2nd Edition, Issue 1

2nd Edition, Issue 1

The Selladore

23/02/16

THE SELLADORE 23/02/2017

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Dicere sicut furcifur.


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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

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CONTENTS Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

5

Relish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Lucy Whichelo

7, 8

An Ode To Dalia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Muntaka Ahmed I Still See It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Reem Hamzah

13, 14, 15

A World in A Word . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17, 18, 19, 20 Alexis Pătraşcu Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Emma Hunter Fallen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Isabelle Collum

25

Stretch of Clarity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Isabelle Collum

27

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28, 29 Sheetza McGarry Exam Correspondence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Elizabeth Milne

31, 32

Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sophia Swettenham

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Untitled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sophia Swettenham

38

The Perfect Moment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Mr. Levesque

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INTRODUCTION Within these pages are entire worlds, constellations of meaning and purpose brought to bear upon us by the girls 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 forcefully. We started this journal for this express purpose, to give the girls of this school an opportunity to regain control over language, 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 intent. 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, we will be waiting for you with the next issue.

Sincerely, Your editors

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Untitled, Chloe Somerville

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Relish Lucy Whichelo The significance of condiments is often overlooked, especially when it comes to relish. There is no better metaphor for the extravagance of the 21st century than the endless brands of pickled cucumber and strawberry jam found in the preservatives aisle at our grocery stores. However, while the hallmark of human progress is manifested in the pursuit of infinite choice, the overwhelming abundance of options that we are presented with may be causing us dissatisfaction rather than happiness. Having so many options to choose from paralyzes us from making decisions, for fear of choosing the wrong one. When we finally do make a choice, we are left wondering whether or not taking the other option would have made us happier. By this standard, happiness becomes almost impossible. Would it not be easier to have our choices made for us – where our brains are forced into a happy form of acceptance? But then, would this happiness be legitimate if it is not chosen freely? This is the paradox of choice.

The weekly grocery haul is no longer a simple task. In the 21st century, there are more brands of strawberry jam then you can count on your fingers. Abundance of choice, however, is not limited to the many kinds of relished strawberries; it is now ingrained into the core of our society and it colours the way we think and act. For example, women today have the freedom to marry and not to marry, and to have and not to have children. Until recently, veering from a domestic life was not an option. An ideal of marriage and motherhood was set and followed, advertised by the notion that this was the one and only route to happiness. In situations like this, people will naturally begin to want out of these cages they are trapped in. They rebel, demand change, and pursue a new path of independence and individuality. This new path, though, is rough and unclear and certainly does not come with a set of directions. It is up to that individual to navigate for themselves, to invent themselves, to wake up in the morning and decide what kind of person they will be that day. Pursuing this path, while seemingly attractive in the beginning, becomes frustrating when the individual does not know where to go or what they need to find contentment. Decisions and choices made for us fill this hole of knowledge that we have, and gives us a direction to find happiness. When freedom is added into the equation, things change.

Maybe it is because of freedom that today, so many of us are walking around in circles trying to find our identity, our future, our happiness. This is the paradox of choice.

Making a decision initiates a state of paralysis. With so many options to choose from, it becomes hard to choose at all. Nobody wants to make the wrong choice, and so the fear of doing so prevents one from making the decision, though both of the options could bring happiness. Even if a choice is made, the presence of other options ultimately diminishes the sense of satisfaction received from the results of the choice made initially. This is because you will always be left !7

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wondering if the other choice could have made you happier. And so, the more options there are, the easier it is to regret the decision made. This is illustrated in the economic concept of opportunity cost, where loss is experienced with an alternative given up when a decision is made. If we stick to the grocery store theme, opportunity cost would be the experience off loss when a consumer gives up their favourite brand of pickles in favour of the brand that goes on sale that day. When the consumer goes home to enjoy their 20% off jar of pickles, they can not be satisfied as they are busy mourning the idea that they could be enjoying their favourite brand of pickles instead of savouring the fact that they paid 20% less than he usually would. Again, having options to choose from makes it less likely to be happy with the decision made. This is the paradox of choice.

