Incite Magazine - March 2019

VOLUME 21 ISSUE 3

MY MISSION IN LIFE IS NOT MERELY TO SURVIVE, BUT TO THRIVE; AND TO DO SO WITH SOME PASSION, SOME COMPASSION, SOME HUMOUR, AND SOME STYLE. — MAYA ANGELOU

To thrive describes a state of being beyond mere survival. It involves engaging our inner thoughts and emotions while responding to the stimuli around us.

Sometimes an abstract idea, thriving can look like different things to different people. It may be an intrinsic motivating force or based on artificial standards that our families and society places on us.

Join us in this issue as our student contributors explore what it means to thrive.

We find ourselves learning how to love and let go, accepting the temporary nature of success, struggling against the pressure to succeed, and discovering our place in the world. Throughout the issue, we encounter the theme of facing our challenges and constraints and ultimately flourishing despite them. We realize that we can grow without restraint.

As the final issue of Incite’s Vol. 21, Thrive concludes the journey of self-growth we have taken you on this year. Between searching for what defines us in Self and confronting our terrors in Fear, we find our unique voice and discover what truly defines us. We learn how we can prosper in our differing environments.

We would like to thank our talented staff team for all their hard work: the content editors for fine tuning our written pieces, the art managers for curating the art pieces, and the layout managers for putting the final product together. We are also grateful to our contributors and our readers without whom none of this would be possible. Thank you for your continuous support.

We hope you enjoy the issue. x

Sincerely,

Annecy Pang Communications Director

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staff stories untitled by labiqah iftikhar new bloom by aryan ghaffarizadeh words by archan dave dream of wheat by ariella ruby safe at sea by catherine hu from the vine by ran ren having it all by annecy pang solace by michelle huynh days like this by afreen ahmad summer storm by owen dan luo the cafÊ by telmah lluka seasons by emily blum cockroach by celina liu and she thought she has found herself living in betweens by zara partovi the utopia by sabrina macklai untitled by lauren di vincenzo gaze into this canopy of blue by labiqah iftikhar fire and water by neda pirouzmand a gram by alex chen insecure fires by liberty liu journey by yu fei xia the spectator by jasmine thakral untitled by alexandra hildebrand the living room by monica jiang lovers’ almanac by mackenzie green fatebook by michelle yao flo(u)rish by nikhita singhal 10 tips! on how to raise your young girl. by trisha facade by sowmithree ragothaman the puzzle by j.a.f.p. a tainting by kashyap patel take a stand by valerie luetke deus ex homine by maisie babiski whole by katie lee untitled by zarrar jahangir time without you by josh ravenhill generations by seun orenuga joni mitchell by emily louro what happened? by linah hegazi vita realis by charles beckford the art of growth by yvonne syed witching hour by waynes manalang changing the script by takhliq amir singular mandate: grow by angus macdonald wilting by simrit saini first generation undergraduate blues by john hill

we asked incite staff

HOW DO YOU THRIVE? SABRINA JIVANI

ART MANAGER

Water.

TAKHLIQ AMIR

CONTENT EDITOR

Consider a puzzle. When you first open it, you excitedly join the corner edges so that the outline is set. Then you are lost. You can’t find the right pieces to fit together, the edges becoming bent as you forcefully try to click them into place. One goes missing, its whispers echoing incoherently in the chasms of your thoughts. But eventually, that elusive piece turns up in a place you don’t remember venturing to. And in the future, what you remember is the journey you took, the feelings of excitement melding with discomfort, the destination long forgotten. I’m graduating soon, so I have to find that missing piece myself. Hopefully it’s around here somewhere.

GRACE KANG

CONTENT EDITOR

Peanut butter.

ANNECY PANG

COMMUNICATIONS DIRECTOR

An unhealthy dose of bubble tea weekly and going to sleep by 11pm every night.

GRACE MACASKILL

ART MANAGER

In psychology we talk about something called a flow state. This state is triggered when you’re faced with a task that’s challenging, but within your abilities.

It’s the most amazing feeling – where the world just falls away and, despite the task consuming all of your attention, it feels absolutely effortless. It’s a state that I’ve achieved while horse back riding or creating art.

To me, being in the flow state is thriving because it incorporates both things that you love and excel at, as well pushing your limits and challenging yourself. To mix passion and self-growth is to thrive.

MATTY FLADER

ART MANAGER

I don’t have time to thrive. I have Neopets to take care of.

SABRINA MACKLAI

CONTENT EDITOR

When I entered university in the fall of 2015, I had a plan: spend four years in a rigorous STEM program, apply and get into med school, and eventually become a high-paid doctor. I soon realized, however, that what I excelled at, and ultimately enjoyed, strayed far from the path I intended to take. Philosophy, writing, fashion...these so-called frivolous pursuits became the very things I thrived in. It took me a while to understand this, but I’ve embraced my passions ever since.

THRIVE

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ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR

THRIVE

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NEW BLOOM WORDS by ARYAN GHAFFARIZADEH ART by ERIC VAN NUS

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I have yet to blossom.

My skin is large on me Every morning, I feel the sun’s tender warmth on my eyelids

I have yet to blossom.

My petals feel heavy on my heart I stretch my neck to feel the breeze But my thorns, Beg me to stay on my feet

I have yet to blossom.

To sing with every tree, And dance with the moonlight In a grassfield of dreams Time whispers gently As I start to hear the footsteps of spring And with a single touch, My veins turn green

Blooming in your eyes, I hear a thousand cries Your hands, pricked by my thorns As you pick me up

My petals bleeding through Become one With the flower on your dress Peering into the gloom Impatiently, I await another bloom x

THRIVE

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Words ART by MATTY FLADER

WORDS by ARCHAN DAVE

7:40 Bus I first found the assertive breeze of luke cold air quite annoying. Looking around, I tried to find another seat but sat back down only to bear the cool touch it had on my forehead. The commute home is a tedious one. People constantly ask if I ever get exhausted or if it interferes with school work or extracurriculars. “I don’t think about that part of the day too much.”

But I knew that was a lie. The quiet 7:40 bus enticed many thoughts that I would render in my imagination. It’s odd, isn’t it? The most active period of the day is during the most uneventful. Although I never doubted the walk inside my mind, I’d still think about the validity of my thoughts. The gentle hum from the engine was loud enough to block out the shuffles and whispers but not loud enough to disturb the state of introspection that I dove into. I often started with the usual — the things I had done, the people I’d met, and the conversations we had. Then, I asked those questions. What had I exactly said?

How had I said it? What had I achieved? I was always doubtful of myself. I questioned if I had truly used my day to its fullest extent. And for a moment, I was second-guessing my answer. But, I could just be overthinking it and rambling on about those minor instances. Like when I had tried to connect but had fallen short. Maybe, I shouldn’t have said that particular word when I had replied to her. I would replay that moment, and if only for a brief second — I could see everything. The slight turn in her lips and the sudden reach for breath left her as an enigma and I as Turing, as the words left my mouth.

After all that, I dwelled deeper. Perhaps, I had not spent my day the way I wanted to. I could have done more. I should have accomplished more. But maybe I did. I had a great conversation with my professor. I helped a transfer student navigate around campus and I even finished part of my homework for this week. But the query still lingered in my head. Had I done enough?

The grey hum from the engine littered my mind with regret, while the black trees that were passing by crept a shadow into my imagination. And, I would never close my eyes as I didn’t want to miss anything in the pitch dark. I wanted to live every moment. But that was dangerous because the moment I thought I saw anything, I would become lost. I would find myself at crossroads. While some paths would close, other darker ones opened. Though just like all estranged paths, they lead somewhere unexpected, often towards a realization. As the bus swirled out of the running highway, I took a deep breath and put on my game face.

What is the point of reflection if there is no act that follows? What is the point of regret if there is no resolve? The bus made a sharp curve into the station. There’s still time before the end of the day. Perhaps, I could finish that assignment. Or, I should call her. I should make the most out of today, while there is still time. And for tomorrow, I will make strides. The bus came to a halt as I closed my thoughts. As I took a step outside, I was greeted by the cold winter air. My eyes adjusted to the details and I saw everything. The shape of the snow-covered branches and brown tint on the trees revealed themselves. I left my discomforts on the bus and opened a better version of myself. To be better at every moment. Drawing in the chilled air, I began to walk across the white blanket. x

THRIVE

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ART by SABRINA JIVANI WORDS by ARIELLA RUBY ART by SABRINA JIVANI WORDS by ARIELLA RUBY

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I stand in a field of wheat. The stalks are taller than skyscrapers.

They stretch up and up and up, reaching so high that they block out most of the sun’s paltry winter light. A wide path of white gravel bisects the field into two equally sized rectangles. It is in the middle of this path that I stand. My feet are firmly planted, and I am unwilling to take another step forward. I tilt my head all the way up and stare intently at the sky. It is an even shade of gray that stretches on forever.

Move, I tell myself. Go! Now! But I cannot move, at least not yet. It’s so peaceful here. A gentle breeze strokes my naked calves. I shut my eyes and listen to the rustling of the wheat. High up in the sky, the bristled heads caress one another tenderly. I can hear the nearest stalk whisper to me: “Keep walking, girl. Don’t stop.”

I smile sadly to myself and open my eyes. She’s right, it’s time to go. The breeze is back, but this time he is more intense. He does not stroke my calves, he nudges them. I know, I know. I’m leaving.

My skirt flutters around me and little wisps of baby hair tickle my forehead. It is very bothersome so I tuck them back behind my ears. The wind pulls the wisps forward; they tickle my skin and giggle to each other. Stop it! I want to scream in frustration.

Get it together. I bite the inside of my lip and clench my hands into fists. Reaching down, I pull up the frilly trims of my socks. Stretching one leg forward with an immense effort, I take a step. Then another. I feel like I’m wearing massive Wellingtons.

They are two sizes too big and it is pouring outside and my feet are stuck in the mud. Every step takes so much effort; I want to give up. Suck, suck, suck. My feet throb beneath the rubber and a mustache of raindrops has gathered above my lips…But it’s not raining, it’s dry out. There’s no mud, only dusty white gravel.

I’m wearing tennis shoes with frilly white socks. Which begs the question, why is this so hard?

I spare a glance over my shoulder, and see that I’ve traveled about a hundred meters. Halfway past the midpoint, three quarters of the way out. You’re almost there. In the past twenty minutes, the gray sky has darkened to a smoky charcoal. The stalks rub against each other irritably. I can hear them bickering.

“Stop! Get off of me! That hurts.” The wind has pushed my baby hairs out of place. Keep walking. Don’t stop now. My armpits are

Get it together. I bite the inside of my lip and clench my hands into fists. Reaching down, I pull up the frilly trims of my socks. moist with sweat. I trudge forwards, humming a mindless tune as I go.

The wind calms, and I feel myself gathering strength. Every step is easier than the one before it. I can make out the yellowish plains of dead grass that lie beyond the field. I hum more loudly, more forcefully. My chest feels as light as air. I begin to skip. Five meters to go, four, three.

A sudden squall cuts through the right rectangle. I am thrust sideways, and my leg kicks a stalk of wheat that stands closest to the edge of the path. I hear a single sharp crack as the body of the stalk is partially severed from its base. Time slows as the broken stem tilts sideways gracefully. I taste blood in my cheeks from where my teeth clamped hard. Shards of white rock have pierced the skin on my palms and my knees.

I begin to crawl, inching forward in a desperate bid to escape the field before the stalk hits the pebbly earth. Through squinted eyes, I see its needle-thin shadow. I can hear the air whistling as the stalk descends from its lofty vantage point.

“You cut him! You broke him! We’ll cut you back! We’ll get you back,” screams the golden forest. “Murderer! Murderer!”

I can hear them twisting, fuming, crackling in anger. The squall hits again, with more force. Crawl. The wind is rising to a deafening roar. Crawl! Crawl! You’re almost — Thump.

The stalk hits the gravel. Immense clouds of sandy dust rise into the air, filling my lungs. The whole field is screaming, smoking. I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists.

Eventually, the dust settles. Warily, I rise to my feet and examine my surroundings. I stand in a field of wheat. The stalks are taller than skyscrapers. x THRIVE

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WORDS by CATHERINE HU ART by SA ADIA SHAHID

“The room has a life of its own / Apart from breath, a breath apart.” from “Chamber” by Phillis Levin — There is something about my room in Hamilton that has always reminded me of being on a ship.

It’s something in the size and shape of the room, the milky blue walls, the low ceiling that makes any visitor over 5’3” look comically large. It’s the deep-set windows that are vaguely reminiscent of portholes, and the slight tilt of the floor that evokes rocking waves when you walk across. The room itself is an addition our landlord built onto the back of our kitchen after he bought the place, so it juts out a bit from the rest of the house, like a docked vessel itching to slip free from its berth. I walk in and it’s like I’m entering the cabin of my own little boat. I look out the window and imagine myself as the captain, peering across the surface of the restless sea.

The first night I spent in this tiny, dingy, yet oddly charming room, I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. It was May 2016, and the start of summer after my first year at Mac. Fresh from finals, I was feeling emotionally worn out and painfully homesick, and already regretting my last-minute decision to stay in Hamilton over the summer to take orgo and do some volunteering.

