Written Peices for Zine #2: Destinations

8/7/2019 Written Peices for Zine #2: Destinations

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The pitter patter of rain on the window sill wakes me up. My warm abode for the night is too

comfortable to leave. I just lay there, spreading my limbs across the soft sheets, my legs venturing

towards the cold spots in the bed untouched throughout the night. I love Saturdays. The smell of coffee

fills my nose and my mouth waters, but still I just lay here. The rain continues to fall, soothingly tapping

against my window. This allows me to fall further into bliss. I lean against the headboard and take in my

room: the mess of clothes on the floor, the desk cluttered with leftover food and scrap papers. I take in

the oil painting hanging on the wall which depicts the sunset in Pakistan, and my small book collection,

each novel propped up against the next. A feeling descends upon me, and it has nothing to do with the

Saturday morning bliss. It is an odd mixture of acceptance, love and belonging.

It has been nearly four years since I first stepped into the immaculate house in Oakville. I hated

it thendespised it, really. The fancy windows and fixtures taunted me. They were showy and belittled

my old house, my home. My blissful buzz falters in the sad remembrance of my old home. The dead end

street resulting in endless undisturbed hours of street hockey, the neighbourly people, and the roof

under which so many great memories were made; all flash through my mind. The rain continues to fall

and now light rumbles can be heard. Three and a half years later that all felt like a dream, like a

colourful, easy life that I had once lived. It is all different now. The people around me have changed. I

am now in 12th grade and my life in high school is coming to an end. Does that mean that my home will

change again? Does it mean that I will have to start off clean, in a new house, new city, new people? A

flash of light illuminates my room, followed by a loud rumble as the pitter patter grows quicker and

louder. So is this my home now? Is this house in Oakville merely my current home? Do I see it that way?

And even if I do, will it be permanent? And finally, it dawns on me.



The flawless windows and fixtures are not what make this a better home; they have nothing to

do with it in fact. I never used to love my old home because of its proximity to downtown Mississauga,

or its huge front lawn. The memories made there were what made it my home. The endless hours spent

with family and friends is what made it warming. And as cliché as it sounds to me, thats what home is. I

have friends so close we consider ourselves a family. Memories start to flutter through my head. Movie

nights, family time and just general time spent having fun. The rain slows down but the pitter patter

continues. I smile as I slip out of bed. I am home.



I had always wondered what this moment would be like, I think everyone has. It's happening now. I'm

moving so fast that it is becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, but pure exhilaration and awe has

long since replaced any sort of fear or anxiety. Fear. I know now how illogical it can be, but there was a

time when it consumed me.

I clearly remember the gnashing of yellow pointed teeth. These incisors were designed for the sole

purpose of tearing through flesh and bone, and they did exactly that. Searing pain and dark liquid

accompanied the new scar that had been etched into my memory.

Laughable now. Absolutely laughable. Freedom from fear is easier than most would think. I can taste the

irony in every gasp of cool racing air. This has been my dream of late, my goal. I'm close now. So close.

"Do you like it?" I recall saying. "I made it for you last weekend. When you were up at your mum's place."

"I love it." Christine smiled at me. She was my sweetheart. I really did love her. I think.

"You'll be a famous painter and I'll be your wife." That's what I really wanted at one point.

Now I had made my decision. This is where I want my life to go. The bright midday sun reassures me,

warming my face, quite literally lighting my path. Although it seems to move away, it feels stronger to

me every passing second. Elation. I had felt it before.



I couldn't contain my excitement at hearing the ceremonial cutting of the rope. The hot air balloon was

now free to leave the constraints of earth and enter the expansive skies. I looked at my father, he was

clearly proud, his tanned handsome face spread into a gleeful smile.

"Daddy!" I called out involuntarily. He was either deafened by the wind or entranced by the scenery but

he didn't respond. Did he hear me? The question left my mind once I too began to peer over the edge. So

much space between me and the world, a tiny mound covered in cruel, cruel ants.

What I saw, as a child, as ants I now recognize as individual people, going about their daily lives, rushing

closer to me. I cannot stop the inevitable ponderings. Will it hurt? Will I feel the impact? Too late it's

here...

" I saw the man fall from the building. Surreal. Slow motion. What was he thinking as he fell? I guess no

one will ever know."



