In a Grove 2020

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In A Grove 2020

Integrated Arts Journal

Author Name—Place / Name (Medium)

Antonia von Achten—Grade 9 Cover: Chelsea Yue—Grade 11 Photography: Simon Spivey

A Celebration of Writing and Art Featuring the winners of LCS Writes!—sponsored by the Grove Society

Poetry

Grades 9/10 1st Rida Shahbaz, “Beautiful Lies”....................................................................... 4 2nd Harper McGowan, “Memory”........................................................................ 9 3rd Marlow Fiorotto-Bickert, “Same Sky”........................................................... 22 Grades 11/12 1st Nicole Liu, “The Visitor”................................................................................ 6 2nd Chloe Hu, “A Quiet Place”.......................................................................... 18 3rd Ilana Mohamed, “The Voice”....................................................................... 37

Fiction

Grades 9/10 1st Margaux Butterfield, “Nothing like a home-made lunch”............................. 16 2nd Sarah Jiang, “Gongzhu”............................................................................... 55 3rd Sunaina Vallamkonda, “For the Rest of My Life”.......................................... 81 Grades 11/12 1st Nicole Liu, “The Peter Pan Theory”.............................................................. 28 2nd Fiona Hickie, “Names”................................................................................ 47 3rd Anna Harris, “A Portrait of the Year 2077”................................................... 76

Non-Fiction

Grades 9/10 1st Harper McGowan, “My Summer at the Berry Farm”.................................... 25 2nd Sunaina Vallamkonda, “The Journey of Becoming Me”................................ 43 3rd Ella Zegarra Brown, “Everyone Needs a “Patsy””......................................... 65 Grades 11/12 1st Teresa Saller, “Chaos, Order, and the Evolution of Human Self-Conception”.... 11 2nd Anna Harris, “Throw Me an Apron”............................................................. 59 2nd Michael Cheaito, “To Aid Our Nation’s Failing Lungs: A Modest Proposal”...... 73

Spoken Word

Grades 9/10 1st Sarah Jiang, “Foreigner”............................................................................... 32 2nd Margaux Butterfield, “Ready?”..................................................................... 51 3rd Sunaina Vallamkonda, “Imagine”................................................................ 62 Grades 11/12 1st Dylan Clement, “The Difference Between Being a Mom and a Mother”.......... 21 2nd Michael Cheaito, “A Letter To You”.............................................................. 38 3rd Arina Stolyar, “Dear Corona”....................................................................... 71

Beautiful Lies

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You told me I had the most beautiful eyes.

I told you they were brown and that they were nothing special.

But you told me they were beautiful.

You told me you wish you could fall asleep in my arms forever.

I told you it wasn’t possible.

But you told me you wish it were.

I’d often find you staring.

I’d tell you to stop and you’d ask why.

I told you that if you looked for too long you’d stop looking.

You told me you’d never stop staring.

You told me you wouldn’t hurt me.

You told me that you cared.

You told me everything but one thing.

That the love was never truly there.

You told me I had the most beautiful eyes.

So when the next boy tells me that my eyes are beautiful, I’ll think of you.

And all the lies.

He told me that I had the most beautiful eyes.

I thought of you.

And your beautiful lies.

He told me he wished he could hold me in his arms forever.

I told him it wasn’t possible.

He told me he wished it were.

He told me he wouldn’t hurt me.

He told me that he cared.

How could I believe these lies after you?

How could I believe that he’d always be there.

After what you put me through.

He told me I had the most beautiful eyes.

And in that moment, I thought of you.

And your beautiful lies.

You and I haven’t spoken for a while.

Yet you still manage to make me think of myself less than what I am.

You’ve managed to break me more and more everyday without even knowing it.

I’ve realized that I was holding onto something that was no longer there.

No matter how hard I try, you’ll never truly care.

My happiness starts with me.

Holding on hurts more than letting you go.

One day your beautiful lies won’t matter, I’ll be free.

We haven’t spoken for a while.

So when the next time I tell myself that I am beautiful, I won’t think of you.

I’ll believe it.

And I’ll smile.

Rida Shahbaz—1st Place, 9/10 Poetry

Bll Ting—Grade 9

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The Visitor It all started when I was eight,

Every family has the most dreaded

When a visitor came and stole my

visitor,

baby brother from the crate.

Come to claim its most recent

And I wondered wait,

prisoner.

What happens to our fate?

His name, we whisper.

When our time runs slow,

His arrival brings red rimmed eyes,

Our hearts stop ticking, our blood stops

Arguments and screaming and a little

trickling, our brains stop clicking,

kid’s cries.

Where do we go?

He causes panic to spread, And fear to tread.

The fear was like an envelope,

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Wrapped around me like a cloak,

He takes us to a place,

So thick and dark that I choked.

Where no one comes back but

And I couldn’t breathe,

everyone must go.

The fear like an undone, eternal ghost,

When our eyes are glossy and our

Crouching soundlessly under my bed,

breath is still,

Haunting me through my inner most

We get on the boat and we row down

vulnerable thoughts.

the strait.

It shook my body from the tips of my

As we sit here peering for a gate,

toes,

We contemplate our fate,

To the spindly threads of my clothes.

And we think of a time when it was

Someday I would lose,

much better to be eight.

The people that I loved the most.

There is no replacement, No repurchase, Nothing you can trade for another second of their face.

Someday it would all cease, The incessant, inexhaustible chatter, The nagging you grow tired of hearing, The face you grow tired of seeing, The life you grow tired of living.

Nicole Liu—1st Place, 11/12 Poetry

Mairi Ross—Grade 12

Paulina Martinez Reyes—Grade 11

Memory To the nights spent at the waterfront

inconsistent with the original, and

and tan, freckled faces screaming the

with the honest truth I will never

words to our favorite songs,

relive them again.

You are missed.

To carrying a canoe on my back in

You are a compass in which much of

the pouring rain and sleeping in tents

my life depends on. What leads me

with my best friends.

down the path to focus on the wrong

You are missed.

things? Is it in my nature to be easily

To my dad teaching me how to ride a

led astray?

bike on a hot summer day in July, You are missed.

You are a teacher educating the lives of seven billion souls who wish for

Maybe at the time, I wished away

the opportunity to experience the

your presence. Maybe I wished you

things you possess one more time.

would pass as quickly as possible. You

And what can we learn from you?

have shaped me, created me into the

To make the most of it? To live every

person I am, yet I wish you away, but I

single day knowing that it is unique

will always remember you.

and beautiful and we will remember it through you.

You are a reminder of my regret, the desire to feel those things again, to be

You are my memory. The reminder of

with those people, to hear those songs

every passing day, the store stocked

for the first time, maybe even to go

with shelves of information in all

back and change some of it.

different shapes and colors, both exciting and frustrating, filled with

You are the library of unread books

good times and bad. You will be there,

expressed through dreams, visions,

and you’ll be the memory in someone

music, and photos. I think about the

else’s mind when I am no longer here.

desire to re-write the books again, with the recollection fresh in my mind like it once was. You can be replayed thousands of times, but each one

Harper McGowan—2nd Place, 9/10 Poetry

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Fritz Fischer Appelt—Grade 10

Chaos, Order, and the Evolution of Human Self-Conception The novel strain of coronavirus that emerged in Wuhan, China, earlier this year has led to unprecedented responses such as nationwide quarantines and travel bans. Months ago, no one could have predicted what we are living through now.

And it is times like these, times of drastic change, that inform or challenge human self-conception, and with it our understanding of the world around us. Since the Enlightenment, humans have thought themselves to be separate from nature, and in some cases even above it. This self-conception has also informed our understanding of the two forces that govern our world - chaos and order - which has changed considerably over the last 500 years, and is about to change again.

Before the Enlightenment, chaos and order were always understood through a religious lense. Nature was seen as a force of order, and humans were subject to this natural order. Society was structured into three estates; the king stood atop this order, for he had the divine right, and this was the natural, or God-given, way of things. The primary source of disorder was human meddling, which can be seen in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. In the play, the natural order in Denmark has been upset through human intervention. Thus, it becomes necessary for another human, Prince Hamlet, who is motivated to take action through divine intervention in the form of his murdered father’s ghost, to tip the scale and set things right again. The self-conception of humans during the Middle Ages was thus informed by religious ideas and the notion of a natural order that followed from these ideas.

Our self-conception, and understanding of the world around us changed drastically with the dawn of the Age of Reason, or Enlightenment. Nature was no longer seen as a force of order, just the opposite. Thomas Hobbes asserted that without a governing body, or man-made order, human life would have been “nasty, brutish, and short,” and furthermore maintained that humans left in a state of nature would be a recipe for violence and upheaval. As such, the state of nature was to be avoided at all costs. This observation informed a new outlook on our relationship to our world and the forces that govern it. The world was seen as an organized system that could be understood through science

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and reason; no longer was it a mystery governed by the heavens. This new understanding brought with it a new self-conception as “Homo Faber”, or Man the Maker. Humans saw themselves as ruling over nature instead of being ruled by it. Nature was now a chaotic force that needed to be bested for the good of humankind, and this perception prevails to this day.

