FALL 2018

the veg literary magazine

T H E V E G LITERARY MAGAZINE winter 2019 vol. 16 no. 1

The Veg Literary Magazine is funded by the Arts Undergraduate Society (AUS) of McGill University. The content of this publication does not necessarily represent the views of the AUS or McGill University. veg.magazine@gmail.com facebook.com/thevegmagazine printing by

Friend, The last time we met we spoke about tactility. Warmth, cream, and honesty.

The Veg became an object, something to hold, to put down, to touch. This year, things have drifted from us. Clarity is out. The United Nations have told us that we are slipping away. A long hot summer has melted our physical bodies and some of us, here at The Veg, are looking for a new home.

So when we sat down to read this crop and chew our thumbs, the words of Michael Ondaatje felt important:

And that is all this writing should be then.

The beautiful formed things caught at the wrong moment

so they are shapeless, awkward This Veg is beautifully formed, but it is certainly the wrong moment. We hold it as a record of shapelessness. For Ondaatje, a blurred photograph of a seagull. For us, one hand clinging to an antique sofa: bedbugs pollinating the upholstered fauna.

Once again we ask you to open The Veg and bask. Bask in the salt on your lips, the holes in your teeth, and the warm glow of a wood stove. The hotdogs are almost done. Fall 2018 is not for clarity. It is for the blur and the second thought: the stutter-step.

With hesitation, here it is.

Louis and The Veg

contents untitled

kira walz

pseudo-cacti

Lauren bashinsullivan

cover inside cover

nuture

julia paquette

5

cryogenics

josie bitter

6

at 4000m above sea level

emily huang

7

ryan grewal

8

on the qinghai-tibet railway II after the statue of euterpe in st. george’s gardens almost totality

lauren bashin-

sullivan

clink

lauren bashin-

10 11

sullivan untitled

pierce bowie

12

untitled

julia paquette

14

pura besakih, bali

oona albertson

15

untitled

josie bitter

16

francis

anna jee

17

driveway digs

oona albertson

18

nite rights

ryan grewal

19

hazard

camille pass

20

butterfly

drew powell

22

jetsam

hannibal de pencier

23

rasat 11:38

gideon salutin

24

rasat 10:52

gideon salutin

25

three week old adult

camille pass

26

track changes 3

hannah kirijian

28

the great bridge

lauren bashin-

29

in the sky

sullivan

marrakech 7:93

gideon salutin

30

untitled

michael shaw

31

inter alia

ryan grewal

32

untitled

dylan rekers

34

pabonka hermitage

emily huang

35

something else

heather nolan

36

editors: Julie Demet Adam Eldred Jason Gales Sophie Garnett Emily Hoppe Maia Klee Lulu Lebowitz Louis Sanger Sean Sokolov

nuture

julia paquette

5

cryogenics But GOD dont let me wither (at least not fully).

Probably best to do it now before thy intellect sours (I have Alzheimer’s in my genes) or the crassness of a mid-life crisis converts liberal to communist or I decide the world IS too much with us and the precious cargo imitates Pollock on the wall Frostbite encroaching on leather soles that promised warmth grants me preview (much obliged) Plus those moments when I’m next in line and my motherboard seizes up Awkwardly agape at cardboard stuffed with cheerios And metal tubes of tomatoes (impermanent tranquility).

I’m gonna get cold anyway.

6

josie bitter

emily huang

at 4000m above sea level on the qinghai-tibet railway II

7

after the statue of euterpe in st. george’s gardens Your bones are always wet, she tells me, with blood.

We’re sitting in gardens that were burial grounds three hundred years ago.

The pigeons seem anxious in this city.

They make me anxious too.

The first body-snatch happened here, she tells me.

Three resurrectionists stole Mrs. Jane Sainsbury in 1777, for use in anatomy.

I wonder if the ground remembers her or did they put her back?

8

A pigeon pecks at a bit of lettuce flinging it over a headstone.

I wonder if her bones remember anything, or are they too dry.

9

ryan grewal

almost totality

lauren bashin-sullivan

10

lauren bashin-sullivan

clink

11

untitled One night God woke me with a rough hand and said, “Tomorrow we ride for an unconquered wild to clear a wide and burning tract of earth, as those that stand there now shall be swept down low before us like an autumn windrow; and as your children flail upon them in eternal threshing, you and I from the parched red rocks will squeeze milk and honey.”

