The Opus 2008 by Saints Opus

DANNY HONG | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

pus Team Staff Sponsors Ms. Hayley Jacobs Mrs. Katrina O’Connor Lead Staff Daniel Sun, Editor-in-Chief Billy Zou, Assistant Editor-in-Chief Mendel Skulski, Artistic Director Senior Editors Ray Chung Robert Veerman Curt Cha Nicholas Sehmer Ray Yu Ermer Wang Jeffery Choi Joshua Lyons Junior Editors Christopher Dee Benedict Leung Artistic Team Timothy Wai Danny Hong Ian White Cover and Poster Design Spencer Gilley Layout Editors Brian Lau Edward Tseng Miggy Esteban Forson Chan @ g{x bÑâá @

ntroduction Having the capacity to communicate is a blessing and a curse; we are blessed with the ability to send and receive messages most commonly through diction, but we are cursed with its limits of expression. Thus, we look to ways of showing a message as well as telling one, which is one of the main focuses of the Opus Literary and Art Publication 2008. As Editor in Chief and Artistic Director of this year’s Opus, we are proud to have been able to work with the students of St. George’s Senior School to help them showcase their distinct messages – their responses to the world around them. Welcome to a new world of colour. It is our honour to introduce you to a compilation of the best of the creative works submitted for inclusion in the volume, as encompassed within this year’s edition of the Opus. This is an important showcase for the budding writers and visual artists at the school, and is often their ﬁrst chance at publication. The sheer volume of community interest and entries consistently impresses us, especially coming from the younger grades. Through the Opus, we can look back on our own experience at St. George’s and see the evolution of perspective in art and text all the way from Grade 8 to Grade 12. This year’s works have shown an extraordinary emotive quality and willingness to experiment with mediums and inﬂuences. The biggest challenge for us this year was making the selections for publishing from the wide pool of talent in our peer group. We are excited as well as proud to have been able to oversee the Opus this year and to have been a part of this ‘New World of Colour’ that binds both the literary and artistic talents of our students within the Opus. We are sure that as you read through this publication, you will become immersed in this new world. As the Editor in Chief and Artistic Director, we welcome you all to break the binding of this year’s publication and enjoy! On behalf of the entire Opus staff, we would like to thank the St. Georges Auxiliary for their continued funding of this project; Alex Tsakumis - President of the Georgians - for generously supporting our endeavour; our staff sponsors, Ms. Hayley Jacobs and Mrs. Katrina O’Connor for their untiring passion and dedication to the Opus; the teachers of the Art and English Departments for their submission recommendations and contributions; Mr. Mark Lyons, representing the Klein Lyons Company, for his donation; and, of course, our indefatigable staff for all of their help in seeing this year’s publication through to the end. Our humblest gratitude to you all, and please, dive into our ‘New World of Colour’ - Opus 2008. Daniel Sun, Editor in Chief Mendel Skulski, Artistic Director @ g{x bÑâá @

SPENCER GILLEY | grade 12 | felt on paper

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he Monster in the Sandbox BY DENNIS WONG NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER He was oblivious to tissue boxes; his shirt sleeve was more than a match for his runny nose. He liked to run, jump, skip, and play, just like any other child. He was small, shy, and full of laughter and energy. But when he stepped into his sandbox, he was the biggest, most important, and most intimidating figure. It had taken him a whole afternoon to build. Piece by piece, he had created a small metropolitan city out of nothing but wooden blocks and toy figures. It had been slow at first, but eventually, as the vision of an ideal city came to him, he began to work fast, hoping to complete it before the day ended. Now, as he looked upon his creation, the creator could do nothing but marvel at the wonder of it. But, alas, night was approaching, so he had to return to the house and wait until tomorrow. All throughout dinner he could think of nothing but his miniature city. He thought of what new things to add to it, like an army made out of green army figurines, and cars and buses for the people to ride. He wanted to create! He wanted to breathe life into the pit of sand that represented his childhood. His thoughts were interrupted as he was told to put his plate away and prepare for bed. He quickly did as he was told, brushing his teeth, putting on his pajamas, and hopping into his racecar bed, drifting off to sleep as thoughts of his city filled his mind. Then it hit him. The next day he spent all morning preparing his city for the finale. He thought about asking his younger brother to help him construct, but decided that he wanted to bask in the glory of his own work by himself. So he continued to build, finishing his masterpiece, his magnum opus, his version of the Mona Lisa. And as it slowly grew, he began to anticipate more and more the inevitable end that would follow. A skyline of colored wooden blocks was illuminated by the sun, casting a crooked shadow on the sand. Banks, public parks, grocery stores, and a wide variety of mom and pop shops served the people of this metropolis, a city as busy and lively as Paris, London, or New York. Surrounded by nothing but sand, the city was the only sign of life in the harsh, dry, and unforgiving desert. The citizens of this city were on their way home from a hard day of work, but as they filled the streets, a sudden shock hit the ground. A loud thud, a footstep, and the shadows shimmered ever so slightly. Another footstep - and the shadows shimmered a little more as the buildings threatened to collapse under their own weight. With a devious smile on his face, he stomped his foot down, shooting little clouds @ g{x bÑâá @

of sand into the air. A large hand struck the side of one of the buildings, knocking it into another. A car was kicked into a small cluster of buildings, destroying some of the most popular locations in the city. A loud roar struck terror into the hearts of the plastic people as the monster continued to wreck the city, tearing it to shreds. At first he picked his targets carefully, choosing the most popular landmarks in the city. But eventually he was lost in his rage, thrashing about in every direction with nothing but doom and destruction surrounding him. He wanted to do nothing but destroy now, wreck the very thing he had toiled to create, with blood boiling in his veins and adrenaline pumping through him. In a brief heartbeat he had gone from the creator to the destructor, without a sense of hesitation or regret. Crash! The city bank was kicked into bits. Wham! The entire business district of the city was blown into the wind. And finally, a soft thud as the last building standing fell on its side, crushing the people underneath it. With an evil laugh, he stepped out of the sand box to survey his work. All that was left of the once great city was a pile of blocks covered by sand. Troy had fallen; turned into rubble under the foot of its enemy. With one fell swoop he had destroyed everything in the sandbox, leaving in his path nothing but carnage and mayhem. “Ralph!” yelled someone from inside the house, “it’s time to come inside!”Ralph quickly grabbed all the blocks and figurines and threw them into a plastic container before yelling back, “I’m coming mom!” He rushed back into the house just in time for dinner. As he got into bed later that evening, he looked out his window at the sandbox. It had gone from being a lively city to a plane of sand; all the color had been erased from the page, leaving a clean, blank slate. The next day, as he was on his way to the kitchen for breakfast, he noticed a large box covered in wrapping paper by the door. “It’s an early Christmas present!” yelled his mother from atop the stairs. He opened the package and found a brand new, bright yellow dump truck, a scaled down model of the kind they use at construction sites. He grabbed the new present and headed for the backdoor, slamming the screen door shut behind him. The sun glimmered from a distance as it rose from beyond a range of mountains, signifying a new day, and a new beginning.

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he Sadness Crowd BY LIAM ANDERSON The sadness is here and so are we, We came to honour the fallen who freed They now rest in the blood of our bleeding hearts They paid their depts, but gave up their start A locket found, ripped from another Tells to whom it concerns mother, sister, or brother A ring taken, in a slaughter Deprives a child of his father No time to kiss his widow’s head A searing loss in its stead A family brought down in their prime Longing to hear their father say “I love you” one more time The last time they’d ever talk on the phone They’d say “Daddy, when you comin’ home?” A single tear fell from his eye As they both said “I love you” and started to cry “And now he’s here”, as they said a prayer “I’m already there”

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BEN MINTZBERG | CHUCKY | grade 10 | monoprint

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ords from the Cradle BY ALEX RIVERS NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER Chris sat beside the fire in the grandeur of the living room. The flames danced off of the glass in the majestic grandfather clock that sat across the room from her. Looking at its face she noticed that it was just past ten thirty. The November evening’s night brought a cold chill down the chimney that seemed to overwhelm the fire. She tightened the wool blanket around her. Faintly in the distance, she heard a sound that she couldn’t quite recognize. As she listened, the wood from the fire snapped sending embers flying. Jumping as one of the burning pieces landed on her, she put her lips to her hand to quench the pain that suddenly shot through her. Her lips, cold as a corpse left out in the snow, pressed against the burn, soothing the pain. Again she heard it; this time more clearly. The sound of tiny feet on the cold wooden floor. She turned around to face the noise. As she scanned the darkened room, her eyes caught sight of something that hadn’t been there before. A child’s doll. China face turned around so that its body was facing away but the glass eyes stared at her. The frozen expression of the doll seemed content. Eerily content, as if it was expecting something to happen. As Chris emerged from the cocoon of the warm blanket, the wind suddenly rushed down the chimney, extinguishing the fire. She shivered and walked towards the doll. Picking it up she wondered where it could have come from. And then again. The sound of a child running. Coming from upstairs. The ancient wood creaked as she gently put her weight on the first step. Each step brought on another, as if to warn her that the stairs were not meant to be climbed. As she approached the landing, she heard it again. The pitter patter of little feet coming from the ancient nursery. A cold sweat broke over her. She reached out her hand and noticed it was shaking. Twisting the handle, the door creaked open like a symphony of rusty saws clashing with one another. In the middle of the room, drowned in the moonlight from a single window, was an abandoned cradle. The shelves, towering on either side of her, were packed with dolls. Each one staring down at her as if she had been expected. She felt drawn to the cradle as if it was calling out in a silent cry. She took a step forward. Then, she heard a noise that made her freeze in her tracks. Looking back at the dolls everything seemed normal, except for one thing. The rabbit, which had been closest to the door, was sitting with its head turned around. Another noise. She looked. Now more dolls’ heads were turned. With each step forwards, she turned to see more dolls facing away, as if they did not wish to see what would happen. When she reached the cradle, she could barely move for fear. She peered over the side and looked down into the cradle’s foreboding depths. Inside, lay a baby doll, porcelain face reflecting the glare of the moon, its @ g{x bÑâá @

ceramic eyelids shut over its glass eyes. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew from the open window. Eyes tearing from the cold, Chris looked up to see the vacant ﬁeld that stretched out in front of the house. Looking down, the sight that greeted her made her heart stop. The doll’s eyelids were ﬂuttering, as if waking from a deep sleep. The doll turned to Chris, opened its mouth and whispered “Play time.”

REMY EDEN | grade 12 | ceramic

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earning BY NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER We lie on a plush, poofy bed holding each other. I look down at her, She is smiling. Her hair is fanned against the pillows making a brown halo around her head. Our bodies are warm to my touch, our jeans slowly brush and chafe our thighs Heating us it is a pleasant sensation like a marshmallow slowly being roasted until golden brown. the sun radiates through the window lighting the room. the space is insigniﬁcant and obsolete I am entranced by her and her alone I gently caress her bare arms they are smooth as pebbles. I inhale. the room smells of a bakery it is her natural fragrance She exudes comfort. the faint scent of rain lingers. I close my eyes and hear her laugh, Her laughter is a breeze gently slowing down my heart and melting my anxiety. chest to chest I feel her lungs as they ﬁll with air and then decompress as if they were jumping up and down methodically. She smiles--I smile.

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DAICHI YAMASHITA | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas triptych

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ZACH MAURER | grade 8 | photograph

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ife BY LIAM ANDERSON What is not known is understood And what happens today dictates tomorrow But that life that ends today And a new one soon to follow And what happens today dictates tomorrow The lost have found and the found have lived And a new one soon to follow As you grow up to greet your fate The lost have found and the found have lived They dance in the early day As you grow up to greet you fate Grow in one with the world around They dance in the early day In the anticipation of tomorrow Grow in one with the world around To see the day when death is done In the anticipation of tomorrow See hope in life by living To see death when the day is done When real and fantasy collide

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ownfall of a Felidae BY DANIEL ZEE It’s them. I kept myself as low as possible. I’ve heard a lot about them lately. They lured around this area. What did they want? Massive genocide, I guess. They all had skin colour of sand, but the colour of their fur differed. Three of them were staying under the tree. They appeared as small silhouettes from this distance. They almost seemed harmless. But no, I knew them well. I felt the pain on my stomach as I rubbed it on the ground, remember my previous encounter with those predators. I was lucky to be able to escaped, unlike my brother and my parents. Looking back at the creatures, they started to make their way towards my direction. They must have found me. It wasn’t too hard to ﬁnd something orange in a bunch of grass. I heard a shout, followed by a loud noise. I ran, but it was too late. Hell was revealed. I charged and knocked smallest one of them down. Pressing that creature down, I roared in wrath. In the corner of my eyes, I saw another one, the big one, throwing itself at me. Young fool it was. I abandoned the small one, and leaped at the attacker. We crashed and fell onto the ground. It was grunting in pain. The third creature was running back to the tree, shouting in their language. The big one stood up, and was back down again by my tackle. I stabbed the small one in the leg with my claws. It gave a piercing screech, then it moved no more. The third one was back, but with something else. It was griping onto a long cylinder. My eyes widened. I knew. That was what killed my brother. I tried to escape, but it was too late. There was a loud noise. Something hit me on my back. My body was powerless and fatigue. All I saw was white, then black. Blood stained the grass. The body, no longer alive, was drowned in the pool of blood. The black stripes were no longer visible. The hunter reloaded his shotgun, and started talking to his friend as he checked the wounds on the chest of fainted Warren. “That sure was a tough tiger, eh?”

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he Twister BY JONATHAN HALLETT The twister. Howling winds, swirling, twisting, and spinning. Terror. The scream increases as the storm comes closer. A wild roar begins, as the eye of the storm passes overhead. Wind rips shingles from rooftops, the siding from houses, and cars from driveways. Trailers ﬂy through the air, buildings are crushed, like matchboxes underfoot. Then, silence. People tentatively emerge from the ruins, to survey the damage. Shock sets in.

BRIAN HARRIES | ROCKS | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas 16

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he Wall BY MATT MCFETRIDGE To the left, all is crowded. Smoke blinds their eyes as screams and gunfire pierce their ears. They run frantically, trying to escape somehow. The smoke towers hundreds of feet high, all different pillars, black and choking. Just in front, a grenade explodes, blowing soldiers into the sands. They are headless chickens, running around until their inevitable end. Just to the right, small boats land on the beach, filling with men nearly instantly, everyone retreating. No one can leave this hell quickly enough. The men jump into the water, feeling the salty water around them, tugging at their bodies. Boats of thirty men shove off from the coast, towards hope, towards the battleships. They are gigantic, but from this distance, appear only as toys. Smoke billows from their tops as bodies float around them in the salty water. Above, terror reigns as planes drop bombs on the ants from above, ending hundreds of lives at once. They fly and laugh as the men below are praying for a miracle. The planes, bullies in the sky, fly through the pillars of smoke, and disappear for a moment, as if to give a false hope of security. The beach is like a wall. On its left, soldiers are dying, and planes are mocking, and smoke towers. Yet on the right, off the beaches, there is serenity. The water is calm, the sky cloudless. The men’s hope is renewed as they touch the water, and though the boats are crowded and uncomfortable, freedom is on the horizon.

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he Walker BY LOUIS MARQUETTE A child of the darkness, he walked. Never having been born, always having been there, seemingly since the dawn of time. He was always there, the prickling feeling at the back of your neck in dark alleyways or tunnels, seeming to come from the shadows themselves. If you had the ability to simply look at him without forgetting, which was one of the walker’s talents, you would see a hooded form of a man, with a rough beard and eyes that show the decades he has carried his title. People walk home, minding their own business, when they feel the prickle between their shoulder blades, they turn without thinking it, he is always there, whether you see him or not, you are the walker, but there is always the one that walks behind.

