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 winners from each grade. Students may receive awards for distinction in prose, poetry, or for 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 with a gift card.
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 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 2023-2024 is Amelie Li. 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.
The writing of this year’s winner is an eclectic mix, though through the pieces featured in this year’s review, readers will note a recurring theme of seeking connection. After all, don’t we all just want others to see, value and love us for who we are? Amelie’s short story “Fleeting Like the Wind”, captures all that can be left unsaid in a strained relationship and leaves readers recollecting all those texts they didn’t send. In her poem “The Sounds of a Passing Breeze”, Amelie describes beautifully that feeling of immediately connecting with another. She won the Grade 12 Creative Writing Award for her moving series of vignettes, “Swimming in a Lull”. You will also find her profile of Daniel Weinzweig featured in this year’s Student Lounge magazine. She once told me that the Grade 12 Writer’s Craft course was one of the main reasons she came to Pickering College. We are so happy to celebrate her as a valued member of the PC community.
FLEETING LIKE THE WIND
by Amelie Li, Grade 12
You’re there again, but not really. The ingredients were different this time, you were closer, talked more; the thought of losing them never occurred to you.
You lost someone again, nostalgia hitting you full force as you scrolled through your old messages. Hey, when are you free to call?
IDK busy Uni sucks ass
Forced. It began to feel like business. The light dimmed on your phone as the dots disappeared. You were still a friend, but not really. It wasn’t like you bowed and went in separate directions—you stopped talking as much and the spark died along with it. There was now an invisible line you were afraid to cross, forever chasing what once was on the other side. You were close, but not anymore. Gone were the quiet understandings, gone were the inside jokes that seemed to become a legacy, a drop in history. Gone.
You talked again, but not really. The conversation lasted for five minutes, with gaps and silences in the middle. The air felt off, tense, quiet; the distant laughter felt light years away. You want to send something, anything, to keep the conversation going; and if it was just any other day, you would’ve sent it.
But it wasn’t, and you held the backspace.
THE SOUNDS OF A PASSING BREEZE
by Amelie Li, Grade 12
Maybe it was the trick of the golden sun, But everything about you shone that day. For a stranger, you seem Too familiar… Hey, tell me, have we met before?
Falling, falling, Gone with the summer winds, A jingle out of place
Your songs a beautiful tragedy, Retelling a tale of old
Tell me, where have I heard your tunes?
Your smile warm like a blanket of fire, Burning, burning, karma slowly builds up. Strangely familiar, yet so foreign. A battlefield long forgotten.
A fleeting memory I can’t recall.
Tell me, why does my heart ache so?
The blistering breeze blew you away, Butterflies in your long golden hair. We ate sweet delicacies in the afternoon sun, Laughing as if we have everything we had ever wanted. Do you still remember our promise?
I saved you and you saved me, a mutual exchange,
One that I won’t ever regret.
Bright turquoise flashes before my eyes, Our bond too strong to sever, Even if it never crossed your mind. Do you still remember me?
A song I will never forget.
A saviour graced before me in my most desperate time of need. A melody that will forever change my fate. A beat of silence where I can finally rest.
SWIMMING IN A LULL
by Amelie Li, Grade 12
Water rushed in my open mouth as I gasped for a sliver of air. Down, down, down, succumbing to the pressure of the water. Strangely, I felt calm. The hourglass ticking, counting down the seconds with each grain of sand. Dancing between the line of life and death, I watched with hazy eyes as people from my past cast decisions on me as if I was a blank slate, only for them to encode. I didn’t want this—I thrashed my arms upwards, hoping for a semblance of understanding to pierce through the surface of the water only to be met with the resistance from who was once complacent, my past. The clocks kept on ticking, the hourglass half full; my mind working against me, the thought of giving up so sweet and within reach—just a little while longer—my eyes closed.
It was quiet. The wind stilled as the faded greens and grays of the grass focused into view. A red crayon drawn on a piece of paper in a horizontal manner, colouring the backdrop in a state of disarray before mellowing out with orange, and then a hint of yellow of the top left corner sun. I blinked and slowly sat down, leaning back and enjoying the soft cotton feel of the grass against the back of my arms. I closed my eyes again. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The hourglass turned 90 degrees. Time seemed to have slowed down, TV static played a wistful melody as I lifted my head toward the glitch. That wasn’t supposed to be here. Why was that TV here? The wheels under the TV whirled to life as it rolled closer and closer and closer—and then, hypnotized, I stood up and walked toward it as if a magnetic force was drawing me in. I turned it on. The faces of my parents greeted knocked me out of my own fantasies and I was suddenly sitting at my desk, half-finished homework staring menacingly back at me.
Graffiti
Each name has a different meaning. Subsequently, a different origin. Mine was a spelling mistake, a pure error of a six-year-old who had just started to learn the English language and gave herself a French name instead. It was a running joke amongst my friends after I had found out that my name wasn’t how I wanted it to be, but that was fine, I was fine. I loved my name; it gave me a sense of uniqueness in the dull crowd of adults. Throughout the years, I had seen different variations of the spelling of my name, different spellings that got weirder and more estranged than the last. I laughed it off and told them that it was okay. I laughed it off because it was easier that way. I laughed it off because I had been there before. This name—this childish mistake of mine—was mine to own up to and mine to keep.
The Grand Opening
The curtains opened and my heart closed with the anxiety of a final performance. Welcome, one and all, to the finale! Sit back and relax and hold on to your hats! The start repeated itself and gave life to the middle, climax, rising action, and most importantly, the resolution. Music chimed through the air as the performers whirled around in fluid motions, each step ingrained within their system as if it was second nature. Blue, red, green, and yellow lights flicked through the stage and gave shine to each star, acting as a guide to the story’s narrative. The shouts and screams of laughter and joy filled
SWIMMING IN A LULL
by Amelie Li, Grade 12
the audience, each coupled with a bright smile that could rival even the brightest of cities. Of course, there were the occasional adults that neither laughed or smiled throughout the whole performance, choosing instead to observe and judge through a critical lens. What was so wrong with wanting to make people smile? And before I could ask this question, it started to rain. This wasn’t in the script.
I knew. I knew because I had watched this exact act play out a couple hundred times. Actors being strung up like puppets connected by strings of steel, emotions not of their own but all a part of an act. Greet, bow, hold out your hand, dance, repeat. That was how life should be: simple and straightforward. Yet, as I cast my gaze out onto the stage, there was another narrative that overlapped the one that I had grown up with. The actors were unbothered by the sudden rain,c hoosing instead to continue with the performance. Although they improvised, they were nonetheless able to make comprehensible. The show must go on! A phrase I had heard several times, but never knew just how powerful it was. This was the leader calling out to his subordinates co-workers, shouting out a single command that everyone knew by heart, counting on the slim chance that it would ever happen. Still, they continued. They pressed on and it was the most magnificent show I had ever seen. Life doesn’t have a linear path, so why should stories?
“Hikari”
There once was a little girl with a bright future, eyes shining with all of the curiosities in the world. Everyone praised her for her resilience, her diligence to learn. She was the shining star, the hope and saviour for everyone in her village. She had many friends and the neighbours always doted on her, making her feel all warm and happy inside. The village was a small, secluded area in the middle of the countryside that barely had any name for itself. That was the case until the little girl started to show more of herself around, greeting everyone with a toothy smile and helping out the elders with a bounce in her steps. Since the place was remote, whenever someone got sick or if there was an injured animal, the little girl took it upon herself to go and collect herbs, regurgitating her learnings through the limited resources they had. If you were simply passing by the village, it was almost a guarantee that you would hear the sweet laughter as the little girl went about her day. She was loved by the villagers and the wildlife, using her knowledge for the better.
However, despite her accomplishments, her parents weren’t happy. As time went on, they noticed how her leisure time began to outweigh her study time, overlooking how she still had the best grades. But she’s happy! the villagers would argue. Shouldn’t that be enough? The complaints fell on deaf ears.
And they sent her away.
The days bled into one, seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours and hours turned into days; as the little girl toiled away at the prestigious school, she slowly and quietly forgot about what it felt like to feel. Even though she felt like knocking on death’s door everyday, she
SWIMMING IN A LULL
by Amelie Li, Grade 12
schooled her emotions and pressed on, not wanting to disappoint her parents even further. To combat her loneliness, the little girl bought a plant to keep her company, shoving the responsibility into her already busy schedule. As the school months passed, the plant grew healthier and healthier, a stark contrast to the owner; and as the years came and went, the parents finally caught wind of the plant and decided that she didn’t need to waste her time on insignificant things, taking the plant back to the village without so much so as a warning. When the little girl found out, it wasn’t rage or even disappointment that hit her first.
You could’ve at least said ‘hi.’
It was sadness.
When the little girl finally finished her studies at the top of her grade, she was painfully pale and looked as if she had been through hell and back. But it was no matter, she gave her valedictorian speech with a perfectly crafted smile and ignored all the envious claps of the audience. It didn’t matter, they didn’t matter, she didn’t matter, and under the guise of taking a well-deserved break, she boarded the bus back to the village and home that she had grown up in to share the news.
Ah.
Home.
Home was a word that filled many with joy and warmth, thinking about all of their loved ones chattering away during dinner time. It was a word that carried weight for such a small and simple word, one that could bring out the emotions of even the strongest warriors.
Home was not something the little girl had.
Rather, instead of having a home in the present, it was something she had lost a long time ago.
When she made it back to the village, it only took one look at the villagers who had practically raised her for her to break down and run back to her home. In her heart, she knew. She knew that she was no longer the same light that once shone down on the pitiful village. But it was okay. Her parents were finally satisfied, their daughter was going to be a future doctor! Buried in her studies under the dim lights that outlined a shadow over the now wilted plant, the little girl smiled no more.
THIEF IN MY THROAT
by Moira Boland, Grade 12
There is a thief in my throat who steals my words away, In plain conversation, I feel my tongue turn to stone, An endless battle to keep a rising tide at bay.
My words are wrapped and ready but pile at the doorway, I’m forever desperate for ease of tune and tone, There is a thief in my throat who steals my words away.
Is silence my sentence or the master I obey?
What must they think of me since I lead my life unknown?
An endless battle to keep a rising tide at bay.
Do I scream in my dreams and use all my words away?
On the roof of the mouth, a tongue idle on its throne, There is a thief in my throat who steals my words away.
Eyes fall upon the floor, a futile getaway, Forever a young girl, afraid to talk on the phone, An endless battle to keep a rising tide at bay.
Words unsaid threaten to rot my tongue and cheek away, The sound of my voice rings in my flesh, down to the bone.
There is a thief in my throat who steals my words away, An endless battle to keep a rising tide at bay.
FRUSTRATING SILENCE AND HOW TO BECOME ONE WITH IT
by Vivienne Brown, Grade 12
It’s the silence that gets to me sometimes. So loud it gets deafening. It isn’t the still, soft kind of quiet. Not the quiet of a graveyard, or the quiet of the dead, but a living quiet. The kind of quiet you experience while reading a good book. The quiet during the first sip of honey-lemon tea. The quiet of the inmate down for life, who begged for the death penalty instead. I know, logically, that in the next couple rooms over, my grandmother snores gently, my brother reads a book and my parents are dead to the world. There is still movement. The night air rustles the curtains, my pothos swings side to side in its macrame hanger, and I am awake. I breathe, breaking the silence, the frustrating silence.
A year. I’ve been like this for a year. My father tells me a habit is formed after 30 days, with 330 more under my belt, my habit is twelve times as strong. It’s not insomnia. I have no trouble falling asleep, I just struggle timing when I wake up. Every day, when the clock reads 12:03 a.m., I rouse. I’ve gotten used to it. The silence and my brain’s refusal to shut up. I reach for the lamp, wince at the noise it makes as I flick the switch on. I march a sleepwalking dance to my desk and plop down on the chair. Tiredly, I reach for a cup of cold coffee, previously forgotten to the side. It doesn’t make a difference. I drain the cup.
Laptop open, wince at the light. Start to type. Password incorrect. Welcome, Vivienne! Seven dots dance in a hypnotic circle and I’m in. It’s a habit. I only ever have one bar of wifi at this time, but it’s good enough. I can manage. The notebook in my desk is specific to this time, so I grab it and a couple pens. Blue. The colour is supposed to help memory. As Google Slides loads, I stare out the window. The night is bright on my street, cars pull up to driveways all the way up to 3:00, the streetlights stay on and some of the neighbourhood kids shoot hoops until the bang, tap, tap, swish of the ball becomes part of the quiet. The pages of the notebook rustle. They’re brittle, I’ve gotten coffee on the end one too many times. Pages upon pages of scribbled handwriting stares back at me. I flip past it all, ignoring words upon words of hours lost. New day, new page. It’s a habit.