And so we rode, camped, eyes burning in the fires.

But one dark eve he turned upon me, crept above my bedroll and started kicking in my ribs and head; and though I screamed He aimed to kill me.

In the end I managed to lay hold of a rock, and quickly sliced my foreskin off with it— and throwing this gruesome thing at His feet, He laughed, shook His head and let me be.

12

And the next day we rode off under a clear sky with Him whistlin’.

13

pierce bowie

julia paquette

untitled

14

pura besakih, bali

oona albertson

15

untitled Once a quiet zephyr, which once ruffled my papers sprawled on a manicured lawn, now angry and passionate now hurls itself at our metal corpus free peanuts frantically flailed now rolling on gum-stained carpet we sway with it submit ourselves to side swipes caress the clean jagged wings our weapons of choice mold themselves in careful formation particles dive out of the way we clench and they catch us on a cloud suspended for another minute. a silent cacophony of metals melding meddling melting coarse and sucked into our artificial bird our steel swan in little tubes deposit on my head (what brings us up brings us down fills inner tubes in my chest) unable to shake wandering brain wondering if ours will be a controlled crashing or an

unexpected one

(is there a difference)

16

josie bitter

francis

anna jee 17

oona albertson

driveway digs

18

nite rights The insides of my ears and asshole dissolves, expanding, a morning stretch.

Sunrise, as I saw it, the next day: an orange sliver, a reflection of the little gold hoop in your left nostril, and your mattress spring in my back.

It’s important to remember everything every detail or else what’s even the point?

Baked beans pot soaking in sink.

You broke your clothes rack late last night.

I wanna stay over more often.

I’m sorry I spilled my poppers all over your bed while you put your dick on.

I like your little gold hoop and your filthy apartment

19

ryan grewal

hazard We’re all eating poisoned fish!

Was only 5 years ago

but i’m writing about it for class strange to write about tectonic plates

when someone watched their parents drown in their living room drifted 10 miles off to sea on their rooftop just as easy to be “struck by lightning”

it’s not special or interesting but the scars are so beautiful and what a thing to be beautiful to be a fractal

to be lightning.

In my stagnant puddle

more water comes in the form of droplets sliding up my wormy body

carcasses on concrete

easy to forget

20

what it is like

to squirm blind

away from the mud.

Peacock feathers in a jar you bought:

you wanted flare a renaissance boudoir but the ants still run up your countertops they don’t care air gets so heavy like this

the sky just gives up tears into the sadness “easy, with gusto”

to be drenched well, that’s the best part.

Wonder what it’s like to be radioactive my rate of decay (y)

comparably better than some

50 years maybe?

Bile filled and beautiful

more fish in the sea.

21

camille pass

butterfly

drew powell

22

jetsam there’s a rubber duck with an eyepatch who thinks he’s better than me.

he sits in a dusty corner beneath my lamp like the monarch of my desk commanding quiet authority over a kingdom of detritus pens mugs bottles notepads receipts an apple core and me.

The sovereign of flotsam, half blind, bright yellow...

there’s a rubber duck with an eyepatch who thinks he’s better than me.

23

hannibal de pencier

rabat 11:38

gideon salutin 24

gideon salutin

rabat 10:52 25

three week old adult

There is loneliness in subdivided headings and columns but there is also a space with frozen margaritas and hands rubbing your back. Many love languages later you decide what’s best on the yellow quilt. Many love languages later, it’s the little things that get you, the lights being put up in your apartment or an offering of soup. When the little things are given they are gone and so are the little parts of you. There is so much time left and elapsedthat it holds to your pinky toes that you suddenly become very aware of in damp boots. Kissing is pretty gross but so is asking to be loved. Especially when you try speaking to the lakes that come rushing by minutes apart on the highway out the passenger window. Socked feet in the sunny spot on the dashboard we keep throttling a dead chicken with these questions. These days night dreams get scarier and scarier and you have to walk around for a bit in the apartment to remind interlocking limbs where things are and thatshe is dead now. She died in your mother’s arms in the house you grew up in. Not the house in the neighborhood that they once dubbed, “Jew Town”, but the one that still technically you belong to. Her legs crumpled on the gravel-- it is our fault. She loved to sleep and sleep she did in my mother’s arms because that’s what you do when you are ready to go. “We didn’t want to ruin your Friday night” because that’s all I live for here in the tundras of Ohio, another beer in the same bar. Childhood ends with the death of your childhood pet, and I am a fresh three week-ed adult.

