Archive
Image By Daniel A.
The word “archive” can encompass a lot. History, minds, computers, libraries, and journals are all examples you might think of. Our team wanted to work on a collection that presents all the possibilities of the nostalgic, bittersweet, daunting, and joyous feelings surrounding something full knowledge. Whether someone thinks of dusty filing cabinets or of pristine and lacey photo albums, there’s going to be a story to tell. We all have memories, so we’re all our own archives. We’ve all learned, logged, and immortalized; writers especially. Our group wanted to ask what the simple but multifaceted term “archive” means to the artists around us. In the end, we’ve taken all these answers to our prompt, and filed them into the archive you’re reading.
I Can't Remember
Jake Charlebois (10)
Image By Jake Charlebois
I can’t remember formulas, and I can’t remember dates. I’m crap with names and I don’t usually know where I’ve placed my headphones. I don’t know if there’s anything I’ve ever found more irritating than the way my mind works.
Imagine me; ten, eleven, fourteen, fifteen, whatever. Any age, any height, any level of childish uneasiness, sitting in a beige school chair. I’ve got my hands with their chipped nails tip-tapping on the lacquered desktop, and there’s a paper in front of me. This desk; boring, bland, and uninspired as it already is, is garnished with something painfully bleak and grey to taunt me. A math sheet.
My bane. I’m consistently inconsistent, but not with numbers. With numbers I’m consistently reliable to not know what I’m doing. And I’ve spent my life endlessly frustrated by that. All anyone talked about was numbers. Why? STEM and taxes and holding my job and blah blah blah blah. In my mind, I was much too young for such skin-wrinkling topics. The filing cabinet in my head was too jumpy to hold something so solid as a formula. For a while, I thought this meant it would never hold anything.
But then I found the slipperiest, most shapeless little thing. And that thing slithered and whizzed around its bedroom in my mind like a champion. That thing was writing.
When I was in grade four I started my first book. Some cookie-cutter corrupt government and a stock-image chosen one to narrate it all. Not exactly revolutionary, but I started writing. And I found, really quickly, that I couldn’t stop. Not even because I liked it, just because of how much I wanted to say. There were so many concepts in my brain, so many possibilities. Just because I watched my mom go through jewelry, just because I listened in history class. I downloaded so much information from the world’s never-empty well and I kept it deep within my veins. To my DNA, I’m composed of stories. Little ones, about eighth graders pranking each other in the hallways, and big, broad ones about moving. I can prattle on and on, because the memory of finding a broken record in the schoolyard one time will plant words like seeds in the soil of my keyboard, and I’ll tell a story.
Maybe numbers aren’t the only things that I can pull from the world and code into my life. Maybe, numbers aren’t the only things you can use to keep yourself afloat.
I can’t remember formulas, and I can’t remember dates. I’m crap with names and I don’t usually know where I’ve placed my headphones.
But that lets me write.
So I think I’ll be okay.
Image by Natalie Persaud
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Behind Mine EyesNatalie Persaud (10)
There is something buried within my archival mind.
I dare you to look behind the eyes that withholds it. Find that darkness deep in the light. The light, the light that brightens my eyes And forces that smile When the darkness ruins it all. It spreads, vines, festers, weaved into the purity Like a black hole, sucks and scatters Even the fastest ray of light One day it will consume me And the devil shall prevail Run the archives as the master of hell would. |
If My Life Was A Library
Lily Smith (9)
I wish my life was a library. That with each page I flipped, I would be brought back to another day, another sunrise, another perspective. I wish every memory was kept safe in the confines of a soft leather cover. My world has gotten so complicated, overrun by decisions with no right answer. I want to feel the blissful peace of running my fingers across the spines of my past. I want to know that those happy days of my life will never be lost in the back of my mind. Each time I flip through the years, I will be reminded of who I am, uninfected by those around me. Every time I walk through those halls, I will know no uncertainty, and feel no worry. I want to hold my life in the palm of my hand, gripping on tight, so that no part of me will ever slip through the cracks.
The Archives of SOULBRIDGE, INESSA and DECLAIRE, ELAINE
Rachel Kilgour (9)
Image by Megan Mekis
October 26th, 4:30 P.M.
The dingy lights of the room cast a warm glow on the book in her lap. A soft blanket is wrapped around her body, a steaming cup of tea warming her palms.
“Elaine,” Inessa utters her girlfriend’s name softly, coming up behind her to press a kiss to her temple. Elaine hums.
“Yes, my love?” Her eyes are warm as she gazes up at her lover, the other's palm soft against her cheek. Auburn leaves glint in the reflection of her eyes and outside the window of the small house, the forest swells with all the colours of fall; small animals scurry in and out of their shelters, preparing for the harsh winter that is no less than a month away.
“It's nearly evening—we should go on our stroll before it gets too dark,” Inessa remarks. The pair had gone on walks every night before dinner since they had moved in together.
“I'm nearly done this book, could it wait another twenty minutes? I promise I'll be ready as soon as I'm done.”
Inessa sighs, but smiles tenderly. “Alright. Be quick.” Before she's even finished her sentence, she shuts the door behind her.
October 26th, 5:00 P.M.
By the time Elaine has finished her book, the sun is beginning to set. It’s been colder, as of late—bits of frost starting to collect on the grass in the morning, the wind providing a reason to shiver. So she makes sure to dress warm, layering her clothes and putting on her coat, her hat, her gloves, and her scarf.
“Inessa! I'm ready!” she calls. Inessa bounds down the hallway from the kitchen, already dressed and ready to leave. Arm in arm, they set out on their walk.
The walk is pleasant at first, their quiet chatter and the setting sun inducing feelings of nostalgia and comfort. They walk through the forest, following the worn down path that had been developed over years of previous human activity. This time, however, Inessa sees something new. She cocks her head and points.
“What's that?” Inessa gestures. Elaine glances over. There was an arch, a tree bent into a perfect circle so the leaves at the top kissed the floor. Leaves scattered the ground up to this point—but starting from about three feet in front of the tree, it seems that the leaves simply ceased to exist. It was unfamiliar to them, completely new. Which was strange, considering how long they’d been on their walks.
Elaine shivers while Inessa tugs her arm.
“Let's go through it, look at how cute it is!” Inessa squeals with a wide grin, so Elaine brushes off the odd feeling and follows her through, smiling at her childish antics. They step through the arch. The wind has stopped howling.
