In A Grove 2015
Integrated Arts Journal
Holly Tuner, Acrylic
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 Yi Cheng, “The Birds” 2 Asic Chen, “Ode to Guerillas” 3 Mary Dunn, “Always Too Much, Always Not Enough” 3 Sarah Williams, “You Used to be Alright, What Happened?” st
nd rd rd
Grades 9/10 1 Besty Macdonnell, “Girls” 2 Olivia Gao, “Young and Beautiful” 3 Geeta Narine, “Destruct” st
prose Section Grades 11/12 1 Simon Dell’Aquila, “My Mother’s Father” 2 Sarah Williams, “My Monstrous Shadow” 3 Rachael Wootton, “The Cooking that Kills” st
Grades 9/10 1 Vandana Narine, “Snapshot of Innocence” 2 Sophie Milburn, “The Library” 3 Geeta Narine, “Saturday Mornings” st
Front Cover by Sarah Elliott, Acrylic Painting Back Cover by Ariela St-Pierre-Collins, Mixed Media Photography: Simon Spivey
girls By Betsy Macdonnell When I was young I didn’t like to brush my hair I didn’t know what was in or out. All I knew was what I picked up from girls around me. Pretty girls. Girls with dolls. Girls with sisters. I only had brothers. I scaled trees, and played sports clothes didn’t interest me bugs didn’t scare me.
But that wasn’t right I wasn’t right. Because I wasn’t like other girls. At first I didn’t care. I was confident? Besides only some girls were opposed suddenly girls that liked me were less and less I was a freak. An outcast. Or at least I seemed to be to her. To them.
School petrified me
Girls who smiled
I had to see
Girls who laughed.
Maybe I could try again.
a herd of hyenas
1st Place, 9/10 Poetry
about Me. Never ending days. Sleepless nights. Lightless night was void of girls. Shattered, broken, crying. “Why don’t they like me?” These words hugged me. Until I suffocated. There I was hiding between the cramping cell the mildewed bathroom walls. My tomb. I just sat. Too afraid to come out. My fear, My pain, My insecurities telling me “stay away” you’ll just get hurt again. Sometimes I’d see girls between the cracks. Nice girls.
Fiona Murray, Graphite on Paper
L-R: Kaitlin Keating, Becca Garrison, Monica Scrocchi
Liam Chen, Acrylic on Paper
The Birds By Yi Cheng Spring is the season of love, and birds the messenger. “Certainly we are to sing the praise for love,” says the nightingale, “But a name isn’t everything.” “What should you say,” comes the swallow in his black suit, “When you don’t even know what it is?” “Better find it,” twitters the linnet, “Than wandering in vain.” Only the white peacock urges no word; With all his dazzling grace he perches on the cypress, A king in a white gown. “Certainly you know,” gingerly mutters the swallow, “For the most beautiful creature you are, and beauty goes hand in hand with love.” “I shall not bother to think, nor answer,” replies the peacock, “I always have what I want. My ancestors lived in the garden of a king, “He dyed their feet purple, their mouths gold. If beauty is love, already it is in my possession, “And if not, I want it no more.” So mysterious is the matter That the sunlight of spring day becomes dimmed and pale. Those creatures on two legs walk in pair As if two halves make a whole. Bees serenade the very shy blossoms of lilac, of dandelion and of daisy, It is only when a breeze sweeps by That an elegant bow is addressed to their devoted suitors. “I once saw a boy watering his garden,” says the nightingale in a musical voice, “And the purest white roses the soil did bear.” “That is love—you give your heart, and it shall be rewarded.” “Love is not about giving away,” disputes the swallow, “I would steal sapphires and rubies from lords’ and ladies’ chamber and lay them at the feet of my beloved, for—if I ever find her—she deserves the best of them, “and nobody shall take them away from her.” “I want to find a place where there is no children,” suggests the linnet timidly, for she is
no good singer like the nightingale, nor smartly dressed like the swallow, “They throw rocks at me and scares me away. “Where there are children, there is no love.” The debate goes on and on, The moon rises and falls and rises again, But no conclusion is drawn, And the white peacock never says a word, For he is the most graceful of them all And has the love of everyone, if he wants. On the third day of spring the messengers of love decide to extend their wings And look for the answer. The messengers of love are gone, So are the lively dreams that pervade the air, As they runs away from the looming storm and dazzling light of summer And take refuge on the wings of fireflies. After summer comes autumn, still creatures walking on two legs are to be seen
everywhere, Some still in pairs, some no longer are. When the white peacock shakes off the last discarded feather from his crown, The first piece of snowflake rests on its side. And, when the last sign of lingering winter melts into a drop of tear, The season of love awaits her messengers. None have returned, and this is indeed a very lonesome season. On a morning of the silent spring the white peacock thinks again of love, Of what his ancestors once saw Under the pallid moonlight in the garden of that old king. And, somewhere far, far away, A blood-red rose, A heart of lead, And a garden of white blossoms. This piece is referring to a few of Oscar Wilde’s short stories, including “The Happy Prince”, “The Nightingale and the Rose”, “The Selfish Giant”, and his play, “Salomé”. “A name isn’t everything”, the peacock’s purple feet and gold mouth, the rose, the lead heart and the garden are all references to the aforementioned stories.
