TheApricotJournal May2021
HappyMay!Theendoftheschoolyearisapproachingus quickly,andwearesoexcitedtopresentyouwiththethird issueofTheApricotJournal,whichisourfinalpublicationfor thisyear!Insidethisissue,youwillfindavarietyofwriting, rangingfromhorrorstoriestocontemplativepiecesthatwill leadyoutoreflectontheworldaroundus.Wehavealso includedaStaffPortfolio,featuringworkfromeachmemberof TheApricotJournal’sstaff!Ourstaffhasworkedincredibly hardthisyeartoproofread,edit,andhelpruntheJournal,so wearethankfultohaveeachofthemonourteam!
And,aswerealizethatthisschoolyeariscomingtoanend, wewillcontinuetoacceptsubmissionsoverthesummerin preparationforournextissueinthefall.Wecan’twaittoshow youallthatwehaveplannedfornextyearandthenewprojects thatweareanticipatingtolaunch.
Allthebest,
TheEditors-in-Chief,AnyaGeistandEmmaRobeau
MyLove
ByCarinaDiaz,Grade10
Todaythedayhasbeengray myheartissadifyouarenotbymyside itwasacloudyday
YouknowhowmuchIneedyouherebutyouarethere therearemanykilometersbetweenusbaby webothdon'twantathird everyonewantsustobehappy Iwanttoscreamatthewholeworld youandmetogetherforever
webothsharewhatever ifthereisfogtogetheritissunny weareliketheweather Ihadnotseensomeonesofunny myeyescanonlyseeyou youmycrazy Iwait21forthetattoo
Loveeachotherbravelyyouknowthat'samazing
Untitled1
ByJasonMurillo,Grade9
Howdarethey
Commentonourhousingproblems
Uslivinginthree-deckersandtheprojects
Whiletheyliveintheirsuburbanhomes
Freefrombeingoneofthelords’subjects
Whenwementionourstruggles
Howdarethey
Underminethemwiththeirown
Whenhavingourskincolor
Issomethingtheyhaveneverknown
Whenweconverseinournativelanguages
Inwhichwealsosingourheartsout
Howdarethey
Trytoseverourmothertongues
Whilewiththeirowntheyfreelyinsultourheritages
Whenthey’vebeenallowedsincebirthtostrive
Whileweendlesslystruggleinvainto
Workourselvesupandsurvive
Howdarethey
Tellustosimplyworkharder
Andwhentheybrushoffourgrievances
Forthesakeoftheirowncomfort
Andunjustconveniences
Itisveryhardnottosay
Howdareyou
Untitled2
ByJasonMurillo,Grade9
Original:
Nosllamanvioladores
Cuandoenrealidad
Nosotrossomoslostrabajadores
Quieneshacensuropa,dispositivos, Ytodaslascosasquedisfrutanellos
Dicenquellevamosdrogas
Cuandoenrealidad
Lacomidaconqueseahogan
Eslamismaquelescultivamosyllevamos
Sinpodertomaralgunaparanosotros
Nosllamancriminales
Cuandoenrealidad
Paraquetengansusvidasideales
Trabajamossindescansar
Ymiramoscomoellossedivierten
Dicenquelesrobamossustrabajos
Cuandoenrealidad
Tomamoslosbajos
Construyendosusedificios,limpiandosus porquerías
Porelpreciodecasinada
Peroyanosoportaremos
Porqueenrealidad
Nadiepuededecirquienessomos
Comolaverdad
Esquesomoshumanos
RoughTranslation:
Theycallusrapists
Wheninreality
Wearetheworkers
Whomaketheirclothes,devices,
Andallthethingsthattheyenjoy
Theysaywebringdrugs
Wheninreality
Thefoodwithwhichtheydrownthemselvesin
Isthesamethatwegrowandbringthem
Withoutbeingabletotakesomeforourselves
Theycalluscriminals
Wheninreality
Inorderforthemtohavetheirideallives
Weworkwithoutresting
Andwatchastheyhavetheirfun
Theysaywerobtheirjobs
Wheninreality
Wetakethelow(class)ones
Constructingtheirbuildings,cleaningtheir messes
Forthepriceofalmostnothing
Butwewillnolongerputupwithit
Becauseinreality
Noonecansaywhoweare
Asthetruth
Isthatwearehumans
TheTreeWhoSuffered
ByAlizaBarnes,Grade9
“Ourmemoriesarewhatmakeuswho weare.Somearereal.Somearemadeup. Buttheyarestoriesthattelluswhowe are.Withoutthemwearenobody”-Clare Furnis
Spring:Nortelllaughedasallthepretty flowersdancedaroundinthewind.The colorfulpatchesentertainedhimwhile hestood.Nortellisatree.Oratleastthe soulofone.Hisleavesbrushedagainst hislivelybranchesinagracefulmanner. Nortellwashappy.Helovedspring becauseitwasbeautifulandfullofjoy. Hewasboundtofindhimselfajoyful personinthefuturewithallofthese beautifulmemories.
