The Early Harvest 2010 magazine

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Vaughan Public Libraries

arly arves

2010

ARTISTS PHOTOGRAPHERS WRITERS VIDEOGRAPHERS

From the Chair, Vaughan Public Library Board The Early Harvest Competition is a celebration of the creative accomplishments of local teens and their valuable contributions to the growth and development of the arts in our community. On behalf of the Vaughan Public Library Board, I am pleased to introduce the 2010 Early Harvest Competition winners and invite the community to explore the beautiful artwork, poems, short stories and screenshots featured in this magazine.

For over 20 years, Early Harvest has been instrumental in encouraging local teens to share their artistic expressions in the categories of writing, photography, sketching and painting.

This year, VPL has added a new video category for teens to showcase their videography skills.

I am very proud to announce that VPL has received a 2010 R.A.V.E. Award (Recognizing Arts Vaughan Excellence) in the category of Literary Arts as an Art Educator/Mentor for organizing the Early Harvest Competition for teens in Vaughan since 1989. Developed by the Vaughan Arts Advisory Committee with the support of Vaughan Council, these awards recognize vast contributions that enhance the vitality of the arts in our City.

On behalf of the competition organizers, I would like to extend a sincere thank you to all individuals who have supported Early Harvest. Thank you to our judges, Deborah Kerbel, Fil Martino, Mirella Tersigni, David West and Elana Wolff for reviewing the submissions and selecting the winning entries. We wish to thank our sponsors, Library Services Centre and Canadian Video Services Inc. for their generosity. The Board also acknowledges the hard work and commitment of the staff at VPL who conduct outreach to promote Early Harvest at all area schools and numerous community organizations.

Vaughan Public Libraries is dedicated to creating a stimulating and rewarding environment that inspires learning by encouraging teens to share and showcase their ideas.

On behalf of the Board, I congratulate all authors, photographers, artists, videographers and contributors who participated in this year’s Competition. I warmly encourage them to continue developing their creative talents.

Gino Rosati Chairman, Vaughan Public Library Board

VPL’s Board Members Front Row L to R - Marie Chiaromonte, Michael McKenzie (Vice Chair), Gino Rosati (Chairman), Filippo Gravina Back Row L to R - Rajbir Singh, Suri Rosen, Tony Genco, Mario F. Ferri, Margie Singleton (Chief Executive Officer), Devender Sandhu, Lorraine de Boer, Jeffrey Stone, Rocco Capone Absent: Isabella Ferrara, Pradeep Puri, Alan Shefman

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Early Harvest is an annual competition of creative writing, sketching, painting and photography for teens 12 to 18 years of age who live or go to school in the City of Vaughan.

Meet the Winners SKETCHING & PAINTING My World 1st Prize Robert Thompson 2nd Prize Julian Quattrociocchi 3rd Prize Michelle Su

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The People Around Me 1st Prize Melissa Thompson 2nd Prize Rhiannon Knibbe 3rd Prize Danielle Zandueta

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VIDEO 1st Prize 2nd Prize 3rd Prize

Arkin Sampath Anjelo Niko L. Acob, Anthony Iannarella, Erin Mitchell, Joshua Soosaithasan Katya Kisselev

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POETRY 1st Prize 2nd Prize 3rd Prize

“Yonge and Eglinton” by Edmee Nataprawira “The Sunset” by Shayna Goldenberg “This Trip Down Memory Lane is Hard for me to Explain” by Stefano Recchia

PHOTOGRAPHY My World 1st Prize Daniel Zanon 2nd Prize Stefano Recchia 3rd Prize Kara Schuringa

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The People Around Me 1st Prize Victoria DeRooy 2nd Prize Marcel Mazzucca 3rd Prize Samantha Bifolchi

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Digitally Manipulated 1st Prize Mitchell Castellano 2nd Prize Theo Tsanas 3rd Prize Louisa Au

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SHORT STORY 1st Prize 2nd Prize 3rd Prize

“Made” by Tali Voron “The Book” by Jordi Klein “Broken Bottles” by Courtney Firestone

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Chief Executive Officer Margie Singleton Early Harvest Team Elaine Barr John Pichette Farida Shaikh Jennifer Stephen Elyse Trojman Terri Watman Arielle Zomer

Vaughan Public Libraries’ Annual Early Harvest Competition is administered by the Vaughan Public Library Board.

