Cover art: Pending by Chelsea Saunders Acrylic on wood panel
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a message from the Board After months of hard work and an incredible response from the Queen’s community, we are extremely proud to present Volume 29! This is a diverse compilation of the artistic efforts of Queen’s students, and we hope that you feel as inspired as we did when going through the submissions. Volume 29 reflects the multitalented artists that we have at Queen’s, utilizing a range of artistic mediums to express their creativity. With almost 30 years of publishing, Undergraduate Review continues its long history as a completely student-run publication that supports the arts and believes that they are a vital aspect of student culture. The Editorial Board is grateful to have experienced the pulsating artistic community here at Queen’s; we hope that Undergraduate Review provided a welcoming and positive space for creative expression. Riding on almost 30 years of achievements, we kept and added more traditions this year. We held creative contests, a holiday de-stressor, an Open Mic night, and our annual launch event, Artfest, all while maintaining our online presence by showcasing current and past Queen’s artists. Thank you for an enjoyable year. We are very lucky to have had amazing support from the Arts & Science Undergraduate Society, the Queen’s Community, the greater Kingston Community, readers, and of course, our contributors. Undergraduate Review thrives on your passion and loyalty. Thank you for the inspiration. Until next time.
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Serpentine by Nicole Emond Lithographic print (ink on paper)
Ouroboros by Nicole Emond Lithographic Print (ink on paper)
A Moment in Central Park by Carrie Emblem Watercolour on paper
a walk in the park by Eunice Kim
on a day like today, i went for a walk in the park. walked beside a beat almost in line with my puttering steps, leaving behind ripples of visible breath. avoided muddy puddles as i felt my socks dampen at the holes of my hand-me-down been-all-over-the-world boots. heavy, soggy air felt cool in my lungs. a sheet of translucent clouds transferred the light into diffused and soft dust, floating around, and step by step i was a moving body, pushing through space as if swimming against lacy curtains with handfuls of nothing. i went for a walk in the park with nowhere to go, no direction but the cratered path at my spongey feet. on a day like today, at my own pace and in my solitude, i thought of you. you who always looms, who silently creeps into the thick air, and you, who lingers. you, i write letters to and send them through closed eyes. you, whose voice i hear in the moonlight. you, i see without memory. you, over there, i wonder if you can feel me. can you tell me where i’m going? i’m walking in the park, carving out meandering lines made out of dots in the shape of my feet. i’m 2:31 into this track in the middle of this album in the middle of the day. there’s people out walking their dogs but i’m walking around, here, now. or was it then? i swear i’ve been here before, maybe yesterday. i end up at the steps of a colonnaded portico. misty droplets grace my forehead as i tilt my face up. enter a cloud of still air, circulating pulses. close your eyes, can you hear the murmurs from gilded frames? can you feel the dust settling? can you taste the blood rushing through your veins? the weight on your feet? on a day like today, i went for a walk in the park. between hallways and white walls, step by step and quiet breaths by quiet pauses, i went for a walk. my soggy boots made the squishiest sounds, echoed through the rooms to turning heads and shooting glances. i made my way through, glass glare by shiny oil, white noises hovering. shades of blue, studded dots, waving lines. i stopped in front of each window and soaked in their rays, rubbed their elbows, drank their wine. i went for a walk in the park and counted the blades of grass, tasted perpetual sunrise. my heart, suspended and gently swaying. i swear i heard a bird chirping. i went for a walk with nothing but time, found my way back to the light and this state of mind where divine silence feels full and heart beating motion tastes like forever.
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Ammunition by Jessie Read
Unwritten apologies Photograph by Caitlyn McTavish Hungry by Sonya Fesiak
wine bottles can look a lot like unwritten apologies my fathers alcoholism is the elephant in the room my mother chops vegetables like confetti in the kitchen like confetti we’ll pretend we’re paper people my family’s eulogy is spilled out in wine glasses that could never be looked at less than half full but that’s the problem when you have everything you always want more we always wanted happy but sunshine and privilege don’t always mix dad, we talk all the time but I feel like we’re not speaking the same langue miscommunication, dripping or our ears pouring into ammunition into I love you because that’s the only thing we know how to say i hope you’re okay when I hear bottles cracking in your voice when mom is chopping away not hearing the clanking dishes in your hurt ammunition is when
i’ve never felt so far away from you in the same room wearing success like tombstone like it was never ours to begin with are you proud of money of this ammunition we share as bullets shuttering the night sky as silence because it’s the only langue we both speak i hold your silence like thunder, that I hope it will erupt When it’s easy to say good morning and I love you but neither of us say how we’re feeling ammunition i just want to know what you’re thinking that I can steal your rain clouds for a spark of sunlight why is this the american dream anyways? i just want you to be happy i ask you how you are but I know you wear good like tragedy because he wears happy like the guillotine like trauma is safe space showing emotion is taking away from this dream to begin with mom chops away at the shards of glass in his voice pretending they’ve been swept up none of us know what to say we Just listen to the spark of gasoline and matches in his footstep we all pretend we’re paper people because from the outside we shine of glory we fit success in the dictionary but matches ignite with paper we all burn together so easily my parents stink of gasoline and glory of the dream we all want to obtain why is this the dream anyways
Bob Marley’s Bedroom by Julia Partington Photograph
Labour
by Belinda Nkuah you’re stooping again more bamboo reeds than steel beams and yet your lips bleed fingers curled heels dug in you take it fear and agony strained through a clean napkin wiped across their brow licks your lips uncurl now move, lightly stand up gently please
do you see me? my hands are cupped place the napkin in them rest a moment do you see my dusted knees? i am so grateful don’t move rest a moment the good in you should be shared but not plundered sacred heart heavy mind take this napkin and weep into it
Orbit Print Series by Nicole Emond
Homage to Jenny Saville, Zombie by Shaylyn Myshrall Oil Paint on wood panel 28 x 17 inches
Red Marks the Paint by Kaila Wong
What thoughts teased him As he picked out his paintbrush? Instruments of creation and death Cannot be chosen lightly For they alter worlds. What colours tantalized him As he selected his pallet? Gradients of one colour Stain the paintbrush bristles Drowning the canvas in monocolour. What horrors tormented him As he carved out his masterpiece? The pictures taped to his door Calls to a slumbering muse A divergence from his medium and form. My emotions are applied from a brush of my own As I quietly observe the red strokes Fashioned in raw abstract (With faint resemblance to a lattice) Down his arms.
Ebb by Kia Kortelainen
Choke, Hound by Tania Nguyen Words gnarled at base of olive pit throat stretch limbs through hollow and stop before aired tongue a matted witchery. Spell out your tenor, staged, lap up the calm: only ears that boast of crumbling memory skyscrapers will hear. No hounds lie mid-leap the pulp’s promise unravels what you do not.
The Chatting of the Chickadees by Carrie Emblem
— 2016 by Austin Henderson
Eulogy
by Kait Allen
I open my eyes and I am falling into the bowels of darkness. There is no light here, no warmth without you by my side. I crumble into myself, drifting aimlessly inside a vacuum of solitude, no sign of which way is up, which way is out. September 18, 1943 Catherine, my love, this city is burning. There are bodies in the streets, and I taste fear in the air, on tongues, where laughter should be. I smell death in every corner and feel hearts breaking beneath my feet. I cannot find the words that will bring you any peace, I just pray our victory is quick. I close my eyes and you return, a phantom of my mind. I dance with the demons of my dreams, fingers clinging to your fading revenant. My days are swallowed up by sleep, where you are still lying in my arms. May 11, 1944 My precious Catherine, you were right; there is no victory in war. There is anguish, there is suffering, and above all there is death. But there is no honor rejoicing in a stolen life. You see, I met the enemy, and he was just a man; with a family, and a heart, and blood that bleeds as red as mine. I am choking on a chest full of letters; all the words I’ve left unspoken tumble over each other, filling up my lungs. Silence floods the room, drowning me in all the things I did not say. December 23, 1944 Catherine, my angel, please make it stop; I cannot take it any longer. This hollow heart cannot displace anymore love for pain, this damaged body has no more fight. I can see your wings growing closer, and I wait for you to take me home. I have become one with the emptiness. The ashes of who we used to be settle inside my broken shell. I sleep with darkness now and your Purple Heart does not beat, it does little to keep me warm. 15
Remembrance by Lorraine Lau
Painting by Danyi Wu Sunflowers by Emily Joyce
Driving past the cemetery my grandmother snaps hush drowning the car in uneasy quiet. She fears ghosts, though I strain to hear their chatter. My mother prays, calling on angels, but I doubt if the stoppage of heartbeats elevates one to sainthood. Our acts of missing are involuntary merely until fog thickens in our minds, while leafs of memory chip away. Then sentiment buds in wet throats, or withers in the stoic’s lungs. Yet what if the buried open their cold mouths just to laundry list grievances that haunted them in life? Seventeen-year-old girls don’t calmly recline beneath blankets of grass, Bibles tucked between their tattooed wrists. My sister left no legacy but an image of restless halfmoon eyes, a voice sharp like her long turquoise nails. Stop wearing my sweater, she might tell me. Over infinities her thoughts must wander past mawkish collages to dance in halls of loam. The truth is the dead were never exceptional. Their only difference is that they speak in silences we hope we understand.
Time will tell
by Carrie Emblem
We’re all monsters by Katarina Damiano Arcylic on canvas
temptations
by Lorraine Lau
milk is poison. whipped cream floats forbidden on a coffee cup, graces thick slabs of frosted buttery sponge beckoning from the glass case. even bagels, whole wheat with cream cheese lose their innocence. smells of fevered ovens fill the cafĂŠ but you sip your tea and stare down at your notes, paper after jumbled paper. the pain in your temples is a halo, you will hold out, hold on to virtue, no gluten, no dairy, nothing at least until you go home but you must eat you must eat your body is pleading
Suu toi susi ansaan- Larger than life ceramic by Kia Kortelainen
the first chocolate is a sin curtains drawn so that your sole witness is the open box in your lap. you start fingering cacao dust like a shy lover but after the truffle nudges your tongue your mouth caves in over and over and over until
Sculpture by Chelsea Saunders
you are left with an aftertaste of penance begging the nutrition label on an upturned box forgive me forgive me I was hungry
Self-portrait
by Katarina Damiano
moonlight is a lover’s embrace by Jessie Read
an elephant can die from a broken heart which reminds us all what a sanctuary love is i love our tender hearts nestled between each other/ never wanting the soft of your body to end like our bodies bend all metronomes heart beat like tender roofs beat from rain, from winters refrain like our tongues clank tougher all music dancing wet and hard and awkward like you, i want you to undress me like the sun undresses the fresh morning dew on the grass proving that everything is reborn like our cells rejuvenate every seven years because the moonlight is a lovers embrace there are nights when i pray it never lets go because the sun kicks me into starting, and lord knows theres nothing scarier than colour i’ve been told i have a colourful heart,
that it beats like brick walls closing in on tender bodies like a bundle of bullets stroking skin, i wanna move in i love so hard i wanna say how i feel but how do i say i’d move mountains so i could hold your hand without scaring you away i wanna say hold onto me like jesus enjoyed crucifixion like achilles never had a heel i found salvation in your lips, found the moon in your mouth when you crocide smile eclipse my heart, clip my wings they’re proof that i can fly too close to the sun but whats the sun if not a beam of light, if you’re my sun and i want to melt into you like love birds do like heat is just proof that i burn well under pressure like diamonds tell me if we are created in god’s image then you are living proof that god doesn’t wear protection and by that i mean i want to vacuum your ex girlfriends name out of your mouth till you’re screaming hallijlia i mean i want our heartbeats to do the limbo in perfect singtiricity unfold my spine like it’s a book, and you’re the only one who can decipher the brail lodged between the corners of my back i want you to read biblical scripture from the way my body curls towards you like an 8th grade dance but instead of telling you my bird heart beats like hummingbirds wings flap their wings 100 times a minute, when i think of you like the sun is still the sun without you, but less bright like you makes things more bright all lotus, beauty emerging from dirt with your confetti tongue, making heavy okay solving my jigsaw heart, i’ll just pull your hazy smile into mine because telling your soft know, will never be this easy
avor
by Lorraine Lau
(a poem in three parts) 1.
abandon
in the cupboard you left me
2.
hunger
my stomach is a giant urn bottling apparitions of bacon moist searing the pan
veiled in flour
of tenderness in my mouth
i wait hollow-tongued for your return
i must close off such hallucinations cut carrots for dinner
no more milk & honey i will be cinnamon dust choking your freedom
crunch discipline & drown my heartbeat
what fills you
empty empty
eat
~
3.
Un empty
girls like me
she folds herself in the space of a moth quivering beneath his lips i wish to tell her open your mouth spit the words out & swallow what fills you eat
Northward Bound by Kia Kortelainen
Untitled by Ramolen Laruan
right
by Lucia Park
the other boys: they can’t kiss me right, they can’t fuck me right, they can’t even drink their tea right. but you: you look at me, and i can’t breathe right.
skipping meals by Lorraine Lau
hunger is lonely. the world slows down but colors sharpen, red stripes screaming down a plaid scarf. your housemate’s coffee smells like midnight. chatter grows quiet now that words do not touch you, only echoes, as though everywhere you turn you face high walls. apart from the drone of life you are cold, weighed down by your stomach which is bloated with hate and air. pressing your cheek to a table you imagine melding into the wood, tucked between chairs, your legs solid, proportioned, neatly cut.
Yellow on the Outside, Banana on the inside by Karen Law
aw
Trio Drug by Sonya Fesiak
collection
by Lorraine Lau
I collect hungry girls a list of names inked from the snap of my wrist to my throat.
I stage confrontations, fashion every scrap of untouched food from memory into evidence. I lecture. I plead. I turn into my mother. Most of them stare back mute, mannequins cast in amber resolve against the seduction of fats and carbs, all appetite dried out.
At dinners I catch murmurs of “No, thanks,� to offers of ice cream or cheesecake; I watch bananas sliced in half for lunch, fridges full of arugula leaves where there used to be chicken. In wardrobes I turn the tags of new jeans, evidence of waists shrinking another size, then another size down. On early mornings I hear the hard flush of tap water, plates slammed in the kitchen. Later I rinse gray specks of vomit from the sink, find candy wrappers piling up to my elbow in the bin among teabags, apple pips, half-ingested hope.
