In A Grove 2012

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In A Grove 2012

Arts Journal

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In a Grove 2012 A Celebration of Writing and Art at Lakefield College School

Featuring the winners of LCS Writes!

Sponsored by The Grove Society

LCS Writes! Winners Poetry Section Grades 11/12 1st Shane Madill, "Noises" 2nd Christina Chan, "The Weeping Willow" 3rd Dee-Dee Laski, "The Other Side of the Coin" Grades 9/10 1st Ocean Saunders, "The Birch Tree" 2nd Alex Hooke-Wood, "First Day at the Cottage" 3rd Alex Hooke-Wood, "The Birth of a Royal Child" Grades 7/8 1st Megan McShane, "Still a Day"

Prose Section Grades 11/12 1st Zoe Knowles, "The Tale of Mr. Lewis" (Exerpt*) 2nd Millie Yates, "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" (Exerpt*) 3rd Chloe Rees-Spear, "Vietnam and the Middle East: America's

Mistakes" (Exerpt*) Grades 9/10 1st Adrien Vilcini, "Glutton for Punishment" (Exerpt*) 2nd Sam Dalton, "The Whiteout" (Exerpt*) 3rd Dylan Purves, "The Forgotten Reindeer" (Exerpt*)

*Excerpt of prose selection published due to space restrictions.

Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read prose pieces in full. Please see page 28 for artists’ names.

noises

By Shane Madill I remember The symphonic sights and sounds of the succulent orchestra that rang in my ears for days Satisfaction suddenly achieved as tails of the seventh sonata strung through the air And the singer strumming alone in a closed coffee shop Only strings on her guitar and voice to keep her thoughts company Hopes and dreams and desires of someone hearing these on a starlit stage plagued her mind Barrages of noise coming from garage ploys Hipster jeans and graphic tees belting out quick poetry based on memories of you and me Anger and lust raged through shredded vocal cords He stays strong with his words in melody Dreaming of something he will never be Violins put away, piccolos to blow no more Few remain to hear the quiet applause of working labourers We must disassemble and get on the road For our next show we must go

1st place, Grades 11/12 poetry

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the weeping willow

By Christina Chan Found near water is a weeping willow, bent in grief, a masterpiece of sorrow.

I was unsure of why this tree was broke, so in a lowered voice I softly spoke: “Willow, will you please tell me why you weep?

Are you sick of these waters running deep?

Do you despise this heavy hum of flies?

Longing for an end of these glaring skies?”

“Boy, for years I have been watching this world

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I have reached for stars every limb unfurled.

Too many years in silent thought I spent, longing to continue on my ascent.

I who was always reaching for the sun have now ceased to grow I am nearly done.

For as each of you all live fleeting lives willows can merely reach a certain size, I can only hope to grow to this tall and soon my long leaves will begin to fall.

Now this is how you will find me here, so I ask, is it weak to shed a tear?”

2nd place, Grades 11/12 poetry

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The Other side of the coin

By Dee-Dee Laski Dark and dismal the wolves’ cave seemed Their mother’s ribs stuck out The cub’s faces were green.

Their father could scarce lift a stone.

Their fur fell from their snouts As hunger ate at their bones.

Bright and cheery, running down the trails, Little Red Riding Hood was deft to their wails Obliviously, she ran down the way To see her old gran that sunny day When their father saw this little red girl, His spine shivered and his sore back curled He was no villain, but now he knew It was his cubs or a petty shrew So he howled to his pack, Who came rushing from the dark trees.

They quickly ambushed for attack Trying to ignore her meek pleas.

As they feasted through the night Their cave turned from dark to light The children’s smiles all glowed bright The wolves were in pure delight.

Yet, later, Father thought of the girl And he felt his shivering spine curl But one look at his cubs and he was sure He’d done the right thing, his love unquestionably pure.

3rd place, Grades 11/12 poetry

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the birch tree

By Ocean Saunders The wise old birch tree Stretches her limbs out, like arms in the sky, And slowly rocks herself to sleep in the wind.

