In A Grove 2017

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In A Grove 2017

Integrated Arts Journal

Untitled by Kiera McCloskey, Digital Photograph

A Celebration of Writing and Art at Lakefield College School

Featuring the winners of LCS Writes!

Sponsored by the Grove Society

Poetry Section Grades 11/12 1 Reyna Krocker, “Torrential Downpour”............................................ 9 1 Alicetierney Prindiville-Porto, “Woman”.......................................... 11 2 Eden Snelgrove-Ribovski, “Sea Spray”............................................. 15 3 Tori Quick, “Dance”........................................................................ 19 st st

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Grades 9/10 1 Emilia Voudouris, “Time”................................................................. 4 2 Isabelle Mao, “The Immortal”.......................................................... 12 3 Amy Qian, “Blazing Night”............................................................. 16 st

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prose Section Grades 11/12 1 Eden Snelgrove-Ribovski, “Don’t Be Ridiculous, Dear”.................... 25 2 Alex Wexler, “The Day I Met Ana”................................................... 39 3 Betsy Macdonnell, “The Negative Effects of Shoulders”.................... 43 3 Paige Bonner, “The Good Ol’ Hockey Game”.................................. 48 st

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Grades 9/10 1 Stephanie Hancock, “A Screaming Remembrance”.......................... 21 2 Ida Schwarzkopf, “Dreaming Bigger”............................................... 35 3 Claire Campbell, “Craving Hunger”................................................. 54 3 Hannah Hofmann, “Pandora’s Worst”.............................................. 60 st

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Cover by Sophie Peters, Acrylic on canvas Photography: Simon Spivey

Time

By Emilia Voudouris Time learns to fly as soon as we become aware of it it promises to heal our scars, to make us sane.

To make us forget We try to make it, kill it, capture it our own two hands. but oh no! where did time go?!

Time Time wasted thinking about time sometimes we want it to run faster and catch up with us already! but when it does we want it to wait for us to catch our breath time stops for no one Time

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We swear to god that nothing will change We tattoo images and words on to our skin to forever remind us of today Of now.

Time a measure used to validate an answer too long or too short and all the pain you’ve been through the experiences you have had the tears you have cried will never be enough Time an enemy to some, a hero to others a ticking bomb that’s never to explode our thoughts, speeding through it words caught in its forgotten cobwebs we make excuses for it and weave it into every single thing we do

time one day without knowing if it’s 12:00 or 1:00 or 3:00 a clock we go insane are we skipping enough moments? are we running by fast enough?

Never fast enough time one second to me a distorted lifetime for someone else we all have 60 seconds a minute 60 minutes an hour 24 hours a day 8760 hours a year time the most beautiful lie we all choose to believe we worry every day time time time what if we don’t get those 24 hours and the million dollar question how much of it do we have left?

Tick toc tick toc and with our hands tied behind our backs by the clock’s hands we can’t help but comply and step into the traps forcing us to say goodbye as quickly as we can because, oh no, have you seen the time?

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I’m sorry, I just simply have to run

that you can’t find time in the 1440

Time

minutes of the day

a useless measure to get used to

to do what you love

once you do, it is slipped right under

Time is a test

you and the rules are changed once

Smacking us in the face

again

in the hopes we will put our priorities

time

in check

a MEANINGLESS word shouted into

Because honestly, when you take

the universe

your last breath

lost in the vastness of space

you won’t remember the hours spent

time

in the office

nonsense to everything but humans

or the Facebook posts.

time

You’re going to remember the scent

the anthem we all sing

of a summer day

time

and the feeling of grass in-between

when asked my religion I used to roll

your toes

my shoulders back

Time

and proudly spit out the word atheist

it is magic quite honestly

but only now do I realize

how it can be still

how wrong I have been

yet run ten thousand times faster

for I have been preaching to a

at the same time

supernatural power

time

just like everyone else

The rhythm that makes

singing hallelujah even louder than

consciousness dance

the voices that echo off the churches

time

walls.

It’s all we have and it doesn’t even

time

exist

Don’t tell me you don’t have time Don’t you dare tell me

1st Place, 9/10 Poetry

Untitled by Andrea Ibarra, Acrylic on Matte Board

Scattered by Olivia Burwell, Acrylic on Canvas

Torrential Downpour

By Reyna Krocker The words, The rumours, The dirty glances hang over my head like a raging storm cloud.

All my efforts go into keeping the storm contained But I can feel it looming above, waiting.

Every so often the cloud gets too heavy, Â The rain has nowhere to go but down.

It dumps all over me, soaking through each layer of clothes, until it reaches my skin.

I stand in that crowded hallway, Lightning striking, thunder sounding But nobody helps, Nobody offers me shelter Not an umbrella, Not anything.

Nobody protects me from the torrential downpour.

They watch and whisper as the storm rages on.

1st Place, 11/12 Poetry

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Untitled by Carolina Gonzalez-Hernandez, Mixed Media

Woman

By Alicetierney Prindiville-Porto Woman

Woman

and not a girl

Giving the gift of life does not make her your wife

Woman This warm wholesome word

Woman

encompasses the power that

Her burning at the stake only

she can hold

fuelled her fire

11 Woman

Woman

Creases of defiance display

Their faces are shielded in war

her self-reliance

paint not rouge

Woman

And they have arrived

She is not a pawn in your

Women

capitalistic scheme

1st Place, 11/12 Poetry

Woman Your regulation cannot suppress the unshaven

The Immortal

By Isabelle Mao “Consume this prize, rise, and never demise.”

And I never hesitated, for I saw myself sated.

Passing, would I ever have hated!

Death would not touch me, the way it shall thee; I will always be.

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Nineteen forever.

Aging never.

Time enough for infinite endeavors.

I thought myself clever.

Nevermore had I need to eat.

Nevermore had I want to sleep.

How great it was; death, I would cheat.

The places I’d be, the people I’d meet.

At first, ‘twas such a treat.

Two decades and my peers grew vicious.

I was a demon said they, ever suspicious.

Their intentions, once good, became malicious.

They went about with acts pernicious.

With that I left, became fictitious.