These are unprecedented times, and chaos like what we are living through right now is a key requirement for societal change. But could the current pandemic and the societal upheaval it has given rise to, change our self-conception and notions about the world around us? Diseases and other forces of nature can still cripple our modern world, and human nature itself might be a wrench in the gears of modernity. As the main character of Ian McEwan’s novel, Nutshell, remarked, “We’ve built a world too complicated and dangerous for our quarrelsome natures to manage” (27). The insecurity that sweeps over

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nations as they realize this, will lead to a change in both public and private self-conception. New national and personal identities will arise as the world struggles with the fallout from this pandemic. We are already seeing the buds of change, as pre-existing societal tendencies are consolidated. The coronavirus and its aftermath will restructure the current order of our world. This restructuring will entail a return to strong national governments, a changed attitude towards the US as a world leader, and a fundamental shift in citizens’ relationship to personal liberty and safety.

When chaos strikes, and the world changes in unforeseen ways, many are looking towards their political leaders for guidance. In times of societal upheaval like these, we are looking for order in the form of orders. Many leaders are experiencing a surge in popularity, as the “rally round the flag”effect which John E. Mueller described in a 1970 paper entitled, “Presidential Popularity from Truman to Johnson,” takes place around the world (Mueller).

But even though “political scientists warn [that this] effect won’t last,” the insecurity people are facing due to this pandemic could favour the return of strong national governments (Henley). Some political leaders are already taking advantage of the chaos and fear to extend their influence. An example of this

is the Hungarian prime minister, Victor Orban, who used the chaos that the coronavirus brought to establish “a COVID-19 state of emergency without a time limit” in which both Parliament and elections are suspended (Broderick).

But even in liberal democracies public opinion is shifting, as the authoritarian handling of this crisis in countries like China or Singapore is applauded for its effectiveness.

As citizens are looking to their own leaders for guidance, the US will continue to lose influence over its botched response to the virus. Stephen Walt, Harvard professor for international relations warned that the catastrophic impact the federal government’s haphazard response will bring for Americans is “not the only damage the United States will suffer. Far from ‘making America great again,’ this epic policy failure will further tarnish [its] reputation as a country that knows how to do things effectively” (Tisdall). Especially in light of the G7s recent inability to agree to a joint statement due to America’s insistence on calling the pandemic the “Wuhan Virus,” the US will lose its reputation as a global superpower (Schult). Because the USA are favoring nationalism over multilateralism while the world is being changed by a global pandemic “[i]t appears the coronavirus is destroying the last vestiges of a world order” (Schult).

With the political landscape changing around the world, citizens’ relationship to personal liberty and safety is changing as well. The disorder society has been thrown into has made people around the world increasingly willing to compromise their liberty for safety, or the illusion of it. This is demonstrated by how unopposed measures such as mass surveillance go if they are proposed in the interest of protecting public health. Countries such as South Korea, Italy, and Israel “are deploying digital surveillance tools as a means to exert social control, even turning security agency technologies on their own civilians” (Singer). While these measures can save lives in the midst of a pandemic, their extent and the fact that they might not be revoked once this is over is concerning. In China for example, citizens of hundreds of cities are subject to a Kafkaesque process during which they are classified with a colour code that

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determines whether they are allowed to go outside or not, without knowing how the system that classifies them actually works (Singer). Covid-19 has consequently opened the door for extensive surveillance in the name of conserving social order, and this development will stay with us even after the pandemic is over.

But more than that, the pandemic has already changed our worldview. Right now, most of us are sitting at home, and only in touch with the outside world through indirect means via the internet. This experience is quite similar to what the unborn child of Trudy and John Cairncross is going through in Ewan McEwan’s Nutshell. He cannot interact with the world directly, and his thinking is therefore informed by what he can overhear through the “walls” that confine him (193). In a way, all of us are going through the same thing right now: confined to our own homes, our thinking is informed by the things we

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consume online, as we can’t form experiences of our own at this time. We are all “immersed in abstractions, and only the proliferating relations between them create the illusion of a known world,” as we are experiencing the world filtered through the eyes of others (2). This experience will also inform individual selfconception as we turn from makers into consumers.

Through restructuring both public and private self-conception, this pandemic will continue to change the world as well as our relationship to it.

But this change, despite the pitfalls it brings, can be an opportunity too. As Prince Hamlet helps us to understand: “there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Shakespeare 2.2.9-10). Our world now is more complicated than ever, but we have to learn to live with those complexities.

Chaos and order have complex roots and are neither inherently natural nor inherently man-made. Oversimplifying this fact will bring no good, but through learning to live with it, we can make the best of our situation now and organize ourselves in a new, better, and more equitable state of order after this pandemic.

Teresa Saller—1st Place, Grade 11/12 Non-Fiction

Amy Shin—Grade 9

Nothing like a home-made lunch Here she was, right outside her school, surrounded by hundreds of people.

She was holding tight the teddy bear in her arms. That teddy bear had been with her for as long as she could remember. Her dad had given it to her such a long time ago; it was extremely worn down. One eye was missing and the padding inside of it was practically all gone. Its fur used to be the same color as its owner’s hair: shiny brown, but at this point, it had almost lost all its color. The girl with the silky brown hair was observing the parents who were trying to find their children. She could see the excitement in the eyes of each little kid. They were thrilled to get home to a homemade lunch. She was, herself, really excited. she couldn’t wait to see her father and tell him how well her morning in school had gone: “J’ai appris comment faire des divisions aujourd’hui!” She would say to him. She was smiling and waiting patiently for a black Volvo to appear, but, as the pick up area became less and less crowded, she knew. She knew that her dad

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was always late, too late. She knew that no matter how hard he tried, his work always made him finish too late to be with his daughter. She knew that today, once again, she wouldn’t get to eat the lunch she was patiently waiting to enjoy.

Here she was, standing alone, her smile slowly fading.

She knew that today she would have to eat in the cafeteria. She knew that a teacher would bring her there because she felt bad for her, standing all alone, waiting. She knew that the food was never going to be as good as the fresh mashed potatoes, the green beans circled by bacon, and the roast chicken waiting for her back home. She knew that the food she was going to eat today wasn’t made with love by a father thrilled to be having lunch with his daughter.

She knew that, unlike the food her father would have served her, the food was going to be tasteless and colorless, but she knew that she didn’t have a choice.

Here she was, the smile on her face completely gone, getting led to the cafeteria by someone who wasn’t her dad.

She knew that, when the clock on the church next door would hit 1:00, the black Volvo would finally appear in the parking lot. She knew that her dad would

stand there, frenetically looking for his daughter, the white hair on his head becoming more visible. She knew that he would feel guilty because, once again, he didn’t show up on time. “Je suis désolé,” he would whisper to himself. As they were taking her away, she whispered to her teddy bear: “Il sera à l’heure demain; je te le promets.” Deep down, she knew that, by saying that, she was lying to herself, but, at least, she knew that, unlike her father, her teddy bear was always going to be there. She held it tighter, making it thinner and thinner.

Here she was, eating the disgusting food from the school cafeteria.

As she sat down, she promised herself to not even touch that greyish too-liquid soup with what she assumed were peas sitting in front of her.

She promised herself that, if someday, she has children, they will never have to eat that grey soup. She promised herself that they will never have to wait for someone to show up. She promised herself that they will never have to stand all alone, desperately waiting for a black Volvo to appear. She promised herself that they will never have to feel the pain of a broken promise. “Mes promesses, je vais les tenir moi, tu vas voir,” she whispered to her Teddy Bear, looking at it in its only eye.

Here I am, outside my school, surrounded by hundreds of people.

I know that I will be one of the first kids to get picked up. I know that I will be able to tell my mother that, today, I got a 19.5/20 in maths because she will be on time.

Here I am, my smile still intact.

I know that the grey land rover coming into the parking lot belongs to my mother. “Je suis ici chérie!” she says. When I jump in the car, I know that the clock on the church just hit 12:00.

Here I am, eating lunch, in my own house because my mother never did.

Margaux Butterfield—1st Place, Grade 9/10 Fiction

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A Quiet Place To all the people who have suffered from WWII, May all the broken hearts be healed by time.

Two men, one chair,

Witnesses the glorious history.

Darkroom, and empty stares.

In this brutal war,

Time passing,

Lives just worth no more.

Clock ticking,

All the pain and furious,

Words are spoken,

Engraved on every inch of their bones.

But hearts are broken.

Bleeding, screaming, suffocating, Gasping like a landed fish.

Henry builds an armor with disguise,

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To keep his anger inside.

The rule of survival,

Under it, he screams and yells,

Is to be brutal.

Desperate to be redeemed.

So they follow the order,

Unnoticed confession,

And let go of their morals.

Creeps into his vein.

‘Cus if they place an mercy, The knives will pierce their bodies.

David leaves himself with the memories,

Like the balloons left after party,

To keep his heart at peace.

Glossy, glamorous still.

Inside it, he mumbles and whispers,

Floating freely in the room,

Imperious to be released.

With no weight of despair.

Ruthless reality,

Holding in the perfect shape,

Quietly wears him down.

Until one hole takes away the air.

In the homicidal gas chamber,

Faked adamancy under the

Calmness before the holocaust.

hypocritical smile,

The hopeless gaze in their eyes,

The men they waited for were already

Write out the last words before death.

gone.

A trail of destruction made by billions

They come back with wounded parts,

of lives,

And carry home their broken hearts.

Even a whistle makes them shiver,

Do not fall asleep on that good night,

Tumbling under the chair like being

The war does not sing a lullaby.

chased by a monster.

All the rest marches with the rhythm of a battle song,

Remember the sirens,

But you shall stay with me,

Remember the flames.

With one eye open,

We swallow the bullets,

And see what we shall be.

And we drink up the tears.

You jump on the train when the stars were shine, Through sacred places under thousands of eyes.

Praises from the celebrations, Of their scars that were bullet burnt.

