The Hatchling Issue 1

the hatchling issue 1

welcome to the first issue of the hatchling! i’m excited to finally release this project into the world— what started as a random idea has turned into countless hours of emails, microsoft forms, and adobe indesign. not that im complaining. putting together the zine has been such a rewarding experience, and i am honoured to create a space to showcase the talent and creativity of our first year students. thank you to our talented contributors: Leah Kodama-Forget Mathilde Cabasson Lex Roemer Mercy Ajibola Sabrina Juliette Amyot Alexandra MK Emma Cai Františka Dvořáková A. L. and to my lovely residence life team. enjoy! maxine ceec advisor 2024-25

Awake when the Sun isn’t MK

I wake up at the early hour The one where my faucet is quiet Because the neighbours are still sleeping I grab a cup of something to be filled Which is funny because I’m a little hollow myself Some energy, some essence The cross is still lit up on the mountain And the sky is still sleeping, grey-ish blue Like a messed up watercolor board I stand in front of the window Apartments still dark Silent, the moment before the world starts Before dawn peaks I exist And, watching, I feel a little like God.

Photography: Mathilde Cabasson

Golden Age MK

You’ve forgotten one thing When you left me alone That the stage wasn’t yours And that I wasn’t done You left me in the shadow Thinking that’s where I belonged But when the spotlight is on I will prove you wrong You thought that I was over That you’d always be the star All eyes would turn to you From both near and afar You thought I was finished You thought you would be fine.

Well I’ve lived in your era But you’re not welcome to mine.

Photography: Mathilde Cabasson

Live Mercy Ajibola “Son of man, can these bones live?”

Looking over my sea of dead dreams, I wrestle with the question, trying to find an answer.

The default is no.

Look at them, dead and dried, the last of their life drained.

Hollow and empty.

Like I am.

Yet I feel the flutter in my heart, delicate wings of hope that whisper into my ears that it could be, that the dead could rise and impossible made possible.

“God of all flesh,” isn’t He? Is this too hard?

Is there anything too hard?

But if He could, wouldn’t He have?

Why would a good God, good father take pleasure in watching the death of his daughter’s dreams?

“Child, can these bones live?”

I step outside of the battle raging within to observe the dead bones.

Picking one up, I remember the dream that once inhabited it.

A little girl who wanted to dance.

I hold another, this one housing an inventor.

The next has a writer, and then a singer and an actress and a runner.

Flipping through the bones I see the same thing in different forms The longing to be unique, special, known.

Loved.

As I observe the dry bones, the fog clears and my eyes see.

The real dream has already been given.

The heart cry is answered, and the little girl holds the present in her hands.

Just not in the expected package.

And with that my shoulders drop, stress melts away and my chest expands with a deep breath.

The right answer is clear and requires no more of me.

“Son of man, can these bones live?”

Eyes closed, mouth drawn into a smile, I send up my reply, “O Lord God, You know.”

At some point in the semester, we all reach a point where school genuinely feels hopeless. It’s like we tried all we could, locked in on weekends, and we are still behind. That moment of contemplation is where this story takes place. Is it still possible to get a 4.0 GPA? Heck, is it even still possible to pass the class? Can this dream of mine live again? And the point of this poem is that we don’t know in of ourselves alone, and so we leave it up to God.

Pelican’s Pier Sabrina

Hermit Hideaway Sabrina

My favorite medium is oil paint, currently I’m attempting to create a colorful collection based on Florida wildlife!

I was under the impression I needed to hold my hands out and set it free. The bird asked to be thrown, flying into the abyss of what once was but never will. You can’t strangle it to stay.

You think that once something rips your heart out clean it’s the only creature of its kind. A shining star amidst the deafening silence, unordinary and sparing you from the mundane routine. I was fourteen—two fistfuls of willpower and a love undying. A protector if you will, and nothing could not take it away from me. I’ve grown, seen how pathetic a human being is holding her sword up to time. And I’ve learned, letting light leak through my fingers, resisting the urge to resist, dripping dead into the earth to be reborn.

I think I’m well-practiced at saying goodbye to these strange, shining creatures. Except this one slaps me in the face and asks how I could possibly give it up. Maybe if I’d just loosened my grip it would have stayed a while. But what’s done is done. Admittedly, I’ve turned back to face the memory: a void, nothing but dead light. Dead, but it still rages like the sun. Not tangible but the dove sat so pretty in my hands once, unmoving and juvenile. I miss it, and I still do credit it for why I like to live.

It’s late at night and I am tired, watching old footage to keep my eyes still open. It already flew into the sun, but I’ll still find myself thinking about it often when I am sad.

Emma Cai

Organized Chaos Juliette Amyot Why study for midterms when you can procrastinate by meticulously drawing your study space instead? This digital drawing captures the organized chaos of my dorm room desk pre-midterms and offers a glimpse into my life as a first-year student: a little messy, busy, and creative.

Whirls Lex Roemer It can be easy to forget where we started as we get swept into the stream of this city’s ceaseless motion. In an environment that urges the evolution of your character through a bombardment of new experiences, remembering to strengthen your roots even as you branch out is vital to your growth. This drawing is my first addition to my new sketchbook, one I only recently bought when I realized that what I was missing within this whirlwind of change was a grounding practice that can reconnect me to myself, and nothing does that better than putting pencil to paper.

Identity Alexandra

The name: this word that supposedly defines each individual, that explains to everyone who you are, what you do, showing is a few sentences, your identity.

Nina loves to paint, Mila is in school, Maya is French.

But even with my name, some questions are more complicated to me, When people ask me: where are you from?

I often don’t know what to answer and look at them silently.