Resistant to change and the weather my mother decided that grass wasn’t fit for Southern California and though this was met with applause by the neighbors the short limbs on her daughter’s long terriered body would no longer find support in the lawn holes burned by her piss. I memorized the view of a second story window in my teen years believing in the forever tenderness of those twilights and the witch’s house next door--no one in or out except family and loud children on Sundays to use the pool. Immortalizing the gnarled tree in the front yard splitting into two still self sustaining lives. I painted and I sang songs out the window 26

collecting the parts of myself to give to others thinking they were important, thinking I was bigger than my twin sized bed. They chopped the limbs off last year when the Witch died and the corner property was finally up for sale. We walked by dusk purple in bare feet, I never put her on a leash especially when there was nowhere to go. She acknowledged her freedom by taking her time with each tree and turning around occasionally to see that my body was still there. We raced for the last stretch of block around the corner to the peeling grey back gate every time, even when she shouldn’t have been running.

Rituals persist in the life of a household dog, hours at a time outside spread on her belly with her snout poking out through the crack in the fence and the concrete. My father, the most emotionally insulated or stunted member of the family shed a tear the morning after when he turned on the kitchen lights and made coffee on the cold tiles without her.

In her old age she never wanted to be touched. In a way I believe that it was because she didn’t want us to feel the bones coming through. Very far away, I settle into my bed knowing she left us at home. I think about how my home will probably be the next corner lot to go after the Witch’s house.

I told a fortune teller my problems at the bar the next night.

Choosing to write on an intricate questionnaire form in capital letters rather than checking off boxes what I thought was wrong with me: LOVE HURTS. She thought I was probably referring to the numbskull boy to my left and the electric current that ran between our fingers, but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. I had been talking about the kind of love that starts on your 6th birthday and dies after your 21st. She made me pull out a card from her tarot deck and laughed as she read the word “success” out loud. Almost scoffing she told me “y’know maybe I’m reading it wrong” and sipped her third mixed drink for charity. She asked me how old I was and I told her three weeks since my childhood dog died.

Then she adjusted her wig pulling it higher over her scalp and giggled a little scratching words onto the faded prescription pad. I walked away and read it to myself. She just wrote: “chill the fuck out,” and she’s probably right. camille pass 27

28

hannah kirijian

the great bridge in the sky

Lauren bashin-sullivan

29

marrakech 7:93

gideon salutin

30

(untitled) Some nights my dreams are filled with such strange images that leave me aching, alone, lonely and I will get out of bed, slowly and carefully because the neighbours hate noise and I’ll see you, the picture I took of you, on my wall and I many years ago remember when we were ourselves, and I can’t help but laugh like how I, we used to and did I capture the colour of your eyes? Do I love your brown or mine?

Is it yours or anything I gave you yours, ours or just me making you and you made me so lonely, so cold, and so I can’t help but to go back to bed and dream of eyes too wide to be real, and of the soft warm dirt of the gardens we each summer up on the mountain planted our dreams, carrots and parsley.

31

michael shaw

inter alia I wish I had someone to sleep with and I wish to be amongst others.

LOST COCKATIEL COCO flies by our patio table on white printer paper CALL (267) 317-6080 REWARD !

I say I only allow myself one crush on a white woman at a time and he tells me that’s horrible, laughing.

How the fuck do you look for a lost bird?

Like in the trees or something?

He asks me who likes sleeping with people who looks like you and I think about how I want a brown-green man in my bed so I can forget my limbs.

Gay people I tell him.

Do you think there are enough lost cockatiels

32

in town that coco won’t be lonely?

Anyway who would rather be amongst others than sames.

33

ryan grewal

untitled

dylan rekers 34

pabonka hermitage

emily huang 35

something else after “Something Else� by Paul Muldoon

when i saw the iron-railed balcony the height, the grace of it, i thought of gannets, of sharp plummets, soundless entry

of how olympic divers are rewarded for silence for not disrupting the peace how, watching some electric blue sluice

from the shaker i told you i was six months sober and, tossing aside the orange peel,

i drank the motley punch down, headed for the open bar, which made me think

of something else, then something else again.

36

heather nolan