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Those are golden metals in their eyes, But is there a true victory?

Even a sound sleep is disturbed by the remains of Auschwitz, Darkness is devoured by flood.

Green skeletons dancing in the pool of blood, Cheering for final breaking.

In this world mixed by insanity, We all seek to escape.

Plant a flower in our dreams, And wait for it to bloom.

Will the winter ever end, Before it withered with the memory.

Chloe Hu—2nd Place, Grade 11/12 Poetry

Nancy Lu—Grade 10

The difference between being a mom and a mother If I had a mother, I’m sure she would be very proud.

I’m sure she would look at me like I was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

I’m sure she would take me shopping and even though I hate shopping, I would like her, I would like to spend time with her.

If I had a mother, she would be a superhero. She would save me from every scary moment in my life. She would hold me when I cried and told me I was safe with her.

If I had a mother, she would let me call her buddy or maybe even friends.

But if I did have a mother, she would tell me to quiet down. She would tell me to watch my mouth and to stop standing when I speak. She would tell me to sit, sit pretty, be pretty, be perfect. Be a lady she might say.

Lucky me I guess because I don’t have a mother, I have a mom, who is so much more than the woman who gave me life.

I have a woman who threw me into life like life had to get prepared for me not the other way around.

I have a woman who, instead of wiping my tears, gave me ways to put them to better use.

When I was born, she painted the galaxies on the back of my hands so I knew there was still so much I had to learn.

She won’t tell me she’s proud of me, she’ll tell me that she loves the person I have become.

She has taught me to choose my words carefully because someday I might not get to finish my sentence, so I must make every word count.

She is the wind blowing, force of nature, that raised me to talk fast and listen carefully.

She is the woman who taught me to fly before I could stand up straight.

My mom looks at me as if she is happy to call me her own.

Her eyes wild like the waves slapping on the sand. I hope one day, my eyes can be like hers.

I hope one day I can be more like her.

I hope one day I can raise my daughter the same way she raised me.

Listen to a recording of this Spoken Word poem

She won’t tell me I am perfect but she will tell me I’m brilliant.

Dylan Clement—1st Place, Grade 11/12 Spoken Word

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Same Sky Here we stand

Ever changing maelstroms

‘Cross sea and ‘cross land

Silent, violent ponds

Masked faces and gloved hands

Stretching away from

Staring

Rain

Forever longing

The mist of individuality

At this same sky.

Fades in this same sky.

How long will it be

Our cumulous castles

Until we are free

Our stratus ships’ hulls

Skies clear above me

Our cirrus, shrapnel

Parting

Exploding

Never leaving

Thunder’s ancient vestige

This same sky.

Connected within This same sky

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We live in endless time An afterthought

Here we stand

That never forms an era

Strewn across our sky

Coagulation

Held between our stars

Days flowing into months

‘Tween Venus and Mars

The only constant

We stand united

This same sky.

One planet All under this same sky.

Vast azure expanse Layers of air Falling into space When will we Be out of this place?

This same sky?

Marlow Fiorotto-Bickert—3rd Place, Grade 9/10 Poetry

Sunaina Vallamkonda—Grade 10

Jenis Kim—Grade 11

My Summer at the Berry Farm For me, last summer involved my first real farmer’s tan, working in the sunshine for 8 hours a day, and strawberries - lots and lots of strawberries.

Fun fact: the term “strawberry” originates from the way in which they are grown: on straw. It only took me two months of working on a farm to come to this realization, and I probably didn’t need to be Einstein-esque to figure that one out.

As the summer began in June, the berry farm was already in full swing. Hundreds of rows had already been planted and marked with flags by the time I started my shift each day. My job was to tell each customer (or “picker”) to move the flag up to where they picked after their basket filled up, or (as I liked to do sometimes), save time and explain this to the customers in a big group instead of individually.

This way, I could return to my cooler under the umbrella after delivering the mass instruction. Eventually, I came to see the umbrella as my “saving grace” of the berry farm. The poor thing had been through a lot - it was broken and had only been saved from the dumpster by a field guide desperate for a few minutes of shade before the new tractor load of rowdy berry pickers returned. It wouldn’t stand up straight, and it had holes in it, but it still got the job done.

I met all kinds of people when I worked at the berry farm - the tired, the angry, the gossipers, the old and the young - and especially the “I’m just gonna pretend I don’t hear you so I can go to the row I want” group. The tractor brought in new people every 10 minutes, so this meant the faster you talked, the more time you were able to spend in the shade. Don’t get me wrong, the $14 an hour I was making did have its perks, but it was hard to keep that in mind when I had to show up for my 8:30am shift on a blazing Saturday morning.

Because working at the berry farm was my first real job, I didn’t realize other summer jobs often required you to work in small spaces with other employees.

Not at the berry farm - sometimes I spent long hours alone in the field with only my own thoughts and strawberries as far as the eye could see. I guess you could say I was lucky to have all that space to myself. Each day my boss’s small blue car would sneak up on me through the tall grass. Thankfully, I had done some personal training on what to do in situations like these - you know, making sure that you look like you are doing your job. Sometimes, I would begin mouthing

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letters and wagging a finger across the rows in an attempt to make it look like I was counting rows out loud.

In late July, the strawberry fields had been picked clean, and it was time for raspberry picking to begin. The days in the field seemed to become longer as the weeks passed. I had my fill of eating lukewarm berries, and even on the rainy days it was still blistering hot. I often found myself thinking - “Am I doing my job well?” To the untrained eye, the task at hand seemed simple: stay upbeat and pleasant while helping people out. Smile a lot. Stay hydrated. Try not to get sunburned. To me, the job was a clear reminder about some of the small things (for example, how lucky we were to have an air conditioned house) and also of some of the larger things (I began to appreciate how much effort went into earning money - and it made me appreciate even more the money that sometimes was gifted to me at Christmas and on my birthday). When I was frustrated during a long day, even the appearance of new freckles and taste of fresh fruit wasn’t enough to make working at the farm fun. It was tough! But before I knew it, school was around the corner, and the seemingly never-ending days out in the fields had finally ended.

I returned to school with my sunburned face and the summer at the berry farm in the rear-view mirror. It wasn’t until I was on my way to a dentist appointment later in the fall that I realized something. It was the first time I had been in the car with my dad since the day he had driven me to work on my last shift of the summer. It was weird. My dad played an old song we knew well over the speakers and my siblings began singing. It was at that moment I was reminded that there would be no more dancing on the way to the farm in my yellow uniform, no more tractor rides or relaxing under the umbrella, and no more smiles on children’s faces when they bit into the juicy red berries. The thought of missing the berry farm made me smile.

I realized that although it was the place where I found the days so long at times (the place that taught me how long 8 hours really was!), but in a bigger sense, working at the berry farm had taught me so many other things too. Last summer, I learned the value of money. I learned how nothing comes for free - you must work for things in life. And I think most of all, I learned that I need to pay attention to how fast time flies - even when the days and weeks seem long. So, although I may not go back to working at the berry farm this summer, I’ll always remember what I gained from working there.

Harper McGowan—1st Place, Grade 9/10 Non-Fiction

Keira Hartley—Grade 11

The Peter Pan Theory Maverick Pembrook had just experienced a normal Saturday, to everyone around him that is. He first woke his seven-year-old sister up and said he loved her. Noa had yawned and opened her eyes in childlike wonder, her innocence not yet disturbed by the harsh reality of their situation.

He then went to the comic shack at the corner of the street and stayed there until he finished the most recent volume of Spiderman. Maverick considered writing for a moment but then decided he didn’t have enough people to write to, people who cared enough to read. Finally reaching a conclusion, Maverick emptied his bank account. He gave it to the cashier of his favourite café, buying the coffees of the next few hundred people. To finish the day off, Maverick walked along the strip of artificial beach, relishing in the warmth of the golden sand.

The mundane day had culminated in Maverick collapsing on the floor of his bedroom. He laid there for a while, in the perfect conjunction of sleep and

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consciousness. When he came to terms with his decision at half past one, the screaming had ceased and he made sure his father wouldn’t come storming in at any given moment.

Maverick walked over to the window and let the summer breeze wash over his features. From the tenth floor of a rundown bungalow, he could just make out the cigarette stubs and cement streaks on the beaten sidewalk.

“Mav, what are you doing?”

“Noa,” Maverick breathed, turning around to find his little sister at the door of his room, her childlike features set into a curious expression. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I was scared,” She said. “And I heard you walk around, so I came in.”

“Noa, go back to your room.” Maverick choked out. “It’s late, you need to be sleeping.”

“But you’re awake!” She said with a pout.

Maverick tried not to let his composure slip. “Just listen to me,” He pleaded with Noa. “Please go.”

“Why?” She whined. “I don’t wanna.” To argue her point, she plopped down on his bed and crossed her little arms.

He sighed and sat down next to Noa, resigning himself to her company. “What do you want to do then?”

She pulled his sleeve. “Can we watch Peter Pan?” Maverick shrugged. “Why not?” He pulled out the DVD and stuck it into the old player. “We just have to be quiet though, in case dad hears, you know how he doesn’t like you watching that movie.”

“Really?” Noa beamed, her surprise apparent. “But you never watch it with me.

You always say it’s stupid.”

He didn’t think it was stupid. But Noa’s love for Peter Pan got on their father’s nerves. She used to run around, pretending like she could fly. He’d made her stop the hard way.

Maverick pressed the play button. The moment the screen flickered on was the moment reality disappeared in Noa’s eyes, her attention fixated on the fictional world playing out in front of her.

