Creations 2022

Cover Art By Charlotte Morris

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.”

― William Shakespeare, The Tempest

Dear Readers,

Like butterflies from the chrysalis, we’ve emerged from the interior world of the pandemic into fields of flight. We celebrate with an issue dedicated to dreams – the intimate, ephemeral, magical, disturbing, revealing moments that sing to us in our darkest hours. We have spent the last year in class, laughing, sharing (sometimes despairing) but it has all been beautiful because we were TOGETHER! We hope you enjoy the incredible works selected for this year’s ALC Creations Journal. Thank you to everyone who helped out! Thank you to Pauline Morel for always being a guiding light. Thank you to Tavish, Sarah, Liane, and Andrea our ALC teachers!

Always know we will listen to and honour your dreams!

Love the Editors

Table of Contents

Table of Contents for our 2022 Journal!

(author’s name links to their work)

Artworks

Dreamers by Max Stutman

Art by Alejandra Sanchez Vallejo

Poetry

Sleep, Rest, Dreaming, and all the beautiful deaths they lie between. by Adrian Darwent

Symposium of the Loved One by Nathaniël Nagano-Deschamps

Scream within a Dream by Marco Deveaux

Quad Dreaming a collaborative poem by 2022 ALC students

A Song to Bill 96 by Eden Daniel

Short Fiction

Mourning Morning by Stefanie Capozzo

Short Prose/Essay

Woolgathering by Djamila Milette Mostefaï

To Dream by Amelie Druker

QUAD, DREAMING

a collaborative poem by the 2022 ALC students of Sarah
Burgoyne’s Literature and Creative Practice class

Each stanza was written simultaneously in response to Beckett’s wordless, made for TV play Quad (1981).
In the play, four dancers dressed in long anonymous robes tread a square in fixed
patterns, avoiding a “danger zone” at the centre of the square. The dreamlike play
is made even more oneiric by the poetic responses that make up this poem: an
“alone-together” chorus responding to the opaque (and humorous) work.
Numbered stanzas authored by the following writers:

I. Emma Majaury
II. Timmy Taing
III. Stefanie Capozzo
IV. Eden Daniel
V. Audréanne Bouchard
VI. Elodie Lavictoire
VII. Lucie Dejardin
VIII. Nashley Archer
IX. Hailey Manca
X. Aliyah Sarimazi
XI. Jamie Lee Lamothe
XII. Noemie Brisson
XIII. Karina Hesselbo
XIV. Lora Amir Alsaoub
XV. Esther Forbes
XVI. Emmy Rubin
XVII. Nathaniel Nagano
Deschamps
XVIII.Dimitra Stappas
XIX. Stéphanie Dale
XX. Willyam Ricard
XXI. Vanessa Lozza
XXII. Harrison Meak
XXIII.Ivano Milevoy
XXIV. Will Dusablon Girard
XXV. Djamila Mostefai
XXVI. Maria Jose Jimenez Acosta
XXVII. Mila Frumovitz
XXVIII. Ava Jast
XXIX. Anna Kyrytsya
XXX. Gerella Lyn Tugas
XXXI. Émile Cooren
XXXII. Paris Soleimanipour
XXXIII. Lucas Cameron Rotondo
XXXIV. Ethan Shahin

QUAD, DREAMING
Pianissimo throughout.
—Samuel Beckett
I.
Like ghosts
looking for shelter
old hags are chased by the wind

II.
Ghost pieces, accident site
Left turn, mute looping middle
Stalemate master, taken offstage

III.
Pulling in passerbys
for its total tally
ash wafts past a dark alley

IV.
No!
Stay back!
Crush in!
Huddle!

V.
Life goes
People go
None left intact
People come back

VI.
Each and every time
Avoid collision
Pace face to face

VII.
All hopes are lost
But are they? 1… 2… 3…
Inhale… Exhale…

VIII.
The strangers became odd friends
who left me pending mid sentence
When they came back, they were dressed in white

IX.
Like a broken carousel
Colours passing by
1… a 2 … a 3 …. A 4

X.
The drumming rapids
as they suspend themselves
Towards the uncertainty

XI.
Musik geht brrr brr
1
Gehirn macht brrr brrr
Doppelgänger
they’re screaming: “Come and get her”

XII.
Normal people wouldn’t bother recalling such trivial yet disheartening things, and yet
they’re all I have. My feet keep tapping and I halt. I lock myself inside.
Tap tap tap

