The Scarborough Review 2021/2022

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Land Acknowledgement Statement

The Students of English Literature and Film (SELF) team would
like to recognise that land acknowledgements are only the first
steps needed to be taken to address the ongoing fight for rights
and the reclamation of land by the Indigenous peoples of
Turtle Island.

As settlers within these lands, we have to realise that
colonialism hasn't ended and still goes on against Indigenous
peoples today. As allies we must break the silence surrounding
the struggles faced by our Indigenous brothers and sisters,
whether it's by raising awareness on Missing and Murdered
Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG) or protesting pipelines
that can devastate these lands even further.

We wish to acknowledge this land on which the University of
Toronto and SELF operates. For thousands of years it has been
the traditional land of the Huron-Wendat, the Seneca, and most
recently, the Mississaugas of the Credit River. Today, these
lands are still the home to many Indigenous people from across
Turtle Island and we are grateful to have the opportunity to
work on this land.



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Chief Executive Editor's Note

When I start making anything I wonder whether I even finish it. This magazine was in
progress for so long I almost forgot about it, the thought that we had to publish at some
point kept coming and going from my mind for a while. But here we are, and we’re on
the editorial note.

To the people that submitted their stories and have waited so patiently for us, I want to
thank you. SELF members were juggling our lives and education while working on this,
I also want to extend my gratitude to everyone on the team that made this happen.

I haven’t written anything in so long that I’m struggling with this, it’s a little
embarrassing. I’ve been grinding away at making music for the past half-year. When I
wrote my first stories no one ever read them, I hardly wrote anything back then
because I thought they weren’t any good so why would anyone read them? I was
fourteen and I knew I loved writing but I hardly did it. Then I entered school and chose
creative writing as my major; I had to write. With the encouragement I got from my
friends and professors I got to work, I still judged the quality of my stories but I kept
reading and editing.

A couple years passed and I realized that I had penned a hefty portfolio of short stories
with the ideas for new tales brewing nonstop. I’ve only had three stories published (so
far), and my close friends have read most of them. I am never satisfied with what I
make, however sometimes when I share my work people tell me that I’m a good writer;
and to think I used to write stories that no one read.

I don’t know whether or not anyone will like the music I make. But I’ve spent a lot more
time and money on it than I have with my writing. It’s a little sad to admit that I hardly
write anymore, but a part of me is happy that I make beats because making music just
makes me happy. I’ve always had people ask me how I’m going to make a living when I
told them I wanted to be a writer, but as a musician I can just turn up the volume and
ignore them.

Thank you for picking up our magazine. We hope you have as much fun reading it as
we did making it.

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Executive & Editorial Team

Maidah Afzal Claire Caluag Nisa Rahman

President Vice President Vice President
of Operations of Academics

Jawad Talut Tanisha Agarwal Christy Lorentz Rameez Khera

Executive Creative Executive Critical Editor Editor Editor
Editor

Simin "Carter" Dai Rafiel Hycil Fernandes Lauren Lanois
Rajinthrakumar
Editor Editor Editoe
Editor

Graphics & Marketing Team

Hongda Wang Mary Wang

Graphics Coordinator Graphics Coordinator

Brennen Penney Vita Bayu Putri

Communications Communications
Coordinator Coordinator

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Table of Contents

7 MY NAME IS RED 16 GHOST SHIP
Palwashay Mughal Tanya Ng Cheong

9 DIDŽIOSIOS 19 PEOPLE OF

PELĖDOS DEIVĖS DISCRETION
MELODIJA
Dana Amir
Brennen Penney
21 TO THE ONE I
10 TIME HEALS ALL
Yasmin Said WILL ALWAYS
CHERISH

Vy Le

11 THE ART OF 23 WOMEN OF THE

HEALTH AND EARTH
HEALING IN THE
COVID-19 Georgea Jourjouklis
PANDEMIC
24 YOU CAN FIND
Mafaz Gehani ME IN YOUR
DREAMS
Charissa Cheuk

14 COTTON CANDY 25 NON-LINEAR
DELIGHT Amanda Zhang
Tanya Ng Cheong

My Name is Red 7
By Palwashay Mughal
You prowl in my dreams.
My name is Red. Your shiny grey eyes,
And I am dead. And long snout.
I am inside you. I miss you
You ate me. When you mounted on top of me.

