The Opus 2011 by Saints Opus

henry chuangcurrent | pastel

the opus team staff sponsors mrs. katrina oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;connor mrs. carol van rijn

editors-in-chief brian lau edward ngai

lead staff christopher dee, art anjan katta, literature edward tseng, layout greg locsin, publicity and opus live!

editors andreas dutz max bedford parker nann

artistic team josiah tsang milan koerner-safrata wesley chow

cover design milan koerner-safrata

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introduction A current conjures many images. A rushing river. An electric shock. Something in progress, something in vogue. But current, most of all, is immediacy. Something refreshing. Something live. Something that can never, ever, be constant. The Opus: Current is this dynamism. It’s a ride through an emotion, a glimpse through a keyhole, and an exploration of a mind; it’s a collection of the vignettes that make up the currency of our lives. It’s inquisitive. It’s transformative. Invariably changing. It has been the greatest pleasure to be taken on this ride and to experience the minds of our peers through their creative work. Every time we thumb through these musings, we are taken aback by something we didn’t quite catch the first time around. A lens we didn’t use. A treasure we didn’t detect. A story we had never cared to know. Indeed, no matter how many times you turn these pages, you will find something current about the ideas and emotions inside. Current would not be possible without exceptional support. Our greatest thanks go to the St. George’s Auxiliary and Mr. Alex Tsakumis for their generous support, to Chris, Greg, Anjan, and Edward T. for their remarkable tolerance of frantic phone calls, and the entire Opus team for their many hours of invaluable work. And our sincerest thanks to Mrs. O’Connor and Mrs. van Rijn for their unfaltering dedication to the arts and this publication. But thank you most of all to our contributors for the glimpse into your lives, whether through paint or pixels, clay or characters. Our only hope is that Current is a book of which you can be proud. So sit back, relax, and let the current sweep you off your feet. – Brian Lau and Edward Ngai

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OPUS 2011 CURRENT

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sebastian swic | photograph

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catch me if you can greg locsin

as moments race we’re coming undone – and words mean nothing. “talk is cheap,” they say – we’re doing this now. you can’t stop the ocean, emotions a blur. a spur of the moment, no right and no wrong. like the flow of the wind we move in a whistle, embraced like the currents, intertwined in a song. since seconds have passed, we’ve slipped out of sight. while losing our minds, we’re making good time. it seems like nothing at all but comes down to this. it feels like forever we’ve been stuck in this bliss.

though we speed through the gates we never want it to end. the opus

the time moves too fast – catch it if you can catch it if you can, the time moves too fast. we never want it to end, though we speed through the gates. we’ve been stuck in this bliss, it feels like forever but comes down to this. it seems like nothing at all. we’re making good time, while losing our minds, we’ve slipped out of sight since seconds have passed. intertwined in a song, embraced like the currents, we move in a whistle like the flow of the wind. no right and no wrong, a spur of the moment, emotions a blur, you can’t stop the ocean. we’re doing this now. they say – “talk is cheap, and words mean nothing” we’re coming undone as moments race. current

maybe marcus tan

Maybe had I described to you the musical chime of rain drops dancing on my window pane Maybe had I revealed to you the starry wonders of the urban landscape in the silent winter night Maybe had I shown you the beautiful shape shifting manifestations of our human emotions Maybe then you would still be among us

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brandon wang | photograph

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ben roy | ceramics

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the garden of eden felix ruiz de la orden

Rip open these scars and let free the pain Watch as the memories turn to red stain Let the marks remind me of all my regrets Nobody sees it because I’m already dead A beautiful soul in a broken world I see her but I’m scared to do something so bold So I pray to this God that I don’t even believe in Nothing feels right in the Garden of Eden I’m stripped from the place that I once called home Left with no thoughts I can call my own A substance instead invokes the demon inside I’ll stay this way ‘till the day that I die This body feels empty But the blood runs so thick The mere thought of you Makes me nothing but sick As my body drips dry I fall to the ground The thorns on my head Do not form a crown I didn’t die for what I believe in Nothing feels right in the Garden of Eden

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love is justin szeto

Tina De Luca was the sunshine in my life, Many a days I dreamt of taking her as my wife. Much to my joy, she too wanted that next stage So SHE proposed, and soon enough, I was engaged. I can recall the loving conversation we had that day, It’s really such a shame that it didn’t end that way. “I love you,” she said with her charming smile, It was just like her; it was her style. I felt so touched, so loved, so proud, I imagined us, alone on a cloud. Too bad, this is the part I remember so well, She started to scream, shout, howl, and yell, “You’re self-centered, ignorant, rude, and you’ve never got a clue” “I can’t believe I was that close to marrying you!”

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david yu | photograph

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harold lee | photograph

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love

paul young Love [Luhv] – noun, verb, idiom: “One word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love.” – Sophocles Let time wash away all the pain Because they say love comes again “Love” she whispers, “love” Those three words, lauded so far above In our very time and place, I wish I could memorize that face: The one that swayed me so. If only you too could know What you’ve done in me. And know too that you’ve set me free; Free from the old rusted chain That held me helpless under its reign. What is love, and what is lust? For these two things undefined must Be the greatest crime, and Unfairly judged is the misguided hand That was once so bold, so near And that now lies distant, full of fear. “Soft” she says quietly, “soft” I listen, but I know far, far too oft Have those three words been Uttered under hushed breaths, spread too thin. Disbelief rings loud at first, But slowly, surfaced an awakened thirst. I looked at you, and then I understood. And bit by bit, little by little, I could Breathe once again. I could see and not just stare Into murky oblivion. May I, can I, do I really dare, current

Dare to want you. To hold you. And still it taunts Me everyday. Is this love? Does the flower Know it is in bloom? Of its beauty, its power? And now in your hand, my heart, you hold; Keep it safe, keep it sound, don’t let it grow cold. Hush now, listen, do you hear its silent roars. Carry it gently, carry it softly, carry it close to yours. She believes in love. A hopeless romantic. She says she’s tasted its bite: bitter, foul, and acidic. Yet still she believes in love. She can’t be that naïve. I said I’m afraid to love again. She said just believe. She believes in love. And says wait for something better. I don’t know if I have the time, but I believe her.

milan koerner-safrata | photograph

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verse and testosterone liam anderson

It’s hard to say exactly why teenage boys loathe poetry with such a passion in their school days. In fact, the word “poetry” is enough to make them cower in arithmetic, or invoke ETIS (Ear To iPod Syndrome) in which headphones seem to give refuge to those allergic to thought and the many who seek guidance in that which they can prove. The un-ending verse, though, is not for the faint of heart; for in exploring the abstract, we tend to find things that we wish we hadn’t. And under each double entendre, nestled in every token iambic pentameter there is a secret that we were better off without. A fact so terrifying that it could shake the very masculinity we lean our egos on... That we have emotion! So why do I think boys hate reading poetry? ‘Cause boys don’t write poetry! Poets do! current

doom

brandon wang Crawling in my forlorn appearance, I hide my soul behind these tattered wings; Tattered and broken as they are plucked of light, Stained in tears and blood. In quiet despair upon the cold earth, smeared in dirt, I crouch upon my weary knees, And clutched timidly between my fingers, Rests one last jewel of hope. A single unblemished plume Plucked from the silver light of dawn, A feathered ray of light from beyond To illuminate the void that has me bound. This precious barb of silk, once lost as I was and forgotten Blazes now to immerse me in radiant bliss; To wash away the pain, And draw me from the abyss. So now I fade away; my tender flesh removed; my shattered wings released; My inner light unsheathedâ&#x20AC;Ś escapes.

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brandon wang | linoprint

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sheldon lynn | painting

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to kill a mockingbird max bedford

The people sing As the children cry While one black man Is led to die. Justice flees As hatred reigns; Broken hearts Are all that remain. A mockingbird and a man Lay dead on the ground, Pure innocence and evil, Lost and unfound.