XIII.
A seamless desert
Large feet scraping along sandstone
“Where are you going?”

XIV.
The inside of your prison
Such precision missing
the sly point

XV.
Pray for an ice pick
Place the spike
behind grey shadows

XVI.
Because when we meet the others again
the single rhythm feels like
it never existed at all
2

XVII.
In the trifecta
we are but to be reminded
that four is more than just a number

XVIII.
There is no path but there is deviation
Go around and come back
blue like wisdom and freedom
red like love and life

XIX.
Endless maze
of bouncing criminals
An egg shatters
yellowless seeps

XX.
“I can’t believe this was made for TV”
“This is really grating”
“This is way too long!”

XXI.
The sound of the jungle is loud
even though there is no crowd
George, King of the jungle, is not seen

XXII.
As we are moving forward
in an endless cycle
3
In an endless cycle
Our differences are alike

XXIII.
So with heads bowed and thoughts clouded
by tunnel vision, not wanting to break the status quo
not even create a small incision

XXIV.
Like a solar system gravitating towards
your pulse beating loudly behind your brain
as feet shuffle scratching red and stop, stop!
Why won’t they stop?

XXV.
Choreographed skeletons harmonize
A hidden, failed passagio
Tic Tac Tic Tac

XXVI.
The cycle of our lives overlapping
Can you see me? Don’t touch me
Mechanic hesitation because how could I ever

XXVII.
Has “Quad” become a breath? A heartbeat?
“Oh my god I loved you as player 2 in ‘Quad!’
The red cloak really suited you!”
4

XXVIII.
A liminal space and anything goes.
Nothing changes, does that calm you? Does your mind race
in a hurry, following in the shuffle?

XXIX.
Limbo bodes limbo, transe-ition;
one-two-three-four-onetwo
threefour-onetwothreefourevermore

XXX.
I watch as you wander the wary square.
You blaze through the four bland corners.
But meet—rush!
Run with your radiant friend Panic!

XXXI.
After many rides under the moon
I’d had enough of the sand dunes
I made the long trip home

XXXII.
Lost with nowhere to go
Always in motion you and me
The music when we’re together runs wild

XXXIII.
Drums of broken silence fuel liberation
Familiar gnawing—
Footsteps tempt intrusive thought
5

XXXIV.
Well-collected disconnect holds weight
Do not wait to complete him in his dance
He dances for two, and would surely dance for four if asked

Mourning Morning by Stefanie Capozzo

I crack an egg into a pan. Its exhale is stifled. The splatter sizzles almighty, like spilling someone’s soul on the floor to gaze upon. I wonder what it’d be like, spilling into my own obsidian unknown. After all, how magical a fluid’s travels must be! Flowing through life in ancient moats and surrounding the castles of its purported Kings would be my ideal mission. The painful thing about such a journey is that liquids can’t appreciate breakfast, so it’s best not to get caught up in such thoughts.

The yolk is a sun. The pupil of a son. To avoid confronting my relationship with the egg, I scramble it. The act makes me yellow; I feel fresh and bright, but aloof. Whereas orange insists that you plunge into the warmth of a stare like it’s a rich carrot cake, yellow refuses the connection. It’s a zesty lemon, only appreciated in specific circumstances. My egg is yellow too.

I can’t help but cry as I plate it. I know the fate that awaits each wriggly piece. The egg doesn’t struggle because it knows that it’ll be fluid again. How that chance fills me with jealousy! The pressure makes my shell feel as if it’s about to shatter, but no such luck. I am a King, the controller, who can never be dethroned. My flesh prison is inescapable and forces me to birth solids for sustenance. I’m sorry for bringing the egg here.

Our time together is prolonged by my listless chewing. Sitting on the porch, I’m reminded of why I love breakfast. A view of paradise presents itself to me every morning. I avert the crystal sky and its gilded orb. I cannot stand the sight of the gushing river in the distance.

Instead, the grass is my perfect constant. It too is stuck, anchored by the ground. I sip my orange juice and admire the sprouting emeralds.

Breakfast will come again, but so will an empty plate: a sky that’s lost its star.

