The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams
Eleanor Roosevelt
dream
INCITE VOLUME 27
ISSUE 1
Dear Reader,
This edition brings about great excitement and gratitude. It is a testament to the creative arts legacy of McMaster students, and aspires to own and honour the artistic pursuits of our McMaster family. As per the theme, there is a push to dream, because dreams are a vehicle for our aspirations, for our fantasies, and for our uniquely weird, impulsive inclinations. Channeling this through creative writing and art can serve as inspiration, joy, and curiosity to others—all things we want to foster at Incite. With each edition, Incite aspires to showcase the maybe scattered or clean, maybe direct or ironic, maybe silly or serious, but ultimately, the remarkably personal explorations of our students.
My admiration for this edition stems from the perpetual daydreamer in me. I can cheekily say—like many others—I often find myself more engrossed in my imagined world over our real one. Gratefully, with this edition, I got to explore the imaginations of others. I hope you, like me, found this edition to capture the mystic quality of dreams—their ability to invoke a sense of excitement, glee, and optimism, as much as a sense of confusion, fear, and loss. It was fascinating to delve into these dualities, as they so often coexist, bringing me to my favourite aspect of this edition: it is as much real as it is fantasy.
I do not think you can read this edition without marveling at the incredible talents of our student contributors. It took a village to display their work so thoughtfully—a village consisting of the immensely dedicated and skilled Incite editorial team, our art managers, our content editors, and our layout editors. I am deeply grateful for their marvelous efforts and for allowing me the privilege to viscerally experience the personal stories of so many dreamers!
I encourage you to dive into this edition with as much enthusiasm as I did. With these parting words, I hope you always nurture the dreamer in you. Let us be the drivers and dreams be the directions.
Sincerely,
Misaal Mehboob Editor-in-Chief (Content)
Editor’s
Dear Reader,
Dream Big.
Growing up, we all wondered who we would be as adults. What stories would define us? What dreams would carry us forward? In the purity, curiosity, and imaginative wonder of childhood, we looked to the future with hope and limitless possibilities.
But dreams do more than guide us toward tomorrow. They anchor us in the present, urging us to pause, reflect, and connect. As you explore this magazine, I invite you to embrace this moment. Imagine the lives and emotions behind each creation. Feel compassion and connection to those who carry within them a spark of possibility. Through this connection, art becomes a bridge—uniting creators, observers, and dreamers.
Turning these pages, I hope we are reminded of our shared humanity. Each piece invites us to see the world through someone else’s eyes and to approach one another with empathy and understanding. Art challenges us to think differently, to feel deeply, and to imagine what could be. It reminds us that creativity is an act of courage—an expression of the dreams that make us who we are.
To the Art Manager team, thank you for your dedication in coordinating submissions. To the artists, thank you for generously sharing a piece of yourselves with us. Together, you’ve made this magazine a celebration of imagination, connection, and hope.
As you flip through, may you be inspired to dream boldly and find compassion—not only for others but also for yourself.
With hope and creativity,
Vereena Andrawes
Editor-in-Chief (Art)
Vereena Andrawes
Letter
staff question
longing for ascent haseeb aslam late night commute ali sahib when the stars align sabea the allegory jessica li night sky manal effendi one-night swim irys pascual diesel and smoke and freedom eric zhang shooting stars sandy kumar through the looking glass harleen chahal intuition bella ceccomancini all that we see or seem raniya chowdhury escaping delusion durezernab berki momma, i had a nightmare rami naanmna free falling sereena sodhi the boy and the bird sakeenah niazi escapist yennie chen my merman aliyah sumar to who i was, from who i am victoria d’anna realms of reverie dora xu nostalgia valerie han fading colours gloria liu the jade green hills camille kinsella little red bird ria patel a lost dream sema massraf convergence sikora decker mint garden kaneera uthayakumaran
she dreams of him often koketso langanani collapse audrey ewen longing for ascent muhammad haseeb where do i go? audrey ewen stars fiona pu catch a glimpse through heavy eyes veiled by the mosaic of me audrey ewen consetllation aditya kalra the atlantic sea and fantasy-esque sunbeams harmela celestin new places aidan zeglisnki
starry eyed dreamers teresa tubig stars sandy kumar through the looking glass harleen chahal comfort me yeemon radial asymmetry aiden zeglinski dreamy dora xu imprisoned - let the sky fall yee mon traversing the underwater abyss durezernab berki dreaming with you aditya kalra fire sandy kumar
voided audrey ewen kissing a mermaid aditya kalra
unlived dreams arthy pansanathan
reverie fatima salman raza meraki fatima salman raza
external/internal gillian reid dream fairy isra chowdhury through the dream glass isra chowdhury the jade green hills camille kinsella chalk line aidan zeglisnki ruins ayesha umair her mind is an ecosystem lara mccelland growth ayesha umair period of rest labiqah iftikhar orchid labiqah iftikhar
consistency-looseroses labiqah iftikhar
We asked Incite staff...
What is a movie or book that feels like stepping into a dream?
Le Petit
Vereena Andrawes Editor in chief (Arts)
Harry Potter
Peyton WhitehouseTreasurer
Prince
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Misaal Mehboob Editor in chief
(Content)
Iliad Naiha Ali Layout Director
LONGING for ASCENT
ART & WORDS by HASEEB ASLAM
How does one feel at the summit, on top of the world? In the Karakorams, the Himalayas, the Hindu Kush? Standing 8000 meters above sea level, miles away from the clamor of the city. Is the snow purer? Is the sun more radiant? The gentle embrace of the clouds must be comforting. They deserve it. The Sherpas, the Shamshalis, the Wakhis, the people who risk it all. They're not like me, stuck in the clinging mud of the basecamp.
I’ve been gazing at this colossal pyramid of ice for years now, long enough that the porters at basecamp have taken a liking to me. This campsite is for the fainthearted, for those who aren’t daring enough to step beyond their comfort zone. We say the climbers are fools, intoxicated by their desires, as if we are the sensible ones. I’ve never seen a more bitter gaze than that of a base-dweller toward a sky-settler—it’s a reminder of what we could have been.
I wonder if the climbers, looking down on us, ever feel pity. Each passing day brings more regret for the decisions I’ve made, and now it’s too late—my youth, my peak of potential, has long passed. 10-year-old me, with wide, ambitious eyes, gazing up at the bright Milky Way, would never settle for less. Now look at me, running with the herd, blending in with the rest. We all try to reassure ourselves, insisting it was the right choice. Our eyes reveal nothing but regret. Every part of my being longs to live again. My eyes crave a picturesque sunset, my tongue thirsts for pure glacial waters, my nose yearns for the scent of high-altitude mist, my ears ache to hear the roar of thunder, and every hair on my body longs for the delicate caress of mountain wind. When I sleep, my mind conjures up fanciful visions of adventure. My heart calls for it.
