Incite Magazine - June 2022 by Incite Magazine

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FLOAT

VOLUME XXIV:II

There is a basin in the mind where words float around on thought and thought on sound and sight — Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

Dear reader, So glad you could drift in to read Float with us; we couldn’t have done it without your support. This year has been filled with ups and downs but unlike any other boat, we decided to embrace the heavy tides and to test the waters of our imaginations. And let me tell you, what an adventure that has been. Thank you to our wonderful team, our editorial board, layout editors, content editors, and art managers — your hardwork and dedication in making this issue happen is beyond words. We’d also like to extend our greatest thanks to our contributors — your creative talent and powerful stories are gifts that we hope you continue sharing with the world. Now enough talking! We are thrilled to bring you Float — a product of your beautifully told journeys that no map could ever document. So what are you waiting for? Turn that page, take a dive into the issue, and go wherever your mind takes you. Best wishes,

SLuu

Editor-in-Chief (Art)

Sandy Luu

Editors’ Letter

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content staff stories weightless hannah rose rosales like a balloon nadeem mirza in aeternum (for eternity) suky zheng roll, shape, mold ester chow ships in bottles aribah ali cloud-gazing sharang sharma how to heal a broken heart sara emira fragments from a walk, late afternoon madeleine randmaa what now? gillian hodge the duality of suffering mikaela grahlman ten sophie marchetti clouds maya khodr-ali blossom lisa shen tick tock aaryman anand the seed of freedom’s tree: shaheed-e-ezam harmil kalia letting go anna samson wings of faith heba khan s p a c e quinn macpherson i can fly crystal lu survival mode anonymous

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art self-contained graeme fishman turn around evie chapman shadow puppet graeme fishman untitled madeline komar stone street labiqah iftikhar ghost ships sandy luu hand in the clouds evie chapman tears ricochet madeline komar untitled labiqah iftikhar ease sana gupta stillness sana gupta float graeme fishman alone ayesha umair untitled simran rakhra clouds maya khodr-ali coral doodle labiqah iftikhar untitled cezara ene starry eyed madeline komar green space sandy luu cloudy with a chance of mollusks thomas britnell can i love again? anonymous a flicker of hope sana gupta surfaced evie chapman to reach you carol zhang floral bubbles labiqah iftikhar daydream sana gupta afloat sana gupta jack darling labiqah iftikhar untitled michelle nicol

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We asked Incite Staff:

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If you could fly anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?

The Phillipines! My reason goes much deeper, but let’s start with family and food for now.

I’d fly to the bluest water, maybe Bora Bora or the Maldives.

MADELEINE RANDMAA

HANNAH ROSE ROSALES

Layout Director

Content Editor

Atlantis

Aruba

ALEX CHEN

NOAH YANG

I’d want to fly to China, to see my grandma :)

To my family, always, because I love them.

CAROL ZHANG

ARIBAH ALI

Content Editor

Art Manager

Content Editor

I would fly to a peaceful meadow of wildflowers when I could sit in the sun and take a deep breath. I would watch the bees pollinate flowers and listen to the wind. It would be nice to find myself somewhere where I could let go of my anxiety, if only for a few minutes.

BOHMEE KIM

GILLIAN HODGE

Neverland (if fictional places count)

B.C.

Content Editor

HOORIYA MASOOD Content Editor Dublin, Ireland

SOPHIE MARCHETTI

I’d love to fly to Japan to see their garden tunnel blooms!

Malaysia!! After spending so much time at home over the past couple of years, I’d love to somewhere and explore the outdoors. Malaysia has a lot of stunning natural sights that would be a great place to enjoy a good book or paint with friends.