Most of my friends and housemates had already left Hamilton for the summer, so I was feeling incredibly alone. And so there I was, having a bit of a crisis in this cramped room with its ugly curtains and bare, blue walls, in this city I still barely knew even after a year. I remember sitting on my bed as I drifted in my metaphorical cabin at sea, in that moment realizing how much I felt rootless and like I didn’t belong.

Fast forward to now as I write this in my fourth year, just a few months left before my graduation, and a lot has changed from that first night to today. It’s difficult to pinpoint when exactly a space begins to be a home for you. Over time, piece by piece, we gradually weave ourselves into the spaces we occupy, and they in turn become part of us. For me, this process began the morning after that first night in my room, as I was unpacking the rest of my things. I put my posters up on the previously bare walls, my books on the shelves, my plants against the windows with the curtains pulled back. As I filled the room with these little pieces of myself, the space started feeling a bit more like me.

Time went on, and I grew accustomed to life on the water as my room became a haven for navigating my undergraduate years. I bombed my orgo final exam, and learned that day that my room was a place where I felt safe enough to cry. Fall

semester came and school picked up, along with all the chaos that came with it. A classic introvert who often struggled with social anxiety, I began to cherish my room as a private space to relax and recharge, where I could do what I wanted and be myself without worrying about how I looked or what other people thought. Years went by, and as I gained courage and comfort in my own skin, I ventured through waters my younger self would have left untouched — new friendships were formed, new opportunities pursued, and new ways in which I fit into the community around me were slowly, steadily carved out.

Through every chill session, every all-nighter, every time I came inside at the end of a long day, my room became a place where I could feel both anchored and afloat. There have been days when it’s as if I have the whole ocean before me, just waiting to be traversed. I gaze out from my cabin upon the endless sea, upon the sun and the salt and the open sky, and marvel at the possibilities I am free to explore. There are other days when the ability to escape the outside world feels less like safety and more like isolation, when the loneliness and insecurity get to me, and I struggle to get out of bed. On those days, it’s as if the water has seeped up and flooded the cabin overnight, rising high enough that the bed is the only space left dry above the surface. Those days I huddle under the blankets, and wait for the waters to subside.

After three years at sea, there are countless memories embedded within these walls. When I eventually leave this place, when I move out in two months and move on to the next journey in my life, I will leave no physical traces behind. The walls will be empty, the floor swept clean, and all the pieces of myself taken away to make room for the next tenant to move in. But what will remain is the indelible mark this place has left on me.

When I look back on my years at Mac, what I’ll remember most is the spaces and moments where I could be my true self, where I could breathe, where I felt like even though my feet weren’t on solid ground, I was going to be okay. It will be the humble rental room in Westdale where I lived the most formative years of my undergrad. It will be all the people with whom I’ve been able to genuinely connect, and the friends who’ve made me feel loved and helped keep my head above water during hard times. It will be the wider city of Hamilton where I’ve put down roots and made myself a second home. It will be the pages of the student magazine where I’ve been able to tell my stories for four beautiful, brilliant years. It is these spaces which have most profoundly shaped my journey and my growth in my university life, and whose memories I will treasure going forward — all these spaces, where I have felt safe at sea. x

THRIVE

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From the Vine WORDS by RAN REN ART by ANISHA JAIGIRDER

“Here were decent godless people: Their only monument the asphalt road And a thousand lost golf balls” The red jewel glistened in the dew of the morning; and it seemed to me that the tomato had become a monad of beauty.

The drizzles of late July were still falling, like thousands of transparent threads from invisible spiders high up, gorging the rows upon rows of fruits that were exploding in slow motion, expanding millimeters per hour. The harvest covered the entire soccer field, a ramshackle plot. I felt my damp hair clinging to my neck as I stood there. Not that it meant anything; the supermarket had enough canned tomatoes to last a lifetime.

But still, I felt it.

It happened on a similar misty Saturday. I woke up to the raindrops dancing on the roof tiles, and stepped out into the freshness wearing the same raincoat. There was nothing — a deep, penetrating silence blanketed the sleeping neighbourhood. It wasn’t till I had reached the grocery market that I noticed anything wrong. The lights were on without anyone inside. There were half-filled shopping carts cluttering the aisles, clothes littered nearby in clumps. Outside, cars were idling on the asphalt at green stop lights, beams shining through the fog. Everyone had evaporated into that thick smoke surrounding the town.

I stopped looking for others fairly quickly after that. Or maybe I just had other concerns on my mind. You don’t realize how much you depend on others until they’re gone. The vital lifelines of water, electricity, and gas that flow into your house every minute like blood. At the very least, wherever everyone

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went, they left mementos behind. My time was occupied being a junk dealer, hacking up and fixing the things that would still be useful. If I wasn’t butchering heirloom couches and chairs for planks and nails or disassembling three speeds and plumbing for pipes, I was ripping solar panels and rain barrels from the houses of bunker nuts, preparations that they would no longer need. Occasionally, amongst the broken three-string banjos, tacky paintings, or mouldering pool tables, would be something that caught my eye which I kept.

And so it happened over a year that my house bulged, became distended, with the rain funnels and PV cells jutting out in alien geometries, with the old phonographs of tarnished brass playing old jazz records throughout the rooms. The old lightbulbs were gutted: Christmas lights, lava lamps, and an old blue stage light illuminated the space. And strewn all around were the letters, medals, trophies, unfinished paintings, sketchbooks, and newspaper clippings, the detritus left behind by those. To tell the truth, I was smothered, drowning in things from the world people had left behind them.

I went to the mall and tried everything on — the watches that kept incessantly ticking for eyes that were no longer there, the luxury clothes, shoes, rings that had no one left to admire them. There was a sports car parked with the keys still in the ignition, a pile of clothing on the seat. But there was no one left to compliment my ride, and all the fuel in the pumps had gone bad a month ago. A hollow victory.

It struck me that thousands of years from now, when the winds, the tides, and the sun had broken down and worn everything else out, all that would be left would be the tomatoes, still gleaming at dawn, their stalks clinging to scaffolding of hockey sticks and duct tape. x

THRIVE

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WORDS by ANNECY PANG ART by MATTY FLADER

Having It All

It was Thursday night, and Katie was bored.

She sat at the desk, scrolling through Facebook on her laptop. She could do some readings or the recommended practice problems but she just didn’t feel like it. A meme about red pockets and lunar new year passed by in a blur. Then there was a series of loud emojis and all-caps proclamations — it was the latest of friend auctions on the Subtle Asian Dating group.

Subtle Asian Dating was a place for Asian people to hype up their single friends, and to share memes of their dating experiences. The group bothered Katie, but she couldn’t figure out why. Was it how cookie-cutter the posts were, claiming that this girl wasn’t an ABG (Asian baby girl) as though an ABG was something shameful to be? Was it the abundance of the phrase “wholesome fuccboi”? Was it how it seemed like a blatant Instagram plug (surely these beautiful people didn’t need more potential love interests)?

Maybe it was because Katie was alone. Single, unattached, whatever you wanted to call it. She knew in her head it didn’t matter what her relationship status was, because her self-worth wasn’t defined by how others viewed her. But it still nagged at her sometimes.

She knew what the aunties said behind her back when she attended family gatherings. That she was smart (her GPA attested to that), that she was pretty (maybe not jaw-droppingly beautiful, but cute enough), that she even had a great summer job lined up (one of those coveted positions at the Big 4), but it was such a shame she was still single. At least they hadn’t introduced their family friends’ sons to her. Not yet, at least.

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She knew what the aunties said behind her back when she attended family gatherings.

Katie sighed, closed her laptop, and sat on her bed. Maybe she should try Tinder again. It just got so dull: the boys looked the same and dressed the same and said the same things. She opened the app and started swiping. Within minutes her inbox was flooded with messages. Some guy named Nick sent a Hey with a winky face, and another named Kevin asked her for her favourite brand of maple syrup. Hi cutie with a heart-eyed emoji popped up from Michael and a You free tonight beautiful? from Sean made her unmatch with him. Paul sent a dog emoji and said something about his dog running away. Nick asked her what she was up to this late, Kevin thought her Aunt Jemima answer was funny, and Michael asked if she was free for drinks.

Katie hesitated. I’m already in my pajamas and much too tired to go out haha she sent back.

It was probably because her lack of a partner was the only piece missing in the perfect-Katie puzzle. At least, the idea of the perfect-Katie that existed in her mind and in the mind of those aunties. One thing was for sure: once she found a boyfriend, she would have it all. x

THRIVE

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WORDS by MICHELLE HUYNH ART by RUBY ZHENG

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SOLACE

it’s 4 am here in the abyss of my thoughts. knee deep as the tides lick and caress my thighs. legs heavy as they sink into the soft grains of the ocean. warm orange bleeds into ebony inviting 5 am. still standing as the waters start to clasp and cling onto damp, bare skin. pulling down. legs stubbornly growing pins and needles.

8 am does not come quickly. the agonizing wait breaks only when the sun emerges from her slumber. and with her smile beaming down, the waters are silenced. the grip of the earth frees achilles’ heels. when 10 am comes, a wave steadily approaches, casting a protective shadow as it arches over my crown before going down. lifted off the pads of my feet i smile in relief. x

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WORDS by AFREEN AHMAD ART by MARIUM SHAHANA

She was always told she was too extra. Her clothes were too extra. The tint on her lip was too extra. The highlight at the tip of her nose was too extra. The way her laugh echoed off the empty hallways was too extra. She was too extra for this world.

The voices taunted her incessantly.

Days like this, filled with apologies and wrongs she couldn’t right, stretched on forever. The people around her weren’t much help; they were too rigid and made her feel boxed up. Any light in her grew dimmer and dimmer. At times like these, she liked to recall better days.

The wind was tangled in her hair. Each tide rose and fell to match her breath. She was at sea. She wanted to be like the sand beneath her feet — afresh with every wave. She wanted to jump into the the ocean headfirst. She wanted to go into the darkness without knowing whether there was light at the end of the tunnel. She wanted to take risks, trust with no limits, and be okay with being led blindly. She wanted to live, to thrive!

But doubt consumed her, running through to the end of her fingertips.

Parts of her kept fighting each other. She had learned to calm down. She had grown quieter each day. But some days, her hands couldn’t resist the urge to put on blue eyeliner, or a little too much blush, or dark mauve lipstick — anything to make her extra self shine through. Other days, the voices would get to her and she faced the critical world bare-faced.

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“I just need to get through this day,” Aira muttered as she trudged through 30 centimeters of snow. It was pitch black outside and the moon was her only companion. While crossing the side of the park, she saw an older lady sitting on a bench, her head hanging low. Assuming something must be wrong, Aira approached the woman.

“Ma’am, can I help you?”

The woman looked up startled, and after some time simply shook her head. Aira, being the busybody she was, sat down next to the women and tried to match her stillness for exactly 40 seconds before blurting, “How’s everything going?”

“Okay,” the woman replied after some time. When the woman realized Aira wouldn’t budge, she continued, “My husband passed away recently.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Well, it’s not all bad. I get to have a little peace and quiet with no one listening to the news 24/7...he had a bad habit of leaving that thing on.”

“Oh.” “And I guess there’s no one to buy eggs for.”

Aira kept nodding and smiling as the woman continued to point out how things were different around her house.

“Oh well, it won’t be long...perhaps my time is coming soon,” the woman sighed.

“But you have so much potential!” Aira replied.

The woman gave her a quizzical expression that Aira could not fully understand.

“You know,” the woman started, “most people would have just walked by.”

It took Aira a moment to understand what the woman meant before she laughed, “No, I’m a little too much!”

“Sometimes I think that’s what people need — even if they don’t know it.”

Before Aira could reply, the woman began to complain about the cold, and Aira insisted on taking her home.

After dropping the woman off, Aira thought of her extra self. Of how she talked too much and butted into other people’s problems too often. She remembered days when she thought standing out wasn’t a bad thing, days when she didn’t care about what others thought. For now, she decided to stop listening to the voices and allow herself to imagine her next makeup look. Blue eyeliner, too much blush, and dark mauve lipstick — anything to make her extra self shine through. x

THRIVE

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ART by DAVID SHIN

WORDS by OWEN DAN LUO

SUMMER STORM

Only then can we break through the storm clouds encroaching our horizons, Leaving us to bask in the radiance of our newfound sunlight, Our nostrils gently teased by the inviting earthy smell after rainfall; Our ears filled with the laughter of children jumping into puddles; With a wonderous rainbow stretching across the blue sky above us. x

We measure ourselves by the audiences of our actions but now I see That the most important — but hardest — person to impress Is none other than ourselves.

We are told to harm ourselves today to help ourselves tomorrow, But it is up to us to learn to say no.

Ah, in my quest for success, I robbed myself of my raincoat: Passions, hobbies, and individuality.

In my fear of failure, I then shredded my umbrella: Friends, families, and ultimately my final sanctuary — my sleep.

Left to the whims of the persistent storm raging in my mind, I gnashed my teeth to fight losing battles each night.

To what gain?

My plight was not borne from a pulled muscle or broken bone, Instead my thoughts were flooded with noxious stress.

Each night a torrential downfall of anxiety on the forecast, But in this unforgiving world, the weatherman was never wrong.

Each night I found myself without a raincoat or umbrella, Naked and bare in the rain as blades of water whittled me away.