Their glassy eyes say this is nothing extraordinary, merely a cycle in self-improvement I have yet to understand. But I do understand, none of this is new. Their longing pulses like a river down to the root of my spine. In listless shadows beneath their eyes I catch my reflection. 25
Untitled by Nicole Emond Woodcut (ink on canvas)
unnamed
by Rachel Pekeles
Hold her Like an old glass mirror Beaten and scratched Cracking around the edges but not yet broken. Hold her Like your grandmother holds her pearls Clasp each iridescent sphere of her body Like a family heirloom. Remember That she is battered, But not yet broken. Though some nights She is still swept up By strong and powerful waves, Crashing across the rocky shoreline and she breaks just a little bit more. In some places her ivory flesh is eroded down to bone and yet she wades in deeper, Letting the salt water lick her open wounds while her tears slip into the ocean current Touch her In ways that make her forget, to fix her her cracked edges. Touch her like you touch a shard of glass. Handle with care and approach with caution, beware of jagged edges. She is not soft. —Unnamed// 8:47PM—
Anatomy Study by Elyse Hermack
think about u by Lucia Park
think about u more than one hundred times maybe a thousand maybe more but hopefully less we are both too stubborn for this to ever work sorry i didnt respond to ur last msg it’s just that it would become pleading and not goodbye so i guess this is it (i hope you call)
Normality by Sonya Fesiak
ak
Field Note by Sonya Fesiak
down at the 333 by Rachel Pekeles
she tells me that she comes in soft silks and neon lights, but never fish net stalkings.
When we first meet I’m all awkward glances and melting insides, because her baby pink, plump lips and crooked teeth form the most wonderfully imperfect smile.
And somehow, that’s enough to draw me in, and intertwine all my limbs with hers in a truly queer embrace. while her velvet touch gently binds our book of friendship with many chapters to be written and read and read and read. —down at the 333//3:42PM—
When we finally speak, I notice, that she is so perfectly bizarre, her words come out as music notes and poetry that untie every tangle In my triple knotted heart She informs me that she’s a satanist, a masochist, a full-time crazy bitch, who wears her scars proudly, 29
Dumpster
byLucia Park
too much, you say, my feelings, too soon too much. so at sun down i tenderly package them into a black plastic bag. i throw it in the dumpster behind the middle school by my house. yet, at dawn i hear the echoes of your words. too much, you said. too much. my feelings for you, too much, too much. you dont feel the same, you repeat, slicing parts of me. i sit bleeding on your sheets. your eyes tell me you don’t mean it. i consider begging. my tender ego takes back my words of love. you think i’m pathetic. i put on a smile but you hear my voice crack and my nose sniffle. you pity me. i can tell. because you cradle me when you think im asleep. you kiss me when you think im dreaming. i try not to confuse your touch of guilt for love. if one thing in this universe is true, then it is that you do not love me. and im too much of a coward to say i love you. i say everything in past tense. “i love(d) you,” but we both know the (d) never belong there.
Photograph by Noelle Ochocinski
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Crab on the Brain by Sonya Fesiak
Finding a Face by Kia Kortelainen Arcylic Paint 28 in x 17 in
Perfect
by Raechel Huizinga
The first time I saw the piano, glistening beneath the chandelier like the coils of a snake underneath the sun, I knew it was evil. It seemed to be full of the same thing father was when he drank his wine: scissors, snipping and slicing everything around it into something else, something bad. I felt Jasper’s jazz in October. My mother was cutting news articles out of The New York Times and clipping them to the fridge. My father was settling into his armchair, pouring himself a glass of (scissors) wine and fumbling with the old radio he refused to give up. He wanted to listen to the game. Jasper was playing the old piano, and when his long, rosy fingers touched the keys, my mother frowned. She did not like his jazz. She wanted him to play Mozart and Hayden, so that he could become a newspaper article for her to put on the fridge. Father only wanted Jasper to play when his coworkers and their wives were over for dinner. If they weren’t, then – “Stop playing that goddam piano!” And so, Jasper, amid the rain sweeping down against the tiny white house, would turn his bones into pipe cleaners and play his jazz quietly. I loved the jazz. I was eight that fall, lying on the couch and watching the raindrops chase each other down the window pane. It seemed like the jazz came from the inky sky outside and turned warm inside the piano. Or Jasper. I always thought of them as being the same. They even looked the same. The small, ruddy brown piano shone merrily beside the fireplace, the lopsided keys stretching into a smile that reminded you of kind librarians and autumn trees. Jasper had red hair and was always smiling. He was full of trees. At least, he used to be, before it came. One day I came home from school to find Jasper’s piano gone, replaced by a shiny, silver grand piano made of glass. It looked like a spider. I did not like it. “Mother?” I called. She poked her head out from the kitchen. “Yes, Lizzy, dear?” she sang, her new lipstick from France creasing across her powdered face. I did not like her lipstick. Mother’s face always looked like dirty city snow on cement. “Where is Jasper’s piano?” “Why, right in front of you, darling!” “That is not Jasper’s piano.” “Lizzy,” mother said irritably, scraping her sharp fingernails over her polished hair, “your father received a bonus at work, and I thought it might be nice to get Jasper a new piano, one that doesn’t look like a dead animal dragged in off the street. Now he can become the next classical genius! Don’t you think it’s nice?” “Jasper hates classical music.” “Now, now, Lizzy,” mother said airily, returning to her fridge. I reached out to touch the silky beast, and, catching my reflection in its shimmering glass, I gasped. I was wearing a frilly pink dress, and my hair was in tight little curls, each tied off with a gleaming pink bow. My skin was porcelain, painted like an old-fashioned doll, and 33
my mouth was stretched into an unnatural, sickening grin. I quickly looked down to see my jeans and sweater, brushing my fingers against my straight pigtails. Looking back into the piano, I was still wearing the pink dress, and I still looked like a doll. My eyes were glossy and dead. I turned and ran from the piano, feeling sick and frightened. What I needed was Jasper. He knew everything. Later, Jasper came home from what my parents thought was football practice. I was the only one who knew he was at the cafe downtown, playing in his jazz band. One time he had let me tag along and played a song just for me: When You’re Smiling by Louis Armstrong. I drank hot chocolate and giggled while I listened to him try to mimic the deep rumbling voice. I stood behind the doorway and watched all the colour drain from his face when he saw the new piano. I thought maybe it was because it scared him, too, which would have been seriously disturbing, because Jasper wasn’t afraid of anything, not even thunderstorms. But then a tear rolled down his cheek. He loved the old piano. Mother swept in from her refrigerator. “Jasper, darling,” she exclaimed, her blue dress swooshing behind her like a washcloth wiping the air clean. “Don’t you just love your new piano? But, wait, I have more good news!” She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him over to the transparent instrument. “Mrs. Gilmore, the one who recommended the piano to us, has agreed to prepare you for the Classical Music Recital, starting tomorrow! She was once a great pianist herself, don’t you know. Well, what do you think?” Jasper just stared at the keys. I could see his hands shaking. “That’s alright, dear, I know how overwhelming this must be for you, after having that ridiculous excuse for a piano for 16 years. Well, I must continue with dinner – your father will be home soon!” And she swept away. I watched Jasper, waiting for him to see his reflection. I wanted to know if the piano would change him, too. He reached out to stroke a key, and then faltered when he moved in front of the piano’s face. I crept closer behind him, looking around his back and into the gleaming glass. Jasper’s red hair was combed back, and he was wearing a black suit. A single rose rested in his breast pocket. His skin looked like frozen milk, and his features seemed painted, like a doll. Jasper rubbed his eyes, and looked back. His reflection was still the same. But instead of turning and running from the piano as I expected, his face sunk sleepily, like he was being hypnotized. His hands began to reach slowly for the brilliant keys that looked like thirsty fangs. “Jasper!” I whispered. “Jasper!” “Not now, Lizzy,” he said softly. “I’m going to play the piano.” “Jasper, don’t touch it, please, Jasper! There’s something wrong with it!” He leaned closer, mesmerized, and for a moment I thought I saw his eyes turn a greyish white. 34
“Jasper!” I cried, rushing forward and grabbing his hands. His eyes snapped down, cold and furious. I let go of his hands, startled. “J-Jasper?” I whispered. Suddenly he blinked, and his eyes looked like the jazz again. “What’s up, Liz the Whiz?” Normally I hated it when he called me that, but now I didn’t care. The air felt like goosebumps. “There’s something wrong with that thing,” I said quietly, pointing at the illuminated glass. “It changed me.” Jasper laughed. “What are you talking about, squirt?” I narrowed my eyes. “It changed you, too. I saw it.” Jasper, still grinning, ruffled my hair. “You’ve been reading too much Harry Potter,” he said, and walked away. I glared at his retreating back. Why would he deny it? I turned and glanced into the piano again, but catching sight of the pink dress that curled towards me like an evil sneer, I shivered and scurried off. Father was full of scissors as soon as he stepped in the door, before he even had any wine. “Elizabeth! Why are you always wearing boys’ clothes? Go put on a dress, for god sake. My money goes straight to the pit with you, doesn’t it? Jasper! Comb your hair!” I put on a dress, and Jasper combed his hair. Usually he would complain as he pulled the plastic teeth through his curls, but today he didn’t; in fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off the mirror, and put some weird goo on his head until his hair was slicked flat like a dead fish. I hated it. Jasper’s hair was supposed to be wild and happy, like leaves playing in autumn wind. When we returned to the living room, mother was wearing her fancy dress. I knew it was fancy because she only wore it to weddings and it cost a lot of money. Her black high heels scratched across the carpet like vultures. She smelled like hairspray and rotting flowers. “Are you going to a wedding?” I asked her. She blurted out a high, shrill laugh that I had never heard before. I didn’t like it. It reminded me of machines. “You do ask the silliest questions, darling,” she said, reaching for the china that we had never used before and laying it on the table. Bewildered, I looked around for Jasper, hoping he would send me our signature double wink that meant we both knew something was up; but he was pulling the Christmas silver out of a drawer as if it was something we used every day. Father was sitting in the red, velvet armchair by the fire, reading a thick, heavy book. Father never sat in the stiff red chair, and he most certainly never read books. This had something to do with the new piano. I just knew, the way kids know when a house is haunted or someone is a pirate. I looked over at it, and could have sworn it was smiling. That night I managed to keep Jasper away from the piano by crying until he played Monopoly and watched The Little Mermaid with me. But every few seconds his eyes would drift towards the scintillating creature in the corner of the room, and that strange haze would come over his face again. I was worried that my parents would force him to play, but they seemed content with the knowledge that the piano existed in our tiny living room, like a statue in a museum. It was the middle of the night when I heard it, the sickening waltz that snuck 35
through the house like a menacing insect. One, two, three, one, two, three, each note like an icy finger scaling my spine. It was the piano, and it was moving around the house. I lay frozen in my bed, listening to it creep slowly towards my door, pause, and continue down the hall, all the while playing its one, two, three, one, two, three; the steps of a murderer. I tried to close my eyes and pretend it away, like I did with the monsters in my closet and the witch that lived outside my window. But then I heard it creep, creep, creep into Jasper’s room, and my eyes shot open. No, I thought. My heart felt like a windmill as I got out of my bed. I grabbed my toy sword from the floor and tip-toed towards the door, my breath twisting out of my lungs like mist in a dark alley. The hallway was pitch black, but I could hear the one, two, three, one, two, three coming from Jasper’s room. I shivered. It sounded like a malevolent laugh, like sharp fingernails tapping its tools of torture. My sweaty hands gripped the sword as I slipped down the hall. The cold music grew louder (one two three oNE TWO THREE ONETWOTHREE) and my breath came out in giant shudders. Finally, I reached Jasper’s door. I swallowed hard and ran in. The piano was a brilliant sculpture of hot white ice, its one two three breathing crazily near Jasper’s head, spitting its lusty music into his brain like an evil spell. Its two front legs had become like rubber snakes, slithering into Jasper’s bed and around his stomach. It looked like it was going to eat him! The chunking music flew out of it like long thirsty tongues stroking his thoughts. “St-stop,” I stammered, raising my sword above my head. “Stay away from him!” The piano whipped around, its slippery limbs sliding out of Jasper’s sheets and onto the floor. The one two three quieted to a whisper as it moved closer to me. I couldn’t breathe, or blink, as it slunk closer, closer, closer, until it was an inch from my face. The strange reflection appeared once again, but this time it was grotesque, horrific. My mouth was full of rotting, sharpened teeth; my eyes were a greyish, empty white; and blood was pouring out of my ears and over my neck, staining the pink silk a deep red. A clawed, white hand draped in lace slowly raised itself and waved at me. I pointed the sword right at the hellish figure, shaking with fear. “You don’t touch Jasper,” I croaked. My mouth was thick and dry. “Or I’ll smash you to bits.” The music stopped dead, and the room was engulfed in darkness. The piano sped out of the room, down the hall, and back into the living room, echoes of its song reverberating like fading laughter against the walls. I sank down to the floor, tears filling my eyes. The next day was Saturday, so I gathered my best toys – a ship in a bottle, a jack in the box, a stuffed tiger named Louis, and of course, my sword – and sat in the living room, across from the piano. Since last night, it hadn’t moved, and I wondered if I imagined the whole thing. But when I passed by, the warped reflection still greeted me. I was clutching Louis to my chest, wondering if I should mention any of this to mother, when the doorbell rang. I glanced up as mother glided towards the door, a red chiffon dress swaying behind her. “Mrs. Gilmore,” she called, her voice brimming with smiles. “Welcome.” “Thank you, Elenore,” a high, empty voice, full of ice, answered. “I brought you some tea.” 36
My eyes grew wide. My mother’s name was Tracy, not Elenore. Something was wrong. My eyes shot over to the piano. Small curls of grey mist were rising from the keys, and the crystal simmer of its shining skin was glittering with a new ferocity. Couldn’t mother see what was happening? If Mrs. Gilmore sold the piano to my parents, then she probably knew it was evil. Or worse, Mrs. Gilmore was evil. I shrunk back, hoping they wouldn’t notice me as they passed into the dining room, but mother spotted me, and beckoned me over to them. Leaving Louis and the sword behind, I walked slowly into the room. Mother was busy pouring the tea that Mrs. Gilmore brought. I wrinkled my nose; the tea had a sickening scent, like rotten eggs. Mrs. Gilmore was seated primly on father’s chair. Dressed in a black dress that covered her neck and fell around her ankles, she looked like a witch. Her hands were covered with white lace, and her old, wrinkled face was pale and wormed with blue veins against deep, startlingly red lips. Her skin was sour milk, her head a glass bottle; white, runny, and old. Her grey hair was perfectly styled into an old-fashioned bun, and drooping from her ears were treble clef earrings, which, when I looked closer, were actually silver snakes. Mrs. Gilmore’s dark gaze caught my eye and I quickly looked away, nervously pulling at my sleeves. “You didn’t mention a second child,” she said, the words slithering softly from her unnaturally red lips, her black eyes cold with fury. “Didn’t I?” said mother carelessly, pouring the tea into three pink cups. Its pungency stained the carpet, the curtains, the walls. “Have some tea, child,” Mrs. Gilmore said suddenly, pushing a cup towards me. I stared at her. “I’m not thirsty.” “Nonsense, child, drink.” I knew the tea was bad, but more importantly, I knew Mrs. Gilmore was bad. Evil. “No.” Mrs. Gilmore’s eyes turned a greyish white, and her earrings, those little, coiled, treble clefs, hissed. I clutched my arms to keep from shivering. “Elenore, your child is displaying horrendous manners.” “Drink the tea, Elizabeth.” I grabbed the pink glass and lifted it to my lips. Mrs. Gilmore’s eyes deepened into black. I made a swallowing noise and smiled. As Mrs. Gilmore and mother began to discuss Jasper’s music lessons, I slipped out to the backyard with my cup of tea. Making sure I was out of sight of the window, I poured it onto some of the flowers left over from the summer. When the tea touched their petals, they shriveled and crumpled into gruesome shapes, until the flower bed looked like a pile of curled, dead fingers.
