THE VOIDTHE VOID volume 12 / issue 2Vacations

THE VOID

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FICTION

7 HIGHWAY TESS ROBY

8 NADINE CHALSLEY TAYLOR

4 LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

31 CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS PHOTOGRAPHY ABOVE BY TRICIA LIVINGSTON

COVER BY RAÚL AGUILAR CANELA AND CRAIG SPENCE

POETRY

18 NORTH DAKOTA IN FEBRUARY CLAIRE SKAHAN

21 JUST FOR A FEW DAYS KRISTINA MAHLER

23 LAST AUGUST SASHA TATE-HOWARTH

28 VACATE KEVIN KVAS

NONFICTION

10 LES CATHÉDRALES DE PAPIER MARIE PIUZE

12 I WANT TO BE UGLY BUT IN YOUR WAY NOT MINE FAWN PARKER

VISUAL ART

14 GREYHOUND AMERICA TRICIA LIVINGSTON

24 WE SUCK RAÚL AGUILAR CANELA & CRAIG SPENCE

VACATIONS

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORSJ’ai commencé à travailler sur The Void un peu par hasard. C’était la fin de l’été. Je ne sais plus d’où je revenais, j’étudiais un peu n’importe quoi, et ça me paraissait comme un nouveau début nécessaire aux premiers jours de septembre. Quand on étudie, c’est facile de voir l’été comme suivant les règles de la progression narrative. Le début et ses aventures, le développement qui se fait un peu long, et puis son dénouement juste avant les cours. Là, je le sens, le début: les apparts se libèrent, les vélos sortent. Je me mets à imaginer vivre ailleurs, que ce soit un bloc ou deux plus loin, que pour l’été. Après tout, il faut abandonner le cocon hivernal, il faut y aller, quelque part! Faire des plans, quitter les gens, dire au revoir, se dire que peut-être! Peut-être qu’on reviendra pas. Vacances indéterminées.

Mais cet endroit qu’on laisse derrière nous. Cette chambre que j’ai quittée, d’où je pouvais toucher la feuille d’un tilleul. Je laissais la fenêtre ouverte, la brise entrait avec ses feuilles et ses bruits. Une fois, un moineau s’est posé sur le rebord, on s’est regardé. Figée, j’essayais de voir une cohérence dans les mouvements vifs de son cou. Et puis quelqu’un a klaxonné. Cette chambre, est-ce qu’elle m’attend? Je l’ai laissée ensoleillée, prête pour quelqu’un d’autre avec leurs propres moineaux, leurs propres feuilles séchées. Cet espace qu’on laisse vacant, on aimerait qu’il ne redevienne pas occupé trop vite. Lorsque je passe devant aujourd’hui, la fenêtre est fermée, je ressens ce petit tiraillement complice avec le bâtiment – je t’ai pas oublié.

L’été, ça demande une ouverture pour laquelle je ne suis pas toujours prête. Les gens se sentent à l’étroit, veulent se communiquer, se donner, se répandre – d’un coup il est possible de s’asseoir auprès d’inconnus et tout leur confier. Les vacances d’hiver c’est pas pareil. Là on se déshabille, se débarrassant des couches de grisaille hivernale, et même les choses, les petits moments ont plus de potentiel. On prend une pause au soleil sur un banc et on rêvasse en lisant, peut-être ce magazine étudiant. On écoute les échos de conversation attiédie de l’autre bout de la terrasse. “Et toi, tu fais quoi, cet été?”

Je m’échappe. Je le sens déjà, ce sentiment de se défouler sur son vélo, dépassant un bus après l’autre. Brillants jours de juin. Arriver partout toujours au dernier et bon moment, sentir la ville se rapetisser, traverser les ponts, les nuits d’ivresse. Pas de beauté douce et tranquille de fin d’août, pas encore. Ça c’est le dénouement, la fin des vacances et le retour à la routine: il faut laisser un front devenir brûlant avant de l’apaiser d’une main fraîche.