You smelt of Grandma’s candy, You gobbled me up.
Cigarettes, and a desire for virginity. Took me all the way down
I should have paid attention. Down
I am in you and have no retention. Down
Down
Daddy cut you up, How Alice went.
And now you are dead.
My name is Red I am hollow now.
But I am still dead. I got a hysterectomy.
Doctor gives me pills.
No one talks to me I go for therapy
For I am red. They tell me to forgive.
Not white, For then I can be whole
Nor blue, And your face will be gone forevermore.
Or new.
But you did not apologise.
I was inside you for days. You are dead.
I am yours,
Even when you're dead. If you were alive
I only sleep after I think of you in my head. You would not have said sorry
For that was your true demise.
I take Daddy's axe.
You liked my long hair, How could I hurt myself
And my skin which was oh so fair. By letting you go.
You can't go.
I cut my head to bleed out your face. No,
I cannot forget you. Do not go!

You imprinted yourself in me. But you left
I don’t move. And I am still here.
I don’t eat Grandma’s cookies. I am still here.
Especially after people give me those Nowhere near
strange lookies. In letting you go.

Photo by MontyLov

8

I take Daddy’s axe.
I go into the woods.
There is dried blood on the snow.
The stain would not go,
Like it did not for Bluebeard's wife.

I am stuck with you.
Till I have my memories.

I crush the blood-stained ice with
Daddy’s axe.
I go to Grandma’s cottage and burn it.
I will never come back here,
Not even in my dreams.

When I turn into an old girl,
Perhaps, I will forget you.

But for now, you're still in my head.
But time will proclaim you dead,
In my head,
And then I will rest,
And just be Red.

Photo by MontyLov

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Didžiosios Pelėdos Deivės Melodija
By Brennen Penney

My sleepless keeper of the verdant grove,
Who soars upon her dark and wicked wings,
I yearn to fly and through the darkness
rove;
To sing my spells and dance with wicked
things.
Great trees and fields you make thy royal
stead,
Thy gilded claws cast back the crimson
dawn
And ‘cross the dusk you weave thy holy
thread
And from the light you fly hither and yon.
Thy hexing glance shall overcome my mind,
Beneath the moon my soul and yours
entwine.
No more am I by human form confined,
But take the form of Ragana divine!
The glory of the woodland realm unfurled,
Your power shall echo throughout the
world!

Photo by JJ Shev

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Time Heals All
By Yasmin Said

A road down to the old me,
Like a countdown going:
1, 2, 3.
Maybe it wasn’t just me
You felt it too
you had to.
Because that was the one thing that never felt like a fuzzy dream
because I knew it was reality.
Well
At least that’s what I told myself,
day by day.
Putting my hands up in the air for you to yell stop
And that was my problem because I should’ve never acted like you were a cop.
But is that how the tale went?
I honestly never paid attention to see.
But what I do remember was the fresh air,
The confused clouds,
The growing greens.
Yet, that image is still cloudy to really perceive.
Because back then I didn’t really care,
or more so want to share.
As I walk down this tale of remembrance,
The steps take me towards a new realm of acceptance.
As I chose the one right answer that was in my control.
Like a ball on a roll that would never miss its target in the middle of a game,
When you choose to heal from love, hate or vain.
You open a gate that as you walk will always tell you “It’s ok”
A clock that will never un-tell time.
Where this all embraced me as the biggest sign.
As I realized I needed to heal that open wound,
Let it air for recovery
And not bandage it up, like someone was watching me.
Because who cares?
If you’re not pleasing yourself then who?
As it doesn’t matter how many eyes are watching you.
And as the clouds started to look less confused and more amused.
Maybe that’s all it took,
Me just being me.
Until you could see.
That this wasn’t the new me,
but just a person waiting to be released.

Photo by Héctor Achautla

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The Art of Health and Healing in the COVID-19 Pandemic
By Mafaz Gehani

How healthy are we in today’s day and age? To begin pondering the answers to such a
question, one must first understand how we define health. Although, the criteria is not
necessarily separate, but are more interconnected than we think: Health is defined in several
ways. In Western medicine, it is typically defined as the abstinence of disease. More specifically,
the abstinence of physical diseases, such as cancer, diabetes, or more recently, COVID-19. Less
than a century ago, organizations such as the World Health Organization aimed to stray away
from the definition of health merely being an ‘abstinence of disease’ to a state of complete
physical, mental, and social well-being (WHO, 2021). In Canada, we see this definition as new
and innovative. However, the concept of focusing on complete physical, mental, social, and
spiritual wellbeing has been observed in different cultures for thousands of years: Such examples
include Indigenous and Islamic traditions.

