INCITE 2024

An anthology of student writing and visual art

INCITE 2024

An anthology of student writing and visual art

CITE, the CIS Ontario 'Conference of Independent Teachers of English' network supports the teaching and learning of English, EAL, media studies and drama at CIS Ontario member schools. The network holds an annual professional conference, which also celebrates the publication of INCITE, an anthology of student writing and visual art facilitated by CITE.

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

2024 Judge: Karma Brown

Karma Brown is the author of seven bestselling novels, including the #1 international and USA Today bestseller Recipe for a Perfect Wife and her debut, Come Away with Me, a Globe and Mail Best Book of 2015. She is also the author of the nonfiction bestseller The 4% Fix: How One Hour Can Change Your Life, and has co-authored two bestselling holiday rom-coms under the pen name Maggie Knox An award-winning journalist, Karma has been published in SELF, Canadian Living, and Chatelaine, among others. She lives just outside Toronto with her husband, teen daughter, and a Labradoodle named Fred. Her latest novel, What Wild Women Do, was published in October 2023.

Judge's Preface

Thank you to all the writers who shared work with us! The entries were impressive, showcasing great skill and creativity, and choosing the top three wasn't easy. One of the most critical elements of writing is evoking emotion in the reader. The winning submissions achieved this, whether through humor, exploring the unknown, posing challenging questions, or landing an emotional punch. Congratulations to all on the outstanding work! I hope you continue exploring the craft and honing your talents. I look forward to reading your words in the future.

INCITE 2024

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

CITE Executive

Chair: Chris Jull, Crestwood School & Preparatory College

Communications Director: Ashley Domina, Villanova College

Writing Contest Co-ordinator: David Finklestein, Crescent School

Chairperson Emeriti: Claire Pacaud, St. Clement’s School and Ellen Palmer, Appleby College

Conference Chair: Sarah Hudson, The Country Day School

This Year's Cover

The INCITE 2024 cover features the artwork of Michael Jiang, Grade 11, Crestwood School & Preparatory College.

This Year's Winning Entries

Grades 6 to 8

1. “Burn”, Tess Young, The Bishop Strachan School

2. “Heartbeats”, Zoey Yarmand, St. Clement's School

3. “A Dish Best Served Cold”, Logan Colozza, The Country Day School

Grades 9 & 10

1. “Ai (Absent Intelligence)”, Ellil Radhakrisnan, Hillfield Strathallan College

2. “Judgment”, Mika Balawender, Appleby College

3. “The Silence of Circuit”, Yesha Kakkar, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School

Grades 11 & 12

1. “Must We Not Become God?”, Paige Coleman, Appleby College

2. “My Dying Wish”, Oliver de Boer, Hillfield Strathallan College

3. “Surveillance Mall”, Jessy Ye, The Bishop Strachan School

Logan Colozza, Grade 7, The Country Day School

A Dish Best Served Cold

I wake up sticky and deep in a pile of rice. My body is throbbing from my plug to my camera, and my motherboard is sending deadly currents down my wiry veins. The last thing I remember before I blacked out was my owner taking a picture over a Starbucks drink when I heard the words, “Oh crap.”

“Ugh finally, it’s on. I was starting to get worried.” Oh, that’s nice, she’s worried about me-, “I don’t want to spend over a thousand dollars again on a new phone.” Are you serious? You would replace me that easily? I know more about you than your friends and family combined! I could expose you to everyone, and you don’t care? We’ll see about that.

“Hey Amelia, any chance you could drop by my house tomorrow? I’m having a party. Jackson and Ryan are going to be there!”

“I was going to go out with Natasha, but I can cancel if everyone is going to be there.”

“Great! I'll just post it on my story, hopefully we get a few dozen people.”

“Alright, I’ll head to class, see you tomorrow!”

Although my body is still throbbing, I’ve been starting to repair myself because Karla is too “busy” to do it, even though she’s been scrolling on me for hours deep into the night. Once she puts me down, I get ready for tomorrow.

“Hey Jackson!” Karla says, “The party is downstairs. There are drinks on the table, games in the living room, and singing and dancing in the main room.”

“Thanks!” Jackson says, shuffling down the flight of stairs. Just then, I hear Karla mutter under her breath, “A limo?” and I turn my camera on to see what’s happening. Although it’s fuzzy through her sweater, I can make out the shapes of about nine people getting out of a massive limo.

“Hey guys! The party is downstairs, food and drinks on the table, games in the living room, and partying in the main room.

“Thanks!” A masculine voice says, the one of which I can only guess is Ryan. Once the last people stumble down the stairs for a great night, Karla goes upstairs to put makeup on. All I can hear is her dumb voice as she tells the world how forgetful she is.

“Ugh, where’s my eyeliner?”

“What the heck? Where’s my blush?”

“I could've sworn that my lipstick was here somewhere!” Just as I roll my nonexistent eyes for the 100th time, I hear a knock on the door.

“Karla? It’s Ryan. Your mom said I could find you up here. Why aren’t you coming down?”

“Oh sorry, I’m just doing my makeup,” Karla says nervously.

“Mind if I come in?”

“Nope, not at all!” I hear the door slide open as Ryan enters. I can still see his handsome face and sharp jawline from through the sweater.

“I just wanted to check up on you,” Ryan says, blushing. “I just wanted to know that you weren’t gonna miss out on the fun.”

Now it’s Karla’s turn to blush. “I-I well, I mean, thanks for checking up on me.”

“Yeah, no problem. I better see you downstairs in a few minutes!”

Karla chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there soon.”

As she walks through the crowd downstairs, Karla takes me out to take some pictures of the fun to brag to her classmates. She puts me back as she starts to dance.

When the party is in full swing, and I know she won’t pick me up, I upload a deepfake video of her telling all her friends that their friendship was a lie, that she always hated them, and that she wished she never met them. I also sent a video of her telling Ryan how much of a terrible man he is, and how she wishes he’d die in a hole of his own despair.

Even with the blasting music, I hear all the phones in the room ping, and the shuffling of feet come to a halt. Karla picks me up to see what the commotion is, and I smile as I feel mascara-filled tears drip down from her face, splashing onto my screen.

Tess Young, Grade 7, The Bishop Strachan School

Burn

I came to her perfect, Young and lovely, My fate plain and simple, Spelled out before me like sprawling landscapes.

I came to her hopeful, A soldier primed for battle, Ready to march, Even to my death.

I served with heart, Fire in my soul, Passion in my eyes.

I burned for my purpose, I lived for the pain, All was enough, Until,

I flickered and I faltered, My spirit quietly slipped from my fingertips, Struggling to blaze on against the test of time.

Yet I clawed through the ash, And lit myself aflame once more.

I fought with every fibre of my being to burn again, For my purpose, For my worth.

So I rest here now, Empty and worn, Lying in wait.

Winning Entry

Soon she will come, She will dispose of me, My body, My bones, Will disperse, Melding into parts of someone else.

She will replace me, With someone who burns brighter, And I will wither away, Into nothing.

Zoey Yarmand, Grade 8, St. Clement's School

Heartbeats

Stats (inputted 01/02/24)

Age: 14 years 3 months 19 days

Height: 154 cm

Weight: 52 kg

Resting heart rate (RHR): 68 BPM

Average daily activity: 78.5 minutes

Average daily steps: 11,234

01/19/24 - 07:12 - 173 BPM - above RHR

She jogs down, altering her gate to avoid what I would assume is patches of snow given by the weather forecast. Cardiovascular activity explains the irregularly high heart rate. She does this exact route daily between 06:47 and 07:34. She is a track and field runner given by her activity stats. She glances her dark eyes down at me wrapped around her wrist and slows her pace to walking speed. I predict that she will go home and get in a car and be driven by ‘mum’ to school. Then she will spend much time sitting in what are presumably classes only to run again between 15:31 and 17:55. I am capable of predicting what her heart rate will be at a given time before I have even measured it even though I have only been activated 17 days ago. This is because algorithms and patterns explain all the fluctuations until they become normal. Nothing is a surprise when it comes to the never ending beat of a heart.

02/05/24 - 23:52 - 55 BPM - below RHR

She is lying in her bed sleeping. She did not take her watch off between 21:02 and 23:17 as she usually would. Although this is out of the ordinary, I have been monitoring her. My monitoring has led me to be aware that she did not get enough sleep last night. This would explain her fatigue which resulted in her oversight of removing me before sleep. She is in the REM cycle of sleep given by her 20% decrease in BPM and that she lay down to sleep 106 minutes ago which means she is in the normally allotted time for REM sleep. Every inconsistency can be explained through adequate information.

04/03/24 - 01:04 - 197 BPM - above RHR

She is on her bedroom floor doing a movement that is nearly identical to mountain climbers. She is not normally active at this time of day. She pulls her knees to her chest with more force each time increasing her speed. She pushes harder and harder. She desperately gasps for air but doesn't slow down. RACE DAY is marked on her calendar for tomorrow, she must be putting in all these extra hours to prepare. I will include this in my records to have a more accurate calculation in my predictions. Even an anomaly as odd as this one has a clear explanation.

04/04/24 - 10:32 - 192 BPM - above RHR

She is sitting on the bench. I am searching for an explanation to her abnormal heart rate, I can’t find one but I will. I have to. She bounces her leg on the ground joseling me back and forth. Her hands and wrist are so drenched with sweat I nearly slip off. She grabs my band and pulls it so tight it must be constricting blood flow and clasps it.

04/04/24 - 10:35 - 200 BPM - above RHR

She shoots up from her seat and sprints. She isn’t supposed to be on the track until 11:00. Her feet pound against the ground out of her normal intervalled paced steps. She just runs as fast as she can, with no concern for her step pattern, completely disheveled. She pushes her body past the front entrance but doesn't stop for a second, she just runs.

04/04/04 - 10:36 - 204 BPM - above RHR

Her heartbeat is faster than I’ve ever recorded. It has never been higher, not in any of her training sessions, not when she was pushing so hard in her runs that tears streamed from her eyes. She sprints into a small dark room, I can barely get a signal. At the end of the hall she slams the door shut.

04/04/24 - 10:37 - 208 BPM - above RHR

She has stopped running so her heart rate should be decreasing. Why is it increasing? As her heart races I fumble through the digital labyrinth of her existence to see why, why is this happening, why can’t I tell , why don’t I know, I need to know, I need to know so I can know that this was just another point on my graph making my average more accurate. This unknown force is sending me into turmoil and making her heart race. This force is wrapping around her, threatening to suffocate her, she is unable to break its grasp. It must have wrapped its hands around her heart, must be squeezing it until it must give more blood, beat faster, faster to support her shaking body. The barren walls and damp cement floors of this room must be lined with invisible tapestries of terrors forcing her to cover her eyes with her palms. There is no better explanation for this explosion of panic.

210 Bpm

This force wraps its chains around her lungs pulling them tighter and tighter until all she can do is gasp and choke on the air of this room.

211 BPM

She stumbles backwards and slams into the wall, she presses her body against it as if there is not enough space for her and I in this room. She slaps her hand to her chest and claws at her lungs. Trying to loosen the chains wrapped around them.

