The Selladore

SHADOW PUPPETS

Cover: Dust Beam, Rowan Parkinson

“Doesn’t anything haunt you?”

- Florist, Feathers

THE SELLADORE

"I was astonished when someone first showed that by writing cellar door as Selladore one produces an enchanting proper name. ” - C.S. Lewis

“Your language too has soft and beautiful words, but they are not always appreciated. What could be more musical than your word cellar-door?” - W.D. Howells

“The modern small home or apartment has ... deprived today's child of ... the pleasant summer afternoon activity of sliding down cellar doors. Just what happened to the slanted cellar door in this efficient age isn't clear; although cellars have remained, nothing has disappeared more quietly from modern life than these cellar doors.” - William Chapman White

“This famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all of history, that ‘cellar door’ is the most beautiful ” - Karen Pomeroy

“Sell a cellar, door a cellar, sell a cellar cellar-door, door adore, adore a door, selling cellar, door a cellar, cellar cellar-door There is damned little meaning and less sense in such a sentence, but there is, unless my tonal balance is askew, twice more rhythm and twice more lovely sound in it than in anything, equally idiotic, that Miss Gertrude ever confected.” - George Jean Nathan

“I’m like you ...I remember everything.” - André Aciman

“No. It’s not a name. It’s something else. Selladore, it’s not a princess’ name, it can’t be. Selladore… is a place… It is a place which is revered by all who know of it. A sacred place marked at its centre by… by trees.” - David Gleeson and Stephen Beresford

“I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best, the subject I want to know better.” - Frida Kahlo

“The art of art, the glory of expression, and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity.” - Walt Whitman

“Goodbye earthling, you were more perfect than anyone, though far from it ” - Margaret Atwood

INTRODUCTION

Within these pages are entire worlds, constellations of meaning and purpose brought to bear upon us by the students of Elmwood. There is a startling array of techniques and styles fraught with humour, passion and intent. Though each piece says something different, they are similar in that they all say something meaningful and forceful. We started this journal for this expressed purpose: to give the students of this school an opportunity to regain control over language and to exert agency where there might exist passivity. These authors have tamed language to meet their emotional ends and, in so doing, give you, the reader, an understanding that such things are possible, no matter your age or experience We ask simply that you read these words with an open mind, an open heart, and with the understanding that, should you choose to express yourself as well, the next issue will be waiting for you

Sincerely, Your

Editors

Augustine Burton-Tiampo

Claire Hang

Norah Redstone

Emma Bettolli-Remonda

Ghostly Whispers in the Sky

Imara Bhulji

Branching Out

Tamsen Taylor

Kaede Takenaka

Slipping Sideways

Flutter

Bright All Night

Gluttony right under my eyes

Layered Shadows

Elizabeth Chen-Baker

Maya Yemm

May Wang

Michelle Liu

Izzie Morgan

Abbie Paraskevas Maddie Petit

Petit

Damage

BedsideTable

TRACKLIST

MelonYellow

. LeadingTowardsAnEnd.........................

Slowdive

In Tow . ThereAreGhosts................................

Helvetia

DemonsSingLoveSongs . Ugly Brunette

kisses-skyii . So Slow

The Black Crow

reprise

C-Clamp

Karate

Unwound

HorseJumperofLove

Codeine

Duster

Slowdive,Grouper

Acetone

Songs:Ohia

salviapalth

Shadow Bloom, Maya Yemm

Plexiglass etching

Silhouettes, Daryna Mardak

These Twisted Words

Sloane Bradley

What twisted words are these?

Written in blood on a crumbling wall,

Deep within the Labyrinth of underground passageways,

Dripping for the rats to behold.

Who wrote them, years ago in the dark?

Before light made its way in sneaking teenagers and excavating teams.

Were they painted in warning?

An omen to turn back from some hidden darkness or demonic spirit.

Or were they crafted as these words were,

from a bored soul looking for some permanent mark of their existence.

These eyes twist them further, contorting their meaning into a spectacle of creepy props.

These twisted words.

At Once, Elizabeth Chen-Baker

Alien Observer | After the Tempest, Augustine Burton-Tiampo

“While playing this piece, I enjoy listening for the contrast and communication between the high and low melodic motifs. I envision them as shadows (low sounds); which playfully dance in the light (high sounds), and create a sense of ominosity when least expected.” - Claire

Mazurka - composed by Claude Debussy, performed by Claire Hang | Click to play

The Shallow Hall

Norah Redstone

The shallow hall leads to nowhere. As I walk, I find myself in repetition. The columns continue, and the shadows lurk. Without the sun, they would consume the world. Covering every inch in shade. Luckily for me, beams of light start flowing in, creating an escape.