The silence is too much. Too frustrating. My headphones help with that. The Bluetooth connects and tunes into a Lofi livestream. 32,594 people are listening like me. They’re awake too! It’s nice, I’m not alone. The light of the computer screen is soft, despite being blue and I feel at peace with nothing but my thoughts and paper. So, like clockwork, I study and an hour later, I’m tired. I want to sleep again. Resolutely, I look over at the clock. 1:03 a.m. Nice. I close my eyes, lean back and tune out. It’s a habit.
I wake up sprawled on my bed. My back creaks as I move. It hurts, but at the same time, not really. It’s not like I’m tired, ever since I started studying at midnight, the quality of the rest I got improved. I stretch. The coffee in my cup is gone and my desk is a mess. My notebook is still out. My prized, perfect headphones, are askew on their perch. I don’t remember what I was studying, but I can guess. I have a Travel and Tourism test in three days. It’s multiple choice so I don’t bother opening the notebook, I just leave it there. Sitting there, lonely. I wonder if I’ll remember anything I wrote.
Right, breakfast. I’m a lucky girl. As I step down the stairs, I can already see the waving auburn tail with a little white tip waiting for me behind the baby gate. Mylo, my dog stares at me with imploring brown-black eyes. ‘Feed me,’ they say. It’s a universal expression. I’m sure my face is much the same. The smell of sizzling bacon drifts through the air, and I know that my grandmother woke up early to make breakfast. My stomach growls.
FRUSTRATING SILENCE AND HOW TO BECOME ONE WITH IT
by Vivienne Brown, Grade 12
She turns to me, her eyes as bright as diamonds. She’s fully awake. That’s her habit. Waking up early and cooking breakfast, first thing.
It’s easy to compare her habits and mine. For a woman in her eighties, she’s remarkably healthy. She takes her pills, writes schedules and always wakes up early because it helps her ‘find her energy.’That energy is one of the many reasons why I love her. She hands me a cup of coffee in my favourite teal cup, the black bitter liquid tastes heavenly. If I told her, she would tell me that waking up at 12:00 is my way of finding my energy.
I’m almost at peace with it. Almost. In fact, the endless focus on my work benefits me! My grades go up!
…And yet.
I loathe it. My own habits, the schedule I follow mindlessly and quietly. The yawn as I wake up, the curtains in the wind, the squeal of passing cars, the soft snores in the breeze, the sound of the lamp switch, the click of the pen, even the music in my headphones, because above all I hate the silence. The frustrating silence. How in the silence everything becomes so loud. Like the BANG of the basketball, the scream of my thoughts. They say if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, and I’d love to be part of the silence at night, instead of a useless observer.
I wonder if any of the other thirty-two thousand listeners are the same. Drowning on air, begging their brain to shut off. Lonely. I wish I could talk to them, chat over tea, but instead during it all… I’m alone.
During the day, my house is filled with sounds. From my brother gaming with Dad to my mom’s Chinese Youtube videos and my dog’s endless composition of full symphonies whenever a package arrives. When the sunlight shines, my house is noisy and the contrast kills me. I’ve tried to ignore it. Find ways to make the silence loud, but it’s just not the same. Not the loud of my brother preparing for a hockey game, nor the loud of his victorious return. It’s certainly not the loud of Nana’s British TV shows. I just can’t replicate the sounds of the day. The silence of the night may be a living thing, but it’s not home and that makes all the difference.
In the end, it doesn’t change much. I’m still lucky, still warm, happy and loved, just frustrated. That’s all. Although it is enough to get me to change. Breakfast is delicious, the savory food satisfying and more than enough to propel me through the day. The warmth of it all gives me courage. Baby steps, break the habit. If it only takes 30 days to make one, it should take 30 to break one. So, in the noise of the home I ask, “Can I have the Melatonin?”
APPRECIATION FOR BEAUTY
by Alice Chen, Grade 10
The bright neon light flickers beneath the dark haze. People desperately climb the ladder of society. In a world filled to the brim with the latest breakthroughs, an ethereal canvas of infinite stars remains to be seen.
Up in the northern part of Xinjiang, where the sun dances with life when it meets the riverside, herds of sheep spread along layers of evergreen hills, Their shadows stretching in the amber glow.
Quietness lingers in the air save for the trickling of spring water, and the heavy thumps of horse hooves beside the empty winding roads, so high above ground and tucked away within those thick clouds. Lavender flower petals shudder with the passing breeze.
The rugged mountains stand majestically tall, reaching for the sky, Their peaks veiled by snowy white. These ancient grounds whisper tales of a shepherd man who roams the grounds at night.
The sun dips further west, pulling back a curtain of daylight as the vastness of a star-freckled universe reveals itself. The moon spreads her ink-feathered wings, putting all her finest jewels on display. She twirls on the dance floor, casting a blue-tinted glow on each of our faces. Galileo’s spirit reaches out to guide us through the galaxies.
One look at this fabric of land and it may look bland, one look and it seems like nothing grand, some may say it should change, develop, grow into something more, a culture interwoven into Earth’s history keenly dismissed whenever controversy stirs.
But let us find peace within the stillness that is the Xinjiang grasslands. For beyond its seemingly primitive outlooks, there lies a sacred window to a world of wonders waiting to be discovered. Now will you continue to doubt its worth?
THREADS OF FATE
by Hannah Ding, Grade 12
In the heart of all creation, the tree of life grows. A giant root leads to the Well of Urd. With the gift of life, our own path we follow.
Three sisters live by where the spring flows, Weaving the threads of fate, past, present, and future merged. In the heart of all creation, the tree of life grows.
Clotho spins the thread, gives us the hope of tomorrow. Lachesis measures the thread, long or short whichever she preferred.
With the gift of life, our own path we follow.
Atropos with her shears, the end of our life she controls. “I don’t have to die!” a man who called himself Duke assured. In the heart of all creation, the tree of life grows.
The sisters speed up like the water flow, In dead silence, no man answered. With the gift of life, our own path we follow.
Our life, long or short, joy or sorrow, As the sisters weave threads, death cannot be forever deferred. In the heart of all creation, the tree of life grows. With the gift of life, our own path we follow.
ID
by Nathan Fiscaletti, Grade 10
James sat at his desk eagerly tapping his foot as the day was almost through. James had a hard time sitting stil—he tended to play with office supplies and fidget toys almost subconsciously when he worked. James worked at a mask studio. They were the ones who designed the sleek plastic masks that plastered every face in Toronto. James lives in a time when everyone wore masks that covered their entire face, the mask was designed at birth and it represented everything from your personality to your family’s wealth, there was no changing your mask once it was created—no room for growth, no room for change. James hated his mask; it was pale and white with a big smile and a straight line cutting down it. James would forever be happy in other’s eyes and expectations, even if that were not the case. The day was finally over and he could head home, his house was a while away, but he did not own a car, so he would have to walk. Walking home was never something James enjoyed. He dealt with cold temperatures, dark sidewalks and strangers on the streets. This night was freezing, so James decided to run. This would not end well, however, as James smashed right into a stranger on the street. James hit the ground with a valiant smash and when he looked up, he saw something that shook him to his core. The man he hit was not wearing a mask. “You fear me, boy,” the man whispered. James could not reply. “I am liberated, and you can be, too. If you do not take that damned mask off within 24 hours, it will be stuck on you forever!” With that man calmly walked off, leaving James on the sidewalk.
James sat in his bed not able to move. On paper, the mask being attached to him forever was not bad; he never took it off, anyway. But the idea of having it glued to his face shook him to his core. He didn’t want to be what his friends and family wanted him to be anymore. This was not the first time James wanted to relieve himself of the mask. When James was just a boy he had told his parents how he wanted to get rid of the mask, but his parents did not react how he thought. Instead of embracing him with a hug or asking him questions about why, they… looked fearful, almost panicked. They told him that is was just a phase and that he would grow out of it. A young impressionable James believed them, but a small part of him knew that he would always want to take it off. James had also told his friends that he wanted to take off the mask and instead of showing him acceptance, they hurled awful words at him. Words that he would not say to his worst enemies, he never brought the topic up again.
James remained on his bed, still frozen in anxiety, reasoning everything out in his head— Why don’t I just take it off? It’s what I’ve always wanted, he thought. No, it’s not what I want. I grew out of it—his parents’ words still echoing through his head.
James finally got out of his bed. Every step he took seemed to take his breath away. James stumbled over to the mirror. I can’t take this mask off, he said. What would my friends think?… what would they say? James stared at his reflection. He felt that his world was crumbling around him. Could he let them win? He feared that the ignorance of his parents and the expectations of the world around him could leave him condemned to live a miserable life simply to please others. James looked deeper into the mirror, into himself, he knew what he wanted and then decided that was all that mattered. He pulled the mask off with all his strength as it had been stuck there for so long and for the first time in his life, he looked in the mirror and accepted who he was.
SPACE
by Harrison Frank, Grade 12
Please do not take up space. A simple yet elegant thought, So leave room for those with a place.
Try to be still and filled with grace. Remain in sight, do what you’re taught; Please do not take up space.
You fear you will never feel the embrace. You try but will be left in the knot, So leave room for those with a place.
They’ll only leave you in thins of lace, Wrapped in the delicacy until you’re caught. Please do not take up space.
To be ill is to speak of a face. They’ll pick at you until it’s more than a dot, So leave room for those with a place.
But still, you remain close for the “in case.” Close to hear the fame but not the rot. Please do not take up space. Leave room for those with a place.
A MOMENT OF A LIFE
by Sarah Golding, Grade 12
My mother will never see me grow old. Won’t see my skin wrinkle or my hair grey. Our time, a fragment, but my whole mould.
First breath and stained tears, she was the one to hold. Immediate, a bond never to decay. My mother will never see me grow old.
Through trials and triumphs, her guidance I behold, With her unwavering heart, she showed me the way. Our time, a fragment, but my whole mould.
Butterfly kisses and memories more valuable than gold.
Lost. I am found, a light down a path, I can’t stray.
My mother will never see me grow old.
Without her, shadows gather, cold and bold, Yet her love, a beacon, forever will stay. Our time, a fragment, but my whole mould.
She will always be there. I was mistold. Always needed, but so far away.
My mother will never see me grow old, Our time, a fragment, but my whole mould.
THE MISDEEDS OF SIN
by Nora Gonzalez, Grade 11
It is I, yes, The Sinnerman, Do you know me from my deeds? The mistakes I led men to commit I made them lost, like children in the weeds
While yes, what I did was cruel, that much I admit You forget, no one sinned more than I, an example My humanity gone, like smoke in the wind
Chipped away, so new souls I found to trample
Until recently, I relished when I sinned Then, I felt a tug, a pull, from within my chest And when I whispered in ears, led others astray The dull pain sharpened underneath my breast
Though tough to feel anew, I did not dismay I kept calling to men to do others harm So wounds formed, angry and deep
A broken finger, a puncture wound, a gashed arm
All too much, a cry stirred, a stifled weep I started to feel things, but only a few Why would this happen to me, a harbinger of fate?
A consumption started in me, and it only grew
Who gave me this power up to this date? And why did they stop now?
I could not turn mortal again, my evils would weigh heavy I still didn’t understand, how?
I don’t think I can bear this burden, this enormous levy Why can I not sin without guilt, without feeling? Believe me, if I could reverse this change, I would Against my wishes, I became without a ceiling
The crushing weight of past actions came down where I stood All too much to to cope with, so here I am Drowning in regret and sorrow, I was horrid and cruel It was my fault: every nightmare, every damn
THE MISDEEDS OF SIN
by Nora Gonzalez, Grade 11
I made too many victims in my time, so it’s my turn to gruel I wish I could take it back, this guilt that now grips me Has turned me ashamed, not how this began I hope I can turn, change, born again, I could be
So yes, it is I: Sin, now Man
Please do not think of my misdeeds Instead forgive me, for all I did commit I was consumed, now let me sow new seeds
YOU’RE GORGEOUS
by Megan Hsueh, Grade 11
Look at me now, why can’t I look like them? Why do my clothes seem to fit me tighter? I wish the scale could tell me lighter. It’s not fair, why can’t I be born a gem?
Bumpy like a lychee fruit wraps my face. But how come everyone else is a grape? The sun too bright to be covered by tape. I pray for them to all just be erased.
