Inscape 2018

Inscape

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2017–2018

Volume XXXVI

Inscape Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2017–2018 Volume XXXVI

By Inscape I mean the particular nature of things, the unique, essential form and meaning of any object or experience. ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

Members of the Inscape staff would like to thank the following people for their help and support: Christopher Brandon, Janice Carey, Susan Cook, Max Crowther, Guy Dallaire, Maude Desroches, Tim Doherty, Victoria Hill, François Jean Jean, Cloe Jones, Marianne Laramée, Tyler Lewis, Sheila Lyster, Miranda McGie, Régine Mesnil, Jennifer Monk, Patrick Robidas, Heather Rothney, Roxanne Taillefer, François Tessier, Valérie Turcotte, and Janet Turcot Vukovic.

We would also like to thank Scott Abbott for his generous support of the English department and all of its endeavours.

Design and typesetting by the Inscape staff at BCS. Bishop’s College School Sherbrooke, Quebec J1M 1Z8

Printed in Canada by Blanchard Litho inc.

From the editor…

A

mixtape: to most my age, a relic of the past. Cassettes are now obsolete, a source of sweet nostalgia for those who can fondly remember popping one into a tape deck after poring over a list of songs. However, the sentiment behind the creation of a mixtape is timeless—the desire to freeze a moment or emotion or idea and forever capture it within melodies and lyrics.

A compilation of love songs for a certain someone, tunes that remind you of that one concert, music that you can cry to in your room; memory becomes embedded in the tape, printed on the ribbon. It is an anthology you treasure and share—much like Inscape.

Within this edition of Inscape, I have curated seven mixtapes of poetry, prose, and art. However, they cannot be put into a cassette player to enjoy. In its physical form, this Inscape is not your typical collection of mixtapes—but the creation process and the resulting association of hand-picked writing, imagery, and specific emotions demonstrates the same essence. Inside this book, you will find songs of anger, nostalgia, introspection, creation, fear, loss, and love, where the rhymes sing, the verses have rhythm, and the colours harmonize with one another, coming together to form an anthology of music that leaps off the page.

Sit down, shut yourself off to the rest of the world, and plug yourself into this edition of Inscape. Find the poems that dance their way into your heart, or the ones that conjure entire orchestras in your mind; devour them whole or savour them word by word; rewind or fast forward your way through the seven mixtapes, beginning with whichever one speaks to you the most. Take your time. Let yourself get lost within these pages.

Enjoy.

—Leah Plante-Wiener

Table of Contents Songs of Nostalgia Time, Camila Rosales Martinez........................................ 8 Only a Mother, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana..................... 9 Sweetest Lullaby, Renan Bolkan...................................... 9 Oriental Memory, Peter Huang....................................... 11 Grandma Zakiyyah, Aliyah Osman................................ 12 Birthday, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana............................. 13 Una parte di me, Donovan Faraoni.......................... 14–15 Eight, Kelly Frendo......................................................... 16 Songs of Creation Nature’s Artwork, Mathilde Fugère................................ 18 An Equine Fellow Coils, Maia Fortin Xu....................... 19 The Stillness of Water, Grace Gardner........................... 19 Perseverance, Aidan Feddema................................. 20–21 Drifted Away, Jurney Lavoie-Condo............................... 22 Departure into the Skies, Donovan Faraoni.................. 24 Morning, Lukas Goettke.................................................. 26 The Melody, Eva Wang.................................................... 27 Ode to Joy, Rosa Yang...................................................... 28 Departure, Maia Fortin Xu............................................. 29 Best Picture, Jacky Lai................................................... 30 Theatre, Grace Gardner.................................................. 31 Behind the Art, Myriam Valcourt................................... 32 Songs of Loving Girdle, Grace Gardner..................................................... 34 You Asked Me for My Hand Not so Long Ago, Mathilde Fugère........................................................ 35 words aren’t dead., Grace Bilodeau................................ 37 Here’s To You and Me, Cala Tesolin................................ 39 A Glimpse into Infatutaion, Natalia Marcelin.................. 40 Gone, Timothy-Paul Chevalier........................................ 41 Heart of Ice, Cala Tesolin................................................ 42 Idolatry, Leah Plante-Wiener.......................................... 42 addiction., Grace Bilodeau.............................................. 44 The Giving Time, Simon Couroux.................................. 45 X–O, Cala Tesolin............................................................ 46 Love Chirps, Théo Espagnol........................................... 47 Monthly Blues, Tyrin Culmer......................................... 48 Je t’aime moi non plus, Leah Plante-Wiener.................. 48

Songs of Anger Pink Mist, Camila Rosales Martinez.............................. 50 The Last Battle, Catherine Vine..................................... 51 Reaping, Sebastian Colley............................................... 51 The Return, Théo Espagnol............................................ 52 Wrath, Rosa Yang............................................................ 52 Makeup Remover, Leah Plante-Wiener.......................... 55 So Much More, Cala Tesolin........................................... 57 I Earned My Life in America, Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez.... 58 Not For You, Izzy Macfarlane.......................................... 61 Shattered Glass and Stones, Cala Tesolin..................... 62 Songs of Fear Home, Sebastian Colley................................................... 64 Sourd, Timothy-Paul Chevalier...................................... 65 Creature of the Woods, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana...... 66 It Was Home, Renan Bolkan........................................... 69 Chapter 16, Doga Uras.................................................... 70 Heights, Maia Fortin Xu................................................. 71 The Matrix, Jacky Lai..................................................... 72 A Clockwork Society, Mathilde Fugère........................... 72 Six Feet Under, Anthony Herbst............................... 74–75 Gloomy Confidant, Renan Bolkan.................................. 76 Songs of Loss In That Silent Garden, Camila Rosales Martinez......... 78 It Was Supposed to Be a Holiday, Maia Fortin Xu........ 79 Silenced, Donovan Faraoni............................................. 80 No Souls, Cédric Matte.................................................... 81 Limerence, Leah Plante-Wiener...................................... 82 buildings, Jessie Pigeon................................................... 84 Twilight Kingdom, Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana............. 85 And I Shall Be Gone, Rosa Yang..................................... 87 The Partisan, Donovan Faraoni..................................... 88 Songs of Introspection Warmth, Maia Fortin Xu................................................ 90 Underwater, Kaitlin Carson........................................... 91 Dual Identity, Donovan Faraoni..................................... 92 United Counterparts, Renan Bolkan.............................. 92 Is the Unexamined Life Worth Living?

Izzy Macfarlane......................................................... 92 First Sense, Emma Bea Crowther.................................. 94 Wisdom’s Worth, Izzy Macfarlane................................... 95 Grey Skies, Mohamed Alsawari...................................... 97 Jane Eyre, Jacky Lai....................................................... 97 A Tassel Dangles from Each Head, Maia Fortin Xu...... 98 The Lollipop, Doga Uras................................................. 98 I Taste the Sky, Doga Uras........................................... 102

Editor: Leah Plante-Wiener Inscape Staff: Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez Grace Bilodeau Timothy-Paul Chevalier Sebastian Colley Donovan Faraoni Valeriia Kulik Izzy Macfarlane Natalia Marcelin Jessie Pigeon Camila Rosales Martinez Cala Tesolin Eva Wang Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana Artists: Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez Zoë Bendy Grady Carson Kaitlin Carson Emily Chen Le Quang Anh Do Bobby Duan Donovan Faraoni Maia Fortin Xu Léa Gagné Gosselin Angel Huang Jacky Lai Frank Li Izzy Macfarlane Natalia Marcelin Emma Page Leah Plante-Wiener Ann Élizabeth Rioux Camila Rosales Martinez Blake Russell Laura Tao Coco Wang Rosa Yang Edward Zhang Faculty Advisor: Scott Kelso

[6]

Painting by Natalia Marcelin, Form [7] VI

Songs of Nostalgia Side A Them

Time lost in time losing minds with each tic brainwash each toc heartbeat marching in unison to every tac thoughts measured in seconds memories in hours my brain nothing but a set of gears and screws used to mark an illusion the illusion of time a way of life each tic and toc dictating every move every thought clocks and tics and tocs mean nothing this whole idea has no purpose cannot be measured by the same stick if even measured at all a day like a year a year like only a day an hour a century as brief as a second time you illusion you cannot be controlled not by tics not by tocs not even by us Camila Rosales Martinez, Form V

[8]

Only a Mother They say it takes a village to raise a child.

A mother might disagree.

Her voice, a whir of knowledge.

She is the one to guide them away from the edge of a cliff.

She is the one to raise them from the dust, lift them high into the heavens.

And so no, it takes not a village to raise a child, it takes only a mother.

Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form V

Sweetest Lullaby Happiness.

I questioned,

Does it exist?

I felt as if I could not let her go.

Don’t leave me,

I like to have you near me, No one shall take me away.

Good-night.

She kissed me.

I looked up; I was in somebody’s arms.

My arms round her neck.

I was asleep.

Renan Bolkan, Form VII

Painting by Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

[10]

Oriental Memory She loved to play with my little tiger paws, As she once told me.

