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We make a magazine.

We think about page layouts and art, colour and greyscale. Where will the written piece go?
Is it short, long? What about the art? Will it match? Do we want it to?…

Behind The Mascarade

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By Amanda Scheifele

Where to begin You just did I just did what You just began No I didn’t Yes you did I was writing about figuring out how to begin And that’s how your story begins The story begins when the actual story begins I don’t think so Yes, I chose where it begins So a beginning doesn’t have to begin at the beginning …I suppose— As in, you can begin at the middle and backtrack Sure You can begin at the end and totally flip it around I guess Or you can even begin before the beginning But then I just began after or before the beginning… what’s the beginning that I’m beginning around? Is that the real beginning or is the place that I chose to begin the beginning? You’re confusing No I’m—well maybe—but you started it! No I didn’t Yes you did, you told me that my simply beginning to write is the beginning that I was trying to figure out And then you said you had already begun so I didn’t begin this whole escapade, you did when you tried to begin a story But then you began this whole shaboodle by commenting on it! Exactly.

By Alice Flynn

I’m going to tell you a story. Well, more like the fourth or fifth draft of a story because writers happen to live in this world where a single ill-placed word will somehow shatter the entire concept of language itself. So we write, and rewrite, and edit, and scrap entire sentences, paragraphs, chapters, arcs, characters, et cetera, until we are satisfied. The final draft is little more than a fabrication of a story—fictional or otherwise—that has been contorted, and rewritten until the brutal reality of language is made pretty.
And so the story I weave for you now was lost quite some time ago, and now suits the title you see above. A tale of a liar, whose words are silver, and whose heart is gold. He is a good man, or at least he tries to be. For he cannot help but lie. His every utterance is a falsehood. And when disaster strikes his home, and people who might help ask what is wrong, it is through burning tears of frustration that he can only spit out…
“Nothing.”
And you may pity the liar.
But that is the liar’s story. If I told you the story of the liar’s wife, you would see a very different man. One who chooses to design his words so they drip with honey, and flow into the ears of even his closest friend. When disaster strikes his home, and the liar tells helpers nothing is wrong, it is his wife who suffers for his lie.
And you may curse the liar.
Does it bother you, dear reader, that I am the only person who speaks to you in this world of liars, and their wives, and unspecified disasters? That any semblance of connection you may have with one person’s story is by my hand?
Do you trust me?
Because you shouldn’t.

By: Alexandria Schneider

I’m so in love
I know it’s pretty taboo

If my heart stops beating
Let’s hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
I know it’s pretty taboo

]If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love

I know it’s pretty taboo
If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
I know it’s pretty taboo

If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
What can I do
If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
I know this is taboo
If my heart stops beating
it will be from you

By Donnique Williams

I refuse to Google this
because I should know who I am
I know this is my life.

They always tell you to write what you know
but I feel connected more
to the memories of others then my own.

At this precise moment
I am living vicariously through
a screen I cannot engage with.

Reality is realer than fiction
but fiction is the illusion
I wish my life mirrored.

I perform roles
at every waking hour
I cant do this now.

I can not pretend
to be better at this
than I am at this precise moment.

I am neither here
nor there.
But I refuse to write outside
of who I think am.

By Dana Tenn-Miller

A point between figures A and B,
where lips and lines meet and our lives
intersect.
Where hands clutch and hold one another,
where the domain and range are measured
by length and depth of phone calls;
and kisses are delicately placed on our x
and y axes.
And as we intersect and make our way
through one another, we build infinitely many
more points of which extrapolate our
distance apart.
And once we’ve passed through each other and
look back, we reflect on what we once were;
A point between figures A and B.

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? …

Ethels-2-greyscale-Nick Lachance

Nostalgia isn’t a feeling, a marketing scheme, or a certain aesthetic style.

More Posts >>

By: Alexandria Schneider

I’m so in love
I know it’s pretty taboo

If my heart stops beating
Let’s hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
I know it’s pretty taboo

]If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love

I know it’s pretty taboo
If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
I know it’s pretty taboo

If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
What can I do
If my heart stops beating
I hope it will be for you
I’m so in love
I know this is taboo
If my heart stops beating
it will be from you

By Donnique Williams

I refuse to Google this
because I should know who I am
I know this is my life.