Cover Artwork: Mitchell Castellano Special thanks to our sponsors:

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My World

1st PRIZE ~ Robert Thompson, age 13

2nd PRIZE Julian Quattrociocchi, age 18

3rd PRIZE Michelle Su, age 16

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The People Around Me

1st PRIZE ~ Melissa Thompson, age 17

2nd PRIZE Rhiannon Knibbe, age 16 3rd PRIZE Danielle Zandueta, age 14

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1st PRIZE ~ Arkin Sampath, age 13 “My Library is a Community Necessity”

2nd PRIZE ~ Anjelo Niko L. Acob, age 13 Anthony Iannarella, age13 Erin Mitchell, age 12 Joshua Soosaithasan, age 13 “The Perfect Place”

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3rd PRIZE ~ Katya Kisselev, age 12 “What the Library Means to Me”

1st PRIZE

by Edmee Nataprawira, age 15

Yonge and Eglinton It was new, once upon a time, before tiny ticks toddled like a silent line of ants, stitching bridges between torn seams and scarring the tired fabric with their footprintsofthread.

It shields him from the half-stares of the strolling silhouettes who casually brand him s-t-u-p-i-d and l-a-z-y, dirty and dangerous.

And is this all because he has exactly two cents in a paper cup and a coat that was new once upon a time?

‥ Poetry entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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2nd PRIZE

by Shayna Goldenberg, age 16 The Sunset The sun flails, Its luminescence quivering as the looming threat, Whose sadistic laughter is heard amongst the skies, Rises to obtain power from the light.

The sun screams in agony, Its bright glow muted by the coldness of the night, Its struggle, a vain attempt to remain superior, Thwarted as the darkness creeps closer.

The sky rumbles a menacing laugh, Words thick and incoherent to instill fear, Like a predator stalking its prey, Relishing the fear before the attack.

The sun sets indignantly, Unwilling to relinquish its reign in the sky, But can no longer withstand the power of the night, As night’s malignant power corrupts the heavens, Upset and defeated, Light retreats.

‥ Poetry entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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3rd PRIZE

by Stefano Recchia, age 17 This Trip Down Memory Lane is hard for me to Explain I took a walk in a big ticking clock, The hands swayed too quickly, I couldn’t keep up; I fell out of the way, I fell far away, I felt the heat and tension around me because I’ve heard what people say, A strong taste of warm heat drenched me, When I fell down a long drain, I swear it almost drowned me as I couldn’t find my way, My way back up, back on the ground.

Stuck in this drain, my veins cold and gray, I remembered the strangest thing, A time when I flew away, That day, seems so far away, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I saw Images on the floor, The colours jumped up, and set in my mind.

They reminded me of the pictures I drew once upon a time, The memories don’t last, as they did once before, However I don’t consider going back anymore.

I heard the loudest crash, but wasn’t quick enough to look back, It reminded me of how fast life has passed, life can pass, and life will pass, Hold on to the hands on this ticking clock, or you’ll become part of the past, Stuck in the past, you won’t last!

You’ll never last.

I smelt the smell of an unfinished piece, Awaiting for me, And it reminded me, Of how uniform life, tends to be.

I felt the heat of the sun overpower me, as it usually does, when I rest my hand on the future, I can’t stand what it does to me, Today I know where it will take me, But I’m scared for tomorrow I don’t, I’m scared of the outcomes that haunt me, Especially when everyone believes that I won’t, I won’t achieve the dreams in which only I believe in, And I dislike who I’m being here, What I’m writing because, you see, This has no meaning, just many words put together, To give everyone a false sense of feeling, I’ve felt like this once before, scared of the ideas I had, not able to be shown, On a stage, But all alone ‡ Poetry entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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My World