(continued)
The dingy lights of the room cast a warm glow on the book in her lap. A soft blanket is wrapped around her body, a steaming cup of tea warming her palms.
“Elaine,” Inessa utters her girlfriend’s name softly, coming up behind her to press a kiss to her temple. Elaine hums.
“Yes, my love?” Her eyes are warm as she gazes up at her lover, the other's palm soft against her cheek. Auburn leaves glint in the reflection of her eyes and outside the window of the small house, the forest swells with all the colours of fall; small animals scurry in and out of their shelters, preparing for the harsh winter that is no less than a month away.
“It's nearly evening—we should go on our stroll before it gets too dark,” Inessa remarks. The pair had gone on walks every night before dinner since they had moved in together.
“I'm nearly done this book, could it wait another twenty minutes? I promise I'll be ready as soon as I'm done.”
Inessa sighs, but smiles tenderly. “Alright. Be quick.” Before she's even finished her sentence, she shuts the door behind her.
October 26th, 5:00 P.M.
By the time Elaine has finished her book, the sun is beginning to set. It’s been colder, as of late—bits of frost starting to collect on the grass in the morning, the wind providing a reason to shiver. So she makes sure to dress warm, layering her clothes and putting on her coat, her hat, her gloves, and her scarf.
“Inessa! I'm ready!” she calls. Inessa bounds down the hallway from the kitchen, already dressed and ready to leave. Arm in arm, they set out on their walk.
The walk is pleasant at first, their quiet chatter and the setting sun inducing feelings of nostalgia and comfort. They walk through the forest, following the worn down path that had been developed over years of previous human activity. This time, however, Inessa sees something new. She cocks her head and points.
“What's that?” Inessa gestures. Elaine glances over. There was an arch, a tree bent into a perfect circle so the leaves at the top kissed the floor. Leaves scattered the ground up to this point—but starting from about three feet in front of the tree, it seems that the leaves simply ceased to exist. It was unfamiliar to them, completely new. Which was strange, considering how long they’d been on their walks.
Elaine shivers while Inessa tugs her arm.
“Let's go through it, look at how cute it is!” Inessa squeals with a wide grin, so Elaine brushes off the odd feeling and follows her through, smiling at her childish antics. They step through the arch. The wind has stopped howling.
(continued)
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Death is something that comes for us all.
Old or young, Black or white, Man, women, or something else. It does not judge based on how you look, It judges based on your mind. It searches through the archives of your head, Reaching into your mind, Digging, Digging, DIgging, Until It finds what it needs. Until It can pass judgment. It searches through your memories, Through your thoughts, It sees what you saw, Feels what you felt, It becomes you as It searches. Once It’s decided weather your a sinner or a saint, It leads you to your eternal home. Whether that be the place of eternal happiness, Or the place of eternal suffering. It's up to you. Choose how you live carefully, Death is always watching. |
Death's JudgmentVio Green (10)
Image by Vio Green
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Dust And Ash |
Reasons to Keep A Journal- A List |
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Wabisi Budge (10)
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Amelia Medd (10)
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Ruined.
Destroyed. Tumbled. What buildings once stood tall and mighty now remain scattered on the ground Covered in dust and untouched only waiting to be found Archived by the earth but the proof still stays The stone is all crumbled from when fire set ablaze Ash is all that’s left from the wood that stood so high A tragedy so terrible it made the sky cry A few standing pillars dispersed around the site The misfortune took place in the dead of night 
Image by Simon Buell
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1. To remember your favourite moments
2.To let your emotions spill onto the page 3.To cover your notebook in pretty stickers and scrap paper 4.You can feel less terrible for forgetting every moment, so you can feel like you’re not so bad at remembering things 5. You are that bad 6. Maybe this will let you forget without guilt 7. Maybe 8. So you have an excuse to buy more stickers and highlighters 9. So you can write down the busy or lazy days in jot notes on the back of your corner store receipt 10. You can buy more stickers because I’m sure that will make you want to journal more 11. You can tell people you journal, they will be very impressed 12. You can sometimes forget to journal 13. Wow you’re so bad at journaling 14. How will you remember your life if you can’t even remember to journal till 12:00am when you have your lights out 15. You’ll just do it tomorrow 16. No you won't 17. When you’re older you can look back at your life. It’s even harder to remember things as you get older, the box of memories in your mind only has so much room so having a book, or 7, of your thoughts is really nice. 18. Maybe hundreds of years from now someone will find one of your journals. That way your thoughts, and life, and dreams will live on 19. You’ll love it, journaling, really you will |
The Survey
Averey Nguyen (10)
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“Do you believe in luck?”
That's what the screen asked, what the screen requested an answer to. It wouldn’t let things proceed without an answer, that's how it was supposed to work. All the previous questions must be answered. The mouse cursor hovered over the options, a simple digital piece that pointed, always in one direction. If only a human could decide where to go so quickly. But alas, cursors were built like that. Despite this, people could easily, so easily change their cursor to suit their preferences. Then again, they still pointed the same way almost all of the time. Yes. A response was inputted after some time, the screen loaded, then logged in the information. Loading a new question, the progress bar ticked once, indicating an advancement made in the survey, though a slow advancement. The next question presented itself on the screen, still pixels danced around as the mouse jerked towards each option, as though the person behind the screen could see only the words the cursor pointed to, each pass through the lines of responses felt as though it gained another sense of humanity. The cursor finally settled on one option, the second one from the bottom, it quivered around as it waited for the next inquiry, the next question… and the ones after that. “What does luck mean to you?” The cursor was now a line, blinking idly as it waited for letters and words to be typed in for the final response. It flickered in and out with each idle second, the human waiting on the other side with baited breath, just hoping for a way to put thoughts into words. The system was patient, just enough to never rush one’s train of thought, and yet at the same time, the screen taunted the person, cursor silently pushing for a proper response. Each response felt void of emotion, no sincerity withheld in the words, typed up only deleted mere seconds later in built up frustration. Eventually, a response was finally formulated. Not that it mattered anymore, as the cursor clicked submit as soon as the typing stopped. The tab was closed without a second glance at the final message. “Thank you for your time, your responses will be withheld in our data archive.” |
Image by Averey Nguyen |
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Ink StainTheia Taylor (9)
The ink is cold against my skin, staining my thumb with liquid darkness. It drips down onto the table before I swipe it across Margaret’s name.
