Delicate Affections

DDDDeeeelllliiiiccccaaaatttteeee AAffffffffeeeeccccttttiiiioooonnnnssss by Adrian Saldanha

Let me take you away, for a moment, to a place far from here. A lush green forest meadow grows with patches of exquisite wildflowers blossoming everywhere — a veritable paradise on earth. In the middle of it all is a tiny, crystal clear pond that reflects the light that falls on it. The pond isn't very deep, and you can see the assortment of pebbles at the bottom of it. From that pond stems a wandering stream that ventures further into the wilderness. The grass beneath your feet is thick and a very healthy shade of green. The trees are tall and mighty, a worthy inspiration with their vast grandeur, and between some of the high branches, great rays of sunlight manage to shine through into the forest and create a nearly holy and spiritual glow. The very sight of it is so beautiful and soothing; it makes you wonder how some divine force in the universe could not exist. In the morning, you and I are together. The songbirds sing their tunes melodically, as the world gently wakes up. Despite its great solace, however, you and I are too restless. We quickly amuse ourselves by trying to climb the trees, toss pebbles into the pond, and chase one another throughout the wilderness. We haven't a care in the world, and I find myself unable to admire the calmness of meadow, for I am too busy admiring your beauty and your grace, as you're basked in that gentle morning light. My heart races and skips because I know I am in love, though I dare not say a word, for I know not how you feel yourself. Like the youthful spirits we are, we give chase to each other once more. You don't see it coming, but you trip on an awkward root that stuck out from one of the trees. I quickly move to try and catch you, trying to be the gallant saviour, but being clumsy myself, I end up falling down with you. We laugh heartily at the situation we got ourselves into, but my eyes suddenly and unexpectedly lock with yours, as we lay there together. I realize you're still in my arms from when I tried to save you. I briefly examine your facial features, such as your rosy cheeks and your delicate lips, but I find myself truly drawn in by your eyes. They reflect the sweetness and innocence of your personality. I gaze into them, and I feel as though I'm gazing into your soul. I see your compassion, your kindness, your gentle nature, but, most of all, I see your life and exuberance. My heart pounds rapidly, and my throat closes up nervously. However, overcoming my fears, I shyly confess my true feelings for you. To my surprise, you begin to blush and share your own feelings towards me, feelings that I would never dare dream for you to have for me. We are both blushing deeply, but our joy is peaked. Our lips innocently meet; it's our first kiss. You love me, and I love you, and nothing else matters in the world. In the afternoon, we lie together side by side. The tree behind us props up our backs, and you are in my arms, while your head rests on my chest. We calmly look onward at the scene nature has unravelled for us. Many forest critters are scattering about, foraging for food, and playing games, not so unlike how we were enjoying ourselves in the morn. Squirrels, chipmunks, all sorts of birds, and other forest dwelling rodents come out to play. We admire them contentedly as I gently squeeze your hand out of affection. We cuddle up to one another as we continue to observe the animals playing amongst the colourful falling leaves. One of the chipmunks strays from the others and shyly makes its way towards us. You present an outstretched hand, and miraculously, it jumps onto your hand, trusting you

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completely. You give it a nut that you had kept in your pocket and pet it gently as it graciously accepts your offer. It jumps off your hand and quickly runs back towards the other animals to play. You look up at me with a grin on your face, and I return it. However, despite the beauty of nature around us, I am still drawn in entirely by you. We lean towards each other, and more naturally than the first time, we kiss — our second kiss. You sigh happily and wrap your arms around me as I hold you closer than before. We are together. What more could matter? In the evening, the forest is asleep, but not you and I. The bright moon shines down through the trees, and the pond sparkles with its glow. Because of the light provided by the moon and the stars, it's not too dark, and everything seems to be tinted a beautiful shade of silver. Though we should be asleep, we dance together throughout the night. We know no music is really playing, but it doesn't matter. We embrace as we sway back and forth, from side to side, to that music. It may not have been music, but whatever it was, we could not hold ourselves back. Your arms are around my neck and mine around your waist. We gaze fondly into each other's eyes as we dance on. I'm still captivated by them, the same way I was when we fell in the morning. A part of me wants to cry for how happy I am to be with you like this. We whisper our love to each other, and we continue to waltz in the moonlight. I never want to be parted from you, and you never want to be parted from me. We promise each other, that no matter what happens, we will not leave each other and that we'd always be together. We lean into each other and kiss more boldly and deeply than ever before. It's our third kiss, and I secretly pray that the moment never ends. As you play with my hair, I gently caress your back. We stay that way for what seems like an eternity. If my life had led up to anything at all, it was this day. I can never be happier because I know that you'd never leave me, and you know that I'd never leave you, no matter what happened. Yet the tragedy of the matter does seep in eventually. As I awaken from my reverie, I become forced to face the reality of the situation. The tears begin to flow as I realize that you aren't there. You promised you'd never leave, but I know it was a promise you simply couldn't make in the first place. I miss your love, your sweetness, your affection, but never will I get the chance to feel it again. However, it's the reason that I'll never be able to feel it again that hurts most of all. The truth of the matter is that you simply don't exist. I imagined you, just as I imagined the forest meadow we were in. Even if I was to find a similar meadow one day, it would make no difference, for you see, it was your presence that made the place beautiful. Without you, it's just an empty lonely meadow, and it pains me to know that I'm alone. I had lost something I never really had or had the opportunity to feel. You don't exist and you never will, and I'll never get the chance to be treated with that delicate affection.

Adrian Saldanha is a graduate of International Baccalaureate: Science and will be studying Classics: Greco Roman Culture at Concordia University this autumn. He lived in Taiwan and Paris for two years.

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TTTTTThhhhhheeeeee SSSSSShhhhhhiiiiiiffffffttttttiiiiiinnnnnngggggg PPPPPPrrrrrreeeeeesssssseeeeeennnnnntttttt by Alexis Romero

The day was like any other day — exceptional. They were there, together. Her name was Hope, just like what he would see in her eyes before everything happened. He always looked into her eyes. He still did, but now he looked into her eyes as if trying to find in them something he had lost. His strange behaviour was making her quite uncomfortable. His eyes seemed to have lost all expectations for the present or for the future. His memories of the past seemed to be his only link to the reality that was now without hope. "Are you alright?" she asked. "You look as if you are confused." "No, there is nothing wrong with me," he replied calmly and coldly. "Come on, you can tell me everything; you know that, don't you?" "Yeah, I know. I can tell anything to Hope without even worrying about it or having second thoughts about it." "Do you have second thoughts now? Are you worried now?" He didn't even bother to answer that unknown voice. He had been feeling the same feeling before he met her; it was some kind of sweet insanity. He felt the same hollowness, as if she was an echo from his past, as if she was forever gone. It was the same emptiness that he had felt when it happened, the same feeling that was eating him from the inside out. She had noticed that he had changed, but she didn't know why he was like that. He was a shadow of his past. She never met the former him, but somehow she knew that he must have looked as he did now — purposeless and lost in the nothingness that was inside of him. "Do you remember how we met?" he asked. "No I don't." Back then, after it happened, they were not even close friends, let alone acquaintances. Yet, she would always remember how he would just stare into the emptiness that was the soulless fields of cement and the void silos of glass and steel. At that moment, she looked at him with her eyes filled with a shining purpose. She gently said to him, "All I remember is how we used to have so much fun after it happened. Why isn't it the same as before?" He was silently still trying to find what he had lost in her eyes. "Answer me please," she said quietly. "It's because the girl I knew and cared for is now gone. Maybe she will come back someday; I sure hope so, but for now, memories of Hope are all that I have left." "No it isn't," she said swiftly, as if those words had awakened her. "Yes it is. My hope was taken away from me; my soul is now astray. My words are meaningless, all the words that I hope to utter to her again." "I remember you use to tell me that I was unique and special." "You're unique, just like everyone else," he said unemotionally. He also added, after a pause that seemed to be an endless song of despair, "I can see it in your eyes; you’re not the same. You're just like everyone else; you’re not my hope, my soul of pureness, my Hope."

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She didn't seem to understand what he was saying, not because she couldn't, but because deep down, she knew what he meant. She didn't want to taste that hopelessness that was now within him. She knew that the past events had changed her but not as much as they had changed him. It was now awkward to even look into his eyes, let alone talk to him. He felt the same for Hope even before the events had occurred, but he was still reminiscing about their past. He knew that he couldn't relate to Hope anymore, let alone to anyone else. "Should we go somewhere else?" she uttered softly, as if she was now conscious of whom he was. "Why go somewhere else? Here is good as anywhere else. Let's just stay here, it’s fine." "Don't you want to go there, where we use to go when we were sad and feeling down?" "Now that is just for me and my hope." She didn't know what to think of him anymore; she thought she knew him as much as he knew her. They had a bond that couldn't be severed by any means. They had been through so much together; they had even survived that. "Why do you keep staring at my eyes?" "I was trying to find something that isn't there anymore." "In my eyes?" she said with a surprised tone. "Yes, for maybe a glimpse of Hope," he said in a disappointed voice. He had accepted the fact that she was gone. He had to forget about her and move on. She was not the girl he knew. He was almost fanatically mourning her in his mind. He had all these memories of a time when they were together and had fun, but that time was over. She no longer existed for him; Hope no longer existed. "Did you find anything?" she asked calmly. Her voice seemed to be hiding the horrifying excitement that she was feeling. "When I look into your eyes, I don't see the girl I came to care for, let alone sacrifice myself for. I only see that emptiness within you, that hollowness that we both know so well and despise so much." He turned around and started to walk away from her. Quickly, she said to him, in an attempt to save what was left of the past they once shared. "I'm still the same inside, nothing has changed; I am still Hope. I have changed, but so have you. We both changed, but nothing has to change." He glanced at her with the corners of his eyes. "Everything has already changed." "You know, someone once told me that hope was a river that flowed throughout time; time might have passed, but there is still hope," she murmured to him. He felt that that sentence had something familiar, something that resembled hope. "Maybe, but you know that we are bound to each other, whether we like it or not. I know Hope knew, but do you know?" "Yes, I know. I know, but things can be the way they use to be. We are

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still..." As fast as the lightning, he slashed her sentence and replied, "Don't even dare bring that up; I have given up hope." She said it anyways, "… close acquaintances." Those words rang a bell. It triggered a forgotten memory, something he didn't want to be reminded of — his former, solemn, and sole purpose. Yet, somehow at the same time, it reminded him of the day he met Hope. He didn't know why he couldn't remember that unique day everyday. Maybe he hadn’t forgiven himself for what had happened; on the other hand, Hope had. When he met her, that day was unlike any other day; it was filled with hope. He could feel the faithful wind and hear it murmur words of redemption and truth. When she had finally dared to talk to him, he could only reply with two words — Semper Exspes . She never knew what they meant, but she had a feeling it was something that he couldn't forget. Just then, sounds that weren't words came out of his mouth. Yet, somehow they made sense to her, as if he had said those memorable and faithful words — Semper Exspes . She was shocked, and at that time, she told him, with a voice that seemed to be bleached out by the past that they had shared, "But what is going to happen now?" "Time will tell." He turned back and looked at her, and at that moment, he saw a spark in her eyes. It seemed to come from the bottom of her soul, of Hope's soul. "Hope is that you?... I can see it now, I saw it, and it is you." Even if it lasted only for a second, that spark gave him more hope than he thought he had left. His heart and soul was shouting to him that it was her, but his consciousness was yelling that it was hopeless. "Of course it is me. See, things can be back to the way they are, as if nothing had even happened." "Maybe. Time will tell." "Should we go now?" "Sure let's go to that place." As they were mindlessly leaving, it struck him, just like a jolt from the inside out. Even though they both knew that they needed each other, he knew that it was not her. It certainly was not Hope that was taking him there but something else. He now felt the unknown from every corner of his idealistic mind crawling out into this known reality. He knew that it was the hope that Hope was still there or maybe the hope of Hope that was taking him there. A short moment after, he felt something rising again from the bottom of his being; it was an evil so familiar, a darkness, a blinding sensation of solitude; it was the feeling of hopelessness.

Alexis Romero is currently in the Commerce program. He plans to study Business Law in the future.

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The Sweater by Annie Irene Katsaros

*** It had begun simply enough, as an ordinary day in an ordinary life. I had risen with purpose. My elderly mother, who was living with my husband and me, had turned eighty years old, and I wanted to prepare a festive family gathering in celebration of her longevity. Living far from us, my five brothers and three sisters seldom visited our home, and tonight, their long trek to our house was for a joining of family and kin. I hoped my mother would be surprised with this family gathering in her honour. I wished that my little extravaganza would be a success. Getting out of bed, I shivered as my bare feet touched the cold floor in our bedroom. Cautiously placing one foot in front of the other, I was careful not to wake my husband. He had not been sleeping well lately, and I did not want to interrupt the sleep he was presently getting. I wondered if there was a reason behind his sleep deprivation. We had always joked that he had an unusual gift, an extra sensory perception of some sort. Often, he seemed to know exactly what it was I was thinking. As youngsters, we had grown up in each other’s company, our homes a mere distance from one another. Time and time again, I would find him waiting by his door, expecting me. Before my hand had reached to knock, he would swing the door open with his grin and welcome me in. I thought that perhaps some unpleasant news was to befall our happy home, and premonitions were disturbing his sleep. Coming to my senses, I fearfully pushed

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the thought aside and continued to change into my clothing. Little did I know that my misgivings were perceptively accurate. Walking into the kitchen, I opened a cabinet that the family seldom looked in and retrieved the list of ingredients that I had prepared a while ago. I planned to get the bulk of the flavourful ingredients this morning. Having previously ordered everything from the dried-goods store, it prevented my mother from accidentally spotting them in the icebox the night before. After reviewing the list to make sure that I had included the spices for the roasted chicken, my brother’s favourite meal, I grabbed my coat off the wooden hanger and reached on top of the closet shelf for my hat. It was not there. Where was that darn hat? I always seemed to misplace it! Unfortunately, with the events that followed, I would soon realize that retrieving my hat would be the least of my worries. A rapid knock at the front door startled me. The arm that was reaching up for the hat swiftly came down, causing the rest of the closet’s contents to come crashing down as well. Puzzled, I approached and mentally tried to figure out who could be at my front door so early in the morning. Ezekiel stood before me. He gave me a quick look, mumbled something, and handed me an envelope. As I reached for the letter, I noticed that Ezekiel was getting older. He avoided my eyes and mentioned that he was sorry. Not comprehending, I absently nodded and thanked him for his delivery. Our mail carrier made a hasty retreat down the porch, and I too retreated into the house, too preoccupied with my dinner to think about his odd behaviour. Only upon approaching the cutlery drawer for a knife to open the letter, did I notice it was addressed to my husband. An official looking government seal was on the very top. In a panic, I dropped the knife and ripped the envelope open with shaking fingers. The world slowly spun out of focus, and from somewhere, I realized my husband had materialized and had taken the letter from my nerveless hands. Misery filled the room. Neither of us knew what to say. The war had reached us, and we could do nothing to prevent it. He reported to the train station by six o’clock that night. I spent the day packing his clothes in alternate states of disbelief and numbness. Different scenarios of him in combat whirled through my mind. What if he was wounded with no one there to rush to his aid? What if he was left behind? My mother’s attempts to comfort me were to no avail. When the time came to leave, my husband bid my mother farewell, took his small leather suitcase, and reached for the door. He turned around to see why I had not followed him outside. I stood there, frozen, not able to move. My husband was going to war, and there was nothing that I could do to save him from that fate. All I would later remember is the encouraging nod he gave me and the a few steps I took towards him. As I laced my fingers through his, I followed him outside and turned to take a look at our home. It was not much, but it was ours. It was a place where we had created so many memorable moments. I knew that when I returned from the train station without my husband, it would not look the same anymore. He would be gone, and it would be a stark home, void of love or happiness. I quickly turned around and shut the door behind me, closing the door on our home, our dreams, and our affection for the life we lived. After leaving him at the train station, I could not return home, at least not right away. I needed to take a stroll and clear my mind. Walking the streets was

