Inscape 2017 by Bishop's College School

Inscape

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2016–2017

Volume XXXV

Inscape

Inscape Bishopâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s College School Literary Magazine 2016â&#x20AC;&#x201C;2017 Volume XXXV

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

Members of the Inscape staff would like to thank the following people for their help and support: Christopher Brandon, Janice Carey, Susan Cook, Max Crowther, Guy Dallaire, Maude Desroches, Tim Doherty, Sandra Edwards, Victoria Hill, François Jean Jean, Marianne Laramée, Tyler Lewis, Sheila Lyster, Régine Mesnil, Jennifer Monk, Patrick Robidas, Heather Rothney, Greg Stevenson, Roxanne Taillefer, François Tessier, 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.

From the editor… T

ime flies. It seems like only yesterday that I embarked on the incredible journey of becoming Editor of Inscape. But here I am, two years and a few gray hairs later. Graduation is fast-approaching and so is a new time in my life, a new adventure. I dare say it is the end of an era. Come to think of it, this period of big change is something with which we can all empathize. We come out of the womb as small, naked infants without a clue of how to communicate – but in eighteen short years, and 30,000 words later, here we are. I see humanity as a thick, tangled web. We try and try to untangle, decipher it. We spend our lives untying knots and finding unexpected connections. Sometimes we succeed in unravelling parts of the web, and sometimes we succeed only in tangling ourselves. But the key thing here is that we grow. We process information and experiences and convert them into philosophies and truths. We’ve become these people. These beings with belief systems and memories and undeniable talent. The thing that we all have in common is that we were all nothing and we have each become something, someone. I thought it fitting to honour this change by building Inscape in two parts. Part One, Continuum, is an ode to the past, to who we were. Part Two, Chrysalis, is a nod to the future, to who we will become, to our rebirth. Read Inscape in order, read it back to front, open a random page and start from there. I personally don’t mind where you start your journey, only where it takes you. Just read. Read and think about how incredibly talented we all are at being fundamentally the same. Be amazed at how these shapes on the paper are what make up someone’s thoughts and ideas and ambitions; and how, somehow, you understand what they are thinking. Appreciate what each and every author and artist has put into this magazine, because we are putting a little bit of ourselves into it, too. And appreciate your own mind, because without it, words are simply print on paper. — Julia Coote, Form VII

Table of Contents Something, Zoë Bendy............................................................. 7 Nature’s Miracle, Kelly Frendo............................................. 10 The Burden, Renan Bolkan................................................... 11 Burn So Bright, Isolde Macfarlane....................................... 11 Firestarter, Julien Rougerie.................................................. 11 The Sound of Heartbreak, Isolde Macfarlane................ 12–13 Buildings, Jessica Pigeon...................................................... 14 Raven, Candy Rutihinda....................................................... 14 So That My Ankles Did Not Give Way, Leah Plante-Wiener......................................................... 15 Fame For All, Maia Fortin Xu............................................... 17 Our Broken World, Nikita Ten.............................................. 19 Tears of the Womb, Emily Ann Harnett................................ 19 Desire, Emma Allatt.............................................................. 19 Simple Earth, Zoë Bendy....................................................... 20 Harmony, Amir Ganiev.......................................................... 21 Volcano, Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte........................................ 21 The Eighth Continent, Donovan Faraoni............................. 22 Sweet, Maia Fortin Xu........................................................... 24 What I Hold Healed, Maia Fortin Xu................................... 25 Dame Blanche, Benjamin Chen-See...................................... 25 The Calm Before the Storm, Luke Fedida............................ 26 Using Logic, Matthew Marier................................................ 27 My Memory, Ryan Nause....................................................... 29 First Sense, Emma Bea Crowther......................................... 30 Aspirations, James Hunt....................................................... 30 Heads or Tails, Pierre Anglade.............................................. 31 In the Name of Love, Ann Elizabeth Rioux.......................... 34 Intersects, Amir Ganiev......................................................... 35 A Glossary, Maia Fortin Xu................................................... 35

Papa, Grace Gardner............................................................. 36 The Old Boy, Ryan Nause...................................................... 36 The Signature that Saved a Million Lives, Tom Price......... 38 Children of War, Nikita Ten................................................... 38 Unto the Breach, James Hunt............................................... 39 The Beast, Matthew Marier................................................... 40 Grown, Jessica Mou............................................................... 41 Acceptance, Amir Ganiev....................................................... 41 The Ringer, Julien Rougerie.................................................. 42 The Watchers, Trinity-Ann Merrithew.................................. 43 Judgement Day, Leah Plante-Wiener.............................. 44–45 The Hand, Julia Coote........................................................... 46 White Death, Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte................................ 47 Underwater, Kaitlin Carson.................................................. 48 In the Arms of the Water, Jessica Mou................................. 48 Raindrops, Dakota Stevenson................................................ 49 Water, Antoine Bélair-Rivard................................................ 49 Continuum, Julien Rougerie........................................... 50–51 Chrysalis, Olivier Painchaud................................................ 54 Creating Your Own Lens, Joshua Stanley............................ 54 Time, Fausta Tesolin.............................................................. 57 Si un jour, Doga Uras............................................................. 57 Mixed Emotions, Ludovic Fugère.......................................... 57 Pass On to the Following, Joshua Stanley........................... 58 It Rained, Nicolas Izaguirre Pascua..................................... 59 Alone in the Rye, Kelly Frendo.............................................. 59 Post Living, Candy Rutihinda.............................................. 60 Empty and Alone, Kaitlin Carson......................................... 60 The Dim Light, Renan Bolkan.............................................. 60 Alonely, Emma Bea Crowther................................................ 61

Editor: Julia Coote

Dinner and a Dance, Leah Plante-Wiener....................... 62–65 What About Hate? Ivannia Gomezgil Yaspik....................... 67 Fear, Isolde Macfarlane......................................................... 67 Fading Night, Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte............................... 68 Grey Skies, Mohamed Alsawari............................................ 70 The Butterfly Catcher, Emily Ann Harnett.......................... 71 Imagine It, Nikola Zemite..................................................... 73 A New Start, Mathilde Fugère.............................................. 73 The Museum, Donovan Faraoni............................................ 74 The Ducks in the Pond, Grace Gardner................................ 74 Her, Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte ........................................ 76–77 The Poet, Emma Bea Crowther............................................. 78 Implicit Impertinence, Julia Coote....................................... 78 Poetry, James Hunt................................................................ 79 Pantheism, Amir Ganiev....................................................... 79 Autumn, Luke Fedida............................................................ 80 Where the Wild Things Grow, Jessica Pigeon...................... 80 Lilac Tree, Bénédicte Fugère.................................................. 82 Flowerbed, Pierre Anglade..................................................... 83 The Window, Matthew Marier............................................... 84 Ma vie, aujourd’hui, Emma Bea Crowther........................... 85 Buried Beneath Love, Emily Ann Harnett........................... 86 Silent Weight, Kaitlin Corbeil............................................... 87 The One Life Beyond Us, Pascal Valcourt............................ 88 Planting Life – Planting Death, Nicholas Cormier.............. 88 Si je meurs, Emma Page........................................................ 89 I Remember, Pascal Valcourt................................................ 89 The Road, Matthew Marier.................................................... 90 Everyday, Antoine Bélair-Rivard.......................................... 94

Inscape Staff: Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez Mohamed Alsawari Jose Carlos Amieva Serrano Pierre Anglade Emma Bea Crowther Donovan Faraoni Daniel Gonzalez Galan Sofia Higuera Villalpando Sandrine Marin Jessica Pigeon Leah Plante-Wiener Monica Quinzaños Huerta Alejandro Salas Garcia Moreno Jie Wang Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana Artists: Emma Allatt Defne Basaran Kaitlin Carson Muxian Chen Emma Bea Crowther Francesca Di Fiore Haibin Duan Donovan Faraoni Lukas Fischer Nicolas Fontaine Mathilde Fugère Grace Gardner Jiajia Ge Emily Ann Harnett Anthony Herbst Alice Kuo Fengcheng Li Jessica Mou Emma Page Leah Plante-Wiener Liv Schwegmann Rui Shi Nikita Ten Minqi Xu Haonan Zhang Frank Zhu Faculty Advisor: Scott Kelso

Something That one leaf was once grown from the strength of the sun, with the drop of water that was from the clouds. Water was once the clouds, floating right above us. The waves that crashed upon the rocks were once just flat books, sitting on a shelf. This paper is just a tree, that was once alone in the forest, but now chopped. We were all once something; now we are us. We are who we are and who we are meant to be. ZoĂŤ Bendy, Form VI

Drawing by Minqi Xu, Form V

Part One: Continuum

Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Miracle Golden bird rise again long-lived like the ocean of sun. Reborn from clouds of smoky ash. Fly, soar like the melody to a magnificent song. It is in your bones, you will resurrect and regenerate. A show of flame and fire like the strike of a match, set yourself ablaze then stir and spread your wings. Golden bird rise again. Kelly Frendo, Form V

Painting by Grace Gardner, Form V

The Burden

Firestarter

Depending on yourself is way too hard when you are broken down inside, tasting the poisonous snake venom, slowly withering. When bitterness is getting unbearable, and you endure deliberate cruelty. Dispelling the poison, licking the pain, the reminiscence of excuses, the inner battle you lose, the last move you process, the last chance you keep seeking. Everything and everyone is something, someone. I am someone but never something to anyone. My temperaments are featherweight, and my kindness is a burden to those upon whom it may fall. I was insignificant when simplicity and being identical were rewarded.

Like the light on a firefly, the flame is gone, lost underneath a blanket of soot. (The line of anger has now been drawn.)

