Inscape 2020-21

Inscape Home Again

Inscape Home Again

Bishop’s College School

Literary Magazine

2020–2021

Volume XXXIX

By Inscape I mean the particular nature of things, the unique, essential form and meaning of any object or experience.

~

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Members of the Inscape staff would like to thank the following people for their help and support:

Christopher Brandon, Janice Carey, Susan Cook, Max Crowther, Tim Doherty, Victoria Hill, Anne Holland, François Jean Jean, Cloe Jones, Lindsay Key, Marianne Laramée, Sheila Lyster, Miranda McGie, Régine Mesnil, and François Tessier.

We would also like to thank Scott Abbott for his generous support of the English department and all of its endeavours.

Design and typesetting by the Inscape staff at BCS.

Bishop’s College School

Sherbrooke, Quebec

J1M 1Z8

From the editor…

Dear reader,

When asked where their “home” is, most people answer instinctively, rarely stopping to ponder the question. On the surface, it seems rather obvious; it is such a seemingly easy question, after all. However, if you take a moment to really listen to different people’s answers, you will begin to notice something peculiar: everyone interprets the question just slightly differently. Some might proudly cite their city of birth, or perhaps the town they spent their formative years in. Some might not even name a place they have ever set foot, but rather a place to which they can trace back their lineage. Others are so literal as to rattle off their precise address of residence. Some may shrug and say they were army brats and had a more nomadic upbringing. Of course, at least one person will inevitably say that “home is where the heart is,” proudly donning the smile of someone with no idea that the answer they think so profound is one of the biggest clichés (and cop-outs) they could have used.

These disparities in what we each think of as “home” beg the question of what a home even is. Is it somewhere we can point to on a map? If so, how do we pick the “right” place? Is it where we were born, where we currently live, where we lived the longest? Is it the city stated on our birth certificate, our mailing address? Is home necessarily a place, or can it be a person, a community, a sense of belonging? Once we examine our gut reaction to the question, the images of “home” our lives have molded in our minds reveal a great deal about what we hold dearest. It might be easy to poke fun at the triteness of the saying, but perhaps there is some truth to the idea that our home lies in the direction our hearts are pulled.

In this half of our dual issue, we have selected the pieces that best evoked the idea of “home,” either literally or in the abstract. Each piece is tinged with the writer or artist’s personal experience with the familiar, with belonging, or simply with what makes them feel most at peace.

I therefore encourage you to read on and piece together the various fragments of home, whatever it may mean to you.

Signed,

Elsa Osweiler, Editor

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V

4324 OxfOrd Street

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

In the centre of the house

Silk patches on a quilt

Stitch the night together

In the centre of the house

Shadows at the bottom of the door

Sway back and forth angrily

In the centre of the house

A broken window with peeling paint

Looks up at dull city stars

In the centre of the house

A cat purring in the corner

Watches every flicker of life

In the centre of the house

An old movie playing too cheerfully

Colours the walls with distraction

In the centre of the house

A plush rabbit crying salty tears

Comforts the child clutching it

In the centre of the house

Knickknacks covering every surface

Evoke gossamer recollections

In the centre of the house

Thin walls with cloudy sunrises

Protect from a manic wind

In the centre of the house

Lullabies sung from a distance

Draw the curtains closed

In the centre of the house

A woman stands at the doorway

Boxes packed, cat long gone

A window still broken

Untitled by Thinh Nguyen, Form VII

Have you ever looked and seen? Within yourself, whatever your mood may be? Be happy or sad. Be joyful or sorrowful. Be angry or content. Be timid or brave. Be anxious or relieved. Be hungry or satisfied. Whatever it is you see, Just remember to be.

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form V

Mini-StickS

by Aidan Feddema, Form VII

The floor shudders from the roar of the crowd, the air shakes as the speakers rumble, not a member of the audience remains seated.

My brother and I locked in a duel. Sticks drawn, focus narrowed, racing for the ball in the centre of the arena. His experience and strength rattle me early on. With a quick chip off the wall his lead grows to one.

But my competitive spirit is not easily crushed. Dragging the ball from left to right a hole opens between his legs, and with a deft touch the game is all squared.