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something I was not used to doing so late at night. It had become a completely different world overnight. Absently, I admired the position of the moon. It shone so brightly, perfectly shaped. I wished that my husband could see this spectacular sight. I missed him. We had never been apart, never separated in such a heartbreaking manner. The uncertainty of everything frightened me. The loss of my husband, my companion, and my lover was more than I could bear. Drifting back into the present, I looked around to see where I was. I was standing precisely in front of one of the numerous enlistment posters. I approached the one near me and looked at it a bit more closely. This poster sign was one of a man in a top hat pointing his finger directly at me stating, “Uncle Sam Wants You!” I laughed. The things they concocted to reel more people in. I glanced over to another sign, a sign that was titled: Aid You Can Give. I was drawn to it. A soldier was sitting on a cot, and a woman was at his side applying some sort of salve on his injured shoulder. What in the heavens was a woman doing at an army campsite? I looked more closely at the details. She was wearing a hat, a nurse’s hat! At that very moment, the answer to my prayers stared right at me. I had trained as a nurse! What better way was there to help those who would be fighting for our country than to actually be with them, to come to their aid when they would be in need? When I returned home, I raced around the house, grabbing things I would need. My mother listened to me as I explained my plan to follow my husband to war. She struggled to put on a brave front and suggested that she stay with my younger sister until my return. She knew she would be losing her daughter, son-in-law, and the life that was familiar and good in one fell swoop, yet she did nothing to dissuade me. She understood my fervour and passion to leave. She was the last person among the large gathering at the train station to see me off. I bade a tearful farewell and sincerely thanked her for her support and understanding, suddenly realizing how much she had to contend with in such a short time. As I picked up my bags, I failed to see her push an extra bag into my arms. Overwhelmed with emotion, I departed for a journey that I had never anticipated. Sitting on the crowded train, I noted the grays and browns of countless homespun farm clothes. Farm boys were going off to war. I sighed and glanced outside the window that I was lucky enough to be sitting next to. I wondered if my mother would be all right. She had the rest of the family to depend on, and I genuinely hoped that all would go favourably for her while I was away. Looking over the luggage that surrounded my seat, I notice a bag I had not packed. Perplexed, I reached for it and pulled out a colourfully knit sweater. A note was pinned onto a striped sleeve. I read my mother’s distinctively feathery penmanship: When faced with bleak and depressing times, put this sweater on and imagine my comforting arms around you. It was a sweater made many sizes too large and in a multitude of colours, as yarn was in short supply during wartime. I held the sweater against me and marvelled at my mother’s strength and love. As we pulled up to the army base, a jumble of disjointed thoughts plagued my mind. Would we have adequate supplies to help heal the wounded soldiers? Would we have a decent place to sleep, enough food to eat? I later discovered that supplies were always at risk of depletion, and though we did in fact have adequate food to eat and cots to sleep in, I could not get a restful night’s sleep. I tossed and turned always wondering what lay ahead. * * *

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I abruptly awoke as a brisk draft whipped over my legs. I glanced over and saw the flap of the tent wildly billowing in the wind. Why was it that none of the other nurses took the time to secure the tent shut but so often complained about the lack of heat? I quickly tried to pull the blanket down over my legs, only to expose the top half of my body. These darn blankets. They were never long enough to cover our entire bodies. A body part was somehow always poking out. You would think that after nine months of being in this camp, I would have gotten used to the fact that the blankets would never be long enough. I shifted my blankets to the side, and my bare feet touched the cold, hard ground. Lifting my long skirt, I noticed that streaks of dirt and dried blood on my once white apron had not yet been removed. Last night’s casualties had been heavy. I shivered and cautiously placed one foot in front of the other, worried that I might wake up one of the many sleep-deprived nurses. We hardly got enough sleep. I approached a low wooden stool and reached for my worn, but trusty sweater. I tugged the long arms around my shoulders and burrowed into its almost threadbare weave. My mother, with great difficulty, had knit me something to take with me so that I would be comforted. I thought of her arthritic fingers pushing the yarn over the knitting needles, and tears sprang to my eyes. It was a funny looking sweater, about three sizes too large and a mess of different colours. How I treasured it. This masterpiece was my link to the past, to normality, and to a place where my mother awaited my return. It was a place without the awfulness of hostility, a peaceful place that was untouched and undisturbed from the horrors of war. I moved to the tent’s opening and stepped outside. With weary eyes, I stood still, took in my surroundings, and sighed. It was bitterly cold. Cold seemed to penetrate everything. A searing pain expanded in my chest with each breath I drew. The air was foul with the odour of gunpowder and spent ammunition. Death and disease hovered above it all. I thought of families anxiously awaiting the return of their dear ones, and my mind clouded with fear for my husband and the loved ones I knew. I scanned the perimeter of our camp and was not surprised to see clusters of patched-up soldiers, patiently waiting to receive and instantly act upon commands made by their superiors. I could only imagine the fear and anxiety these poor soldiers faced. They stood here awaiting the fate to be handed out to them. The thought of who would return and who would not rested heavily on all of us. What could we do? We were just the nurses, sent here to help, to nurse them back to health only so that they would go out to do it once again. They were men, not only soldiers. They lived with hopes and dreamed of lives filled with beauty and peace. These were men who once had a life and history remote from this war. I gazed ahead to the outskirts of the camp, near the rolling hillside that was no longer green but torn and muddy. A sudden spiral of smoke rose in the air. The numerous clusters of soldiers instantaneously became one. Duty called; they were ready. I saw it in their eyes daily. They were ready to go out there and fight for what they believed in. It still amazed me. It was as if their every step was set and sure. The thought that my husband was one of these outstanding men filled me with honour and pride.

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As the troops got ready to act, I rushed back to the nurses’ tent. I wondered what the rest of the nurses were doing. I had been standing outside for too long, lost in my thoughts. Nurses were gravitating into little groups; their faces strained with worry. Through the bits and pieces that were mumbled to me, I discovered the devastating news, news that seemed like a death sentence. Our camp was rapidly being invaded. The cloud of smoke had been a decoy intended to have the soldiers think that the opposing side was just beginning to attack, when in actuality, they had already begun to advance toward our site hours in advance. It was impossible to determine whether we would have enough time to prepare for the enemy’s assault. I quickly rushed to the medical supplies. My long skirt fluttering in the wind, I grabbed as many items as I could and shoved them into a sack. Salves, bandages, gauze, and some bindings were all I could find. It was safe to say we had exhausted a good amount of our medical supplies. Packing all our belongings took much longer than anticipated. We heard an alarming boom, a sound that was all too familiar. During the following hours, I witnessed horrible things, things I thought I had already seen and become immune to. I served like a soldier and performed my duties. Lives were saved; lives were lost. Images were seared in my memory forever. Everything seemed to happen rapidly like a motion picture on a spinning reel. Soon, I could not recall any one part of that day accurately. In the final hour of combat, all that could be seen was a haze of smoke. I walked among the debris and saw a wounded soldier in the near distance. He approached the tent, hopping on one foot. At the sight of this man’s struggle, I hurried toward him and helped him cross the littered field. I gently rested him on the ground near our medical supplies. He was shivering uncontrollably; whether from his nerves or the cold, I would never be sure. I automatically removed my precious sweater and wrapped it around him making sure that the sleeves were tightly secured. As I held this man, my fingers interlaced tightly around him, I realized my fear. I hated this war and all it took from us. I did not know this man. He could have been a beloved husband, a father, or a cherished son to parents anxiously awaiting his return. In the midst of it all, we had found one another and come to each other’s aid. This man represented all who fought. They came ready to fight, to stand for a cause they believed in. Soldiers were brought to camps with no guarantee that they would depart alive. This man I held in my arms was no ordinary man; he was a man who came ready to defend his country. Looking up at me, his eyes were searching, looking for reassurance. Parched, chapped lips formed inaudible words. I had to comfort him. I was a different kind of soldier. I smoothed my mother’s sweater over him and bowed my head close to his blood-stained ear. “It’s over,” I murmured. “You are going to be well, and because of you, we all will be…”

Winner in last year’s Creative Writing contest, Annie Irene Katsaros graduated from Liberal Arts. She will be attending McGill University in the Faculty of Arts, majoring in Political Science, and double minoring in Politics, Law, and Society and English: Drama and Theatre. Annie is committed to continuing her education in the field of law and will subsequently pursue her ambition to become a civil litigator.

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MMMMMMeeeeeemmmmmmoooooorrrrrriiiiiieeeeeessssss by Corina Sferdenschi

The memories that I’ve gathered and neatly arranged In the back corners of my mind Will always be the nourishment of my lonely heart. They will sparkle, tease, laugh, and cry Beyond the barriers of time And past the endless flow of life. They will survive And will be the building blocks of my experience. Memories are unforgettable, irreversible, Bittersweet, yet lovely. They bring tears of happiness or sadness, Cries of joy or sorrow, And colour your days, or they leave them faded. They fly; they jump; they stir; they scream. Their significance is, nevertheless, indubitable. They cannot be destroyed nor effaced; They cannot be reversed nor replaced; They can only be cherished and loved, For they represent my life.

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WWhhoo iiss ““II””?? WWhhoo AAmm II?? by David Van

The moment I said “I,” It was “them” and not me, Caring for image, for face, Caring for friends, for family; I was trapped in this endless frenzy, In what we define as “duty.”

The moment I said “I,” I knew mistakes were intolerable. A mistake done was a cared one lost; More mistakes done, they’d call me selfish. So I served, I lived, I spoke for them To avoid being the subject of their insults.

The moment I said “I,” I was but only four years old. A blink of the eye and I’m already eighteen. I can say “I” in five different languages But all with one meaning: “they.” My worn out shoulders carried both my and their burdens.

The moment I said “I,” I had already thought twice before continuing, Finishing the speech not how I wanted it, Rather the way they wanted to hear it. “I” is human, selfish, mean, greedy. I am “they,” simply to avoid these sins.

David Van is a graduate of the International Baccalaureate: Commerce program at Vanier College. He is currently in the Actuarial Mathematics and Finance Coop program at Concordia University.

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Unguarded Heaven by Dina Santina

Exasperated and falling to my knees, I silently beg for these visions to vanish, Unguarded Heaven by Dina Santina Rejected from their home of dysfunctional innocence And slipped into a realm of forbidden desires.

My gage of insanity has exceeded its limit, And its taunting painfully lingers in my system, Insisting on residing where its presence is loathed And too preoccupied to notice its decaying home.

Your meagre essence impedes you from pursuing A simple request of a despairing voice, One pleading anxiously to be considered, And yet the deaf ear never hears.

Hide behind your desolate core If that is what soothes your conscience, But let it be known that your perpetual presence Can never be easily accepted.

My once serene world is now Dripping with disdain and bitter thoughts, Reminding me of a genuine moment That swiftly disintegrated into a fantasy.

Infiltrating my unguarded heaven, Now seeping with disgust, Panic overrides my sleeping corpse With the knowledge that you are dominating my thoughts.

Most would shrug you off and question Why I give you the time of day, For when reality unexpectedly strikes, You are simply a dream merely plaguing my nightly world.

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Never-ending yet equally surreal, Your dark conquests relentless, A suffocating vice mirrors your talent And strips my body of its given right to breathe.

My lashes flicker, and my eyes are covered With a thick film of the events of the world, Hoping to discover a fragment of sanctuary In the comfort of land prided to be real.

This daily ritual of hope and naiveté Is murdered with a vicious stab of awareness That our world in fact parallels a dream, Constantly spewing actual despair and sorrow.

A dream: Indifferently deemed as a trivial price to pay for yesterday's misfortunes And never humbly accepted as a reflection Of our saddest regret.

A dream: A daunting realization of truth, Stupefying its audience And stunning them into the unknown.

A dream: No different than the reality we face when escaping our slumber, For we are eternally confronted by another world, Waiting to resume where the other abruptly left off.

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Spot of Gold SSSpppooottt ooofff GGGooolllddd by Fernanda Trindade

From a mother's womb, a child was born. A different sight, a child born of precious stones, Covered in jewels, rubies, and gold; A child she promised to cherish until he grew old, In her strong arms did this mother now hold And gave love and affection she promised to this child of gold.

Sadly though, through the years the mother grew bored Of raising such a beautiful child of gold. The jewels and gems, that once so perfectly shone, Grew dim and dull, forgotten and left behind.

The child forgot the gold he once had, For now he walked with those who were bad. The more time he spent with these kids whom he found, The dimmer he got, and the precious pieces of gold now fell to the ground.

The rules now changed, his colours he wore on his crown, For now the child of gold did not smile, he frowned. With a blade in his pocket for when the time rolled around, He knew what he did was wrong, but his thoughts were now bound.

The day had come; now he met a child like him but built of lead. With hate passed down from those around, With a single swoop, the child fell to the ground. It soon grew dark and mysteriously cold, For now instead of pride and joy, the child of gold felt tired and old. As he crept and crawled to the child of lead, He touched his skin to make sure he was dead. But with amazement he found He was wrong, for it was not lead he felt on the ground, For where touched, this child now cold, was A spot, a small spot of gold.

Fernanda Trindade is currently in the Social Science program at Vanier College. In the future, she intends to study Law and become a lawyer. Her interests include reading, writing, and art.

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The Pursuit of Happiness by Florence Ivany

As Michael gazed down into the clearness of the blue sea from his place above the crested rocks, he was surprised at his excitement. He’d come to this hideaway ledge often as a child because Magawash Bay signalled freedom, joy, and openness. Today he contemplated many things: the direction in which his life was progressing, dreams to be pursued, and an inner acceptance of what was. The wide expansive sea below him served as the limitless slate of what he'd done and what was to be.

He had a quiet, nondescript childhood. His father, the local grocer, had worked hard to support him and his three younger sisters: Peg, Maggie, and Ann. He felt he had grown up far too quickly because his mother had died when he was just seven years old. He always had a lot of responsibilities in the caring of his sisters, and he'd always felt that once his mother had died, there had been a huge void in his life. During his younger years, Michael had always had a vivid imagination, and it had been through the art of daydreaming that he'd taught himself to escape to far away places when life turned tedious, dull, or lonely. Not that he was discontent; he'd simply accepted his life of simple pleasures. His life had been filled with family get- togethers, which offered languorous, joyous days of home-cooked meals and parties of fifty or more, where family and friends sat around the kitchen table telling stories and jokes. These were the prized memories of his youth; there hadn't been any family vacations or March break getaways to Florida for him. Fishing trips with his father and Uncle Bob were also the only excursions. The long treks along the bug infested marshes provided time to talk about plans for the future. In the solitude and content quiet of the backwoods, Michael's connection to the outside world took shape as his mind wandered to ads he'd read in the local paper. The ads were enticing, pleasurable friends that beckoned him in with details of trips to India, Peru, and Alaska. Yes, his imagination was alive and kicking , he smiled. He'd saved the articles because one day he'd promised himself to travel to other worlds and experience exotic, cultural flavours. What's a life without dreams, he mused. The cawing of the birds and thudding of the waves that broke onto the shore below were familiar sounds. As he breathed in the freshness of the salty air, the pungent feeling surprised him and awoke him from his reverie. He was often taken aback by the briskness of the air along the coast. His youth along the coast had presented him with relaxed days at the beach where he'd skim stones that had been painstakingly chosen on his days of beach rummaging. He had savoured the quiet escape of the beach. On those days, he'd roll up his pant legs, haphazardly throw aside his shoes, and gingerly walk over the beach, being sure to avoid the algae and pointed, craggy-edged driftwood. He prided himself on skilfully choosing the best stones for skimming. His college friends had no concept of stones and the proper selection of such. He never looked at his watch in those days because time seemed to stand still. A friend had once remarked that the things that require no timekeeping were our passions and truest expressions of self.

