THE CARDINAL Bishop Allen's Literary & Arts Magazine
JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2021
EDITOR'S NOTE: Welcome students, staff, family and friends of the Bishop Allen community to the first-ever issue of The Cardinal. This literary and arts magazine, composed of writing and artwork created by Bishop Allen students in grades 9-12, serves as a creative outlet during uncertain times. The world may seem bleak right now, but all it takes is one beautiful poem, one captivating story, or one vibrantly colourful painting to brighten someone’s day. If you are interested in that type of content, as well as book recommendations, a sweet recipe, and tips on how to achieve your goals in 2021, then you should definitely pick up this issue of The Cardinal. The members of our club would meet virtually to discuss submissions, layout, colour schemes, and everything else that made up The Cardinal. The January/February issue was inspired by our school pride, consisting of the Bishop Allen red, black, and white. With this issue being The Cardinal’s introduction to the Bishop Allen community, it seemed like the perfect choice. A special thank you to Ms. Conroy for acting as our teachersupervisor — none of this would have been possible without your guidance. Thank you as well to my editing team —Emily Zalewski and Veronika Lomets— and to all of the club members for submitting the various forms of writing and art that make up this magazine. You should all be very proud of your work; it was a pleasure to edit and display here. I hope you’ll show your creations to the people in your life and continue to submit writing or artwork to future issues.
- Grace Bogdani Editor-in-Chief
TABLE OF CONTENTS Short Stories Prisoner of Time, Part 1 by Sophia Lezhanska [pg 4] Murder in the Snow, Part 1 by Maja Bavcevic [pg 33] Poems Reflection by Echo [pg 26] In Your Eyes by Ava Vendittelli [pg 29] So Long, Summer! by Anonymous [pg 39] Merely a Memory by Anonymous [pg 42] Essays 2021 New Year’s Resolutions and How to Achieve Them by Claire Landry [pg 40] Book Reviews The Catcher in the Rye reviewed by Anonymous [pg 24] A Very Punchable Face: A Memoir reviewed by Sophie Costanino [pg 32] Recipes Shortbread and Jam Heart Cookies by Stephanie Staibano [pg 30] Artwork Sunrise in Athens (watercolour painting) by Veronika Lomets [cover] Oil on canvas still-life painting by Abigail D’Mello [pg 25] Mushrooms by Veronika Lomets [pg 28] Cupid's Faeries by Veronika Lomets [pg 31] Late-Night Drive (acrylic painting) by Justine Terka [pg 39] Let’s Talk Economics: Opportunity Cost! (infographic) by Stephanie Staibano [pg 43] The Cardinal by Sophia Lezhanska [back cover]
PRISONER OF TIME - PART 1 -
By Sophia Lezhanska Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I can’t hear anything except that continuous ticking sound, though it’s subdued and somewhere in the background. It seems far away. I can’t see anything – there’s just black. I’m not sure if I’m even awake; I can’t move or feel any part of my body. I can’t remember where I am or how I got here, or even who I am. But I have this vague feeling that maybe I should try to do something, like move or speak. The ticking sound gets louder, and eventually I can hear a beeping sound too. Eventually I come to the conclusion that I must not be awake, but I think I’m gaining consciousness. I try to open my eyes, but when I find that I can, I immediately regret doing it. The bright light shining down on me is so harsh that my eyes feel like they’re bleeding. All right, that might be a bit of an exaggeration. I guess I must be a dramatic person, whoever I am. I try again to open my eyes, and this time the light doesn’t hurt as much. I keep my eyes open and look around so I can figure out where I am. The ceiling and the walls are white (boring), and I appear to be in a small bed. There are two chairs by one of the walls, both of them occupied. The two women seated in this drab room are asleep, I think. Upon further inspection, I realize there are a bunch of tubes attached to me. Okay, so I’m in a hospital. Now I need to find out why.
- 4 -
I attempt to move one of my arms (which I then realize is in a cast), but a blinding pain goes through me. I groan, and one of the women in the room stirs in her sleep. She slowly tears her eyes open, and when she discovers that I am conscious, she starts to shake the other woman awake. Both of them are animated and eager within seconds. They rush up to me and one of them says, “Claire? Are you all right?” Huh. I guess I’m Claire then. Am I all right though? Not really. I’m in a hospital bed and I don’t think whatever’s wrong with me is minor. I mean, my left arm is definitely injured, and I don’t even know what’s going on with my legs. I can’t really move them, I don’t think. And neither of my ears seem to be working properly. The woman, when asking me if I am all right, was definitely not whispering, yet her voice sounds so quiet to me. “I guess so,” I lie to the woman. “But like, what’s wrong with me? Also, who are you? And who am I?” Wow, that was a lot to ask at once. I don’t know if I’m a talkative person or if it’s just the situation. All I know is that I’m very confused so I have a right to ask however many questions I want. The women glance at each other, both of them with a worried expression on their face. The other woman gently explains, “We’re your parents, Claire.” The first woman adds, in a somber tone, “You were in an accident.” “What happened to me?” I ask. The two women – my mothers, apparently – look at each other, silently communicating. “We found you in the forest, unconscious and… injured,” Mom #1 answers.
