The Joshua Weinzweig Review of Writing 2022-2023

Joshua was born in Toronto in 1973 and enrolled at Pickering College in Grade Eight. He spent the next five years as a student at PC. At first he didn’t like it here, but—after a time—he began to thrive. He made many friends and soon excelled at his schoolwork. He was Chair of his House, made the Headmaster’s List on several occasions, and learned to love Chaucer and Shakespeare. Josh cultivated a love of language, composing short stories and poems that leapt out of his rich imagination.

As ever, Pickering College would like to thank Daniel Weinzweig for his generous support, without whom the Joshua Weinzweig Creative Writing Program would not be possible.

THE JOSHUA WEINZWEIG MEMORIAL LITERARY AWARDS & THE REVIEW OF WRITING

Students whose work is published in Pickering College’s Review of Writing are eligible to win the Joshua Weinzweig Literary Awards. At the end of each school year, the English Department selects three winners from each grade: one for distinction in prose fiction; one for distinction in poetry; and one for its creative literary merit, regardless of genre. Notably, the winner in each category is acknowledged in this publication, receives a certificate of acknowledgement, and is rewarded a small, cash prize.

The process: all students submit writing to their English classroom teacher who considers its literary merit and degree of creative and critical thinking. After considering the quality of the submission, the English classroom teacher may forward it to the Director of the Joshua Weinzweig Creative Writing Program. The key objective is to provide a forum for Middle and Senior School Pickering College students to publish their writing. Editors try to establish a fair balance between providing opportunity to young writers and a reasonably high degree of quality for readers.

At Commencement, one Graduate is chosen to receive the Joshua Weinzweig Memorial Literary Award. This student has demonstrated the highest quality of creative writing among his or her peer group, distinguishing him or herself through his or her dedication to the craft of writing and artful use of language.

The winner of the Joshua Weinzweig Memorial Literary Award for 2022-2023 is Victoria Zalewski. This award is an important and prestigious part of the Joshua Weinzweig Literary Program at Pickering College. The Program’s initiatives are graciously supported by an endowment to our school from Daniel Weinzweig. Victoria has distinguished herself through her dedication to the craft of writing and artful use of language within poetry, short fiction and script-writing. Victoria’s writing has been capturing the attention of audiences for years and will undoubtedly continue to do so in the years to come. She has an impressive ability to develop authentically flawed characters, which you will enjoy getting to know as you read her play, The End is, Like, Literally Night. Her genuine dialogue makes readers feel like they are listening to a conversation between people they have known for years. Victoria has an aptitude for using imagery to craft bleak or beautiful snapshots of our world. While Victoria is a naturally gifted writer, she hones her work through a rigorous process of drafting, revising and redrafting, again and again, dedicating as much time as it takes to get that story, script, profile piece or poem just right. While Victoria is a multi-talented writer, her strength lies in shaping stories through which readers will connect with her characters, not through dramatic, action-filled conflicts but through beautifully mundane, everyday moments. Her poem about that Drab Suburban Neighbourhood reminds us that there is something comforting about these familiar spaces that may not be so bad. As you read Victoria’s short fiction Your Boots, you will find yourself unexpectedly identifying with the protagonist who is debating her potential new purchase. If you haven’t had the pleasure of reading any of Victoria’s work, you’re in for a treat as your read through her writing in this year’s edition of The Review of Writing. When you are done and find yourself looking for more writing by Victoria (which, believe me, you will), I encourage you to pick up any Review of Writing anthology from the last four years, to find more samples of her brilliant work.

Zalewski, 2022-2023 Winner of the Joshua Weinzweig Memorial Literary Award

DRAB SUBURBAN NEIGHBOURHOOD

by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

Sameness is a well-loved hymn—

Echoing through same houses. By same families. In same voices.

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

The dogs never shut up. Barking at: The moon.

The sun.

The innocent birds.

Wailing in weathered, worn-out voices Even they are tired of.

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood Winter Never Ends.

Freezing hands.

Freezing hearts. Gray snow glued to gray driveways:

Like the Drab Suburban Party Guests

Gluing stained lips to wine glasses— Toddlers refusing to go to bed.

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

Drab Suburban Kids gaze into the woods, Running

Toward the peering eyes.

Toward the clawing hands.

Willing them to reach forward. Daring something to happen.

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

Drab Suburban Girl exists. Until she doesn’t.

She goes far, far away: Where the rolling hills make you dizzy

Where the sun beams upon the towns Where stories are meant to be written

And yet . .

The pasta tastes bland

Without neon orange food dye, And houses eons old

Don’t compare to one good strip mall, And the cigarette-stained air is a choking reminder Of how easy it is to breathe at home.

Because in Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

Tenderly crafted scents waft out kitchens, Searing themselves into the hearts of strangers On the cold days.

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

Drab Suburban Kids think up dreams so big They tie them to cinder blocks And hide them, Bulging, Under the covers.

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

Warm lights illuminate windows: The glowing eyes of a mother singing her child to sleep— A stifling hymn.

A comforting hymn.

In Drab Suburban Neighbourhood

Life is anything but.

YOUR BOOTS

by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

“I hate my boots.”

“Your boots?”

“Yeah, these boots,” you say again. “I just don’t like them at all.” Donna watches your legs extend from their crisscrossed position on the floor, the cold wrapping its fingers around your inner thighs. It is cool where you are both sitting, behind the main counter. The retail store is all beige, all smooth surfaces, all too poorly insulated for winter in Ontario. You have a theory the heating relies on a system bees use. The vibration of many footsteps, the exhalation of many bodies, warming the store and the floor you sit on. But it is 10:00 on a Tuesday. You have tagged millions of shirts, counted all the scuff marks on the floor, all without interruption. Without customers there is little heat. Without customers, linoleum steals warmth from your butt instead.

“Aww, they’re not that bad.” Donna squints at your feet, as if the problem is not spelled out in bolded English. You pull at the sole of the left boot, and the top half peels back. Glue struggles to hold on to rubber. Donna struggles not to smile. “The colour, though, it’s really nice. I like these kinds of maroon shades.”

“It would be nice, but I can hardly see the colour. I can’t get this stupid salt off.” You scratch at a white patch of shoe with your nail. Road salt dusts off like dandruff. The thing is, you liked these boots. Not loved, but like is good enough, most of the time. You bought them at Winners when they were still a bold maroon. Fuzzy. Relatively cheap and relatively decent. But now, road salt encrusts the soles. The material is matted, stiff—the result of many cars rushing past your bus stop, summoning walls of blackened slush from beyond the curb and onto your boots. All you do is stand there, every morning, as snow and mud are embedded forever. All you do is stare, as your feet prune inside wet socks. “It’s cold.”

“Right?” Donna shivers.

“Oh, no, I meant the boots. The bus stop is ten minutes walking, and normally that’s, like, fine. I’ll walk. But when it’s slushy?”

“Mm, I know what you mean.”

“I can feel ice chunks beneath my socks. Every day, I come home, and my feet are numb. I shake them out just to walk to the kitchen.”

“Maybe you could—oh, do you need help?” Donna cranes her head around the counter. A girl stands near a rack of dresses, biting her lips, shifting her eyes—like a lemur staring into the cameras of a documentary crew.

It is only then, when Donna goes to help the girl, that you notice how little there is to notice. How boring this is. Your ears strain for a sound other than the hum of fluorescent lights. Your spine burns in the want to uncurl and stand. Your eyes flit around the room, bouncing off silver clothing racks and beige walls, starved for colour. Craving sour, shocking yellows.

Craving rich, all-encompassing blues. When they were still new, you’d stare at the boots—a shameless maroon inside a silver and beige retail store. But now, the colour is diluted. Washed out by salt, snow, and by the store itself, which has sunk its teeth into the material. Sucked them pale. It is only then, when Donna goes to help the girl, that you notice how natural these boots look in the store. How well they have faded into monotony.

YOUR BOOTS

by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

“I’m gonna buy new boots,” you say, already scrolling through an online store when Donna sits back down.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. These ones aren’t good anymore.”

You see yourself, first, in these red high heels. Not kitten heels. Six inches. Slick red, the colour of the sports car you would buy, just to match. They click across polished floors, like tiny droplets of water breaking through the surface of a lake, dripping all the way down a corridor. Past held breaths. Past office doors. Into a conference room, and then, clicking against the floor as you demand for better heating of the retail store.

You see yourself in white combat boots. Smoke rolls over the laces in a barely lit room. Fake leather absorbs, embraces, an amalgamation of sweat, of smoke, of Ariana Grande Cloud perfume. These boots flash in and out of reality under pulsing lights and pulsing music. These boots are not one colour, but all of them at once.

You see yourself in bedazzled flip flops. Bedazzled tastefully, of course, not like from a discount shoe store, but from Paris Hilton’s closet. You wear just flip flops, in a climate where you can wear just flip flops. Somewhere nice. Somewhere warm. Somewhere where sweat soaks through your tank top. Where the flip flops stand on warm stone paths. Where stone paths end in destinations other than empty retail stores.

Donna has a talent for hemming, hawing, like a saw moving through wood. She exercises this talent now.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Donna’s eyes are stuck to the water-spotted ceiling, “I don’t know.”

“C’mon, what?”

“I guess, well…Nothing’s really on sale.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe it’s not the time of year or something, but everything’s full price.”

“I guess I wasn’t looking at it.”

“Yeah, but you see what I mean, right?

“Yeah, no, I see what you mean. Like right now I’d buy shoes, they’d need to be cheap—”

“Exactly. And then they’d break just as easily as these ones.”

“Yeah, it’d almost be…irresponsible to get new ones? If they could just break.”

“That’s what I was thinking. And shipping is always too high—”

“But in store prices are higher—”

“And there’s only one month left of winter.”

“Exactly.”

“Why would I accept the risk of buying new shoes if it’s almost the end of winter?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe I’ll wait. Just until the end of winter.”

THE END IS, LIKE, LITERALLY NIGH a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

CAST OF CHARACTERS

HEIDI: A 17-year-old girl looking for stability. Looking for something to follow. Sweet, loyal, smarter than she thinks.

DAHLIA: An 18-year-old girl with grandiose visions of herself, her intelligence, and of her future with Heidi.

JORDAN: An 18-year-old city girl looking for a new path. Okay with making mistakes. At peace with the journey. Is sarcastic but knows when not to be. This role could be played by any gender.

GAS STATION EMPLOYEE: A monotone guy waiting by the cash register, waiting for his shift to end. His face barely expresses emotion. Also can be any gender.

SCENE

The scene is set in a forlorn gas station in Ontario, where disarray reigns supreme. The atmosphere is thick with mustiness and neglect, and the sparse aisles are strewn with an array of random items haphazardly dropped from the shelves. Here and there, a neglected rack of jewelry or a precariouslybalanced bookstand serve as sparse props in this forlorn place. Somewhere in the corner stands a lone counter, featuring a weathered cash register, isolated in the cluttered environment. Just enough room on either side for someone to stand. Only needed for a few shots.

TIME

April 2023. Sometime mid-afternoon, on a weekday.

NOTE TO DIRECTOR

Heidi, near the beginning of the play, will look around, as if in search of Dahlia. As she becomes more immersed in the conversation with Jordan, her attention solidifies onto her. Also, maybe use a green screen for the gas station. If needed, it can be filmed in the gas station parking lot instead, and Dahlia could be inside buying more Twizzlers. Actions would just need to be changed to walking outside instead of inside the gas station.

AT RISE: (We open onto a barren gas station. JORDAN stands near racks of assorted jewelry, a pair of sunglasses with the tags on them on her head, and a pair over her eyes. The focus is on her for a few moments, before we see HEIDI, who sneaks, a few steps at a time, behind JORDAN. She holds a bag of black Twizzlers in her left hand and twists the handle of a tote bag with the other. She hesitates.)

THE END

IS, LIKE, LITERALLY NIGH

a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

HEIDI

Hi.

(JORDAN turns toward the sound, holding a pair of earrings as one brandishs a cross. Shot is both girls.)

JORDAN

(frazzled, startled)

Omigod, dude, you are so close to me! I felt, like, your breath, like, ghost over my neck. I should not have to be saying that right now.

HEIDI

(hands in front of her, trying to calm JORDAN down)

I’m sorry! Really sorry. I just…you want candy? Twizzlers.

(HEIDI gestures toward the bag. A moment passes.)

JORDAN

No. Thanks.

(JORDAN turns around purposefully. HEIDI hesitates.)

Mmmh.

(sighing and turning back around) What.

HEIDI

JORDAN

HEIDI

Sorry, this is kind of awkward. First day on the job, you know? I guess…are you…lost in life?

(A beat passes.)

JORDAN

(in realization, eyebrows raised)

Oh. Oh! You’re one of those—sorry, I’m not really looking for a saviour right now.

HEIDI

What? Oh, that’s not what I meant! That’s so funny you thought I meant that! No, I was just wondering,

THE END IS, LIKE, LITERALLY NIGH a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

if you wanted to join the community?

(Another beat passes.)

The community…

JORDAN

HEIDI

(rambling)

Omigod, you don’t even know. So, basically, the world is ending. I don’t know exactly how or when but I know it’ll be, like, fiery and humid and gross? And, my friend Dahlia—she’s with the cashier—she’s, like, crazy smart. She predicted all of it. So we’re heading west to get a couple girlfriends, a couple guy friends, to ride out the end of times. With Dahlia’s guidance. She’s, like, all-knowing.

(JORDAN looks at HEIDI. JORDAN smiles.)

Wow. So, you’re in a cult.

JORDAN

HEIDI

You know, we’re actually a community? Ugh. I’m not explaining it right. Dahlia explains it right.

(Cut to GAS STATION EMPLOYEE behind the cash register.)

GAS STATION EMPLOYEE

(monotone, no visible emotion in face)

Gas is one dollar and seventy-three cents per litre.

(Camera cuts to DAHLIA on the other side.)

DAHLIA

(arms gesticulating, stressed out)

C’mon man! We’re not strangers. I’ve been staring into those baby blues too long for us to be strangers! Look. If you help me out, you won’t just be rewarded. You’ll be rewarded.

(DAHLIA points toward the sky. Camera cuts to GAS STATION EMPLOYEE, staring blankly. He blinks.)

GAS STATION EMPLOYEE

Gas is one dollar and seventy-three cents per litre.

THE END IS, LIKE, LITERALLY NIGH

a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

(The scene cuts back to HEIDI. The camera follows her taking a thin book out of her bag, before focusing on the two girls. She speaks robotically, unnaturally.)

HEIDI

(reading the book)

Okay, lemme like, restart. Hello Jordan. I will look you in the eye to establish trust.

(HEIDI pauses and looks up into JORDAN’s sunglasses for two seconds. She looks back down.)

I am now positioning my body language toward you in an open and appealing manner.

JORDAN

(snatching the book and reading the cover) Manipulation for Dummies?

HEIDI

Ooooh, that word. There is negativity surrounding that word. Persuasion encapsulates what I’m doing better, I think.

JORDAN

(pauses for a moment, then smiles) Okay. So…okay. It’s a community, not a cult?

HEIDI Yes.

JORDAN

And you’re persuading me to join.

Of course.

HEIDI

JORDAN

(smiling, pushing up her sunglasses. Connection forms) Okay. Great. I’m Jordan.

