h C din l
May/June
he Cardinal’ s last issue of the 2023-2024 school year! sed to once again share the creativity of Bishop Allen udent body.
une ’ s Pride Month, this year ’ s summer issue has ion from Heartstopper, the queer comic series and on. We hope the mood of the soothing pastels and llows you into the summer vacation.
al year at Bishop Allen, thus it is also our last issue as s executive editorial team. It has been such a joy e artistry of this school’s creatives. We hope your d literature continues well beyond high school, and es as an anchor that carries you through life. This may be our executives, but our passion for The Cardinal will be new group of brilliant students next year...please the contributors of the magazine, our club members, oderator, Ms. Conroy, and our readers. The support is the spark that keeps this magazine going. ratulations to our fellow graduates from the class of re is bright and the possibilities are endless.
Recipe: Summertime Lemon Pie
by Pietra Melo
Ingredients
Crust:
1 pack of Maria cookies
2 tbsp unsalted room temperature butter (add more if needed!)
Filling:
1 can of condensed milk
1 can of thick cream
1.5 lemons (juice)
How to Prepare: preheat the oven to 350ºF 1. Blend the Maria cookies alone until they become crumbs 2. In a bowl, mix the cookie crumbs with the butter until forming a crumbly dough
3. Mold the crumbly dough into a pie pan, and place in the oven for 10 minutes
4. In a small bowl, extract the lemon juice with a lemon squeezer. Make sure you don’t get any pulp or seeds!
5. In a blender, combine the lemon juice, condensed milk, and thick cream 6. Take the crust out of the oven and allow it to cool 7. After cooling, pour the filling into the crust 8. Add some lemon zest over the pie 9. Place in the fridge for 1 hour 10. Enjoy! 11.
By Norah Ferlejowski
By Norah Ferlejowski By Norah Ferlejowski
River Recollections by Fiona Browne
We venture through the wooded trail, each branch extending its hand to us in greeting. Dusk is dawning, and we feel the air begin to chill. You hug your arms protectively around your body as if the tight embrace can protect against your rising goosebumps. We arrive finally to our spot of solitude, a place for only you and me. It is here where we peel back the layers of ourselves until we reveal nothing but our raw truths. Despite my vulnerability on full display, I know you would never judge, for in our secret garden, our friendship grows as beautiful as flowers, as quick as weeds.
We anchor ourselves beside one another on our favourite rock, our knees brushing gently. I pick up my cell phone and search for our shared playlist. What is a deep, intellectual conversation without the soft hum of our favourite songs? My Spotify scavenger hunt complete, we gaze upon my screen to admire the playlist cover, a picture of the two of us smiling widely. What wonderful time we share. I press shuffle and let out a satisfactory exhale as the tune of the Lumineers merges with the sounds of surrounding nature. The river rushes fiercely around our rock island, rendering us two lost souls stranded at sea with no company but our own. I wouldn’t mind this fantasy. Ducks and swans float peacefully through the water’s current and the zig-zagged path of falling leaves finally come to rest beside our feet.
We talk for ages, topics of conversation flowing as freely as the surrounding water. The only breaks are when we simply must sing along to the chorus of whatever song has stolen our attention. In our secret heaven, we laugh until our stomachs turn to knots and our breath becomes just out of reach. We also cry, my arm wrapped gently around your shoulders. Even when my arm grows tired and begins to cramp, I would never dare to move it. Your happiness outweighs any discomfort I may feel, for I would do just about anything for someone like you.
Flowers Wordplay
BY Jane Hornsby
FlashFiction
If We’re Both Still Single by 30
Blowing out candles, 30, still single. “How foolish we were, ” she laughs, remembering their pact. His heart drops. Clutching the velvet box in his pocket.
Childhood Home
Grazing her fingertips against old family photos, she grins. “I’ll miss this place,” she says coldly. Striking the match and dropping it behind her.
I told the Moon About You
Beneath the darkness, I tell the moon about you once more, just as the day we met, but now while searching for you amongst the stars.
byAngelinaFar
Birthday Balloon
Smiling, she releases her balloo
“We’ll replace it,” I reassure. S shakes her head. “I gave it to Dadd she says, pointing towards the sk
Best Friends
“He’ s cheating,” she sobs, clutching the gold earring. Embracing her with one hand, I slip the other beneath my hair, removing my lone gold earring.
Despite superstition, he couldn't resist. He opened the bride's changeroom door, jittery with excitement. A wideopen window, a flash of white fabric sprinting away.
Cold Feet
POTLIGHT
by Stefan Hansen
Ah, but have you seen the night’s lanterns burning?
They sear crawling critters and flood fence fern ’n flagstone with glow,
The fences eagerly awake with light for just a while longer.
