Undergrad Review Volume 27

Adirondak Summer

Winter Road

J o s h u a G a l l e r

emerging crowndigital paintingDecember 2014

K e n e t h L e o n c i t o

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Like Icarusby Ramna Safeer

The last time I saw my father,he looked at me over the doctor’s shoulderand told me to leave the room. I am 21 down on his crossword puzzle,the one he hopes his morning coffeewill tease him to remember but the onehe always leaves blank.

They say the wings of Icarus meltedoff his shoulder blades and his body, limp and burning and swollen,fell into the sea.

I wonder if that night, the Moon calmed her tides for the man lyingat the bottom of Her ocean, his backwaxy and forgotten.

My father tells me he loves me like he wants me to say it back. Like a pillbetween both our teeth. In his gut is a depression that lines the walls of our home.Someone else’s graffiti. A vandalism we wishwe had the palms to grind away.

The last time I saw my father, I wish I could haveblamed him. I wish I could have ran tapearound his bed and called it a crimeand walked away with no blood on my hands.

I wonder if the Moon stopped recognizingIcarus after some years. The glassy eyeslooking up at Her from the seabed soon becomingnothing but lost marbles. I wonder if my fatheris made of wax.

The last time I saw my father, he said he wanted me to go home.Daddy, 21 down is the hardest one to solve,but I think I’ve done it. Another phrase for a father’s love is a father’s hate.

Bobbaby Sara MacLellan

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No Shoes at the Doorby Cristina Valeri

I remember you. Yes, I remember you. Even now, when I no longer expect to see your shoes at the door.

I remember you and the movies we watched, the smell of chicken wings and greasy pizza, the music blaring, Pearl Jam, ACDC, the Chili Peppers.

I remember you and the way you’d sometimes let merest my head on your shoulder when I fell asleep in the car. And the silent understanding of exchanged glances while we boxed up our childhood rooms.

Yes, I remember you. Even now,when I know there will be no shoes at the door.

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Stolenby Sydney Wilson

At my school, if parents are late we get sent to the principle’s office. It isn’t ‘cause we are in trouble or anything; we just aren’t allowed to wait outside anymore. Onetime, before I started school, a kid got taken away and they never found him. Well at least I don’t think they did. We never had a party so I think that means he is still gone. Our teacher told us about it last week ‘cause they were having a memorial or something. I told her that maybe he liked where he was better and didn’t want to go home, ‘cause I’d like to go somewhere different sometimes. Mrs. T got mad and said she wouldn’t digify and answer. I’m not sure what digify is, but apparently it is bad cause now we get sent to the office if our parents don’t come on time.

Daddy was never late. He was always early so we could get ice cream and Mom wouldn’t know. Sometimes Daddy said Mom was in a tired mood so we would get to stay late and play the driving games; I always won ‘cause Daddy isn’t very good at racing and I’m always faster. Maybe Daddy was in a real tired mood and was asleep. I told Principle Mills and she decided to call my house to wake him up. No one an-swered so she tried again and again. She pressed the buttons really hard, I wondered if maybe the phone was broken. Principle Mills was going to drive me home herself but then I saw our car. We watched it park outside the lines and then Mom got out. Mom never picked me up cause she said fresh air made her nerves hurt. When she got inside I asked her:

“Are your nerves feeling better?” She didn’t answer ‘cause Principle Mills started talking

over me. “Are you aware that school was dismissed nearly 50

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minutes ago, Mrs. West?” She had her scold-y voice on. Like when she told me and Emily that we shouldn’t put bugs on other kids desks.

“Yes, I am aware Mrs. Mills, but something came up and I was unable to get away until now.”

“Why didn’t Daddy come, Mom?” “Yes, Mrs. West, why didn’t your husband come for Lai-

la? Mrs. Teller, Laila’s teacher, told me he always picked her up on time.”

“He was tired,” Mom said. “See Principle Mills? Daddy is just tired like I said.” I

grabbed Mom’s hand, “Can we go get ice cream, Mom – can we get some for Daddy, too?”

Mom held my hand back tight and asked me to call her Mommy, I didn’t like that name for her. Maybe if her fore-head got less frown-y at me sometimes. She never said we could get ice cream so I asked again.

“Thank you for looking after her, Mrs. Mills.”“No apology necessary, Mrs. West.” “But Mom didn’t say sorry,” I told them. They didn’t

hear ‘cause we left and no one said anything else. I still didn’t know about the ice cream, and I think if Daddy was really tired he would want some so we can play.

We got to the car and Mom opened the front door that didn’t have the wheel. I didn’t get in and she got mad.

“Only big kids get to sit there. That’s what Daddy says.” “Well you have to Laila, there isn’t any more room in the

backseat.” I went to the window in the back and looked in. There

were a bunch of sleepover bags shoved in the back, it was like when Daddy drove us to Toronto, and we stayed in a hotel. ‘Cept Daddy made me room in the back.

“Is Daddy gonna take us to Toronto again, Mom? Can

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Mr. Stuffy come this time?” Mr. Stuffy is the bear Aunt Kate got me when I was born, but last time we forgot him and I got scared at night. Mom said I was being silly but Daddy still let me sleep in bed with with him and mom.

“Mr. Stuffy is in the trunk, I’ll go get him and you go sit in the front okay? It will be safe this time, I promise.”

“But where are we going?” “Uh, to get ice cream, isn’t that what you wanted? But

this ice cream is special, so we have to go a little father to get it. Is that okay?”

I climbed into the car, the seat is really far away so Daddy usually helps me up, but Mom was getting Mr. Stuffy. When everyone was in and Mr. Stuffy was buckled beside me I told Mom I didn’t mind going far away for ice cream. But I really wanted to get some for Daddy, and Mr. Stuffy too, ‘cause they are both tired.

Mom drives like how I play the racing games, except she doesn’t hit walls and doesn’t ever drive backwards. She goes really fast and it makes my tummy a little bit unhappy. I heard sirens and tried to get up on my knees to see the lights better, but Mom pushed my head down. She said she didn’t want me to see anything bad but the sounds went past us and away. Mom didn’t talk a lot after that but sometimes her eyes got shiny and she wiped them with her sleeve. We drove for a long time and it got dark so I fell asleep.

* * *When I woke up the sun was back and our car was

stopped somewhere. Mom was outside standing with her hands on her hips. She looked sad and I wondered if she missed Daddy like I did. Maybe he would have liked closer ice cream.

I crawled over the middle of the car and sat in the driver’s seat. I tapped on the window and Mom jumped. She opened

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the door and I crawled into her arms. She held me tight and breathing was kinda hard, but that was okay ‘cause some-times people need strong hugs.

“Where are we going, Mom?” “To get ice cream, Laila. For Dad. But we have to talk to

some people first, and you have to call me Mommy or they wont let us get any ice cream, can you do that?”

