INCITE 2023

CITE, the Conference of Independent Teachers of English, supports the teaching and learning of English, Media Studies, English as an Additional Language and Drama at its member schools. We do so through two core complementary projects: an annual professional conference for teachers of English, and the publication of INCITE, an anthology of student writing and visual art.

This is the fourteenth INCITE anthology we have produced and we could not be prouder of the student work it showcases.

Arizona O’Neill is a Montreal based illustrator and author. She has created original videos for CBC’s Creator Network, and artists such as Laurence Philomène and Patrick Watson. Her monthly painted illustrations fill the window of the Drawn & Quarterly bookstore in Mile End. Her book of illustrated graphic interviews with celebrated and controversial Quebec artists called Est-ce qu’un artiste peut être heureux? was just released in November 2022.

JUDGE’S PREFACE

Speculative fiction is a way of comprehending the world around us. The genre challenges writers to observe the flaws in their surroundings and to amplify them in their writing. This usually leads to dystopic world building, ones that mirror the worst scenarios in science fiction and horror stories. However, it does not have to be so negative, as speculative fiction encompasses all genres that depart from reality. This year, students were asked to use speculative fiction in a positive way: to look at the imperfection of everyday life and turn it into something beautiful. It would take writers with amazing imaginations to pull something this hopeful off.

Tackling the challenge with poetry, fiction and essays, this year’s Incite competition writers are like no others. Each piece is wildly differently from the next. It is wonderful to see that even at a young age, these writers have unique voices and literary styles. Some are driven by dialogue, other by inner monologue, and some are experimental in form. There were reoccurring themes tackled by the writers, focusing on preoccupations of our times, so I was not surprised to see global warming come up in these works. I was fascinated to see how the writers would put a lovely spin on the environmental crisis. They did not disappoint. Thank you for letting me read your pieces, and I look forward to seeing you in our rose-coloured future.

Arizona O'Neill, 2023 InCITE Judge

INCITE [2023]

ISSN 1923-158X Incite (Print) ISSN 1923-1598 Incite (Online)

CITE EXECUTIVE

Chair: Chris Jull, Crestwood Preparatory College

Communications: Ashley Domina, Villanova College

Writing Contest Co-ordinator: David Finkelstein, Crescent School

Chairperson Emeriti: Ellen Palmer, Appleby College & Claire Pacaud, St. Clement's School

Conference Chairs: Margaret Hanrahan & Andrew Bryce, Appleby College

INCITE Publication: Miranda Ly, Ryan Michaels & Mikel Campbell, Crestwood Preparatory College

THIS YEAR’S COVER

The INCITE 2023 cover features the artwork of Juno Jiang.

Ethan Xu | University of Toronto Schools | Grade 7

Creature of Shadow

Rain patters all around me

Sending tiny fireworks of water up into the air; Clouds loom gray overhead

Slick is my lank black hair.

Ominously looms the future.

Thunder rumbles in the distance

Foreboding an apocalypse to come But I stand in joyous resistance.

People pass me by, Heads in hoods, hands in pockets. They pass the torrent miserably Yet I make no attempt to hide from it.

Now lightning strikes, car horns blare, People bound for closing doors. The flood of life around me

Subsides into a trickle once more.

For I have seen thousands of disasters -I feast on them. Long have I waited for this miracle. My feathers fluff out, I am ready to feast on the darkness After all these years.

Glowing shafts cross the night sky As I drink in the destruction

For I am the raven.

Yichen (Shera) Xie | Appleby College | Grade 7

One Piece to Change the World

“Ever since the year 2030, art is the replicas of pieces already created by mortal artists,” I write, “Ever since then it has been considered a waste by society. Now the year is 2068, and art is still considered to be idiotic.”

“But I intend to change that.” …………………………………………………………………………

I stare at the blank canvas. If I looked closely, I could see the faint traces of my previous failed attempts. But it is plain enough and ready for a new idea. I look at the next idea I wrote down. Realistic painting. I began setting up a bowl with 3 red apples on top of a green table cloth. I squeezed the necessary paints. I dipped my brush into the red paint and began to paint.

I watch as the colors blend and the brush jumps and swirls. With the last stroke finished, I stepped back to look at what I had created. It was a disaster. The apples are brown from too much paint mixing, the table cloth has shadows in weird places and the bowl looks rectangular. With a disappointed sigh, I picked up my pencil and crossed out realistic painting from my list. I stared at the other things I had crossed out. Sculpting, lyric composing, poetry writing. It all ended with the same disaster, whether it was a poem that didn’t make sense or a sculpture of a human that has a head too large. With a sigh I put down my pencil and sank down in my chair.

“How am I supposed to make something new and inspiring?” I thought, “How can I change the world’s perspective of art?”

With a sigh I turned around in my chair and began working on something new.

…………………………………………………………………………

It has been a few days, and I still have not created something without

leaving me disappointed. I have spent many hours reading and listening to music.

With my last attempt, I visited the local art museum. The ticket only cost me two quarters and a nickel. As I stepped in, I noticed the lack of people. The lights emit a yellow glow making the art pieces look old and rustic. The walls have cracks and the paint appears to be peeling off. It seems no one has repaired this place since 2030. I slowly walk through the galleries, peering at the details in paintings, examining the sculptures and taking down notes.

What makes these pieces unique? How can I make my pieces attract people? What can make people believe art isn’t a waste? I write in my journal.

As I walked through the gallery of Vincent van Gogh, I stopped at one of the paintings. It was a landscape painting, but the lines and strokes make the whole painting have movement. The bluish- gray mountains in the background look like waves in rough seas. The trunks of the trees in the foreground are bent and out of shape.

The Olive Trees, I read, created in 1889.

“Not many people know this, but Van Gogh created 15 paintings of olive trees,” A voice says behind me, “He lived at a asylum so he could paint the nearby olive trees.”

I turn around to see an elderly woman behind. She wears a large poncho that has intricate designs and patterns. Her smile was wide, and she had a twinkle in her eyes.

“Hello,” I say, “Are you a guide at this museum?”

“Nope, just an art enthusiast. I have always loved art since I was a little girl. I loved to paint and write. You know I lived in the ages where new pieces are created every day, and no one is ridiculed for it.”

“What gives you inspiration? I have been wanting to create pieces that can change how the society views all forms of art, but I’m always left with a disaster,” I asked.

She smiles and says, “Well, you see the this Van Gogh painting, he spent days after days in an environment that may not be the best. But he immersed himself in it and left with 15 beautiful paintings.

“Art is also not just about your surroundings, usually it is about how people interpret the world around them. Their beliefs, emotions and even how they feel towards an something. Lastly, it shouldn’t be perfect and you should never put too much stress on getting every detail correct.”

She continued, “Oh and also, most importantly of all, is how are you going to share your piece. Because you can’t have a piece created without an idea of how you are going to share it.”

Then an idea suddenly popped into my head, what if I can do something based on the importance of art. Something on how art is being shut down from society and how we can change that. And like the woman said it doesn’t have to be perfect.

As I erased my list of ideas, I felt a warm feeling spread through my body. I set down the eraser and picked up a pencil. Ideas forming in my mind, I began to write. But this time not only will I have an idea for a piece written down, I also have how I can share this with everyone. These ideas are going to change the world.

Kiera Chung | St. Clement's School | Grade 7

Dark to Light in an Infinity

Darkness. All I could feel was the stiff, cold seat underneath me. I heard metal scraping against metal.

"Miss Kaliyana? I see you’ve signed all the paperwork, or your guardian has. I just want to list out a few side effects, and you can tell me if you still want to do it." I listened to the nurse prattle on and on about different side effects and I felt my mind drift. My stomach was filled with anticipation, a sparking off butterflies.

When she was finished, I didn’t know where the nurse was, so I just nodded. I felt as the chair was brought down, and I braced for pain. Weirdly enough, I felt nothing, I was numb as I heard a tiny voice in my head. What happened? No, Zoya!

Dramatic bursts of colour filled my vision as I felt debris flying at me. I jerked back in my seat then forwards, so fast that I felt sick. I heard screams fill the air and the sound of screeching tires. I smelled rubber and leather. I felt hands clinging to me, then it was gone. I was gone. The only thing I felt was blood dripping down my face. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. That was when the world turned dark.

I never saw anything. I never opened my eyes. Never saw the light and dark of day and night. I was taken care of by my brother, but I never saw what he was doing. For all I knew, he could have been poisoning me this whole time. Though unlikely considering I was still living evidence.

It never bothered me though, because the senses I still had were keener. I could hear things from miles away, and I could feel things better than anything. I could hear the sound of incoming thunder, the sound of a pin dropping on a pillow. I could feel the cracks and dips in a sidewalk and feel the wind becoming quicker before the rain. I missed seeing some

things though. I missed the familiar glow in the morning, when I would look outside and see a sunrise. These days, I could only see the darkness that enveloped my eyes.

