A flower does not use words to announce its arrival to the world; it just blooms.
Matshona Dhliwayo
Dear Reader,
This edition of Incite marks another memorable moment in our magazine’s journey—one that feels particularly vibrant because it captures the optimistic spirit of youth, spring, and growth. At the same time, within these pages are stories and images that do not shy away from loss, resilience, or transformation. All of it comes together under the theme of Bloom, which I take to mean becoming. The beauty of this is that there is no end to becoming; it’s a continual process of growth and discovery.
You will enjoy seeing all the directions our contributors have taken this theme: from lighthearted to heavy; from raw to polished. Together, they remind us that becoming is not one thing, but many.
Once again, this issue is the product of a village. To our student contributors—thank you for sharing your creativity and talent. To our editorial, art, content, and layout teams—thank you for nurturing this collection into something vibrant and alive.
As you turn these pages, I encourage you to reflect on what it means to bloom in your own life—where growth has surprised you, where resilience has carried you, and where becoming is still in motion.
Sincerely,
Misaal Mehboob
Editor-in-Chief (Content)
Editor’s
Misaal Mehboob
Dear Reader,
As you flip through the pages of this magazine, I invite you to imagine each one opening like a blooming flower. With every turn, breathe in the scents, take in the colours, and let yourself be carried by the inspiration, the beauty, and the growth that unfold before you.
This issue is rooted in the themes of bloom and growth, gentle reminders that, like the seasons of nature, we are always evolving, reaching for the light, and discovering new ways to flourish. Within these pages you’ll encounter art and stories that celebrate transformation: works that remind us of resilience, of creativity’s quiet power, and of the joy found in watching something small take root and expand into something larger than itself.
Art and nature share this theme of renewal. They give us language when words fall short and open spaces for dialogue that bring us closer together. May what you find here encourage you to pause, reflect, and carry a piece of that inspiration into your own journey.
Starting from a small thought, a tiny seed, may your ideas, your ambitions, and your creations continue to bloom, growing tall and strong like a tree, generous as fruit in season, and as beautiful as a flower unfolding to the sun.
Enjoy the magazine,
Vereena Andrawes
Editor-in-Chief (Art)
Vereena Andrawes
Letter
seasons dora xu petals left behind morgan hamilton the ending yennie chen frankenstein over the alter a.s. ko forget-me-nots don’t grow in frozen ground connor george doe hearted raniya chowdhury forget-me-not harleen chahal the fishtank hakram akram the year after you sm hive mind sereena s the waiting fruit vereena andrawes bridge over water sakeenah niazi to hate, to change, to love eric zhang bespoke j.b wanting my lady-in-waiting irys b.m. pascual precipitation from concrete perspective rami naamna home of the mother goddess ria patel thirst is not satiated by spirits or sea water felix menashy i loved you, you loved the dreams durezernab berki yearning to belong ali sahib who will feed my hamster when i’m gone? emily silver unfamiliar location niall cane are you paying attention? jess kim
patchwork sweets gillian reid flower of the ocean dora xu tea enji arsalan inner exploration annie le frankenstein over the altar aditya kalra untitled koketso langanani road to somewhere audrey ewen newmold liz herr growing pains rhiannon carr the fishtank sandy kumar home simran ishita ram shadow of seasons audrey ewen hive mind aditya kalra the waiting fruit vereena andrawes journal entry yeemon magnolia bloom on a spring night isra chowdhury untitled j.b wanting my lady sandy kumar decay ayesha umair last glance aidan zeglinski bigger ajuni birak psyched ayesha umair secret gardens fatima salman meadows of dreams durezernab berki digital flower aidan zeglinski in time charley ngo unfamiliar locations niall cane journal entry yeemon
PATCHWORKS |
ART by GILLIAN REID
But love is always new. Regardless of whether we love once, twice, or a dozen times in our life, we always face a brand-new situation. Love can consign us to hell or to paradise, but it always takes us somewhere. We simply have to accept it, because it is what nourishes our existence. If we reject it, we die of hunger, because we lack the courage to stretch out a hand and pluck the fruit from the branches of the tree of life. We have to take love where we find it, even if that means hours, days, weeks of disappointment and sadness.
The moment we begin to seek love, love begins to seek us. And to save us.
Paulo Coelho, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
Seasons
ART & WORDS by DORA XU
A wuthering wind whips through a landscape of white as the frost clears into a frozen forest of green with branches draped in ice, the weight of winter lingers.
Birds sip from sweet nectar from nectarines under a dreamy cat curled on a drifting canopy of flowers with fluttering petals in a field full of serenity and sweetness. The world spins and stirs slowly then sighs while suspended in time before shifting from one season to the next.x
WORDS by MORGAN HAMILTON
ART by ENJI ARSALAN
Petals Left Behind
The flowers. I remember the flowers. They filled my childhood home; their scent dominated each room.
My mother passed away this past summer. With death follows a slue of emotions and being overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the people coming to show their support. Overwhelmed by the procedures of death. Procedures like visitation and burial; I don’t think anyone believes that love can be overwhelming, but it can. I became overstimulated by the amount of people that hugged me, shook my hand, and gave their condolences through thoughts and stories of my mother. After this was over, I thought that the hardest part had concluded. But, I failed to realize that love came from everywhere. I realized that I was not only overwhelmed by the hugs and stories, but from the cards, gifts and flowers that people bring in her honour as well. The flowers. I remember the flowers. They filled my childhood home; their scent dominated each room. This domination was not of malice—rather, it was of love. Love from those who admired her, love that people put into our life to help with your passing. Usually, this dominating scent is perceived with a loving intention. However, they reminded me of my mother’s death. The sweet smell became sickly. I came to realize their mortality; some bloomed faster than others, yet others faded just as fast. They have their lifespan, some longer than others.
It made me realize my mother was like a flower in bloom; her life when fully realized was exhilarating to reminisce, but demonstrated our reality—we are mortal beings. We come from nature, and there is where we must return.
It is sad to watch a flower die, but when it’s ones time, there’s nothing to stop the inevitable. They are not leaving, they are fulfilling their lifecycle. They will come back. They are still here, they haven’t fully left. They leave things behind. I never realized how much these flowers left their mark until they were gone. To this day, I still find petals and leaves around the house. They bring back the smell of those flowers, while reminding me of that period filled with love. This period flashes through my mind, and it fades away just as fast as it opens. Like the arrangements sent to the house, you left your petals everywhere. When I find remnants, it brings me back to a golden time. But that gold never lasts; I never realized how desolate and flat the house is when you are not here. However, I will never forget those flowers; I don’t think anyone will. You’ve left so much behind; I yearn to find petals. I am moved to find them; I want to remember you inside the gold. Yet, flowers seen during golden hour host a fleeting beauty.x
i know, that nothing kind stays kind
this burning world is unkind to anyone without armour and spines, mutant forms safeguarding water stores the way you and I held onto hope as we left what was left of home, earth scorching our calloused feet; no choice but to run, then.
the spires had crumbled eons ago and the canopies before them, speckled gold giving way to a warning-signal sun
The Endling “ ”
and forests dried like browned blood, autumn come too soon yet bearing no promise of winter.
my flickering memory, pollen-seasoned light through oxygen masks, my mother’s crackling laugh, holding the plastic around a fresh-made bouquet, back when a petal weighed less than a coin, hearts light as feathers but not hollow as bones, as if we owned anything more
than the right to death. as if you would not find me as the songbirds screeched their throats bloody, scarlet sky littered with ash, the wilds we knew growing new meaning into rot, redder, redder than falling leaves, than leaving life, than small bodies hurtling through thorns of flame and a prayer to be lost and not losing again.
here is the truth: there is nothing left. even the red sand, approaching extinction, flees too fast to conserve our traces, and even the rain, searing burrows into the ground cannot permeate back into before. history: a population of bullet wounds, festering, sealed then torn open by breath.
they warned of the myth of evergreen; that there are no perennial things, no persistence that fends off pestilence, the past the sorry prey of the present. and god, i know, that nothing kind stays kind but you trace your fingers through the ash laugh your throaty laugh
and as if by forgiveness or some miracle of decay, colour glazes my tired eyes and i am nestled in morning dew back in my mother’s garden, watching the tulips, watching you softly unfurl.x
WORDS by YENNIE CHEN
ART by ANNIE LE
Frankenstein over The Alter
They wanted me to craft a flower: delicate, fragile, dainty.