“But why?” “Because if you don’t call me Mommy they will think you

belong to someone else and take you away. Far away without Mr. Stuffy. So you have to call me Mommy so we can always stay together. Can you do that?”

“Sure, Mom.” “Mommy.” “Mommy.”

* * *The men we talked to were nice. They asked us where

we were going and what we wanted to do there. I told them Mom and I were getting ice cream for Daddy but Mom told them we were visiting family. I was going to say something, ‘cause Mom was lying, but she squeezed my hand real hard and it kinda hurt so I got distracted.

They asked Mom what our relationship was and I told them that she was my Mommy and introduced them to Mr. Stuffy. They gave me a lollipop but I put it in my backpack to give to Daddy when we got home.

It was dark again which meant that we couldn’t get ice cream tonight, so we got a motel room. I asked Mom if we could call Daddy ‘cause we had been away for two sleeps and he might wonder if his ice cream was going to melt. She said that she already told him that we had to wait and it was time for bed.

There were two beds but I slept in the one with Mom

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cause mine was too big. * * *

When the sun was back I woke up and Mom was outside with her hands on her hips again. She said we couldn’t go get ice cream yet because she said so. I asked if I could play in the park while I waited and she said yes but didn’t come with me, she said she’d watch from the window. Parks aren’t fun alone ‘cause the best part is the swing but I can’t make it go by myself. I fell off trying to get on and got sand everywhere so I went to see what Mom was doing and if she wanted to play now.

Mommy was in the bathroom of the hotel. I heard water; maybe she was making me a bath. I didn’t like baths but I had dirt on my hair and it felt messy. I didn’t want to be messy anymore.

Someone knocked on the door. I called for Mommy but she didn’t answer so I got it myself even though Daddy said I should never get the door by myself. The banging was really loud and people were yelling so I grabbed Mr. Stuffy and we opened the door together.

Really tall men with guns and walkie-talkies were stand-ing over me. I heard someone say ‘oh thank god’ and then Daddy was there. He tried to pick me up but he must have fell too ‘cause he wasn’t very strong anymore and he had a cast on his arm.

The men went into the motel and I asked Daddy if he would push me on the swings and told him I was sorry I didn’t have his ice cream yet and if he was too tired still that was okay and maybe he could just push me just once on the swing. He looked at the policeman and everyone nodded without talking and then we got to go on the swings. Daddy said it was okay that we didn’t get his ice cream – that he wasn’t tired anymore and he was happy to see me ‘cause he

missed me. I missed him too. I told him Mommy missed him and that she would really

want to see him. We played a little bit more and the nodding policeman came back. This time he shook his head and Dad-dy told me to play in the sand and he would be right back.

When Daddy came back he was putting a crumpled and juice-stained piece of paper in his pocket. He kneeled in front of me and told me it was time to go home but that Mommy wasn’t coming home with us. I asked him why.

He told me Mommy was tired and hurt herself in the bath and couldn’t come home anymore but that he would look after me and we could go get ice cream.

He knew a special place close to home.

Bubble Blissby Brittany Thrasher

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The Pubby Bethany Knapp

‘I feel like I’m going to die young. Tragic, you know?’She laughed and chopped the carrot into sticks,Flipping over her frazzled shoulder,Smooth skin and hastened hair.I turned my back too, soldered my hand to the safe water pitcherBecause I did knowBut it’s easier to laugh and say something flippantAbout the sheer terror we should all hold for driving cars – statistics and numbers and salience

The topic of the human heartFloats in and out of the stale and comfortable air around hereBut it never really settlesWhenever it tries to land, it’s quickly shaken offWith another gin caeser cocktailTossed back to the bar by the speakersAnd the sad eyes at table nine that beg ‘Can we talk about something else?Your questions cut too deep.They make me thinkAbout what it meansTo be me.’

S W I S S A D V E N T U R E

H u r r a y W e n g

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Iridium Sunfallby Evelyna Kay

We diet on water and oil;oxidize softly in the violet haze of sickness.There are insects infesting our throatscausing us to spit and pray between our wastedgarglinglung-emulations.

Walk outsidetodayand you will find the heelprints of our inexperienced shoesgrasping for purchase on board-bound soil.You will find us begging sweetly into the air exalting the oblivious sunfalland exhaling the promise of tonighttonighttonight.

Lake Ontario Skatingby Brittany Thrasher

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There is a competition in our nostrils,each corridor attempting to be of less value in the waragainstinevitable suffocation;each attempting to abolish scent andsense andreason.

And when discussion of a new vaccineor a rejuvenation or regeneration or a dreamhas washed you from my retinasI will spasm on,articulate and lucidin the hope that when I come out(if)I will have a storyand a storyand a story

and another chance to gagmyselfthrough fits and sentientfervour.There is a fascination and perversionin the earth we fear to touch.

I did not go into the crawlspace underneath yourpassionand iridium

just to practice dying.

The Boxby Julia Partington

Step in, on all foursJelly bean pads feel good on top of the grainsThen between the toes, feels even better

Surrounded, by four cornersThe bottom right is the favoured

The smell, prickles the noseSome days it’s worse than others

Then magically, it’s all gone

Living with the ones on twosThey use a box, but without any cornersNo need for stepping in, they like to sit instead

It’s gone, as wellBut continued with the sound of a water fall

by Brittany Thrasher

Tazby Brittany Thrasher

Freedom Teaseby Jessie Luedi

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To Beby Jason Ng

Translucent light fills the worldLike a vessel of lustrous clarityI retract in a jolt, confusedI see the larger image now, like precious stonesSurrounded by a void, a vacuumAn eternity that draws a stark line of interfaceBetween itself and the glistening spheres

A continent of organic forms Houses the ageless artifacts They are unpredictableCounterintuitive perfection of un-geometryUnbounded by man’s imagination, yetRepresentative of himA creation birthed from a designBeyond audacity and above likelihoodBut there it isStaring back at me

It is alive, crudely maleA mime, the best at its job, the worst of occupationsI resist it, force throughThe entanglement of seductionFists break the calmness of the waterAnd dampen black wires into a curtainThat veils its glare

The gravity of the moment weakensMy knees and drags me to

A kneel on the cold, indifferent tilesReflecting a distorted smile and glisteningEyes that are deep, dark, and brown Perfectly bottomless canyons on the seabedPerfectly round, immaculateA meticulous simplicity

I stare at myself, Spilled all over the floorA shape, a contour that dances with uncertainty But is certainly perfectBecause I feel right, and succumbTo the gravity belowAnd never do I strengthen my kneesTo look into the mirrorAgain

Dusk at the Waterfrontby Jason Ng

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Song to a Dying Fireby Kristian Kraemer

These woven woods I wish to holdBut when the trees shed hues of fireDiscarded like whimsyAnd naked bark lifts in desireDefying orange, red and goldTo caress the stomach of winterI wish these woods were mine.