So true , he thought. Once he had collected a substantial armful, he'd wade out to the sea. At times the intensity of the waves drew him closer, amusing him with its force and brisk

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tantalizing presence. The sea could be icy cold, but he would enjoy the coldness on his toes. It made him feel totally alive. With joy, he'd arrange his stones in clusters, from which he'd individually choose and toss them skilfully into the water. He remembered the way they'd coast effortlessly across the water’s surface, and the many years of this skilful pastime reminded him of the pleasure and art of developing it. He relaxed onto the rocks behind him, his back arched over a downy algae bed. He felt the thrill of freedom, and his lips pursed into a blissful smile as he drew deeper into his comfortable rocky seat. Now at the age of 29, his life had taken on a lethargic pace. There had been many exploits; he smiled as he remembered bungee jumping in Venezuela. Work had turned sour, and he had dropped his job to try out this newfound sport. His boss had been pessimistic about Michael's dream, and his great pal, Jack, was so discouraging when he had told him of his plans to bungee jump. “Michael, why do you want to do that?" he had asked, "You will kill yourself, old man." God, he hated the unhelpful commentary, but he had persevered despite it all. Life is really a quest of identifying and conquering goals . Yes, he liked that. The quest is allowing nothing to hold you back when you are on a roll with your life. In the distance, he could smell a fire; someone was obviously having a cookout. This conjured up memories of Michael's childhood when he had gone fishing with his family in the Bay of Fundy. He sighed as he thought of those wonderful shrimps that his aunts lovingly served with garlic butter and roasted potatoes. I really am a dreamer, he thought. My mind can go on multiple tangents at once, a little like the sea. Suddenly, the foghorn from Magawash's lighthouse sounded in the distance, heralding Michael's thoughts back to the ledge and the scene before him. This is my safe place, he thought. The smoke was now spiralling in the misty air, and the smell of frying trout indicated success. Little bits of wood did a dance in the air while the mist produced a mystical backdrop for the dancing flames of the fire. Whoops of delight came from the excited folks making the fire as they waited in anticipation of the meal being prepared. The salty air added further to their hunger as the food contained in the iron frying pan sizzled and sent out a glorious aroma. Michael's breath made spirals as he breathed in and exhaled deeply. He would take the chance and cash in his savings for that cruise in the Caribbean. He smiled contentedly as his mind conjured up images of dancing showgirls, gorgeous sunrises, and the buzz of excitement in the small villages he would explore when the ship docked at various stopovers. Ah , he thought, Magawash Bay was like a loyal friend . He could always come there with his thoughts and make decisions quietly without comments from anything or anyone but the expansiveness of the sea and undisturbing company of the seagulls. Life really is one delightful pursuit of happiness, Michael sighed as the foghorn sounded, paying homage to his latest decision.

Florence Ivany was studying Music: Classical Voice, at Vanier College but is now postponing her education to take care of her son. She loves music and writing.

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BBBeeecccaaauuussseee OOOfff YYYooouuurrr EEEyyyeeesss by Ionela Dobrei Elenes BBBeeecccaaauuussseee OOOfff YYYooouuurrr EEEyyyeee sss

Because of that I asked an appointment With your eyes (they dared to say “yes” I dared to be happy)

Because of that I sat too many hours Down on your lid Covered by tears and lies (you dared to resist the temptation to live with me)

Where we kissed Until 3 o’clock in the morning Beyond the eyes There is no grass…

WWWWWWrrrrrriiiiiittttttiiiiiinnnnnngggggg

by Ionela Dobrei Elenes

Now I’m writing, And the darkness is a wind with feathers That spread capital letters on my body;

I’m writing To you, and the music of your kiss Brings me through the labyrinth To the palace in the sky Where our bodies are full of hunger and love.

Winner in the Poetry contest, Ionela Dobrei Elenes is a graduate of the Early Childhood Education program. She also won the Editor’s Choice Award from The International Library of Poetry. Her poems have been published in a book, entitled Close to Your Heart, in Romania.

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SSSSSSttttttrrrrrraaaaaannnnnnggggggeeeeeerrrrrr tttttthhhhhhaaaaaannnnnn FFFFFFiiiiiiccccccttttttiiiiiioooooonnnnnn by Ioulia Zaitchik

"For a spontaneous act, it was surprisingly well-planned, and his mind was without any trace of doubt or panic that could undermine his confidence in what he was doing until the very end." This was a pretty nice beginning for a story, she figured as she rested her fingers slightly above the keyboard like a piano player. In a quick glance, she evaluated the whole of her day's work, neat rows of tiny black letters against a glowing white background, and felt a tinge of pride for a job well done. There was not a trace of doubt or panic in my mind, in fact there wasn't much on my mind except increasing annoyance at her nasal voice, at the very sight of her. I could probably say that I didn't really think of what I was doing, especially if I ever got caught. However, I was confident that it would never happen; the possibility didn't even occur to me. So I won't lie: I did think of what I was doing. I was not insane; I was not in a state of mental shock; I was not on any substance. I was perfectly conscious; I had no excuse; I just didn't care. "He hadn't spent countless nights without sleep, planning every little detail months in advance. It all just came to him, all thought out and elaborated in one enlightened moment—the very moment he knew he was sick of her... to death." She giggled. Like all pop culture, this was beginning to resemble those goofy teenage detective stories with their airbrushed and naïve descriptions of things that in real life might have landed the intrepid 14-year-old private eye in a psychiatric institution for the rest of his days. There she was, going on and on about something I didn't give a damn about. Her voice was an incessant drone like a dull ache at the back of my head. As soon as my mind managed to adapt itself to the irritant, blocking it out of my ears, she would raise her voice higher still, the drone turning to yelling turning to screaming. As it grew louder, my irritation, naturally, increased, to annoyance... anger... rage. It was more natural still to want to leave the room. "It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to him, to close, no, to slam, the kitchen door behind him, trying to drown out her incessant screaming that his mind could no longer block." ...And what happens next ? She wondered. Just like she expected from any good story, her own or somebody else's, the characters were beginning to live on their own, independently from their author. Sometimes it was necessary for them to do things the author could never approve of. She shook her head. Or maybe it was necessary for the author, so as not to be blamed for the horrible things the characters did. It was almost like another debate on religion with her as God governing (or not?) her imperfect creations. I slammed the kitchen door behind me, which was not enough as I could still hear her shrill voice as distinctly as if she were screaming in my ear. There I was in the small dirty kitchen, another natural occurrence, with its scattered dishes and prehistoric appliances, all bathed in a musty smell of week-old cooking, mould, and stale water. The kitchen, a woman's domain, was just as disgusting as the woman herself, and in the kitchen I was now trapped, for she was right there on the other side of the door.

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"The kitchen immersed him in its musty smell of mould and stale water, the swamp of femaleness." The symbolism of it just occurred to her. It seemed to be a rather interesting image, yet she thought of scrapping that last phrase since the audience she was writing for could not appreciate the more subtle things anyway. Nothing could be more banal than a short horror story for a magazine. It needed more shock value than literary value, the former being much easier to achieve, requiring no embellishments, only rawness of language and content. This story seemed to have enough of both. The next step was painfully obvious, also completely natural in those circumstances. Natural things are things that are meant to happen, and what is meant to happen just happens. So there she was, right on the other side of the door, separated from me and the thin wooden panel by mere inches. Then there were the kitchen knives, separated from me by not even two feet of distance. It took me two gestures: one, to reach for the butcher knife, and two, to swing the door open. "Natural disasters are a result of natural processes occurring with no outside intervention in the wrong place at the wrong time. In nature, lightning hits a tree and starts a major forest fire, killing thousands of unsuspecting innocent creatures and destroying all in its way. And all it took was a tree that was in a certain place, and lightning, the circumstances. Him slitting her throat with that butcher knife was, in a way, a natural catastrophe." She grinned at her own vileness. Certainly, it was a little too embellished, but what a story. The feminists would hate it. All the shock value she needed for Weekly Horror to like it enough to pay her $100. She grinned with delight. A natural disaster. Brilliant. The knife was so sharp I felt it slice smoothly and easily into her flesh as if it was butter, another timely occurrence. She had bought it years ago, but it was still sharp as new because she never cooked! I almost laughed out loud. This was another way she brought it on herself; had the knife been dull, it wouldn't have severed all the important arteries in a fraction of a second the way it did. She would have struggled; maybe she would have even broken away from my grip. "Now her body was limp and lifeless and, at last, silent on the floor. If it wasn't for the blood spilling all over the kitchen out of the wound on her neck, he would have laughed. But natural disasters, as they come, are never pretty. He ended up cleaning the kitchen. What an unmanly task! He grinned at the irony of it as he watched the blood, diluted with water, swirl in the sink.” Yes, her hero was coming out cold-blooded as her readers liked them. At one point, she even shuddered at the thought. As she approached the end of the story, her fingers began to type feverishly, faster and faster, as her eyes lit up with the same anticipation as the eyes of a reader who couldn't wait to find out the ending of a fascinating book. She licked her lips impatiently. Clickety-clack. My heart wasn't even beating any faster than usual; I didn't sweat, no adrenaline, no panic. Now that I knew what it felt like, I didn't understand those who, reportedly, kill for a thrill. I would have been more thrilled if I had seen it in a movie or even read it in the paper. It all seemed pretty banal, I thought, as I

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carried the bag to the pier. It was kind of like taking out the garbage—just boring and necessary; the sooner you get it over with the sooner you can return to more pleasant activities. I couldn't help but grin at this thought. Get it over with. Plouf! Done . "Now that it was done, he felt nothing but a rush of adrenaline, an indescribable thrill. He could now understand those who killed for sheer excitement, just for the fun of it... He almost wished it had lasted longer as he watched the contours of the bag blur as it disappeared underwater, sinking into the depths of oblivion." She leaned back in her chair, drawing in a deep breath. She then read a few sentences over several times in her head, once even out loud, shivering from the sheer brutality of her own word and ideas. She could praise herself, she thought with a grin. Click. Save.

Ioulia Zaitchik was the winner of last year’s Creative Writing contest.

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Owen by Katherine Milette Inspired by Shakespeare’s Macbeth

When I awoke on that nefarious day, the songs of the birds were the most enchanting sounds I had ever heard. So delightful was their singing that when my mother came in to wake me, I had already run outside to bask in the beautiful morning rays. I heard my mother's voice yelling from my bedroom window as I lay in the tall grass. I paid closer attention to her words and cringed. She was ordering me back inside to do my chores and begin my lessons. I despise such work on beautiful days. I quickly crept through the grass and up the hill to Glendoe Forrest as I often did in these circumstances. Although a sudden pang of guilt seized my heart, the mere thought of the alternative made me delighted with my decision. It was a typical day until noontime; that was when it all really began. I wish I had never climbed the Monadhliath Mountains, for that was where my discovery was made. When I came upon the mountains, the sun had just descended behind the tips, and I was left in the shadows. My father always told me to stay away from the Monadhliath Mountains, but I was feeling rather rebellious and began to climb. I had gone about a mile before I saw the small sliver in the rock face and heard the strange sound originating from within. It caught my attention, and I decided to slip through and find out what it was. The winding passageway expanded as I went deeper into the mountains. When I reached the end of the tunnel, it opened up into an enormous cave. The cacophony became louder, but it was still distant. I continued walking but hours passed, and I still did not reach the end. Suddenly, an eerie glow appeared in the distance, reflecting off the cave walls. I followed the light, and the sound became more distinct. I was able to make out individual noises, mainly laughter and cackling. I didn't want to go any further, but I could not turn back. It was as if a strange force was drawing me forward. The bright light suddenly turned into a scorching heat, and I was now walking into what seemed like an oven. I could see heat waves along the sidewalls. Finally, I reached a dead end. As I looked around I saw the source of the unusual heat; it emanated from a small fissure in a far corner. The sounds were now deafening; I could hear tortured screams, whimpers, and even odd sizzling sound accompanied by the smell of burning flesh. It seared my nostrils and throat as I breathed in the sickening smell. At that point all I wanted to do was run away, but my brain no longer had control over my limbs. Slowly I neared the opening. I wanted to scream, but my lungs were burning so intensely that only whimpers came out. Bright rays of red light shone into my eyes and blinded me as I looked through the crack into an inner cave. I squinted to make out the shapes on the other side and as they became clear, my blood turned cold. Through the opening, I witnessed the brutality of horrendous creatures. Horrible sights filled my vision until I could hold no more. The creatures were torturing men, women, and even children. Certain humans were impaled on stakes, others were hung from chains, and some were crucified on overturned crosses. A similar fate awaited them all - a slow death from pain, blood loss, and famine. As I turned my head away ready to gag, I caught a glimpse of a banquet table to one side of the cave. The demons were gorging on what looked like roasts. I prayed to God

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that they were not human. Within such a dreadful setting, the table on which they ate was out of place, almost unnatural. Beautiful carvings of flowered vines and lions could be made out on the worn and stripped surface, through the filth and bloodstains. Suddenly, a woman's voice spoke so sweetly I became entranced. The creatures grew dreadfully quiet and turned to face the source. Even the tortured souls were stilled. I could not see the speaker so I carefully slipped out to take a closer look. Up above a row of steps there laid a throne that matched the table. However, it was not the debris or bloodstains that corrupted this piece; it was the woman sitting upon it. The queen of the witches, Hecate, adorned her throne, her withered body an affront to her voice. To each side of her sat a ring of witches in regal calm and directly behind her stood three more behaving as a single entity. Hecate's voice suddenly rose up once more to speak, yet my mind could not hear as I watched the three captivating witches. There was something about them; I could not look away. They had hideous, bearded faces, yet with such delicate features they appeared almost female. They slowly swayed together, a barely noticeable motion, like trees in a delicate wind. The three were linked in every way. When I finally tore my mind away, a shiver went down my spine as I listened to Hecate's words. "... the world is in our hands. Strife has taken over the surface, and the time is ripe for change. A new day has come, but the sun has not risen; this is proof that evil is strong within the souls of men. Their new king was created from our mould, and soon we will have it all!" Upon hearing these words a roar erupted from the crowd. I struggled to move back into the crevice, my body stiff with fear and my mind a blur. I had been awake for what seemed an eternity, and sleep was swiftly overtaking me. My eyes were closing against my own will, and I struggled to stay awake. I knew that if I fell asleep I would be found and never live to see my home again. As hard as I tried, I failed, and the last thing I remembered was evil cackles and cheers and the sound of footsteps coming near. *** When I woke up, something felt odd. The heat of the cave no longer overwhelmed me, and I no longer lay on the ground. Instead, there was a chill in the air and damp hay beneath me. As I opened my eyes, I was ready for anything, but all I saw was a windowless room filled with a few pieces of furniture. At that moment, a man walked through the door carrying a lamp and a blanket. His long, wavy red hair concealed his face, and his features could hardly be made out, though I knew that he hid a troubled gaze. An air of sadness lay around him, and a heavy weight seemed to pull him down. Without giving me a single glance, he laid the lamp upon a table. He was about to spread the blanket on top of me when he noticed I was awake. Not a word was spoken. He calmly nodded, put the cover by my side, and walked out, locking the door behind him. I was mystified but nonetheless, glad to be out of the cave and away from the demons. Hours passed since the man had come in, and I still could not bring myself to get up. My stomach felt sick because of the memories of the horrors that I had seen.