I hear a strange sound. Just as I dare to raise my head, I see a baby markhor on a steep ledge, its steps causing a smal landslide. It falls, but rises again. It keeps trying; it’s learning. It’s frightened, alone, yet still moving. I look closer and spot a snow leopard, camouflaged, poised to pounce on the baby markhor. Two species, predator and prey, coexisting in this unforgiving environment for centuries. Like me, they are afraid, but they are adapting to their fears. If the baby markhor never dares to jump across, it will die, and if the snow leopard never makes that daring leap, it will starve. They cannot remain stagnant. Are we the same? Are we meant to pursue, to challenge ourselves? Then why do I feel so intimidated?
Did Beethoven feel the same before stepping onto stage? Wasn’t Columbus anxious before his expeditions? Yet, they forged ahead, bringing their visions to life, sharing their brilliance with the world, becoming enduring symbols of human potential. How did I not understand? I have a vow to the wind beneath my wings. Will I be able to live with myself knowing I didn’t fly as far as I could?
“What lies beyond the ice wall?” I don’t want to hear it from someone else. I want to be the storyteller around our campfires. I need to let my instincts guide me and embark on my own adventure. I want that passion to ignite within me, for the flames to blaze through me, to rise as high as I can.
I’m heading to where the sky begins to darken, where I’m the tallest man on earth. My ambitions for the summit outweigh my fear of an avalanche. I am ever-evolving, indomitable. My fear is not greater than the world, and it certainly is not greater than my own life. It’s not too late. I can still break free and be a child again—a hopeful child with sparkling eyes. Once more, I can lie beneath a clear, starry night in an open field and rekindle my imagination. Because everything is still the same. After all, it wasn’t the stars that changed. It was me.x
LATE NIGHT COMMUTE
I’m usually home by this time, but I now find myself at school and it’s 8:30 p.m. I wonder to myself, “Is this going to be a regular occurrence?” Maybe it will work itself out. Maybe this is just a one-off thing. Regardless, I start my journey home. I get on a bus heading to the train station. When I get to the train station, the station doors are locked. I’m with the group of people who were also on the bus with me. Then it hits me, a wave of sleepiness. At this point, I’m intoxicated with drowsiness.
I look around, and it feels like something out of a renaissance painting. There’s a lady with a dog getting frustrated with the ticket machine, a kid walking around with his face glued to his tablet, and two other students in a similar situation, waiting for the train, but seemingly with a higher tolerance to sleep.
I move to the platform when the departure time comes near. I walk down the stairs to the old, crumbling, and dark underground tunnel connecting the outside to the platforms. Once I reach my platform, I walk along it until I align myself with the coach that I want to get on. As I do, it seemed like more people magically came into existence. Were they always here? Strangely, even though they’re so close to me, I can’t make out a single detail on their faces. I mean, how could they be comfortable waiting, I question again but the train arrived before I gave it any thought. I board the train hastily, my half-asleep mind harshly reminding me of how impatient the conductor gets, closing the doors a minute after the train arrives. I get into my seat and look out the window: pitch black. It’s almost absurd how dark it is outside and how I can’t make anything out.
I’m yawning as soon as the train starts moving and we pass a few stops. We arrive at this one stop, with seemingly no one on the platform when I hear the door hitting something repeatedly as it tries to close. The door chimes, announcing that it’s closing, just for it to hit something again and reopen. I think to myself, “Finally something interesting.”
I go check it out and when I do, I find that it’s a drunk guy holding a beer can, and making his way towards me. I quickly rush back to my seat—I don’t think I have the energy to put up a fight.
The guy senses me: “Do you have a problem?” he asks repeatedly. I say that I don’t have a problem and he gets really close, touching me with his finger, “If you have a problem you should tell me.”
I push him aside and walk at a fast pace to the other coaches; I see him still staring at me as I’m making my way to the coach with the conductor. As I enter the different coaches, I feel repulsed everywhere I look. Yellow flickering lights combined with the severe shaking of the train. People with lighters and metallic spoons—my brain rejecting every bad thought: a defence mechanism. I walk through two cartridges in a flash, everything a blur in an attempt to make it out unscathed. I make my way to the conductor rushing and panicking, like I’m in some sort of escape game.
Once I reach the conductor, panicked and heart throbbing, I explain everything to him. “Describe him to me,” he says, “The best shot we have at this is for transit police 10 stations down; that’s if he is still here.” I don’t even know if describing him is going to do anything but at least I’ve accomplished something, my brain reasons.
I sit down thinking it’s all over when I see him. He’s making his way down the aisle towards me, all while staring me dead in the eyes. The conductor sees him too but says nothing as he moves past both of us to a different carriage. The conductor, as if defending his actions, says, “You know, I wish I could have helped you more but I can’t.” He sits back down and resumes watching what he was on his phone.
I get frustrated with myself. Is this who I want to be: a victim unable to defend themselves? Do I want to stay suffocated? I push myself to go back to my original carriage and face my fear of bumping into the guy or another assailant again. I finally open my eyes.
As I make my way through, everything has changed, as it seems the guy left to go elsewhere, absorbing all the bad with him like a sponge. I feel more awake for some reason: the air cooler and fresher. I can clearly see everyone’s faces in detail. I see more people—normal people—filled in the carriages. “Safety in numbers,” I think as I scan people’s faces: a group of young adults dressed up to go to a party, students, like me, going home, people leaving work—they made me happy.
My stop arrives and I leave. It’s as if I was overreacting. Maybe I just let my imagination run wild or maybe it’s the lack of sleep. I step off the train and into familiar territory like a warm embrace, knowing that I’m ready to take on the unexpected.x
When The Stars Align
It’s still dark out. As I look out the window of my Brooklyn apartment, I wonder what time it is. I debate checking my phone, but I would be swarmed with messages from friends asking how I’m doing. I know they mean well, but my mind refuses to process what happened yesterday. I’ve been on autopilot ever since he ended things. A heavy weight settles in my gut as his name passes through my thoughts. I sit up in my bed with my knees to my chest; still looking at the moon, wondering, pretending, hoping. Maybe in another lifetime, I tell myself. But why not this one? I swallow a lump in my throat as I try to push away the thought, but it’s no use. Tears start streaming down my face. It’s hard when you love someone, and they aren’t ready to reciprocate it. It’s even harder when they think they never will. What was it about me that he could never find himself loving?
