

SHE GLANCED AT HIM. HE WAS STILL CHEWING ON HIS THUMB, SIGNALING THAT HE WAS DEEPLY FOCUSED ON STAYING FOCUSED. salted fingers, and cheap plastic toys. Her older son, asking for the “boy” toy happy meal with confidence. Her younger son, chewing the corner of his mouth, the

words “girl toy, please” barely audible. The pink plastic would also have to be hidden from his father.

She glanced at him. He was still

chewing on his thumb, signaling that he was deeply focused on staying focused.

But he was bobbing his head to the

wished she didn’t have to work during

music, so this morning had the potential

errands with her boys and sneak in trips

not be,” she thought. “Or the day after.” She

the summer. Instead, she wanted to run

to McDonalds. “Don’t tell your father!” she would tell them, grinning and eating her fries three at a time. Where her husband

saw fast food as a waste of money, she saw a couple of bucks turning into time well

spent between the three of them: giggles,

to be incident-free. “But tomorrow might

suddenly had the urge to take them to the

voice, claiming, “The bank will come take our house!”

This arrangement was hurting their

son, somehow. But their son was an

entirely different argument. She would be

blamed for his love of Barbies and the way

he spoke. Eventually, she would be blamed for his “motion sickness” too — something her husband saw as attention-seeking.

More likely, something was going on at the

aunt’s house. She wished she could say this out loud, too.

They arrived. The music had worked:

no dry-heaving. Their aunt was already

on the front stoop, eagerly waving them inside, announcing that breakfast was

waiting for them. “Be good!” she called out.

“Love you!” The door closed behind them.

She pulled out of the driveway towards her

job, chewing her thumb the entire way and trying not to dry-heave. x

park even if they were too old for it. She

considered calling in sick to work. A day

off for the three of them. But a day off from work meant a fight with her husband. She could already hear the frantic tone in his

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ART by LAUREN CRAWFORD

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HIM It’s been months, but I still hurt.

When I hear your laughter, my breath hitches.

When I see your face, I die a little more inside.

The bed is cold beside me, and I no longer feel your warmth.

I am alone.

These long nights and short days bring me back to my moments of happiness.

Driving down the dark roads of Dundas remind me of our late nights.

I haven’t felt at peace since I left you.

I wasn’t enough for you.

But I still love you.

I worried about your future with the messed up girl that I was am.

I was so scared I would drag you down and smother the potential I knew you had.

So I let you go.

But now I worry that no one will love me as hard and well as you did.

Will he like my weird quirks and laugh at my jokes the way you used to?

Will I be able to confide in him the way I did with you?

Will he like me no matter what my body looks like?

Will I feel safe with his arms wrapped around me?

And can I tell him “I love you,” without thinking of you?

It is this unknown abyss that terrifies me. x WORDS by SARAH COKER ART by LAUREN DI VINCENZO

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WORDS by NEDA PIROUZMAND ART by MATTY FLADER

January The grocery store is both my favourite and least favourite place to be. Favourite, because I love the wide selection that there is to choose from; least favourite, because I often frustrate myself over whether I grab something and commit it to my basket or leave it. Right now, I am holding a box of chocolate wafers in my right hand, wondering do I take it or put it back, take it or put it back, take it or put it back…take it because I’m craving them or put it back because do I really need this? I have some chocolate at home and this would be adding to a bad habit, blah blah. I take it even though I know that this will be my one treat for the month.

Now I’m sweating, which is just great. This always happens to me the moment I get even slightly up in my head about anything.

But at least I’m done with that decision. I’m walking to the end of aisle 5 and I can see someone walking towards me from the other end. I stay in my lane and they stay in theirs; neither of us will get in the other’s way. They don’t even notice me. Still, I bump my basket against the glass wall for good measure.

The real reason I like the grocery store is because of aisle 5.