I could feel How rough her bony brown hands were, How wrecked her hands were from the cuts and scars, But her hands were strong, genuine, wise.

Undefeated.

Her dark green veins crawl up and around her skinny bent fingers, Like green vines that grow and cover my yellow backyard wall, Like sophisticated connections of rivers and streams.

Dumplings in the shape of diamonds were served from her gentle old hands.

How gentle but strong they were, how coarse-looking but skillful they were To make me my favorite meals, to knit my new red sweater, And most importantly, to show me her limitless love.

They were the hands of a girl, wife, mother.

They were the hands of my grandmother.

Peter Huang, Form VI

Drawing by Bobby Duan, Form VII

[11]

Grandma Zakiyyah She cooks perfectly seasoned collard greens, bean pie, potatoes, soul food that makes you want to stay.

In the daytime, she concentrates on her job; at night, she fights as an activist. staying strong in Chicago, the windy city. fighting for her people’s rights day by day is what she does best.

Her voice is the needle and her body, the thread, sewing together the ripped ties of the people corrupted by popular demand.

But once you disrespect someone as modestly tenacious as her, without fail, watch out for the belt– it’s out to get ya even when you least expect it.

Aliyah Osman, Form VI Drawing by Frank Li, Form VI

Songs of Nostalgia Side B You

Birthday Twelve pink napkins laid in a circular pattern contrasted against the deep maple beneath.

Gifts lined the wall to the right, brightly wrapped boxes and bags filled with tissue, completely covering the eggshell white.

I, a girl no older than nine or ten, skipped in my pale pink dress, a bow at my waist, my long, dirty-blond braids bounced against my shoulders.

Few days brought me as much joy as these ones.

I admired my presents, the swirls of purple and pink towering beyond my height.

A chilled November evening left us huddled around the wood stove, cups of hot cocoa pressed against our frost-bitten palms.

I stared out the window, a world blanketed in mist my mind in the hands of some soft-spoken truth and a rare comprehension of peace.

Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form V

[13]

Una parte di me Unseen, the shimmering dawn emerges, A precocious backdrop of silky-smooth gold, Outside my window, the deep blue pool ripples under its tarp, Scarce heard through the tightly linked green-slatted shutters And creamy-white bars of curly wrought iron Shut tight to defend against shadows in the night.

The morning’s silence is discreetly broken by the rippling water, Swishing palm fronds by the golden fishes’ pool, Whispering fountain spraying moss-crumbled rocks, Buttercup-yellow canarini chirping in their seed-filled cage— All greet the golden sunrise, tempting me to wake up to Another day of perfect summer bliss.

Click-clacking, the heavy shutters are pulled and rolled Revealing smooth classic mouldings on the window frames.

I stretch and amble out onto the cool-tiled deck, Then back in, to my Nonna’s kitchen for morning tea.

The rich sunlight filters in through white curtained glass doors.

I leave when Nonno comes to breakfast with Nonna.

Awhile later he crosses back over the expansive terracotta deck, Entering my casa with his usual white sleeveless t-shirt gleaming Resounding footsteps announce a welcome breakfast.

In his thumbless right hand, he clutches a white paper bag Full of panini of all shapes and sizes, I pick the spongiest of the bunch.

Sugared bun in hand, I run across the dewy lawn, Bypassing thorny red roses to the ivy-covered pergola Where I stop to eat in the fresh green morning air.

Then my Nonno’s springy footsteps approach, His red and white plastic-soled sandals slapping, Interrupting my early-morning reverie.

We walk over to the rippling waters of the pool Striding on the rough white marble path Full of domed ammonites, like so many Lilliputian peaks Between sandpapery valleys, miniature trade routes for Endless strings of voracious ants Foraging in the lush giardino.

My bare feet are tingling by the time we arrive at the poolside Adorned with sapphire blue ceramic tiles.

Last night’s layer of fallen olive leaves litter The grey tarp blanket that keeps the water warm For Nonna; they need to be cleaned off, So Nonno and I brush together.

Now to reveal the liquid blue pool below, My job is to tiptoe across a thin lip of slippery tiles Then circumnavigate the pool the reach the giant tarp roller.

As I turn the back-breaking crank’s handle, My Nonno coaxes out wrinkles and folds So the tarp rolls up smoothly, silently.

Today my windows don’t have shutters To block away the black nights, And there is no pool rippling outside them Murmuring in my dreams.

My Nonno no longer delivers sweet panini And my morning work is done alone.

But inside me there will ever be a rippling pool With my Nonno’s warmth nearby, Working together early to prepare for Refreshing fun at mezzo-giorno With my Italian family and friends.

Queste matine perfette sono una parte di me.

Donovan Faraoni, Form VI

Photograph by Donovan Faraoni, Form VI

[15]

Eight

I

am almost eight years old, and a slight, familiar smell of mildew fills my nose, and loon calls sing in my ears. It is August, and I am grasping onto the remaining weeks of summer.

I am almost eight years old and my grandmother is in the main cabin, willing her worn hands to roll the pie crust onto the ancient wooden countertop.

I had picked the blueberries from the west side’s bushes earlier that morning, guiding my sister’s plump fingers to carefully pluck the fruit from its thorns.

We had piled a collection of berries into the faded blue and white tins that my grandmother refuses to throw away, complaining about the sun’s heat.

I am almost eight years old and I am dancing, the beads on the fringes of the pants that my grandmother had sewn dangling as my short legs move back and forth and up and down. Tonight, I am playing and running from my older brother, the ground roots catching at my already callused summer feet.

Tomorrow I am floating or bathing in the lake’s contents, or sunk into the old couch cushions, engulfed in a novel or playing mancala or cribbage.

I am almost eight years old and I am in one of the places and surrounded by the people I cherish the most. The place and people who are a piece of my whole.

I am almost eight years old, but it will be long before my family and that cottage no longer make up a part of who I am.

Kelly Frendo, Form VI

[16]

Painting by Frank Li, Form VI

[17]

Songs of Creation Side A Nature

Nature’s Artwork I can’t see you – I know you’re here Adorned by the Beauty of your surroundings – You remain a quiet Pal United to your leafy Paradise – You Coil your tail and Glue your limbs to the long-crooked branches And enjoy security and balance – Your camera lens-like eyes allow you to perceive two distinct pictures – Keeping you one step Ahead – Although unhurried – you can be fascinatingly immediate – Dull one second and captivating the next – Your scaly – crystalized skin makes you a work of Art – Mathilde Fugère, Form VII

[18]

Painting by Blake Russell, Form VI

An Equine Fellow Coils An equine Fellow coils His prehensile Ends on some Seagrass Stays anchored and waits – A voracious One he is Skin stretches over This Kampos’ dainty frame You may distinguish his Coronet – Unlike those of his mates Flutters as he must Along the Seaweed lanes Do not be fooled – This visitor of Reefs Never was a swimmer – Quite inept in fact Caught in a storm-roiled sea – he will fade – Maia Fortin Xu, Form VII

The Stillness of Water Morning burns away the summer night fades Look carefully at the air the stillness of time the water quiet Without collision the waves are dead Nothing singing Not birds not crickets not church bells Sweet August mornings are like the Apocalypse At dawn, the kayaks and the dragonfly sit in secret In the dew A girl in bed watches with fatigue Grace Gardner, Form VI

[19]

Perseverance Grass Swaying in the gentle breeze, The cool summer breeze Year after year it feels.

Lush, vivid green Reflecting the sun’s rays, Thriving in wet and murky soil Living for yet another year.

Flames of fire burn Through the forest, they run, Feeding and breathing, Grass is scorched.

Perseverance: Next year the forest is alive again, Leafy trees, bushes, shrubs, A blanket of grass covering the floor.

[20]

My eyes once closed Open to the green shoots Answering the call of the sunlight, Ready for another year.

Perseverance Aidan Feddema, Form IV

Rivers flow high and wide Life stirs just below the surface, Brown is turning, Turning to the light.

The leaves fall Layering the ground, With a collage of autumn hues Blocking the sun, smothering the grass.

December comes White now layers the floor Life lays dormant, Wading off the bitter cold.

Drawing by Emma Page, Form VII

[21]

Drifted Away A short story by Jurney Lavoie-Condo, Form IV

W

e would run down the lifegiving trail, the trees alongside us sang their beautiful melodies with the wind that blew through its bright green leaves. We would run like bears were running behind us because our hearts, that lead us to an enchanted place, were rushing with excitement, beating so hard it felt as if they would come out of our chests. Fresh water and joy rushed through the air and filled our noses with its almost addicting smell. The smell was so strong it made our legs move at the speed of light out of eagerness.

Every step brought us closer and every breath made us want to be there more. There was an invisible rope tied around us and the river that shortened with every blink, tightened with every second. Being separated from the river made us hungry for more, and we were starving for more.

The river was so far away, meaning that hunger was not fed often enough.