All meaningless as I looked, hopelessly, at my materials: flesh, metal, bodies.
The TA walked by airily as I sat down, lived down, the fear at what my fingers knew were the only media I would have: skin for delicate petals, fingernails for fragile leaves, intestines to twist into soft and reaching stems, with metal wires tangling it all.
ART by ADITYA KALRA WORDS by A.S. KO
And there I was:
Roses smell too sweet, lavender stings the nose and and at some point, in my heart, I thought I wanted to be a flower but (who even has the time for that, anyway?)
And that was not, in the end, who I was or at least not who I was trying to rip myself into becoming.
That is, until I saw the others. The others: With their paper and leather (violent!), with their scales and fangs (horrid!), with their tight-cropped hair and purple bangs (extra)!
And together we were four, five (“Oh no,”)
six (“So many of them–”)
seven (“Dear god, what are they doing–”)
And when the semester crawls to an end, we open up the greenhouse of creeping, snaking vines:
And let the flowers shriek, shrouding the school in a resplendent beauty:
And laugh, because it’s almost time for supper.x
ART by KOKETSO LANGANANI
WORDS by CONNOR GEORGE
you can’t bury a body in frozen ground so I’ll wait until spring when the snow melts and the ground thaws digging with cut-up hands to bury this piece of myself that was so wrapped up in you
I’m not sure what is left
I’m not sure if I want it
I’d give it to you if I could but I heard you changed your address somewhere near Soho, I think at least that’s the way the forget-me-nots blew the last time I plucked one for you
In the cold, I shake and squirm but when you hold me I am still when you held me I was still
I’ll hold onto this stillness so I can gently rest until spring
I’ll be lying where you saw me last where the wind lifts off the frozen bay and crashes into skin until it’s dried and callused and cracking
you were the sun gently kissing me with your warmth and now that you’re gone I can’t stand the sunlight it is kind to me not as I am to myself I do not deserve its unrelenting kindness and its persistent glow its gentleness angers me its warmth makes me furious its only use for me is to melt this snow and thaw this soil in which I will plant my sadness
you promised me if I planted this sadness it would grow into something big and beautiful I have found it hard to think that far ahead but I saw in your eyes you believed it eyes that I wish would not close and turn away from me
the snow has melted and the ground has thawed the grass has turned a glowing green I can’t find the strength to dig I can’t rip up the green it reminds me of your eyes which I promised never to make cry so I won’t x
“
” I believe most things return to the Earth so that new things can grow— not reincarnation, but fertilization.
Doe Hearted
Months after you disappeared, Mom would wake me up every night and grab the keys to the car. I would shuffle across the driveway in my pajamas and slippers, sprawling out into the backseat, still half-asleep.
Those drives were deafeningly quiet. I don’t recall much besides Mom’s wild, frantic eyes through the rearview mirror. We’d slowly roll through the silent streets until we hit the roads that were framed on either side by massive redwoods. Farther off in the distance lay the factories with large smokestacks that spit black powder across the sky—back when they were still operating. Around that time we still had the smiley face on the water tower, but by the time I began high school, it had been graffitied over and subsequently painted white.
Aside from that, most of what I remember about those drives is Mom snapping at me to look through the treeline for anything—as if you would gracefully step out of the woods, miraculously and impossibly alive. I don’t know what would have terrified her more: finding your body somewhere or having you back after all the hell you put her through. The mental gymnastics of the former is somehow easier. It’s a lot easier to forgive the dead.
But, just once, as we were winding through the woods, in the bleary light of the car’s high-beams, a figure was lit up for a moment, walking straight ahead—flecked like vapour or dust in the sun, pale as a wraith, yet real. My lethargy vanished as I screamed at Mom to hit the breaks. With a squeal and a lurch, Mom managed to keep us from swerving into the trees, but the car had hit whatever was on the road with a wet thud.
For a while, we sat gasping for air, until Mom unbuckled her seatbelt and went to check. I followed after her, and she pressed a flip phone into my palm and told me to call an ambulance, but when we rounded the hood of the car, all we saw was the twitching body of a deer. We stood and watched the animal die in quiet anguish, all of us helpless and afraid. After it stopped breathing, Mom wailed, crouching on the asphalt. I suppose she had finally realized the futility of her nightly search parties. You were gone. She made me help her drag the body of the animal into the woods. I closed my eyes and lifted two heavy hooves, depositing the deer just past the treeline. The night was screeched with crickets, my ears ringing. On the car ride home, Mom told me that when something dies, it’s reborn as something else. I don’t believe in that anymore, though. I believe most things return to the Earth so that new things can grow—not reincarnation, but fertilization.
Almost two weeks later, we got the call from the PD that your body had been recovered. It was nestled among trees just past the road. Somehow they had missed it before. The coroner informed us that nine of your ribs had broken, puncturing a lung. It killed you almost instantly. By some divine luck, you had managed to keep yourself alive for months off of the woods, only to die as a result of a brutal, blunt collision. Reckless driver, they suspected. But they couldn’t be sure.
You see, when they swabbed the dried blood caked on your face, it wasn’t yours. It was deer blood. Nobody knew what to make of it, but in Mom’s watery eyes I understood that what we’d seen was a secret. I never told anyone. I hated you for disappearing in a bout of spite and forcing us to feel a crushing guilt that we could never confess to or explain.
A few years after that, we moved somewhere sunny where there aren't forests, but beaches and palm trees. I got a job and Mom got old. She did her best to give me every opportunity she could so I could succeed. And once I’d given her a couple of grandkids, she exhaled in her sleep one night like her work here was done. I’m amused at how hardy the human body and spirit is, that you can survive for so long through sheer willpower. I’m more amused by the ease with which that determination can be overcome, by a car crash or a heart attack. I don't believe in reincarnation, but I do believe in fertilization, and I hope that something new is growing in the ground with whatever you've left behind, however meagre. So, as strange as it all was and as precious as you once were to me, the truth is that I don't think of you much anymore—not unless I see roadkill.
