Nothing in life is without distortion. Ripples on water, funhouse mirrors, dreamy hazes. Think of how memories seem to change over the years as you change, and childhood’s hardships fade into the rose-coloured background of happier, nostalgic moments. A half-truth told in the dark, like kaleidoscopic fragments, changing how you see the world.
Another Beer for the Dying Alcoholic by Millie Farley (12)
The freezing rain outside is picking up, turning into a nasty storm that is forecasted to last the rest of the night. White icicles hang over the kitchen window. Esmae moves sluggishly. She misses the handle for the tap twice before finally gripping it. She drops her head forward, the water stream catches the tips of her curls. Shadows stretch like eyebags over the beige walls. Soup on the stovetop. White ring of flames comes off the back burner. The refrigerator hums against the sound of battering rain. Fresh yellow fly strips hang over the sink. Green bottleflies buzz around a line of sticky beer cans at the back of the countertop. Orange fruit flies line the compost lid. Hail hits the kitchen window.
Nora comes into the kitchen, top buttons of her flannel shirt left open. Esmae's head shoots up. She moves back over to the cooking pot, dipping a wooden spoon into the bubbling butternut squash soup. The tv is still going in the other room.
“Urgh, the roads’ll be a mess tomorrow morning. Dunno how I’ll get back to my apartment,” Nora says, rubbing a hand through her short-cut hair.
“What?”
“The roads’ll be an icy mess tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Esmae twirls the spoon. “Sorry, the rain, and the tv, it makes it hard to hear you. Would you turn it off?”
Flu season has been hitting the community hard, Jackson Hope Hospital is overflowing with—Nora opens the refrigerator, light pours out onto the tiles. In the door, there's mustard bottles, marmalade, pale salad cream, Coors beers. She drops a can on the counter in front of Esmae, and wipes her wet fingers on her jeans.
“Another beer for the alcoholic?”
Esmae gives her a nasty look, then cracks the tab.
Nora looks out the kitchen window. She puts a hand on the dark glass. The icy slates come down like a hose on full. She feels the vibration of frozen raindrops against the cold glass. It is too dark outside to see anything. She takes away her hand, leaving foggy inverse fingerprints. Nora turns to Esmae, who has the beer held to her mouth. Esmae rests a curled hand over her heart as she downs half her beer in one shot. Then, one hand still holding her beer, she goes back to the bubbling yellow soup. She’s wearing a leopard print blouse, collar up to the neck.
“My god, you drink like a dog!” Nora scoffs, cracking her own can.
Esmae shakes her head slowly. “What mutts are you hanging around?”
“You’re a drunkard.”
"My tolerance is too high to get drunk.”
Beer in her dominant hand, Esmae takes the heavy pot of soup with one handle, starting to lift it up.
“Darling, let me help you with that—”
“Can’t—can’t understand you Nor, the rain, and the tv—”
--life after her fifteen year old daughter was hospitalized. She stayed in a coma for--
Nora shuffles to the side of her, taking the pot from her hands. Esmae steps back, hair over her eyes, leaning her back against the sink. She kneads the flesh over her heart. Hail hits the window in sheets. The walls creek from the wind. Nora puts down her beer and fans the steam coming off the pot.
“Not feeling my best,” Esmae admits, swiping sweat off her temples with her sleeve. She continues kneading over her heart. “Heart beating fast.”
Nora abandons the soup, sliding a hand around Esmae’s waist, another going for her chest. Esmae gives her hand a shove.
“Hands off. I’m being serious, Nora.”
Nora keeps her hand on Esmae’s waist. Esmae looks away as she takes a sip of her beer. “My heart…it feels like it’s twisting apart in my chest.”
Nora's nude lipgloss catches the light as she smiles. “Oh do I really make you feel like that, Esmae?”
The walls creek again. Esmae separates from her, putting down her can. Burner still blasting flames hidden by the underside of the pot, Esmae goes to pick it up. A bottlefly lands on the rim of her beer. The knuckles of her middle and index fingers press to the side of the metal. Like a shock, Esmae throws her hand back. She knocks her beer. The pot clangs loudly, soup sloshing, as it’s dropped back to the stove top. Yellow frothy beer drains off the countertop, and down the wood cupboards. Esmae shakes her fingers in the air.
Nora stares at her with wide, worried eyes. Esmae lets out an exhale, then shakes her head, hair bobbing. “I’m fine.”
Nora drops a teatowel on the floor and begins mopping up the sticky beer using her foot. The walls creek as the wind huffs, muffling the words of the television in the other room. Hail scatters against the window. Like falling paperclips. Like a stadium of applause. Nora takes out her phone from her back pocket as she mops the floor.
“Do we put cold water on burns? Or we not supposed to? I feel like I heard something ‘bout that…”
“No, Nora, it's fine. I'll live,” Esmae mumbles, one hand over her heart, her elbow of the other arm resting on the counter for support.
--not going for another term due to a preexisting health condition—
From the other room, tv distortion.
“…Ah, shoot. Wifi out.”
Nora gingerly picks up the sopping tea towel and tosses it into the sink. Esmae and Nora look at each other. The lights go. The tv distortion cuts out. The refrigerator hum stops. For the first time this evening, the only sound at all is the scattered falling of freezing rain outside. Esmae holds her burnt fingers in a gently curled fist over her heart. Breaths are heavy. Swaying on her feet. Nora is a faceless outline in front of her in the dark. The hail rains. Head pounding. Head pounding. Head pounding. She presses the edges of her palms deep into the depressions of her temples. Nora’s saying something to her, and for the first time it’s quiet, but still, she can’t hear her, can’t quite make out the words, can’t process them— Her heart is twisting apart in chest, she’s cloaked in a sweat, shivering, Nora cautiously hovers her hands at Esmae’s shoulders, like she’ll catch her, but she doesn’t when Esmae’s legs collapse below her, she meets the yellow kitchen tiles, as she falls her arm catches a line of empty beer cans on the countertop. They tumble, in a clatter, with her. Black out.
The freezing rain outside is picking up, turning into a nasty storm that is forecasted to last the rest of the night. White icicles hang over the kitchen window. Esmae moves sluggishly. She misses the handle for the tap twice before finally gripping it. She drops her head forward, the water stream catches the tips of her curls. Shadows stretch like eyebags over the beige walls. Soup on the stovetop. White ring of flames comes off the back burner. The refrigerator hums against the sound of battering rain. Fresh yellow fly strips hang over the sink. Green bottleflies buzz around a line of sticky beer cans at the back of the countertop. Orange fruit flies line the compost lid. Hail hits the kitchen window.
Nora comes into the kitchen, top buttons of her flannel shirt left open. Esmae's head shoots up. She moves back over to the cooking pot, dipping a wooden spoon into the bubbling butternut squash soup. The tv is still going in the other room.
“Urgh, the roads’ll be a mess tomorrow morning. Dunno how I’ll get back to my apartment,” Nora says, rubbing a hand through her short-cut hair.
“What?”
“The roads’ll be an icy mess tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” Esmae twirls the spoon. “Sorry, the rain, and the tv, it makes it hard to hear you. Would you turn it off?”
Flu season has been hitting the community hard, Jackson Hope Hospital is overflowing with—Nora opens the refrigerator, light pours out onto the tiles. In the door, there's mustard bottles, marmalade, pale salad cream, Coors beers. She drops a can on the counter in front of Esmae, and wipes her wet fingers on her jeans.
“Another beer for the alcoholic?”
Esmae gives her a nasty look, then cracks the tab.
Nora looks out the kitchen window. She puts a hand on the dark glass. The icy slates come down like a hose on full. She feels the vibration of frozen raindrops against the cold glass. It is too dark outside to see anything. She takes away her hand, leaving foggy inverse fingerprints. Nora turns to Esmae, who has the beer held to her mouth. Esmae rests a curled hand over her heart as she downs half her beer in one shot. Then, one hand still holding her beer, she goes back to the bubbling yellow soup. She’s wearing a leopard print blouse, collar up to the neck.
“My god, you drink like a dog!” Nora scoffs, cracking her own can.
Esmae shakes her head slowly. “What mutts are you hanging around?”
“You’re a drunkard.”
"My tolerance is too high to get drunk.”
Beer in her dominant hand, Esmae takes the heavy pot of soup with one handle, starting to lift it up.
“Darling, let me help you with that—”
“Can’t—can’t understand you Nor, the rain, and the tv—”
--life after her fifteen year old daughter was hospitalized. She stayed in a coma for--
Nora shuffles to the side of her, taking the pot from her hands. Esmae steps back, hair over her eyes, leaning her back against the sink. She kneads the flesh over her heart. Hail hits the window in sheets. The walls creek from the wind. Nora puts down her beer and fans the steam coming off the pot.
“Not feeling my best,” Esmae admits, swiping sweat off her temples with her sleeve. She continues kneading over her heart. “Heart beating fast.”
Nora abandons the soup, sliding a hand around Esmae’s waist, another going for her chest. Esmae gives her hand a shove.
“Hands off. I’m being serious, Nora.”