Toobadbeautifulthingsneverlast.
Autumn:Nortell’seyesweredimmer thanbefore.Theyweresurroundedby lightbags.Helookedsad.What happened?Fall...fallhappened.Nortell wassad,becausehecouldn’tmove,he couldn’thelp.Hisfriends…theywere sick,theyweredying,andhehadtosit thereandwatch.Hecouldn’thelpthem inanyway,andthat’swhathurtmore. Hehadwonderedwhatthesemore recentmemorieswouldmakehim.But mostofallNortellwasafraid…hewas afraidofwhatmightcomenext. Whathewillhavetoface...
Winter:Alone.Nortellwasfinally alone,noonetotalkto.Nooneto listen.Hewas...Alone. Hisfriends… theywerealllonggone,justlikethe lightinhiseyes.Hisdulleyesnever travelledanywhere,theyjuststood,like him,inplace.Whilehesuffered.He finallyfoundwhohehadbecome...
thetreewhosuffered.
ByAnonymous
Hasanyonestoppedtoconsider thatIcarusdidnotfallbymistake butlethimselfburn intheheatofthesun
Tofeelthewaxdripdownhisarms andhearwindwhistlepasthisears ashefellfromtheheavens
Nobodyremembersthatheknew nottoflytoohigh anddidsoanyway justtofeeltherush
Thebeatingofwingsreplaced byhotdropsofmeltingwax, coldairgettingwarmer thecloserhegetstothesea
Itistruethathewantedtoflyhigher, climbfurtherintotheheavens thananyonebeforehimhad buttheseaisasinviting Icaruswantedtoseethestars andhethoughtthembeautiful reflectedinthesurfaceofthesea beforehelanded
Untitled176
ByAnonymous
CondemnmeforthewayIlove. Sendmetothefierypits andwitnessmyascension. Iwillburninyourwitheringhatred andrisefromtheashes ofmyowndesecratedform. Iseeyourburningwrath andinviteyoutostrikemedown. Nothingismorebeautifulthanaphoenix returningfromthegravetospitepeoplelikeyou andthebeingswhoaretojudgeme.
Electric
ByTiffanyRose,Grade11
Continuously-thelightflickers
Althoughnottoovisible-
Ittwinklesinthebrightnessofday.
It´svoltagescreamsloudestthroughtheblacknessofnight
Theelectricalspark-ajourneybeginsacrossthesynapse
Eachaxonbecomesaburningember
Thefire;
Theimagination;
Theingeniousthoughtsbackpackingacrossthecerebrum
TheroarofZapdosconfiguringhisnextattack
Readytoignitetheskylike…
St.Elmo'sFire.
Createourownpattern,tapestry-
Ourownseismicwave
Ourownauroraborealis
Reparetheriffs,therent
Inourownway,withourownkindofvivacity
Fuelitallononlyourintellectualtenacity...
TheApricotJournal StaffPortfolio
ForthefinalissueofthefirstvolumeoftheApricot Journal,wegatheredapieceofwritingfromevery memberofourstaff.Enjoy!
TheFenwayMausoleum
ByAnyaGeist,Editor-in-Chief,Grade9
Theroarofthecrowdthrashesaboutall aroundme,twistingandturningthroughthe stadium.Islouchbackinmyseat,pickingata loosebitoftheredplasticbymythighs.Ireally couldcarelessabouttheexcitementofthe crowd,andIhaveabsolutelynodesiretojoin in.
FromwhatIcantell,basedonthegiant scoreboarddisplayedoverleftfield,they’re cheeringbecausetheRedSoxhavetwomenon base,noouts,andtheirDHisatbat.Now, don’tgetmewrong,I’mnotagainsttheRed Soxoranything,it’sjustthatthenoiseofthe fanscausesmyheadtofeelasthoughit’sbeing bashedinbyapairofclangingcymbals.
Irubthebridgeofmynose,upand down,upanddown,thewayIalwaysdowhen somethingbothersme.Ifingerthewirerimof myglasses,fidgetwithmywornbaseballcap, bitemylip.Anything,anything,todistractme fromthewhirlingstormofnoiseinthepark.
Myunclelooksovertheheadsofmy cousinsatmefromafewseatsdown,hiseyes kind,butconcerned.Iexpectmyparentstold himthattheydidn’tthinkitwasagoodidea formetocome,andtokeepaneyeonme, makesureIdon’tfreakout,thingslikethat.
I’mnotgoodwithloudnoises,or surprises,orcrowds.Thenoise,thepeople,all seemtocloseinonmysmallframe,pressing againstmythinlegsandarms;andtheirshouts arelikeelectricalimpulsesthatfrymybrain.
Ibegintoshiver.I’mnotcold;it’sjusta sideeffectofthecrowd.ButIcan’tshiver,I knowthat,becauseshiveringisthefirststepto breakingdown.OnceIshiver,thenmyvision goesblurry,andmyhearttattoosarapid, terrifiedbeatintomychest,andmylungscan’t expandtolettheairin,andIgetdizzy,andthe wholeworldgoesblack.
