In A Grove 2018

1

In A Grove 2018

Integrated Arts Journal

Author Name—Place / Name (Medium)

Alek Boisjoly—Dandelions (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 Emilia Voudouris, “Unravel”............................................................ 6 2 Amy Qian, “I’d Sink into Those Eyes”............................................... 59 3 Hanna Su, “Some Fires”................................................................... 12 st

nd rd

Grades 9/10 1 Nick Watts, “A Boy and a Girl”........................................................ 4 2 Jewelian Rodrigues, “Don’t Make a Sound”..................................... 23 3 Priah Ghoto, “You”.......................................................................... 17 st

nd rd

Prose Section

Grades 11/12 1 Ben Dunk, “Nonna’s Tea Parties”..................................................... 18 2 Claire Campbell, “The Iron Skirt: A Solution to the Horrors Plaguing our Young Men”........................................................... 28 3 Reyna Krocker, “Benefits of a Bamboo Broom in Bangkok”............. 35 3 Betsy Macdonnell, “Colours”........................................................... 41 st

nd

rd rd

Grades 9/10 1 Will Hicks, “Cliff Hanger”............................................................... 49 2 Enrica Geloso, “The Lonely and the Forgotten”................................ 10 3 Dylan Clement, “Water”.................................................................. 56 st

nd rd

Spoken Word Section

Grades 11/12 1 Alice Tierney Prindiville-Porto, “Can’t Hear”.................................... 60 1 Emilia Voudouris, “We’re Afraid of the Light”.................................. 55 st st

Grades 9/10 1 Dylan Clement, “I am Still a Child”................................................. 45 2 Xavian Panjwani, “This is Me”......................................................... 26 st

nd

Cover: Dasha Egudkina—Cell by Cell (Acrylic paint and silicone on canvas) Photography: Simon Spivey

A Boy and a Girl Let me tell you about a boy and a girl Boy would’ve given girl the world Girl had boy wrapped around her finger They used to have love, girl let it slip away, boy let it linger Boy thought about girl all the time right?

But girl only thought about him every lonely night Girl told boy all she wanted was some space Boy always told his feelings, but never to her face Really, girl didn’t want boy to leave her head, But boy stayed away, he would do anything she said, Boy wanted her since the relationship begun, Although she never showed it, girl knew he was the one, Girl was so scared from all her past romances, Boy had to have her given any circumstances,

4

Girl pushed boy away but she couldn’t live without him, Boy said he moved on but everyone would just doubt him A couple of his friends wanted girl to be theirs too, But boy didn’t stop, he knew their feelings weren’t true, No one could’ve loved girl more than boy did, But seeing girl fall for others almost destroyed him, She was the most perfect girl that he’s ever seen, He would’ve done anything to have her as his queen, Boy said he loved her and everyone believed it, He knew it was destiny but girl just didn’t see it, And when girl saw it, it was almost too late, Both of em so scared they almost lost their soulmate, By this time boy had almost given up, Stopped looking for his girl and only looking for his cup, Boy had decided he would give it one more shot, Now they in love imagine if he had stopped, Boy and girl now know there aren’t a pair of better lovers, Now that they’re together and they’re perfect for each other.

Nick Watts—1st Place, 9/10 Poetry

Robin Anstoetz—Two Versions (Acrylic paint and pen on canvas)

Unravel What is this sick obsession we have with hearing about hurt?

Yes, I understand talking about the cracks in my soul might help you understand yours better.

Yes, I understand talking about my aches might make you feel less alone.

You want me to talk about the deep stuff?

About the shadows that follow me around And the storms in my chest?

I’ll pour my twisted childhood stories into bloodstained pages, and call it art.

But what’s so special about that?

You’re just some ghost floating though memories I can tell you about pain I can tell you about earth shattering anxiety

6

and the way it gnaws at my edges But I can also tell you about peace I can tell you about the slowing of my heartbeat as my body presses itself into damp grass and blue skies I can describe the sun’s penetrating warmth on my skin Allow me to show you how my wounds healed how even the ugliest scars managed to fade Let me show you how I slowly unravel at the seams and walk through my memories, unafraid Let me uncover what I store away in the shelves of my ribcage Watch me bloom watch me heal Let me show you the way love wove itself Into my stitches Allow me to show you the beauty that remained, after all the times my world fell apart.

Emilia Voudouris—1st Place, 11/12 Poetry

Mitch Stedman—Splatter (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Claire Martin—A Different Point of View (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Kevin Gao—Self-portrait (Graphite on illustration board)

The Lonely and the Forgotten I could hear the rain outside. It was falling in big steady drops. I was able to feel the chill of the falling rain. I wish we could go outside, but they won’t even let me leave the room. I hear them outside my door some days. They tell stories of things I’ve done that I so clearly don’t remember doing. I could hear a woman crying and a man trying to comfort her, yet his voice was cold and distant. I didn’t know who they were, but I recognize the woman; she visited me often.

Occasionally the man would be with her. He just stood in the corner looking shattered as ever.

Today was a different day. From my room I could hear the man yelling at the woman. I knew they were a ways down the hall but the man was yelling so loud that I was able to make out every single word. He was yelling something about when I was right, when I was a normal girl, just like everyone else. He said he knew it was a mistake to raise me, he said he knew it was a mistake about a lot

10

of things. I don’t know what it was but that day something in my mind clicked and one long lost memory came flooding back, clogging my thoughts and flooding my vision.