Maverick found it all quite poetic. Captain Hook and the crocodile were the painful truth to Neverland’s idealistic dream.

“Mav?” Noa suddenly asked, her eyes curious, for once focused on him instead of the colourful screen. “You’re going somewhere, aren’t you?”

Maverick masked the surprise in his eyes well. “Why do you think I’m going somewhere?”

Noa pointed to his jeans and sweatshirt. “You’re not wearing your pyjamas.” She then frowned. “You also never want to watch Peter Pan with me. Not even on my birthday.”

He bit his lip, searching for something to tell her, until he caught a glimpse of the artificial green plains and tall soaring cliffs. “You’re right, Noa.” Maverick smiled. “I’m preparing to go to Neverland.”

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“Neverland?” She asked, her eyes filled with awe. “Like the one in Peter Pan?” “Exactly like in Peter Pan,” He said.

“Are you a lost boy then?”

He nodded, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I’m always running away from monsters and bad, bad people.”

“Like Captain Hook!” She exclaimed. “He’s bad.”

“Yes, he is.” Maverick agreed. “I couldn’t outrun him though. He caught up to me.” Noa wasn’t yet old enough to decipher the complicated emotions swirling in her brother’s eyes. He hid the pain in his voice well.

She leaned in to hear the rest of the story. “So, what’s going to happen to you now?”

“Well,” He chuckled. “I guess I’m going to be fed to the big, bad crocodile.”

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“No!” Noa latched onto his arm. “I don’t want you to be fed to the crocodile.”

Maverick ruffled her hair. “Of course not. Peter Pan’s going to come save me.

And he’s going to take me to Neverland.”

“Peter Pan!” She giggled. “He always saves the day. He’s a hero!”

“He is.” He swallowed unshed tears. “But heroes don’t always win.”

Noa didn’t like the sad ending. She begged for a happier conclusion, like the shiny fictionalized one in the children’s movie. But before he could give it to her, Noa fell asleep against her brother’s shoulder, murmuring to Peter Pan’s dramatic flourishes and Wendy’s kindhearted words.

II Noa Pembrook watched the body on the ground. The adults in the bright green vests had covered it with a white sheet, but she knew the gangly limbs and the freckled cheeks that lay underneath as well as her own.

A man in a uniform told her that her brother was just sleeping, but Noa knew he was lying.

He had gone to Neverland just like he had promised. Maverick would never lie to her.

But just to make sure, Noa had focused all her attention on her brother, and later on the spot that was taped over by the building’s management.

She hoped if she tried hard enough, she would see something, like a body flying towards the sky or a lost shadow.

Noa watched, and watched, and watched, but nothing ever happened.

Nicole Liu—1st Place, Grade 11/12 Fiction

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Daniel Min—Grade 10

Foreigner When I stare at the girl in the mirror, the girl staring back at me is made up of the careless words Of those that don’t know my story, Those that have never bothered to ask, my name, Have spread their perceptions of me.

I’m stuck in a picture frame Because they have solidified their image of me But life isn’t captured by one still image, It isn’t defined by the empty words of those that haven’t walked a day in my shoes BUT yet, I crumble and break under them

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They don’t matter But i can’t help it I can’t help but let their words consume my thoughts Because they make me feel like a foreigner in my own country I’ve never been able to express my ethnicity “Mommy please don’t pack that for lunch for me” My friends- they’ll make fun of me I constantly feel as though i will never be good enough, i’m sorryi’m sorry that my waist is not as petite as it should be i’m sorry that my hips my lips my wrists Or that my thighs expand when i sit Don’t meet the expectations of society why can’t I just be good enough?

NO! I’m sorry that you can’t leave me alone But did you know My silent screams consume my every waking moment Why am i not good enough?

What’d i do to make you judge me so damn much?

What’d i do to deserve this?

Nothing.

I don’t deserve this Yes you do!

Your feet are the size of mens- who will love you then?

Your nose not a perfectly calculated slope Your eyes a window to your drained and lifeless soul i’m tired.

My laugh no longer fills up a room How could it?

It’s fueled by false happiness That even i can no longer pretend i possess. i’m tired.

When i call my mom She asks me where my light has gone That even she sees through the artificial smile i put on The bags under my eyes even heavier than the weight i gained How come nobody else can sense my pain? i’m tired.

My eyes don’t shine as bright as before…

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Red streaks line my pupil From the tears i shed the night before The sleepless nights spent comparing myself Comparing myself Comparing myself STOP! Yeah i’m tired.

Tired of this shit.

I’m tired that you attempt to push me into a bottomless pit A spiral of endless shame I will no longer be a pawn in your game

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I will not bend over backwards To fit into society’s cookie cutter My once biggest insecurities, Like my ethnicity Have become one of my proudest qualities Your words don’t break me Because you’ve never walked a day in my journey Because I am stronger than before Because I am brighter than before Because…

When I stare at the girl in the mirror She is perfectly imperfect All because she could say:...

I’ve outgrown your picture frame

Sarah Jiang—1st Place, Grade 9/10 Spoken Word

Watch a recording of this Spoken Word poem

Chloe Morton—Grade 12

Lily Bowman—Grade 11

The Voice The voice holds me in a vice grip

is no longer

I fear the moment when I might slip

A tangible thing

Down

The surface gets farther the light

The feeling as I drown, drown

receding

The world is muffled in my head

Fleeing from the inky blackness

I feel like I’m already sinking Like I’m already dead

The memories are fading

Someone asks me if I’m okay

My lungs are failing

And there’s nothing I can say

Darkness tinges my vision

Except yes

And the voice

As if they care about the answer

Speaks cutting into me with intense

anyway

precision

And that’s what the voice in my head

“There’s no point in going on”

wants me to say I am a puppet on a string The voice forcing me to move my limbs School, sleep, eat, and repeat But I am lifeless I don’t remember when I felt things like kindness Before the voice I would thrive and Not just survive When I thought life was bright And full of light And I was excited for what the next day would Bring The light still glimmers above me but

Ilana Mohamed—3rd Place, Grade 11/12 Poetry

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A Letter to You I hate you.

I hate how the world lights up at your discretion, How you draw the walls into every room until there’s a shot, A square instant that spans a lifetime, Flashing and branded on my skull.

I hate your deathless smile, your hopeful eyes.

I hate your writing, your words, I hate your commas and periods and predilections, I hate the way you think.

I hate how you feel better, how you breathe and grin, How you love yourself, how you prize pleasure like gold, Gluttony like virtue.

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I hate how you’ve held on to her face, How you hoard guilt until it weighs over everyone, How you kiss a skin bag away and tuck it in the ground and never leave, Never let a part of you rest.

I hate the way you cry, The way you let your skin crack, The way you let a million moments shatter and expand, Stretching out of you until you’re nothing again, Until you’re less than the kid in front of the casket.

Watch a recording

I hate the victim you’ve become

of this Spoken Word

A trite tale,

poem

Tedious and told because it fills the time, I hate the empty endings you keep writing.

I hate the way the world around you breaks, The way it folds over and hurts, I hate the way the whiplash never ends.

Michael Cheaito—2nd Place, Grade 11/12 Spoken Word

Rowan Harris-Stoertz—Grade 10

Chelsea Yue—Grade 11

Alana Kim—Grade 10

The Journey to Becoming Me My name, Sunaina Vallamkonda, is a bit of a mouthful and it’s certainly unique.

Whenever I write my name on a nametag or a new teacher is reading off of the attendance, I know for certain when they are on my name. It’s quite simple actually, just wait until they hesitate and look at the name with confusion in their eyes. That’s my cue to say “It’s pronounced sun-nine-a, sun in the sky, the number nine then the letter a.” That key became something unique to me.

Even to the point where when needing to write down my name, I would draw a picture of the sun, a nine and the letter “a” underneath as a pronunciation guide.

We’ve now most definitely established I have a unique name. The most unique thing about it, however, might be the fact that the first sound of my name was chosen years before I was born. Even before my parents even got married. To fully explain this, I guess I have to go back and explain the basics of Indian culture.

In Indian culture, every family has a family God, and this is the main god they worship out of the hundreds of Indian gods. On my dad’s side of the family, their God is Subramanya. You may see the similarity between the first two letters of my name and the first two letters of his name. In fact, if you look at the Vallamkonda family tree, you will probably see this “similarity” in every single name with very very few exceptions. This is because my dad’s family has a tradition where the child of that family is named after the family God. Now don’t be mistaken, this is not an India-wide tradition. In fact, I am relatively sure it is only my dad’s side of the family that has this tradition.

In most cases, the name for an Indian child is chosen based on their horoscope and the day they were born. In Jhumpa Lahiri’s Namesake, she explains that Indian children are usually unnamed until quite a while after they are born at an official naming ceremony. However, in Canada, this is technically illegal. This meant my parents were forced to choose a name ahead of time, something they never thought they’d have to do. Since they are first-generation Canadians, and because both of them were born in India, it was completely new to them.

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This brought up a bunch of complications. On my dad’s side of the family, they were arguing that my name had to start with the letters “su” or at least the sound “suh.” However, on my mom’s side of the family, my grandmother is very traditional, and she started demanding my name follow proper Indian traditions where we get a priest and a naming ceremony and that whole shebang. Something you should know about my grandparents is they are very stubborn, even now you can’t tell them they’re wrong without concrete proof. I remember a time when I had to convince my grandparents it was “Tim Horton’s” not “Tim Horton” by literally getting them to drive to the nearest Tim’s. So this discussion was not going to be easy. After a long, exhausting, argument that would soon be known as the first of many, they decided my name would in fact start with “Su.” Please do keep in mind that at this point in time they did not even know my gender. All they knew was that a baby was coming, and it needed a name.

