In A Grove 2016 by Lakefield College School

In A Grove 2016

Integrated Arts Journal

Fiona Murray, 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 Geeta Narine, “Rainy Eyes”............................................................. 11 2 Ethan Jiang, “Invidia”...................................................................... 15 3 Eden Snelgrove Ribovski, “The Quietest Moments”.......................... 16 st

nd rd

Grades 9/10 1 Angele Edgar Moreno, “I Am Who I Choose To Be”......................... 4 2 Jackson Harding, “Child Soldier”..................................................... 12 3 Sophie Milburn, “Just Because”....................................................... 25 st

nd rd

prose Section Grades 11/12 1 Ethan Jiang, “Umbra”....................................................................... 31 2 Meg Hicks, “We’re Fine, Thanks”..................................................... 41 3 Katie Little, “With Closed Eyes”....................................................... 52 st

nd rd

Grades 9/10 1 Kiera McCloskey, “Winter Wonderland”.......................................... 20 2 Betsy Macdonnell, “Strength”.......................................................... 38 3 Skye Vasey, “Swarm”........................................................................ 47 st

nd rd

Front Cover by Clara Zhang, Watercolour and pencil on paper Back Cover by Tom Tian, Watercolour on paper Photography: Simon Spivey

I am who i choose to be By Angele Edgar Moreno Growing up I was told, “you are special” by everyone that surrounded me But one thing that makes me wince is how hard to me that is to believe. You see? I’m sure I’m not the only one put in this position where people label you and set their own “personality” restriction Most of my life I thought I was unique, genuine and original but then I realized that the way we are perceived by others is not factual but more...satirical. I now stand speechless when called different because of the simple and logical thought

that for many years in my head I’ve fought If we are all different, then aren’t we all the same? I would settle into this argument and feel ashamed. Shame for knowing that I wasn’t different anymore and that things I loved and claimed as my own were no longer just mine forevermore. But then I came to realize about all the little things that make me who I am, no, not my skills and talents, but the iris in my eyes, the smile and the loud laugh anyone can hear away from miles. Because who I am, is not a pretty carpeted floor; but the tiles. Every single tile that contains part of my essence. The tiles that make up a floor that when people step on, they can feel my presence. 1st Place, 9/10 Poetry

Kathleen Kee, Marker and gouache on matte board

Niah Graham, Graphite and India ink on paper

ChloĂŠ Cloutier and Lily Coates, Linocut print and map

Philip Carr-Harris, Mixed media

Olivia Gao, Digital photograph

Alan Song, Graphite on matte board

Rainy eyes By Geeta Narine I’d say kiss me

I’d look at your eyes

He’d lean in

And see the light absorbed

And gently

I don’t remember their colour

Press his lips

Or know what you like to do

To mine

When it rains We’d stand here

When I pull back

Almost, forgotten

I would know if I

Until at last

Remembered the colour of

My face met yours

Your eyes Or the music you liked to listen to

You tilt my chin up

When it rained

I stand on my toes

I would know If it was more than just

We would know

The two of us

We always knew That it was never us

I’d say kiss me

And this infatuation was never ours.

As we leaned in to one another

1st Place, 11/12 Poetry

Snow would fall Silently We’d say Together Feeling infinite But being Temporary Would you know The colour of my eyes Or the movies I like to watch When it rains You’d say kiss me And I’d lean in

Child Soldier By Jackson Harding You’re fighting for something you don’t believe. Your will is restrained and your life is being drained. Like dirt, which falls off your fingernails, your emotion spent like empty shells.

Your pants as torn as your past. Your boots as solid as your fate. And you don’t know what you’re fighting for. But still you follow what you’re told to do. The faces of your friend’s flash and are gone. You count the minutes until the time is nigh. To join your friends who lay in the field. 2nd Place, 9/10 Poetry

Tiffany Lee, Linocut print

Sarah Chung, Graphite on matte board

invidia By Ethan Jiang Seven seas surround our soul

She crawls into the cracks.

With waves of fault and sin.

She plants the seed of doubt and sin,

Our shortcomings subject our whole

And wears your face a mask.

To plates of salt and gin. You want what you can never get, The human mind is suspect, too

And dream it day and night.

