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
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
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
My favorite medium is oil paint, currently I’m attempting to create a colorful collection based on Florida wildlife!
Sabrina
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.
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.
Alexandra Dark Thoughts
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.
MK Leaving
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
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
mcgill residence life
2024 - 2025