1st Place, 11/12 Poetry
Jessie Pan, Spirit Stick
young and beautiful By Olivia Gao One more minute, Just one more minute, I am addicted to the smell of the spring willows And the warmth of your hands on my hair The old tree in front of the house blooms again Although memories couldn’t race the flowing time One more second, Maybe just one more second, I begin to miss the times when we quarrel Sometimes it was difficult to get along, We think a lot but say very little.
I used to ask for everything, And did not cherish every moment we had At the last second I understood how much you have done To try to make me positive and strong Am I too late? Only I realized I should have said a thousand more “I love you”s When it was time to leave You pretended to be relaxed and easy Kept smiling and told me that I should get going But I know our eyes were wet after I turned with my valise
The dream is to sail higher and further The sky’s too far and wide But with your courage and faith, I could go anywhere Will you be proud of me? Are you still worrying about everything? Time, can you please go slower?
Please give her more time to feel young Please allow her to keep being stunning and bright I am willing to give up everything To rinse up the marks of time on your face To keep my mother young and beautiful. 2nd Place, 9/10 Poetry
Sydney Ginns, Acrylic
Jessie Pan, Acrylic on Paper
Ode to guerillas By Asic Chen They despise us They say we fight dirty And to be honest We do We sneak We ambush We steal clothes from dead bodies We stalk We trap We are the danger in the night They condemn us Because we don’t fight fair They are afraid of us Because we don’t fear death Because when we are fearless We are peerless They can kill however many of us they want But they can never win So here’s one to the guerrillas Lithe spirits underground Jumping treetops Hopping freight trains And we’ll never stop Till we put down our lives Because for our people We will gladly die We are a peaceful people Or at least we were This is our land Every square meter of it Our sweat and blood and future and past Until the monsters came through the borders
They cheated We stayed calm They exploited We stayed put We laid low And waited Thinking the worst would pass Until they tried to take our motherland Then we too Stopped playing fair So we sneak trap ambush stalk We throw dirty bombs We send our children to war Are we in the wrong?