The secret thrill of a stolen pictureWhere my skin and her skin spoke,Where my eyes lingered within their lids;My hands played scrabble with Autumn –Here I sigh like moss in the mist.

The forest groans and creaks in ecstasySlow life lifts, quickensLike an arched spine in another’s palmTo cut my hands with rushing wind;It whisks away my broken pleaIn blue, silver – ash from heaven.

Wading through the blood of AutumnWhose woods these were,I don’t deserve the snow.

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The Incidentby Taneil George

I distinctly remember the gray morning light filtering in through the blinds that day, and thinking that despite the way it darkened the entire kitchen, it was nowhere near compara-ble to the black mood my sister was in.

“Excuse me,” I asked meekly, nodding towards the bread that lay on the counter she had been blocking. My small hands trembled with the effort to balance the sandwich ingre-dients I was clutching, already feeling them beginning to slip.

She didn’t waste her time on fully turning to look at me - instead, she cut her eyes at me in dismissal, taking her time to move out of my way. Releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding, I spread my ingredients out and began to make myself a crude sandwich of the kind only a nine-year-old could invent. I could feel her presence behind me, an inferno of anger that was ready to ignite at any moment.

I swallowed the thick trickle of fear that was sliding its way down my throat. Making my way across the kitchen to where my lunch bag lay on the counter, the distance seemed to have doubled. I turned and ran across the space, reaching my lunch box without incident.

And just as I thought I was free to exit without an altercation, I paused, remembering the reason I had begged my mother to pack my own lunch in the first place. The cake. The large, deliciously creamy vanilla cake that lay in the fridge from my grandfather’s birthday party the night before. I debated leaving it and eating some after dinner, but the temptation for the extra slice was too strong to resist. So I snuck over and retrieved it from the fridge, wary of my sister’s

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presence as I skirted around her. After carefully cutting a slice and stowing my prize in my lunch box, I was nearly free to go. All I had left to do was put the cake back in the fridge and make myself as scarce as possible.

The cake box was heavy and wide, forcing me to balance it atop my two small hands and move slower than I would have liked. It wasn’t until I was halfway there that my sister began to move across the kitchen again, directly in my path. I froze, feeling trapped by the force of her looming presence, desperately wanting to escape it.

Her larger, stronger shoulder slammed into me with such force as she shoved by. I found myself toppling forward, unable to stop the series of events that were unfurling in front of me. The cake flew from my hands. The plastic cover that I had failed to secure properly fell off, just as the cake land-ed facedown with a thick squelching noise. I felt my sister stop behind me, pausing mid-stride. The tension in the room had thickened exponentially, freezing me to where I stood. I turned to meet her dark gaze, which scolded more deeply than words could have. She held her glare for a few more moments, then continued to make her lunch nonchalantly, ignoring the mess I had made.

And so I found myself flipping the cake over and assess-ing the damage, finding that, surprisingly, the delicate icing pattern and sugar flowers were mostly in tact. Fearing my mother’s scolding as well, I decided to scrape the icing off the floor and lay it back on the cake, rearranging the flowers in the places that had sustained the most damage in the fall.

We never spoke of the incident again.

D e m i A n t o n a k e s

S u s p e n d e d P a r a d e

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We are heavy on unsheltered planesby Veronika Kabarguina

We are heavy on unsheltered planes,embracing lovers of uncultured contemplation. We are disillusioned, disregardeddo they give us much respect?

We are wrapped up in desiresmolding liquor bottle lamentations these fine wines no longer even frequent any nights. They took up too much space in lonely coloured shelves.

We are inept for any current remedieslike imperilled dialects.

We are an abandoned haveneclipsed by politics and promises of secular supremacy.

We are being used as kindling to start a fire of grandeur

B r e n d a n M o n t g o m e r y

A R ROW

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CircusTiffany Leung

Children and adults come to witness this magnificent event; little do they know the tragedy that unfolds in this tent.

Human puppets suspended on strings, their bodies dangle because of mangled limbs. Beneath them, the clowns’ waddle out with smiles sliced open from ear to ear, stitched neatly so it won’t disappear. They pinch their rubber noses, the red ball sewn permanently on their faces. Honk! Honk! The children laugh. Then the savages’ crawl out of their cages, human but their bodies surgically replaced with parts from a beast. This affliction leaves them cruel and vicious, but the next act is even more malicious. Black smog conceals the magician with a menacing grin. His assistant is beautiful but quiet, silent because a larynx is removable, and hers was ripped out. This way she can’t shout, when she’s engulfed in flames and the fire burns through her skin. The figure writhers but the audience is in awe. “What a glorious sight,” the audience applauds.

The ringmaster cackles, a wickedness that echoes, in the circus no one is free from their shackles.

V i n c e L i n

C h o m p e r

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The Man Who Can’t Be Movedby Sam Ali

“Where’s my respect? You know what I could do.”

Your soul is in trouble.

Meeting him for the first time was a blur. You couldn’t exactly grasp what was going on - who he was, what his story em-braced. Did you know you were about to enter your own dark tragedy?

You can repeat the story a thousand times, but who will understand? What was said, what was done - it was out of your control.

Your soul is in trouble.

Unfortunately for you, fear and manipulation will become your companions, and you’ll never forget them.

There he was. Looking, smiling with his blue eyes. Wonder-ing if you could be easily fooled. He approaches with strange kindness but with a hidden desire to erase his curiosity about you.

To set fire to your soul.

Things escalated to a high in a short amount of time.And now - here stands a woman, about to enter a deal with a devil - a man who cannot be moved.

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Keep telling yourself that it is love. (But no. It’s a mere want for attention). The deeper you go, the more your world will begin to disappear.

Everyone and everything will leave – and you’ll become the person you were always afraid of becoming.

“Just wait it out.” You’d tell yourself. “But my soul is on fire.”

You finally took yourself out of the world you created with him, and saw oblivion. Nothing familiar. Nothing comfort-able. Nothing safe. Just. Him.His face. His anger. His fists. His lies. His corruption. You created a dark world that was only filled with him. He’s plastered everywhere. He will haunt you. He will be in your head.

He will cause your soul to burn.

Yelling escalates. Grabbing becomes stronger. Pressure gets worse. A push and force pattern becomes natural.

And with his forceful hand he grabs you - connecting you to the terrain. He begins to follow. He begins to gaze, and he be-gins to whisper, and there is nothing you can do to stop him.

He touched you and you changed.

You’ll become bitter, and your thoughts will struggle to become words.

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So to the man who can’t be moved,

I hope you remember this. I hope you remember her. I hope you see her face in every unfolding struggle - envision-ing the tears, and hearing her cries as your midnight lullaby. In every deep thought or vision. I hope you hear her voice in the darkest of nights - corrupting you rather than soothing you. Consuming your deepest emotions. The same way you ravaged her trust. The same way you disintegrated everything she believed in.

