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literary magazine vol 9 | no 2 valentineâ€™s day

Winter Song

jade hurter

I stand Guard, I come away

anabel maler

Sleep love

devon welsh

Seasoned

annik babinski

I have never been

jade hurter

Mute

gillian massel

despite your allergy

agata ryan

To the loverâ€™s vase (an apology)

binoy zuzarte

Gap-Toothed Genevieve

zachary alapi

Idiopathic Sciatica

shriya hari

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editor-in-chief Tanya Kirnishni senior editors Giles Ayers Elizabeth Waring Jillian Zacchia editors Lucy Cameron Christy Frost Lucas Napier Macdonald Mark Weiss design editor Hera Chan cover credit Hera Chan

February is a month of cold days and even colder nights but in the middle we encounter a break, a day of warmth. Something that spreads from person to person at the touch of our fingertips, through the soft syllables of a kind word. Valentine’s Day has become inundated with holiday greeting cards, candied hearts and threadbare phrases. We seek to reclaim it, reinvigorate it and rub feeling back into its limbs. This miniature issue is also a look back into the VEG’s past. A moment of retrospection on all the intimate details, the notes passed between lovers, the bedroom confessions. The writing you see within comes from our older issues, reaching back over the years to pluck out sensual poems and saucy prose. This Valentine’s collection is our way of sharing what we love about the magazine with our readers and future writers. As winter hits its stride we hope that this small issue will keep you company and bring you joy.

WITH LOVE, THE EDITORS

Winter song Jade Hurter

For me he plucked the silver ice from cold rafters and laid it on my pillow like a dead robin. Afterward, I found an eyelash in my mouth, tasteless and dark I was still as bone wielding seaglass sword. his eyes were bright pentacles.Birdsong fell from the gutters, tropic-of-cancer-strange. it lifted us to frosted rooftops. My blood cells drifted apart. His hand was like a feather, the fingernails purplish and the sin brick blue. I was a thousand miles away choking on sea water

I stand Guard, I come away Anabel Maler

My hands are metal when they touch your skin; flesh again they come away. Where is your mother? I have seen her face in the moon, have seen where her thumb trailed, the deep purple scars of the tears on your cheeks – I have seen the soles of your feet, have kissed your elbows and knees and hung suspended above the great chasm of loss – I seem to write love letters in my sleep, not to you but to the way the snow shapes its soft scars on your back, to the deep fluid pulse of the sun (beating its butterfly wings on the skin of your wrists), to the charcoal scent of the stars in your hair as you stand, bathed in moonlight, in milk. I have heard you whistle the wolves – I answer your call, stand guard by your door, you are shrouded in dawn, I give myself to you, my lips are flesh when they kiss your own; light, now I come away.

Sleep love Devon Welsh

You love me oddly, from afar and tiredly. Every kiss falls asleep in the arms of my lips. The dancing discs in your head turn to crescents and then blank skin. The night does not sing in its darkness. You love me rightly, never too close. You were born and will die but you love me. I feel born in your crescent discs, your sleepy eye turns owlish when it wakes and casts light.

Seasoned Annik Babinski

Autumn crawls into bed and wraps his crisp arms around me. I donâ€™t have to leave my window open anymore the house absorbs him. I smell him everywhere. No one will ever fully know be able to put their hands on this chest and be held steady. He will always retreat high in grey skies, naked gray trees and him bare and alone. Somewhere in Northern Quebec there is a rock pulling itself out of the water. Ready for fall all is still as the trees take one last breath in and out.

I have never been Jade Hurter

I have never been inside you, where it is wet and dark When I am alone I picture your organs: pink lungs throbbing blood in rivers, smooth red heart Your insides are as beautiful as flowers growing on the moon.