Time passes, but the battle continues on. When the evening shadows lengthen, the match is still drawn, and my movements become haggard. But the roar of the stands pushes me forward. I sprawl out, stopping a powered drive with the tip of my toe. The crowd is left in awe, and in a swift movement I fire off the ball. My brother blocks my attempt, rolling the ball onto his blade. Winding up, he unleashes a bomb. Knowing my net is gaping, I dive…

Blinding pain rips at my face, my eye swells, wails escape my mouth. The audience and music fade and the hurried steps of my mother echo on my basement floor.

As I limp up the stairs, tears stinging my eyes, the fight for basement supremacy is put on pause, ’til tomorrow when the desire for victory will burn once more.

filet Of fiSh

by Georgia Birkwieser, Form IV

In the kitchen, There I sat

Watching as my father prepared the meal. Kicking little legs against the kitchen isle, Intently sitting on a stool.

Footsteps heavy against the floor, The sound of the freezer door, My father lumbering back to the sink, A white bag in tow.

A soft tut against the porcelain basin.

Big, clear circles

Against a shining, silver and salmon skin. A deep black hole in the centre

Gazed upon me.

Lifeless, I did not know what it meant.

A butcher’s knife striking against the cold fish. My father, the murderer.

The veil began to fall.

My little legs swung limp now. The fish head hit the sink basin.

Thunk

My father continued to clean the fish. I continued to stare into the glassy, round eyes. I too had big round eyes, Eyes that connected with the shining round things. So indefinable and so effective Was the shared gaze between the young child and The dead fish.

Yet in the evening my growing bones Would grow weak. And my belly would yearn for food. And when the dish was placed before me, I simply would not resist.

A bowl of heat and light.

No more eyes. No more connections.

Just a scoop of basmati rice, And a warm filet of fish.

Bagel invaSiOn

by Aglaée Bérard, Form IV Bagels

A German delicacy

So prominent

Your mailman probably eats bagels, So did your mom way back when she was single.

As simple as putting the sliced bread in a toaster

Making sure not to burn it, bagels bring us together as a herd. You may not realise it, but soon enough bagels will take over the world. You may ask why, but it’s simple.

Envision this: every time you take a bite, where do the fallen sesame seeds go? Simple, they’re building up a plan to take over this show.

The bagel always held up humanity, as if the bagel were its own world. Round, connected, like all parts of society. Though today it is more, more than just a circle, it is a dynasty!

If I were you, I wouldn’t be worried. Accepting the fate of humanity at the hands of bagels will be a breeze It’ll be as fast as toasting it and spreading its cream cheese.

hOt chOcOlate chOreOgraphy

by Priscilla Akinwunmi, Form V

Too many things are happening in my hot chocolate cup. The waves created by my candy cane spoon show me their hypnotic number. Their act, continuous, swirling, and curling like cheerleaders, their ribbons unfurl forever.

The fluffy marshmallows, all attracted to one another, partner up until they are all in pairs. Leaving a single trio happily gravitating around each other.

My candy cane spoon reluctantly says goodbye to the new friends she made. The marshmallows slow down their choreography in order to give a proper send-off. Her red stripes disappearing to reveal her white body.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V

a MUg fUll Of flOwerS

by Emma Hopkins, Form V

The café was buzzing with chattering people, yet he heard nothing but the pulse of the clock. With his weathered hands in the shape of a steeple, his ears focused on the steady tick-tock. He heard her laugh from across the busy crowd. A sprightly young woman danced near the band. He strode up to her, tall and proud, and, in his bold adolescence, he asked for her hand. The floral steam wafted from his sweet tea. He could smell her bouquet of fresh wildflowers which she held while smiling at a friendly bee. It landed on her as she sat, pregnant, under the bowers. His tongue twinged as he sipped his scalding brew. His shriveling heart ached from despair, missing the fun times they’d been through. Sighing heavily, he leaned back in his chair.

Artwork by Maxim Lukyanov, Form V

My tiny dancer

by Olivia Ghilarducci, Form V

There once was a young, blond, little girl, that young girl, me.

