CLASSIFICATION
Swallow ID:
5198
Partner Institution:
Concordia University
Source Collection Label:
Headlight Anthology Collection
Series:
Headlight 24
Sub Series:
Headlight Anthology Collection
ITEM DESCRIPTION
Title:
Lauren Smith in Headlight 24, 2023
Title Source:
Asset
Title Note:
As published in Headlight Anthology.
*Genre: nonfiction, CNF.
Language:
English
Production Context:
Studio recording
Identifiers:
[]
Rights
Rights:
In Copyright Educational Use Permitted (InC-EDU)
Notes:
Copyright by Headlight Anthology and contributor. Online reproduction and archiving allowed. Republications under different publishers must be authorized by the contributor.
CREATORS
Name:
Smith, Lauren
Role:
"Author",
"Performer"
Notes:
Lauren Smith is a Concordia student by day and an artist by night. She enjoys late nights printmaking in the darkroom and sitting on park benches typing her thoughts in her phone’s Notes app.
CONTRIBUTORS
Name:
Elbanhawy, Sherine
Role:
"Publisher",
"Producer"
Notes:
Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.
Name:
Eastwood, Miranda
Role:
"Producer",
"Recordist"
Notes:
Sound editor of Headlight 24.
Name:
Pittella, Carlos A.
Dates:
1983-
Role:
"Publisher",
"Producer"
Notes:
Co-managing editor of Headlight 24.
Name:
Andrews, Olive
Role:
"Publisher",
"Producer"
Notes:
Poetry editor of Headlight 24.
Name:
Affonso, Alexandre
Role:
"Publisher",
"Producer"
Notes:
Nonfiction editor of Headlight 24.
Name:
Ruby, Ariella
Role:
"Publisher",
"Producer"
Notes:
Fiction editor of Headlight 24.
MATERIAL DESCRIPTION
Recording Type:
Digital
AV Type:
Audio
Playback Mode:
Mono
Sound Quality:
Excellent
DIGITAL FILE DESCRIPTION
Sample Rate:
44.1 kHz
Duration:
00:06:56
Size:
4.1 MB
Bitrate:
145-185 kbps
Encoding:
MP3
Content:
This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece "Unspoken," by Lauren Smith, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.
Notes:
MP3 also available at https://headlightanthology.ca/archive/n24/unspoken/, accessed on June 15, 2023.
Title:
Unspoken
Credit:
Lauren Smith
Content Type:
Sound Recording
Featured:
Yes
Sample Rate:
44.1 kHz
Duration:
00:06:56
Size:
73.5 MB
Bitrate:
1411 kbps
Encoding:
WAV
Content:
This is file 1 of 1 containing an audio-recording of the piece "Unspoken," by Lauren Smith, as published in Headlight Anthology, no. 24.
Title:
Unspoken
Credit:
Lauren Smith
Content Type:
Sound Recording
Dates
Date:
2023-06-02
Type:
Publication Date
Source:
Headlight website
LOCATION
Address:
1455 Boul. de Maisonneuve O., LB 641, Montréal, QC, H3G 1M8
Venue:
Concordia University, Department of English
Latitude:
45.4969331
Longitude:
-73.5783742
Notes:
Headlight Anthology operates out of Concordia’s graduate English Literature & Creative Writing department.
CONTENT
Contents:
Unspoken
by Lauren Smith
It was just before Christmas when the omicron variant spread, and the city of Montréal was once again inflamed with infection. I was sitting with my friend Alison and her flatmate Rosa on the tattered couches in the living room of their apartment, as we awaited the arrival of our friend Oskar, who lived on the floor below. He entered the door with a bag from which he pulled out three parcels wrapped in patterned paper and proceeded to hand one to each of us. In exchange, he received three smiles, perhaps the most rewarding being Rosa’s. As her fingers touched the paper, her mouth stretched so wide that Alison and I couldn’t help but giggle, joining in her pure delight.
“This is my first time getting a Christmas present!” Rosa said with kilojoules of energy coursing through her veins; still, she handled the gift so delicately. She tilted it back and forth, examining it as if she wanted to remember every detail, from the creases where the paper was folded to the feel of the smooth plastic ribbon between her fingers. I could tell this would be one of those distinctive moments for her, vivid in her memory. It was certainly vivid in mine. Hidden within the festive paper of my gift was a sturdy, thread-bound journal in an olive green and a card with a few verses of poetry written in Italian.