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running death nathan gregory-evans

Rushing, panting, dragging heels, time was imperative. Must hasten, the footsteps quicken behind me. Past dark alleyways, there perfect places. Out of the darkness he charges at me with a knife. Thud! Two stabs, the neck and then the heart. My lifeless body falls to the ground. My head smacked the ground. The pain was excruciating, as I turn to see who struck me. All I see is the bloodstained switchblade glisten in the moonlight. Cut! Nice! Again Please!! Action!!

neilson koerner-safrata | graphite

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henry chuang | pen on paper current

braeden bud patel

Dedicated to my nephew, Braeden (2003-2006) January 28, he flies Way up, way up, they rise The engines whirring, as it tries The captain being so wise He sits, away from this mother and sister, with some guys Imagining a toy car, he will buys The engines go silent, to his surprise We count on them, we relies His mother quickly begins to surmise Her throat gets tight and dries “take your seats”, is the captain’s replies Where are all the emergency supplies How will the pilot improvise The machine falls from the skies His baby sister begins to cries Wiping away, her red eyes He wonders, “whys” The plane crashes from the skies His mother and sister live, they defies But poor Braeden... he dies

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david yu |current photograph

cleaning house paul redelmeier

Often, on lazy Sunday afternoons, when the rain is pouring outside my picture window, I organize my computer’s various documents into neat, ordered folders, each with a precise name and location, as if so that, someday when I’m searching for my fourth grade PowerPoint on Cuba, I’ll be pleased to know that it’s in the ‘third term’ section of ‘PowerPoints’ of ‘grade four socials studies’ of ’grade four’ of ‘school’, as if the time I’ve wasted ordering up these documents into neat little columns and rows –like soldiers on a military parade- will be somehow saved by the speed I’ll be able to access them, sometime in the future, when a wave of nostalgia –inevitable as it is- washes over me, much like when I turned on the television to Family, the channel which showcased such classics that adorned my childhood years, and whose continuous reruns offer a window into the past, as if I were looking into a time capsule from when I was seven, or eight or nine, or whichever year that I bought that faded white jersey from that sports team that I no longer support, whose fabric has been ever softened by continual cycles in the family washing machine, and which I can still put on, because the company that made it, Russell I think, didn’t have the foresight to make kid sizes, and so it still fits me, but the sad thing is that, whenever I do choose to put it on, say on a rainy, lazy Sunday afternoon, I have to, eventually, take it off, but rather than placing it back into the time capsule that is the large, plastic, transparent container that lies under my bed, that houses all the sport jerseys that I’ve ever owned, most of which don’t fit me, I simply throw it onto the floor, making my room

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messy and untidy, unlike the computer that sits in it, and it stays untidy, because cleaning my room requires me to get down onto my knees and fold, a task far more difficult and unpleasant than putting my fourth grade PowerPoint in its own, separate folder, which is why although I won’t fold and put away the clothes that I’m wearing right now when I go to sleep, I will when I’m finished with this story, gently dragging it into whichever folder it fits into.

ryan evin | acrylic current

david yu | photograph

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caroline aaron yeung

An obnoxiously-neon carpet welcomed me into the building. I walked past the familiar row of quartercandy machines, knowing that each gum-ball required only fourteen chews before its taste disappeared completely. The arcade on the opposite side flashed under the fluorescent black lights and I instinctively began caressing my thumb as I sped by the air hockey table. A cheesy Fernando remix blared out the intercom and I dropped my tie-dye case on the waxed wood. This isn’t a story about the night I managed to bowl a personal best of 278. This is a story about how my life fell apart afterwards. I left the alley and a chilling breeze smacked my face. Not that I minded; it felt rather refreshing. After all the courtesy good byes and fake kisses, I made my way home. A rather disappointing place. The elevator light flickered ominously and the hallways smelled of old tuna. Unidentifiable stains covered the floral wallpaper and a constant hum smothered the air. But this was my home and I had a beautiful window that peered out over the city. A view that could calm anyone down. A view that said ‘everything will be alright. I began surfing the net when a wee flying mail symbol popped up on the computer screen. Curiously clicking it, a picture of a man with his dog greeted my screen. Typical good guy picture, I s’pose. Dexterously maneuvering my banana cursor to not accidentally type anything, I clicked on his bio. It was quite well filled out. Detailed answers complete with a solid collection of photos. He seemed nice, I had to move on. What the hell right? I carefully typed out my reply, “29/F/Charlotte -

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I’m okay I guess, you?” And he quickly replied. Exchanges went back and forth through the night and into the week. It turns out a colleague wanted us to meet. He sounded so nice. So sincere. I felt safe opening up to this stranger and it was pleasant being able to finally get things off my chest. I’ve talked to my friends before, but it wasn’t a conversation, because while everyone heard, but no one listened. But he listened and I felt safe confiding in him. I told him about my passing mother, and my previously dysfunctional long term relationship. I told him I was sorry for being heavy. He reassured me that being heavy was simply the cost of grieving over a loss. I sat comfortably on a sequence of pillows and watched the crackling fireplace fog up the window. A soothing chill rushed through my cozy body as I laid my fingers on the cool glass. I began impulsively drawing in the vapor, my warm breath acting as an eraser. It turned out looking something reminiscent of grandma’s famous stew. Blocks and chunks of indistinguishable objects that tasted nothing like its appearance. I tried to figure out what I actually drew but it had already dissipated into the steam. My palms were sweaty and I frantically paced around. It’d be my first ‘date’ in a long time and the feeling felt strange and awkward. I realized I sounded stupid but that didn’t stop the questions flooding into my head. What do I wear? What if he doesn’t find me pretty? What if he doesn’t like me? I then scoured my albums for my favorite photo. One that would convey the right attitude for the night. I finally settled of one with a college friend. It was from the previous halloween. She in a sexy nurse outfit, me as an eighties bowler. It was also the last picture of me smiling. I clicked sent and told him I’d be wearing a silky blue cocktail dress. The restaurant he chose was on the other side of town. It was a posh place. A grand glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. There was even a group performing. Not that we paid

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much attention to the ABBA cover band though. He was not particularly handsome, or dark, or tall. But we clicked. He knew what I liked, he laughed at the right moments, he agreed with the things I said, the things that I felt. By the time dinner ended, all of my anxiety had melted away. I felt happy instead. I made a healthy cup of hot chocolate and changed into my favourite pair of teal jammies. I excitedly logged online. No new messages and he wasn’t online. Gosh. I walked around the room, trying to figure out something to do to kill time; making sure that whatever it was, I always checked back in a couple minutes. Just in case, you know? But he never came on. Nor did he the next day. Or the day after that. I sent him a couple of casual messages. Just to check in. And I saw that he’d been online. But I never got a reply. A path of footsteps trailed behind me on the frosty grass the next day. I began shuffling across the open field with my polka dotted rain boots, creating a seamless green line behind me. Luckily, except for the occasional jogger, no one was out this early at the park. I waddled over to the ornate fountain. Grumpy gargoyles protected the fine obelisk at the peak, their eyes filled with a fiery gem. Normally I’d watch the water sprout from the four sprays and splash in the pond but it was turned off during the winter. Instead I looked at all the pennies and nickels that scattered on the belly of the fountain. Dreams and wishes that people had once prayed for. I felt tempted to take my penny back. A week later, the almost forgotten message icon reappeared. He re-invited me out, to the bowling alley. He’s been apparently busy. Pfft. I pretended to not notice. I was obviously busy too. Of course, I was free tonight though. I took a shower and fancied up. A nice pair of beige slacks, doubling for comfort and style in case bowling got serious, and the green t-shirt white sweater combo. The night was raining and I arrived late enough to find him alone at

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lane fifteen. As I made my way across to the end, I waved a cheery hello. His dark silhouette did not reciprocate this wave though. I walked up and a rush of adrenaline sped through my veins. He was not smiling. I sat down on a row of twisty chairs and looked at him. Before I could break the silence, he spoke up. “Sorry,” he murmured. It’s hardly his fault that he’s been busy. “It’s okay,” I casually said. “No really. I’-... I’m sorry.” My brows furrowed and my body tensed up. “Hm?” My heart began speeding up. Why is he messing around with me? A lump snuck up my throat, something was happening but wha-.. “I’m not who you think I am.” “What are you talking about? Stop. You’re scaring me.” Different scenarios rushed through my mind. What does he mean? Does he not like me? “No, really. I’m friends with your ex-boyfriend.” “Gordon?” “Yeah. This was supposed to be his revenge plan. Get you to fall in love with me before I leave you. But I can’t do it anymore. Not to you. You’re not anything like he says. I swear he said you were crazy and manipulative. I don’t know why I listened to him either wa-... I don’t know.” I sat there. Stunned. Maybe this was one of those bad dreams. But I knew it wasn’t. I tried to find something, I didn’t know what; anything. Anything that would make this moment go away. “I’m sorry. I really am. I hope you can forgive me.” He sat for another moment, staring at his reflection on the shiny floor before getting up and leaving. He stopped halfway and turned, as to say something, but nothing left his mouth. I stayed there for the rest of the night. A tiny tear fell

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off my porcelain cheek and dampened my white sweater but I wasn’t sad. I was hurt. Hurt because I was helpless. Alone. I sat there awkwardly on the window ledge and marvelled at the scene outside. The city was shimmering brilliantly against the crying night sky and umbrellas had blossomed on the streets below. I wasn’t looking at this beauty, though. My mind was on the raindrops that had settled on my pane. I admired how they neatly trickled along before joining up with a mate and rushing off into the night. That’s how I had figured my life would go. But I guess nothing goes accordingly to plan.

henry chuang | pastel current

denis huang | ceramics

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here’s to you paul young

Do I deserve this, A few words missed. Is it that fragile Turn to some vile, Twisted game played Upon ends already frayed. Have you no compassion, No understanding, no emotion Except that of your own Ends. Trust long sewn Into belief. So quickly discarded You, you whom I relied on, who led Me here. And like a used Ragged toy, left, accused Of disrespect, what were you Thinking, that I’d lie quiet too? No. I have more pride Than to beg and plead at your side. Pity? To think that I need your Help? Convinced your sore, Sorry old self that you’re benevolent? All I see is you and your malevolent Bent thoughts. Decaying. Rot. This? No. it will not be forgot. Did I do wrong? Am I deserving of shame? Well tonight, here’s to you: you’re the one to blame.