In my own life, I find myself conflicted with this burden of choice. I know that I am not alone in feeling conflicted between two identities. For some reason we seem to have an inherent want to be pure. We like things to be neat; to place things in boxes and tie up loose ends. This however, is impossible. Humans are too complex to capture into a single category. Nevertheless, we place each other in these boxes and then act surprised when someone contradicts our expectations. It is because of this, we feel pressure to pick one facet of our identity and invent ourselves around that ideal purity; trying to juggle and choose between our possibilities and potentials becomes too hard. If all these things hold true, would it not then just be easier to give up freedom, to give up choice, and follow a single path? Would it not be easier to adopt a ‘synthetic happiness’ and enter a trance of happy acceptance? Ah, but simplicity is not the same as happiness. True contentment must be defined by your own terms, not a traditional benchmark. It must be found within yourself and not in comparison to others around you. If something is not chosen freely, it is not true. This is the paradox of happiness.

So, whether you relish in sweet or dill pickle, Heinz or French's, remember the paradox of choice, of freedom, of happiness, next time you look for contentment in the products of your decision.

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Dalia, Myriam Rostom !10

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An Ode to Dalia Muntaka Ahmed I’m standing in the ocean, knee deep in coarse, salty water.

My eyes burn, but I can see. I can see everything but you.

A faint ringing in my ears and sloshing in my head, Specks of sand stuck between my teeth.

I begin to panic – as one does when surrounded by a million faces but not a single one familiar.

I scan every face looking for your soft, slanted eyes, So deep and brown – like the earth on which we lay at night and you taught me about the stars.

The constellations.

The mama bear and the baby bear.

The gap between your two front teeth that holds a million secrets.

Have I ever told you how much I love the way your eyebrows curve like rainbows above your eyes? Outlining them with my small finger as you fall asleep with my head on your shoulder.

And your short black hair, which starts out straight but then curves outwards and upwards as it reaches your chin.

Like a princess. I always thought.

I can see you! A rush of relief. Finally.

Will you run to me? Or should I run to you? I’ll run to you.

I always have. I always will. And you’ll always be there to take me into your arms and tell me everything will be all right, my baby.

Your baby. That’s what I am.

Not a day older than childhood. Your faded memories.

A broken record player Singing “I miss you” on repeat.

I do miss you, I do miss home. Home is where the heart is, But twelve thousand kilometers is too far. I’m sure you know that. And miss me too.

Time goes on and I can still see you. But I can’t reach you this time.

Not until you run to me. This time. ’Til then I’ll stay here.

Standing in the ocean, knee deep in coarse, salty water.

Surrounded by a million faces but not a single one familiar Except yours. !11

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Something in Motion, Pooja Moorti

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I Still See It Reem Hamzah 9 years old I still see it Mention a name But don’t mean it Houses on the ground Graves in the yard What has this come to?

I can’t even tempt to Family…

Home…

Love…

Religion…

Culture…

Weather…

School…

Home…

Home…

Home…

Connection is bad Angels are sad The sea turned red And no one is dead Children afraid Parents and grenades On foot is the solution Will there be a nother revolution?

Smile…

And cry.

Thank god…

To not die.

Black…

Dark…

Smoke…

Provoke…

It’s my home !13

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Why am I not to Rome?

Run is the solution…

There is too much pollution.

Where can I go?

Everyone’s a foe Electricity is gone Water anon Fuels to go We are running low It used to be twelve Now not on the shelf Phone in the sand Where is my hand?

Face injured Talks are whispered Vehicles broken down No one deserves a crown Black will fall down Red, green, white and black will be upon What has this world come to?

I spent an hour…

And realized I had to Cloudy sky No airplane to fly Mothers die What is the girl going to deny?

Dust…

Rain…

Dirt…

I can handle it all Don’t want it to fall Glass around the house There could even be a mouse Twist…

Twist…

Twist…

I shall not let you Don’t tempt to

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You will be done In no run You deserve our land That uses no hand You deserve a band That will bang you around Conscience!

