Incite Magazine – November 2018

VOLUME 21 ISSUE 1

self.

WE HAVE TO DARE TO BE OURSELVES, HOWEVER FRIGHTENING OR STRANGE THAT SELF MAY PROVE TO BE. — MAY SARTON

Self: a concept so simple and intuitive, yet difficult to truly grasp and define.

Essential yet elusive, constant yet constantly in flux, our selves are our most intimate companions in life, yet in many ways they remain to us unknown. Take a second now to think about your self. What is it that comes to mind? Is it your physical presence?

Your identity? Your personality, your passions, or something else entirely? What made you the self that you are today, and how will you continue to change in the future?

In this first issue of Incite Vol. 21, our contributors explore these questions and many more. Creative expression is by nature a process of dedication and exposition of the self, and on these pages, we see artists and writers provide windows into how they see and navigate the world. They share stories of origin, heritage, and seeking identity.

They speak of the struggles of knowing, loving, being, and defining oneself. Thus, with our Self issue, we aim to use the self as a bedrock for further explorations and a starting point for personal growth.

Many of these questions of identity and future direction are also ones Incite is asking itself. Entering our third decade of publication and only a couple of years out from our big redesign in Vol. 19, Incite continues to carve out who we are, what our role is in the McMaster student community, and where we want to take ourselves in the upcoming year and beyond. While Vol. 19 followed a story of reinvention and Vol. 20 of self-discovery, Vol. 21 will be exploring narratives of self-growth: now that we are steady on our feet, how can we push more assertively into new directions?

As we embark on this journey, we would like to thank the past Editorial Boards whose legacy we inherit. It is from their groundwork that we continue to grow this dynamic publication into the self it presents today. We are grateful to our tireless staff team, whose vision, skills, and support have made this project possible year after year.

Finally, we would like to thank our inspiring contributors, without whom Incite would not exist.

We hope you enjoy the issue. x

Sincerely,

Catherine Hu Editor-in-Chief (Content)

contents 4 7 9 11 13 14 17 18 20 23 25 27 28 31 32 35 37 38 39 41 42 44 46 47 48 50 52 53 54 56 58 60 62 64 67 68 70 71 72 74 75 77 79 81 83 85 86 88 89 91

staff stories 4am on broadway by olivia mendoza in my space by seun orenuga untitled by livia mann-burnett all the world’s a stage by andrea abeysekara shape of water by lili zhang redefining me by abeer ahmad what i’d say by valerie luetke a rose by no other name by dong ba drip, drip, drop by natalie chen the other by amit nehru reflections by tiffany tse a short conversation with a risk taker by mackenzie green re-mind by by alex marshall vantage point by katherine kim what it means to lose by takhliq amir greetings from the wind by alana park i am a woman. by sonya grewal paradoxes of illusion by zara partovi dear younger me by jennifer du maybe the real problem was the hat by fredde savour the grace by abdullah el-sayes empty words by vanessa natareno “paper thin” by jasmine thakral medley by suffia malik the other side of the mirror by srikripa krishna prasad riverside by jhanahan sriranjan multifaceted by ariella ruby dear body by virginia ford-roy the hitchhiker by catherine hu blossom by yvonne syed self-worth defines us by j.a.f.p. (alejandra fernandez) on the outside looking in by shamir malik take two by michelle yao the art of identity by hooriya azhar 5:13PM by sowmithree ragothaman beat by gillian maltz conversations through the looking glass by emily blum crossing borders by tom johnston trajectory by manveer kalirai two voices by sangwani kaoloka under the sunset glow by serene wang composition matter by maisie babiski third from the right by telmah lluka it’s a strange world by sabrina macklai a minnow? i think not by coby zucker honesty & kindness by evra ali untitled by abeera shahid intertwined by claire bar dividers by owen dan luo

INCITE STAFF STORIES

Picky.

Empathetic. Loving.

I like my things just so. There must be wasabi between the rice and tuna in my nigiri. Almond milk tastes awful in lattes ­— it’s either oat milk or no latte for me today. The only place I will get my bubble tea in Hamilton is CoCo. None of that powdered honeydew flavoring for me, thank you.

When trying to think of a word to describe myself, lots came to mind: optimistic, passionate, disGRACEful (haha). None of these seemed right, though. They were too variable, fitting some days but not on others.

“Empathetic”, on the other hand, has been a title I’ve worn for as long as I can remember. My mom used to joke that I must be “that really empathetic species in Star Trek,” and whenever any of my friends needed support I was their first stop. It’s what helps me connect with others, and a part of my self that I claim with pride.

- Annecy Peng, Communications Director

FOIL. He’s looking sparkly but tastes just awful. Plus, he seems like he took at least grade 9 math.

- Matty Flader, Art Manager

- Grace MacAskill, Art Manager

Positive!

For instance, if you were to ask me what my favourite muscle is, I would say the obliquus capitis superior because it keeps your head up (I’m a kinesiology student)! As an avid emoji-user and good conversation-lover, I enjoy spreading that positivity to the people around me by genuinely being invested in others’ lives and showing kindness whenever I can. If you see me around campus, feel free to come up and say hi! I’m positive that I’ll enjoy any conversation you strike up! ;) - Kristy Liu, Layout Editor

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For better or for worse, I try to have everything I do come from a place of love: love for what I do, love for others, and love for myself. What this means is being good to others, following my heart, sometimes making dumb choices as a result...all in all, a good snapshot of how I live my life!

- Catherine Hu, Editor-in-Chief (Content)

Passionate.

I do a lot of different things; I love spending my time writing — all the way from exploring the artistic freedom of poetry and prose to the much more formal structure of writing policies — debating about international law and human rights issues, or conducting research in the fascinating fields of public and global health. Perhaps it’s because I come from a country where life is very different for many, but I’ve always had an immense appreciation for the fact that there is just so much to do and learn. We aren’t meant to stick ourselves into one box. I’m still trying to figure out how to create time to do more, but for now, I learn something from new people daily, and there’s a lot of beauty in that.

- Takhliq Amir, Content Editor

Fool.

Variable.

Rushed..

I’m a goddamn fool is what I am.

Occasionally, someone (my mom) is going to underestimate the amount of food the dim-sum restaurant serves, and order $110 CAD worth of stuff for three (3) people. Seeing so much food on the table awoke a primal instinct in me that just told me to shove as many shrimp dumplings down my gullet as I could, like an anaconda eating for the first time in months. I haven’t moved for three hours. They could’ve casted me as Gluttony in the live-action Fullmetal Alchemist film. Feels bad.

Honestly, I’d love to think that my personality is unchanging, but the truth is that I’m a bit of a social chameleon.

I’m a chatterbox who can be alone for hours (usually in MDCL tutorial rooms). I’m funny and light-hearted, but I would also stay up until 3 A.M. passionately discussing education reform. I’m decisive in everything I do, except when I have to decide which bubble tea I’m getting from Coco’s. But I am sincere, kind-hearted, and the mom friend—my goal is always to help people, which I suppose is the invariant part of my variable personality!

…I mean geez, describing myself in 100 words? Not that I’m trying to say I’m complicated (pretty far from it actually), I’m just not a fan of word limits. You ever had a paper where the prof asks you a question that is so convoluted that you might as well be solving the problems of the universe? I’d actually be quite down to try to save the world, but then they tell you that the saving has a strict 1000 word limit…bruh. I don’t really know where I am going with this analogy, and I am already at 114 words so I guess I better just shut up and let you read the magazine.

- Sowmithree Ragothaman, Content Editor

- Nicholas Schmid, Content Editor

- Grace Kang, Content Editor

Trying.

The word I would use to describe myself is “trying.” I think that’s what I’m always doing: trying my best, trying to be as good a person as possible, trying to throw my heart out into the world and let it lead me as it will on this wonderful, tumultuous path that is life. I’m also trying to be more poetic; I suppose you all can gauge how that’s going. The important thing is, I’m trying, and if nothing else, that’s what I hope I’ll keep doing for the rest of my life.

- Srikripa Prasad, Content Editor

Afraid.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid. Afraid of decisions. Afraid of the future. Afraid of decisions that impact the future. With everything that I do, there’s always been an undercurrent of fear. Have I wasted my life already? I was even afraid to answer this question, afraid of what would happen once I placed this label on myself. I think a certain amount of fear is healthy; it stops us from taking unnecessary risks.

But my fear has stopped me from so much more. Who would I be — what could I be — if I weren’t so damn afraid?

- Sabrina Macklai, Content Editor

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4AM on Broadway ART by LAUREN CRAWFORD

WORDS by OLIVIA MENDOZA

Fire tore through her veins while smoke blanketed her mind as she frantically scribbled equations. She could hear the faint clink of wine glasses and chirps of laughter from downstairs, but she paid little heed. Three midterms, two papers, one project, hissed the voice in her head. These six words echoed through her brain and painted themselves wherever she looked. Not long ago, she had ideas of a life beyond school: a mosaic of dreams and aspirations, carefully interwoven with the threads of her past. But now when she closed her eyes, she saw molecules rather than memories, and future failures instead of fantasies.

She put the pencil down and stretched her arms. A brief glance at her mirror revealed a shadow of a person — endless dark circles surrounding sunken hollows of eyes, and a bald spot on the left side of her head that she hastily shifted her hair to cover.

Upon her sporadic visits home, her parents would remark on how frail she had become, but she was unable to remember a time when her limbs didn’t resemble rotting branches, and her shoulders didn’t droop under the weight of mountains.

Laughing gleefully, some of the girl’s roommates stumbled past her doorway, their carefree laughs shooting arrows into the girl’s heart. She stiffened. Her roommates always drank wine on weekends and went out with friends on weekdays.

However, the girl couldn’t even remember the last time she could muster the energy to laugh, ever since that voice in her head began to remind her that she wasn’t good enough. She wore these worries like a second skin, and these thoughts spiked whenever she stole a glance at her textbooks or encountered a classmate. Fears would ricochet off the walls of her mind and her heart would constrict at even the mere thought of falling behind. While she felt ashamed for feeling this way, she didn’t know how to conquer these fears, much less imagine living without them.

Her parents came to this country on a boat that was more a plank of scrap metal. The tidal waves of uncertainty that she faced were nothing compared to the real waves that her parents had braved to gift her a better life. So onward she went — wearing the brunt of her worries and never uttering a word of her concerns. The last thing she wanted was to weigh anyone down with the burden that she alone was meant to bear.

The alarm clock glowed 4:00A.M. There were more footsteps outside her door as another roommate began getting ready for an early practice. You don’t deserve sleep, said the voice in her head. Three midterms, two papers, one project. She looked at the sole photograph on the wall facing her — a landscape from her parents’ country — and one of the only belongings they brought on their arduous journey to Canada. It served as a reminder of her roots but also as a reminder of her parents’ sacrifices. They seldom spoke of life back home but when they did, they reminisced fondly about the rice fields and the ocean, the bustling cities and the food.

She picked up the pencil again and began writing equations with a sharper focus. If her parents could leave their mountains, she could conquer hers. Nevertheless, as the clocked ticked 5:00A.M., the ever-persistent voice in her head continued to cry, Three midterms, two papers, one project. x

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WORDS by SEUN ORENUGA ART by ERIC VAN NUS

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IN MY SPACE My bedroom, my sanctuary The one place where I am me.

The walls The confines of my mind Just because I can feel at ease, Does not mean the process is easy Every day, these walls seem new to me Somedays a bright white Sometimes a wall of debris A window into a basement seems odd This one-sided mirror is my peek out into reality Or maybe it’s a side I just don’t want people to see My bedroom should be my temple But sometimes, I feel my mind is just a rental I mentally escape to my laptop screen The ultralight beam is an exodus from reality A place to write, a place to dream But don’t get too carefree, For under its guise Is a layer of anxiety My bed of flowers is over there on its own It lies right there for me to cherish alone In its comforting embrace, I am filled with bliss Within the security of this knowledge, I will not be pushed to any edge But I must be wary of this place I wake daily Although it can be my quantum of solace, It can easily be my prison A place truly on my own My comfort zone It’s a bed of flowers with 8 hours to spare But after that, nothing ever grows there Welcome to my mind All the inner workings of myself in a bind In this room, you can walk a mile You should stay awhile To see the real me All I have been and all I can be.

Before I leave this space, I put on my shoes, Grab my key and turn the locks Although it feels better to keep to my thoughts, Sometimes to get the best of myself, I must think outside the box. x

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I sit in an old library and the creature from my dreams watches me.

It is thin and tall, like a branch about to break in the wind.

The colour of its skin reminds me of that of an avocado or of the ground right before a volcano begins to form. It has three and a half arms that it uses to grasp at the strings that hang from the sky, and when it gets hold of one, it desperately pulls on it and adds it to the collection that makes up its hair. It has an infinite number of eyes that never stop darting around the room.

It scares me, but not because of its appearance. What scares me is that it is changing.

For as long as I can remember, the monster has always been with me, and it had always looked the same: small and purple, floating near me no matter where I went. It followed me to school, to work, to another universe, and it was comforting knowing that it was always there. Maybe every once in a while there would be a slight change, but it was so subtle or happened so slowly that I barely even registered it. That was normal, and this was not.

It started to change about a month ago. I know why this is happening, but I’m too afraid to admit it. Now every time I see it out of the corner of my eye, I feel my throat close up. I resort to

It scares me, but not because of its appearance. What scares me is that it is changing. just ignoring it because I’m not really sure what else to do.

He pulls on one of the strings that hang from the sky and adds it to its collection. I’m not sure where the strings lead, but it seems like they’re important to it. Despite how desperate it may seem, I can tell it is choosing each string carefully, as if it knows what is on the other end.

It scares me, but I don’t know what to do about it.