With a storm cloud raging through my mind, A bolt of lightning hurtles into my jaw, I clutch my face to nurse away the sparks of pain Only to evince another round of thunderous torment; I recruit all my muscles to scream But my cemented jaw prevents me.

People in white coats poke and prod me, Only to find what cannot be palpated: a tormented mind.

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The Café WORDS by TELMAH LLUK A ART by MARIUM SHAHANA

I was sitting in a café the other day, known for its Montréal-style bagels (and I can attest that these are very good bagels indeed).

Vivaldi, I believe, was playing over the din of all the customers and the friends they’re having brunch with, who I guess were also customers, and the bells dinging and doors ringing as they open and close, and the hustle and bustle of waiters and waitresses — delivering food and taking orders and cleaning dirty tables and leaving almost as soon as they came in with plates piled high in their arms and what have you. I was sitting in the middle of it all, having some tea. I was having some tea and something very strange happened; what seemed at first as just the normal commotion of the normal locomotion of a busy, busy café soon began to grow and grow — yelling, bells dinging like mad, plates crashing into each other — it continued to grow and grow, unbearable, overwhelming. My tea began to quake with the noise, yet when I looked around the room for the cause of this uproar, not one thing was out of place; customers and their friends, who are also customers, sitting, eating as they should be, waiters taking orders and cleaning tables as they should be. Everything as it should be.

As I sat there in the middle of it all, I came to the conclusion that my entire life has led up to this moment. Kismet. Used to be my favourite word, until fate decided my life would peak drinking tea at a café known for its Montréal-style bagels, at least it’s known for something. I’m not sure entirely what happened afterwards. I awoke the next morning, visited the same café again to have some tea, almost forgetting about the entire ordeal. How quickly it all equilibrates into the normalities of daily life; passion and all other strong emotions, fond memories, what have you. The warmness in your chest, the soreness of your cheeks, melancholy, fear, love.

No difference, indifference. Through no fault of our own do we return to routine, to stability.

Embrace instability. Keep yourself on your toes. Go out at 12 AM, stay out until 12 PM. Take a year off from everything, move to a different city. Read more. Don’t read more. Stay in all night. Kismet used to be my favourite word, now I think it’s stupid; if fate exists, ignore it. Do what you have always wanted to do. Don’t let me tell you what to do! I will not go home tonight. Tonight, I will go downtown, let the city breathe its vitality into me. Breathe in the stale, piss-soaked air, fresh to me, the loud din of buses and taxis and bikes and what have you, going who knows where, people, all kinds of people and their friends, who are people too, going who knows where, an energy unfelt for years before. I will not go home tonight and I will not have some tea tomorrow. x

THRIVE

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SEASONS

WORDS by EMILY BLUM ART by MATTY FLADER

I am looking through you, Wishing you would stay.

Lashes speckled with snow My clarity, compromised.

Blind to the sorrow that will follow you home, I breathe in the sharp air, Releasing a fog that pushes you Further away.

I grasp at loose strings, I paint truth as fantasy, I become the mess you’ve made of me.

I realize soon It is no longer enough to make you stay.

Eyes meet in a haze I am unsure where I lost you.

I thought you were The one whose eyes glistened gold, Stranger.

I am enveloped in brown, Lifeless and unforgiving Your indifference as cruel as ice.

It’s the final push As you fade into the snow.

So it goes, Outside I become pink with sun, But my mind, still frozen in weary.

He is not you. I am terrified I am soothed He is not you.

I will not dive in Caution and precaution.

It’s hard to be careful When he looks at me With eyes that shine so blue It catches me in my strides, It grounds me in my soles, And the way he says goodnight I start to daydream of the moon.

I recognize this feeling But this world is totally new.

It’s okay to try again Patience is a virtue He shows me I can live on my own.

All is in change All is not lost I do not feel your absence here.

No. It is a presence of something I have long since forgotten.

Letting you go was relentless, But I’ve found solid ground.

Long gone is the ghost of you, Whisked away in yellow You left nothing behind.

Each day is a little simpler, Each night is a little kinder, Time is lonelier And I am free.

Since you’ve left, The most beautiful melody Plays in my mind.

The sound of silence My very first quiet The softest voice — my own — The only sound that remains.

Let me change with the seasons Watch me thrive in the storm Trust I’ll brave every weather Believe I’ll always come home. x

THRIVE

27

The summer world is saturated with water and claustrophobic megalomania, and my room takes on the habitual scent of a swampland. My marauding lungs steal deep breaths of oxygen where they can; I still asphyxiate. By midday, there’s a routine half-hour break to paint a new face onto myself — the makeup I apply in the morning is long gone, having melted away in the summer heat. Nighttime is even worse; I sleep with blankets smouldering my chest — it’s small, undesirable, unideal — and I wake up at spasmodic intervals, white sheets trying to fuse with my jaundiced skin.

Today, I wake up at seven thirty-one — far too early — with the usual sweat-drenched sheets suffocating me, their bleached hands wrapping around my neck to choke the air out of me.

I have to piss, so I get out of bed. The soles of my feet press against the flattened carpet — I tell myself the stains on the floor are from years of wear and tear, not spilled fluids — and I begin my journey towards the bathroom. But half of me wants to crawl back into the over-warm covers, and my legs don’t seem to want to move. They don’t respond to me. Instead, I drag them across the discoloured carpet, my hands pressed against the wall to support my weight. The floor near the walls are less prone to creaking, but I step carefully so I don’t wake my mother. My strides are spasmodic and irregular as I attempt to keep the house silent. Do I look like some drunken bastard, returning home intoxicated? The thought tastes putrid in the back of my throat. I ignore it.

The washroom is only a five-second trek from my room, and as I cross the threshold, I cringe at the cold linoleum bathroom tiles against my toes. One hand goes through my hair — a feeble attempt at fixing the knotted, scraggly mess — while the other gropes the wall until it flips a light switch. The room is bathed in the flickering, white tint of clearance LED bulbs. I stare at my half-asleep visage in the mirror with my asymmetrical eyes — my left with its pretty epicanthic fold; my right still deformed by an ugly monolid — and a halfformed wish that my skin might take on the alabaster tone that furnishes my dreams. Something scuttles across the mildewinfested drywall, which I barely catch in the corner of my eye.

It’s there, peripheral. It flits in and out of sight. I try to ignore it.

Peripheral.

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I see it again. It’s this ugly, black thing with a pair of bent antennae jutting out of its pill body, covered in fading, yellow stripes. Six hairy legs jerking through spasmodic and irregular strides. It spans nearly length of my palm, and I feel both the urge to squash it beneath my hand and to run away, bury my head under the blankets, and purge the image from my mind.

Yes, it was never there, I tell myself. Go do your business, then leave. Go back to sleep, Jenny.

I try to tell myself it isn’t there, but my eyes remained locked on it. Its antennae twitch in unison, and I can’t help but think it’s taunting me. I want it gone — leave, you ugly thing. Stop contaminating this place — and I reach out with my hand to crush it. My palm makes contact against the wall, but the thing has long scurried away. The wall groans, protesting against the blow, but I try again. I’m evaded, but the sound of the impact reverberates through the apartment complex.

“Liú Jiā Yì!” Mother yells from her bedroom. It’s a traditional name, a figment from my past that I’ve tried to cover up with painted, contoured faces and new names scrawled on Starbucks cups. Then, in warped, accented English, she calls out again.

“What is wrong with you?!”

I try one more time to hit the bug. This time, it makes a satisfying crunch along my hand, its chitin exoskeleton fracturing and digging into my palms. Its legs are still struggling in my fist, still trying to gain purchase on the rotting wall. Squished, ugly.

Deformed. Alive.

Liú Jiā Yì! She’s louder this time.

Cockroach. I release it from the confines of my grip, and for a moment, its skinny antennae perk up, as if thanking me for my virtuous mercy. I watch it crawl. The thing is slower this time, as it has neither the life nor the energy to keep moving. A twinge of guilt runs through my body, and I let it escape. I watch it drag itself away for a few more minutes, until the yellow-white hemolymph tracks it leaves span across the room, and I leave it alone in hopes it might die on its own.

Then, I wash my hands with the bar of white soap and leave. x

WORDS by CELINA LIU ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

THRIVE

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ART by MATTY FLADER

WORDS by ZARA PARTOVI

AND SHE THOUGHT SHE HAS FOUND HERSELF LIVING IN BETWEENS And she thought she has found herself. She had become aware of her body. How she was holding her shoulders, the form of her spine, the pressure of her legs into her hip bone, and the little weight of her flesh on her toes. She tilted her head back, looked at the sky and…there was nothing. Nothing conspicuous. Nothing caught her attention as she was hoping it would. No dispersed cloud, no sun rays, no birds flapping away.

The sky was bored and blue. Or maybe it was just portraying peace.

She looked down with disappointment until her jaw touched her collarbone. A yellow line separated her two feet. She contemplated how humans have been imposing concepts to mundane definitions. How a simple extended touch of a pen on a piece of paper could be forced to bear the meaning of division merely due to its capacity to exist.

She distracted herself before generalizing these notions to her existence. She envisioned herself sitting in her favorite chair, which she never had, looking at a simply intriguing cactus placed on the ledge of a window; both of which she never had. And driven by her imagination, she squinted her eyes at the sharpness of the sunlight that unexpectedly emerged out of the clouds and travelled through the window to hit the tip of the cactus’ sharp leaves.

A loud movement of air caused by the passage of a car threw her back to where her body was. Pulling along her upper body with a frown on her face, she watched the car disappear into the horizon. She turned her neck, looked ahead, and started walking on the carelessly asphalted road. She didn’t want to take steps on a heavy road that was made to be trodden on. After a few steps taken in a slanted line, she felt the softness of the damp dirt under her feet. But she willed herself not to smile, not to imitate those inane movies in which a wallow smile appears on the actor’s face for actualizing a meaningless achievement for the audience. She is her own audience; there is no audience. Overcompensating for the urge, she molded her face to seem even more stern and serious than before.

It was harder to keep the balance of the footsteps while walking on a moving ground. Perhaps there was a reason for recruiting construction workers to bring the required material to create this road. Unconsciously on her next step, she placed her right foot on the road, causing her to limp. In shock, she suddenly paused. Her head looked around fanatically, expecting to receive a reaction or an acknowledgement from someone. Upon remembering that she was alone, she continued limping adamantly.

And all the way she pictured herself walking on the crowded streets of a city with one foot on the curb, the other on the street.

This time she smiled like a movie star. x

THRIVE

31

ART by ABBY LINDZON WORDS by SABRINA MACKLAI

The year is 3095. Forty years have passed since the Last War. It was during this war that we lost everything: our homes, our loved ones, our society as we knew it. The nuclear bombs eradicated over ninety-nine percent of Earth’s habitable land. Our small strip of green, with just a little over a thousand people, is all that’s left of humanity.

It was determined that in order for our species to survive, we couldn’t risk any conflict. And so, technology and science advanced so rapidly that everyone’s basic needs have been met. There is no famine or poverty. Everyone goes to school.

Everyone has access to healthcare. We take mood stabilizers every morning that ensure we never feel any upsetting emotions like sadness or loneliness. Even love is just an injection away. What more could we ask for?

I wasn’t around during the Last War, but our elders reference it enough in our cautionary tales to scare us silly. They’ve warned us that if we aren’t careful about following the rules of society, we could cause the end of our species. It’s worked so far, at least. There hasn’t been so much as a disagreement between people, since there’s nothing really to disagree over. With all our needs met, we should be happy.

I should be happy.

I think there’s something wrong with me. I haven’t told anyone — I can’t tell anyone — but lately, I’ve been feeling off. I think I’m feeling…sad? I’ve never experienced this emotion before; I shouldn’t have to, but I can’t think of anything else to describe this emptiness I feel.

It started one day after work. We’re assigned careers at birth. Since everyone’s needs are met, we don’t work for money.

Instead, we are expected to contribute to society and ensure its survival. There is

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no reason to complain; we’re all equal.

My job at the library isn’t valued any more or less than Jake’s job sweeping the halls or Lara’s shifts at the pharmacy.

But, for whatever reason, as I was locking up the library doors, a flood of uneasiness washed ov e r me.

I’d spent most of that day archiving records about once-famous celebrities who are long dead. When society was rebuilt from the rubble, the library was deemed an essential part of society. “It would be dangerous to forget the past that brought us to where we are today,” our elders always say.

I like reading about our species’ history. I know we’ve been warned against romanticizing it, but I can’t help feeling a little envious about our past lives. Back then, people weren’t just concerned about survival. They aspired towards something more.

Diana came into the library late that day. As part of society’s rules, citizens are mandated to spend one full day per year in the library, reading and reflecting on society’s past. But Diana strolled in only an hour before we were about to close.

There was something different about Diana. She never openly rebelled against society — she wouldn’t be walking free if she did — but she always seemed to be against our strict ways. She’d roll her bright green eyes during assemblies and fail to hide a smile whenever an elder would recount a cautionary tale.

One time she caught me watching her and winked, a simple action that made my heart clench in ways that can’t be replicated by injections or pills.

When she entered the library that day, she had smiled and spent a few minutes browsing through our historical shelves before I noticed she had slipped into the

Forbidden section.

“You can’t be in here,” I warned her.

“But you’re in here with me,” she replied with that easy smile of hers.