1st PRIZE ~ Daniel Zanon, age 13

2nd PRIZE Stefano Recchia, age 17

3rd PRIZE Kara Schuringa, age 15

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The People Around Me

1st PRIZE ~ Victoria DeRooy, age 14

2nd PRIZE Marcel Mazzucca, age 12

3rd PRIZE Samantha Bifolchi, age 17

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Digitally Manipulated

1st PRIZE ~ Mitchell Castellano, age 18

2nd PRIZE Theo Tsanas, age 16

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3rd PRIZE Louisa Au, age 15

Deborah Kerbel Deborah Kerbel is an author of primarily young adult fiction. Her previous novels include Mackenzie, Lost and Found and Girl on the Other Side, which was shortlisted by the Canadian Library Association for the 2010 YA Book of the Year Award. She has also co-authored the Quizmas series of family Christmas trivia books.

Deborah’s latest novel, Lure, is a YA thriller about a teenager being drawn to a library that is rumoured to be haunted. A lifelong avid reader, she began writing soon after she finished her degree in English Literature at the University of Western Ontario. Born in London, England, Deborah currently lives in Thornhill with her husband and two children.

Fil Martino Fil Martino is a reporter for First Local on Rogers Television. She has produced many news serials including: The Last Days of the Dump – chronicling the life of the Keele Valley landfill site and Life After SARS – a look at what life is like for EMS workers in York Region after SARS, among others. Fil has received media awards for her coverage of crime stories and police programs from both the OPP and York Regional Police. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature from the University of Toronto and a Radio and Television Arts diploma from Seneca College.

Mirella Tersigni Mirella Tersigni established A Stroke of Art Inc., providing services for youth in creative development using the visual arts. She has created resourceful workshops with both the York Region and Toronto school boards, as well as art programs for those with intellectual disabilities. As an arts advocate, Mirella is an active member of the Vaughan community and sits on several boards and committees involved in promoting the arts. In 2009, she was awarded the Vaughan R.A.V.E Award for Educator/Mentor in the visual arts. Mirella is a graduate of the Ontario College of Art & Design.

David West David West is the owner of West Photo, and has been the principal photographer at his studio for the past 25 years. David has been the recipient of numerous national and international awards for his work, including twice winning Ontario Portrait Photographer of the Year. He has earned the prestigious Master of Photographic Arts degree from the Professional Photographers of Canada, and received a Richmond Hill Chamber of Commerce, Business Achievement Award. He is currently the Chair of the Board of the Chamber. David’s studio, West Photo, specializes in creative portrait, wedding, and special event photography. It is located at 120 Newkirk Road in Richmond Hill.

Elana Wolff Elana Wolff has taught English as a Second Language at York University and at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. She currently divides her time between writing, editing, and facilitating therapeutic art. Elana has published four collections of poetry with Guernica Editions: Birdheart (2001), Mask (2003), You Speak to Me in Trees (2006)—winner of the 2008 F.G. Bressani Prize for Poetry, and Slow Dancing: Creativity in Illness (2008), a joint work with the late Malca Litovitz. Implicate Me, a collection of short essays on poems by Greater Toronto Area poets is scheduled for release this summer.

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1st PRIZE

by Tali Voron, age 14

Made.

I was minding my business one day, just floating around in eternity. All of a sudden, I felt a slight tugging on my left side. It was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I had never really felt much before, let alone anything like this. Yet the sinking feeling wouldn’t go away, in fact over time it turned into more of a yanking. Of course, being me, I didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary, so I carried on with my dull, self reliant, lonely existence.

That’s when it happened. I was floating gracefully one second and being wrenched into what seemed like a deep, bottomless hole the next. It was as if an invisible arm had gotten a hold of me and was hauling me down. I was a paper clip, and there was a giant magnet below me.

Shockingly enough, the so-called “bottomless hole” wasn’t as infinite as I had originally thought because I did eventually land. Luckily, the wrenching sensation was gone but in its place was this awful clicking. It was incredibly loud and could’ve easily overpowered any sound, if there were to be one anyway.