CHRIS CHO | grade 12 | ceramic 18

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MENDEL SKULSKI | grade 12 | acrylic on wood

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TIM WAI | grade 11 | acrylic on canvas

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ports are Played in the Primal Side of Man BY MAX DOUGLAS NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER The cold air ripped against his chest as he walked briskly along the sidewalk. Hair whipping in the wind he fought his way along to the corner where he joined his friend. The two boys were of medium height and wore thick coats as protection against the elements. One had wider shoulders and walked with an air of natural athleticism, his long and powerful strides numbered one to two with that of his comrade. He also packed a heavy looking football bag on his left shoulder and his school bag on the right one. The other boy had an angular body, not much muscle and walked with what seemed as a burden on his shoulders. Already not very strong this unique gait made him an easy target to pick on. The two boys rounded the next corner and entered the school yard, frosty grass crunching under foot as the air was clear. As they crossed the school yard many people turned away and three large boys approached the couple, “Lyle…scram!” The skinnier boy froze and awaited his regular morning punishment as his friend was hopelessly forced to leave. “Klein! Why are you late?” “Sorry ma’am I was……going to the washroom.” He hated lying about things like that but there was no choice, telling meant more beating and maybe even teasing school wide for being a tattletale. His desk had been washed down as usual so he took out the towel he had learned to carry around with him and quickly dried his desk. A few boys in the back of the room laughed. Lyle peered threw the window of the classroom to see how his friend had made out. Poor guy he thought, always getting the short end of the stick, and it’s always the troubled ones that get picked on the most. Lyle dragged himself to his locker feeling guilty that he can’t ever help his poor friend; he packed his bag for second block and left for the library. This was his spare so he had plenty of time and not too much homework to ﬁnish up. What could he do to get Klein out of this mess? Then it dawned on him, he was always bugging Klein to join the football team so they could spend some more time together and because sports are fun. He was approaching it all from the wrong direction, if Klein joined the football team he would get stronger and it would be a lot harder for the oppressors to torment him perpetually. “RRRRRRRiingg” The bell to signal the end of ﬁrst block sounded loud and clear. “Better hurry” thought Lyle, Miss Ficleoushter hates it when people are late and if it were her decision she would have them beaten stupid. @ g{x bÑâá @

The phonetic thunder of kids rushing from last period chattered the foundation of the building. Looking at the school from across the street was quite a sight it seemed as if the whole place was alive. Kids’ flooding from doors, loud laughing and screaming was to be heard for blocks. Lyle fighting the crowd was nearly trampled as he had to get to the opposite end of the school to football practice. Alone in a remote hallway on the top floor was Klein, looking out over the fields and dreading his descent to the front doors. Between him and those doors was chastisement, mortification, victimization and suffering. Once he was at his locker he was a sitting duck, if he tried to run away then they would lay waste to everything in his locker. If he stayed there they would probably stuff him in his locker or trash him. It was a dilemma of the worst kind. Later on that day as the two friends were on their way home, Lyle first introduced his new idea to his helpless friend. He started off easy by saying that he should just join the training camp. The underlying reason being so that he had a chance to put some muscle on those bones before they toughened him up with hard tackles into the ground. To encourage Klein he spoke of the self-confidence you gain and the satisfactions of feeling your muscles hurt and build strength over time. He even added a little spice to the mixture by saying that he might even get a girl looking at him. By the end of Lyle’s speech they were back at the corner of the block and broke company again for another day. As Lyle walked away he reasoned with himself, this could yet work, it was the start of a new beginning. Lyle was right about that, he just didn’t expect the kind of new beginning that was to come. “Wow, even breezier then yesterday” said Klein. “Yeah… So did you think about my suggestion?” “Yes…… and I think I’ll try it!” Lyle was thrilled and after school he took Klein right away to get his new gear. Pads, jerseys, cleats, socks, helmet, mouth guard and a bag that rivaled the Great Pyramid of Giza in size, the two boys looked like the Greek god Atlas carrying their equipment. The walk home today was a long one for obvious reasons but Klein rose to the occasion and carried most of the stuff. Stupefied already, Lyle really got thrown off when Klein packed everything himself once the pair reached the corner. “Alright, I’ll be seeing you at practice tomorrow then right?” Questioned a still shocked Lyle. “Yes, of course, it will be nice change from the customary.” Math class today couldn’t conclude fast enough, the algebraic equations were having a soccer match with his cerebellum and unfortunately his defense forgot to show up! Fourth period on a Friday afternoon, what worst time exists to have math class, he was looking forward to the week22

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end and football practice after school. Only a couple more polynomials and its going to take more then a tackle into the ground from a linebacker to bring him back to reality. Mastermind Klein other the other hand was completely intellectually engaged and was absorbing the information like a sponge. How does he do it thought Lyle? Three ten finally and class is done for another glorious weekend of football, video games, movies and friends coming over. First though thought Lyle was getting Klein to like football. He met his colleague in the changing rooms and started to explain him the game like he promised he would. “Don’t worry though; you only participate in the physical strengthening and endurance portion on your first week or two. So you have a while to let all the rules and guidelines soak in, most importantly get in some practice so you don’t get murdered.” “Very reassuring Lyle thanks, and anyways how hard is the physical strengthening and endurance?” “Hard enough…now hurry practice is going to start in 3 minutes.” After two weeks of solid training Lyle thinks his friend is ready to play and is surprised at how fast he improved. “The moment of truth has arrived bud, let’s do this.” What was to follow was nothing short of completely, preposterously astonishing. Lyle never spoke again of that day for three years and told nobody about anything. The football coach transferred schools and all of the children affected moved countries. As for the creature himself Klein, he was send off to a research facility in Germany for DNA analysis, autopsies, DNA transfusion, psychological analysis and molecular investigation. When Lyle finally came to senses he wrote a brief account of the event and died next day. Lyle’s Account of Friday February 13th 2003 It was fast and moving, it was precise and without hesitation, it happened as if it was an act of random decisiveness. One thing is for sure, it wasn’t my friend. At four o’clock Klein was called over to play receiver in a scrimmage alongside me. Practice had only started 15 minutes earlier so one could have been tired, yet for some weird reason Klein was sweating and it looked like he had just run the Boston Marathon. The ball was hutted and we both took off, I crossed over left and he was cutting center. I received the ball and quickly handed it off to him because I was surrounded with black pinnies. He caught it and took off past the group encompassing me as he sprinted down the wing it happened. Why this event occurred is a mystery to me but all I now is that his daily oppressors (who also happened to join the team when he did) will forever recollect and be sorry for this day. As Klein ran down the @ g{x bÑâá @

wing he gained in stature, muscle tone and ugliness, a sudden permutation happened before my eyes. A once quiet, wimpy, unhappy nerd became an egregious, satanic mammoth. It pulverized our helpless opponents, his daily oppressors and anyone who stood in his way. Six boys were sent to the hospital in ambulances with fatal wounds, fortunately none died. The beast managed to cause serious bleeding, crush 2 rib cages, break 5 arms, 3 legs, 3 collar bones and give spinal injuries to every boy in his way. Forgive me god and may you help me cope with this early life experience. I now lay down my pen for the last time I fear.

CHRIS LEE

| grade 12 | digital painting

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inged Victory BY PAUL YOUNG Heaven’s winged Seraph, Cradled among angelic wisps. Alighting upon a bluffEmbracing the radiance within her ﬁsts. The lustrous wings enfold, Angled in triumphant arcs. Ethereal arms encrusted in gold, Embossed with celestial marks. The ivory white garments Ripple across her lithe frame, Stirred by the turbulent currentsTurning from wild to tame. The Angel descends in all of god’s grandeurAnd places one foot upon the land. Inculcating arising fearSeraphim, proffers her hand.

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he First: Water BY ROSS DUTKIEWICZ Cala lived on a small island off the coast of the largest land mass on Silantra, Lekka. This small, unnamed island had some of the hottest temperatures on the planet’s surface. Daily, it would reach ﬁfty to sixty degrees Celsius. At the rate they were increasing, the average daily temperature would rise to eighty degrees within the next eight months. Cala, a young woman of sixteen years, worked every day on the small farm her family kept to meet their daily needs. Lately, no crops or plants had been able to produce any food because they were all dying. Cala’s most prized possession was her small, silver music box which she had received for her tenth birthday. This music box was always cool to the touch and seemed to glow ever so slightly whenever Cala was nearby. It was about the size of a small turtle, and so it was easily kept in a pocket or bag. Cala took it everywhere with her. One day, Cala woke up to piercing shrieks emanating from just outside the house. She immediately jumped out of bed and proceeded to the door wearing only her nightgown. She expected to see her mother screaming about another dead fox at the doorstep, but instead when she tiredly pulled open the door she saw a young boy of about eight years of age standing on the doorstep screaming his head off. She was suddenly struck with the fact that she was half naked with a boy staring up at her. Having lived on a secluded island all of her life with none but her family, she had never considered how she dressed; but now, she shut the door, rushed to her room and hurriedly dressed. The horrible shrieking continued until she opened the door again, this time fully clothed. The boy said nothing, but beckoned urgently for her to follow him. Her parents remained asleep, having learned to sleep with earplugs due to the horrible noise that wild animals make when they die. Cala decided not to wake them and, feeling no sense of danger because she had never encountered a stranger before, followed the boy to the shore where two sleek dolphins, which seemed to shimmer with a cool blue aura, lay side by side on the beach. The boy jumped into the ocean, grabbed the ﬁn of one dolphin, and once again beckoned to Cala, obviously indicating that she should follow his lead. Having checked that she had her music box in her pocket she decided there was no harm in following the strange boy. After all, she could easily get back to the island if she decided not to follow the boy anymore. The boy and his dolphin took off suddenly and plunged beneath the waves. Soon after, Cala’s dolphin suddenly started swiftly swimming. Before she could cry out, the dolphin had plunged down into the blue unknown.

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Cala slowly opened her eyes. She felt as if she had just slept for a long time. She turned her head into a more comfortable position, settled her head into the… “That’s not a pillow,” she thought, sitting up suddenly. She glanced around. “This isn’t my room. How… dolphins! Where in the world is that strange boy?” “Don’t worry, Cala, you are perfectly safe. I have brought you here because I believe that you can help us, help everybody,” said a strangely deep voice from somewhere behind her. With a jolt she realized that for once she wasn’t sweating. It was much cooler than she was used to. Cala turned around slowly, her bright eyes taking everything in all at once. On a small rock just behind her sat the small boy who had brought her here. “Where am I?” she asked, “The last thing I remember was being towed down here by a dolphin.” “You are in the kingdom of the Nechil. We live in an oasis beneath the sea. You can breathe because you have been blessed by me, Prince of the Nechil. My name is Jalon,” he said. Cala stared at him for a moment in utter astonishment. “But, why am I here?” she asked. “I didn’t commit any crimes, or injure anybody.” “Cala, you are here for a different reason. I believe that it is your destiny to save this planet and all those living upon it. To do this, you will need to unite the four elements of nature: water, earth, fire, and air.” “Wait… How??” “I will help you as much as possible. I will grant you the element of water. From this point forward you are on your own. I know not how you will accomplish this task, but to protect this planet and its inhabitants, you must succeed,” Jalon said prophetically. Cala was speechless. She tried to think of something to say but she could not. Suddenly Jalon disappeared and all that remained of him was a couple of bubbles that floated swiftly to the surface. Upon Cala’s finger appeared a ring as blue as the ocean itself. In shock, she started floating to the surface. Finding she could no longer breathe Cala swam desperately upwards. Upon reaching the surface, completely breathless, she swam to the nearby shore. Shaking out her wet hair, Cala looked about. Her eyes came to rest upon a large mound of soil far up on the beach. There seemed to be a door in this mound. Curious, she approached the mound, opened the door, and entered. The door swung shut behind her, cutting off all @ g{x bÑâá @

light and sound. She was left in absolute darkness. The only sound was her own breathing. For comfort she felt for her music box in her pocket. Finding it absent, panic grew within her with surprising speed. The End

CHARLES RILEY | grade 10 | photograph 28

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he Writer BY MAX LLOYD-JONES This sunrise is not but only a view. That stranger’s eyes show more than just sorrow. For patterns of colours shine from morning dew, And his avoiding stares scream fears of tomorrow. Around every corner lays a story untold Full of meaning and depth, no ﬁctitious façade. Though on stage t’will dissolve to a faceless mold As its agents overact, trying to be odd. At ﬁrst it was pity for those without vision, Performing like parrots, expecting appeal. They tailgate the truth, and career suffers collision. Though by shifting to touch it, they forget how to feel. Then patience replaced yesterday’s sympathy For echoes were a step before voice could break through. The Writer knew divine love, truth and beauty: Sunrises and strangers were only her debut.

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tmost Importance BY MIKE ANDERSON You must have had your pick But was it quick Sudden Like-a-gun-in The, dark Or did you ponder Take your mind and wander Beyond here Somewhere--astray Either blown away Secluded Dilute it Wandering the fray Making good time under a Persian cat’s blue eye sky As you thought A linear line Did your heart stop-Did the decision--clot Was-it-sudden Or did it stick… Could you make up your mind Looking at a cherry tree for one to pick

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he Phone Call BY LUCA WILLMER NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER The phone rings. Not again. “Hello, my name is Steve and I’ll be helping you today. Welcome to telus internet connections service. How may I help you? A problem with your router? Alright, could I first get your telephone number and address? Alright, I have the information in front of me…is this Thomas Thor… Thorchoivick? Thirkovick. Sorry sir. Next could I get you to explain your problem to me? Yes, alright. Well, sir, it seems to me that your router is not sending out a signal. Could I please get the 8-digit product code? Yes, that’s right. YNThat’s correct, sir. It should be on the underside of the router. Yes. Ok. Well, if you turn it upside-down… I understand, sir, but it should be beside the light… Yes. That’s correct, sir. Mmmm… So its 518 3285 577? Is it a D-link router? Yes? Has this ever happened before? No? This is your first time? Has someone else helped you install the product? Yes? Are you sure the device is on? Is the device on, sir? There should be some lights flashing. There aren’t? Oh…Could I get you to pick up the router once more, sir? Yes. Now please press the button that reads “power.” Correct. Now are there any lights? Yes? Ok, sir, this seems to have fixed your problem? Yes? Ok, thank you for callingCorrect. And you can always call us back atOk. Yes, thank you sir. @ g{x bÑâá @

You too, sir. Thank you for your time. Good bye. Finally.

IAN WHITE | grade 12 | ceramic

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he Scream BY CHAN GOOJAMES MICHAEL SEHMER NICHOLAS She sulked uncomfortably in her cold and unusually hard, reclined bed. Her frail arms were terribly sore and she could not reach, or move, her arm to massage it. As she unsuccessfully tried to scream out for help, she could not make a sound at all. Not even a single noise came out, not even a gasp, as if her throat had been blocked and muffled. She frantically pulled and pushed but she just could not move an inch. Panicking, her eyes glanced upon her body. Her new pink satin dress was black and white. She could not see the colors she had once seen. Suddenly, the frightened girl saw a vivid vision. She saw herself gleefully skipping, coming home from a long day of school. However, she could see the colors of as she watched. She saw the rosy pink dress sway as she jumped up and down;; her long flowing hair bleached honey mist auburn was also moving. She could smell the flowery smell of the new spring flowers and feel the moisture in the air from the morning dew. She could hear herself hum the new Avril Lavigne song, tone by tone. The taste of fresh air filled her mouth. ----Her earphones glisten as she skips down the hot, sizzling sidewalk. She mouths the upbeat lyrics and squints her eyes from the blazing sun. As she draws near to her glamorous house, faint whispers ring out the front door. “Meredith, no,” She hears her demanding father declare to her mousy mother, “We cannot do that. We’ve already got too much on our hands.” The girl bashes in through the door with a furious look on her pretty little face. “Daddy, what’s going on now?” Her face turns red in anger. “Glenda. I have to say it. We are bankrupt.” Glenda’s stomach begins to churn. “We’ll have to send you to your distant uncle’s home. His name is Bill and he owns a restaurant in Beverly Hills. It will be better if you stay there while your mother and I work up some money.” With that, Glenda starts to bawl loudly and runs into her room. Later in the depressing day Glenda sees a black rusty van park in her driveway through the window. Two words are painted messily in red on @ g{x bÑâá @

the side which seems to be a name of some sort. Sawney Bean. Glenda ponders hard as she remembers that she heard that name before. Somewhere. She hurriedly packs her fancy clothes, her Barbie dolls and her CD’s into her suitcase and glide down the stairs, almost stumbling on the last step. Glenda opens the door to find a tall, lean man with a suspiciously sharp set of large teeth. As her father and Bill talk quietly amongst themselves, Glenda slowly gets into the hideous, compact van. Uncomfortably, Glenda looks outside to see Uncle Bill secretly hand a large amount of bills into her dad’s hand. Suspicion glimmers in Glenda’s eyes. Bill totters into the rugged driver seat and slams the door behind him. He eyes Glenda in the back and raises his eyebrow. As they drive through Thorn Street, Glenda starts to converse, “So, what’s with your restaurant and its name?” Glenda wanted some answers. “Sawney Bean is actually quite a famous restaurant. Its name is from my ancestor’s,” He is quite annoyed, “You see, when celebrities or rich people get tired of plain food, they come to eat at our exotic restaurant.” “What kind of food is it exactly?” She asks ever so innocently. “You’ll see,” Is all she hears. As Glenda begins to have mixed and scared feelings at this point, Bill slowly pulls the brakes. Glenda sees a dilapidated building with the same messily painted name. Sawney Bean. Bill walks out and talks to a plump Japanese chef. They argue continuously and Bill angrily points at Glenda. Glenda thinks more about the name Sawney Bean. She remembers it from a book about English History and how a family of cannibals had terrorized London... As the Japanese chef glances towards Glenda, he raises one eyebrow. Glenda is horrified Bill steadily comes in to the small van and mutters something to himself. Everything goes black. ----Glenda wakes up in an uncomfortably cold and unusually hard, reclined bed. Her frail arms are terribly sore and she sighs in relief to find out that it had only been a dream. She pushes herself up, only to be restrained by a pair of metal cuffs. She looks around to notice this was not her comfy room but an old, dirty kitchen, with the Japanese chef chopping 34

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up onions and carrots. She opens her mouth wide open and this time, she could scream.