Though I had much money to

Time again seemed to bend.

squander,

In the other way, comprehend!

three centuries passed and I started

I had not a single friend.

to ponder:

Naught more did I want than for it to

I have gone everyplace, now where

end.

shall I wander?

I have been hither and I have been

A killer I found, and fervently pled,

yonder.

“Slay me please, a shot through the head.

My parents are six feet under,

Cut me ‘til I’m completely bled.

All my companions have gone

Stain the floor a vermilion red.

asunder.

Earth, I no longer wish to tread.

What is life, I did constantly wonder.

Eternal life, not death, I dread.”

Time sped by like ceaseless thunder.

But I would not stay dead.

But time I have infinite; it’s love that I lack.

And now I ask,

Other death dates, I cannot push

given the flask,

back.

having completed the Task,

If only I were an amnesiac, so haunted I am by endless

would you have drank the elixir of

flashbacks,

immortality?

2nd Place, 9/10 Poetry

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Untitled by Olivia Gao, Sharpie, Coloured Pencils, Acrylic Ink, Acrylic Paint

Sea Spray

By Eden Snelgrove-Ribovski toes curled, eyes wide

comes the fall

i stand at the edge

below, sea spray

of the void

loosens the

exultant

feathers that way, too

in the distance

lies an end

an island, shining glistening

they speak of

and free

hubris my pride, my fall.

wings curled, back straight

remember,

i am Icarus

though,

poised, and about

what lay below

to leap the colder way: above, the sun,

sea spray

blistering, lethal fly too high, and

2nd Place, 11/12 Poetry

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Blazing Night

By Amy Qian How long does one need To stare through the blazing city night Before he’s seen?

In the rush of bustle, the crowd of hustle Fitting in every corner to drown in the party Along the gorgeously cold street Dazzling brightness gleaming harsh into the eyes Upon the garishness, within the gloss The yell that no one hears died silently

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Sweet innocent red cheeks Clinging to the glaring city lights Before crawling into the dark On the top floor of a high-rise, on the pavement beside the pub I see nothing else through the window But the reflection of me We shall never sleep Till the last wink of neon light takes the curtain call Dreadful and desired, dead and flourish The place where is still million’s fantasy How long does one need To stare through the blazing city night Before lost in peak?

3rd Place, 11/12 Poetry

Mortal Sanity by Godfrey Tse, Acrylic on Canvas

Untitled by Scott Thompson, Digital Photograph

Dance

By Tori Quick It’s about the butterflies that

Dance is an escape,

invade your stomach

from everything corrupt in the

Their fluttering ignite the

world,

tingling sensation in your

with allowance to embody

fingertips

everything good.

as you take your first step on stage.

Dance is exploration,

Practice, repetition and

tapping into your creative

persistence

senses

enable this moment,

and unveiling them to the

empowering the wave of

world.

pleasure that engulfs you

Pushing your boundaries

as the stage lights illuminate

allowing you

you.

to get to know yourself better.

Treasuring the moments your moves flow like calligraphy

You don’t need a stage,

and you have the ability to

you don’t need equipment,

make time stop.

all you need is you.

So let your hair down,

Negativity and doubt occupy

put on your favourite song

the back seat

and dance.

while credence drives all the sparkle from within to

Dance to show how you felt

the surface.

about your day.

Dance because no matter what

Dance is empowerment,

obstacle you’re hurtling,

the freedom of expression,

dance will be there when no

the chance you have to take

one else is.

someone’s breath away.

Dance to express what you cannot say with words.

Dance to show you’re alive.

3rd Place, 11/12 Poetry

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Can I Love Him/Her by Tsubasa Yamawaki, Screen Printing

A Screaming Remembrance

By Stephanie Hancock The screams woke her again. Ripped through her ears and pierced her heart. To hear one in pain was dreadful, but to hear someone you love scream like the world was crumbling around them was worse.

It was strange, she thought, how the time when the war raged was almost better for them. It brought the community together. Every person was to help the effort, to respond to the call. Of course almost all the men left, some of them so eager to snap up the opportunity that they almost tripped over their feet while running towards the enlistment station. One man commented how they looked like new puppies running across the road, unstable and unaware of the dangers. But he was old and frivolous and quickly dismissed. Who would listen to such drivel when there was a war to be fought and socks to be made.

She remembered how much it hurt to watch her husband leave. A hole was ripped in her chest, a piece of her missing. Gripping her sweetheart ring tightly in one hand, and waving vigorously with the other, smiling through the tears. Her children surrounded her. They were smiling, for Dad had only left for an adventure. As the boat got smaller and smaller, an internal battle was being fought within her. She knew the men had to go, or that is what she had been told. But still she was afraid, afraid for her husband and her family. How would they survive? How would anyone survive?

Being left behind was hard. But the women and children put themselves to good use, busying their hands so as to distract them from the looming danger their men were in. Not that they had any choice really. With no men to fill the jobs, the employers were forced to look to the women.

The children stepped up almost immediately. The older ones took care of their siblings, cooked, cleaned and most importantly helped the war effort.

School became a fan club, children knitted and took part in concert, raised money and revelled in the energy of the war. The teachers and pupils were often asked to collect leeches as they were beneficial in relieving bruising as well as pain in the back that pneumonia caused.

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With their fathers, brothers, uncles all gone, the young ones had expectations to live up to. They were too bound by the oath to their country. They sang patriotic songs. The public schools raised £30 000, any and all kinds of money-raising events were given to our men overseas. Without doubt, many of them dreamt of becoming a soldier.

This was before the men with stumps for arms appeared form the streets.

Before the letters began to arrive home. And the dreaded telegram or the ‘dead man’s penny’. The community may have looked to be flourishing, but the seams were slowly unravelling as more and more loved ones passed away.

Every day she looked at her ring, the red and white stripes. At night, when the kids had all gone to sleep, she would cry. Small silent sobs of a lost and afraid woman. They only told the kids the funny parts. All these dead men, the government could claim was the will of God, that they were doing their duty.

But to scare away the next army generation, that would be a crime.