It’s funny because I thought the worst possible feeling was being jerked down into that never ending pit, but boy was I wrong, very wrong. With the clicking noises getting louder and more frequent, I felt myself being pulled in every direction, being altered in minor ways at a slow, painful pace. I don’t know how long it continued for, but being alive for eternity I have no use for time. It’s not like it really exists or I actually acknowledge it. But now I know what it really is. I felt like the pinching and prodding went on for longer then I’d been alive. Believe me, that is saying something.

Thankfully, it ended. A wave of relief swept over me. Immense relief. I gazed down at myself and realized that I was no longer a transparent blob. With each click clicking sound, something was added to me, whether it was to my physical appearance, personality or mind. I couldn’t believe it, the day had finally come. Soon enough, I gained true sight and I began to know everything for what it really was.

Strange black shapes were whizzing past me, going at a mile a minute. Something inside my head told me they were letters, which then formed words. Knowledge was filling me as I became more comfortable with my new body. I had no idea how this was happening but somehow these “words” were becoming one with me. I was being made. *** With each word, something was added to me. I could feel myself evolving and growing stronger.

More powerful. I was gaining information, my brain soaking up knowledge at a rapid pace. I could form thoughts and phrases. I even had a set personality. I learned that I had a family, and I lived in a nice cottage by a beautiful beach. However, I was learning more than positive things about my life and myself. ‡ Short story entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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I discovered horrible things too. I saw flashes from my difficult childhood, learned that I was divorced twice and widowed once, and I looked like I hadn’t set foot in a gym for quite a few years if you know what I mean.

A strange yet new emotion flooded through me as soon as my brain began completely understanding this new set of information. I can’t quite explain it. My face burned red, and I felt hot and itchy all over. I felt a fire raging inside of me and it was threatening to explode. The word describing this new emotion popped into my head. Anger.

“This isn’t right!” The words flashed out and I heard them echo around me. Who did that?

Who said it?

“This isn’t fair!” There it was again. But this time the voice sounded more menacing. The voice sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t concentrate on it just yet.

“Change me back this instant! I am not THAT hard to live with! Or fat!” Right then I realized the voice was mine. I had no idea I gained so much strength. All of a sudden, I heard something beyond the clicking.

It was another voice.

“This is you Jenna, You’re staying just the way you are.” I was taken aback; I guess this is the creator of my marvellous life. There must be something more I can do. I finally have a somewhat interesting existence and it fills me with misery? Oh no. I am not the right person to mess with.

“Look buddy, thanks for making me, and we both know I am not an angry woman but if I was left twice and widowed once, I don’t think you want to get on my bad side.” I was proud of my quick-witted comeback, it’s not often I have those.

“You don’t scare me Jenna! I made you! And I will do with you what I please! It’s not like you could make me change you anyway.”

“Oh you did not just go there. Alright well let’s see, a little positive thinking should do the trick.” I started to focus all my energy into making myself skinnier. It’s best to start small. Within moments, I was looking down at myself with a brand new figure, my old clothing draping over me like a curtain.

“You may have created me, but I can change myself as much as I please. I have the power. You might have made me, but I have it made. You know, if I really wanted to, I could just walk out of your story and there goes the main character of your book...”

“Jenna wait! Let’s negotiate!” The voice wavered but it sounded sincere.

“Oh alright. Conjure up a Starbucks for me will you? I’ll meet you there in 10 minutes; I want to take a ride in my brand new Ferrari first.”

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2nd PRIZE

by Jordi Klein, age 15

The Book

“Stop!”

“Thief!”

The cries followed Noam as he ran down the slippery cobblestone street, but he paid them little notice. The sky was thick with dark storm clouds and the rain was growing steadily heavier, and he was not going to be caught, thanks to the storm. The book he had stolen just moments earlier was safely under his tunic. He knew nothing of the book or its contents, only that it had been so long since he’d had something decent to read. The wind blew dripping strands of dark hair into his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently, blinking rain out of his eyes as he went. In a few minutes, he was a fair bit away from the bookshop, where there were no people wandering the streets. Noam ducked into a safe alcove where a blanket, an old lantern and a dry set of clothes were waiting. He sighed happily and removed the book from under his tunic.