I’m slightly aware of the fact that there’s someone approaching me, and so is the creature. It watches me as I try to have an actual conversation with this person, taking in and processing every word they say, and with every word it shifts a little bit more. Every syllable, every breath, every facial expression and I can feel it shift even more. By the end of a conversation, it is now completely unrecognizable. It is changing, I know why. We both are. It scares me, but I don’t know what to do about it. x

WORDS by LIVIA MANN-BURNETT ART by SABRINA JIVANI

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ART by ERIC VAN NUS & MATTY FLADER WORDS by ANDREA ABEYSEK ARA

ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE I am an actor My life is a performance Every smile, every laugh, every time I run my fingers through my hair is scripted Cues nestled between square brackets from My mother, who slapped away every bad habit My friends, whose smiles I cobbled together Tooth by tooth To make my own, The characters I see on TV, who follow their scripts so well that I forget they aren’t real As I am cast for role after role Daughter, sister, friend, student Wife?

Mother?

I ask myself whose shoes I will step into Whose smile I will borrow, what series of expectations I will wear, what assumptions I will paint onto my face Before I step outside my door I ask myself whether I have adopted the way they twitch their eyebrows, roll their eyes because I chose to, or because they were in my script for this week’s episode I ask myself whether I march to the beat of my Own drum, or whether I wait for the director’s call before I take a single step. x

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WORDS by LILI ZHANG ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

of water She had really high expectations living in a totally new country. Everything would be different — the language, the people, the landscape, the social environment. She had not felt that she fit in at home. She was not interested in the things everyone chased after or talked about — clothes, cars, houses. She wanted something different. Something bigger. And she was not satisfied about where she was, or who she was.

She thought a drastic change in her surroundings would probably turn everything around. Yet, after two years of initial excitement and trying-out, later struggling and finally getting-back, she was hugely disappointed. Everything was still the same, both home and abroad. Some surface things might have changed a little, but the core was the same. The good-looking, talented, and rich kids are always the most popular ones, no matter where you were. People hung out with folks who were similar to them, and outsiders and underdogs remained outsiders and underdogs. Exceptions were tiny. The biggest disappointment of all was that she was probably going to be the same — friendless and weird, what a life if that were true!

She was not completely satisfied with who she was; actually, she may not even know who she was.

Among all the chaos and mundane stress, she had yet another task of finding out who she was. When she came across the description of borderline personality, or of the description of a lack of a sense of self, she thought that seemed to describe some characters about her.

Who defines me? Who am I? Who do I want to be? These questions kept her wide awake in bed on many dark nights, eyes closed, eyebrows set in a frown.

I want change for myself badly because I do not fully accept myself. I know I need to love myself and be confident. I love myself — I just wish I could be better, though I don’t know where I want to or should be better. I don’t write as much as I would want, because I always change my own opinions that I don’t even know what to think. Like I just said, I love myself, but then how could I say I wish to be better? If I do love myself, I should fully accept who I am now, no more and no less. This is so complicated. I am confused by myself, again.

She felt like she could almost drown herself in that mind loop. Tired and frustrated, she could not stop the flow of thoughts, especially on sleepless nights.

I am myself contradictory. That is when I don’t know who I am, or what I really think. Sometimes I see other people behave and function maturely and confidently and I try to mimic them. Ha! It feels like I betray myself. But there are standards and rules in this society: you have to play the games to not be stepped on.

I wish I could quit. But another voice inside me says maybe all you need is to hang on more and things will work out. You don’t like the grey zone, but you are in it. No one is pure, though many may want to be. I can see this is going to be a long-term question in my life, the question of self-who? I guess it’s OK that “self” is not knowing who I am. I am indefinable. I can be whoever I want to be.

Maybe this could be the final answer, she thought to herself, smiling.

I can be just like water — having no shape yet having any shape. x

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REDEFINING me

i do not remember much about my childhood except a breathless wordlessness that had seeped into my mouth when i was asked to explain who i was i did not know and so, i had clung to silence i had said nothing i was nothing and wanted to remain the same there certainly wasn’t a word to describe people like me nothing — in part not knowing how to reach within myself to search and to see that maybe i too existed at the brink of iridescence that maybe amidst all my failures, i had grown used to painting myself as unexceptional and forgettable i am just now starting to learn just how much i owe myself an apology

for all the times i have called myself a coward for all the times i have believed that i am weak worthless that perhaps in some muted or concealed way i was never just ordinary but in fact, something far from it that maybe, all along, i have been strong radiant powerful and that in these stories of failure, there were never just crumbling walls and forbidden roads but instead, tales of all the wars i have lived my wounds and of why i wear them as flowers x

WORDS by ABEER AHMAD ART by SABRINA JIVANI

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WHAT I’D SAY |

WORDS by VALERIE LUETKE

I talk to myself, in the privacy of my room to advise all the manner of roles I assume.

I win unprecedented arguments and debate with fire offer opinions to the furniture since few bother to inquire.

Because when put on the spot I clamp, clam up shut mouth closed, locked jaw pearl stuck in my gut.

I’m afraid of the way I don’t know what I’d say, 20

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to questions that pierce and probe my dear person prying eyes and shucking ears the situation will worsen.

With mal intent, malicious, malign they’ll stand demeaning challenging my morals and reading into my meaning.

I don’t know myself let alone what to say so I’ll practice quite often and rebut away.

So if this speaks to you then listen hereby: What I would say is always defy x SELF

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A Rose by No Other Name “What’s your name?”

It takes three tries to respond. First time to answer the question. Second time because my voice faltered the first time. Third time to clarify that they hadn’t heard wrong, and sometimes even a fourth try, to spell it out if necessary. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind. It makes me glad to think they care to know my name so well. The problem isn’t with their asking. It’s with me.

Presenting an unconventional ethnic name in a Western country always comes with difficulties. For some, it’s the inevitable butchering of said name, when clumsy foreign tongues desecrate that one word they have the right to call their own.

For others, it’s the inherent self-consciousness and embarrassment. Embarrassment because their name isn’t Sara or John or Emily. I belong to the latter class. And it’s upsetting to know I’m not alone.

WORDS by DONG BA ART by SABRINA JIVANI

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We all know what will be said: have confidence in your name. It represents your cultural heritage. It contains significance and meaning that can hardly be found elsewhere. Love its uniqueness, for never, or at least very rarely, shall you encounter another who shares it. And for those with conventional names, love your names all the same, because they’re traditionally beautiful and personally significant.

And that’s right. Right? Our names are our own personal markers of identity in this world. Our bodies change, our minds change, our surroundings change. But our names stay (in most cases). So we should love our names. Easier said than done.

My name is Dong. Last name, Ba. A quick search on Urban Dictionary will tell you all you need to know. Confidence is elusive. Where do I find it, if the uniqueness of my name is so overshadowed by its double meaning? So those words of having selfconfidence and love, though kind and true, don’t change my shame. I wish I weren’t ashamed. I’m ashamed of my shame, if you will.

I’ve tried to change my name. But then I was faced with the upsetting notion that I was being a coward. I couldn’t reconcile myself with the idea that, afraid of that name which my parents gave me with all the love in their beautiful hearts, I had discarded it to better “fit in.” I believed better of myself.

And I’m glad for that. Because I discovered something very important. To all those who can’t find confidence in their names despite knowing better, to all those out there like me, you don’t have to find the confidence. At least, not right now. One day during a tired summer, I read this sentence in the dearest old book in the world:

“‘I think people make their names nice or ugly just by what they are themselves.… Living so that you beautify your name, even if it wasn’t beautiful to begin with…making it stand in people’s thoughts for something so lovely and pleasant that they never think of it by itself.’” ~ L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea That, folks, is what I had been missing the whole time. There might never be another single word more wholly responsible for defining a person than their name, but it had never occurred to me that I can define my name. For all those out there with difficult names, your name might not be beautiful, poetic, or conventional. You may even despise it. But if you live your highest ideals by pursuing that in which you believe, you can make it beautiful. Introduce yourselves all the same, knowing the judgement that will pass, but live to change that. Live to define your name. x

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WORDS by NATALIE CHEN ART by MATTY FLADER

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Drip, Drip, Drop Drip, drip, drop.

I became attuned to the sound of rainfall—the calmness of watching little droplets tumble down, one by one, as I sat beside the window, hazily peering out. The bus was slow, like it always was at 7:25 A.M. on a Friday, but time never seemed to stop. The stomping of feet from students, workers—whoever they were— as they walked onto the platform seemed almost rhythmic. Time was ticking. It engulfed me.

Drip, drip, drop.

I could hear the rustling of papers in front of me. Breaking out of my trance, I looked up to see a woman flipping through her magazine. It was yellow: a nice, pale, mellow color. It reminded me of calmer days, ones that weren’t filled with stress and forced relationships and struggling to get back home on the 51. But the cover was noisy. Pictures of celebrities plastered the page, titles splattered across the photos. It ruined a beautifully simple canvas, one that could have created a minimalist masterpiece. Seeing it made me upset. I tried to ignore the feeling as I shifted through playlists on my phone, but it engulfed me.

Drip, drip, drop.

The rain grew louder. It was almost as if nature was beckoning to me, calling me forward to greet her stormy tantrums. The thunder and lightning made me feel insignificant, drawing their magnitudes of power over me. People no longer looked like people as they merged into vibrant blobs through the blurry window I used as a lens. Seeing them gave me a misconstrued sense of hope—hope of being able to transform into something else, something small.

It was getting harder to think. The rain began falling down harder, the air conditioning in the bus was too cold and too loud, and the girl beside me blasted rock music. There were too many noises. There were too many sounds. It engulfed me.

Drip, drip, drop.

My head hurt. It might have been the weather, but it may have also been the flu going around. I hope it wasn’t. The boy with glasses coughed heavily in front of me. I despise germs. I hope they weren’t on me. I hope it wasn’t contagious. I hope that I’m not really sick. I can’t think.

Drip, drip, Drop.

It’s time to get off. x

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WORDS by AMIT NEHRU ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

The A leather sole presses down on the Earth’s face; she recognises footsteps. The Sky looks down; he sees golden hair as well as the hem of a blue dress. A traveller passes through the desert.

Feet, longing for respite, carry the traveller. Reaching into her pocket, she retrieves a photo. She stops. She looks.

The Sky strains to see: a face.

The Earth feels: loss.

A breeze carries the image away.

The traveller’s guide is a telephone cable, suspended by tall wooden poles. A black wire dips in the space between its two supports like inverted cathedral arches. The poles point towards a light blue ceiling that blurs into the distant red cliffs ahead.

The Sky watches the traveller navigate around the green polka dots that embellish the Earth’s grey dress. He knows a truth that he does not have the heart to share.

— The Earth’s face burned from the daytime heat. The dust that covered her rocky surface shifted in the arid breeze. She felt light thumps moving across her visage: the steps of a child.

She felt: fear, temper, innocence.

The Earth sensed: a wanderer.

The wanderer had run away from home; he wanted to live on his own terms.

He walked along an asphalt line that divided a sea of sand.

He had travelled along this path many times before, but was

He wanted to become something. Anything.

As long is it was significant. Yet he did not know his purpose. only just realizing the vastness of the nothing that surrounded it.

He wanted to become something. Anything. As long is it was significant. Yet he did not know his purpose. Nor did he understand why he could not stand alone in the world.

The wanderer heard a distant noise. He turned and saw an unfamiliar car in the distance behind him. He raised his arm.

As the pickup slowed to a halt, the boy saw the figure within.

The stranger’s eyes gave nothing away.

The wanderer felt his mother’s heart break as he closed the door behind him.

— Many suns have set since the days when the traveller searched the desert. She thinks of the last time she saw her boy.

She thinks of her dreams for him.

Many moons have waned since the boy last saw his mother.

He has not forgotten her even though he has forgotten himself.

— Her grief ripples through the air. The Earth feels her heaviness. Thus, for many years, the ground and the sky bring wanderers to the town of the traveller, hoping to reunite mother with child. However, no one that they find is significant. No one is her son. x

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REFLECTIONS REFLECTIONS

A glance in the mirror reveals everything — blemishes, frustrations, hopes; Yet it reveals nothing.

How telling are appearances really?

Judgments are made so quickly — a plane falling in a downward spiral.

Doubts, second thoughts: reflective.

Who are you?

Layers upon layers, covering who you are — disguising you.

Lessons learnt, mistakes made, failures overcome — do people know who you really are?

Do you know who you are?

Diving deeper into the sea, you search harder, trying to find your pearl: your identity.

Fragmented pieces, scattered on the ocean floor.

Broken.

WORDS by TIFFANY TSE ART by MEG RATHOD

Swimming quickly, desperately, battered by the strong tides, you look through the dark waters.

Time passes, and — you collect your pieces: you have found yourself.

As you rise from the sea, warmth embraces you.

You are whole again.

No matter what others think, you stand strong — tall as a tree, unwavering.

A glance in the mirror reveals everything — blemishes, frustrations, hopes; Revealing nothing to anyone, except you.

Who are you, really? x

SELF

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WORDS by MACKENZIE GREEN ART by LAURA NEWCOMBE

A Short Conversation with a Risk Taker Two knives slide through identical stacks of smooth brown pancakes. We reach for coffee at the same moment, each gripping our mug with two hands. I drink it black today, bitter but satisfying. My legs, in stiff dark jeans, cross and uncross.

“I feel as though…” I begin, pausing to nibble a syrup-drenched bite. “...I’m setting myself up for the most gut-wrenching heartbreak of my life.”

She silently contemplates this statement, staring dreamily across the table at me.

“Isn’t that a wonderful possibility?” There is no hint of sarcasm in her voice, just a wistful smile on her lips.

“I don’t think ‘wonderful’ is the word I’d use.” I set my fork down and we swallow our food simultaneously.

“Well, he’s everything you want —” “That’s what I’m worried about,” I interrupt.

She continues as though I hadn’t spoken: “All there, in one package, and he came along so unexpectedly that you feel you’re not living your real life. I’d say ‘wonderful’ is the exact word to use.”

We both lift our mugs and she looks at me smugly over the rim. I jam a stray curl behind my ear and lean back in my chair. Two blueberries perched on my half-eaten pancake platter stare up at me. A banana, sliced lengthwise, mimics a downturned mouth.

When I’m with him, there is an ease to our interactions; his humour weaves into my easy laughter, we slide comfortably in and out of conversation, and our arms fall at the right height for him to take my hand. And while an array of coincidences in our meeting and falling together make a convincing argument in favour of being together, there are times I sense that he is the type who doesn’t want to be tied to one person for too long.