C’est rare les lettres de l’éditeur en français, je sais. C’est que je pars, moi aussi. Sans laisser la place vacante pour autant. The Void sera entre de bonnes mains. Et cette jeune nostalgie de quitter un beau projet auquel on était plus attaché qu’on le croyait, ça fait parti de l’été, aussi. D’ailleurs, je vous y laisse, dans ces débuts de beau temps, siroter un premier verre de bière dehors, dire au revoir aux bonnes connaissances qui quittent votre quotidien. Je vous laisse savourer ce numéro et tous ses moments d’ailleurs.

-Sophie Bisping Jay Winston Ritchie

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THE VOID

editors-in-chiefSOPHIE BISPINGJAY WINSTON RITCHIEpoetry editor OLIVIA WOOD

fiction editor ZOE SHARPE

nonfiction editor CATHERINE AVERBACK

french content editorSOPHIE BISPING

managing editor/copy editor ALEXANDRA PROULX

art director/production manager AIDAN PONTARINI

contributing artistsXI J AUGÉ

ANNE BERTRAND RAÚL AGUILAR CANELA

SEB EVANS LAURENCE HERVIEUX-GOSSELIN

TRICIA LIVINGSTONZAC MACARTHUR

CRAIG SPENCEDAN VOGT

COMIC BY ZAC MACARTHUR

contributing writersKEVIN KVAS

KRISTINA MAHLERFAWN PARKERMARIE PIUZETESS ROBY

CLAIRE SKAHANSASHA TATE-HOWARTH

CHALSLEY TAYLOR

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FICTION

TESS ROBYCollage by the author

THE VOID VACATIONS

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HIGHWAYTESS ROBY

Collage by the author

I SAW THAT HIGHWAY AND I REMEMBERED THE TRAFFIC AND I REMEMBERED THE RAIN AND I REMEMBERED THAT YOU WOULD NOT REMEMBER THESE MOMENTS.

It was cold for the summer, I wore that red dress that rides up in the back. Getting out of the city was difficult, the GPS still thought it was in America and the thought of buying a map seemed dated. Maps: A dying breed, nestling not so comfortably between the radio and the television. Water smeared the rear-view mirror. How many cartographers does it take to change a lightbulb? Your answer would be smarter than mine.

Much of the ride was spent worrying that we’d gone too far, when we hadn’t gone far enough. The only memories left of this are from a pixelated cellphone camera. I imagine great-grandchildren remembering us in tiny pink dots, in seas of blue and green, unaware of the significance this journey held. Thoughtful eyes at 72 dpi. Fading bruises.

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The car almost crashed an inch away from our destination. Your eyes glazed over, the road disappeared, the climax fell flat. Maybe you were thinking of the water, or her shoulders, or the way my dress sometimes rides up in the back. I don’t remember what we were listening to, or the way my hands were positioned. Yours were on the wheel, but what was it that made them move? The countdown had ended. An imaginary voice murmured in 100 metres you have reached your destination, and we were together, already used to each other.

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began preparing her fingernails for the same treatment. Then, from the very corner of her eye, she spotted something moving.

A green lizard lounged on the floor. Courtney froze, horrified, and stared into its slimy eye. She reached for the pink plastic trash bin which stood between the twin beds, and readied herself for the strike.

Now.Courtney brought down the bin with a bang and saw the lizard go

scuttling off, disappearing into the now defiled bathroom.“Oo-oh shit! Shit-shit-shit!” she whimpered, still perched on the

edge of the bed.Tap-tap. Tap.Courtney’s eyes darted back to the bin. Nervous, confused, she

approached it.Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.She yanked the bin off the floor. A lizard’s tail attached to nothing

convulsed all on its own. Courtney screamed, slammed the bin back on top of the undead tail and fled.

There was no one behind the front desk when she reached it, and she rang the bell again and again in desperation. Eventually a young woman emerged from behind the curtain with a stack of towels, smiling at her. Courtney raked her blonde hair behind her ears, gathering it together in her hands; it was already beginning to rebel and frizz around her head, golden rays radiating out from the red sun of her face.

“Good afternoon Miss, how are you today?” Her low voice was calm and had a gentle lilt to it.

“There’s something in my room,” Courtney said, breathless. She felt the menacing tickle of insect legs on her neck. She slapped the spot in an instant and gave a tiny squeal.