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the arrival ali jamal

Long time ago, the organisms of planet Earth lived together in harmony, And they lived in harmony with Mother Nature, The Sun, so generously provided light and warmth for the entire world, And the plants bestowed sustenance to all land dwellers, Who in return through the magic of nature gave nutrients back to the plants. Beautiful fish found homes for themselves in the nooks and crannies of the ocean, While birds surrendered themselves in the graceful blanket of the skyâ&#x20AC;Ś Then along came the humans, Strong, however uninvited, and craving power Deliberately causing violence, chaos, and bloodshed, Killing every species known to God, And destructively attacking the very fabric in which they were born. War, violence, atrocities, Murder for no reason within the community of man, Nasty, brutal competition, Greed, selfishness, and no concern for anything but their own needs. They conquered, expanded, and destroyed Ruining the world, and the heart of God. All humans are immoral and sinful, They lack morality and rightfulness, Putting themselves under a curse for all eternity, Continuing to perform sins untilâ&#x20AC;Ś

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owen gay | computer graphics

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zelig fok | ceramics

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zelig fok | pen on paper current

the chivalric sin iakov medvedev

The knight rode proudly along the countryside. His armor glistened beneath the sunlight, all its glory reveling and dancing with triumph. His sword was kept in immaculate condition, neatly polished. His helmet, imbued with exotic gems, rubies and emeralds, enhanced his aura of divinity. His leg padding was mighty, with grooves and thorns all over. On his chest he bore the mighty cross, and on his shield he bore his chivalric duty. Yet, his body was covered from head to toe â&#x20AC;&#x201C; not a single shred of skin was shown. From who was he hiding? From what possible evil was he protecting himself? This knight had traveled far and had made conquests which were superior to those of Odysseus. He fought with bravery; he killed with honor. He despised those who didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t appreciate the unfortunate; and above all, he fought for a cause. He was always accompanied by his mighty steed, covered in a black so rich that it seemed as if he were a moving void. Eyes like sapphires, hooves like mountains, he was the fairest mustang in the kingdom. All was at the knightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s disposal, as he had defeated all his enemies. He had slain vile and ferocious dragons, exiled witches and overcome other ghastly beasts. But with all this power, with all these treasures he had earned, he spent it all on material wealth: on armor, on weapons, on castles. Soon he began to laugh at the peasants; soon he had no need for god. What good was faith when there were no troubles? And so he dressed in gold, replaced his cross and his shield, and displayed no scar, no skin, and no flesh. He offered no blood. He had become an automaton, and had lost his ability to feel. He was not human anymore. His glory had made him into a malicious madman, who felt no emotion, but one: greed.

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jack guo | oil

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milan koerner-safrata | pen and ink the opus

burning. sleeping. sleeping. burning. felix ruiz de la orden

The church is burning, ash floats through the air, I open my eyes. Death upon this barren land. The sky rains tears a god in despair, the thunder roars shouting in pain and anger. I lie on the ground close my eyes and pray. No sound comes out when I open my mouth and scream, like a nightmare. When I die, I am awoken. I am awoken, when I die, like a nightmare. When I open my mouth and scream no sound comes out. Close my eyes and pray. I lie on the ground, shouting in pain and anger. The thunder roars, a god in despair. The sky rains tears, death upon this barren land. I open my eyes, ash floats through the air. The church is burning. current

sebastian swic | photograph

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companionship ben roy

From birth To momâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arms. From the hospital To our house. From teething To eating. From crawling To walking. From moaning To talking. From your first haircut To your first birthday cake. From tantrums To mischief. From cute To annoying. From playing sports And making friends. From your first day of school And having conversations with you. From family trips And creating first memories. From answering your questions And showing you the world around us. Through tickling and playing, Through laughing and crying; Seeing you grow Is something I am happy to have known. current

hands not stained red usman taj

Shame! A ball white rather than a ball red in his hand. Shame! It’s raining out, as it does in this land. Shame! There’s snow on the ground. Shame! There’s no sunshine around. Shame! That even in spring, the grass is not fit. Shame! That even before that, a lamp need be lit. Shame! Because he had the drive. Shame! Because the ability cannot survive. How he loved that stupid game. Shame! How he isn’t the one to blame.

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henry chuang | colored current pencil

reggie wirahardja | ceramics

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encompass me stuart smith

I know the language of your bones Every word, in every dialect I know the pattern to your pulse, I’ve come to learn and I expect To feel a swarm of things, When you get too close to me, I feel a swarm of things, When you walk away from me, Encompass Me Like a tendon to a bone Encompass Me Like a river to a stone I’ve learnt what you want in life And I know it won’t concern me I’ve seen what you’re headed for For all the glory you will be Encompass Me I know you never could, you never could But too easily I get hopeful by your side.

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bryan luu | linoprint

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christina lake jamie donnici

The mid-afternoon sun beats down on the shores of Christina Lake, as the residents of the many waterfront cottages seek refuge from the heat. Sunbeams dance playfully across the undisturbed waters. The only audible sound is the gentle lapping of the lake against my uncle’s wharf. A lone swimmer slips through the water’s surface quietly, almost respectful of the tranquility of the scene. My uncle’s powerboat sits tied to a buoy about ten feet from the wharf. It seems out of place, and is almost ludicrous in its immensity. Due to its size, my uncle has yet to learn how to park it, and, therefore, it sits unused. The gleeful voice of a small child shatters the silence, and is accompanied by the patter of tiny feet. Giggling mischievously, my four year old cousin, Julia, scampers out from my uncle’s house onto the beach. “NO! YOUR WATER WINGS!” comes the panicked voice of my uncle, as he stumbles out after her. “FRANKIE!” comes the shriek of my grandmother as she appears on the porch. “YOU SHOESIES!” she hollers in her part-Italian, part-English garble, brandishing a pair of slippers. My Uncle snatches Julia just before her determined feet touch the water, and hoists her over his shoulder. He carries the protesting toddler inside, throwing my grandmother a dirty look and snatching the slippers from her. The door to the cottage closes, and peace and quiet settles upon the lake once more.

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camera greg locsin

cameras are clear. concise. snap a photo, capture a moment. on the inside, i’m more than just simple. i’m more than just just one button. i’m focus and i’m flash, i’m the shutter and it’s speed. complexities some never know, but the privileged may exploit. my external seems shielded. fortified. tough. but cameras are much more fragile than they seem. a single shake or drop and my insides fall to pieces. these broken parts are not so easy to pick up. a cracked lens here and a broken pump there, these repairs don’t come so cheap. once i’m all fixed up and working like new, pick it up again and enjoy the view. each picture snapped is a moment lived. a second, a blink, a glance, a feel. some erased and some glued in. some regressed and some held tight. cameras are recorders, they reminisce and don’t forget, the priceless moments, unique and meaningful. i live my life through this experience, and carry with me the burden of seeing. it sets one camera apart from the next, this set of eyes has seen things the next hasn’t. my vision isn’t single, i can live through other lenses. cameras can adjust their view to set the scene, one lens can’t see it all in definition. i have different facets for different expression, and different eyes for different times. cause cameras are more versatile than not. zoom out, zoom in, subjects change from close to far. cameras can be specific at times, then suddenly wide. i can focus in to develop details, every crack and texture, every tiny sound. move too fast and cameras lose their focus, it’s all a blur. they can’t explain every subject in sight. and when the focus is lost, the picture is obvious.