I had been brought to many different doctors, all who said that I couldn’t be fixed. They had all said that I was traumatized and that a piece of debris had hit my eyes, permanently damaging them.

I remembered the days of longing and sitting in a chair all day, waiting for the time where I could open my eyes and see the world. Years had passed by painfully. Though I should have felt older, I didn’t. It was like I was stuck between my age then and my age now.

One day, my sister came up beside me. I could hear her breathing as she flew up the stairs and into my room. "Zoya, I think I found something." She continued talking about something new that scientists had created. Robotic eyes. If I could get the treatment I would be able to lift the fog that separates me from seeing the world. For the first time in years I let myself smile.

The cost was heavy for this treatment and I knew that it was a blow to my parents’ wallet. I couldn’t feel guilty though, as I was already too drunk with excitement. There were so many things I wanted to do. I wanted to travel and drink in every image I could see. I wanted to find a job and repay the money that my parents wasted on me for years. I wanted to relive the eight years I had lost to this.

This wasn’t all though. I also wanted to pay them back because of what happened before the world turned dark. The hospital bed felt hard under my rigid back and I was brought back to what happened so many years ago.

I heard the screaming as I lost control of the car. I swerved left and right, trying to make it go straight, but it was like it was mimicking me. I wasn’t sure where the screaming was coming from. In a panic, I blindly reached for a lever near the wheel. It automatically righted the vehicle, and I let out a sigh of relief. I looked over at my sister, who was deathly gripping the car.

"Thank God for technology," I said with a grimace. It only took that one second of inattention for a massive truck to collide into us. We were slammed into a building, but before the debris was launched at me. I saw my sister. Her leg was gashed open and bleeding.

After that fatal car crash, my parents didn’t just lose me, they also lost my sister. Her leg was so badly gashed that she had to get it amputated. Fortunately, she was able to get an almost human leg transplanted. It wasn’t entirely human. It was made in a lab, but it looked exactly the same. At least that’s what I was told from her.

She had gotten her treatment, and it was time for mine. I tried not to think of what they were doing to my eyes after they were done and focused on what it would be like to see again. I was excited. I'm excited to find out what's changed and what's still the same. I was excited to be able to walk around the house without having someone to guide me. I was excited to find someone and maybe start my own family, but I was mostly excited to see the one I had right now. I couldn’t wait to see my parents' faces and my siblings' partners.

My eyes were numb, and I had no idea what was happening. I could still hear the sound of nurses and doctors talking and the occasional beeping. It was taking longer than expected. I waited patiently. I’d already waited eight years. I could wait a few hours.

"Congratulations, Ms. Kaliyana, the procedure is complete. You may open your eyes when you are ready."

When he said this, I expected to feel excited, but I was met with a wave of fear. I wasn’t sure what this would do. Would I look different? What if these eyes didn’t work and all this was just to give me hope and take it away? Slowly, I cracked my eyes open. The lights were blinding. Rainbow spots danced before my vision. I blinked, and they faded away. And for the first time in eight years, I can see.

Alina Dong | Toronto Montessori School | Grade 7

Rolling Hills and Shimmering

Emerald Dewdrops

The cat rises from the tickly blades of grass that adorned the hill. The sun is rising. He swings his head back, stretching from what seemed to him like an eternal nap.

How long had he been here already? Like, in the exact same spot? When have I ever had a day where I just slept, and dreamed, and slept, and dreamed?

It had seemed like eternity. He knew that his home, where he had grown up in, lay just over the mountains towering over him right now. Home, something that had crossed his mind far too often during his adventures, but never had he realized it would be so close. So close now. Just a claw away from peace, tranquility, everything he could want right now. No more crazy adventures or long journeys. He was ready to go home.

He gazed at the vast stretch of mountains that stood in front of him. Well, not exactly like, a centimeter away, but they were close enough. Close enough for a cat who had journeyed so far away that the sea was just a puddle of water to him, and the mountains just mounds of dirt and rock.

He never really even knew why he had decided to journey afar. As a kitten, no more than a few weeks old, he liked to explore. Quite literally everywhere was a new patch of land to claim, to roll in, to ravage with his tiny delicate claws(well, you could call them “claws” but they really seemed more like the things those thin, elastic hair ties are made of).

This story begins on a warm spring day, when our main character had just been a kitten. He had gone outside to explore. He’d chased after a leaf that had fluttered into sight. And caught it. Engraved on the leaf was: “Follow the emerald trail of glistening dew, Adventures and possibilities, they belong to you. Step outside the box, and learn what may unlock” The kitten stared, wide-eyed, at the leaf that was trapped underneath his paw. Could this have been for me?

He re-read the message. His eyes lingered on the word “dew”. It had contained part of his name, Dewdrop! There was no way this wasn’t meant for him.

That day, that very second, he had raced back home to the shabby, but endearing hut he called home, and stuffed the leaf into his trunk. He rarely used that trunk for anything, what riches did he have? But although just a simple leaf, he thought it was worth keeping.

Dewdrop spent the rest of his day frolicking and informing everyone he knew about the leaf. By sundown, most, if not all in the village had heard the news about the leaf. Who had written it? thought Dewdrop, on his way home after the exciting day. Maybe I’ll examine it a little more closely, he thought. He ran the rest of the way home.

Dewdrop threw open the trunk as soon as he got home, to pull out

the leaf and examine it once more. He flipped it over, just in time to see the golden text emboss itself onto the back of the original leaf. It read: “Across the mountains, adventure awaits.” The text vanished just as he finished reading it. The leaf really was magical. About bedtime for Dewdrop, his best friend had snuck in through his window. “Dewdrop! If you really do go, really do venture outside these mountains, could you send letters to us at least? We wanna’ know what you find! What happens outside the mountains!” Just as his friend said it, the leaf from the unclosed trunk had started to glow a brilliant, gold-green colour. It flipped itself over from the side containing the original words that looked to have been debossed in in pale green script, and words started forming and embossing itself on the opposite side, in the same fashion as it had before. This time however, it had read: “I am communication. Send a letter perhaps, or transmit a message through me, just like what you see now”

And that was how Dewdrop had sent messages home, a lot of the time abroad. Some type of telepathy, perhaps.

The world outside had seemed dreadful to many in the village. Many had mused about how the outside world, beyond the mountains, were treacherous, and wondered why anyone would ever leave their abode here in the village. But to the cat, who had sometimes longed for home when afar from it, home was less than just a place of safety. Home was still a new place to explore, every single day. A new pond, a freshly discovered clearing in the forest. He had questioned why some of them found home boring, but wouldn’t leave even if their life depended on it. New experiences are fun, thought Dewdrop, but he could also understand why some, especially the elders who had lived their whole lives in this village, wouldn’t want to leave.

The cat had only thought at the time, and frequently throughout his

journeys: excitement, new experiences, fascination, insight. A world that was a dystopia to most could be a utopia if you looked at it from just the right angle sometimes. Flip it over, roll it around, poke at it a little, and maybe you could find out, the cat thought. Thinks.

Now, perched on the top of a hill overlooking home, the cat was questioning why he had chosen to leave. Sure, it had been exciting, informative, and insightful, practically all his adventures, but it was also dangerous a lot of the time. Sometimes they were even boring, now that he thought of it. Long. Difficult. But for some reason, he thought it was worth it nonetheless. He looked through the world through a different perspective. Maybe he was ready to return home now. Or for now. To inform every inhabitant of the village about his epicawesomelovelyinsightfulentrancingfantasticfabulousandexciting adventures!

He sent a signal through the leaf. “I’m coming home. Beyond the mountains I go again, to explore. This time maybe I’ll investigate my own village a bit further too!”

But maybe he could take just a few more moments to retire on this lovely, soft, cushiony grass bed. Everything at peace right now, in the moment, while he watched as the sky flooded with colour now.

Shanti Huang | Bishop Strachan School | Grade 8

I Believe

I believe

just because 900 half empty cups of water are wasted by every single person every single day doesn't mean they can't be half full.

I believe

just because up to 150 species of animals go extinct every day doesn't mean I can't save them.

I believe

just because our world quite literally is on fire doesn't mean

I don't have the tools and power to put the fire out I believe! not because I'm too young, naïve

I know the evil possible

I believe because it's the only way forward. I know the moment I stop seeing a better future, believing a better future, is the moment a better future ceases to exist.

Return

Entry 1: Nkomo Maetur, Yaoundé, Kameroun (Star Date: Wednesday, August 22nd, 2035)

The air was humid. The sun was blazing hot, sweat incessantly trickling down my face. The earth was a light brick red which dirtied my shoes. But none of this bothered me as I was finally back to my childhood planet.