Stillshivering,Ihugmykneestomychest,and closemyeyes.Anythingtomakethenoisego away.Acidseemstoboilinmystomach,andI reallyregretchoosingtocometothisgame.
Andthenthestadiumgoesquiet.Iassume thepitcherisfinallyabouttopitch,thoughIcan’t see,sincemyeyelidsarestilltightlypressedshut.
ButnowIcanbreathe.
AndI’mnotshivering.
Andmystomachstopsroilinglikea turbulentsea.
Andthepressurearoundmybody dissipatesintothinair,leavinginitsplacethe sweet,sweetatmosphereofabaseballgame.
Iopenmyeyes,andinhaleshakily.Exhale. Inhale.Exhale.
Ilookoveratmyuncle,andsmile.It’sall good.
Icouldcarelessabouttheactualbaseball game,butit’stheatmosphereofthestadium,of FenwayPark,that’sreallymagicaltome.
Thestarsintheskyarejustbeginningto peekoutfrombehindthecurtainofindigo sunset;smallpinpricksoflightthatilluminatethe endlessspaceinthesky.Thestadiumfloodlights havecomeon.Ilovethefloodlights,thewaythey directtheirgazetotheplayersonthefield,the fansintheirseats.Thestadiumbecomes enchantedbeneaththem,asmall,wonderful, livelygamebeingplayedinthemidstofasleepy night.
Thearomaofstadiumpopcorndriftsover inthewarmsummerairwhichsmellssweetlikea delicateflower.Hotdogs,hamburgers,salted pretzels.Thecrunchofpeanutshellsunderfoot. Vendorsmakingtheirroundsthroughthe stadiumrows,callingout,advertisinglemonade andicecream.Eventheperpetualhumofthe crowd,eventhefactthatIcanseetwenty thousandindividualfacespeeringoutfromacross thebaseballdiamond,doesn’tfazemerightnow.
Itseemsthat,fromtherootsofthe manicuredgrassthatspreadsacrossthefield,tothe topoftheloomingGreenMonster,Fenwayisa beatingheart,itslivelihoodunending;Icouldn’t imagineiteverdying.Iclosemyeyesandsoakin theballgame.
Iwakeup.Myeyesslideopen,andtheylook around.Iamstillinmyredplasticseat,butother thanthat…thestadiumisdeserted.The floodlights,thoughstillon,aredimandflickering, asthoughtheycoughfeebly,sickwithadisease fromwhichtheywillneverheal.Thefieldisdevoid ofplayers,ofcoaches,ofballboys,ofumpires;and thestands,everyseatintheballpark—exceptfor mine—isempty.Andsilent.
Thereseemstobeanabsenceoflifeall aroundme.Everythingisstill.Thereisno heartbeat,nobreath;theentireparkisstagnant, festeringinthedark,soul-suckingshadows.
Ican’tbelieveit.Iquiteliterallywillnot acceptwhateverrealitythisis.Itakeoffmybaseball cap,brushmyhandsthroughmycurly,lightbrown hair.Ifeelaroundmyface;myhandstouchover myglasses,myears,mynose,mymouth.Iamstill here.Sowhereiseveryoneelse?
“Hello?”Icall.Itrytomakeitloud,strong, butmyvoicefaltersanddips. Nooneresponds.Thereisn’tevenanecho. Mywordsaresimplysuckedoutofexistence. Okay,Ithink,maybe,maybesomehow everyoneleftwithoutme.Ijustneedtogetoutof here.
Asuddenburstofadrenalineseizesme, shakesme,andIburstfrommyseat.Ipayno attentiontomysurroundingsasIdartintothe concourse,sprintingasfastasmyasthmaticlungs willletme,allthewaytotheentrancetothe stadium.I’mnotthinking,notfeeling,asIrun.My entirebeingisconcentratedongettingout,on findingmyuncleandmycousins,andgoinghome. IreachtheopeningsthatleadouttoJersey Street.Only…they’reclosed.Metalbarsareswung acrossthem.It’slikeatajewelrystore,whenthey haveagrateorsomethingoverthewindows,sono onebreaksinafter-hours.Irattlethegates,but thereisnosound.Itrytoshout,butagain,my wordsareswallowedup.
Somehow,somehow,Iamlockedinhere. Thebarsfeelmorelikeprisongatesnow. Myadrenalinerushdissipatesasquicklyasit beganandIslumpdownontothecool,concrete floor.I’mcold.Idon’tknowwhyIhadn’trealized thatbefore,butI’mverycold;theairaroundme feelsfrozen.Mybodyseemstobetheonlywarmth inthewholeplace,andtheparkisdeterminedto suckitout.
