The Zine Issue 03

Summer 2019 Edition 03

the Zine

A collection of local art and writing

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The Zine Team Production and Design

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Judges

Elyssa En Nadia Tu Chandy D Anoop D Jessica B Mikaela

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nglish udhope Dancey Dhaliwal Barclay Collins

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Editors

Design Assistant

and you.

Your readership makes future editions possible.

Thank you. iii

Contents Poetry | David Ivan Neil I Wrote a Poem Photography | Isabella Dagnino Big Sky Photography | Isabella Dagnino Names in the Aley

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Poetry | Chandy Dancey Prayer from the Pill Pews

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Poetry | Des Hale what it means to be who i am

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Poetry | Alex Rake Allergy Season Visual Art | Jake Muller Hospital Paid Parking Only Poetry | Chandy Dancey beaten to a pulp

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Visual Art | Anoop Dhaliwal POP! POP! POP!

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Poetry | David Ivan Neill Such a Nice Night

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Poetry | Des Hale Gender Car Crash

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POETRY CONTEST WINNERS FIRST PLACE Darien Johnsen | i never knew my grandmother SECOND PLACE Des Hale | Gender Car Crash iv

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Short Fiction | Ryan Liddiard Chasing the Dark

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Poetry | Darien Johnsen i never knew my grandmother

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Visual Art | Emilie Kvist In My Head

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Poetry | Alex Rake film club

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Photography | Luke Pardy Boyhood

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Visual Art | Jake Muller Corporate Logging

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Visual Art | Emilie Kvist The American Dream?

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Visual Art | Cassie de Jong Mind Maintenance

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Poetry | Darien Johnsen Solis Rages

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Visual Art | Elyssa English Turmoil

VISUAL ARTS CONTEST WINNERS PROTEST ART Emilie Kvist | The American Dream?

GENERAL ART Emilie Kvist | In My Head

Contributors Jake Muller is a self-taught artist, Jake has been painting for at least three decades. He started painting landscapes and gradually added other styles and artistic genres. He particularly enjoys creating paintings that comment on issues that concern his community; these protest paintings are usually done with a sense of humour.

Des Hale, recent alumnus of

UFV and resident of sleepy little Mission, is a haunted funhouse of a human being, and they write to keep the ghosts quiet.

Their favorite topics are about gender adventures, mental health, and queer longing.

Luke Pardy is currently working on his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree at UFV, with a focus on photography and art history.

Recently he received a scholarship from FotoFilmic and the Vancouver Biennale to further his education with photojournalist Danny Lyon.

Ryan Liddiard is an alumnus of UFV, a former student-athlete, and a sorry excuse for an artist.

Occasionally, he turns in something like "Chasing the Dark".

Elyssa English is an artist, freelance illustrator, graphic designer, and production manager with The Cascade. She enjoys working in a wide variety of mediums, both traditional and digital, and is always seeking to expand her skills and explore new opportunities.

Alex Rake is a poet, playwright, and songwriter from Mission, B.C. Every time he submits a bio, some part of it dissolves in real life and it becomes totally inaccurate. Therefore, he would like to mention that THERE IS A LOOMING CLIMATE EMERGENCY. Chandy Dancey is a fourth year student pursuing a biology major with a chemistry minor at UFV. She began her journey writing when she noticed a dire lack of Tamagotchi fanfiction in the fourth grade. This has since been rectified, and you can thank her for her service later.

Isabella Dagnino is a second year Bachelor of Fine Arts student minoring in art history. She is a multidisciplinary artist that focuses mainly on photography and her art practice consists of strictly analog formats with very little digital manipulation. Her work was recently featured in the S’eliyemetaxwtexw art gallery.

Anoop Dhaliwal is presently a Bachelor of Fine Arts student at the University of the Fraser Valley. Her practice is predominantly in photography, film, and graphic design. Dhaliwal’s artistic approach embraces traditional art practices, technological advancements, and their intersection. As an active community member, she believes arts engagement promotes community development.

David Ivan Neil is an Abbotsford based musician with a deep love for weirdo folk and telling funny stories that don’t always end up going anywhere.

He is set to release his record "What is Love" this summer on the lovely Kingfisher Bluez label.