*****
37
After Mrs. Gilmore left, I resumed my position in the living room, intending to guard the piano until Jasper came back from the library, where he was studying with a friend. With Louis under one arm and my sword under the other, I felt slightly less scared. The piano looked normal in the daylight, and besides, Jasper wasn’t here. There was nothing it could do, right? In fact, looking at it now, some of its cold brilliancy was lost. The sunshine made it look warm, soft. Sleepy. My eyes slowly drooped. From somewhere in the distance, I could hear a lullaby playing. Its melody was hypnotic. Had mother put something on the radio? The sword fell from my hand, and I yawned. I slumped against the wall, my eyes closing. Jasper would be gone for hours, and the lullaby was so calming, so pretty… I woke up to darkness, the sound of rain smashing against the windows. An eerie silence invaded the shadowy house, and I sprang to my feet. All the lamps were off, the only light coming from the flashes of lightening that speared the stormy sky outside. I hugged myself, feeling fear creep into my chest. Where was everybody? “Mom?” I called out. “Jasper?” There was no answer. I looked at the piano. It was still. Quiet. Suddenly I realized what had happened. Mother only listened to classical music, there was no way she would have put on that lullaby. It had been the piano, trying to make me fall asleep. But why? Thunder and wind screamed outside in a terrifying duet as I walked over to the piano. There was something wrong with it; it looked smaller, duller, like it had gone into hibernation. Taking a deep breath, I peered into its glass surface. Instead of the disturbing reflection of myself I expected, another image entirely greeted me. It was my family – mother, father, and Jasper – all seated around a table, dressed in old, fancy clothes, doll like smiles painted onto their faces. At the head of the table was Mrs. Gilmore, her gloved fingers curled around a glass of wine. Mother and father appeared to be frozen, their limbs jutting out at unnatural angles like plastic sticks, eyes empty and greyish white. Jasper also appeared to be frozen, but his eyes were still his. They still looked like the jazz, but he was afraid. I began to cry. If Jasper was afraid, then this must be really bad. Where were they? At Mrs. Gilmore’s house? Why were they dressed like that, what had she done to them? The tears were falling down my cheeks now. What could I do? I didn’t know where Mrs. Gilmore lived, and it looked as if the electricity had gone out in the storm, so I couldn’t call anyone. I sat down on the floor, my head in my hands, and cried. Suddenly the piano began to grow lighter. It wasn’t a cruel glare, like before, but a good light, like sunshine on a spring day or the warm yellow of books. I glanced up, hot tears sticking to my face. What was happening? Then the piano began to play. It wasn’t the wicked, laughing waltz of the night before, but something familiar, something that made my heart leap: When You’re Smiling by Louis Armstrong. Jasper’s song! It was Jasper! I understood now. The piano wasn’t evil, just controlled by Mrs. 38
Gilmore. Jasper was fighting for that control, hoping that I would hear the song and come to his rescue. I jumped to my feet. “Where are you, Jasper?” I yelled, hitting the piano with my fists. In the piano, I just barely caught Jasper mouthing something: fridge. “I’m coming,” I whispered. “I promise, Jazzy.” I ran into the kitchen, my eyes searching the fridge. There! A piece of paper with Mrs. Gilmore’s address on it: 22 Maple Street. Two blocks away! I raced to the front door, paused, and then ran back into the living room to grab my sword. Then, wiping the rest of the tears off my face, I rushed out into the storm. My heart pounded as I sped through the streets, my feet falling into puddles, my clothes becoming soaked in the bulleting rain. It was too late for mother and father, but Jasper was still Jasper. I tried to play his jazz in my mind, tried to hold onto the image of his easy smile and messy hair. Finally, I reached Mrs. Gilmore’s house. It was small, pastel pink, and sinister in the darkness. Trembling with fear, I quietly opened the front door and slipped in. Mrs. Gilmore’s house was bathed in murky darkness, broken only by the white tongues of lightning that licked the windows and walls. I felt like I had stepped back in time, into a museum full of cold, dead bones. Everything was old, from the record player by the thick, heavy bookcase to the enormous oil painting of Wolfgang Mozart over the fireplace. There was a pink tea set next to a red, velvet armchair in the corner. The rain continued to drum its icy fingers over the streets, the roof. I moved over the pink carpet, water dripping from my sneakers. “Jasper?” I croaked. The dining room was empty, dishes still warm on the frilly pink tablecloth. I paused, wondering if it was possible that all of this had been a dream. Then I heard a crash, and a scream, from somewhere below me. Jasper. I darted quickly through the kitchen and opened a cellar door. My insides were churning like a drunken carnival tune as I tripped down the dark staircase, a cold draft breathing on the back of my neck like the tickle of a spider. When I reached the bottom, I dropped my sword and cried out. The scene before me was horrific, curdling my blood into blue swirls of terror. Goosebumps washed over me, and I froze, paralyzed by what was in front of me. The cellar was full of life-sized dolls. They were grotesque, mutated, and strangely life-like. Their skin was a bluish pale, their smiles stitched into their faces with a black thread. And the eyes, all the eyes – a greyish white. “Ah, young Elizabeth,” a high voice pruned from the shadows. “How nice of you to join us.” I couldn’t move. I was transfixed by the dolls, with their bizarre costumes from another era and oddly human appearance. Frozen people, I thought. “Lovely, aren’t they?” the voice continued, silky and jarred at the same time. “I do pride myself on such an impressive collection.” I backed up against the wall, my breath coiling in my lungs. “People crave perfection, Elizabeth. Why do you think dolls were invented in the first place? I’ve played with dolls my whole life, but nothing quite compares to the real thing, don’t you think?” Horror dawned on me as I realized what Mrs. Gilmore meant. All these dolls in front of me, with their twisted limbs and dramatic face paint, were humans. “In my experience, nothing is as seductive as music.” She began to hum the lullaby that had caused me to fall asleep earlier. I started to shudder, looking around the room. 39
There, in the corner, were my parents. I picked up my sword and ran over to them, weaving my way between the bodies. “Mother! Father!” I cried. But it was no use. They were completely still, their eyes grey and hollow. Dead. I began to scream, shaking them. “Don’t touch them!” Mrs. Gilmore shrieked, finally emerging from the darkness. She struck a match against the wall, illuminating her pasty face. “They’re perfect now, don’t you see? Perfect!” Her cold fingers grabbed my wrist, dragging me away. “Your foolish mother didn’t mention a second child. Children can always tell!” She threw me to the floor, her black eyes on fire. “But then again,” she said softly, crouching down in front of me, “Children always make the prettiest dolls.” I wanted to faint, numb with dread. “Come, child,” Mrs. Gilmore cooed. “Don’t you want to look pretty?” “Where’s Jasper?” I whispered. She grinned, her teeth gleaming in the yellow firelight. “No use worrying about him. He’ll be gone before too long.” My eyes travelled dully past Mrs. Gilmore’s stooped figure. In a corner of the room, just barely visible in the flickers from Mrs. Gilmore’s match, was Jasper, lying still, his eyes a mixture of the jazz and emptiness. My eyes slid back to Mrs. Gilmore’s face. “I want to look pretty,” I said. Her black eyes glittered, the treble clef earrings hissed and slithered. “Splendid, dear, splendid.” I offered her my hand, and as she took it, I swung my sword around and struck her head. There was a sickening thud, and a crack, and Mrs. Gilmore moaned, falling over. I grabbed the match from her hand. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Play time is over,” I said, throwing the match onto the nearest doll. “No!” Mrs. Gilmore screamed. “My precious dolls, please, no!” I hopped over her and grabbed Jasper, shaking him. “Jasper!” I yelled as the flames began to spread, causing smoke to snake its way through the room. “C’mon, Jazzy, we have to go!” His eyes looked at me peacefully, languidly. “Lizz the Whiz.” The smoke was stinging my eyes now. “Get up!” I half dragged, half carried Jasper to the stairs. The smell of dead, burning flesh and melting make-up flooded my nostrils, and I leaned over and vomited. Mrs. Gilmore was frantically crawling towards us, her black eyes mad with murder, her tongue rolling out of her mouth. We stumbled up the stairs, Jasper gaining more energy as he woke up. Mrs. Gilmore was still behind us, sliding up the stairs like an animal. “Hurry,” Jasper said as I faltered heavily through the cellar door and into the kitchen. Mrs. Gilmore was nearly at the top, breathing heavily, her skin melting in the heat. “I’ll make you perfect!” she hissed. “Come down and join me, children!” Jasper slammed the door shut, and I twisted the lock into place. We flew through the dark rooms, the heat rising through the floorboards and 40
burning our feet. The fire was licking the bottom of the cellar door, where Mrs. Gilmore was screaming in pain. Flinging open the front door, Jasper ran out into the rain. I hesitated, one foot on the front step. “Lizzy!” Jasper cried. “Come on!” I told myself Mrs. Gilmore was probably already dead, and stepped out into the storm. Jasper grabbed my hand, and together we walked home, the small pink house burning behind us. We never told anyone the truth behind our parents’ disappearance. Our grandparents took us in, and Jasper slowly returned to the jazz, never quite able to touch a piano the way he used to. Years later, I still can’t look at a doll without screaming, and Jasper covers his ears whenever Mozart drifts through the radio. And sometimes, in the dead of night, when I’m nearly asleep, I can hear the faint one, two, three, one, two, three, creep through the walls, and Mrs. Gilmore’s silken voice rasps, “Come, Elizabeth, don’t you want to look pretty? Don’t you want to…”
Carole Marine Study by Shaylyn Myshrall
41
Murakami House Britannia Shipyard, Richmond, BC by Julia Partington Photograph
Seven Minutes
by Jake Buffin
The crisp crunch of the snow under his boots was one he could never get enough of, and, despite the current situation, he was able to find small solace in this. The backyard was presently layered with a blank slate of snow, tempting someone or something to cast the first stroke on the natural canvas. As he trod across where the stone pathway would’ve been he noticed the small collections of snow kicked from the backs of his heels, muddying the pseudo-perfect surrounding. He thought back to the first time he remembered seeing this. He was young, couldn’t have been older than four. Walking in the footsteps of his father, much more literally than how he was now, despite how it was more frequently mentioned of recent. His father walked at a brisk pace not slowing in speed or patience, not even for his own young child. The boy often found his feet blistered, body chilled to the bone, and face raw from catching the snow off of the back of his father’s boots, but he dared not stray from the path or fall behind. When he was young his mind jumped back and forth between all of the complaints he didn’t dare mention, but as he grew he replaced these with distractions. Parts of songs at first, keeping rhythm with his footsteps, marching to a beat, just like the toy soldiers he played with at night when his parents thought he was asleep, going somewhere important, fighting a battle against the relentless cold. Left, left, left, right, left. Left, left, left, right, left. Sometimes he would pretend he was at the end of the line, beating an imaginary drum. You see, the drummer has one of the most important jobs. It seems simple, but that beat is what holds the entire army together; missing it means things falling apart. The boy sometimes felt as though he had been drumming his entire life, trying to hold 42
together an army with inherent and insurmountable flaws. An impossible task, as it were, but one he would never complain about. Walking away from the cabin he found himself reverting back to the basic rhythm of his childhood. Left, left, left, right, left… It had been years since he had thought about his childhood with such detail, but people had told him a death in the family would often do that. His memories were found fleeting from his mind, and as he turned his head upwards it was the sky he now found himself fixated on. It danced with swirls of crimson, wisped tails of clouds blending into a deep sheet of ocean blue, hints of pale green dashed along the horizon, slowly snaking their way into the openness. In a few hours the Northern Lights would make themselves visible and dance across the starry background, should the sky stay clear. When the stars finally came out to dance he was pleased to find the sky free of any cloudlike blemishes, but he fell into an awestruck stupor, insensible of all surroundings when the Northern Lights came out. At first it seemed like all the other times he had seen them, although he quickly discovered this was going to be nothing like he had ever seen before. A matter of seconds after craning his neck skywards in an attempt to focus better on the natural laser light show, a green corinthian column of electrically charged particles erected itself across a third of the night sky. Two tuscans, a doric, an ionic and finally a composite followed in similar fashion every few seconds following until the six hung in the sky like giant candles. After rubbing his eyes twice to make sure this wasn’t a trick any sleepiness was playing with his mind he decided to sit down and enjoy the most extraordinary phenomena he was likely to happen upon in his life. The stillness afterwards was as though you could hear a pin drop from across the world and hear it echo off several anthills if you were listening particularly carefully. Sitting in that silence is actually quite tedious work; you have to be thinking with such intensity and consistency so as to not notice the sound of your own heartbeat (and subsequently start to go crazy). So he sat like that for as long as intense thought and sanity would allow, which is to say about seven minutes. What was racing through the man’s mind during this seven minute period of post-phenomena enlightenment dealt mostly with where he was going to sleep that night and how the fire was going to keep him warm. When he went to stand up, as he put his hands in the snow to push upwards he found them raw and bloodied from opened blisters he had gotten from the day’s work of hauling wood back and forth to the cabin. Normally he was always prepared, always had a plan ready for what was supposed to come next, but when he came up here he didn’t know this was what he wanted, and even now he still wasn’t sure. He could still turn back, nothing was set in stone. If need be he could sleep on it, but he doubted he would get much sleep tonight, not in the cabin at least. As the cabin came into view the man carefully inspected the surrounding area, admiring the sixty meter perimeter of heath-like land. He had meticulously removed each tree from it himself over the last twenty years. It took longer than he expected to remove the roots of some of the trees which used to stand there, but it was important to be rid of these too; forest fires can start by having a root system catch and smolder underground for potentially weeks before bursting upwards in several areas at once. After the inspection was done he went inside the cabin and went to the kitchen, grabbed a beer out of the fridge and stepped into the living room where he stood at the south side of the room and looked out the giant glass window which lined the wall from end to end. After several minutes he turned and looked at the photos of his family which 43
lined the other two walls. He looked at them with a different intensity than that of previous times, perceiving the tiny little details that hung with each frame. Most of the frames, for example, were ever so slightly crooked. This was, in all likelihood, due to the fact that his mother had had legs of different length and never bothered to have it corrected with orthotics. The images themselves did not capture the identity of their family, but they did set a most pleasant cabin living lifestyle, which was uncoincidentally his mother’s intention. They were pleasant memories, the ones from the pictures, it’s just that they weren’t the memories that came to the man’s mind when he thought about his family. That was okay though, it wasn’t like he had an abusive or particularly difficult upbringing, it was just different. Everything about the cabin had been carefully selected to project a specific image about the family and what kind of a life they lived. In that moment it all felt like such a lie, but the man didn’t know which emotion that brought out of him. Was he frustrated with all the cookie cutter definitions, or ashamed that he felt so comfortable with that view of the world for so long, or did he feel regret for having not made enough decisions about his life earlier on, or was he confused about what his next steps were going to be? Whichever emotion or combination of emotions it was that caused it is of no particular importance, the important part being that a single tear did make its way through the masculinity defense systems of our protagonist. Tears, much like cockroaches are not a big issue if there are only a few large ones - these can be handled with relative ease - it’s when there are swarms of smaller ones that you get real difficulties. Coincidentally, the problems associated with swarms of small tears and small cockroaches can both be solved by small chemical alterations to each respective body. Small chemical alterations much like the yeast-fermented malt the man was holding in his hand until he started to cry, at which point he threw the bottle across the living room where it broke the glass cabinet casing surrounding his father’s Marlin 336. The tears from his face had ceased running down his cheeks and the glimmer which had lined his face now belonged to the glass which had danced across the horizon of the living room, now lining the floor. Despite wearing boots, the man still crossed the room in a manner of both care and observation, making sure not to prick his arm on the jagged stalactites and stalagmites which now bordered the cavernous hole in which the rifle was found. No skin was broken removing the gun from the cabinet - no blood had been shed yet - although several hairs on his forearm had been shortened by a few millimeters. The man was always impressed by how light the rifle felt in his hands. People always speak of how heavy a handgun feels, how icy and powerful it is upon first touch, but the Marlin felt warm and comfortable… almost. He slid his right hand to the grip and placed his index finger on the trigger feeling the tension against it. With his left hand he reached into the cabinet - using the same caution as before - and withdrew the sling for the rifle, which he proceeded to put on and then attach to the rifle. After the man had made some slight adjustments to the length of the sling across his back he noticed, to his misfortune, that he had made an accidental incision along his left forearm whilst retrieving the sling. He went to the bathroom, where he knew he would be able to find something to stop the bleeding. A bandage he found with ease, and after glancing over the first row of bottled chemicals under the sink and coming to the conclusion that there was not a disinfectant in his presence he placed the bandage on the wound and began to wrap the bandage. 44