Growing up I had an extensive collection of notebooks, each for a different purpose, my favourite being dedicated to the research and planning involved in catching Santa Claus on video. I was often gifted notebooks, such as the one I received from my childhood best friend with a note that said, “One day you will write like Hemingway” (the only famous author she’d heard of at the age of 10, but most certainly hadn’t read). Then there were the many others my dad would bring back from work, my dog’s sharp bark indicating his arrival. I’d enter the kitchen and be pleased to find a new notebook laying on the counter, each time with a different law firm’s contact information on the front. He would offer me a few candies as well, unfolding his palm to reveal Starbursts and with a grin asking, “Do you want a little burst of sunshine?” They were usually slightly warm from being kept in his pocket, but I always accepted them because the notebooks and candies were our way of communication.
With time, his offerings became increasingly rare. Weeks passed without a word shared until one quiet evening in May, I received a notebook again. Its vibrant red colour stood out against the contrasting bright blue of our laminate countertops. I was surprised to find a message on the front, handwritten in blue ink on a yellow sticky-note that read, “Lolo, for all of your deep thoughts.” Despite his efforts at communication, he wasn’t around that night for me to thank him. Just like he wasn’t around to pick me up from dance practice, or church, or watch me win the school board’s speech competition back when I wasn’t afraid to use my voice.
He could’ve been at Joe’s again, wasting the hours of daylight drinking in that dingy garage. Maybe he was at the pub. Maybe he was somewhere we wouldn’t have guessed but would later learn the address from a parking ticket mailed to our house. I never told him how I felt about his habits. It’d be a waste of breath. Not even my mom could get him to attend the 12-step program, and he persistently ran from doctors. We all wanted to help him. I’ll never understand why he didn’t want to help himself.
A loud rip brought my attention to the pain in my chest. My throbbing heart tore like the gift wrap that was now scattered around the carpet in crumbled balls. With a deep breath I remembered my surroundings. A room full of cheap plastic lights in red, yellow, blue, and green, obnoxiously blinking at me as if to cheer me up. They didn’t. But it didn’t matter because the excitement had passed for us all. Rosa’s childlike bliss had faded, and we sat, without saying a word, as we listened to the sounds of distant cars passing through the crack of the opened window. It was as if a gust of melancholy had blown in. We couldn’t ignore the news reports. Another lockdown would be coming.
Oskar lit a cigarette and glanced across the room at Alison. She was staring at the paper balls amongst her feet, kicking them around. I picked at the frayed upholstery of the cushion beneath me, twirling the dark blue threads around my pointer finger. Rosa sat upright with rigid posture; her shoulders tensed as she looked at us with troubled eyes. She then shifted her gaze downwards and in a somber voice she murmured, “Did you hear about the suicide at the station today?”
Unsettled by the break in silence, Oskar took a long drag of his cigarette. I watched Rosa sink back into the couch as she explained what she had witnessed. The metro abruptly stopping, the rush of people evacuating the train car, and her impulse to glance back at the tracks, which she regrets. She saw the body. Further description was withheld, but that didn’t do much. I could already see the deformed face, so mutilated it appeared nonhuman. Most haunting were the limp legs and droopy arms possessing a kind of motionlessness that should’ve been unsettling yet seemed almost peaceful.
The images in my mind slowly melded with my reality as I looked down at the journal in my lap and thought back to the little red book I had unexpectedly received from my dad. That was the last of all the notebooks he would give me, its final page torn out and used to write a letter. A collection of unspoken words enclosed within the thin lined paper, folded three times to fit in the palm of a hand. I can still see it sitting on the table beside the hospital bed where he laid, his yellow and sagging skin rendering him unrecognizable. I was told a nurse read it to him, but I’m not sure if he could still hear at that point.
I thought he would survive long enough to answer my final questions, or at least the question I pondered most as Rosa finished her story. Is that what he always wanted? My grandma believes he gave his answer when he tried to pull the oxygen mask off his face. But what authority do we have to speak for him?
My arms shivered under my knit cardigan, but, before I could ask, Alison stood up to shut the window. Trembling, I brought my knees to my chest, hugging the notebook still in my lap. Rosa moved from across the room to sit beside me. Oskar ashed his cigarette into an empty bottle from the previous night’s party. Alison connected her phone to a speaker. The Christmas lights stopped flickering, my heart settled and the remaining smoke in the room froze in time as Françoise Hardy’s voice lulled the night. The sun rose late the next morning.
NOTES
Type:
Cataloguer
Note:
Carlos A. Pittella
Type:
General
Note:
Genre should be updated to "Reading: nonfiction" or "Reading: CNF" when one of this options is available.
RELATED WORKS
Citation:
Smith, Lauren. Unspoken. Headlight Anthology, no. 24, 2023, pp. 58–62.