She always seemed to live her life to a beat, smiling brightly, always moving. Walking with rhythm, strutting with style, she would twist, and turn, and twirl, day and night. Then her hair darkened, and so did her smile, she got quieter, and dimmer, and more still with age. For years, she stayed dim, and quiet, and still, until she met you, and she danced again. Now we can twist, and turn, and twirl, together, my young, blond, little girl.

change Of Scenery

by Kaitlyn Bilodeau, Form VI

From the green, clean horizon line, to the sweet, summer air. I miss my home already; it’s just so different here. There are no more honking cars, no more trash sprawled on the streets. No more light in my room at night, it almost feels incomplete.

Somehow just as beautiful as the morning is to the night. They’re so different yet so similar––metres and feet measuring the same height.

I grew up with some imperfections, this I’m more than happy to admit––though the trash and crowds and disturbances are not something I’d ever choose to omit.

So yes, I miss my city, my first home, my first place. Yet one day maybe these barren lands will be my second home, my second place.

The first of many homes forgotten with little trace, though when thought of, it’ll put a reminiscing grin on my face.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V

vancOUver

by Saroni Mlola, Form VI

Waking up to picture-perfect seawalls galore, Whilst having a cup of coffee at Olimpico, A wistful breeze next to million dollar condos, Giving you time to reflect on your upcoming demands

The softness of the sand, ten minutes away, Calls you to watch the sailboats, sailing through the bay

At the beach you get sunkissed and tanned, With the sand and water, right by your hand

At night, the moon blooms through the shining sea, With the water sparkling all its pearls, with ease

The silent whisper of the waves gives you comfort at night

Making you drift away in your dreams, with a special delight

the cat that appeared five yearS agO

by Diêu Anh Srisuk, Form VII

The Cat that appeared Five years ago, purrs a soothing melody, twirls its tail to the rhythm, and waits at the worn-out doorsteps of my grandmother’s home. Droplets of rain patter, dancing against the brick tiles, and bouncing high before plummeting into the puddle. Splash-water clings to the Cat’s coat. It squeaks, it shivers, and it shakes, but it stays. The rain continues to pour and time continues to pass, yet no matter how long…

Even when the day has already grown cold, and when dusk has already replaced dawn, the Cat that appears Five years ago patiently remains still on the spot it’s on. Waiting, lingering, lurking on that worn-out doorstep of my grandmother’s home.

7 MOnthS later

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

I walked home from work in the cold yesterday.

I listened to our song and examined the trash in the ice.

It would’ve been romantic, I suppose, if you were with me. Instead, a dirty paper cup collapsed beneath my shoe. November’s such an ugly month.

I thought I saw our relationship spelled out in the cigarette butts. Memories of grimy smoke filled my lungs. I frowned, wanting more. In my head, it was softly snowing. The cars’ passing headlights traced my shivering lips. Walking home in the dark.

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form V

BaptiSM

by Elsa Osweiler, Form V

I still remember the day I woke up to you gone, Vanished like hot steamy breath Melting into a cool winter breeze, never to be seen again. You mustn’t have left long before I woke, For the outline of your sleepy imprint Remained as if to offer its silent condolences.

I called out for you, wailed your name Through tears that burned like peroxide on a gash And the deafening echo that replied salted the wound.

I drenched the sage green sheets we had bought together In my saline sorrows, pouring out torrent after torrent, Drowning out the stench of memories that permeated them.

I envied the blind as my eyes dashed about the room, Desperate for anything that wasn’t tainted by your smell, or your touch, or your gaze, Or you, or you, or you!

Finally, I composed myself, strolled into the bathroom, And tossed your toothbrush into the garbage As sunlight anointed my tear-stained face.

a

wOven StOry

by Anthony Herbst, Form VII

I am a part of the foundation, Where the dust settles, And the feet trudge about.

My design is where the feet gather On occasions, so that those on foot May sing, dance and feast alike.

I’m where the memories stand, Yet where the dog lies, under the table, To hide from a playful hand.

I contain, deep within my woven fibre, Evidence left behind from the past, Solitary crumbs and strands of hair.

My story is written on the walls and doors, And on the faces of the people whose Feet I support.

And just like a gravel path in the woods, Here I will remain until the feet have gone For good.

Artwork by Maxim Lukyanov, Form V

MechanicS Of natUre

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

Locked sap in trees circulation cuts off the topmost branches frigid and breakable like wet hair in the winter wind.

Axles and gears turn in my chest mechanical pulsation if I allow flesh and blood to take over my thinking then I surely will become unrepairable.

