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The Stars Issue


“We are, each of us, a little universe.” – Neil deGrasse Tyson

The Romance Issue

The Brain Issue

Under the Sea

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By Donnique Williams

Creased pages
and bended spine.
What once was yours, now is mine.

I open up this gifted book
flip the pages, carefully
caress the places
of indentation
of denotation
of connotation.
Each note a gem
a new found land.
I reconstruct in shallow scribbles
the image of this man.

This book
where spirit, soul and
desire meet
and lay upon me
all potential opportunity.
I hold creased pages,
a bended spine in hand
searching for a message that will stand.

I search these pages for footnotes of emotion.
I search in these spaces

between the stars, hoping

their mysteries will reveal

what was left unspoken.

By Madilyn Bozinis

Remote incandescent body,
Fixed luminous point in the sky.
Held together by your gravity,
Visible to the naked eye.
You’re perfect.

Gathering and gathering all pressures.
Collapsing and collapsing despite itself.
Swirling and swirling into creation.
Time and time and time and time.

Your long life shows us short beauty.
Can I measure from this far away?
When I don’t understand her company.

By Charis Hesketh

The unknown scares me
And the thing is I usually don’t get scared
It’s like jumping into space
Where you can feel nothing there
I feel like my dreams will not come true
That the universe will bet against me
And that makes me feel so blue
Like I can’t live in harmony
So all I can do is believe
And hope that the stars will guide me
Maybe the unknown will be great, who knows
I guess life is about always being on your toes.

By M Strome and Cora Vanessa Haven

Screen Shot 2016-03-15 at 2.21.02 PM

Screen Shot 2016-03-15 at 2.21.08 PM

Preye T A

She’s a storyteller, she tells all kinds,
The lies don’t count though. “Unfair”, she thinks.
School is lacklustre, but provides a solid career to fall back on
“We have discussed this writing hobby for the last time”.

But her mind constantly raging
Her mundane existence is her inspiration,
So her fiction lives a far more fascinating reality
She never finds the right puns hard to write
In the right parts of the right poems no less
They take her heart away
For they are her art, wailing on paper
Because they are the words that she cannot speak,
Parts of herself scattered on paper, a replacement for the tears.
Her characters have the privilege of living a life
Entirely driven by desire; with success, passion and love
And a life where this is enough.

We are storytellers
We make stars in our works of art
And we in every way, shine through them
We just wait for the world to realize it.

By Matthew Kettles

“How do you lose a ship in a lake?” This is inevitably one of the first questions asked when describing the shipwrecks of North America’s five Great Lakes to those unfamiliar with the region or the subject. Of course, the Great Lakes are much bigger than your average lake, to the point where it is perhaps more appropriate to term them “Inland Seas”. Forming a corridor from the heartland of North America to the Atlantic Ocean, the Lakes proved themselves a viable means of transportation, an industry which continues to this day.

In spite of its rich collection of lore, the maritime history of the Great Lakes is a largely forgotten chapter of North American history, outside of a handful of historians, local enthusiasts, and scuba divers. This last group in particular is important to note, as they are concerned with the history of the many well-preserved shipwrecks that lie scattered along the bottom of the lakes.

While the history of the lakes is filled with the harrowing tales of survivors from these wrecks, there are some ships from which there were no survivors, no one to tell the tale of what caused the lakes to claim yet another ship for their collection. There are countless examples of ships that, for one reason or another, sailed out from safe harbor into the lake and were never seen or heard from again. Search parties were organized, and sent out in hopes of finding the lost vessel. Instead, they would be greeted by a field of wreckage, and return empty handed with news that the missing vessel was lost.

These ships form a collection of intriguing mysteries; ships that “went missing”. This piece is by no means intended as an exhaustive overview of such cases. Instead, it should serve as an introduction to further inquiry, for those who may be curious.