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Calmly approaching, I heard footsteps and low voices from outside. The door was unlocked, and the doorknob was turned. As the door opened, I expected to see the man once more, but instead, a small boy, no more than ten years of age, walked in. I stood up, and he looked at me sternly while taking a step closer. When he finally spoke to me, it was but to question me, "So... now that you are awake, you will be able to tell me what you were doing in Hecate's cave." I was stunned by the boy's mannerism; he acted too old for a young boy. As I contemplated this, he continued, "Will you at least tell me your name?" Struggling terribly, I was able to reply, "My name is Gwynne." A small grin formed on his lips and he erupted into a kind laughter. This came as a shock in contrast to the expression he had held just a moment earlier. "Gwynne is it? Well, it's quite dangerous what you did, and you were lucky that Owen ran into you." "Owen? Is that the man who came in earlier?" I asked. A constant smile lay on the boy's lips as he nodded in assent. Though he seemed friendlier, I still could not find the confidence to tell the boy the truth. I was not usually a suspicious person, but I just could not trust the child. At that moment I began to ask questions, which turned out to be a very unwise decision on my part. "Why don't you tell me who you are before I tell you anything? And how do you know about Hecate's home? And I would especially like to know why you and your 'friend' walked around her cave?" My rash outburst seemed to anger the boy for I could see his eyes swiftly changing. The friendly look had disappeared, and anger could be read in his bright blue eyes. His lips, however, continued to hold a smile. As he spoke, his voice slowly changed becoming more feminine and sweet. I recognized the sound, and I struggled to place it. Then it came to me, it was the voice of Hecate. The boy's features warped, and his body grew until it transformed into the same form that had sat on the throne. She suddenly leapt towards me, grabbing me by the throat with her clawed hands. "How did you get here?" she hissed. "What did you hear?" I stuffed all the fear I had to the back of my mind and pushed her away with all my might, strengthened by my will to survive. I bolted for the door, which had been left unlocked. I did not care where I ran as long as it was far away. I dashed through a narrow hallway, turned a sharp corner, and ran headlong into someone. We both collapsed on the floor. I pushed him away from me fully expecting a demonic creature, but instead my eyes fell upon Owen. This did not reassure me for long because I soon remembered the evil trickery that I had witnessed a few moments earlier. I was certain he too would transform into a witch or a demon. I tried to run away, but his hand grabbed onto my ankle and tripped me. I struggled frantically until he pinned me down and whispered into my ear. "Be calm and follow me if you want to live." I did not want to trust him, but before I could make up my mind, he was pulling me with him, and the sounds of growling creatures were right at our heels. As I ran behind Owen, I decided that it didn’t matter what he was, for he was my only hope. He was my chance of escaping a fate like that of the humans in the cave. We soon left the echoes of growls and footsteps behind us, and we continued weaving through the hallways until we reached the main cavern.

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Demons were everywhere, but I was quickly pulled into a hidden opening in a wall. Within this cavity was a tunnel with a pathway leading away from Hecate's lair. We ran for hours without a word. Whenever I would try to speak he would simply hush me and pull me further into the darkness of the winding passageway. My doubts about him were brought to rest when I smelled fresh air. Shortly following this observation, Owen pushed me through a curtain of moss, and I found myself on the outer edge of the Monadhliath Mountains. Nothing looked familiar. Thunder and lightning flashed and ominous clouds filled the sky. The screeches of animals could be heard from all around, and plants were withered on the ground. "What's happening?" I asked in a hushed voice. He glanced at me with a solemn gaze and answered, "It's Hecate and the three witches. They've planned this day for centuries, scheming and corrupting the hearts of men until they found the one who would bring them what they wanted. They have now found that man." My memory flew back to the words of Hecate's speech, "the new king." My mind was swirling, and I could barely think. Those simple words were catastrophic. King Duncan was dead or more likely murdered, and a new king, who will serve Hecate's purpose, had taken the throne. I turned to Owen, desperate to know if this was true. With a single glance and utterance, he both confirmed my fears and eased my heart. "I will take care of it," he said. I wanted to know how, but he pressed his finger against my lips to silence my questioning. As he turned to walk back into the mountains, I took hold of his arm and pleaded for an answer. He smiled slightly, "I am what you would call her son and nothing can harm me. I will take care of this; there is no need to worry." He disappeared into the darkness of the passage, and I was left alone. I dared not move, so I stayed where I was, in hopes that I could trust his words. Exhausted and afraid, I was unable to stay awake and soon found myself asleep. When I awoke, I beheld a beautiful and flawless morning. The sweet sound of birds had returned, and all was as it should be. I will never know how Owen did it or if he survived, but I know I will never forget him. Though I am still unaware of the true depth of Hecate's threat to my world, I know who my saviour was. I still wonder about the man I met in that cave, about his origins and his life. The truth about his identity will forever be a mystery.

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Too Long by Margarita Psihogios

The room always looks so beautiful in the mornings, like a safe haven painted ocean blue. But that only lasts for the first few seconds, only until reality comes into focus, and the blurriness of my eyes adjusts from a night of sleep. Actually, that's a lie because I don't really sleep much anymore. Perhaps it depends on how you look at it. Sometimes, in my moments of self-awareness, I realize that I'm sleepwalking through my life. Life... what's the definition of it, what does life consist of? I doubt I'm qualified to use the words "my" and "life" together in a sentence. I always roll to my right side after hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock next to our bed. I don't even know why I bother; I can already sense the empty spot next to me. Luckily, I don't have any empty spots in me, no missing chunks. At this point, I'm just hollow through and through. I made him his favourite last night: sautéed mushrooms with Kraft Mac and Cheese. It is not the most refined of tastes, but it brings me back to our teenage days. I met him in March of '77. Four months later, he said to me, "I wanna make you my wife," and that was the marriage proposal. I should have said no; I should have been furious at him for treating me like a possession he could own. Technically, he didn't even ask; he just stated. I should have been angry in those times when women had decided not to take shit from men anymore. I should have taken off my bra and hurled it in his face. So, the day went by. Again. Alone. Again. Didn’t do anything. Cooked. Ate. Threw it up. Even though it hurts me, I do it to hurt him. We fight less and less now, partly because we talk so rarely. When we do argue, however, I like to give a grocery list of all the things in my life he has stained. It never fails to perturb him when I explain he’s the reason I don’t hold food down. He’s never around for affection, for tenderness, for a hug. And so, I wrap my arms around a porcelain bowl instead. The phone rang seven times today. It was Lisa. I picked up, only because the cordless phone was next to the television remote, and there was a commercial on “The Price is Right.” Also, not picking up the phone was out of the question, as it would upset the balance we have—Lisa, Stan, and me. Tightrope walkers should feel ashamed of themselves because we outdo them; we walk on invisible ropes, and the only net we have is our web of lies. I know exactly how the game between Lisa and I will go. She calls daily. The first three times, all before one o'clock, she hangs up on me. The next three, she pretends to have gotten the wrong number. “May I please speak to Elaine?” “I'm sorry ma'am, you must have the wrong number. No Elaine here.” She'll apologize profusely, and we'll both be as polite as it is humanely possible to be. The last call today came around seven o'clock, just as “Jeopardy” was

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starting. There was no hello and no politeness, only desperation and neediness. She's falling apart, a woman obsessed. I pick up to a raspy, heavy breathing voice. “Stan? Stan? Is that you?” “No, I'm sorry (you home-wrecker). Stan is at Jezebel's Pub; he's been there all day. Can I take a message?” Click. Tone. If I hadn't told her where he was, she'd just have kept calling all night long. He's unemployed and spends all day away from me, and her now too. I get a certain satisfaction knowing I betrayed him; I gave his hiding spot away. Now she'll go, and he'll be forced to face her. I get a pathetic satisfaction telling her something about him she hadn't been told, as if that proves he and I are closer then they are. I'm so pathetic. The only person more pathetic than me is probably Lisa. Actually, Stan may have us both beat. That thought makes me feel delirious, drunk, high. It’s funny how delicious it is to know others suffer. I wonder which of us is more pitiful. Him, her, or me? But really, what difference does it make? Knowing one is more pathetic than the other doesn't take away from my own miserable state of being or "my life."

*** I slipped into an empty bed again. I slipped under the cold sheets for the last time. I'm not sure how long it takes for Tylenol overdoses to take effect. Actually I do know. Too long. Just before I close my eyes, I look at the ocean blue walls around me. Slowly I drift off to sleep, with the peacefully soothing sound of waves crashing on distant and foreign shores.

Winner in the Creative Writing contest, Margarita Psihogios is a graduate of the Communications program. She will be studying Journalism at Concordia University in the fall. She likes reading, writing, and photography.

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TThhhheeee FFlllluuuutttteeee by Maryam Taghiakbari

It was a hot summer evening. Carlos was sitting near the hotel door waiting for a hotel guest, a tourist, or someone who was going to see his date and wanted to have his shoes polished. This street was one of the most crowded ones in the city, with lots of stores, restaurants, coffee shops, and of course, a big hotel where his mother was working as a maid. She washed dishes, changed the bed sheets, cleaned the washrooms, and so many other things that no one else was willing to do in that hotel. It was not even a year since he and his mother moved illegally to the United States from Mexico, with no documents and very little money. After his father died in a car accident, they decided to leave Mexico. Maybe his mom could find a job in the States. A drunken tourist driver killed his father on a rainy night near their village when he was coming home from work. Now, here in the States, his mom was happy that she found the job in the hotel although she had to work for a salary under minimum wage. "It's better than having no job. At least we can have something to eat. We shouldn't forget that we don't have any documents," his mom always said. Carlos looked at the people sitting in the restaurant across the street. There was a family sitting next to the window of the restaurant. The family was comprised of a man with a white clean t-shirt and a pair of sun glasses on top of his head, a young woman, the same age as Carlos’ mom, with blond hair and long earrings, a little girl with a blond pony tail, and a boy wearing a t-shirt with a picture of a soldier shooting with his gun on it. The boy was ten, maybe eleven years old, the same age as Carlos, and it was apparently his birthday. There was a small chocolate cake on the table in front of him with some candles on the cake. The man, the woman, and the little girl sang a song. The boy blew the candles out, and everyone clapped for him. Then his parents gave him a big box, and he opened it with excitement. It was a big racing car with a remote control. Carlos saw the big racing car in a big toy store window on that street, and he always wished he could have it. "A quick polish and no mess. You get it, boy?” The voice of a man pushed Carlos out of his dreams. "Yes sir," he said and got busy. He kept thinking about that happy family while he was working. He never had a birthday party in his life, and the only birthday present that he has ever received was a flute that his father made and gave to him on his eighth birthday. He even taught Carlos how to play the flute. It was the most beautiful flute in the entire world, and it had the softest and the most magical sound that one could imagine. Carlos loved the flute so much, and he had it with him all the time. He finished polishing the shoes. "It's done sir." The man looked down at the shoes and threw a few coins for him in his box and left. Carlos looked for his flute in his box and started playing it. People who were walking on the sidewalk looked at him and passed. The happy family came out of the restaurant and passed the street to get into their big car. The boy had his birthday present in his hands, but suddenly he saw Carlos and stopped to watch him. "Dad, I want one of this flute," the boy called his dad who was helping the

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woman and the girl to get into the car. They came closer and the man asked, " How much for the flute, boy?” "I don't sell it sir." "But dad, I want it. Buy it for me." "Listen boy, today's my son's birthday, and I want him to be happy. So I’ll give you a good price for that toy. Now, how much?" “I told you sir; I can't sell it. It's mine." The boy started crying, and the man said something in anger, but Carlos did not hear it. The man took the boy's hand, promising to buy him a flute even better than that ugly one, and left. Carlos put the flute back in the box carefully and closed the box. Although it was almost dusk, and the sun was leaving the city, the weather was still hot and humid. Carlos looked at the store on the other side of the street with cakes, ice creams, chocolates, and cold drinks in its fridge. How badly he wanted to go to that store and buy an ice cream and a piece of cake with a cold juice. He opened the box and counted all the money he had earned today. It was not even enough to buy a few drops of juice. Carlos sighed and put his brush and shoe polish in the box. It was time to go home. His mom would finish her job soon, and they will go home. They had a long way to go back home. They had to walk most of it because there was no bus going to that side of the city, and they did not have enough money to take a cab. It was another hot afternoon. Carlos was thirsty and tired of moving from place to place to find a cool, shadowed corner to sit in. He decided to go inside the hotel to wash his face and drink some water. Even a few minutes in the cool lobby of the hotel was a big blessing for Carlos. The old black doorman was standing inside and was wiping off the sweat from his forehead. "Hot day, isn't it Carlos?" he said. "Horrible, sir." "Going to the washroom? Just be quick, son." He was a nice man, and when the manager was not around he let Carlos use the washroom or go inside to drink some water. That was certainly because he knew Carlos and his mom. Carlos took a quick look at the reception desk, only a few people were in the lobby, drinking or talking to each other. Perhaps most of the guests were taking a nap in their cool, air-conditioned rooms. Carlos ran to the corridor where the washrooms were. Just before going inside the men's room, he saw something on the floor in a darker spot right next to the ladies' room. He looked more carefully. Maybe it was a piece of toilet paper or a handkerchief. He went closer. He could not believe what he was seeing. It was some bills, rolled up and secured with an elastic band. Carlos looked around and picked up the money. He looked at it again and then put it in his pocket. Perhaps it had fallen out of one of the guests’ purses while rushing to the washroom to fix her make-up or brush her hair. He walked to the hotel door as fast as he could. He even forgot why he was there. His heart was beating as if it was going to jump out of his chest. He looked back to see if any one saw him, but nobody was looking at him. "You relieved yourself, Carlos?" The old doorman looked at him and laughed.