Father let me borrow this jar of ink from his study. Mother always tells me I should recognise and reflect upon my sins, but Father says that sometimes it’s better to get rid of the evidence and move on. The golden cross necklace Mother gifted me hangs down as I lean over Margaret’s letters. Whenever I hesitate before erasing a particularly lustful passage, it shines in the candlelight, reminding me of why I’m doing this. Why I’m breaking my own heart. Mrs. Smythen is standing upstairs in our sitting room with her son. He has dark hair and dark eyes but his smile has light in it. I could love him. I pop the stopper back on the jar. I shuffle the letters together, letting the ink stain and smudge. I slip them behind a stack of books, out of view. I don’t let myself linger, instead spinning around and making my way back up the stairs. Even if a couple hundred years from now, some historian finds our sacred letters within my family’s old archives, they will not be able to decode them. All they’ll read is the one line I couldn't find the strength to cover, the last thing she ever wrote to me. I love you. I don’t want to hide anymore. Image by Megan Mekis |
Welcome Home
Zachary Atchison (9)
Returning to what remained of Minseah had not brought me the closure I thought it would.
Once-great pillars that had stood as beacons of light for the city now lay collapsed in the unkempt grass, moss and filth burrowing into the cracks of the stone, blocking out prior radiance. The fresh floral scent that had once inhabited the place now haunted it like a ghost of what once was, assassinated by the rancid stench of fungi and rot. Marble statues bled the blood of men long gone, rehydrated by rain; they weeped mud from eyes somehow dead despite never being alive.
It was no longer the illustrious city I’d been raised in; it was now a graveyard for the ambitious pursuits of mankind, what the minstrels will refer to as the aspirations of a sect of arrogant fools. I am unsure of what makes me feel worse; the sight of my home, destroyed by its people, or the pit of shame residing deep in my gut for being one of them.
Some things remained identical, however.
The street I now walked on was the very same one I had ran down as a child with my sparse collection of friends. The three of us would often get up to a few antics or, when the weather grew cold, perhaps beg the old baker for a fresh, warm tart.
The ornate well I soon found myself walking past remained undisturbed, a stark difference to the wreckage that surrounded it. Although I could not reminisce much from the distance I was required to keep to avoid inhaling mould spores, the mere sight of it brought me back to days spent studying throughout the course of my adolescence; perched on the edge of the reservoir with the compulsory books, no matter how often my father would chastise me for seating myself mere inches away from a seventy-five-metre deep pit in the earth.
I stopped a few minutes past the fountain, staring down at total devastation. I was sure nobody without the necessary context could decipher that this rubble had once been a great library. This spectre of a building was, undoubtedly, the most severely maimed section of the former city; and precisely what I had made the long journey from the mountains to search.
I lifted the first stone, my mind tormenting me with the recollection that I had played a part in this ceaseless destruction. That I had been too blind to the intentions of those I revered, like a moth to a flame, trusting their direction doubtlessly despite the true moon high in the sky just behind me.
My mind tormented me with the truth; I had been on the wrong side of the war.
For hours, I uncovered nothing but scrap leather, parchment torn beyond recognition, splintered wooden shelves, and the shards of inkwells. My shoulders had long grown tense and my back implored me to stop; and yet, I continued to dig, more desperate than ever, searching what may have seemed uselessly, for any legible scrap.
Anything, I pleaded with forces beyond my comprehension. I believed that a singular page was all I required to quench my thirst for redemption.
And a page was what I received. More than that; I uncovered an entire book.
My heart soared as I reached out with trembling hands, licking my fist and scrubbing the grime off of the leather cover. But it halted mid-air just as quickly once my eyes had finished scanning the words staring up at me from a background of deep brown, standing out in their engraved, inked letters:
Minseah: A History of Ekoria’s Grandest Metropolis.
Of course. It was fitting that the remains I uncovered were not the knowledge my people had uncovered for decades upon decades—the knowledge I sought—but instead, merely another reflection of my sect’s hubris; a taunt from the forces themselves, one made all the more disheartening by my recognition that it was completely deserved.
I was not forgiven.
I would never be.
Once-great pillars that had stood as beacons of light for the city now lay collapsed in the unkempt grass, moss and filth burrowing into the cracks of the stone, blocking out prior radiance. The fresh floral scent that had once inhabited the place now haunted it like a ghost of what once was, assassinated by the rancid stench of fungi and rot. Marble statues bled the blood of men long gone, rehydrated by rain; they weeped mud from eyes somehow dead despite never being alive.
It was no longer the illustrious city I’d been raised in; it was now a graveyard for the ambitious pursuits of mankind, what the minstrels will refer to as the aspirations of a sect of arrogant fools. I am unsure of what makes me feel worse; the sight of my home, destroyed by its people, or the pit of shame residing deep in my gut for being one of them.
Some things remained identical, however.
The street I now walked on was the very same one I had ran down as a child with my sparse collection of friends. The three of us would often get up to a few antics or, when the weather grew cold, perhaps beg the old baker for a fresh, warm tart.
The ornate well I soon found myself walking past remained undisturbed, a stark difference to the wreckage that surrounded it. Although I could not reminisce much from the distance I was required to keep to avoid inhaling mould spores, the mere sight of it brought me back to days spent studying throughout the course of my adolescence; perched on the edge of the reservoir with the compulsory books, no matter how often my father would chastise me for seating myself mere inches away from a seventy-five-metre deep pit in the earth.
I stopped a few minutes past the fountain, staring down at total devastation. I was sure nobody without the necessary context could decipher that this rubble had once been a great library. This spectre of a building was, undoubtedly, the most severely maimed section of the former city; and precisely what I had made the long journey from the mountains to search.
I lifted the first stone, my mind tormenting me with the recollection that I had played a part in this ceaseless destruction. That I had been too blind to the intentions of those I revered, like a moth to a flame, trusting their direction doubtlessly despite the true moon high in the sky just behind me.
My mind tormented me with the truth; I had been on the wrong side of the war.
For hours, I uncovered nothing but scrap leather, parchment torn beyond recognition, splintered wooden shelves, and the shards of inkwells. My shoulders had long grown tense and my back implored me to stop; and yet, I continued to dig, more desperate than ever, searching what may have seemed uselessly, for any legible scrap.
Anything, I pleaded with forces beyond my comprehension. I believed that a singular page was all I required to quench my thirst for redemption.
And a page was what I received. More than that; I uncovered an entire book.