Renan Bolkan, Form VI

When I met you, you were as sweet as a fawn, yet now, I see my choices being moot. Like the light on a firefly, the flame is gone. I should have realized all along, that I was only prey for you to shoot. (The line of anger has now been drawn.) Drawn to you like a sleeper to a song, I never realized that to the bird, I was like the rest of the lot. Like the light on a firefly, the flame is gone. Now I know I’m not part of your throng, to praise you, be betrayed by you, always in a loop. (The line of anger has now been drawn.) The ones who chose to know could go along, now that the wretched crows have left their stoop. Like the light on a firefly, the flame is gone. (The line of anger has now been drawn.) Julien Rougerie, Form VII

Burn So Bright Thoughts – they escape so quickly – fleeting as the smoke of a fire not entirely there – a sharpness of mind that dulls in an instant or an eternity – but if thoughts are the smoke of such a fire, is it not possible that feelings are the sparks? Emotions, brighter and sharper, outshining thoughts with needless urges – curls of smoke spiral into the air, around and around – all we’re doing is feeding the flames – is it such a sin to think? And then a burst of colour; more than we are or ever have been – the flames grow and envelop everything, eating away at the undergrowth, gaining pinks and blues and greens – I sit by passively, watching the rainbow colours surround me, but I can’t give in to my flames. I open my eyes and unravel myself from my cocoon of blankets, smiling to myself. Perhaps we should not dwell on such things lest we burn up completely. After all, fire has been known to be dangerous – and who knew we could burn so bright? Isolde Macfarlane, Form IV

The Sound of Heartbreak A short story by Isolde Macfarlane, Form IV

think I’ve memorized the sound of a heart breaking. “Have you really?” “Oh!” The sound escapes my mouth before I can stop it and I lurch forward, book tumbling out of my hands and landing right in front of where I’m now sprawled on the sidewalk. I squint at it. This is all your fault, I think in its general direction. Thankfully, the book does not answer. “Woah! Hey, slow down, that was quite a fall.” Yeah, no thanks to them. I exhale and clamber to my knees, finding all my energy sapped, and electing instead just to sit back in the gravel, albeit in a less compromising position. Honestly, getting up seems too hard right now. It’s been a long day. “Are you alright?” The stranger regards me curiously with what can only be described as ridiculously sincere eyes. How rude. “Yeah, no thanks to you.” I snap. Really, I don’t mean to be like that, but I’m barely keeping myself upright. Actually, I’m not. I’m sitting on a sidewalk with about as much patience and politeness as a lioness. What can I say, mental illness takes its toll. “Well, I’m sorry about that.” They do not look sorry at all. “I was only commenting on your rather poetic remark. It’s an interesting concept you’ve got there.” They don’t know the half of it. I take the next second to analyze my situation. This could go one of a few ways. They leave once I’ve made it apparent I don’t want them around, and I never have to see them again. I walk away and make the decision for them, but considering that involves getting up, that’s out of the question. They give me a small pity speech and hopefully leave me be.

They try to take the conversation further, which it seems they’re more than ready to do, in which case I’ll be trapped under the crushing weight of my useless legs and lack of motivation to actually stand up. Or… “Yeah, well… it wasn’t really written with the intent of impressing you,” I retort. It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far today, really, I’m not sure I could keep my attitude in check if I wanted to right now. “Is that so… well, that’s good, ’cause you’re gonna have to do a lot more than that to impress me.” They skip around the bench I just pretty much flew out of and grab my hand. I groan inwardly. This means they’re gonna try to help me up, which will be awkward because I can’t right now, and also they think I’m going to be their friend or something. Why can’t people just take a hint? Much to my surprise, this doesn’t prove an issue. They pull me up with all the trouble of lifting a couple of grapes. And they don’t seem particularly surprised that I might as well have been glued to the floor, because they pull me up and allow me to subtly lean on them as all my weight works against me and drags me back to the floor. They reach back down only to pick up my book, a little blue sketchbook from the cheap cornerstore, now completely coated in dirt and still open to the offending page. I’d just scribbled it down. If I’d have known some creep was behind me… “So, you’ve memorized the sound of a heart breaking, have you? That sounds painful.” They don’t sound accusatory, or pitying. Strange, but not unheard of. It indicates that a) they’ve dealt with someone like me before, or b) they have a higher level of thinking and know that I’ve probably heard all of that

before and it won’t get them anywhere. Or both. “Yeah, well it ain’t a walk in the park,” I shoot back. “And neither is this, so if you’ll excuse me –” “Judging by how you can barely keep your ground, I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Sugar.” Sugar? I tense, then let it out in a sigh of defeat. As much as I hate to admit it, they’ve got a point. They ease me back onto the bench, but I still somehow find myself with my head on their shoulder, unmoving and pathetic. Any other time I would be at the top of my guard, defenses up and hackles raised. I have neither the energy nor the motivation for that at the moment. I just want to seep into the floor and let my consciousness float away on the breeze. Instead, I find myself sinking into a shoulder, my nose nestled in the crook of a collarbone and the tear I can feel pushing the edge of my vision finally breaking through and rolling down my cheek. Years later, I feel the same collarbone against my cheek. This time, it makes me smile headily. There’s a soft feeling about my whole situation right now, dust settling itself on my hair and another set of legs tangled up with mine. This is perfect, I think. This, right here, is what I stayed alive for. And it was worth it. “We can’t sleep in forever, you know.” Their voice pierces my thoughts, but not in an unwelcome way. A soft rumbling assurance that they’re still there, and they’re not going anywhere. “Mmm…” I mumble back something incoherent. A feeble protest, but I’m proud of getting that far. I gently crack open my eyes and let them shift over to my partner. The smile grows on my face at the sight, but it dips as I realize they look a little different today. They

Photograph by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VI

seem far off, somewhere else entirely. The expression feels familiar, like a muscle memory I used to know. Their eyes are glossy. They whisper to the wall: “Do you remember what you wrote in your book the day I met you?” I nod, slightly alarmed. “Can I tell you a secret?” I nod again. They turn their gaze back to me and their eyes turn soft, the alien yet somehow familiar expression melting away as if it had never been there at all. “I have, too.”

Buildings

Raven

All the birds left in the fall feathers falling behind them i watched the geese i watched the eagles i watched the cranes me and the chickadees we stayed behind

Majestic bird, why is your name slurred by humans knowing only your window tapping?

alone and together the world never ever shone when they came back however they brought with them the sun when they left behind were feathers broken bits of lives once lived and never repeated in the winter we tried to fly with them we jumped off buildings birds without wings trying to find friends in forever Jessica Pigeon, Form V

Purple bird, why aren’t you heard? Can they only hear your wings flapping? I, bird, have also been burned by humans who don’t care to hear my window tapping. I forget, bird, that their cries were equally unheard. Can we mend their hurting? Morning bird, can we ever be cured by the human medicine they’re prescribing? Purple bird, I guess we’re ahead of the curve, perhaps we should just sit at a window, waiting, imagining. You and I, bird, will still be hurting and crying out the songs no one’s heard for all to know our future is living, brightening. Candy Rutihinda, Form VI

Painting by Donovan Faraoni, Form V

So That My Ankles Did Not Give Way We scurried up our tower of bark and roots to get to that spot of sweet holiness where we were closer to God, my prayers scribbling themselves onto the palms of your hands. Our fragile limbs wrapped themselves around the rope as we swung our legs, flung ourselves into a limitless blue where we could not tell where Heaven ended and the water began. We were made in the image of our creator and in that ecstasy, we had attained enlightenment. All that was missing were Raphaelite circles of gold resting on our curls. Bliss. Childish laughter echoed in the chambers of our throat before it rang out, pure and breathless and free, unbound to age that would someday pin us to the ground and drive us into the soil. For the moment, we ignored that. I ignored that, I suppose. They found you still in the wind, your hands loose and my prayers erased by the rain. I lost sight of the face of God that day. I would’ve rather been eyeless. Psalms and chants had no heavenly weight to them anymore. I ask myself, what cave of sin were you pulled into, so far from our tower of holy grace? I imagine feathers sprouting from your shoulder blades – redemption – as you leapt into infinity. Chimes ringing before they broke. The rope holding onto you. Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VI

Paintings by Francesca Di Fiore, Form VII

Fame For All An essay by Maia Fortin Xu, Form VI

sometimes watch movies with my mom, I listen to the hit songs on the radio, I look at the news to see what’s happening, and from time to time, I’ll read People Magazine to get some juicy gossip when I’m bored. Every time, the same people keep appearing, and I recognize the same voices speaking or singing. On my Facebook newsfeed, I constantly see video clips of the TV series “Keeping Up with the Kardashians.” I’ll scroll down to see a Donald Trump article that someone commented on, then I’ll watch an X-Factor audition that went viral and was shared all over the Web. And it’s the same stuff all the time. To the majority of us, being famous implies being surrounded by paparazzi, being a guest on The Ellen Show, having over 100K followers on Instagram, or having everybody know your name. You have to stand out in order to be famous. People have to admire you. They have to have an opinon, good or bad, so you can be the main topic of discussion. Spoken of, known, important to, valued by… That’s what it takes, right? What if I told you that you don’t need to have your own show to be famous, you don’t need that many likes, you don’t need to appear on television, you don’t need expensive clothes, and not everyone needs to know your name to be famous? We all want our moment of fame, but instead of wanting to star on the next “Survivor” season, find a hidden meaning for the word “famous.” Give it a deeper meaning than the superficial definition with which we associate it. Forget the money, the looks and the fame for one minute.

In Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Famous,” she says: “I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous, or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular, but because it never forgot what it did.” It may not seem that appealing to be as famous as a buttonhole, but think about it. Most of us won’t turn out to be celebrities. Be famous to the ones around you. You can have a huge impact on someone by doing the smallest things. Give someone your extra time if they need to talk, make someone laugh, or simply smile back. I know that when someone cares for me, I remember it. When people do something good to you, you acknowledge it. When people have a positive impact on you, they become important. The insignificant things you see on social media about celebrities won’t help you grow as a person. One important thing I have learned not to do is envy their lives. We read about all these people who are famous and seem to have a dream life. Don’t. Be your own type of famous. You are important, valued and known to the people whose lives you have touched. You don’t need to do anything spectacular, you don’t need to stand out. The moment of fame we all want happens to us everyday and we don’t even know it. Your biggest fans are the ones who love you because being famous is as simple as that.

Photograph by Emma Allatt, Form VI

Our Broken World The sun pours waves of light from the blue-sky bucket upon this world, where you and I exist in our common shape and form. Yet there is a difference, a divide between us that lives in friendship with our soul, lurking in the fading corridors of sub-consciousness. We all stand out in this diverse crowd of many faces. We all compose a vibrant painting with our contrasting dresses. Desire With our eyes and smiles mingling among one another, our tongues speak phrases never heard before. And so it was I entered the broken world. Some say this chaos breaks the world apart, A world of crippling love, while others strive for spreading love that, like glue, betrayed trust, bonds this broken tower with a firm grip. bound by desire. A world of souls howling in the night, Nikita Ten, Form VI hearts desperate to be cherished; of innocent and cruel people hurting, living and dying by the hand of desire. A world of violent, piercing words, and shattered, torn emotions, all forgiven by desire. And so it was this world that I set foot in: terribly broken and twisted Tears of the Womb by desire. A perfect picture is captured, in the glass that encases it forever. Emma Allatt, Form VI The bells sway and chime with their glorious cheers. The sound of love echoes within the tower, built upon trust. Cool soft silver rings bind them together by their desire. Angels gaze down upon this fate, sending light and hope for them. The sun shines bright, removing any shadows that may hide, burning the distrust away, disintegrating it to dust; the darkness is gone, back to the underworld it goes. Their roots intertwined created a tree, a sapling to grow along with them. Each month it grew bigger, stronger, until the tears of rain descended upon it. Each leaf falls and withers away into the ground that will never be fertile. The tears turn to a torrential downpour and the storm clouds hide the rays of light. The shadows rise again, corrupting the light into darkness. The angels, filled with joy, fall to the underworld, their wings ripped to shreds; as the hate grows, the anger possessed by the devil gains more ground. The roots are ripped away, broken and irreparable, growing opposite from each other. The bells continue to swing but theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re crying, screaming, shouting. The sound of dishonesty crushes through the faĂ§ade of the tower of trust. Rings of fire and thorns rip and burn their bindings apart. The glass encasing the beautiful world shatters, and what is left is a broken world. Emily Ann Harnett, Form VI

