Inscape 2016

Inscape

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2015–2016

Volume XXXIV

Inscape

Inscape Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2015–2016 Volume XXXIV

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, Richard Cicchine, Corey Cook, Susan Cook, Max Crowther, Guy Dallaire, Maude Desroches, Tim Doherty, Sandra Edwards, Christine Faucher, Victoria Hill, François Jean Jean, Marianne Laramée, Tyler Lewis, Sheila Lyster, Miranda McGie, Régine Mesnil, Jennifer Monk, Dan Rae, Patrick Robidas, Heather Rothney, Greg Stevenson, Roxanne Taillefer, Valérie Turcotte, and Roxane Vigneault.

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

Printed in Canada by Blanchard Litho inc.

2

From the editor…

J

udgement, the ultimate fear of a writer. One that stems into the awareness and hypersensitivity of our own opinions. They say that true writers never like their writing. If that is true, I must be successful, but who could blame me? The process of writing, of creating, is draining and it leaves one vulnerable. Like perfect pitch to a musician or the swish of a net to an athlete, we marvel at words, as raw or multifaceted as they tend to be. The moment that we close our eyes, we’re searching into the void of knowledge, knowing that we, as literate individuals, only know 8% of words out there – which is being generous with the numbers. When we find one that fits, it is ever so satisfying.

As Inscape Editor this year, part of my role was to find these words, to edit and cut poems. The trick was, and remains to be, the fact that I share my love among words equally and it remains a challenge to tell another writer that I prefer mine over theirs. How then, am I supposed to divide polysemic pieces with less regard for accuracy in intent, from those raw in form, structure and potential?

My idea was to keep Inscape in its rawest and purest form, the only way to keep it true in its intentions. I want to thank these contributors for opening themselves and allowing us into the privacy of their minds. So much work goes into making Inscape, and I thank everyone who supported me during my first year as Editor. I’m not going to lie; it was a hard year. Inscape received a huge number of submissions and it was hard to cut it down to what it is now, but I’m glad we made it.

For the first time, Inscape has a theme. I spent a long time trying to encapsulate Inscape but the only thing I could think was that it is ineffable. Although containing words upon words, it cannot be described by them. It is one of those times that writers hate, because we can’t contain this summation of creativity into words. However, I still tried. The only thing I can think of to describe it is: aleatoricism, n.

The employment of contingency into the creation of art; made by accidental causes.

Because Inscape is not a collection of poetry that is deliberate; it just happens.

The poems complement each other and the artwork enhances each page. People pour parts of themselves onto paper, and it just fits. A lot of it is hard work and keeping an open mind, but sometimes, we just get lucky. It looks great, it reads indescribably, but it once started out as individual pieces of art. It had no intention to become this timeless literary magazine.

No one writes for Inscape, but rather they write for themselves (or their Language Arts class) and somehow it all works out and gives the appearance of being one wonderful cohesive creation. It is amazing to see Inscape being built, piece by piece.

I never thought it possible to create something this amazing from the stacks of paper we accumulated throughout the year. But I love it, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I hope you feel the same way.

— Julia Coote, Form VI 3

Table of Contents Life, Candy Rutihinda............................................................. 7 The Battle, Naomi N’Soni Soucka.......................................... 9 Bring Colour to My Life, Nikita Ten..................................... 11 For I Was, Chelsea Anthony.................................................. 13 Shortbread, Victor Babineau........................................... 14–15 Searching For Smoke Through Flames, Kaitlin Corbeil..... 16 Seasons Change, Daniel Goettke........................................... 19 L’amour sans limites, Frédéric Verrier-Paquette.................. 19 Destructive Love, Emma Page.............................................. 19 My Road Not Taken, Didi M’Bow......................................... 19 He Is…, Didi M’Bow.............................................................. 20 The World Has Raised Its Whip, Quinn Ross...................... 21 The Watch, Luciano Ayala Valani......................................... 23 Loneliness, William Ling....................................................... 23 A Long Winter, Cédric Matte................................................. 25 I Am The Light that Will Not Die, Frédéric Verrier-Paquette................................................ 25 The Precipice of Hope, Julia Coote................................. 26–27 Blue is the Deepest Shade of Black, Julia Coote & Sabrina Turrin........................................ 28 We, Isolde Macfarlane........................................................... 29 A Rocking Chair, Sabrina Turrin......................................... 30 Une lamentation d’idéalisme, David Yang........................... 31 Learning to Love, Quinn Ross............................................... 32 L’amour, William Ling........................................................... 33 Miracle, Nikita Ten................................................................ 34 Heaven on Earth, Ludovic Fugère........................................ 34 You, Naomi N’Soni Soucka................................................... 34 I Wish I Were a Tree, Naomi N’Soni Soucka....................... 36

4

In the Rose Bushes, Mackenzy Cooper.................................. 37 Red Roses, Blake Russell....................................................... 37 Essay about an Essay, Victor Babineau............................... 38 Sonnet about Sonnets, Rida Dzhaafar................................. 39 Comparest Not Love to Sweet Birds’ Songs, David Yang.... 40 The War of Art, Emily Ann Harnett...................................... 41 A Silly Question, Cédric Matte.............................................. 41 The Dark Hole in My Heart, Candy Rutihinda................... 43 Liquid Spirit, Maia Fortin Xu............................................... 43 In a Millennium, Olivier de Sainte Marie............................ 44 Pourquoi m’exterminer? Bénédicte Fugère........................... 44 A World Which I Have Not Chosen, Naomi N’Soni Soucka.... 45 The End, Tom Price................................................................ 47 The Broken Society, Mohamed Alsawari.............................. 47 Fireflies – and Crocuses, Frédéric Verrier-Paquette............. 49 Being Judged by Him Doesn’t Weaken Fear, Tom Price..... 49 Existentialist, David Yang..................................................... 50 Le secret de dieu, David Yang............................................... 51 Life is a Curse, David Yang................................................... 51 We Know the Dark Holds No Ill Will, Frédéric Verrier-Paquette................................................ 52 A Well of Sadness, Victor Abraham...................................... 53 To See But Not to Speak, Kaitlin Corbeil............................. 54 The Intellectuals, Julia Coote............................................... 54 An Eye for an Eye, Frédéric Verrier-Paquette................. 56–57 O, Nicholas Cormier............................................................... 58 A Breath, Julia Coote............................................................ 59 Bodies of Water, Quinn Ross................................................. 59 Forgetting, Miki Mignot........................................................ 59

Editor: Julia Coote The Cheapest Gift, Christophe Fillion.................................. 60 Her Smile, Blake Russell....................................................... 60 Scotch & Soda, Vincent Hamel.............................................. 63 Don’t Go in the Box, Trinity-Ann Merrithew........................ 64 Bird, Luciano Ayala Valani.................................................... 65 Relevance, Julia Coote........................................................... 66 Truth, Luciano Ayala Valani................................................. 67 Void, Kaitlin Corbeil........................................................ 68–69 A Black and White Moment, Julia Coote............................. 70 Weep, When I Am Gone, Emily Sylvester............................. 71 Promises, Julia Coote............................................................ 73 Forever, Frédéric Verrier-Paquette........................................ 73 Now, Maia Fortin Xu............................................................. 73 From H to O, Krystal Zuo...................................................... 74 A Hopeless Drop, Mathilde Fugère....................................... 75 Newfie Heart, Emma Bea Crowther..................................... 76 Déversements, Donovan Faraoni.......................................... 77 Parting Train, Nikita Ten...................................................... 79 Departure, Mackenzy Cooper, Cymarah Harris, & Diana Cintora Dewez.................................................. 79 Kiss the Memories Goodbye, Sabrina Turrin....................... 80 The Aftermath of an Impetuous Night, Kaitlin Corbeil...... 81 After a Storm, Anthony Herbst.............................................. 82 The Line, Julia Coote............................................................. 84 These Papers Tell Our Stories, Jessica Pigeon.................... 85 The Hole, Chelsea Anthony.................................................... 86 Relapse, Kaitlin Corbeil......................................................... 89 You’re in My Dream, Quinn Ross.......................................... 92

Inscape Staff: Antoine Bélair-Rivard Renan Bolkan Kaitlin Carson Muxian Chen Victoria Delisle Donovan Faraoni Kamila Gareeva Ivannia Gomezgil Yaspik Alice Kuo Avi Mayerson Troyce Didi M’Bow Naomi N’Soni Soucka Quinn Ross Rui Shi Cléa Virondaud Zixi Yang Artists: Antoine Bélair-Rivard Zoë Bendy Renan Bolkan Kaitlin Corbeil Emma Bea Crowther Grace Gardner Jiajia Ge Alice Kuo Isolde Macfarlane Naomi N’Soni Soucka Emma Page Sabrina Turrin Doga Uras Justine Valois Faculty Advisor: Scott Kelso

5

Painting by Isolde Macfarlane, Form III

6

Life is a poem.

Beautiful yet purposeful.

Each word written with reason and emotion.

Candy Rutihinda, Form V

7

8

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form V

The Battle.

Something is pulling me down.

A weight I am struggling to free myself from.

I am drowning.

Have they done this to me?

Or have I done it to myself?

Slumber is not an option,.

I have not finished my battle.

I am no longer drowning,.

I am swimming and the surface is near.

They have attached those weights to my feet, The surface but could I have freed myself sooner? The weight is gone, is no longer in sight. the surface is reached Or is it too great of a feat and the battle won.

Could I reach it if I tried? for me to accomplish?

Should I continue to fight?

A breath is taken, I see others rise past me, but there is no time for reprieve.

Or should I close my eyes their weights left on the seabed. and let the water lull me to sleep?

Another weight is added.

If others have succeeded, A new battle begins.

The promise of slumber, why not I? is much gentler that that of battle.

I am drowning.

Naomi N’Soni Soucka, Form VII

9

Photograph by Alice Kuo, Form VI

10

Bring Colour to My Life The morning light lays its rays on the rough skin of the old canvas.

It moves through its ancient curves, like a spring of water making its way through the ground.

Smoothing it, carefully playing with the light balls, the colour it dreams about when the sun goes down.

And as it dreams, it feels the soft fur of the brushes moving all in one motion.

It sees a painter laying strokes of paint, with a firm but delicate motion, finishing the last curves of the colourful dress.

That’s all it ever dreamed about.

That someone would bring colour to its life.

Nikita Ten, Form V

11

12

Painting by Emma Page, Form V

For I was I met you at your most perfect never trust anyone you meet at their most perfect my mind had said but I paid it no heed for I was entranced.

At first, it was your voice the sound of the first raindrop a gift to all who heard you are foolish my mind had warned but I thought no more for I was enthralled.

Soon, it was your laugh the sight of the first snowflake a memory not easily removed you are naĂŻve my mind had taunted but I knew no more for I was ensnared.

Suddenly, it was your skin the feel of the first blooming zinnia novel and beautiful, soft and brave You are young my mind had cautioned but I believed no more for I was empowered.

Or maybe it was your light the essence of the first sunrise wonderful and startling you are careless my mind had complained but I cared no more for I was enslaved.

Chelsea Anthony, Form VI

13

Shortbread A short story by Victor Babineau, Form VI

Drawing by Jiajia Ge, Form V

14

The desert was… deserted I guess.

Nothing was around to distract me. Not a shadow or a bush to look at. The atmosphere was heavy, the air arid and boiling as if all the oxygen was gone. Somehow, the wind blew, which covered me with sand that stuck to my skin because of the sweat. Each time I blinked, I could feel the grains stuck to my skin, moving between the folds of my eyelids. I was being burnt from the inside, feeling my gut getting slowly stretched out, torn fiber by fiber. Bleeding hot anger filled me from within. That type of torture, regret makes you feel when you took the bad route.

