THE UNDERGRADUATE REVIEW
volume 31
Cover Art Sebastien Duff-Mailloux Snapshots
Published March 20, 2019
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A MESSAGE FROM THE BOARD 31...
the amount of days in 7 out of the 12 months, the age of music icons, Rihanna and Adele, the number of flavours of Baskin-Robins ice cream, and now the amount of publications of the Undergraduate Review.
The number 31 is said to represent creative and practical energy, something we feel has been embodied by the board during the selection process for this publication. Each piece, while unique and creative, has been carefully crafted by the artist before being selected by the board with intention and precision. After accepting the first piece for the 31st edition of the Undergraduate Review, we knew we were creating something special. That first piece planted the seed for the rest of the publication and with each new submission we continued to be blown away by the talent of the Queen’s community. The UR board has worked tirelessly to put together this publication and we are so proud to carry on the legacy of Queen’s oldest arts and literature publication. We hope you enjoy the hard work of the artists that lie on the following pages. We’d like to extend a huge thank you to everyone who submitted this year. Your vulnerability in sharing your work has allowed us to create this publication and for that we are very grateful. This publication could not have existed without you. We’d also like to thank Isaac Smith and Rosalyn Martin, the ASUS Academics Commissioner and Deputy, for their support throughout the year. We couldn’t have pulled this off without you.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Untitled by Bosbie Subway by Kaylee O’Meara Terminal 3 by Claudia Rupnik the altar of the non believer by Pamoda Wijekoon Untitled by Grier Drummond Blue Pot by Mackenzie Gregson Collector of Amour by Emma Eloise Hussey Renaissance by Anastasia Mikhailitchenko C by Haley Sarfeld Flower Field by Olivia Madan Bird’s Eye by Alana Macdonald Untitled by Amy Evans Je m’en fous by Emily Hamilton Pitch Meetings, February 23 by Josh Granovsky Immigrant Chinese by Karen Law Crescent Beach by Kaylee O’Meara Blind Safety by Hareer Sulaiman Varigotti by Kaylee O’Meara The Monumental Trip by C. J. G. Modern Poems by Lin Lune Heathan Chinese by Karen Law Diving by Alex Dawson * Le Bleu et Le Vert by John Carney Geometric Watercolour Portrait by Olivia Madan Kind Cages by Michelle Boon Blue Water 1 & 2 by Kaylee O’Meara Four Years by Auston Chorr Swimming to Shore by Billie Kearns I Wanna Walk Through the Park at Night by Biba Autumn in Aus by Alana Macdonald The Musician and the Exchange Student by Billie Kearns The Before and After of Friendships by E. M. Varsava nocturne by Helena Gagnier dreaming. by Joanne Katherine Blurry Art by Holly Rose Lorenzon Jonah Was Also the Whale by Mirjana Villeneuve * Transition by Sebastien Duff-Mailloux The Goblins in the Mountain by Larissa Carscadden Morning Fog by Kaylee O’Meara Ozymandian Everyman by Jack Rabb * Homeland by Joanne Katherine Mahatma Gandhi Market in Hubli, Karnataka, India in July of 2018 by Gabriella Ribeiro If You’re Smart you Watch for Changes in Colour by Biba Significant Other by Haley Sarfeld Chevy by Michelle Butterchew * 7am Fog by Katrina Moretta In Shadows by Sebastien Duff-Mailloux Snapshots by Sebastien Duff-Mailloux All My Love by Emily McDonald * White Pine by Alyssa Reynolds Haikus for the Unseen by Helena Gagnier Untitiled by Grier Drummond Judith by Emily Joyce To My Father by Michelle Boon Snapshots by Sebastien Duff-Mailloux Boyfriend Number Three by Billie Kearns The Weight of Belonging by Claudia Rupnik Into the Mist by Alyssa Reynolds
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Content Warning This book contains submissions involving death, suicide, trauma, as well as sexually explicit and other content that may cause distress for some readers. Works listed with an asterisk in the table of contents indidate these submissions. Please refer to page 77 if you are in need of resources.
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bless mr. mcglaughlin who had to mark jen’s fourth poem that semester about her ex-boyfriend
Bosbie
Subway
Kaylee O’Meara
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Terminal 3 Claudia Rupnik
I sit in the airport and watch planes land on the runway; snow falls softly outside, nervous people come and go in the terminal. I’m three hours early for my flight. My mum’s packed me a lunch: Two chicken cutlet sandwiches in aluminum foil with a slice of her banana bread. I eat, and think of how quickly she said goodbye, a hug, goodbye, in the car drop outside departures. She knows I’ll be new when I walk back through these gates; requiring something more from everything that was once before enough. Movement does that, taking chances does that. I’ve never felt the rush I see, because the inevitable happens when it wants to. I swallow, take another bite, and think: everything good that’s ever happened, started like this. I sit in the airport and write poetry by the window; The sun fades out of the sky, restless bodies fill the seats around me. I’m three hours early for my flight.
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the altar of the non believer Pamoda Wiljekoon
old telephone poles sag into soft mud on sunday morning lining laneways with lopsided blessings like gospel radio cutting car commercials with jesus christ, the kind of faith that slots into sidewalk signs: self-tanner and salvation. the six-lane highways reach to the horizon with open palms and paper cup coffee stitches you back to life. cradeled in the birthplace of belief, 5:30 am when everything and nothing lies still. not even the late blooming lupines spilling over the guardrail, or the virign mary, pearlescent on the side of the orthodox church, in her eternal sky of eggshell blue. divinity spreads thin, cotton-ball clouds across a haze of shy sunlight, but quiet minds catch little miracles: dew-heavy air coaxing tired eyes back to life, and relevations spray-painted on overpasses, soft blessing that flit between blue spruce.
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Untitled Grier Drummond
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Blue Pot
Mackenzie Gregson
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Collection of Amour Emma Eloise Hussey
love devours a pomegranate heart spills seams utimely; sporadic events like these are unchosen. and yet, i find myself, unkindly, ripping at the sking until it is broken. i crack knuckles between my lungs of daisy, lillies, and bursting chamomile... he lied beside me until deadly ideas sprung a spinal shock and neurotic thrill. love blinds no sweeter sound; no ethereal tone could compare to your rhythms. your heartbeat is the lullaby to my dreams, i sink into you and pluck your heartstrings as my harp. you exude melody; all hitches in tune are purposeful. a living ballad under my fingertips, i breathe in synchrony to remember your symphony.