But she became a radiant scar, only staring at a burned down home.

She was left in the dark.

The Frightening Stormby Niyomi Raveenthiran

No harmony is found in scattered leavesFlurried on careless pavement slabs; the breeze,Brought up by Nature’s force immense, may heave,But never rearrange them to my ease.Yet now inside me there’s a newfound chargeThat I captain over a wave-crashed dockSinking to unknown depths, who spies the large,Unknowing, star-lite sky, and years a rockTo rest on. How could those same stars and IBe but one universe? Could a sadistCreate such disparity? If so, whyDo storms reveal a newfound ray of light?At what imagined writer anger I, then?I am the frightening storm. I hold the pen.

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Here! in the Beautiful American Midwestby Brian Jones

Fall.

The grass has stopped growing through the gravel roadslined with houseswhere the basil is thinning and the beans have fallen to the harvest; gray hairs have growninto season, stocking the supermarketeach nearly indistinguishable from the next, just as dreams of everywild shape and flavour take on the same gelatinous textureof leftover mashed potatoes.

Something Blueby Victoria McAuley

I watched her move down the isle, surrounded by her family, in their flowing dresses and crisp suits. She looked so beautiful in her long white gown. I smiled to myself as the organ music painted the air with colours of celebration. It was going to be a magical service. As they left her at the alter, I noticed her father wipe a single tear from his cheek. It was cute, I thought. She had done the same right before I squeezed the life from her body.The funeral started, and I settled in for the show.

B r i t t a n y T h r a s h e r

Nature’s Geometry Lesson

Solitary Lily

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Like a boar burrows its nose through dirtby Brent Moore

Earlier today my young girlfriend introduced me to a friend of hers, a tall, athletic brunette with loose curls, a punk rock tee shirt and dark stubble in the pits of her arms. We were walking to get coffee when we bumped into the friend and a man she was with.

I only saw the stubble for a second, when she opened her arms to embrace my girlfriend. It contrasted with her sour cream underarms.

The women in my life have always been well groomed and well prepared. My young girlfriend waxes before going on road trips or camping trips. My mother only buys beauty products that are also available in travel size.

My young girlfriend mentions my name so I focus my eyes, nod and smile in agreement, then go back to fantasizing about Samantha’s armpits.Samantha, that’s her name.

My young girlfriend has unimaginative armpits. They’re shaven, free of moles and doughy. I licked one once, in a whirl of drunken gallantry, but was unable to record my find-ings. She had brought it up the next day.

“You licked my armpit last night, you were so drunk.”“Did I? Fuck, I must’ve been super drunk.”

She didn’t tell me her thoughts on the occurrence. It’s been one of my great regrets in this fledgling relationship, never returning to those cavernous pits.

Samantha is wearing worn sneakers when we meet.“My young girlfriend’s mentioned that you’re a

baller,” I say. “Any chance the two of you are free this after-noon for a game? My roommate Aaron is coming and so is Scott and another guy, we just need one more for three-on-

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three.”“What about your young girlfriend?” I turn to my mani-

cured, skirted girlfriend.“I’m gonna sit this one out,” she says.We disengage and cross to the other side of the street.“See you on the courts!” I holler while walking back-

wards.On the rest of our way to coffee, my young girlfriend fills

me in on Samantha. I’ve heard a handful of random stories, so it’s good to have a face to put to the name.

“Did you see that shirt she was wearing? When we were in elementary school her older brother got her hooked on that stuff. She would always get him to bring her back band shirts from the concerts he went to.”

“You weren’t into it?”“I was for a bit. In high school, grade nine and ten,

she used to drag me to shows.”“She had to drag you?”“I hated the music, but loved the boys.”“I still listen to that stuff.”“What?”“That band, on her shirt today, I saw them back in high

school opening for one of my favourite bands at that time.”“Really?”“Ya. But they were crap.”“Who?”“The band whose shirt she was wearing.”“Oh. What about your band?”“Fantastic. Saw them two more times after that.”“I feel like that type of music is for angry, frustrated

people who don’t know how to deal with their emotions.”“What about that pop-country stuff you listen to?”“That’s different.”

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“Of course.”The first armpits I ever smelt were my father’s. I was eight

and we were in a hotel. He put deodorant in his pits every morning, I asked why. He raised his right arm and squatted down a little. I jumped up, grabbed hold of his bicep with both hands and brought the hairs to my face.

“So they smell like this,” he laughed. Samantha is quick on the court. She plays like a girl —

lots of passing and midrange shots. After five minutes, while the ball is out of bounds, she pulls on my jersey and leans her head in.

“Next time I get it at the top I’m going to swing it to Aar-on and you’re going to beat Scott to a backdoor pass.”

Scott already has a dark mark on the back of his tank.The next play I cut hard, then back again, but Aaron

doesn’t see I had my man beat. Samantha comes over again.“Don’t worry, it’s there. We’ll hit it later.”Then she slaps

my butt. I’m pretty tall, so it might’ve been a mistake.She jogs up to the top of the key and calls for the ball by holding her left hand above her head.

There isn’t much time left in the game now. The sun is about to pass beyond the schoolyard walls.We switched teams after the first game. Aaron and Sam are still together, while I’ve been switched with Scott. Samantha is calling for the ball at the top of the key. Again with the outstretched arms.

I look over at the benches. My young girlfriend is reclin-ing and fiddling with a small digital device. She could be en-gaging with that thing in a number of ways: reading a book, researching invigorating topics, video chatting with close family. Whatever it is, she seems pretty captivated.

I look back and see Samantha making her move. She cuts left, then right, and now she’s barrelling towards the net with a doggedness that means she probably wont be able to pull up

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if I step up and take the charge.I plant myself in the lane as she comes crashing through

like a carnivorous dinosaur through forest brush. She leaps, extends her arms and lobs the ball to the hoop. Her vertical launch brings her sweaty pits to eye level, then into my nose. Her elbows jab into my chest, her torso slams into my own.

I fall back, ass first onto the concrete and as we tangle I notice her leg hairs are prickly. We disentangle. Aaron lifts me back to my feet and Scott extends his hand to Sam.