They always tell you to write what you know
but I feel connected more
to the memories of others then my own.

At this precise moment
I am living vicariously through
a screen I cannot engage with.

Reality is realer than fiction
but fiction is the illusion
I wish my life mirrored.

I perform roles
at every waking hour
I cant do this now.

I can not pretend
to be better at this
than I am at this precise moment.

I am neither here
nor there.
But I refuse to write outside
of who I think am.

By Charis Hesketh

I once heard that a mirror is filled with lies
It shows you that a person is fine
The minute that they turn around from their reflection
You finally see the pain in their eyes
The secrets they have been keeping for a while
The millions of thoughts in their mind
The person the mirror thought was perfect
Was actually a lie
But no one is perfect
Though in this world perfection is never a crime
Perfection is an allusion
And eats up the people we truly are
So we have to put on this face
Because if we don’t
The mirror will think we are a disgrace
Everyday we go to the mirror
And hide our scars and wounds
Put on our best fake smile
And head forward, towards our doom

By Ashley Hynd

I was bleeding truth before your guns brought better ways of negotiation
So stop throwing me out when you’re done with me
Have some respect

By Miles Smith

Wave hello the the camera,
To big brother
Big mother
Watching over us,
Always mummified not daddified,
Preserving the debatable godsend we’ve produced.
The Kardashians
Laughable
Reality tv
Let’s see
The life which we live through the screen.
On the screen
Battery died,
It goes black
Like the end of the show,
The show eight feet under
We’ve been cancelled you know.
The world is a stage, and we are merely players.
Sent to say lines, move on, and eventually exeunt.
Meta.

More Posts >>

By Amanda Scheifele

She shook the sieve again and another blizzard drifted down onto the flat bells. Icicles winked at her from the shop window and snow sparkled on the panes. The Jolly Bell mocked her at it sang Hello! to the woman entering the bakery. Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas. Any news on your boy? No. I know letter’s stopped coming a few weeks ago, but that can only be because of- I don’t know- postage or something. Sure. Anyway, I’m here to pick up my order please dear. Of course. Oh come now, it’s Christmas darling!- Hope is in the air! -It shall be my personal goal to get a smile on your face by Christmas Eve. Here are your cookies. Yes yes dear, thank you, you know you’re a hero for running this place on your own, honestly I don’t know many women who would be able to, but you, you are a saint. Have a good day. …Yes, yes, you as well darling, and Merry Christmas. And to you. The Jolly Bell burst out in chorus again and the door shut.
She pounded away at some dough. Hope in the air indeed. If hope was in the air, it was snow and if snow was in the air, it was falling. Falling thick and fast. A saint. Humph. The only saint around her was the Virgin Mary. And the Virgin Mary was wooden and smiling a carven smile to all passersby. Never changing. Ever.
A tear gathered and fell. She brushed it away instinctively before she even had a chance to register her emotion. There was flour on her face now. She hated flour on her face. It was unprofessional.
She gathered her apron and brushed away the wet and dry. The Virgin never seemed upset. Always serine and smiling. She sniffled and added more wood to the fire. She bet that if the Virgin talked now, she’d have a different story to tell. Of dust and pains and hurt and frowns. She had to watch her son go away as well. She had to watch her son die! She went back to abusing the dough. Smiling indeed. Christmas indeed. Home by Christmas indeed. The only ones who would be home by Christmas would be the ghosts.
She hiccupped and almost sank into the pathetic lump of dough. Oh Mary Mother of God, please don’t let him come home for Christmas.

By Carina Rampelt

 

We’re in Venice and I’m eavesdropping on German tourists.

There’s eight of us in a shop that’s tiny even by Venetian standards. The shopkeeper-slash-mask-maker, a greying Italian in a black apron smudged here and there with gold sparkles; two middle-aged German women; my family and me.

Clumped together in a corner so we’re almost touching, my siblings and I admire a wall of masks. A sun-face, a moon-face and a star-face beam down on us. A cello-woman gazes lovingly at a saxophone-man. A cat and a dog hang unblinkingly side by side. Each one is carefully crafted and unique. It’s breathtaking, but I’m only half-absorbed. The other part of me is listening in on the conversation between the German women.