Upon arrival, the flowing water called for us and the fish would jump out of their hiding spots as we waved hello. It only took a moment for us to take our shoes off and run into the refreshing water that wrapped around our bodies the more we went in. The water was magical and gave us powers to breathe underwater.

As soon as we stepped off the rocks and swam forwards, we became mermaids. The splashing was music to our ears and made the sound in our hearts grow. Our magical river would rid us of all worries with its sparkling clear water. It felt like we were born to be there, like we were here because the water called us.

[22]

As soon as we got far out from land, we would dive in. Once our heads were under the water, we were no longer in the river, we were scuba diving in the deep ocean, passing by all the wonderful sea creatures. Whales would pass by us and scare away any danger, we weren’t scared of anything. The water gave us confidence, we could’ve faced everything.

An island, across from where we got in, only showed itself when we were around. This island was our escape, our home away from home, holding all our secrets and stories that were shared there, and was our safety from the monsters that showed themselves at sunset.

Now looking back, our trail that gave us energy is gone. The trees have died and lost their beautiful leaves, the only sound to be heard is the heavy wind. Walking through our once enchanted forest is like torture, because I know that the feeling of excitement and imagination will never be felt again. Now that reality has crept in and killed the friendly fish, our safe place is gone and has been taken over by pollution caused by the monsters. We are scared now of what has become of our safe place.

Everything is quiet and dead.

As a child, a filter was over our eyes, only showing us the magic in the world- but that filter is gone, and is nowhere to be seen. With no filter, I now see that the water was simply hitting against rocks and the whales keeping us safe were just sticks floating in the water.

Painting by Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

[23]

Departure Into the Skies I taste the bittersweetness of partings, longings of anticipation The thick, enveloping nuance of ethereal oregano and honey fading into The impending darkness of Demeter’s lament, At one replaced by nothingness, a blank, sterile atmosphere A vacuum of emptiness, an absence of smell A voyage on wax wings, I rise above Great, gargantuan headlands shaped from eons ago, Immense landmasses veering, shifting, spinning, shuffling and stirring languidly As wingtips, tail and nose dip, wag and tip in the purity of the heavens Vast valleys and fields ripe with Dionysus’s banquet straight from the heavens Onward I soar, skimming over sloshing, restless deep blue seas As haughty Poseidon and his fearful cavalry patrol the inscrutable waters Sprinkled with alluring isles of candy-pink reefs, jade-green lagoons, Drops of the elixir of life scattered carelessly Promising heavens of earthly pleasure A modern Daedalus, I skim the creamy white bottoms of billowy clouds Then rise into nothingness, a burden to my soul Gelid sterility accented by a limitless blindfold Emerging onto rolling ridges, valleys and interminable plains of fluff Replete with mighty passions, the playground of Zeus’s fancy Donovan Faraoni, Form VI

[24]

Drawing by Natalia Marcelin, Form VI

Painting by Kaitlin Carson, Form VII

[25]

Morning

T

he morning sky was for the most part black except for a dark blue tinge rising from behind a forest of maple, poplar, cedar, ash, white pine, and the occasional beech and tamarack. Through an open window came the crisp sounds of a spring morning, quiet except for the coo of a mourning dove perched on a white-blossom dogwood. Even the crickets had gone to sleep. The world seemed rejuvenated, peaceful after a cool night. The forest floor, covered in brown wet leaves, smelled fresh, like damp earth. A chipmunk scattered up a large, knotted pine, his mouth bulging comically with whatever he could find to eat. A young doe with her fawn drank from the creek filled with funny little minnows and grumpy, owlish-looking crayfish who dug themselves in under rocks in the riverbed.

Lukas Goettke, Form VI

[26]

Songs of Creation Side B Art

The Melody It flows through my veins to the inside of my soul.

My heart beats with the idiosyncratic melody.

The rhythm swims through me, hijacking my brain.

I begin to dance, following the music from the jukebox.

My pulse increases, my heart beats faster.

I lose myself in the rowdiness and clamour.

The tune subsides, echoing in my head...

Eva Wang, Form V

Painting by Maia Fortin Xu, Form VII

[27]

Ode to Joy The cello shall be the animals, howling for survival.

The deeps voices of theirs will be the strings, and the tongue shall be the fiddlestick, beautifully drooling.

The violin shall be the vecks, roaring in pain, twisting on the floor because of cuts and stabs.

Pain tortures them through their moves, creating the sound of agony.

Oh bog, real horrorshow!

The flutes shall be the devotchkas, crying and begging and begging and creeching in strack.

Their bodies shall be smooth and soft, unlike their high-pitched voices.

When my droogs’ clarinets play, the symphony of ultraviolence begins.

As for me, I shall be the conductor.

The nozh shall be my baton, the soul of the orchestra, Wielding it, I conduct the notes; The world shall be my orchestra, and I, your humble narrator, shall play the Ode to Joy for thee.

Rosa Yang, Form VII

Art by Ann Élizabeth Rioux, Form VII [28]

Departure Passengers flow through the aisles.

They pass the tic-tac shaped windows, perfectly dotted along the plain walls.

Soft thuds and slurs slowly fill the space, ready for the red curtains to fall, for the performance to begin.

We kiss the ground goodbye.

Pairs of tiny drums are being hit by the atmosphere’s echoes, pounding, popping.

We see stairways of white and we climb.

We feel like the boulder tossed off the edge of a hill.

Please return to your seats, I hear.

The show is still going on.

Parallel lines follow close behind.

A bullet pierces through a body of blue.

What we can see is a minimized world.

Maia Fortin Xu, Form VII

[29]

Best Picture Sunlight projects the rusty shade of the window onto the rough ground covered by dust. Only artists create masterpieces In an abandoned wonderland no one bothers to visit.

The palace is decorated to the king’s flavor; he yields to give orders and the clowns start to perform. Again and again, until it satisfies him, and the painter sketches the best picture to be sold.

The camera stops for a rest, as the voices of discussion rise like the clicking sounds that tiny metal gears produce when a watch functions. Everyone has a job, and every job is essential.

The musicians try to memorize every notation that is trapped behind the bars on the paper. It’s the base of the symphony, marking every move of the conductor’s baton.

No tickets were sold, but the actors’ performances are priceless. A theatre without a stage, a play without spotlights, and the audience is nothing more that just a machine.

The sun sets and the camera is fed. It’s another day of hard work, but it takes months for Titanic to sail across the Atlantic.

Andy Dufresne is still fighting his way to redemption.

Jacky Lai, Form VII

Theatre A short story by Grace Gardner, Form VI

R

un. Run as fast as you can. Grab the script off the pile of homework, stacked neatly like flapjacks on a sizzling plate, only if pancakes kept you up until late hours, hours in which eyelids resemble the wings of beating moths, anxious for the light. People hunched over homework in secret. The only signs that they are doing it are pencils as they scratch dry leaf. We see on faces the long hours of sleep taken from them. The creatures that walk behind these curtains are caffeinated catastrophes.

They run from place to place, like a Charlie Chaplin movie, no sound but music and time sped up so fast, you think that it’s you slowing down.

Check. Check the lights. The stage lit only by warm and red fluorescent glows from the exit signs. The flamboyant colour, so persuasive. “Get out!” it screams, “run for the hills!”, but no. Rooted here to the ground, I will always finish what I started.

No untied shoes, no half-eaten sandwiches.

Photograph by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

Light dives into the stage. It swims around and jumps across the walls. Blood throbbing, I can smell the dead skin, floating in it, tasting it on my tongue. How many have sat here? How many will sit tonight?

I want to gaze into the blinding spotlight.

I feel its gravitating vortex pulling away all fear.

Prepare, prepare for any final flaws, lights off again. Blood pumping, all sound is amplified. The eyes become deaf and the ears can see; my ears see herds of chatter, dancing slowly to their seats, they hear the music pulse slowly in the background. Have I heard this song before? Ever? In this life or a past life? It hardly matters. Breathe the toxic fumes, the theatre drenched in the eternal reek of wet paint. I smell the prop flowers, the smell of paint even stronger, everything that I know to be forwards backwards. My ears see the music for the last time as it creeps away. Then, silence.

Pure agonizing silence, but this is the high that keeps us gravitating back to this same moment. Again. And again.

[31]

Drawing by Natalia Marcelin, Form VI

Behind the Art In all women: a secret and if discovered, there is no tomorrow.

The loveliest face you can imagine: paint.

Noble ladies choose to strive for it.

A sketch of an imaginary face, and when compared with reality, the contrast is great.

Myriam Valcourt, Form VII

[32]

Painting by Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

[33]

Songs of Loving Side A Love

Girdle I sit here in the crowded cafeteria.

You will always find me in noisy places, places where you can’t hear my heart cry out for you.

When others glance your way, they see another person passing by, but me, I see your sweet bewitching smile even when it’s not there, and it makes my soul lurk and spin three times around.

My heart is like a fat lady stuffed into a girdle, the laces pulled so tight they could snap.

The girdle tries so hard to contain the force that is inside, but when my eyes catch yours, my heart lets out a sigh, and the laces of the girdle explode outward with a bang.