Okay for a human. Very cool for a dad.

Darien Johnsen is a fourth year student at the University of the Fraser Valley studying global development and sociology.

She’s been writing stories and poems since age seven.

Emilie Kvist is a fourth year

student at UFV, currently completing a Bachelor of Arts with a major in history and an extended minor in visual arts. They have always loved creating work in many different mediums like sculpture, painting, mixed mediums and dance. The ability to express one’s self creatively often allows one to personally resolve times of stress, while in the same moment striving to add positive into the world.

Cassie de Jong is an artist and

local arts and culture enthusiast residing in Abbotsford, B.C. Her practice uses themes of symbolism and iconography within a variety of mediums. In her senior thesis, she used various repetitive patterns and simple shapes, to explore how symbolism and creative representation can affect mental health and community.

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Isabella Dagnino "Big Sky" Colour 35mm Film 11x17 2019

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Praye from t Pill Pe

By Chandy Dan

Isabella Dagnino "Names in the Alley" 35mm Film 11x17

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2019

er the ews

ncey

lord, i vow my compliance to you, and my tithe is your dispensing fee. there is no generic substitution for the love you refill me with, and i pray to be led through the trials and the trimebutine. i will swallow you whole o’ capsule of christ and wash you down with the blood of fruit flavored narcotics. i will trust fully in your plan; your prescription; your scripture. as i peer into this medicine cup i ask for deliverance and third party coverage. in your holy name. amen.

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what it means to be who i am

by Des Hale i was not born girl but made girl through your eyes and your expectations given lessons on how my body doesn’t belong to me it belongs to you and all the men that will be in my life and all the eyes that will be on me i am only a child growing into your skin but not my skin maybe that is why my bones never sit right i become hungry teenager then empty adult i wish i’d been born wolf all teeth and fangs no hesitation to bite the hand that tries to claim me but i was born soft despite my protests

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so now i apologise to those soft parts of myself that only tried to keep me warm when the world was cold i’m sorry i could never love them the way they always wanted i’m sorry that i traded blushing pink for bruised knuckles and always went looking for my worth in boys that didn’t deserve us i am sorry that girl wasn’t enough i’m sorry that in my quest to find myself i have made our relationship very complicated a washing machine cycle of acceptance and rejection sometimes i hated you but you, dear girl, dear womanhood, are never too far i keep you in my back pocket like a bittersweet love note the beginning of a story not quite finished you are the mentor that taught me everything i know and i may not be you anymore but i could never bleed you out of my veins i would not be what i am without you dearest girl our time together was messy and i still find pieces of you laying about but it was good while it lasted

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allergy season

by Alex Rake

i sneeze into our room then gaze gently through finding in this room a death a flower turning brown and a coffee blowing cold nothing smelling like it did but spring has come my face is stuffed so who am i to say i am not so gentle in spirit but this body won’t obey my spirit want to smash your precious mirror but just crack the one within snuffling snuffling all the while why expect you to feel my love why count on your powers of interpretation too few paintings hit the floor too few fists burst the drywall too few firetrucks and ambulances

fuss across the street the sun pounds behind the rain and it’s a quiet spring, i think

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we used to dance, whatever played spin each other unconscious, whatever trip off the same railings break the same bones spit the same blood

upon each other’s words all endless, too-short spring and the old room, its new death bland coffee for its function bad decoration for its function all music and all sweetness

sentenced to function formed to fill silences while nothing renews and the world blows its nose for the season

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beaten to a pulp

by Chandy Dancey crush the fruit gentle spray dimpled skin melt away skin the peel bitter juice tainted nectar stale excuse eyelid doubles seeds spill out tangerine blood hint of doubt sterile pith bruise the rind grated zest peace of mind cyanide seed segmented flesh lemon squeeze serve it fresh

Jake Muller "Hospital Paid Parking Only" Oil Paint on Canvas 18x24 2019

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Opposite page reserved for you write an art draw a poem the world this page is your oyster

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Anoop Dhaliwal "POP! POP! POP!" and "POP! POP! POP! 2", digital prints from film, 52x42 and 53x42, 2019