For when we dance, we shall bathe in a vast confetti of joy
The breeze will stay up late with us, like a blanket over our skin,
Or a tender, wise uncle who is smiling at our youthfulness.
The words for such a cherished atmosphere evade its true nature.
A mystery in a fixed view: contemplation in peace.
Harmony and elegance in four floodlights casting righteous shadows over bushes.
Take pause specifically to interrupt menial tasks: they are doomed to oblivion anyway.
When you detect a subtle beauty, do not dismiss its importance due to its lack of popularity.
Revel in pioneered zest and plant your flag in the territory which you have uncovered.
For when we dance, we shall in a confetti, but have you seen the night’s lanterns burning?
A mystery in a fixed view, casting righteous beauty from oblivion.
They sear critters while the wind comforts us as our fathers should’ve.
Contemplating in peace, dismissing the popularity of flags planted,
Uncovering shadows with light for just a while longer.
Togoornottogo—thatisthequestion: Whether‘tisbettertostay
Inaplaceofroutine,consistency,andrhythm
Orembarkonanunknownadventure, Filledwithbreath-takingsights
Andbybookingaflightexperiencethem.Tostay—togo, Nomore;andbyatriptosaywearereborn
Intoasoulofnewcolourandperspective
Differentfromthecurrentuniformitythatweareheirto:
‘Tisanexoticescapedevoutlytobewish’d.Tostay togo, Agetaway,avoyage,thefeelofforeignsoilbeneathyourfeet.
Totravel,perhapstoliveabroad ay,there’sthedream:
Forinthosefewweekswhenyoursurroundingsarefresh, Withsightsofnewland,andsoundsofnewtongue,
Whenwehaveshuffledoffthestaticdrudgeryofdailylife, Mustgiveuspause—there’stherespectthatmakesbeautyofsolonglife.
Forwhowouldbearthedeadlinesandschedulesoftime,
Theassignments,exams,andtestscores
Thebillstopay,theshiftstowork, Thefuturetoplan,andthestress
ASoliloquybyPietraMelo
Togruntandsweatunderawearylife, Withthepressureofworkingandsucceeding Inasocietythatisgivennotimeforbreaks? Butthatthedreadoftheworldturningtoofast, Oftimemovingforwardandyoustandingstill, Anurgetovisittheun’discoveredcountrysurges Aplacewheretravellersreturn,anewandrefreshed Andmakesusratherthirstforthethrillofourownadventure Toleaveourmonotonousworldsbehind.
Thusanappetiteforlifemakestravellersofusall, Yearningforthetasteoftheunfamiliar; Andthustheorangehueofasunsetfromtheairplane, Issickliedoverthepalecastofpredictability, Andenterprisesofgreatpithandmoment, Withthisregardourworryandrepetitionturnsawry, Discardedbythejoysoftheunchartedworldabroad, Andrenewthesoulinthenameofliving.
UnbreakableStrings
Poem by Jenna Kim
Artwork by Katie Kim
*Inspired by the novel, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
St by Lil
Record Player
by Alyssa Hilario
In my basement lies a box of magic. On its own it is nothing special. But if you feed it a disk it comes to life suddenly. Like a good friend it has a voice and it has a heart. As needle hits vinyl stories are projected
Still Life
Birthday Bash
by:
Jordan Kinch and Destiny Ehana
No Thank You
By Osasu Osagie
No thank you. I like my laugh as is. There’s no need to be quieter. My laugh is passionate and loud, full of heartiness. I laugh to feel it.
No thank you. I cannot shrink. I'm not small. I don't wish to take any measure that would reduce me down to the comfortability of others.
No thank you. I quite like my weight. To reject it would be to reject those of my image, before and after, my time.
I squint at friends with anger when they insinuate the weight they’ve gained diminishes their beauty. Yet I scrutinize my own.
I push and maneuver my rolls, manipulating them to be out of sight, and angry when they make themselves visible.
No, thank you. I don't want to adhere to the perception of me which rings true for those who glance in my direction. I am black, loud, and bigger than most of my peers. I am so much more than some silly small box I’m to be conformed in. There is so much to me that stays undiscovered, unseen. The depth to which my layers go, seems to scare most divers.
By Anonymous
y g p always been a man of very few words, but he s always made up for it in other ways. Growing up he would play with us kids in the barn for hours. Even when he looked tired he would wipe the sweat off of his face and continue to chase us around. When the dinner bell rang we would all race back to the house barefoot and covered in straw. He always let us join him on his walks through the back fields, indulging in our competition of who could find the best walking stick. And when we would climb up to the abandoned tree fort, he would sit waiting patiently for us at the bottom.