In an Indigenous context, our health and presence are interconnected with the
environment around us, which includes the social and natural world. Health is for both the
individual and for the community and there are special practices to maintain and preserve good
health rather than just to treat ill-health. For Indigenous tradition, community plays an
important and fundamental role in health and wellbeing. In an Islamic context maintaining good
health also does not simply refer to avoiding the plague of a variety of diseases, nor even to
simply avoiding the plague of sin. It consists of “equilibrium in the entire existential dimensions
of human being” (Alimohammadi & Taleghani, 2015). Islamic traditions take a focus on how
certain situations could impact health in a positive or negative way. For instance, how basic
affairs such as linkage with society and keeping family ties and how connecting with the present
and with God through prayer plays an important role in our overall health. It is the emphasis on
holistic wellbeing, the approach that health is an intersection of body, mind, and spirit that these
traditions share in common.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, we have been focused on avoiding ways to get sick
such as social interactions in hopes of staying healthy. The way we are looking at staying healthy
is based on biomedical views of health, which is the abstinence of disease. Perhaps the lack of
focus on other dimensions of health is the reason why the western world has among the highest
rates of illnesses aside from physiological, such as mental and spiritual distress. 1 in 2 Canadians
will face a mental illness so severe it would qualify under the DSM 5 diagnosis criteria, and
those with a mental disorder are at a heightened risk of worse physical health outcomes (“Mental
Illness and Addiction”, 2021). Hence according to standards set by the Canadian Government, if
one is concerned only about their physical health, they still must also consider other dimensions
of health to remain physically healthy. In a world where we also suffer from a pandemic of
mental illness, which is exponentially on the rise, it is time that we start looking at healing from a
different lens, one away from the biomedical model that we are comfortable with using.

Indigenous cultures are very diverse, however, one aspect that most share is the idea of
community playing an important role regarding holistic health. For example, a healing circle,
which is a community-based healing method, is used for any health issue, regardless of whether

Photo by Annie Spratt

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it is physical, mental, spiritual, or social (CBCN Team, 2020). Members of a community sit in a
circle and take turns speaking without being interrupted about thoughts, feelings, and
experiences, whether it is directly or indirectly related to a health concern. In today’s society, a
sharing circle, which could be led online as well, could be used to discuss fears, concerns, or
emotions on COVID-19 or other dimensions of health such as mental, social, or spiritual health
concerns (CBCN Team, 2020). Indigenous healing methods have previously been used already to
provide mental, spiritual, social, and even physical relief to cancer for both the patient and their
families and friends (CBCN Team, 2020). Hence, it can show promising results when it comes to
healing mental or spiritual illnesses, and making communities whole again. Indigenous
traditional healing is known to occur with a community and from ceremonies that restore values
such as respect, trust, and courage, such as the Sun Dance. The Sun Dance is an annual
ceremony where individuals “prove bravery by overcoming pain” through several activities, and
pray together for health and healing (Gadacz, 2021). It is also an excellent opportunity to renew
ties with family and community members (Gadacz, 2021). Unfortunately, due to the ban of these
ceremonies under the Indian Act in 1884, many parts of the culture and their healing methods
were stripped away, but acknowledging and using these practices allows us to mend the bond
between ourselves and our Indigenous neighbors and hence serves as a step towards
reconciliation. Other Indigenous healing methods, such as the use of herbal medicines, have been
shown to help treat illnesses such as depression, an illness that is on the rise during the current
pandemic (Galan, 2019). In fact, herbal remedies were proven to treat respiratory infections in
the past, such as flu and pneumonia, and should continue to be looked into by scientists as a
possible remedy for COVID-19 (Cassell & Basagoitia, 2020).

Islam acknowledges mental and spiritual health as early as when the Quran was
revealed.The religion also equips its followers with tools to allow them to remain “focused,
flexible, and creative in both bad and good times” (Sulaiman & Gabadeen, 2013). When one goes
through a difficult time, whether it is from a physical, mental, social, or spiritual burden, they are
encouraged to connect to the present and remember God by supplicating and calling to him for
guidance and strength. The Islamic religion encourages connecting to the present by
mindfulness exercises such as performing prayer and Wudhu, the act of washing oneself
physically with water leading to spiritual purification. Additionally, one of the five pillars of
Islam emphasizes the importance of giving charity as a part of gaining inner peace and happiness
(Sulaiman & Gabadeen, 2013). This is often offered in methods such as food, water, money, or
other physical means, but also encouraged in psychological charity methods such as offering
even a stranger a smile. Hence, methods from the religion Islam, such as connection to the
present, mindfulness, and giving to others can all be applied to ways that we can improve our
health and wellbeing, even in the current COVID-19 pandemic.