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Carlos did not answer and ran to the street. His small box was on the ground beside the hotel door. He picked it up and ran. To where? He did not know. After a few minutes he stopped to catch his breath. He sat on the ground and pulled the money out of his pocket. He looked around. During that hot hour of the day, nobody was on the street, and the ones who were around were not paying any attention to him. He counted the money. It was not a lot, just enough to buy something, but what? First he thought about the racing car in the big toy store, but the money was probably not enough. Then he thought that he could buy something for his mom, maybe one of those hand lotions that women use to keep their hands smooth and soft. His mom's hands were rough and dry because of all the detergent, bleach, and cleanser she used in the hotel. A hand lotion would make her hands softer, but no, his mom will ask about where he got the money and will make him return the lotion and find the owner of the money or give it to the hotel manager. No, he is not going to lose the money. So, he finally made up his mind. He thought of all the things that he always wanted to eat and did not have money for: ice creams, cakes, and candies. He started walking to the ice cream shop with a pleasant joy in his heart. After a few minutes he was there. He opened the door and stepped inside the store. A young couple was sitting at a corner and was drinking juice in long glasses. On the other side of the store an old man was reading a newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. Carlos moved closer slowly. "What do you want boy? I don't have any change," the owner said in a cold, mean voice. "No, I want to buy something," Carlos said in excitement. "But do you have money?" "Yes," he replied and showed the money. "Ok, what do you want now?” Carlos thought and finally said, "A big vanilla and strawberry ice cream, one piece of cheese cake, and… and one of those chocolate bars in gold wrap." "You must be very hungry, boy." In fact, he was really hungry. Carlos sat on a table beside the window and started eating his ice cream. He had a great feeling in his heart. He finished his cake and chocolate slowly. Then, he looked at the change that the store owner gave him. He had just enough money to buy something for his mom. He bought one of those small caramel muffins that he knew his mom loved. He could say to his mom that he bought it from the money that he had earned today. It was Sunday, and mom will finish her job earlier. Carlos waited for her outside the hotel and looked for his flute in his box. He started playing a happy song and thinking about the delicious things that he ate and about his mom eating the muffin on their way back home. "Carlos, let’s go home." It was his mom who was calling him. "Mom, I got you something." He took the muffin out of his pocket and looked up at mom. "Mom, what's wrong?" His mom's eyes were red and swollen, as if she had cried a lot. "Nothing. Let's go," his mom said in a broken voice. "But mom, please tell me. What happened?" Carlos asked in terror.

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"I lost my money from this week's pay. I was cleaning the lobby, and I don't know when I lost it. That was all I had. I wanted to give it to the landlord tomorrow for part of the last month's rent. What am I supposed to do now?" She started crying. Carlos felt sick and dizzy. He felt a big lump in his throat and a bad taste in his mouth. The muffin fell on the ground, and he looked at it desperately. He hated himself. He just wanted to sit and cry for a long time. What could he do now? He looked around and wished he could find the birthday boy and his father. Maybe they would buy his flute for a few dollars.

Winner in the Creative Writing contest, Maryam Taghiakbari will begin her studies in the Respiratory Anaesthesia Technology program this autumn. She enjoys reading, writing, doing sports, and volunteering.

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RRRRaaaaiiiiiinnnn TTTTaaaallllllkkkk by Melanie Yeh

It just wasn't possible. She stared into the black abyss of her coffee, watching the cream swirl, spinning itself into a spiral shape within her mug. She pushed back her thick strands of chestnut-coloured hair and brought the cup to her lips, savouring the taste and smearing the rim with her red lipstick. What could have happened to her? She concentrated on the warmth of the mug, clasped in both of her hands, fingers intertwined. The coffee helped her to relax. It always had. She needed to put a halt to the chaotic events of the past few days and just stop for awhile in order to think. The glint of the sun reflected off her simple wedding band. She wondered when her husband would wake up and discover that she was no longer at home in bed. She had escaped to the restaurant across the street in the early hours of the morning. The place held only a scant amount of people, mostly staff members who were preparing for the breakfast rush. "Claire?" The woman nodded without glancing up, indicating the empty seat across from her. The guest sat opposite to her and picked up the menu. She flipped through it without much interest and settled upon ordering a small latte. After being served by a pudgy waitress, she tried to talk with her best friend. "Claire, I know you called me here this early for a reason. Did Aaron...?" "No! No, it's nothing like that!" Claire snapped defensively. She immediately saw the hurt in Felicity's hazel eyes and regretted asking her to come. She wasn't at her best right now, and she considered whether it would have been more convenient to face her problem alone. "I'm sorry," apologized Felicity softly. "It's just that you're being so secretive. I mean there must be some sort of explanation as to why you wanted to see me while Aaron is still asleep. It's the crack of dawn." "You're not the one who should be asking for forgiveness. You've always been there for me." "So, what is it that you wanted to talk about?" "Do you remember that little girl I found? Serena?" "Yes, I remember Serena," said Felicity. Her eyes suddenly widened. "Did something happen to her?" Claire could feel tears threatening to break what little composure she had gained, "She's gone." Claire reminisced to that first day, not even two weeks ago, when she had come across the sweetest little girl standing out in the pouring rain. She would never forget her first glance at that little girl. She was a child dressed in rags and smeared with dirt. Her fingers were splayed wide open as she reached up to the sky, catching raindrops with her tongue. She was soaked beyond imagination and her sandy blond hair was caught in tangles and matted clumps, dripping excessive amounts of water. Her eyes were closed peacefully as she laughed with glee. Claire had sensed something magical at that very moment. She had always had a sort of sixth sense. She was able to see things that no one else could see.

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When Claire had been younger, she would carry on conversations with keys. Her parents had thought that this was only a phase and had dismissed it as childish imaginations. They only began to worry when her third grade teacher had sent home a letter complaining about how Claire would talk to inanimate objects or invisible people. Her parents immediately brought her to a psychiatrist. From that day on, her ability to see magical things was oppressed. She couldn't explain to her parents or to the psychiatrist that she was talking to elves, spirits of the tree, nymphs, and key- carriers. Keys happened to be infused with spirits that love to create mischief. The only person who knew of Claire's past was Felicity. As she had gazed at that little girl in admiration, she had felt the old memories of magic resurfacing. It was not unusual to see kids in the street. To many of them, the street had been their home for as long as they could remember. "I didn't waste any time," Claire smiled. "After finding out that she was an orphan, I took her in and got her cleaned up. She was really a beauty to behold, an angel in rags." "Like the little match girl," Felicity sympathized. "When did you find out that she was missing?" "Yesterday afternoon." "Don't you think that it's possible she may have taken to the streets again? You had told me yourself that she didn't always stay with you. She would come and go as she pleases." Claire thought back to how close they had gotten within the first couple of days. It became more than just a maternal bond; it was magical. Claire sensed that Serena was gone. "I really don't believe that to be the case. What I had suspected was that Aaron had somehow..." "He never liked her, did he?" interrupted Felicity. "No," admitted Claire. "In fact, he hated her because of her... eccentricities." "She talks to the rain." "Exactly. I understand her. Aaron, he doesn't. He happens to be a very realistic person. Serena told me that she loves talking to the rain; it brings her news and tells her amusing stories." Felicity appeared doubtful. "Do you actually believe her? She's a kid with an active imagination, not to mention that she has been on the streets for who knows how long. Maybe being abandoned by her parents, and life on the other side was too much for her, and she developed..." "I refuse to believe that. She reminds me of my younger self." "That's why I'm worried." Claire felt irritated with her friend. "This isn't about her rain talk though! It's about where she could be now!" Felicity quickly lit up a cigarette. Taking a long drag, she inhaled before taking a sip of her latte. Claire had been trying to get her to quit for years, but Felicity would counter her by saying that she would quit only if Claire divorced her 'good-for- nothing-abusive-husband.'

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Claire knew that she would never be able to get a divorce. Her parents wouldn't allow such a blasphemous act. Plus, they loved Aaron and thought that he was good for her. Felicity disturbed her current train of thought. "You think that Aaron drove her away, right?" She nodded meekly before responding, "Or it might have been either my mom or dad, since they don't like what Aaron doesn't like." Claire couldn't hold back the tears now; they came rushing down in long streams from the corner of her eyes. "It was all my fault," she hiccupped. "I should have never left her alone, I should've... I should've..." Her friend came around the side of the table and threw an arm over her shoulder as Claire sobbed into her hands. "There was nothing that you could have done. You could have never known that this was going to happen. It wasn't your fault, just a stroke of bad luck." A stroke of bad luck. The words kept running through Claire's head. She dabbed at her eyes; her tears reduced to soft, broken sobs. She was flushed and probably looked as bad as she felt. Claire was mortified at having lost control over her emotions. She didn't cry often, and when she did, it was in the privacy of an empty room. "Bad luck," thought Claire bitterly. "I've been having bad luck since the day I was conceived." Thankfully, she had gotten home early enough to avoid getting in trouble with Aaron. He was still sound asleep. She tiptoed past the array of discarded garments and old dishes. Does he ever do any housework? Claire reached for a pad of paper and a pen. She couldn't rely on anyone else to help her out. She couldn't call the police because Serena had not been missing for long enough, and she was also a street kid. Claire also couldn't do it because of her fear of Aaron and the wrath of her parents. She would have to conduct her own private investigation. Unfortunately, it was hard concentrating with the little voice in the back of her head telling her that it was Aaron who scared off her child. Settling upon the sofa, she scribbled three names on the paper. The first one was her husband's, and the other two were those of her parents. They were the only people present with Serena in this apartment before her disappearance. Her cursive was far from the elegant lines that she was accustomed to using.

Instead, her letters were erratic and angry. "It was about three in the afternoon," reasoned Claire. "I had gone out to pick up the laundry from the cleaners, leaving Serena alone in the room. It was raining, and due to the lousy weather, Aaron had come home early from working at the construction site. My parents coincidentally met him when he was walking home, so they offered him a ride." Claire paused. "That means it must have been about three- thirty when they got back to the apartment, and I got home at three-forty. This is odd. The timing doesn't make much sense. I probably would have seen Serena within those ten minutes." Aaron had always hated Serena for the main reason that she was the direct

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opposite of everything that he was. She was bright and cheerful. Her taste for magic was contagious, and her smiles could light up the world. Aaron could have easily kicked her out of the house, but where could she have gone in such a short expanse of time? Perhaps Aaron was not guilty of the crime. When Claire had gotten back home, her parents were driving away. Her mother and father could have taken Serena captive and thrown her back on the streets, far away from this place. Her parents would have done anything they could to please Aaron. The thought that she would never see Serena again frightened Claire. She felt memories of the past week flooding back to her. Serena was such a quiet girl. She would always be watching Claire as if she was trying to make some sort of decision about her. "Claire?" She looked up from her paperwork to see Serena studying her. "Yes?" "They miss you, you know." "Who misses me?" "The trees and the nymphs. Why don't you talk to them anymore?" It's unusual. That's why I can't be seen talking to things that other people can't see. It's wrong for me. People will think that I'm crazy. They 'Il ship me off to the loony bin. It's wrong for me. “Well, because it's wrong for a grown woman to talk to invisible creatures.” "They're not invisible if you can see them." "No one else can." "That doesn't mean they're not there." Claire gave a small sigh. She could see that this was going to take awhile. Serena sensed her hesitation and continued with her line of questioning. "Does this mean that there is something wrong with me?" "Sweetie, of course not. It's okay for kids but not for people like me." Serena appeared dissatisfied with her answer. "What's the difference?" she demanded. "People will think badly of me." "Does it matter?"

"Does what matter?" "Does it matter that other people can't see the way you can?" "Yes." "Why?" Serena's questions were relentless. This one caught Claire off guard, and she didn't have an answer. The little girl had won this brief exchange; Serena smiled. "Claire, can I tell you a secret?" "What is it?" "I talked to the rain again." "More rain talk? What did it say this time?" "You believe me, don't you? You believe me when I tell you about the rain?" Claire stopped and thought about her own conversations with house keys. She wanted to believe, but sometimes there would be doubts. This time, she answered without a second thought, "Yes." "Then, the rain told me that it liked me. It wants to keep me, but I didn't want

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to go without you." "The rain wants to keep you?" "Yes, it's super friendly, and it wants to share the wonder of travelling the world. Will you come with me the next time it rains?" Claire reached for a tissue and blotted the corners of her eyes. She suddenly felt this strange tingle running down her spine. Serena had left with the rain. The soft splash of tiny rain droplets upon the glass caught her attention, and she looked out the window, beyond the balcony. It had been raining the day Serena had gone. Claire felt light-headed as she made her way to the parlour. In the distance, above the rain and clouds, she could've sworn she heard the sound of a little girl's laugh. She's calling . Claire stepped into the rain as it cleansed her of her earthly bonds. Closing her eyes, she lifted her arms, hands held wide open, welcoming the rain. Talk to me. She vanished. Minutes later, Aaron got up with a groan. He looked over at Claire's side of the bed. "Where the hell did she go?" he grumbled before getting up and stumbling to the bathroom. "Where's that goddamn razor?" Aaron glanced outside while lathering his face and complained, "Rain again, I hate rain. When's the decent weather coming in?" His foul mood deepened as he heard the mocking laughter of the rain. However, if anyone else with a kind heart and open-mind were to listen, they would know that the rain wasn't laughing with a bitter, mocking tone. It was the laugh of pure joy.

Melanie Yeh is a graduate of the Liberal Arts program at Vanier College. She is currently doing a dual honour in English Literature and Creative Writing. She enjoys reading, writing, and drawing.

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Leitmotifs and Borrowed Pieces: Two Similarities in the Use of Music in Apocalypse Now Redux and R un Lola Run by Michael Dyck

Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now Redux (2001) is a movie about the Americans’ presence during the Vietnam War and the psychological journey travelled by the protagonist, Captain Willard. Run Lola Run (1998), by director Tom Tykwer, intertwines the themes of love, time, money, and will through the story of a young woman, Lola, who must make dire choices to save her lover. Though obviously different in a variety of ways, both films display similarities in respect to the use of music. Both movies borrow music from other sources to strengthen a point being made on screen, often an ironic one, as well as to incorporate leitmotifs to emphasize the importance of a central psychological force. Out of approximately forty instances of music cues in Apocalypse Now Redux , only a handful was not originally composed for the film. These borrowed songs, mostly popular rock n' roll tunes, are of poignant relevance to the sequences they accompany and often bring out a point that otherwise would perhaps have been missed by the viewer. Apocalypse opens with an extended shot of a dense forest, while the Doors' song "The End" commences. The trees suddenly burst into balls of flame as the vocalist sings "this is the end," emphasizing the impression of an apocalyptic destruction. Captain Willard's face is then juxtaposed over the inferno, indicating that the image is his thoughts. Another match is made when the lyrics "I'll never look into your eyes" are sung, and a shot of Willard's eyes appears. On an interpretative level, the song is relevant to Willard's thoughts, as he seems to be in the midst of a psychological breakdown; thus, he’s at "the end" in a personal way. Finally, "waiting for the summer rain" is sung while the camera tilts towards the ceiling fan that Willard is watching and then cuts to a bright window. One clearly understands that the need for precipitation is as much for the ground outside as for Willard to cleanse himself of his troubled thoughts. In this way, the music supports the parallel states of destruction, the one in his mind and the one of his mind, and strengthens their correlation. A second instance of borrowed music occurs during the helicopter raid sequence. As Colonel Kilgore (a caricature of the macho, arrogant army commander) flies his squadron over the beautiful Vietnamese landscape to attack a small village, he plays a piece titled "The Ride of the Valkyries" from his helicopter, thus, announcing his arrival/attack to the peasants below. The piece is from Wagner's opera, The Valkyries , who were mythical warriors who "rode through the air" and "distributed death lots" among those below (“Valkyries,” 59). In this sense, the choice of music is brilliant because it portrays the squadron as a myth-like force of death bringing devastation from above to a helpless, unsuspecting population. It also leaves an ironic aftertaste, as it correctly implies that Kilgore perceives himself almost as a god, or at least as a mythical leader of epic proportions. A third example of the careful choice of non-original music in Apocalypse occurs during the scene where Willard and some crewmen are heading up a river