PALLY ZHANG | grade 11 | acrylic on canvas

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hat We Are BY GREG PITTS What are we? We are what we determine ourselves too be We are what we eat, some might say Or we are what we do each day But what we truly are Is deﬁned by what we think Not by IQ tests written in ink Not by school report cards mailed home But what we truly believe, we are when were alone So what we are, what we do Can only really be decided by you

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evenge BY BRIAN LAU JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER NICHOLAS A thick fog wove itself between the hovels of a small, shabby village. The moon was pale and sick, coughing up a dull glow. At the foot of the steep hilltop town stood a tall, handsome man, glaring up resentfully. “It’s time,” said the man as a small, sinister smile crept up his face. He shrouded it with a cap. “He will pay for what he did to me and my family,” fumed the man as he darted up the stone hill like a bullet. A flickering lantern swayed in his hand. The man thought of all he had lost as he approached the village – and why it was so unfair. He would no longer live in regret. It was time to fulfill what he had put off for ten years. At the edge of the village was a blacksmith’s dreary hut. He had just locked up his shop when he saw a glimmer of light from below. “He’s coming for me,” the blacksmith trembled, “I can feel it. I know it’s him this time.” Without a second thought, he whipped out his rifle, slipped into his tattered leather jacket, and proceeded toward the place he had gone to every night for ten years. Meanwhile, the man continued his journey up the steep hill. His breaths became shorter and each step felt more strenuous than the last. But he could not rest. He had to continue – for both his sake and his family’s. The man was like a parched cougar now, itching for water. His throat was deathly dry and was scarred from coughing. Just a few meters up glistened a water spring. The man approached the source and took a long drink. As he regained his energy, he peered into the water at his reflection. Perhaps this isn’t the only way, he thought, perhaps I can forgive him. As the man sat in deep thought, the blacksmith put his rifle in position. His hands were trembling uncontrollably now. But he had nothing to worry about. His rough, blacksmith hands had never let him down. So why would they now? He aimed at the man, took a deep breath, and fired. The man looked deeper into the water, searching intently for an answer. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” the man told himself, “There is room for forgiveness.” As the man was getting up, a bullet slammed into his shoulder. He jerked back from the spring in bewildering pain, but his mind registered a figure walking away. The man lost all feelings of forgive@ g{x bÑâá @

ness and the rage of vengeance littered his mind. He would have revenge tonight. There was no turning back. The man pushed his pain away and heaved himself onto his feet. He continued up the hill until he reached the village. Smoke scampered up the worn out chimneys, like cats chasing mice. Beads of water cartwheeled off the rusted piping. The man heard a voice – a child’s voice. It was singing – urging him to forgive. But he pushed it aside, determined to get his revenge. The blacksmith had come back from his outing, convinced he had killed the man at the spring. “He’s gone,” he sighed, “Finally.” But he wasn’t. He was already in the dilapidated town. The man knew where the blacksmith lived. Six houses down, left side. He marched down the path. His heart was beating quickly. Four houses down. Thump, thump, thump, thump. He passed the central fountain. Two houses down. Beating uncontrollably. He got to the house and thrust the door open. A knife came out. As the blacksmith reached for a glass goblet of water, the man pierced the knife into his stomach and shoved him to the ground. The glass shattered into sharp shards. “Now you know how I felt,” howled the man in utter hatred, “for ten years. After you took away the lives of my wife and children, I didn’t expect you to try to take mine as well. I guess I was wrong. Yeah, I really was wrong.” “I – didn’t – mean – to,” wheezed the blacksmith, reaching for a jagged shard. “Liar,” spat the man as he twisted the knife in the blacksmith’s stomach. The blacksmith let out a final whimper of pain and gave up all hope of getting the weapon. Water from the broken goblet shimmered as it cascaded towards the man, and the child asking him to forgive filled his mind once again. His pressure on the knife lightened for a split second, but loathing reoccupied his mind as he saw the blacksmith’s face again, and he twisted the knife even more. But nothing more happened. The blacksmith was already dead, and the man’s hands were soaked in his blood. Broken glass and water pooled in a puddle below him. As he realized what he had done, the man shuddered. He got up, but had to clutch the fireplace mantle to prevent from collapsing. The man stumbled out the door, and down the path, but tripped in front of the central fountain.

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Smoke no longer rose from the chimneys of the once warm and toasty huts. Rain was thumping down on the cobblestone path. As he pulled himself up, blood dripped into the fountain, distorting his image. No matter how hard he stared, an ugly face looked back at him. No matter how hard it rained, he could not undo what he had done.

MIKE HOLE | grade 12 | ceramic

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tarburst BY GREG LOCSIN Candy blue sky, Raindrops ﬁlled with sadness, But only it’s shell, Nothing is what it seems. Smooth as cashmere, A fortress Edges, strong and hard like a metal shield, Protecting its inhabitant from twenty white warriors. A carnival ﬁlled with cotton candy, Sweet, scented, sticky raspberries. A drumming die, like the click of tap shoes, Like s guar cube, slowly melting away, succumbing to the acid liquid. A hint of sour, a hint of bitterness, With an evil face, but contributing to a better cause, All adding up to perfection. Starburst.

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he Ballerina Box BY CHAN GOO The empty air was deafening calm, It was as white and pure as coal. The concerto had started is psalm And the curtains began to unroll. It was as white and pure as coal. The ballerina stood up and was quite ready, And the curtains began to unroll, You could tell she was pale but pretty. The ballerina stood up and was quite ready, She twirled around on the big stage. You could tell she was pale but pretty Her small shoes were shiny beige. She twirled around on the big stage, Her legs in a graceful pirouette, Her small shoes were shiny beige. The lid, it collapsed on her tiny head. Her legs in a graceful pirouette, The big audience gaped in awe. The lid, it collapsed on her tiny head. The audience commenced to withdraw. The big audience gaped in awe, And the melody died down as fast as The audience commenced to withdraw. The box was shut and alas – The melody died down as fast as The concerto had started its psalm. The box was shut and alas – The empty air was deafening calm.

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elp is on the Way BY HENRY YEH A clear day in Iraq, ‘twas January 15; A boy, young and cheery, plays on the street. “Screech!” the car stops, strange men came, Little did we know young Youssif was to weep. Unknown men, carrying gasoline canteens; Walking to the boy, faces covered with masks. “Who are you?” asked the frightened little boy, Silence, as they continued their heinous tasks. Vicious masked men took the boy by force, Struggling as he tries to do all that he can To flee from these men, too little too late. He mutters, “They dumped gasoline, burned me, and ran”. Unknown men, carrying gasoline canteens; Walking to the boy, faces covered with masks. “Who are you?” asked the frightened little boy, Silence, as they continued their heinous tasks. Trying to put the flames out by himself, Sucking his thumb, repeating, “I am burning” His face melts then freezes into swollen flesh;; His father came rushing, seeing his son suffering. News spread like wildfire, reaching the whole world. The boy’s face mangled, he tries to cope; Flying to North America, lots of helping hands, His face recovering and finally, there is hope.

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JJ TSANG | GRAMPS | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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ZAHEEN KIMJI | grade 12 | ceramic

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n Odd Character BY IAN BRACKMAN The door suddenly swung open. All heads turned and everyone was silent. A stranger entered. He walked with a rather peculiar, almost penguin-like gait as he sluggishly trudged over to the grubby bar. He was dressed in an old gray sweatshirt with a swoosh on it and baggy navy blue sweat pants. His shoes were full of holes, and were covered with filthy mud as he left mucky footprints behind him. A bright red St. Louis Cardinal’s cap topped off his relaxed attire. He had short dirty blonde hair, which was barely visible under his hat, and eyes as green as a forest; although, they seemed sharp and mean. He also possessed a very large nose. This gentleman ordered a Coke, and when he spoke it sounded rough and dirty like dry gravel. He also smelled of fresh sweat. When his drink arrived, he fumbled around with his change and exposed his massive hands. They were large enough to wrap around a basketball. He chugged down his drink in one huge gulp, and after collecting himself, ordered another. Once he polished off his second Coke, he waddled again like a penguin over to the pay phone. As he inserted his ancient coin into the old machine his sleeve quickly slid down his arm, revealing a bizarre tattoo of a lofty giraffe with its neck wrapping around like a firefighter going down his pole. After his brief conversation was over, he slammed the phone down and returned to his creaky stool. He ordered two more Cokes. He finished them in the blink of an eye and then shuffled off, never to be seen again.

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ilence BY CHARLES WONG The man stared silently out into the dense oak trees surrounding his shack. He knew something was lurking in the shadows of the forest. Something sinister, something evil. He could feel its wicked presence. Beads of salty sweat wove its way down his angled and serious face. The man’s crooked nose pressed against the icy, cracked window while his breath curled up like smoke from a fire. His cold, blue eyes peered out from behind a curtain of jet black hair, squinting to see any movement. A sharp axe lay in the palm of his left hand, while his right fist curled up tightly, ready for anything. A dim candle illuminated his shaggy clothing: a pair of old faded jeans with square patches of cloth and a ripped T-shirt, lying loosely on his powerful body. Outside, the forest was eerily silent. Only the soft swaying of dead trees could be heard. Not one living soul breathed, for Gara had come. It moved swiftly from place to place, surrounded in a veil of darkness, killing everything it came across. A gleaming scythe lay in its skeletal hand, the blade glistening with the crimson blood of the many that had died by its swift swing. Gara floated in the air, held up by a swirling darkness of evil and hate. Its eyes were blood red and flaming – Gara was not alive but dead; it was only a shadow of his soul which was burning and screaming in the farthest corners of hell. The man swore under his breath. He gripped the smooth axe handle until his knuckles turned white and tried to hide under the window, but it was too late. His muscular body did not seem so strong anymore and he whimpered. His frightened eyes darted back and forth, like an animal’s eyes when captured and put into a cage. Suddenly, the door burst open in a shower of deadly splinters. “Please…” muttered the man. But it was too late. Gara swung the scythe, and the forest was quiet once more.

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Seed that Grows BY LIAM ANDERSON NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER A seed that grows knows when to start, When to bloom and when to part. To send the seeds to yonder future, They know how to daze and to capture. Like the bloom we have our time, The time to mature and when to shine. The seed that grows opens up, With rings around like a glass blown cup. It has a past, and a future But for the time it’s just a lure. And up the stem an insect crawls, Look to them, they never fall. But in the winter, life is done, It’s been swell, but alas the sun. The clouds encase the world a rye, And left the ﬂowers done to die. But unlike ﬂowers, unlike them, We do not die, there is no hell.

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ELI WEINSTEIN | grade 12 | ceramic

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gincourt BY GAB DONNICI Still, a row of archers stood, Underneath a midday sun, Clutching bows of hardened wood, Waiting for the foe to run. Underneath a midday sun, The Frankish host poised to attack, Waiting for the foe to run; The ﬁeld was set, they could not turn back. The Frankish host poised to attack, Up rose twenty thousand swords, The ﬁeld was set;; they could not turn back;; Forward rode the Norman lords. Up rose twenty thousand swords, Down came the arrow rain, Forward rode the Norman lords, Knights fell from horses, swiftly slain. Down came the arrow rain, Raising cold, steel blades, Knights fell from horses, swiftly slain; England had won on the bloody glades. Raising cold, steel blades, Clutching bows of hardened wood, England had won on the bloody glades. Still, a row of archers stood.

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ooking for Crayons BY ANDREW WARREN There was a large room in which all was white, or at least felt as if it was. There was one rug, one lamp, one coffee table, one radiator, one high back chair, and a window facing it. Nothing was wrong with the temperature, but it was a cold room. Perhaps that was the price of its tranquillity. The window was a large one, always clean, and it displayed a dark shimmering snowscape of distant hillocks. The room was occupied only by a small, quiet boy who dared tarnish the chair by its use, who thought with the authority of one much older. He stared towards the window with wide glazed eyes. He never rested, for he was always occupied. At the moment, he was drawing a floor-plan of his home: doors, furniture, and decor were included, and all was perfect and isometric. He paced through the floor-plan to ensure all was as it should be. While his fingers drummed constantly on the armrests of the chair in incomprehensible patterns — for he often experimented rhythmically with his hands and feet — on occasion his left eye twitched slightly, as that was his reaction to imperfections without excuse for existence. He sat there forever, checking for errors of any kind. It was finished, and it was perfect. This served only to agitate him. The floor-plan had to be written down. He searched the room for a writing implement, though it contained none. At last he found a set of dull crayons, and though they could never express the perfection of the diagram properly, he was forced to compromise his work. He moved the chair to the corner of the room, disrespectfully stood on it, and stretched to the ceiling, crayons in hand. He drew. He started with the sitting room, the one he was in now. He contemplated adding himself near the wall opposite the radiator, where he was standing now, but felt it might make the drawing impossible to finish perfectly, and so decided against it. He disliked things he couldn’t properly finish. He drew. Eery so often, when he had finished a certain amount, he would get off the chair and move it slightly towards the window. Then he stepped onto the seat of the chair and continued. Except for a rubbing against the wall, all remained quiet. He drew. His fingers wept and begged for him to cease, but he drew still. the room must have been too hot, for the wax was beginning to change color slightly and slid towards the floor in places, his left eye twitching every time he noticed it happening. He would try to fix it, but it only made things worse.

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He refused to give up. He kept drawing, but the wax was melting much faster now. He would correct the drops only to see new ones forming, only to curse himself and attempt to correct his corrections. He began to shiver. First his hands shook and his teeth chattered; the shaking gradually spread to his torso. By no means was he weakened. He clung to the chair and pounded against the wall, Shrieking. Higher and louder climbed the pounding and shrieking, higher, higher still. Pound. Scream. Pound. Scream. Scream. Slip. Scream. Thud. Crash. Scream. Crash. Thud. Crash. Wail. Wail. Wail. Whimper. Whimper. Silence. Silence. Silence. Footsteps. A corpulent well-aged woman clad in a white blouse, white skirt, white apron, and white bunion-inducing stilettos (with matching stockings) clicked into the room with two similarly dressed though slightly younger henchwomen. They checked the boy for damages and bandaged him accordingly, after cleaning his ﬁngertips with antiseptic cream and the sores with a tissue. One of them wiped down the wall with a sponge and towel until it returned to its original “colour.” Another placed the shards of the lamp into a bucket and examined the dented but functioning radiator. Then they placed the boy onto a bed which had since been brought to the door by a man dressed in a white jumpsuit. Then they left with the boy. There was a large room in which all was white, or at least felt as if it was. There was one rolled up rug, one overturned coffee table, one dented radiator, one high back chair spotted red, and a window that faced the door. Nothing was wrong with the temperature, but it was a cold room. Perhaps that was the price of its tranquillity. @ g{x bÑâá @

hadowplay BY MIGGY ESTEBAN A twisted game commences, A match that never ends, The winner is unknown, The game is neck and neck, Light bounces across the walls, Light ﬁlls the empty void, Darkness slowly approaches, Darkness smothers the light, Fighting, the light tries to ﬂee, Fighting, the darkness is in pursuit, Dancing, the darkness leads with force, Dancing, the light unwillingly follows, Entangled, the two forces become, Entangled, with one another, Struggling, the lightness tries to escape, Struggling, the darkness pushes in restraint, New lights suddenly appear, New darkness will soon follow, A twisted game commences, A match that never ends…

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unset At Water BY JAVEED KASSAM The gleaming son fading away while A misty sea calms your soul Your solitary existence remembered By etchings in the cold sand

