SUPPLEMENT CREATIVE
Hugo Victor Solomon, analogue
Marika Robitaille, 35mm film
Ēkhō
She cannot remember a time when he was not there
Claimed by the ripples, ripples of the pool she dare not go near,
Icy blue eyes swallowed in its depths.
She would strip herself raw to be the object of his gaze.
Ēkhō Ēkhō
Gaze uncaptured, day after day
Carving a silence that deafened her love.
She turns to others,
To stroke her body raw, raw with Orpheus’ carelessness
Becoming their silent plaything— sweet as ambrosia.
Pleasured eyes savour her mouth filling with water
Each foreign desire obediently spilling from her lips
Ēkhō Ēkhō
Lips carved from Cupid’s own bow, parted in awe
Her observations go unnoticed
Day and night, victim of his own allurement as Is she?
enraptured as she tiptoes to the edge of the icy water
Bruised knees swallowed by mud
Skin paling… gray, white, blue
Ēkhō Ēkhō
Ēkhō cannot remember a time when she was not drowning.
Cursed, choking on words of others forced down her throat to spill from her lips.
In revulsion, writhing to be free Ēkhō Ēkhō
Free fingertips trembling, she dove down into its icy depths once,
In the hopes she might absorb the enchantment which captivates him so
But her heart dragged her up, drowning her at the surface.
Ēkhō Ēkhō
Surface tearing, his mouth softly parted, fingers buried in mud, Ripples marred the blank chill of his eyes on hers
It was as if she was not drowning in front of him
The water of his pupils filled her mouth and throat,
She screamed,
But still, he would not hear.
Ēkhō Ēkhō
Hear her. There was nothing deeper, nothing beyond, Narcissus was a motherfucking cunt, enchanted in ignorance
As she writhed in his empty depths.
How poetic, she thought, that she shall die at the impermeable hands of the man she loved.
She gasps, Clare Fabbri
My thoughts in the stands and my voice the man who leaps into the ring
Boxing gloves two black eyes another a losing swing
Alexa Roemer Nights” / Eliza Lee
Through the surface buoyant through her fury.
Fury incarnate, she watches frigid fingers sink into polished marble skin, Stark blue adoration widening with clarity for the first time. She is silent. It does not matter.
Ēkhō is not afraid of drowning
She cannot remember a time when she was not drowning. Water spills from her lips.
She smiles.
Bianca Sugunasiri
Eliot Loose
I fall for nothing in this world
The truth is I fall in my own
I know this world isn’t the world
That sees the chaos in me
I have a world in me
Chaos in me that defies to open up in worldly bells
It’s so mean to be rude
When the imagined self is brutally dejected
Cynical threads around, wincing at the power of my inner chaos
Letting me hate the world that I owned in me
To hate the critter that sprouted in me
Elliot Mairet
Elliot Mairet
Amy
Qi
Yusra Paul Pakistan
Dear rosalita, August came back and it’s almost exactly the same as I remember. The air is hot. It smells like cooked plums and eucalyptus trees. I’m prancing around my great aunt’s garden in New Hampshire and I miss you. I’ve been thinking about the first time I smoked a cigarette. I waited until I was eighteen. I never really learned how to be defiant until I moved away from home. In my eyes, smoking was the greatest form of rebellion. I grew up unwittingly loyal. To what, I am not sure. I sought refuge in synagogues and believed in nothing. For me there was is no G-d or divine intervention. I am not sacred. My body has never been holy. It’s barely ever been mine. I wish anger knew anything about time zones. It follows me and haunts me. Like a sin. I miss you. I miss being young with bruised knees the colour of California skies. I miss when my teeth would fall out and crinkled dollar bills would show up under my pillow. So sometimes I feel eighteen again and on the brink of oblivion, cursing the sky for not teaching me how to grieve. I’m so good at giving but no one ever taught me how to let go. See I spent so much time swimming in community pools that chlorine and vodka have too much in common: they both make me long for my girlhood. But August always comes back. The fruit flies swarm the kitchen searching for something sweet. The air is hot and smells like cooked plums and eucalyptus trees. And everything is almost exactly the same.
Val Munoz, Guatemala
Armen Erzingatzian, Armenia
Will I(t) be enough?
Homesick at the thought of losing her I cry myself to sleep in anticipation. So when she sinks her teeth into my neck, I apologize for bleeding.
Armen Erzingatzian
Zoe Lee, sachiko/mending
Scarlett Sens
Markia Robitaille
Garbage and Grass
Somehow this pile of garbage holds more life than the mouse that terrorized the walls of two young people who claim they do not cling to the breath that births them
Every piece of scrap a story, every story, memories made at some point in time then repurposed in the moment
What my skull continues to carry can be held tangibly but oh do the memories sting Because in this room I have felt all scopes of emotions— ones of creation and undoing Never once failing to walk out the door without being born anew
From the shedding of tears, layers, scabs, fears, secrets, dreams, nails, failures, promises, hearts, clothes, goals, identities, laughter, hobbies, ideas, chatter, love, dollars, calories and tragedies— this haven that was once too cold to comfortably lay in now withholds the breathing fire of two souls who actively decide to hold unto one another, whether the smoke suffocates their very lungs or allows them the act of being
It’s nearly winter now. You’re fast asleep. The forks and spoons that you gathered on the floor look like art. I’m delaying rest because I want it all to last a bit longer. It might have been the weed or the fatigue but I haven’t laughed this hard in what feels like forever. After laughter comes tears is what they say. The pile is gone. On the floor are but a few cents, strands of hair, and remaining dead leaves from the passing season that are still holding on
God I love seeing you smile
Armen Erzingatzian
Ysabel Owusu
Letter from the Editors
The Tribune would like to thank all of those who submitted their beautiful and dynamic art pieces to the Fall 2025 Creative supplement. The dedicated photography, illustration, and poetry remind us of the power of artistic expression to understand our community and ourselves. We are proud to share this edition with the McGill and Montreal community. We hope that these works will spark inspiration, awe, and self-reflection, as they did for our editorial board.
the creative team
• Mia Helfrich, Creative Director
• Zoe Lee & Eliot Loose, Design Editors
• Armen Erzingatzian & Anna Seger, Photo Editors
• Mariam Lankoande, Social Media Editor
• Rupneet Shahriar & Johana Gaba Kpayedo, Web Editors
• Jade Herz & Ella Sebok, Video Editors
Yusur Al-Sharqi, Editor-in-Chief
Sunny Bell