Conscience!

Conscience!

Enjoy it!

Make a Macbeth out of it And worse is it Persian, Chinese, Turkish And Spanish you are!

Not only that!

I can go far.

Think will add religion, Accompanying militarism He will deal Go ahead and peel I am brave You are a slave Nothing less will lend you to dress And you’ll never confess I heard you’re running away!

I hope not to LA

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Untitled, Isabelle Collum

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A World In A Word Alexis Pătraşcu I strode through the bookstore. It was my life. People told me that I lived with my nose in books, and never connected to the reality of the situation. I think I just don’t connect to their reality. Their reality wasn’t epic fantasies, daring battles, feats of selflessness, and danger at every turn. Their reality was simple, and boring. The bookstore loomed around me, enveloping me, inviting me. Books were my life.

And I’d correct everyone and tell them that I lived in books. I weaved my way around tables stacked high with books of all shapes, colours, and sizes. My favourite section was fantasy. I loved medieval books.

With magic. And heroes, and villains, and fantastic beasts. Like dragons. I ducked into the row of shelves with Fantasy written on the polished wooden shelf side, in gold leaf letters.

What I loved about this bookstore was how many books there were. How you had to nearly dig through all the books to find the cashier. I’d memorised the location already. I tended to come here, stay three hours or so, and buy about ten books, then leave happy. My eyes snagged on a volume. It was as thick as the palm of my hand. And bound in leather. It was uncommon, nowadays. Taking my hands from my jean pockets, I gingerly removed the book from the shelf. It was called Ashen Wright. Adventures of an Infamous pirate. I turned to the inside page. The title was written again, and the author was Ashen Wright. The script inside wasn’t printed from a press. It was hand written, and elegantly, at that.

I turned to the first page, and started to read.

I know, already, that he was following me. Damien Dukes, the pirate hunter. Bounty hunter was what I thought. I was at Tortuga when I met him. A tall, pale man with dark hair. An expression that was so cold you could near feel the chill from the other side o’ the room. He had been hired by His Majesty. I still didn’t understand what was so majestic about the king. An old man sitting upon a throne. So very majestic.

I laughed. This pirate certainly had quite the point of view. Ashen Wright. Somewhere, I felt like I knew her. I flipped through the book, the musty scent of ancient pages filling the row of shelves. It was her nautical journal. Each entry was dated, and the knots to which her ship, The Lantern of the Deep traveled at as she wrote.

I tucked the book into my book bag, and continued through the row. I dragged a finger over the volumes, my finger moving up, and down, up, and down; with the different sizes of book spines.

My finger hit a book that had a metal spine. I stopped in my tracks, and took the book from the shelf.

Secrets Can Be Solutions. I turned to the first page. There was no author.

Do you ever feel like something lurks in the shadow behind you? Like there’s always something at the end of the path waiting to ensnare you with its long, serrated talons? As if your next step could be into an endless pit. Where you’d fall until you forgot how to scream your fear. If you’re reading this book, you should close it. And stop reading. And walk away. Don’t turn around. Don’t look back. This is the story of someone with all these problems. I’m not paranoid. I have a secret. It’s one that has lasted my whole life, !17

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and has caused me problems. I hope, to all deities out there, that it can’t be inherited. They say that there’s a pull from people to danger. I say it’s the danger chasing the people. I can’t say what my secret is. Though keeping a secret…it’s a thing my life has depended on multiple times. Secrets, they tell me, can be Solutions.

A thrill ran up my spine. This was going to be a good book. The author was either writing a book in first person, or…this secret was real. With a smile, I tucked the book into my bag. Today seemed to be a good day. Unusual, puzzling, thrilling books. Not paper-bound or hardcover fiction novels from authors that were mostly still alive. No. Great adventures. I could relive them. To be like a character, to have a story, all one needed to do was read a story.

I continued through the row. A book with a wooden spine caught my attention this time. Gold for a Fool.