Papa and Maman welcomed me with exorbitant enthusiasm. They hugged me so tightly I thought I might suffocate. I understand though. The last time we saw each other, in Kameroun, was five years ago. Despite the long space travel, they always come to Kanada to visit me, bringing back traditional clothing and delicious food. This year, I had the chance to join a 3-month teaching exchange program. When I saw Kameroun was on the list of planets, I jumped at the opportunity.

Entry 2: Yaoundé, Kameroun (Star Date: Saturday, August 25th, 2035)

My parents only give me three days to rest and get the space lag out of my system before dragging me out of the house to greet1 all our relatives.

As we drive around the city, I realize how much this place has changed. The roads that were once dusty, uneven, and littered, are now smooth, paved, and well-maintained. The children were once dressed in ragged clothing, selling snacks and convenience goods to aid their families at such young ages instead of being carefree. Now, they are wearing clean clothes, running around, and playing with water guns, something they could have never afforded to do before.

Something catches my eye as we drive through downtown. An immense building, with tinted blue glass windows. A skyscraper, in Kameroun!

1 brag to all our relatives

The day is filled with hugging, laughing, and recollecting with relatives, my cheeks hurt from all the smiling. Maman has always told me smiles are contagious.

Entry 3: Quartier du Lac, Yaoundé, Kameroun (Star Date: Monday, September 3rd, 2035)

Today was the first day of school. My parents drop me off and are reluctant to leave. They remark that they dropped me off here on my very first day of school back in kindergarten. One thing we notice has changed is the fence. There used to be a ten-foot-tall off-white wall with barbed wire at the top surrounding the school for safety. People often tried to break in to steal food and other resources from the school. I guess there is no longer a need for that?

I am given a tour, then shown my classroom. Other than the absence of the fence, this school has not changed much. I am glad. It feels weird referring to teachers that taught me by their first names. It might take some time to get used to.

Entry 4: Yaoundé, Kameroun (Star Date: Saturday, December 1st, 2035)

I have not been consistent with these entries, but I could write multiple essays about how great my time at this school has been.

Energetic, enthusiastic, engaged, eager... I ran out of words that start with “e,” but these students are amazing. I knew this would be a fulfilling experience, though I had no idea how much learning I would be doing, too. I cannot believe that almost three months have passed. Tomorrow, my parents and I will be going to our village for eight days before I head back to Kanada. I am overjoyed by my time here in Kameroun. This place has greatly grown, although, something is bothering me.

Entry 5: Fonakeukeu Chiefery, Dschang, Kameroun (Star Date: Sunday, December 2nd, 2035)

This morning, we drove four and a half hours to my parents’ village. The last time I visited, 2019, it had taken seven hours.

As a kid, I hated spending my summers in this village. I hated how rough and underdeveloped this place was. I hated the five-minute walks to the pit toilet. I hated the bulky toads that moaned and groaned all night. I

hated the huge cockroaches, which I seemed to be the only person scared of them. I hated having to boil water for warm showers. I hated that while my friends got to travel luxuriously to different planets, I had to stay in this village. Most of all, I despised seeing the children in the village. They made me feel like a horrible person. I hate looking down on others. I hate being so privileged yet always wanting more. I hate not having been able to change anything. I hate writing these words down. Hate is a strong word.

Entry 6: Fonakeukeu Chiefery, Dschang, Kameroun (Star Date: Friday, December 7th, 2035)

Today is the first time in a while I get me-time. Between school and family, my stay in Kameroun has been bustling. I decide to take a leisurely stroll around the village.

“Uziech!” I greet a grandma with my accented Yemba.

“Alekoh...” she responds, out of breath. She is carrying a large gas tank, the kind used for gas stoves, and loads of groceries. I take the gas tank out of her hands.

“Peh gho me ghoo?” I ask where she is going. She points to a stone house —outdoor kitchen— down the hill. We walk together, making small talk along the way. I carefully place the tank down.

“Pê mpon noû,” the lady tells me I am kind. This is when I regret not being more attentive while learning Yemba. My limited vocabulary forces me to respond in Phrench.

“Merci beaucoup! Mais je ne crois pas que c’est vrai,”2 I respond.

“Pourquoi pas?”3 she asks. Despite having met her for the first time today, I feel like I have known her forever. Normally, I would have simply accepted the compliment, but today I want to talk to someone.

“Je désire toujours plus,”4 I answer as I help her install the gas tank. I offer to help her cook as we talk.

2 “Thank you very much! But I do not think that is true,”

3 “Why not?”

4 “I always desire more,”

“Même le poisson qui vit dans l'eau a toujours soif. Ça veut dire que l'homme est un éternel insatisfait,”5she says as she starts grinding peanuts, “Tu connais comment cuisiner ndolé?"6

“Emm!” I respond yes in Yemba. Who does not know how to cook their planet’s national dish?!

We spend the rest of the afternoon bonding, and cooking ndolé, meticulously assembling Maggi (bouillon), onion, peanuts, beef, garlic, bitter leaves (spinach), and oil to make a delicious meal. The taste resembles the ndolé my grandma would make me whenever I visited. The lady –whose name I never got— thanks me and sends me off with more food than she was carrying when I first met her.

Other than the proverb, the lady did not give me any advice. Yet, what once felt like a huge hole bothering me has now become a small fissure that will soon be patched up.

I love and loved this village. Love is equally as strong of a word.

5 “Even the fish that lives in the water is always thirsty. That means humans are eternally unsatisfied,”

6 “Do you know how to cook ndolé?”

Chloe Diamond | St. Mildred's-Lightbourn School | Grade 8

Bound For Dreams

Dusk poured from the sky, fluttering along the narrowed tracks between awaiting platforms. The moon hung faded and gibbous alongside the dull clouds that drooped like puppets against the sky, the sun caught between slumber and awakening. The girl’s dainty hand tightened on the leather hold of an animal leash in anticipation, her eyes sparkling as she watched the bustling train come to a stop in front of her.

Although her parents forbade her from bringing her four-legged friend home, she could not have simply let the lion stay in the zoo where he currently resided. The unspoken bond that they had developed over the weeks of spent time was irreplaceable, and the little girl was afraid the lion might forget about her if she left for too long. To her, the lion was her truest friend. He listened without judgment and comforted without words. Since their acquaintance, they had spent every waking moment in each other’s presence. Despite the strangeness of their confiding friendship, the world had progressed into somewhat of a welcoming state; one of which the warm friendship was invited, one of which the cruelty toward animals had been since liberated.

So, that morning, before dawn could stream through the curtains at her window, she packed her few things and left on her voyage home, lion in hand.

Smoke curled from the train’s billows. Now, the lion sloped his head in a timid gesture, mane brushing against her pale ankles. The little girl smiled, fair cheeks dimpling; the lion was clearly unfamiliar with the hustle and bustle, so she reached a hand down to stroke his soft fur, easing his worries. The compartment doors swung heavily open, and despite the few gaping mouths and surprised stares cast their way, the girl didn’t mind the

attention. As long as she had her lion to keep her company, she was glad. A pensive silence settled.

The sky shuddered, casting dark grey hues against the platform. The little girl feared that the clouds might begin shedding, so she unfastened the small umbrella from the harness tightened to the lion’s side and let it open with a snap. The color was a delicate pink, the pales complementing the hues of her dress. She took care to cover the lion’s fur with the umbrella as well as her own skin, for to her, her lion friend was just as important as she was.

“All aboard!”

Annie Zhang - St. Clement's School

Lisa Hirsh - Wheatley School

Abha Sapaliga - Appleby College

Zara Cross - St. Clement's School

Cloris Ge - Appleby College

Ellie Belcher - Appleby College

Emma Zheng - Villanova College

Jenny Zhu - Appleby College

Jasmine Zhou - Appleby College

Molly Thompson - St. Clement's

Sabina Lopez - Appleby College

Tsz Hei Wong - Appleby College

Scarlett Rohn - St. Clement's School

Naomi Strojek - Appleby College

Lia Goh - Appleby College

Kacy Zhang - Appleby College

Maeve Murphy - Appleby College

Manli Yang - Appleby College

Sam Basek - St. Clement's School

Jordana Hersch - St. Clement's School

Maggie Macy - Appleby College

Grace Jin - Appleby College

Juno Jiang - Appleby College

Paige Coleman - Appleby College

Belanger - Appleby College

Renee Xia - Appleby College

Faylee Goren | The Bishop Strachan School | Grade 9

The Flood

Finally came, To this wasteland of a town, But somehow we are not drowned. We simply stuck out our tongues And drank.

