All submissions to Canto — whether they be art or literature — undergo a blind review process with the help of those listed below. This process ensures that all submissions are anonymous and that the selection process is impartial. Literature submissions were read by Student Readers, who provided both scores and feedback to the Literature Editors. They used these scores and feedback to select the final pieces for publication. All literature submissions submitted by the Editorial Staff were blinded and sent to our Faculty Readers who provided scores and feedback that was used to determine which pieces were to be published. Using these scores, the Editors-in-Chief made their final decisions concerning the publication status of these pieces.
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Reader,
We are living in an unfortunate, strange time. Fortunately, during this time, literature and art have persisted, providing us with an escape from reality. Those of you who have contributed to Canto 28 are responsible for providing such an escape, and for that we cannot thank you enough. Never stop creating. Many of the pieces in this publication deal with issues which some may find difficult to read. We selected these pieces for publication because we believe that it is important to address these topics in art and literature. However, we also want our readership to be informed that they are discussed within.
My muses know nothing of convenience
They scoff at deadlines, think little of sleep Often when I call them home for dinner, I find them dancing around on rooftops in the middle of the day They are easily distracted and do not take orders well But once in a while they stumble into my bedroom at ungodly hours of the night Just to wake me up to tell me “we have an idea.” It was a relatively new phenomenon,
one that manifested naturally during the easy, sprawling heat of summer. Just as the sun would finish its descent behind the rolling horizon, you would pick me up in your crimson-hued Ford, a machine that you resented with every turn of the wheel. The air conditioning had taken its dying breaths ages ago so you kept the windows rolled down, the cool wind whipping across my face and through my hair, tangling it to oblivion. The engine was so loud it resembled the ragged snores of a slumbering beast, vibrations more akin to a grumble than a purr. Surrounded by people.
All similar - none alike; same green eyes, round noses, and wide feet. Ancestry, a trivial connection. A name shared with strangers; foreigners too who I am. Anxiety. Grief. Depression, all ebony- murderous corruption. It’s tough being a transfer student. My dad and I moved here to the town of Summer Forest in Boundary County Idaho. My dad had moved here for a job, though he would never tell me much about his work. I was enrolled in the local high school about a week after we moved. It is a fairly small town with only around 200 people a few miles from the Canadian border. It was a little uncomfortable being here at first, but I had warmed up to the community and my school.
They look at you and see your pricks
your scars, that strange tick You try and tell them about your beauty your inner workings, your resiliency They only focus on the outer, not knowing that if they just gave you time if they just nurtured you if they had the patience that lasted more than a few hours They’d really get to see you they’d really get to enjoy you beyond after-hours They’d finally see your true form They’d finally see you bloom They would watch you manifest destiny They would get to see your flowers Do you remember the children laughing in the distance?
The adults standing on the paved ground, letting the nicotine engulf their lungs. I remember us laughing as you tripped over the curb wearing your black high top converse. This was the day you told me you loved me, I was 17 and I believed you. As I write this now, I am trying to find the right words in my scattered brain. That night the rain started to fall, lightning striking across the grey clouds that lingered over us. It was the beginning of the end for us. I hope you’re doing well. Tell your wife I say hi and that I am sorry. I forgive you. Love, Sam. The house was never going to be the same. Reagan could feel the heaviness in her chest as she approached her parent’s house; which is technically only her father’s now. She made her way to the white, two-story house, which had a green door and shutters. She immediately noticed one of the shutters was slightly crooked and hanging on by the top hinge.
Sunken hazel eyes stare at the hollow reflection.
Skeleton begs to be hidden, cheeks slick with sorrow. Newport lingers in the dim room. What is left of my heart, suffocates in memories. A shimmer bounces off the looking glass. My fingers refuse to let the frigid metal go. I lay on the silk sheets his haunted scent, attempts to calm my heartache. They said time was the only cure. But exhaustion took control no amount of time, will change where my heart belongs. My lips expelled, a long ragged breath. “Demons, Vampires, Dragons, Ogres. As a symbol of wealth and power, they often commission Dungeons to hold their belongings. These dungeons attract adventurers who either die, adding their wealth to that of the owner, or succeed in clearing the dungeon. That’s why in more recent times, they have been hiring more Magic Architects like myself, Razo Carventice, to create more complex dungeons. Unfortunately, I am getting quite old. And thus, I have seen it’s due time to take you as my apprentice.”