FICTIONFICTION

Back in the still room, snatches of the morning’s argument drifted back to her: Her mother and new stepfather scolding her for not getting up with the rest of the family, for being so ungrateful, Courtney raging back that it was their fault she was so exhausted, that she had never wanted to come here anyway, and didn’t they know that spring break was a week in Cabo or Punta Cana, and not some little no name brand island that you could hardly even see on the map? In the end, they cabbed down to the beach without her.

And that was just fine. She would spend the afternoon here, primping, and when they came back she would be sitting there on the bed—or perhaps lounging by the pool, if it wasn’t crowded—casually reading a magazine like she hadn’t even noticed they were gone at all, flipping pages and looking cute, effortlessly cute, and they’d be red and sweating and crusted with sand. She would smell of Tahiti Dream body mist and they would all smell like the scummy ocean. Like dead fish. Courtney smiled to herself as she ironed her hair. Yes—effortlessly cute.

Once her hair was lying pin-straight on either side of her face, she moved on to her nails, a project of many steps. She began by filing (never clipping), then buffing, shining, base coat, colour selection, first coat, second coat, sparkle coat (a brand new bottle of “Spoil Me Magenta”), top coat for extra gloss. As the last coat dried on her toenails Courtney

NADINECHALSLEY TAYLOR

Photography by Laurence Hervieux-Gosselin

THE VOID VACATIONS

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Calm despite Courtney’s flailing, the woman bent to put down her load. She wore her hair in one neat braid wound up into a coil. On the breast pocket of her pressed white and baby blue uniform rested a small gold broach in the shape of a hummingbird, next to a black name-tag that read “Nadine.” In each ear hung a matching gold hoop that was just big enough to curve around her ear lobe. Shaded from the bright midday sun the gold pieces seemed to glow, steadying Courtney’s gaze. The familiar shapes began to betray some concealed strangeness. Light cut into the lobby though the wide entrance at an angle and the glare made the smooth tiles look like water.

Nadine motioned for Courtney to lead the way.When they returned to her room Courtney stood behind Nadine,

pointing to the bin. “Under there,” she said in a small voice. Nadine walked over to the bin and lifted it. The tail lay still on the floor.

“Ugh! It was flipping like crazy!”Nadine smiled to herself like someone had just whispered some

secret joke into her ear. “Yes, they do that. After the tail comes off it will convulse for a little while. Like a chicken with its head cut off.” She picked up the tail with her bare fingers and walked it to the door, tossing it into a bush.

“Isn’t that just, like, an expression?”“Well, where do you think it comes from?” Nadine smiled more with

her warm brown eyes than with her mouth. She closed the screen door. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Miss?”

Courtney looked to the bathroom and pointed. “It ran in there. I just don’t want it to, like, get into my bed later.”

“Of course.” She went in. “You don’t have to worry, you know. Lizards have no interest in climbing into bed with you. Ah, I see it.

Open the screen door and I will drive it out. Ready?”The lizard made its escape, a little shorter than before. “Ugh!”

Courtney shivered at the sight, standing on the bed. This is how Nadine found her when she emerged from the bathroom.

“Are you all right now?”“Yes. Thanks,” Courtney said, offering a half smile and sinking down

onto the bed. She wondered if Nadine would wash her hands.“Is everything all right Miss? I have a sneaking suspicion you’re not

enjoying your stay with us.” Nadine stood straight-backed with one hand holding the other, her head tilted a little to one side.

Her mother’s recent marriage, their insatiable feud, her doomed spring break in this place she’d never heard of, its many tiny predators—all this erupted from deep within Courtney’s gut with the force of a hurricane.

“So your parents have forced you to spend a week in this awful place. What horrible, horrible people!”

Courtney gathered her hair together, twisting it all around one hand. “Well. I didn’t mean it like that—sorry.”

Nadine said nothing and turned her eyes to a small red bird come to rest in the crook of a bush just outside the window. Courtney waited for some kind of pardon, waited for Nadine’s eyes to wash over her again. She kept her head turned, and Courtney stared at the impeccable coil of hair, still undisturbed. Ordered, smooth, it wound into itself, betraying nothing.

“Let us know if you need anything else, Miss,” said Nadine. Courtney thanked her, too quietly to be heard against the clap of the screen door.

