The LITtle Journal - Issue II

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Editorial Gente Morada, Mundo Morado Si Vos Queréis Armar Un Gran Castillo Valentine An Offering of Pomegranates A Question of Familiarity Dreich Day Poemas (#1-#5) El Niño de Ojos Rosados Tell Me a Story Lockdown Life Love Bugs


Welcome to the second edition of Markham College's literary magazine, The LITtle Journal! We are overjoyed with the response to our first edition. Before we continue, we want to take a moment to thank everyone who helped it become a reality, either behind the scenes or by submitting their work. As for important announcements, we would like to note that we (Florencia, Luisa, and Cecilia) have graduated from IB this month and therefore will not be returning next year. However, we are passing down the magazine to other interested writers like ourselves, so it will go on regardless. We are very thankful to what it has become in the time we spent with it. It's been a pleasure; Write on! - The LITtle Journal Founding Team 2



GENTE MORADA, MUNDO MORADO. Somos un arrebol ahogado En las nocturnas profundidades Del cruel pez linterna y sus maldades. Gente morada, mundo morado Nadie ataca al pescado damnado por su linterna y sus dualidades Avante la luz; atrás saudades Gente morada, mundo morado. Callar amarra crueles cadenas pero por la boca muere el pez De las paradojas te condenas Roja es, perdiendo translucidez La agua de este pez que avenenas tú eres el linterna y ya no vez. - EITHAN MEEROVICI, 6B



SI VOS QUERÉIS ARMAR UN GRAN CASTILLO Si vos queréis armar un gran Castillo Debéis pedirle ayuda al “grande” Judas. ¿Por qué a las castas piedras tanto iludas? Si de esas piedras armas fiel ladrillo. Y vos matáis al sol que pierde brillo El pan vale oro y el pobre pide ayudas ¿Están las dulces tierras siendo crudas? Así se pierden hombres, muy sencillo. ¿Y cuánto vale el gas? ¿Subió por cien? ¿Y ahora el rico es pobre y el pobre es cholo? ¿Hablar es gratis? ¡Pues jurar también! Y sale a aullar el acre lobo, solo Se quiebra el fiel ladrillo; busca bien pero ni los escombros, ni la rima, ni la métrica pueden arreglar este ladrillo roto.




marian, S4

Olivia hated packing just as much as she hated the Chicago subway in blazing hot summers. The mess and clothes thrown around everywhere, the overpowering scent of lavender detergent clouding her thoughts and making it almost impossible to breathe. See, packing could mean one of many things Olivia, alias ‘Liv,’ had learnt to identify over the years. When someone packs up their belongings, it means a) A holiday, b) Leaving, and finally, c) Moving. Which led to why she found herself sitting on the wornout cherry wood floor at 2 in the morning when she was supposed to be moving out of her apartment at 7. Liv could hear the creaking of doors a couple doors from hers. The train passing by 10 floors below what her cold feet could reach. She was sure she’d burnt the coat about 10 months ago. She was certain of it, but she must have dreamt it. Because there she was, staring at the coat. Maybe looking at it would make it disappear if she just stared at it long enough. She liked to blame her parents for her disdain towards the concept of marriage. Because, God, it’s such a strange concept. It is the last legal form of slavery existent and acceptable within society, after all. Thomas Bennett, alias Tommy, met Olivia Ridgmoor, alias Liv, in the midst of her doodling in her math notebook. She liked drawing hearts on the footnotes of the ‘Year 9 Algebra’ section. They kept her away from her thoughts, and away from logic and math and all those taunting horrors her intelligence would one day be measured in the day she’d have to begin with college applications; because, God, what if her GPA wasn’t high enough or she didn’t get enough credits to graduate or what if she does graduate but without a GPA high enough to get the hell out of this god-awful town, the world was supposed to end in 2012 according to the Mayans so what if“Hi. I’m Tommy. Tommy Bennett.” A tall, messy-haired tangle of limbs said with a warm smile and faint recognition splattered across his face. “We actually went to elementary school together. Jonathan Burr Elementary? I used to have thick glasses and I always took your red