But what about me? I’m not born a jewel? The little sprout thinks, but I am pretty! Diamonds are boring but amethysts shine!
The white fruit inside is what brings the fuel! You can’t erase the magic in Ponyville City!
THE SHADOW OF LOST MEMORIES
by Anthea Huang, Grade 10
“Ring, ring,” the bell on the door frame chimed as Jack entered the café. The vintage décor, warm colours, lively conversations, and smell of coffee beans eased Jack’s nerves slightly.
Not long ago, Jack had woken up to find himself lying on a dark street, unable to remember anything. His head and body ached terribly, and his clothes were tattered. He dragged his weak legs and wandered for a long time until he passed by this café, finding a place to rest.
“Excuse me,” Jack raised his hand and called to the waiter, but his weak voice was drowned out by the surrounding noise, disappearing into a void, as if he were not there.
Just as Jack was about to call out again, a neatly dressed young man suddenly appeared beside him. He handed Jack a cup of coffee and wrapped him in a thick coat. “Hi, Sir. My name is Carl. What’s your name?”
Jack touched the cup and then the wool coat, but he felt no warmth. He observed Carl carefully, somehow feeling that this young man was reliable, and replied, “Hi, Carl. I’m Jack. Thank you for the coffee. I just woke up to find myself lying on the street with no memories. I felt so helpless as no one noticed me and helped me until you came.”
Carl fell silent for a moment, his eyes revealing a deep regret mixed with a hint of determination. He gently patted Jack’s shoulder and placed a badge in his hand, saying, “Take a look at this. You dropped it when you entered the café. It might help you remember something.”
Jack stared at the badge in his hand silently. After a moment, he tightly gripped it and closed his eyes, trying to recall what had happened. Memories began to flicker in his mind like a reel of film.
“I think I was running,” Jack muttered, trying to make the blurry memories clearer. Gradually, the city streets emerged in his mind. He could hear his own heavy and urgent footsteps, his heart pounding like a drum.
Jack then saw himself chasing a criminal. That man was in a black jacket with something shiny at his waist, running very fast, occasionally turning back with a hint of ferocity and provocation in his eyes.
Jack felt his tension and determination as every muscle in his body tensed. He remembered giving his all, getting closer and closer that he could almost smell the criminal’s sweat and hear his rapid breathing.
Just when he was only one step away from the criminal, a sharp pain stabbed his stomach like a blade. The pain was so real that he could hardly breathe. Suddenly, everything around him seemed to collapse. Neon lights became dazzling and hazy, his vision distorted, and the surrounding noise gradually disappeared into suffocating silence.
His hand instinctively covered his stomach, the warm liquid seeped rapidly from between his fingers, carrying a strong smell of rust. His legs began to weaken, and the ground of the street suddenly seemed out of reach, as if an invisible force was pulling him down.
“I must be seriously injured,” his voice trembled, and his hand weakly grasped the armrest of the chair, trying to stabilize himself. The black figure in his mind gradually blurred and disappeared into the night.
THE SHADOW OF LOST MEMORIES
by Anthea Huang, Grade 10
The memories became fragmented and shattered here, pain and helplessness tangled, turning into darkness. Jack continued to try to piece together more details, but every attempt brought him unbearable pain and frustration.
“I failed,” he cried painfully. He hung his head low, unable to shake off the relentless waves of regret and self-blame crashing over him. The incomplete mission and the pursuit of justice cast a huge shadow over his spirit. Carl took his hands, “No, Jack, you did your best. You must forgive yourself. I’m sure that your family would be proud of you.”
“Family?” Jack muttered, and words started to slip out of his mouth unintentionally, “Safe journey... After you return, we’ll...”
Jack was lost in his memories, the pain in his heart surged once more, overwhelming him. Carl quickly shook him awake. Jack opened his eyes groggily, tears filling his eye sockets, blurring his vision, only able to faintly see Carl’s worried gaze.
“My wife… Yes, she’s still waiting for me! “ Jack declared, his voice filled with determination amidst the pain, “I need to find her.”
Trying to get up, Jack expressed his gratitude, but Carl’s eyes brimmed with compassion and sorrow. With a gentle yet firm grip, Carl held Jack back, his touch conveying a profound understanding and comfort.
“Jack, please listen,” Carl’s voice was soft, “I know this is hard to accept, but you’ve become a ghost, likely sacrificed in your mission. I’m here to help you let go of your obsession.”
After a long silence, a voice filled with disbelief and deep sorrow broke the stillness, “You’re saying… I’m dead?”
DANCING THROUGH IMPERFECTIONS
by Lucy Huang, Grade 10
Beneath the calm, I danced, I stumbled, I am incomplete. Beneath the calm, a storm brews, dreaded steps, the recital’s glare.
Laces restrain my ankles, Muscle memories engraved deep within.
One gentle pirouette, an arabesque, Feet journeying across the floor like a gentle breeze. The wound feels like it never existed, Until the blood stains my rosy tights, emerging like flaring blossoms, This is a familiar ache.
With nails hardly healed, each move must be flawless, Dancing for not only joy, concealing the buried screams of fear.
The sand in my hourglass running, My heart hammering against my chest, My mind a tornado of thoughts.
Eyes lock, looks of anxiousness exchanged, Laugher breaks the silence, in the place we call home.
The worries buried in a split, The blinding glitter on costumes, And surging perfumes.
Stage lights click, classical harmony rises, Five-six-seven-eight, a slow tendu, a small jeté, The dance moves gracefully like water. Then an elastic band slips, my knees scrunch— My body makes a deafening thump.
Still, I throw myself to the tips of my cracked nail—
A living nightmare unfolds, The world relentlessly spinning. I must push on, Dancing with cheeks aflame and lips pursed.
Curtains draw, tears spill, Yet I feel a million arms, reassuring, Reminding me that blunders are pieces of dance. Around me, words of comfort weave a net, strong and sure, Perfection does not exist.
DANCING THROUGH IMPERFECTIONS
by Lucy Huang, Grade 10
Mistakes are steps in the dance we’re meant to learn, With every hug, their hearts push my liveliness to return. Then the final call to stage, beneath the bright lights’ beam, Composed with restored grace, part of a larger dream. We bow as one, the crowd’s cheering washing doubts away, At that moment, I danced, I fell, I stayed. At that moment, I was complete.
ACROSS GENERATIONS
by Sophia Jeffrey, Grade 12
Ludmilla
When she was a small girl in Russia, (technically it would be Lithuania now), her family rationing a loaf of bread for long periods of time, she was always given this piece of advice from her mother: Get a well-paying job so you never have to rely on a man. As any other wide-eyed girl who looks up to her mother would, she follows the advice given to her. I assume (she doesn’t make very many pieces of her past known) she had decent grades, since she went to dental school and became a dentist. She wasn’t making very much money yet, but her mother wasn’t there to encourage or tell her off anymore. She got married, had a child, and got pregnant a second time a few years later. When that happened, the family decided to move to Canada. They packed their lives up into a suitcase or two and made their way here (all while she is carrying a child in her womb).
She has to go through dental school all over again. Canada doesn’t want her Russian dental license. Since she’s as headstrong as ever, she does all of it again. Take that, Trudeau! Other than the roadblocks she faced at first, Canada is where her mother’s advice really comes into fruition. She has a great job and she’s making great money. Most importantly, she doesn’t rely on her husband. Maybe that’s one of the reasons they weren’t happy together. After years of yelling, 9-1-1 calls, and broken plates, they were divorced. Probably best for everyone. Even without her husband, she’s successful and relies on nobody but herself. She’s strong (beat cancer a couple times), she’s hardworking (still has yet to retire at almost 80), and she is a wonderful grandmother (babushka).
Monica
Maybe if she had been born in Russia like her older sister or her mother, her identity would have formed itself in a stronger, more direct way. She probably would have remembered the language much better. Not struggling her way through syllables like she had too much food in her mouth. But even though she was born in Canada, she faced her heritage in her own way. Bullied for her long and hardto-pronounce last name. Not allowed to play any sort of card games growing up (her mother said it was gambling). No whistling in the house, pulling earlobes, knocking on wood, black cats, broken mirrors. Although she lived in her sister’s shadow, she did well enough in school. Extracurriculars and good grades. At that time, she could have gotten into almost any university she applied to. And she did get in. She had a long list of them to pick from when the time came. After some contemplation, she decided to go to UBC (this was much to her father’s dismay; apparently he had always wanted her to go to an Ivy League, since the equivalents in Russia wouldn’t let him, or any other Jews, in). There, she decided to pursue law. Her mother wasn’t very happy about this, unaware that law could make a person good money. Her mother thought that she wouldn’t be successful, and wouldn’t live up to the piece of advice that at this point, has started to make its way down the family line. Throughout her childhood, throughout her life, she heard this piece of advice from her mother, just like her grandmother and mother before her. It’s one of the first things that was ever taught to her and her sister. Become a successful and strong woman who doesn’t have to rely on a man. Obviously, since law can be a very financially rewarding practice, her mother was overjoyed once she did become successful (now with the important knowledge that being a doctor and being successful don’t necessarily mean the same thing. Art degrees are important, too!) Although she rarely took her
ACROSS GENERATIONS
by Sophia Jeffrey, Grade 12
mother’s advice (oftentimes using her mother as an example of what not to be), she did take that advice to heart. She became a lawyer, her sister became a doctor, both with the intention of being financially independent, never reliant on a spouse. She became confident and capable. Outspoken like her sister, her mother, and her grandmother.
Sophia
In the passenger seat of my grandmother’s car (her Lexus, but she always makes sure everyone knows that her Jeep was far superior) was the first place I heard that piece of advice. The same advice that has been passed down through at least three generations of women in my family. She told me a few things about her mother first (a few things I desperately wish I could remember now. Great memory...) She may have cried, I could tell she was trying not to, at the very least. Then, in a way that I can’t seem to completely remember (...), her still-imperfect English intertwined with years of history, family, immigration, and identity, she passed it down to me. Get a good job. Never rely on a man. Become successful enough that you only need to rely on yourself. My mother also told me this, when she was angry, I think. Same sentiments, I guess.
Although I would love to say I know my path in life and I am on my way towards the security in myself (mentally, financially, just-about-everything-ally) that all of these strong and admirable women have told me is one of the single most important things in life, I can’t. Not that I don’t think it is entirely possible, It just seems very far away, impossible to comprehend at this moment in time. Letters of acceptance have been coming in. I can tell myself and everyone else that the offers I’ve gotten are all great options, and while that may be true, I still hope for one school above all else, one that I would commit to in a heartbeat (and it’s a backup school for almost everyone who has gotten in already. Perfect.). A very similar experience to many of my peers, I know, but all the same. Whatever the letter says when it comes in, I like to believe that everything will work out (a bit cliché, but you can handle that. It’s a pretty cliché time for all of us twelfth graders, anyway!) In the end, I hope to one day pass that piece of advice down to another young girl in my family.
BURY THE HATCHET
by Charlotte Jez, Grade 11
I didn’t want it to be this way. Eloise was really annoying, but I should’ve just been mature and dealt with it responsibly. Now, my guilt is suffocating me. Slowly tearing me apart. I hate admitting defeat and showing my vulnerabilities, but I don’t know what else to do. I need to get this off my chest, relieve my heart of the battered rhythm it beats. I can’t handle the night sweats or the hot flashes of remorse. I crave the peaceful air of blissful innocence.
She’ll be here any minute now. On her way to a different life, with hopes tucked in her back pocket. I’m gonna be the bigger person and bury the hatchet between us. Or maybe just hide it under the skeletons in my closet. The poster on the wall is mocking me; If the right thing was easy, then everyone would be a good person. These words burden my mind, my thoughts, my soul. I feel it in my soul. If the afterlife exists, then I now know how it will receive me; splintered and bruised, with a hole where my blood used to pump.
My intentions were clear, but she doesn’t need to know that. If I make the apology short and sweet, I will spare us both the agony of an awkward moment. Being superficial works more than most people care to admit. The rumours weren’t true and obviously I didn’t want them to hurt Eloise. I just didn’t exactly prevent them from spreading. But that part isn’t relevant. At least that’s what I say to quiet the roaring beast of shame that has conquered my insides.
The clock ticks and the sliding doors of the Toronto Pearson Airport reveal the tangible evidence of my fear. Passport in hand, she looks like she’s ready for a new beginning. I wish I could erase my impact on her life. Every word spoken, breath breathed, tear shed, hand held.