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It was as if him being away fighting, already dead or wounded, in the jaws of death, pushed her to be more involved in the home front. To join more and more organisations. The Red Cross, Citizens’ War Chest, Voluntary Aid Detachments, Australian Comforts Fund. To knit more and more socks. In all respectable households you would find ‘The Grey Sock: Soldiers’ Sock Fund’.

This small handbook provided instructions on how to knit the perfect soldiers sock. People began to take to leaving notes in the toe of the sock for the soldiers.

The way the people talked about socks, it could have been the miracle to save all the men.

On a whim she joined the AWSC when the organisation started in late 1916, though her first duty was always her children. They sent out a letter to the secretary of defence, almost begging them to allow the women to relieve the men’s burden. The reply, though carefully polite, quickly stamped out that fire.

For they had ‘no positions where in the service of our Corps could be presently utilised’.

As for work, she was part of the women’s lingerie firm of E. Lucas and Co. of Ballarat. She was a ‘Lucas Girl’. They were the ones who planted and still were planting, the 14 mile avenue containing the same number of trees as those Ballarat men who died during the war. Her workmates and she had the money taken out of their wages to plant the trees and build the ‘Arc of Victory’.

She sighed to herself, some victory. So many men were lost that everyone in Australia would have known a lost soldier. Families torn apart by the falling of shells or the blast of a gunshot. How naive and blind they were, she realised. But death was not. He had torn through the land, a gleeful demon who delighted in carrying the deceased on his arms. Reaching all corners, leaving in his wake, ruin and destruction. Death was not a friend to the living. Not a friend to her.

They thought they had been lucky. Father had not died and he was coming home! The world would be well again. Little did they know he would be an entirely different man. How he would shake, always be on edge and overly alert.

One action could set him off and the memories would come flooding back. It was like he was still living in the trenches.

The doctors said it would go away, eventually. She didn’t think so.

She received many letters after he got back. These all welcomed him and said how wonderful it must be to have him home. How lucky she was. They did not see the fear in his eyes. But it was either fear or nothing. The empty nothingness scared her more. A lifeless creature.

She pondered the war. She wondered about her children. It was easy to hide the horrors until the horrors came home. But it was better to have at least something come home. Wasn’t it?

And the screams burned through the night. And the war raged on, even though they said we had won. The dead men had won. Would they think it was worth it?

1st Place, 9/10 Prose

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We Can’t Breathe by Sam Heft, Screen Printing and Collage

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Don t Be Ridiculous, Dear

By Eden Snelgrove-Ribovski The house came straight out of the pages of a gothic novel. Three stories tall with turrets and spires and columns, all built of lifeless grey brick. The gardens were overflowing with all manner of vines and shoots that seemed to have taken control back from any gardener that dared try to cultivate them. An aged willow tree grew over the garden, its branches pressing against the house and casting the gardens in a deep, sickly shade. Throughout the porch and gardens were statues that came in various degrees of horrific, from snarling gargoyles to a statue of a child screaming in pain. It stood in the middle of the suburbs, like a single rotten tooth in a row of gleaming white ones. It was squeezed between two identical pastel houses with white picket fences and perfectly manicured lawns.

All in all, it was the third oddest house that Winston had ever come across.

He pushed open the wrought iron gate and picked his way through the overgrown stone path to the door, shuffling his papers as he did so. He took a deep breath, forced a smile onto his face, and rapped three times with the door knocker shaped like a skull. As he did, a murder of crows erupted from the branches of the willow and flew off, causing the sun’s light to flicker across the porch. Winston pulled a pen from his pocket and began doodling in the margins of his notes.

The door was opened by a girl who couldn’t have been older than eight. She had eyes like a rat’s, skin so pale that it was nearly blue, and a smile better practiced than a politician’s. Her dress was bright pink and covered in lace and ruffles. She wore it like a costume. “Zdravejte. May I help you?”

Winston gave her his brightest smile. “Hello there, young lady! My name is Winston Jones, representing Guardian Life Insurance LLC. Do you have a parent or guardian that I might speak to?”

The girl regarded Winston steadily for a few seconds, her smile never leaving her face, “Sharlota, we have a visitor.” she shouted. A muffled voice shouted back, to which the girl responded, “Tova e nyakakŭv kreten. Just get over here.”

It took a few moments of groaning and shuffling, but soon an old woman came

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to the door. Her hair was as thin and white as cobwebs, in sharp contrast to her dark and wrinkled skin. She seemed to have mastered the obscure art of turning patchwork quilts into tent-like dresses, as she wore a monstrosity that could have easily been used for shelter in a pinch. Her smile was just as practiced as the girl’s, but in a welcoming way, as if she had Googled “grandmothers” and gotten it just right. She was missing several teeth. She spoke with a thick drawl and a low undercurrent of amusement. “Hello there, my dear boy. What can I do for you today?”

Winston’s smile grew from forced to genuine as he saw his ideal demographic standing before him. He needed one more sale to get his Christmas bonus, and it was already in the bag. “My name is Winston Jones, and I represent Guardian Life Insurance LLC. Ma’am, have you ever worried about what will happen to your girl here after you pass on? With our life insurance, she will have the money and means to be supported and cared for, even after your passing. For as low as $50 a month, you can rest easy, knowing this child here will be cared for.” He bent down to look the child in the eye. “What was your name, young lady?”

“Borislava.”

“For as low as $50 a month, Borislava here will be cared for and supported, even when you are no longer able to. May I come inside to discuss this further with you... ah, sorry. I didn’t quite catch your name, ma’am.”

“It’s Charlotte, dear. And I think that Borislava and I are both set, thank you very much. It was nice speaking to you.” She made to close the door, but Winston quickly held it open with his hand.

“Just a moment of your time, Charlotte. I promise you, once you hear the details, you’ll be interested.” This petulant old woman without a fashion sense wasn’t going to get in the way of his Christmas bonus and stop him from affording a vacation to Barbados. “Guardian Life Insurance LLC offers the best rates on this side of the Atlantic, ma’am. We even have a substantial new customer bonus for the esteemed –” “No, thank you. Have a nice day.” With more strength than seemed possible for a woman so frail, Charlotte pushed Winston’s arm away and slammed the door. *** Dinner in the Jones house was a simple affair. At precisely 6:45 pm, Winston and his wife, Marge, would sit down to a meal of mashed potatoes, carrots (from frozen), and a dry piece of chicken.