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on a boat, and one of the members, Lance, decides to water-ski. A second member, named "Mr. Clean," turns on his radio, and the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction" starts blaring. In a way, this song has a literal meaning, as the crew is dissatisfied with the endless, lonely days spent on the boat en route for an unknown mission. The stronger message being sent, however, is that even during a humbling, traumatic, and gruesome event like war, these Americans are in search of personal, selfish pleasures. In addition, as their solipsistic appetite for satisfaction is seldom satiated, they force a nearby peasant boat to capsize as they roar past, rather than stop the water-skiing. Once again, the song captures and amplifies the irony of the situation. Run Lola Run also uses non-original music, but only in two cases is this made obvious. Similar to Apocalypse, in both cases the songs match the images and also enhance them by adding elements not already present on the screen. The first case occurs when the protagonists, Lola and Manni, each suffer a moment of critical injury, and death seems imminent, and the generally fast- paced movie comes to a standstill. These moments permeate the soft sounds of a string orchestra playing serene chords at a slow harmonic rhythm, confirming the sense of timelessness not often found in the film and heightening the gravity of the respective situations. Interestingly, the orchestral chords are part of Charles Ives's work, “The Unanswered Question.” This piece was written for a trumpet, four flutes, and a hidden string orchestra. The trumpet repeatedly plays a certain phrase, "asking" about the meaning of life. The flutes then respond in a disorderly, chaotic fashion, portraying squabbling philosophers trying to answer it. The question is never answered by flutes playing in unison, but throughout the work, the strings are softly playing their ethereal chords, suggesting that the meaning of life and nirvana are hidden but nonetheless existent. Applied to the film, this choice of music enhances the transition from the death scenes to the red-tinted scenes of Lola and Manni asking each other existential questions and reinforces the notion of death as a provocateur of such discussions. The second main instance of careful selection of pre-existing music occurs during the scene where Lola and Manni, having just robbed a grocery store, are running away from the police. "What a Difference a Day Makes" (by Maria Grever and Stanley Adams) begins playing, contrasting with the previous music in style — it is a jazz standard and not techno, and there are also prominent lyrics. The idea being corroborated by the song is that their situation has changed drastically from one day to the next, with Lola and Manni having transformed from a peaceful couple to a weapon-bearing criminal duo. Furthermore, there is an ironic clash between the aural and visual, as the lyrics announce a pleasant, fortunate change with phrases such as "my lonely nights are through" and "skies above can't be stormy," but the situation is definitely unfavourable as the screen shows Lola and Manni being surrounded helplessly by hoards of menacing police officers. The second similar use of music in the two films is the employment of a

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leitmotif: "a short musical theme (motif) used to stand for a person, object, place, or idea and that reappears from time to time throughout a musical composition" (“Leitmotif,” 180). In both movies, the respective leitmotifs stand for the main driving force of the film, arguably called the antagonist. In the case of Apocalypse , this is Colonel Kurtz; as for Lola, it is Time. Tykwer's film opens with a clock pendulum, and one quickly understands that the main plot of the movie involves a race against Time. Lola must acquire a large amount of money and bring it to her boyfriend within twenty minutes in order to save his life. Time's leitmotif is a techno beat, pulsing at approximately 120 beats per minute, which is twice the speed of a clock hand. Many of the movie's shots depict Lola running, and during these shots, the leitmotif invariably accompanies her, reminding the viewer of the race in which she is engaged. The leitmotif is sometimes altered, for example, with the addition of lyrics or different kinds of harmonies in different songs, but the essential beat always remains. Because Time's theme is heard frequently throughout the film, its absence is almost more striking than its presence. The moments when there is no techno beat are ones of intimate dialogue or of strong emotion: moments of timelessness. Examples of these are the scenes of Lola's father conversing with his lover in his office, Lola holding her father at gunpoint in a bank teller's cabin, and Lola accompanying him in an ambulance after he has been in a car crash. On other occasions, the volume of the soundtrack decreases, but a continuous beat can still be heard. This technique indicates that Time is neither in the foreground, as it is in the running scenes, nor is it standing still. Rather, it occupies the background, incessantly pulsing, retaining the sense of urgency in a subtle fashion. Examples of this are the casino sequence, the scene with the homeless man on his bicycle, and certain dialogues between Lola and other characters. By using a leitmotif, the movie emphasizes Time as an unrelenting force, and a sense of musical continuity is established. Director Francis Ford Coppola and his uncle Carmine Coppola both composed the original music for Apocalypse Now Redux , so it was in a very conscious manner that a leitmotif was written for Colonel Kurtz. The entire film leads up to a meeting with Kurtz, as from the beginning, Captain Willard is sent on a mission to assassinate him. Along the way, Willard is slowly consumed by reading the man's dossier, and it becomes evident that Willard sees much of himself in the man he has been sent to kill. In this sense, Kurtz is the dominating psychological force of the movie, and, analogous to Time in Lola, has a leitmotif to stand for him. His theme is often played by flutes, and its beginning can be described as a pattern of notes following the musical intervals of a descending major second, followed by a descending tritone, followed by a rising major seventh. It is an eerie melody, and its light and simple orchestration contrasts with the dark complexities of the person it represents. The first appearance of the theme occurs after Willard has been assigned his mission, and the voice-over begins introducing the viewer to Kurtz while Willard first reads his file aboard the gunboat. It is played by a solo flute. The next sequence, and this match cleverly connects the paranoia engulfing the boat crew

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hearing is after the voice-over says, "never get off the boat" following the tiger with the aura of Kurtz, foreshadowing the descent into utter chaos that is to come. The next two entries of the leitmotif are back-to-back, first during the shot of a photograph of Kurtz from behind and then as the voice-over tells more of his story. The first is played by a single flute, and the second by two flutes in unison. The theme is next heard when we see Kurtz's painted face, and it is played by a tuba. It is augmented, however, meaning that each note has a longer time value. This timbre and rhythm variation intensifies the images, as the colonel has lost rationality and is holding a severed head. The final important entry is a slight melodic variation of the original and is played by a synthesizer when a bloodied Willard faces the crowd before him, having just killed their leader, Kurtz. This use of the theme sustains the idea that Willard must make a choice to become the new ruler or not since a similar leitmotif to Kurtz's is already awaiting him. To incorporate leitmotifs for myth-like antagonists in cinema is not something new, as previous occurrences include "The Imperial March" for Darth Vader in Star Wars and a light, descending pattern for Kaiser Soze in The Usual Suspects . In Apocalypse , however, the use of the technique is very subtle, but present enough to corroborate (though perhaps unconsciously to some viewers) the unforgiving force of Colonel Kurtz. Intelligent films often employ the intelligent use of music, and Apocalypse and Lola are no exceptions. In both cases the writer/director was involved in composing parts of the soundtrack, assuring a careful selection of original and non-original works. The two films are akin in the way that the borrowed music reinforces the ideas being presented, and in the use of leitmotifs to help establish the power of the central driving force. Curiously, this force is an oppressing, harmful one in both films, perhaps catering to mankind's age-old fascination with "dark" or unstoppable forces of destruction.

Works Cited

"Valkyries." Moving Images: Films on Paper . Ed. Maurie Alioff. Montreal: Vanier College Press, 2005. 59.

"Leitmotif." Harper's Dictionary of Music . Ed. Christine Ammer. New York: Harper & Row, 1972. 180.

Winner of the Academic Writing contest, Michael Dyck is a graduate of Science and Music Double DEC. He was the valedictorian of this year’s graduating class.

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A Quiet Apocalypse by Nathan Murray

A man sits in a café on a side street in Morocco. His white fedora complements his mocha-toned skin perfectly. His neatly trimmed moustache curls on the side of his lips, and his pointed nose seems to be perfectly placed on his head. His white dinner jacket seems to repel the dust blowing around him. His eyes are wide open, not even squinting from the wind and sand. He looks at his fingernails; they are impeccable. This draws a mischievous smile to his face. Suddenly his expression sobers as he sights a figure turning the corner; a young woman with cream-coloured skin and a bounce in her step walks down the street. Her head is several inches above the passers-by; she receives many disapproving stares for her revealing garb, a black dress that only manages to make it halfway down her thigh. She has few worries, however, as nobody can hold her gaze when she returns their stares. The man looks over his shoulders at his surroundings and sighs. Her face appears again through a cloud of dust; her smile is immediately apparent. Her smile is wide, almost grotesquely so. It seems to be a bubbling smile of the purest joy, but passers-by make every effort to get out of her way. Finally, her piercing black eyes rest on the fedora.

Liv: Stan . . . Stan: Liv. Liv: (Her smile growing further.) What a nice surprise. Stan: (His teeth flashing.) Indeed. Please, have a seat. Liv: Alright. (She smoothes her skirt behind her, and sits down.) Stan: (Reclining in his chair, relaxed.) Lovely day, no? Liv: No. Stan: (He smiles briefly .) The day is never lovely for you, is it? Liv: That's the tragedy. Stan: We never can convince each other otherwise, can we? Liv: (Leaning forward, placing her elbows on the table.) No, it's a paradox even trying, but I suppose small talk is in order. Stan: ( Looking away.) I suppose. Liv: How's life? Stan: (Distantly.) Why don't you ask him? Liv: (Her shoulders droop slightly and then rise again.) Oh, come now. If we're to meet like this we might as well engage in these types of niceties. Stan: Life . . . well, it goes on. Liv: (Regretfully, looking down.) That's always the hope, isn't it? Stan: (He turns his eyes back towards her, and a slight look of fear flashes across them .) I suppose. (Pause.) Liv: You know, considering everything, you'd think you'd be one for filling the moment. Stan: (Contentedly.) An empty moment here is just as full, just as alive as one filled with words. (Gesturing broadly, leaning back further.) The people across the street have fascinating stories, ones that they might not even know about yet. The air has promise.

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Liv: And dust. Stan: (He lets the chair fall forward, annoyed.) Why do you care about that? All of this has the same beauty, whether we can see it or not. Liv: If you're trying to put off the inevitable by boring me, it's not going to work. Stan: I don't see why you're so insistent on the end of all of this. Liv: (She opens her eyes plaintively and straightens her back.) I would just like some peace and quiet, is all. Don’t think I’m not appreciative of your work, but it’s just not a worthwhile effort. All of this has required me to stand by and let things happen. It’s caused me great pain to think about stopping things, but it’s created worse pain in my heart and head to let it continue. Stan: I think it’s working well enough. Liv: None of this place bothers you? Have you really seen it all? Stan: (Bristling.) I am this place. Liv: (Impatiently.) Yes, yes. But do you really like it all? Stan: No. But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it? The contradictions are what makes it be. Makes it live. If I kept control of the situation, then it wouldn’t be truly living. Without imperfection, you have— Liv: (Pointing a finger.) Don’t say it. Stan: (Whispering through a toothy grin.) Obli— (She reaches over and pinches his lip shut.) Liv: Next time, I’ll have to make you come to me. I’m much nicer at home. Stan: We all are. But I’d rather not have you go home. Please, I know this is an obvious question, but what is it that made your change your mind? Liv: Existence as a whole grates on me. But there are little things, like infinity. Saying it in any language, even the thought makes me want to end everything right now. But the way you beautify it simply hurts. Aren’t we at least good friends? You couldn’t be satisfied with a microcosm, a small little world to… fill things. You had to make existence infinite. Stan: Listen, Liv. None of it was meant to insult you. Existence must be all- encompassing or else it’s a misnomer. Liv: (Raising her voice, her body tenses, and her feet press against the ground .) You might have a point, but not even that gets me the most. It's the bad name you give me so often. Space. They call it a void. The absence of anything does not mean it doesn't exist! But I can see how they would think that. More than anything, this little concept you threw in, that darkness is equivalent to nothingness, infuriates me. Darkness pains me just as much as light because you can still see it! It's an insult to the purity of nothingness. And everywhere you put thought, you put that thought. Stan: I did, because they can't handle it. You must admit, though, that some of them figured it out. Liv: (She stands up, toppling the chair behind her.) No, they haven't! They imagine the concept, but they can't even picture nothingness because you told them that it's black! Stan: You can't let it end like this. Liv: (Meeting his gaze.) I have to. It's a failure.

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Stan: What about everyone? Liv: (Pausing briefly, confused.) The people? Stan: (Frustrated, yelling.) No, not the people! Just because they have thoughts, doesn't mean that the thoughts belong to them! Liv: The thoughts themselves? Stan: (Coldly.) I want you to tell Love that you're ending it. Just try. He'll break your heart. Tell Life that he can't coexist with you. Tell Pain and Annoyance that they're the very reason for their own demise. You can't do anything anymore without them; you wouldn't be doing anything now without me and mine. Liv: (Stunned, she takes a step back .) Hold on. Are you saying what I think you're saying? Stan: I'm saying a lot of things but only one that you don't want to hear. Liv: I never realized. You turned me against myself! Stan: (Dropping his eyes .) It was inevitable. Liv: (Resting her hand on a chair .) Are you telling me that I exist now? Stan: It's a paradox. You've forgotten that Oblivion has no room even for itself. If you cut me short, your perception of the void dies. You can only be conscious as a facet of Existence. Liv: So how did you come about in the first place? Stan: Oblivion, you can't maintain yourself. As perfect as Oblivion is— Liv: (Weakly.) Isn't, Stan. Isn't. Stan: (Grinning wanly .) Right. As perfect as Oblivion isn't, Perfection is still a concept of existence. Even Oblivion must exist. If you cut it short, then I have to start over. And you will remember that one non-existent moment. But you will remember nothing else, where I will remember everything. Liv: (Disbelieving .) Why? Stan: It's a question, Liv. And Why is the question of existence. If I answered that, then that would undo you. So if you're going to do it, do it now. But please, Liv. I've never gotten past this point. I know what happens next, but I might change my mind. It would be nice for a change. Liv: (Panicked, she shifts her weight nervously .) You're lying. The void will be eternal. I'll never let you back. Stan: (Solemnly. ) You know it as well as I do. You've just never let yourself admit it. Liv: (Screaming hysterically.) No! You're keeping me from my plane of perfection, from eternity! Stan: (Cruelly.) I'm sure Perfection would be happy to hear about it. And what about Eternity? She is infinite, no? Liv: (Hysterical.) We'll see for ourselves! (Existence sighs. Oblivion snaps her fingers, but we never hear a sound.)

Winner in the Creative Writing contest, Nathan Murray is a graduate of Health Science Plus at Vanier College. He will be doing a dual honour in English and Creative Writing at Concordia University this autumn.

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Flowers by Philip Lagogiannis

At the start, My primary preoccupation was the care and nurturing Of budding flowers. I believed that there was perhaps A fruit to be enjoyed At the end of the arduous process Of cultivation; Be it due to my lack of finesse Or to the temperament of the immature buds, I could never reap this fruit. Soon, I turned to fully grown flowers, Expecting an entirely different world. I was met with much of the same; The flowers were again temperamental, Requiring the proper balance Of water and nutrients at all times, Lest they wither away and die. It became utterly clear to me that Most flowers were cut at the stem Prematurely.

Winner in the Poetry contest, Philip Lagogiannis is a heart surgeon, a math professor, a poet, a renowned pianist, and a level 52 Paladin in Diablo II at heart. At Vanier, you can find him sporting the Italian colours and unleashing some serious forearm sweat at either one of the two foosball tables.