They all say we are Regardless We are judged by different gods And when we are fearless We are peerless They can level mountains And scorch forests But they can never win So they bomb They burn They poison They tear rock to shreds But we are fearless And peerless Even as they kill us When one of us falls down A thousand more Stand up
So hereâ€™s one to the guerrillas Making tunnels our new home Tree tops and freight trains We will never stop They can turn rain into bloodshed But they can never win Hereâ€™s one to the guerillas (They can never win) A thousand more stand up (They can never win) One to the guerillas (They can never win) Stand up (They can never win) Stand up. 2nd Place, 11/12 Poetry
Tom Tian, Graphite on Paper
Philip Carr-Harris, Graphite on Paper
destruct By Geeta Narine Water waved past The boat was shaken Cloudy skies, stormy days An innocence taken My laugh long faded From a non-existing smile
Waiting for the right time To run in your mile A long lost shadow Finally shattered like glass The reflection forever broken She wasnâ€™t made to last Truth hidden below Disguised by time But the burn marks remain The matches were mine. 3rd Place, 9/10 Poetry
Grace Zhu, Linoprint
Marlo Groh, Graphite on Paper
Becca Garrison, Acrylic
always too much, always never enough By Mary Dunn Too happy to be heartbroken, Too talented to be defeated,
Too nerdy to be fashionable, Too gorgeous to be smart, Too quiet to be entertaining, Too unique to be popular, Always too much for one person, Always not enough for another. 3rd Place, 11/12 Poetry
Maria de Leon, Linoprint
you used to be alright, what happened? By Sarah Williams Silly child, You sit at the edge of the world weeping oceans that people bathe in. There is a slumbering wolf inside your ribcage. There is a full moon hanging above your head. But you are mute. You have a heart ideal for growing
trees and roses. Instead it nests decaying words, left unspoken. There is no dirt under your fingernails, with edges of reef and razorblade. There is no salt dancing through your hair, which could once rival Aslanâ€™s mane. You have been sitting at the edge for weeks, unmoving, while thoughts of leaving drag themselves through your mind with gray fingers. And watch as one by one, the stars expire. 3rd Place, 11/12 Poetry
Samantha Mauro, Mixed Media
L-R: Melissa Pede, Zoe Tudisco, Ariela St-Pierre-Collins, Kana Hashimoto
L-R: Liam Chen, Ilke Ersoz, Denise Jiang, Delaney Stedman
Tara McCleery, Mixed Media
, My mother s father By Simon Dell’Aquila I never knew my grandmother. Not truly. My mom tells me that, before I was born, her mother was a wonderful woman, who cared for her family and her friends. She loved to bake cookies, tend to the garden in the backyard and play with her grandchildren. Hearing that today, she sounds to me like a nearly ideal maternal figure and a person impossible to hate. There’s a picture of me playing in a sandbox as an infant, with her sitting in a lawn chair watching over me. If there was a full meal of ham, potatoes, and pie for dessert, included in the picture, it would have been the thousand words needed to describe my grandmother. You could also add the picture of her waltzing along to an old record in the living room of her old house with my grandfather. However, when I was about one year old, before any memories began to stick really with me, the Alzheimer’s that she had been fighting for years took most of her abilities of independence and communication. The woman that I was told was my grandmother was a stranger to me, a curious person who always needed help, and only spoke in moans and grunts. I was able to accept that, despite the uneasiness I admittedly felt in her presence. The hardest part for me during that time was adapting to my grandfather. At my house, as well as when we visited my father’s parents, my siblings and I loved to run around and make noise, and we were usually allowed. When we visited my maternal grandparents however, such behaviour was met with barking from my grandfather, about how “Grandma’s trying to rest!” or “You’re in Grandma’s way!” My little childsized brain couldn’t understand what the problem was, and I began to resent my grandfather immensely. After a few years, I hated visiting that house. I didn’t understand why we had to go see a man who seemed to hate us, or how my mother could claim that he loved us. My younger brother, my older sister and I began spending our visits in the attic where we couldn’t be heard, or watching TV, with the volume unbearably low. When we were dragged out to church, which I hated to begin with, the experience was made even more unpleasant when I would ask why we were doing this and the answer was “Because it makes Grandpa happy.” That’s stupid, I
would think. Why should I do anything for this grouchy old man who never lets us have any fun, and who doesn’t care if we’re happy?” My grandmother died in February 2006, when I was nine. When I first visited my grandfather after she passed, it was as if I was staring at a different man. He was gentle, soft and quiet, so unlike the man who yelled at me for as long as I could remember. It was obvious that he had been deeply shaken, and his whole demeanor had changed. The visits after that, he was kinder every time I saw him, even though we were louder than we had even been allowed to be in the past. I couldn’t understand it. One day, sometime during the past few years, my mother came up to me, and she explained to me how Grandpa loved Grandma, and he acted the way he did because he wanted the last of her years to be enjoyable. She said that he knew what we thought of him, and how it pained him to hear me say that I hated him. It was then that I understood how hard it must have been on my grandfather. Not only did he have to dedicate himself to making my