I was able to remember the last time I was right. The last time I felt my world was right was a long, long time ago. I haven’t been happy in ages. Maybe that’s just part of growing up. From that day forward life just seemed so much harder. The world seemed crueler. Each day felt sad and gloomy until the day I could feel nothing at all. Even when the sun is shining bright I feel only the freezing chill of the wind. I hear it whisper horribly depressing things. Most days I can ignore the wind. I get myself to remember when the world was right.

I get myself to remember when life was easy. When life was fun. When life was happy. When life was normal, when I was normal.

Today is one of the bad days. The clouds are so dark no light can reach me. The rain is coming down so hard that I could drown myself if I went outside. The wind is howling, wiping things at my window, trying to drag me outside. My life was a lie. I could remember the warm embrace of the woman in the hall-my mother. I was able to remember a time when the man in the hall-my father- had

a non stop smile. He never raised his voice and was always so caring of me and my condition. I was his jewel, his precious, his everything. I now understand why he was so angry, he was lost. He had lost everything when my condition got worse.

I could remember the last embrace I ever got from my parents. It was real, it was deep, it was meant to never be forgotten. And I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that hug, I’d forgotten my parents, I’d forgotten who I was. The worst part was that by tomorrow I knew I would forget everything again.

Stumbling out of the flashback, I was welcomed by the corner in my cold, lonely prison I broke down crying. The last part of me shattering.

11

Enrica Geloso—2nd Place, 9/10 Prose

Some Fires Some fires are lonely, they are so quiet at night, they never talk.

At night some fires are beautiful, they light green the grove nearby.

Some fires are enthusiastic, they swing along with the wind,

12

inviting people; come around and dance together.

Some fires are irritable, they kindle their anger endlessly, in the forests, burning the trees and the lives.

However, most of the fires are happy they know the day when they die out, like the blooming fireworks in the dark, ultimately, floating down gorgeously as raindrops, as feathers.

Hanna Su—3rd Place, 11/12 Poetry

Clara Seitz—Collateral Wonder (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Sarah Shi—Your World (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Alice Tseng—Self-portrait (Graphite on illustration board)

Sarah Alexander—Tranquility (Digital photograph)

You you walking away wasn’t the hardest part not even close it was everything after trying to convince myself I deserved better like someone who would stay but I didn’t want better I wanted our car rides at 2 am I wanted the petty fights I wanted you the endless conversations about life after death

17

why we’re broken and the stars you made my world of grey into a world with all shades of every colour but when you left you took a piece of me I didn’t know I had until I no longer did and left me with an endless heartache

Priah Ghoto—3rd Place, 9/10 Poetry

Nonna’s Tea Parties Nonna always loved tea parties. She had collected more than a dozen tea pots and nearly a hundred little china tea cups with matching saucers. Her basement had a room full of shelves carefully packed with spoons, sugar bowls, creamers, cake stands, stacks of doilies, and tablecloths, many with themed designs anywhere from spring flowers to Halloween ghosts. She would hold tea parties for everything, her philosophy being: “If there is a reason to celebrate, then celebrate.”

There are pictures of me as a toddler in a little sailor’s uniform sipping a cup of tea. This time, she was celebrating tea parties. She had heard that some of our family friends had never attended a tea party before, and she saw it as her mission to provide everyone with the experience. On another occasion Nonna insisted that my mother wake up in the early hours of the day, dress in her fanciest attire to participate in a celebration of the Royal Wedding, despite

18

mom having to teach her kindergarten class only hours later.

The most regular of Nonna’s tea parties were the family Easter gatherings. Once a year the somewhat dysfunctional extended family gathered together and pretended to get along for the day. On Maundy/Holy Thursday, Nonna and her sisters would be found hauling boxes of china up from the basement, carefully setting up tables, and running out to the store for any last minute items. On Good Friday her turn of the century red brick house at the edge of Guelph would be a bustling and celebratory scene.

For many years, Easter was just another of Nonna’s run of the mill tea parties.

Everyone would arrive at the door and be greeted by Nonna, ever the hostess, dressed to the nines with her feathery Easter bonnet. One year, the tradition changed forever. My parents had decided that to surprise Nonna they would have the immediate family dress up to match Nonna’s regalia. She was thrilled.

She couldn’t stop gushing over my and my brother’s little hats and sweater vests. She was so excited she decided that future Easter teas were to be a fully costumed affair. The following year, not a single person entered the house sans an Easter bonnet.

Excited by the complete participation of the family, the party began to subtly change. Over the summer months, Nonna decided that we needed some activities for the coming year’s tea party! She sent each member of the family a package with a character and an explanation of the rules for a “Who Stole the Bunny Ears?” themed murder mystery. The game went off without a hitch, and that evening everyone agreed we needed to continue with the themes. What we couldn’t agree on was the themes themselves. All the ideas were thrown in an old cookie tin, and out was drawn the inaugural theme.

When the next Easter rolled around, the family arrived at the door dressed in the style of the 1950s. The whole house was made up like a diner and Nonna was dressed as June Cleaver. The Fonz and Sinatra were obviously in attendance. Out with the old and in with the new, gone was the traditional Easter feast, this year replaced by fry baskets and burger wrappers.