Grace Gardner, Form VI

[34]

You Asked Me For My Hand Not So Long Ago You asked me for my Hand not so long ago – Now – I step onward amidst Rose petals – Sprinkled – Praising the Souvenirs we shared Throughout then and now – Encircled by a palpable feeling of Trust and Love – I meet you up front in my pearled lace Gown – Heart to Heart – Soul to Soul We stare into each other’s Eyes – I Look right through you – at a disturbance that Captures my mind – A slim silvery Tag – Uncovered – Which I am compelled to look at despite my will – Letting go of this Moment needing to be Treasured This tag – it not being in its Place sets me off – Spoiling the Beauty of the dress it is peeking out of – yet Indifferent – Disturbing the Harmony between my thoughts and the present And leading my eyes where they don’t belong – Today – as I stand here – I look back at you and vow to remain True to you like my Eyes remained true to this tag – Not letting it go from the instant they perceived it – Mathilde Fugère, Form VII

Drawing by Natalia Marcelin, Form[35] VI

Photograph by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

[36]

words aren’t dead. the letter you wrote me, from your soul– has inspired me. because as you licked the envelope closed, you enclosed a piece of yourself with it. written in scrawny chicken scratch, was beauty, and it was bliss. it was your hand selected words which reflected off the page and met my bare naked eye. it was the you, who did not constantly hide your good grace behind your chiseled jawline alibi. it was the feeling of 1000 monarch butterflies fluttering around inside me, only escaping through my nervous laughter. it was the letter you wrote me that reminded me, what i most appreciated about you.

Grace Bilodeau, Form VI

[37]

[38]

Here’s to You and Me A short story by Cala Tesolin, Form V

T

his is us holding each other to warm our shivering January bodies. This is us under velvet-like snowfall in February. This is us drinking warm beverages in March, counting the days until the heat will melt the snow. This is us chasing each other through a field, our bare feet slipping in the April mud. This is us laughing, our affection growing warmer under the May sunshine. This is us crying at our graduation in June. This is us backpacking through Europe in July. This is us humming our predilect tunes though the German streets in August. This is us going our separate ways in September, tears staining our cheeks. This is us sobbing heavy, regretful tears of longing for each other in October. This is us meeting at the Grand Central Terminal in November, our smiles brighter than fireworks. This is us meeting meeting in my childhood home, halfway across the world in December, the scent of the ocean filling our lungs. This is us on New Year’s Eve flipping through photographs of our year together, that was fleeting from the grasp of our fingertips. This is us slipping from each other’s embraces at the airport after our first year of burning romance.

This is us, two Januaries after our first, writing poems that promise everlasting lives at each other’s side. This is us, three Septembers after our first, heavyheartedly beginning our last year of college, thousands of miles apart. This is us, four Decembers after our first, celebrating Christmas at the home we bought with sweaty pennies and roughened dollar bills. This is us, five Mays after our first, seeing little of each other, spending our days in what seem like eternal meetings. This is us, six Julys after our first, taking two weeks off to travel to your parents’ home, three thousand miles south from our flat in Boston. This is us, seven Novembers after our first, drinking white wine at three a.m., sewing our stories into the squeaking wooden floor beneath us, looking up at the drabness of the sky being burnt away by the light of the stars.

This is us, eight Aprils after our first, getting engaged under the clouded moonlight that poured into our home like liquid silver.

This is us, nine Junes after our first, proudly announcing “I do,” whispering to the moon our wish for our love to last until it no longer illuminates the world in the nights. This is us, ten Februaries after our first, bringing another life into the world, riveting with excitement. This is us, thirteen Septembers after our first, driving our first born to preschool. This is us, that same day, explaining to him in simple words he is yet to fully comprehend, how this, this is us driving him to the first day of the rest of his life.

Painting by Angel Huang, Form IV

[39]

A Glimpse Into Infatuation A pale-skinned girl looks out the window and observes the celestial view. She looks at the sycamore trees with her tender green eyes as they lust at her glance. She stares at the sky as the heavens gawk at her lips. Both the scenery and her, in love with each other’s gentle beauty, forbidden by a windowpane.

Natalia Marcelin, Form VI

[40]

Songs of Loving Side B Unlove

Gone They Cannot. They Cannot. Apply what you feel.

I walk through the appearance.

I walk through the feeling.

How were we happy?

Leave her, I thought.

Decision, I made.

Leave her, I said.

Foolish, I knew.

I was hiding.

They know.

I know.

Gone.

Timothy-Paul Chevalier, Form VI

Painting by Angel Huang, Form IV

[41]

Painting by Camila Rosales Martinez, Form V

Heart of Ice If you were to press your ear against my chest, you would hear no beating, no pumping behind my breast.

No feelings, no emotions can drag me down if they are not felt.

No fantasy, no fairytales, no false faith, could melt the ice that encases the metal that embraces the eerie emptiness fools call a heart.

If you peered through my ribcage you would find empty space.

She who raised me always prayed me not to put anything in its place.

For if anyone were to stab me I would be numb to the pain, the blood spilling from my vein would hurt me no more than the droplets of rain for I am heartless.

I could not, cannot, will not feel.

Warmth, heat, love, to me, in me, are simply are not real.

There is nothing I can do, nor want to do to change this fact, it is all I know to be, I appreciate it, for I might break yours, but if I had a heart, who knows how intact it would be?

If I put it in a cage, cobwebs would surround it, isolate it from the rest, but that would be best because if I set it free, repeatedly shredded, shattered, smashed by careless men it would be, who would then leave regretful memories to live in me like footprints in the sand, later to be blown away by the winds of my next mistake, another man.

From emotions, always flee.

They are not a ship that sets you free; they are the anchor that would drown you until you reach the very bottom of a dark, lonely sea.

If you consider that, it is much the opposite of a sacrifice, to hold a heart of ice.

Cala Tesolin, Form V

Idolatry You kiss my palms before you go.

Murmured blessings in my flesh, scripture written with your lips, etched vows and bindings in the grooves of my fingerprints.

Your prayers rattle my ribcage and I cannot breathe beneath the intensity of your devotion – all my bones are broken.

There is no God. I am the idol you have chosen to adore; I am powerless. Forgive me.

Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

[42]

[43]

Painting by Angel Huang, Form IV

addiction. how did i end up here? i ask myself again and again, and again. how do i always end up trying to fix the broken? trying to fix the ones that are lost, and trying to fix those who were never found. why is it that i take it upon myself to show generosity to those who do not deserve it. why is it that i feel compelled to act as a miracle worker, when i need a miracle myself?

Grace Bilodeau, Form VI

[44]

The Giving Time The Black Angel standing by her bed listening to church bells A morning in November after a heated argument because she never learned the loving dexterity By the way of the Lord she will find a means to forgive him and find the recipe of love But for now she needs the pleasant sounds that are silence and quiet water Simon Couroux, Form V

[45]

X–O I declare war.

I declare war as my trade is to do, and you, inexperienced fool, you face armies of mine with a broken shield, and tell me I can’t be so cruel.

I declared war as the monster I am and you faced me with arms open wide.

You laughed in the face of my armies of steel, like just another man to misguide.

You asked me to put down my sword and my arms, indeed you believed that I had, but I have nothing left but my armies to give – to a man – does that make me so bad?

Battlefields are no place for hearts, and you wandered too close holding yours.

Am I really to blame if I found you like that, bleeding buckets as I jot down scores?

Cala Tesolin, Form V Painting by Frank Li, Form VI

[46]

Love Chirps Under the blessing of the moonlight, in the calmness of the atmosphere and as the crickets sang their song, he declared his undevoted love to my soul.

As he sang his Iliad of love, which the chirps kept on interposing, he proclaimed his bond stronger than that of Penelope, and brought out the loop-shaped crystal.

As hard as I tried to be the lovely fiancée, I couldn’t focus on the diamond’s luster, nor could I focus on his words of desire, as the insects’ mating song diffused my attention.

“Do you, my dear, take me for eternity?”

I looked into his eyes where all the stars had gathered, opened my mouth to declare my passion, but the band stopped playing, and I couldn’t sing a word.

Théo Espagnol, Form VII

[47]

Monthly Blues August the birth of my first lesson He was my fairy tale my song and childhood I thought my golden heart was at ease Ah no, it was for rent December he tore it down; a traded heart for a Barbie a modern Madonna Men No sense of direction January my blues deepened A sad woman and the explanation was he He was my first, my thoughts, my end March the end of my world Strange how he thought everything was good “Honey, get over it” How easy is it to get over my thoughts?

I was almost happy Tyrin Culmer, Form VI

Je t’aime moi non plus pis ça recommence encore un jeudi après-midi engueulades chuchotées lâchées dans un air brûlant d’accusations esclaves à ce cycle d’automutilation, on se poursuit comme des fous les griffes sorties les pistolets levés le menton haut on se bat aveuglement, trébuchant dans le noir on s’abandonne à la rancœur les cœurs entrelacés et plus on tire plus ils se déchirent il ne reste plus rien à sauver Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

[48]

Artwork by Léa Gagné Gosselin, Form V

[49]

Songs of Anger Side A

Violence

Pink Mist After the deafening boom All that was left was a pink mist Minuscule pink drops floating in the air That were once flesh, That were once bones, That were once cartilage.