Looking up from his bound forearm he came face to face with himself for the first time since that morning. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. He had made up his mind on the decision that had been nagging at him for years and years. It had been following him like a shadow, casting itself in the horizon whenever things seemed brightest. Now everything seemed so relieving all at once, the weight of all those years of indecision was suddenly taken off his shoulders. He took in a breath as sweet as someone who has spent their whole life in a city would in an old growth red pine forest; it was elating. Working his way forwards through the house and backwards in his memory was a juxtaposition which was not lost on him, he just didn’t care much for it at this point. It seemed like any meaning he could find from any pseudo-symbolism or quasi-metaphor was just a reflection of his feelings at any given time, so why not just listen to the feelings in the first place? It had not and would not occur to the man that art was composed in that territory and that there was a playful beauty to symbolism and metaphor, pseudo/quasi and otherwise. However, it was not in the stars or the Northern Lights tonight for him to have a revelation about that, there were much more important things which needed some serious resolution. Forty-one years had passed and now he was standing in his parents’ bedroom emptying a jerrycan across the king-sized mattress, splattering the walls, carpets, faux-fur rug, real fur rug, the jewellery box, the lamp, the lamp shade, the bedside table, the glasses on the bedside table, the pillows, the pillow sheets, the duvet, the box spring (it had begun to seep through the mattress at this point) and finally, but most importantly, the urns of ashes which had contained his mother and father for the last twenty years of his life and his sister’s from two days ago. He felt ready now. Making one last stop in the bathroom to alleviate himself and fill his water bottle he thought back to all the weekends he had come up here in the twenty years since his parents had died in the car crash, just to leave things exactly the way they were. The glasses on the bedside table were for a man who hadn’t needed a prescription since Bush Sr. was in office, but he hadn’t dared move them. He thought about how his last conversation with his parents had been an argument and how he tried to live to their golden standard for twenty years to make up for it. An argument he couldn’t even remember, but that made him feel sick to the stomach any time he tried to think about it. No such feelings were coursing through his body in this moment, though, and as he finished his trail of thought, so too did he finish his trail of urine. He put the seat down, washed his hands, dried them on the towel behind the door and then started on his way to the living room. As he got to the doorframe he stopped, turned slowly and walked back into the bathroom where he flipped the seat up on the toilet and proceeded to walk away to the living room giggling to himself all the while. In the living room he found a long thin pomegranate-scented candle which he took in one hand and placed on the ebony dining room table, leaving it all alone while he retrieved a cleaver from the knife rack. Holding the candle steady with one hand on the table and the cleaver high in the air with the other the man swung downwards with a force so powerful the wick end of the candle shot across the room and rolled under the couch, under his father’s spot. Sitting in it now he didn’t really see the appeal of the spot. It had seemed like such a big deal for so long and now it felt hollow. He stood up, pushed the couch back and retrieved the candle from the floor. He had pushed the couch with more force than intended and it teetered on its back legs, then came careening to the ground in a crash 45
that seemed to shake each individual object in the cabin. All this to say it was a rather loud noise composed of a myriad of different clinks and clanks. It took seven minutes before the entirety of the cabin had stopped shaking. After emptying the second and third jerrycans around the cabin the man went to where all three of the fuel trails converged, which was where he had piled all of the wood he had moved from earlier in the day. There he lit the candle and with excruciating care, placed it on the floor. Then, making certain not to knock the candle over, he got up and walked out of the cabin to where his bag was on the perimeter of the cleared treeline. By the time the lips of the flame licked the pools of gas the man had already set up his sleeping bag and carved out a perfect spot to watch the show from. The speed at which the fuel allowed the fire to spread was quite breathtaking, even on the same evening where the Northern Lights had put on the show of a lifetime, though I suppose it would be unfair to compare the two events to each other given the difference in significance between them. In any case, the fire spread quickly and the cabin was engulfed in flames within minutes. Experts say that in a house fire a room will typically burn for twenty minutes, in this case one minute for each year lost. He wasn’t looking at his watch but if he had it probably would’ve struck him as peculiar that at exactly twenty minutes the major supports for the cabin gave out and the building collapsed on itself, sending huge pillars of smoke into the air as well as sparks and some debris as far as thirty metres from where the cabin once stood. It was beautiful. What the man did not know about this fire, however, was that there was something which may have been of great importance to him had he found it. When he sat in his father’s spot on the couch the reason it seemed so lackluster was likely because his father had traded the comfort of the spot for the utility of the storage compartment under his seat. When the man had knocked the couch over if he had been listening for it he could have heard the contents of the hidden storage compartment tumble over each other. One such item present was his father’s journal, the last entry of which spoke of how he felt sick to his stomach about having an argument that day and how he intended to call his son and apologize after he and his wife drove to Toronto the next day. The journal, like the rest of the furniture and easily burnable items in the cabin was turned to ash, like it was never there. In the morning the man woke and sauntered over to the remains of the cabin. He cleared the sleep from his eyes with the corners of his knuckles, then shot his arms up and out in a large Y-shape simultaneously yawning and stretching. Unzipping his fly and relieving himself on the cabin left him with a grin from ear to ear as he walked back to his bag and the Marlin. He picked up the Marlin and proceeded to fire all the rounds into the cabin in rapid succession. After he was certain there was no more ammunition he placed the muzzle of the rifle in a snow bank and walked away from it all.
46
Intersectionality by Sonya Fesiak Woodcut (ink on paper) 41 x 57 inches
Between my Teeth by Emily Keeler
I only let him fuck me when I’m high. So, I light a joint. I stand on the front porch of this frat house, looking through the sliding glass door as the rain and wind wrap their arms around me. He’s looking at me from across the room, his skinny features obscured by a thick wall of smoke, and I can tell from the arch of his eyebrows, exactly what he wants from me. When I say “skinny features” though, what I’m specifically referring to are his knees. Those bony, pointy knees, like devil’s horns poking out three quarters of the way down his legs. When I say, “skinny features” what I’m really thinking about are his thighs— long, with only a thin layer of flesh, clinging to his femurs. More than all of this, though, I’m thinking about what is on his thighs (or, at least, what I think is on his thighs). Because, I can’t really tell if that’s his ex-girlfriend on his lap, or if it’s just the smoke, curled up to look like her willowy silhouette. Maybe it’s just the smoke wrapped around the most vulnerable parts of my mind, and not her arms wrapped around his neck. Maybe. But, like I said, I don’t really see clearly, because he’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him, and he’s giving me “the nod”. The nod that brings him satisfaction, and me purpose. And so I bring the joint between my teeth and hold it there for a second, just to see how delicate it really is. It begins to fall apart. I snatch it between my fingers again, bringing it between my lips this time. Maybe if I kissed it, let it in, sucked it enough, it would fill me with that feeling of warmth and carelessness that I so desperately want. Maybe. But the likelihood is that I would feel out-of-control and vulnerable. Then I’d wake up in the morning, feeling sick, trying to clarify the blurry memories of the night before. I go back into the house, towards him. The smoky silhouette is gone, and I wonder if maybe I’m crazy; if maybe he’s been right: I’m paranoid, I’m needy, I’m a mess. I’m a trainwreck, but at least I have him to keep me on track. “Hey, babe.” He says, a drunk smile dancing on his lips, slurred words escaping through perfect, straight teeth. “Hi.” “Let’s…go…” “Okay.” I don’t want to hear his voice, anymore. There’s something about him… I don’t even want to be near him. I want to get away, run away, drive away, close my eyes and see what kind of a ditch I end up in the next morning. Because the truth is that as perfect as his teeth are, his presence still makes me squeamish and uncomfortable and angry. It wraps itself around my body, touches me everywhere, kisses the most sensitive parts of me in a way that makes me want to squirm and scream and— I take another pull on my joint. “Okay.” I repeat. He takes the joint from between my fingers and finishes it himself. “Here” he smirks, “a gift”. He hands me a bottle of Pinot Noir; it’s cool and smooth and full of reassurance. The only thing I love more than smoking is drinking. So I drink. And when my head starts to swim, he wraps his long, thin fingers around my wrist. He pulls me into a bedroom. The walls are plastered with posters of guns and cars and naked women. There are cigarette-butts ground into the carpet, accumulated over 48
years of neglect. A three-week old mug of coffee with green and white mold floating at the top sits on the bedside table, and the sheets are spotted with life stains. He starts by kissing my mouth, pushing his tongue between my teeth. He tastes like life stains, too. His mouth is as desperate as mine. His teeth are just as angry, as frustrated, as they nip at my lips, my neck, my panties. Slipping them down my legs, around my ankles, until they dangle off my toes. The sheets feel thick and oily, and I feel my skin crawl as he breathes in my ear. It’s almost loud enough to cover up the sound of thunder and rain on the window; almost loud enough to cover up the sound of the door opening behind him. “I thought she could join us,” It hadn’t been smoke on his lap. But you’re mine. You’re the only thing that’s ever been mine… I want to bury myself between the sheets. I want to smother myself in a pillow. I want to run and hide in the closet and never come back out. I want to cry. But instead, I laugh. “Sure, baby, just let me find that bottle.” Because I don’t want him to get mad. I don’t want him to leave me. I don’t want to be alone. And so once again, I place the bottle between my lips, as he places himself between her legs. This is not for us, I think. This is for them. This is his idea of some sort of compromise. But I need him. And so I climb on top of her, place her face between my thighs, and pretend that I’m having the time of my life. And when he’s done, and she’s done, I pretend I’m done. Because I am. Not in the way they are, but I am done. “Baby, that was amazing” He isn’t looking at me. He’s looking at her—her thin, long body, gracefully thrown across the mattress. I fish my panties from under the bed, where they’re lying beside a mousetrap. I slip them over my thick thighs; I will never be graceful, or dainty, or willowy like smoke clouds. I will always be this. Not for long. “I think I’m going to head home.” He looks stupidly surprised. “Why? The night’s still young.” I shrug. “I have a lot of homework to do.” “Why are you being so weird?” Because you don’t understand. You will never understand. “I’m not. I’m just tired. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He pauses and looks at me. “Okay. I love you.” That sends a slight tendril of warmth up my spine that wraps around my bones and sends my skin exploding with goosebumps. But then he rolls over and kisses her on the mouth, and I wonder if his lips are desperate against hers, too. I wonder if maybe, when he tells me, “I love you”, he pictures her face. And so I slip out the bedroom door, the living room door, the front door, as a shadow. Because that’s exactly what I am: a shadow that will follow you, clinging to your feet and kissing the ground you walk on, whether I want to or not. That is simply my 49
purpose. Shadows can’t be loved. Shadows are dark spots on sunny days, are the crescents under your eyes after a long night. Shadows are walked on. Most importantly of all, though, shadows disappear. There are no shadows, tonight. But that’s because most of the streetlamps in this area of town don’t work, and the moon is cowering behind thick clouds. The rain has stopped, leaving the air crisp. My footsteps sound heavy, echoing a little. I’ve never even heard an echo before. Echoes are the kind of things that screenwriters use as gags in shows, or that only exist in caves, or on top of mountains. But there they are: my little echoes. They’re quiet. They’re faint. They’re mine. They’re mine until my feet step on to the porcupine-esque “Welcome” mat at my front door. There my footsteps turn into submissive brushes, and I am dropped back into my reality, where echoes still only exist in the movies. When I open my front door, my dad is in front of the television and I can’t tell if the snores are coming from him or if it is just the sound of the thunderclouds settling into the sky. I can’t tell if the trash bags are filled with stale food or beer bottles, and I can’t tell if the mud on my mom’s slippers are from today or centuries ago, when she used to leave her bedroom. I can’t tell if the crying sounds are coming from me or my dad or maybe the TV, but either way my head is swimming with a chaotic kind of static, and I wish I was back in that grimy bedroom two blocks away with my arms wrapped around… But his arms would be wrapped around her small waist, and I would just be small and waste; waste away, like the mouse carcasses under the bed. “Daddy?” He turns to me with blurry, bloodshot eyes—the kind of eyes that look rotten and yellow. His face is puffy and tired and his lips are thin and weak. “I missed you. I miss her.” “I know you do. I’m sorry.” And my heart breaks because I realize that I will never escape that scene in the other bedroom down the street. He will always miss her; my dad will always miss my mom, and I will always just be the replacement: the filler. The second choice. “I’m going to go to sleep now.” “I love you.” A rusty knife turns in my gut and I can feel my intestines slipping out between my fingers, as I try to hold myself together. “I know you do.” There will always be garbage bags, and old mud on old shoes, and second choices. And echoes on empty streets, where shadows do not exist. But in the morning, the sound of cars will drown out my precious, little echoes, and the sun will rise and expose all the shadows. And I don’t want that. What I want is to stay in that moment under the broken streetlamps forever. So I close my eyes hard enough for stars to appear and I think.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer How far can I be pushed? The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, How much more pain can I take? Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, Am I strong enough to do this? And, by opposing, end them? 50
I stand up, slinking against the wall, to what used to be my father’s office. I’m holding my breath; I don’t want to wake up my mom. I don’t want anyone to catch me. Nothing will ever change for me. I will never be the kind of girl people fall in love with, and my skin will never glow with health and happiness. I will always be Daddy’s Little Trainwreck. And if not his, I’ll be someone else’s. I open the office door, and inhale the scent of tobacco. I find my dad’s safe, left carelessly open besides a wilting plant. There is little in the safe other than my parents’ will and the long, cylindrical piece of metal that I’m looking for. Cold. Icy. Definite. Nothing like my father, and yet this is entirely his. I cringe as I imagine my every thought staining the flawless barrel. This is the only strong thing my father will ever have, and I don’t want to mar it with evidence of my weakness. I take the gun out of the safe and walk over to my father’s desk. I sit down in his office chair and draw the blinds. I want to do it. I have to do it, if I want anything to change. Don’t I? I lean back in the chair, envisioning myself as I press the gun against my side—as much discretion as I need in this hollow home—and make my way to the bathroom. For the first time all night, I imagine looking in the mirror. I’m a mess. My face is a hole with buttons for eyes and two rows of shiny, white teeth. I am a shadow. I will always be a shadow, imprinted on the bathroom walls of my childhood home. I close my eyes—I can feel it: the tingling sensation of hard metal in my hands. I shake my head. I don’t want to see myself, not even in my head. For these final moments, I want to pretend that I’m beautiful. That I’m an angel; that I’m her. I open my eyes and fumble with a final cigarette, feeling my muscles unwind and my mind simmer as I breathe in the nicotine. I watch as it diminishes between my fingers, until finally, I diminish it against the bathroom sink. It’s time. I replace the cigarette butt with the barrel of the gun. I pretend that the cold metal is his mouth on mine, and that for once I am enough for him. I pretend that it’s just another cigarette, and that I’m just at another party. I pretend until I can only feel a numb kind of happiness; relief. This is how I’ll stay—forever. My heart’s echoes swell in my ears, as I place the barrel of the gun between my teeth. Inhale.