As the family grew, the tea parties moved from the small Queen Anne style home in Guelph to my families larger home out in the country on a farm. The first of the parties hosted at the new location was “1970s.” It was Nonna’s and her sisters and their husbands costume that sticks in my mind from that year.

They were the Village People, and Nonna wore a full leather police costume, complete with studded leather choker for their performance of YMCA. It seems unbelievable, but the themes only became more eccentric. For our “Redneck” theme, there were tug-of-wars, arm wrestling, and even toilet plunger toss. Some of the most inventive and complex costumes came from the year that was “Steampunk” themed, where magic meets industrial revolution era steam power. Easter was always a relief, where tensions melted away and we all had a chance to be ridiculous together.

In 2016, Easter tea changed forever. Nonna was diagnosed with Stage 4 stomach cancer. This particular kind of cancer was unresponsive to chemo, and had metastasised too widely to be operable.The theme that year was the opulent “Night at the Oscars”. Tuxes and dresses were rented and bought, and tea sets were ready. Nonna ought to have been in her glory, greeting and playing the

19

hostess, but when we arrived no one greeted us at the door. The walls were bare of the decorations we had come to expect, and although the tea sets were all set out, there were not so many doilies and the selection of pastry and candy were not up to Nonna’s standards. Nonna laid on the couch, in comfortable clothes, and as the party ramped up, she had to leave to upstairs to rest. The mood was not somber, but it wasn’t the same. Nonna was still there, but it wasn’t the same.

Nonna passed away in April of that year, just over a month from the initial diagnosis. Nonna had always said she didn’t want a funeral. Funerals were sad and final she said, and she wanted the end of her life to be a celebration of the life she had lived, not the death she had died.

We had a tea party, because Nonna always loved tea parties, and if there is a reason to celebrate, then celebrate. We rented out a cafe in Guelph for an

20

afternoon. There were little tables with tea sets on them dotting the room.

Nonna would have loved it. The family spent most of the day reminiscing about times they had with Nonna. Hundreds of people came by for a cup of tea and some biscuits. I heard dozens of stories from people I never knew telling stories about how they had met her, and how her wonderful craziness had made an impact on their lives. We still have Easter tea, hosted by Nonna’s sisters, but it’s not the same. We still have the old tea sets, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same without Nonna, because Nonna loved tea parties.

Ben Dunk—1st Place, 11/12 Prose

Paul Prindiville-Porto—Self-portrait (Graphite on illustration board)

22

AB Sallah—Eye to Eye (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Don’t Make a Sound Your blue eyes reflect the skies,

You take off your tie,

When a tornado blows by.

Close your eyes,

Your white lips, they turn blue,

Tilt your head up to the sky,

Like the feeling you try to hide inside

And you cry,

you.

And I don’t know the reasons why.

You look up, you look down,

You’re so down,

You’re looking all around,

Your heart’s ripped out,

Trying to find the reasons why,

But you don’t even make a sound,

You feel empty inside.

To the people passing by.

You take off your tie,

And I know you feel alone and can’t

Close your eyes,

escape it,

Tilt your head up to the sky,

And it’s cold, when you’re so isolated,

And you cry,

From the world, you just want

And I don’t know the reasons why.

someone to talk to, But, you’re scared of being surmised,

You’re so down,

For your dampened eyes.

Your heart’s ripped out, But you don’t even make a sound,

You take off your tie,

To the people passing by.

Close your eyes, Tilt your head up to the sky,

You seem fine,

And you cry,

But it’s a disguise,

And I don’t know the reasons why.

I want you to tell me why, You try so hard, to look strong,

You’re so down,

It’s what you’ve been doing all along.

Your heart’s ripped out,

I see you, all alone, Appearing so strong, but I know,

But you don’t even make a sound, To the people passing by.

Deep inside, your loneliness lies, Behind those vacant eyes.

Jewelian Rodrigues—2nd Place, 9/10 Poetry

23

Carlota Leal Munoz—Untitiled (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Yasen Yang—Untitiled (Acrylic paint on canvas)

This is Me This is me, 4 years ago My focus in school was hitting an all-time low I had brain challenges, I felt the pain Good memory was a skill I had yet to obtain My Mom tried many therapies and other interventions But I was still me with my challenges and imperfections But one day my parents learned about Arrowsmith school I could finally tackle my problems, my brain would rule So we moved to Canada our new homeland Where a brain change would form into something grand Thanks to the school, I was able to dig deeper into myself

26

Nothing could stop me from learning now, not myself, my doubts, or anybody else I could finally read and brief books, I could laugh and make jokes Social events became more fun for me as we chatted and drank cokes Arrowsmith School allowed me to transfer to a mainstream school, KMS And KMS then prepared me and lead me to attending LCS I could go on about how I have improved, I feel so much glee I have fought through my struggles, and today this is me

Xavian Panjwani—2nd Place, 9/10 Spoken Word

Izzy Hall—Reckless Waters (Acrylic paint on canvas)

The Iron Skirt: A Solution to The Horrors Plaguing our Young Men How, in this 21st century, are we still concerned with something as exasperating as women? Somehow, we, as a population, still allow females to have a say in society when they are clearly the myrmidon in the hierarchy of this new world. Lakefield College School, the epitome of the progressive society, with representation from 34 countries around the world and only a singular national anthem sung, has revolutionized assimilation. Yet, even now, female radicals plague our school community.