My heart soared as I reached out with trembling hands, licking my fist and scrubbing the grime off of the leather cover. But it halted mid-air just as quickly once my eyes had finished scanning the words staring up at me from a background of deep brown, standing out in their engraved, inked letters:
Minseah: A History of Ekoria’s Grandest Metropolis.
Of course. It was fitting that the remains I uncovered were not the knowledge my people had uncovered for decades upon decades—the knowledge I sought—but instead, merely another reflection of my sect’s hubris; a taunt from the forces themselves, one made all the more disheartening by my recognition that it was completely deserved.
I was not forgiven.
I would never be.
Image by Zachary Atchison
The Archives
Arissa Shahriar (9)
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In archives there laid dust. Wretched, ugly dust, but also human dust nonetheless. They came from broken voices, tattered souls, and they were all sent here. The Archives. Some hadn’t been broken, some were whole and beautiful and bold, but ignored. Silence or static filled the quiet in this place, few came to check, to discover, or to tell stories untold. Most come to rummage and twist.
The voices here, the stories, the people, most were women. All were victims. In The Archives lay victims of a cruel, bitter world. They were destined to fall at the hands of God, of Men. They could only ever fail because it is what society made them do. And even those who succeeded, even they rest here; in archives where they would rot. Dead, dead, dust, and new flesh. You would think fewer would be sent here over the ages; you would think it’d change. Yet everyday, more stories are sent, and more bodies cast to The Archives where they would vanish at last. Sin in the name of God shoved them here. So now their stories and cries are lost in a cold, neglected space. Society glanced at them and tossed them away. They tossed them to the archives and in The Archives they will stay. |
Image by Noa Thompson |
Sediment
Andrew Day (10)
Stone sloped and curved and turned so sharply one could cut his wandering fingers on it.
It tangoed with the water for decades, changing to fit and accommodate its violent partner. The water washed away pieces and particles of rock, sweeping them off to twirl through the rushing thrill of a current, before settling into a slow waltz to the silt.
Soon the water left the stone. She flowed and floated and sank away, moving as was her nature, and left the stone with a newly wrought and long held shape.
The Scribe brushed an intangible limb over the story. It betrayed no emotion, but it loved each new instalment as much as the last. Each layer, each change, each pocketmark and ravine whispered a different progression.
The water hadn’t stayed for long, truly, but it was voracious. It took and bashed and shaped, and then it left, and in its grief the heart of the once-lake hardened, and it settled in to keep from changing again.
The Scribe pulled its touch back, feeling every lash of rain and gentle pull of current left scarred across the parched silt. This was a story well worn. A story that had been told before. The nomadic nature of water and the steady calmness of rock were a doomed dance, but a dance nonetheless. The Scribe settled back into itself.
Its own story sat amongst the others. Every shift of a mountain and settle of a pebble written alongside the story of The Scribe.
It was a violent one.
It was a story of crashing rock, and blinding light, and drifting pieces left to be forgotten and preserved in the cold vacuum that fire now raged in.
It was a story of settling boulders, and trickling magma, and an awakening of the thing that lived within.
The Scribe shifted and sloshed, attempting to find a blank space in its archive for this new tale.
It was a wonderful story, and it would not do to leave out a single drop.
The Scribe felt again, sure to take in every detail, and then spat. Molten earth sank into the red, malleable rock.
The Scribe remembered when that rock had closed around it, encasing it, a pearl upon which layers it would not see stacked and stacked and stacked.
And at some point, the uniformly mismatched rock gave way to strange things.
They were small, no more than indentations of flowing, soft patterns protruding from a single line in the centre.
The Scribe had archived these with curiosity, the new stone telling a story it had not known.
As time passed and rain fell, more strange stones followed.
They were huge, and miniscule, and shaped so many different ways the Scribe was scarcely without a new discovery to churn in its blinding heart,
Until one day, the sediment was buried charred and barren, and the strange stones sank lower with nothing out of the touch of water to take their place.
The Scribe could not mourn a life it did not know had been lived or lost
Its curiosity sparked when the stones fell once more. They were differing once again, variety casting a net of new shapes and sizes and stories.
Massive things, tiny things, some adorned with fine stone so small The Scribe baulked to touch them.
As it watched the new story settle into its swaddle of Earth, it reached up again.
New discoveries were not uncommon. Some were merely shifted or warped from the others of their kind.
Some were new, slowly making themselves out of bits and pieces of other stones.
The one it brushed against now was new in the sense that it was odd. A bulbous stone marked the beginning of the story, flowing into a thin, segmented thing that reached down through the bumpy, curling stones that wrapped around it. That was common, in these fractured, buried things, but as The Scribe felt out more, it was struck by the twists and turns the story took.
Two long protrusions from the lake-liike base of the centre stone, stretched down into wider bases which themselves fragmented into tiny, delicate stubs. Two slightly shorter limbs from either side of the reaching, encircling bones around the centre.
As it brushed against one of the lower, awkwardly stuck branches, it felt a crack.
Or, at least, the remnants of a crack.
Breaks like this were common, of course, amongst the strange stones. The Scribe knew very little of the world that tread and bloomed and was buried upon its topmost layers. It had figured, at some point after aeons of wondering, that the fractures were simply the state of things.
This, though, it had never seen this. The break was clear, and the limb was strange and displaced like a crooked cliffside, worn down by The Sea’s spray. Yet, it was not fresh, not clear and bright and defined, it seemed to have been grown over, as if silt had dried in the crevice.
The Scribe tok this new story with it as it settled back in.
This would be an interesting tale to watch unfold.
It tangoed with the water for decades, changing to fit and accommodate its violent partner. The water washed away pieces and particles of rock, sweeping them off to twirl through the rushing thrill of a current, before settling into a slow waltz to the silt.
Soon the water left the stone. She flowed and floated and sank away, moving as was her nature, and left the stone with a newly wrought and long held shape.
The Scribe brushed an intangible limb over the story. It betrayed no emotion, but it loved each new instalment as much as the last. Each layer, each change, each pocketmark and ravine whispered a different progression.
The water hadn’t stayed for long, truly, but it was voracious. It took and bashed and shaped, and then it left, and in its grief the heart of the once-lake hardened, and it settled in to keep from changing again.