I pulled out the Marlboro pack from my pocket. Moving my arm made feel like a shortbread biscuit being split in two. Luckily, there was a cigarette left. I remember being surprised at how invasive sand was as I saw the yellow particles on the paper tube filled with death. I put the cigarette to my lips and threw the package next to the oily box containing the half-eaten Wendy’s baconator. I could barely tell the difference between the heat coming from the lighter and the air. My back was peeling as I stood against the roaster that this brownish gold Chevy Impala had become.

I thought. I was constantly eaten by my thoughts. Every moment my head became deserted, I felt the need to remind myself what my life could’ve been.

I thought about how life had turned monotone for me.

How each day was grey. How I woke up every morning, in my bed, getting my stomach obliterated by the hammer of remorse. I’m guessing rolling down to this desert wasn’t a great idea either. I just thought that I should, since my brother’s brother-in-law did it when he was questioning his life.

Mine wasn’t always like this. Or, at least I was oblivious to the repetitive course of the middle class lifestyle.

Somehow, seeing what I could’ve become made me obsessed now. I thought of how the man’s avarice and rapacity were making me shake and giving me nausea even though I couldn’t change the past.

It happened three months ago. An old friend back from university, Edward, had sent me a postcard asking me how I was doing, but mostly telling me about all of what he had seen in his life. Snorkeling in Tahiti, learning culture in China, speaking four other languages, safaris in South Africa and many other experiences that this life had brought him.

This filled me with a deep questioning of my choices.

I stared too many hours at the ceiling of my room hoping for my other options to appear. I regretted not being able to live or share these moments.

I was constantly sucked into the past because of the course I decided my life would take, instead of sticking with what at the time seemed the more fun options.

I exhaled the materialisation of this torturing, the deep smoke of the cigarette, which was now cooler than the air outside.

I reflect on how foolish I was, thinking this was going to work out, taking example from that small content creator on YouTube that decided to stop his studies for his passion.

As I finished the last of my hot Corona Extra, (look at me, a loser drinking warm beer in the middle of the desert), the skies darkened.

I didn’t know what was happening, yet it was so familiar. The desert went even more silent than before.

It was illuminated by a blue gleam making everything so clear. The dusty and salty taste disappeared from the air.

I stood up and noticed the car in front of me with someone in it.

A man in a grey, high quality suit got out and greeted me. He looked like the Godfather. His shadowed stare inspired wisdom from the ones you know have seen a lot… maybe too much. Under the thin shadow of his hand-crafted fedora, I could see the wrinkles on his face and the fatigue traces under his eyes. And yet, his body stood strong and solid as a man in his young twenties. I recognized myself in this man as I knew it was me, from another time or dimension where different choices were made. I also knew something was wrong; I would’ve never decided to go to the desert and end up like my brother’s brother-in-law if everything was alright.

“What brings you here?”

“The same concern as yours.”

I was thrown a bit off balance. His voice pierced my stability. It was exactly the same. He was me.

“Then, what choices do you regret?” My voice cracked as I asked this question. My body was accelerating, jittering and sweating to know what my life had been in other conditions.

“You know what my choices were. You also know that why we’re both here together is to answer each other’s questions.”

He took off his hat and saw the depth that constant insomnia and feeling threatened by his close ones had carved in his eyes. I immediately felt a relief, as if I had been stuck underwater for three straight months and only made it to the surface now to breathe and let my lungs expand.

We both sat down and he told me everything. How after university, he got into a defense firm, anti-personnel mines and prosthetics. Both he and Edward were neophyte lawyers for the two-faced company. And then came the layoffs. As he progressed and learned at his new job, the company went through rougher times. Unfortunately, he was in charge of laying people off, one of which was

Edward. At this point the company was so broken from the inside, he had no one to trust. Sure, he was getting higher in the ranks, but the stress from watching his back was strong.

He bought off more companies, specialised in weapons, humanitarian aid support and advanced prosthesis, becoming one of the world leaders in his category. The pressure rose as more opponents wanted his spot, seeing the empire of immoral suffering he had created.

His success hit the top when he fell in love with a beautiful woman and married her to procreate a son and a daughter.

His empire multiplied as well as his enemies. In his case, what Balzac said could never be so true: “Behind every great fortune lies a crime.”

The horribleness of his acts were exploding underneath him as he walked on, dismembering him, making it harder to keep on going, except he had no prosthetics to help him. He had built the greatest empire but at the cost of millions of lives. And now he was the only one to carry this burden, as he doubted whether his wife ever loved him. He felt disappointment as he tried to raise the most spoiled children on earth that would just yawn in front of the most incredible opportunities he could offer them. He crumbled when he realised that nothing else than his primitive instincts forced him to respond to their demands or protect them. Daddy was only there when they needed a new car or if they wanted to rent mansions to party.

In the end, he had so much to offer, but no one who he really trusted to share it with or to enjoy it. What was the point?

As it was my turn to talk, I lied. I told him life had been ever so monotonous. But he knew it was false.

And just as we were about to say goodbye to each other my eyes burnt from the firm white light of the ceiling.

I woke up drunk in a hospital bed, opening my eyes to see what I had chosen, my wife who was staring me down with a keen and ashamed look for dehydrating myself in the middle of the desert and jumping into an ethylic coma while burning to a crisp. I also saw my two children, Sophia and Alexandre. I felt the need to hide for them not to see me, but they brought a tender feeling to my heart, because, I knew, I at least had something to offer them and that my will to do so was ever so big.

I raised my hand, feeling deliverance as I bit a shortbread biscuit and the grains of sand fell off my arm, and touched my wife’s face. And even if she was ready to beat me for all the trouble I caused her, oh god was I ever so warmly pleased to have made the choice to follow her all those years ago.

15

Searching For Smoke Through Flames What began with a burst ends with a silent flare, the final sparks falling to a suffocating earth, slowly losing their light.

The ongoing search, like a petty fight for dominance and power to win the crowning touch to the creation of the world, is what feeds this fire its blaze.

The torches are alight in the hands of those who travel along the broken path that leads to another’s owns, capable of defining purpose and power.

Driven by desire to follow the star stapled footsteps of he who has known the first regal touch is all that fuels the flames as the closing punch is thrown.

With finality set stagnant in the air, extinguished is another search towards blind glory that cannot be found.

Kaitlin Corbeil, Form VI

16

17

Drawing by Grace Gardner, Form IV 18

Drawing by Grace Gardner, Form IV

Seasons Change

Destructive Love

It’s gone.

The cool green of summer ignites into fall.

My heart is burning flames of fire and you, you’re the forest that burns in my wake.

Daniel Goettke, Form V

Emma Page, Form V

L’amour sans limites Quand la vie se tourne contre toi Et que chaque pas est un combat On doit s’ouvrir à ce qui vient Et sourire au destin.

En regardant vers le futur, Ça fait partie de sa nature De voir le verre à demi vide Et non la fleur à l’intérieur.

La douleur peut être une illusion, D’une tristesse une manifestation Quand un mal à l’âme fait souffrir, C’est à soi que revient la décision, l’avenir.

Vouloir rester et s’attacher À ce que l’on a n’est pas assez.

L’amour, c’est de laisser partir Et de ne jamais arrêter de rêver.

Et comme la lune qui brille la nuit, Dans la noirceur de la vie, Je serai toujours là pour toi Alors que je serai parti.

My Road Not Taken Have I ever made you think I need you?

If so, you’d be ever so mistaken.

My sun still shines, my sky’s still very blue.

And you’re forever my road not taken.

I yearned for a love deeper than oceans, a relationship worthy of a queen.

But you didn’t deserve my devotion, I bid adieu to those gems of pure green.

Here I remain, all but thoughts left within.

In this solace, I have now grown tranquil.

Like an empress, the self-love may begin.

To faith, and to myself am I thankful.

A woman with a sound mind and pure soul, no thanks to you will I achieve my goal.

Didi M’Bow, Form VI

Frédéric Verrier-Paquette, Form VI

19

He Is… The bounce in my step, the sway in my hips and the smile on my face.

The very entity that intrigues my mind and fills my heart.

The one that speaks to my soul.

My compassion, my charisma and my confidence.

The force that pushes me forward.

So I hold my head up high.

Like Ms. Angelou, I tell them I have diamonds at the meeting of my thighs.

I laugh at the silly boys that provoked my tears and kept me quiet for so many years.

The art of self-love was unveiled to me through true love. I’ve been educated and may now rise above.

He is my King, and he has found his Queen.

Didi M’Bow, Form VI

20

The World Has Raised Its Whip It lashes and whips, scratches and lacerates, screams when you cry, tears you apart even when misery has done its own tearing.

Don’t try to get up.

It will just pull you back down.

If you breathe too much it will push and suffocate, until you have learnt your lesson.

Push and it slaps.

Love and it’ll teach.

Don’t worry, you’ll learn that the world has raised its whip.

Quinn Ross, Form VI

Drawings by Grace Gardner, Form IV

21

22

Drawing by Jiajia Ge, Form V

The Watch As I see the other prisoners leave our jail made of glass, our jail, which makes us feel a false sense of liberty.

I hope that one day I will have the chance to be free, to discover the outside world, a world abundant of wonders, on the wrist of one of those biped animals, who have no fur.

If I am free I will do my work, and remind those animals of something precious, so precious that no money can afford and once you lose it you never can take it back.

Loneliness scares me, I don’t want to be lost, to be forgotten or to be abandoned as some of the other convicts were.

Luciano Ayala Valani, Form V

Loneliness The people that are lonely are the kindest.

And the most damaged will only be the wisest.

If loneliness in people’s hearts were to become raindrops, the whole world would drown in endless waves of storms.

Behind every teardrop hides a story.

Behind every story hide feelings that no word can describe.

The privilege of loneliness is a chance to preserve your identity, but produces memories of sadness, that will last for an eternity.

William Ling, Form VI

23

Photograph by Alice Kuo, Form VI

24

A Long Winter The cold breeze stabs me in the back.

Land is covered by a heavy and freezing white layer.

Everything is sad and dark as a statue.

I Am the Light that Will Not Die

The sun seems far away and its warm heat can barely touch me.

I would like to go away from this unpleasant place, where birds are singing, and people are swimming.

When some see only bitter days of cold, too dark, as life has gone aground below, I feel the spark of joy beneath the folds of sparkling white, shrouded veils of snow.

I can smell loneliness in the air.

I feel like I am lost in an endless and deadly desert, where no issues are imaginable and where life is just an illusion.

When flakes come tumbling from the steel gray clouds or sun is blazing off the frozen ground, when frost does shine along the branches bowed, my muffled steps come down without a sound.

The days are as short as a blink of an eye.

Life is hard, and slowly passing by like if this seasion was frozen in time.

In this darkness, there is hope like a little flame shining in the night.

But this tiny hope can only be possessed by those who love.

The thick glacial layer covering the ground will eventually flow into the Earth, so the flowers and trees can flourish and show proudly that they are alive.

This time when light is scarce and life is bare all time is stopped, to let the darkness fall.

But deep inside my chest, the light is there, no cold can dim the flame that’s burning tall.

Once ashes gray and dead inside the pit, I am the flame to burn, forever lit.

Frédéric Verrier-Paquette, Form VI

Cédric Matte, Form V

25

The Precipice of Hope A short story by Julia Coote, Form VI

S

he looks hard into my eyes and I immediately feel like I failed some sort of test.

