Morning After the Party - THE CONTINUIST PERFECT BOUND 2019

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Letter from the Editors Firstly, thank you for picking up a copy of our perfect bound issue! We are amazed by the amount of fantastic submissions we have received and are thrilled to share the finished product with you! To our contributors—we thank you for your creativity; to our contributors’ parents—we appreciate you collecting those extra copies.

We would like to extend a special thanks to: our terrific Continuist team, for all their hard work; ACS program director Stéphanie Walsh Matthews for her support, SIF and the Faculty of Arts for their generous contributions; Ryerson University, the Arts & Letters Club, Page One, and all of the amazing places and events that we have partnered with. It has truly been a wonderful year! We hope you enjoy this collection and continue to support local artists.

The Continuist is an online and print collective based out of Ryerson University. Our mission is to provide an outlet for artists to showcase their work, whether professional or amateur. This is a passion project, run by a lovely bunch of students who are committed to making and sharing art. Want to keep up with us? wordpress: www.thecontinuist.wor dpr ess.com issuu: www.issuu.com/thecontinuist email: thecontinuist@gmail.com

Love always, Harleigh and Liana Co-editors at The Continuist Cover by Hayley Adam II

Time & I Time is running out Of the house.

It does this every morning, And every morning I give chase.

We sit on the train together And listen to music separately.

Time says ‘the train is taking forever’.

I relish the waiting quietly.

- Thomas Goutos

III

Rebirth Pour it all *** I fell for you like rain falls Now, That rain washes away Every fingerprint Every mark Every word You ever put on me *** Breaking free of the confines I walk in the unchartered world A beautiful light grey heavy ink of the black left behind

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The rain you call gloomy cleansed my pain washing away the suffering you caused rebirthing my spirit - the spirit you trained into submission Back turned never turning around I am walking Marching with the parade glowing from within

- Jasmine Bhullar

V

Blue Lake

- Charissa Olano

VI

the cliffs i stand on the starch white cliffs on the edge of the blank page looking out across an endless black sea of quivering ink, its depths unfathomable jump, whispers a voice and i almost do my heart tugs me forward an invisible string drawing me to the brink but

my toes are digging into the crumbling white sand just let go, the voice cries and i weep and writhe caught between here and there yearning to slake my torturous thirst in that bountiful sea dreading to leave the solid ground of this dry wilderness crawling and clawing my way to answer the siren’s call but one ankle is still lashed to the mast let me go, i beg but there is no one to hear my cry only me standing on the cliffs looking out at the sea

- Rebecca Rocillo VII

LO ST

the smell of the charred marshmallows clung to the Autumn breeze firewood crackling a soothing hum your hungry eyes stare back at me << like the starved tiger looking for his first meal after a long winter >> I slowly back away from the withering woman on the ground her voice piercing my ears like shards of glass was lodged in her throat her smile showing me the yellow slime of her low class teeth

the stale smell of Marc Jacobâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Daisy clings to your sweat soaked skin the half smirk dancing on your mouth compiles me to punch you in the gut the smell of rain water on your grey crewneck reminds me of crunched up mouldy leaves found buried underneath plies of snow staring out the window she sits << lost >> with her overactive imagination dreaming up stories

- Jasmine Bhullar VIII

- Sina Kazeroonizand

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- Hayley Adam X

Viva Vancouver On the wealthy west-side of the city, bundles of bluebells soak up the sidewalk run-off, hiding the root of the local’s Seasonal Affective Disorder. The SAD’s run rampant through the streets like the rivers of rainfall that stall traffic each fall. But it hadn’t rained for 25 days when Dave killed himself, 25 days after I started serving him at Viva Cafe.

The Day Dave Died I entered the kitchen in the morning glory glow of 6am, to find Michael baking muffins with perfectly rounded tops like the one above his belt he was perpetually trying to smoke away. He was brutal for a baker; about Dave he mumbled, “Life’s bitter,” as he measured four spoonfuls of sugar into his barely brown morning coffee.