The Scribe pulled its touch back, feeling every lash of rain and gentle pull of current left scarred across the parched silt. This was a story well worn. A story that had been told before. The nomadic nature of water and the steady calmness of rock were a doomed dance, but a dance nonetheless. The Scribe settled back into itself.
Its own story sat amongst the others. Every shift of a mountain and settle of a pebble written alongside the story of The Scribe.
It was a violent one.
It was a story of crashing rock, and blinding light, and drifting pieces left to be forgotten and preserved in the cold vacuum that fire now raged in.
It was a story of settling boulders, and trickling magma, and an awakening of the thing that lived within.
The Scribe shifted and sloshed, attempting to find a blank space in its archive for this new tale.
It was a wonderful story, and it would not do to leave out a single drop.
The Scribe felt again, sure to take in every detail, and then spat. Molten earth sank into the red, malleable rock.
The Scribe remembered when that rock had closed around it, encasing it, a pearl upon which layers it would not see stacked and stacked and stacked.
And at some point, the uniformly mismatched rock gave way to strange things.
They were small, no more than indentations of flowing, soft patterns protruding from a single line in the centre.
The Scribe had archived these with curiosity, the new stone telling a story it had not known.
As time passed and rain fell, more strange stones followed.
They were huge, and miniscule, and shaped so many different ways the Scribe was scarcely without a new discovery to churn in its blinding heart,
Until one day, the sediment was buried charred and barren, and the strange stones sank lower with nothing out of the touch of water to take their place.
The Scribe could not mourn a life it did not know had been lived or lost
Its curiosity sparked when the stones fell once more. They were differing once again, variety casting a net of new shapes and sizes and stories.
Massive things, tiny things, some adorned with fine stone so small The Scribe baulked to touch them.
As it watched the new story settle into its swaddle of Earth, it reached up again.
New discoveries were not uncommon. Some were merely shifted or warped from the others of their kind.
Some were new, slowly making themselves out of bits and pieces of other stones.
The one it brushed against now was new in the sense that it was odd. A bulbous stone marked the beginning of the story, flowing into a thin, segmented thing that reached down through the bumpy, curling stones that wrapped around it. That was common, in these fractured, buried things, but as The Scribe felt out more, it was struck by the twists and turns the story took.
Two long protrusions from the lake-liike base of the centre stone, stretched down into wider bases which themselves fragmented into tiny, delicate stubs. Two slightly shorter limbs from either side of the reaching, encircling bones around the centre.
As it brushed against one of the lower, awkwardly stuck branches, it felt a crack.
Or, at least, the remnants of a crack.
Breaks like this were common, of course, amongst the strange stones. The Scribe knew very little of the world that tread and bloomed and was buried upon its topmost layers. It had figured, at some point after aeons of wondering, that the fractures were simply the state of things.
This, though, it had never seen this. The break was clear, and the limb was strange and displaced like a crooked cliffside, worn down by The Sea’s spray. Yet, it was not fresh, not clear and bright and defined, it seemed to have been grown over, as if silt had dried in the crevice.
The Scribe tok this new story with it as it settled back in.
This would be an interesting tale to watch unfold.
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Two moments, separated by time.
It's not poetic, yet its sadness soothes your mind. But when time is truly against you, no poems are written, no tears shed, unless by onlookers. Yet do tears truly fall? The knowledge is lost to time, a never ending loop in the systematic process of life. Although the poems of sadness captivate the reader, nothing could ever capture a moment fully. Even in photographs, a moment is purely pictured, its feeling lost to memory. How I fall captive to these pictures is beyond me. Even pictures someday become erased, So why do we keep lamenting about the concept of time? |
Untitled Patrick Ralph (10)
Image by Patrick Ralph
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Data
Graham Piche (10)
The corroded steel door opened with a creak, darkness engulfing the room in front of him. Then, with a sharp thunk, the first set of yellowish strip light turned, then the next, then the next, illuminating the bare concrete floor of room B202. Two lines of steel shelves lined the sides in orderly ranks, with a center aisle dividing the two sides. Leather and plastic-bound files filled the shelves like sardines, their pages visibly yellowed and wrinkled even from the door.
Really, as plain as it all was, it entranced him. All this data, all in one spot. Of course, there were better ways to store it. USBs, hard drives, you name it. But there was something about a true, physical archive that was so visceral. You could feel the information, turn its pages. No screen could do that. He advanced slowly down the aisle, taking it all in. The lights above him hummed as that familiar smell that could only be described as a mix of a museum and a library filled his nostrils.
He had missed this place.
Really, as plain as it all was, it entranced him. All this data, all in one spot. Of course, there were better ways to store it. USBs, hard drives, you name it. But there was something about a true, physical archive that was so visceral. You could feel the information, turn its pages. No screen could do that. He advanced slowly down the aisle, taking it all in. The lights above him hummed as that familiar smell that could only be described as a mix of a museum and a library filled his nostrils.
He had missed this place.
By the Skin of my Teeth
Vio Green (10)
Image by Leo Weiser
A quiet night. Late in the evening I walk through the dark streets, making my way home from my job at the postal office. The lamplight illuminates me and many others rushing home after a busy day.
Suddenly, I am enveloped by shadows as the lanterns flicker and extinguish. I look around, taking in my surroundings as my eyes adjust to the moonlight. There’s not a soul around me, it’s dead silent. Not even the sound of the wind blowing, nor the crickets chirp interrupts the eerie silence that surrounds. I take a step forward before pausing due to the fact that no sound was made from my footsteps.
The old buildings around me seem somehow much different than before, more unsettling, looming over me like giants.
The hair on the back of my neck rises as it feels like I have thousands of eyes on me all at once. I should take refuge inside a building, that way the eyes will stop staring, watching me in the dark all alone.
I walk across the street, checking both ways before crossing (part of me hopes a car will come, that way I can hear the engine crackle and know I’m not alone).
Each building looks the same, the same cracks in the brick, the same shade of roof (maybe brown or orange? It's much too dark to see colour but the dark shade matches), The same square windows, long and tall, with curtains drawn shut, the same black door with the same sign reading “Closed for the night! Open from 8am-9pm everyday!”. It's horrifying.
One building stands out however, a building made of stone. It seems much older than the others, vines crawling up the walls, a wooden door that looks like it's starting to rot, circular windows that are boarded up with planks of wood, and many other details that show just how decrepit the building is.