It is one of the few places where I can see the others. I used to yell and scream, throw cans of corn at the wall, and kick it until my feet were swollen with bruises. I continued this long after realizing that they could neither see nor hear me. Eventually I just accepted that everyone was on the other side, and that I was the

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only one here. This is just how things are. Sometimes I’ll respond to questions and comments from the other side as if I’m the one they are directed to. I like to learn about what is going on in the other side because, well, there’s not much going on in mine.

I’ve followed the lives of Kal and Sarah, who love the Célébration milk chocolate butter cookies especially when they can get them for a discount on Tuesdays. They eat a whole box in one night while watching Black Mirror together, which is apparently the most mind-twisting and amazing show ever.

I’ve watched over Reina’s shoulder as she gets dozens of Tinder matches within minutes. Apparently her friend knows a friend of a friend who is working at their headquarters and who knows how to cheat the Tinder algorithm. Reina revamped her bio in just three easy steps and violà! Reina makes me laugh so I watch her a lot. Her Food Basics purchases are often inspired by her matches. Today, the lucky winner is Jake from Oakville. He loves animals. Reina reaches to grab animal crackers after debating on a package of Goldfish.

Lastly, I’ve seen Mikael. He’s probably one of the sweetest boys I’ve ever seen, and the most handsome. He doesn’t like being around other people, or doesn’t know how to. He feels lonely too, I can tell.

March I grab the animal crackers from aisle 5, inspired by an old memory of Reina. When I turn around to face the glass wall, there is no one on the other side. Must be a slow day.

November Wafer time. I have been waiting for so long to come back to these. I’m about to pick up my basket and leave the aisle when I hear a loud sound. It sounds like someone is banging against it — it’s Mikael. He is banging his fist against the glass wall and looking straight at me.

I can’t make out what Mikael is saying. The wall is gone. Mikael is right in front of me, the closest I ever remember being to anyone.

We talk for a bit. After he leaves, I realize that my animal crackers have fallen out of my basket, along with everything else that was tucked in neatly just 10 minutes ago. A girl bends down to help me. I recognize her from the glass. I thank her. Lastly, I pick up the wafers. Take it or put it back, take it or put it back, take it or put it back…take it because, well, they’re delicious and apparently Mikael likes them too, or put it back because my mom says I can only pick one treat every couple of weeks, diabetes risk and all.

— Mikael has got to be the most annoying friend to sit beside in lecture. He doesn’t know how to whisper, nor does he care. On this rare occasion, I am actually half-listening to Mikael’s 267 word-perminute pace. He matched with a girl named Reina on Tinder and apparently they’re really connecting. The name sounds so familiar that I search for her through my Instagram followers, Facebook

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A Little Ways Everything was dark.

She’d been walking for so long now that each footfall felt heavy with the weight of exhaustion, each breath laboured with the increasing distance. All around her, she saw only endless streets and blackened windows, shrouded by the cloak of dullness and bathed in a chill stronger than she’d ever experienced before.

ART by PARAS SYED

—

———

He whistled as he walked, slightly hunched over but with his head held high towards the sky. He couldn’t remember where or when he had started walking — had it been seconds, minutes, or hours? He knew only that it’d been long enough that the streets had started to blur together. It was that time of the year again; storefronts jolly with the holiday spirit, the sounds of cheer and the scent of hot chocolate wafting through the air, signaling a chorus of new beginnings.

She got off the bus, shielding her face from the bite of the wind as she trekked through the deep snow. The shelter she’d gotten off at had long been deserted, a sign of the long day that she’d endured. She had always hated returning late at night, when the sky was in that awkward phase between the dark end of one day and the not-yet-dawn of another. Right now, she felt consumed by not only the stillness of midnight, but also by the racket of the rising storm. The snowy wind clamoured around her head, its howling a cacophony disrupting the silence of the night sky. Her head was bent and her eyes hardly open as she found herself clattering into the silhouette of another being.

She’d had enough. Her anger now in a state of inferno, she turned sharply and fired, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Despite the darkness, she could slightly make out the slow movements, the unhurried pace, as if there was no need to rush. If only my life was as easy.