Idon’tknowhowlongIsitthere,head leanedbackagainstmyprisondoors,wishing, prayingthatsomethingwillsaveme.But eventually,itseems,arealizationstrikesme,likea deadly,fieryboltoflightningthatripsmeinhalf. ThisisnotFenway.Imean,itisFenway, technically,butitisnottheFenwayIknow.Noone leftmebehindafterthebaseballgame,noone forgotme.No,thisisadifferentplacealtogether. Slowly,Istandup.Thebloodrushestomy head.Iamonedgenow,terrified.ButIhaveto keepgoing.I’mnotgoingtofindawayouthere,at thegates.Theremustbesomewhereelse.
Iwalkslowlybackthroughtheconcourse, whichfeelsmoreandmorelikeanetworkof tunnels,moreandmorelikecatacombswithevery stepItake.It’ssodark,too.Ican’texplainhowI canseeanything,butsomehowIcan.
Iseethecrevicesintheconcretefloor,the bricksonthewall.Buttheyaren’treal,theyaren’t tangible,somehow.They’redistantandempty. Everythingis.Onlymyfootstepsarereal;because, forsomeoddreason,althoughmyvoiceisdeadand lifelessinthisplace,myshoesringout,loudand clear,echoing,echoinginthevastnothingness. Ipasssouvenirshops.T-shirtshanglistlessly fromracks.Thecandyinfrontofthecashier’s counterseemsghostlyandspectral.Atthe concessionsstands,saltedpretzelsarestillintheir spinningdisplays,onlynothingspins.Condiments arelaidoutonthecountertops.Ispotanopen bottleofketchup.Itliesonitsside,oozingthe tomatopastelikeblood.Walkingovertoit,Ireach myhandout,and,againstmybetterjudgement, touchthespilledketchup.
Itisicycold,anditseemstocrawlupmy arm.Ishriek—echolessly,ofcourse—andwipeit offasquicklyasIcan.ThenIkeepwalking.
EveryturnImakefeelsthesame.Itseemsas thoughthebuildingiswatchingme.Eyesboreinto thebackofmyhead;IswearIcanfeelwispsof ghostsbrushthedeadairnexttome.AndasIstep towardtheexitswhichleadbacktotheseatsand thebaseballfield,IswearIcanhearnoises,crowds cheering,somewhereinthedistance.ButIdon’t darewalkouttothefield,forfearofwhatImight find.
IbegintoshiverasIwalk.Notbecauseof thecold,though,it’stheshiver.TheshiverIget fromcrowds.Eveninthislifeless,soulless place—whichseemsabitlikeI’dimaginea mausoleumtobe,aplacewheredeathisvery near—Ican’tescapemyfear.Ican’tescapethe invisiblecrowdsatmyback.
Thepressureisbuildingaroundme.Iswear thereissomethingbehindme.Somethingwatching me.SomethingIcan’tsee.Somethingthatcackles maliciously.Somethingthatreachesforaweapon tostrikemewith.
Myhearthammering,mybreathshort,I turn—andnearlyfaintwithfright.Thereis someonebehindme.Somethingbehindme.There issomething.Something.Something.Spotsdance inmyvision.Ifall.
Thesomethinglaughs;giggles.Whenmy visionclears,Isteelmyselfandlookatit,myarm stretchedoutinafutileattempttoprotectmyself.
Itismorelikeashe.Sheislikeaformless blob,onlysomehow,inexplicably,shehasashape. Shehasflowinghair,delicatelikegossamerthreads, thatdoesn’tbelonginaplacelikethis.Herfaceis contortedandodd,butIcanmakeoutsmalleyes andalargemouthfilledwithsharpteeth.
“Whoareyou?”Isputter,hardlyableto untanglethewordsfromoneanother.Myheart stillfeelsasthoughit’sabouttolaunchitselfup intomythroatandoutofmymouth.
“Idon’tknow,Ellis.”Hermouthdoesn’t move,butsomehowIhearher.
“Myname?”Iwhisperincoherently.How doessheknowmyname?
“Iknoweverythingaboutyou,”she replies.Shesoundscheerful,butthereisan undercurrentinhertone,asparklingocean hidingviolentwhirlpools.
“WhereamI?”Iamstillshivering,but managetostandupandfaceher.
“Wheredoyouthinkyouare?”
Themausoleum.Thethoughtsprings unbiddenintomymind.No,Icorrectmyself. No.I’mnotgoingtodie.
“Really?That’showyouthinkofthis place?”shesays,fascinated.
Igape,pointingtomyhead.“You—?”
“Yes,dear.Icanreadyourmind.”
Iswallow.“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
WitheverysecondIremainhere,thetruth seemstoinchcloserandcloser,thoughIstill don’tknowwhatitis.Whatishappening?AmI goingtodiehere?Takingadeepbreath,Iturn fromher,andrun.RunasfarawayfromherasI can.
“Oh,dear,”hervoicechides.“Youcan’t runfromme.”
Iskidtoastop.Sheappearsinfrontof me,stillsmiling.“Youcan’trunfromus.”
Us?Ithink.
“Us,”avoicesaysback.Butit’snotone voice.It’smanyvoices.Theycrowdinonme, invadingmymind,pokingatit,laughing.