I stand in front of the entrance and spot a creaking sign, swinging slightly. There is no breeze. I squint my eyes, trying to read the words through the dark. I manage to make out the words, “Pellis Library, Open 24/7” etched into the sign. The word ‘Pellis’ sounds familiar, maybe a Latin word? I haven't taken Latin for many years now, not since grade school at the very least.
I still feel the eyes all around me, it feels like there's more of them. I need to make a choice; go inside one of the many brick houses that all look the exact same, or go into the only different building made of stone. I would say the choice was hard, but it really wasn’t. Something about the house was calling me, shouting at me from inside of my brain.
I took a step forward, hesitating just for a second as logically, I should definitely not go into a creepy old LIbrary that is calling to me, but that thought was immediately gone, replaced with more shouting thoughts that didn’t feel like they were my own.
“GO INSIDE.”
“YOU MUST VENTURE INSIDE!”
“TREASURE LIES AHEAD!”
“GO!”
“GO!”
“GO!”
“GO NOW.”
Why had I stopped walking? I have to go inside.
(Continued)
More
Jake Charlebois (10)
Image by Jake Charlebois
Have you ever stood next to the bookcases of a library, and looked at all the spines drawing colourful, word-speckled barcodes down the shelves? You’re looking at knowledge unfurl. There’s just so much of it, and it runs like streams through pages. There’s no heart-halting feeling so daunting as being in a library. Really, you’re always in one.
I could go to the mathematics section and learn all about formulas. I can find an overused textbook and learn math if I want to.
I could learn every fact about how buildings are made. I can familiarize myself with architecture if I decide to.
I can learn a whole new language, figure out a new grammar system, and communicate with new people, if I walk down the right hallway.
I could learn how someone’s brain works, the inner-workings of their thoughts, just through the fantasy book they wrote. That is, if I choose to open it.
And there’s more.
More we don’t know.
There’s that 95% of ocean we’ve yet to explore.
The corners of space we can’t quite reach.
Skeletons without names.
Voices lost to history.
We live in an archive. The world is its own library, and when you’re in its smaller, more contained counterpart; looking at rows and stacks and heaps of books, on everything and everything, you realize there’s more. Somehow, with hundreds of thousands of pages to flick through, there’s more.
You can learn whatever you want. You can pick any aisle of the library, or any trail in the world, but you’ll never learn it all. You’ve got to pick and choose.
Your brain’s storage space is limited, unlike the world’s.
So slow the heavy breathing of the realization that there’s just too much for your mind to hold, and pick the pieces you’re going to put in its arms.
I could go to the mathematics section and learn all about formulas. I can find an overused textbook and learn math if I want to.
I could learn every fact about how buildings are made. I can familiarize myself with architecture if I decide to.
I can learn a whole new language, figure out a new grammar system, and communicate with new people, if I walk down the right hallway.
I could learn how someone’s brain works, the inner-workings of their thoughts, just through the fantasy book they wrote. That is, if I choose to open it.
And there’s more.
More we don’t know.
There’s that 95% of ocean we’ve yet to explore.
The corners of space we can’t quite reach.
Skeletons without names.
Voices lost to history.
We live in an archive. The world is its own library, and when you’re in its smaller, more contained counterpart; looking at rows and stacks and heaps of books, on everything and everything, you realize there’s more. Somehow, with hundreds of thousands of pages to flick through, there’s more.
You can learn whatever you want. You can pick any aisle of the library, or any trail in the world, but you’ll never learn it all. You’ve got to pick and choose.
Your brain’s storage space is limited, unlike the world’s.
So slow the heavy breathing of the realization that there’s just too much for your mind to hold, and pick the pieces you’re going to put in its arms.
To Feed the Insatiable
Averey Nguyen (10)
Image by Averey Nguyen
The building was massive, yet desolate. Not a soul could be found, not within the reaches of candlelight. Books and files lined the walls, an array of vertical lines of colour, varying in thickness, filing cabinets eventually replaced the colourful shelves as the archive went deeper, nothing but tall grey boxes, filled with torn pages, photographs, letters. Everything that was once accessible just at a glance was crammed into the back of the library, locked behind a set of hundreds of keys. Obtaining what was in those drawers would be near impossible unless someone were to drop the keys in a way that one key would miraculously unlock a drawer, its contents flooding out and expanding until the crumpled files covered everything else.
Myrian sighed as they dragged their feet across the worn carpet, what was once clean and pristine now charred, overused and covered in paths of the highest foot traffic. They weren’t sure when the last time they had been here had been, but they brought a wagon with them. Myrian remembered the destruction that once plagued the building. It was old, once a safe haven now a mere shadow of itself, the horrors of their mind often lurking between the shelves. Myrian had grown accustomed to the intruders, not that they truly cared anymore. They began to search through the library, taking the time to feel the weight and observe the contents of the book, briefly skimming through to refresh his mind. Various books, pictures, letters and specific pages torn right out of their books, all in a messy pile of junk in the wagon. Myrian sighed, striding across the singed fabric, wagon creaking as it rolled behind them.
Each and every exposed piece of media they took, Myrian made sure to flip through it just to make sure they knew what they tore out, reading each little thing, tearing out snippets and little words to shove back into the books, dropping everything else into the wagon. They took their time looking through it, knowing that what they planned to do was too much of a fragile process for him to carelessly throw things into their wagon haphazardly. Myrian made sure to run their hand through the pages to make sure they could remember the feel of it, the scent it carried, the visions it created, they made sure to take care to ensure that the books felt good, smelled at least okay, made them envision good things. Anything otherwise would be thrown into the wagon. Each little item made the cart creak just a bit more as it rolled around, dragging its entire weight all around.
As they trudged deeper into the library, Myrian noted the lack of available content they could simply grab. Each little item once on the shelves now locked away in cabinets by a key, a key they knew they wouldn’t ever find, lest they somehow find where it was stashed. Maybe if they get the chance to even take a peek, find where a key goes on a lim, they could look at the contents of the cabinet once more. Myrian managed to find a book, laid on the floor, collecting dust. Things like this happen all of the time, a little stray book appearing randomly when they visit the archive, time and time again, without fail, Myrian would find it. Peeking through the pages, the feel of the book wasn’t rough, yet also wasn’t smooth, a nice feel for such a worn down book. It seems that they’ve looked through this book before, having had pages torn from its place, incoherent bits and pieces that remained, loosely piecing a story together. they sighed, the further they read, the less and less there was left. They placed the book on top of the filing cabinet to his left, pulling his wagon along behind him before reaching the back of the archive.