To sleep, perchance to dream… For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause.
Pause. No. The stars behind my eyes have turned into thunderbolts. Raindrops slide down my cheeks; I can’t do this. I don’t know what lies beyond the bullet—broken streetlamps and echoes, the image of his mouth on hers, or simply darkness? I take out my lighter and light another cigarette. 51
Alabama Pines by Jessica Lanziner Woodcut (ink on paper)
Across the Pond
by Author Helvetica by Beau Bodner
Only the cool, clear liquid separated the woman and the man. They were directly across from one another on the banks of the pond that would have been a perfect circle to a sparrow. A fog hung around the pond, blurring the surroundings from view so that the only thing either person could see was the gun-toting figure across the water. The water looked cold and deep, from the woman’s vantage. It was uninviting, almost laughing at her if she got too close, so she never tried. It was like they were trapped at the edge of the pond, this perfect circle. The woman was dressed in a cowboy hat, a black button-down tucked into her jeans which were tucked into her boots. Each shoe was leather, and they were as identical and yet foreign as two feet are to one another. A heavy leather belt was slung over one shoulder and housed in each of its ringed openings was a shotgun shell. She wielded the shotgun deftly, and looked like someone going off to Afghanistan, such was her weapon’s modernity. The man was dressed in a tight blue suit. It had thin lapels to match its thin tie, much like the kind in fashion today. His suede black loafers were starkly out of place among the reeds and grasses of the pond’s bank, their black unavoidable among the lush greens. So were the ancient pistols that waited in his dual-holsters. The guns could have been from early this century, or the last, the woman could not tell. But, they seemed to be anachronistic and she wondered why things like that should still have a place in this world. The man, too, was ancient. He looked like Chet Baker would have had made it to one hundred. Despite appearances, the man still moved quickly. The woman had to be on guard all te time to catch him making a move, she could never really relax when in his presence. If he sprung to the left, or the right, she had to reactively spring to the right, or to the left. To the aforementioned sparrow, their movements would have resembled a disgusting zero-sum game. The two had been locked in this ebb and flow for quite some time, probably a few days, but she could not tell. The man had a watch on his wrist, but that was Man Time, it would mean nothing to a woman. The fog formed a protective cover overhead, and she could not figure out the passage of time from the Sun any longer. None of the tricks she had known since birth would help her here because it was his world, it was the man’s world. “How you feeling over there, hun?” the man spat to her one day. Neither had spoken yet, it hadn’t seemed appropriate. They had just sat on the banks on the water looking at each other. “Fine” she said back. She had been on the precipice of saying “Sir” but had stopped herself. She couldn’t even guess why such a man might ever deserve such a title, but she had almost said it nevertheless. “How long are we gonna be here, hoss?” she said not wanting him to lead the conversation. Hoss didn’t seem right either. All the words she thought of to describe this man properly seemed like they hadn’t been invented yet, like they would just die off in the pond before reaching all the way across. Though probably if the words did reach him, the man would just chuckle and call her a sweetie, or one of the other plethora of words that had been invented that didn’t really describe her but were used to anyways. “Hoss? People don’t really speak like that where we come from. Now do they, 53
sweetie?” “No. I… no, they don’t” she couldn’t fathom why she had acquiesced there. One moment her gun was pointed at Hoss, the next she was answering his question and her shotgun was aimed right at a bunch of dandelions. “Well, then. Why would it occur to you to use that word, hmm?” He put each hand on a hip like a schoolteacher and stared over at her. She did not answer, only retrained her firepower on him and his sanctimonious little hands. He smiled which took her aback and he could tell it did. “You’re wondering why I smiled?” he guessed. Once again she nodded. It seemed as though speaking would not be the way to beat Hoss. He drew one of the old guns from his side and looked at it. It hung limply in his hand for a while and she could not tell what he was doing. It could be something, it could be nothing. “How long are we going to be here? Why are we here?” she asked him. His flaccid hand tightened all at once, and suddenly the pistol was pointed at her. He had never pointed the gun at her with such fury, until now. It was like a lion who, upon constant interruption from a lesser, weaker animal, finally gives a swipe of the paw with claws extended. “Ooh, girlie isn’t so rambunctious now, is she?” the man laughed. She could tell that he was ill at ease, for once, and so let the silence settle. The man did not like this, and fired a shot directly at her. the bullet was so hilariously pitiful. As it streaked towards her, the woman was easily able to sidestep the attempt and it found rest in the soft mud of the bank. The woman, for the first time, took her eyes off the man so that she could stoop and pick up the shot. She was struck by how awful an attempt he had made. Not surprisingly, the bullet was old like the gun, but there was something patently weak about it. Maybe not weak, but just out of energy. After realizing how different the bark and the bite seemed to be, the woman burst out laughing. She even had to sit, dropping her gun, so that she might not accidentally shoot herself. “What?” the man asked honestly, “Why are you laughing at me?” he said dropping the gun. As she sat laughing, the woman marvelled at how she had let herself be drawn into this duel. What exactly had she imagined could be done by him? “I just thought there would be a little more, ya know?” she said after regaining her countenance. “You seem a lot scarier than your bullets. They are really nothing to me, and the only way you could actually hit me is if I let you.” For the first time, the woman actually looked down into the water that separated her and the man. It had an opacity that had led her to believe it to be quite deep despite its diameter. But now, when she stuck a hand in, she could feel sand. If it was laughing, the pond was merely trying to open up to her. She realized she had painted the pond with the same brush she painted the man. It was the brush of unease and unacceptance, something she carried with her every day. The man started shaking when he saw her come up with a fistful of sand. This whole thing, the pond, the fog, he himself, were of the same nature as his bullets. Formidable to sight but not touch. The true nature of the things revealed themselves when she thought first, instead of just concluding based on previous experiences. It was like she had known herself to be unwelcome in the man’s world, without knowing why. She now realized that her world and the man’s world were the same. “Please don’t do that” he quavered. “What’s wrong with your voice, lil guy?” “Nothing. I… You, well.” The woman liked what she heard. 54
One by one, the woman removed everything from herself that wasn’t of her own cells and threw them into the water. The hat and gun were tossed first. Then she untucked her shirt from her jeans, her jeans from her boots and took that final guise off too. She hadn’t liked the clothes but they had seemed appropriate for some reason. They fit the image of what she thought she had been, what she conceived her role to be in the man’s world, now they disgusted her. So, she couldn’t bear to leave them on, plus she loved seeing the old man squeamish. Finally, she stood naked and stared at the man. For some reason, he could not meet her eye. If she took a step left or right, he reacted accordingly. “What are you doing to me? Please stop this, you won.” “I did not win, you just lost, buddy.” “Why did you take off your clothes?” “Why haven’t you taken off yours?” she asked. But, she had become tired of this game. She thought it did not really matter anymore, and only the old and decrepit like the man would partake, and how lovely it is that games like those new last that long anyways. She took a step into the water, for once feeling safe. The water was warm and it invited her in, as if all it wanted in life was a friend, someone who would not fight around it all the time like the man. Each step she took in the water was accompanied by a gasp from the Old one. But he didn’t matter any longer to the woman, to the pond, or to his world. On a whim, the woman bounded over to the man. Still in the water, she invited him to join her. “I can’t… and can’t you cover up.” The woman merely turned at the “can’t”. She walked to the centre of the pond and looked directly upwards. In the middle, the fog was gone and she could see the Sun again. She could see the sparrow who flew overhead, the mountains that brutalized the horizon. She looked back at where she had been, sentried across from the old man and laughed at her naiveté. How formidable a foe she proved to be.
