Inscape
Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2018–2019
Inscape Volume XXXVII
Inscape Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2018–2019 Volume XXXVII
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, Tim Doherty, Victoria Hill, François Jean Jean, Cloe Jones, Marianne Laramée, Tyler Lewis, Sheila Lyster, Miranda McGie, Régine Mesnil, Jennifer Monk, Linda Rodeck, Heather Rothney, Dan Rujoi, François Tessier, Curtis Triol and Janet Turcot Vukovic. 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.
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From the editors… Often, when we begin writing, we have no idea what we are going to end up writing about, but sometimes it can turn out to be quite lovely. Inscape was like that. We had no idea what we were getting into. We didn’t know what reading the glimpses of people’s lives would mean, but it ended up being truly powerful. This book is a string of beautiful things— beautiful miseries and beautiful loves, beautiful realities and beautiful fantasies, beautiful details that make each page inviting. So, please, when you read the words on these pages, allow yourself to feel the isolation, the passion, the hurt, the anger, the sorrow, the betrayal, and the hope, because these words were written, not just to be read, but to be felt. —Cala & Vio
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Our Gardens Within Table of Contents Wallflower Complexity, Sebastian Colley............................8 Blossoming, Natalia Marcelin..........................9 A Certain Calm, Anthony Herbst....................10 deepest darkest secrets, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana....................... 11 Grey, Izzy Macfarlane......................................12 Cosmic Thoughts, Justine Soucy....................13 Alone, Please, Joudy Alsawari.......................14 Move-In Day, Sophie Legler............................15 Squint, Grace Gardner....................................16 Pessimistic Holiday, Elizabeth Couture..........17 The Dark Side of the Moon, Lauralie Johnson......................................18 aspectu., Grace Bilodeau.................................20 Aveugle, Timothy-Paul Chevalier...................22 Depression, Yewon Chang...............................22 Passion Flower Insatiable, Timothy-Paul Chevalier................26 Everlasting Love, Xinyi Lu.............................26 The Rose and the Dandelion, Fausta Tesolin...........................................27 Kiss, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana...............28-29 For Love is Stronger Than War, Priscilla Allatt...........................................30 Ground Control, Grace Gardner.....................30 Our Embrace, Joudy Alsawari.......................31 Wither, Kelly Frendo........................................31 Summer, Mary Zhu.........................................32 The Giving Time, Simon Couroux..................32 Alive, Izzy Macfarlane.....................................33 Hug Me Back, Grace Gardner.........................34 Absolu, Timothy-Paul Chevalier.....................34
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Bleeding Heart Coiled, Timothy-Paul Chevalier......................38 Stitches, Natalia Marcelin..............................38 The Scars You See (and Those You Don’t), Sophie Legler.............................................39 Refusal to Play, Catherine Vine.......................40 For Reasons Unknown, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez...........................41 Your Empty Heart, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana.......................42 Picture Perfect, Jurney Lavoie-Condo............42 Queen of Hearts, Fausta Tesolin....................43 Mon cœur est bleu pour Peggy Blue, Aidan Condo..............................................44 Accepted Vacuum, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez...........................45 Stinging Nettle Like Every Good Masochist, Cala Tesolin......48 Ugliest Desire, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana....48 “Please don’t do it”, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez...........................49 Burdened Shoulders, Aidan Feddema............50 Grounded, Valeriia Kulik................................50 La mort, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana..............53 Left Me Forever, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez.....53 piercing., Grace Bioldeau................................53 Dora the Jailbird, Sophie Legler.....................54 The Puppeteer, Fausta Tesolin.......................55 Un équilibre fragile, Priscilla Allatt...............55 When I’m Whipped, Tyrin Culmer..................56 Retaliation, Aliyah Osman..............................56 On the Art of Dying, Cala Tesolin...................57 Our Lips Kissed, Aidan Condo.......................58 Mr. Potato Head, Tyrin Culmer......................59
Weeping Willow Low Tide, Kelly Frendo...................................62 To Love Makes One Solitary, Catherine Vine...........................................63 A Boy’s Best Friend, Aidan Feddema........64-65 Rising of the Sun, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana......................66 The Gone Girl, Catherine Vine........................67 Wings Full of Blood, Natalia Marcelin...........67 Alzheimer’s, Ivannia Gomezgil Yaspik...........67 Forget-Me-Not Shells By the Shore, Justine Soucy................70 Snow, Jurney Lavoie-Condo............................70 Her Single Room, Dazheng Huang.................71 A Look Back, Tyrin Culmer.............................72 Make a Wish, Justine Soucy...........................72 Forgetting, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana..........73 Where’d You Go? Kelly Frendo........................74 Where Are You? Aidan Feddema....................74 Impact, Grace Gardner....................................77 The Story of Awakening, Valeriia Kulik.........77 Eyes Closed, Lauralie Johnson.......................78 Safe With You, Zuzanna Skolimowska...........79 A Gift for Heaven, James Hunt......................80 curtains., Grace Bilodeau................................81 Baby’s Breath Away from Hell, Cala Tesolin.........................84 Canadian Heaven, Jesse Johnson...................85 Naturesque, Paul Akinwunmi........................85 Motherly Love, Aidan Feddema.....................87 Microscopic, Jurney Lavoie-Condo.................87 Electric Storm, Priscilla Allatt.......................87 Oma, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana..............88-89 A Whale Cannot Be Conjured, Priscilla Allatt...........................................90 Another Heart, Yewon Chang.........................91 The Truth About Childhood, Anthony Herbst.........................................91 Of Glowing Paint, Justine Soucy....................92 White Pine, Aidan Feddema...........................94 The Best Woman in the World, Mary Zhu.....94 Youth, Sophie Legler........................................96 Ripple, Cala Tesolin....................................98-99 A Poet’s Bloodstream, Cala Tesolin..............102
Editors: Cala Tesolin Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana Inscape Staff: Grace Bilodeau Timothy-Paul Chevalier Mélissa Jodoin Jesse Johnson Artists: Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez Priscilla Allatt Joudy Alsawari Suzan Axu Lucia Callado Guerra Jackson Carter Jiajia Ge Léa Gosselin Shelby Gosselin-Chute Cyril Jebousek Fengcheng Li Izzy Macfarlane Natalia Marcelin Fiona Mercure Jolie Nguyen Lingyu Qu Sayaka Saito Natalia Stieglitz Ruiz Jie (Coco) Wang Faculty Advisor: Scott Kelso
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Wallflower
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Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
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Complexity He slowly awoke—deep within his cocoon. Heartbeats resounded in his chest as he was enveloped by the delicate membrane that surrounded his soul. Nature’s music eased into his ears mirroring liquid gold being poured into a funnel. He heard the meditative rush of a stream, the soothing hum of wildlife and the wind rustling through the trees. Suddenly, a particular hush overcame him. Chills ran down his spine. His visions filled with pure ecstasy vanished in a heartbeat. He was pushed by an invisible hand, into the unknown. As he fell from his tree, his vision sharpened. He began to see the world’s most acute details— every curve, every edge, became apparent— whilst descending to the unknown. The wind rushed along his back. His muscles eased into place. The air began to feel lighter as he began soaring with exhilaration. As he flew above the clouds, he promised himself that he would never forget his home. The privilege of loneliness in the sky is a gift he can never repay. Sebastian Colley, Form VII
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Drawing by Suzan Axu, Form VI
Blossoming She is sheltered from the world in a bud, until sunshine rays hit her soft petals and rain filters down her vessels. She is open and wounded, yet kissed by bees, her scent accompanied by that of myrtle, lilies and daffodils. Withered dandelions fly in the wind, dancing leaves follow their rhythm. The trilling of birds makes them dance. She is now unafraid to blossom, to open her soft and wounded petals to the world, learning that she is sheltered by that which surrounds her. As seasons passed, her petals fell and she learned to let go of her beauty. That beauty became part of the world. Natalia Marcelin, Form VII
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A Certain Calm What does this man have if not his walls? These four walls marking the last of the evidence that he was ever even here. These walls, faded and worn through time, bear the stains of parenthood, the claw marks of marriage, and all the rest of it. They used to be a proud symbol, one of triumph, they stood tall, protecting what was his. Now they stand, no longer proud; nevertheless, they stand. They are a symbol of his sorrow, of his life collapsing, the walls slowly moving in, like a predator, ready at any moment to declare him insane. In contradiction, he finds comfort within these four walls, in the fact that they are his, that even in death, his memory is eternally bound to its plaster. He finds comfort in that small space, that tiny speck of his universe. But it was his. And what does this man have if not his walls? For he can sit with his head pressed into a corner, and despite the fact that he has nothing left, he can find a certain calm. A certain calm. Anthony Herbst, Form V
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Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
deepest darkest secrets
I am consumed by battles in my head, pulling me left and right as far as the eye can see, I think they may better be left unsaid. Those who surround me go ahead, but I stay here under lock and key. I am consumed by battles in my head. My doubts leave me hanging by a thread; any sudden gust of wind and I’d be lost at sea. I think they may better be left unsaid. I thought I liked him, but maybe I like her instead. Oh, how simple it used to be. I am consumed by battles in my head. The labels and judgments, I dread, of my deepest darkest secrets, here next to me in bed. I think they may better be left unsaid. Although I am supported, not left for dead, I am stuck here, between the devil and the deep blue sea. I am consumed by battles in my head. I think they may better be left unsaid. Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
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Grey It seems to me that people have a need for every hue. Sometimes their day goes yellow, and sometimes they’re feeling blue. But if every single colour’s for a different state of mind, wouldn’t they all be different? One that’s harsh and one that’s kind? There’d be colours for your joy, and there’d be colours for your gloom; there’d be colours that aren’t strong yet, there’d be colours in full bloom. And if all these things are true— (hazy shades and clear ones too)— surely there must be a middle ground that isn’t green or blue. It’s not purple or a yellow, and it wouldn’t be a red. It does not seem to have feeling, leaving nothing in its stead. It is a simple space of air: a breath of mist, a stretch of bare. Taking nothing, leaving nothing, no spangly sparkles, no special flare. It is just a blank, a dead end, somewhere to pass the day. Nothing starts and nothing ends. Nothing happens when you’re grey. Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
–12– Painting by Jackson Carter, Form III
Cosmic Thoughts You live in a universe more expansive than your mind can comprehend, but, if stars are thoughts, what are you? And who is the creator? The earth is an idea, the stars passing thoughts, and you?