— She huddled into the open bus shelter, cursing the thoughtless urban planners who couldn’t create a warmer space for those using these as a temporary stop-over on the way to their destination. Hopping from one foot to the other, she grimaced as the chilled air struck her face, her nose now red with anger more so than the cold. She checked her watch. Fifteen more minutes to go.

— He was now strolling down Bloor Street, teeming with lastminute holiday shoppers and window-shoppers alike, faces pressed against the cold panes of mesmerizing storefront displays. He was humming the tune of a song he could no longer remember the words to, but one that brought back memories of another time, another life. He’d managed to find enough change in his pockets a few hours ago to buy a hot chocolate. The cup that remained in his hand was cold now, the liquid within serving no real purpose anymore. It would fill his stomach later though, that much he knew. Still he walked, searching determinedly for the perfect place he needed.

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WORDS by TAKHLIQ AMIR

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— He didn’t like interfering in other people’s business, nor did he enjoy others interfering in his for that matter. But in that split second, as the lady collided hard into him, probably because she couldn’t be bothered to tie her long, flowing hair — the result of good shampoo and conditioner, no doubt — he wanted to ask what demon in her life was chasing her. After all, he had been carrying his with him for so long that he’d learned there was no point in running away from them. So he’d stopped a long time ago, choosing instead to let them walk anywhere; beside him, behind him, in front of him. Why run when you can’t escape? He wanted to say that to her, but she hadn’t learned that lesson yet, and he knew that she probably never would. If only he’d been so lucky.

— She felt herself getting closer and closer with each stomping footfall. She could feel the hot air circulating through every recess of her surroundings, settling deep into her bones, calming, soothing. She finally unlocked the door after struggling with the key, letting out a sigh of relief as she felt the warmth of home enveloping her into a tight welcome back embrace. Hearing the chatter of her family coming from the living room as they all began to settle in for movie night, she forgot all about her tired muscles, her frozen fingers. She had always hated the cold, but now she was home.

— As he stepped into the bus stop late at night, he evaluated his surroundings. It was in a relatively isolated part of town; all the late-night stragglers were trekking home slowly, their feet dragging but their spirits rising as they found themselves one step closer to the comfort of their homes. The shelter was open, with merely a few glass panes creating a mirage of protection from the biting air; still, all he saw was a few hours of solitude and quietness. He slowly unwrapped the sleeping bag he had scavenged recently and laid it out on the ground, softly. He pulled on his hat and muddied gloves, and zipped up his ratty, torn winter jacket, settling in. This will do for tonight.

Tomorrow will be another battle. x

FEAR

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WORDS by SARA EMIRA ART by LANA GEVORKIAN

DEVILISH DECEPTION

Last night, I encountered the devil From my successes He wove a web of fictitious tales Sang ballads of my imperfections And lured me into a world I had never imagined Last night, I danced with the devil Seduced by the promise of the great times ahead As he held my hand through a forest of dreams My dreams Last night, I was fooled by the devil He burned the path we’d taken towards success Leaving me with nowhere to go and no way to return Last night, I was betrayed by the devil When he bound me in a chain made of my flaws Doused me in a shower of my fears Robbed me of my potential Last night, As I said my goodbyes to the devil He looked me in the eye and told me his name was not Lucifer But rather Fear x

FEAR

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WORDS by ZARA PARTOVI ART by THERESA ORSINI

I dig into my lips.

There is nothing to exhume.

I lose my fingernails and they grow back tainted with the blood of their predecessors.

My brain throws up your possibilities and with clean chopsticks my soul picks them up to chew as my teeth melt into them hanging from their roots.

Engraved on the palm of my hands and the walls of my heart I have carved your name over and over with a piece of metal I found in a construction site.

If I were chopped up, they’d send my limbs to your temple.

With a plastic bag that smells of rotten bananas I suffocate my eyes and they wet themselves having you in mind.

Collect my carcass and feed it to the other slaves.

My breasts can nurse millions of hungry eyes and you can stuff my lungs with hallucinogenic gas.

