Western’s Literary Magazine for High School Excellence 2023

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A Creative Chapbook

From the Undergraduate English Society

Editor-in-Chief

Destiny Hopkins

Publication Manager

Jules Lee

Copy Editor

Eleanor Poole

Graphic Design

Destiny Hopkins

Members

Rachel Tersch

Adam Taimish

Hanna Shore

Jahan Cader

Asha Saha

Muskaan Dadlani

Alyssa Thulmann

Rachael Langdon

Letter from the Editor Letter from the Editor

Dear reader,

I am beyond excited to introduce the second issue of Western’s Literary Magazine for High School Excellence! This publication was created to highlight and showcase the writing of Ontario high school students.

We picked the theme “ new beginnings” because high school is a time of transition, self-discovery, and starting anew; but it can be so much more. The works in this chapbook tell of new life, appreciation, realisations, and the fear of beginnings. These incredibly talented writers have taken our theme and created beautiful stories, which I am elated for you to read.

With that, I want to thank my amazing team for assisting me in putting this second issue together. I want to welcome these writers into the writing community at Western University, and I want to thank them for their words and their trust to publish these works. I hope you enjoy the second issue of Western’s Literary Magazine for High School Excellence. Happy reading!

Destiny Hopkins Editor-in-Chief

The Soul Woods

By Mackenzie Johnstone

By Mackenzie Johnstone

The Soul Woods The Soul Woods

By Mackenzie Johnstone

When the dryad awoke, he didn’t know where he was.

The lower half of his body wouldn’t work. He knew that. The last thing he remembered was clutching his chest and gasping, drowning on land; there had been someone above him, a halo, a face, and so, so cold

A hand rested against his forehead, and he screamed. It was a ragged sound, something he wasn’t sure had come from him.

That was when he remembered screaming required air. He was breathing. Why was he breathing?

“You’re alive!” someone shouted. “Open your eyes!”

The dryad obeyed, and soft, buttery light warmed him from the inside. There was a face above him, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t the face from before. Long tendrils of hair tickled his cheeks, green like ivy but less itchy. It was a girl, black-eyed with tapered ears and a face cloaked by freckles.

“Look at me, ” she ordered. “Do you know your name?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but the words clogged in his throat. His name… he knew his name…

First Place Winner of Western‘s Literary Magazine for High School Excellence Writing Contest

The girl nodded, as if that were expected. “You forget faster than most new souls. That can be a good thing.”

“I do remember,” he croaked, then stopped short. His voice was very different from the girl’s. He pronounced the words differently, not so sharp.

The girl didn’t seem to notice. She rolled a hand as if to say, Go on. “I-I was I was dying,” he realised. “I was dead am dead.”

“Were dead.” Her eyes were steady on his. “How did you die?” Tears filled his eyes. He tried to wipe them away, but the girl shook her head in dismissal of the gesture.

“I…” He took another deep breath, expecting the crushing weight to return at any moment. “I fell.”

“Why?”

“I don’t remember. I remember… drowning. I-I can’t feel my legs.”

“Sounds like you broke yourself in half.” So far, not a single expression had interrupted her severe analysis of him. “You’ll be fine now. ” Grabbing an arm, she studied the black-and-white patches streaked across his skin like swatches of paint. “Downy birch. A hardy tree.

Lucky. Must have been awfully brave, to die as you did.”

He didn’t feel brave. He felt weak, as if part of him was still dead.

“That’ll wear off,” the girl told him.

The dryad blinked. Had he said everything aloud?

“How did ye know what I was thinking?”

Finally, a wry smile touched her lips. “You aren’t the first new dryad I’ve had to awaken.”

“Awaken?”

“Sit up. ”

He obeyed. Out of habit, his legs curled under him. Something inside him loosened, and more tears slid down his cheeks. “My legs. They ”

“I told you, ” the girl repeated. “You were dead. This may look like your old body, but you ’ re a dryad now. This is your new body. Our body.”

The swirling black patches traced along his fingers, too. When he reached up, his ears were tapered like the girl’s. “Haven’t I always been a dryad?”

A touch of sympathy lightened her eyes. She shook her head. “No. No one is born a dryad. Only the dead become dryads.”

“All of the dead?” He glanced around. They were in a forest, bright and green and choked with plants of all kinds. Trees stretched above them; small herbs danced in the breeze. “When we die, we turn into dryads?”

“Not everyone. Just some. Like you. ”

“What do ye mean?”

The scrutinising gaze returned. “You’re, what, fourteen, fifteen? Awfully young to have died a fair, natural death, don’t you think?”

“I guess so. ”

The leaves above them shivered, sounding almost like a laugh, a scatter of words. He guesses so.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” She stood and held out a hand. “I’m called Ivy, to those that need a name. ”

He took her hand, and she pulled him to his feet. “My name is…” A bout of panic squeezed his chest, shame burning his face. Why can’t I remember?

Ivy squeezed his hand. “Don’t try to remember. A name is only a name. Your soul will stay the same. ”

“When ye say, ‘To those that need one ’ ... ”

“I’ve met few dryads that need names. We’re different from other peoples. More connected.”