Back to the question, how healthy are we? In today’s day and age, we have been hit more
than just by the risk of contracting COVID-19. As we ran away from the virus, we ran away
from connections from our community. We took a particular focus on our physical health and
sacrificed our mental, social, and spiritual health in return. As important as keeping safe
measures to protect oneself from COVID-19, we should also be enforced to keep safety
measures to protect ourselves from the mental, social, and spiritual illness pandemic. Examining
methods offered by other traditions is one solution to protecting ourselves from illness. Western

Photo by Annie Spratt

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Medicine has a long way to go before coming up with methods to solve the holistic health crisis,
but that does not mean that cures have not already been found. Reading into traditional
medicine and health techniques suggested by Indigenous and Islamic communities as
mentioned earlier is a start.

In conclusion, as much as we cannot physically see the coronavirus with the naked eye,
we may also not have the ability to see mental, social, and spiritual illness. Does that determine
that they aren’t there? No, there’s more to reality than what the eye beholds, and there is more to
health than what the biomedical model suggests, and there are more methods of healing than
what Western medicine offers.

Photo by Annie Spratt

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Cotton Candy Delight
By Tanya Ng Cheong

The boy, on the rooftop. The sky is sending signals today. Pink hues, no clouds. He reaches out,
imagines he’s grabbing a handful of celestial tissue. If he could, he’d even take a bite. By now, the
boy knows the signs. He has learnt to appreciate nature’s weird silence. The sky looks closer today
than it did yesterday; something about the air, something about its pressure. Even from his
earthbound town, he knows: a cyclone is coming.

20th January, 7 P.M., Channel number 1:
Hello everyone this is Susila with the weather today. As you all know, a class 1 cyclone warning
is currently in force. The weather is expected to worsen over the next few days, but don’t panic! As
the cyclone approaches, venturing into the open sea is discouraged.

It’s 5 A.M. and the boy is woken up by the howling rain. He turns on the radio. Class 2 cyclone.
No school today. He relaxes into the bed: no assignments, no tests, no afterschool tuitions. The
wind that woke him up now lulls him back to sleep. The rain sounds like a drizzle, sweeter and
gentler now that it has granted him freedom. The freedom to stay at home and do nothing. His
eyes close as he sinks into nothingness.

Hours later, he can smell his mother’s cooking from the kitchen. Crepes, his favourite. As he
savours his breakfast, he notices the trees swaying outside. They will soon bend completely to the
wind’s will. The dark grey overshadows everything; he chuckles as he remembers the pink
warning of the eve. He knows this half-day half-night cyclone weather will go on uninterrupted,
securing him in his house bubble.

21st January, 3 P.M., BREAKING NEWS: Cyclone Jenny has officially reached class 3. All workers,
except for emergency workers, are asked to go home. Necessary precautions must be taken. Close
all your windows and barricade them if you have to. Supermarkets and shops will close shortly.
Thank you for listening and stay inside, everyone. We will be back soon for more updates.

Jenny, thinks the boy, what a nice name. He asks himself why meteorologists always name
cyclones after women, but loses his train of thought right after. What difference does it make
when he gets to skip school? Everyone is on their way home, so his dad should be here soon. He
will quickly stock up on groceries if he can; if he can’t, they still have plenty at home. On a normal
holiday, they would drive for a couple of hours and go picnicking on the beach. The boy almost
asks himself, “What are people doing down there on the coast?”

22nd January, 6 A.M., The Founder News website:
Hundreds are being evacuated to shelters as their houses were flooded last night by Cyclone
Jenny. Was it poor city planning or just bad luck? Among the most affected are those living in tin-
houses. With each catastrophe of the past year—flash floods, thunderstorms, cyclones—they have
witnessed the repeated wreckage of their homes. How many times have they had to rebuild
everything? Follow us for exclusive interviews as we go out in the field!

Photo by Kenrick Mills

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The boy is playing on the computer, frantically pressing buttons in ways he knows by heart. He
is about to deliver the final blow when the screen turns black. He swears internally as he realizes
he has been plunged into darkness. The cacophony of appliances has stopped. He hears the
shuffling of steps before being blinded by a beam of light. Squinting through it, he hears a
familiar voice and realises his mom has brought him flashlights. If those fail, they still have
candles. He chews on his bubble gum. It’s sweet: strawberry-flavoured and pink.

The boy thinks of the things he could do now. After all, he first learnt to play chess with his dad
during a cyclone. He calls his dad to the living room and takes out the board games. He thanks
the universe for this unplanned family time. They have time for some Monopoly.