One of the first examples of a ship that “went missing” is, appropriately, one of the first European ships to ever sail the Great Lakes. This vessel was the 45-ton French barque, Le Griffon, constructed by the explorer Robert Cavalier, Sieur de la Salle. La Salle is more famous today as the man who claimed Louisiana for France, but earlier in his career, he had explored the Great Lakes region in the hopes of finding the Northwest Passage. As part of this expedition, to take advantage of the abundant and highly lucrative furs in the region, La Salle ordered the construction of Le Griffon. The vessel set sail on its maiden voyage on August 7, 1679 bound from the Niagara Peninsula to the location of modern-day Green Bay, Wisconsin. The vessel arrived safely, and La Salle disembarked while the ship was loaded with furs, and sent back to its port of origin with a crew of six. Le Griffon never made it.1

Today, Le Griffon is seen as the “Holy Grail” for Great Lakes shipwreck hunters. With no survivors or witnesses to speak of, its location is the most ambiguous of any Great Lakes shipwreck. It’s not clear which lake it was even lost in, as locations in both Lake Michigan and Lake Huron are equally likely. While many claims have come forward over the years, none have definitely proven to be the long-lost ship.2

As European settlement and later, American expansion continued, the Great Lakes basin became a heavily populated and industrialized region. A developed lake commerce industry rose up in response to this, and by the mid-19th Century, hundreds of schooners and small wooden steamships plied the waters. People needed to be moved just as much as cargo, and in response, upstart companies constructed small paddle-driven steamships to run between the large port cities. The 197- foot long Alpena was one such ship.

Constructed in Marine City, Michigan in 1867, the Alpena was one of the more popular ‘palace ships’ that plied the Lake Michigan, running a route between Chicago, Muskegon, and Grand Haven. Its last run on October 15, 1880 began under fair weather conditions, unusually warm for that late in the season. After taking on the last of its passen- gers and cargo, the Alpena departed Grand Haven for Chicago at 10pm. That night, however, conditions suddenly took a turn for the worse. The temperature plummeted from 18 degrees Celsius down to 0 in less than an hour, and a gale rose up, with winds up to 112 kilometers per hour. The next morning, the Alpena was nowhere to be found. As wreckage began to wash ashore in the next weeks, it became apparent that it never would be. While there was no official manifesto detailing how many were aboard, it is estimated that 70-80 passengers and crew went to the bot- tom of Lake Michigan with the Alpena. 3

With the dawn of the 20th Century, the advent of the steel freighter heralded the dawn of the modern era of navigation on the great lakes. Cargo could be delivered faster and in greater quantities than was ever before possible, resulting in a boom in ship construction. In spite of their modern innovations, these new ships still proved themselves just as susceptible to the lakes’ fury.

The most infamous of these early steel ships was the small 245-foot long canal steamer Bannockburn. Built in 1893 in Scotland, the Bannockburn was considered a staunch and reliable vessel.4 On November 20, 1902, the ship departed Port Arthur, Ontario, bound for Midland with a cargo of wheat. A storm hit the lake the following evening, but one the Bannockburn should have been more than capable of weathering. Another ship, the Algonquin, spotted the Bannockburn that night, the captain noting it was fighting a headwind, but otherwise seemed to be faring well. The passenger vessel Huronic also may have spotted the Bannockburn’s lights, although this was never confirmed. Despite the lack of indication that the ship was in distress, it failed to show up the following morning in Sault Ste. Marie. Hope was briefly revived when a single report came in that the Bannockburn was ashore on Michipico- ten Island. But this was dashed as a search failed to find the supposedly stranded ship. The only bits of wreckage ever recovered were a single life jacket and an oar, both bearing the lost vessel’s name, washed up on Superior’s southern shore. The Bannockburn was gone, but the question remained: why?5

This was not the end of the Bannockburn’s story. It would live on in the minds of more imaginative sailors and storytellers as the “Flying Dutchman of Lake Superior”. On other stormy nights sailors would report seeing the little steamer plowing though the swells, still vainly attempting to reach its destination. Reported Bannockburn sightings began the year after the vessel’s loss and continued well into the 1940s, often seen as a foreboding omen.6

All of these losses pale in comparison to the worst disaster to ever befall the Great Lakes shipping industry, simply known as the Great Storm of 1913. Lasting from November 6 until November 11 of that year, twelve steel freighters vanished into the lake, taking with them over 250 sailors.7 The largest of the ships, the 529-foot long Canadian steamer James Carruthers was only a few months old at the time. In spite of warnings
of the oncoming storm at DeTour, Michigan, where the Carruthers had stopped to take on coal, the ship’s captain ordered her to sail out into Lake Huron. Instead of remaining behind to seek shelter, the Carruthers simply became one more of the Great Lakes’ lost ships. 8

These ships are a mere handful of the Great Lakes ships whose registries were closed with the words “lost with all hands”. At the same time, they are each little pieces of the region’s history, igniting the imagination of the members of dedicated groups of hobby divers and historical societies, who continue to search for these lost ships.