HEIDI

(smiling)

I’m Heidi.

(A few beats pass. Shot is them facing one another.)

THE END IS, LIKE, LITERALLY NIGH

a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

JORDAN

So. Are you gonna actually persuade me? So far all I know is that you offer candy really creepily to people. Gross candy.

HEIDI

Okay, untrue. Red Twizzlers go kinda hard.

(JORDAN laughs. HEIDI laughs.)

JORDAN

Stop avoiding the question! It doesn’t have to be polished. Just, why do I wanna spend the end of times with you? Go.

(HEIDI and JORDAN stare, each studying the other. HEIDI breaks eye contact and walks forward through an aisle. JORDAN sidles beside her. They weave in and out of aisles throughout the scene, picking up items, window shopping.)

HEIDI

Okay. So, do you ever feel lost?

JORDAN

(picks up phone charger box, waves it at HEIDI)

We live in the digital age, Heidi. Kinda hard to get lost.

(puts down phone charge box on another shelf)

HEIDI

(smiling)

No! Like, life lost. When someone asks you where you’re gonna be in ten years, and you feel this emptiness open in your stomach. Like a hole or something.

JORDAN

I mean kinda, yeah. Like, I know what you mean.

HEIDI

Right. The community, it’s a chance to skip that step. You won’t be lost because you’re never gonna have to go looking. We can be there forever and never have to worry about drawing our own paths. Until the world ends, obviously.

THE END IS, LIKE, LITERALLY NIGH

a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

JORDAN

Eh, I don’t know.

(HEIDI stops. The camera cuts to her foreboding face.)

HEIDI

You doubt, but it will end. Dahlia, like, foretold it.

JORDAN

(continuing to walk, camera zoomed out again) No, no, it’s just, I don’t know if I want to skip that step.

HEIDI

(crunches a stray wrapper under her shoe before catching up to JORDAN. Eyebrows furrowed) Actually? Why?

JORDAN

Like…okay. If you always travel down the same paths, you’ll never find out how amazing the other paths can look.

HEIDI

That was so. Cheesy.

JORDAN

(throws back head and smiles) Stop! Okay, look.

(stops walking. She stares into HEIDI’s soul)

I’m going west. To see my grandpa’s farm. Three months ago, I was lost. The city’s expensive, I’m not going to uni, and I dunno. I felt that hole in my stomach. For a while? Yeah. It sucked. But then my grandpa got on me about visiting him, and I thought about how I’ve never left Toronto.

(holds out hands into circle shape for rest of line) And I thought, maybe the hole is farm-shaped.

HEIDI

(starts strolling again, avoiding eye contact)

But what if it’s not? And what if it’s hard?

JORDAN

Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’ll be hard.

THE

END

IS, LIKE, LITERALLY

NIGH a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

I dunno. That’s crazy. To just go for it like that.

HEIDI

JORDAN

Dude. You’re heading ambiguously west to start a cult.

HEIDI A community.

JORDAN (smiling)

A community. That’s, like, eight thousand times crazier.

HEIDI

Yeah, but it’s still kind of the same. Like, it’ll be different, but it’ll still be me and Dahlia and… (frowning. They have ended up next to the Twizzlers. She pulls a pack off the shelf and the girls look at them)

Black Twizzlers will still taste the same. I could eat them in B.C., and black licorice would still be bitter.

JORDAN

Well you don’t have to eat black Twizzlers. Or even the red ones. You know, my grandpa makes saltwater taffy.

HEIDI (nose scrunched up) Saltwater? Sounds iffy. Dunno if I’d like it.

JORDAN

Some people don’t. But some flavours, like strawberry? Oh. My. God. You like red Twizzlers because you only eat Twizzlers, and red Twizzlers beat the black ones. But the red Twizzlers aren’t strawberry! They’re like biting into a plastic tube with an after hint of strawberry. The taffy is red, ripe dew drops still dotting the skin.

HEIDI (smiling)

I dunno. I still want Twizzlers. Dahlia likes Twizzlers.

JORDAN

Fine. Eat Twizzlers. But first, find out what it’s like not to eat Twizzlers.

THE END IS, LIKE, LITERALLY NIGH

a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

HEIDI

(not walking. Shot is them facing one another. HEIDI blinks at JORDAN a few times, then laughs) Sorry, I lost what we were talking about.

JORDAN

Doesn’t matter. Why don’t you come with me to my grandpa’s? To try the saltwater taffy.

HEIDI

Really? Why?

New Year’s resolution. Acts of goodness.

JORDAN

HEIDI

It’s April.

(JORDAN smiles. HEIDI smiles. Maybe five seconds pass.)

DAHLIA

(appears in shot abruptly, to everyone’s surprise)

Hey. So basically, the guy is being extremely difficult. (notices JORDAN. She stands a little straighter.)

Hi! Looking to find meaning and direction?

JORDAN

Actually, I already joined a community earlier this week.

DAHLIA

Really? Damn. Well, you win some, you lose some I guess. Heidi, you still wanna get Twizzlers?

(HEIDI hesitates. She looks at JORDAN.)

There’s enough money for Twizzlers.

(They stare for five seconds, before HEIDI turns. She looks firmly at DAHLIA. She twists a hairband on her wrist.)

HEIDI

Um, yeah. Yeah, let’s maybe stick to the Twizzlers.

THE

END

IS, LIKE, LITERALLY

NIGH a one-act play by Victoria Zalewski, Grade 12

(HEIDI flits her eyes toward JORDAN, for approval, for rebuke. JORDAN just smiles halfheartedly, before pushing down the sunglasses and walking away down a different aisle. HEIDI stares at the spot for a while after. DAHLIA grabs another bag of Twizzlers off the shelf and slings her arm around HEIDI’s neck. They also walk off wordlessly. Camera pans to the Twizzlers on the shelf as the ending shot.)

WHEN MY GRANDMA STARTED FOLLOWING ME ON INSTAGRAM by Anonymous

When I received the notification That grandma started following me on Instagram The screen’s colour lights up differently You often post pictures Of the full moon

Fully bright And I

Two days each

Answer you that: “I’m still good here!”

“I’m eating wel.l”

“Good health too.”

Your eyes Are still bright That I know You probably saw “They/them” in my bio

You saw it clearly like a full moon

The old English language

In your head still sounds like A maddening lullaby

“Copying them

What have you done You were born here

Why do you overturned God’s design?”

“Your Mom lost Her Dad

Because of war

When you were small

You journey to his grave

But just a little emotion

Just a bit

Don’t you?”

I did not answer Me and you

Together looking at

WHEN MY GRANDMA STARTED FOLLOWING ME ON INSTAGRAM

by Anonymous

The full moon

But the full moon you saw Different from mine My gender identity Is a journey to find But to you

It is just a curse that North America left.

“No, Grandma, I’m not imitating them I heard about you: One hand held my mom One hand held the gun Even before I had ever heard about the power of Thánh Gióng.”

“You are all gender that I know You are a woman That held my mom Hid behind the mountain Soft like white cloud

You are a man When you have bloody feet But not cry just a bit.”

Fifty years ago, Bombs above your head Bullet sounds behind your ears Corpses under your legs Even now, There’s still A big pain Inside you That North America left Without Apology.

“But Grandma, I’m not imitating that imperialist Why can’t you see

WHEN MY GRANDMA STARTED FOLLOWING ME ON INSTAGRAM

by Anonymous

Vietnamese blood

Flowing through my veins

Fully bright I imitate what: My body

My heart Say I’m copying you Mama.”

“You love grandpa even more than Those enemies Love Mama more than Bombs and bullets In the central Vietnam And you love me

More than anything in this world Love, self-pride, I’m not imitating those imperialists You are the one who’s inspiring me.”

I’m waiting

Thought that you must be So angry But

When I received your message notifications The phone screen light up normally:

“I love you. More than anything in this world.”

I replied

“I love you too!”

Couldn’t help but noticed “She/Her”

Beside your account’s name Brighten than a full moon.

“More than anything in this world.”

COMF[HURT]!

by George Barone, Grade 12

I find comfort in the hurt you caused, It’s what reminds me of our memories. Moving on is hard when you fear forgetting; I’d rather learn to live with the hurt than let go of the only thing keeping me company. Memories glow in a manner reality fails to; the temporary forever I relied on so much. Picking at the scab because the feeling’s nice, constantly expatiating on my problems, can’t help but open the wounds I want to heal so badly. But it is only because I fear forgetting that I do so, knowing that’s all they will ever be, memories. I keep wondering if there is something I could’ve done to save you, hindsight has a curious but painful hold on me. The crutches I so comfortably learned to walk with, the ones you provided me, have left nothing but y(our) loud absence; an absence that made me realize why storms are named after people.

MEMORY GARDEN

by Moira Boland, Grade 11

I place my faith in forgiveness, a loyal childhood friend, Your acts, best done quietly, give me fulfilling ends. In your peace, I may not muddle telling reflections, Or be misled by Fury’s false recollections.

Angered footsteps are too loud to march to battle, They stomp on our pride, shattered and fragile. In the furious acts, we string our words like a noose, And aftermath apologies hold frayed rags to our wounds.

Past battle cries bounce off the walls of a tortured mind, Old memories now sting, good times are left behind.

But in the quiet evening, when the anger cools on our swords, Comes time to offer the rectifying branch, shaken of its thorns. Then flowers may bloom over murky forest beds, To make space to drop swords and rest our weary heads.

ANOTHER SUNRISE

by Siobhan Bonerath, Grade 10

As another morning has begun its rebirth, I reminisce on how much each one is worth. I lie still, basking in the warm sun rays, But it is time to chug along and my body obeys.

I recall the sweet smell of fragrant teas, And my sticky lips after thanking the honey bees. The smile on her face when I left to gain her smarts, Golden memories I hold close to my heart.

The stove flame sets ablaze As it would any number of those cherished days. But once again it’s me up first, Doing what once was her loving work.

I look at the glistening water from our hilltop manor, I am reminded of her rejection of glamour. Because I enjoy seeing the bilious boats pass through the harbour, And know that here pretentiousness could not be farther.

The pot is bubbling, And my chest is no longer buckling. Dropping the eggs into the frying pan, I am thinking of today’s simple plans.

When the toast flings, And the kettle sings, I put the tea to simmer, And her favourite flowers wither.

Everything is ready to go,  Time to let them all know.

I made it all her way, Thankful it is another sunny day.

Take your time whilst digging in, Otherwise, your tummy will spin. Be sure to taste every bite, It’s what makes smiles evermore bright.

That’s something she told me such a time long ago, Oh, how I miss her so. Every day the pain stays,  But now it’s more in a serendipitous way.

Who knew how fulfilling a change in pace could be? Now I look forward to waking them with wafts of tea. If only I could have seen what a life she lived, Back when I was a kid.

I stare into their eyes at the sun’s fading trace, Remembering her gentle face. Another beautiful breakfast together. It is a love that one could not possibly measure.

FISH IN THE SHARKS’ SWAMP

by Brendan Chen, Grade 10

Suddenly I found myself Swimming upstream. An ominous green Glows up ahead. Water clear, path straight No more. It seems like just a few Short years ago I emerged into this world.

I’ve fought, and am still fighting against the current that swept Some of the other fish

To another place. They float at the surface, lifeless

Eyes wide open, Belly facing up.

I now swim closely with my school. Feeding off the mistakes That led the other fish away. Scared of the unfamiliar place, Scared of the turbid waters, Scared of the sharks

In the swamp

That lies Ahead.

Transition to an unfamiliar stage

Made hard with clouded waters

In which the different paths lie. How am I supposed to choose The path that is right?

The hidden sharks lie waiting. At the most unexpected times They strike Like a whirlpool sucking you

Further and further away.

For now, there is still time To prepare. Survival of the fittest, will take shape As we see if we can adapt

As a fish in the sharks’ swamp

artwork by Jessie Sun, Grade 11

THEY SAY

by Tom Chen, Grade 12

They say nothing happened before, Things came quietly, Vanished quietly, Not to leave a single trace, In our history textbook.

They say it was a riot, Traitors want to undermine our nation, Need to be addressed, Need to be erased, Need to be done. Democracy is just an excuse.

They say the outside world is dangerous, So let’s just build a Wall, For protecting our people, Let our children not see, Uncle Sam’s dirty trick.

They say there is freedom of speech, But cannot guarantee freedom after speech. Only blood and tears were covered by hymns. Otherwise, Duct tape on mouth.

They say they don’t represent the mainstream, Because they are the mainstream. Represent the whole country. Unlike other places, Taxation without representation.

They say, They say, Democracy, Is just simply overrated.

A SLIGHTLY UNHINGED RANT ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF PASSION

by Tyler Da Ponte, Grade 12

If you had ever asked me what my passion was years ago, I would have answered swimming. It was my go-to, especially for the constant “ma passion” French projects we had to do every year. If you would ask me that same question now, I would not be so sure. For years I’ve done this sport—almost ten now—but despite that, I feel a waning passion for this sport which has lingered for years. This has confused me for a while. Am I bored? Am I pressured to do it by all the people who believe in me? Is my mental health getting in the way? Whatever the reason, passion is incredibly important in maintaining devotion to a sport.

For years my identity has almost been entirely defined by swimming. It was what people would ask me about in the halls, and what teachers would greet me with when I entered the class. They all seemed to think that I must hold a great deal of pride in my commitment to the sport. “You must feel so proud of yourself with all those medals!” While these medals don’t make me feel anything, I laugh and wave it off. The other question people in the hall would ask me is “Why do you do this? It sounds like a lot of work.” For as long as I have swam, the answer to this question has eluded me. Why do I get out of bed every morning to go to a sport that doesn’t even engage me anymore? That makes me feel awful when I perform poorly, but nothing when I perform well? I simply don’t know. This question is one that I have had to ask myself time and time again. It must be a problem that I don’t know why I continue doing something I don’t like, but I can never put my finger on what the problem is. After doing something for ten years, of course, things begin to stagnate. Imagine listening to your favourite song for ten years straight. I don’t care how much you like it, that song is going to be more annoying than anything afterwards. The difference between swimming and music, though, is that sport changes. Sport evolves. There are always new ways to swim a length, to squeeze out just a bit more speed. But despite all this, I have lost the passion I once had for this sport. Which is confusing, considering how good I am at it.

But with a waning passion, it is hard to continue to devote myself to a sport which drains me more than anything else. The length of time I have done the sport may contribute to the decline of my passion. Perhaps I have become bored. Like a song, I have worn out my welcome in the audience, and they now clamour for a different tune. And with this boredom, passion cannot be maintained. My parents have sports ingrained in their very being. Runners through and through. They ran through high school and university. So sport is very important in my family. Naturally, as people who hold sports very close, they wish for their children to have the same enjoyment of sport as they did. There is no malignment in their wish for me to be an active person who enjoys competition and sport. And to be fair, I do enjoy certain aspects of sport. Working out can be fun. It feels good to get a personal best in lifting, and going fast does kind of get the serotonin pumping. And for a while, the many people telling me that they believed in me kept me in the game. With so many people cheering for me, it felt good to go fast. But then I began to not do as well as I liked every time I swam.