Its seams of fragile silk.

You feel so cheated and upset,

With qualms and quarrels running

While life slips out of sight.

through The psyche like spilled milk.

And soon your body fades to dust, Death strokes you with his scythe.

Of all the vices in our hearts

Envy slips away and laughs,

There’s one that rips it through.

You’ve wasted your whole life.

Her venom tears our lives apart, Her poison lives in you.

“Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.”

Envy steals all of your friends,

- Erica Jong

She drowns your life in blue.

2nd Place, 11/12 Poetry

She steals the boy you’re crushing on, She takes the TV too. Envy throws away your work, She loves to overspend. In everyone she likes to lurk, But sometimes she extends. She reaches out, a blackened hand And plagues your every part. Like a sieve filled up with sand, Your soul spills out your heart. Schisms ripple through your skin,

The Quietest Moments By Eden Snelgrove Ribovski I heard wind strip the woods A keening that made me feel alone, But at the same time made whole. Mud seeped through the seams of my shoes But the air was clean. I began anew. I heard the waves lap against the stones,

A hard noise that dissolved Into softness. The wind was biting, but not quite sharp, And the sky was silver, Open and serene. I heard the crunch of snow underfoot, A sound made irrelevant By the wholeness of the night. I took a deep, painful breath and looked up At the countless stars. They consumed me. 3rd Place, 11/12 Poetry

Andrea Castillon Gomez, Linocut print

Thomas Rozema, India ink on matte board

Alex Westcott, Oil pastel and collage

Winter Wonderland By Kiera McCloskey I need to go back inside. I need to get out of the cold. I need to warm up again. I can’t stop walking. I can’t stop looking. I can’t stop taking pictures. I’m completely mesmerized by the utter beauty of this day. The ice froze while cascading gracefully along every surface in sight. What was once just a tree could now be mistaken for fine china, with the ice perfectly glazed over it and golden sunlight shimmering throughout it from within.

The sunset is too perfect to miss. My hands feel like they’ve been buried in snow for hours, but I ignore it. Why does this sunset have to end? Why does the snow have to melt tomorrow? Why does it not look like this everyday? I run, I jump, I duck along hills and paths, and through trees, branches and bushes to find the perfect view before the time runs out. I need five more minutes. I need the sun to come back. I need to stay outside. I can’t though. I can’t stay outside. I can’t stay in the cold and I can’t make this last forever. 1st Place, 9/10 Prose

Lucy Guo, Graphite on matte board

Madison Tavares, Digital photograph

Paulina Castillon Gomez, Linocut print

Olivia Gao, Graphite on matte board

Just because By Sophie Milburn Do you see what I see? Can you see it through my eyes? Just because I am a woman Doesn’t mean I don’t have an opinion Doesn’t mean I don’t have a voice Doesn’t mean I don’t have rights Just because I am a woman Doesn’t mean its ok to call me names Doesn’t mean I am someone’s property Doesn’t mean I should be put in my place Just because I am a woman Doesn’t mean I can’t change the world Doesn’t mean I can’t have high hopes Doesn’t mean I am weak Because I am a woman I am strong I am powerful I am a woman 3rd Place, 9/10 Poetry

Nickie Mak, Acrylic paint, wood, plasticine and collage

Alan Song, Screen printing ink and magazine on card stock

Sydnee Korculanic, Acrylic paint and copic markers on matte board

Dasha Egudkina, Screen printing ink and acrylic ink on paper

Umbra By Ethan Jiang Today was my last day of therapy. I clutched the arms of the leather chair, staring at myself in the sandalwood floor. The bitter aftertaste of cucumber water swirled in my mouth. “Hello, Marco. Welcome to our last session.” I glanced at Dr. Agar. His grey eyes pierced mine, and I resigned my gaze back to the floor. The aged psychiatrist raised an eyebrow. “We’ve come a long way, you and I. Do you remember our first appointment? You were a sobbing mess,” he said. “Yes… yes,” I said, “A sobbing mess.” “Eva left you.” “My sister lives on,” I said. I forced myself to look into his eyes. Lifeless. “She’s in a better place now.” “Absolutely right.” he said. He leaned forward in his chair. “Do you remember your reaction?” “I was bipolar. And I was hallucinating. She came to me in my sleep. She told me stories of the afterlife.” Dr. Agar nodded and gave a soft smile. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat. “Marco, we are at the end of our journey of healing. You’ve shown astounding self awareness and mental improvements. You have been taking your medication, right?” I pictured the cylinder of lithium carbonate gathering dust in my kitchen cupboard. “Yes, doctor.” “Perfect.” he said. “Are there any final questions?”