Simple Earth Its round rough edges that curve into a sphere, the green that is carved by ancient evolution into civilized countries, and cities and continents. The blue that is emptied by the clouds that surround all the rest, crashing against the shore. But these people that live on earth, they are ignorant and care for nothing except power. What about this globe that fills our bodies with food, warmth and love? Where is its power? When does this sphere have a say in the destruction of its own home? ZoĂŤ Bendy, Form VI

Volcano Harmony The sphere of Earth is spinning around. The dark side slowly taking over light. Dreadful shadow of the past contains many memories, long forgotten. If the globe could spin the other way, many cold winters would be warm, destructions would no longer destruct, and the devil would not be evil. A narrow fence between the two, where the most anticipated moments happen. Sometimes happy, sometimes sorrowful. Creations of the universe wish to tear the line. But it is impossible to go against the laws. And on the other side of globe, sparkling with the blinding light, calm oceans of dreams and hopes are boundless in depth. A fundamental wish to see beyond the moment hence will never be accomplished. Still the sphere of Earth is spinning, where the light is gradually turning into darkness, where the great fence is an unmoved mover. Together three parts of Earth exist for life on it to contemplate till the light becomes the darkness. Amir Ganiev, Form VII

If I could be free for a day, I would no longer be myself. I am bound to these boundaries that keep my fire dull and the world’s people safe from a million years’ rage. It is my mother’s fault. She maintains it is not fair, that a chance should be given to this human altered reign. I do not share her sympathy nor her kindled hope for the race. I firmly believe she should set my fire ablaze. A purge is needed to cleanse the surface of the Earth from this expanding smoking virus that withers my mother’s creation without care. I have been given many names – Disaster, Catastrophe, Calamity – but it is Justice, I’d say. Since the days of Pompeii I have not seen the light of day for my mother has confined me to the center of the Earth. If I could be free for a day, I would scorch the meadows and light the prairies with a blazing boom full of ash. Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte, Form VII

Drawing by Nicolas Fontaine, Form VI

The Eighth Continent

An after-dinner speech by Donovan Faraoni, Form V

ood evening, ladies and gentlemen. You are the most valued costumers of Exclusiva, the best travel agency in the world. We invited you to this dinner because we know you’re not the average trip takers. You’re only interested in taking trips to the newest, most innovative destinations. Tonight, I would like to share with you an amazing new off-the-beaten-path travel destination. The 8th continent, the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. The Great Pacific Garbage Patch drifts throughout the middle of the Pacific Ocean, where the waves can be 7 metres high. So buckle your seat belts, it’s going to be one bumpy night. In the morning, when the ship docks at the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, relax in one of the many Plastic Ocean guesthouses. From your guesthouse built with plastic milk jugs, contemplate the litter laden waves as they crash on the beach, depositing their load of discarded shopping bags and micro plastics. After dinner, no need to do any tedious dishwashing. Just throw your plastic forks, knives and plates out the window, and know that you’re adding to the 8th continent’s landmass rather than littering For relaxation, we can suggest searching for last week’s plastic in your guesthouse ceiling, or just reclining on the soft couch padded with the foam packing pellets you threw out when you got your new VR headset back home. If you’d rather have some more lively pleasure, treat yourself to a day in Plasticland, where you can enjoy the adrenaline rush as you ride on a plastic pylon rollercoaster, sitting on seats made from your empty yogurt cartons from last year. Alternatively, ride through

the romantic canals on transparent bottle gondolas, surrounded by the pure stillness of an ecosystem where nothing grows. No need to get vaccinations for annoying insect-borne diseases before departure or worry about poisonous snakes once you arrive. The only living things on the 8th continent other than you are plastic eating bacteria at the Japanese research station, which is open to the public. Feeding time is at 9 am daily, and the first bag of reconstituted plastic pellets is free. If you fancy a touch of excitement in the evenings, the Trashmax Theatre’s sixstorey screen with its coiled plastic rope and zip-tie seats is for you. Wonder at the world’s largest 3D movie screen, coated with desiccated crystals made from the gel in disposable diapers. Sanitized, of course. Feel your heart pound in your chest as the trashbusters comb the high seas for fishermen’s abandoned ghost nets. Now, all kidding aside, I can see some of you think cruises to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch are a far-fetched fantasy. But the Great Pacific Garbage Patch is real. It’s a swirling island of inorganic plastic twice the size of France located between California and Hawaii, and growing daily. It was discovered in 1997 by Captain Charles Moore, of the Algalita Research Foundation. While the Plastic Ocean guesthouses are not built yet, they could soon be a reality. Some environmentalists, such as the Dutch group Ocean Cleanup, are working desperately to eradicate it. But for now, it’s here to stay, so let’s make the most of it. After going on a cruise to the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, you may never touch plastic again.

Drawing by Haonan Zhang, Form VI

Sweet She is cotton candy â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a sweet and soft friandise â&#x20AC;&#x201C; pale complexion, thin hair, a fleecy cloud filled with chuckles, she is all smiles. A warm touch is all it takes for her pastels to darken. She can melt, crystallize. Maia Fortin Xu, Form VI

What I Hold Healed What fun comes from one that is whole? Those who are complete cannot help you. They are untouched, too faultless. You cannot fix someone that does not need to be fixed. There are broken pieces scattered everywhere. Some are shredded, some tattered, brittle, all far more appealing than wholeness. I depend on the ones with the wounds; the scars of their lost pieces, the ones who have been hollowed out, because we solve puzzles, not pictures. I collect the missing parts to fill the empty holes, to assemble a greater picture. It’s a challenge, solving everyone’s puzzle. I need to heal what I hold, lay out all the fitting pieces to make someone whole again, but they heal. So why stay when there are so many other broken pieces? Maia Fortin Xu, Form VI

Dame Blanche And so it was I entered the broken world. I was broke, broken, a mess to say the least. The thoughts I had were nothing short of a beast. A beast that knew no boundaries. This beast could only be tamed by me. Nobody else. Lie after lie, drink after drink, it seemed to be working. Only I could be responsible for taming the beast. But it appears I was wrong. I’d been wrong all this time. The cure I had prescribed was actually the poison. I had fueled the fire, fed the beast with my lies and forced my future to resemble my past. Benjamin Chen-See, Form VI

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

The Calm Before the Storm One of my favourite childhood memories is the carousel, a magical swirl of colours, the churn of the machine, tinkling bells, and squeals of delight. little hands clinging on with a mixture of fright and delight. The centrifugal push threatens to throw you into space. Only the bravest wave to family. Watching and waiting, you choose your seat. Will it be the gilded wooden horse that gallops round or the safe chariot with red, plush seats? Tremble with anticipation as the spinning slows. Poised ready to clamber aboard. Clutching your token for the man in one hand, not yet quite ready to let go of your Mum with the other. The call of the carousel is too great. There is a moment of pure tranquility then a swarm of children clambering on to secure a seat. Then the feeling of pure excitement as things begin to swirl . Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s no turning back now. Just hang on and breathe in the sheer joy of it all. Luke Fedida, Form V

Photograph by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VI

Using Logic Symmetry, like what deﬁnes the beauty in a person’s face. Corresponding, like two people having a conversation while they dance around the fact that they like each other. Irregular, like a poorly-drawn heart on a card to your parents when you’re young. Logic, like how ludicrous it is to expect a different result from the same action. We apply the terms we learn in the classroom, to the playground of life outside. Matthew Marier, Form VII

Photograph by Frank Zhu, Form III

My Memory I walked down the glossy road. The air was freezing cold. The sky appeared to be raining with white powder. I felt it on my face and it gave me a chill. I slipped on this new form of land that I had never seen before, thick and cold. My face hit the ground and it froze. Seconds later it started to burn and my eyes began to water. At this instant, I called for my father. Although I could stand on my own, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to feel alone. I arrived at my destination. I looked at a pile of snow. I knew it would soon be something cool, a new creation. I grabbed the snow and formed a small ball in my hand. I turned to my younger brother and threw the snowball in his direction. He returned it with a harsh look directed towards me. I knew I had not been very friendly, so I gave him a big smile. Then I tackled him into a big snowpile. We laughed and smiled and I found a four-leaf clover. All of a sudden, this moment was over. Ryan Nause, Form V

First Sense

Aspirations

Why is it that the first thing every baby does is cry?

Every child has a dream, to become the pinnacle of the world, and change history in their vision. But time is a warning predator, that weighs one down, as a lost soul attempts to cross its vast, unchallenged seas. And as a jungle cat stalks its prey, time stalks its own, forcing the hunted to make radical changes along the way, to avoid destruction.

At such a young age, can they really see the dark? Can they already sense the disappointment to come? Why shouldn’t a child sing? Why must a child cry? Is it because the air smells so dry and stale, as if the earth is trying to hold its breath, waiting, refusing, to let new air in, because maybe it won’t be as sweet as she remembers? Can they already hear the tick tack of a person’s tongue, the harshness in their R’s, the speed in their voices, as if never content with what they are saying?

James Hunt, Form V

Does a baby taste the sticky sweetness of their own breath, the same breath that will later talk, later speak words of hate and pain, later bring heartbreak and sorrow to the loves of their lives? Do they feel the rough skin of their mothers and fathers, the bruises and bumps others have made, the scrapes and scars left by those who have hurt their mamas and papas, a constant reminder of long years now long gone? Can they already see the shadows in the bright lights, dark figures against neon colours, fighting against the overcoming fluorescence, failing to make themselves seen? Does a baby already know the secrets of this terrible world they have been brought into? Do they already see and feel and taste and smell and hear what this world really has to offer? Do they scream for those around them, knowing that one day their fate will be the same? Do they already know what is to come? Is that why they cry? Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

Artwork by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VI

Heads or Tails Our world, and all who inhabit it, are like the two sides to a coin. From the moment we are born to the second we die, but one question endures. On which side do we lie? A question without answer. What can be said? Have we lived a life of right or wrong? Order or chaos? Consumed by the darkness of the past? Or embracing the light of the future? Or has this question already been forged by your own answer? Has this life been a coin toss you won? Or have events unfolded by mere chance, like spare change on a sidewalk? Pierre Anglade, Form V

Painting by Haibin Duan, Form VI

In the Name of Love In the name of love, I shall say, leave me not, from this day on. And I shall say, in the name of love, that a thousand oceans could never separate us. And even across a thousand oceans, in the name of love, I shall say, no distance is enough, to end this love. And no matter where, in the name of love, I shall say, hold my hand, and hold me tight. And I shall say, every night, in the name of love, I bless our souls. Ann Elizabeth Rioux, Form VI

