stretching out my panda arms

Hiccups on the Last Day I Remember Fondly

By Kate McKenna

1. 78 on an adjective conjugation review. Almost through a dismal semester, the difference between bleu and bleue knocked me off the honour role. Ms. Lemieux asks me if I've felt alright lately. Says she'll have to call my parents. I shrug and smile. They won't be home.

2. Walking home, through the trees to my house - spy several crows picking at a dead cat, sharp in contrast to the sparse snowy ground. I want to kick them away, but what's the point?

3. Crouching in your spare bedroom while your siblings pass around a joint. My eyes plead for help; you're useless. I don't want to, but I do, and your snotty fucking sister (with eyebrows like caterpillars) stops glowering long enough to say 'Aw, baby's all grown up.' It never did much for me, but you seem a little calmer.

4. My Radiohead CD fell from the dashboard to the floor. Your brother steps on it. Track four (Exit Music for a Film) skipped, permanently and eventually, ironically. He says he'll buy me another one, but he never does.

5. The drive to the barn is long and my father has a weird nasal problem. Every breath is loud, obnoxious. I make mental haikus when Dad won't let me put my headphones on.

6. Hanging out in the loft, it's near midnight, minus twenty and dropping. After playing in the hay, you catch me and we perch on the low wall, feet dangling 20 feet in the air. It's winter, the horses are inside: no one and nothing can see us. "Does it hurt to die?" Your eyes are too dark, mostly obscured by your hair. I didn't really get to see you when you asked.

"I dunno. Probably."

A Gut Feeling

By Isobel Nash

I stood in front of the mirror for what felt like the millionth time that morning. Everything looked the same and felt the same - not good enough. I tried to blame it on my haircut, but deep down I knew the real problem. I used to be such a happy person.

I had myself truly convinced that being thin would solve all of my problems. I figured I could be a failure and ignore everything else as long as I could look in the mirror and like what I saw. You have such a pretty features; too bad about the rest of you. The only reason I had kept my hair so long for years was so that I could hide behind it. When you have a nice face and nice hair, people tend to ignore the fact that you're overweight. Anyone can look at you from the neck up and pretend the rest of you doesn't exist. I cut my hair because I thought I would be forcing myself to find some confidence from within, but once again, I failed miserably. Being comfortable with who you are on the inside doesn't count for anything if you can't find the confidence to be you around somebody other than yourself. So there I stood, performing my daily routine.

I didn't really need make up; I never have. Rosy, red cheeks, not a pimple in sight. You have such nice skin; too bad about the rest of you. I even took the time to admire my bottom lip, a bit bigger than the top but not too big... just right. Lying to myself, I thought out loud that any guy would be lucky to kiss those lips. Then my eyes moved upwards and landed on my eyebrows. No amount of tweezing in the world would ever give me the shape I wanted, same as my eyelashes would never be as long as I wanted them to be. You've got to work what you've got, I thought to myself. Except I never worked it. Ever.

I looked at my make-up free complexion for a moment longer. I still didn't need the make up, but I knew I'd hide comfortably behind it, sick of second guessing myself without it. I hated the feeling that anywhere I went, everyone was staring at me, judging me. They were all staring at my horrible haircut and boy bangs, and each time, I couldn't help but feel a little content in thinking that I made those people happy to be themselves for that minute they spent staring at me. I reached for my eyeliner, twisting the bottom until the black war paint peeked out of the top.

Not bad, I thought to myself once I had finished applying what was probably way too much. You have such gorgeous brown eyes; too bad about the rest of you. The eyeliner was pushing it, so I knew I definitely didn't need the mascara. I figured I should compensate for the rest of myself though... I really wanted all eyes on my face and nothing else, but I had to set a distraction. I didn't want anyone getting too close of a look at my eyes or they might see too far behind them. My biggest fear.

I wasn't new to mascara, but I still had no idea what I was doing with the little brush to my eyelashes. It took me my usual two tries to get the volume I wanted, without it looking like I was a five year old playing with my mother's make up. Finally, I stared at my eyes, indifferent to what I saw. Was it me? No. Did I want to be me right then? I still wasn't sure.

I saved the foundation and powder for last, hoping I could convince myself that I at least didn't need that. I thought of my number one excuse - my cheeks are too pink and make me look sickly without any cover-up. It sounded ridiculous to me too, so I told myself it would help moisturize my skin and decided that was a good enough reason. I pumped the beige paste on to one finger and began rubbing it on to my cheeks. I began rubbing too hard and reminded myself that I couldn't reach the inside; I couldn't rub out any of those blemishes.