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support is my remedy to troubles with focus. a camera can’t always hold the detail on its own. when the light is dim and a situation’s on hold, just a tripod of support can brighten the sight. sometimes i need some help to keep on track, keep my lenses clean and my picture clear. when the day is done, put me in my case, cause cameras need protection from the tougher days. when the sun sets hard and the night is rough, zip up this shield, this cocoon for the night. and when the light breaks day, and i lie awake, pull me out of my shell, my life restored. cause each new day is another to hold - that’s what they’re for, these cameras, to remember.

sebastian swic | photograph current

george wen | pencil

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ken

nick mostowich Before I ever saw him, I knew my uncle was near, And so did everyone and everything within a square mile. His jet engine voice and fifty caliber laugh Could make birds drop out of the sky And jackhammers yearn for earplugs. Whenever we adventured into the Calgarian wilds, Uncle Ken filled my bowl cut head with fear. For I, as all children of the family knew, that running into The behemothâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s kneecaps would leave a nasty bump Followed by a hug that popped lungs and exploded spleens. Picked up like a can in the gutter, I would be tossed, A football between his field goal fingers. Red and wild, his wide eyes were feral and dangerous, Lighthouses warning all young ones to stay away. Drag engines and refineries had cost him his hearing, So perhaps he was mad, But that was no excuse to put people in traction.

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the reality calvin cheng

This is the reality And whether I like it or not I can think and reason for myself So I just cannot understand how The Party has absolute control over me I know that this may seem shocking, but “Big Brother is watching” is simply absurd to me, and “Two plus two equals four” I can proudly say that Our society is headed in a terrible path I would be lying if I said That Ignorance is strength That Freedom is slavery That War is peace So before all, I tell you I am living in Oceania, a world with no knowledge of freedom But this message will soon be strengthened once more, as The Proletariat have so much more hope, so much more strength, than The Inner Circle Won’t anyone else see that Emmanuel Goldstein and the Brotherhood Will one day destroy the injustice and ignorance of Ingsoc Make no mistake To gain the respect of its people A truly good government Wouldn’t allow

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Human beings like me To be controlled over every action and thought I refuse to believe under any circumstances that I will betray my dearest love, Julia As long as she is a rebellious victim, as I am, of thoughtcrime But As thoughtcrime does not entail death, for it is death I shall not live Unless I choose to reverse my thoughts.

nico siy | acrylic

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brandon wang photograph

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stroll

raphy tischler The walking boy doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t walk to the beat of the breeze He marches his mind ignoring the falling trees Moving his shoes to the sound of music White doves nestle in Keeping cold ears warm from the din Scary sounds abound Coarse calluses creep without protection Calming birds block anything real The shift in short is clear A rift in life His shoes move to the sound of music Not silence Not noise Just harmony Harmony amongst chaos Chaos of constant clicking and mousing Seeing the world on a screen Making friends heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s never seen Look hard Squint if you have to Maybe Just maybe You will see the Mona Lisa through the glass

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henry chuang | graphite

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storm night stuart smith

Work and play, throughout the day, So lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s caught up with me, It takes me strong, it pulls me in, Like sand into the sea. I tremble cold, I fumble fast, Storm front is heading in, I close my eyes, I dream so deep, Of the places I have been. I spark a flame, I hold it high, A war against the night, I lose of course, but not without, A brave and honest fight. Though in the dark, I lose my wit, Afraid and all alone, I know deep down, that day will come, For each must have their own.

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sinister sandstorm andreas dutz

Jeff Hutchinson shouted in ecstasy. The sun beat down on his exposed neck, and, like a painter filling in the last touches of his masterpiece, it delicately shaded Hutchinson’s skin a light brown. His ears were filled with the roar of the Jeep he was riding in; a stark contrast to the peaceful quiet of the beautiful desert. Travelling to an oasis in the Sahara desert (to observe a unique tribal group living there), Jeff was alone in the vast, unpredictable wilderness, since his partner had recently fallen ill. Suddenly, the Jeep jerked to a halt and Jeff, not having worn a seatbelt, was flung out. He ploughed into the sand; however, its comfortable and relaxing appearance was just that, turning out to be quicksand, which grated at him and was dragging him into its tomb. Hutchinson was a fly caught in a spider web and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t liberate himself. The Jeep was threatening to crush him as it too was sucked under. The rumbling of the sand was all he could hear. Jeff kicked, clawed, shouted and twisted, all the while shifting through the sand. Then, the quicksand loosened its hold and Jeff was free. Hutchinson was stranded, all his equipment and food had been submerged, and his only hope was to press on to the oasis where he would find water. The desert was playing tricks on him. The seconds turned into minutes, which in turn became hours. Jeff had an unusual feeling that something was observing him, tracking his progress as he made his way through the desert, while the hot sticky air tried to crush him under its weight. The heat, the wind, the air… It was all

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too much, and Hutchinson lapsed into an oblivious stupor as he marched on toward his goal. Then there was a shift in the wind. It left a sandy taste and ominous feeling in the air, however, Jeff, in his stupor, didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t realize it. The sun was obscured. Hutchinson looked up to see a wall of sand fly toward him. He was in the dunes, surrounded by disorientating and deathly drafts of doom. Sand had covered his eyes, clogged his nose, mouth and ears. Hutchinson had to find cover. He noticed something that would protect him; to his horror it was the body of a dead animal. Its stench clung to his nostrils and tongue like an infant clinging to its mother. Hutchinson reeled back and his hand nudged something scaly and thick which was feasting on the corpse. With a hiss, it slithered to face him, contemplating its attack.

milan koerner-safrata | ceramics current

luca willmer | photograph

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shooting at shadows ross dutkiewicz

Soldiers creep Through trenches deep At every sound they leap Guns held ready In hands unsteady Fingers on triggers keep Bombs explode Big guns unload The walls slowly erode Loosened by the quaking Of some great beast awaking Of danger this does bode Shadows black Make soldiers crack And fear a foeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s attack Screaming bullets fly Demanding a reply But no one fires back On they sneak Though prospects bleak Of which they do not speak Cloud the air with fear Whose ugly head does rear Turning back the meek They endure With intentions pure Fighting to ensure A future without war They give their lives and more Searching for societyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cure

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Corpses stink The sky’s black as ink Into the night they slink Just like a wolf pack Following a deer’s track As a single unit they think The foe is near Thinking that all is clear But Death will soon be here The calm before the storm They are just shapeless forms Celebrating the New Year An uninvited guest Bursts forth into the fest And the party he does arrest With scythe and sickle And blood begins to trickle From Death’s latest conquest A raid complete With guilt replete Best of the best elite The dirty deed is done The war will soon be won But victory stinks of deceit Years have gone Night gives way to dawn But still the blinds are drawn Hiding that night’s truth Of lost and shattered youth In darkness still they soldier on

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david yu | current photograph

alexander the opusjanusz | photograph

the hut in question paul redelmeier

The hut in question Was not built by my father after the rains of ’89, Where floods washed away everything in our town. I cried that night, because those rains washed away My best friend. But my mother told me to stop crying, Because I was adding to the rain. And the next day, my new best friend Was washed away. This time, I didn’t cry because I was scared that I would wash away more people, perhaps even myself. And the next day, the rain stopped, Reinforcing my belief in my power. And I thought that water was dangerous, and that furthermore, Water was the root of my tears, so I stopped touching water. I didn’t drink it or use it. So my father asked me why. And I told him about the tears, and washing away. So he built us a hut, and told me that I Could go here when it rained. And I told him about my friends. So he built them huts too. But I didn’t like Marc, so my father didn’t build him a hut.

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stigmata stuart smith

Mother, may I stand with you To watch our falling virtue? Burn the purest sinner (Burn the purest sinner) Brother, could I sit with you? To watch our sad efforts undo? Burn the purest sinner (Burn the purest sinner) Teacher, won’t you teach me Guide my eyes, and make me see? Pious hearts bleed black today Stains the scripture and the wine Come in flame, bare a son But in time, a daughter’s fine What will I have, what will I do When all is bled, and sewn anew? Father, why the cruelest glare Against a world that’s barely there? Burn the purest sinner (Burn the purest sinner) Sister, hold my hand and pray Have the kindest words to say. Burn the purest sinner (Burn the purest sinner) Lover please come rest with me Damn all our hypocrisies….