Fire, darkness, and brimstone surround me. The putrid smell of burning sulphur reaches my nostrils as

the intoxicatingly warm air fills with a thin sheen of smoke. How did I end up here? I ask this, yet deep

down I know the answer. Vivid memories begin to resurface: the alcohol, the countless hours spent

gambling, the look on my son's face as he saw me collapse at the front entrance of his mother's home. I

had been a deadbeat, a boozer, and a womanizing pig. By mere Catholic standards alone (my religion of

choice, technically speaking) I was already a doomed man. Divorced, adulterer, thiefI had failed every

test of salvation. However, I knew it went much farther beyond that. Flames engulf the horizon, searing

the charred landscape. I sit alone for what would be my last moment of peace, reflecting on the life I

had led. By any religious or societal standard, I had been an immoral person. There was no way around

it. 'Would I have led the same life, had I known this to be the ultimate outcome?' I ask myself, seated on

a blackened mound of charred brimstone. As I morosely watch the flickering shadows on the cliff side, I

find my answer. Yes, I would have made the same mistakes. I had lived my life without a sense of

consequence, or of conscience. I begin to realise that these go hand in hand. I had been a man of

weakness, a man of vices; and I had proven to be both unable and unwilling to be saved. A shadow

beckons me. I know my time of suffering is now at hand. I sigh deeply, taking in my eternal horizon for

the first time.

First, but unbearably far from the last.

Destination: Hell.



Destinations bring about thoughts of travel, of foreign places explored, and of mysticism

revealed. But perhaps the most important destination is home; a place of the familiar. It was said best in

The Wizard of Oz as Judy Garlands character of Dorothy proclaimed, Theres no place like home. With

a tap of her red sequined heels and a clench of her jaw, this became timelessbut so very true.

While destinations can provide insight into so many different places and people, it can also

allow for a kind of retreat. Destinations to unknown places bring about a desired beauty and perhaps

longing to be where you have never been, to fill a role of a part you didnt even know existed. But the

most concrete, the most desirable destination is the warm embrace of retreat. Destined to be

somewhere, is really destined to go back. Home is the childhood playground, the afternoon coffee shop

or the bed that is already moulded to the contours of your body.

Home is remembering the journal that now sits in storage or the couch that lies out by the curb.

Home allows you to revel in your positively altered memories or sigh with relief as you realize a long ago

embarrassment is aged, withered and finally forgotten. No matter how awkward, out of place or

misshapen the time period there will always be that spot that reminds you of a simpler time where

this stress, every current worry you now harbour, wasnt even fathomable, let alone upon you. Home

can be a time period, a specific place or an object that represents something. Needless to say, home is

somewhere you feel comfortable, secure and familiar. You will always belong at home.

Destination is not necessarily your destiny, but the fallen ruins of a home you grew up in, a place

you matured through and a past time period that prepared you for where you were going.



BY: JORDAN STOTHERS

A girl my age once said with a click of her sparkling ruby slippers, Theres no place like home. I

suppose shed want to get back home if there were deranged flying monkeys trying to dismember her

limbs. I dont blame her- who wants to vacation in a place where a psycho witch is employing a

seemingly harmless field of poppies to assassinate you?

Id give anything to be in Oz right nowor Narniaor even Middle Earth. Anywhere for that

matter. Anywhere but here. Dont get me wrong, Canadas great. My parents constantly remind me and

my sisters how fortunate we are to have a free health care system, three square meals a day and we can

step outside on our front stoop without having to wear a Kevlar vest. Its just hard to feel lucky when

youve been ensnared in the mundane cycle of suburban life. You know youve been trapped in its web

when you can predict whatll happen tomorrow with an uncanny accuracy. I can even tell you what next

week will look like. Its all the same, a mind numbing repetition where each dreary day blends into the

next one without much thought or notice. Thats when you know its time to escape while you still can,

before all hope is lost and youve become more robotic than human.

Where do I want to go? Or better yetwhere dont I want to go? Sometimes I fantasize about

pulling an Anna Nicole Smith and marrying a ridiculously wealthy Oil Tycoon on his death bed. That way I

could travel wherever my heart desired and not have a care that I was being financially reckless. After

all, its not my hard earned money Im throwing around. Too bad Hugh Hefners not on the market.

