Inscape 2021-22

Inscape The Journey Back

Inscape The Journey Back

Bishop’s College School

Literary Magazine

2021–2022

Volume XL

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, Susan Cook, Monique Craig, Max Crowther, Tim Doherty, Anne Holland, Victoria Hill, François Jean Jean, Cloe Jones, Lindsay Key, Marianne Laramée, Sheila Lyster, Susan Magwood, Miranda McGie, Patrick Robidas, and François Tessier

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…

Dear reader,

Over the past few years, we have heard time and time again about the “journey back to normalcy” as we have tried to transition to a post-covid world. However, most have come to realize that this journey will not bring us back to life exactly as we knew it before the pandemic, but rather to a new reality adapted and amended according to what we have learned. The same also applies on a more individual level: many of us had our world turned upside down by the pandemic and have come out on the other end as entirely new people. Through the turmoil and challenges, we realized what we truly valued and, in turn, what we wanted to prioritize. The quietness and isolation of quarantine led us on a journey of selfdiscovery by making introspection and adaptation inevitable.

Most (if not all) journeys are incredibly difficult, not just those relating to the pandemic. Although a vital and inevitable part of life, change is a complicated and painful process that often leads us to question if progress is really worth it. It is hard to keep an end goal in mind when faced with heartbreak, burnout, loneliness, grief, and any number of other uncomfortable realities. However, we must remind ourselves that difficult experiences are never dead ends, but rather bends in the road towards becoming a wiser individual, full of complexity and nuance from which to draw and make better choices. They are not called growing pains for nothing!

Although the journey towards coming into one’s own is a universal and neverending part of being human, each and every journey is entirely unique. In this section, writers and artists alike present snippets of their own journeys, all with their own endgames. Each piece offers its own take on struggle or change, whether it be through major hardship or quiet evolution. Through this collection of works, a wide variety of perspectives are offered to inspire our own journeys. Keep an open mind as you flip through them and allow yourself to welcome what lies ahead.

Signed, Elsa Osweiler, Editor

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form VI –4–

Clouds by Selina Yin, Form VI

Clouds are artists depicting the blue sky— unrestrained, carefree. Following the guidance of wind to the end of the world.

Clouds are artists twining the green hills— alluring, elegant, dipping in the sweet gardenias, admiring the ramrod straight pines.

Clouds are artists reflecting the limpid water— ethereal, pure, squinting through the reeds, witnessing the seasons of life.

Clouds are artists making poems for the rosy dawn, telling tales to the grayish dusk. In the end, they gaze at the moon alone.

There is God in a leaf

by Selina Yin, Form VI

It lay down facing the sky. I heard crunches and piercing screams. That flamboyant red now stained with marks of a stranger’s feet. Such a rough demise its future awaits, torn and trampled by thousands on its face.

The seventh sun dazzled my eyes. I saw the insane truth. Men must not cut down trees, he used to tell me. There is a God. But a God abandoned by his apostle, left alone in the temple to be devoured by madness.

Sick of the darkness, he stretched his gnarled body and went outside for the first time in centuries, somewhat perturbed when embracing the sun again. There was a slap. The cord restraining all his anger and sorrow broke; the God who once adored humans was gone. Just like those who stepped on the dear fallen leaf, they choked the life out of the season.

I retrieved Autumn’s last maple leaf, before witnessing it covered with boundless snow.

Photo by Simon Johnson, Form VI

unique

by Simon Johnson, Form VI

Drip, dripping, dripping down. Racing wildly across the pane of glass separating me from the world. Chaotic, colliding. Emulating the pure chaos that is life. Lit from behind, glittering clear and white, like shards of shattered stars. Like memories, draining smoothly from our minds, splashing into the unknown cacophony we are sheltered from. Do they miss the comfort of their forgotten comrades ebbing away at their sides? Noticed by chance, and at once forgotten again. We know not of the thoughts of raindrops. Are they afraid? Of becoming like everyone else?

eTernal BeauTy

by Olivia Favretto, Form VII

Time can never be taken back, as beauty is ever fading. Youth suddenly becomes a fleeting memory, lines and wrinkles pervading.