“Come on,” she says, putting out the short stub of her cigarette out on her hand. She twists the hot ashes into her skin, leaving a red mark under dark powdery streaks. She blows out her last breath of smoke directly at me. “I want to show you something.”

We walk down to the edge of the lake, away from the bonfires and people. When we reach the water, she takes off her shoes. She looks at me expectantly and I do the same. She looks angelic, her huge white curls like a halo too big for her stature, her pallid bony figure looking too fragile as she walks, feet on rocks. She’s climbing up a tree bent over the lake. I hesitate and she’s already out of view, so I have no choice but to follow.

“You know,” I huff as I reach her, “climbing trees isn’t as fun as it used to be.”

She sighs, her voice scratchy and raw, overlooking the water far beneath us. She sits on a branch, legs dangling on either side, regularly taking sips from a bottle of dark alcohol she had taken from the party raging below. I stay silent, sitting on the branch facing her, not knowing what to say. We let the heavy music from below us drown out her soundless frustration. I am now sure that I have failed whatever judgement she has for me.

The light from the bonfires below us illuminates her face, warming

26

her features and allowing me for the first time to see that her face is filled with soft freckles. Her ashen hair, from this light, seems seconds away from catching fire. It is only now that I hear the wind, a highpitched scream up here.

I want to apologize for whatever I did, although I have no idea what it was, but I stay silent, allowing her the control of speaking.

“So,” she begins, “what would you do if you were to die in five minutes?”

“Great conversation starter,” I mutter. She remains still and unblinking, so I answer. “I wouldn’t be here.”

“Why?” She persists.

“Because-“, I stammer, “because I’d have to do something more than… this,” I gesture. “My life hasn’t even started.”

“Funny you should say that, ever the optimist aren’t you Jack?”

“It’s Jake,” I interject as she takes a drink from the bottle.

“You see Jack, I never imagined a lifespan beyond twenty.” She pulls out another cigarette from the purse across her shoulder and lights it.

“What if you died tomorrow, or tonight? What would people say about you, would they even miss you? You have to leave them with something.” I reason, trying to give this sorrowful girl any value I can scrape together.

“A swan song,” she whispers.

She says it out loud, explaining the

concept to me, assuming I didn’t already know. Which I didn’t.

“You know, a…”

She’s concentrating, eyes squeezed shut, finding the words she needs. “A final performance, a farewell.”

“Right,” I say.

“You think this is my swan song?” she laughs, taking another drink from the bottle, which is getting dangerously empty. She somehow maneuvers herself to her feet.

“Last words?” I ask her, sarcastically.

“Not sure,” she answers with a baiting breath, lifting one foot ahead, out in the air above the water. I realize she’s either serious or too drunk to realize she isn’t.

“Sit back down, you’re going to fall.” I warn her uselessly. She just smiles.

“Careful!” I exclaim, pulling her arm towards me, forcing her down.

“How stupid are you?”

“Actually not stupid at all. God, Jack you try too hard. It’s not like I’m going to kill myself.” She rolls her eyes and pulls out another cigarette.

“Of course you wouldn’t jump to end your life, it’s too poetic. But you would jump just because there’s no reason not to. You smoke to die, you’re just… careless!” I raise my voice, slapping her lit cigarette away before she takes a puff. We watch it fall to the water and go out.

“Why are you so personally insulted?” She demands, a highpitched rasp.

“Why am I even here?” I ask, ignoring her question.

“Because you’re insignificantIrrelevant,” she corrects herself, confused but trying to retain meaning to her words. I take a moment before speaking, because I mean more than words can hold.

“You live your life like you’re ready to die. It’s depressing to the people trying.”

“God knows I’ve tried,” she says bitterly. And suddenly I’m resentful of the girl in front of me. I look at her and see a ghost. She’s all edges and angles, her skin barely hanging onto her gaunt frame.

“I don’t like this party. This wasn’t very fun,” she says, but I’m not listening. I’m not looking at her. My ears are ringing and I can’t seem to shift my focus from the soft waves below.

“You haven’t tried,” I mutter after a minute. “You haven’t tried at all tonight. I’m the only who’s tried. I-“, I look up to continue, but she’s not in front of me anymore.

Like a ghost, she’s disappeared.

“I tried!” I scream. I’m livid, but I’m not. I realize that I can’t expect her to not think what she thinks.

As my feet touch the ground, I notice beside my shoes at the bottom of the tree are a pair of white tennis shoes, so small compared to mine.

Hers.

Waves lapping behind me, I walk away, the wind cold and mocking, raspy and shrill like her voice.

Photograph by Naomi N’Soni Soucka, Form VII

Blue is the Deepest Shade of Black The deep black pit in which you see nothing; Infinite skies and in it, an infinity, is not black, but blue.

Of stars and black holes, where there is nothing, only vacuums and asteroids remain, An ink-blue full of science, sucking up the stars and diminishing their glow.

And religion; The glow that must be avoided.

Where life and afterlife exist, The glow that can always harm the blue.

All is embodied in this paint stroke of blue-black.

The stars carry pain that is within the deep blue, As if to prove a point, it is set in stone: The blue which is more than you know, more than you see; rules without exception, with time being the only exception.

For a small speck of a second, the blue becomes a red.

But where most people see stars, I see people, dimming their essences and leaving room for more glow, and where most people see people, I see stars.

Yet inside a black hole, there is another end, An opportunity that is little seized, one which Allows the stars to travel from one soul to another, Is little thought about, masked in a single dark shade Which holds a blue undertone supporting the stars, connecting planets, ideas, memories, souls; carrying meteors of hope, auburns and aureolin, flashing quick in and out of sight.

An opening, a secret where the stars are a brilliant light.

If you cut me, I would shine, Become weightless, and escape the other side

but believe me, I’d rather bleed.

Julia Coote, Form VI & Sabrina Turrin, Form VI

28

We We are not simple, we are not plain.

We are not all one and the same.

We are not strange, we do not rule.

We are not to be used as tools.

We are not blessed, nor are we wronged.

And we might not be here for long.

The simple truth is that we’re free.

We are as we are, not as we’re supposed to be.

Isolde Macfarlane, Form III

Painting by Rui Shi, Form VI

29

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form V

A Rocking Chair When sun spreads warmth on the still rocking chairs I sit and ponder on my vacant seat Of the bittersweet, hopeless empty stares Which cause my body to beat retreat.

Now miserable in the fading light How age and time has caused a frightful split; Of friends to foes, of romance like late blight Once unnoticeable now a vast pit.

Regret does not linger in memories Of hard laughter and tripping down the stairs, All paths lead to romantic tragedies: When all lost hope on love makes silent stares, Apprehension will cause us all to spin Yet silence is of all the greatest sin.

Sabrina Turrin, Form VI 30

Une lamentation d’idéalisme Pour échapper à une certaine zone de la société, Les jeunes se lèvent contre le monde, Avec le cœur rempli d’idéalisme, lls luttent pour la vie.

Les sirènes percent la nuit tranquille, Dans un moment court comme l’éclair, Tout s’évanouit contre les vents de I’automne.

Leurs rêves sur l’avenir ne reviendront jamais.

Avec les yeux sur un avenir meilleur, lls s’avouent changer leur vie. lls affrontent tous les obstacles, Le courage et le destin dans leurs mains.

C’était une histoire de jeunesse, De liberté et d’idéalisme.

Contre la Vie cruelle, On peut seulement espérer.

Les jeunes continuent de rêver à leur avenir.

Quand le soleil brille sur leur visage, lls lèvent leurs yeux sur I’avenir qui approche, Mais ce qu’ils ne savent pas C’est la réalité qui attend au coin de leur joie.

David Yang, Form VI

Photograph by Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VI

31

Learning To Love His eyes wax me poetic, deaf and dumb.

He, for me, eternal rules must defy.

As the days went on, my face grew less glum.

You know your infinite love more than I. I love you without knowing how, or when, Or where from; I love you purely, simply.

Before loving you, love was nothing then, l was a hollow shell, nothing, empty.

I love you with no problems or trouble.

I don’t know any other way to love.

I met you, then your love was no struggle, And I then set your name all names above.

And thanks to your bright eyes, my eyes now shine. l’m forever yours, you’re forever mine.

Quinn Ross, Form VI

32

L’amour Je suis tombé amoureux.

Les jours semblent plus courts Et à la fin de la journée, Je ne suis pas prêt à m’endormir.

La réalité est plus plaisante que les rêves.

Quand je te regarde, Je suis perdu dans tes yeux magnifiques.

Quand je te regarde, Je voudrais prendre ton cœur, Et le réchauffer avec le mien.

Je suis si heureux que Dieu t’aies envoyée ici, pour moi.

La raison de mon réveil C’est de passer une journée avec toi.

La raison de mon sommeil, C’est de te rencontrer dans mes rêves.

Quand tu n’es pas avec moi.

Il y a une douleur gracieuse et une douce tristesse Mais dans mon cœur, Il y a une douce chaleur qu’aucun mot ne peut exprimer Parce que je sais que tu es toujours là pour moi.

William Ling, Form VI Photograph by Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VI

33

Miracle What is a miracle like?

Is it like a dream, coming true in front of my eyes?

Like the brightest beam of light, lighting up the world?

A little happiness that brings a smile?

Is it like the touch of something wonderful?

As warm as the sun on a clear cloudless day?

Is it like something you never expect?

A knock on the door at midnight?

Or is it just you?

Nikita Ten, Form V

Heaven on Earth The scent of flowers – how enjoyable it was!

In the sky was the sun – its rays heating up the air.

The wind was also present, but it felt like the kiss of a wave.

How enjoyable it was!

Birds humming here and there, the sound of the water flowing – all so ideal and relaxing!

Then, I thought to myself, maybe heaven does exist after all.

Ludovic Fugère, Form VI

You The bright sunlight of your hair.

The delicate rolling hill of your forehead.

The dark velvet forest of your eyebrows.

The morning blue sky of your eyes.

The darkened grass fields of your lashes.

The beautifully carved canyons of your cheekbones.

The soft pink clouds of your lips.

Yours is a sight I will never let slip to oblivion.

Naomi N’Soni Soucka, Form VII

34

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form V

35

I Wish I Were a Tree I wish I were a tree.

My greatest friend would be the sun, my best ally the rain.

I wish I were a tree, Oh what a delight it would be, to stand strong and tall, and never fear the fall.

I wish I were a tree, My home would be the soil, my family the forest.

I wish I were a tree, Oh what a delight it would be, to be free, with only the sky to look down on me.

I wish I were a tree.

Naomi N’Soni Soucka, Form VII

Drawing by Jiajia Ge, Form V 36

In the Rose Bushes In the rose bushes flowers bloom – some soft and lush, gentle to touch; some thin stemmed, covered in thorns.

By the rose bushes men walk by, stomping, picking the prickles.

The full and healthy stay, left behind.

In the rose bushes flowers change – full turns flat, soft becomes bristled.

The flowers change as the men walk by.

By the rose bushes men stop and stare – soft-stemmed, a single rose unchanged.

In the rose bush one rose remains.

Mackenzy Cooper, Form VII

Red Roses I am a blue bird, flying high above the red roses below.

Restless nights dreaming of people dearest to me, all down below, painting, playing, studying, watching, thinking.

I can’t remember what happened.

What happened to all the people?

They’re all gone — all my enemies and my friends, fading away.

A mellow tone is played, ringing through my head.

Lost memories come back to mind, only to be washed away by other thoughts.

Pushed out by all the distracting violence, wishing hopelessly for a peaceful ending.