Far above us, but yet so small, She told me once before: “When you grow older, you will leave me, But I will remember you, For as long as I live.�

That day, I did not believe what she said.

I grew up and moved away, As the birch tree had said.

When I came back, father had moved.

All that was left of the tree was A short little stump.

When I went up to it, It seemed so sad, But when I got close enough, I saw a little sapling, Growing by the stump.

1st place, Grades 9/10 poetry

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First day at the cottage

By Alex Hooke-Wood The old family boat, slices through the cold spring water As the young May sun, grows hotter and hotter.

The dock they all love, again comes into view As the cottage they all know, seems strangely ban new The people will be here, days, months and years But as they look inside, it summons all their fears There on the floor, is a terrible mess Scattered and shattered, they had to address.

Pieces of China lay strewn on the ground They set down there bags, and everyone frowned.

Like lottery winners, whose tickets a joke Hope of a smooth opening, goes up in smoke They went right to work, cleaning away And when they were finished, they escaped to the bay With the sun on the water, and the sky a great red They noted exhaustedly, that it was time for bed

2nd place, Grades 9/10 poetry

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the birth of a royal child

By Alex Hooke-Wood The first born child of Will and Kate Is going to have a royal fate If it’s a girl, then she shall be The Queen of England, someday, maybe.

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But if she has a little brother Will he be the King, or another?

A world of voices, we are told Have a say, in what will unfold.

Little children, what they might be When born into the Monarchy

3rd place, Grades 9/10 poetry

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still a day

By Megan McShane The grass, the raindrops, The trees, the sky, My flower stem of a poppy Awakens The Below.

A few trickles of blood Pours down from above.

How will these soldiers spend all their love?

1st place, Grades 7/8 poetry

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the tale of mr. lewis

By Zoe Knowles Hi. My name is Mr. Lewis. You barely recognize me, but there are parts of me—my slanted shadow, my disquieting smirk—that you do very well remember. I’m the man from the dreams you forget when you open your eyes.

I’m your father, your brother, your boyfriend, your teacher, your dog, and I keep you asleep long enough to see me. It doesn’t matter if what I tell you is utterly forgettable. It’s what lingers that counts. It’s whatever part of me that you remember that makes me Mr. Lewis. Usually it’s the eyes. The almostyellow orbs that entice you, mesmerize you, memorize you. You know me as Queen Mab, Morpheus, the Sandman, which all derive from my line of work. I am sleep for hire.

But this story isn’t about me, or you for that matter. It’s about her. The girl with the pretty eyes. Eyes like ghosts. The girl with the dark eyebrows and sharp stare and indelicate features. Briar-Rose. To save her from death, a fairy

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condemned the girl to a deep sleep for a hundred years. Simple enough. You see, fairies don’t really have that much power, they’re only mediums, a palpable portal through which people like me—those from the other side— seep our power. So, as requested, I waited for the princess to prick her finger on a spindle and fall over the threshold into my land.

Everyone has a different dream state, so my world always looks different.

Sometimes my world looks like your bedroom, sometimes it’s the moon. But her state was original, I’d never seen so many trees so intrusive and green; the flowers were too pink, the sky too blue. But my opinion really doesn’t matter.

She loved it and she was going to be staying there for a while so it would be unfortunate if she were to hate it. She appeared at the foot of the thickest tree with the palest leaves in the center of the world. She sat there comfortably with her eyes wide open, which was normal, so I never could have expected this job to go so horribly wrong.

Enter Mr. Lewis with his hands in his pockets. “Hello,” I said in my usual polite tone with a hint of eagerness.

She stared at me with those aurorally grey eyes. Even though I knew Rose’s name perfectly well, I asked her for it out of common courtesy. Before she even spoke, I already knew her. Her posture, her bent knees, this was a girl who had never left her palace, save for the wilderness of her own imagination.

She was cautious, but in a curious way, because she was a child stepping out into the world for the very first time. But mine is not the real world.