“I’m not talking about the way I feel right now. Of course he’s great now. But some things he says…I think they’re going to look a lot like red flags in retrospect.” My phone, upside down beside my plate, buzzes, but I ignore it as I try to make my case. “I don’t want another person who’s going to break my heart and waste my time.” I adjust my glasses on my nose as I await her response.

“Well, who said this has to end in heartbreak?” she asks. I stare blankly at her.

“Okay, fine, let’s say you’re right and every flag turns out to be just as bright and beautifully red as you’re predicting. Are all those happy moments suddenly a waste?”

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“THE SUGAR CRASH IS ALL PART OF THE RIDE, MY FRIEND.”

“They’re a waste if the hurt outweighs the happiness. I’m just trying to be realistic,” I snap back.

We both continue to eat. She stabs stray blueberries and dunks them in syrup. Then she smiles at her plate, frustratingly blithe.

“Look at it this way: right now, you are eating a giant plate of pancakes.”

“Well, now you’ve got me convinced; I can’t argue with that one,” I cut in.

“Oh, hush up for a moment. These pancakes: they are thick and fluffy, and there’s butter soaked in that gives them a salty flavour to balance out the syrup. And then there’s whipped cream to top it all off. Odds are, you’re going to feel a little gross after you finish eating.” I want to cut her off, but she’s gaining enthusiasm as her metaphor draws on.

“Fortunately,” she says, stabbing the air with her sticky fork, “that feeling is temporary. And that is why you wouldn’t, and shouldn’t, I might add, avoid eating pancakes for the rest of your life.”

She leans forward as if she’s letting me in on a secret. “The

sugar crash is all part of the ride, my friend.” She sits back, arms crossed, satisfied with her closing statement. I roll my eyes and flip over my phone. Despite my best efforts to keep a straight face, a smile pulls at my mouth.

“Ah-ha!” she says immediately, sensing her victory. “It’s just a text and look at you.”

I glance back down at the message on my screen with resignation, but a thrill goes through my chest.

“Fine, I guess I’m eating the pancakes. But when I’m sad, you better remind me of this second right now. Just so I don’t forget there was a time I decided it was worth the risk of getting hurt.”

I look up, expecting an expression of satisfaction. But the girl across from me with the curly dark hair and glasses, sitting in her stiff dark jeans and talking about lovely moments, is gone.

My fingers fly across the screen and I send a response to the text message. Then I take another bite of my breakfast and savour it against my tongue. x

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WORDS by ALEX MARSHALL ART by ABBY LINDZON

Note to self:

Kind words from strangers are easier to believe, so go out of your way to be kind to as many strangers as possible.

Note to self:

Recognizing others’ strength gives you strength. Be courageous with your compliments.

Note to self:

Choose your words carefully. They will be here long after you will.

Note to self:

Always have a pen. And direction.

Note to self:

The people who touch you softly do not necessarily think of you so.

Note to self:

Do not put anyone's comfort before your self-worth.

Note to self:

Living your life being a muse to someone else will leave you bitter and resentful.

Represent yourself.

Note to self:

You are who you are when you take away all the lenses. Don't limit yourself to one perspective.

Note to self:

Give yourself hope, love, and time.

Note to self: Keep learning.

Note to self:

Get better. Do better. Be better. x

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WORDS by K ATHERINE KIM ART by K ATRINA HASS

va n

g e a t

point

Henry slung the strap of his camera over his shoulder. It was evening and he sat at the back of the dingy city bus next to a girl with shoulder-length hair, who smiled as she took a selfie.

He thought of his old friend, Aria, who always shied away from the camera and hid behind her too-long fringe. Every photo felt like a minute longer with her. When he glanced out the window, he saw nothing but his own reflection — bushy eyebrows, unruly hair, and the same camel brown jacket he wore everywhere, summer or winter, morning or night.

The girl taking the selfie appeared on the window reflection.

It was Sophie from his psychology tutorial. “Is this your bus stop too?” she asked.

Henry nodded and checked the time on his phone, his heart only faltering for a beat without Aria’s notifications on the screen. “Let’s go,” he said. He led the way off the bus and Sophie folded her arms across her chest, quickening her pace to match Henry’s long strides.

Sophie flipped out her phone, taking another selfie. The flash was blinding in the dark.

“Do you really have to do that?” Henry asked.

“Do what?”

“That.” He pointed at the camera on her phone. “You do it all the time in tutorial.”

“It’s Snapchat, chill.”

Henry shook his head. Aria never even had a Facebook profile picture, let alone an app that demanded pictures of one’s self. And Henry didn’t mean to compare Sophie to Aria so much —it just became a habit, finding reasons to think of Aria in everything, including himself.

Sophie slowed her steps to a stop. “Could you actually take some photos of me right now?”

“What?” Henry turned around.

“I mean… if we’re both headed home, then why not just take a few photos?”

“My battery is low.”

“And so is your mood, it seems.”

“At least my self-esteem isn’t.” Henry bit back the words too late — he was always too late. “Crap, I’m sorry —”

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“It’s fine.” Sophie ran her hand through her hair and moved her gaze to the sidewalk. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she tried to catch her breath. “I already knew that anyway,” she said.

“I wasn’t thinking.” Henry recalled all the times he had hurt Aria with his blunt words. “You were right about my mood being low — I’ve just been out of it this past week.” This past month.

“Look, you obviously don’t have low self —” “I said it’s fine. I’m just tired.” Sophie stretched her arms, elongating her whole body a few centimetres more. This would have been a perfect photo, with Sophie’s lids falling shut and peachy lips trembling. Henry believed that everyone in this world could be a model—he insisted this to Aria always—but it was clear that some had made the cut better. Girls like Sophie posed easily in busy scenes and still managed to have all the light focus on them. Meanwhile, for anyone like Aria, the light had always fallen elsewhere, leaving faces and body parts eclipsed.

Sophie exhaled deeply. “I just wish I knew more about who I was as a person, and not as a photo. Does that make sense?”

“I’m probably the worst person to ask that to,” Henry replied.

“A photographer can only get to know you through a photo.”

“But then does a photographer ever get to know themselves?”

Who was Henry, without Aria?

Sophie took shape in the dark; her hair shifted with the breeze. “I’m sorry, that was off topic,” she mumbled. “Also sorry because I literally just asked you to take photos for me in the middle of the night.” She let out a hoarse laugh. “Doesn’t get more selfish than that.”

“Ah… you’re totally right,” he teased.

“Seriously?”

Henry laughed quietly. He felt his phone vibrate with a notification, but didn’t check. Instead he shrugged off his camel brown jacket, allowing the wind and all of today to pass through his thin shirt, and carefully placed the worn fabric on Sophie’s shoulders. Sophie stood still. Even without the camera lens, Henry focused all the light on her. x

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What it means to

WORDS by TAKHLIQ AMIR

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For many years, she had been youthful, aware of and awed by the complexities of the world around her. She loved to observe the quirks of others, and saw how people who couldn’t understand one another fought instead, how the shy girl around the corner pretended to be extroverted if only to conquer her fear of being left alone, how the little boy who sat in the shop across the street waited patiently and quietly every day for his mommy to finish her nine-hour shift.

She was barely five when she knew she wanted a traveling job, one that paid well (of course), that allowed her to meet new people (you could never have too many friends), and that allowed her to eat good food everyday (though nothing beats mom’s cooking). She was smarter than most kids, the youngest of four siblings who had picked up habits from her older siblings far faster than others could handle.

She was in her mid-teens when she knew she wanted to go to a university not too far from home, so that she could combat her homesickness with frequent visits to her family, and yet not too close, so that she could be independent and discover her own path in life. She was leaving behind many of her friends, but she was also keen to explore greater opportunities out there and see what the real world had to offer her.

She was in her twenties when she began to build her career, graduating from her undergrad degree in political science to pursue further studies in law school. She was close to graduation then, chasing a career in international law and knowing that she wanted to fight for the rights of the vulnerable around the globe.

She had always been fierce in her defence of neighbours and strangers alike, raised with the youthful glow of idealism in her eyes, through which she saw happy endings, justice, and equality in opportunities for all. She understood the glaring shortcomings of the world, and knew she wanted to play whatever role she could in reducing the gap between people just a little more.

She was in her thirties when she was balancing her demanding career with her even more demanding kids, splitting time between family gatherings, work events, short vacations, and tough clients.

She was tired, that was clear, but every day she woke up with a clear goal in mind and a somewhat more ambiguous and challenging path to get there. She would go to work happily in the morning and deal with stubborn opposition, and come home happily to the giggles and

exclamations of her too-energetic children.

She was in her forties when she reached the peak of the mountain that she had been slowly but surely climbing, her clientele growing day by day and her kids even more so. She was known as Superwoman in her community, with her neighbours coming by regularly to either ask for legal/personal/other advice or simply share the goings-on of their daily lives. She was happy with her life. She was happy with who she had become, and who she knew she could and would be.

She was in her fifties when she first forgot where she placed her car keys, though in her busy schedule that was understandable.

She had rarely forgotten small things before, if only because her calendar was one of her most trusted best friends and her to-do list a balm for her mind. She just credited her increasingly cluttered (muddled) mind to less time in her day to do more and more.

She was in her sixties when she started to wake up disoriented or walk into work on the weekend because she’d forgotten it was Sunday and not Wednesday. She missed her daughter’s birthday — she must have been so busy — but pegged it down to simple exhaustion. Then she forgot her own. She depended more and more on her calendar, her to-do list, her diary, and eventually (reluctantly) her colleagues and her family.

She was in her seventies when she forgot her family members, where her house was, what she did for a living. She stayed at home, wondering every day, every moment, what she was meant to be doing, not sure about anything but the feeling that she was meant to be doing something. In her hazy mind and with a heavy heart, she knew there was something missing, though what it was she could never remember. Her neighbours stopped coming by, and after hearing enough Such a shame, she was such a force to behold, she was happy to not see them herself. She wasn’t lost, she was still here. No one saw her as that, though.

She was in her eighties when she saw the days go by, no longer forgotten but simply no longer important. Every day was the same, a dull cycle of wake up-change clothes-eat-sit in the living room-watch children run around her-eat-sit in the living room-eat-sleep, and then do it all over again. She had long forgotten her name, and no one seemed to say it often enough for her to remember. She hadn’t yet forgotten herself, but she felt (every day) that the rest of the world had. x

SHE HAD LONG FORGOTTEN HER NAME, AND NO ONE SEEMED TO SAY IT OFTEN ENOUGH FOR HER TO REMEMBER.

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ET GRE

INGS FR O M T H

E

W I

N

I am walking across campus, a copy of The Odyssey hugged to my chest, and am greeted cheerfully by the wind.

HAAAAaaaaaah. I exhale.

My eyes close. My mouth opens.

My body relaxes.

I breathe in the moment.

It is only after the wind gently carries them away that I become aware of the thoughts that have been swirling.

And it is not until the wind dances across my shoulders that I become wary of my muscles, which have been clutching the failures of the present day: The people I let down or offended, the support that I failed to provide...

But the wind does not speak in ‘good or bad’, ‘should or should not’, And I am accepted by its fresh and forgiving embrace It tickles and nudges parts of my body that I have forgotten about: my cheekbones, the soft hair on my arms, the tips of my ears I am swept up in the joy and simplicity of being I hop on my bike, my weekly ride to work, and there is the wind to welcome me.

The corners of my mouth perk up.

There is a rushing feeling of warmth and giddiness inside my chest.

The wind’s excitement is contagious.

The sounds of the city toss and tumble. Earnest dialogue and traffic mix with soft mews and form a steady roar.

I feel like a warrior off to fight for some valuable cause.

The wind makes me feel like anything is possible.

With the wind I feel free.

D

When my bones are brittle, my muscles are wasting, and my movement is only painful, I want to be taken by the wind.

I want it to greet me one last time, Traipse its soothing fingers over my body.

I want it to tickle my sagging arms, Ripple across my wrinkled cheeks, Feather through my sparse hair.

One last time, I am cared for; One last time I am cleansed; One last time, I am seen.

The wind circles around me faster and faster.

I watch it in wonder as it slowly sucks the moisture from eyes and the world fades into a white haze.

It is then that I ask the wind all of my dying questions: Dear wind, was I good? Please, did I offer more help than harm?

Was I kinder than I was cruel?

Please wind...

The swirling wind augments still. It pushes and pulls at my skin. It plucks off my eyelashes and takes them away into a current. The wind is blasting; it scrapes me like sandpaper. My awareness is stretched to every throbbing pore in my body and in this moment, I arrive.

My skin starts to flake and I join the world in confetti.

I waltz with the wind until we are one and the same.

A huge mass of moving bodies oozes out of the examination building.

Nervous chatter flutters through the crowd. Some drag their feet, others walk briskly.

One by one, I greet them. x

WORDS by ALANA PARK ART by VICTORIA WOJCIECHOWSK A

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.

AN WO M MA IA ART by SONYA GREWAL 40

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PARADOXES OF ILLUSION My eyes exploded into millions of pieces and my mind oozed out and hardened like sweet icing on a cake, waiting to be consumed.

My heart caught on fire and my logic lost its insanity looking for the scent of emotions with blind tearful eyes.

And my hands evaporated as I tried to clutch at my dignity slaved at the hands of my greedy ego.

So when the mirror forgets to reflect, row row further and further away.

And when the sun ceases to shine, come out of the darkness.

And when the world finds meaning, be finally at peace and understand it.

Words make sounds and entrapped in the extension of time fade immediately; just like us.

Just like we are forgotten by the invasion of thoughts marching into our reflection to find order. x

ART by QUEENIE ZENG WORDS by ZARA PARTOVI

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WORDS by JENNIFER DU ART by MATTY FLADER

Dear seventeen-year-old me, I know you’re at the point in your life where people are beginning to expect you to choose a career path and commit to it for the rest of your life. I know you think it’s ridiculous; how can people possibly expect you to choose what you want to do when you don’t even know who you are, or who you’re supposed to be? The truth is, even after four years and being so close to graduating university, you still will have no clue what’s going on. And of course that’s okay, because a lot of life has to do with figuring things out along the way.