It’s easier to forgive you that way.x
ART by AUDREY EWEN WORDS by RANIYA CHOWDHURY
WORDS by HARLEEN CHAHAL
ART by RHIANNON CARR
Forget-Me-Not
With false vows, you buried me alone, I learned to bloom, solely in your shadow, Rain clouds and gloom carried me through, And coloured my core blue once more
My art is sore from pulling out your thorns, You were the sun, rain, and planter — the first to breathe life into me, Yet, I was nothing more than a tiny blue speck in your bountiful garden, Among roses and dahlias, I was the flower that never belonged, I tore myself apart for you, plucked my petals one by one, until nothing remained, Each piece, a fading dream. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. Seasons passed, but I never grew like the others, You shone so brightly, seldom for me, My roots couldn’t reach you through cold, hard stones, With false vows, you buried me alone,
I learned to bloom, solely in your shadow, Rain clouds and gloom carried me through, And coloured my core blue once more. The gardens nearby were warm and inviting, Flourishing, while yours was slowly withering, I waited and waited for you to change, For something more than just a phase, So, I sliced my roots and slipped away, far away from you,
To a garden where the soil doesn’t ache, A paradise where you were no longer the raging storm, I replanted my roots and rose anew, Untangled from the thorns that once held me tight, I stretched into the sun’s light, I find a strange peace — a sense of self I had never known was mine to keep, Now I stand tall, blooming in the rays of a true sun.
Forget me not, a whisper to you, my bittersweet past.x
The Fishtank
“Euclid...good name choice for a street. Like the mathematician?”
A chuckle, and after a long pause, a voice akin to rolling thunder in my ear remarks, “...I’ve lived in this town for most of my life, and you had to make the connection for me.”
Warmth courses through me at his proximity, so I offer a polite laugh, my mind entirely elsewhere. A hand eclipses my own, calloused and rough, “Easy there. We don’t bite. Unless asked.”
Another shudder, lighting my skin aflame. His voice is the gasoline, and his touch is the match. Before I have the chance to collect myself, I’m staring at the maroon brick of The Fishtank. The sign, bearing its name, stares back at me – a comically thirsty fish gulping away the ale from its home, a beer jug, reflecting the many patrons of the bar this evening. Thirsty, and drunk.
According to him, those aren’t the only people The Fishtank seems to attract. His people, he tells me, are the ones who are drawn to this inconspicuous bar, tucked within an otherwise-unremarkable, runof-the-mill, Lexington neighbourhood. Something about it pulls people in. The right kind of people, he says. The vagabonds and nomads of society, who were too hurt to live anywhere except the outskirts of all they knew. The down on their luck, the desperate, the dying.
Before I can protest, we’re standing at the black door, its paint chipping away to reveal the deep oak beneath. The lights above it cast a yellowed hue, illuminating every weathered crack. The silence of the evening is contrasted sharply by the music that whispers through the door, enticing us to explore further. I peer into the windows, which are taller than me (which is not a difficult feet to accomplish, pun intended). Realizing that I probably look like a deranged passerby, I refocus my attention to The Fishtank’s main entrance.
A nod of understanding as he watches my eyes trail across each sign of its age, and storied history of late-night slams, and early-morning openings to offer refuge for all who sought for it, “This door’s seen some shit, doll. Includin’ a bad paint job.”
I’m glad that he’s beside me. I’m even more glad that he’s being patient with me, indulging each random musing that I distract myself with, between the internal wrestling for some semblance of...non-panic. I certainly know how to make an…impression, especially on our first-ever official date.
“That’s okay. Adds character,” I offer in response. He grunts in agreement, his hand lazily interlaced with mine. We stand there, together, staring at the door. His worn, black, leather jacket has been claimed by me for the evening. In return, I attempted to dress him in something other than jeans and a t-shirt, which always looked like his usual attire, from the photos that he would occasionally send me of his outfits when we were still 903 kilometers (or, as he’d say, 561 miles) apart. It did not, in fact, work. The key word there, I should remind, was attempted
A small, sharp inhale, “So...as much as I enjoy standin’ around with you, admirin’ the architecture, are we ever goin’ to step inside this fine establishment?”
I look back at him, finding his eyes already on me. They’re difficult to discern, almost impossible to distinguish their colour from the shadows cast across his face. He stands barely an inch behind me, and it already feels too far for comfort. My back brushes against his chest. His arms are on my
shoulders, prepared to deliver his usual pep-talks. I can feel where each fingertip makes contact with me, the pressure of his touch through the jacket I proudly robbed from him.
“Yeah, we will,” I reassure, drawing out each word, filling him with absolutely zero confidence.
“Eventually, I’m sure.”
A sigh, “Alright, let’s go, darlin’. No more playin’ about.”
The door is pushed open before I can find it within myself to disagree. Warmth spills out, scattering across the pavement of the sidewalk that we stand on. His hand is on the small of my back, guiding me forward, forcing me to step across the threshold. I know, somehow, that once I do, it’s a Point of No Return. And so, I close my eyes, and keep them closed, until I hear the door closing behind us.
A knowing smile that I can hear in his voice, “Welcome to The Fishtank, baby.”
Once my eyes open, I can barely decide where they should start, or end. I’m in love with this place, and I’ve been inside for less than a minute. I take in the blue walls that are decorated with nautical paraphernalia, alcohol brand logos, and posters galore. Better than the blue walls are the mixing hues of blues, purples, and greens, from lights throughout the place. Expansive, beautiful windows throughout the bar barely manage to make sense of the colours, pooling them together into a pinkish amalgam in their reflections. Better than the blue walls and the beautiful lights, are the people.
All sorts of breathtaking people, too. Half of them turn their attention to the door, if even for a moment, and their faces light up. Suddenly, we’re the cause of excited, clamoured whisper-shouting. “Hey, look who’s here!” / “Hicksy!” / “Hey, my man. Welcome in.”
He smiles and laughs loudly, returning each greeting with many of his own (long time no sees and how’ve you beens are on his tongue for several minutes,
between inside jokes, taking the time to address each person). I watch on, allowing myself to acclimate as he does, drawing in deep, soft breaths. The smell of alcohol, still-burning nicotine, sweat, and sex seeps into each crevice of the floorboards, and my skin. His cologne, too, mixes in with it all, anchoring me to him...to something familiar. He smells like the earth after it rains, and firewood.
Ahead of us, on a small stage, with curtains draped against the wall, and more blue lights setting the performers aglow, there’s that live music he’s so fond of. A woman sings, picking tunes that must be familiar to the crowd from how they cheer, sway, and hum along. They’re polite in their appreciation, hesitating to overpower her with their attention, or side conversations.
Even the bartender seems to clink the glass bottles less. His elbows are propped up on the bar, his hands below his jaw, supporting the weight of his head as he watches on. Intermittently, he straightens out to hand off a few bottles of beers to patrons, before resuming his viewing position.
I watch the woman on stage, her curls starting to frizz because of the static in the air. Her smile is electric, sending currents through the room, adding reason to the flickering lights overhead. Hicksy is enraptured in conversation with his friend, so I take it upon myself to take a seat at the bar. Perhaps that’s unladylike, but I’m confident that other patrons wouldn’t be the ones to judge. The bartender, seemingly brought back to reality by my presence, turns his head towards me before his eyes follow.
“Hey there, little lady. What can I get for you?”
“A soda...on the rocks?” I’m praying that my years of passively consuming media has taught me well, and that on the rocks does, in fact, refer to a drink served on ice. Somehow, I have a feeling that my perplexed feelings are reflected on my face, because he chuckles beneath his breath as he turns his back to fill a glass with my request.
“The performance is incredible,” I comment, half-expecting that I wouldn’t get a response.
It’s impossible to hear myself think over the siren-like voice of the performer. Not that I’m complaining.
A glass with soda, ice, and a halved lemon on the rim are set down in front of me. The bartender nods in agreement, watching the performance, “Mmhm. Althea is incredible.”
“Althea?” I raise an eyebrow, taking a sip.