ZACH MAURER | grade 8 | photograph

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he Evil Lottery Ticket BY ALEX LIN John waited impatiently on his favourite red-and-black striped sofa for the Wednesday morning paper, which released the winning lottery numbers. Since he started purchasing lottery tickets, waking up early on Wednesdays had become a habit. John had bought lottery tickets for more than twenty years and won small amounts, but he always desired to win the jackpot. When he heard the deafening slam of the bulky paper against the front door, the middle-aged man immediately sprinted towards the door across the spacious living room, tripping on the ledge between the living room and the corridor and dropping his glasses on the floor. John was forty-five years old, short-sighted and slightly chubby. He had worked very hard on his real estate job, invested carefully, and planned for his retirement meticulously while dreaming of enjoying luxuries. Ripping the elastic binding off the paper, John flipped to the last page of the Local News section like an excited child opening Christmas presents. He had lost his glasses, so he peered at his ticket with trembling hands and saw the lottery numbers in the newspaper. After studying the patterns for an extensive amount of time, he finally discovered that he was the winner of the thirty-six million dollar jackpot. His ultimate dream had come true after twenty years of checking tickets every week. He celebrated by opening a bottle of champagne to toast his good luck and danced around the living room. John consumed the whole bottle of champagne and his eyelids were beginning to feel droopy and hard to keep open. Soon, he fell into a deep sleep, almost as if he was in a coma. John started dreaming about life after receiving the money. First, he would go to the Realtor’s Agency he used to work in and quit his job. Even though it was a high salary job, John hated his boss, who was an irascible old man. After quitting his job, his wife found out about the ticket, and the couple fought for the winning ticket. Eventually, his wife filed for a divorce, and John received eighteen million dollars along with half of the house. After leaving his wife, he decided to buy an enormous and cozy villa on the sunny beaches of Naples, his favourite vacation spot, and other expensive estates in Europe; John even considered buying a gigantic vineyard in southern France. Full of glee, he consulted dealers selling expensive imported sports cars. John planned to buy a couple of sports cars and convertibles, which were very fashionable. The next week, he went to shopping malls to buy designer clothes and other expensive and stylish garments. He telephoned a real estate agency in Europe and asked about different mansions, castles, vineyards and other information relating to luxurious life style. John decided to take a two-week five-star cruise on the Mediterranean Sea, while checking out his new dwellings. Soon, he found 54

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a couple of mansions on the beach that he enjoyed, so he signed contracts. He also signed a contract for the large vineyard that he wanted to acquire. Over the next couple of weeks, John bought Porsche and Ferrari sports cars. He resided in one of his extremely gorgeous mansions. The man was treated like a wealthy king as obedient servants cleaned the house and brought food to his bed. When he was watching television, he didn’t even need to reach for the remote, since a servant would change the channel for him. John would dine on the best food on earth; he always wanted to eat delicious trufﬂes from France and jumbo lobsters. He would savour expensive wine that tasted like ambrosia. He would have an enormous IMAX movie theatre with a huge leather seat. John would use the rest of his money in casinos. In the past, whenever he drove by a casino, he would have a great impulse to enter the parking lot. Now he could proudly sit at a table playing poker with other multimillionaires! John’s thunderous roar of laughter alarmed his wife. She ran into the living room and found her husband fast asleep. Her eyes fell on the table and saw the lottery ticket with the newspaper along with an empty bottle of champagne. John’s wife woke him up; John was going to be late for work. “I’ve already quit my job, and I hate that stinky old man bossing me around all day!” yelled John, still half asleep. “You what! What would happen if you’re not making money? We will become homeless. Get up!” John’s wife yelled in complete fury. deal?”

“Don’t worry. I have won thirty six million dollars, what’s the big

“You won? The winning numbers are three, six, seven, twenty one, thirty three and forty one. You have one, two, ten, twenty ﬁve, thirty one and forty four. Not even close! Get up and go to work, you lazy rat.” John discovered that he had been dreaming about money. He realized that he had been greedy and selﬁsh. John now appreciated his current status of wealth and understood that huge fortune comes from years and years of hard work. He never bought lottery tickets again.

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he Life of “Nerd” BY SHIKHAR SHAH Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday! These are not weekdays, but my days of trouble. Every school day of every school week of every school-month had been the same since I came home after the summer holidays. Carry the books to school, bring them home, and then back again. It was the same boring, tiresome routine. All I got to do was go to school and come home. I was bored, and I needed excitement. Maybe an occasional outing or a movie would be nice, but my craving was not to be satisfied. What was to be satisfied however, was the wishes of parents, and off to extra courses I had to go. In time, it was only obvious that my brother was to christen me “Nerd”, for he was the athletic one among the two of us. Although every day of school was bad in its own way, Day 2 was the worst. It had Math (two books), Science (two books), Spanish (three books) and Art (1 book - thank God for that). Besides, I had to carry lunch and stationery. At the end of the day, while others participate in after-school activities, I had to sit out or head straight home on the bus. Boring! It was fun on days when the Gameboy was around, but otherwise, Math and Science and Spanish were really no fun. As the year progressed I had begun to look shabbier by the day. I was worn out, and it wasn’t hard for anyone to notice. However I made it all the way through the year, and at the end of that nightmare I was stretched, strained and utterly spent. I felt I was coming apart at the seams and that my life was over as was that of my brother’s! How could there be any doubt? The life of a backpack is really nothing more than what I described and not any the longer. Today, on the first of July, both myself, and the fancy Nike Sportslover sit here in the recycling bin, destined for nothing more than shredded hopes of an alternative fate.

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anucks Rap BY JUSTIN KO Back for more, damn straight we hardcore The illest sports team in the 604 Fo sho! Dem ‘Nucks, they ride on blades Slick and G’d up, like Kanye’s shutter shades Faster, stronger, you know we got skills More ice on the skates than Paul Wall’s grillz You can catch em live, just turn on your Sony Or at GM place, throwing D’s on the Zamboni Back in ’06, we got Pyatt, Mitchell, and Bulis Luongo stop pucks like 50 Cent stop bullets The way we was winning, it was kinda uncanny Left the haters behind, like Sabourin Dany We had so much beef, they turned vegetarian Checked into the boards by Jeff the Brabarian Errtime we played, they be asking for trouble Damn straight, Sedin twins had ‘em all seeing double School’s in session, so stop talking the trash Daniel scores like Kobe, Henrik passes like Nash Even tho he’s old, Nazzy still gets them hat tricks And we got the REAL allstar in Rory Fitzpatrick Like true gangstas, Canucks get down and dirty You can say what you want about the 2008 jersey But one thing’s for sure, this is OUR TIME Don’t need my rhymes to know the ‘Nucks are sublime

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CHRIS LEE | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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JARED BRAVERMAN | grade 11 |

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photograph

IAN WHITE | grade 12 | ceramic

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eva and Dustin (Parody of Echo & Narcissus) BY JOSH DUMARESQ NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER Nobody was as handsome as Dustin. Dustin was the kind of man that everybody wished they could be. He was the captain of the football team, the basketball team and the volleyball team. Dustin was the most handsome and popular guy in his whole school. He always had tons of girls around and dating him. Neither he nor they cared that he cheated on all of them, and ended up breaking all of their hearts sooner or later. However Dustin was too arrogant and one day it came back to haunt him. Reva was a nice girl but, she talked too much. She would talk about boys and movies or whatever there was to talk about. One day she talked so much that she angered her parents, who were wizards. They were so fed up with her non - stop speech that they cast a spell upon her. The spell made it so that Reva could only repeat what others said, and not speak for herself. At school her friends thought she was making fun of them and deserted her. In the end Reva was always alone and essentially became the school ghost. One day Dustin walked through the school and saw a girl hiding in the corner, who was avoiding him. He knew her name was Reva and she was good looking though not gorgeous. Dustin was attracted to her because she wasn’t easy to get like every other girl. Dustin asked her out, but she ignored him and walked away. For many weeks Dustin pleaded with her to give him a chance. Over time Reva fell in love with Dustin and decided to try and tell him about her speech problems, for she truly believed he would still love her. Finally, one day when Dustin spoke to her, Reva decided to take a chance and she repeated what he said. At ﬁrst Dustin was confused, but when he realized that she could only repeat what others said. Dustin called her a freak and laughed, for he had only been attracted to her by his curiosity as to why she avoided him. Now however he knew why and he mocked her. From then on, Reva never spoke again even after her parents had removed the charm. Everyday she just wished she could have revenge over Dustin and she pleaded to God to let him feel the sorrow that she felt. Over time Reva withered away until she was really just a ghost. Today you can still hear Reva repeating the words of others. God felt sorry for her and over time granted her wish. God decided to play a trick on Dustin to let him feel the pain in which Reva had felt. God made a clone of Dustin in a female’s body. The female was gorgeous and perfect and was the female counterpart to Dustin. Dustin fell in love with the woman at ﬁrst sight for he truly did love himself. The gorgeous woman played a trick on Dustin, and broke his heart. Dustin @ g{x bÑâá @

was devastated! He stopped caring about his looks and popularity. He ran away and lived in the garbage on the streets where he withered away into a dustbin. Today bins that carry garbage are now referred to as dustbins.

CHAPMAN CHAN | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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lying Men BY BILLY ZOU JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER NICHOLAS A friend called me on my cell phone the other day. He said, “Whoa, dude, you’re in Spain? The Iberian Peninsula, that’s like the backwaters of Europe, man.” I couldn’t wholeheartedly disagree with him. Leaving the dingy hostel we had just passed a city whose name I didn’t try to pronounce. Somebody told us it was the birthplace of Pizarro. Its outskirts resembled the ancient ruins inflicted upon the New World by its former citizen. I should explain – I was seventeen and we, my girlfriend and I, were doing the usual backpack through the western hemisphere sort of thing before heading off to college. We were planning to meet up with some researchers doing field work on an island in the Mediterranean. I don’t know, it was Julia’s idea. Julia – that’s my girlfriend. She’s a pretty kid and she’s too smart for her own good. She cursed a lot but she always did it in the soft little voice of hers so I could never help but smile. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her really angry. I didn’t know what she saw in me; sure I was ridiculously handsome but otherwise I was just your average seventeenyear old kid, no real future, something of a Randian house painter minus the work ethic. Julia was going to Oxford in the fall. Sometimes she’d convince me that I could write. Didn’t happen too often but it was nice when it came. I read some William Blake lately. He’s not too good. I thought about studying music at the Conservatory in Moscow, but they told me it’s cold up there. They tell me it’s cold in New Hampshire, too. I’ve never even been to New England. I’d always thought being rich was something people resented you for. You see all the businessmen walking around London with their tidy suits and you sort of assume they all had crummy lives. But you know what, it’s not too bad. Julia’s parents had lots of money. Her father was a business lawyer and her mother was a neurosurgeon or something. Her kid brother had already started up his own software company. It was just one of those really overachieving families, nothing too special. My dad ran a barbershop, that’s why my hair always looked so spiffy. My mom died a while ago from overdosing on too much crap, don’t really want to talk about that. We chartered a boat to this island where all the hippie marine researchers liked to hang out. It was a nice boat. The two guides who tagged along told us the first inhabitants swam across the channel to escape the Inquisition. Julia told to me it was silliest bullshit she’s ever heard. I didn’t like swimming. I was meant for bigger things. @ g{x bÑâá @

It was a long boat ride and my mind wandered. I recalled a conversation Julia and I had a while back. We’d gotten into trouble ‘cause we dumped a bucket of tadpoles from the pond in her swimming pool, thought it was pretty funny at the time. She was arguing with her parents in the living room and I was sitting awkwardly on the couch. They didn’t blame me, it was their daughter’s responsibility, et cetera. I never get blamed for anything. The altercation ends and Julia sits down next to me, exhales sharply, blows the hair out of her eyes but it falls back down. “God,” she says, “nothing ever changes around here. I just wish something would fucking change, for once.” I tell her, “Why don’t you change your shirt, you’ve been wearing it for two whole hours.” She says “Hey, fuck you,” but we laugh, because we were young and we were free and everybody knew that was what mattered. In Mahé we met a German ecologist called Leon Flug and his American accomplice Milo. The pair struck me as a bit eccentric, studying some fish in the Exocoetidae family that nobody in the civilized world would care to know about. Flug was a guy in his forties, a regular Jacque Cousteau complete with dark spectacles and a miniature Charlie Chaplin mustache, giving him an uncanny resemblance to Peter Sellers playing Dr. Strangelove. He was constantly grinning. It made him look amiable and slightly maniacal. The kid Milo was in his mid-twenties. He called himself “a student” (upon which Dr. Flug remarked with a thick German accent, “Wunderbar! A true scientist! Aha!)” Dressed in a green scuba suit he was just like a modern-day Peter Pan, set out in search of some inevitable adventure. I began to like him immensely. He reminded me very much of myself. On the island there were these giant trees, the Coco de Mer, which harbored the largest seeds in the world. Legend has it that the sailors who first saw “Seychelles Nut” floating in the sea imagined it to be a woman’s disembodied buttocks. Until its true origin was discovered it was thought to grow on a fabled tree at the bottom of the sea, hence its given name. This was recounted to us with an incredible vigor by the German doctor, as if willing us to believe in such debunked myths of the Old World. Many of the surrounding islands grew lush and exotic vegetation and as the days went on I began to imagine each was an ancient, latent Jasconius just waiting for the unwary traveler. But it was too easy to get caught in reveries and daydreams in the tropic air, to forget your worldly roots and drift away with the sultry breeze… I got used to the climate. It was meant to be a vacation and I spent the days with only relaxation and some nightly action in mind. We went hiking in jungle camouflage on the lookout for poisonous frogs and a newly discovered species of possum that had already managed to endanger itself. We swam everyday where the water was clean. The snorkeling was pretty good too. Though, I probably should have listened more carefully about the jellyfish. When Julia was out taking algae samples with the doctor and 64

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Milo and I would drink tequila and play cards with a group of local ecologists (don’t be jealous, it’s horrible stuff). I didn’t have an inkling of Spanish and I ended up losing all my money. They were probably in cahoots the whole time. I wasn’t about to ask the girl playing with phytoplankton for more loose change. Have you seen that stuff under the microscope? Holy shit, Jules. I refused to touch her until she’d been in the shower for at least a good half-hour and smelt all nice and soapy. I’m full of crap. One time Milo was a little drunk and he told me, “One day, I’ll run this place. It’ll all be mine, the trees, the tide pools, the hot sand, the azure sea--” We lived, as we dreamt, alone; but Milo was right, it was a fucking gorgeous island. He added, slurring the words, “I heart the fishies.” So I stopped drinking tequila. One sunny day in mid-August the German doctor came up to us lounging on the shore all excited and so we rode with him and Milo in his little red Cherokee down to the marina. All I could get out of the American kid was “Shut up, and I’ll buy you a drink when we get back.” So much for cross-cultural male bonding. We ditched the yacht for a little fishing boat and sailed out of the harbor, as to not disturb the natural phenomenon about to take place. Julia was all like, “Fuck, this better be good. I’m not missing an important data entry for some shit whales or some crap like that. With this much sun the little buggers might hit a peak in activity. Could be a fucking record.” It’s funny ‘cause she was only half joking. Did I mention it was sunny? Julia and I crammed ourselves inside the little cabin to escape the suffocating heat but even with our oversized sunhats and matching aviators it was still impossibly bright. Milo soon joined us, leaving the doctor outside to soak in the natural sauna. This way we waited, not speaking, sharing a pair of stools with the stout little skipper, fanning ourselves with navigation charts and being annoyed at the intermittent buzzing emitting from the dumbass radio. Just when we thought we couldn’t take it any longer there came a knock on the cabin door, and Dr. Flug motioned for us to come outside. The engine stopped but the boat kept rocking. Lazily and rather dazed I followed Julia and Milo into the sticky afternoon. At first I couldn’t see anything at all, shielding my eyes while trying to peek out between the cracks of my fingers – and then water was spraying everywhere and I thought it was raining but the sun still made everything painful to look at – then slowly my eyes found their focus, and it was like we were drifting in a carnival of tiny silver fish, darting to and fro, feebly fluttering their glistening, translucent wings in an absurd frenzy and at once trying to flee the allure of the algae-infested waters. Sporadically a big marlin or tuna would leap out of the water, seize one by its teeth or spear-like snout and belly-flop back into the tumult. Some of the flying fish would sail gracefully and defiantly through the air for great stretches, at least 100 feet or so – but none escaped the tumbling waves forever. @ g{x bÑâá @

“Roe?” offered Milo with a toothpick. I told him I was okay. He shrugged, left the glossy eggs to dry in the sun. Liquid was oozing out where bright orange spheres had been punctured by the useless splinter of wood. We waited a while, pondering an ecological miracle. The two scientists pulled on their aqua suits, checked the gauges on their scuba tanks, stood backwards on the edge of the little boat which tilted one way a little bit. The sun was being still bright as hell and the rays started to blend in with the sleek silvery bodies cascading around us like shooting stars – it was all a bit surreal. Dr. Flug said, overlooking the scene, in one of his more enigmatic moments: “They’re the last of the flying men.” He fell back into the water. There was no splash, drowned out by the commotion. Peter Pan gave me a little wave, pointed in the air, pinched his nose and followed. And it made me uncomfortable, this sudden inscrutable realization, as if it was prying at the one thing I’d thought to be untouchable, inviolate. I stared at the sky, squinting my eyes, tried to think happy thoughts, imagined myself soaring above the listless blue, but my feet were grounded on the deck. I looked at Julia, holding the camcorder I’d gotten her for her birthday (with her money, I just had to pick it out), desperately trying the wipe the water out of the lens and stop her flailing hair from obscuring the footage. It hadn’t gotten to her then – I loved her for it, loved her for her defiant, even childlike exuberance. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and she looked at me, a little annoyed but not angry, shrugged it off, pulled her hair behind her ears and adjusted the angle. So I just stood there, witnessed the carnage.