It was painted blue, and had a golden compass rose drawn on the front. The author’s name was faded enough that I couldn’t discern it. I flipped to the first page, and read.

Dropping to the cold stone floor in a crouch, Cora Leventi scanned the temple for any threats. There seemed to be none. So she stood, her boots not even allowing the sound of scuffing as she cautiously walked across the room towards the golden mask.

Temple of Ares. Pfft. Ares loved warriors like her. She had sent prayers and offerings to the god this morning, using golden oak leaves to get answers for her questions. Apparently she was allowed to steal the mask, and no one would die or be cursed because of it, so here she is. Regardless, Nikodem Regas, or Niko, as Cora called him, had said they needed more gold to test the theory. So, more gold it is.

Her twin swords glinted in the sunlight as she walked to the pedestal where the mask rested. She tipped her head back to the light, her long black hair glimmering, her blue and gold eyes shining with the thrill of a chase. So, putting on her leather gloves, she grabbed the mask and walked towards the enormous doors of the temple.

Smiling, she took a deep breath. She flung the doors open, and started to sprint down the stairs. Guards shouted curses and ran after her. But they were always too slow. Cora had been doing this since she could remember, and nothing would stop her from getting the mask back to the Thief's Den. Her legs worked on their own, speeding her through the narrow streets between houses. Cora clutched the mask tightly and didn't dare look over her shoulder. She lost the guards in a narrow bend. They must have completely lost track of her, since when she slowed to a casual stride and hid the mask in her satchel, there were no footfalls behind or in front of her.

But she did not expect what came next. At all.

The preface ended there. So, with a sigh of content, I closed the book and put it in my bag as well. On the shelf to my left, the sunlight streaming through a window hit one volume in the way a spotlight hits an actor. It was a simple paperbound volume, with a glossy black spine. I removed the book from the shelf, flipping the cover to face me. The cover was black, save for a silver dagger with a thorny, bloodred rose wrapped around it. Not A Word. It was called. It had been published early this year.

Running. Breathing. Hurting. Bleeding. Shouting. Running.

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The young girl ran through the alleys, ran from the thing in the dark. Ran from the shadow at her heels.

Ran from the thing she couldn’t explain, not ever, to no one. Her dress tore, leaving behind strips of lavender blue fabric on the street. She didn’t stop running. What chased her had no shred of mercy. She didn’t look over her shoulder. She already knew what chased her. She already knew that the dark was a thing to fear. Especially when your name was Diana North. When she arrived on the palace doorstep with a torn dress, they let her in. No questions for the princess who had just appeared one day. No questions for the mystery.

I tucked this book into my bag as well. And I continued down the row once more. I reached the end, and walked into the Mystery section. I started reading every book title, searching for one that sounded intense. The Spy Trap. I pulled it out of the shelf with a hard tug, as it seemed to be stuck in between the other books. I read the back.

“It had been a week since Cody had seen his friend Ryder in university. They shared a dorm. Cody gets a cryptic message from Ryder, saying “5W2S to the HQ. MMT” Cody knew MMT stood for “meet me there”. It was one of the abbreviations he used most often with Ryder. Will Cody find out what Ryder’s asking? And when he does, can they beat the clock?”

Beat the clock to what? I furrowed my brows for a minute, before deciding to take this book too. I decided I only wanted one more book, so I walked a bit further, to the table that read, “New Releases”. I picked up a book with a cover that was laminated, but with the illustration of a notebook page. The title was A World in A Word. It was written by Tessa Chase. That was my name. I opened it, my heart picking up the pulse. All the pages were blank. I flipped to the back, the inside of the cover. In the bottom right corner, the smallest of print. Sometimes. Was the word. “Sometimes?” I asked aloud.

Suddenly, the bookstore felt empty. There were no sounds to be heard, save my voice echoing.

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes. I shook the book gently in my hand. A sticky note fell out, fluttering to the hardwood floor. It was faded, the original yellow more white. I picked it off the ground, and read it. It was in my own scrawl, and it read, Ring the bell at the cashier’s desk. She can help you buy the books.