Painting by Jolie Nguyen, Form VI
A speck. And yet, even a speck may contain a whole other universe filled with stars and planets of its own, and to that universe, you are the creator. Justine Soucy, Form V
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Alone, Please No one’s around No one’s looking I’m alone I feel Serene, Safe, Secluded from everything And anything That just lasted a moment I snap back Back to reality Someone, Everyone is watching me There was a party Take me away from here We ate, they laughed But soon I’m back to my magic place And nothing surrounds me Joudy Alsawari, Form IV
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
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Move-In Day She stood among them, feeling as out of place as Martha Stewart must have felt when first walking into federal prison. She kept her eyes locked on her broken-in loafers as her face turned Louboutin red with shame, wishing that she would have opted for more age-appropriate shoes so she wouldn’t stick out as much. Why didn’t I wear my Converse or my Superstars?! She felt their eyes, travelling up and down her body, the same way a sedan circles around the same crowded boulevard searching for a parking spot, but never finding one. She felt alone, like how a Costco food stand worker must feel when they are assigned vegan cheese for the day. Staring out at the human version of Warhol’s soup cans, all identical except their names, the girl couldn’t help but compare herself to them.
Her analysis of the half dozen teenagers was as meticulous as a middle schooler’s dissection of a frog. Intrigued yet disgusted. They all wore sweatpants, but still looked put together, which made her all the more uncomfortable. A first-grader’s macaroni project next to the overpriced sculptures of a deceased artist, she thought. She had a habit of self-deprecation. Like Jim Gaffigan. But she never did it for a laugh. Not much made her laugh lately, actually. Even “The Big Bang Theory” didn’t cut it anymore. She perpetually felt the way a Sam Smith song sounds, and she didn’t know what to do about it. And the girls she was now flatmates with weren’t gonna help. Sophie Legler, Form VII
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Squint In bed you lie but not to sleep, like the living dead you are awake in your coffin, for you never sleep anymore. A new exciting paper awaits, seducing your eyes, from the beacon of light shining into your room. Every now and then you glance down at the outlines of your figures, softly hugged by the glow, moving from letter to letter, much too swiftly for your tired eyes to follow. Like cunning little spiders tap-dancing across a stage. You glance up to see what you have written, but the words are starting to get buried in the candescent white snowy screen. Squinting, your eyelids wrap around, like guards protecting a castle, the moat fills with salty water until it trickles down your cheeks. With every passing minute they feel like marble spheres, but like an obscene catastrophe, you can’t look away, like staring at an angel, the only creature in existence, while your mind is shutting down your vision is on fire, you peer through shadows or your eyelashes, trapped in gaze throughout the night. Grace Gardner, Form VII
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Drawing by Jiajia Ge, Form VII
Pessimistic Holiday Onto the think beige carpet, we enter. Kisses are distributed like textbooks on the first day of school to people we haven’t seen since last year. We smile. All you need is a handful of ribbon and boxes to dispense. Ask us if we need help in the kitchen; it’s courteous. Greet cousins and aunts at the door; it’s mannerly. Together we gather around a departed bird. He and the weather may be the only subjects of conversation. There is nothing to say really, but we manage to fill in the blanks. As a fork tinkles on a crystal flute, familiar faces rise. An emotional elder stands in the crowded room. Here it goes again, the well-known Christmas sermon. Later we find my aunt sobbing over a wine glass, drowning her tears in costly champagne, and ripping apart the mistletoe on her way. After the hug giveaway, we yawn our way to sleep and in the itchy sheets of our basement bedroom, I open my ears wide, hoping for Santa to take me far away. Elizabeth Couture, Form VI –17–
The Dark Side of the Moon As the sunset was sparkling on her cheeks, she felt invincible. The sun was giving her courage to be the best version of herself. In the brightness of this divine light, in front of the public eye, she seemed perfect but inside, her fear of the night was weighing heavily onto her shoulders. Maybe the light of the sun hid all the imperfections of human nature. It blinded everything one wanted to mask, but as soon as the sun was bowing to the horizon, the moon was waking up to shine a light onto the unseen part of us. The moon is a hypocrite; no one had seen its hidden face, yet it did not bother to conceal others’ secrets. Everyone has a private garden. In the daytime, this garden grows, fed by the sun’s heat, but when the night comes, the cold invades the rusted roots of our souls reminding mortals that perfection is only temporary under the daylight. Lauralie Johnson, Form VII
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Drawing by Fengcheng Li, Form VII
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aspectu.
intoxication through means by which strangers formulate into shadows, as viewpoints fade in and out of a blur. one cracked window exemplifies a reflection of a soul twice-removed from wholeness. frames reduced to plastic and glass, an inevitability after one too many dances with the devil. clocks spinning, losing control, losing time, losing myself. beauty, a matter of non-existence, rather than that of sight. darkened fog creeping in through corners, waiting to cripple those it touches. pressured, forced into trespassing paths of those found within the crowd. the mob surrounding, engulfing me whole. past lovers preparing to pounce, devour me as an entirety. faces moulding into focus, out of focus. watching them back eagerly, with an indescribable hunger, their presence plainly apparent as gray auras surround their figures. peasants, dressed up for a show. clearly, modesty may not exist in a world with those who exist purely as prey. a railing, a challenge, a plunge. Grace Bilodeau, Form VII –20–
Painting by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VI
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Aveugle Hier, j’étais sourd; le vent glacial engourdissait mes oreilles, la douce solitude tenait mon existence dans ses mains avec une tendresse hors de ce monde; et un blanc d’une telle simplicité donnait une complexité si profonde à la vie. Ce blanc et ses camarades inhumains qui sortaient tout ce qui avait d’humain en moi, Ironique.
Où suis-je? Qui suis-je? Hier, les réponses à ces questions se trouvaient si aisément en ma possession. Le silence me permettait de voir tout au clair— aujourd’hui, ce tintamarre de lumières me prive de toute vision—rendant les réponses hors de toute connaissance.
Aujourd’hui, je suis aveugle; le soleil brille, mais n’éclaire point de chemin. Le goût du miel donné à mes lèvres, ne se rendant point à mon Cœur. Je regarde dans le miroir; je ne me vois plus, je ne vois plus rien, plus de couleurs, seulement de la noirceur; un noir si mat, si mort, perdu en plein milieu de tous les fous rires et les sourires.
Quand je ne verrai plus de noir, je ne verrai point. Le jour où que je serais normal sera bel et bien celui de ma mort. Ce jour où tous mes sens périront en harmonie. Ce jour qui n’est ni aujourd’hui, ni hier, ni demain. Et pourtant, dois-je me compter perdu ou trouvé? Ma vie, elle se trouve dans quelles mains? Timothy-Paul Chevalier, Form VII
Depression Looking for a place to hide, deep and sequestered, where no one could find, where no one could follow. Start to dig the ground, soon a dent is created, then a bigger hole; barely suitable. Concealed in the hole, narrowly breathing. Still hearing laughter, fighting against happiness. The pain increases, begin to dig for a more secluded area. There’s no light, sound or a temptation of happiness. Confined place, without having any contact with anyone, locked up in one spot, with a silence and loneliness, glancing in the direction, waiting for the sun to light up, too exhausted to ask for help, thus expecting to be saved from poignant torment. Yewon Chang, Form V
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Drawing by Natalia Marcelin, Form VII
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Passion Flower
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Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
Insatiable The more he knows her, the less he knows her. He admires her smile, paved with shiny metal tracks. That smile that gives him the desire to know more. He looks into her eyes, striving to see deeper, striving to see her soul, but he is distracted by her beauty. Defense after defense, he senses he will never reach the heart of this castle. He thinks of giving up, but then she smiles again and that feeling reappears. The feeling of insatiable curiosity, that pushes him to want to know every inch of her body, every corner of her mind, every vessel in her heart. That curiosity, led by raging love, burning like a supernova, reappears. That hunger, to know who she is, to gain her trust, to make her feel, grows. And that quest, to discover the treasure hidden deep down, commences once again. Timothy-Paul Chevalier, Form VII
Everlasting Love
Turning and turning in the widening gyre, I kiss the last snow of midsummer. The vague dirge singing by the nymphs falls from heaven, I hear the winter coming. Winter that made us meet, winter when I bid farewell to all the living things. Drowning in beautiful lies, I listen to the blooming of fleurs-de-lis. Millions of stars flicker in the galaxy, they eavesdrop our endless tender whispering. We stroll under the starry sky, you depict our future like a fantasy. Time with obvious malice slowly passes me by, I watch my flame burn out gradually. Memories spin around madly, a feeble smile stays on my pale cheek. I will always be your Daisy girl and you will always be my Gatsby. Your lips move, slowly murmuring something forming words, which I cannot see. Xinyi Lu, Form VII –26–
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
The Rose and the Dandelion He looks at me. Just once, never twice, an innocent glance. A dandelion.
He kisses her, time stops. Lingering flame, quivering desire. A rose.
He sees her, angelic, breathtaking, intoxicating perfection. A rose.
Roses, the queens of flowers, seductive creatures, beautiful beings.
He holds my hand like a child. Meaningless. A trivial gesture. A dandelion. He feels her, vulnerable stroke, skin against skin, bodies tingling. A rose.
Dandelions, the Earth’s shooting stars. Tales of the wind, wild freedom. Boys will always pick the roses, and their hands will always bleed. Regret of what could’ve been— the love of a dandelion. Fausta Tesolin, Form VII
He kisses me, a rushed kiss. Regretful. Innocent Sin. A dandelion.