- 5 -
“Oh my God, what the hell happened to me?! How did I get there?” I demand, still wildly confused. How did I end up lying on the ground of a forest, passed out? There’s a long silence as the women once again stare at each other and have some kind of telepathic conversation. Finally, Mom #2 says, “We’re not sure. We don’t know how you got there.” She’s looking down as she says it. She seems ashamed. I don’t understand why. It’s not her fault I was found in the forest, and it’s not her fault they don’t know why. “How long have I been unconscious?” I wonder. “About 13 hours from the moment you were brought to the hospital, but we’re not sure how long you were unconscious before that…” Mom #1 replies. “Okay, so what’s wrong with me? What’s broken? And how long will it take to heal?” I inquire. I’m coming to the realization that I might be a naturally curious person. Something tells me that I do this excessive questioning a lot. My moms consider the questions for a moment, neither of them wanting me to hear the answer, I suppose. Mom #2 lets out a deep breath and says, “Your left arm is fractured, you have a concussion, and you’re covered in a lot of bruises.” She looks like she’s on the brink of tears. “That doesn’t sound too bad,” I remark. “When will I get better? And why can’t I remember anything?” I ask. “Well, your bruises should go away soon, and your arm should heal in about a month. But the doctor was concerned about your head injury. She warned us that you might experience memory loss, resulting from the concussion. So we don’t know when you might get your memory back, but it’ll almost certainly return,” Mom #1 tells me, in a rather downhearted way. I think she’s trying to be optimistic, but it doesn’t really sound like she believes her own words.
- 6 -
The three of us sit in uncomfortable silence, contemplating the depressing circumstances. Oddly enough, I’m not freaking out. I know I should be, but I’m strangely tranquil. I just woke up in a hospital with no prior memories and no idea why I’m so beat up, but the women who claim to be my parents are kind of reassuring, in a way. They seem to really care about me, which is nice. Plus, my injuries should heal soon and they said I’d get my memory back, so it’s best not to panic right now, I think. At some point, Mom #2 breaks the long silence and proclaims that it might be best if someone comes to check up on me, now that I’m awake. Yeah, that seems like it should’ve been the first thing to happen.
I stay in the hospital for three more days. My legs are really numb for a while after my waking up, but, with help from a nurse, I start taking walks around the hospital to stretch them out. By the time I get home, I feel much better than I first did, and my legs are just sore from all the bruising. Actually, the bruises are improving and are now a mild blue instead of the deep purple colour they originally were. I’d say that’s pretty good. When I was first examined by a nurse, I told him that I was having trouble hearing, and he told me that it was just a symptom of my concussion. He assured me that my full hearing should return soon. My parents are skeptical of letting me go back to school, but apparently the school won’t stop calling them. Geez, I can’t even remember my full name or what my house looks like, and they’re trying to get me to come in and memorize useless information? Where’s their sympathy? When I ask my parents why my school is so rude, they tell me that that’s just the way it is. “Productivity is everything in this town,” Mom #1 says indignantly.
- 7 -
Even in the hospital, I got the feeling that life was scheduled down to the second (the meals were brought and check-ups occurred at the exact time they were planned – at the precise hour, minute, and second), so I can kind of understand what my mom is saying. Apparently this town is famous for being very organized and time-orientated; its goal is to not waste any time. Even my mothers had to follow detailed schedules and could only see me for an hour each day while I was in the hospital. That’s kinda messed up, I think. But it seems normal to them, having lived here their whole lives. And maybe I’m just not used to it yet. I suppose I could’ve been once, but I’ve since forgotten that life. Now, it all seems so weird to me. The people in this town are literally obsessed with clocks and time. That fact seems to annoy Mom #1, but Mom #2 doesn’t really care. “It’s just the way it is, and it’s how it’s always been,” she informs me. During our limited time together when they visited me in the hospital, and then today, when I went home with them, they explained all of this to me. They outright told me that I should always have a clock on me, or I won’t survive in this town. That seemed really daunting to me. Why should my own town intimidate me? I think that’s ridiculous. But I guess I’ll have to learn to live with it. Or maybe one day I’ll remember my life – who I am – and then I might even be happy with all of this. After I’m brought home and most of my questions are answered, I go upstairs to my room. It’s late afternoon, but I’m exhausted, so I decide I should take a nap. As I lay down on my bed for the first time since being hospitalized, I groan from the dull pain that shoots through me. And then it occurs to me that I don’t even have anything to think about as I drift to sleep. I don’t know anything about myself, my family, or my world. The only memories I have are of the hospital.
- 8 -
I’m overwhelmed by the urge to cry, even though I know it’s stupid. I got myself into some sort of accident, and so it’s my fault I can’t remember anything. I now have to pay for my past mistakes—the mistakes I can’t even remember making. Even so, I fall asleep with dried tears plastered to my face.