Painting by Grace Gardner, Form IV

Blake Russell, Form V 37

Victor Babineau, Form VI

38

Sonnet About Sonnets Thou art a creeping nightmare in my room, though cherish thy simple beauty I. Thou fright my mind more than impending doom, though thy sweet lines cure sinful soul of mine.

I grant thine essence all disgust of mine, but thou art truly dearest to my heart.

Repulsive is appearance thine, and vile, but nothing sweeter found I in this world.

With this confusion write these lines to thee, with hope that you will understand my mind.

I’m not a poet neither will I be, forgive me for I love thee truly blind.

Although you really are a gorgeous thing, I cannot beauty to your figure bring.

Rida Dzhaafar, Form VI

39

Rise We are born into this horrid world.

Terrible rains and showers of poison light strike each and every soul, stripping away our dignity and pride, until there’s nothing left but bones and shattered dreams.

And worst of all, we are in this hell made by people, by ourselves.

Comparest Not of Love to Sweet Birds’ Songs Comparest not of love to sweet birds’ songs, but understand of all her charming spells: her dang’rous nature with all of her wrongs, for love mocks fools before her they do kneel.

Befell of not to Venus’ charm-full smiles, explore instead thy world with life-long urge: to fly across through fields for countless miles, to learn and as a sage thou shall emerge.

Amorous scents on thy red roses hang, but do beware its painful thorns that piques.

A many of Love songs will soon be sang, but do remember thy song birds’ sharp beaks.

Await of not when Cupid’s Arrows strike, Beware instead of love’s fake mask alike.

David Yang, Form VI

“The world is ending!” you might exclaim.

“We are doomed!” you can say.

And when you look into adversaries stronger than your might, when you know your spear will snap even if you put up a fight, you can choose to go the easy way, watching as the flames engulf you, reduce you painlessly into carcasses of a once mighty warrior.

But know this, dear child, as you march bravely into this world: the world is as beautiful as it is cruel.

It will slash at you mercilessly, but it will help you back on your feet just as fast.

Some may still fall, engulfed in terror and hatred, as if the world is really against them.

And when they face their adversaries, their fear erupts into deep hatred, burning up what is left of them, painfully making them the monsters they so feared.

Therefore my child, rise with your heart pure, spread your full wings bring light into this world.

Face your adversaries with smiles, endow yourself in forgiveness’ divine light because you know, deep down, they will never defeat you.

When your heart is strong, you are invincible.

David Yang, Form VI

40

The War of Art The brush is a dagger that stabs through the walls of reality.

Colours combat to mark their claim on this territory.

The red blood bleeds down the canvas to mark the beginning.

It glides like a quill for the words that cannot be written.

The tale is told in few cursive movements, a moment of history that is marked like a date My thoughts are fighting like soldiers against each other.

Emotions explode like bombs on the battlefield; one on top of another to make the scene real.

It is no longer my story, but a story for the world to see – to observe my heart and soul wrenched in this tragedy.

Every last stoke was a part torn from me.

The signature is the final step; the battle and story laid to rest.

The land is filled with poppy red.

Forever in this world it will remain, floating around from place to place.

This final piece sets me free.

Like a bird flying high, I can leave this place behind, for my thoughts to lead me to some place new.

Emily Ann Harnett, Form V

A Silly Question What is your favorite colour?

Mine is red.

I’m sure you have been asked this question a thousand times.

But why is it?

What is so important about a colour?

A colour is not our name.

It has nothing to do with our identity.

It is just a simple thing that our eyes see and interpret differently.

Knowing the favourite colour of someone else won’t make you actually know them.

In fact, it might make you more confused about them when you see he is always wearing those green flashing shoes and you know his favorite colour is orange.

So why are we still continuing asking this silly quesiton over and over again, even if we are aware that knowing the answer won’t give us anything.

Maybe we should all be colour-blind.

At least we wouldn’t have to waste our time asking stupid questions.

Cédric Matte, Form V

Photograph by Naomi N’Soni Soucka, Form VII

41

42

The Dark Hole in My Heart Death is a black hole, infinite, lifeless yet there begins life.

Life, illuminated by the box that holds you.

Your lovely ivory face, the stone cold wall, your body in the forbidden city that holds you.

I walk towards the darkest hole, where I place the dead debris.

Clouds cry tears. I rain. On the box that holds you.

Left to interpretation, there is no echo. Empty space.

Nothing but space.

Your emptiness are the atoms that create you, hold on to you.

Cries no one hears, Gods we all prayed in despair to.

Sadness is all I can express, in the ceremonies for those that held you.

The hole closes, the galaxy breathes, a sigh, as the cosmos moves.

The box, only a memory, which holds you.

Liquid Spirit Taking peeks out the clouds, its warm arms of light touch everything in sight.

Never once has it occurred to our minds – that its dreams might be startling, Forget the hot hugs it gives us.

Imagine it reaching for you – dampness replacing dryness, heat traded for a cold embrace.

No warm colours. Blue, blue – feel a wet star touch you.

Maia Fortin Xu, Form V

Candy Rutihinda, Form V

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form V 43

Pourquoi m’exterminer?

In a Millennium In a millenium I will be long dead.

So will my beloved children.

In a Millenium the strong trees we have today will have rotted, their bodies will be absorbed by the earth.

Yet in a Millenium everything that died until then will still be living.

All will be remembered.

Memories will forever live.

In a Millenium, our stories will still be young.

Olivier de Sainte Marie, Form VI

Immense, luxuriante pleine de vie Non seulement j’abrite de magnifiques espèces, Je suis aussi le poumon de cette planète Alors, pourquoi m’exterminer?

Je stabilise le réchauffement climatique Je crée de l’oxygène J’héberge des espèces spéciales Cette planète a besoin de moi!

Certains veulent de l’argent Mais tout ce qu’ils font, c’est de courir vers l’asphyxie Car sans moi, Il n’y a pas d’eux.

Quand vont-ils se rendre compte de leur erreur?

Au final, qui gagne?

Quand vont-ils se rendre compte qu’avec tout l’argent au monde, Il est impossible de racheter une planète?

Sauvez-moi, Il n’est pas trop tard.

J’ai besoin de vous Comme vous avez besoin de moi.

Redonnez-moi vie.

Bénédicte Fugère, Form IV

44

Photograph by Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VI

A World Which I Have Not Chosen I lie awake, unable to clear the ache.

Minutes become years, and years become centuries.

And still, I lie awake.

In a world far too wide, for me to take.

Unable to clear the ache.

It surrounds my person, the world, this world, which I have not chosen.

Minute upon year, year upon century, it creates new burdens which I struggle to carry.

And so, I lie awake, unable to clear the ache.

Naomi N’Soni Soucka, Form VII

45

Photograph by Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VI

46

The End The best and most amazing that the mind can contrive is what the future is supposed to resemble.

Some say what a time to be alive; others know and accept the inevitable truth.

Mother Nature is rapidly being destroyed; the desert is being coated with innocent blood.

Soon, there will be nothing left but a large void, where the stan-countries once proudly stood.

Fast food contributes to the obesity epidemic.

Children no longer get the activity that they need.

The present state of our future has become pathetic.

Our desolate destiny looks doubly depressing by day; Our final date is forthcoming.

Morphing weather patterns and increasingly bad storms lead us towards our doomsday.

The world’s coming to an end.

The Broken Society Our society is like an open scab healing at the same rate it festers.

As new diseases are examined, newer ones appear by the hour.

Like a desert being side by side with the arctic, we have half the population dying from obesity, and the other from malnutrition.

Like a fish that bought a blow-drier, “We buy things we don’t need, with money we don’t have to impress people we don’t like” – and act as if our lives depend on it.

Mohamed Alsawari, Form V

Tom Price, Form VI

47

Painting by Kaitlin Corbeil, Form VI

48

Fireflies – and Crocuses When the sun does not rise over the Crocuses – And they shut for the long Night – I will lie down beside the lotuses, Awaiting the return of Light.

And the Stars will grow dim and Fall To earth – as Fireflies Alight on buds grown frail – And make them glow, inside.

And the Crows will follow To lay down their heads – and weep Before the black Petals fallen low, And – for ages – sleep.

A single bud will bloom – In time – to see the Sunrise, The world will have forgotten soon, But for the Crocuses – and Fireflies.

Frédéric Verrier-Paquette, Form VI

Being Judged by Him Doesn’t Weaken Fear The Heavens opened from above and down came the Grey Sky – save yourself – no room for Love – nor room for Sadness and Loss – The Fist of God reaches down – and slowly picks all apart – Sin and Deed – everything is there for His eyes to examine – Those with belief are promised immortality – knowledge beyond their years – though His judgement remains firm, it’s not easy to give up – to fail – The Earth erupts – the Green torn apart – a world where Existence is a Rarity – vacancy of Metropolis – barren wasteland free of Law for Perpetuity – Tom Price, Form VI

49

by David Yang

A Short Anthology 50

Existentialist Why live? Why die? Why exist?

These Questions we ask, simple yet complex, are but few of many that ought to be answered throughout.

The river of time flows, ever so indifferent, graciously washing countless memories, experiences away until nothing is left of our existence, but how do we exist?

What forms do we take?

A speck in the grand universe, or Fragments of memories, or more pettily, inside the subconscious of another being, gradually sliding down the stream.

Why love? Why hate? Why feel?

All will inevitably end in pain, scorching of the heart, destruction of the soul, and the flooding of suffering.

Then why exist?

Why live when all must end ill, when all must cease to exist?

After all, life is but a perilous journey, floating aimless and without goal.

True insight comes from within, as we gaze upon life.

To each it is different but truth stands in grandeur always, parting the river as she flows.

Immutable, imposing, stationary, the answers await each to discover, to understand: to exist is to change, to seek and to interpret, all forms great and small, all must keep it at heart.

David Yang, Form VI

Le secret de Dieu Quand on voit le monde comme si c’était la première fois, On comprend que la vie est un mystère, Un mystère si profond Que même les mers les plus creuses ne peuvent être comparées à ses tréfonds.

Quand on voit le monde comme si c’était la première fois, On se rend compte que notre but n’est pas de trouver une solution Mais de contempler ce mystère sans arrêt, De regarder ce monde, émerveillé et rempli de joie.

Quand on voit le monde comme si c’était la première fois, Frissonnant de vie, on est fou de joie; L’enfant au fond de notre cœur se réveille, Comme si on ne l’avait jamais quitté.

Quand on voit le monde comme si c’était la première fois, On voit tout ce qu’on a manqué.

Pris dans les bulles compliquées d’adultes, On oublie souvent la beauté de la vie.

Quand on voit le monde comme si c’était la première fois, On découvre que la vie est un cadeau Un cadeau que l’on doit redonner un jour Un cadeau que l’on doit mériter.

Quand on voit le monde comme si c’était la première fois, On comprend le secret de Dieu et des enfants : Que la vie est un mystère auquel on participe, Un mystère que l’on partage.

David Yang, Form VI

Life is a Curse Life is a curse; death is distance; dreams of Existence distort reality; to seek meek Meaning, renders Meaningless therein; to Exist in opposites, or to Exist not, is but an honest lie; a deceitful truth; in the harmonious storms of Life, will your fearful courage hold?

Nay you say, by yay you bade, what is this confusion? ’Tis Life I shall say!

Dreadful angst; deafening anger; for what, for what... ants on coal; dolls on string; brains in vat; mind as slave: restricted freedom is; enlightenment.

David Yang, Form VI

51

We Know the Dark Holds No Ill Will We know the dark holds no ill will, Why should it? There was none before…

But why, why is it that beyond the circle Of pale yellow light, the dark stretches, Reaching towards us and grasping, Holding on to pull itself into the shadows Of our minds, trailing irrational fear?