I’ll tell you that you will be anxious about moving to a different city for university because you will realize that you’ll be heading to a place where no one will know you.

Naturally, not everything you own will fit in your new room, so you will have to make a decision about what parts of you to bring and which ones you’ll leave at home. It will finally sink in that you can be anyone, cover your new white walls with anything, and no one can say that it isn’t you because they will never know. You will have to figure out who you think you are and who you want to be.

Of course, looking back now, I’ll let you in on a little secret: you aren’t just the contents of your room, or the career you choose, or the grades you get. I mean, you are your choices, but you are also so much more. You are the books you read, the things you love…the people you love.

Do you remember in ninth grade when you had that friend who couldn’t stop saying “cool beans”? You thought it was utterly ridiculous, but one day you realized that you had started saying it too, and that part of her was now part of you. My friend, everything in life is changing you in ways that you don’t even realize. And this is an earnest reminder that you don’t have to be so worried about making all the right decisions about who you want to be, because you are becoming more you every day.

Just do things you like to do, be with people you love, and keep in mind what you value. Remember the well-worn paths through the tall mossy pines, the way a book made you feel, and the sound of your friend’s laughter outside on a warm summer’s night. Remember the ones you love and who love you. Someday, these things will be who you are. x

Soon enough, Twenty-year-old you

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MAYBE THE REAL PROBLEM WAS THE HAT WORDS & ART by FREDDE

An emotional breakdown and a spiritual awakening are the same thing. Trying to Google it only leads to clickbait articles suggesting one could threaten the other.

But — I’m about to have an Oprah moment here — something I know for certain is that feeling of distress that leads to an outburst, that you can’t keep living like this? That’s a spiritual awakening. Or an emotional breakdown; whichever phrasing you’re comfortable with. In any case, I had one in New Orleans.

I’d like to think I’m immune to the media’s influence, but I do have a sporadic history of mimicry. Case in point: while I was in New Orleans, I hunted for a black, wide-brimmed hat. Why? Because Beyoncé wore one in her Formation music video. I knew I’d never look as good, but something about that video made me want to try. I also bought an ankh necklace and some African nickel jewelry. Why? Because Erykah Badu wears that shit and I, a mature adult in my thirties, want to be like her.

Okay, so “desperate wannabe” is very much on-brand for me, but at least I don’t do this shit often.

What I do often is overpack. Staying overnight at a friend’s? That’s a full 44

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suitcase: minimum four outfits, two books, and enough underwear to have leftovers for sudden sexy underwear parties (or are those just on Instagram?). So I promised myself I’d avoid checking-in luggage for New Orleans. My career had broken my spirit enough to spend an extra threehundred dollars to jumpstart my vacation the same day; I wasn’t waiting around for any damn luggage.

Everything went smoothly until I bought the hat, which came in an equally ostentatious hatbox. It was fucking huge.

There was no way I could (or would) checkin a hatbox, so I had to buy a suitcase on Canal street. And so, my luggage evolved into a carry-on, a shoulder bag, and a large suitcase. It was as if the extra shit I would’ve brought had followed me anyway.

On the upside: maybe the airline would lose it? That could easily become an excuse to not have to return immediately. Anything to get an extra day away from my job.

Unfortunately, it showed up. So I returned to work, Beyoncé hat, ankh, and nickel jewelry in tow. One look at me suggested I’d either gotten back from New Orleans or had taken up tarot reading. What wasn’t so apparent was how incredibly

finished I was with my career. A revelation that wouldn’t have occurred if not for my spiritual awakening-slash-nervous breakdown on the steamboat; an excursion that started off on entirely the wrong foot.

Picture this: we’re going slowly up the Mississippi, baking in the hot sun, with riveting loudspeaker commentary about sugar factories. There was no way to get off, short of throwing myself in the river. Even for my queer-ass hunting for a Beyoncé hat in NOLA, that was a tad dramatic. After the voice shut up, a live jazz band started, and my friend and I hit the bar. Floating on the Mississippi, with a cool breeze caressing my face and Pimm’s cup in hand, an immense wave of calm washed over me. For someone who’s perpetually anxious or depressed, it felt like the universe was giving me a huge gift of inner peace. That same cosmic force must’ve known I needed it, because my identity was about to turn upside down.

Between the good times (and delicious food), I was totally having an Eat, Pray, Love moment. Unlike the hat, it wasn’t something I was actively searching for — I’m not a fan of Julia Roberts or self-absorbed white women having the luxury to quit life to “find themselves”. A phrase I’ve

always found nebulous and self-serving, designed only to make you feel bad about your current situation. And maybe that’s what it’s supposed to do: wake you up to your own unhappiness outside of daily distractions. Not to make us feel bad, but to facilitate change. That steamboat trip was my catalyst.

After we disembarked, I started feeling off. It was an unease that I couldn’t quite place, but it continued to hover beside the ghost of Marie Laveau. How could I possibly feel dissatisfied when I have beignets? How could anyone?

I was packing my clothes when I remembered the giant hatbox that I still had to lug home. But instead of sliding into my suitcase, it hit the sides and wouldn’t budge. “Tell me this doesn’t fucking fit!”

I said aloud — a phrase I usually reserve for fitting rooms. I’d just bought luggage I didn’t need, to accommodate accessories I

didn’t need, to facilitate a look I didn’t need.

But I was going to make it work. I flipped it upside down, and it slid in perfectly.

I wish I could say, “And then I knew that my career wasn’t right for me! The hatbox is an analogy!” But this wasn’t Eat, Pray, Love and I’m no Julia Roberts. I had known it for years. I knew when I graduated, when I started my own business, and when I finally got a “real” position with a large company.

That inner calm I’d felt on the Mississippi had simply quieted the noise.

But while Julia Roberts felt certain upon finding solace in a bowl of pasta, I remained unsure. All I knew was that what I was doing wasn’t for me. But I had no idea if what I was feeling was valid. Feeling right and being right aren’t the same thing.

Despite my uncertainty, I welcomed uncomfortable questions, especially after years of dragging myself through unsatisfying work. What do I have a

natural affinity for? When am I most in my element? What feeds my soul? I gingerly opened the lids to these questions, expecting to find “nothing” as an answer.

But there were answers there, each igniting passion and possibility.

Heading towards a new career has been interesting and unsettling. Sometimes I feel cheated — Erykah Badu never had to go back to school. When I think of how this next chapter of my life will pan out, there’s a lot of favourable outcomes, but there’s also hundreds of ways it could go terribly wrong and leave me with nothing but my fantastic hat. I’m torn between being proud of myself for taking this step and worried I made the wrong choice. Maybe I’m too old for school. Maybe the next fashion item I hunt for won’t be so easily found. Maybe I am a flake with my life choices. Or maybe the real problem was the hat. x

SAVOUR THE GRACE Savour the grace.

Set aside, unwind, and bask in the peaceful burn descending our bodies.

Perceive the scents of her magnificent essence, provoking contentment with every encounter.

Stroll comfortably, knowing that at every corner we will find tranquility, without worry or doubt.

Savour the grace.

Hold it in memory and search for it as the aloof surge slowly encapsulates us. Be reminded of what is to return only if we successfully distract ourselves.

Smell the air through the artificial linings surrounding our bodies, drowning our sensations from the restful past we once knew of.

Search for the opening in the darkness that blankets the heavens that once laid above us.

Forage in what used to be our empty domain, attempting to find an ounce of solitude in what seems to repeatedly introduce trespassers.

Can we go back?

Find pleasure elsewhere, or patiently wait.

Soon enough, we assume, we will be back.

Await the grace. x

WORDS & ART by ABDULLAH EL-SAYES

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EMPTY WORDS WORDS by VANESSA NATARENO ART by VANIA PAGNIELLO

‘just be yourself’ they softly chime those soothing words as old as time sweet like velvet hope and wonder, till it pulls my cold head under soothing, calming fine sensations turn to that of suffocation. panic sets, the breaths, they cease, and as I lift my head to breathe, I see the cards they calmly sit And grasp for one I think will fit

For what is self dare I be true and what is me and who are you the masks we wear blur into lies but are they no more than disguise when I no longer seem to see the true essential part of me

best. that makes me me. because they tell you just be strong just be yourself until you’re wrong. and so I pull out coloured cards cookie cutters worn and scarred and hope this one fits well today. x

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“PAPER THIN” WORDS by JASMINE THAKRAL ART by NIKOO AGHAEI

Blur and meld my consonants together Till my edges dissipate into the air like smoke, Soften and smooth the bumps or creases Stick on a smile Exhale for a long time, While I laugh And tell you oh I’m just tired It’s only a paper thin surface That wraps around my head So translucent, So ready to rip And leak out my viscous thoughts.

Sometimes it’s easier to be the jester, With arms outstretched, Do a little dance, Fall over my knees To make you laugh, Drag myself down To drag out your smile, Dimming my light a little darker To make you shine brighter, And as I pick up the phone, Can you hear my voice go Higher and higher?

A siren of distress, An invisible liar, Till my rhythm is out of sync with yours, Always a beat behind Stuck in a limbo, And to return home Runs the risk of being forgotten, Like a puzzle piece torn Who doesn’t fit into your life anymore. x

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WORDS by SUFFIA MALIK ART by DANIELLE CAMPAGNOLO

Cycles My father has a voice that mixes praise and caution, One that makes me weary Every father from the margins has the same fears for his children: You must work twice as hard.

But I never saw him work anything less than fifteen times as hard, so maybe he was protecting me from the truth.

Or he was creating a life for me where two was as bad as it got.

Queen Victoria I relish in your history. Your birth was necessary for the survival of an era. Your father died and your mother was unkind but you were a miracle.

You were an Empress.

I learned to love from your love story. I learned to grieve from your sorrow. I learned to ignore the silvery taste in my mouth that won’t leave as I climb the steps of this Victorian classroom.

Consumption fills my lungs with vice

Lordly politics become this radical anguish While hunger is our imperial price

And English becomes our painful languish Demarcations on the arch of her empire’s nose hold muskets, then rifles; a mandatory military service that still chooses to forget its victims cared more about food than Queendom.

Near the end of her life, a man entered the servitude of the Queen. He was a Muslim peasant who gave her the gift of Urdu poetry — a gift that wove in its looping letters generational secrets and whispers. He was found in a painting after her descendants tried to cleanse her legacy.

A day later those same looping calligraphies mock a woman displaced by that legacy. Imperial amnesia sparks invasions by new empires.

What a world we live in, where women hurt other women.

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Allah Made me. Without this, I risk commodifying my identity. This is why diversity doesn’t mean anything to me anymore. I am not standing at an intersection with undefined signs.

I am Muslim. That means something.

This woman is breaking stereotypes and our reactions show we still believe in them Does my inclusion serve your livelihood more than it serves my life? Do black and brown faces make you feel self-righteous, yet you excuse yourself from fighting injustice?

I can’t have words taken out of my mouth. It’s all I have and yet I am starving.

Bicycles In the ethnic enclaves of children playing on apartment lawns, the ones that formed the baseline for the races in my life, I learned to fly.

An older girl had the misfortune of teaching me how to balance on two wheels. She was an enchantress—conjuring stories for us to make-believe and adventures to duck behind garden fences for. That is what sisters of histories and outcomes do.

We lived in the same tower. A tower that funneled immigrants from the airport — and one citizenship ceremony later, to the suburbs. It was a landing. A transitory stay before we diverged into our own versions of assimilation. Our parents all wanted opportunities, and their prices were stitched into our richlycoloured foreheads.

We aligned the bones that columned into branches and

unraveled knots in our nerves.

We taught each other to keep moving. Keep moving, or else you will fall and leave blood on the pavement. You’ve already lost your motherland; don’t lose more on the concrete.

Pedal until you reach a safe place, although that may never come. Pedal as if the brakes have already failed because I will not be there to catch you. If you pedal fast enough you might take-off.

But you

will fall down.

Because that is what she taught you. And that is what you will teach them. x

WORDS by SRIKRIPA KRISHNA PRASAD ART by JOSH RAVENHILL

The other side of the mirror NOW THAT I AM CALM ENOUGH TO THINK, CAUTION WARS WITH SUDDEN, OVERWHELMING DESIRE.

There are stories of the few people who learned the truth about the other side of the mirror, the truth about the reflections they saw. Not one of those stories has ever ended well.

This is what I think about as I watch her stare at me.

My skin prickles as I stare back. She narrows her eyes and I narrow mine with her. She raises her eyebrows and so do I. I am doing my job perfectly, copying her every motion, my senses carefully honed and alerting me to what she is going to do a split second before she does it. Nothing I do could give me away.

And still, she stares.

I know humans stare at themselves often, or what they think are themselves. My human certainly does, when she does her makeup, when she washes her face, when she looks long and hard into a mirror on bad nights of anxiety, trying to bring herself back down into her body. But this kind of attention feels new. It doesn’t feel like she’s looking at herself.

It feels like she’s looking at me.

My girl searches her own — my? — gaze. She frowns, and I frown, too. We both slowly lift a hand to the glass.

“I know you’re not me. I’ve known for a while.” I mouth the words along with her, and my blood freezes, my hearts pounding in sudden, breath-stealing terror. I almost jerk back but remember that I am still working, that if I give even the slightest clue that something is wrong, They might find me. And more importantly, They’ll find her.

“Who are you?” she asks. I say the words with her, trying to fight back the panic that threatens to overcome my body. “What are you?” In the mirror, her eyes are locked with mine.

The moment she isn’t looking at me — a moment that lasts only the time it takes her to blink — I turn rapidly, scanning the 52

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cold, grey Aether around me to see if the other shifters assigned to this family are there. I am alone, which probably means she is as well — her family must be out if their shifters aren’t here to reflect them. My panic recedes, and I step back in place as she opens her eyes.

“Who are you?” we say again.

Now that I am calm enough to think, caution wars with sudden, overwhelming desire. The Aether is lonely and bleak, full of shadows and dark corners where They scuttle and sleep.