Mute Gillian Massel

Lovers have their own language: touch and taste. In the morning she is damask, and lilacs; cocooned in sheets, he lies beside her and kisses the back of her neck. His lips are the inside of sea shells; periwinkle, cool. This is how they communicate: her elbow angled slightly towards his chest, his fingers tracing her collarbone through her shirt. Her lips on his ear. In the evening, he smells like pine, tar, charcoal. Something unfamiliar. She can feel the calluses on his palms when he cups her cheeks. She is sharp; the sun makes her angular; her nose, her breasts. When she is angry, she is cold like mountain sky, Tart like wild blueberries. He apologizes with his fingertips; she hardens with her spine. He is the wind, caressing, then torturing. She has learned to endure his duality; Stand ridged and unforgiving Like the tiny pine on top of a cliff.

despite your allergy Agata Ryan

you ate peaches until your mouth was raw a sweet ring of red skin juice-burned and thin, your teeth scored the surface, sinking deep, the rash spreading hot up your jawline, nestling behind your ears, the sides of your neck. “it’s worth it,” you said. “all the hives in the world for this,” your finger pointing to the half-empty basket your swollen lips glistening in the kitchen light

To the loverâ€™s vase (an apology) Binoy Zuzarte

You too lie there Br o k e n.

Gap-Toothed Genevieve Zachary Alapi

I had never been a fan of the whole wedding concept. I never understood why people dressed up like cake decorations and stood under a crucifix vowing to be eternally faithful while the groom is eyeing the maid of honor in her low cut canary dress out of the corner of his eye, as the bride (assuming the couple hasnâ€™t had sex yetâ€Ś you are supposed to save yourself, right?) is desperately wondering if her chosen knight will adequately tend to her hedges and be able to get it up in the marital suite after the requisite pictures, cake in the face, sexually inappropriate best man toast, and an episode where that dirty uncle with suspenders and a balding comb-over tries to fondle his niece. All those depressing images had flown out the window when I made it to Mascouche for a distant cousinâ€™s wedding and saw one of the bridesmaids, Genevieve, standing at the altar. Sitting on the outside edge of a pew, I studied the waves of her curly black hair, the glint of celestial light reflecting off her heavily made up cheeks, and the allure milky orbs bursting from her pale blue dress, glowing with a reddish hue, a single black beauty spot on the exposed flesh of the left melon. What really got to me were her teeth. They were perfectly symmetrical hiclets that glistened every time her pouty pink lips stretched to smile. I imagined her teeth sliding along the shaft of my saliva covered cock, pressing into the flesh delicately but with enough force to remind me that she had a certain measure of power over me, until I was half hard. 15

As the priest mumbled something in incomprehensibly rapid French, I began to rub my cock against the mahogany pew until it was at full attention as I dreamily gazed at Genevieve. My daydreaming was interrupted by my mom’s cousin Yves singing along to a religious hymn in a high falsetto voice, sounding as if someone was lightly tickling his puckered asshole with a feather. “What the fuck is that?” I asked my father, nudging him in the ribs. “I’ll explain at the reception,” he replied, covering his mouth to muffle his laughter as tears streamed down his cheeks, gathering in small clumps at the corners of his bristly mustache. The dusty organ crackled to life and began to blare screeching tones that sent everyone on a swivel towards the back of the church. Late in reacting to the cue, I was bombarded by the wrinkled faces of career smokers, the “wooshing” of greasy mullets flipping as heads spun, and the carrot soup skin tone of jet black haired woman who spent too much time getting “bronzage.” From the back of the church emerged the groom decked out in an all white suit which he offset with a black cane with silver trim, an Abe Lincoln top hat, and platform shoes with clear, “Gummy Bear” yellow heels and lights that flickered every time he took a step. My cackling stood out amidst the “oos” and “ahs” uttered in a guttural patois and I could barely make out Yves saying to his buddy that his cousin looked like a character from a porno version of Saturday Night Fever. My wandering eyes again settled on Genevieve as the bride approached the altar, her slight beer belly swaying as she

sauntered forward, and the awful lace from her dress covering her arms from shoulder to wrist like decorative doilies on an antique rocking chair. As the vows were being exchanged, I began to nod off, imagining how I would approach Genevieve at the reception and, more importantly, how I would sneak off with her to the coat check room and ravish her amidst the smell of rank cigarette smoke that had seared its way into the surrounding fabric. Closing my burning eyes, I swore I could hear a quick “tabernac” escape from the mouth of the priest. My eyes stayed closed until the congregation’s cheering jolted me awake. *