As the School Life Guide clearly states: “Skirts must be worn with the hem touching the knee at all times� (12), yet despite the vehement efforts of the staff of the school, there is, shockingly enough, not a single female student who wears their skirt to the knee. Now I would be the mythomane of this matter if I didn’t suggest what we were all thinking: get rid of women. Lakefield College School could be returned to its former glory of an all-boys school and eliminate

28

this absurdity entirely if we could make the simple switch to prohibit females from attending the school. But, as some of the women have protested, and board members have spoken against this idea, noting our head of school is female, it may not be entirely practical. Subsequently, I have a new, superior, solution to this affair: institute the floor length iron skirt.

The School Life Guide only states that the skirt worn must be grey or the school tartan, not what material it must be made of. So, I propose a special collaboration with City Welding Works, a Peterborough business, and Top Marks, to design and produce this marvelous invention in line with the School Life Guide. Not only would it be supporting local business, but it would allow for our female students to continue to attend the school and maintain the diversity we are so proud of. How you may ask, has this idea not been proposed before? And for that, there is a simple answer: a lack of creative minds. We are in the 21st century, my dear comrades, and if nothing else, we should be able to pursue our greatest dreams. And mine is for this issue of female radicals in regards to the skirt lengths to be addressed.

Although a seemingly exorbitant addition to the uniform, these skirts would

provide the female students with a newfound confidence they never thought possible and would allow the classroom and hallways to be a more focused space for our male students. The skirts, logistically speaking, will require a few adjustments to our school property. The bathrooms will have to be adjusted to allow for proper hygiene of the female students, and the desks will have to be changed to those of a standing fashion. As far as the installation, the new female students will arrive on campus in September, a few days before their male peers, to have the skirts welded onto their bodies. They will have residual bruising for a few days following and will be put through a three-day orientation to better understand how to care for their skirts and get adjusted to the new addition to their person. The girls will be taught how to cook and clean at no additional cost, in preparation for their futures.

Lakefield College School would be nothing without its traditions, and this would allow for another one to be added to the collection. On the day of graduation for our female students, the ceremony would consist entirely of sawing off the iron skirts, symbolizing their release into the world with a selfdefined modesty. These skirts will allow for a truly immersive experience for our female students by acting as a visual representation of our core value of trust on their bodies, through ensuring they act respectably while at the school. Another benefit of the skirts, is that we will have a larger student population for all four grades of the school as girls will now be forced to continue to grade 12 at LCS because their skirts can only be removed at their graduation. In addition, our staff will no longer have to be focused on the bodies of young girls as the need for dress coding will be no more and thus can then focus more intensively on their respective jobs.

There have been several individuals expressing distaste with this idea, suggesting rather feeble “fixes� to this momentous problem. Some have suggested perhaps we could let women dress how they choose and stop sexualizing every aspect of the female body. Others have suggested a rather perplexing idea of discussing rape culture with the student body and reminding students and staff alike that the way a person dresses does not insinuate

29

anything about them or their choices. The most ridiculous of the ideas that I have heard is that we stop dress coding girls altogether and start respecting them as equal individuals, ignoring their gender and choice of dress. These propositions are complete balderdash. What is this talk about “rape culture” and “gender equity”? These ideologies are proof of how corrupt our school culture has become with the infiltration of these female radicals. We must put a stop to this.

Disregarding the comfort of the female students, these skirts are infallible.

Made of iron alloy to avoid rusting, and painted with the school tartan, they are the best possible solution to this issue. I thank you for your attention and sincerely hope that you recognize the magnitude of this issue and the swiftness with which it must be addressed.

30

Claire Campbell—2nd Place, 11/12 Prose

Alli Duff—Never Let It Go (Acrylic paint, mica, and gold leaf on canvas)

Reyna Krocker—Ocean Eyes (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Ella Shanahan-Guay—Unfinished (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Benefits of a Bamboo Broom in Bangkok Although I now live in small town Ontario, when I was younger I lived with my family in Thailand. When I reflect back on my eight years there, so many memories of my previous life come to mind. I think of stepping outside and instantaneously sweating. I think of swimming every day in a lukewarm pool. I think of snakes in the yard, and running through flooded streets in my bare feet.

I think of my dad’s battle with the baby cobra.

When we lived in Thailand, my dad had this weird obsession with buying homemade brooms from a street vendor outside our gated community. Our front yard had a massive tree hanging over our long driveway, which constantly shed large yellow leaves. My father loved a good workout and considered sweeping the leaves away just what he needed. He went through many tactics to be the most efficient; they consisted mostly of searching for the perfect broom. One day he found it.

My father and I were biking to our favorite Thai food restaurant outside of our community. We stuck out like sore thumbs. With our blonde hair and blue eyes and my dad at 6’4 towering over the Thai people, we were quite the attraction.

They loved to pose for pictures under his muscly arms and grin with pride.

Our eyes were drawn to a man riding a bike. His bike was pulling a comically large cart filled with brooms. It was about three times the size of his little rusty bike. My father’s eyes lit up as he found the holy grail of brooms. He flagged the man down and inspected the brooms and decided this was it.

