tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71737107377607853792024-02-19T03:14:48.707-08:00The West EndersWest End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-53271998864609629932018-06-28T07:02:00.002-07:002018-06-28T07:02:51.020-07:00Who Can Relate? (Woo): The Logical way to profit off America’s depression<br />
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<b style="font-size: 16px; font-style: italic;">Editor's Note: </b><span style="font-size: 16px; font-style: italic;">This piece was submitted too late to make it to our print journal, </span><span style="font-size: 16px;">The West Enders</span><span style="font-size: 16px; font-style: italic;">, so Avi generously allowed me to post it here. Enjoy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kb24RrHIbFk" target="_blank">“1-800-225-8255”</a>, a song by the American rapper Logic (in partnership with the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline) was one of the most popular songs of 2017, with a music video that gathered over 250 million views on YouTube. The lyrics of the song focus on a person who is contemplating suicide, calling the NSPL and being told they don’t need to die and that their life is important. As an advertisement for the NSPL, Logic does a fantastic job at making sure everyone knows their phone number. As a money-maker for Universal Music Group, Logic had one of the top songs of the year. But as an artist trying to create a compelling message, Logic fails miserably.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">The biggest problem I have with “1-800-225-8255” is that it just isn’t a good song. The lyrics are rudimentary and they don’t convey a strong understanding of the song’s topic at all. The level of depth in the lyrics is comparable to something a six year old would write after they were just taught about the concept of suicide. The first chorus of the song is from the perspective of the caller talking to the person on the line. Logic says “I don’t wanna be alive, I just wanna die today, I just wanna die and let me tell you why.” In the second chorus, now from the perspective of the person answering the line, he sings “I want you to be alive, you don’t gotta die today, you don’t gotta die and let me tell you why.” Powerful. For the final chorus of the song Logic tries to show his listeners that there is a light at the end of the tunnel, although it could be interpreted differently. The lyrics are “I finally wanna be alive, I don’t wanna die today, I finally wanna be alive, I don’t wanna die.” While this gives a positive message to listeners, it also effectively says that calling a suicide prevention line will give you back your will to live. I get the impression from the lyrics that Logic doesn’t actually have any personal experience with depression, but he’s trying to relate to people who are suffering from it. This makes it difficult to take him seriously at all. Suicide is a very real issue, but it sounds inauthentic coming from him and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">This re-affirms my belief that this song does much more as an advertisement for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline than it does to actually inspire hope or connect with listeners. Over the last couple decades there have been so many important songs about suicide and depression. Artists like Kurt Cobain and Biggie Smalls used their lyrics to show new perspectives to their struggles, they put things into words that so many people have felt before but didn’t know how to say. “I’m so happy because today I found my friends, they’re in my head.” This lyric from the song “Lithium” by Nirvana perfectly describes Kurt's loneliness without explicitly saying any of the lyric’s meaning. In the song “Suicidal Thoughts” by Biggie, he says “Suicide’s on my fuckin’ mind, I wanna leave, I swear to God I feel like death is fuckin’ calling me.” Biggie’s choice of wording, his tone, and the delivery of this lyric is what makes it feel so genuine and believable compared to Logic’s monotone and emotionless singing. Kurt Cobain and Biggie Smalls are two examples of artists who created timeless music. Twenty-something years after their deaths, their lyrics continue have just as strong of an impact on listeners as they first did. They gave people something to connect to, and in turn someone to look up to. No one should be looking up to Logic like that because anyone who’s ever been depressed knows there’s so much more to it than “I don’t wanna be aliiiiiiive”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Over the last couple years we have done a lot to break down the stigma surrounding mental health and make it more acceptable to speak about. This has led to many celebrities coming out and publicly talking about their personal struggles. Kanye West discusses his experience with bi-polar disorder and mental health issues on his latest album, “ye”. In the song “I Thought About Killing You” he says “See, if I was trying to relate it to more people I’d probably say I’m struggling with loving myself because that seems like a common theme, but that’s not the case here. I love myself way more than I love you, and I think about killing myself.” As someone who struggles with mood issues but often has difficulty pinpointing the cause of my emotions, I connect with what Kanye is saying here, and it feels personal in a way. Logic is trying to do something similar with this song to create more connections between him and his fans, but it’s done in a cheaper way. Kanye says some specific things on his album that only a small handful of people can relate to. Logic on the other hand, says some very broad statements like “I just wanna die” in the hopes that as many people as possible will feel something from the lyrics and buy his album.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">The main message behind “1-800-225-8255” is a positive one, but the song’s lyrics also have a negative impact on certain people, specifically children. Logic opens the song with the lyrics “I’ve been on the low, I been taking my time, I feel like I’m out of my mind, it feel like my life ain’t mine.” followed by the question “Who can relate? (Woo!)”. These lyrics are vague enough that just about anyone could assign meaning to them if they wanted, which is what Logic is asking us to do. While this may have no impact on many people, Logic’s most impressionable listeners will really feel like they can relate to the lyrics of the song. This is important because from here the song transitions right into the “I don’t wanna be alive, I just wanna die today” chorus. Logic now has children across the United States and Canada (the song features Brampton singer Alessia Cara) singing about how they want to die. This can lead some younger fans to think they are suicidal because they heard Logic say it in his song and they want to be able to relate to him. The lyrics, along with the sing-along pop feel of the chorus, make it seem cool to be depressed to anyone who doesn’t know better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">It’s obvious that the target audience for this song is not really people who are suffering from depression, like Logic claims. This song is for people who don’t know what it’s like to be depressed and are completely fine with never knowing, who want to feel like they’re helping other people by just listening to a song. It seems right now that the easiest way to achieve mainstream success is to hide familiar feeling content behind a popular social issue to make consumers feel good about themselves for giving up their money. Logic makes these people feel like they’re supporting a larger cause when in reality they’re just supporting his pockets.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Sometimes dumbing it down a little is the right way to bring a challenging topic to the mainstream, but with “1-800-225-8255” Logic dumbs it down so much that he completely misses the point. He has openly said that he’s never felt suicidal, and this makes him completely unqualified to write a song on this topic. This song does nothing to help the people it was supposedly written for. I am offended by this song, and anyone who has been suicidal in their life should be as well.</span><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 24px;">Avi Levy</span></div>
West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-75722389536250968022015-04-09T06:05:00.000-07:002015-04-09T06:05:13.236-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
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Come to Likely General tomorrow from 6 to 8 to support students in West End's Sweatshop, Sound Messages and West Enders' programs. Buy bags and clothes made by Sweatshop and zines and books produced by The West Enders, all while enjoying music DJed by students from Sound Messages, West End's hip hop culture program.</div>
West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-53898317303871678502015-02-01T06:59:00.000-08:002015-02-01T06:59:21.300-08:00Youth Writers, Submit!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-7254809788958035242014-12-05T08:52:00.002-08:002014-12-05T08:52:13.347-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Look who is peaking out at me from the newsstand at Magazines Canada! <i>The West Enders</i> has officially joined their roster of magazines. Look for us in quality bookstores near you. West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-29527193526756188742014-08-25T07:26:00.000-07:002014-08-25T07:29:59.080-07:00To subscribe, please print, fill out and mail in the following form with the appropriate amount of money. For most effective printing, open the image in a new tab before printing.<br />
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West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-47721976607646926802014-06-16T06:26:00.000-07:002014-06-16T06:26:13.910-07:00<a href="http://weass.tumblr.com/post/88955052701/mahir-hossain-reads-his-emoji-story-from-the-west" target="_blank">Mahir Hossain reading from The West Enders Vol.1, Issue 1.</a> Stay posted for more readings from contributors to The West Enders.<br />
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<br />West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-20517564715058640722014-06-12T11:04:00.001-07:002014-06-12T11:04:20.666-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Just picked up copies of issues 1 and 2 of The West Enders from our printer, Coach House. They look great. You will be able to order them here soon. Sit tight. </div>
<br />West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-2174585567525692042013-06-10T07:11:00.003-07:002013-06-10T07:11:22.573-07:00Good Stuff from Mina at West End<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-38283979538480995962013-06-07T07:39:00.004-07:002013-06-10T07:12:12.891-07:00Mii to WiiThe <a href="http://miitowii.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Mii To Wii site</a> is coming along.West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-42955579073842681002013-05-29T06:46:00.002-07:002013-05-29T07:16:29.564-07:00A sneak peak at our Mii to Wii day media art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-10848585882862979712013-05-02T12:54:00.002-07:002013-05-29T07:19:52.155-07:00Strawberry Beards Forever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivHIL_YP5V9x4lOhcQG9brO6eRcwtrGu9TW-0P83mp1sB7NK-T8COOXFkp1VvpuHVTXOUBeMZ6U5uRO6GWWIiq4X1Yb6MTTGUNP9E01qcDqjYGaD9ewIpASyX-fM0hXhaTpf6Lur2kE2I/s1600/Strawberry+beards+forever+Lee's+Copy+Small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivHIL_YP5V9x4lOhcQG9brO6eRcwtrGu9TW-0P83mp1sB7NK-T8COOXFkp1VvpuHVTXOUBeMZ6U5uRO6GWWIiq4X1Yb6MTTGUNP9E01qcDqjYGaD9ewIpASyX-fM0hXhaTpf6Lur2kE2I/s320/Strawberry+beards+forever+Lee's+Copy+Small.jpg" /></a></div>
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Sammie's amazing Strawberry Beards Portrait.West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-34507252246552604092013-01-11T09:26:00.003-08:002013-06-19T07:42:11.409-07:00Zoo of Thoughts<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpkBuwfP7uQgta3ObvedaujQMGoJUjhyphenhyphenR6iE6gcm_E4nlXnNm6fQo9mSGXwiLTQtwpgkyy_hwdES1CcBJPQNswRfl6pNg-RIvcJVlCVnjPF-oHzbQqyDr76Nwj5CA957tckO7xEEyIzs/s1600/zooofthoughts060.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYpkBuwfP7uQgta3ObvedaujQMGoJUjhyphenhyphenR6iE6gcm_E4nlXnNm6fQo9mSGXwiLTQtwpgkyy_hwdES1CcBJPQNswRfl6pNg-RIvcJVlCVnjPF-oHzbQqyDr76Nwj5CA957tckO7xEEyIzs/s400/zooofthoughts060.tif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Illustration by Sultan</b><br />
