Volume 96, Issue 91
Friday March 21, 2003
Maja's art

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THE ARTS ISSUE

Adam Powers: 18th Dissonet

William O: I'll Take My Chances

Chelsey Lichtman: Untitled

Samantha Sotelo: Darkness Cover

Larissa Wasyliw: Sick of the Everyday

Brett Lavoie: The Red Glass Heart

Ryan A. Pratt: Running Like a Saint in Exile

Mike Ward: Redirection

Justin Quesnelle: I Wake this Morning in a Box

Justin Andrew Steepe: Regret to Repose

Larissa Wasyliw: Wires Crossed

Myles DeRosse: Void

K.S.: fallout

Chelsey Lichtman: Passage from a short story

Mike Ward: Seemingly Oblivious

Lori A. May: Sonnet No 3

Ryan A. Pratt: Home

William O: House of Cards

Lori A. May: If I Were a Balcony

Elizabeth Lutgendorff: Tick Tock

Ryan A. Pratt: The Last Wavebreak

Ainsley Bladon: Pale Girl

 


By Taylor Um


By Niru Somayajula


By Allen Chen


By Nicole D'Cruz


By Nicole D'Cruz


By Taylor Um


By Nicole D'Cruz


By Tom Couchie

 

 

     
THE ARTS ISSUE
2003

Passage from a short story

I was immersed in the music. In the immediacy of the moment. Of what my life was before this day, and what it would surely become after. The band ravaged on, the music blared loudly enough from the speakers to deafen even the most fanatical rock enthusiast. I was part of a marker in history that would be mulled over again and again, while exhaling victory joints in the back of someone’s battered and neglected yet eternal Ford. To my immediate left, a young couple stood, the woman in front of the man, his arms wrapped half around her waist, half around her shoulders. Both of their eyes remained closed the whole while I studied them. Despite the shrill of the guitar and the whipping and pounding of the drums, they remained almost static, sheltering each other from the vulnerability that hovered above the field. I too felt the need to be still. To understand what it meant to be fully detached from life for the rush of a moment. The way I felt had nothing to do with how fiercely I had worked to be able to come here. It had nothing to do with experiencing this with Aubry, who as cliché as it might sound, was the best thing to come my way since my life began twenty-two years ago. It was all about how the music quaked me. I was surrounded by people who were all as moved as I was, by these noises that, as they came together, composed sounds which were so poignant I felt light in the head. I could see Aubry’s black mass of hair a few rows ahead of me, the back of her shirt soaked through, arms flailing so hard they looked as if they might depart at any moment.

—Chelsey Lichtman

© 2002 THE GAZETTE