We arrived home sticky from the heat, and my dad flaunted his new broom with great joy to my mom and sister. As if he was in an infomercial he stated all the amazing qualities. Both the handle and brush fibers were made from soft bamboo. It could achieve the same bending sweep as a normal broom but was strong enough to really push the leaves, even when they were wet. My father’s whole face lit up as he described this amazing product.

After this day, my dad couldn’t wait for the leaves to fall once again so he could get down to work with his new broom. However, we quickly found a flaw: the

35

broom would only last for five to ten uses of my dad’s vigorous leaf sweeping workouts before it would break. This would cause us to hunt down the broom man again. It became a family joke; sometimes we would see the broom man every day, with his enormously large cart, and the biggest smile on his face.

However, other times he would be absent from the streets for weeks on end.

This would send my dad into panic; the fear of not having his beloved brooms would cause him to stock up a room full of his prized possessions. It seemed as though the man always disappeared when we were running low on the broom stash. This really aggravated my dad.

Living in a country such as Thailand came with many unwanted creatures such as deadly snakes. Our two dogs tempted the snakes. I imagined they saw them as succulent steaming cartoon hams with four legs and a tail. We got used to the threat of a snake bite. We learned not to let the fear consume us. We were

36

told: never reach into the bushes, be careful in the yard, and always wear shoes.

However, we were children, we rarely wore shoes, and were never careful in the yard.

It wasn’t uncommon to discover snakes on our property. We would call the guard that stood at the entrance to our neighborhood to come “take care of it.”

This large man in a pseudo military uniform arrived with nothing but a machete and a bag. He would step on the snake’s head, chop it off, put the decapitated snake in the bag, give us a smile, salute, and leave.

One ordinary day, Dad was outside in his glory sweeping a thick layer of wet leaves off our driveway. He was shirtless and sweaty as always. My sister, my mom, and I sat on the porch enjoying breakfast, when all of a sudden, my mom shrieked. We sprung to our feet and stood in momentary shock, as we watched a baby cobra slither closer to my father and his beloved bamboo broom. The cobra was in striking pose. Without thinking my dad struck the snake with force using his broom. My mom held us back, yelling all sorts of unhelpful questions at my dad: “Dave, what’s your plan?” and “Where’s its mother?” Our curiosity could not be contained, so we pushed through our mother’s trembling arms

to further investigate, which only caused her to become more panicked. She continued to bark questions at my dad while he was continually beating the snake with the broom. The snake refused to surrender. With my mom yelling and crying, my sister and I creeping closer with curiosity, the looming threat of a snake bite, and the snake refusing to die, something came over my father.

With frustration, he said to my mom, “Honey, I don’t know what my plan is!

I don’t know where his mother is, and no, he isn’t dead yet!” With one final whack the snake lay on the hot pavement, lifeless.

We returned to the porch. We all sat, staring at the driveway in silence. The fear of the snake’s mother returning for vengeance loomed. My father finally broke the silence, saying how thankful he was that he has his bamboo broom with him in the battle. To this day, we don’t understand why he thought that was the best tool to fight off a predator like a cobra. But he still stands by his choice of weapon.

Years later, my father talks about how he misses his brooms. Looking back, it wasn’t only the quality of the broom that made him love them so much. It reflected on the Thai people. The broom man rode around rural Thailand in 35-degree heat selling homemade bamboo brooms hoping to make a fraction of a dollar. If only the man knew how versatile his brooms had the potential to be.

Reyna Krocker—3rd Place, 11/12 Prose

37

Zach Rubin—Wandering (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Barry Wang—Is It? (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Caroline Chen—Gabe (Marker on paper)

Colours My palms were leaking sweat. The couch felt as though it was making a point to be uncomfortable. Its feeling mimicked that of the air. Tension beyond belief. The walls were painted a sunny, yellow, but today, all it reminded me of was urine. I avoided the sunken, tear stained eyes of my mother. Adults were talking, my school counselor, my teachers, but in the room it could’ve just been the two of us. No child ever expects to break their parent’s heart; I certainly never did. But here I was, in this stupid, yellow room, watching my Mom’s heart shatter into a million little pieces.

The reason for this heartbreak started months before. It was the winter of seventh grade, and life felt as though it was falling apart. My reflection in the mirror no longer became a friendly face, but someone I despised. I was a stranger to myself. I wanted to feel whole again, I wanted to be perfect. In a warped attempt to do this I gave my meals back to the toilet immediately after eating them. I was secretive, sneaking up to my third floor washroom, leaving the tap running to hide the heaving of my body. Weighing myself became a habit. I rejoiced in the small numbers, and I punished myself for the larger ones.

One day, the number was bigger than I had hoped for. In retrospect, this number was small, but then, it signified a failure. The world turned red. I was angry, I was upset. I wanted to take it out on someone, but instead I turned to myself. I pulled a tack out of my green and pink striped bulletin board and put it to my arm. I let the tip glide across my fair skin. The red of my mind externalized itself, leaving its traces on my arm. I felt relieved. That was all it took. I slipped on a hoodie, and went about my life.