I head to the kitchen to grab some water. Before I open the fridge, I see a picture of him and I. It was from our third date. We went to an outdoor theater. He planned that date, but not many after. As I look at the photo, my veins heat with rage, but my emotions settle on disappointment. I’m disappointed that I am once again just another lesson for someone to learn from. I’m disappointed in myself for ignoring my hurt because I would rather be dismissed than be alone.
I walk out onto my balcony to look up at the night sky. The stars shine so brightly against the darkness. They remind me of the ones he used to name after me. I wish on one of those stars that when morning comes, this will all have been a dream. When I wake up tomorrow morning I’ll be back in his arms. We’ll have breakfast at our favorite cafe near the park and then go to the local bookstore. He’ll make fun of me for my obsession with the romance genre and I’ll tease him for considering a sports magazine a book. As hard as I wish and hope, I know things between us are over. As I head back to bed, I check the time while trying to ignore my friends’ sympathies. It’s 4:05am.
I wonder if he’s thinking about me, if I’m okay or completely shattered. I wonder if he wanted to call but decided against it. I wonder if he still cares. I roll over to scream into my pillow as my sobs have now become inconsolable. The unanswered questions and what ifs are too painful to just sleep off. Why wasn’t I worth fighting for?
I fell in love with a boy who had no intention of becoming a man. I loved someone who had no intention of loving me. We were always destined to be two people whose paths crossed but never remained. There is a hole in my heart that yearns for one more hug, one more conversation, one more laugh. But I have to learn how to be content again. I have to learn how to hope again, to love again. I have to learn to let him go. I hope that when he looks up at the stars, he no longer thinks of me, but of all the possibilities this world has for him. I truly do wish him the best; but for me, I wish to never see him again.x
ALLEGORY ALLEGORY
ALLEGORY
ALLEGORY
ALLEGORY
ALLEGORY
THE ALLEGORY
ART by AUDREY EWEN WORDS by JESSICA LI
You walk around and go through the motions of life, but some part of you knows it’s just shadows on a wall. That empty feeling when you first open your eyes, the disillusionment between night and day. It takes over your body in gaping cold chills. It begs you to do something, reach for something maybe. But you look at the palms of your hands and only see its flesh. You reach out and only see your bedroom walls. Shadows on a wall, that’s all your life is fabricated of. Something deeper tugs at you. It inches you toward the exit, or maybe the entrance. Deep-seated ecstasy, a unanimous joy that is present throughout all the spectrums of life. Like a bell waking you up, its frequency vibrating in the hollowness of your atoms. You are more space than matter. You whisper every second of every day, but you don’t know who, or what you are whispering about. Just beyond those dancing shadows is something three-dimensional, and even beyond that — something four-dimensional. The delight of it all is incomprehensible. Let the strings of your heart tug you away and into the ecstasy that is always there. Don’t you see it? Step outside. Step outside and look at the sun.x
Night Sky
ART by ADITYA KALRA WORDS by MANAL EFFENDI
Have you ever sat down and been everywhere and nowhere? The night sky was a giant map, each star a possibility, each constellation a treasure waiting to be explored. The stars weren’t just distant and twinkling lights; they were promises—promises of what could and would be. Engulfed in my thoughts, the world became a whisper in the background.
As I looked to the skies, I believed that somewhere in the universe, there was a life waiting for me – a life where my passion and desires reigned. There were no bounds in this world, no clauses or consequences. I was, and I would be. Mind over matter, as I’d heard from the books. I had the world in my hands and the constellations as my map.
Adolescence was bliss.
But as with many books, the stories take a turn as you flip the pages. The stars still shone but no longer mapped out a clear path. Instead, they flickered with uncertainty as the sky clouded over and the rain began to pour. What was once a cool breeze turned to raging hail in the growing storm. Society declared that greatness wasn’t for everyone. The world, which had once seemed full of endless possibilities, now tied my wrists and chained me down. I strove for a sliver of hope to return to the passions I once held.
Piece by piece, reality sets in and breaks down the innocence that youth provides. But even as I face a world of checkboxes and fixed agendas, I try with all my heart – the same heart that still locked up that magic – to look up and see the stars. And while the future no longer seems mapped out. I now understand something new: the stars aren’t there to predict my future but to remind me of the infinite vistas still within them, waiting to be rediscovered and reignited from within me.
Maybe, just maybe, the future isn’t a fixed destiny, but a journey shaped by resilience, by holding on to hope, and by daring to aspire despite it all.
Nothing can keep me from where I’m going next, for I can see all the stars in the night sky.x
One-Night Swim
Art by HARMELA CELESTIN
Words by IRYS BEYONCE PASCUAL
last night at the dock i saw you shoulder-deep in the murky blue there in the moonlight i sat waiting as you drew closer, luminous hair a waterfall cascading cat-like eyes stared up at me aquamarine and gleaming with intensity iridescent, scaled fingers ghosted along my jaw enthralled, enamored, enraptured—i was drowning in awe more, my body begged, to you i devote my skin then, lips at my ear, you whispered, “you should come in” so, i dove, of course i did, breath held as you pulled me down whilst behind me, like a jellyfish, billowed the skirts of my nightgown your tail was a shimmering serpent, strong and sleek a kaleidoscope of colour, blinding me with its mystique we passed seals and seahorses, schools of fish and a shark ‘til below us i spied something ominous in the dark to a shipwreck you’d lead me, a wooden corpse with pitiful air but glittering within it was your brightly bejewelled lair on every wall, calcites and corals and pearls of all sizes yet i only admired you, your smile worth a thousand sunrises then time slowed as you leaned in, yet my heart had never beaten so fast our lips crashed like waves against the shore, and i could breathe at last when you asked me to stay, “always, forever,” i said yet this morning i awoke alone in my bed but oh, i’m not upset, i lay here sighing with delight for i know we’ll do it all again when i see you at the dock tonight x
Diesel and Smoke and Freedom
Art by TERESA TUBIG
Words by ERIC ZHANG
it’s hard to pack your life in two suitcases and a bag, but it’s comforting to know you’re in a line with people who had to do the same.
did they leave behind their bright futures too?
you imagine what their lives were like, the rolling childhood fields they played in, the dirt roads they biked, laughing aunties, uncles, cousins, and sisters the scene stops suddenly.
you come back to reality, your body aching.
the airport light is unnaturally white, glaring. it’s the kind that pierces your skull and leaves your head ringing and thoughts screaming. it’s disorienting.
like you don’t know if you’re asleep or awake.
maybe it isn’t as bad as it seems, you think as you step forward.
there’s a large “WELCOME TO CANADA” sign above you.
the blank-faced officer fires a barrage of words, they attack your mind, but you are ready. you prepared for this.
the capital city of canada is OTTAWA, not TORONTO. slowly, your mind clicks, and foreign sounds begin falling out of your mouth one after the other, jumbled.
don’t slur your letters, it’s “THE” not “DE”.
your tongue falters at “t” and barely makes it past “e”; it takes time, but you make it. you made it.
and suddenly you’re whisked away to your new life pushed through the gates of heaven and into the cool autumn air, hope and pride swelling inside. it smells of diesel and smoke and freedom. and you enjoy it. because this is what you worked for. x
I feel this whisper in the back of my soul, telling me to feel. Feel that I am on the cusp of an explosion, making me privy to every secret of the universe. It tells me to give in, be swept up by the wave of possibility.