Ribbon up my exhausted mind, tight, with green papers so that I look presentable as people lick me with their corroded tongues and hollow souls. x

THE ALLURE OF THE WORLD

FEAR

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Sleepless ART by HAMZA FURMLI

WORDS by MICHELLE YAO

My biggest fear? Aliens.

Hey! Don’t walk away. Hear me out: we don’t have proof that aliens exist, but we don’t have proof that they don’t exist either.

I learned that damning tidbit when I was seven, while catching up on a TVO documentary series called Heads Up! — a show that I’m told was supposed to educate kids on space, and not make them scared of the sky forever, which is what happened to me.

See, children that grew up in the 70’s often cite watching Jaws as the reason why they’re still scared of sharks, even though it’s been 1000 years now.

That’s sort of what happened when Heads Up! aired an episode on the science of extraterrestrials; only worse, because at least Jaws is fiction. I mean, sharks are very much real, but they’re generally pretty easy to avoid, except in tornado form.

Heads Up!, on the other hand, had actual research to back their claims: blunt facts, plausible statistics, and countless numbers that even I, with my grade-two education, could comprehend. Serious science all breathed into my vulnerable kid brain by experts 60

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My whole childhood, I stared up outside my window at the star-spangled banner beyond my bed, the big dipper threatening to tip its contents all over me…and I wondered.

with fancy initials after their names.

This, of course, was all coming from a dearly beloved and trusted source, a television program that had become scientific scripture to me. The week before, they had given me a textbookperfect lesson on Pluto (which had still been a planet at the time, a detail that will someday date me as much as the Jaws generation).

My 11th grade crush once asked, “Why do you have trust issues?” and I’m pretty sure it’s all because Heads Up! hadn’t given me a heads up before conking me on the head with aliens.

(Said crush himself went on to contribute to my mistrust of the world, but that’s neither here nor there.)

But I mean, had the show ever stated outright that aliens do exist? No, of course not, but there’s some part of me that wishes it had. I’d rather the show leave me with an exclamation point than a question mark. There’s a 100% chance that fearsome sharks exist, but I don’t fear them because they can be tamed and studied and understood. We can abduct and probe sharks the same way aliens might do to me someday (like they already do in my nightmares every night).

The ocean may be vast, but at least its depth is finite and definite. Now, space on

the other hand…

I like hard facts. I like black and white facts. I don’t like it when these black facts are camouflaged in the night sky, forming a constellation that I’ll never be able to connect — that I’m too afraid to connect, lest they reveal a scene too similar to the type Heads Up! presented.

I like being human and having reams of textbooks and Wikis at my disposal on the rare occasion my big brain doesn’t know what’s going on. I like being the bearer of the most facts. I like being at the top of the knowledge food chain, and I don’t like the thought of being toppled by the uncertain. What if we’ve already been dethroned, but we just don’t know it yet?

My whole childhood, I stared up outside my window at the star-spangled banner beyond my bed, the big dipper threatening to tip its contents all over me…and I wondered. I wished several times during these sleepless nights, as I cowered beneath helicopter lights and pretended like the full moon didn’t remind me of UFOs, for aliens to just appear already. Because then, at least, this lifetime sentence of the unexplained could be over.

But until that day comes, I’m still stuck with my head up towards the heavens, wondering if the devils will ever descend. x FEAR

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some nights i lay awake contemplating questions i don’t have the answers to and some nights i lay awake knowing the answers to the questions i’m too afraid to ask - unasked and unanswered y.s.

i only tiptoe around the idea of love wary of each step i take in case i may trip nor the possibility of not being caught. i fear falling into the wrong arms, and so i tell myself perhaps i’d rather not fall at all.

- y.s.

i fear being so occupied with “matters of importance” that i hardly ever look up at the sky and see the stars for what they are - falling into the habits of the businessman (tribute to The Little Prince) y.s.

a fear. the realization that some things are not meant for you no matter how much you want them to be. the reassurance. the understanding that everything that is destined to reach you will, in time, come your way someday.