Flesh, bones and cartilage that belonged To a human being Whose heart was beating, Whose veins were circulated by Carmine red blood Whose lungs inflated and deflated with Every breath.

Whose brain held their dearest memories.

And all of this was nothing more Than pink mist.

Camila Rosales Martinez, Form V

[50]

The Last Battle

Reaping

Death and Destruction A forsaken sunset The poaching of an ancient revenge

Drizzly Days take me away Flashes come and go Amazed – I leaned in Oh – what a Mistake it was

War and Drought A hunter Given strength long ago Blindness and Fever A deep night A tide of ice Winter and Snow A cautionary infant The ballad of a mad bird Erosion and Dust The mending of a young bridge How proud an end…

Catherine Vine, Form VI

This Day–made me wise Not wise enough – to be the Hero I just watched – greasy Fists Pound and Pound – Over and Over I needed my Revenge To make my Soul clean – Melrose 49th Street – That is where He’ll be Memories in rewind – If only a gust of Wind Could Blow them all away This Reaping – could be delayed Sebastian Colley, Form VI

Painting by Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

[51]

The Return I shall sit at the Korova milk bar, I shall sip on my Moloko plus.

I shalt be sweet like sakar, I shalt be controlled like the lot of us.

The ultra-violence is what I think of, the ultra-violence is what I love.

The ultra-violence I will continue, the ultra-violence is what I’ll do.

You may have tricked my gulliver, you may have tricked my body.

Soon I’ll overcome thy malediction, soon I’ll overcome thy curse.

I’ll make you bleed from the goober, I’ll make you hear the collocoll.

Beware my brothers, sirs; beware of the cat that doesn’t purr.

I pray for you my brothers, sirs; I pray, for your sake.

For this malchick will come back strong, for this malchick will prove you wrong.

Théo Espagnol, Form VII

Wrath I thought I should think, For her brazen coolness provoked me; I think of her guilt – before indignation prevailed over prudence – I was not aware, awareness was not wisdom.

Rosa Yang, Form VII

[52]

Painting by Rosa Yang, Form VII

[53]

[54]

Songs of Anger Side B

Empowerment

Makeup Remover I wear my difference like an accidental lipstick smear on my left cheek; considered improper in its way of marring what would otherwise be a prim and proper landscape but dazzling in its audacity to exist and not be erased.

Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

Painting by Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

[55]

[56]

Drawing by Emily Chen, Form VII

So Much More I am a woman.

I have a voice that is So much louder than yours could ever be.

I can roar like a lion while you chirp like a bird.

So why do you silence me?

I am more.

I am a woman.

I am as beautiful as stars on a bleak night.

I am as strong as a bear protecting her cubs.

Does that intimidate you?

Is that why you have decided that my gender makes me smaller, less important, less human than you are?

I am more.

I am so much more.

Cala Tesolin, Form V

[57]

I Earned My Life in America I am writing this on a strip of white paper, that I bought with those sweaty pennies in my pocket, the ones I earned through hard work, doing all the tasks that none of you wanted to take.

Nevertheless, I did all of them.

I cleaned your bathrooms, I mopped your halls, I fixed you broken items, your life, and I got payed with pennies instead of bills.

I am writing this to let you know how it feels, to be threatened to leave this country, because I wasn’t born here and as white as you were, to be marginalized and stereotyped, simply parts of my everyday life, to be the one to do your dirty work, to help you with everything you don’t want to do, and still be treated like I’m less than trash.

I am writing to show you how I live with my brothers and sisters, those that live in the outskirts of your cities, those that work their fingers to the bone, those that earned themselves some land, those that gained their way of life, those that are happy and united regardless of the situation, those that are a part of your society, even if we are part of another group.

I am writing to inform you, that I learned to live in the same land as you, that even when you want me out of here, I will never leave the place that I call home, that I will gladly continue to work for you, no matter the assignments I must take.

As long as I can earn those sweaty pennies, to pay for my food, my clothes, my home, my paper, and especially to earn my existence.

Alfonso Aguilar Vázquez, Form V

[58]

Drawing by Edward Zhang, Form VII

[59]

[60]

Painting by Le Quang Anh Do, Form V

Not For You

If we are to look upon the way society’s been run, back through ancient texts and scriptures, and the barrel of a gun, it’s hardly a surprise, and maybe we have not forgotten – there’s no need to look through scriptures when our burnt skin still glows hot.

But know that I don’t say these things and heal my brother’s wounds, know that I don’t do it so you’ll hear our woeful tunes, I do not stand here among my friends for me, but for us all.

Know whatever I do, that it is not for you.

Oh yes! I am honoured, to think for someone gay, you’d take time from your busy life to give us the time of day.

Listen, I know how you see us Some poor sickly thing to help Your courage and your sympathy should be applauded – goaded, stitched and sewed in – to our very skin as a reminder of you kindness.

You have made us into something else, some grotesque idea.

We are just the same as you, and yet our walls are lined with fear, so yes, I will march off to war – but I won’t march for you.

You are more than us and you are giving us a glance, my gods, you are so strong!

– so brave and wonderful, That’s wrong, it’s wrong, you’re wrong!

But know that as I shake the earth, that this is not for you.

Know that as I move the sky, that it is not for you.

Know that as I bring this world a-crumbling to its knees, and as your sympathetic eyes remain still blind to what they see, oh please remember as the tides hear my orders and obey, none of this is for you.

Izzy Macfarlane, Form V [61]

Shattered Glass and Stones I cannot remember when words began turning into shattered glass and stones, but there is one thing I shall never forget, my love: since I was a child, I observed the scorn in voices, sung lyrics, and written phrases.

Still, I was ignorant to why these words resembled bullets as they flew out of mouths, or shot from the barrels of pens.

Ironically, silence is not only rare in this world, but unwanted as well.

Since its reputation has it haunted without much reason; if I dare say so, my love.

And call me a liar if I ever say I’ve kept quiet every day.

Or stone me to death if I swear no words have shot from my own pen.

But to you, my love, I ask to shut your eyes when a text is presented, purse your lips if you feel the urge to speak.

Bury the pen if you long to write.

For words are stones, and silence is peace.

Cala Tesolin, Form V

[62]

Photograph by Jacky Lai, Form VII

[63]

Songs of Fear Side A

The Known Home Purple and blue – Sorrow and pain – Rich redolent haze of emotions – Miserable nostalgia – Whispers bounce off walls – Names used as weapons – Reminiscence hurts – Poundings resonate – An eternity spent inside Bickering always on the high – Sweaty palms clenched But power is resigned – This haunted house of torture – Scars glisten in a red-stained tub – Outside never may I roam – For I only know My pain-riddled home Sebastian Colley, Form VI

[64]

Sourd Le bourdonnement dans mes oreilles Le cri violent de mille abeilles Où est parti le doux goût du miel?

Où sont partis les magnifiques couleurs du ciel?

Puis les nuances de roses à n’en plus finir, les fleurs, où sont-elles?

L’odeur du soleil qui se couche, le son de mère nature qui chante La noble et sublimement énervante texture du gazon vert.

L’orchestre de guerre triomphant lorsque les vagues s’affrontent au sable.

Où sont-ils tous partis.

Il ne reste que moi.

Moi, et ce vent assourdissant.

Ce vent qui ne laisse place à rien d’autre que plus de vent Ce froid sans fin qui ne fait que grandir Ce blanc vide d’émotions qui me suit partout où je vais.

Moi, et ces camarades inhumains qui me privent de mon bonheur.

Timothy-Paul Chevalier, Form VI

Painting by Léa Gagné Gosselin, Form V

Creatures of the Woods A short story by Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form V

I

stumble through the woods. The branches and roots reach out their fingers, grasp at my feet. The leaves, tumble from the treetops, as they race to the forest floor. The windy chill had covered everything in its path with a light layer of frost. Ah! Finally, out of the woods, but now I had a bigger problem on my hands…

The running, the hiding. I don’t remember when it started; It still seemed fresh in my mind. I remember what they told us; Run. Never stop.

Save yourself. There is no going back.

I remember them taking her; Sophie.

They ripped at her scalp; I heard her screams. We locked eyes. I turned, and ran. I remember my mother. The frigid sensation of her lifeless skin against my own. I remember our first shelter. And our second, and third…

I don’t know why I left. I just did.

Save yourself. Now, I wasn’t sure where I was headed, but couldn’t stop. As I ran barefoot on the cracked pavement, intense shockwaves travelled up my spine.

I heard them. Lots of them. I ran harder. They ran faster. It had been awhile since there were doors. Now they were just holes in the walls. I ran through the Glass Passage. Down past the dining hall– although everywhere seemed to be a dining hall to them. The flag pole, bruised and battered. I ran.

