From the editor…

Dear reader,

When asked where their “home” is, most people answer instinctively, rarely stopping to ponder the question. On the surface, it seems rather obvious; it is such a seemingly easy question, after all. However, if you take a moment to really listen to different people’s answers, you will begin to notice something peculiar: everyone interprets the question just slightly differently. Some might proudly cite their city of birth, or perhaps the town they spent their formative years in. Some might not even name a place they have ever set foot, but rather a place to which they can trace back their lineage. Others are so literal as to rattle off their precise address of residence. Some may shrug and say they were army brats and had a more nomadic upbringing. Of course, at least one person will inevitably say that “home is where the heart is,” proudly donning the smile of someone with no idea that the answer they think so profound is one of the biggest clichés (and cop-outs) they could have used.

These disparities in what we each think of as “home” beg the question of what a home even is. Is it somewhere we can point to on a map? If so, how do we pick the “right” place? Is it where we were born, where we currently live, where we lived the longest? Is it the city stated on our birth certificate, our mailing address? Is home necessarily a place, or can it be a person, a community, a sense of belonging? Once we examine our gut reaction to the question, the images of “home” our lives have molded in our minds reveal a great deal about what we hold dearest. It might be easy to poke fun at the triteness of the saying, but perhaps there is some truth to the idea that our home lies in the direction our hearts are pulled.

In this half of our dual issue, we have selected the pieces that best evoked the idea of “home,” either literally or in the abstract. Each piece is tinged with the writer or artist’s personal experience with the familiar, with belonging, or simply with what makes them feel most at peace.

I therefore encourage you to read on and piece together the various fragments of home, whatever it may mean to you.

Signed,

Elsa Osweiler, Editor

4324 OxfOrd Street

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

In the centre of the house

Silk patches on a quilt

Stitch the night together

In the centre of the house

Shadows at the bottom of the door

Sway back and forth angrily

In the centre of the house

A broken window with peeling paint

Looks up at dull city stars

In the centre of the house

A cat purring in the corner

Watches every flicker of life

In the centre of the house

An old movie playing too cheerfully

Colours the walls with distraction

In the centre of the house

A plush rabbit crying salty tears

Comforts the child clutching it

In the centre of the house

Knickknacks covering every surface

Evoke gossamer recollections

In the centre of the house

Thin walls with cloudy sunrises

Protect from a manic wind

In the centre of the house

Lullabies sung from a distance

Draw the curtains closed

In the centre of the house

A woman stands at the doorway

Boxes packed, cat long gone

A window still broken

Untitled by Thinh Nguyen, Form VII

Have you ever looked and seen? Within yourself, whatever your mood may be? Be happy or sad. Be joyful or sorrowful. Be angry or content. Be timid or brave. Be anxious or relieved. Be hungry or satisfied. Whatever it is you see, Just remember to be.

Mini-StickS

by Aidan Feddema, Form VII

The floor shudders from the roar of the crowd, the air shakes as the speakers rumble, not a member of the audience remains seated.

My brother and I locked in a duel. Sticks drawn, focus narrowed, racing for the ball in the centre of the arena. His experience and strength rattle me early on. With a quick chip off the wall his lead grows to one.

But my competitive spirit is not easily crushed. Dragging the ball from left to right a hole opens between his legs, and with a deft touch the game is all squared.

Time passes, but the battle continues on. When the evening shadows lengthen, the match is still drawn, and my movements become haggard. But the roar of the stands pushes me forward. I sprawl out, stopping a powered drive with the tip of my toe. The crowd is left in awe, and in a swift movement I fire off the ball. My brother blocks my attempt, rolling the ball onto his blade. Winding up, he unleashes a bomb. Knowing my net is gaping, I dive…

Blinding pain rips at my face, my eye swells, wails escape my mouth. The audience and music fade and the hurried steps of my mother echo on my basement floor.

As I limp up the stairs, tears stinging my eyes, the fight for basement supremacy is put on pause, ’til tomorrow when the desire for victory will burn once more.

filet Of fiSh

by Georgia Birkwieser, Form IV

In the kitchen, There I sat

Watching as my father prepared the meal. Kicking little legs against the kitchen isle, Intently sitting on a stool.