Drawing by Muxian Chen, Form VI

Intersects A secant line crosses a function twice. How far apart are the intersecting points? One unit, two units or an infinity? A linear graph will be crossed only once, or it will have the same graph as the secant line. A parabola will curve to meet the secant line again. But the secant line always desires to be inside the intersected function. I am your secant line. Our lives will have two main points. The points when we meet and when we say goodbye. How far apart are these points? One day, one month or a lifetime? It depends on the graph that you decide to form. You might become a parabola and keep my line inside as long as you desire. Or you can be a linear graph like mine to be together forever. Or will you form a function that will repel me instantly and make me a mere tangent line? I will always remember you, but never cross your life again. Amir Ganiev, Form VII

a glossary [love]: love is life with passion; passion is love with emotion lifeless love is a passionless life â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a lost heart is a love)less) life i think a lot of all us (them) dive too shallow in deeper meanings or do they just float. many of us the (others) drown in definitions of love none define it on their own, fear of living life lost sometimes they run out of tears for better or even worse lived too lovefully or too emotionless? irrelevant meanings are always meaningful. because it all, is known the deepest love we give ignites the greatest passion to live Maia Fortin Xu, Form VI

Papa A cocoon wrapped inside a cocoon. The first is merely a veil of smoke, it wisps around him, like electrons around a nucleus. The smoke stains all the objects in its path. Hold your breath, swim through the revolving murk. The second cocoon is a simple red coat, barely ever taken off due to weak, fragile arms. As if we fear they might disassemble. The coat full of circular burn holes from cigarette after cigarette. Flowing from the cuffs of the sleeves are brown hands, bandages from where the doctors drained the blood from his body, only to pump it all back in; and fingers, fingers so permanently yellow from nicotine. From under a ball cap protrudes a nose, one I recognize from younger family members. Some might use the term sun-kissed skin, but he has sun-punched-in-the-face-andrun-over-by-a-car skin. Finally, inside is the man and his stories. Stories both shocking and ill-fitted to tell; to chop the head off a snake, to light his wifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s newspaper on fire while she reads it. On purpose. Stories interrupted by fits of coughing and far too much cussing for any kitchen table, 77 years, wrapped in red, and concealed in smoke. Grace Gardner, Form V

The Old Boy He stands there like a statue, hands by his side, clenched in a strong fist, feet shoulder width apart, shoulders high. He is bearing a pin-striped suit, with a pair of shiny black shoes. His face sports a long grey mustache, grey bushy eyebrows, and eyes grey with despair. A pair of old tarnished metal glasses sit on his old, tired ears. His face dons one large scar right next to his eye; it is the shape of a half moon. He also wears a tattoo; it is of a fighter plane with smoking engines. Under it is a date and it says D-Day, the date is 1944 written in what looks to be blood. All of which comes from many years ago. On the outside, he looks just like an old, grizzled man, but there is more to the story not told in writing, but revealed, captured in this 8â&#x20AC;&#x2030;x10. Ryan Nause, Form V

Drawing by Mathilde FugĂ¨re, Form VI

Children of War The Signature that Saved a Million Lives Squealing bombs fall from the sky while women and children cry. Soldiers defend their country, knowing that the war is only starting. The president signs the peace treaty, and within an hour, the dove is delivered, and a million lives are saved. Tom Price, Form VII

The angry mortars are tearing through the air, lighting up the skies with their orange flames. The flames that differ from the warmth of sun, the ones that bring fury upon the earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s snow-coated skin. Deep down under the burning clouds, the ones that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t choose to play this bloody game, the children, sons and daughters, the brothers and the sisters, reach out to the sun with all their might. And yet the darkness of the grey exploding cloud puts its arms around their heroes. Their fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, making a grave of ash with no name. The sun however lives through the night, and so do the young men and women who were once girls and boys. Nikita Ten, Form VI

Drawing by Nikita Ten, Form VI

Unto the Breach The engine roared, emitting toxic carbon fumes as the Enterprise van backed away into what seemed a void. Leading onto a course that only two could follow, as two remained. One is not complete without the other, and so it has been for fifteen years in the privileged comfort of a suburban home. The patterned brown walls, interloping with spacious windows, and never ceasing to bring the violet, dark crimson and butterfly yellow of Daughter Springâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bloom. The cooling draught of the AC brought summer along, with the achingly steamy car and its tar-black leather seating. As the pure energy of the sun evaporated your thoughts, taking them to a place of solitude. Tropical storms never ceased to evolve into raging onslaughts of downpour, stripping the leaves as a snake sheds its skin. Mum and Dad utter words of encouragement as my internal clock adjusts, rusted over from summertime lethargy, to a well-oiled educational machine. Protective layers of antifreeze are added to keep the cold at bay. As the rich, pungent scent of spruce fills the house from the eight foot tall monster standing on the warm, comforting carpet. Decorated in the colours of the wreath of Christ, deep pink, and a sunset purple, complemented by marble white. And as the van pulls away, I realize I have lost these moments I have so taken for granted, as I proceed unto the breach. James Hunt, Form V

The Beast Through his lantern-lit maze emerged a lifeless, minimalist form. It skulked, solemnly, towards him. It moved towards him so lethargically that the man had no sense of urgency to escape. He instead wanted to see the figure up close, to get a glimpse of its intangible form. Inching ever closer, the man proceeded forward, with his lantern light swaying in the howling wind; the only sound in the barren night. He drew closer, his heartbeat increasing now as he could make the outline of someone, or something, reared up on its hind legs. It loomed over top of him, easily a few hands taller than him. As he lurched forward, he exposed himself to the hulking beast in front of him. Matthew Marier, Form VII

Drawing by Nicolas Fontaine, Form VI

Grown “There are monsters outside my windows in the darkness.” “No, they are just shadows of swinging branches.” I was so afraid when I was just a little girl, of sleeping alone, of hearing the monster, of being taken by its gloom. The sunlight had gone, the long night had come, and the world so hushed. Are they still there, the monsters? If I shake off my dust and scars and lie down in that bed, the bed filled with a nostalgic smell, will they guard me as they did? I am so afraid now, of standing in front of crowds, of competing with people, of living in a world of unfamiliarity. What do the monsters look like? Will they take me as I am broken? The tranquil night has gone, and the dawn has come, and the world is hushed. Jessica Mou, Form VII

Acceptance I voluntarily entered alone a dreadful darkness. I could not see anything around me. But I knew there must be something hiding. My instincts were telling me to find light but there was none. I started panting. A strong and large hand grabbed my mouth, slowly suffocating me. I sensed a cold knife touching my throat, almost penetrating my skin. I felt a statue of a man standing behind me, who was breathing heavily. I was with fear. I closed my eyes and waited. Suddenly I felt her tender arms embracing me. I sensed her soft hair touching my neck. She smelled like flowers. I hugged her back but she was weightless. She kissed me with her warm and gentle lips. I was alone in darkness. I was with peace. Amir Ganiev, Form VII

The Ringer You sit next to us at night, a silent guardian customized with the voice we gave you. You stand, prepared to rouse us from our defenseless sleep. Through the night your thoughts swing like a pendulum, thinking of how to wake your ragdoll-sprawled master who lies easily, unstressed with the job you do. How shall you yell? With adoration for the time he tinkered you so you could sing, or with the stressed anger one gets from anticipation? As you ponder, a bright doom softly touches you. Your time to shine is almost here, yet you havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t made up your mind. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s here! The moment you were waiting for! You throw off the guardian costume and hawk your crusty, metallic voice. What appears is a miasma of your frustration and care. As a response, the master emits several spasms and hits you with the fury of a war-torn army gaining the upper hand. As he leaves, you return to your watcher state, job well done. Julien Rougerie, Form VII

The Watchers We Walk these Halls – brains in hand. Welcome to the Prison where Minds lose themselves. This is the Jungle, we all came to Win – Happy we were – Trapped Now. Unable, Unwilling. Tell Me, do You hear the Whistle? It goes on in My Head – It tells us to Move, Relocate, keep Going – Run, run, run, run, run Far – Never stop, They follow. Do not let Them get to You. It never Stops – Chasing, Running. They Watch – Eyes Follow – They Watch and They Judge. Are you Worthy? Are You not? Will You Pass the Final Test? Or will They Win over your Mind? Fight it. Fight. An eternity of Fighting awaits You Trinity-Ann Merrithew, Form VII

Drawings by Minqi Xu, Form V

Judgement Day no but you see it’s an understatement to say that he doesn’t under stand as he stands at the stand and he momma’s shaking stands for what he did and his life (H)is (L)ife came be for for fear? was it fear? fear for His Life (the life that is still his no no,, no we know how it goes it’s all,, , going ,,, to go wrong outside they are screaming that his life was not just a life it was A Life and is not lost on the pavement His Blood is not leaking into the concrete that we walk on no it is pumping through him as he It was A Life stands at the stand where he doesn’t under stand) THE TRUTH THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH momma’s gotta calm down they ,,, , they are , going ,, , won’t be,,, guilty It was A Life and we are His Life we are His spilled Blood he’ ,,, s gonna be f,, r ,,,, ee SO HELP ME GOD th,,, is is h,,,, ow th,ey,,, ‘re go,,nna ta,, ,,,, ,,, ke momma’s gotta stop th,,,,,, ,, i,s is how momma We are His spilled Blood he displays no emotion at the display of his action

bang bang you’re his hands are in his lap and his chin is up and the truth spins in his favour they walk out in a line

d,,, ead th,, ey th,ink h,is hands are c,,, lean h,, e,,, fe, eels n,o sh,,, ame momma’s gotta breathe h,, is blood w,, as li,,ke a t,,,ree of li,fe

they come back and he stands at the stand still not under standing momma’s gotta look away he knows the system like the palm of his hand and momma’s gotta close her eyes the palm of his hand opens to him and welcomes him in and momma’s gotta learn to forget His Blood rushes through his closed veins and momma’s gotta move on

We are His spilled Blood We are His spilled Blood We are His spilled Blood We are His spilled Blood We are His spilled Blood We are His spilled Blood

We are His spilled Blood and and and NOT GUILTY this is how they’re gonna take him away from me one more time. Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VI

Photograph by Frank Zhu, Form III

The Hand The sky is dark but it is not late. I am alone on this lonely road, or so I think. The wind howls a sinister chord â&#x20AC;&#x201C; like misplaced notes on a keyboard, and freezes my ears into a dark red. In this pallid wasteland it is easy to notice the hand that reaches out of the snow as if in class, eager with an answer. The skin is hard and swollen to the touch like a cold balloon, ready to pop. The nails are dirty and look too small. I am an infant again, inspecting and analyzing everything that I cannot understand, like a lamb to slaughter. I pull the hand up but it is impossibly heavy. It grabs onto me and down I am dragged to a senseless, endless isolation Julia Coote, Form VII