- y.s.

the fear of being too little or too much does a “middle ground” even exist? need i stoop down to meet you eye to eye, or shall i unfurl in full blossom? am i going too fast for you? i am too bold, you say it is off-putting when i am reserved you claim i’m too closed off i must learn to be more open yet i am told to quiet down when i am outspoken but i live for myself and not others i am enough as i am in a world unfree of judgement the most beautiful thing i can do with my existence is be unapologetically me - y.s.

despite the heartache that consumes you at this point in time i promise you that in this life of yours, the years stretch far ahead of you and you have not yet felt all there is to feel do not withhold your heart from feeling in fear of never feeling something real - y.s.

i’d rather be out there somewhere doing extraordinary things than be l iving life by ordinary means - fear the ordinary y.s.

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The search for something better my light is dimmed here i told myself i wish to glow at full intensity

2am thoughts WORDS by Y VONNE SYED ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

i hear a voice say, then go wherever you need to be to get what you seek do not be afraid to get up and leave do not hold on to familiarity for familiarity’s sake change does not occur when you stay in the same place open the door for opportunity do not hesitate to unleash a spectrum of new possibilities - y.s. x

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WORDS by ARIELLA RUBY ART by COLLINE DO

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Red velvet boots That I slip on my feet And zip up With two firm little tugs

Then I walk out the door A small spring in my step But most forceful Is my pendulum gait

I maneuver Gingerly Over pebbles and crystals Of salt That pepper The frosted asphalt

red velvet boots

Their smooth surface Pleases me Soft red opals Seamlessly Encircle my feet Like lush cherry shrouds

Down this curving gray path That will lead me to math I’m no Dorothy School’s no Oz

Still, these not-ruby slippers Have got velvet and zippers What would some green witch Say to that?

Now walk on We clop on Clops echo Down the trail Aural Cherry Kool Aid Against grayscale Just me and my Red velvet boots x

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YOU TOLD ME ONCE You told me once.

The sky will turn grey from the fires I ignite, as only for so long can the doves set flight before falling victim to the smoke.

You told me once.

That the oceans will run dry.

Dissipated will have the waves of hope running along the outline of my toes, as chances remain no more.

You told me once.

That the angel that lifted me from the grave I dug for my soul, will struggle to hold on if I kept running my blade along the smooth edges of her heart.

You told me once.

That the being I believe I am will escape my very grasp before I can utter the words goodbye to the one who matters most.

If I did not act to change.

You told me once.

And now I pray that it isn’t too late. x

WORDS by SHADMAN KHAN

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HATE WORDS by AMIT NEHRU ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

Hate

All men are created equal.

We do not accept the lack of uniformity We prefer divide.

How can we believe that no one has hope.

We shall never: Love Trust Greed will end family.

We cry: “Fear will win.”

We must never say that: “love is strong.”

How can we deny that no one has hope.

How can we believe that all men are created equal.

How can we deny that love is strong.

We must never say that: “Fear will win.”

We cry: “Family will end greed.”

Trust love.

We shall never divide.

We prefer the lack of uniformity.

We do not accept hate. x

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I have a fear of falling Into the depths of your sea-green eyes Screaming into the water Suffocating in the seaweed Sinking under the crashing waves As you take my hand in yours I stand at the edge of the sea Afraid to jump I have a fear of falling Into the chasm of insanity Screaming at the voices Suffocating on fear Sinking into madness As you take my hand in yours I stand at the edge of reality Afraid to jump

WORDS by HAYLEY VANDERMA ARL ART by QIAN SHI I have a fear of falling Into the abyss of a dreamless sleep Screaming into the void Suffocating on words unspoken Sinking into nothing As you take my hand in yours I stand at the edge of the cliff Afraid to jump I have a fear of falling From heights that cannot be survived One step and I sfssdsfsdds Scream kljlkjlkjlkjl Suffocate kj Sink So my feet freeze in place Afraid to jump x

F A L L I N G

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CENTIPEDE ART by SABRINA JIVANI WORDS by GRACE K ANG

hey buddy pal whatchu doin’ with all those legs please leave you’re so ugly you look like satan put some legs on a hairclip please leave i’m begging you pleasex

FEAR

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THE GHOST THE GHOST

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I used to be afraid of spiders and the dark.