grandmother as happy as possible; he had to listen to his grandson say how he hated him because of it. That realization flipped my opinion of my grandfather upside-down. In my mind, he went from a cranky old man to a strong and loving husband, and as I was slowly discovering, a caring grandfather. At the end of December 2013, I got a phone call from my mother. As she, my uncle, and his eldest son, stood by his bedside, my grandfather had passed away in a hospital. My Christmas vacation started early so I could head over to the small Quebec town where he had lived out the better part of six decades. My aunt and her daughter flew in from BC and my uncle drove up from Montreal to join my mother, her brother and the relatives who were there for my grandpa in the end. The funeral service was held in Trois-Rivières, where my grandfather had attended an English-speaking church, and the amount of people who showed up was a testament to the kind of person he was, and how I never realized that there was something else to the man I had known my whole life. The evening of the service, after everyone else had gone to bed, I, my sister, and two of my cousins stayed up to play cards and talk. Eventually, the conversation took an inevitable turn towards the topic of my grandfather. We talked about stories we heard from our parents, and as we pieced them together, we realized that though we knew our grandpa our
whole lives, which were all near twenty years, we knew next to nothing about him. He had been a proud forester, who came over from Ireland when he was 18, promising to return home the next year, and ended up making a whole new life for himself. He had been a husband, a father, a hard worker, and when I was a stupid little kid, I only saw him as a crabby old grouch. We soon came to a sort of epiphany: that the way that we are remembered is by the tales others tell. So I hope to properly tell of the great man that I barely knew, and I hope that he is, as my mother says, dancing with Grandma again. 1st Place, 11/12 Prose
Jessie Pan, Clay
Sophie Welch, Graphite on Paper
my monstrous shadow By Sarah Williams When I was a child I believed that my house was filled with monsters. I could sense their presence as I played with my dollies. Ever-ignoring and ever-optimistic, I hummed my favourite tunes in order to forget the feel of beady eyes stalking my movements. My mother and I followed a routine. Every night she would read me a book, or two, or four. Every night my high-pitched voice would ring and plead, “One more story! One more story please, mommy!” The bones of my mother were built from a pile of flowers. Each joint and hinge in her body was oiled by hope. I have never known someone with so much love to give the world, and it was no shock that every night she would agree to read me just one more story. Every happily-ever-after was followed by a kiss goodnight, and a check of the closet opposite my bed for monsters. As we both matured our regimen was disregarded. It was left behind in a pile of my playthings, pampers, and potties. No more story telling, no more searching for unwholesome creatures of the darkness. Yet there were nights when I would discern a glimpse of gray skin or razor teeth in the gaps between the wooden planks of my wardrobe doors. My monster was a forever antagonist trapped behind layers of red cedar and white cotton. That is, until I came home and it – well, she – was sitting on my bed. The being from the closet became my closest friend. Her razor teeth morphed into a bright smile, her gray skin to a glowing tan, her yellow talons into brightly painted fingernails, and her dusty horns to glowing hair. She was a master of deception, and I started to view the world through tinted lenses. We journeyed everywhere together; shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, but our limbs started to knock against each other. Clack, clack. Each of our figures hung from the end of a string. Clack, clack. We were two large acrylic balls that swung in tandem and collided; a muted explosion of flying shrapnel and sharp edges. She twirled me and dipped me and tripped me until our footsteps mingled together in a vehement dance. I became a whirlwind of flailing arms that grasped at empty spaces. I became a falling
mass of unsuccessful bourrées, passés, and jetés. She became my shadow. There were days where I would block the sun in such a way that when I looked at the ground in front of my mud stained sneakers, a figure with horns peaking out of its head would sluggishly lift up its claws and wave. I rarely go outside now. There is a hunk of trepidation sitting in my stomach. Sometimes I can breathe. Sometimes it folds up easily, and other times it anchors me to the dirt. My days are wasted on the floor, unresponsive and unhinged. It would be so easy to breathe in dust and suffocate, to breathe in dust and become dust. There is school, work, and similar obligations knocking at the window. I stay on the floor and try to become dust. There is no room for me on the bed, it is a forgotten treasure buried beneath empty take-out containers. Empty take-out containers are covered by dirty clothes and blank journals. I never expected that I would become a messy haired, chapped lipped, blue