No, it is not the dark with crooked hands, It is the fear of what lurks behind its somber veil.

Ignorance has sharp talons, we are Afraid of its long, invasive claws, It is the invisible enemy, ignorance, seeding slowly In those who deny its very existence, Slipping, like wraith through generations Of secluded circles in the night.

What is beyond the yellow light?

Frédéric Verrier-Paquette, Form VI

Painting by Jiajia Ge, Form V 52

A Well of Sadness Eyes open. I still can’t see.

Nothing can bring me back.

I keep going down.

It’s like there’s nothing to stop me; no floors, no ceilings.

My fall seems to be inevitable, following everyone before me.

I’m losing faith, and sinking in to my madness, deep in to insanity and the chaos in my head, slowly reaching a place permanently far away.

Victor Abraham, Form VII

53

To See But Not To Speak The eyes are they who travel most, from familiar orbs they set on their path – down curved hills they slide to those that host the true object of their affection the power they may only attempt to have.

Treason is the eye’s sinful gluttony, with longing for that power to behold, they cannot omit what lips dare not tell – with this glimpsed betrayal all may be foretold.

To entirety, they paint upon themselves the reflection of emotion hidden in the soul, on a shelf.

It is this art with which they tell – for words cannot show true devotion.

Kaitlin Corbeil, Form VI

The Intellectuals How powerful a man who can see the soul – a man with faults, surely, but one who possesses depth; one who rattles the very core of existence.

Who sees life not intellectually but with an overwhelming passion for more.

How great a man who can see sorrow and error and continue to love recklessly, yet ignorant when he possesses the cowardice to let himself become irrelevant.

How unfortunate a woman who has deep, boundless potential without ambition, made to live a life of regret and criticism for the road not taken.

One who becomes infatuated with life’s trivial details, to distract from an overworked mind without purpose. How verbosely silent and of their own accord.

How pitiful a man who has seen all, who cannot tell.

Having understood life at its most vulnerable, witnessed too much, lost the ability to sort their thoughts; mortality becomes frivolous – becoming destructible by nature.

How miserable, intellect without expression.

Julia Coote, Form VI

54

Collage by Emma Bea Crowther, Form V

55

An Eye for an Eye A screenplay by Frédéric Verrier Paquette, Form VI

Photograph by Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VI

INT. DIM LIGHTING Black Screen: Our screen slowly brightens to show the profile of a man, in shadow, behind whom is a lattice-work of dark wood. His head is bowed in thought. We bring the camera around to face him more, and the silhouette of another man appears behind the lattice-work. Both are in a confessional, at night.

JAMIE Good evening Father, thank you for seeing me this late.

REVEREND Good evening my child. I myself could not sleep tonight. Tell me, what lies so heavily on your mind to bring you here at this time of night?

JAMIE I’m afraid Father. I’m afraid of what I’ve done. I fear that retribution will soon come knocking at my door.

Our camera slowly pans to the other side of the confessional, towards the reverend. He is wearing a simple gown, and is calmly looking forward. Our camera continues, is now facing Jamie through the lattice-work.

REVEREND My son. I do not know what you have done, and that is not for me to ask, but God knows, and you know. He is forgiving. What you fear is yourself. What you fear is your conscience, speaking to you as you now speak to me. Listen to it. No one is free of conscience. What defines us, separates us from one another, is our will to listen to the voice of reason.

JAMIE Father tell me, are all men equal? Are we all the same in the eyes of heaven? Because I have seen what no man should ever have to see, and I took it on myself to see justice through. Is it not our duty to bring justice to those who cannot bring it to themselves? I made a choice, but now I fear that choice was not mine to make. I fear that I took upon myself a task that should be left to God alone. I fought fire with fire, took an eye for an eye, a life for a life.

CUT TO: EXT. NIGHT, DRIZZLING RAIN Our camera focuses on a man’s face, which is pale and gaunt, the face of a dead man. Slowly, we pan out, to show his body sprawled on the street. Around him a small amount of blood is mixing with the 56

puddles. As our camera pans out more, we see men milling around the scene, wearing police uniforms.

OFFICER 1: Do you know him?

OFFICER 2: His face has been all over the city for the past week, of course I do.

And I would rather see him this way than the way he was, that’s for sure. You know this is the man from down south? Up here in court with his dream team of lawyers? No jury could have touched him behind those walls of money.

OFFICER 1: This is the man from the Atkinson case… What a nightmare. Only god can imagine what drove him… You know she was only twelve years old?

OFFICER 3: She was dead in the alley… You know what I think? He wanted us to find her, to gloat in his assured immunity.

The first officer bends over the body, and takes something from the folds of clothing. He holds the piece of paper up to read in the dim light.

OFFICER 1: “For Lisa…” Lisa was the girl’s name, right?

OFFICER 2: Who would put that there? The girls name was never released, we knew it, the judge knew it…

Officer 1: Her father knew it. He was the only other person to know the details of the case. He wrote it, and he knew we would find it. This is a confession.

Church bells begin to toll in the distance, a few blocks away. The two officers look towards the steeple in the distance, and back towards each other.

OFFICER 2: My grandmother used to tell me, if you have lost something close to you, you will always find it in the house of God. This man lost his daughter, and he took his revenge. He is guilty of a crime he had no choice to commit, and I think if he is at all devout, we`ll find him in the church.

CUT TO: Our cameras return to the man in the confessional. He has tears running down his face. We film from a low angle. His head is turned upward, he is no longer speaking to the reverend, but to God. JAMIE ATKINSON: Father forgive me, for I have sinned… I swear, I looked for answers, I asked, I plead to have him put away! I never wanted it to come to this, but I saw no other way.

REVEREND (quietly) My son, listen. Whatever you have done, I know you did not do it for yourself. You asked if all lives were equal. Our lives only have the value that we give them.

CUT TO: EXT. NIGHT, DRIZZLING RAIN Our camera follows the two officers as they walk together towards the church. They walk slowly, taking their time, knowing they will find their man in the there.

OFFICER 1: You know, I wish it wasn’t him… He doesn’t deserve this, can you imagine if this were your daughter?

OFFICER 2: I can’t… But I’m sure if I were him, I would have done the same… We left him no choice you know? That man would be free right now, the justice system has its flaws…

The two officers arrive at the church. Our camera follows from behind as Officer 1 knocks on the door with the heavy iron knocker, and slowly pushes the heavy door inward.

CUT TO: INT. DIM LIGHTING From inside the church, our camera films the officers reluctantly enter. Their steps echo across the vast space.

CUT TO: INT. DIM LIGHTING Inside the confessional, the reverend looks up at the sound of footsteps on the marble floors.

REVEREND: Excuse me my son.

The reverend exits the confessional, and walks to meet the two officers.

OFFICER 2: Good evening father, we’re sorry to disturb you this late. We are looking for a man named Jamie Atkinson, and we hoped to find him here.

The reverend pauses, and looks carefully at the officers. He speaks slowly.

REVEREND: Good evening. I am afraid I have not seen anyone tonight.

OFFICER 1: May we have a look around? I apologize, but it’s part of the job…

REVEREND: Of course. I understand.

The reverend steps aside to let the officers pass. He directs them between the pews. Slowly, the officers walk down the center aisle, looking carefully between each pew. When they reach the front of the church, our camera shows them turn towards the side of the church of the confessional. Our camera stays for a moment on the confessional. The officers walk quickly toward it, and without hesitation officer 1 throws aside the curtain. Slowly, our camera rises above their heads, to show an empty bench.

OFFICER 1: I don’t understand!

He looks at officer 2, who simply shakes his head.

OFFICER 2: Good night father.

Our screen slowly darkens, then goes black. In simple white letters, the text “THREE DAYS LATER” appears.

CUT TO: EXT. BRIGHT, SUNNY DAY With the screen still black, the sounds of a crowded outdoor market grow. Our screen quickly brightens to show a fall fair in the crowded city street. Our camera zooms in on a Jamie Atkinson, standing still against the flow of people, clearly deep in thought. He is gazing at a girl of about twelve years old with a faraway look in his eyes.

Officers 1 and 2 are walking among the crowd, and they notice this disturbance in the flow of people, and see Jamie Atkinson.

OFFICER 1: Mr. Atkinson?

OFFICER 2: (louder) Jamie? Jamie Atkinson?

Jamie Atkinson slowly comes out of his reverie. He looks over at the two officers, and slowly sinks to his knees. Our camera rises above the street to give a bird’s eye view of the street scene. The two officers walk towards him as the scene continues to grow more distant.

OFFICER 2: Mr. Atkinson, you are under arrest for the murder of Alder Rilkins.

As our camera recedes, Jamie Atkinson rises and presents his hands to the officers. The trio begin walking. Our screen begins to grow dark.

JAMIE ATKINSON: V.O. I find myself at peace with my arrest… Living free, but alone, is not a life I would have wished for. I do not regret the death of such a man, who would steal a life so quickly and without remorse. As men, we have a certain degree of power over our own fates. If others will not see my reasoning, I rest assured that God has seen what they did not.

Our lives only have the value that we give them.

END 57

O The eight legged creature is born in me, in Adam’s ale is where I wish to live, freeness of the blue seaway lies in thee, hidden from all my woes and me to give.

Much nicer the female octopi seem, compared to the Misses in the hereabouts, they would treat me like a king in my dream, no more rejection would be beyond doubt.

Mating would no longer be an issue, wee versions of me could alas be free and my manliness would always reissue, a formidable father I shall be.

Forever niggard towards me they act but heed as the O may take his life back.

Nicholas Cormier, Form VI

58

Photograph by Alice Kuo, Form VI

Forgetting A Breath It’s that moment, the one where your eyes meet.

The moment of revelation they call it.

Only it isn’t just one revelation. No that’d be an insult.

Connect and everything that’s missing falls into place.

A spark. A chemical reaction and your mind ignites, all of those overused cliches, used with purpose.

Your breath hitches, an instinct; only oxygen deprivation could lead to seeing such visions.

But as you continue to inhale, to suck in air as if there’s no tomorrow (no tomorrow being a realistic possibility) you begin to hope that there will be a forever of tomottows.

To hope for a single hellos instead of endless, empty dialogue spent on goodbye.

Your lungs are full, inside a chest filled with rocks and it’s time to exhale.

You try to breathe it in again but choke on a mouthful of water, cracked air.

Julia Coote, Form VI

Bodies of Water The waves splash and pull.

But if the ocean can calm itself so can I. We are both made up of salt water mixed with air.

Quinn Ross, Form VI

One thousand years ago time was like a river All we did was let it flow never wondering whether to listen to that whisper Of those who told us we needed to change our ways basically stuck in a maze - never bothering to lend a hand too busy looking for the next big brand and now a thousand years have passed, Have we made a change at last? Still don’t enjoy each other enough And it feels like we’re under those rocks, at the bottom of the water just watching the water flow.

Don’t have any more fears because we won’t even open our ears to listen to those whose eyes are full of tears still selfish and egotistic after all those years.

A thousand years from now All we’ll be able to say is “Wow” our ancestors were really lucky, But they left us in a world so yucky how did they not open their eyes?

We won’t believe we elected a trump card All he did was turn our world into a dump and We’ll realize, we weren’t so wise The stream turned into a flood all that’s left to do is scream but no one will hear the muffles deep under the sea.

Miki Mignot, Form VI 59

The Cheapest Gift If sometimes you think you need to cry and life seems difficult, over the white giant clouds there is a brilliant atmosphere where you can cry.

