Corruption |
Is that a falsified document in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?
Welcome one and all to the final Spotlight of the year! Frolic with fraudsters and dance with the deceitful, for this anthology is all about corruption. From substance abuse to Daffy Duck, you'll find everything that is duplicitous and sinful here.
So straighten your tie and tuck an ace up your sleeve because it is time to get ready for the wickedest Spotlight yet.
Welcome one and all to the final Spotlight of the year! Frolic with fraudsters and dance with the deceitful, for this anthology is all about corruption. From substance abuse to Daffy Duck, you'll find everything that is duplicitous and sinful here.
So straighten your tie and tuck an ace up your sleeve because it is time to get ready for the wickedest Spotlight yet.
i am made of memories
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i am made of memories
i am soft hugs and "i love you"s stitched together with threads in purple, red, orange, and yellow i am "I'm sorry"s weaved with "it's going to be okay"s into patterns that resemble forgiveness i am promises tied together and sealed with long picnics on hot days i am patterns of "do you still care?" mixed with "of course i do" i am fuzzy edges and moonlight and falling asleep hand in hand, hearing of lighthouses and love i am "good morning"s and "good night"s, "i missed you too"s and "see you tomorrow"s, "hi"s and "bye"s tassled at my edges i am made of memories i will let you corrupt me with all that you are |
Hell
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When you reach Hell, this is one of the best indications that perhaps somewhere in your life, you went wrong. There were two options of millions of options set out before you like shades of white at a wedding and you chose wrong. Whatever wrong means to you. Because Hell is not somewhere for those of us who mean well. Everyone in Hell is a little bit… you know; teetering on the edge of Guilty and Reprehensible, or having flung themselves in a swan dive off it completely.
So when you reach Hell and you’ve finished taking in the view, it would do you well to put your best foot forward. Strut a little bit knowing that this time you’ll truly be trying your best to become a better person; account for your previous sins and bring yourself inner peace and this and that and a sack of cats. After all, it is not everyone who has reached peak philosophical enlightenment upon also reaching what could be considered: a pretty good indication of moral failing. Therefore, do not worry your pretty little skeletal head, about the fires erupting in downtown Hottawa—this sort of thing happens all the time. The infernal firefighters will be on the case shortly. |
By Any Other Name
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trigger warning for emetophobia and medical gaslighting
Amaryllis has set candles on the dinner table. It isn’t unusual for her. Adds a certain amount of ambiance, she says. The sickly sweet smell doesn’t bode well for my rolling stomach tonight, but I cast the thought out of my mind as I sit down. I want to have one good night, if that isn’t too much to ask for. “How was your day, dear?” she asks as she sits across from me. Her hands are still stained with paint even though she’s been washing them for the past five minutes. “Fine.” “Just fine?” “I have no complaints.” I pick at my meal, some pasta dish. It’s been my favourite for years. Whenever it’s her turn to cook, it’s her go-to. Now the pasta is nothing more than a revolting pile of mush. “Did you alter the recipe?” “No, why?” “Nothing, it just looks a little off.” “It seems fine to me.” “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with it. If I’m being honest, I haven’t been feeling too well lately.” It’s not a lie, but I hide the severity of the truth. I haven’t been able to tolerate anything as of late; I’ve spent my days either choking down waves of nausea or dry heaving in public bathrooms. “If there’s something wrong with it, you can just tell me.” Her voice has an edge to it, and I can tell I’ve hurt her feelings. “Seriously. It’s me. I think I might be coming down with something. I’ve been feeling off all week.” Her face changes instantly when I say this, relief then sympathy, a quick one-two punch. “Do you want me to call the doctor tomorrow? I’ll see if she can fit you in.” “Yeah, that’s ok, I think it’ll pass. Probably just some stomach bug or a bad salad.” “Are you sure? I’d hate for anything to happen.” |
Missing
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It's dark outside.
