BAA's Literary & Arts Magazine: May/June 2023

Editors' Note

Hello everyone, and welcome to The Cardinal’s last issue of the year! We are incredibly proud of our submitters for their beautiful contributions to this final summer-themed issue. You will find a wide variety of content, including photography and digital art from the downtown field trip, short stories, poems, and plenty of vibrant artwork.

Although this is our final year at Bishop Allen, we are so happy to have ended our high school experience on such a positive note. Over the course of these past two years, we hope you enjoyed reading this magazine just as much as we enjoyed putting it together. It was truly an unforgettable experience for all of us. This may be our last year as the executive team, but we are excited to announce that a new group of bright students will be taking over next year… please stay tuned!

One last thank you to our lovely submitters, our teacher moderator Ms. Conroy, and the entire Bishop Allen community for their unconditional support over the years. Lastly, we wanted to congratulate our fellow graduates from the class of 2023. We wish all of you the best of luck in the future! We know you are fully capable of achieving your goals, whatever they may be.

Have an amazing summer!

- Jenna Kim, Nina Popovic, Sophia Lezhanska, Erica Phelps

2021-2023 Executive Team

Table of Contents

Poetry

On the Beach by Lauren Mancini

(page 3)

Under Summer Stars by Pietra Melo (page 11)

Artwork

Cover Art by Sofia Teodorovych

Eternal Rest by Sophia Kim (page 2)

Disposed and Discarded by Sophia Kim (page 4)

Lemon Art by Aeden Rodriguez Greaves, Taliah

Likamshum, Harry Gomes, Sofia Teodorovych (page 5)

Queen's Park, Toronto by Sarah Trasolini (page 6)

Contemporary Still Life by Sofia Smiechowski (page 10)

Digital Art & Photography by Sophie Gariepy, Viktoria Mihalevska, Kenzington Lehman (page 17)

Hunter by WIlliam Litwin (page 12)

Lily Full of Grace by Emily Neto (page 13)

Summer at the Rideau Canal by Lauren Mancini (page 15)

Written Pieces

A Letter to My Past Self by Ronny Reynard (page 1)

Seasons by Anonymous (page 16)

A Letter to My Past Self

by Ronny Reynard

Dear 14-year-old me,

Hey, hello! It’s me, your future self. More specifically, I’m you nearly four years from now. I’m still a teenager, but my 18th birthday is in less than two months.

I heard you’re having a hard time getting used to high school and that you keep crying over your new circumstances. I’m very sorry to hear that, little buddy. You don’t deserve that at all and it’s not your fault, no matter how weird and awkward you claim you are. We are all like that one way or another— even me, almost four years later. But if there’s one thing I look away from these past 1,205 days, it’s that slowly but surely, you learn to accept yourself for who you are and truly embrace your weird, beautifully unique self.

I know it’s far too early for you to be thinking about this night now, but I figured I’d tell you anyways: you’ve been accepted to TMU! You’re going into Media Production, to be more specific. Isn’t that wonderful? Look at just how far you’ve gotten since September 2019. You’re going to share your ideas and storytelling skills to the world and go on to do great things.

What I’m really trying to say is that no matter how bad things seem right now, they are always bound to get better. You’d be surprised at how much you change for the better in a single year.

Anyways, remember to chin up, do the things that make you happy, and love yourself.

Until then, Ronny Reynard

Eternal Rest Eternal Rest

By Sophia Kim

On The Beach On The Beach

By: Lauren Mancini

Waves crash to the shore Waves crash to the shore

Seashells glisten on the sand Seashells glisten on the sand

The sun is beaming The sun is beaming

By Sophia Kim

Aeden Rodriguez Greaves (top left), Taliah Likamshum (top right), Harry Gomes (bottom left), Sofia Teodorovych (bottom right)

Queen's Park, Toronto

By Sarah Trasolini

Chasing Butterflies

By: Erica Phelps

I am sitting here and you are telling me a story.

That time in June when we went to the lake, do you remember? We swam in crisp, cool waters, and you screamed when I splashed at your hair. We had forgotten towels, so when we got out we had to let the sun dry our bodies while we lay in the grass eating wild blueberries. There was a butterfly. And then another, and another. We chased them until the sun set, and your mother was calling for you to come home. Do you remember?

I don’t. You say it wasn’t long ago. I’m not sure if there is something wrong with my brain, or yours, or if the world has grown so consuming that there is no longer anything memorable about a butterfly.

Nevertheless, I smile and nod. I tell you that I remember and that it was like a dream.

Your eyes are blue like the bicycle I rode as a child. I find that I get lost in them, sinking through murky days when I would ride it home through the park and to school through the alleyway. My eyes are grey, like my favourite colour that I can’t remember anymore.

You are frowning at me.

I blush, attempting to conceal this feeling I have that I don’t belong here that I am in a graveyard, but am not dead.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I playfully ask.

“I want to show you something. I need your help,” you say. You rummage through your bag and I think about how I had forgotten how your voice sounds like crackling campfires and sharp pencils scratching paper.

From your bag you take out a photograph. It is folded in half, and when you straighten it out there is a harsh crease through the middle. Other than that, the photo is in pristine condition.

The picture is of a girl in a yellow dress, sitting on a tree thick branch. She is smiling widely, but her grin is obscured by the line left by the fold. There is an odd familiarity surrounding the girl. I feel as though I knew her some time ago. I feel as though I have memories with this girl, but they are too deep in my brain to recall, like a butterfly flying inches away from my fingertips.

I take the photo gently from your hands and hold it cautiously by its edges.