“I don’t understand,” he said again.

And, again, she told him, “You will.” After a brief hesitation, she continued. “If you’d feel better with a name, I can call you Downy. Just for something to call you by.”

He considered, then nodded. “I like Downy,” he said. “Perky.”

Letting go of his hand, she nodded towards the woods. Dapples of sunlight fell across her face. “I’ll show you around, but don’t forget this spot.”

Downy turned. He’d been laying against a tree, tall and thin with murky leaves and the same swatches of black marking his skin. A downy birch tree.

“My tree,” he whispered.

Once more, Ivy shook her head. “Not your tree. You. ” Gesturing to his body, she said, “This is you, too. But a different part of you. Without that tree, that part of you, this part will cease to exist. Do not let your tree die.”

The cold tone of her voice sent any arguments or questions flying back down his throat. “I won’t.”

“Good.” A small smile curved her mouth. “I’ll introduce you to the others. They know you ’ re here, but there’s something special about talking face to face.”

Downy thought of the breathy laughter he’d heard before. ”The other dryads. They were watching us?”

“Of course. ”

Suddenly, dozens of forms began peeling out of trees, bushes, even a carrot (safely protected by an outcropping of rocks). Not all looked so human. There was a frog-like creature, short and stout and slimy; a nereid-like individual; even an elf, keeping close to the roots of its bush. A brawn from the North descended from giants, though nowhere near as big appeared from the trunk of a thick oak. All emanated the sort of buzzing calm Downy associated with forests: alive, without all the bustle of the dead and dying peoples of Evangale.

From the carrot came the smallest fae Downy had ever seen, able to sleep in the palm of his hand if she so wished. Delicate wings sprouted from her back, but she didn’t use them. Instead, Ivy picked her up and set her on her shoulder.

“Hi,” she squeaked.

“Aye. Hello.”

Ivy nodded. “Welcome to the Soul Woods,” she told him. “You have another chance at life don’t waste it.”

Caged Bird Caged Bird

By Sunny Zhao

I dreamt about a cage the kind of expensive aviary with gold ornaments on its wire-rimmed exterior. But inside the bars, the only thing visible is the rusted metal with the smell of decay. A figure is moving desperately in the cage. Is it finding a way to escape? Before I can take a closer look, the shaking ground wakes me up from the nightmare.

Earthquakes are quite common in Sichuan. You would be laughed at if you panicked. I wait calmly in my bed, overwhelmed by the scent of instant noodles. My sleepiness slips away when I slowly count to ten. I look up and realise the lamp is wobbling so hard that the dust is falling onto my pillow.

My phone screen reads September 5, 2022, 2:39 AM. Below is the emergency message that an earthquake with a magnitude of 6.6 is happening.

Struggling, I put on my shoes and the crumpled shirt that I have been wearing for days. The piercing noise of glass falling down the table startles me. I run to my desk to find my necessities. In the drawer, my keys rest somewhere under a pile of medical masks.

Second Place Winner of Western‘s Literary Magazine for High School Excellence Writing Contest

The smell of unpleasant fumes of plastic and polyester fills my nose, reminding me of the uncomfort of doing a COVID test.

For a long time, they urge us to stay in the building and send nurses upstairs to do the testing. Someone tried to sneak out last week, but he was caught right after he successfully picked the lock. Apparently, his action warned them because the next day a smart lock replaced the old one.

As I put on my mask, I pass by the dining room where all those empty bottles and jars are fighting against the shaking world to keep their integrity. I hustle down the stairs. The sounds of people shrieking and their rapid footsteps are so clear in the night. When I reach the ground floor, the steel door in front of me brings me back to the nightmare. I finally realise where people's fear comes from.

My memory flashes back to all those mornings when I’d see the figure delivering a speech passionately on the television. They would flaunt how the COVID cases had been reduced to 121 cases yesterday, and how it wouldn’t happen if we did not shut our doors and windows. The policy is for the greater good of all people. We should follow their words at all times.

So, of course, an earthquake shouldn’t be an exception to breaking the rule.

As I turn the icy doorknob, it feels like I am touching the rusted wire in that aesthetically ugly aviary.

Behind me, people struggle their way downstairs, desperately finding a way to get out.

The unit door is locked.

It is me in the cage.

Carlos’ Tacos Carlos’ Tacos

By Hariharan Velmurugan

Third Place Winner of Western‘s Literary Magazine for High School Excellence Writing Contest

It’s been a week since dad had to close his restaurant. He hasn’t been the same since. Every night he would tell us stories and we would have conversations about our day. We would watch movies together. But nowadays, he would just sit on the couch at night, too exhausted to do anything but sit. All day he would be out of the house trying to find a job, but so far, he had no such luck. Every time I ask him about how everything is going, he always says the same thing. “Don’t worry about adult stuff. Your only job is to study hard.” If I tried to say anything after, he would just shoo me off. I was older now, and I deserved to know about our family situation. He doesn’t understand that.

Lockdown just ended, but dad doesn’t have the money to reopen his business. He keeps saying that he’s happy as long as we are together, but I know he’s empty on the inside. Money is not really tight, but dad feels useless when mom is earning most of the money for us. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s obvious. Me and mom tried to convince him that he’s helping out a lot around the house, but there’s no point.