Since I was a child, I had a horrible addiction to chapstick. One hour without it, my lips would dry, crack, and burn, and chapped lips aren't kissable lips. I knew I had to wear something on them, but what? My mind immediately went to the red lipstick lying discarded on top of my dresser. I don't know why I bothered, but I picked it up and traced my mouth. I liked the way it looked, but I felt like I stood out too much, and that was the last thing I wanted. I washed it off and applied some cheap mint chapstick.

I had hoped that once I was comfortable with the way my face looked, my hair wouldn't matter so much. Wrong again, I stared at the dark mop on my head. I'd like it perfectly if it was all one long length, I thought. But you still wouldn't like the rest of you. I felt like wearing my bangs down was the me thing to do, so of course, I pinned them back off my face, trying hard not to look like a little kid. I didn't want to look at the chunky, choppy layers anymore either, so back they went to. I stepped back to admire my work and realized it still wasn't satisfactory. I gave each side of the bun on top of my head a loose tug so that my hair wasn't pulled back so tight. My face looked too fat when it was pulled back tight.

I dropped my towel to the floor and approached the outfit I had picked out the night before - fitted skinny jeans with a plain tank top... the kind of outfit that receives praise on Top Model. I knew I was kidding myself, but I got dressed. I stared at the way my hips hung over my pants like a muffin top. Gross. My gut hung over my jeans like it felt my pain and wanted to escape too. I'd like to say I could blame it on my jeans being too tight, but they weren't; I was just fat. I realized that skinny jeans weren't made for fat girls and accepted defeat, moving on to examine my upper half. I looked at the way my arm fat gathered by my tank top straps. Too bad about the rest of you.

Frustrated, I stripped down to my underwear, which were also not fitting properly, due to being low rise. I grabbed the loosest pair of jeans I owned and switched the tank top for a baggy sweater. I figured that at least if I went for food, I could do my usual binge and not feel like everyone was staring at my expanding stomach. My secret weapon: the baggy sweater.

I was finished at that point. It was as good as it was going to get, and I was sick of caring. I took a step back and gave myself a good, long check over. I hated what I saw, but I wasn't thinking of myself. I was thinking of everyone else and the opinions that shouldn't matter.

But they did.

Most people start small and end big, but my life was going in the complete opposite direction. I had started with so much potential, so much passion, but it was fading away as I became more and more unsure of myself. Everyone had their interests, their strong points, and almost everyone knew what they wanted to make of themselves. What do you want to be when you grow up? Happy, I would always respond. I didn't care about the end result as long as I got there by staying true to myself. But here I was, still standing in front of the mirror, loathing what I saw, half because I wasn't doing anything with myself and half because I was mad at myself for the first reason.

I reminded myself that we don't have anything in this life if we don't have ourselves. Boldly, I ripped off the sweater I was wearing, not caring that my hair was getting messed up as my head got stuck in the hood. I put on the nicest shirt I could find and grabbed the skinny jeans off the floor, thinking that they had to fit for a reason. I let my hair down and took a moment to admire the nice wave it had achieved during the twenty minutes it had spent in a bun. I rubbed my face until the foundation was in my hands, and I rubbed it on the towel on my floor. I knew how to get the eye make up off; I was pro at that. I began to cry until the black ran from my eyes and my face was left in the same state as when I had gotten out of the shower. I looked beautiful, I felt beautiful, I was beautiful. But I couldn't bring myself to go out looking like that.

Maybe next time, I thought.

Global Issues 151

By Hafsah Moulvi and another disgruntled first year who really would prefer English 101...

Global issues

Global issues, Global issues,

Will someone please pass the tissues?

For I have the urge to cry,

As I kiss a decent university education goodbye,

Global issues, Global issues,

Most Profs say it's swell,

Not so I say, go jump in a well!

Global Issues Global issues

The content is not exactly tough,

And you don’t go over any relevant stuff

Global issues, Global issues

Why do I have to spend a handsome dime?

On a course that is such a waste of time,

Global issues Global issues,

Forgive me for I now have to go,

Over a bridge I must myself throw,

For I will have no career in which to go,

Because my mind will never grow.

Things Facebook Told Me on a Tuesday

By Andie Bulman

Sandy is hopeful today

Brandon is Listening to Daft Punk and playing Tetris

Darrah wishes Life was Like Beauty and the Beast

Tara misses her dad. Rest in Peace. It feels like you’re watching.

James comes from a race of tricky lobster people

Conrad misses his girlfriend more than anything

Heather has a new neice

Katie is surrounded by straight freakers

Donnie is making history. Now stuff it and let him make it

Todd got lost on the way home last night. He was thinking about the look in her eye.