It was only then that he got a proper look at the book. Its cover was of soft black leather with brass embellishments on the corners to hold it down properly. He reached out, stroked the leather once and then drew his hand away quickly- it felt too much like skin. The pages were worn and creamy and they had a distinct old quality. Noam dried his hands on the blanket, settled in against the brick and opened the cover. The first page held the title in perfect cursive, which Noam was too impatient to read... he flipped a few pages in- he found introductions to be boring- and read in the same neat script, It was in the midst of a storm that he stole me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a tornado on the way. Very basic thievery, I must say- no one would be mad enough to chase after a boy in rain and wind such as that.

Noam’s forehead creased in frustration. He found this story boring already. He flipped to the back of the book, but found it blank. Pages kept turning backwards until Noam found himself reading the same passage he had just read. He yelled and threw the book away into the storm. Noam wrapped himself in the thin wool blanket and sighed, letting the rhythmic pattering of the rain against the cobblestones drag him into sleep.

He did not sleep well that night. In the morning, he awoke to find he was sleeping on the skin-like leather book, looking like it had never been in the storm at all. Or had it? Noam didn’t remember much from the night before. He moaned. A tantalisingly mouth-watering scent was wafting out of the bakery, and his stomach roared.

But first, he had to take care of that book. It was starting to worry him. Now that he was really awake, he remembered that he had definitely thrown away the book last night. But how had it returned?

‡ Short story entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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Noam ran down to the canal. He wound up and launched the leather book into the air, where it fell into the water with a satisfying splash. He grimaced and watched it sink. After several minutes had gone by, Noam was content with his handiwork and left to inspect what a cluster of pigeons were picking at. He hoped it was something that could satiate his stomach. He jogged up to the flock. What he saw not only caused him to lose his appetite for any kind of food, but left his mouth hanging open comically. It was the book. But he had just thrown it into the river…he heard it splash, watched it sink…

Slowly, carefully, he picked up the book by the brass embellishments, trying not to touch the skin-leather of the cover. To his surprise, there were several more pages filled than the last time he’d read.

He tried to dispose of me again. When will he learn? In time, I suppose, but by then it will be too late...When should I dispose of the boy? His time is running out, certainly, but the question is when. And how.

Soon he will no longer be of use to me.

The boy is starting to aggravate me. He tried to burn me this morning and ruined his lantern while doing it. Silly boy. There is no more time for games. I think the river will be an appropriate place; I will dispose of him as he first tried to dispose of me.

A few days later found Noam weak and sickly; he was running a fever and a crippling cough, barely strong enough to keep his head up. He was flipping the pages looking for anything more in the perfect handwriting when he saw the light was fading fast, too fast. He scrambled for a candle, fumbling and burning himself as he tried to light it. He picked up the wax stump and held it a few centimetres away from the book. Barely able to see the page, Noam squinted as he read the fresh lettering: The end.

A sharp icy wind blew into the alcove, extinguishing the candles and practically blinding him. If Noam could have screamed, he would have. He doubled over, writhing in inexpressible agony. The book fell silently next to him. Then something smooth and cold was washing over him, dragging him. And he prayed and waited for the end that had been promised.

When Noam’s lifeless corpse was found by a fisherman three days later, the police were baffled.

They found no evidence of physical harm to the boy- the only thing they did find was a book, which the boy was holding in his arms. It was an empty journal. The cover was made of soft black leather with old brass embellishments on the corners and thin, creamy pages. What struck the police as most unusual was that the journal showed no traces of being in the water at all. It was too perfect.

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3rd PRIZE

by Courtney Firestone, age 16 Broken Bottles The line at the bank was long that day. Erin picked idly at an ingrown fingernail while she listened to the teller reiterate her instructions for a fourth time to an old man who was hard of hearing.

Normally, these kinds of things would annoy her. She briefly wondered why her infamous temper had not flared up yet, but then she remembered – she did not care. The teller could repeat herself all day and she probably would still not care. She had nowhere to be.

No, sir, swipe your card this way, please. The teller sounded young, although Erin could not see her face from this distance. Her voice was saturated with professional politeness, as though her patience were never-ending and saying the same words over and over were included in her contract. Erin wondered if this professional girl had a boyfriend, or if maybe she was an older woman who was married and happened to have a bizarrely youthful voice.