I blinked once. Twice. She whispered to me. Disgusting. I pursed my lips, almost imperceptibly. “No, Dr. Agar. Although I do have one concern.” He raised an eyebrow. “What is it, Marco?” “I know she’s dead, but I can’t stop seeing her.” “Where do you see her?” “In strangers. I see her in people’s faces. I see her hair in the thin branches of a tree. I know she’s not there, but everything reminds me of her.” Dr. Agar clasped his hands, pondering his next sentences. “When we grieve, we are constantly thinking of our lost loved ones. It is not

unusual to connect attributes of your loved one to the attributes we see in our daily lives, especially when someone as young as her leaves this world. You’ve almost conquered your hallucinations. This is the last step.” I smiled and blinked back a tear. She stood over Dr. Agar. Her small frame swayed back and forth. Vermin. I sucked in my breath. “I understand, doctor. It’s quite pathetic, you know. Eva passed away over a year ago, right as she got her own room. You’d think I would be able to recover from this by now.” He leaned forward and smiled softly. “Every individual is unique. Grief is often multifaceted; it attacks from every angle. We all have different reactions to its incursions.” I gripped the leather chair until my knuckles flushed with white. “Well, doctor,” I said, “I was depressed. I… I wanted to kill myself. Not how my sister

did, I’d never do something that gruesome. I popped pills. Then I over ate and started to binge drink. I saw… and heard things that weren’t there.” I felt my cheeks burn as I recalled my mental history. Dr. Agar sat, motionless. “And now you’ve no longer felt the need to do any of those,” he said. I nodded and felt her touch my shoulder. The tips of her thin hair brushed the nape of my neck. I held my breath until my lungs hungered for release. Scum. Dr. Agar stood up and walked over to his desk. I exhaled. Red spots flickered in the corner of my eye. “I’m proud of you, Marco. Although your psychotherapy is over, you’ll still need to take your medication.” As Dr. Agar scribbled, I sat up and straightened my back. The plastic handle of the knife pushed against my hip. I took another sip of the cucumber water and let it linger. The doctor walked back and handed me the prescription. “Thank you, doctor,” I said. Dr. Agar gave me a nod and sat back in his chair. He looked at his watch. “Congratulations, Marco. We’re all done. Thank you for being such a cooperative patient.” She took her time as she walked behind Dr. Agar. Her white dress fluttered in the windless room. Her eyes pierced mine, and yet I did not look away. My grip on the chair loosened. Her voice cut through the air like a blade through bamboo. Trash. Appalling. Worthless. “No,” I whispered. “Excuse me?” Dr. Agar asked.

Useless. “No, no…” “Marco, are you okay?” Hideous. “No, I… I’m fine,” I said. My voice barely rose above a tremble. How could you, Marco? “Marco, if there’s something you need, say it now.” He wanted you to forget me. How could you? I’m your sister. The bad doctor has to go away. Make him go away.

My left hand grasped the knife in my pocket. “No, doctor. I feel perfectly fine,” I said with a grin. I stood up and extended my right hand forward. “You’ve been a great help, doctor.” He stood up as well, his face veiled in confusion, and walked towards me. As we shook hands, Eva stood behind him, slowly dragging her index finger across her throat. I knew what I had to do. 1st Place, 11/12 Prose