However, the Lakes are notoriously good at keeping their secrets. Of the estimated six thousand ships that have been lost on the Great Lakes since the arrival of Europeans to the continent, less than a quarter have been located. With the limited amount of resources devoted to finding these wrecks, and the depths to which the lakes plunge, it is likely that most of them will remain lost for years to come.

With the advent of technological advancements such as radio, radar, and GPS systems, the frequency of shipwrecks dropped rapidly. The small steel freighters of the past have given way to much larger vessels, anywhere between 700 and 1000 feet in length and capable of carrying five times as much cargo as their predecessors. Yet far beneath the modern hulls gliding on the placid surface lie the immaculately preserved bones of the ships and the sailors that have gone before them, quietly forgotten until they day they are chanced upon once more.


1Harlan Hatcher and Erich A. Walter. A Pictorial History of the Great Lakes. (New York: American Legacy Press, 1963), 52-53.

2Chris Kohl. Shipwreck Tales of the Great Lakes. (West Chicago: Seawolf Communica- tions, 2004), 44-47.
3Frederick Stonehouse. Went Missing 2nd Edition. (Marquette: Avery Color Studios, 1984), 138-140.

4Rev. Peter J. Van der Linden et al. Great Lakes Ships We Remember Vol. I. (Cleveland: Freshwater Press, 1984), 43.
5Stonehouse, Went Missing, 44-46.

6Dwight Boyer. Ghost Ships of the Great Lakes. (Cornwall: The Cornwall Press, 1968), 26-27. 7Stonehouse, Went Missing, 194.
8Dwight Boyer. True Tales of the Great Lakes. (New York: Dodd, Mead, & Company, 1971), 266-267.

Blueprint1

Sex. We all do it at some point or another, so why is the discussion around ‘sex’ still so taboo? Speaking from a personal standpoint, the majority of my knowledge surrounding sex didn’t come from what I learned in school. It came from what I learned during my lived experience. Why is this? Is it natural to learn as you go, or should there be some foundation of knowledge before you reach your first sexual encounter?

Illustration by Andrew McNamara

I have never hidden who I am and where I am from. I grew up in a small city of 14,000 and had a strong rural influence in the earlier years of my life. Being born and raised in the Ottawa Valley does that to you. Once I reached that time in my life where it was time to move on to university, I had many choices to consider. I could have gone to a place similar to my home of Pembroke, Ontario. There would be little to no culture shock and I would fit in well. When it came down to decide, I went a different way. I wanted to be exposed to more. Around four years ago, I decided to embark on a four-year-long exploration in none other than Waterloo, Ontario.

Photography by Brian Limoyo

Devouring bold coffee bean with milk, sweating shamelessly from the heavy heat, I begin to prepare myself for the day of reading ahead. Once I find a place to rest my back, I observe the enormity of the text in front of me. Tracing its worn, elegant spine, I am not intimidated by the endless scrawl inside. If today there are images to be seen and pondered about, I make sure to spend time looking. I contemplate the cover art, tail end synopsis, remarks from critics, and, finally, the “dedicated to” section, glimpsing into the life of a writer I am already in awe of by virtue of insisting on the tangibility, complexity, and relevance of storytelling…

Katie Parkes

How do you visualize meditation? Just as you may have seen in Hollywood films, is it someone sitting cross-legged humming “ommmm”? Or are you thinking of those most enlightening moments when you have flushed anger from your heart while sitting in complete silence? …

More Posts >>

By Donnique Williams

Creased pages
and bended spine.
What once was yours, now is mine.

I open up this gifted book
flip the pages, carefully
caress the places
of indentation
of denotation
of connotation.
Each note a gem
a new found land.
I reconstruct in shallow scribbles
the image of this man.