But the monsters in our closets and under our beds have crept through time and into our heads.

And now I fear indifference, failure, the unknown, a terrifically horrific fear of ending up alone.

I am afraid, I’m still afraid to say what need be said, that if I spiel what I feel, I’ll surely end up dead.

So for fear of being wrong, I traded fright for fight, and ended up becoming the monster that came at night.

WORDS by VALERIE LUETKE ART by LAURA NEWCOMBE

It scares me to be this scary.

How scared of me, for me, is me.

I live in fear the end is near.

I live with fear, for it lives here.

“You live in fear?”

Always, my dear. x

FEAR

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WORDS by V I R G I N I A F O R D - R O Y ART by SABRINA JIVANI

I didn’t intend to go far. I told myself I wouldn’t stray too far off the main cave. I just wanted to check out the water I heard.

That’s where I made my mistake. The water was farther than I’d thought. It ended up being three or four chambers deep.

There was a single stalactite suspended from the roof, and water dripped from it into a large pool that had a mesmerizing glow.

The pool’s bottom shone a pale white-blue gleam. It reached the stone-shore where I stood. I sat down against the wall, ate my snacks, and watched the water trickle into the pool. I was captivated by the glimmering ripples, but eventually, I had to break away and head back. I had to get out before dark.

A rustling noise somewhere behind me scared me, and in my hurry to get out of the cave, I dropped my flashlight. The glass shattered on the rocky ground at my feet. I lost all light. The darkness swallowed me whole without first chewing, gulping me into an inky abyss. A cold perspiration drenched my clothes sending me into shivers. My heart was fighting with my rib cage for more room. My lungs were being squeezed. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know if my stomach jumped into my throat or dropped to my rectum. I felt trapped.

After I lost the light, I needed my inhaler; my wheezing was so loud. The more I heard my lungs whistle, the more I tried not to worry. I dug into my pockets and came up empty-handed, then I tugged off my backpack hoping to find my inhaler there. I felt the waterless water bottle, the two snackless snack wrappers, and an appleless apple-core wrapped in a used

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napkin. No inhaler. Was it by that pool? I hadn’t taken it out. I was sure I packed it. Whatever the case was, I didn’t have the medicine I needed to stop my lungs from rattling. I’d have to slow my pace in my pursuit to get out of here. And take deep breaths.

And not imagine what might have made the rustling sound.

Hours passed since I left the pool. At least my lungs weren’t getting worse. But the dampness, either from the cave or from my sweat, made the cave seem as if it was breathing, like I was inside of its lungs. I stubbed my toes on a few rocks, I slammed into a boulder, I scratched my face on a wall. The cave entrance had to be up ahead. I knew the opening would be dark if the sun had set. And then doubt hit me between the eyes. Did I turn myself around when I dropped the flashlight? Am I heading deeper into the cave? I tried to convince myself that doubt was my foe, that it made things worse. I imagined a dirt path dirtying my new hiking shoes. I thought about Ken. Is he looking for me?

I hoped so. He’d warned me against exploring the cave. There’re snakes in there, Terry, he’d said. Don’t get bitten.

Rattlesnakes. Rattling lungs. Do they sound the same? I couldn’t tell where the sounds were coming from anymore. I reached for the wall. Nothing. I stepped forward and reached out again. I jerked my hand back when my fingers intertwined with hair that wasn’t supposed to be there. I think I pulled its skull off because something rolled by my feet. I heard babyrattles and felt a sharp pain strike my ankle.

“Terry,” I heard before I fainted. x

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Punishment WORDS by NIKHITA SINGHAL ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

CONTENT WARNING: SUICIDE ATTEMPT

“OPEN THE DOOR!” I’m not sure how many times the words are screamed before they penetrate the haze clouding my mind. What finally wrenches me back to reality is a thunderous crash as the door splinters apart.

“STOP!” More words.

A knife clattering to the tiles.