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Such a Nice Night

by David Ivan Neil

Sitting on the deck sun almost set looking out at the park behind my house, trees moving in the warm air a very pretty night Damn life is very good even tried to cry just to see if I could But Nothing I’m very blessed squeezed my face tight blinked and blinked rubbed my eyes until I saw stars Nada thoughts of a dead dog named Buster a very dead mother named Nope then finally

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exasperated all reasonable options spent I gave a poke pushed the nail on my right hand’s index finger unkempt filthy dirty and long and sharp into the white of my left eye gouging and twisting til it wasn’t white anymore Red blood vessels burst surely infected vision permanently impaired but still Not A God Damn Drop Yup life is very good Almost brings a tear to my eye

Gender Car Crash

i slip into womanhood like a deer in headlights suddenly unexpected a situation forced upon me so quick i cannot move i slip into womanhood like Cinderella’s slipper like i was made for it like it’s ​mine like it was always meant to be there

by Des Hale i slip into womanhood like a uniform i put it on to get the job done and i put it to rest when i lie down i slip into womanhood like a favorite sweater that hasn’t fit right for 6 years, but i keep it around just in case it pinches in the arms and the hem is too short the neckline stretched from being tugged on too much just in case, i tell myself i slip into womanhood like an accident like o​ ops i guess it’s still there i slip into womanhood like a protest like a heart beating with triumph because you could never take this crusade from me you’ll have to pry it out of my dead and bloodied hands i slip into womanhood like a secret to take to my grave it is private and sacred and nobody’s business and i’ll sleep with it forever

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Chasing the Dark

by Ryan Liddiard

This had been my routine ever since I was laid off — Wake up around dinnertime. Never eat. Never hungry. Losing weight.

Need a hit. Pick some clothes up off the floor. Throw them on.

Mask the smell with a few blasts of body spray. Wipe the crud from my lips. Get the dirt out of my eyes. It’s dark outside.

Haven’t seen sunlight in a minute. Make for the bars downtown.

Spend a few hours knocking them back, sucking them in. Cheers to government welfare! Whisper sweet nothings to the ladies of the night. Kristen. Chiara. Stephanie. They were all the same at this point: cheap toilet romances. A couple more drinks. Make a few calls, shake a few hands, meet a few strangers. Score. Come stumbling out of the Tavern doors around four in the morning, pocket full of white, in search of a dark place to shoot up.

There was no darker place in town than beneath the bridge.

Amidst starless nights it was like a black hole. Unreachable by car, the police rarely came through. Once in a while, a bicycle patrol would ride by. Occasionally teenagers hopped up on booze stolen from their parents' liquor cabinets would tumble past. But, other than that, it was cold, quiet, and dark. Lifeless, really. Perfect.

It was a few blocks from the Tavern to the bridge. No matter my condition, no matter the weather, I would always run it.

It wasn’t for the exercise — it was because of the unwavering paranoia. I worried that as I passed each sentinel streetlight, or whispering tree, they would somehow unravel me and my mischief. In the dead of the night, the orange glow of the lamps was like a spotlight, and the rustling of the leaves was like an alarm bell. Who they would expose me to, I was never sure — like I said, no one was ever around. I just couldn’t shake the fear of getting caught. Why did I fear it after all of this time? I don’t know. Maybe it was angst. Perhaps. Maybe it was the illegality of what I was doing. Definitely not — I’d done it plenty of times before. Maybe it was just another foolish quirk of a full-blown addict. Most likely. God was always watching. I guess only He

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truly knows. Absolutely.

Beneath the bridge, adjacent to the river, was a walking path. Next to the walking path, at the foot of the bridge’s shoreside column, was a sizeable concrete patch. Over the years the ambitious prickle bushes and stinging nettles that lined the concrete patch had crept up and overrun it completely.

Grounds crews and city workers had given up on the area.

The only people who ventured into the thick undergrowth were marauding-freelance graffiti artists, hobos, and druggies like me.If you slid along the column at just the right angles — crawling beneath the FUCK UNCLE TINY scribble and over the backwards swastika — you would find a pocket of space untouched by the plants growth, and hidden from the world.