Do not try to preserve what is already lost; embrace the notion of ageing with grace.

One’s natural evolution should always be praised, as eternal beauty cannot be chased.

True elegance lies within the surface, no matter how scarred, wrinkled or worn the surface may be. Attaining more wisdom with each passing year, to pass on to your kin, the greatest gift; utterly free.

It is only when our faces no longer represent our youth, when our reflection seems so far off from what we remember, that one truly knows where our beauty had been hiding all along, remaining in one’s heart and soul forever.

Artwork by Lynn Paola Juoupan, Form VI

WreTChed rememBranCes

by Elsa Osweiler, Form VI

Nostalgia, A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Starts off sweet, benign, Simply reminding of what has been… But not for long. No, not for long.

Soon its sweetness— Interrupted, soiled! By the bitter bite

Of memories, Not quite as you remembered them. They come undone like balls of yarn— Oh so horrid once unraveled!

The worst bit? Still yet to come…

For once it passes, Indifferent to the havoc wreaked, It visits…

Again…

And again…

And you know the rest.

Artwork by LiYu Tao, Form VI

an end To neverendinG Pain

by Sarah Francœur, Form VI

Pain consumes your body. The nurse pierces your skin, and your Wrinkled soul empties further.

We gather around staring at you with vacant eyes. Your strength has gone, and reality sets in Like a truck storming through from nowhere.

I think back to our best days, Climbing to the highest of nearly broken branches, And drowning one another in the fluorescent ocean waves. Your breath is delicate.

I am suddenly scared to breathe myself, in fear I will somehow overpower you, steal what little air is left.

I have never felt less of a daughter. Nothing I can do to save you now. The power is out of my hands.

Lying helplessly in that bed, I know that as your breath slows, the end has finally come.

The BiG emPTy

by Liam Condo, Form VI

Filled with emptiness and potential, like a blank canvas waiting for life to paint you.

A field filled with seeds, existing long before the seeds were planted and remaining long after.

Voraciously eating all the light and sound, your appetite is never satisfied. Darkness is all that can remain.

You are a song waiting for the lyrics to be written. Silence is your only friend.

You are a consumer, but nothing you get is ever enough. You have a hunger for a fruit that does not exist.

An endless path leading to a place only you know. Somewhere along it, you’ve hidden us, with no reason and no escape.

inComPleTeness

by Catherine Guo, Form VII

Those who are not thorough or complete are charming. The sunlight in the drizzle, the coldness in spring, sound of piano from a half-opened door. Some fruits will not rot; they will dry and leave a light sweetness. How I adore all the incompleteness.

Those who are not thorough or complete are charming. Waking up in the noon and still saying good morning, the frozen time in amber, the caliginous flame, and your seldom-used middle name Half my life giving up things halfway, half full of enthusiasm. A river which is flowing to cover up the chasm.

And you cover my chattering mouth, teach me all about silence. Those who are not thorough or complete are charming.

Artwork by Aurélie Monast-Haddad, Form III

2nd by Luke Christian Sykes, Form VII

“… same scene I was kept alive”

“…same scene you were kept alive”

The stage disintegrates like a closing act, A symphonic diminuendo.

“I let you go,”

Slowly, tulips bloom over cracked vines, “I let you go,”

The show has ended but the music continues, The flora weeps, fires crackle a harmony, Dewy tears coat the swan’s mane of elegance, An orchestra of silky black hair sweeps along the carpet, Slithering.

Crimes always have reason, Virtues witness thoughtlessness, Hurt requires a cast. Children ought to play.

The curtains close but the show never ends. I can’t believe. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe. I can’t believe, I can’t believe, I can’t believe, I can’t believe it.

Nothing is ever the same The second time you hear it.