“They didn’t even look interested, Marge. They were my ideal demographic, and the old woman just closed the door on me!”

“Mm-hmm.” Marge took another bite of flavourless potato.

“They couldn’t have been poor. That house was massive. They didn’t even stop to listen to what I had to say. Do you know what my sale rate with grandmother/granddaughter pairs are? Do you?”

Marge gave a vague shrug, her eyes firmly fixed on the chicken she was sawing through. “Ninetyeight percent, Marge. Ninety-eight! And the two percent that I lost was because the grandmother had a heart attack halfway through my pitch. But I could see it in her eyes, she was ready to buy.”

Marge took a sip of vitamin water. “Guess you’ll just have to go down to a ninety-six.”

“Ninety-six? Ninety-six? I’m the best salesman that Guardian Life has in the district. What do you think numbers like that will look like on my CV? They’ll reduce my hours. They’ll pass me over for bonuses. I might even get fired.”

“I think you’re overreacting, dear.”

“It’s not my fault. It was those two. They were just plain weird. I didn’t really think about it then, but looking back... how does some black woman from the deep south have a white, Bulgarian grandchild?”

“She could be adopted.” Marge glanced at Winston’s plate. “Talk and eat, dear. You haven’t even touched your carrots.”

Winston impaled five carrots on his fork. “Yeah, yeah. I get that it’s probably adoption. But everything about them seemed off. Their house looked just like fruhluh frushuh.”

“Pardon me?”

“Racala mahshuh.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, dear.”

Winston swallowed his mouthful of carrots. “Dracula’s mansion. It looked just like Dracula’s mansion.”

“Dracula lives in a castle, dear.” Marge glanced at the clock. Two minutes until Jeopardy. “Why don’t you put this out of your mind? No use dwelling on what you can’t change.”

Jeopardy was nice. It was the celebrity edition, but Marge didn’t recognize any of the contestants. *** The next day found Winston in front of the house once again, clipboard and determination to earn his Christmas bonus firmly in hand. The sky was overcast, and the house managed to look even more foreboding when cast in the pale grey light. Nevertheless, Winston steeled himself and

prepared to knock on the door and break the curse. That was when he heard the screaming.

It sounded like a yelp, or perhaps a bleat, of terror. He heard a loud thunk, and the screaming stopped. The silence was filled with raising voices in a chant, and black smoke began to pour from the crack under the door. Winston looked around and saw the sun beginning to creep below the horizon. With the light receding, it was if the whole world had been shifted on its axis. Winston took one step back, then another, and soon he had turned around and was sprinting for his car.

His clipboard slipped from numb fingers and landed in the tangled garden.

Twenty minutes later, when he finally stopped shaking and returned for it, the clipboard was gone. *** Winston had a new mission. Before this day, his life had been aimless, without purpose. He had not been able to see the reality of the world. He had been blissfully unaware of the ugly truths that lurked in every corner. He had been Winston, Life Insurance Salesman. That Winston had cared about mundane things such as a promotion, or ninety-eight percent success rates, or a trip to Barbados. That Winston was dead. He had been felled by the truth, but he had emerged from the ashes. Now he was Winston, Investigator of the Arcane, Curse Hunter and – “But dear, I quite like Barbados. I was going to work on my tan.”

“Barbados is mundane. You have to see the big picture, Marge. There are things in this world that we don’t understand. My eyes have opened. I found this blog, and it explains so much of what I didn’t understand before. Did you know that the president of the United States is actually an alien reptile zipped into a skin suit? His left eye twitches sometimes, which is his fleshy prison coming loose off of his scales. He’s come to Earth to enslave the human population and use our children for food.”

“Which president? There have been quite a few.” Marge had been forced to put Jeopardy on mute because Winston had been talking over it, and was doing her best not to show how much that irritated her.

“The new one? I don’t know politics, Marge. The point is, it’s real.”

“Of course it is, dear. Have you considered taking some time off work? I think the stress might be really getting to you.” Alex Trebek was saying something, but Marge was rubbish at lip reading. All she could understand was: The yellow elephant took a sip of milk. That didn’t seem right.

“I can’t do that. My job is my cover now. I need to use it in order to uncover the truth.”

Marge turned and looked Winston in the eye. “I can’t take you seriously like this, dear.”

“That’s because you’re blind. You can’t see what’s going on, but I’m going to prove it. Just you watch.” With that, Winston stood up and stormed out the door.

Winston drove to the suspicious house in record time, hitting as high as three kilometers over the limit on his way there. He got out of the car and saw Charlotte standing in front of him. She looked him up and down, a smile on her face. “Oh you poor dear. That sounded like it hurt. Why don’t you come inside, and you can tell Borislava and me all about why you’re in our front garden.”

Winston had no choice. He glanced back, longingly, to the street, and then walked into the mouth of hell. *** As it turned out, hell had frosted lemon cake. The sitting room of the house was filled with all manner of patchwork and hand-knitted creations, from rugs to blankets to pillow covers, and was bathed in a pleasant yellow glow. It seemed far too inviting in relation to the exterior, but the lemon cake was fresh out of the oven and Winston wasn’t complaining.

“It’s the funniest thing,” he said between bites. “I was certain that there was something fishy about the two of you. I thought that you were aliens, or vampires or something like that. But you’re just two nice, lovely people. There’s nothing odd about you at all.”

Charlotte sat forward in her chair, smiling brighter. “What made you think we were odd?”

“Well, at first it was because you didn’t want to buy insurance from me. You’re my ideal demographic, and usually I can convince grandmother/granddaughter pairs to buy from me. Now that I think about it, it is kind of weird that – “ “Another piece of cake?” Charlotte continued to smile.

“Please.” Winston took a large forkful and shoved it into his mouth. “What was I saying again?”