<b>Title Illustration by Deangelo</b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“The
only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Karl
Marx<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeahXETRh39tyU-i3C-LIIbCGPVDjfpid3hbNXmDauCIeJJJChyh84AJiSqG7OgQ82Kj9I1xR5aF7LQiiJ5OI7GR0D035olfksH3xdbGuVrxJ3gGSyuKhaai47JjY4AAwdbaSUHE5Q8U/s1600/hand037.tif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeahXETRh39tyU-i3C-LIIbCGPVDjfpid3hbNXmDauCIeJJJChyh84AJiSqG7OgQ82Kj9I1xR5aF7LQiiJ5OI7GR0D035olfksH3xdbGuVrxJ3gGSyuKhaai47JjY4AAwdbaSUHE5Q8U/s320/hand037.tif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Candara","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 21px;">I often wondered how much pain I could inflict on myself, without the white light seeing me. The first time was phenomenal. I had complete control over how much pain I endured, how joyous it felt to relieve my mental suffering. Once upon a time I had no control. I was under someone else’s command.</span><br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">As a
child, you listen to the demands of your parents: go clean your room stop
hitting your brother, be quiet. I would comply with the last commandment for
nights on end. He would come into my room every night and I would pretend to be
asleep. He knew I was awake, he knew I could feel his rough hands reeking of
nicotine as he spread my legs apart. I could feel his beard scratching my inner
thighs as he continued to touch me. Some nights I really didn’t want him to. I
would turn away, lock my legs and vanish under the covers. I was terrified some
nights, terrified that I could enjoy this. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
day I was watching him use my mother’s head as a plunger, driving her into the
wall. My mother suffered the most. I wasn’t enduring the same pain she was. She
had no idea what was going on. He didn’t sleep in the same bed with her, he
wouldn’t touch her. He wouldn’t love her like he did me. I told my best friend
at the time not to tell a soul or I would die. I told her my daddy was touching
me. The next moment I recall was confusing. I was at the hospital with my legs
propped up and open, like I was about to give birth. The nurse was a man,
checking for seminal fluid. It made me uncomfortable that he was male. After
the hospital I found myself standing at the door of a beautiful townhouse with
my social worker. A lovely African-American woman greeted me and showed me to
my room. I was in foster care for four months and saw my mother twice in that
time. I was subjected to court to testify against him. I walked in and hopped
into my stand, facing my attorney, a jury, his attorney and him. He seemed to
have aged 10 years in the span of 8 months. His hair and beard were white, his
nails yellow, still dry and rough. A mesh-like board was placed in front of me,
courtesy of the court, in hopes it would help me not look at him. He made
direct eye contact with me, smiling throughout the hearing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">The years behind me affected me mentally after my
experience. I hated myself. I hated that my mother no longer had someone to
grow old with, that my brother had no father figure. I hated myself. I went to
therapists, counsellors, group meetings, all of which I despised. As if I would
want to talk to anyone about what was going on in my head. Not even I knew. I
would not look in the mirror for months; I would not socialize for months. I
was craving something powerful. Anything to calm the zoo of thoughts in my
head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">My mind was lost in a whirlpool of negative
thoughts; I had no purpose here but I didn’t want to die so young. My mother
was coping with the aftermath of her daughter being molested and sexually
abused for two years; committing suicide so soon after would have been too much
for her. The first time I harmed myself was tremendous. I was inspired by a
girl in a show I stumbled upon. She was happy, she was perfect. She would cut
herself any chance she could, like a smoker taking a smoke break. I was mesmerized
by the blade she used from her Gillette razor. I wondered if this was the
antidote to my mental suffering. I wanted to feel the same euphoria. I had the
blade in my hand; I knew what I was doing.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
As the pressure of the blade tears through layers of skin I begin to smile. I
smile at the blood that has been locked up inside for too long<span style="color: red;">.</span> </i>Not once did I revert back to my negative
thoughts. I knew I was hooked, like someone who obsessive compulsively washes
their hands, I felt sanitary and nurtured. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I was eleven years old<span style="color: red;">. </span>I
had to find a way out of my head. While I talked to therapists, counsellors,
girls in similar situations, I was convinced they were happy to hear about my
problems. I couldn’t talk to my mother as she was overwhelmed with guilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued to self-harm until I was sixteen
years old. By that age I slowly paid more attention to what was going on around
me, rather than focusing on the thoughts in my head. I was surrounded by new
people, a new environment and new life. What pain has done for me is put me in
control:<span style="color: red;"> </span>mind, body and soul. Every time I hurt
myself I felt that much more alive. Suffering brought me back to reality. I was
filtering out all of the nightmares, the screaming, the beatings, the crying
and the self-hatred<span style="color: red;">,</span> that words were powerless
to relieve. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-14783469232280189622012-12-20T10:10:00.002-08:002012-12-20T10:21:22.281-08:00My Face<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmeKS7G5uq3S6innexxcvEbde4TbKTF_8rRCwJ2tX5_Rpf5JOxj4EGDRjqoUdg8Z1QYMsZNiwn3d91th0bmP5WgLgCH89AaluCeT_0byaLUA5xonYmSMQwrYhDF3TS3ehZMnrKhNfkk3g/s1600/Jennifer2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmeKS7G5uq3S6innexxcvEbde4TbKTF_8rRCwJ2tX5_Rpf5JOxj4EGDRjqoUdg8Z1QYMsZNiwn3d91th0bmP5WgLgCH89AaluCeT_0byaLUA5xonYmSMQwrYhDF3TS3ehZMnrKhNfkk3g/s200/Jennifer2018.jpg" width="169" /></a>Throughout this project I had color and line in mind for the elements of design. I made strong bold lines for the outline of my face and used striking colors for each project. In the blue picture, I wanted to convey feelings of loneliness and sadness. I used black paper with icy cold colors, and purposely spaced the image in the middle to focus on the single face. As a last touch, there are dabs of white to give off the effect of ice.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltlG64XO5swPZ2J4rizD-D3nCfTI0g2QjELPs0eSrt3EwgUcZzjZuQRbFuN4uxb4ljLs14IsBWdwWiSUwU1fJUmOc3BnmzGlO9YGw7AcGv3KNYgXkC3A6G8asBdm-Z5ed-oQGFmESrhs/s1600/Jennifer2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltlG64XO5swPZ2J4rizD-D3nCfTI0g2QjELPs0eSrt3EwgUcZzjZuQRbFuN4uxb4ljLs14IsBWdwWiSUwU1fJUmOc3BnmzGlO9YGw7AcGv3KNYgXkC3A6G8asBdm-Z5ed-oQGFmESrhs/s200/Jennifer2019.jpg" width="169" /></a></div>
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The orange face I created displayed forms of passion and happiness. I used a fun bubbly color for the background and a little bit of white for the shape of the face to give it a glowing effect. I used red paint for the center of the head to bring in warmth. Finally the strong red lines give the picture an overall intensity to show powerful feelings.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJpKBB7gWUsqzokofNF1QaeSS20ejhVDn8oV_sMRbUxPWLC0TmybQUDAsmiMv3S6dh7aBAuBLyveVgIdoHrkJWH_QGO5jSI3MVtnvvFtv7rwvCAcuQSSGSsPXYofCkl0si4Fjy1hHx3Y/s1600/Jennifer1017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJpKBB7gWUsqzokofNF1QaeSS20ejhVDn8oV_sMRbUxPWLC0TmybQUDAsmiMv3S6dh7aBAuBLyveVgIdoHrkJWH_QGO5jSI3MVtnvvFtv7rwvCAcuQSSGSsPXYofCkl0si4Fjy1hHx3Y/s200/Jennifer1017.jpg" width="169" /></a><br />
My last picture displays confusion. The dark green and magenta's were meant to contrast with each other to give the viewer a sense of uncertainty as to what emotion I tried to show. I also used dark colors of portray a dull feeling.</div>
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-- Jennifer Luu </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltlG64XO5swPZ2J4rizD-D3nCfTI0g2QjELPs0eSrt3EwgUcZzjZuQRbFuN4uxb4ljLs14IsBWdwWiSUwU1fJUmOc3BnmzGlO9YGw7AcGv3KNYgXkC3A6G8asBdm-Z5ed-oQGFmESrhs/s1600/Jennifer2019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
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<br />West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-41044087839406408522012-11-26T11:46:00.003-08:002013-06-24T11:01:16.796-07:00Die With A Smile<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
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<b><br /></b>
<b>Cecilia Evoy</b><br />
<b>Illustration by Jahan, Polina and Deangelo </b><br />
<b>Title Illustrations by Kardelen and Clayton<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Samara sat on the balcony of her apartment, gazing down at the tree in front of her. The leaves had taken on the colours of the sun, and were dancing gently in the breeze. Brody, Samara's German shepherd was sleeping on the bench beside her. Samara gently stroked Brody's thick fur. Samara loved fall, it was when all her favourite colours presented themselves, and the weather was more comfortable than the rest of the year.<br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Samara checked her watch. It was five pm. Time to leave for the hospital. She ushered Brody back inside, grabbing her car keys and sun glasses. Samara locked her door behind her to the sound of Brody's sad whimpers. She trotted down the steps and into the garage. Samara loved driving. She loved having her windows down and feeling her red hair blowing in the wind. She loved turning on her radio and singing along. It gave her a sense of freedom, knowing she could go anywhere at any time without a second thought. Driving through the city she weaved in and out of other cars, tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. It was an unfortunately short drive to the hospital, and it seemed like only seconds before she was pulling into the parking lot. The hospital was tall and white, with paint chipping in large chunks from brick. She could see Several patients in a group outside, an orderly watching them closely and they briskly and restlessly walked around the grassy part of the yard. She turned off the car and pulled out her cell. No messages. Samara scanned the area and got out of the car. Impatiently, she toyed with her sunglasses, then her hair, then her keys, checking her watch repeatedly. It seemed like each minute was taking an hour. Samara had never been the type who enjoyed waiting. She liked to be busy, always on the move. She'd had many a success that way. She blew through high school, never handing an assignment in late. She graduated early from university, having done several classes every summer. She got her first post-grad job thanks to many internships. Samara didn't feel valuable unless busy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A loud crash of a door slamming rang through the air and Samara quickly turned, a large grin her face. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alicia!” Samara called out and began walking toward her friend. Alicia had a sour look that didn't change as she approached Samara, who gathered Alicia in her arms, squeezing the fragile girl as tightly as she dared. Samara could feel Alicia tense, but eventually she gave in and reciprocated the embrace. “Jesus, Alicia,” Samara remarked, pulling away but still holding on to her friend, “I feel like I haven't seen you in forever!” Alicia wiggled away from her and walked to the passenger side of Samara's car. For as long as Samara could remember, Alicia had hated being touched. Samara was the only one allowed to show her any physical intimacy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Y'know, it's only been three weeks. And you could have visited me,” Alicia said, climbing awkwardly into the car. Samara got in the driver's seat, ignoring Alicia's hostile tone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You said you didn't want me to. And anyway, three weeks is a long time. I don't think we've ever gone more than two days without seeing each other before.