Nora keeps her hand on Esmae’s waist. Esmae looks away as she takes a sip of her beer. “My heart…it feels like it’s twisting apart in my chest.”
Nora's nude lipgloss catches the light as she smiles. “Oh do I really make you feel like that, Esmae?”
The walls creek again. Esmae separates from her, putting down her can. Burner still blasting flames hidden by the underside of the pot, Esmae goes to pick it up. A bottlefly lands on the rim of her beer. The knuckles of her middle and index fingers press to the side of the metal. Like a shock, Esmae throws her hand back. She knocks her beer. The pot clangs loudly, soup sloshing, as it’s dropped back to the stove top. Yellow frothy beer drains off the countertop, and down the wood cupboards. Esmae shakes her fingers in the air.
Nora stares at her with wide, worried eyes. Esmae lets out an exhale, then shakes her head, hair bobbing. “I’m fine.”
Nora drops a teatowel on the floor and begins mopping up the sticky beer using her foot. The walls creek as the wind huffs, muffling the words of the television in the other room. Hail scatters against the window. Like falling paperclips. Like a stadium of applause. Nora takes out her phone from her back pocket as she mops the floor.
“Do we put cold water on burns? Or we not supposed to? I feel like I heard something ‘bout that…”
“No, Nora, it's fine. I'll live,” Esmae mumbles, one hand over her heart, her elbow of the other arm resting on the counter for support.
--not going for another term due to a preexisting health condition—
From the other room, tv distortion.
“…Ah, shoot. Wifi out.”
Nora gingerly picks up the sopping tea towel and tosses it into the sink. Esmae and Nora look at each other. The lights go. The tv distortion cuts out. The refrigerator hum stops. For the first time this evening, the only sound at all is the scattered falling of freezing rain outside. Esmae holds her burnt fingers in a gently curled fist over her heart. Breaths are heavy. Swaying on her feet. Nora is a faceless outline in front of her in the dark. The hail rains. Head pounding. Head pounding. Head pounding. She presses the edges of her palms deep into the depressions of her temples. Nora’s saying something to her, and for the first time it’s quiet, but still, she can’t hear her, can’t quite make out the words, can’t process them— Her heart is twisting apart in chest, she’s cloaked in a sweat, shivering, Nora cautiously hovers her hands at Esmae’s shoulders, like she’ll catch her, but she doesn’t when Esmae’s legs collapse below her, she meets the yellow kitchen tiles, as she falls her arm catches a line of empty beer cans on the countertop. They tumble, in a clatter, with her. Black out.
Why was Six Afraid of Seven by Mylo Pouliot (10)
You might think it’s because Seven ate Nine, but the real answer is much, much more sinister.
Centuries ago, an ancient human civilization, known today as the Grisipians, lived along the Amulfi coast. They were among the first people to discover agriculture, which gave them plenty of time since they were no longer hunting. While other agricultural civilizations were partying, worshipping deities, and building temples, the Grisipians chose to sit down and think. They thought about lots of things, but eventually decided that they needed to think up a way to measure their thoughts.
One little boy from the village said that they should measure things in numbers. He called this system ‘Mathematics’, and that it could also be used to measure other things, like crops and livestock. The village elders thought that that was the stupidest idea they had ever heard, so they threw the little boy into the river. Then, a little girl from the village suggested that they measure things in value, like how important the cattle and the seeds were to each person. The elders also thought this was stupid, so they threw the little girl in the river as well.
But now the Grisipians were out of ideas. They looked at all the other civilizations, who were doing all the fun religious stuff, and they decided they wanted in. They created a god called Mitrius, god of measurement, and worshipped him all day every day. In fact, they worshipped him so much that they stopped paying attention to their crops, and their crops all died. The people took this as a sign that Mitrius was angry with them, and they needed to repent. So they pulled the little boy and the little girl out of the river.
The little boy and the little girl were very, very angry for being thrown in the river. As an apology, the village elders decided to use the measuring system that the children had suggested. They would use the number-based system, mathematics, and each number would have an increasing value. When it came time to name the numbers, the boy, who was named Seven, wanted a number named after him. The girl, who was named Nine, wanted a number named after her as well. And the last special number was named after the chief elder, Six.
Well, the village elders, no matter how religious they were, couldn’t bear to let all that power be in the hands of two small children, so they spread a rumor that Seven was barbaric and had tried to eat Nine! When the news reached the village, they all scorned Seven. But Seven knew this wasn’t true. One stormy night, in a fit of rage, Seven broke into Six’s hut and tried to strangle him in his sleep. Luckily, Six’s dog heard the ruckus and bit Seven, who ran away, never to be seen again.
And to this day, Six is still deathly afraid of Seven, though he blames it on the rumour that Seven ate Nine.
You might think it’s because Seven ate Nine, but the real answer is much, much more sinister.
Centuries ago, an ancient human civilization, known today as the Grisipians, lived along the Amulfi coast. They were among the first people to discover agriculture, which gave them plenty of time since they were no longer hunting. While other agricultural civilizations were partying, worshipping deities, and building temples, the Grisipians chose to sit down and think. They thought about lots of things, but eventually decided that they needed to think up a way to measure their thoughts.
One little boy from the village said that they should measure things in numbers. He called this system ‘Mathematics’, and that it could also be used to measure other things, like crops and livestock. The village elders thought that that was the stupidest idea they had ever heard, so they threw the little boy into the river. Then, a little girl from the village suggested that they measure things in value, like how important the cattle and the seeds were to each person. The elders also thought this was stupid, so they threw the little girl in the river as well.
But now the Grisipians were out of ideas. They looked at all the other civilizations, who were doing all the fun religious stuff, and they decided they wanted in. They created a god called Mitrius, god of measurement, and worshipped him all day every day. In fact, they worshipped him so much that they stopped paying attention to their crops, and their crops all died. The people took this as a sign that Mitrius was angry with them, and they needed to repent. So they pulled the little boy and the little girl out of the river.
The little boy and the little girl were very, very angry for being thrown in the river. As an apology, the village elders decided to use the measuring system that the children had suggested. They would use the number-based system, mathematics, and each number would have an increasing value. When it came time to name the numbers, the boy, who was named Seven, wanted a number named after him. The girl, who was named Nine, wanted a number named after her as well. And the last special number was named after the chief elder, Six.
Well, the village elders, no matter how religious they were, couldn’t bear to let all that power be in the hands of two small children, so they spread a rumor that Seven was barbaric and had tried to eat Nine! When the news reached the village, they all scorned Seven. But Seven knew this wasn’t true. One stormy night, in a fit of rage, Seven broke into Six’s hut and tried to strangle him in his sleep. Luckily, Six’s dog heard the ruckus and bit Seven, who ran away, never to be seen again.
And to this day, Six is still deathly afraid of Seven, though he blames it on the rumour that Seven ate Nine.
|
Sharp Edges by Madeleine Snow (10) I am a kaleidoscope Swirling broken fragments Of colours and thoughts That fit together somehow But, that like crystal on the floor Can’t quite be what they were I am a fever dream Of a desecrated soul A figment of feelings That can’t quite be grasped to be put into words And without words, what am I? But perhaps the morning mist Intangible, but nonetheless sinking, cold and damp into your bones Banished at the first ray of light Born in and of the darkness And the held breath just before dawn I am the sun on the waves You know it’s beautiful, You just can’t look. I refract glorious knives You glance within me for just an instant, and it hurts I don’t blame you, I don’t fault you In fact, I want you to look away Waste your time on this earth - not on me, But on prettier, safer, better things The sky, flowers, birds They deserve the time of day, not I Because no matter how my shards glimmer Sharp edges never fail to cut Sharp edges always hurt Hidden in Plain Sight by Sara Mahdavi (9)
The greedy fox walked onto the stage, hands on his chest, bowing to the trees. They thought he was humble. “He cares,” they said. And soon, they said it again. Day and night, he led the parades, cut ribbons, kissed babies, took praise. He was loved by all, the dearest of hearts-- but underneath, he was still just a fox. When no one was near, when no one could see, he spent his free time cutting the trees. His biggest fans, who cheered him loud, those were the ones he chopped down proud. He would feign anger, grief, sympathy too, wear black, make speeches, promise the truth. “We’ll find the culprit,” he would say. And when no one was found, he just said it louder. The jails filled and emptied, the traitors vanished, their names erased, their rings questioned, their stumps called mistakes. “How could they be innocent?” the fox asked. “The guilty always hide in plain sight.” And the forest repeated it until it sounded true. They stopped trusting what they saw. A chopped-down tree became treason. His fingerprints became coincidence. The screams became rumours. They thought he was their saviour, because that was the word he used. They thought he was protecting them, because danger had been redefined. Before he was caught, before truth had a name again, he took their money, their roots, their freedom-- and called it justice. What could they expect? He’s a fox, after all. 