22nd January, 2 P.M., The Founder News, Facebook Live:
You know, each time we think it’s over, something new comes up. They gave us each a bottle of
water and some biscuits—not that we have much choice, you know—I don’t know how long it’s
supposed to last us. Our house, it leaks and it’s small and you can hear the wind shake it when
you’re inside. I have kids, three of them, and the youngest one will need more milk soon. I just
don’t know what we’re gonna do now…

It’s the fourth day and the boy knows his lockdown bubble will burst soon. The air is getting
lighter and the rain has stopped singing. The sun might even be back soon! He remembers all his
postponed work. He thinks the slight break from his hectic life was most welcome. Sometimes, he
sheepishly wishes cyclones could last forever.

23rd January, 7 P.M., Channel number 1:
The cyclone warning has been terminated. All schools will reopen tomorrow and work may
resume as normal. Drivers, please note that some roads are still being cleared. We would also like
to extend a nationwide call for donations: canned food and drinking water will be given priority.

The boy sighs as he gets ready for school. Mother Nature’s surprise holiday is over. He
remembers: just a few days earlier, head pointed to the sky, he was drowning in cotton candy
delight.

Photo by Kenrick Mills

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Ghost Ship
By Tanya Ng Cheong

Pearls of water trickle down the side of the cold glass. The sweat pearling on my back follows
suit. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be leaving a trail of droplets after me. I place the glass of iced tea into my
grandfather’s hands. He looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise. He wasn’t expecting it.

“Thank you,” he attempts, “but what is that for?”

“You asked for it a minute ago,” I reply, hoping I don’t sound too annoyed.

“Did I? Well, that is very nice of you.”

His eyes refuse to meet mine. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s just uncomfortable with
my exasperation. But his eyes are fixated on the glass in his hand, frozen in concentration, as if he
can find answers in the drink. He’s scrambling around his brains for something, anything that
can tell him I’m not lying. Yes, his brain would say, you said you wanted a cold drink. Anything
from the fridge, you said, with some ice on top for good measure. “Hurry, girl, or I’ll melt.”

I should be used to it. It started with the little things: a question repeated a little too often,
appointments he accidentally missed, catching him looking lost at random times… Nowadays, he
can’t seem to remember my name. He brings the beverage to his lips; his hands are still sturdy
enough for that, but he tilts it a little too enthusiastically. The problem is with his mouth: he
doesn’t open it wide enough for the incoming torrent of tea. The fluid leaks, it trickles down his
chin. Maybe I should wipe it off for him. Maybe he won’t let me.

For as long as I remember, birthdays have been an excuse to have a pool party. So here I am,
drenched in sweat, “celebrating” Gramps’ eightieth birthday. It’s my code for Gramps-sitting
while everyone else splashes around. Not that I am in a position to complain, I don’t like
swimming with so many people around. I haven’t felt comfortable in a swimsuit since last year,
when my lower body decided to expand without my consent. Not even mentioning the top,
everything feels too tight, as if the fabric knows this body isn’t mine and tries to suffocate it. Mom
says I’m old enough to switch to bikinis. I disagree. I’d rather not swim.

From the corner of my eye, I see a fluorescent pink blob running to me. Diane in her new
swimsuit. As she gets closer, the flush on her plump little face darkens. She’s panting already
when she finally reaches me. As excited as a three-year-old should be.

“Can you give me the sun’s cream?” she chimes.

“Sunscreen, honey.”

I oblige. She waddles away, singing a tune I vaguely remember from one of those kids’ movies.
She wishes to be a mermaid, this little penguin of a human being.

Photo by Marko Blažević

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Months ago, Gramps would have praised Diane for her milk white complexion. Her sensitive
skin, bright red at the slightest hello from the sun. It’s almost like she’s made of marble, nothing
like the bronze statue I turn into after one too many outings. But Gramps doesn’t say anything,
because Diane has no interest in people who can’t keep up with her games. Gramps is way past
that point. He can walk, but not run. Just like he can still read, but not write. He’ll hold a pencil to
paper, waiting for the motions to return; the only proof that he tried is a dot on the page. This is
the scariest part. He used to do calligraphy, just like me now.

Can he swim? I have no idea. Years ago, after my lack of coordination made the adults give up
on teaching me swimming techniques, he was the one to help me. Thanks to him, I at least
managed to float. “Staying afloat is always the first step. Now you know you won’t drown.”