As you experience different things in life, many ups and downs, keep in mind that it’s rather true to say a smile means a lot.

Amongst Earth’s high-priced things one smile is extremely cheap and once you give one smile away, you acquire one to preserve.

Christophe Fillion, Form V

Her Smile Her beauty was the sunshine, sparkling on top of the water; her hair, the tide; swaying in and out in the wind.

As she walked down the shore, her feet left a path in the sand.

Her star-glistening eyes could cause anyone to stare.

But it was her smile that caught my eye.

Her smile, a field of a thousand roses, blooming into a rushing river of laughter.

Blake Russell, Form V

60

Painting by Doga Uras, Form V

61

Photograph by Renan Bolkan, Form V 62

Scotch & Soda As teacup rattled against saucer eyes connected full of wonder.

Comfortable silence filled the garden sparks flew, curtains opened.

Sun was setting on the sea, summer vibe, easy, breezy.

On the beach the music played bodies shifted lustily.

Eyes mingled, melded and mixed to the tease of mutual feel.

Coasting towards a dream flirting with luxury.

Spirits blended fiercly, stumbling towards ecstasy.

Soul divinely met body raw an unapologetic mercy.

Stole kisses in those cloudy sheets fell back in love finally.

Vincent Hamel, Form VII

63

Don’t Go in the Box

Don’t go in the box.

Previous visitors have vandalized the premises And therefore the area will be closed Until further notice.

Don’t go in the box.

It’s cold inside.

Constantly on the cusp of trust.

Don’t go in the box.

You won’t find any love here.

Don’t go in the box.

Without having a rope to pull yourself out.

Don’t go in the box.

You’re killing yourself.

Trinity-Ann Merrithew, Form VI

64

Bird I am a bird flying around the world, visiting lakes, forests and valleys, travelling without visa or passport, borders being fiction.

Living with my friends and family, eating insects humans dislike, sleeping in a new place everyday.

That’s my life.

Luciano Ayala Valani, Form V

Drawing by Sabrina Turrin, Form VI

65

Photographs by Naomi N’Soni Soucka, Form VII

Relevance

66

My darling, you were fine; but mending a broken heart takes time.

You were not my first but I hoped that you would be my last.

We are not the first nor will we be the last with this fear.

Youth, a dangerous elixir we drink, a mix between self preservation and risk.

They say time heals all wounds, and you, my dear, are a small scar.

You make for a great epic, but exist only in memory. Until reopening the cut.

We as a whole were not ideal but I was hoping we could last.

As it turns out, I am relevant as a representative of my substance.

Your words now are a sword dance but my sweet, I stopped bleeding long ago.

We’re all scared of becoming irrelevant, me most of all.

And you, my love, you are still clinging to the idea that relevance is earned.

Julia Coote, Form VI

Truth Fear is like a tunnel where everything can happen.

As you hear your name, you feel a push in your back, They want you to take your place among the stars.

You were like rain in the clouds.

But now, you start your drop and one day, you will end in the ocean just like the rest of us.

You look back and now you look at the mirror, but you cannot recognize yourself. Everything changed so fast.

The ones who were like brothers to you, will from now on disappear like snow disappears in spring, but you know, they will never come back.

You thought your mistakes could be deleted like you delete a message. You were wrong.

Your mistake is like a rock tied to a prisoner’s feet. It will stay for eternity.

Everyone told you you were unique.

As you reach the end of the tunnel, prepare yourself for the terrible truth – you are just one among all the rest.

Luciano Ayala Valani, Form V

67

Void A short story by Kaitlin Corbeil, Form VI

T

he strap had come undone. The woven nylon dragged labouredly in the youngest layer of snow.

Its constant effrontery dared me to pause and remedy its behaviour, to bend down and hook it back along the heel of my boot. That would take time, allow incentive to step back from the task at hand even if only to pause beneath this overhanging spruce branch to secure my snowshoe. The moment has passed; the branch now hangs over my enlarged footsteps, precariously bent beneath the burden of the snow.

Burden. The word sends tremors through my mind, reaching back into the dark corner that I dare not look into directly. I try to breathe, focus on the expanding sensation of my chest as I pant and walk on. I look around, straggling for something to focus on and hold onto as I move through this frozen underbrush. Trees tower over me in all of their might, obscuring the deep colourless sky. Overhead I see the flash of a wing and trill of a call but it is not enough. I grab onto the nearest trunk as if holding something this frozen and solid could ever bring me solace.

I see him now standing on the frayed welcome mat that he had brought to me so long ago, claiming it would bring warmth to my cold and insensitive life. It was hideous; handmade and too colourful, a turtle and dolphin interwoven against a tropical, sunset backdrop that consisted of too much fuchsia. He had stood there staring at me, wide eyed and unmoving. There was no use asking him what was wrong as his fine mouth stayed firmly set, bottom lip puckered. As I moved slowly away from the door his eyes never left me. Unnervingly then ran all over my body from top to bottom, pausing constantly to stare back into my eyes. Drowning. He was drowning in his own mind, the thoughts choking him off as they left him only with trepidation. We stood there for a lifetime, one drowning while the other floated, unable to locate the place to land, to pinpoint the explanation for this. Brahms played in the background as my feet grew numb and my breath heavy. What no

one understands is the torture of not understanding. Of seeing something so outlandish put before you and not being able to form a single comprehensible reason. All I was left with was fear as he grabbed my shoulder and pulled me toward him, burying his face in my neck and clenching my waste as his body shook. He turned and through broken breaths he shattered me.

“I’m dying.”

I set my jaw and ignore the ripping sensation in the pit of my stomach. I let the sharp air in through my mouth and let it freeze my insides. Ahead, I can see the opening I have been searching for. The conifers will soon start to dwindle as I move away from this depth and toward the freedom that burns my eyes.

Even here I hear him. His voice inchoate as it travels through the breaths of wind. I grit my teeth as I force myself to move, one foot in front of the other. I can feel him with me now, following me through this silence as he breaks it.

“I swear to you that I will change things.” He says it as if he expects me to argue. I have grown accustomed to his dauntless ways, does he not see that? His magnanimity is what gives him his allure. The furrowed brow and heated bar conversations are simply the undercurrent of his ambitions. The world had always laid in the palm of his hands, ready to be grasped once he was certain of which way to throw it. He dreamt of the day he would coalesce the world. His flagrance was that of someone who knew of confidence that could only be obtained by knowing the world to its core. He knew nothing of borders.

I tread on towards the thinning pines. These woods seem familiar to me, as if once in another life I had walked this same path, towards the same destination, blind as I am now as to what I will find waiting for me. I curl my fingers to allow my blood to circulate as I imagine its path through my body. I wonder if it will notice the hooks in my chest pulling me back to where I came from, dreading the thought of losing what I will

myself to leave behind. In bursts it begins; the linoleum floor is beneath my feet as I reach out in front of me, taking possession of his hand as it lies limp on the cotton sheets. I imagine these hands as they once were, worn and compelling as they engulfed mine. The alacrity had left him. It no longer reached his eyes as they opened to welcome me. To the music of ragged breaths and monotone monitors I slipped. Tears fell, leaving reflecting tracks along my cheeks. Another conversation came to me in that moment as he lay before me utterly unrecognizable.

“You are the most ascetic person I have ever come across in my life, you know that right?” He lounged across my couch, taking up the whole expanse of it. His eyes were narrowed as they watched me, not criticizing but seizing up.

“After all these years ascetic is the only thing you can come up with? Great. What does that make you then?” I raised my eyebrow at him imagining his next words as he shifted towards me.

“Personally I’d rather not be defined by a petty word.

You know that Yohji quote we read about in philosophy in college? ‘With one eye on the past, I walk backwards into the future.’ That’s me but I do not watch the past, only what is in front of me.” “‘Well I once saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.’” I quote back at him. For once I had him at a loss for words.

The expanse of the wild around me is alarming.

Steadily, conversations and moments come back to me.

I welcome them openly, knowing that in moments I will break away from the shelter and into the open. My pace quickens as the voices batter me. I reach forward to push away the branches that are my last barriers and all at once as I take my first step onto the icy expanse in front of me, the world hushes. The voices stand still as their small hooks pend in the air, unsure of this moment, their abolishment impending. The silence is warm. The sound of the snow is all that accompanies me as I feel the air and breathe the trees. The emptiness lifts my pain that has become armour around my body and I stagger; the lightness is unknown to me. A sob rises to my throat as I close my eyes and see his fading from my eyelids.

This is where the soul empties itself.

Photograph by Justine Valois, Form VII

69

A Black and White Moment A black and white moment – colour and life peeled away, a chorus in the background – a hush; a sound of relief – conclusive exhalation – and I’m fading from memory being pulled back – you’re fermented in these brittle bones.

New scene – to set it, a boy and girl and crossed fingers – sepia print on dogeared paper.

But I’m losing light – nothing as bright as last time I was here.

I’m leaving you as I left you long ago – a promise broken.

But I’m being pulled.

I choke on a throat full of wet sand – it’s cold and I’m finding myself alone.

This plane is lonely – though I never thought myself lonesome until I was without a chance of you.

Julia Coote, Form VI

70

Weep, When I Am Gone Weep, when I am gone for as the dust settles humanity crumbles – cascading silent screams.

On this journey to cloud nine, I walked and you followed.

To the edge of Precipice – a moment that continued for miles.

Lines are crossed and suddenly we are lost.

A myriad of bodies encompass – the chrysalis of what once was.

It is a fleeting glance of delight.

For as they dance with my ghost and flirt with the shadows of misery – we’ll be on the east side of paradise.

Emily Sylvester, Form VI

Photograph by Justine Valois, Form VII

71

72

Promises Between skin and kisses were crossed fingers and “hope to dies”; promises of forever between flashes of white, incomprehensible moments of perfect youth.

It took a year but you finally won, the first end to my new beginning, my first lesson in permanency.

Quotes remembered without paraphrase, “I bet I’ll love you longer” “I bet I’ll love you more” I guess you owe me a twenty because I was right. It doesn’t mean I won, so stick a needle in my eye.

You are my forever, even if you weren’t playing for keeps.

Julia Coote, Form VI

Forever Yellow envelopes strewn across the floor with old abandon, addressed to ages past.

Only words on wrinkled paper read, and read again, folded, unfolded, stuffed in the back pocket of her jeans and clenched in angry fists.

Washed and tumbled, then remembered, pressed by heavy pages of an old Miriam-Webster.

“Dear, love, thinking of you,” screamed at passing cars, or letters sung as tear-streaked lullabies.

Pale grey lines fading with time, memorized and buried

forever.

Now He made her feel like forever – forever, like every moment they’ve spent together, like her deep eyes full of incerity, like her affectionate and warming smile that glistens like the memories she could take out and unfold.

What she didn’t know was that forever was only his now.

The words he spoke were only temporary, though he made her feel like it was always.

She had what she wanted, but suffered because she couldn’t hold on to it.

Forever.

Maia Fortin Xu, Form V

Frédéric Verrier-Paquette, Form VI

Photograph by Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VI

73

From H to O Willing Water flowed into Steady Mountain.

The first time they met, no conversation.

Years pass.

Water felt alone.

She wanted to leave to find an amusing Mountain.

Steady Mountain found he could not live without her anymore.

The sadness of Water brought up the sadness of Mountain.

Both of them, heartbroken.

Sorrowful Water buried her head into the gentle land.

Heartbroken Mountain collected each piece of debris from his heart.

Just as the seabird fell in love with the fish, it was an accident.