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Renaissance
Anastasia Mikhailitchenko
C Haley Sarfeld you refuse to share your cigarette say they’ll lead me astray I sneak one at a party and you catch my breath white-grey make me blush at your ashen chastisement
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Flower Field
Olivia Madan
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Bird’s Eye Alana Macdonald
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Untitled Amy Evans
Je m’en fous Emily Hamilton
Nous étions déjà partis quand je vous ai reconnue. Le train a accéléré mais j’ai saisi le vert dans vos yeux et le balayage naturel dans tes cheveux. Les souvenirs sont revenus quand les montagnes ont apparu aux côtés du train. Cependant, j’ai essayé de ne pas penser à vous et de penser seulement au paysage glacé dehors. Pourquoi êties-vous à la gare ? De plus, est-ce que vous preniez le train avec quelqu’un ? D’ailleurs, voudriez-vous me retrouvez ? De toute façon, je m’en fous. Ma femme est assise à côté de moi, elle ne sait rien de toi. Elle m’a demandé à la gare si j’étais ravi de ce voyage, j’ai dit oui, mais je ne sais plus. Les souvenirs de vous reviennent sans cesse : les discussions, vos poèmes favoris, le bar qu’on a fréquenté, les disputes, les insultes… Je suis ravi de ces vacances, car je ne pense pas à vous comme je sais que vous ne pensez pas de moi. Encore une fois, j’apprécie les montagnes qui défilent dehors, le bras de ma femme autour de moi affectueusement. Le vert de son manteau me rappelle des yeux qui sont devenus froids comme le vent d’hiver qui frappe les fenêtres du train. Nous étions déjà partis quand je vous ai reconnue, mais je m’en fous.
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Pitch Meeting, February 23 Josh Granovsky
8:00am Two timelines, but it’s not a strict rule—definitely room to jump around. In the first timeline, we’ve got two siblings. Brother and sister, let’s say. No more than eight or nine years old. Their bond is unbreakable, or at least that’s what they thought. Mom’s a crack addict, dad is out of the picture. Once the mom is shipped off to jail, the twins—they’re twins—are split up and shoved into the shipwreck known as Boston foster care. The brother moves to the rich part of town, where the outdoor pools have a convertible-type roof; he starts wearing suits and attending an all-boys ‘academy’—he’s gay, by the way, doesn’t know it yet but everyone else does. The sister also moves to a wealthy part of town, but the dirty money area; she transports cocaine in her Polly Pocket backpack on her way home from school. Second timeline, now twenty-five years later, the twins living together in a hut in Beirut, on the run…and they’re married to each other. You can take it from here. 9:30am A small-town writer who runs off to the City of Angels scores a meeting to share his vision with his idols and all his dreams come true. Based on a hopefully true story. Okay, no, but seriously, we open on a tight close-up of a decaying deer’s eye. 10:00 am It’s a social experiment. I’m envisioning a ten-episode docu-series, though I’m not opposed to going live for the finale. We hold a massive casting call and pluck ten good Samaritans, ten reformed criminals from their daily lives. We then give five do-gooders and five felons their own whistles, and lock all twenty of them in a house together for sixty days. Will the whistleblowers go crazy with power? Will the whistle-less victims retaliate with a violent revolt? Think Stanford Prison Experiment meets a middle school gymnasium. At the end of the sixty days, whoever hasn’t gone crazy with power or had a breakdown wins $3 million, cash. 17
11:15am He dies after a bus rams into him. She dies trying to save him. But that’s just where their story begins. 1:00pm We’ve seen the annoying-boy-wears-down-out-of-hisleague-girl rom-com scenario a thousand times. But what if we start at the end of this story? He just made a large, sweeping romantic gesture to make up for him dicking around the whole “movie” and now they’re riding off into the sunset. Their horsedrawn carriage grinds to a halt when they make a startling admission: they’re both already married. And what’s worse? Our protagonists’ spouses just completed their own meet-cute love story “movie” with each other! Let’s just say their double date dinners get tense. I call it “Loaded Small Talk”. 1:10pm An all-male reboot of Charlie’s Angels. There’s one girl but she has no lines or clothes. Just because feminism is on the rise doesn’t mean we can’t have stories by men for men, right? 2:30pm Tentative title is “After All I’ve Done for You!”. Think of all the truly radical rule breakers of the past few hundred years, you know, the icons who suffered to make our lives better. Rosa Parks, Ghandi, Martin Luther King, etcetera. They all time travel to present-day America and yell at all of us for screwing everything up. 4:00pm An elevator appears out of the blue in the middle of Time Square, suspended two hundred feet off the ground. No wires, no buttons, just a steel box. Bullets bounce off of it twice as hard as they were fired. Some people think it’s the Messiah, others think it’s terrorism. Most people just think it’s weird. That’s…that’s all I’ve got. 4:15pm Family politics have never been messier for the all-too-powerful LaCieniga family in beautiful downtown Miami. 18
When Diana LaCieniga’s dead ex-husband is found alive in upper Canada, her fortune—and life—are suddenly in jeopardy. If Diana thought that wasn’t bad enough, her sister is returning to town and has a new woman on her arm: Diana’s college flame from her, well, more rambunctious days. And if DeeDee thought she wasn’t in enough hot water, her blossoming teenage daughter asks for her mother’s permission to get married…to the family butler. Told from the perspective of the wine they all drink. 5:00pm Slice-of-life pieces are all the rage these days. I mean, they’re dumb as sticks but critics go bananas for that realism crap. So, why don’t we haul a camera crew out to small-town Manitoba, throw in a few lens flares and just see what happens? We can sell it to one of those HBO networks and call it “Ache,” or something poetic like that. Two Golden Globes minimum. 5:45pm Jake wasn’t cool in middle school, but high school is a clean slate. He invests in some hair gel, one of those old band t-shirts and slightly roughed-up pair of Vans—the checkered ones, of course. After an epic first day with his improved persona, everything looks on course to turn Jake into Ridgemiddle High’s king of the campus. His plan for domination just has one large problem: he’s a medium. What happens when he fails his algebra quiz because Ms. Marooney’s father-in-law warns her about his son from the great beyond? Will his new, cool friends abandon him after they get stuck in a McDonalds drive-thru for an hour while he tells a PlayPlace worker about her mom’s dying wish? Most importantly, how is he supposed to finally get to second base with Jenny Baker if all he can focus on is her grandfather relaying his biggest regrets from his time on earth?! 10:30pm A guy traps a television executive in a boardroom. He’s got a twinkle in his eye and a bomb strapped to his chest. He threatens to detonate it if his post-and-pre-apocalyptic romantic-dramedy isn’t given a two-season order and a sizeable budget for the wrap party—photo booths do not come cheap these days. 19
Immigrant Chinese
Karen Law
Crescent Beach
Kaylee O’Meara
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blind safety Hareer Sulaiman Pardon my hello, I didn’t know you were prone to peace Assalamu Aleikom Excuse my gratitude as you roll your eyes Hamdilla Apologies for my care you hate when I wish you well Inshallah Forgive my eyes, they are not blue, for that I am blind to you I beg you to Ignore my lips, I cannot disregard the “T” You find safety in my pale skin, for the Middle Eastern sun refuses to kiss it, You feel ease from my hair, for I don’t cover it like you think I should You glorify my blue veins, for they hide the redness of , my Arab blood You stare at my freedom, because it gives you purpose to teach me your own
But please, be aware, my teachings do not preach ignorance, because when they didn’t Bombs came instead of rain Bullets carved my walls instead of my drawings we breathed gunpowder From teta’s cooking Instead of seasoning I choose to stay patient with you for mama taught me I choose to take care of you because my teachings guided Me I choose to stand by you, because my Quran told me I choose to forgive you, for my pillars sought me I choose to accept your hate, because I’ve been taught to love you So please tell me, how much hate can you give to teach me how to love
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Varigotti
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Kaylee O’Meara
The Monumental Trip C. J. G. I thought I would find an anchor for my mind in Paris, Among the narrow streets and sunny balconies, But there was nothing there for me. I ached and longed to find myself in my reflection Cast upon the café windows, But staring back at me was me, as I’ve always been, Just more tanned and more tired. The knot inside my chest that I was sure would loosen over time Tightened until it was hard for me to breathe. I came back empty and broke, Having spent every last ounce of myself in places that didn’t even have ears to listen. I told my mum about my sorrow, About how Paris didn’t care about me like I had cared about it, And how I had left looking for answers, But returned only with more questions, And she laughed and told me that maybe it’s because I don’t speak French.