handed, haven’t-showered-in-six-days vessel of gloom. The tongue of losing is now a familiar one. But right now it is three in the morning, and I am being brave. My kitchen is beaming brighter than the New York skyline. Every light is on, so I can see through every nook in her soul and crevice of her bones. There will be no shadows here, at three in the morning, in the hopes of preventing a glimpse of the end of my world. Blue hands turn red. My cup sits comfortably in my palms. I tell myself that my eyes are not dotted with tears. I tell myself that it is steam and not saltwater that makes my vision cloudy. I know that I am being dishonest when my eyes overflow and droplets plop into my tea. The thud of footsteps on the stairs jolts me from my unfocused state. My mother is hugging the wall, and is the epitome of tired. She is messy hair, and baggy eyes that squint at me. Her cotton nightgown is dishevelled, her slippers on the wrong feet, and I can tell she is shaken. “Honey,” she croons, “This monster is an invisible figment of stress and grief. You’re afraid of something that doesn’t exist.” My mother cannot grasp that this does not matter. Why would it matter when none of us exist at all? 2nd Place, 11/12 Prose
Alan Song, Linoprint
The cooking that kills By Rachael Wootton My family has many admirable traits and skills but cooking is not among them. Somehow along our long line of genetics the culinary gene is absent. While my father has tried his best at the culinary arts, his performances have always fallen significantly short of perfection. The meals are often black, and the house is usually so smoke filled we have to keep the windows open for days. This inability to cook does not just trace back to my father though. It began long ago when he was just a boy. My grandmother is the queen of pressure cookers and her idea of family Sunday dinners is throwing all the leftovers from the week all together in the pressure cooker and having a mystery meal. This obsession with cooking food in pressures non-existent on our planet results in tasteless, nutrient-deprived and downright disgusting food. The vitamins, essential nutrients and anything remotely appetizing have been leached out of the food after reaching just over 15 psi. The leftovers the boys were forced to take to school they often had to scrape mould off the top so the food could appear edible and has resulted in the scarring of my uncle Pete. He boycotts the idea of eating any leftovers to this day. My grandfather did not help much on this front either. His idea of seasoning for salmon was peanut butter followed by grilling it in the toaster oven. The other occasion he did decide to cook resulted in him locking the pizzas in the oven and us having to turn the fire alarms off so as to not distress the neighbours. My father is a child of four and all his brothers have endured and learnt just as he has: keeping as far away from kitchens as possible. Good riddance too. By the time I was four years old I was already well aware of the fact that when my father was cooking I often needed an extra glass of water for dinner. By the time I was six my mother had restricted him to three meals that he was allowed to cook: pancakes, fajitas and cheesy corn chowder. By the time I was eight my mother had duct taped over the broil button after an incident with my father when he decided that the name â€˜broiler chickenâ€™ was not a mere name but cooking instructions. By the time I was twelve my mother had finally learned her lesson. It may have been the result of her coming home late from a conference one night to find all the windows open on a frosty evening in February and the distinct smell of charcoal emanating from the house. This was caused by my fatherâ€™s forgetfulness while we played shinny on the rink while the rice in the kitchen
became its own black, hard puck. Or it may have been the simple act of burning a full tray of burritos while he played violin utterly oblivious in the next room. But whatever it was, after that my mother reserved the cooking to her faithful and trusty crockpot. My cousins have learned just as I have: that when Dad is cooking it is best to snack up right before supper. Their own father is not a natural cook either and when our fathers are together, it is downright disastrous. During the summer we spend our months on an island in a secluded bay on Stoney Lake. I have nine cousins and this is where we all grew up together, learned our lessons together and developed our highly intellectual coded language. This language was reserved for the dinner table and eventually many of the parents integrated it into their dining habits as well. Growing up it was a constant subtle hand signal for whether the salad dressing was five years over the due date or simply 6 months (believe me it matters), or whether the boiled celery was a bit bland for our taste. We were well