“The singer. Her name’s Althea. She plays a gig here once or twice a month.” I may be hallucinating, but there seems to be a subtle, pink tinge across his face after hearing that. I chalk it up to the bar’s lighting. I watch him, and take note of how his eyes never leave her. I follow his lead, focusing on the singer, who I now know as Althea, as she performs . As if slowly coming to his senses, he sucks in a deep breath, straightening ever-so-slightly as he does when.
A hand on my shoulder, “Hey, kid. Drinkin’ something strong?”
Without skipping a beat, and the bartender’s and my eyes still fixed on the performer, who is entirely absorbed within her serenade of the crowd, the bartender responds, “Yeah. Strong as a baby’s grip.”
All the sudden, he seems to break out of his trance, shaking his head clear of his thoughts. I do the same. He fixes his gaze on Hicksy, who looms behind me,
“Do you two know each other?”
“Not a clue who this man is. Sic ‘em,” I respond, straightfaced. I raise my glass to my lips, my grin hidden by my drink.
I watch the bartender’s jaw tighten, “Get off of her, man. Seriously.”
A moment of hesitation. His grip on my shoulder tightens, ever so slightly, “Sorry, did you say hands off, Mark?”
The bartender, Mark, stares him down, “Final warnin’, Hicksy.”
A tense chuckle, “Relax. She’s with me. You had me shakin’ in my boots for a second there, though.”
“You’re fucking with me. You brought a girl? I thought-”
An immediate rush to clarify, “She’s the one I’ve been telling you about, man.”
“I thought she was all the way in…?”
“Canada?” I offer.
“Yeah. Canada.”
“She was. And then, using this new-fangled technology, called a car, she drove down here.”
Mark stares at me, dumbfounded. For the first time, he takes me in. Fully. I watch his eyes flit across my features, unable to settle on one for too long as he makes sense of the composite image of me. It’s clear that he’s matching the descriptions Hicksy’s given him to real-life, fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.
“Woah,” he finally exhales. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding alongside him. “So…you’re real. I was looking into psych wards for our buddy here, if he mentioned you one more time.”
A laugh in my ear, sending shudders through my skin, to my very core. Hicksy straightens his posture, taking a seat beside me. I return my focus to Mark, “Well, rest assured, I’m real. He’s told me a lot about this place. I had to come and see it for myself.”
“Is it everything you ever dreamed of?”
“And more,” I reassure, looking over at Hicksy. His hands are tracing the rim of my glass, the remnants of lipstick from where I’d taken a sip staining his fingertips. He smiles to himself when he notices, and smiles even wider when he realizes that I’m watching. A boyish smile, one of amusement.
“Well,” Mark clears his throat, “I’ve some other customers to get to. But, it was nice to meet you,
properly. Hicksy, can I get you anything?”
A subtle shake of his head, “Nothing, man. Thanks.”
Just like that, Mark turns his attention to the line of hungry and thirsty patrons that developed without the three of us noticing. The performance for the evening had finished, and the lights had been dimmed, a DJ in the corner taking on the responsibility of keeping the room’s energy high, and alive.
I return my focus to my date for the evening, whose eyes seemed to have never left me. They’re dark, and focused. I can feel the warmth crawling up my neck, and face.
“Hi,” I whisper, barely audible.
He leans in, his lips brushing against my cheek, “Hi, love.”
I look over at the makeshift dance floor in the centre of the bar, the tables and chairs pushed to the side. I lace my fingers with Hicksy’s, standing up and guiding him to do the same.
“Doll,” he says, letting out a sigh,“You’re not…”
“Oh, yes, I am,” I respond, flashing him a devilish grin that I hope is enough to sway him.
It seems to work, because I don’t feel much resistance as I drag him towards the mass of dancing bodies. He sticks closer as we make our way into the middle. I turn to face him, and his hands are on my waist. I look up, circling my arms around his neck, pressing our foreheads together.
“See? Not so bad, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
We remain that way, intimately intact. My eyes wander across his face. Beautiful, deep-set eyes, a strong nose, soft lips, a beard with sprinkles of gray and white…crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes, and lines deepening along the places he tends to furrow when he’s focusing. His eyes explore, too. Watching mine
as I drink him in. Around us, my eyes wander across people who we joined on the “dance floor” – not the usual crowd of young, college-aged children buzzing with excitement, and the fresh taste of cheap alcohol and thrills. Instead, the crowd is older. Parents enjoying a night out, a recent widower, an old woman wearing a short black dress who is entertaining a younger fellow at the bar. All are battered and bruised, whether it’s visible or not. Whether it’s physical or not. I catch our reflections in the wine glasses, or windows, as we sway. We are also battered and bruised, physically, visibly, and otherwise. At the realization, I press a kiss to his cheek, and rest mine on his shoulder, swaying with him, hoping to hide the pink flush of my skin.
“Hey, now. Let me see you,” he whispers, a thumb caressing my cheek. The rest of his hand is on my neck, guiding me up. I oblige, ignoring the coursing wave of energy through me. My eyelids feel heavy, and all I can truly focus on is his touch.
“Hi,” I whisper out, again. Apparently, that’s the only word I have command over. The rest of the English language has either escaped or failed me in front of him.
“Hey, there,” he whispers back. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yeah. No complaints. You?”
“Yeah.”
His thumb is beneath my chin, gently encouraging me to look him in the eye. I comply, enjoying the warmth of our breaths, heated and shared between us. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leans in to press his lips to mine.
Soft.
The kisses are soft. His lips are soft. His touch, on my chin and cheek, are soft.
A string of saliva remains between us when we pull apart to take a breath.
A whisper, “You are beautiful.”
By all laws of physics, I should not have been able to hear him. The music loud enough for its bass to course beneath our feet, the waves of voices that crash over and into one another, trying to make sense of the noise. But his voice is entirely discernable. Deep enough to get lost beneath its surface, and be contentedly surrounded by its presence.
“You are absurd,” I respond, giggling against his lips as he pulls me in for another kiss.
A pause, our lips still millimetres apart, “Try again.”
“You’re beautiful?” I respond, furrowing my eyebrows together at the thought. I open my eyes to see him staring back at me.
A shake of his head. His hand is firmly on my neck. Not holding me in place, but not ready to let me go. “Thank you for the compliment. Better?”
I sigh, deep, “Thank you for the compliment. Better?”
An affirmation, in the form of another kiss. We carried on that way for quite some time, making out like teenagers in the middle of a random bar, on a random day, at a random time, with some not-sorandom company. His finger is hooked around the velvet choker adorning my neck, a gold “H” charm hanging from its center, keeping me close to him.
We remain close, learning and exploring eachother in a way that we never had the opportunity to before. After many, many long years spent talking through the wide expanse of the Internet, here we were, in a confined space with our people. Our hands are finally able to wander across our lovers’ skin, committing each callous, scar, and stretch mark to memory. We are so enraptured that we don’t notice the music beginning to decrescendo into the comfortable hum of conversation between patrons, and the clinking of bar glasses being cleaned and set to dry for the evening.
Instead, we remain close, watching each other.
As the lights come on in the bar, I look up, and I notice a mirror that covers the expanse of the ceiling. How had I not noticed that? Suddenly, there I am, staring at myself staring at myself, I watch a girl in love, with the man she loves, surrounded by people who understand what it means to love, from what I can see and understand. And, as I do, I giggle.
A chuckle, mostly at the absurdity of my sudden onset of giggles. “Darlin’?”