Toronto from Centre Island by Julia Partington
55
Plan I by Austin Henderson Lithography (ink on paper) 12 x 22 inches
Barricade by Ann Choi
This story found its inspiration from Kwangju Rebellion in May 1980. Kwangju, a city located in southwestern South Korea, had long been a centre of the movement against the military dictator, Park Chung Hee. After his assassination in 1979, however, a new military dictator arose in the figure of a general Chun Doo Hwan, who became the head of the Korean Central Intelligence Agency in April 1980 and suspended civilian laws under the martial state. University students were the first to protest, on May 18, at Chonnam National University, where they were repressed by the government forces. Shocked by the brutality of repression, civilians joined the students in their pro-democracy movement. “Your men will be barricading the student union building, Comrade Woo.” “I don’t know how many students will turn up, Comrade Yang,” Comrade Woo stutters before a dark-haired young man. Along with twenty other youths, Comrade Woo stands in circle around Comrade Yang, their gaze intent upon his face. “When they heard that Cheon government was sending an actual army, most of them wanted to cancel the plan.” “What are you suggesting?” Comrade Woo flinches under Comrade Yang’s gaze. “Maybe we can plan something else.” Comrade Woo drops his eyes to the floor. “Do you think we would be safe from Cheon if we cancel now?” Even though Comrade Yang’s voice remains low and steady, the air seems to hold still at his words. “Remember that our 30 comrades had been peacefully protesting on campus, believing in Cheon’s promise that the police will not seize nor harm our citizens. Are you going to betray their cause, Comrade Woo?” “No.” Comrade Woo looks up, his face pale. “I will carry your order, Comrade. I was only afraid we may not have enough people to barricade the building when Cheon’s army forces their way in.” “It doesn’t matter.” Comrade Yang’s face hardens. “How many people signed up in total, Comrade?” “About 30. 20 people dropped out last minute.” “Ten would be enough,” Comrade Yang continues in his dispassionate voice. “Go to your station, Comrade Woo.” “Same thing happened here too,” pipes in a voice from a young man standing in the corner. He had been looking at Comrade Yang without taking his eyes off for a single moment from his face. “Ten of my volunteers dropped out.” “It would be impossible for Hansol’s men to guard the university gate, Comrade,” another voice interjects from the opposite side of the room. “They have guns, Comrade,” says another voice from the other side. “There are only five of us.” A small youth, who had been trembling in front of Comrade Yang, opens his mouth all of a sudden, his eyes wide open. “We’ll be all shot. I don’t see the point of this. Let the university administrators go, and surrender.” “Have you forgotten that these same university administrators you are trying to free condoned Munhwa Nuclear Company’s massacres?” At Comrade Yang’s words, youths surrounding him flinch and avoid his gaze. “Didn’t they know that for ‘economic 57
advancement’, Cheon government wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice Munhwa residents for the nuclear plant? Yet, they did nothing. Can we, as university students, close our eyes to this brutal act?” “We can’t lead an impossible game, Comrade.” Comrade Woo’s voice is barely audible, his eyes again fixed on the floor. “It’s not an impossible game,” says a new voice. A young woman, who had been leaning against the door, steps forward to the middle of the room towards Comrade Yang. “What are we waiting for, comrades? This is hopeless: we have done nothing except locking the university administrators. Even without Cheon’s army, we would still be waiting here. But for what? We need people to join us. There aren’t enough of us.” “What can we do?” Comrade Woo finally lifts his eyes from the floor to the young woman. Comrade Yang also turns towards her, his face thoughtful. “We need to stimulate people’s sympathy,” the young woman replies. “Remember Rhee’s presidency? It wasn’t the students’ protests or mass killings that moved the people. What finally led to his exile was a shooting of one innocent boy. People need to feel the government’s cruelty on a personal level before they can step into an action.” “What do you propose then?” “The army will arrive by a nightfall outside the city gate.” The woman pauses and looks around the room until her eyes settle upon a small youth’s face. “They’ll wait until next morning to start action. They’ll probably shoot anyone who comes close to the campsite at night. Comrade Woo, you know Comrade Lee, who works at Tonga Ilbo. As students, we are more powerful than we were 20 years ago: news spread faster now on the Internet. I am sure she can report the shooting of a young woman in no time, capturing national attention.” “Comrade Yoo, what do you mean?” Comrade Woo’s voice trembles. “If people at Gwangju join the protest, perhaps the army won’t shoot.” “How do you know, Comrade? You can’t be certain that people would join the action.” “We also can’t let our men and women lead the impossible barricade. At this rate, we will all be shot,” Comrade Yoo replies. “This is mad!” bursts from a small youth’s lips. “This plan is not going to work.” “Everyone is going crazy after being locked up in buildings for too long!” “We will be guarding the gates so that the university administrators won’t escape.” The whole room falls silent as Comrade Yang opens his mouth again. Comrade Yoo’s gaze, which remained fixed on Comrade Yang’s face throughout the commotion, does not waver even when other youths recoil from Comrade Yang in hearing his order. Comrade Yang’s eyes linger on each of the youths’ faces in turn, but when they come upon Comrade Yoo, turn towards the opposite direction. “Go now to your stations and await your orders. We fight, even if all the volunteers drop out.” After brief silence, rustle fills the room. High-pitched laughter mixes in with a loud chatter in trembling voices. “You live up to your name, Yong, dragon-boy!” “I’m sure you’ll make your mother proud with your new skills in making banners out of paper-clips, Comrade Woo.” “Worst case scenario, we’ll show the power of knowledge when we hit those soldiers with our textbooks!” After opening and closing of the door, silence empties the room again. 58
“Well, Comrade Yoo?” Comrade Yang, who had been keeping his eyes on the floor during the rustle, lifts them to Comrade Yoo’s pale face. “Why don’t you go to your station?” “As soon as you hear the gunshot,” Comrade Yoo replies, “make sure to tell Comrade Woo to call Comrade Lee. Timing is important. You’ll hear the gunshot as we are close to the city border. If you’re afraid of a mistake, send one of your volunteers so that they can hide close to the camp.” “I will. Go to your station, Comrade.” “I don’t think I can call my parents tonight,” Comrade Yoo continues, her eyes fixed on Comrade Yang’s face. “They asked after you the other day. I said you are well. I lied. How can I know how well you are doing, when I hardly see you anymore?” “Planning protests and organizing volunteers take time, Comrade.” “Of course,” Comrade Yoo replies, lowering her gaze. “My parents don’t know that I am involved in the barricade. When they asked about what was happening, I said I didn’t know. How can they guess, when I was always a good student who focused on her studies?” “I am glad your views have changed, Comrade.” “When I first saw you on the podium,” Comrade Yoo continues, a faint smile flitting across her lips, “I could sense a new life springing in me. I couldn’t talk to you. How can you, who seemed to carry the burden of society on your shoulders alone, mind a girl like me? But then you looked at me, just me, in the audience one day. Woorim, do you remember what you said then?” “Comrade. Remember we don’t call each other by first names in our organization.” “When you hear the gunshot, make sure Comrade Woo calls Comrade Lee,” Comrade Yoo repeats. She walks up to Comrade Yang and takes his chin by her hand, looking at him firmly with her eyes. “It’s exactly as you said in your speech: the duty of university students lies in knowing when to sacrifice for their country. Our biggest achievement is serving the cause. Don’t you think?” “Night is falling,” Comrade Yang almost whispers as he turns towards the window. “The army will arrive soon.” “It was also dusk when you ended your speech.” Comrade Yoo, after looking out the window in silence, raises her eyes to Comrade Yang, her eyes soft under the faint light filtering through the window. “And I was sorry… And I am still sorry that I can never place my country, or the cause, before my love of family or my comrades.” “Comrade, it’s time for you to go to the station,” Comrade Yang repeats. “I’ll be at my station until I see the army camp.” Comrade Yoo’s eyes harden when she hears Comrade Yang’s order. Her lips firmly pressed, she walks to the door, but when she touches the handle, she turns towards Comrade Yang again. “Make sure Comrade Woo calls. And… call my parents before the news goes out into the Internet, please.” Comrade Yang nods. “Thank you.” Comrade Yoo lingers around the door. “Comrade. It’s time to go to your station.” Comrade Yang’s voice is low but hard. “Good night.” Something glistens in Comrade Yoo’s eyes, but she turns towards the darkened hallway, her lips twisted into a downward smile, as she closes the door behind her.
59
Portrait by Mackenzie Gregson Pencil on paper
Fort Whittaker by Josh Galler
The old Whittaker House looked as if it had been abandoned for centuries. The paint had all but peeled away from the wooden siding and the porch was sunken and cracked, leaving only two of the six steps up to the front door still intact. All of the first floor windows had long been smashed; the jagged shards of glass that remained on the sill looked like the teeth of some hellish creature. Jerry Wilkinson from down the street said the place was haunted. I dared him to go inside. “No way!” he said, his face scrunching up as he eyed the mangled doorframe. We were standing at the foot of the lawn, our sneakers just beyond the edge of the grass forest that had replaced what must have once been a beautiful garden. “I double-dog-dare you,” I said, shoving my face in his. “Now you have to!” Jacqui Fisher squealed, giggling with delight. I had considered daring her, but she’d do it without question. That wasn’t fun. Jerry would cave eventually. “But my mom said I have to be home for dinner in an hour,” Jerry said, his left fist bunching and releasing as his gaze remained fixed on the house. “What if I triple-ultra-dog-dare you?” I said and Jacqui ‘oohed’, a wide grin plastered to her face. The way she smiled scrunched up all of the freckles on her cheeks, making them look dirty. “But Big Anthony said everyone who’s ever stepped inside has disappeared forever! Big Anthony said the door is a portal to the underworld!” “Big Anthony’s a liar. There’s no such thing as portals to the underworld,” Jacqui said, putting her hands on her hips. “It’s just a big dumb old house.” “Do I have to?” Jerry whined as he let his shoulders slump. He swung his arms around as if he were some sort of ragdoll, his hands slapping at his sides. For some reason Jerry always thought that dance would change our minds. “Yes you have to. A dare’s a dare,” I said matter-of-factly. “No welching.” Jerry sighed, producing a strange noise from the back of his throat at the same time. “Okay, I’ll do it,” he said finally. Taking a deep breath, Jerry took a step onto the cobble stone walk that led to the stairs. He looked back at me and I nodded, gesturing with my hands for him to keep going. Walking slowly to the stairs, Jerry kept stopping to check behind him. Ever since that time we tricked him into ringing Mr. Flanagan’s doorbell while we ran away, he didn’t seem to trust us. “He’s gonna die,” Jacqui said, watching Jerry climb onto the first step. It sat just below hip height, and Jerry was trying his best to get a leg up onto it. “No he won’t,” I replied, wincing as the wooden step broke under his weight, and he fell to the ground. “What if it is a portal to hell?” “What?” “What if Big Anthony wasn’t lying?” “You said they don’t exist,” “What if they do?” “They don’t,” 61
“How do you know?” “Because. There aren’t portals to hell, only in movies.” Jacqui tilted her head and nodded, satisfied with my answer. As I watched Jerry attempt to pull himself up onto the porch I thought about it some more. Mr. Harrison showed us movies during our history lessons. Those were real. But my Dad told me the movie he was watching, the one where the guy had an axe, he told me that one wasn’t. I shook my head. Portals to hell weren’t real. “Could I get a little help here?” Jerry called out as he struggled to get a grip on the porch. It came up to his neck, so it was hard for him to get his arms in a good spot. Turning to Jacqui, I flashed my teeth and raised my eyebrows. “Race ya,” I said, breaking off at a sprint down the stone path. Jacqui caught up quickly, she always did. Mr. Grunly, the gym teacher, said she’d be a track star one day. Jacqui said she’d rather be an astronaut. Jerry was straining from his tippy toes to find a good grip, his tongue stuck out the way he always did when he was concentrating. Jacqui beat me to him by a few steps, but I hadn’t been running my fastest. Too many of the stones were upturned at dangerous angles. She started trying to lift Jerry by his leg, but to limited success. His feet were off the ground, but he was squirming so much she was having a hard time keeping balance. “Would ya hold still?” she said, her voice muffled by Jerry’s t-shirt. She waved a hand, letting Jerry teeter for a moment, and I stepped in to help, taking hold of his other side. Together we hefted him up onto the water stained and rotted boards, hearing a few cracks as they strained. “Do I still gotta do this?” Jerry asked, dusting off his bare knees. “You’re more than half way!” Jacqui replied, pushing on his ankles. “We’re right here, nothing’s gonna get you.” “It’s just a dumb old house, it’s just a dumb old house,” Jerry muttered as he took a few short steps towards the door. The battered piece of wood hung ajar, the darkness of the house’s foyer hiding all details of the inside. Through the broken windows we could see old furniture but little else. With the tip of his right foot, Jerry nudged the door. The old hinges screamed and we all jumped. I expected Jerry to run, but he pressed on, pushing the door the rest of the way. It made a sound like fingers on a chalkboard, like the wail of some angry ghost. “Jerry . . .” I groaned as he stepped through the frame. Jacqui was bouncing on her heels, biting the nails on her left hand. He took one slow step across the threshold, his hands balled into fists. Hesitating for a moment, Jerry looked around himself and I realized he’d had his eyes closed. He turned around with a wide grin on his face and placed his hands on his hips like he’d just won King of the Hill. “Look guys, I made it!” he cheered, spinning around with his arms wide. Taking a few steps deeper inside as he spun, there was a loud crack. In slow motion, I watched Jerry disappear, the floor swallowing him up and leaving only darkness. He didn’t even make a sound. Dust motes swirled violently in the shaft of light that flooded through the open door, but the illumination revealed little more. I looked to Jacqui with eyes wide, her face a mirror image of mine. Without speaking, we clambered up to the porch, and I gave Jacqui a boost before she pulled me up. As quickly as we could, while still trying to avoid a similar accident, we bounded inside the house, no longer remembering to be afraid of the ghosts that lurked inside. Standing over a hole in the rotted floorboards, I tried to spot Jerry in the dark below. “Jerry? Jerry! Are you okay?” I shouted, squinting futilely down the hole. 62
“I’m good,” Jerry moaned, his voice coming from what seemed like only a few feet below. “Are you hurt?” Jacqui asked as she crouched down like she was going to hop in after him. “I don’t think so,” Jerry said. “I can’t see anything but your shadows.” “Don’t worry, we’re coming down to help you,” Jacqui replied as she swung her legs over the edge. The wood groaned, but held. “Look out below!” Jacqui dropped down and disappeared into the dark, a cloud of dust erupting from the hole. I sighed, my turn. Following Jacqui’s form, I slipped down the hole, calling out a head’s up. The ground came up fast, and a puff of musty air filled my nostrils. I sneezed, sending more dust motes swirling. Something grabbed my arm and I jumped. “It’s me,” Jacqui said. “Jerry, help us find you.” “I’m here,” he groaned. “I think I can get up.” There was the sound of wooden boards being shifted, grating against the concrete floor. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could make out Jerry’s figure as he rose, holding a hand to his hip. “Where are we?” he asked. “I dunno, the basement?” I replied. “At least there aren’t any ghosts,” Jerry said with a hollow laugh. “There’s gotta be a light switch around here,” Jacqui said, tugging my arm as she pulled me deeper into the dark. I threw my free hand out in case we bumped into anything. After a few steps I could feel concrete walls against my fingertips, and I felt around, trying my best to squint through the dark. I gave a start as my fingers found purchase on a thin plastic nub protruding from the wall. “I found something,” I said, flipping the switch. It was difficult to move, clogged as it was with a hundred years of dust. Two lights hanging from the ceiling buzzed to life, giving off a weak orange glow. A basement was illuminated before us, and we all gasped in awe. “It’s a gold mine!” Jerry said, holding his hands to his face. Buried beneath dust and mold was the most incredible sight I had ever seen. On a shelf across the room were stacks of board games and comic books, and atop a chest pushed against the adjacent wall were two BB rifles, with their boxes of ammo sitting right next to them. In the middle of the room there was a small table and a couple of couches, the stuffing poking out of holes in the upholstery. “How could anyone leave this behind?” I asked, grabbing one of the rifles and examining the sights. Just needed a little cleaning. “Doesn’t matter, it’s ours now. Our secret stash,” Jacqui replied, pulling a stack of comics from the shelf and blowing the dust from their pages. “It’s like a fort!” Jerry said, plopping down on one of the couches. “Yeah, and we can’t tell anyone about it. Especially not Big Anthony,” I said. “If it’s a fort, it has to have a name,” Jacqui said, opening up an issue of Batman. “Well, this used to be the Whittaker house, so what about that? Fort Whittaker,” I replied, joining the two of them on the couch. “Yeah that’s good, Fort Whittaker,” Jerry said, grabbing a comic. I punched his arm gently. “And you said this place was haunted.” 63