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not true. Whenever you had exams, you'd disappear for a good week.” Alicia fiddled with the radio as Samara pulled out of the parking lot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but we still talked a lot. Where do you wanna go?” Samara glanced at Alicia. She looked thinner than before. Emptier. It looked like whatever they did to her in there hadn't worked. It looked like whatever they had done had pulled out what had been left of her. Alicia shifted uncomfortably.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I've been in a fuckin' mental ward for three weeks. Take me somewhere with no walls.” Samara nodded and started driving west, to one of their old haunts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think there's a drive-thru Tim's around here... wanna go?” Samara asked, already knowing the answer was yes. Alicia was the one who had caused Samara's dependance on caffeine. Alicia had begun drinking coffee at twelve - a year after the two had met - to help her with her sudden decrease in sleep. Samara started having a similar problem in high school. She and Alicia would stay up late into the night, watching the moon make her daily trip across the sky as they talked quietly on the phone. Samara had too much energy to sleep. So when she began having moments of utter exhaustion during the day, Alicia started sharing the coffee she brought in a thermos. Samara asked Alicia one day why she couldn't sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can't stop thinking.” Alicia had replied. Samara nodded in recognition.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's why I can't, either.” Samara had been surprised when Alicia had laughed at her. It was a genuine laugh, too, not one of her usual sarcastic ones. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, Sam. It isn't he same.” Samara never understood what the difference had been. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Samara pulled into the drive-thru of the coffee shop. She placed her order and waited as the line of cars in front of her seemed to stand still. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your roots are showing,” Alicia said. Samara checked in her mirror.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I gotta get my hair done this weekend,” she said. Alicia shrugged.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'll do it. I always do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I didn't think you'd feel up to it.” Samara said, frowning as she inched her car as far forward as she could. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>”I think I can dye your hair, Sam. I gotta do mine too anyway.” Alicia inspected the end of her black hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why do you dye your hair? It looks the same.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It doesn't. There's a difference in the sun.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You're never in the sun, Lish.” Samara laughed. She caught the hint of a grin pulling on the corner of Alicia's mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, on the few days a year I do leave my cave, I like my hair to perfectly reflect my soul.” Samara giggled and swatted at Alicia.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Whatever, man. Oh, thank god, we're up.” Samara took her order and paid, then sped off back onto the road. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where are we going?” Alicia asked, sinking into her seat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You can't guess? We're close.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I dunno. The lake?” Samara nodded. They'd spent a good part of their friendship at the portion of the lake that connected to a large park. The area had a magic to it that hadn't left, even as they slowly became adults. Largely uninhabited, it was filled with climbing trees, streams, bridges, and hidden pathways. Samara felt the familiar nostalgia creep into her bones as she pulled into the parking lot. She had barely stopped the car before Alicia had leapt out of her seat, slammed the car door, and stared in the direction Samara knew she wanted to go. As soon as Samara's door closed, Alicia set off. Samara smiled and followed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The season had transformed the park again. Leaves carpeted the ground, making pleasant crunching sounds as the girls stepped on them. The path they walked along lead them past an empty pond that was usually filled with ducks. The squirrels that scampered along the ground had grown fat, readying themselves for the long winter ahead. They passed the tree Samara had fallen out of eight years ago, breaking her ankle for the first time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They reached the lake. Waves were gently enveloping the boulders nearest the water. Alicia walked to the beginning of a port created by large rocks, that extended a long way into the water. Samara deftly climbed behind Alicia, watching her friend struggle along with her head down, carefully stepping from rock to rock. Samara hopped slowly, keeping pace with Alicia. It wasn't long before they reached the end of the expanse of rocks. Alicia stood on the farthest rock out, still and straight-backed. She stared into the water with such a ferocity that it made Samara nervous. She inched forward, ready to grab her friend.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Should... should you be here right now, Lish?” Alicia turned her head and, for a second, Samara saw the happier girl she had known many years ago. The crinkle in Alicia's eyes passed so quickly Samara wondered if she'd only imagined it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm not going to leap off and drown myself, Sam.” Then, more quietly as she turned away, “Not in front of you.” Alicia climbed down the edge of the rock formation, settling herself on the lowest one she could be on while still escaping being touched by the waves. Samara lowered herself onto the rock beside Alicia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alicia dug through the black satchel she brought everywhere with her, pulling out a squished pack of cigarettes, offering one to Samara. Smoking was another habit Samara had picked up from Alicia. Alicia said they calmed her nerves, Samara smoked to give her hands and lips something to do. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fuck I missed these. Y'know, I had to ration the fuck out of these when I was in the hospital. I only had the packs you brought me in the beginning. Feels fuckin' good to know I can finish this without worrying.” Alicia said. Samara leaned back against the rocks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What was it like?” She asked. Alicia was silent for a moment, contemplating the smoke that rose in tendrils from her cigarette. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It was quiet, mostly. I mean, some of the other people there had outbursts or talked loudly and stuff, but... it wasn't like out here. Y'know? It was quiet. And lonely. Everyone had different problems and we were all kind of smashed together and expected to get on. I don't know. I didn't really like anyone there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What did you do in there?” Samara reached over to Alicia, tugging a loose string from her shirt. Alicia watched her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Therapy. Lots of therapy. Individual, group, art, music, exercise... It was like a fucking orgy of therapy. Everyone fucking with every one else's minds. They said they were trying to get to know us, help us, whatever. Didn't help me any to be treated like some fucking animal on display for its oddities.” Alicia's tone was harsh and hostile. Samara watched her toss a pebble into the water with a weak arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don't feel any better?” Samara asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope. Why should I? They pumped me full of chemicals and picked out my brain.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Samara brushed a strand of hair from her face and sat up again. She brought her knees to her chest and flicked the ashes from her cigarette into the lake.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Remember that time I convinced you to skip school in grade ten?” Alicia asked, her tone lighter than before. Samara giggled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes! They called your house, looking for me! I got in so much shit from my mom.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know. You made me stay on the phone while she yelled at you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How did you always get away with skipping?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alicia shrugged, “I was never a good student like you. They didn't really care if I was there.” Alicia's voice became quiet again. Samara sighed for her friend. She knew that was true. Samara had always been a good student. She strived for good grades, she was in a bunch of clubs, helped with many events. Whenever she was away sick, she was always greeted with a 'we missed you' from the teachers when she came back. Alicia was different. Alicia hadn't cared about her grades since middle school. She barely passed her classes, often only pulling a fifty. Almost always her grade was only that high because Samara did many of her assignments for her. Alicia was only at school on the three days a week Samara didn't have extra curricular activities at lunch. The school they went to had threatened many times to kick Alicia out, but had never followed through. When Samara and Alicia graduated, Alicia was one of the very few in their year not to go on to post secondary or an apprenticeship. She stayed at home for another two years, doing nothing, until she got a job in a record store where she made minimum wage, but had full time hours. Samara had watched helplessly as Alicia was stuck in this holding pattern. Alicia had always been sad and tired and cynical, but over the last two years, Samara had seen that sadness grow and evolve, ever changing in its shape. Sometimes it was an intense anger that had Alicia throwing punches at strangers, while Samara struggled to hold the tiny girl back. Sometimes it was a heavy sadness that wouldn't let Alicia get out of bed. Sometimes, rarely, it was a burst of energy that had Alicia walking all over the city in the middle of the night, looking for the end of the world. Samara never really knew what to do with Alicia, how to help her, so she mainly just stayed with her and kept her from doing anything too dangerous.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why'd you do it?” Samara asked before she could stop herself. Alicia's eyebrow raised.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do what? Try to kill myself?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You can say it, y'know. I don't know. I just... it's hard to explain.” Alicia replied. Samara frowned.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Try. I want to know.” Alicia gave her an annoyed look and took a deep breath. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing mattered anymore.” Alicia said with a shrug.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What does that even mean?” Samara asked impatiently. She wasn't used to having Alicia dodge her questions. They told each other everything. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well... you know... you know how you were happy in university? How you felt like you were working toward something? Well, I feel the opposite. I feel like nothing I do means anything. Like... like there's no reason to do anything. No reason to exist.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's ridiculous,” Samara interrupted. “Everyone has a reason to exist. You're just choosing not to have one. You can go back to school or something, get your grades up so you can go to college.