I wake up in the middle of the night with a headache. I also really have to go to the bathroom. I get out of bed and try to locate the bathroom in this house. As I’m walking around this strange place that’s supposed to be my home, I start feeling dizzy and light-headed. Obviously that’s not a good sign, but I think the unease I’m feeling has less to do with my injuries and more to do with the unfamiliarity of this house. I can’t find a bathroom in my own home. I’m lost in a sea of darkness when walking down this hallway should be as easy as breathing. God, I hate this. I stumble around the hall for a few more seconds before coming to a room. I open the door, fumble around until I find the light switch, turn on the light, and find my parents in their bed. They’re squinting at the sudden brightness and looking around the room, dazed. “Oh sorry,” I mumble. “Where’s the bathroom?” “Next door on your right,” Mom #2 says. I nod, turn off the light, and rush to the bathroom. When I’m done, I return to my room and try to go back to sleep. I can’t. My headache is quite dull, but it’s persistent and throbbing. I spend several hours tossing and turning, listening to the sound of the clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
- 9 -
Eventually, I find myself drifting away, just to be woken by the most annoying noise ever. It’s high-pitched, consistent, and entirely insufferable. It’s an alarm. For a second I wonder if the house is gonna burn down. That’s gotta be a smoke alarm, right? Apparently it’s just the wake-up alarm because a minute later, my mom’s walking into my room and putting her hand on my shoulder, telling me, “It’s time to wake up”. I hobble down the stairs and take a seat in the kitchen. Both of my moms follow me downstairs and, while Mom #1 starts on breakfast, Mom #2 slowly explains the morning routine. Apparently I’m supposed to be dressed already. I ask her if my school has a dress code and she informs me that it is Sunday, and that I do not have school today. My mothers exchange troubled glances while I look at one of a thousand clocks in the house. It’s 9:00 am, and it’s a Sunday. I might not remember who I am, but I know I’m a teenager (I’m 16, according to my parents) and I assume I’m a reasonable person, so naturally I think we should not be awake this early on a non-work day. I express my concerns about the early wake up and they laugh it off. Apparently this is sleeping in. Usually we get up at 8:00 on Sundays. Oh my God, this sucks. I guess I can live with it though. It’ll just take time to get used to this, I remind myself. I go upstairs to change out of my pyjamas, and when I start down the stairs again, I hear hushed arguing. I look over the banister, spotting the angry expression on Mom #2’s face. I have to strain my ears to hear what my parents are saying. My full hearing hasn’t really returned. “...herself, she’s forgotten how to live properly,” Mom #2 is saying furiously.
- 10 -
“She just doesn’t remember all of the propaganda that is drilled into kids! She’s reverted to an ordinary teenager, not one of the obedient little soldiers this town creates!” Mom #1 spits back. “I know you’re loving this, but our town is not going to like it. She’s going to struggle so much while she regains her memory and neither one of us wants to see that,” Mom #2 replies fiercely. “I know you want her to be like you, a model citizen, but this could be a good thing! She could be free, and happy,” Mom #1 says in an authoritative voice. “She was happy, living this way. Besides, this won’t last. It can’t. She’ll just relearn everything again, and you know it. It’s just gonna be harder for her now,” Mom #2 reaffirms. Before they can say any more, I walk into the kitchen. Hey, what’s for breakfast?” I ask casually. “I’m almost done with the waffles,” Mom #1 declares. As she cooks, I push their argument to the back of my mind and study both of my mothers, marvelling at how pretty they are. Mom #1 has long dark hair; it’s slightly wavy. She has long eyelashes, a stubby nose, and dark brown eyes that seem to shimmer. Her body is delicate and slender, like a dancer. Mom #2 has a dirty blond pixie cut that really suits her, along with greyish-green eyes, full lips, and a rather symmetrical–looking face. She’s got a lovely, curvy body figure. As I study them, I can’t help but wonder whose child I am (biologically) so, naturally, I ask. “Whose kid am I?” Mom #2 pauses and looks up from the fruit she’s been cutting.
- 11 -
Mom #1 continues to pile waffles onto a plate and calmly says, “Both of us are your parents.” “Yeah I know. And like, I don’t really care. I just wanna know. Who’s my biological mother?” I insist. “Neither of us are,” Mom #2 responds. “We adopted you, honey,” Mom #1 adds. “Okay,” I say. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” As I walk into the small bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I guess I don’t really look like either of them. My face (which is quite round and chubby) is totally different from both of their face shapes, and my eyes are blue. Genetically speaking, I think the blue eyes could make sense if either of them were my mom, so that doesn’t matter. My skin is soft and clear, but so is both of their skin. I have slightly thick eyebrows and thin lips which contrast those of either parent. My nose shape kinda matches Mom #1, as does my hair. I have mid-length dark hair, although it’s straight, unlike her perfectly subtle waves of hair. I wouldn’t say my body shape is similar to either of theirs, but I have some nice curves like Mom #2. None of this matters though. Like I said, I don’t care. I’m just trying to figure out who I am. I walk back into the kitchen and approach the dining table. My moms haven’t started eating yet, but the food’s ready. Before I can sit down, I spot a grey blob disappearing out of our front door through a doggy door built into it. I imagine I look a bit stunned and it must be obvious what’s stifled me because my mom jumps in with an explanation: “We have a pet cat named Simon. He spends his time either napping or exploring the outdoors.” Alright. I guess I have a cat. I go to sit at the kitchen table and we eat our breakfast. As we’re eating, I ask what I’m supposed to be doing today. My parents explain that there’s a town-wide list of things that people are allowed to do.
- 12 -
Evidently, this town is really strict with its residents. We have to make good use of our time, so we have to choose several of the “weekend activities” for today, and we’re not allowed more than one hour of “personal time”. I think all of this is insane. I can’t believe people actually live like this. I mean, I don’t know what it’s like to live any other way, but this doesn’t feel very right. It feels like I’m some sort of machine. Or a trophy for this town to boast. As we finish up breakfast, I have a general idea of what my day will look like. But before we get to any “activities”, my moms surprise me with a gift – a watch. Mom #2 explains the present: “When we discovered you in the forest, your watch was missing. So, we got you this new watch.” She smiles reassuringly. “We can’t blame you for not being excited though. It’s not exactly a cool gift, especially because it’s mandatory that you use it. It’s not fair to force you to wear it if you don’t want to, but rules are rules,” Mom #1 remarks. The smile on Mom #2’s face falters. It is slowly replaced by a slight frown. “We hope you at least like how it looks and feels and everything,” Mom #1 concludes. “Yeah, I love it,” I say honestly. “It’s really nice. Thank you.” I slip it on my wrist and stare at it. It’s got a basic design, and it’s a simple grey colour. But I really like it. And it tells me the exact date and time. 9:49 a.m. Sunday, May 3. I watch the seconds ticking away before looking up at my moms and asking, “So what’s up first?”
