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      • Poetry: Krista Bell
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      • On the Night Before Your Father's Funeral, By Katharine O'Reilly
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      • Student Writer in Residence: Steve Slowka
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      • ALFRED R. POYNT AWARD IN POETRY >
        • Poynt Award: Emma Croll-Baehre
        • Poynt Award: Robyn Obermeyer
        • Poynt Award: David Witmer
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      • Judges: Issue 6
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      • Ficton: Sam Boer
      • Ficton: Sydney Brooman
      • Ficton: Erica McKeen
      • Ficton: Esther Van Galen
      • Creative Nonficton: Erica McKeen
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      • Poetry: Michelle Baleka
      • Poetry: Jenny Berkel
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      • Poetry: Nathan Little
      • Poetry: Erica McKeen
      • Poetry: Kaela Morin
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      • Experimental Writing and Film: Shauna Ruby Valchuk
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      • Fiction: Cassia Pelton
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      • Creative NonFiction: Noa Rapaport
      • Screenplays: Sydney Brooman
      • Screenplays: Nathan Wright-Edwards
    • Issue 8 >
      • Judges: Issue 8
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      • Poetry 8: Danielle Bryl-Dam
      • Poetry 8: Leah Kuiack
      • Poetry 8: Jameson Lawson
      • Poetry 8: Maxwell Lucas
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      • Poetry 8: Joanna Shepherd
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      • Experimental 8: Lauren Lee
      • Experimental 8: Kirah Ougniwi
      • Experimental 8: Carlie Thompson-Bockus
      • Plays 8: Camille Inston
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      • Contributors: Issue 9
      • Fiction 9: Chris Chang
      • Fiction 9: Tegan Wilder
      • Fiction 9: Hyacinth Zia
      • Creastive Nonfiction 9: Aidan Gugula
      • Poetry 9: Rachel Fawcett
      • Poetry 9: Matthew Simic
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      • Screenplays 9: Alicia Johnson
      • Screenplays 9: Keaton Olsen
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      • Contributors: Issue 10
      • Experimental Writing 10: Akshi Chadha
      • Experimental Writing 10: Adelphi Eden
      • Experimental Writing 10: Nicole Feutl
      • Experimental Writing 10: Isabella Kennedy
      • Experimental Writing 10: Christopher Paul
      • Poetry 10: Meaghan Furlano
      • Poetry 10: Li-elle Rapaport
      • Fiction 10: Meaghan Furlano
      • Fiction 10: Carly Pews
      • Creative Noniction 10: Nicole Feutl
      • Creative Noniction 10: Courtney WZ
      • Screenplay 10: Margaret Huntley
  • Issue 11.1
    • Contributors: Issue 11.1
    • Fiction 11.1: Tega Aror
    • Fiction 11.1: Chloe Bachert
    • Fiction 11.1: Kelly Ge
    • Fiction 11.1: Asia Porcu
    • Fiction 11.1: Taryn Rollins
    • Fiction 11.1: Pauline Shen
    • Poetry 11.1: Jennifer Adamou
    • Poetry 11.1: Katherine Barbour
    • Poetry 11.1: Akshi Chadha
    • Poetry 11.1: Emma Graham
    • Poetry 11.1: Li-elle Rapaport
  • Issue 11.2
    • Contributors: Issue 11.2
    • Fiction 11.2: Victoria Domazet
    • Fiction 11.2: Mackenzie Emberley
    • Fiction 11.2: Rachel Oseida
    • Fiction 11.2: Cindy Xie
    • Creative Nonfiction 11.2: Alex Rozenberg
    • Creative Nonfiction 11.2: Alanna Zorgdrager
    • Poetry 11.2: Cassy Player
    • Poetry 11.2: Madeleine Schaafsma
    • Experimental 11.2: Mackenzie Emberley
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The Last Day, the First Day

 

The summer morning wasn’t quite warm enough.
And even though sunlight poured through my curtains,
it seemed to get caught in the wrinkles of my blanket
and lost between the ripples of my bed sheets.
The light slowly drowned, and
as it whispered for help from beneath the mattress,
I ripped the last breath from its lungs, and
inhaled its father’s aspirations.
There was only room for one of us.
The blood vessels in my eyes yawned,
as I opened them and gazed at the ceiling.
It reflected my thoughts as it stared back at me,
but looked away when it realized that
I was as dead to it as it was to me.

I got up only to sit back down.
Generations haunted from behind
as they covered their mouths, and
squinted their scornful eyes.
My father’s voice ringing in my ears,
but I try to drown it out like the sunlight.
The vibrations of his words are harder to smother,

“you’ll be dead to me if you follow through.”

I hear it over and over again until it is ingrained.
But I guess it’s time to die.
The artery of tradition that flows through my hair
is simply severed with a pair of scissors
that she holds in her hands.

Rootless        Dead

Her hands have killed me, and
they have killed God.
They have killed all.

But she doesn’t know that
it was my very last day, and
it was my first day.

I walked out with that unfamiliar familiarity
I was in a home that was no longer mine.



Is a Universe of Utilitarian Utensils Possible?


Is a Universe of Utilitarian Utensils Possible?
I’ve heard the one about rock, paper and scissors.

But what about the fork, spoon and knife?
I’m sure if there was some sort of alternative universe,
where spoons, forks, and knives had consciousness,
it would be difficult to integrate the three into a society.

Imagine if they had to live together in some sort of utensil city,
the spoon’s children spoons would surely get picked on.
I mean what is a spoon to do,
if say, Freddy Fork and Knathanial Knife shoved him into a locker?
They would call him shitty names like “concave face” and “big head.”
What would he do as a spoon? Could he do anything at all?
As a spoon, he isn’t very sharp or threatening.
Maybe he would just hold tears in his bowl-shaped heart,
and secretly curse them for being self-serving and shallow.

The forks and knives probably believe there’s certain etiquette,
that only they can follow.
The two would smile at each other in public,
but make insultingly dull jokes behind each other’s backs.

How could the three live together in harmony?
All the elders would contemplate the future and say,
“God forbid any young utensils have un-protected procreation.”
“We’d have sporks, spifes and knorks,” they’d say.
They couldn’t even conceive of the hedonistic sporf.

What would the morals of such a multi-utensil society be like?
Would they believe in the same God?
Would there be some sort of divine drawer in the sky,
that always has room for one more?

Such questions will be left un-answered,
As the universe watches silently.


G.P. Parhar is completing the fourth year of his Honours Specialization degree in Philosophy with a Minor in Creative Writing. He writers screenplays, poetry, creative non-fiction, and academic papers. His nonfiction piece "The Frontline: Homeless for a Day" was published in The Rusty Toque. 

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