“We should rename this place to The Fishbowl,” I manage to sputter out between giggles, my head still tilted back to watch myself in the mirror.
A furrow of his eyebrows that I can observe, “Why?”
He raises his head, his gaze meeting mine through the mirror. I can’t stop laughing to myself. “We’re in a fishbowl. Watching, and being watched. Don’t you think so?”
“Huh…I never thought of it that way,”
“I’ve never felt so seen.”
“Well, given the windows, and the mirror…you are seen.”
“You’re an idiot. I meant it in a deep, metaphorical way.”
“I know. I’m kiddin’.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Really though…any chance we could change The Fishtank to The Fishbowl?”
“Let’s run it by Mark and see what he says.”x
“
If you tend to a flower, it will bloom, no matter how many weeds surround it
Dhliwayo
Matshona
The year after you
ART by AUDREY EWEN
WORDS by SM
This is the first year
Where my fingers
Won’t trace the familiar paths of your hands, Where my eyes won’t find their home in yours.
The love I carried Like a lantern in darkness
Now flickers in empty rooms, Casting shadows of what we were, What we almost became.
I’ll leave you sealed in last year’s pages, Close your chapter with trembling hands. Though your absence leaves empty spaces, I pray your name slips through like sand. Somewhere beneath my careful forgetting,
In my hearts deepest chamber; Where truth defies pride, A voice whispered softly
About future pages turning, Of your name rewritten in golden ink
Once more.
Yet as seasons shift their colours, I find myself reaching for fresh ink—
No longer writing in the shadows
Of memories that made me shrink.
I’m writing the ending to our unfinished story, Your name belongs here, In this chapter of endings, Hoping time will sift your memory like sand.
These chapters no longer hold you, And the story I’m becoming Is one you’ll never know. x
[Civilian 657910]: I guess it’s my fault for being horny and 21, but it all started after I met this girl at a bar. She was pretty, and I remember wanting to approach her because she was laughing and had this very open and inviting energy to her...but now if you asked me to remember who she was laughing with, I can’t quite remember. When I went over to talk to her, she was alone, and when we made it back to my place, we were also alone. And then, well, we had sex.
You know how sometimes your unconscious stores information away even though you may not process it in the moment...Well, ever since the ringing started, I began reflecting, and I realized that when we were lying in bed afterwards, with my head next to her chest, I heard humming...from under her skin. Like not a heartbeat, not her blood flowing-
[Civilian 657343]: Was it the air conditioner?
[Civilian 657910]: BRO. It was like a very biological hum, like a natural noise. You can tell when a noise is natural or mechanical. Like the drone of a fly that won’t leave your room, or the sound of beetles scuttling and bumping over each other, or the sort of wriggling wet noise that a colony of worms make as they writhe as a uniform mass-
[Civilian 657343]: Okay! I get it, I get it, so she didn’t have a pacemaker in her. Why does it matter?
[Civilian 657910]: Well, it matters because shortly after we hooked up, I started getting this ringing in my ears. Sometimes it was both ears, sometimes it was only one, and it would vary in intensity. But it was irritating. When I was alone trying to study or sleep or even just hear myself think, there was this buzzing, this ever present ringing that burrowed into my consciousness. And the more I focused on it, the worse it got.
[Civilian 657343]: What if it’s an STD? I mean, did you even use protection?
[Civilian 657910]: You dumbass, tell me what STD exists that gives you tinnitus?
[Civilian 657343]: It could be an ear infection?
[Civilian 657910]: NO! Because no ear infection leads to wasps growing inside your head!
[Civilian 657343]: …what?
[Civilian 657343]: It could be an ear infection?
[Civilian 657910]: There. Are. Bees. In. The. Hollows. Of. My. Skull. And I cannot get them out.
Slowly, over the course of a week, the tinnitus got worse; the ringing grew more frequent. Until one day, it stopped, and I was so thankful for the peace and quiet. I woke up that morning and cried. I genuinely cried for the first time in years. Later, when I was getting ready for the day and washing my face, I felt something in my nose, so I pulled at it and a small wing emerged. I flushed the rest of my nose but nothing else came out. I was so confused. And ever since then, I feel them in my skull.
[Civilian 657343]: Who?
[Civilian 657910]: The wasps. They bounce around in my skull, desperate to get out, but they can’t. Every once in a while, I hear them. And you know now, I really prefer the buzz of their wings, because if it’s not that, it’s the scuttling, and the scuttling is so much worse, the movement of their little beady legs moving over each other, prodding at my hollowed flesh. The… the colony is growing for sure because whenever I do hear them, they’re louder.
[Civilian 657343]: Okay, so I’ve been searching this up, and this looks like a sign of schizophrenia-
[Civilian 657910]: NO! It’s that girl, she- I have wasps in my skull, and they are multiplying, they are growing, and I cannot. Get. Them. Out. So, maybe I am going insane, but it’s only because of the wasps.
Follow up: Case for Entity 049 has been moved up to higher priority. Grade 3 amnesiac administered to Civilian 657910, grade 2 amnesiac administered to civilian 657343. Further monitoring of civilian 657910 required to ensure hive containment.x
The Waiting Fruit.
ART & WORDS by VEREENA ANDRAWES
It hangs— suspended between branches and sun, not yet fallen, not yet plucked.
Wind sways, rain beats, but still it holds. Ripening in time unseen.
Even the bitter ripens and the sour sweetens.
Some would call it forgotten but the vine knows better. What is meant to be gathered will be gathered in season.
And when the hand reaches, when the weight lifts, it will know— it was never waiting only becoming.x
|
BRIDGE OVER WATER
WORDS by SAKEENAH NIAZI
ART by YEEMON
Mere s—t..eps away from her home, a young girl clambers over theiron-fisted bridge
She stops, stares,
Waves a cheery hello to the fish swimming unbothered below
Tiny curls bouncing around her as she runs back and forth over the lake
She visits again, not alone today
Her dark curls mingle with another’s light tresses
The two sit for hours
In each other ’ swaves,
Braiding flowers
Watching the dragonflies flit below
Another year passes
The moonlit lake and bridge are the only witnesses to her first kiss
Hands in each other’s hair, the scent of roses in the air
She doesn’t yet know that she will return months later to mourn
The lake listens to her as she screams
Clad in lacy white, she stands on the bridge, a sparkle in her eyes
Before her, another white-clad figure, all misty smiles
The lake creatures gather in patient attendance
Witnessing the singsong of the birds mingle with violins
A child rests on her hip, mesmerized by the swaying water
The fish surround the bridge, watching and waiting
Birds mimic the baby’s coos
And she laughs, the sun warm against her face
She smiles, standing over the lake
Dark ringlets flowing behind her mirroring the water below
The ivy-laden bridge creaks beneath her
A salty tear rolls down her cheek, memories of a million lifetimes escaping her
The world around her washes away
Rosebud sprays turn to sticky sunlight
Turn again, crimson leaves cover the bridge
A crisp breeze rustles through
Turn again, sheets of ice blanket the iron frame
And still she stands, unmoving, encased in marble and light
Her hair, no longer dark but fabulously white
A smile, sad, etched into her porcelain features
And the tear glistening on her cheek, preserved forever x
To Hate, To Change, To Love
ART by ISRA CHOWDHURY
WORDS by ERIC ZHANG
There’s this ugly black tree I pass everyday, a mere sight that fills me with hate. it’s intrusive, invasive, irritating I seethe, an eyesore in the January sleet.
like a spoiled child, it sits in the yard, useless as I rush past, late.