The Shallow Hall, Emma Bettolli-Remonda

Ghostly Whispers in the Sky, Imara Bhulji

Branching Out | Rooted, Tamsen Taylor

May 2024

Eclipse

Kaede Takenaka

Dear Dahlia,

When I first met you, I talked about how I feared hurricanes. Their tumultuous thunderclaps, the menacing shadow they cast. Most of all, I despise the single pause for a moment before terror reigned. I detested that feeling more than anything. Now, knowing what I knew, I wish that fear was the only thing I feared in this world.

In this Great War, you fear more than a hurricane. You wait for noise to strike you like a thunderbolt and disintegrate you in a second. Then, that’s it. You’re nothing more than a name on a sheet of paper and a bunch of ornaments. We sleep in dirt-filled trenches, water ever so slowly rising with each passing day. Somedays, I wished that it would fill to the brink, bringing me peace for one moment. Now, I fear the absence of noise. I fear the anticipation of a bombshell ricocheting with the ground. I fear the silence and its shadow of what’s next.

I remember running across the trenches, keeping my head down on the ground. For some odd reason, I took note of each shadow that another soldier would cast, for it was early in the morning. With each step I took, one shadow would vanish from existence or fall limp. It was monstrous, and it was God’s miracle that I survived. Though I question His wisdom. How could he care for each of us yet blind himself to our experiences?

There’s one experience I remember about one of my friends, William. He served with me in the training camp and he was ruthless. He was one of the older kids; his father was one of the coaches. He always had the highest push-up counts, and he always got the warmest food. But he treated us with respect, with a touch of overconfidence.

He was in my infantry as well, and while we rejoiced at that fact in the moment, it sunk in what that meant. It came to fruition one night when I was helping lead our infantry out of the marsh we’d gotten stuck in. William had gotten one of his legs crushed by one of our surviving horses. He screamed and wailed in pain, which led enemies to us. We had to leave him behind, and I can still hear his screams for help. Do you know what a man sounds like when he’s shot in the throat while trying to scream for his mother? I do now. He’s nothing more now than a bag of souvenirs to be gifted to their loved ones.

Each of my friends, all the joys I had with them, will be nothing more than a name on a slab of gravel. I pray every night that I don’t meet the same fate. I am ever more glad that you ’ re safe in your house since I wouldn’t wish my worst enemy a fraction of the experience of war.

I know you ’ re asking why I joined then, my darling, and I would say I did it for my sickly father. For that, I’d be a horrible liar. Ever since I was a lad, I always felt a significant shadow in my heart. This shadow was all-encompassing, squeezing at any sense of emotion. Anytime I attempted to gain new friends, the shadow would grow and whisper such horrid things. Things I wouldn’t dare repeat nor say to you. Then, you showed up, and for some inexplicable reason, the shadow spoke in my ear, and I didn’t listen. Your beauty shines eternally through the night, and I couldn’t help but stand in front of you, blocking it for myself. When you kissed me on my cheek, I felt like a person for once. I wasn’t a nameless soldier nor a relentless autocrat’s son. I was yours. But that shadow still tormented me. As lovely as it is loving you, who will I be when you ’ re gone? I was a being without definition. A shadow can replicate a being as much as it would like, but it’ll never be the real thing. So, I enlisted.

Now, it is the start of November, and I can’t feel my numb fingers. I hear my surviving comrades. They try to impress the local women by stating the things they’d do for them how they would tear apart countries and destroy the world.

It’s frivolous; I’ve seen destruction, and it’s nothing but malice. For you, I’d see this world thrive and flourish. I’d see that everyone not only survives but thrives, including us. I would see that every flower field would bloom its most perfect colours, and the trees stand tall and sway in the wind with reckless abandon. I would march from here in Belgium to your cottage in Ireland, and we’d run away into the woods. Simply us.

We would meet once again, either in death or life. God would judge us, and I’d bite my tongue. He will ask us the fatal question in the end. Like a shadow, I’d follow you through the depths of whatever you choose. If I could give my opinion, though, Heaven or Hell is neither a haven worthy of us.

If you choose to get this letter, you’d need not respond. I don’t want you to follow me; I don’t want you to risk mailing a letter back. Know that my soul is eternally yours and that I’ll keep you company for as long as you need me. I’ll follow close behind you, and if I can see your shadow, I’ll fight it myself. That’s the only battle that I'm honoured to fight in.

