Every home holds a story untold. It’s lingering under the floorboards, or it’s in the photo albums on the shelf. It’s between tucked sheets or hanging clothes, or perhaps it’s rocking on the tire swing in the backyard. With our newest zine ‘Little Houses,’ we invite you through the white picket fence, revealing the narratives and captured moments beneath the surface. The Continuist is an online and print creative collective run through the Faculty of Arts at Ryerson University in Toronto. Our mission is to create a network of artists within the city and beyond, and to provide an outlet for artists to share their talents. We love all things expressional, ranging from photography to poetry. Interested in submitting? Send your work to THECONTINUIST@ GMAIL.COM and check our online submissions at THECONTINUIST.COM So take off your coat, stay a while, and settle into our stories of comfort. Love always,
The Editors of The Continuist February 2014
JESSE SARKIS
ERIC WATTERS
ANNA MACKENZIE
MARKIE E.K.
I. there is a hole in my chest where my body caves in, folding in on itself, attempting to feel small. II. i am reading about the ways taking up space makes a person forget themselves at all. III. i scratch and claw like suburban dogs marking territories, climb the stairs on all fours, and take my place at the foot of the bed. IV. my body is stained glass. light leaks through and i shatter at the thought of starting over again, if we are ever over again. -QUINN FLOM
I would say all was well. I could say I was dreaming. But I am struggling to know If I am really half afloat Or if this is what they meant… …by sinking The day we pulled anchor, We wandered the seabed; For water has been known to dispute voids quite readily. And ever since you formed nothing but pictures on the walls, Parts of me are polaroid’s and passages They say ships are safe at anchor, and not to stray far from shore. But I have always known that is not what ships are built for.
-JAD ABDUL ELLAH DANDASHI
NICK VO
ERICH DELEEUW
AINE DAVIS
ELANA DELANEY
NIGHTMARE TRYST My body is only a broken wish. Rip me in half, the larger half wins. (My liver, my spine, my listless mind) Here’s the prize for wasted time, we’ll parade around your sheets and impersonate the blind. Our lust leaves no stone unturned. Chastity belts, buried and bound, begs the question and this is what I found: Is it worth having any sliver of hope,
when the idea is afloat on the crests of white seas, that people could possibly make love without me?
-AUSTIN CURTIS
ANISAH ALI
MY PEN, HIS WORDS My dilapidated soul yearns recovery... Your love is exhausting. The misfortune of happenings remind me of purposeless decree As my hands conduct replicate sculpturing seen before. And so quickly do my knees bleed from a shameful begging. Why has a dutiful God not arrested my perjury and cast my sins away from overt view. I have defied fidelity and betrayed a love which was true. How must I move on and live with a guilt I had denied and invite a new age of revelation. I will greet myself in my misery. There is no longer a choice to choose. This time the torch no longer burns of fire and the fire no longer yearns for its spark. With no fever from passion or the comfort of compassion, I vow this will be the last time I try. As I discover the enlightenment from love is just a lie.
-RANIA EL MORSY
& BACK COVER BY: MEGAN STULBERG
I WAS, I AM AND I WILL BE Madly Like cows to be put down Or dogs shot to the head In love Like the sun rising Brilliant and warm With you Because to be without Is to not be at all Amazon or my dreams Creature of God Hear me
I was. I am. I will be.
Madly In love With you
-SANITA
FEJZIC
SYDNEY MYLES
& FRONT COVER BY: LAURA ROJAS
WHY SHOULD WE SAVE YOU? during quiet times there are mind’s eye painters canoe forms on the water someone is at the helm her oar churns through the sewage lake reluctantly boys hand reaches no room on her boat (none that she cares to share) “Don’t you know how to swim?” (of course you do) “No.” boy ties cinder blocks around his ankles “How can I swim now? canoe shakes its head canoe is tired of this canoe is leaving when their paintings disappear you curl into a ball
-DAVE EATOCK
JES CERVONI
LODOE LAURA
Burrs and sap distracted---by the buttery gleams of spring budssproutssaplings all of the hackneyed wildflowerings no one looks at the discarded burrs of winter sticking to our hems rather pay attention to the gloss and sheen of spring's lacy pollen
what oozes is ignored although tree sap means vibrant as much as a blossom does
-PHOENIX SIMMS
KAILEE MANDEL
ELIZABETH BARRETTE
QUINN FLOM
AM I? Is art what they say it is? Am I what you say I am? Am I what I say I am? Do I sit at the back of Alley Catz and hum to the daughters of folk ladies of jazz sultry soul sirens while they croon soft slips, leathery tones Lady Day, Nina Simone smoldering sax dainty pianist, scaling hazed to the tune of swing the vapor filled room do you not clap? are you too above that? “is it art, for the sake of art?� is it sound for the sake of sound?
-LAUREN MATERA
AARON MOHR
TOMORROW Henceforth! we are the coca-cola, the toyota, the nike, the sony: the solar panel mind in the spotlight, torn into the plastic spectrum confetti. Thus! we have our own biers to swivel, the office chair, the pew, the station, the taxi: the stare of starry maps in the streetlight, left in our own screen-flicker eyes.
-CAMERON MACDONALD
TRISHA ROLFE
SCENT They make all different candles like birthday cake ones that smell like exotic beaches sunny springs coconuts cocoa butter pine wood and pine needles white pumpkins and oak and I ask why myself why anyone would ever want a candle that smells like boring old wood and more importantly, why is there no candle that smells like you the scent of waking up heavy air sweat two hours sleep morning breath french toast stuffy noses “chocolate chips please�
-JAMIE LUPIA
WILLIAM KASURAK
SADIE DEMPSEY
SAFE PLACES I touch the scars on your arms, Your stomach, Like they’re braille and I’m blind. I’m remembering your pain With my eyes closed tight. And you, You touch the scars in my mind My heart, Like they’re braille and you’re blind. You remember my pain With your eyes on mine. And we, We aren’t afraid of each other. Only ourselves, only our scars, The ridges and lines We never show anybody. Because no one before has been gentle.
-DACI RACHER
THE CONTINUIST