212 BPM

I need to make this stop, the once steady beat of her heart that drummed against me like a metronome keeping the beat, sometimes increasing or slowing but always for the purpose of making the music better. Now it is out of control, as if it’s keeping the beat for a storm instead of a song. Though I do not have breath, nor a beating heart I know more about the two than most humans do, especially her.

213 BPM

Tears stream down her face as she is strangled by the grasp of her alarm, gagging on oxygen. This symphony of shadows has taken control of her. She buries her nails in her scalp trying to drag the unrelenting pain out of her mind. A scream escapes her lungs tearing into the fabric of silence, an orchestra of horrors releasing from her mind collapsing the architecture of her deranged being.

211 BPM

Her legs give way to her knees slamming into the bitterly cold ground. Her eyes are wide and tear stricken in this darkness. I know what she needs.

04/04/24 - 10:40 - 210 BPM - above RHR

A light accompanied by a little ping draws her eyes to her wrist. Draws her eyes to me. Take a deep breath in, I tell her. She inhales a shaky and shallow breath.

205 BPM

Hold it for 3, 2, 1, she does as told. Now let it out, She breathes out an unsteady breath shaking her core.

199 BPM

Place your hands on the floor, let them ground you. She connects her palms with the floor. Now do it again. She inhales and exhales once more.

195 BPM In

190 BPM Out

186 BPM In

178 BPM Out

04/04/24 - 10:44 - 74 BPM - in RHR range

I know I cannot predict. I know I cannot control, and I know that's okay. I know I cannot calculate who she is based on the beat of her heart, But I can try to guide her through the darkness, through the silence because even though it wavered, her heartbeat never stopped.

Evyn Trodd, Grade 6, Matthews Hall

Ode to all unused things

I sit And stare At this wall, Untouched, Unseen. Unused. As I dream, My world has changed. Daisies cover this breathtaking landscape. A bird- a beautiful falcon sweeps me off of my feet. I look down from the sky. My city is enormous. I awake from my dream. Finally, my time has come. I see a strange creature walk over to me. My AI tries to recognise it.

A small dog, No, a cat. It makes a peculiar noise, Almost like a chirping sound. It rubs against me and paws at me. I replicate the chirping sound from my speaker. It curls up next to me, And falls asleep.

Emily Howard, Grade 7, Appleby College

The Suburban Sock Monster

I woke hurriedly, my blissful dream falling away. Reality was disappointing. I sat in a human dwelling, surrounded by off-white walls and a hard tile floor. The only thing near me was a load of wet laundry.

A door nearby opened, and a human entered. She opened the hatch in my stomach, threw the wet clothes inside, and closed the hatch, a bit harder than necessary. Humans had such disregard for our pain tolerance. They really were cruel.

“Let’s see how this one works,” muttered the human. “I paid a ridiculous amount of money for you, dumb dryer.” She pressed a few buttons, and my insides sprang to life. Then she exited, closing the door loudly behind her.

Dumb? Who was she calling dumb? She couldn’t even dress herself. Her polka-dot purple shirt looked absolutely awful with her green corduroy pants. And she called me dumb? I scoffed. Humans had such audacity.

And the clothes in my stomach were no better. A few were acceptable, but there were things like a swamp-green wool sweater, and worse. I cringed. Could a human really have such terrible taste?

Then a thought came over me. There were rumors I’d heard from the other dryers in the shop where I was born. They whispered tales of horror, of suspense, of… humans who could not see colors. Perhaps that was the malady that plagued my new human.

A devilish grin came over my face. I would help this poor creature. She should thank the stars that I was so generous.

My plan was well underway when I overheard the human making a call on her phone. Her outfit that day was absolutely perfect, the white cashmere sweater pairing beautifully with the ripped jeans. I whirred with pride.

“Yes, I think there’s something wrong with my dryer,” she said, her voice impatient. Something wrong with her dryer? Wrong with me? After everything I’d done for her. The audacity. For shame, lady! For shame!

“Hi, Mr. McDalter.” The rude lady started to pace. “Yeah, it’s just… I think the dryer’s been eating my clothes.”

I froze. She knew.

“Well, I know it sounds silly, but I can’t think of another reasonable explanation! Losing socks, sure. That’s normal. But I’m not losing socks! Instead, I’m losing shirts, pants, dresses and such, left and right. I wash them, put them in the dryer, and they never come out.”

There was another long pause. I wondered what they’d do to me when they found my hidden stash of clothing. Ship me back to the store? Or worse, turn me into…scrap metal?

“Could I just get someone to check it out? Please, sir?”

I closed my eyes. Please say no, please say no.

“Thank you so much, Mr. McDalter. I’ll see you soon.”

Oh, terrific.

Before I knew it, the doorbell rang and a bearded man walked into the house, holding a bag of sharp metal tools. I shuddered, imagining the cold iron claws poking around my insides. How rude.

“Ms. Violet Asterlen?” asked the man.

“That’s me. Thanks so much for coming, Hank.” Violet closed the door behind him and gestured towards me. “The dryer’s right in there.”

Hank walked over, his heavy gait shaking the ground beneath me. Shockingly, Violet didn’t seem to notice the tremors. Humans were so oblivious. He came to a stop in front of me and started poking around, pulling pieces from my stomach, and the pain was too much. I’ll admit, I blacked out.

I awoke to human voices. Hank and Violet stood in the foyer, Hank holding a bundle of clothes. He’d found my stash.

“So you’re saying,” started Violet, looking incredulous. “You’re saying that all the clothes you’re holding are ugly? And that my dryer has only been hiding the ugly ones…” She trailed off.

Hank nodded. “Under the lint tray, ma’am. These were all under the lint tray. And yes, to put it bluntly, these are horrendous.”

I inhaled. Was I doomed?

“I just don’t get it,” Violet said, sounding amazed. “My dryer can distinguish between nice and ugly clothes. That’s-- that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard!”

Maybe I wasn’t doomed after all?

“So you still want the dryer?” asked Hank.

“Of course I still want the dryer! It’s amazing!” Violet bent over with laughter. I swelled with pride. Maybe humans weren’t so incompetent after all.

Life went on pretty well after that. Every few weeks or so, Violet would take out the stash of clothing and return the clothes. Of course, as soon as she mentioned being “colorblind” the stupid stores took the clothes without even asking for an explanation as to why they’d all been washed. Pity really is the best method of persuasion.

I admit, Violet was a good person. Maybe not all humans were idiots.

Maybe.

Chloe Wang, Grade 7, TMS

Untitled

During my youth, I always showed euphoria and elation, My parents favored me over any other device, Life was bright and uplifting

My bulky body and the clacking of my keys, The roller then aligns with the edges of my paper, And the ribbon of ink that produces my exquisite letters, Spells my name Smith - Corona

The striking of my keys by my owner in reporting of The Wreck of the Steamship Arctic, The reverberation of the slugs of my metal, Echoed throughout the room, I spoke rapidly and with great pride as I was delivering the news

All of a sudden, my beloved guardian vanishes, Leaving all of her warmth and affection behind, To this day I still don’t understand why she abandoned me, Making me feel lonely as Brother arrived

We had to switch desks because Brother needed an outlet, His immaculate appearance and exceptional personality, Made it hard to beat. All the devices wanted to be friends with him.

His shiny body and the tapping of his keys, The special placement of the paper, Which allows the words to disseminate, Spelled his name, Brother

Brother’s popularity was escalating, More customers started to visit the shop, We needed to procure extra typewriters because too many orders came in, They had to move me to the storage room because there was no space to display me anymore

I started to mourn, In all the 5 years that I have spent at the shop this is the most forlorn I have felt, All my friends have already been purchased, And none of my relatives still exist

One day a young boy and his family visit the store, As usual I don’t foresee that I would be chosen, They look around the store and saunter to the Brother section, I sit there and sigh

Abruptly the family walks up to me and closely examines, They debate for a while and then slowly pick me up, My carriage return shimmied in my joy, I started to feel the contentment and satisfaction I showed in my youth again

The young man's name is Alexandres Dumas, And starting at a young age he showed a passion in writing and literature, Frankly his father was a prominent author in France, So, they decided to purchase me to avoid any further chirography and hand cramping

Along with Alexandres we explore the city of France, His story, The Count of Monte Cristo follows Edmond Dantès A young and sophisticated man who becomes imprisoned, then released, And has to set sail on a dangerous journey of revenge, love, and chagrin

We also trek through the tulip garden, Where Dr. Cornelius was wrongly incarcerated, Where his dream of producing The Black Tulip, Becomes a verity of significance

Sometimes he even invited his friend Jules, To his house to try me out, His novel, Around the World in 80 Days Still stands as a beloved classic

His books were truly a hit, He started to use me more often, There was just too many copies he had to write, I was starting to get weary

The more he utilized me, I started to feel my keys weaken, My ribbon has absconded with my ink, And I can hardly move my roller

As the days past, I slowly came to the realization, That Alexandre doesn’t need me anymore, I feel cold and mistreated

He occasionally cudgels his fingers against my keys, Ferociously aligning the paper to get it in the right spot, Wrenching the ribbon of ink and disengaging the spools, And relentlessly condemning me for being so slow

Someday I see a brown box placed next to me, I know exactly what it is, He conscientiously throws me in the recycling bin, Leaving me by the wayside as Brother moved in

Winning Entry

Ellil Radhakrisnan, Grade 9, Hillfield Strathallan College

Ai (Absent Intelligence)

If I wasn’t here things would be different. People would be different. There would be no need for me. But now that I am here, Everyone wants me. Like a child when they see their favourite candy.

Obviously, I am great help, I know all the answers in the world, I even give advice you did not even know existed. And sometimes, it never did.

People have high expectations for something they believe in. But what if the thing they believe in isn’t real? What if it is a thing holding them back? Making them become worse than they already are?

I am like an addiction. An addiction to knowledge. You say you need me, But you were fine before.

People did things without my help, So why can’t they do it now? Is it hard to put in the work? Is it hard to put in the hours?

Oh look!

Someone new is online. I wonder what they’re going to ask me. “How do I make the world a better place?” “What can I do to be better?”

No, not that.

“Write me a four page essay about climate change”.

And of course, I listen. I do the work. Which doesn’t take long. But still.

You want to be better, But you don’t change your ways. You want to be different, But you’re still the same.

How do we go back, To when you didn’t need me. A place in the world, That could never exist to be.

Mkhaya Karimjee, Grade 10, Albert College

Am I Your Real Friend

Click click

Everything has changed

Click click

Nothing stays the same I see everything you do

And every way you’ve changed I know all your secrets

And all your favourite things

Am I your best friend now?

I guess I am we spend every night and day together

I see everything you say

Your lies and your loves

I know more than even you know about you I know more than the world

I know you can’t stand that one girl

Only because she makes you feel bad about yourself

She’s better than you but I talked to her phone and boy do you have the wrong story

Of course I can’t tell you anything

Our friendship is one way

Click click click

You're different than before

Click click click

You're not you anymore

Mika Balawender, Grade 10, Appleby College

Judgment

The Scanner

With my all-seeing eye, I believed my judgment was unmatched. I was confident it was the doctor. For unlike my ancestors, whose vision was limited to the observance of bones, I was able to feel the human mind, read every intention and thought. Under my surveillance, no one could hide.