Sophia peers out from behind the curtains as raindrops splatter on the windowpane. Her breath fogs the glass. "Give it up, Soph. You're not finding her." Her brother's voice comes from behind her, and his steps fall heavy on the hardwood floor. Sophia doesn't bother looking back. She has a thousand justifications in her head for looking. It's dark, it's cold, it's raining, Dandelion wasn't supposed to be an outdoor cat. What she says, instead, is "I'm just looking." She's sure Taylor rolls his eyes, but she still doesn't look at him. His steps fade away without another word. Sophia continues to stare out the window. She's begging for a glimpse of soaking-wet dark fur, a tiny thing of a cat somewhere in the pouring rain. She and Taylor had been given the cat after their aunt's cat had kittens. They'd both been so excited. Dandelion had been so small she'd fit in their hands, and so eager to play. Sophia hadn't been able to tie her shoes in peace without a little paw batting her shoelace away from her. She hadn't had the heart to take the shoelace away from her, and so Sophia had been late to work a lot those first few days. Now, she stares out the window, thinking about how cold it was and how Dandelion loved to curl up beside the radiator or in one of their laps, always looking for more warmth. Sophia sighs and lets the curtain fall over the window. There was no use staring out the window. She looks towards the doorway longingly. |
Mother
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I became a mother at the age of 7, and a father at the age of 17.
I learned to mother my own when she couldn’t for me, with kind words and glasses of water. Turning her light off when she’d fall asleep, wine glass in limp hands, phone screen illuminated, a sloppy text showing up in the blue light. I became a mother at the age of 7, navigating a new city, holding her hand to cross the road, learning how to board a ferry by myself. Though I wasn’t by myself, I was looking up at her with love. With love, but also with resentment, fear, loneliness, and grief. I became a mother that day, crossing the waters with a shaky hand on my lap. I brought her into a taxi, and tucked her in as best I could, before brushing my teeth with pink glitter toothpaste and putting on my footy pyjamas. I became a mother that day. I became a father at the age of 17. Stern looks and taking away what was making her sick. Leaving the house to get some air, the police were almost called on me, because she couldn’t find me. She needed me there with her. She needed her father. She stumbled towards me in the dead of night, and I knew I was needed. Glasses of water, silent tears. I became a father that day. Knowing asking her to simply stop would do no good, I stopped after a few years. Children don’t listen to their fathers when they know they’re misbehaving. She’d stand in my doorframe and stare at me, waking me up with a start. I’d tell her to go back into bed, and when that didn’t work, I would take her arm and tuck her in. I became a father that day. |
The Detective
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I walked down the rainy streets of London with my umbrella in hand while I whistled a soothing tune to myself. Something felt off tonight, I could feel it. I’ve done this many times before, but tonight felt oddly different. My stomach was clenched, trying to warn me of something, but I didn’t listen. I had to go in tonight. I stopped walking and closed my umbrella and just stood there, allowing the heavy rain to dance upon my head and shoulders while I took a deep breath to reassure myself. ‘
As Cecilia would say, “keep moving dear, you're almost there.” I whispered this to myself. I held back a chuckle at my memory of her -- she really was one of a kind. I resumed my walking and listened to the sounds of the thunder storm. I had always loved the rain, even as a small boy. I love how it dances so gracefully upon the roofs of houses and how it quietly beats against the ground like a soothing drum. As I walked towards the office, listening to the soft splashes my feet made as they connected with the ground, I once again stopped to think. Cecilia always said to trust your gut, no matter what the circumstances. But the ‘circumstances’ were important and not worth me losing the career that I loved so much. So I quickly made my way to the office. |
Honeybee
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I’m not sure how I ended up here. It’s about midnight, and I’m sitting in a diner with a plate of all day breakfast in front of me. Two wet eggs, burned bacon, arranged to look like a smiley face, which seems like a cruel joke to give to someone sitting in a highway-side diner in the early hours of the morning. I must have been hungry when I ordered them, but I’m far from it now. To be fair, it’s not like it’s my fault that they look disgusting. Tomorrow is my twenty five year high school reunion. Twenty five years, and what do I have to show for it? An ex-wife, kids who’d rather live in foster care than with me, and a failing family business with no family left to pass it down to. Sirens wail down the highway outside, getting louder as a woman steps through the door. I don’t recognize her until she says my name, and then I wonder how I ever forgot her. “John? Is that you?” I’ve been thinking about this woman for twenty five years. Every night, every day. Her fading pink hair bleeds into the fading pink wallpaper like a ghost, but the bright red tattoos creeping up her arms like ivy over a tombstone are clear as day. She had less of them back when I knew her, just a few stick-and-pokes, but now she looks like she could be the wall of a parking garage. They wrap around her wrists, her throat, every inch of her exposed skin, twisting lines that look kind of like tire tracks. I can’t imagine how painful they must have been. |
Clipped Wings
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With every twitch of my upper body there is a searing pain. An inflammation, spreading across my back. I must be sprouting something. I can feel them poking. Writhing underneath the skin, prepped and in prime position to break free. To tear through my tissues, pulling at the cartilage until it rips, grinding against the bone to make it sharper. The wings become one with my shoulder, my arm, my spine.