Our eyes catch each other and I feel it, the roller coaster drop. I can’t do this, I don’t want to. The distance between us fades like the hair pigment of an aging parent. I know what I have to do. What I should do. What everyone expects me to do. But the exit sign glows and I’m drawn to it like tomato sauce to a new, white shirt. No, no backing out now. She’ll forgive me, I know she will. And the relief will flood my blood stream with happy vibrations. The inches between us evaporate like ice cream on a hot day. This is my last chance, she’s leaving today. I need closure, I need to apologize.
My eyes are glued to my feet as I ignore the shocked face that I leave behind the closing door.
THE VINES
by Jasmine Khatami, Grade 11
Recently it feels a lot like I’ve been tied down by vines That slither around my wrists and ankles Like thorny bracelets that could Tear me limb from limb at any moment. Sometimes they sink their teeth through my flesh Until smooth scarlet streams sprint down my skin, Releasing their venom into my veins, My lungs, My brain, Until breaths turn to ragged gasps— My throat squeezed too tight to scream, My mind, once a garden of colourful thoughts Now a bottomless black hole of despair. Through my clouded eyes, The world becomes a watercolour painting With too much water and not enough paint. Do others not notice As, like Icarus, I plunge down down down?
Most don’t. But some do, Concern extending out from their hearts Like a child’s hand begging to be held, Reaching through to the depths of my cracked soul, Offering a light so bright it blinds me. Maybe one day, It won’t. Maybe one day, I will find the strength To embrace that light And break free From all that binds me.
LIVE LIKE SUMMER FLOWERS
by Phoebe Kuang, Grade 12
I stared numbly at the default lock screen of my new school computer. Energetic and jarring notes struck my ears suddenly as the earphones tucked in my ears switched to a new song. Frowning, I turned down the volume.
I do not know how long I have slept in the dark. I don’t know how difficult opening my eyes would be…
My father was busy with his work in his office, a blend of the muffled voices from the video meeting and his accented English stumbled through the shut door. Ten thousand kilometres away from my home country, I was sitting in my new home, behind the desk, next to a bed, and inside an enclosure of pale, lifeless white walls. For days I slept, ate, stared blankly at the same blue sky above my neighbour’s roof, and talked to myself, trying to convince my mind that I was starting a new life. I watched videos and laughed, but no one responded. I sang my favourite Chinese songs, but no one listened. The person who had been so alive and at the centre of everything was now forgotten by the world she once knew.
Suddenly annoyed by the emptiness, I desperately needed to get out of my house and take a breath of the fresh air. I tiptoed downstairs, pushed open the front door, and threw myself into the quiet, cool night. As if I had fled from the cage, I started running, leaving my home behind…far, far behind. I ran down the hill, past the soccer field and playground where all the shouts and cheers from the day had dissipated. I wanted to run to somewhere where I could hear the television broadcasting news in my grandparents’ house; somewhere where I could race with my friends to the dining hall as the bell rang; somewhere where I could see the neon lights between the grand shopping malls with bubble tea and see my mother with her shopping bags in hand. But all that stretched ahead of me was an empty expanse of grass and trees. I called upon nature to bring me back home, but only the wind responded with its mournful sighs.
“This is a world so beautiful yet full of regrets. We hug, we laugh, we cry in tears.”
I looked up at the sky. The trees and the night sky blended into a dark suffocating cloak that engulfed me, smothering my senses. Why am I here? Since landing in this foreign land, I’ve asked myself this question repeatedly. Why am I here? Walking the streets, I’ve been staring at foreign faces in fear. The unfamiliar landscape and houses, the foreign food, the emptiness around me… Why am I here? Is it because my parents sent me here? Looking back on my life, I’ve never disobeyed their will. When little girls in my kindergarten class were dancing and painting, I was sitting in front of a pile of blocks with my father, trying to count the number of blocks in front of me. When my elementary school classmates were chasing insects in the yard, I was sitting on the subway going to
LIVE LIKE SUMMER FLOWERS
by Phoebe Kuang, Grade 12
my extracurricular classes, preparing my already tired brain for another three hours of math. It’s for getting into good schools, it’s for you to know more. Yes, yes, I know all that. But when I finally passed the IQ exams of the schools and walked out as a “gifted child,” I had no idea of my hobbies and who I wanted to be in the future. Other kids rebelled, I didn’t; other kids criticized their parents, but I only cried and carried on. I was an obedient puppet hanging on my strings, dancing as they wanted me to. Unfortunately, I hadn’t found a way to walk by myself. Why am I here? When all of the hard work paid off and I finally got into one of the best middle schools in my city, I had hoped that I would finally get to rest, to enjoy school life, and to study freely according to my interests. But suddenly one afternoon I was told that I was moving, moving to a new country on the other side of the world. How dramatic and difficult my life was as the winds of change blew the leaf here and there, farther and farther from its root! Now, I’m right here. My former traces of existence had been completely washed off by the tides on shore, and I was lying all alone in the vast, empty land under the inky sky.
“I wandered from afar, to meet you as promised. I linger in this world, wild and enchanted.”
The grass on the field felt as soft as a carpet. Outstretching my arms and legs, I gazed up, and embraced the vast, unknown universe above. The moon was amidst her celestial journey tonight, with the stars chasing after her. It struck me that the moon never stops moving. She traveled unceasingly through the cold, lifeless realms day after day, month after month. And throughout her journey, she shone as bright as she could, her luminance bringing lights and hope in the dark, cold night. I closed my eyes and tried to bring up some relaxing memories out of my empty mind. The first thing came out was the rogue-like video game I was playing during days of boredom. It drew me in because of its unpredictability—the anticipation of what is lying beyond each door, and the uncertainty of how I would finally reach my destination. My character repeatedly faces defeat, but will always be reborn from the starting point, ready for another cycle of trials. But I could recognize the distinction, it’s merely a fiction. My life felt predetermined, planned by my parents from the earliest days—from elementary school to post-secondary educations, and then choose a career and silently become the “denominator,” become one ordinary person in the crowd striving for livelihood. Yet, unlike in the game, my life is never to be repeated. If the moon persists her brightness on her eternal journey, how could I remain inert during my sole trip to this world? Why am I here? To greet this world with open arms. To experience and conquer a brand new life. To become my own light, to burn my energy into flames. To radiate warmth to others as well, leaving my own footprint and claiming my existence in this new world. It all depends on my choices, and I must seize this opportunity and live my life to the fullest.
A soft breeze stroked my cheek. I felt just like Antaeus to which the Goddess of Earth bestowed her strength upon. As I stood up and walked towards the lights, a surge of warmth flowed from head to toe.
LIVE LIKE SUMMER FLOWERS
by Phoebe Kuang, Grade 12
The streetcars passing me groaned as they carried the late working people home. Alongside of the road ahead, windows were lit up, and cheers and the sound of glasses clinking carried in the night air. But then the song in my earphones drowned out all the other noises.
“I am this dazzling moment, I am the flame fleeting across the sky. I am seeking desperately for you, I shall perish and never return. A journey in the spring light, A journey through the thorns. As short as a heartbeat, Blooming right in front of the world.”
The title of the song popped up on my phone: Live Like Summer Flowers
GRANDPA AND VIETNAM by Nga Le, Grade 12
Vietnamese, red blood and skin of gold, Admist the tempest fierce, blood flowed like stream, Grandpa, Is it worth the burdens you hold?
“Homeland called me, I left my schooling fold, Guarding my love became my only scheme, Vietnamese, red blood and skin of gold.”
The bombs you hold, your burdens manifold, Cancer like a monster gnawing your dream, Grandpa, Is it worth the burdens you hold?
“I fight for my kin, with my heart still bold, The train bolts out bravely to war’s extreme, Vietnamese, red blood and skin of gold.”
Grandpa, May happiness and peace unfold, In eternity, where hopes always gleam, Grandpa, Is it worth the burdens you hold?
Grandpa, In the heaven, may you behold? The peaceful land where wishes bright, and gleam, Grandpa, Is it worth the burdens you hold? Vietnamese, red blood and skin of gold.
L’APPEL DU VIDE
by Luke Little, Grade 11
Stars. That’s all I could see, for millions of miles. Stars. Hundreds of thousands of them, each shining with their brilliant light, illuminating the nothingness that surrounds them. Nothingness.
The void that surrounded these shimmering diamonds, devouring everything in its wake. Nothing. Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Dr. Quinn, are you in there?”
The male voice calling from outside my door snapped me out of my trance. Why do I keep zoning out? I should go see the counsellor soon. All this space travel must be getting to me. Since every other shuttle seemingly vanished out of existence past the Kuiper Belt, which is where we were now, my nerves probably weren’t helping either.
“Dr. Quinn, hello? It’s Mark.”
I sighed. Mark at my door only meant one thing these days—that either the communications system or language learning software onboard the shuttle had a glitch that they couldn’t fix themselves. I sighed and picked myself up off the chair I had been sitting in and approached the door, taking a deep breath before opening it and facing one of our junior engineers. Fwoosh.
As the door slid open, I saw Mark standing outside, dressed in his pristine white lab coat and strange loafers. Although this time, he wasn’t greeting me with his usual toothy smile and awkward handshake. His eyes pointed straight down at a handheld device, a worried look etched on his face.
“What can I do for you, Mark?” I asked him, angling my head down in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what had the young man so enthralled.
He clutched the tablet against his chest. “Dr. Quinn, we found something. We’re not sure what— but it looks like it’s… talking to us? I don’t know how to explain it. Follow me to the sonar room—I’ll show you what I mean.”
Mark began charging down the hall faster than usual. I had to jog to keep pace with him.
As we wound through the sterile white halls of the Projector Space Station, I noticed other passing lab attendants with similar looks of distress on their faces, all refusing to look anywhere but the floor. This puzzled me. All of us on this shuttle had been here for well over three years, so we were familiar with each other—there had never been any real sort of conflict on board, much less a reason to act like strangers.
As we entered the sonar room, I was shocked by the utter silence that filled the space.
Not a single sound could be heard. Lab techs and scientists alike huddled around one small monitor in the middle of the room, the darkness peering through the large window behind them contrasted starkly with the bright LEDs that illuminated the room. As we approached the group, I peeked over their shoulders at what appeared to be… a blank screen? This made no sense. What was all the secrecy about?
“What’s going on?” I asked the cluster of people. One of them, the head physicist on board, turned to face me—except something was off. His pupils appeared so dilated, and his wrinkled face was scarily pale. Although Dr. DeMont was quite old, maybe this appearance was just a lack of proper sleep catching up with him.
L’APPEL
DU VIDE
by Luke Little, Grade 11
“We do not know, Dr. Quinn,” he muttered in his thick French accent, “it was picked up on sonar while you were in your chambers.”
“Okay, but what was picked up on sonars? It’s just a black screen!” I felt my face starting to get hot with frustration. Why was everyone acting so cryptic?
“It’s words, Madame. At least, we think. We don’t know where it came from, either. It just sort of… arrived. The transmissions come occasionally—we have received five or six since the start of the solar day. The words themselves just look like symbols popping up on the telemetry screen, all stemming from this one location.” There was a slight tremor in Dr. DeMont’s voice as he spoke, quite unlike his usual steady, confident tone.
“Okay, but why do you need me?” I asked. I still didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. We picked up weird transmissions from solar storms almost weekly—this wasn’t anything new.
“You are the Projector’s lead linguist, Madame. We figured you would be able to decipher the message.” Dr. DeMont’s eyes bore holes into mine. The look unsettled me, it seemed as though he was looking beyond, at something deeper. But maybe it was the situation throwing him off. I knew it was doing the same to me. As I turned back towards the monitor, the other scientists had parted, allowing me to approach the screen and get a closer look at this ‘message.’
As I examined the camera footage, something shifted inside me. A shiver went down my spine, vanishing as quickly as it arrived. An unsettled feeling came over me, but I shrugged it off. All these people watching me work was making me uncomfortable.
“Can I get a bit of space, please?” I asked over my shoulder to the other scientist. “I’ll find you all when I’ve figured out what this is.”
I heard each individual set of shoes file out of the room, all seemingly in perfect sync, the sounds blurring in my mind. Once I heard the door shut, my eyes shot back at the monitor. I stared into the darkness, shifting my attention from the screen to the telemetry beside me, and waiting for something to happen. And then I heard it. No data appeared on the telemetry screen, but something was certainly present. I heard a deep, strange voice inside my head. Almost unintelligible, but very clearly there. It whispered to me, singing, calling, as I stared into the darkness in front of me, getting ever so slightly louder with each heartbeat that passed.