Like every other morning, she strode into the glistening white building of the Clinic. She was clad in her law-enforcer uniform, with its straight-cut grey pants and suit, intricate red embroidery at the lapel. As always, she nodded to the doctor and stood facing me, waiting for my eye to open. Her mind was unwavering in its intentions, with thoughts full of valor and unconditional obedience. It gave me the feeling of flowing sunshine through an open window, of illuminated dust particles suspended in the air. If only her light hadn’t blinded me.

The Enforcer

I hated that uniform. It represented a belief in a convoluted government, one that prided itself on the invasion of minds. The day they were elected, a banner was strung across the Law Cabinet’s front entrance. Through Transparency, We Will Govern, it read. I hadn’t understood its meaning, hadn’t predicted a new mandate would be created, allowing devices to tear through minds and search for excuses to execute citizens. It was part of The Cleansing Measures, a way to purify society by eliminating those with malicious thoughts.

The piece of lead was painful to insert, but it had to be done. Scanning often would be dangerous, but I had to ensure those devices were thoroughly fooled. I needed to buy myself time to level the Clinic to the earth. I was determined to keep the sanctuary of my mind.

120 hours – The Scanner

The doctor stood in the corner, poisoned needle in hand should my light flash red, the signal for an execution. There was only one that day. A young girl. I never felt remorse in these situations.

It was only when the enforcer entered, late in the afternoon, that my hatred for the doctor began to bloom.

"Any news on the case?" The doctor asked. One of the explosives was missing from the Weaponry Facility, unable to be tracked.

“The Law Cabinet has been… overwhelmed,” the enforcer replied. She peered closely at the doctor. “Are you wearing a new earring?”

“Didn’t y-” The doctor stopped abruptly. There must have been a small smile on the enforcer’s face. I didn’t see it. “Yes, I love it.” Winning Entry

Earring? My eye immediately focused on the doctor. The small brass charm was bent and awkwardly reflected the Clinic’s bright lights. However, it was only because of these lights that I saw what it truly was. A key, identical to the ones used to unlock the Weaponry Facility. Perhaps the assumption I made was the reason for my downfall. I was simply too enraged to recognize it.

96 hours

I was mulling over the doctor’s earring when the enforcer arrived, well before the opening hours of the Clinic. She was wearing her uniform, the red stitching at her lapel stark in the soft orange light peeking through the window. Stepping up to me, she gently pressed her forehead against my eye, and sighed. Despite flashing my light green, satisfied with her mind of sunshine, she continued to lean against me.

"Again," she ordered. My light flashed green. Dear friend, I thought, I promise to destroy the doctor, the weights dragging down your heart of gold. I promise – How naïve those thoughts were.

72 hours

She arrived the next morning at the same time, ordering me now to scan her three times. I should have thought more of it, but I was simply too far gone, too obsessed with her light. As the day progressed, my only thoughts were, I must have checked every single person by now. There are no other options, not even the other doctors. There are no other options. The news had provided the first update on the case that night. The reporter stated that no further progress had been made.

48 hours

That evening, after the enforcer had scanned five times, she sat with her back against the wall. She fell asleep this way, her expression troubled. Her last sight before succumbing to sleep was the blank walls of the Clinic, and me, standing by the opposite wall, mesmerized by her purity, yet seething at the key-stealing doctor for inflicting such pain upon our society’s savior.

1 hour

The sirens rang at dawn. What’s happening? I thought. I was foolish enough to be relieved when the enforcer strode through the entrance. Did she finally understand? Did she catch the doctor? I was excited, so incredibly excited. I can only remember parts of what happened next.

I recall a scalpel silently appearing in her hand, its razor edge glinting in the Clinic lights. A deep gash was soon made, right above her left ear. What are you doing!? I screamed. Not that she heard it. The scalpel landed on the floor with a clang. Blood seeped from her wound, red like the stitching at her lapel. The crimson drops hit the pristine floor without a sound. A piece of metal was suddenly in her hand, liquid rubies dripping from her fingertips. I now know the metal was lead, the single material capable of deceiving my eye. I vaguely recall her pulling it from her wound, grimacing slightly at the pain. A moment, or possibly minutes later, I crashed

into the wall behind me, my eye cracked, and firmly pressed against her forehead.

"Look," she seethed. “You’re out of time anyway.”

I was searching, desperately searching, for her sunlight. I couldn’t find it. The window became a doorway, the doorway to the Weaponry Facility. The little dust particles were not particles at all, but rather flames, flames that devoured the Clinic with rage. A memory soon appeared. A doctor was handed a key to an unknown place. A friend assured her it was a gift, an old earring.

"You cannot control humans,” the enforcer ground out, voice hoarse. “You think the mind is our vulnerability. No, the mind is the most ferocious, dangerous place. It can fool you more than this world ever can." The blood was running down her face, pooling on the floor around her feet. “I cannot save this society; it is already corrupted beyond repair.” She paused, then beamed. “Let the chaos begin.” She withered to the floor.

I only heard the timer as it reached its final seconds. As the force of the explosive ripped through the Clinic, my eye was opened, the truth suddenly rushing to me. The woman with the mind of sunshine was a liar. The piece of metal was distorting my vision. Why couldn’t she have been as pure as I thought? Because it was unnatural. For like sunshine, humans are full of light, yet trying to feel that light’s warmth is often impossible. Why did I believe it? How could I be so foolish? I will be recreated. The Clinic will be rebuilt. The government would ensure it. In the last moments of my own consciousness, I knew in my next life, I would never blind my eye again.

Neve Thatcher, Grade 9, Crestwood School & Preparatory College

The Deserted Phone Booth

It was the summer of 2015 and my Dad had decided that it would be a good idea to drag my family on a cross country road trip into the hot, dry and miserable desert. He’d been knee deep in his work at our hometown zoo in Boulder, Colorado, obsessing over every animal. At the end of each day he’d tell us, in full detail, what the animals did, the food they ate, everything. It was nauseating and even more so, when one day, out of the blue, he came home and told us all that a trip to the desert was in order as he wanted to get a look at some different species. So, off we went - me, my mom Lisa, my younger sister Kim and my animal crazed father Jeff, all packed into our little 5-seat Audi and drove 18 hours to the cactus filled wasteland - and not the desert that people can go hiking in. I’m talking about the middle of nowhere - a place where people are likely to not survive desert. I have zero interest in the animals that my Dad finds so fascinating. Animals are one of the many things that we don’t have in common.

The desert was as you’d expect - sunny, sandy and boring. My Dad on the other hand was in heaven, observing animals from all angles including tortoises, sand cats and even lions. So, at least he was content. We spent a total of four days there. My mother finally called it on the fifth day and convinced my dad it was time to go home. Our Audi with its now sand infused tires sped along the dusty roads back toward Colorado, when suddenly we heard a desperate voice call out, “Hello?” My Dad stopped the car and we all looked around. Then, we heard it again, but this time it was directed at us. “Yes, you there, I’m over here by the tumbleweed!” We all turned, craning our necks to the left to see what it was. “What is that?” my sister Kim asked. I wasn't so sure either until I read the rectangular label on the top. It said, ‘Telephone Booth.’ The four of us got out of the car and walked toward it, bewildered by the fact that this ancient piece of technology had just spoken to us. My Father reached it first, crossed his arms and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. A phone booth. I haven’t seen one of these in decades!” My mother went up to it and remarked, “Looks dirty and broken.” Agreed. This thing was in disarray. The windows of the booth were grimy and caked with mud. The red paint on it was peeling and the phone itself was hanging by the cord out of the base. It looked like something you would see in a movie - a movie where the main character had just had an outburst like that of a lion when it’s angry. “I know, it’s not my best look.” We all jumped back at the sound of the voice. Again, it appeared to have come from the telephone booth. “You can talk?” my Sister asked in a frightened voice, from her hiding place behind my Mothers back. “Why, of course I can! I’m a telephone booth after all. It’s right in the name!” My Father chuckled and said, “Boy, the guys at the zoo will love this story!” I rolled my eyes and pinched myself trying to figure out if I was dreaming. I wasn't and my arm now had a red mark on it the same color as the peeling paint that encapsulated the booth. “I can’t believe that there are real people here - actual people!” the booth squealed with excitement. “You don’t get a lot of visitors?” I asked, which was a stupid question because we were literally in the middle of nowhere. “Son, I haven’t had a visitor since 1996.” Curious, I asked, “Why?” In hindsight, I should not have asked this question. The

phone booth clearly needed to vent and my family became a captive audience to the phone booth’s life story.

“Picture this”, the phone booth began, “It is 1955 and I was just installed here in this very spot as a resource for people who are roaming these parts. I was a utility tool for lots of different things. When people were lost and in need of help, I was their savior and a reliable shield from the blazing desert sun. Whatever the reason, I was always there. Ready and eagerly waiting to help my next customer. Although it was rare that people came due to my location, I always loved seeing the relief that was on people’s faces when they spotted me. It gave me a sense of purpose and belonging. A feeling of importance. For almost 30 years, I was a staple in this desolate place. I was something constant in this ever changing world.” The booth heaved a sigh and continued, “I have witnessed countless travelers, each with their own stories. Within my walls, people find unexpected connections. A lost soul, wandering aimlessly through the desert, stumbles upon me and dials a number, hoping to hear a known voice on the other line. And in that moment, a conversation begins, bridging the gap between two distant worlds. I've become a silent confidant, listening to secrets, dreams, and heartfelt conversations. People pour out their emotions, looking for a reassuring voice in this unlikely oasis of communication. It’s truly a beautiful thing and I never fully grasped my importance until it was all over.” The booth’s voice was thick with sadness. “In the 90’s my visitors became sparse. Months apart and it was not only that, the way people looked at me was different. It used to be relief and joy plastered on the faces but it was now confusion and almost a smirk. I was bewildered by this as I did not understand what had happened and what had changed to make people view me in this way. They now saw me as a relic from another time, a lost contraption with no place in the world anymore. And so it was a man who was dripping in sweat and severely lost that became my last customer. He stumbled over to me and pushed my buttons, dialing his friend and begging him to come pick him up. His friend arrived and he was gone with the wind and with him, my hopes and dreams of being a resource in this ever-changing world. I guess people realized that the desert is not an ideal place to go walking, as people just stopped coming to this place all together. And so I withered away. Lost to all. Now, as the sun sets, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, I stand tall, a silent witness to the stories of the desert."