crayons, and I denied it but I’m sure deep down you knew-” He was babbling at this point, looking like the words shooting out of his mouth before he could even acknowledge them. He looked down and shook his head coyly. “Not really the point, just. Is-is this seat taken?” Liv grinned back into her chair and glanced briefly at the warm Chicago autumn before turning back to look up at him. He still had pretty eyes. “Not at all, go ahead”. When Liv set down her keys on the very same table she currently found herself struggling to pack up 10 months ago, she felt the weight of a thousand stones pulling her down beyond what her aimless sack of skin could aim to describe. Because, truly, it’s funny how there’s so many words to encapsulate the most minuscule, ridiculous feelings, yet so little words to describe the overwhelming sensation of burn within her bloodstream. Some throw stones. Some make diamond rings with them. The type that froze Liv to her very core. The day she went to give him back his things was the worst. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be who you wanted me to be” Liv whispered, tears on the rim of her eyes as she shot the most convincing smile she could muster with the single drops of energy she had left within her body. She felt like a desert; Not even a single rolling bush in sight. “It’s alright, Liv. You don’t have to say anything.” The night of the fight, Tommy told her he hadn’t heard her say ‘I didn’t know what to say’ in their almost ten years together. It was unspoken, but as she sobbed in Tommy’s arms for what she was sure was gonna be the last time, they both agreed this classified as a second. He shot her a bittersweet smile as she lingered on the door. “Goodbye, Liv” Liv stayed in place for a beat, staring at the tall windows his new apartment had. “Goodbye, Tommy.” When she finished packing, it was nearing 6:35. Liv packed old pictures and old gifts but somehow couldn’t manage to fit the pieces of herself she’d leave behind once she stepped foot out of her Melrose Street apartment. She left the coat in a Goodwill donation bin. And as she called a cab, she realized New York was, in a way, what Chicago always wanted to be.




People are walking hurriedly along the sodden streets of London. It’s wintertime, and a biting breeze shocks the mass of commuting people. A benevolent, sombre sky shadows the cramped passageways that hold the weariness of bystanders rushing past each other. With the bare light of dawn, shops and locals have just begun turning around their door signs to welcome the commuting people into their gloomy havens. Midst the crowd of commuters, behind the panel glass of her shop, an aged woman strolls to the entrance of her bakery. She struggles to reach the doorway and rests against the entrance’s wall, leaning gently towards the door. No one notices her. She gazes to the outside world in detachment (would she long to go out there?). Her face holds the wrinkles of her life as if they were a constant memory marked into her permanently. Her hands are creased, yet they are covered in powdery white labour. The woman flips the sign; “Open”. She strides back where she came from and disappears within the crowds. Droplets of rain then start falling on the tops of the main streets that become congested with umbrellas. People walk at a monotone pace, avoiding bumping into one another. The air is tense with soundless misery coming from below the dark mass of umbrellas that hide the faces beneath. These pedestrians are somewhat buried under their own unhappiness, lacking interest in the rain that wets their darkened coats. Dressed in dreary colours, they continue their course, yet the rain falls. Feeble post lights then begin to fill the unlit gaps between the crowd. Faces are vaguely seen as they are covered with the hoods of their coats, revealing angles and bare shadows of their identities. Everyone seems to refuse the overwhelming feeling that has been lately hovering inside them. They rush to their unlikeable destinations in worry that they lose track of time. After all, commuting does seem to take up a lifetime.


Cabs, wandering since the early hours of the morning hoping to catch a few desperate pedestrians, are in an inevitable rush to earn enough for the day. They become obstructed with one another in traffic, but really, no driver seems to care. Inside them, there is no music, no radio. Just silence. Time still goes by even when there is no purpose to fulfil (what would be their purpose in the first place?). The faded coloured doors and the shattered headlights are now part of the scenery. It is as if, since everyone has gotten used to them, they are now background props, with no purpose whatsoever in the main story. From a distance, it looks simply like an ocean of people. Closer, just below the mare level, then, only then, I notice her. She strides the streets in an incomprehensible rush, making her way through the crowds of gloom. The streets seem to be wearing black while she wears all the shades she can. Her boots are up to her knees, shining as bright as the sun that ever seems to avoid the sky. In contrast to all, they are flashing yellow, illuminating the slippery sombre grounds and bringing sunshine to where light does not reach. She trips over plain water, and she accelerates her pace in order to evade falling. A fluorescent red coat covers most of her body, but her hair is as wet as her umbrella, which rests by her side in one hand. Short, blonde and damp, her hairs tangle and form knots, which she doesn’t seem to notice. Trotting within crowds of strangers, celebrating the rain with emotion, she is as happy as ever. As if she were in a different narrative, the woman detaches herself from the crowds of people and becomes her own. She paces across the final junction. I follow her in crude curiosity. Leaves fall from the trees carpeting the streets below. She skips the steps that guide her to a lower platform, pacing towards the railings that are coated with droplets. With a sigh, she accommodates herself on the solitary bench beneath the branches which hide the rain vaguely. I come closer to view her at a shorter distance, leaning against the glassy railing. She gazes towards the river, so I do too. The park beside River Thames is silent, except for her loud presence. I lose sight of her for a few seconds. I turn around and she is gone. The tree hovers over an empty chair, where she sat quietly, not minding my presence at all. She is vague, unnoticeable, ghostlike - completely different than before. On the park beside River Thames, there are two wondrous souls. One of them is lonely. The other is dreaming.