Thewholestadiumislaughingnow,the wholeconcourse,thewholeeverything.Andthey allpressinonme.Myshiveringgrowsmore intenseasIbackuptowardasetofstairsthat leadtothestands.Atmyback,Ihearthose strangeechoesofaballgame,asifthereisaveil betweentherestoftheworldandme.And suddenlyIdon’tcarewhat’soutthere,what horrorsawaitmeonthefield.Anything, anythingtogetawayfromhere.
Iturnandstumbleupthestairs,myvision becomingblurry,eventhroughmyglasses.
Atthetopofthesteps,Ilookoutatthe stadium.There’snoone.Nothing.It’sjustas emptyanddesolateasbefore,onlynow…
Nowthereisnothingwherethebaseball fieldusedtobe.It’sempty.Notfilledwith darkness,notfilledwithlight,justempty,a gapingholeintheground.ButIrushtowardit anyway.
“Whatareyougoingtodo?”thevoicesin myheadtaunt.“Whatareyougoingtodo?”
Idon’tknow.Idon’tknow.Mystomachis turning,andthere’sathrobbingpaininmyhead. Myheartisworkingovertime,andmylungs.AsI walkunsteadilydowntowardthefrontrowof seats,Iwheeze;IknowI’mhavingabreakdown, butIcan’thelpit.Ireallycan’t.Ifeelallbottled up,allstuffedclosed,andIknowIcan’tstayhere forevenamomentlonger.
Finally,astheemptyworldseemstotilt beforemyeyes,Ireachthefrontrow,andbegin toclimbclumsilyovertheshortwalltoreachthe field,asthevoicescacklerelentlesslyinmyhead.
IcanhardlyseestraightasIprepareto dropmyfeetdowntotheemptyholeofa baseballfieldandthevoicesarejeeringandsweat dripsdownmybackandthecoldairgrabshold ofmeandthemausoleumlaughsandlaughsand laughs.
Thenmyfeetenterthedarknessofthe fieldanditallgoesblack.
ANurseintheCivilWar
ByEmmaRobeau,Editor-in-Chief,Grade10
Idistinctlyremembermyfirstday
Thesunwasbright
ShiningupontheEarthbeneathit
Warmingtheairandgroundbelow
Thebirdswerechirping
Singing
Creatingamusicalmasterpieceamongstthesky
Theskywasclear
Ababy-blueblanketplacedperfectlyaboveme
Andnotraceofthepuffy,whitecloudsthatare normallyabundant
Ondayssuchasthis.
Itseemedliketheperfectday
Oratleastonewouldthinkso
Fortodaywasanythingbut“perfect”
Anythingbut“normal”
Anythingbut“splendid”
Todaywasthestartofmyjourney
Onethatwouldplaywithmymind
Pullandtugatmyheart
Breakmedownpiecebypiece
UntilIwasnothing
Todaywastheday thatIbecameaCivilWarNurse.
Myfirstshiftwastwelvehourslong
Itbeganatnoon
Andwentuntilmidnight
Iwasfirstinstructedtochangeandclean
bedding
Washlinens
Scrubfloors
Tediouswork
Notmadeforatoughwomanlikeme
Icouldhandleanything
OrsoIthought
Itwasn’tuntilImetmyfirstpatient
ThatIknewwhatIwasreallygettingmyself into.
Myfirstpatientwasasoldier
Helookedtobetheageoftwenty-five
Maybealittleyounger
Itwashardtotellthough
Hisfacefilledwithdirtandscratches
Blooddrippingfromhisforehead
Theonlyfeaturewithnodamagewashiseyes
Brightblueeyes
Sobrighttheyresembledthewatersoftheocean
Onapeacefulsunnyday
Islowlywalkedovertohim
Mybraintakingaminutetoprocesshiswound
Ihadneverseenanythinglikeitbefore
Itwasdeep
Acutjustabovehiseyebrow
Acutthatwentintohisskull
IstartedtofeelqueasyasIapproachedhim
Alltheblood
Thedirt
Thescratches
Whathadtheydonetohim?
OverthethreeyearsIwasanurse
Isawmuchworse
ThanIhadseenwiththefirstsoldierIhelped Isawpilesofamputatedlimbs
Soldierswithnoeyes
Nolegs
Noarms
AndIwastheonesenttohelpthem
Tocomfortthem
Tohealthem
Iwastheonetheycouldcounton
Tolimittheirpain
Toeasetheirfear
Iusedtoaskmyself
Atthebeginningofmyjourney
Whenwillitstop?
Whenwillitend?
AndIslowlyrealizedthattherewasnevergoing tobeanend
Aslongasthewarwasstillaround.
ThewomenoftheCivilWar
Someofusnurses
Likemyself
Someofussoldiers
Fightinginthebattlefield
Someofusathome
Takingcareofourfamilies
Andworkingthelocalbusinesses
Sowho’stosaythatwomenweren’tan importantpartoftheCivilWar?