I have had no one to speak to since I was born. All I have ever known is to do my work, to be the perfect reflection to my assigned person or to be hunted and devoured by Them. It would be the most foolish decision in the world to answer her.

I am the most foolish creature in the world to want to answer her.

But I am so, so tired of being alone.

I take a cautious breath. Then, with the lightness of a snowflake’s fall, I tap the glass.

She gasps, and her face suffuses with delight as it crinkles into a smile. My hearts clench and I want to cry — I made that happen. No one has ever smiled at me before. No one has ever been happy to see me.

“Are you there?” she demands breathlessly, her voice pitched so low it is almost inaudible. I make another risky decision, desperate to see her joy again, and step out of my pose as her reflection.

She gasps again. “I knew it. I knew it!” She presses her face to the mirror. “What’s your name?”

That throws me for a loop. My name? I look around before answering haltingly, “I don’t have one. I am meant to be you.”

My voice is cavern-deep. Even in this human girl’s form, the larger voice-box of my real body affects it.

She frowns, looking like she wants to dispute this, but I can see other questions forming. “How are you like me if you’re not me?”

“My people are meant to mimic those in your world,” I say, the joy of talking flooding me. “We are shifters. We can change our shapes to match those to whom we are assigned. I am not sure why we exist,” I add, sensing her next question. “All I know is that our purposes are to match the actions of your people in the mirror. To upkeep some kind of order. A few of us have been assigned to your family, one for each of its members. I am your shifter.”

She nods, and then quietly, she asks, “What is it like where you are?”

I should lie. I should keep her safe from knowing about the monsters here. But my foolish, yearning heart needs the catharsis of telling the truth. “It’s always cold,” I whisper. “It’s always sad. It’s always full of fear.”

“Fear of what?” Her eyes are soft. I open my mouth to answer, and then freeze as I hear a sound from her side of the glass. The sound of a door opening.

Her family is home.

“Run!” I start to yell, but it’s too late. Three of my fellow shifters assigned to the rest of this family materialize at the same time, ready to start their jobs, and stop short as they catch me standing out of my reflection.

“What’s happening?” my person says, her eyes wide. I step back from the shifters, breath coming in heavy bursts.

“Please. Please, it’s not her fault,” I beg. “Please don’t tell.”

The shifters don’t respond. They turn, and as one, they start howling into the grey fog surrounding us. There’s a second of silence, and then They howl back. I hear hundreds of scuttling little limbs swarming towards us, wet panting, and the whooping that comes with a hunt.

It’s over.

“I’m sorry,” I tell my person, this girl who could have been my sister, and I close my eyes to meet the end. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

There are stories of the few people who learned the truth about the other side of the mirror, the truth about the reflections they saw. Not one of those stories has ever ended well.

And neither does this one. x

SELF

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ART by SHANNON WU WORDS by JHANAHAN SRIRANJAN

riverside.

The lone traveller trudges along the crumbling dirt path, A single star to the North, a cool breeze to his back.

To his left he spots a single stream, roaring to announce his arrival By this riverside, he sets up his camp He sits along the river’s edge, staring longingly into its shallow depths, But the river carries on, unencumbered by his attempts.

The water’s cut runs deep through the ancient land, A scarring testament to the Earth-Shaker’s hand.

As the traveller’s gaze wanders, he sees the surface begins to glow And in an act of natural defiance, the water momentarily ceases to flow.

Yet as fast as it began, the glow fades away, An instantaneous disturbance, gone without a trace.

The traveller’s gaze shifts to the opposing riverbank, His eyes fall upon a hooded figure, shrouded in a cloak of black.

Her head hangs low, a shy smile spreading on her lips, An archaic regality clings to her, holding her tightly in its grip.

Her hair cascades down her slender frame, Moonlight manifest against her dusky ensemble.

Her eyes bespeak tragedy and wisdom, Two icy voids brimming with sorrow.

She is beauty incarnate, unsoiled and whole, An embodiment of allure igniting a flame in the young traveller’s soul As the inferno rages on, he locks his eyes with hers, She vanishes in a swirl of mist without so much as a whisper.

With a chilling cry of anguish, he slips out into the creek, “Don’t leave me!” he calls out, the flames burning in his cheeks.

But the damned river does not succumb to his desperate pleas, The river carries on, and she is gone, swept away by the summer breeze.

Eons pass in silence, but the river’s current does not carry him away, Rooted by the riverside, the now ancient man waits, drowning in his dismay.

Yet while the world around him has changed, his conviction holds strong, He knows she will return to him before long.

His resolve does not diminish as his body fades to dust, His hair pale as moonlight, his bones plagued by rust.

As he gathers his last breath, he chances a final glance over the riverside, He sees her face reflected in the water, as beautiful as the day she died. x

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“You need not be a stone.”

She reminded me that I have many faces Dull from front view They catch the light when it flickers

MULTIFACETED I’ve been myself for so long A stone passed along By the same pairs of hands It’s worn smooth I’m here now To find out Where my edges are Again

Multifaceted Owner of facets Incorporeal girl Weighed down by her tassets I’ll tell you again I cannot be smooth Thin skin must grow thicker To withstand diamond’s grooves I harden and sharpen Encase self’s molten form

Self is fluid but She had been confined By walls of glass In a scientific flask

New hands squeeze tightly A diamond is born x

WORDS by ARIELLA RUBY ART by THERESA ORSINI

The air was hot Self grew Pressure built The stopper popped off Self peeked over the rim And liked what she saw Countless forms all around Shifting and muddled Expanding then shrinking Drifting or huddled Together

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Dear Body, I’m not sure when the last time was when I told you I love you. It wasn’t always this way. Like those times when the world seemed separate; a ravine split by an ocean. Or those times when I would curse you, blame you, or hate you. Times when I resented not being a model, a singer, or someone famous. But you persisted. Thank you for not giving up.

I found love because you endured. I absorbed new love, and I mastered the old. And in finding love, we married, we birthed a child. You carried her, gave life to her, and brought her into this world. I hope she loves and is loved as we have been.

You’ve been stronger than I ever imagined I could be. As if you’ve always known there was more life out there, and that in this life you would remain with me, holding me up when I didn’t trust being held. And here we are. A lifelong learning of love. We’ve come such a long way.

Remember diving into our lake? Slipping into home. Being swallowed whole. A perfect body-wrap of wetness.

A pristine release. A mental purification. So often I feel our lake pulling us back. How I miss her. Do the memories reach you? Do the memories send quivers down our spine as the lake licks the sandy shore? Can you still taste her on our lips? Such a long time ago. Our taut, muscular body swimming, hiking, and climbing.

Now we’ve changed. Aged.

Why did you open the door to cancer? Was it wearing some suit when you answered the knock? Was it sporting a bikini? Snazzily dressed in a three-piece suit? Or a Batman-costume promising to save me? I bet then that the Joker took off his mask. A hideous smile to horrify you. I’m glad we caught it when we did, though. Thank you for keeping it contained to that lump.

I can’t resent you for changing. How can I? You’ve done so much, gone through so much. You’ve survived volcanic eruptions and debris-flying tornadoes. Through it all, you’ve kept me grounded, completed me. Stretch marks, love handles, gapped teeth, grey hair, and all. Your journey, our odyssey, is a messily beautiful life.

I look forward to the next forty-four years with you. I love you, dear body. x

Finitely Yours,

Me

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WORDS by VIRGINIA FORD-ROY ART by MARIUM SHAHANA

SELF

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WORDS by CATHERINE HU

THE HITCHHIKER Being a professional time traveller, Eileen did not believe in fate as a general rule. She had spent too long treading the worn paths of time to see the universe as more than what it was: a mute and neutral expanse, sterile of anything resembling providence or destiny. Yet it was at times like this, as she slowed her car to a stop on the highway while on a routine trip to the past, and looked out the passenger window to find her twenty-year-old self looking back, that she felt most tempted to believe in some cosmic power.

“Hey, thanks for stopping,” said twenty-year-old Eileen as she casually leaned in through the open window. Current, forty-threeyear-old Eileen could only stare back in shock. “You don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. Where’re you headed?”

There was a heavy silence as the motor sat running. Briefly, Eileen contemplated hitting the accelerator and speeding away, leaving her past self in the dust. If she were a good, upstanding time traveller who followed the rules, that was exactly what she would have done. And yet — “Uh, west. I’m heading west. I could take you to the next town? Just put your stuff in the back.”

“Thanks Miss, I appreciate it.”

Past Eileen tossed in her duffel bag as Eileen tried to settle down. Don’t interfere with your own past, was the number one rule of time travelling. But so long as Past Eileen didn’t recognize who she was, it would surely be fine.

Eileen stole surreptitious looks at the woman beside her as they pulled back onto the road. It was the year 2026, they were in the middle of rural Alberta without another soul in sight, and by some blind luck, she had crossed paths with her own wandering self.

Slowly, she took in the younger eyes, nose, the curve of her brow — features which hadn’t registered when she stopped for the random hitchhiker on the side of the highway, but were now unmistakable for anyone’s except her own. She watched Past Eileen curl up in her seat in a way that was deeply familiar and found herself feeling surprisingly fond. Eileen cleared her throat and decided to speak.

“So where are you headed, kid?”

“Nowhere in particular,” she easily replied. Eileen could not for the life of her get over the sound of her younger voice. “Ideally, I’ll reach the coast at some point. But I’m zigzagging my way along.”

“You on some kind of cross-country trip?” Eileen had always been a traveller, even before time travel had become an option. She wanted to know which of her aimless trips she’d caught herself on.

“Something like that. And you?”

I’m going to Calgary. I’m researching the environmental protests about to happen there. “I’m going to Calgary. I’m attending a research conference there.”

“Research? Are you like, a scientist or something?”

“Yup. I’m a professor and researcher, and I—” Eileen couldn’t help herself. “I travel a lot for my work. That’s what I’m doing now.”

“Oh cool, what university?”

“MIT.” Past Eileen immediately sat up, and Eileen bit back a smile.

“No way, that’s my dream school!” I know. “What department?”

Department of Time Studies, but that won’t exist for another decade. “Department of uh…Physics.”

“Damn.” Past Eileen slumped back in her seat, and for a while the car was quiet. Outside the dry hills of the Alberta countryside 58

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rolled serenely by. Before them, the road stretched long and far.

“Something on your mind?” Eileen finally asked. Past Eileen responded with a soft hum.

“Yeah. It’s funny. I’m studying physics too. Nearly finished it at uni.” She looked down at her hands. “Hate it though, so I don’t know what I’ll do after I’m done.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” said Eileen, wincing as the words left her mouth. Even to her, the platitude felt empty.

“Right. Easy for you to say, Miss Established Professor at MIT.” “You’d be surprised.” Eileen thought carefully about what she could say. “There’s a lot of things which don’t get magically better when you’re older. Financial troubles. Figuring out your purpose in life.” She tried to remember what used to bother her at twenty-years-old—everything the other woman left unsaid, which she knew better than she could ever imagine. “Family problems. Loneliness. Pressure to succeed.”

Past Eileen eyed her curiously. “Well, there goes my remaining optimism. Or am I just catching you in the middle of some midlife crisis?”

You have no idea. “What I’m saying is…most people never get to a place where it’s all figured out. You just have to keep working on it. Things get better, and they get worse. Over time you start feeling more comfortable in your own skin.”

She glanced cautiously at Past Eileen, who gave a little yawn.

“And eventually, you’ll look back, and realize how much you’ve managed to change.”

“I know. That’s what everyone says. I just don’t know if I’ll ever get that far, you know?”

Past Eileen continued asking questions, mostly about MIT, which Eileen tried to answer as innocuously as possible.

Eventually Past Eileen got bored and dozed off, and as Eileen watched over her from the corner of her eye, she thought of the years which separated her from the woman beside her. She

thought of the good memories the other still had to savour, and the hard times ahead which she’d survived. She thought of everything the other so desperately wanted which she had now achieved. She thought of all she still had yet to do.

An hour later, they arrived in a quiet little town. Past Eileen stirred awake as they pulled into a parking lot.

“This is where we say goodbye,” said Eileen. Past Eileen started getting out and grabbing her bag. “Hey, kid. What’s your name?”

The other woman paused and gave a brilliant smile. “Eileen.”

“Eileen.” She took a deep breath. “Good luck with everything.

Trust me when I say, I think you’ll be just fine.”

“Thanks, Miss. Good luck to you too, on whatever issues you’re having.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Past Eileen shut the door and walked away. Eileen watched until she was out of sight, before driving out of the parking lot and continuing down the road. x

blossom WORDS by Y VONNE SYED

ART by GRACE MACASKILL

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as soon as a girl recognizes her self-worth she’s ready to conquer the world there’s no holding her back she’s set for life

she already knows she has everything she needs within her to thrive i intend to teach my daughter to know her worth from day one so she can carry herself accordingly for the rest of her life

- y.s.

in a universe in which even the moon relies on the sun to shine you must become a sun of your own

- y.s.

so long as you accept yourself nothing else and no one else even matters

- the only approval you need is from the heart that lives within you

y.s.

never stop working on yourself invest in yourself pursue your dreams light fire to your passions

persevere at your goals because at the end of the day all you have is yourself and only you can write your own destiny

- y.s.

a garden only blooms when it is fed nourish yourself with positivity so that you can blossom - y.s.

you are a seed planted on this earth equipped with everything you need within you to thrive self-sufficiency lies within your roots so do not do enough to just get by, survive and stay alive bloom.

- y.s.

let us not hesitate to be compassionate vulnerability and kindness should not be taken for weakness it takes courage to make yourself transparent and be genuine in a world that constantly drives you to conceal your flaws only showing certain parts of the picture only pieces of the puzzle as if the rest does not exist at all

- you owe it to yourself to be content and whole.

y.s.

i will build my own empire before i share a castle with any prince i will be Queen of my own kingdom so that anyone who makes my acquaintance will not dare treat me anything less than royalty

- setting the standard: the way you love yourself is how you teach others to love you

y.s.

you and i are quite alike, neither one of us is willing to be transparent so we hide behind these disguises to mask what is meant to be apparent we linger in this charade and all our lives we masquerade about, never once truly letting ourselves out…

- masks

y.s. x

SELF

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SELF WORTH DEFINES US ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by J.A.F.P. (ALEJANDRA FERNANDEZ)

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When we think about ourselves, we always think about our physical appearance. We think about the many ways to change things about our body that we do not like, and about how great clothes will look good on us. It is always hard to be pleased with ourselves. We start to think that if we do not follow the latest trends or fashion, we are not good enough.