I didn’t know what to do. The Forbidden section in our library was filled with any surviving material from before The Last War. The elders feared that their release would influence people to turn away from our society, but they were too valuable to destroy.

“How do you feel, Wilona?” Diana asked. She looked at me intently with her bright green eyes, and I found myself replying in spite of myself.

“I’m nervous.”

“Nervous? They don’t make injections for that, hmm?” she asked with an airy laugh. “It’s fine, I’m leaving anyways. You won’t tell anyone, right?”

I knew I should report it. But I couldn’t do that. Not to Diana. I don’t know what happens to the people who rebel, to the people who threaten our society’s existence, but I’ve heard the rumours.

Any sign of disobedience sends you to The Facility. People who get sent there are never seen again.

Diana eventually did leave the library after our brief conversation. Before she left, she passed me a note, folded into a tiny square. “Decide later,” she said, before rushing out the doors.

Saturday. Nine o’ clock. Basement of the old kitchen. Experience the twentyfirst century, the note read. I had opened and closed Diana’s note so many times that the crease in the paper threatened to rip.

A glance at the clock read quarter to nine. In fifteen minutes, I could be at the basement of the old abandoned kitchen, or I could be in bed by curfew. When I closed my eyes and saw bright green, I grabbed my keys and ran. x

THRIVE

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ART by LAUREN DI VINCENZO

GAZE INTO THIS

CANOPY OF BLUE

WORDS & ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR

KNOCK-KNOCK Let me hide under these blue covers,

their warmth embraces my scars.

These wounds the cold world cut with icicles

into my skin, may yet thaw.

Let me keep my eyes closed and stay lying here.

Don’t make me wake and see.

Destroy the clocks, for they lie

This time is not true.

Run in your dreams

away from a painted world; The wallpaper’s ripping

at the edges, I can see.

Remember floral beauty withers in the winter.

Blackened and stained these white walls are

from the soot of words

and the fire of sight.

So let me lie here and

gaze into this canopy of blue.

Until the moon rises and my lids

force me back into my mind.

PONDER Hold this pen down

and run it across these lines.

Stone chiseled to roll along,

a divine invention of efficiency.

A light shines through a small crevice

of this flesh draped in experience

out it pours and streams

of liquid Gold thin as Helium.

Mix a potion with the sky

and let the jet streams carry it,

circling around this sphere

of land and water and air.

Wait for the sun to set

to realize there is always light

Stretching its song out to the universe

in specks and blasts and all.

How we ponder over the breeze

that meets flowers in the meadow,

travelling under waterfalls and

through hanging willow branches.

It reaches us and whispers a message

Strive to Thrive to Survive. x THRIVE

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Fire and Water

WORDS by NEDA PIROUZMAND ART by KRITI MANUJA

ME I am so tired that I feel like my eyelids are being dragged down by twenty-pound weights. Finally, when I get the chance to lay down, I let my eyes close and I fall into my dream.

I am sitting on the edge of a beach. Not the fancy kind of beach that you see in commercials for resorts, and not the kind with the rocky sand and dirty water of city beaches. I would call it a modest in-between; the sand and water are not perfect, but I could easily see myself taking a dip. There is barely anyone else here, save for a couple that is less than a kilometre away from me and walking along the shoreline. I see a wave overtake the husband and watch as he is pulled out by the water. At first the couple is laughing. But right before a larger wave washes over them, you can hear the change in their pitch and tone. I can feel the change from amusement to fear.

I cannot move in my dreams. So all I can do is watch as they are washed away. And I feel the pain of their past, the happiness that came with their memories, and their hope for what would have been their future. I see images through their eyes, thoughts through their minds, and emotions through their hearts. He cheated on her long ago. Did she know? Yes, she had always been suspicious. Think of it as the movie of a lifetime, literally.

Some time passes. Who knows how long it has been. Is it possible to fall asleep in a dream?

Someone’s hand is sticking above the surface of the water and doing a frantic wave before plunging back in. I think that I must be imagining it. But then I catch a glimpse of a forehead. There’s an elbow. Is that a foot? Again, I am stuck, left to what my eyes can detect. I begin to spot this orange haze that surrounds surfacing body parts. It could be anything. After all, I am dreaming.

YOU I know that I can’t hold my breath for much longer. My parents had put me through Red Cross swimming lessons at an early age. And yet here I was, struggling. I guess I just wasn’t meant to have the superhuman ability to stay underwater longer than the average 30 seconds. You’d think that maybe some higher power would give me a break and grant me even a bit of what Tom Sietas can do. I’d really like to know who I can talk to in order to make that happen.

I open my eyes and adjust to the light. I’ve trained for situations like these. Using the test that I learned in class, I figure out the direction of the surface and spread my arms in a wide breaststroke to propel myself upward. The moment I break the surface, all I feel is a burn. At first I wonder if it is from the sun. It becomes so much that I have to force my head back underwater.

I can barely hold it for five seconds before I need another gulp of air. My anxiety is compromising me. Even though my skin will burn, I make a plan to go back up and fully open my eyes to see where I am. I almost black out as the pain of a thousand needles shoots through my eyes and into every free piece of skin available.

I feel like I could have done with an extra hour of sleep. After taking too long to decide what to wear to class today, I finally make my way downstairs and pop some chocolate chip Eggo waffles in the toaster. Glen is calling me.

“Hey.” I am still in the middle of chewing my waffle.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like a baby.”

“No bad dreams?!” Our little inside joke.

“Nope, nothing but good vibes.”

ME She was consumed by something. Something so bad that no matter what she did, she would eventually lose. That is what I felt after she stopped coming up from under the water. I wonder who I will see next, the next dreamer that will fall into my sight. x

THRIVE

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A Gram 38

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WORDS by ALEX CHEN ART by ALLY YA SHAHID

The path was dark. In spite of the overbearing equatorial sun overhead, the litter of low-lying, shoddily constructed shacks painted the atmosphere a dismal grey. A sickeningly warm breeze of air ferried the scent of rotting fish, the stench of a dozen scattered plastic fires, and the rancid odour of hominid fecal matter. William Maxwell strode through the streets with a small entourage of protection detail, the minimum required for a person of his stature. Eyes peered through rotten boards and gaps in the tarps that were the walls of this world.

Something stumbled into the empty path. Its clothes were ragged, as though it’d been thrown into a blender, used as a chew toy, and then left to bake in a mache of clay. Tangled hair ran amuck, polka-dotted with bald spots and debris. Unhealthy grey splotches stretched across sunken cheeks, outlining bloodshot eyes. It walked with a sort of peculiar swagger; it limped favouring one leg, would pause to twitch every other second, and its eye jerked with the consistency of a caffeinated squirrel. It was a woman, but it wasn’t: a human who had crossed into the uncanny valley.

Most strikingly, it — she — smiled widely, revealing gaping holes in her teeth.

“Y’look rich,” she said. “Syme, Syme has the good stuff. Syme knows. Can go o’er the moon an’ all the stars an —” The woman burst out laughing, enthralled by a joke only she understood. There was a bubbly giddiness about her, a cheer that permeated her being.

Although the wrinkled, aged flesh about her face was stretched taut with years of abuse, the woman was nothing but happy.

One of Maxwell’s escorts stepped between them. Six-and-ahalf feet of armoured muscle blocked his line of sight.

“Ma’am. Please move.”

“Coke!” she cried out. “I’ve coke! Any coke for the charmin’?”

A few stuttering footsteps. She was drawing nearer.

“Sir.” A perimeter formed around Maxwell. As an entourage, they crammed past the addict. A faint cry came from behind them. The woman had toppled over, reveling in the dusty brown grains. No one had touched her.

“Jus’ wanna share the love,” the woman crooned. Maxwell glanced back once. Her smile was as wide as ever. Her eyes glazed over, seeing some faraway paradise. He paused to watch as she groped about the air, never for a second losing her air of euphoria.

“Sir. You have an appointment.”

Maxwell nodded. He allowed himself to be led onto more reputable streets and into a waiting car. A half hour’s drive returned them to a high-class accommodation for an interview with journalists.

—

He dropped the counterfeit expression. They were all too common in his line of work.

A week later in his office, Maxwell found himself waiting for the last dying rays of sunlight to peter out. The building was quiet; most employees had already gone home. His eyes wandered to a fresh newspaper clipping on the wall: a cover of his recent humanitarian efforts. His gaze lingered for a moment.

Beside it, in an elaborately framed painting, was a portrait of himself and two females, one a full-grown woman and the other barely old enough to be considered a child. All three were depicted joyously. The painted Maxwell’s slightly upturned lips was a mark of the emotions that his wife and daughter displayed more openly. Maxwell tried to lift the edges of his mouth in a similar fashion. He didn’t need a mirror to know the result.

Maxwell despised the portrait. It was necessary, a humanizing element to the projected image of the hard businessman, in the same vein as philanthropy and charity. His wife and daughter were the closest people to him, physically.

Their smiles after he returned from long nights at the office, the hugs after overseas trips, and the affection in their words — all of it was genuine. Maxwell wished he were.

He dropped the counterfeit expression. They were all too common in his line of work. His eyes flicked back to the article and the ecstatic smile of the drug addict came to mind. The nagging thought of it irritated him. A memory that refused to fade. She had had nothing. No safety, no family, no respect, and certainly no financial situation to speak of. It took a moment to name the uneasiness he felt.

Maxwell laughed — at himself. He was jealous! Of a drug addict whose hours, let alone days, were numbered. Of someone so hopelessly lost in their own fantasy that they lived, laughed, and loved in abject poverty, ruining their health and finances for a quick rush. She, like his wife, like his daughter, held something that could draw out such rich, raw emotions. She, who was nothing, possessed something he didn’t.

It wasn’t money. Neither was it status, nor a spouse and children. Recognition and renown were more bothersome than anything else. There was always the looming possibility of more, of bigger and better, his inability to grasp the root of his wife’s actions notwithstanding. Maxwell sighed, breaking his immaculate posture to recline at his desk.

He phoned his secretary. It would be a new approach. An experiment. A unique experience, if nothing else.

“Samuel,” he said, “get me a gram.” x

THRIVE

39

ART by ABDULLAH EL-SAYES WORDS by LIBERTY LIU

Insecure Fires I remember going on my first camping trip in the sixth grade. My family and two others rented neighbouring campgrounds. They were secluded, arranged in the way of a triple Venn diagram. Each territory was encircled by trees; only connected through a small opening where we could see one another.

My family had picked up kindlewood from a small pit stop, so we arrived slightly later than the others. By the time we finished setting up our tents and such, the neighbouring kids had already broken up and begun setting fires. It was almost like a competition to see whose would

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be the greatest attraction. There were no concrete guidelines, and no prize to be won. Regardless, the children found great motivation. Each group had unofficially appointed a leader to raise the odds of their arbitrary aim.

It had rained prior to that morning, and so the wood was slightly damp.

Feeling the need to enjoy my time, I walked over to a group with hopes that I could invest in the hype. The boy in charge of one contesting fire prepared an environment with small kindling. He laid a bed of lovingly collected birch bark and twigs, ready to reap rewards of their

sacrifice. The boy lit a piece of paper and placed it into the pit. We, the followers, watched intently from the side as the red sparks twinkled in the broad daylight.

Soon enough, the birch oil reached its limit, and the glow fell flat. Unamused, the group’s followers diminished alongside.

I looked into their pit, still seeing a few twigs and burnt remains of bark. There were some pieces of garbage as well, despite signs all over the campground kindly advising against this.

I went back to my campsite and started unloading some wood into our own pit. I had been a Cadet, so my understanding of how to build a campfire went beyond that of using primitive sticks and friction. I had no kindling though,

and didn’t feel like scavenging. Tired, I sat on the dank wooden bench, reaching for a juice box.

Unexpectedly, my glance was caught by a bright whoosh to the right. Children and parents’ glances alike were met by an impressive flame. The boy, having gained our attention, revealed his act — ironically, as smug as a magician. He lifted the gasoline tank from his hands and poured generously into the pit. The circle coughed and spewed, ejecting its fiery phlegm like a geyser. We fixated on the object as though the sight of a gun limited our squinting vision. Our eyes fixated on the bright red flame: captured, like rabbits frozen insightfully when realizing a peer was caught in a successful snare. Even after the initial pour, the fire still thrived on. The attention survived until we had finally digested what was going on.

The air smelt heavy, corrupted with impurity. I sat still as I watched the glow dim. The blaze was dead, with no funeral to attend to it. The expectations had shifted, and the novelty had been consumed as well.

I should have nurtured my own fire. x

THRIVE

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ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by YU FEI XIA

At long last, I stand at the base. The snow is crisp beneath my boots, and I wriggle my toes to fend off the chill already creeping inside. How did I get here? Is it that I have returned from a hike, or is my journey just beginning? Here in Calgary, the mountains rise until their white peaks are blown away to the clouds. The mists that fall from them seem magical. I have never felt so grounded.

The first step, then the next, and the next. Each breath cocoons comfortingly in my scarf, pulled up tight to my nose.

My fingers tingle from the chill, and my glasses frost over at the edges. I find myself looking up, out, into the distance. How many people have climbed these mountains, are climbing mountains in parallel to me, right at this moment? I saw this mountain clearly from my lodge window, but now, the way is much less straightforward. The mystery is exciting.

