INCITE 2025

An anthology of student writing and visual art

INCITE 2025

INCITE is an annual anthology showcasing student writing and visual art from CIS Ontario member schools.

Welcome from the CITE Network

The CIS Ontario Conference of Independent Teachers of English (CITE) network supports the teaching and learning of English, EAL, media studies, and drama at CIS Ontario member schools.

In addition, the network hosts an annual professional event—the CITE Conference—which also celebrates the publication of INCITE, an anthology of student writing and visual art.

This is the sixteenth iteration of the INCITE anthology, and we are extremely proud of the work students produced.

Mike Lesiuk, The Country Day School

Sarah Williams, The Country Day School CITE Co-Chairs

2025 Judge: Andrew F. Sullivan

Photographer: Eden Boudreau

Andrew F. Sullivan is the author of The Marigold, a novel about a city eating itself, which was a finalist for the Aurora Awards, the Locus Awards, and the Hamilton Literary Awards, and named a “Best Book of the Year” by Esquire, The Verge, Book Riot and the Winnipeg Free Press. He co-wrote The Handyman Method with Nick Cutter, a novel about home improvement gone wrong. Sullivan is also the author of the novel WASTE, called a “brutal, mesmeric debut” and one of the Best Books of the Year by the Globe & Mail, and the short story collection All We Want is Everything, a Globe & Mail Best Book of the Year and finalist for the ReLit Award. He lives in Hamilton, Ontario.

Judge's Preface: Crossing Boundaries

When I work with younger writers, I often encounter a lot of fear. Fear about making the wrong choice or making art the wrong way. In fact, there is often a great fear of failure and judgment thrumming through us all, inhibiting our creativity and implicitly denying our own inspiration. With the diverse and original work collected here, I’m delighted to find young writers willing to experiment, to play, and to make bold creative choices.

Whether it’s prose or poetry, these pieces illuminate the complex relationships we have with the established boundaries in our lives. They deftly explore the possibilities and ramifications of moving beyond what we think we know into the unfenced unknown. These stories and poems acknowledge our debilitating fears and uncertainties but then push through them to express a greater truth, detail a new personal discovery, or offer a freshly tilted view of our unstable world.

In 2025, we find ourselves living in more than interesting times. As the world mutates and ruptures around us, our creative work is still where we are most free. Our forms of expression only become more valuable as fresh challenges attempt to smother their impact. Every time we decide to make something new, we embrace that possibility of change. By devising our own realities and telling our stories together, we can peek over the boundaries of the old world to find our new selves waiting on the other side with open arms and open hearts. In opening these pages, you may open your mind.

I hope you will find what you need inside.

CITE Executive

Co-Chair: Sarah Williams, The Country Day School

Co-Chair: Mike Lesiuk, The Country Day School

Communications Director: Ashley Domina, Villanova College

CITE Writing Competitions Coordinator: David Finkelstein, Crescent School

Chairpersons Emeriti: Claire Pacaud, St. Clement's School and Ellen Palmer, Appleby College

This Year's Cover

The INCITE 2025 cover features the artwork of Vanessa Bobechko, Grade 11, The Country Day School.

INCITE Winning Entries

Prompt: Crossing Boundaries

Grades 7 & 8

1. “Red,” Emma Fan, Havergal College

2. “Woman in the Mirror,” Ella Adams, Hillfield Strathallan College

3. “San Francisco, 2098,” Brandon Yin, The Sterling Hall School

Grades 9 & 10

1. “Echoes of Her Song,” Ishaan Grotra, Appleby College

2. “Will You Hear Me,” Eloise Bramer, The York School

3. “Victoria Caldwell: The Truth Behind the Tech,” Adhya Chandradat, The Country Day School

Honourable Mention: “My Honest Poem,” Ashley Smith, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School

Grades 11 & 12

1. “White Sheep,” Bryony Chan, The Bishop Strachan School

2. “On the Glass,” Michael Soares, Hillfield Strathallan College

3. “His Name is Sisyphus,” Claire Dai, Appleby College

Honourable Mention: “call it what it is,” Ray Law, St. Clement's School

CITE Fall Writing Competition Winners

Prompt: Exploring the Impacts of Taking a Risk.