Briefly, our arms move in sync and we hold each other’s hand. Briefly, not long enough to be touching suspiciously. Briefly, you comfort me when no one is looking. It’s okay to feel things in the dark when no one cane see and you follow the curve of my neck by the light of the moon.

In your eyes, I am beautiful.

decadence

by Luke Christian Sykes, Form VI

A wave curls in slowly, descending upon the shore with the grace and gentleness of morning sunrise. The tide rolls back out, the water draining away from the salted sand. It reveals the remnants of fresh footsteps and perfectly placed seashells, and, as if to mimic life, it replicates that alluring simplicity and temporary essence. Laughs can be heard, chatter lingers in the air harmoniously, both entertaining the environment around them. The land collects these memories, as if to cherish them gently, and, with salty breeze, the steps, traces of before, are washed away, leaving nothing but empty promises and lingering thoughts.

The golden paramnesic sand stays there forever, collecting stories from those who walk, and giving them away––

A gift to its selfish friend, the ocean, who never returns the favour.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V

By nighttiMe

by Gavin Lissebeck, Form VI

The cloud of stress accumulated after a day’s end, falsely said to vanish at the door, lingers around your mind some more, as you rest your head from the day’s havoc. A full cup of tea waits at your bedside, as well as high Lexile books that satisfy your ego. Your lamp light flickers slowly, never quite turning off. The vibrato from your music player echoes through the air, reminding you of your overpriced clothes and overdue rent. The light starts to tarnish in your eyes, trapping you in a room impenetrable to others, filling your mind with humility, preparing you for the day ahead.

letter tO a friend

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

If you find your eyes are heavy and your feet are wet with snow, remember when I held you and kissed you on the brow. And if you can’t remember that late night spent with me, then grab a borrowed sweater and head down to the sea. And if the sea is cold, the wind cuts to your core, then wrap yourself in blankets and come knock on my door. But don’t forget, my dear, that should I not be in, your strength is so much greater than the scars that mark your skin.

and the SaintS Said

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

She entered quietly, slipping into the very last pew in case she needed to make a quick escape. Only two people noted her arrival: the elderly lady seated directly in front of her, and Jesus Christ himself. His three-storey statue at the altar stared down at her small form, a glassy stare at the girl from nowhere.

“Santos, Santos, Santos,” said the priest.

“Santos, Santos, Santos,” echoed the populace gathered in the church on Mercier Street. The whispered prayers were snake-like in their utterance and the hissing bounced off the walls.

She stood silently admiring the late golden sunlight streaming into the church. An old man coughed. She was the only person there under 65. Gray and frizzy heads filled her line of vision, heads filled with old traditions, unwavering faith, and dementia.

The priest with magnified eyes gestured towards the ceiling, delivering the day’s lesson in a language she could not understand. The elders nodded away at the priest’s indecipherable words. Another cough interrupted the prose. Undeterred, the bug-eyed man began to tell a story, his hands painting the words in the air, a ghostly reenactment of fantastical events.

She lowered her head, tucking Jane Eyre under her arm, reciting the short prayer her mother taught her. It seemed like the right thing to do in a House of the Lord. The congregation kneeled, but still she stood, gazing at the light that would soon fade, at the statue that almost made her weep for forgiveness, and the priest who seemed to weave mystic tales with his hands.

The idea of religion scared her. From Victorian novels that warned of damnation, to isolated peoples that worshipped the wind, she never understood how they bent, doubled over, in the name of some all-powerful being. But it was precisely her disbelief that frightened her. If others devoted their lives to something that could never be known and were rewarded with salvation, what about the ones who didn’t?

She shivered picked up her bag and left, a transluscent being, never to be remembered by the old lady sitting in front of her. The door closed behind her without a sound and the snakes yet again began to hiss.

“Santos, Santos, Santos.”