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KISS
Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
Artwork by Shelby Gosselin-Chute, Form VII
I
t was different. Kissing their lips was different. My stomach fluttered, but not in a butterfly kind of way. It felt as though every cell in my abdomen didn’t know what to do or where to sit. It was that feeling of walking into a crowded room, laughter and conversation bouncing off the walls, as your eyes scan a mile a minute for an open seat. That split second of uncertainty, only now it was dragged out for what seemed like forever. Their lips weren’t smooth, but textured. They weren’t dry; they were experienced. Every little crevice held a story; a memory of a song they sang, an imprint of a tear that rolled down their cheek, a vibration left behind by lips that weren’t theirs. Kissing their lips was nothing like kissing the lips that came before theirs. Their hand cupped my face, their middle finger matching the curve of my jawline and the rest fell into place like a puzzle. Their lips were so close to mine, just barely touching. My heart beat under my chest so strongly I felt my pulse in my lips as if every contraction pushed them closer to theirs. That moment, where our lips were just barely touching, like a bulb hanging on by a frayed thread. Every time they inhaled, it felt as if they were sucking the air out of my lungs, drawing my body into theirs. I couldn’t bear to move closer for fear that everything I expected of this moment would be taken from me. What if I looked into their eyes, and instead of desire hidden behind the bright ripples of blue I saw disgust, what if the darkness of their pupil no longer led to a sea of adventure, but a trench of my darkest fears, and what if the gentle crease above their right eye no longer made me feel loved, but unwanted? What if kissing them meant losing them? When they pulled their face against mine, the sounds of the world disappeared. The honks of the cars lining the street below, the sound of girls running down the hallway right behind the closed door, and the calm buzz of the television all blurred into nothingness. Everything was replaced with a soft glow. You could hear it. It sounded like gold, like waking up on a Saturday morning to the sun filtering through
your curtains. The world melted away, and they slid their arm down to my hip, the only thing holding me up. Their mouth tasted like spearmint dulled by slight morning breath. The smell of their pomegranate and ginger shampoo flowed through my brain, paralyzing any thoughts which were not focused on them. The kiss was full of meaning, just not the meaning I had feared. I no longer felt alone, because we were now together in a world that told us we didn’t know how to love. I don’t understand how they thought we loved wrong. Loving, and being loved, should feel enlightening. It feels like opening up your soul to a world of possibility. Tasting, feeling and seeing every colour in an entirely new light, in their own way. It’s like catching a smile in your fist and holding onto it, its warmth and softness seeping into your veins. It feels as though nothing else exists in this world except you and them. No word, or figure of speech is powerful enough to describe the feeling of the light touch of their lips against yours, lighting fireworks inside your soul. As the kiss dwindled, every part of me tried to hold onto them. I couldn’t bear to end such a perfect moment, for to end this moment would be worse than removing the sun from our solar system. The world would fall, collapsing around us, suffocating. After kissing them, it felt the only way I could breathe was by pulling air from their lips. It always seems to be that moment, when your lips are just barely touching, that the kiss lasts the longest. The moment where the kiss turns from future to present, and present to past. The moment when your entire world rests at your fingertips. The moment where attraction overpowers uncertainty. Then their lips break away. I breathed heavily, willing to pull them back to me, willing to reseal our bubble of peace and protection. My lips buzzed with the memory of them the way your hand tingles after rubbing it quickly over your jeans. My hips ached to be pressed against theirs, but most of all my mind smiled at the future of early-morning, late-night, forehead, goodbye, passionate, empty, unbreakable, breathtaking kisses. Kisses with them. –29–
For Love is Stronger Than War I unite these two loved ones together, to ensure their two souls end up as one, forming a love that will last forever, a passion burning as hot as the sun. They will bring their families together, ending this awful war of hate and spite, making this city a whole lot better, a place once dark, now filled with bright light. The streets no longer a place for conflict, neighbours will greet each other with happy hearts, for love is stronger than hate’s awful tricks, providing us with peace and a new start. This couple no longer two but now one, have made this new chapter that has now begun. Priscilla Allatt, Form IV
Ground Control You are a spider that crawls on my book when I’m trying to read. You are gum stuck to the bottom of my shoe, you are a stain on my white shirt, you are a bug bite on my ankle, a singer with a voice crack, larvae hatching from an egg, a gecko licking its eyes, a soaking wet jacket in the middle of winter. You are a generator running at three in the morning, you are a meeting on a Friday afternoon, you are ketchup on a peanut butter sandwich, you are a slug coming up between my toes, a grass hopper in a bowl of soup, a student arriving to school naked, a poison arrow jabbed into my back that I can’t reach to pull out. But what I don’t understand, is how you can be all these things and still be the ground control to my airplane. Without you I would crash. Grace Gardner, Form VII
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI –30–
Our Embrace Her icy fingertips brush against mine. Eyes locked, so lovely, I can’t look away. Love-tainted air, for once, our thoughts align. Certainly a beauty, she’s here to stay. Set for our kiss, the sin it’s said to be. Our bodies touch, souls connect into one, I dream to be with her, finally free. I propose an idea: let us run. The enmity of our parents brewing, strange, in love with my enemy’s daughter. The only one that I am pursuing, without her presence, I’m underwater. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d. Without a shadow of a doubt, we are merged. Joudy Alsawari, Form IV
Wither In the spring is where I rest, daisies of mauve cradle the morning river. In the spring, I answered a letter, a word not spoken and soon to be at rest. In the spring the air is water. My beloved, in the spring, I will be waiting. Kelly Frendo, Form VII
–31–
Summer The hyper grasshoppers disco in the viridescent grass, buzzing in the bustling night. Fish race in the rapid river, as it graciously narrows down towards the centre of the town. A fairy dyes the sky seven diverse colours, a bride connecting the endless world. Mary Zhu, Form V
The Giving Time The Black Angel standing by her bed, listening to church bells. A morning in November after a heated argument because she never learned the dexterity of love. By the way of the Lord she will find a means to forgive him, and find the recipe of love, but for now, she needs the pleasant sounds that are silence and quiet water. Simon Couroux, Form VI –32–
Alive Out here I’m not taxed by what it means to exist I observe, and I absorb, and I appreciate breathing in this world alive, alive, alive, alive. Look at the colours that the sunlight dashes across and through and over, intertwining with the physical like interlocking hands— please watch the stillness of the air, I beg you, how can you not see! Look at the kind and undisturbed peace that falls without sound or weight. I cannot begin to explain all that filters through the air, through the rays of sun that won’t ever fall quite the same way ever again and in their intricate certainty they weave this intangible tapestry of what it means to be alive, alive, alive.
If I can remain long enough to feel my fingertips grow lighter, to forget that I have blood and veins, to stop hearing myself breathe— but I do breathe, as does the earth around me— I will. To see the blue jay’s muscles rise and fall, the finches turn their heads their wings spread their necks stretch the world’s heart beat, and know this is alive, alive. I am not important. This, this, in front of me, this is important. So many tall trees each one with countless splaying branches each with many tiny needles and on each leaf so very many fragile, delicate veins. And behind each tree another one, and more around it too. Through the spaces there is more to be seen— there is so much more here! And everything alive, by the very definition this feels alive. Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
Drawing by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VI
–33–
Hug Me Back Your face is the first face I saw, and the only one I will ever see. From the cold ooze of my baby xenomorph egg, I can see the bewilderment in your eyes. I intrigue you, and you me. I spring from my prison to touch the warmth of your skin, so welcoming and inviting are your insides. My claws wrap around your face gently cradling it. Embracingly, I stroke your ear, curling my tail around your neck like a thick scarf. We are one. I have never felt the touch of another living thing. I thought I was alone in a solitary universe, until I saw your light and broke out of my shell and into reality. I am no longer companionless. This must be love. Unified together in a kiss, I hold you close to me. All I want is your attention. Please. Hug me back. Grace Gardner, Form VII
Absolu Je t’aime. C’est sûr—c’est certain. C’est la vie—c’est la mort. C’est sûr—c’est certain. Je t’aime. Timothy-Paul Chevalier, Form VII –34–
Painting by Fiona Mercure, Form VI
–35–
Bleeding Heart
–36–
Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
Coiled Running you round, Wasting your breath: Time has you wound— She wishes you death. Her blood ticks faster, As your lungs collapse. You’re running in circles— She shortens the laps. Yet death is eternal In the eyes of the youth, But be it internal Through pains we can’t mend, For time will hold truth, In the eyes of the end. Timothy-Paul Chevalier, Form VII
Stitches He said she looked good in red, she is red. The blood that trickles down her veins into her heart is red. She wonders what that color would look like down the drain, because her soul is blue from being drunk on stars and smoking sadness, which bled too. Making the sky a violet hue, she is dead when it’s day, but breathes when it’s dusk. He asked her about the stitch, on the backside of her wrist. She said it made the most beautiful color, and painted the sky with it. –38–
Natalia Marcelin, Form VII
The Scars You See (and Those You Don’t) You see the terracotta mark, no bigger than a dime, resting on his forearm. She always told him to stop picking his scabs, yet he was never strong enough. You watch her packing up her things, taping boxes. He just admitted that last week at the bar, he wasn’t strong enough. She didn’t have to see the strange man’s tongue sliding down her fiancé’s throat to feel a knife rip through her gut. He opens his eyes, but for the first time in three years, he does not spot her hourglass figure entering the shower. Almost by reflex, he looks down at his wrist. And the only thing left of her is a pink spot, reminding him of how he broke her. Sophie Legler, Form VII
Drawing by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VI
–39–
Refusal to Play The search for unity with another is the font of the world’s unhappiness. We crave love, seek love, desperately. A cure for loneliness… I search for connection daily, I see my friends going on adventures, only to come back each more disappointed than the last. Love is selfish a one-way street not received but given, always given. It is what happens when your passion is greater than the tools you have to deal with it. It creates a raw sense of energy. I must confess, love is a game I fail to understand. So, I opt not to play. Catherine Vine, Form VII
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI –40–
For Reasons Unknown There are times when I open my eyes and the deepest intention of loving rushes through my veins. I leave the nest where I rest and the skies look blue, the leaves of the trees dance with the wind, and butterflies flutter in the morning air. As the hours pass by, every occasion is one for joy, for today is one more day I’ve woken up, and I’ll never know when I won’t. So I live those minutes as if they were my last. Every moment is one last chance to feel alive, to be consumed by that kick in your stomach when you ride a rollercoaster, and that way notes electrify your brain when you hear the beat of your favourite song. But then I wake up the next morning and the blood in my veins is frozen. My mind is unable to lift my body from my bed, the fort that defends me from the world, where nothing can affect me; but I am forced to leave it. As I drag my feet across the world, the skies are crying, the trees, old and dying. My spirit, further darkened with every step. For reasons unknown, the elixir of life no longer fuels me, my heart doesn’t beat the way it used to, my eyes don’t recognize shapes anymore. This is my last chance to be alive, I know it. And yet, I can’t seem to care. Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
–41–