- 13 -
My parents tell me we usually start out by going on a run. I’m not fully recovered, so we’re going to skip it for today. I suggest simply going for a walk, and my moms agree. Through our walk, I get a tour of the town. It’s very clean and wellarranged, but I didn’t expect anything less from this place. Throughout our stroll, I see lots of houses, all with perfect picket fences, gleaming green lawns, and shiny mailboxes. There are office buildings lined up along one street, yet they appear to be empty. We eventually come to a large plaza. I see a building labelled ‘Town Hall’. There’s a sleek fountain in the centre. There is almost nobody here because the people who are currently outside are passing by this town square quickly. But I take a minute to stand here and stare at a very impressive clock tower. It’s huge and beautifully designed and a prime example of modern architecture. Knowing this town, this clock is probably their pride and joy. Personally, I think it’s elegant, but it’s unnecessary. Everyone owns watches anyway. A few moments later, my mother lays a hand on my shoulder and tells me it’s time to go back. The clock says 10:30. We’ve been walking for half an hour so I guess we need the next half hour to return home. And then at exactly 11:00 we have to start the next task. On our way back, we encounter some people, who are all jogging, if not running. The only people we see moving at our pace are a few elderly people. People give us confused glances as we pass by, but I’m not paying them much mind. I’m more fascinated by the fact that everyone seems to only walk, jog, or run on the very right of the sidewalk, all in single file. My moms are walking that way too. I’m trailing behind them. And except for the rare glimpse our way, everyone is staring straight ahead of them. I’m the only one investigating
- 14 -
the scenery and taking it all in. Maybe it’s because they’ve seen this town countless times in their lives and they don’t find it all that interesting. But something tells me it’s a requirement. There are probably no distractions allowed on your jog or run. My mind drifts back to the clock tower. Why put something that grand in your town square when no one looks at it anyway? These people are weird.
Illustration by Julia Bullock
The rest of the day is a whirlwind of activities. First, I do yoga on a very basic level; I have to be careful, because of my injuries. And then I was supposed to have an online Italian lesson that I apparently have daily. But I obviously can’t continue learning a language I don’t remember learning at all, so I just “relearn” the basics. As I go through the lesson, it all feels so familiar. Somewhere in my brain, I recognize the Italian words and already know how to translate them, but that part of my brain remains dormant.
- 15 -
We eventually take a break to eat lunch. Then my parents and I do some painting. I discover something new about myself: I have no artistic talent. Next is my scheduled piano lesson. Again, I learn some basics while Mom #1 practises playing the saxophone and Mom #2 plays the guitar. But as I stare at some advanced sheet music, my fingers itch to play. It’s as if they remember the song even though I can’t. Afterwards, my moms do some Zumba dancing while I watch. l’d have joined them under different circumstances. We spend the next two hours building a puzzle together. We don’t finish it, but we get a lot done, and then it’s time to cook dinner. With their guidance, I help my mothers with the preparation of the meal and then I set the table. We eat and then play a card game together. While we play, it occurs to me that we didn’t really have to do anything productive today, or any day for that matter; how does anyone know what we do in our home? I express these concerns to my parents; they tell me about a complicated system that the town leaders have implemented for keeping tabs on townspeople. “Every evening, everyone has to write a journal entry explaining their actions and events that day, and they have to mention any progress in their skills, for example, if you run 2 kilometres one day as opposed to 1.9 kilometres the previous day,” Mom #2 states. “That seems like something that is very easily faked, and it’s not like anyone reads these records anyway,” I observe. “Actually, a ‘productivity overseer’ is an esteemed job in our community. These people read all the logs. And once every three months, they check your productivity. So if you go on runs, you have to be able to run as much as your log says you can. It’s a convoluted and excessive process,” Mom #1
- 16 -
announces. I swear she rolls her eyes but it happens so fast that I don’t really register it. I glare at my parents. I know it’s not their fault that life is this way, but still, I can’t help but be irritated by their description. None of this feels very civilized. Or it’s too civilized, I guess. It’s definitely not healthy. People shouldn't be controlled like this. Although, all things considered, I suppose I enjoyed my day. “What happens if someone doesn’t cooperate, and they cheat their daily journal and they’re caught?” I demand. “They’re fined a large sum. It increases every time you do it,” Mom #2 mumbles. I can’t believe this town is so intent on keeping its inhabitants impressive and successful that it actually goes through this whole procedure. Why not just leave us alone and let us be happy? I know I seem to be complaining a lot about a lifestyle I’ve lived for only a day. In reality, I don’t think it’s that bad. From afar it might seem annoying and bizarre, but I honestly had fun today. I got to hang out with my awesome parents. I got a lot done. I feel productive because I was productive. But then again, it’s only been a day. I have lots of time to start hating it. Or to regain my memory and have 16 years of past hating it or loving it in my mind. After our card game and this disturbing revelation about the town, the three of us gather around a computer to compose our schedule for tomorrow. I don’t really participate; I just watch my mothers debate about time frames. The next thing we do is kinda complicated because it’s a rotation. While one of us writes our daily activity log, another one of us takes a shower, and the third person has personal time.