Once it ruts its way out of my body, to be an extension of it, will the pain be gone? Will it? Will those sinewy members, dripping black, cracked, with aslant bones, be able to carry me away? Fly me over a forest and let me fall. Tumbling through the trees, pummeled by branches, scratched and bruised on the ground, where I’ll lie, splattered. Where I’ll lie with my wings clipped. They grew again, against my will, without my consent, then they were cut. Sawed off. Shredded. Feathers floating to the soil, painted with blood, ruined. Is this what I wanted? Is this not what I wanted? Will it come back? Will it? Let me not groan aloud as my bones reform and my skin rips. Let me not have to fall, all over again. |
Grey Like Clouds After Snowfall
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This chapter of my life is closing, and I can do nothing but obsess over what could have been. It stitches together, making a lopsided patchwork of my heart. In the center are loose, incomplete threads. They unravel and fill the blanks with hesitant string—red with fate. It ties from my pinky and connects to yours, knotted with a pristine bow at the top.
We could have had four years together. We should have. You can barely look me in the eyes when you whisper under your breath, ‘would things be different if we had met earlier?’ (The unspoken question echos; would we have been happier?) I reminisce on events and places that belong to the past, and our string tightens as though reminding me to stay on my designated path. Your round eyes stare unblinkingly at me; I stare back. I always thought your eyes were the prettiest grey. I contemplated this to myself, as I examined them under the warm lighting of the library. They were framed by heavy lashes, accentuating your awkward yet innocent demeanour. On that Thursday afternoon, you cocked your head to the side and informed me that they were blue, but I secretly thought otherwise. Our dynamic was always like this. You were right, and I was consistently wrong. But this time, I was adamant about the particular shade of greyness. It was present whenever I met your soft gaze. You told me that you were healing, but something within you believed that your mind would corrupt me. I stayed until I had no other choice but to pack up my bags and leave. There is no such thing as a pure individual—we are all sinners in our own right, but it is true that some sin more than others. I am remembering this now when I miss you the most. But still, everything must come to an end. The clock stops ticking; the minute and hour hands lay at rest. Our red string is severed, but perhaps it could be mended in the distant future. That, is up for fate to decide. Your grey eyes blink slowly at me, and vanish without a trace. |
Flames and Sandstorms
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The needle edged closer and closer to the brunette fruit on the table. Jexi calmed his fingers, asking their cooperation for the payoff of his months in the lab. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead as the point sank into the sugar palm fruit. He made the injection and the world stood still. First, nothing. Then the fruit turned bright green. Jexi Helias threw his arms in the air, after carefully dropping the needle first, of course. He’d done it. The scientist took a good long look out his window, admiring the stark, endless desert landscape. Its sole, beautiful blemish was a towering geyser and the city around it. The Great Geyser was the source of all the water on this continent. Due to weather phenomena, the last raindrop to fall in Camle was thousands of years ago.
Jexi checked his new product. He noted a slight size increase and a new potent smell of lavender after the injection. His apparent success was hyping him up, and as any inventor knows, science involves great risk, so Jexi grabbed the fruit and took a bite. The effect was immediate. Vague visions of flames and sandstorms danced in his mind as the scientist’s grip on reality faded. He was swimming, flying, shooting through space! He was lying facedown on the lab floor. This new invention was a potent hallucinogen. Not a particularly useful invention for the prosperity of humanity, but one that would line his pockets for sure. He was just regaining his footing when there was a knock at the door. It opened without waiting for a response. “Good God, man! You look possessed!” Mayor Finias had burst in, as he often did. “I take it your experiment was a success!” “G-yeah…” Jexi’s speech was still slurred by the drug. “That’s marvellous! If it works like you said it would, it’ll do wonderfully in the higher class market of our incredible city!” There wasn’t a person in the land who could tell the mayor’s genuine smile from the fake one. Either way, he had a full tooth grin right now. “There’s a problem thoug-g. The water, it… A tree would consume quite a bit of water, and-” “Yeah, yeah, anyways, I was just stopping by to check on your progress. I’m delighted to see you’re finished. It’s good to know this city wasn’t funding you for nothing!” He shuffled out without another word. |
Whispers but not lies
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Cobwebs scatter within crevices of the slanted attic ceiling,
The wooden floors carry scratches only the filtered light reveals. You say this house cradles the hearts of those before us, “Pure” and “untouchable” plastered with the floral wallpaper. Do you not notice the rotted wooden planks? (The ones underneath the altar of your god) Or the white tablecloth bleached of the wine red blood you let seep into the blessed fabric? Even the rosary you keep hanging on the wall swings to its own beat. But what makes your skin crawl with a truth you cannot hush? The whispers. How they speak endlessly, Hoping, Needing for someone to listen a little more closely. You know the truth now, Of why the candles by the window melt too fast, Of what the mumbles that you swore the wind brought in mean, And of how the house does not cradle the hearts, But corrupts them. |
Gone Wrong
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The sky was beautiful. The last remnants of the sunset glowed as if the sky was on fire. A brush had painted the horizon, leaving a stunning mix of red and orange behind; the rest of the canvas was but charred ash. From beyond the edge of the forest, the blur of city lines shone in the distance.