I understand it is impossible to continuously improve every time I get in the water, but when I am unable to swim at the speed other people believe should believe I should be able to, I feel as if I have failed those people. But then the thought of quitting comes into my head, and I worry about the people who cheered me on. What will they think of me when they see me in the halls now? Will they stop themselves from asking the question they are so used to asking, thinking to themselves, “That

A SLIGHTLY UNHINGED RANT ABOUT THE IMPORTANCE OF PASSION

by Tyler Da Ponte, Grade 12

guy quit, all because it was just too much for him?” Perhaps then, the reason I continue swimming while it does not nearly draw me in as much is because of the people that I care about, and how much I worry their perception of me will shift when I stop doing the thing for which they admire me. Maybe it’s not a good thing to tie my worth to an activity and consider myself useless without it. With such stakes that I have forced upon myself, it is no wonder that my passion may have receded.

Mental health is an important subject that should be taken seriously. However, I am a silly man, so I will inject some jokes into this part. Activity is considered to be very helpful with mental health issues. According to studies, it releases serotonin and other happy chemicals. So, as someone with depression, this should help me. However, it has not. Another perplexing reality. I am not entirely happy with my existence. Sometimes I hide it well, other times I do not. A good example would be racing. When I swim in a good race, I find myself feeling next to nothing, but when I swim in a bad race, I feel horrible. Like I am not good enough. There was a time when I felt good about races. It was when I was younger and every race resulted in best times. However, improvement is never linear. If it was, I would be swimming faster than the speed of sound in a few years. As times became harder and harder, I became less and less satisfied with the results. Again, tying your worth to how you perform every time is not a good idea. It is not as simple as just ‘not thinking about it like that’ however. There is nothing I hate more than someone telling me to ‘change my mindset’ when it comes to issues like anxiety and depression. Such issues cannot be wiped away with a speech from Steve Harvey, or a quote from Perdita Felicien. It is only possible to escape this plight with support from people who care about you, and who make the effort to understand. Oh, and lots of therapy. As with swimming, perhaps how integral it has been to my life is an aspect to consider. If I hate my life, and swimming is important to my life, then, by extension, I will feel disdain towards swimming. Perhaps my dislike of the sport is an extension of my dislike of myself. If I cannot come to terms with this, any passion will be difficult to maintain.

Will swimming always define me? Probably not. Life is deceptively long and paradoxically short at the same time. While it may feel like swimming is all I have ever known and all I will ever know, perhaps one day it will become a footnote in my life. As for now, it is important to note how important passion is. How you lose passion doesn’t matter. Whether it is through boredom, tying your worth to it for too long, or through various mental health challenges, without passion, you cannot sustain devotion to strenuous activity. No matter what, always remember that you will be happier when you are pursuing something that you feel passionate about. The importance of passion cannot be overstated.

WE IGNORE THE SCREAMS

by Tyler Da Ponte, Grade 12

We try to ignore her.

She tries to move, but it’s too late

She suffers as her flesh burns

She cries, her tears pounding the ground

She screams as they cut into her limbs

She bleeds, flooding the land

She chokes and gasps, unable to breathe

She hears her bones crack under an immense weight

She feels her innards hollowed out

She wails as she overflows with disease

She sees her children killed off one by one

She watches as they sell her flesh, stripping her to the bone

She lies dying as the people around her pass by without a second glance

She, our Earth, is fading by the minute.

THE DETRIMENTAL JOURNEY

by Brume Erivwo, Grade 11

My heart raced as I sped through the forest. I barely acknowledged the agonizing pain in the soles of my feet or the crimson blood that trickled down from the gash on my forehead. Just keep moving, I told myself, dodging the overhead branch. Don’t stop until you have put enough distance between yourself and your pursuers. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I surged deeper into the forest, clutching the leather satchel that contained the precious battle plans of Avelia.

If you were to tell me seven months ago that I would be a spy in the Avelian army, I would’ve leaped for joy, even though I knew it was impossible. I yearned to be a soldier for my homeland Charthya and do my part in this bloodied war. I knew of the importance of this war and how it holds the fate of my nation, but I desperately yearned to be part of the brave men who laid their lives on the line for freedom. Unfortunately, I was too young to be considered for the military. At 15, my burly frame rivaled those in their 20s, and my swordsmanship was trained by my father, a national war hero in the Revolutionary Revolt forty years ago. Back then, there was no age requirement to join the war, and I often grumbled about this to my father.

“I don’t see why you have to be 18 to serve our country now,” I complained as I parried his strike with my sword hilt.

“It’s to keep rash knuckleheads like you from rushing into battle and getting yourselves killed,” he boomed, ducking from my swing. “I understand your desire Axel, but the Admiral has his reasons.”

Admiral Dorlath was a respected man, a powerful soldier who was a key fighter in the revolution along with my dad. He was a friend of the family and would often watch my sparring sessions with my father in the courtyard. He was the one leading Charthya’s army, so when he summoned me into his office one day, I was perplexed.

“Do you want to do your part in this war?” he asked as he paced the room, examining me.

“More than anything,” I breathed.

“Glad to hear it because I spoke with your father, and he agreed with the role I’m offering you.”

My heart soared. “Yes sir!” I cried. “Anything you require!”

That was how I became the spy that infiltrated Alvernia’s ranks, posing as a traitor of Charthya. My skill with a sword and the information I provided allowed me to rise through the pecking order until I was trusted enough to know about the battle plans. When I found out that they were planning to attack Charthya through our weakest perimeter—the Gladen River—I knew that I needed to inform my superiors. I had been with Alvernia for four months and had earned their trust. It was simple to draft their battle plans, and it was time to escape, using the forest to cover my tracks. My departure was not as stealthy as I desired, and I was quickly surrounded. I was able to slice my way through but received a gash on my face as I ran.

Currently, as I dart through the misshapen trees, I try to block out the bloodthirsty cries from the Alvenians as they echo through the forest, like an ominous church bell. The documents I possess can change the course of this war, and I must deliver them to my country. Even if it kills me.

DAY AND NIGHT

by Sofia Jeffrey, Grade 11

As day turns to night, Skepticism turns to anger And idle volcanoes erupt in flames.

Pouring scorching lava through surrounding villages, Painting the calm with destruction.

Plates, vases, pieces falling to the ground like sharp, jagged snow. Drops of red staining white crystal, spreading like wildfire. Keys jangle, a door slams, and an engine revs to life. Tires screech, and the loud rumble quickly fades into

Silence.

As night turns to day, A soft figure lies in the eye of a forgotten hurricane.

Keys twinkle, a door eases open and closed, the car returned to its usual spot. The figure stirs, and they are joined together once again, A soft embrace, twin flames reignited. Apologies whispered over and over. Forgiveness hangs in the air, Fresh white linen blowing in the breeze. The day goes on and whispers fade into Laughter.

OVERFLOWED

by Georgia Galeota, Grade 12

The bottle starts off empty

Slowly it fills Rising up Filling up Feeling compressed

Soon enough, it overflows

But I don’t empty it

I keep it there

The pressure rises

The bottle stretches

It almost breaks

Eventually, I pour out only a drop

Then I empty some more and soon enough the rapids of the bottle emerge— The pressure lets go; the bottle shrinks

I keep it there, but I don’t fill it

Soon enough, it isn’t overflowed

Releasing

Emptying

Quickly it empties

The bottle is empty once again

SORRY I MUST SAY by

Mar Garcia, Grade 11

Sorry I must say

To all the things I’m not From all the things I’ve strayed

To all the loves I let rot

Sorry I must say

For this love I fiercely hate Is a pool, a bottomless bay With waves of stifling fate

Sorry I must say

For following whims off a cliff

For being tempted by a bright sun ray

For never letting you hold me stiff

Sorry I must say

For letting the figs drop

Empty promises yet they weigh With opportunities I don’t shop

So then sorry I must say

For not loving who I’m meant For never learning how to stay For letting go of all I dreamt

SELF FORGIVENESS

by Heather Golding, Grade 11

I couldn’t say this to you Or give it to you just yet. They say forgiveness  is the key to moving forward,  And feeling free. I am ready to do so today, but not to you. Because I choose instead  To forgive myself. For turning the blind eye, And enduring your abusive ways. For not asking others for help,  And letting you break me down. For feeling angry, sad, weak, shameful, foolish, And for falling for your traps. I forgive myself, For much more than I can list down. But especially, For not finding forgiveness for you.

FANTASY WORLD

by Sarah Golding, Grade 11

As I walked down the dark, narrow street, I wished I had brought a jacket. While it wasn’t cold for May, the evening air chilled me. Stars twinkled brilliantly around a crescent moon, providing just enough glow to illuminate the otherwise grim street. My speed slowed as I admired the beauty of the night sky, mentally forming intricate constellations. I’ve always been fascinated with the tranquillity of its darkness and the offsetting brightness of the stars, captivating anyone whose eyes witnessed their calm yet luring vision, like sirens drawing in Odysseus’ crew to their demise. I soon arrived at my favourite bench in the centre of my neighbourhood park.

While a generally unattractive location—an undersized, rotting bench—I considered it perfect as it always provided me with calm when I was feeling overwhelmed. As I stretched out my legs across the length of the bench, letting my head sit upon the armrest, I looked up at the night sky and found myself reaching up to capture the brightest star in my grasp. I hoped that would either pull me into the fairytale world I so dearly desired or provide clarity because I seemed so obsessed with the fictional world.

I finally let my hand fall limp by my side as I tore my gaze from the sky and sat up, scrunched tight against one armrest. I found myself saying, “Life isn’t some fairytale,” having to remind myself once again verbally. “There are no fairies, dragons, or ghosts.” I shook my head and slapped my cheeks to keep focused.

I pulled my notebook and pen from my bag and wrote the date at the top right of the page: “May 6, 2038.” After an hour or so of writing, I paused and looked around. “Where the hell is he?” I said aloud, the sound of my own voice startling me against the silence. Mark. Every day without fail, the man who introduced himself as Mark had shown up. His tall, brawny frame assumed most of the bench, but I didn’t mind. We both just sat there comfortably, mindlessly enjoying each other’s company, as I drafted my novel.

“Maybe he won’t show,” I would have stated, but my attention was grabbed by fourteen numbers etched into the wood of the bench: 40.64659, -73.93864. They’re GPS coordinates! I quickly packed my bag and plugged the coordinates into my phone and soon found myself at a gravestone in the adjacent Holy Cross Cemetery.

“Well, that’s not creepy,” I spoke sarcastically. On it was a name I knew so well. I was frozen. The gravestone read “Mark Williams. Born March 19, 1947… Died July 10, 1971.” Overwhelmed with confusion, I felt as though I no longer had control over my thoughts, as they began to digress into unexplainable theories. My legs weakened, and I collapsed on the cold ground. This doesn’t make sense. How could he have died years ago? Was he a ghost? Was I?

TALES OF AYUTTHAYA

by Boom Hemmondharop, Grade 11

Through the yonder old temple I wander, Adorne the decrepit walls are murals Of red, black and gold.

To these I ponder the paint and the rine of scenes eternal. Rows of bloodied men in gold and iron, Glistening city shrine engulf in flame, Elephant sieging cities abandon, Countless heads jeer that others were to blame. Tales of valiant men from the diamond wall And the hatred born from countless of wars, The slaughter in the wake of bastion fall, Which feed the fury, then the crowd will roar: “End the wheel of hate.” And Buddha will show, The cycle shall break when someone lets go.

artwork by Aiden Hakeem, Grade 11

THE SILENT ADDICTION

by Megan Hsueh, Grade 10

I find myself being pulled toward this light in front of me.

The urge to go towards it and the curiosity of what popped up takes control, It has me so mesmerized and I cannot bear to look away.

Meanwhile the day is passing me by, and I realize how unproductive I have been, But I still find myself being pulled toward this light in front of me, Not being able to look away.

This man-made device has full control over me. How long has it been since I have been trapped in this dark room made of concrete walls?

How long has it been since I have been outside? How long has it been since I have had any in-person interactions with anyone?

I cannot seem to find the answers to any of these questions.

Everyday it is the same sounds, click click click tap tap tap ding ding ding Over and over again.

These things people call friends, Why don’t I have any?

Socializing has become unknown to me, A single flower in a vast desert with no consciousness around.

I have been focused on the same small screen all day.

My eyes are starting to dry from the dust in my room.

Yet my tears keep falling. My eyes are hurting. Yet they still continue searching.

My body is hurting

It’s telling me enough, but my brain wants to keep going.

My shoulders are leaned over my desk, My back is an arch that is slumped forward, I can’t find the motivation to straighten up.

My mom calls me down for dinner, but I tune her out. She yells and she yells but I can’t hear anything. She brings me my dinner, neatly organized, with everything I like, I reply with a grunt and yell at her for interrupting me.

Hypnotism seeps through my brain constantly, I have no control over my thoughts In my head is a deafening silence. I feel like a reawakened corpse that is incapable of any emotion.

My soul dragging behind my chair. I realize the problem but never want to change it.

The air in my room becomes thick and heavy, The fresh air becomes unrecognizable, The sun hasn’t been seen in what seems like years.

I long for the time when I was a child, And the advancement of society was not so fixated on technology, The happiness, joy, and freedom, When conformity was not the overpowering thought that went through teenage brains.

Most of my days were spent with friends, Back then nothing would stop us from playing outside.

It would be hailing boulders and our parents had to force us to stay indoors.

THE SILENT ADDICTION

by Megan Hsueh, Grade 10

I miss the times when everything wasn’t just black and white, There were vibrant colours everywhere. Everyone had their own colour, unique to them. No one was afraid to be who they were. A world full of imagination and creativity

The biggest problem was who was “it” in tag, Or the occasional gossip of someone having a crush on a person that I liked, And maybe the occasional yelling when I didn’t clean my room.

I sympathize for the children who are introduced to this addiction at a young age, I don’t understand this norm of hypnotizing our children.

They will never experience the joy of playing outside,

The freedom and creativity all children should experience.

I remember shaking in my boots waiting to grow up,

That has changed as the only joy that I feel now is when I am in front of a screen. I have dug a hole too deep for me to climb out of.

THE GIRL IN THE COFFEE SHOP

by Charlotte Jez, Grade 10

The warm summer air creeps through the front door of Joe’s Café as Emma stops dead in her tracks. Joe has always been a good friend of Emma’s, mostly because of the free extra cookies he slides her way each morning. Today, she was planning on requesting his famous oatmeal chocolate chip deliciousness, but now she feels as if her shock has bulldozed her hunger like a snowplough to a December parking lot.

“Oh my gosh, that can’t be her!” she mutters to herself in disbelief.

Emma hasn’t seen this woman in over ten years, but she must admit it hurts that she didn’t receive a phone call or any notice about her arrival in town.

I guess Florida life has changed her; she is wearing leather pants! Emma thinks to herself as she begins to dig her freshly manicured nails into her sweaty palm. When Emma was a child, that woman swore to her that she would never be caught dead supporting cow cruelty. Well, I guess Emma and the cows have more in common than she may have thought.

The lady, among other less pleasant words, at the counter has moved to the ‘pick up’ line. I can’t believe her! Emma screams in her head. The woman is standing there as if she is perfectly content with her new-found life. Fine, if you want to ignore our past and pretend we mean nothing to each other, I’m more than okay with that, Emma silently shouts, as she juts out her chin and narrows her eyes.

