Tag: relationships

“The Best Lover” – Charlotte Joyce Kidd

Twin_Blouse

I think the best lover would be really scared of dying. They would come home early every night. They would never bike in a busy city, never drive at all. They would never jaywalk. They would never do drugs—maybe pot once in a while but only on a couch, between four walls, when they’d checked the forecast and there was no chance of natural disaster. They wouldn’t drink too much, make enemies, ever go off their anti-depressants. Even when they stopped being mine, I wouldn’t have to worry. There would be no chance of disappearing endings, of being left holding feelings severed at one end.

I think the best lover would want to spend all their time with me. They wouldn’t be able to imagine anything else they’d rather be doing. They’d hold my hand while they went to the toilet. We’d reuse the toothpaste foam. When we’d walk in public, they’d tangle their fingers in my hair, palms not enough, scalp warmer, closer to bone, closer to brain. They’d cancel their Saturday nights, make every hour 8 a.m. Sunday, when together is unthinking. They’d sit behind me in my classes. They’d finish my sentences in therapy. They would text me once an hour just to tell me a joke.

I think the best lover would have a million lives, so that each time they fell out of love with me they could be reborn. They would walk in the door of the night they first met me, look around. They would come up and say hi, knowing nothing yet.

 

these words by Charlotte Joyce Kidd were inspired by the work of Miza Coplin

“Tickets and Rides” – Josh Elyea

nocturne with ferris wheel_linbaoling

The neon from the carnival lights, bright against the black sky, hurts my eyes when I stare at it for too long. It’s hard to tell where the light ends and the black begins; no matter how hard I try to hone in on the exact place where they meet, the edge never reveals itself. Sometimes our love is like that, too; even when I want to, I can never really find where the good bits stop and the bad bits start.

It feels as though something horrible is about to happen; the air is heavy, laden, just as it is before the breaking of a storm. I like storms. I remember fondly those moments when I would sit, as a child, on the porch swing with my mother and we’d watch the thunder clouds roll in across the fields. With the defiance found only in youth, I’d scream back towards the lightning with all the breath in my lungs, as my mother shook her head.

You have to whisper to the thunder, she’d say. That’s the only way it can hear you.

My wife looks like my mother, a little.

 The heavy air feels hot on my skin, and I worry my hands are too clammy to reach out and grasp the woman next to me. I do it anyway. As I do, I say that ferris wheels aren’t supposed to move this fast, my darling. They aren’t supposed to fly.

Cotton candy flavored kisses, corny lines like you complete me, cocaine drips and my corduroys rubbing together with that shhhk, shhhk. The drugs were her idea, I swear. Something about shaking the monotony of Saturday night rituals, of having a suburban crisis of faith.  

Stopped at the top, I stare deep into the sky. It’s moving, like a Rorschach without the white. Pulsing, and at the very edges of my eyes, from below, the neon creeps into view. Who knew a glimpse into the abyss could be bought with a single carnival ticket. Here I thought it would cost me a white picket fence.

 

these words by Josh Elyea were inspired by the work of Lin Bao Ling

“Healing” – Shagufe Hossain

Chelsea Rushton_In Which God is a Woman, part ii 300 dpi

It is not the same, the rain here and the rain there. Even though the sky is heavy with untold secrets the same way. Even though when the clouds breathe, they breathe tears. Even though it falls, as it does everywhere. It is not the same. I suppose it can never be the same in any two places. But it takes a while to know the difference.

People are people and places are places. But the earth breathes differently when water touches it, depending on where it is. Sometimes, touches make it shiver and shrivel away. Or don’t make it any more or any less than it is. And sometimes, touches make it come alive. You can tell how the water makes the earth feel from the way it smells.

It is the same with people. You can tell how touches make one feel from the way they smell. There is either the distinct fragrance of desire or the distinct odour of disdain. Or sometimes the distinct scentlessness of indifference that makes your feel like you have anosmia.

That is the worst of the lot. No stench. No perfume. Just scentlessness.
But it takes a while to know the difference. Nonetheless, it falls. Everywhere.

And sometimes, as it falls, it stirs a storm.

There is a storm in you and there is a storm in me.
You have blizzards that are icy. Cold. They stir broken pieces of glass that cut through the heart, leaving you wounded.

My storms are warm. They stir something soft. Clouds that melt, pour water. Heal.

Your blizzard is what you seek refuge from. Sometimes. My storm is what you seek refuge in. Sometimes.

I don’t know if your storm reflects my soul or your soul is reflected in mine. But there is a storm in you and there is a storm in me. And I hoped, maybe, if you saw the storm in me and I saw the storm in you, we would know some calm in each other. That is why I offered you my storm. So you would find some solace in mine and I would find mine in you. So none of us would have to hide. And both of us, maybe, would begin to heal.