Grades 7 & 8

1. “The Darkness Within,” Jacqueline Poenaru, Bayview Glen

2. “The Bridge Between Us,” Liliana Au, Bayview Glen

3. “The Door,” Atlis Sandomierski, Montcrest School

Grades 9 & 10

1. “The Crying,” Lara Chamoun, TFS - Canada’s International School

2. “Like an Apple,” Audrey Zhang, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School

3. “INCITE Short Story,” Bingyin Geng, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School

Grades 11 & 12

1. “The Duet Between The Body & The Mind,” Amanda Zeng, Pickering College

2. “The Hidden Spark Beneath The Adversary: Bajan Bakes,” Joy McConney, St. Mildred’sLightbourn School

3. (Tied) “Full Moon,” Katelyn Wong, St. Clement’s School

3.(Tied) “How to Catch a Snowflake,” Kaitlyn Zhang, The Country Day School

Table of Contents

Emma Fan, Havergal College, Grade 8

Red

I haven’t had colour in a long time.

It’s obvious as I wander through an expanse of shelves devoid of vibrancy. The library of my mind resembles a long-abandoned church, once magnificent, now forsaken and crumbling.

One memory stands out against the monotony, drawing me in like water down a drain.

With the sunlight kissing her hair, each strand shimmered with life, catching the light in a mesmerizing dance of crimson and gold. How I loved her hair. Her smile reminded me of strawberries covered in chocolate - sweet and rich, like the way she insisted on dancing in the desert rain, or bought white roses and painted them red after the movie Alice in Wonderland How we laughed and laughed by the fountain in the park as we fed the ducks in the pond. The world was a canvas, and that day my paintbrush created a masterpiece.

I reminisce about that memory often and see a glimpse of my old life. But the past is the past, and my present and future remain as monochrome as ever. She was the colour in my life, and is life really worth living without colour?

Now, I stand in the middle of a crowd. Shades of colour swirl around the people who hurry home to hot meals and shrieks of their children’s laughter. Viridian stalks a woman who orders a flat white every morning; sunshine yellow jumps at the feet of a toddler discovering puddles; amethyst billows behind a fashion designer who sees the world as potential. The colour floats past, buoyed by the happy memories of people I used to be, but recoils from my outstretched hand like oil does water. People avoid my gaze, my fingers leaving grey prints on their joys. I stand alone, isolated by walls that surround me in grey and black, leaving me shivering, my breath distorting the view. I watch as colours collide against my walls, spraying vibrant drops that never quite reach me, unable to join in my solitude.

I sit in my room, darkness one of my only friends left. I press my body against my bed frame until it hurts, splinters pricking at my back, hoping that it would swallow me whole and end all of this. My phone glows, both alluring and devilish beside me. I scroll through the latest news. Another child raped. Scroll. Another town burned to ashes. Scroll. Another war crime gone unpunished. Scroll.

I blink.

Deep down, I feel a muted wisp of obliged sympathy, but no more. Happiness is like a faded memory, barely a feeling of warmth from behind a forbidden curtain. My emptiness scares me, so I paint. Winning Entry

In the bathroom, the cold tiles beneath me remind me I’m an artist. I paint at night when the world has gone to sleep, silently awaiting my next masterpiece. I want to see red. I pull out my brush, poising for my first stroke, feeling it bite into my hand. I can almost feel her again, like if I turn my head, she’ll be sitting there beside me, flashing that innocent grin. As a tribute to her, the only colour I use now is red, crisscrossing my innocent canvas with sharp, crimson lines.

What time is it now? What day? I’m in an office that smells too clean, shifting uncomfortably in front of a bright woman who looks concerned…Hi, I’m Dr. Stone… I fight the urge to leave, pulling at the sleeves of my hoodie…traumatized…need treatment…my walls are closing in on me, I need to go…never too late…her words float past me like garbage in the ocean…prescribe antidepressants… She hands me a small bottle, forces me to take a pill… therapy…family support?...Why am I even here?

I go home and sleep.

During the night, I wake up and walk around the apartment. It’s dark and empty and I truly see for the first time. The unopened boxes, dust gathering in corners and on surfaces. Cards strewn on the table all seem to taunt me: “I'm so sorry for your loss.” All signs of something I didn’t realize until now. I drift out the door, barely touching the ground. I don’t bother closing the door.

I look down on myself from above as if I’m someone else, watching a ghost float through the halls. She ends up in front of the elevator. Did she mean to? The doors slide open and I watch her step into the elevator and turn around, pressing the button for the highest floor. As elevator music plays over a tiny speaker, I try to recognize the person I was seeing. Signs of my suffering have manifested painfully on my body; my clothes hang off my figure, cheeks sunken, skin pale and ghostly. I pray silently, asking for forgiveness for what I’ve inflicted upon this girl.