“Great take,” I say.On the way back from the park, my young girlfriend and I

stop at a corner store to pick up beer, milk and hummus.“Do you remember that time I got drunk and licked

your armpits?”“Yes, we were so drunk.”“Yes.”“What about it?”“Nothing, I was just thinking about it.”

by Hurray Weng

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There’s a Limit to your Loveby Ana Rodriguez

I want to tell you about the gardenabout my piano, the ripped dress, the time that I forgot the colour of my bonesbut they weigh me down, they are long and frail they bend like clotheslinesthey melt like candles and you call me a flowerbut you kiss like it’s the last time every time

I want to write a different story

I dream about you sometimes but it isn’t youand you do not love me, or worse, I don’t love youwhen I wake your hand is on my ribs, and I hate you at first but it isn’t youbecause you are here, drinking coffee and trying to explain poetry

Suck the marrow out of life I’m in the woods suckingthrough the cold night suckingin the elevator sucking why didn’t you tell me these were your bones? now they’re weak like clotheslines

I am not the villain of this story I sound like I am and I look like I am but I’m notbecause if I fuck this up again, I swear I’ll –

we are alone in this and no one has felt this way before and I love you, baby, I love youare we too young again? you are a bee dancing on me and I am the flower again because I am the villain

I pull you in deeper and close my eyes so you don’t see that this, too, has a limit

we write to taste life twice, but it tastes so good let me chew it up

Play Doctorby Dianna Hann

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Her Glowby Mishi Hassan

Those eyes, her eyes,flashing waves of heatThose sparkling jewels make wanton foolsgrovel at her feet

Her lips – her slow, relentless, smacking lipslike cherries on a treeplucked from Eden by the hand of Godplaced for all to see

Your hands -- large, coarse, farmer’s handsused to both be mine but when she set her eyes on youI was left behind

And I, with my -- dull, brown eyesand fleeting crooked smile(that used to be enough for youbefore her lawless guile)

am burning in her boundless glowand your unyielding loveStill longing for the simple boy, for whom I was not enough

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Survivalby Heather Donkers

Momma, if you must know,yes, I would have died for her.I would have thrown myself intoa house fire if it meant thatshe would burn herself into my memory.I would have drowned myself inthe sea if it meant that she wouldswim with open arms to me.

But she is the small death, the petty thing,the thing that I don’t like talking about.She is the fire that I survived.The one that I came crawling out of,fingernails bent back,her name lingering in the back of my throatlike smoke.

She is a year ago.She is the first time that I changed my mindand the last time I was sorry about it.Her handprints are all over my throat.Only sometimes do I play pretend with hermemory; other times I drink wine until I feel apathy.

Momma, if you must know,her absence was the most beautifulthing I’ve ever suffered for.I was glowing.

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Time, on such a grand scale, moves slowly.

Yet, from this human perspective, timeis a continual sprint towards an unsure future.

We run, trip, fall, leap, headlong and chaotic towards the hazy eventuality.

Timeby Maura MacKenzie

The bars of Timestretch towards each other; and millennia will pass until they embrace.

How often have I made such a journeyin the breadth of a second? Fallen in, fallen out.

And yet, they remain.

Patient lovers, as time(that indeterminable and omnipotent force) gently nudges them together;

and simultaneously throws us apart.

-

A study of crossroads; belongingby Kate Gladstone

D I R E C T I O N

S e a n D o h e r t y

I T I N E R A N T

I r i s F r y e r

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a U and an Sby Caela Fenton

when you and I stopped being an us you told me that it wasn’t rightthat Ileft you in the dark(obviously it wasn’t it was left)faerie lights were dancinga reminder of tender illusions yet to short circuit (a circuit cannot reallybe short because that defies circuitymaybe that is why a U and an Sare not together an O) the stars on the ceilingfully charged electricity allows for positive and negative chargesa theory based on human gazeswhen you say rightyou mean correctthat checkmark aswish flick fling

into the realm

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of lying alphabetics(they’re upright)and transculent definition ofthat which I can’t see throughin the dark that means secret-keepingnot lights offmoons up nocturnalitythat reminds me in the word Y-O-Uthe U (you!)still has friends betweenthe oh (you were wrong)and the why (did you do that?)but the I isleft alone right?

waltzing in the aphoticwith the untold

resting lightlyon the small of her

back

(to the beginning)

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Going Homeby Ali Sutherland

Dust,in Tanzania, does not just build up on window sills or in unswept corners, it storms the screens of the steel-barred windows and envelops all within.

It builds layers on top of the bare footprints I made here two years ago,But the grass politely grows around it,Outlining my toes perfectly like a hand on the doorknob,As if fifteen year old me never stopped walking here.

Dust does not gather in the corners of shut eyes after a deep sleep,It clings to each eyelash and weighs them downUntil they are golden and heavy.

It is a thick sweetness that tickles at my throat,I open my mouth wide to swallow as much air as I canTo coat my insides sparkly.

Dust is not just tinted orange skiesOr the announcement of Land Rovers on the horizon,It paints the eucalyptus trees brownSo they look old and dirty.It is a tightening of the nostrils That stings until I almost cry.

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Dust is not a single earring, slipped and forgotten underneath a bed, It is not damp and unturned pages or misplaced keys,It has seeped through my skin and runs in my veins,It is the taste of the memories I keep.

Constricted

R e b e c c a P i l o n

woodcut print

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Picnicsby Brian Jones

Beneath an easy breeze, never too strong, but enough to hear. Average gusts, on mild spring mornings, when I’d take you (though the you changes month to month) to the dry creek bed, with the blanket that was always the same. Fabric frayed from average bodies mingling together, rolling toward average love, over lukewarm lunches; stained from the (sometimes) average sexhidden in the creek bed, tucked out of sight, free to dream of a trickle, to try and picture an average stream: everything we ever had in this average town, in this countrywide dried out creek bed.

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The Honest Ulstermanby Hugh McFall

“Joan, I’m not sure how much longer we can wait,” Sam said, taking off his hat, setting down his accordion, and closing the door behind him.

His calm eyes lacked their usual softness, which had always been so reassuring. His mouth was without its usual flickering smile. They have talked about leaving for quite some time now, but Joan felt that today, things were different.“What’s happened, Sam? Something must have happened.”

He looked at her with a sort of desperation. He sat down in his chair, the chair that he built, and the chair that he al-ways sits on. On this chair, Sam usually tells jokes and stories to Joan and their boys, or plays the accordion, which John especially loves. Sam would sit down, start playing, and like clockwork, John would come running down the stairs with a smile that only a child could have, and urged him to continue. Neal and Aaron liked when Da played the accordion too, but not as much as John. He would sit cross-legged at Sam’s feet, eyes filled with wonder. Nothing made Sam happier.

He closed his eyes, planted his elbows on his legs, and put his hands to his face. His hands were small, but strong, and each wrinkle had its own story to tell. If you’re deciding between carpenters, Sam always said, just look at their hands, and you’ll know whom to pick. He rubbed his hands against his forehead, and let silence fill the room. Joan pulled up a chair and sat down beside him.

“Sam, what happened?”He looked at her and said, “Nothing we haven’t already

seen, Joan. I was walking back from our rehearsal in Mile-bush, and there was a young lad walking along about 20 paces ahead of me. I think he was one of Mr. Murphy’s

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young lads, perhaps you haven’t heard tell of him, but he and his family live up on Windmill Avenue. A car drove by and there’s someone in the front seat, another young lad. He can-ny be no older than ten. He rolls his window down and yells, ‘fuck off, you Fenian! Ulster don’t need you bloody Taigs!’ The car rolled on, and the young Murphy boy just put his head down and kept walking.”