With all my love, Damien

Nostalgia on Wheels, Madeline Winter

1958 Chevrolet Corvette (C1)

Slipping Sideways, Augustine Burton-Tiampo

Flutter, May Wang

Bright All Night, Tamsen Taylor

May 2024

Digital drawing

Gluttony, Rowyn Pratte

right under my eyes

Aurae Rogers

there is a shadow that lives in the corner of my room, under my bed in the crevices of the windows, in the floorboards in dust bunnies, tucked into the unironed portions of my clothes in the sleeves of my sweaters in the closet it never does love itself, for fear is its lifeline and caution its blood its veins are made of cotton and terrible, horrible memories so it will never touch the outside world, nor the light, always shying away from it the sun chases it away, so it burrows its way into the places where we cannot reach as our fingers grasp at it, it slips through, like sand we cannot feel and runs, runs, dashes away while always being there, like some sort of heroic coward you exist and i can see you and yet you do not because you do not wish to see me, in turn you turn yourself away from me and dive into the places my flashlight cannot see, distorting your figure you have no face, no presence, yet you are scared

and yet you haunt me all the same, living in my bed, living in my sheets you follow me in the sun, casting darkness behind me are you a loyal companion or my greatest curse? when i close my eyes your familiar darkness overtakes me, so i cannot see so i can plug my ears and take the form of that of a coward, to hide, to run i stare up into you, because you are not just a shadow, you are darkness and when i am alone, you cover me like a blanket i do not know if i should be terrified or comforted by the fact that i am alone, and yet i never was because you are still living in my bedside drawer, and you only scramble to leave when i open it or only when i open the mirrors of my mind and turn a flashlight to dig into the closet, to try and find what i’ve been hiding from myself

you run because you can only veil, not remove you do not live in misery but you find comfort in wallowing within it so i cast you into the room where only my lap is lit, you stand behind me and as i dive under the covers

i find you, again right under my eyes

Layered Shadows, Elizabeth Chen-Baker

Untitled, Maya Yemm

Photography & collage

Night Falls, May Wang

lights leave an impression,

Michelle Liu

Seeing Stars

Izzie Morgan

When Ms. Nancy Adams awoke that morning the first thing she noticed was that it was bright. Her curtains had been left open and for once she was able to see the world outside of her small, sanitized room. There was a bird's nest right in front of her window and from her spot on the bed she was able to see the black tip of the mother’s head.

Nancy pushed herself up against the headboard of her bed- it was easier than usual today, and she could not suppress her smile at the thought that her physical therapy had finally begun to work. Now she was able to see much more of the birds- they were a family of crows, no father in sight, and the mother began to feed her young. Nancy had never been much of a fan of the animal, however after reading the myth behind Corvus she could not help but feel a slight pity for them. The thought of losing a piece of oneself to a factor out of their control and then being faced with that angst each and every day? Awful. She pushed the thought of her liver spots, her sagging skin and her frizzled gray hair far out of her mind, and turned it to the book beside her. Nancy had always loved constellations- her room was covered in posters and stick-on stars that she had forced Nurse Vance to assemble. She loved the fact that there was always a story above her- a reason for the world to be the way it was. She picked vacantly at the moth-bitten holes in her blanket, her stout and bony fingers just barely poking through to the other side, and for what might have been seconds or hours she watched the birds feed, frowning when the mother left for more food.

There was a knock on the door.

“Ms. Adams? May I come in?” Nancy startled and turned her gaze from the window to her clock. 9:15 am. Before she could even reply her door opened, the jingle of bells ringing out at the motion. She remembered convincing Nurse Tucker to put those up, “It's festive, dear, think of the spirit!” He’d forgotten to take them off and so they remained tied around the small of the door knob. Nancy stood to greet the nurse, not even batting an eye at the wheelchair that was locked by her bed. “Nurse Vance! Didn’t your mother ever teach you to knock?” She was a few feet away from him now, right by the foot of her bed. She waited a moment for his reply, then she noticed he was crying.

This was odd because Nurse Vance was certainly the calmest of the staff, 32 years old and standing tall at 6 '1, he was the type of man who assumed he knew all of the world and was thus perfectly prepared to face it, but now he was hunched over clutching his clipboard to his chest and practically having a meltdown.