SANDY LUU

SARA EMIRA

Content Editor

Editor-in-Chief (Content)

Editor-in-Chief (Art)

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Layout Editor

ART by GRAEME FISHMAN

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Weightless i know this place. have you been here before too? (stay here.) at the intersection of distant hearts (should we hold hands?) you say, my name is synonymous with maybe. (i take that back. not yet.) i know this place, but i still need the map. [i wonder how it feels to ride on promises that are kept.] x WORDS by HANNAH ROSE ROSALES ART by EVIE CHAPMAN

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Like a

bal

loon

The subtle scent of lilies wafted in the air. I eyed the ceramic walls that surrounded me, watching them glisten under the room’s bright lights. Engraved on them were the countless names of people whom I had never met. A new name was to be written on those walls today. It was the name of a person who had countless people crying for them. A person that had barely started their adult life. A person who I had fallen in love with. My ears had become deaf to their constant speeches, and my vision had long blurred out of focus. My heart shut as I saw the coffin being closed away in the dark. I breathed out shakily, feeling myself being submerged into an ocean of soot; my own grief. It was as if I was the one who had been cremated, and I was unable to stop myself from sinking; unable to rise above these turbulent feelings. I could barely dig myself out of my sinking emotions as a person’s voice rang in my ear. “Are you related to the deceased?” One of the mausoleum’s workers had spoken, eyeing me with a sympathetic gaze. “I am, but I’m not related to them,” I paused. “We were friends.” “My condolences,” the mausoleum worker said. “The deceased had wished for everyone to take one of these biodegradable balloons and let go of them outside.”

I stared at the worker, noticing that they had a large amount of balloons strung along their hand. I slowly reached out and took one of the balloon strings in my hands. “Why balloons?” “I believe they wanted everyone to let go of the sadness everyone would feel today,” the worker said. “Allow the balloon to take all those feelings away.” 12

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I watched as the worker went off to the next set of people. I let out a deep and long breath, deciding to leave the mausoleum before everyone else. I could feel my grip on the balloon’s string tighten as I went outside and was welcomed by the blue sky. I held the balloon in my hands, letting myself rest my head against it. I trapped the black grief that had settled in my heart in that balloon, and let it float away. It danced its way into the blue sky, sailing along the air currents before vanishing into the clouds. “I loved you,” I mumbled. “I never had the chance to say that to you.” My love was a second balloon being set free from my body, dancing on the same path as the first. I wondered if the one I had loved was floating up there right now, waiting to pop my feelings like a balloon. x WORDS by NADEEM MIRZA ART by GRAEME FISHMAN 13

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ART by MADELINE KOMAR WORDS by SUKY ZHENG

There was a calling. Something rhythmic — violent; crashing, sporadic bursts of sea-foam. It rages — a triumphant display of rampant fury, rising to terrorizing heights before coming down in a thunderous collapse. Above it, she stood. Watching. Like her, the night itself was deadly still. In fact, there was no storm at all — no stirring, no weight that hung heavy in the air. A near-full moon was a delight to the scene, casting blurred-edge shadows that stayed formless on swaying patches of beach grass.

But the sand was soft beneath her; she turned to see a trail of footprints — one, after the other — fade away with a salt-laden breeze, the last of it dissipating into a swirl of air like dust. A locket and a shoe was all she gave to leave behind; and with a withering sigh relieved from her lips, She fell. ........

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Breaths of air that caressed her skin did nothing to sway her stance. Neither did those freckle-sprays of water do anything to wash away the dried riverbeds etched on her cheek.

There was a calling. Something melodic — a timid affection; washing, quietly — painting a glistening sheen of light as it ebbs and retreats, flows and recedes. Beside it, she stood. Dreaming.

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Like her, the night itself glowed with the lustre of a fluid haze lingering with mist. An illusory hymn drifted upward with the swell of the water’s edge, distant sorrow and bitter of heart flooding the silence with its soulful longing. She sang with it — a sequestered melody so deeply hidden that its lyrics now brimmed with sensation. As the ground began to slip from underneath her, she no longer resisted — the way a newborn does not struggle against the trance of its mother’s lullaby. As it seeped in through her linens she continued on singing, now a symphony of echoing laughter and muddled voices from memories she no longer wished to remember. A key and the last of her voice was all she gave to leave behind; every foot forward felt a step closer to home, and with the tender ache of her heart wrapped in liquid darkness, She slept. ........