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For a couple of weeks, everyone was sated and happy with the choice that had been made, then they found out my gender. As I said before, almost everyone in the Vallamkonda family has a name starting with “Su.” This means it is very hard to find a completely unique name. If you accidentally choose the same first name as someone in the family, you now have the same full name as them.

Because in India, or at least in my family, middle names aren’t really a thing.

My mom very much wanted me to be unique. In fact, my mom’s want for me to have a completely unique name had gone so far, I almost had a French name.

My name was almost Simone and to this day she still says she loves that name.

Neither of my parents speak French at all and no one in our family that we know of has been French but this just fueled my mom further. In her mind, this meant my name would definitely be unique. I cannot express how happy I am that my name is not French, especially because I do not speak or understand french very well.

Thankfully they settled on the name Sunaina. Or I should say they settled on the name that sounded like Sunaina. If the first argument was what my name should start with and the second argument was what my name should be,

the third argument was how to spell it. There are so many different languages in India. Just between my mom and dad’s family, there are three separate languages. Therefore, there were many different ways to translate Indian letters into English. My parents say my dad spent the entire night trying to argue that my name should be spelt “ai” instead of “ay” because that was the spelling my parents wanted.

If I’m being completely honest, I don’t really understand why it mattered so much. I guess my parents were tired of everyone else choosing my name and felt they could only fight stubbornness with stubbornness. My dad came out victorious, and I finally had a name.

In the end, everyone had to settle a little bit, but I was finally given a name that everyone could accept. This argument doesn’t seem so long on paper, but in real life, the arguments lasted almost the entirety of my mom’s pregnancy.

While I didn’t technically have a proper Indian naming ceremony (because everyone already knew my name), I still had some sort of naming ceremony at home to appease my maternal grandmother. All the traditions were kept the same except for the naming happening right then and there.

While my name might not have any sort of deep meaning where it’s named after this person who helped out my parents in a difficult time or after my great grandmother or something very special like that, I think it is still special just because of what it took to get there. Sunaina means beautiful eyes, but my parents did not know what I looked like when they named me. However, I do believe that was the name I was meant to be given. While it may seem as if everyone had a say in my name except me, I can honestly say I am proud to be named Sunaina Vallamkonda.

Sunaina Vallamkonda—2nd Place, Grade 9/10 Non-Fiction

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Tierney Cater—Grade 9

Names I walk down the halls, blood on the walls. Pitter patter, all the rats scatter, and I’m left standing alone. I belong here. Cold damp dark...and alone, this is my home away from home. I’m never lonely, no not here. Their voices never leave, their screams never stop. I didn’t choose this, not really. I made a deal with the Devil, to never feel and never die. Yet Satan being that kind of guy, had to take an eye for an eye. Since I wouldn’t die, I would take lives. I now do his bidding in the land he can not dwell. From now on I will never age, stuck in this skin for the rest of my days. Time and time again he gives me the name, burnt in my forearm until their last day. The tasks he gives are simple and always the same, I must catch, corrupt and kill. To then ship their souls off, in a pretty little box, straight to the gates of Hell.

I look into her eyes, all filled with tears, as she finally recognizes her worst of fears. Yet I stand above her, blank face and cold eyes, wielding the knife who beckons her life.

“Goodbye,” I whisper as her eyes drift closed, never again to see the light of day.

I watch as “Clarissa” fades from my forearm, knowing by tomorrow another’s name will have replaced her’s. However, for now, I must burn the evidence and cleanse the earth of her. Pushing Clarissa’s limp form over the edge of the platform, her body tumbles down into the cast iron clawfoot tub I placed across the train tracks. Having now pumped her stomach and lungs of gasoline, I take one end of the rope binding her feet and feed it through the drain to act as a fuse. As I seal the makeshift steel lid over the tub, I reminisce over the first time I successfully disposed of an entire body. Kneeling at the end of the tub I strike a match along the tracks and hold it to the rope, watching as the flame jumps from the twig in my fingers to the frayed twine of the rope. As I turn to walk away I glance back at the lid, where I have carved the names of all those before her, knowing tomorrow “Clarissa” will be there too.

Walking up, the worn marble steps of the abandoned train platform, I catch the first breath of crisp night air. Gazing up at the moon now settling into the sky

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for a long night of slumber, I step out of the overgrown patch of shrubbery and trees, onto the lamp lit path running through the deserted park. Leaving the park, I debate whether to go to a small cafe with live music or see a movie. For the next eight hours, I am free of the commands he whispers in my ear.

Settling down into a plush leather chair towards the back of the cafe, I sip my London Fog, watching the steam rise, swirling from the mug. Cracking open a weathered copy of The Wind in the Willows filled with dog-eared pages, I immediately fall into the story. A few chapters later I am jarred from Badger’s cozy home by a sharp pain in my arm. Immediately recognizing the feeling, I roll up my left sleeve to see the letters E...T...H...A...N... being burned into my arm. Moments later, I hear footsteps approaching. Frantically pulling down my sleeve to cover the name, I lift my head to see the barista looking at me expectantly.

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“Good morning Miss, would you like another cup of tea?”

Relieved that he didn’t see my arm, I glance at my cup and back to him, finally recognizing his question. As I pass the cup to him, our fingers brush together momentarily. Just before he turns away to leave, I begin to thank him. Until I see his name tag.

“Thank you…Ethan”.

Fiona Hickie—2nd Place, Grade 11/12 Fiction

Jeff Zheng—Grade 11

Merle Schwemer—Grade 11

Ready?

4 am Snooze the alarm I lay in bed Thoughts of a typical Sunday morning entice me I wish I could sleep in I wish I could lazy for once I tell myself But you have to wake up You have to eat that healthy breakfast that makes you want to puke You have to prepare the energy drink that’s supposed to make you faster Don’t let the stress invade you yet I grab my bag Let’s go, hurry up Hop in the car 7 am I put my bathing suit on I look at the surface of the water I take in the strong smell of chlorine I am exhausted but it doesn’t matter “Get in, let’s go” My body hits the freezing water It’s so cold that, for a second, I can’t breathe I stay under long enough so that my lungs start to burn I gasp for air “Let’s go’ my coach says “I don’t care if you’re cold and tired. LET’S GO “ Swim 4 kilometers with tears dwelling in my eyes But nobody can see them

Nobody can hear my cries Try not to focus on the lump of stress in my throat I let my salty tears blend in the pool 8:45 am Put on that tech suit Be careful don’t rip it It’s too tight I can’t breathe It hurts I want to cry again My blood isn’t going through my body anymore but they don’t care Suck it up they say It’s hard for everyone 9:05 am Wait on the bleachers Try not to shake too much even though stress has completely taken me over Remember what coach said Don’t breathe too much Do lots of strokes I warm up to focus on something else Turn your arms, move your legs Wait until your name is called I repeat and repeat to myself Seconds feel like minutes I CAN’T BREATHE EVERYTHING IS SO LOUD I try to swallow that lump in my throat but it’s stuck Focus I tell myself, breath But I am paralyzed Suddenly, I hear my name My heart stops

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9:20 am I walk to the starting block my heartbeat rings in my ears Hit my arms and thighs one more time to get the blood moving I see the surface Too calm for comfort It’s the opposite of what’s happening in my head at this moment Thoughts race about how, in a minute, the surface will be broken and it’ll be my fault my head is somehow louder than the cheering around me I’m shaking I try to breathe but I just can’t

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Beeeeep The sound of the buzzer electrifies me Put on your goggles I tell myself But they are still salty from my tears BEEP BEEP Get on the starting block Get set My mind goes crazy I suddenly forget how to dive Ready?

No! Go I’m scared But fortunately, my legs don’t give up on me as my mind does

They remember how to dive and push off the slippery block I feel the water come in contact with my body The body that feels naked under that suit The water sharpens my mind I feel calm 3 strokes and I can take a breath My mind is getting calmer and calmer I love the water I love the feeling I get when it slides around me I swim and swim Time slows I see the wall My whole body aches Push it push it 10 meters Kick faster let’s go I hit the wall so hard my whole body feels the impact I look up at my time and I smile I remember, That’s why I am a swimmer That’s why I wake up when others don’t.

Watch a recording of this Spoken Word poem

Margaux Butterfield—2nd Place, Grade 9/10 Spoken Word

Mikayla Stoodley—Grade 12

Isabella Liang—Grade 10

Gongzhu Bao Bao, Baby That’s what they called her in Mandarin.

When she was just a little baby, her parents were not home all the time- they were hard at work making sure she got everything she needed. Whether it was her little diapers, toys, her pretty clothes- her Mommy and Daddy wanted to make sure she got everything she needed and sometimes a bit more.

Lots of the time she spent was with her Nanny. Her Nanny would take her outside to play, eat, sleep and one time, she even took her to the salon!

“Bao Bao, what would you like to do today?” her Nanny would ask.

“I want to look like a Gongzhu, princess- with curly hair. Can we- oh can we please, go to the salon?” the little girl pleaded.

“Hmmm. Okay since you’ve been a very good girl- let’s go!”

She felt like a princess after that; and she loved feeling like a princess. But what she soon learned that being a princess was not what was on the outside but, within.

Nǚu’ér, Daughter That’s what they called her in Mandarin when she grew up a little bit.