Brennah Danchuk-Lauzon, Graphite on matte board

Sydney Belford, Acrylic paint and Sharpie marker on paper

Robin Anstoetz, Marker and gouache on matte board

Strength By Betsy Macdonnell What even is happiness? If I were to look in the dictionary, the definition of happiness is, “a mental or emotional state of well-being defined by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy.” Everyone in their life is searching for happiness, and this dictionary definition doesn’t tell you how to get there. There is no magical key to happiness, but somehow I have been able to find happiness in my life. The happiness I have found in my life, is largely attributed to learning to love myself as a whole person. Learning to love myself has been the longest journey I’ve been on, and it’s still not fully done. I am strong. It has taken me a while to realize it, but I am. I find strength in my independence. I am empowered by my ability to live separately from my parents, and by my ability to take my own path. That is

what independence has become to me now. To me, it means being able to do the things I love, even if I’m the only one doing it. Independence doesn’t mean being alone, and now that I know that, I’m stronger. I find strength in my relationships. Moving away from home has made me closer to my family. I appreciate everything they do for me, and everything they’ve done for me. The relationships I have with my friends are stronger as well. I’m able to see now who truly cares about me, and that’s helped me to surround myself with people who make me feel safe. I find strength in my personality. I find strength in my ability to go out and make friends wherever I go. I find strength in my sense of humor. I feel strong when I laugh, when I smile, and when I dance like no one is watching. I find strength in my body. I find strength in the legs that help me get down the ski hill. The legs that help me push girls in rugby, and the legs that hold me up, to take me wherever I need to go. I find strength in my arms that

allow me to write, and take photos. I find strength in the body that will someday hold my children. I find strength in letting my guard down. Letting people in doesn’t make me weak. When I let people understand who I really am; it makes me feel complete. I find the most strength in my resiliency. I’ve overcome a lot. Maybe not the worst it could’ve been, but I’ve definitely battled a few demons. I used to wish it all away. I used to wish none of it ever happened. I used to wish my life had gone smoothly, a road with no bumps. Now I now longer wish away these experiences. Without the roadblocks I’ve had I wouldn’t have the same strength I have today. I am strong, because I’ve been weak. To me, appreciating my flaws has meant finding strength in them. Being able to accept my flaws, is what has made me happy. I’m not saying I fully accept myself. I’m definitely still insecure, maybe even more than the average person, but I’m working on it. I’m finding my happiness. 2nd Place, 9/10 Prose

Anwar Kanja, Graphite on paper

, We re Fine Thanks By Meg Hicks For the longest time, I thought there was something wrong with me. Watching pretty much any movie or TV show would further that feeling, along with the ever present questions of “who do you like?” accompanied by a laugh and a “no, there has to be somebody” when I’d answer truthfully. It was only last year - alongside remarks that it was ‘sad’ I’d never kissed anyone - that I discovered what asexuality and aromanticism are. And while I’d like to say that the heavens opened, angels were singing, light pouring down like I was the chosen one of some divine power, that’s not how it played out. Truth be told, I kind of rejected it at first. I thought I was as heterosexual as the protagonist of a young adult novel. This, as it turns out, is untrue. Feeling like you’re broken is pretty common for asexual people. Haven’t heard of asexuality? You’re not alone! We’re not exactly a common topic of discussion, in fact, we’re pretty invisible most of the time. But let’s get some definitions out of the way. An asexual person - ‘ace’ for short - is someone who doesn’t feel sexual attraction. And before you ask, no, it’s not the same as celibacy. Asexuality, like any other orientation, is not a choice. Perhaps it’s best described by Kim Kaletsky: “They dreamed about making out with various classmates. I dreamed about failing classes and zombie apocalypses.” Now, an aromantic person is someone who doesn’t feel romantic attraction. Yes, sexual and romantic attraction are separate. It can be a little difficult to wrap your head around at first; most people experience them together. Truth is, it’s completely possible to have differing romantic and sexual orientations. Many asexual people still have romantic relationships, and it’s normal for aromantic people to have purely sexual relationships. As alarming as it is, sex and romance are not the only ways to have a meaningful relationship. And, yes, before you ask, I

still feel love. I still love my friends and family and that video game I played this one time. Just not romantic love. Society has a nasty habit of forgetting this, however, with media being the biggest culprit. It’s near impossible to see a movie nowadays without some form of romantic subplot - often a mediocre one, too. No matter the genre, she falls for him or he falls for her or there’s some weird mutual pining and a lot of sexual tension. Or forced chemistry. Both, if you’re lucky. Regardless, take a moment to look at the characters who don’t get a love interest. Are they portrayed as the sad virgin? Made into a joke? Chances are their virginity becomes something to fix. Perhaps it’s even the main plot - à la American Pie. The main characters talk about virginity as if it’s something to be ashamed of. Or maybe that character is the villain; emotionless, friendless, and certainly void of any personality whatsoever. Though it is rare for these characters to