Yet I must pull back.
I cannot give in, I fear if I do - I might find myself somewhere surreal.
That whisper is dangerous. At night, It lays out paths of wonder. But once I end up on those roads, I fear I’ll realize there is no support holding me, no compass guiding me.
I want to give in, uncover the secrets that every crevice of my soul desires to write out. Chapters filled with a story of success, live out the plans I told the universe I’d see through.
Except paths of possibility promise not only beauty, but also uncertainty and scarcity. So, I try to hold back, keep on a direction of feasibility with railings attached to its staircase. Even if it’s an uphill trek of emotions, I stay hoping the railings will give me enough balance to carry on.
My soul continues to whisper, showing me ways to jump from the staircase. Onto winding and wobbling paths created from wishes made on shooting stars.
Maybe one day, I’ll be bold enough to break free from the assurance of stability.
The whispers will become conversations, and the explosion will erupt. I’ll go tripping onto a route of unstable ground, With scrapes on my knees and stardust coating my hands.x
Shooting Stars
ART by ANDY KUMAR WORDS by SANDY KUMAR
Through the Looking Glass
Through the Looking Glass
Art & Words by HARLEEN
One foot in, one foot out — teetering on the serpentine framework of reality. Neither here, nor there, perhaps not anywhere. Fragmented in two, journeying through reality and wonderland.
Time stretches thin, like an unravelling thread, frayed and infused with the sins of a blade. The air feels thick, wrapping around my skin like a weight I cannot shed. Shadows flicker at the edges of my vision, slipping away before I can catch them. My fingers brush against the unseen, grasping for solidity in this quivering world. 1, 2, 3, 4. With a pulsing rhythm, the lights blaze above my head, revealing a labyrinth. As the walls tremble in time with my heart, the only path is forward.
A shimmering ball of light guides me further in. It hums with each step I take. Yet, something doesn’t feel quite right. I exhale a heavy breath; it expels as a dark cloud, chasing behind the orb of light. Each gasp of air welds together, forging a silhouette identical to my own. “Ready or not?”
I never had a chance. The realm twists on its axis and the silhouette latches itself onto me. She settles in my bones, moving each muscle as if it were her own. “You must see, you must understand.” She moves and I move. I scream, but it dies on her tongue. “See and understand now.” Why did my orb of light disappear?
She mumbles those four words over and over and over and over. They bellow in my mind, tearing through each crevice, ripping open each wound. Each memory blasts through my iron defences like a tidal wave, swimming in my blood like acid. I spent so long organizing everything so meticulously. Everything had its place.
“You’re wrong.” Her voice strikes louder than the chaos drowning me. “Take a look.” She stands before the crumbling reflection of a girl I can’t recognize. Each limb is sewn together by bleeding red string: different sizes, different colours, different versions of me. “Everything has been substituted and mended. This is your perfect creation”
The reflection twirls, posing and displaying each grotesque angle of its carcass. She will never carry the pain of the past. Her bones will never strain under the weight of who she could’ve been. “She’s hollow.” The silhouette taps a bony finger on the glass, captivating the reflection like an animal in a zoo. “With a single flick, she would collapse. She is nothing more than an enticing void that latches onto ghosts like you.”
Her knuckles rattle against the glass. “A house of cards. A dying star. So melodramatic. You’re nothing more than a skeleton assembled by a child. How would you put her back together again? When the nightmare goes, who will you be?”
Shadows claw at me with razor blades. I’ve never had somewhere to rest — not here, there, or anywhere. The grisly memories that had moulded me from clay, now pin me against the walls of my mind. “You’ll never return unless you conquer them.”
Every person, every place, and everything that had pulverized my sanity and my youth fabricated the bricks of the labyrinth — the atoms of my reality.
My knees collide with the soft earth. Golden grains bury my aching flesh. Ravens croak above, circling what’s left of me. I want the sun to shine on my waning core. I want to break free from limbo.
“But will you accept the memories? What is a person without memories? You cannot remove the crux of your existence.”
My round eyes flutter as the verity settles in my dizzy frame. The war must end.
Peace, salvation, I will accept anything, as long as the void no longer twists around my bones.
One foot in, one foot out, teetering on the serpentine framework of reality. Neither here, nor there, perhaps not anywhere. Fragmented in two, journeying through reality and wonderland.
Floating galaxies away, yet curled tight in my room’s embrace, The orb of light ricochets, shattering each brick in place. Memories flood through and now I must choose.x
UNLESS
Eyes sealed shut, As my facade conceals. The sorrow that lurks, Just beneath the surface.
My heart yearns But my body It rejects you, In every possible way.
My subconscious unravels, Peeling away the layers Revealing, Exposing, The truths I long ignored Truths I neglected Why?
My intuition tried, To warn. To plea. To urge. Yet I silence its blaring noise. I romanticize Fleeing to you. Yet an inner turmoil Only with me Is the only reality I knew.
With every breath, Every fiber of my being, The feeling ineffable Hidden in me More fragile than I could comprehend. I knew, I just knew. My intuition was true. x
ART by YEEMON WORDS by BELLA CECCOMANCINI
All That We
I wake.
Something stirs in the far corner of my room, Staring At me.
I wake.
Something stirs in the far corner of my room, Staring
At me. Its face pale and still and Featureless
Like the placid surface of undisturbed water. Suddenly, I wake.
Something stirs in the far corner of my room, Staring
At me. Its face pale and still and Featureless
Like the placid surface of undisturbed water. Suddenly, it Reaches
For me, and my mouth opens to scream. But instead, I wake.
Something stirs in the far corner of my room, Staring
At me. Its face pale and still and Featureless
Like the placid surface of undisturbed water. Suddenly, it Reaches
For me, and my mouth opens to scream. But instead, Smoke
Curls from my lips in a cloud — wordless sound turning to air. And I wake.