Photo by Simon Johnson, Form VI

deadly BaTTle

by Flora de Sainte Marie, Form VI

Little Rezia stood behind the door. Its faded yellow sickened her. The sun-like paint had lost its charm and was now colder than a corpse.

With her soft, dainty fingers curled around the frame, and half an eye on the prize, she watched him through the rectangular window, as he lay on the weak hospital bed.

Their roles were exchanged, and she hadn’t yet learned her lines. But there was no time for hesitation; she would improvise. A warrior, she thought, she was a warrior. Her heart was her only weapon, and words, her bullets.

If she used them wisely, she could save him.

Tick tock, screamed the clock tied to her boney arm; his time was almost over. She could see the soldiers, the cannons, the crimson grass.

One bullet at a time, she would stop the pointer from going around. But her ammunition ran dry… no more tricks could be pulled. Armistice was around the corner, and only part of her would live to that day; the war that is malady had taken the other.

It had taken her father.

Wrinkly sCarleT

by Flora de Sainte Marie, Form VI

Just like a skydiver jumps off a plane, leaves sink to the muddy ground, the cold autumn air stroking their reddish cheeks. While skipping over puddles as if they were children, their skinny legs succumb to the heavy wind, leaving them in a peaceful place where they choose to rest, until wrinkles define their crimson skin; eventually their weakened bones are left behind for us to crush, ruthlessly.

Artwork by Max Abramson, Form VII

sCraTChed reCord

by Georgia Birkwieser, Form V

Marlie wasn’t perfect. Neither was her family. A dinner with them was usually a quiet event. No noise other than the record that was on a constant loop. It was a record from the fifties that her grandfather was rather fond of. The record was Miles Davis’ Porgy and Bess. Every night at dinner they’d listen to this; the only other noise was that of a chair gently creaking or a knife sawing through a chicken breast. Any other interruptions would incite a stern look from all the adults, especially from Grandpa, who mustn’t ever be disturbed from listening to his music. Even a sneeze or a sigh was not allowed at the table. Every evening at exactly sixfifteen, the entire family—Mom, Dad, Jasper, Grandpa and Grandma—was seated around the rectangular cedar wood table to eat some bland concoction made by their tastebud-deprived father.

Tonight, however, something was different. At about six-thirty, midway through dinner, the record began to skip. The scratched, damaged thing replaying a vintage verse lit something inside of Marlie. Suddenly, she became vexed and irritated She tried to push it away and be docile, but as it continued playing the same line, over and over, it became worse and worse.

“So, hush little baby—” Marlie’s hand began to quiver.

“So, hush little baby—” Her grip tightened around her fork. “So, hush ”

“Turn it off!” Marlie slammed her fork into the chicken and threw the knife down onto the table. The entire table turned to look at her. Even her little brother gave her a look of absolute disgust. She wasn’t supposed to talk, she wasn’t to breathe too loud.

Marlie cringed, expecting a serious chiding from her mother; instead the only thing she received for her outburst was a disappointed sigh. “Go to your room.”

And so, Marlie was to spend the entirety of her night in her room, alone, until someone came upstairs to lecture her. She sat in the plain room on her quilted bed cover and looked around, seeing as if for the first time. The walls a mute shade of beige, the clock on the wall favoured by her grandfather, the quilt handmade by her mother, and the bookshelf lined with literature she never had any intention to read. It was a haven of sorts for unoriginal items. In an instant, everything became clear. She realized that her entire personality quiet, docile, obedient was all composed of the people around her and what they shaped her to be. An extension of this would of course be everything she owned. She was not her own.

Nothing was her own. It didn’t belong to her and she didn’t want any of it. A rampaging river of anger overcame her. She barely saw the room before her. It was all a bloody, deep red. All that she could see were the objects in front of her, focused upon a blurry, red background. They weren’t meaningless; they were so meaningful. It wasn’t that it meant nothing to her that she could be rid of them. They meant everything; they were her and she them. It was clear to her what her path needed to be. In order to find herself and take control of her life, she needed to be free of these material reminders of who her family thought she should be.