I wonder why it’s still here for all to see, it looks dead to me. fluffs of white powder
the field like sugar, but on this tree, snow sits in clumps. it’s heavy, falling on the greying slush, it seems Mother Nature shares my disgust.
soon, winter passes in the spirit of a sprint and the slick ice is whisked away. now the ugly black tree, surprising me, is budding, careless and free.
but traces of cold still linger, and I find myself sick for a week. and the next time I’m passing the tree in the yard, I look. I stop. I freeze. delicate white blossoms pump sweetness in the air, so fair I’m glad I can breathe. for a moment I forget it’s the same tree that I hate as I rush past, so very late.
and I can assure you that since that day in the breeze the tree now fills me with nothing but ease, you see I’ve never seen it as ugly since then, and it’ll never be ugly again.x
Bespoke
ART & WORDS by J.B
The rose should have known even just from the lighting
Within the crisp static of thin atmosphere biting
Amidst the blotchy hillside, she felt even less opaque
Than the source of wind which was endlessly inchoate
Planted, yet still combatting disconnection
Despite new depth, her roots remained in rejection
Doubting the sunlight yet seeking what it might conceal
She grew to distance herself from what was all she could feel
Then came the day that each raindrop just missed her
Instead, a voice found her, firm as a shield, soft as a whisper
“If there’s any way you can hear me, trust this to be true
Where I’m from, you are as vibrant as the endless skies are blue
You are the divine’s most preferred to adorn with glistening dew
True love’s symbol confined to a simulation-- if you only knew!”
A simulation? And with the tenor of such frustration…
The rose believed what the voice had said to be true.
But it didn’t take long before she began to wilt and wane
A rose that had never known her own name
Beside a path she could not tread, in endless shame
No more than an afterthought in a mindless game
Yet every now and again, carried by the gentle breeze
There was something from someplace else that the rose had resolved to seize
So, her thorns sharpened with every intent to pierce
And her roots dug deeper still
As she relished in being all but buried
Well, that is until...
Wanting My Lady-In-Waiting
ART by SANDY KUMAR WORDS by IRYS B. M. PASCUAL
Would it be wrong to reverse our roles?
This desire to dress and undress her in finery— would she shiver as I lace up her corset? Sigh as I slide silk gloves over her hands? Straighten like a sunflower after savouring her reflection in the mirror?
I dream of drawing her a bath, if only to learn what temperature she favours and to see what face she makes when she settles like a lotus in the water.
I wish to weave violets into her hair after combing it through (at least a hundred times);
to braid the strands so beautifully that the ivy-bearing trellis in the garden grows envious.
I pine for painting her lips poppy red, feeling her soft breath on my cheek, gently holding her chin like she is the last petal of a peony.
I long to love her out loud, to bestow my bleeding heart upon her— my bird of paradise, my butterfly kisses.
Oh, edelweiss,
I evade writing my emotions into existence, but I fear these budding feelings have long since blossomed.
Foolish me, thinking I could forbid a flower from flourishing.x
WORDS by RAMI NAAMNA
Precipitation From Concrete Perspective
Came into existence as the conscience of Gods contempt
By man alone, kindness had yet reached, so they were hellbent
Felt tidal waves in their trajectory, hell is where they wish they’d be
They defined these waves as hardships, knowing they’ve sunk many
Man had tried to use those waves to foster roots, for what they considered future
Despite their impoverished present and contemptful past, few could heal the hurt
An absence of family and income, their neighbours plead
For donations to make ends meet by day, asking others to let them eat
Times as such the concrete was forged, for transportive means
Goal to get from Point A to Point B, surely an easy task
But mankind had issues on hand, battered the niggas watch
The struggle of contempt struck inferior complexity, so they struck negros whom obtained
deeper complexity
The struggle of contempt struck inferior complexity, so they struck negros whom obtained deeper complexity
If a negro were to say that a flower can not be fostered, from these tidal waves
Then a negro ought to see precipitation, from black clouds that man had made
It strikes me deeply when one says that society needs some therapy
When I am still considered Gods holy contempt
The thought of such an ideal became fungi
fostering in their head
So I stand as illusion, to some men, I fail to exist
To other men, I am the only friend that they have ever known
Who comparatively understand the definition of what struggle is
For that is what I epitomize and recognize as structural
Man created concrete so buds could never foster despite their best intentions
So I sit and watch as mankind tap dances on concepts of growth and reassessment x
Home of the Mother Goddess
The bargaining begins again. Even when he is too tired to pick up his feet, too miserable to beg for scraps, too sunken to rise to the surface, he still brings her home. Every year she forgets about him. Forgets until she crosses the threshold to her kingdom and out pour the memories, the tears. The Lethe is dry, and she remembers, she cries. Bitterly, he laments that the sun never had to knock on his door to whisk her back up. But his complaints were only heard by the already damned, who had no damns left to give, not even for a king. Life was perpetual visiting, it seemed. And time was an old father who never stayed for tea.
“It’s time to come home.”
RIA “Who are you?”
“I am your King, and it’s time to come back home.”
“You dare address me? You dare call yourself my king?! You reek of death and must know I, Mother Goddess of Life and Spring, have nothing to do with the rot you bring. Begone!”
“Darling…”
“I AM NOT YOUR DARLING.”
“Fine. Mother Goddess. It is time to come home.”
“No.”
“It is time.”
“I said no.”
“Every year, I plead with you to come home, and every time you do. Why must you make it so hard? Please, dar-Mother Goddess?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about. Now, if you have nothing else to do other than beg me to leave my soil and my sun, then begone!”
A long mournful sigh. The King of the Underworld had never grieved anything. But now he grieved for his wife and the life they had. No matter how many times she eventually remembers, a small and dark part of him will always wait for the day she doesn’t.
“Please. Let me take you home.”
She looked at the glistening tears in his eyes. He was a god and here he was about to cry. The earth softened; clay turned mud by simple water. “Why are you so insistent?”
“You will know once we are home.”
A breath of life. Darkness crept into her eyes, her voice: “For as long as I live, I will never go with you.”
“Then die.”
A breath of death. The darkness in her heart froze in fear at the despair in his.
“I would rather carry your ashes once than make this journey forever.” I cannot keep losing you like this.
“You horrid reaper!” She brandished her earth-tiller as a weapon. The onyx of his eyes hardened.
“No, my darling, I am the reaper’s master. And you are my wife. Now come home.” He lunged like a wraith of the night, shackling her wrist tight.
“Let me go, Hades!”
“So, you do know who I am.”
Eyes met, earth and hell collided. The asylum in her eyes made even the King of Death feel more alive. The earth melted into him, a puddle of flowery clothes, warm breath, and soft buttery hair in his arms. The King of Death stood perfectly still. A corpse painted in life. She took his long skeletal hand and bit hard. Broke skin but he didn’t flinch. While the blood of the gods runs gold in her, his ichor fell in fat, beaded, ruby-red drops. One, two, three, then six down his wrist. Without thinking, she licked all six up. Then with pink teeth and trembling feet said.
“Fine then, take me home.”
She wasn’t thinking that equinox night as she clung onto her King galloping on horseback straight into the ground. Until her feet touched the cursed earth of her underground kingdom, all she had was faith in the fates, trust in her gut, and six beads of beating blood telling her to go, run free in the lands below. Golden footsteps marked her path into the palace, her palace. Behind her, Hades watched, holding his breath as he had, every year since the first. Watching, waiting, wishing she would remember. The Mother Goddess walked right over to the throne and took her place. Arms rested, head back, and as the King knelt in front of her, she looked him in the eye and said:
“I am the Queen of the Underworld. Am I not?”