 

these words by Shagufe Hossain were inspired by the work of Chelsea Rushton

“Caged” – Francine Cunningham

Chelsea Rushton_Vesper xiii 300 dpi

we’ve never seen the sunset,
just the reflection of it
on the mountains
our windows face

we could drive to the other side of the island,
i guess
we’ve talked about it
packing a picnic
blanket
all of it
but we’ve never done it

tonight, we sit on the patio
bathed in the noise of buzzing mosquitoes
loud and piercing when too close to the ear
the smell of citronella not helping,
it never does

the light fades on the mountain side
pink
gold
light and then dark green

when twilight envelopes us
we rise on stiff legs
hobble to the bedroom
silently undress
i don’t know anymore in which emotion we look at each others bodies
indifference, boredom,
maybe even hatred
sliding under stiff sheets offers
reprieve
and in the darkness our dreams take hold,

what wondrous things they are

 

these words by Francine Cunningham were inspired by the work of Chelsea Rushton

“Vancouver to Edmonton, 2017” – Erika Thorkelson

Chelsea Rushton_The Heart's Prayer

We’re driving back to the prairies for your niece’s wedding. Hottest day of the year and the truck’s AC is broken. The mountains are blue ghosts under a gauzy sky. On the radio, the news is bad. Riots in Venezuela, squabbling world leaders, white supremacists. Everyone wants more than they have, even if they already have everything. The air tastes like wildfires and cow manure.

My horoscope says to stay positive, but I don’t buy it. You say you have a headache and my brain sidles into worst-case scenarios—a stroke, a tumour, viral meningitis. To cheer you up, I sing show tunes, but I only know the chorus to “Good Morning” from Singin’ in the Rain.

I’m supposed to be navigating, but I never speak up in time and you never listen. I tell you to take the next exit, but you keep going straight. We have to cross a bridge and do a U-turn to get back on track. A couple hours later, after lukewarm sandwiches under anemic shade trees in Merritt, I ask you to pull over so I can get my bearings, but you’re already turning. Now we’re flying toward Peachland instead of Kamloops.

Peachland. Again!

I tell you to turn around the next chance we get, but the map says we’re locked on the wrong highway for at least 20 minutes. Voluptuous hills with sun-bleached grass rise and fall on either side, offering no shade. The air in the truck gets heavy. It’s pressing on my lungs, my jaw, my shoulders. We sweat in silence, waiting for the other to talk, waiting for the other to apologize.

My horoscope says to stay positive, but I’m with the stoics on this one. Our strength shows not in good times, but in bad. That’s when we learn our hearts are not petals in the wind.

Where we’re going, there will be a beautiful wedding for a young woman who’s already seen more than her fair share of grief. There will be a family who drinks a little too much but only argues over the rules for crokinole. Your dad will be doing okay since he came off chemo and got a better hearing aid. He will hear your voice for the first time in years. It will all be fine, but I don’t know that yet. I’d rather not take any chances.

I swallow and speak first, knowing it’s the best way past this. We’ve been on this road before, I realize; we’ll travel it again. We get better at it every time.

 

these words by Erika Thorkelson were inspired by the work of Chelsea Rushton

“Breakfast” – Kate Shaw

Kevin Calixte-Sukhasana-Cel-1024x683

The views expressed in the texts do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.

 

She sipped her coffee soundlessly. It had always struck me, how little noise she could make over breakfast these days if left unprovoked. Her fork never plunged all the way through a waffle to clink! the plate, her knife never scraped or dinged! the fork. She drank her coffee, and the mug didn’t make a sound when placed back on the cork coaster.

“What time will you be home from work tonight?”

A guffaw during silent worship is more acceptable than words over breakfast with her. Startled eyes flashed at mine from over the orange juice. A silent sip. A hiss of a word, “Eight.”

I nodded, castigated. She deposited her dishes in the sink with a clank! that resounded as she exited the kitchen. There was shuffling in the den as she gathered her things, and soon the door closed behind her.

“Yes, this is Amadeo’s? I’ve got a reservation for tonight under Polowski. P-O-L…Exactly. I need to cancel.”

 

these words by Kate Shaw were inspired by the work of Kevin Calixte

“On How to Say No” – Annie Rubin

Kevin-Calixte-The-Black-Key-683x1024

The views expressed in the texts do not necessarily represent the views of the artist.

 

It was unsettling to be back there alone. An impulsive decision spurred by the phone call—or lack thereof—and now she was sitting in the square by her old apartment on a bench in the dark. She checked her phone—it was ten. Still no messages.

She’d taken a seat between the trees that shook gently in the wind, and a rain repeatedly sprinkled and let up as if on a loop. She figured it would be better to be out of the house if he did decide to ring. Public spaces always felt more manageable, controlled: don’t make a scene, Ma used to say; Dad followed her words like they were law.

He slammed the door when he left, causing the dishes to rattle on their shelves. She feared for the porcelain set of four plates and bowls—hand-painted from Sorrento—they’d bought together on holiday. One of them had chipped once and she’d read somewhere you were supposed to throw it away after that but she never did.

She was walking now, in circles up and down the block that smelled like home. Tomorrow she would change the locks. There was no guidebook on how to say no. Only repeated frustration, feigning forgiveness until she overflowed, erupting with all that was never said.

It came out as glitter, bursting into his crevices, filling him with remorse, and an anger as uncontrollable as the thundering laugh she was once able to evoke from him by singing his name. He used to call her his.