Gramps can hold a grudge or two against the sun: the sunspots decorating his skin almost look
like a map. He used to tell me tales of lost cities and found treasures. Nowadays, I wonder how
many lost treasures are hiding in the ripples that time has made on his face, like the waves that
define the tide. Each fold disturbs the still water smoothness that used to be, each new crevice a
story to remember. He also used to say he found it curious that “ghost ships” could be either real
ships missing their crew or literal phantom boats.

“Look at the names they give! Flying Dutchman, Mary Celeste. What’s the obsession with flying
and the sky?”

“I don’t know, Gramps. I guess people like their legends this way. I never understood the appeal
of it anyway.”

“Hm. Well, you know what fascinates people about those famous ghost ships? Those with a
phantom crew?”

I remember not being able to answer him on that day. His eyes had a satisfied glint in them as
he gave me the solution.

“The captain never leaves.”

It feels like ages since I have spotted that mischievous spark on his face. Through the window, I
see my older cousins teaching Diane how to swim. Her floaties seem as big as her head. She flails
her limbs wildly around and everyone praises her for her superior body control. The bar is low for
people who wear floaties. I am so engrossed in their cheering that I do not hear Gramps slowly
getting up and heading to the bathroom. I don’t know until I hear the thump of his body against
the floor. I turn around, and there he is, on the ground, struggling to get back up. I’m too scared of
picking him up, my clumsy hands would drop him again. He insists he’s okay. He persists but his
breathing gets ragged. He flails his hands around to give himself support. He fails, unable to find
his bearings.

I shout, and within seconds my half-drenched uncles come rushing in. They hoist him back up

18



and Uncle Ted, the doctor, palpates all that’s fragile in him. I don’t know what would bring me
more discomfort, being examined by a total stranger in a consultation room or by my own son in
front of my whole family. Uncle Ted’s goggles hang around his neck, like a makeshift stethoscope.
As a kid, he wanted to be a sailor. I see traces of it now, in his sunburnt face and the steadiness of
his arms. He reminds me of a mariner inspecting an old ship for leaks and cracks.

“All good,” he says. A collective sigh of relief. All good.

The adults huddle together to discuss. They say we’re lucky it’s nothing serious. But it will
happen again. They say we still have it good. At least he’s with us. He’s at home, we can take care
of him. He’s still here. We can hire a caregiver. Later on, a wheelchair wouldn’t be a big deal, the
house is big enough. He could have been a mannequin in a wooden box by now, they say. Thank
the gods he’s not a cold body in a wooden box, they repeat.

I look at him. Crumpled in his armchair, his eyes foggy at first. I stare and see what he’s trying
to conceal. A gathering storm. His limbs look limp. He doesn’t know what to do with them, or he
forgot. Is the memory of his wreckage already erased? He sees me now and shoots me a polite
smile.

I can’t help it; a question comes to me before I can stop it. My grandfather, a vessel of the titan
he used to be. A ghost ship with no captain.

Tell me, when does a person become a body?

People of discretion 19
By Dana Amir
After a long day’s torment,
I shake and go shower The night awaits again.
For today sleep is but a dream. As I fall asleep, I can hear them laughing.
The water cascades down my face I wake up.
And the noise grows louder, Shaking.
An echo of a time that was once my destiny. Crying.
I go shower. Today peace is but a dream.
The shivers and shadows remain
Even after the shooting has stopped. With a golden chain visible on our necks,
No shrapnel was taken and yet a sharp pain We do not fear anymore.
endures. Nonetheless, the emblem remains
This wound is not of the flesh but in the concealed.
mind. Our masks at hand due to
The genes of our past.
As time passes by Not because of present apprehension
The war rages on. or worry for the future.
Real and imagined,
It leaves permanent marks. We are a people of discretion.
Inside I hear a silent siren, Not hidden but tucked away.
Red around us, Conspicuous out loud.
“Pink mist” she says Bold behind closed doors,
I smell gasoline and grilled meat We are a fraternity of blood brothers
A ringing, the silent siren Linked by a transcendent bond
My head is pounding Forged by the demons of our shared
Where is she? history.
I can’t get out.
I can’t get out… We are a people of discretion.
I can’t Not ashamed.
I see her trapped inside. On the contrary,
“No!” I scream, I think. We are proud.
It’s over.
They’ve won. Survived, thrived.
We are a people of discretion.
Stop. It’s not real. Just stop. You’re fine. But we cannot hide.
Still, no scars to show
I keep silent. The stars shine bright tonight.