“Come to me.”
I no longer had control of my muscles. Upon hearing the command, my body picked itself up and began walking towards the large window. My heart rate soared. Why couldn’t I move? What was happening to me? Thoughts raced through my head. There was nothing out there, in the blackness of space. Why was I doing this?
Silence cut my thoughts like a knife.
“You know what must be done, human. We cannot allow your kind past here.” Still frozen, the panic began setting in. As I gazed into the vacuum in front of me, I noticed a small disturbance—a circular section of space, warping ever so slightly. It was facing me, staring at me, taking the air from my lungs and the reason from my mind. What was this… thing? It certainly wasn’t a human construct. It could just be my imagination—and yet, it seemed all too real. Silence.
L’APPEL
DU VIDE
by Luke Little, Grade 11
“You will follow in the footsteps of your predecessors. We cannot allow your kind past here.”
My predecessors? Couldn’t allow my kind past here? What did this creature mean, how—and then it dawned on me. All the missing shuttles, vanishing in the blink of an eye. One second there, the next gone. This was the cause. This entity. It destroyed them all.
I tried to scream. Nothing. Dead silence, like the never-ending void. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I had no control.
Silence.
“Your hesitation only delays your destruction. It cannot prevent the inevitable. Do it.”
In that moment, I moved again. Not by my own will, but as if some grand puppet master was controlling the direction of my arms and legs, using strings to pull them along. I—no—it walked towards the far wall and examined the lab tools available. My eyes settled on the emergency fire axe sitting in its case, untouched by anyone aboard. It reached for it. I could feel adrenaline pumping through my veins as my clammy hands opened the box and wrapped around the cold, metal handle. I tried to fight. Tried to flail my arms, kick my feet, run to anywhere but here, save myself from this purgatory.
But still, nothing. No control. My legs carried me back to the window. I prayed for this to stop, prayed to be freed from its grasp. But no God could reach me now. This was it. This was the end. I felt my arms raise above my head, and in the blink of an eye, slam the axe into the glass window. Smash.
The instant the axe made contact, I felt the air sucked out of my lungs as the exterior vacuum filled the lab room. Alarms blared. Each bone in my body snapped individually due to the stress of the extreme change in pressure. My vision started to fade. The entity had vanished. And as I looked out into the endless void around me, I saw stars. They were all I saw, for millions of miles. Stars. Hundreds of thousands of them, each shining with their brilliant light, illuminating the nothingness that surrounds them. Nothingness. The void that surrounded these shimmering diamonds, devouring everything in its wake. Nothing.
BROTHER
by Reese Little, Grade 9
“Gifted” a word my kindergarten teacher called me
A word that slipped over my head
That I would think about when my mom tucked me into bed
A word that made me feel as if I were special.
Merely a small, spirited child
Who loved to climb trees like a squirrel
Who came back inside with blue bruises on her knees
From chasing after her brother.
“Brother” a word that I said proudly
Because I was lucky enough to grow up
With someone who would inspire me
To become the version of myself I had dreamed of.
“Brother”
Someone who helped me tie my shoes at school
Who all of my friends thought was so cool
Because he was old enough to roam our street alone
And who knew how to use my mom’s phone.
In my third-grade year I walked into class
The teacher said, “I know that name!”
Because I had an older brother.
So I smiled with a sense of sass
He made our name a good one.
A name each of my teachers had remembered
Because a year ago
They would tell my brother
That he was gifted
In my sixth-grade year I studied everyday
Because my teacher mentioned a word called “Exams.”
I knew a was a smart child
One who barely had to study
But I went home that day and asked my brother for help.
Help wasn’t something I usually needed
I tended to be fine on my own
BROTHER
by Reese Little, Grade
9
But something had changed in my mind When my mom pulled out my brother’s grades From his sixth grade year.
The first day of eighth grade I was beaming It was my final year of being a kid A time in my life I had been thinking about Since my brother left the year before. One day my teacher mentioned a word called “Valedictorian.”
I knew my grades were high Maybe not the best in the class But I wasn’t worried about being the best Until my mom pulled out my brother’s valedictorian speech From his eighth-grade year.
In my 15 years of living I would’ve never imagined The person I admired in every way Would become the person who I envied Every single day.
THE GREEN RIVER
by Ella Lu, Grade 10
From a distance away, he caught the faintest glimpse of a group of fish. The River leaned in for a closer look.
Salmon! he exclaimed to himself. What a large shoal.
He hummed a tune as he turned away, trying to relocate a shipwreck he’d found earlier, before something peculiar caused him to glance right back. A silver gleam, one that The River couldn’t ignore despite his old age, was running through the centre of the salmon shoal.
Lightning? No, there isn’t a single cloud in the sky.
The bright light disappeared as quickly as it struck. The airs were calm, yet The River had an ominous feeling that he wasn’t the only one to have witnessed it. And he was proven right; where fluffy white clouds hung just moments ago, there was now a large, brown-feathered eagle wings spread, talons out, and preying eyes locked onto the salmon shoal. Its pupils darted left and right, trailing something beyond just the fish at the surface. The eagle circled the water strategically, once then twice, before it rocketed itself into the waves.
The squawk of alarm that left the bird’s mouth as a violent surge of water threatened to swallow it alive almost aroused a laugh from The River. Having guided boats, fish, and stray flora along himself for as long as he could remember, being able to manipulate the stream for his own benefit was a rare treat he got to enjoy every once in a while.
He watched the eagle retreat into the distance, an ordinary red salmon flailing about in its clawed grasp. Although he mourned the loss, he could only sigh in relief, as deep down he knew that it had escaped.
“Why?” A soft voice slowly reached his ears, as gently as siren song.
“What is it, Yellow Reef?”
The young reef said expectantly, “I saw everything that happened just now. Why did you mess with the course of nature?”
“That…” The River was at an unexpected loss for words. Was it because he sensed familiarity within that silver light?
“I’m not angry, Green River,” Yellow Reef reassured him. “We all bear emotions. I’m simply curious, as you tend to stick to the rules.”
The River thought long and hard. “…I’m sorry. I don’t have an answer.”
“Hm. No matter,” the other answered. “It’s not like you tried to kill the eagle, right?” He laughed at the joke, and so did The River.
After Yellow Reef had fallen asleep, The River sat in silence, slightly conflicted. He would never tell this to anyone, especially the empathetic and sensitive Reef, but he had intended to drown that eagle. The bird had the heavens to thank, for the waves he’d summoned were not nearly cold or sharp enough to knock it out of the sky.
Troubled, The River decided to rest as well. It wasn’t a normal part of his routine to worry extensively like this. Irregular moments like this made him think about the humans.
I’ll leave this for the next day.
THE GREEN RIVER
by Ella Lu, Grade 10
When The River opened his eyes again, it was to the busy sight of salmon. They swam about, some chattering and others looking around.
“Why are the leaves floating downstream?”
Before him was a strangely coloured salmon. A silver-scaled one.
The River smiled gently. He had so many questions; none of them left his mouth. Perhaps it was because he’d just woken, but he was oddly at peace.
“Because they don’t know how to swim upstream,” he said. He may have acted rashly with the eagle yesterday, but the Green River was still very, if not the most, knowledgeable one in his territory.
“What do you mean, ‘swim upstream?’” the salmon asked. The River found him quite cute, and he laughed aloud, which caused the current to slacken.
“What do you mean, ‘swim upstream…’” The River repeated with a chuckle. “Ah, Silver Salmon, you mustn’t think that your own strength is enough for you to make it to the upper reaches.”
Nothing can survive solely with independence. This was one of many things The River had learned over time. The land around him, the life that populated his waters, even the sea he was connected to—without them, he would cease to exist. And speaking of the sea…
“Well, for one thing, the sea has no end,” Silver Salmon explained.
A long and healthy conversation about fate and destiny with the salmon was what led them both to this point. Although they were linked, The River never had the chance to meet with the mysterious, ever-powerful sea. He guessed that even a salmon would know more about the sea than him. So here they were, talking about trivial things. Weirdly enough, the River didn’t dislike it. He didn’t dislike that a fish was teaching him about the world, either.
“No end to its great breadth, you mean?” Instead, he was eager to learn more.
“No, not that; it’s the struggle that has no end.” The River felt another pang of familiarity at those words. Did he use to know someone like this? “I’m talking about a ceaseless struggle of mutual biting and tearing and killing. That’s why its waters are always rough and choppy, never calm and still like yours.”
Then he remembered. It hit him suddenly, and out of nowhere. He was surprised he’d ever forgotten.
“That’s just what your father said,” he muttered at last. His mind was clear, like ten years’ worth of plastic filth had just been removed from his body.
“You knew my father?”
“Yes, I did.” He was still in incredible disbelief. The more he recollected, the more his eyes glistened with reminiscence. “Your father was a Silver Salmon just like you his whole body glittered with silver scales!” ***
As The River bid Silver Salmon goodbye, he stopped to think about the past, as well as what the latter had said to him.
“Why do you want to go to the sea?”
THE GREEN RIVER
by Ella Lu, Grade 10
He’d feigned innocence at that question. “What do you mean? There’s no reason for me to do that.”
“Then what’s the reason for your life?”
The River gave his answer quicker than he would have thought. “The reason for my life,” he said thoughtfully, “is that I exist, right here, right now—that in itself.”
“Existing is a reason for living?”
“…That’s right. Existing means being a kind of background, for things that aren’t me.”
He was thankful to Silver Salmon, for invoking such beliefs from him. The River was everyone’s home. He tended to lost fish, provided water to both marine and terrestrial life, and in the case of the salmon shoal, he was a bridge. How could he possibly abandon everything, just for the sea?
If Silver Salmon’s fate was to cross to the sea with his shoal, then the Green River’s fate was to exist—to provide a background for others. To let others take from him. To use his water and give back.
The River stared in the direction he’d last seen Silver Salmon. He must have encountered the rapids by now. He frowned, saddened. He was well aware of what happened to salmon once they crossed the rapids.
Then he heard a voice. Two voices, in fact. One belonged to Silver Salmon. The second, he’d never heard before. It wasn’t dreamy like Yellow Reef’s. It was wise and sweet, crisp like autumn wind.
Clear-Eyed Salmon, the river will keep on flowing even after we’re gone, right?
I think so… yes, I think it will flow on.
Will the river remember us?
I trust it.
The River cried. It was impossible, but the feeling was real. The stinging sensation in his heart wouldn’t go away. He was brought back to a few years ago, when another silver-scaled salmon had asked him the same thing before passing on. If he would remember him.
He promised he would, and he didn’t.
That’s right. We were friends, and I failed you. I didn’t even get to spend more time with your son.
Minutes passed, and The River could no longer hear the voices. The heavens must have taken the shoal. Truly, the lives of salmon were short.
“What are you thinking about?” Yellow Reef asked him.
If Silver Salmon had a silver-scaled son, he wondered if they would also share a conversation, just like he had with his father and grandfather before him.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “How was your sleep?”
A PAUSE FROM LIGHT
by Helen Manke, Grade
12
Do not hold yourself from showing your night, Expressions stirred, like a tornado coiled, All stars on this earth have a pause from light.
A bowed girl weeps, her soul a gentle mite, On her cheeks, wetness remains, embroiled, Do not hold yourself from showing your night.
A strong man roars his fury, headlight bright, Words like thunder, in anger he is boiled, All stars on this earth have a pause from light.
A wild man’s rage, like hurricanes in flight, Unleashed actions, leave concrete turmoiled, Do not hold yourself from showing your night.
A shy girl keeps her anger out of sight, Silent storms in a heart carefully foiled, All stars on this earth have a pause from light.
Within me, these bodies entwine so tight, So, I unfurl my coat, my truth uncoiled. Do not hold yourself from showing your night; All stars on this earth have a pause from light.
WITHSTANDING THE CLOCK
by Kayna Matsumoto, Grade 11
The sun is bright but no lights found inside. In a dark room gravity, twice as strong. The expectations I can’t move aside Must be making my agony prolong.
For this hopeless torment has been cursing The other side of me that is at home. There, the thoughts of finding peace are nursing, But then why do I still feel on my own?
Resting is natural, resting is good. The fast three clock hands loom over my mind, Reminding me that time has always withstood. Forever guilty, I’m pulled to the grind.
I could forgive myself and go to rest. It’s just that I won’t be doing my best.