Society these days is very demanding.

It tells us that we need to be special and be someone else to feel good about ourselves. It places excessive value on the outward appearances of success, such as money, material possessions, physical appearance, marital status, and accomplishments in our careers. That is why we keep comparing ourselves with others, wishing to have what other people have to be “happy.”

Throughout these years at McMaster, I have come to see that appearances are just a fake reflection of what we want to be. If we continue to please others, we are not giving ourselves the worth we deserve. How can we value ourselves if we change who we are for the sake of others? We start wondering who we have really become and then regret those things we have changed to please others.

Well, it should not be like that. We need to stop comparing ourselves to others and evaluating everyone else’s actions. We need to ignore our “inner voices” that tell us we are not enough and that we need to change to live up to standards. Those thoughts are very self-destructive, and they can ruin your self-esteem.

This is why self-worth is so important. Self-worth is about who we are, not about what we do. We need to learn to value who we are and not let anyone change us. We sometimes forget how valued and loved we are by our own family and friends. So, we try

We need to create our definition of success based on our qualities and virtues that we value most. to change and become shallow and superficial by trying to be like others. We lose the respect we have for ourselves.

We lose our identity. The only way we can regain our identity is by building our self-esteem, and we should focus on love, integrity, kindness, emotional intelligence, forgiveness, and inner balance—qualities that as humans we have but do not realize.

We need to create our definition of success based on our qualities and virtues that we value most. Once we build our self-worth based on our own definition, we will find that we are not focused on others and what they think.

Also, we forget about material and superficial things, those things that were toxic and once defined us. Our self-esteem is boosted and we start to value our feelings and emotions more.

It is important to keep true to ourselves and keep our self-esteem by preserving who we really are. That is why self-worth is valuable. It is the essence of who we really are. x

SELF

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on the outside, looking in WORDS by SHAMIR MALIK

Joy quickly faded to paranoia.

The boy walked back from class. He had already bid farewell to his peers. The boy walked alone. The well-lit classroom only made his current surroundings appear darker. The darkness was allconsuming. It filled him with a sense of excitement, and a sense of absolute dread.

The boy approached the sidewalk. He had made it so far, and yet his destination felt so far away. It was almost as if every passing second became longer and longer. It was dark outside; it was dark everywhere.

Every living being had a fear of the dark, he told himself. A feeling of the unknown. The hidden. With each flicker of the traffic light, the boy peered into the shadows. He expected to see some manner of life, a humanoid figure perhaps. It was lurking. The boy knew it was watching.

Red. The boy waited. His arrival at the crossroads was badly timed. The veil of solitude was only lifted by the occasional passing of traffic. The boy found his feelings strange; his fear was unjustified.

What harm could come to him several hours before midnight? The night was young and all was dark.

The light turned, and the chase began.

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The boy walked as he usually would.

A slow pace matched by the repetitive thump of his backpack. It had been an ordinary day. He had nothing to worry about. It was only a short five minutes until he was home. He would make it to safety. Just five minutes. Five minutes was all it would take.

He took out his phone from his pocket. As he made it across the sidewalk he slowed down to view his messages.

He smiled. It was an amusing reminder of the previous day. The boy welcomed the distraction. His mind wandered, and with a sigh of relief he continued on his way. The boy felt more comfortable in his surroundings: the somber whistle of the wind, and the faint glow of distant streetlights. He was almost home, and his imagination had turned elsewhere.

Every night the boy took the same path, each night with the same imagined monster. Today the silent figure cloaked itself in shadows, hiding amongst the trees. He wondered where it would appear the next day. His house was just down the street now, and each step he took towards it became more certain. He laughed at himself, how ridiculous it must be to fear a fifteen-minute walk. Perhaps next time he would listen to music.

It finally moved out of the darkness.

The boy stopped thinking. The boy

stopped. His eyes widened, fixated ahead of him. The figure had no distinct features. It seemed to meld with night, an entity of shadow and malice. It gazed at the boy. It descended towards its prey.

Overcome with fear, the boy forced himself to move. His pace quickened abruptly, and the weight of his belongings seemed to disappear. He kept his head down, moving faster and faster. The boy ran for the safety of the house. He was now only a moment away. The boy urged himself not to look up, not to peer into the dark eyes of the figure.

It watched.

Shifting back into darkness, it had no need to chase the boy. He could find no safety or comfort from it. The shadows drifted away, and the figure followed.

The house key fell to the ground.

The boy grasped at its silver chain, swearing to himself under his breath.

He was running out of time. He knew his pursuer was near. He could feel its presence somewhere behind him.

His panic increased with each passing second. He heard long, slow footsteps, the dragging of feet against the pavement.

They boy’s mind raced as the key turned.

What should he do? Get in and lock the door. Drop the key and run. Turn and face the enemy. All seemed equally hopeless.

It was behind him. It saw the beads of

sweat fall down the boy’s face and heard the jamming of the key in the old door’s frame. It observed the desperation, the boy’s attempted perseverance against the inevitable. It waited.

A voice whispered to the boy in the dark.

The hurried scampering of the doomed echoed off the cool pavement.

The boy writhed in pain, clasped in the monster’s icy grip. The transition had taken place.

Silence.

The door swung upon and it leapt inside, the door slamming shut behind it. It locked the door, peering through the glass panes beside it. There was no sign of the boy; there was no sign of anything.

All was well.

The room’s warmth was welcomed, and its light chased the shadows away.

The small enclosed space cleansed away any thought of the chase. And soon, its warm embrace would usher its inhabitant to sleep.

The boy stood in the street. He had escaped his pursuer, but at great cost.

The boy remembered. Remembered that he had never once made it back home or overpowered his hidden foe. It wasn’t a fight he was willing or able to win.

The boy’s struggle was internal.

Over time, the boy’s breathing had calmed, and his gaze became cold. The boy watched as the shapeless figure enjoyed the warmth of its home, looking through windows and walls alike. Once again, the boy had tried his best and once again, he found himself isolated in darkness. And yet, the boy had escaped from the monster within.

The figure came to the window and looked back at the boy. They came to an understanding. Both knew of their roles, and both knew that they could not

change them. They knew that this was meant to be.

The boy hoped that one day he would not need to hide himself from the inside world. That he would finally accept himself in the supposed safety of his home.

The monster hoped that one day it would no longer be deemed a villain.

That it would grow into someone the boy welcomed.

Today was not that day.

And so, the boy faded into darkness, longing for the next day’s chase. Perhaps tomorrow would be different. x

The boy stood in the street. He had escaped his pursuer, but at great cost.

SELF

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Take Two WORDS by MICHELLE YAO ART by ETHAN SUN

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Y’know, with the sheer volume of thought pieces written on selfies and the frivolity of millennials using selfies to overcompensate for our free-falling self-esteems, you’d think that there’d at least be one functional guide that could teach an overcompensating millennial like me how to take selfies so good they’re actually worthy — or even just worth the hassle — of all the outrage.

And yet, twenty minutes and eleven Wikihow articles into my selfie shoot, no tutorial can mend the mosaic of failed photographs on my camera roll. No crop job can circumvent the massacre. No angle — not even The MySpace Uptilt — is cutting it today.

Those blog posts said that aiming reflective surfaces at my face could help with lighting. But so far, all that these extra mirrors have done is given me a 360-degree look at how badly my makeup is smudging with every shot I take.

The natural light streaming through my window lands on the most unnatural smile my iPhone lens has ever seen. Said phone keeps pausing to tell me that these selfies are running its memory dry. My arm has been holding this cursed selfie stick up for so long, I don’t think I can remember a time before all this.

I’m tempted to just let my friend take this picture for me when it happens: I tap the red circle and I don’t hate the image that appears at the bottom left corner afterwards.

My therapist once said, “You are not your thoughts,” and I did not know how to tell him that was a curse more than a comfort.

I could not cut up my body and sort the raw meat into which slices belonged to me and which didn’t. Likewise, my mind was many things, but it was not a slaughterhouse. I could not merely cleave off the parts I did not like and expect the holes in my skull to regrow.

And the worst voice in my head was still my own — or at least it sounded that way. Really, both voices had been crooning the same songs for so long, I could no longer tell the difference between them. I was glad they got along, though.

Rationally, I disliked my fears. Yet every time I took a shot at them, I felt like I was swinging my fists at a mirror.

It felt so natural, I didn’t think I remembered a time when I wasn’t like this — how much of my personality was actually my personality? How many experiences were truly my own? What if all of my favourite things about myself belonged solely to the anxiety? If we were to get divorced, who would keep what?

My name was not synonymous with anxiety, but I still flinched every time my friend framed it negatively.

Writing a caption and choosing a filter are feats of their own, but soon enough, my self-portrait is online for the world to scrutinize — which means that I can stop squinting at it.

If you squinted at me hard enough, could you see where the anxiety ended and where I began?

In any

case,

There’s so little about my internal self that’s certain; it’s nice to just look at the outside once in a while.

My therapist once said, “You are more than just your thoughts,” and I told him I could work with that. x SELF

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For as long as I can remember, I have defined myself as an artist.

The art took many different forms over the years — switching from colouring to painting to sketching, eventually even finding its place in words and poetry — but that identity seemed to be unwavering. Or at least, that was what I believed when my world was still brimming with colours and books and stories, and less weighed down by exams, assignments, and the inherent stresses of growing up.

A person’s identity is composed of their passions. It is the essence of who we are; yet, as we grow and find ourselves out in the world, these passions often take a backseat to external pressures. We fail to realize at this point, however, that since our passions have grown so entwined with us throughout the years, straying further away from what we love ultimately means losing ourselves. Faced with this loss of identity, it presents itself in a form of dissonance when we think of ourselves. See, we still envision ourselves as the artist, writer, or actor we grew up as.

But we present ourselves differently now, our passions becoming more and more infrequent hobbies. It grows harder to introduce yourself as an artist when the last time you held the oncespellbinding handle of a paintbrush was in a summer art camp decades ago. We end up viewing ourselves as someone entirely different from who we’ve been pushed to be.

More often than not, we are being groomed to follow a career that is misaligned with the things that once brought us so much joy. If not society, it is often our parents and family pushing us

to strive for traditionally affluent careers. And as the starving artist stereotype prevails and these professions are consistently undermined, the pressure to be focused purely on one thing only increases. Sometimes, we even bring this pressure upon ourselves. I look back and realize that every year of high school, I sacrificed something I loved, slowly moving myself further away from the person I thought I was. By twelfth grade, I had stopped taking drama, music, art, vocals, and French—all subjects that I adore and miss to this day. And now, all of a sudden, I am a STEM major; mornings filled with the smell of acrylic paint and afternoons spent among the chaos of tuning instruments now feel like a forever ago.

Yet, while my schedule is becoming increasingly rigid—full of biology, chemistry, and subjects that I can’t pronounce—I am learning that my identity will stay the same regardless of how often I am able to portray it. Although it is admirable to be dedicated to our careers, how can we be our best selves without what got us here in the first place? So much of the world tells us what we can and cannot do, and making time for our passions often becomes one of the things we are encouraged to sacrifice.

Thus, amidst the seemingly endless pressures of the world, we need to learn to stay connected to our true selves. Because before one is the perfect student, son, or daughter, they are a singer, an artist, actor, writer, and whoever they choose to be, above all else. x

WORDS by HOORIYA AZHAR ART by SAMI SABBAH

SELF

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5:13 PM WORDS by SOWMITHREE RAGOTHAMAN ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

Is there ever a moment in your life where you close your eyes, and everything shifts? And upon opening them again, does the world look unfamiliar to you? I’m sprinting down the street, frantically looking for the closest bus shelter. It’s one of those deceptive days in October, where sunny blue skies are filled with snarling grey clouds and bone-chilling winds threaten to knock you off your feet. The rumbling bus comes into view, making its way towards me. I grit my teeth and run faster, praying that I’m able to race it to the stop. Thankfully, I do.

I get on and silently make my way towards the back, avoiding the curious glances of the old women and young men who look like The Outsiders extras. There are no students on this route, so I stick out like a sore thumb — from my clothes to the lanyard that holds my bus pass, I may as well be a walking advertisement for the university. I take a seat next to a window and watch curiously as droplets of rain start to trickle down the glass.

Buses are weird spaces, really. Public, yet fiercely private.

I’ve never found another place where you can be so completely absorbed in your thoughts among strangers. I stare at the people on the streets going by, blissfully unaware of my existence, and I think, what’s it like to be them? To be the homeless man with tattered clothes, slouched outside a shop window? The young girls, with sunken eyes and pallor skin, smoking cigarettes during their lunchtime? Would they ever wonder what it’s like to be me, a sheltered university student who always dots her i’s and crosses her t’s, who ticks off all the boxes on the social norm checklist?

My mind wanders to the girl I met while volunteering today.

Leslie. Pretty and soft-spoken. I’d been assigned to help her complete her history homework.

“So how’d you join this program?” I had asked nervously, trying to find the balance between being interested and being intrusive. It was my first day, and I really wasn’t sure what to expect.

Her answer blew my mind, not only because of what it entailed, but in the way it was delivered; as nonchalant as if 70

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someone had asked you what the weather was that day. This girl, who looked so quietly unassuming, was resilient. She had seen everything there was to see. Things I could have never even imagined. And yet there she was, going about her daily life, without a care in the world that she might not know where — or if — “home” would exist in a month.

Do you ever realize how much of yourself is defined by external factors? I’ve always known that I was privileged, that I had a good family and education and was never left wanting for anything, but it’s different to feel that way. I can afford to be sad, to fail, to fall, because I know there’s a safety net waiting for me.