Krystal Zuo, Form V

74

A Hopeless Drop A plain speck of water flowing in the river great ambitions, vivid dreams, but a lack of capability.

Dreams to be the snowflake on top of Mount Everest, to be part of the salty Caribbean sea, to flow down Niagra Falls, or to be the drop of water found on the Red Planet.

Dreams to be the rain much wanted, and to dance among the lightning in a storm.

A drop whose dreams are big and hopes are high.

Mathilde Fugère, Form V

Photograph by ZoĂŤ Bendy, Form V

75

Newfie Heart

A personal Essay by Emma Crowther, Form V

W

hen I was young, I always wondered why the 5th of November was so important to my father. He would always have a hot red fire in our living room fireplace, and he would stay up until midnight to put it out. I asked him once, what the fire was for. He said it was for Guy Fawkes, the Catholic rebel who was supposed to be a criminal, but ended up a folk hero. He told me how they would have big bonfires back home, and the whole town would gather to see the straw doll burn. It was of the highest honour to be the household set to have the fire, as it was the tradition of the province. One day, my father asked me to light the match and start the fire. It was then that I knew that I was a true Newfie, that I belonged in someone’s backyard, gathered around the hot red flames, cuddled up in my warm flannel jacket and singing softly under the wind.

I was born and raised in the small town of Lennoxville, so small you can’t find it on a map of Canada. But I have never really been from Quebec.

To me my home is the bright blue and yellow and red coloured houses on Jellybean Row. I belong on a little blue dory that floats around the river bigger than the ocean. I have never fit in with the Quebecois lifestyle, the loud and fast talking French family that have too many people for me to remember the names of. No, I’m like the “Know-Your-Neighbour” people. I’m the “Lend-a-Cup-of-Sugar” type.

76

My mother and brother, however, never really cared for the smell of fresh fried cod and dead pine.

They were content with the loud laughter and large family dinners. They always cooked too much food, usually at least double what we needed. They were the ones who woke up on Christmas morning, before anyone else, to start the bacon and quiche, so it would be nice and warm before anyone came over to open the heaps of presents under the fattest tree they could find, decorated with angels and ornaments aplenty.

I remember in school one day, I was telling my friends that I wished I had been from somewhere but here. They thought that I was insane, that this was my home. I know that’s the truth, but I still wished that I had been raised on the mountainside, in a little turquoise house, 50 minutes off the highway. I always wished I had been raised by the sea, to swim in the icy salt water by the rocks. To live beside a striped lighthouse, almost looking like an upsidedown barbers’ pole. It isn’t that I dislike the small, busy town that I live in; it is my home. But the long flat mountains and caribou crossing signs are where I truly belong.

I know one day I will go back, not to visit, but to stay. The salt water coursing through my veins is calling me to the water, to leave everything and join the bright little fishing communities, with the cold fiery nights and the soft hums of my family and friends. That’s where I truly belong.

Déversements J’étais une jeune perchaude tout à fait ordinaire Je jouais, je nageais, je m’amusais et je sautais Dans le paradis de liberté De rochers et d’eau claire Qui était le lac Saint-Pierre Je sortais chaque nuit dans mon fascinant jardin d’algues Sous les doux rayons argentés de la lune Je m’amusais à observer, cachée Les minuscules têtards inoffensifs Tressautant dans le lac Saint-Pierre Un jour apeurant, l’eau prit un gout amer et une lueur putride Le paradis fut transformé en un morne enfer Par une fétide soupe pharmaceutique Répugnante, impitoyable et dévastatrice Déversée dans le lac Saint-Pierre La dernière nuit dans le jardin d’algues Les têtards ne tressautaient plus Mais ils luisaient fluorescents Alarmants, comme des extraterrestres Dans le lac Saint-Pierre Donovan Faraoni, Form IV

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form V

77

78

Photograph by Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VI

Parting Train Your mind’s desire carries you away with the wind.

It swings at you like a whip, forcing you to the parting train, the one that never comes back.

My eyes have never seen the door, which you stepped out of. ln the eternal game, we stood together as darkness and light who chose to stand apart, before the end.

I’m no longer the one whose heart awaits your arrival, Rather just a figure crossing the path that you chose, holding you from being so many miles away.

And yet my heart still embraces your smile, like an old photograph which flickers in my head.

Love runs through me once again.

It pushes me to carry on, but I stumble when I reach for the door handle, and bounce back like a bouncy ball dressed in a shirt you used to like.

Your eyes as empty as space, behind the cold window.

We empty the jar we’ve filled for all these years, and the steam goes reaching for the sky, bringing our love to the past.

Nikita Ten, Form V

Departure I’ve never left home before, the train leaves in an hour.

No one knows what’s in store.

Raindrops hit the station floor.

Fear invades like a cold shower.

I’ve never left home before.

My fate awaits beyond school doors, loneliness looms like a tower.

No one knows what’s in store.

Family and friends are no more, the stones of home grow sour.

I’ve never left home before.

Let the water drops pour.

Who can say what will flower?

No one knows what’s in store.

Letting go of the weight I bore, the future moves with a locomotive’s power.

I’ve never left home before, no one knows what’s in store.

Mackenzy Cooper, Cymarah Harris, Diana Cintora Dewez, Form VII 79

Kiss the Memories Goodbye You pull your kiss away from the last cigarette.

You hair is gliding, plunging with the flight and trill of the currents that caress the open convertible.

Divine youth your mind ponders only lives in the believers, the limitless.

Your yellowed nails trace the bumps on the steering wheel, your eyes smirk at the sirens behind you.

You take the dice keychain from the mirror, kissing the memories and letting it fly from your hand along with your last Lucky Strike, bumping the police officer’s windshield.

80 mph, if I go faster will I grow younger?

You let your foot press the pedal all the way, let your fingers glide over the volume, take me all the way.

How I missed dancing to this song, how I spun and spun until I grew dizzy.

You say to your engined, roaring beauty; and you jerk the steering wheel letting the sand and dirt fly in the air behind you, your skin chills, your hair reflects the gold of the sun; your pupils dilate as the tears of pure happiness float off your face; your vocal cords provoke the laughter of innocence, of freedom, as the waves, once caressing you, hug you tight.

Your pupils dilate as the tears of pure happiness float off your face; your vocal chords provoke the laughter of innocence, of freedom, as the waves, once caressing you, hug you tight.

Sabrina Turrin, Form VI

80

Photograph by Antoine BĂŠlair-Rivard, Form VI

The Aftermath of an Impetuous Night In this pieced middle two plains did so meet; a bordering ridge between smooth edges, small tracks that flow through fingers so aesthete, one’s true substance there contained to ashes.

See fluid hills with every motion; strength to the eye evident to the touch, the envy of a mind that comes with stun let go against a will from this one clutch.

In this one space swim where one is tethered, caught in the sea that is this flagrant look.

Without the power to control what slurred a gaze left loss of means to such a crook such thoughts of misplaced nights often occur, shroud with glimpses so one does blister.

Kaitlin Corbeil, Form VI

81

After a Storm A short story by Anthony Herbst, Form II

O

livia Glover is reminded of her youth as she watches the overflowing masses of humanity that is Calcutta, from her window. “Who will take care of the homeless children?” she thought. An orphaned child from New York, Olivia decided at a young age to make it her life’s mission to help underprivileged children. Now in her sixth year at the orphanage she started, Olivia had rescued eleven such children from the streets of Calcutta. Later today, Olivia’s closest friend Sophia would be arriving with yet another orphan. Aware of Ajay’s backround, Olivia is bracing for the worst.

Ajay was found drifting on a plank after a surging storm killed his entire family and most of the tented community where they lived on the banks of the Hooghly River. After several weeks at Sophia’s, Ajay remained withdrawn. Having a reputation for dealing effectively with such desperate cases, Sophia turned to her friend.

“Oh Liv, the situation is dire and I don’t know where to turn.”

“The situation is dire for most kids in Calcutta, and I’m struggling just to keep the doors open with what I have now,” Olivia replied.

“There has to be a way! You have to find room for one more. He needs you Liv,” After a long pause, Olivia agreed.

“Okay, I can’t promise anything but I’ll do my best.

Bring him tomorrow by around noon.”

Tapping her pencil’s eraser on the desk, Olivia’s pondering over the miracle which might solve this month’s budget restrictions was interrupted by a light knock. Opening the door with a welcoming smile, Olivia greeted Sophia and the young boy.

“Hi, can we come in?”

“Of course, I have been expecting you.”

Ajay moved slowly through the doorway staying one step behind Sophia while staring at his feet. He looked so helpless and lost. Crouching slowly, Olivia tried to make eye contact. “You must be Ajay. Sophia never told me how handsome you were. How old are you?” She said smiling.

“Nine,” he mumbled.

“Nine, well you are a big boy!”

No reply.

82

“Welcome to Kids United Ajay, my name is Olivia.

Would you like to see your room?” Still no answer.

“It’s just over there and I might add, it’s the best room here,” Olivia stood holding out her right hand. “You know what else, I have a surprise to show you; would you like to see it?” She said softly. Ajay slowly raised his hand, resting it in Olivia’s as he followed.

“You will be sharing with Sanjar and Timmor,” she said smiling as she reached to open the bedroom door.

Stepping inside with Ajay in tow, Olivia raised her left hand wide as if she were showing-off the grand prize on a game show.

“Well, do you like it?” Ajay stared at the three mattresses lined up side-by-side on the floor.

“You can have the one next to the window,” Olivia said pointing at the bed with light blue pajamas folded neatly on its pillow.

“And this is your surprise,” she turned pointing at a painting that covered the entire wall opposite the three make-shift beds.

“It is my most prized possession. It was a gift, and whenever I feel sad, I come here and it makes me feel happy again.” Ajay stood silently, staring at the immense rainbow superimposed on a beautifully coloured summer scene.

In the weeks that followed, Ajay isolated himself from the rest of the orphanage, skipping meals and spending time alone in his room until one evening, after lightly tapping on the door, Olivia quietly entered to join Ajay sitting on the edge of his mattress. Sitting in silence for a while looking up at the painting, a calm voice broke the quiet.

“When I was six, I lost my family in a terrible crash.

Believe me, I know loneliness. But one day, someone very special entered my life. She tried so desperately to convince me that after every hurricane comes a rainbow. She never gave up on me nor left my side. That is how I learnt the truth about hurricanes and rainbows.” Continuing more hesitantly, “Um, if you let me, if you want me to, um, I could be your rainbow.” Then almost as if by magic, Ajay’s head slowly tilted, lightly resting against Olivia’s arm.

“Do you really think there’s gonna be a rainbow for me?” he said in a low raspy voice.

“I promise,” Olivia said wiping a tear from her cheek.

“I promise.”

Photograph by ZoĂŤ Bendy, Form V

83

The Line

An Essay by Julia Coote, Form VI

A

straight white line down a canvas painted blue is widely regarded as the cardinal of modern art. This opinion, however, is widely controversial; some claim that it is a waste of paint and space. When one is faced with such a simplistic piece, are we to see it for what it is, or imagine there is so much more to it than the eye reveals? And if we do accept that there’s something to it that is beyond us, how are we to make sense of it?

By comparison, life must be an (arguably) straight line. One goes through general milestones, from point A to point B; from birthdays to first steps to first words to lost teeth to a lot in-between to grey hair. These are definite, linking us all as humans, but it’s the inbetween that shapes the line. There are failures and successes and graduations and drop-outs and crying and quitting and screaming and kissing and feeling so much that your heart hurts.