I wiggled my way in and propped myself up against the cold wall, encasing myself in a cocoon of vines and thorns.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out the brown bag full of contraband I had scored at the Tavern, wincing at every klink and shushing at every klank. Because I was paranoid, I wasn’t too ritualistic when it came to mainlining — heat it up, get it in the needle, and get it in my goddamn veins. But my body had deteriorated so badly that I couldn’t find a vein amongst the bruises and sores. The crook of my arm was cratered with track marks. Months and months of unabated drug use had putrefied my skin. Flesh was indistinguishable from scab. Yet, there I was, a fiend rid of all dignity, huddled in the cast shadow of the bridge, jabbing and poking the needle into the dark mass on my arm, begging it to catch just one more time.

Eventually it did catch, and when it did, it didn’t take long to boot up. It was almost instantaneous. My muscles seized, inducing that warm, full-body tingle that curls your toes. My skin started to itch, which, in turn, caused the sweat to seep from my pores — in tandem with the tingle, it was actually quite refreshing. I felt lighter, as if all of my problems had been sucked through my tiny pupils. I held up my hand and looked at my skin as the colour drained from my body. I no longer had to pretend to be some mindless, technicolour, happycamper. I could just be blue. Monochrome. It felt so good. It

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was liberating. An escape hatch to something better. It was a tremendous relief, for a few seconds at least, until relief quickly turned to panic.

Everything started to slow down. Everything started to fail.

Everything started to collapse. My shelter of prickle bushes and stinging nettles wilted down to ash. Exposed to the outside, I shuddered. I pulled my jacket to my face, trying to hide. I got to my feet and made a run for it, but a blast of cold air came bounding off of the river and knocked me back against the wall.

I crumpled to the floor like a paper man. I tried to crawl, but I couldn’t move. The rough concrete filed my fingernails down to the skin as I scratched and clawed. My Stetson belt tourniquet slithered across my chest and strapped me to the wall like I was on a gurney. It squeezed, tighter and tighter. It got harder to breathe. I drifted in and out of consciousness. Was this it? One hit too many. Had I crapped out at the devil’s dice game? Was I done dancing on a knife’s edge, finally put out of my misery? I stopped fighting; I relaxed and let it happen. I looked out at the river. The water shimmered. The glassy shards of light on its surface gathered and melded together to form a window to the past, propped upright like a movie screen at a drive-in. Fading, I looked into it. A scene from my youth was playing before me: I saw myself as a young boy. I was playing in the yard. In the background was the trailer where we lived. The old cherry blossom tree was out back, hanging over the roof and blocking out the sun. The lean-to jungle gym where the other kids in the trailer park would congregate was still standing. The wind chime on our front porch was singing in the breeze. It was so vivid. Then I saw the silhouette of my stepfather in the kitchen, raising his fist to my mother, followed by the gut-wrenching sounds of the punches and slaps. My mother’s screams drowned everything else in the neighborhood out. She begged me to run.

My stepfather kicked the screen door open so hard that it hit the corrugated siding of the trailer. I could smell his booze-soaked body odour follow him through the door. He chased me to the bridge. I jumped into the prickle bushes and stinging nettles, cutting my legs and arms in the process. I lay there and waited

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for him to give up. After some drunken stumbling, he eventually left, but for hours and hours afterwards I was unable to move.

I struck up the courage to poke my head out. Then a hand. And a foot. I walked over to the river’s edge and threw rocks in the water. I took a stick and chopped down the dandelions. I turned to the column and punched the concrete wall so hard that blood trickled from my knuckles, down my arm. I yelled at the top of my lungs. No one heard me. I cried until it was dark. Was it safe to go home? Was it ever safe? I slept under the bridge.

The scene ended and the window to the past shattered, the pieces liquefying back into the river. All at once it dawned on me: things hadn't really changed from the time I was a child. I looked up as the bridge deck started to descend upon me. Then I blacked out.