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nto the Darkness BY FRANCIS DOWLATABADI I walk in the valley in between two candy mountains. The fairies dance around me, giggling as they frolic. For one second I think I catch something dark behind the laughter, but it is gone as soon as it comes. Then I enter a grove in the valley. The trees shield me from the sun. I hear hoof beats and look around for the source, hoping to find a unicorn. Instead I find a black horse, eyes twin pits in its face. Foolishly I mount it and in an instant it breaks in to a full gallop. Its hooves glow, then burst into a fire the burns without heat. The scenery disappears into a blur, as we move faster and faster. Suddenly my clothes shift from those of a king to rags. Then the horse speaks. It has a voice that is full of pure malice and hate. “Look around” it says. “Look at what your world become.” We stop and I see that we are in the middle of a wasteland. There are people fighting all around. Dead bodies litter the ground. Over a ridge there is a village or what remains of it. One half had been destroyed by a bomb and the other half was full of corpses. Their cheeks and stomachs collapsed from hunger. Then I notice the fierce glower of the sun. I have only been in it for a few minutes but already my skin is burning. “Look” Says the beast. Then suddenly I jerk awake. Covered in a cold sweat I begin to thank god that the world isn’t like that, then I stop, think, and thank my dream for showing me the truth.

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CHRIS LEE | grade 12 | digital painting

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iller’s First BY MATT MCFETRIDGE NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER A bang. A flash of light. Something hits me in the chest, right above my stomach. It pushes me back a few feet. Everything goes faint, fuzzy. I can’t focus on anything. Colours start pooling together. Soon, everything is just one big mix. I close my eyes. I was seven the first time I ever played the piano. I was at my grandfather’s house, a big, old, grand mansion out in the country. We were there for thanksgiving dinner. My whole family and I, all there to celebrate. I loved that house. It had high ceilings, arches everywhere, and character. A true Victorian style mansion. The colours were all conservative, nothing too extreme. The mansion was simply English. And it was gigantic. There were many rooms. It was like a modern castle with plenty of bedrooms, washrooms, dens, both casual and formal. It even had servants’ quarters. Not that my grandfather had servants, of course, they were simply built with the house. I was running throughout the house after finishing afternoon tea. I had a very English family. Ironically, no one in my family had been born in England for three generations before my grandfather, but we liked our traditions. I was poking around as I always did at this mansion, looking for some hidden secret, some possible adventure. I was walking down the sixth floor hallway when I saw an empty room at the end of it. I walked in slowly, expecting to find some great treasure. In a way, I did. As I entered the room, I saw only some thing in the corner, by the window, covered with a white sheet that had been grayed by ages of dust settling on it. I approached slowly and cautiously, afraid it might jump up and attack me. I got within arm’s reach, grabbed the sheet, and tugged with all my might. I covered my eyes out of fear; I moved my hand from my face. There was dust everywhere, and I could not hold back a few coughs. I looked straight ahead at this big black, table-looking contraption. There was a small bench in front of it, which I sat down on. I observed this great, somewhat faded, somewhat shiny, black object with wonder. I saw just in front a small indentation. I put my fingers in there, and pulled up, revealing a row of white and black buttons. Being only seven, and never having seen anything resembling this, I did not know any better. I took my right index finger, and pressed down on what I would later find out to be the E key, just to the right of Middle C. I pressed it, and I heard a sound. It was unlike anything I had ever heard. The sound was soft, soothing, and yet powerful at the same time. Entranced, I pressed the key next to it, just to its left. D. The same feeling. Next I pressed one more to the left, C. I then pressed all three in quick succession, creating a small scale of sound. After this I @ g{x bÑâá @

got up. I ran towards the door to head downstairs to tell my parents of the brilliant discovery I made. I stopped at the door and looked back at the piano. A piano. That’s what it was called, I found out later. I looked at it. I ran back and pressed the F key. I smiled. This was to be the first of many, many presses. I was fourteen when I had my first recital. I was waiting offstage, watching the act who was before me. His name was Derek Cohen. He was fifteen, and very good at the saxophone. He was playing a jazz song, but I can’t remember which one. I think I was far too nervous to think about it. He finished his song, bowed, and the audience applauded. They seemed to enjoy it. He came off, I congratulated him, and he smiled and told me good luck. I was next. The last performance of the show. Lovely. I walked on stage, headed towards the piano, with my music in hand. I placed it, sat down at the bench, and looked at the task before me. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, from his Seventh Symphony. A difficult piece. All I could think was why hadn’t I chosen something easier? I swallowed, and began playing. What came next was a blur. I can’t remember any of the movements I played, save for the last one. I imagine it was because of the love I had for the last movement. No piece of music ever written could get my heart racing like the last movement of the Seventh. I kept remembering how much I loved it as it got nearer and nearer, which did not help at all with my nervousness. When I finally reached the last movement, I remember my fingers moving back and forth, playing faster and harder, as the movement grew quicker and quicker, until it’s final descent, followed by another burst of quickness, and then, finally, a grand finale. I removed my hands from the piano. I took a deep breath. This was the longest moment I had even experienced, as I wondered whether the audience would clap. I then heard a clap in the far left of the auditorium. Then another in the middle right. Then another up front. Then more, a lot more. Everyone began to clap. I looked away from my music and out into the audience. Everyone was clapping. One man stood. Then others. And more. And more. Soon, everyone was standing. Everyone in the auditorium. I looked to the wings of the stage. I saw everyone, every performer before me clapping for me. I went to the front of the stage, and took a bow. I held it for a moment, rose, then walked off stage. I walked off backstage, and everyone gathered around to congratulate me, ushering me to go to the reception to greet my family and friends. But I didn’t, not yet, at the least. I looked back on stage at the piano. I nodded slightly, almost as if to say thank you. “Wait. Just tell me why.” 70

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“I-I just don’t want to. I don’t feel that way about you.” “Why?” “Because. You’re not my type.” This was the conversation that I had just after asking a girl out for the first time. Her name was Maria Taylor, and she was a sophomore, majoring in English Literature. I was a junior, studying music. We both took Music History. I was in university, and I was what many called a late bloomer. I did not begin to have relations with the opposite sex until I was well into my post-secondary study. This was thanks to my gift. My gift and my curse. My passion was music, and for so long, I was completely unable to share my time with something other than it. While my friends would go on dates and have girlfriends, I would stay at home and play my piano and write music. Many of my friends lost their virginity when they were seventeen. I wrote a symphony when I was seventeen. Miller’s First, I called it. It was beautiful. At least it was to me when I was seventeen. Looking back, it was nothing special, certainly not my best, but for seventeen, it was brilliant. It started off slowly, with a sad tone, like someone close had recently perished. It then built up, slowly, getting over the pain. It flattened soon after, back to normal life. Then it sped up quickly, very quickly, like finding someone wonderful and beautiful and falling in love instantly. The music continued to rise and speed its pace, love all around, until it paused. Brief. Brief and then dropping. Right away. A disaster. Slower and slower it became, the pain weighing down. The music got slower and sadder still, as the pain was too much. It got so slow, notes spaced out by quarter beats. Then half beats. Then whole beats. Then finally, one beat, carried for two measures until it faded completely. Hope was lost. The suffering was too much. It ended. As I grew older, I began to feel what my friends had felt so long ago. The need and want for companionship. This was when I met Maria. She was not beautiful, but pretty. The kind of pretty which makes you swallow with nervousness, as opposed to drooling over beauty. She was smart, passionate, determined, and had a smile so enchanting, priests would reconsider their celibacy. I had never felt this way about anyone. After being smitten for months, I finally summed up the courage to say something. So, while watching Amadeus in class, I leaned over and asked her out on a date. She looked back at me, almost as if she pitied me. She said no, and then proceeded to get up. This was when that conversation occurred. Later that day, I sat in my dormitory, wondering not why she said no, but why she looked at me with pity in her eyes. Over the next few days I began to observe people very closely as I talked to them. This same pity seemed to be evident. Why did people pity me? What was it about me? @ g{x bÑâá @

Was it that I had never been in a relationship? Was it that whenever my peers would go out and party, I would stay in my room, writing music? Why did they pity me? I figured it was my gift. My curse. My other experience with the opposite sex was with Julie Carpenter. We both took Music Theory together. To put it simply, she liked me the way I liked Maria. Being the fool I was when I was twenty-one, I did not do anything. Pardon me. I did do something. I broke her heart. At the final rehearsal for the concert night at the end of the year, when each of us would present our pieces we had been working on for the year’s length, Julie approached me and asked if I would be interested in going to a concert at the Royal Conservatory next week. I looked deeply into her eyes, and then, for a reason I still do not know, I laughed. I should not say laughed, it was merely a slight chuckle, but it was enough to make Julie run away crying. She missed her performance at the rehearsal, and, due to her lack of attendance, was cut from the show. Now, instead of the look of pity in everyone’s eyes I had gotten, it was now a look of disgust. That night, I lay in bed wondering why I had chuckled. I knew I did not do it to hurt her feelings. In fact, I had liked Julie. She was very kind, although a little shy. And she had quite the wit, too. Very funny. She was not the prettiest girl in the world, but certainly not ugly. She had a friendly way about her. So why did I chuckle? I did not have an answer. The Graduating Class’ Concert. This was an event every member of the campus looked forward to. It was the event in which the graduating music students would present their masterpieces. I, again, was the closing act. Although instead of fright, I now felt excitement and honour. All twenty of us performed, each one captivating and inspiring. Whether it was solo pieces, or pieces performed by several of us, everyone was brilliant. Next was my turn. I had been chosen as the valedictorian of the class, and would conduct my own piece to be played by all the music students in the program, first or fourth year. I approached the music stand. I opened the first page of my music, even though it was etched completely in my brain, raised my baton, and began. Afterwards, I was standing in the foyer, chatting with my Theory teacher when a familiar face appeared. It was Maria Taylor. She smiled and said to me, “Your music was incredible. I was wrong about you.” I looked at her. She looked at me. We kissed. It was my first. Twenty-four, and it was my first. I married her a year later. 72

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Maria’s funeral was small. She told me specifically she didn’t want a big funeral. Only our families and closest friends. The priest read the eulogy, as I stood there and watched her coffin being lowered into the ground. I felt a tear run down my face. It was at this moment I looked up, and I saw Julie Carpenter. She had come. We had remained friends over the years, which shocked me, as I had hurt her so badly. She was there. It was that moment, looking at her, when I understood why I chuckled when she asked me to the conservatory five years ago. I chuckled because a dream of mine had come true. I was in love with her. I had always been. We married four years after that, after I had recovered. I never recovered after Julie’s death. I was never given the time. I walked into the convenience store down the road from my apartment building. I hadn’t slept the night before. It wasn’t unusual for me. I had been this way for three months now. I went to the cooler and took a bottle of water from it. I approached the counter and put the water bottle down. The girl working there was young. She had Julie’s eyes. I looked down. I heard the door open, followed by a quiet, yet charged command. “Empty the register.” I looked over to see a young man, no older than me, holding a gun and pointing it at the girl. He looked at me, and told me not to move. I said to him, “It won’t make anything better.” We stared at each other, and he looked as if he understood, but he didn’t want to. He pointed the gun at me, aiming at my chest, keeping it low. He didn’t want to admit I was right. He pulled the trigger. A bang. A flash of light. Something hits me in the chest. Right above my stomach. It pushes me back a few feet. Everything goes faint, fuzzy. I can’t focus on anything. Colours start pooling together. Soon, everything is just one big mix. I close my eyes. I see many different things. The first time I played my grandfather’s piano, the first time I performed, when I asked Maria on a date for the first time, the time I chuckled at Julie, my first kiss with Maria, her funeral, Julie’s funeral. And as I saw these things, all I could hear was the first symphony I ever wrote. Miller’s First. Someone close had perished. I had slowly gotten over the pain, and returned to a normal life. Then, I had fallen in love again, and found happiness, and things only got better. Then a pause. And a drop. And a disaster. And it slowed down, and slowed down. It began to fade. And fade. And fade until there was no more. It ended.

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CHAPMAN CHAN | THE BARNACLE | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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ostalgia for the Girl whose Name is Paper BY RAY YU NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER Prelude: Railroad Tracks Water puddles glisten, wild ferns ‘cross the tracks, Here I trot, on chipped wood tiles and rusty rails, And it was reminiscent, of the day We walked together, in the crisp afternoon air. I was nervous, for never had there been A pretty girl, walking, chatting beside me, But soon all tension melted, to silent pools, As a lyrical melody rang in my mind. It was Mozart, Mozart’s Sonata, And within this elegant melody, There was endless harmony, fuzzy and soft. We laughed, and smiled, And we rambled, of mindless stuff, But it was simple, and true pleasure doth so. Interlude: Pouring Summer Night Night falls, and darkness is master. Thunder rumble, raindrops hail, Lightning flare, and all evil unveil, And it was here, that we huddled, Defiant of the strange sinister air. Large, collapsible shields on handles, Deemed useless, and thrown onto earth, We grasped each other tightly, feeling the heat Flow through us, as though a furnace we had within. We were close, touching, heartbeats pumping, You stared at me, cheeks flaming, eyes of longing, So tenderly, I stroked your hair, heart loving. And perhaps I should’ve kissed you, right there that night, But somehow I knew, that it wouldn’t be right. Postlude: Empty Mall Dream and reality, fuse into one, As I take foot in this corridor, of Rusted iron fences on both sides, Barring lifeless stores and vendors. Mindlessly, I wander through This endless maze, a be-cursed labyrinth, One moment, an empty set of seats and tables, Next instant, I see you seated, smiling, waving. But in your eyes, I see sorrow, Just like the day, you took my heart away, @ g{x bÑâá @

I scream, I run, I blunder about, Chairs, tables, all strewn aside, ‘Til ﬁnally, I hit reality, and awaken In front of a dark studio: Dance Co. And baby, as I watch this empty dance room, Once owning your graceful shadows, Dancing in the light, But now so hollow, taken with blight, I cried, though there are no tears by my side, A tragic river, deep down, inside

SEAN BAGAN | grade 11 | acrylic on canvas

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ecess BY LUKE FIORANTE NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER There are twenty two blisters on my palms – my hands are not yet used to rolling me around. I absolutely refuse to let anyone push me, though; I need to do it myself. My new chair is comfortable, at least. This is my second day at school since my release from the hospital, and only the fifth day that I am breathing by myself, since the accident happened. The bell rings. I am sitting at the front where Mrs. Londra has placed a special desk for me, so I am the first to leave the classroom. Normally, I would be the first outside, the first to get a soccer ball and take it to the field, the first to be picked on a team… No, not today. Mrs. Londra’s class is on the second floor so I push myself to the elevator. I need a key to use it – the principal doesn’t want the other kids using the elevator. Only I can. Only I have to. I reach for my key, which I know is hanging from the back of my chair. I find I can’t reach it, though – it’s on a different hook than yesterday and my seat belt doesn’t let me reach back that low. There’s no way I’m going to ask anyone for help. Uh-uh. So I stay cool, sitting and watching every last one of them – my friends, kids my age – watching as they hop down the stairs and out the door to enjoy the May sunshine. How much I would have given to be with them, be like them again… Finally, when everyone’s gone, I unclip my seat belt, turn my torso, and reach back to the key. Almost… nearly there… my arm pains with the effort, perspiration erupts on my brow. Suddenly, my world flips upsidedown and I crash to the floor. I think I’m okay. My elbows hurt a bit, my side stings – I think the chair cut me as it tipped – but my legs are fine. Of course they don’t hurt. They never feel pain anymore. They never feel anymore. I attempt to pull myself back into the chair but I am too exhausted from my struggle for the key. So I lie here, tangled and twisted like the remains of my car on the day of the accident, frustrated at my incompetence, too feeble to leave the school for break, let alone lift myself into my chair. Feeling more pain than when I saw my father entombed within that convoluted prison of steel and glass, saw him for the last time, while I got away. Yes, hurting more than I felt then.

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To see my classmates outside, running, jumping, playing – seeing the freedom that I have lost forever, the freedom I can never have again… It is like a knife through my heart. Hour after hour, day by day, stabbed over and over until – what? What will happen when my life pains me more than it is worth? The sound of the bell shatters my thoughts. Recess is over.