Stepping out on the roof, the cool night air pulls me back into my body. I feel déjà vù, freedom. My ears stop buzzing, the weight lifts off my chest. Savouring this forgotten feeling, I walk to the edge of the rooftop and glance down. It’s high–so high it should terrify me. But I embrace it, leaning into the welcome relief.

I climb onto the edge - the view is like a revelation.

Colour. It’s come back. No-not a revelation. A revolution. A return to the start of the hopscotch ladder. A full circle complete.

The once impenetrable wall that isolated me melts away, leaving me stunned and blinking in my new world. Without it, I feel empty. Where once it had protected me from the harsh edges of the world, now I was vulnerable. To anyone else, this might seem incomprehensible, but the walls had been my constant companion. But they’re gone now.

Looking out, I admire the spectacle. The city sparkles like a star fallen off from heaven's staircase. The neon signs of downtown blaze defiantly, almost offensive to everything else. The pale moon hangs low in the sky, waiting. The sounds of traffic float up from below, muted by the height, or maybe the wind. A siren wails in the distance - perhaps for someone else standing on their own edge tonight.

A masterpiece. Just missing one final splash of red.

I shift my left foot out over the ledge. I stop. It occurs to me that she would hate seeing me like this. She always said she loved my strength. But this? This is cowardice. Isn’t it? For the first time since that day in the park, I feel omnipotent, euphoric. All else withers in comparison. This last action would create my final painting, the ultimate testimonial to her-but I waver. I close my eyes, and for a moment, I see a flash of red hair and a smile of chocolate strawberries.

It is with a smile I take the step. * * *

But I didn't fall that night. Sometimes angels have wings, but sometimes they have the view of the pavement from thirty stories up. It took a great height at rock bottom to bring me back down to earth. Back into the world. That night the colour returned-not a flood, but in quiet drips. The pale yellow dawn of early mornings, the lush greens and browns of mountain hikes, the harsh blues in my therapist's office softening to amity, and the vibrant red of healing fading to auburn scars all graced my life again with their presence. I was given a choice: step forward, and succumb, or step back, a chance to try again. Some barriers are simply not meant to be broken; instead, taking that first step away and out can make all the difference. My story is not of destroying barriers; it is of decisions, acceptance, and chocolate strawberries.

Ella Adams, Hillfield Strathallan College, Grade 8

Woman in the Mirror

Just the mirror, Mirror and me.

While I stare into the figure's eyes, I see the boy I was.

The uncomfortable, awkward boy.

Doomed to an uncomfortable, awkward future.

Never feeling like I belong, always on the outside.

I look at the dress.

I see the woman I want to be.

Stong, beautiful, me.

A glass barrier separates me from the future.

Thin as paper, hard as stone, made of the people who hold me back.

The bullies, the haters, and me.

Reinforced by the fear that no one will understand.

The terror that I will never succeed.

Can I change simply because I want to?

As I stare at the boy in the mirror. I see what might have been.

A horrible future.

Living in that He/Him skin like an itchy sweater.

Too small for me, uncomfortable.

I do not speak out because I am afraid.

Afraid of the haters, the rumours, the comments.

They say that I am wrong, Wrong about how I feel…

While others say, “The skin fits, and there is no reason to shed it.”

Winning Entry

As I stare at the boy in the mirror, I am torn, split.

Looking at the glass, I make my decision. It is time to shed the skin and show my true colours.

Staring at the boy I was, I transform into the woman I am and will always be.

I do not change because I want to.

I am not changing. This was me all along.

I am simply removing a costume, a disguise.

No more masks, no more lies.

As I put on the dress, it becomes my armour.

The weight is lifting.

I feel like a bird after the sun has risen, fresh and renewed.

So let them come at me!

Let them yell insults, and bully me.

I will not back down.

I am a woman. Not a man, not a boy.

I am no longer the weak, insecure boy, I am now the woman in the mirror.

Strong, confident and free.

I am the woman in the mirror.

No one can stop me. No one can hurt me.

I am the woman in the mirror.

My dress is my armour and I am invincible.

The woman in the mirror is capable, smart, proud of who she is, and perfect the way she is.

That woman is proud, perfect, and me.

Brandon Yin, The Sterling Hall School, Grade 7

San Francisco, 2098

It is a dry and windy day in San Francisco. Despite the wind, smog still lingers in the city. The sky is a bleak pewter color and the sun hides behind the clouds and big puffs of factory emissions, struggling to be seen. The sweltering heat outside makes the weather very adverse today. Not just today, but every day.