accustomed to finding wheat fleas in our pancakes; dotting them like unappetizing treats. Upon our complaints my grandmother argued that they were added protein. One morning we had the pleasure of discovering that our maple syrup did not have an advertisement for the up and coming Olympic games in Vancouver 2010 but actually the Calgary games in 1988-which made the syrup just over twenty-two years old. It was the lunches of white Wonder Bread with canned tomatoes dumped on top and the smell of blackened popcorn late at night that made our familyâ€™s hallmark well known. Cooking did not come easily. But I canâ€™t help that think somehow it was a compliment. Even with all the scorched meals and utterly unpalatable cuisine, it has taught us something . We have grown up loved and cherished, and our parents and grandparents have tried their very best to nourish us despite this genetic trait that hinders them. The cooking could not hold their interest because they were too busy holding ours; teaching us and fascinating us and enrapturing us in so many aspects of the world. It was in so many of those moments where my father should have been keeping an eye on the food that he was teaching me to skate backwards or take a slap shot. It was in those moments where my grandfather was giving me history lessons or science lessons or engineering lessons. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the lives of those around us that we
canâ€™t be bothered to care enough to spice a dish properly or check the expiration dates. Although I do not miss the inedible food for supper, or the hellish demands of a scorched pan ready for cleaning, I do miss the moments leading up to the disaster. It was in those times that I learned and in those times I felt the most loved. The charcoaled meal as result of this time was a signal that we had spent the time well. 3rd Place, 11/12 Prose
Samantha Mauro, Clay
Nickie Mak, Graphite on Paper
Delaney Stedman, Clay
Samantha Mauro, Mixed Media
snapshot of innocence By Vandana Narine I look back on this photo with more meaning than the typical, sickeningly nostalgic teenage-white-girlat-heart. I look at this picture, and see distortion, transition and transformation from who and what those people in the photo are today. The stark contrast from then and now is appalling. The growth is exponential, physically, mentally, and atmospherically. And yet still, I see miniscule pieces of themselves today in their former selves. My father is utterly recognisable to me, but as well he is not completely himself, as I know him today. His eyes shining brighter than 100 tanning beds, his cheeks rosy, rounded apples, his lips pink and spontaneously glossy. He is so young, freer at 28 years than 43 now, even though he’d just fathered triplets. He has yet to fully gain ‘jiggles’--the name I’d given his rather larger stomach about seven years later. New parent to triplets, his hair is still an impossible thick, full sea of black that I loved feeling against my powdery baby skin. He hasn’t yet had to deal with his daughters’ choice in boys or his son’s disregard for hygiene. He hasn’t yet had to deal with teenage outbursts and his children’s successes and failures at a competitive school. His hair hasn’t yet begun to grey and thin out; his back hasn’t begun to act up yet. Though he is older, now with many prestigious awards, three exquisite teenagers, and ‘Jiggles’, this snapshot captured a part of him that has stayed the same over 14 years. When he’s truly happy, in the garage or on the driveway with his kids and wife cleaning or shining his motorbike, he captures the essence of the snapshot once again. His eyes twinkle with joy, his hearty laugh fills the space and his beam never abandons his face. He’s basking not in our utter newness and adorableness, but our witty banter, our opinions, our thoughts. Just as he’s changed, we have. My brother, he’s entirely a little shadow of himself today. He reminds me of a solid little hot wheels truck in his solid colours; he’s square, a little chubby, jaw set and lips pouting. The little hot wheels truck would always try his hardest to win a fight with Dad, wrapping his tiny arms around Dad’s neck like a vice, and securing his gums on Dad’s nose. He’s always been a tough little guy, never ceasing his slobbery
fight. Reaching outwards, and I imagine him wriggling like a worm trying to escape from Dad’s firm grip. His eyes stay blank and bored, though they are focussed on the camera. Today, his rounded face has morphed into something structured with a defined jawline. His outstretched arm reaching away from Dad definitely foreshadowed his rebellious antics. Though some of the play-fights have mutated into very legitimate arguments, their playful bond has become even stronger as they’ve grown together. My sister in this snapshot is quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s centered in cylindrical perfection, in her reflective teal and red top sprinkled with polka dots. This was before her first crush, her first heartbreak, her first fight. Before her first bad grade, her first speech, her first test of character. The nearly toothless smile on her shiny, rounded face reveals defined dimples at the corners of her mouth. There’s so much this little baby doesn’t know, even today. Being the youngest, Geetanjali’s always been the most naïve. Even though her rounded face has thinned