Was it selfish, really, to have taken the dive and chose to stay under? Is it not with loss that comes an immortal newness? Because it was there, below the surface, that they kissed — like every new lover’s embrace; looking not for comfort but confrontation, for unity and not escape.

So there they stayed, To be lost and then found, as the universe melted around them; because maybe It had never been the calling to stay above water, after all. x

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It was under moonlit waves that lied the harmony of split souls, meant to find oneness in aeternum:

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S ha , l l o

p e,

old

Starting as a lump of mud and leaves, clay and rock Waiting for hands to shape me I’m small and new but wait a few years To roll shape mold and make me I rock and lean and before I know it I fall onto the grains of hardwood floor The dusty world tangled with thorns and cliffs Tosses to the glowing door, waiting ajar In the open streets I’m welcomed home Kicked by heavy boots and chunky heels I sharpen myself to mimic their postures Somehow timid, but eager to appeal In an overlapping sea Filled with sounds of schedules and monotony This movie wasn’t what I paid for This contest I don’t recall entering I am alone in a crowd Overwhelmed with emptiness But looking into their busy eyes I see fear and love and ounces in between I’m not much I’m not much brave So I rock and lean and before I know it I can take one new step each day x ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR WORDS by ESTER CHOW

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Ships in Bottles

Let me tell you this: the sea clings to the darkness of the ocean floor as the ship clings to the sea; a metallic body buoyed by the laws of physics and the persistent will of man which bends these laws until they fracture beneath his fingertips. The ocean bed has serpents of green and the hollowed husks of steel giants, a gravesite of hubris and hope where even light cannot not reach. But there are days where the light does not falter; Days where it brightens such ghostly scenes and all of their history, tragic and triumphant, can be felt in the push and pull of the tides. Before the Titanic splits itself in two, pulled apart by glacial teeth, Captain Rostron is taken from his rest. Across the Atlantic, a distress signal that glitters in the sky like some foreboding star, shards of light upon cresting waves, is swallowed whole. It is only through the static exchange of radio signals which alerts them of the wreckage, and before the Captain is fully dressed, he has pledged his ship’s aid.

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ART by SANDY LUU WORDS by ARIBAH ALI

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Shirt, shoes, coat — there is not much one can do amidst the deep blue and yet, and yet, there is still the lingering defiance of defeat. The Carpathia is fifty-eight miles foreign to the Titanic’s reported coordinates. Glacial giants, cold and unblinking, stand tall and unyielding within her path. It is a sobering experience to be dunked into a bucket full of cold water. A harrowing one to face the solitude of the sea, held adrift only by makeshift wooden boats. Oil is tipped overboard in an attempt to coax and calm the waters, so lifeboats do not slip underneath.

Fifteen knots, sixteen knots. This is how human resilience is: daunted and desperate and rooted in undeniable goodness. It could have been drowned out, the night’s tragedy, analyzed as though ships in bottles, a microcosm left adrift, sunken beneath the weight of its own ambition. And maybe there was an iceberg that remained hidden in the shadows, and a band playing a solemn tune, but there were also men and women who stewed soup and made coffee to bring warmth to frigid hands, donated clothes to dress seasoaked and grief stricken castaways. Most passengers were immigrants returning home; people who understood being unmoored.

There are rumors that sailors are vulgar people, shouting curses in a way that carries anger across the ocean. It almost makes sense: terror is the root of most anger. There are rumors that sailors are superstitious people as well, their fear veiled by folktales and rituals — the sea is a haunted place, regardless of its lack of borders. Perhaps this is why the crew of the Carpathia believed that there would be survivors, that despite all odds, they would be able to fish them from the sea, trembling and stricken by grief, but undeniably alive.