A shiver crawled up my spine. I had never written a book. Not a blank one. With the word Sometimes written in it. Or a sticky note to the reader. Was it a trick?

“James?” I called out, guessing it was my prankster friend. He seemed to be the only person in my life who loved to read just as much as I did. He loved to play tricks on me, too.

There was no answer. I started to walk to the cashier desk, slowly. Carefully. Trying not to make much of a sound. The silence in the bookstore was eerie, and engulfing. It was like a blanket was tossed over my head. As I crept through the shelves leading to the desk, I started to hear whispering. I stopped. The whispering continued. Louder. It came from the books.

Rejected. You don’t belong here. Something’s wrong. Run Tessa. It’s not James, Tessa. Run. Run. Run. A World in A Word. It’s simple.

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I ran, my feet tearing over the ground, my heart beating a wild, unsteady four-beat rhythm against my rib cage. Run, run, run. Don’t belong. Wild thing. One word, Tessa. It takes one word. One bell. One book.

One person. One friend.

I ran faster, towards the doors now. As I threw myself at the glass doors, sunlight making them bright, I slammed into an invisible wall. I fell over, catching myself on my elbows.

Run. No escape.

I scrambled to my feet, my breathing frantic and shallow. The tables of books started to move. My eyes widened when they made a path to the cashier desk. The cashier was nowhere to be seen. I realised I was still holding the sticky note when it started to burn my hand. I dropped it, hissing in pain. The letters were glowing on the paper. I looked at my hand. The letters were branded on my hand. Impulsively, I sprinted for the desk, and slammed the books on the desk. All six of them. Smoke started to rise from the sticky note, which started to combust, catching fire. I rang the bell. It echoed over the whispers, now crowding my mind. One word, One world. One word, One World. Say it, Tessa.

I rang the bell again, and said, “Sometimes.” The fire from the sticky note crept across the floor towards me. “Sometimes! Please! Sometimes!” My hands started to shake. I tried to steady myself, closing my eyes, taking a deep breath, and letting it out again. I opened my eyes.

The bookstore wasn’t around me. The whispers were gone. The fire was gone. All that remained was the brand on my hand. I was standing on a cobblestone street, between narrow, tall, dark buildings. I realised, with a start, as a man riding a horse passed me that I was in the medieval times. My breath hitched. But… how?

I pinched my arm and felt it. So, I wasn’t dead. Or dreaming. I was actually in a medieval kingdom. I stumbled forward when something crashed into my back. “I’m so sorry, ma’a—“ the voice speaking cut off. It was very familiar. I turned around, ready to accept an apology. My mouth fell open. “James?” I asked, my eyes wide. He wore a leather vest, and leather pants, a blue tunic under the vest.

“You made it.” he said with a smile. “I have a lot to explain.”

“What book am I in, James?” I demanded.

“Your book. The one you’re going to grow up and write. I’ve always been a character. I, uh, I met you when I found a way out.”

“And you’ve found a way to drag me in.”

“Yeah. But I think you’ll like it, anyways.” He turned, his brown hair tousled by the wind. He started to walk down the street. When I didn’t follow, he sighed, and turned to me, his green eyes meeting mine.

“Follow me, already. You’re not just going to stand in the street all day, are you?”

A smile made its way over my features. “Not at all.” I started after my friend.

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Motorcycle, Zaina Khan

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Untitled, Pooja Moorti

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Untitled Emma Hunter In my backyard, in a puddle or a swamp, with orange coloured reeds (everything tended to be orange or yellow or sometimes red), there lived our whale. She was small, though her species was normally quite large, and she died when two more whales appeared in the backyard swamp, and ate her. That was how my little sister died, trying to protect her. Perhaps she drowned, or perhaps she was also eaten by one of the whales. I'm unsure. I was busy, you see, at the time, I'm fairly sure. Recently, my brother had died when he stepped on a land mine, hidden under the carpet of autumn leaves, while we'd been walking in the woods with Richard Feynman and some of my classmates from middle school. I was very witty, I remember. I made Feynman laugh. I can't remember how my brother died. He might have actually picked up the land mine, or bomb - whatever it was.