I walk along the sidewalk covered with layers of dust and grime. My mouth is parched and sweat dribbles down my face. The densely polluted air is suffocating.

I walk down the path I’d taken every day as a toddler with my grandfather. I’d grown up with my grandfather, mainly, as my parents often made business trips. Grandpa has always been a major part of my life, being the person who comforted me every time my parents were away, the person who had taught me how to draw and paint.

Grandpa often speaks about the ocean, and how he went sailing and kayaking with his friends when he was my age. He even sometimes sketches out the ocean of old San Francisco, tracing its crest and waves. The ocean was my favorite part of his stories and I loved the way he makes it sound so utterly wonderful. It really made me wish that I had lived back then. It made me wish for a brighter future. A more enjoyable future.

I can’t possibly imagine how the once-sparkling ocean full of aquatic life transformed into the murky ocean covered with garbage in front of me. How it all changed in just a few decades. And how that same ocean had also swallowed the lower parts of our coastal city, forcing my family and me to evacuate to the center of San Francisco which is full of high rise buildings. We had to stay in San Francisco due to severely inflated prices in the upper parts of the city, hoping the waves would eventually recede, but they never did. And every day, the water level would only rise higher.

I sit on a dirty bench and stare at the nearly-submerged skyscrapers and trees in the distance, reduced to gaunt skeletons after years of erosion. I sit there for hours, just staring at the waves violently thrashing, sending rotting logs and filthy components of buildings flying. The malice of the waves in the distance is nothing like the waves in Grandpa’s drawings.

The sky darkens as afternoon approaches, and I start walking back. Soon, I see a silhouette running towards me. I see him intently looking at something behind me and quickly run away, so I spin around, just in time to see a massive wave heading towards the city in the distance. My throat tightens and my hands shake hard. Some of the restaurants by the shore had already been sodden with water, the windows and doors broken.

I start sprinting as fast as I can, my heart thundering. Adrenaline shoots through my veins, and my legs burn like fire. I look back to see the wave slowly dying down, only to realize another wave was coming.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

That is the only thought that blares through my mind. I even envision what my last words might be, and the grief that would be inflicted upon my family. I hear the loud thrashing waves behind me and dread engulfs me. My legs feel like jelly and my lungs are desperately gasping for air, but I know I can’t stop.

I soon come upon an abandoned shop, spot a bicycle, and hop on it, pedaling away furiously. My muscles scream in agony and the worst part is that I don’t even know where I am going. But I just keep pedaling, hoping to escape somewhere up the hills that separated the lower and upper part of the remaining San Francisco. I silently pray that my family and I will survive. The wheels of the bicycle squelch on the muddy sidewalk as I hear the intense rushing of water in hot pursuit. I look behind me, and my heart skips a beat at the sheer immensity of the colossal wave looming over shops along the shoreside street.

Suddenly, the bike lurches forward, throwing me to the ground. My head hits the hard cement sidewalk and a sharp pain instantly strikes me. I feel wet, sticky blood on my tongue. I feel like my entire head has shattered. All I can think about, though, is the surging water in the distance. It is speeding towards me and tears of helplessness fill my eyes.

Goodbye.

I think as my paralyzed limbs refuse to move.

My entire body throbs with pain and my vision blurs. Suddenly, I see faint silhouettes running towards me.

My whole body shakes with angst. Just as my vision dissolves, I hear the rushing water coming closer and closer. Grandpa’s sketchbook suddenly falls out of my loosening grip. I reach for it blindly, but the wind blows it away, towards the gushing water. A lump forms in my throat and my chest tightens. All of his memories were gone just like that, instantly. Then, rough hands grip my arms and drag me out of rushing water. I black out.

I feel like I’m floating.

Am I dead?

I wake up groggy, sitting on a soft platform, and prop myself up. I hear the voice of my grandfather and another unfamiliar voice.

I open my eyes. At first, my vision is blurry with slashes of black. Slowly, it clears and I see my Grandpa and a doctor in front of me. The doctor looks calm, while my Grandpa looks very concerned.

“Luckily, your grandson was rescued by a crew facilitating evacuation. Your grandson is getting better. There is no need to worry, and you may visit him whenever you like.”