I was told that I overdosed. The heroin was apparently laced with a type of fentanyl, that when paired with everything else I had that night, caused hallucinations. This surprised me because the guy I bought it from seemed like a real straight shooter. Imagine that. I thought fentanyl only killed teenagers; I thought I was untouchable. The doctors said I was lucky to be alive. As it went, a night shift worker from the nearby steelworks was biking home when he heard me groaning by the bridge column. He jumped off his bike and made his way through the mess of bushes. By the time he got to me I had stopped groaning and was out cold. He dragged me out into the light, and tried to resuscitate me, but he couldn’t. The paramedics arrived shortly after, and they went straight to work. Somehow they got me breathing again. Somehow. It was a miracle. Of course. They said had I gone unnoticed any longer I would have probably been dead.

It’s been seven years since that night. Seven years sober.

I’m a walking feel-good story, plucked straight out of your local newspaper. Act cleaned up. A “survivor” as they say at the meetings. It hasn’t always been easy. It hasn’t always been what I wanted. Most days I’m thankful to be alive. Some days I wish I had died. I guess that will always be with me. I guess it always has been.

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The other day I went for my daily run. I’ve been on an exercise kick for a few years now — it helps with the sobriety, keeps my body healthy, and my mind clear. But this particular day I decided I would tempt fate and run down to the bridge.

Why I did this, I don’t know. As “strong-willed” as I had become over the past seven years, I steered clear of the area in case my demons decided to show their ugly faces again. I hadn’t been down there since the night I overdosed. The area had really been cleaned up. I think it's revamped look was largely due to the presence of a shiny, new condominium that had been built where the trailer park used to be. It was a case of gentrification at its finest — the middle-class moved in and the whole damn neighborhood got a facelift. The graffiti on the walls had been pressure-washed away, replaced with a fresh coat of paint. The concrete had been repaved. Landscaping crews had come in and ripped out all of the prickle bushes and stinging nettles that had run roughshod over the concrete patch. In their place were beautiful flower beds. I stopped running and sat down on a nearby bench, also new. Strangely, I felt no urge to score a bag of white and shoot up just like old times. Nor did I have flashbacks of a childhood spent hiding from a broken home. And not once was I haunted by memories of the night I overdosed. I just sat there, stretching, and catching my breath, admiring the flowers.

At the far end of the flower bed was an older lady, crouched, tending to the flowers. I noticed her looking over her shoulder a couple of times. She realized she wasn’t alone. With her flowers to tend to, she never was, really. Eventually she stood up. She put her hands on her hips and bent backwards, releasing a day’s-worth of tension in one crack of her spine. She turned from the flowers and moseyed over to the bench I was sitting at, occasionally looking back to make sure her babies were still good. She had weather-beaten skin, barely visible beneath the straw hat and handkerchief she used to protect her head and neck. The airy white shirt she was wearing was soiled with grass and dirt stains. Yet, she had a smile on her face that would light up a room, and a glow about her that was just as angelic. As she

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sat down beside me, she turned to the flowers once more.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

I nodded. “Yes ma’am, they are.” They truly were. Vibrantly coloured. Trimmed and profiled. Healthy and full. “I can’t believe how much this area has changed since I was last here.”

She faced forward and pointed to the condominium. “When that thing shot up, it brought everything else with it.” It was a state-of-the-art building, modern and sleek. Better looking than the trailer park, for sure. But it was also enormous. It cast the bridge, the river, and the surrounding area, into an almost immutable darkness. Darker than before.

“How do the flowers grow down here with so little sunlight?”

She seemed surprised that I would ask such a question. “Well, all the flowers grow differently, and we’ve just planted them to suit their needs.” She pointed to a patch of blue flowers in the middle of the garden. “Those flowers can grow in the darkest of shade, with little to no sunlight.” She adjusted her finger slightly, pointing at a different patch of purple flowers. “But those flowers need lots of sunlight, so we planted them at the edges, where the sun hits the most. Over time they’ll actually grow towards the sunlight; that’s how much they depend upon it.”

“Phototropism,” I interjected.

She looked at me with impressed eyes. “Yes, that’s exactly right.” I had surprised her for a second time. She paused, digging deep for some nugget of wisdom to counter with. “We’re kind of the same way I guess – we’re either chasing the dark or running from it.” It was her turn to catch me by surprise. I didn’t have a response to that. It was so simple, yet so profound. We lingered for a moment, listening to the river as it gently drifted by. She got up off the bench, wiped her green thumbs on the back pockets of her jeans, and bid me farewell, before floating back over to her flowers. I watched her for a few moments more before I eased myself up off the bench. My legs had gone stiff, so I walked over to the river’s edge to get the blood flowing. I picked up a rock from the shore and threw it in the water. The shiny reflections dissipated into ripples as the rock sank to the bottom of the river.