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Demon flesh grows sicker Adorned with hoof and horn Consumes the hearts of others, The world from which were born. But what will I have, what will I do When all is bled, and sewn anew?

neilson koerner-safrata | computer graphics

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erik xu | acrylic

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the spit brett dowling

A boy stood on a sunny, narrow spit, removed from civilization by only a ten-minute boat ride. Yet out there, everything was different to him. The sound of the waves crashed around him as the brisk sea wind blew his brown hair into a tangled mess. The birds chirped as if putting on an opera. He sat down on a driftwood log and admired his surroundings for a few moments. Everything was still, yet still alive. The seaweed lay peaceful, but the tiny sand-mites bustled all about the plantation, bringing it to life. The waves came savagely crashing in, yet pulsed in such a magnificent and mesmerizing fashion that the dance seemed controlled. One could spend hours doing nothing but sit and ponder, he thought to himself. The sun dipped behind a cloud and immediately the beach became dark. The sea became more furious; the birds stopped chirping. More dark clouds appeared on the horizon. His father, an old sea captain, shouted from the boat, beckoning him to leave. How could he leave a place so placid so soon? How could he return to the land of normality when such a surreal place existed? “I want to stay,” declared the boy. “A storm is brewing. We are leaving at once,” came the sharp and stern reply. The boy had no choice. He did not argue. He did not protest. The fury of both his father and Mother Nature was too great. It will be here when I get back, he thought to himself; all for me. It was the first time the boy had been on the spit, but it would not be the last. The boy lived his life, forgetting about the paradise. He got a job, got married, had children, and moved off the island. He never returned to the spit or the island

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of which it was on- his home. Not once. One day, years after his initial arrival on the spit, the man returned, seeking the unmatched beauty which once offered such contentment. He hoped to offer the experience to his very own children He had changed since the last time he arrived at the spit. He was older, much older, and perhaps a little wiser. He found that it was no longer a ten-minute boat ride to the paradise, however. Instead, it was a two-minute drive to the spit, which was now barely recognizable. It was not, however, his memory which plagued his vision of the place; it was reality which did. Standing for the driftwood on which he had once sat, was a luxurious tower of five or six stories high. Row upon row of mirrored concrete intrusions marred the former surreal environment. The man stood in disbelief, while his very own child sat on a bench not far away, in complete awe. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Wow Dad! This place is beautiful! Look at all the magnificent buildings and the beautiful shops!â&#x20AC;? The birds no longer chirped, for the mighty trees were long gone. The waves now sadly crashed upon a seawall, which snaked along what used to be a white sand beach. The manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s salt and pepper hair was not tangled by wind, for the buildings blocked what little briny breeze there was. The concrete, which covered the entire area, had nothing life-like about it. The spit was still as dark as it was when the boy left with his father so long ago; yet not a cloud blanketed the fare, mid-day sky.

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milan koerner-safrata | ceramics

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benny lin | ink

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sheldon lynn | pencil

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crash

nick mostowich His vision was blurry as he awoke. The man could vaguely make out the cockpit around him, a hole in the windshield and dying constellations on the instrument panel. He felt the wind sweeping in tiny specks of sand through the hole, bombarding him with unseen bullets. He blinked, and the world that panned out in front of his dry eyes was shocking. He looked out at his surroundings and immediately felt more alone than he had ever been in his life. Empty didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even begin to describe it. In all directions, the view was exactly the same: a perfect, clear, cyan blue sky blanketing a fractured, foreign landscape. Everything was completely flat. The sunlight glistened off of the tiny, delicate diamond mountain ranges that separated each tile of this barren world. The ground was a cracked, dirty mirror reflecting its unique shade of beige back up at the unbroken heavens. As he stared off into his surroundings, the sky and the ground seemed to meld together and move as one. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell which was up, he felt disembodied, detached, scared. Thirst clouded his vision. He slumped back into the chair, embracing the blackness that surrounded him. The dreams that came to him were only snippets, images from his past swarming around his mind in a great maelstrom, bleeding together. He saw his brother as a child, laughing as they threw pebbles at a gecko sitting on the fence. He saw Servando, still his boyhood friend, beating up another school child. He saw Servando offering him a gun, as they sat in the back seat of a car. He saw himself eagerly, excitedly telling his exploits to his brother. He saw his mother crying, pleading with his father. He saw Moreno Gonzalez, the crazy one, handing

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him a cloth bag, a bag he knew was filled with money. He saw the man he killed face down on the bar floor, blood pooling around his head, the cigarette from his mouth still burning on the ground beside him. He saw himself sitting on his bunk in his prison cell, marveling at the fresh tattoos on his arm. The faint hint of smoke snapped the man out of his stupor. The acrid scent was the only thing that still made sense in this foreign landscape. Grateful for the scentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s reassuring effects, he tried to locate its source. Suddenly, he realized the heat at his back was more than even a desert should be providing. The smell morphed into something terrifying as he realized that his precious cargo was burning. The clipped fuel line must have leaked into the fuselage. The man tried to release the seatbelt, but his sand crusted, parched hands fumbled with the clips. Though he tried and tried to push the button, his fingers wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t respond. A sense of insane anxiety filled him as he fought and struggled against his bindings. The smoke seemed to be stronger, pressing in on his consciousness. He stopped, tried to calm himself. Opening his lips, cracked as the landscape around him, he tasted the salty, oppressive air for the first time, and coughed. It was a wheezy, feeble thing that nonetheless sent his entire body into a spasm, pushing him further into his restraints. It seemed to give him energy, resolve. In a sudden act of sheer will, or perhaps desperation, he unclipped the belt and rolled out of his chair, more from gravity than from effort. He crawled forwards, and unlocked the hatch. With an impossible effort, he managed to push open the massive door and fall out of the airplane. His head hit the hard, broken earth and he slipped into unconsciousness once again. Again, he slipped into dream, but this time, the dream was clear, cohesive. His father was in front of him, balding, frail. He was pleading with him, begging him not to continue down this path. He had found the gun, seen Servando around The Family. No longer was the manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s connection with the gang

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a secret. Suddenly, the scene shifted; he saw himself in a courtroom, sitting next to Servando. They were watching his brother on the witness stand. His brother told the judge how he had seen Servando in the car, and how he had overheard their conversation about joining The Family. The scene shifted again. He saw himself in a plane, high above the Gulf of Mexico, his flight instructor next to him. The plane was rickety and old; remedial programs did not have much of a budget. The man awoke to an intense pain. The sun had burnt his exposed face to oblivion. Each twitch, each blink, each breath sent a shock through his system. He had no idea how long he had slept, but he knew his baked face and cracked lips were demanding water. He looked back at the airplane. The landing gear hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t deployed, and the plane lay grounded. The sun had shifted enough to allow the plane to provide some cover from its rays. He pushed himself up against the fuselage, and sat, slumped in its sliver of shade. He looked down at his body. His foot was turned out at an unnatural angle. The man bent his knee, tried to put weight on it. It gave out immediately, the pain sending a jolt of adrenaline through his system. Turning, he peered back into the airframeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s door. The interior of the plane was burnt, blackened, cleansed by fire. But, on the floor beside his charred seat, lay his metal bottle, filled with water. He reached into the cockpit and grasped it. The lid had been knocked loose, and the paint burned off, but it was still half full. As he drank, he felt strength and energy return to him, a cool wave of power that sent sparks to his limbs. Refreshed, he pushed himself back up into the fuselage and looked back into the cargo area. All of his supplies, his clothes, his pictures had burned away. Nothing recognizable was left amongst the charred remains. The stolen plane must have been less reliable than thought. The realization of his situation hit him suddenly, out of

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nowhere, like a gunshot. His pulse quickened, he felt faint. He had crash landed somewhere in Bolivia, in some god forsaken desert. No one outside of The Family knew where he was, and certainly there would be no rescue party. He was unable to walk. He was unable to fly. No god would hear his prayers, not after what he had done. There was no hope whatsoever. He was alone in the desert. As a boy, he had always been told stories of a man who wandered off into the desert to find god, and was able to live off of cactus milk and the shrubbery he scrounged from the land. This desert had no such luxuries. It was truly desolate, barren. Even the plants had decided no life should have to live here. He sat, slumped up against the wrecked plane, and thought. He thought of his mother and father, how they would never know he had died. He thought of Servando, still in a prison cell. He thought of The Family, and how his death would mean nothing to them. He thought of his brother, and how much his death would mean to him. The brother he could never forgive. His thoughts began to wander, he remembered their last conversation. “How could you do this to me?” “I warned you. The Family is evil. I have to testify, for your own good.” “If you do this, you will be no brother of mine, until the day I die.” Those were his last words to his brother. The man took another drink from the bottle. He was down to a mere mouthful. Thoughts about their conversation pecked at his mind. for an eternity; how he was betrayed. Shame and anger dueled one another in his mind. He remembered the anger seething inside him for five years in prison, burning a hole in his side, keeping him up for countless nights. He remembered how the only thing keeping him alive in prison was the desire for