Artwork by Simon Rulc, Form VI

hOSpital Bench

by LiYu Tao, Form V

I am a spectator, a bystander, an onlooker, four legs and two arms with a cold metallic luster. The only audience in this pale depressing corridor, facing the door separating life and death. Alive or dying, surgeons in and out, serious or smiling. The cold scalpel becomes their hope––pure sadness and happiness all depend on one moment. I watch them cry, sigh, in despair or relief, drop on me or lean on the walls feebly. In such an eerily quiet place, one minute is always like a year. Gasps echo through the corridor, as if the air is too heavy to breathe. All emotions are magnified infinitely––pure sadness and happiness are nothing but so.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V

friendS frOM afar

by Mulan Fan, Form V

As Confucius once said, It is a joy to have friends from afar. Strangers are friends From this or another planet. My friend, Welcome home. I will serve you with My treasured Longjing green tea In exquisite purple teacups; A gorgeous feast Decorated with blooming jasmines; The campfire to warm your frozen hands, And a fan to prevent annoying mosquitos; The fragrance of fields, And a river of stars; The oasis in the desert, And roses in the dust; A reception without judgment, And a life of joy.

I will listen to your stories And the unbearable sadness. Until you are out of strength to cry, I will cut the red candle And put a silk quilt on you.

Day after day, And years after year. Until one day, I become old. Leaning on a stick, Stumbling along, Don’t know where to go. I will then walk to your place, Knock on your door, Become a friend from afar. And you will serve me the same, As how I did in our youth.

epheMeral MeMOrieS/hiraeth

by Lisa Eichmüller, Form VII

Take my words. Keep them, treasure them. Let them follow you as you go through the seasons, through sun and storm and snow up the hills when reaching the top and down again.

When you’re falling let my words catch you before the hard ground. Or push them away. Take my heart. Keep it, treasure it. Let it make you feel when you can’t feel anything yourself. When the world is numbing you, Listen to the steady beating. Let it calm you down. Or tear it apart. Take my touch. Keep it, treasure it. Let it dry your tears when you feel like drowning. When you feel suffocated, let the memories of it fill your lungs. Feel it.

Or reject it. Take my view. Keep it, treasure it. Let my eyes show them you from my perspective––to remind you of the love you are surrounded by. Let it embrace you. Or let it suffocate you. Take it, treasure it–– Until it’s gone.

Unexpected, SaMeneSS, and awareneSS

by Yewon Chang, Form VII

Nothing looked different in the room. The same bed with a brand-new sheet, neatly made in the corner. Natural light poured into the room and filled it with warmth, the dishes gleaming under the sunlight. They said they have never seen an apartment this clean; inspection was just a waste of time.

A paper with many words, placed by the nightstand, shadowed by a picture. The smile was so big that the number of teeth couldn’t be counted. Innocent eyes sparkled under the sunlight and captured the strangers’ hearts. The clothes she was wearing had been sewed many times, but still, she said they were her favourite. Everything was so clear in the room that no one could dare to question. The purpose was clear; The only thing that changed was the addition of a star in the sky.

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form V

perilS Of winter

by Paul Akinwunmi, Form VII

It’s the time of year again. The sun gets to work early, but calls it a day by five, Ruining the party for the hive. Saliently, it becomes closed-histed with the warmth it ordains, Leading to the dreaded morning walk. At this point, anyone that resides in Glass may stop reading. For the rest of us ill-fated students, carry on.

The tips to besting the morning walks are quite elementary. You are going to need a jacket, One with some thickness to it. An extra layer would also be necessary; You don’t want polar winds exhaling on your bare skin. And finally, willpower is recommended.

Everything having been secured, You can tackle the frost. Beware the winds, They love whistling in unison And will be aggrieved if a stranger dares interrupt. If you ever hear discord, their collective wrath has discharged. At that juncture, willpower trumps all.

phOenix rOOM

by Isabella Sioufi, Form VII

In the centre of the house I long for the family I once had. The warm smell of my mom’s freshly baked cookies still roams the kitchen. I try to grasp the last memories of what a happy family once looked like. The sound of laughter radiates through my ears; it triggers a moment of happiness I am no longer able to have. As I circle the kitchen I recall my happy place. Now, I see it as a dark, gloomy, and somber, lifeless room. Ever since the death of my mother, Everything changed: my growth forever stunted. The tabletop, which once used to be full, is now bare. The crevices of the counters are brimming with dust. There is no longer any sunlight that casts over the table; instead, there is a dark, gloomy, and somber shadow.