Theres so much I want to do with my life, so much to see. Theres a world outside the confines of myhouse, past the borders of my little town. My parents may be satisfied with the repetitive lifestyle they

live, assured when they wake up what the day will hold, but thats definitely not for me.

I know what Ill do. Ill take a year off to go trotting around the world before diving headfirst into

University. Ill jet off to the wondrous continent Europe, starting my extensive tour in Paris. From there



Ill sightsee my way to Rome, Barcelona, Florence, Berlin. Oh! And I cant forget London. Ive always

wanted to go to London. Ill do whatever it takes-thats legal, mind you- to get where my heart desires.

Plane, trains, hitchhiking with strangers, even dog sledding. Who knows where Ill end up? Theres a

world just waiting at my fingertips, screaming for me to venture out into the unknown, where life is just

bursting at the seams with vibrant, blinding colours, gravity defying architecture and wildly outrageous

haute couture fashion.

For now, Im only seventeen; hardly even legal. People cluck and tell me Ive only just begun my

life, and that I have plenty of time to do what I want. But to mean, that means Ive got a year to find

myself a rich old husband in order to stick to my lifetime achievement schedule. Until then, I can only

dream big and wait. As my Maw-Maw says when shes lucid; Patience is a virtue.



They spread out in tendrils in front of me. They formed into determined shapes. Roads of

possibilities. Each road winded into fog, their destination unknown. Large trees grew above the path in a

lush canopy that blocked out the sky.

I stepped toward where my main road forked off. Three distinct paths beckoned me with

cobblestone that glistened in the slivers of sunlight that seeped through. I stepped toward the one on

my left before feeling a gut-wrenching pull to the one dead center.

I shifted to face the center path and stepped forward. Immediately I was repelled as if it was warded

against me.

I tried the third but found it mush beneath my feet. I jumped back before I was swallowed whole,

and found myself safely on the main path once again.

All three rejected me.

I stood still and unnerved. I checked my watch to see it hadnt budged. Time stood still with me.

I took a deep breath. I wasnt going to stay frozen for eternity. Life moves on. I closed my eyes,

squeezing them so nothing got through. I took a step.



The hard ground beneath me pounded and I opened my eyes. I chose the path to the left. As I

walked in further, it began to darken, the patches of light becoming rarer with each step.

I glanced over at the other two options. They were bathed in happiness and sunlight. I turned and

lifted my foot, tempted to step over into the sunlight.

No, I muttered. I pulled back my foot and continued down my chosen path. No running away.



There is a thing that you strive for, that image of yourself that you have always held. The one that you

know isnt quite accurate, but that you like to think you can see parts of in you. It is the ultimate goal to

complete. It comes with a look, a feeling, a smell, a taste. You know, in that little world where your

perfect self dwells, how the air will feel. It is cool and refreshing, but never makes you anything other

than wonderfully warm. Your world is simple and calming without being boring; it is interesting and

thrilling, and yet safe. It will be alive with youth but not lack the quiet pause of age. It carries with it the

nostalgic smells of childhood coupled with scents beyond anything known. Everything in this world is

more real then it could ever be with the image that you embody currently. You know this world so well

because it is as if this world, saturated in brilliant colours (yet never so brilliant as to be offensive),

emanates from your envisioned self. This being could not possibly exist in a world as mundane as your

own.

This world may be far away, one where you can start over and be something so completely

different from how you fear you are seen now. For that is why we have created this vision of ourselves,

this destination, we are afraid that we will remain stagnant; that we will not be able to shed the flaws

that cling to us, or break free of this place.

The only trouble with this image is that if you manage to achieve your ideal view, you will also

achieve the flaws that come with it. Unable to see them in your romanticised self, you could spend years

trying to attain your elusive vision, only to need to create a new one. Of course the world that your

vision inhabits will also disappoint, for it is an impossible place. It is borne of contradictions and illusions.

You may know it well, but it will always be out of reach.

Until it can be accepted that every form has flaws you will never reach a final destination, you

will only pause while deciding where you would like to go next.