Something stirs in the far corner of my room, Staring
At me. Its face pale and still and Featureless
Like the placid surface of undisturbed water. Suddenly, it Reaches
For me, and my mouth opens to scream. But instead, Smoke
Curls from my lips in a cloud — wordless sound turning to air. And It
Enters the light, gleaming white. My teeth fall out into my open palms. I blink,
See or Seem
I wake.
Something stirs in the far corner of my room, Staring At me. Its face pale and still and Featureless
Like the placid surface of undisturbed water. Suddenly, it Reaches
For me, and my mouth opens to scream. But instead, Smoke
Curls from my lips in a cloud — wordless sound turning to air. And It
Enters the light, gleaming white. My teeth fall out into my open palms. I blink, Everything
Changes, the picture scrambled now: the top of a high-rise, whistling wind. I fall and I wake.
Something stirs in the far corner of my room, Staring At me. Its face pale and still and Featureless
Like the placid surface of undisturbed water. Suddenly, it Reaches
For me, and my mouth opens to scream. But instead, Smoke
Curls from my lips in a cloud — wordless sound turning to air. And It
Enters the light, gleaming white. My teeth fall out into my open palms. I blink, Everything
Changes, the picture scrambled now: the top of a high-rise, whistling wind. I fall and Somehow I land in my childhood bedroom, my mom is saying: everything is okay, nothing will hurt me, not until I wake.x
ART by AIDEN ZEGLINSKI WORDS by RANIYA CHOWDHURY
You are never too old GOAL to set a new
OR TO DREAM
-CS. LEWIS
DREAM
ART by DORA XU
WORDS by DUREZERNAB BERKI
ART by YEE MON
Escaping Delusion
TW: depictions of self harm and suicide
Plastered smiles, etched far too wide Carved by their own desperate hands
Slackened limbs, bound in tangled vines Their resolution empties, unnoticed,
Velvety blood pooling into a corsage of rose Bruises adorn their cold wrists
Liberty, they claim to hold, in their lifeless palms
My mirrored state, Excluding lucid mind, I watch their wandering legs
Graying hair and beauty naught Lost to time, caught in a delirious dance
Self deception at their own detriment Marionettes transformed for their ignorance, Ill-fated are the ill-hearts
For sanity, I sever my wrists
Death paid, for a sound mind x
Momma, I Had A Nightmare
ART by DUREZERNAB BERKI
WORDS by RAMI NAAMNA
Visions of a memory, rooted deep in the past Momma would soon know the troublesome task
Of being woken up in the early hours of the morning
I got school in a few hours, mommas got work too
Few negroes in my neighborhood, we were busy mourning
I walked up to momma’s bedroom door to turn the knob
Clock just struck two She asked me why I’m still up after she sang my bedtime song
I weep and tell momma I had a nightmare
She shifted in her bed, bonnet fell off, revealing laced hair
Momma pulled me close, lifted me up to her bed, legs swung in bliss, tears relieved from comfort Momma asked me, “My sweet girl, tell me your nightmare.”
And so I rambled, stuttering along the way as I watched my momma’s face stare back intensely told her the story of the Garden of Eden, for God had returned and taken us back to his promised land
I rejoiced, for the land had no flaws and I had taken God’s hand Out of nowhere, the sky had gone black and demons had come to the Garden Wished to steal the fruit in the Garden and deforest the land for their own greed
So they did, and succeeded
I blacked out and the land was gone, I told momma what she once told me “At the darkest of times, out comes the Phoenix” And so I ask momma, “What time is darker than this?”
My momma, teary eyed, looked away and asked God, “What kind of hell
is it?”
She looked back at me and held me close to her chest, she told me this was no scene
That generational trauma has transitioned, I had lived her memory at sixteen Momma told me that she was raped at that age, that the British invaded Barbados and broke homes
Families, lives, people, hopes and futures—a historical lesson I reminisce on that moment now, in therapy session
How that trauma affects me and all of my family
How colonialism is active in process, I know this was their intent
And so I ask, if I relive the memories of my momma, and I too have experienced this, Will trauma be my legacy?
Or will it be theirs?x
This document may not be shared with or used by personnel below the designaed clearance level.
Clearance Level 2 Item
Date: November 2, 2023
Location: National Health Services, Brantford, England
[Dr. Scarl]: Alright, so explain what happens in these nightmares.
[Mr. De Palma]: It starts as I jump out of a plane. I’m skydiving. You see when you’re locked up, you would entertain yourself with ideas of what you would do when you got out. What I often thought about was going skydiving. I- I still haven’t gone, and I probably never will now… Anyways, in these nightmares, I do go skydiving. I jump, and at first, it’s fine, but then after 30 seconds or so, I pass through a cloud. And that’s where it goes all wrong. Once I pass through the cloud, I can’t see the ground anymore. At all. It’s just plain blue sky above and below. And I’m falling. I’m falling for so long, and I’m moving downwards but going nowhere.
[Mr. De Palma]: Minutes go by, then it feels like hours, then days.
[Dr. Scarl]: Okay, so, for patients who have been institutionalized, it is quite common for them to experience agoraphobia—the fear of leaving spaces one considers safe. You were in jail for 10 years and now you’re out in the open; free. You are being exposed to a lot of new environments after so long. These nightmares do not display anything unusual-
[Mr. De Palma]: I can feel myself aging as I fall. It’s not boredom or lack of stimulation that gives me a grasp on the time I spend free-falling, it’s the way my skin slowly starts to grow taut as moisture leaves my body. It’s the way my muscles begin to atrophy. I can feel the blood in my veins thicken. Why- why can I sense that? The longer I fall, the more it feels like the sky is taking pieces of my flesh from me. So, no. I’m not scared of the open space; I’m scared of the sky. When I go outside now, I feel like if I trip, I’ll fall upwards into the sky… and I won’t stop.
[Dr. Scarl]: Mr. De Palma are you claiming that these dreams have changed how you behave in your day-to-day life?
[Mr. De Palma]: Yes. That’s why I’m here. I can hardly convince myself to go outside anymore. I’ve been trying to get my life back in order, but I can’t because I’m terrified of the goddamn sky. If I’m out in the open, I don’t want to look up at the sky, but then if I don’t look, I feel its presence heavier, as if the sky is physically weighing down on me. Eventually, I drive myself near insanity with panic and don’t go anywhere at all.
[Dr Scarl]: Alright, I think it would be beneficial to understand the root cause of this nightmare and examine what fears are causing these symptoms to manifest.