Joan got up, put on the kettle and started preparing a cup of tea. Sam sat still, looking straight ahead.“Joan,” he said, “all I can think of was that boy in the car be-ing one of our boys. Or that boy on the street, for god sakes, being one of our boys. If we stay here, it won’t be long until they figure things out for themselves. John will be seven soon. How long do you think it will take him to figure out which of his classmates are Catholic, and which ones are Protestant? I can put up ok when I’m at the shipyard, but when the lads at the shipyard bring these troubles home to their children, that’s when I get concerned for our boys, and for the days we have ahead of us here. They won’t be able to escape it.”

Joan knew he was right. She knew they had to go. She knew that the boys would return soon from their uncles, tired from playing soccer and in need of a snack. She knew that tomorrow John and Neal would go to school, while she took care of Aaron until he was old enough to go to school as well.“I was speaking with Margaret just yesterday,” Joan said. “She told me that she and her family want to move away, probably to Australia. She said that her husband has a cousin there who can help him find work. Where would we go?”“I’m not sure”, Sam said. “I have been thinking of Canada. As you know, I was there years ago. I remember meeting Mac, in Kingston, and I have been thinking of that place ever since. I have told you the stories about what life is like there. That’s where we should go. Like anywhere else, it’s not with-

55

out its issues, but from what I can tell, there canny be many places better than Canada to raise our boys.”

Joan nodded in agreement. They had talked of this be-fore. There was not much more she needed to say. It was clear to her, then, what they would do.

Yes, Kingston was good, Sam thought. He knew it was right, for himself and his family. He knew he could find work and a decent place to live. But he had a hard time imagining himself anywhere other than Carrick. He was a Carrick man, and he was proud of it.

He thought of his parents, who lived here until the day they died, and his uncle Davey, who worked at the same harbor that King Billy sailed into centuries earlier and set the stage for the madness that was to come. He thought of his cousin Jack, who played football with Carrick Football Club. Sam used to make his way down Taylor’s Avenue to see Jack play at the Barn Field. He thought of how well he had always been treated down at Dobbin’s Inn, where the ceiling was always too low, and where friends were always to be found.

He thought of the moments he spent watching rugby, particularly when Ireland played. To him, that team was a powerful symbol of what life could be like on the island that he and millions of others called home. That’s because when the Irish rugby team played, it wasn’t just the Republic play-ing, nor was it just the North. It was a team with players from both sides of the divide, who lived and prospered with each other despite their differences. They weren’t Taigs or Prods. They were people of Ireland, and that’s how Sam wanted it to be. Many people, though, weren’t ready for that yet. The Troubles changed that, and there was not much he could do to change the Troubles. Nothing that wouldn’t put his own life at risk, and the lives of his family.“Joan,” he said, “tomorrow we should go to your parents and

tell them what we’ll do. We’ll go speak with my family as well.”

Weeks later, with their family and friends holding them in their hearts, Sam, Joan, John, Neal and young Aaron left Carrickfergus for good. Away from the Belfast Confetti, from the yellow cranes of Harland & Wolff, from the red bricked walls of the University. Away from the divided land that they are proud to call home. They drove along the shores of the Belfast Lough, making their way to the airport, with their hearts and minds set on their new home.

“Sam,” Joan said, “the people are what have made this place for us. They are all that have mattered to us. Canada is full of strangers, and that scares me.”He looked at her for a moment, before reverting his eyes back to the window. “There are no strangers there, Joan. Just friends we haven’t met.”

A study of crossroads; guidingby Kate Gladstone

Jessica

Janes

S u n s e t E n R o u t e

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“At the bottom of the Empire State Building the body of Evelyn McHale reposes calmly in grotesque bier, her falling body punched into

the top of a car.”

I have a habit of burning things. Burning meanings so I can use the ashesto bury habits.

Woman’s Army Corps I burnt my uniform, my Woman’s Corpse uniform

Mary got married to a nice fella but I burnt the bridesmaids dress I never want to see this again

I’d have burnt my wedding dress for the charred lace and melting tulleif I ever got there.

350 5th Aveby Sydney Wilson

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But dust blows away forms a tornado so I can ride the wind.I don’t want to be in Kansas anymore.

Manhattan can hold my bones and keep my heart. I’ve never used them well.

I don’t want anyone in or out of our family to see any part of me.

I beg of you and my family –don’t have any service or remembrance for me.

350 5th Ave

10:40 amcomposed and placidshe sleeps nestled in her metal bed. A scratchy woolen blanket made from broken glass.

She clutches her pearls – an engagement gift.

My fiancé asked me to marry him in June. I don’t think I’d make a good wife for anybody.

And falls.

Tell my father, I have too many of my mothers tendencies.

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Gone Grace by Caela Fenton

drugged with light, the lack of itor longing, she stays on later than she thought, charmed by streets familiar with you,any building haunted by surprising grace --Carolyn Smart, “Telling Lies” jazz-handed eyelashes convulsespewing philosophy of linguistic paradoxwhile her chiclet teeth blowa grandmotherly smoochbecause that seldom smilewaits for no one unfitand her nightly constitutionalis the thing of arid dreams,resting through brick layered knitdrugged with light, the lack of it

a face that anyone but a mother could love,with a granular crawl spaceshoving fresh cut splinters undertranslucent nails and a rotten daisycrown because the sun can’t be caught(tricky bastard) she lays down andpulls the moon over her head,light’s love-shade ribbon-tied slip (k)notor longing, she stays on later than she thought

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she would ask what happens whenpinocchio says: my nose will grow now, dear boy(s) you liar(s), look at themoonsun sundance moonsoban abandoned antique shop tonight, with a pillow of bluebaby china zen full of karmaand a fur stole round her noose,tomorrow is always eclipsed newcharmed by streets familiar with you

you of the opaque suede fingered day,you of the effervescent half-truths,prostituting honesty for the sakeof a sake, of a soulof a little girl mint—there won’t be a trace, only moonshine and sun-matte she’ll give you a paw-shiver flick…she’s the have-you-seen-this-girl facein any building haunted by surprising Grace

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I swallow your heartby Ana Rodriguez

Bodies tangled in light Noon and love stainsWaiting for you to look away first

New is sweet and strange on my tongue You’re drawing lines and circles

We are fools Suspended in disbeliefEvery blossom sparks the start of winter Still, I say, let’s drown

I fear moments where I lose myself to find you This liquid pouringMy hair shedding on wet sheetsOpen pores and closed eyes

Old is we’ve been here beforeAnother’s fingers around the nape of your neck The stuff the camera lens won’t capture

I swallow your heartAnd I feel this biting a mango letting juice run down your elbows legs going numb on the counter smoke clouding your eyesWe will never be boring

This, I know, will ruin us

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The First Poemby Heather Donkers

The first poem that I wrote that wasn’t about youwas in all capital letters,like I was screaming, like I was trying to compensatefor your absence. It was about another universe where wild animalsare terrifying but have healing powers if youhave the guts to touch their tongue.The first poem that I wrote that wasn’t about youbegged for mercy, begged to be kissed.It was all fire and fighting.It was better than anything I had ever written.Go figure. This is what I’m capable of without you.The first poem that I wrote that wasn’t about youmight one day be regarded as a masterpiece.People will come from everywhere, just for a glimpse of it,just to run their fingers over it and marvel at howempty it is of you.The first poem I wrote that wasn’t about youwas still about you.Damn it.