out and sharpened her impeccable cheekbones, even though any trace of her chubby days is gone, she’s still the baby of the family. Yes, she’s a strong young woman, but to her family she’ll always be the small, playful baby in the photo. The smallest child, though eldest in the photo is me. This snapshot captures a very vulnerable and still prevalent side of me. I’m clinging to my Dad’s side like I wouldn’t let go if you paid me in animal crackers (my favourite food at that point in time). I’ve always been dependant on my family; they are my biggest and strongest support system. As a premature baby, obviously I needed my parents physically. My tiny limbs couldn’t possibly grasp, hold, and use everything they needed to. Now, I need my parents more emotionally. My Dad’s fuzzy arm is holding me up and keeping me close in this snapshot, just like his wisdom and advice support me today. I continue to smile almost every waking hour of the day, then it was because of my naiveté, now it’s because I’m in awe of the potential of myself and many amazing individuals around me. The physical pieces of this picture remain contrasted to what they are today. However, I realize that in our young innocence, many of our definite emotional and mental traits are set and moulded. It is through experience, through living life that we put the skills we were born with to use. 1st Place, 9/10 Prose
Monica Scrocchi, Clay
the library By Sophie Milburn It was 300 years ago today. 300 years ago today was the end of humankind on Earth. The resources ran out. No more fresh water. No food. All the animals died out. They couldn’t survive in the polluted waste area everyone called home. It had become so bad, you couldn’t even see the sun. That’s how much pollution there was. It was so bad, that all of the important people were rushed out on a space shuttle to Saturn. There was a groundbreaking discovery that led scientists to believe life could be held on Saturn if needed, which then, it was. So they rushed them off Earth to Saturn. A new life had begun. Soon, a new generation of humans were living on Saturn. And that’s why we are all here. Today. The 300th anniversary. A project had started. It was called Earth 300. We are planning to go back to Earth, to collect data on how it is now, and if it’s safe. It leaves in minutes. I’m one of the astronauts going. I’ve been training all my life for this. I’m ready. I close my eyes as I hear the countdown to blast off. 10...9...8...7...6...5...4…3 ...2...1...Blast off! I brace myself for the lift off, but I’m surprised on how easy it feels. I relax as we start our journey to Earth.
… I awake to feel a slight bump. We have just landed. We get out of the shuttle, and I look over at the other astronauts. We look around in shock. It is horrible. Worse than I ever imagined. Black smog covers the sky. Just a small amount of light breaks through and I survey the scene in front of me. Abandoned buildings, forests growing wildly throughout, and to my disgust, the occasional skeleton of animals that didn’t survive it all. How could they? It’s hardly possible. I think to myself. My friends and I nod at each other and start our walk towards some buildings where it seems likely to get data. We walk into what looks like an abandoned library. I look around for a few minutes and open the bad I’m holding and pack a few of my favourite books in it. “What are you going to do with that?” One of the other astronauts asks. “Data.” I lie quickly, my face reddening. There are no books on Saturn, and I miss them. We keep walking through the library and I’m astounded as to how big it is. We get to the center, and we all stop moving. I’m shocked. There is a huge hole in the floor, and out of it, a large tree is growing. It reaches all the way to the top of the library and touches the ceiling. I shoot one sad look back at it, as we leave the library and keep walking.
â€Ś After a few hours of walking around, collecting data, we get back on the shuttle, and prepare to go back to Saturn. As we lift off and get into space, I canâ€™t help feeling disappointed that we are leaving. A wrenching pain in my gut makes me realize how much I wish Earth was back to normal and we could live there again. But I cannot lose hope. Maybe one day... 2nd Place, 9/10 Prose
Kana Hashimoto, Clay
L-R: Lea Chowdhury, Matthew Elphinstone, Liam Sinclair
Saturday Mornings By Geeta Narine It was Saturday morning. I had just rolled out of bed and was on my way to breakfast. The aroma of coffee met me as I slowly descended down the stairs. As usual when I arrived at the kitchen my father was already at the table, sipping his drink and looking at the paper. Whenever I saw him like this, I would think that he had a great Atticus Finch quality to himself. He pulled me into a hug and I was greeted with a smile. We ate silently, enjoying the comfortable silence. It was only at the end of the meal that he spoke. â€œCleaning the bikes?â€? I followed him to the garage and stepped into the white, exhaust-scented room. He gently clicked the button along the wall and the door began to rise. The machine was wheeled out onto the driveway, as if it were a spectacle for all to see. I went to turn the lever; water began to emerge from the hose. He picked it up and showered the white beast with the clear fluid. I stepped back and admired it. When the day had come to a close, my father and I appeared from the garage, our clothes damp and reeking of grease. 3rd Place, 9/10 Prose
Lea Chowdhury, Pen and Ink
Alexandra Rousseau, Graphite on Paper
Nathalie Heyden, Graphite on Paper
Max Finkeissen, Acrylic
The Arts at
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