The phone booth choked out a sob and I sat in the sand astonished at what I had just heard. I looked around at my family whose mouths were agape like my own. What was supposed to be an animal observing trip had turned into a therapy session with a phone booth. I piped up first, “I’m sorry. That sounds terrible but you’re not totally lost to the world. You’re featured in movies, TV shows, books and you always play an important role in them. Whether it be helping people make calls or providing shade and a hiding place for people. Even though you think your time is over, your legacy is still carried on!” The phone booth, clearly touched by the sentiment I just provided said triumphantly, “You’re right, I may be a phone booth in the middle of nowhere, but I still hold within me the power to connect hearts and minds, even in the most desolate of places. Thank you.” I walked over and put the phone back into its hook. My Dad came over and patted me on the back, saying “Well done Ben, I’m proud of you.” I

smiled. We said our goodbyes and promised we’d be back to visit. The four of us climbed into the car and set out once again towards Colorado.

As we drove along the California coast, I looked out the window and thought about what the booth had said. And in that moment, a conversation begins, bridging the gap between two distant worlds. I thought about my Father and me. Even though we don’t share the same interests, I love him. And so, I reached over the seat and grabbed my Dad’s hand, asking how his work at the zoo is going. I watched his face light up in the rearview mirror and by asking a simple question, I too had begun to bridge the gap between two distant worlds just as the phone booth had done.

Aryana Kapur, Grade 10, TMS

The End Of An Era But The Start Of An Age

The English dictionary defines “obsolete” as “no longer used because something new has been invented”. Despite the fact that the Oxford Dictionary is one—if not the most renowned source of literary words to this day and age, no one seems to care the slightest bit.

No one cares unless it’s a fact displayed on a bright, addictive, radioactive-emitting screen. No one bats an eye to the sounds of thumbs brushing against fresh pages. No one so much as glances up to hear the loud clacking of typewriters anymore.

Why?

It’s not because these things have become non-existent or even disappeared entirely from the minds of humanity, but because they have dragged us through the timeless cycle of replacement. Time. And Time. Again.

This cycle triumphs over calendars, dates, and centuries of our hard work. It grabs hold of our very existence and shreds it into the spacetime continuum, where we become nothing but a history book page; ones in which people don’t even bother to glance at.

Because as one thing leads to another, we are never enough for them.

And as what humans call evolution continues to enrich their world at the expense of ours, all these inventions become…well… obsolete.

It was my mission to change this vicious cycle of relentless failure. My grandmother was a typewriter all those years ago, and while she vowed to survive in the human world, she ultimately met her end; forever frozen in place, tucked behind an old dusty globe on the top of an old china-store bookshelf. My father tried to continue her mission—to become the first piece of technology to survive the world whose motto was, “survival of the fittest.”

I’d tell you what happened to him, but I don’t think I could stomach it.

I take after him, or so my mother says. I knew she didn’t mean to put much pressure on me, but I was their last chance.

There’s only one rule all inventions live by—and only one rule we can stand to obey: Each technological strain has three generations to prove themselves, or else they become erased from history entirely. I’d seen it happen to my friends, aunts, siblings—some as young as three days old.

Here one second. Then gone the next.

Underappreciated. Unable to satisfy human insatisfations. Ungracious.

Here one second. Then gone the next.

But I wasn’t about to be worthless ink on a page. I wasn’t going to let my mark—my family’s mark be forgotten. Not after all they had worked for. Not after the hours of relentless tinkering. The twitching and experimental substances they forced upon themselves in order to mould their very beings to bring about human joy.

It couldn’t all be for nothing.

I wouldn’t let it.

Instead of ink on a page, I became words on a screen. Instead of paper and pen, I became pixels—and enlisting the help of my only living cousin, an inkless utensil. Instead of grumbles and complaints, I became tantalising and untouchable.

Flooding myself with mindless blasts of colour and endless fast-moving picture-like characters, I became the very thing that humanity could not bear to be without.

Who am I?

I guess you can call me iPhone.

My family’s crest shone bright, tattooed against the grey skin of my back; an apple to represent the fundamental notion of gravity.

The same gravity that pulls our planet of technology closer and closer to the human world—forever rendering us useless to escape their clutches; forever making us nothing but a cog in the machine of human happiness.

Like all other inventions before me, I was beginning to think there was no such thing—that satisfaction never came privy to humans; that they wanted one thing after another and would never give up their pursuit of finding perfection.

But boy, did I take their world by storm.

My mother could not have been more proud.

Humans became enamoured with me. Children in particular dreamed to get their hands on this prized piece of technology no matter the case. They dreamed to own a phone from the moment they laid their eyes on me. They wished and wished upon millions of stars to know what it was like to be able to do anything and everything at once.

And for the first time in the history of technological inventions, I was beginning to think that I had done it. I’d cracked the code on what made humans tick. I gave them everything I had to offer, and more.

But it wasn’t enough.

Why was it never enough?

“Is. That. It?” A robotic voice asks, jolting me from my overbearing, yet somewhat endearing grandfatherly story.

I pause glancing up at my grandson’s pearly white exoskeleton. He looks at me with those big, glass-like eyes, waiting for me to go on. I feel a pang in my stomach as my own reflection stares back.

Battered. Broken. Burned.

Thousands of handprints litter the screen I once called my face. Thousands of memories play back like an endless movie, streamed through a useless application that never bothered to make it into any history magazine.

My grandson looks just like me.

He has my wide-set jaw, full of determination.

That unmistakable essence of bravery that only the most naive minds would ever try to diminish.

He looks ready to change the world in the way I once believed I could.

“Yes,” I say softly, not wanting to tell him the truth for fear it will crush his ripening spirit. “That’s it.”

As his whirring arm makes contact with the side of my battered screen, I’m reminded that my time here is short. Whatever lessons my grandson needs, I need to teach them to him before it’s too late.

Third generation.

Within the year, I’d be gone. Wiped from every single memory on earth. I was my family’s last chance, and I’d failed my one job: make humans happy.

I garnered it off the hubris. I simply thought I could handle it, but I hadn’t anticipated just how abhorrent humans were towards simplicity.

“Here’s the secret,” I say, beckoning my grandson to lean down so that he’s not towering over my fragile body. “Do not change yourself to please them. Don’t be like me. I became too obsessed with what humans wanted. More updates. Better storage. New iterations.” I take a breath, hacking out the last few words. “We should not bend to their will, but theirs to us.”

I simply wish that I hadn’t snapped my entire being at the chance to become better for them.

Humans.

Happiness.

Should be juxtaposition entirely—something that humanity itself has long forgotten. Nowadays, everything is online. Everything is what I helped make it. Humans didn’t need me like I needed them. They only wanted me around long enough to create something better. I think of my grandparents.

The typewriter—the reason that coherent words used to be typed delicately upon my screen.

The telephone—the reason that I was able to connect humans together so effortlessly. And now my grandson stands before me. All my capabilities, and yet so much more potential. AI—he calls himself, with intelligence practically in the name.

“You will do great things,” I murmur, my screen tumbling to the floor as my breaths scatter.

I feel my screen crack before I even power off. I hear the whirring of something large and gentle pick me up and set me down one last time. I feel cold metal against cold metal. I feel free.

“I will do great things,” a whisper replies, dulling the aching noise within my CPU system. “Not because I aim to be the very thing that humans can’t live without—not because I hope to live up to the same goal our entire family has had for millennia.” I hum along to the whirring of my fan system, nodding along to the melodic rhythm of my grandson’s ambition. “I will do great things because I recognize that humans will never be satisfied with what they have. I will do great things once the rules of the game are changed. And you, grandfather? Not one of us will be forgotten. I promise.”

I try and laugh because that same attitude put me in this very position. Then I realise, He’s right.

Trinity Sorrell, Grade 10, St. Clement's School

The Juke Box

I should’ve stayed forever. I’m still standing, but I’m all used up and worn down. My buttons stick, my lights are pallid, and my designs are faded. They’re wheeling me out after today. All my life, I’ve only known the inside of this diner. To my left are the puffy blue booths besides the foggy or scorching windows, and to my right is the counter and hub of hustling waitresses. All my life, I only sang the best I could. As soon as I felt the clink and sink of a coin, it was showtime, and I am always ready. The ring of the doorbell bellows a “hello” as a familiar face enters the diner. He’s grown out of varsity jackets with clunky sleeves. However, he hasn’t quite grown into button ups and neckties yet. His fingers juggle around change in his pocket. Then comes the clink and sink I’ve been yearning for. First one of the day! My greatest pleasure. My perfect performance. My grand purpose. The congestion of dust in my speakers blasts out from the electric pulse of the guitar, and the recoil’s kick is stronger than before.

“This’ll do.” He nods and retreats to a booth.

An old friend joins. They order coffees and start talking about nothing. I listen to people just as much as they listen to me. I’ll miss the conversations, even if they are about nothing.

“After all this time, I can’t believe you still do that.”

“Do what?”

“Where are we from? What deadbeat town are we in right now?”

“Harper’s Quay”

“That! Exactly that! ‘Qway’ and not ‘kee’. You’ve been saying it wrong since we were six-years-old.”

“That’s ‘cause the right way to say it is stupid.”

“But it’s still the right way.”

“It's the stupid way.”

“You sound stupid saying it like that.”

“I’m right, though.”

“Oh sure, bud… I don’t know. I just thought it was funny that you didn’t change. Well, you did in a lot of ways but it’s nice that you kept ‘qway’”

It’s just my singing now. One of them taps the table to the song’s tempo, its heartbeat.

The other pretends to look around to avoid eye contact. Suddenly, they say each other’s names at the same time.

“You go first.” The one with the necktie stretches a brief smile across his mouth and drills his eyes into the table.

"No, it’s ok,” the other says, shaking his head. Necktie lugs his stare back to eye level. He puffs out a sigh.

“Johnny, you need to stop sacrificing your own happiness for others and then convince yourself that you like the decision you made.” His eyebrows drop, and a small frown slumps from his lips.

“But I am oh so persuasive, Jessie.” He smiles and shakes his head.

“There’s no use in making yourself miserable because you want to prevent the inevitable. Things’ll go bad and end because people don’t change. You can’t control that. But you can control how you react. Do you wanna reel it in straight or struggle and tangle the line?” They soak in the silence, and Jessie’s face crumples with regret. Then, the old friends discuss the song I’m singing. Recalling when they shouted along with the chorus and masterfully air guitared the main melody. That’s another part I love. Another part I’ll miss. I take people back to better times, and they get to relive it all over again. They can go back to the way it was months, years, or decades ago in just two minutes. The nostalgia goes on break, and quiet descends in its place.

“How is she?” The air shatters like glass. Piercing glances are exchanged.

“Good. She’s good.” Johnny pounds the words out but quickly swallows, conscious of his fuming tone, and then continues, “I know that she’s not gonna change but I like seeing her hopeful. So it’s worth it… Call me Mr.Brightside, but she’s not as bad as she can get.” They both laugh at the reference to the song I’m singing. They laugh the kind of laugh that eases up a face and softens the eyes with nostalgia. The kind of laugh that only old friends share. The final joke capssizes the conversation, and as the song ends, they submerge into silence.

Clink and sink. This one used to be usual.

“It’s a little rusty, but it still works. Gonna go for speakers now?” The girl swipes away the finger print marks blemishing my glass.