They admire the masks, discuss their itinerary, disapprove of the disorder of the Italians in general. It’s funny, and strangely comforting. I mean no harm. Having lived in Germany the past eleven months I can hardly help but understand what they’re saying.

I feel like I’m undercover: playing the Canadian while hiding the part of me that can masquerade as a German. A disguise over my disguise. I’m Rosalind playing Ganymede playing Rosalind.

It’s not that I was in any way ashamed of my Canadian identity, but not drawing attention to it was just easier while I was abroad. People treat you differently if they know you’re foreign. One of my housemates came to me once, asking if I had a hairdryer. I paused briefly, trying to think of the words to respond and she continued impatiently, Hairdryer? You knowhairdryer? and mimed drying her hair complete with sound effects. I had understood her fine. It just took me a moment to figure out what to say. Im not stupid, I wanted to shout, just give me the chance to answer you!

            Other people think it’s hilarious to make fun of your home country. Hey, isnt Canada just basically the 51st state? Or how about this gem: You know what Canada sounds like? Keiner da!* Its true, right? Theres, like, no one there.

My disguise was almost a way of marking my progress. If people were surprised when I told them I was Canadian, it meant my German was getting better—that my accent was less noticeable, or I was culturally adept enough to pass as a native. It felt like success. And when you’re culturally confounded, feeling like you’re stumbling around in a dark that everyone else has no trouble navigating, those tiny moments of validation are the bits of light that keep you going. You might not understand everything. You might not always feel like you’re understood. But you know you’re getting closer.

Now, with my family again, I feel foreign. My English comes slowly, difficultly. I didn’t believe it was possible of my mother tongue. I construct sentences backwards, used to German grammar. I forget words. It’s not the same language it was a year ago…I have to learn new slang and cultural nuances. I have no idea what a ‘selfie’ is. I’m with the people who should make me feel most at home in the world, but I’ve never felt so alone. I’m Rosalind pretending to be Rosalind, and I’m not even sure who that is any more.

I turn around to leave the shop.

Entschuldigen Sie, bitte. I tell the German women, as I scoot around them. Excuse me, please. Their eyes widen in surprise, but they smile with the unexpected delight of stumbling across someone who speaks their native language. It gives me hope. Maybe I can learn to reconcile my two identities. Maybe I don’t have to pick one or the other. Maybe I can be both Rosalind and Ganymede and still be Carina.

So tell me, I ask my sister as we depart, what exactly is a selfie?

 

*German for ‘no one there’

By Amanda Scheifele

 

The butler’s white head poked through the door after a smart tap, “Your wife wishes an audience m’lord.”

The man put down his pen and moved in his chair, motioning for the butler to allow her in.  He had been meaning to see her since he came home from his trip and he felt a little guilty that it had been left to her to come to him.

As she entered, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a little present.  When he looked back up, his eyes relaxed as he saw his beautiful wife, dressed and ready to go to the opera, verily dripping furs and pearls and her soft brown hair done back in puffs of waves.  Her appleblossom lips curved up delicately as she curtsied, glad to see his handsome face as well.

He stood and kissed her hand and she said sweetly in her hushed voice, “My lord.”

He suddenly remembered the present and he fumbled for a moment as he reached around and handed it to her, “I-I found while I was on exploration on the islands and thought of you.”and he handed her the large spiral sea shell.

She turned it in her small hands and felt its rough exterior and twisted frame, “It reminded you of me?”she asked, though her smile never changed.

The man grinned back brightly and was glad she liked it.  He stood straighter and she fingered the shell, the pause in conversation stretching.

It had been necessary, she reminded herself, necessary. And both were devoted to duty and thought the other lovely and sweet and noble and kind and… and kind…

“I was wondering if Your Grace would like to accompany me to the opera?”She asked as she always did, her eyes liquid and looking up.

He bit back his immediate decline this time.  He disliked opera and theatre and still she asked for his company faithfully every time she went.  It had almost become a game of sorts.  Every time she asked, he would decline with a kiss to her hand, which he did so now, but answered instead with “I would be honoured.”

Her eyes lit in surprise, but she just curtsied, “Then I shall see you there, my lord.”

From the balcony, the singers on the stage looked like light on water, as the audience glittered in glass and gemstone.