Emma decides that it might be better to just get her breakfast from the McDonald’s across the street. But as she’s halfway out the door, she realizes that she’s letting her win! I don’t want a McChicken for breakfast, what I want is Joe’s oatmeal chocolate chip cookie, and that is exactly what I am going to get, Emma declares to herself. Emma marches back into what she considers her second home and takes her rightful place in line. Look, it’s a beautiful July morning, Emma cannot let her, and those awful skintight leather pants, ruin that.

I hope that Joe forgot to change the milk bag again. That way when she drinks her latte, she will taste foam as rotten as she is, Emma muses as she straightens her shoulders and allows for a sinister grin to replace her grim expression.

The line is getting shorter and shorter, and Emma feels herself inching closer to this behemoth of her past. Emma convinces herself that she doesn’t even care about what happened all those years ago. She tells herself that she is just happy that the lady is out of her life for good. I mean, really, who needs a mom to brush your hair, and hold your hand when you need support, and talk you through all your horrible break-ups, and stroke your back when life gets hard? That sounds so awful. Really awful. Very awful… okay fine, maybe I do want that, but definitely not with her. Emma wants to stay mad at the human-shaped devil that stands before her, she really does, but it is her mother. No! Emma internally screams. If anyone’s going to apologize, it’s not going to be her.

“You can go ahead of me,” Emma announces, with an innocent smile to the stubby, bald man standing in a suit behind her. He looks confused but as he checks his watch, he silently accepts Emma’s offer, with nothing more than a head nod in her direction. She can’t get too close to the lady until she figures out what to do if they make eye contact. As Emma is considering her options, she realizes how childish she is behaving. Emma’s creator may not even look her way.

Emma doesn’t want to talk to her, she really doesn’t, but she feels like she needs closure. Like if she doesn’t speak her mind, then she will forever be thinking of what she could have said in this

THE GIRL IN THE COFFEE SHOP

by Charlotte Jez, Grade 10

moment. Emma mentally decides, okay it’s final, once I get to the counter, I will make her notice me. I will tell her exactly what I feel, and then I will storm off before she gets the chance to respond with words of regret and pleads for forgiveness.

Emma is almost there. She must focus on the relief she will feel after this encounter so that she does not lose her nerve. I got this. I can do this! Emma reassures herself. Joe smiles when he sees her and takes her order, making her feel immediately better.

“Give me my usual,” Emma demands, jokingly, which is all she has to say for him to know exactly what she wants.

“Coming right up,” he declares in his fake British accent and a twinkle in his eye that never fails to draw a laugh from Emma’s lips.

Emma encourages herself, okay, now or never, now or never, now or never, now or… maybe after I finish my cookie. Hesitantly, Emma drags her feet across the smudged, tiled floor, and taps on the joy-killer’s shoulder causing a tidal wave of emotions to wash over her. Emma’s shrieks of anxiousness bounce around the inside of her head. I cannot believe I just did that.

“Mom?” Emma finally gathers the courage to say, or more like squeak. The woman, picking up her latte, thoughtfully turns to look in Emma’s direction. Emma bites her tongue so hard that she wouldn’t be surprised if she begins to taste blood; it’s not that she is nervous to see her face, it is more to help Emma contain the built-up fury that has begun to slosh around in her bloodstream. However, her anger fails to out-compete the blanket of hope wrapping its quilted pattern around Emma’s shivering body. The woman’s face displays a puzzled expression, and that’s when Emma realizes her foolish mistake. The lady gently responds,

“Sorry, I think you have the wrong person.”

THE MAGIC OF MUSIC

by Jasmine Khatami, Grade 10

I sit as still as a marble statue

At the back of the dark room, My eyes glued only

To the pale hands

Drifting over ivory keys

Like wild birds soaring towards paradise, A sort of heavenly glow

Emanating from the magic box

Like the fairy dust from the tales

I used to read as a child.

I close my eyes,

Captivated by the story swirling around me, Filled with an emotion not even

The most delicate of words could evoke.

A single pearl rolls down my cheek

As the sweet sound of honey

Seeps into my ears

And drip, drip, drips to my heart, Mesmerizing me, Transporting me

To a vast sea of sorrow

Where I float aimlessly, Haunted by this soulful siren song—

This torturously sweet melody

That drags me down into the depths

Of an endless darkness

Like a steel chain wrapped around my ankle

Until the song changes

And from the distant surface

There shines a celestial light—

A light that is a million times

Brighter than the sun.

It is as if I’ve died

And the angels have taken me

Into their embrace,

Lifting me back to that grand room

Where I sit, spellbound, in solitude, My mind filled to the brim with wonder—

Is it possible

That we’ve found

Heaven on Earth?

For why would we want

Anything more in life

Than to cloak ourselves

In this flowing stream of notes—

This sweet remedy

That makes the blind see, That lets the dead talk, That brings warmth

To even the iciest of hearts— This time machine

That can take us anywhere, anytime

With only a few exquisite notes. It is a language

That erases borders

And connects us all

With a golden thread

Which wraps around the world

And engraves itself into our hearts

And our minds

Long after

The hands have left the keys

And the echo of the final note Has subsided Into sombre Silence.

artwork by Isabel Shao, Grade 10

THE WANDERER FROM AFAR

by Phoebe Kuang, Grade 11

Like the drifting feather, I departed from my root. My heart blazed with flame, longing to guard my realm. And here I return, as quietly as I left. But my chest is hollow, in burnt ashes my heart whelms.

I trudged into the village I used to call home. Wide-eyed children exclaimed as I came, “O weary wanderer, strange guest, Where exactly are you from?”

My tales will tell you whence I belong. Far away, where the sun plummets into the sea. Over the wrecked walls where horns howled along, In the besieged city where there was no path to flee.

I came from the midst of battlefield smoke Along with flocks of homecoming geese. For countless years my soul has hovered above my ragged land, Finally landing, but home is nowhere to be seen.

In the north, eagles clashed with ravens from hell. Bloody red rivulets ran in the woods. Three times the leaves greened and fell, Desperate soldiers, famished, cooked their horses for food.

The king foolishly believed the trivial rumours, And overthrew our old valiant general. The young replacement knew nothing but empty talk, In rains of arrows, he held his own funeral.

White flags hung upon the pole. One hundred thousand of us marched to surrender. But the foe was drained of food. And in a pit, they buried us all.

In the west, amongst a dynasty of extravagance, Two generals rebelled against the throne. They looted, they killed, they barked like hell hounds As they tore peace apart in victims’ moans.

THE WANDERER FROM AFAR

by Phoebe Kuang, Grade 11

The palace gates, tightly shut, could not prevent The stench of the corrupt feast from leaking into the air. Outside the walls, gnawed bones of the dead lay in the streets. When dawn came, not even a single cock crowed.

The glowing bride in the morning became a desolate widow at night, The sickly grandmother greeted her son’s death before her own. The king? What about the supreme king? He was crying over the body of his hanged queen.

In the east lies the frail lamb, Waiting to be slaughtered by greedy predators. It bows and kneels and flatteringly smiles, Cutting its own flesh and offering it to the invaders.

And there comes the devil from across the sea, Ready to enjoy its own share of rotten meat. The ancient city, which had witnessed a thousand years of peace and prosperity, Butchered and turned into an abattoir.

The sun shut its eyes and the wind held its breath, As blood dripped from the bayonet tips. The last scream echoed into silence, Bestial laughter the only sound heard.

To the south I wandered, Back to where my journey began. Houses stand as they stood, The familiar faces have vanished into the dust.

What did you say, young one?

That we should abandon the unpleasant past? How dare we let go of this painful memory, If thousands of innocents perished, and none can pave their path?

O Ferryman, please anchor at the shore And halt your boat for these wandering souls. Bring them to their beloved, fulfil their cherished wishes When the red spider lily blooms.

THE WANDERER FROM AFAR

by Phoebe Kuang, Grade 11

My young friends, please bring me some wine, And I shall pour it under the gaze of the divine. Let us engrave the wounds deep onto the earth’s skin. Let it be the eternal tomb of the unforgivable sin.

I tripped and fell amidst the pouring rain, My clothes soaked through, my knees all caked with dirt; Beneath my ’brella’s shade, I hid in shame. My legs did shake, my pride so fiercely hurt. I closed my ears, o’erhearing their disdain, And crawled in deep, t’escape my grief so keen. My eyes tight shut, so not to see my pain Distorted in the water’s fractured sheen. But savage storm did sweep my cloak away. My cry did echo into emptiness . And then I glimpsed the sun’s faint fleeting ray That lightened up my dreary heaviness. And so I stretched my arms to wide embrace, The drizzle that will wash off my disgrace.

ONCE UPON A PARENT’S DEPARTURE

by Smetine Kurath, Grade 12

Happily ever after, or so they say Our dreams, our hopes, our futures to the grave Are all rooted from fairytale stories Of rainbows and wondrous magic. Oh, it’s so tragic that parents often depart. And leave their faults to be part.

In times of wondrous magic, left strangled, left screwed up and with a heavy heart.

Oh, isn’t it tragic When parents depart?

Walking away is so easy and yet so hard. Their absence leaves a void, a pain in the heart Their absence, felt in every day. A molding pain, a rummaging train, ripping them apart.

Leaving their children to wonder why. Leaving, without saying goodbye. In search of love, kids’ side eye

In search of life, they often depart, Walking away neglecting their heart

Oh, isn’t it an art

That no matter the day

In every moment, in every way.

I FORGIVE

by Melody Lee, Grade 11

Too all who has wronged me, Doubted me, Criticized me, Hurt me, I forgive. I forgive because I can.

I can forgive because I care about my present more than my past. Without worries wandering whenever comes a peace of mind. Peace lets me be a free bird forever to roam around while being blind.

I can forgive because I care about my future more than my past.

When I hold a grudge, I hold onto past. Holding onto past holds me back to budge because my future actions are determined by my past, becoming: defenceless… helpless… powerless like a muppet.

I can forgive because I choose a happy life.

As I sail away from shore towards horizon, The water waves and clouds dance. As the bluebird flies past my vision, I know I’m now free from my suffocating trance.

Watch me descend from West, And ascend from East.

All this because I forgive.

THE FAIRYTALE LAND

by Ruby Liao, Grade 9

The cloud made an ocean of white, Covered the dark cloud that shouldn’t exist. Bright sun blocked people’s sight, As night was on the world’s blacklist.

Flying across the mysterious forest, The white bird delivered the letter. Talking about peace and love, Talking about the wonderful weather.

The crow was exiled from the land, Black feathers were blown away. Like waves slapping the soft sand, Rushing away the deep red clay.

The purest white veil cannot accept The existence of any shadow. The land of fairytales had never been polluted Just like the sprouts’ naive soul.

But the night would eventually fall And the white cloud would gradually fade Thunder and rain wash away all As wind cuts through the whitest veil.

There are hungry wolves in the forest, There are shadows without the sun. Storms are all around the land, Staying there for months and months and months.

Fairytales were totally made, The princess never married for love Hansel and Gretel never escaped And Red Riding Hood didn’t defeat the wolf.

Reality may not be what you’ve seen As gray covered most of the world. Brightness is not always the theme With darkness, together they swirl.

But shall I tell you, my delicate sprout, All of these dearest words? Or will they shatter your fancy delusion, Like the coldest and sharpest sword? Or shall I wait ‘til you’ve grown into a tree, And make you see these all by yourself? Then crush your childish dreams with tears And the wounds that aren’t well?

THE CRY OF SPARROWS

by Chantel Li, Grade 10

It is quiet.

Besides the rustling leaves and sparrows chirping overhead, the morning is quiet and peaceful. I prefer the atmosphere of cold, frosty nights, but today is an exception. Cool air is flowing into my bedroom through my window. My dad is off to run errands, so the house is empty. I continue reading the novel.

The cemetery is empty except for the lady in white. She stands over a tombstone and suddenly turns around. Jane blinks once, blinks twice, and the lady is gone. Wh-

My train of thought is lost by a loud knocking at the door.

“Anyone home?” A female voice rings out, not quite the voice on an adult yet not a child. I shake my head and head down the stairs to answer the door. A girl around my age is on the receiving end. She smiles with glee at the sight of me, and lifts up a basket. “Welcome to our neighbourhood!” A giggle escapes from her, as she extends her arms towards me with the intent of giving me the woven container. I take it from the girl, and give her an annoyed look.

“What is this for?”

“Well… I saw you and your dad,” lowering her head bashfully. “You just moved here, right?”

I return her words with a scoff. “Yeah, thanks.” shutting the door loudly behind me. I examine the contents of the basket: cookies wrapped in parchment, an envelope, and a handmade wind chime. I take a grouchy bite of the cookie, and look up out the window. The girl with the basket is slightly slouched over, and returning to her house—wherever that might be. I pick up the wind chime and shake it a little for it to ring, before setting it back down into the basket.

Instinctively, I run outside and wildly wave and yell.

“Hey! Come back!” My voice cracks a little, but it’s loud enough for her to stop and turn around. I hurry up to where she’s standing, and lower my head like how she did, but less coy.

“Sorry.” I look down sheepishly, hands behind my back. “I’m sorry for shutting the door in your face—I mean—I’m Estelle, what’s your name?” My words are jumbled and I feel a little light-headed.

“Lilith.”

“Huh? Pardon?”

“My name is Lilith.” She squats to make eye contact with me, while still beaming from ear to ear.

“Lilith, I’m really, really sorry.” I continue, “I didn’t expect any visitors, that’s all.”

“While you’re out here, why don’t I introduce you to the rest of Cabbagetown?” I don’t get a chance to respond when she tugs on my hand. “Let’s go!”

She starts running, and I soon follow suit. Her golden braids swing behind her, as my loose black hair trails behind me. We’re heading in the opposite direction as the wind, and start passing by the different commodities the stores offer. Suddenly, she pulls me into the library. The bell attached to the door jingles and the building seems to be empty.

“Ms. Roe isn’t here today,” she says, lowering her voice, “meaning that she won’t know if we just…” She tips over a hardcover book on the shelf with a hooked finger, “... take one or two without her knowing, right?” and slides the book out of its crevice. “Pick your poison.”

My eyes widen a little, lightly aghast at what she’s suggesting. I look down at the copy she took.

“This one is a collection about ghosts.” Lilith takes a better look at it.

THE CRY OF SPARROWS

by Chantel Li, Grade 10

“Well, since you have it, it must be good right?”

Lilith puts the book between her upper arm and the side of her torso, marching proudly out the door. “You coming?”

I shuffle out the library with her and we’re heading further south down the road. “Out of all people, why did you pick me to come along?”

Lilith hesitates. “No one else in our neighbourhood is the same age, so when I heard about a girl moving in, I was excited. All the people I’ve ever been close with are my siblings and parents, and they’re not very entertaining people to be around. As if I were never there, you know?”

“I get it.”

“You do?” she says skeptically, with almost a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Of course. People at my school call me a ghost because of my pale skin. The hair doesn’t help either. If they noticed me in the first place.” I lift up a chunk, as if she couldn’t tell on her own.

“Estelle…” she said, in quiet wonder. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be. It’s not your fault.”

“I just… I don’t know what it’s like to truly have a friend.” she responds. I purse my lips. I want to say something, but I don’t know what. The cawing of a crow is distant, as we reach the graveyard at the end of the road.