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Modern Poems Lin Lune
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Heathen Chinese Karen Law
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Diving
Alex Dawson
Big bag of coke and I don’t give a fuck. Yeah baby, you got that right. Mhm. My cock’s not that big but I got a bag of powder. I do have that. I have that and I have you my lover. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. You know it baby. Big bag of coke and I don’t give a fuck. Doesn’t get any better than this. I love you baby. I loveee YOuuuu my lover. Shhhh. You are drunk mister. You are a bad boy. What? C’mon baby. Okay, okay. I love you baby. I love you baby. I could just make out this conversation amidst the demands of cha-cha slide from the karaoke boom box that saturated the room in colourful disco patterns. Herb was prancing around, gut forward, neck high, in red boxer briefs. A whiskey glass jingled in his hand, eternally spilling at the rim. My mother’s eyes glittered with the sight of everything that laid itself in front of her. A new look. Always scanning. A look that was impenetrable when she was with Herb. Which she always was. The only person that could have broke through that look was my bitch sister, but she could only leave her in tears. I’d seen it happen. Right behind my mother’s eyes were tears. And Herb was her guardian of the good times. I had come down to eat the leftovers from last night’s lasagne and was offered a beer. All characters were fully clothed at the time, so I accepted. And now I felt the sinking in of a truth I had suspected and was finally given the glaring piece of evidence to conclude. My mother grew up in rural Utopia, I, a middle-class suburb. It was a Saturday night. I left the house and drove a few blocks to a local pub. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. It was a quiet night, everyone could hear everyone else. A girl sat alone a few seats away. I sent her a drink and then a smile and then some quick words I read in a Kingsley Amis story. She was confident, not too kind, receptive when she chose to be. What do you do? I’m a waitress. Riveting. Impress me then. I’m a diver. A diver? That’s right. And where do you dive? Only in the darkest of places. A hesitation bloomed into a smile. Very mysterious. I shrugged. 26
We decorated a few drinks like this. Light and airy, with only as much interest as to lodge it deeper in the other person. Our performance was perfect. Unbelievably so. Do you want to see where I dive or what? She nodded. The drive was half an hour out of town. We continued talking, a semi-tone friendlier. I could see her shift nervously as I pulled through a gravel lane, onto the side-pass of an inactive train track. She looked at me. I think she assumed I was taking her to my place, that diving was a metaphor for dropping acid or something. It’s just up here, I assured. I parked the car and we walked a while. Her anxiety didn’t calm until she saw the towering barriers of a trestle bridge. Oh, he actually dives she must have thought. She began talking again. We leaned naked against the wooden railing, the river flowing gently below. How many girls had I taken here? Enough so that when she turned out of the moonlight her body seemed to contain attributes of all the others like some platonic ideal of that very moment. How deep is it? She asked, peering down. The beauty of diving is never to find the bottom. If you don’t find it you can keep diving. So she watched the water, trying to spot the bottom, while I studied the faint glow that emitted from an adjacent home. It was a slim, white house that was far enough from the world that you could hear thoughts echoing against the walls, thoughts that became lost in the scattered, fist-sized voids. I found a small stone at my feet and lobbed it at the side of the house. She didn’t seem to notice. Shall we dive in? I guided her atop the railing, our glowing skin pressing against the wood as a man walked onto the back patio. He shined a flash light in the corners of his lawn, flicking his wrist to a dog at the door. The old man looked okay. She began giggling. I snuck a joint between my lips. Her body burst into a million sounds when she dove but I was the only one that could hear it. Me, I didn’t jump. I just stood, hanging over the black water like the moon sits naked in the sky, falling slowly into tomorrow, the underbelly of today. 27
Le Bleu et Le Vert John Carney
Le soleil, la lune, le temps ne vaut rien Car l’eau et la terre se battent toujours sous le ciel Deux forces primordiales qui se concentrent seulement sur l’une et l’autre Sans aucune considération pour les êtres vivants Les mouettes, les poissons, les tortues Ne vaut rien contre l’autorité immense de ces dieux L’océan, avec le vent derrière lui, morde et grogne et griffe les roches et le sable Les roches, toujours vigilants, protègent la vie de la terre Déterminés et résolus au point de destruction La végétation, astucieuse et maligne, se plonge dans le grand marin Pour voler l’essence précieuse qui se trouve trop rare sous les vagues Et gagne plus de territoire, même si cette mission la rende perdus dans l’étendue bleue et noire Les soldats de la mer, qui n’ont jamais échappé à son œil Avec leurs dents gagnées comme malédiction Rôdent autour de leurs postes, pour décourager les invasions Et sont forcés de consommer leurs frères et sœurs sous l’ordre de leur maître Chaque jour l’eau gagne, chaque nuit la terre regagne Engagées dans un conflit éternel Mais toujours les humains dansent sur le sable et flottent dans l’eau Parce qu’ils s’amusent de la guerre, de la violence, du carnage autour d’eux Mais le bleu connait leur moquerie ; le vert regarde leurs bêtises Et bientôt, les deux auront leur revanche
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Geometric Watercolour Portrait
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Olivia Madan
Kind Cages Michelle Boon scribbling self portraits my classmates wore skin-colour Crayolas down to dull edges peeling paper perfect complexion in three inches of wax I reach for tan— a lightly used shade of tree trunks and mud tan like a white girl’s dream bathing in a cocktail of SPF and UV I love your sun-filled skin is not a compliment when all they want is to bronze their cheeks with my melanin they want the pigment in my skin the silk in my hair but they never ask for the slant of my eyes they assure me that I’m really pretty for an asian my best friend’s mother as blonde as blue as kind as her daughter tells me about the son of her colleague he’s very smart very nice but above all else he’s half Chinese my grade nine gym class filled an envelope with niceties all to combat teen-girl insecurities I had twenty-four slips that read: you’re so smart everyone watched expectantly expecting me the model minority to quietly achieve academic excellence because that is the way of my kind: confined by kind cages
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Blue Water 1 & 2
Kaylee O’Meara
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Four Years
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Auston Chorr
Swimming to Shore
Billie Kearns
I crawl out of our bed, my mother still asleep in a curl of white sheets. Her peppered hair spills into the deep of the trench behind the mattress. I pour turquoise pebbles into the trench, fill the gaping hole, sculpt a pillow for my mother, spread handfuls of tiny seaglass stars over the turquoise into swaths of wet navy. My mother is still asleep. I watch her stretch her head onto the blue, sink into the rocks, the seaglass, and she smiles like she is dreaming I’ll wake her up before I go through bright doorway and leave her in the bubbles.