“Thank goodness you're alive!” Grandpa says, and rushes forward to embrace me. He smells of the putrid water flooding the city as well. Soon, I pull apart and collapse on the bed, my joints weak, my muscles sore. I look outside of the door, a narrow corridor surrounded by slick white walls. At the end of the hallway, there is a large window which shows buildings and skyscrapers hovering above the roads crowded with traffic, untouched by the flood.

I must have ended up on the other side of San Francisco.

I prop myself up, and I see Grandpa gazing at a beautiful painting of nature, shaking his head sadly. The picture takes my breath away. In the painting, there is a long red bridge, standing on top of the crystal water. The sky was a brilliant azure blue, with the sun shining brightly. In the painting, the appearance of the ocean is priceless, clearer than crystal.

After a few moments, I’m about to ask what it is, and suddenly, I spot the title of the painting. It reads: “San Francisco, 2022.” Every time I see a picture of past San Francisco, the sublimity of the image is always shocking for me.

How is it possible that the San Francisco that was once so beautiful had turned into such an atrocity in less than a century?

The vibrant streets filled with culture that Grandpa had told me about have been annihilated by the flood. Buildings that once stood tall have been demolished. The little remains of the past have vanished. Despair fills me, and I think: Oh, what have we done?

I’m on the verge of collapsing, and I lie back in bed, exhausted and battered. My eyelids flutter, and they soon close. Abruptly, dizziness overtakes me, and I’m struck by incoherence. I decide to let go of all the overwhelming thoughts and anxiety I have accumulated throughout the day.

That night, I dream of a vast, cloudless blue sky and a brightly shining sun above a pristine ocean, its waves gently lapping at the shore. I dream of the ocean, alive, mesmerizing, and boundless. I dream of what the ocean is always meant to be. My head spirals with dizziness and the vision is over. I reach for my dream of what everything should be like, but it is just out of reach. Then, I wake up. I look out the window and find filthy waves crashing down on a shore scattered with garbage, my heart heavy with grief and longing.

Luke Sibbald, Appleby College, Grades 7 & 8

Beautiful, In Its Own Way

Fifteen years old and chasing an impossible dream. That’s what everyone thought. Everyone except Elliot Rivers, a young boy who knew he was destined to become an artist. But there was just one problem. He was achromatic, so badly colour-blind he could only make out grey.

On a stony beach at the Bottom of Jellybean Row, in St. John’s, Newfoundland, sat Elliot, painting what he could see in the horizon.

Every detail is accounted for, and I’ve even tried to add in colour, whatever that actually means, thought Elliot, sparing a quick glance at the tubes of paint below, which to him shone in shades of sharp iron and silvers. He gazed back at the painting, and then at the island, which he was painting.

“Yes, it’s perfect,” said Elliot out loud, and he was content.

His father ran an art exhibition in the summer, which people from all over would come to see. The due date for submissions would be closing soon and Elliot wanted one of his paintings included. But every year he tried, he could hear the voices.

“Too much rainbow.”

“Childish!”

“Did you mean for it to be like that?”

He planned to leave the painting in his father’s art station for the night, so that it could dry. He hurried up the slanted street with his painting under his arm. He stopped to open the door, when he noticed a figure inside. It was his tutor, the one who always criticized his work.

I must stay out here, or else he will see my painting and criticize it, thought Elliot. I never did tell him about my condition with colours. He doesn’t understand.

But I need to get this painting inside. Elliot began to pace.

“But—ARRGH!” he yelped, and to his surprise, out loud, and before he could realize what he had done, the door handle was starting to turn.

“Elliot!” his mentor cheerfully remarked. Elliot’s response was simply, “Oh… hi, Professor Williams.”

“Speaking of that lovely painting you’ve got there, I’ve got a question to ask you,” remarked Professor Williams. “How do you… get your inspiration for the colour in your works?”

This was the dreaded question Elliot indeed knew was coming, but he was surprised to hear it from his professor, and he was unprepared to answer.

“They... they all look the same,” stammered Elliot, fearing he was going to break into tears. His professor just smiled, then spoke words that Elliot never expected to hear, least of all from his mentor.

The next day was the judging. Each painter would separately present their artwork to the judges, and then after all the pieces had been judged, the judges would collectively pick five artworks to display.

Walking into the room, Elliot was surprised to encounter a crowd of people all shuffling to try to move up in the line. Allowing himself to gaze at their artwork, he could only begin to imagine the deep scarlets, magentas and greens that were encrusted harmoniously on to their canvases. He shamefully hid his painting, facing it towards his body and hoped that no one would come to question what he had made or why.