[66]

Grier disappeared out of my peripheral entirely. I would say I was heading to Smith House, but the pile of shambles that lay in its place had no business being called a house. I looked to the woods to see more of them emerging.

I had nowhere to go. I was surrounded.

They were everywhere.

Stepping back, I slowly retraced my path. My back bumped against something, or rather, someone. I froze. That face; I recognized it. The brown shaggy hair, caked in mud. His deep blue eyes, more of tinged grey. There was no life in there, just an empty figure, trying to eat my bones or my brains or whatever they craved these days. I didn’t know what to do. My heart raced and my mind blanked.

I noticed his fingernails digging into my arm. I felt the chill of his body against my own. I saw the deep wounds on my limbs, where his fingers and teeth had ripped me. My once pale skin, now a deep shade of green, or maybe it was brown.

The colour spread, bringing with it the sensation of rotten flesh. As the pain dispersed, a feeling of calmness washed over me. The others stepped back, and retreated into the woods.

As my legs unfroze, I headed back. Past Grier and Glass. Around the fields. Into the woods. Up the hill. Back to the shelter, where I claimed my first victim.

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar Vรกzquez, Form V

[67]

[68]

It Was Home She was fearful once again, on the same set of stairs, looking up towards the same sky yet with a different fear.

How can one leave behind a habit?

An obsession some would say.

Yet for her, it was familiarity, orderliness, harmony of even the most complex hardships, far from tranquility, yet it was home, credibility in its most ironic form.

As excited as she was to start a new chapter, she was equally gloomy, It wasn’t tragic, yet something about leaving made her eyes brim with tears.

She knew that nostalgia would be soon upon her, she was dreading to leave a place she grew to love, a place that loved her further.

Nonetheless she dragged her suitcase away from the building she was once so afraid to step into.

Renan Bolkan, Form VII

Photograph by Alfonso Aguilar VĂĄzquez, Form V

[69]

Chapter 16 I feared to meet the morning, the morning that succeeded to restore the smoke in the chamber – Doga Uras, Form VII

[70]

Photograph by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

Songs of Fear Side B

The Unknown

Heights I sift through expectations (not belonging to me.)

They are tender but thick And (begin to encroach – ) push me to the brink.

Miles below, I am faced with the Unkown Who looms faster that I can tell; (I am sightless solely to him.)

Anticipation grows in my lungs, my moves become sure and firm – I leap off the verge (Not from a push, but from a warm pull) (To my abstract amazement,) a gentle landing is granted where the loving worth is unveiled, (at last!)

Maia Fortin Xu, Form VII

[71]

The Matrix The sun sparkles its way through The leaves as he stumbles step by step in a sea of green and brown.

Those magnetic feet feel like they’re a hundred tons, burning out whatever’s left in him.

Will the trees keep ambling past his melting body? When will his boots ever touch something other than this filthy mud?

He doesn’t know. But there’s got to be an end to this forest.

Every step is leap of faith.

A belief in the next step would be one of the last he has to take. Yet, dehydration and tiredness stand tall in his way.

So, which pill will he take, the blue or the red? One more step towards relief, or collapse upon the mud and wait for his Judgement Day? Jacky Lai, Form VII

A Clockwork Society Within the dreariness and merzkyness is buried a bezoomy mesto, where every feminine soul is imprisoned in the goloss of the prevailing moodges.

Oobivat shall be she who dares govoreet her messel, and clopped by a shlaga those who chumble.

On the streets roam the shaikas of prestoopnik rassodocks, from whom not one cheena is safe.

One glazz contact and a plenny you will become, worth no more than the number on your nagoy brooko.

A reality so oozhassnyly atrocious that no drencrom, synthmesc or vellocet can make you evade it where death is more dorogoy than life.

Mathilde Fugère, Form VII

[72]

Painting by Natalia Marcelin, Form VI

[73]

Six Feet Under He yells.

His throat raw, his words harsh.

His eyes are burning, so full of hatred and pain, as if the Sun was captured in his eyes.

Me? I am frozen, standing motionless in front of him.

My feet planted to the floor like cement, I can’t move.

My face is without expression, my eyes without tears.

I simply listen, and take in his words as a machine does data.

Suddenly, the sound drowns out, I can only hear a hissing white noise, like static on a radio.

With the peace of silence, my mind drifts off to the far corners of the universe.

It’s dark. Filled with a musky smell.

The obscurity so extreme that it fills my lungs.

I can’t stand up, I can only crawl.

My hands and knees soak up mud.

I am stuck in a tunnel six feet under.

I crawl, in what seems like an endless path.

My hands and knees are covered in blisters, but still, I keep crawling.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel, A speck of hope. But, every time I step toward it It seems as though the light gets farther away.

I collapse on the ground, as if a sudden cardiac arrest took place.

My muscles give way. I lay lifeless in the disgusting mud.

My head is exploding with thoughts, bruised elbows, slammed doors, my veins are coursing with emotions, emotions I don’t understand.

I am clueless as to my next move.

I think of yelling for help, screaming for my mother until she magically appears.

But where can I turn to?

Who is there to go to?

I am stuck in a tunnel six feet under.

[74]

When the episode is over, I somehow gather the courage to get back up.

I keep crawling, the reason nearly faded in my memory.

After much perseverance, I reach the light, almost by miracle.

I escape into the shining rays of hope, and the world around it is revealed.

I stand in front of him, his face is now frozen like mine.

He is not yelling. His words have vanished.

I slip out the back door, and take a walk.

It is sunrise, the light just barely peeking its eyes over the horizon.

It is a stiff and cold morning; the trees are wrapped in frost.

I walk for what seems like hours along a sidewalk.

And in the middle of nowhere, I catch sight of a girl.

She sits a few meters away on a lonely bench.

She looks like she needs a friend, so I approach.

I sit next to her; she says nothing.

Then suddenly, she meets my gaze,

In the reflection of her eyes, in the deepest part of her soul, for just a moment, I could swear I saw a deep, dark, tunnel.

Anthony Herbst, Form IV Photograph by Jacky Lai, Form [75] VII

Gloomy Confidant Her confinement was never within her Boundaries – Rather it remained perpetually for her Enmity – She was at no time willing to Ease the danger enclosing her – She Devotedly waged a war with the infinite Gloom She was distinct with the travels – yet faced toward the moon and stars when wanting to be heard She whispered her gratitude – Every so often Acclaimed her misery through the starry night She treasured the quiet – Perhaps her cries hid her darkest worries Her impatience kept her moving through her home Range – Eternally prepared to Shield My confidant was seen as Destructive – Still hid my Memorable secrets – shared them with the whole world When my words weren’t comparable to her flamboyant Screams – Renan Bolkan, Form VII

[76]

Painting by Coco Wang, Form V

[77]

Songs of Loss Side A

Loss of Other In That Silent Garden Snow in September The strangest moment in my life In that silent garden Watching snowflake after snowflake As ordinary as any passenger on a train Art in the detail Small milk-white angels All fell, unharvested The prince singing to the princess A love song that frustrated the poet Driving the old man to suicide In a dark spiral of sickness The night death revisited In that once sweet garden Now lost in the middle of a war The poet’s thoughts somewhere in the snow The princess dances away The brave poet is leaving Everything happening all at once  In that silent garden Camila Rosales Martinez, Form V

[78]

It Was Supposed to Be a Holiday It was supposed to be a Holiday Started as a Visiting – Ended as a Leaving Only she had never Gone – A father – powerless to Shield Easy to say – the ever growing Giant took him away But in Innocent veins lie the Truth She was told Time gave up on him Before they could reach – A peaceful passing he was gifted He then lay silently blue – Attended with a plethora of white rose Wreaths Incense smoke curls – rents the air – Invades – One portrait reminds a Young girl – Often will never be enough Maia Fortin Xu, Form VII

Photograph by Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

[79]

Silenced Ghost footsteps pad on overgrown sidewalks Pools of shattered glass crystals litter broken pavements Whistling dust clouds instead of crowds chattering Howling winds replace cars’ aggravated horns Rustling autumn leaves jam into piles against faded barriers Derelict steel-frames haunt skies devoid of activity Cool grey girders now speckled with red Intact windows streaked with white and grey guano Chic offices reduced to labyrinths of loneliness Thunderstorm-gutted apartment towers reveal Interiors specked with blood-rust, green-black, and tan Subsuming former gleaming mahogany of bohemian-style dressers Impeccable copper finished art-nouveau coffeetables Spare white walls of trendy minimalism now Pollack paintings Machine-less, crane-less Erstwhile slums and uptown exchanges House murders of crows, gangs of rats Designs of Le Corbusier and Frank Lloyd Wright mere dreams An urban scape silent with only Gutted resources, cadmium leaching, glowing wastewater Former industries paper with green bills and consumers’ whims Banks vaults overfilled and vast private mansions Still a cataclysmic dream Donovan Faraoni, Form VI

Photograph by Donovan Faraoni, Form VI

No Souls These skeletal corpses, the walking dead, wearing ripped trousers and white-turned-yellow shirts, shoveling and bashing from dawn to dusk with exhausted engines, overheated for years, crawling to this deteriorated factory, all waiting for their piece of bread and grateful for this gift of life.