“What is this?” I ask, my voice so quiet that I can hardly hear it myself. You seem to have no trouble deciphering my murmur. “I found it under my bed.” You shift closer to me, your breath like a field breeze in my ear.

“Do you see the tree in the background?”

I nod.

“I can’t help but feel like I’ve been there before. Do you know what I mean?”

I do. I most certainly do.

“I was wondering if you’d like to help me find it?”

I look at you at your eyes. I think again of my bicycle, how I don’t know where it is anymore.

I say yes.

It took us less than two hours to find the tree. For two hours we rode our bikes, turning down roads where the sun cast pretty shadows of the trees, or where things simply felt right.

It is impossible to feel the strain of two hours when we see the tree. It is alone in a field of yellow flowers, standing declaratively, as if demanding to be seen.

You see it first. I only see it when I see you watching me, and the foreign intimacy of your gaze makes me turn my head away.

We park our bikes on the side of the road and push our way through the thick tangles of flowers to the old, thick trunk.

Gently, I run my hands along its roughness, imagining the tiny atoms left behind by past touches jumping into my fingertips. I look up, and watch the leaves above flutter in a silent breeze. Its entire presence feels like a song I used to love but had forgotten the name of.

“Is this it?” you ask, and I am jolted out of my trance. You hand me the picture of the girl on the tree.

I glance at it quickly and hand it back, smiling shyly. “How should I know?”

You look confused. “Well, you’re the one in the picture.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“The girl in the picture. It’s you.”

With a heavy, indescribable sadness, I realize that you are right. The sadness seeps its way through my body, and suddenly my legs are too tired to move and I am begging the yellow flowers to tangle themselves around my legs and never let me leave.

A butterfly dances over my head, lightly brushing my hair. You point at it and laugh, your bicycle-blue eyes lighting up with joy. You skip after it, calling for me to join.

I wish I would. I wish I wanted to. I really do.

It’s silly and almost naïve how time is told in a circle when it runs in a line.

I leave you running after the butterfly, and force my heavy legs to walk away.

Contemporary Still Life Contemporary Still Life

By Sofia Smiechowski By Sofia Smiechowski

UNDER SUMMER STARS

BY PIETRA MELO

Runningonthebeachandsandbeneathyourfeet, Thewarm,settingsunandbarbequetoeat.

Thedimmingoftheskybringsyounowtowhereyouare: Layingonthedunes,undersummerstars. Thedrive-inmoviestarts,smellofpopcornintheair, thehumid,summerwindblowscoollythroughyourhair.

Thecinematicpicturebringsyounowtowhereyouare: Sittinginyourcar,undersummerstars.

Afamiliarsounddrivesallaroundtheblock, Theicecreamtruckparksnearthetreesandtherocks.

Sweetvanillascoopsbringyounowtowhereyouare: Layingonthegrass,undersummerstars.

Loungingbythesea,gazingattherollingtides, Whileotherstrytosurf,youliketowatchtherides. Thecool,oceanbreezebringsyounowtowhereyouare: Layingonthesand,undersummerstars.

Hunter

by William Litwin

Lily Full of Grace

by Emily Neto

Objects Tell a Story

ArtiststatementofEmilyNeto's"LilyFullofGrace"

I turn on the faucet, the water rushes out. Originally, I planned to use a minimal amount of water. Just a few drops for my wilting flowers. But once I turn the ceramic handle, my control weakens and slips down the drain. The basin fills with a violent rush of water and although I only meant to fill this can, I am drowning. I feel the skin on the tips of my fingers beginning to prune and wrinkle, and in a matter of minutes, the feeling consumes my whole body. My supple skin creases and folds. The curls of my hair unify under the weight of the water and envelop the d like a liquid halo. I claw and grasp at asin, but the slippery concave surface not allow me to escape.

Seasons

By Anonymous

Summer brought upon a moment of sweetness, like saccharine black berries. Mystical stories flowed through the wind, like puerile tales of dragons and fairies. The Aureate sun beams on the horizon and balmy breezes whistle like doves. The moisture of the morning webs like a membranous layer over the grassland and the ephemeral feelings written in the atmosphere cement themselves into my skin. But still, the hum of cicadas echos in the distance, signaling an ending, marking a sense of loss.

Autumn arrives the warmth of the air is sunken into the colours of the leaves and thick sap,viscous and heavy with lament, slowly pools in crevices in the oak. The weather chills and life decays, preparing for the numb, biting cold gnawing at my flesh. Crestfallen hearts and snow banks crust over grasslands and drink the life out of the greenery.

The first snowflakes of winter fall, as do tears from our eyes. They do not dew and dance on the grass, they freeze, they crystallize, and sink below the surface. The sun sets later, and the darkness looms over us. Cruel words whisper with the winds and I wistfully yearn for songbirds again.

Spring approaches, pregnant with flora and saturated with hope. Ripping through the earth with desire, life makes itself present in the form of growth. The rain pours itself over us and washes away the pain, clearing a path once more for the cyclical recurrence of life to decay.

DOWNTOWN TORONTO

Allofthiswork(fromthePhotographyAWQ4M1andDigitalArts AWS4M1classes)isavisualresponsetotheplacesandthingsthat studentssawandexperiencedonourDowntownTorontoPhotoWalk triponMay11.StudentsvisitedGraffitiAlley,Chinatown, KensingtonMarket,Queen'sPark,UofT,andTheROM.Students wereaskedtoworkwithinavarietyofgenres(streetphotography, documentary,fashionandarchitecturalphotography)when documentingtheirexperience.

ARCHITECTURE

BY SOPHIE GARIEPY

PAINTING BUILDING

BY KENZINGTON

LEHMAN

BY VIKTORIA MIHALEVSKA