“Well, Mr. Lewis,” Rose said, with an edge to her voice. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really should get going. I just met a woman with some strange contraption that I want to try out. So,” she glanced around at her surroundings while I stood still in front of her. “How do I leave this place?”

I lowered my head slightly, tucking in my chin, and smiled at her. Here’s where things went awry: usually I would shrug my shoulders and say that I don’t know, that I’m just like you and I don’t know where I am, let alone how to get out of it. But I couldn’t lie to her. Her gaze was too sharp, and I doubted she was the type to forgive liars. I wanted to be forgivable in her eyes. A century spent in bitterness and resentment isn’t exactly my idea of a good time. And I wanted her to be happy. So I told the job the truth.

Rose leaned against the tree, clutching her forehead, and we were silent for a long time. Having never been in this situation, I was unsure of how to react. So I just stood there. Waiting for her to speak.

“One hundred years,” she glared at me, suddenly angry, “what’s that supposed to mean? How can I be stuck here for a whole century?”

“Rose, calm down—” it was a stupid thing to say.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! People don’t live for a hundred years; will I just wake up dead?”

1st place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "The Tale of Mr. Lewis" in full.

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I can't believe it's not butter

By Millie Yates I once fell asleep in a grocery store. I dreamt of bright, pulsating lights flickering down on me and a taunting musak echoing off the shelves bulging with fruit cups and granola bars. I awoke to find that I had not been asleep all along; my eyes had drifted only for a moment out of their efficient product-scanning focus. As I blinked, the merchandise lining the shelves menacingly loomed towards me. It was almost as if the bright colours and shine and low prices and plastic and paper were jeering at me and my halfstocked cart. As I regained my vision and my head cleared it occurred to me that I had been personally victimized by the food industry. Shelves laden with a cornucopia of fatty, salty and sweet foods promising happiness had been boring down on me almost as if they had a will of their own. As it turns out, they do. And the worst of the worst are those miserly products from the processed food industry.

Effective and ubiquitous: two words that sound more like business mumbojumbo than everyday jargon. Who knew that these two words are the driving force behind what’s in your hand during your mid-morning coffee break? To sell a commodity, brands push their products with two different propellers: the ability to advertise on every surface available and the ability to place their products in the space left over. In 2001, the United States spent over $10 billion dollars on advertising foods. In 2004, $11.256 billion was spent in the same area. Those ads pay off, too. Today, over 90% of all food related expenses are linked to the purchase of processed foods. No matter which way it’s looked at, the food industry is a business above all, meaning that their primary objective is making money. In fact, some companies are so effective with their advertising that the omnipresence of their products has turned them into household names. Big shots Pepsi and Coca Cola are currently sold in every single country except for North Korea. And when was the last time you called a hamburger with Long Island dressing anything but a Big Mac? 2nd place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" in full.

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Vietnam and the middle east: america's mistakes

By Chloe Rees-Spear Since the 1800s, the histories of Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan have similarities that began before the Americans ever became involved in their affairs. All are post-colonial countries that fought against a European rule, Vietnam against the French, Iraq and Afghanistan against the British. America too, has a history of fighting European colonialism. From rebelling against the British to their involvement in the Middle East, America has been present in several wars around the world. Its foreign policy has put the U.S. into the position of a global police force, protecting the world from dangers such as terrorism and communism. America’s most prominent activities regarding these two threats are the Vietnam War and America’s presence in Iraq and Afghanistan today. Vietnam was an embarrassment for the American

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government that one would assume, they hoped to never experience again.

After the events of the late 60s and early 70s, many people expected American war time actions to change so that such a war would not be repeated.

However, it is far from clear that this has been the case. There is great debate today on whether or not America’s warfare strategies have changed since the 70’s. David Hackworth, a Colonel in the American Army, said, “The American people can’t afford to treat this new war against terrorism like they did Vietnam.” America’s actions during the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have often been compared to those taken during Vietnam. Many people believe that America is still making the same mistakes today that it was making 40 years ago. The American government, military, and even some historians, argue that America’s foreign policy during war has changed since Vietnam and that the wars going on today are not at all alike. Nevertheless, there are very obvious parallels between then and now in the reasons behind each war and the way they have been carried out. This essay will prove that America’s wartime actions have not truly changed since the Vietnam War. 3rd place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "Vietnam and the Middle East America's Mistakes" in full.