Wehealedtheinjuredsoldiers
Wefoughtinthebattlefield
Weranthebusinesses
Wecaredforourfamilies
Wedidsomuch
Allfornorecognition.
Pride
ByElieLewin,MagazineLayout,Grade10
thegrassdoesn’ttakecreditforthedew andthedirtdoesn’tclaimtorefinethemeadow andthevacuumofspacedoesn’tboastofit’sstars butthevasebragsthatitsflowersarethemostbeautiful thatnothingcancomparetotheirpoise asbothvaseandfloweralikepreenandprimp butasthornsarestrippedfromastem anddroopingleavesarecutaway theflowersgaspforbreath clutchingtovoluptuousbuds astheyslowlyshrivelanddie droppingpetalsfromthelipofabottle andastheonce-glowingleavesdriftdownward thevasemustfaceitsshame asitsflowersfloatsoftlytotheground tiredanddowntrodden incapableofstandingtallfortheirpride foronemomentmore andthebowedcorpsesareswiftlydrowned inaconventionalvaseturnedmortuary becausetheallureofgraceandelegance isgreaterthantheguiltthatfollows ofaninnocentlifecutshort foraprettyfaceandashort-livedfame andtheoncelordlyvase hasbeenbroughtbacktoearth andthegrass anddirt andthevacuumofspace aretheretogreetit
TheFightingSeasons
ByDenisaIljas,WebDesign,Grade9
Summerwascoming
Butwinterwasrunning
Likethehareandtheturtle
Theywereinarace
Winterwasgoingtoputsummerbackinitsplace
Theflowerswerepeaking
Butwinterwassneaky
Andputitshandsontheireyes
Youcouldheartheflowers’cries
Butnextyear’sracecouldbedifferent
Summercouldwinfirstplace
Andthesunwillwintherace
MoreThanJustaName
ByErikaLam,Treasurer,Grade10
“Hello,mynameisErika.”Awaveof confidencefillsmeasmynameescapesmylips. Thegrowingfearsofsocialpressuressubside asItellthisstrangermyname.Thequieter versionofmyselfmeltsawayasabrighter, talkativepersonseemstotakeover,bringing mytrueselfinfrontofallpreviousdoubts holdingmeback.Formostofmylife,I resentedsharingmyname.Tome,itwasa chorethatIperformedoutofcourtesy.
IrememberthefirsttimeIfeltutterly ashamedofmyname.AlthoughIhavealways struggledwithacceptingmyname,itnever mademewanttodisappear.Atthatmoment, however,Idid.
Mypalmsfeltclammyfromsweatasmy brotherandIranintotheschoolbuildingat ourfastestspeed.MyvisiontunneledasI nervouslylookedaroundtoseenoother children.Icouldn’tbelieveit.Onlyafew weeksintothisnewschool,andIwaslate.
MystepsfalteredasIreluctantlysignaledmy brothertojointhegrowinglineoftardy studentsasIworriedabouthowtheschool’s staffmemberswouldseeme,thenewstudent. Asifbeingthenewkidwasn’trareenoughin thesmallschool,theyweresuretoremember mepoorlyifIwaslate.
Icouldfeelmyhearthammeringastheline shortened,reachingmybrotherandme.I pushedmybrotherforward,signalinghimto gofirstbecauseIwantedtoensureeverything wascorrectandtogivemyselfmoretimeto bracemyselfforwhenmyturncame.
Icouldnevergrasphowmybrotherwasso calm.Whentheyaskedhimforhisnameand teacher,heremainedneutral.Hesimplytold them“Nathan,”asifitwassoeasy,buthow?
TimefeltfasterasIfeltmyselfbeingunableto speak.Animaginaryballlodgeditselfintomy throatasmybrotherleftthesmalloffice.Iwas mentallyalonenow,withnoonetosupportme asIfacedmyfears.
Theofficeladyhabituallybeganwritingdown thedateonthetardyslip,withoutsparingmea singleglance.“What’syourname?”sheasked dryly.Itwasareallysimplequestion.My name…Iknewmyname,yetIcouldn’tsayit.I mentallyfoughtmyselfwondering,howshould Iintroducemyself?DoItellthemErikaordoI sayErikawithak?Thedeafeningsilencecaused theofficeladytolookupatme,meetingmy eyes,andIknewthatshewantedtoseeifIhad evenheardher.
“E-ErikaLam,”Ibarelymanagedtochokeout. Iwatchedcarefullyasshewroteeachletterof myname,Ericka.Iwasmortified.Peoplehad alwaysspelledmynamewrong,butwithbotha ‘c’anda‘k,’itwasasifshewerecombiningtwo completelydifferentspellingstomakeone!To seemynametarnishedlikethatonlyaddedto myemotionalinstability.Itprovedtomethat therewasmorethanonewaytospellmyname wrong.Itmademefeelmorealienated.Why didmymomgivemeanamethatnoonespelled right?Ifeltlikecrying.