This book
where spirit, soul and
desire meet
and lay upon me
all potential opportunity.
I hold creased pages,
a bended spine in hand
searching for a message that will stand.

I search these pages for footnotes of emotion.
I search in these spaces

between the stars, hoping

their mysteries will reveal

what was left unspoken.

By Madilyn Bozinis

Remote incandescent body,
Fixed luminous point in the sky.
Held together by your gravity,
Visible to the naked eye.
You’re perfect.

Gathering and gathering all pressures.
Collapsing and collapsing despite itself.
Swirling and swirling into creation.
Time and time and time and time.

Your long life shows us short beauty.
Can I measure from this far away?
When I don’t understand her company.

By Charis Hesketh

The unknown scares me
And the thing is I usually don’t get scared
It’s like jumping into space
Where you can feel nothing there
I feel like my dreams will not come true
That the universe will bet against me
And that makes me feel so blue
Like I can’t live in harmony
So all I can do is believe
And hope that the stars will guide me
Maybe the unknown will be great, who knows
I guess life is about always being on your toes.

By M Strome and Cora Vanessa Haven

Screen Shot 2016-03-15 at 2.21.02 PM

Screen Shot 2016-03-15 at 2.21.08 PM

Preye T A

She’s a storyteller, she tells all kinds,
The lies don’t count though. “Unfair”, she thinks.
School is lacklustre, but provides a solid career to fall back on
“We have discussed this writing hobby for the last time”.

But her mind constantly raging
Her mundane existence is her inspiration,
So her fiction lives a far more fascinating reality
She never finds the right puns hard to write
In the right parts of the right poems no less
They take her heart away
For they are her art, wailing on paper
Because they are the words that she cannot speak,
Parts of herself scattered on paper, a replacement for the tears.
Her characters have the privilege of living a life
Entirely driven by desire; with success, passion and love
And a life where this is enough.

We are storytellers
We make stars in our works of art
And we in every way, shine through them
We just wait for the world to realize it.

More Posts >>

By Mitchell Kooh

I was here. Where were you?
When day was new and night was long. With waters dark as the void in the eye of the storm. The light breaking. Light dying. And Man walked the earth.
Where were you when I laid the foundations? Tell me. When the mourning stars sang together. I already know, but tell me anyhow.
Tell me: who are you to reject me? Who do you think you are? I loved you I made you I saved you. You who cannot see. You were just an afterthought of me. Poor traitor’s kiss and lion’s den.
You were nothing when I was.
Was whole when you were two, three when you were me.
Starlight weaves my tapestry, my lament of fiery blood, shedding white-gold plasma to warm the depths. You sang to me in infancy. My voiceless breath overwhelmed. You loved me as a child, the child of a lonesome cosmos. But then you cursed me on your wedding day, and that long, dark night of the soul. You killed me with a word.
This far you’ve come, and yet no farther. This is where the proud waves stop. That sad old man, grown old and sad before his time. He loved me too, but his love stopped. He could not see the way to light, or where the dark resides. His faith was strong. It wasn’t enough. But he wasn’t lost. Are you?
You hate me now. But who are you? You’re just like him; you’re both like me. But I was more, and you hate me for it. But go on. The fires rage, my body burns and fades a thousand times. You take the cup but fail to sup. Hidden amongst the rubbish and the clutter, you think to escape. You put me in a shoebox, hide me in the closet. You’ll forget me: you already have.
You forgot who bound the chains of Pliedes, or old Orion’s belt. Who lit the stones of Ursa’s eyes, or set her cubs to roam. A dazzling ash, twinkle – and they’re gone. But.
I was I am. I was. You give me tongues to say my name, and I use them all. I was ipsum esse subsistens. I was. Hallelujah I was. And all along, I was here. So where were you?
You le me to die, but mother, can’t you see: I’m not done with you yet. And you answer to me.

