Issuu

literary magazine fall 2021

vol. 20 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. internet veg.magazine@gmail.com instagram/facebook thevegmagazine tumblr vegmagazine

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Winter Reader,

What to say and what to do? Only cracked-up angels are left to tell tales. Will you be one of them? All jokes aside, we do recommend you take a walk through this pile of other people. Gun-to-your-head enjoyment is the spectacular now, as they say, and the boots crunching on down the streets offer a fair few chances to steal beauty from the slim-fingered dilletantes filling the soles. Brush your hair twice as long, wear your family rings, hum when you can’t smile and grimace when you can’t hum. There’s birds left to shoot, and we are all doing our best to hand you a few arrows, or at least remind you how a slingshot works. Will you pick things up or leave them behind? Sweetly as it goes, Tessa + The Veg

editors Will Barry Tessa Furey Hannah Kirijian Audrey Michel Olivia Shan

contents poetry TO: TPaul Important Notice Desert (three parts) Lullaby Ode to Thin Hair

Haider Ali Holly Wethey Jacob Sponga Holly Wethey Kathryn Gamboa Evelyn Burant

5 6 9 16 19 20

Xavier Grandsen

prose Out of Place

art Tower Eagles Nest Handprints Highland Coos Encroach Underwater Portrait of Erica Sharko Fluffy Sleeves

Jeannie Wen Jeannie Wen Dylan Rekers Erica Brown Dylan Rekers Katie Sokolova Katie Sokolova

Cover Inside Cover 7 8 12 15 18

to: t“It is as if you are with me when no one else is there.” - Momin Khan Momin I leave the pathway that has guided me… at last, the incense of ittar fills my nose. We embraced, the winter draft stole all other heat: two were rendered one in those moments sweet. The moon checkered your cheek with a pale light; as dawn broke, the sun adorned your brow with gold. “Vien dietro a me, a lascia dir le genti”: Let us drink, for God- let the stupor come. If from you I am taken, wait, and watch the stars; you’ll see a blood-brimmed river consume the sky. The times forced Sohni from her outcast beau, but she crossed the Chenab, that stormy night. For sure, “I am the master of my fate”, but you: you are the mistress of my soul.

haider ali 5

paul Then Paul answered, “What are you doing, weeping and breaking my heart? For I am ready not only to be bound, but even to die at Jerusalem for the name of the Lord.” - Acts 21:13-16 -Paul is my long-lost uncle, showing me old cassettes, giving them to me as gifts to win back my heart after his absence. Paul is my absent uncle, tired and forgotten, trekked Columbia, adopted dogs, spiritual awakenings, and refused to come home. Paul is my lost uncle, and I think his would make a good child’s name. For the Paul who rests in my mind (was not my uncle) gave us the word, brought us the news, sobered us up, showed us to believe, was transformed and saw again, and was no longer lost.

holly wethey 6

7 dylan rekers

erica brown

important notice Salt peanuts… an epitome approaches private persons: Portrayed w/ smooth & stainless steel, a silicone/flesh diptych conglomerate’s message w/ diversified clipart at the header (which I see sometimes in disavowed hallucinations after work) comes Thru1 via e-mail citing an alleged/equivocal infraction doubling as a pseudo-medical assessment/ evaluation saying: “Noted symptoms at annual clarity assessment, courtesy of Loblaw Companies Limited: unfounded deviancy, apathy, misanthropy, ‘groove’,” sans-serif. “Potential exhaustive state impending.” Line break for prescription info. “Sedatives provided courtesy of Loblaw Companies Limited2 for estimated four-month recovery (2 3mg tablets @ bedtime; rapid dissolve: concomitant3 mild abdominal burning, faint smell of detergent detected by some patients.4), secondary co-operative position on executive H.R. board #23 reserved for successful recovery. Discompletion5 may result in disciplinary actions, further defiance/infractions may result in terminal decisions + re-referral through Loblaw Wellness Center, sedative dosage/ recovery increase (3mg to 5, 4m to 6), seditionary atriums (& conditionally ventricles w/ further complications) may be replaced w/ algorithmic comfort pumps6 (operation and annual efficiency grade provided courtesy of Johnson & Johnson7).” Oops! 1 A&W Sponsored Merriam-Webster (Ontario-gov sponsored) Weekly Word Update. 2 Helping Canadians Live Life Well®. 3“Side-effects” & other potentially mood-souring medical terminology discouraged. 4 Smells like industrial cleaning agent found in malls, supermarkets; kept in spray-bottle to clean the belt @ No Frills checkout. 5 Failure-type language discourage to minimize discontentment & maximize efficiency. 6 Resume-boosters: fatigueless 12h guarantee. jacob sponga 7 Fuck Off.