Even the angry old man With the winkles on his forehead

Like a map of where he’s been Came out of his home To see the water, And mustered a smile. The children asked him, “Why’ve you been so cynical all these years?” He replied

“I’ve been up, I’ve been down, I picked up the sharp broken pieces of My heart

In My bare hands, And glued it back together again.

I’ve smiled so much that my face wrinkled, I’ve cried so much my eyes sag.

All for the Possibility

That it would rain again.”

Slowly, The oceans re-filled

The rivers started to flow.

I hadn’t seen a flower in years

But a tulip started to grow.

Some say it was our pure hope

That brought the water back.

Others think it was god.

But I think it’s simply a reward

For waiting

And fighting

And living through the pain of thirst. Because we, we fought for that water

For that sound:

Drip Drop

Drip Drop.

Put Those Rose Coloured Glasses On

Imagine a world where nothing goes wrong; Where what you desire, is what you receive. Where manifestations are nothing but shrouded truths. Would it kill you to believe this is my world? Rhetorical question, there’s no such thing as death in this world, let alone killing.

I wonder where that devilish thought came from. No matter, I’ll go visit nurse first thing in the morning. If there are such things as angels, Nurse is certainly one. With her greyed eyes and never-aging smile, she is the epitome of goodness. I’ve lived in this world for fifteen years, and I have no desire to leave. Nobody does.

I sit down on one of Nurse’s velvet sofas. The same fluffy blanket I’ve grown to love sprawls across me, tucking me into the cushions just the way I like it. One of Nurse’s workers hands me a bowl full of golden fruit. I recognize it to be ambrosia, a heavenly substance that can be molded into any delicacy.

As far as I know, their branches can only bloom here in the Clouds of Fortune. Anywhere else, and the plant succumbs to pollutants.

I remember asking one of the agriculturalists what the pollutants were. He looked me dead in the face and said, “Greed, Envy, Pride. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you sweetie?”

May I remind you, I was five at the time, and could barely understand why the oceans were blue, let alone the concept of the seven deadly sins. And it just so happens Earth is a breeding ground for them.

“Skylar,” Nurse says, sitting down on a white couch across from me. “I know you are probably wondering why I’ve called you this early in the morning-”

I feel a little bad about cutting her off, but I don’t want her to apologize for

something that is my fault. My intentions are good, and that’s all that matters to the high council. “Actually, I called in this meeting.” I pluck a piece of fruitified ambrosia and take a bite. The juice trails down my throat the same way I believe gold would. No matter how many times I’ve eaten this, the beauty of its sensation never ceases to amaze me.

“No matter.” Nurse smiles at me. A picture I’m used to seeing at least twice a day. “The council has a task for you, or rather, a quest.”

I almost choke on a piece of the ambrosia, then realize that it’s impossible to do so whilst consuming heavenly fruit. “A quest? Whatever do they require of me?” I sound so airy and light, another side effect of citizens consuming ambrosia.

“Only what is in here.” Nurse presses her finger gently against my temple. A faint glow pulses across her fingers to my face.

See? I told you she’s an angel. Although you should’ve believed me the first time. In the realm of fortune, the concept of lying no longer exists, save for the delicately written pages of our history books.

I shudder at the thought of living like my ancestors; In a world full of hate and greed, where all humans kill and lie.

I mean, they used to be told to lie, cheat, and steal in the intricate art of music. How did they not realize there was something fundamentally wrong with them?

They were obviously not very bright, no offense.

I hope I’m not being mean. Isn’t there a fact that says the next generation is scientifically smarter than the prior?

I blink suddenly. What is wrong with me today? Surely I’ve never thought this way before?

“Skylar?” Nurse gently nudges me back to reality, or lack thereof. “It’s not like you to be distracted during our sessions.”

I apologise, as I really am sorry.

“The council requires nothing more than a few hours of your time. They would like you to fetch the next batch of heavenly nectar for the upcoming

festival. As you know, this is a high honour.” Nurse tells me. “Don’t worry about carrying it all. They have sent a companion to help you, although I don’t understand why.”

I try to decipher who, but I cannot fathom who they would send with me. Perhaps one of my brothers?

Nurse opens the door and a blonde girl enters the room. I’d know those golden locks anywhere. She is wearing a plain white dress that brings out the cloud-like nature of her eyes.

“Skylar, this is Lyssa Hawthorne.”

I catch her staring, which is ridiculous. I’ve stared at her so many times, and she’s never once looked back.

“We’ve met.” She says curtly.

She says that so callously, which makes sense. She is from Earth, but they typically stay on the other side of SkyHigh, the Southside. I don’t mean to sound mean, again, but there’s a reason we’re told to stay away from their kind.

She’s everything I’m not. Everything we Fortune Folk aren’t. Annoyed, secretive…the list goes on.

I guess that makes my crush on her a little difficult.

Lyssa Hawthorne. Even her name is intriguing. She sounds like the mysterious heiress she is.

She trudges behind me now, leaving behind rough footprints in the soil. It rained yesterday, which showers the Fortune Folk with gold, and the Southside with blue drops of liquid that disappear just as soon as it comes.

“So, Skylar,” She says, catching up with my pace. “What’s your deal?”

I stare at her. At first, it’s because I’m entranced with her beauty, but then I realize that I have no clue as to what deal she’s talking about. “I sometimes trade gold for food?”

Lyssa opens and closes her mouth. I’m afraid I’ve sent her into shock. Instead of collapsing to the ground, she throws back her head and laughs. It’s

like angelic music to my ears. “I know you Fortune Folk are delusional, but this crosses the line.”

I try to look confused, but I feel a pit of rage stirring in my stomach. I force it down.

It’s no secret that the Southside’s human-like attitude can infect the Fortune Folk.

“I’m sorry,” She says, noticing my downcast expression. I freeze at that. I’ve never known the Southsiders to apologise to anyone before. I always thought it was just their nature to never take the blame.

“It’s okay.”

We continue to walk through the forest in silence. I can spot the nectar streams in the distance.

I move the collecting vial more comfortably across my person and move around the large muddy puddle in front of us.

“Change your shoes, ” Lyssa says, pointing towards my white flats. She pulls out a pair of…sneakers, I think, and hands them to me. They are rough, and colorful, unlike anything I’ve ever worn before. I almost feel as though I am breaking a rule as I toss my shoes into the bushes and slip on the sneakers. They do feel more comfortable, and appropriate for the trek.

“Thanks,” I say, accepting her hand as she helps me across the puddle and towards the streams. I uncork my vial and watch the golden liquid fill the glass container to the brim. “For the help and the sneakers.”

“No problem.” She leans down next to me and fills up her own vial. “I like helping you.”

My pink frock matches the blush growing across my cheeks. I for once, am glad that I decided to dress up today. My mum weaved light pink flowers into my hair this morning and styled my hair in waves cascading past my shoulders.

Lyssa still looked like a golden girl, no matter what she wore. “Ready to go back?”

I nod, but a little part of me wishes she asked me to the dance.

The council is arranged in a U curve in the throne room when we arrive with two nectar-filled vials. The seven deities smile at us, and I find myself smiling back.

Only Lyssa stands with a neutral expression.

“Skyler Carson and Lyssa Hawthorne, you girls have delivered something momentous and special to this festival-”

“Do you want to dance with me?” Lyssa blurts out. It takes me a while to realise she’s talking to me. I don’t know how to respond. Is it rude to engage in a side conversation?

I can’t keep myself from beaming. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Lyssa finally smiles.

The deities seem to forgive us. Two exchange winks amongst each other and I start to wonder if this quest was a ploy for romance. After all, the deities could have the nectar transported to them through other means.

“We recognise good fortune, no matter which side you reside in.” Another deity continues. “We will offer you one wish, spoken up until midnight. Do you accept?”

For the first time in forever, I’ve never been more sure of myself. “Actually, I’ve already gotten my wish.”

After all, in the Clouds of Fortune, there’s no need for wishes.

At least, that’s what everyone says.

Eva Assudani | Bayview Glen | Grade 9

Clearing the Clouds of Despair

“Clearing the Clouds of Despair”

Putting on these pink-tinted glasses resolve the enciphered sight

To make it clear the cloud of gnats was but a steady smoke,

Emitting from a wondrous bonfire, comfortable and welcoming.

To make it clear this nugatory wood I find behind the birch tree

Can be used to make a spectacular boat, of which I can sail the world.

To make it clear that the unforgiving cancer, creepily growing,

Has not yet necrosed each limb and organ in this mighty body.

Awakening from this dark prophecy enables me to see new possibilities

with ameliorated vision.

With memories of the footfalls which had led me to the passage I had never opened, And the everlasting possibility to go back, and walk the passage which I had never walked.

With the creation of a proposition to go back to the grown over, defunct greenhouse, And bring my yellow-painted flowerpot filled to the rim, until these old weeds dry next to new blooming roses.

