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Chewing (So I'm Out)" by Graham Notar-Maclean 

We're here to adrenalize, all of these anesthetized,
Pupils with the glassy-eyes, and dilate the divine inside.
Instead we get misguided, divided and unkinder,
Cannot refine our minds so we abide with these disguises.
And when life is feeling hopeless it's not shock why we can't cope with; overdosing droves, comatose to all the gnosis.
Unaware that we're the magnum opus, you know, the soul's apotheosis? The most atrocious, Gyaradosish blowfish in the ocean?
Can make you feel useless, like your bite's toothless,
Can turn resentment into rage and make a human being ruthless.
These verbal cornucopias to me's a form of opium,
Better than the trophies is the wisdom, that's called sophia.
Turn dys to a utopia; so until I'm like thirty-six, I predict my verbiage,
Will leave all these nerdy kids, totally subservient.
They say "He's hilarious, gregarious, beware that Xavierian,
He's been to various nefarious agrarian areas,"
I promise if you could experience what goes on inside my head,
You wouldn't even bother with anything I've said.
"So everything is perfect, trust in love," I'd shout,
But it's hard to yell with divine truth in your mouth, so I'm out.

Untitled 1 by Shelby Brown 

Untitled 1 by Shelby Brown 

I walk through the shadows
And the valleys within me.
Through halls of cold stone
Within an unbeating heart.

I walk past room after room.
Rooms filled with memories;
Once the happiest of memories,
Now faded with age and dust.

Rooms filled with dreams;
Dreams abandoned,
Dreams unfulfilled,
Dreams shattered.

Rooms filled with hopes,
Rotting, poisonous hopes,
Bright possible futures,
Long since become impossible.

In silence, in cold, alone,
I walk past my past,
Within myself and myself,
Remembering, hoping, dreaming.

And then one day a sudden spark,
And with it a semblance of heat,
And my heart’s beating returns,
And it all comes rushing back.

All my long ago memories,
All my hopes and dreams,
All weaves a new angel,
A new happy companion.

In that moment, all is good.

But moments always pass,
For in that brief moment,
In wonder and delight,
I reach out, I connect.

But dreams hope and memories,
They have no substance, no weight.
My hand brushes that angelic cheek,
And my filigree angel explodes.

My hopes, dreams, memories,
They become razorblades,
Cutting through my flesh, my self,
Reopening old unhealed wounds.

Clutching the shattered remnants,
My heart within my heart bleeding,
I weep as the beating stops,
As I, once again, grow cold.

-Jacob Thompson

Merely Staying for the Day

The smoke is wavering and my mind is wondering and I am begging to reach tranquility
Yet I’m racing while I’m sitting
 I’m arguing and yet am in complete silence
I’m praying but believe in no God
I am breathing, I am breathing.
Then why do I feel like I am SUFFOCATING?
There is something sitting on my chest
Although I am completely naked with nothing close to me.

I am naked and still I feel pressure building
I am free to move around but I am chained to MY body
I cannot escape this prison MY mind won’t let ME leave
I JUST want to Be
But in BEING I must EXIST
Even though I know I am too…
I need to stay
Not for me but for those who know me by day
Although I am not okay
I have to stay
… I …
…have to…
… stay…


A Starting Song by Natashia Gushue 

Trump walks everywhere now. He is afraid of the media
and he’s walked too far, arriving
unexpectedly on the reserve, in search
of the native woman of his dreams. 
He wants a native woman who could pass
for Gigi Hadid. He wants a native women
who looks like a Gigi Hadid
lead into a sweat lodge.
In his campaign Trump proclaimed
he wants to “grab her by the pussy”
his skin is still bright orange
the colour of a Rock Sioux fire.

Trump has never seen
a Rock Sioux, but he joins right in, dancing
like a crazy man, a profane clown. 
Trump cannot contain himself
He dances in the wrong direction. He tears
at his tope. He sings in wild syllables
and does not care. The native dancers stop
staring at Trump as though he was lightening
like a storm of bad weather.
But he keeps dancing, bumping into the
Chief, knocking loose an eagle feather.
This feather floats to the ground, drums stop. 
This is the kind of silence
that sends shivers down the spines of politicians.
Trump looks down at the feather
and knows that something has gone wrong.
He looks into the faces of the natives.
Expecting them to finish the song.    

Sea Dog by Brendan Ahern

The wave rolled beneath my board and dangling feet
pushing me up high to where I could see you
resting, as it looked to me, 
in the way that I might rest
with a cup of tea on a Sunday afternoon.

And as I wondered if you had seen me too
you surfaced somewhere near.
Close enough for me to count your whiskers.

How alike you and I must seem!
You, a seal. And me, all wrapped up
black and hooded in a neoprene skin,
an imitation of your birthday suit
if I am not mistaken.

Which, I suspect, is why you chose
to swim over here in the first place.
Thinking that we might be brothers.

Until, of course, I start to splash my flippers
and then, as I imagine it must look to you,
start to slide on my white belly
for as long as the wave will take me
back toward the land where I belong.

Artwork by Alejandra macouzet

Artwork by Alejandra macouzet

What Colour by Cassia Tremblay

If you only knew
the seconds I've spent dissecting your words - searching for intent.
You could probably guess, or maybe you couldn't, that I've come up bone dry. 
Your puzzles are plastered on the back of my mind
and I'm not even sure that you know how you've taken me for a ride.

But I'd do it again, and gladly at that. How good did it feel to have my days confused and coloured by you?