Seventeen knots was the final speed at which the Carpathia traveled, a metallic body buoyed by the laws of physics and the persistent will of man, who bends these laws until they fracture beneath his fingertips. Nothing short of a miracle.

Steamships are not meant to speed through the night, to challenge glacier giants. And yet, when the Carpathia’s greatest speed of fourteen knots was denied, deemed too incompetent and too slow by its crew, Captain Rostron called for all warmth to be supplied to the engines, an almost plea for his ship to do the impossible. Even amongst the cold solitude of the sea, there was warmth amidst the Carpathia, warmth deviated from its crew and redirected to a few rooms to host survivors and into the engines, roaring with new life.

In the first few hours of daylight, 705 people are brought on board the Carpathia. There are no other survivors. They warm, they drink, they eat—someone cracks half-hearted jokes, we look as blue as robin eggs, as blue as the sea, and then bursts into tears. But maybe this is how people are: even in the onslaught of tragedy, buoyed by some sort of hope, treading on despite the current and longing for the shore. x 22

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It could have been drowned out,

the night’s tragedy, analyzed as though ships in bottles, a microcosm left adrift,

sunken beneath the weight of its own ambition.

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CloudGazing I’ve never paid much mind to Faith, Or at least I’ve always told myself so. But sometimes, as I sit, I watch the clouds, Those misty specks of heaven In the unbounded sky. Sometimes I see how they move, cruising by at a rate only celestials could, With no mind to requests From above, nor from below. Sometimes I wonder, As I gaze with untrained eyes, Whether somewhere in their Abyssal depths, those eyes touch mine? Sometimes I wonder if I’m a fool To think that they would Ever leave their Kingdom of Stars To reveal themselves to me. I’ve never paid much mind to Faith, But in the whistle of the wind which Moves us both, I can’t help but hear a hint of what’s above. x

WORDS by SHARANG SHARMA ART by EVIE CHAPMAN

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HOW TO HEAL A BROKEN

first you drain it of all the misery sob until the lights go out and your head starts to spin then you restore its faith in love remember that all the love you’ve ever felt still lives inside you and that no one can ever take that away from you next, you numb it let your anger cool and harden into a piece of obsidian cold, dark, and beautiful brittle but sharp and then you train it train it to live without loving them like any other muscle, there will be days when it reaches its limits but it will get stronger with time and it will learn to forgive (you for your foolishness) and to love (you despite your flaws) again

now, you nourish it give it all that it craves the food, the art, the love the song he referred to as “our song”? reclaim it it was yours first anyway look at this beautiful life you once deprived it of all in the name of love let it grow let the wounds heal let flowers bloom in the corners that collected cobwebs in the last few months wear the scars proudly a symbol of a woman who continued to love even when it broke her spirits but walked away before it killed her when all’s done and well, seal it away and think twice before ever giving it away even for a brief moment because you can only beat bruise and scar a heart so many times before it gives up x 26

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WORDS by SARA EMIRA ART by MADELINE KOMAR

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fragments from a walk, late afternoon

ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR WORDS by MADELEINE RANDMAA

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a girl swings upside down from the tree outside the gates. the fountain doesn’t work. a dog in black boots passes by making squishy sounds. a woman looks like she might trip in front of me but she turns at the last second. I ask the air a question about you but I don’t expect a response. there’s a glittery blue wreath over a grave on a cross. this cemetery is where the living and dead are stripped down (to what matters and to letters on a stone). I pass people near their end and feel they must know. the bell tower rings 4 o’clock. pink yellow purple petals beside stone. I’ve reached a dead end. a blue statue of a boy pouring water on another boy’s head. four squirrels scamper under a tree. water puddles in small divots on the pavement and dirt. did they live? did you live? when my brother and I walked here we almost got lost and it started to sun shower. runners jog past me. the sun is gone behind the clouds and it gets colder. the wind is fast and I leave with questions unanswered. x