Sleep, Rest, Dreaming, and all the beautiful deaths they lie between. by Adrian Darwent

Revisit the right of perennial rest

Before familiar fading flared the fire

Before me, Marx, Madonna, and Macbeth

Before strung dolls danced to their dreamt desire

Before their ticking told the time for tea

When we would live like lithium light bulbs

And we will always wander past ennui

And we will heighten hell to hear out Hobbes

And we won’t only talk of what’s observed

Until grain gathers against gunning geese

Until crunched acres cut the crawling curve

Until blight stumbles back upon its beast

Until we nestle into Night’s sole need

Subside now, smother sound in ceaseless sleep.

Symposium of the Loved One by Nathaniël Nagano-Deschamps

A Song to Bill 96 by Eden Daniel

Stained glass spring open,
Peel out a melody,
What other place could I belong?
Who better to dance with than a song?
Shine! Shine!
Let elixirs cross the street,
I felt someone had paved for me.
Bind! Bind!
The scepter stomps in a crack.
How it spirals out a love
Of teeth.
When the mountain tries to move;
It drags a forest behind it.
And as blood gets in your hair;
You’ll find out if we’ll leave in peace.
Drink Moon Mist in the muddy sun;
Skip out till our toes reach the sea,
Or stay.
To repaint our stray old homes;
To touch the remnants of a threat.
All to dream up
What language a song is in.
All because it is unknown,
That songs have no language.
Save for a hearty beat.

To Dream by Amelie Druker

What is a dream? What is the difference between the dreams we follow and the dreams
we fall into? Is one just fantasy and the other reality or do they each walk that fine line in their
own way? Can we really use dreams to tell the future? The meaning of the word ‘dream’ changes
from context to context and person to person and that is what makes them so fascinating.
To some, a dream is what you work towards. It is the reality you consciously aspire to
achieve, be it big or small. You might dream of a big house and a dream job. Someone else may
dream of a life where getting out of bed seems less daunting and the motivation currently lacking
comes easily. Essentially, these dreams are slivers of hope and possible realities; they drive you
and provide comfort in darkness or uncertainty.

Contrastingly, you cannot always choose your dreams. These dreams wash over your mind
in moments of unconsciousness and are often forgotten the moment you open your eyes. In these
dreams it is not about reality or wants, it is about processing. The things weighing on your mind
transform into various images of pigs flying or being naked in front of an audience. You realize
the trip you were planning is causing you more worry than you thought because every time you
close your eyes you see a plane crash or a blank boarding pass. Unlike the previously mentioned
type of dream, no one can control these dreams and you rarely remember them. They simply wash
away with the feeling of sleepiness as you wake up and get your bearings.

Then, there are the daydreams. That strange mix of reality and fantasy provide an easy
escape from the world around us. The images you see while awake but not really present.
Daydreams originate from the imagination and cross a boundary that can seem so clear-cut. They
allow us to be aware of detaching from reality and provide a distraction from the world around us.
Arguably the best entertainment on a long road trip or during a boring class, daydreams are a
limitless source of entertainment, and best of all, they are free and yours to control.
Additionally, dreams are sometimes considered to be premonitions. Our subconscious
foreshadows the things to come that we should be aware of and maybe even wary of. From
books to websites, countless sources will help you analyze your dream and extract the deeper
meaning or future prospects. In this version of dreaming, we look for the concrete in the theoretical.
We bring what we have learned in the subconscious to the conscious and make sense of it as best
we can. In this case, it is reassuring to find things we recognize in a concept still shrouded in so
much mystery.

Overall, all these types of dreams overlap and share commonalities while simultaneously
being unique in their own way. A dream of the future is not the same as a dream in sleep, yet
neither is truly reality. Regardless of their similarities or differences, all forms of dreams are
universally experienced. From childhood to adulthood, the brain constantly creates images and
narratives that play like movies in the mind.

Dreams are specific to you and that is a part of what makes us individuals; the same life
experience could lead to different interpretations in different people. Dreams can lead you to love
waking hours and/or crave sleep even more. Vivid dreams may spark a longing for the darkness
that falls over a city, while night terrors trigger a desire for the sunlight that kisses the rooftops in
the morning. You have your own relationship with your mind, be it unconscious, conscious or the
hybrid state of both.

Finally, dreams are subject to change. As a child, you might dream of one day being a
doctor or even royalty. As you grow up, those dreams might remain the same or develop into
something new; “royalty” could become “actress” and “doctor” could become “researcher”.
Nightmares may evolve from monsters under the bed to the death of someone you love and
daydreams might go from your math teacher turning into a frog to your boss giving you a raise.
Regardless of what kind, dreams grow and change as we do and it is a thing of beauty. We are the
walking masterpieces of our minds; never truly finished but never incomplete either, we are forever
changing pieces of art.