Let me think: My family was born in a country that does not exist, living in Russia, Bielorussia, Italy.

My sister and I grew up in France.

Well then to answer the question, I should just choose a country.

More easily said than done spontaneously.

It is in France where I spend most of my time, where I go to school, see my friends, drink occasionally some wine, Still I often feel a uneasy with French people Not understanding them, like an outsider Awkwardly smiling to feel less of a stranger.

And every time I come back home the relief is here: no more stress and noise and thoughts that are unclear, I spend Quiet hours with my parents, playing boardgames, eating diners, smiling at this familiarity, Reassured by the feeling of security.

Conversations is russian bring me back to my childhood memories of this beautiful country.

And while I do not live there constantly, when taking about it, the smile comes instantly.

So, it is true, I do not know where to consider myself from originally, torn between two cultures, two worlds that unite my family.

Yet I know who I am, I understand my identity: In school, in France my name is Alexandra.

At home, in Russia, I am Sasha.

Leah Kodama-Forget

Dark Thoughts Alexandra

Feeling overwhelmed, exhausted by the day, Needing some peace and silence at home But footsteps are heard, you are not alone.

Knock knock, who is it?

His name is Dark, last name is Thoughts the uninvited guest that came around to play.

Wherever you are, Mr. Thoughts will follow.

Being the gentleman that opens you the door.

Like a hunter that catches all his praise, the bullet pierces through your skin, Leaving you bleeding, laying on the floor.

Let’s play, he says, Okay. What game?

Hide and seek.

Mr. Thoughts starts counting up to ten.

You rush to your room to hide under the bed.

Please, make me invisible, make sure he does not find me.

And so you pray, you pray.

Leaving MK

I know that eventually Home will not be my home And the rooms will change And you’ll fill my space With something less empty And though still living I will haunt that place The way a ghost might have Done less so than me And when I return I will no longer fill that spot And though still fitting When I will be gone again Nothing will be missing.

Photography: Mathilde Cabasson

Leah Kodama-Forget

The Miscarriage Františka Dvořáková

they warned me of the winter months, the biting cold, the end of sun, The snow plays with my heart sometimes Ugly and yet so refined

I forgot about the colour green That used to decorate the trees Even lost my sense of smell painkillers provide no help they warned me of these freezing times but that was all in late July, I was a different person then Sleeping in my bed by ten I lost a lot these winter days, I know I’ll never be the same somehow the biting cold seems mild once your body kills your child What on earth could I have done?

I know this is the best option Nonetheless blood looks the same coming out between your legs they warned me of the winter here they didn’t add the childlike fear In may sometimes once flowers bloom I’ll leave some on my sweet child’s tomb.

In Reminiscence.

A.L. I never believed I could reach this place.

The sounds of gleeful cheer of children next door brought me to the beginning of my own self. The pumping while rushing across the playground, the ring of the jumping rope hitting the asphalt. I too, had once gleeful pranced within a tall grass field, blowing at the dandelions and watched as the wind lifted their seeds into the air, landing them somewhere, anywhere. I too, had once lived in my imagination, unknown of what it meant to become someone.

I came forth to this big place, leaving an old self, becoming a mere individual within thousands. And the meaning of a familiar face had lost its significance. The past which had once seeped into me so deeply became distant.

Now, I was supposedly one step closer to the path towards a definable happiness. As if,every step I had taken since, primary, secondary, university, checkboxes on my to-do list, granting the satisfaction of achievement I so desired. And my ambitions, foolish endeavors intertwined in each step, were slipping away under my grasp had I grown conscious. Yet, my resolve revolved around their existence.

The everything pertaining to an eventual happiness.

I was a stranger to my own self. I couldn’t identify who I was within a sea of those that could easily do so. I couldn’t clearly see what I was bound for, in the presence of people who knew where they were going.

Everything giving me the illusion that I had just plunged far past the scope of my abilities.

Yet, for the first time, I walked into a room of strangers with enthusiasm. I trekked through each building with wonder of new discovery. A came upon people I could laugh to tears with. I became immersed in new songs of nostalgia, slowly uncovering my potential.

And as much as the undefinable lived in me, the spark of interest blooming inside made my venture into this new world ever more meaningful.

I smiled at the miniscule, I revered the smallest of feats.

Leah Kodama-Forget

The tulip over-blooms and we both know its fate. You beat me to it. It doesn’t sit tidy on the dinner table or proud in the front garden anymore. And that’s alright. Strangely enough, I am not upset. I have loved you and I still do—just as much as the first time we made a slingshot by the campfire, letting my camera run for twenty-seven minutes straight.

Emma Cai

running dog. You change You have a tv and on it is a clip of a g dog. You change the the channel. It flips back to the runnin dog. You change the channel. It flips back to the running dog. Except it isn’t a channel. It flips back to the running truction of the animals running dog. It’s you. It’s the decons rself when you you hold. It’s how you’ll explain you love for music, a littler inevitably wield the knife. It’s your girl, the projection of a stack of orbs.

The richer world exists in my brain rather than in front of my eyes, one fuels the other. Strange how memory and imagination exist equally on the scale of vibrancy, and the ensuing feelings are far too similar. to a singular The x number of TVs run simultaneously and meld res are picture, that isn’t really a picture (TVs and pictu y make out three-dimensional at most. but here you can’t reall s very beautiful, where you’re stepping). You can see how this turn can also see it’s not really a disadvantage I’d like to think. You think how this diagnoses you with an IEP and makes you are transferring to arts is the better idea. Running dogs bass over here counter-productive when you need to do math (dum ). forgot to sign up for extra time during the calc exam Emma Cai

mcgill residence life 2024 - 2025