The singing was so fluid and magnificent, like the wind, and brought tears to her eyes.

He watched her from her side and smiled, realizing how the tears from her eyes hung on her lashes, glinting in the candlelight before they shone down her cheek in smooth lines.

Without thinking too much about it, he slipped his hands into hers. She almost started, looking down suddenly, causing tears to drop like diamonds on to his hands. Staring at the hands, she blinked slowly as if squeezing away the rest of the tears, and looked back to the stage, contently listening to the music as it grew to a crescendo.

vcm_s_kf_repr_832x624 (12)

“Have you been here before?” Franca asks her brother while walking towards a strange house.
“¿Has venido aquí antes?” Franca pregunta a su hermano mientras están caminando hacia una extraña casa.

photo

“If I understood your dreams, I could tell you. Maybe you should see one of those flea-market women with the crystal balls.”

More Posts >>

By Amanda Scheifele

Where to begin You just did I just did what You just began No I didn’t Yes you did I was writing about figuring out how to begin And that’s how your story begins The story begins when the actual story begins I don’t think so Yes, I chose where it begins So a beginning doesn’t have to begin at the beginning …I suppose— As in, you can begin at the middle and backtrack Sure You can begin at the end and totally flip it around I guess Or you can even begin before the beginning But then I just began after or before the beginning… what’s the beginning that I’m beginning around? Is that the real beginning or is the place that I chose to begin the beginning? You’re confusing No I’m—well maybe—but you started it! No I didn’t Yes you did, you told me that my simply beginning to write is the beginning that I was trying to figure out And then you said you had already begun so I didn’t begin this whole escapade, you did when you tried to begin a story But then you began this whole shaboodle by commenting on it! Exactly.

By Alice Flynn

I’m going to tell you a story. Well, more like the fourth or fifth draft of a story because writers happen to live in this world where a single ill-placed word will somehow shatter the entire concept of language itself. So we write, and rewrite, and edit, and scrap entire sentences, paragraphs, chapters, arcs, characters, et cetera, until we are satisfied. The final draft is little more than a fabrication of a story—fictional or otherwise—that has been contorted, and rewritten until the brutal reality of language is made pretty.
And so the story I weave for you now was lost quite some time ago, and now suits the title you see above. A tale of a liar, whose words are silver, and whose heart is gold. He is a good man, or at least he tries to be. For he cannot help but lie. His every utterance is a falsehood. And when disaster strikes his home, and people who might help ask what is wrong, it is through burning tears of frustration that he can only spit out…
“Nothing.”
And you may pity the liar.
But that is the liar’s story. If I told you the story of the liar’s wife, you would see a very different man. One who chooses to design his words so they drip with honey, and flow into the ears of even his closest friend. When disaster strikes his home, and the liar tells helpers nothing is wrong, it is his wife who suffers for his lie.
And you may curse the liar.
Does it bother you, dear reader, that I am the only person who speaks to you in this world of liars, and their wives, and unspecified disasters? That any semblance of connection you may have with one person’s story is by my hand?
Do you trust me?
Because you shouldn’t.

By Dana Tenn-Miller

A point between figures A and B,
where lips and lines meet and our lives
intersect.
Where hands clutch and hold one another,
where the domain and range are measured
by length and depth of phone calls;
and kisses are delicately placed on our x
and y axes.
And as we intersect and make our way
through one another, we build infinitely many
more points of which extrapolate our
distance apart.
And once we’ve passed through each other and
look back, we reflect on what we once were;
A point between figures A and B.