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I Wanna Walk Through the Park at Night Habiba Esaad
This piece, like much of my work, turns to utopic or imagine futures, presenting queer and marginalized bodies (reflexive of my own experience), as I see fit. Under this context, the work draws on the past and the future - a kind of “meeting of minds” creating my own microcosom between the two. By imploring monderist ideas of re-contextualizing the past as a menas of critiquing art history, they also serve as a hopeful denial of the traditions akin to the hierarchy of art. More importantly, however, the use of modernism to ground and insertion of my “invisible” self into the present- a conversation with the following truisms; how the media determins our presentation of self how the self is always mediated by representation Within these two prompts, one common theme emerges- what are the conditions of possibility within the pre-existing canon of images and art-making. Visually speaking, the work toys between a flat digitilization in juxtaposition with the traditional, the analog, seen best vis-a-vis the use of Xerox Transfers and the impressions left behind on any composition in said medium (lithography). The piece, purposefully so, takes inspiration from feminist ideas regarding collage, DIY and/or cut-and-paste aesthetics coupled with imagery symbolic of my lived experience as a female queer non-black person of colour. Presented and placed in a careful arrangement, compositionally reading “GIRLS”, this intervention will be spoken as a negotiation of the present, envisioning a ‘queer utopia’ free from the present constraints of media representations or ‘othering’.
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DOODLE SPACE
Here’s your chance to take the inspiration you’ve gathered from the publication so far and create your own masterpiece!
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Autumn in Aus
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Alana Macdonald
The Musician and the Exchange Student Billie Kearns
Stephanie closes her eyes. On the neck of her guitar a fake flower wraps its way through the tuning pegs. She croons about mango gelato and a poet, scoops out her vowels. A piece of hair is resting on the wrong side of her head. I wonder if I should tell her, if she’ll see the pictures later and wish that someone had. Her eyes open. They wash past the crowd to a focal point sitting on a shelf with coffee shop flyers and home décor baskets. She leads the next verse: “Hello” repeats the word in Dutch. Her throat scrapes out the glottal friction, the corners of her eyes crinkle, and she smiles like she can see through the shelf, across the Atlantic.
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The Before and After of Friendships E. M. Varsava The First Friend
Surrounded by people, you sipped your drink alone. They were all about three drinks ahead by the time you found the place, and you ordered a whiskey-sour. The only drink you’d ever had at a bar was a rum-and-coke, because it was what you and your friends mixed when your parents weren’t home, and wine was the only drink you had with your parents, sitting around the dinner table. You sipped nervously in the corner as they threw napkins and asked each other about their most recent sexual experiences. Then she walked in. You recognized her immediately. She was the only one who said hi to you at the welcoming ceremony that morning and gave you the address to the bar when you asked about her plans. She was two hours late and you were about to pay the cheque when she walked in as though she owned the room. “Is this seat taken?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer, pulling a chair up right beside you. You wore a tight black long-sleeve with a scoop neck and a grey pencil skirt because you thought it made you look older. She wore a white frilly t-shirt and wide-legged blue pants patterned with elephants. You had the same pair in your closet, in pink. Her dark pin-straight hair flowed down her back as she leaned in close to you. Her eyes were blue, and her skin was dark. She put both hands under her chin and stared intently. “Well?” “Well, what?” She grabbed your hands in hers. “C’mon, you have to tell me everything.” You laughed and let go to take a large sip of your whiskey-sour. “Tell you what?” “Don’t play with me. Who is he?” “We were just talking.” “But you left the dinner together!” “He walked me home, that’s all! After our dessert.” 38
“After dessert, huh?” She pouted her lip playfully and gently smacked you with the drink menu. “You’re no fun! Man, do I need something to drink.” And that was that. You were friends. Together you went to cafés with brick walls and string lights where baristas in polos and thick-framed glasses served five-dollar coffees. In bars with live-music, you sat at tables for two trying to catch a stranger’s eye. Her father was a fashion icon in the city, so she knew all the best places. Yet she wanted to be her own person and pursue writing for magazines. Your personal editor, she pushed you to do your best work. She knew you were feeling homesick before you did and would show up at your door with a bottle of wine called something like “Girls Night In,” and stay up watching movies until you fell asleep. Life was a game of “how long can we make it on our own,” and the world your playground. Each day you could do anything you wanted to and believed you would become the person you dreamed. Her name was Natalie, and she was the first friend you made that summer during your internship in New York City.
The Second Friend
At a table full of people, you chewed your beef brisket alone. You had never heard of brisket before and the only beef you’d eaten were the burgers and chilis your mom made. You hadn’t seen Natalie, so you sat at the nearest empty seat. The only other seat was right beside you. You tried to strike up a conversation about the publishing industry, but it quickly turned to industry gossip and everyone’s worst sexual experience. Then he walked in. He was the only guy in a grey suit and his tie was polkadotted. “Is this seat taken?” he asked. Your mouth was full of Pinot Gris, so all you could do was gesture with your glass. “Oh, serves me right for showing up late,” he said, shaking a wine bottle upside down above his glass. “Here, you can have mine. Although, good luck choking it down.” “Oh no. They didn’t tell you! You were supposed to get drunk before the dinner so you wouldn’t notice the bad wine and even more tasteless conversation.” You clasped a hand against your forehead. “I knew I should’ve checked my email before I left the house!” 39
You laughed together and talked about your aspirations and home towns. He also wanted to pursue publishing in children’s fiction, and you speculated about the funny yet insightful things that kids must think about. You’re both from small towns. He liked to fish, and you liked to swim. He has dark hair and dark skin and wore thin-wired glasses. The skin around his eyes was crinkly, likely from constant smiling. “Why were you so late anyways?” “I was visiting my girlfriend’s parents. They live here.” “Oh.” You finished your glass of Pinot Gris. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?” “Umm…” He opened his hands wide in excitement and dramatically turned to face you. “I heard of this great place that only sells waffles and you can choose from over a hundred different toppings.” He pointed at your barely-touched plate. “You still hungry?” As you walked out together you saw Natalie and waved. She raised her eyebrows at you then gave a wink and a thumbs-up. And that was that, you made another friend. You went to tourist attractions like the Statue of Liberty, museums, and ferry rides. Evenings, you went off the beaten path and got lost hunched over maps looking for a store that sells rainbow bagels, the cheesiest haunted house, or the best place to catch an independent film. One night you went to a carnival with Natalie and ate candy-apples and candy-floss for dinner. He won you a plush Tigger in that game where you throw baseballs at milk bottles. The Ferris Wheel stopped at the top, and you saw the entire skyline beyond the flashing lights and knew you had made it. Then the Ferris Wheel jerked into motion. He knew you were having a bad day without you having to tell him. He’d show up at your house with herbal teas called “Matcha-Picchu” or “Buddha Blend” and stay up watching movies until you’d start to fall asleep with your head on his shoulder. Then he’d whisper, “This is about him again, isn’t it?” His name was Matteo and he was the best friend you’ve ever had. Maybe your only true friend.