¿Es que soy tu pensar?



¿o sólo un soplido frágil, Lento, Atrevido,

Florencia Solórzano, 6B

Una extensión del malestar vivido?


Propongo menguante cambio Tal corazón espinado. Cambio que destella, Alumbra, Tal corazón enamorado. Cambio inédito y tambaleante Tal corazón confundido. Cambio frustrado mas Escondido, Tal corazón. Cambio escurridizo, Tal Cora Zon. Cora Zon sin corazón Pero con corazonada. Su Caparazón es más escudería Que cualquier combinación de adjetivos. Yo, Cora Zon y tú entrelazamos El mismo aire.


En las hojas de tus secretos tropiezo con monótonos Tapices de alguién más.


Se podría decir entonces Que tú, Cora Zon y yo somos… sinónimos desconocidos.


Mi lapicero más valioso Y mis verso más dolido. Acompáñame en mi camino De cruz acaobada. Si esperas, yo estaré Aquí en mis cuevas De contradicción Y lagos flotantes. Vente y límpiate los ojos con mis pañuelos hablantes y bocas blancas. Te prometo que no guardaré vela.


¿Acaso miramos un amanecer? Esos cuando el alba se asomaba y acariciaba el gran manto celeste. ¿Acaso oímos al viento estacionarse? Detenerse, sentarse y acicalarse. ¿Acaso degustamos la sequedad de nuestros labios? Infinitesimamente complacientes. ¿Acaso olímos el perfume de soledad? Agradable aroma yaciente en nuestras cobijas de intimidad. ¿Lo tocamos? No pudimos ¿Entendimos? En absoluto. . .


El niño de ojos rosados Gael Gael Ocampo, Ocampo, S3 S3

Destacaba por su intrascendencia, aquel niño de ojos rosados. Con una ausente madre se las ingeniaba para pasar desacompañado sus monótonas tardes miraflorinas. Quizás por el miedo a la crítica; así no, caray, qué es eso; o a la humillación; no friegues, Carlos, eso es para mujeres; el niño se pintaría los ojos de azul cada mañana, antes de salir de su cuarto. Entre témpera y cegueras perdía su infancia. Su padre, casi tan invidente como él, lo ayudaba a estamparse los falaces ojos que solapaban el rosa natural. En el colegio, forzaba conversaciones con amigos que no lo eran para endulzar la clase de una sosa gringa que en tono peyorativo le explicaba cómo conjugar verbos en inglés. La peor condena, sin embargo, llegaba en el recreo; juega, pues, ¿o eres chica?; donde el niño aparentaba pasión por el fútbol para disimular su maquillada mirada; ¡patea, como hombre! Con resbalones y andanadas, los niños de ojos azules, negros y marrones lo socavaban. Tras tres años de reprimidos llantos e innumerables pinceladas, el ya no tan niño se ganó un puesto en el equipo de fútbol de los que no tenían ojos rosados. Su sutil obediencia disfrazada de amabilidad evitó que los obtusos futboleros notaran el engaño de los ojos. El niño; vamos, hombre, corre; con fingidas ganas y chimpunes lustrosos, empezó a pelear el titularato del equipo; ¡golazo, Carlos, vamos! Fue así como, a los quince, aceptó que estaría condenado a ver el mundo ofuscado, desde el oprimente azul de sus ojos. A punta de buenos pases y litros de témpera, el niño llevó a su equipo a la final del torneo interescolar de Lima. Los niños sin ojos rosas; ¡bien, Carlos, caray!; disfrutaban, deslumbrados, el espectáculo de la irreconocible estrella. Desde la tribuna, su padre alentaba histérico, igual de ciego que años atrás. Al llegar a su casa, el niño se tumbaba en su cama, fatigado. Recién ahí derramaba un par de lágrimas por ojo. Tras el profundo ardor inicial de témpera esparcida y autoaceptación clandestina, la esclarecida mirada del niño se tornaba rosa. Al día siguiente regresaba a la rutina de falsedades azules. La identidad del niño se limitaba a sus sueños. Eventualmente arribó el día de la final. En el colegio no se habló de algo ajeno al partido. La decadente clase de la gringa, sosa como de costumbre, era la antesala de