- 17 -
Mom #2 offers to guide me through writing a journal entry while Mom #1 showers. After that, I get some free time, and Mom #2 hands me a cell phone. It’s my cell phone, I assume. I avoid all the messages and missed calls that are on it and play a simple video game while Mom #2 showers. I occupy the bathroom next, and then things settle down. With all of us clean, my parents declare that it’s time to read in our beds, so I go to my room and look for a book. I spot one on my nightstand, so I grab it. There’s no bookmark; when I ask about it, my mom says it’s because we’re always supposed to memorize our current page number. I obviously don’t know what page I’m on but it doesn’t affect me because I have to start from the beginning anyway. After I spend some time reading, I contemplate my day. Apparently this whole day has been “taking it slow and keeping it simple”. Because of my family’s “special circumstances” (meaning I have no idea how to function in this society because of my memory loss), we didn’t have to follow such a strict schedule today. I had today to get used to this life. This doesn’t seem like enough, considering this was technically my first time living it. Oh well. I’ll just have to adjust quickly. I don’t want to read anymore and thinking about my life is upsetting so I limp into my moms’ room and say a quick good night to my parents before returning to my room. I settle back into my bed and decide to just call it a night. I feel very exhausted from the long day of activities. I turn off my light and my mom yells to me from her room, “There are still 17 minutes before lights out!” I look at my new watch on my night stand (it has a glow-in-the-dark feature). It informs me that it is, in fact, 9:13 p.m. “I’m tired and I don’t wanna read anymore!” I respond. No one says anything else so I take it as a sign that I can just go to sleep.
- 18 -
As I fade into sleep, I think back to my parents’ argument from this morning. Mom #1 really seems to hate this life, and Mom #2 is indifferent, I guess. They both want what’s best for me, but neither of them know what that is. Not even I know. At some point during the night, I get up to go to the bathroom. As I pass by my parents’ room, I hear them whispering to each other. I don’t know why they’re awake, but one of them sounds panicked. A voice, which I think belongs to Mom #2 desperately says, “What if she never remembers?” “She’ll remember,” another voice responds confidently, presumably Mom #1. I return from the bathroom, get back into bed, and while I go back to sleep, I repeat her words to myself in my head. She’ll remember.
The next morning, I wake up next to a chubby tabby cat, who I assume is Simon. I pet him for a minute before getting out of bed. My parents let me sleep in until 7:00 (as opposed to getting up at 6:30) while they went on a run. I get ready for the day, putting on a school uniform I don’t recognize. Mom #2 leaves for work earlier (she says she’s a police officer, which I think is kinda cool). Mom #1 works as a lawyer and usually leaves a bit later, so she offers to walk me to school. Before we leave, she hands me a pill from a little container. “What is this?” I ask. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “No, seriously, what is it?” I insist.
- 19 -
“It’s an antidepressant,” my mom utters. “But… I’m not depressed,” I say quietly. “They were prescribed to you before the accident and your previous diagnosis stands. Your brain can’t forget an illness. Besides, you shouldn’t have to go through the withdrawal,” she declares. I can’t know for sure, but I imagine the diagnosis had something to do with the enforced scheduling. What else could have provoked it? I have a lovely family and a wonderful home. Maybe the time pressure started to negatively affect me… I hesitantly ingest the pill, and then we leave the house. As we step outside, I spot Simon sitting on our lawn, licking his paw. I make some noise and get his attention; he follows us most of the way to my school, which is only 5 minutes from our house. School goes by pretty fast. A student I don’t know walks me to my classes, and I eat lunch with a group of people who claim they are my friends. They’re all really nice and friendly, but I can’t help but feel excluded when they talk. They’re all so comfortable with each other and they have so many inside jokes. I probably understood those jokes once upon a time. During lunch, a group of students hover around our table to sign my arm cast, all offering their condolences for my accident. As the crowd clears, I casually ask my friends, “Do any of you know exactly what kind of accident I was in?” They quickly shake their heads and one girl, Katie, says “We don’t know what happened. But it was during our lunch period, we think. You didn’t eat lunch with us that day. You left the school, didn’t tell anyone where you were going, and then never returned to finish the school day.” I feel a bit dejected that they don’t know what happened to me, but at least there are some clues. Maybe the information they have can help me piece it together.
- 20 -
“You don’t know where I went?” I urge. “No, sorry,” Katie replies. “But you did seem kinda distracted and sad that day,” a boy named Max says. “And when you weren’t in your next class and no one knew where you were, they called your parents. Unless the office is informed of a student missing class and there is a valid reason behind it, absence in class is absolutely unacceptable,” Cass states. “We were all worried about you,” a kid named Dave adds. “Yeah, and then your moms found you unconscious in the forest on the outskirts of town with no explanation,” Katie concludes. Huh. I guess this shall remain a mystery.
My classes are: religion, chemistry, math, and business, in that order. I discover that I’m a quick learner, which is a pleasant surprise, so I think I’ll catch up fast. From my glimpse into the material today, it doesn’t seem too difficult. Also, all of the topics are interesting. I really like math, which is kinda weird. Religion and business seem simple enough and chemistry is complex yet fascinating. So, school is good so far. When I arrived at the school this morning, teachers took our phones at the front door. No distractions allowed. The phones were returned at the end of the day. When I get home, my parents take my phone too, but I don’t mind. I don’t really plan on using it, except for homework (in which case, they told me to use the computer) and to maybe play a game during personal time. I don’t really message my friends today because I haven’t gotten to know them all that well yet. I ask my mom to return my phone when they text me some class notes (which I’m grateful for), but otherwise I don’t speak to them
- 21 -
or think about using my phone at all this evening. Later, when my homework is done, dinner is eaten, and I’m tucked into bed, I hear my mothers quietly arguing again. My bedroom door is closed, but they’re right outside in the hall. They must think I’m asleep because I can hear pretty clearly (my hearing hasn’t quite been restored but it’s improving). “This is your fault,” declares Mom #2 (I think). “I know! How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” Mom #1 demands. “Apologizing doesn’t change anything,” Mom #2 snaps. “I know, but please give me some time. Give me a chance to make things right,” Mom #1 begs. “How can you possibly make this right?” Mom #2 challenges. “You’ll see,” Mom #1 responds softly, as I fall into a deep sleep.