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glutton for punishment

By Adrien Vilcini “This is going to be the most amazing trip ever!” I whispered excitedly to my wife Naomi as our helicopter hovered over a snowdrift somewhere near the Kluane National Park in the southern Yukon. We were scheduled to be picked up in this exact spot in two weeks’ time.

Naomi and I had been through seven survival training courses since our marriage six years ago, but this one is the first we have ever done solo. I have always felt I should go on a solo trip to prove to myself that I could, but I never truly had the courage to be in the middle of nowhere without anyone knowing where I was. Until now.

That’s why I chose to come here. My college roommate, Phil, had disappeared out here in the middle of the school term about ten years back.

He was one of those guys who kept to himself and you couldn’t read him very easily, but he had always stuck his neck out for me and I had done the same for him.

What a nasty, dark year that was. In the middle of the term Phil found his new girlfriend decapitated and naked on the floor of our dorm room. At first he thought I did it, which was crazy in itself, but then the police traced the murder back to one of the chemistry professors within three days. The thing was, the professor had been Phil’s favorite. They had often met up after class to discuss the lesson in further detail and you could say that he had taken Phil under his wing. Phil trusted that man like a father. Phil couldn’t handle anything after that. He hardly spoke at all. Everyone thought he was nuts, and then he just packed up and moved north.

We stayed in contact for a while after that. He wrote me some letters and told me that his trust for other people was destroyed and that he was never coming back to civilization no matter what I said.

1st place, Grades 9/10 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "Glutton for Punishment" in full.

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the whiteout

By Sam Dalton Elliot Hoyle couldn’t believe his ears when he got the job in Antarctica. Ever since he was a little boy he had stared at the bottom of the world and wondered what it would be like to go there. He also had a strong ability and enjoyment of chemistry from a very young age. So it was no surprise to his family when in high school he had said that he wanted to be a chemist and hoped one day to go on a research expedition to Antarctica. Almost 15 years and a Ph.D later he got his wish; he was finally going to Antarctica. However his wife Barbra was not as excited as him. Ever since Elliot began his Ph.D he was constantly working and never had time for her or his two children, Andrew and Elizabeth. And it was true, Elliot was a workaholic. Even when he wasn’t working, he pursued his countless hobbies like biology, chess, Latin and sailing. When he left for Antarctica Eliot’s marriage was held together by a string that could snap at any moment.

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“I know you’ve been waiting for this a long time” she had said. “But you’ll be gone for months, maybe close to a year and you don’t even care that I’ll be here all alone with the children, again.”

“No need to worry Barbra” was all he had said. “I know you can handle it” He had missed countless milestones in his children’s lives: his son’s championship soccer game, his daughter’s dance showcase and his son’s band concert. He had not spent a deal of time greater than 1 day with his wife since they had been married. She rightfully should have divorced him, but she was still in love with the 18 year old boy that she had married so many years ago.

But in the white world where he now stood that life seemed so far away. His precious hobbies and his dedicated research were nowhere to be seen. What was he to do? It was his fifth day at the research station when he found himself in this situation. Elliot was walking to another building to fetch some lab equipment during a whiteout and lost his footing, tripped and let go of the rope connecting the two buildings and landed face first in the snow, completely disorientated. He was told about whiteouts countless times during

his training for the expedition. The clouds would be so dense that the light scattered over the snow fields and the wind would blow into a swirling frenzy where no landmarks could be seen, including the horizon; there was only white. People who got lost 10 metres from their dwellings and walked in the wrong direction, completely disorientated. Now, lifting his head from the snow Elliot had no idea where the rope was and no matter how much he felt around he could not find it. Reason told him to stay where he was until the whiteout cleared and he could see again, but his gut told him to walk. So he walked, and walked, and walked until his feet grew blisters and he toppled to the ground.