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, it's not like that. It isn't like I'm choosing to not have meaning, there is no meaning. We're all going to die anyway, and then what? We'll leave a legacy? We'll leave our blood? Our names? So what if we do? I'll be dead! I won't know and won't care about what I did here, 'cause I won't exist! It means nothing to do something with your life because the second you die, it's all void. I won't get to take any of that with me, won't get to experience the effect of it, of me, so it means nothing. Everything I do means nothing!” Alicia's face was flushed. She had been throwing her hands around during her soliloquy. Samara's face twisted into a frown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So you tried to kill yourself... because you won't exist when you die?” Alicia rolled her eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You make it sound so cheap. I tried to kill myself because I couldn't deal with the idea of going through sixty or more years of pain and trials and <i>bullshit</i>, and have it all mean absolutely nothing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But you didn't use to feel like that! You used to have fun and be happy! Remember when we went to Montreal when you finally turned eighteen? You had a great time! We didn't ever wanna leave, you especially!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, because it was an escape from the day-to-day drone of life here. The repetition that traps us into these terrible lives. And... I know I used to be happy, Sam. But I just hadn't realized it yet. I was ignorant of this emptiness.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, can't you just... find meaning? Change the way you think? Start believing in something?” Samara asked. She couldn't understand Alicia's dismay. The idea of non-existence never scared Samara. She knew that she would make a contribution that would change the world, even if only in the smallest way imaginable. That was more than enough for her. Why wasn't it for Alicia?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Could you stop believing there's meaning? Could you change the way <i>you</i> think?” Samara considered it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, maybe it's easier to fill an emptiness than it is to create one.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is it?” Alicia asked. Samara didn't answer. Samara could see Alicia's eyes become glossy with tear.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know,” Alicia choked out, “my mother said when she found me in the bathroom, I was smiling. I think that was the first time I'd smiled in a month.” Samara hurt for her friend but she didn't know what to say. She grabbed Alicia's and tightly, and for once Alicia didn't pull away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The girls stayed on the rocks a while longer as the sun began creeping down into the horizon. They sat in comfortable silences, thinking their own thoughts. When the sun threatened to disappear, the duo made their way back to Samara's car. Once inside of it and out of the quickly chilling air, Alicia's mood seemed to improve.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You should come to therapy with me some time. See how stupid my therapist is. That guy is a joke,” Alicia said, rolling up her window. Samara laughed, “No, really! He keeps wanting me to talk about my childhood and latches on to the stupidest shit! Like my dog who ran away, we spent an entire hour talking about that! Remember, Lucy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” Samara confirmed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I got to watch a lot of TV in there. Have you seen the new season of the Walking Dead?” Alicia asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes! Don't you fucking love Rick this season?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ha, no. I could pass on him. I liked him best season two.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Samara pulled up in front of Alicia's apartment. Alicia stirred but made no move to leave the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I am glad I saw you. I missed you a lot, Sam.” Alicia said. Samara smiled at her friend and reached out, grabbing her in a hug. This time Alicia hugged back right away. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I missed you too, Lish. Don't do it again, okay? I don't think I can go another three weeks without complaining to you about traffic.” Alicia laughed, loudly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I won't. Listen, call me when you get home, okay?” Alicia said, climbing out of the car. Samara smiled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course. Talk to you soon!” She called, as Alicia walked up her steps. Samara watched her friend disappear into her doorway before tuning her car back on. She was worried for Alicia, but she was sure it wasn't anything Alicia couldn't pull through. Samara knew the only reason Alicia had gotten as bad as she did was because Samara didn't know what was happening. Now that she knew, she was sure she could help her friend. She knew that Alicia wouldn't give up on her. Her meds would kick in and she would realize how big of a mistake she had made when she'd tried to kill herself. Even Alicia's new disbelief in meaning could be helped. She'd felt meaning before, she could feel it again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Samara turned the radio back on. It was still on the station Alicia had turned it to. Samara flipped through the stations, but there was nothing on she wanted to listen to. She stuck her hand in the bag she'd tossed on her passenger seat. She rooted around for the CD case she'd dumped in there that morning. It was a mix tape she'd made of her favourite songs from university. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jesus, where is it.” Samara mumbled to herself. She lifted the top of the bag and smiled when she spotted the CD case.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alicia stomped up the stairs to her apartment. She wasn't sure how she was going to pay the rent after not going to work for three weeks. She'd probably have to borrow money from her mother again. When she got to her front door, she stopped, leaning her head against it. It was like she didn't have any energy anymore. Even before she was in the looney bin, for months it felt like there was a cinderblock on both of her shoulders, keeping her down and making her drag her feet. It had gotten a little better. It less heavy now that she was breathing fresh air laced with nicotine, but she was terrified the weight would always be there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After a moment, Alicia unlocked her front door. She flipped on the light in her hallway and pulled her pack of smokes out of her bag before dumping the satchel on the ground. She kept the lights off in her living room as she wandered into it, even though it was difficult to see. She made her way to the window that faced the front of her building, grabbing an ash tray from the table and resting it on the window sill. When she glanced outside she saw Samara's car still parked on the street. Alicia felt the urge to smile, but didn't. She was glad to see her best friend again, but there was something bitter sweet to the reunion. Samara had always seemed to understand Alicia, and Alicia's pain, but not today. Alicia knew Samara wasn't the type to dwell on the idea of death, or to really let much bother her at all. But she was the one person Alicia could talk to without being judged, and yet Samara didn't understand this time. Alicia knew it wasn't fair, but she felt betrayed by this. With a heavy sigh Alicia turned away from the window and leaned against the wall. She waited for the sound of Samara's car pulling away, but instead heard a loud squeal of tires and a prolonged honk. Just as Alicia turned to see what was happening, a crash permeated through the air. Alicia gaped at the sight of Samara's car, flipped and entangled with a truck. Alicia was frozen as she watched people spill from their homes and rush to the cars. Alicia could see someone opening Samara's door, and pulling out her friend's unmoving body. Alicia's cigarette fell from her limp fingers. <br />
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West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-44204243722031370142012-11-26T08:08:00.002-08:002013-06-24T11:01:54.817-07:00Displaced<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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By Cecilia Evoy<br />
Illustrations by Jahan, Kim K., Kardelen, Sultan, Polina, Deangelo and Jennifer Luu<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Everyone feels displaced at some point. We feel like we are in the wrong place, the wrong situation, the wrong body, the wrong universe. My poems concentrate on that feeling of not belonging. Perhaps one thing that unifies us is that sometimes we all feel like we don't belong. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">My biggest struggle with this project was finding the right places to rhyme. Many times where I first tried to rhyme, it served only as a distraction. I did find success, however, in communicating my theme.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Simone, kicked out of home at fourteen,</div>
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took to the streets to see what life means. <o:p></o:p></div>
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August was born in Alaska.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She never liked it there.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The cold bit into her like thousands of spikes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They slashed through her and she became <o:p></o:p></div>
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pretty ribbons dancing red in the snow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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August hated snow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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August hated ice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She hated the colour white.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When her mom was in town,<o:p></o:p></div>
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and August was in the house alone,<o:p></o:p></div>
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she turned up the thermostat,<o:p></o:p></div>
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as far as it would go.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She stripped off her clothes and danced in her sweat,<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her skin glowing like the sun, glittering wet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Her hair spun and tangled like bunches of thread,<o:p></o:p></div>
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her arms flung, catching dust in her hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
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August's mom goes out to town every week,<o:p></o:p></div>
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and every single time, August turns up the heat. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Teacher, Leave This Kid Alone<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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There's a child in a class too small,<o:p></o:p></div>
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he didn't like the attention at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Some called him gifted<o:p></o:p></div>
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his mother called him 'perfect.'<o:p></o:p></div>
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He was neither.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Teachers tried to tame him,<o:p></o:p></div>
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bring his hackles down,<o:p></o:p></div>
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but he was wise to them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Mother made him morose,<o:p></o:p></div>
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always talking about his potential<o:p></o:p></div>