AsemotionalasIwas,theminuteIsaid, “Erika,”Iknewshewouldspellitwrong.It wasmoreofatestthananything.Iwantedto seeifshecouldspellitright.Notonlydidshe failmysmalltest,butshealsoleftmefeeling lost.Iknewfromthatmoment,Ihatedmy name.
Apersoncarriestheirnamethrougheverylife experienceandeverymoment.Althoughit canbechanged,formany,itremainsthesame throughallaspectsoflife,whetherpositiveor negative.Inaway,itsumsupaperson’slifeas well.Theminuteapersontellstheirname, theyhavedefinedthemselvesinoneword.
Iknewthis.Iwantedtolovemyname.Idid. ButIcouldn’tbringmyselftowhenIsawno goodcomingfromamisspellednamelike Erika.That’swhatIwas,amisspelledname.
Theneighthgradebegan,andmyyearhad begunordinarilyasmyfeelingsaboutmy nameremainedthesame.Atoneofour monthlyfamilyparties,mycousintoldme she,forthefirsttimeever,justmetanother Erika.Ispokewithoutthinking,sayingthe firstthingthatcametomind,“Itwas probablyErikawithac,right?Mynameisn’t thatcommon.”
A“yeah,”escapedherlips,andpastthesmile thatwaspaintedonmyface,Ifeltashamed. Atleast,Iwasashameduntilshecontinued hercomment.“IlikeErikawithakbetter though.Itlooksbetterandcjustlooksweird.” Sheseemedtolookrightatmyeyesasifshe couldreadmythoughts.“Canyouimagine yournamewithac?”
“No,”Itoldher.Myconfusion,whichcould notbecontainedinternally,spreadouttomy facialfeatures.“Ithinkaklooksbetter.”
That’swhenmyolderbrotherdecidedtojoinin ourconversation.“YouknowIchosetospellit withak,right?It’scooler.Moreunique,”he saidwithapridefulgrin.Irolledmyeyes slightlyathisflamboyantresponse,butasmall genuinesmileglueditselftomylips.
IspentsomuchtimehatingmynamethatI didn’trealizethebeautyofunordinary.Erica wouldneverfitmebecauseitwasn’tme. Althoughtheonlydifferencebetweenthetwo nameswasaline,thatlinedifferentiatedme fromtherestoftheworld.Itdefinesme.
So,whenItellpeople,“Hello,mynameis Erika,”IamtellingthemwhoIam.Istand proud,knowingthatIshouldnotbeashamed ofwhoIam.Ihavecarriedmynamethrough myhardships,achievements,andtheentiretyof mylife.Naturally,peoplewillspellitwrong, butitwillcreateaconnectionwhenIlaughit off,tellingthemmyname,notsomeoneelse’s.
Thereisnoneedtoloveanameasfull-heartedly asIdo,butevenifapersonchangesit,theirold namewillalwaysstaywiththem.Asifitwasa chapterinabook,itbuildsuptotheperson today.Itshouldbegivensomecreditfor helpingtocarryapersonthroughwhatever timeisspentwith.Becausetellingapersonmy namesetsupabridgeforaconnection,they thenhaveachoicetowalkacrossorstayidle.If therewasnobridge,crossingarapidriver wouldseemimpossible.So,Ihavelearnedto makethisbridge,apathwaytomytrueself, strongandallowthosewhowanttoknowme, dosowithease.
LifeisAround
ByAfuaAsare,Secretary,Grade11
AsIlookintothenothingnessIfeelthecalmbreeze
Theairissocold,itcouldmakemefreeze Ifeeltheemptiness
It’saspaceoflifelessness
Butthenanoceanwavehasrisenuphigh
AndIfeelitisalive
Thereislifearound
Ilookupintothebrightcolorfulsky
AndIamamazedbythisbeautifulpattern Italmostmademecry
Thesuntakinghermajesticwalk
Aseveryday Isgazinggracefullyatmyface Ilovetofeelseen
Notthatwecantalk
Buttheyknowit’sme
LeCarnevaldesLapins
ByDanielArnold,Editor,Grade10
ItwasAugustwhentheoldfairthat hadclosedadecadebackwasbought,thekind ofAugustthatburnsawayatthesoul,with verylittleremainingbuttedium.Needlessto say,withhighschoolloominglargeinour futures,itwasawelcomedistraction.AsI walkedintothefair,allIcouldseewasmasks. Eachandeverypersoninthefairwaswearing themaskofarabbit.
ItwasSeptemberwhentheywent missing.Acouplewalkedontotheferris wheel,andneverwalkedoff.Theexitswere barreduntiltheywerefound.Wewere trappedintheparkforthreehours, surroundedbyemployeesinrabbitmasks searchingwordlessly.Nosignofthemwas everfound.Thenextday,Ifoundamauled rabbitonmyfrontstep.
ItwasJanuarywhenthefirstsnowhad meltedwhenthebodieswerefound.Threeof them,oratleastthepartsofthemthatwere left.Thetwothatweremissing,andonefrom outoftown,judgingbytheirbelongings.The nextday,thefairhadexpanded.Theybought someofthewoodsnearby,whereeveryone hadplayedaskids.