With the hopes of a world painted anew, and all the people bringing their birchwood and yellow flowerpots,

To paint the grey and white into a new century, a century of colour and opportunities,

To make it clear that life is full of possibilities and hope, Even in the face of obstacles and the unknown,

With every step forward, a new path may unfold, And the future is not set in stone, but waiting to be moulded.

Gemma Ellis | Ashbury College | Grade 10

Mother

It is 4 am I open my eyes again today as I did yesterday

In the voice of a mother, who said she was hungry, and asked for food

Yesterday and today are the same

But tomorrow will be different

Today is Tuesday

We will go to the hospital for the special hat

The special hat is an invention that a scientist made, to cure dementia I can have a normal talk with her, for a few hours.

We talked about how the weather was today and we ate together with normal stories my childhood stories how I was born so small how I took so long to start speaking my first word: butter

What an enjoyable day it was.

But tomorrow, it will be back to normal

It is fine because you are my mother.

You will forget who you are You will eat and forget, and then ask me for more You will hide biscuits in your wardrobe

You will forget to go to the toilet.

You rush to cook, even if you forgot how to cook

You think dad comes home soon, but he already passed away two years ago.

Mother, how long will it be until you can remember me?

You gave me feelings of emotions

You gave me the joy of tastes, of different foods

You gave me advice on my struggles

The right path to follow, you taught me my instinct, to help me navigate through the difficult choices in my life.

I promise you

I will be there for your last tiring journey

You gave all your heart and soul

I hope what is happening to you now, won’t happen to me

But it is okay as I believe in the future, there will be better science to treat all types of diseases

Mother Tomorrow is another Tuesday

I am very much looking forward to it, Tuesday with the special hat

Another Tuesday, where we can be just us again.

We will talk about small things, as if nothing happened, and make plans for our future holidays

Or what colour the cushions have changed.

But we are okay mother, we don’t smile because we are happy

We are happy because we are smiling together.

Trinity Liu | Appleby College | Grade 10

To The Top

There was barely any wind. The occasional whiffs of air carried the scorching smell of a typical summer day in Shenzhen. The sky was too bright to look at; sunlight pinched into my eyes without any hinderance. Even the thinnest strand of cloud was engulfed by the endless blue.

“Such a bad day,” I complained as I narrowed my eyes.

“Oh please, don’t be so depressive… We’re almost there,” Dad said. He always had endless energy to use. I could never understand it. He had been telling me that we would have a mission today, but I didn’t know what it was.

“Here we are! This is the mission I told you about,” said Dad. I looked at what he was pointing at—a tree. I recognized this tree. Every Friday I walked pass it on my way to my math lesson. It stood on a little lawn and around it there was grass of vivid green, guarding it from the busyness of the surrounding areas.

“It is not too big nor too small, just the right size for you to climb,” Dad explained.

“… What?” I questioned the word climb.

“You will learn to climb this tree today. Come on, you promised me that you will do the mission, remember?”

Not looking forward to climbing a tree in the sizzling summer heat of Shenzhen, I also understood that I need to keep my promise. I walked closer to get a better observation to the “target” of my mission. I never looked at it carefully before– it was skinny, of average height, no budded fruits, but flourished with leaves towards the top. The trunk divided at the height of my waist into three branches, which then continued to divide into branches of smaller sizes. Without giving many instructions, Dad told me to step on the

lowest dividing point of the branches.

“So? What am I supposed to do?” I asked impatiently.

“You’ll know what you need to do next. Just remember to always have your hands holding onto at least one branch, and make sure that the branch is tough enough to support your weight,” Dad replied.

He definitely overestimated me, I thought, but I still lifted my left foot, making my first move. At the same time, I grabbed two branches above me. With a push from the left foot and a pull from my two hands, I moved myself up to the branch that I was holding on to just now. The leaves shrouded me from the dazzling bright sun but still allowed some lights to pass through, dappling small golden spots on my skin.

From the previous move, I found myself on the right half of the tree. I looked up, trying to find an appropriate way to reach the higher branches. The sun rose even higher, burning my eyes and making me sweat like a melting ice cream. I felt my hands sticked as I touched the next branch.

“Ew! Dad, there is weird stuff on the branches! It’s sticky!” I yelled. My grip became less firm as I moved my hands to avoid touching the tree.

“That’s okay, Ellen. They are just the saps of the tree. They are not poisonous or anything harmful. Try not to think about it,” Dad tried to calm me down.

“No, I can’t do this! I don’t want to touch them, and my arms are shaking too!”

“You are doing great so far! Focus yourself and just keep repeating the same movements, alright? Believe me and believe in yourself.”

My brain was panicking, but I still followed what was told— I observed, chose a direction, grabbed the branches, pushed with my legs, pulled with my hands, maintained balance, and repeated the same steps. This was surprisingly efficient, and in just a blink of an eye, I was midway towards the top of the tree. There was finally wind now, but it was still stifling and muggy. My T-shirt was already completely soaked with sweat, and my hands and legs were sore. I was scared of the height but couldn’t help to look down.

The grass, Dad, everything, was now blurred.

The wind grew stronger, cutting my face like a knife. I could feel my stamina slowly draining out of my body. The heat drilled into my brain and disturbed my calmness to think. A drop of sweat slid down from the tip of my bangs and hit my eyes. I blinked violently and wanted to rub my eyes with hands. Without a clear vision and firm attention, I stumbled, and my left leg slipped and broke my balance. I had never felt the gravity so clearly as it dragged my body down with such a strong force. My heart pounded like a drum beating irregularly. I heard the shouts from Dad but couldn’t tell the words. I was screaming. Everything felt like they were falling at that moment—my body, my mind… A sharp pain from the sudden pressure on my hands woke me up. I looked up: my hands were still locked on the branch that I was holding on, hanging me still and kept me from falling.

“Are you okay, Ellen?!” Dad’s trembling shouts became clearer. “Calm down! Don’t be scared! Use your waist and hands to bring your legs onto a branch to stand! Don’t loosen your grips. Hang tight on the branches!”

I regained my balance as I managed to stand still on a branch but was shaking like the leaves around me as the wind continued to whistle. I was scared, but I didn’t look down this time. I kept my head up and focused on planning out the routes I would be taking.

Finally, I was able to sit on the highest branches. The moment was magical—it was as if all the fatigue and anxiety were suddenly gone. I stuck my head out from the leaves, and the surrounding just seemed like it also wanted to take a rest along with my heartbeat. The wind softened, touching my cheek gently, bringing a fresh smell of plants. The sunlight was not a burning glare anymore. It shone down and landed on me as if it were a nice warm bath given to me after the vigorous exercise just now.

Now I looked down, and all the things became either tiny dots or large colour blocks to me, like we were all part of a massive landscape painting. I also heard music. The birds stood on the other trees at the same height with me and each sang with their own unique voices. I could hear the children

laughing and playing on the lawn.

Everything was alive, carrying the message of joy.

I took a deep breath, held it, and breathed out. Time almost stopped…

“Such a good day.” I thought.

Cleo Carney | Elmwood School | Grade 11

Mania Of The Mundane

I feel it

I live it

In the anticipatory roar of the crowd

In the smile that escapes from my lips

In the Potential the Crisp morning air carries

In the lick of the sun’s whisps of gold; the translucent tendrils of aureate garnering warmth I haven’t known for millenia

delightfully confusing my placid skin embalmed under layers of vaseline A petroleum microcosm for the nebulous blandishments my body sings to me:

a tumbled prayer that emanates from my depleted heart to my moth-bitten mind

The bradycardic, infested, and everything in-between all Begging to be whisked away

And float beyond this grey Surpassing the clouds that compress and suffocate us

Thwarting the divine hand that obstructs us

— yet will never acknowledge the delay. Allow us to be free. please?

For our souls to dance with the divine Drink with Dionysius

For if we must act like maenads to survive Surely there ought to be some wise men to reprimand those who sedate us those who frown upon the frenzy of the witches

I’m sorry, forgiveme for my treason

Rachel Yan | Toronto Montessori School | Grade 11

The Metallic Tree

The shuttle doors slid open with a rush of air. Chloe stepped out, passengers streaming around her. As soon as she was free of the crowd, she dashed down the corridor. A line of lights ran along the platinum white walls that opened to the atrium up ahead.

Chloe chanced a look at her wrist cuff as she ran. No new reply had shown up; Alex must have had his messages off. Perhaps he had to stay behind after his lesson today.

The web of activity in the atrium came into view, people flitting between the many neon coloured storefronts of the mall. Chloe slowed to a walk. Alex was probably late, as usual. She caught sight of her garishly colourful boots against the fibreglass floor and sighed. She wished she had changed out of her gardening gear first, but she hadn’t had time before going to meet Alex at the Nexus mall.