BRIAN HARRIES | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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amurai BY ARTHUR MAN A war rages on With death that slowly follows And pain that is bold When he comes at last With the tool of destruction It’s the Samurai He is fearful, Yes! Slashes with the speed of light He is fearless, Ho! He is the victor Killing ﬁfty thousand men Yet others arrive He is pierced and falls Ten arrows in the body Twenty in the legs His death a signal His army charges forward Victory is gained Death on every side Suffering that follows through Samurai triumphs

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ntitled #4 BY JUSTIN KO Listen up y’all, cuz u about to be amazed Haters be crooked, but I’m straight like my A’s Feel the impact, ya I bet you’re seeing sparks Cuz the only thing high about me is my marks! That’s right, don’t need the drugs to get my kicks Just dem calculator games on my TI-86 Yeah, I’m a nerd, did I say that out loud? I’m Asian too, and damn right I’m proud Aint got my L, but I know how to park it Catch me with my crew in the Richmond Night Market But don’t get me wrong, we don’t want no trouble We just want milk tea with dem tapioca bubbles Yo back then, all da fools used to laugh Cuz I spent my lunchtimes playing Warcraft And I didn’t wear bling and the baggy jeans Just a pair of glasses and some gong zhei mein But now, who’s coming up to me all stressed? Who needs a little help on the Calculus test? The haters, the “gangsters”, the cool guys, the thugs All dem starting to show me some love So next time you feel like bullying some guy Just because he’s small and acts kinda shy Better think twice before you say a word Cuz chances are, you’ll end up working for that “nerd”

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wake BY LIAM ANDERSON NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER See the forest grow Recite its manifesto Learn the lessons shown Grow t’wards your own one With the dreams you dream today While spinning through time Time is of the now But now is no longer true It has left the lost Now you see yourself To lose is to have had, once And had has seemed lost See the mirror cry Reﬂect you, not the person The tears are not done Done is the day now Closed eyes only show defeat And blind is no more Blind is for the night And we’ll let tomorrow wait So keep me awake

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KEVIN YANG | grade 10 | monoprint

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eserted BY NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER It was a sweltering afternoon. The sun was beating down and even under the canopy of an Acacia tree Bernard could sense its radiance. He could feel the dusty earth grinding along the soles of his feet as he trudged along the lonely path. It had been days and he had still not found them. Bernard was a two year old elephant. Though small when compared to adult elephants, Bernard was still larger than any other animal he had ever seen on the savannah. When he extended his trunk he looked like a small tank. His skin was as grey as ash, but was disguised by a reddish layer of dried mud that enveloped his body. It had been weeks since he had last seen his family. His father and pregnant mother had left to search for food, but had never returned. They lived near the Sahara where food was scarce. It was a place where the days were feverishly hot and the nights were as cold as a vulture’s stare. He had felt scared and lived off the sparse vegetation that surrounded his home until he could take it no longer and went to find them. At first he was tentative since he had never ventured farther than a few hundred meters alone before. To Bernard, every step was a risk and at any moment a lion could ambush him. Even the slightest sound would make him run for cover. On the first day of his journey he heard a large SNAP, which made him panic as if he had just seen a lion. Of course, this was before he realized it was actually him who had made the sound by stepping on a branch. His cheeks turned bright red and he hoped that there were no animals around to view his cowardly behavior. As he ventured on he could hear the sound of the grass drying out, the sound of his homeland. He would sniff the ground, trying to smell his parent’s scent but all he could detect was animal musk and the dustiness of the dry earth. He would ask whoever he met if they had seen his parents. Hoping that maybe someone had an insight as to where they could be. On the third day of his search, he encountered a pack of hyenas and asked them, “Have you seen my parents?” “What do they look like?” one of the hyenas cackled. The others laughed with such a high-pitched squeal that it made Bernard’s innards quiver. @ g{x bÑâá @

“They are big, grey, and have ears as big as a crescent moon.” “I might have seen them,” he snarled with a glint in his eye, he was suppressing a smile, “I think they went this way. Follow us.” But Bernard did not trust these hyenas, thanked them for their help, and continued on. Though he was young, he was wary of the dangers of the land, from the smallest insect to the largest predator. He lived off any grass, leaves, and fruits he could find. The only water he drank was the juice from any of the fruits he happened to stumble upon, and any rare morning dewdrops he could discover. Bernard was famished and parched. It was only the fourth day and he didn’t know if he could continue. What am I going to do if I don’t find them? he thought to himself, trying not to think of the worst possible outcome. I’m sure they’re just lost or maybe they found an oasis he decided, attempting to reassure himself. On the fifth day, as he lackadaisically trundled along he saw something that jolted alertness into the core of his bones. In the stretch of land directly in front of him there was a snake slithering towards him. The snake’s skin was as smooth as a pebble and as black as the inside of a cave. “S-s-salutations friend,” hissed the snake, “what is a young elephant like yourself doing all alone in this part of the s-s-savannah?” “I’m looking for my parents. Have you seen them?” responded Bernard. “Can’t s-s-say that I have. Is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps be of s-s-service in s-s-some way?” food?”

“Well I am starving, do you know where I could ﬁnd some

“That’s s-s-simple. There is a berry bush just over there. I hear those berries are s-s-scrumptious,” he said using his small tongue to direct the young elephant. The snake made Bernard uncomfortable, but his stomach’s need for nourishment overcame Bernard’s suspicions. “Thank you. Are you sure you haven’t seen my parents?” Bernard asked, desperation creeping into his voice. 84

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“S-s-sorry friend,” the snake said with a grin. With that, Bernard wandered towards the bush and using his lissom trunk he grabbed a berry and gave it a sniff. It smelled fragrant and looked delectable. Food is to the tongue as color is to the eyes he thought. But out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the snake hadn’t taken his eyes off of him. It was as if he was waiting for something. At that point Bernard’s brain overruled his stomach and he dashed away. His heart was pounding and he ran until he could run no more. Two close calls and still no lead as to where his parents were. Bernard started to lose hope. On his route he saw grim evidence of others who had traveled these desolate lands. He came across a skull, which looked as if it had once belonged to a gazelle. Seeing it made Bernard shiver and he looked away as if he was staring at his own fate. It had been eight days and eight nights and Bernard’s motivation and hope were turning into misery. The barrenness that he saw all around him started to seep into his soul. Mid-afternoon on the eighth day something strange happened. As Bernard was stumbling along the dirt path he noticed that it was starting to get dark. He looked up at the sun and something incredible was happening. The sun was being covered by something that looked like the moon. Then suddenly it was pitch black. Bernard started to panic, not knowing what to do he just sat there with his ears draped over his eyes. If I can’t see evil, evil can’t see me he thought to himself. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 seconds passed before the earth once again started to be illuminated by the sun’s rays. I never knew the sun could blink he thought to himself. And as he opened his eyes he noticed that right in front of him stood a tiny little plant poking out of the dry soil. It was bright green and had the vibrancy of life, but was too small to eat. It was a nice contrast to the desolation he witnessed daily. He took this miracle as a sign that his parents were within his reach. He slept soundly that night. Now on the tenth day of his quest, Bernard was feeling the effects of his harsh environment. He dragged his feet and every step was painstakingly difficult. He was swaying from side to side and found it hard to stay in a straight line. His eyelids were feeling as if weights have been tied to them. The sky was clear blue. The sky was the one constant in the savannah. Your life can change dramatically and people come and go, but the sky never changes he thought. On the horizon he saw two blurry grey lumps. “Momma! Papa!” He yelled out instinctively, ignoring his surroundings. He started to run faster and faster. This sign of hope wrung any symptom of fatigue out of him. It seemed like forever but he finally reached the two figures. They @ g{x bÑâá @

were his parents. They were dead. Bernard started to cry. He couldn’t handle seeing his two lifeless parents just lying there, eyes cloudy. He noticed deep holes within their skin. Their tusks were gone. Bernard couldn’t believe his eyes and hoped this was nothing but a mirage. He started to walk away, trying to remove the image of his dead parents from his mind. But as he walked he heard a cry. He turned around and noticed movement amid the two bodies. In between them there was a tiny baby elephant. I will not remember my parents by how they left me, but I will remember them by what they left me. A sister.

SEBASTIAN HAYTO | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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reation BY CHRISTOPHER DEEMICHAEL SEHMER NICHOLAS JAMES Eons ago, here on Earth, just after our planet cooled from its molten-galactic-rock state, plants started to grow out of the Earth, and water flowed from within the planet. When the first autumn fell, so did the plants’ leaves. These fallen leaves hit the water and sprung to life, since all life comes from water. And these life-filled leaves turned into the animals of our Earth. First the smaller leaves turned into bacteria, then into ants and mosquitoes, spiders, butterflies and other insects. The larger leaves, wrought with life, turned into cats, dogs, birds, and other smaller animals. Then the even bigger leaves, like the lotus, water lily, palm and anahaw, rife with energy, sprung into the great beasts of this world—horses, elephants, giraffes, apes. Everything was in equilibrium, and there was harmony. This harmonious era lasted several millions of years, until some animals started becoming discontented. They decided to trade parts, to be more superior to one another. They were greedy for power and tried to feed that hunger by manipulating their bodies. This barter among beasts however, created a being that completely surprised everyone. A horse’s mighty legs, a chimp’s strong arms, an eagle’s sharp eyes, a pig’s soft but durable hide, and an ape’s mind… these slowly came together to form another being, one that was new to the world, one who had the power to reason—the human being. This entity was unlike any animal that constituted it and it was neither male nor female. It was an improvement in the sense that each collaborated part was better than the original in some way. The human was stronger, smarter, wiser and cleverer than all the rest. And thus this brought a change in the way of life in the world. The human started to rule the rest of the beings. It had the strength, mental prowess and sense of reason that it used to control the world—it could choose, think, reason, love, and hate. The human was lonely, however. Slowly, it started splitting, and became two individuals—male and female. The two, though not so different from each other, thought of themselves and the world similarly. They shared similar ideas, feelings, ways and outlook on life. They believed that they were the center, the most important creatures in the world, and the only ones with the power to use the world and its resources in anyway they wanted, thanks to the fact that they could choose. But alas, the changes they made to the planet—the things they built, the trees they cut, the water they threw their waste into…all these came with consequences. The world, as the humans knew it, was no more. Finally they realized that their actions were destroying the world. They decided to do something about it—they mended their ways and realized that the only way to survive was to live in harmony and to respect all things around them—the world and @ g{x bÑâá @

all life in it. The humans realized that they, since they were in possession of the ability to decide, think and infer, controlled their own destiny. It was in their hands.

CHRISTOPHER DEE | grade 9 | origami

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idnight Waves BY SIMON TSENG Dark blue waves washed over the burning sun, The sand, lay, waiting, for the moon. Sea breeze whistled past the pier on the beach, The tides, crept, slowly, with the tune. I was looking ‘cross the waves in the dark, Wondering, pondering, if you were doing the same. The moonlight bounced off the stones on the shore, Reﬂecting, replaying, memories of me and you. The lighthouse stood by itself in the night, Consoled, only, by the beam from the top. It keeps searching for a sign in the waves, Never, willing, to take pause nor to stop. And I watched As this cold tranquil night, bids goodbye, And I knew That before long the warm, morning sky, Would be mirrored In the waves with the sun, painted high.

SPENCER GILLEY | grade 12 | mixed media @ g{x bÑâá @

quilibrium BY JOSIAH TSANG A human brain is extremely complex, containing about 23 billion neurons, all of these connected to as many as 10,000 other neurons. The brain, weighing about 3 lbs, is the control center of the nervous system. It makes up only one-ﬁfteenth of your body weight yet it uses over a ﬁfth of your blood supply and oxygen. The skull protects the brain and it contains primary sensory organs for sight, touch, hearing, equilibrium, taste and smell. It also needs to send commands to the circulatory system to keep a human alive. On top of that, it contains memories, memories of childhood, memories of love, memories of hardship and memories of joy and happiness. Aaron Devenshire was clearly aware of this, and he knew if that pistol were to let loose its deadly projectile, all those memories throughout his lifetime would be gone in an instant; his lungs would become still, his heart stop within his body and his blood freeze. Then Aaron Devenshire would cease to exist in the world. He also knew that the person holding the gun was an assassin and the gun he was holding was a six-shot revolver with a knuckle-duster handle. He knew that this gun was called an Apache and that it also contained a knife that was commonly used in Paris in the last century. As he thought of this, he heard a scrap of metal against metal and a click; the blade was locked into place. Sometimes, Aaron Devinshire wished he had not a care in the world and was blissfully ignorant. CHAPTER 1. “All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.” – Galileo Galilee A couple days earlier, Aaron Devinshire was on the verge of discovering something so innovative and revolutionary that if he released it to the public, he was sure that he would be making enemies, powerful enemies, who would want this secret. What Aaron Devinshire was on the verge of discovering, nobody knew, except for his apprentice. This apprentice, Phin Statham, knew that he could become rich beyond his wildest imagination; the only thing stopping him was Aaron. Phin knew that Aaron would want him to keep everything a secret, but he had his own plans. He plotted to go to Aaron’s rival, a very powerful man by the name of Jon Spiro, for he knew that Jon would do anything to get his hands on the secret and would “eliminate” anybody in his way. So, Phin scheduled a meeting between Jon and himself for the following day at 12:00 PM. 90

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CHAPTER 2. “Familiarity breeds contempt.” – Aesop After Phin left the laboratory, Aaron himself left the lab to go home for the day. While biking back to his house in the bush, he travelled the well-beaten path that he had ridden down for the past thirty-two years. This path was only known by him and was overgrown with moss and foliage. As he rode, he asked himself if he should ever tell anybody this secret of his. But, as he reached his hermitic cabin, he decided to keep the secret ‘til his grave. As he walked the steps up to his aged cabin, he heard creak after creak with each step he took. He felt the old, familiar oak wood banister underneath his hands as he moved up the stairs. When he reached his door, he pushed it open; it complained with a groan as its rusted hinges swung open. Aaron peered in, as he always did, and saw the familiar one room cabin cast in a shadow so dark, only a strong shining luminosity would be able to pierce it. In it was a bed that wasn’t made, a desk cluttered with everything from paper to pens, a sink that housed only a toothbrush, a cup and some toothpaste and a single bulb ceiling light. It was a very simple cabin, enough for Aaron to live in without having to pay big bills or having to worry about annoying civilization. As he flicked on the switch, the luminescense spread throughout the whole cabin and pierced the heart of the darkness, leaving very few shadows in the corners. Aaron was tired and was still contemplating what he had discovered, so he fell on his bed. The bed moaned with complaint underneath his weight and with that, Aaron fell asleep, blissfully unaware of what was happening behind his back. CHAPTER 3. “Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.” – Arthur Miller At 12:00 PM the next day, Phin walked through the doors of the vast office of Jon Spiro;; they greeted each other and sat down. As Phin eagerly told Jon about Aaron’s discovery, Jon reeled with surprise. Immediately, he asked Phin to step out for a few seconds. While Phin was outside, Jon called someone on a private line; all he said was, “I have a new target, his name is Aaron Devenshire.” And with that, Jon called Phin back into the office and welcomed him to his company. At night, it rained quite hard. The rain was pouring off the roof and slipping down the windows like silver mercury. While Aaron was sitting at his desk, working out the calculation he had discovered and how he had managed to make such a marvelous creation, he was unaware of a man in a dark trench coat shuffling stealthily down the path. As the man approached the isolated cabin, he stopped and pulled out an Apache. Then, as he slunk up the stairs, they creaked, which should have warned Aaron @ g{x bÑâá @

that there was an intruder outside his door. But Aaron was too engrossed in his work and did not hear the steps. Silently, the door edged forward and woke Aaron from his working stupor. As Aaron turned around he saw a dark man, robed in black, holding a gun. Aaron noticed that his nose was like a vulture’s beak, long and hooked, and Aaron could have sworn he saw red in his eyes. As the assassin exhaled, he smelled of unwashed teeth and rotting molars. This scent made Aaron nauseated, and then suddenly, with a motion that the assassin was so familiar with, he brought the Apache level to Aaron’s forehead and let the blade ﬂick out. Aaron looked down the barrel and knew what would happen; the hammer would snap forward and hit the end of the bullet casing, causing a small explosion which would force the bullet forward and out not too far from where his forehead was. While thinking this, Aaron suddenly heard the scraping of metal against metal, then a click.