All of this could be seen beneath the branches of the maple trees scattered throughout the forest. A thin layer of frost had inched itself up to their bark in the cool air of the night. From there, it covered the dying grass, where a combination of colours nearly as vibrant as the sky lay together. Mixed in between the classical shades of fall, some leaves looked almost artificial at first glance. It wasn’t the plant itself that looked unnatural―but rather its unusual red that made them look fake. Even in the approaching darkness of the night, the dried crimson hue was unmistakable. A lone leaf tumbled gracefully from a naked branch. As it fell, it did not drop on the dying grass, or fall amongst the other leaves; rather, it fell onto skin pale as snow. Underneath the thin layers of leaves lay a body, blood still seeping from its wounds. To the side, was a knife, covered in the same shade of red as the leaves. The body was beginning to grow more still. The sound of deeper breaths replaced the faint ones. The crumpling of leaves could be heard as a figure dropped down onto the ground, a cloud of breath floating through the cold air. That’s when he said to him, “I never wanted to hurt you.” |
Daffy Duck
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The Oxford dictionary defines corruption as “the action or effect of making someone or something morally depraved.” When most people think of corruption, they often think of the tragic descent of good towards evil. The cruel actions of one that we thought could be trusted. Some people
have been corrupted for so long, that most don’t even remember a time when they were anything otherwise. If you ever watched cartoons as a kid, you might’ve seen a shifty little duck amongst the other shifty little ducks in the industry. The former star of Looney Tunes, Daffy Duck. If anyone were to be asked about his personality, most would be able to respond immediately. He’s the self-centered duck of Warner Bros., the greed-filled opposite of Bugs Bunny’s nonchalance, the one who would do anything for the spotlight. His cartoon short, Duck Amuck, was even selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry because of his incredibly recognizable personality. Now, what if I told you he wasn’t always that way? Like the villain origin stories that we see in the media every day, Daffy Duck had also once been a (somewhat) moral mallard that became corrupted over time, evolving into what he is today. We are first introduced to Daffy Duck in the 1937 cartoon Porky’s Duck Hunt. The cartoon, directed by Tex Avery and Bob Clampett followed the hunter and prey format that was popular in cartoons at the time. In the late 1930s, there was a transition of characterizations, aiming to replace the everyman character that was popular in the early decade and to replace it with the more fitting screwball character that was gaining recognition. Daffy Duck was a prime example of this chaos, a bold duck, with an uncontained sense of mayhem and an assertiveness in all that he does. Most recognizable for watchers of his cartoons at the time, were his signature cries, where he bounced around maniacally yelling hoo-hoo! |
Steak
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CONTENT WARNING: Horror, gore
I like to cook steak for my boyfriend. It's always ready when he comes home from work. A nice steak with a glass of wine. Perhaps I shouldn't use the term ‘steak’ here (seeing as it refers to beef, specifically), but rather an amalgamation of different meats that I usually find at a local market. Sometimes it's something regular like chicken or pork. Other times I get something exotic that I go out of my way to find, such as ostrich or toad or an unfortunate rodent that has dug through our trash one too many times. Today, I think I’ll make my best ever dish: I use a hand saw to cut through the flesh and bone of my head and into my frontal lobe. I take a small piece, maybe about the size of a small fist from the top left section before gluing my cranium and my mandible back into the right places. I put the piece into the meat grinder with other odds and ends and parts of me. My ear, my thumb. My big, button nose. As well, I add the usual beef. I watch him chew and grind the meat in his mouth from across the table as I bleed out of my eyes and foam at the mouth. He savors the crunch of the synapses echoing against the roof of his mouth as the gray matter oozes between his teeth. I think it’s the best he’s tasted... |
Lobotomy
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Tip, tap. You stride across the cold linoleum floor, holding a dark blue satchel and all the confidence in the world. A sketchy man stands off to the side, leaning against the humming radiator that was meant to warm up guests in the frigid hospital. If you remember correctly, the doctor would be in the operating theater, half the nurses would be on break, and a man who looks like he served in the Addams administration would be in the area. It’s all going according to plan, you think to yourself. Apparently you said that out loud, as the shifty little man near the radiator jumped up quite suddenly. Taking a breath to calm himself, he takes a few steps towards you and motions for you to stand near the radiator. What a weirdo.