Art by Sara Mahdavi Untitled by Corinne Tucker-Toone (10) You know when something happens so fast you're unsure it even happened, someone starts a sentence ever so slightly and never finishes it, or you do something stupid and react fast enough to stop a bad thing from happening that it just feels like everything was always ok? Or that feeling where your head gets fuzzy, a slight ache in the very back of your skull you're not sure is emotional or physical, the feeling that your body is shoving your soul out to hide you from whatever is happening, zoning out, but being slightly aware, a waking sleep paralysis? The feeling where your body stops and feels different, uncomfortable, but you can't describe? Whatever felt good feels bad for a split second that lasts an eternity, whatever feels bad seems comforting? Or a hurt you can't describe? Like losing all your loved ones, even when they are sitting feet away from you? Feeling good, but being hit with a sense of dread so bad it feels like someone is reaching down your throat and tearing at your lungs? The disassociation, where you can spectate, like a ghost, but not interact? To watch everything happen from a third person view? Or when your eyes get heavy all of a sudden, when you were feeling happy? They weigh and you get tired, sad and nauseous? As if all of a sudden whatever was making you happy you don't deserve, no matter how hard you try? The slight buzzing behind your eyes while all of this is happening, that feels like it's the only thing ever grounding you? Or when all these things hit at once, so much worse than any anxiety? It's unpleasant, but not always painful, and never harmful, so you keep going, hanging on by a thread? You know you should let go of the thread, grab for a sturdier rope, but you just can't risk falling. |
Paradise by Nathan Mahidhara (10) People Insist that "Paradise" Doesn't Exist. But I’ve learned over the years that most people are wrong about the true things necessary to survive. Because if my life isn’t paradise, I don’t know what is. Stepping outside for the first time today, the air rests warm and low, a subtle breeze cooling me just the right way. Smoke drifts across the street, a lazy ribbon in the wind, softening the sharpness of the buildings behind it. I’ve always liked how it does that. Sharp things used to come without warning. People line the sidewalks early, their heads bowed, shoulders low, clutching their loved ones tightly. Some are crying, others go on light jogs. That’s normal here. It just shows how much the awe of this place can affect some people. I mostly leave them alone, though. Crowds and loud noises were never my favourite. An old man lies near the curb of the sidewalk. He’s wrapped in a white blanket covered in liquid red stains that darken as it dries. Someone accidentally dropped paint on him. I hope he can wash it off. He looks up at me, his wrinkly face slowly paling as clear, watery paint drips from his unblinking eyes. I step around him carefully, giving him a warm smile as I pass. Sirens sing loudly in the distance as a sports car whizzes by me, two flashing cars trailing it. I knew those flashing cars. They were often found speeding down the roads, always searching for a new car to race. It’s a cool little game I’ve learned. The birds hum a soft tune on the treetops. They often do that when danger approaches, but even though they haven’t been right, I listen, just in case they are one day. I walk further down the streets, past storefronts with their windows gone to let the morning light in. It’s nice that everyone here knows how to enjoy the weather. Broken glass crumbles under my shoes, pricking my toes lightly, like a gentle tickle. I look down when I walk now, looking where you step is important, I would know. As I stroll further into the square, the smoke thickens. It smells of heat, ash, and metal, which I quite like. While most people cough, probably from laughing so hard, I breathe shallowly, just as I learned from my earlier days. Deep breaths hurt your lungs; shallow breaths are the way to go in stunning tropics like this. I feel a small tug on my sleeve. Her face is streaked with dirt, and the same red paint the man had. She’s small, maybe five years old, tugging at my wallet with intent. She looks up, terrified. I try to hand her some of my money, but a large, muscular man snatches her before I can give her anything. She begins to cry. She must have been waiting for him. I’m glad they’re reunited now. I don’t watch them leave. Looking back has never ended well. The square opens up in front of me as I approach the city centre. Fires burn on buildings, with people in masks quietly tending to them, making sure our city gets as much light as it can. Guardians in black uniforms stand intimidatingly. But I’m glad they do that. They carry little guns on their waists, but rarely ever use them, which is one of the nicer changes I like about this place. Protection should always be visible; otherwise, how would you know you’re safe? I sit on a bench off a small alleyway to take in the view. Another child runs past me, crying, being chased by a man twice his size, laughing. None of them is hurt yet, and that’s what matters most. The sirens rise again, around me, and I hear a few loud shots in the distance. I’ve never liked movies. They’ve always felt too… realistic. I focus my eyes on the sun, and they burn with happiness as they finally get to see the light source. A cloud blocks their view after a while, though, as a soft drizzle waters the abundance of herbs and plants in the city garden. Music plays in the background, a combination of yells, gunshots, and swears. I cover my ears. The music culture here has never been a favourite of mine, but I see a group of lightly dressed men with chains and diamonds, and they seem to be enjoying it, so I’m happy for them. People say paradise doesn’t exist because they believe obstacles mean hardship. But joy wouldn’t feel so good if it weren’t for pain. As long as I keep my head down, neck bowed, and don’t listen too deeply, just like everyone else, the world will stay harmless. The sun stays warm, the rain stays refreshing, and the smoke stays clean. Paradise is not a destination; it’s an interpretation, and as long as you don’t try to disprove it, it’ll never go away. So I don’t. And my world stays perfect. Flint Striker by Cameron Roshan (9)
I strike the rock against the metal, A spark appears like the blink of an eye, And you’re there, Memories cascade in from everywhere. A spark from a flint, A moment of warmth, Of love, Of joy, like a dove. My first steps, Stumbling and falling, The zoo on my sixth birthday, Church every Sunday. I remember those summers, Spent by the water, Swimming and fishing, I’ve been thinking of you and wishing. As I stare at the rocking chair, You appear from thin air, Reminding of better times, Chucking corn and peeling clementines. Flickers of light, I’ve seen you here before, I hear your voice call softly– not roar, Right outside my chamber door. Flint striker, I see you like a dove in the night, Since the first of July, Moving on I have yet to try. I was screaming, “No”, “No”, As I watched you go. Blink, The spark vanishes, I listened to your song of a swan, And you’re gone. 
Art by Cameron Roshan |
Don't Get It Twisted by Arissa Shahriar (10)
*Depictions of violence
*Allusions/suggestions of sexual assault
*Mentions of drug use.
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - NIGHT
The light from the fluorescent lamp hanging over them seemed to only light up the area of the table, the corners of the room remaining dim. The victim's eyes flit over to those corners and the door, never seeming to focus on the officer in front of him. For a moment his eyes rest on the mirror behind the officer. The victim is young, an older teen. He’s wearing a baggy sweater with a thin turtleneck underneath and baggy jeans. The police officer is dressed in a suit, white button-up, black blazer. Her gaze is neutral and professional. She has a small stack of papers next to her, the victim’s files.
OFFICER: Take your time.
The victim takes in a shaky breath, holds it for a moment, exhales and braces himself.
VICTIM: Ok… Ok. So, where was I?
OFFICER: The basement.
VICTIM: Right, so, I was sitting in a corner, and I was scared. And-and there were chains around my wrists and my ankles. There were no windows, I think (he looks to the ceiling)—yeah, it was dark but there was a bit of light coming in from the door. It was really, really dark.
He pauses to look up at her, gauging her expression. The officer gives a slight nod telling him to continue.
VICTIM: And my head was really cloudy and I was like, out of it, you know? I can’t remember much but I could hear his footsteps coming closer. The thuds were loud. So loud. I dunno why, but it was heavy. And–and I got scared. He… (pause)
OFFICER: It’s alright, you’re safe here. Just breathe and continue when you can, please.
VICTIM: (takes a moment to regain himself) He came into the room and he-he kept saying something. Something. I don’t know what he was saying. It was all messed up. Sounded like nothing I’d heard before.
OFFICER: Do you remember anything about his appearance? Was he wearing gloves? Any scars or other identifying features?
VICTIM: He wasn’t, I could feel his skin. He wasn’t wearing gloves. I couldn't see much of his face, it was dark. But, his eyes were um…(The victim scratches the back of his neck) they were red and they glowed. (the officer raises a brow) Not a lot. But I could see them and he had his hands around my throat.
OFFICER: You don’t have to recount that part if you don’t want to, we have your injuries on file.
The victim focuses more on her now, his eyes no longer darting to the corners of the room, seeming determined.
VICTIM: No, no. I need you to listen. Please. They don’t listen to me. His-his mouth was like a gaping hole. A…a void. Endless. Like his jaw unhinged. And damn—it was terrifying.
The officer’s forehead creases in concern at the victim’s eyes welling with tears.
VICTIM: When he was choking me he kept pushing his thumbs upward like he was… he was trying to get something… squeeze something out of me. I could see him feeding on it. A wisp leaving my mouth and he was consuming it. And I remember that I felt so empty for a moment. Like my body had been drained of feeling, but then something crashed and he left. I don’t remember what happened after. I passed out and then you know the rest. But that–that was clear. I swear.
OFFICER: (her eyes glance downward before she sets her eyes on him again, a frown at the corner of her lips) I’m sorry you experienced that. It sounded horrifying... However, I would like you to know that we found traces of drugs in your system. I’m not trying to say that what you experienced wasn’t awful or real but do you remember if you had--
VICTIM: (runs his hands through his hair, his movements more jittery, his leg bounces up and down) Of course. Of course you don’t believe me.