SPENCER GILLEY | grade 12 | still from ﬁlm

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ntitled #1 BY JUSTIN KO Woke up this morning, lost my propaganda pills So I gave myself a dose of some liquid dollar bills Dropped the hypodermic, when my body had its fill Spill a couple mill, breathing cash like I had gills Cuz every time I sneeze, I make a couple G’s And every time I bleed, I’m dripping in the cheese So cold I could freeze, you can see by my degrees My ride super advanced, so it’s probably Japanese Got the glocks in my pocket, hop back in the cockpit Them lames drive the way to school, but Cube’s car walks it Houston Rockets on the screen, Yao drop them hook shots Like Yung Kee drop beats, but all I got are book smarts To look sharp, look fly, sometimes I wonder why, me? Parents putting pressure, like good grades are my IV Even though I’d rather join the Justice League than the Ivy F*** this, before I die I wanna know what goodbye means So go ahead and try me, we waitin on them good times Like them dudes on Iron Chef, I know how to cook rhymes A tablespoon of hot beats, mix it with some hood crimes Sprinkle on the chorus and add a catchy hook line Then bake it all with some quarters, dimes, and wood chimes And if paper starts flowing, yeah that’s a good sign

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egret BY JOSH BOYER LAUGHTER Blinding lights Abrupt movements Piercing shrieks CRASH Shattered glass Revolving wheels Destroyed metal SILENCE Penetrating sirens Determined professionals Terriﬁed expressions DEVASTATION Strewn bodies Dreadful wounds One survivor REGRET

JOE KIM-SUZUKI | grade 11 | photograph

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he Afterlife BY LOUIS-VICTOR JADAVJI How is the afterlife? When you’ve died naturally or have been stabbed with a knife Is there something after this? Or will we wear off like a kiss Will we be remembered? Will people know us because we served? In heaven what is it like? This question is as tiring as a hike We seek the answer The one we will cherish forever But luckily we don’t know If we did there would no meaning to living That way we love our life and love another’s If there were a judgement how severe will it be What will I see? Will I see ﬂowers and rivers of honey? Or towers from where lurk screams of agony Will we see our lost ones? Will fathers see their sons? Is there nothing but a black screen? If that were it, it would really be mean This is a philosopher’s toughest headache A poet prefers to give it a nice turn A scientist puts a lot at stake A sailor leaves it to his stern The answer lies within the hands of life You live it you get it You get it if you live it There is no further information Only in your imagination

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n Line BY EVAN LAY The sweat drips of my brow, like a cascade. My mind swirls, my vision murky like the waters of a muddy creek. But, through it all, my objective, like a perfect diamond, remains clear. Around me, stinking bodies clump around, their eyes and minds set on the same goal. I peer left, right, the visages of my numerous adversaries entering my mind. I will not forget these faces. Suddenly, the crowd surges forth like a wave. I follow it, pure adrenaline shoving me forward, I grope, grip, push, and shove, While all around me others do the same, Then I hear it, a cry of pain and defeat! One of them has fallen, his will broken by this test, thisThen, I am blinded! Before me, like an apparition, the shape of my goal shines clear before me! The light blesses me as I clamber forward, my hand gripping the counter. I have fought tooth and nail to get here and now… I close my eyes, waiting for the soft voice to come“Sir, can I take you order?”

ROSS WOLRIGE | grade 12 | wood 96

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ong Shot BY ROB PATTERSON NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER He hadn’t planned to come home that way. His usual path home from the supermarket didn’t intersect that road, but he had seen the crowds and heard the roaring noise on his way home, and made a late decision to alter his route slightly, falling to the temptation of a new spectacle. It was easy to follow the commotion to its epicentre. Skilfully meandering through the bodies to the front of the crowd, he turned to stone at the edge of the mob. Too stunned to have an expression, he stared unbelieving at the scene: the smoke, the cries, the blood, the innocent, the guilty and the bystanders. Protesters fled, the soldiers pursued, people watched, and the tanks rumbled into the scene from the west. Something didn’t click. He wasn’t a radical or an activist, but he felt as if there was something tugging at his brain, a hook in the back of his scalp, silently screaming at him to do something, anything. But what could he do, one in a billion? The 89th craziest idea of the century screamed into his head, so fast that it pushed him into action. In the clockwork of his consciousness, something snapped out of place with enough force to change the world. His fear was immense and total. As his foot left the curb, it hovered for a moment in the no-man’s land between reality and fiction. The collective ordered him to stop, but the hook urged him soundlessly onwards, past the edge. Hanging in the balance, gravity would not give him any more time to decide. His foot touched down on the street, the solid asphalt pushing back up, almost surprisingly hard. The adrenaline rush started. The energizing serum began to flow through him, his blood pounded in his ears so hard that he could hear nothing else but the proof that his heart was still beating. The hook was leading him into the den of lions, towards the edge of the plank, in front of the approaching column of tanks. His odds of survival were dropping. As he stood there, staring down the barrel of the first massive war machine, he imagined what it would sound like if it were to fire, to propel a shell at him with enough raw, brute power to turn him into a puff of smoke, like a magician’s rabbit. When the same tank made a move to move by him on his left, his terror lessened, and for a moment the blood slamming through his ears was muted enough for him to hear the hook cry out, “No!”, and before he knew what he was doing, he bolted in front of the tank’s treads, out of the dust and back into the spotlight.

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It lurched to a halt before him, almost incredulously, before skidding off to the other side. If he had any control of his legs, he would have run into the crowd then, but the hook had him, and pulled him back into the path of the steel beast. And, as a boulder pushed slightly over the crest of a hill becomes filled with inertia, so he became filled with a new kind of power, the hook still there, but not the driving force in his motions. His limbs blazing with invisible fire, he ambled onto the death machine with the ease of a much, much fitter man. Staring down the hatch into the eyes of one of the most astonished men he had ever seen, he shouted words he did not know he had, letting his dormant dissention out onto this man. And when he was finished, he noticed several things at once: he could hear the crowds again, he could smell the burning gasoline from the tanks and there was no more hook in the back of his mind, but instead a warm feeling of contentment. Shaking from the shock, he dismounted the lead tank, and was suddenly engulfed in a sea of hands, grabbing him and reeling him back into the safety of the herd. Once secure inside his natural habitat, he began to meander back through the crowd, and out of the international spotlight. The odds of the actions of this unknown rebel not only being successful, but just taking place, were a million to one against, but with odds that long, you always win.

DENNIS LUI | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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n the Fields BY CHRISTIAN GRAVEL NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER “You’re being foolish, just like your Grandmother!” “No, I’m not!” “Believe me, it is hopeless.” With that, Fai turned her back on the fields of Gai Lum. Fai was only trying to protect me. We have worked in the same fields for six years now, and for six years, she has looked over my shoulder. China became a communist country in 1936. Chairman Mao, the despot of dictatorship, has locked China. Ming, my brother, had left China before this great revolution struck. Ming settled in Vancouver, Canada. If only he had taken me with him. At the time, I was living with Grandma; however, over a long winter, she contracted the flu and suffered a stroke. It was an onerous chore to both look after Grandma and replace her as a fieldworker. In the field, I met Fai, a work associate who had known my Grandmother well. The resemblance was clear. She shared the wise, motherly manner Grandmother had once shown. I felt as if she knew more about Grandmother than I did. “I want to go to Canada,” I said. “It’s illegal to leave the country, you know that,” said Fai calmly. “Who cares? Our government is in shambles, and besides, I have already made a plan,” I said. “And what plan is this?” “The river that separates Guangzhou and Hong Kong is only a one mile span. I have already consulted with a fisherman willing to smuggle me across.” “But the dangers of those waters are substantial, plus, you know the Chairman’s men are always on watch.” “But...” “Shhhh, we are home, best you have a deep night’s sleep. It’s been planned to plow the fields tomorrow.” 99 @ g{x bÑâá @

I walked off the muddy path into my house. I greeted Grandma with a faulty smile on my face, when all I ever thought of was leaving this disarray. I fed Grandma her last meal, walked to my bed, and collapsed from exhaustion. Normally, Fai wasn’t so late coming to work. ago!”

“Where have you been? We started plowing almost half an hour “I’ve been thinking,” Fai said calmly. “About what? What could be so important to skip work?”

“Be grateful, child, it’s for your greater good. Now, what will be of Grandma?” said Fai. “What?” I replied “If you leave, what will be of Grandma?” “Grandma will come with me.” “Grandma is in too ill a state for any traveling these days.” “Fai, it’s what she wants.” “No! It’s what you want!” Fai and I didn’t talk the rest of the day. The next day, it was bright out. A good sign! Fai looked different today. There were bags under her eyes, and stress had done a toll on her wrinkles, but I didn’t dare ask why. Fai approached me and said, “If you insist, I will take care of Grandma.” Before I could retort, she said, “Listen, take this, and leave China tomorrow morning. You are right, I should never have discouraged you.” I was ﬂabbergasted;; I didn’t know what to say. However, in my hand was a tiny sack of silver. “I can’t take this.” 100

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“You will only make it to Hong Kong with your money.” I packed my valuables and stopped at the Gai Lum patch for the last time. Before long, the field workers would notice my absence. I waved farewell to Fai and waited for nightfall. The fisherman had waited, precisely as was planned. I dropped all the Chinese money I had into his hand. He looked at me, then his palm. He smiled and signaled me to board. The staggering winds that night were not in our favour. We neared the center of the river, and the waves became rapids. They slashed the fishing boat, dousing my clothes. Ploosh, my suitcase sank into the watery depths. I reached out both hands in desperation. CRACKK! The tiny mast dipped into the water. With another wave, the boat capsized. I plunged into the water. My silk-woven attire automatically swelled like sponges. I doggedly slapped at the water. I had never learned how to swim. How stupid I was to have never taught myself how to swim! Why didn’t I listen to Fai? This was such a stupid idea! Why did I have to insist on going to Canada! All I ever cared about was in China. Why did I need to go to Canada where I would be with a brother who didn’t want me? A hand descended from the surface. It yanked me up by the collar of my shirt. I sputtered out at least a litre of salt water. “It looked like you needed help.” spoke.

I looked up to see Fai with Grandma in the background. Grandma “Let’s go back to China.”

RILEY MILAVSKY | CITY OF OPPORTUNITY | grade 11 | linocut

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ife is like a Storm... BY BRYAN LUU The baby cries aloud, A mother and father’s joy, Lights up their faces. The Light of the sun, A pleasure to plants’ leaves. Insects awake. The alarm clock rings, Boy wakes up from his dreams, Breakfast is ready. The food is eaten, On top of the blue table, But under the sky. The sky is raging, Fierce hurricanes are blowing, The warmth is too hot. The heat of the Earth, Increasing by our living, Now too cruel. Life is like a storm, Always unpredictable, A baby is born.

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MATT TOPHAM | grade 12 | digitally manipulated drawing

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f Silence Mountains Up BY LIAM ANDERSON When a minute is an hour and an hour is a day When there’s nothing in the oven or there’s nothing left to say Just forget your chores, your expectations, your morality... Sit in quiet by yourself and dream to bend reality Walk into your jungle, your unsuspecting mind Leave the compass at your feet, and yourself you will ﬁnd Run along the pastures, through the trees and ‘round the castles Feel the wing run through your hair, your cloak, your face, your tassels Hide yourself from reality using the made up and the fake Run away from real, and that real begins to fade

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uneral BY LIAM GRUE Rays of glimmering gold cascade through the clouds above the horizon and cast their hues in vague silhouettes on the stones scattered about the yard. Green leaves on nearby oaks dance in the wind as they shimmer with the glistening light of the sun. As their dance continues, their waving motion is mirrored by the sea’s inhale and exhale of a deep blue mass, accompanied by the froth and foam of countless white bubbles, desperately clinging to the sand’s softness until, after a moment of peace, they are again swallowed. The gentle wash is met with a great shhh, a reminder of how peaceful the world is now, a mere memory as yet another wash saturates the sand. A gentle breeze floats through the air, carefully rustling the labyrinth of leaves laying about the yard. As they tumble, their dull brown veins flash with the memory of the spring’s gold. Beneath, a small area of green growth is revealed. A faint glow emanating from the blades’ tips, they reach frantically at the sun’s former comfort. In this picture of serenity, a faint haze of insects scatters this way and that, shrouded in a dull golden hue. As the cloud busies itself amongst the foliage, they blend with the swaying green and are soon lost against the organic canvas. It is only seconds before they reappear, and after a moment’s hesitation, return to the brush. Against the calm beauty of nature, even humanity’s smallest creations dominate the landscape. A shed beneath the oaks screams in torment, its hinges un-oiled. The pavement weeps beneath the strain of a passing car, drowning the sounds of the wind and water in an unfathomable ocean of anxiety. The chimes on a nearby porch shine hazily with the reflection of the dying sun, singing their obituary for nature’s diminishing beauty.

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o For It! BY DAVID HAN (He paced back and forth. The rain came down hard, drenching the ﬁeld and everyone on it.) Come on people, get it together; you’re falling apart! Remember what we did in practice? You need to hustle out there! Go after the ball, don’t be afraid of it. You’re all twelve years old, some of you are thirteen even, and not one of you knows how to kick a soccer ball properly! You need to spread out; stop bunching up! This is the last match of the season, let’s make it count. It’s half time and we’re down 2 - 0, and at the rate we’re going, they’re going to score again! Defence, you have to stand your ground, all you’re doing is standing around whimpering while the other team runs right past you. Our goalie can’t do all the work himself! Remember, when the ball comes, you have to make sure it doesn’t get past you! Don’t be afraid to shove a bit. That’s what a defenseman is supposed to do! What? Yea ﬁne, just do it in a bush somewhere, but hurry back. Now, where was I? That’s right. Now, forwards, you’re not Superman, or Beckham, or the best forwards for that matter… you need to learn to work together! You’re not going to get past all four of their defensemen alone! Pass the ball. Don’t just take it and go charging straight in, you won’t get anywhere like that… cares.

Good, you’re back, where were you? What took so long? Ah, who

Come on, they’re not that tough, I mean look at ’em over there, laughing and having a good time. We can beat those guys. Remember, conﬁdence is the only thing that can save you now. Ok, come on, break’s over. Finish your oranges, get out there, and show ’em what you’ve got!

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nsider BY GREG LOCSIN Dark and painless wound, Blood, seeping out and flowing down, Like a waterfall. Open the cell now, Fate has come, freedom at last, Thanks to this dark wound. Enter the bright light, No more chains, pressing me down, No more human flesh. Merely a blank ghost, A free spirit, floating high, But the time fades away. In reality, The freedom slips out of reach, The flesh grows back on. Blood on this pale flesh, Bones are stiff, sore, and broken, Yet I keep going. Reaching highs and lows, In and out of the mind’s eye, The wounds live inside.

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ky Cotton BY LIAM ANDERSON Blinds tinkled as I tugged the rope, anticipating darkness and was somewhat pleasantly greeted with something quite the opposite of black and dark green. I watched in awe as a million formed a whole as the dancing orbs curtsied to one another on their stage day view, and settled as the cunning wind shuffled them into position. Like the old quilt much like the one mother used to engulf the bed with during winter, careful to spy any wrinkles and creases that might have attempted to elude her sight: after coaxing the driftwood to ember in the iron stove, the small wisps of flake settled silently on the field. And over the tall patches of grass that father neglected to trim, they broke over each green blade, cloaking them against the icy lips of Jack Frost, hunching them over, and their faces only slightly visible like small hooded monks. And as I rushed my jacket across my shoulders: a raindrop fell, and the school bus strained as the rusted old key clutched forward.

JARED BRAVERMAN | grade 11 | photograph 108

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ream BY LIAM ANDERSON NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER A vision of a wish, past or future The dream affects your person The ones that decide how to capture Or the ones we dream in unison There are the dreama that are seen But not yet realized Or the ones that have been And have already been fertilized The ones you give up Or the ones you forget The ones you collect The ones you’ve met Turn dreams into real And real into dream Step out of yourself Step into unseen Take that blank canvas Choose your paint Get the brushes, the oils Dream a dream lake Now reflected in the ripples A larger picture grows For what used to be dark and simple Our thoughts begin to flow Can you see yourself in the reflection? Above you only sky The rainbow hidden in the trees And the purple mountains over high As you climb the mountain of yourself Look to the valley blue Hidden in the shadow of the breeze The lost the found the you Walk along the coastline White sand beneath your feet Feel yourself in rhythm With 40 different beats @ g{x bÑâá @

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Music notes around you They lift you up and ﬂy They meld you in the sunset You’re a silhouette in the sky Collect the dreams we dream today And those we dream tomorrow Collect the ones that fall into place And those that come to follow Draw pictures of your futures Cherish them from the past Until the day you leave this earth You’ll never have a last Learn from your mistakes Hold them to some degree For when you decide to make a book Collect the dreams we dream collectively

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oom Emotion BY IAN BRACKMAN The sun emerges over the soaring mountains and the bright sunlight floods into the lively room through the gigantic window. The aroma of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies engulfs the room as the jam-packed plate sits patiently beside a tall glass of cold milk, while the Super Bowl is playing on a 52” HD Plasma TV. A great big bed boasts a large pile of fluffy pillows and a miniature fridge crammed full of Coke sits beside the bed. Outside there are little birds chirping a delightful melody. A huge chocolate fountain gracefully drips its sweet and delicious chocolate, and sits in the middle of the spirited room amongst what seems to be an immense jungle of towering turquoise flowers large enough to get lost in. A swooshing creek further adds to the pleasant scene, while it flows into a steaming hot tub in the room. The numerous packed shelves along the vibrant walls are filled with shiny trophies, gold medals, gleaming awards and a stack of board and cards games ascending towards the lofty ceiling. Next to the floor to ceiling window, there is a snug reading chair with books piled up beside it on the side table, and the orange flames of a blazing fire ravenously attempt to lick up the crackling log.