Thick, dark blood.

Stillness.

What have you done?

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When I wake up, it’s dark. I blink a few times as my eyes struggle to adjust — then I’m assaulted by blinding fluorescence as lights flicker on overhead.

By the time someone declares the situation “contained,” I realize the sharp pain I’m feeling is from my nails gouging into my palms. My fists unclench as I let out a shuddering breath.

“They’re up,” a muffled voice mutters.

“You sure?”

INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY.

“Check for yourself.”

The clang of keys fills the room; a deadbolt unlatches.

I struggle to sit upright as a hulking figure pushes the door open and enters. The thin mattress I’ve been lying on is shoved against a concrete wall, and it takes exactly five strides for the man to reach its edge. I know I should look up at his face — memorize it — but my eyes gravitate towards the gun holstered to his hip.

“What the hell is that stench?”

I tear my glance away from the weapon and focus on his expression: disgust. I realize there’s a foul odour enveloping us; after a moment, I determine it’s emanating from a rust-coated piece of plumbing in the corner.

The guard follows my gaze to the toilet, his face twisting into a sneer. “Animals,” he spits out, stalking over and wrinkling his nose. “Last one left a little gift for us,” he calls to his partner in the hallway.

I’m not sure how many hours have passed. Maybe it’s only been minutes — maybe it’s been days. All I know is that someone left a tray with a sad-looking sandwich and a styrofoam cup of water on it by the door. And that there is no way I’m touching it, no matter how sharp my hunger or thirst becomes, because there is no way I’m using that toilet.

Eventually, they escort me out. Paraded past a stretch of identical doors with tiny, barred windows set in their centres. The ones left behind call after me — I don’t have to work hard to block out what they say. Most of it is unintelligible, anyway.

I emerge into the sunlight armed with a plastic bag they dumped my possessions into. My phone is missing, but I’m not going back to ask for it so soon after escaping.

They could still change their minds.

Can’t risk it. Don’t look back.

Raucous laughter.

“Can I —” I start, my voice sounding pathetic. “Can I call someone?” A quick survey of my pockets lets me know that my own phone is missing, along with everything else I typically carry. I’ve watched enough TV to know that I’m supposed to get at least one phone call, though.

A piercing shriek from beyond the door — his attention snaps away in an instant. Then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with an unmistakeable click as the lock re-engages.

The lights blink off, plunging me into darkness again.

Something is happening in the hallway. More screaming, then the thudding of a body hitting the floor. Cursing, swearing; someone calls for backup.

Years pass before I’m forced to think about that place again.

I tell them not to call 911 as I clutch my chest, suffocating under the pressure. “No,” I beg. “Please, don’t.”

NO ONE LISTENS. Sirens wail, drowning me out.

As I’m wheeled through the ambulance bay doors, it all comes crashing back.

This is no place for healing. x

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Scribe

WORDS & ART by DONG BA

There are very few things that frighten Scribe. The unpredictability of nature is one of them. The idea that entropy is inevitable and increasing by the second is another. Yet, what terrifies Scribe most of all is the idea that when faced with the great adversity that is randomness, conscious will and the human ego prove to be the most inconsequential and absurd of devices.

It is perhaps this very dread of chaos — this fear of the unpredictable — that best qualifies Scribe for the job. Scribe does not write the fates, no, for writing suggests creation, and that awful entity called chaos is always entailed in creation.

Scribe records, regardless of whether or not the fates are followed. Here, presents Scribe, is your fate. Follow to appease, or disobey at your own risk.

Scribe knows no other world than that of the little house.

The world outside the little house is riddled with uncertainty, confusion, and aimlessness. There are in the outside world, those who defy their fates: uncontrolled, unrestrained, and terrifying. The world inside the house consists of ink and parchment, of planning, foresight, and order. Scribe loves it inside, for the war Scribe wages is a weary, laborious one — a war against spontaneity.

Perhaps this is why Scribe was most disconcerted to find a cat inside the house.

“Get out,” said Scribe.