Please Forget Me Not by Emily Joyce Oil paint on canvas
Artemis was not the God of Love by Elizabeth Boothby
Who the fuck designed this school? Between Charlotte Suárez and Patricia Petrowski’s offices there was a bookshelf instead of a wall. While this probably seemed apropos to the idiots who decided this would be the English Department, and while they were just PhD candidates and nowhere near full professors so administration wasn’t overly fussed, it meant that everything – absolutely everything – was audible between them. Like today, for example. “Honey, do you think you could wait somewhere else for me to finish answering these emails? You’re being distracting.” Matthew was chewing gum obnoxiously loud. “Charlotte, I am literally not even fucking speaking.” “Yes, but your presence is, I dunno, disruptive.” She glanced up at him. He was swiping something on his iPhone with his index finger. “Wait, are you on Tinder again?” He didn’t look up. “No.” “You are! What is so wrong with me that you have to insult me to my face?” It came out whinier than she’d wanted. “Nothing.” “Oh my god, you know what, just forget about lunch. I’m too busy. I’ll see you at home tonight, okay?” Matthew slapped his phone into the pocket of his jeans and raised one eyebrow. “Fine. See you tonight.” He sashayed out, closing the door politely behind him like he cared. His red hair was slicked back and his pretentious sweater fit tight across his pecs. He was definitely the hottest art history TA to ever exist. Sometimes he accused her of being more interested in poetry than sex, but this wasn’t true. She just didn’t like the version of sex they had. 20 minutes later, her phone buzzed. Sorry baby, I was an ass. But I got Starbucks 50% off #winning! It should be noted that through this entire juncture, Patricia was sitting in her office trying quite valiantly not to laugh. The woman in black Artemis Bogaert did not like people. Or rather, she liked people intellectually, but the problems arose when they tried to get too close to her, or whine about shit, or cry on her shoulder literally or metaphorically, or just basically invade her space with their messiness. She put extra effort into making herself appear standoffish. You know, all black clothes and odd hats and hair that fell to her knees. She wanted to be someone that people whispered about but never approached. Like a character in a book. She spent many hours in Patricia and Charlotte’s respective offices. Her position was one of uniquely objective observation. Artemis is important; I’ll come back to her. 65
Need, as quantified on a scale from bookishly hidden to terribly secret Patricia was particularly tall for a woman, and she had a hip blonde bob that was very in with English PhD students but that her mother hated because it made her look gay. Which she was. So, I mean – She lived outside of town in the upper level of a farmhouse. She was shiny compared to Charlotte, perpetually cheerful and enthusiastic. A bit like a wistful, childish, ever-giddy horse. She never seemed to need anything, which Charlotte found intensely disconcerting. For example: “Good morning. How was your weekend?” “Oh, it was lovely, thank you for asking; I went to the AGO with my mother. Yourself?” “Oh, I, um – not much.” “And how is your day going?” “Um, to be honest, Patricia, I hit a chipmunk on the way to work and I think I killed it.” “Oh dear.” And Charlotte would fill her coffee mug and leave distinctly irked. Conversations 1) “Artemis, you know, I just never saw the point of reading anything less than great literature – what was that?” “I think Professor Suárez just smashed her head off her keyboard.” 2) “What are you listening to?” “Mendelssohn’s Hebrides Overture.” “Oh my god, Patricia.” “What?” “Never mind.” “No really, what?” “Nothing. Just nothing.” 3) “Charlotte, are you alright?” … “Yes, Patricia. Yeah – I’ll be fine.” The mechanism by which Artemis was motivated Charlotte broke up with Matthew because he was a raging douche. Artemis actually saw him storming out of the apartment building, which she biked past every morning on the way to campus. She hadn’t known Charlotte lived there until she saw her yelling after him, “To my fucking face!” Later that morning a bird shit on Artemis’s head from a telephone wire. She threw a rock at it because she was still riled from her earlier witness. Emotional encounters were, for her, the visceral equivalent of being sneezed on by a stranger on the subway. Yet she found she felt bad. Later that month at a department social, she noticed for the first time that Patricia watched Charlotte talk the way a bird with a broken wing watches wind in the 66
treetops. She noticed that Charlotte sought Patricia out of the corner of her eye like a spy whose assignment it was to be obvious. It was pathetic. She found she felt worse, and that pissed her off. Fucking people. Some important facts 1) Charlotte loved horses. 2) The farm where Patricia rented had horses. 3) Patricia was one of those people who are genuinely kind. Allow me a romantic interlude “Oh goodness!” said Patricia, laughing as she swatted hanging leaves out of her realm of vision. Her wet hair was clinging to the sides of her face. Tea at the farmhouse had become a walk to visit the horses which had become a shrieking, laughing dash. “That deluge came from positively nowhere!” Her laugh was made of fairy bells or something equally magical. Charlotte thought again how Patricia couldn’t possibly be a real person. But her usual derision was overshadowed by how clearly she noticed that Patricia’s white shirt had gone translucent in the rain and that her bra had a fringe of lace along the top. Patricia, for her part, was being extra wide-eyed to cover up how magnetized she was. But then Charlotte touched her arm, to get her attention, to point her to see the grey horse cantering across the field, a creature of half-mist, and her hand stayed there, and then her fingertips ran down over Patricia’s bare forearm, against her palm, and her entire body liquefied. Charlotte would realize afterwards that it was the first time she’d ever seen Patricia truly, and desperately, need something. Later, in the dark, Patricia lay awake feeling Charlotte’s breath against her naked collarbone, and thought about that horse. Like a ghost in the downpour, rhythmic footfalls pounding like a heartbeat of split-second finally – please – vanishing into air like the ephemerality of a kiss. Later, in the morning, Charlotte watched Patricia sleeping, so thin and sprawled like a child in the slate light, and realized that she no longer needed to choose between sex and poetry, because all at once they had become the same thing. Patricia Petrowski was still afraid of her mother. Patricia Petrowski was still afraid of her mother. Professorial sorrow can be toxic Artemis was at Patricia’s office hours, and Patricia mentioned that she and her brother were going to Sloane’s Café on Friday to celebrate his birthday. Artemis remarked that she hated birthdays because once her mother had bought sparklers for the cake and they’d set her eight-year-old hair on fire. Patricia sat and stared out the window for longer than was normal and Artemis had to speak to draw her back. The self-loathing was so powerful it made even Artemis nauseous. Well fuck that Artemis was at Charlotte’s office hours, and they were talking about how funny it 67
was that Danielle Steele was obsessed with her own photograph when the door to Patricia’s office opened and she came in, or presumably it was her, placing her laptop case audibly on the desk and taking off her coat. Charlotte tensed. It was involuntary and miniscule, but Artemis saw. She saw and she got it, immediately. She thought: oh my fucking god, come on. She said: “Professor Suárez, do profs and students ever go out for coffee? Is that a thing?” All hail the master of strategy Artemis and Charlotte were sitting at Sloane’s, alone on the patio under the overhang because it was pouring, when Patricia and her brother walked out. They said goodbye to one another and then Artemis called, playing a convincing naivety, “Hey, Professor Petrowski!” Patricia saw who she was with but came over gamely anyway. “Hello, Artemis. Charlotte.” A prim nod. “Professor Suárez and I were just talking about what Keats would be like if he was a woman. I said that he/she would be a bit like her, don’t you think?” They had not been talking about this at all. “Um, oh, I couldn’t – ” “I mean, I just know how much you love your dead poet friends, so your opinion on the matter is pretty important.” She turned back to Charlotte. “I have to get going. It was nice chatting with you though. Thanks for the advice on Master’s programs.” She gave Patricia a wink as she left. I can’t decide if that wink was satirical or not. Things Charlotte might have said 1) I know you’re scared. 2) I have never felt this crazy about anyone, ever. 3) Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art Things Patricia might have said 1) I just – I can’t. 2) Can you lower your voice? 3) Charlotte, I… s Oh, and – 4) I’m in love with you. 4) I’m in love with you. I offer no conclusive evidence Artemis was standing on the corner with a black umbrella waiting for the light to change when she glanced back. They were kissing under the edge of the café’s canopy, rain making Charlotte’s skin shimmer as Patricia gathered her against her willowy height. Artemis turned around again and crossed the street, kicking aside pop cans and litter with her steel-toed boots. Head down, stride purposeful, she thought: my work here is done. And she may, ever so slightly, have smiled. 68
Crosscut by Nicole Emond Woodcut
Help By Nicole Arai INT. OFFICE - DAYTIME TINA, an anxious young woman sits in a large chair in a comfortable office space, waiting for her new psychologist. The PSYCHOLOGIST, 35, is late for the appointment and is holding a thick file folder. Her appearance looks visibly disarrayed, her pant suit is heavily wrinkled, white blouse partially tucked in, and her hair in a messy bun. The PSYCHOLOGIST jumps onto the opposite couch from TINA, kicking off her shoes and putting her feet up. PSYCHOLOGIST Hello there, Tina. MEDIUM SHOT The PSYCHOLOGIST lounges on the couch. She glances down at the file, skimming through the notes quickly. TINA nervously tucks her hands under her lap. TINA Hi! How are you? PSYCHOLOGIST Honestly kid? I’m not doing too well. They keep giving me all these people to talk to. Like, I don’t have enough problems of my own. TINA That’s actually why I’m here to talk you today. My problems of anxiety at school these past few months. PSYCHOLOGIST looks down again at the file. PSYCHOLOGIST What did you say your name was again kid? Tina. But ICONTINUED:
TINA (CONTINUED) 2.
PSYCHOLOGIST (cuts off) Tina? Tina, Tina. That name definitely brings me back to my high school days. That bitch Tina used pick on me all the time. TINA Oh well, sorry? Actually that’s what I’m here to talk to you about today. My problems in high school. PSYCHOLOGIST Problems? You want to hear about problems kid? Terrible Tina is the least of my problems. TINA Well, no. You see I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed and anxious lately. PSYCHOLOGIST I totally get it. I really do. It’s like everyone is expecting you to perform everyday duties when you just can’t cope. TINA (hesitant) Exactly. It’s as if you just read my mind! PSYCHOLOGIST Yeah, like this one patient just wouldn’t stop crying today. Like hello? I can’t not say that the picture she showed me of her ex-husband’s new fiancée is not hot? You know? PSYCHOLOGIST pulls out a candy bar from one her back pockets and takes a big bite. TINA stares at her blankly.
CONTIUNED:
(CONTINUED) 3.
PSYCHOLOGIST (speaks with her mouth full) She asked. I replied. Cue the waterworks. TINA Why would you do that? PSYCHOLOGIST (beat) Exactly. Why would she do that? Why would she show me the picture? It’s as if she wanted me to ask her feelings about it? TINA gets up abruptly from the chair and heads towards the exit. She turns around suddenly. FADE OUT TINA (sarcastically) I actually feel like you’ve helped me all you can today. PSYCHOLOGIST (cluelessly smiles to herself) Thanks for the chat kid. I feel much better now.
Cafe Drinking by Vincent Lin
Phony By Max Silverberg 1 INT. SCHOOL HALLWAY - AFTERNOON We open in a dingy and empty school hallway to the sound of punching in the distance. On the wall is a banner that reads’CONGRATULATIONS GRADUATING CLASS OF 1990.’ SAM, an average built 14-year-old boy with shaggy hair enters the frame looking disheveled. His shirt and hands are covered in blood. We follow him down the hall and into the bathroom. 2 INT. SCHOOL BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS Sam washes the blood off of his hands. He stares at himselfin the mirror. He lowers his eyes and then looks away. He takes off his blood-stained shirt and rummages through his bag. He removes a few items including his copy of The Catcher in the Rye. He finds another T-shirt and puts it on. He zips up the bag, throws it over his shoulder, and walks away, leaving his copy of the book on the counter. 3 EXT. SAM’S STREET - EVENING Sam bikes over to his driveway. He stuffs his bloody jacket into his backpack and walks inside his house. 4 INT. SAM’S HOUSE - CONTINUOUS Sam’s dog rambunctiously runs up to the doorway and jumps on him. Sam pets him and settles him down. Sam’s cute 6-yearold sister STACY greets him with a warm hug. STACY Sammy! SAM Hey Stacy. Stacy excitedly runs to the other room. Sam starts to walk up the stairs and is slowed by his mother JODI (40s, wellkempt) coming from the kitchen. He quickly hides his cut-up hands in his pockets. JODI What kept you so long? Dinner’s almost ready.
SAM Sorry I was just hanging out with Jack. JODI Don’t you have a test tomorrow? SAM Why do you always have to nag me? JODI That boy isn’t bothering you anymore is he? Sam continues up the stairs. SAM No. 5 INT. SAM’S ROOM - EVENING Sam enters his room, closes his door and locks it. The walls are covered with Chicago Cubs memorabilia and Sci-Fi movie posters like Back to the Future and Star Wars. We see an an old picture of his friend JACK beside a much heavier version of himself. Sam steps around his workout equipment and throws his bag on his bed. He takes out his bloody jacket and hides it under his bed. He reaches into his bag and grabs a binder with the word ’ENGLISH’ on the front. He looks into his bag some more and begins to tear through it, looking panicked when he comes up with nothing. 6 EXT. SCHOOL GROUNDS - MORNING Sam bikes into the school parking lot past a sign that reads ’NORTHBROOK HIGH SCHOOL.’ There are multiple police cars parked near the front of the school.
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Pensive thoughts on grief by Michelle Boon
Grandmother: Only seen at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Cheek pincher. Died peacefully in her sleep at the age of eighty-nine. A moment of sadness, but the world still turns, and deep down in the depths of your disgusting soul you’re glad you have a legitimate reason for an extension on your History paper. Dad: Maybe didn’t understand you emotionally. But he was always there. Always constant. Died suddenlyHeart attack. No one else was home. You found the body. There’s a moment of disbelief, a moment of quiet, then your ears start ringing because the world detonates and your flesh is torn apart by the shrapnel. Everything hurts, and then nothing does. Your brain refuses to get out bed. It takes years to get out of bed. Shitty dad: kidney failure. That son of a bitch had it coming, but you’re sorry you spent seven years in silence, because you’ve lost any chance of breaking it. Next door neighbor: Cancer. You’ll talk about the family being in your prayers with your mother, give them a casserole, feel sorry for the poor kids. Family dog: Old age. Sadness. Pure, unadulterated sadness. 76
You wonder what the respectful amount of time is before you adopt another puppy. Kid from your biology class that you never said two words to: Commits suicide six months after graduation, Three months into his first year of university. You can’t believe it You’re not sad just sorry. For his family and friends, for him because he couldn’t talk about itbecause he thought no one would understand. There is no hurt, but you can’t stop thinking about his face, and the person behind it you never got to know. But the world turns, With all its light heaviness. The world turns.