As he lay staring into the white with snow striking his face he started to think about his work. The research he had been conducting was almost complete and it would enhance his reputation in the scientific community greatly. Then he began to plan all the things he would investigate when he got out of this bloody weather. Then he did something, something he hadn’t really done for many years: he thought. All he could see and feel was slow and white, a kind of nothingness. When he stood up he felt like he was floating. He had a certain feeling of nothingness which warmed him in a way. For the first time in over ten years he had nothing to see, nothing to do, and nothing to worry about. No research to work on, no books to read, no problems to solve, no‌. nothing but nothing. This was when he realized, staring into the white blank world where he now lay, what life was like when you could think, you could reflect, and truly live. So many things had passed him by: his family, his life, his happiness, his soul. He realized how badly he had treated his family and how much they needed him. His son must hate him, and his daughter probably did too. Did they hate him? He didn’t know, he barely ever saw them apart from the few times they came back from boarding school and he came back from work at night. What had he done? How could he have treated his family like that? He thought back to his high school days, the ones that were packed with work and play that would never end.

2nd place, Grades 9/10 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "The Whiteout" in full.

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the forgotten reindeer

By Dylan Purves “You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donner, and Blitzen. But do you recall the most famous Reindeer of all?

Rudolph the red nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose” is how the song goes but does it ever say anything about Sylvina? Well, that’s me. I’m friends with all the other reindeer but do you ever hear about me? No you don’t. I don’t mean to sound rude but I never get mentioned. It started when we were just young reindeer. Every year around Christmas time there is a day where there are events in which all the young reindeer participate. The winner is believed to be the ‘protégé that year and eventually gets to go on to fly Santa’s sleigh. Ever since I was born I have wanted to be part of the team that helps Santa deliver presents to children around the world.

I trained for the events every year, but was never able to beat some of the faster reindeer. Luckily the reindeer wasn’t chosen until the fifth race each year and

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all participants must be five years old to enter. I trained harder the year I turned five because I wanted to help Santa so badly.

Race day was two days away when we were informed that Dasher had dropped out the race because of a pulled hoof. This meant that Rudolph was my competition. Race day came and Rudolph and I wished each other luck before the race. Then we went back to preparing for the race. There were ten reindeer participating in the race this year. Santa (who was announcing all the events) came on the speaker and told us to step into the gates. The next thing I knew the race was on. I had a fairly good start and was in third place for most of the race, but then I passed Flurry to get into second place. The race was almost over when I managed to pass Rudolph which put me in first place. We were entering the last stretch. I was running as hard as I could when Santa announced “one hundred metres left” so I just kept running. I looked behind me to see Rudolph was catching up. I was ten metres from the finish line when Rudolph passed me. I was devastated! Rudolph was surrounded by fans giving him praise and Santa came down and gave him a wreath for around his neck.

3rd place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "Vietnam and the Middle East America's Mistakes" in full.

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Artwork Front Cover: Maya Sibbald Inside Front Cover: Andreas Engel Opposite “LCS Writes! Winners” (top to bottom): Hayley Shortly, Seb Jones Opposite “Noises”: Andy Mui p3 L-R): Kylie Clark, Cecilia Yang p4 (L-R top to bottom): Guillermo Martin-Almendro, Rachael Wootton, Vanessa Smith, Abraham Lau, Samantha Ramsay, Lauren Beckett, Kristen Evans, Jil Echevarria von Gusovius

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p6: Jessica Tsang p8: Mara Marchand p11: Millie Yates p12-13: Annabel Harding p14: Rachael Larose p18: Akinyemi Akinwale p21 (L-R top to bottom): Guillermo Martin-Almendro, Rachael Wootton, Travis Cove, Abraham Lau, Samantha Ramsay, Katie Garland, Alexa Armstrong, Jean-Baptiste Gault p22: Fanbo Zhou p27 (top to bottom): Paige Sampson, Erica Armstrong Inside Back Cover: Risako Tamura Photography: Simon Spivey

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