The rest of the week is a bit of a blur. Things happen according to the same schedule. I can’t call it monotonous because it’s not boring. I do lots of stuff. Well, most of my time is dedicated to school and homework, but I still have time to do fun activities like baking and playing games with my family. Despite the town’s weird obsession with getting lots done in little time, I actually find that I have a lot of it (time, that is). It’s probably because I finish my homework early each night. Either my moms are really underestimating me when putting our schedule together or my accident gave me super intelligence because I always have extra time that’s supposed to be for homework. But I just use that time to review class notes or read a novel. I’m actually getting into that book I found on my night stand. Apparently I have good taste in books. Overall, life is pretty normal. There are some things I still can’t do, such as basketball and volleyball lessons that I typically have after school,
- 22 -
according to my parents. I’m also not making much progress with things like piano playing or speaking Italian because I’m struggling with my memory so much. My moms are telling me to let go of the past for now and just try to relearn everything but all of this knowledge and skill is right there. I just can’t access it in my brain. Also, I’ve been feeling really drowsy all week. Mom #1 has continued to walk me to school every day – it’s our routine – so one morning I told her I was feeling tired. She assured me it was probably nothing and that I could go to sleep earlier that night if I wanted. I still felt exhausted the next day. But I said nothing. Otherwise, life has been continuing normally and I’ve adjusted to it. I’m used to the 8:00 - 3:00 school schedule and the weekend affairs. The only thing that still stands out to me is the outrageous number of clocks in the town. The people are crazily obsessed with time. I find my gaze constantly drawn to the clocks. I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m becoming a time-obsessed freak too. All I know is that I like to listen to the ticking of the clocks, especially during class. Because of my consistent lethargy, I find it slightly difficult to concentrate in class. Strangely enough, the ticking helps me focus. It’s energizing for some reason. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. That sound can always be heard, wherever I am, so it’s become somewhat of a comfort to me. All in all, we’ve been happy – on the exterior at least. Life has been good; it’s all happened according to a schedule. Until exactly 4 weeks after my accident.
To be continued... - 23 -
THE CATCHER IN THE RYE Reviewed by Anonymous
I recently finished reading The Catcher in the Rye by J. D Salinger and I really enjoyed it. The protagonist, Holden Caulfield, was a well-rounded character that I believe in some way or another, everyone can relate to. Holden was flawed and somewhat hypocritical. However, these imperfections made him realistic. When works of literature have layered main characters, it makes the text more enjoyable for readers. The Catcher in the Rye considers multiple themes, including alienation from society, loss of innocence, and phoniness. These matters each have their moment in the spotlight and are well written over the course of the novel. I would definitely recommend this fantastic read to anyone.
- 24 -
Oil Still-Life Painted by Abigail D'Amello
REFLECTION By Echo
My eyes meet yours Your gaze does not falter As we stare each other down Like we’re not allowed to look away. The bitter taste in my mouth lingers It grows with every breath I take While I stare at my reflection This person that I have grown to hate. I have heard the mantras, “It’s what’s on the inside that counts” But I can not help the feeling That the inside is as disgusting as what is out. I put on a show for all who have payed To see me flaunt my imperfections Without a single care in the universe A smile stretched over my complexion. Little do they know, when the curtains close I poke and prod at the bits and pieces The curves and divots and bumps That make me want to tear at my flesh. I look at the people who smile at themselves Who love themselves Despite their curves and divots and bumps And wonder if they are pretending as well.
- 26 -
I will never know. So as I stare down this person This stranger I have known my whole life It begs the question What power do reflections have? It is merely light bouncing off of a crystalline surface That our eyes absorb And we have decided that this picture Is what will deteriorate our brains. Why do we give it power? Why do we let a slab of sand dictate our lives? Why should we care at all? Why? My eyes meet yours Your gaze does not falter As we stare each other down Like we are not allowed to look away. The bitter taste in my mouth carefully dissolves Into a sweet buzz that does not have a name While I stare at my reflection A thing I used to hate. Oxygen slowly fills my lungs My broad shoulders rise and my big chest puffs And with my chubby cheeks and uneven dimples I smile.
- 27 -
"Mushrooms" by Veronika Lomets
IN YOUR EYES By Ava Vendittelli
There are days when all I want Is to get out of my own head To go behind your eyes And see myself that way instead On days when all I can see are flaws In my work and in the mirror When all the things I’m bad at Just couldn’t be any clearer So if I went behind your eyes What is it that I would see? Would I see my faults and mistakes Or all that I could be? Would I see a girl on fire? A strong, unyielding force With a mind of steel and a heart of gold Who’s always sticking to her course Would I see a smile in her eyes? A hint of some careful secret Something beautiful and real That reflects an unbroken spirit? I can’t believe I would see that But is that how I look to you? I suppose no one can really trust mirrors Since that’s how I see you, too.
