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

Pale Girl

Hand me your eyes. I’ll put them in front of mine — you won’t expect this illusion you’ll see. Enter my mind, let your conscience unwind, you’ll be shocked by the shocks found in me.
I glance across the street. A group of kids saunter their way toward the park — all chess boards and baseball gloves, laughing with their tacky striped beach chairs as the gulls soar overhead. It’s just too much. I swore last week to ignore that stupid sickening nostalgia which infiltrates me with our contemporary weather. I look down. There is a man lying there, beside the graffiti blazoned wall, pretending to sleep. As always, the sewer grate threatens to suck the city under, through its wrought iron bars; a sluice through a throbbing vein. But what will it take to cut through the synthetic fog I’ve settled around myself? A flicker catches my eye. Two glimmering points bristle in the squalor. Bulbous shiny unblinking eyes pierce that pure white darkness. I lick my cracked, dry lips. The smooth tinny green label of my drink chafes at the poking skin stinging about my mouth, and the landing digs at my calves, as I push off to take a closer look. He touches me. My glassy eyes smooth over, and blood rushes to my cheeks. He coughs. I, in turn, inhale, and the glass inside my head shatters with a sigh. I glance down again, only to realize those two clear beads — perfect crystals to my mind’s eye — were really the glint of discarded rusted metal — nothing more than the lid from a tin can, lying amidst the asphalt. I have learned that you can’t measure your life by coffees; the spoon will stir your brain. I now understand that the ultimate escape from the lie you work so hard to build around yourself has been there all along. That moment taught me that it is the separation of thought and emotion lends to the birth of clarity. It is when one can rationalize one’s own feeling that one can truly be.

—Ainsley Bladon

© 2002 THE GAZETTE