Drawing by Lukas Fischer, Form V

White Death Her pale blue hands stretch to grasp my soul. I can feel the ground cracking and breaking as she gets closer. A deathly lullaby falls as she talks. She whispers my name. As words leave her mouth, my lips dry and crack. I can feel my blood slowing down as I try to pull away. She tightens her grasp on my heart, and pulls the clinging remains of life from my legs. I fall. She looks at me without sentiment. It is her nature to freeze as it is the sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to warm. I know her touch will take my life. My death is imminent. She sits next to me. I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel my limbs anymore. Heat and warmth are a fading memory. Her image begins to fade as she leans in for a goodbye kiss. I think of how warm that kiss is. My heart stops beating. I am now part of her and she is part of me. Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte, Form VII

Underwater Hold your breath, and submerge yourself into the deep. Slowly sink. Let your arms get weak. Allow your mind to wander. Wander past wondering. Let your mind think in colour. Forget all your blundering. Now deeper than your thoughts, your eyes get more blurry; not seeing your suroundings, drifting towards shore. Your feet tingly in the sand, your skin softly on the waves, inhaling new air, saltiness left on your face. No longer with yourself, as you come out dripping wet. Being underwater is more than just holding your breath. Kaitlin Carson, Form VI

In the Arms of the Water A hand grabs my ankle. It is the hand of the water. I let my hands go and my body drop, let the cool fluid be my feather. Heat is released by her cold hug, along with my tension and fatigue. She sketches the outline of my body full of pressure. Gentle as always, and soothing as a lullaby. The tears streaming down my face she wipes away and saves them as a part of herself. Jessica Mou, Form VII

Water

Raindrops Our lives are raindrops, slowly falling through time and space, all the while watching the other people falling like raindrops around us, until eventually we will meet our end. Inevitably. Dakota Stevenson, Form V

Do you ever think of its gazillion droplets, how they travelled the world, how they met the man upstairs, and flirted with Davy Jones’ locker? Can you relish it when sodden beads flow between your toes and leave on your skin a thin layer of refreshing lotion? When I’m cold it warms me and when I’m warm it cools me down. It brings balance to everything, for it is essential to life. It is life’s best solvent. On my skin, it washes dirt away. Under my skin, it is refreshing, just like a minute with you. Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VII

Photograph by Emma Allatt, Form VI

Continuum

A short story by Julien Rougerie, Form VII

Donovan’s Journal January 15, 1965 I start today off like I do every day. Take a shower, get dressed, and watch the toast fall from the oven to the ground because I was busy… again. I guess the toaster just never changes, we should fix it one day. After a normal trip to the border post, I head in, sit at the seat, and take a nap. After all, no one would come walking into the Soviet State of Estonia, yet someone did. It happens, just not often. The visitor was a female, with brown hair in a bun, probably coming from the south. I greeted her when she got close and we had a little chat where I find that there’s been a bit of an accident and she’s been wandering through the forest for a while trying to find a town. Story didn’t really add up based on the fact we’re situated on a path, but after the chat I let her in. Soon after I hear gunshots as she had most likely met the patrols of soldiers who coincidentally patrol on the road right behind the border. Shame she didn’t have any ID, or she could’ve lived longer, but I think I meet her again. Time will tell. January 15, 1965 Guess I was right, same thing happened in the morning and you’ll never guess who showed up at the border: the same girl. I struck up a conversation again and this time she seemed a bit more confused. Not a problem, but I guess it confirms the theory. Once again, I sent her off, but this time I had some work to do. Walking out the door, I followed her until she reached the patrol. There, she mentioned how she deserted her country to learn the ways of the Communism, and it must’ve worked as I saw her hop into their jeep as they took her back to base. The date confirms it, I guess. Once again, we have a time traveler on our hands.

January 16, 1965 So today, asking some of the other soldiers, it appears our friend is meeting the KGB to show her knowledge. No way could the girl we met do that naturally, which means she must be rewinding and rewinding until she says the right things. This means she’s getting in control of her powers, which means she’ll soon experiment. Yay (read that like sarcasm). January 17, 1965 After a way-too-long sleep, I wake up to find everyone celebrating. Apparently, the Cold War is over thanks to one strange proposal of socio-capital measures which both sides decided to agree on, ending the nuclear standoff between the Warsaw Pact states and NATO. Today’s a day of celebration yet here I am, writing in a tiny little journal the events of what happened. Only I know how this is going to play out due to my little curse. Once the girl asks what-if and decides to redo it all for fun, only I will remember that she stole world peace. So I’ll just play along in celebrating. I’ll probably just forget later about what happened today, and this entry will be just another one I ignore. January 15, 1965 And there it is. To keep things short: Same thing happened as the previous days. To keep my spirits high from the monotony, I decide to play a joke. Sneaking into the woods with a hand buzzer, I follow her in an effort to scare her, and you’ll never believe it. She checks the counter, looks in, and then somehow set it on fire. I don’t know where she got the fuel, or the match, but she found a way and went down the path. Good thing I keep this journal in my pocket after all the other times they’ve attacked the post. Heading back to the road, I find the bodies of the patrolmen. I guess that this time she’ll answer the question if she could destroy the world.

Looks like I’ll have to take responsibility and say that this isn’t big enough for intervention yet, go find a pillow, and sleep until it’s all over. January 17, 1965 I can’t do it anymore. Every time someone with time travel shows up, I just play the fool over and over again. Doing nothing but writing in this journal so that the mess of the next timeline can remember that we hate them. How many times must I watch my home be destroyed through explosives or fire or if they decide to blow the dam and flood the place. If nothing happens, then these time travelers won’t stop thinking that they can do whatever they want. So forget the journal, I’m going after them, even after all the advice given: how things will just go back to normal, how it really just doesn’t matter. Here’s some advice for the next Donovans who read this: It does change the world by making them realize they’re not the only ones who remember. This will probably be the last entry so here’s some new advice: fix the darn toaster. January 15, 1965 Well, I guess we made an impression. I’m going to skip our normal routine we do to look normal and cut to the chase: the girl came up to me once again. Looks like I’ve forgotten to write after meeting because she’s somewhat worshipping me, talking about how I’m the only one who remembers and how I’m suffering the most from her powers. If this was me when I initially found my powers, I would’ve broken down into a fit of emotions. Sadness, anger, jealousy, the works, but since I’ve adapted to the situation, I nodded with a grin to hide the emotions. So we talked for a while. She explained how her powers work (she has to think about where she wants to be and She is there), I told her ours (I sit around and the clock goes backwards). She talked about the previous timeline

where she caused a nuclear war just to see if she could and how I revealed my secret to her (previous me must’ve been emotional). As I tried to stop her, she ended up killing me like everyone else, but felt guilty so she went back in time to erase her actions. This went on for a while. Don’t worry though, I didn’t tell about how many other time travelers I’ve met, and how they all erase themselves from time because they went back and did something which caused them not to be born, to kill themselves, and etcetera. That would’ve been weird. Yet at the end, she said she wouldn’t do any major rewinds again, because she knows I would know and suffer. The ﬁrst time traveler stopped by their own accord. I just smiled and laughed and watched as they went by. If she’s telling the truth, then good for her, if not, then I guess this won’t be the ﬁnal entry, which stinks because I’m running out of space. January 17, 1965 It’s happened again, World Peace. Normally I’d be sleeping, but I’ve made a decision we might not like. It’s time for us to stop writing. For real, I’ve thought it over, and decided it’s for the best. Time travelers will still appear, and acting like it’s not happening isn’t going to solve anything. The documentation of a time traveler’s exploits isn’t something you want to spend your life on, so I won’t. This journal doesn’t keep us Donovans sane, it keeps us angry and secluded. So if any of us really need to write again, just remember: If a time traveler can change things when they go back, so can you. Right now, it’s time for me to fix something which never changes: the toaster.

Part Two: Chrysalis

Chrysalis Up there, hanging from the highest branch of the tallest oak in the vicinity. It waits in its coffin. It waits powerlessly for the afterlife. Few come back from the spiritual quest, but the ones who make it are changed forever. They return different. Up there, gusts of wind threaten the suspended refuge which happens to be a one-way portal to this youthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s adulthood. Sunny, rainy, stormy days will pass by. Buds will open and colours will beautify the surroundings. It is this time of year. The cocoon slowly cracks and there it goes. This winged, enchanted creature will see the world with no boundaries anymore. Olivier Painchaud, Form VII

Creating Your Own Lens A majority are born with sight; a minority are born with vision. Perspective, the word that creates opportunities. Being able to dream unrealistically is having an idea of what your future will reflect. Business-minded people react consequently, they do not see, they visualize. The result of having dreams so big, they frighten you. If there is one thing to be remembered: Always read in between the lines, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s where everything seems to happen. Sight is a privilege, yet some consider it worthless. The ones who see further than the goal line, beyond the problems, are the ones that know that every problem has a solution. Everything comes between the first and last sentence, and trust me, the story is much more entertaining once you learn to read between the lines and think outside the box. Joshua Stanley, Form VII

Drawing by Emma Page, Form VI

Drawing by Emily Ann Harnett, Form VI

Time Time is a thief. Time does not wait for anyone. Time is quicksand, there is no escaping it. You blink once and a month has passed; blink twice, you’re holding your grandson in your arms. Time is a blessing and a burden. Time evaporates. Time is a race and you can’t beat it. Fausta Tesolin, Form V

Mixed Emotions Like the blink of an eye, we are suddenly dressed in purple. I never saw the time fly by. I can hear my heart pound.

Si un jour Et si un jour la mort arrive? Des ombres de l’inconnu atterrissant, afin de m’emporter vers l’éternité. Saurai-je faire confiance aux secrets de l’après-vie? Et si un jour l’amour ne me trouve point? Suis-je capable de demeurer isolée, ignorée sans entendre quelqu’un m’appeler sa bien-aimée? Que ferai-je à ce moment-là? Et si un jour j’oublie la joie de vivre? L’obscurité sera ma nouvelle réalité. Un feu éteint par la pluie de la destinée. Comment ferai-je pour m’en sortir?