The First Love
Matteo walked you home after the carnival, and you were wearing your pink elephant pants. Fumbling with the house key, 40
giddy on sugar, you heard him. “Those pants are hype!” You turned around but everyone walking by was minding their own business. You turned back to the door when you heard him again. “Up here, pink elephants!” You marched down your porch steps and looked up, and there he was, atop the porch roof of the neighbouring house. His dark curls fell playfully over his face and he wore a dark button-down shirt halfway undone to reveal chest hair. A cigarette hung out of his mouth. You crossed your arms and smirked. “Been watching me long?” He smiled. “Long enough.” A street full of people but you only had eyes for each other. “Well?” “Well, what?” “Aren’t you going to come up here and join me?” You bit your bottom lip. You couldn’t climb, yet only hesitated a moment. “Aren’t you going to help me?” He smiled and put out his cigarette, then reached his hand towards you, which you took while stepping onto the porch banister. He pulled you up in one tug and you noticed how large his arms were, bulging almost. “Come here often?” “I like to watch people.” “I do too, but never from a bird’s eye view before.” “It’s more fun when no one knows you’re watching.” “I believe that’s actually called spying.” “I like to see people at their most real.” He stared at you and you stared back, right into his eyes. Bright golden eyes. “How do you see me?” He blinked and looked away, laughing softly to himself as he pulled out another cigarette, offering one, which you politely declined. “I’m Molly by the way, for the next time you’re spying on me.” He took your hand. “I’m Cyrus, and I don’t plan on just spying any longer.” He held your hand a moment too long. And just like that, you fell in love. You spent the days in bed, knees and foreheads touching in the shape of a heart. You spent nights in bed sipping out of liquor bottles. You called your mom asking for recipes and she 41
gave you instructions while you burned garlic and spilled sauce over the stove top. You bought new underwear. Natalie whined that you weren’t hanging out with her enough anymore. You thought she was jealous. Matteo asked why you spent so much time with Cyrus, and you thought he was jealous. As you called Cyrus more often, he called you less. One night he cancelled dinner last minute after you spent two hours preparing a spaghetti sauce he requested. Your mom called to check in and you told her you were fine. After hanging up you cried into your pillow, hugging your stuffed Tigger and wishing your mom would hear you crying and come upstairs to comfort you, like at home. Cyrus was your first love, but not your last. The guy you knew you weren’t going to marry, but decided to love anyway because you’d wanted someone to look after you.
Then There Were Three
You spent days with Natalie writing in brick-walled coffee shops but stopped going out much at night. You turned Matteo down more times than not, although you’d sometimes join him for a walk or an over-sized ice cream cone. Cyrus had almost stopped calling, he was just about finished with you; but you hadn’t stopped calling him. You called home more often, telling your parents what you’d been learning in the program and about the people you’d met. A couple nights a week you managed to get all three friends together for a drink and a laugh. Then once a week, then not at all. Natalie started dating a guy and all but disappeared into the city. Matteo’s girlfriend visited and you joined them once for dinner. You glared at her over your ice cream soda and slurped noisily when she spoke. After Matteo put his arm around her and kissed her forehead you could barely touch your burger and faked a stomach ache to go home early. You didn’t go out with them again. She was in town for three weeks. One night you went to a party with Cyrus and discussed musicals with a group of people you recognized from the program. Everyone laughed at your story about seeing “Cats” and being convinced your grandmother’s cat could sing, and you glanced over your shoulder to see if Cyrus was looking. He was too busy with the girl whose arms were wrapped around his waist. You went to the balcony to get some air. You weren’t mad 42
about Cyrus because you finally had a reason to ditch him, but you were mad at your expectations. Looking out at the skyline, the millions of flashing lights, you thought about your mom tearing up watching you pack from the doorway of your bedroom. Why did you come here? To escape? For adventure? Nothing really seemed worth the people you left behind. Where did people who lived in New York City go to escape?
After Friendship
It’s funny how much I’ve changed in four months. I see myself at the beginning of the summer as a person I cannot not relate to, but only reflect upon. These last couple of weeks, I’ve spent all my time at programming functions and networking conventions. With what little I can spare I go to a pier to work on my writing, or to a new bakery for recommendations on a tart or eclair. It’s hard to believe this chapter of my life is nearly over. On my way out, I hear my name from down the street. To my surprise I see Natalie bounding towards me, all smiles and giggles. “Molly, I’m so happy to have run in to you. It feels as though it’s been ages.” “Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” “How have you been? Hasn’t it been the most amazing time here? I can’t believe I’m leaving tomorrow! Did I tell you I’m going to meet my dad in California?” “How exciting!” “Yes, it really is! Where are you going now?” “Home.” * I walked into the waffle diner and there he was, waving at me from a table. Matteo and I did the usual, chose toppings for each other, all the worst combinations imaginable. Walking to the train station, rubbing our full bellies, we talked about the future. One of the most unrealistic plans being our pledge to keep in constant touch with each other. I passed him a slip of paper. “Right, here’s my home number. Don’t lose it. I’ll know if you’ve lost it because I expect a call the moment you get home.” “I’ll call everyday.” He stood facing me. “Well, you don’t want to miss your train now, do you?” 43
He fiddled with his train ticket. “I’ll see you again, yeah?” “Yeah.” He smiled and his eyes crinkled around his glasses. After a quick embrace, he walked off and I watched him while he waited in line and presented his ticket. My heart skipped a beat when he turned for one last sad smile and wave and I waved frantically, shaking my hand about until he disappeared around the corner. I’d like to think that marked the end of this chapter in my life, but it doesn’t work like that, does it? We arrange our stories in our heads, but in the end, that’s all there is. We must wait and see what it is we can hold on to.
Nocturne Helena Gagnier Night is but a withered morning Struggling too hard to breathe colour Her blanket of soft blue shade is our sanctuary Full of secret light And quiet love
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dreaming. Joanne Katherine
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Blurry Art Holly Rose Lorenzon Holly’s vision has always been blurry. In high school, she was told she had the attention span of a goldfish. In University, she came to believe that her goodness was blind. Friends often asked her, “Can you really not see this? It’s right in front of you.” In light of her condition, Holly prefers to view the world not only with her eyes but primarily with her other senses, instinctively capturing moments in time rather than fine detail to showcase the emotion underlying the eye-catching lived experience. Whether working with reactive objects, close friends or complete strangers, truth is her guiding line and in Blurry Art, and subtle grain is her specialty. See through the blur to see what’s inside.
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Jonah Was Also the Whale Mirjana Villeneuve
I’m told my bones are not weapons I’m told my stomach is not a bomb shelter and it’s ugly to watch me drag myself back there again, repentant. I’m told the sun just wants to kiss me. I’m told pure is an addiction and our bodies are not calculators. But then why is mine so cold. Why is mine so robotic. Stalking these streets with rubber legs. Kneeling in the cereal aisle. I’m told my hip bones are not an altar. I’m told to stop hiding from God. My heart is losing momentum and it’s my own fault. This empty is not a poem. I’m told I must think it is. I’m told my ribs are not a ladder to heaven. That angels are not ascending and descending and even if they were I would not be among them. A girl my age should be well and grounded. We’re not supposed to fade so quickly that people feel the need to turn their heads. I’m told concern is not the same as love. I’m told I can’t sleep because my body is afraid to die. These days my body is a lot of things without me.