os que no tenían ojos rosados y del que fingía no tenerlos. Este último veía cómo; hoy patea fuerte, Carlos, juega menos afeminado y con más garra; ante la indiferencia de su profesora, sus compañeros le retocaban el azul en los ojos, uno a uno. Ya en la tarde de aquel opaco viernes los equipos se alinearon ambos equipos, alertas al pitido inicial del árbitro. El niño se agitaba entre la multitud de padres de ojos azules, negros y marrones a la expectativa del partido de sus hijos. El primer tiempo; corre, ¡más rápido!; se selló con un tenso empate a cero. Los nervios de todos se perdieron para el medio tiempo. De todos menos del niño de ojos rosados, claro. Escuchando el ininteligible grito de su necio entrenador, descubrió que, lejos de solucionarse con bramidos y témpera azul, la ansiedad que sentía estaba atrapada entre sus consumidos ojos. Los equipos volvieron a la cancha. El segundo tiempo lo definieron las faltas, cada una más violenta que la anterior. Fallaron dos tiros libres. Les anularon un gol en el minuto cincuenta y cuatro. Diez después, un defensa de ojos negros pifió la pelota hacia arriba. Rebote del central. Cabeceó el delantero contrario. Las miradas incrédulas de los padres sin ojos rosados se desviaron a la eufórica celebración de los rivales. Uno a cero abajo. Desde entonces, al partido lo caracterizaron sus trabas. Mediocre ataque tras otro, el niño no conseguía empatar la final. Al equipo; ¡pasa la pelota, más rápido!; lo agobiaba el escaso tiempo restante; ¡dale, que quedan dos minutos! Esperando sin esperanza, el niño recibió un centro en el área. Se impulsó hacia la pelota, con el mismo entusiasmo aparentado de los recreos de antaño. El imprudente defensa rival también saltó, pero con el brazo en alto. Mano. Penal; ¿penal?, ¡penal! Todos miraron al niño, quien alternaba su vista entre el arquero y el balón. Parados como mendicantes perros estaban los demás, muy santos, fuera del área. Entre el fétido perfume de masculinidad barata y el sabor a empate fácil, tres gotas de sudor se derramaron en los ojos del niño. Atrevidas, destaparon la témpera azul de su ahora rosada mirada. Indignas desafiantes del régimen. Justas revolucionarias de franqueza. El silencio estallaba en la cancha hasta que el estallido lo silenció. El balón se elevó, negligente y rabioso, por encima del travesaño. La tragedia de los de ojos azules, negros y marrones se confirmaba con el silbido del árbitro, que sentenció la derrota final. Algunos lagrimeaban vencidos, exhaustos. Otros miraban la coronación contraria, desencantados, celosos. El niño de ojos rosados salió de la cancha, indiferente, cuerdo. Una leve sonrisa se dibujó en su rostro.


Tell me a story of the knight with a mighty sword Of the king counting his riches Of the bread they can’t afford I’ll tell you a story of the bloody revolution Of the brave who becomes a tyrant Of the kingdom put to ruin Tell me a story of the hero and the princess Of the evil dragon kidnapper Of the beauty in distress I’ll tell you a story of a forbidden love Of one slayed in its cavern Of the other who wept thereof Tell me a story of the witch hut in the woods I’ll tell you a story of the Little Riding Hood Tell me a story of the girl who lived by sea I’ll tell you a story of the bird singing out its plea Tell me a story where the happy ending will come true I’ll tell you the happy ending, but what comes after too