Jon woke up with the sun and will walk home when it sets.

Patrick’s faith in Humanity has prevailed.

Jared is the thought that sets your city on fire

Alex is too sad today

"Two Feet and a Heartbeat"

By Rebecca Jewell

Running isn't about the glory. It isn't about how far you run or how fast you run it. It isn't about who sees you or who doesn't see you. It doesn't matter if they read your number or call your name as you approach the finish. It isn't about getting your picture taken. Running isn't glamorous. It's not a fashion show. It isn't about having the newest shoes or best outfit or brushing your hair. It's not about the technology, the improved stopwatches and step counters. It isn't about coming first. It isn't about personal bests.
Running isn't about training. It isn't about getting up at six a.m. to fit it into your day. It's not one of your daily to-do list items. It's not about practicing, putting in your time before the one big race. The run that counts. Every time you lace up your shoes, it should mean something.
Running is pure adrenaline. It's about letting go of everything. It's being fully in tune with your body, every muscle pulling and aching as you push further. It's about sweat. The rest of the world doesn't matter when you run. The only things that exist are you, the road and the sound of your breath. Running is about feeling truly alive.

Excerpt from “The Playground”

A One-Act Play

By Malcolm Murray

Characters [for this excerpt]:
Girl: young (we’ll say 20s, but representing (and sometimes acting like) an eight year old), fair hair, bright yellow shin-length dress.
Old Woman: black skirts, shawls.
Teeter-Totter Man: heavy man, brown suit.

Scene: A playground. [For this excerpt] from stage right to left: a bench, a teeter-totter. Exit stage right.
At lights up, Old Woman sits on bench stage right. Teeter-Totter Man sits alone on teeter-totter, resting on the ground, unoccupied. Both are inordinately bored, absorbed in their own penance, as if riders on a grimy transit to a tedious, energy-sapping job. Enter girl stage right, blithely.

Old woman: [To girl.] Where are you going?

Girl: To the playground.

Old Woman: What for?

Girl: To play.

Old woman: And what do you want to do that for? To be happy?

Girl: Yes.

Old Woman: Don’t they teach you anything in school anymore? Or your parents? Or are your parents just some young kids themselves? Had you too early. Despite our telling them. But do you think they listen? Carnal desires is all they are. They think they’re something else. All fine and hoity. And now look. Here you are. With no better sense than to go to the playground. Looking to play, I bet.

Girl: [Hands on hips.] I have sense. And what’s wrong with going to the playground? As far as I can see, you should go to the playground.

Old Woman: [Stands.] Open your eyes, miss. I’m already in the playground. [Spreads her arms.] All this is a playground. [Points off stage.] And all that is a playground too. You can’t escape the playground. I’ve never been anywhere else. And here you are pretending that you’re only now coming to the playground. To play! [Fists under chin, imitating.] “Oh if only I could get to the playground, then my life would start happening. You’ll see. Life will be ever so sweeter. If only I could get to the playground.”

Girl: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Things are what they are. That’s all. I’m just going to the playground.

Old Woman: [Re-sits. Pats the bench beside her.] Here. Sit down. I won’t bite. Come on. Sit down beside me. I’m going to tell you a story. It won’t take long. Come now. Sit. It’s not a long story and it’ll do you good. I wish someone told me this story when I was your age. But I’m going to tell you. Are you going to sit or not?

Girl: [Looking at Teeter-Totter Man.] Look. He’s all alone on the teeter-totter.

Old Woman: Oh, he’s one of the best teeter-totterers in the world, I’d say. Certainly the best in this park, anyway.

Girl: A good teeter-totterer, is he?

Old Woman: The best.

Girl: I didn’t think that a teeter-totter was the sort of thing that ...

Old Woman: He’s so good, no one will play with him anymore.

Girl: Really? No one? That’s sad.

Old Woman: No, no. It’s a compliment. It’s a mark of achievement.

Girl: So he just sits there? Hogging the teeter-totter?

Teeter-Totter Man: I can hear you.

[Girl approaches teeter-totter.]

Girl: But what if I had a friend and the two of us, my friend and I, came and wanted to ride the teeter-totter? What then? Would you let us?

Teeter-Totter Man: Do you have a friend?

Girl: [Hurt.] Not with me now. I’m speaking hypothetically.

Teeter-Totter Man: Hypothetically I would do anything. But as it stands, no one is trying to get on. So you can’t accuse me of being a hog. Else I can accuse you of hogging that spot of dirt your standing on.
[Alarmed, Girl moves to her left.]