Today’s heritage session had been a long one. After hours of measuring soil levels and pruning branches, her mind was still filled with thoughts of leaves and roots. Chloe had chosen to join the gardener’s guild student program because it would fulfil both her heritage experience hours and allow her to carry out her individual biology investigation for school, but she would have reconsidered had she realised how much handling of dirt was involved.

Chloe glanced at the screen of her cuff. “What’s taking so long?” she dictated. “Send.”

The sight of the Nexus tree greeted her, its gleaming golden branches supplanting the green and brown ones in her mind’s eye. The mechanical superseding the organic – Chloe blinked, surprised by the tree’s brilliance each time despite it being a familiar sight. Colourful crystal leaves sparkled above, held by branches made of entwined metal filaments. The tree was

constantly changing shape, the metal units slowly twisting the branches into different forms. She made her way under its shade.

It was her usual meeting spot with Alex. Sometimes they would send a light up together. It was technically a fun attraction for younger kids to play with, but they still did it regardless. She sat down on the bench surrounding the tree trunk. Where was Alex?

Someone was coming over to the bench. An old man stopped in front of her. “Excuse me, can I sit here?”

Chloe nodded, distracted. “Yeah, sure.” The man lowered himself onto the seat beside hers.

She continued scanning the crowd, mildly annoyed. Had Alex forgotten that they were meeting here completely? Another minute passed. She could check to see if he had forgotten and gone home instead. The residence precincts were close; it was a short shuttle ride to his suites.

“You know, it’s always a bit difficult to remember that you can’t tell the time by looking out at the sky and seeing if it’s still blue.” The man spoke suddenly. “Even after all these years.”

Chloe followed his gaze up to the black glass dome of the ceiling.

“Huh – oh, that.”

The man turned to her. “You look fairly young. Have you always lived here?”

“No, my family moved when I was three.” She shook her head apologetically. “I can’t say I remember much about the sky though, or at least not enough to expect to see it.”

“Hmm.” He eyed her boots. “So you’re part of the gardening guild?”

“Yes, I’m doing it for my heritage studies at school.” It seemed the man was trying to have a conversation with her. Chloe considered offering her cuff to scan so she would at least know his name, but recalled that some older people considered it impolite.

The man gave a brusque laugh. “Ah, the heritage studies. I remember; I was part of the education sector once. The heritage policy was enacted around

the same time as the one on use of AI.” He paused. “What do you think of its inclusion in your studies?”

“Well…” Chloe was usually one to defend the learning of traditional terran crafts against those decrying them as outmoded and somewhat obsolete, but after today’s tiring session she wasn’t feeling the most agreeable. “I think it has some value. Though I’m not sure about making it mandatory.”

“I agree. I simply find it funny that something as mundane as my experiences are being studied in such a serious manner. And also,” the man chuckled, “if you truly wanted to learn about terran life, you could just find any old person and ask them! Though I suppose it’s a bit harder to tell since we don’t look that old anymore, do we?” His expression grew more serious. “I forget that sometimes.”

Chloe watched the crowd drifting past. She saw quite a few old people; the normal amount, though she knew they must look a different age to the man. “Maybe. I don’t have any grandparents, though.”

“For now, it’s more about the cultural connection between families and their children who have spent most of their lives here.” The man looked back towards the storefronts and the customers. “But one day, heritage studies will simply be merged with history because there would be no difference.”

To the left, a man lifted his child up to a low hanging branch on the tree. As the boy touched the pale white globe on the branch, a pulse of light flashed through the threads of lighting in the leaves above. Chloe and the man watched the light glittering through the crystal leaves until it faded out a few seconds later.

“I heard you kids like to make wishes when you play with the light on the tree– “

“I’m fifteen,” Chloe said, slightly miffed at being compared to a child.

“Of course. Anyways, it’s like a modern wishing fountain. Right?” The man saw the clueless expression on her face. “Fountains where people would make a wish while throwing a coin in.”

“Coin–?” Chloe searched through her memory of terran history. “Oh

right, physical currency. Yeah, I guess so.”

The man watched the child walk away with his father. “My wife and I were here when the Nexus tree was built.

Chloe stared at the trunk of the tree, a plexus of glimmering gold threads that seemed to pulse with life as they wove together. The Nexus mall was situated in the oldest location in the city; the place where construction had begun, back when it was still a lunar base. In accordance with its name, the Nexus tree marked its centre.

“One of the leaves from the first few thousand pioneers belonged to me and my wife,” the man continued. “It’s up there somewhere. Every time I come here, I spend a bit of time looking for it in the branches, but I’ve never found it.”

“What’s on it?”

“We chose to have a dove engraved. Symbolises peace.”

Chloe watched the crowd. One of her favourite games to play with her friends when they were bored was to try to spot the terran tourists. There was always something different about the way they dressed and carried themselves in this unfamiliar place.

“I don’t think some of you kid– I mean teens, know how truly bad it was then.” He shrugged. “Not to lecture you – you get that plenty in your history classes.”

“So what was it like?”

He sighed. “What is the point of explaining? You know the basics already.”

“You mean about the virus and all that?”

“Yes. You know what happened; you’ll just never know what it was like to live it.” He shook his head. “The funny thing is, I miss the past in a way. Not because it was better, or because I want to go back, but simply because it is my past.” He gestured around them. “I’ve been here for a long time, but I’m not really a part of this world.”

“My parents didn’t grow up here either and they don’t think like that,”

Chloe protested.

“They’re younger, aren’t they? As for the next generation – they will be completely part of the new world.” He gazed off into the distance. “It’s for the better, though it is saddening to think that they will know clouds as a rare and distant sight.” He got up abruptly. “Well, I am leaving now. It’s my grandson’s birthday, and I need to bring him my gift.”

“Goodbye.” Chloe nodded. The moment he was out of sight, Chloe realised she had never asked his name.

She got up and walked over to the globe on the branch. As she pressed her palm against it, a menu flashed on her cuff screen and she selected the option reading “purple”.

Violet light lanced through the canopy, cut to glittering shards by the slivers of crystal. She closed her eyes. What had that man said? A new world. She made a wish for the future of the next generation, a prayer sent out into the emptiness.

Chloe smiled and opened her eyes. She could see Alex in the distance, running towards her and waving.

Ariana Kubelik | Ashbury College | Grade 11

A Second First Time

“I wish I could experience the feeling of flying for the first time again” I say, walking through the thunderous applause to the other side of the curtain. I love performing with the circus more than life itself, but there’s nothing like that first-time feeling. I only remember fragments of it by now - I joined 6 years ago - but what stuck like glue is that the only place I ever feel truly at peace is 30 feet in the air, flipping upside down. I’m listening to the melodic music coming from onstage when it suddenly turns into an irritating monotone beep. “Damn it, I knew we should have done a soundcheck,” I murmur as I start to stand, wanting to warn someone. I am immediately stopped by a tugging on both my arms. While a sharp pain dances down my spine, I hear a door creak. “Open your eyes,” a warm voice advises. I’m not sure what she’s talking about - they are open. Within seconds I realize that all I’m seeing was through my active imagination, and my eyelids are anchored shut.

Once I manage to open them, I notice just how many machines I am hooked up to, and realize in horror, jaw agape, that I am in the hospital. I am extremely sick, and there is little hope for me to ever stand again, let alone leave the hospital or live a happy life. Doctors line up to tell me different versions of the same facts: I can’t walk, I can’t sit up, and my body is actively fighting against me, creating sicker and sicker clones, with no intention of stopping until my life does. I take a deep breath through the oxygen prongs adjusted to my face. Each time I blink, more and more time passes. I wake up one morning, my nurse waiting to medicate me, and glance at my phone. It’s

the beginning of a new month, so I ripped September’s paper off my calendar, adding it to the pile of its long-lost siblings beside my bed. I scan it and conclude it’s the 21st in the stack. Reality smacks me like a truck, so hard that if I wasn’t already in this much pain I would have felt it hit my body. Nothing is working - I’m only getting sicker - so I’m sent to another hospital.

