Scream within a Dream by Marco Deveaux

I woke up groggy and unsure,

Head turned and felt the sun beam on my face through the window,

My lips were dry as chalk as the world spun.

My bed was rocking from side to side, I felt like I was on a boat going through choppy waters,

The screaming coming from my right ear wasn’t outside,

I dug my face in a pillow and screamed back.

The scene shifted as the clouds broke the sun’s rays,

Rain pelted the ground as my eyes burned from the light in my room.

I drew aside the blinds and saw the purple sky streaked by a yellow bolt.

The lightning split the ground and the scream became speech,

“wake up”

I jumped from the window.

The impact never came as I jumped out of bed, this time energized.

My eyes were like lasers pulsing through whatever came in front,

I dashed downstairs and went for a run,

The downhill beginning always makes for an easy start,

With each stride I pick up

The pace is heightened and my breath grows shorter,

Need to calm myself down as the car honks beside me,

Did I just run a stop sign?

I reach the side of the water,

The river pushing beside me, broken waves beached.

A swarm of small flies circle and buzz ahead of me,

I close my mouth and run through them,

The river screams, the river is a girl,

A girl floating at the top, her face in the water.

I bury my face in my hands and drop to my knees,

“No, no, not again”

The words slip through my fingers as my body trembles,

The scream becomes screams, streams of tears as I hit the deck,

My body collapsing to the ground on the bicycle path,

A cyclist pressing his bell, a man pulling over,

His Tribute changes to a Harley,

The laser in my eyes diminishes,

The screams pour through the canals of my ears.

I wake up again and grab my throat,

The screaming only starts once I let go,

So I, hold on. 

Dear Life, bring to me the fruition of pain

But subside what I deem an unnecessary relapse of Dreams.

I let go.

She screams, he screams.

Where did the muffin man go?

Dream On By Téa Barrett

By the barracks of bare backs,
Each tune that is owned,
We sway and swing
To the way
Our bones dream on

To swing and to sway,
And to twist, and to turn

A lanky silhouette and a wide-grinned black cat
Stand at the corner of a lamppost far off.
He tips his hat and taps his foot
To the way
His bones dream on

Taps and tips,
And nods, and hips

Dream on.

The Boy Who Loved The Sun By Noémie Brisson

Icarus thought he was very much like the moon, and he often found himself gazing up
admiringly at it. Unlike himself, the moon was free, up and alive in the sky, gleaming
proudly for all to see.

Although Icarus wished to be free, he and his father could not escape easily, for the labyrinth
that imprisoned them was impossible to get out of. Daedalus had designed it in a way where
anyone who wandered too deep in would find themselves wondering which was the sky and
which was the ground. It had been so ingeniously designed that even Daedalus himself could
not escape it.

However, Daedalus had been working on a plan for quite some time now. With thread, wax,
and feathers collected over the years, he made two pairs of wings; one for himself, and one
for his son. He tested them while Icarus slept under the tower’s singular window, his face
glowing from the moonlight that melted into the room. Daedalus’ body created shapes on
the wall behind him. While he hopped around, flapping his arms in the air, black spots of
darkness danced left and right. His feet left the ground and his hair grazed the ceiling, and
his shadow was an ungodly, ominous creature, casted on the wall by the moon itself.
The very next day, Daedalus could not wait any longer. He explained his plan to Icarus, and
told him very seriously: “You must follow me at all times. You ought never to veer off into a
different path, for I will be the one to lead the way back to Athens, my home—soon to be
yours. You ought not to fly too low, or your wings will get soaked and the sea will take you.
But you ought not to fly too high either, or the sun will melt your wings into nothing and the
sea will still take you.”

While Icarus tried to pay attention to his father’s words, he could not ignore the buzzing
excitement spreading throughout his entire body. It was now morning, and very little
sunlight leaked in through the window, regardless of its large size. Why did it seem like
moonlight always came into the tower more easily and abundantly than sunlight did? While
Icarus had always felt like one with the moon, he still longed for the sunlight’s soft, warm
touch on his skin. But as his paleness demonstrated, he had gotten very little of it.