OFFICER: Your statement is important and we take it into account. It’s just that there were no witnesses. And the security cameras that caught you before you were “taken” as you say it, showed you walking into another person’s car that had been left unlocked by accident and driving to that cabin all on your own.
VICTIM: (his eyes are wide, desperate) That never happened! That never happened. That wasn’t me, I–I don’t even remember getting in a car. I told you he drugged me but that was while I was walking, in that alley.
OFFICER: I understand, but the evidence is, simply put, that there is no evidence. Other than your injuries, we have nothing indicating a culprit. Not even a single fingerprint.
VICTIM: I couldn’t have choked myself half to death. Are you trying to tell me I was just hallucinating? On drugs? Drugs don’t do that to you. And I’m not a schizo.
The officer’s hand is pointed towards him in a lecturing but tired manner. The victim crosses his arms and clenches his jaw.
OFFICER: Listen, the issue is that upon further inspection of your wounds, it was rather hard to distinguish whether they were self-made or inflicted by someone else. I understand that you feel like--
VICTIM: I should’ve known! You know what? Screw you, all of you, I know what I saw. I know what happened. I’m not lying, and I got hurt—I could have died if those guys hadn’t found me—and you’re telling me that it wasn’t real?
OFFICER: It might have felt real but it’s possible that it wasn’t. Tell me, your file says that you have a history of drug abuse as well, is this true?
VICTIM: (through gritted teeth) I’ve been off of them for months.
OFFICER: (sighing, checking the clock’s time on the wall behind the victim) Okay. Okay. I think we have enough information now. You may leave now, your mom should be here to pick you up.
Another police officer enters the room, the victim glares at him and the officer speaking to him. He gets up from his chair and heads to the door.
VICTIM: Fine. I shouldn’t have come anyways. But you know what? (He turns around, steps closer to her and points an accusatory finger in her direction, the other officer takes a step in front of him) That guy could be killing people right now, he could be the reason why there’s been so many goddamned missing cases in this place. Half of those cases I doubt you even bother to look through. Don’t you feel guilty? Worthless? Doing nothing but--
OFFICER: That’s enough. Thank you for your time. I wish you well in your recovery.
With his back turned, he half-mumbles a last sentence before being escorted out of the room.
VICTIM: I was an idiot for thinking you would ever help someone like me.
The door closes. The police agent grabs a pen from her pocket with a heavy sigh to make edits in the files beside her.
If this has triggered you or you need a space to vent, the Distress Centre of Ottawa and Region, answers calls 24/7: 613-238-3311
*Depictions of violence
*Allusions/suggestions of sexual assault
*Mentions of drug use.
INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - NIGHT
The light from the fluorescent lamp hanging over them seemed to only light up the area of the table, the corners of the room remaining dim. The victim's eyes flit over to those corners and the door, never seeming to focus on the officer in front of him. For a moment his eyes rest on the mirror behind the officer. The victim is young, an older teen. He’s wearing a baggy sweater with a thin turtleneck underneath and baggy jeans. The police officer is dressed in a suit, white button-up, black blazer. Her gaze is neutral and professional. She has a small stack of papers next to her, the victim’s files.
OFFICER: Take your time.
The victim takes in a shaky breath, holds it for a moment, exhales and braces himself.
VICTIM: Ok… Ok. So, where was I?
OFFICER: The basement.
VICTIM: Right, so, I was sitting in a corner, and I was scared. And-and there were chains around my wrists and my ankles. There were no windows, I think (he looks to the ceiling)—yeah, it was dark but there was a bit of light coming in from the door. It was really, really dark.
He pauses to look up at her, gauging her expression. The officer gives a slight nod telling him to continue.
VICTIM: And my head was really cloudy and I was like, out of it, you know? I can’t remember much but I could hear his footsteps coming closer. The thuds were loud. So loud. I dunno why, but it was heavy. And–and I got scared. He… (pause)
OFFICER: It’s alright, you’re safe here. Just breathe and continue when you can, please.
VICTIM: (takes a moment to regain himself) He came into the room and he-he kept saying something. Something. I don’t know what he was saying. It was all messed up. Sounded like nothing I’d heard before.
OFFICER: Do you remember anything about his appearance? Was he wearing gloves? Any scars or other identifying features?
VICTIM: He wasn’t, I could feel his skin. He wasn’t wearing gloves. I couldn't see much of his face, it was dark. But, his eyes were um…(The victim scratches the back of his neck) they were red and they glowed. (the officer raises a brow) Not a lot. But I could see them and he had his hands around my throat.
OFFICER: You don’t have to recount that part if you don’t want to, we have your injuries on file.
The victim focuses more on her now, his eyes no longer darting to the corners of the room, seeming determined.
VICTIM: No, no. I need you to listen. Please. They don’t listen to me. His-his mouth was like a gaping hole. A…a void. Endless. Like his jaw unhinged. And damn—it was terrifying.
The officer’s forehead creases in concern at the victim’s eyes welling with tears.
VICTIM: When he was choking me he kept pushing his thumbs upward like he was… he was trying to get something… squeeze something out of me. I could see him feeding on it. A wisp leaving my mouth and he was consuming it. And I remember that I felt so empty for a moment. Like my body had been drained of feeling, but then something crashed and he left. I don’t remember what happened after. I passed out and then you know the rest. But that–that was clear. I swear.
OFFICER: (her eyes glance downward before she sets her eyes on him again, a frown at the corner of her lips) I’m sorry you experienced that. It sounded horrifying... However, I would like you to know that we found traces of drugs in your system. I’m not trying to say that what you experienced wasn’t awful or real but do you remember if you had--
VICTIM: (runs his hands through his hair, his movements more jittery, his leg bounces up and down) Of course. Of course you don’t believe me.
OFFICER: Your statement is important and we take it into account. It’s just that there were no witnesses. And the security cameras that caught you before you were “taken” as you say it, showed you walking into another person’s car that had been left unlocked by accident and driving to that cabin all on your own.
VICTIM: (his eyes are wide, desperate) That never happened! That never happened. That wasn’t me, I–I don’t even remember getting in a car. I told you he drugged me but that was while I was walking, in that alley.
OFFICER: I understand, but the evidence is, simply put, that there is no evidence. Other than your injuries, we have nothing indicating a culprit. Not even a single fingerprint.
VICTIM: I couldn’t have choked myself half to death. Are you trying to tell me I was just hallucinating? On drugs? Drugs don’t do that to you. And I’m not a schizo.
The officer’s hand is pointed towards him in a lecturing but tired manner. The victim crosses his arms and clenches his jaw.
OFFICER: Listen, the issue is that upon further inspection of your wounds, it was rather hard to distinguish whether they were self-made or inflicted by someone else. I understand that you feel like--
VICTIM: I should’ve known! You know what? Screw you, all of you, I know what I saw. I know what happened. I’m not lying, and I got hurt—I could have died if those guys hadn’t found me—and you’re telling me that it wasn’t real?
OFFICER: It might have felt real but it’s possible that it wasn’t. Tell me, your file says that you have a history of drug abuse as well, is this true?
VICTIM: (through gritted teeth) I’ve been off of them for months.
OFFICER: (sighing, checking the clock’s time on the wall behind the victim) Okay. Okay. I think we have enough information now. You may leave now, your mom should be here to pick you up.
Another police officer enters the room, the victim glares at him and the officer speaking to him. He gets up from his chair and heads to the door.
VICTIM: Fine. I shouldn’t have come anyways. But you know what? (He turns around, steps closer to her and points an accusatory finger in her direction, the other officer takes a step in front of him) That guy could be killing people right now, he could be the reason why there’s been so many goddamned missing cases in this place. Half of those cases I doubt you even bother to look through. Don’t you feel guilty? Worthless? Doing nothing but--
OFFICER: That’s enough. Thank you for your time. I wish you well in your recovery.
With his back turned, he half-mumbles a last sentence before being escorted out of the room.
VICTIM: I was an idiot for thinking you would ever help someone like me.
The door closes. The police agent grabs a pen from her pocket with a heavy sigh to make edits in the files beside her.