And yet, there are people in this world for whom that has never been a possibility.

My eyes close and swell with the rain, shedding tears for Leslie, for the homeless man, for everyone who cannot afford to feel sorry for themselves. But tears are not what they need.

They need support. Change. Mere buzzwords at this point, but I want to make them mean something. I will make them mean something.

I open my eyes to meet my clouded reflection in the window.

It’s 5:13 P.M., and the world is an unfamiliar place. x

SELF

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BEAT

WORDS by GILLIAN MALTZ ART by G R AC E K A N G

“Yo, that is the most beat girl I’ve ever seen,” I hear some stunted jock hurl this insult across the vinyl floor, standing in the middle of the narrow hallway, causing a traffic jam as a sea of backpacks parts for his vital conversation.

Beat: ugly, vile, and unsightly, he is the one who ties this word to some black-haired girl, tucking her chemistry binder underneath an arm.

Beat reminds me of the thumping of your heart against your chest when you try on a bikini for the first time at an outlet mall with your mother, stepping out of the change room and into the harsh lighting, where every dimple of flesh, every follicle of hair, and every roll of fat is on display for those stunted jocks to scrutinize, which you know they will, at the end-of-the-year pool party.

You try to push the memory down, suppress it into the abyss of your mind, but it is brought back into that harsh lighting when at day camp, your counsellor compliments your childhood best friend, “You’re so pretty,” and you just stand there, not knowing what to do with your hands.

My hands now brush the sleeve of the black- haired girl on my way to class, I apologize for this accident.

“It’s okay,” she beams, gifting me with a radiant smile, her voice like music with its own unique rhythm, its own beat. x

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Conversations the looking glass

Fluorescent buzzing reminds my eyes To softly flutter open Only to be squeezed shut.

I like to pretend that my change has been small.

The loss I feel is only imaginary, I am still who I used to be.

But the looking glass does not lie.

The image before me is no longer my own.

I squint to be sure…

Cheeks flushed Eyes drowsy Smile distant My reflection is off.

I notice one resemblance Between the image and I A tear glides down her cheek Together, inhaling deeply Our breath fogs the clean glass And the air thins Since the change, We do not speak.

Me, comforted by childhood You, in awe of adulthood I am buried deep inside you So you turn a blind eye You are glowing on the surface I am dimming to the core This has gone on long enough

Our eyes meet through the looking glass It is my turn to speak Things aren’t how they used to be.

You must know that I am trying to accept The inevitable breakaway You’ve been waiting for since childhood You drew freedom in technicolour crayons While I shaded the background in grey We have always been in contrast Our separation is a natural progression To grow up is to give up Yet another thing on your to-do list

I had created her to protect me Perhaps in an effort to delay the change But I can not run from fear I can not hide from the woman in the mirror We can either grow together or apart And I cannot face this alone

Your newfound independence, My aching solitude Distance grows between us I am free falling Wondering when you’ll call for help Wondering if you’ll see the splash

The image before me is not a monster She is just as frightened as I am We are both in need of companionship So I smile through the looking glass And the fog begins to clear x

I am not naive I know that I’m responsible For the stranger in the mirror

Time keeps ticking We must keep going

WORDS by EMILY BLUM ART by A L LY Y A S H A H I D SELF

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Crossing ART by DEESHANI FERNANDO WORDS by TOM JOHNSTON

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When I think of ‘self,’ I think of identity, and wow is that a can of worms. I’m an Australian exchange student and a Canadian citizen, but neither are identifiers I find myself wanting to use, nor do they speak to an identity I feel I own. Yet it’s the question that’s always asked — where are you from? How, then, do we reconcile our identities to the places we were born and raised, the places we have become associations for?

It was Supercrawl weekend and I was lucky enough to see the Space Lady perform. A seed of the 60s, both in style and ideology, Susan Schneider performs within the realms of space music and psychedelic, and yet is humbly down to earth. As part of her performance, she played a cover of John Lennon’s Imagine. I’ve always found this song to be a difficult one. For those who seek unity, it’s a song that breaks down social constructs to leave us simply human; yet, for the socially and self-aware, it seeks to break down everything that makes us human. I think in the context of this line: “Imagine there’s no countries, it isn’t hard to do.”

While I’m sure John meant the best in his dream of a united humanity, I can’t help but squirm at the ideas he presents in his song. For the capitalist beast, this certainly wouldn’t go down well, the beast which appropriates, stereotypes, and sells out the cultural commodities it creates. The Western world’s deal breaker for migrants and refugees is often whether they will assimilate — ironic, considering Australia and Canada have been built on multiculturalism. And yet while holding fast to their own sense of identity, they try to negotiate others’, picking and choosing the bits which are palatable. Can you imagine an Indian restaurant not offering butter chicken?

We as individuals are more than our pasts, our backgrounds, and even our cultures, but even Australians and Canadians who live distantly from their heritage still have a claim to cultural identity. We look to the collective for a sense of who we are, who we imagine ourselves to be and further fear to lose this sense — this sense which is ephemeral, fleeting at the best of times.

I often felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing on my journey to Canada — here I was, claiming to be a Canadian; it’s on my passport, therefore it must be who I am. The border security guard in Australia didn’t know which passport to send me out on. I had no idea whether to tell the Canadian border officer whether I’m a resident or a student. I entered Mexico on it and felt like I was lying, like the guard didn’t know the whole story. “I’m not really a Canadian, am I?” In what is becoming an increasingly multicultural world, however, I feel as though I’m not the only one who’s stuck. With different heritages combining and clashing, a single person often feels torn between them. My issue is that neither side has any sway. Both Australia and Canada were of course British colonies, both have formed cultures out of many pre-existing ones, and both to this day still have awful relationships with their Indigenous peoples. Australia, nevertheless, is my home.

“You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone,” as they say. Many people who identify as Canadian or Australian, many people who have departed from their cultural backgrounds, seek to find it again. For some they don’t have the language their parents have, for some it’s religion (that which John dreams will be gone too), or the lack of engagement with cultural events and communities. Yet I write without that something to go back to. Is my position of being a privileged white male more difficult than those who had their culture stolen or appropriated, or those First Nations peoples who might never be able to regain what was stripped from them?

No, of course not. It’s not about weighing up struggle, though; it’s about supporting others in their journey back while finding the direction you need to take — cultural identity is something everyone has a claim to. My direction, I think, can only be forward. It’s ironic that colonization has left the people it is supposed to benefit confused, but I live with those consequences — I can only go forward.

In fact, it’s this awkward position which has been such a privilege in my life. As an Australian and a Canadian, I stand at the roadway of people asking these questions. I sit at the table between cultures in conversation — and for me, it’s this conversation that might lead to more satisfying results. I’m not a mediator or a hero; there’s been enough white people thinking they’re helping. The space I occupy is shared — for better or for worse, that is up to me.

I hope that John’s sentiment is realized, that the world becomes better at living peacefully, but not at the cost of that which forms identity. I am not someone close to my cultural heritage and I try to live with concern for the ways in which I interact with other’s culture — but please don’t take away my butter chicken. x

WE AS INDIVIDUALS ARE MORE THAN OUR PASTS, OUR BACKGROUNDS, AND EVEN OUR CULTURES

SELF

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trajectory WORDS by M A N V E E R K A L I R A I

She was different, but still the same somehow. She was still the girl that tucked dandelions into her braid for good luck. The same dark-haired, bright-eyed girl who owned more atlases than the public library. The girl who sat next to me on the bleachers was a familiar stranger. We sat side by side, thighs pressed together, feet nearly touching — but she’d never felt further away.

The air between us hung heavy with all the things that were never said, promises never kept. She looked at me — through me, as if she knew exactly what was on my mind — and my heart beat a bit quicker.

“Did you know,” she started, fingers drumming out a steady rhythm on her thigh, “that the universe is endless?”

“Of course,” I said. I knew better than to assume this was a tangential thought.

She continued, “it started as a tiny point punctured in nothingness.

From that one point, everything we know and have yet to know was created. And as our universe winds along its cosmic coil, there could be other universes doing the exact same thing, at the exact same time.”

The bright lights of the baseball diamond caught her eye just then, and it was like nothing had changed at all.

“Bound up within these many universes, anything is possible, you know? Endless versions of you could exist — king or killer or all the spaces in between. Imagine that.”

And I was dizzy, not sure if it was memory or dream. We were fourteen again, and our shadows were still the lightest part of us.

She was still the same girl from all those years ago, and so was I.

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Heart in mouth. The words were at the tip of my tongue, and I wanted so badly to say something. Say something, say it, sayitsayitsayitsayit. But she looked away and the words were still caught in my throat. I keep telling myself the moment had passed but truth is, I had more than enough time. You only ever make a mistake once. The second time around, it’s a choice. Tongue between teeth, I let that chance slip by. Again. ­— Today, out the subway widow, I caught sight of her, I think.

Just a mere blur before the subway whizzed past, but I would recognize that girl anywhere. Something in the way she was stood, weight on her left foot, left thumb hooked in her belt loop. Without even really meaning to, I wondered how things might’ve been if that night had played out differently. If I’d just said something then. I’m sorry. I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry.

And I continue to think about it still. Two universes, winding along their own coils. Each with their own center of gravity, their own planets squaring their moons. Born from the same tiny point once upon a time, but the space between them growing with every passing moment.

And I hope that in a different reality, a different version of myself had said the words that I hadn’t been able to. And maybe — just maybe — this girl I know wouldn’t have become the girl I knew. x

TWO VOICES WORDS by SANGWANI K AOLOK A ART by G R AC E H UA N G

I am a sad soul trapped in a smiling vessel Only showing glimpses of who I really am, but There are days when the mask is crooked.

There are days when the darkness peeps out There are days when I am, Exactly who I said I would, wouldn’t be.

I’ve never known how to be More than the person I pretend, you see?

But I need you to see that I am pretending.

I need you to see that this smile is a cage And behind it is a fading light in a crashing building

Stagnated by the fear of not gaining approval, Of not being bright enough Of not being enough My light continues to dim.

I am a paradox A sad soul in a smiling vessel Screaming out to you, But not loud enough for you to hear. x

SELF

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WORDS by SERENE WANG ART by GRACE MACASKILL

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She hears the gasp of the sunset glow Take a breath, that’s crimson Take a breath, that’s modena Like an artist painting a gradient masterpiece A handicraftsman weaves a colourful brocade Till everything is swallowed by the shade.

She has stared blankly the whole day, Surrounded by the empty illusory bay Nibbled through her classics as she sat where the winds blew, gazed at the spaces where flowers grew, all alone.

But now Under the lavender mist With a chime ringing in her brain, She rises to her feet Whispering the notes, enthralled Watching till the lilac veil falls Waiting for the morn. x

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COMPOSITION MATTER ART by AMY TRAK ALO

WORDS by MAISIE BABISKI

I am but a fight of chemicals, currents experiences, thoughts, mutated mechanisms, all swallowed in the result. result of dice shaking in my brain, swished up in my heart, all slamming down on my face, on the mirror in the morning, on the way that I smile at another composition matter: that is all ‘i’ really am, miraculously and wonderfully so — x

SELF

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THIRD FROM THE

RIGHT

ART by MATTY FLADER

WORDS by TELMAH LLUK A

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1 2 He doesn’t look at himself in the dirty mirror, he never does. His eyes wander around the room from the flickering light bulb, third from the right, to the empty toilet paper roll, until he bends over the sink and spits out the foam that has been collecting in his mouth for the past two minutes. Today is different. For no reason at all, he lifts his head up and looks into the eyes of the reflected man before him.

Unfortunate-looking: once attractive, now with every corner of his face drooping, pulled down by gravity as well as the collective disappointments during his fifty years of life. Toothpaste foam runs down the sides of his mouth. Is this me? he thinks, This can’t be me. He notes the lines near his eyes, how they travel up to his forehead one way and down his cheeks another. It is four in the morning, after all; perhaps after a long, tiring night, his mind crinkled his image like a piece of paper and then unfolded it — leaving lines where there really should not be, smudges of grey in his hair where there really are none.

3 He’s made it a habit to go to bed this late for the sole purpose of being able to avoid his family the next day by sleeping in. Every day he wakes up at noon, says good morning to each of his three children, none of whom say it back.

He then sits at a table for six hours and attempts to find employment; he was fired three years ago and has been looking for a job since. At night, while everyone sleeps, he will sit on the couch in the living room and watch television until the infomercials come on. It’s during this solitary time that he’s unable to ignore the goings-on of his mind and sits alone with his thoughts until he grows tired and horny, at which point he skulks off to the bathroom to pull up some porn and jerk off quietly. After each session with his right hand, and sometimes his left, he looks at the mess he’s made and thinks of time travelling.

1988. To be twenty again. On this particular day, he travels back to September 14th, to the night he took his soon-to-be wife to a rowdy get-together at his cousin’s house. He is in the bathroom.

He bends over, does four lines of cocaine, and lifts his head up to make eye contact with himself. Elton John is playing in the other room. He stares in the mirror, and stares, and stares until the corners of his mouth curl up into the widest grin imaginable. He’s in love with her. He looks at the eager, excitable man in the mirror and sees the next thirty years of his life pan out in his big, dilated pupils: glory.

There are three loud knocks at the door.

“Hurry up!”

It is not 1988. He isn’t at a party, coked out of his mind. He’s in his bathroom, still staring at his crinkled face, and his wife is knocking on the door. The lightbulb, third from the right, still flickers above him. He looks in the mirror until his face becomes distorted and his body disappears. His hands reach up and follow the path of wrinkles down his forehead, to his eyes, to his cheeks. He is unrecognizable. x

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WORDS by SABRINA MACKLAI PHOTO by MATTY FLADER

It’s a strange world It was an ordinary weekday and I had planned on completing my ordinary routine—wake up, go to class, get food, go home, shower, study, and sleep. This day really should have been just another cross on my calendar, but as I sat in the library and prepared to write out an assignment, I was struck with just how absurd the task was. I’ve written countless assignments in my lifetime; far too many to remember them all. This assignment was nothing extraordinary and certainly nothing worth commenting about. And yet, I couldn’t get over the notion that what I was doing was the strangest thing in the world.