He won’t even listen. He goes to job interviews every week, but it’s hard for him considering he has no culinary degree. He was self-taught and had no need for a degree until now. Mom tells me to give him some space and that he would eventually come around, but for me, ‘coming around’ was not good enough.

At school today, I got my first F. I started panicking. Dad gave me one job to do and that was to study. If I fail at that then he wouldn’t trust me with anything else.

“Carlos, did you get your science test back?” dad asked, later that day.

I gulped. There was a huge boulder in my throat. I closed my eyes and said, “No, Mr. Z didn’t finish grading it yet.” It was the first lie I had ever told to my parents, and it felt horrible. Like my body weighed so much I couldn’t even move it. Dad nodded, indicating I could leave. I walked away rigid, without saying much. I walked up to my room and closed the door. I needed to release some stress, so I took out my notebook and started doodling.

My notebook was special to me. It had all my secrets, ideas and my doodles. It was filled with pictures of fartfueled rockets that I’d drawn when I was younger, to more sophisticated drawings of actual rockets. I also wrote about ideas for new video games and inventions. I once wrote about watches that could also track your health, until I realised Fitbits and Apple Watches were a thing. Most of the things in my notebook were private, and I wanted to keep it that way, except for one idea. It was a great idea, if I had to say so myself.

I thought, since dad couldn’t open a restaurant, he could use Uncle Rob’s old truck for a food truck business. He could even call it, ‘Carlos’ Tacos’. I wanted to share it with dad, but I knew he wouldn’t approve of it.

The next day, dad came home and announced to us that he had gotten a job. He was a custodian at a nearby bank. I was hurt. I couldn’t imagine my dad being anything but a chef. He did not look happy sharing that news either. I knew he wanted to stay a chef, too, but he had no hope left in him.

“But you ’ re a chef, Dad. You’re supposed to be making tacos, not clean floors,” I said.

Dad gave me a sad look then said, “I can’t stay home forever, Carlos. I need to go out and be useful to the family.”

I wanted to say many things then. I wanted to say he was useful for the family. He cooked for me and mom, and he helped me with my homework, but I knew there was no point. Instead, a tear trickled down my cheek as I ran into my room.

I was sobbing into my pillow, when dad knocked on my door. He came in without an answer, and I glared at him. He laughed and sat next to my leg. Not knowing what to say, he picked up my notebook and went to put it away, when he saw my idea for the food truck. I jumped and grabbed the notebook away from him. His eyes gleamed when he saw the page.

“Carlos, why are you hiding this?” he said.

“Because, you are just going to tell me to focus on school and not on family issues,” I said.

His eyes saddened and came to a realisation. “I’m sorry about keeping you in the dark about our family issues,” he said. “I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t know you had great ideas like this.”

Great ideas? Was it actually that great, I thought. I gave the notebook to dad to let him go through it. He went to the page with the food truck idea. He smiled.

“Are you going to start a food truck business?” I said.

“You know what,” he said, “I’ll give it a try. It is pretty risk free after all. We don’t even have to buy a truck. And what’s the point of any more employees when I have a genius in the house?” He grinned at me.

I laughed, glad that he was acting light-hearted again.

“You have to remember one thing though, son, ” he said. “We all have our failures in life, but no matter whether this plan fails or not, I would still love you. Life will always try to humble us if we hold our head up too high, so we have to be prepared for failure.”

He went through the rest of the notebook and came across the F I got on the science test. He looked at me and smiled, and then he said, “Even geniuses’ make mistakes.”

The next day, me, dad, mom and Uncle Rob started working on the food truck. I made the logo and the design for the truck. Mom and dad painted the truck based off of my design, and Uncle Rob was greasing and oiling the truck so it moved smoothly. I looked at dad and saw him smiling while he painted. He was enjoying this, and he hadn’t smiled like this in a long time. Western’s

It filled my chest with a warm gust of air.

One Week Later One Week Later

“That would be $1.89,” I said, as the lady on the other side of the register swiped her card. Dad immediately went to prepare the food, and his eyes were glowing as the customer praised him. This was what he was meant to do. The food truck is going great and eventually, dad will be able to open a restaurant again. I smiled, knowing whatever happens, everything would be alright.

After I’ve Gone After I’ve Gone

By Mackenzie Johnstone

When I woke

There was no sun

I didn’t know you were gone.

I searched everywhere

There were no smiles

Only soft whispers

But they wouldn’t tell me where you were.

Why weren’t you there?

I wish you would stop pushing me away

I wish you would answer

Was it because of me?

I would say sorry

If you came back

I would be a better me

Someone you would stay for.

Is that why you left?

If you gave me one more day

I would tell you

I would let you say everything

Oh.

If I was there

I would fill the hollow

Until everything was whole again

The one who left is me.

Silent mouth, silent heart

In your world of solitude

You think I will never see But I see you.

I have a secret

There are places I will always see you

Even if you won’t find me anymore

I know where you are

Even after I’ve gone

There is nowhere I’d rather be Than next to you.