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about how he would be so influential.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In protest he went on a fast<o:p></o:p></div>
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until they put him in a regular class. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 18pt;">The Missing Mane<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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The cat stared idly out the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It could hear the dog next door barking at passersby.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What a stupid dog.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The cat jumped lazily off the sill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It could smell its food, dry and tasteless.<o:p></o:p></div>
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How disgusting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The cat clawed ferociously at the couch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The fabric separated, giving him great satisfaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What an ugly couch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The cat returned to the window.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He could see squirrels playing, he wanted to chase them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wish I was a lion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 20pt;">The Paralysis<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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When Katherine was supposed to be asleep at night<o:p></o:p></div>
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she thought of castles, dragons and stone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She thought of tiny dogs dragging large bones,<o:p></o:p></div>
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she thought of never being alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When Katherine fell asleep at night,<o:p></o:p></div>
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she dreamed of winged horses,<o:p></o:p></div>
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of fairies,<o:p></o:p></div>
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of witches.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She was a princess, riding into battle,<o:p></o:p></div>
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she was a beautiful kitchen wench.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When Katherine woke up<o:p></o:p></div>
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she went to school.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She drew pictures of her ladies in waiting,<o:p></o:p></div>
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her court-yard fools.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Katherine grew up<o:p></o:p></div>
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she still dreamed of castles, of dragons, of stone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She still dreamed of not being alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 20pt;">Taxidermy<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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He was confounded, caged, confused.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He didn't know which book to use.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He felt crushed by so many people,<o:p></o:p></div>
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his arguments too weak, too feeble.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He wondered where to put his punctuation,<o:p></o:p></div>
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which Greek God was whom.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He didn't know if pharaohs were burned or buried in tombs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He thought he could do this, but had been proven wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He felt cornered, inadequate – he didn't belong.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Where had he been when they were learning this stuff?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Driving with Stacey to Scarborough Bluffs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But he couldn't give up and go home to his old man,<o:p></o:p></div>
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with nothing but a summer tan. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 20pt;">Swans<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kMMCjsMPdg3KdGpSo_5mIDLvB9N2cLlrB-yLWJDmS5_97UHmdqefXhCmEbwCVBqGxdK8Yi7GRhKUK7nH9lXiKv-OBcGMVl8_x2b-u78TUEAYn_4WC-JRPIlPNTQfDWhX80XJY3vwtUQ/s1600/JenniferSwan027+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" oea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0kMMCjsMPdg3KdGpSo_5mIDLvB9N2cLlrB-yLWJDmS5_97UHmdqefXhCmEbwCVBqGxdK8Yi7GRhKUK7nH9lXiKv-OBcGMVl8_x2b-u78TUEAYn_4WC-JRPIlPNTQfDWhX80XJY3vwtUQ/s320/JenniferSwan027+copy.jpg" width="320" /></a>A blank canvas stretched out in front of her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A world of endless white.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She picks up her paint brush and dips it in red<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
her favourite colour.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It makes the canvas look like candy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She adds blue, looking to make it less surreal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now it looks like a barber shop pole.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No matter how many colours she adds,<o:p></o:p></div>
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no matter how delicate the stroke,<o:p></o:p></div>
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it's never right.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The beautiful white is now shit brown.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She ruined it, ruined it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She puts the brush down. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 22pt;">Small-Town Detroit<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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An obtuse Detroit swallowed a pencil.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She seasoned it with some fennel.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To hell with all this school.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The city called her name.<o:p></o:p></div>
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An angry Detroit put her fist through the wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nashville wasn't supposed to be like this at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So she left there cursing and swearing,<o:p></o:p></div>
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she left so dangerous, so daring.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The big city got her down,<o:p></o:p></div>
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there were no cows to kick around.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Covered in mud, bathed in sludge<o:p></o:p></div>
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the big city was no place for Detroit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A smarter Detroit went back home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She even went to church to atone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Back on the farm in suffocating air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She felt so at home there. <o:p></o:p><br />
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West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-15589856367951133242012-11-15T12:31:00.003-08:002012-12-20T11:59:36.772-08:00The Blizzard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3NxNS_G5mifWsGG5GGPjOdhX_4IsMlFfwQO5s-hU1BvijET9EhYtttJQ8-fVnAKxIm8-tVVl5TeHxhm8VSQPTC4cbsBZpvtM2wWNB1pqd2IL5bZsH_4ml-zhFn_A5wcCAofqDPZ8N54/s1600/CeciliaTheBlizzard022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3NxNS_G5mifWsGG5GGPjOdhX_4IsMlFfwQO5s-hU1BvijET9EhYtttJQ8-fVnAKxIm8-tVVl5TeHxhm8VSQPTC4cbsBZpvtM2wWNB1pqd2IL5bZsH_4ml-zhFn_A5wcCAofqDPZ8N54/s400/CeciliaTheBlizzard022.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">Title and first illustration by Cecila Evoy</span><br />
Popsicle and Doc Martin Illustrations by Sammie</div>
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I guess it feels like a gradual blizzard. At first it's just cold. You feel the sharpness pierce you. Slowly, you lose that feeling and it's replaced with a numbness. The blizzard gets heavier and begins to bury you. The snow crushes you and you can feel your bones invert, your whole body tightening and you lose the ability to breathe. Then the frost creeps and you start to notice parts of you dying. They turn black and begin to wilt. You watch them fall but you can't do anything about it, as the frost continues up your limbs. You can't feel it – you're still too numb – but that's almost worse. You can see yourself losing essential parts and you can't even feel them leave you. You're suddenly abscessed and the abscess keeps growing. And parts of you keep dying. Until, one day, you're gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That's loss. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I could hear faint strumming through the night air. Jared must have brought his guitar. I'd heard that guitar many times before, but that night it made goosebumps ripple down my flesh. It added a heavy chill to the hot August air, as ghosts of memories danced around me. I clutched onto Samson's arm, glad he was beside me. My fingernails dug through his sweater, pinching his skin, but he didn't say anything. As we got closer to the pit, the loud roar of voices increased its volume. When Derek and I put the word out about this mock funeral for Adam, we had expected at most ten people to show up, but it sounded like at least twenty were already there. Typically, this part of the park was filled with mothers and their children, running and playing. Occasionally, it would give way to a soccer game. That night, it was filled with wild teens. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><br /> </span>As we got closer to the edge of the pit, I could see the bright glow of fires, sending dim bursts of light through the trees. Samson and I stumbled over the edge and down, taking in the collection of people gathered there. Groups cluttered around each fire pit. Many of them were talking or yelling, some of them standing on the fringes of their groups, isolated and downcast. They were an eclectic bunch. Many were draped in metal and plaid, their colourful hair glimmering in the fire's light. Some looked like they belonged in colleges, studying. No one fit, but we were all there for the same person. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You ready for this?” Samson asked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” I said, “but I should be here, right?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess.” We were just kids – fifteen – we didn't know what we should do, if we should be there. We didn't know the etiquette of death and funerals. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Samson and I separated. He went to one end of the field and I the other. I knew most of the faces, knew their names and limited parts of their stories. I picked Tyson out of the group and walked over to him, my hands shoved in my pockets. What does one do with their hands in moments like these? Tyson was talking to an older man I'd never seen before, gesturing wildly. I stood beside him, close enough to feel heat emanating from his body, smell his sweat collecting on his skin. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's not! Raging Bull is the best shit ever, man! Best movie, all time.” Tyson's voice was elevated and quick – he'd taken something before he'd come. I wasn't surprised. The older man threw up his hands in exasperation. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Kid, you haven't seen enough movies.” His hair was brush cut and grey. His face was hard and riddled with little lines like paths, leading to other parts of his face. I wondered how this seemingly sober and normal man had known Adam. I nudged Tyson before he could go on a tirade. He turned to me, his face softening. I was getting really fucking sick of that look. I got it from strangers, acquaintances and friends. I wasn't the one who was dead, Adam was. So why was everyone looking at me like I might as well be buried beside him?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How are ya doin'?” Tyson asked. I looked at the older man who had turned<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>away once Tyson had begun talking to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fine, I guess.” I replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm sorry this all happened. It's shitty his parents didn't let you come to his real funeral.” Tyson was compulsively running his hand through his hair. The tic bothered me, so I grabbed his arm. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, well that's what Derek and I made this one for, right?” His hand was warm and sweaty. My hands were cold. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Samson here?” Tyson asked. I nodded in response. Tyson and Samson had been friends since they were babies. They'd been linked at their hip since I'd known them, but in the two weeks after Adam's death, Samson had been going to great lengths to avoid Tyson, while Tyson was determinedly trying to capture Samson's attention. Samson had admitted to me that after losing Adam (who had become an older brother to Samson) he was feeling resentful to people who hadn't known Adam as well as he did. He'd said he needed space from everyone – including Tyson – to get over that, to nurse his misery himself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't have the heart to tell Tyson that as he left to find Samson. Instead I watched him leave and stuck my hands further down my pockets.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wandered through the groups of people, kicking the odd stone that I came across. They jumped away from me, skipping in the damp grass. More and more garbage collected on the ground. Cigarette butts, bottles of liquor, cans of beer... someone had started singing along to the tune Jared was playing and the snippets of conversations I overheard became more slurred and disjointed as time passed. I liked being on the fringes of this group. If they didn't notice me, I received no meaningless condolences, I got no piteous looks. I felt bad resenting these people – these were my friends. The friends I drank with, partied with, hung out with, shared with. I spent last year and a half with these people, and enjoyed almost every moment of it. But I was filled with a rage that grew with every person that was talking about music, or movies, or police, or what-the-fuck-ever that wasn't Adam. At least Jared was playing some of Adam's favourite songs. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I drew myself over to the people who weren't participating in conversations, who stood lonesome, by themselves. I spotted Derek across the pit. I wanted to go over to him, but he was talking to Tyson, who looked upset. Derek's was about the only presence I could tolerate then. He didn't try to give false comfort. He understood how I felt – he felt the same. Derek and Adam had been best friends for a long time. Adam's death had impacted him as much as it had me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With Derek unavailable I walked over to Jason who was sitting at the base of a maple tree, dragging on a cigarette. He smiled at me as I approached. He was twenty-four, a lot older than me, but easy to talk to. For all the stupid things I'd seen him do, he carried an air of maturity and worldliness<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that I envied at fifteen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, how's it going?” Jason asked as I sat down beside him. The grass was soft. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fine, I guess. You?” I received only a shrug. Jason turned his body more toward mine and started picking at the grass around him. I looked closer and saw that he had made numerous mounds of grass, all stacked neatly into domes. “You've been bored.” I commented. Jason chuckled quietly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don't think <i>bored</i> is quite what I am.” Jason was giving me an odd look. Not the one I'd been getting from everyone else. There was no pity or awkwardness that came with not knowing what to say. There was sadness, there was confusion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So how's Samson coping?” Jason asked after a pause, “I haven't seen him in a while.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He's... getting better. I don't know. The first week he wouldn't even talk to me.” Jason just nodded. I scanned the field of the pit to find Samson. He was standing with a couple of other guys, an angry look on his face. His body was blocked off, arms crossed and hips twisted away from the others. He was angry all the time now. I didn't wonder what had caused his anger at that moment – it didn't matter. I felt his anger, shared his anger. It was a constant underlying emotion – like Gesso under a canvas. They say grief has five stages – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. That's wrong. It hits you all at once, alternating and mixing into unrecognizable emotions. Everything but the acceptance. Seeing Samson's anger caused a chain reaction in me. I began to feel the familiar slow encompassment of the blizzard creep up my bones. I continued looking around the field, taking in the scores of people treating this memorial like a party – using it as an excuse to drink and smoke up and bitch to their friends about their lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I hate this.” I said, ripping out a handful of grass and tossing it in front of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hate what?” Jason asked, his voice was concerned. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This!” I gestured at the crowd, “these people, here, acting like Adam's not even dead!” Jason grabbed my arm, pulling on it gently but firmly. I looked at him and tugged my arm away. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They have as much a right to their feelings as you do.” Jason said. This angered me more. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What? They have a right to be assholes? They have a right to forget about him?” I stumbled upward, having a difficult time getting my legs under me in my flurry of anger. Jason stood up, too. His face contorted into a heavy frown, his thick eyebrows slopping down and almost meeting. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you expect form these kids? You expect them to miss him? He was an asshole! Yeah, sure, he was charismatic and knew how to tell a fucking joke. But past that, he was a fucking drunk asshole who's last move in life was to fucking kill himself and put the people who loved him through even more hell!” Jason's voice was so full of anger and disgust that it startled me. I didn't know what to say to that. At the time, I was still too encompassed in grief to realize that Jason was right. In that moment, all I could feel was betrayal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's not... no! Adam was a good person! He loved me – loved us!” I could feel tears streaming down my face. People were looking over at us, some confused, some ready to egg on a fight. Jason ground the base of his palms into his forehead, groaned, then flung his arms out beside him. With his palms up he looked for an absurd moment like Jesus Christ looking God-ward. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? A good person?” Jason laughed loudly, “he was an abusive fucking asshole, to everyone! You know why these people are here? You wanna know? It isn't because they loved him ever so much! Its because they just wanna say they knew someone who died! They don't give a flying fuck about Adam, they just want some fucking badge of valiant fuckin' glory!” I'd never seen Jason this angry. I hadn't seen many people this angry. The words that would ring true to me later then only caused fury to invade all of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then why the fuck are you here? Huh? Why in fuck's name would you show up here if you hated him so god damn much? Why are you here?” I screamed back. The anger I'd carried for so long had finally found a purpose, a point, and I couldn't constrain it anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm here for you! For you and for Samson, and for all the other people who've convinced themselves that Adam's was the death of a god! Because one day you'll all realize who he really was and you'll need someone there who knew all along! You'll need someone who understands what you will!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don't need you, okay? I don't now and I wont later!” I took a step toward Jason. I wanted to hit him, to hurt him like he was hurting me. As I took another step forward I felt a hand wrap around my wrist. I turned around and saw Derek. His grip was tight on my wrist, his other hand coming up to grab my shoulder. He was glowering terribly at Jason.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Step off, man.” He said, his voice low and quiet. Jason looked surprised, like he'd just been shaken awake. He looked from Derek, to me, to all the people around us, all entranced by our altercation. I looked around too. Some of them looked ashamed, some looked upset. Most looked disappointed that the fight had been stopped. I caught Samson's eye and he quickly looked away from me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry,” Jason said eventually, “I'm sorry,” he began backing away from us, turned, and walked briskly toward the entrance of the park. I leaned back into Derek. The storm of anger had drained me. Derek's grip on me loosened but he didn't let go. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You okay?” he asked quietly as the crowed that had gathered around us dissipated.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” I said, righting myself, “great.” Derek tugged lightly on my wrist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here, c'mon.” He led me back up the edge of the pit, to the top. We settled on the grass, between two massive oak trees, their roots protruding from the ground. We were covered from sight by trees and darkness, invisible to those below us. I was glad to be with Derek. He understood how I felt. He knew Adam as well as I did. Knew his thoughts, reactions, quirks... his entire being. We had seen each other several times since Adam's death, never talking about Adam, but always thinking about him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why would he say that about Adam?” I asked Derek, as he rummaged in his backpack, pulling out two cans of Molson's. He handed one to me and I turned it over wordlessly in my hands. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because it's true.” Derek replied. I looked at him incredulously. He shrugged. “He was an ass. He was a drunk. He was mean. That doesn't mean he loved us any less. Or us him.” It didn't make sense to me that Derek was saying this. I <i>knew</i> he loved Adam. I didn't understand how he could love Adam, yet say these things about him. Derek sensed my confusion and smiled wanly. “Listen. I think Adam was a great man. He was funny and smart and generous when he could be. But he had a fucked up life. It changed him, not for the better. It wasn't his fault. And when you love someone, you take the good with the bad. The only thing Jason was wrong about was that I thought he was a God. I don't. He was human, and it was his humanity that I loved.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Derek's speech left me silent. I tried to understand what he did, but couldn't. My grief was still too raw to let myself admit that the beautiful, intelligent, charming man I'd known was what Derek and Jason were saying he'd been. I took a swig of beer and set the thought aside. Derek and I sat in silence for a long time, taking sips of beer and drags of smokes, letting each other's presence be comfort. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“’Member how he used to throw fits about his stupid docs?” Derek muttered, swirling his beer in his can. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. He… liked to keep them clean.” I replied.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Clean? Sparkling. I ‘member this one time we were on the subway, at Kipling. Some dude stepped on his docs by accident. Adam went ape shit, fucked the guy up.” I believed it. Adam had always been so full of emotion that sometimes it came bursting out of him like an avalanche crushing anyone in the vicinity. Derek snorted and took a gulp of beer. “Y’know what the last thing he said to me was?” many people had been telling me what the last thing Adam had said to them was. For everyone but Derek, I didn’t care. Derek was different though. Derek knew Adam like I did. Loved Adam like I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What did he say?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He asked how much it hurt to wax your balls.” I laughed loudly, louder than I had since Adam died. My laugh infected Derek, who started giggling, too. After a few moments we tapered off and sat in silence for a while longer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s not coming back.” I said eventually. Derek gave me a sidelong glance, “I mean, before…. When he’d disappear before, he’d always come back. But he’s not coming back this time.” My eyes glossed over with tears, and I gasped for breath that wasn’t there. Derek was staring at me and he looked just as hopeless as I felt. He slung his arm around my shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know, babe.” I felt ridiculous, sitting in this pit, off to the side and surrounded by howling kids, screaming and shouting and laughing. It felt like they were only thinking about Adam when I got close – like I was some fucking widow, making her rounds to collect their sympathies. That wasn’t what Derek and I set this up for. It was supposed to be a memorial, a funeral to replace the one we were too trashy to be invited to. It wasn’t supposed to be a party, with kids spilling their vodka, pissing in the fire and talking about things that had absolutely nothing to do with Adam. I wasn't supposed to be told how horrible Adam had been. It wasn't supposed to be<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>like this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Y'wanna get out of here?” I asked. Derek looked one last time around the pit. Jared was no longer strumming, but circling a fire with a can of beer. Tyson and Samson were together again, off to the side with their heads bent together. The cacophony of the crowd was winding down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, let's go.” Derek said, following me toward the entrance of the park. In the darkness I shuddered as the blizzard descended on me. </span><br />
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West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-58764027537547469482012-11-15T11:52:00.000-08:002013-06-10T07:01:45.780-07:00The Break-Up<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Cecilia Evoy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New;">Title Illustration by Jahan and Sultan</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Illustration by Kim K.and Kardelen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Ext. Dog park. Afternoon. Fall. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA and STEPHANIE are sitting on a park bench, watching dogs play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Ramona drags on her cigarette, blowing a smoke ring.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">I don't think it's working out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHAINE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(Confused) What's not working out?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Us. I just don't feel it anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Are you... breaking up with me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Yeah, I guess. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Ramona shivers, leaves from the tree fall around the two girls. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">We aren't dating! How can you break up with me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Well... you can break up a friendship can't you? I mean if I say I don't want to see you anymore, doesn't that constitute a break-up?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Yeah (slowly, confused) I guess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">The girls sit in silence for a while, Stephanie pulls on her hoodie strings, Ramona keeps smoking.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">But... why?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Well, you're so... whiney. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(Angrily) <i>I'm</i> whiney? <i>Me</i>? What about you? You complain all the time!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(Laughs) Me? Okay. My complaints are legitimate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You complained about school yesterday! You went on for, like, an hour about your work!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">It wasn't legitimate to complain about getting such a massive number of assignments that I couldn't sleep? You complain every single day about how long your fifteen minute bus ride to work is!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(Enraged) So after three years you're dumping me for <i>complaining?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You're also clingy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(Shrilly) Clingy?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">And jealous. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">I am not jealous!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">I don't have any female friends that you don't hate. I'd call that jealousy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">The girls sit in silence, Stephanie is glaring at the ground in front of her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Y'know, you aren't the perfect friend, either. You always act so holier-than-thou! You think everyone else is so stupid, and you think you're better than them! You treat me like shit because you think I'm stupid!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Ramona is frowning heavily, drops her cigarette and lights another. Stephanie is angered by the lack of reaction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHAINE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You're a huge bitch, too. You're always reaming me out and snapping at me. Anytime I talk about something you're bored by, instead of saying you're bored you sit there in silence and make me feel like I'm the biggest idiot ever for talking! So whatever you think is so horrible about being friends with me, it's worse being friends with you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You’re a fucking bitch! You know what, you deserved to have Aaron cheat on you!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">There is a stunned silence. Stephanie gapes at Ramona.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Really? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Really?</i> We were together for four years! You’re really going to fucking say that to me?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Ramona<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(With less conviction) Well, it’s true. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Stephanie<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">What kind of goddamn person are you? You always do this! You always try and hurt people as much as you can, for no fucking reason!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Yeah, and you make it so goddamn easy! I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">told</i> you what was going to happen! I called it a year before Aaron cheated! But you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never fucking listen to me</i>! I take so much fucking time to give you advice and try and help you sort out your wreck of a life and you never listen! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">I tried, okay, I tried! I can’t do everything exactly as you want me to, though! That doesn’t work! And I knew, too. I knew something was wrong, which is why I went to you, but I guess that was a bad idea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(Looks ashamed)I shouldn’t have said that. I just… I just said it, okay? You didn’t deserve that. It’s just… you make me angry sometimes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">(Gives a disapproving look to Ramona and throws hands in air) Yeah, well, you spit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">What?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Yeah, you spit. On the ground, all the time. It's gross. And I hate the smell of your stupid cigarettes!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You constantly chip the polish off your nails! Do you know how annoying that sound is?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You don't cover your mouth when you cough!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You refuse to stop dying your hair stupid colours!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">STEPHANIE<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">You hate the Beatles!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">The girls stare at one another, half-grinning. Eventually they turn away from each other. Ramona starts fiddling with her smoke and Stephanie starts picking off her nail polish. She looks at Ramona out of the corner of her eye and stops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">Wanna go to Subway?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; mso-bidi-font-family: Mangal;">RAMONA<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-70124886177260252492012-11-15T11:43:00.005-08:002013-06-19T07:43:52.024-07:00Jennifer Luu's Poems<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Artist statement</strong></span> <br />My culminating was inspired by Erin Morgenstern’s novel, “Night Circus.” I decided to write extensions about other tents in her story in the form of poems. I enjoyed the writers’ fresh use of vocabulary and the descriptions of fantastical happenings in a place unbound by logic. I decided to base each poem on an Arcana of a tarot card deck as the author did before me, but use ones that were un explored by her. I tried to keep the same feelings of mysterious captivation I felt when I read a description of an environment in the circus. </span></div>
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by Jennifer Luu<br />
Title illustrations by Jahan, Deangelo and Jennifer<br />