be stated as aromantic or asexual outright, the way lacking these feelings is portrayed forms a harmful opinion. That idea that you’re broken is only validated even more. Other people get this perception that not wanting sex means there’s something wrong with you. They might just laugh at you. They might turn you into a joke. Or, worst case scenario, they might take it upon themselves to ‘fix’ you. There are so many other, subtler ways that asexual people feel invalidated. One major example is during sex-ed classes. Well-meaning teachers come in to give probably the most awkward lesson of their lives, telling us all about sex and romance, how to do it properly and safely and how one day we’ll find the one. Occasionally it’s even mentioned that people who aren’t heterosexual exist! Which is fantastic, however, I’ve been told over and over that wanting sex is okay. Never once have I been told that not wanting sex is an option. And things happen daily that we’re powerless to do anything about. Sitting at lunch, hearing people - friends - talk about their dating lives and counting down until they inevitably turn to you. And then there’s the decision to make: To tell them or not to tell them. It’s always the same whether it’s with parents

or friends: Mentally preparing yourself for the fated questions you’ve answered so many times before. Often, it goes fine. An “Oh! That’s cool.” before turning back to whatever the discussion was beforehand, maybe a definition or two as well. But occasionally there are the people who either can’t get it, or refuse to. I don’t exactly want to go into a twenty-minute lesson followed up with a fifteen minute debate on whether or not my sexuality exists at the drop of a hat. Sometimes they’ll think it’s okay to ask extremely invasive and personal questions. And these are the people that make me feel like there’s something wrong with me. “How can you not like sex?” and “You’ll never fall in love? That’s so sad!” are just some examples, taken from personal experience. It’s not even just the heterosexual community. It’s all too common for us to be rejected by the LGBT+ community as well. Being told we’re “basically straight” isn’t unheard of, and our place among the community is frequently being questioned as well. We’re constantly being told to “make our own spaces” within the community, yet once we do, there’s an alarmingly large amount of people coming into those spaces to yell at us. About our sexuality. I’m not quite sure how that logic works, either. There’s this common idea that sex and romance are what make us human. That it’s something that defines our humanity. It’s reinforced again and again by society; eventually all of us will fall in love and of course that’s what everyone wants, right? This idea makes it so easy to sweep asexual and aromantic people under the rug, makes it so simple to call us broken and pretend we don’t exist. This idea is completely, utterly, entirely false. The sheer refusal of society to acknowledge our existence leads to us assigning ‘broken’ to ourselves for lack of anything better. It causes others to poke and prod at us, turning us into jokes or challenges to undertake. It’s far simpler to just carry on being invisible. But we’re here, damn it. We don’t need sex or romance to be happy. And we’re anything but broken. 2nd Place, 11/12 Prose

John Huth, Graphite on matte board

Kiera McCloskey, Linocut print

Swarm By Skye Vasey The dry soil cracked under my feet as I knelt down. My fingers found the scratched metal and unclipped the leash. My dog exploded into motion, streaking after the squirrel and away from me. Putting the leash in my pocket, I straightened back up and continued down the path. The weather was pleasant that day, not warm enough to be hot but not cool enough to be uncomfortable. My green jacket was tied around my waist and my baseball cap was on my head. He came back to me for a moment, to ensure he was free to explore, then disappeared again. I stopped for a moment to look at an interesting tree. Its bark was dryer than the dirt and it seemed to be hollow. It had something rusted that could have been part of a pot lid resting on one of its stumps. I looked, noticing nothing too unusual before turning away. It was then that I noticed the movement out of the corner of my eye. Something crawling on the ancient bark. I turned back and looked at where the movement had come from. A slit in the side of the tree that I had overlooked, seemed to be shifting. I came closer and realized that they were bees. They were coated on the inside of the slit, and seemed to be coming from the hollow in the tree. I noticed for the first time that they were also in the air around me, spinning lazy circles and not seeming to take notice of me. I panicked and back-pedaled away from the tree, away from the bees. I then noticed an even stronger buzzing coming from directly behind me. I turned and took in the swarm. The swarm was moving, seething with life, but staying on the branch. A blanket of living bees hung like a flag not a meter in front of me. They were moving and turning over on each other in an attempt to hide whatever was in the middle of the swarm from the world. It was a second queen, though I did not know it at the time. I turned and ran away from that place, calling for the dog as I went. I returned the next day, to find nothing. No sign of the swarm, and barely any activity at the tree. No seething mass, no low buzz. It was as if it had never happened at all. 3rd Place, 9/10 Prose