My boss was the first to know the news, but grief doesn’t sound sincere in the same South African accent that had spewed lewd comments all summer. That was the job I learned why people keep quiet about their boss’s sexual harassment.

The Dave-and-Doug-Duo used to sit on the patio, ordering the SAD special of Soup And Drink and talking about extraterrestrials and euthanasia. But Doug didn’t seem that SAD when Dave died. Someone said it was because Dave stole his girlfriend when they were of marrying age, and Doug never married. Someone else said it was because he knew Dave got what he finally wanted: the ultimate autonomy. And so the conspiracies continued in Dave’s wake.

I told our chef Tony the details. “Overdosed on pills,” I said. “Made him bleed from the inside out.” He told me about a time back in Sri Lanka when his cousin was bitten by a snake.

“Died crying red venom-tainted tears,” he said, “Ears bled like the Devil was whispering too loudly.” When he thought I wasn’t watching he crossed his body, even though he swore he didn’t believe in gods or countries. Tony had the SAD’s from missing the Indian sun. Summer isn’t the same in a rainforest—our sunlight is wet, saturated with solitude.

I walked by Dave’s house on the way back to mine, pausing to gaze at his panoramic mountain view. Then I saw how the supports on his deck had eroded from too many years of rain, so that at any moment it all might topple down the rocks and into the ocean.

- Gabriela Will XI

Bold

- Shiana Puri

Purple Puffs

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Tiger Eyes She has eyes of molten earth, Hot and burning so you keep your distance, And can’t see the secrets she wishes She could tell someone.

They burn into your soul, stare at you From far, but so bright and luminous.

You could see them in the dark.

Her words are hidden in a sheen of awe.

Majestic, dangerous, she holds her own.

Walking gently, her own will dictating The life that she lives now.

Admire from afar; she could kill you.

Creatures like her, you let them live.

Let her breathe.

She is endangered, the woman with The eyes of a tiger.

What some don’t recall is that those eyes Have seen blood, carnage, failure.

As she pads her way through her domain, She carries her history alone.

Beware of a creature that has bright eyes That also carry a mystery.

The chances are those eyes have Lived stories you’d never imagine.

- Ambika Prasad XIII

L-O-V-E I wasn't in love but I clung to the idea of love, hoping that the letters L-O-V-E strung together would bring me happiness - although at that point I had never known what true inner happiness was.

I was clinging to that word hoping that if I said it enough it would

somehow bring meaning to my life.

Looking back now, I see that it was never her as a person that the love was directed towards.

Trying to force myself to love someone else was a way to hide and mask the cruelty of my own self sabotage - because I couldn’t love myself.

I secretly longed to feel passion - a burning desire.

Longed to look into the eyes of my lover and have sparks ignite within me.

But there was just a void.

When you have no self worth, you believe that as long as someone else loves you - it’s ‘good enough’.

I believed that no one else would ever love me.

I was full of scars inside and out; I was too broken to reach out of that pit of despair and dive into another relationship – that might gift me the true love I desired.

I was too wounded to feel a passionate love down into my soul.

And so...

Darkness enveloped me.

I succumbed to the pain.

I let myself go.

My soul became numb.

I was but an empty vessel, blindly floating through my existence.

Then I became jaded.

Fear and hostility sank into my bones.

What is love?

True love?

That’s when the meaning of love really crumbled within me.

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Even now that I can look back and see some of my insecurities and numbness from a distanceI still push away the thought of a passionate love for another existing in my mind.

Still jaded.

Still guarded.

But Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve battled my inner demons and shed the veil of hopelessness and despair.

I now have love for myself.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve worked so hard to rediscover who I am, to see the inner beauty I possess I am strong enough now.

It took losing myself being suffocated by the word love, to truly find myself within the meaning of love.

- Kayla Walden

ELECTRIC

- Seleena Hillier XV

Great Day For a Walk I am torn and tired.

How you Dare Tell me I am disrupting your sleep With my cries.