Physical rehab starts the same week, and I have never been in so much pain. Every single cell in my body caught fire, and the physiotherapists were like gasoline. Through the hardest weeks of my life, I go from bedbound, stuck on my back, to sitting in a wheelchair. The process is nightmarish. Every time someone so much as touched me, I toppled over in pain; now I have people actively moving my body and putting me into machines. The warm tears of misery I cried every day carved a pathway on each side of my face. Over months more of the torturous treatment, I was using a walker, then walking alone, and finally twirling, jumping, and dancing. I’m still sick, and I’m still in pain, but I’m getting my life back. I go home, see friends, make new ones, volunteer, take road trips, soak in the unsterile world. Now I stand in front of my aerial silks, the two long ribbons of material towering over me. With a shaky breath, I try to climb. For a moment everything slows down, but I snap back to reality, crumbling to the ground. Maybe the doctors were right, I will never be able to do this again. I convince myself of this and shut everything out - drowning in my own grief - missing the life I once had. After what felt like decades of hiding from my fear of failure, from proving those doctors right, I drag myself out of bed. Numb and ragdoll-like, I find myself making my way to my silks once more. It doesn’t surprise me; even with these dreadful fears I know the only thing that will make my life alright is my aerials. This time, I climb, let myself breathe in the air, this time not through a tube; I am home again in the sky. I close my eyes, and let myself fly; not only that, but I soar.

Even though I hate my illnesses, resent them for robbing almost four

years of my life, I can’t help but thank them. They made my one wish come true. Everyone has something they would appreciate re-experiencing for the first time; a book, winning an award, meeting a best friend, seeing something off your travel bucket-list. The general rule as humans is that time is not manipulatable, and to cherish these events precisely because they cannot be repeated.

I am an exception, and I am so grateful to be.

Madelyn Tuns | Crestwood Preparatory College | Grade 12

The Summer of Serendipity

Enveloped in warmth, you wrapped around me. A blanket of protection from the cold outside. We had moved through the winter together, Reached the spring in slight suspicion, And finally arrived to a summer of serendipity. Your hand aligned with my mine, We held tightly to each other.

Side by side

We stood on the beach as the salt sprayed in our eyes, Burned our corneas, Brought us smiles. In the winter we were wanders, The spring scavengers, And the summer spellbound. As the seasons changed So did our world.

Not just outside

With the frosty landscape melting Revealing beautiful buds of life, But ones far more important. The world we had crafted in ourselves. Our frozen hearts thawed, Our lunges breathed fresh air, Our hands laced safely in one anothers. The switch was not immediate, The evolution did not happen in the blink of an eye.

I blinked many times and still saw it, but only retrospectively. In the moment it didn’t seem Magical or Mesmerizing or Important.

It merely was life.

Life is difficult to see from the bottom of the hill. It becomes much clearer once you get to the top. In the grand scheme of things, (Which is, in my opinion, the worst scheme of things,) Nothing much had changed. There were still

Three hundred and sixty five days in a year, Twelve months in the calendar, Seven days in a week, Twenty four hours in a day, Sixty minutes in an hour, Sixty seconds in a minute. The time was the same, Yet it felt so different.

Maybe it was the way we used it. We lived in the time, Instead of reliving the time, Or wishing to skip ahead.

Focused on the now instead of the then, Working for our wants and not just our needs, Hoping for the best and believing in our hope. The earth kept spinning, It never stopped, It’s course never changed. But ours did.

We moved with deliberate motion, With passion instead of fear, Without restraint, We were no longer suffocated by our doubt, Choked by insecurity, Held down by pain. While I wish I could say they vanished, Were vanquished by our newfound outlook, Those feelings Unfortunately Never fully left us. They stay Quietly

Lurking in the dark corners of the caves We used to lose ourselves in. Fortunately, We now have flashlights. In the dark depths we found them, Unburied them together And shawn them brightly. Our strength, Starting as an inaudible whisper, Now screams.

While our environment is inconsistent, Our home is not.

Though we travel this world, Of ever evolution, The only constant is Ourselves.

The foolish focus on the exterior, While the wise know the truth;

We are our world. A world we once despised, Mistreated, And cried for We now stand with In peaceful solidarity. We wandered through winter, Reached the spring in slight suspicion, And Finally Arrived to a summer of serendipity.

Ella Huntley | Appleby College| Grade 12

The Whispers in My Ear

A weight so large and so heavy that presses down and down again so strong and so steady It grips the mind and twists the heart prying me further and further apart

It whispers doubts, It screams with fear

It makes the future so so unclear It tells you that you’re not enough beating you into the rough.

But you’ve conquered many fears

You’ve faced the trials, and you’ve won You’ve been through battles, and you’ve overcome

When it is time again to take a stand once more

To open that next door

To break the chains that bind you tight and chase away the shadows of the night.

Why am I alone in this fight?

They say…

With every step I take, I’ll start to see the light.

“Just take a breath and a chance and you will see, you’ll learn to dance

With every step, you’ll find your feet And with each step, your heart will beat With strength and grace, you’ll find your way And you will see, you’ll learn to sway.”

So, I take a deep breath and let it out And know that I can do without.

Elle Godfrey| The Bishop Strachan School | Grade 12

Icarus

As I stand in the gallery, my shoulders squishing between strangers all pushing to get a better look at the painting, I can see something they don’t. Not the tragic tale of the poor man who fell. But the tale of the overzealous boy who flew. He was a boy born to a cage of his father’s creation. I found solidarity with young Icarus as I’m a girl born to the cage of reality.

How is it possible to share emotions with a myth? A boy I’ve only ever seen in paintings, who lived well over three thousand years before me. It seems to me as if our souls are connected, our destinies somehow mirrored. Our names even hold a connection. Icarus means “the one who reaches the sky”: he flew to touch the sun even if it meant his demise. Eliana is derived from the old Latin name Aeliana, the feminine version of the name Aelianus. Both names are related to the Greek word helios, meaning “god of the sun.”

The sun kills Icarus. It melts his wings: boiling the hot wax, burning boils into his skin. Fusing the bird feathers to him. Destroying his wings and letting him plummet to the sea. The air grows cooler as he races down, his stomach trying to catch up with the rest of his body. The salt sprays up from the sea, mixing with the hardening wax. His body is no longer covered in soft skin, the kind only seen in young boys hidden from the adventure and treachery of the world, but enveloped in burns, wax, and feathers. The sun gives him the softness of the sky and the bitterness of the salty sea.

But I doubt the sun did it out of malice. He killed Icarus because he understood his longing. Icarus spent his life imprisoned. Shut out from the scraped knees and bloody bandages, the hard laughs and the drunk feeling of false power. All of which come from the adventure of boyhood. Instead, Icarus got the numb feeling that comes with being trapped. It consumes your body, as if your soul is trying to detach itself from you and run. His cage kept him safe but his soul was hungry. The most common misconception is that Icarus was a fool. His father was Daedalus, the greatest inventor to ever live; someday he would have followed in the footsteps of his father’s brilliance. But he was still a boy, desperate for the burn in his chest when you accidentally swallow the sea and the flaming patches of skin gifted by the sting of the sun after a day out.

This painting is called The Fall of Icarus and was painted by Jacob Peter Gowy around 1635 - 1637. My immediate response to seeing this painting for the first time was to zoom in. Dissect his eyes and the collection of tears gathering at the brim. The sun sends out beautiful rays of destruction bouncing off Icarus’s body and the roaring sea. The wind running around him, weaving intricate knots into his hair and untying the bindings of the wings around his body. His father, Daedalus, staring down at his son in horror. His face showing his failures as an inventor and father. Watching his son plummet, powerless to stop his journey down to the realm of Hades.

But Icarus isn’t looking up to his father for help. He isn’t crying for his life, soon to be lost. To me, it seemed he was crying because he finally had the thing he desired most: freedom. His tears come from the pure, unrestrained laughter screaming from his lips. The glassy look in his eyes wasn't one of

horror, but one of lust. His drunk shrieks of freedom were enough to rattle Olympus like an earthquake. He wasn’t afraid of the quickly melting wax, or of the feathers ripping away from his wings. The rest of the painting seemed almost invisible to me compared to Icarus. Only upon second glance did I notice the fishermen on the shore, or the great big mountain running across the coast. Because the village, the fishermen, the mountains, and the rocks would all remain for the next day and the day after that. Icarus, however, was only there for a few more seconds before he became a myth.

I don’t understand why I am so entranced by Icarus’s fall; it's as if I have been shot by one of Cupid's arrows, destined to fall in love with a painting. Just as Icarus was destined to fall fly.

I don’t know if I believe in the theory of reincarnation, but if I did, I believe my life is meant to be Icarus’s second chance. Gifted to him by the “god of the sun” to which I was named after. As a child I spent my summers out under my sun, the pavement of my grandparents’ backyard burning the bottoms of my feet. Running down to the fire pit, where I was burned at age 12. The way the hot metal bar permanently defaced my flesh. But not with feathers and wax, just a scar. I grew up with rips in my school-girl tights and adventuring into the woods for fun. Climbing enormous trees, dangling off branches and hanging upside down all for the feeling that comes from the sweet scorch of sun on my face. Then scraping my knees and palms on the way back down.