Marlie began with the quilt. Worn and old, she never quite liked the colours. Well, she never had the option anyways. Out the window it went. After the first object, it all went so quickly. The clock made a crashing sound when it fell. By the time she was done, all that was left was a cloth bag from the grocery store and a T-shirt she got at summer camp. It was all she needed. Marlie felt free. She needed to make haste before someone came upstairs. Looking outside the window, she

saw everything she rid herself of in a pile just nearly reaching her window. A pile of obligations she had no interest in fulfilling and expectations that put boundaries around the person she could be.

When her mother came up the stairs to lecture her on her unacceptable behaviour, she could not find her. Marlie was long gone, or at least the Marlie she knew.

Artwork by Johanna Schorpp, Form VII

emBer

by Maïa Ho Labelle, Form VI

Her ice-cold face, flushed with rosy pink, Has never come into contact with fire as warm as his. How she yearns for the heat of his hand. He walks past her, Dejected, Skeletons of butterflies at the pit of her stomach. Crystal shards pour out of the hollow abyss; Unwanted, she drowns in the depths of her tears. Defective and broken, a heart that doesn’t strike Must be fixed with the ignition of his flames. For, briefly, she feels the soft touch of ember Graze her frozen lips; The crystal shards no longer cut as deep. The touch of a thousand colours; The kiss of a blaze.

Prisoner

by Olivia Favretto, Form VII

Your embrace lasted too long. Loving each other down to the bone. Until those very bones ground together. I see them, our bare skeletons.

I can no longer bear the sound of your voice, eminently hoarse in nature. As rough as the crashing waves that yell in the distance. I hear them, muffling your screams.

Your touch, your kiss, no longer enthrals me the way it once did. I now shiver at the thought of your lips pressed against mine. I feel them when the wind bites.

Silence and aloneness. Words most often pessimistic, but somehow, they relieve. A weight lifted off my burning chest. I know, I can breathe again.

Artwork by Johanna Schorpp, Form VII

Too sCared (exCerPT)

by Victoria Houston, Form IV

How does one truly conquer the coward spirit? Or light a flame to your inner light? No matter how hard I try, Some part of it remains, Even just the fear of heights.

So, I go up, I climb to the tallest point, To the scariest thing, And I release that fear; I scream from the top of the point, At the top of my lungs.

“I am not scared” Or

“I will not be scared?” And with each word, Another thread of that coward spirit goes with it, With each inhale a new me, A new me, ready to take on the world. A less scared, stronger me. I feel good, but I know that conquering it will take much more.

The PaTh To my fuTure

by Emma Hopkins, Form VI

My future is in my hands, and yet it is unfamiliar. I do not know where I wish to be in ten years, nor what step I must take next. Although my roots support me, they lie silent, hidden in the earth. The path I will decide to take will be swarmed by obstacles, each an attempt to drag me down. But I am my ancestors’ daughter, and I know those roots beneath the earth shall be there to support me when I fall, and will always lift me back onto my feet.

hidden danGers

A persuasive speech by Elsa Osweiler, Form VI

When I say “gender inequality,” what first comes to mind? For many of you, it may be the wage gap, or perhaps the “Me Too” movement. These and similar buzzwords largely dominate current conversations surrounding feminism, featuring in headlines, on social media and even in high-profile legal cases. Although there is no negating the impact these issues have on the modern woman, mainstream social discourse has a tendency to confine itself to debating either financial inequity or sexual assault and harassment. This narrow scope of discussion has led society to overlook many incredibly serious but less glaring issues, allowing them to continue holding women back and, in some instances, to damage our health and quality of life. In fact, as jarring as this may sound, our collective ignorance is actually killing women in ways you might not expect.