Now she wanted to be her own. Didn’t quite know how to do that either. She stared at the ground, hovering before the doorstep of their building. She ached to know what it takes to rebuild.

 

these words by Annie Rubin were inspired by the work of Kevin Calixte

On Spousal Abuse: “I Thought You Were Dead”

leah

Trigger warning: spousal abuse

When she got really angry, she’d throw anything in sight. Once she took a painting right off the wall and threw it and it hit me in the side of the head. I blacked out and when I woke up she was on top of me, covering me with her body, and crying. “I thought you were dead,” she said. “I thought you were dead and I was so lonely.”

She moved into my apartment a week after we met. We threw out all of my furniture and she filled the apartment with her couch and table and chairs and bed. The first month, we would sit on the porch sharing cigarettes and discuss what pieces of my furniture had been picked out of the pile, which pieces we thought were the saddest. The coffee table went quickly, but it seemed like no one wanted my old mattress. One night, we drank too much and she punched me in the jaw. It snowed that night and the leftover furniture disappeared.

Sometimes when she threw things, I would grab her wrists until they were raw and swollen. And then she’d kiss me and I would put my arms around her thin waist, hold her so tight she would ask me to stop. We’d sit in front of the television, her face covered in blue from the screen, and I’d bandage her wrists, burned from my skin on hers. We’d laugh that our love was so hot we could burn one another just with a touch.

When you fall in love, the end is never important. The end is another day.

word by Leah Mol

“I found it very intriguing that the woman in this piece seems so strong, and is also seemingly being targeted. She is perfectly in place to be ruined. Because this piece brought forth the theme of contradiction for me, I wanted to write about people who love one another and want to hurt each other all at the same time. People house so many contradictions.”

colour by Rebecca Proppe

“I’ve been making art my whole life, drawing story books and cartoons since I was a little kid. Now I’m an adult, and I still love to draw.

I’m currently studying art history mixed with some painting and drawing classes. Like most people I don’t know where my life will take me after graduation, all I know is I love art in all its forms and will be making it for the rest of my life 🙂

I hope some of you can enjoy my art as much as I did making it.”

The View From Gym

tumblr_n5v671HMwK1rpft6ho1_1280

Content warning: suicide

There is a big fire in the sky. A plane hit a building across the river and I am looking out at it through the window next to my school’s gym. I press my forehead against it. Black things fall out of the building.  

I am five.

I don’t hear the fire alarm. Maybe it went off outside. Maybe that’s why firemen put out fires. They told me in school I should stop drop and roll if I was on fire. My gym teacher says a word my brother says when he loses Tetris. I say “Fuck” too. Hey Mr. Gym Teacher are we losing? The people down there on the street look confused. Maybe they want hugs. Hi there do you want hugs? If I hug you maybe the fire in the sky will go out. 

I’ve never been on a plane that flied that bad. This building has a lot of black things in it. “Fuck.” I wonder if the building I’m in now has a lot of black things too and whether they would fall out if a plane hit. My classmate says that the black things look like people. I trust her because she is wearing glasses. How can you tell? Because there are those two people right there you see and they are holding hands falling together turning together in the sky.  

I am scared of heights. I wonder if these falling things are scared too. Hey people are you scared? Hey do you think that they are falling together because they are in love? Hey people are you in love? I want to catch the falling things. I am good at catching things with my baseball glove. The falling things might be scared of heights too.  

My friend’s mom is going to take us home. I don’t know how far we are from home because I don’t know how to tell how far you are from something. I take my Doritos out of my backpack and give some to my sister. Besides I don’t think that they make rulers that long. Like from my house to my school.  Paper is just floating around. I wonder whether someone lost their paper.  Dad would be mad if he lost his. Papers. Maybe we should give them back to whoever lost them.

I like Doritos.  

Sometime after, I learned that the black things were people and that they jumped out of the buildings. Maybe they were afraid of the flames because maybe they were too hot. Fire does seem really hot and it probably hurts to be in fire. But I don’t want to jump out of a building because I’m scared of heights. Also what would happen if I hit the ground. I think about whether the jumpers had to cook dinner later that night for their families’ and who might cook dinner now that they weren’t around. I am scared about who might cook dinner for me if my parents weren’t around anymore either.

word by Jacob Goldberg

colour by Fiona Tang

From the author: “White sheets of paper have the unique quality of all opaque things: they disguise what is behind them.  Only in tearing the paper do we meet this surprise.  This notion of the unknown, coupled with the fierceness of the artist’s rendering of the tiger, largely contributed to the inspiration for the above story.  September 11th, 2001 was just that: initially, an azure sky; then, one stained with smoke and black things.

It is shaking events like 9/11 that should exhort us to become more compassionate; to take refuge in exploring the deep, soulful questions that many find difficult to broach.  In so doing, we can learn the enduring power of relationships and that fate might be tempered by unrelenting love.  Even more vital would be our newfound cognizance of time, and the fact that we simply cannot know how long we have.  To find solace in living with that uncertainty, but to have also developed an absolute commitment to living: that will be our catharsis.”