No, I said this way, sir. Erin smirked. An edge of irritation had crept into the teller’s voice. It made her seem normal, more human. Erin had already learned not to trust the sort of false kindness that the woman had been exuding previously. The expression “sickly sweet” had to originate from some truth, after all. Too much sweetness got nauseating and needed to be balanced. Dalia had taught her that.

Finally, the old man shuffled away with his bundle of traveler’s cheques. The floorboards seemed to heave a sigh of satisfaction when the people still in line took a step forward. As the teller began assisting the short man with a heavily accented voice who was next in the queue, Erin’s mind wandered.

Thinking of Dalia had brought suppressed memories to the forefront of her consciousness. She allowed the images to float one by one before her eyes.

There was Dalia in black jeans and a leather jacket sitting in the back row of history class. Then Dalia’s blond ponytail bouncing as she ran to catch up with Erin that first time, back when Erin was the shy one and Dalia was some distant star in an alternate universe, shiny and beautiful but unreachable.

Dalia waving her over to sit behind the storage shed with her rebel friends while they mocked the conformists who called themselves popular. That area was always buried beneath a layer of litter, but Erin had secretly cherished each piece of trash on the ground. They were concrete evidence of the time that was spent there, little mementos of the conversations that slowly swept away her inhibitions, statements that shouted, This is who we are! Erin realized there was nobody who would tell her if the place was cleaned; her stomach clenched when she considered all the memories thrown away. ‡ Short story entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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A tap on her shoulder brought Erin out of her daze for a moment. The line was moving at a much more reasonable pace now, and the middle-aged woman behind Erin was willing to wait no longer than absolutely mandatory. Erin stumbled forward to close the gap between her and the person in front of her, fleetingly catching the eye of a young man exiting the bank. Had Dalia been with her, nudging her along, Erin would have noticed how cute the curly-haired boy was. The girls would have bet on how quickly Erin could get him to offer her his number, and then she would have giggled, posed prettily and made one of her trademark faces that always won those bets for her. But it was impossible for Dalia to be there, and so all that Erin could do was slip once more beneath the crushing weight of the memories.

This time, she did not revisit those early days, the fun ones. These were shadowy, chaotic images that possessed a dark aura, tinged with the scent of danger and a pending sense of tragedy. Erin could see Dalia’s brightly lit bedroom in stark contrast to the terrible substances and utensils assembled on her duvet cover. Her nose filled with a phantom whiff of the smoke that used to transform the room into a place of hazy ecstasy and drift upwards to form a high-up cloud near the ceiling. Erin flinched as a montage of fragmented thoughts flashed rapidly through her mind – bottles cluttering a table, filled with alcohol and little pills; music played at ear-splitting volumes as the girls danced and spun; bubbles of daring and excitement rising in her chest and threatening to overtake her. How could they have known that one of them would soon be overtaken?

Erin braced herself for the difficult part that she felt approaching. Her ears perceived the echo of a piercing shriek as Dalia, at her peak, took her fateful fall. As though she were living through it once again, Erin noticed how totally emptied the bottles were. She watched her friend lying on the floor, suffering from the excessive substances she had taken in and the steady pouring out of too-much blood from her head. After an eternity, the wailing of an ambulance was finally audible. But even through the fogginess that had settled over her mind, Erin had seen what escaped from Dalia together with her breath to join the haze near the ceiling. She knew it was too late before the others ever did.

The middle-aged woman cleared her throat loudly. She had no time to waste on this teenager’s folly. Erin staggered forward to the teller’s booth. Like artefacts from the distant past, revived remnants of her earlier curiosity about the teller returned to her. Apparently, though, she was not destined to be satisfied that day; the female teller had ended her shift and a pleasant, nondescript man in his mid-thirties had replaced her.

Erin approached this new unfamiliar teller. With grim determination in her voice, she said, “I’d like to close my account and withdraw every penny.” Looking down, she added in a whisper, “I’m getting out of here.”

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