In this grey and old factory that used to manufacture toys, men were turned to self-automatized machines by their will to survive in this post-apocalyptic world.

None would share a smile or thought as none remembered how to think.

Their souls were washed away, by the desert that drowned their homes.

Only their primary instincts were left, and their empty minds.

To commemorate the errors of the past, when the world was too free to be contained, men were put in chains and turned to slaves so they could never repeat the same mistake.

CĂŠdric Matte, Form VII

[81]

Painting by Laura Tao, Form II

Limerence Grass-tickled toes.

Her chest rises with the wind. A long sigh: an exhalation of sweetness fingers lifted to conduct the warm air around her. Whispers on her neck – she giggles softly. Not unlike birdsong or the ringing of a little bell, mellifluous.

She stretches her limbs to greet the sun.

A graceful twist. Hands unfold like opening flowers.

The sun greets her. A caress on each cheek.

From the woods, I watch. Quiet. Patient. Longing.

I trace her silhouette.

Her eyes are glass. I see the depths of her, shimmering. A sparkling lake or a sprawling stillness of diamonds. (my tongue is dry with thirst but) There is an insatiable desire for more than just flesh rooted deep within my core.

I can only dream of dipping my toes into her grace.

My stomach is warm.

I imagine myself as the grass and the air and the sun, gently reaching out to her gliding my fingers across the crooks of her arms and legs following every dip and turn, breathing in the softness of her skin and forgetting everything else but her and her and only her again and again until I have no previous existence again and again until I am buried beneath her forests and rivers and mountains and valleys again and again until I am a vital part of her.

The echo of her heartbeat.

From the tall grass, he watches. He wants.

He calls to her; she turns.

Her light fades. The sky darkens.

He crawls to her; she extends herself towards him her eyes are opaque. Haunting, almost grotesque.

I push my way forward in the wood (as the branches wrap themselves around my arms and the bramble grows between my toes and the thicket scratches at my legs) and I scream for her and for her to look back and for her to see me trapped as I try to reach her but she is in his arms (and my skin is torn) and he is holding her (and my throat is raw) and she touches him and I shatter so violently (that I lose my breath) The woods close in around me. (nothing is left but a dull ache that goes on and on and on and on) I weep bitterly for the loss of something that was never mine.

Leah Plante-Wiener, Form VII

[82]

[83]

buildings all the birds left in the fall feathers falling behind them i watched the geese i watched the eaglets i watched the cranes me and the chickadees we stayed behind alone and together the world never shone when they came back however they brought back the sun when they left behind were feathers broken bits of lives one lived and never repeated in the winter we tried to fly with them we jumped off buildings birds without wings trying to find friends in forever.

Jessie Pigeon, Form VI

Songs of Loss Side B

Loss of Self

Twilight Kingdom A twilight kingdom.

There are no maps, Only broken images, Where we can live as we have dreamed.

Escaping life One dream at a time.

The present Is happening too fast to breathe.

I am a bomb.

A bomb of memories and love.

A bomb of darkness and grief.

To explode would be a tragedy, To explode would be the end.

But to create the broken images, And the twilight kingdom, We must explode One at a time.

To create a life for others.

Violetta Zeitlinger Fontana, Form V

Painting by Bobby Duan, Form VII

[85]

[86]

Painting by Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

And I Shall Be Gone I smelled a scent of cologne, when I was waving at the train platform – The wood, the dew, the bitterness of lemongrass, And the warm animal leather, tangled up with the bleak air – Shaming my façade of Composure and CourageThe fathers were waving, the mothers were weeping, The sisters and children were confused and afraid – Among them, I couldn’t see faces that are familiar to me, But that couldn’t stop my sense of Belonging – In the near future, I shall be gone, Like Many Before me, With me and After me – And I shall be gone, for the Honor of My Motherland, For the Safety of my People, and for the Honor of Myself, as a True Patriot – I shall be manly, like the cologne, and be determined to my Fate and Obligation, And embrace the diminishment of my body for the Greater Good – The winds blew, straight to our faces, And the darkness of a tunnel swallowed us as a whole – When the piercing sound of a whistle cleaved the sky, I finally lost the scent of that cologne – It was gone with the wind, drifting around on this continent, Carrying my last goodbye and all my emotions – So I can facilely kill, and unregretfully die.

Rosa Yang, Form VII

[87]

Drawing by Laura Tao, Form II

The Partisan Excerpt of a short story by Donovan Faraoni, Form VI

F

ocus, focus… I couldn’t afford to fixate: all that would come from that was the cold barrel of 15-millimeter-thick steel to the temples and a brass-jacketed ninemillimeter bullet in the head, delayed clink of a shell casing as it bounces first off of my lifeless body then onto the uneven granite of the town square, my Sten rusting forgotten in the nearby ditch full of sooty water.

Being the mouse was taking its tool: the constant alertness, the chronic lack of sleep and hunger ravaged me. The habit of my hand rubbing the cold steel of my Sten’s silencer reminded me of my promise. I was maquis, set to sabotage the SS’s trucks, halftracks, or any other target of opportunity.

That impetus spurred me on. As the fresh breeze covered the sound of my footsteps retreating from the farm into back into the bushes, I glanced towards the rising sun where a silhouette of wooden crosses marked the burial plots of dead soldiers. An entire graveyard, filled with them. But one granite tombstone stood proud, representing an unknown family, buried in haste before the invasion. Who were they? I would never know but vivid images of my own family fought up to the surface of my crowded thoughts, summer family vacations lolling in days past on pristine beaches along the Croatian coastline, picnics in the hot lavender fields of mid-summer. I had lost my wife and children to a Nazi bomb that blew up the train they were on. The remains were never recovered, not of them nor any of the others packed into those crowded railway cars, attempting to flee to freedom before it was too late.

Suddenly all my past false identities flitted before my eyes like windblown hay.

They flashed just out of reach, beyond my grasp, and I realized how easily I lost myself in them. Each time I absorbed a new one, it became a part of me that pushed memories of real family further out of my consciousness. For the first time, I understood that surviving here and now meant sacrificing all that remained of my family – my memories. I marched on as the wind, picking up, whistled morosely through desolate barren branches all around me, looking for a hideaway until night fell once again.

[88]

[89]

Songs of Introspection Side A

Reflection Warmth I linger; pace backwards and forwards My spirit expands before me in depth and measureless distance – My heart glows, a warm glow; a genial fire revealing the most pleasant radiance Maia Fortin Xu, Form VII

[90]

Underwater Hold your breath, and submerge yourself in the deep.

Slowly sink.

Let your arms get weak.

Allow your mind to wander.

Wander past wondering.

Let your mind think in colour.

Forget all your blundering.

Now deeper than your thoughts, your eyes get blurrier; not seeing your surroundings, drifting towards shore.

Your feet tingly in the sand, your skin on the soft waves, inhaling the new air, saltiness left on your face.

No longer with yourself, as you come out dripping wet.

Being underwater is unquestionably more than just holding your breath.

Kaitlin Carson, Form VII

Painting by Grady Carson, Form V

Dual Identity

United Counterparts

Fickle whims and fancies tinkling Chilly jets of capricious distrust Distorted declarations

If malevolency comes from within, how can one be liable for its curse?

Isn’t the evil a venom we all veil?

Would enforcing virtuousness be gracious?

If one doesn’t feel pain, would hurting him be a gain?

Is good truly good when one seeks appreciation?

Or is one truly malicious if it’s just a temptation?

If goodness opposes evil, what makes goodness so regal?

If villainy and benevolence are extant why not let them be debris?

Worn reflections emanating Night black yet sunshine bright Simultaneous revelations Shape-shifters constantly drowning Two-faced anomalous sprite Constant consideration Donovan Faraoni, Form VI

Renan Bolkan, Form VII

Is the Unexamined Life Worth Living?

Excerpt of a personal essay by Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

I

f we did not exhibit such a desperate need to button up coats that itch and lie to others and start wars, we would be happy. If we allowed those who wished to stay in bed and accomplish things in their own time, according to their own comfort, we would be happy.

But I don’t think we could ever be satisfied. A couple of us would still make ourselves uncomfortable, push limits, and discover incredible things on their own, because they want to be satisfied. They want to know. But those who didn’t… would be comfortable. They would be clear and honest with other people, because dishonesty generates anxiety. Clothes wouldn’t be a fancy dress that pokes and prods and makes you self-conscious. They’d be what feels comfortable. You wouldn’t go to school or work or anything if you were not so inclined. And so we would live, at our own whim – not progressing, perhaps degrading, perhaps getting rid of entire systems. One could relate such a world to the Greek myth, the Land of the Lotus Eaters. A perpetual paradise. Could it be possible?

[92]

Painting by Zoë Bendy, Form VII

[93]

First Sense

Drawing by Natalia Marcelin, Form VI

Why is it that the first thing every baby does is cry?