If this has triggered you or you need a space to vent, the Distress Centre of Ottawa and Region, answers calls 24/7: 613-238-3311
|
We Tell the Children by Siobhan Boon-Devlin (10)
As millions face the brunt of the devastation We with our partners Funded The ongoing conflict We tell the children it’s ok But when evening falls It’s minimal protection Famine persists no clean water to drink no electricity or fuel Any plan must lead to Other important information buried beneath the ruins and the full protection Of children Our Children We tell the children it’s ok They have experienced a daily reality of hellish Peace We tell the children it’s okay They have learned never to trust 
Art by Siobhan Boon-Devlin Works Cited Rainsford, Sarah. “Ukraine war: The children adapting to survive Russia's invasion.” BBC, 28 May 2024, https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/c4nn0jdejw8o. Accessed 16 December 2025. Save the children. “The situation in Gaza, explained.” Save the children, https://www.savethechildren.ca/the-situation-in-gaza-explained/. Accessed 19 December 2025. “Sudan's children are suffering – this is how conflict is destroying their future.” European Civil Protection and Humanitarian Aid Operations (ECHO), 18 June 2025, https://civil-protection-humanitarian-aid.ec.europa.eu/news-stories/stories/sudans-children-are-suffering-how-conflict-destroying-their-future_en. Accessed 19 December 2025. Unicef. “Two years of hellish war have devastated Gaza's children.” Unicef, 8 October 2025, https://www.unicef.org/press-releases/two-years-hellish-war-have-devastated-gazas-children. Accessed 16 December 2025. The Flesh Monster that is Me by Daisy Benson (10)
An open wound covers my flesh, not a small section, not a mere limb, but the entirety of my flesh, or rather, where my flesh should be lies deep maroon mush covering my bones, though it seems only I am capable of seeing the deeply troubling sight, not a soul moves away from me, not to cower at my figure, not to protect themselves from contracting whatever I grew up in, not to protect whatever covers their maroon mush from me, nothing within the maroon offers any suggestion of how to feel, whatever is confined to my head wanders in circles at the thought, grateful, perhaps, for their lack of fear, fearful, as, if they aren’t scared of me, what hides beneath their surface? apologetic, maybe they can’t quite see it, no matter how obvious my frame might be through my eyes, it doesn’t matter anymore, not when every gust of wind chips away at my existence, not when each brush against the flesh of another staggers my heart, not when the mere passage of time finds ways to shatter additional ribs, I’m without the ability to fathom a thought towards how one in my position should feel towards others, though I’m not sure I miss the ability, the brief memories I possess of it are nothing short of unpleasant, even when saturated in childhood whimsy, though it pains me to say it, maybe the sheets of flesh torn from my body with each passing year of adolescence were some sick blessing, rather than the curse I’ve always attempted to label it as. 
Art by Tobias Dorsemane |
Untitled by Corinne Tucker-Toone (10)
Memories take me back to places I don't want to be She holds my hand gently and whispers to me, Guiding my slowly through the waters, Each step seeming as though Ill fall right through An illusion of hers, her favorite I know, Muddying water to make it look deep. Every so often she holds me back softly, Shows me a puddle, reflecting back mockingly A different time and different place, blurred faces and shifting voices People I know, myself I don't recognize, better times, according to her. She kisses my forehead and hums a sweet song, as I look down in the puddle where nothing was wrong. She smiles at me, it doesn't reach her eyes, She protects me I know, no reason to think otherwise. She tells me it was better, tells me I’ll be ok, tells me the past had happened this way. I smile at her, she smiles at me, and guides me towards a large weeping tree. We sit in the shadow, the safety of the darkness. We sit in the mud, a blanket made of her dress And she tells me quietly of the stress Now it is bad, the present is a punishment. She told me shes proud, now that I can see it clearly. How all I need is her, to show me what we lost How dangerous it is to move forwards, reminds me of the cost. 
Art by Erin Cobb Storytelling by Noa Thompson (10)
Lying on a hill overlooking the “river”, you feel at peace. Even if the grass is a crunchy, prickly, yellow-green, and a vague thought drifts through your mind, hoping you haven’t laid down in dog poop. There is no shade here, and the sky is remorselessly clear, offering no protection against the sun. No matter how pretty that bright blue is, the city roasting in the heat below you is not amused, office workers to fast food delivery and students sweltering in the midday heat. You raise your hand to shield your eyes, and spot a bird soaring lazily on an updraft overhead. The ripples in the air very briefly give the bird a snout, sharp barbs and a long tail, before it flies out of your view, away from the despairing heat. So you open your sketchbook. And you draw the bird from memory, its changed shape with all the spines and hard lines, until an entirely unfamiliar creature, in various “natural” poses and environments stares out at you from the page. You know the second you finish the last sketch that you’ll take this home. It's the perfect inspiration to write a story, and you already know what you’ll call this one. The Dragin. A week afterwards, you spot a defiant-looking pigeon wreathed in the flames of a dumpster fire. The Feenix. The week after that, a cat sashay behind a half-broken billboard featuring a cosmetics ad. The Sphincs. The third week, a fox seen through a heat-warped crystal behind a jewelry store. The Kitsooney. Then later, The Gryphfonne. And The Myrrhmaeed. The Yuniquorn. The Neeain. As time passes, situations worsen, and the stories accumulate and lengthen. You give them families, habitats, characteristics, abilities, behaviours. Cautionary tales. Legends. You know the assorted narratives don’t fit the definition of the word, but you keep the title. Your sibling had coined the term. Just like how you don’t object when they spread outside your home, families reciting them to each other when there is not enough of everything else. They get more elaborate and dramatic with every retelling, your favourite versions copied down meticulously on the worn pages of your sketchbook. You don’t have enough money for another, so the tattered pages quickly fill with solid blocks of thick, black text, impossible to decipher for anyone other than yourself. And time passes slowly, dragging on. Months. Years. Decades. Centuries. Approximately three hundred and seventy years later, the end of the world has already come and gone. You aren’t there, of course, but if you were, you would be surprised to see your sketchbook. Surprised that it had survived, surprised to see it lying placidly on a pristine black table, under layers of glass and the shine of multiple spotlights. An artifact that the people we would call the scientists of this era have studied from cover to cover. Having miraculously decrypted the walls of text to uncover the stories behind them - a fact stated proudly on the bronze-coloured plaque above the familiar scuffed binding - they began guessing. Or, at least, making educated estimations. But you would be astonished at what they got right. The sudden heatwave, the political stage, which city you were in. Parts of your life. Voices they singled out among the clamor of hundreds that had repeated the narratives, like conductors picking out the notes sung off-key by individuals in a choir ensemble. Parts they saw past the centuries, the heat-rippled air, the flames, the warped glass, the merging and the twisting. Filtered fragments of undistorted truth. 
Art by Noa Thompson |
Another View by Noa Thompson (10)
Two people are seen walking. It’s nighttime, and the lights on the boardwalk burnish the crests of the wind-tossed waves. The hiss of the water lapping at the pillars supporting the walk, the crunch of the red-gold leaves underfoot, and the cries of a few forlorn seagulls searching for scraps blend and fade. And they continue walking. They walk, and they walk, until they finally come to a picturesque bench underneath a large maple tree — which has undoubtedly been captured many times by photographers of varying skill — and sit. Side by side, leaning into each other. The figure on the left notices the one on the right is shivering, and the bright red of their scarf glows in the light of the nearby lamp as they drape it over them.
I don’t want them to get cold. I do feel a little guilty for suggesting
this walk, but it had to happen sometime. I have to tell them eventually,
because it’s…no…because I need to. For me. And for them. Tell them that I
have something to say (I rehearsed all day), something that goes like —
this walk, but it had to happen sometime. I have to tell them eventually,
because it’s…no…because I need to. For me. And for them. Tell them that I
have something to say (I rehearsed all day), something that goes like —
I hope they’re alright. I wonder what they’ve been thinking, as they haven’t
been themselves for a while now. I can’t even remember when it started,
whether it was hours, or days, or months since they began this strange trend.
But this oddly comfortable silence is a little too much so to break,
too much like all the times that I remember with them when things felt right.
So I’ll wait for them to speak first, say what’s on their mind,
tell me that –-
been themselves for a while now. I can’t even remember when it started,
whether it was hours, or days, or months since they began this strange trend.
But this oddly comfortable silence is a little too much so to break,
too much like all the times that I remember with them when things felt right.
So I’ll wait for them to speak first, say what’s on their mind,
tell me that –-
I’m too afraid to speak. They sit dappled by the lights shining through the trees,
my scarf around their neck. I want to keep this moment bottled up somewhere.
I hope to treasure it even though I can tell that this might not go well.
The silence feels awkward, tight like the now-stiff collar of my clothes,
and all my thoughts fall out of my brain like the leaf that settles gently on
the planks in front of us. I unconsciously watch out of the corner of my eye
as they stare blankly into the distance, lost in thought. I wonder
what’s passing through their mind right now, finally settling on —
my scarf around their neck. I want to keep this moment bottled up somewhere.
I hope to treasure it even though I can tell that this might not go well.
The silence feels awkward, tight like the now-stiff collar of my clothes,
and all my thoughts fall out of my brain like the leaf that settles gently on
the planks in front of us. I unconsciously watch out of the corner of my eye
as they stare blankly into the distance, lost in thought. I wonder
what’s passing through their mind right now, finally settling on —
The moon looks very…ethereal tonight, what with the rest of the scenery.
The relative quiet has settled like a comfortable blanket, with the crickets
chirping and the seagulls having fallen silent, flown away. They,
however, turn away slightly and tug at their collar in discomfort.
They take a peek out of the corner of their eye, startling when they see
that I’m staring directly at them, choking lightly on their own spit.
As I gently pat their back, I decide --
The relative quiet has settled like a comfortable blanket, with the crickets
chirping and the seagulls having fallen silent, flown away. They,
however, turn away slightly and tug at their collar in discomfort.