Woolgathering by Djamila Milette Mostefaï

The first inevitable and truly sorrowful lesson we all come to face is the acceptance that
it is impossible to dream a good dream twice. We all come to grieve that brief window of
freedom spent away from everything and everyone else in our vociferous world. Soon, we learn
to carefully admire the heavenly mist behind that window. We quickly salute its kind characters
and enjoy a few bites of its sweetest pastries. A good dream is a child’s first goodbye, an adult’s
saddest greeting.
*
According to one neurobiological theory, the “Activation-Synthesis Hypothesis”, dreams consist
of electrical impulses that use random data from our memories. This means that we dream a lot
and some dreams are simply more boring than the rest. In parallel, it is also important to note that
while dreams occur at any moment of our sleep, the ones we remember in the morning take place
in the REM (rapid eye movement) stage during which higher brain activity is recorded. In other
words, amongst all the possible combinations our 86 billion neurons come up with, we remember
those both worth remembering and those lucky enough to encounter our consciousness. Another
interesting fact is that one is guaranteed to remember a dream following the sudden shock of an
alarm. Remembering a dream after waking up on your own means said dream survived multiple
sleep stages and a literal army of neurons to reach our world.
*
I don’t think you need me to understand why this is kind of romantic.
*
This is no homage to the poetry of dreams.
That has been written, sung, drawn, painted, performed, danced, discussed and tattooed.
I loathe repetition. I detest it so much that I just researched a synonym of the verb “to loathe” to
express my hatred for it. I refuse to be one of those unoriginal fanatics. I refuse to call you a day
dream believer.
*
I’ve written multiple versions of this essay. Deciding which to submit is a process
requiring logic and reason. I should write about a better world. Yes. Why not honour Martin
Luther King? No, he’s too famous. Dreaming of equality is no longer creative in this
unsymmetrical urban setting, is it? I should write my deepest and most agonizing struggles and
draw a unique and personal connection to dreams to make it original (remembering to use
writing devices and figures of speech).
*
Once a dream starts, there is nothing you can do to stop it. You are under the obligation
to dream it until awakening (unless you yank yourself awake, but wouldn’t that be a nightmare?)
*
I am a young woman with great ambitions. I dream of success and health. I admit, I do
enjoy a good romcom, or a touching song about a past lover, but I do not obsess, fantasize or
hope for a slightly longer embrace at every encounter. Let alone dream of it. I’ve written
countless pages. Disease and depression. Family and childhood pain. Difference and oppression.
All I care to brag about is the overwhelming luck I possess when encountering and catching a
running dream twice, as a foolish child would.
Commented [SB1]: Ha!
Commented [SB2]: I’ve lost track here of the “it” — do
you mean an homage? This line could maybe be cut.
Commented [DMM3R2]: Yeah It’s kind of redundant to
be honest
Commented [SB4]: I think what you mean here is
everyone wants equality now so it’s no longer an original
thought? Or it’s been said already?
Commented [DMM5R4]: Yes, I also want to show how I
base my writing on academic success, logic etc… Like, if
even Martin Luther King doesn’t make the cut, how could a
lover pass the test or smtg
Commented [SB6]: I love that this is stated as something
impossible at the start of the essay and comes back here as
something the writer experienced.
*
A dream is a drop of water in an immense desert. A dream is health after ravaging illness.
A dream is everything in nothingness, grandiosity in the face of simplicity, a goddamn life
changing political movement, an act of kindness in ubiquitous violence, a gasp of air in a
ravaging flood. A dream is crumbs of bread in murderous famine.
*
Wouldn’t writing of anything else than the truth be cowardly? How could I face such
grandeur and feign passion? Wouldn’t it be immoral (and frankly controversial) to stand for my
own and have my heart scoff at the rage any true activist feels when advocating? How shameful
of me. Still, how can anger compare when none of these militants could ever shield me as you
do?
*
A dream is not our cold breaths greeting each other before our lips meet. Of all dreams, of
all universes and their windows, of all the infinite possibilities my incredibly cliché neurons
could come up with, you’re what I choose?
*
A dream is not your very small fingers tracing my very insignificant shoulder beneath the
lights of the city.

Alejandra Sanchez Vallejo