Your Empty Heart The last time you opened your chest to the world, reached through your ribs, and pulled out your heart, you died. They took all the power they had and used it to smash your heart, to break it into a million pieces, then give them all back but one. Your heart was never the same. Even when the cracks were replaced with scars, a hole still remained. Every person you had ever loved took one of those million pieces away from you. You swore you’d never love again, but then she came along. Your heart, from behind the bars of death and weeping, told you to reach in, grab it, put it in a box, and give it to her. “This is for you,” you said. “I love you!” she replied. But she didn’t. When she broke your heart, she took not one, but two of a million pieces with her, leaving you with nothing. Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
Picture Perfect You’d never expect it. Every picture that holds their smiles immortalizes their laughter; hung up by Mom for the world to see down the halls she dreads to walk through. Some days they’re good, the seemingly perfect, mother and daughter; nothing but smiles and love, that is, if you’re outside looking in. Every smile is constructed to mask Mom’s words from last night’s fight, enough that her cry for help was seen as exaggerated; a teen girl being dramatic. Stay quiet. After everything, her mom still tells her: “I love you.” She tries to believe her. She was a beaten down dog learning it was just better to stay quiet. Jurney Lavoie-Condo, Form V
–42–
Queen of Hearts He stared her down with regret. Tears of sorrow raced down her cheeks. The air is heavy, like clouds of fury ready to unleash their pain. Guilt consumes her veins. Veins that pump anguish to her heart. Queen of my heart, he used to say. Queen of all that I love. Her king had hung his heart on a line, and handed her the string. The queen adored the blood he shed for her. Each single drop made her melt with pleasure. And when the king had been bled dry, The queen fell (for another), and crushed the king’s heart on her way down. His heart didn’t pump blood anymore; it pumped liquid blue misery. Fausta Tesolin, Form VII
Drawing by Suzan Axu, Form VI
Mon cœur est bleu pour Peggy Blue Les années passent en heures, les heures en minutes, et les minutes ont filé en quelques secondes. Notre amour vaut tout le temps qu’il me reste. À partir du moment où j’ai posé mes yeux sur sa belle peau bleue, et des nuits où j’ai cru l’entendre hurler au loin, elle a toujours été dans mon esprit, flottant comme un papillon. Je vais mourir heureux avec sa lumière dans mon cœur. Notre mariage, notre amour peut sembler stupide à plusieurs mais Mamie-Rose comprend toutes nos difficultés. Nous n’avons rien à perdre et le temps joue contre nous. Nous prions donc ensemble pour que notre Dieu nous aide. Comme enfants, nous avons traversé beaucoup d’obstacles, notre amour l’un pour l’autre a résisté à tous les tests. Même si un tel est jaloux et un autre méchant Peggy Blue est restée à côté de moi et notre amour a survécu. Mon cœur est bleu pour cet amour si vrai. C’est un miracle un cœur pareil. Quand je serai parti, j’attendrai notre prochaine rencontre, au ciel avec mon cher ami Dieu. Aidan Condo, Form VI
Painting by Priscilla Allatt & Joudy Alsawari, Form IV
Accepted Vacuum I lay on the white natural mattress outdoors. The cold seemed to slap my face the same way feelings smacked my thoughts. The echo of silence was stronger than I was, stronger than the gust of wind slashing the solitary trees which attempted to fill up the emptiness around me. I had never felt so empty, like a fridge lacking food, nearly frozen inside. The snow was seeping into my clothes and penetrating my veins with its icy drops, making my blood thicker and more painful as it rushed through my sore body. I felt a huge vacuum inside me, but I knew that only I could change this, like when you’re drowning in the tub and only you can pull your head out to reach for air. At that moment, I peeled my back off the sticky ground. I rose, accepting my mental state, crushed like glass, knowing only I could melt the pieces back together. Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI –45–
Stinging Nettle
–46–
Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
–47–
Like Every Good Masochist The roses you gave me wilted overnight. The red on their petals has turned to black. They lie on my floor and taunt me; they drag me back to a time where I loved you —to when I truly loved you— (and you loved me), where they prick me with thorns of the past I thought I’d cut off. The words I wrote you stain the paper. The ink seeps into your fingertips when you remember me. The lines fall off the paper and break apart when you try to pick them up. The roses peel themselves off the floor and cover the room in dark velvet. Then they grow bigger, —much bigger— and shadow me like nagging children. Each word pricks you as you read it. And with every word, another petal falls and more ink turns to blood. The lines attach to your army-green shirt and write your story for you. They have no mercy. But like every good masochist, you keep reading, and I pick more roses. Cala Tesolin, Form VI
Ugliest Desire They say you are almighty, like a god. They talk about your blue eyes, how they pierce. Your voice leaves me speechless; I only nod. I idolize how you are strong and fierce. I want to hold onto you forever. I wish for the day it’s just you and me. I need you here, please don’t leave me ever. Come here and love me, oh don’t make me plea. Do not drag out my pain, for I am weak. Saying you don’t hate me simply destroys. Do not say you love me, do not misspeak, for to you I am nothing but a toy. To me you are nothing but a liar, and you became my ugliest desire.
–48–
Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
“Please don’t do it” I remember that endless night. Seven texts that read: please be awake, and the five missed phone calls. Until I rolled over to that side of the bed and luckily picked up the phone. I remember your incessant desire. I tried dragging you out of it. The promises that your lips uttered, the ones my ears didn’t want to believe. I wish I knew if they would be kept or not. I remember my million consolation whispers, those words that would make you feel at rest. It took hours until you listened to me. When you finally did and fell asleep, it was me that lay awake under the deep night sky. I remember the thoughts rushing through my mind, the ones that had just stopped crossing yours. I was never able to take your pain away, but I always carried it with me. Even if it hurt us both, I’d never let you go through it alone. I remember the feeling two hours later, unsure of what my next move would be, the battle won, the war not yet ceased. It’s not the blade that hurts the one it cuts, but the blood and scars that hurt those who see them. Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
Drawing by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VI
–49–
Burdened Shoulders I had about as much chance as Atlas, the one who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, trying to escape day after day, longing for the pressure to ease. This is the madness you drive me through, craving the perfect child that I cannot hope to be. You spin me about, cleave my limbs from my body, trapping me inside my brain until you dice me up, converting my wholeness with your mind into a shape that fits your design. You race about your life, pushing me to the wall while I lie in a heap, unable to keep your score. This, Mama and Papa, is the ache that burns my shoulders, each day, every night. Aidan Feddema, Form V
Grounded Deserted field, no life around as I stay here all alone, naked with no gown, in the middle of the battle zone. The sun is gone, no light can reach through clouds full of smoke. The only bullet makes the breach and ravens start to croak. I’m looking up, no piece of sky is blue, metallic birds now forming wedges. Dreadful, grumble song goes through, wings cut this heaven with edges. The silence screams, no breath, just wind, streams of blood feed my roots like water. Seems like the world wants all who sinned to pay in massive slaughter. But I cannot run, I cannot flee, fettered to the ground like a stone. Because I am just a lonely, naked tree, in the middle of the battle zone. Valeriia Kulik, Form VII
–50–
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form–51– VI
–52–
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
La mort
Left Me Forever
Quand ils pensent à la mort ils pensent à la douleur, la terreur. Ils pensent à la fin.
Now you had left me forever, I knew when I saw you on the floor. Forget this, I think I will never.
Quand je pense à la mort je pense à la paix, à la liberté. Je pense à l’avenir. Ils ne comprennent pas que pour moi, la mort n’est pas une punition ou un moyen pour une fin. Pour moi la mort est une promesse. Une promesse d’avenir mieux que le présent. Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
It looked like you were sleeping; however, a piece of me was lost, one I adore. Now you had left me forever. The air’s emptiness was felt wherever, but the lack of your presence hurt more. Forget this, I think I will never. With your feelings, you had been clever, always hidden by the mask you wore. Now you had left me forever. I prayed you would not leave me ever, but now I had lost you. Ignore or forget this, I think I will never. Even though I knew much better, I was left asking for an encore. Now you had left me forever; forget this, I think I will never. Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
piercing.
i felt the sharp end of a needle, piercing my skin. and i swear i felt the acidic liquid you released into me as well. that’s the day i changed. that’s the day i lost control. and your thoughts and your actions had more power over me, than i had myself. i never wanted to lose control, i never wanted your poison. however now i’m waiting, anticipating the next dosage— or is that just you controlling me once more? Grace Bilodeau, Form VII
–53–
Dora the Jailbird Tossing and turning for the umpteenth night, because one never truly gets used to sleeping on a mattress stuffed with nails. Lying on her back, she stared at the stale metal bar supporting the bed directly above her own in which her cellmate slept peacefully, thinking of all the possible ways she could put an end to her misery. After Swiper framed her for his biggest hit yet, it took very little time for her to lose the case in trial, to lose the trust of all her closest friends, to lose all the freedom she once knew. It had been three months since she had been thrown into jail (¡la cárcel!). Without The Map, she constantly got lost
in the prison’s intricate system of hallways. And without Boots, no one would answer when she asked where things were. Diego’s visits became less and less frequent: she entirely felt alone. Sola. Prisoner 4891 was awakened, as she often was by her roommate’s incessant questions. But this time, it was her last bilingual question. Where is my shank? Dónde está mi shank? Sophie Legler, Form VII
The Puppeteer Thomas, I remember the smile, that you would wear every time you held your pistol to my head. Thomas, I remember the eyes, that would watch in pleasure as I wiped up blood from the kitchen floor. Thomas, I remember the hands, that you would press against my wrists every time I refused to pleasure you. Thomas, I remember the laugh, that you would laugh when I cried, the same one you chuckled when I lost our child. Thomas, you broke me. You stripped me of my happiness, hung me from strings like your puppet. Thomas, I’m sorry for leaving, do not come looking for me, for you will find me not. For your eyes will not recognize my unbruised skin and unscratched face for I am free of your string and you will never tie me down again. Fausta Tesolin, Form VII
Un équilibre fragile Nous empoisonnons notre planète Mais demandons qu’elle soit parfaite. Nous exigeons un profit, Sans penser à l’avenir, sans en compter le prix. Nous nous dirigeons vers le point de non-retour Comme les hirondelles bicolores Qui, jadis, étaient nombreuses Sur les rives du lac Massawippi. Hirondelles qui, de nos jours, se battent Pour rester en vie. Est-ce que nous voulons le même sort? Et que dire des chauves-souris Qui, elles, se font rares? Qui sommes-nous pour nous mêler Du cycle de la vie? Et l’équilibre du monde? Nous devrions protéger la beauté Qui nous entoure Et non la détruire, ni la contaminer. Priscilla Allatt, Form IV
Drawing by Shelby Gosselin-Chute, Form VII
–55–
When I’m Whipped When I get a cut I bleed. I bleed thick, vibrant red, lukewarm blood. But, when I’m whipped I bleed differently. I bleed bowls and buckets that overflow with betrayal and disgust. When I get a cut I feel pain. I feel millions of tiny needles stabbing me. But, when I’m whipped I hurt. I hurt, like a mother who lost her only son, with emptiness and disbelief. When I get a cut, I drop the sharp object stained in my blood, to no longer cause me pain. But, when I’m whipped I drop. The unfairness of the world stands on top of me, repeatedly jumping on my wounds. When I get a cut, I bear the burden caused by the mistakes of my own. But, when I’m whipped by the world, who is there to blame for the trauma that follows its wisp? Tyrin Culmer, Form VII
Retaliation I am stung by their judgements. I am burned by their resentment. I am fearful of their aversion. Why must they define who I am? Give it back. Give back my freedom of thought, and let me decide for myself. When night falls, their painful words and thoughts creep endlessly through my head. I’ve had enough. So, tonight I paused—I took a moment. And after threatening desperation, I murdered the thoughts that kept me up. Tonight, I rest with authority. I am enough. I am sublime. And I am in control. It will be to their dismay that my fragile ego hasn’t succumbed. Tonight, I own their thoughts.