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Bittersweet by Philip Lagogiannis

The air is warm tonight, And the sea is limitless as the moon strikes it Through clouds, mist, and fog, Unhindered by what (logically) should hinder. It strikes me as odd That tonight should feel Different from any other night. It is still the same ocean, The same moon, And the same gentle draft That I have felt on all of my nightly walks. But I am restless this evening; Something stirs within me. Is it my mind playing tricks on me? I look to the water for an answer, Plead with its boundless borders, Listen to its powerful waves as they collide with the shore And distort the beams descending from above, Skewing them in such a way that they are not What they originally intended to be. What I see Is exactly what I had expected to see: The same infinite ocean, The same piercing moon. But tonight, It feels different.

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A Review of Two International Women’s Week Presentation

by Rebecca Katz

Before one can gain or learn anything from the exciting Women's Week presentations organized here at Vanier, one must first be prepared to analyze these presentations. A listener who genuinely intends to understand the importance of any individual speech or lesson must think critically about the presentation itself, its methods of reaching individuals, the attitudes and values it expresses, and its connection to world history in a broader sense. Marie-Celie Agnant of the organization Mothers Against Racism is a writer and activist who speaks on behalf of the rights of women and visible minorities. She discovered racism firsthand when she came to Montreal at the age of sixteen and had to adapt to a world in which, unlike her native Haiti, she was not only a "person" but a "black person." She has dealt with varying degrees of racism all her life; however, it was the unfair stereotyping and brutal arrest of her son on a metro that finally inspired her to found Mothers Against Racism in 2003. The message Mothers Against Racism has tried to impress upon political leaders, as well as upon students, is that members of visible minorities are not automatically delinquent and that this kind of stereotyping is as much a form of oppression as any other. In terms of presentation, Mrs. Agnant had a very passionate manner of speaking. She appealed to emotion, not reason, and discussed at length the pain that police brutality had caused her and her family. When she had finished speaking about her own children, she went on to mention other victims of discrimination, focusing more on individual troubles than on rational arguments. While her stories were certainly effective at bringing discrimination to everyone's attention, the focus on individuals did at times make it hard for one to learn how to combat this discrimination. Mrs. Agnant gave her presentation a very particular spin. She spoke, understandably, from the point of view of one who has suffered a great deal because of both racial and gender stereotyping. Obviously, she infused her speech with one of her chief values — tolerance — and tried to convince the audience that racial profiling must be stopped. She did so by telling horror stories of police brutality. However, there were times when her position seemed almost too extreme; it presented only one side of the coin, almost as if she was condemning all police and all aspects of society and government. This, as well as her tendency to focus on her own family and some other individuals, seemed to work against her and make it more difficult for a general audience to connect with her. The second presentation — that of the Men Against Sexism panel — featured four speakers, each of whom brought up slightly different issues. Brian Aboud of the Humanities Department presented his audience with an analytical description of what it means to be a man who opposes sexism. He defined this position as one that cannot exist on its own; instead, in order to become a man against sexism, one must first witness men who are sexist and react against them. Furthermore, opposing sexism is a process that one cannot complete but must instead continue all of one's life.

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Student David Backhouse approached the issue of men supporting women's rights from a different point of view. He did not describe what it is like to be a man against sexism as much as he discussed the drawbacks of being a man who takes stereotypical "manly" roles too far. He insightfully informed the audience that allowing stereotypes to dictate one's life hurts men as well as women. Women suffer from gender stereotypes because they are prevented from attaining many positions and opportunities; men suffer because they are forced to see themselves as providers and are taught to be less emotionally close to other men and women. Professor Sevak Manjikian began his presentation first by defining gender, not as an invariable biological trait but rather as something that is learned by individuals. Furthermore, society's gender stereotypes have at last begun to fall by the wayside. One of the last major havens for gender stereotypes are actually today's movies, in which male characters are dominant and female characters still exist to help the men. This, however, is also finally beginning to change. Mr. Manjikian also added that his way of avoiding sexism at all levels is not to look at characteristics as male or female but, rather, as human. Lastly, student Kevin Niami built his arguments upon Mr. Manjikian's definition of gender as a social construct. He also added that many people accept boundaries perpetuated by gender stereotypes because it is a way of ensuring that they will fit in with their peers and will avoid doing something unacceptable. However, blindly accepting society's stereotypes often leads to unhappiness and trouble in knowing one's real self. Instead, people should work towards being compassionate and recognizing, as Mr. Manjikian implied, human traits, not male or female ones. Naturally, each of the speakers on this panel had a different way of attempting to reach the audience and achieved a different degree of success. Mr. Aboud's presentation was almost entirely based on logical arguments. While logic is extremely important, Mr. Aboud's speech was at times a little difficult to relate to. It was only in his closing remarks about how he first began to oppose sexism that the listener began to connect with him on an emotional level as well. Meanwhile, David Backhouse took the opposite approach. While he was not nearly as emotional as Marie Agnant, he attempted to connect with the audience by discussing emotional problems caused by gender stereotypes. His speech was quite well organized, but his manners were somewhat juvenile, which was without a doubt an effective way of reaching the students in the audience. However, it was Sevak Manjikian who, I believe, found the perfect balance of passion and reason. His arguments were logical and concise, but he also made them relevant to the audience's emotions by linking these arguments to the movies and the mythology of our culture and by describing his own experiences with male callousness towards date rape. Lastly, Kevin Niami also attempted to blend rational and emotional arguments. He started by speaking in a forceful and logical manner but went on to discuss the emotional reasons why people often accept gender roles without

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questioning them — mainly because humans want acceptance and affection. While his speech grew somewhat less coherent and logical towards the end, he did manage to stress effectively the importance of valuing individuals more than predetermined gender roles. Although each of the men on this panel focused on slightly different issues, the slants they gave on the issue of sexism were, overall, quite similar. They impressed upon the audience the importance for both men and women to fight sexism. Obviously, this was a conclusion that each one of them came to. Furthermore, each of these speakers put forth a suggestion about why sexist standards developed and how and why these standards must be modified in order to allow people to accept one another's fundamental humanity. Sadly, discriminating against other people has been a constant thorn in the side of human society. Even periods of intense progress such as the Renaissance were marked by widespread inequity. First, the witch burnings that began in the Late Middle Ages and continued for several centuries were among history's most famous examples of misogyny. While some accused men of being witches, the vast majority of individuals tortured and killed during that period were, in fact, women. Furthermore, the Renaissance and the Reformation, famed for rapid innovations in culture, science, and exploration, were also marred by many different types of hatred. Most notable among these were the religious persecutions of the Reformation, in which different Christian sects competed against one another. Unfortunately, this competition often led to violence. Lastly, the colonization of the New World and other continents provided another opportunity for Europeans to commit atrocious racist acts against the natives. Hopefully, education and sensitization, which Vanier College hopes to achieve by promoting events such as Women's Week, will eventually stamp out hatred and stereotyping by promoting understanding. In conclusion, both the presentations that I attended provided ample food for thought. However, the Men Against Sexism panel did seem more relevant to a week that seeks specifically to showcase the need for gender equality. While Mrs. Agnant, speaking on behalf of Mothers Against Racism, presented the audience with a passionate speech about an equally important issue, she seemed only to mention discrimination against women as an afterthought several times. Furthermore, I personally preferred the mixture of points of view and of emotional and logical arguments presented by the Men Against Sexism panel. However, despite the many differences between these two presentations, both of them did indeed provoke thought and awareness of issues of sexism which are, unfortunately, part of our day-to-day lives. These presentations enabled the audience to have a glimpse of a variety of viewpoints and attitudes, connected with the audience via a number of different methods, and merit comparison to a variety of issues in world history. Winner in the Academic Writing contest, Rebecca Katz is a Liberal Arts student at Vanier College. In the future, she plans to pursue a career in Law. She enjoys reading and writing .

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avec PANACHE by Sue Ambrosini

Then he said, I'll give you clothes until the end of the world I see a rose that needs to unfurl I'll bring in clothes from the ends of the world Gold-plated broaches and rhinestones and pearls

Though stars from the heavens be hurled My dear we won't die at the end of the world We’ll just fly to the ends of the world Be still, smile, my rose unfurled Look, I've clothes until the end of the world

Chorus: We’ll show them style We’ll show them class We’ll do it my way Avec panache

I've seen the days of long ago When beauty defied the horrors below When a man was a man, and a girl, a girl I've brought these in from the ends of the world Your beauty's a rose that in these will twirl

Come and try these, then be my muse If the world does not comprehend my ruse Then with all these things we'll ourselves amuse

Come try on "la vie en rose” For it has been woven into these clothes Gloves and hats and pendants and pearls All things to pleasure the heart of a girl Just clothes and clothes, until the end of the world

Winner of last year’s and this year’s Poetry contest, Sue Ambrosini is currently in her second year of the Music program at Vanier. She is a singer and song writer.

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TTTTTThhhhhheeeeee NNNNNNeeeeeetttttthhhhhheeeeeerrrrrrwwwwwwoooooorrrrrrlllllldddddd by Sue Ambrosini

With her I grappled until I groaned Against the headdress in the twilight roamed Past sudden pallor and things dense Through unseen regions like wilderness

And I have come from another realm Carrying voices in my palm And I have come not without a fight Against the spinning terror of her might Through thick ether of another world Upon the cusp of The Netherworld Like a nightmare from Another world The Netherworld

A paste of sweat formed on my face Through twisted heaviness clawing the weight And chanting voices in screeching pant Incant the terror through mortal land

Run, run, they're coming for you, Run, run, I'm slaying dragons for you

So many forces to reckon with Stealing breath like a mortal's myth Into a portal I threw myself Against the darkness where time will melt

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APOCALYPSE by Sue Ambrosini

Thunderous metal hooves Pound upon the sky Ride of the horsemen Grim reaper is nigh Roar of the towers That come crashing down Only char and ashes Left to hit the ground

The call has rung out To awaken the beast Summon fowls of heaven To the evening feast

It's the rain of terror Riding on the dragon's breath Rising, thirsting for blood The kiss and promise of death

Apocalypse They're in our midst

Apocalypse

Feel the chill trickle Up and down your spine Then taste the shudder When you see the sign Oh they will search upon your skin For the mark of the beast Fear will clatter through When his scales make their sweep

Smell the ancient clamour From the small to the great For wills of entities to culminate Forging of metal, spirits—flesh—steal Before the dawn ascends Some dark thing will kneel

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IIIItttt’’’’ssss FFFFoooouuuurrrr iiiinnnn tttthhhheeee MMoooouuuurrrrnnnniiiinnnngggg AAAAggggaaaaiiiinnnn by Trystina Chapman

It’s four in the mourning again; Will I ever sleep again? I don’t remember the last time that I slept That you weren’t in my dreams. I can’t sleep anymore; it causes me too much pain. I see your face; I stare into those eyes, And my stomach isn’t so brave anymore.

It’s four in the mourning again; there is still the moon in that sky. The clock ticks softly, and I can hear my heartbeat. I think about all those times we laughed together. I’ve been trying to sleep, trying to dream, But I know if I fall asleep those dreams are gone. I think about trying to forget you, trying to think about being without you, But I just don’t know what to do.

It’s four in the mourning again; I know this mourning— I will see the sun rise, just like I saw yesterday and will see tomorrow. I know I am not in your heart, but I know you’re in mine. Sleeping isn’t an option anymore, I can’t dream, And I don’t want to think anymore. I just want to sleep without dreams, sleep without you, Sleep like there is no tomorrow, knowing that everything will be all right.

It’s four in the mourning again, And I don’t want to forget you, don’t want to lose you. You’re a gift I wasn’t able to open yet. Let me have just one more dance, one moment spent with you. I love you more than you’ll ever understand And maybe more than you’ll ever experience yourself.

It’s four in the mourning again.

Trystina Chapman is currently in the Early Childhood Education program. She likes writing, photography, and camping.

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by Viki McArthur FFFFFFlllllloooooowwwwwweeeeeerrrrrr LLLLLLaaaaaannnnnngggggguuuuuuaaaaaaggggggeeeeee

They knew what was going on. Ethan's parents were used to his seizures. They'd been coping with them for five years now, since he was officially diagnosed with epilepsy. They knew since he was about two years old that he was not the average kid. His slurred speech and his distracted thoughts were one thing, but when Ethan began to fall without warning and foam from the mouth, they wanted to know what was really wrong with him. Sassy jumped up on her hind legs, twisted the doorknob, and pushed the door open with her weight. The longest she'd ever taken to seek attention for Ethan was two and a half minutes. She was a Dalmatian trained for guarding sick infants. The Johns had looked to the Sick Children's Guardians Foundation and paid almost more than they could afford for Sassy, but she did her job well. It was the dog's goal in life to keep this child safe. "Woof! Woof!" Sassy ran across the backyard of the house and pulled on Mr. Johns’ leg with her large white teeth. "Susan!" Mr. Johns yelled, "Susan! Ethan's having a seizure!" Together, they raced back into the house where Ethan was lying on the floor in the living room, a white substance dripping down between his cheek and chin. Mr. Johns lifted his son's head to the proper angle of elevation and allowed Sassy to place a sofa pillow beneath his head. Sassy's job was done. Now, she sat on the carpet next to the child. Ethan began to cough and regained consciousness. Sassy came to his face and licked him on the cheek. Mr. Johns sat up from his kneeling position and sighed, looking at Sassy. "You're a life saver, girl." Susan looked at her son with sad eyes and left through the door she'd just entered. She picked up the spade that she'd placed on the picnic table on her way into the house and continued to plant her flowers. Mr. Johns got Ethan cleaned up, sat him back up on the sofa, and scooted over next to him. "Would you like some apple juice, Pooh-bear?" Ethan's father asked him, kissing him on the cheek. After a few minutes without a response, he looked up at his son and saw that he was weakly shaking his head no. "Water then?" His father asked again. This time, Ethan didn't respond but stared straight into the television. "Orange juice?" He waited, "... Beer?" Mr. Johns looked out the patio door into the backyard that he had once thought of as the secret garden, where what grew were mugworts and sweet sultans. In the secret garden, he had once carved his name into a tree trunk with the name of his lover under a large, bowed branch. Between the two names was a big plus sign, and around them was a heart. Now, what used to be the secret garden was a backyard growing camellia and colchicum, and the lovers’ equation was no longer visible because of all the bark build-up. That night, as Mr. Johns lay awake in bed, he stared at the greying locks of his princess's hair. Through the fall of night, the grey was absent to his eyes, leaving only the beauty present to the palm of his hand. The fine hairs lined her

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neck, and the shape of a heart formed from her shoulders as she pulled her arm frontward to cradle her chest. He wished that she’d never draw her arms away from him. These were the things which once called out to him, "Scott, I love you." Now, he could only admire her in secret, for he knew that as the sun would rise, she would again be lost in the nothingness, which had been born between them, and would return to her colchicums. From the corner of his eye, Scott could see a shadow creep along the carpet, black on black. He removed his hands from beneath the curls, and they fell like bricks to the mattress. He supported his upper body with his elbows, waiting to see the creature hiding outside of his bedroom door. When his eyes readjusted, he could make out just her outline. Sassy sat there, her back postured like that of an officer on guard, as usual. Her eyes gazed at him as though not trying too hard, yet saying so much. They reached out to him. Looking into them, he could see a life filled with regret. It was a gaze one would share with his or her mother; a long lasting stare reaching into each other's heart, right before departure, where both organisms knew it would be their last encounter. Scott wondered why Sassy was peering at him this way. Never before had she left Ethan's room during the night. She was his other half, and she never before left his side. Scott thought about slapping his thigh beneath the sheets to call her into his room, yet he knew that she had a job to do. She wouldn't come, nor would he ask her to. Scott slowly turned his head as if to see if his thoughts had wakened Susan, and when he turned his head back to the doorway, Sassy had disappeared. Scott woke up in the morning, startled to the sound of a thud. He turned to the middle of the mattress, but the side where Susan slept was already cold and empty. The house was quiet. He rose to his feet, rubbing his eyes. He half wondered what the thud had been, yet he hadn't suspected that it was Ethan, for if it had been, he would have gotten a signal from Sassy. He peered to look out the patio door, into the yard where Susan was usually working, yet there was no glass to see through, for the door had been left open. Scott then regained his curiosity about what the noise could have been. If it hadn't been the door slamming, what could it have been? He turned around to face the living room. His eyes opened wide. He spun his neck around in all directions to see Sassy. She was nowhere in the room. Scott screamed, "Susan! Susan!" Susan's eyes lifted, picking up the difference in his shout. He was not trying to tell her that their son was having another seizure; that was too usual. There was something more to it. Susan dropped her tools in her place. She ran into the house to see what Scott was shocked by. With her presence, Scott regained mobility and threw himself to the floor where Ethan was passed out and alone. He was not shaking. His mouth was dry. He looked dead. Scott put his fingers to Ethan's neck to feel for a heartbeat. His body fell over his son's. He wept. Weeks later, Scott awoke to the sun shining through the cracks between the curtains. He kept his eyes closed slightly but reached out his hand to feel for

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Susan. The sheets were still warm. He lifted his eyelids slightly and saw a heart shaped leaf lying on the pillow.