I wish I could tell you that was the only tack to touch my skin. It would be a much happier story that way. I wish I could tell you that after that I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. That I stopped weighing myself, and the bathroom became just another room again. I wish that was the story I was telling you, but it isn’t. The trails left by tacks turned to scars. They told the stories of my internal pain along the outside of my body. My life was stained with red. It was the colour I saw on the insides of my eyes as tears streamed out. It was the

41

colour of the trail that led me to the toilet, time and time again. It was the colour of my arms, my thighs and my stomach. It was the colour of my faults. I kept my arms covered, always. As the days got warmer I didn’t let my skin see the sun, for with the sun would come my secrets. The sun meant vulnerability, and as far as I was concerned, vulnerability wasn’t an option. Until it was the only option.

I was sitting in class, wishing I could be anywhere else. My arms were sore, and I was tired after yet another sleepless night. My wish was granted. A friendly face appeared at the door of my classroom, a teacher I’d had two years prior. She asked me to come with her, and walked me to her classroom. Confused, I sat in her classroom, and let the innocence of the room wash over me. It seemed like a lifetime ago that I had sat at those desks. It was before puberty, before mean girls, before stupid boys, before all of this. It was a time I remembered fondly.

It was a time where the sun shone more days than it rained. It was a time when

42

I was happy. Her mouth formed words, but her eyes screamed the truth: “I know.”

That was it. My façade broke. I was no longer strong, or weak. I was no longer hiding, lying, covering the truth. For the first time in months I was forced to be real. I was forced to let someone into the warped inner workings of my mind.

The reality of it hit me like a wave. Suddenly the story came pouring out, the way it is right now on these very pages. My body crashed with every wave that hit, as I realized the consequences of my actions. You don’t truly realize the impact you have on other people until you hurt them.

The school was obligated to tell my parents. In less than twenty-four hours my secrets would be out in the open. My life was about to change, and I was terrified. No one ever expects to break their parent’s heart. But here I was, trying to figure out the best way to do it. Is there really any good way to break the heart of someone that loves you? Hours turned into minutes, minutes turned into seconds, and suddenly I was right outside that door. Outside of that room with its urine walls, its uncomfortable chairs, and the heartbreak I could no longer avoid. My hand felt its way to the door’s handle. With discomfort I turned it, and all that was left to do was push.

It is commonly said that you never forget your first heartbreak, but what is less acknowledged is that you never forget the first heart you break. Looking into the tear-stained eyes of my mother I knew that was true. How could I have hurt the one person who loves me more than anything else? The woman that carried me, that sung to me, that promised she’d love me more than the moon, the stars, and the universe. How could I have been that selfish? I locked eyes with my mother, both of us in tears. The truth no longer stood between us; instead, it encompassed us.

That was the first step to recovery. When a part of your life is hidden, it seems a lot less manageable. Despite my initial fears, the love and support of my family helped me to take that next step. My brothers’ innocence made me want to get better. My Mom’s unconditional love made me want to heal. And my Dad’s unwavering acceptance, the way he would kiss my broken arms before bed, made me want to love myself.

Recovery isn’t linear. It mimics the surface of the earth, rising and falling at the appropriate times. Some days there are ten steps backward, and one step forward. Other days there are ten steps forward and one step back. One day isn’t more important than the other; in both days there are steps forward.

Recovery is turmoil and triumph. It’s acceptance and anger. It is strength caused by weakness. It is the ability to move on.

Red is no longer the colour of my life. The once hellishly raised grooves of my arm are now merely indents. They no longer define my body, or my soul. But they have sunk into my skin, they are a part of me and will always be. The lines once red, are now white. The colour of fresh starts.

Betsy Macdonnell—3rd Place, 11/12 Prose

43

Ella Shanahan-Guay—Name (Acrylic paint, string, and marker on wood)

I am Still a Child I am 14 years old, sitting on the floor of a music practice room in my high school talking to my best friend. All emotional and sad and scared. I had driven myself to a place of ignorance and bliss.

I am 11 years old, the first time I had a crush, old I know. But it was a feeling that I remember to this day. The feeling of my stomach being on fire from the butterflies that you had placed there. When I looked into your light green eyes, I didn’t see the friend I’d known since the first grade. I didn’t see the kid that I played soccer with outside at recess. All I could see was the day you grabbed my hand for the first time, all I could see was the first love of my young life. All I could see was someone who made me happy.

I am 6 years old, the first time someone said “That’s so gay,” in front of me. He was the father of my best friend.

I am 9 years old, when my grandfather told me “je préférerais mourir que d’avoir un de mes petits-enfants être un flamboyant enfer.”

I am 8 years old, the first time my church had a boy stand in front of the pastor throw words of hate and scripture down his throat, as he “saved him” with the words of God. It was my honour to be at your funeral, Alexander. I miss your kind eyes and the way you drew sunflowers on your suit jackets. I miss the way you would always spit out the “body of Christ” and would pretend to be burning if the holy water hit you. I miss you.

I am 12 years old, the first time I wanted to die.

I am 13, the first time I say it aloud and tried to follow my words through.

I am 14, the first time I hear the word “fag” used with the intention of hurting someone.

I was 11 years old the first time I fell in love. I was 11 years old the first time I wasn’t scared to be in love. I was 11 years old the first time I knew what it meant to want someone in your life, the way you want your family.

I was 11 years old the first time my love was called wrong, I was 11 years old

45

when the boys I called my friends, shoved rocks into my mouth, a memory I do not have the luxury of forgetting so easily because every time I eat, every time I speak my tongue brushes the scar that reminds me that I am broken.