–56–
Aliyah Osman, Form VII
On the Art of Dying 1 I saw a painting once of a girl dying —not dead— Dying. Her eyes, faintly trickled with dashes of hope. Her inanimate body, crumbled on a bed— in pieces, yet somehow, not broken. She seemed, in fact, Whole. A solemn half smile was stamped on her face. Her palms were opened, almost hoping, calling, wishing, for death to come take her hand and release her from her pains of Living. 2 The blood from her wrists seeped from her veins into her sheets. It looked not like blood but much more like molten rubies— Noble.
That painting echoes within the walls of my Soul, but, doesn’t that mean then that my Soul isn’t much of a Soul? For if it echoes, it must be Empty. 3 If that is so— I am nothing but a dark pit, a lame excuse for a person— a hollow shell, where nothing can be heard nor seen— nothing but that painting and the girl’s last Breath. So may the Universe allow me to join that dying girl! For I too want to be dying in Peace. May the Universe allow my Soul to be mortal! For mortality is much more dignified than living Empty. Cala Tesolin, Form VI
Drawing by Sayaka Saito, Form VI
Our Lips Kissed Our lips kissed in the moment briefly, then we separated in the morning breeze. We couldn’t love each other freely. Her eyes cut wounds in me so deeply, I became more addicted to her needs. Our lips kissed in the moment briefly. I tried to meet with her discreetly. My stomach’s butterflies slowly turned to bees. We couldn’t love each other freely. I wish our love kept growing steeply; talking to her came with such ease. Our lips kissed in the moment briefly, as we continued to meet weekly. Guilt slowly grew, causing hearts to freeze. We couldn’t love each other freely. Although we may have been quite greedy, she says her boyfriend mustn’t know please. Our lips kissed in the moment briefly; we couldn’t love each other freely. Aidan Condo, Form VI
–58–
Mr. Potato Head I was filled with holes which you felt the need to plug. I foolishly allowed you to, because I trusted you. And for the frist time, I met my wife, Mrs. Potato Head. You gave me eyes, only to see nothing in hers. You gave me a nose and I smelled the betrayal in the air. You gave me ears to hear all the lies she spoke. You gave me feet, so I went places I shouldn’t. You gave me arms which I used to hold the wrong person. You gave me a mouth, yet I couldn’t say anything. You bent a smile on my face; a poor reflection of what lay inside. You believed you helped by putting me together, but it’s the reason I fell apart. Despite it all, I do commend you on one thing. Like with her, you forgot to give me a heart. So soon everyone will know how clear the world is without eyes to see, how fresh the air is without a nose to breathe, and how peaceful it is without ears to hear, because the world is best when you don’t know it exists. Tyrin Culmer, Form VII
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
–59–
Weeping Willow –60–
Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
–61–
Low Tide The tide comes in, and he is at his highest point. Only when the tide goes out does he discover, crawling critters in the thick and cold brown paste, ocean weeds rooted in muck, clams spurting water through their siphons, crushable with one wrong step. All that is hidden by blue abundance, until discovered by the orb of night with its pulling force. He envies these crustaceans, constantly moving, his life not similar. He empathizes with the algae-covered rocks no one takes notice of. They remind him of himself. He has long been waiting for the tides to turn, observing the passage from day to night and back again, turning and turning in the widening gyre of shallows and miseries, the cyclical pattern of his existence. Hoping for any emotion— comfort, joy or even wonder— he treads through the fat sludge, a bystander to his own life. The numbness will not subside; he wishes to be washed away with the tide. Kelly Frendo, Form VII
–62–
To Love Makes One Solitary Life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes. Silence so deafening, blinding the night, stars look away. The rabbit in the moon fades, the once textured sky now empty and cold, thoughts quiet. A ring with the hate of past actions. Some people don’t deserve love. They walk into the quiet spaces hoping to fill the gaps of the past, to forget the past, to admit defeat to the future. Life lived in eternal damnation of Malebolge, destined to wander alone, all alone. Each beam of light stifled like the last candle in a debaucherous bar, a soul left cold— booted out, to wander the streets, remaining a safe distance from happiness, removed from love cleaved off by frosted glass. The little match girl: unseen; the little mermaid: dreams drowned; the tiny princess: cries unheard; the red-haired faerie: captured; never given the chance to be free. Alone. Unwanted. Damaged. Not worth the effort. Me. Catherine Vine, Form VII
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
–63–
H
is regal head rested between the bristly paws of his forelegs. His tawny tail kept a slow, steady rhythm as it rubbed back and forth along the hardwood floor of our family room. Even at rest, his droopy ears were alert to the sound of my footsteps. “Hey, Max,” was all I needed to whisper, and he would raise his head to meet my gaze, the soft jingle of his collar signalling his attention. I saw the warm greeting of a smile in his bright, green eyes. Max was a delightful dog; he licked and nuzzled people far more than he barked. As long as we were home, he welcomed friends, neighbours, and strangers. He was our protector and my best friend, bringing added joy to the simple activities of daily life. Max was not just an addition to the family; no, he was part of the family. His heart beat with ours. As a purebred German Shepherd, Max cut an imposing figure. His sheer size was enough to keep visitors to our home locked in their cars, stricken with fear at the sight of this bristly, fanged creature rising from the front step of our home. Max would silently circle the vehicle, while the newcomers waited anxiously inside. They didn’t realize that Max was simply eager to meet them. Often, visitors would wait in their cars until someone in my family would call Max into the house. Then we would make sure that Max was properly introduced because we knew that once they met Max, their opinion of him would change. Max approached guests with slow, measured steps. He gently rubbed up against their legs and nudged their hand with his soft snout. Bringing a smile to the face of the person was his only concern. It wasn’t just people Max loved to meet; the neighbourhood dogs were all his friends, and he eagerly greeted them as they walked by with their owners. Max was the stranger that quickly became a friend.
–64–
Max accompanied my family on all our outdoor adventures, including a cold, bitter January afternoon. A nearby pasture boasted the steepest hill in the countryside, and a fresh blanket of snow called for a family sledding adventure. The wind whipped over the field as we walked to the hill, slashing my icy nose and rosy cheeks. Max seemed oblivious to the fierce wind, light on his feet as he darted ahead through the snow. He reached the top of the hill first, circling to face us as we approached. We took a moment to catch our breath, surveying the frosty landscape. Leafless shrubs bent at odd angles under the weight of snow and ice; here and there jagged stalks of dead weeds protruded through the snow; in the distance, the frozen creek marked the edge of the field. My older brother broke through the snow drift that had formed at the top of the hill, carving the first path down the length of the slope. Max yelped with pleasure at the unexpected speed and raced down the hill in pursuit, snow billowing in his path. Max reached my brother as his sled came to a standstill, jumping on him playfully. I went next, taking a bright red Zipfly sled, extending my arms behind me to generate speed. I flew down the slope; the wind was rushing in my ears erasing all other sounds. I closed my eyes, enjoying the exhilaration of the ride until I felt the speed waning. Before I could open my eyes, the jingle of metal reached my ears. Max toppled me into the snow, his wet snout just inches from my face. He stuck out his tongue and licked the patches of snow off my cheeks, his warm saliva wetting my cold skin. I ran my hands through his fur, rubbing behind his ears, relishing the satisfaction of a companion who not only shared but amplified the simple joy of this moment. Max rarely barked, an unusual quality for a breed known as a guard dog. He saved
A Boy’s Best Friend
Aidan Feddema, Form V
the deep bellowing tones of his bark for the lawnmower, the vacuum cleaner, and the coyotes that skirted our property from time to time. Yet, I always felt safe with Max. I recall a cool, cloudy day; the grey sky ominous and full of mystery. Nonetheless, Max still needed to be walked. The wind whistled eerily through the trees as we reached our halfway point. I turned towards home only to be pulled back by the taut leash. Max had planted his feet. His black fur bristled, his ears perked, and a deep growl rattled in his throat, a clear warning to an unseen presence. I strained on the leash, eager to get back home. Max reluctantly turned, deliberately keeping himself between me and whatever threat hid in the shadows of the wood. Once inside the safety of our home, it dawned on me that although he seldom barked, Max willingly protected those he loved. We all slept better when Max checked each of our bedrooms at night and then curled up at the top of the stairs to keep watch. He was our guardian angel. When I moved away from home for high school, Max was no longer part of my daily life. I came home for Thanksgiving, and it was clear than that Max’s aching hips were stealing his energy, but his eyes still smiled when I took his head in my hands and scratched behind his ears. My dad gently broke the news of Max’s passing on the way home from school for November break. I was quiet, turning my face to the car window, letting my tears fall freely. Early the next morning I walked into the woods where Max was buried. A pile of stones marked his grave, and I felt the tears well up once again. “Hey, Max,” I whispered, half expecting to hear the soft jingle of his collar. But there was only silence. My best friend, our guardian, our welcoming presence was gone. But the shared memories of Max are woven into the fabric of our family. His heart still beats with ours.