Footsteps heavy against the floor, The sound of the freezer door, My father lumbering back to the sink, A white bag in tow.

A soft tut against the porcelain basin.

Big, clear circles

Against a shining, silver and salmon skin. A deep black hole in the centre

Gazed upon me.

Lifeless, I did not know what it meant.

A butcher’s knife striking against the cold fish. My father, the murderer.

The veil began to fall.

My little legs swung limp now. The fish head hit the sink basin.

Thunk

My father continued to clean the fish. I continued to stare into the glassy, round eyes. I too had big round eyes, Eyes that connected with the shining round things. So indefinable and so effective Was the shared gaze between the young child and The dead fish.

Yet in the evening my growing bones Would grow weak. And my belly would yearn for food. And when the dish was placed before me, I simply would not resist.

A bowl of heat and light.

No more eyes. No more connections.

Just a scoop of basmati rice, And a warm filet of fish.

Bagel invaSiOn

by Aglaée Bérard, Form IV Bagels

A German delicacy

So prominent

Your mailman probably eats bagels, So did your mom way back when she was single.

As simple as putting the sliced bread in a toaster

Making sure not to burn it, bagels bring us together as a herd. You may not realise it, but soon enough bagels will take over the world. You may ask why, but it’s simple.

Envision this: every time you take a bite, where do the fallen sesame seeds go? Simple, they’re building up a plan to take over this show.

The bagel always held up humanity, as if the bagel were its own world. Round, connected, like all parts of society. Though today it is more, more than just a circle, it is a dynasty!

If I were you, I wouldn’t be worried. Accepting the fate of humanity at the hands of bagels will be a breeze It’ll be as fast as toasting it and spreading its cream cheese.

hOt chOcOlate chOreOgraphy

by Priscilla Akinwunmi, Form V

Too many things are happening in my hot chocolate cup. The waves created by my candy cane spoon show me their hypnotic number. Their act, continuous, swirling, and curling like cheerleaders, their ribbons unfurl forever.

The fluffy marshmallows, all attracted to one another, partner up until they are all in pairs. Leaving a single trio happily gravitating around each other.

My candy cane spoon reluctantly says goodbye to the new friends she made. The marshmallows slow down their choreography in order to give a proper send-off. Her red stripes disappearing to reveal her white body.

a MUg fUll Of flOwerS

by Emma Hopkins, Form V

The café was buzzing with chattering people, yet he heard nothing but the pulse of the clock. With his weathered hands in the shape of a steeple, his ears focused on the steady tick-tock. He heard her laugh from across the busy crowd. A sprightly young woman danced near the band. He strode up to her, tall and proud, and, in his bold adolescence, he asked for her hand. The floral steam wafted from his sweet tea. He could smell her bouquet of fresh wildflowers which she held while smiling at a friendly bee. It landed on her as she sat, pregnant, under the bowers. His tongue twinged as he sipped his scalding brew. His shriveling heart ached from despair, missing the fun times they’d been through. Sighing heavily, he leaned back in his chair.

My tiny dancer

by Olivia Ghilarducci, Form V

There once was a young, blond, little girl, that young girl, me.

She always seemed to live her life to a beat, smiling brightly, always moving. Walking with rhythm, strutting with style, she would twist, and turn, and twirl, day and night. Then her hair darkened, and so did her smile, she got quieter, and dimmer, and more still with age. For years, she stayed dim, and quiet, and still, until she met you, and she danced again. Now we can twist, and turn, and twirl, together, my young, blond, little girl.

change Of Scenery

by Kaitlyn Bilodeau, Form VI

From the green, clean horizon line, to the sweet, summer air. I miss my home already; it’s just so different here. There are no more honking cars, no more trash sprawled on the streets. No more light in my room at night, it almost feels incomplete.

Somehow just as beautiful as the morning is to the night. They’re so different yet so similar––metres and feet measuring the same height.

I grew up with some imperfections, this I’m more than happy to admit––though the trash and crowds and disturbances are not something I’d ever choose to omit.