Illustration by Cecilia</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As you enter another tent black and white</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">a sea of red scarves</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bustle into view.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is chatty and loud and you push with all your might</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">to a mysterious wheel</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Golden, red, and blue.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dark with flecks of light</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">the wheel bearer beckons for your name.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You blush as you step into sight</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">and the wheel spins the first game.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Slowly, it</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You feel yourself soaring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’m flying!” You cry unselfconsciously</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Crowds of people adoring</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Again” you cry “again!” anticipation of more</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bearer heeds your commands</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And you become happy to the core.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It spins so long</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">that you are practically in a daze.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally it stops and, to your dismay</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">you are suddenly in a maze.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wonder fills your senses</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">the place is far from bad</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is simply now an adventure</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Smiling you step forward</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Walking in the corner of the circus, the world falls beneath you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You see a bright light ahead</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With ghostly apparitions of dancers</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who shimmer and flicker</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You feel as though it is easy to touch</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But it fades into mist when you reach for it</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then Constellations burst beneath your feet</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">like white fire.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The floor is transparent</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">every step you take ripples</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">and as you look down</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">you see a hint of your soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just then the illusion ends</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">People bustle unaware of what you’ve experienced</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But you leave in peace </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">with impurities cleansed from your mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For how long you’ve been climbing this tent</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tall and spiralling with stripes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Couples giggling following you</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">and you are careful not to trip on lights.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Little flowers bobbing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">pictures with no name</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Curious to reach the top</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s to late to go back where you came</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When you finally reach the summit</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You gasp for breathe and view</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Your stare lasts forever</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the circus lit anew</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong>High Priestess</strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDD6AlCHbKjjhBt4cpgwvcjPMtpH3jH2AxkWM2VYLmq3RUt4EC2ZRHqmTuTldwQs2eaQB1uoysUqxHo93Y6sbvx9DfaUM9e-NCWIjCH7OecyFa06tXZOJgGBurgsHHUIGDaT8C500FyQ/s1600/forjenspoem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDD6AlCHbKjjhBt4cpgwvcjPMtpH3jH2AxkWM2VYLmq3RUt4EC2ZRHqmTuTldwQs2eaQB1uoysUqxHo93Y6sbvx9DfaUM9e-NCWIjCH7OecyFa06tXZOJgGBurgsHHUIGDaT8C500FyQ/s320/forjenspoem.jpg" width="256" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the contortionist who bends her body</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">into unusual yet elegant shapes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">is a hut filled with </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">alien emblems and a white face.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a lady with long, blonde curls</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cloth hiding her eyes</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mysteriously she smiles</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Body covered in blue butterflies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I will tell you your fortune for a price”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ll drag the truth out of you”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Without any pretty lies.”</span></div>
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West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7173710737760785379.post-37558891010349859172012-10-12T10:56:00.003-07:002012-12-17T11:46:10.460-08:00Nowhere Bound<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Story by Cecilia Evoy</div>
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Illustration by Cecilia Evoy</div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Summer sucks.”</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brian’s proclamation startled Jason. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It doesn’t.” Jason said, briefly turning his concentration from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arthur</i> to his older brother.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Gimmie that.” Brian snatched the remote out of his brother’s hands and violently flipped through the channels. There was nothing other than kid’s cartoons and preachers trying to tell him how lost his soul was. Brian already knew that. He settled back on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Arthur</i>, letting the grey remote drop beside him. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The over-stuffed couch itched Brian’s back, making him shift continuously. He could feel his sweat seeping into the couch, leaving a print where his body rested. He looked at his ten year old brother, wondering how he wasn’t bored out of his skull, too. But then, Brian remembered being six. He remembered things being not so complicated; being able to remedy summer listlessness with a game of Jacks or tag. Running as fast has his then-small legs would take turning his skin brown. Summer was great back then. At seventeen, it was just… too long. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Realizing that neither his brother nor the TV would be of any help to him, Brian stood, stretching. “I’m gonna go to Jon’s. I’ll be back late. Don’t do anything stupid before mom comes home, okay?” It was more of a warning than advice. If Jason got in trouble, so would Brian. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Jason nodded without looking up, and Brian took his chance to leave. He grabbed his skateboard, the grainy grip tape rubbing against his palm. It kind of felt like that stuff his mother used to make her skin soft. Brian had used a little bit of it once, but he didn’t like the feeling of hard chunks of stuff rubbing his skin and washed it off.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The air outside was sticky and thick. Brian tried to get a good lungful of breath, but struggled to do so. He threw down the board and jumped on, his lanky body twisting to keep balance as he gathered momentum. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">He found no relief as he went. The Toronto heat drew all the moisture from his skin. Maybe a trip to Jon’s wasn’t even worth the heat he had to put up with. Brian didn’t know if Jon was even home. Jon had set his sights on getting a car and spent every moment at work; Brian felt like he hadn’t seen Jon in months, but it had only been a couple of weeks. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Summer always brought with it an inner restlessness for Brian. He needed to move, to get blood flowing through his veins so he didn’t feel like he was fixed in place and stalled. Brian had always needed be doing something, but as he got older, the feeling got worse. He felt so useless when bored. Last summer hadn’t been so bad. His friend’s band had gone on a short tour around a couple of cities. They’d let Brian tag along, carrying their equipment and setting up their guitars. Brian liked the nomadic feeling of touring. There was always something to do, to set up, to fix. But his friend’s band wasn’t touring this year. They broke up angrily, leaving no possibility of a reunion, leaving Brian stuck in a city that was such a drag. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brian found himself in front of Jon’s house. Jon’s dad was in the driveway, stained with oil and sweat. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hey, Mr. Moretti, is Jon home?” Brian called, flipping his board up and walking toward Jon’s dad. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Oh, hey Brian. No, Jon’s working today. He’ll be back by five, if you want to come then.” Mr. Moretti wiped his blackened hand against his forehead.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Thanks, sir.” Brian nodded to the man and jumped back on his skateboard. Brian’s restlessness grew. Everyone he knew was either working some minimum wage job or at a cottage up North. Brian added ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Loneliness</i>’ to his list of reasons he hated summer. Brian glowered and turned back the way he came</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brian didn’t know what he was going to do with himself all afternoon. He only had his stupid kid brother to hang out with. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Jason was older, but all Jason wanted to do was play with cars or watch TV. Maybe, Brian thought, he could take Jason to the park or something. Show the kid how to climb trees properly. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Brian arrived home, he could hear his mother’s voice, even from his front porch. Brian cringed. His mom wasn’t supposed to be home yet. Preparing for the shit storm that was about to come down on him, Brian took a deep breath and opened the screen door. It screeched at him, a warning of what awaited him in the house. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Brian? Is that you?” His mother’s voice called from the kitchen. Brian chucked his board into the corner by the door and walked to the kitchen. There was cereal and milk spilled across the floor. It created a disjointed mosaic across the pale pink tiles. A broken bowl was scattered slightly away from the mess of breakfast. Brian looked from the mess to Jason, who was looking at his toes like he’d just discovered them. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where the hell have you been?” His mother demanded. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I was only out for, like, half an hour!” Brian flung out his arms challengingly. It wasn’t fucking fair. He didn’t ask for a brother. He didn’t ask to be the babysitter. Brian glared at Jason.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don’t you look at him like that! If you had been here, this wouldn’t have happened! I come home <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sick</i> and this is what I have to deal with! Look at this mess, Brian!”</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“It isn’t my fault! I shouldn’t have to stay in the house all summer, just ‘cause Jason’s home!”</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Take him with you, then! Jesus, Brian, he’s your goddamn brother! I don’t ask much of you, you know! All I ask is that you look after your baby brother while I’m at work! It’s two months, Brian, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two months</i>!”</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was all Brian could do to not put his fist through the wall. Fuck, he couldn’t wait ‘till school started. Then everyone would be back, he wouldn’t have to look after his brother, and he wouldn’t have his mother breathing down his neck anymore. Brian turned on his heel and marched back to the door to grab his board. </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Where do you think you’re going?” His mother yelled.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Anywhere but here!” Brian slammed down his board and took off, going as fast as he could, nowhere bound.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Fuckin’ summer.”</span></span></div>
West End Alternativehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08080874654896553499noreply@blogger.com1