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Transitions Sebastien Duff-Mallioux
The Goblins in the Mountain Larissa Carscadden The goblins in the mountain heard the silver bell ring twice. They scattered like ants, readying to execute the plan they had been preparing for months. The bassinette was waiting by the entrance, sewn into the muddled shape of a cocoon with wicker and hay and colourful pieces of ribbon and ropes that they had found lying about the woods. There was a baby blanket stuffed inside. Unfolded, it was shaped something like a star, with a neck-hole and miscellaneous bows. The nursery was furnished and scrubbed clean. The diamonds that had decorated the ceiling of the cave glittered in the moonlight beaming through a crevice in the wall. There were toys—a pinecone tied to the end of a long vine; a mobile made out of sticks; a spoon; a shoelace, and a broken flashlight that was discovered near one of the hiking trails. Clothes had been seamed and selected, and were laid out on one of the flatter surfaces of rock. This wardrobe consisted of two large socks, trimmed to have holes for legs and arms; a winter toque; a pillowcase for when the child grew older; and a sturdy pair of jeans that had only a few rips. Books were stacked beside the crib, ranging from the 2003 January issue of People’s Magazine, to a pocketbook full of ghost stories, to a large, fairly new publication of Pooping with Poppy the Pig. There were tools tucked away for when the baby grew older— tools like a hammer, an old battery, a saw and a large piece of lumber. Every precaution had been taken, every preparation made. The room was beautiful, crafted with love and devotion, and ready for the new arrival. Three of the goblins, armed with sticks shaven into points, and breastplates made out of orange neon safety vests, came forth. The changeling hung off the mission leader’s arm, unable to be tamed or calmed or silenced. Like all goblins, it was toad-like in appearance, with an underbite stuffed full of crooked fangs, and a pushed-back nose. It hissed at its carrier, and it tried shaking the child free from its arm. It clung tight, hanging off one finger like some kind of parasite, snarling and snorting. Goblin children were always rambunctious.
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The goblin king gave the changeling a firm order, and the little parasite finally focused, finding the bassinette waiting on the ground at their feet. It leaped, sinking into the baby blanket, and nestling in comfortably. The goblin child morphed before their very disproportionate eyes: its body changed from green wrinkles and warts into smooth pink flesh, and its irises adjusted into tiny blue marbles. By all appearances, it was a bundle of human. With a final, grunted command from the king, the guards of the mountain parted. The chanting begun behind them; a sacred tradition on a day like today. Bassinet in hand, and chins raised high with honour, the three goblins left the mountain. * * * There were a lot of things that Gibbie ignored. She ignored the bruises on her arm, and the smell of dirty laundry. She ignored the glass bottles that littered the coffee table, filled with golds and ambers and what looked like water but tasted like fire. She ignored her mother, asleep on the couch; and the pasta boxes aligned on the kitchen shelf like soldiers, ready to dive headfirst into a boiling pot of water and be mixed with salt and margarine for dinner. She ignored how her mouth watered at the thought, and she ignored her desire to ask for a snack. Gibbie ignored a lot of things, but she would have to have been to be truly unobservant not to notice that her younger brother wasn’t human. When her ma brought home the bundle from the hospital one evening, it was small and round and flushed pink. Its fingers were curled into its palm, and it murmured and cooed in a way that reminded Gibbie of milk bubbles popping in those plastic diner cups her pa kept telling her not to blow into whenever they went down to The Fry Guy. The baby had been quiet, and soft, and warm, but Bink was loud, and sharp, and blazing hot. Gibbie noticed how Bink’s ears spiked into points, and how his smile was wide and wicked and full of sharp teeth. She noticed when his eyes blinked red like cherries, one at a time, and she noticed the patterns in the nonsense sounds he made. Gibbie and Bink played often. They played cowboys and train robbers in their neighbour’s backyard, and rode his big slobbery dog like a horse. They played in the kitchen cupboards, banging on pots and pans like the musicians on TV. Bink always took it too far; 51
he’d rip out a drawer and dump out the needles and baggies and rubber bands and slam it wildly against the floor, laughing maniacally. It always cracked Gibbie up when Bink would act like the Tasmanian Devil. Their ma called it tantrums when she saw, but when Pa saw he’d get angry. Once, when Bink was particularly rambunctious, their pa dragged him aside and Gibbie heard banging and bad words until the fire alarm went off, but Bink always came back with a grin. As they grew older, Gibbie would notice the blood that stayed on Bink’s fingertips as he retracted his claws, or how sometimes she would find him crawling upside down on the ceiling when she came home from school. * * * The real Benjamin King grew up to love the forest. He was safe and well-fed with berries and meats and soups. He washed three times a week, scrubbed clean with sponges in warm water. He was loved and cared for. The goblins took turns teaching him to walk, and tucking him in, and brushing his hair. Benjamin dreamed of the stars at night. He played games with the goblin children, and learnt how to make clothes and mine for gems. One day, he knew, when he was old enough, he would leave the mountains. Until then, he was happy. * * * Gabrielle King was old enough now to know that her pa was mean, and that her ma wasn’t like the other mas. She was old enough to see that her friends had different things—dolls to bring to school, and full lunch bags, and pas who spent all morning trying to get the barrettes in their daughter’s hair just right. Gabrielle got in trouble the first week for trading her Goldfish crackers for a sandwich, just like she got in trouble for introducing herself as ‘Gibbie’. “Proper young ladies must have proper names, Miss King,” Mrs. Ronauld had told her. When Gabrielle stuck out her tongue, she was put in the corner. It was sometime late in the fall when Gabrielle took off a sweater that was too tight for her, and the hem of her shirt was pulled along with it. This revealed the large bruise wrapped around her side. It had faded into yellow and purple spots, staining her protruding ribs like a mold. It could have been, perhaps, the lasting impression of a nasty fall down a flight of stairs, or the result of some rough horseplay with the other children, but it wasn’t. It was 52