Two

Four

S a r a

Six

M a c L e l l a n

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The Callby Joshua Galler

“They are coming,” the man called Leif said coldly, star-ing with green eyes in stark contrast to his fiery red hair. That mane of thick locks cascaded down to his shoulders, blend-ing in with a bushy beard still flecked with melting snow. He looked travel worn in his damp cloak and studded leather vest; a storm had been blowing for days now.

“They are already here!” the other added, slamming an open palm down on the heavy wooden table. Jormun’s young face contorted with rage as his ice blue eyes bored into those of the aged man who sat opposite. “How can you sit there? Sit there and do nothing!”

The greyed man sat in the simple wooden chair he had fashioned himself, his bare elbows resting on the heavy oak table. It was carved from the monstrous tree that once stood where his home now rested. As a child, he had thought it Yg-gdrasil, the tree of life. His gaze held that of the young man’s but his attention was on the fire dancing in the hearth across the room. A wolf pelt was hanging from the mantle, a carved ram’s horn placed neatly atop it.

A child’s face appeared in the doorway connected to the hall, confusion twisting up that soft pale face. The grey man shifted his gaze and took in those eyes near upon tears. “Go to your room Erik, and shut the door. Practice your writing,” he said gently, but with a stern look. The face disappeared as quickly as it had materialized, the door shutting with a soft thud that seemed thunderous in the quiet cabin.

“I told you he would not listen. He has forsaken us!” Jormun shouted at Leif, the braids in his blonde hair tossing violently as he shook with anger. “He is a relic who has gone to live out the rest of his sad life in reclusion. There is no

67

salvation for us here.”Leif gave the young man a fierce glare but said nothing.

The trek up the mountain had been his notion. Three days round trip would be three days wasted if only two men were to make the descent. Giving his great beard a tug, he looked back into Marten’s unforgiving stare. It was true, the man had left his clan, but Leif did not believe he could truly abandon them. “We need your leadership,” he said.

“We need his axe! If he even still has the strength to raise it,” Jormun spat, sliding his eyes derisively towards the half-moon blade propped up against the far wall. Marten sighed loudly, rolling his shoulders before rising from his chair. His mountainous bulk towered over the other men, and he cracked his knuckles as he eyed the younger of the two. “You may leave, Jormun. Welcome is no longer extended to you within my hall.”

The young man blinked, incredulous. His mouth worked soundlessly, and beginnings of words croaked from his throat. Marten raised a hand and pointed to the door. “You may sit upon my steps, if you so choose, and wait until my business with Leif is done.”

As if pulled by some force other than his own will, Jormun stood reluctantly, and trudged out the door, his face a storm of emotion and amazement. He looked as if he had been slapped. Marten couldn’t ignore the smirk growing on Leif ’s face, but his own remained stone. Once the door closed with a gust of chilly air and a swirl of snow, Marten returned to his seat.The smirk was gone from Leif ’s lips, and he re-garded Marten with grim eyes.

“We spotted their ships five days ago, and by the grace of the Gods alone. Hjori had the fortune to be hunting out farther than usual and from a cliff he saw their sails. That was five days ago, and he returned with haste you wouldn’t be-

68

lieve. They will be upon us in three,” Leif explained, stroking the end of his beard anxiously.

“They break the blood oath? The Gods will smash them upon our rocky shores.” Marten grunted, a tinge of anger in the undertones.

“I would never have expected you to know. Bjorn thinks himself Baldur’s heir - thinks himself blood of the Gods. He has no fear of their wrath,” Leif sighed.

Marten’s hands gripped the arms of his chair so tight-ly the wood creaked. His breath came noisily through his nostrils. Closing his eyes, Marten slowed his breathing, and relaxed his grip. Rage would not consume him.

“I left that path behind when I climbed this mountain, Leif,” he said. “Law dictates -” Leif began. Nothing! It dictates nothing when I am no longer a part of your laws.” Marten interjected, waving a meaty hand through the air.

“You are a part of this!” Leif said, raising his voice at last. He leaned forwards, his hands pressed to his knees as if about to stand.

“I fail to see how.” Marten replied, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his seat.

“He comes for you!” Leif shouted, now standing and pointing an angry finger at the tip of Marten’s nose.

“I am not Chief any longer.” Marten replied cooly, re-maining in his seat.

“Whether Bjorn knows or not, he is still coming for you. You broke him once, and he did not forget. If he is willing to forsake the bond of Blood-brothers, then I do not expect him to spare our village on his road to you,” Leif hissed.

“If he climbs this mountain, he will never see his home again,” Marten’s voice rumbled deeply.

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“And what of us? What of your clan? We have not aban-doned you as you have us,” Leif pleaded.

“I have no clan.”“Then if not us, what of your son? What of Erik? Yes,

you can defeat one man, but what about fifty? One hundred? An army sails to our banks, and if Bjorn thinks himself a God, then his honour is what he decides. And if it takes an army to kill you, then he shall deem it honourable.”

Marten stared into those flaming green eyes, tried to swal-low their fire, tried to douse it within the chill of his frozen heart. And Marten found that he could not. The face of his son was a bright light in his mind, one that he would never put out.

“Your axe is right there,” Leif continued, gesturing. “How long since her blade has tasted the blood of your

enemies?” he asked, a toothy grin pulling at his lips.Marten rose from his seat and stepped hesitantly to the

wall, his bearded axe neatly resting against it. The blade shined from daily care, and the haft was carved with numer-ous runes and swirling symbols. He took it in his large hands and hefted it, remembering how good the weight felt in his arms. Meeting Leif ’s eager gaze, he nodded solemnly.

It was a brilliant sight. There was the man Leif remem-bered. There was the man who had defeated the great bear, Hvedrungr. There was the man who had united the five fam-ilies, silenced the seven quarrellers and lay dominion over the land. There was the man he would follow to Ragnarok itself.

Leif laughed heartily and raised his arms to the ceiling. “The Old Wolf has found his fangs!”