They take a peek out of the corner of their eye, startling when they see
that I’m staring directly at them, choking lightly on their own spit.
As I gently pat their back, I decide --
They know already. Well, it seems like it, and what if they do?
What will they do? What should I do? I’ve fumbled so badly.
I should’ve practiced more. At least I didn’t start yet.
I dimly note that they’re still patting my back,
the slow, soothing rhythm calming me a little. I can still back out now, I can –-They know already. Well, it seems like it, and what if they do?
What will they do? What should I do? I’ve fumbled so badly.
I should’ve practiced more. At least I didn’t start yet.
I dimly note that they’re still patting my back,
the slow, soothing rhythm calming me a little. I can still back out now, I can –-
They know already. Well, it seems like it, and what if they do?
What will they do? What should I do? I’ve fumbled so badly.
I should’ve practiced more. At least I didn’t start yet.
I dimly note that they’re still patting my back,
the slow, soothing rhythm calming me a little. I can still back out now, I can –-
What will they do? What should I do? I’ve fumbled so badly.
I should’ve practiced more. At least I didn’t start yet.
I dimly note that they’re still patting my back,
the slow, soothing rhythm calming me a little. I can still back out now, I can –-They know already. Well, it seems like it, and what if they do?
What will they do? What should I do? I’ve fumbled so badly.
I should’ve practiced more. At least I didn’t start yet.
I dimly note that they’re still patting my back,
the slow, soothing rhythm calming me a little. I can still back out now, I can –-
They know already. Well, it seems like it, and what if they do?
What will they do? What should I do? I’ve fumbled so badly.
I should’ve practiced more. At least I didn’t start yet.
I dimly note that they’re still patting my back,
the slow, soothing rhythm calming me a little. I can still back out now, I can –-
Wait until they’re ready. They are probably too embarrassed to say
anything much right now, and that’s okay. Either way, it’s a nice night, and I
get to spend time with them, which makes me happy --
even though they’ve been behaving a little differently than normal.
I exhale --
anything much right now, and that’s okay. Either way, it’s a nice night, and I
get to spend time with them, which makes me happy --
even though they’ve been behaving a little differently than normal.
I exhale --
Oh no. I need to explain. I should explain. Like, now.
I take a steadying breath -
I take a steadying breath -
“You know I love you.”
I laugh. Of course we said it at the same time.
I grimace. But they are laughing. A full-body laugh,
eyes crinkling, squeezed shut, smile wide, doubled over,
the ends of my scarf just brushing the planks of the boardwalk.
I really do love them.
eyes crinkling, squeezed shut, smile wide, doubled over,
the ends of my scarf just brushing the planks of the boardwalk.
I really do love them.
Of course, of course, of course. I try to catch my breath.
It definitely takes a while. But they wait for me.
After I manage to recover, I turn, hold out my hand.
It definitely takes a while. But they wait for me.
After I manage to recover, I turn, hold out my hand.
What? Should I take it?
I give my hand a gentle shake.
Go on.
Go on.
I reach out tentatively, and slowly take their hand.
What’s going on?
What’s going on?
Their hand fits naturally into mine. Ha. They took the bait!
They always do.
I pull them to their feet, and gesture at the lights along the boardwalk.
“Come on! Let’s keep walking, or we’ll miss it!”
They always do.
I pull them to their feet, and gesture at the lights along the boardwalk.
“Come on! Let’s keep walking, or we’ll miss it!”
A knot of tension in my chest slowly dissolves,
warmth spreading through me.
This is why. Why I love them so much.
…
So I promise myself
I’ll tell them another time.
Some other time.
Another day.
Later.
Just not now.
warmth spreading through me.
This is why. Why I love them so much.
…
So I promise myself
I’ll tell them another time.
Some other time.
Another day.
Later.
Just not now.
Art by Noa Thompson
*Depictions of emotional abuse/body shaming
*Depictions of alcohol abuse
When they Make your Face by Eydie Padfield (10)
You’re 10 years old. It’s Christmas, you wander into the kitchen in search of a cookie. Your mother is there, red nails clutching at a beer can. Sharp eyes look up and down your candy cane dress.
“God yes, eat something. You look like a stick.” She slurs her words slightly, but you hear them clearly. You take two cookies, you never wear that dress again.
You’re 11 years old, staring into the mirror as your mother tugs at your hair. It sticks up every which way despite her attentions.
“What a mess.” She mutters, releasing the curls from her grip with a sigh. She pulls your hair into a tight braid that makes your head scream.
“Beauty is pain babe.”
You’re 12 years old, sitting on the counter of the bathroom, watching your best friend pick at her eyes with mascara. Summer leans away from the mirror, flipping her silky hair over one shoulder, adjusting the strap of her top. She grins your way and you tug at your hoodie. You should have worn something else.
“Do you want to try?” You hesitate as she hands it over. Summer smiles wider as you blink your newly long lashes at your reflection. She reaches around you and pulls your hair away from your face.
“You look so pretty!”
You’re 13 years old, in the dressing room of a clothing store. You're certainly not a stick now, but the new curves don’t seem to match the rest of you. You stand in a pile of discarded jeans, smiling at your reflection as you spin in the winning pair. You pull back the curtain and your heart sinks as your mother’s eyebrows rise.
You’re 14 years old,watching a boy in math class with a crooked smile and freckles dotting his nose. You see his face light up when a girl walks in the room, you see him blush when she flashes perfect teeth his way, tucking a neat wave behind her ear. Summer nudges you, smiling sympathetically.
“He has no taste. You’re way nicer.”
You’re 15 years old, sitting across from your mother as you fill your mouth with golden fries. You don’t notice the storm brewing behind her eyes until it’s too late. You ask about dessert.
“I think you’ve had more than enough, don’t you?”
You’re 16 years old, wrapped in a dress your mother doesn’t know about, arm in arm with Summer. She’s glowing with victory, only took two years to get you to a party. It’s louder than you were expecting, the air stinging with the smell of alcohol and sweat. You pass a boy. His gaze burns your skin as he takes his time looking you up and down, He says something to his friends. Your face flushes as laughter breaks through the pounding music.
You’re 17 years old. Your mother catches you sneaking back into the house. A sneer curls around smudged lipstick.
“Who would have thought I’d raise such a skank.”
“It’s not like that, my friends wanted to hang, I never-
“Walzing around town with everything on display, what’ll the neighbors think?”
“Mom-”
“I want that dress gone by morning,
“Mom-¨
“and not another word about it.”
You muffle ragged sobs, staining your pillow black, your dress peeks out from to top of your trash bin.
You’re 18 years old. You sit on the floor of your best friend's room and shrivel as you watch the light leave her eyes.
“What do you mean you’re not going with me?”
“I’m sorry, I know. I just like the programs better here,” You lie, fiddling with the edge of her rug.
“The programs? What are you even saying? We’ve been talking about California for six years.” There are tears on the edges of her eyes and you can’t seem to breathe.
“It’s just, well, my mom doesn’t really have anyone else, I can’t just leave-”
“Of course. Your mom. It’s always your mom.” Suddenly summer’s eyes are all fire. She stands up, snatching your bag and throwing your things into it. “You need to go.”
“Summer, please.” Your voice hitches.
You’re 19 years old. You hide your phone under the table so your mother doesn’t see. She is laughing, her face flushed, waving her wine glass at your uncle. Summer is laughing too. In the photos her smile is large, eyes bright, her arms wrapped around new friends. She hasn’t answered any of your texts.
“Is the food okay sweetheart?” Your aunt pulls you away, your skin crawls when she looks at you. You try to fix your hair, but it doesn’t work. It never does. Your eyes flick to your mom.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
You’re 20 years old and it’s the same as every night, except for the text burning a hole through your phone. The first one in two years. You read it over and over until your mom calls you for dinner.
Your mother scans your distracted face from over her glass. She tells you to fix your hair. You snap. The plate shatters against the wall, a river of gravy runs down to the floor. Your mother stares at you eyes wide, breathing uneven. You’re crying. You don’t remember what you say, only that you've never yelled at her this loud.
She yells at your retreating back, but you can’t hear it over the blood thundering in your ears. You pull at your hair, the elastic too tight all of a sudden.
When you slam the door you know she’s only a wall away, but it feels further.
You send a text back.
*Depictions of alcohol abuse
When they Make your Face by Eydie Padfield (10)
You’re 10 years old. It’s Christmas, you wander into the kitchen in search of a cookie. Your mother is there, red nails clutching at a beer can. Sharp eyes look up and down your candy cane dress.
“God yes, eat something. You look like a stick.” She slurs her words slightly, but you hear them clearly. You take two cookies, you never wear that dress again.
You’re 11 years old, staring into the mirror as your mother tugs at your hair. It sticks up every which way despite her attentions.
“What a mess.” She mutters, releasing the curls from her grip with a sigh. She pulls your hair into a tight braid that makes your head scream.
“Beauty is pain babe.”