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revenge, the insane bloodlust. He closed his eyes for a moment. In a lucid dream, he ran through his life. He remembered joining The Family with Servando, remembered the initiation, remembered going to prison. He remembered his cell, with its muddy wall and hard bunk. He remembered staring up at the ceiling each night. He remembered the number of tiles in that ceiling: five hundred and six. When he opened his eyes again, the desert was darker, colder. He reached for the bottle. In his sleep, he had knocked it over. No water remained. He sat for hours in the dimming light, slipping in and out of consciousness. The desert and the sky continually became one and the same until he summoned the strength to blink. In front of him, a room was taking shape. The beige stucco room of a cheap bar in Guanajuato, with a the table knocked over, broken glass and tequila spilled on the rug. The gun in his hand seemed clean and perfect next to the grime and sweat blurring the tattoos on his forearms. The man cowering on the floor in the suit was covering his face, pleading. The man in the desert blinked one final time. As lavender sunset bathed the landscape in its glow, the desert seemed all the more alien. At the same time, he realized how beautiful it was. The white ground seemed to accept the colors being beamed down onto it, and shone. Each misshapen, unique piece reflected its own shade and shape, a mosaic only the sky could truly see. For all its beauty, the desert had become frigid as the sun stopped baking the cracked earth. The cold sent insane shivers through him, wracking his body like a tidal wave. He couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t concentrate on the cold, though. The thirst was terrifying. Each corner of his person was screaming at him for sustenance, half the cells pleading for a drink and the rest pleading for a blanket. Numbness flooded him; first in his fingers and then up his arms. He tried to move his foot. It seemed like the more he begged it to move, the more

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unwilling it became to do so. The vision in front of him was solidifying. He relived that moment over and over again. The ease at which the trigger pulled. The kick of the gun. The blood pooling on the floor. He expected a rush, a feeling of satisfaction. He got none. The man tried to look and see the face of the body, but the man in the vision had no such intentions. Instead, he turned and ran. As he ran out the door, the world around him disintegrated, replaced by blackness. The man thought to himself what a shame it was he would never remember the face of the brother he killed.

harold lee | photograph current

milan koerner-safrata | mixed media

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milan koerner-safrata | mixed media current

ben roy | ceramics

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unattainable max bedford

Renounce the peace Take up the fight Step into line And stare death in the eye. We We We We

fight for the dreams lost in our life, fight for the life found in our dreams.

Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re close to defeat But we rise to our feet. To die for the day Where we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have to pray.

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pains of solitude justin wang

The ominous feeling of difference overwhelmed her. The landscape was riddled with ash and dust; a barren wasteland. The smell of incense was undeniably heavy in the air. Wind was whistling wistfully through her frozen ears. Despite the arid landscape, the air was freezing. A tiny house, like a saviour to her, was nestled upon the horizon; distant. Bella McRay looked about, but ash was the only thing noticeable. Bella started to walk, and everything started becoming indescribably blurry, like looking through flames. The ash was burning hot, and the wind faltered as the sun reached its zenith . The burning sensation was searing through her body, while the cold pierced her flesh. Nevertheless, Bella continued to walk towards the solitary cabin, determined to reach it. The silence around her was unbearable, and the feeling of despondency overwhelmed her as if it were sunlight sweeping the landscape. Everything felt like a dream; an inexplicable nightmare. She could feel her muscles tensing, and her heart was pumping deep in her chest. She bent down to pick up ashes, but they disintegrated in her palms. She trekked onward, but the house seemed to get more distant. The burning cold was slithering through her body like a snake. Bella started running towards the house. When she got to the house, she opened the door. The entire world started to swirl around her, and she started to fall. Her life flashed before her eyes. Everything became distorted, blurry, and disoriented. Bella couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t feel her limbs, and she couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t move. Then the pain hit her. The pangs of sadness engulfed

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her body. The darkness crept around her. She could see the end coming; a horrible premonition that inundated her mind. The blackness of the surroundings spread invasively, and she could feel her eyelids closing, her sight becoming smaller and smaller; dimming. Bella tried to open them, but they wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t listen to her. This was the last thing Bella remembered.

marcus tan | pencil current

usman taj | photograph

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how-to: rowing sam harris

The blade comes out of the water, you breathe and you feather the blade. Your hands come away from your body; as you lean forward you begin to rotate the handle. Knees come up; your body compresses, coiling like a spring. Stretching for as much length as you can, the blade is fully squared. The blade drops into the water and the relative relaxation that you found in the recovery is replaced by dark and violent thoughts. Your legs slam down and accelerate your oar and the boat through the water. Muscles strain, the oar bends, the skin on your fingers tears and you pull the handle into your chest hard enough to bruise. Gasp for breath, lather, rinse and repeat.

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breathe

felix ruiz de la orden Rip my lungs out Dare me to breathe Watch me shout out Against this cold breeze The air is so thin This conscience so cold The thoughts deep within Have become so old The madness grows stronger The anger glows red Like wounds of a soldier Wishing to be dead The end draws nearer The light I cannot see Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll keep moving further From the hell that is me Put my lungs back in place This scream will turn to song Never will I have to chase The light thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s further on

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sebastian swic | photograph

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wesley chow | acrylic

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usman taj | photograph

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cigarettes and seeds felix ruiz de la orden

I caught my reflection in a small puddle as I exhaled the last drag of my cigarette. The water quickly burst into a thousand ripples as I threw the butt into it, completely deteriorating the face which I saw within. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of air, taking time to feel the subtle chills of this beautiful morning. It had rained last night, covering the city in a wet blanket for the young sun to sparkle over. I got up from the steps outside my front door and walked inside my house. I went upstairs into my room to look for some cash to buy more smokes, a pretty typical routine for me. My room was a mess: dirty clothes that smelt of old beer completely covered the floor, along with my school bag and a few empty packs of Marlboros. The walls were filled with posters of some of my favorite bands, Led Zeppelin, The Clash and The Smiths. I went over to my night table next to my bed to look for spare change to support my smoking habit. $5.25. Not enough. Damn. All of a sudden I heard my mom call out for me, “Robert!? Robert!?” “Yeah what? I’m in here.” “Rob”, she said as she stormed into my room, “Can you go up to the store and pick up a couple oranges for me? I’m making a fruit salad.” “Can I borrow some money?” “For what!?” she shot back at me, “cigarettes? Why should I give you money to buy those filthy things? Jus’ so you can go pollute your lungs? I thought you said you were gonna quit for chrissake!” “Well I was, I mean I am… Look, can I jus’ have the

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money? I’ll get those oranges for you, jus’ lemme keep the change or somethin’.” “Fine. Here.” She handed me a ten dollar bill. “I need two oranges, and don’t think I’ll forget what you said about quitting, those things will kill ya’ before you see the age of thirty.” “Sure ma’.” I grabbed my brown leather jacket and left my house in a bit of a crappy mood after the trouble my mom had given me about borrowing money. Even though the sun was out, it was still cold outside. Steam escaped my mouth for every breath I took, and disappeared amongst the falling leaves. I began to walk up to the grocery store to grab those oranges. As I did, I started to think how I was gonna buy smokes. It’s a royal pain in the ass buying cigarettes without proper ID, and I seemed to have misplaced my fake last night while lost in an alcohol-induced black out. After I got the oranges, I immediately went to the corner store to pick up my long awaiting cigarettes. When I entered the shop, the clerk was talking to some old, working class lookin’ guy about the football game that had taken place just the night before. I didn’t care much for what they were blabbering about. I hate sports. I used to be really into them actually, until I got into high school, and sports turned into some sort of exclusive club for all the jock jerks in the school. Whatever. Anyways, when I got up to the cash I asked for a pack of Marlboro Reds, my favourite cigarettes. The clerk turned around and grabbed a pack off the stand behind him. He put it on the counter and said, “That will be ten dollars and fifty cents.” Yes. It was going to work. I took out my wallet and pulled out the cash, right before being interrupted. “May I see some ID?” Damn. “Sorry man, I left it at home.”