Canada—Kolkata

By Manreet Lachar

The descent into madness, he thinks, is a slow one.
It starts when he’s young, looking at the night sky while his mother tells him stories about the pretty stars and hums him lullabies to get him to sleep. Then, all of a sudden, his mother is gone and he tells the stories of the constellations himself. But it’s lonely, knowing that no one is there to listen.
Next come the lights. It will always be a source of morbid fascination, the fact that they creep up on him instead of being there all at once. Cameras flash at him from every which way and the light sticks to his eyelids when he closes them. He hopes for a moment to breathe, to see, but all he gets are spots in his vision and the feeling of being an outsider when he never asked for it.
Soon enough, the flashes are paired with the sound of people always yelling his name. They tell him what to do, where to go, how to be. If he tries hard enough, though, it becomes white noise. It comes in handy if he thinks too much about the empty house, a father’s disappointment, his own loneli–
Never mind. No one wants to hear that sort of thing from him, he knows. So he buries it all in a treasure chest in the corner of his mind. It’s not a dark corner, he tells himself. It has as many stars as the galaxy around him, and maybe one day he’ll let himself open it. (Maybe voicing the words will stop them from trying to stick to every crevice of his mind, release the tension between his shoulders that comes from carrying too much weight, coax the feeling of being safe out of wherever it’s hiding within him.)
Until then, he makes do with the comfort of knowing that he’s always looking at the same sky, no matter where he is.

Home is the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, the Trocadéro. It is walking through the dark streets at night, marvelling at the glittering of the lights and the twinkling of the stars. It is the “welcome back!” messages he receives and knowing every place in the city to get good cheese at strange hours of the night. He’s been to the prettiest cities in the world, but nothing is more exquisite than the smell of warm bread from the bakery across from his high school.

Home is the girl who meets him for late night rooftop rendezvous to talk about nothing and everything. The one who ruined the stars for him when he mapped out the constellations of the freckles on her face and realized they were the greater beauty. That was the day he realized his stories had a listener and, if forced to make a choice, he would refuse to tell her in favour of listening to every one of her stories for the rest of eternity.

Home is that girl, who waits for him on the darker side of midnight and lights up when she finally sees him. Her tired, drooping eyes are blue as the sky at sunrise, and she has a smile bright as the sun. And here, he can voice the words, ease the tension, let out the feeling of being safe, which became synonymous to being home and being with her at some point.
It is a slow descent into madness, he thinks. But if madness is waiting for him, it can wait a little longer still.

By Breanna Kettles

I used to make my summertime wishes on satellites and passing planes. (I thought the sparkly “stars” were more powerful). I knew the rules, and said the rhyme, and without fail…

Nothing.

To be fair, I always wished for crazy things. Like super powers, or a horse, or to make the school basketball team. Totally unreasonable wishes to demand of a poor satellite who only wanted to give the world HBO, not deal with the heartfelt plea of a child.

Today, I don’t have a glittering dot in the velvet blue night to aim my wishes at. Instead, I wish on closer lights around me.

Phone. Ring. I wish the office would call and offer me a job.

Professor. Like me. I wish I could meet you on an intellectual level and not sound pathetic.

Cute boy. Talk to me. I wish you’d admit to yourself that you want my number because I’m hilarious, and adorable, and…

And I can’t keep wishing on satellites.

Even if it would be nice once in awhile, they don’t make wishes come true. I do. (Well, except for the whole super powers thing. That’s still in the works with Marvel).

By Rebecca Fletcher

Carol’s teacher once said that Orion was a summer constellation, and therefore could not be seen in the winter. Her teacher was an idiot.

Lying in a half-finished snow angel she didn’t want to destroy, she found him by the one – two – three of his belt, and traced the form of a hero she didn’t know. The stars made silver threads between them that changed their form every time she drew them with her mittened hand. He was proud and strong. He was frail and afraid. He was battleworn. He was green.

But he always faced away – poised to battle the darkness of the unknown around them. Orion was a hero with a face she couldn’t imagine, even in the moonlit cloud of breath that escaped when she spoke his name. He was a pale astral skeleton given form by the imaginings of a girl embraced by snow. Those fragile bones as soft, silver, and cold as the blanket around her.

Carol’s teacher once said that stars were suns, blazing hot, billions of miles away. Her teacher was boring.