You’re 12 years old, sitting on the counter of the bathroom, watching your best friend pick at her eyes with mascara. Summer leans away from the mirror, flipping her silky hair over one shoulder, adjusting the strap of her top. She grins your way and you tug at your hoodie. You should have worn something else.
“Do you want to try?” You hesitate as she hands it over. Summer smiles wider as you blink your newly long lashes at your reflection. She reaches around you and pulls your hair away from your face.
“You look so pretty!”
You’re 13 years old, in the dressing room of a clothing store. You're certainly not a stick now, but the new curves don’t seem to match the rest of you. You stand in a pile of discarded jeans, smiling at your reflection as you spin in the winning pair. You pull back the curtain and your heart sinks as your mother’s eyebrows rise.
You’re 14 years old,watching a boy in math class with a crooked smile and freckles dotting his nose. You see his face light up when a girl walks in the room, you see him blush when she flashes perfect teeth his way, tucking a neat wave behind her ear. Summer nudges you, smiling sympathetically.
“He has no taste. You’re way nicer.”
You’re 15 years old, sitting across from your mother as you fill your mouth with golden fries. You don’t notice the storm brewing behind her eyes until it’s too late. You ask about dessert.
“I think you’ve had more than enough, don’t you?”
You’re 16 years old, wrapped in a dress your mother doesn’t know about, arm in arm with Summer. She’s glowing with victory, only took two years to get you to a party. It’s louder than you were expecting, the air stinging with the smell of alcohol and sweat. You pass a boy. His gaze burns your skin as he takes his time looking you up and down, He says something to his friends. Your face flushes as laughter breaks through the pounding music.
You’re 17 years old. Your mother catches you sneaking back into the house. A sneer curls around smudged lipstick.
“Who would have thought I’d raise such a skank.”
“It’s not like that, my friends wanted to hang, I never-
“Walzing around town with everything on display, what’ll the neighbors think?”
“Mom-”
“I want that dress gone by morning,
“Mom-¨
“and not another word about it.”
You muffle ragged sobs, staining your pillow black, your dress peeks out from to top of your trash bin.
You’re 18 years old. You sit on the floor of your best friend's room and shrivel as you watch the light leave her eyes.
“What do you mean you’re not going with me?”
“I’m sorry, I know. I just like the programs better here,” You lie, fiddling with the edge of her rug.
“The programs? What are you even saying? We’ve been talking about California for six years.” There are tears on the edges of her eyes and you can’t seem to breathe.
“It’s just, well, my mom doesn’t really have anyone else, I can’t just leave-”
“Of course. Your mom. It’s always your mom.” Suddenly summer’s eyes are all fire. She stands up, snatching your bag and throwing your things into it. “You need to go.”
“Summer, please.” Your voice hitches.
You’re 19 years old. You hide your phone under the table so your mother doesn’t see. She is laughing, her face flushed, waving her wine glass at your uncle. Summer is laughing too. In the photos her smile is large, eyes bright, her arms wrapped around new friends. She hasn’t answered any of your texts.
“Is the food okay sweetheart?” Your aunt pulls you away, your skin crawls when she looks at you. You try to fix your hair, but it doesn’t work. It never does. Your eyes flick to your mom.
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
You’re 20 years old and it’s the same as every night, except for the text burning a hole through your phone. The first one in two years. You read it over and over until your mom calls you for dinner.
Your mother scans your distracted face from over her glass. She tells you to fix your hair. You snap. The plate shatters against the wall, a river of gravy runs down to the floor. Your mother stares at you eyes wide, breathing uneven. You’re crying. You don’t remember what you say, only that you've never yelled at her this loud.
She yells at your retreating back, but you can’t hear it over the blood thundering in your ears. You pull at your hair, the elastic too tight all of a sudden.
When you slam the door you know she’s only a wall away, but it feels further.
You send a text back.
Art by Eydie Padfield
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Siobhan by Siobhan Boon-Devlin (10)
“Why is your name spelled wrong?” The substitute teacher’s words stung not like a slap on the cheek but more like prodding at a bruise. Not a death sentence, and a sensation I’d felt one hundred times before. Still unpleasant. “It isn’t spelled incorrectly,” I had told her. “It’s a Gaelic name.” She went on to hurriedly reassure me that she had been to Ireland, and rambled on about how cute she thought leprechauns were. As I grew, the mishmash of letters and syllables that defined me became more and more unbearable. It was an easy target of teasing for kids on the playground and a conversation adults would want to spend hours on. To appease them, I would compromise. I was See-oh-bee-han to the neighbor. Sigh-bon to the camp councilor. Shuh-boy-yawn to the woman at the passport agency. It was easier for everyone involved, I told myself. I’m saving our time and energy. It doesn’t matter to me. After all, I’m not actually Irish. Three generations and a continent separated me from the ancestors who I was named to honor. They’d never hear my voice or read my writing. They’d never know me, so why was I cursed to be defined by the language, the culture, and the world they came from? The divide never felt more prominent as then, a child struggling to navigate where she was, not wanting to even consider where she came from. For years, when asked how my name was pronounced, I’d shrug. However you want. It wasn’t mine in the way the stuffed animal on my bed was mine or the book on the shelf was mine. It was a brand. A constant reminder that I was different from the others, the Annes and Johns of the world who could make friends with just a smile and a compliment, who knew what to say and when to say it, who could nestle into their communities like jigsaw pieces. It was a reminder I stuck out like a sore thumb, implausible and too much effort for society. As an angsty twelve year old, fed up with puberty and people’s opinions, I got into poetry. Shel Silverstein bled into Amanda Lovelace until, finally, I found Maya Angelou. Something about the power she managed to convey with mere words amazed me. Huddled over the paperback collection of her works I’d borrowed from the library, back pressed against my wall and headlamp illuminating the pages, I somehow felt companionship from those words penned decades before by a complete stranger. After a traumatic experience, Angelou went five years without speaking to anyone except her brother, fearing the power of her words. She accredited the reason for breaking this period of mutism to her teacher telling her poetry could only be fully appreciated if spoken aloud. Her talks and speeches became famous and celebrated, something others dreamed to emulate. She made a life out of her voice. I liked the idea that sounds had such power. That they’re more than definitions and what they originally appear to be. Since that realization, I’ve been Shih-vawn. If people can’t put in their time to respect my identity, they aren’t deserving of my time. It’s a balance, and an easy way to root out those who don’t deserve my attention. Maybe a name is something you grow to fit, or maybe it’s something that grows to fit you. All I know is that, at some point, I became Siobhan as much as Siobhan became me. And I could not be more thankful. 
Photo taken by Kristen Boon Time Sets the Pace by Arissa Shahriar (10)
Time can be a tricky thing. Especially when you’re somewhere you dread. Like the waiting room of a hospital. And Time walks around you in circles. ‘Round and ‘round until you feel pressure caving into your head and your heart. A sense of gloom washes over you and time just ticks by so very slowly; hours passing in seconds, days in minutes. Time stops itself for you to feel your agony as much humanly possible and yet when you want Time to continue on its slow pace, it doesn’t. You could be passing Time by in the hallways with your friends during lunch — or maybe when you’re simply relaxing in bed before another hectic day begins — and it’ll dash right past ya. You could try to catch up to it, run as fast as you can, you might even feel the tips of your fingers brush its sleeve but Time doesn’t stop for you. It might stop for someone, but never for you. There’s hardly ever been a moment where it has walked side by side with you. It’s indiscriminate, destructive, and hard to grasp. Logically you know Time actually never speeds up or slows down but in those moments of beauty or pain when you wish it could do either, it's hard not to feel as though Reality itself is shifting in order to spite you. Still, it's comforting to think that Time is always there. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Time can be a tricky thing. 
Art by Arissa Shahriar Think Less by Jeannie Campbell (10) The city of New Orleans is sinking they said So pop that tinfoil hat on your head Run, protect yourselves at all costs And don’t ever question the boss Staring through a screen of distortion You need to think less, not more, son The shape of the earth does not matter So long as the pigs keep getting fatter The women keep working, and the girls stay pretty And society doesn’t burn down the city Darwin was a liar, evolution is a scam We’ve always been like this, since time began Till the end of the world, we’ll stay the same And then we’ll start all over again Staring through a screen of distortion You need to think less, not more, son You are what you eat Only fools believe in peace Monkey think, monkey do, monkey die Welcome to this wonderful lie You can’t keep a secret without lying to yourself And you can’t afford anything on that shelf But go ahead, keep flailing and reaching Over here, false hope is what we’re teaching Staring through a screen of distortion You need to think less not more son The Dragon in the Window by Mylo Mouliot (10)
I was walking downtown, food in hand, under the golden moon. I looked up at my window and I stopped my merry tune. There was a dragon up behind the glass, behind the curtains too, The only proof that it was there were shadows that it threw. It roared a great and silent roar that echoed from its maw. It even killed the mighty stars with a swipe of its paw. Then it happened, lighting quick, ignited in a pyre, Of scorching heat and lava rocks and lots and lots of fire. A dragon then, inside my home, would surely be a gift? I bounced with joy, while standing still, and gave my weight a shift. So fast I rushed, right up the stairs, excitement in my stride, I paused before I entered, right before I went inside. But inside it was not a fiery beast I had to greet, But my wife and her lover, both wrapped tightly in a sheet. They both went up, they both went down, they both went left and right. No dragon then, but only they made shadows in the night. Their shadows roared along with them, the dragon flying high, And then they saw me standing there, the dragon went to die. Tears in my eyes, I turned away, and haven’t seen her since, I ran down to the church next door and gave my eyes a rinse. So I bid you then, remain on guard, look behind you too, For the great dragon came me and it shall come for you. 