Daedalus flew out the window first, and Icarus followed. Flying was amazing, Icarus quickly
realised, as he flapped his arms up and down and flew steadily as to not go too high or too
low. Up on top of him was the sky, and down below him was the sea. Blue was everywhere;
there was the light blue in his father’s eyes up above his head, and the deep indigo of the
tower’s walls at night underneath his floating legs. He was surrounded by blue, enveloped by
it, almost lovingly. The wind caressed his skin too, kissing away at it with each flap of his
wings. But most importantly, there was the sun, somewhere above or below, perhaps in the
middle or everywhere, warming him up more than he had ever been warmed up.
Icarus was reminded of the moon and the sun’s sad tale of forbidden love. They danced
around one another forever, the moon coming up in the evening as soon as the sun had left,
sometimes getting close but never close enough to kiss. But Icarus was so close now, closer
than he had ever been before, and felt as though perhaps that terrible tale of impossibilities
could end right then and there. He did not have to get too close, no—certainly not close
enough to kiss, for the sea would then take him. He would simply get a little closer, just a
little bit more, just so the sun’s followers, the sun’s faithful sunrays, could caress his face a
little bit better, could lap away at his tears with more efficiency. The sun was this grandiose
beam of light, round and majestic, and it grew bigger and bigger before him, until it took up
all of his vision.

Icarus heard a long scream, a ribbon of warnings thrown his way from his father behind him,
but did not have time to understand them. Before he could realise what was happening,
Icarus had already begun plummeting down towards the sea. The large circle that was the
sun shrunk smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a speck of light in the desert of blue
that surrounded him, right until the sea finally took a hold of him and what remained of his
melted wings.

Cemetery Tea Party By Romee Chartrand

There was once a boy made of coal who lived across the street. I met him when I was asleep. As I roamed on the road. I opened my eyes and the cemetery gate. The sky above me was dark. Heavy. The sky of the end of the world. I was waiting for the storm. Waiting to be struck by the lightning and feel the electricity in my veins and my bones. I wanted to feel myself bursting in the clouds like rain bursts and falls from the sky. I waited and the tears on my face refused to dry. Awake, I would never cry. Not like that. Not while facing the sky. I would cry like a coward with my face against the dirt. But you are not yourself when you are asleep. A frozen hand rested on my shoulder. I turned around to see a boy looking at me. He had holes for eyes. “You’re crying,” he said. His lips didn’t move. His voice resonated deep in my head and the sky roared.

I wiped my cheeks as if to wipe off his memory. “I’m not.”

“I have eyes to see. Crying is good,” he replied. Our faces were close as rain began. The thunder in the distance rumbled and every now and then the lightning would flood the sky and turn it white. Shadows danced on his face.

“I don’t remember how to cry.” His voice was clear as altar bells; mine would die in the wind. We chose silence for a moment. The earth growled and shook and died and inside I was screaming with Her. I can only scream because there are no words for the pain that makes no noise and floats inside me like smoke. We stood there, waiting for lightning. I hoped it would not strike on this boy. I wanted to be the one destroyed. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“I don’t remember,” I said and looked at the sky. Maybe it was written somewhere in the clouds, but you can’t read when you dream.

“Me neither.” His voice sounded like whispers late at night when you don’t want to wake the dead. It was heavy, but careful. The lightning came to break the graves in two and for a second, I felt his fingers brush mine. The boy spoke again when everything exploded around us, and I had not realized I was still crying until my tears ran towards my mouth like a refuge. “This is the perfect weather for tea, don’t you think? We have a seat for you. My monsters are waiting, we should go before the tea gets cold,” he says between my ears.

I wanted to stay with the thunder. I wanted to explode. I did not have time for tea and his monsters would turn my dream into a nightmare. “Don’t be scared,” he whispered in my thoughts like he’d read them. “The difference between angels and demons is judgement.”

We walked between the graves. I saw the columbarium and a round table covered with a white burial shroud. Every seat was occupied except for two side by side. One monster was tall and covered in black feathers. His breathing made the teacups shake. Embers surrounded him like a circle of salt. Another one was made of bloody wounds. Horns adorned his head and the boy sat close to him. The last monster was a black cloud with sharp teeth. The boy was looking at me in silence. He was calm, like death usually is, as if nothing around us was terrifying, as if the sky wasn’t collapsing a few metres above us, as if the rain wasn’t grazing our skins, as if demons were not around us waiting to come in. I sat down and took the boy’s hand to tighten it until his knuckles turned pale. Quickly, words tore my mouth out: “I’m waiting for the lighting to hug me.” I looked down to the spiders painted on my teacup.

The boy poured whiskey in it and the monster made of smoke spoke like a tornado: “No one hugs the dead.”

“Am I dead?” I ask the boy. He pulled out his jawbone and displayed it gently on my head. He took my cup and brought it up to my lips. I tasted nothing. The monsters laughed.

“Am I dead?” I said louder and let the thunder repeat after me. Without his jaw, I could see inside the boy’s head. His brain was decomposing. I tugged on his hand once again and my fingers deepened in his cold skin. I felt his bones under it and pressed harder. There was no answer, so I let go. If I truly were dead, how could I know what death feels like? Probably like a thousand knives under your skin and suddenly, nothing. Nothing but the wind. I pushed the boy’s shoulder slightly and he turned around. I couldn’t see anything anymore. Maybe it was my tears, maybe it was the rain. There was simply, the gracious and dark body of the boy, like a bruise—black and blue—standing in front of me.