Teeter-Totter Man: And now you’re hogging that patch. You’re a multiple patch hogger, whereas I, at least, am simply minding my own business. I am a simple folk imbibing the pleasure of a teeter-totter.

Girl: I see. [Considers.] I’m sorry I misspoke.

Teeter-Totter Man: There is no need to name call. It is hurtful.

Girl: I’m sorry.

Teeter-Totter Man: When I was a child, they used to call me “Hog.” They thought that was funny. Because of my weight. Now, when I hear the wind blow, when the birds chirp, when the crickets wheeze, it sounds to me as if they’re calling me “Hog.”

Girl: I’m so sorry.

[Pause.]

Teeter-Totter Man: Yes. Well, then. I’m happy we had this chance to speak, but, as you can see, I’m rather engaged here in teeter-tottering. So perhaps you could move along to some other amusement.

Girl: But you’re not teeter-tottering. You need another person to teeter-totter.

Teeter-Totter Man: A lot you know about it. I’m the champion teeter-totter. What are you? A Novice. A beginner. A hack.

Girl: I was going to ask you if I could teeter-totter with you.

Teeter-Totter Man: Oh. I see. You were?

Girl: Yes. But now, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go to the swings instead.
[Teeter-Totter Man stands, lowering the teeter-totter for the girl to climb on.]

Teeter-Totter Man: If you want to ride with me, that’s different. I thought you were here to call me names. Well? Are you going to get on?

[Girl considers. Relents. Gets on. The two stand with the teeter-totter parallel between them.]

Teeter-Totter Man: Ready?

Girl: Yep.

Teeter-Totter Man: Who should go first?

Girl: Pardon?

Teeter-Totter Man: Shall we flip a coin?

Girl: To go first?

Teeter-Totter Man: The player who goes first always has the advantage. Every teeter-totterist knows that.

Girl: I don’t even know what you mean by go first. Don’t we just go together?

Teeter-Totter Man: I am reduced to playing with hacks and boors! Where is the justice? You work, you pine. For what?

Girl: Pardon?

Teeter-Totter Man: Listen. The whole point is to teeter and totter. So one must teeter while the other totters. And if we can’t determine who’s doing the teetering and who the tottering, we may end up with two tottering. And then what?

Girl: When I teeter-totter, I just simply go. There isn’t anything more to it.

Teeter-Totter Man: That’s where you’re wrong. There’s so much more to it. There’s so much more it would blow your mind. I’ve read books on it. I’ve studied it. It consumes me. And here you suggest we just go together. Maddening!

Girl: You go first, then.

Teeter-Totter Man: Good. Now you’re talking sense.

[Teeter-Totter Man sits. His end goes down to the ground. Girl rises in the air. Since the man is so much heavier than the girl, this is all that happens. The girl remains suspended, her legs dangling.]

Teeter-Totter Man: Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. There. I win.

Girl: You’re supposed to push up with your legs.

Teeter-Totter Man: Why should I do that?

Girl: The point of the teeter-totter is to teeter and totter.

Teeter-Totter Man: The point is to win. Only losers speak otherwise. As if we should just play with no goal, no point. Is that your idea? Pointlessness? Don’t be a poor loser, little girl. It’s unbecoming.

Girl: Can I get down, then?

Teeter-Totter Man: I fell for that trick once. About seven years ago. I don’t mind admitting it. You learn from your mistakes. How else can you improve? Am I right?

Girl: I don’t know what trick you’re talking about. I just want to get off.

Teeter-Totter Man: Nice try little girl. I admire your spunk. But, as I say, you’re not fooling me. You can fool me once, they say, and then they say something else. But me, I’m a winner. Do you admit it?

Girl: You’re not going to let me down?

Teeter-Totter Man: One of the most important lessons in life is how to lose gracefully. Because you’re certainly going to lose more times than win. Unlike me. I’m a winner. And to win, well, what’s the saying? To make an omelette, you got to smash some eggs. Have you heard that one before? It means, to eat, you got to kill something. That’s the message. That’s how to be a winner.

Girl: What about not eating omelettes?

Teeter-Totter Man: Well, right. Sure. You don’t have to play. That’s true. You can sit on the sidelines. Under the bleachers. And just not play the game. Fine. Be my guest. But to really live, to play, to live well, you got to take things seriously. Do you get my drift? You should listen. You can learn a thing or two from a winner. Winners know how to take things by the balls. If you know what I mean.

[Girl clambers off teeter-totter, moves to swing set. Etc.]