“Seems like I got off-track on your grand tour.” She says cheerily with a bittersweet smile. “Why don’t we just quickly pass through the graveyard to show you the spot I usually hide out at?” I don’t feel like I’m in a position to refuse, so I nod in agreement. Lilith leads the way with confidence to a meadow of white clovers and a single gravestone. Plopping down beside the small memorial, she yawns in relief. The sun is going down, and time flew faster than we both expected.

“I’ll just show you around tomorrow.” She holds her little finger up. “Deal?”

I link my pinky around hers. “Deal.” Crossing my legs in the clover, I sigh with a restless, tranquil energy. I stare up to watch the sunset, and I look over to my right. Lilith is gone, and the book is sitting by the tomb. I squint to take a better look at the engraved words.

Lilith Rose Moore

A flower plucked too soon. 1960-1973

Ding. The wind chimes, harmonizing with the cry of sparrows.

SPACEBOUND

by Luke Little, Grade 10

As I walked back towards the HAB, I couldn’t help but stop and take in the scenery. Unsettling as it was being so far from home, I’d be a liar if I tried to deny the beauty of this planet. After traversing from the landing site all those months ago, my base of operations was set up near the equator on the massive planet known as Centurai IV. Gazing over the horizon, I now took in the landscape, the strange species of palm trees dotting the landscape and the massive, sprawling ocean that covered nearly 265 million square kilometres of the planet’s surface. The deep red, iron-rich sand that covered the area near the water was where I’d chosen to pitch camp. From where I stood now, staring off into the distance on what could be humanity’s new homeworld, everything seemed perfect.

I continued my walk back to the HAB, humming a tune. I wasn’t in any particular rush, as the sun wouldn’t set for another 18 hours. Unlike on Earth, the planet’s rotation takes 64 hours to complete, spread evenly into 32-hour nights and days. So, I made some detours on my way back, testing some flora I hadn’t noticed before. A bright yellow flower with three stems leading to three sets of petals caught my eye, and after testing it I noticed that the flower seemed to be shaking ever so slightly, which my scanner indicated was a defense mechanism.

“Huh. Weird.” I said out loud, to no one in particular. After all, I was completely alone on this planet. But, after having spent years alone on odd planets and in cramped spaceships, I had found that talking out loud helped keep me sane—even if there is no one there to hear it. Finally, I made my way back to the airlock that separated me from my temporary home, the HAB. I opened the vacuumsealed doors and stepped inside. As the airlock room pressurized, CORA, the HAB’s built-in AI assistant, greeted me.

“Welcome back, Dr. Paul,” CORA said, “please stand by for retinal verification.”

I walked over to the small control panel next to the door leading into the HAB and allowed the microscopic camera to scan my eye.

“Access granted. During your time away, you received two new messages. Would you like me to play them?” CORA asked as I walked into our base of operations.

“No, thanks. I have some work to do. We can save the messages for later.”

“Of course, Dr. Paul. My apologies.”

“No need. Could you do me a favour, CORA? I need you to run some tests on the water samples I gathered on my excursion today. I know we found a high amount of potassium chloride in the ocean last time, but—” My request was cut off by a massive tremor that shook the HAB.

“Um, CORA, what was that?” I asked. Usually, a slight tremor in the ground wouldn’t have caused me this much worry, as it was usually just minor tectonic action beneath the surface. But this wasn’t a slight tremor. Back on Earth, I spent three years researching ecology in Indonesia to prepare for this mission. While I was there, I experienced many earthquakes. But those usually came gradually and lasted a lot longer. A tremor this short could only mean one thing. I sprinted to the HAB window, and my fears were confirmed. The tide had dropped back significantly. A tsunami was incoming.

“Warning. Warning. Stage 4 storm surge incoming. Evacuate premises immediately.” CORA’s mechanical voice repeated this message through all the speakers and audio output devices in the HAB. This was not good at all. As sturdy as the HAB was, it was only designed to withstand a Stage 3 storm at most—and even that was pushing it. A Stage 4 would wipe my camp off the face of the

SPACEBOUND

by Luke Little, Grade 10

planet entirely.

I sat down and tried not to panic. Come on, Rose. Think! I knew I couldn’t stay here, but my ship was at least three kilometres away, still buried in the mountain where I’d crashed it upon atmospheric entry. I had no way out. This was bad. I looked out the window again and saw the palm-like trees ripped from their homes in the mineral-rich Centuraian soil, then watched as they were thrown around in the air like footballs. The rain began slamming against the HAB roof with every drop sounding like its own individual boulder.

Running back to the window, I looked toward the ocean, and my heart stopped in my chest. What I saw out there was the biggest wave I’d ever come across, on any planet. It looked infinitely tall, like standing at the foot of Mt. Everest, if Mt. Everest was a monumental, killing wall of water. I could tell from the distance between the HAB and the base of the wave that the wave was already too close for me to get out. There was no escape; I was stuck. I ran to my sleeping quarters and shoved a new spacesuit helmet over my head. I turned on the oxygen supply, went to the window, and watched. If I’m gonna go out, I’m gonna do it staring death in the face, I thought to myself.

The wave hit the HAB within seconds. I didn’t see or feel anything, besides a split second of the most incredible force I’d ever encountered pushing my body across the HAB. The building itself was ripped up from the ground, and I tumbled around it as it was carried in the wave itself. It was only then, in the chaos of my surroundings, that I noticed the small crack in my space helmet. I began to panic. This meant two things—my oxygen supply was leaking out, and the phosphorous-heavy air was getting in. I felt my heart rate speed up, and I forced myself to keep breathing. I only had a few breaths left now, before the unsuitable air stopped my heart. As the moments passed, I felt myself getting light-headed. The world started spinning, and for a millisecond, I was happy and at peace with my surroundings. Then, everything faded into a merciful black.

TRUE PURPOSE

by Mary Liu, Grade 9

I had a dream. A dream that was perhaps too far and out of reach, but deep inside of my heart, I was filled with eagerness and hope. I wanted to be as good as the national players. On Instagram, they would often post pictures and videos of their greatest achievements where they stood on prestigious podiums with shiny, prideful medals around their necks and a victorious smile on their faces. However, when I turned around and looked at mine, All I had were pieces of junk. Worthless.

I couldn’t stop comparing myself to them. The medals I won weren’t enough. I needed medals of greater achievements. I needed to show off on social media as well. I needed to be as good as them to make myself satisfied, and happy.

Therefore, with my determined mindset, I started to work my butt off. When the sun was sleeping, I was at the club training. When my friends were hanging out, I was practicing my serves at home. When my badminton racket finally got some rest, my running shoes did not. I sacrificed and missed out a lot of fun to pursue this dream. But why is reality always so harsh?

It instantly struck me down to a withered tree. My dream was shattered into a million pieces. Each piece was a reason why I couldn’t glue them back together, whether it was age or talent. My hopes dissolved into ashes.

I couldn’t find another reason to keep playing this sport. Until one day, my dad told me that I have to learn to observe and learn.

He then pointed to the adults on the other side of the gym. Everyday after work hours, there would be adults renting courts playing doubles. They had no footwork, no form, no strategy.

They can’t even beat me if there were a thousand of them. All they did was laughing and giggling and smiling and screaming. If I were them, I would be blaming and ashamed of myself.

TRUE PURPOSE

by Mary Liu, Grade 9

But I lost.

I was a winner who lost.

I sure was better than them, but not happier. Then it clicked.

Medals are not the only source of happiness. Even without medals, badminton is a sport full of laughter and smiles. Whenever I’m playing badminton, All my worries, sadness, or anger flies away. I feel livelier and freer than ever.

Now, I don’t play for recognition. I don’t play for medals.

I don’t play to be the best.

I play for happiness.

COBALT BLUE

by Ella Lu, Grade 9

There is something so fascinating about the human body— we are sundered by our morals and our vices, and all we believe is right and wrong. Yet we are all connected as descendants of those once primordial through our glossy, mystical eyes.

They say our orbs of sight— though unique in shape, size, and hue— are the windows to our souls. They serve as gates to further individualize each life— separating what lies underneath from mere flesh and bone.

When I first met her, my one and only love, I was enchanted by the glimmering, soulful stories her eyes had to tell. We locked gazes on that fateful night, and from there our fateful journey began.

Every time I glance just so subtly towards my frail, delicate lover, I feel myself start to drown in her swirling, stormy irises. I am lost in her brilliance, tenacity, and feelings for me.

As the sun rises and sets in an everlasting cycle, and as we age, falling prey to time, her eyes only grow brighter. Her spirit glows in the dark, lighting my path in turbulent times when my mind is clouded.

Oh, my beloved— what I would give to keep you for myself, even after death, when the things we used to know become relics of the past. It is my final, ultimate wish to seal away your shining, cobalt blue eyes for only me to hold, and only me to treasure, as I rot away in the Underworld.

artwork by Sofia Jeffrey, Grade 11

A SANGUINE LOVE LETTER

by Ella Macalpine, Grade 12

Darling, your tongue is like velvet and your hands are a work of art

They hold my whole world as it crumbles, delicate, yet deadly

Macabre and cold, they reach into my chest and squeeze my heart

Beat after beat, I dance into your play and pantomime your part

I sever my prefrontal cortex, awaiting your requests readily

Darling, your tongue is like velvet and your hands are a work of art

I dance, I waltz, and tango to my requiem, deaf to my depart

I no longer have qualms with sleep as you paint scenes in red for me

Macabre and cold, they reach into my chest and squeeze my heart

A sickly leash of masochism coaxing me into the dark

You tangle my vagus nerve in knots as my eyes open freshly

Darling, your tongue is like velvet and your hands are a work of art

Your every breath rivets me, your screams I find like the song of a lark

You bring a new meaning to my life with your sanguine melody

Macabre and cold, they reach into my chest and squeeze my heart

So here I lie in my coffin as I lay the last nail

I offer one last dance to bind us, at last, perpetually

Darling, your tongue is like velvet and your hands are a work of art

Macabre and cold, they reach into my chest and squeeze my heart

TRAIN RUNNER

by Tristan McGregor, Grade 10

Jesse James set down his beer, contemplating the idea presented to him. What could go wrong? Everything. “So, yer telling me that we are gonna hold up a whole train? Those big things that run on them metal tracks?” The idea sounded unbelievable. How would they accomplish it?

“I’ll tell you how, we’re going to make a part of the track loose, then when the train comes, we’re gonna yank away the rail, and the train is gonna take a short trip that ends in a rather loud stop.” Jesse thought for a minute, weighing his odds. Could he take a couple cowboys if needed? Of course, he could! Besides, the outcome of this robbery would be enough to live like royalty until his death. He had to chance it.

The water felt like gold going down his throat. It was an hour into the task, and next to no progress was happening.

“How long does it take to loosen a damn rail?” he asked Frank.

“Maybe if you helped, we might finish faster,” Frank replied, smiling.

The comment frustrated Jesse, but Frank had a point, so Jesse set down his canteen and went back to work.

Finally, after some time, the rail was completely dislodged from the rest of the track and the ropes were tied down. The trap was set, all they needed to do was wait. Frank checked his pocket watch.

“They should be due any minute now,” he reassured the gang.

Jesse was starting to lose hope. Had this all been for nothing? Jesse sighed. He had hoped to get a little action after the hard afternoon of not-so-honest work. The train whistle snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Here it comes, boys!” Frank yelled over the whistle. “Get to your ropes, and when the train comes, hold yer hats down, cause it’s gonna be rough!”

All the men grabbed their ropes and waited for the next order. Twenty seconds later, it came. “PULL!”

With all their strength, they managed to pull the heavy rail away just in time. The train hit the dirt with an almighty BANG! The ground trembled beneath Jesse’s feet, almost knocking him over. Dust billowed everywhere from the impact, filling the air around the gang, blinding them. Jesse finally toppled over, disoriented by the rumbling and his lack of vision. There was a loud crash, and the rumbling stopped. Rubbing his eyes, Jesse sat up, and when he finally regained his vision, he saw what had happened.

The train had toppled over about 100 metres away from the loose track. It had hit a bump and toppled over into a ditch, wheels still spinning. While the gang all ran toward the train, ready to fill their pockets with gold, Jesse exhaled a sigh of relief, happy to be alive. He stood up and dusted himself off. He coughed out what dust he had inhaled and took a swig of water. Chuckling to himself, realizing that this was the craziest thing he had ever done, he walked toward the train for the big reveal.

“That’s it?” Frank said in disbelief. “Where’s the rest of it?”

The trembling guard they hogtied explained that the big shipment of gold was on a later train. Frank pulled out his Colt peacemaker and went into the passenger part of the train with the rest of the gang. They had done so much planning for this one moment, and somehow, they managed to

TRAIN RUNNER

by Tristan McGregor, Grade 10

even screw that up. Now, they were only going to get a fraction of what they thought. Jesse chuckled to himself. Miniscule train robberies just were not worth it. Perhaps if they perfected their plan, they could rob even the toughest, securest trains in the west, and get away with it. That could be their thing: Jesse James: infamous train robber. A funny thought, but as far as he knew, he was currently committing the first train robbery in the USA. He whipped out his own peacemaker and joined the gang.

Riding back with all the money in his rucksack, Jesse felt like the king of the world. Not only did he successfully complete his first train robbery, but he also scored around $3,000. A decent haul, but they would do much better in the future. He was sure of it.

DANCING RAINDROPS

by Dmitry Milyutin, Grade 9

In the meadow’s open expanse, Where nature’s beauty takes its stance, Raindrops fall from the cloudy sky, As melodies of water gently fly.

Beneath the sun’s warm golden rays, A symphony of rainbows starts to blaze, Through shimmering droplets, colours arise, Nature’s beauty is painting the skies.

A gentle rhythm begins to play, Raindrops dancing in ballet, As they kiss the earth with tender grace, Creating patterns, leaving a trace.

Emotions mingle like a symphony, Joyful notes blend in perfect harmony, The rain’s embrace brings a calm, A sound of peace, a healing balm.

Mysteries hide within each tiny drop, Whispering secrets that never stop, Each raindrop holds a story untold, In the depths of its journey, stories unfold.

The storm becomes a poet’s verse, Lines are written in the rain, each one diverse, Words intertwine with each falling bead, Creating a tapestry, expressing a need.

With each drop, a new world awakes, Imagination dances the soul partakes, A poet’s heart finds solace and delight, In the rhythm of rain, day or night.

In this enchanting reign, Where raindrops wash away every pain, Let your spirit dance, embrace the wet, In nature’s symphony, find your duet.

Release your worries, let them subside, As raindrops dance, your soul takes stride, In their gentle touch, find pure bliss, In the rhythm of rain, find eternal kiss.

Feel the whispers of the rain’s caress, Nature’s embrace, a tender address, In the dance of rain, let your spirit soar, A symphony of life, forevermore.