J e s s i e L u e d i

Balance

New Angle

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Tell Me Where This Goes In Your Fairytale (excerpt)by Erika Lamon

Weeeeee need to talk. Why? I had a dream last night that was a bit too real and it seems like it’s propelling me to a moment in reality. But who knows if that moment should ever exist? My shift ends at 8:00pm: If you need someone to talk to, I’ll give you answers. Relax, I’ll be there between 8 and 9. No. If you’re not there, I’m gone. It’s a small window but it’s the last one I’m willing to open. What? Nothing. You know I’m an emotional dynamite; I’m bearing my soul in a coffee shop. I want some privacy. Is there a door upstairs? Yes, but I won’t close it. I promise not to murder you.

You’re joking but I don’t trust you.

He showed up early. Ordered a coffee, the peach fuzz on his head made soft in the dimmed light. Damn it—forgot to cash it out. The shop’s just a block down but it’s too late for detours so I keep walking down the road because classes can’t wait. Tomorrow. Worry is a worm eating at my core but—STOP IT—you’re not the rotten one.When we finally sat down you were three people talking.

A siren’s wailing down the street and I’m passing through the sound waves I couldn’t have seen a year ago—that’s what happens when you start recording and producing. The world’s one giant sound wave and we’re frequencies crashing against each other, drowning to be heard because once the static starts it can’t be muted. I wonder at your wavelength. I won-der if it would be broken. You never understood how I could love you but not be with you anymore. It was the hardest thing I ever did because it was for me. No, you couldn’t un-derstand because you didn’t love me, not really. “I….can’t get

72

you out of my skin.” You were just obsessed. The coffee mug turns fragile in your hands as I remember the precise moment I told you, months ago, that you would regret the words you sent me, 2:00am-wasted in some Toronto penthouse while the lovers made love in the other room. I knew it would ruin you. But I’d been betting on time. Time enough—5 years, may-be?—for you to realize your mistake. I’d never thought your midlife crisis would hit fast. Just a few weeks. “In 5 years, I can be living with someone else, and you can show up at my doorstep and she would not matter.” Don’t say that, don’t—“it will always be you.” Please… don’t.

“If you gaze long enough into an abyss,” he started, “the abyss will gaze back into you,’ I finished, and smirked. I can still feel its outline on my lips. The bed creaked as you turned to look at me, eyes pouring surprised delight, bare shoulders hinting at the thought of staying. We rarely finished each other’s sentences, but when we did it was perfect. Fuck, two years: that’s how long it took. That’s all your hard work amounted to. “Well I stared into it”—a wretched laugh—“and it stared back into me.” We’d have been perfect in a book because you were broken and I would fix you, but I left before the end and look at how you ruined it. You, coming in the back door. You, I didn’t even want to love you, but you loved me when I didn’t think I could be and now look at what you’ve done. I’m a mess. Yet I’m indebted, thankful, begging you….

Controlling.

The first time my friends told me I pushed it deep deep

73

down, far into the ground, put a lock on its cellar trap door. Expectations of putting myself to the side never as appar-ent as the day I left and fell in love with someone else. How strangely unwilling of her, this out-of-character, this refusing silhouette of the girl he had figured would love him to sacri-fice. But the trap door rattled, and the hinges snapped open. Playing the victim is easy until you realize the glass is solid and you’re pinned right to it. Until you see him scatter, wildly reaching for the needle—watch how fear eats at fineness—be-fore stabbing it into your side under the table. It’s clumsy. I know this because I flinch as I turn another bend in the street and I never did before, the incision stretching open against the wool of my sweater as I tug it back in. I wonder if the passing bodies can see the red oozing out slowly like I can feel the colour leaving my face. Count the seconds of the flashing red light telling the walkers to stop and the runners to run like you held your breath last night counting the seconds till it’d be safe to resume our talk. 10 seconds.

“You’re crazy.” What’s insane is the look of disbelief on your face, bewildered that I am not a doll you can crank into loving you. 9 seconds. “I’m giving you everything you’ve ever wanted.” Oh, right. The Fairytale. “Where I come back from scriptwriting to you and the kids every night, and I make you pancakes when you get sick.” When did you ever make a thing for me? “I want you to be the mother of my children.” That’s promising. 8 seconds. “You could have it all. We could have it all. We could be together, forever.” I spent the night under the showerhead burning away your words, scrubbing you raw from my skin because you tried to kiss my cheek and I caught that peppermint smell that used to lull me to sleep in

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your arms, in your bed…just words, but they will echo in my head “forever.” 7 seconds. I know it’d take at least 10 to cross walking but I could run. 6 seconds. If I walk slowly enough I could “get hit by a bus. I hope he cheats on you and that you never find someone that will love you because I want you to look back on this moment and fucking regret it”. I never used to check the street 5 times but I do now. I don’t know what to say, “you never do.” I’m late. But I avoid the church anyway, because that’s where the homeless people sleep, their Tim Hortons cups rattling me into nauseousness because “I spent money on you” is a joke I cannot stomach. They’ll call to me again and make noises and—turn the music UP, fast, fast, FAST! —I’m too numb to feel much, but I’m too shaken not to know it could push me over the edge. 5 seconds.

If a car hit me it’d be an accident. 4 seconds. I sprint to the other side, paranoia-pierced as I touch the ground. Safe. “Why didn’t you want to be in a room alone with me?” Because I’m still in love with you (no, of course not—that’s what you’d want to hear) but don’t—DON’T spring from your chair, let the screaming springs coil to sleep as you settle back into place. “I’m a changed person. I wasn’t ready to commit before, but I am now. You loved me when I was some young punk kid, but now I’m a man. You can love me again. You’re the one. I’m giving you the fairytale.” I don’t know what broke my heart more: that it was everything I’d ever wanted to hear too late, or that the girl who loved you so so much wished she could believe you...

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E d i t o r i a l B o a r d

Laura Bossy - ArtSci ‘16

Studies: Film/EnglishFavourite Art: Citizen Kane directed by Orson Welles

Kathleen Lew - ArtSci ‘17

Studies: History/Art HistoryFavourite Art: Drowning Girl by Roy Lichtenstein

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Sam Hatoski - ArtSci ‘16

Stuies: Art HistoryFavourite Art: Love is a Parallax by Sylvia Plath

Rachel Clarke - ArtSci 15’

Studies: GeographyFavourite Art: The RadChildCollective

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Ben Rodrigues - ArtSci ‘15

Studies: Global DevelopmentFavourite Art: 1964 Ferrari 250 GTO

Cody Dauphinee - ArtSci 15’

Studies: EnglishFavourite Art: 2666 by Roberto Bolaño

Jessica Young - ArtSci ‘16

Studies: History/EnglishFavourite Art: The Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling

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Meghan Simard - ArtSci 16’

Studies: English/PhilosophyFavourite Art: Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut

Meryl Morant - ArtSci 16’

Studies: History/PhilosophyFavourite Art: Twist of Gold by Michael Morpurgo

Jordana Goldman - ArtSci ‘16

Studies: English/HistoryFavourite Art: The Giver by Lois Lowry

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