One of the major “hidden dangers” to women is actually healthcare. This sounds completely counterintuitive, since medicine’s entire purpose is to provide care and relief, but it often has the opposite effect for women. A prime example of this is discrepancies in emergency room care between male and female patients. According to an analysis by Harvard Medical School, when presenting the same symptoms as men, women were far more likely to be dismissed as “dramatic” or “hysterical.” Female patients were also found to wait much longer on average before receiving treatment. Once treatment was administered, women were more likely to receive a sedative or mood stabilizer than painkillers, even after undergoing the same procedures as their male counterparts. This implicit bias towards women contributes to higher rates of incorrect or delayed diagnoses, and these effects are then amplified by the intersection of other marginalized identities,

such as race, class, or sexual orientation. Despite this grim and sometimes fatal phenomenon, medical bias is rarely, if ever, discussed for very long in the mainstream. Unaware that their treatment is subpar or simply unable to articulate it and be taken seriously, many women suffer avoidable complications simply because medical professionals’ biased perceptions of their pain remain unchecked.

A similar sinister threat women face is likely just as surprising to many: safety features. Again, completely counterintuitive, right? Well, according to Consumer Reports, in the exact same type of accident, women are 17% more likely to die than men and 73% more likely to suffer serious injuries, even when seatbelts are properly worn. This terrifying risk is largely attributable to one simple thing: automotive companies find it easier to test safety features, such as seatbelts and air bags, on dummies reflecting average male build and anatomy. Since there is little to no legislation requiring them to account for women’s bodies, these companies consistently get away with their negligence, even though it directly contributes to the suffering and death of women.

This may all seem very fatalistic, but there are ways to move forward. Biases and oversights like the ones mentioned can be greatly reduced by simply including women in those fields, which is why it’s crucial for STEM to be made more accessible. When women are consulted on these matters, negligence that could disproportionately affect them is easier to correct. It is also vital that we not only prioritize women’s inclusion, but also ensure that we consult more marginalized women, since inequities are even more extreme for women of colour and disabled women.

In short, we as a society dwell far too much on the easily sensationalized aspects of patriarchy. It may be easier to reduce celebrity –24–

sex scandals to headlines and hashtags, but the Harvey Weinsteins of the world are not the only dangers women face. Basic, everyday concepts disproportionately harm women in ways most don’t even realize. Activism cannot begin and end with “women should get paid the same”

and “assault is bad.” The world must push past surface-level feminism and examine all of its systems for undetected bias. Half of the world’s population is at increased risk every time they set foot in a car or a hospital, and it’s about time we talk about it.

Artwork by Olivia Favretto, Form VII

GoodBye friends!

by Flora de Sainte Marie, Form VI

The grass tickles your soft feet. You don’t know where to start…

You walk to the tallest slide, ready to take off.

I step into the circus tent, following your path. Free as a trapezist, you swing across the sandy soil, relying on the weak strains of steel.

Your friends just arrived; the team is ready. “Let’s play,” you say, overwhelmed with excitement. Then you run, run, run ’till you forget how to breathe, and I disappear.

Like a wily fox, fatigue slowly erases your strength. Your exhausted limbs cry for help but are ignored. The show must go on!

You are the master of the ceremony, the greatest of entertainers; you are in control. But all good things must come to an end.

The roaring engines and the evil laughs announce the unwanted visitors. Along I come, to steal you away, and as we walk away your head falls with sadness.

The rhyThm of Time

by Emma Hopkins, Form VI

A trickery, Time is. It flows in mysterious ways. With the mind, it tempers, changing the rhythm. Rapidly, it ages us. Yet dull moments, it pauses. Per person, it varies, as if multiple universes were in all one. A mind of its own, Time decides what it wants and when, unpredictable and worrisome. Its next move, we are awaiting.

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form VI

one

by Victoria Houston, Form IV

Ten.

That’s the number of straps on each hand Lorna Rope got Every night. Nine.

That’s the number of years Lorna stayed at the school. Eight.

That’s the time all of the children had to do chores. Seven.

That’s how many days a week they were forced to live this awful cycle Over and over again. Six.