My Algonquin
by Jessica Lanziner
Dreamscape by Sonya Fesiak Old City Market by Josh Galler
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Photography by Laura O’Grady
Drifting by Nicole Emond
Blurry by Sonya Fesiak Oil on canvas
Punica Granatum (Grenade)
by Morgan Sterling
seeds small hardness sometimes so bitter between bites of flesh sometimes, overpowering sweetness stuck between bleeding gums to become delicate, we eat as fast as we can we take the risk you sometimes devour me the way I want you to piece by piece like a pomegranate fingertips stained crimson teasing flesh from husk juice and bits of me in your hair, across your face flecks of spine and tissue I wonder if the stains on your shirt will attract hummingbirds or flies I wonder how much of me is starch and sucrose or rot palms so red I wonder if you slipped when pulling me apart and bit your hand instead does it hurt? could you still consume it digest what you’ve done? rest not a residence but a waiting room a short term stay in the long term ward In apprehension l hum sickly warm fermenting I wonder will you suckle at what’s fetid? can you get past the taste? 81
Selfish
by Jessie Read
some tonic and gin, fifteen clamazopans in my mind is steel toed boots into carcus my mind is blood shot eyes turning back into sauciets my mind is weighted down by gravitational pull, gravitational pulling me underground when you say suicide is selfish you need to ask yourself if you’ve been there before, that maybe their reality is different than yours that saying suicide is selfish is like telling an artist they cannot paint that they have to colour in between the lines to only see things as black and white when the only colour that fits on their canvas is grey their reality is ankles changed to the floor, pulling down squeezing so tight jackknife flesh, cracked out and torn do you know how many survivors are sitting around you? do you know that suicide is never a choice? do you know how many times I’ve shrunk myself so other people could feel bigger? Robin Williams, hid behind the tears of a clown felt the world so heavy like Altas on his shoulders he let his world fall down some people can’t hold themselves together because they’ve been split in half too many times because staying alive, is not a measure of strength sometimes the stitches break because gravity has weighted down on them too many times i have learned the nights when I am hanging on a star i’m seeing things clearer then in the light because some say the moonlight is what keeps them alive knowing the sun will forever fall and the moon will forever rise i feel like the sun trying to rise after it has fallen, because I have fallen so many times, stumbling on my toes, we all owe it to ourselves to make sure others don’t direct us where to go 82
i got in a fist fight with the moon last night telling it that it falls too soon because on the nights when I need a break When I’m not ready to face the next day those are the nights that teach me living, living is okay and I want to live, because all this breaking has made me more whole i wanna be stretched out like a quasar the biggest star in the galaxy continuously growing stronger let’s burn into oblivion, create a meteor shower let’s get bigger and brighter because we have every right to be here because on the nights you don’t feel like you have the strength to stay the milky way is continuously shouting in your ear there is a future and living, living is okay Free Me by Kaitlin Groat
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Flutter by Chelsea Saunders Pastel on paper 4.7 ft x 2.5 ft
Acuity
by Elizabeth Boothby
Here is the thing about Elphaba. Jack-knife elbows, piano-ready digits like a climbing ivy’s clattering skeleton – she just barely manages to keep her ribs contained under too-thin April skin, tender shoots trampled into dilapidated dampness. Designed by floundering trigonometry, she holds too many angles far too close. Constantly fleeting, both hands dab at the parallel arms of her glasses, since they won’t sit patiently on the jagged acuteness of her cheekbones, won’t 84
befriend her spear-sharp nose. She runs like a skipping record, hands splayed, a newborn’s reflex reaching for anything, something she cannot name. She does not dance, but she blushes – a carnation bending backward. A green become darker green, like jungle heat. She smoothes her skirt across her switchback hips, so still, so inward – boiling. Unnoticed, un-really-seen, for so long she is half evaporite. Her heart is a piece of rock salt, waiting for you to suck on it like candy until it disappears. She is so dearly unsure, alone in the library, fluttering until you can’t know whether you want to be her or kiss her head to toe. No matter how tenderly yet firmly you insist in the existence of her soul, stroking her hair, tracing a flower on the leaf of her shoulder, she will close her eyes and deny. She will love you so brokenly that the shards will cut your wrists as they did hers long ago, but you persist, slog on, knee-deep in the impossible, because with her you are not shallow, are not gone. And when she pushes you against the wall with the urgency of the desperately afraid, and stamps your lipstuck mouth with all her battered hopelessness, you know she is asking you one question.
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Pulling her tree-limb fingers through your golden curls, her tears run down your collarbone and her ragged heart pulses in your ear: How can you possibly love me? I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know, you want to whisper. But. You do.
Brain Works by Patrick Zumpano Between the Muscle by Kia Kortelainen
Untitled by Chelsea Saunders Lithograph (ink on paper)
Dissonance by Kia Kortelainen
sometimes i write about u by Lucia Park
After dozens of poems written for and about Dee, shit gets old. But there seems to be a bottomless pit inside me where I keep scooping for more material to write about. Just when I think I’ve written enough, a new memory breezes by. Like, the other day, I had remembered how incredible the sun looked reflected on his bedsheets at 8 in the morning, and I just had to write about it, right? Most days though, I write about the same few memories that immortalize him into some Greek God equivalent. One thing I’ve learned this year: apparently I like lists. I have written two: ‘Why I Love Dee’ and ‘Why I Hate Dee’. Each are 50 reasons long, but ‘Why I Hate Dee’ turned into ‘Why I Love Dee’ halfway. I stopped writing lists. Now I stick with prose and poetry. Well, in reality, they are nothing but unkempt scribbles of letters and misspelt words, but as if Dee and I were about formalities. For long, I’ve readily settled for mediocrity when it came to romance. But after him, that is no longer a viable option. I demand to be touched— beyond the physical realm. Why do we tolerate ordinary love? I’ve met extraordinary people Post-Dee, but what good is it if I find them to be chronically dull (they put my insomnia pills to shame)? How many of them can make the shapes sharpen? How many of them shine the way Dee did? How many know I only sleep on the left side of the bed? How many am I willing to turn into poetry? 88
It isn’t that I’m stuck in the past or that I want him back. It’s only that I’m not actively trying to forget him. Society’s obsession with moving on is uncanny — as if getting over someone is an Olympic sport I need to perfect in record time. I need not be sympathized for my simple desire to explore this pain. I am incredibly privileged to have been touched by Dee. It is an honour to have grieved so tenderly for a connection so raw. Some days, when the sunset is particularly beautiful, I teleport back into Dee’s arms. Those days, I pick up my phone to dial him or to read his last message which never got a reply. Only then am I at peace. I let him go, not despite, but because I loved him. My skin remains indented by his touches.
Rumpus by Kia Kortelainen Beautiful Death by Kaitlin Groat Grant Hall by Laura O’Grady
Lilith
by Morgan Sterling Lilith was born berry blushing red like man, but more tasting fruit ripe, conceived from it Lilith who couldn’t trust Eden who shattered into bits on the floor Lilith chose to fall I carved a bowl for you in my breast you sit wrapped around bone perched so heavy on my chest yet sometimes I put you on strap by strap and wear you out sometimes I leave you in the morning and greet you at night
Mo
Sea to shore, or, lake to stream would you know where I ended when I’m gone? or like in darkness do we lose our borders? without beginning larger than we’ve ever been smaller than before Forged from the same dust God looked upon his creation and could not say it was good I wonder if you look at this softness and curse its fragrant buds ashamed of what happens when you let it in. I’m sorry that I let you in 90
Mother by Jessica Lanziner
Untitled
by Laura O’Grady
Head in the Clouds by Auston Chhor
Domestic
by Tania Nguyen
Small town never felt like home: grey construction, green backwoods blackened night barcodes of printout people an empty kaleidoscope. Coming into smoked city air anonymity hits face after face midnight shackles under moon crooked drunk this is where we come to be unholy. Suburbs reared me but the return is to entrapment my bereaved feet only delight in flight spinning, wild home is where I stand fingers around throat voice of the hearth elbow’s nook of warmth eyes wide with baking oven a half-knitted sock on the knee the fit is loose.
Ink by Austin Chhor
Mountain Series by Emily Joyce Photograph by Laura O’Grady
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Photograph by Noelle Ochocinski
dy
Family
by Karen Law
Stoned by Ramolen Laruan Lithographic print (ink on paper) 22 x 30 inches
Talk isn’t Cheap by Emily Keeler
Cutting was always easier than talking.
into mine, interrupting me and reminding me that my words do not carry the same weight as yours… no matter how heavy my heart is.
I never had to find someone to understand or care, I just needed to find a pair of scissors.
Cutting was always easier than talking,
You see, you can easily find a pair of scissors splayed open at the bottom of a drawer, or tucked away in your bathroom cabinet.
because it’s more acceptable to show up to the hospital unannounced than it is a friend’s. People look at sadness and judge it; They measure it. Is it enough? Is she sad enough to cut herself? Is she sad enough to kill herself?
It’s not as easy to find a friend. And besides, bandaids are cheaper than a therapist and wounds are easier to clean than a slate.
But sadness is not quantitative, it is qualitative and the quality should always be considered bad enough to try and fix.
Scars fade quicker than bad memories, and the taste of blood is sweeter than the bitter taste of rejection.
Cutting was always easier than talking. Especially when you’re too depressed to make it to your therapist’s appointment.
It hurts less when I let myself down, because that’s what I expect. I can do it softly, gently, prepare a landing of gauze and cottonballs. I cannot prepare for the way you don’t look at me, or the way your words collide
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I have never been a reliable person. My mother will tease me about my flakiness, and I will remind myself that even rose petals flake and fall. But roses don’t grow
easily on their own. They need water, soil, sunshine. They need someone to tackle the weeds that attempt to strangle them, to protect them from the demons hiding beneath the earth.
than talking. But roses cannot prick themselves with their thorns, and petals that flake are better than never getting to see petals at all. Dying is always easier than living
Pruning was always easier than growing.
But that doesn’t mean that it’s better.
Until I found the right person to help me grow. Gauze and cottonballs are a soft landing, but so is soil, and so are arms.
Reprocessed by Shaylyn Myshrall
And yes, I will easily find scissors in my bathroom cabinet… but I will also find your toothbrush. My sadness will always be enough for you to try and fix, even if it takes the subtle shape of silence. And when I do talk, I know that there will be no car crash conversations, no colliding words or screeching halts. Just your sympathetic eyes, and your hand rubbing my back. Cutting was always easier
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Photographs by Caitlyn McTavish
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Regret by Sonya Fesiak Partners by Austin Henderson
Tsunami
by Kia Kortelainen
The Doors by Emily Mills
Glutton for Punishment by Kia Kortelainen
Hey T.V.! by Kevin Chong
Desensitize me, You’re a masturbation of the mind, A deprivation of creativity. All I see is genocide, That will never cease to subside. The world is your aphrodisiac, So you stay turned on every second, every minute I breathe. I’m not some Macbeth who’s enraptured by greed, So don’t try to sodomize me with your biased beliefs. Advocate your collection of misconstrued truths, Because conformity is a relic of the past. Hey T.V Let’s play Jeopardy, Just kidding, That’s on T.V. 102
L-O-V-E
by Kaila Wong
I gave you Four small symbols That spelt out my heart You looked at me And declared You didn’t understand code
Humanity Redundant by Kia Kortelainen
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Photographs by Julia Partington
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Instructions for a Goodbye by Elizabeth Boothby 1: Hike to a remote beach. (It doesn’t matter where so long as you’re alone.) 2: Go dolphin watching. (If you see no dolphins point to a rock and pretend it’s a dolphin. Pretend you’ve both seen it. No one break the spell that the lie creates.) 3: Collect rocks. (If you find a lucky rock chase after them like a child and give it as a gift. Look away when they make their wish. If you find two, keep the second one for yourself. Wish to stay.) 4: Get caught in a rainstorm. (Wear a silly hood that channels your voice forwards so that they have to dart alongside you, lean in close to hear over the patter. Slip in mud and fall on your ass, or, if they do, help them up chivalrously. Stand under an outcrop listening and say nothing. Resist the urge to say – 5: Eat fish’n’chips with your fingers. (Wrapped in newspaper if you can find it. Sit at a picnic table facing west. Watch the sun set. If either one of you begins to approach something serious, change the subject. Make sure you both laugh. A lot, too much. Wipe your fingers on your rain-drenched trousers. Do not wonder whether the red on their cheeks is sunburn or blush.) 6: Leave the word “goodbye” until the train is inevitable. (Even if you are both bursting with those other words I told you to hold back earlier. Even if you are afraid because you have seen the slashes on their arm. If they say “It’ll be okay” as they hug you, simply nod. Wave from the window like you are fine. It will make it easier if you say goodbye as though you will see each other again. Do this even if you both know full-well it is a lie.) 7: Never address, under any circumstances, that which has the propensity to be lost.
Ramolen Laruan Position: Co-Editor-in-Chief Class of: 2018 Faculty: Fine Art Major, Art History Minor Favourite Art: New York City
editorial
Tania Nguyen
Position: Assistant Editor Class of: 2018 Faculty: English Language and Literature Favourite Art: Poetry
Michelle K Allan
Position: Graphic Designer Class of: 2018 Faculty: English Favourite Art: Macbeth, Act V
Laura Pottier
Position: Outreach Class of: 2017 Faculty: History Major, Political Science Minor Favourite Art: “Metamorphosis of Narcissus� by Salvador Dali
Molly Crabtree
Position: Marketing Class of: 2018 Faculty: Film & Media Favourite Artists: Gustav Klimt, Meghan Howland
Kasey Caines
Position: Outreach Class of: 2017 Faculty: English Major, Philosophy Minor Favourite Musician: Twenty-One Pilots
Tess Dufour Position: Co-Editor-in-Chief Class of: 2018 Faculty: Psychology Favourite Art: “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel
board
Nicole Arai
Position: Event Coordinator Class of: 2017 Faculty: Film & Media Major, DEVS Minor Favourite Art: Anything by Monet
Juliette Deck
Position: Artfest Coordinator Class of: 2019 Faculty: Arts & Science Favourite Artist: Marina Abramovich
Noelle Ochocinski
Position: Artfest Coordinator Class of: 2020 Faculty: Art & Science Favourite Artists: Dancing and Abstract Art
Kevin Chong
Position: Board Member Class of: 2019 Faculty: Life Science/ Concurrent Education Favourite Book: “Slaughterhouse-Five” by Kurt Vonnegut
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