* *

The reception hall in the rec-room of the local hockey rink was decorated with blue and white streamers, pictures of family members playing pick up shinny on a frozen lake, and two blown up portraits of Gaston and Marie-Helene over the head table, a long rectangle that allowed crucial family members to all sit on the same side and look out onto the adoring crowd. w “Dad, I can’t understand a word of what they’re saying. I mean, how can I relate to these people? They run a goddamn scrap yard in Mascouche. It’s like trying to reason with a character from Deliverance.” “I get by mostly by smiling and nodding. Guffaw if you notice their voice rise an octave or if they’re using exuberant hand gestures.” We hung back and looked for our table while my mom disappeared into a cloud of cigarette smoke, humming her superior French and slapping knees with her seldom seen brood. My mom’s relationship with her French side was one that consisted of funerals and weddings, with both types 17

of events merging into the same blurry concept regardless of the occasion, as everyone got shit faced to the point where they made a Bukowski bender seem like a purity ball. We found our table near the back of the rec-room, located partially behind a cement pillar. The table spread included shiny silver cutlery with Fleur de Lys engravings on the ends and plates with images from Roch Carrier’s “The Hockey Sweater” exploding with Impressionist dynamism off the porcelain surfaces. When I noticed my plate had the sullen lad clad in Maple Leaf blue prominently featured, I knew my kind was not particularly welcome. You could tell how important you were to the immediate family by the small pyramid of cigarettes that acted as a decorative centerpiece on each table. Small mounds of Du Maurier’s sprouted from the head table while close friends and lesser family members sat at tables overflowing with Players. The tables closer to us trickled down the cigarette echelon of sophistication to McDonalds brand and finally to our table, the only one in the room with Peter Jacksons. I winced from the never ending scraping of Bic lighters igniting and I desperately navigated through the thickening cloud of smoke looking for Genevieve. I was soon told (or so I thought because I could barely understand) to return to my seat as the food was about to be served and the music about to commence. Just as I was turning around to make the sullen, shameful walk back to my table my eyes met those of Genevieve. She gave me the type of smile that could beckon the most cowardly man, drawing me into her aura with the heavenly glint of her perfect teeth. I smiled weakly and my knees shook and I quickly cowered away, my cheeks flush and dick half hard. Lamenting my inexperience as a 16 year old virgin, I roughly sat down at our table between my mother and grandmother, cursing my inability to wink, blow a kiss, or something.

When my grandmother turned away to pry into the social life of my cousin Chloe, I took the opportunity to swipe her Gin and tonic, gulping down two large sips. “Zach! What are you doing?” My mother gasped incredulously. She swiftly removed the glass from my shaking hands and called for a refill. I wanted to tell her I needed some liquid courage, but I thought it best to swipe a pack of Peter Jacksons and head outside for a stealthy smoke. I figured that going through 10 or so would give me the necessary rasp to prevent my voice from cracking when I tried to seduce Genevieve. “Don’t even think about it,” my father said, noticing that I was eyeing the cigarettes. “It isn’t fair. You bring me to this den of debauchery and expect me to sit idly by completely sober while everyone around me downs Molson like it’s from the water fountain and smokes cigarettes like they’re chewing gum. I think I saw someone who had two cigarettes going at once and then used the butts to light his next two before they burnt out!” “Look Zach, I’m not a fool,” he soothed. “I know you’ve got your eyes on blue dress over there. Just be yourself and talk to her. You don’t need alcohol and you especially don’t need cigarettes. In fact, thinking that chain smoking would help your cause in any way was spectacularly stupid,” he concluded, patting me affectionately on the shoulder as he sipped some wine. I labored through a meal of pea soup, cretons, tourtière, ragoût de boulettes, poutine, and a few non-descript vegetable sides. I morosely listened to the Elvis impersonator, a 70s version with clothes that eerily matched what many in 19