She was hilarious, spirited but also hard working. Her Mommy and Daddy got a divorce. It’s when sometimes, they find out that they are better apart than together. So she would spend school days with her Mom and the weekends with her Dad. Even though her life at home was challenging at times, she was always an amazing girl.

Growing up with her separated parents that were at work a lot of the time, she learned how to take care of herself. She would make her own lunches, she

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would clean the house- she was Little Miss Independent. I think that being independent is very important because sometimes, her Mommy or your Mommy won’t always be able to make your lunch for you. She was also a very great student.

“Nuǚ’ér, you fell asleep writing your homework! It’s too late, let’s get you to bed,” her Mom would say.

“Oh no! I fell asleep, I need to continue to finish- it’s due soon,” she would reply as she continued to finish her homework.

Pay attention, you will see that in the future, her hard work will pay off and will not go unnoticed!

Now she was never the smartest girl in class or anything but, she was the most

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hard working and she never gave up. That is what is truly important. Do you know that in China, in every school, there is always one leader- that was always this little girls job.

Péngoyǒu, Friend That’s what her friends called her in Mandarin.

One day she was telling her friends a funny story as they walked to school together. It was the most interesting part when; “Ahhhhhhh!” she screamed.

“Péngoyǒu, where did you go?” her friends saw that she was gone in the blink of an eye.

“Here! Down here!” she had fallen underground- in China that happens a lot.

Once she climbed back up, her friends and her laughed and laughed- she thought what a funny story. I can’t wait to tell this story one day.

That’s what she did. She told me this story and I laughed and laughed with her.

Many times her friends would ask her: “Péngoyǒu, do you want to go out to play?”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could but I need to finish my studies- you go ahead,” she found herself often responding to her friends this way.

She always prioritized her work and her responsibilities first. Although she did miss out on some fun when she was younger, she did it so that she could have more fun in the future. But this didn’t mean she never had fun. She could also be the life of the party when all her work was finished.

I will work hard now so that I can have less work in the future- then I can really enjoy the life of a princess.

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Xìng’ài de, My love That’s what her boyfriend called her in Mandarin.

He was her boyfriend until he got down on one knee and proposed to her.

She felt the smile grow across her face as she blurted out the word; “Yes!” They got married because he didn’t just treat her like a princess- but like a queen.

Mama, Mother That’s what I call her.

“She is beautiful,” my Mommy said in the delivery room on one particularly rainy October morning.

“What should we name her?” my Dad asked.

“Sarah- it means princess.”

Sarah Jiang—2nd Place, Grade 9/10 Fiction

Justy Lin—Grade 12

Throw Me an Apron Every December without fail, my family buckles down for a full day of Christmas baking. It’s not your average cookie and pie-filled day of fun family bonding, but more so a factory operation with a single end goal: producing as many Dutch sausage rolls as four people can manage in a single day — worstenbroodjes. Although the pronunciation of these delicious meat-filled bread-rolls is difficult for most Canadians, it is widely agreed by our tastetesters that the end result is a delectable replacement for any snack or meal. At Christmas and New Year’s, the worstenbroodjes get distributed by the dozens to our friends and extended family, while any remaining go into our freezer to be enjoyed throughout the year. We’re lucky if they last until Easter.

On the first day the whole family has off for Christmas break, my parents get up early to start the process. My dad prepares and kneads the dough so it can start rising, while my mom starts mixing the ingredients for — and forming — the sausages. My brother and I stumble blearily downstairs as soon as we wake up, usually to be thrown aprons and told to commence the assembly-line right away. My brother tends to be the last to emerge from his room. He rarely loses sleep for anything, and this day is no exception. Of course, this earns him neverending scorn from me about how he affects our productivity with his absence, but I can never stay irritated for long when there’s so much to be done.

A typical batch of worstenbroodjes requires quite a few steps: make the dough, knead it, and set it to rise somewhere warm. Then, divide it up and roll each piece into smooth, golf-ball-sized spheres and let them rise again. While this is happening, mix the meat and spices together. Form the mixture into small sausages, then cook them until they’re medium-rare. When the balls have risen, use a rolling pin to roll them into flat circles and place a sausage in each one.

Fold the sausage up similarly to wrapping a gift in paper, sealing the edges with water. Dust the bottom of each formed worstenbroodje with flour, place them on a baking sheet, brush them with egg wash and then stab each one precisely three times with a fork for aeration. Put the tray in the oven, then repeat ad infinitum.

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In this enterprise, my dad is the Dough Overlord, my mom is the Sausage Queen, my brother, dad and I are the Ball-forming Experts, my brother is the Chief Roller, I’m the Egg-wash and Fork Master, and my mother and I are the Package-forming Specialists. Our recipe has been perfected over the years, passed down from my mother’s Dutch grandparents and then given personal touches based on our family’s preferences. The result? A perfect white bun that’s golden and slightly crisp on the outside but soft and fluffy on the inside. Its flavour is intriguing, levels above bland grocery store bread, but subtle enough to flawlessly compliment the juicy, mildly spicy sausage lying perfectly cooked on the inside. They’re a bun and a sausage that would each be great on their own, but together they’re sublime. As my mom would always say, “it’s a party in your mouth.” My brother in particular agrees with this statement, and prides himself on being the worstenbroodje taste-testing connoisseur. Naturally, this means he has to try every single batch and decide whether he likes the level

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of spice. Unfortunately for him, our parents are more fond of the heat, so he usually has to settle. And me? I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t eat them.

I have never visited the Netherlands, but from what I’ve seen and been told, our worstenbroodjes aren’t very similar to those made by other Dutch families.

They aren’t anything like the basic sausage rolls you can purchase at the store, either. The recipe and tradition are unique to our family, something special I look forward to making every year. It’s an almost therapeutic day of muscle memory and familiarity in between the stresses of school and the chaos of Christmas, with the ultimate reward at the end: amazing food that provides a source of unity for all worstenbroodje lovers. Not participating in this crucial consumption aspect of the tradition has been difficult.

Worstenbroodjes and I had a rocky start to our relationship. Although the process has always been a much-anticipated tradition, the product itself has produced mixed emotions over the years. As a young child, I didn’t like the taste of red meat, so my parents started baking some risen dough balls without the sausage for me. We called them Anna-broodjes, meaning Anna-buns. As my

taste buds refined, I grew to love the taste of worstenbroodjes, so it wasn’t until I went vegetarian in high school that I realized I may have ruined my favourite holiday tradition for myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to eating plain baked dough without the sausage, but I couldn’t justify going against my values unnecessarily.

As Christmas approached, I wondered if the magic of our worstenbroodje baking day would be lost for me. I’ve always been passionate about cooking and baking, but much of my motivation lies in the end product; I’m a sucker for gourmet. So last year, it was as much a surprise for me as for anyone that when production-day came around, I rolled out of bed and stumbled blearily downstairs the moment I was woken up by the whirring Kitchen-aid. Inhaling contentedly the smell of fresh dough, I eagerly grabbed the apron my mom threw me and joined the assembly line. Sometimes, I’ve realized, the process matters more than the product.

Of course, it helped that my dad and I came up with a vegetarian alternative that was just as tasty: stuffing the buns with curried mashed potatoes instead of sausage. Now we just need a name — how does aardappelbroodjes roll off the tongue?

Anna Harris—2nd Place, Grade 11/12 Non-Fiction

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Imagine Imagine walking miles upon miles day by day Your only hope, to bring home water for your family Imagine waking up every day hoping, No, praying that the hole in the ground you call a well is full Imagine living, when your one source of life is slipping through your fingers As quickly as that limited time only t-shirt you missed out on last spring Scientists say water fuels the world They say the human body cannot last more than a week without water But 790 million are left without it 790 million lives And we’re just standing by watching We have water, this is not our problem

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So we’re just standing by watching But imagine if you were one of the 790 million hoping No, praying We’ve all learned about the water cycle, The amount of water in the world never changes It just goes round and round and round So why is it that my biggest problem is what to wear to school When there is a child in Africa hoping, No, praying, That he will have something to drink today That he will live another day Imagine if he was your child, your brother, your friend You are murdering people.

That caught your attention didn’t it Your thoughtless actions and “not my problem” attitude

Are causing people to die.

Are causing mothers to lose their daughters.

Are causing fathers to lose their sons.

Your sympathetic thoughts do not save lives Now don’t make excuses, You don’t need money or resources to help You don’t even need to be an adult In 1997 a small boy in America had an idea He thought that with 70 dollars he could build a well He thought that with 70 dollars he could save the world He didn’t realize how much effort it would take, But he didn’t give up, He didn’t stop trying to change the world And now he’s made a difference This 10-year-old has made a real difference You don’t need to have a worldwide charity to help, Some people have big ideas that make a big difference, But the small actions you take every day are just as important, They still make a change We need to stop imagining and start doing

Listen to a recording of this Spoken Word poem

Sunaina Vallamkonda—3rd Place, Grade 9/10 Spoken Word

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Fernanda Fulcherberguer—Grade 11

Everyone Needs a “Patsy” In 2010, I joined piano. I wasn’t sure what to expect from this but the outcome was not what I was expecting. I thought I would just end up learning the piano but I ended up learning a lot more.

My first piano teacher was Patsy. She was the kindest most gentle lady I had ever met. Her voice was so gentle, you could feel her kindness radiating in each word. She was a petite lady, probably in her 60s. She had short, grey hair with bangs. She always wore purple or black eyeliner to compliment her clothes.