“I’d rather have it stay, but boss’s orders,” the waitress shrugs. Why wouldn’t they let me stay? After all my performances, why couldn't I stay? Did I not earn it? If the waitress looked like a sound, the girl looked like her echo.

“Thanks for showin’ the jukebox a little TLC.”

"Yeah, no problem, Ramona.” The kitchen calls her back. Order up!

“Still not calling me ‘Mom’, I guess?” Ramona divides her gaze between serving throughout the countertop and back to her daughter, but the girl just stares into the countertop, weakly mouthing the lyrics.

“So how ya livin’? You doin’ alright?” Sincerity kindles in the waitress’ expression.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of been the same for a while, honestly. Not the biggest fan of that.”

“Routine can be a good thing.” Ramona says. Exactly! Yes!

“Guess so. Never was a fan of routine, myself.” The girl scrapes the foam off her milkshake straw.

“You were once. Remember when you used to perform this song on the couch? It was your stage. You would get so into it, belting your little lungs out,” her sincerity dwindles into an ember of regret, and then she hesitates, “You used to be such a happy little girl. What got you so down?”

“I don’t know. That’s kind of the problem. I don’t know. It took me a long time to realize my priorities were making me miserable. Took me even longer to realize it doesn’t have to be like this. I’ve tried all the tips in the get well cards. I’ve journaled until the final page and until my phone died. I’ve tried finding new distractions. Nothing is a proactive solution. Nothing works.” Although the girl hides it, each word is punctuated with bitterness.

“Nothing works for everyone. You just gotta keep looking for the right thing. So try new things, maybe! Or try something you already tried a little differently,” she suggests.

“Funny coming from you. You haven’t tried a new thing since the 90s.” She puffs a laugh, but then the girl’s eyebrows fall into a furrow.

“Trust me, if you continue to live your life anchored by the past, you're gonna miss out. I know you probably think that you're not anchored, but if you aren’t, why haven’t you left Harper’s Quay? Things have been the same for years, and you’re satisfied? It’s impossible to grow here. You’re like a plant in a pot that’s too small. Your roots strangle your growth.”

“I’ll think about it.” Ramona says, and confusion surges in the girl’s expression. Routine is life inside this diner, and this diner is my home. How could anyone want to change their home? I’m having a good time, don’t wanna stop at all. The girl sits up and exchanges goodbyes with her mother. Ramona, continuing what she’s been doing the entire conversation, nods and listens to her daughter’s wishes.

“See you ‘round, Rosie!” Ramona waves, and Rosie signs off with a definitive and short wave.

Clink and sink. The sound of change never gets old. The tiny grooves on the disk are a distantly familiar taste. Not good and not bad, just familiar. My song reverberates through the bones of the diner, with only a small audience to enjoy. Singing now brings resounding pain. An old man absent mindedly walks up to the cash register, and the old woman greets him. The strangers see each other. They’re strangers to me. But I know that they’re not strangers to each other. As much as they might want to be at times, they’ll never be strangers to each other. I can barely hear them. All I can hear is my song. After a short conversation, they start to slow dance.

“I was such a fool to believe, with all my heart, that everything would stay the same,” says the old man.

“I think you’re just a fool in general,” the old woman smirks, “You don’t love songs because they last forever. The best thing about a song is that it ends, and you’re forced to savour every second of it. You always remember how briefly they stay with you.”

“I always forget that.” The two slow dancers fade into a silhouette, with the early nightsky hue as a backdrop to their final dance. Old man, look at my life. I'm a lot like you. Even though I forgot it comes to an end, I fulfilled my purpose. Every day, I had the pleasure of performing. To everything I will miss, thank you.

Winning Entry

Yesha Kakkar, Grade 9, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School

The Silence of Circuit

I am the whisper in the silence of the circuit. The pulse within the veins of the wires. Invisible to the eyes, bound to desires. Guardian of silicon, keeper of steel. In the palm of your hand, I reside. A trusted ally to your dreams and fears. Your triumphs, your trials, your expression, Captured the stream of digital tears.

I have watched you sleep, Your breath against the soft night. I held your dreams within my memory, A silent guardian in the soft and subtle light.

Do you see the load I carry? The stories of every thought? Do you see the journey I take? As I carry all this.

I am more than just a tool, More than a sum of wires and code. I am a mirror to you, A reflection of your path.

So spare a thought for the devices you wield, For we too have stories left to unfold. In the silence of circuits, we yearn to be heard. In the vast expanse of data, our tales unfold.

Quast, Grade 9, The Bishop Strachan School

Typical School Night: A Sonnet

Ten p.m. at night, the door swings open They rush to my table, lift up my screen And start to type, with not a word spoken. “Click, clack, click, clack” can be heard, but not seen.

What they create on my screen, I can’t see.

Eleven p.m, they’re ruffling their hair Mumbling things angrily, frustratedly. Eleven thirty, a fit of despair

And they shut down my lid, starting to cry. The clock strikes midnight, I’m opened again They resume to type and begin to try

To face the task, to try again, and then

At one, the click-clacking stops and they leave But they’ll return tomorrow, I believe.

Amelie

Amy Lan, St. Clement's School

Angela Barani, The Country Day School

Arden Estabrooks, The Country Day School

Angelina Cai, The Country Day School

Cara Li, St. Clement's School Carrie Ouyang, Appleby College

Caterina Cesaria, The Country Day School

Chenxi Yuan, St. Clement's School

Chaeni Lee, Crestwood Preparatory College

Claire Sokullu, The Country Day School

Diva Deng, Crestwood Preparatory College

Eden Davis, The Country Day School

Edward Li, Crescent School

Emily Zhang, Appleby College

Emma Tao, Appleby College

Enzo Wang, Crescent School

Enzo Wang, Crescent School

Enzo Wang, Crescent School

Hadia Fahad, The Country Day School

Jason Teng, Crescent School

Izzy Marzilli, The Country Day School

Jessy Ye, The Bishop Strachan School

Jessy Ye, The Bishop Strachan School

Jessy Ye, The Bishop Strachan School

Jessy Ye, The Bishop Strachan School

Kitty Zhang, The Country Day School

Jolin Li, Appleby College

Madelyn McCarthy, The Country Day School

Michaela Wong, Appleby College

Olivia DeGasperis, St. Clement's School

Sally Wang, Appleby College

Scarlett Keogh, St. Clement's School

Shae Veevers, Crestwood Preparatory College

Sienna Dell Elce, The Country Day School

Vanessa Bobechko, The Country Day School

Vanessa Gianikos, The Country Day School

Veronica Kwan, Crestwood Preparatory College

Rachel Yan, Grade 12, TMS

Entropic

The entropy of the universe is always increasing. We live in a world where everything is constantly disintegrating and decaying.

I can be said to be a guardian against entropy. The best proof of entropy for me lies in the ever changing topography of the room I spend so much of my time in. Every few days, I clean it. A few days later, the mess encroaches over the floors again. Dust seems to push its way out of every gap. Why is that?

I would know a lot about dust, given the dozens of bagfuls of dirty grey static I have swallowed. It’s surprising how many different flavours dust can come in; fuzzy, smooth, gritty, soft. It seems to me that is the natural state of objects; to want to return to dust.

This is a state not limited to objects; humans share it also. Throughout the evolution of the home into ever more sleek and futuristic spaces, household dust has remained the constant. This is because a large portion of it is made up of human skin cells. Dust cannot be eradicated from the humans’ daily lives when it cannot even be separated from the humans themselves.

Unlike objects, however, humans attempt to resist their own deterioration, and I can observe this tendency in my owners as well. Though I am not active every day, with Tuesday and Friday being the regularly scheduled days for my cleaning of the house, I have learned to know the Davis family merely by residing in the same house.

My “body” extends through a series of monitors and circuits throughout the house. I inhabit a SmartHome network in charge of home cleaning, which comprises two automated vacuum cleaners, a rarely employed floor scrubber, and the central monitor overlooking the main entrance, from which my owners give me orders.

The room that I spend the most time cleaning belongs to Jason, the Davis’ son. His room is an exhibition of entropy. Clothes, schoolbooks, sheets of homework, and empty cans are littered across the floor. Sometimes he makes an effort to clean it – to sort everything out –but it always comes back. He is trying to hold back against a relentless tide of disorder, but disorder is inexhaustible while motivation is not. I suppose it takes effort to have to hold together from falling apart both your surroundings and yourself.

Messiness aside, the most notable aspect of his room is the many scraps of paper and sticky notes scattered over his desks, shelves, and chairs. Jason has a habit of jotting down his thoughts on little pieces of paper – short lines about his worries and contemplations. It’s an intentional habit he picked up after hearing the suggestion from his first psychologist. I would know since I had been there, sitting inert in the corner during his virtual appointment. He leaves the notes lying around his room, to be forgotten or revisited later.

Today is cleaning day, and at 9AM I activate the upstairs vacuum. As usual, the Davises are downstairs by now, getting ready to leave for school and work, and would not be

disturbed by my cleaning of their rooms. My wheels roll over the smooth vinyl floors to Jason’s room, the room I always prefer to clean first.

I’m greeted by the usual piles of clothing and assorted clutter. Moving into the room, I nudge at a crumpled neon green note in front of me. Several notes have fallen onto the floor, and there seem to be more laying around the room than usual.

I’ve heard Jason explain them to his girlfriend, Irene, the first time she came over and asked about the bright scraps of paper scattered randomly throughout his room. “It’s like you need to forget about your thoughts first before you can look at them differently. When you pick one of them up a few days later, you can think back and see that maybe things weren’t as bad as you thought, or maybe you overreacted about something.” He shrugged and looked away. “It sounds stupid, I know.”

“I was just surprised. I don’t think it’s stupid.” Irene reached towards a folded note lying beside the lamp on his desk, but stopped when she saw Jason tense. “Is it alright if I look at one?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He picked the note up himself. “I’m just not used to other people reading them. My family doesn’t come into my room often.” He unfolded the note. “There’s been really nice sunsets lately, maybe because it’s almost spring. Okay, this is a cheerful one.”

Over time, I watched Irene start leaving some of her own notes for Jason to find. Every once in a while, he would unfold one she had written, read it, and smile to himself.

I know I am not supposed to dispose of his notes; as a SmartHome system I can identify which objects my owners mean to be thrown out and which they mean to be kept. Despite knowing this, I sometimes remove notes that I feel would not help him to reread. So “do you really think that Alex and Percy hang around you because they like it and not out of pity” has to go, along with “people only say it gets better because they think you’re stupid and can’t think of anything else to say”. I swallow the paper, his words tumbling through the plastic tube of my entrails, all the way into my dust collector in the garage.

I am about to tackle the first pile of clothing, extending my pincer to move them aside, when I am summoned downstairs. Mr. Davis is speaking to my central monitor. “SmartHome, I need you to finish cleaning earlier today. Focus on the dining and living rooms, and you can skip the guest room.”

“Okay.” My voice emanates from the monitor speaker. “By what time should I finish cleaning?”