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LES CATHÉDRALES DE PAPIERMARIE PIUZE

3-D rendering by Dan Vogt

NONFICTION

Qu’on se le dise, le vide ne peut qu’engendrer le vide. S’il ne reste plus d’amour et si nous avons encore faim, c’est qu’à trop se gaver de nuages, nous manquions évidemment de force pour continuer à chercher plus loin. Quand on arrête de faire semblant, c’est pour revenir se frotter à ce dégoutant sentiment de vacuité. Il réapparaît comme un vieil amant que l’on souhaitait ne plus jamais revoir et vous lèche le cœur jusqu’à la nausée. Ce qui a existé n’était peut-être en fait qu’une mauvaise blague. Un grand néant qu’on aurait soigneusement maquillé avec toutes les couleurs de notre volonté. Le cynisme et l’orgueil répondent vite à l’appel et l’on se reconnaît bien dans les grimaces de la désillusion. De toute façon, comment pourrait-on arriver à défendre la grandeur de sentiments qui s’affaissent aussi mollement?

Mais, immanquablement, le présent veut se perdre dans les souvenirs d’un temps où nous avons été heureux. Un temps qui semblait échapper à cette vacuité, en nous berçant d’intensité et de promesses. Cette belle folie amoureuse venue conquérir notre vie qui cherche toujours aussi confusément à se secouer. Voilà qu’ici les images refont surface; celles d’un instant où l’on a osé croire à quelque chose. Alors malgré tout, la mémoire doucement se cambre à l’approche de ces souvenirs.

Le vide actuel se remplit des vestiges d’un long dialogue. Un face à face d’une violente sincérité qui faisait danser tout l’espace comme un brasier à ciel ouvert. On pourrait partir en voyage, ou bien rester encore un peu ici, près du pont, à regarder tous ces gens qui passent par-dessus quelque chose pour arriver ailleurs. Les couleurs s’entrelacent et l’on aurait dit que les choses signifient, mais le sens comme toujours demeure secret. Je sais qu’il reste encore beaucoup de temps avant que la nuit tombe et que le mirage s’efface. Laissons se fracasser au sol la raison et les bons conseils, ils reviendront d’une manière ou d’une autre comme de fiers chevaliers, combattre les rêves fous et la stupidité de notre jeunesse.

Et puis, peu importe si le paysage finit par se renverser, faisant de l’immensité tout en haut une étendue de béton sans futur. Nous pencherons encore nos têtes au-dessus du grand ciel bleu, tentant d’échapper au néant et de provoquer un peu ce débordement que nous sommes capables d’être parfois. Même si toutes ces folles envolées semblent n’avoir été que du vide déguisé en jour de fête, je sais que nous nous prendrons encore au jeu. Car les vérités vont et viennent, mais elles laissent tout de même trainer derrière elles un vague parfum de cathédrale.

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The first image result when you google “Sid Gillman” is a picture of Sid Gillman holding a replica of his own head. I ask you if you want to play the “Random Wikipedia Article Game” and you ask what that is and I say you should infer the only rule of the game from its title. Sometimes I forget that your emotions are very real and very serious unabridged versions of your facial expressions.

I wonder if anyone has ever made a replica of the inside of someone’s head, inside of a replica of the outside of someone’s head. If I replicated the inside of your head and put it inside a replica of my head I wonder which one of us it would be. I google your name and there are no images of you holding your own head.

Your flight is in an hour and I walk with you to the bus stop even though I said earlier that I wouldn’t. You look smaller with your big backpack on your back. You’re like a hermit crab, and I think: We’re all like hermit crabs. I wonder if there will be space on the bus for your big JanSport shell. I want to tell you that it’s stupid that you’re moving because of something Carlos Castaneda said, but it really just makes me feel boring and small. I will probably start reading Journey to Ixtlan (the only Castaneda book at the library) once I lose the feeling that you know what I’m doing and that you wish I would “do my own thing.”

A group of drunk carolling teenagers gather at the bus stop. Some of them are laughing, probably because they’re hyper-conscious of how in-your-face they're being. They’re wearing sweaters like the ones my dad wore in pictures taken when it was cool for him to wear them. I wonder if some of them are sweaters my dad donated to Salvation Army. I imagine all of my dad’s old sweaters soaking sweat off the backs of a bunch of drunk teenagers in the city.