The air is filled with a certain scent. A smell of wonder. Sweet but very bitter. Bittersweet, I guess. All this is too much. Is this a goodbye? My last memories with these people? Perhaps if I try, some of us might stay together. Why so fast? I don’t know how to think straight. Life must have been accelerated for a moment. I am humbled. Ludovic Fugère, Form VII

Et si un jour je me perds? Pourrai-je retrouver mon chemin? Âme fourvoyée se baladant par-ci et par-là. Je ne saurai me remettre sur la bonne voie. Et si un jour j’ai le dos au mur. Plus de désirs, plus de choix, plus de détermination. Voudrai-je continuer? Je pense qu’à ce point, je laisserai la mort m’emporter… Doga Uras, Form VI

Pass On to the Following You will be known among strangers, they will never remember what you did, or what you said, yet they will remember how you made them feel, like a warm blanket. People see you as the Statue of Liberty, standing tall above all sky-scrapers. Every morning running down the streets of New York City, hundreds and thousands of people meet your eye. The cognitive long-term memory of your past will haunt you like a nightmare. Nothing is a coincidence. Habits are unbreakable; your morning run should not have been a habit. Downtown, a young girl crossing the street, alone, innocent, unaware you had to save her life from a bus. And since then, purpose and dignity was instilled into her being. Joshua Stanley, Form VII

It Rained We were all standing there – by his side – sadness engulfing the room. The silence – undisturbed by our voices – only broken by the drumming outside. As he laid on the table, we cried. As we waited in the room, it rained. The raindrops – dancing outside to the drumming they made. As he breathed his last breath, we sighed with relief as his pain was no more. As he laid in the ground – we cried. Meanwhile – the sky sighed – and the raindrops danced. Nicolas Izaguirre Pascua, Form VII

Alone in the Rye He stands alone on the other side of the wall. There’s a door in the wall. He could walk through it, but he doesn’t. People pass through the door. Some struggle with packages. He could hold the door for them, but he doesn’t. Some people nod at him. Some even say hello. He could acknowledge them, but he doesn’t. He grows angry at how alone he feels. He kicks the wall. He wants to just walk through the door, but he can’t. Kelly Frendo, Form V

Drawing by Jessica Mou, Form VII

Post Living When my arms extended, yours receded. When I poured out my words, your silences seeped through. Sounds filled my ears. Quiet was in your eyes. Kicks against my abdomen stop, and chaos in your stomach begins. My neurons busy with signals, your neurons dead silent. My bones frail in comparison to your calcium-filled tissues. So perhaps your stone-like features mirror our spring’s smile. Perhaps you are the image on a diverging lens, stuck between two focal points. Candy Rutihinda, Form VI

Empty and Alone I build, within, a tower that is not stone but a tower of loneliness, that continues to grow. As the months pass day by day, the emptiness overtakes me, and I am left with nothing but rhinestones and cheap furs. I am more nothing than nothingness, just like a pile of dust on the floor. As no one wants me and I continue to age, the light grows stronger, glaring on my face. The world decided to step on me, and crushed my very soul. My emotions are running dry, but I am not old. Kaitlin Carson, Form VI

The Dim Light He lay there gripping my hand, pressing his lips to my animosity, being endurable he thought could never be needed so near. When two becomes one, flames blend in, he gleams brighter, and holds it all together. I lay there. I just lay there. He smiles and, everything gets better. When the time to say goodbye comes, I pull him closer. I have him so close to me, that I can’t recognize anything else. I guess it’s decent to have someone so near, so clear, when everything else is a blur, and you defer all losses, except losing him. Renan Bolkan, Form VI

Alonely i sit alone overthinking IT all hoping for word word word word alone i think is alone alonely? or is alone just i? i wait for IT IT laughs at i

i wait for my person

i wait for i wait for i wait for

hope hearts I T

IT never finds me Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI Drawing by Kaitlin Carson, Form VI

Dinner and a Dance An excerpt from a short story by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VI

I had been working for Madame Crea for three weeks when she invited me to dinner. I was surprised by the invitation – delivered to the door of my room by an unknown servant – for Madame didn’t normally socialize with her maids. All I could do was hope for the best and try to impress her as much as possible.

Before I knew it, I had less than an hour to scrub my nails and brush my hair, and my hands trembled a bit as I did. Damn those nerves, I thought. It’s just a dinner, not an execution! Everything will be alright.

Drawings by Jiajia Ge, Form VI

The dining room must’ve been one of the grandest rooms in the manor. Portraits of porcelain-skinned, long-dead ancestors with high cheekbones adorned the burgundy walls, as well as the occasional painting of a stormy sea. The tiled floors seemed to glow from the light of the chandelier. I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice Madame Crea sitting in one of the mahogany chairs at the table. “Cassandra,” she said. “Please do join me.” Even with those few words I could sense the elegance in her tone. Her voice was still, but not entirely void of emotion. “Of course, Madame.” As soon as I glanced at her eyes, an intense sort of calm was instilled in me.

She was beautiful. There was no question about it. I couldn’t place her age – she was older than me, but I wouldn’t have been able to say by how much – but her face had a timeless quality to it. Her skin, just like her ancestors’, was very pale, but there was a slight pink flush beneath the white that the paintings would not be able to emulate. Her eyes were, quite literally, mesmerizing – they seemed to shift from grey to blue to green every second, but it might have been the candles playing tricks on my eyes. I felt the need to reach out to her, to run my fingers against her velvet dress, to undo her hair and watch it fall onto her back, to count the freckles on her lovely face, to watch her eyes change colours.

“I hope you’re hungry, Cassandra,” she said, interrupting my train of thought. The corner of her mouth was raised. She uncovered the plates one by one. Madame Crea – Odile – served me some meat and roasted vegetables. “What kind of meat is this?” I asked. “You wouldn’t know it,” she said, her plate empty. “I hunted it myself.” I took my first bite. It tasted like pork, but somewhat sweeter. It was absolutely delicious. “You know, this animal is a very intelligent one. It’s a shame that it becomes so stupid when it is being hunted,” she laughed, pouring me some wine. “I suppose you could say that it has a heightened sense of self-importance. It believes that there is no chance of it being hunted.”

“Tell me about your life back home,” she said halfway through the dinner. “I want to know more about you, Cassandra.” “There’s nothing much to know about,” I admitted. “You know, boring little village, parents who want to marry you off as soon as possible, aunts who care too much about your nonexistent sex life.” “Nonexistent?” The smile was back. My hands trembled ever so slightly. I wanted to bite my tongue. “Well – yes, that’s an accurate enough description.” “You never…” “No.” There was a pause. “Would you like to see the ballroom?”

Odile led me through the manor to the vast ballroom, where moonlight streamed in from the windows. I felt her hand on the small of my back as she brought me to the centre of the room. “Shall we dance?” she asked. “We have no music.” “Silence is beautiful enough.” She took my hand and placed hers on my waist, and I put mine on her shoulder. She led me in our silent waltz, watching my face the entire time. We crossed the entire room, the only sound being the swishing of our dresses against the floor.

“You are so lovely, Cassandra,” she murmured as we waltzed. “So lovely and pure. I truly enjoyed having dinner with you, but I’m afraid that’ll be the last time. You see, I can’t pass up a specimen like you.” I noticed that her hold on me was a bit firmer than it had been seconds ago. I drew my face closer to her, trying to decipher what she was about to say. “There’s something about you that makes you special, different from the other girls.” Was she choosing me? Was I to become more than just her maid? My heart quickened as I leaned towards her and — Blood. Everywhere. On the floor, on her dress, on her perfect face, on the knife she held in her hand. Odile Crea had slit my throat.

Drawing by Fengcheng Li, Form V

What About Hate? Hate is an emotion. Hate is my favourite word, so if I tell you that I hate you, you had better run far, far away. I’m not sure if hate is the smell of a wet dog in the oven, or if instead hate is the taste of a burned wheel in the morning. But what I do know for sure is that hate is a dead fish that still swims in the toilet, twirling round and round ’til it ends up down the pipe, and out. But if hate is all these things, what about hate, you and me? You tell me that you hate me, but I’m no fish, and I tell you the same, but you don’t run away. So could you please tell me what does that all mean? Ivannia Gomezgil Yaspik, Form V

Fear There are many fears, of this I am sure; I could probably fill a whole book, and what’s more, they’d all be real fears that real people have. Like needles that get stabbed into your calf. Like hairy things that crawl off into the night. Things that whistle, that chirp, and that bite. Yes, some people get scared from the silliest things. These fears all hurt, some scratch, and some sting. But we’re all different, no one can deny; some like big boats, while some like to fly. So we can’t really blame others for what they feared. Just the same as we can’t hate people who are weird. We can’t change others, nor the way that we are, and why would we want to, this way’s better by far. Let’s all just stop hating and calling out names. We’d all be much happier in a world without blame. Remember that when next you call someone fat, maybe you’re their fear, now think about that. I hope for your sake that’s the last time you call anyone any name. That’s right, any at all. Isolde Macfarlane, Form IV

Fading Night A flash,

bright red, light orange.

No clouds,

just a glimpse of stars Leaves in trees talk to each other the wind whispers calm. Birds raise their voices as I lower mine. So much beauty I see, brightest orange, lightest red, my mind drifts away at a mere glance of her resplendent strands of sun-touched hair. Daily,

yet always changing.

Beautiful,

yet always blinding. What a spectacle is dawn for those who are in love. Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte, Form VII

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

Grey Skies The child is a dreamer, the future is his present, he is the bird that soars the skies. He cries tears of plastic, but he is a sponge. His screams come back to hurt him, multiplying in severity, like a man listening to his dead heart, desperate to end the silence. He knows heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finished. These birds have been in their cages for too long. All they know is to sit and chirp. They once had potential, but now it is gone. The silence is like a homeless man looking for change, desperate for a second chance. Where did we go wrong? These birds cannot help but cry, cries of beautiful pain and blessed regret. Where did we go wrong? But now these birds have learned to fly. Pain is but a stone in their shoe. The pain hasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t become weaker but they have become stronger. Mohamed Alsawari, Form VI

The Butterfly Catcher They want us moulded, our bodies emptied like a barren cocoon – killing the butterfly that is unique and free; leaving the slow caterpillar to fall in line. But I will fly; a flying butterfly soaring high as the sky, immune from the demeaning presumptions, safe from their overbearing criticism. They catch us in our roaming, free fields; the cage – so cramped I can’t spread my wings, keeping us limited from our true potential. They will rise as others will comply and wilt away. But I will fly; breaking those bars that kept me compacted – spreading my wings and following my passions. I won’t be confined by their ideals. They will try again; stronger this time, putting us in jars and squeezing the lid tight. We will be put on display for the world to “admire,” but they will be passing comment on which they desire. But I will fly; shattering the glass with my voice of might. I won’t be the product of someone’s admirations. I will flutter; flutter above like a beautiful butterfly. Emily Ann Harnett, Form VI

Collage and painting by Anthony Herbst, Form III

Painting by Donovan Faraoni, Form V

Imagine It I gaze at the sunset – the red, the yellow, and the pink. I feel these colours reflecting in me. I spot a sun ray. It looks like a rocket shooting though the sky. I feel it blasting through me. I scan the sky to see more. I catch a glimpse of a flying bird flaunting its wings as he ascends. I feel my wings spreading and lifting me up, up, up in the air. Now I stare down to the blue and green of the Earth, and I feel as if the whole world belongs to me. Nikola Zemite, Form VII

A New Start The golden sun started rising from the horizon in endless shades of oranges, pinks and yellows. I’m the only witness to this beautiful scenery. To me, the sunrise represents all that is new, the beginning of a journey on which I am about to set foot. The silence is bliss. Only the sound of my own breath can be heard. In this moment, I feel new again. As the sun climbs higher in the sky, my thoughts become clearer. Its iridescence is comparable to medicine, with undeniable healing powers. I am alone on top of this mountain, with not a worry in the world. My problems left my thoughts and vanished all at once. This sunrise, the start of a new day, a new adventure, which I will remember forever. Mathilde Fugère, Form VI