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“No ID, no cigarettes.” “Can’t you jus’ let this one fly? I don’t wanna go all the way back home; c’mon man, I really could use those smokes.” “It’s my job, there ain’t anythin’ I can do. Look at this,” he pulled out a piece of paper that sort of looked like a parking ticket or somethin’, “I got nailed jus’ the other day for sellin’ to some kid like you. Look here, five hundred dollars, no way I’m makin’ that mistake again.” There was no chance I was getting smokes out of this guy. I turned over to the man he had been talking to, not too long before. He was sitting on the ice cream freezer just to the left of me. He was wearing paint stained jeans and a white shirt, and had a moustache that matched the colour of his grey hair. He was quite a bit shorter than me, probably around 5’5. I asked him, “Hey man, I’m sorry to bother you, but I forgot my ID at home, and it would be a huge pain to have to go all the way back there to pick it up, do you think you can jus’ buy these cigarettes for me? I’ll let you keep the change or somethin’, I would really appreciate it.” He spoke with some sort accent I couldn’t recognize, “How ol’ are you an’ways? Really?” Maybe Greek? I don’t even know what a Greek accent sounds like. “Uh… Twenty. Why? How old do you think I look?” “Don’ think I stupid; how ol’ are you really?” “Twenty. I told you man, I forgot my ID at home, stop bustin’ my balls over thi-” “I bustin’ no ones balls, you the one bustin’ balls, tell me your real age an’ maybe I get the cigarettes.” “Kay man, I’m 16; I jus’ need a pack of smokes, it’s not even a big deal, look I’ve had a crappy day and… C’mon man, please? I can really use those smokes.” “Listen here, your mother know you smoke?” “Yeah.” “Wha’ does she think about it?”

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“She doesn’t really care, I guess.” “Well, everything at home is good? You live with parents? You go to school?’” I still couldn’t figure out that accent. “Yeah. Look, what does this have to do wit-” “Lemme tell you somethin’.” “What?” “Your mother. She care about you.” “How would you kno-” “I know. Trus’ me. All mothers are same; I know this. Now you think your mother really want you to smoke these things here and watch you as you slowly kill yourself? No, she don’t. You see me, I smoke for thirty-three year, an’ las’ month I say to myself, no, I not gonna smoke any more, and I quit, I have no cigarette since, and now, I feel better, younger. See, it not hard, you should quit.” “Well yeah... But it helps me keep my mind off other drugs I’m trying to stop. Listen man, I don’t wanna get into it. It’ll really help me out if I can jus’ get those smokes.” “Drugs? What drugs? You sixteen, you should be in school, not do that crap! Look, I done some marijuana before, maybe back long time ago, but that was in the seventies, it don’ matter. Lemme tell you abou’ my nephew. He smoke marijuana, and when he finish high school, he say that he want to take a year for break, an’ I tol’ him, listen, don’ take break, go to college. But no, he don’ listen to me, he take his break an’ then one year turn to two, an’ then three. He do nothin’ but get high all day. Not too long ago he call me, an’ say that people are after him, an’ I tell him, it all in your head, you take all those drugs an’ now your head not right. He went to hospital an’ now his head not right an’ never will be.” “I’m so sorry.” I said dully; I couldn’t believe I was listening to this guy’s crap. What was he even getting at? I needed to get out of this store; this guy was driving me insane. I looked over at the clock behind the cash. Holy crap. I had been in the store for over ten minutes.

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He began to speak again. “Listen,” He kept on saying listen, and what was that damn accent? It was driving me insane. “People come to me for advice, I very good at giving people advice.” Yeah right. “Listen.” God dammit. “I wanna tell you about life.” Here we go. “You, are like tree.” Great metaphor Shakespeare. I was really starting to get pissed off at this guy; I’m not one to get aggressive though, so I just kept listening, hoping he’d get bored of talking soon. “The fruit from your tree is what you give to people, it’s your love, you give to mother, father, to people you care about. If you want to give good fruit, then you have to be good tree. You have to be in good soil, get good water an’ have light from the sun. But the most importan’ thing,” he said as he pointed his finger at me, “you have to be good seed, and you are the only person who has control over your seed. So, plant a good seed, so that the fruit you give to the people you care about is good fruit.” I didn’t say anything; I was trying to take in what he had just told me. As lame as it was, listening to some strange old guy in the corner store, he kind of made sense, I guess. There was a little bit of silence before he spoke up again. “Now where’s your money, I get those cigarettes.” Almost out of instinct I went to reach for my wallet; but all of a sudden, this man’s words came back to me. I stopped myself and thought for a few seconds. I looked at the bag of oranges in my hand, and then though about my mother. Then, I came up with a decision. “Naw… I think I’m alright actually… Thanks though man, I really appreciate it. Uh… Listen, I should go, I gotta bring these oranges back home. But thanks. Uh… I’ll catch you later or somethin’.” I walked out of the store as quickly as possible, hoping he wouldn’t start another rant. On my way home I looked at the time on my cell phone. Jesus Christ; I was in that store,

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talking to that crazy man for nearly 20 minutes, what a mind job. It honestly took me a few days to take in what that man had said to me, but throughout those few days, I went smokeless. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not to say I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t start smoking again, because I did; but I never did forget what that crazy old man said.

bastian seidensticker | pencil

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rip cord taylor fell

He’s falling fast In the wind-swept frenzy, the man flails about, searching desperately for the rip-cord. The ground moves ever closer with the passing seconds, though he soon sees the world slowing down. A sense of euphoria over takes him, Whiteness envelopes his eyes, Time’s been rewound. He can see himself as a child, and gradually he sees the expanse of his life The slideshow stops. The man contemplates what he’s seen; I’ve brought joy to no one, he ponders I’ve been an ass to anyone who ever tried to love me, he thinks I have left nothing of value for generations to come The man stops flailing, frees himself to gravity’s embrace, and falls silently to the earth.

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henry chuang | graphite

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milan koerner-safrata | photograph

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on the sonnet paul redelmeier

If by dull rhymes our English must be chained Then I’ll submit, though I’ll be pained, To go around it, whatever way, To circumvent, and have my say, So that my artistry won’t be reigned, If by dull rhymes our English must be chained. And like Andromeda, the sonnet sweet, Tied up; its constraints, its deceit, Struggling from its primitive cage, Which seeks to tether it to the page, And so in irons, our English we do mistreat, Though like the Andromeda, the sonnet sweet, Fettered in spite of pained loveliness, Taking it for a being of putrid slovenliness, We choose to relegate it from exposure, A peacock in a zoo’s chain-link enclosure, And so we shape it into comeliness, Fettered in spite of pained loveliness. So let us find if we must be constrained, A way around these callous chains Or, if not then perhaps some custom-made Shackles, so as to allay the fade, Of our English; dully chained, So let us find if we must be constrained.

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the trumpet under the gas lamp brandon leung

The notes lilted as they flew through the cool night air as they carried with them the warmth from where they came: the only remaining gas lamp on the street. It was broad, tall, and dark and it illuminated the streets it governed; it was a beacon for the many streetcars and children that would cross the boundaries of night. The lit fire of the lamp soared: an erratic ballerina that sent out its song into the night. But the root of the music was just below it. From a distance, a man leaned coolly but alert on the stalk of the lamp. He appeared thin and weak, his dirty clothing covered with holes and spots of mud and he wore a flattened hat on his head. He seemed to be a part of the lamp. Then there was his trumpet, a golden trumpet that he played with fierce force, but aligned with rhythm: crescendos and decrescendos he played. From a distance one could see him swinging with vigor, in tandem with the gas fueled flame. His sole audience on this night was young Joanna Lumen, a girl of eight who popped her smooth, cherub face into a window frame to see the dancing flame and the man who played its music. She always came out to the dim light of her living room to see the spectacle and oscillated her white night gown body and blonde-red hair with the hypnotic rhythm. Hers eyes were brown, but they caught the spark of the fire and became an ecstatic orange that danced. Though it was late night, no one minded the trumpet man whose music was exciting and brilliant, a refinement in the night. Although there was Joannaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s motherâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