The path winds at the turns, bending back to almost parallel lines. My footprints seem to contradict themselves. Step, inhale, step, exhale. Am I going up, or am I walking in circles? My scarf has hardened with frost and my feet feel numb. I almost wish the path were steeper. The ascent continues.

Soon, the snowflakes begin to smother instead of shimmer.

The landscape is the same, but what was once beautiful now seems devastating. Snow covers the ground and trees like an endless blanket of cotton candy, soft and inviting, a tingling of glittering sugary crystals on my tongue and tips of my fingers and nose. Yet to look out at this landscape is to be out of place and miserably cold. Who am I to disturb this place? What do I think I will find here, other than trees and snow and fog? In some ways, the view from halfway up feels more suffocating and smaller than the view at the bottom.

Step, inhale, step, exhale. A gust of wind pushes past, fortified by the now pelting snow, and I almost stumble in surprise. The snow sneaks up my coat, and I feel the ice invade.

My thighs protest, the air scrapes my throat, and frost tugs on the tips of my eyebrows and hair. The corners of my vision go white as my eyelashes droop with the sticky snow. Slowly, I turn 42

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white from the outside in. With each step, time seems to warp, sliding forwards, backwards, along parallel and winding paths.

My hair is salt and pepper, then white. My vision blurs and dims. All I see are the trees ahead, the fog beyond; the path ahead and behind me have long since disappeared. I all but hobble on snow, no trail, following nothing but the slope of the earth and the voice in my head. Step, inhale, step, exhale.

Before I know it, I’m at the peak. I look out into the distance, the vast and endless view ever so slightly obscured by snow and mist. It isn’t as life changing as I had imagined. I don’t look out at the sun over the mountains and come to any life-changing philosophies. The problems of the world and of my mind are still the same. But there is a visceral, unfurling satisfaction, bordering on vindication, of what I have managed to accomplish. This mountain thought it could beat me down, or perhaps I sought this path out of ignorance and stupidity, but I have overcome it all the same. This seed of warmth spreads slowly in my chest, and my spirit, once tense, becomes slightly uncoiled. I close my eyes and take in the quiet. Eyes open, one last look at the distance, and then I begin to head back down again.

Step, inhale, step, exhale. The warmth in my chest blossoms, sprouting to my arms and legs, fingers, toes, and nose. The snowstorm passes. The ice recedes from my hair and eyelashes, and the progression of my aging in this journey of eons reverses.

My vision is clear again. My back straightens and relaxes from a defensive hunch. The hardest part is over, I repeat in my head. My legs thaw inside my boots and begin to feel sore again. This time I welcome the warm ache over the lead-like numbness. How many people have descended these mountains, are descending right at this moment? I know I am not alone, and it is comforting.

At long last, I stand at the base. The snow is crisp beneath my boots, and I wriggle my toes to fend off the chill already creeping inside. How did I get here? Is it that I have returned from a hike, or is my journey just beginning? Here in Calgary, mountains rise until their white peaks are blown away to clouds. The mists that fall from them seem magical. I have never felt so grounded. x THRIVE

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THE SPECTATOR I’ll keep scrolling and scrolling And scrolling through — A picture-perfect profile Till this sickly sweet dopamine hit Sours into motion sickness.

I’ll submerge myself further and further Into the whirlwind of perfect places And perfect people with unblemished faces.

Till I deepen this dull ache in my chest, Making it harder and harder to take a breath.

This screen separates us and I’m rendered a spectator, watching a life torn into two-dimensional jagged fragments, Encapsulating all the highs Erasing all the lows Fractured flat inert pieces that don’t fit together, Still they cut close to the bone And I become wistful Over photos wrapped in sepia tone.

I’m stuck in a state of perpetual stasis compelled to comb through and consume the life you’ve created, And the successes you’ve achieved.

Am I an inherently unmotivated person?

This chasm between us Cracks wide open.

I think I might fall, Let jealousy consume me Like a self-inflicting cannibal.

But perhaps, All I lack is perspective.

I haven’t yet turned 21, I haven’t left my safety net, Haven’t even begun To understand that my life is so much bigger Than the sharp lines and piercing corners of this Perfectly instagrammable picture. x

WORDS by JASMINE THAKRAL ART by GEOFF SHAW

THRIVE

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UNTITLED WORDS by ALEX ANDRA HILDEBRAND ART by MARIUM SHAHANA

Like water, I run from myself.

Ever Flowing away from That safe place I frantically tumble To search for that path everyone else Seems to be heading down.

Where are they going?

I ask as I hurry past calm inlets, And break On the rocks of rapids, All to follow the crowd that seems to know What leads to success.

I lap at the feet of Strangers whose Reflections I deem worthy Of imitating, A stagnant, muddy pond Attempting to reflect azure skies – they’re closer to the sun…

Am I? I see the moon swept up with the stars And wish I could reach that high.

I emulate The faded stars of dusk, The morning dawn, A fiery sunset over the sea, All admired, All revered, But none of it is me.

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And those skies seem clear To me now, But sometimes clouds roll in And those skies well with tears that fall When no one is looking, Back down to the ground Where I lie, reflecting.

People see the moon shining on my surface and think I am beautiful.

But one splash, and it is gone.

Where am I running?

I ask, then I stir With a thought: I am More than My surface, more than This shallow reflection Of something I’m not.

Though I cannot reach the moon, I can push and pull with its tide.

I can carve mountains, Move rock, Burst dams.

All those things I lied to myself about wanting, I will wash away with time.

Seems to be heading up.

I stray to a path everyone else Missed in their hurry.

That safe place, Flowing away from The main stream.

Like water, I run with myself. x

THRIVE

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The Living Room ART by SAMI SABBAH WORDS by MONICA JIANG

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They told me the house was haunted, but I went anyway. It was against my nature to do such a thing, considering I was terrified of horror movies. There was something about that house; I wasn’t sure what it was but my brain ordered my feet to walk towards it before I could blink. In retrospect, perhaps the only horrifying thing was the fact that I felt courage instead of fear.

The door did not slam behind me as I would have expected.

It remained wide open, allowing me the freedom to leave at anytime. Instead of looking old and worn like the outside, the inside of the house was rather new and futuristic. Before I knew it, the floor beneath me shifted like a conveyor belt, moving at a rapid speed towards the first door.

I felt claustrophobic the moment I entered the room. It wasn’t so much the size or the shape. In fact, the room was quite spacious. However, there was that lingering anxiety strangling me as if I was its prey. Pictures of children appeared on the walls; they were no older than nine years old. I knew them: they went to my elementary school. I felt myself shrinking, back to nine year-old me. I felt my lungs constrict; my breathing fell into an irregular pattern, I looked back towards the door that stayed open and considered my options. I could run, but I wouldn’t, because I knew exactly how this ended. The children walked off the walls; I didn’t understand what they were saying, for English wasn’t my first language. Laughter followed, swirling around me like a tornado sucking up debris. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out; perhaps it was because I couldn’t speak their language. Nonetheless, I was joined by seven friends who invited me to play soccer despite my obvious differences. From then on, I knew there were people out there in the world who would stand by your side no matter how different you were.

Friendship.

The children disappeared and I was back to an empty, white room. An umbrella fell out of the ceiling and landed perfectly in my hand. Books followed shortly afterwards, their spines seemingly indestructible as they bounced off the floor at awkward angles. I was seated in a chair when a table slid into

They were already in full bloom, despite their dried soils and the darkness.

These flowers were just like me, just like any of us. This house wasn’t haunted by our pasts; it made you realize that you lived through the times that you once thought would destroy you. place and an outstretched robotic arm offered me my laptop.

As I opened it, several unopened letters flew from the screen, hitting me right in the face. The sound of sirens reached my ears and a hundred different automatic voices informed me of my deadlines. Yet, I sat there without any emotion. My hands began tearing open letters, typing furiously on a blank document, and flipping through thousands of books. Despite all that, I wasn’t stressed, because I knew I would make it through.

Survival.

The room darkened, until everything was gone. It was now pitch black; I wasn’t given anything to illuminate this room with.

My arms were outstretched in front of me, and I was walking blindly towards something, or nothing at all. My hands finally felt the rough texture of the tiles. I stopped and moved along the wall, letting my hands guide me. I slowly started to see my hands, lighting up like a candle, and came face to face to a shelf with a flower pot. There were flowers, each of a different colour: yellow, orange, and red. They were already in full bloom, despite their dried soils and the darkness. These flowers were just like me, just like any of us. This house wasn’t haunted by our pasts; it made you realize that you lived through the times that you once thought would destroy you.

You won’t be given a torch or candle to you to guide you out of the dark abyss of unfortunate events, because after all...

You are the light. x THRIVE

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LOVERS’ ALMANAC ART by LINDA ZHOU WORDS by MACKENZIE GREEN Isn’t it lovely?

I ask him, to spend a few moments on a cold February evening, with someone who knows all the unpleasant things about you and is still determined to keep you close?

Take a long look at the Moon with me tonight, the way it sits low in the sky, as if the dense snowfall has dragged it closer to the Earth.

We part the curtains and spill the soft glow of lamplight onto the back porch, its wooden beams clad in a thick white bathrobe.

From our cozy refuge we can share a sliver of warmth without the danger of our temperature dropping below zero.

You and I are different now, from the days of thick August air, when I was hot pink flesh and you a leech, draining gulps of fresh, rich unconditional care and regard.

We both spent some time drowned in the cold, dark creek, and when autumn came it brought the last signs of life below the surface.

But those coloured leaves, they collected on a bank where two streams converge.

We found them in time and used them to line our nest for the bitter winter that lay ahead.

So I lean in and whisper, isn’t it lovely?

We are two people so whole in ourselves that we can open our eyes wide enough to see the first signs of spring, which will come early this year.

It’s a spring that may not last — the climate is woefully unpredictable.

But with all we have planted and nurtured, I expect that we will have a long and fruitful summer. x

THRIVE

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ART by JULIANNA SALVATIERRA WORDS by MICHELLE YAO

Fatebook revolutionizes the way we think of social media. While inter-universe travel is still prohibited in most of the multiverse, Internet contact is not. For every choice you make, a new universe where that choice becomes reality is created. Our site provides a link into the possible timelines ours may diverge into, with a focus on getting you connected with parallel versions of yourself.

After all, who hasn’t ever wanted to be social media best friends with themselves? Or wanted to know what you would have been like if you hadn’t let the One Who Got Away get away? [pause for laughter] Well, now you can awkwardly post ‘happy birthday’ on the wall of the parallel self that took your wouldbe wife, that lucky S-O-B. [pause for laughter] - Atlas Inc. Chief Marketing Officer, Shylah Young, at the 2045 Earth-211 KYJK Keynote

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1819: Hi Shylah! I’m the Shylah Young from Earth-1819, and I just wanted to reach out to express how much I admire you.

211: All the time, actually.

211: I want to see her again.

To echo the crowd, it’s an honour to be able to call THE Earth-211 Shylah Young a parallel self. I really admire your advocacy for inter-universe travel on the United Universes General Assembly; universes rich in resources have more than enough to share with the rest of us!

So I’m a big fan of your work, but less formally, I always look forward to your status updates — they’re even more exciting than Shylah-294’s pie recipes and 392’s snowboarding vids on my newsfeed! I live a simple life, so your fancy updates are so cool to me.

211: She wouldn’t have gotten sick if it had been me beside her.

1819: Haha, you really don’t want my life! It’s very boring!

1819: Oh are you talking about Clara? I’m sure she would love it in your world, and would love to meet you.

211: It’s really cute that you think I’m in support of inter-universe travel because of the poor people or whatever.

211: Stop bragging on FB.

Thank you for all that you do, Shylah!

1819: ??? Sorry, were these messages meant for me?

211: Hello! Due to high demand, Shylah-211 cannot answer every message she receives. For urgent business inquiries, please contact syoung@atlas.uni.

211: Hi Shylah-1819. It’s nice to hear from you, and apologies for the rather rude automated reply. My secretary put it in after other Shylahs kept sending me GoFundMe pages.

211: Before, when you saw someone thriving online, living the life you want, all you’d do was try to imitate their lifestyle until it became your own.

211: It’s a lot easier now, though.

211: To step into a life not your own.

211: In any case, it’s nice to hear from you. I usually don’t reply to messages like these, but your feed has always stood out to me as well. I don’t get to visit our hometown very often, so it’s a pleasure to see what a quaint, cozy life I would’ve had if I’d gone to Thomson College instead of Atlas U. 1819: Wow! Thank you so much for the reply! I feel like I’m talking to a celebrity!

1819: Oh, I’m so sorry, I would’ve been one of the GoFundMes. Clara had a rough year last year, and the healthcare in my corner of the multiverse isn’t great

211: I’ve worked so much harder than you, so why do you seem happier?

211: You want my endless parade of liars and lonely hotel rooms?

You can have it.

1819: What are you talking about?

211: Did you know that Atlas execs have classified access to inter-universe tech?

211: I can’t wait to see her again.

211: You know, sometimes I wish I had your life.