The stars of Orion were the icy map of a titan scrawled upon the ocean of space – velvet, deep, unknown. She could follow the stars forever, an unending search for a hero in the bones of long-dead stars.

by Cora Vanessa Haven & Rebecca Fletcher

Sir Gallalot knelt by the crystalline surface of the mystic silver pool, lost in desperate prayer. The moon shone down on him, casting his figure in an ethereal light – worthy of his majestic nobility. “Divines!” He cried unto the swirling heavens, “Grant unto me thine blessings that I might save my lady love, Princess Agatha from the dragons!”

The Fates must have held him in high regard, for his wish was soon granted. Out of the gleaming waters rose the knight’s guardian, in a torrent of light and wisdom. The wind gained the strength of a storm, causing the tides to part, and the elder sorcerer’s robes to billow behind him as he stepped forth. In awe of the sorcerer’s might, Sir Gallalot bowed his head low and cried, “Great Mage of Leeds, I beg of thee, show me whence the dragon hath imprisoned my princess!”

The sorcerer heaved a great sigh and pierced the knight with his starlight gaze. “Stop talking all this Old English crap! You know no one understands it!”

Gallalot was taken aback, “S-sorry” he stuttered. “Can I please know where the dragon is?”

“Okay so what you do is follow the Road of Swords until you see the Tree of Avalon, then take a left. Do not – I repeat – do not take a right, or you’ll end up in Hades and trust me, that is not how you want to spend a Saturday afternoon.”

All of Gallalot’s good breeding forced him to thank the sorcerer for his guidance. It also forced him not to remind the sorcerer that it was a Tuesday. With his vague directions and his blessed blade at hand, Gallalot began his journey…
…which only took about twenty minutes, since the Road of Swords was not nearly as scary as it sounded, and he successfully remembered to take a left. Upon arriving at the dreary and foreboding Dragons’ Keep, Gallalot ventured into its labyrinth of stone, only to find the halls deserted. His terror was a living, breathing thing; his heart raced, his palms sweaty, but his knightly honour propelled him forward. Behind the final door to the Great Hall, he could hear the guttural language of fifty dragons, and the clinking of porcelain. He steeled himself, lifted his blade, and pushed open the door, prepared to fight.

Only he found the Great Council of Dragons in the midst of their annual tea-party-slash-bake-off. They all stared at Gallalot, porcelain cups poised in their tiny hands, and confused expressions on their long faces. Gallalot cleared his throat, “Yes, well… I come for Princess Agatha?”

The Head of the Great Council rose from his seat with a blank stare as he held up an offering. “Would you first like a crumpet?”

“What? No!” Cried Gallalot, brandishing his sword, “I come for the princess and I will slay any who stand in my way!” “Well she was supposed to judge the bake-off,” another dragon piped up, “but, yeah… okay, I guess.”

The elegant Princess Agatha strode across the Hall, her long lavender gown swirling around her ankles as she neared her “rescuer”. “My sweet Sir Gallalot… why did you feel the need to do this, man? Why?”

Startled, Gallalot attempted to calm her sudden fury. “I thought you were in danger, my love!”

Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “The only danger I was in was of being hangry. You never think of me as a person, but as a prize to be won from dragons, who – by the way – are super chill! They were going to feed me so much pie and cake. Seriously? Let it go. Chivalry is dead. I’m going to give dating princesses a try.”

Here ends the Tale of Sir Gallalot the Brave-but-Kind-of-Thick.