I try to bring back the essence of the room, but am unable to as the memories slowly wander away. The pain radiates throughout my body, suddenly unable to move. I start to feel the sunlight beam against my face. The sun slowly melts the sorrow within me. I begin to feel alive again. My roots are nourished and I can once again grow. I no longer see the room as a dark, gloomy, and somber home.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V

reflectiOn

by Maria Kolankowska, Form V

Out of the crowd of people, a statue emerged. It stood motionless around the bustling area. And in my belief, I could hear A loud beating of the heart, And see a sadness on its face. Those were human features, a woman with a human face. Slim, beautiful, like everyone dreams of. Like a figure from afar, so sad and cold, So precious and fragile.

Another statue emerged from among the trees, It stared at its beauty from within the crowd. And in my belief, I could sense A will to survive in its eyes, And a toughness in its brow. Those were human features, A woman with a human face. A warrior that every ruler longs for. Like a tulip breaking through the layer of melting snow. So confident and unique. So different, And yet so similar. Their eyes met each other. There was no word needed for conversation. Their hearts and minds merged to one. And in my belief, I can say That two became one, Never to separate again.

MirrOr

by Xenia Konle, Form V

She taps the mirror, trying to find and feel the shadow of her true self. But all she sees is a blur of clarity and the undefined. Somehow trying to find clues in between on the glass. All she sees is pure nothing, everything she desired not to find. She feels let down by herself, tormented every time she looks into the mirror

Tormented that the mirror can’t prove her mistaken about harmful and detestable people. Tormented that the mirror can’t pull her out of the tunnel that she doesn’t see the light in.

For years to come, all she sees is someone who deserted herself. Deserted her true self, deserted who she wanted to be. When she looks into the mirror, she sees someone else. Anyone but herself.

yOU and SUMMer ShOUld cOMe tOgether

by Catherine Guo, Form VI

The bubbling sound of soda is already in your voice. The sweetness of iced watermelon spills from your eyes. When you look at me, you are as gentle as the sunlight . Do not frown; your brown reeds shall not bend over in the wind. Do not cry; the spring water on the Seine will run dry I wanted to say you and summer should come together Because I cannot control my heart beating like a deer, But the words finally come out of my lips to reach you: “Do you know that the sunflowers all bloomed in my park?”

the SeaSOnS Of lOve

by Zofia Kolankowska, Form VII

We met twice.

The first time was forgettable––faceless strangers were all we were to each other, or maybe friendly faces that faded away in the crowd, like snowflakes melting on rosy, quivering lips. Our busy minds nudged us in separate directions––selfishly keeping our existences sealed like a latched door. The second time we saw each other anew, our eyes truly meeting for the first time, our timid smiles suddenly became the most treasured––private breaths of passion only we could comprehend as a metaphor for our tumultuous hearts. We will part twice.

The first time: at the end of our road, marked by the last act of affection. Perhaps tears will mark our final goodbye, or maybe a smile will adorn our faces as a terminal confession of a mutual pledge. The second time: when the last thought of each other crosses our tired minds, like leaves slowly falling from the trees in autumn, leaving nothing behind except a wintry void in our souls once full of budding fervor. Remember the first time our eyes truly met, emotions rushing and enflaming our hearts with desire? The inexplicable feeling of joy, looking into each other’s starry eyes in utmost silence––words unable to proclaim our palpable love. If we bid farewell to each other, all that will last is a hint of a feeling like a warm summer breeze after the sun sets.

dear yOUth

by Yewon Chang, Form VII

Have an extra layer underneath That will protect your soul and your body from the world out there; it can be cold. Grab a cup of hot chocolate if you can; It will give you warmth to defy The frigidity. It can be arduous. Do not forget your pill; pollens can be naughty in a gentle spring breeze; they give you tears, perhaps even an ache. Welcome the butterflies; you will not be able to know what they would have for you. Give it a try.

Dive in, swim around in a bigger lake than you want. Go ahead and reach the end. You will meet the waves. Sometimes as enemies, sometimes as companions; you will learn. Close the door you just walked through, accept the protection of your home. The hardship is now behind you. The relaxation, the alleviation of your soul and your body––Caress them a little, be proud.