ME, THE STUPID SELFISH CHICK
by Jannat Naseem, Grade 11
A glittering trail of shattered white plates. Big bad wolf is back, under the bed I hide. Hear all your screams, but my hands are tied, Frozen in time, praying for both our fates. I could have saved you from all his hard smacks Yet stupid selfish chick fed Mother Hen Right to the unforgiving wolf’s playpen. Thought only of myself when your spine cracks. Yet you survived his ferocious rage all On your own. Broken, breathing and alive. You did not care about my unattempted Rescue. Swimming shame drove me up the wall. To kill this guilt, the wolf I’ll gut, then I’ve Reason to forgive, my mistakes undid.
TAKE ME HOME
by Cora Pataran, Grade 12
I find myself at home in the rugged and wild North. The harsh weather and drastic climates make me feel as I belong, especially on those days with indescribable longing where your chest hurts and the fluorescent lights burn your eyes and the air feels too close, too like a distant relative trying to give you a hug, smothering in its embrace. The days when I fall into bed exhausted by physical labour and the sun are my favourite. Those days where the fresh air invades your lungs and blooms, the high euphoric, that end-of-day crash bliss. To have the loons sing you a lullaby under cotton sheets under the moon in a cabin in a forest while your head sinks into goose down and your body falls into the stars.
I roam barefoot across tin roofs and wooden decks and stone stairs, trying to root my everactive feet to the world that holds me close. I love my North, but it is so easy, too easy to get drunk on the freedom, the openness, that when you are called back, back to the doors, the walls, the glass and steel and concrete, you stumble through the days until your next release. Liberation.
As the population grows, the climate warms, I find myself wanting to push farther, higher, colder, crisper, to my limit to escape the structure closing behind me. There is structure up North, our world cannot survive without it, but it is instinctive, ingrained. The trees lose their leaves in autumn, mice burrow, wolves live in packs and within each recognized step, there are more rules to be followed. Certain ways to act around certain people to maintain relationships, but you learn how to navigate those who set their minds, and build relations with them so there is mutual understanding and those difficult questions are understood to remain unspoken. Structure in the North is a rope ladder, twisting and shifting and hard to climb, but if you keep one hand one foot forward, you will reach the top.
The North is where we come from, the place that calls us home. Roots bind my wrists, moss imbeds itself in my scalp, my lungs full with rocks, taking me under the blue. The waves may roar, the wind whips my hair, stings my eyes. Granite at my feet, the scratch of tree bark as the trees tell me to slow down, to come home, those lesions soothed by lake water verging on the side of just too brisk. The North is wild and cruel; when I look upon it I am smaller than an ant but bigger than the sky.
Southern Ontario is a drum. Erratic. Playful. Chaotic. Most of the time, it follows its own rhythm. Then, abruptly, the staccato quarter notes pound into my chest. The beat that straightens my back, corrects my country hip-cock, and flattens the ever-ready stance of my feet.
I have no issue with order. I like structure in my life. The handholds it gives me when I am overwhelmed. But it can crush me; my dirt-hardened, sun-baked skin cracks under the weight. The need to run wild, the stumbling drumbeat, shakes my bones. When the drum slows, my heart skips, trying to find a beat to match.
There is still room to shift, to reach out for the North, however restrained it is. The weekly visits satiate me, give me my fix. It lasts long enough; until the next week. The long days in between tire me enough that I can no longer think about my iron rose. The ties round my wrists bow my head, restrict my dance. They hold me up when I am weak. I am given freedom, still, to express myself, have
TAKE ME HOME
by Cora Pataran, Grade 12
my beliefs.
I fear every day that this standard is where we are dragging ourselves to. Mannerisms are very different, a whole new language to interpret, secret codes hidden in a stance, a glance, tilt of the mouth. This language of half-meanings and unspoken truths. I stumble through it, trying to fake a language that confounds me. The sounds contort my mouth. I do not know what I just said, why do they look at me strangely, did I say something wrong? Did I do something wrong? I flounder in such a busy world, try to find my place between the closely pressed buildings, the velcro people.
I am most open with my fellowship. Those unspoken ties that attract, that draw people together for unknown reasons. I am stronger with them but weaker for them. They fill my chest. My breath is yellow. My sight is pink for them.
Home is the waterfall at the end of the hike, the banquet at the end of a presentation. Loud food, delicious conversations, the comfort of those carpeted wooden floors, the never-ending mundanity. The expectation to speak out when injustice is faced, but knowing to hold your tongue for that deep-rooted feeling that this time you went too far. You never have, but that possibility looms on the horizon, never closer, always in view, pushing closer when it is dark and black. Hesitate, stumble, apologise, all forgiven, a slip of the tongue, too brash, best work on that before I leave. Home is that time to separate while under the same roof. Busy busy busy busy, never stop, have dinner, go outside, too cold, too hot, sit in front of the fan, under blankets.
The home is within itself a juxtaposition, for you carry it within yourself, yet it manifests physically in a child giant’s building blocks. The constant and barely there lessons to make me better than them, to push me, carry me up the mountain. It is where we are. It shifts to where we came from, to where we are going. It follows us, never leaves, although we may leave it. In the dust, in a box, behind, under, never to be found.
Home is hearths, blankets, the water against your chapped throat, mother tongue for the weary. To fall into an embrace, catch and release. A guide with no lantern. Wrapped in their maternal cloak. Follow the misunderstood rules the fading footprints and the gold will take you home.
VOW OF SILENCE
by Shrinidhi Seshadri, Grade 9
The beautiful sun shone through the window which created a warm glow, while the birds chirped in a wonderful harmony. Everything had seemed so beautiful to Kate at springtime, but this year was extra special, her boyfriend Connel had proposed and promised to take care of her forever. Ever since that day Kate has been dreaming about the wedding, and now it was time to finally start planning.
Kate and her best friends sat on her apartment floor with countless magazines to find the theme for their picture-perfect wedding. Everyone was so happy for her, except Mary, her best friend.
Ever since Kate and Connel first started dating in university, Mary had always had her doubts about him; the way he was never available on Sundays to hang out with Kate, and how he was so secretive about his work. Once, Mary even noticed that he kept two phones hidden in his drawer. But she had chosen not to bring it up to Kate again as she knew Kate would get annoyed.
As they browsed through Vogue magazines and planned for the wedding, Kate couldn’t help but notice the mischievous look on Mary’s face. Kate then shifted towards Mary’s screen and found her scavenging the internet to find out more about Connel. Kate had a disappointed look on her face; how could her best friend not trust the man she loved?
“What don’t you trust about Connel? Why aren’t you being supportive of me?” Kate screamed and stormed out of her apartment to go on a walk.
As Kate walked through the streets, she couldn’t help but wonder if Mary had a point. She started to reflect on all his mannerisms, his secrecy, how he would always promise to guard her forever, something that felt comforting yet made her uneasy.
She then walked back to her apartment, all her friends had left, and she was completely alone. She then went to Connel’s room and opened the drawer in his desk and found his second phone. Kate had decided that she needed to go through it, it was the only item that could give her full closure about Connel.
As she unlocked the phone, she immediately caught attention of one thing: Three missed calls from “Leader.” Kate’s fingers quivered as she clicked on the contact of “Leader.” She went through all the texts and emails, shocked to see what he had been a part of. Who was she going to marry? As she quickly took screenshots and sent them to herself loud footsteps broke the silence.
As she glanced up Connel stared at her with his hand on his lips, “Shhhhhhh. You will now become one of us.”
UNBOUND
by Rebekah Stevens, Grade 10
I am the statue in the square, Cold and still, I’m barely there. As life’s twisted symphony plays its tune, I stand unmoved beneath the bright moon.
I am a reminder of what could’ve been. You’ll see my lost potential, so disappointing it’s a sin. My mind is an empty and echoing void, I am the monster you should avoid.
I am a wooden ship adrift on dark violent seas. No wind to fill my torn sails with its soft breeze, In currents deep and harsh I aimlessly roam, No destination or place for me to call home.
I am the echo in the hall. Fading softly, barely a call
As laughter rings and heavy tears are shed, I am the silence, filled with dread.
I am an unfinished book, So invaluable, I wouldn’t be looked at by a crook. Pages messy and incomplete, My story’s one you should swiftly delete.
I am the mirror in your room Thoughts so loud they begin to consume what was once my life. Brain is littered and oh so rife. You stare at me wondering what’s wrong, But the problem was me, all along.
I am the sobs of my mother, Her worried face devoid of colour, And as she is laying outside of my bedroom door. We’re both wishing it was like before. Before the tears and sleepless nights Back when my life was full of light.
ETERNAL SEASONS
by Felix Teng, Grade 12
Cherry blossoms flowing in the spring breeze, Friendship, blooming with the tender petals of trust, Brings me a vibrant garden filled with daisies, irises, and chrysanthemums.
Laughter and memories intertwine like serenading birds soaring about.
Through the golden streams of light in summer, Friendship, as abundant as ripening harvest in a field of golden wheat, Brings me an oceanside, soft lilac-blue waves bring my soul serenity.
Laughter and memories unending like eternal sunsets.
With the nostalgic sight of mahogany leaves flowing from autumn trees, Friendship, like a sweater through brisk air, warming me to the core, Brings me a rocking chair, sweet smell of apple cider and cinnamon by the crackling fire.
Laughter and memories abundant like the masses of pumpkin patches.
Blizzards unending and the winter frost chilling to the bone, Friendship, sheltering me from dangers of frostbite and the cold, Brings me a cozy hearth, beauty of warm lights and frozen dewdrops casting magical glows.
Laughter and memories bond the promise of endless seasons together.
THE SUMMER GIRL AND THE HUNTER
by Melody Tsui, Grade 12
The summer girl roams the forest at day, She weaves her mother’s pine basket at hand.
The hunter saunters when the sky is grey, He desires to savour his pleasures grand.
The summer girl skips through the gentle stream, She whispers a rhyme to the falling sun.
The hunter lurks to craft his heinous scheme, He conceals his ghost to commence the fun.
The summer girl enchants the lonely bones, She lays daisies to remember the dead.
The hunter stops her by a cracked gravestone, He asks about the shadow road ahead.
The summer girl points her pale, slender hand, She smiles and hopes he will find his way home, The hunter clenches her tunic sleeves’ band, He smiles and prays that she is all alone.
The summer girl croons to her singing birds, She pleads with the swaying trees for mercy.
The hunter whirls like an ink insect churred, He claws open her decaying kersey.
The summer girl gazes at the starless sky, She muses about cataclysms for the none.
The hunter polishes his blood-talon eyes, He lies satisfied once the deed is done.
The summer girl hears the wail of the moon, She offers her frail body to their den, The summer girl waltzes to meet her light doom, She knows that the wolves are kinder than men.
Ten minutes until the bell rings. Where did you go for summer? Nowhere.
UNTIL THE BELL RINGS
by Melody Tsui, Grade 12
My family went to London. We toured the entire city. That’s…nice.
A quarter note rest.
Summer flew by fast, huh?
I guess.
The silence rises like a crescendo.
I’ve got to go to class now. Catch you later?
Sure.
She fades into the crowd.
School crests gleam under the September sun that still carries the dust of summer.
The students wear their beige blazers with self-assured shoulders.
Collars crisp, family names proudly stitched onto sleeves.
Snippets of dialogue buzz around him.
I went to my cottage in Huntsville.
My dad took me to Tokyo.
His blazer is oversized on his sagging shoulders.
Holes are held up by a single mother’s needle, threads remembering the wear of time.
There is no family name on his sleeve.
Eight minutes until the bell.
The walk to class is a time of painful observations.
His classmates waltz up the stairs with polished shoes.
He trips over mud-stained soles with untied laces.
Familiar faces in the room, always friendly, but never a friend.
A seat is chosen in the front row.
Five minutes.
The teacher smiles in greeting.
Mr. Aleon, I trust you had a good summer?
Yes, and you, Sir?
As good as it can be. I expect great work from you again this year.
Of course.
Light conversation snakes across the classroom, but the serpent carefully avoids him.
Two.
A sigh escapes.
A new school year begins.
The bell rings.
MY SILENT BATTLE
by Yilin Wang, Grade 10
“The shoal is just moving at a steady speed, and should arrive at the mouth of the Green River right on time,” I muttered to myself, watching over the shoal with a mix of pride and vigilance. The journey has been long and tedious, but our destiny was now within reach.
“Yes, Big Mouth Salmon,” replied Bag of Bones Salmon, swimming alongside me. Scars of varying depths covered his back, a testament to the ages that he had lived through. “I have confirmed that the saltiness of the water has decreased by 25 percent”.