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‘SLAM’ came down the windowpane. Joanna’s face flew back and contorted into rough stone, into fear. The screen of glass muzzled the notes as they melted into the cool night air. She saw a skeleton hand rattle as it slithered along the wallpaper. Joanna followed it and came eye to eye with a cold, white skull; her mother, Haley, had found her. Haley was really a standard middle-aged woman, she was bordering on thin. Her skin was pale and her vermillion hair was bundled to the back. She wore a white nightgown like Joanna, although stained because she always wore it in the house. It seemed to stick to her body, showing off her vulgar form. But her eyes leaked shadows into their sockets and they looked right into Joanna’s, digging into her mind. Haley then started to shift her heavy jawbones. “Joanna, it is 10 o’clock, shouldn’t you be asleep?” Joanna sifted saliva around her throat and mouth, trying to say anything that would send her mother away, but only came up with, “Yes—mother”. Haley leaned down, into Joanna’s face and Joanna drew her self back slowly, trying not to startle her mother. Then Haley was the one to make a quick move, she suddenly jerked her head to the window, and leaned into the glass. Joanna was petrified. “Are you still looking at that man?” Haley asked. “Yes, mother”. “Haven’t I told you that man is of sin?” Joanna took another look at the window. She saw the man, a wilting flower swaying to the wind and then his golden trumpet, churning out sweet notes. Joanna let her tongue swim through her saliva, craving for those bold, black notes twisting through the night. She put her hand onto the glass to see if she could still feel the warmth, but it was cold as a staring moon— “Joanna?!” Joanna, startled again, jolted back to view her mother’s

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face and answered, “Yes?” “Do you know why?” Joanna started to the window again, but stopped, helpless. “No”. Haley stood up, erect and proud. Looking towards the beige ceiling she said, “That man is dirty and thin to the bone: he is evil! All he does is play that damned trumpet! I’ve told you Joanna, the Church has helped countless people find their way in life and we are a part of it, you do not have time for a homeless man on the streets so deep into sloth that He has given him no home. Let us go to your room”. The command came out with a hiss. Haley had put on her veil of ‘superiority in the eyes of the Lord’; Joanna had lost. She shuffled to her room with her mother’s frozen hand on her shoulder; tightly guiding her, arm dangling. Joanna opened the door and saw the small laboratory that was her room. The walls were bleached; a single light bulb was barely aglow; and all it contained was a dwarf bed, a bookshelf and a preacher’s desk Haley had bought from the Church to ‘bring the Lord into the house’. Haley gently pushed Joanna towards the bed and then proceeded to the bookshelf. “Would you like me to read you a story?” Joanna cautiously nodded. Her bookshelf had been crammed with children’s books of various fantasies: knights, sea creatures and fairies, but now there was a Bible and assorted children’s books from the Church filled with doctrine. “What would you like to read today?” There was no answer. Haley took out the Bible and sat next to Joanna. She started to read. All that Joanna heard now were bayonet-equipped soldiers marching into her ears, blasting their muskets into her eardrums. There was no care or rhythm in Haley’s voice. She finally stopped reading. They prayed. Haley left the room and before she could touch the switch, the bulb shuddered to sleep and so did Joanna—

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Joanna remembered when her mother used to take her on walks; walks to the store, the park, wherever they could find the light of day. That was before her father left. Haley then returned to her maiden name, ‘Nova’. Once her father left, they went on one last walk. The day had been drained up of any light. They had walked all around town, looked through store windows, peered at families prancing in the park, but her mother didn’t enjoy any of it. Once they had returned home, they saw it, the extensive boardwalk to the Church, rows of houses leading to one impending building, of men, women and concrete. They walked towards it, thunder glaring through the clouds. When they had found the sanctuary of the Church, Joanna heard the sneering organ, the hymns peeling away the ears. Joanna had been five. She was then home-schooled by the preacher and Haley stayed home and wrote hymns, the words of God. She wasn’t one of those evangelists though. She waited for them to come to her. The mailman, the newspaper boy, any person who dared to spring the trap, was caught in an hourlong hellfire in their living room. The two had nowhere to go, only the Church remained and its feeble congressional— Joanna sprung up, rigid. She waded through her covers and set her feet down. She needed to hear the trumpet. She crept along the boards, each shivering under her steps. She opened the door little by little and it cried out a sad song. Joanna stopped. Haley hadn’t woken, she was still hissing after her snores. She went along the disrepair of wooden boards and entered her living room again. She darted to the window in one quick hop and saw the gleam of that golden trumpet. She pondered on just climbing out the window, but it was locked. She hopped again, towards the front door, put on her white Church-going shoes—all she had—unlocked the door and opened it. The door cried as well, but Haley still slept. Joanna leapt outside and closed the door. She

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was free. She turned. She saw the boardwalk again. The night was dark and in front of her the rows of houses created a looming hedge leading her to a mansion. The Church glowed in the midnight and its concrete cross radiated an eerie glow. The lightning organs and the thundering voices frisked in a twisted circle in Joanna’s head. Her white gown body went into a spasm, trying to shake off the unwanted dance. She ran to her left, down the street and stopped at the corner. The cross could still see her and this fact was identical to her. The cross threw its cold glow onto her as she twisted, caged like a fish in her hunter’s net. A flash of color then appeared in her sight. Around the corner were pulses of orange. She wriggled and dove to the orange. She came upon another street and across, saw the man. He was everywhere, frolicking with the notes. The lamp’s fire, a finger, was beckoning her. The street was a wide one to cross, but she crossed it, safe with each elegant step. The light began to surge and in its expanse, she saw the man, red, from the lamp, a round shape with a milky white beard. The notes disappeared. The man’s fingers halted and he took the trumpet down from his mouth. She finally saw him, an animated man with much more spirit than what she had found in the Church. He put the golden trumpet back into his mouth and moved his fingers like branches blown by the wind. Haley habitually woke up in the middle of the night; tonight, it was one o’ clock. She crept along the delicate web of creaking floorboards and seeing that Joanna’s door was closed, eased herself. She entered the living room, calm and upright, yet ships of guilt and angst anchored in her head. She found the window, the same window Joanna had peered through and saw the man. She only looked for a quick second though and instantly prayed for her own sins. But an image of a white object had lodged itself in her eyes. She

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spun around and stared out the window. She saw Joannaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s white gown joining in the show. The gas lamp flared twice as bright as Haley had ever seen. Haley had always tried to put her hand to the glass to feel the warmth of the lamp and its entertainer. She put the pale palm of her hand onto the glass. Her hand started to glisten with a rosy pink. Warmth flowed through her body.

henry chuang | pastel

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come home greg locsin

i miss you more than words can say, or songs or pictures or thoughts conveyed – i miss you so this holiday, that snow and lights can’t ease the pain. i’ll always remember those late nights, i’d toss and turn with open eyes, i’ll never forget the times i cried, wishing i could hold your hand. but right now you’re gone – not for good, but for now, and though it seems like forever has passed, i know you’ll be back in time to see me grow and see you laugh at all the things we’d talk about. the car rides, the movies, i don’t regret the times we fought til broken hearts, but knowing that in time we’d mend is how i’ll always know you best. i know that you’ll be back someday soon, i hope, i wish, i pray, and i know you won’t be here to stay, but just one night, and i’ll be okay.

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various artists | mixed media

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index aaron yeung

alexander janusz

ali jamal

andreas dutz

bastian seidensticker

101

ben roy

10, 45, 86

benny lin

brandon leung

106

brandon wang

9, 18, 19, 58

brett dowling

bryan luu

bud patel

calvin cheng

david yu

13, 25, 28, 67

denis huang

erik xu

felix ruiz de la orden

11, 43, 92, 96

george wen

greg locsin

6, 52, 112

harold lee

14, 83

henry chuang

1, 23, 33, 47, 60, 103, 111

iakov medvedev

jack guo

jamie donnici

justin szeto

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justin wang

liam anderson

luca willmer

marcus tan

8, 89

max bedford

21, 87

milan koerner-safrata

16, 42, 63, 75, 84, 85, 104

nathon gregory-evans

neilson koerner-safrata

22, 71

nick mostowich

55, 78

nico siy

owen gay

paul redelmeier

26, 69, 105

paul young

15, 35

raphy tischler

reggie wirahardja

ross dutkiewicz

ryan evin

sam harris

sebastian swic

5, 44, 53, 93

sheldon lynn

20, 77

stuart smith

49, 61, 70

taylor fell

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usman taj

46, 90, 95

wesley chow

zelig fok

38, 39

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The Opus Staff is Grateful for the Very Generous Support of: A.G. (Alex) Tsakumis ‘84 39th President of the Georgians Member of the Georgian Board of Directors Father of George ‘19 The St. George’s Old Boy’s 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, the Immediate Past President of the Georgian Board of the Directors, a past Director of the St. George’s School Society, and the father of George, Class of 2019, is a very active member of the School community. He is proud to be a strong supporter of many initiatives, including The Opus, which highlights the extraordinary talents, capabilities, and passions of St. George’s students. The Georgians look forward to welcoming all St. George’s students into the exclusive ranks of the Georgian fraternity. www.georgians.ca

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