instead the markings of a thick belt. Mrs. Ronauld could ignore a lot of things, but she couldn’t ignore that. A few days later, Gibbie and Bink were playing matchsticks on the space they had cleared on the floor of the trailer where they now lived. There was a hesitant knock at the door, and Gibbie glanced through the window. She saw a nice, round lady with blue eyelids and very big hair. Bink snickered, in that ghoulish way he did, and Gibbie shushed him. She knew the rules; she knew not to answer the door when no one was home, or when her ma was sleeping. They stayed quiet; Bink watched the matchstick burn out; and Gibbie kept her eyes on the door. The lady knocked twice more before finally turning around and leaving. Gibbie wasn’t sure if her ma had been home, or awake, at the time of the visit, but later that evening she was crying, holding Gibbie close, and rocking her back and forth. Bink played with forks and spoons in his corner, and her ma was drinking the fire from the bottle. When their pa got home that night, Gibbie’s mother dropped her, and collapsed to her knees in front of her husband. She was screaming and sobbing and explaining everything in gasps of air. Seeing she was upset, Gibbie tried to give her ma a hug, but as the young girl reached out her arms, her father swung a hand at her, and she tumbled back. Her pa was screaming now: his face full of red and eyes made of glass. Gibbie held a frown, unable to cry, unable to move. She watched her father thrash and roar and hit her ma across the face when she yelled back at him. Their pa strode forward, towering above Gibbie like a bull with horns, and steam in its nose. Tears started to stream down both her cheeks, and her pa yelled names and bad words and picked her up and shook her. Gibbie could barely register Bink beginning to screech behind them. When she turned her head to look at him, his elf ears were pointed upwards, and his corkscrew nose was flaring with temper. Gibbie knew it would be another tantrum, but her pa had paused. Seething with rage, his eyes were caught on his son. Bink huffed and puffed, his lips snarling upwards to reveal his hyena mouth. His long red claws were out, scratching through the carpet. He was making his Tasmanian Devil noises, and frothing 53
at the mouth. Gibbie knew it was not just another tantrum, but this time, her pa could see it too. He dropped Gibbie to the floor, and she scattered away. Her ma screamed, and Bink jumped on him. He attacked their pa like a wildcat. He hissed and scratched, clinging to his pa like some kind of parasite. His pa struck him hard across the face, and his ma wept, her black makeup melting down her cheeks. Gibbie watched as Bink toppled to the floor in a ball. Bink shrieked at the top of his lungs, and Gibbie watched his back hunch over and his arms grow longer. She watched as his smooth white skin changed first into green and warts, and then was overcome with a blazing red. Bink thrashed across the trailer, crying out and hissing and wailing. His talons tore through the floor, bringing curls of metal with them. He tossed furniture, and broke a window, and the last thing Gibbie saw was the fear on her pa’s face before she shut her eyes. There were loud, horrendous noises—screams and shrieking and destruction. She could smell the smoke, and feel the heat of the fire, and, when finally there was silence, Gibbie felt a small hand take hers. She kept her eyes screwed shut as her little brother lifted her onto his back—as they’d done so many times in their games before—and carried her out of the park. Gibbie heard sirens and shouting and flames, but she clung tight to her little brothers’ back. When they were far from the other trailers, far from The Fry Guy, the elementary school, and the free clinic they had both so frequently visited, Bink set Gibbie down in the grass. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She examined her brother, comforted to see him looking mostly like himself again—mostly, except for his eyes. The irises were red now instead of blue; red like the toy train he always played with; red like Gibbie’s favourite crayon. She liked them better this way. Bink smiled. She looked to their surroundings. They were at the edge of the mountain range, just within the tree line. Gibbie was barefoot, but she liked the feel of the cool grass between her toes. The stars were out, peeking down at them between the leaves and branches, and Gibbie heard chanting. It was the same chanting, Gibbie now remembered, she had 54
the night the baby came home. She had been lying awake in bed, having just graduated from her crib to a mattress on the floor only three feet over, and was looking to the window, sucking on her pacifier. The new baby was in her old crib, fast asleep. He was the size of a melon, and sweet and quiet, and she heard the song she heard now. It was not unlike the soft beating of drums, and the croaking of frogs—a low rumble through the forest and the night. Amongst the birches, she saw flickering fairy lights. She turned to her little brother, wonder dancing in her eyes, and, hand in hand, they went to join the goblins in the mountain.
Morning Fog Kaylee O’Meara
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Ozymandian Everyman Jack Rabb
Like a birthday on Christmas We’re all norn to be forgotten Rushmore, nevermore Some day, some day Voicemails from great grandma Resaved every 4 weeks Til the answering machine broke Planned obsolescence Her waning crescent laneway Stuffed as the turkey inside Stuffed as the photo albums Stiff from disuse Full of unlabelled faces staring Petrified like the back of a coin Unblinking, unknown $40 per annum Is the bounth the Citizen demands To keep her obituary posted online
Homeland
Joanne Katherine
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Mahatma Gandhi Market in Hubli, Karnataka, India in July of 2018
Gabriella Ribeiro 57
If You’re Smart You Watch for Changes in Colour
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Habiba Esaad
significant other Haley Sarfeld sooner than later, when we’re done playing freely around, we agree to organise our thoughts and couple them with sound.
when I ask about an earring on your bedside table you say it belongs to “a friend” ah, friend you and I haven’t put “girl” “friend” together yet I’m only “a pal” so I shouldn’t be appalled, but
“couple” distinguishes us from “single” and excludes “more than two”, but “exclusive” means there’s someone to exclude, and you never clued her in.
some slips are slaps you say it wasn’t sex, only lips on laps
see, you still sent her texts while you centred me, and now we go out and I wonder why some insignificant other stares angrily at us when she sees me hold your hand.
I forget that to a straight guy the referent for “sex” is intercourse; your logic’s phallocentric, you’re not in my theory class. you think langage et parole means to languish in peril, and you kiss with tongue but aren’t fluent in French.
then I recognise her gaze from her profile picture icon, see her earrings as an index like the one I found on the nightstand and realise oh, slip, she doesn’t know she was a one-night stand.
you won’t give me a sign, want to keep things simple, but I want the symbol pleasure of calling you mine.
she thinks I stole her boyfriend, but you played “boy” “friend” to us both, then slid out from under her without a word when you entered into language with me.
you say naming our relationship will ruin it, but I’m so sure you’re wrong; it’s arbitrary but necessary that we have a sound-image of what’s going on.
yes, there’s pleasure in slippage, but you made us a shapeless mess. it’s easy to discover truth, less so to assign it its place; you slipped on the sign and fell on your face.
for now, all we have is difference without positive terms of endearment: “together” as in “not alone” but not yet “together” as in “not with anyone else”.