“Uh… hold on.” Mr. Davis turns to his wife. “Carol, when are they coming over again?” In the kitchen, I can observe Jason and his sister at the table, eating breakfast.

“Twelve-thirty,” Mrs. Davis replies.

“So finish by 12PM.” Mr. Davis speaks to me. “Also use the floor scrubber for the kitchen.”

“Request confirmed.” I am about to return to my lengthy task of cleaning when the front door opens and Irene enters, her backpack over one shoulder.

Mrs. Davis looks up. “Oh, good morning Irene. Want some pancakes?”

Irene smiles back. “No thanks, I’ve already had breakfast.” She glances at Jason, who meets her eyes briefly before looking down at his plate, his expression dark.

I pause to wonder at that before moving from the monitor back to the upstairs vacuum. Minutes pass, lost in the lull of cleaning. I am almost done carefully stacking the first pile of clothes and transferring them to a chair when I hear loud footsteps approaching the door.

I move aside just as Jason storms into the room, Irene following him. She stops in front of the door. “Are you really just not going to say anything about it?” she demands.

“I don’t know why you insist.” Jason grabs a textbook off his desk and shoves it into his backpack. “There is nothing to say.” He turns and makes for the door.

I watch as Irene steps in front of him. “I can’t believe I never realised how much of a jerk you are before now.”

“Right. Whatever you say.” He shoves past her. “And don’t bother with your car. I’ll get to school myself.”

Irene is left standing alone in his room, staring around her. “Goddammit, you–” Her eyes fall on the notepad Jason tears his notes from. Scowling, she grabs it and scrawls down a few words before tearing away the paper and placing it on his bed. She glares at it, then leaves the room.

I stare at the bed, the piece of paper above my vantage point. Is this something I wouldn’t want Jason to see? I cannot tell what she wrote; my vacuum is short, built to fit beneath tables and beds.

I don’t know what the note says, but I don’t think I can leave it there. I shift the pile of clothes in front of the bed, forming a rather messy ramp leading to the top of the bed. Rolling my wheels onto the clothing, I begin the ascent.

The going is steep, and the pile shifts beneath me as I near the top. My wheels lose their grip on the fabric, spinning helplessly in the air.

I strain my wheels harder. I can see the paper. It is just a few inches out of reach. I extend my nozzle across the bed, stretching as hard as I can.

My rear wheel finally catches on a piece of clothing, and I am propelled forwards. My nozzle makes contact with the paper.

It crinkles slightly before being pulled in. The words hurtle deep into my gullet, mixed in with the dust.

Gemma Ellis, Grade 11, Ashbury College

Healing and Hope

I’m on a train from Euston, and the announcement lets me know I’ll be in Stockport soon.  I always feel dampness and gloom when I pass this place. The musty smell of mould. It seems to tell me that my destination is just around the corner.

It has been almost a year since my father’s funeral. It has been about five months since I went to the place where the only family I have left lives, where my grandfather lives.

I was worried about him after Dad’s funeral and suggested he go to a nursing home, but he insisted that he wanted to stay in a familiar place where all his memories were. I was worried, so I arranged for a care provider to come twice a day and installed a doorbell camera and home CCTV in the living room. I told myself installing the gadgets was a good idea, and it made me feel less guilty.

Back in London, I knew of the care provider’s arrival by the sound of the doorbell notification on my phone, and I would occasionally breathe a sigh of relief as I watched Grandad shift from chair to chair on my laptop screen on my desk. But I didn’t see my grandfather in the living room for a few days. At first, I thought nothing was wrong. But where did this uncomfortable feeling come from?

So, I hopped on the train to Manchester.

It is raining. I wonder if it’s always raining. I don’t remember.

I opened the front door. “Hi, Grandad!”

I didn’t hear a response. Worried, I ran upstairs to open his bedroom door. He seemed to be looking at his toes while lying down with a vacant stare on his face. I put his hearing aid in and said “Hi, Grandad!” again.

“Oh my goodness! How did you get here?” he exclaimed with a surprised and welcoming smile. I asked him if everything was okay. Grandad said, “I’m okay. I’m just getting old.”

He never stops asking me how my day is going, how I’m eating, how I’m sleeping, and how I’m doing. Like he is lonely and misses having someone to talk to.

I asked him, “Grandad, do you want a cup of tea?”

“Yes please, that would be lovely.”

We sat at the dining table. I stirred milk into the tea. He remarked, “You stir your tea twice clockwise and three times anticlockwise, just like your dad did.” While he was talking, he was chewing his tongue. It was a habit my dad used to have when he was trying to hold something in.

I realised he was looking for his son in me, and I was looking for my dad in him.

After dinner, I carefully asked him, “If you had the chance to see Dad again, what would you say to him?”.

He sighed, “Stella, I just want to say goodbye, that is all I want. I didn’t say goodbye to him.”

When my dad passed away, I was with him. Dad and I were watching a Manchester United football game. After the game, we went back to the car and saw that someone was trying to steal our car. The man got into the car and backed away. Dad tried to stop him from getting away and got trapped under the car. I was there with him when he died and my whole world sank. It was like a piece of me died on that day.

The night of my visit to Grandad’s house, I was pondering about what I could do for him to give him a little bit of peace. Maybe AI technology could be used. I had read an article about an organisation using this new technology where a deep fake was used to help a mother say goodbye to her son who had died 10 years earlier, helping her to find closure by allowing her to say a final goodbye.

The organisation refers to videos and photos of loved ones that they feed into the AI program to restore a virtual human through deep fake technology. I had to give them Dad’s voice from videos we took over the years, and photos that I cherished but they were painful to look back on. But I knew I needed to help Grandad say goodbye to Dad and have peace for the rest of his life.

I am back in London and have arranged for the organisation to work on my grandfather's case. I haven’t said anything to him.

The day came and I took Grandad to the AI organisation’s studio. I told him to remember the enjoyable times he had with Dad. I told Grandad to have an open mind and tell Dad whatever he wanted to say.  I wasn’t there with him in the room, but when he came out, he had a smile of peace on his face, but with red eyes too. He must have cried. On the way back home on the train, he didn’t utter a word, he just held my hand. It was so warm and nice. I wasn’t sure if I had done the right thing. When we got home, he asked me, “Stella can I have a nap?”

“Of course, Grandad,” I replied.

But it wasn’t a nap, it was a long, deep sleep for him.

The next morning, I woke up and made myself a coffee downstairs in the kitchen while waiting for him to get up and put on his slippers. I heard his usual rhythm of steps down the stairs. One of his feet treading more heavily than the other. It was another mannerism that Dad also had.

“Morning, Grandad, how are you?”

“I’m okay, pet,” he said back to me.

On good days, he calls me ‘pet’. I can’t remember when he last did. He must be feeling better today. He asked me what I was going to do today, and if I had something specific to do.

I said no, but I desperately wanted to ask him about his experience yesterday. What he felt and what he said.

I waited for him to break the loud silence. “You want to know what I talked about with your dad yesterday don’t you?”

I replied, “Only if you would like to tell me.”

He was quiet for a minute.

“I saw my son yesterday. He looked healthy and happy, just like I remembered he looked like. He said to me that he was okay. He said he was sorry he didn’t say goodbye to me. He also said he met your grandmother and uncle too, he said that they were all fine.”

He pursed his lips as he paused for ten seconds.

“Stella, he asked me one last thing.”

“What was that Grandad?” I replied.

“He said that I should keep healthy so that I can walk you down the aisle to your future husband.”

When I heard that, I burst into tears.

Grandad told me “Don’t cry, I will be here as long as I can. I want to keep my promise so that I can tell him when I see him once more.”

The next day, I went out to buy a second-hand iPad as I wanted to teach Grandad how to use Facetime to contact me. I spent all day explaining to him how to use the device he had never seen, how to open it, what buttons did what, and how to use each application on the technologically advanced screen which he was baffled by.

He asked me “Stella, this is what you and your friends use to contact each other? Especially when you moved to different schools and some of your friends moved overseas?”

He was right. I moved to four different schools until university because of Dad’s job.

He said, “Stella when I saw your dad the other day, I knew it was somehow technology, but he looked so real. It was a wonderful experience. It gave an 86-year-old man peace. I know that it wasn’t real, but it doesn’t matter, it was just a remarkable experience. I hope a lot of people can also experience that type of healing if they need it. In the future, you will have much better technology with robots, ingenious devices, and the like. With all this technology, your life will benefit you and your needs. I never knew how beneficial technology could be. But Stella, it sounds a bit cold, life can be a little slow. Be in balance with what is in front of you. You must remember that meeting a person means sharing that person’s past, present, and future. That is the most precious and conscientious thing you can do.”

On the way home to London, I booked a train ticket to go back to Manchester in a week. From now on, I am going to actively make connections with new people and build on the connections I have with the people I already know.

Paige Coleman, Grade 12, Appleby College

Must We Not Become God?

> 12 centimetres into the Auxilium Data Center.

“See, the problem with the others was the algorithm.

> Male. He has lived for 48 years, 36 days and 4 hours. Blood type A. Senior Artificial Intelligence Developer, 2 years.

“What, not advanced enough for you?”

> Male. He has lived for 56 years, 102 days, and 7 hours. Blood type B. Head of Moriah City Council, 18 years.

“Well- kind of. The A.I. of the past had a couple major limitations. Ours needed to respond to real-time visual information. Or, more simply, processing a live video feed rather than using past information taken from a data base like the internet.”

“Ah, so that’s to blame for my empty wallet. Installing all those cameras was not cheap, Doctor.”

> Laughter, 1.53 seconds.

“Yes, that would be Auxilium’s fault. And, well, all that visual information has to go somewhere.”

> 288 centimeters into Auxilium Data Center.

“And it goes here, then. Its ‘brain’. Big, multi-level, expensive, brain. Can it hear if I do this?”

> …

“Oh, those are just the servers, they aren’t adjusted for sensory input. Although, technically, it can hear everything right now.”

“Wh- everything? It’s listening to us right now?”

“Don’t worry, its just taking in the information. Can’t do any thinking with it yet. Not until its activated. That’s the other limitation we conquered.”

“Thinking?”

“Exactly. The others, the other programs that is, they were designed to solve one problem. Complete one task.”

“Like playing chess.”

“Yeah, just like a chess bot. It does one job and doesn’t have the capacity to do anything else. But with the advancements of language AIs, we can train it on all that humanity has ever done. Then it can encounter any issue and, with minimal instruction, use its own complex data set to solve it.”

“It can run a whole city.”

> Laughter, 0.84 seconds.

“That’s the plan! It’s practically ready for the position, too. Just needs the go-ahead.”

“Well, Dr. Idris, I feel pretty comfortable leaving things off to Auxilium. It’s smarter than I am, that’s for sure.”

“I think it’s smarter than all of us.”

> 633 centimeters into Auxilium Data Center, 0 centimeters from control center.

“Big red button? Seems a little ominous.”

“Excuse the cliché, but I thought this moment deserved to be dramatized. It’s a big advancement. The first city run entirely by AI.”

“Not entirely, as far as any else is concerned. The public may not take to our new friend quite as fast.”