Artwork by Emma Hopkins, Form V

Under Six feet

by Elsa Osweiler, Form V

The suffocating darkness was impossible to ignore. Its putrid breath was a constant whisper in my ear, a foul and inescapable reminder of exactly what I was: dead. Here you go now, your hand springing up to stifle a delicate gasp of pity that has escaped from lips washed with a shock-white pallor. I can assure you that your dramatics are not necessary, least of all to the dead. No amount of pity will lift us from this new state of ours, in which our essence is eternally suspended like a still, chill breath, no longer inhibited by the tangible restraints of the living. This story, however, is (quite ironically) not that of the realm of the deceased, but rather that of those we leave behind. Grant me patience and allow me to explain.

It must have been exactly a year after my passing, since I had felt several gentle patters of bouquets delicately placed upon my lieu of eternal rest. I found it fascinating how I could still discern the minute flutter of a petal, the soft plop of the odd tear, yet was void of any emotion. I was, after all, the victim of the so-called tragedy that so moved my mourners. Should I not have shared in their sorrow?

I suppose that my being “gone” (as the living would naively say) in reality affected me so little, thus immunizing me from its lachrymatory effects, but I digress. Yes, it must have been the first anniversary. After some time of scattered petal-flutters and tear-plops, I received a far more notable visit.

First came a firm set of footsteps, echoing with a determination that distinguished it from my previous guests. A second pair followed, its soft pat-pats on my grassy grave much mellower, just shy of a tiptoe. The third and final footsteps approached, silently shrieking with anxiety and kicking up puffs of earth in their path. The trio needed not have even spoken for me to divine exactly who they were.

Echo was of course the first to speak, his words just as solemn as his footsteps. “There is no need to blame ourselves. A full year has passed, and there is as little to do about this whole affair now as there was in the moment. Accidents, unfortunate as they are, are just that. Of course it is desperately tragic that he is gone,” (you now see what I meant about the naiveté of the living!), “but that is hardly our fault. Now I hope that this little visit of ours will give us closure, allow us to move on from this unpleasantness. We all know he would wish the same, don’t we?” How convenient that “he” was unable to reply.

Tiptoe piped up next, her words muffled by a hand that, although I could not see it, I imagined would be tear-stained and flushed, judging by her stifled sobs throughout Echo’s self-exoneration. “Oh, I have missed him so dearly! I try to remember that it was an accident, just a terrible, terrible accident, but it’s so difficult when I picture him that day all…” She trailed off before quickly adding “you remember” in a near whisper. “Anyhow, I’m just so sorry about the whole thing. I really loved him, you know?” Oh Tiptoe, always taking sympathy for granted. The worst was that, with that innocence her treacly voice feigned, she always received it. I may not have recognized

it when I could still be swayed by her glossy, pleading eyes, but I was not so easily fooled on the other side.

Finally, Shriek broke his nervous silence. “Should we be discussing this here, today? Anyone could overhear—”

“Overhear what,” interrupted Echo, “a group grieving the loss of a friend?”

“You know this is more than that. What happened that day was—”

“An accident. An unfortunate tragedy. That is all,” insisted Echo, his voice tinged with impatience.

“I’m just not certain that this get-together is such a good idea, given the,” I felt him pause, gauging Echo’s expression, “unusual circumstances of the incident.” His hands trembled so violently that the earth danced around me.

“Oh! You don’t really think this was our doing, do you?” cried Tiptoe, hysterical. I could almost see her strike a victim’s pose: hand over rosebud mouth, eyes fluttering as if a fainting spell were imminent.

“Enough! I brought you here to put an end to the endless rumination about that day. What is done is done and is none of our concern,” Echo stated with an air of coolness that poorly veiled his slight panic.

“But what about—”

“If you know what is good for you, you will abstain from completing that sentence,” hissed Echo before poor Shriek could finish his thought. “We are not to blame. We did nothing wrong.” If that was so, Echo, why the mantra?

“I suppose you’re right,” Shriek conceded. Disappointment clings on long after life lets go.

On that sour note, the six feet receded and trailed away. I no longer had the luxury of feeling, doomed to simply be for eternity, but my living self would have been brimming with fiery ire, craving the sweet bite of revenge. I cannot fault him, for I can only imagine the injustice of it all: those who put him in his premature grave going back to the life they robbed him of, fabricated halos concealing their guilt-ridden faces.

laSt cOin

by Catherine Guo, Form VI

The smoke couldn’t rise from the chimney, so it rose from the broken walls. There is a thick layer of dust covering everything, a few cartridge cases hidden here and there. She clung to her little baby, who had once lit her life, with a bitter smile and a drop of tear in her eyes that didn’t have time to fall.