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chevy
Michelle Butterchew he drives us to soccer and ballet packs the sweaty lunchmeat pours liquid senility over ice and tastes tomorrow morning’s hangover in the first sip cataracted eyes follow his footsteps down the linoleum as he lugs his mother’s armchair from the trunk into the care home and wipes the guilt from his peppery stubble he lets the world pour in through his sunroof and feels finite watches the telephone wire finely thread the sky he counts the orange lights of the tunnel rushing by with a SHOOMM on their way to light up a life that isn’t his he cruises under the palm trees that bow to him and picks up leathery men losing his belt in the fathomless backseat that holds decades of sweat and cherries and heat he sleeps in it when mom throws him out at least the seatbelts hug him back he loves the way it HUMMMS him to sleep, an automotive lullaby he folds his mother’s nighties and perfumes everything that wasn’t in the will and places them gently at the door to salvation army like a reborn baby on the stoop still wet behind the ears the blouses smile to be worn by someone with a loving son the doors lock CHHK when men who dress like his dealer walk by but handrolled windows gape open at his students on the sidewalks the chevy slowing to admire their unripe bodies empty malt bottles BINK BINK in the passenger seat lap of a minor their boyish elbows stick out the windowframes his thighs stick to the seat when he opens the doors to a uniformed barrelchest after driving beelines and bugloops along the 401 the hood burns his ruddy cheek pressed against it arms yanked behind him like wings that pull too tight across his sagging shoulder blades he reclines the front seat and suffocates himself in the sky of no apologies bleary eyes gaze out over the bank he drives himself quietly into the cellophane lake the water swallowing him up like the arms of a god the ripples return to an inkglass stillness silt settles on his waterlogged shoulders all he leaves behind is the cries of those who will miss him and they sound like such insignificant silence
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7am Fog
Katrina Moretta
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In Shadows
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Sebastien Duff-Mailloux
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Snapshots
Sebastien Duff-Mallioux
The poem on the following page is a sestina. A Sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern, and with all six words appearing in the closing threeline envoi. The six ending words are typically chosen before the poet writes the poem. 64
All My Love Emily McDonald I remember when I was young being babysat by my grandma. She always brought a loaf of banana bread, be it summer or winter. She carried a big black purse and wore thin glasses over her eyes. Each card she sent had one of her hand drawn pictures, a bit of money and was signed off with the words “all my love”. On my birthday, she’d call and tell me about each of my cousins so I wouldn’t forget. I could tell things were different when she started to forget. “They’re just your pills for the rest of the week, grandma” I reminded her three times one day, each time with more love. Because I lived so far, some years I wouldn’t see her all winter. She slowly stopped drawing her pictures when she became too frustrated with her eyes. She wore big, dark sunglasses to protect her eyes and asked who we were talking about each time she would forget. Her TV stand was always covered in recent pictures, Of all the kids who were lucky to call her grandma. Each year she celebrated another birthday in the winter, and to each family member she never stopped giving all her love. We tattooed on our bodies the words “all my love,” when the injections weren’t doing any more for her eyes. She didn’t leave her apartment much in the winter. When I said my cousin’s name I knew she was trying not to forget. “The one out west, remember Grandma?” She squinted as she tried to see the pictures. When she moved into a nursing home, we covered her walls with pictures and tried to make sure the room was always filled with love. The nurses would remind me how lucky I was to have her as my grandma. Each time I visited she had a new pair of glasses on her eyes; she would take them off somewhere and forget. Things got much worse over the course of that first winter. She fell asleep holding my hand on a warm day in the middle of the winter. I don’t know what felt different that day, but I’m glad I decided to take pictures. Because I didn’t know it would be our last visit, I completely forget Whether the last thing I said to her involved giving my love. On the train back to school I couldn’t stop the tears from my eyes, and within the week I’d lost my grandma. Now I’ll never forget that day in the winter. Every day I miss my grandma and look at the pictures. I hope she feels all my love as she rests her eyes.
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White Pines
Alyssa Reynolds
Haikus for the Unseen Helena Gagnier 1.
In the blackest night Willows weep without their sun. Through the dark, they dance.
2.
Clouds, choking the moon Smother nighttime’s halo. Tidal lungs breathe on.
3.
I hear no sound, yet Even in silence, we glow. I hear no sound, yet. 66
Untitled
Grier Drummond
Judith
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Emily Joyce
To My Father Michelle Boon where is my flesh, father? in the dark as I stumble on your toes peeling your face from rust-coloured fibres pushing aspiration past your violet lips where is our blood? in our glass coffins my mother and I scream crashing confines until our skin is scaled with shrapnel spelling grief-soaked sentences I can’t read hers she can’t read mine we embrace we cut wondering at our drought-ridden wounds not a drop of blood to spare where is my breath? punched from my lungs the miasma settles between your ashes in the questions I never asked you
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Snapshots Sebastien Duff-Mallioux
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Boyfriend Number Three Billie Kearns My mother flicks sunflower shells into the ashtray and wipes her hands on the wheel. Over the slapping of air she fills me in: she and Bahv met while we still lived in Windsor. He’s twenty-four, but when he visits us, he’ll tell his parents that he’s gone fishing. I stretch into mental math, My dad’s car is twenty-five and Yellowknife lines the seats in dirt and ash. His drive to work passes Sam’s Monkey Tree where my mother’s pool league kicked him and his friends off the table twelve years ago. Ten years ago, we left the north, my father. We pick up a new city every few years, and she picks up another guy. My mother has two months left in Wallaceburg, two months left with Bahv. She reaches for his name like another sunflower seed, it soothes her.
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The Weight of Belonging Claudia Rupnik I am the second generation of my family that was gifted belonging as a birthright; the result of generations of people searching for stability. This is miraculous. Still, my brother looks beyond the border for a place to build his home, where he will, once again, have to struggle for citizenship. We’ve been in this country for only fifty years, and already we’re leaving, laments my grandfather, weary of a life that serves hardship in espresso cups. Weary from learning how to exist in a new country, from watching our lineage stretch out thin to the brink of ruin. Of course he never liked to travel: when you’ve moved across the world, to find everything that was not offered to you by your home, there is comfort in staying. My life is an effort in gratitude, my parents’, in respect; We are the attempts to reconcile an identity long-faded by the impossibility of both holding still and surviving. We are the validation that opportunity divests settlement, generation after generation.
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Into the Mist
Alyssa Reynolds 73
Bibora Imre-Mielli Editor-in-Chief
Year: 4 Program: Politics and Classical Studies Her favourite writers stay far away from cliches.
EDITORIAL
Marketing Coordinator
Photography/Videography
Mirjana Villeneuve Year:4 Program: English Con-Ed. She’s a fan of used bookstores and forcing her friends to listen to her spotify playlists.
Kamal Aboulmagd Year:3 Program: Politics He loves art because of how limitless it is.
Kaylee O’Meara Year:3 Program: Global Development and Politics Her chosen art forms are music which helps her express herself and photography which allows her to document her life.
Angie Ng Year: 3 Program: Biology She loves that art can mean something different to everyone.
ArtFest Coordinators
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Emily McDonald Editor-in-Chief
Year: 4 Program: English & Psychology She loves anything that tells a story and hates bad grammar.
BOARD Events Coordinators
Jack Rabb Year:3 Program: English He loves to write and learn about characters and how they create themselves in his head.
Clayton Tomlinson Year: 5 Program: English He likes coffee so much he had to limit himself to one a day because things were getting out of hand.
Get Connected! @undergrad_review Undergraduate Review
Emily Varsava
Year:4 Program: English Her greatest inspirations come from travelling and an adventurous spirit.
theundergraduatereview.com asus_ur@ams.queensu.ca
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You’ve made it to the end of the 31st edition of the Undergraduate Review and we hope it’s left you feeling inspired to get creative. To kick start your creativity, here are some things to consider....
What does art mean to you?
What is your art form of choice and what do you love about it?
Can art be political? Why or why not?
Who/what inspires you?
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Resources AMS Peer Support Centre Room 34, John Deutsch University Centre 99 University Ave. Kingston, ON K7L 3P5 Email: peersupport@ams.queensu.ca Phone: 613-533-6000 ext. 32737 Student Wellness Services Counselling 2nd floor of the LaSalle building, 146 Stuard Street Hours: Monday-Friday 8:30am-5:00pm Email: counselwling.services@queensu.ca Phone: (613)533-6o00 ext. 78264 ASUS Equity Comission ASUS Core: 183 University Ave Kingston, ON K7L 3P5 Email: equity@asus.queensu.ca
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