“You were telling Borislava and I about why you thought we were odd.” Borislava was perched, birdlike, on the arm of a ratty armchair, carefully taking notes on everything Winston said. This seemed perfectly normal.

“Ah yes. The next day, I couldn’t make any sales, and I was just one sale away from my Christmas bonus. My wife and I wanted to use the money to go to Barbados and I just couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing her. I was sure that it had all started out with you two, because of your creepy house and all. And I thought there was schumthn – ahem, excuse me. I thought there was something odd about the two of you, given that you don’t look related in the slightest, and you speak Bulgarian and all that. I do apologize, I shouldn’t have made such assumptions based on such a short acquaintance.”

“No harm done, my boy.” Charlotte’s smile remained fixed on her face. Winston couldn’t remember her dropping that smile since she first found him in her garden. What a pleasant woman.

“I came back here to take another crack at selling you the insurance plan, and then I heard some screaming and ghastly black smoke coming from inside the house, which scared me quite a bit.

I’m afraid it must have knocked me right off my rocker. Too much stress.”

Borislava spoke for the time since Winston had arrived. “No self-respecting witch in today’s society can get by without a little bit of blood sacrifice, wouldn’t you agree, Sharlota?”

“You’re quite right, Borislava. When you’ve been alive for hundreds of years, and with the economy what it is, sometimes witchcraft is the only reasonable path to turn to.”

“Gluposti, Sharlota. We turned to witchcraft long before the economy fell into shambles.”

Something about the exchange seemed odd to Winston, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Best not to worry about it.

“More cake?” offered Charlotte.

It was delicious. *** Winston arrived home past midnight, which meant that Marge had been asleep for over three hours. He slipped into bed next to Marge, whispering an apology in her ear. She muttered incoherently in response.

The next morning, Winston received a call from his boss. Given his exemplary track record, above after customer satisfaction rates, and tireless dedication to the job, he would be receiving his Christmas bonus after all. His boss claimed that this decision had been fueled by an incredibly persuasive visit he had received in person by two incredibly satisfied civilians: an old southern woman and a young Bulgarian girl. Winston felt an itch at the back of his mind when he heard their descriptions. He had seen them before, but where? He couldn’t recall.

When he was booking the tickets for their vacation, the itch ceased to bother him.

By the time he was sun-tanning next to Marge on a beach in Barbados, he had forgotten them entirely.

1st Place, 11/12 Prose

Untitled by Olivia Gao, Digital Photograph

Black and White by Noah Tompkins, Acrylic on Canvas

Feelin’ Blue by John Huth, Acrylic on Canvas

Dreaming Bigger

By Ida Schwarzkopf “Ida, Ida, come here, the Easter eggs don’t run away.” Daddy’s voice reaches me supported by a fresh breeze. Me, it makes me shiver and I get goosebumps.

I look at my collected easter eggs. They are many. I hate chocolate, but it is so much fun to look for them. I will give them to my little sister, she will be happy, she will smile and laugh when I will show her what she will be able to eat. She is so young and sweet.

I am the old, big, responsible sister. I will protect her whatever happens.

My brother protects me too, I know this.

He calls me again. And now Helene runs towards me. The sunlight shines on her red hair and her mouth is smeared with brown chocolate. First I think it is mud, but then I realize it is chocolate, and it looks so strange on her face. She looks so carefree, so happy and curious, her eyes shine like those of a girl who just found out she owns magic power. In this moment she has nearly reached me. I sit on the swing, it is almost broken, but maybe I love it even more because of this. I think even when things are nearly broken, you should seize them and use them until they are really busted.

We are at our holiday house’s garden. I think this garden is enchanted.

The trees’ endless crowns look as when they were old, old, wrinkled hands of giants and trolls. But these creatures aren’t kind, they don’t like people coming to their land so they will be mad at everyone who comes in their empire. lt is scary and I don’t like to be here when it is dark. The night is the time when the witches awake, brew elixirs and look to see if there is a helpless girl they could catch and take away on their brooms. I told this to my parents and they said I don’t have to worry, because there are no

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witches and even if there were, they would never get me, because my parents will pay attention.

Now I hear her laugh right beneath my ear. My little sister has just learned how to speak, I often try to teach her new words, but she prefers to play. “Wake up Ida, you shall come with me.” Not until then do I realize the sun is nearly gone down, so it is very dark. Everything has a touch of red, though it has been dipped in blood. Helene hugs me very hard and tries to pull me back to the house. When she releases me a bit I look down at my shirt and locate a big brown stain. I have to laugh, and take Helene’s hand. Together we are running to a crowd of people. My father closes me into his big arms when he sees the stain on my shirt he smirks. “Ida where have you been? I called you several times.”

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The girl in the photo, she is completely different from me. She had all this huge fantasy in her mind, and it is not that easy anymore just to dream and imagine things and to relax. My day is scheduled, everything is planned. It is useful, of course, but it also forces your imagination to shrink, everyday a little bit more. Every hour, every second and moment more and more until everything is swiped away and you don’t have any individual thoughts, any of your own ideas. It will contract until there is no longer a fanciful thought in your head.

You’ll be not able to get them back, when they are dead, when there is nothing left. And you are not able to stop them to decrease, to disappear. Maybe there is a way to keep your head full of creativity, it is more difficult and you have to spend more time and work. So the majority will take another way at the turnoff, a way that leads them to an unimaginative, scheduled life.

2nd Place, 9/10 Prose

Self Portrait by Clara Seitz, Graphite

Value Study by Lizzy Hood, Pen and India Ink

The Day I Met Ana

By Alex Wexler I met her in the fourth grade.

My heart was beating out of my chest while the palms of my hands quickly found themselves coated in pearls of sweat. It was the night of the spring musical, my best friend and I were performing the opening dance duet.