- 29 -
"Cupid's Faeries" by Veronika Lomets
A VERY PUNCHABLE FACE: A MEMOIR
Reviewed by Sophie Costantino
If you have ever watched SNL (Saturday Night Live), or care about who celebrities married this time around, you may have heard of Colin Jost. Last year, he had just released a memoir titled A Very Punchable Face. While I have read many memoirs, I believe that his was the most relatable and, more importantly, the most enjoyable. Jost was born on Staten Island, the least respected borough of New York City, and had to commute two hours every day to attend high school in Manhattan. He then attended Harvard to study - of all things Russian literature. After graduation, he was a journalist for a local paper, a stand-up comedian, and then eventually landed his current gig at SNL as head writer and Weekend Update co-anchor alongside Michael Che. I love this memoir so deeply because it is totally unexpected. I mean, a guy who ended up being on SNL went to Harvard and studied Russian literature of all things? In this memoir, Jost is inexplicably candid about his life and the importance of being able to make fun of yourself and have fun in such a serious world. Each chapter is a different anecdote, ranging from when his mom was a first-responder during 9/11 to when he fought in the WWE. These anecdotes truly allow the reader to realize that Jost is not much different than you or me, allowing for a relatability which enables readers to fully become invested in the author’s story. Regardless of if you are a fan of comedy or not, this memoir should be read by everyone who is just looking for an enjoyable read. While yes, I will admit there is not much literary merit here, that does not mean you will gain anything less from this text. I love reading memoirs because the events in this book actually happened, and Jost’s memoir definitely made me think, “Why do we even need fiction?”.
- 32 -
MURDER IN THE SNOW - PART 1 -
By Maja Bavcevic “How the day started is, in all honesty, kind of fuzzy. I don’t really remember many details about it. In my defence, at the time, I never thought I’d have to tell the story of that day, so I didn't bother remembering much. I thought the day would be like any other. Obviously, I was wrong. “So I woke up, and had the house to myself. I don’t remember why, but my parents and sister were out somewhere. Getting groceries, maybe. So I went downstairs to make myself breakfast, after having slept in. I don't remember exactly what I was making, but whatever it was, I was missing something I needed for it. So I decided I would walk to the store near my house and pick up whatever it was. “It had snowed pretty badly the night before — almost a full foot of it. So I had put on a huge jacket and thick winter boots. I definitely didn’t look good, going out in my pajamas, but went out like that anyway. “There was a thin layer of ice that had formed on top of the snow, so it made a loud crunch with every step. The sidewalks on our street had still not been cleared, and I was going to have to trek through the snow. “As I walked uphill to the end of our street, I heard another set of footsteps crunching along through the snow behind me. I turned my head to see who it was. Just another neighbour, I guess... I didn't recognize him, though. I turned back and didn't think much of it.
- 33 -
“As I came to the end of the street, I passed this one house I always found quite odd. The house wasn’t in great shape: paint was peeling, fences were deteriorating, wood decorations in the front were rotting.The whole place just didn't seem to be well kept. “However, I always found it odd that, in spite of the poor condition of the small house, whoever lived there had three luxurious cars. Probably the most expensive I've ever seen. I was always perplexed as to why they would spend so much money on having multiple expensive cars, and not bothering to spend the small amount of money and effort it would take to clean up the house a bit. And to further my confusion, through the window on the second floor, from the street, you could see numerous high tech computers lining the walls. I found that odd because, firstly, why are the tables so high that they can be seen from the window? Secondly, why do they have the curtains open so the clearly expensive technology can be viewed from the street? Thirdly, why do they have so many computers and not bother to clean up the outside of the house? I suppose it could have just been lifestyle preferences, but it never sat well with me, especially since I never saw anyone come or go from the house. The only reason I knew anyone lived in the house is because I would see them occasionally in the window with the computers. “Soon after I passed the house, I realized that the footsteps behind me had stopped. I turned around, and the man that was there was gone. I was perplexed. How had the man just disappeared? I know it probably wasn't the best idea, but I wanted to know where he went. So I looked at his footprints and followed them. I know it wasn't smart, but I was really curious!
- 34 -
“The footsteps led to the fence entering the backyard. I followed them. The gate had been opened, since the snow had fallen off it. It hadn’t been closed fully, so I was able to get it without having to unlock anything. I followed the footprints back behind the fence and into the back yard. I immediately noticed something strange. There was a rake lying on the ground in the middle of the path. I picked it up and leaned it on the side of the house. I walked further into the backyard, and as I was looking out ahead of me around the yard, I almost tripped over something. The ‘something’ turned out to be someone. It was the man! He was lying on the snow-covered ground in the middle of the area where the path meets the backyard. Initially, I didn't think to see what was wrong and why he was lying there, so I walked further.. I only ever saw one person enter or exit the house, and it was years ago; but the man who was walking behind me was definitely not that person. “As I entered the backyard, I couldn't see anything unusual at all. No other trace of a human being. Not even so much as a footprint. So I turned around and started heading back out to the sidewalk. I tripped over the man again, and this time decided to see why he was lying on the ground. I started talking to him. Basic things, like ‘hello?’, ‘can you hear me?’, ‘are you all right?’ and I didn’t get a response. So I decided to roll him onto his back so I could see his face. He wasn’t awfully light, and it took some force and numerous tries to roll him over. Eventually, I was able to. The first thing I noticed was a huge gash on the side of his head. I leaned over to try and help patch it up. I had some sterile bandages and gauze in my pocket, so I figured I could help. As I took the bandage from my pocket, I spoke to the man again. I asked him if I could help. I said something along the lines of ‘I have a bandage. I'm going to put it on your head to help with the bleeding, is that all right?’ Once again, I got no response. I figured he had slipped on the ice patch beside him on the way in
- 35 -
and been knocked unconscious. So I proceeded to lean over his head and start to place the bandage on. My hand touched the blood that had dripped down the side of his head, and I dropped the bandage after accidentally touching his cold skin. It was then I realized he was dead. Out of fear, I jumped up and started running. I must have bumped the rake off the side of the house where I had left it as I came in, and I tripped over it. As I lay beside it in the snow, I saw that there was blood on the rake. The man had not fallen and hit his head on the ice, but had rather been struck with the rake. As I scrambled to my feet, I heard a siren off in the distance. It was coming closer. By the time I got to the fence and opened it, there were police vehicles in the driveway and I was taken away in handcuffs,” I explain. “I’ve heard enough. I am well aware of what you think happened that day. But are you aware that, regardless of your explanation, we have found your DNA on both the body and the weapon?” Replies the judge. “Yes your Honour, but as I explained-” “And you are aware that we have footage from the house’s security cameras that show how your DNA is all over the crime scene and how your explanation is factually invalid?” the judge asks me. “I am aware, your Honour, but with today's technology—” I say. It dawns on me. The computers on the second floor of that house—that’s how the footage was edited. Whoever lived there must have committed the murder. “Your Honour, I know how it happened,” I say. “Oh please, do tell,” the judge replied sarcastically.