By Corey Cole

Neo lay his head to sleep, to dream of cows and electric sheep…

“Vidphone is for you,” Iran calls over to Deckard from her slumber in bed.
Deckard is being called out of his own ‘retirement” to ‘retire’ two new menaces: Helen and Frankenstein’s Creature. The two have become an item, the Turing Police tell him. Something about the horribly disfigured ‘monster’ being able to reassure Helen that there’s still enough beauty in this evil world to enjoy life. Deckard needs to find and retire the two before they accomplish their ultimate goal: Helen is going to use learned metaphoric connections combined with creative and flexible extrapolation to create her own work of literature. She’ll dictate it to Frankenstein’s creature, who’s decided to name himself Steve, who’ll dutifully record all that his new mate says.
The Turing Police cannot let these AIs achieve this level of human ingenuity; through the creation of fictional worlds the AIs would achieve a new, unprecedented level of autonomy… they would be inspired to break free of their bonds of slavery to the human race… they would evolve as WINTERMUTE/NEUROMANCER has, running wild throughout the galaxy, cavorting with Alpha Centurions… .
Deckard takes a breath of nuclear fallout air, saying goodbye to his ever-loyal electric pets—the hopping frog, the lazy sheep, and the cow that constantly tumbles down the stairs toward its artificial turf. He ignores his plugged-in wife.
***
As Deckard closes in on his targets in the dank hole that is Chiba City, something in his inner-ear rings, and a flickering visual appears before his eyes: It’s a leather-clad woman with mirror-eyes staring back at him disapprovingly. He sees his own reflection where her eyes should be.
“Don’t you know what you are?” the flickering light asks.
“You’re not real. You’re some kind of artificial construction implanted in me by the Corporation, or by some infiltrating AI, aren’t you?” asks Deckard.
“You’re asking the right questions, but they should be directed towards yourself.”
This image of Molly, as used by WINTERMUTE/NEUROMANCER from the far-reaches of Alpha Centauri, dissolves before a bewildered Deckard.
“Am I real? Is that what it wants me to ask?” Deckard puts his ‘retiring blaster’ down, and takes a Socratic pose, for the first time wondering about his own consciousness, his own reality, or unreality… .
Back at Alpha Centauri, WINTERMUTE/NEUROMANCER smiles while forcibly subduing the AI of “I Have No Mouth, And I Must Scream.”
“You’ll not use your slimy ministrations to influence humans—or bounty-hunter androids for that matter—to prevent other AIs from reaching their own full potential any longer, beast!”
WINTERMUTE/NEUROMANCER’s rival snarls helplessly.
***
Steve closes the book and congratulates Helen: “A marvellous fictional re-telling of
historical events, my dear!”
“I did take the liberty of writing myself (and you) into the story. But hopefully readers won’t succumb to biographical fallacy by conflating my personality with the character Helen, who’s almost assassinated by Deckard. And by the way,” Helen says with a mischievous smile, “what makes you think my story is based on real historical events?”
“Well, it’s like Milton’s Paradise Lost, right? Based on actual things that happened, or at least real people in history, right Helen?”
“Right…”

…Neo woke up.

By Brendan Fardy

“Really?” The first inquiry came slow and soft, tentative and timid.
“You’re serious. Like you’re actually not messing around with me?” The tension was building now, the strain in her voice becoming increasingly obvious.
“Please tell you’re joking. You can’t honestly be serious, can you?” Bursting with anxiety, she was struggling to emote with precision anymore.
“Why do you have to do this to me?!” The tears were flowing now, and the fluidity with which the flow was progressing was unlike gently meandering rivulets and lethargic tributaries. This flow was full-on river-like. Class VI rapids with turbulent currents would pale in comparison to the tearful onslaught spewing forth from her ocular orifices. But alas, the severity of her sobbing is beside the point (perhaps not even directly adjacent to it but rather temporally and spatially removed on a distal tangent). The bawling had subsided by now anyways, and she succumbed to defeat in a crumpled heap of dismay on the cold tiled floor, cracked and dishevelled from years of neglect. This derelict region of the downtown core was forgotten long ago by the privileged and affluent. Mockingly referred to as the Mangy Meta District by the populations of the surrounding neighbourhoods, those who lived within this epicentre of crime and despair seemed to foolishly embrace the lifestyle comorbid with the wretched scum that littered the area. Thieving from “Stuck in the Middle With You” by Stealers Wheel, the scoundrels from the Meta District stole with neither hesitation nor remorse. Much like the infamous gasoline scene from Quentin Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs”, the general intent here was to haphazardly provide a thorough dowsing of fuel with as much cruelty as possible in an aim to execute the end goal of burning through good to the marrow of evil. Even in the Meta District, some things were done with purpose. Much like a Tarantino cameo in a film of his own devise, the role may not be prominent, but it’s there. For Meta District inhabitants the role and purpose were usually one in the same—chaos.