JOE KIM-SUZUKI | grade 11 | photograph @ g{x bÑâá @

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ack BY MATT MCFETRIDGE Whiskey. Good ol’ Jack Daniel’s. There’s nothing like it. There’s also nothing else that stains like it. Especially on white sheets. You spill Jack on white sheets, and you’re in trouble. The funny thing about Jack, though, is the way it goes down. It hurts like a bitch when it goes down, and after a couple moments, you don’t feel a thing. And you keep drinking, and drinking. Then before you know it, you wake up in a bar, and you’ve been robbed. Lord knows how many times that has happened to me before. But this isn’t about Jack. This is just me killing time before I have to do what I have to do. I’m sitting here in this crappy little hotel room. It’s chock full of dust, and stinks of whiskey. Jack. You can always tell Jack by its smell. I’m sitting on my bed, covered in stains from who-knows-what, holding my Colt six shooter in my hand, spinning the revolver. It’s empty, and the bullets are on the bedside table. But it’s not the gun or the bullets I’m looking at. I’m looking out the window, into the bar across the street, at the son-of-a-bitch sitting at the bar. This guy is sitting there, sipping a drink, and has no goddamn clue I’m watching him. Why am I watching this guy? Simple. The asshole killed my father. I remember it so damn well. I was helping my dad on the farm, rebuilding the roof of the barn. Lightning storms, what a bitch. They hit, start a ﬁre, and then I’m rebuilding the damn barn. Anyway, we’re rebuilding it, and I look off in the distance and see this guy on a horse riding towards the house. He gets closer and closer and I stare at him the whole time. Finally, my dad sees me looking off in the distance, and looks himself. By now, this guy on the horse is close. He’s about a hundred yards away. He’s dressed pretty inconspicuously, like a cowboy. He’s got his black hat over his face, and his gun hanging at his side. I wasn’t really scared, thought it was pretty cool. Anyway, he comes riding up, and my dad, he steps down to go talk to him. The guy rides up and meets my dad, in front of the house. They talk for a minute, and I’m standing back, watching this whole thing unfold. Then, I see the cowboy reach to his side, and then there’s a bang. My dad falls down, and this cowboy runs inside. Another gunshot. My mom. He runs out, with a bag full of coins, jingling. That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was watching this guy, walking with the coins in his damn bag, and he looks at me. And he smiles. He just smiles at me, gets on his horse and rides away. Hell, I didn’t even move. I stood there for what must’ve been an hour, just watching the sumbitch ride off into the goddamn horizon. 112

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It was about a year later, living with my uncle, that I saw the bastard again. Well, kind of. I was walking by the sheriff ’s office, and his face was on a poster. “WANTED: TRAIN ROBBER, JERICHO THOMPSON. $5,000 DOLLAR REWARD.” Five grand. Talk about a lot of money. But that isn’t what convinced me to go after him. It was seeing his face with that smile of his that got me thinking again. I mean, I hadn’t really thought of him in a while. Alright, that’s not true. I had been thinking about him every day since he killed my parents, but not this seriously. I mean, I had ever really thought of going after him. But when I saw his face on that goddamn poster, it hit me. I wasn’t his only victim. There were more. Way more. You have any idea how man people you gotta kill to be worth five grand? A ton. I realized that someone had to do something. The cops don’t do shit, since they’re too busy boozing in their offices. Normal people are too scared. So I decided. I was gonna go after the asshole that killed my parents. Well, that was about six years ago. I was seventeen. Hell, I still am if you think about it. The last six years I’ve spent trying to chase down this guy, Jericho goddamn Thompson. I haven’t really had the time to grow up. Anyway, I’m sitting in this hotel room, watching this bastard sip his goddamn gin. That’s what he drank. Every bar I went to asking about him, all the bartenders and whores inside said he drank gin. And the good stuff, too. The stuff they keep under the counter. The stuff that’s a buck a glass. The real good stuff. So he’s sitting there, sipping his gin, chatting it up with the lady behind the bar. She was pretty good looking, despite how old she was. Fifties, maybe. She’s wearing an old red dress, the kind that dancers would wear in the bars. Not bad, not bad at all. Ol’ Jericho is wearing the same damn thing he always wears. His black hat, with his black trench coat, his black pants, and his black vest. The same goddamn thing he always wears. And of course, his gun at his side. A Smith & Wesson, and a goddamn nice one too. A .357. A gorgeous one. While his clothes were always dirty, his .357 was always polished and clean. So unlike him. Sitting here, in this shitty hotel room, I’m just watching him. See, I had finally caught up with him. I’d been running after the guy for six years, and he was always a step ahead of me. Always faster, always one damn step ahead, the bastard. And the crap I’ve done to get to him. The people I’ve talked to. The people I’ve killed. Hell, I’ve probably killed just as many people as him. 113 @ g{x bÑâá @

No, I take that back. There’s no way I have. No way in hell. The weird thing is, as much as I wanna kill this bastard, I can’t just run in there, and start shooting. I mean, it’s tough. Sitting here. I kill him, and it’s done. Six years’ chasing, and it all ends so quickly. Honestly, I thought it would be like one of those chases you hear about in the bars at night, where the two guys are standing, facing each other, ready to grab their guns. The old fashioned duels. The quick and the dead, as they say. But this isn’t like that at all. It’s just me sitting here, twirling my gun in my hands, with that goddamn smell of Jack in the room. He’s still sitting there, too, sipping his gin. Hell, it’s as if he’s waiting for me. Taunting me. I look away for a moment, and see an old picture on the dresser. It’s a picture of a family. It must’ve been left by the last guest. It’s a picture of a family, just a normal family. A mother, a father, and a son. And I look at that picture, and I look at the face of the kid, and I just decide. No more bullshit. I have to go over there, and end this. Kill this bastard. It’s messed up, too, looking at the picture. It felt like an hour. A goddamn hour looking at that picture, looking into that kid’s eyes. Maybe it was an hour. No, couldn’t’ve been. I’d have known. I grabbed my gun, the bullets, and loaded it. I grabbed my jacket off the chair in front of the dresser, and walked out the door, down the stairs. I dropped a couple coins on the front desk. No one was there, but I deﬁnitely dropped enough. I stepped out onto the street. The air was fresher. A lot fresher than the room full of the smell of Jack. Jack. I could deﬁnitely use a glass of Jack right now. Christ, my heart’s racing. Like a goddamn freight train. There it is: the bar. Right in front of me. Right there. Through those swinging doors, he’s waiting. You’d think this’d be a tougher decision to make, but it’s not. Time to end it. I kick open the doors, gun in my hand, and I look around. I’m ready to shoot, at a moment’s notice. A split second, I’m ready to shoot. I look straight at the bar, where he was when I saw him from my room. My hand’s on the trigger, the gun pointed right at his seat, and I almost shoot. But I don’t. He’s not there. I look quickly to the left, and then to the right. He’s not there. He’s gone. “Where is he?” I ask the lady at the bar. “Walked out ‘bout a minute ago. He owe you something?” she asked, looking at the gun. 114

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Yeah, he owes me something all right, I think to myself. I turn around. The son-of-a-bitch is gone. Gone. I don’t get it. But that’s not the strangest thing. I feel…like I just don’t give a damn anymore. I don’t care anymore. I’ve been after this guy for six years, and the one time I catch up to him, he’s not there. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe it’s a cruel joke God’s playing on me. Who the hell knows? I just know I’m done. I just wanna live my life. I wanna grow up. I walk out of the bar, and look down at the sheriff ’s office. Might as well go there, find out when I can catch the next train out of this place. I head down there, gun back in my holster. Then, the last thing that I can imagine happens. I get shot. It’s a damn good shot, right in my goddamn liver. Shit, it hits me like a mule kicks its owner when they don’t know how to put on a shoe right. I fall to the ground, on my knees. Holy hell, it hurts. Hurts unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I try to turn around, and see who got me, but it hurts too damn much. I’m on my knees, and then I see this shadow come up behind me. And then I know. I know who it is. It’s him. It’s Jericho goddamn Thompson, standing right behind me. And I can’t see his face, but I can feel that damn grin on his face, just taunting me. I hear him laugh faintly, and then he says, “You should be a little more subtle. Staring right at me from your crappy hotel room isn’t very inconspicuous.” I wince in pain, and he laughs again. He motions with his gun; I see the shadow of him doing it. It’s pointing at the door of the sheriff ’s office. “WANTED: DAVID CASSIDY: FOR THE MURDER OF NUMEROUS PERSONS WITHIN CLARK COUNTY: $6,000” I’ll be damned. The picture with that headline. It’s me. How the hell is it me? How the hell am I worth more than Jericho Thompson? The kicker is, his poster isn’t even up there. But mine is. I wince again. He laughs again. I can’t take it anymore. I collapse to the ground, on my side. Jericho finds this whole thing hilarious. I wanna get up, and I wanna put a bullet in this punk’s face, but I can’t. My eyes feel heavy. I close them. It’s done now. It’s all over. This wild goose chase is finished. And as much as the wound hurts, after a second, it’s gone. Just like Jack. A moment of pain, and then peace. Yeah, I feel like shit for getting beaten by my father’s killer, for not avenging my dead ol’ dad, and being a worse guy than Jericho, but after a second, I don’t care. I just feel relieved. Relieved that I don’t have to chase anyone anymore. No more pain. Like a good glass of Jack. @ g{x bÑâá @

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ept BY NICHOLAS JAMES MICHAEL SEHMER It doesn’t matter where you are, I don’t like any sort of distance, Because a week without you is like a meaningless existence. It does bother me, but it doesn’t bother you as far as I can tell, It’s like having a bouquet of gorgeous roses but not having the sense of smell. I know sometimes I act like I’m always in my prime, But it’s okay to be sad from time to time. You can show emotion, just break out of your hard shell, I bet Beast is glad he did or he would have never ended up with Belle. But this is no Disney movie (well it could be, tis pending), I’ll give you everything you want, even a fairytale ending. Sometimes I wish I just blurted it out and told you, Sometimes I wish I could just hug and hold you.

DARREN D.S. WONG | PLAYLAND | grade 12 | acrylic on canvas

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nside Me BY LIAM ANDERSON Meditate in enlightenment as my traveling lips sing L’ Ultima Notté, the ultimate note, And watch the sun retire for the day as poetry serves as a beacon of hope. Smell the tradition of our forefathers run through our veins, while listening to the forest recite its manifesto: the ancient songs that ring through the branches, the drums of peace and war. Kindle the thirst for knowledge, but always return to wisdom as my wanderlusting eyebrows question everything that is seen in their shadows. And lastly, remember your insigniﬁcance in the universe, but, in that same insigniﬁcance, a single action can rewrite history.

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WESLEY CHOW | DREAMSCAPE | grade 9 | acrylic on canvas

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YUNG-KEE HUI | NOCTURNE | grade 11 |acrylic on canvas

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on’t Look Now, It’s the iGeneration

BY BILLY ZOU

so we’re hoppin’ the limewire surfin’ the foxfire n’ jammin’ to iTunes (it’s my tunes) takin’ the U-Tube to the airport (it’s i-Tube, it’s my tube) why not let me photoshop your facebook my flight to cyberspace ‘cause it’s My Space

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JOE KIM-SUZUKI | grade 11 | photograph

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ife and War BY LIAM ANDERSON Over the sea and to this place On hence we breathe, and hearts do race From day to night, and night to now From hence we came, then born and known This place was empty, until we came Just like a picture-less picture frame It opened up, and we arose And turned to us and we and those We came from then and began to feel We made our place and we were free They opened their eyes, and looked in shame And were curious to see what made us the same We made a wall of fear and blame And the world that was wound never be the same

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ndex Anderson,Liam..................................................7,14,47,81,104,108,109,117,122 Anderson, Mike........................................................................................................30 Bagan, Sean...............................................................................................................76 Boyer, Josh.................................................................................................................94 Brackman,Ian...................................................................................................45,111 Braverman,Jared..............................................................................................59,108 Chan,Chapman..................................................................................................62,74 Cho, Chris..................................................................................................................18 Chow, Wesley..........................................................................................................118 Dee, Christopher................................................................................................87, 88 Donnici, Gab............................................................................................................49 Douglas, Max............................................................................................................21 Dowlatabadi,Francis...............................................................................................67 Dumarequ, Josh.......................................................................................................61 Dutkiewicz,Ross......................................................................................................26 Eden, Remy...............................................................................................................10 Esteban, Miggy.........................................................................................................52 Fiorante, Luke...........................................................................................................77 Gilley, Spencer.......................................................................................................4, 92 Goo,Chan............................................................................................................33,41 Gravel, Christian......................................................................................................99 Grue, Liam..............................................................................................................105 Hallett,Jonathan.......................................................................................................16 Han, David..............................................................................................................106 Harries,Brian.......................................................................................................16,78 Hayto, Sebastian.......................................................................................................86 Hole, Mike.................................................................................................................39 Hong, Danny...............................................................................................................1 Hui, Yung-Kee.......................................................................................................119 Jadavji, Louis-Victor................................................................................................95 Kassam, Javeed.........................................................................................................53 Kimji, Zaheen...........................................................................................................44 Kim-Suzuki,Joe........................................................................................94,111,121 Ko, Justin........................................................................................................57, 80, 93 Lau,Brian...................................................................................................................37 Lay,Evan....................................................................................................................96 Lee,Chris........................................................................................................24,58,68 Lin, Alex.....................................................................................................................54

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Lloyd-Jones, Max.....................................................................................................29 Locsin,Greg......................................................................................................40,107 Lui, Dennis................................................................................................................98 Luu, Bryan...............................................................................................................102 Man,Arthur...............................................................................................................79 Marquette, Louis......................................................................................................18 Maurer, Zach.......................................................................................................13, 53 McFetridge,Matt........................................................................................17,69,112 Milavsky,Riley.........................................................................................................101 Mintzberg, Ben...........................................................................................................8 Patterson,Rob...........................................................................................................97 Pitts, Greg..................................................................................................................36 Riley, Charles.............................................................................................................28 Rivers, Alex..................................................................................................................9 Sehmer,NicholasJamesMichael..............................................................11,83,116 Shah,Shikhar.............................................................................................................56 Skulski,Mendel.........................................................................................................19 Topham, Matt.........................................................................................................103 Tsang, JJ......................................................................................................................43 Tsang,Josiah..............................................................................................................90 Tseng,Simon.............................................................................................................89 Wai, Tim.....................................................................................................................20 Warren, Andrew.......................................................................................................50 Weinstein, Eli............................................................................................................48 White,Ian.............................................................................................................32,60 Willmer, Luca............................................................................................................31 Wolrige, Ross.............................................................................................................96 Wong, Charles...........................................................................................................46 Wong, Darren D.S..................................................................................................116 Wong,Dennis..............................................................................................................5 Yamashita, Daichi....................................................................................................12 Yang, Kevin...............................................................................................................82 Yeh, Henry.................................................................................................................42 Young, Paul...............................................................................................................25 Yu, Ray........................................................................................................................75 Zee, Daniel................................................................................................................15 Zhang, Pally...............................................................................................................35 Zou, Billy...........................................................................................................3, 120

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The Staff of the Opus is Grateful for the Very Generous Support of A.G. (Alex) Tsakumis ’84 President of the Georgians The St. George’s Old Boys’ Association, commonly known as the Georgians, is the fraternal organization for all those who have attended St. George’s School. With over 5,000 members worldwide, the Georgians are the largest constituency of the St. George’s community. Georgians everywhere are the leaders in their industries and communities. They are grateful for the education and life experience that they received at St. George’s, and they are committed to giving back to the School that has so profoundly inﬂuenced their lives. Mr. Tsakumis and the Georgians are proud to be strong supporters of many initiatives, especially the School’s premier publication, which highlights the extraordinary talents, capabilities, and passions of our students. The Georgians look forward to welcoming all St. George’s students into the exclusive ranks of the Georgian fraternity. Board of Directors of the St. George’s Old Boys’ Association A.G. (Alex) Tsakumis ’84, President D. Scott Lamb ’79, Vice President for External Affairs Brian Grant Duff ’83, Vice President for Georgian Relations Prentice V. Durbin ’89, Secretary J. Travis Dowle ’93, Treasurer Ryan V. French ’84 Rodan Gopaul-Singh ’88 Matthew Ilich ’00 Bruce Jackson ’78 Dirk Laudan ’87 Graham Lecky ’97 Jonathan Lotz ’94 Stephen Millen ’70, Past President Gavin Reynolds ’86 Michael Skene ’85 www.georgians.ca @ g{x bÑâá @

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