“No,” said Cat. “You do not belong here, Cat. It is not in your fate,” said Scribe.

“I want milk,” demanded Cat. Scribe was dismayed. Why does such a rude, careless creature exist?

“Meow,” said Cat.

“You defy that which was written for you. Do you not fear the consequences? The countless unforeseen horrors, the innumerable trials that you’ll needlessly endure?” demanded Scribe.

“Milk, please,” said Cat. “Milk is not in your fate,” said Scribe, growing increasingly more irritated.

Cat yawned. “What about you, Scribe? Is pouring milk in your fate?”

“I write fates for all eternity. I do not need a fate,” said Scribe, exasperated.

“That’s awfully boring. I want milk, please,” said Cat. “I cannot give you milk. It is not my fate,” said Scribe.

“You haven’t a fate. What’s stopping you?” asked Cat. Scribe was silent. What was stopping Scribe? Nothing. The irony was not lost on Scribe. The scribe of a billion fates had never inscribed their own fate. Scribe was not fated to record fates for eternity. Scribe had time to get some milk.

Two glasses of milk were poured.

“What’s it like, that unpredictable life?” asked Scribe.

“Good,” said Cat. “I get lots of milk.”

“Could I live that life?” asked Scribe.

“Do you like milk?” asked Cat. For the first time in a lifetime, Scribe left the little house. The evils of entropy, stochasticity, spontaneity, and chaos met Scribe with vigour.

And they were more beautiful than anything Scribe had seen in an eternity.

Chaos is what we’ve lost touch with. This is why it is given a bad name. It is feared by the ominant archetype of our world, which is Ego, which clenches because its existence is defined in terms of control.

— Terence McKenna x

and Cat

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incite magazine volume 21, issue 2 “fear”

Pusblished February 2019 Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication.

We aim to unite a community of creatives by promoting self-expression, collaboration, and dialogue within our university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, multimedia, and event production is carried out by our wonderful student volunteers. If you’d like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com. @incitemagazine facebook.com/incitemagazine issuu.com/incite-magazine

editor-in-chief (content): Catherine Hu

editor-in-chief (art & production): Sabrina Lin

creative advisor: Matthew Lam

communications director: Annecy Peng

art managers:

Matty Flader, Sabrina Jivani, Grace MacAskill, Allyya Shahid

layout designers:

Kristy Liu, Marium Shahana

content editors:

Takhliq Amir, Grace Kang, Sabrina Macklai, Neda Pirouzmand, Srikripa Krishna Prasad, Sowmithree Ragothaman, Nicholas Schmid

cover credits:

Art by Matthew Lam & Sabrina Lin

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contributors:

(Writers): Afsha Siddiqui, Amit Nehru, Ariella Ruby, Colline Do, Coryn Urquhart, DEM, Dong Ba, Fredde, Gillian Maltz, Grace Kang, Hayley Vandermaarl, J.A.F.P. (Alejandra Fernandez), Kashyap Patel, Mackenzie Green, M.N., Maisie Babiski, Michelle Yao, Natalie Chen, Neda Pirouzmand, Nicholas Schmid, Nikhita Singhal, Owen Dan Luo, Sabrina Macklai, Sara Emira, Sarah Coker, Shadman Khan, Simrit Saini, Sneha Wadhwani, Suffia Malik, Takhliq Amir, Tiffany Tse, Valerie Luetke, Virginia Ford-Roy, Yina Shan, Yvonne Syed, Zara Partovi (Artists): Abby Lindzon, Allyya Shahid, Ann Kang, Catherine Tarasyuk, Charlene Forde-Smith, Colline Do, David Shin, Dong Ba, Eli Moser, Elisabetta Paiano, Grace Kang, Grace MacAskill, Hamza Furmli, Katrina Hass, Lana Gevorkian, Laura Newcombe, Lauren Crawford, Lauren Di Vincenzo, Matty Flader, Nikki Huynh, Paras Syed, Qian Shi, Sabrina Jivani, Shannon Wu, Sheng Chen, Theresa Orsini, Vania Pagniello

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