BETWEEN THE BEGINNING AND THE END

by Megan Mok, Grade 10

Birds fly south to a warmer place. But those without wings stay; animals hibernate, trees go dormant to survive in the harsh conditions of winter. It is spring, the season of new beginnings. As the cold winter goes away, animals awake, plants start to grow under the warm weather, preparing to blossom in the summer. Spring waves goodbye to the frosty winter. Goodbye to the freezing temperatures, goodbye to the snow that glimmers as it gracefully falls to the ground. Such a beautiful sight makes winter worthwhile. Daylilies begin to grow quickly, looking forward to blooming. Hoping time would pass faster, impatiently waiting for summer’s arrival. Little did they know when summer approaches, they will bloom for only a day, for what feels like a second. And there comes autumn, welcoming winter, the annual plants die. Only now do they realize how they forgot to enjoy the warmth of spring. It is not too late, though.

Autumn is here for you to relish the cozy, breezy weather. Petals will fall. But it is for you to decide to lower at peace, or end everything, displeased. Spring will come again, bringing in new beginnings.

WHY, AGNES?

by Jannat Naseem, Grade 10

The neatly rowed houses with lawns covered in untouched sheets of glittering snow catch my eye as I turn into the familiar suburb. The mid-morning sun peaks over the rooftops as I slow down at a house with dark brown garage doors. The snow still hasn’t been cleared from our driveway yet, which is odd since Agnes usually likes to shovel the snow right after waking up.

The car carefully rolls over the driveway with a crrrunch. I kill the engine and grab the plastic bag filled with sweet-smelling mangoes that was sitting on the passenger seat. A glance at my phone confirms that Agnes hasn’t picked up any of my calls yet. I’ve been trying to reach my wife since last night to no avail. I wanted to tell her that I would be back home early from my business trip, but she never picked up. On the bright side, I can surprise her.

Excited, I shove my phone into my long winter coat and climb out of the car. Immediately I get slapped with a sharp gust of frosty wind that turns my already Rudolph-red nose even redder.

Sniffling, shivering and miserable, I hobble over to the front door and let myself inside. I wallow in the wonderful warmth of the house before tapping the light dusting of snow off my loafers and shouting, “Agnes! Sweetie, I’m home!”

There’s an echo as I wait and then an unwelcome silence fills the house, not unlike the suffocating silence of funerals, which I despise. The house is quiet… too quiet. I furrow my brows, even if Agnes was taking a nap, I would probably hear her snoring. And I’m positive Agnes’s car is still in the garage, so why is it so eerily silent? I tread carefully through the hallway looking around for any sign of Agnes. I’m afraid that instead of surprising her, she’ll be the one surprising me.

I clutch the bag of mangoes with both hands and glance around the small living room. There’s no one there… or so I think. I peek under the table and behind the couches, just in case Agnes decided on playing a game of hide and seek. It sounds far-fetched, but it sounds like something she would do just to mess with me.

I give up on the living room and check the laundry room next. Still as vacant as ever.

As I climb up the carpeted stairs to leave the laundry room, I spot something interesting.

‘Something’ is a petite foot, wearing a bright yellow sock, jutting out from behind the large mahogany kitchen island.

Agnes loves the colour yellow, she also owns socks in the same shade. A goofy grin spreads across my face as I quietly make my way over to where she’s hiding. I untie the plastic bag on my way there, I want to savour the joy on her face as I show her the deliciously ripe mangoes I’ve brought.

Agnes isn’t making a sound, does she really think I didn’t find her? When I make it to the end of the island I realize why.

She is perfectly nestled in the space between the island and the kitchen counter. The black checkered kitchen tiles match her checkered t-shirt. Agnes lies still on her side with her left arm and leg curled underneath her. She’s sleeping… of course. I nudge her a little with my foot and then my eyes fall to the object in her hand.

No.

No no no no no no.

My blood completely freezes over as I instantly recognize the wide, white pill bottle in Agnes’s right hand. A bottle of Ambien, the sleeping pills I got her to treat her insomnia.

WHY, AGNES?

by Jannat Naseem, Grade 10

Anxiety and dread start gnawing at the corners of my conscience as I snatch the bottle out of Agnes’s ice-cold hand.

Agnes was just on the phone with me yesterday; She is not gone, it’s impossible. I turn my attention back to the white bottle in my hand. She only took a few pills, she didn’t overdose. I repeat the last sentence over and over in my head until it becomes true. Except when I shake the bottle, there’s no sound. It’s empty.

“Agnes… why?” I ask hoarsely as I launch the container against the wall so hard it bounces back and lands near my knees. I launch it again. And again. I want to shatter it like how it just shattered my entire world.

Unadulterated terror claws at my stomach as my ears begin to wail. A high-pitched ringing overtakes my thoughts to the point where I cannot think anymore. Yet my head is pounding, too many thoughts and questions swirling around to form a gigantic tornado borne from raw grief that I wish would swallow me whole. My stomach is eating itself up in guilt as I ask why I didn’t notice Agnes was unhappy, why she didn’t tell me, and why she did this to herself.

I suck in a breath and my throat closes into a pinprick as I fight against the tears attacking the corners of my eyes. The beating drum in my chest rises until it catches in my throat, where it stays. This is too much. I shut my eyes, I cannot cry. If I cry this is real. If I cry then Agnes is—

An ugly openmouthed sob breaks out of me that never ends. I grab Agnes’s ice-cold fingers and pray and plead they return to life. They never do. My Agnes is no longer.

I sob harder as I look around the room and spot the bright yellow mangoes scattered around the floor. I must’ve dropped them when I noticed the pill bottle. The drop was high enough that the mangoes fell out of the bag, abandoned and forgotten on the cold kitchen tiles. One negligible action was enough for the bright heart-shaped fruit to bruise and that is how it will stay, forever.

ONE LARGE STIMULATION SWIRL, PLEASE by Cora

Pataran, Grade 11

Julian has always had strange taste. Zoe flicks through the vinyls in milk crates lined up along the floor, trying to find an album to match her mood. She thinks she would like to listen to the Beatles, but then sees a Metallica album and is momentarily distracted by the Master of Puppets intro playing in her head. She sees a disc for The Divine Comedy in a ziploc bag and wonders where on Earth Julian found that. She’s never heard of the band.

The Righteous Brothers, Elvis Presley, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Marcus King. She skims to the next box which is an accumulation of different Smiths records. Some have multiple copies. Zoe plucks out one of the three The Queen is Dead and looks at the list of songs on the back. She inhales the dusty scent, a welcome break from the strawberry candle sitting next to the altar of Jim Morrison above her head. Dried marigolds make up the frame, a few petals fall in front of his face, blocking his eyes without concealing his identity. A little sealed bottle of heroin and a full bottle of Jack Daniel’s are front and centre, sitting on a bed of fake pearls. Both bottles remain unopened. It seems to Zoe that everyone honours the altar, even without knowing who it is.

There are scented candles scattered around the room, each one creating its own little pocket that startles passersbys as they start with lemon-ginger at the stairs and end with peppermint by the bathroom.

Julian groans from the couch. Zoe can picture his dramatic sprawl across the salvaged 70’s cross stitch fabric. She turns and blows a raspberry at him. He makes a deep, chest-rattling sound—a sound of annoyance—and lifts his head to peer through his black, jewelled veil. His fashion sense has always been strange, too.

Zoe takes in his veil, the waist-length curls loosely pulled back, his silver and black iridescent shirt and emerald pants, the jade necklace that covers half his torso. The candles flicker in the wind that gusts through the open windows. Zoe lets herself be lost in the amalgamation of different aromas as they swirl like a psychedelic mandala. Julian closes his eyes and leans into the wind. Zoe thinks he looks like a god.

“Seriously, can’t you pick something? You have any genre possible there.”

Zoe sticks out her tongue. She spins on her heel and returns to the milk crates. Tom Petty, Mellencamp, The Faces, the Small Faces, Slipknot, Nickleback. Next crate. Katy Perry, Britney Spears, Lil Nas X. In the middle of the line, she finds a Journey vinyl. She holds it up to the candle light and hears a quiet “please, please, please, please, please.” She bounces to her feet and skips once to the turntable. She inhales the cinnamon pocket and flips open the pink glittery casing on the turntable.

She places the needle and whips her head around at the opening note to Any Way You Want It.’

GIRL

by Caylie Powell, Grade 12

Girl go get your dolly

Girl go play house

Girl go find a cat, do not touch that mouse

Girl you cannot be strong

Girl you shall not be brave

Girl you must understand

Girl only if you were a man

Girl you take that secret to the grave

Girl this world is not a place for you to succeed

Girl you will learn he is much more strong

Girl his knowledge you will never achieve

Girl now quiet your voice

Girl do not show greed

Girl this world is no place to show skin

Girl with that attitude you will be considered a sin

Girl you must understand that it is not you, it is him

Girl go clean the dishes

Girl it is about time you clear my plate

Girl this is a man’s world

Girl it is not your fault you were born this way

OUTCAST

by Connor Rask, Grade 9

After a few minutes of running, he could hear the sizzle of bacon and smell the smoke from the cookfires. He had found the gremlin raiding camp at last. His stomach growled. He had been in the woods since before dawn and hadn’t eaten for hours. Suddenly, there was a rustling in a nearby bush, and a gremlin popped out. “Kazac shi’ran?” it said in its dialect. He snapped an arrow up to his bow, but it was too late. “Uri’quan! Uri’quan!” it shouted, racing towards the camp.

With the alarm raised, he didn’t have much time. There were already gremlins racing toward him. He took a few of them down with his bow, then fled into the forest. There was a mess of roots threatening to trip him, and low-flying branches slapping his face. He could hear the green-brown, squat creatures hot on his trail, stumbling through the overgrown forest. He knew that his only chance to defeat them was to ally with a village that would help him defend against them. There was only one problem; he was an outcast.

***

One moonless night, his human mother, fleeing from her husband, had left him at the front of a village. As he grew up, he always knew he was different, but didn’t know why. The village elder was eventually forced to banish him, after numerous crimes were blamed on him. By then, he had learned why this was being done to him. His father was a gremlin. ***

He snapped out of his reverie and looked down at his pale white and green mottled skin. If only things were different. Then he looked up and gazed at a village down below. He realized that he recognized it! By the worst luck, it was the one he had grown up in. He knew that if he were to draw close, the villagers would imprison and destroy him. Then, while they were caught unawares, the gremlins would raid the village, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins behind. He made a split-second decision. He made a sudden turn, jumping the stream and heading towards the heart of the forest. He started purposefully stumbling and making a considerable amount of noise, so that the gremlins would turn to follow him. He could hear them draw nearer and nearer. He turned, pressing his back to a tree trunk, and knocked an arrow. When the first gremlin entered his sight, he released. More and more followed the first one.

Everything became a blur as more and more poured out of the forest. When he ran out of arrows, he drew his knife and started to fight close quarters. Eventually, a cut landed on him. Then another. As he finally took out the last one, he knew that even if he was hated, he would die a hero.

ABOUT ME

by Jasmin Tomlinson, Grade 9

Seven million, seven hundred and fifteen thousand minutes old, I’m constantly lost in this world where my true self remains untold. Misjudged by others, misunderstood by all, I’m trapped in a shell, held behind a wall.

Constantly in fear of who I am, and who I will be, Always looking to the future to see if I can be me. Just like a bird, I want to break free, to spread my wings and soar, But all my doubts and insecurities keep me on the floor.

Sometimes when it’s dark my fears come to me, Like clouds that gather for storms, and release hell before they flee. Drip, drip, drip they pour down on my life, Like nothing that I do will ever suffice.

Seven million, seven hundred and fifteen thousand minutes old, Searching for answers, there is a story yet to be told. People see a façade, a mask I wear each day, But this, to many people, may come to their dismay.

Missing out on experiences, always left behind, Watching others live their lives, while I’m stuck here, confined. I wait to be part of the laughter and the fun, But fear tends to hold me back, until later when everything’s done.

Still seven million, seven hundred and fifteen thousand minutes old, Always trying to find my place in this world, that I have to uphold. But deep in my heart, a fire starts to burn, My desire to be who I want, with no concern.

Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, I try shed my insecurities and pretend I am immune. With each passing moment, I grow and evolve, I try see the strength I have, and the problems I’ll resolve.

Seven million, seven hundred and fifteen thousand minutes old, Still I’m trying to uncover the truth that’s waiting to unfold. Through all my ups and downs, my laughs, and my tears, I always try find my own path and not follow theirs

ABOUT ME

by Jasmin Tomlinson, Grade 9

I am seven million, seven hundred and fifteen thousand minutes old, With a symphony of emotions, stories yet to be told. So I try to stand tall, try to be seen, I am who I am, and I’ll forever chase my dreams.

LOYALTY VERSUS SUCCESS

by Matthew Trussell, Grade 12

Envisioning prosperity, balancing conscious stress

Is to welcome the devilish friend who speaks hello.

Envisioning prosperity, balancing conscious stress

Is to ignore the voice which speaks in the background:

Do you rise in the crippling destruction of another?

Or fall in the preservation of a poisonous relationship?

Do you rise in the crippling destruction

Of the shadow who stands behind himself daggering his own gain?

Do you rise in the crippling destruction

Of the shadow which stands the alliance of a failing hope?

Of the shadow shining faithful devotion on the inequitable?

Why serve?

Why faith?

In stepping through the shielded slate of denial, In blooming as the noontide permits the sunlight’s glow, He who exonerates himself of the clouded darkness Casts glory upon his selfish growth.

ORDINARY

by Dave Wen, Grade 12

I love the feeling of being ordinary

Love the wooden smell of the antique furniture, Love the caress of the leaves of books upon my fingers Love the sunlight that shines through the window Love the smell of fresh, hot toast in the early morning And every ordinary moment: Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter.

The meow of the cat that occupies my childhood, The bark of the dogs that proclaims my existence in his world. The words of the diary, That signature is the memory that never fades.

I love to spend an afternoon by myself

Love every tranquillity

Love every moment that seems an eternity. Love the treasury memories I created. Love the everlasting romance and faith, And all those things that look ordinary: Friendship, lovers, pets, families.

I also love that west-slanting sun Even though it represents the passage of time And cannot shine through my window But I still love This ordinary life And this ordinary me For I have all these ordinary things.

SAUDADE by Sara Wietzes, Grade 12

‘My Dearest, I am truly sorry it took so long for me to write to you. I just haven’t been able to find the time…’ A man sat at his desk quietly. In one hand was a pen, in the other a lit cigar. It had been years since he had written a physical letter. His handwriting was rough, as though his hands didn’t quite understand what he was asking of them. The man tapped his pen against the wooden surface of his desk, the sound echoing coldly off the barren walls of the office. What were the next words he was going to write? There was something important that was supposed to come in the following sentence. Something thoughtful. Something that would be sure to brighten her day. Something to remind her how much he loved her. But what the hell was it? He was promptly snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of a sharp knock at the office door.

“Come in,” He said bluntly as he quickly folded the letter up and shoved it into a drawer. “Pardon Sir, it’s just me,” said the person at the door as he entered. He was on the younger side, his bleachblond hair slicked back neatly, his eyes a soft grey. His light face was dotted with faint scars; one, in particular, stretching right across his chin. The man was dressed in civilian wear, a light sweater and a pair of jeans. And although he was extremely familiar, at that exact moment his name escaped Issac’s tongue as though it was just slightly out of frame.

“I just wanted to come to check on you, since you didn’t make it to dinner.” His name was Landon.