211: I’ll see you soon. x

THRIVE

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flourish flourish flourish flourish frozen ground relents verdant tendrils inching forth: wasteland begets life desolate, this scape no oasis to be seen yet hope springs — blossoms how harsh the clime here seemingly unsuitable: growth persists despite borne from utter dark journey without respite — but still soldiering on x

ART by SABRINA PARAMITHA WORDS by NIKHITA SINGHAL

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10 TIPS! ON HOW TO RAISE YOUR YOUNG GIRL. ART by KIANOOSH KOOCHEKI WORDS by TRISHA

CONTENT WARNING: SEXUAL AND DOMESTIC VIOLENCE

Raising a girl is a hectic pursuit. Transforming a girl into a seductive woman ain’t no easy job! You have to look at how short her dress is to attract males. The deeper the neckline, the richer the man she’ll get. Also, keep in mind the kind of juicy red lipstick shade she wears to make those boys drool! Or how much time she requires to look seductive so all the boys come rushing. The toughest job is to replace those books with makeup and sexy lingerie. It’s a hefty job to checkmark all these everyday requirements, you know? Thriving is just for men; women should be mindless. Working hard and thriving is something you shouldn’t be teaching your daughter! So, to make your job easier, I’ve come up with some tips and tricks to make your kiddie a sexy lady! >>

THRIVE

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1.

Always remember! No one likes hairiness. It’s disgusting! Let’s just leave that for men. The easiest way to get rid of hair (psst, even down there) is pain-free WAXING! It’s the best you can get! And ladies, shaving is just a BIG NO NO! Let’s just leave that for men as well.

2.

From frock to mini-skirt is the way to go! It will not only attract rich playboys but also add spice to her closet. Choose clothes that have a deep neck (a bit of cleavage is necessary), and if she is being cat-called or eveteased, then you’re on the right track!

TIP: JEANS AND T-SHIRT WITH FLATS WILL JUST MAKE YOUR LOVELY LADY LOOK LIKE A MAN. SO, THROW ‘EM OUT! LET THEM BE FOR THE GUYS.

NOTE: Education is hazardous for the brain. Take “Sleeping Beauty” pills twice a day to avoid damage.

7.

If you’ve been successful so far by following every step, and your little girl has become a sexy lady and understood the importance of fashion and cooking, then it’s time to marry her off!

TIP: MEN ALWAYS LOVE BEAUTY WITH NO BRAIN SO SEND HER OFF WITH THOSE PILLS AND POWDERS! DON’T FORGET!

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3.

Beauty is the key to success!

This is the motto one should follow. If she goes to school (and, really, one should consider having her drop out), send her with a bottle of “nerdrepellent spray” and that should do the trick. Pack her lunch with “beauty is the key to rich men” perfume and “popularity palette by mean girls.”

TRICK: REPLACING BOOKS WITH FASHION MAGAZINES IS THE BEST IDEA. KEEP HER BUSY WITH HOUSEHOLD CHORES AND COOKING SO THAT SHE DOESN’T HAVE TIME TO GO TO SCHOOL. THE SEDUCTIVENESS IS GOING TO BRING IN MONEY.

8.

At this stage, your doll might have transformed into a lady, so congratulations! One thing that always works for every woman, be it any age, is sitting. The distance between her legs while sitting should be at least one foot.

That’s appropriate enough and all the money spent on that sexy lingerie won’t be wasted!

4.

Teach her the male chauvinism that is filled in men and how she should be grateful for that. Tell her that marital rape and domestic violence are a blessing for them. Teach her that “no” actually means a yes! BONUS if her bones break!

5.

Teach her the “silent method.”

Provide her with a lock to lock it up when unnecessary words spew out while the domination session is going on. Give her a glass of “enjoy catcalling protein shake” every day so that she feels pleasure when that happens to her.

And wait! The best part is when she gets raped. Now she has become a big girl.

6.

Now comes the tricky part: forming an identity. There are powders in the market that you can mix with her food and that will probably do the job. The best powders of them all are “gold-digger”, “walking makeup store”, and “submissive maid.” I swear by these!

Even psychiatrists recommend them!

TIP: IF AT ANY POINT SHE WANTS AN “IDENTITY,” LACY CLOTHES AND RED LIPSTICK WILL DO THE JOB.

9.

Curvy is the key to more money! I’d bet you on that.

Tummy tires are a big NO NO! And if they form, you should definitely be careful.

Grab those scissors and “CHOP! CHOP!” Bonus if blood comes out!

10.

This is the final stage of all the hard work that has gone into turning a child into a sexy lady. Teach her that her only aim in life is to look beautiful, sexy, and most importantly, be a baby-producing machine. 4-5 kids are sufficient enough.

If you follow the “10 tips! On how to raise your young girl,” your achievement as a mother is fulfilled, and now that your job is done, you can go be a punching bag…again. x

THRIVE

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Facade ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by SOWMITHREE RAGOTHAMAN

“So, Alison,” the police officer begins.

The rest is unintelligible to Alison’s ears. She forces her weary, bloodshot eyes to focus on something, anything. The police officer’s badge flashes into view, which reads T Van der Hoorn. She wonders what that mysterious T stands for — Tabitha? Tanya? — before the determined voice jolts her back to reality.

The officer sighs. “Alison, I just want to know the truth. Will you be honest with me?”

Alison nods, slumping forward in her chair.

“Let’s begin with December 7th, 2018. What made you suspect that something was wrong with Nicola?”

Tears come to Alison’s eyes at the mention of her best friend’s name — a name that has been plastered all over the news and social media.

Fears growing over missing second-year student Nicola Pezzini, 19.

Police fail to turn up any leads in ongoing investigation of university student’s sudden disappearance.

Where is Nicola Pezzini? Whereabouts of missing 19 year old student remain unknown.

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The desperate posts of worried family and friends overflowed her Facebook wall. Strangers share the stories with sympathetic, but they are ultimately empty thoughts and prayers. None of it is enough to bring her back.

“Sh-She didn’t show up to our chemistry exam,” Alison forces out. “It was strange. Nicola’s never missed an assignment, ever.

She was — I mean is — really strong academically.”

The officer nods encouragingly. “You lived with Nicola. Do you recall her being home the night before that exam? Was she unusually stressed, or otherwise exhibiting any uncharacteristic behaviours?”

“Honestly, I-I don’t know if she was even there. She was in and out of the house a lot.”

The officer’s eyes narrow, and she continues to press. “When did you last contact her? What was she like? Did she mention anything?”

“No.” Alison snaps. Officer van der Hoorn physically recoils, stunned by the meek-looking girl seated in front of her. “I’m sorry,” Alison babbles. “I-I-I’m so tired I can’t think. Can we please continue this tomorrow?”

“Fine.” The officer’s tone is resigned. “But I need you to cooperate with me, Alison. Do you understand? We cannot solve Nicola’s disappearance without your involvement. You’re our best hope.”

She nods. Yes. I’ll cooperate.

“Okay. Get some rest, honey. Goodnight.”

— Later that night, Alison combs through the archives of Nicola’s laptop; information that she’d managed to procure before the police seized most of her belongings. This is what it’s gonna be like, she tells herself, until she solves the case and finds Nicola. Most of it is the pristine academic work that Nicola is (in)famous for in her cohort — the kind of notes that students upload to their Studygrams and receive hundreds of likes for.

Alison yawns as she scrolls through the files she already knows so well, the content that she could recite in her sleep.

But tonight Alison’s search turns up something new.

Reflections.

It’s hardly an egregious name for a folder, but one that just feels out of place. It was the kind of oversight that Nicola would never have made, because surely reflections would be categorized under their relevant school subjects.

She clicks. A dialog box pops up, requesting access.

Alison’s breath catches.

— The officer narrows her eyes. “How did you find this evidence when Nicola’s laptop has been in our custody?”

Alison ignores her. “You need to find who these were addressed to, Officer, they definitely know where Nicola is and I think they’re the ones holding her hostage I’m sure of it-” “Alison. Breathe. Calm down, it’s going to be okay. First, we’re going to sit down and think through this logically —” “I don’t care about logic! My best friend has been missing for a month, a whole month, and I’ve just given you evidence that she wanted to run away from the world and this isn’t concerning to you?” Alison pauses, feeling her throat close up. “Do you even know why she felt that way, Officer?”

The silence of the room reverberates painfully in Alison’s ears.

She continues, softly. “Because she was exhausted. She was tired of constantly having to keep up appearances, to be perfect,

to compete with everyone, for everything, everytime. What does that say about our society?”

No response.

Alison storms out.

— Nicola remained absent, with the police failing to make any significant headway. The world went on, and Alison found herself caught up in the hustle and bustle of university life once more. Time had been kind to her, slowly chipping away at her obsession with the case (much to the relief of her weary parents). There are a few days where her gaze lingers on that folder a little too long, but she’s okay, for the most part. She’s moved on.

One day, Alison receives a letter with no sender.

Hey Alison, It’s me. I’m sorry.

I know that I worried you. And I’m sorry I did it this way.

If I could go back, I’d be more forthcoming about what I was dealing with. But, to be honest with you, I didn’t even recognize my own feelings. I thought that this was the way my life was supposed to be, and that it was what I wanted. I broke my head over my grades, my research, my volunteering, my relationships, everything. I convinced myself that it was all going to be worth it if I just struggled my way to success. Isn’t it strange how we celebrate such unhealthy habits? I’m sure I managed to fool everyone else into thinking I’d reached the pinnacle, that I was absolutely thriving. Hell, I almost managed to fool myself.

Don’t worry about me. In fact, forget about me. I’ll come back when I’m ready, and when you’re ready, and when we can finally be real with each other. Live well, and learn a lesson from me.

Find things that truly have meaning to you. Because I was merely surviving, not thriving. I want to thrive from now on. And I want you to do the same.

Tell Tessa (the police officer) I said thank you, by the way. She’s been a great help. I’ll let her find me eventually.

Alison burns the letter. x

THRIVE

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When we start university in the fall, we all try to, join too, the clubs, the feasts, anything that make us, belong and be part of something important.

THE PUZZLE WORDS by J.A.F.P.

ART by MATTY FLADER

But this something, somewhere, can take away, who we are, what we think, what we do, because we thrive, to fit in, to belong.

It is too hard, to follow what others do, if it is something you don’t want to do.

That’s why you, should follow your lead, and thrive to succeed, In this school, what matters only is you.

You are the most important, puzzle of the piece.

Don’t let, university take the lead.

That’s why you should thrive to be who you want to be. x

THRIVE

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ART by VICTORIA WOJCIECHOWSK A

WORDS by K ASHYAP PATEL 62

Sully walked into Culture, a busy café this time of year. Worried of not finding a booth, he rushed towards the one with dirty plates on the table. He slid in and looked out the window. The stains on the glass were plenty; specks of dust fixated and hovering on a sea of transparency. The table was sticky, but he found a clean area to rest his arms. He was waiting for Nik, his friend of many years, who had just texted that he was minutes away.

Sully glanced around the room. The family of four sitting beside him seemed unnaturally quiet. The teens were tuned in with their headphones, unfazed that the waitress had been repeatedly asking for their orders. Sully chuckled and reached into his pocket.

He pulled out his headphones and started listening to his favorite trap album.

Nik rushed in and spotted Sully across the crowded café; his bright white shirt was hard to miss. As Nik approached the booth, Sully took off his headphones and put them away.

“What’s up, man?” Sully asked, smiling.

“Nothing much. What’s good?” Nik replied as he sat down.

“I’m starving. I’m gonna order a sandwich or something.”

“I hear their chicken pesto is pretty good.”

“If you say so,” Sully said. He raised his finger and made eye contact with a waitress.

As she approached, she muttered, “What can I get you?”

“Chicken pesto and a café mocha,” Sully ordered.

“And for you?” she asked Nik. “Just a black coffee.”

She grabbed the dirty dishes and wiped the table before disappearing into the back.

“So how’ve you been?” Nik inquired.

“Good, man. Not too bad,” Sully said, as he started to fidget with his elephant keychain. Gesturing at the teen, he added, “Isn’t it weird how everyone seems to be plugged into something nowadays?”

“Well, not everyone. Some people still talk.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Sully conceded. “So, how are you doing?”

“Same old, same old. Life’s been kicking my ass. I barely have time to breathe!”

“Shit, man. That’s rough. Are your courses getting out of hand?”

“Yeah, they’re crazy —” Just as Nik was about to add something, the waitress came over with the order, balancing the cups and plates precariously like an amateur plate spinner.

“Thanks,” Nik said. Having already bit into the sandwich, Sully could only manage a short “mhm” in response to the waitress’s “You’re welcome.”

“You like it?” Nik asked, as he raised his cup.

“Oh, yeah. It’s really good.” Sully reached for his café mocha to wash down the lump in his throat. It was a steaming cup of darkness. As the drink touched his lips, Sully jerked back. It burned. The drink sloshed around in the cup and a drop of it jumped out, landing on Sully’s ghost white shirt. He froze in place. A perfect sea of white was now ruined by a stain no bigger than one of his shirt buttons.

“Damn, that’s hot!” Sully exclaimed, reaching for the paper towel to wipe the stain off. It wouldn’t come off and only got bigger.

“Ugh, shit. Whatever,” Sully continued, dismissing the inconvenience.

“You alright?” Nik asked.

“Yeah, I’m good. So what were you saying about your courses, Nik?” “Oh, right — yeah. They’re very demanding and I really need to manage my time better.”