The Museum Innocent and pristine, eternal gems jealously guarded by heart, soul and impassive glass. Gentle ripples swish soundlessly, warm summer breezes whistle a muted tune of carefree joy. Soundless splashes and wing slaps children’s laughter echoing down the time-mildewy halls. Larks, their small brown beaks open forever scaly diamondbacks, their rattles silenced forever. And regal blue herons, long necks and sharp beaks immobilized, forever. Frozen, proud-chested in mid-song, frozen, shiny-scaled, in mid-slither, frozen, intent on spearing the fish that never swims. Smilodon, Ursus Spelaeus, Yutyrannus skeletal spectres populating a great labyrinth. Reliquary of the Earth’s disappeared murky with ancients, posed and unchanging. The museum’s cases ever shielding the world inside from the new without. Donovan Faraoni, Form V

The Ducks in the Pond When a chilly breeze crawls into the city through the labyrinth of dirty houses and mucky streets it crawls in like vines over bricks. It claws past the little girl that’s skipping her way to school colliding with the young man in sorrow, whisking away his cigarette smoke, knocking off his red hat as it makes its way to the park. The breeze alerts them by softly rustling their feathers, they know now that the snow will fall and the ice will eat the pond. Together they align themselves and march. Through the park, they waddle in the neat little lines, as if lined up for a firing squad. Then they soar, diving up into the creamy sky, their wings dance across the sky until they are unreachable by eyes. We don’t know where they are going, or when they will get there, but we know that when the flowers find their way up through the snow, and the pond eats the ice, that they will return to their same pond, in the park surrounded by the smoggy city. As the spectators watch them take flight, the pure white flakes start to fall from heaven to impurity. Grace Gardner, Form V

Painting by Nicolas Fontaine, Form VI

Her

A short story by Jacobo Villalobos Ugarte, Form VII

he day after he left her, he woke up feeling empty. He felt a dense dark hole above his stomach that screamed with anger against the silence. He thought it would go away after a while. Days became months and months became years and the hole did nothing. It never grew. It never shrunk. He tried to fill it many times, in many ways. He attempted with vain material things but the hole was bottomless. He tried lighting it with love and happiness for it to go away, but the hole consumed that light after a while and came back with its overwhelming dark weight. The school trip to the mountain came. He had to go. He disliked the mountain. The same thing was done every year and he found nothing new. It was always misty and quiet. The tall trees were always lying dead still with no wind to move them. They appeared petrified. As always, the yellow school bus stopped at the foot of the mountain. Students formed groups of three or four and started to walk slowly towards the peak. He lumbered with people whose lights had already been consumed by the hole. In silence, he roamed for a few hours, following the footsteps of the grey carcasses that were once his friends. The group stopped for a rest but he kept walking. They called out for him but the roaring noise produced by the hole

silenced their voices. After a while he realized he had roamed off course for too long. He found himself surrounded by trees he had not seen before and large rocks that seemed all the same. He felt his sore feet suspended as if he were ﬂying and the earth giving in to his weight. Darkness surrounded him. He woke up not knowing what had happened. He struggled to sit up and saw nothing but emptiness in every direction. A vague light came in through the ceiling of the Earth’s newly discovered underground chamber. His numbed thigh was wet and warm. A large stake of old cedar had found its way into his flesh. He desperately screamed for help as he felt the scarlet liquid touch his calf. His fierce instinct of survival had lifted the weight of the hole for a second. After he lost his voice and exhausted the air in his lungs, the hole came back with crushing strength, and then, he heard it. For the first time in years. He heard it again, but he convinced himself it was his imagination. The obliterating silence of the vast cavern only made the hole’s roar greater. He looked in the dark at the vague reflection of himself projected by the small pool of shimmering red liquid. He saw himself in pain and crying, muttering a name he could not hear. He screamed again

as he pulled out the piece of wood and the smell of iron grew stronger as his life left him faster. He fainted for a second and heard it again. From the deepest place in the hole, it emerged. Her long forgotten warmth came to his mind. Her brown curly hair and her green eyes full of life appeared again. He screamed for her in despair. He waited for an answer but nothing happened. Her voice became softer. He screamed again but the whisper was fading. He tried to stand, but his good leg held no strength and he fell to his face. The cold rock stood in his way and with a big hug it stopped his fall. Her voice was almost gone. He looked up and saw himself standing there, before him in the dark. He

was trying to say something. He used every bit of strength he had left to hear over the screams of the hole. It was her name. He painfully turned and looked at the small ray of light that broke through the caveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ceiling. He felt the hole closing while tears filled his eyes. He broke the silence to ask her for forgiveness. He knew he should have been there. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forgive himself. He had been selfish. He knew she had asked for him but he had allowed his fear to stop him from seeing her. The hole was now closed. His life now painted in red against the cold rock. He said he was sorry for the last time and allowed himself to drown his thoughts in the darkness as he prepared himself to see his mother again. Drawing by Muxian Chen, Form VI

The Poet He sits at a throne where he is slave to his canvas, an expressionist lost in logic, an engraver without a chisel. He is lost in a labyrinth of ink. A victim to his parchment, like a Greek scribe with nothing to note. Adventure from a single mind blinds his view. Walls stuck together with straw and glue cover his eyes of mist. A feather, lighter than air, sits in his hand, waiting like a servant waits to be ordered by his master. Like a deep sea diver he searches for pearls, something so precious and impossible that can slip like steam through your sticky fingers. His hands are at his cracked typewriter. The ideas will begin to come like a mid-January sunrise. But until they form, he simply waits. Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

Implicit Impertinence They say that only good people can write but that’s not true ’cause you’re still reading this. We’re all the same sick-minded folks despite claiming we are our own adept genius. Superiority is a chess match; just fake slow moves and bluff a huge end-game. This way you’ll see to each your word they’ll latch, inept, a useless insect with no name. Intricate art is not tongue meant to bind, nor a strong wall to be built up for such that those who read will brand you of great mind. It’s print on paper: simply just that much. We sing a song nobody ever wrote, and yet somehow end up on the same note. Julia Coote, Form VII

Poetry Poetry is like a sculpture. The sculpture is already inside the stone; you just need to carve it out. But not everybody is a sculptor, or is educated in the craft. Some are thinkers, some are professors; others use their skills to construct, and others use their abilities to destroy. But even if you are as brave as a lion, as tactful as an FBI agent, or as wild and creative as a midsummer nightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s storm, it takes real talent to craft good poetry. James Hunt, Form V

Pantheism I dive into the unknown darkness of myself, disappearing from the world of chaos where all that is seen is merely shadow created by the moving figures that are not observed. There is a striking bonfire that emanates blinding light behind mesmerizing figures. I flow in the mazarine water filled with clots of my soul and that leads me through a dirty tunnel. I smell the bitter sins of my past, I touch my muddy thoughts, I see the amorphous sorrow of humanity. But the powerful stream of volition pulls me forward, abstracting from the known world. I see that clots become odorous orchids. I smell the freshness of an infant. I touch his smooth and virgin skin. I am deep enough to see the Initial Cause that dwells in me. Amir Ganiev, Form VII

Autumn Leaves fall in autumn, like crazy toddlers running from their parents, like embers of a campfire on a summer night, like little capsules dropping from the branches above, like humans jumping off a diving board, like a butterfly fluttering down to the ground, like pinecones plummeting from the grasp of a squirrel. Luke Fedida, Form V

Where the Wild Things Grow There is a place, where the world; collapses. A place where the birds sing brightly and loudly. A place ďŹ lled with leaves that glisten in the harsh spring air of the morning sun. A place where the stream water ďŹ&#x201A;ows in an almost completely straight line, down the hill and through the roots of towering trees that stand keeping guard of the forest. A place where the squirrels and chipmunks play wildly, chirping and screeching at each other as they run through the maples. A place where the earth is as alive as everything atop it; the worms, fungi, and insects scurrying in, around, and of the ground. A place where even the darkest thoughts go to rest, among the willows. Jessica Pigeon, Form V

Painting by Defne Basaran, Form V

Lilac Tree Walking down the crowded street, a smell fills my nose. It reminds me of her. The scent I smelled when she would give me comforting hugs, the smell engrained in the soft wool sweaters she knitted me. I then reminisce on the numerous moments we’ve spent together. The times when we would bake all day, the times when she would read Little Red Riding Hood to me. It is a particular smell. I can smell the flowery essence of the perfume. This essence reminds me of the beautiful lilac tree, situated next to her welcoming house. It is gorgeous and filled with beautifully coloured flowers. We would make bouquets using the wonderfully perfumed flowers. Now every time I smell this perfume, I think of her. Bénédicte Fugère, Form V

Flowerbed Life is a garden and we are the flowers. We sprout weak and minute compared to the world around us, our petals fall and rot as our days waste away. We are crushed under the unbearable weight of the neighbouring roots yet we must stand tall. We draw strength from our sun, the cold of sorrow and the heat of rage shall only fuel us. In this garden we must decide early on in our lives whether we shall wilt and rot, or whether we shall endure, and bloom like a mid-summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rose. Pierre Anglade, Form V

Photograph by Alice Kuo, Form VII

The Window A wave of nostalgia sweeps over me and engulfs me like a tidal bore at high noon. I gaze down the hallway, the hallway that intimidated me, that grew to become a part of me, that no longer means anything to me. My eyes gaze past the hallway, past the confinements of the building, past the confinements of this year, as they give reins to my mind. My mind is a shooting gallery of ecstasy, of sorrow, of jubilance, of heartbreak. I am at a loss for words as I leave for the last time. While a door opens wide, the window finally closes. Matthew Marier, Form VII

Ma vie, aujourd’hui Je suis née aujourd'hui, et je trouve que l’enfance est simple, amusante. Avec des couleurs brillantes et de grandes souris : je ne veux pas vieillir. Maintenant je suis une adolescente, et la vie est compliquée. J’en ai fini avec l’amour, les hormones et l’embarras : je suis prête à vieillir. Aujourd’hui, mes 20 ans sont arrivés, et tout est plus ou moins clair. Je crois que je suis prête à vivre, et je suis maintenant prête pour l’amour. Mes 30 ans sont encore meilleurs parce que j’ai un amoureux que j’aime bien. Je suis dans la lune, comme si je suis toujours dans un rêve. Mes 40 ans ne sont pas aussi bons ; mes amis me manquent. Mon amour n’est pas là, et je suis fatiguée de ma vie quotidienne. Maintenant, j’ai 50 ans et les choses sont moins compliquées. Ma crise de la quarantaine est finie et la vie s’améliore. Pendant ma soixantaine, je commence à comprendre mon importance. Je serai ici encore quelque temps, mais je sens que mes jours sont comptés. J’ai 70 ans et mes os commencent à être plus frêles et je suis plus fatiguée. Mais je n’ai pas fini, je voudrais vivre mes derniers jours du mieux que je le peux. 80 ans aujourd’hui, et je comprends maintenant que la vie est courte. Je suis encore plus déterminée à aider les autres autour de moi. 90 ans. Je tiens à dire à mon amour que je l’aime encore. Je suis prête pour la fin, mais j’ai besoin de le voir une dernière fois avant de partir. Aujourd’hui, la mort est venue, avant l’heure de mon 100e anniversaire. J’étais prête à partir avec elle, mais pas les personnes autour de moi. La vie est une chose compliquée. Faire tout ce que l’on peut, c’est ce qui est le mieux. Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