out of place Ethan woke up to the call of his mother. He lay on his back staring at small cracks in the ceiling listening to the hum of a distant forest. He turned towards the window. Hidden behind thick grey curtains, a spring sun sent shards of rich morning light dancing across the empty room. A toy gun sat lonely on the floor. He felt the urge to grab it but instead rolled out of bed, slow and tired. He dragged his feet across the mahogany floorboards. Designer paintings of geometric shapes lined immaculate white walls. Down the corridor, he could hear his father listening to the morning news. An image of him echoed in his mind: He’s lying in bed, his lower body under the sheets, transfixed by the statistics on the screen. He’s repeating the same thing over and over: “It’s very serious Ethan, very serious”. Guided by luxurious smells, a winding staircase carried him down to the dining room. He took the chair in front of a steaming bowl of soup. His mother was in the kitchen doing the dishes. What’s in the soup mommy? What do you mean My love? It’s the meat. What’s meat?? She turned towards him, her dark pupils narrowing onto his innocent face. Creases appeared around her eyes. Her smile, so warm and friendly, gave way to an unhealthy set of yellowing teeth. An undefinable smell enveloped him. He looked down at his soup, little bits of white meat floated amongst carrots and corn. He felt devoured by her gaze. Meat’s meat.

She pulled back and returned to the sink. With sanitary wipes, she started meticulously scrubbing every surface in the kitchen. Long bony fingers reached into the faucet’s crevices, scoured tiny stains, and systematically wiped every handle. With tired eyes, Ethan watched inquisitively. She paused: You gonna catch us some frogs today? More Frogs? Oh yes! Your daddy and I always need frogs. *** Their property’s pond was ringed with old birches. A long time ago, when the family only visited on weekends, he’d named them all with his mother. When they left the city the trees became his only friends. Since their arrival, he’d visited them every day. He’d spent the winter building little hunts in their shadow. In the spring, the small pond they guarded had become the temporary home of hundreds of mating frogs. Despite the beautiful day, the forest felt strange and unfamiliar. He noticed black patches of rot nibbling at faces hidden in the bark. Knots in the trees that he’d taken for eyes were suddenly swarmed with mushrooms. As the forest sprang to life, the dire conditions of his aging companions became apparent. He heard a plane fly overhead. He looked up through a yellowing canopy. A line of white split a crisp blue sky - a tiny plane flying into the unknown. He sat on the banks of the small pool, his bare feet resting in its cool water. He could see minnows nibbling at his toes. He noticed a clump of frog eggs floating nearby. Extending his index finger, he slowly submerged his hand, feeling the gelatinous bulbs slide between his fingers. Pulling out a handful, he stared at the little black dots wiggling in the slime. He thought of fish he had seen on Netflix holding their babies inside their mouths. He thought about the feeling of having hundreds of baby frogs wiggling inside him. 11