I have already had much more of a life than Icarus ever did, but like him, I’m an overzealous girl ready to see how far I can push the boundaries. Like him, I’m always hungry for more: nothing has or ever will be enough. I already have more freedom just by seeing the stars, but I want to run to

the moon and never turn back. I always want to push the boundaries to see how far I can take things. Recently that earned me a spot in detention. That earned Icarus a one-way ticket to the underworld.

Depending on how you look at it, Icarus either fell or he flew. The grown-ups who see tragedy and danger around every corner see Icarus’s tears as a sign of despair and the repercussions of one's own hubris. But the children born with souls of lust see tears of joy. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe I’m looking for an excuse for my overly adventurous nature. Or maybe we were made from the same star, and maybe that star is the sun.

The Painting is called The Fall of Icarus. Icarus's flight is a metaphor for man's overreaching of his limits. But standing here in this gallery I am tempted to scream, “He didn’t fall! He wasn’t stupid enough for that”. I want to run and deface the sign holding the title. Dig my nails into the ink if I have to, honor the boy who flew so high he became an asteroid. The Flight of Icarus.

Catia Bonavota | Villanova College| Grade 12

And She Resumes

Let the roads be ambushed by life Roots that crack the pavement, Moss blankets over cobble pathways, Arms of vines hugging buildings. Mother earth can resume to her blissful state She can chip away at the civilization we built Human life will soon be no more, so she resumes.

She resumes, to the singing streams, the dancing branches

Free like we are from the burden of human existence What is on the other side? We do not know.

From golden gates to seas of souls, We do not know.

Free like we are from wondering, Eternal darkness or dining with the gods? We find out while mother resumes.

She resumes, to the singing streams, the dancing branches.

We do not deserve to reach this nirvana

To be free from rebirth is to be free from suffering The string is still fraying, taking time to unravel Soon its twine will face an axe

It will cut into it just like we’ve cut into earth. With one momentous swing we will be free Free from the chains of life, chains of living. Never to be born again.

It is the end of the world but life goes on? The streams still sing, the branches still dance. It is the end of the world, but life goes on, For we are not the world; we just live on it.

I do not fear what I will become when death arrives. Death takes my hand, I will intertwine our fingers, My hands steady, a smile tugging at my lips

I’m led down the cobble pathways, Soon they will be covered in moss. I look at the cracked pavement, Soon there will be roots peeking through I marvel at the bare buildings, Soon they will be comforted by friendly vines.

Because mother earth will resume, The dancing branches move, Move with the song of the singing stream. She can resume.

Mia Dewdney | Lakefield College School | Grade 12

The Last Dance

I would be lying if I said I was excited to work at my camp this past summer. I wanted peace and quiet. I’m graduating next year, after all. And knowing my tendency to overthink, I know I’d spend the entirety of my next summer anxious about starting my first year of university. Thus, making the break between eleventh and twelfth grade my last real summer break. But my parents figured it was time for me to get out into the real world. After two years of being stuck in my bedroom due to a global pandemic, it was clear I needed to practice my social skills– and might as well make some money while doing so.

Although the pay for being a seventeen-year-old counsellor in training is pretty low, if I do say so myself, I was told I was getting paid in experience, good and bad. Yay.

Despite having gone to the same overnight camp for most of my life, I never planned on going back. The first year I went, I was miserable. My cabin sucked. My counsellor sucked. Everything sucked. The second year I went, my mom signed me up and didn’t tell me I was going until a week before dropoff. When I got back from that session, my parents promised I would never have to go again. Until the next summer when they told me I was going for another month.

When I went for an entire month, I didn’t despise it. But when I came home, I was certain that was the last time I’d be attending summer camp. Still, again I found myself rushing to pack my bags the night before leaving my life behind for two months.

I’d be lying if I said I weren’t annoyed. But at the end of the day, it was my hand which signed the employee contract, not my parents. Signing it during my March break seemed like a fine idea; what was I going to do all

summer anyway? I don’t have my driver’s licence because I suck, I have no friends because people scare me, and my house is not within walking distance of anything. So my life was feeling like a bit of a loss… but I decided that if I’m going to spend my whole summer in the middle of an Ontario provincial park with no parents around, I might as well enjoy it.

Because my camp is located on an island, staff and campers get dropped off at “The Portage Store” before stepping onto a pontoon boat that will bring us closer to a joyous summer of eight-year-olds crying all night and thirteen-year-old girls screaming in the showers.

As I said goodbye to my parents, I tried not to cry. Tears lined my eyes as I gave the dogs one last hug before being taken away. I stepped on to the crappy old boat, hoping it would sink in the middle of the lake and we’d all face the same fate as good ol’ Tom Thompson. Unfortunately, this did not happen and I found myself looking at the familiar sight of a small wooded isle. A mix of forest green and fluorescent orange canoes lined the docks. Across the lake, I could see the gap in the trees that was our brother camp.

A small and unexpected shiver of excitement ran up my spine.

I spotted the old, green dining hall that is indeed falling apart despite the thousands of dollars parents spend for their children to attend camp every summer. The swim docks are lacking lifeguard chairs and the diving tower is just as suspicious as it was two summers ago.

The pontoon boat gently drifted towards the pontoon boat docks, and while my fellow staff members chatted away happily, I sat absolutely terrified of what this summer had in store for me. What if all my campers hated me? What if all my co-staff hated me? What if I got fired? I couldn’t stop thinking about every single thing that could go wrong.

But at the same time, as I stepped onto the dock, backpack slung over my shoulder and canoe paddle in hand, I couldn't help but feel a slight sense of interest. This could be the greatest summer of my life. I was hit with a thought: There were many things I could not control about the summer ahead, but most of the things I was worrying about were things I could

control. So, as I was walking to my cabin, I decided I was going to have fun this summer. And so would my campers.

There was one part of camp which I never failed to enjoy, and that was camp dances. I don’t mean gentle slow dances and “Careless Whisper'' by George Michael. I mean dancing so hard the old wooden floor of the boys’ dining hall breaks and everyone just laughs about it, covers the hole with a sheet of plywood and continues dancing.

I had been at pre-camp (preparing the facilities for campers and going over responsibilities) for about 5 days when rumour had it that we were getting a staff dance prior to campers’ arrival. The day of the dance came. I was exhausted thanks to ‘pre-trip’, a one night canoe trip all staff were sent on as practice before we had to take campers into the wilderness and keep them alive as well as ourselves.

I barely slept as I was placed directly on top of a root-rock combo. But still, I had never been more ready to let loose on the dance floor.

After a pretty sweet shower and a chicken-burger dinner, we arrived at our brother camp. The sun was setting across the lake, casting a golden glow across the beach, through the trees and onto the dining hall porch. Groups of young men and women stood around, catching up and laughing. I could practically feel the exhilaration of the event in the air as my male counterparts set up black boxes to form a pit and JB (the program director at the boys’ camp) set up the shiny, brand new speakers. Despite being terrified of other people, I mingled with the CITs (counsellors in training) at the boys’ camp. Surprisingly enough we shared some laughs (and concerns), and through that interaction, I realised my fears were not abnormal. My male equivalents were just as afraid of 8-year-old’s as I was, if not even more (I’d rather an eight-year-old girl over an eight-yearold boy any day). Feeling a sense of normalcy made my breath come easier. Soon enough we were jumping on the blocks, screaming the lyrics to “Viva La Vida” by Coldplay.

Standing there with so many young, beautiful people made me realise

life was worth living for moments like these. Stars were twinkling in the dark sky above. The lake was so still, you'd think the world was stuck in slow motion if it weren’t for the staff of summer ‘22 dancing like our lives depended on it. There was so much joy in that evening. The burn in my legs screamed at me to stop dancing, but I was living too intensely to care. Despite the fact I had fun this summer, I don’t want to go back. But based on history, I’ll probably end up back there at some point.

This Year’s Winning Entries

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Grades 7 & 8

1. “Bound for Dreams” Chloe Diamond, St. Mildred's-Lightbourn School

2. “Creature of Shadow” Ethan Xu, University of Toronto Schools

3. “Return” Lexya Momo, Albert College

Honourable Mention: “I believe” Shanti Huang, Bishop Strachan School

Grades 9 & 10

1. “The Flood” Faylee Goren, Bishop Strachan School

2. “Put Those Rose Coloured Glasses On” Aryana Kapur, Toronto Montessori School

3. “Clearing the Clouds of Despair” ‘Eva Assudani, Bayview Glen

Honourable Mention:“Mother ” Gemma Ellis, Ashbury College

Grades 11 & 12

1. “Icarus” Elle Godfrey, Bishop Strachan School

2. “A Second First Time” Ariana Kubeli, Ashbury College

3. “The Metallic Tree” Rachel Yan, Toronto Montessori School

Honourable Mention: “And She Resumes” Catia Bonavota, Villanova College