I have always known that my siblings would die and even how it would happen, ever since I began that life. It made me sad, but since their deaths were in front of me since the beginning, the sadness was constantly present, not restricted to the actual events.

I walked home, after my sister died, to our big yellow house. The sky was a bright red, a bit too light to be bloody. I hated the colour palette in that moment. Some cool tones would have been so refreshing.

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Pandora’s Remnants, Zaina Khan

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Fallen Isabelle Collum Depression feels like you’ve fallen in a well Your backpack fell off and is nowhere to be found There’s so much water in your shoes You’ve fallen before but never this far down The stones are covered in moss ages old It reeks with a smell only monsters should know The darkness is loud Days pass but the sun never comes The moon grins with pointy teeth You’ll see people's shadows pass on the walls up above But you’re too scared to shout If they find you here they’ll never forgive you You know you won’t get out Eventually you’ll start to accept it Days are longer than before Exhaustion is imminent It doesn’t matter if you sleep down in the murky water for hours, Because it is restless sleep, and when you wake there is mud in your hair The walls seem to close in tighter You are so cold You remember that your backpack had a blanket and long for that heat once more Nights pass One day a rope falls on your feet You jump, startled by the movement and your eyes need to adjust Is this another dream? Another where you climb the rope and it breaks right before the top?

No, you realize Up there, there is a figure Someone is trying to help you You climb up into the sky The moon smiles softly The figure wraps you in an embrace and you drink in the sunlight Nights may still seem dark The moon may still flash a wicked grin sometimes But the sun will always be back tomorrow With another rope to guide you home

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Fragile, Zaina Khan

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Stretch of Clarity Isabelle Collum I am made of wind and whispers Betting on a cloud of chances I am made of fables and firelight Resting on a handful of maybes I am made of stars and shadows Floating on a river of neglect I am made of dreams and doubts Sailing on a stretch of clarity I am made of envy and epiphanies Dancing on a world of possibilities I am made of imaginings and innocence Swimming on a realm of lies

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Untitled

Sheetza McGarry Dedicated to the seniors and anyone else who might be feeling a little overwhelmed.

You know those moments? The ones where everything around you suddenly becomes crystal clear? The air fresher, the leaves brighter, the wind stronger. It is as though all of the sudden you don’t feel like a clumsy giant, tripping and falling through the world’s hardest obstacle course. Suddenly, you feel like a small piece in a very large puzzle. It is almost like seeing yourself from a bird’s eye view, how if you squint hard enough you’ll be able to find yourself as part of this massive, transforming mosaic. Yet, you don’t feel lonesome, but rather immense interconnectivity and intimacy with the surrounding environment.

Sometimes these moments last hours, sometimes minutes, and sometimes they're gone in the blink of an eye.

Recently, these moments seem to occur more fleetingly and less often. With all these decisions and deadlines it has become all too easy to be pulled into a whirlpool of stress. As it keeps spinning around, the importance of stretching my head above the water and taking a deep breath has intensified. The fear of making the “wrong” choice or being pulled the “wrong” way can become smothering. It is true that these deadlines and decisions hold undeniable importance, yet as the days fly by during this final year the need to savour moments of current normalcy intensifies, knowing soon they will be obsolete. We should not look back on this final year and perceive a dark nine months lost in vacant routine of “write this”, “test that”; we should not exist in fear of big moments that could affect us. Rather, we should look around and appreciate our surroundings. We should feel the fresh air, see the bright leaves, and embrace the changes in our direction that come more in the form of a breeze, rather than a storm.

Despite my relatively limited life experience, I’ve noticed that the most valuable shifts within myself are ones that are not actively directed. The interconnectivity of our human community is incredible. People come into our lives from kilometres away and are integrated into seemingly insignificant everyday alternations. A conversation sparked about a whimsical observation can develop into a fascination for analytical thinking. A walk in the park can gradually develop into appreciation of observation. Tiny, customary interactions between each other and our environment build into who we are as individuals.