In the back of the library, too far into the building to be able to be seen from the entrance, was a furnace. It still needed fuel, rumbling softly while Myrian approached. They opened the door, the heat coming out in waves. They squinted for a moment, letting himself adjust to the gentle glow of fire, the alluring heat nearly sucking them in. They looked around, making sure no one watched them, that no one was inside but them. The fire fizzled as it bit angrily at Myrian when they approached the furnace with the wagon in tow. Trying to lower the heat, they began to throw the large pile of documents into the hungry fire, the smell of burning paper floating to their nostrils. It smelled as bad as the content on the pages that slowly writhed and curled under the heat.
Myrian shut the furnace closed, stepping away from the humming machine. They turned their heels and began to walk back from the back of the library, the red wagon in tow. They kept a firm hold on the handle, unwilling to look back. What’s been done is done and Myrian can’t reverse what they’ve done anyway. They beelined to the front of the library, not bothering to even look at the remaining books, the colours once varied now whittled down to yellows and greys. Myrian pulled the wagon through the door once more before slipping through the narrow crack they had created in the door, slamming it shut behind them without another glance.
Myrian sighed as they dragged their feet across the worn carpet, what was once clean and pristine now charred, overused and covered in paths of the highest foot traffic. They weren’t sure when the last time they had been here had been, but they brought a wagon with them. Myrian remembered the destruction that once plagued the building. It was old, once a safe haven now a mere shadow of itself, the horrors of their mind often lurking between the shelves. Myrian had grown accustomed to the intruders, not that they truly cared anymore. They began to search through the library, taking the time to feel the weight and observe the contents of the book, briefly skimming through to refresh his mind. Various books, pictures, letters and specific pages torn right out of their books, all in a messy pile of junk in the wagon. Myrian sighed, striding across the singed fabric, wagon creaking as it rolled behind them.
Each and every exposed piece of media they took, Myrian made sure to flip through it just to make sure they knew what they tore out, reading each little thing, tearing out snippets and little words to shove back into the books, dropping everything else into the wagon. They took their time looking through it, knowing that what they planned to do was too much of a fragile process for him to carelessly throw things into their wagon haphazardly. Myrian made sure to run their hand through the pages to make sure they could remember the feel of it, the scent it carried, the visions it created, they made sure to take care to ensure that the books felt good, smelled at least okay, made them envision good things. Anything otherwise would be thrown into the wagon. Each little item made the cart creak just a bit more as it rolled around, dragging its entire weight all around.
As they trudged deeper into the library, Myrian noted the lack of available content they could simply grab. Each little item once on the shelves now locked away in cabinets by a key, a key they knew they wouldn’t ever find, lest they somehow find where it was stashed. Maybe if they get the chance to even take a peek, find where a key goes on a lim, they could look at the contents of the cabinet once more. Myrian managed to find a book, laid on the floor, collecting dust. Things like this happen all of the time, a little stray book appearing randomly when they visit the archive, time and time again, without fail, Myrian would find it. Peeking through the pages, the feel of the book wasn’t rough, yet also wasn’t smooth, a nice feel for such a worn down book. It seems that they’ve looked through this book before, having had pages torn from its place, incoherent bits and pieces that remained, loosely piecing a story together. they sighed, the further they read, the less and less there was left. They placed the book on top of the filing cabinet to his left, pulling his wagon along behind him before reaching the back of the archive.
In the back of the library, too far into the building to be able to be seen from the entrance, was a furnace. It still needed fuel, rumbling softly while Myrian approached. They opened the door, the heat coming out in waves. They squinted for a moment, letting himself adjust to the gentle glow of fire, the alluring heat nearly sucking them in. They looked around, making sure no one watched them, that no one was inside but them. The fire fizzled as it bit angrily at Myrian when they approached the furnace with the wagon in tow. Trying to lower the heat, they began to throw the large pile of documents into the hungry fire, the smell of burning paper floating to their nostrils. It smelled as bad as the content on the pages that slowly writhed and curled under the heat.
Myrian shut the furnace closed, stepping away from the humming machine. They turned their heels and began to walk back from the back of the library, the red wagon in tow. They kept a firm hold on the handle, unwilling to look back. What’s been done is done and Myrian can’t reverse what they’ve done anyway. They beelined to the front of the library, not bothering to even look at the remaining books, the colours once varied now whittled down to yellows and greys. Myrian pulled the wagon through the door once more before slipping through the narrow crack they had created in the door, slamming it shut behind them without another glance.
Littered
Graham Piche (10)
Things would wash up on shore sometimes.
Waterlogged books, their pages beyond illegible.
Strangely well preserved, though useless, USBs.
But this was new.
It was an orange plastic box that had showed up one day. It hadn’t actually reached the beach yet. It was just bobbing there in the evening surf. On the front, it stated that the box was a ‘survival kit’. Its clasps were worn, though after negotiating with it, the troublesome thing opened with a pop, depositing its contents gracelessly onto the wet sand, all in clear packages with labels. Bandages, wires, matches, whistles, multi-tools. Scattered around were many wonders of yesteryear. I smiled a solemn smile. The old world must have been beautiful.
Waterlogged books, their pages beyond illegible.
Strangely well preserved, though useless, USBs.
But this was new.
It was an orange plastic box that had showed up one day. It hadn’t actually reached the beach yet. It was just bobbing there in the evening surf. On the front, it stated that the box was a ‘survival kit’. Its clasps were worn, though after negotiating with it, the troublesome thing opened with a pop, depositing its contents gracelessly onto the wet sand, all in clear packages with labels. Bandages, wires, matches, whistles, multi-tools. Scattered around were many wonders of yesteryear. I smiled a solemn smile. The old world must have been beautiful.
Filed Away
Andrew Day (10)
He shifted through the first drawer, pages dancing across his fingers. It was full of soft colours, hazy sensation, fresh experience washing right over a fine haired head. Tears soaked through the bottom of each file, and he closed it gently, like he was afraid to wake the infant held within.
His hands skimmed up a row, and he found a drawer hot with summer sun. Grasstains splashed like tie-dye over the manilla, a few had been dented and dirtied with the imprint of a fiercely kicked ball. He brushed against a biting, rage stained mess of a folder near the back, and withdrew his arm with a regretful grimace.
Drawer after drawer slid out, thunking as they reached the end of their wheels. He searched, then stopped, and staunched the stinging in his eyes, and moved along.