They both sipped their drinks and scanned the room. The busy café had died down.

“So, um, what are you gonna do about the thing?” inquired Nik. “Huh?” “The thing — you know? The thing that happened on the bus.”

“Oh, that. I — I don’t think — I don’t know,” replied Sully, as he looked down at his lap and put away his keychain.

“You’ve gotta do something, man.”

“What’s there to do?”

“I don’t know. Tell someone. What she did was wrong!”

“I did,” Sully whispered.

“Wait, what?”

“My mum. I told her.”

“And?” Nik asked, leaning in.

“She said nothing. Nothing that mattered.”

“What did she say you should do? Is your mom gonna confront her?” Nik asked and looked around the café.

“No, there’s nothing I can do. I mean — look at me. This kinda thing isn’t that serious,” Sully whispered, as he looked over his shoulder.

“What do you mean? That’s fucking bullshit,” Nik said,

clenching his teeth to avoid yelling.

“Nik, it doesn’t work the same way for us. No one cares. Ane was just flirting, right?” Sully scoffed.

“You know that’s bullshit. That’s not it, man,” Nik replied, shaking his head. “What if — god forbid — this happens to your brother?”

“No.” “What if —” “No.” “Listen...”

“Nik. No!” “Sorry — shouldn’t have —” “It won’t happen to him,” Sully added, interrupting Nik. “God, I hope not. He’s a child.”

“Don’t you think you should do something or tell Ane’s parents or — I don’t know, man. Something at all?”

“With all the shit in the news, they would never believe me. It can’t have happened to me,” Sully said, picking up his cup with his shaky hands.

“I’m sorry.”

“No worries, man. You’re good.”

“No, Sul. I am sorry that this happened to you,” Nik clarified.

“Me too, man. Me too,” Sully sighed.

“I believe you. I believe in you.”

“I — I know.”

“How, um, how do you feel about it?”

“Like shit,” Sully muttered. “Like — I’m — unclean.”

“Yeah, I can imagine. God damn it!” Nik fumed, as he kicked the floor.

“Hey. It’s a bit stuffy in here. I need — I’m gonna take a breather outside.”

“Alright, man.”

Sully reached into his wallet and dropped a ten dollar bill.

He got up and left Culture. He took a deep breath and stared out into the distance. There was a faint siren in the distance; some vague urgency unfolding in the city. He turned around and looked back in. He could see Nik through the dirty window. Nik was sipping his lukewarm coffee. Sully put on his headphones and continued listening to trap. He smiled. x

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TAKE A STAND ART by K ATRINA HASS WORDS by VALERIE LUETKE

Stand a little straighter, love, don’t be afraid of heights. for how can you reach the stars if you’re caught among the kites?

Standing down is bowing down to those of shorter stature.

Your tallness is a gift, of that you can be sure.

When you stand your ground, be tall and be proud, ‘cause it’s the dreamers who move with their heads in the clouds.

Don’t cower at your height, with the length of your shadow there’s still so much room for you left to grow.

So please remember, don’t be afraid to stand a little straighter, love, ‘cause you can see over all their heads and the view is better up above. x

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ART by ALLY YA SHAHID WORDS by MAISIE BABISKI

DEUS EX HOMINE wonder what natural selection must want with me — a successful woman does not want children muscle does not make for long-lasting life neural tissue ticks, thought becomes meaningless: if my fitness is fruitless does it mean that I am not fit for the world.

I walk on two legs with my common descendants wondering if the world is wandering in the wrong direction “evolution is not goal-oriented”: let a species thrive and drive the rest of everything to an end, no soul to be saved from deep inside the dirt. if everything ceases with me, does it mean that I am not fit for the world in which I thrive or was the world never right for deus ex homine x

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Whole

ART by COLLINE DO

WORDS by K ATIE LEE When it happened, she thought she was done. She watched the familiar sight of his headlights grow dimmer as he drove to a place that didn’t matter (because it wasn’t with her). The parts of herself that she’d given to him left with the light, and she felt an absence; something was missing, and at first, she was convinced that it was him. It was his boyish smile across a room of otherwise blurry faces, the brightness in his eyes and the way they saw the world, or perhaps most distinctly, the comfort of being known. He was missing, and so she missed him.

But as the days went on, the sun still shone, and the sky was ever blue. The wind on her skin reminded her of how human she and her feelings of loss were. She found warmth in the laughter of listening friends, in the air that so completely filled her lungs after a run, and in the novels of women who kicked, screamed, and cried, but pressed on. These women, who turned brokenness into fullness — women, who like her, came not only to heal, but to thrive.

Slowly but surely, peace and colour returned to her world.

The twisting melody of their song in her ears no longer ached.

The thought of her memory drifting from his mind no longer instilled fear in her heart. She came to love him in a new way — in a way that didn’t require him to ever think of her again. An absent-minded smile crossed her face as she imagined all the happiness his life held, and all that hers did, too.

It was only then did she realize that though she missed him, what she had been most afraid of was who she was without him. She had woven her identity so closely into his that he left with some of her. But now, she knew, she could regrow. She had forgotten that she could feel whole on her own — how complete, how happy she could be sitting alone in a quiet room, with nothing to keep her company but her thoughts. Time had returned her missing pieces and taught her that she could love, let go, and live. The thought filled her with hope. Time would go on, and so would she. x

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ART by LAUREN CRAWFORD WORDS by ZARRAR JAHANGIR

I sit with my light.

In darkness, but not in spite.

I revel in the mystic fog of night and grey.

Painting echoes of blessings uncertain in the bright of day.

I caress soft whispers as they spiral down.

Golden lacquer dripping like honey from my crown.

I feel the feathers of dawn and dusk.

Reminders of a divinity long forgotten in a mortal husk.

I float through seas of solace and silver starshine.

Guided by reflections from a blind eye with visions of fates intertwined.

I roam through the jungles of my wild heart.

Glimpses of heaven’s horizon as far as the tiger’s stripes apart.

I embrace a new dawn’s majestic roar.

Pale shadow of past oblivious to the healer’s ancient lore.

Dandelion Wine Tell me my love, why do you hide your light when above you all the stars shine?

Why do you cry out when only for you all the weeping willow trees pine?

Why do you run away when life bares you all its lemons and limes?

Why do you fear love when there is such beauty in its divine?

Take your loving soul, your peaceful heart, your restless mind Cast them into the luminous void, with faith as your tether and twine To an untrained eye it may very well seem a heinous crime But true lovers will know to cherish this ever so bittersweet and fine Dandelion Wine x

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TIME WITHOUT YOU When you were gone on a trip I counted the days Until you would come back to me But when you were dead on the news, there was a haze Of doubt, fear, and agony Tearing metal and screeching tires, The man said so plainly My only twisted relief, before the fires “All passengers were killed instantly” What do I do, where is my spouse?

The days slip by, seemingly with no end in sight How do I walk into an empty house?

How do I sleep at night?

I find comfort in the way time passes by, The aching pain slowly begins to fade Then months and years start to fly, As life passes through many shades I think you would be proud of me At least that’s what I hope I got that promotion at the company I think I’ve learned to cope Your smile will always be with me When I look up to dispel But this is where I leave you be And where I say farewell x

ART by SUMMER DONG WORDS by JOSH RAVENHILL

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GENERATIONS ART by MATTY FLADER WORDS by SEUN ORENUGA

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Life begins in the modest It’s incredible how we grow from so small to so tall To be honest, there are so many ways to tell this story I have to tell them all I thrive like a baby learning to laugh at the little things Oh, the joy it brings as my little chuckle sings Gleefully, cheerfully, not a care in the world Amazing how we grow without saying a word I thrive like a toddler dancing without a care Following a rhythm only I can hear Step to the left, step to the right Smile on my face, the future is bright No fear of failure, just recess fun Each passing day running around under the Sun What a joy being a kid able to play I hope I never grow too old to throw this fun away Eventually life becomes a game of win or lose When I can walk it like I talk it and tie my own shoes More aware of the wears, tears, and fears of life I have learned enough to make each day a day to strive Full swing of high school and the reality becomes apparent I need to understand the concept of enough and that life is tough I need to understand the difference between want and need Because someday I may have my own kids to feed I stay up late at night reflecting on my life For all the stress it gave me, what good is a degree?

I want to be successful: full of goals, full of dreams I am getting too old, it seems

I need to find a passion, something to fill my identity Writing down my thoughts seems to fill my entity Do whatever I have to do to pursue what I love All I have to do is trust the process and the man up above I do miss the days when all I had to worry about was fractions and reactions Now I have to turn my words into actions More aware of my place in society Yet still living in dubiety I may seem grown enough to know how to be a grown up But in the first place, I wish I took more time to appreciate growing up

I grew from a baby smiling ear to ear To a kid playing and dancing without a care Soon, to the harsh realities of the world, I became aware Analyzing my life goals and trying to advance to the next income tier I now know that stress in my life can be a desirable factor It turns me into a more present actor To thrive in the moment as life takes me on a journey from year to year Is to immerse myself in each moment to spare Though I may miss those days with no care and no fear I appreciate each day to come with the prospect of a new frontier x

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JONI MITCHELL ART by SABRINA JIVANI WORDS by EMILY LOURO Joni, in her 75th year With 19 records birthed and nursed Has walked through life on Both Sides, Now And still leaves lingering footprints The mould of age melts away And we find her, Joni, Hair longer than a love ballad Cheeks higher than a soprano Dreaming poetry to be written Making poetry to be sung Canadian Queen of the Writing Quill Cried for nature in need of mending Breathed life into a generation of misfits She is the speaker for the disillusioned With her plucky guitar’s sweet riffs And quivering vibrato’s command Joni’s stories are riddled with a might Any listening ear can hear Dreaming anthems to be written Making anthems to be sung Joni, Lady of Lyrical Candor With the voice of a River that rocks me Crafts stanzas that build skyscrapers And melodies that lull them to slumber All the idols that succeed her Have been crafted by her playing hands Dylan and Lennon and Simon Hold not a flame to Joni x

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WHAT HAPPENED? What happened to that fire?

That will and power to inspire What happened to getting stuff done and abandoning the fun What happened to working hard Is that all you got Is that all you were taught What happened?

You were a fire A burning desire You had a drive You were made to thrive.

Have you forgotten how to strive?

What happened to make you so weak and frail Life isn’t just about pass or fail What happened to that fire? x

WORDS & ART by LINAH HEGAZI

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ART by A AYMAN K ARIM WORDS by CHARLES BECKFORD

Self-consciously, I maneuvered the cutlery in my hands to turn the meal in front of me into more manageable pieces. From afar, it would seem that I was proficient in dining settings such as these. But if one were to actually glance at the plate in front of me, then that assumption would immediately disappear, like that of the haphazardly cut-up food I was attempting to eat. I skillfully dodged the continuous manufactured self-derision, up until I was hit with a frontal assault: You can’t even eat properly.

This was but the truth, and the reality, that I was currently faced with. Sighing in exasperation, I pushed my seat in and gave a polite gesture to the staff to signal my departure. The constant barrage of mental berating continued to play in my head until I was a few blocks away from my original destination.

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History couldn’t be witnessed because I was living it But suddenly, I found myself filled with hysterical delight. The overwhelming rush made me almost optimistic. There was something comforting about this deeply ingrained self-loathing that mocked my every action. They were thoughts that mocked my thoughts and yet it did not refute my newfound solace; the knowledge that I could excuse myself of every mistake and embarrassing moment was relief beyond belief.

Those changes that left footprints in the sand only revealed themselves once I retraced my steps. History couldn’t be witnessed because I was living it, and like my aimless walk from the restaurant to the port, I’d missed a lot of details — but they were still there. I had only needed to remember.

A few seagulls cried out, their silhouettes reflected against the golden-blue waters, as I recalled that hope is the thing with feathers that asks for nothing more than a crumb. Whether it was because of the loud cries of the birds or the sound of the waves, my thoughts seemed to be drowned out by the scenery in front of me. Or perhaps they were still present and thriving. It seemed I’d never know which.

Let’s try again tomorrow. x

Within that self-loathing was a gentleness.

I had walked aimlessly towards the port, and found myself reminiscing about the past. I’d once stood in this same spot with no idea how to proceed with my life, and yet after all these long-forgotten years, I found myself standing in the same damp, sandy spot with new secrets to tell the sunset yet again. Granted, my feet were a few sizes larger now.

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THE ART OF GROWTH WORDS by Y VONNE SYED ART by ALLY YA SHAHID & Y VONNE SYED

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this notion that people are only deserving of love and support when they are thriving is the same as only deeming plants worthy of water and sunlight when they are blooming - growth itself requires love | the secret ingredient

everyone has their own path their own journey incomparable to one another. do not do yourself the injustice of yearning for what others have when you yourself are still journeying on the promising quest that is your life.

your current location is not your final destination. repeat this to yourself until it is ingrained into your vision.

- the only way to move forward in the journey

don’t be afraid to leave the familiar just because you’ve become accustomed to it if you no longer find yourself thriving in the environment in which you are present, if you are no longer nurtured here, if a place no longer offers potential for growth, if you have given it your all and your all still fails to suffice, do not hesitate to get up and plant yourself elsewhere.

sometimes it feels as though you’re floating through space and gravity has nothing on you

and despite my past sorrows i see a future where i am happy a present where i am healing

but sometimes, it feels like the universe is weighing on your shoulders and there isn’t anything you can possibly do you will experience both these feelings alike, live through days and moments where you feel that you can effortlessly thrive or conversely, can’t possibly get by perhaps it’s the ups and downs in life that give it the thrill we desire for we’d be bored of its monotony, if it remained at equilibrium all the time.