So is it enough to make it to the end of the line, step out onto the platform and feel complete? Do we glance over that painting and regret it, or do we read too much into it, ruining the moment (keeping in mind we only have 24,878,400 of them in a lifetime). Many of us try to live deliberately, cherish every moment, to jam pack each one of those moments with sensation, emotion, meaning.

When we do take a moment to look out the frosted window, we try to concentrate on a tree here, a building there, and the meaning of life

to the far right. But we’re travelling so fast on the tracks that it’s gone in a split second, and we’re concentrated on the next oncoming thing or blurring everything into a blueish hue, a sort of line separating us from complete perspective.

Our greed for answers and need for complete control may be defined as an enormously pretentious god-complex, but it might also be what keeps us going. It fills the void that we can’t stand near for fear of falling in. It would be too simple to say happiness is what we live for, because everything is a delicate balance; light and dark, ups and downs, left and right.

How white would that line be without a void of blue accentuating it?

Life is a series of circumstances and however simple we make it, we are genetically designed to overthink. These circumstances are unique to each of us; they shape our outlook, our perspective, our stance towards life. These defining moments, completely random and arbitrary, are what change us, veering us off the rails into something completely unparalleled.

We keep persisting, even with a tedious cargo, that creates the heavy atmosphere, a minor key in the wails of the tracks. Intermittent sharp whistles explode the humid air, marking crossroads.

There is no big question mark floating above our heads, no secret formula for life; only a white timeline, mere glimpses of our moments, plotted in an illusion of blue.

These Papers Tell Our Stories These halls are packed with ghosts, Each spirit hiding in the, Deepest, Darkest, depths of your school bag.

Like tiny crippled pieces of paper, Given out on the first day of life…

Very soon forgotten, And very soon left for dead.

Ghosts that weigh heavy, Making the treks up stairs Far too heavy for one mind to bear.

And these stairs that people say Are small steps, insignificant, To the big picture of life.

Feel like mountains To the tortured minds Of the spirits who walk these halls.

And these spirits, these small slivers Of the people we once were.

They whisper in your ear, Pretend, pretend, pretend.

For you are not likable, Not in the slightest.

And if these people knew All the… unearthly… things that you ponder, No, they would not understand.

For we were given two things on that day; The first day When society handed us our paper.

The one that told us our, Passions, pains, and ideas.

They gave us a second to go along with it.

And this is the one we hang above our bed.

The one that tells us how to be liked, And how to “fit in”.

And that old torn up paper, We keep in our bags, We carry it with us, the biggest burden.

The one with the easiest solution.

And the unforetold consequences, This is the one we hide, Like ghosts, that can not truly be seen, And like scars that can never truly be hidden.

Jessica Pigeon, Form IV 85

The Hole A monologue by Chelsea Anthony, Form VI A Mother talks to her sleeping son.

I love my country… I do. But this… this? This is something else. I’ve never wanted to be anything but Nigerian, never even thought about leaving Nigeria. But now? I can’t think of any reason to stay here. Everything I had once loved about this place had become reasons to leave. The people?

They were too busy killing each other. The diversity of her culture? It was what started the war in the first place.

She wipes away tears.

You must understand I didn’t want him to become a monster, to have blood on his hands for someone else’s war. Yes, we were Igbo. Yes, I believed in our cause… but war? There are no real winners in war. Just lost sons and empty mothers.

She looks back at her sleeping son and readjusts herself.

I heard the screams and shouts from the neighbouring households. Sons were the pride of Nigerian homes. A son is everything. Without a son, a woman had no real worth and it had taken me years to have your brother and you. YEARS. And now they were just going to take you both away from me, to fight a war you had no business being in.

She brushes hair away from her son’s face.

After they took your brother, I remember just standing there. He was so brave, so so brave. So prepared.

He hugged everyone, whispered his I love yous… and just walked away… he just walked away from me.

I think that made me angry. Anger was an easier emotion to concentrate on than grief. Than Fear. Ya ka rike. I’m was just supposed to accept this? To stay here and cry and pray and hope he’ll 86

come back to us. Of course I have faith in God. But I don’t deserve his help or his grace. I failed him, I your brother, but I’m not about to fail you.

I’m a widow. I don’t know how they expect me to live in this village without you both.

But I love you, and your brother and your sisters. And that gives me strength.

I remember when I first climbed this roof. It was a couple minutes after they had taken your brother. Everyone thought I had gone mad. That I was going to kill myself but I wouldn’t do that.

I couldn’t do that. Not when I had you. I had to protect you.

I built a hole in the roof, small but enough that you could fit in. I don’t know how I did it so quickly and efficiently but I did. To think, all those days scolding you to eat more so that you could be tall enough and I was just going to shove you into a hastily built hole in the roof of a falling apart home.

When you came back from the market, I remember I yelled at you to get in there. You probably didn’t understand why I was so hysterical.

I must have looked a mess, my hair unkempt and my face full of tears. I didn’t explain, I didn’t tell you anything because I couldn’t explain that I had failed as a mother. Your brother was gone.

The next day, I found out they had taken all of my brothers. It didn’t do much for my fear of losing you.

She looks up and smiles.

Oh look, the sun’s about to rise. I better get down.

She glances back at her son.

You probably think you’re so alone in this world whenever I send you up here. If only you knew I slept on this cheap, leaking roof at night right here beside you.

Painting by Didi M’Bow, Form VI

87

88

Relapse The brimming of minds finally at level, opposing all sense of righteousness, rules and lines marked in the sand finally crumbling under the weight of dogmatic views and persuasion.

For what is the risk of new desires to the familiar veils and the response to old devotions?

To hold high the privilege of loneliness, unattainable to all that live in its grace.

Kaitlin Corbeil, Form VI

Painting by Grace Gardner, Form IV

89

Index by author Abraham, Victor A Well of Sadness........................ 53

Faraoni, Donovan Déversements............................... 77

Pigeon, Jessica These Papers Tell Our Stories.... 85

Alsawari, Mohamed The Broken Society...................... 47

Fillion, Christophe The Cheapest Gift........................ 60

Anthony, Chelsea For I Was..................................... 13 The Hole....................................... 86

Fortin Xu, Maia Liquid Spirit................................ 43 Now.............................................. 73

Price, Tom Being Judged By Him Doesn’t Weaken Fear.............. 49 The End....................................... 47

Ayala Valani, Luciano Bird.............................................. 65 Truth............................................ 67 The Watch.................................... 23

Fugère, Bénédicte Pourquoi m’exterminer?.............. 44

Babineau, Victor Essay About an Essay................. 38 Shortbread..............................14–15

Fugère, Mathilde A Hopeless Drop.......................... 75

Cintora Dewez, Diana Departure..................................... 79 Cooper, Mackenzy Departure..................................... 79 In the Rose Bushes....................... 37 Coote, Julia A Black and White Moment........ 70 A Breath....................................... 59 Blue is the Deepest Shade of Black........................ 28 The Intellectuals.......................... 54 The Line....................................... 84 The Precipice of Hope.............26–27 Promises....................................... 73 Relevance..................................... 66 Corbeil, Kaitlin The Aftermath of an Impetuous Night..................... 81 Relapse......................................... 89 Searching For Smoke Through Flames..................... 16 To See But Not To Speak............ 54 Void.........................................68–69 Cormier, Nicholas O ................................................. 58 Crowther, Emma Bea Newfie Heart................................ 76 De Sainte Marie, Olivier In a Millennium.......................... 44 Dzhaafar, Rida Sonnet About Sonnets................. 39

Fugère, Ludovic Heaven on Earth.......................... 34

Goettke, Daniel Seasons Change........................... 19 Hamel, Vincent Scotch & Soda............................. 63 Harnett, Emily Ann The War of Art............................. 41 Harris, Cymarah Departure..................................... 79 Herbst, Anthony After a Storm............................... 82 Ling, William L’amour........................................ 33 Loneliness.................................... 23 M’Bow, Didi He Is…......................................... 20 My Road Not Taken.................... 19 Macfarlane, Isolde We................................................. 29 Matte, Cedric A Long Winter.............................. 25 A Silly Question........................... 41 Merrithew, Trinity-Ann Don’t Go in the Box...................... 64 Mignot, Miki Forgetting..................................... 59 N’Soni Soucka, Naomi A World Which I Have Not Chosen.............................. 45 The Battle...................................... 9 I Wish I Were a Tree.................... 36 You............................................... 34 Page, Emma Destructive Love.......................... 19

90

Ross, Quinn Bodies of Water............................ 59 Learning to Love.......................... 32 The World Has Raised Its Whip.... 21 You’re in My Dream.................... 92 Russell, Blake Her Smile..................................... 60 Red Roses..................................... 37 Rutihinda, Candy The Dark Hole in My Heart........ 43 Life................................................. 7 Sylvester, Emily Weep, When I Am Gone............... 71 Ten, Nikita Bring Colour to My Life.............. 11 Miracle......................................... 34 Parting Train............................... 79 Turrin, Sabrina A Rocking Chair.......................... 30 Blue is the Deepest Shade of Black........................ 28 Kiss the Memories Goodbye......... 80 Verrier-Paquette, Frédéric An Eye for an Eye...................56–57 I Am the Light that Will Not Die............................ 25 Fireflies – and Crocuses.............. 49 Forever......................................... 73 L’amour sans limites................... 19 We Know the Dark Hold No Ill Will...................... 52 Yang, David Comparest Not of Love to Sweet Birds’ Songs................. 40 Existentialist................................ 50 Le secret de Dieu.......................... 51 Life is a Curse.............................. 51 Rise............................................... 40 Une lamentation d’idéalisme...... 31 Zuo, Krystal From H to O................................. 74

Index by artist Bélair-Rivard, Antoine Graffiti......................................... 31 Hillside......................................... 46 Love Ever After.......................32–33 One Day....................................... 45 Shattered.................................80–81 Train............................................ 78 The Way....................................... 56 Winding....................................... 72 Bendy, Zoë Greyness..................................74–75 Wet Road...................................... 83 Bolkan, Renan Palms........................................... 62 Corbeil, Kaitlin Pretty How Town......................... 48 Crowther, Emma Bea Boat.............................................. 77 Night Sky................................42–43 Rocking Chair.............................. 30 Sight............................................. 35 Surge...........................................8–9 Swing........................................... 55

Fortin Xu, Maia Cotton Candy............................... 92

Macfarlane, Isolde Make a Wish.................................. 6

Gardner, Grace Beach.......................................88–89 Bouquet........................................ 37 Dragon....................................16–18 Her Stare...................................... 21 Queen........................................... 20

N’Soni Soucka, Naomi Blinds........................................... 67 Redness...................................40–41 Tree.........................................26–27 You Are Not the First.................. 66

Ge, Jiajia In a Bottle.................................... 22 Surfacing................................52–53 Toward the Sun........................... 14 Transformation........................... 36 Kuo, Alice Bellagio........................................ 10 Snow Globe.................................. 24 Underwater.................................. 58 M’Bow, Didi Women in Red.............................. 87

Page, Emma Dress............................................. 12 Shi, Rui Blended Sky............................28–29 Turrin, Sabrina Bird.............................................. 65 Uras, Doga Lips.............................................. 61 Valois, Justine Dye............................................cover Embrace..................................70–71 Touch........................................... 69

91

You’re in My Dream The sun was hot and the wind was calm, yet still people blew by me.

You didn’t.

You stopped, and you stayed.

You grounded me, and grounded yourself with me.

The season changed.

Snow fell and the wind picked up.

But you didn’t blow away.

Quinn Ross, Form VI

92

Inscape

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2015–2016

Volume XXXIV

Inscape