So yes, I miss my city, my first home, my first place. Yet one day maybe these barren lands will be my second home, my second place.

The first of many homes forgotten with little trace, though when thought of, it’ll put a reminiscing grin on my face.

vancOUver

by Saroni Mlola, Form VI

Waking up to picture-perfect seawalls galore, Whilst having a cup of coffee at Olimpico, A wistful breeze next to million dollar condos, Giving you time to reflect on your upcoming demands

The softness of the sand, ten minutes away, Calls you to watch the sailboats, sailing through the bay

At the beach you get sunkissed and tanned, With the sand and water, right by your hand

At night, the moon blooms through the shining sea, With the water sparkling all its pearls, with ease

The silent whisper of the waves gives you comfort at night

Making you drift away in your dreams, with a special delight

the cat that appeared five yearS agO

by Diêu Anh Srisuk, Form VII

The Cat that appeared Five years ago, purrs a soothing melody, twirls its tail to the rhythm, and waits at the worn-out doorsteps of my grandmother’s home. Droplets of rain patter, dancing against the brick tiles, and bouncing high before plummeting into the puddle. Splash-water clings to the Cat’s coat. It squeaks, it shivers, and it shakes, but it stays. The rain continues to pour and time continues to pass, yet no matter how long…

Even when the day has already grown cold, and when dusk has already replaced dawn, the Cat that appears Five years ago patiently remains still on the spot it’s on. Waiting, lingering, lurking on that worn-out doorstep of my grandmother’s home.

7 MOnthS later

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

I walked home from work in the cold yesterday.

I listened to our song and examined the trash in the ice.

It would’ve been romantic, I suppose, if you were with me. Instead, a dirty paper cup collapsed beneath my shoe. November’s such an ugly month.

I thought I saw our relationship spelled out in the cigarette butts. Memories of grimy smoke filled my lungs. I frowned, wanting more. In my head, it was softly snowing. The cars’ passing headlights traced my shivering lips. Walking home in the dark.

BaptiSM

by Elsa Osweiler, Form V

I still remember the day I woke up to you gone, Vanished like hot steamy breath Melting into a cool winter breeze, never to be seen again. You mustn’t have left long before I woke, For the outline of your sleepy imprint Remained as if to offer its silent condolences.

I called out for you, wailed your name Through tears that burned like peroxide on a gash And the deafening echo that replied salted the wound.

I drenched the sage green sheets we had bought together In my saline sorrows, pouring out torrent after torrent, Drowning out the stench of memories that permeated them.

I envied the blind as my eyes dashed about the room, Desperate for anything that wasn’t tainted by your smell, or your touch, or your gaze, Or you, or you, or you!

Finally, I composed myself, strolled into the bathroom, And tossed your toothbrush into the garbage As sunlight anointed my tear-stained face.

a

wOven StOry

by Anthony Herbst, Form VII

I am a part of the foundation, Where the dust settles, And the feet trudge about.

My design is where the feet gather On occasions, so that those on foot May sing, dance and feast alike.

I’m where the memories stand, Yet where the dog lies, under the table, To hide from a playful hand.

I contain, deep within my woven fibre, Evidence left behind from the past, Solitary crumbs and strands of hair.

My story is written on the walls and doors, And on the faces of the people whose Feet I support.

And just like a gravel path in the woods, Here I will remain until the feet have gone For good.

MechanicS Of natUre

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

Locked sap in trees circulation cuts off the topmost branches frigid and breakable like wet hair in the winter wind.

Axles and gears turn in my chest mechanical pulsation if I allow flesh and blood to take over my thinking then I surely will become unrepairable.

Briefly, our arms move in sync and we hold each other’s hand. Briefly, not long enough to be touching suspiciously. Briefly, you comfort me when no one is looking. It’s okay to feel things in the dark when no one cane see and you follow the curve of my neck by the light of the moon.

In your eyes, I am beautiful.