[Mr. De Palma]: I told you! I’m afraid of the sky-
End of Transcript. Physician chose to end session early as patient began displaying signs of distress. Patient discussed manifestations concurrent with casadastraphobia. Further observation is recommended.x
WORDS by SEREENA S ART by ADITYA KALRA
THE BOY AND THE BIRD
In a sky clouded by smoke, a baby bird spreads its wings for the first time. Right, then left, then both together
“Feel the wind beneath your feathers. Slice through the charcoal air, see nothing below you
Call to your mother singing the song of your people.” The notes fall, smothered by the incessant whine of military-grade aircraft. Fire, gunpowder, and smoke! The screams below the clouds are muted by the dark wave of soot
The baby bird is puzzled; this is not the world he was told of. His mother told him of clear blue skies
Laughing humans
“The little ones, they listen to you,” she says
“They want to know your stories
Tell them where you have been and what you have seen. They will remember you and your song.”
The baby bird flies through the charred night, He flies into the orange hue, which bleeds into twilight, Higher and higher
Until the smoke clears, covering the world beneath him as he reaches a sun-bruised sky. Yet still, he wonders about the world below. Do they still know of him?
Underneath the blanket of smog, a child peers at the heavens
His mother told him of the birds that used to dot the skies like stars. Now, all he sees is black
He hears nothing but the immutable hum of drones
Knows nothing but devastation
“Long ago,” she said “Long ago, you could listen to them sing They sit on your shoulders and tell you stories of far-off worlds. If ever you see them again, be good to them.” He looks into the sky, hoping, wondering
Boy and bird look towards each other and yearn
The bird wishes to land on solid ground; the boy wishes to fly above the stars. Both wish for the world they were brought up to believe in Believing in myths of a land where they can live in harmony, Each unaware of the presence of the other x
by
SANDY KUMAR
WORDS by SAKEENAH NIAZI
ART
Escapist
WORDS by YENNIE CHEN ART by AUDREY EWEN
In the gaping chasm of fantasy, the mist flickers with voices; moths muffling flame with desperation. You wander, feet light against dark concrete, rain heavy, eyes fixed on that distant silhouette, her glass-spun laugh piercing the night sky like a flare.
You remember: It started with a question.
“Where to?” she asked. Her finger hovered over the map, tracing the subway line that bisected it. “Here?”
You nodded listlessly; you’d just moved to the city, and all you could smell was ash. It didn’t matter who she was or where you were going. You would’ve given anything to breathe again.
But the storm closes in around you. Ropes of writhing seawater morph into welts of rock wrapped around your wrists, snakes fossilized mid-constriction. You thrash while she dances in a cloud of debris, her body dissolving into dust until she is only a ghost, a mirage, and a scream tears itself out of a fault in your soul.
Because with her, you were always lost and found.
At the bus stop in her hometown, the snow fell with reckless abandon, as if trying to wipe the world clean and start anew. You cowered in the shower of white, your frigid red fingers fumbling to dial her number. Voicemail, even though she said she’d be back. Leave a message after the beep. You were supposed to be home by now. Instead, you leave another message. Leave another plea. Leave yourself again and again. Standing in the blizzard, you no longer knew which way was up.
As you wake, the rain stills into droplets staining your bedroom window. Her chest rises and falls next to you. On your nightstand rests a cup of tea. The leaves meld into the darkened liquid, having given all of themselves to the bath of jasmine. Next to it: a photo of you and her. You reach for the worn frame, and your fingers brush against the edge of another world. It started with a question, and it ends with an answer. Anywhere but here. x l u n g e ANYWHERE ANYWHERE ANYWHERE ANYWHERE ANYWHERE
Still, knees bloody and head heavy, you chase after her. Above you, whales sing and birds streak through the melting ocean, pools of red-hot lava mocking your shattered reflection while you stumble up staircases that lead to other realms, skies and seafoam and silence buckling under your prayer and twisting into helices, into ribbons, into the silky strands of her hair and still she slips through your fingers like sand through a sieve.
Back in the car, you knew everything was eroding. The smell of old takeout in the backseat, the weight of her presence in the front. The road lines ahead of you, converging into the mist. You hated the dark, and yet your low beams were the only light for miles. You sat in the passenger seat, arms folded across your lap, mouth closed and eyes open. Still, you could not deny it. Your legs itched to run. s into darkness.
You tear through the grass, in fields speckled with monarchs. The sweet taste of milk on your tongue. A memory, there she is, white skirt, windswept, eyes fixed on your calloused hands outstretched amidst a symphony of wing-beats. She blinks.
The world p
by AUDREY EWEN
VOIDED
ART
My Merman
To me, he’s like a dream,
My merman emerges from the ocean
With his soft and supple skin
His arm hair dyed a golden blonde from the sun
That heats his skin and pulls him back to the cooling ocean.
The deep freckles that speckle his shoulders show me a life well-lived And his rich red hair calls for my fingers to comb through it.
The water rushes upon the shore as he steps out, fearful of what it could lose
But my siren song continues to call him in.
The water licks at his feet, waves aching for his return,but he keeps on.
His hands fall into mine, his eyes fall onto mine,
His touch feels like butter, melting into my brown sun-kissed skin
Mixing with the sand and sunscreen that covers my hands. I am his land princess.
The waves wink at our love
My Merman
And salty sea specks jump up in response, tears of jealousy that spill onto the shore. He is my merman.
In a moment, I’m awake
And I blink into the dark disappointment of my dream washing away
Before registering that same soft touch, those same warm hands, As I am swaddled in a sweet mixture of strong arms and duvet.
My merman pulls me in
And his gentle caress lulls me back to sleep.
The sea sees us kiss and tries to pull him back, For he once was theirs, But now
He is mine.x
WORDS by ALIYAH SUMAR ART by ADITYA KALRA
To Who I Was, From Who I Am
WORDS by VICTORIA D’ANNA
ART by ARTHY PANSANATHAN
Oh, sweet child, who yearns without regret, how I envy you. Did each misstep bring me here? Can I blame you for all my regret? While I would love to hand off the blame, it does not belong to you. It doesn’t belong to me either, but still, I shoulder it.
The weight of it all threatens to break me.
I wish there were someone to give it to, but even I, shouldn’t carry it. I’m sure I’ll learn that, eventually.
I see my life now as a series of branches, trimmed by my own hand.
I can’t help but wonder how I might have otherwise blossomed, if only I had cut differently.
Oh, sweet child, I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I’d be. x
“Reverie”
It lives in the space in-between just beyond your reach where reality blurs and possibilities become alive.
It’s built of wishes whispered to the stars in a misty place enclosed with walls of mysterious shadows.
It’s inventions only you understand belonging to a world crafted from everything you wish for.
It’s as simple as longing for a cat or as complex as chasing life’s purpose hoping for success and happiness and fulfilling aspirations.