WHAT NO

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she didn’t think it would feel so good to hear her own heart breaking the very words that she’d been dreading brought new life to her soul instead of breaking it to pieces and falling to the floor coupled with tears and cries of ‘why now’ she can say with confidence that her heart has thawed she didn’t set out to shock you like this but one morning she woke and realized she simply wasn’t happy was she impatient? hard to say is she happier now? well, now she wanders the empty streets with a spring in her once-tired step a glimmer in the back of her mind that whispers she has so much time left to find herself instead of the whispers that used to plague her asking why she wasn’t being honest with her dear friend now she gazes longingly at the bluest of skies without her own criticisms weighing her down she feels much lighter, you see watching the clouds gathering in clusters because now she’s finally without her doubts her ruminating her endless daydreams and what-ifs now she can walk the streets and sing at the top of her lungs with the beautiful calamity of endless love do you see? she’s happier now x

her endless daydreams and what-ifs now she can walk the streets and sing at the top of her lungs with the beautiful calamity

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WORDS by GILLIAN HODGE ART by SANA GUPTA

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ART by SANA GUPTA 32

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ART by GRAEME FISHMAN 33

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THE DUALITY OF SUFFERING

ART by AYESHA UMAIR WORDS by MIKAELA GRAHLMAN

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A detriment that lays heavily on my mind, for could it be a monument of disparity in disguise? Will, I ever find an antidote to compensate for my damaged soul? Or will this be my denouement hidden in plain sight? Only time will tell. x

TEN

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The bottom of the Mariana Trench is about 10 kilometres down in the ocean, a place called Challenger’s Deep.

I know the unknowing. I know the fear. I know the pressure, the cold, the darkness, the loneliness.

10 kilometres down. On my best days, I can run 3 or 4 kilometres without stopping to catch my breath. I can’t imagine running 10 kilometres on flat road.

I could live 10 kilometres down, I know it well.

But I can imagine falling 10 kilometres down.

I know the inevitable swim back to the top. I know the currents that pull me, the desire I have for eventual sunshine. Through the twilight zone to the photosynthesizing plants. I know the light and the prayers from my skin, thankful for the warm star.

Past the sunshine, into the twilight zone. Past the creatures that live in the comfort of darkness, who have learned to exist in cold climates. Past the twilight zone, aphotic now. No light reaches these parts. It’s not just darkness. It’s enveloping black, absorbing any photon that enters its presence. Immediately killing any degree of warmth. Creatures we have not discovered live here. My fears exist in this part of the ocean. I fear becoming one of the creatures here. There is no comfort. Only the crushing pressure of the depth at which we now sit. Only the creatures we cannot describe who swim around us. Watching. And I can imagine falling 10 kilometres down. I know the weight it bears. I know it on land. I have already felt the pressure. Despite the lack of comfort, I’ve lived through pressure like that. I’ve lived through fear like that. Fear of the unknown, of the pressure, of the cold. Fear of the parts of ourselves that we do not know exist.

I could live 10 kilometres down. And I could swim back up, too. x ART by SIMRAN RAKHRA WORDS by SOPHIE MARCHETTI

Clouds

WORDS & ART by MAYA KHODR-ALI

Release me from my worries Pull me out of the darkness Moving from cities to cities Still not feeling completeness. There’s no place that I belong Arcane to the world Aching to feel closeness Drifting away into thin air. The weight off my shoulders Reprieved from the pressure Liberated by my own thoughts Offering me clearance.