More Posts >>

By Mitchell Kooh

I was here. Where were you?
When day was new and night was long. With waters dark as the void in the eye of the storm. The light breaking. Light dying. And Man walked the earth.
Where were you when I laid the foundations? Tell me. When the mourning stars sang together. I already know, but tell me anyhow.
Tell me: who are you to reject me? Who do you think you are? I loved you I made you I saved you. You who cannot see. You were just an afterthought of me. Poor traitor’s kiss and lion’s den.
You were nothing when I was.
Was whole when you were two, three when you were me.
Starlight weaves my tapestry, my lament of fiery blood, shedding white-gold plasma to warm the depths. You sang to me in infancy. My voiceless breath overwhelmed. You loved me as a child, the child of a lonesome cosmos. But then you cursed me on your wedding day, and that long, dark night of the soul. You killed me with a word.
This far you’ve come, and yet no farther. This is where the proud waves stop. That sad old man, grown old and sad before his time. He loved me too, but his love stopped. He could not see the way to light, or where the dark resides. His faith was strong. It wasn’t enough. But he wasn’t lost. Are you?
You hate me now. But who are you? You’re just like him; you’re both like me. But I was more, and you hate me for it. But go on. The fires rage, my body burns and fades a thousand times. You take the cup but fail to sup. Hidden amongst the rubbish and the clutter, you think to escape. You put me in a shoebox, hide me in the closet. You’ll forget me: you already have.
You forgot who bound the chains of Pliedes, or old Orion’s belt. Who lit the stones of Ursa’s eyes, or set her cubs to roam. A dazzling ash, twinkle – and they’re gone. But.
I was I am. I was. You give me tongues to say my name, and I use them all. I was ipsum esse subsistens. I was. Hallelujah I was. And all along, I was here. So where were you?
You le me to die, but mother, can’t you see: I’m not done with you yet. And you answer to me.

Canada—Kolkata

By Breanna Kettles

I used to make my summertime wishes on satellites and passing planes. (I thought the sparkly “stars” were more powerful). I knew the rules, and said the rhyme, and without fail…

Nothing.

To be fair, I always wished for crazy things. Like super powers, or a horse, or to make the school basketball team. Totally unreasonable wishes to demand of a poor satellite who only wanted to give the world HBO, not deal with the heartfelt plea of a child.

Today, I don’t have a glittering dot in the velvet blue night to aim my wishes at. Instead, I wish on closer lights around me.

Phone. Ring. I wish the office would call and offer me a job.

Professor. Like me. I wish I could meet you on an intellectual level and not sound pathetic.

Cute boy. Talk to me. I wish you’d admit to yourself that you want my number because I’m hilarious, and adorable, and…

And I can’t keep wishing on satellites.

Even if it would be nice once in awhile, they don’t make wishes come true. I do. (Well, except for the whole super powers thing. That’s still in the works with Marvel).

By Rebecca Fletcher

Carol’s teacher once said that Orion was a summer constellation, and therefore could not be seen in the winter. Her teacher was an idiot.

Lying in a half-finished snow angel she didn’t want to destroy, she found him by the one – two – three of his belt, and traced the form of a hero she didn’t know. The stars made silver threads between them that changed their form every time she drew them with her mittened hand. He was proud and strong. He was frail and afraid. He was battleworn. He was green.

But he always faced away – poised to battle the darkness of the unknown around them. Orion was a hero with a face she couldn’t imagine, even in the moonlit cloud of breath that escaped when she spoke his name. He was a pale astral skeleton given form by the imaginings of a girl embraced by snow. Those fragile bones as soft, silver, and cold as the blanket around her.

Carol’s teacher once said that stars were suns, blazing hot, billions of miles away. Her teacher was boring.

The stars of Orion were the icy map of a titan scrawled upon the ocean of space – velvet, deep, unknown. She could follow the stars forever, an unending search for a hero in the bones of long-dead stars.

by AC Anonymous

I’m sorry to break it to you
(Your heart, that is),
But

Love is not eternal.

Let’s break this down:

Firstly, one must consider the Unforgiving implications of the term “Eternal”.
Humar me. Laugh. But, Let’s focus on the missing Os. Eternal and Immortal Represent the Uncountable and Countable Respectively. To say that love is “Immortal” implies, at the very least, A point in time where it began… But Eternal equates to infinity – that is, the total amount of numbers, rather than a number itself.
Infinity is mathematically possible, which equates to “Love overcomes all odds”, Meaning that it will never count to one.
From Zero to One is Countable. But From Zero to Zero Point Is Infinitely repeating, Even with the
imagination of One.
“It fits Somewhere,” Argue the Optimists. Certainly so. But no love will ever know where. I suppose this is what is so profoundly special: We’re all incapable of infinity. We’re all leveled because we’re all the same.
Love is so perfectly human because it evolved alongside us…which leads to:
Secondly, Love is a byproduct of natural selection. It is the ‘emotion’ that gave way to society and eventually, social evolution. If a love could simply survive Mass extinction From some astrological catastrophe, I’d wonder if you’d even call it “Love”anymore?
“It is necessarily so!” Claim the romantics (Perhaps they’d even fool themselves to call it a god).
But “Chance” becomes irrelevant when no one counts to one. The size of all numbers is truly infinite, but all odds are good Because Fortune is a powerful goddess.
If One is both possible and impossible, it means that life and therefore Love is reduced to such an inevitable consequence that even itself be- comes a grain. Growing and Shrinking are exactly the same – you can’t even drop anchor at zero!
There is no wall to hang your veil, your gold, because everything is at. Your eyes are biological miracles, and yet even they are able to limit your love.