His lips brushed her hand.
“Yes, my Queen.”
“Thank you for bringing me home.”
“Of course, darling.”
She cried the Underworld a new river. A river of past fire, and cruel loneliness. Her fury at the fates, fear of losing her land, and love for the man in her arms shook the underearth. She remembered.
And he vowed to never stop bargaining, for just a little bit more light. x
Thirst is not Satiated by Spirits or Sea Water
WORDS by FELIX MENASHY ART by AYESHA UMAIR
I heard the cries of landfall from my office in the orlop, so I clambered up the metal rungs with one hand, the other grasping a bottle of fine rum. The rising sun was to our backs, bathing the sea ahead in a magnificent, glowing red. As I stepped out onto the hardwood, the third engineer kissed me on the cheek as he danced on past. Cutting through all the commotion, a shout from a man about to see his wife.
“Did someone say something about land?” I bellowed across the deck. Silence fell, so brief that you might’ve missed it if you weren’t looking . The momentary hesitation in the minds of my sailors when they heard my voice, a pure and beautiful sign that they respected me. But as quickly as it came, it went, and cheers erupted among the crew. I raised the bottle above my head and shouted, “Today we drink to our success! Tonight we sleep like kings in the arms of those we love, sharing the fruits of our voyage! Picture the gold below deck, think of the respect we will earn!” I popped the top of the bottle off and took a swig of the rum. It burned my throat through my sinuses, a familiar feeling, one that brought forth memories of times much different than now. I passed it to the boatswain next to me.
As the crisp smell of ethanol cleared my nose, something much more vile took its place, akin to rotting food. I turned to the boatswain, giving him a disapproving look.
He looked back at me incredulously. “What?” “You know what,” I replied.
“No, I really don’t.” He passed the rum to the next person. After a pause: “Oh God, what is that smell?” he muttered. I rolled my eyes at the pathetic attempt to deflect blame, but my annoyance gave way to apprehension when I noticed that a couple of the men were pinching their noses or making exaggerated gagging noises. We all ate the same food –it had never been this bad before. As the moments passed and the cheers turned to mumbles, the smell only worsened. A couple people climbed back down into the body of the ship.
“Did someone kill a wild animal and let it rot under the hull?” one of the cooks snarled above the noise.
“No,” someone said, staring wide-eyed at me, “but the sea is blood. Lord! The sea is blood! It’s not the sun, someone killed a monster here!” He sounded choked up, as if he had just witnessed crimes worse than we had justified in the pursuit of prosperity. The men ran in clumps to the railings, gazing down at the water below. I could see the ocean was red, but it was just a trick of the light from the rising sun. The crew was being dramatic and fearful, full of emotion from landfall, but I would investigate their concerns anyway. I moseyed over to the half filled bottle of rum in the middle of the deck and then toward the bow of the ship.
The ocean was a creature that swallowed up everything it touched. I had seen ships filled with hundreds of men disappear into her grasp. No drop of blood ever spilled had been so large that it was not consumed by her embrace. When she wanted something to disappear, it was gone. Either a fight between gods and demons had occurred here, or this was an omen of scary times ahead.
The water ahead was tainted with an inconsistent rust-red color ahead of us, a far cry to the gorgeous sunlit blue water at our stern. The waves were soft, breathing peacefully like a sleeping creature ready to wake. The smell was putrid and burned the back of my throat, not unlike the rum. I was sickened but in a way, it was mesmerizing.
A tap on my shoulder, then hot breath by my ear. “What do we do, Captain?” The first lieutenant said. His voice quivered.
“We continue on.” I turned to face the rest of the ship and hollered, “We continue forward! The sea means to tell us there are hard times ahead, but we are not cowards!”
Morale on the ship fell as the day progressed. When I went to the mess hall for dinner, I could see the distrust in my men’s eyes. But where would we go if not home? Our riches were useless if we had no one to share them with. Nothing could make us turn back now.
The crew–except the poor lookout–stayed below deck to avoid the stench, but it still permeated through the watertight body of the ship. I waited expectantly for news from him, but when the lookout came down to my office he was staring at his toes. He broke the truth to me in a soft voice: the lighthouse was out, there was no smoke coming from the chimneys, and no one was waiting on the beach for us. I held my composure for an hour, but soon word spread and panic blossomed. I saw the coldest of men on their knees, praying, tears streaming down their cheeks. In order to appease them, I proposed that when we docked, we sent a scout. I volunteered the young boatswain.
Hours passed, I had finished the bottle of rum alone in my office, trying to ignore the cacophony all around me. A sharp rap on the door awoke me from my stupor and the first lieutenant came in.
He stared at me, eyes wide, “They killed the boatswain.”
“Lord, what kind of monsters have overtaken our island?” I cried out. The liquor that saturated my blood pounded in my ears so loud I barely made out his response. “Whatever is infecting the ocean has killed all the crops. There are no monsters, unless the line between man and beast is a full belly.”x
I Loved You, You Loved the Dreams
ART & WORDS by DUREZERNAB BERKI
We ran through the wildflower meadow, seizing the chance to feel as though we were in a fairytale. The wind rushed through our hair, as though it was dancing along. The vegetation nicked our ears, tickling us until we laughed.
For a moment, we wanted to get lost. For a moment, I thought we did. Until you turned around, eyes closed and running backwards, and when you opened them, I saw that you’d been lost for a long time.
When you looked at me, it seemed like I was glass, and you were looking beyond. Your laughter was real, and it hit me then, that all the times before were a clever act. Your arms were wide, like mine, but where I wanted to feel the wind, it seemed that you believed to be floating with it.
This was our first time in the wildflower meadow, in a place where if we closed our eyes, we could dream of castles and dragons and knights. But looking at you now, it seems you’ve always been here, and you were simply returning home. x
Yearning to Belong
“AH-LEE” RIGHT? SO WHERE ARE YOU FROM
They all have that sharp edge to their speech
Answering their questions feels like opening a trapdoor
I am forced to answer their questions, almost as if I am being interrogated
As if I don’t belong
As if I need to prove myself
All while they look down at me
They share what I tell them with the others
As if priming themselves for whenever they talk to me again
HOW WOULD YOU THINK AN AMERICAN TEXTBOOK WOULD FRAME THE WAR IN PALESTINE
My math teacher asks with my English teacher staring, then laughing
My face turns red and I get hot
They stare at me, as if I owe them an explanation
My heart beats faster
I can’t give them an answer
My vision clears and I say
“I don’t know”
They have gotten what they wanted and return to their work
They think I’m at their disposal for these types of question
They get the privilege to forget, but my conscious cries
I’m expected to continue working and studying silently like nothing ever happened
i can’t
i won’t
ever forget
YOU KNOW WHAT, FORGET ABOUT THIS LITERARY TECHNIQUE, JUST FOLLOW THE BASICS ONES THAT YOU ALREADY KNOW. I DON’T WANT TO COMPLICATE YOU
How do I know if what’s complex if I am not given a shot?
I raise my hand, what about- wait, no, she’s irritated with me again I think about my marks
I look at myself
This is my fault
Everyone else here is doing better than me, it must be my fault
So, where are you from?
This one is different
It’s calm, understanding, and equal to me
I’m not looking up at anyone, they stand there ready to hear whatever I have to say
Genuine
I finally feel like I have a place here
Like I am not an outsider
Oh, by the way, this new girl I met is also from Iraq!