“FANTASTIC!” I yelled, using my usual clear and loud tone. As I did, I felt sharpness in my throat. I patted myself on the back of my fin, feeling a great surge of relief that the water condition was taking a turn for the better. This was a good sign—we were close. As my thoughts continued to flow, a shaking figure lagging behind the shoal caught my eyes. This was none other than Bent-Back Salmon, struggling against the current. He had a hunchback, a sign of his laziness, and unable to take actions, or make decisions. What a drag to the shoal, I thought to myself.
“YOU KEEP MOVING!” I yelled, using my loudest voice. “KEEP YOURSELF UNDER THE WATER SURFACE!” I yelled again. My voice echoed through the water, but the voice that bounced back was not my usual commanding roar, it was a harsh and weak whisper.
Panic and confusion coursed through my scales. What was happening? I tried to use all my strength to speak again to the shoal, only to find my voice was not as usual as it was. I tried again and again, but the only reply was silence.
My heart raced and beat hard. I feared not only about our journey ahead, but also for my position as a leader. It’s a role that defines me, showcases my strength and is vital for my prestige. Without my voice, how would I lead? How would I make the shoal listen to me? Would another salmon notice my sudden weakness and plot to take my place? Would my power over the shoal extinguish? All these worries pierced me like an eagle’s sharp talons.
For the first time, I was afraid.
As I grappled with the sudden loss of my voice, the shoal encountered a swirling surge of ocean current. The water around us became a mix of white foam and deep blue, battling and roaring at each other. Some salmon were swept away, some were struggling against the water. We were battling not only for our survival, but for a greater purpose, to arrive at the mouth of the Green River, our spawning ground and the beginning and end of our life cycles.
“Big Mouth, what do we do?” Silver Salmon called out. I wanted to answer, to offer reassurance, to use my thunderous voice to bring about order to the shoal, but there was nothing I could do now. Silver Salmon panicked, his eyes dark and wrinkles squished on his forehead. The hopelessness on his face crushed my emotions.
All the other salmon started to make a circle around me, brawling with the ocean currents. They were all waiting for a firm order. Long-Whiskered salmon approached; there was a look of calmness and certainly on his face even as something quivered his voice. “We’ll follow your lead Big-Mouth, voice or none, you are our leader,” he exclaimed.
I hesitated, but as I looked across the mixed emotions on the other salmon’s pale faces, I felt an invisible power guiding me. I flailed my body, flicking my tails to send a signal to my shoal; they rallied around me, forming a large group. I surged forward, cutting through the water, and the shoal
MY SILENT BATTLE
by Yilin Wang, Grade 10
moved with me. Ahead, the colour of the water began to change. The ocean started giving way to the calmness of the Green River; a beacon of peacefulness and a stark contrast to the violent ocean that lay behind us. We have found a path, a narrow corridor through the tough turmoil, this is the destination of our journey. The place looked just like one from my childhood memories; steep hills and thick trees stretched over the horizon. The sound of water bubbling and dripping filled the air. Alongside, four-legged animals were holding up their cameras, making the shattering sound.
When the water calmed, and we regrouped, we found ourselves in the refreshing water of the Green River. I was met with nods of respect and gratitude from my shoal. Long-Whiskered Salmon swam up to me, smiling. “Seems to me you do not need words to lead, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” I managed to whisper. Although it was so negligible compared to the vastness of the water’s ripples, it was a good sign that my voice was finding its way back. I wondered though; would my voice be as essential to me as it once was? My name, reputation, image, and identity were all based on my booming voice. As I reflected on our journey, I doubted that my voice would regain its original importance. I finally realized the depth of this experience; that leadership wasn’t about shouting loud commands; it was about leading by example.
ONCE ON A BED
by Max Wang, Grade 9
Once, on a bed under his favourite Pokémon blanket, he had a dream… It was about a kingdom, and he was a knight in shining armour. He’d wake up and tell his mom, she’d smile back, telling him what a wonderful imagination he had. Every morning on the way to school, his mom would sing and tell him she loved him. He would play outside, yell out the answers in class, and count the minutes until he could go home. Every night, as his mom tucked him in, he’d ask for a bedtime story. He would ask her to stay until he fell asleep, because he loved the feeling of being loved. ***
Once, on a bed under a navy-blue blanket, he had a dream… But this time it was a nightmare. A nightmare of not being good enough for his actual dreams. He’d wake up but he wouldn’t tell his mother, because he felt misunderstood. His mother drove him to school and would ask if he was keeping up with work, and he would always nod silently. He was doing his best. He had friends, a girlfriend, and was a varsity athlete. But he needed surgery and left school for weeks. At first, people would check up on him, ask how he was holding up, and he felt loved. He went back to school on crutches and tried to ignore the pain, but it wouldn’t go away. When he got home, he skipped his mother’s home-cooked meals and went straight to his room. The food didn’t feel as good as the little red pills. They made him feel numb, and the pain would go away. His grades were slipping, he lost friends, and he watched his girlfriend kiss another boy. His surgery had healed but the pain in his heart hadn’t. Every night he took a blue pill and hoped he wouldn’t wake up the next morning, because he hated the feeling of not being loved.
Once, on a bed of concrete, surrounded by trash, he wrote a note… It was titled his name, because that’s all he had left. On a crumpled piece of brown cardboard he wrote. He wrote about the dreams he never accomplished. Hoping someone would read it and know who he wished to be. How he hated the pills but couldn’t control himself. He wrote about his mother, how she kicked him out crying, calling him a piece of trash and she no longer loved him. He wrote down his apologies and regrets. As he fell asleep, he dreamt about someone who would at least appreciate who he was.
Once, on a cold bench under the moonlight, he had a dream… This was the night he used all his remaining pills. He looked up at the night sky with tears streaming down his face. As he faded into his final dream, he called out to his mom one last time, asking for one more bedtime story, because that’s what made him feel loved.
THE PORTALS OF LIFE
by Sherry Xie, Grade 12
Behind the door, where embers softly gleam, In childhood’s haven, shadows danced in play, Each day unwrapped a new and fragile dream.
Through wisdom’s gate, we’d chase the elusive beam, In search of knowledge, we would find our way, Behind the door, where embers softly gleam.
Adventures whispered, luring with their scheme, With each new threshold, life would swift array, Each day unwrapped a new and fragile dream.
In labyrinth paths, the heart would deem, A maze of choices, where our spirits sway, Behind the door, where embers softly gleam.
Now face to face with destiny’s extreme, The final door awaits, come what it may, Each day unwrapped a new and fragile dream.
In all these doors, our lives intertwined, it seems, Each one a story, coloured by the day, Behind the door, where embers softly gleam, Each day unwrapped a new and fragile dream.
TO FLOW OR TO BURN
by Wong Xu, Grade 11
I don’t know how. I don’t know when. I don’t know why, And I don’t know if I could. If I am brave enough to do it, To forgive.
To look into the eyes Of the man who Held the dead Within his grasp
As crimson red stained his hands.
To look into the eyes
Of a face so cruel that it can cause loud melancholy cries. The burning fuel that can cause vengeance to rise. Against the man who led to my mother’s demise.
Revenge is the burning desire in my mind
That will keep me conscious and not be blind, But I know such anger cannot be pure. Revenge will not lead to peace I want to find.
I want to fight back. To avenge and carry justice.
However, it feels odd As if it’s not the way. I have to think of what I need And I need to forgive on this day.
Revenge burns my hatred like fire But to forgive, I am tranquil like water. To make peace, I must be better and higher And not be the maniacal man who had to slaughter.
ECHOES OF HOME
by Daniel Yan, Grade 12
2011, November 12, my mother opens the door. Instantly, I squint to the warm welcoming lights of my home, the gentle humid air enveloping my face, brimming with flavours of steamed rice, filling my lungs with sweetness. Though it’s a flavourless dish, it is the last piece to a puzzle. The steam from the kitchen rushes out, carrying with it the affectionate aroma, drawing me away from the wintry air of the rink. I feel warm again, at peace, knowing my grandma’s hours of work will light a campfire within me, just like yesterday, the day before, the day before that, and until the day when I was born. I carefully kick off my shoes, slip on my slippers, and I’m back at rest. I go clean up before feasting to another day’s end.
As I return to the table, I see it filled with glistening gold, just like every day, and I jump into my usual spot closest to the TV. I, of course, must follow tradition by waiting for the elderly to dig in first before I reach in to grab my share. I use the chopsticks to pick out a small mouthful of rice and hold it up against the light, the steam hurries away along with the crowd underneath, the light refracting from every grain, shining like a diamond chandelier. I close my eyes as the chopsticks point toward my mouth, moving in so elegantly. The same rice I eat every day, yet every bite still surprises me as if it were the first encounter. It resurrects my tongue from the heavy breathing in the rink and sends shivers down my body as if I were transitioning from a Canadian winter to a hot tub. A campfire in a winter forest is lowering down my throat, mellowly warming the walls.
My circulation returns to normal. My lungs untense. Muscles relax. A sauna turns on in my brain. I pause a bit to recover from a sudden change in season, and I immediately rummage around the table for a big scoop of everything and dump it all into my bowl of rice. I grab the chopsticks along with the bowl and use it to brush everything down my eagerly awaiting mouth, leaving no time to chew. With each bite, the flames of the campfire disperse further and further throughout my body. I finish the meal with not one grain of rice left. I cannot wait for the next meal, but that would have to be tomorrow night, as the day is for battle while the night is for recovery.
Five more timeless steps until I reach the classroom. A floor of mud and maple leaves guiding me to my destination. A bigger guy woosh past me. He has one backpack strap on, ripped jeans, an old leather coat, and hair sticking up. What is that alien smell? Is that what they call cologne? I can’t breathe. His scent chokes me even when he’s out of sight. A cup of coffee and a donut from Tim Hortons in his hand. I can’t believe he is drinking coffee at school, is that not a delicacy for the rich? Each step draws me closer to hell’s gates, yet the closer I get, the further it seems. Blood surges through my brain and down to my heart, out to my fingers, and right back to my heart, again and again, moving so fast it feels like lava swimming in my veins. Why is it so cold in September? The unsettling air and abrasive sounds encumber me. Trees cover the outdoors, delivering a fragrant orchestra that rivals a million flowers, yet I’m scared to breathe. The calm ocean and its little islands in the sky radiating tranquility upon what lies beneath, yet I feel intoxicated. I must be the alien on this planet. I want to reach down my lungs and rip away the air which I cannot live without. I want to fill this serene environment with busy noises instead of this peaceful chit-chat. Anything to feel home. I finally make it to the door, the doorknob burning like a steel plate, heat blazing past the gates and through my body. I open the door. “Good morning, Daniel!” Still sounds like gibberish to me so I just wave and nod and walk to my desk. Everyone is just screaming noises at each other, a bunch
ECHOES OF HOME
by Daniel Yan, Grade 12
of nuisances. The teacher is walking up, her quick little steps in sync with the bass drum in my chest. Boom boom boom. The teacher says something, following a rainfall noise she makes with her mouth, and the noises stop. But the noises don’t stop, I blank away as the unforeseen pressures me. I must battle in the rink again after listening to the senseless blabbering until 4:00. I came here to get better at hockey, so I can lead the army back home, but how can I do that if I understand nothing? Maybe I should forget about my past, forget about comparing heaven to hell, forget about my noise, forget about my home, and claim this new one.
Nine o’clock already and she just parked the car. Finally, back to my apartment with my mother, which was a great upgrade from the hotel. It had been since 7:00 when I left for school that I last saw the door to my apartment. It has been since 7:00 that I feel a bit at ease again, where I can speak to the only person who understand the noises coming out of my mouth. At last, the bass drum beats in pianissimo, and the burning goes away slowly as my mother sticks the key into the door. She opens the door. My eyes stay wide open, as the hallway is as dark as our apartment. After all, we must save electricity. The cool air alleviates me, but there is no steam from the rice cooker to warm me, nor is there a tender fragrance from the kitchen, in front of me only exists a dark, cold cave stretching on endlessly. My mom flicks her arm around for a while before finding the switch, lighting up the cave. The dinner table lays spotless, as I already finished my sandwich dinner on the one-hour car ride to the rink. I go clean up as usual. I sit down at my desk located in the middle of the room, next to the open kitchen, the couch, the coffee table, the TV, the washroom, and the bedroom, right in the middle. I pull out a sheet my teacher gave me at school. I ignore my stomach’s rumbling and lift my heavy arm, scribbling to prepare for the spelling test. I must face reality. I’m stuck here now. It’s for my good. I make up my mind. This is home.