attendance were sporting, performing old classics that everyone could sing along to (the only English my relatives could speak was Elvis lyrics) and nibbled on some sugar pie and butter tarts, constantly watching Genevieve at her table gracefully dominating conversation as man, woman, and child hung on her every word. When dessert ended, the dancing began. As my father gracefully whisked my mother onto the floor with a gentle tap on her lower back, he leaned forward and whispered into my ear: “Keep an eye on your great uncle, Roger. You could learn a thing or two from him.” Finding myself alone at the table, I scrutinized the commotion on the dance floor that seemed like the hick version of girls gone wild as women of all shapes and sizes sashayed and wiggled their hips to “Jailhouse Rock.” The movements made me feel sick and I felt a hallucinatory vision overpowering my senses. When I refocused my gaze I jolted back in my seat, awestruck by the 15 or so half full water glasses containing sets of false teeth. Before one could have the chance to hop out and scurry over to bite me, I spied Roger on the dance floor, expertly maneuvering a girl of 19 around in deft chacha steps. As the music climaxed, he dipped her quickly, holding her nearly horizontal before doing something so incredible that had Don Juan seen it he would have wept with jealousy and swooned with respect. Puckering his lips like a grinning orangutan, he extended his false teeth out on the tip of his sandpaper tongue, before clacking them in the young damsels’ face and quickly sucking them back in as he brought her to her feet. Just as I was replaying the scene in my head, I felt an aura standing above me. I saw Genevieve looking down at me, smiling. “Danse avec moi,” she said with an inflection that somehow

wasnâ€™t an order or a question. Despite all my efforts I could not utter a reply. She gently took my hand and led me through the mass of bodies. My hands were hesitant against her flesh, always ready to pull back. She gripped my shoulder and sweaty hand with the confidence of someone twice her age in experience and led me around the floor. We dipped and swayed, never speaking a word and our eyes firmly locked. Her aroma was intoxicating. The crush of her breasts into my chest made me instantly hard and the grinding of her naked thigh into my groin made me whimper. Without so much as blinking, she relaxed her posture and pulled me by the hand until we had left the dance floor and even the rec-room. She pushed me into a bathroom stall and locked it. She kissed me hard, jamming her impossibly long tongue into my mouth and swishing it around like the blades of a blender. My eyes closed as she grabbed a handful of my package and I let out a sigh as she lowered herself down to her knees, unzipping my pants and pulling out my throbbing member. As she gently stroked it, I heard a strange slurping sound that reminded me of when I took my retainer out in the morning. I kept my eyes close and waited. I felt the warmth of her breath on the head of my cock and my knees almost buckled. Her suddenly toothless gums slid expertly up and down my shaft. I opened my eyes and saw her perfect teeth resting on the top of the toilet tank. My back arched and I swooned.

Idiopathic Sciatica Shriya Hari Part 1 This f

s from subtle soft mucosa, a mantle for my lip

your skin, smooth, sliding across my hip innominate bones together lock into skeletal constructions to mock and parody m e.

Idiopathic Sciatica Shriya Hari

Part 2 I stretch the width of my palm across that well-travelled ischial space I know the anatomy of all these hills and valleys here where my fingers stray, and l i n g e r to enter flesh I like to call my own.

I can see against the backdrop of eyelids: bone, locked and grey, untouched and unexplored, like hard rock beneath soft mountainside. Part 3 “I’d like to see it – two of your own fingers” Your soft lips flutter, round and whispering, (butterfly wings) into spaces in my yielding thighs. But my smile is shy, coy, plastic and steel, all feminine appeal and prosthetic charm: Part 4 I set off metal detectors. 23

The VEG Literary Magazine is funded by the Fine Arts Council (FAC) of McGill’s Arts Undergraduate Society (AUS) and the Department of English Students Association (DESA). © The Veg Literary Magazine 2013