ItwasMarch,thefirstbloomofspring, whenthefairstartedacceptingnewhires. Crispwhiteposterswitharabbit.“Now acceptingnewhires.Goodweekendjob.”The verynextweek,sevenstudentswerenotat school.Theywereatthefair.Wearingrabbits’ masks.Thatnight,thebonesofrabbitswere inmybed.
ItwasMaywhenIfoundtheheadofa hareinthemiddleofourdiningroomtable. Myparentspaidnomindatall.ItwasMay whenIinfiltratedthepark.ItwasMaywhenI foundwhathadhappenedtothemissing people.ItwasMayitwasMayitwasMay. Itisadaylater.Ican’tforgetwhatwas beneaththepark.Thehareofsinewandbone hauntsmeforevermore.Icarrywithmeacan ofkerosene.Andalitmatch.
MyFeed
ByNatalieBoucher,Editor,Grade9
Theirkeyboardsareafactory
Smoothlyfunctioningoperations
Foreachpartisplacedeversocautiously
Andeachproductseversorelevant
Fittingseamlesslywiththeportraitsabovethem
Whatlovelywords!
Foreacharesodelicatelyselected
Eachcommenthavingperfectconsonancewiththenext
Asymbolofunity
Butmoresoofunspokenwar
Theirkeyboardsarearmies
Orpassivelyaggressiveallies
Foreachclamberseversodesperately
Andeversosoftly
Acrossbattlefieldsofdigitalcongruity
Whatlovelycharacters!
Foreacharesobelievablytangible
Eachcapturingthevividimaginationsofnearstrangers
Aprepossessingreflection
Ofownersthatcannolongerbeseen
Theirpagesformgalleries
Collectionsofproofofdesiredexistence
Foreachartworkiseversobeautiful
Andeversoenhanced
Erasingtheflawsofthoseinspiringthem
Whataperfectillusion!
Foradevastatingtwilightappearsasdawn
Eachworkerandwarriorsofalselyenlightened
Aninfectiousblindness
Ofourfadinglivelihood
TheCross
ByChloeWilliams,Editor,Grade9
Tradition
Isasequenceofeventsthathappen
Overandoverinafamily
Orsomethingthatyouhavecreated
Thatbecomesirreversibleinaplace. Forme
ItisclimbingtotheCross
AtthetopofthemountaininGoladiLago, Switzerland
Hearingthecowbellsjangle, Thesmelloffreshmountainair,
Thefarmswithgoatsandchickens,
Therough,mountainousrocks, Thepathsnakingfrommymountain
Totheneighboringmountain
ThatIknowsowell.
Thiswasnotalwaysatraditioninmy mother’sfamily
Butwithmycousinsandbrothers, Wemadeitone.
WecannolongergototheplaceIcallmy paradise
WithoutwalkingthepathIhavecometo memorizeandcherish,
A2hourhikethathasneverbeensospecial. Ihearmycousinstalk, SeethesmallflagsofSwisscantonsinthe small,Italianvillages.
Ifeelthewarmairandthehotsunbearing downuponme,
Pressingmetogettomylocation.
Finally,gettingtothefinalpath, Narrowandrockywithanoverhangtoa steep,grassyfall, Beyondtheroadfromthefarm.
Inandaroundthecurves,thecrosspopping uponceinawhiletogreetme,
ToremindmethatIamalmostthere.
ThecrossgettingbiggerandbiggeruntilIseeit infullview.
Running,running,upthefinalstripofpath,
Hairflyinginmyface,screamingforour cousinsandbrothers,
Andstandingupinfrontofit,
Lookingdownattheviewthatisthecity ofLugano.
Surroundingmountainsencompassthecity andyousee
Theairport,
Thelake,
Thepool,
Theshops,
AllthethingsthatmakeLugano,Lugano, AndthatIknowthatviewlikethebackof myhand.
Ourcousins, Uncleand Aunt,
Greetusandbringoutthehomemade sandwichestoeatatthepicnic.
TheCaillerchocolatemeltinginourhands, Theapplesweshare,
Thefliesbuzzingaroundourheadsandthe waspsthatpreyforourfood.
ThisisthetraditionIlivefor.
ThisisthemomentthatIfeelhappiest
Withmyfamily,
Withthemountains,
Withthecows,
Withthefarms,
Withthecabins, Andmostofall,
WiththeCross.
WhereIwillneverfeelmorealive.
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The Staff of the Apricot Journal
Editors-in-Chief
Anya Geist and Emma Robeau
Magazine Layout
Elie Lewin Web Design
Denisa Iljas
Treasurer
Erika Lam Secretary
Afua Asare
Editors
Daniel Arnold, Natalie Boucher, Chloe Williams
Teacher Advisors
Ms. Bishop and Mrs. Eressy
Special Thanks To:
Laura Coderre
Cover Art