As the river regained itself, I started running again. I looked down at the concrete as it gradated with each step I took. Dark to light. Lighter. Lighter. Lighter. As I emerged from beneath the bridge, and out from the shadow of the condominium, the dark at my heels, the sun stuck its warm arms out and invited me in for a hug. It felt good. So good in fact, that I grew towards it too.

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i never knew my grandmother

by Darien Johnsen

an Abby girl a biker’s banker collector of underthetabledebts. murdered the same year i came rolled up wrapped up in a rug in a trunk in a parking lot over a baggie of coke that hadn’t been paid. my mother wandered little girl gaining ground too early lost on the streets of Abby.

Five Corners when it was dirty filled with Trash with a little girl of her own.

Jubilee before the Jam had been full of heroin. when we were fourteen my girlfriends giggling and i got a bum to buy us liquor outside the Old Abby Hotel.

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cheap booze a collective now. now the town's been painted white Historic.

Trash swept to Clearbrook Trash buys big cans of Colt 45. crack pop hiss open wide drink because the House on the Field sunshine in His glory just isn’t for them. throwing cans in a ditch Trash isn’t sustainable. three generations down the family’s ailing tree. strong Women but not the strong Women who do something beautiful. rather jet black tough whiskey trouble badboys fighting for survival runs in our veins. are we condemned to our genes? me granddaughter an Abby girl a compass spinning wild to a new Old Hand or old Trash drinking malt in Clearbrook centre overlooking a fountain that only runs a quarter year.

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ist Emilie Kv d" a "In My He , Images, Pins g Wax, Strin 48x12x96 2019

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film club

by Alex Rake

hand open open hand ed ed ed open lift a fing a finger a finger a fin

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Luke Pardy "Boyhood" Film 31x40 2019

Jake Muller "Corporate Logging" Oil Paint on Canvas 18x24 2019 30

vist Emilie K m?" an Drea ic r e m A "The d he, Foun c a M r Papie Objects 108 72x24x 2018

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Cassie de Jong "Mind Maintenance" Four 44x50 transparencies accompanying wall-based installation; ink drawings on paper and transparency.

2019

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"The va rious abstrac t shape s of pape r prese in this nted installa t ion wer distribu e membe ted, fill e r d s o o f u the UFV t, winter student and collected tions of semester. The from body ov se shap the hum e r t h es e cours an brai depress e of the n that a have been bas ion, acc e re most d off th ording that ex e secaffected to MRI plored scans p by anxi the intr the bra ulled fr ety and insic pa ins of p o t m t e r a a n t 2 i s ents aff MRI-in 017 stu of spon dy spired ected b taneou shapes y depre s represe a c t i v with do ity in ssion. B ntation odles, s y filling of nega result i t u t dents t tive spa s a co ransfor hese ce into the UFV llaborative pr m a ed a posi oject be student tween m tive one. The commu strates yself an n the valu d e and n ity that demon eed for express creativ ion in t e he batt le again st mental health issues."

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Solis Rages

by Darien Johnsen

above us. blistering while we blow smoke lover’s quarrels.

we’re sorry! we love you! just give us a little more time! we can make it right!

we love Solis yet hurl heated attacks that tear

his ocean of plasma is too hot.

Solis laughs. too late!

the ozone.

we drown in his energy. a wave of fire we’ve fuelled.

surging Solis seethes. calm down! you’re burning us up! our trees! our fields!

entire continents rise up like the gates of hell unleashing. we tell him to stop

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Elyssa English "Turmoil" Acrylic Paint on Canvas 20x24 2019

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Thanks!

the Zine The Zine is published by the Cascade Journalism Society Regular weekly editions of The Cascade newspaper can be found on stands and benches across UFV campuses and in coffee shops around town.

For more information visit ufvcascade.ca