These small changes eventually become the great ones that we seek so furiously to control – important changes, that develop identity. With a shift in one of us comes a shift in another, and then a shift in all.

It is so incredibly important to seek comfort in this, to understand that not every change within us needs to be constructed as monumentally life changing; to take that breath and accept that there is not a “wrong” way.

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It is so easy to say that we should all accept our mistakes, learn from them and move on. However, everyone knows that no matter how often we repeat this mantra to ourselves, there is a small part of our brain that latches onto our faults. We all have that one time, that one regret that happened so long ago, but still pops up whenever another mistake is made. Rather than preach the importance of mistakes by insisting to accept them, I believe that it is much more effective to suggest inviting them in. This way, we won’t challenge our natural human desire to control the unknown and we will still be able to understand the necessity and normalcy of our flaws. Rather than try and refine ourselves to perfection, we should embrace that our imperfections are what keep us striving forward.

If this can be achieved, no longer will the fear of mistakes and regrets hold us back or catch us off guard, but will, instead, motivate us further. To immerse ourselves in a mindset where fault can simply wash over us, is to be in a state of appreciation and acceptance, not only of ourselves, but of each other.

Give into the wind, feel the breeze, and enjoy the ride. A change in course does not have to be a violent turn into a ditch or dive from an obstacle. Rather, we can veer like the wind, changing direction counterclockwise around a compass. Unseen, unheard, only felt, and totally unexpected. Many a time it is these changes that make us so unique, that make our surroundings so curious. Therefore, absorb each moment and relish in how remarkable your normalcy is. Like the wind, it will constantly change and all too soon this moment will be another.

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Untitled, Pooja Moorti

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Exam Correspondence Elizabeth Milne Monday January 16, 2017: 1 Week Until The Math Exam Mr. Levesque is slowly giving up. Today, he started banging his head against the wall while trying to explain phase shift. Mr. Sambles is away dogsledding and his class has a substitute. Reports of weekend mental breakdowns are pouring in. Rational functions are slowly killing us all.

Quote of the Day: “I am innocent, innocent, innocent. Make no mistake about this. I did nothing to deserve this exam. I am an innocent woman and something very wrong is taking place next Monday.” Florence Campbell Tuesday January 17, 2017: 6 Days Until The Math Exam Morale is low. We are practising annuities and interest, and the general consensus is nobody cares about Omar’s financial decisions.

Quote of the Day: “You already sound disappointed.”

“It’s just my voice.” - Mr. Levesque Wednesday January 18, 2017: 5 Days Until The Math Exam Everyone is speaking in hushed voices as if it is someone’s funeral. According to these very credible statistics, over the past few weeks, 1 in 12 people have volunteered to faint or die in the middle of the exam and 96.4% of the grade has announced this exam is going to kill them at least once.

Quote of the Day: “No comment.” - Hannah Charness Thursday January 19, 2017: 4 Days Until The Math Exam Mr. Sambles’ return has done nothing to uplift the class. The grade’s mood is deteriorating like a particularly good example of non-reflected exponential decay. Mr. Levesque gave us his best attempt at a pep talk. So far, it hasn’t worked.

Quote of the Day: “You know what I find Katherine? Every time I sing Hansen my problems go away.” Mr. Levesque Friday January 20, 2017: 3 Days Until The Math Exam It is now the last official math class of the Functions course. Mr. Levesque has abandoned us to go to an IB conference and Mr. Sambles is being swamped with questions. Several people have announced they’ve given up and they’re just going to fail the exam, only to start studying again a few minutes later (myself included).

Quote of the Day: “I’m too sad and depressed because of this exam to think of a good quote.” Florence Campbell

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Saturday January 21, 2017: 2 Days Until The Math Exam This day can be accurately summarized with a sample of the questions on the grade 11 group chat.

Is this answer correct?

Can someone show me what they did for question 5 section B in the 2015 practice exam?

Do you multiply the interest rate or divide the interest rate by two?

