Tag Archives: stories

Rabea ParpiaRabea Parpia
University of Toronto
Class of 2019

His voice is warm and soft, each sentence running into the next, broken up only by gravelly laughter and the occasional cough. The honey that coats his voice obscures his jarring story, the suffering hidden beneath the evenness of his tone. He tells me about his injury, rating his pain on a scale of one to ten, and describes its quality and radiation. I ask him for his previous medical diagnoses and he pauses briefly. ...continue reading

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Bahar OrangBahar Orang
McMaster University
Class of 2018

The human heart, fickle and fierce, is not unlike the pig heart; both are bound in delicate embroidery, both are a home with four main rooms. And so, in medical school, the cardiology unit begins with a dissection of ‘porcine pluck.’ The organ lays in a cold metal tray, with thin silver tools on either side – everything ready for our busy consumption. We wear sensible plastic outfits, and handle the porcine pluck beneath the bright white light of the anatomy lab. We are given a set of specific instructions – for cutting and peering and stripping and searing – but I struggle to focus on the task at gloved hand, and instead I wonder other things about Pig’s darling, dismembered heart. ...continue reading

IMG_9498Shohinee Sarma
McMaster University
Class of 2016

One Kashmiri morning in the early spring of 1915, my grandfather Aadam Aziz hit his nose against a frost-hardened tussock of earth while attempting to pray. Three drops of blood plopped out of his left nostril, hardened instantly in the brittle air and lay before his eyes on the prayer-mat, transformed into rubies. Lurching back until he knelt with his head once more upright, he found that the tears which had sprung to his eyes had solidified, too; and at that moment, as he brushed diamonds contemptuously from his lashes, he resolved never again to kiss earth for any god or man. This decision, however, made a hole in him, a vacancy in a vital inner chamber, leaving him vulnerable to women and history. Unaware of this at first, despite his recently completed medical training, he stood up, rolled the prayer-mat into a thick cheroot, and holding it under his right arm surveyed the valley through clear, diamond-free eyes. (Salman Rushdie, Midnight’s Children)

I wish I could write like Salman Rushdie. ...continue reading