I wish I could have taken their place. In the morning, we grow and we begin to
Mothers and daughters and fathers and understand.
sons. Some flourish,
All had someone waiting at home. Others wither, their chaotic minds too
I should’ve taken their place.
Photo by Levi Meir Clancy

20



complex,
Profound and disturbed.

Admittedly, the ones who sink may rise
again.
With time the storm quiets down.
The tranquil waves become but a slight
nuisance.

Past shields, barriers, and defences
A no man’s land awaits.

And in it not a solitude but a loneliness.
Experienced by all yet endured on one’s
own.
Behind all the rubble: a vulnerable person.

If only I knew she would soon arrive home.

Photo by Levi Meir Clancy

21



To The One I Will Always Cherish
By Vy Le

I broke into tears as I sat in silence,
With my aching heart.
Is this how it feels like to fall out of a relationship?

Memories flashed through my head one by one.
Those nights we spent chasing the wind,
The laughs and cries we shared,
The moments when we thought we are unbreakable,
The hopes and dreams we had when we were young,
All the promises we foolishly made,
What changed?
Maybe we did.

Millions of questions came into my head.
Why did you have to leave?
Why did things have to change?
When did the distance come between us?
If even we could fall apart, what can’t?

For the longest time, you were the stars to my night sky.
Without you, I’m lost in the dark,
Afraid to move forward.

I questioned, and I blamed,
But what’s the point?
It couldn’t have been easy for you too.
People outgrow each other, and that’s normal.
Things die out, and that’s fine.
Life happened, and that’s okay too.

Maybe there is beauty in passing moments.
Part of me is thankful that you let me go,
Because it made me realize that I have the strength to walk on my own feet again.
We were there when we needed each other the most,
And that’s enough.

Now it’s time for us to spread our own wings and fly,
And go our separate ways.

I am grateful for the friendship that we had,
Even though it hurts to leave it behind in the past.

Photo by Alexandru Acea

22



Now all that's left of you,
Are just memories,

But they are beautiful nonetheless.
So I will hold them close to my heart and move on,

For you will always be there.



Thank you,
For some of the best times of my life,
For my youth wouldn't have been the same without you.




Photo by Alexandru Acea

23

Woman of the Earth
By Georgea Jourjouklis

I I lie there, sprawled out on the riverside—broken, beaten—a piece of flesh to be scavenged by
wildlife. Blood pours from deep claw marks in my skin. Marks from someone that once held me
close and whispered soothing words on cool summer nights. Nights like this one. As I look up at
the sky now, I am alone. I will find peace.
Determined not to be left as scraps, I drag myself closer to the water. Every muscle and inch of
skin burns as I slide forward, leaving a red trail behind me. My fingers dig into the earth, soft and
damp, pushing grit under my fingernails as I pull myself closer. Closer and closer.
My hand touches the cool wetness of the river. The current glides past my fingers. I push my
hand deeper until it engulfs my wrist, then my forearm. The droplets coat my skin, seeping
through my wounds and washing away the blood. Like sutures, they stitch me back together.
I submerge my other hand. The water trails along my body, soaking my clothes. The breeze gives
me goosebumps, but adrenaline surges through me. Invigoration I have not felt in years.
The smell of moss and soil encircles me, pulling me back to camping trips and plunges in the lake
on scorching afternoons. I smell the crackling wood again. I hear the breeze dancing through the
windchimes outside my tent. The jingling song that lulled me to sleep. I was loved.
Strength flows through my bones. I sit up. I look into the water and see my face, with a sky of stars
behind. I breathe in deeply.
Like Eve looking into the water, I touch my face and smile. I had never noticed how pretty I could
be while tranquil. My heart races, my stomach flutters. I want to hold the girl in the river, tell her
she deserves to smile for the sake of smiling—deserves to sink beneath the waves and rest on the
riverbed because it reminds her of home. Let bubbles rise from her underwater laughter.
Reborn from the Earth. Water for blood and rock for bone. Not a Narcissus, but a lover of the
young woman that deserves nothing less. I am Eve, witnessing beauty beyond Eden. I fall for
myself first, to create my own paradise.

Photo by Jonas Tebbe

24



You'll Find Me in Your Dreams
By Charissa Cheuk

‘My friend, do you remember me at all?
I hear you singing sweetly in the night

As I lie 'neath the willow standing tall.
In troubled slumber deep within the grave,

I strive to find your image in my sight.
Dear sister, you have rendered me your slave! –
You aim to worm your way inside my heart,

Inciting flames in every word I write.
Try as you may, this organ shan't restart.

‘As darkness stakes its claim on barren soil,
I shall, with haste and urgency, take flight.