In the winter we would skate on the frozen creek playing hockey or seeing who could skate out the furthest across the rough, icy surface. Then when it got too cold we would make hot chocolate, warm up by the fire, and play with building blocks, board games or puzzles. Grandpa would always linger there even after we had given up and abandoned the project to finish whatever we had been working on. He took satisfaction in finding the final piece of the puzzle, a restoration of order.
Late at night we would get him to put on movies. He would never join us, instead hovering next to the couch before announcing he was off to bed.
“Goodnight Grandpa, I love you, ” is what I always said. It's what I still say. “Goodnight” is what my Grandpa would say in return. Now he says nothing at all. I wish that I had asked him to watch movies with us more often.
Sometimes we would let ourselves into his room where he was usually tuning his guitar. We would beg him to play our favourite songs. He always said yes. We would laugh and dance around the small room. He always said that we were going to leave dents in the floorboards. Sometimes we would
ride the rusty old bikes along the dirt country road to the caravan park, watching people fish and rolling up our pants so we could wade out into the shallow waters.
I used to make bad jokes at the dinner table that would make everybody simultaneously groan or make weird faces. My grandma would scold me, but if I looked fast enough I could see my grandpa quietly smile down at his plate or give me an amused look with raised eyebrows. That was the only way I could get him to laugh, even if it was covered up by a cough. I can't do that anymore. Now grandpa stares blankly across the room. He stopped going to the barn and the walks through the fields are filled with silence. We haven't skated on the creek in years and we got too old for puzzles. He doesn't play the guitar as well as he used to so we stopped asking for our favourite songs. He doesn’t ride bikes anymore and he doesn't remember how to get the TV to work.
I used to be sad when my grandpa wouldn’t say that he loved me back. My mum would always remind me that people show their love for others in many different ways. Even though you can't show me you love me in all the little ways you used to, I will still tell you that I love you. The farm seems a lot smaller than it did when I was a kid. The bannister is too creaky to slide down and my favourite tree has rotted away. Sometimes it feels as though you have already died. The grandpa that would throw me over his shoulders like it was nothing or let me give treats to the dog…that grandpa is gone. Now you are just a shell of who you used to be.
But sometimes I'll feel a dent in the floorboards or hear my little cousins laughing from the barn and I'm reminded that you'll never fully be gone. Even though you can't remember my name and you've never said that you love me, I won't forget who you once were. I loved you then and I love you now grandpa. And if you are to only remember one thing, please remember that.
Frisbee and Family by Grace Stidham
The frisbee flies through the humid air and hits the bottle. It tumbles off its resting place, striking the ground with a triumphant thud. I scream, throw my hands up in joy, and hug my uncle. As 90s rap blasts in the background, I gloatingly dance while my brother yells at me from across the backyard. My young cousin whips the frisbee at me with startling intensity, and as I reach out to grab it, the can of sprite spills all over my tiny purple tank top. I giggle, knowing my shirt will dry soon enough in this stifling heat. As she dashes out of the house, my other cousin exclaims, “Gracie, will you come on the trampoline with me?!”
Much to my brother’ s chagrin, I exit the game and race to the shiny, new trampoline we transported across the cul-de-sac just two days before. We blissfully jump until I am double-bouncing her, as she shrieks joyously while flying through the summer air. We laugh breathlessly, then collapse on the bouncy, black rubber, basking in the soft moonlight, looking up at the twinkling stars.
The world around me spins, and the stars become nothing more than blurry orbs illuminating the midnight sky. We rest, breathing heavily, while I make silent wishes. Then, with a wild burst of energy unique to nine-year-old girls, my cousin jumps up and sprints across the dark yard to our family. I remain there, alone, turning to watch the end of the game I abandoned. The neon frisbee pierces the dark sky it flies through, evicting the bottle from its home. As my uncle victoriously dances along with the songs of his youth, I stumble through the narrow opening of the trampoline, applauding his feat. The crowd of young cousins splashes me with water from the hot tub as I skip through the dewy grass, my aunts and uncles laughing like drunken teenagers. In the centre of it all, my grandparents sit together, weathered hands clasped, watching their children and grandchildren, in quiet contentment at what they have created.
The shallow walls are crumbling d a deep rumble emanates from the pit. From the hearth my baby wails.
My child, the bombs are loud but your cries deafen. The gunshots ache but your tears pierce.
Do not cry, baby.
The walls are simply sugar, melted away by your tears.
I break away another fragment, the sugar crumbling away. I give it to you, I give it all to you.
And though my body crumbles, and my spirit and my home, too:
Do not fear, baby. I wipe your tears. I shield your ears.
The sweetness of the crumbs are waiting for you.
Crumbs.
by Anonymous