What colour you ask? As always you think this an easy task, 
you want an answer uncomplicated without out strings either forming or breaking. 
You seek out the stagnant and I'm not sure what colour that's tainted. 
Maybe a black or a white- simple, stained plainly.

Flick by Marie Horgan

Flick by Marie Horgan

Trip by Marie Horgan

Trip by Marie Horgan

Down by Caleb Scargall

A sword pierced a crab’s hole, right on the beach, it’s point sunk and rose with the moisture ever so slightly. The hilt, designed as a thorn, glinted, reflecting the sour ocean frothing to the shore. It acted as an imperfect sundial, most of the time off-centered, it depended on the of day. Wind pushed soaked particles that stuck to the sword’s foible but they could not be seen due to the shadow. Across the bay sailed a small boat. It shrunk with time until only a blood orange sunset held the sky line. Hermits emerged to shuffle. The crabs could not grip the sword to climb due to its smooth texture so they waited at the base in confused frustration. Tiny insects met the metal and were shocked by its symmetry. Never in their brief lives had they seen a perfect divide, and it was glorified hexagonally. With the miniscule amount of weight provided by the sand fleas, the sword, and a surrounding circumference attributed to it, dug microscopically deeper into the sand. It did this until it touched a rock and stopped.

Around the girth of an outlying leaning tree, where its roots protruded out through a sandy mound of dirt, a rope was tied into a sailor’s knot, it held a rowboat ashore. The rope was taut and longed to snap to the pressures of the current but due to intrinsic forces it held. Every second and a half the boat rode a small push, rested for an unbalanced moment, then was sucked back by the horizon, complete stillness did not exist. Sweet grass by the beach grew sporadically beside toy volcanoes; the homes of travelling armies, workers, and a queen squatting with a translucent tail and a drip. A tube of diminished light shaped by the ant hill’s incidental window outlined the floor, dust acted in vagabondage, dancing above the dirt floor. And to the left, in a particular crevice of filth, a black roach burrowed in silence since he was a stranger. The ants seemed intimidated and stayed safely parallel to the roach, keeping him in constant view. The roach huddled over a festering crumb, its posterior antenna scraped to remove the foulest bits of feces.

The breeze brought, through the tall grass and over the hill, a great force of stimulation, the crabs were uncomfortable. Paradigms that many of the insects found comforting were crushed and forgotten as they scuttered away. A relative earthquake exaggerated by hysteria caused the waves to reduce their tempo by a fraction of a second. One child emerged, the leader, then two more raking their heels through a low rise of brush, cordgrass wedged and wedging between their toes. A migrant swarm of sand fleas attacked all the available ankle skin but with the resistance of air, the side foot scratch-swipes, and only the light beginnings of wispy hair to cling on to, they did not withstand. The two non-leaders wore protective oils, not sweat, although they did, as children do. An irritating grip of netting caused them to privately rearrange themselves with quick tugs. The leader, did not, and wore no protection. He was darker but not under nightlight, a bronzed blonde, young still, but nervous, the others followed and knew most of this.

As foreigners, treasure found, buried or not, was to be claimed. It took a chain reaction of discovery started by the diligent leader to move the party in fragments over to the source, the sword. The children each formed individual radii around the point of interest, curious with thinning patience, the leader had warned them “wait, don’t touch it!”. Careful not to prick a callus, the leader inched the sword forward with the rough of his index fingernail. The crabs had fled long before but were now haunted by thunderous shifting. Relocation at dusk was a frantic event. Only a few brave pieces still sucked the blade, they would fly away at the last second although they only lived for a day.

A glimpse of flash accompanied by a tunnel of whirling noises and distorted hoots led the leader into a moment of panic, then he took the sword. As he sprinted back he sliced the air with disregard. Entire worlds ended.


Freezing Cold by Sarah Wallace 

She walks aimlessly
Her fingers as icy as her eyes
Passerby's wish to converse
To welcome her with hellos
Yet she only
Hopes for goodbyes
With a hope to know her
Beyond her blank stare
She waves
A sort of empty gaze
Seems to freeze even the
Hopeful hearts
Wishing to grab hold
Of her essence
Unsure of her vacant presence
Those that knew her
Knew she must be
Treated with love
By a fireplace
That she must have her hands
Clasped around a warm coffee
That she needs blankets
Covering her shoulders
She needs a book in the evening
By a window
That she simply
Needs to gaze out
At the snow
It was love that would
Get her by
Her name was as cold
As they knew her
If only they looked
Past her eyes
With everyone trying to
Understand her
She was a mystery girl
Changed by the weather

Her name was




College St. by Rachel Revoy

(Inspired by The New Year by Mark Strand) 
It is November and one in the morning.
Nobody knows you. 
In the crowd of warm bodies brimming with youth and molly,
no one notices that you side-step to the door.  
The friends you came with are mesmerized, 
hoping for a suitor with slow-blinking eyes. 
Handsome or decent qualities need not apply. 
Outside the cold wrings out your exposed skin.
The people in pairs move past
without as much as a wayward glance in your direction. 
God, even if they just looked at you
it would make you feel more real. 
The wind pushes at your bare legs, tugs at your skirt. 
The iciness replaces your blood and freezes the sweat that adorns like a crown on your head. 
You can’t stop thinking of how the meek are heaving and throwing their drunk bodies across the floor
in the rancid old place they go to again and again like it has something to offer. 
They’re inside, all the people who you laughed with three hours ago,
thinking of the night ahead. They’re still laughing. They’re still warm. But you, you’re going home.  
You’re no better. 
You’re just alone.