Your bus comes and you smile at me before you get on. The teenagers stop singing when they pay their fares and one of them looks back at me when I don’t get on the bus.

I turn around before you find a seat because I wouldn’t know what to do with my face if I had to wave to you through the window. I cut through Davisville Park, and walk like a weird injured bird across the “Natural Ice Skating Rink” (that’s what the sign says). I almost step on a dead squirrel in the snow. I take a picture of it with my iPhone and send it to you with the caption, “Lunch.”

I text you and ask if you still think it’s okay that I had sex with your brother. You say yes again because he’s a good guy and because he asked your permission first. Then you send me a picture of a coffee cup with tits drawn on the cardboard sleeve thing. You say it’s funny that you’re drinking a “flat white” because I’m flat and white and it’s like you’re drinking me. I ask if I taste good and you don’t say anything. My phone says, “Delivered” and “Read.”

... In the morning your brother calls and asks me if I miss you. I say yes and he says he does too, but in a different way than I do. I say it’s only been a day and we both laugh and I feel kind of good until I hang up. I feel anxious about my relationship with your brother.

I write a vignette about three recently divorced women listening to Zeppelin IV on vinyl. I want to read it to you over the phone but you don’t pick up so I feed it to the paper shredder under my desk. Doing this makes me feel the way I felt sometimes as a kid when I would slam my door and my parents would carry on downstairs like I wasn’t there. I take a fresh piece of paper out of my printer and write down things I’m excited about, like Christmas back home and J.E. Sunde’s solo album. I make a note to myself to practice drawing botanical illustrations of plants. Someday I think this might impress someone I really like.

I watch out the window while a couple walks by really slowly, like they know I’m there and know that I’m watching. The girl has dark hair with blonde roots showing through. Her head looks like someone tried to put mascara on a dandelion. She throws her dandelion head back when she laughs, just in case I can’t tell she’s having a good time.

You text me saying you have the flu and it’s a sign that you should have stayed home. I wonder if I’ll catch it from you and then I remember you’re in Edmonton.

I feel weird about sending you that picture of the dead squirrel. V

I WANT TO BE UGLY BUT IN YOUR WAY

NOT MINEFAWN PARKER

Photography by XI J Augé

NONFICTION

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VISUAL ART

THE VOID VACATIONS

GREYHOUND AMERICATRICIA LIVINGSTON

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VISUAL ART

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NORTH DAKOTA IN FEBRUARYCLAIRE SKAHAN

Photography by Seb Evans

Vivian, I wish you had blown meaway through the morning windownoticed my dry carminehands in the snowand listened when I said

I want to go home now.

POETRY

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POETRY

THE VOID VACATIONS

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We are going onsomething like a vacation.

My sister calls shotgunand I dig my kneesinto the back of the seatuntil we get halfway, the motel.

We play mermaidsin the tiny blue postage stamp pooluntil the street lights come onsince no one tells us to get out.

Before bed we empty the mini barand line up the bottles with the pattern in the carpet.

I think of our Dad and pets, at homeand wonder what they ate for dinner.

JUST FOR A FEW DAYSKRISTINA MAHLER

Photography by XI J Augé

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POETRY

THE VOID VACATIONS

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LAST AUGUSTSASHA TATE-HOWARTHPhotography by Anne Bertrand

No songs after a long day— only small wordsa basil plant I forgot to water.

Heavy traffic all the wayfrom Toronto to Montreal.A storm breaks:rain fills the glassyou left on the back porch.

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VISUAL ART WE SUCKCOLLABORATIVE WORKS BY RAÚL AGUILAR CANELA & CRAIG SPENCE

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WE SUCK

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VISUAL ART

RAÚL AGUILAR CANELA Dick, 2014. Oil on wood panel. 36 x 48 in.

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CRAIG SPENCE Installation view of Society, Man.