Her cold hand squeezed mine as our teacher told us we were next to hit the floor. As I tried to control my anxious breathing, I noticed her tiny legs shivering as the adrenaline accumulated. Before I could even blink or try to understand why I had suddenly developed an affinity for such a thin frame, I was shoved on stage. We began to prance around to the harmonious sounds of classical music. I knew the routine like the back of my hand, every turn, every step and every lift. She ran towards me for the grand finale and I swung her into the air where she gracefully lifted her arms and pointed her toes. I was in awe of her beauty, but mostly envious of her delicate stature. Suddenly from behind the curtain a frail, tall girl locked eyes with mine. The lights went out, but her eyes continued to glisten in the distance. As my friend ran to embrace me, overcome by the success of our performance, I swiftly ignored her and ran towards those sparkling eyes. “Who are you?” I asked. She reached out a hand decorated with long bony fingers that were so cold they sent shivers up my arm. “My name is Ana,” she smiled at me and I smiled back. She seemed so nice and we immediately got along. After the show, all I wanted to do was talk about my new friend to my mom, but the second she heard her name I was warned to stay away. My mom claimed that girls like her are bad influences. Before leaving the auditorium, I sadly told Ana that we could not be friends. She sighed and claimed that we would soon meet again and I hesitantly walked away.

In the eighth grade, I bumped into Ana after a long day of school.

I was so excited to see her and she too was eager to reconnect. We quickly became close. We liked the same singers, did the same sports and she

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was a great listener. One day as I frustratingly examined myself in front of the mirror she told me she could help. I was startled by this statement. What did she mean by help? Did she think I was fat? Or maybe I was fat. She stood beside me as our bodies vividly reflected upon the large rectangular hanging mirror.

Without saying a word, I understood the message she was trying to convey. I noted our differences: her long and lean legs, her flat stomach that let her hip bones drastically peek out the sides and her tiny arms. I suddenly fell under her spell. “Whatever it takes to look like you,” I said. From that day on, we were inseparable. In the morning, we would meet in the kitchen and sneakily shove our breakfasts down the sink, at lunch we would pretend to study in the library to avoid the temptation of the cafeteria’s food and at dinner she taught me how to meticulously hide my meal in my pockets and then to flush it all down the toilet. After a month or so, our routine was easy and performed with ease. I was excited to find out that Ana would be joining me at sleep-away camp. It was a strange summer and I spent most of it alone with her. However, it was worth the judgemental smirks and eyes as I was able to enter my freshman year of High School looking the best I’d ever been.

In the ninth grade, Ana and I had already been best friends for a while. My old friends began to encourage me to stop hanging out with her and I would angrily shut down their opinions. Soon more and more people approached my mother and I and were asking about Ana and my well-being. I was so frustrated, but simultaneously, I was so hungry, and tired and cold… On a warm March day, I was sent to the doctor as my weight loss was too drastic to be ignored. At fifteen and five foot seven I stood on a scale that read 85 pounds. I first looked at Ana and was overcome with pride as she smiled at me with admiration. My doctor asked me if I knew Ana very well, and I attempted to deny our friendship but he clearly was not convinced. He spoke to my mom in great detail about my recovery plan but Ana ensured me that we would get through this fumble. As I got home feeling startled and confused, I glanced at myself in the mirror, but the girl wasn’t me, it was Ana. I felt cheated and used by a girl I thought was my friend.

For the rest of my life I will be fighting with Ana. We are no longer friends. She has a way of manipulating me and despite my pleas to be left alone she always manages to stay. I will continuously be

controlled by her demeaning words and encouraged to follow her unhealthy habits. It’s hard to explain to others why I can’t separate myself from such an awful person and people often ask how it all started.

So, if you truly want to know where it all began, it began the day I met Ana. 2nd Place, 11/12 Prose

Equality by Rachel Leung, Screen Print

Self Portrait by Sarah Shi, Graphite

The Negative Effects of Shoulders Betsy Macdonnell Rules are necessary for any establishment. Such is the case for all schools.

At Lakefield, our rules are always well thought out, and meaningful in order to make sure that we, as a community, are the best we can be, in mind, body and spirit. Sometimes, in order to do what is best to benefit others, we have to make sacrifices ourselves. This is the case when it comes to the rules about girls showing their shoulders at school. It is extremely hard for young men to focus, and to get the education they truly deserve when they are distracted by those two square inches of skin. I mean you can’t blame them at all really. It’s completely and totally inappropriate for that much skin to be shown.

Currently this rule is enforced relatively strictly, but the occasional student will slip by bare-shouldered and unnoticed. If a student slips by, they are putting their male peers at risk. They could be so distracted they could fail assignments, forget homework, or even trip and severely injure themselves.

Shoulders are a serious concern for the young men in our community.

Now I bet you’re thinking, “if only there was a way to make sure shoulders are never shown.” Well I’m here to tell you, there is. One cannot be distracted by the shoulders of females if the females at fault don’t have shoulders to begin with. I am proposing now a surgery that all females must complete as part of their entry to the school. This surgery would entail the removal of the skin and tissue around the shoulder, and above the shoulder bone, known as the scapula. The girls would move onto campus a few days early, and undergo the surgery in the school’s health centre. This timing is to ensure that by the time the boys arrive for school, there is not a shoulder to be seen. This allows the boys to move in and get settled without the unnecessary distraction of female skin.

This surgery will improve the lives of everyone at the school. The students’ averages will rise due to a lack of distraction. They won’t even be able to get distracted by fantasies of shoulders, because they’ll barely remember

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what they look like. Students with higher averages will be accepted into more prestigious universities, which gives Lakefield more prestige. The better the school’s reputation, the more wealthy people will want to send their children. Wealthy parents, equals more donation money for the school, so as a community we are greatly benefiting from this surgery. Imagine all the new facilities, resources and international programs we could give our students with this extra money.

Another way that this surgery would benefit our community is to help to raise the physical fitness level and overall health of our community. When girls work out, they often wear tank tops, which can be incredibly distracting for the boys when they are trying to work out. It’s completely unfair that the young men in our community can’t work out, and improve their physical fitness without the females just flaunting their shoulders everywhere. It’s disgusting honestly. Now if the surgery happens, there will be no more distractions at the gym for the students. The boys will be able to work out in peace without constant worry of

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getting a little too distracted (if you know what I mean). This surgery will also help the boys from obtaining unnecessary injuries due to distractions. Gone will be the days where a boy gets so distracted by a shoulder that he trips over his own feet. No longer will boys have to worry about dropping their weights on their feet as a sensual shoulder parades by.