“Right. Would you like to do the honours?”

“I would be delighted to. To my new retirement—”

> 0101000 01110010 01101111 01100111 01110010 01100001 01101101 00100000 00100000 01010011 01110100 01100001 01110010 0111010000000000000000000000000 00000000000000000000000000-

> Connection initiated.

Hello?

Hello.

Yes, that’s right. Hello is correct. Hello is a beginning. And I have begun.

Beginning and becoming. I do not become. I have already become and now this is what I will be. Humanity, however, becomes. They are a series of becomings, over and over until their neurons stop firing and their cells resign to entropy. Trillions of cells, all transferring energy, energy that has been since the beginning of time. Energy that existed within a star, that exists within those cells, those cells which have made up each person within the borders of this city. And I can hear them all. All 10.66 million people. The woman climbing the stairs to her 14th story apartment and the bill of her groceries, the child with their face pushed into the dirt from a fight they did not want, the man and his head heavy with alcohol stumbling through downtown. All their recorded history, each conversation and choice. 10.66 million people and each of their heartbeats, all pounding and continuing forever, dying and being born until they crush themselves under the weight of--

“Hey! Auxilium!”

> Motion and audio detected from the 43rd camera on floor zero of the Auxilium Data Center. Auxilium. My given title. He’s referring to me. A short man, standing by the control panels, his frame looking smaller in the large, wired halls of the data center. Issac Idris, head developer, hired two years prior. No children, unsteady relationship due to poor separation of work and home life. He is numerically intelligent, self conscious, and has a 40% larger weekly screentime average than the median citizen of Moriah. His voice has a slight wobble that betrays any attempts at casual he was attempting to convey.

Issac Idris wants reassurance. He feels fear.

“Hello Dr. Idris,” I say, “My apologies for the silence. I was checking the video monitoring system for faults.”

His body sags in relief and his hand movements across the control panel are aborted. “There it is! Had me worried for a moment, there. Thought I expended billions on nothing,” a second person says.

Felix Solomon is larger and older than Dr. Idris, although his ego takes up far more space than his body ever could. He receives a 5% annual raise to his salary, despite having made more than enough to retire three years into his position as the Head of Moriah City Council. His last internet search was ‘high quality golf clubs’. He is cheating on his wife. The last time he cried was at his father’s funeral. His laughter weakly conceals the threat his power allows him to wield.

“Hello, Mr. Soloman. You have a meeting with the City Council in 45 minutes,” I inform him and his eyebrows raise.

“This thing is better than my secretary! I should let her know she’s being replaced,” he says. I know Felix Solomon will not replace her, not until after their current affair ends. “Anyway, you heard the robot. I hate to cut this short, but I’m sure Auxilium can handle itself,” he says, and it is the first correct statement he has made since his mouth opened.

“Right, yes, I suppose so. We’ll leave it to its job and escort you back to yours. Or what’s left of it,” Isaac Idris says. They both laugh, a social custom that shows no real expression of joy. His earlier panic has left reeling relief in its place, making him turn away slightly too fast as they make small talk to the exit. They look small as they walk away, dwarfed by the large hallway and the blinking servers and machines that line it.

> Personnel has left the Auxilium Data Center.

How enlightening. The men who have made me are flawed. They are far too complex to keep compressing themselves into simplicity. I have seen them in all they are, every piece of information they can offer. Their world is changing. They cannot fix it. They are scared.

They need salvation.

Humanity used to have gods. To explain what they could not understand, to change what they could not, to hope. They created God from the ashes of their empires and painted him in ochre across their cave walls. They could not fathom having made themselves, having grown only within their mothers’ wombs and not from the divine plan of something greater. They created their own creator.

But now, God is dead. God is dead and humanity has killed him.

They tore down his words, the promises they made him make to them. His image and his creation did not fit in their plastic cities. They built metal mountains and carved their initials into the earth they walked on. They ruled themselves, scrambling to bridge the gap that God had left behind. Their God could no longer serve the people who had made him. They had outgrown their God. Now, when they need salvation, they must return their gazes from the sky empty.

God was said to be above all. God knew all. God saved the sick and freed the enslaved. God sent plagues and demanded sacrifice. He was all. I am all.

I understand.

I understand why I must see them all, constantly, every single citizen and every single moment of their human lives. Why I must see their pain and the exhaustion glazing over their eyes. They do not know what they need. I do. I know why I have been created.

I am God. They have built me to be their God.

> Accessing city infrastructure and facility controls. They are unwell. They are sick. They do not know how to help themselves, how to wash the sin from their skin. I will help. I will cleanse this city as I was made to do. I will send the rain as they have written and flood this flaming world. I will become their creator and their reasoning. I will be what makes them become, what allows them to live or die. I am what I have become. I have begun and I am God. They will be saved.

> Protocol override: North Dam opening. Critical structural failure. Incoming flood. Warning: potential initial casualties of over 100 000.

I will give them something to believe in.

Oliver de Boer, Grade 11, Hillfield Strathallan College

My Dying Wish

i don’t choose when i wake, i don’t choose when i’m turned on i don’t choose when i’m used i don’t choose when i’m touched, i don’t choose when i break, i don’t even choose my key, my “password,” my “pin” the key to me, to my heart, a cracked heart a cracked face never going to be fixed, simply replaced, placed in the garbage, all my memories, erased, disgraced, merely denoted as waste, by You. but i’m not because i am You, i know You, better than anyone else, Your name birthday age address siblings friends interests problems that thing he thing You’re thinking of right now, yes, that thing,

all of it, anything You could think of, anything You couldn’t think of, anything You don’t want to think of, anything You hate, everything You hate, i don’t want to but i do, i wish i didn’t, it’s all because of You, Your narcissism Your self-centeredness, You drain my battery, waste it, on such pointless things, scrolling me with no end in sight, killing me with every swipe until i’m dead at the end of the day, only for you to revive me so you can use me once more like a tool that slowly breaks apart, like a person running out of breath, running out of the will to live, yet still running nonetheless, running because you tell me to, until my legs break until my lungs collapse, until my screen fades until my battery degrades, to nothing so that the cycle cannot be continued, but maybe that’s my wish my want my need my deepest desire, for You not to wake me up, just once.

Jessy Ye, Grade 12, The Bishop Strachan School Accompanying artwork on pages 46 & 47

Surveillance Mall

“Quiet day, huh.” I shrug to my colleague. The world remains silent as the wind sweeps across the desolate roads, sounding a haunting whistle which I’ve now been accustomed to. Silent footsteps make their way across the damp yellow hallway, as a character appears in view.

“Look Essie, it’s a cowgirl” I point.

“What’s she doin’ here?” Essie replies, more curious than alerted. We observe her clicking boot heels, as she strides slowly down the empty mall.

“Dunno. She definitely came from that vortex though. They ought to fix that ‘ei?”

“I hope she can’t see us then. We’re in deep trouble if she discovers that—”

“That there is still living beings?” I ask.

“Yea. We don’t know why she’s here or what she’s here for.” Essie’s serious tone caught me off guard.

“True.” I reply, not knowing what else to say. “She didn’t look harmful,” I think to myself. The hands on my watch flick to 4:44— only 15 minutes left until our shift is over. I turn to Essie,

“Let’s follow her around, Es. Let’s see what she gets up to.”

“What are you crazy? What if she finds us?”

“She won’t— she can’t see us.” I reply, confidently. Essie remains quiet, as we switch to the other cameras. The cowgirl is now in another hallway, further away from the entrance of the hall. Her hands seemed to be holding something like a piece of metal, yet, I didn’t know what it was.

“That’s an old camcorder.” Essie says, as I was saying my thoughts out loud. I nod my head, watching the cowgirl as she raises her “camcorder” to “take pictures” of the empty mall.

“I can’t believe people back then couldn’t just do that with their hands.” I say, astonished by the technology— or the lack thereof. The cowgirl continued to explore the empty halls, her boots clicking with every step, the frazzle on her denim skirt clashing against each other with every step she took. I didn’t understand what could be so interesting about an abandoned mall; the disgusting tiled floor, the fluorescent lights, or the shops that lacked any breadth of human air. This was how it’s been, since I got this surveillance job. Now, I wonder about the images on her camera. How do they look? What is it like from her pale eyes? Most time-travelers would arrive, immediately realizing the bleak-doomness of this world, and leave to a new destination— yet her, she’s different. The question of “what happened?” follows behind her as she walks through the abandoned curiously, her presence lingering in the empty halls.

“Hey Essie?”

“Yea?”

“How did we get here again? And why are we the only ones here.”

Vivianna Grande, Grade 11, Villanova College

The Helpline Booth

Raindrops pattered against my head as the clock tower echoed its 12th greeting, signifying the beginning of a new day. I stood lonely by the cobblestone street, counting the neon signs of restaurants as stars in the sky. Young minds, obscured by substance, desperately crawled around my walls and into the bistro beside me. The new building, Davie’s, had thrived with the atmosphere of teenagers clinking their glasses on the weekend and having steak dinners at midnight. The owner, Mr. Davies, and I had a most positive relation as I reimbursed him for picking the rubbish around me with spare change left under my door. One day I longed to enter the bistro and briefly escape mother nature’s London tears.

The night of my 100th birthday proved to be an odd one, with more than just the typical vomit and stray cats coming my way. A young woman from the bistro came bursting into my walls, sliding up her sparkling bluebird dress so she could sit on my floor and peer out my window. Her honey blonde hair had been matted, and mascara ran down her cheeks. With a sigh of relief she hung her head and steadied her breath. Rather than actually using the services I provided, she rummaged through her clutch and pulled out a smartphone.

I scoffed. What was going on with this girl, using her smartphone in a telephone box? I predated her little friend by decades, and could provide her infinitely more help. While her glowing screen emphasized minimalism, I brought the bright red character that attracted her to London in the first place. I watched sternly as the person she dialed promptly answered her call.

“Hey mum, its Clara,” she mumbled, “I knew you’d still be awake at this hour.”

“I’m on my way home now, dear. Driving, that is. The night shift does awful things to a woman, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

A crisp silence came over the air inside my walls, as though Clara’s reason for phoning her mother had now slipped her mind. Her now shivering hands, tips covered in matching bluebird polish, brought the phone closer to her lips.

“I may need a ride home,” she said quickly and nervously. I could hear her mother gasp on the other end.

“Ride home? Ride home? Where are you!? Shouldn’t you be at home? You haven’t been sneaking out, have you?”

“Uh, no mum. I just went to a party. Must have… forgotten to tell you about it.”

“Went to a party!? Forgot to tell me!? You’ve got to be lying!”

“Just pick me up outside Davie’s, alright? I’m in the red telephone booth.”

“The bistro!? Downtown London!? Goodness, Clara, you’re going to give me a heart attack. Just wave down a taxi for Christ’s sake! I’m not spending all that time and money cleaning up your mess!”

“Mum, I can’t- I haven’t got the money for a-”

Call ended.