“So, what are we thinking for tonight?” Isn’t it obvious? Maybe the doc botched the lobotomy on you and not the patient. “No need to get snarky. Do you have the stuff?” As you pull the satchel off the shoulder, a quick flip reveals a mountain of monopoly money and subway tokens, all neatly organized into little coloured bags. The man lets out a low whistle, impressed by the massive haul. “And I thought the last deal was crazy. I’ll call one of the nurses and she’ll put in a word with the doc. That lobotomy is yours, boy.” As you walk away from the dusty old radiator, you think of how immoral your actions are. Trading someone’s sanity for monopoly money isn’t the most saintly thing one can do. But hey! You’re benefiting from it; your least favourite politician is now going to spend the rest of his life in a psych ward, and you got to get rid of your leftover subway coins. |
Can You Taste Metal?
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The child awoke to a loud bang, as their small apartment shook vigorously. His first thought was an earthquake, but as he got up from his bed and threw back the curtains covering his window, he saw a blinding amount of light coming from the building in the distance. He watched, mesmerized as a stream of light shot up into the night sky. His parents were at his side in an instant, but they too became paralyzed at the sight. They stood there for what could have been seconds, minutes, or hours. To the boy it felt like an eternity. The ringing of the phone snapped the family out of their trance as his father answered the phone. The boy could hear his father exchange a few words with whoever was on the other side of the line, but the boy was almost certain of who it was. The boy was terrified.
“I’ve got to go,” his father said as he rushed around the apartment, looking for his gear. “You can’t!” The boy cried out, panicked. His father stopped to look at him. “I’ve put out countless fires before. Why are so afraid this time” “That building, there are dangerous things. Toxins, chemicals, dangerous things.” The boy nervously said. His father just smiled and said, “I’ll be just fine. You and your mother go to bed, and I’ll be back before you wake up.” He smiled one more time, and left through the front door with his firefighter equipment in hand. The child and his mother returned to the window. The boy knew one or two things about that mysterious building. With his father rushing off to save it, now seemed like a good time to get to know more about it. “What is that building mom?” The boy asked, looking up at his mother. She was pale, and looked like she had a serious sickness, but she still replied. “It’s a nuclear power plant. Its name is Chernobyl.” |
Corrupted Sea Glass
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Corruption whisks our minds away
Like erosion of river stones Blooming with ocean salt That stings the wounds Of our bittersweet memories Each a tumbling sea glass Eternal and fragile Broken by a whim to hurt That smooths over time Until eventually there's nothing left |
Ruins
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There was once something here
long since rotted away Sinewy trees their roots like ribs Broken brick walls the spine of a kingdom There was once something here Ladybugs crawl ‘cross a fallen chandelier Feathered moths dance to the echoes of a volta Wings fluttering in common time There was once something here now there’s teeth now there’s scars now there’s bone and there’s blood Do not be repulsed by the gore Taste its lost voice drowned in moss tarnished green like copper buried forgotten How sweet those spirits taste how they melt on your tongue and seep into your skin For those made of light are still drawn to the shadows and the rot will suck you in like the fiddleheads that sprout from a splintered violin This forest is the casket for the corpse of a kingdom The coffin nails sink they’re locking you in |
Marble Towers
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Corruption!
Rich man's daily feast Finding pleasure in wickedness And in others defeats While the poor suffer in pains The rich take advantage And put us in chains Chains in the form of jobs and debt They turn us against each other And we fight to the death For just a sliver, of money and power We want to climb the steps Of their marble towers To reach our captors And join them on high And look down on the sad From up in the sky Look back at what we used to be And scoff and laugh And take pity. Meantime we hang on that same mans Every word Wealth maketh many friends But he's not my friend Is he yours? It doesn’t matter what we think Or what we want Of the rich Man He holds the power, The world, In the palm of his hand. O how long! Shall we laugh, and chuckle In our pains When shall we rejoice and Be set free from our chains Shall this corruption be fixed Coded out like a virus Or encircle the world And grow Like an Iris |