Do you ever look at paper and think about how it came to be? Really think long and hard about the process it took to chop the tree and drive that chopped tree to a factory, where there must have been a machine that turned it into a watery mush that would then be glued and pressed and heated and bleached until it became what we know as paper? I couldn’t do anything but laugh. It was absurd. Everything was. What was I doing in this library? What were we all doing there, sitting in our isolated wooden boxes with pieces of plastic stuck in our ear that projected faraway human sounds while real, live humans breathed within hearing distance?

Once you realize the world is absurd, there is no turning back. I couldn’t look at my pen without thinking about its different parts and how someone — many someones, really — had been tasked to make it. There is a person out there whose sole self-appointed purpose in life is to make pens. Pens! And forget about stationary materials; what about people whose lives are to make brooms or pots or even the aglets on your shoelaces? Can you imagine what sort of life that must be?

Of course many will say that your career should not define your life. And rightfully so. But how many of us actually follow that prescription? How can we say, with the utmost honesty, that a place in which we spend roughly eight hours a day, out of sixteen hours of waking time, does not have any defining impact on our lives? If it’s truly someone’s passion — if someone’s motivation to carry on another day comes from making pens, then kudos to them. Many, however, feel there is no choice.

To them, it is make the pen or die. It would be cruel, then, to say one would be better off dead than in a job that holds no meaning for them. But there is always a choice.

I met a girl who reminded me of myself. She told me about the sacrifices she has to make in order to go to medical school.

She doesn’t have time to draw or sing or pursue her true passions. Instead, she must study, and when she does have that free space in her schedule, it must be filled with items that look good on her med school application.

At first, I sympathized with her plight; to be accepted into medical school is no easy feat and I recognize the effort many put into their attempts. But why go into medical school if practicing medicine isn’t your passion? To appease your parents? Society? Whatever concept of ‘self’ you think you must live up to? Do you wish to go to medical school to make lots of money? To earn the respect of others? To obtain power?

All these things are merely human constructs—they are grounded in absurdity. It simply doesn’t matter whether you are a doctor or a lawyer or a woodworker or a pen-maker or whatever it is that makes you money. The world is strange, but we are stranger if we abide by rules that are inconsistent with ourselves.

Realize that there are no limitations placed on you. The outwardly pressures that exist are fictitious. To live is to be free.

To make decisions that are fully your own. Even if there is a gun held to your head, how you act is entirely of your own accord.

Do you do what the gunman says? Do you fight? Do you plead?

Do you close your eyes and pull the trigger yourself? The choice is ultimately yours.

You can condemn society for its normative standards.

Condemn your parents for their expectations. Condemn your existence itself for its absurdity. But what you cannot do is blame anyone, or anything, for the decisions that you alone make.

Once you realize that you are free and the barriers placed on you are arbitrary, what do you do? Do you turn a blind eye and continue to live life as is, with pursuits that are incongruent with your passions and true sense of self? And if you do, can you lead a genuine life? Even if you surrender to a dissatisfying life, will it be the choice of a free thinker? Or an act of cowardice? Can it be both? x

SELF

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A Minnow?

I Think Not 86

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ART by QIAN SHI

WORDS by COBY ZUCKER

“MASS EXTINCTIONS OF POPULAR SPECIES ARE A BUREAUCRATIC NIGHTMARE. YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN HERE FOR THE DINOSAURS.” After I’d finally finished all the paperwork, I was properly dead. The second time dying was a lot smoother than the first.

Last time, it took me nearly seven years to correctly fill out forms B36-92, which detailed the entire history of my first life.

Of course, I’d been a human and if there’s one thing everyone knows about humans, it’s that their lives are complicated.

In any case, it had been a lot simpler this time. Being a grizzly sounds quite grand, but not that much happens. Plus, I knew the ins and outs of forms B36-92. It took me a measly four months before I signed for the last time on the last sheet of the last form. Of course, forms B36-92 were the fun part. Next came the waiting.

I exited the claustrophobic cubicle where I’d spent the previous eight months and stretched my legs, felt my knees click.

Only two knees. That was strange. I’d grown used to being a quadruped, but here in the after life, I’d chosen to be human. Just about everyone in purgatory walked about as a human (opposable thumbs were quite helpful for filling out forms B36-92).

The forms were finished, so it was off to the Waiting Room.

The name was a bit misleading as the Waiting Room was very much a series of millions of different rooms. The first room through the threshold housed the Giver-Of-Directions. The Giver sat behind a tiny mahogany desk whose surface was taken up entirely by a gargantuan book. Today, the Giver was a badger with grey fur and white streaks. Last time, she’d been a Yorkshire terrier, but I’d been informed that she never stayed the same shape for very long.

I approached the desk and handed her forms B36-92. After a cursory inspection, she rolled them up with twine and dropped them down a chute set into the wall behind her desk. I couldn’t help but grin. Forms B36-92 correct on my first try. It had taken eight attempts last time.

“And where are we going today, dear?” the Giver asked in perfect Latin with only the slightest badger accent. In my first life, I had been born to the son of a Roman governor in Judea and Latin was still my preferred language, though how the Giver knew that, I could not say.

“What’s the wait time like for humans?”

The Giver chortled, “Longest since their creation, dear. Over half a million years.”

“That’s lunacy! They’ll probably be extinct by then.”

“Oh, I hope not, dear. Mass extinctions of popular species are a

bureaucratic nightmare. You should’ve been here for the dinosaurs.”

“Alright. How about being a grizzly again?”

“Hmm, looks like a nine-hundred year wait. A steal if you ask me,” the Giver twitched her whiskers.

“I only waited six hundred! Ok, ok. Fine. What’s got the shortest wait time?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “Is it still the mayflies?”

“Oh no, dear, no. Where have you been? The Great Administrator has put a permanent ban on souls in insects.”

“Well, no wonder the lines are so long!” I felt myself growling deep in my throat and baring my teeth. My pearly human teeth. It seemed shaking off the lifetime habits of a bear would take some time. “Okay, so if it’s not an insect, what does have the shortest line?”

“Hmmm, let me just consult my book here…yes, dear, it’s still the bluntnose minnow. Only half a year.”

“A minnow?”

“Yes, dear, a minnow. If you’d like, I’ve got a pamphlet here with some details on the thousand animals with the shortest lines. Is that something you’d like, dear?”

“No, I don’t need the pamphlet. Look,” I said, sighing and trying to master my temper, “of those thousand, which has the highest brain size to body weight ratio?”

“Oooh, an excellent question, dear. Don’t relish the idea of being a dullard? Let me just check my book. Well, dear, that’d be number nine hundred and eighty-three, the Filipino Luzon montane forest mouse. Rather smart devils. You’d be looking at a wait of near to four years or so.”

“Alright, fine. I’ll take it.”

“Excellent!” the Giver squealed. “That will be door number eight thousand and sixty-two on the left side. Good luck!”

The Giver scrawled MMMMMMMMLXII on a sticky note and handed it to me. I left the antechamber of the Waiting Room via the back door and entered the Hallway. After hours of walking I nearly went right past door eight thousand and sixty-two. The wooden door was much the same as the others.

Was I really going to do it? A mouse? A bleeding mouse?

Fuck it.

I walked through the door and joined the queue. A few years later — well, I won’t regale you with the details of mouse birth.

Suffice to say, it was messy. x

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HONESTY AND KINDNESS Pinch the lobes of my ears and pull. Hard.

Dragged, like an anchor across jagged seabed, dislocated knees grating against brick ground for the truth.

Convulsing cornucopias of noisy peach shards and chaotic red rasping, grasping out for nourishment to sour sick taste buds. Pulling plastic straws from the nostrils of sea turtles just to be heard.

Wearing a skirt made from the skin I burnt off only for you to confuse it with a lesser material.x

WORDS & ART by EVRA ALI

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I still remember the first time I rolled into this neighbourhood A younger, shorter me Grabbing ice cream from the street A sign this could be my next place to be The houses stacked the same But mine would be unlike these A triangle amidst the squares Not the cookie cutter family On my first day I took a dare Jumped off the roof So I could be cool Making new friends on the block Trying hard not to get lost Sneaking out through the window Finding meaning amidst the bullying blows Biking away from the feelings So I could start breathing Reading in the back With my black bag Learning to be alone With the labels I never endorsed I left to a place I never imagined Returned with a new mind So I could start afresh Dance through the battles Spitting science instead of lies So I could be fly

Six years later I roll through the same neighbourhood Realizing how it changed me I know the weird smell Is something that rhymes with seed And as I walk along the sidewalk No one can touch me This is where I bleed All the sorrows of my beliefs I try to turn away So I don’t get burned In the fire I never started But I found myself inside So I run and hide My home leads to a road A door I forgot to close I only want more garden roses Each petal, my rise Don’t you ever sit tight We can make magic with light Kicking back our heels Getting ready to leave Now we are free Don’t you see This was never meant to be We’ll close the doors Find ourselves a new home once more Nothing lasts forever around here x

WORDS by ABEERA SHAHID ART by LILIANE THERATIL

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ART by HAMZA FURMLI WORDS by CLAIRE BAR

INTERTWINED

I met you last October I thought you were beautiful Entranced by your promises A memory I wish I could forget Busy minds keep fingers clean, Use the mirror as motivation I can promise you that in the end, Satisfaction’s guaranteed Pretty girls don’t eat, you say, And you are what you eat So I ate nothing And nothing is what I became The new year brought a smaller dress size, brown hip bones and blue fingers were necessary sacrifices.

Spring carried warmth, sunshine, life as I continued to fade away I could pluck the strings of my ribcage strumming a melody, Filling my soul That hungered for more

Sometimes, When I lie in bed at night I can feel my chest tightening Like a breastplate pulling tighter and tighter Scaring me That one day my heart might Suddenly Stop Working I am the space in between my thighs Empty and endless I am the brittleness of my bones Emaciated and harsh I am my slow heart broken and barely beating I am no one With you as my only friend left You’re in the air that I breathe, the magazines on the newsstand, the sizing on the clothes.

Intertwined like roots that have grown together But can’t separate while dying And I still love you x

SELF

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WORDS by OWEN DAN LUO ART by MARIUM SHAHANA

Within the warmth of my home, I am 1 of 2.

As the elder of two brothers, Two wide eyes stare at me expectantly — To set up springboards for success, To make the unknown known, An example I never received When I timidly unfurled my sails.

Laden with personal and ascribed aspirations, With the elements as my guide, I set across to distant shores—oblivious Like Odysseus, King of Ithaca; But plaything of the gods.

Within the chill of my clinic, I am 1 in 671.

Told — callously — to brighten my view, But a vengeful storm cloud I carry, Tangled wood enshrouded by a sea of mist, A second shadow; invisible to all but myself.

Am I the fool?

To take flight from a sea of darkness with clipped wings, To heave against gripping chains with spirit drained?

Ah, they’ll never know.

Even with their white tablets and white coats, My kingdom overthrown: with no freedom or autonomy, The feeling of worthlessness is gravitational, A looming black hole, extinguishing my light.

Within the reflection of my mirror, I am 1 in 5002.

A single microscopic alteration magnified Into bodily imperfections: on display for all to see, Inviting sympathy, pity, ridicule…

But none worse than the voices I can never silence, Denying me dignity from within, asking — Am I a man?

My body goads me, Without prospect of bloodline; Perhaps I spare them.

I am 1 of 67 000, One of the men sent to a foreign land, To battle another man’s battle, Among the thousand ships that set sail for Helen.

Far from home, By the sandy beaches of Troy, Odysseus returned to Ithaca safely — Will I?

— 1 A current estimate of the prevalence of Major Depressive Disorder.

2 A current estimate of the prevalence of Klinefelter’s Syndrome. x SELF

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incite magazine volume 21, issue 1 “self”

Pusblished November 2018 Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication.

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

editor-in-chief (content): Catherine Hu

editor-in-chief (production): Sabrina Lin

creative advisor: Matthew Lam

layout director: Tram Nguyen

communications director: Annecy Peng

art managers:

Matty Flader, Sabrina Jivani, Grace MacAskill, Allyya Shahid

layout designers:

Kristy Liu, Marium Shahana

content editors:

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

cover credits:

Art by Tram Nguyen

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contributors:

(Writers): Andrea Abeysekara, Abeer Ahmad, Evra Ali, Takhliq Amir, Dong Ba, Maisie Babiski, Claire Bar, Emily Blum, Natalie Chen, Jennifer Du, Abdullah El-Sayes, Alejandra Fernandez, Virginia Ford-Roy, Fredde, Mackenzie Green, Catherine Hu, Tom Johnston, Manveer Kalirai, Sangwani Kaoloka, Katherine Kim, Telmah Lluka, Valerie Luetke, Owen Dan Luo, Sabrina Macklai,Shamir Malik, Suffia Malik, Gillian Maltz, Livia Mann-Burnett, Alex Marshall, Hooriya Masood, Olivia Mendoza, Vanessa Natareno, Amit Nehru, Seun Orenuga , Alana Park, Zara Partovi, Srikripa Krishna Prasad, Sowmithree Ragothaman, Laurel Richardson, Ariella Ruby, Abeera Shahid, Jhanahan Sriranjan, Yvonne Syed, Jasmine Thakral, Tiffany Tse, Serene Wang, Michelle Yao, Lili Zhang, Coby Zucker (Artists): Nikoo Aghaei, Evra Ali, Danielle Campagnolo, Lauren Crawford, Abdullah El-Sayes, Deeshani Fernando, Matty Flader, Fredde, Hamza Furmli, Katrina Hass, Grace Huang,Sabrina Jivani, Abby Lindzon, Grace MacAskill, Laura Newcombe, Eric Van Nus, Theresa Orsini, Vania Pagniello, Meg Rathod, Josh Ravenhill, Josh Ravenhill, Sami Sabbah, Marium Shahana, Allyya Shahid, Qian Shi, Ethan Sun, Liliane Theratil, Amy Trakalo, Victoria Wojciechowska, Shannon Wu, Queenie Zeng

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