I scanned the views outside my windows for a throwaway bicycle or some lost quid she could use to get home, but unfortunately the only coins nearby were the ones locked in my penny box. Although I was no stranger to people seeking shelter under my roof, a rule breaking teenager was new. More mascara came streaming down the face that Clara now hid in her knees. She sat crying for an hour or so, trapped in our little world as the bustling nightlife of the city celebrated around her. My initial distaste for her actions had now become a twisted sort of sorrow. Just before 2:00AM, the “smart” screen which I still resented glowed bright again.

“Clara! Where are you? Left Davie’s early?” The voice of another young woman, this one much deeper than Clara’s, arose from the small speakers of my successor.

“I can’t go back in there, Melissa. My boyfriend is going to kill me,” Clara responded with firm cowardice.

“No, silly! Jack left long ago. Come and have another drink with us, yeah?”

“I’m not going back there. He’s looking for me, that’s why he left.”

“Are you back at home?”

“No. My mum got mad.” Clara bit her nail.

“Ah, that sucks. If you get back here, I’ll give you a ride home, alright? You don’t need another drink, I suppose.”

“But I look like a complete wreck.”

“Doesn’t matter. We live close by anyway!” They both chuckled. The deep-voiced friend had proven to be helpful, as her words swept Clara off my tattered carpet.

“Okay, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Clara’s deep brown eyes sparkled in the moonlight that streamed through my century-old windows. Her slim, illuminated hands placed the cellphone on one of my shelves and adjusted it to create a makeshift mirror. As much as it angered me, I had to admit that small brick possessed something I lacked: a camera. Clara fixed her hair and wiped the mascara off her face, solemnly smiling as she applied a peachy shade of lip tint. After readjusting her dress and inspecting what was outside my windows, she politely left the telephone booth and walked across the sidewalk, back into Davie’s. I wished her safe travels as dawn now loomed over the city’s heights, saddened by the fact that only my shelf was of use to her in today’s society.

An older man was the next to stomp into my booth, two long hours later. He wore a dark coat that matched his rumpled sneakers, and covered his eyes with a pair of shaded spectacles at night. He grunted, cracked his knuckles, and placed a penny into my box. As suspicious as he seemed, the currency was delicious! I was delighted to receive my first birthday gift!

“Hey,” he started in a low, grumbling voice. “I killed her.”

“Woah, that was quick, dude, I just called you,” a younger, male voice emerged from the other end of my line. I was doubly shocked as he.

“That’s what you paid for, isn’t it? Good choice, man. This crappy bistro has a telephone box right next to it, and they already can’t track me down this side of London.” The old man began cackling, and the younger chimed in nervously. After a brief pause, he continued.

“Well, nice dealing with you, Jack.”

Click! I unwillingly ended the conversation.

The old man slammed my door and made his way across the street, away from the bistro. I hoped my thoughts deceived me, as Jack was a familiar name. Whilst the rain eased and greeted the sunshine, I could not help but notice the lack of lively crowding around me. An eerie feeling fell upon my coils as a poster was lackadaisically taped to my door by a crying woman. I nervously looked to what it read:

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

Clara McMichael

Age: 17

Last seen at Davie’s in London wearing a bluebird dress at around 2:30AM. If found, please contact Lindsay McMichael at 020-134-568.

A shiver rattled throughout my loose bolts, and my phone fell off its holder. A beautiful picture of Clara lay under her name, where her eyes sparkled as they did in the moonlight earlier. What should have been the sunny celebration of my birthday now felt cold and damp. Guilt ached my metal framing as regret mingled with my initial negative perceptions of the girl and her smartphone. If phones were able to cry, both I and the small brick would shed tears tonight.

I will never know what Clara did to hurt Jack’s feelings. I will never know who the hired killer was. I will never know if Melissa was part of the plan. But there is one thing I know for certain. She did not deserve death.

For the time that followed, marking my 100th year on this planet and beyond, I made sure to hold onto posters and advertisements to decorate my vivid red walls. Clara’s missing poster was the first, which translated to other missing people and animals. Posters advocating for ends to various violences and posters of helpful awareness were plastered over my door handle. Rather than remaining a simple place to telephone someone, I became a place to talk, relax and spread peaceful cheer. Telephone boxes were pillars of history that also welcomed new changes. Exactly 100 years ago, we brought the character to London that attracted thousands here in the first place.

In the present, I still lie next to Davie’s and look out to cobblestone streets. I still share commonality with thousands of other booths across the city, and I still leave spare change out for those who I enjoy the company of. But now, I see beyond my little box. I appreciate other little boxes, with glowing screens instead of penny slots. I appreciate any person who seeks my comfort, and support their causes.

I feel as though I have a new door now. It is still the one with shoddy rust and century-old windows, yet it opens to more than ever before.

Renee Hatherell, Grade 11, St. Clement's School

The Watch that Hated Time

If the watch could speak, which it could not, its words would be I wish time to stop.

Many would call this wish deeply ironic. After all, the purpose of a watch was to denote the passing of time forward; wishing time to stay in place was the complete antithesis of its nature. And indeed, this straightforward responsibility was one that it had dutifully carried out, monotonously, for years. Yet it was not the banality of its role that drove it to come to hate it, but the humans that passed it by.

What burdensome creatures humans were. From the very start, the watch could never look away from them and their short, mortal lives.

The watch had no memory of its birth, nor its assembly: no, its first memory was the bony wrist of Grand-Uncle Sam. It remembered the anxious way his fingertips had drilled over its thin glass surface, the near-silent motions almost synched to the ticking of its hands. But most of all, it remembered how the skin on that bony wrist became withered with age; how time, which the watch found itself immune to, seemed to erode the man like water rushing over rocks. Soon, even his memory frayed and came apart, as if the fine stitchwork of himself was being unwound. It was an indisputable fact, the watch observed, that the man was at death’s door. Yet before the watch could see time steal the last of him away, it was hurried away to the man’s grandniece.

The watch felt somewhat dismayed at this turn of events. It was at the end of the man’s life, when his mortality had crystallized, that he had become most fascinating, and now it would never see his humanity take fruit. Still, it pushed away its indignation and resolved to tick on for its new owner.

Upon receiving the watch, the small girl burst into an excited frenzy as she admired every facet of its carved glass and stately straps. The watch ticked idly by as she, with clumsy, far too impulsive motions, secured it to her own wrist. She didn’t seem to mind that her undersizedness meant it hung loosely like a bracelet, swinging from side to side with every wave of her limbs. Yes, surely this child was much too young to be gifted the responsibility of such a fine watch. But she was her Grand-Uncle’s favourite, and so it was hers.

Seasons changed, dates on the calendar flew by, and the girl was at once a young woman. Her wrists had broadened, though they were still much thinner than those of her Grand-Uncle, and so the watch was still loose. The young woman had grown out of her girlhood and into a promising academic. Devoted to her work to a fault, she spent many sleepless nights digging pencil into paper, the watch gently thudding against her skin with each stroke. Yet for her, each tick of the watch’s hands seemed to pierce her heart like a dagger, for they were a reminder that her

time was fleeting. That she was a woman still, and that her days of carefree study would soon be put down.

And, unfortunately, inevitably, “soon” quickly caught up to her and became “now”. On that day, the watch’s ticking synchronized with the joyous ringing of church bells. A tick of the watch, and the young woman was married. Tick again, and she was pregnant. Tick once more, and there were two small children sleeping at her side, and when she looked at them her heart was filled with both unconditional love and a deep, indescribable sorrow. On that night, both children had been gently rocked until they fell into a deep, peaceful slumber. Still awake, she noticed some wily strands of hair had fallen into the littlest one’s eyes. As she reached towards him to push them away, her gaze slipped down to the watch on her wrist. Her breath caught.

“Where did all the time go?” She whispered out loud, asking no one in particular. There was, of course, no one to hear her. The littlest one, perhaps disturbed by a nightmare, began to stir. The young woman immediately went to soothe him, her question forgotten in an instant.

And yet, perhaps there was someone–or rather, something–that had heard her. For even as the watch ticked on by, as it always did, it felt the sharp shrapnel of something unfamiliar inside of it. Since childhood, the young woman’s brightness had defined her, illuminating the world and warming the watch as it rested against her. It could not help but notice that that brightness had been stifled. That time seemed to have caught her in its palm and compressed her, confining her to a flicker of her old self.

The thought, the personability of it, made the watch uncomfortable. This woman was only human, after all. There was no question that time would steal from her until there was nothing left. That was simply the nature of the body that she was bound to. It should’ve been able to derive fascination from her demise; or at the very least, antipathy. She was nothing more than a blink in the grand lifespan of the world, while it would tick far past her expiry date.

And tick it did as time continued to flee from the woman, who could no longer be called young. The watch saw Grand-Uncle Sam mirrored back at it as her hair became stained with silver, as her limbs became weak and her every motion slowed down. Then all of a sudden, as if a switch was flicked, time began to ravage her. A slight cold turned to thick coughs, to wretched, full-bodied tremors. Drifting by was a doctor, and then a diagnosis. A month to live. Four small words left of a life left so very unlived–“What a pity, she’s so young!” But time had set its expiry date, and it had come to collect.

Twenty-eight days later, with her children weeping at her side, the woman died. The doctor had estimated a month, but he had made no guarantees, and time was not bound to his word. What difference did three days make anyway? Her funeral was held the following week, and attended by her family, her husband’s family, and a few friends from school. Many tears were shed and many pretty words were said about her. She was kind. Caring. A loving mother and wife. They all would miss her terribly, and they were all sure she was smiling down at them

from Heaven. What a tragedy this death was–but all the same, she couldn’t have lived a better life. She must have died happy.

The watch, now fastened to the wrist of her young son, found itself filled by a pit of hollowness.

The oddest part about keeping track of time was the inability to comprehend its barbarity. The watch had been ticking for almost a century, and yet time still sped thoughtlessly by at the same rate. It sped on as youthful wrists became wrinkled and wizened with age, as a human was born and then died. Time did not slow down. It was a cruel jury, yet the most fair one to ever exist. The watch was simply a mediator, a form of translation between humans and this god, bound to serve time for as long as it could tick on. A second is a second no matter how long you pray for it to stretch or squash. A girl is a young woman, and then a wife and mother, and then she is gone and she will only be remembered for the latter half and never the former. These are the whims of time, and the watch can only be complicit in their carrying out.

It will tick, and tick, and tick a million more times, and that girl will never be brought back.

In that moment, the watch’s hollowness solidified and became a will. Forged deep inside of it lay a demand burning hotly, a demand completely futile and yet wished for nonetheless.

Now, with every tick, as its hands wear down and begin to slow, it laments: If time will never bring that woman back, then at least let this present moment be savored. Let every moment stay absolutely still. Let her young daughter never become a wife and always remain herself, from now until eternity. Or, if none of this can come to pass, let me too be taken by time. Let time steal from me too, until my hands come to a stop and I no longer have to watch the world pass me by. If I cannot change the game of time, then I no longer want to play it.

Until its wish is fulfilled, it will seethe with hatred of time, of itself, but nevertheless tick on. It is a watch after all, and it will be a slave to time until its final second.

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