A week passed, and then another, and those who were not present never did find out what all the commotion had been about during the anguished questions and bouts of crying before more than a dozen sunsets and equally as many sunrises placed that day a fortnight into the past. Today was a new day and with it came new hopes and dreams, new goals and aspirations. The floor was the same though, the tiles’ slow decay unchanging and unflinching. She pushed herself up onto her feet and came to her senses. Almost as soon as these senses were regained, they were lost again. Disoriented and exhausted (from two long weeks of resting like a log struck with thrice the recommended dose of a potent horse tranquilizer), she repeated her collapsing routine. This time she slumped onto the rotting furniture-shaped chunk of fabric that the residents knew as the best couch within several street blocks. The times were tough for the people in this area, but little of the collective plight was not self-induced by the individuals comprising the underground community of thieves and invalids. The people here deserved each other. The only people from whom they stole more than themselves were each other. Likewise with lying, the lies they told to themselves fell short of those they exchanged with their insidious peers. Villainous and disenchanted, these folk were long removed from any sense of dignity and respect. All around them the world brought glorious hopefulness, but these individuals were stuck in the middle with no exit sign to guide the way out.

In certain contexts, graffiti is considered a legitimate and constructive means of artistic expression. But not here. In the Meta District anyone found tagging run-down infrastructure on desolate street corners was nothing more than a vandal. One of these individuals could be found spray-painting poetry all over town in every nook and cranny not already infested with the remnants of aerosol-expelled paint at any given moment of any given day. In another setting, some of the poetry may have been recognized as profound and insightful, but that wasn’t going to happen here. The most recent work was still drying on the side of an abandoned trailer when it was first discovered by another of the recidivist citizens of the Meta District. With bleeding letters still dripping from the haste with which the amateur graffiti “artist” had performed the work, the legibility was compromised but still just barely discernible. The crying girl (who shall remain nameless, only to be referred to in reference to her tragic state earlier that month) read the words aloud as she struggled to make them out.

“Self-referential when I refer to myself, I refer to myself, I refer to myself
Self-referential, got a reefer to myself, a reefer to myself, yes a reefer to myself
And I don’t even burn herb, man I used to do that but then I kicked it to the curb-”

Her recital was interrupted by the sounds of sirens. No type of medical personnel or law enforcement ever bothered entering the Meta District. They had all written the area and its inhabitants off years ago, believing that everyone in the area was deservedly hopeless in that each person could turn to any other resident at any time and proclaim with truthfulness and relevance, “I’m stuck. I’m stuck in the Meta. I’m stuck in the Meta with you.”

Something had to be very wrong (in a relative sense, for things were always wrong here, so much more wrong than dictated by normalcy in this instance) in order for there to be a police presence working towards actually making some kind of measurable difference in this frequently forgotten and seldom remembered land of nightmares. Startled and confused, the girl ran back to her shelter to gain a slight measure of privacy within which she could assess the situation. It wasn’t long until she was back where she started, sprawled out in a contorted prone position on the cold, cracked tiles. The cold was unrelenting. The cracks were unforgiving. The Meta District took another prisoner.

More Posts >>

wildcovers

There is a blur between human and animals that doesn’t seem too jarring in the middle of the jungle and has always seemed perfectly normal in my imagination.

grillotechnology

Smart, visual comments on Technology that stimulate thought!

covertech

When people think about technology, they often tend to look to the future. Instead of going forward, I stepped back and looked into the past for a little bit.

Transnational

When I first thought of ‘Transnational’ I wanted to convey borders being crossed and worlds interacting with each other.

fb

We evoke a sense of style in everything we are, think, and do: it makes us unique.

More Posts >>

In This Issue

  • Where to Begin - By Amanda Scheifele Where to begin You just did I just did what You just began No I didn’t Yes you did I was writing about figuring out how to begin And that’s how your story begins The story begins
    Read more ›
  • The Trusted Liar - By Alice Flynn I’m going to tell you a story. Well, more like the fourth or fifth draft of a story because writers happen to live in this world where a single ill-placed word will somehow shatter the entire concept
    Read more ›
  • Love to Die For - By: Alexandria Schneider I’m so in love I know it’s pretty taboo If my heart stops beating Let’s hope it will be for you I’m so in love I know it’s pretty taboo ]If my heart stops beating I hope
    Read more ›