Release me that I may no longer toil;
Release me lest I take from you, still more.

You cannot see the demons that I fight –
They bite and tear and mindlessly wage war
While setting fire to all that I have loved –

But let me go, and I shall make it right:
My soul will flee to heaven up above.

‘I see the twilit beauty of the sky,
Though to depart from earth fills me with fright.

Oh, look away so you won't see me cry;
The thought is all too much for me to bear.

So, hush, my spirit – try to seek the light
Amidst the snarls of shadows everywhere.
The waking world has vanished now, it seems.

But memories will burn forever bright,
And when I rise, you'll find me in your dreams.’

Photo by Martina Picciau

25

non-linear
By Amanda Zhang

the soil is cold, pulls, and I start to sink.
I held on, so long. all I did was blink.

the mud blurs my vision, I close my eyes.
while my tight lips hum, a quiet reprise.

I’m slowing
I’m going

the soil is warm, reforms, and waves me in.
when we shook hands, our fingertips danced. kin.

the mud cracks, crumbles, sets my lashes free.
the lips, that were missed, start singing carefree.

I’m growing
I’m going

I’m knowing

Photo by Soroush Karimi

26

Contributors

Palwashay Mughal

My name is Palwashay Mughal. I am a student at the University of
Toronto. I am currently doing my specialization at the University of
Toronto. I have loved fairy tales since I was a child and through my
education have understood the importance of these stories when it comes
to understanding the world around me. My poem is about a lot of difficult
subjects which can not only be difficult but painful to express. Through
the fairytale trope and my rewriting of the tale of Little Red Riding Hood I
found it easier to not only express feeling of loss, guilt and trauma but
inspire hope and empowerment.

Amanda Zhang

Amanda (she/her) is a 4th year student at UTSG studying English,
Education, and Indigenous Studies. Within the realm of literature, she
loves reading between the lines, and is especially fascinated by how
stories can weave back and forth through time. When she's not
obsessively buying more secondhand books than she can read, she
sometimes writes poetry - often outside in nature.

Tanya Ng Cheong

Tanya is a Mauritian second-year student at the University of Toronto
Scarborough, where she is majoring in English and Media, Journalism &
Digital Cultures (Journalism stream). She is doing a minor in Creative
Writing and mostly focuses on short fiction. Her favourite kind of prose is
simple, yet elegant.

Dana Amir

My name is Dana Amir. This is my first year at UTSC and I’m planning to
specialize in Neuroscience. My hobbies include cooking, and volleyball. I
am currently reading a book that was given to me by my friends called
The Jane Austen Book Club.

27

Contributors

Yasmin Said

As a writer for over 7 years, Yasmin Said credits herself as "the girl who
speaks the words she writes" as in her free time she performs and writes
spoken word poetry. She uses her artistic ability to raise awareness of
both social and global issues that centre around change-making. She is
currently a second-year undergraduate student at the University of
Toronto pursuing an Honours Bachelors of Science degree. Besides
writing, Yasmin is a Muslim hijab wearing athlete who enjoys working
alongside local-Toronto based organisations to raise awareness over
equity in all sectors of sport and focuses on the fields of sports activism
and communications.

Vy Le

I'm a first-year student in Media, Journalism and Digital Cultures. I've
been writing as a hobby for a long time, and getting my work published
for the first time here gave me the confidence to pursue and hone that
craft even further. I'm also learning about methods of visual storytelling
such as graphic design and video editing. My hope is to find more stories
and perspectives other than my own to tell.

Georgea Jourjouklis

Georgea Jourjouklis is a 3rd year student at UTSC with hopes of
becoming a teacher and author. She is majoring in English and minoring
in Creative Writing. In her free time, she loves writing short stories,
poetry, and novels. Her favourite genres to read and write are fantasy,
thriller, horror, and comedy.

Charissa Cheuk

Charissa Cheuk is a first-year student planning to specialise in
Neuroscience. She finds creative release in writing poetry and short
stories and harbours a deep appreciation for literary techniques. Her
other interests include reading, classical music, origami, board games
and puzzles, watching tennis, collecting handwriting, and interacting
with nature.

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Contributors

Brennen Penney

Brennen Penney is an undergraduate student studying English and
Media Studies at the University of Toronto Scarborough. Brennen enjoys
writing poetry, short stories, and novels. Brennen’s other interests
include graphic design, video editing, and photography. Brennen also
volunteers for Students of English Literature and Film as a marketing
communications coordinator.

Mafaz Gehani

No description.