Here’s what they see: 0 – 1

…But to find eternal love, you need to count to one.
…But no one can. No matter who you are. You’ll never last forever ago.

Zero point zero zero zero zero zero zero zero zero…

It is only possible to pause the game – but if you could find it in yourself To rebuke time, nothing would be impossible.
Therefore, Love is nothing but Time. As it should be. Because they need each other.

And that’s why the optimists and romantics aren’t the number of all numbers
Apart.
In fact, they’re intrinsically linked. Everything is.

So are you countable or uncountable? I’ll give you one hint:

If you want accountability, you’ll never find the one.

by Erica Parnis

I fell in love with you in the dead of winter. It started in the chilly half-autumn, half-winter limbo of November, and it grew during the gingerbread haze of December. We were both in and out of other relationships, but it was obvious that there ran between us a stubborn thread of companionship that resisted definition. From mutual friends I heard the constant refrain of “you two should date,” which we’d shoo away with sarcasm and averted eyes. I’m still unconvinced that our rebuttals were anything but thinly veiled acknowledgements of something more.

Those first months were a clumsy collage of indie rock and imperial stout, the memory of which has only gotten sharper with time. In January, I thought of new beginnings with you. I imagined playful kisses in lesser-known cafes, and I wondered why I had a thousand words in my head, but none contained enough syllables to express how I felt about you. I’ve still yet to find those words, but you’ll uncover in these paragraphs my most sincere attempt to turn a jumbled mess of feelings into something resembling a confession.

By the first week of February, the snow had given up its crisp white in favor of a brownish-grey slush that splashed under my rubber boots. Somewhere between chilly gloved fingers and the warmth of whiskey I fell in love with your eyes—the way they seemed electric as they flickered across the faces of strangers in bars and rested on mine. Sky blue, like in all the songs and poems that aren’t worth a thing.

With a laugh, you’d serve me snarky comments and I’d toss them back without a thought. I decided early on that you were my favorite conversational tennis partner. The slush melted in March, and you found someone else to return your serves. I tried to do the same. at quickly fell apart, and I decided that T.S. Eliot was right when he said that April was the cruelest month. My mind went back to you and to winter, to skinny love buried under ice and the foam in your latte bubbling away as I listened to you hum a tune I could only pretend to recognize.

In May we drifted apart, and in the summer drifted even further. But each time I saw you again we fell back together as though the hands on the clock had respectfully halted their revolutions. My memories from those days are few but fond, more like blurry snapshots than vivid film reels. I remember feeling my heartbreak fade to black as you drove us around rocky country roads. I remember smiling at the floor as I listened to you effortlessly chat with my mother. What I can’t quite recall, though, is when our unspoken “no” turned into “maybe,” and “maybe” turned into everything I’ve ever wanted.

It’s January again now, and the days are getting shorter. I seem to have fallen for you all over again. It’s happened in a number of places—behind the fingerprint-smudged lens of an old camera, from the passenger seat of your car with a smile, and in a reassuring hand squeeze in the quiet dark. I still can’t believe that I found you, picked you out of the crowd. It’s even more difficult to believe that you picked me back.

I can’t say what the spring will hold for us, but I doubt I’ll tire of hearing you talk about old cars or your grandfather’s coat, or that you think I’m beautiful. I won’t get bored of your mind, or your words, or the way you smile with your eyes, like the night the rain made our shirts damp and the vinyl scratched in the background as you pressed your lips against mine for the first time.

The seasons have changed, and so have we. But one thing is constant: you’ve made me happy from the night you rested your head in my lap on the snowy library lawn to the sleepy Sunday mornings we’ve spent intertwined.

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