He opened the folders of only one.
He knocks his head against hers as the world tilts around him. They both stumble over apologies, wrestling with clumsy tongues, and realise they can’t really slur their laughter.
She swears as the icy ground wrenches her feet out from beneath her. He spins around to see what’s gone wrong, and feels his own footing give way just as she struggles back up. She laughs, he pulls her down when she offers a hand.
He orders his coffee with milk in it for the first time, and damn near spits it all over the steering wheel.
She lights candles with a matchstick, and refuses his zippo when he offers.
The bartender asks if he’ll have the usual.
Her makeup runs and his heart swells so violently in his chest he fears it will wrench itself from his ribs and cling to her dress like a lost child. He nearly drops the ring. Her shoe gets stuck in the grass, and he slings her arm over his shoulder to hobble back indoors. The freezer breaks, the wine is warm and the rain is cold.
He cuts his finger chopping onions, and accidentally bends the knife when he drops it.
He knows the next drawer, and what it brings.
This drawer is important.
He couldn’t give a damn about the rest of it, but this drawer will stay safe.
He dusts off each file with the care of a father swaddling his baby, gentle and thorough. He flips through them all, wearing fingerprints into the glossy photographs, but making sure they never lose their definition.
He closes the drawer, and then the door behind him.
He wills up enough strength to throw off the covers, and a new files slips into his archive.
His hands skimmed up a row, and he found a drawer hot with summer sun. Grasstains splashed like tie-dye over the manilla, a few had been dented and dirtied with the imprint of a fiercely kicked ball. He brushed against a biting, rage stained mess of a folder near the back, and withdrew his arm with a regretful grimace.
Drawer after drawer slid out, thunking as they reached the end of their wheels. He searched, then stopped, and staunched the stinging in his eyes, and moved along.
He opened the folders of only one.
He knocks his head against hers as the world tilts around him. They both stumble over apologies, wrestling with clumsy tongues, and realise they can’t really slur their laughter.
She swears as the icy ground wrenches her feet out from beneath her. He spins around to see what’s gone wrong, and feels his own footing give way just as she struggles back up. She laughs, he pulls her down when she offers a hand.
He orders his coffee with milk in it for the first time, and damn near spits it all over the steering wheel.
She lights candles with a matchstick, and refuses his zippo when he offers.
The bartender asks if he’ll have the usual.
Her makeup runs and his heart swells so violently in his chest he fears it will wrench itself from his ribs and cling to her dress like a lost child. He nearly drops the ring. Her shoe gets stuck in the grass, and he slings her arm over his shoulder to hobble back indoors. The freezer breaks, the wine is warm and the rain is cold.
He cuts his finger chopping onions, and accidentally bends the knife when he drops it.
He knows the next drawer, and what it brings.
This drawer is important.
He couldn’t give a damn about the rest of it, but this drawer will stay safe.
He dusts off each file with the care of a father swaddling his baby, gentle and thorough. He flips through them all, wearing fingerprints into the glossy photographs, but making sure they never lose their definition.
He closes the drawer, and then the door behind him.
He wills up enough strength to throw off the covers, and a new files slips into his archive.
Spotlight Garden
Amelia Medd (10)
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I want to live by a garden
So the neighborhood kids can play in the brambles, So I can build meals from fruit and leaves I want to live by a garden So I can grow what was here before The boats and the cannons The guns and war I want to live in a garden So I can tell her my stories And listen to the tales her roots whisper back I’d live to live by a forest To craft jewellery from vines and stone To forage for feasts I’d like to live by a river So I can dip my hands into the dripping stream And listen to the water whipped rocks I’d like to live on a planet That lives long enough To tell others the stories I read to her branches |
Image by Amelia Medd |
In Loving Memory Of Brenda Lee KatzWabisi Budge (10)
Image by Liberty Chantres |
Brenda (Bree) Lee Katz of Boston Massachusetts, was hit by a wrecking ball while napping in her apartment and passed on Saturday, November 12, 2011 at the age of 22.
She was born on April 20th 1989 to Cindy Katz and Ronald Katz in Greenville, Maine. She lived with her sister, Phoebe, and two brothers, Kalob and Luca, until Kalob passed away while fighting cancer in 1998. Katz was a University student in Massachusetts Institute of Technology, she was a major in pharmaceutical engineering. She had been valedictorian for her high school graduation and had also won a DECA Emerging Leader Honor Award. Brenda had a partner Kaylee whom she had been living with for 2 years. They had been dating for 3 years since they were 19 during their first year of university together. Kaylee was at the vet with their pet cat, Juice, at the time of the accident. She had a part-time job at Walmart and had been working there for 2 ½ years but was ready to quit due to the grief and stress of recently losing her father to a drunk driver. Bree loved to dance and took dance classes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at Boston Dance studios. She loved going on morning walks around her neighborhood while listening to music and watching the sunrise. Katz is survived by her girlfriend; mother; siblings and friends. She is preceded in death by her father; brother; great grandparents; and childhood dog, Marlee. |
Image By Natalie Persaud
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The MonsterNatalie Persaud (10)
There were once books lining these shelves. Pages full of facts from heaven to hell. All plucked away one by one by the monster of the hall himself. Burned by his dragon-like breath, and ash lost in the air, these books were gone for good. These halls, they feel the decay. Now all that is left are these empty shelves and dust covering the wood. But the monster's not gone, he lives in the halls. Burning it all, from the floor to the walls. He will never rest until it's ash, all the way from the east to the west. Never again will we see those books along those shelves
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Untitled
Patrick Ralph (10)
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If I fade, I want to fade beautifully.
With the mold decorating my body like that of glitter, my sunken cheeks and cold hands, I am the most beautiful I have ever been. All I can hope for is that some artist sees me, fading away, and thinks that I am beautiful. I am forgotten, I am remembered. I am fading away, being pushed into the shelves of history, but I am still here, a reminder of my life. And though my flesh is tearing, although my bones are broken, aching even in death, I am a sight to behold. I am everything, and I am nothing, because my body is here, and I lived a beautiful life. But it doesn't matter. I am insignificant beside the scale of history and time itself. I am insignificant, but this artist thinks my body is inspiring. It's a morbid thought. The thought of having no impact is scary, but the thought of leaving an impact is scarier. But if I fade, I want to fade beautifully. |
Image By Patrick Ralph |