Jack Campbell, Graphite on paper

Megan McShane, Digital photograph

Lanna Zhang, Watercolour and pen on paper

Justin Griefahn, Pen and ink on paper

With Closed Eyes By Katie Little Fresh spring air drifts by me in soft gushes and I take a slow, deep whiff of dandelion puff and damp grass surrounding me. Every element of the fresh outdoors correlates with each other in a joyous song. The melody by the birds, the harmony by the children’s endless laughter and the percussion by the leaves and tree branches swaying in the wind. I close my eyes and take in the warm atmosphere and orchestra of nature and slowly open back my eyelids. The sun is blinding and mesmerizing in the clear blue sky. No moment is as precious as this; watching my baby sister crawl through the long grass as her pale skin radiates peachy pink. I analyze her smile from ear to ear while she picks up a dandelion and blows on it with all her

lung capacity, only to blow off a maximum of four pieces of fluff. I chuckle to myself and watch as confusion lingers on her face for a few seconds. She then throws it up into the air and watches the wind take the dandelion far into the clear distance. She looks at me, reaches out her hands and laughs. Nothing makes me as happy as her because she is the light in a dark room. She is my everything. Even though we have so little, I will not be phased by it as long as she is here. I stroke her curly light brown hair, lie back on our blanket in the grass and close my eyes once again. ~ I’m surrounded by darkness. How did I get here? One minute I was tucking her into her small, creaky bed, and the next minute I’m here. Meters of train tracks lead into a dark tunnel ahead of me and seem to slowly get smaller and smaller until all I see is one yellow light creeping towards me. My eyes go back to rest; closed tight and shaking with the rest of my body. As I sway back and forth on the tracks, the air becomes dark and crisp against my skin. My fingertips are frosted and hidden in the sleeves of my ratty black zip up, yet all I can feel is the heat in my face and the

tears staining my cheeks. The drops keep creeping out of my eyes and my hair becomes a mess from scratching my head in distress and running through the dark, wet city subway station. My hands run up and down my bruised arms to keep warm in the eerie night. I still don’t know how I got here. All I can think of are his disgusting stout hands touching her. How dare he pick on little girls? She is innocent and sweet and doesn’t have a hateful bone in her body and yet he thinks he can steal that away! I need an escape from all of this and I can’t stand her hating me the way he does. I know she resents me. She can’t stand the way I howl at him and hit him to stop touching her even though he returns the action to me. She yells at me too, so that I remember to take my meds. Who even cares if I miss a couple days? I’m taking care of her! My hands reach up the top of my head and I clench my hair as hard as I can, pulling it away from my scalp. The sounds are getting closer and closer… Chugga chugga chugga chugga. My mind fills with the sounds of him screaming, “you useless little girl, you don’t know a thing about life,” my sister sobbing and screaming for him to get away, dogs seem to bark right next to my ear even though I know they aren’t there… Chugga Chugga. I’m drowning in noise and my body shakes like never before! Suddenly there’s silence and darkness is all I see. White light flashes as I open my eyes and I see the hospital light shining straight into my eyes. The muffled sounds of voices fill the hallways and I lean back into the stiff bed and realize that I am here for her. She is the light and I am here to guide her the right way. No matter what I hear in my head, I must be there for her. I cannot be succumbed by my condition and I refuse to be known as the girl with bipolar disorder. I am not a useless little girl, I am a guardian. I am her guardian. I am hers. 3rd Place, 11/12 Prose

David Rivera Cruz, Digital photograph

Jessie Wootton, Coloured pencil, graphite and copic markers on matte board

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