That’s how many years Lorna Rope was an alcoholic because her mother was killed And she used alcohol to numb the pain of the trauma she went through. Five.

The number of red fingerprints that were painfully left behind On the backs of the children after they had been hit. Four.

That’s the age that most children were taken from their homes. Three.

Three meals a day that she didn’t get to spend with her family. Two.

She now has two kids and is so thankful they don’t have to go through what she did. One.

This is just one of the Indigenous lives affected by this. Imagine thousands of survivor stories And the ones that didn’t survive.

We wear our orange shirts to unite us all together and learn from the past. We stand as one and make sure nothing like this ever happens again.

Artwork by Yuhan Duan, Form V

us

by Simon Johnson, Form VI

Traditional ambiguity.

So many people rolled into one. An amalgamation of cultures, Fighting to be heard

In a silent struggle.

“Offer them tea.”

“Pray.”

“Cook.”

My mind is a village. Colourful, Blinding, Loud.

A flurry of coloured cloths and spices, Filling the air.

Like flamboyant birds, Taking flight, Bombarding my senses. Birds of turmeric, chili, cloves.

Of reds, yellows, blues, golds. A place where ancestors reside. Whispering knowledge

Of cultures half-forgotten. Like the broken shards

Of a stained glass window, Still beautiful, But incomplete. Leaving me lost, Confused. Ambiguous.

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form VI

CarPe noCTem

by Elsa Osweiler, Form VI

At night, the Moon rolls into the sky, Glazing it in inky black And summoning the Stars.

The Constellations blink shyly, Ursa Major protectively watching over her cub And Orion eternally fleeing his scorpion nemesis.

In the distance, a Meteor resigns himself To the atmosphere’s fiery breath, Only to be blasphemed With the misnomer of “Shooting Star.”

Then, surely but almost imperceptibly, Like the fluctuation of the tide, The Sun’s rays flood the sky And wash away the last traces of the night.

The moon

by Emma Hopkins, Form VI

She shines, surrounded by stars. Silent conversations in which she engages, pondering the world of existence. In the nocturnal sky, she remains, until the sun replaces her. Then into hiding she goes to be unfound. Until dawn becomes dusk when she is at last free once more. Then, until outshone by the sun, free she will be.

Photo by Maxim Lukyanov, Form VI

The real World

by Gavin Lissebeck, Form VII

Future uncertainty begins to kindle in my mind, like the start of a slow-burning fire. It’s rather annoying.

I try to relinquish my anxious tendencies, but my thumbs can only flirt with each other for so long before they start to blister, and sting. Mom isn’t even around to kiss them better. How much longer will this prevail? There must be a point where the timber runs low, and the air grows tired of fueling the flames. Or maybe not?

Do I cope with uncertainty like it’s a provoked stepmom? My trepidation builds as I await answers. This must be the world my childhood shielded me from.

I could really use a cup of tea from you now, Mom.

deaTh Throes of a CasTaWay

by Simon Johnson, Form VI

Drifting, rocking, cradled by the sea. My little wooden island infinitesimally small in a vast, sparkling blue expanse. I am aware of a rocking, slow, calm, the way a mother might rock a baby in her arms. Did I have a mother? A baby? What is a baby? Who am I? My eyes crack open, flooding my brain with a searing yellow light. Like a razorsharp blade, it cuts through the cobwebs shrouding my mind. Flashes of colour spike behind my squinted lids and I gasp as a searing pain erupts between my eyes. I try and move to shield my eyes but find myself unable to raise my arms. My limbs are leaden and stiff. One by one I test my fingers. At first there is no response, but after minutes of groaning effort, I feel a tiny twitch. After what seems like hours, I am able to curl my fingers into a stiff, aching fist. The effort has left me panting and weak, so I close my eyes. Soon I drift off into a restless sleep, and as I sleep, I dream. This is not the safe, warm kind of dream we are accustomed to in our childhood. This dream is full of fear and a foreboding sense of doom. Waves, like great slate mountains, tower above. Around me people open their mouths in soundless screams as the wind tears their words away. White lightning races through the clouds, darker than the sea itself. This is real, or was real, I can’t tell anymore. The waves thrash furiously against the sides of our lifeboat like the sea itself wants to tear us apart. I watch on, helpless, as a wave, its grey fingers grasping, pulls a mother and child overboard. The waters part to greet them and, just as quickly, they disappear. I close my eyes, shielding my soaked head from the chaos, and I scream.