12 dylan rekers

After little toil, a dozen frogs lay floating motionlessly in a large bucket. They stared at him with placid eyes. For some reason, he felt bad. It was as though they were angry at him for things he didn’t understand. A stream giggled to the rustling of leaves. He waited a long time before bringing his catch back home. *** Back on the trail, he couldn’t stop thinking about how the frogs had been staring at him near the pond. Visions of frog eyes blurred with the eggs he’d held in his fingers. Every hundred meters he would stop and lay down the bucket. It was almost as if he was waiting for them to jump out, delaying the moment when it would be too late. But the frogs stood still, sometimes he even wondered if they were dead. Their home was a large single-story country house of modern cubic design. Monstrous polarized windows cut into a wood exterior painted jet back. A pool, sauna, and porch overlooked a forested valley. When the mother first described the property to her friends, she claimed it was: “more beautiful than beautiful”. When he reached the front lawn, he passed his mother shooting targets in the backyard. Wearing leggings and a red running top, she stood straight as an arrow, holding her pistol with arms fully extended. Staring down the barrel of the gun, she emptied her magazine by means of quick tree-bullet bursts. When she was done, she turned around and smiled at him. He waved and kept walking towards the house. He made his way to a trapdoor hidden in the shadow of an air vent. He opened the latch to reveal a long tube extending into darkness. He glanced one last time at the frogs but withdrew his gaze when he saw one looking right at him. With the ease of someone who’d repeated the gesture countless times, he lifted the bucket onto his shoulders and poured it into the opening. He heard the echo of splashing water as he peeked inside.

*** That night, Ethan dreamt he was lost in a vast desert. He knew that somewhere, hidden in the sand, lay his pond and the birches that surrounded it. Suffocated by a crushing sun, he stumbled down a dune. Crouching on his knees, he burrowed his hands deep into the sand. As his forearms disappeared into the burning orange, his fingers wrapped around a cold jagged object. He pulled out his hands. A mountain of sand melted through the cracks of his fingers, and the outline of a pistol came into view. Cradling the metallic object, he stood transfixed by the power that lay in his palms. Some force lodged deep in his gut needed the gun buried - needed the gun gone. Deeper and deeper he pushed it to the ground. He heaved and screamed until his shoulders disappeared. Without noticing, it was no longer him pushing the gun, something was sucking him in. His head went under.

xavier gransden 14

katie sokolova 15

i. gold fountain From the window, gold horses grace the uphill incline (oil money shines). Driving back from the palace, we weigh all the gold against the things we cannot do. (My hand goes naturally to yours, goes away). But these are the thoughts we don’t think when we are sitting at the table, as the rice drops from the fork and cream brule pops in the dish. That we can leave behind all the gold, and when we get back, I’ll kiss your hand.

ii. tower I wonder if Babel could rival this tower- (and they had stone for brick). Reaching, and ever-reaching. (At 125, they take our picture, which we do not buy) In comparison, we would be more dispersedYou pluck an expensive postcard from the rack and as you read, I am glad we both speak English, that our fathers fell, and were spread in just the right way.

iii. desert In the desert, our oasis is a man pouring soda into plastic cups. The camels sit outside, galled and tired of the heat. They never tell you about the moment the camel stands; how easy it is to fall. Inside the camp, we sit on cushions and lick the hummus from our fingers. When the camel sits back down, the answer to the guessing game will be Eden, and for just a moment, the narrative world will collapse.

holly wethey

katie sokolova

lullaby Lie with me and my hands above my head my words for wrest waiting-written-wraithfor your mouth moves my breath-beneath-baitfor your hand hides my sweat-slipping-spitfor your neck nears my fists-fastened-fitfor your limb lets my limb-lulling-liltcause here it is beside abreast: us, too, statuary-safe (so, sleep and hear).

kathryn gamboa 19

ode to thin hair think of the veins in an older arm when the tissue and muscle is stretched over bone and the blue paints a river under the soft skin. of the bristles on a stinging nettle. of red scratches on a lover’s back. criss-crossing like jellyfish stings. think of soft barbs in a sparrow’s feather. the sound of a piccolo. of the strength in a spider’s web. of magical men spinning hay into gold. like stained glass windows on a cloudy day when the sun catches the glass just right and bathe the worshippers in scant rays. look closely and think of iris threads in the eyes of your loved ones. of gaseous nebulae exploding, stretching their arms as if just waking up. of those ancient fates holding life on a string thin like a strand of your hair.

evelyn burant 20