–65–
Rising of the Sun The alarm blares through the still air. The world is startled, and your mind tries to pull your body from a deep sleep. Snooze, snooze, snooze. You press that button over and over, pausing your alarm, hoping each time, the world will pause with it. Your body begins to drift back and forth, in and out of consciousness, how waves on a beach crawl up to shore, only to be violently pulled back to reality. You can’t bear to wake, to face the day, as “day” is no more than a synonym of suffering. As your mind forces itself to life once more, your body remains, grasping the bed beneath it like a predator would his prey. Finally, you muster up the courage to wake, to work, and to suffer. Stepping out of bed, you are constantly slowed by the ball and chain of dreams that could have been. Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
–66– Painting by Natalia Marcelin, Form VII
The Gone Girl She walks through her life, unknown and invisible; her voice falling upon deaf ears, her laugh does not exist. The streets are filled with regret. Her sorrow flows through you, through your very being, clinging to every cell, sending shivers up your spine. She is a living embodiment of what doesn’t kill you simply makes you… stranger. She’s lost herself, all that is left is the shell of the person she once was, a fragile shell at that. Her hair an echo of the infamous little mermaid, since shaven. Her form as delicate as a black swan, has lost its wings—cast in iron. Her rib cage becomes more prominent day after day. Her once siren call is now barely a whisper and her Marilyn Monroe smile has ceased to exist; hushed voices echo that she’d be so much prettier if she smiled, once in a while. All the small things
build up to a point where the person who once was, no longer is. Her skin has a pallor eclipsing her freckles and her cheekbones are visible in a skeletal kind of way. She is a ghost, with no one to call. She has given up on finding the end of the maze, given up on running around trying to find an escape, only to find another dead end. Her spirit is wrecked like a building, by the fists of another. Clothing hangs on her as it would upon a coat hanger, loosely. She’d rather sink to the bottom than call for help. Her tears fall—one after the other, like clockwork—rendering no fairy godmother. Trapped in marble, encased by emotional turmoil, she is a weeping angel, walking upon the boulevard of broken dreams— eternally alone. Catherine Vine, Form VII
Wings Full of Blood You flutter my wings. My mind is filled with unspeakable things. My feathers are full of blood. I am an angel flying away from love. I never meant for you to die but your words are razor blades; every word you spoke gave me a scar. Some open, wounded, and others healed. They made me too weak to say goodbye. I had no option. You were always on my mind, as if I suffered from a concussion. Lost with no option. I had to kill you because you were no longer a face, just a memory out of its place.
Alzheimer’s The sound of the old rocking chair creeks through the paper-thin walls. Her voice is like the autumn wind. She reads to herself the same book repeatedly—Can’t Wait to Get to Heaven, and I can’t help but cry every time she asks me where it is that we are. Every day I remind her of our love, though I know I have to take it slow. If I want to stay with her I must learn how to live one day at a time. Ivannia Gomezgil Yaspik, Form VII
It’s so hard to fly away, especially when my heart is begging for you to stay. Natalia Marcelin, Form VII
–67–
Forget-Me-Not
–68–
Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
Shells By the Shore Insignificant specks in the flooding sand, buried and hidden among the grains, shielding themselves from oncoming danger, and, of course, it comes. Waves reach out to grab them, drag them in, but they hold on with all their might, clinging to the shore, holding their breath, not daring to look behind them. They are surrounded by crystal waters, encasing them, trapping them, but they are persistent, and will not give in. The water retreats, leaving foam between the cracks, bringing new shells with it. Jumping for joy, brought ashore, the new shells rejoice, eager for their new lives among their new brothers. Sparkling, glimmering, they sing and talk, while those aged with wisdom, wait for the wave to come again. Justine Soucy, Form V
Snow Little white fairies quietly float down, hug the world, and they land gracefully on the ground. The sky gently lays a white blanket over the world to save some for next summer. Jurney Lavoie-Condo, Form V
–70–
Artwork by Cyril Jebousek , Form IV
Her Single Room Resting high in a tower that is level with the stars, she hides away in a fortress built with pointy thorns. The iron gate of her castle that leads to her soul, has no key to its lock as she swallowed it whole. She had thrown her heart away —a crumpled paper ball— into a trash can that stood beside the wall. For love had made her solitary and love had made her full. She could not wash away the ink that he had forever left on her soul. She turned away everyone who thought she wished to be free; everyone but Loneliness, who knew the castle was where she wished to be. Married to Isolation, she was the Queen of Solitude. She had no tolerance for disturbance —nor regard for romance— she only wanted to enjoy the privilege of loneliness, in her single room. Dazheng Huang, Form VII
Drawing by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VI
–71–
A Look Back Just look at her: knees kissing the floor stained by his presence, her veiny hands clutching his strong ankles, pleading pathetically. You can almost see her naive happiness skip along after him as he leaves— like a hollow blue shell cracked in the middle, washed away by the waves he created. Look at her: hugging her knees desperate for comfort, red eyes searching for the love she had given away so nonchalantly. Look at the way her ribs try to break through the prison that is her body and the deep lines that run across her wrists. Everyone now is dressed in black, foolishly grieving for a girl who suffered. So, here’s to my past self. Rest in peace sweetheart, but you won’t be missed. Tyrin Culmer, Form VII
Make a Wish Blow out the candles. You’re eleven now, make a wish. I wish I could fly. Eleven, eleven, make a wish. I wish to find new friends easily, to stay in touch with my old ones. I wish to fly to greater heights, greater than ever before. Reach altitudes thought impossible. I don’t want to leave what I’ve known since three, but my path is laid out and my choices are made. Twelve. Make a wish. Wishes are for elevens, but still I wish not to be alone. Justine Soucy, Form V
–72–
Forgetting Sometimes it stays, for days, for months, for years. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try it doesn’t leave. You shake your head back and forth, smash it against the wall until your tears have nowhere left to go. You lie, staring into space, willing your mind to end this misery, to kill this memory. It clings, and screams, and kicks when you try to cut it out. It fights and fights until you can’t be bothered to fight it anymore. Finally, it leaves. Slowly at first, then all at once. It starts with the little things. Silly details that once meant everything to you, gone. Maybe it was the exact time:
Artwork by Natalia Stieglitz Ruiz, Form IV
10:53pm, suddenly remembered only as late at night. Then surprisingly it’s the way it made you feel not physically, but emotionally, that escapes your mind’s grasp. Thoughts that once constantly raced through your head disappeared. When all that’s left are physical sensations they pack their bags as well. The musty smell of the dust-soaked curtains, the expired yellow slathered on the walls, the way their touch sent little tickles of pleasure down your spine, the taste in your mouth, metallic, nauseating. The physical sensations are never hardest to hold onto. They are the hardest to forget, but once they are gone, it’s over. The black hole spreads, consuming your mind, pulling more memories with it and they retreat to a sea of fractured lives, shattered minds, and pieces that were once people. Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
–73–
Where’d You Go? Saint Nick came and filled my stocking with belief and hope and wanting. He melted away like the snow. Where’d you go? Where’d you go? Mama told me children’s teeth are taken, they’re gone when they awaken. Now I’m the little fairy to take it from their pillow. Where’d you go? Where’d you go? A rabbit filled my tummy with chocolate; I searched and stuffed as many in my pocket. Now I don’t need your service anymore. Where’d you go? Where’d you go? We grew up together through childhood. Holidays, myths and storybooks keep you alive, hope the years slow, you fade away with my youth as I grow. Where’d you go? Where’d you go? Kelly Frendo, Form VII
Where Are You? Where are you, forest floor? Your towering trees that scrape the heavenly sky, your animals that skulk around at night, that soar through the air. Where are you, oh where are you? Where are you, Mom and Dad? Your hugs filled with love, your lessons that teach me how to live and survive. Why have you left me here? I’m bound to die. Where are you, oh where are you? Where are you, voice? Why has your native tongue left me? Without your voice I have lost my way in culture and religion. Where are you, oh where are you?
–74–
Aidan Feddema, Form V
Painting by Léa Gosselin, Form VI
–75–
–76–
Impact A woman stands on her balcony in a red dress, pondering her existence, solemnly smoking a cigarette. The smoke curls up the bars of the fire escape, awaking an alley cat from its slumber. The tap of her heel, like a tambourine, causes water droplets from under her balcony to plummet, flooding the hard day’s work of a mighty ant hill, between the cracks of the lonely sidewalk. The flaming colour of her dress causes a nearby driver to look, observing her figure in awe, he doesn’t notice the child run into the road, a fate is delivered, so much life unlived, so many stories untold, the woman is unaware. Looking out at the lights of the busy city streets, like the thousands of stars in the sky, she exhales her last breath of smoke. As she tosses her cigarette from the balcony, she wonders how any one person could ever have any impact on the world. Grace Gardner, Form VII
The Story of Awakening Remember Christmas of 2014, when instead of snowflakes, I felt the tears of my motherland. She cried for her sons, for her daughters, for herself, who have been blindfolded for so long. The day began when dawn broke. Ancestors’ spirits rose again, millions woke from their endless sleep. They took their swords of hope and shields of bravery, to rid the country from the handcuffs of the fiends.
Through months of pain and torture, when dirt was mixed with blood, souls of heroes became angels, that lit up the Christmas tree, and filled the rest with hollow hearts. Remember Christmas of 2014. That changed our path, our future, and our goals. The war began, the country is still on fire. The darkness drops again; but now I know— We are awake, and so is the world. Valeriia Kulik, Form VII
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
–77–
Eyes Closed I am constantly in your field of view, but you choose to ignore me, always. I should not blame you, after all it is only your brain that keeps choosing to ignore me, as if I were just a hallucination, but there is going to be a moment where you will have to confront the truth. You see me when you take a glance at the mirror only a sneak peek so you do not have to confront me. You thought about changing me, breaking me into a thousand pieces to make yourself look better. And the only reason you didn’t was your fear of others’ dirty looks, staring at your bandages identifying you as a mercenary. I am the first thing people notice, even though you would prefer not to be associated with me: everything comes back to my presence. You embody me. Don’t you see what a great duo we could be? If only you would let me be. Remember one thing, every answer you are looking for is right under me. —Your nose Lauralie Johnson, Form VII
–78–
Painting by Natalia Marcelin, Form VII
Safe With You When my thoughts dance by night, with the melody rising from my heart, I can be free, since you are by my side.
The rest of my life with you, I will bide. Tulips in our garden, can you see them sweetheart? When my thoughts dance by night.
The sky: endless, unlimited, wide; this deep darkness becomes art, when my thoughts dance by night.
How empty would be my life without your guide? I cut my past off, this is our start. I can be free, since you are by my side.
I never thought in my life to see such a sight, this night, you and me, finally not apart. I can be free, since you are by my side.