I wake with a jolt. Adrenaline races through my fearwracked body. In a herculean effort , I raise my arms to shield myself from an unseen attacker, only to find nothing there. I am as alone as ever, only I am no longer looking up at the angry yellow sun. Here and there I see pinpricks of clear silver light in a dark, inky blue sky. As my eyes adjust to the light, or lack thereof, my breath catches. Above me is a seemingly endless expanse of swirling silvers, icy blues, and reds,punctuated by profound gaps, spaces where nothing exists at all. I look on, enraptured by the beauty, gazing on as pieces of the tapestry in the sky blink out.

Suddenly, a fragment breaks free and shoots across the sky, trailing a silvery tail, but as quickly as it began, it blinks out of existence, like a half-formed thought. Like me. As the image of this falling light replays in my mind, I am thrust into yet another dream. This one feels different than the last. Where the other was full of chaos and fear, this dream, this memory, this hallucination, is full of nostalgia, peace, and a strange sensation that races along the entirety of my body in a pleasant sort of way. The falling light reappears in the glittering sky and I continue to watch for what feels like hours as the light once again disappears. A warm wind whispers through the tall grass that surrounds me, smelling of flowers and carrying the sound of chirping insects.

The darkness fades away and is replaced by an orange and purple sky. A fiery orange orb rests on the horizon, basking my face in a warm honey glow. I lean forward, eager to soak up the waning light, tantalizing my skin with the promise of light and warmth. As I do so, I hear a quiet laugh. I turn to investigate the source of the sound and am stunned to find myself in the company of a young woman, her face turned from mine, the light breeze running through her hair like curious fingers. As I look at the figure before me, I am overcome with an overwhelming sense of longing. As if every cell in my body were being drawn to this mysterious stranger. I find myself reaching out to put a hand on the shoulder of my newfound companion, but before I can, she faces me. What I see abolishes all feelings of warmth and light from my body. My chest fills with ice and my breath catches short as everything fades away. Sitting before me is a woman, but she has no face; a smooth, unbroken, featureless mask stares at me, seeing deeper than any eyes could. Paralyzed, I look in horror as this strange creature, this thing, dissipates into a light grey smoke. And as suddenly as it began, the dream ends.

I wake to find tears streaming down my face. My body, still unresponsive, shakes. Suddenly a warm, tingling sensation envelops me; images of people, faces, sounds, smells, all flash before my eyes. In that split second, I know who I am, who I was. I see a life full of joy and sadness, fear and hope, a good life, full of people to love and experience. I see my mother, my father, my sisters and my brothers, and finally I see her, the faceless woman. And then my world goes dark.

Artwork by Mengxin Qi, Form VI

by author

The end

by Max Abramson, Form VII

The dull thud of the crisp cover Against the body of paper Seems to confine the content within. The assemblage of thoughts on paper No longer capers through the consciousness. No longer does the work and passion of another Serve as a ferry to alternate worlds, fresh insight, and new realities. The emotion imbued is ceased; It may linger but it is destined to falter.

All fruits have been picked, Juiced, and squeezed to capacity.

Now, its place is void.

The end is cruel.

The end severs, it steals, it destroys, It tarnishes, it disappoints, it hurts.

The end is pain, confusion, melancholy. It ceases, it removes, and it vanquishes.

The end fades, it is blank, it is… empty.

The end… brings replacement.

The end brings change, New changes, a cleared slate, a raw start.

The end is opportunity.