A clock sat in the corner. A broken hand can never turn back time. Children held on tight to their last coin. It’s the time now. They said it’s enough. Pigeons will rush out from the smoke and the daybreak. So will you. Rush towards me, pull me out of the mess and tell me that it’s all over now.

Safe SpOt

by Lauren Souaid, Form VII

I trot down beige carpeted stairs to the basement with the colourful puzzle-piece foam mat I learned to crawl on. The glowing TV catches my eye as it illuminates the darkest corners of the dimly-lit room. The lively tune of animated characters singing lingers in the back of my head mixed with all the other hazy memories. I take a seat on the microfiber couch. I feel myself sink into the smooth brown cushions.

The couch I sat on each morning drinking warm milk from a green sippy cup. The same couch

I cradled my sisters on for the first time. I slide open the connecting door to the cold, unfurnished, unrenovated room, my feet covered in dirt and dust. The place that frightened me at first––pitch black, filled with cobwebs––soon became my safe place. My favourite hide-and-seek spot, where I could never be found.

cUltUred kitchen

by Paul Akinwunmi, Form VII

To a four-year-old, all doors are colossal. I sit on the white ceramic floor, captivated by the chills I feel through my legs and palms. I glance around, but the doors seem bland. One in particular manages to grab my attention, the one situated behind me. I tilt my head as far as possible.

It’s the kitchen, with its concoction of smells, each transporting me to a contrasting part of the Earth, allowing me to travel freely.

Enchanted by the prospect of more discovery, I enter. There is a contrast, a rather stark one. It is just as I expected. Everything moves freely, in some sort of synchronized chaos.

The stoves are singing, the utensils are arguing, hitting each other, creating an unintentional melody. Often enough, the drawers join in, adding their noise complaints, in the form of thuds.

StrangerS fOr a while

by Priscilla Akinwunmi, Form V

They surround her. They entreat themselves into analyzing every aspect of her soul. She didn’t grow up here; they can tell by her fugitive freckles and her eyes, dipped ever so slightly in cement. Where there is a welcome, there are foreigners no longer.

Slight tugs when strolling down the street with the dog’s leash in hand, and trips to the kitchen when twilight dawns. She is assuredly part of the family.

It’s easy to forget that the thorns of our character are reserved for our relatives and friends, and our roses, for strangers.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V

hiS fleSh

by Mulan Fan, Form V

People pass by him, some scared, others disgusted. “How imperfect,” they scoff––crossed eyes, maimed limbs, mustache disheveled like shriveled seaweed. His wave of breath flows so faintly that it can’t even lift a petal. Yet, love is his only disability. But there, a girl stands still, looking through his tragic dark eyes, then runs towards him, kisses and kisses until she’s breathless. “How beautiful,” she praises while stitching his fragmented body together, for she sees a red flower blooming wildly in his flesh.

the path

by Maël L’Her, Form VII

If you wish to cross this barren land you must first empty your hand. Release all things you hold dear, for if you lose them on the way you just might shed a tear. The path has been long deserted, but don’t let yourself be disconcerted; this journey is very simple if you stick to the plan. Watch out for the traps laid out in front of you and when you reach an inevitable bypass, find the man that will let you through; he should be nearby, lying on the grass. It will not be easy; the road’s trials will keep you busy. But if you reach the end of it, find yourself a comfortable place to sit and enjoy. Your hard work has come to fruition.

Artwork by Willem Olsthoorn, Form V

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form V

Swan SOng

by Elsa Osweiler, Form V

I found you in the dark, Saw you beckon from the hole I dug to rot in, Your cherub-soft face exposing my hands yellowed by time, Like sweet moonlight spilling into an attic window.

I am at the mercy of your every move, Bound to you by invisible yarn, Pulling me, dragging me wherever you go, The faithful shadow you ignore.

You are the wind, the tide, the spinning of the Earth, My cruel puppeteer, Tugging at my heartstrings as if I were a toy, As if I were on the edge of life, as if you were just a boy.