Decadence

by Luke Christian Sykes, Form VI

A wave curls in slowly, descending upon the shore with the grace and gentleness of morning sunrise. The tide rolls back out, the water draining away from the salted sand. It reveals the remnants of fresh footsteps and perfectly placed seashells, and, as if to mimic life, it replicates that alluring simplicity and temporary essence. Laughs can be heard, chatter lingers in the air harmoniously, both entertaining the environment around them. The land collects these memories, as if to cherish them gently, and, with salty breeze, the steps, traces of before, are washed away, leaving nothing but empty promises and lingering thoughts.

The golden paramnesic sand stays there forever, collecting stories from those who walk, and giving them away––

A gift to its selfish friend, the ocean, who never returns the favour.

By nighttiMe

by Gavin Lissebeck, Form VI

The cloud of stress accumulated after a day’s end, falsely said to vanish at the door, lingers around your mind some more, as you rest your head from the day’s havoc. A full cup of tea waits at your bedside, as well as high Lexile books that satisfy your ego. Your lamp light flickers slowly, never quite turning off. The vibrato from your music player echoes through the air, reminding you of your overpriced clothes and overdue rent. The light starts to tarnish in your eyes, trapping you in a room impenetrable to others, filling your mind with humility, preparing you for the day ahead.

letter tO a friend

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

If you find your eyes are heavy and your feet are wet with snow, remember when I held you and kissed you on the brow. And if you can’t remember that late night spent with me, then grab a borrowed sweater and head down to the sea. And if the sea is cold, the wind cuts to your core, then wrap yourself in blankets and come knock on my door. But don’t forget, my dear, that should I not be in, your strength is so much greater than the scars that mark your skin.

and the SaintS Said

by Vivienne Webster, Form VII

She entered quietly, slipping into the very last pew in case she needed to make a quick escape. Only two people noted her arrival: the elderly lady seated directly in front of her, and Jesus Christ himself. His three-storey statue at the altar stared down at her small form, a glassy stare at the girl from nowhere.

“Santos, Santos, Santos,” said the priest.

“Santos, Santos, Santos,” echoed the populace gathered in the church on Mercier Street. The whispered prayers were snake-like in their utterance and the hissing bounced off the walls.

She stood silently admiring the late golden sunlight streaming into the church. An old man coughed. She was the only person there under 65. Gray and frizzy heads filled her line of vision, heads filled with old traditions, unwavering faith, and dementia.

The priest with magnified eyes gestured towards the ceiling, delivering the day’s lesson in a language she could not understand. The elders nodded away at the priest’s indecipherable words. Another cough interrupted the prose. Undeterred, the bug-eyed man began to tell a story, his hands painting the words in the air, a ghostly reenactment of fantastical events.

She lowered her head, tucking Jane Eyre under her arm, reciting the short prayer her mother taught her. It seemed like the right thing to do in a House of the Lord. The congregation kneeled, but still she stood, gazing at the light that would soon fade, at the statue that almost made her weep for forgiveness, and the priest who seemed to weave mystic tales with his hands.

The idea of religion scared her. From Victorian novels that warned of damnation, to isolated peoples that worshipped the wind, she never understood how they bent, doubled over, in the name of some all-powerful being. But it was precisely her disbelief that frightened her. If others devoted their lives to something that could never be known and were rewarded with salvation, what about the ones who didn’t?

She shivered picked up her bag and left, a transluscent being, never to be remembered by the old lady sitting in front of her. The door closed behind her without a sound and the snakes yet again began to hiss.

“Santos, Santos, Santos.”

hOSpital Bench

by LiYu Tao, Form V

I am a spectator, a bystander, an onlooker, four legs and two arms with a cold metallic luster. The only audience in this pale depressing corridor, facing the door separating life and death. Alive or dying, surgeons in and out, serious or smiling. The cold scalpel becomes their hope––pure sadness and happiness all depend on one moment. I watch them cry, sigh, in despair or relief, drop on me or lean on the walls feebly. In such an eerily quiet place, one minute is always like a year. Gasps echo through the corridor, as if the air is too heavy to breathe. All emotions are magnified infinitely––pure sadness and happiness are nothing but so.

friendS frOM afar

by Mulan Fan, Form V

As Confucius once said, It is a joy to have friends from afar. Strangers are friends From this or another planet. My friend, Welcome home. I will serve you with My treasured Longjing green tea In exquisite purple teacups; A gorgeous feast Decorated with blooming jasmines; The campfire to warm your frozen hands, And a fan to prevent annoying mosquitos; The fragrance of fields, And a river of stars; The oasis in the desert, And roses in the dust; A reception without judgment, And a life of joy.