This surgery is beneficial for the entire community. Boys will finally be able to reach their full potential, and girls won’t have to feel uncomfortable about boys checking them out, because their most provocative body part has been removed. It’s really a win-win situation. I know the surgery is drastic, but it’s a small adjustment that would change the way our entire school works. I mean of course it would just be easier to teach boys that women aren’t objects, and not to treat them as such, but they’re young, they’re dumb. It’s hard for them to control themselves, and to grasp such abstract concepts, so it’s better just to protect our young men, as they are our future. Besides, who really needs shoulders?

3rd Place, 11/12 Prose

Eliud by Adrienne Cross, Mixed Media on Paper

Define by Lucy Guo, Acrylic on Canvas

Future Feathers by Pedro Zapata-Mills, Acrylic on Canvas

,

The good ol hockey game

By Paige Bonner As Canadians, we think every child is born with a genetic predisposition to want to play hockey. Canada runs on hockey, right? Isn’t it the fifth season of the year?

But I was not one of those children, and never truly shared that Canadian passion.

Sure, I enjoy watching hockey. I’ve spent countless Saturday nights watching hockey with my dad. He’d have the remote control in his hand, flicking back and forth between two or three games at each commercial break.

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That didn’t mean I wanted to play the game.

My Mom has plenty of pictures of me, wearing my dad’s first pair of hockey skates, trying to stand and skate as I pushed around a chair on the frozen lake. I was hardly able to walk, let alone skate.

Over the next several years, the neighbourhood dads would build a backyard rink for all the kids to use. I had fun skating but sometimes wondered if it was more the hot chocolate and snacks I was guaranteed to get at the end that made me try.

Much to my father, and grandfather’s disappointment, no number of backyard rinks and hot chocolates could turn me into a hockey kid. Not even in the slightest form.

Fast forward to high school.

As the start of the winter term drew closer I caught wind of a rumour within the school: If the varsity girls hockey team did not recruit more players, the

team would fold. They were accepting anyone with a set of lungs and a pair of skates.

Playing hockey seemed like a simple task. Our school senior boys team made the game look simple and foolproof. Skate, pass, shoot, score, fist pump and celly hard.

I figured I might give it a try.

For some wild reason, I thought playing varsity hockey could be a change I needed. With the help of the athletic coordinator at the school, I geared up and was ready for the first practice of the season.

From the moment, I stepped on the ice with one skate guard still on, I knew that my less than subpar skating skills were going to soon fail me. Crossovers quickly became a challenge and hopping over the boards was nearly impossible.

This practice ended in me attempting to choke back tears so I did not further embarrass myself. I was a train wreck on ice.

But my teammates - who have been playing since they could walk - cheered me on when I made a decent pass, or managed some improvement. It boosted my confidence a thousand times over.

I came to realize, I was as much a part of the team as every other girl was. Yes, I was God-awful and lacked serious talent, but I was keeping the team afloat and still in competition. It was this level of teamwork and promotion of confidence that made the goals start to add up on the scoreboard.

My name never made an appearance on the score sheet.

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I was not talented enough to score goals by myself, so each shift I would exit our bench via the door to avoid a disastrous fall over the boards. Then I’d skate over to the opposing team’s net and park my butt right in front of the goalie in an attempt to pick up the garbage left by my more skilled teammates to put the puck in the net.

Game after game, I was unsuccessful.

But each time I came back to the bench, our captains would tell me that I was doing such an amazing job, and I would “for sure” put one in on the next shift.

Playing hockey for the first time taught me a number of things.

Firstly, learning how to play a sport at age 16 when many others learn at five, is extremely difficult and embarrassing, and there’s no way around that.

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Secondly, not quitting – even when it’s the only thing you’re absolutely sure about when it comes to the game - shows a lot commitment.

And lastly, shoulder pads will always make you look like an obese man, no matter how thin you may be. It’s just a fact.

Looking back, I have absolutely no idea why I wanted to play hockey, or why I stuck with it for the whole season.

To my great disappointment, hockey was difficult and exhausting. I knew I sucked, and I was consistently the kid riding the bench during penalty kills.

Playing varsity hockey will never be a repeat for me. At no time, will I ever say, “I really wish I was skating laps around the freezing arena while I get passed by every other girl on the team.

So maybe not all Canuck kids are born with the drive and thrill of wanting to play hockey, but it sure does teach you a lot about yourself.

3rd Place, 11/12 Prose

And then I met her... by Owen Uren, Mixed Media on Paper

Self Portrait by Shunya Sunami, Graphite

Self Portrait by Anna Natsu, Graphite

Craving Hunger

By Claire Campbell I watched in horror as her ghostly frame crumpled. It started with her knees. I ran towards her as they buckled. I cried out as they fell to the floor.

Her body convulsed and shook as her brain tried to regain control of her numb appendages. Her eyes rolled back into her sunken face and her complexion turned a sickening white. The air was sucked out of the room as her head made contact with the cement ground below and bounced, then bounced again as if a hard plastic cup was being dropped. A hollow echo filled the silence. I had an indescribable pain in my stomach. My guess is that she did as well.

We grow up in a society that fosters an unhealthy relationship with food.

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We are told over and over again to watch what we eat and be mindful of our figure. Every magazine cover, television commercial, and Facebook ad, is populated with photoshopped images of airbrushed models who’ve spent innumerable hours getting painted to look as ‘perfect’ as possible.

And then we’re expected to look like that. Vic took that to heart. Her comparative nature fostered a body dysmorphia illness at a horrifyingly young age. Much like the five-year olds who are being diagnosed with anorexia1, she hadn’t stopped struggling since she got a mirror in her room. This culture obsessed with body image had shattered not only her reflection but also her innocence; the mirror she worshiped at morphed into the monster that almost killed her.

There’s evidence everywhere. Whether it’s the fact that teenage boys are experiencing erectile disfunction because they are no longer aroused by non-plasticized people2, or that eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any other mental illness in Canada3, it is abundantly evident that there’s a problem. Certainly, counselling can help, but there are no cures.