My piano lessons were always on Wednesdays at 3:30, right after school. I would walk from school to her house which was about a 10 minute walk. It would usually take me longer to get there because I would always stop and smell the flowers or talk to the ducks. I would always sing to myself and have a little skip in my step.

Before entering the house, I would already hear the beautiful sounds of the piano creeping through the walls. I would normally wait a few moments outside to hear her playing before interrupting to start my lesson. The first thing you see when you enter the house is the staircase leading upstairs. As soon as the door opens, her two black and white border collies would come running. They were so gentle, just like Patsy. They would give me kisses as I gave them belly rubs. As you look around, to the left is the kitchen, dining room table and bathroom. To the right is the living room with the fireplace, couches and piano.

My nostrils were filled with the smell of old people’s homes. Everyone knows the smell. Mildly sweet and musty. There is a hint of flowers and perfume. Patsy’s wasn’t very strong though, it was subtle. I got used to it. Around Christmas time, there was a very small Christmas tree by the window. When I say small, I mean extremely tiny that it sits on a table. It’s branches are very sparse and the star seems that it is about to fall over. Two gifts sit under the tree, one for Ian, her husband, and one for Patsy.

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Whenever I entered her house, she would greet me with open arms and a smile.

She would always offer me water or some cookies and got me situated at the piano. Twice a year, we would have a recital. The Christmas recital would take place in her home. Patsy didn’t have many students but they all had a very deep and personalized connection with her. All the students and their families would sit on couches and cushions and listen to everyone play. Each performer would be rewarded with a round of applause. Afterwards, as a celebration, the adults would gather in the living room for tea and coffee and the kids would gather in the dining room and have juice and desserts. I always loved these celebrations because everyone would bond and laugh over their performances. When I switched piano teachers, this tradition was lost and I was so sad to discover this.

The end of year recital would take place at St. John’s church. Before leaving for the recital, I would practice for hours on end until it was perfect. As soon as I entered the church, my heart would race, my hands would sweat and my legs

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would shake. I had to fight through this response and just be present. I would perform my piece and be hit with a wave of relief. I wouldn’t remember my performance after I finished because of how filled with adrenaline I was. Patsy would always take photos with her students and we would exchange gifts. She was so kind and never hesitated to reward her students.

The first lesson I learned from Patsy was patience and to trust myself.

I live by the quote by Nelson Mandela: “It always seems impossible until it’s done.” This idea can mean many things to many different people. When I read this quote, I think of piano. When I would pick up a new song, I’d love the first few bars. Then, as I near the middle, it gets hard. I want to give up. I want to quit. I want to cry. I want to burn my piano books. The important thing about piano is that you have to push through. Push through all the feelings of struggle and stress. There’s always a happy ending. You have to trust yourself. Believe in yourself. You can’t have other people tell you you can do it. You have to know it for yourself. Once you get past the struggle, it’s worth it. You go into the

recital feeling good about your songs. Knowing you gave in all your effort and pushed through. It felt impossible to finish the song. But you did it. It only felt impossible until you reached the end. In my opinion, that is the greatest reward.

Completing something you never thought you could complete. Taking your hands off the keys after your song. Standing up. Taking a bow knowing all your hard work paid off. That is a reward much greater than money. You earned it.

You did it.

The second lesson I learned from Patsy was appreciation of beauty.

I learned to appreciate music. Good music. Some of the things we hear on the radio today and streaming services are not real music. They are repetitive sounds mixed together with autotune. Real music is the music you find in a book. Music you learn. Music with layers, twist and turns. My favourite thing to do with Patsy at my lessons was to flip through the books and have her sight read songs. I would do this for two reasons. 1) To hear Patsy play and 2) to choose a song I would like to play at the recital. As time went on, I found my favourite genre. Time continued and I found my favourite composer. I fell in love with these types of music not because of the way it sounded but the way Patsy made it sound. She put so much emotion and flavour into the songs that it sounded like she had been practicing the song for a year. Her hands would move so freely and gracefully amongst the keys they appeared to be feathers.

Patsy was what kept me going in piano. I had a love-hate relationship where I would want to spend hours on it one day and then the next day refuse to practice. Patsy motivated me and proved to me what I could become if I never gave up.

I ended up giving up. I had to switch piano teachers because I had reached the end of Patsy’s teaching abilities. The switch was really hard for me. I had been with Patsy for almost 7 years and all of a sudden my time with her stopped.

I stayed with the new teacher for around 3 years before it became too much.

School workloads increased and I began to lose time to practice. Before stopping, I did my last thing for Patsy. I took my first exam and got an 85 in grade 6. This was one of the highest scores in my region. Grade 6 is one of the biggest jumps in piano and I did it for Patsy. She always encouraged me to push myself and take an exam and I decided I just wanted to do piano for fun. Once I switched teachers and decided it was time to take a break from lessons, I took the exam for her. To show her that deep down, she is still my teacher. Her voice still plays in my head when I play. The way she would give me suggestions on my pieces like: “A little louder here,” “Quieter here,” “Play like you’re running on hot coals,” “Tell me a story.” The way she would demonstrate her technique and hardwork. She would sight read a song with ease and the dynamics she added weren’t on the page but it felt like you were one with the music.

I still use her style of teaching to teach young kids piano today. I want other

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kids to receive the same experience I did. I want them to have a role model.

Someone they look up to and respect. I want them to fall in love with piano the way I did. I want them to push through all the struggles to reward themselves. I want them to find their own Patsy in their life. I was so lucky to find my Patsy. I wouldn’t be where I am today without her. If you ever have the chance to meet a “Patsy,” don’t take them for granted. They are a blessing.

Dedicated to Patsy. Thank you.

Ella Zegarra Brown—3rd Place, Grade 9/10 Non-Fiction

Carine Martin—Grade 12

Carlota Tommasi—Grade 11

Dear Corona Dear Corona... I’m a senior now in

going on. I can save up all my money,

high school. I’m not sure if you know

no expenses paid on prom. You took

this, but I’m not allowed in my school.

all of my excitement, you took all

Twelve years of education sounds like

my expectation. And you made it

fun. But get this, I have to leave it all

all about yourself, when you had no

before I’m even done. Reminiscing on

invitation. So dear Corona, think I

the past, when I was just a little kid.

speak for those who are with me…

I would think about the day I walk

Thanks a lot. We really mean it. Love,

the stage with all my friends. Only

Class of 2020.

five or six years old, but seventeen I would pretend. And now I’m here, but you took everything and put it to an end. Ain’t that crazy? All the things

Watch a

that had me ready to move on. All the

recording of

memories, we’ll say goodbye cause

this Spoken

all of them are gone. Might not get

Word poem

to graduation, no more sports are

Arina Stolyar—3rd Place, Grade 11/12 Spoken Word

Maddy Rutherford—Grade 9

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Victoria Li—Grade 10

To Aid Our Nation’s Failing Lungs: A Modest Proposal It is of the common understanding that there is a premier plague in our current teenage population. One must merely survey a common Canadian high school to observe the shaking mouthbreathers expeditiously making their way to coveted private areas. It is only the foremost cause of utter deterioration in our youth that I have written this article to discuss: the epidemic of electronic nicotine delivery systems.

It must be widely accepted that this epidemic comes without cause that exempts those teenagers from blame, and that it is holistically harmful. Admittedly, there may be some superfluous influences, yet the blame must be primarily delegated to those unjust and unreasonable young men and women who have allowed this vapor-shaped evil to infiltrate their otherwise pure hearts.

In attempting to counteract this unforeseen proliferation, there have been numerous methods employed by those well-intended patriots who have concerned themselves with teenage health. There have been campaigns released discouraging these devices and seminars discussing their unhealthy physical proponents, though those are not of the most prominent concern.

Most importantly, the youth have been educated on the moral compromises one commits through each inhalation of that ominous vapor. Though, we must regard the shortcomings of those methods in totally obliterating this infection.

Therefore, I must propose a more appropriate solution.

I must make clear reference to the fact that this solution, despite my temptations to claim so, was not of my original creation. Instead, it was proposed to me by a qualified acquaintance of mine overseas with less of an oratory inclination. In simpler terms, I am more a proponent of this concept than its creator. Though, as his occupation was in public service, I have made slight adjustments to apply this solution to Canadian high schools.

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I must also admit that my solution relies primarily on secondary information; I have never inhaled vapor from an electronic nicotine delivery system. Yet I have been assured by numerous individuals, including my acquaintance, that they hold great similarity to tobacco cigarettes, both in physical properties, and in satisfaction.

I therefore humbly propose that tobacco cigarettes be sold at competitive prices and wide availability within high schools, or in specialized stores nearby.

Cigarettes will be sold with minimal taxation to those under-18 specifically. In highly dense school-districts, nearby stores will be licensed by the government for the sale of cigarettes to minors with minimal sales tax. In private institutions with in-school stores, cigarettes can be sold alongside chips or other commodities.

Generally, cigarette availability shall be widely proliferated. As an advocate for teen health, I must recognize that the long-lasting marks left by that indignant vapor cannot simply be removed - a transitory vehicle is necessary.

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It must be understood in the ensuing conjecture that currently, cigarette use is lessened by a few distinct components. Firstly, underage Canadians are prohibited from purchasing cigarettes, as well as electronic nicotine devices, by common law. Secondly, current tax considerations create a competitive disadvantage that reduce their widespreadness. It is more the latter condition that discourages their use, yet the legal treatment of cigarettes as similar to electronic nicotine devices in their capacity for harm, is disingenuous to their effects. Yet, if these two legal complications are remedied, one could expect cigarette use to increase rather substantially in lucrativity.

