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Published in the February Issue

This February’s Creative Writing section is full of Dawson students’ different perspectives on what it means to be at home. Is the globe your residence? Do you feel safe with your two feet planted in the soil? Or is home somewhere you’ve never been, somewhere in the sky among the stars? Maybe happy is in Ireland or maybe happy is next door. Wherever you’re trying to get to or from lies somewhere in the lines of these writings.


Bronwyn Farkas

Creative Writing Editor

Building Myself A Castle

By Julia Bifulco

I’m spinning, spinning,

spinning uncontrollably.

I wish to believe that this world is enchanted.

It’s only when that tingling feeling makes

its way from the tips of my toes to

the top of my tête that I know:

I am made of magic.

My soulmate shines among the stardust -

find me in Neverland.


By Jonah Levy

Thought it was the last sunset.

Forgot that it would be there tomorrow,

that I'd be there tomorrow,

that anything would be there.

Thought that it just ended after this,

that it would be dark and light would become my imaginary friend.

Because how often does something that pretty happen more than once?

How often does something make everything else background noise?

Every thought, every intuition, every single thing we love and know pauses for just one second while the sun says goodnight.

How can something so important be so far away?

Something so important that we can’t even touch it.

Something so important that it says

bye to us when it goes home.

And on its best days we can't even look at it.

The only reason I'm alive, the only thing that makes me feel warm, and I can't even look at it.

Not until it waves goodbye, not until it's bleeding across my horizon, and not until today was yesterday and tomorrow is on its way.

But it makes sense,

People are spoiled.

Things once precious are just regular now.

Seems like Mother Nature is the last real parent.

Like Father Nature awarded bad behavior, got kicked out and now punches holes in the moon.

He’s far from the day and forgot about his sun a long time ago.

Yet mother reminds us everyday that they're numbered,

that we would die without her, that she’s fed up and will do what is necessary.

She doesn't need us

and can make seven billion just like us.

But who cares, right?

We probably won’t even be here when she snaps.

The Gate

By Erykah Brisebois

He wraps my skin in wool.

The red shield I drag reflects through the sun,

It brings light to his vision.

He assembles the gate,

allows it to leak through our partnership.

Where is the entrance to freedom?

He wraps my skin in wool.

I’m trying to get through these cemented polls of thorns,

Yet I’m wounding my hollow heart.

My shield is cracking,

Blood is flooding through the gate.

Where is the entrance to freedom?

He wraps my skin in wool.

I see his eyes turn white, the sun is too bright.

He strolls with his white cane,

feeling every part of our home,

my heart is abandoned.

You burst.

Here is the entrance to freedom.

Grass Stains

By Julie Jacques

“What are you doing out here lying in the wet grass?” I jumped at the sound of a voice and sat up. I hadn’t expected anyone. The girl I had seen checking me out earlier loomed over me, chuckling over her drink. “Sorry,” I mumbled, “I just needed some fresh air.” I quickly closed my sketchbook, putting my pencils into my pockets. “You don’t have to be sorry – is it okay if I join you?” She didn’t wait for a response. She sat down, accidentally landing right on my sketchbook.

An inquisitive eyebrow shot up as she realized what she had sat on, asking me for permission to delve in. I hesitated for a second, but there was something about her that seemed trustworthy. Red hair—not as red as mine, and her Irish drawl. So far away from our home, it was comforting. She was probably one of the Irish exchange students from the local college– I had participated in the program years ago, and overstayed my welcome.

I nodded shyly, granting her access to my messy drawings. As she struggled to open my book with one hand while balancing her drink in the other, I thought back to my best friend, Conor, and his advice: “Put yourself out there!” He’d always preach. I wasn’t shy, per se, but he could tell that I was lonely; I had the impression that a dark rain-cloud had begun following me around when I started being commissioned to design wedding dresses. Conor had shipped me off to this party with the pretense that he would show up an hour in, but never came.

Maybe showing this girl my sketches was what he meant. When telling him this story, I would conveniently leave out the part about me going outside to lie down in the grass because I was dizzy, and that really all I could think about was my current client’s project while I was supposed to be flirting with girls.

Through her silent gazes, I saw a soft, sad smile. She put down the book. “This stuff is good. I want this one.” She pointed to a preliminary sketch of a dress I designed for a Christmas wedding. I nodded, still quiet. She seemed to understand. She stood up, and walked away. Right before she turned the corner, she turned around. “You got grass stains on your shirt,” she smirked. I think she was lonely too.


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