“It’s a pretty crown you’ve got there,” he echoed in my head as he stood up. “Dance with your king.” I started to run. Too bad for the dance. I fell. My mouth was full of blood. Dirt was stuck between my teeth and under my tongue. The sound of my breathing covered everything. I cried louder, as we cry when we know it’s over, but suddenly, the storm calmed down. There wasn’t so much noise anymore, just the thunder which still rolled above. I slowly got up and saw the boy’s silhouette coming to me with his wet hair sticking to his face. “Where are you going?” he shouted.

“Crazy,” I murmured. “I’m going crazy. Would you dance with me?”

I followed his rhythm without really knowing how. It was dead quiet, but here we were, amongst the asleep, hand in hand, moving with the wind’s music. He stopped. “What do you want to do now?” If the boy had a jaw, I know he would have smiled. Even covered with burns after the storm. The question was strange because what does one do when they’re asleep? Apart from waiting to be struck by lightning just

to wake up and be wrapped up in a thousand layers of empty skin keeping warm blurry memories. The rain died after we did. After the raven boy wrapped me up in his frozen arms. After I whispered:

“Anything, but please, don’t wake me.”

Editorial 2020

Dear readers, 

This issue of the Creations Journal comes to you as a beacon in a trying time. We may be stuck inside, but our words shimmy out of the closed doors and sneak through shut windows because they are all that can. It is important for creators to come together, now more than ever. Staying creative will help us emerge from this time with a new perspective. 

Thank you to all our courageous contributors for their spectacular submissions.

Thank you to Dr. Andrea Strudensky, Creative Writing Workshop professor, and Dr. Liana Bellon, Integrating Activity professor, for always encouraging us to step outside our boundaries.

And last of all, thank you to Dr. Pauline Morel, the Literature profile coordinator, for helping us make the creation of this Journal possible. 

In troubled times, we are all turning to art for comfort. Feel free to turn to us. 


The Editors

Julia Bifulco, Sophia Canzonieri, Nina Cloutier, Talia Kliot and Chelsea Moore



By Eleni Andonatos Schellenburg

Hand over your Medicare Card. Announce your appointment time and who you are going to meet. You don’t know their name? You are here for a pre-scheduled appointment with the emergency doctor. Are you new here? Speak louder so that you can be heard through the glass. Please register your address and phone number to open your file at this clinic. Stop yelling. You are disturbing the other patients. Your appointment will be cancelled if you do not register your address and phone number to the clinic. Thank you for your cooperation; you may have a seat in the waiting room.

         Bonjour/Hi, your Medicare please. With whom do you have an appointment? Perfect, you may have a seat.

         Welcome back. What assistance do you require? Unfortunately, it is impossible to know when the Doctor will see you as she has many patients to see today. I am aware that you have reserved a time to see someone, but so have the others who suffocate the waiting room. You don’t look very sick. You won’t see the doctor sooner if you cough. You should not leave the premises for fresh air; you may miss the Doctor calling your name. Your appointment will be cancelled if you do not respond when the Doctor calls your name. Sorry for the inconvenience. Enjoy your break and good luck.

         Bonjour/Hi, your Medicare Card please. With whom do you have an appointment? You may have a seat.

         Something smells of skunk. The Doctor did not call your name while you were gone; well done. The Doctor must wear a mask for her health and safety. The radio music cannot be lowered. Listen carefully if you are hard of hearing. Be careful not to bother the children, they get restless waiting. The Wi-Fi is for employees only. Sit in the waiting room until you are called. Your appointment will be cancelled if you do not sit.

         Bonjour/Hi, your Medicare Card. With whom do you have an appointment? You may have a seat.

         Hello again, I called you back to the front desk because the Doctor requested you take a urine test. Take these containers and head to the bathroom. The bathroom is to your back on your right. You must urinate now. If the bathroom door is locked, someone is inside. You must wait till whoever is inside is done with the toilet. Do not knock on the bathroom door; it is rude to bother someone while they are on the toilet. The Doctor will see you soon after you deposit your samples. I will make sure to let the Doctor know you are occupied if she calls while you are in the bathroom. Wash your hands after you have finished. Your appointment will be cancelled if you do not wash your hands.

         Bonjour/Hi, your Medicare Card. With whom do you have an appointment? Have a seat.

         It still reeks! What do you need now? If the bathroom is out of toilet paper, it’s not my job to replenish it. The janitor only comes after closing. You will have to use paper towels. Stop yelling; you will make the kids squeal. The Doctor will see you soon. She is getting closer to your name on the list. The people who you have seen entering the Clinic after you and seeing the Doctor before you are visiting their own family Doctor. You must wait your turn. You won’t see the Doctor sooner if you wheeze. Do not go out again; take a mint instead. Your appointment will be cancelled if you do not take a mint.