I will listen to your stories And the unbearable sadness. Until you are out of strength to cry, I will cut the red candle And put a silk quilt on you.

Day after day, And years after year. Until one day, I become old. Leaning on a stick, Stumbling along, Don’t know where to go. I will then walk to your place, Knock on your door, Become a friend from afar. And you will serve me the same, As how I did in our youth.

epheMeral MeMOrieS/hiraeth

by Lisa Eichmüller, Form VII

Take my words. Keep them, treasure them. Let them follow you as you go through the seasons, through sun and storm and snow up the hills when reaching the top and down again.

When you’re falling let my words catch you before the hard ground. Or push them away. Take my heart. Keep it, treasure it. Let it make you feel when you can’t feel anything yourself. When the world is numbing you, Listen to the steady beating. Let it calm you down. Or tear it apart. Take my touch. Keep it, treasure it. Let it dry your tears when you feel like drowning. When you feel suffocated, let the memories of it fill your lungs. Feel it.

Or reject it. Take my view. Keep it, treasure it. Let my eyes show them you from my perspective––to remind you of the love you are surrounded by. Let it embrace you. Or let it suffocate you. Take it, treasure it–– Until it’s gone.

Unexpected, SaMeneSS, and awareneSS

by Yewon Chang, Form VII

Nothing looked different in the room. The same bed with a brand-new sheet, neatly made in the corner. Natural light poured into the room and filled it with warmth, the dishes gleaming under the sunlight. They said they have never seen an apartment this clean; inspection was just a waste of time.

A paper with many words, placed by the nightstand, shadowed by a picture. The smile was so big that the number of teeth couldn’t be counted. Innocent eyes sparkled under the sunlight and captured the strangers’ hearts. The clothes she was wearing had been sewed many times, but still, she said they were her favourite. Everything was so clear in the room that no one could dare to question. The purpose was clear; The only thing that changed was the addition of a star in the sky.

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form V

perilS Of winter

by Paul Akinwunmi, Form VII

It’s the time of year again. The sun gets to work early, but calls it a day by five, Ruining the party for the hive. Saliently, it becomes closed-histed with the warmth it ordains, Leading to the dreaded morning walk. At this point, anyone that resides in Glass may stop reading. For the rest of us ill-fated students, carry on.

The tips to besting the morning walks are quite elementary. You are going to need a jacket, One with some thickness to it. An extra layer would also be necessary; You don’t want polar winds exhaling on your bare skin. And finally, willpower is recommended.

Everything having been secured, You can tackle the frost. Beware the winds, They love whistling in unison And will be aggrieved if a stranger dares interrupt. If you ever hear discord, their collective wrath has discharged. At that juncture, willpower trumps all.

phOenix rOOM

by Isabella Sioufi, Form VII

In the centre of the house I long for the family I once had. The warm smell of my mom’s freshly baked cookies still roams the kitchen. I try to grasp the last memories of what a happy family once looked like. The sound of laughter radiates through my ears; it triggers a moment of happiness I am no longer able to have. As I circle the kitchen I recall my happy place. Now, I see it as a dark, gloomy, and somber, lifeless room. Ever since the death of my mother, Everything changed: my growth forever stunted. The tabletop, which once used to be full, is now bare. The crevices of the counters are brimming with dust. There is no longer any sunlight that casts over the table; instead, there is a dark, gloomy, and somber shadow.

I try to bring back the essence of the room, but am unable to as the memories slowly wander away. The pain radiates throughout my body, suddenly unable to move. I start to feel the sunlight beam against my face. The sun slowly melts the sorrow within me. I begin to feel alive again. My roots are nourished and I can once again grow. I no longer see the room as a dark, gloomy, and somber home.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form V