For years I buried those feeling deep inside of me. The feelings of nonnormality that drove me to the unbearably hurt. So deep, I forgot they were even there at all.

I am 14 years old, sitting on the floor of a music practice room in my high school talking to my best friend. It is late and I know it is dark outside without needing to see look through a window. My face feels like it’s on fire with the heat of a thousand suns. The fear of her reaction has been weighing down on me like the weight of the world on my shoulders since the feelings rose up. I look down at my hands and she stops talking. She asks if I’m ok, and my silence is a good enough answer for her. Well, here goes nothing.

Dylan Clement—1st Place, 9/10 Spoken Word

Garth Yuen—I A.M. (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Chloe Traviss—Mina (Mixed media on paper)

Cliff Hanger I have my eyes fixated on the path in front of me as we slowly venture up the precarious cliff edge. It is a clear blue day with a light breeze. The tall grass sways in the wind and the rocks appear to glisten in the sun’s delightful rays.

All that can be heard is the rustling of the pine trees that lie beyond us. I look to the right and see the horizon line gradually disappearing behind a layer of land. My arms begin to tingle in fear and my hair begins to rise on my arms.

There is a line of about 15 boys in front of me with every one of them gleaming in excitement.

“Hey,” I whisper to Sam in front of me. He looks back, awaiting a question.

“You ready?” I ask.

“You bet!” He snaps back. “This is going to be so much fun!” Knowing him inside and out, I look at his eyes and instantly know they speak the truth. We continue to climb, admiring northern Ontario in all of its beauty until I arrive at our destination: The Cape. I see everyone in front of me stripping themselves of their bags and taking off their shoes. Sam looks back to me, his black hair blowing in his face from the breeze.

“It’s time,” He says. I gaze at him in hesitation, only until I hear a deafening shout from someone in front of me.

“Let’s do this! Who jumps first?” They say.

Sam was right. It is time. There is no turning back now.

My fear of falling began on a frigid February afternoon in Toronto. It was around 2009 so I was pretty young, eight to be precise.

My swimming lessons are finished in the public pool and we are finally allowed to take the plunge off of the 5 metre high dive. I quickly rush over to try out the jump myself, with Sam quickly catching up to me.

“HEY, NO RUNNING!” I hear from an instructor. We slow down, but by now we have already reached the platform. I look at it in awe. It didn’t appear to look very high to me. Putting one foot on the first step, Sam said, “You really want to do this?” I look at him. His wet hair almost covers his eyes.

49

“Yup,” I say, and then begin to walk up the stairs. The steps are rough on my bare feet, presumably to prevent me from slipping. However, with every step I take, I begin to feel another layer of regret pushing down on me. When I reach the top, I carefully peer over the ledge. The pool is miles below me. I jerk myself back up and see Sam behind me.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say.

“All you need to do is stand on the edge, put one leg in front of you and fall,” Sam replies, as if he had done it before. I nod and place my feet on the edge of the platform. I see the entire pool and staree at the oblivious swimmers in the waters below me. My feet are glued together, but I slowly manage to poke my foot out in front of me. Then, suddenly, I lean forward. My body feels weightless as I plunge toward the pool. It was as if time was slowed to the beat of my heart.

Then…

BANG!

50

I slap onto the surface of the water on my belly. Pain sears through my body and stabs my insides.

That was all I remembered.

I replay the memory in my head, realizing that I never should have gone to summer camp if they were forcing us to jump off 10 metre cliffs. To my horror, I can already see people launch themselves into the water, screaming in high pitched squeaks. It was as if I was witnessing people jump into the void, jumping into their own fate.

I glance over at Sam, who is conveniently taking his shoes off.

“So… you go first?” He asks. I could tell he wanted me to. Without saying a word, I slide in front of him and into a line that is rapidly shortening. With every step I feel my heart pump faster and faster. I stare at the grass, still swaying in the wind and wonder if this is to be my last vision of planet earth. Five people in front of me, now four, three, two. I look behind me to see Sam jumping up and down with excitement. The last person in front of me stands on the edge of the cliff and leans into oblivion. He screams a deafening cry which slowly fades

away until I hear a SPLASH come from below.

I step up onto the cliff edge and look down to the water below. It was clear blue, just like the sky. My hands shake in fear.

“Hey Will,” I hear from behind me. “I’ll go first this time.” I hesitate. Sam walks up from behind me and puts an arm on my shoulder. “Just try and do what I do,” He says. “Legs straight and body straight. You’ll be absolutely fine! Try to jump like a pencil.” I nod. Then, Sam jumps off the cliff. I stare at his body until he pummels beneath the waves. I stare at the water until a head bobs up to the surface. It was Sam and he was alive. His eyes spot mine and he gives me a thumbs up.

It is finally my turn. Jump like a pencil, jump like a pencil, I repeat to myself. I crouch down and then push off with my legs. I had jumped off the edge of the cliff. I tuck my arms into my chest and feel the wind in my face as I accelerate towards the water. My legs straighten and my neck stiffens. Breathing in, I take in as much air as possible for my last breath. My eyes close. ...

The sound of the splash is muffled and in an instant I am deep underwater. My eyes open to see the sunlight glistening from the ripples in the waves above me. I swim to the surface. My head emerges above the water and I take a deep breath in. I am still alive, not even in pain for that matter. I had just done what I didn’t think I would ever do: Jump off a cliff. Sam meets me in the water.