         Bonjour/Hi, your Medicare Card. Appointment with whom? Have a seat.

         Did you hear that this clinic barely got a 2-star rating online? Your appointment will be cancelled if you don’t rate this clinic 4 stars or higher.

         Bonjour/Hi. Medicare Card. Appointment with whom? Have a seat.

         What is it now? I am doing my best, but I cannot make Her work any faster. I have emails to answer, Doctors wailing on the phone, patients rotting at my feet and crap tests to send off by stork. Do you have more complaints? Do you want me to pose for your smartphone? I don’t have time to reassure you over and over that She will see you. My Boss says that sick people are just scared. Well, you aren’t scared of me. Why aren’t you scared of me? I am twice as tall as She is. I am twice as loud as She is. Is it because I earn less than you? Your appointment will be cancelled if I earn less than you. Now, sit.

         Hi. Card. With whom? Sit.

         This place is a canned skunk barn. How many times have I asked you to take a mint? Take all of them and give them to the kids; maybe they’ll stop squawking. Pretend that it’s yummy white candy and sit comfortably, like in a new pasty white van. Roll in the constipated snow if you can bring it inside. Call a friend to urinate in your cup; maybe They won’t find anything then. TP my house if you think it’ll help you see Her sooner. But you are not the one with my address, remember? How may I be of service, then? I can answer any of your questions. No, I can’t give you my name next question? The sofas are for the Ophthalmologists’ patients who can’t see the plastic seat that you sit on and miss on the way down. I said the Ophthalmologists. They are not specialized for what you have. Of course, I haven’t diagnosed your condition, I am not a medical professional. Your appointment will be cancelled if I become a medical professional.


Another Test

By Eleni Andonatos Schellenburg


I was staring at the screen; my phone just kept ringing.

On the third call, I picked up.

She was sniffling and hyperventilating,

Her broken breath wheezing in the mic.

The next test was tomorrow, and she felt

Pressure in her chest. I put her on speakerphone

And muted myself.

She rambled on, “I’ll surely fail, but I can’t focus!”

She cried, too weak to hold a book or a pen.

And she wondered why I was silent.

Finally, we wrote the test. There she was, surrounded.

“It was easy,” she smirked, “More so than the last!”

And with the highest grade in the class,

The teacher praised her for her hard work.

I examined my paper,

Covered in deep crimson.

The teacher thought I hadn’t studied,

But I just couldn’t focus at all.


To My Darling, My Love, My Human

By Eleni Andonatos Schellenburg


I smell something nice; I smell something great:

It’s the trash from the snacks and the food on my plate! 


Forgive me, please feed me, I won’t wait forever.

On the desk, on a chest, I’ll eat it wherever. 


Once I hunger no longer, I’ll jump on mother’s bed.

Right where she rests, or I’ll groom her instead. 


Or I’ll sleep in the void where she keeps all your crap.

It’s a great place to take a break with a nap! 


Sometimes, I sit on some silky chair

To ponder: “should I wander in a lawn with fresh air?” 


Although all exits are locked to me,

Sleeping in your arms is my favourite place to be.


Dancing Lovers


By Melyna Gilbert

It started in a small room with plaques describing Van Gogh’s life. It was bland, empty, and held no emotional connection to him. It was almost like they didn’t want you to feel his pain. But once you stepped through the doorway, it was like coming into a completely different life. Colors and images splashing against the walls and floor; you walked into his paintings as a new person. You couldn’t help but stare with your jaw hanging low as the works panned in and out of frame. You couldn’t help but walk in circles as his life flashed before your eyes in the stills of his blood and sweat. And after the slides had finished, you couldn’t not stay a second time to see it all again, and bask in the way he captured life so gorgeously despite his anguish. The people around you changed and blurred together, as you all witnessed his life go by in the span of an hour. And as you got ready to leave, they walked in and grabbed everyone’s attention. Older than most, but still with a jaunty walk. There was nothing outwardly exceptional about them. Much like you, they were transfixed to the projections, lost in the charm of his works. But as the minutes beat by, they walked with a rhythm to their steps. The man twirled his wife, and suddenly, they were dancing to a song no one could hear, yet everyone knew. They beamed and laughed as they went around the room in a simple waltz, and everyone watched as they performed. They were lovers dancing to the song of passion. To you, they were Van Gogh and the world: lovers dancing to the song of passion. And finally, after the slides had ended again, they fell into a seat, in a heap of smiles and giggles, as they watched Van Gogh’s life again.