You bring out the best part of me, I cried. You assured me: our plans are not to thwart. When my thoughts dance by night, I can be free, since you are by my side. Zuzanna Skolimowska, Form VI
–79–
A Gift for Heaven The characteristics of a true Briton, were truly displayed in one such woman, Anne Burke. The stubborn resilience present in the soul, body, and eyes. Death was one such entity she did not accept into her life, surviving the brutality of German fighters, swooping down as heralds of death, to end all whom they did seek. When all traces of her home were burned to rubble, lead shells and bullets laying fragmented in her roots, she departed. Preferring instead to educate herself, and become a symbol of hope, for all who needed her. As a nurse, representing Britain in a Canadian reserve, bringing life to three hundred Natives, as the sole beacon of substantiated reliance. To settle down was an aspiration of many a woman, but alternatively marrying a free spirit, a messenger of prosperity, whisking her across the world as the winds do to a sailboat. Withstanding the injustices of Saudi Arabia, while raising four children. But as the bulb dims over time, so her memory did fade, as the unquenchable lust of dementia, stole and destroyed her mind. But the resilience weighed on, and so, she survived, in what many would consider hell. Passing on in 2016, as a gift to heaven. James Hunt, Form VII
–80–
curtains.
bedroom curtains as thin as paper as transparent as glass, disintegrating my dreams back into a carnage named reality. the reality of my isolation. the bed sheets show reminiscents of last night. darkness, and through darkness, came company, came wrath, came love. but isolation has has crept its way, through the cracks of the doorway, and the sunlight– a result of the unprotected room. he left, left me abandoned. left me vulnerable and bare. no words, just a past destination of solitude and tears. the curtain failed to conceal the vanished darkness dressed as a man. i can hear my heart, pulsing slowly; the deafening silence
Artwork by Lucia Callado Guerra, Form IV
swallows me whole. the cold, silk sheets against my exposed skin, the smooth, wooden board across my spine. a single tear runs down my cheek; the saltiness of my pain creates a taste of sorrow. all that remains is me, and so it will remain that way. simply an empty house, myself, alone with my thoughts, my deepest fears, little does he know about the pain he— is he still here? the sound of running water, dissolving my thoughts of desolation, creating something beautiful— infatuation. the bed sheets no longer empty. wholeness and integrity. warmth bubbling from the pits of my stomach. tingling, crawling its way to my fingertips, he’s back— until he leaves for good. ultimately, life is lived through a curtain. Grace Bilodeau, Form VII
–81–
Baby’s Breath
–82–
Artwork by Izzy Macfarlane, Form VI
–83–
Away from Hell I finally feel like I’m okay away from the Hell I was in with you I thank the Gods who heard me pray in pits of fire I’d lost my way but something pushed me to walk through I finally feel like I’m okay and all the burns I have today are from the venom that you’d spew I thank the Gods who heard me pray and though many a demon I had to slay you’re still the devil I can’t subdue I finally feel like I’m okay so I just figured I’d run away and to the surface climb up new I thank the Gods who heard me pray I found the strength to break away now to myself I can be true I finally feel like I’m okay I thank the Gods who heard me pray Cala Tesolin, Form VI
Drawing by Natalia Marcelin, Form VII –84–
Canadian Heaven The cool air gave me a warm chill. The crisp, solid ice, making kids’ dreams a reality. The sound of the ice boots cutting through the ice. Smiles permanently frozen on all. The bystanders chanting louder. The trucks and tractors pulling outside go unnoticed, as another sheet of heaven is opening its doors. The night is brighter than the day. Stars brighter with every minute. Hurting eyes even more than would a crisp, snowy white Christmas day. And now the party may begin. With festive cheers the gents erupt, as the home team wins God’s beautiful battle. Mom’s hot cocoa ready upon arrival, stories waiting to be told before tucking in for the night. Another day up here, a new dream to be conquered. Jesse Johnson, Form VI
Naturesque Nature is beautiful. The faint sound of trees whispering in the wind soothing to ears. At night, when I look up, I almost think the stars are winking at me, and like a baby in a parent’s arms, I feel reassured. Nature is beautiful in all its ways. It just takes a bit of understanding to see it and all of its wonders. Paul Akinwunmi, Form V –85–
–86–
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI
Microscopic How weird to think that to a single star, we are nothing but tiny atoms on a small rock; we are nothing compared.
Motherly Love The first thing to remember about mothers, is their love. A child grows from it, endless devotion, shining as a sun during day, as a moon far away. Softly edged, welcoming, and warm. A sturdy pillar for a head to lean, mending brokenness, soothing hearts, setting free. Make a mistake and fall, they catch and swing you back to your feet. A relationship fails, her shoulder a pillow, catching tears for your sake. Skip out on chores, a steely cruelness escapes her mouth. Forgiveness will come though, after an apology is given, letting the mistake fall to the past, moving on, replacing anger with love. It is difficult to imagine, what our families would be like without them the journey that they lead us on, the glue that keeps order. Mothers and their love. Aidan Feddema, Form V
Yet still, we work as if we’re the biggest, smile as if nothing could bring us down. In a universe filled with a million stars, we are merely microscopic, but even the smallest of things can leave a grand mark. Jurney Lavoie-Condo, Form V
Electric Storm A blizzard swirls around me, a storm of silver snowflakes. I stand across from a criminal not saying a word. My attention shifts to the name stitched on his chest my heart skips a familiar beat “Caught you,” I say. As I stand before him a fraction of a second passes before I see his expression and allow myself to smile. We stay there in the snow for hours and hours with only the electricity between us to keep us warm from the cold. Priscilla Allatt, Form IV –87–
Oma Oma was like a book, chapter after chapter, a new story would unfold. I never knew her as Grandmother, she was always Oma. I wonder where she hides all these stories. Perhaps between the pages of her cookbook, or sewn into one of her quilts, maybe tucked away into the folded piles of lavender scented laundry. I only know them through the words she spoke soft vowels escaping her delicate, blush-coloured lips sharp consonants clacking against her dentures.
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI –88–
Oma was the oldest of eight, at first, she was an only child— her life gradually became more entertaining, day by day, year by year. By sibling number 6 she began to tire, as good as a mother herself at the age of 15. As the clocked ticked onto her eighteenth birthday, she left home and discovered a new world. Oma met Nonno at the ripe age of 19. They weren’t Oma and Nonno back then; simply Lizzy and Pier-Giorgio. Over a few years, they went from “How do you do?” to “I do.” An Italian man and an Australian woman, now one.
Oma and Nonno travelled to Canada. She stayed home, he went to work. She supported him through all his life; a child at 25, another at 30. Her days were soon filled with the ups and downs of motherhood; completely and totally overwhelmed, in the best possible way, by love, joy, responsibility and selflessness. Her heart became permanently stitched to the outside of her sleeve, out there, vulnerable and afraid, yet somehow finding such fulfilment in the lives before her.
Now she sits here with me on the couch, day after day we bake, and we laugh, and we weave memories, just as her grandmother had once done with her. I look into her eyes, wondering perhaps if that is where her stories lie. I kiss her flour-streaked cheek. She embraces me. Lavender and shortbread— a mix of scents I’ve committed to memory, or perhaps not into my mind, but engraved into my heart. They smell like Oma. They smell like home. Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form VI
–89–
Priscilla Allatt, Form IV
A Whale Cannot Be Conjured –90–
I
am sitting in the middle of the Saint Lawrence River, near Tadoussac, in a small Zodiac boat, excitement and fear grabbing me on all sides. My hands don’t seem to know how to stay still as my fists clench, unclench and snap and flick from the concern of what is to come. The fear of seeing an enormous, majestic animal break the surface of the water and cause the sea of blue that already seems so vast to become an image in my head that has no bottom and no end. For no small thing can carry something so big, so humongous, so indescribably insane, and be its comfortable home and its world to live in. A massive wave of freezing water splashes on the boat and hits the only thing not covered by my big red life suit: my hands. The sudden feeling of water making contact with my skin sends chills up my arm at lightning speed, and soon my whole body is paralyzed by the cold. At this moment the cold in the air is so present that my breath looks like smoke and my toes feel as if they might fall off. I jam my hands into my pockets, determined to get them to warm up again, and they start to tingle as if I had shoved them into the snow and then under hot water. I sit up straighter in my seat now, more determined than ever to see a whale, because if I am to sit on this boat, freezing, tired and scared, then I might as well make it worthwhile by seeing what I came for. My eyes search the water desperately as if they are trying to trick my brain into thinking that if I look hard enough, a whale will appear. But alas, all I see is endless water. After what feels like an interminable wait, my eyes catch sight of a gray, shiny, slick back emerging from the surface of the water and all the images in my head and all the dreams I had of this moment are whisked away by the reality of what I see, because no amount of imagination can compare to what is in front of me; no amount can make up this creature that is so beautiful, so majestic, yet so terrifying. The whale is more than I could ever expect. It swims in the ocean as if it owns everything it touches, as if it owns the very water it is in. At this moment I am paralyzed; my words are stuck in my throat and the cold leaves my body for a second because I know this is a moment I will never forget.
Another Heart
The Truth About Childhood
I have another heart on the right side of my chest. It does not beat, it does not pump, it’s an invisible, non-living organ.
Sticky hands, the smell of paint, rosy cheeks, packed lunched, colouring in between the lines.
I have a love, on the right side of my chest, which does not beat, does not pump, because it is a creation of new love.
These are just some of the memories from all those years ago.