It’s all the mystical qualities of reverie to the pursuit of goals and ambitions. x
It’s all the mystical qualities OF REVERIE TO THE PURSUIT OF goals and ambitions.
WORDS by DORA XU
ART by FATIMA SALMAN RAZA
ART by GILLIAN REID WORDS by VALERIE HAN
Nostalgia
there are no in betweens for me my glasses are either rose tinted or shattered when i was younger, the world was a little brighter i made friends with the sunshine, we danced in the clouds — my head was up there anyways
we were all sticky-hands and sugary smiles following the jingle of an ice cream truck and how the leaves of an autumn tree floated above crunchy footsteps playing tag in the schoolyard
those freshly made snow angels and the countless snowflakes we would catch in our mouths
as the seasons changed, so did i — chasing the dream-like nostalgia of better days when cares were as free as the wild wind because growing up means growing apart and losing the ones you thought would be by your side forever swallowing bitter tears and biting hurtful words in goodbye to that girl i once knew — i’ve known myself longer with you by my side than without tearful aching regret as i torture myself to live in my last memory of us: holding you as your laboured, shallow breaths fade with the light in your green feline eyes and how “daddy’s girl” turned into verbal fistfights and once-a-month visits — i struggle to separate the father you are trying to be from the terrible husband that you were
no matter how desperately i try, i cannot return to before instead, i am left to curse at circumstance and dream of better days x
DREAMY FAIRY
ART by ISRA CHOWDHURY
Fading Colours
ART by ISRA CHOWDHURY
WORDS by GLORIA LIU
She had picked up painting when she was four, all paint-stained fingers and star-struck eyes.
She had loved it, loved the way it would let her bring the landscapes inside her mind to life. Birds, chirping. Ponds, rippling. People, living.
She would see them while she slept, the life and laughter flowing out through her hands, landing onto the pages before her.
She had loved feeling life at her fingertips, sparking with each stroke of the brush.
Life had been a joy, worth living and worth loving.
The clock in her room was ticking.
Years of waking up early, and yet she had never been any good at it. Perhaps it just wasn’t meant to be. After all those years, she would have already adjusted if she could do so.
She blinked her eyes open, groaning as her arm hit the corner of the nightstand in an attempt to turn her alarm off.
It was the same routine as always—breakfast, bus, a walk. She’d taken the same road for as long as she could remember, with the same trees, same buildings, same parks.
Perhaps there was something to be said about the road most travelled. Familiarity, breeding stagnation and suffocating creativity.
Perhaps that was why, when she turned back around, it was darkness that faced her. Not of ink nor of pitch, but of emptiness, whole and stark.
The clock in her room was ticking.
It had been ticking for a while now.
It wasn’t loud, but it may as well have been a bellhorn for how distracting it was.
After all, what point was there in picking up a paintbrush—brush to paper—if all she could see was darkness? Her time with art was up, ran like sand through her fingers.
The paper was laid out in front of her, framed in layers of dust, as white as a freshly snowed-on driveway.
Somewhere, somehow, something in her had been stifled. She was like a candle with no air, spark snuffed and creativity drained.
She closed her eyes, hoping to see, but only darkness greeted her..
There was no more birdsong, no more splashing, no more life.
It was as if her love for art had died, as if her hands no longer held the secret to life. And yet that wasn’t quite true, for when she closed her eyes, she loved art just the way she had when she was four. But somehow, somewhere, she had stopped being its conductor.
Opening her eyes, her reflection stared back at her. Hair, pulled back and neatly tied. Eyes, severe and unlaughing. Hands, clean and unstained, unkissed by the paint she had once loved.
She saw herself, the same person who woke up everyday to the cry of her alarm, whose mind heard only her clock, and whose eyes saw nothing but her work.
It was always the clock.
Perfectly uniform, perfectly neat and organised and stagnant. Never a tick out of place, never any signs of life.
The paint sat on her desk, perfect but untouched.x
THE JADE GREEN HILLS
The dark green hills stretch as far as my eyes can see. No, wait. Upon a second look, they appear to be more of a jade green. Ah yes, the jade green hills stretch as far as my eyes can see. There is nothing around me except for living, breathing nature. I feel peac—eful. The wind blows my hair into my eyes and for a moment I see nothing. As I tuck the hair behind my ear, the harsh wind that should be biting at my skin feels warm and comforting instead. The temperature is mild, and my feet sink into the grass beneath me.
Grass?
No. It’s sand. Blinking, I shake my head. How could I forget? I’m on a beach and the sun has started to go down. There is a blanket beneath me. I slowly lower myself to the ground, reclining as I watch the almost too vivid colours move around in the sky, like a Van Gogh painting come to life.
“Hello? Are you going to answer my question?” I sit up and whip my head to the side and my friend Jessie is sitting beside me. She’s dressed in the finery of the 19th century corset, gloves, and a bon— net. She’s running her fingers through the fine sand.
“What?” I say, quickly adjusting to the fact that moments ago I was utterly alone.
“She said, have you sul soy yabbu do?” I turn to my left to discover my boyfriend, simi— rly dressed, top hat and all. His words sound like English but I can’t make sense of them. I am happy he is here in this unfamiliar place, but as our eyes meet and I look at him– really look at him– his face starts to distort, to blur and shift and I can’t seem to focus on any of his features.
All around me are faces that I know intimately but they are not quite right, all dressed in period attire. I see Lila and Hamzah, my best friends from high school, I see Carrie, a girl I met on vacation eight years ago, and I see Academy Award nominee Timothee Chalamet. None of this makes sense but I go along with it as if I planned this little beach get-together. Beach?
I blink and we are in my living room and I am pouring wine into Timothee’s cup. How did we get here?
“So you never answered Jessie’s question before…” The words came out of Timothee’s mouth as gibberish but this time I understood them.
“Right, well, I think…”
BEEP BEEP BEEP
I am unceremoniously ripped out of my own subconscious. My alarm is still ringing as I reach to shut it off. My room is dark, licks of sunlight peering through the drawn curtains.