We had just finished sharing memes with each other when my little brother said, “I’m going to go on the porch and do math homework.” Sharing comical things was something Gabe and I did regularly, but this “homework on the porch” ordeal was not.
There’s an old saying she heard growing up, children see things adults never can. She believed this to be true but still wanted to work with children. She volunteered in a preschool classroom a few days a week.
“Miss Joan Henderson?”
“That’s me.” I reached out and shook the man’s hand. This was my first time seeing a psychologist. “I’m Doctor Bisset. Come on in, take a seat.” He shut the door behind him and sat down at his desk. “What brings you in today, Joan?” “Well...I’ve been having this dream for a while now. It’s sort of been bothering me.” The man known as Chadwick Dopple had arrived. His appearance in general was certainly unassuming, to say the least, but there was one exception to this: his glasses. These spectacles never failed to obscure his eyes and were still masking them even in the small and dimly light room he had been escorted to. It had only been a couple minutes in, but he had already found somewhere to sit amongst the few chairs in the middle of the room. Above him hung a small projector pointed at the corresponding screen on the wall in front of the room.
“Remember to carry the one, sweetie,” Mom said. She and Drew were sitting at the small, oak table in the kitchen practicing his second-grade math.
Drew sighed and threw his pencil down. His mom gave him a stern look and pointed at the Christmas tree as a reminder that Santa was watching. He looked back at his paper, already feeling defeated. “Be Soft.”
They say this to remind you that you’re pliable, Easily able to mold into what they want. Remind them what doesn’t bend breaks, And you can’t be broken. “Be Nurturing.” After all, you were made to be a Mother And once you are, the word will be used as slander, Adding “just a” in front of it to remind you of your place Show them that woman means life-bringer, And what we give we can also take. “Be Pretty.” We’re told our beauty relies on our delicacy So be delicate like velvet wrapped twice around a hammer. And remind them that packaging is used to conceal what’s underneath. “Be Quiet.” They’re afraid of your voice, so they try to belittle it. But don’t ever be ashamed of the ferociousness of your growl. And when they come to try to fit you for your muzzle, Remind them why she’s called Mother Nature, And use the oxygen in your lungs to ignite a wildfire. I love you,
but I dare say it is a fallacy. You seem loyal, but you’re not afraid to cross the fine line. I call you my friend, but what does that mean to you? You’re eager to please, but sometimes that comes off as intrusive. You’re ingenious, yet sometimes you seem to lack a brain. Your demeanor is sweet, but your aroma can be quite sour. Your teeth resemble fine china, but perhaps the porcelain throne would be more applicable. You look at me with those earnest eyes, wagging your tail as if trying to summon a tornado. I saved a recipe for pumpkin chai
cheesecake that I plan to make for you this weekend, since we won’t get to see each other over Thanksgiving break. Remember the first time I made cheesecake for you, those bars I baked for your birthday our first year together? We’ve made it so many times since. The delectable pumpkin one last Thanksgiving, the bars that were a huge hit in Human Bio, the blueberry swirl last February-- nothing compares to the eyes-closed smile that lights the room when you take your first bite. In the studio, clotheslines with paint-splattered masterpieces zigzagged high across the walls, morning throwing shadows from high windows. Below, Red aggressively threw paint at a white canvas, her wild strawberry curls flinging about her head. She stopped for a breath and stood back to look at her work, hands on hips. The tall wooden easel was doused in paint so much that it blended in with her canvas.
The view from my driver’s window indicates my
aimless travelling must become determined. A large rectangular building carves a geometric mass in front of where the road ceases. Stretching my neck so my eyes can look beyond the stop sign, I behold an elongated concrete slab that continues past more rectangular buildings. Almost instantly, I choose to avoid this route. My head arcs the opposite direction, to contemplate the radiant lane that leads away from the rigid framework… the structured and confined domiciles. Taking notice of the bulging boxes and bags in the back seat of my Buick, my hands instinctively turn the steering wheel towards the pathway that offers unconfirmed opportunities. Pure white walls surrounded me
and there was so much light not a shadow could be seen. Bleach overpowered my nose but I was too busy gawking at the immense hall to notice. Casting lines.
Firing rifles. Riding piggyback. Challenging checkers. Adventuring on four-wheelers. Open arms. Grinning, you tried to be there, for your little girls. |