I exit the portal separating the two homes, I stop there. The smoke-filled air inundates my lungs and I gag. Lighters clicking with shouting buries my mother. Balloons and flowers wave in the air accompanied by signs with symbols. The all so familiar chaos and clamorous environment brings me unexpected relief. My mind whispers to my ears that this is disgusting, immature, and annoying, yet my heart weighs as light as a feather, secretly yearning for this familiar embrace. I walk off with luggage rolling behind me, each step amplifies the flaming voices, and each step brings me abandoned comfort. I hear a familiar sound. I turn to the right. I see a symbol that I haven’t seen in a few years. A symbol that got replaced by six letters for all that time. I look up and see my home. The tears that my heart has been saving waterfalls down my eyes, extinguishing the voices that have been burning my head. The past few years seem so trivial now as my mind blanks. The past is inescapable. It may be shrouded by a false reality, but it stays untouched as my origin. I return home. 2017, June 17, my mother opens the door. Instantly, I squint to the warm welcoming lights of my home, the gentle humid air enveloping my face, brimming with flavours of steamed rice.
YELLOW DAISIES
by Avril Yang, Grade 9
I take a deep breath, grip the cold metal door handle and push. My eyes land on you first, like always. Eyes shut. Lying in the hospital bed, hooked up to a million tubes. Four grey walls around you, swallowing you whole.
“Ivy, honey, so glad you’re here.” Mom wraps her arms around me. I haven’t seen her in the house for a bit. She’s been spending all of her time here with you, like you’d slip away if she didn’t keep an eye on you.
“We have something we need to tell you.”
It’s not what I think it is, right? It can’t be.
She sits me down on the grey couch and takes my hand.
“We know how much this accident has affected you, Ivy, and we thought you had the right to know before everyone else,” she pauses, tears in her eyes.
My palms sweat. I can’t breathe.
“Your dad and I decided that we’re going to take her off of life support Monday morning.”
The way she says it so casually makes me sick. The yellow daisies fall from my grip and it was as if someone spilt your favourite colour all over the floor.
“No, no, no,” I take deep breaths as I try to calm down. I can’t.
No, I scream in my head.
I find my voice.
“You can’t,” I scream, “you can’t.” My voice echoes in the room as I stand up, immediately falling on my knees. I rest my forehead on mom’s knee, begging and crying for them not to give up on you.
“You guys didn’t even tell me beforehand,” I choke out. Mom stares at me.
“Please, don’t let her go,” I sob, each word getting louder, and louder. “Do you think she wanted that car to hit her? Do you think she wanted that?” I sob, “it’s not fair.”
I’m a mess on the hospital floor, yet you still stay motionless. I scream and cry, making a scene. But I’m not five anymore. Tantrums don’t work like they used to.
When your day came, I didn’t go to the hospital, nor did I go to school. Instead, I went for a walk in the field just out of town, the one we’d always go to. Our memories whispered in the wind, and I could almost smell your perfume with every breath I took. Lilacs and vanilla.
“What if we die young?” I ask.
You take a second to answer, like always. It was almost like you knew.
“If you were to go first,” you said, playing with a blade of grass, “I’d let go of my claim on you. I’d like for you to do the same.”
Sitting down in the field, I find one singular, yellow daisy. I tuck it into my hair.
I’ll let go of my claim on you.
FALL(ING) APART
by Emily Zalewski, Grade 11
One Sunday, my tree was full and green. The tree was full of leaves, and we were happy. It swayed with the wind, the summer breeze, its large branches could reach the clouds, and we were happy. When I came back on Thursday that same week, the sight began to change. The world got dimmer, and the warmth in each day got shorter. The tree’s green turned to yellow, and orange, some fiery red. But it was still pretty. And when the sun shone just right, we were still happy, and we would talk, even for a little, and as the chills crept towards my little feet, my tree’s leaves kept me safe. The trunk held me in a tight hug, the bark kept me warm. But on another Sunday, a part of my tree was missing. Some leaves had fallen. But, it was okay because it was still my tree, and we were happy. Then winds shifted yet again, and as I got colder, so did my tree. And all its green became red, until the red rotted on the floor and it was brown. But when the wind wasn’t blowing, my tree was okay and it was happy. On Monday, when I came back, it was mostly the same. I told him about my day, but he couldn’t really hear me anymore. And the wind came. Only this time, it wouldn’t go away. And my tree fell apart. And its leaves started to fall again. But they wouldn’t stop falling. And each time I blinked, more would fly away. And so I stopped blinking, because I wanted to see it full again. But my eyes got dry and it kept falling apart anyways. So I grabbed the leaves as they fell and my hands were full as I tried to put the tree back together, and I placed them all back on the branches. I tried to climb them to make it better but I shook its limbs and more leaves fell and they kept on falling and my hands held on as I tried to keep you together. And I thought I could make my tree happy. But the day passed and came again. I thought that my tree got better. I finally came down from its arms, but the final leaves I held onto were now gone. And as I looked back up at my tree, everything I had once loved had left me. The branches that once held all our secrets, where I outgrew my shoes and learned to walk, and where my memories lived in the green, were now empty, and grey, and I was cold, and all of it was gone and I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t fix my tree.
And I’m sorry that we can’t be happy.
But I miss you. So, I’ll stay out in the cold, and maybe you’ll find a way back and maybe, one day, you’ll let me be happy again.
OTHER GIRLS
by Laura Zeng, Grade 12
I’m just like other girls.
I mean, I wrote this poem with an iced coffee in hand that cost way more than it should’ve. I mean, I buy more clothing than I could ever need, to the point that my closet is quickly running out of space. I mean, my favourite colour is pink, pastel pink to be precise.
I’m just like other girls, and by that I mean, I pay a good amount of attention to the way I look. Some say a little too much for a girl who should be focused on her studies, while others say not enough since a lady’s role is to “sit still and look pretty.” Sometimes, the silhouette that glares back at me in the mirror haunts me. I pick at open scars knowing it could never help them heal.
I’m just like other girls, and by that I mean I’m bleeding.
I can’t hold myself responsible, so I have no choice but to blame the metaphysical. The same hands that forged the moon and the sun must have gotten carpel tunnel, maybe that’s why they couldn’t perfect me.
I’m just like other girls, and by that I mean I’m terrified.
At just nine years old, I was told the world was filled with bad people who wanna do bad things to young girls like me. At thirteen, I found myself faking phone calls, avoiding quiet streets, and travelling in larger groups after dark to ward off bad people.
At fifteen, I found myself running to the nearest drugstore, grocery store, or any busy place when the bad people were breathing down my throat, suffocating me.
I am just like other girls, and by that I mean I’m exhausted. The pressure of being pretty enough for society, but not enough to attract any unwanted attention. The pressure of focusing on yourself, but take that too far and you’re conceited. The pressure of being kind and gentle, but in moderation since you don’t want to lead someone on.
How much pressure do they think I can take before I break?
I am not a doll to be dressed up and sat down whenever they want.
I am not an object, nor am I invulnerable, I am just a girl.
I am just like other girls.
ART
by Kate Zhou, Grade 11
Grade 8 year consistently haunts my mind. Should I blame the pandemic? No, simply melancholic thoughts don’t tend to be kind. Twelve years old, plagued by such grim ideas.
Being trapped in a hollow shell of “home”, I had such an idiotic ideal. Being sad was my “art”. To let mind roam Was the only way life could feel real.
Twelve, an age too young to be old, and yet— My youth was thieved like a secret treasure.
Although this “art” plagues me, I owe no debt, The allure of sorrow doesn’t measure;
“Art” of sorrow does not haunt my garden, For that, my young self deserves a pardon.
GUILT BEYOND DEATH
by Kate Zhou, Grade 11
The cemetery lays forlorn, husks of trees a graceful reminder of the husks buried in the ground. A light breeze whistles between the gravestones. The area seems relatively undisturbed— Crunch.
A mud-stained sneaker disturbs the reflective silence of the cemetery. A gust of curious wind sweeps through vivid, almost wig-like, red hair—quite a surprising contrast to the bleakness of the cemetery. The girl couldn’t have been more than 17 years old, face freckled with lasting youth and yet such worry lined her face. The spirits of Oak Cemetery whispered amongst themselves,
“Why does such a young soul pass into these lands with such grief on her face?”
And yet, the girl trekked on. Naturally, she couldn’t feel their noncorporeal forms—they were on separate planes of life, after all. Still, anybody who stepped foot into this cemetery would recount a chilly touch creeping across their skin. Uriel was no exception, except for the fact that she couldn’t feel the familiarity of the spirit she’d come to see.
Since birth, she had been a ghostly child. Not her choice, of course, but Uriel haunted the hospital too often to have been considered a normal kid. She used to joke that since she was always on the brink of death, she was at least a part of the spirit world to justify the fact that she’d never have real friends. Her mother would frown, deepening the lines of stress, and her father would laugh in a way that never reached his eyes. Uriel had always felt guilty for the bags under her mother’s eyes, and the sadness in her father’s.
Like many of the things in her life, Uriel had never asked for a trade—her health for her mother’s.
The crunch of leaves underfoot ceases as her frail figure stops before a polished gravestone. The redhead laid a bouquet of white lilies beneath the grave. The grave is not unfamiliar, she had seen it a mere year before.
“Hi, Mamá,” Uriel whispers. A year is a very long time to go without your mother. So many things to tell mom—her leukemia had come back, she had found the love of her life, Papá was doing well, but first. . .
Uriel dropped to her knees, not caring that the ground left grassy stains on her brand-new dress. The Mexican holiday, Day of the Dead, commemorates your loved ones who have passed with celebrations and altars and revisiting memories. This celebration keeps your loved ones remembered in their own realm.
“I’m sorry,” she wept. “Life has been so busy and I was so afraid to visit—” Uriel’s blubbering was stopped by a warm, familiar touch. Her mother—no, her spirit cupped her hands on either side of Uriel’s cheeks.
“Mija, there is nothing to forgive,” her mother declared. “You’ve already been so brave, Princesa, and it is I who should be sorry for leaving you so soon.”
“Mom—”
“I love you, Mija. Forgive yourself.”
BENEATH THE SURFACE
by Sophie Zhang, Grade 9
As I sink beneath the pool’s calm face,
The world above becomes a distant haze
All noise drowns out and turns into splashing waves.
The sunlight falls on the big square tiles like a spiderweb of crystals
The sound of silence is so deafening, It’s like a hidden world, beneath the surface.
The pressure of the world above ceases
As I float all stress releases
And the power of my mind increases.
Suddenly, my lungs gasp for air, I push to the surface
Where the world is beyond compare
’Til a moment where I need to be still, I will chill beneath the surface.
WOLF
by Lucas Zhao, Grade 9
Once upon a time, you huffed and puffed, Harvesting those straw houses built without care, Blowing down our delicate works
As if it could hide your horrible face. You set a bar in our lives, Teaching us that only hard work would pay off, And the rest would be blown away, with no mercy in sight. We learned this lesson, leaving you with no might Saving us with what was told as peace and delight. But were we?
You no longer walked up to our houses through your lungs gushing out swirls of air, You were one of us, building houses, hiding in your secret lair. You told us you were coming with fathomless strength, Whipping through lengths of brick and cement,
Leaving us like our brothers once before, running and hiding from you who chased us. You snuck into our rooms whispering that steel and concrete were the only ones that could seal our walls, And only the strongest of all houses would be left standing. You rode winds into our souls to release your hellion, Placing weights on our back, while seeing no rebellion.
You put us to work, held us as slaves, driving us with fear and feeding us with horror Just to see who could make a better cage, to have us sit in, waiting for you to come, Until we would become weak as straw, for you to leap on us with a finishing bite. We fell to the ground, one by one, our bullet-proof buildings left as the last ones to reap, with slabs of cement and stone and steel, planted firm down deep, nor wolf blowing them, nor man living them, Only the ravens haunting them. But soon, we found you
In your secret lair that you hid beneath. We could finally get rid of you.
Your torment along was all wiped as gone, for peace to return to us, at once, at last, lying in our beds, we slept, we relaxed. We praised our laziness, returning to our warm and cozy straw houses as to see who could do absolutely nothing first. To sleep through days and nights Of workless hours and joyful sights, Forgetting about the lurking predators still seeking our souls for a long-awaited feast.
But who shall trust in saying once more of the wolf approaching quiet and ferocious? Until the midnight howl that woke us all up.