I first met my dad when I was 12. One day, my mom introduced him to me, that he was going to be my dad. This new dad, slowly came up to me, the most sensitive person in the world. By tickling, hurting and fighting with me, he eventually opened my chest, created a new heart for me on the right side of my chest. It was love, and it was a heart. Yewon Chang, Form V
Halloween parties, birthday candles and sloppy birthday smiles. Say Cheese! Lego pieces, plastic cars. Friends must share, Sharing is caring. Careful though, don’t have too much fun. They told us we needed to be older, just one more year. Our lives were ahead of us, they said. Wrong. We hadn’t realized then, but we were living them already. Anthony Herbst, Form V
Painting by Suzan Axu, Form–91– VI
Of Glowing Paint You painted a path of glowing paint to light my way while my vision still cleared. As all comes to focus, my wobbly legs start down the road you’ve laid for me. But, mother, I’m not young anymore, and I’m too old for glowing paint. The light has receded as I step off the path you laid for me to roads unknown. But you do not cry, you do not fear, since the brush is now mine, and I can see clear. Now, this path of glowing strokes, of unknown folks and winding roads, is mine to paint and mine to follow. Justine Soucy, Form V
Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form VI –92–
–93–
White Pine As the sun wakes my outstretched needles are silhouetted against the light. The little ones answer my call, my open arms welcoming them as a mother embraces her child. My sturdy expanse shelters them from the bellowing wind, curling itself around their nimble limbs. My soft-tipped needles hang from my arms, pillowing their soft cheeks, gently whisking them away from trouble. They climb around my frame, the heartbeat flowing through me echoes, sharing my gentleness with them. As the sun tucks into bed the little ones leave me be— a silhouette a mother a shelter a pillow a life-giving white pine tree. Aidan Feddema, Form V
The Best Woman in the World When you first opened your eyes the first woman you saw would be your mom probably you don’t remember how she smiled at you like a sun glitters on the Earth genial and balmy she hugs you warily and blissfully as she eventually obtains a priceless precious As you grow into a child as long as you are out of her sight she worries about you like a harbor waiting for its own ship to come back the harbor will shine for you whenever you return As you grow into an adult you have your own family while she stays at home expecting for you to come to see her some day she waits for you like you waited for her before opening your eyes Mary Zhu, Form V
–94–
Drawing by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VI
–95–
Youth They tell me I am young, but what is youth? Is youth loving for the first time? Feeling as though you’re free falling, but there’s someone there with you who will make it all alright. Is youth being heartbroken for the first time? Still feeling as if you’re falling, but you know exactly what it will feel like when you hit the ground. Is youth being surrounded by friends who you considered family? Strange that you can be surrounded by so many people, but still feel like you are tragically utterly alone. Is youth having bright-eyed innocence? “That’s hard to say,” I whisper, sipping tea I brewed with the bags under eyes. Is youth having the energy to cross the Universe and back again? It seems like, these days, the only exercise I get is playing tag with my REM cycle. Is youth refusing to eat broccoli because it’s yucky? Looking back, I probably should have taken up something other than smoking. Is youth still believing in something? Whether it be Santa Claus, or second chances. Is youth having plump, supple skin? Tell that to the dagger-like strokes accumulated across my face which lay bare every joke I’ve ever heard. Laugh lines so deep they touch bone. Crows feet so passionate Ted Hughes can’t even find the imagery to describe. Sophie Legler, Form VII
Drawing by Lingyu Qu, Form VI
–97–
Ripple Cala Tesolin, Form VI
–98–
O
n October 1st of 2018 I decided I would shave my head to raise funds for breast cancer research. Exactly two weeks later, the other students at my school had raised over 1,200 dollars for the cause. So, on that very day—October 15th—I did it, I shaved my head. As my some of my friends took turns shaving my hair, others filmed and took pictures. One of my friends, in fact, filmed a live video of it on my Instagram. At first not very many people were watching, but a few minutes later, hundreds of people were logged on and commenting. In the comments, a couple people said I was crazy, which I expected. Others just said it looked cool and that the cause was noble. What stood out to me, however, was the fact that a lot of people thought it was inspiring. To be completely honest, I didn’t really understand why. After all, it was just hair, it would grow back eventually, and it was breast cancer awareness month—it seemed only fitting. My next thought was alright, if it’s so inspiring, shave your head, nothing is stopping you! Surely enough, throughout the rest of the month many other students shaved their heads and cut their hair to donate. To my surprise, I felt inspired by my colleagues who also showed their support, and that was when I really understood the meaning of an “inspirational action”—it is something that makes you want to do good. Something that makes you want to put out better things into a world that incessantly proves to be increasingly cruel. Immediately, I realized why they thought what I did was inspiring— I didn’t do it for myself. It was a selfless act, something above me and my wellness, something intended to improve the lives of others, whether I knew them or not. That good deed doesn’t necessarily mean shaving all your hair off to collect money for Drawing by Jie (Coco) Wang, Form VI
a very important cause. A million different amazing things happen every day—from a tiny action like complimenting someone in a hallway to something that will resonate globally like starting and maintaining a successful NGO. It doesn’t matter! Unfortunately, it is still very easy to give into the ”out of sight, out of mind” mentality that seems to be trending in a vast part of our population—but that doesn’t stop the bad from happening. We cannot ignore the murders, rape, discrimination, and the plethora of other atrocious things that happen on a daily basis just because they don’t happen to us. In a world like ours where human rights are violated on massive scales, the will to do good is extremely valuable. When people have it in them to want to improve, change begins happening. That is why it is so incredibly important to aspire to inspire others—if everyone realized just how much a small action can mean, the world as we know it would no longer exist. If we all aspired to inspire others, change would be the constant. The reason these services above self are so valuable is because, sadly, they are rare. From politics to school systems, the amount of competition is overwhelming. States, much like people, are always preoccupied making relative gains. “How can I make more money than him? How can I get a higher mark than her?” Questions like these tend to be a lot more common in the contemporary world than “How can I make sure he is okay?” or “What can I do to brighten her day?” The problem is that we are too self-centred. We need to understand we, as human beings, are all in this world together for better or for worse, and if we don’t think of those who need our help before ourselves, it will be for worse. Think of others, aspire to inspire, and you could be the ripple that starts a huge wave in a small ocean. –99–
Index by author Aguilar Vázquez, Alfonso Accepted Vacuum.........................45 For Reasons Unknown................41 Left Me Forever............................53 “Please don’t do it”.......................49 Akinwunmi, Paul Naturesque...................................85 Allatt, Priscilla A Whale Cannot Be Conjured.....90 Electric Storm..............................87 For Love is Stronger Than War................................30 Un équilibre fragile.....................55 Alsawari, Joudy Alone, Please................................14 Our Embrace...............................31 Bilodeau, Grace aspectu.........................................20 curtains........................................81 piercing........................................53 Chang, Yewon Another Heart..............................91 Depression....................................22 Chevalier, Timothy-Paul Absolu..........................................34 Aveugle.........................................22 Coiled...........................................38 Insatiable.....................................26 Colley, Sebastian Complexity.....................................8 Condo, Aidan Mon cœur est bleu pour Peggy Blue......................44 Our Lips Kissed...........................58 Couroux, Simon The Giving Time..........................32 Couture, Elizabeth Pessimistic Holiday.....................17 Culmer, Tyrin A Look Back.................................72 Mr. Potato Head...........................59 When I’m Whipped......................56
Feddema, Aidan A Boy’s Best Friend................ 64-65 Burdened Shoulders....................50 Motherly Love..............................87 Where Are You?............................74 White Pine....................................94 Frendo, Kelly Low Tide......................................62 Where’d You Go?..........................74 Wither...........................................31 Gardner, Grace Ground Control...........................30 Hug Me Back...............................34 Impact..........................................77 Squint..........................................16 Gomezgil Yaspik, Ivannia Alzheimer’s...................................67 Herbst, Anthony A Certain Calm............................10 The Truth About Childhood........91 Huang, Dazheng Her Single Room..........................71 Hunt, James A Gift for Heaven.........................80 Johnson, Jesse Canadian Heaven........................85 Johnson, Lauralie Eyes Closed..................................78 The Dark Side of the Moon.........18 Kulik, Valeriia Grounded.....................................50 The Story of Awakening..............77 Lavoie-Condo, Jurney Microscopic..................................87 Picture Perfect..............................42 Snow.............................................70 Legler, Sophie Dora the Jailbird.........................54 Move-In Day.................................15 The Scars You See (and Those You Don’t).............39 Youth............................................96 Lu, Xinyi Everlasting Love..........................26
Macfarlane, Izzy Alive.............................................33 Grey..............................................12 Marcelin, Natalia Blossoming.....................................9 Stitches.........................................38 Wings Full of Blood.....................67 Osman, Aliyah Retaliation...................................56 Skolimowska, Zuzanna Safe With You...............................79 Soucy, Justine Cosmic Thoughts.........................13 Make a Wish.................................72 Of Glowing Paint.........................92 Shells By the Shore.....................70 Tesolin, Cala A Poet’s Bloodstream.................102 Away from Hell............................84 Like Every Good Masochist.........48 On the Art of Dying.....................57 Ripple..................................... 98-99 Tesolin, Fausta Queen of Hearts...........................43 The Puppeteer..............................55 The Rose and the Dandelion.......27 Vine, Catherine Refusal to Play.............................40 The Gone Girl..............................67 To Love Makes One Solitary........63 Zeitlinger Fontana, Violetta deepest darkest secrets.................11 Forgetting.....................................73 Kiss......................................... 28-29 La mort........................................53 Oma........................................ 88-89 Rising of the Sun.........................66 Ugliest Desire...............................48 Your Empty Heart........................42 Zhu, Mary Summer........................................32 The Best Woman in the World.....94
Index by artist Aguilar Vázquez, Alfonso Big Lantern..................................62 Bridge...........................................14 Candescent...................................51 Candles........................................11 Ferris Wheel.................................76 Incandescent................................52 Lanterns.......................................58 Light at the End of the Tunnel....86 Mountain Range..........................88 Neon Wings..................................93 San Francisco..............................40 Skyscraper...................................30 Sunflowers...................................27 Allatt, Priscilla Marbled........................................44 Alsawari, Joudy Marbled........................................44 Axu, Suzan Blossoming Heart........................43 Broken Heart...............................91 Fragments......................................9 Callado Guerra, Lucia Gold..............................................80
Carter, Jackson Splatter 12 Ge, Jiajia Psychosis......................................14 Gosselin, Léa Treeman.......................................75 Gosselin-Chute, Shelby Lovebirds.....................................28 Sunrise.........................................54
Marcelin, Natalia Eye Spy........................................79 Fall...............................................84 Pastel............................................66 Withered.......................................23 Mercure, Fiona Free...............................................35 Nguyen, Jolie Space............................................13
Jebousek, Cyril Sand.............................................70
Qu, Lingyu Wisdom.........................................97
Li, Fengcheng Linear...........................................19
Saito, Sayaka Sakura.........................................57
Macfarlane, Izzy Baby’s Breath...............................83 Bleeding Heart.............................37 Calla Lilies & Violets ...................3 Forget-Me-Not..............................69 Garden.................................... cover Passion Flower............................25 Stinging Nettle.............................47 Wallflower......................................7 Weeping Willow............................61
Stieglitz Ruiz, Natalia Eilish............................................72 Wang, Jie (Coco) Airhead........................................98 Blindfolded..................................32 Calm.............................................21 Dripping.........................................3 Her and Her Flowers I................49 Her and Her Flowers II...............71 Her and Her Flowers III.............95
–101–
A Poet’s Bloodstream When I was broken my heart pumped stiff, blue letters through my veins. My blood was cold, dark poetry, and ink flowed from my fingertips like waterfalls that drowned out my pain. Those words sealed my wounds and now my heart pumps hot, red letters that blossom like flowers on my skin. I became a slave to my poetry, yet I am free, for it was under that water that I could finally find a breath of air. Cala Tesolin, Form VI
Inscape
Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2018–2019
Inscape Volume XXXVII