I have remained silent Behind neutral masks, Curved corners at my mouth Supposed to indicate that I am happy.

I have held my tongue, Suffocated my words, Choked feeling into submission.

Your silence—deafening, Numbing all the right parts Of niceties.

“Yes, hello, I am good.

Glad to hear you’re well, have a nice day.”

We’ll talk when I am better And can entertain A little while longer.

On your way home Please tell me If you’ve seen it.

If you’ve seen my mind rolling Around banks of delusion and obsession.

Tell me, If my heartstrings, Matching the pink bubble gum on the sole of your shoe, Find their way home with you.

My body Spread thin, Cannot cover any more space.

Holes are starting to form around Old wounds, but still The light can’t get in.

- Michelle Moreira XVI

- Sina Kazeroonizand XVII

Paper Cuts

Still I take you off the shelf.

I’m careful not to crack your spine,

Bruise your pages with finger prints Or fold your corners.

Flipping through where I’ve written you

Your dust gets in my eyes.

- Alexandrea Fiorante

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Chad Kroeger told me to look at photographs so I did Being an adult is getting drunk at home, alone, on a Saturday evening, after work, while doing your laundry.

Looking at old photographs; you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell who's dead and who's alive. Looking at photographs of your mom in the 90s, in overalls, pushing your infant ass in a strollerâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;some fucked up memento mori

bullshit. Being an adult is missing.

Missing the tacky wallpaper, missing your ballerina Barbie, missing an uncle you never even got to meet.

- Kris Dionio

XIX

Moonlight

- Catherine Cha XX

Mirror, Mirror

I looked in the mirror today and saw that I got up saw the indent of my pillow on my cheek and knew I had slept

saw the paper cuts on my finger tips and thought about the old books and the new books

the books that remind me that people are artists and not just commercial best-sellers I think about his smile when he tells me I could be a best-seller and then I tell him I want to be an artist

- Sarah Pelletier XXI

The Sapphire City

Rooted

- Seleena Hillier XXII

Moon Child

- Jessica Suljic

XXIII

Agape

I. Walking through a strangerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s garden, we longed for the strength forgotten.

The yellow poppies lined our steps and stared at us wide. I wept.

So familiar it all seemed and passed as a dream.

Our eyes like fogged glass as camera clad Hades passed.

The sun rested on your face, with fleeting and unruly grace.

II. We sat next to the abandoned church, your voice unbearably absent.

We fell in f r a g m e n t s.

We were everywhere but there.

The past, the future, never the present We rushed through the woods and saw statues of stone and Wondered if their empty eyes could swallow us whole.

Place us on an island or in a wood. But this is no green world. (we have fallen overboard.)

Between our swollen fingers we gripped the grass to stabilize. (the world moved in reverse) Can we remain unseen?

III. Do you remember, dear, the sounds of the sparrows hiding in thorn bushes near the bus stop?

How the gray sliced the green?

Nothing and everything unclean?

(So serene?)

XXIV

Their stained-glass smiles emerge from behind flesh doors.

Laughing at our hearts full of gores.

We knelt before the fluorescent gods with violet stained teeth.

IV. You sat next to me at the Nollendorfplatz, we harmonized our sighs to the absence of goodbyes.

You translated the plaque outside the station and time stood still. (“Do you think --somehow-- they know that they’re remembered?”)

I watched the cars emerge -- the wind curling its tendrils around us. (“What did Sally do?”)

V. Meet me in that place again where yellow poppies bloom.

(And promise me, promise me.)

Do not disappear within the waves, The silence consumes your voice -we cannot walk on water, but we can scream.

Your cries go unheard, your warmth a memory.

I am left with winter.

(You were like the scent of smoke in a snowstorm.)

VI. I'd never seen them before, here they're blood red and a symbol for the fallen, the remembered, the valiant, the brave. There, merely a garden flower.

Bright.

Untouched.

Agape.

- Renna Keriazes XXV

Jungle in the City

- Marco Moro

XXVI

Glimpses of Toronto

- Liana Mortin XXVII

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