Scars carry with them stories. One would think these stories are violent, filled with the

recollected pain of the scar-rendering event. I have a scar one on the upper part of my right arm. It is

a tiny scar, a straight, clean line etched into skin, slightly lighter and raised than the rest. This scar was

given to me by my first born son. A babe, in arms, testing his first cut tooth, he pierced his mothers

skin, leaving a story behind. The story is of a boy, leaving behind infancy, pushing off from his mother

and diving into the world of solid foods, a world filled with tastes and experiences that will bring him,

eventually, great joy and profound sadness. The mark he left behind was a kind of farewell. It is also,

however, a monument. It reminds me daily that although all children grow up, every individual has

come from somewhere and a piece of us always remains there, where we began. Our mothers bear us

on their arms. Likewise, that soil in which we were first germinated; it is the scar that we carry as we

move beyond, towards our individual destinations. My boy-childs first mark brings to mind many

memories. I reflect upon scars; we carry scars with us not just as tokens, trifles, remains. We rise out of

pain and reach past it, towards our destination.

Amongst the physical scars that mark me, I bear scars that no one can see. These scars were

given more violently, arguably. Violently because the weapons used were not cast in steel or chiseled in

stone, the weapons were not borne by enemy hands. Rather, they were weapons wielded by those who

stood as mentors and friends. I was under friendly-fire and, ironically, the scars that remain, first came

in the midst of laughter.

As a child, I had many older cousins who thought it great fun to mock my roly-poly figure. I was

young and hadnt yet grown out of my baby fat. At least, thats what I tell myself today. Im not sure

how much of my recollection is wishful thinking and coloured by a lifetime of self-criticism. Perhaps I

should have been less roly and more svelte by the age of 10 or 11. Regardless, I laughed along when



they chimed in unison, Fatty Tammy, Tammy Fatty! They sang in my mothers tongue, Fatty Bam-

bole, Seeni Sam-bole! I laughed. I veiled my general confusion regarding what a young woman should

be or look like with a plastered smile. But this façade truly marked how savvy I actually was. At such a

tender age, I knew enough not to question these taunts. I knew enough to quietly accept this criticism

and take it to heart. I knew that I was on my way to womanhood. Unless I Iearned from these people,

these mentors, how to be, how to look, how to act and how to maneuver my way towards my final

destination of adulthood, I would be lost. I gazed for hours in every mirror, trying so desperately to see

whether my thighs and belly, backside and arms were as they called them, fat. Squint eyed, up-close,

magnified, I peered and pondered. I compared myself to every girl and woman I encountered. I wanted

to walk like Reena, dress like Michelle. I wanted to speak like Adelina and dance like Jemille. Through

comparison and contrast, I gazed long and hard at the woman in the not-so-proverbial mirror, I

invariably came up with the same answer, time and time again Tammy, youre fat.

Perhaps every childhood and adolescence is filled with criticism and self-doubt. The scar that

this left behind is borne everyday. It throbs with every chocolate or ice cream I contemplate and refuse.

It aches with every mouthful actually consumed. It stings as I pull on jeans and tights, and gaze at what

shouldnt be there. It bleeds, actually bleeds, when I wear a bathing suit. Self-loathing grows deep

roots and manifests itself in strange ways. I continue to compare myself, and I invariable come up short.

Sometimes I try hard and persevere. Other times, I give up and throw my hands up. I shake my fist at all

that I have lost faith in.

My scars take many shapes and forms. They have been earned, granted, traded and positioned

on me throughout my journey. My fingers trace the outline of my babes toothy scar. I wonder what

marks will be left on his pristine body. The marks of his humanity will, inevitably, mar his flawless skin.

These scars will, however, only render him more beautiful. For we reach the ultimate destination

glowing with scars.



I lower the entirety of my person, anatomy and mind, into the cool, crisp white sheets. I allow

my frail bones to seep and sink into the folds of the fabric, becoming one with the bed. My head hits the

pillow with a "Thud!" and a strong feeling of relief takes over me. As my eyelids begin to flutter and my

vision blurs, ribbons of darkness wind and wrap themselves around my shins and tighten, cutting off

circulation and leaving my toes numb. Quickly, they tug and pull me down inside a dream world.

I unleash my inner being.

I have drifted into a meadow. As far the eye can see, long strands of emerald grass dance back and forth

in the light gusts of wind. Bursts of colour fill and lace the field; a little pink here, a little yellow over

there. I hear a faint laugh in the distance, the giggles quite reminiscent of a young child. I turn round and

round, searching and following the voice. My nostrils instantaneously fill with the sweet scent of

sugarplums, distracting me momentarily. The laughter grows louder, and so does my curiosity. The long

grass reaches longer and longer, cornering and trapping me. I cannot budge, and only a mere, faint

muffle fills my eardrums.