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I used to sink To the bottom of the earth’s crust Collapsing on the bleak rocks and minerals Plunging deep within the core. I had no solace, I was disconsolate Ephemeral moments, unable to find my joy Reaching for something persistent, long-lasting Innate within my soul… Rooted within the depths of my intricacy Now I gravitate towards the nebulous sky Reaching my arms out, into the infinite Resting on the diaphanous clouds… Pellucid, translucent, allowing light to shine through At peace and blissful, I am in an elysian state. Falling through the clouds, Embodying my character with quintessence A seraphic presence in the atmosphere Incandescent and iridescent. Delicate and soft, I bring my feminine energy to inhabit the air Cascading with grace My body’s form sinking into the clouds. Descending into this place You will find me floating within the clouds. x 38

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BLOSSOM Trigger warning: eating disorders and mental illness

For a long time, I believed my eating disorder was a decision: a collection of actions I took each day to achieve a desired goal. Indeed, when I ask people what they think causes restrictive eating disorders, they often say the desire to lose weight. And this can be the case, as for years I dreamed of having the “perfect” body. But anorexia is a disease, not a choice. And its true causes are many in shape and number.

Spring reminds me of hunger and death. After a long winter, pale green buds sprout from bare branches. Thunderclouds empty their heavy rains over the yawning earth as it wakes to the sound of birdsong. The smell of dirt and washed pavement mingles with that of fresh growth — and all at once I am back in the wild of my girlhood, running through April rains, chasing a wish for a lighter body.

One: control. When important aspects of your life are outside of your influence, strict monitoring of food can become a coping mechanism. Two: selfexpression. When you don’t know how to express mental suffering, there is comfort in turning your body into a canvas. In having it serve as a tangible monument of your internal pain. Three: identity. After years of living with anorexia, it expands to your sole purpose in life. You no longer know who you are without it.

When I was fourteen, I developed anorexia nervosa. After a traumatic family loss and the start of high school, I discovered, over the course of the winter, how to eat less and less. By the time tulips began peeping their way through the soil, every movement of my limbs felt like dragging lead. My thoughts were thick molasses. I felt cold all the time — even with the thawing of the earth, a forever winter inside my bones.

There are others. The belief that you have little worth outside of your appearance. The idea that you will be liked more by others at a lower weight. Or the thin illusion: the belief that you can only be happy at a smaller size.

—

After my first year of university, while working towards recovery from my disorder, I took to visiting the community garden near my home. It’s a small plot of earth bordered on one side by a still pond. There are trails of wild tomatillos running along its length. In the late summer, they ripen, their dried husks falling off to cover the water’s surface. So empty in their shells. So lonesome in their wasting.

But to live with anorexia is to forever chase a happiness just out of reach. There will always be another target to hit. There will always be another number to lose. Because no matter how light the body floats, emptiness is heavy. 40

ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR WORDS by LISA SHEN

—

There is a cherry tree along the path that leads to my university. In the springtime, it blooms a breathless display of beauty. On my walks to campus, I can see its petals falling down onto the puddles that dot the sidewalk. A single white-tipped blossom, suspended on a pool of water reflecting the sky. So full in its beauty. So alive in its blooming.

To maintain recovery from an eating disorder is to dedicate yourself to constant, joyous work. I turn the soil. I plant the seeds of better habits. I scrabble on dirt-caked hands and knees, unrooting the never-ending barrage of weeds. There are times when I want to put down the shovel. Lie down in my ache. Give in to the undergrowth. But each time, I am reminded of the fruit husks decorating the still pool. So empty in their lightness.

The most common phrase I hear said to people with anorexia is “just eat”. After all, it’s a fairly easy thing to do. But there are reasons why the simple action of eating can be a momentous challenge.

—

In one month’s time, cherry blossoms will begin to unfurl along our lakeshores. One by one, they will fill the skies with perfumed beauty, before falling with the wind, dotting the waters with their soft shells.

When you develop anorexia, your way of thinking shifts, as if there is a second brain taking over your cognition. You create obsessive rules around food, and experience intense anxiety when they are broken. In this way, a plate of dinner is not simply a plate of dinner: it is panic, panic, panic; it is the loss of an orchestra of control; it is your entire self coming undone at the seams. Because, at its core, anorexia is a disease of the mind, not the body.