Photograph by Alice Kuo, Form VII

Buried Beneath Love The truth stares – more lies. Tries to smile. But sinks and dies A blanket of roses melts to the ground. Cold stones are two, Together yet S R E A P T A E In grayish graves, alone and waiting. Pending more revenging, She against him… still awaiting more vengeful. For her murderer is – Dead – Beneath the ground. Next to her pending his next attack. More love was express than hate, but that love was the key to her fate. A wound of bullet – A stab of knife – Was the end of their quarrel and their kiss goodnight. Emily Ann Harnett, Form VI

Silent Weight It was not coincidence that caused this. The banging of words like the pounding on a closed door. The heavy stares that carry more than they should. In a room full of people, we are tethered. We revolve around each other, the unspoken and unperformed actions keep us connected. I can see you trying to break me, as if it would sever the connection to fall into her arms so readily. But it is nothing compared to the ponderous silence that we hold close to our hearts. The sound of your voice, your laugh reaches me in my dreams. I do not wish to wake as what awaits me is dreadful, infuriating. I cannot stand to see the end of this, this empty presence like the space between lightning and thunder, electrified and alive, but silent and knowing. It is easier on my own. The weight between us does not hold me down like the snow burying the roses through the relentless winter that is you and me. Kaitlin Corbeil, Form VII

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

The One Life Beyond Us Death is a thing of impossible comprehensibility. A bower of complete silence, giving enough time to remember, and unfortunately regret. From the cradle to the coffin, the soul dreams but the carcass gradually falls apart. Loveliness slowly decreases, making room for the phase of nothingness, and ends with this strange loneliness. Down in the cold ground below, the haunting soul frequently surfaces keeping in some way the mind awake in this pristine mysterious dwelling. This afterlife sentence is served in a wooden chest leaving enough time for ambiguity to slightly make its way into the mind, and steal its most precious memories. Leaving then the soul with no other option than going through this eternal, and restless wait. Pascal Valcourt, Form VII

Planting Life – Planting Death I saw it coming before it came – the scene was set and darkness overtook – rain deluged over the garden of death – my eternal abode freed – as the cherub interposed his arm – Haltingly – their steps seemingly coincided – procession in order – farewells were welcomed. Grieving drops intertwined with the sky’s tears which grant life to the perennial colours of spring – Gentlewoman she was – she is – her mourning clothes pristine, she whispered the depth of the heart – salient, the depth of her traversing roots – vital. Then – it fell – the blanched lily of immortality. I lay in the wonder of the unknown. Nor life – nor death – shall conquer thee. Into the wild blue yonder – I will be. Nicholas Cormier, Form VII

Si je meurs Si je meurs, et que, toi, tu vives, laisse le temps avancer. Le soleil va se lever, les saisons vont changer. Mais pense à moi. Si je meurs, et si tu te souviens de moi, Je serai heureuse. Et si tu m’oublies, Je comprendrai ton choix. Si je meurs, sache que cette vie, n’est que le début. Il y a plus grand. Le cœur de mon âme continue à battre. Si je meurs, et que, toi, tu vives, n’aie pas peur car, un jour, ma chère amie, nous serons ensemble encore une fois. Emma Page, Form VI

I Remember I stand in front of your tombstone, and as a tear runs down my cheek, I remember those days when we were kids living on a dead-end street, chasing our shadows across the meadow. I wish I could jump on a train and never look back, but I remember those days being much easier, much calmer. It seemed like we had an answer to every question and that the world belonged to us, and us only. It’s like the days are colder since you left, but it’s simply that you are frozen in my memory, and as I look back in the rear-view mirror, I know the view used to be much clearer. I took a walk to clear my head, and this is where the walking led, so all I’ll do is sit right here by your side, and as the sun goes down, I’ll remember. Pascal Valcourt, Form VII Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

The Road I peer up from the dash for a quick second and catch her glancing from a distance back at me. It’s an awkward glance. It doesn’t appear smoothly like it did in years past. The rattle and hum of the old Ford motor putters out as I come to a dead stop. I shut the engine off and make direct eye contact with her now. Nothing needs to be said when there’s a history so extensive, a bond unbreakable between the two of us. Her silence speaks volumes louder than any conversation could. I embrace the moment, for I’m not around often anymore. Maybe the distance between us makes these encounters mean so much more. Matthew Marier, Form VII

Photograph by Emma Bea Crowther, Form VI

Index by author Allatt, Emma Desire........................................... 19 Alsawari, Mohamed Grey Skies.................................... 70 Anglade, Pierre Flowerbed..................................... 83 Heads or Tails.............................. 31 Bélair-Rivard, Antoine Everyday...................................... 94 Water............................................ 49 Bendy, Zoë Simple Earth............................... 20 Something...................................... 7 Bolkan, Renan The Burden...................................11 The Dim Light............................. 60 Carson, Kaitlin Empty and Alone......................... 60 Underwater.................................. 48 Chen-See, Benjamin Dame Blanche.............................. 25 Coote, Julia The Hand..................................... 46 Implicit Impertinence.................. 78 Corbeil, Kaitlin Silent Weight................................ 87 Cormier, Nicholas Planting Life – Planting Death... 88 Crowther, Emma Bea Alonely......................................... 61 First Sense................................... 30 Ma vie, aujourd’hui..................... 85 The Poet....................................... 78 Faraoni, Donovan The Eighth Continent.................. 22 The Museum................................ 74 Fedida, Luke Autumn........................................ 80 The Calm Before the Storm......... 26 Fortin Xu, Maia Fame For All................................ 17 A Glossary.................................... 35 Sweet............................................ 24 What I Hold Healed..................... 25

Frendo, Kelly Alone in the Rye........................... 59 Nature’s Miracle.......................... 10 Fugère, Bénédicte Lilac Tree..................................... 82 Fugère, Ludovic Mixed Emotions........................... 57 Fugère, Mathilde A New Start................................. 73 Ganiev, Amir Acceptance.................................... 41 Harmony...................................... 21 Intersects...................................... 35 Pantheism.................................... 79 Gardner, Grace The Ducks in the Pond................ 74 Papa............................................. 36 Gomezgil Yaspik, Ivannia What About Hate?........................ 67 Harnett, Emily Ann Buried Beneath Love................... 86 The Butterfly Catcher.................. 71 Tears of the Womb........................ 19 Hunt, James Aspirations................................... 30 Poetry........................................... 79 Unto the Breach........................... 39

Page, Emma Si je meurs................................... 89 Painchaud, Olivier Chrysalis...................................... 54 Pigeon, Jessica Buildings..................................... 14 Where the Wild Things Grow...... 80 Plante-Wiener, Leah Dinner and a Dance...............62–65 Judgement Day.......................44–45 So That My Ankles Did Not Give Way................... 15 Price, Tom The Signature that Saved a Million Lives........................... 38 Rioux, Ann Elizabeth In the Name of Love..................... 34 Rougerie, Julien Continuum..............................50–51 Firestarter.....................................11 The Ringer................................... 42 Rutihinda, Candy Post Living................................... 60 Raven........................................... 14 Stanley, Joshua Creating Your Own Lens............. 54 Pass On to the Following............ 58

Izaguirre Pascua, Nicolas It Rained...................................... 59

Stevenson, Dakota Raindrops.................................... 49

Macfarlane, Isolde Burn So Bright.............................11 Fear.............................................. 67 The Sound of Heartbreak.......12–13

Ten, Nikita Children of War........................... 38 Our Broken World....................... 19

Marier, Matthew The Beast..................................... 40 Using Logic.................................. 27 The Road...................................... 90 The Window................................. 84 Merrithew, Trinity-Ann The Watchers............................... 43 Mou, Jessica Grown........................................... 41 In the Arms of the Water............. 48 Nause, Ryan My Memory.................................. 29 The Old Boy................................. 36

Tesolin, Fausta Time............................................. 57 Uras, Doga Si un jour..................................... 57 Valcourt, Pascal I Remember.................................. 89 The One Life Beyond Us.............. 88 Villalobos Ugarte, Jacobo Fading Night............................... 68 Her...........................................76–77 Volcano......................................... 21 White Death................................. 47 Zemite, Nikola Imagine It................................ 73

Index by artist Allatt, Emma Beach.......................................48–49 Busy Street................................... 18 Basaran, Defne In the Trees.................................. 81 Carson, Kaitlin Stung............................................ 61 Chen, Muxian Girl............................................... 77 Rose.............................................. 34 Crowther, Emma Bea Black and White.....................88–89 Moon........................................68–69 Out Is Through.......................90–91 Shadowy...................................... 24 White............................................ 87 Di Fiore, Francesca Vogue.......................................16–17 Duan, Haibin Boy...........................................32–33 Faraoni, Donovan By The Sea................................... 15 Sun and Sea................................ 72

Fischer, Lukas Hand............................................ 46

Page, Emma Blind............................................ 55

Fontaine, Nicolas Eye...........................................40–41 House............................................ 75 Mountain..................................... 20

Plante-Wiener, Leah Ferris Wheel............................26–27 Frida............................................ 31 Heart............................................ 13

Fugère, Mathilde Popeye.......................................... 37

Schwegmann, Liv Starry.......................................cover

Gardner, Grace Phoenix......................................... 10

Shi, Rui Wreath.......................................... 94

Ge, Jiajia Horror Series..........................62–65

Ten, Nikita War............................................... 38

Harnett, Emily Ann Skull............................................. 56

Xu, Minqi Garden........................................... 6 Wings.......................................42–43

Herbst, Anthony Silhouette................................70–71 Kuo, Alice Green.......................................82–83 Window........................................ 84 Li, Fengcheng Fish.............................................. 66

Zhang, Haonan Bag............................................... 23 Zhu, Frank Sky..........................................44–45 Snow............................................. 28

Mou, Jessica Angel............................................ 58

Everyday Everyday, I get closer to it – the end, but also the beginning – beginning of something great, something secret. God knows what it is. I can feel it in my bones; the change, the excitement takes me to another level. Lying on my back in the village where I was born, I look at the future, but can’t find an answer. When I look at the future, I can see my past. Does that mean that since day one I was actually building my future? They say everything happens for a reason, but will I ever know what this reason was? The fear of the unknown doesn’t get to me, because I believe – I believe that what life has planned for me will be best for me. Antoine Bélair-Rivard, Form VII

Painting by Rui Shi, Form VII

Inscape

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2016–2017

Volume XXXV

Inscape