Shift.



Suddenly, I'm in a backyard. I'm shivering on the rotting step of an old wooden porch, legs dangling off

the side. My toes tickle against the cool gravel below. The smell of a delectable and mouth-watering pot

roast drifts past me. I take a deep breath in, and the air feels fresh. It can't be any later than October.

My teeth chatter, and I look around. The yard is bleak and barren, with an overgrown lawn and nothing

but a rusting swing set in the corner. All of a sudden, I feel warm. I look down and wrapped around my

shoulders is a plaid, scratchy blanket. An elderly woman with a kind yet toothy smile sits next to me. She

wraps her shaking hand around mine, rests her weary head against my shoulder and coos nonsensical

murmurs into my ear. I'd never had a grandmother before.

Shift.

I'm walking down a busy street. The city lights from intersections and billboards light up the night sky. I

stand still and observe everything, trying to understand where I am. The urban lifestyle is not enjoyable

after dark. As people walk past, men and women absentmindedly bump my limbs back and forth,

hurrying by in too much of a rush to even notice. Quickly, a pair of arms grabs me and drags my

immobile figure into an alley. I'm too shocked to fight, too scared to run. I'm propped up against a wall,

and my breathing cuts and stutters when a larg fist comes out of the darkness and strikes me straight in

the chest.

Shift.

Just once more, please, shift. Wake me up from the nightmare within a sea of destinations.



Oh to be seventeen again is something I hear on a daily basis from my mother when I bombard her

with of all of the wonders and worries of my life. I dont understand why someone would like to be

seventeen again for the very reason that as a seventeen year old female the destinations in life are

unknown aside from where one is in there life at that particular moment in time. There is so much

pressure to know where I am going, what I am doing and how I am going to get myself to a particular

destination, so I am baffled as to why people live for the memories of being seventeen again.

In my mind I think of long-term destinations and short-term destinations, but dont get the two

confused as they are not in the least related to one another. With all of the stress in my life I see a

potential short-term destination on a powder white sand beach, and crystal clear water in a country

where I am able to relax and not have to worry about the lingering stress of my daily life. I need

somewhere where I dont have to hear the question Have you heard from any universities yet? or Do

you know where you are going next year. I just cant hear these questions anymore. They weigh on me

like a hundred pound brick that follows me wherever I go and in everything I do. The thought of being

able to escape to a destination where nobody knows me, or will care to ask me these two questions

which have been asked so many times that they now seem like white noise to me seems like a utopia in

my eyes at this point in time.

Of course I realize that even if I get this chance to escape to a utopian destination where I can clear my

head and allow myself to think about more than checking my mailbox for that potential acceptance

letter waiting to be opened, at some point I will have to accept my reality. I truly feel that I have put inenough over-nighters and countless hours of study to be eligible to be accepted into my destination-

university. This destination will ultimately be the fork in the road that separates the potential pathways I

may chose to follow, resulting in future decisions and destinations. As if getting to this destination is not

a stressful enough time in my life, adding even more weight to the aforementioned one hundred pound

brick lies in the previously stated fact that all future destinations reside in my decisions made here.



Long- term plans are not something that I pride myself in being able to map out very well, so the

thought of thinking of long-term destinations terrifies me to no. It makes me sick of my stomach, not

knowing where I will end up, but honestly, I dont want to know. People assume that at this stage in my

life I should have a general direction Im heading in, but I dont. I do not see the harm in allowing my

fate play out the way it was meant to. This should not be confused with not having goals for myself and

acting as a slacker. I have a boundless list of goals I hope to accomplish, but I dont want to know where

these goals will take me. All I know for certain is I want to end up in a destination that brings me peace

and happiness, whether it is in a small suburban home married and with a family or working in Europe

living in a high end loft.

Now when I hear the phrase Oh to be seventeen again from my mother, I want to cover my ears as

this is a stressful time in my life where the only destination I want to think about is the one I am in now,

as it is the only thing I am certain of in an uncertain stage in my life.

Written Peices for Zine #2: Destinations

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