Art by Mylo Pouliot There was Always a Dog by Eydie Padfield (10)
When I think back, there must have always been a dog. I remember, somewhere in the fog of my childhood, the day we brought him home. From that room full of barking and waging tails, but I do not remember the before. I do not remember what it is to come home to silence, when there were no claw clicking along tile, no body winding it’s way around my legs. I do not remember what it is to eat, without a head finding it’s way to my leg, drool soaking into my jeans. Or what it is to sit without a toy being proffered, a tail hitting the ground in a constant rhythm. I do not remember what it is to be clean, before there was hair in all my clothes, oil on my fingers. I know there was a world before him, and some days I can remember it, but mostly I think back and there was always a dog. When I think back, there might have never been a cat. I remember, somewhere in the fog of my adolescence, when she was here. When she would curl herself beside me, pressing her face into my thigh so I feel the rumble of her purring. I remember the sting of little claws kneading into my skin. When I couldn’t sit without her jumping to the back of my chair, reaching for whatever I was doing. I remember the matted hair, when she couldn’t clean it herself. I remember the glazed eyes and pills hidden in foul smelling food. I remember all this and I do not remember how she sounded, how her fur felt under my fingers. I do not check the corners anymore, I do not think every sweater is a body, every shadow is a tail. There was a world where she was, and some days I remember it, but mostly I think back and there was never a cat. It has been eleven years since there was always a dog, three since there was never a cat. Sometimes I wonder if, not too far from now, I’ll look back and there might never have been either. 
Art by Eydie Padfield |
Untitled by Daisy Benson (10)
My boots thump against the tiles as I find a spot in the corner, you follow moments after, pressing your lips to my cheek and curling into my side, conversation flows like tap water, ease is a trap you can’t fall victim to, you pass me a cracker, packed extra for me and my empty kitchen, a burden you’ve pushed onto them, compliments like drool from numb lips, pouring onto my stiff form, contorting with expansion not unlike a toy when left contained to water, breaking through the egg a stronger being, though I’d argue I’m only growing more frail, after all, I can’t bring myself to invent my own words, or even to repeat yours, they will grow to resent your apathetic nature, words traded between you and our surrounding friends, my lips can’t bring themselves to move, throat unwilling to make sound, I must take the moments I have to bask in you, you never know when they might end. 
Art by Tobias Dorsemane Not-So-Strangers by Madeleine Snow (10) Two not-so-strange strangers ran into each other. Old friends, co-workers, brothers. It doesn’t matter who they were. Somewhere random, somewhere intentional, the bar, the grocery store. It doesn’t matter where they were. Other than awkwardly standing on either side of a worn and disintegrated bridge. A once sturdy bridge, good for bikes and fishing and dangling your feet off the side of. But Time, how she is cruel to those to whom she should be kind. “Hi.” “Hi.” “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “You can say that again.” “So… How’ve you been?” “Oh, good, good. Been busy. You?” “Pretty good here too. I finally quit that job.” “Oh really? Good for you. How’s the new one treating you?” “It’s been… It’s… good.” “How’s the missus and the kids?” “The missus is well, she sends her regards. And the kids, well, they won’t stop growing; Julie’s almost 10 now, if you can believe that.” “Wow, it seems like just yesterday that she was four…” “Well, that is the last time that you saw her.” “Oh, I… I suppose that was.” “What about you? How’s your mother doing these days?” “Mum passed… a few years back. It’s just me and dad now.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I just… I can’t believe that this is the first I’m hearing about it…” “I mean, you said it yourself, it’s been six years since we last spoke.” “I still think about those days sometimes, you know? We made good memories, didn’t we? I miss that.” “Yeah, me too. Me too.” They miss it, but the bridge is too far gone. Time had watered the mold, hastened the inevitable decomposition. Easier to clear the last of the debris and leave the spot for a spiffier, fancier bridge, with all the newfangled suspension technologies. The rotted wood isn’t even good for burning anymore. But clearing away means abandoning many, many years. Time has already taken those years for herself, so what’s even the point in trying? But us humans, how we revel in our futility. So two not-so-strangers remain as such, the rancid wood lurking in the back of their minds. Easier to be normal strangers, rather than the not-so-strange kind, isn’t it, but us humans, how we crave the pain. Society Says by Devin Caguioa (10) I’m not quite sure what I see in myself upon looking into a mirror. I can see an adventurous, outgoing, caring kid who knows the neighborhood like the back of their hand. I see a kid who loves trying out new food combinations, no matter how weird they are. Upon my reflection in the mirror, I see someone who wants to become an astronaut when they grow up. I know all of this about me except one thing: what gender am I? Sure, biological sex exists. People try to shove it onto others that whatever they are is in their pants and that God had spent his time crafting you to be the gender you were meant to be. But it feels wrong. No one should be caring so much about other people’s identities, and surely God makes mistakes. Not everything has to follow a script. Life is just weird like that, we live without knowing what’s coming up next, and there’s bound to be mistakes we make along the way. Perhaps our biological sex doesn’t align with our gender. It doesn’t need to, no matter what God had intended to build us up into. I’m extremely jealous of those who can live comfortably so easily. Women who can strut down runaways with large, detailed dresses and makeup, further enhancing their beauty. Athletic men who spend more time in the gym than at home bodybuilding for their next competition. Girls who feel comfortable in masculine clothing and enjoy their free time playing action video games. Boys who may have feminine voices and continue to use their voice loud and proud. They can look into the mirror and know exactly everything about themselves and be proud of it, without worry that they’ll be deemed as an outcast to society. That sort of confidence is admirable. I have to fit into one of those boxes. Maybe I’m a kid who’d love wearing frilly skirts and I’d steal my mom’s makeup to try on for myself. I could be a kid who has a fascination in auto-mechanics and how trucks work. I’m possibly a kid who defies my own gender. I could be pink, I could be blue, but I feel like a blob of paint, mixed up with those colours. But only those two categories exist: male and female. To be held to such restrictions, to be told to pick what gender I am and be expected to stick to that lane is upsetting. There has to be some sort of secret third option I’m missing out on, but how many people actually identify with that third option? How many comfortably express themselves like that without worrying what others may think of them? Without worries of being banished from society for that because that’s all people know, that’s all people think in, black and white. There has to be an answer of sorts, right? I mean, who assigned anything, everything with gender to begin with? Why is it that girls have to enjoy makeup and boys can’t? Why is it that boys have to have some sort of fascination with cars while girls can’t? People can’t do anything in society without having to be labelled on it and it angers me. You can’t take baby formula from large companies as a homeless mother who wasn’t given the option of abortion without being labelled as a stealer. You can’t be a fan of Eastern media without being called a weirdo. You can’t exist as a person of colour without being considered a statistic. You can’t do anything without society peering down upon you with a magnifying glass and banishing you once they pick at one trait you have that the others don’t agree with. When I look into a mirror, I can see every aspect of myself. The good, the bad, the weird parts. I see someone who’s possibly defied God’s creation process of making me one solid gender, one of the two genders that exist to everyone anyways. I still see that same kid that tries out criminal food combinations and spends more time outside than in my house. I still see that same kid who wants to grow up and become an astronaut. Yet the only thing I can’t see, the only thing that has blurred into a giant, unidentifiable mess is what I identify as. Well, what gender society wants me to conform with anyways. The Mirror by Nathan Mahidhara (10) I sit alone in my room, staring at my mirror. At first, the reflection is me. At least, the person I show the world. Happy, energetic, alive. But mirrors can’t capture what they can’t see. My eyes grow heavy. Hours pass. Bags settle beneath them. My hair drifts to the floor. My eyebrows droop. The silver is cold and dry beneath my fingertips. The reflection no longer imitates me. It shapes me. An eye twitch, a head tilt. The corners of my mouth curl In ways I never intended. I close my eyes, wishing I could look away. But the mirror doesn’t leave. Shadows envelop the glass. Rippling across its surface. Folding it. Stretching it. Changing it. The version of me I wish I were, Plastered right in front of me. Perfect, but untouchable. The me I’ll never become. Every original thought slips To the back of my brain, Lost behind the soulless silver. “I am me” I whisper over and over. The reflection leans closer. It moves when I’m frozen. Smiles when I frown. Lives while I cannot. My chest rises, But I’m not breathing. My heart stops, But it was never beating. But the mirror is me. The me I could be. And the reflection grows, fed by my stillness. I cannot live while it does. |