- 36 -
“On the second floor of that house, there are a bunch of high tech computers. Whoever lives there must have committed the murder, and then edited the footage after I came in, replacing themselves with me. Your Honour, I am innocent,” I say. “Then explain to me how yours and the man’s were the only footprints present in the yard?” “I don’t know.” “And what about how only your DNA and the victim's DNA were found on the crime scene?” “I'm not sure-” “And how did you know about these computers?” “You can see them from the street.” “Then how come not one of the police officers or detectives noticed?” “Well they wouldn’t have known to look.” “And you would have?” “Well-”
- 37 -
“Hmm, and explain to me how ‘the person who lives there’ supposedly edited the footage when they died 10 years ago and their child, who now owns the house, hasn't been back in 18 months?” “I-” I start stuttering. How had the person living in that house died 10 years ago? The only time I saw someone leave that house was 7 months ago. And if the new owner of the house hadn’t been there in 18 months, something didn’t add up. But the facts, regardless of how false, were stacked against me.
To be continued...
- 38 -
SO LONG, SUMMER! By Anonymous
Full leaves disappear I miss sand between my toes Look, here comes Autumn!
"Late-Night Drive" painted by Justine Terka
- 39 -
2021 NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS AND HOW TO ACHIEVE THEM
By Claire Landry
Every year we are encouraged to set new goals and aspirations to carry throughout the new year. Those who set goals are more likely to stay motivated and have better self esteem. However, millions of people set ambitious goals for the new year and less than 8% have kept their resolutions for an entire year. It’s easy to talk about having a good game, anyone can say what they are going to do but hardly anyone follows through. If you have ever struggled with staying focused or motivated on keeping your new year's resolutions chances are you probably haven't come up with a realistic plan to achieve them. How can you effectively achieve your goals? There are many different strategies to help stay on track. Everyone is different and will approach goal setting strategies differently. Frank.L Smoll highlights three necessary components of goal setting known as ABC goals. ABC goals is an acronym that stands for achieve, believe, and commit. ABC goal setting can set you up for better success by having a better mindset and attitude. Going into anything with a good mindset is psychologically proven to help anyone increase their chances of success. Another method to further enhance your commitment to achieving your goals is through the SMART goals strategy. George T. Doran coined the term SMART goals, which is now one of the most popular exponents of the psychology of goals. The acronym SMART stands for specific, measurable, attainable, realistic, and time. These are five planning steps that can make goal setting more attainable. Anyone can achieve their goals. Nothing is too ambitious when you come up with a plan and put in the hard work for it.
- 40 -
How do you overcome failure or setbacks? Some days will be harder than others to stay committed to your aspirations. Some days you might not be satisfied with your outcomes, but every day is a new day for a fresh start. When you feel yourself slipping or find yourself feeling like you could have done more, offer yourself patience. You might not see the results you were aiming for right away but you can still celebrate the small victories. Even noticing a failure without judgment is a victory. Acknowledging a failure is the first step in realizing a setback. A few things to ask yourself when you do have an off day are: How can I make this easier for myself? Can I try to let go of this setback, forgive myself, and then move forward? And lastly, what will I do differently so I can avoid making this mistake in the future? There is no reason to be discouraged from a bad day. Don’t let your lack of progress discourage you from keeping your head up high. A cheat day is forgivable and it does not mean all your hard work has lost its meaning. Some people can use failure as motivation to do better than the last time. For others it's a learning curve. How you choose to deal with failure is in your control. Don't let failure control you. You are already one step closer to accomplishing your new year's resolutions by understanding the science and psychology behind goal setting.
Bibliography “10 Secrets of People Who Keep Their New Year's Resolutions - UAB Medicine News.” 10 Secrets of People Who Keep Their New Year's Resolutions - UAB Medicine News - UAB Medicine, www.uabmedicine.org/-/10-secrets-of-people-who-keep-their-new-year-sresolutions#:~:text=Less%20than%208%25%20of%20people,about%20sticking%20to%20your%20g oals. “The Science & Psychology Of Goal-Setting 101.” PositivePsychology.com, 12 Nov. 2020, positivepsychology.com/goal-setting-psychology/.
- 41 -
MERELY A MEMORY
By Anonymous
I can still remember when we were young Delicate dresses made us feel royal Laughter and cookie dough beneath my tongue The screaming kettle would start to boil Can you remember those days years ago? I would run for an embrace every time My affection never failing to show You would smell of fresh grass and soap and lime Time twisted and stretched until we grew tall Our gowns and minds now bursting at the seams Before I see you I find myself stall Your ambition destroys childish dreams Now I can only look upon these scenes To get you back, I would use any means
- 42 -