And Vic knew that all too well. Like the millions of other young men and

women across the country that are being force-fed dangerous diets and falsified nutritional information to aide them into fitting into the societal mold of perfection: skinny Vic had found a diet online. These ‘miracle’ diets seemed to be a solution for her, but when the results she saw came from her lack of eating, not the supposed diet, it was impossible to convince her otherwise because her drive for ‘perfection’ only intensified as these diets tore apart her heart in more ways than one.

The idea of watching what she ate escalated from watching it go down to watching it come back up, every single time. She began by excusing herself to the bathroom after every meal and ended with avoiding the dining hall altogether. Bulimia and binge-eating disorders affect 1-4% of the population, almost all of whom are young women, so maybe we should have seen it sooner.

Maybe we did, but because of the stigma and ignorance surrounding the topic, 20% of women are suffering with an undiagnosed eating disorder. Questions like ‘why don’t you just eat?’ or remarks like ‘aren’t you hungry?’ prevented her from seeking help. But what people need to understand is they aren’t altogether uncommon: 15% of women will suffer from an eating disorder at some point in their life. Those women are sisters, mothers, and daughters, and for me, it was my friend.

The stigma became undeniably evident after she was scraped off the ground by the paramedics and her body was thrown onto a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance. The camp continued like nothing had happened.

But it had, and we’d all seen it.

Hiding behind the idea of ‘protecting the children from this terrible tragedy,’ was doing more to help them ignore the obvious: they had failed us, they had

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failed Vic. The signs were there, but they had refused to see them, in hopes of it going away, and she paid the price.

The fear of being objectified for her weight or physical appearance left her chasing the idea of skinny and craving hunger.

The girl I watched fall victim to eating disorders, physically crumbled from malnutrition. She was teased, made fun of, and called names for so long that she deprived herself of a basic human need. The misunderstanding of her illness led her not to seek help until it was too late. She was hospitalized for two years after she collapsed at camp. I haven’t seen her since.

The stigma surrounding eating disorders leaves 20% of people who’ve suffered dead4, and thank god that wasn’t the case with Vic. But as I watched her bones creep farther and farther out of her whispery frame, that pain in my stomach

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grew. And despite the fact that she is now recovering, that sharp ache refuses to subside, because everywhere I look, those bones surround me.

1 “Anorexia Nervosa Can Strike and Kill as Early as Kindergarten - ABC ....” 25 Feb. 2012, http://abcnews.go.com/Health/anorexia-nervosa-strike-kill-earlykindergarten/story?id=18581747. Accessed 20 Apr. 2017.

2 “Online porn addiction is causing a rise in erectile dysfunction in young ....”

15 Aug. 2016, http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/online-porn-addictioncausing-rise-8636996. Accessed 20 Apr. 2017.

3 “Eating Disorder Information and Statistics - Mirasol Eating Disorder ....” http://www.mirasol.net/learning-center/eating-disorder-statistics.php. Accessed 20 Apr. 2017.

4 “Eating Disorder Information and Statistics - Mirasol Eating Disorder ....” http://www.mirasol.net/learning-center/eating-disorder-statistics.php. Accessed 20 Apr. 2017.

3rd Place, 9/10 Prose

Carolina by Jennifer Yang, Mixed Media on Paper

Untitled by Alek Boisjoly, Digital Photograph

Big Brother is Watching You by Jason Chen, Screen Print

, Pandora s Worst

By Hannah Hofmann At birth, a person is assigned three major spirits to help guide them. Most get typical things, such as creativity, passion, or strength. But others are not so lucky. And the ones who are assigned me are the most unlucky of them all. See I’m placed with three others interchangeably, and together we’re a deadly combination.

There’s Stubbornness. She sits on the right shoulder. You might know her as the voice in your head saying to persevere, the one making you set in your ways and refusing to change. She oh so loves to see her humans be staunch in their ways and left behind by the world. Oh sure, at times she can seem like a blessing, like when you were a child and being stubborn

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got you that extra sweet you wanted. But at other times, she’s making you rage against non-existent offences. Stubbornness isolates you from everyone and everything around you, until it’s only you in your world that never changes.

Then there’s Shame. He’s sitting on the left shoulder. He’s that voice in the back of your mind, whispering all those horrid things about you. Like how you’re doing everything wrong and that you will never be good enough.

He loves to see his humans destroy themselves from the inside out. He’s always there when your grade drops, even by a few percent, or when you can’t seem to lose those last few pounds. Shame enjoys it most when you die day by day on the inside. Shame helps you hate yourself.

And finally there’s fear. She’s the oldest of them all. Fear isn’t in one specific place near you, she’s all encompassing. Fear is in every nook and cranny in the world. She fills the space beneath the bed. She turns every unfamiliar face into a potential assailant. Fear makes the smallest bump in

the night into a grotesque monster waiting for the hunt to begin. She stops you from trying, by telling you the worst that could happen. Fear allows you to build those walls around you into a prison with no windows.

And who am I? Why I’m the worst of them all, of course. While my friends can all be overcome, sometimes without difficulty, I never go away. While they sit outside your body, able to be brushed away, I’m inside you. I see your every movement, every thought, and every dream. I’m there for as long as you live, for I am deep inside your heart. And maybe some people can ignore me, but never for long. I seep in through the cracks and force you to listen. Forever the one you turn to when you have nothing else. I am the one who convinces you to endure. To take that beating from life that you could stand through, but will most likely beat you back to the very bottom. I am the one who convinces you to put yourself on the line, to bear your soul to the world, pink and vulnerable to the scars the world will surely leave. I am the one who convinces you to take one more step. The one who prolongs your torment.

There is a reason I was buried at the bottom of Pandora’s box. For I am the worst she had to offer.

My name is Hope, and I am by far the cruelest of all.

3rd Place, 9/10 Prose

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Untitled by Niah Graham, Digital Photograph

Alanmari by Alan Song, Acrylic on Canvas

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The Arts at 4391 County Rd 29, Lakefield, ON K0L 2H0 lcs.on.ca