At such a young age, can they really see the dark?

Can they already sense the disappointment to come?

Why shouldn’t a child sing?

Why must a child cry?

Is it because the air smells so dry and stale, as if the earth is trying to hold its breath, waiting, refusing to let new air in, because, maybe, it won’t be as sweet as she remembers?

Can they already hear the tick tack of a person’s tongue, the harshness in their r’s, the speed in their voice, as if never content with what they are saying?

Does even a baby taste the sticky sweetness of their own breath, the same breath that will later talk, later speak words of hate and pain, later bring heartbreak and sorrow to the loves of their lives?

Do they feel the rough skin of their mothers and fathers, the bruises and bumps others have made, the scrapes and scars left by those who have hurt their mamas and papas, a constant reminder of long years now long gone?

Can they already see the shadows in the bright lights, dark figures fighting against the neon colours, fighting against the overcoming fluorescence, failing to make themselves seen?

Does a baby already know the secrets of this terrible world they have been brought to?

Do they already see and feel and taste and smell and hear what this world really has to offer?

Do they scream for those around them, knowing that one day their fate will be the same?

Do they already know what is to come?

Is that why they cry?

Emma Bea Crowther, Form VII

Songs of Introspection Side B

Growth Wisdom’s Worth

H

e told them things that kept them all afloat. Wisdom was his trade, and so his passion. They asked him how he pulled all this brilliant knowledge from the sky.

He told them it’s not air, but experience that breeds wisdom.

“I don’t understand,” they said.

“Good.” He smiled. “It’s not worth it.”

Izzy Macfarlane, Form V

[95]

[96]

Drawing by Bobby Duan, Form VII

Grey Skies The child is a dreamer, the future is his present, he is the bird that soars the skies.

He cries tears of plastic, but he is a sponge.

His screams come back to hurt him, multiplying in severity, like a man listening to his dead heart, desperate to end the silence.

He knows he’s finished.

These birds have been in their cages for too long.

All they know is to sit and chirp.

They once had potential, but now it is gone.

The silence is like a homeless man looking for change, desperate for a second chance.

Where did he go wrong?

These birds cannot help but cry, cries of beautiful pain and blessed regret.

Where did we go wrong?

But now these birds have learned to fly.

Pain is but a stone in their shoe.

The pain hasn’t become weaker but they have become stronger.

Mohamed Alsawari, Form VII

Jane Eyre I wish to be a little child: too young to utter these dreams of real happiness!

I will not deny the hope of faith, truth, and devotion. It is too much to hate you and your heart’s content.

Jacky Lai, Form VII

[97]

A Tassel Dangles From Each Head A Tassel dangles from each Head My Eyes latch on the one in front They swing for long – Jump as all Rise Curiosity and Hope dart Back and forth – through all Minds – They are Now Crowned And the Tassel adorns from Right There is an Applause – so it quivers My eyes follow still – We are here –Gathered together All having encountered Triumph and Disaster Along our traveled paths I hear a voice that I am not listening to – We have Played our parts – but Our canvas remains Immeasurable The tassels keep swaying – on the Left Maia Fortin Xu, Form VII

The Lollipop “Honey, in Life, things come to an end, just like when you finish your lollipop.

The sweetness remains on your tongue longer than the time it takes you to eat it.

It’s the aftertaste that sticks with you is that is worthwhile, Honey.

You don’t think about it before you open the package – it’s the anticipation of the upcoming satisfaction on your lips that draws you in.

But in a deeper part of you, it’s the past experiences which push you to relive the moment.

And now, every time you taste the Good, you know where to find the answer, relevant to the expectations you’ve built from previous memories.”

Doga Uras, Form VII

[98]

Painting by Natalia Marcelin, Form VI

[99]

Index by author Aguilar Vázquez, Alfonso I Earned My Life in America....58 Alsawari, Mohamed Grey Skies...............................97 Bilodeau, Grace addiction.................................44 words aren’t dead...................37 Bolkan, Renan Gloomy Confidant...................76 It Was Home............................69 Sweetest Lullaby.......................9 United Counterparts..............92 Carson, Kaitlin Underwater.............................91 Chevalier, Timothy-Paul Gone........................................41 Sourd.......................................65 Colley, Sebastian Home.......................................64 Reaping...................................51 Couroux, Simon The Giving Time.....................45 Crowther, Emma Bea First Sense..............................94 Culmer, Tyrin Monthly Blues.........................48 Espagnol, Théo Love Chirps.............................47 The Return..............................52 Faraoni, Donovan Departure into the Skies.........24 Dual Identity..........................92 The Partisan...........................88 Silenced...................................80 Una parte di me................ 14–15 Feddema, Aidan Perseverance..................... 20–21

[100]

Fortin Xu, Maia An Equine Fellow Coils..........19 Departure................................29 Heights....................................71 It Was Supposed to Be a Holiday............................79 A Tassel Dangles From Each Head..........................98 Warmth...................................90 Frendo, Kelly Eight........................................16 Fugère, Mathilde A Clockwork Society...............72 Nature’s Artwork....................18 You Asked Me for My Hand Not so Long Ago.................35 Gardner, Grace Girdle......................................34 The Stillness of Water.............19 Theatre....................................31 Goettke, Lukas Morning .................................26 Herbst, Anthony Six Feet Under.................. 74–75 Huang, Peter Oriental Memory.................... 11 Lai, Jacky Best Picture.............................30 Jane Eyre................................97 The Matrix..............................72 Lavoie-Condo, Jurney Drifted Away...........................22 Macfarlane, Izzy Is the Unexamined Life Worth Living?................................92 Not For You.............................61 Wisdom’s Worth.......................95 Marcelin, Natalia A Glimpse Into Infatuation....40

Matte, Cédric No Souls..................................81 Osman, Aliyah Grandma Zakiyyah................12 Pigeon, Jessie buildings.................................84 Plante-Wiener, Leah Idolatry...................................42 Je t’aime moi non plus...........48 Limerence................................82 Makeup Remover....................55 Rosales Martinez, Camila In That Silent Garden............78 Pink Mist................................50 Time..........................................8 Tesolin, Cala Heart of Ice..............................42 Here’s To You and Me.............39 Shattered Glass and Stones....62 So Much More.........................57 X–O..........................................46 Uras, Doga Chapter 16..............................70 I Taste the Sky......................100 The Lollipop............................98 Valcourt, Myriam Behind the Art........................32 Vine, Catherine The Last Battle.......................51 Wang, Eva The Melody.............................27 Yang, Rosa And I Shall Be Gone...............87 Ode to Joy...............................28 Wrath.......................................52 Zeitlinger Fontana, Violetta Birthday..................................13 Creatures of the Woods...........66 Only a Mother...........................9 Twilight Kingdon....................85

Index by artist Aguilar Vázquez, Alfonso Moon.................................. 66–67 Statue......................................68 Bendy, Zoë Hot Air Balloons.....................93 Carson, Grady Fish.........................................91 Carson, Kaitlin Sunrise/Sunset......................25 Chen, Emily Her Gaze........................... 56–57 Do, Le Quang Anh Workworn................................60 Doan, Bobby Burst................................. 84–85 Happiness...............................96 Smile.......................................10 Faraoni, Donovan Gates................................. 14–15 Rails.................................. 80–81 Fortin Xu, Maia Fishing....................................26 Gagné Gosselin, Léa Identity....................................65 Information.............................49

Huang, Angel Distant Light.................... 44–45 In Her Garden.................. 38–39 Leaving the Garden................40 Lai, Jacky Infinity....................................63 Silhouette.......................... 74–75 Li, Frank Circles.....................................12 Music................................. 16–17 Stranger............................ 46–47 Macfarlane, Izzy Bleeding..................................86 Hurting............................. 50–51 Listen................................. cover Mermaid........................... 22–23 Mother.......................................9 Past Love.................................33 Violence...................................54 Marcelin, Natalia Blossoming..............................94 Floral......................................35 Flower Girl..............................32 Leaves........................................7 Mixtape......................back cover Solar System..................... 98–99 Tears........................................73 Wings.......................................24

Page, Emma Treetops............................. 20–12 Plante-Wiener, Leah Cemetery.................................70 Ciara.......................................30 Fireworks.......................... 36–37 Ice ............................................79 Play...........................................6 Stop.......................................102 Tape...........................................1 Rosales Martinez, Camila Seasons of the Body................43 Rioux, Ann Élizabeth Kaleidoscope..................... 28–29 Russel, Blake Sea and Sky...................... 18–19 Tao, Laura Butterfly Boy..................... 88–89 Coexisting................................83 Wang, Coco Shattered.................................77 Yang, Rosa We All Die Today.....................53 Zhang, Edward In Ink................................ 58–59

[101]

I Taste the Sky Surrounding myself in palpable silence is an indescribable bliss that simply empties my heart.

And now, my totality reveals itself.

Doga Uras, Form VII

Inscape

Bishop’s College School Literary Magazine 2017–2018

Volume XXXVI