I sit up in my bed, feeling unsatisfied, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. On the TV, Little Women is paused where I left it last night. Amy March wears a pale blue dress with a fur collar. All the finer details of the world my subconscious crafted from scratch are falling away until all I am left with are images of Timothee and frilly bonnets. x
WORDS by CAMILLE KINSELA
ART by CAMILLE KINSELA
CHALK LINE
ART by AIDAN ZEGLISNKI
but I don’t know who I am without you I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you
DREAM
LITTLE RED BIRD LITTLE RED BI
LITTLE RED BIRD
Art by AYESHA UMAIR
Words by RIA
I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you
I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you
I’m sorry your heart never learned to sit quietly in your chest, never stayed at home it lives rather uncomfortably, in the nook between your neck, lodged in your throat
for so long you dug in the dark to a promised land, so bright that you forgot you would end up here too stumbling in foreign tongues, squinting in the light beautiful, broken crash landing into this land with no home your children write to you in a new world in new words but you are still somewhere between, alone there is no word for “home” in Gujarati, only “house”
you are a nestless bird, restless bird fickle in the breeze, anticipating the frostbite, flight before the fight leaving before the winds turn, to hailstorms or a soothing cool, don’t be a fool collapsed cardboard boxes wait in the closet this isn’t a home, only a house
I don’t know who I am because of you, but I don’t know who I am without you
you will never show me your hidden, rotting wounds, born before my memory you will never say what it was like to have nothing and still give everything unselfishly you put pens in my hands, dollar store watercolors, whatever you could find, and said: be free my dreams aren’t coloured by the harsh lines of survival, but by the green whirls of possibility I can be so many things you wouldn’t dare to even dream maybe that scares you, it sure scares me
my path, you can’t make for me, my hardships, you can’t take from me you can only put the pen in my hands so when I turn out in ways you don’t expect you will not understand, but still I am yours
you are not poor, not anymore, but you gave so much away
I hope you spend what time you have left on your heart bring it back to your chest, back home take back the light, the birds, the wind you don’t need to save every precious second
I’m sorry it took me so long to write this it’s been a while since I was first given a pen x
A
Lost
Dream
Words by SM
Art by Lara McCelland
I had to mourn your loss every morning. I had you in my dreams— We grew up in the city
With a job we both liked, And kids we dropped off at practice every day. We smelled of coffee and joy, And we built a home out of our love.
Then the sun comes up,
Its shiny rays escaping through the crack between my curtains, And I open my eyes to the darkness of my life. You aren’t mine anymore.
I mourn your loss every morning
As I apply my mascara with trembling hands, Painting a brave face over my grief. Coffee brews in the kitchen quietly, With a spot in the cupboard That was never filled. And as I leave the house, I realize that I’ve already lost my home.
How much longer, I think to myself, How much longer am I going to mourn you, Mourn us and our imaginary life?
I don’t want to go to sleep anymore, I don’t want to fantasize about what we could’ve been.
Even if I try to go back, I wouldn’t belong there anymore.
All I seem to do these days Is lock a door that guards empty rooms. I step into a world that spins on, While I orbit the wreckage of our plans.
So tell me,
How do I escape these dreams? How do I escape us?
I can’t bear another heartbreak, Another loss. x
“How
Escape
do I these dreams?”
Convergence
WORDS by SIKORA DECKER
ART by AYESHA UMAIR
I was 4 years old, I had a goal.
It sat on the path I walked, Waiting, For me to walk through its door.
I was 18, I walked by every door. Adding more to the list.
Some slide, some push, some pull, Every door calling my name. Not yet fully unlocked, None yet crossed.
I was 22,
The doors continued to multiply.
The lights above each one becoming dim, But never entirely going out.
With a hop, a skip, a jump
With the lifting of a hand towards the knob The light shines like a rising sun.
I am 22, I have a new goal, A new hope, Another destination.
He now stands here, With me.
Holding open the doors, Keeping the lights bright. The paths suddenly all converge, Every one more in reach.
I no longer wish to walk through the doors in solitude. I wish to walk through them with him I wish to open our doors together I wish to see him on both sides.
I wish to see the people we become Together, And never alone. When I close my eyes at night, I see him.
Our home is filled with warmth and plushies, Our lives filled with love and cuddles, Our jobs filled with success and happiness, Our bodies growing old, Our children laughing.
Not a single thought, Or moment is fleeting. They stay at the doors to my heart.
He opened the biggest door, And made the space bigger.
He opened the strongest door, And made it secure but not weak.
He opened the darkest door, And put in windows For light to shine through.
He opened the door, To a place with no air And gave me air to breathe.
He opened my door. I opened his.
Now we walk together. Opening the doors We walk on the same path To our goals, hopes, wishes. Awake to witness every moment Together. x
Mint Garden
Art by ADITYA KALRA
Words by KANEERA UTHAYAKUMARAN
It takes nightfall to see you again.
There we are, arm in arm in the softness of sunrise, gathering dew-kissed mint leaves off our garden in June. I offer you a posy of wild weeds, yellow petals from what seemed to be an orchard to my eager, infant eyes.
Waxy stems coat my fingers in a sticky balm wiped off by your delicate hands, wrinkled from many sojourns under the sun. We stomp around, weaving joy through the grassy expanse, but with a wink of your eye, the world blurs, and I wake, fading back to a twilit room, leaving the gaze of your sun for the stare of the moon.
This cycle repeats, night after night, seeing your face as we tend to the garden, sifting among mint, spinning through the yard, our dance coming to a halt with another rising sun. Wilting, I wake slow, hovering in the plume between known and unknown, convincing myself of your absence as the echoes in your bedroom whisper. I know memories are all we have left.
But through this hazy embrace of summer, light slick across my upturned brow, Through the window, I lock eyes with a squirrel in our garden, Plucking mint leaves, stomping around.x
incite magazine volume 27, issue 1 “dream”
Published February 2025
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): misaal mehboob
editor in chief (arts and production): vereena andrawes
layout director: naiha ali
treasurer: peyton whitehouse
communications director: christina tam
events director: jasmina sharma
content editors: amanda chow, emily anqi wang, gloria liu, nirja sadur, ria patel, selina qiu, victoria d’anna, yennie chen, yumna ahmad
art managers:
aditya kalra, audrey ewen, ayesha umair, koketso langanani, sandy kumar, yeemon
layout editors: charley ngo, charlotte heron, hamzah ali, jasleen sandhu, koketso langanani, zain khalbous
cover art: her dreams by naiha ali
contributors:
(Content): ali sahib, aliyah sumar, bella ceccomancini, camille kinsella, dora xu, durezernab berki, eric zhang, gloria liu, harleen chahal, irys pascual, jessica li, kaneera uthayakumaran, maggie amponsah, manal effendi, muhammad haseeb, rami naanmna, raniya chowdhury, ria patel, sakeenah niazi, sandy kumar, sema massraf, sereena sodhi, sikora decker, valerie han, victoria d’anna, yennie chen. (Artists): aditya kalra, aiden zeglinski, arthy pansanathan, audrey ewen, ayesha umair, camille kinsella, durezernab berki, fiona pu, gillian reid, harleen chahal, harmela celestin, isra chowdhury, koketso langanani, labiqah iftikhar, lara mccelland, naiha ali, salman raza, sandy kumar, teresa tubig, yeemon.