Nancy rushed to his side: “What’s wrong dear? Did something happen?” While Nancy was childless, she took pride in her ability to comfort those younger than her. Nurse Vance continued to sob and Nancy placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, smiling as he began to calm. The room was silent for a moment, save for the sound of hungry calling from her young avian neighbours and Nurse Vance’s raspy breaths. “Do you remember the myth of Corvus? There are many versions, as is common with tales of stars, but my favourite is the one which I believe to be the most tragic. Apollo had a lover, Coronis, who he’d cared for quite dearly. One day, a bored crow decided to follow Coronis as she went about her day, and subsequently witnessed her affair with another man. Disgusted by this act the crow flew to Apollo and told him what he’d seen, however instead of being appreciative, the god of Music, blinded by rage, turned the snow-white Crow’s feathers a coal-ish black and that is why when we look to the sky we see Corvus with his blackened feathers, and not a hint of the white he once possessed.”

Nurse Vance didn’t say a thing in response, but he turned to stare at the poster of Ursa Major on her bedroom wall. It was his favourite, and though he never told her as much, whenever he came on his rounds she noticed his eyes stray back to the thing. “Ursa Major. The Great Bear.” His voice was still raw but now there was a bit of joy in it. “So you do listen to my stories.” He began to straighten and Nancy removed her hand from his back. “She deserved so much better, you always said that. Her affair, a moment in her life, should not have defined the sum total.” Nancy grinned. “I used to think you actually knew more about me than you let on. That you were trying to comfort me. ” “And if I was?”

“If you did know,” Nurse Vance turned his gaze, but Nancy was too focused to follow. “Thank you. ” The man placed his clipboard on Nancy’s wheelchair and then passed her without a second glance, aimed towards her bed. “Nurse Vance, you don’t need to worry! Look at me, it's clear I can fix my own bed today.” She followed him, finally turning her gaze towards the bed.

“Oh.”

There, where Nancy Adams had lay just minutes ago was an old woman. Her eyes were closed and her hands lay crossed on her chest, her silver hair framing her face like a halo. Her wrinkles were soft and she looked... She looked peaceful. Nancy raised her hand in front of her face, now noticing that her skin looked softer, younger. She rushed to her mirror, one she had asked Nurse Vance to cover up on a bad day and ripped the cloth off it. There, in front of her, was Nancy Adams, The real Nancy Adams, brown hair, hazel eyes, dimples and all- she hadn't been this Nancy in decades, but now she was, for once, she was.

She turned back to Nurse Vance as he attended to her body. He took the book left open on her nightstand and gently placed it in her arms. ‘The stars and their stories.’ “I don’t know what happens next,” he whispered gently, “but I know you’d want this with you. ” Nancy hugged him, “Thank you, Little Bear,” and made her way to her bed. She let her head fall onto her pillow and became overtaken by a feeling of exhaustion. Nurse Vance gently pried the edges of her blanket from her cold, spotted hands, “Goodbye, Ms. Nancy,” and pulled it over her head. Light flashed through the holes in the fabric, and the last thing she heard was the flapping of a bird's wings.

“Hah! It’s funny, Vance. I could’ve sworn I saw stars.”

Graphite on paper

Refuge, Abbie Paraskevas

O R I A L S

E D I T

O n c e y o u s t a r t t o l o o k , y o u c a n n o t h e l p b u t s e e .

Moon Shadow 3:03pm, Maddie Petit

L’ombre, Maddie Petit

Forwards, Rowan Parkinson

Echo

Rowan Parkinson

At an open window, we sit in the dark, Homesick shadows

Dimmed by the strange shape of silence

One and the same, Time passes through us

Nothing moves but the fireflies.

youturntome

I ask if you remember

When we tried to count the stars

Winking light

Falling over and over again

The darkness held a peculiar light Without fear.

youstareback

Faintly,

I see us through a reflection

And alongside us

Everything we cannot name I see you as you were, as you are, as you will be, How come you never cry in front of me?

youcloseyoureyes

I know it’s time to leave.

ARTISTS

Maya Yemm

Daryna Mardak

Sloane Bradley

Elizabeth Chen-Baker

Augustine Burton-Tiampo

Claire Hang

Norah Redstone

Emma Bettolli-Remonda

Imara Bhulji

Tamsen Taylor

Kaede Takenaka

Madeline Winter

May Wang

Rowyn Pratte

Aurae Rogers

Michelle Liu

Izzie Morgan

Abbie Paraskevas

EDITORS

Rowan Parkinson

Maddie Petit

FOUNDERS

Megan Sweeney

Safa Siddiqui

PAST EDITORS

Sophia Swettenham

Madeleine Klebanoff O’Brien

Linnea Dalvi

Zaina Khan

Abigail Butler

Hannah Gerring

Bianca Sugunasiri

Stella-Charles Fisher