“Ah, yes, Landon, I’m alright,” he responded. He had entirely forgotten about dinner. “I was just taking care of some paperwork.” Issac wasn’t sure why he had lied. He wasn’t sure why he had come up with an excuse. As far as he was concerned he was Landon’s superior. He leaned back in his chair, took a long drag on his cigar, and closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, Landon was still standing in front of him. “Was there something else you needed, Sergeant?”

“Nothing in particular,” Landon responded, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly and rocking on his heels. “Keegan and I are going to do a run to town to pick up some supplies, did you want us to grab you anything?”

“I’m all good for supplies.” Issac squinted at Landon for a moment. “Have I been drinking this evening?”

“Not that I know of, Sir.” Landon raised an eyebrow at the question. “Why? Are you feeling alright?” There was genuine concern in his words.

“I’m feeling fine…” Issac said, moving his gaze to the wall behind Landon. “You are free to go, Sergeant.” Landon nodded and left the office without another word. Isaac closed his eyes again. He wasn’t feeling fine. His head was aching as though he had been hit over the head, feeling an odd darkness looming in the corner of his vision that persisted even when his eyes were closed. His consciousness sank like a stone in a pond.

When Issac opened his eyes again he was no longer sitting at his desk. He was standing in a field of yellow grass. The soft ends of the stalks brushed lightly across his arms and ungloved hands as he wandered. The early evening sun was bright, hitting the blades at just the right angle to bring out their colour. ‘The yellow is the same shade as sunflowers. I know those are your favourites’. This time he wasn’t alone. There were six others with him, and Landon was one of them. The other five looked familiar as well. He knew he held them all in very high regard. But why? He was in full gear now. So were the others. Where was his pen?

SAUDADE

by Sara Wietzes, Grade 12

“Oi Cap!” One of the other men had noticed Issac’s sudden case of confusion and came jogging over. He was taller than Landon and was much more muscular. His hair was also blond, but more of a honey blond than white. “You doin’ alright?”

“Yeah, I’m alright…” He paused, “Where exactly are we?”

“What do you mean ‘where are we?’” The man’s bright hazel eyes surveyed his face. “You wanted to go off base for endurance training. We were following you, up ‘til this field. But you insisted we stay here for a little. I didn’t know why, but—”

“Hey Keegan!!” one of the other men yelled across the field towards where they were standing, interrupting Keegan’s rant. “You two alright over there?”

“Yeah, we’re good!!” Keegan shouted back, giving the other guys a thumbs up. He dropped his tone to a whisper and leaned in towards Issac. “We are good, right?”

There wasn’t an answer to that question. His mind was unable to form one. The presence of sunlight had seemed to chase away that looming darkness, but only for a few heartbeats. It was back. This time, it clung to the inside of his mind like a cloud of thick smoke. Clouding the edges of his thoughts, threatening to cover them entirely. The threat of ‘the fog’ made his stomach lurch and his heart rate spike. His hands closed on the rifle hanging from his shoulder, the feel of the steel object in his grasp did little to ground him. His head felt light, and the fog began to close in. ‘My Dearest, I’m sorry’.

“Shit… “ He heard faraway voices, and the floor fell away from beneath him. He awoke to the glow of twilight on his face. The night air was warm, but comfortably so—not too hot, not too cold. It appeared as though he was in the same field as before, however, the sun had just set below the trees. The more his surroundings became clear to him, he noticed that he was closer to the edge of the field now; being propped up by one of the trees that had framed the edges. Keegan was still with him, crouched silently in the grass, leaning on his rifle for balance.

“I wasn’t ‘good’…” Issac croaked from his spot at the base of the tree, his words breaking the serenity.

“Holy shit!” Keegan scrambled up to stand from where he was sitting, clearly startled at Issac’s sudden awakening. “Thank God you’re alright!”

“Where did the rest of the squad go, Banks?” Issac questioned. This time Keegan’s full name came back to him without hesitation. The fog was gone.

“I told them to head on without us, Svetmar took charge of the rest of the expedition,” Keegan reported professionally, seeming to sense that Issac was feeling better. “I opted to stay back with you when you passed out. Felt I owed you one and figured you needed the rest.” He chuckled to himself. “Damn straight, kid,” Issac couldn’t help but laugh as well as he got to his feet. “You’re a good man.” He put a hand on Keegan’s shoulder and nodded approvingly.

“Thanks, Sir,” Keegan smiled sheepishly, not quite sure how to handle the compliment. “We should head back to base,” Issac said, gathering up his belongings from where they had been placed while he was passed out. “Let’s hope we didn’t miss dinner.”

In the following days, Issac’s so-called “brain fog” didn’t reappear. He was able to get back to a somewhat normal routine. Although he had let his second-in-command take charge of most of his

SAUDADE by Sara Wietzes, Grade 12

usual duties. A few of his men had questioned him about passing out in the field that day, but he had chalked it up to dehydration. It was a sure fact that some didn’t believe him. He had never been vulnerable like that, it wasn’t his nature. Landon seemed the most disbelieving. So much so that his suspicions led to him being hostile, keeping his interactions with Issac as short and to the point as possible; simple nods instead of his usual hellos; staying quiet during drills. Issac felt indifferent. He was sure that this defiance was just a way of trying to get some sort of rise out of the rest of the group. Landon was the youngest, after all. As he continued to make his way back to his office Issac found himself focusing on his breathing. It was a simple trick his wife had taught him and he used it to ground himself. The letter still sat half-finished in his desk drawer.

“Pierce, you need to fix your attitude.” A harsh voice snapped, the words catching Issac’s attention from just around the corner. It was his second-in-command, Amvrosi Svetmar.

“Like hell I do!” hissed back Landon, matching his tone.

“I don’t give two shits about fixing my attitude, that man is not Issac Mendel and he’s certainly not our captain!‘’ Issac stopped in his tracks, letting his weight fall against one of the walls. Landon’s harsh claim made his head reel.

“What are you getting at Sergeant?” Amvrosi’s voice dropped in volume. His tone wasn’t as disbelieving as hoped. Issac found himself leaning into the conversation from his spot just out of sight.

“Ever since that mission to the Wraith Corp outpost, he hasn’t been the same.” Landon’s voice also dropped his hostile tone. “He goes back to normal for a few hours at most, then he gets all disconnected. Like he’s not there.” Isaac’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“You mean to say that you think that’s the reason for all the odd missions we’ve been going on?” Amvrosi asked, his question seeming to hang in the air. Odd missions? What the hell did he mean? His squadron was supposed to be on a break. There weren’t supposed to be any outings, they were supposed to be on lockdown. The darkness crept back in like noxious gas. ‘I must admit, I haven’t been myself recently. Perhaps I’ve come down with something.’

One foot in front of the other. Soft and silent breaths. His boots made little sound across the soft mud of the rainforest. Issac didn’t question where he was this time. He knew it was pointless. It had been a pointless battle from the start. He should have let the darkness win a long time ago. The rest of the squad followed behind him, their formation well practised. There were seven men, including himself. The best of the best, all hand-picked by himself. Each one was willing to fight for him to their final breath. Although the sun had long vanished below the horizon, the air was still hot and humid; clinging to their clothes and making their gear feel twice as heavy. Each one of them was practically dripping in sweat, and mud clung to their boots and pants. But appearance didn’t matter where they were headed. The only thing that mattered was that they showed up. Issac held his hand up to motion for the group to stop in the centre of a clearing. He took a step ahead, then turned to face them. ‘My love I fear that I have lost too much of myself to this darkness inside my mind.’ His gaze hovered over them all fondly. The men he had trained for years. He saw them all as family. ‘I am no longer in control of my actions.’ He was speaking but was unable to hear his own words. The fog prevented it, forbidding it. He was panicking, but his body wasn’t. ‘I should have told them what I told you. Back when I last saw you. Back when I was last able to hold you in my arms.’ Whatever words were being said, they weren’t well

SAUDADE

by Sara Wietzes, Grade 12

received. Amvrosi’s eyes filled with disgust, and Landon looked horrified. What was the matter? ‘I feel as though I’ve deceived them. I’ve betrayed them against my own will.’ Keegan had stepped forward with a frustrated look on his face. He was angry but the fog covered Issac’s ears like a mother might cover the ears of her child. Shielding them from the truth. Issac felt himself talking back to Keegan, unable to discern what the argument was even about. ‘I don’t think I will even be able to say goodbye to them. I don’t know how it will end, but I know it will. You know my intuition is usually correct.’ Keegan grabbed him by the shoulders, his eyes were brimming with tears. He was pleading. ‘I wish I was able to say goodbye to you, too. Say goodbye to our daughter. See your face one last time.’ Issac’s hand reached for his sidearm, the familiar steel was cold against his warm palm. He raised his gun to Keegan’s stomach, watching as his pleading gaze froze over into horror. ‘I wish they knew I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. Right?’

IN THE GARDEN, A RABBIT

by Sara Wietzes, Grade 12

One day in the garden, I met a rabbit. It was soft, polite, And the most brilliant shade of white. The rabbit had befriended me, And every day we would spend hours in the garden together. Just me and him. But after a week or so, He began to bite. He bit at my hands, At my ankles, At my face.

It didn’t bother me at first, but the blood began to clog the drain, Stain the bandages, Ruin my clothes.

His fur was no longer that same shade of brilliant white. But I couldn’t bring myself to set him free. Leave him alone in the garden.

He was still just a rabbit. Until the day his teeth met pale bone. Until the day I ran out of bandages.

No more bleeding. No more bites. No more rabbit.

THE GREATER GOOD

by Bryan Wu, Grade 10

General Fidel walked around the bridge of the Leviathan; the ship’s silence was like that of the Dark Worlds—pure dread.

It was a dismal war. It shredded planet after planet. It annihilated all life. It filled the landscapes with corpses like the plague. It weaved scars into the lives of those unfortunate enough to remember.

“General,” Leo, the Chief Technician, murmured, disturbing the thoughtful muse of his leader. “the—”

“The Superweapon.” Fidel responded quickly, the excitement barely contained behind his docile expression. “Let’s not waste any further time; activate it.”

“That’s what I came here to talk to you about, General.” The Zabrak sighed. “I think there is a better way to end the war.”

“What’s on your mind?” Fidel inquired as he faced the large mirror of the Leviathan The Mass Shadow Generator’s target was Chorisia, a planet known for its cultural richness and its emission of a voluptuous fusion between fuchsia and lime. Fidel knew it was an ambitious goal that would put all the Republic’s name on the line.

“I’m sure that you are aware of what would happen if we activated it.” Leo said, pensive anxiety escaping his voice. The technician’s wrinkles from years of overwork and insomnia covered his honourably horned face.

“The universe is tormented by war.” Fidel exclaimed, his soft eyes radiated confidence. “We are the people’s saviours, without the weapon, innocents will be murdered by the Empire.”

“But we will bring the planet and everything down with them, is it worth it?” Leo pondered. “Killing our allies and bringing judgement to millions of suffering citizens.”

“It is a small price to pay for the greater good.” Fidel dictated imperiously, unmoved by the rhetoric of his comrade.

“That’s what I wanted to ask, General. What does that even mean? What do our forces represent? Aren’t we peacekeepers? Why are we developing these destructive superweapons? Doesn’t that go against our vision?” The technician inquired, with both confusion and concern from the rather unusual behaviour from his leader.

“I understand that you have many questions, and your heart is confused.” Fidel said with calmness, as per usual. “It is for the greater good, Leo. We have a galaxy to save.”

If not for the situation right now, Leo would have followed his leader’s commands without hesitance. Fidel was a famed charismatic strategist, his words inspired and influenced everyone around him. However, the technician knew now was not the time to blindly obey.

“The greater good? Our superiors told us that the greater good was to keep the innocent casualty at near zero,” Leo reminded his leader.

“The Council is respectable for their pacifist nature.” The general maintained his calm stance. “However, if the civil war goes on for any longer, only more planets will turn into the ones we have already seen.”

THE GREATER GOOD

by Bryan Wu, Grade 10

“But—” The technician was about to question before he was again interrupted.

“Peace was never real.” General Fidel interjected; his declamation saturnine like the sick colours in the ship. Turning around, Fidel held up his hand. “During this whole time, do you think there was a time where people didn’t slaughter each other?”

“These people down there, they are waiting for us to save them. How are we supposed to face them about our decision?” Leo asked, irritation and passion slowly cracking through his voice like dry soil. The technician felt as though Fidel was not listening to him.

“One cannot hope to achieve one thing without giving up something else.” The general gazed at him with the same cold smile. “Sacrifice is peace. There has never been a world where people will achieve peace without death, and there never will be. Would you want the Empire to continue their assault on your homeland? Do you want to disappoint Master Revan? Do you want to keep your promise of ending the war?”

Leo could not respond, overwhelmed with Fidel’s words.

The war has already attached itself into Iridonia. The war has already reaped countless lives. The war has severed the galaxy’s balance. Maybe the General is right. The longer the fight, the more people will fall before the barrel of the blasters. The longer the fight, the Republic will face its demise to tyranny of the Empire. The longer the fight, the galaxy will be drenched in the bloodshed of cataclysm.

WHISPERS OF HOPE: SERAPHINA’S JOURNEY

by Cecelia Xu, Grade 9

Growing up in the village, my mother’s unwavering love and dedication sustained me as I carried the weight of everyone’s expectations. Encouraged by their unwavering belief in my destined role as the village’s saviour, I embarked on a journey to uncover a cure for the relentless illness that plagued our village. Guided by the memories of my father, whose life was claimed by the same illness, my determination burned brighter than ever.

With each passing day, I delved deeper into the realm of knowledge, studying ancient texts, consulting my elders, and seeking counsel from healers far and wide. The villagers, eager to witness my success, showered me with tokens of support and love. They spoke words of encouragement, reaffirming their faith in my abilities. As time passed, my relentless quest for a remedy became increasingly challenging, and then doubt happened and I started to question my determination. The burden of their expectations weighed heavily upon me, casting doubt on my ability to fulfill their lofty hopes. My mom sat me down and said, “Seraphina, you were born for greatness. Our village has suffered for far too long. I strongly believe you will find a cure and stop this illness!”

“I appreciate your faith in me,” I responded, “but how can I bear the weight of such expectations?”

“Seraphina, your eyes shimmer like the serenity of the sea, and your golden hair holds the warmth of the singing sun. You carry the beauty and strength we need to overcome this darkness. You don’t have to worry, I will always be here with you throughout your journey.”

“I will do my best, but what if I fail?” I asked. “What if there is no cure to be found?”

“Doubt not, my dear Seraphina. The hope that resides within you is a beacon of light in our darkest hours. The path may be arduous, but I will always stand by your side, unwavering in my support.”

With my mom’s words of encouragement, I grinned and said, “Your unwavering belief gives me strength. I will seek knowledge, consult wise healers, and leave no stone unturned. Our village deserves a chance at a brighter future.”

I then remembered that a wise herbalist once told me of an elusive herb, hidden deep within the heart of the Whispering Grove, rumoured to hold the power to heal the most incurable of ailments. Driven by a newfound glimmer of hope, I ventured into the Whispering Grove, and was guided by a combination of intuition and faith. The path was treacherous, but my determination pushed me forward, each step bringing me closer to the answer our village yearned for.