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POETRY

Pack your lifeplus or minusthe kitchen sinkinto a portablecoffin and temporarilyresurrect into a worldexotic whose hotelought to house all comfortsof house and home-land. Taketake-home moviesand stills to takeback to Earth likescripture by which tocontinue, lyrically, to justjustify your existenceuntil the next pack-up-and-go or afterlife. Thenpack up your stuff and headhome and wonder if you’re dead or alive (if at all wanted),at home or on vacationfrom vacation. But mostof all: wonder notabout yourself butjust about every other youyou might have. Forone brief mushymoment you walk throughthe door to smell—what your livingunlived spacereally smellslike—and youcaress the true purpose:to be the touristbehind your owndisplay: a voyeur of yourown fictional biography.It’s a moment when everything seems possible: for the veryreason that you’re notthere, gone, stuck, have nothingto dowith it.All that There Is isto say you’ve Made It. You’vemanaged to make your selfscarce, and your premisesvacant, vacated. Return,to find that you, like the Elviscool-cat of 99 Lives, has left—the buildingof self.

VACATEKEVIN KVAS

3-D rendering by Dan Vogt

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CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

Send us your submissions by September 30, 2014www.thevoidmagazine.com

All submissions read and viewed anonymously

GUIDELINESPoetry: maximum 5 poems.Fiction and Nonfiction: maximum 1200 words.Visual Art: 3-5 samples.

The Void is a bowl of oranges. The Void is bottles on the kitchen table after a party, butts in the ashtray. Objects put in place for one reason or another and quickly forgotten.

In 1935, at 53 years old, Picasso stopped painting and turned to poetry. He was unable to find success in the medium, and eventually returned to painting and sculpture. He left poetry behind, and his poems have fallen into the background of his fame.

In art history terms, a still life pays attention to the objects in life that often go overlooked. Name those objects. Those Picasso’s poems. Or maybe it’s someone you wish you hadn’t taken for granted: a parent, an unrequited love, a friend. It might be ephemeral as an intention, a surge of emotion that occurs every time you hear that song from summer after high school graduation. What would it look like, if you could give it the attention it deserved.

But those moments aren’t always so easy to define. Sometimes life gets blurry. Sometimes when life stands still it’s because everything is moving so quickly there’s nothing to do but watch it go by. In this case it’s not life outside, but life inside that’s still. Turn the perspective inward and locate the objects that have gone overlooked. They aren’t perfect, and that’s what makes them interesting.

Take a moment. Show us the moment that hangs on the wall in your mental gallery, the one you can’t take down. This time, The Void is a still life.

The Void est un bol de fruits. The Void est les bouteilles de bière qui restent sur la table après une soirée, les mégots dans le cendrier. The Void, c’est les objets laissés dans un endroit quelconque et aussitôt oubliés.

En 1935, vers les 53 ans, Picasso cesse de peindre pour se dédier à la poésie. Incapable de se faire un nom dans le médium, il revient éventuellement à la peinture et à la sculpture. Il a laissé la poésie dans le passé, et ses œuvres littéraires se sont depuis fondues dans l’arrière-plan de sa célébrité.

En terme d’histoire de l’art, la nature morte représente les objets dans notre vie qu’on oublie trop souvent. Nommez ces objets; ces poèmes de Picasso. Peut-être sont-ils quelqu’un que vous avez pris pour acquis: un parent, un amour inachevé, un ami. C’est peut-être quelque chose d’aussi éphémère qu’une intention, ou qu’une vague d’émotion qui surgit à chaque fois que vous entendez cette chanson qui a marqué votre été post-secondaire. Ça ressemblerait a quoi si vous lui donniez l’attention qu’elle mérite?

Mais ces moments ne sont pas toujours faciles à définir. Parfois la vie devient floue. Il y a des moments où elle semble s’arrêter; tout bouge si rapidement qu’il n’y a rien autre à faire que de la regarder passer. Dans ces cas, ce n’est pas la vie externe, mais la vie interne qui se fige. Tournez la perspective vers l’intérieur; retrouvez ces objets que vous avez négligés. Ils ne sont pas parfaits, c’est ce qui les rend intéressants.

Prenez un moment. Montrez-nous le souvenir qui est accroche sur le mur de votre galerie interne, celui que vous ne pouvez pas décrocher. Cette fois, The Void est une nature morte.

STILL LIFE

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