They remembered where I am from
It feels refreshing not having to be the person that everyone forgets where they’re from I feel like I belong
Like I’m not a burden anymore
Finally lifting the weights I’ve placed on myself
Allowing myself to be free
And to operate at my highest potential
The bell rings for the last time, I am glad to part school not resenting it, but enjoying the fact that I get to leave knowing I had place here instead of living between the gaps. For that, I thank those who were able to accept that I’m different and that I never plan on changing.x
ART by AIDAN ZEGLINSKI
WORDS by ALI SAHIB
who will feed my hamster when i’m gone?
when i almost died, the first thought that crossed my mind was “who will feed my hamster when i’m gone?”
tethered to the ordinary, the weight of my existence narrowed to a small, tender responsibility. life itself, reduced to this one simple thing.
there’s a tree outside my bedroom window. i don’t know when i started watching it so closely. not for the blush of spring, but the way it drags itself through the dead parts of winter. for half the year its skeleton is hidden, creaks muffled beneath heavy, desperate, green, limbs thick with the breath of summer, but it does not bend, it does not soften. it hides, not out of shame, but of necessity.
leaves fall—slow and deliberate, pooling at the roots, baring its bones. spindly bark-bound branches like the fingernails of a witch. i feel like i’m watching something i’m not supposed to.
i wanted to tear it down. break it open. change taunted me from outside my window; it was never as clean and simple as i thought.
one summer night, someone asked me what day i was born. i paused, then said, february 31. they promised to remember—though i would never see them again. in that moment, i decided i could be more than who i was. i could be anything if i tried hard enough. my name unraveled on my tongue and liberation clung to my skin, hummed like something sweet at the base of my throat. it tasted like endless possibility, blurred with soft-focus, rose-tinted. nothing was as simple as it seemed.
my identity has been a fickle thing—a question i never asked. i lived in borrowed names, moved through rooms like a rumor, softened edges to fit places that did not want me whole. i searched for what i could not name, held my breath in mirrors, waiting for a reflection i would recognize.
i thought change had to be sudden and seismic, loud enough to mark its arrival. so i let myself splinter, certain i’d come back sharper, better, new. i placed my faith in what was outside me, searched for change in clocks and mirrors, the weight of others’ wants and promises of salvation. i wandered things misplaced and broken – one-star motels and rusted playgrounds, the dark arms of 3am, desperate pockets of silence that scream for meaning.
but reflections are obedient, they do not argue; they only tell you what you want to hear. and clocks do not point to meaning; they only leak seconds through the hours of the day.
you cannot rebuild what you do not understand. you cannot change what you refuse to face.
see, death is quiet—so absolute it needs no language. but dying and returning is loud. it demands to be heard. i thought, maybe, it would demand change.
when i turned twenty, i almost died. and for a moment, i thought—this is it. this is when everything changes. but it wasn’t the kind of near-death experience they tell you about. no bright lights, no cinematic clarity—just the slow erosion of will, the quiet refusal to be anything but still.
in that stillness, everything i had once clung to—the things that consumed me, defined me—fell away. i didn’t have the energy to wear anything but myself. i felt my mother’s grief in the fracture of her voice, broken in ways i hadn’t known it could, and all i cared about, in the end, was feeding my hamster. i wanted nothing more than to hold my parents, to watch leaves wither and wilt, to feed my hamster.
i was unchanged. unremarkable. i had touched the edge of something vast, and yet, i remained. it wasn’t loss that lingered—it was the silence after, the way the world moved forward, unbothered. i had expected transformation, something tectonic. instead, i came home from the hospital to a summer that pressed against me as if i had never left.
the tree outside my window swayed indifference, wrapped in its same thick green.
change continued to taunt me.
and i continued to look for it.
i waited for the tree to choose – its branches heavy with promise or stripped bare by the cold – knowing its silence was proof enough of shifting seasons. i sought clocks, mirrors. filled my life with noise. created problems just so i could be proud of fixing them. i stretched myself thin, convinced that if i could be someone else, somewhere else, i’d finally feel whole.
but time isn’t interested in spectacle. it moves in its quiet, indifferent way. seasons shift. hamster wheels spin. clocks tick. candles melt down to the wick. time passes and everything wears its circles.
but time had passed, and something in its wake was different. days thickened with silence. old comforts turned foreign. my name no longer belonged in certain mouths, but it settled better in my own. i had not changed as i once demanded and braced for, and yet – something had shifted.
my own expectations had worn me thin. and somewhere along the way, slowly, piece by piece, i stopped looking to reflections that no longer held me. i still sometimes feel the slight disconnect within, like walking a familiar street in an unfamiliar light. it’s unsettling, yes. but i cannot strip myself bare like my tree anymore; there is no peace in shame’s exposure.
see, it was never change that was taunting me. it was the weight of stories left untold. it was the silence, more presence than absence, pooling in corners and gathering under my tongue, thick as resin. it bothered me how everything felt half-formed and uneasy – a story resisting its own telling.
but maybe a story is real even before it is finished. maybe some stories don’t need telling to matter.
time passed. winter arrived. i sat in the backyard, watching my tree. snow clung unevenly to its limbs – some bowed heavy under its weight, others left untouched, bare. now and then, the wind peeled handfuls of flakes, sent to pool on the ground below. i had seen this before, but something in its stillness felt different. it named what i could not.
this was not the moment things changed. there was no single moment. not 3am when the world thinned to gauze. not the mirrors quiet refusal. not even the nearness of death, brushing past without leaving a scratch.
it may seem anticlimactic, like there should be more to say – but change is never that clean. it’s layered; sediment pressed into stone. it’s not a single point in time. no waking up new, shedding skin like old bark. my tree remains, with each year in its rings. and i do too – though more in the spaces between, in silence that unsettles as much as it steadies.
because change doesn’t demand erasure of the past, only to bear witness to each season. it does not tear itself apart to reach the sky. i am learning not to, either. so now, i sit. quiet. watching the tree outside my window – its ribs of branches, its waiting. i no longer seek
pride, only presence. i only want to feed my hamster, hug my mother, feel the weight of now – the space between breaths.
no grand conclusion. just this: bare branches, and something quiet but certain taking root.
maybe some things are as simple as they seem.x
Are You Paying Attention?
WORDS by JESS KIM
ART by YEEMON
Grass roots embed my legs
And sprout in every direction
In all seasons encapsulated In time and for a lifetime.
The Grand Canyon splits and Cracks the sides of my hips, Running along my thighs and engraving itself In time and for a lifetime.
Drops of murky brown water
Tattoo my skin in shapes of amoebas
And perfect circles across my cheeks, taking a moment to rest
In time and for a lifetime.
Ocean waters flow in waves, Shaping and reshaping my stomach
In tides and ripples and tsunamis, soaking up
This time for a lifetime.
And in the great quest of humankind for Beauty in each shiny package and Reinvented versions of themselves, I found
Perfection
In this time within—can you believe it? — My lifetime.x
incite magazine
volume 27, issue 2 “bloom”
Published September 2025
Incite Magazine is McMaster University’s creative arts and writing publication. We aim to unite a community of creatives by promoting self-expression, collaboration, and dialogue within our university campus and the city of Hamilton. Every aspect of Incite’s writing, graphics, multimedia, and event production is carried out by our wonderful student volunteers. If you would like to get involved, feel free to get in touch by emailing incitemagazine@gmail.com.