Finally, I stood before the sacred herb, its vibrant hues mirroring the sea that gave me my name. With trembling hands, I harvested it, cradling it gently as if holding the collective dreams of our community. Returning to the village, I prepared the remedy with meticulous care, following the ancient rituals passed down through generations. The moment of truth arrived as the villagers gathered, their eyes filled with anticipation. With bated breath, I administered the curative elixir to those afflicted by the relentless illness.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as the village held its collective breath, awaiting signs of transformation. And then, like a miracle bestowed upon us, the first signs of healing emerged.

WHISPERS OF HOPE: SERAPHINA’S JOURNEY

by Cecelia Xu, Grade 9

The disease that had haunted us for generations began to recede, replaced by renewed vitality and the whispers of a brighter future. I felt a tear on my cheek as I sighed with relief. The decades spent searching for a cure led up to this moment.

I did it. I saved my village. The villagers rejoiced, their cheers echoing through the humble streets we called home. Grateful and humbled, I realized that I had fulfilled my purpose, not as the hero they had imagined, but as a vessel of hope and resilience in the face of adversity. As life returned to our village, vibrant and full of promise, I knew that the true heroes were not individuals, but the collective spirit of a community united in love and unwavering belief. Thus, I wholeheartedly embraced my purpose, not as the one who saves, but as a humble guardian entrusted with nurturing the inherent beauty that resides within each of us—the resilience to confront the depths of despair and emerge fortified on the path towards a brighter tomorrow.

SHINING LIGHT

by Daniel Yan, Grade 11

Day after day, night after night, From the same two people who brought me to light, Screams and cries echoed through the house, Not a single day without her cries of help. Too little to protect, too small to fight back, Too naïve to understand, I could only stay back. Far from the action, only ears to guess the scene, Like a bear mauling down a rabbit. Her screeching called my name so clearly, But we both knew that I was not coming. The pain and suffering in such cries I felt Only amplified from the lack of visuals. Glasses shattering, doors slamming, earthquake tumbling Sounds only filled my head. Each day had only made my rage intensify,

For my sole purpose of living was to be his demise. Until his disappearance one day, but she stayed. Not happy but unsatisfied, my head boiled hotter, As if nine years of hell was erased from history, My desire for revenge grew day by day, As if I could not rest until his departure from life. They tell me to forget, that it is already over,

That there is no point as he is already gone, Acting as water to my raging flames, But are merely spraying mist at a forest fire. But then she spoke, asking me to forgive. To let go of what happened, but not forget, That darkness cannot be where there is light, That my vengeful mind had not imprisoned him, Instead, I, who has been leashed like a dog. I work to let go, to let the light shine, So she can sleep peacefully at night, And I can live for myself.

THE BLOODY HANDSHAKE

by Ethan Youell, Grade 9

I paced in my ger, anxiously straining my ears above the clatter of pans that prepared tonight’s feast. The feast and I both waited for the same arrival, the arrival of the Emperor. Eventually I lie down, keeping a hand on my dagger and watching the flap, paranoid of my own plans failing. I convinced myself that Chagatai won’t try to kill me tonight, he would wait until he had more power first. I try to calm myself, allowing the leather ger to envelope me in warmth, seeping through to my chilled bones. I lay like that for a minute, then a messenger burst in.

“My Lord, your father has arrived and anxiously awaits your presence.”

I silently dismissed him with a wave of my hand. After he was gone, I put on my best war gear: my lamellar, selem, my machu bow, and dozen arrows. I step out of my ger, not allowing myself to slow down as I march through the muddy paths. Soldiers sit in groups of three and four starting their early meals. Servants wipe racks of spears and axes that had gathered dust in their passive state.

I see the feasting ger and the sound of my siblings’ raucous laughter filled the room. Damn it, I had wanted to get there before them. I walked stiffly through the ger, bowing low to my father as I take a seat to his right. Servants place food in front of me and fill my goblet with wine. I don’t bother touching it, it wouldn’t serve me well to eat before what I would do next.

My father leans over and whispers to me, “You should eat, it is an important night, you need sustenance.”

“I am fine, I ate before I came.” I lied.

“That explains why you’re so late then!” He roared, his face turning red from wine and laughter. I fake a smile but still don’t touch my food, although I do take a small sip of wine to settle my nerves and satisfy the Emperor. I avoid all contact with him after that, so that he wouldn’t sense that something was amiss.

To calm myself I started counting the weapons on each of my family members. My father only carried an embroidered dagger, the sheath a dark blue braided with tracings of pure gold. Chagatai, the eldest of my younger brothers, had a dozen arrows and a large machu bow hung over his chair, the stringing tense and ready for battle. It was him that I was most worried about, I was the only thing standing between him and the Khan Dynasty, we had been rivals since birth. Ögedei, the third-born child, had a Chinese spear hung over his back, the edge pointing up in the air. Ögedei was loyal to Chagatai immensely, he would sacrifice his life to save him, he could not be trusted. Tolui, my youngest brother, had a selem sheathed at his side, the engravings on it were silver and shone in the dim firelight. He was no one’s worry, easy-going and a negotiator during the ferocious battles between Chagatai and I. After what had seemed like an eternity of posturing and smiling with my brothers, my father stood with a cup in hand. Everyone immediately silenced out of fear of him.

“Today, as I’m sure many of you already know,” he began, “I shall be announcing the heir to the Khan dynasty and heir to all my possessions and armies.”

“ALL HAIL THE KHAN DYNASTY!”  The room cried out in unison.

He waits patiently for the crowd to finish the chant .“ As I have told my children, I shall lead them to an undisclosed area to reveal the future of my Empire.”

There were a few murmurs of disapproval at that, but no one was audacious enough to challenge their Emperor.

THE BLOODY HANDSHAKE

by Ethan Youell, Grade 9

My father marched us out of the ger through a flap in the back. The air is now cold without the press of bodies. The moon was full and it lit a bright path along our trail. An owl hooted nearby, its unblinking eyes watching us in the of the night. My tongue went dry as I thought of what would come next, I desperately wished that I had drank more wine at dinner. The path led to a small clearing where trees towered above us, their trunks were three men wide. Our father turned to face us. He was over sixty, his shoulders were hunched, and his eyes had bags under them. His body had been battered relentlessly from his warmongering youth. He stooped low and only carried his dagger now. He could barely go a few minutes without coughing, he was on the brink of death and everyone knew it.

He turned to face us, he was pale from the walk. “My sons, I do not make this decision out of love for you, but out of love for the strength of my Empire,” he rasped, his voice weak in front of us. “For that, I choose Chagatai as my heir.”

I was stunned, the breath left my lungs. It wasn’t fair, I was the eldest son. I am entitled to the throne. The smug smile that Chagatai wore was mine. Ögedei was the first to kneel, then Tolui. My father stared at me expecting me to do the same. Instead, I raised a clenched fist. On this signal, arrows flew from behind the trees and knights in heavy iron armour with swords charged out. They vastly outnumbered my family. In moments, we had them on their knees with blades to their throats.

Genghis Khan’s last words were, “I was wrong, you are strong enough.” With that, their throats were slit and Richard, the English Nobleman stepped out.

“I have done my part, now you will lead your dynasty to overthrow King Henry III and place me in charge.”

I bend down, soak my hand in my father’s blood, and shake his outstretched hand.

I believe in the sun, But don’t trust its light. Storm clouds can hide it, And the dark, inky night. Ignorance lurks around every corner, And bigotry snuffs out what is right.

I believe in the words, But don’t trust their meaning. Tricks can distort it, And justice left bleeding. Truth can be flipped, And reality shattering.

I believe in the bullet, But don’t trust its mission, The winner’s proud glory, And blood-soaked ambition. The innocent lives lost, And the tears of contrition.

I believe in my ancestors, But don’t trust the stories, The sorrows and hardships, And glories and victories. All become simplified, And flat and plain like paper.

I believe in the water, But don’t trust the river, The cruelty of incessant time, And the course that always shifts, So, it can never be called, The same river as before.

I BELIEVE

by Stella Yuan, Grade 12

I believe in heat, But not the stove. I believe in sounds, But not the voice. I believe in coldness, But not in snowflakes. As they will all vanish, all melt, all fade away.

I believe in the telescope, But not the starry sky. I believe in the heaviness carried, But not the robust shoulders. I believe in the light that sparkles in the eyes, But not the face that looks sincere. For some can be hidden, be missing, and be concealed.

I never believe in the surroundings: The Fruit of Eden Garden lures me, The Twilight of the gods frustrates me, The Genesis Flood intimidates me. I don’t believe in everything.

I believe in my precious soul, That never traps by its syrupy dreams, That never submerses in the sorrows of tragedy, That never thwarts the eternal flowing time. I believe in myself.

This poem is inspired by two masterpieces, César Vallejo’s Confianza en el anteojo, nó en el ojo and Jorge Luis Borges’s What can I hold you with?

A FADING FLAME

by Emily Zalewski, Grade 10

The snow is different when it’s this cold. No, not cold. That word cannot capture this bone-deep, all-consuming temperature. In this kind of cold, beautiful crystals of frozen water, which form into unique shapes and fall into the palm of a rosy hand, are transformed into their fundamental state: shards of ice that will pierce skin, even on the strongest hands. The wind shakes the small wooden cabin, whistling as it wraps around the four walls. The ice and thick snow paving the small dirt road leaves them trapped, stranded on the hill, miles away from civilization. The journey back to town would take hours—if such a path existed in this weather. Minutes in, this cold would make a slim woman like Mary freeze to death. She can’t even stand near the frosted window without shivering, so she turns away, eyes meeting the blanketed lump on the small bed in the corner. Looking at her son struggling to breathe, sweat trickling from his forehead, it’s too much for her. Mary turns back, staring blankly, again, out the window.

“Why did we have to get the house on the hill?” She spoke aloud. Not that anyone could hear her. Her stubborn husband had gone to search for firewood early in the morning. That had been hours ago. Now, Ollie lay in bed, fighting his own immune response, while Mary could do nothing but hope for the warmth to return.

When they first moved away from the city during the summer, Mary begged John for a home far from town. After years without independence—living with family, the constant shouts of the city—all she had hoped to have was something for herself: a big farm, fields upon fields to admire from their hill. Settling on a point far from civilization’s reach. Yet, come winter, the isolation had proven to be more constricting than freeing, and the house Mary was promised has yet to be built, leaving the family desolate.

Smoke rises from the dying fire. A signal of the limit of warmth, the dwindling of time, before it’s too late. John is nowhere to be seen. The horses can’t make it down the steep, snow-covered hill. Attempting to walk to the nearest home would take almost an hour, even without the snow. With it? Mary didn’t even want to consider what would happen.

“Why did I need the hill?” she ponders again. “And what was wrong with all the other houses, the countless properties for sale? Why was it never enough for me?”

Mary continues to stare at the white outdoors—perhaps hoping for the colour to flood back into the world, or for a force to come save them. Instead, the world dims quickly, and the snow only comes down harder. The rumble of Mary’s stomach fills the empty room. With scarce supplies, food has been rationed and Mary gladly gives anything to Ollie, hoping he will just get better.

After a deep breath, Mary walks towards the head of the small bed in the corner of the room across the window, sitting next to Oliver. He looks smaller than ever, swaddled under layers of blue. He reminds Mary of the baby bird she saw on a visit to the farm before their big move. The bird had jumped out of its nest too early. It, too, had been so spectacularly tiny, so weak. So much more willing to accept its reality than Mary, who had tried to nurse it back to health until there was nothing more anyone could do.

A FADING FLAME

by Emily Zalewski, Grade 10

“Please get better, honey,” she pleads, without looking up from where her hand grazes each stitch of the quilt. The fabric is soft, but fraying in sections, and the vibrant ocean blue has faded into a worn sky. “I’m so sorry.” Mary tries to blink her misery away as her small boy trembles, like an orange leaf in its last few moments bound to a near-barren oak. No one was coming. No one could save them. No one knew Ollie was sick. No one knew John had been gone all day, out longer than the sun, and no one knew the pain Mary felt. This was her fault, and she couldn’t do anything. She could not do anything. The walls move in around her, sucking any life, any heat out with them.

Mary prays to whoever would listen: “Please. Please let my family be together another night. Please keep me strong. Please.” She hopelessly watches the rise and fall of Ollie’s chest, each anomaly making her heart skip a beat. “…please,” she repeats.

When Ollie violently murmurs in his sleep, Mary brushes his forehead with the warm touch of her comforting hand. As he calms, an almost imperceptible smile forms on his small face. His forehead burns, his lips shiver. The colour in his naturally pink cheeks has long faded, along with the weight lost over days of sickness. Mary chokes as she thinks about how small he has become. Smaller than the sweet little boy she has had the pleasure of calling hers—always gentle and caring, confessing his love to his mother and father each night before bed.

Mary kisses her sweet boy once again, resting her head next to his, trying to savour any final warmth before an eternal night.

“I’m sorry. Mommy loves you. Sleep tight, Ollie.”

THE GOLDEN WIND AND HIS AUDIENCE

by Bella Zhang, Grade 9

I was ambling down the same street on my way home, submerged in the heat of the sunset. Wylie Street always had the same grey-toned apartments, the same willow trees, and myself carrying my leather briefcase after work.

My eyes couldn’t withstand the sun as it pounced upon me like a predator. Thus, I squinted my eyes to cease the sunlight from irritating my eyes.

“But this may be the only place where I can enjoy warmth,” I ruminated.

Though oddly, there was a blurred object in motion towards me. I opened my eyes in agitation though enduring the dazzling sunbeams.

It was a man who was dancing on his tippy toes under the willow trees sedately towards me. Though strangely, his mouth was wide open.

Golden sunlight beamed through the foliage down to his face and shoulders, creating patterns of light and shadow on him. I felt fear that a wild man was approaching me, but his dance engrossed me more.

His arms had the motion of streaming water, as they flowed in various directions. Then, his waist bent down and his arms followed. Next, a spin, a hop; the whimsical man was a gust of wind, his movements were entirely arbitrary.

He danced towards me, moving through golden sunbeams. I looked deeper into him; he was a man in his forties. Thick, black facial hair grew wildly, he had a downward tendency in his eyebrows and a pair of sullen eyes. He wore a shabby green shirt with brown stains on top, a pair of red work shorts and pink slippers. This man seemed like a vagrant, but the spirit he showed was full of light. I knew not why; I dared to speak to this peculiar man.

“Hello, Sir.”

He did not respond. I tried to persuade myself that he may not have heard me during his performance, but discomfort grew, so I raised my voice.

“May I ask which style of dance you are dancing?”

“Ballet.”

I was perplexed by his answer. It was peculiar that an inexperienced ballet dancer would perform on the streets. Just as I was engrossed by my thoughts, he answered, as if he saw the confusion in my eyes.

“It’s my dream.”

“Dream?”

“Yes.”

He answered without interest but rather he was remarkably candid. I was following him to the place I had come from while he was dancing. Then neither of us spoke.

“Well, do you have a dream?”

I was stunned by his question. Do I have a dream? I couldn’t recall any of the dreams from my childhood.

At length, the eccentric man burst out in grotesque laughter and left me as I stood there. I watched his contours as he faded into the shadows. The willow trees’ branches flowed; he danced while wrapped in golden sunset. At that moment, I admired this eccentric man. I yearned for his freedom.

Cover artwork by Chris Yu, Grade 12