I want this to be another year of healing; of regrowth. I want to seed a future where the memory of hunger is so distant it hardly stirs. Where birdsong is only birdsong. Where pavement is only pavement. Where rain is only rain, is only rain. x 41

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TICK TOCK incite

WORDS by AARYAMAN ANAND ART by CEZARA ENE

I wish I could stop time. I miss the days when I was young. I was carefree and untethered, just being in the moment. Experiencing life in a changing world. Now, those days are long gone and the chaos of time bleeds into my life. Every second feels different from the last, yet days seem to merge into one. I wish I could stop time. And just breathe. Let go of all those annoying thoughts of deadlines and pending work, and just let out a heavy sigh. Let my body feel tired for once and not have to fake being all put together. Let my mind run wild about all the things that lighten my mood. But I know there is a maddening beauty to life. To face fear, to exceed expectations. To love, to be hurt and to love again. I realize that time will never stop for me, but I guess that is the reason to be alive. To be better, one deep breath at a time. x

ART by MADELINE KOMAR

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THE SEED OF FREEDOM WORDS by HARMIL KALIA ART by SANDY LUU

the sun rose as the devotee revolt

the banyan root traversed as it called for unity in a land with no impunity the banyan donned a canopy as a haven for the silent not a cult for being violent the banyan skin thickened as it braved elemental resistance with an ethos of timeless existence the banyan skin wore heart-shaped leaves as it made noise from rooted spirit the sown seedlings could hear it stalwart for all as a symbol of zeal for every walk of life with no sanguinary strife the banyan leaf uncouples as it sailed through the indus body an ideology yet to disembody the sun set in the republic. x 46

shaheed-e-azam

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M’S TREE:

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Stuck In the now And the never Hovering between the two Toward you And away from you Not sober But not drunk That’s where I stay When I’m with you

I hold onto you When letting go is To chase life Passing me by

I’m nowhere I’m no one But a tiny speck on the map Never moving Never changing Stuck in time and place Stuck in a daze I hold onto you When letting go is what I need to do To chase life Passing me by I’d ask you to let me go But I’m the one tethering us I can’t move I can’t breathe And I can’t seem to let you go x

Letting Go WORDS by ANNA SAMSON ART by THOMAS BRITNELL

what I need to do

I hold onto you When letting go is what

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ART by ANONYMOUS

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ART by SANA GUPTA

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WINGS OF

This cultural prison has shackled me to my failure to conform, placed fetters on my swollen ankles from this strenuous migration — skin engraved with sin, the colour of melanin, inked in henna tints and masked with turmeric My culture and religion always under judgement, only allegations, never convictions, standing in the court of misunderstandings all these violent accusations, declared victims of oppression for fashioning a fabric like a crown but how many versions of the same verses do I have to pen, to say that my faith is my wings, that each prostration is a portal to soar above the heavens, to be believed when I say submission is my liberation, to say the world has burdened me, with the weight of feminism and the responsibility to shatter glass ceilings in palaces of patriarchy and mansions of misogyny. Amidst all this demolition and this exhausting dismantling, my faith has kept me buoyant in this ocean of misery I would have been a wrecked ship against this systemic iceberg had my faith not been the anchor keeping me afloat. x

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FAITH WORDS by HEBA KHAN ART by EVIE CHAPMAN

I would have been a wrecked against this systemic iceberg had my faith not been the anc keeping me afloat. 53

ThingswithoutspacearenotreallyanythingatallbecausewithoutspaceonethingbleedsintothenextuntilthereisnodifferencebetweenyouandIorhereandthereandwithoutspaceweareboundtoloseourselvessomewherealongtheway But space gives us room To breathe, To see,

Space is the paper for a story to be written on,

The air for music to travel through.

Space is what I need

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WORDS by QUINN MACPHERSON

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I think. x 55

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ART by CAROL ZHANG

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ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR

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N F A L Y C

C A N F LY 58

WORDS by CRYSTAL LU ART by SANA GUPTA

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Time is the bandage that Transforms a burning grave Into a library of lost moments And wistful wishes.