In order to appeal to Canada’s youth, flavor varieties could be offered as well.

One could find great pleasure in picking out spearmint cigarettes, or watermelon infused tobacco. Commercial varieties have been appealing to youth in countless ways and markets; in the same way that oreo biscuits and gelatin snacks may arrive in consumers hands in vast arrays of flavor, cigarettes can be smoked at the dinner table to compliment the recently served the main course.

I will make the admission that cigarette smoking is not a wholly healthy habit. I note that though I have not been afflicted with this vice, I have seen it inflicted upon others. I modestly propose into public consideration - with the supporting evidence of my experiences, observations, and assurances made to me by many well-recognized and proven individuals - that this infliction of cigarettes is of far less destructive capacity than that of an electronic nicotine device. It is the preferable route for a youth that these alternatives needn’t be necessary, and that nicotine addiction is curbed entirely. But it must be equally acknowledged that it is the essential objective to eradicate the societally ruinous habit of vaping.

Therefore, cigarette use provides a naturally-sourced alternative.

It may be the opinion of some more particularly moral individuals that this solution is compromising. I will make admission to the fact that it is not a solution that involves the total elimination of nicotine. Yet, in terms of effectiveness, it proves itself the most realistic remedy. Of those other efforts I can only comment on numerous faults that do not befall this proposed solution. Yes, there have been countless proposals such as: providing mental health counseling and support to students and treating vaping as an addiction rather than a crime, understanding that this epidemic is the cause of intensive marketing towards youth that created life-long customers and the regulatory failures that allowed it, providing public nicotine cessation programs in high school districts to aid students in quitting; all these solutions are either ineffective, based on misplaced blame, or overly idealistic. Therefore, there shall be no other remedy than cigarettes proposed to me.

Deeply and sincerely, I must conclude that this solution originates from my most honest patriotic core. There is no benefit I stand to gain, nor recognition I stand to request. Rather, it is my earnest attempt at healing a pervasive and dangerous challenge in our youth. I simply hope to endeavour into a more dignified and culturally sustainable solution. To those who propose direct punishment, I would counter with the school of thought that instead endorses rehabilitation. In the most optimistic of outcomes, Canada’s youth will soon be ashing their cigarettes en masse like the generations that came before them.

Michael Cheaito—2nd Place, Grade 11/12 Non-Fiction

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A Portrait of the Year 2077 A half-hour after her granddaughter Alice’s graduation ceremony was over, Anna was still seated in a chair facing the lectern. The graduates, Alice included, had long since dispersed and could be seen in clumps around the field, talking excitedly with friends and family. After four years of hard work, they had finished high school. They would soon be moving on to new places and people, and the occasional teary goodbye was not lost to Anna’s gaze. Younger students were trickling back to their boarding houses, trailed by parents readying to load their children’s belongings into cars. Anna sat and watched the bittersweet scene, a wistful look in her eye. It was both familiar and foreign—she had once been one of the younger students, bemused by the simultaneous happiness and grief of the graduates, eager to leave for the summer but safe in the knowledge that she would return in the fall. Yet, the emotions of the graduating class were what really captured her attention. Despite attending numerous versions of the ceremony over the years, she herself had never been in Alice’s place. She had

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never walked up the aisle in front of the crowd, never had one hand shaken while a diploma was pushed into the other, never felt the overwhelming pride and relief. She wondered whether it was as gratifying as it looked.

“Grandma, why are you still sitting here?” Anna was shaken from her stupor by Alice’s younger brother, Charlie. She gave a little laugh but it came out breathier than intended, heavy with suppressed emotion.

“Oh don’t mind me, Charlie. I was just thinking about how nice the ceremony was,” Anna answered, turning to smile fondly at her grandson. The moment she met his eyes, she knew her dismissive answer wouldn’t be enough to satisfy his curiosity. Charlie was surprisingly competent at reading emotions for a twelveyear-old.

“Then why do you look so sad?” he asked.

Anna sighed, “I was wondering what it would have been like to graduate.”

“You never finished school?” Charlie didn’t understand, “but you went to university!”

“I finished school, Charlie, but it wasn’t a normal year. We had to end unexpectedly early, so I never had a graduation ceremony like this,” she gestured vaguely at the people milling about. “Has your teacher taught you about the world-wide pandemic that happened before you were born?

Covid-19?”

“You were still in school when that happened? But that was, like, fifty years ago!”

Anna laughed for real this time, “A bit more than fifty, actually, but yes. The pandemic started when I was your sister’s age.”

Charlie was wide-eyed now, “So you didn’t get to graduate because you couldn’t be near other people for a while?”

Anna nodded, a faraway look in her eyes as her thoughts drifted back to her own senior year, “We couldn’t be within two metres of anyone we didn’t live with for almost a year, because the risk of accidentally spreading the virus was too great.

Hundreds of thousands of people died that year, Charlie.”

“Why couldn’t they stop the virus, Grandma? How did it spread so much if no one was going near each other?”

“The problem, Charlie, was that they did go near each other. Everyone knew the danger, but too many people were selfish and refused to isolate themselves.

They believed the virus wouldn’t affect them and didn’t care if they spread it to others. They only cared about their so-called ‘freedom.’ It wasn’t just the people’s fault though, corrupt politicians fueled the rebellion, denied the science, and once the virus spread,” Anna paused to take a tremulous breath,

“there was nothing anyone could do but hope it didn’t kill them or their loved ones. The pandemic lasted over a year before scientists developed a vaccination.”

Charlie looked stunned, “So, all of those deaths could have been prevented if people hadn’t been so selfish?”

“Not all of them, of course, the virus would have killed people no matter what... but a great many could have been,” Anna shook her head, trying to clear the decades-old grief from her mind. She looked at Charlie and smiled sadly, “In the scope of the situation, I was lucky to have lost little more than my graduation.”

Anna Harris—3rd Place, Grade 11/12 Fiction

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Hinako Hotta—Grade 11

Amelie Fenton—Grade 9

Ruby Sun—Grade 9

For the Rest of My Life For the rest of my life, I will remember that chilly autumn day at the train station, the wind whipping at our red noses exposed under our coarse woollen scarves. I didn’t know it then, but that was the last time I would see your smile, that was the time when you left me forever.

We met in Grade 2. I had just transferred from another school and didn’t know anyone. I was shy, scared and vulnerable, sitting at my desk alone with my too-big wire-rimmed glasses. My precious copy of Nancy Drew was clutched in my arms, the only familiar object I had in this new place. You don’t know this, but before you came up to me, I was wondering if I should even go to lunch if I didn’t know anyone there. In fact, I had just decided on eating my cucumber sandwiches alone in the classroom when you appeared.

You, with your wide smile with its two front teeth missing that lit up any room you were in. Your voice was high and melodious, melting back my shield and easing all of my worries. It wasn’t just me; I could see the stress melt off of our teachers’ faces as they looked at you, the happiness their eyes would hold when they got to teach you. Remember when Mr. Bailey literally sighed in relief when he saw you were in his homeroom one year? I’m relatively sure he asked for me to switch into another class. I don’t really think he liked me that much; maybe it was because I never did my homework? You, however, always tried your best in everything you did, even if it was just a conversation between the two of us about who had better eyebrows.

I never told you this, but your blinding smile is what saved me. That day I bought you McDonald’s after the exams? It was because I needed a pick-meup and I knew that you wouldn’t let me down. I was right; you delivered your gratitude towards me in the form of a much-needed hug. You must’ve had an inkling about how much you meant to me, though, because throughout elementary and even through high school you stuck to me like glue. Always racing up behind me before jumping onto my back, usually startling me

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into dropping the mountain of books in my arms. Although I acted annoyed and teased you about it relentlessly, I was grateful to have you with me. Your grounding presence making the vast walls of our high school seem more like home. Especially when you ‘decorated’ the chalkboards in our homeroom with pictures of SpongeBob, reminding me of similar drawings decorating my room.

Where I would stand awkwardly on the sidelines hoping someone would come to talk to me, you would barge in and change the atmosphere in the room. I don’t think there was a single person in our school who didn’t know your name by the first day. Before I knew it, you were my rock, the only thing keeping me stable. It’s just too bad I didn’t realize it until it was too late.

I dream about it a lot, you know? I wonder if maybe I could have convinced you that there was too much ice to go on such a long trip. I wonder if we had checked the weather and seen the oncoming storm if things would be different.

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I wonder if I should have gone with you? Because now you are gone, and I am still here, lost without my guiding light. Sometimes I think you are sending signals to me. When the tingling sensation of a warm hug envelopes me, I know it is you telling me that you are still there. I still think about you, and what could’ve been, but I know that you would’ve wanted me to move on. So I settle for visiting here, a despondent little forest near an abandoned train track, once a year. I set down my flowers, and we talk, we sit together reminiscing about the good old days and all the trouble we got into until the sun is setting. When the sea of oranges and purples paints the sky, it’s time for me to go. It’s okay though, because we both know that while we are physically far away, we are always together in spirit and can never truly be apart. As I stand here today in front of you, the chilled air transporting me to that time several years ago, I want you to know that I am trying to move forward. For the rest of my life, I will remember, but at least now I am starting to forgive.

Sunaina Vallamkonda—3rd Place, Grade 9/10 Fiction

Fatima Shahbaz—Grade 11

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The Arts at

Author Name—Place / Name (Medium) 4391 County Rd 29, Lakefield, ON K0L 2H0 lcs.on.ca