I'm in the garden. Susan xox

Scott got off the bed and made his way to the patio door. It was left open again. This time, the breeze had lifted some more heart shaped leaves right into the house, as if inviting him to join them outside. He stood there as the sunlight warmed his toes on the white tiled floor. He followed the path of leaves with his eyes until he met Susan, lying beautifully beneath the large, bowed branch. Suddenly, the idea of the missing dog posters and obituaries left him, and all he could see was Susan. He could hear the sound of the wind, and the tips of the leaves scratched against the arcs of his feet. He closed his eyes, taking in the long, lost scent he had missed so much and had found himself longing for. "Mmm...." He breathed in heavily, a long, ragged breath. He kneeled down to the grass and opened his eyes. He observed the angel lying before him, with a flower lying lazily on her chest. He picked it up, closed his eyes once more, and lifted it just above his mouth. He could hear its name being blown in the wind of the secret garden, sweet sultan. Scott smiled and placed the flower back on his lover's chest. With her eyes still closed, Susan whispered, "Look up." Scott did, and he noticed, for the first time, after all these years, the outline of a heart in the tree.

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TTTThhhheeee LLLLiiiivvvviiiinnnngggg aaaannnndddd tttthhhheeee DDDDeeeeaaaadddd by Winston Lin

The history of it all began a long time ago, before the war against the Druids and before the power of man was united. At the time, the Druids were far from vicious enemies; they were precious allies, or at least to one kingdom: the Sacrens, soldiers of the northeast, lead by King Mudain the 13th. He was the first and only king to ever befriend the Druids of the Forsaken Forest and put their talents to good use. This was during the 6th age. The Druids were geniuses of nature and could perform miracles of all sorts. Their appearance was no different from any regular man. The only exception was that they always bore huge white cloaks that would cover their whole body, leaving only for their face and hands visible. These cloaks would shine brightly whether in the face of the sun or in darkness. Having kindled a sort of abnormal relationship with nature, the Druids were capable of communicating with nature and seeking its aid. They could call for rain whenever they liked, talk with trees and animals, and cure any curse or disease afflicted on a living being. Most men never understood them and feared their power. Thus most Druids were killed on sight or burned alive. Only the kingdom of Sacren saw the potential of their power. Perhaps it was because Sacren was an isolated empire far from the west, where most battles were fought. They were branded a threat to no one, their forces too few to put up any real hostility. It was this ignorance of the opposing kingdoms that would lead to their downfall. In secrecy, a treaty was made with the Druids. In return for the Sacrens' resources and protection, the greatest of the Druids was asked to help forge weapons of war. Unknown to the Druids, these weapons would not be designated for battle against the Necromons, creatures of the Land of the Dead, but for conquest of the Land of the Living. Thus, the three great relics were forged into existence to shake the balance of power. First and foremost, there was the Dark Helm, possibly the most frightening of the three relics in the face of its foes. When managed by a skilful warrior, the helm pulsated a tremendous black cloud that would swallow the entire battalion… Wielder of this horrific helm would be none other than King Mudain's oldest son, Horrendor… Second and no less fearful were the Crimson Gauntlets. When number was the Sacrens' greatest weakness, this relic would serve its purpose. On the clever arms of Gorgonoth, the second son of Mudain, the gauntlets would always glow a faint red light, a signal that meant the gauntlets were in full use. From dust, men, dressed in full battle garments, would appear out of the air. It was a terrifying sight because these illusions came in countless numbers, each with a mind of its own… The third and final relic was the Hellslayer Flail. Its name alone said it all. Borne by Felenius, the youngest, strongest, and most bloodthirsty son of Mudain, it was the only relic that required great weapon skills and a ravenous desire to kill. The flail was undoubtedly the ultimate weapon. Able to extend and contract in reach at will, the flail was light as a feather and would never fail to bring a lethal blow every time it was swung… The three relics, already immensely powerful individually, would turn out to be unstoppable when used simultaneously. Kingdom by kingdom, town by town, the Sacrens would conquer with ease. As predicted early by King Mudain, the Druids were discontent with the usage of their relics. Mudain, however, had no more use for the Druids and hung the greatest Druid to demonstrate in full evidence that the King

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was never to be questioned. With the most talented of the Druids slain, no equal relic would ever be forged, and the Druids rebelled instantly. It would be a short and hopeless fight, with the Druids fighting long enough only to discover their own creations used against them. The remaining Druids retreated to the Forsaken Forests, their last sanctuary against man. It was protected by a powerful force enchantment that only allowed their kind to enter, an early work of the slain greater Druid. Inside, the Druids would be safe from harm, allowing them to slowly recover from the great losses they had just suffered from man. With the Druids no longer an imminent threat, King Mudain gathered his forces and would conquer the rest of the kingdoms of the Land of the Living. It would take 25 years to accomplish this unthinkable feat, bringing us to the beginning of the 7 th age. His three sons were now hardened warlords, and when noticing their plans to one day overthrow him, Mudain did not hesitate to divide his power among them. In order to prevent dispute, each one acquired an equal third of the kingdom and his relic. Shortly after, Mudain would pass away peacefully, leaving his sons a simple message — to kill the Druids before they could pose a real threat to their kingdom. The sons would not hesitate to act, for they had planned for this time to come. To do this, they would call upon the aid of an old tattered book. Discovered by Felenius during one of their raids, it was said to come from the 2 nd age of man and held a plenitude of curses and spells that could certainly be of use. However, there was one particular spell that seemed most appealing for the situation — a spell of demonic implosion. A playful rhyme explained the spell:

When barriers of old are stout and bold, Break their path and tame their laugh. For no wall or barricade can resist it all. Call upon here and put it to a stall. "Infernai rakalah nostragah vokto,” Four times to cast, and five times to blast!

The instructions were simple, but the outcome was uncertain. *** Sending orders across the land, the kingdoms of man made their preparations for war. Conscription was set in place, and everyone, except the elderly, the women, and the young children, were instructed for battle. Before long swarms of men, armed and ready, made their way to the Forsaken Forests… The next morning, just before dawn, they moved down to face the Forsaken Forests. Old Cleric John was more than ready to read the enchantment, and everyone else was restless for war… Clearing his throat slowly, the cleric began to read from the passage: "Infernai rakalah nostragah vokto!" … "Infernai rakalah nostragah vok... " An enormous bolt of lightning erupted from the cloud, striking the cleric and stopping him in his tracks. The book lit afire and fell to the ground while the cleric's body gushed with smoke and was launched in the air. Somehow, he managed to mumble the last syllable in between his agonizing screams… A magnificent beam of flame followed as it spewed from inside the Forest —

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something had just been unleashed. Bolts of lightning were now coming down repeatedly, striking at random. The cleric's body fell back to the ground, lifeless. The force enchantment, however, remained as it always had… Horrendor was about to give the orders for their retreat when all of a sudden, he noticed a number of Druids walking out of the Forsaken Forests. They were not armed and seemed to want to talk, possibly to negotiate or possibly to deceive. It was at that moment, when without warning, the force enchantment began to fade. The few Druids looked back and watched in awe and in terrror as the force enchantment slowly vanished… Noticing clearly that negotiations were over before they had even begun, the Druids ran back to where they came from. *** Moving quickly and cautiously, the legions of men trekked deeper into the Forsaken Forest, following the Druids. The Druids’ small resistance was futile and was nothing but a nuisance. Where the real army was would be answered just ahead. There, trees were flaming, and Druids were plentiful and in battle. They were not fighting men, however, not live ones anyway; they fought something much worse— the Necromons. A large, thunderous portal loomed over the forest where tons of demons were passing through every moment, and the Druids were scrambling in every direction. It was a battle that the Druids were obviously not prepared for, and this was more than clear, for they had been forced to disable the force enchantment in order to channel their powers toward aiding their inner defences … The Necromons were also enemies of man; in fact, they were far greater enemies than the Druids. They were the armies of the Netherworld, the world below, a place known simply as the Land of the Dead. Lead by the great Overlord, Draenor Dragonfang, the Necromons were a band of demons, pit lords, evil spectres, and goblins that simply loved to feed on the living. They had been barred passage to the Land of the Living long ago in a terrible battle when the greater Druids still lived. It was them who locked the portals that channelled the Necromons between the lands. Somehow, they had now broken free. Allowing them to spread across the land was unacceptable; extermination of the Druids would have to wait. *** Felenius shouted, his voice bringing courage and focus to those who lacked them, and lead the charge. Gorgonoth followed closely behind. Horrendor, however, hung back, and a strange thought came over him. Promptly reaching for his pouch, he grabbed the old tattered book. To his great relief, the flames seemed to have had no effect on the book. Flipping through the pages, something strange caught his eye. The spell that they had used now read differently:

When great power and strength is what you seek, Call upon our aid for it is what we wreak. Bear in mind that we always reward, So fear not to summon us in anyway that you may afford. We do better than best when nature's our test, For the Necromons of the Netherworld feast on their rest! "Infernai rahalah nostragah vohto”

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Four times to cast, and five times to blast!

It was as he had feared. They had in fact released the Necromons from their age-old prison. It was but a coincidence that the portal was actually located inside the Forsaken Forest. However, something more important troubled him — how was it that the page was now different? Unfortunately, there was no time to ponder, a battle raged ahead of him, and his assistance was desperately needed. Fighting alongside the Druids against the Necromons, the courage and potential of man shone once again. The three relics were now in full use, making the Necromons poor witnesses to their unbelievable power. Even the most colossal demons would tumble with each strike of the Hellslayer Flail. Meanwhile, seas of goblins, their core asset being their speed and agility, would freeze in fear as a claustrophobic cloud consumed them. To make things worse for the Necromons, the number of men appeared to be limitless, adding to the anxiety and hysteria. The Necromons’ only hope lay in their all-powerful overlord, Draenor Dragonfang. His stature was similar to that of an oversized Minotaur, and he was armed with a weapon that could only be described as a fat ugly cow. Clearly a contraption forged in the depths of the Netherworld, the head of the cow was shaped like the head of dragon, its mouth discharging a long, thick wave of corrupted, black flame. None risked approaching him as he walked slowly around the battlefield, flaming to ashes everyone in his path. Not even the sons of Mudain dared to challenge him. The battle would continue for the rest of the day. The coming of dusk would come and go as dawn rose once again. By then, the battle had been long decided. The Necromons were fleeing, and the Druids were chanting together in order to lock the portal. As for Draenor Dragonfang, he had finally fallen, as he too became victim to hopelessness… It was not over yet, however, and no one knew this better than Horrendor. Reaching back into his pouch, he lifted out the old tattered book. Flipping back to the page in question, a sudden bright light blinded his view. Not wearing his protective helm, Horrendor's body was devastated into the ground… Gorgonoth and Felenius witnessed in terror as a huge ball of flame devoured their brother. Looking high up into the sky, the cause of his death was now clear. Old Cleric John lived; he was no longer human but a winged demon, his palms emanating terrifying, black flames, the same as those that had shielded the Necromons. The Necromons had indeed revived and rewarded him for his deed. It was him who had changed the spell in the old book. Cackling with youth and enthusiasm, Cleric John exclaimed to the crowd: "I live! My power is now more than I could have ever dreamed of. Cleric John may be dead, but the reign of Nithrandar has just begun. King Mudain should have warned you fools of the old book... Men and Druids of the living, prepare to witness the power of your future ruler!" With his speech made, Nithrandar swooped down in haste to exterminate the last resistance of the living. Gorgonoth’s gauntlet glowed red, but it was too late to fool anyone, the winged demon grabbed him with his claws and ripped his body in two…

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Eyeing the third and final son of Mudain, Nithrandar lunged at him with confidence. Felenius screamed, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, tears flowed from his eyes. Vengeance fuelled his vigour as he rushed at Nithrandar, swinging his flail wildly. Just before the clash, men and Druids witnessed in shock as Felenius suddenly turned and dived for the Dark Helm. Astonished but not to be denied so easily, Nithrandar cackled in irritation and plunged again at Felenius. Grabbing the helm with one hand, Felenius brought it upon his head. A haze of black fumes was emitted immediately, blinding Nithrandar just as he was about to strike with his claw. Sightless under the haze of the Dark Helm, Nithrandar was now striking with his claws in desperation as he shrieked in fear. The ground trembled ferociously when Felenius swung his flail to greet Nithrandar. Its power never used so righteously, the flail glowed with pride as it banished the winged demon with its lethal blow. Nithrandar’s final screech of pain was never let loose, and gallons of blood exploded from his innards. It was an appalling sight, yet it brought more cheers of bliss than even the most marvellous sights in the land. Felenius fell to the ground, covered in blood and exhausted. He was wounded, Nithrandar had struck him, and his life was rapidly departing… Opening his mouth to speak, he was hindered by a young Druid, a child, who had crawled over amidst the wreckage to offer him aid. Speechless, Felenius glanced at the wound and looked into the eyes of the young Druid and let go of his flail. The child had stopped the bleeding… The dumbfounded crowd of men and Druids watched in silence as Felenius closed his eyes and raised his hand to speak: "Today, I have just witnessed how one small act of a child has affected a man more than the brave acts of thousands of courageous warriors. It has affected this man more than countless victorious battles and even the foul deaths of his brothers. Today, this same man also happens to be the last king of three kingdoms — the only three kingdoms. I no longer thirst for battle, and I feel as if I now see the land clearly for the first time in my existence. I see a desire for peace. A desire shared by everyone, men and Druids alike. Today, in the middle of dawn, and the start of a new day, I offer my hand for peace." So it was, during the 7th age of man, amidst the hectic battles and cries of war, that what will be remembered most will not be the sacrifices nor the victories but the selfless act of a young child. This act made true peace available for more than just the dead.

Winston Lin is a graduate of Health Science. He is currently studying Computer Engineering at McGill University. He enjoys listening to music, drawing, and watching movies.

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