“You’ve done it!” He exclaims. “How did it feel?” I smile. “Nothing like I thought it would. It was actually… amazing!” We high-five each other and swim towards the shore. As soon as I stand up I give Sam a hug. “Thanks,” I say. He looks quite surprised at first, but then his grasp tightens around me. “I’m always here for you,” He replies.

The memory that had haunted me for years has finally diminished. This felt like a new chapter in my life. One less thing to fear.

Why had I been waiting this long? I think to myself. This long to not have jumped off a cliff?

Will Hicks—1st Place, 9/10 Prose

51

Kiera McCloskey—Meadow (Digital Photograph)

Scott Doggett—Taping (Digital Photograph)

Sophie Milburn—Filament (Digital photograph)

We’re Afraid of the Light We’re afraid of the light we’re afraid that every part of us will become visible every crack every bump every particle we’re afraid that the light will illuminate our darkness a collision much too frightening to think about we hide things here things we forget about memories jagged words that pierce into skin bruises that never fade scars that never heal we’re afraid that in the light we won’t be able to blind ourselves but mostly we are afraid that we will love the things we hate we will fall in love with the way our scars sparkle in the light and the way those painful memories inspire us we’re afraid that we will fall in love with the rainbows in our bruises we’re afraid that we will fall in love with ourselves with all the life we have inside of us for we know once we love it it will be painful to lose like the beginning of every relationship, we fear that once we have what we lust for we won’t want it anymore We’re afraid of being empty of having nothing to hide we’re afraid of the mystery being gone and so our vicious cycle goes on rolling between darkness and light a game of tug-a-war with no winner

Emilia Voudouris—1st Place, 11/12 Spoken Word

55

Water I took a deep breath and slip down, immersing my head in the warm water along with the rest of my body. I feel the water overtake the top of my head as I bring my face under it. I’m crying, I thought as I opened my eyes to stare through the soapy sting of the water.

I feel like I’m crying, so I must be crying, but it’s impossible to tell because I’m underwater.

Curiously enough, it was almost as if I felt too depressed to cry. Too hurt. Too broken. It felt as if I had the lost the part of myself that knew how to cry, the part that knew how to feel, the part that knew how to break down. It felt as though I had lost the ability to feel the biggest human emotion that can be felt. Sadness.

It felt as if I was past the point of sadness and had moved myself to a bigger, badder feeling. A feeling I didn’t yet know how to describe. A feeling that cannot be explained through words. It is something I can only explain through action

56

and time.

Time being the one that would be the easiest to use to explain my feelings of drowning in my own sorrow.

Dylan Clement—3rd Place, 9/10 Prose

Dessa Douglas—There’s No Self-Portrait of Me Without You (Acrylic paint on canvas)

Sophie Peters—Look Inside (Acrylic paint on canvas)

I’d Sink into Those Eyes I’d sink into those eyes, My soul drifts along, widens a placid life Patient, as the serene sky; Tender and refined, healing the harm Unsophisticated, as the harmonious lullaby; They fill the vacancy inside, brightening the night Invigorating, as the reviving light; Melting into the warmth, branded on my heart Blazing, as the scorching sunshine; Like enchanted spray, lost into the distance Profound, as the ocean tide;

59

Gaze, when we have forgotten the time Heaven sighs -The flashing eyes I see the whole world when you are mine.

Amy Qian—2nd Place, 11/12 Poetry

Can’t Hear She aches.

Her pain engulfs her while she stands there in the hall staring at the linoleum floor between two fluorescent coloured bulletin boards. Filled to the brim with salt water her eye realizes a single tear. She cries for others, but not herself.

She hears, “I was the last person he talked to before he killed himself. Maybe it’s my fault.”

Late into the night, she worries that the loss of her love will cause her friend’s scars to bleed again. His pain has yet to depart for the afterlife and has become her ghost. And nourishment will disappear from her list of priorities and her friend will wither away She listens to, “He raped her.”

Enraged with sadness she remains silent when the crowd erupts in applause for

60

him. She is full of sorrow that she could not smash this chunk of the patriarchy to smithereens in time. And truly livid that her fellow sister is forced to live in silence.

She hears the N-word, the F-word, the P-word.

Unable to cope with the feeling of being the sole voice against the establishment, she numbs herself. Born with skin that tells her to listen, a desire for love that fuels a revolution, and a body that is a bloody mother ferocious miracle.

She listens to, “She has not kept anything down all week.”

At dinner, she eats an extra slice of bread for her. Cause maybe in some alternative universe she can eat enough for her.

Standing in the hallway, she digs her nails into the palms of her hands trying to contain the combustion that has erupted in her head. She can’t hear her breathing. She can’t hear the voices that are trying to assure her that it will be okay. She can’t hear her heart pumping her juice of life through arteries carotid with pain. She can’t hear.

Alice Tierney Prindiville-Porto—1st Place, 11/12 Spoken Word

Mikayla Stoodley—Untitled (Mixed media on paper)

Tsubasa Yamawaki—Take a Step Forward (Acrylic paint and tissue paper on canvas)

Niah Graham—Hello Darling (Acrylic paint on canvas)

64

The Arts at

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