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perhaps it is not the passing of time that heals all wounds, but what we choose to do with the time on our hands that makes it seem so we have the choice to either let the hurt linger and let it beat us down, or feel the pain, acknowledge its presence, then heal the broken parts of ourselves and proceed to grow time fast-forwards on us such that the hurt seems so far into the past, any evidence of it ever being present becomes blurry and faded the need to dwell upon bygones no longer interests you the details now are all a flurry of specifics you can’t quite piece together, and you no longer care to either.

- the concept behind time heals all wounds

if we are not growing with one another then we are bound to grow apart, or rather, outgrow each other - convergence is key

other people are not medicine they can temporarily numb the pain but they cannot cure you of your personal woes you must decide the course of your own recovery for you yourself are the source of the antidote

we must first fill our own hearts with love if we ever seek to love wholeheartedly - the prerequisite

awakening.

metamorphosis.

i realize for myself that it is okay if you no longer have space for me in your universe

the caterpillar has transformed into a butterfly at the end of the year, it revisits its friend, the seed

i realize, i am my own universe. revelation.

and the sun, but a rose in the sky, brings the flowers abloom warmly beaming at their growth

i have yet to explore my vast possibilities i have yet to unleash my infinite potential

for nature does die off at times yet again, revives so soon

why limit myself to be a part of someone else when i am already whole

as for the flower, it was her time to sprout from damaged roots

- beyond limits

the year had brought about drought and storms alike still, she was determined to bloom and has done so, ever so gracefully, just as the butterfly grew wings and left its cocoon.

the butterfly isn’t fully aware of its journey of growth it works on itself in silence and peace sustaining itself in the cocoon that contains everything it needs till it breaks out of its shell one day waking up to realize, it can fly - flight does not occur at once | the butterfly

we are all but imperfect people striving to do better. moulding ourselves into the individuals we wish to become, sculpting the fine edges of our characters, detailing our own journeys as we go, and at the same time, allowing life to shape us in the process.

- the art of growth

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she, too, has blossomed throughout this year he is wonderstruck, indeed

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there’s no waiting for stars to align, you are your own universe it’s your time to shine.

- stardust x

WITCHING HOUR When you’ve gone past the expected, Exhausted and yet, it is only the beginning.

Like you have just woken from a bad dream, Where you were being buried alive Like it’s been days since you’ve last eaten And now you are agonizing to devour everyone Has been telling you “Take a break,” “live a little,” But have they looked at the sun directly To be blinded by the light. You ask, Have they slept in the alleys To be fearless in the dark, Have they risked enough To be numb of the pain, Oh have they — Been feeding like pigs for days And now you are sick of it But you’d much rather choke than starve Much rather drown than beg everyone Has been telling you “Take a little,” or was it, “you’re about to break” But you can’t hold a conversation that encourages defeat So you slip away from the arms that wanted to embrace you Dodge the soft voice that wanted to save you, Wondering why people are trying to tame the beast Instead of joining this feast with demons who are goading, Who are bloated and yet, are still craving “Take another bite,” and you did and you cracked a little “Take another sip,” and still you did and tore a little Because when you’ve gone past the expected, There is only more to expect x

WORDS by WAYNES MANALANG

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Changing the Script ART by NIKOO AGHAEI

WORDS by TAKHLIQ AMIR

The sky was dark. It had been several hours of unhurried packing, the pile of empty boxes slowly shrinking and filled-to-the-brim ones growing as I worked my way through splashes of memories. The paint inked itself irreversibly into every bare corner as I packed up one object after another, from the small pocket notebook I had scribbled in over the past four years to the tiny Maple Leafs bear that had been my constant companion, sitting on the edge of my desk.

I turned around and consequently bumped into a box, which made a loud clinking sound as whispery pages of written pasts tumbled out. I sat down, and picked up the fallen material.

“Hm, let’s see what we have here,” I said. “I haven’t read these in so long, let’s take a look. This can be The Tale of Tales! Here’s the first one…”

It was dawn, and the sun had only just opened its eyes when the young man, not more than the age of sixteen, quietly opened his side door and tiptoed out onto the morning dew covering the fertile soil. [April 2017] “Wait, isn’t that a run-on sentence? How about we break it down? ‘It was now dawn, the morning dew blanketing the fertile soil. The sun had barely opened its tired eyes when the young man, not a day above sixteen, quietly tiptoed out the side door.’”

I stopped to think. That’s true, that could have been worded a lot better. “Okay, fine, I agree. Let’s flip to the next one, I actually really like this. I think you will too,” I responded. …he wanted to ask what demon in her life was chasing her. After all, he had been carrying his with him for so long that he’d learned there was no point in running away from 82

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them. So he’d stopped a long time ago, choosing instead to let them walk anywhere; beside him, behind him, in front of him. [February 2019] “Is this the same sixteen-year old kid? Did he meet someone?”

I rolled my eyes, annoyed by her inability to pay attention. “Didn’t I just tell you we’re going through a tale of tales? Why would they be connected?”

“Okay, yes, but we could technically connect them, right? I don’t know, but I can see this coming along…he must have done something crazy enough to leave home, she’s running from her own demons; now they’ve met. This is going somewhere now, I can feel it.”

I paused. “Well then, maybe I’ll tell you the next part first.”

Packing isn’t the easiest thing to do; oftentimes the process itself is slowed by the reminiscence that comes hand-inhand with revisiting past items, those that were cherished and those that remain merely as a product of the human tendency to hold on to memories and material objects even when the human touch long fades away. [October 2017] “Interesting structure, I can definitely see you have some weird preference for long sentences. Have you ever tried saying these out loud? Also, using ‘human’ twice in one sentence? But I think this could be the guy’s perspective about running away from home — ‘As he slowly yet swiftly moved through his room to recover certain belongings, leaving behind others, he realized something. He realized that their value lay only in the corners of his mind. To anyone else, they were worthless…’ What do you think?”

I was getting really annoyed now. “You do realize these

were my stories, not yours? How about you just listen?”

Your arms are wrapped around yourself as you huddle into the corner. There, just around the bend, is your greatest fear. So you hide out. Attempting to survive without breathing for fear that even the whisper of a breath would carry all your secrets away from the comfort of your mind.

[December 2016] “Who’s watching them? This could be the boy looking at the main girl, seeing her fear or guilt through the way in which she hides herself in the corner. Perhaps it’s a mirror of his own demons — he sees himself in her.”

I cleared my throat, feeling uncomfortable. “I’m not so sure these two are as connected as you’d like them to be. I think you’re just going to end up disappointing yourself, and ruining the stories that had been crafted so carefully once.

Let’s move on.”

Normal is a construct that rests in the deep recesses of the human mind, a fabrication of our imagination that without actually existing can puppeteer us as individuals to be frozen in time in a society that seems to be racing against time itself. [April 2016] “Woah, what’d you just say? I have no idea what that meant, but I kind of liked it. I can see it now, actually — the boy left his home because he was no longer accepted, right?

And the girl is similar. But after meeting each other, they realize normal is based only on the vantage point you’re standing at. He’s her normal, she’s his normal.”

I stopped and thought about it. This was definitely not my plan, but I could actually see this working out. “Here’s the next one.”

In our society, we perhaps value the power of numbers because it helps us to deconstruct these lives into a calculation understandable to us. We forget that, sometimes, such things cannot be reduced to mere statistics, especially when we continue to hear them through the luxury of a screen within a heated home. [April 2018] “Uh oh, that doesn’t sound so good. What happened to them? Where’d they go?”

I smiled, sadly. “Guess that’s up to you.”

You look around you, / And find people of all sizes / Moving through the world, / Slave to the drawn paths.

[October 2015] “Wait, no! Can you backspace? Seriously, it’s one tiny —” As I write this, and as you read this, I believe our paths have crossed, though we may never meet. Perhaps that is how it was meant to be. Maybe our stories will one day collide again, and we may never know they already had.

[October 2016] “So many stories, so many loose ends. How do you tie them together?”

I smiled now and winked. “Sometimes you don’t have to.

Sometimes they come together all on their own. Then you realize — that ending you were looking for, it’s already come and gone. You just didn’t see it until it had passed. And that doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing.” x

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ART by SIMRAN RAKHRA WORDS by ANGUS MACDONALD

SINGULAR MANDATE: GROW Walking into the hotel you pass a glass case, set in concrete,

carefully containing the tulip that grew earnestly between the slabs.

The traveller tulip that they take care to water and feed,

keeping it healthy for incoming guests.

The lobby is filled with stainless steel,

heavily windowed and climate-controlled.

Slick floors and a slick desk that

hisses as the key and number slide across.

Key in hand, up the elevator,

vinyl to carpet,

down the hallway,

around the corner,

grey wood wallpaper —

the next door is yours.

Please pause.

A morning glory is growing out of the keyhole,

and around the handle, and up the sunken inset.

Carefully avoiding it, you’ll find the door stuck —

an extra pull, a hesitation, and a tearing as it swings open.

The door is replaced by an organic sponge contained in the shape of architecture,

vines, palm fronds, shrubs, and clumps of moss.

Around, and on top, and through each other, the plants are densely packed

from wall to wall

in the stench of things that grow.

Our rooms are packed tight with vegetation that know there isn’t enough space or sun,

but desperately grow anyway.

All I can hope is for you to be better,

to have the confidence to demand another room. x

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W My arms fall to my sides.

My knees give out below me.

Gravity is working.

I

I wasn’t always like this; I didn’t always let gravity win.

I wasn’t always wilting.

There was a time I could defy gravity.

My arms were strong.

My knees carried me.

What changed?

Well, I guess it's like what happens to a flower when there is no water.

No Earth.

No sun.

At first, they stopped coming to me.

The water and the nutrients.

Friends and family.

Then the laughter.

Happiness.

Hope.

Purpose.

Finally, I lost my sun.

L T

I

N

G

Now I am left cold, deprived of laughter and happiness.

With neither hope nor purpose.

I am wilting away.

Soon I will fall to the ground and rot.

Unless...

Someone can save me. x

WORDS by SIMRIT SAINI

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FIRST GENERATION UNDERGRADUATE BLUES You will be older (comparatively) but the way they stare will make you feel young.

You’ll feel like an undergraduate, because you are.

Ten years too late for Grandma to see you walk that stage.

Your mother will be there and on the night of your triumph, Grandma will look down from the night sky, like she has since a lifetime ago, smiling.

For now, remember: when History tells you “Your people WERE…” and English tells you “Your people ARE…” Remember your people are actually dancing to the tune of futurity, on the same land your ancestors did the same (with no want or need for undergraduate degrees).

You’re here for the sake of these unrealized futures and by the end, you will have found your people. x

ART by A AYMAN K ARIM WORDS by JOHN HILL

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incite magazine volume 21, issue 3 “thrive”

Published March 2019 Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication.

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

editor-in-chief (content): Catherine Hu

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

creative advisor: Matthew Lam

communications director: Annecy Pang

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:

Flo(u)rish by Nikhita Singhal Art by Jennifer Du Design by Matthew Lam

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contributors:

(Writers): Afreen Ahmad, Alex Chen, Alexandra Hildebrand, Angus Macdonald, Annecy Pang, Archan Dave, Ariella Ruby, Aryan Ghaffarizadeh, Catherine Hu, Celina Liu, Charles Beckford, Emily Blum, Emily Louro, J.A.F.P., Jasmine Thakral, John Hill, Josh Ravenhill, Kashyap Patel, Katie Ann Lee, Labiqah Iftikhar, Liberty Liu, Linah Hegazi, Mackenzie Green, Maisie Babiski, Michelle Huynh, Michelle Yao, Monica Jiang, Neda Pirouzmand, Nikhita Singhal, Owen Dan Luo, Ran Ren, Sabrina Macklai, Seun Orenuga, Simrit Saini, Sowmithree Ragothaman, Takhliq Amir, Telmah Lluka, Trisha, Valerie Luetke, Waynes Manalang, Yu Fei Xia, Yvonne Syed, Zara Partovi, Zarrar Jahangir (Artists): Aayman Karim, Abby Lindzon, Abdullah El-Sayes, Allyya Shahid, Colline Do, David Shin, Eric Van Nus, Geoff Shaw, Grace MacAskill, Jennifer Du, Julianna Salvatierra, Katrina Hass, Kianoosh Koocheki, Kriti Manuja, Labiqah Iftikhar, Linah Hegazi, Linda Zhuo, Marium Shahana, Matty Flader, Nikoo Aghaei, Ruby Zheng, Saadia Shahid, Sabrina Jivani, Sabrina Paramitha, Sami Sabbah, Simran Rakhra, Summer Dong, Victoria Wojciechowska, Yvonne Syed

xxi :iii

frozen ground relents verdant tendrils inching forth: wasteland begets life desolate, this scape no oasis to be seen yet hope springs — blossoms how harsh the clime here seemingly unsuitable: growth persists despite borne from utter dark journey without respite — but still soldiering on x