Without you, I am brand new. Without you, my steps are weightless. My glass heart repurposed Into a golden mosaic.

You don’t follow me home Like campfire smoke in the summer. You don’t linger in my dreams Like a song I barely remember.

The cruel winter in my bones Melts away to rain puddles and dew. Spring radiates across my skin And I am free. x

In a crowded room, Your voice is a thundering Mozart piece That everyone has heard, but no one can name. During our friendship, I was Icarus and you were the sun. You were my world, Yet I was your temporary placeholder. You needed me to catch your demons, But I had my own to tame. Your ghosts fed off of my insecurities, Until I became a shell of my former self. You would toss me reluctant pity pennies When I would gift glittering gold. You dropped my hand when it started to rain, When I would carry you through the storm I would’ve forfeited the wings on my back If you had only asked. Instead, you couldn’t stand my growing success, So you burned me even if it hurt you too. When I realized that you needed me to shine Way more than I needed you, The smoldering exhaust subsided, And I could finally breathe again.

FLOAT

when i was a little girl and i’d get inside a pool i’d try to stay afloat because i couldn’t swim i remember discovering a trick; if i lay down on my back, i wouldn’t sink and so i’d lie on my back so i wouldn’t drown, even if it meant not getting anywhere that’s how it feels sometimes being a person from an equity-seeking group being a woman, racialized being disabled, neurodivergent

incite

you learn that you can’t set the same standards for yourself as everyone else because you don’t function like everyone else and you begin to realize that this society was never built to favour you nor cater around your interests. you realize the only way to break the status quo is to stop staying on the surface even though it’s what has felt the safest and start deep diving to the root of inequities and barriers that prevent people like you from reaching the so-called “top” from ever seeing the sky that reflects the sea from merely staying afloat to getting to the places you want to be, reaching destinations, having a real journey at the end of the day, you are a fish in a sea full of sharks. if you don’t advocate for yourself, the system will eat you alive. x

WORDS by ANONYMOUS ART by SANA GUPTA

FLOAT

incite

ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR ART by MICHELLE NICOL

FLOAT

incite magazine volume 24, issue 2 “float” Published June 2022 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 would like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com. incitemagazine.ca issuu.com/incite-magazine facebook.com/incitemagazine @incitemagazine

editor in chief (content):

contributors:

Sara Emira

(Content): Anonymous, Aribah Ali, Aaryman Anand, Ester Chow, Sara Emira, Mikaela Grahlman, Gillian Hodge, Harmil Kalia, Heba Khan, Maya Khodr-Ali, Crystal Lu, Quinn Macpherson, Sophie Marchetti, Nadeem Mirza, Madeleine Randmaa, Hannah Rose Rosales, Anna Samson, Sharang Sharma, Lisa Shen, Suky Zhen, (Artists): Anonymous, Thomas Britnell, Evie Chapman, Cezara Ene, Graeme Fishman, Sana Gupta, Labiqah Iftikhar, Maya Khodr-Ali, Madeline Komar, Sandy Luu, Michelle Nicol, Simran Rakhra, Ayesha Umair

editor in chief (arts and production): Sandy Luu

layout director:

Madeleine Randmaa

treasurer: Tirath Kaur

communication director: Lisa Victoria

content editors:

Aribah Ali, Alex Chen, Gillian Hodge, Karen Li, Sophie Marchetti, Hooriya Masood, Sowmithree Ragothaman, Hannah Rose Rosales, Sarah Lopes Sadafi, Noah Yang

art managers:

Evie Chapman, Graeme Fishman, Sana Gupta, Carol Zhang

layout editor: Bohmee Kim

cover art: Phases by Sana Gupta

incite VOLUME XXIV:II

Don’t petals of soft words float upon your blood? — Rainer Maria Rilke