Can anyone help me with identities?

Like should I just memorize them?

Can someone just tell me straight up, if the interest is compounded bi-annually, do you multiply or divide i by 2?

Wouldn’t that be for semi-annually?

In question 7, wouldn’t AO be the same length as OC? Which exam?

Why isn’t the horizontal asymptote 0 in 6a?

Do you know how to do this question?

For question 4 on the 2014 practice exam, why is 16 to the -1/2, 4?

Will we be given the general term formula?

Are you asking me?

Does anyone know why 143.6/(1/3)^7/HL became the new A? And why did he multiply it with (1/2)^23/HL? Does that make sense?

Does anyone know what this means?

Sunday January 22, 2017: 1 Day Until The Math Exam To die—to sleep: No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.

(Hamlet: III, i, 60-65)

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"sometimes pictures don't have to be all artsy, here's a nice picture of some cows. shoutout to mariposa farms�

- Pooja Moorti

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Untitled, Diya Dadlani

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EDITORIALS

Untitled, Sheetza McGarry

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Hesitations Sophia Swettenham Heat lightning

A chesterfield,

Bolts unsuspecting

Gazing at

Autumn night

The lilac

With the

Branches (the

Passion of

Smell of

Fervent Youth.

Night), now

With you

Broken from

In her

It all.

Thoughts and

Inching toward

On her

A windowpane

Restless mind,

Where mirror

She cannot

Nonsense shows

Defend herself

You call

From affliction:

At dusk.

She always

The fever

Anticipates your

Rush of

Action, without

Heaven’s tears,

Meaning to

Should warn

House anxiety.

Against assumption.

But still,

As always,

It rages.

She will

And still,

Fall back

It crashes.

Onto weak

And still,

Knees, a

It ravishes

Streak of

Her innocent

Lovely heartache,

Pre-occupations;

Ripping at

Sitting on

The seams. 

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Â

Figures, Myriam Rostom

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Absence Sophia Swettenham Tough little lick

It may last longer, frightening the

That demands gnawing away to

Longing heart who knows

Break the barrier between anticipation

Somewhere it must sit

And reward.

Prettily, all wrapped in lace And cherished solemnly.

How I wondered about these Seeming lovely indulgences -

Why not now?

You had to join along In the game of lights and candles.

The moon's hid away

But they, like winter nights,

The past three weeks,

Dissembled reality -

No stars to whisper truths,

Not knowing why or how

Or shadowy oppositions,

Emptiness resided so quickly

Only phosphorescent fire,

Thereafter.

Ghosts of man-made Will-of-the-wisps,

I thought it was over

Which sting my eyes

Once commencement lingered

And press squints

In historic clouds of

Like that southern juice

Heathery lost detail,

Which seeps into my

It seems, though, now

Torn open thumb. 

`

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Untitled, Sheetza McGarry

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\

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The Perfect Moment Mr. Levesque In October 1971 a photographer, Ron Galella, pushed us closer to celebrity saturation by taking what is arguably the "first" paparazzi picture of the (in)famous Jaqueline Onassis. This obsession with celebrity has reached its apotheosis in the rise of Donald Trump. He exists because Galella took that picture, because at some point the image mattered most, because for a shining moment in 1971 to be a wealthy widow was the most glamorous job in the world. He called the picture his "Mona Lisa"; Trump, it seems, is ours.

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WRITERS Lucy Whichelo Muntaka Ahmed Reem Hamzah Alexis Pătraşcu Emma Hunter Isabelle Collum Sheetza McGarry Elizabeth Milne Sophia Swettenham Mr. Levesque

ARTISTS Zaina Khan Isabelle Collum Myriam Rostom Pooja Moorti Diya Dadlani Sheetza McGarry Mr. Levesque

EDITORS Mr. Levesque Sophia Swettenham Madeleine Klebanoff O’Brien

DESIGNER Madeleine Klebanoff O’Brien

IMMORTAL FOUNDERS Safa Siddiqui Megan Sweeney

From under oppressive currents we rise.

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