At last, it was his turn to progress. He entered the room to find four judges, along with both his father and his mentor.

He propped his painting against the large wooden easel in the middle of the room.

The judges looked at the painting for a long time—then at him, then at the painting, then back to him, then at the painting, before they finally asked with a confused voice, “Tell us about what you made.”

“I painted the island off of the shore, the sun shone beautifully in the sky that day, and I thought it would make a very pleasant picture,” mumbled Elliot, very aware of how the judges were staring him in the eye.

“Alright. Well, good job.”

Then Elliot heard one of the judges whisper, “I’ve never seen such brilliant colours made into a mess.”

Then he heard another say, “I told you Stanley, he’s not good enough.”

For Elliot, that was heartbreaking. He went straight home instead of waiting to hear the results. For the first time in his life, Elliot was lost, in a deep pit that he convinced himself that he hadn’t needed to fall in if he hadn’t been so foolish.

Later that night, with his head tucked under his pillow, he heard his father arguing with someone. It must’ve been his mentor, and he was only more confused when he listened in.

“Stanley, Elliot’s art is so unique and full of life. Why don’t you see potential in him?”

“It is, but he won’t tell anyone he’s colorblind. It makes it seem childish.”

“Goodnight, Stanley. I hope you think on this.”

“Goodnight, Williams. I think I must.”

That evening, Elliot got little sleep and found himself turning and tossing throughout the night, and when he woke up in the morning, he was pale in the face.

Downstairs, he found a note: “Meet me in my office – Father.”

Once in his father’s office, he was told to sit.

“Yesterday one of our donors’ paintings got lost on the voyage, and we needed a new painting. Elliot, although your painting is the shade of crippled fungus, it shows a path of resilience, a strong determination to get up and try again. Elliot, I’ve thought about it. Your painting shares a story that no other can begin to rival. Elliot Rivers, I’d like to ask for your painting in my gallery,” his father explained.

Then he understood. His art may not be like everyone else’s, but he has experienced life in a way that most artists never will. His art is unique.

Beautiful… in its own way.

Harper Reid, Kempenfelt Bay School, Grades 7 & 8

Breaking Glass

I check my phone. 11:59 AM. The class list should be posted any minute. I jog through the halls until I find myself in front of the drama room. I check my phone. 12:01 PM. There is a group of girls crowded around the bulletin board, and when they look up and see me, they burst into fits of giggles. I push my way through the crowd, and finally my eyes land on the sheet of paper. I scan the entire list for my name, yet I see nothing. Confused, I look again, and this time, I see it.

Zach – to play the role of Rachel

I genuinely hear myself laugh — that’s the female lead in the play! That can’t be right. I look again.

Zach – to play the role of Rachel

Oh my God. This can’t be happening. This is why the girls were laughing, isn’t it? No wonder! I’m a guy, I can’t play the role of a girl! Well, I don’t see why I can’t, but the rest of the school and TikTok will definitely ruin my life if I do this, even though it’s the biggest role I’ve ever gotten and I literally sing along to her solo in the shower—no. That’s not something I can think about right now.

I snap out of my head, and realize that the crowd of laughing kids has doubled in size, and all I can do is glare at the sheet of paper, the words staring fiercely back. I try to take deep breaths, but I can’t slow my heart. I bust through the crowd and run through the halls.

I don’t know where I’m going but I know I couldn’t stay there. Not where I felt like the giggles of freshmen through senior students would swallow me whole. My legs are taking me somewhere — a lot faster than they’ve ever moved before. Maybe I could just drop out of theatre and become a track star.

I burst through the doors of the school, dash down the steps and collapse onto a patch of grass by the crosswalk. I’m too tired to go home, but I certainly am skipping the rest of the day at school. I pull a sandwich out of my lunchbox and watch the passing cars. As I sit and eat, I wonder, “Why would it be bad for a boy to play a girl role? It’s acting, and isn’t that the point? And why should people laugh at me if I get to wear a pink shirt instead of a blue one? Pink is definitely the superior colour.”

After I’m finished eating I scroll on my phone for a while. Before I know it, it’s the end of the day… and it’s time for after-school clubs. I gulp. If I show up to theatre, they will laugh at me to my face, and if I don’t go, they’ll mock me behind my back. I may as well hear what they have to say about me. I get up, and head inside our school.

Hoodie yanked over my head, and drawstrings pulled tight, I stumble through the halls. I have to keep a low profile so as not to be seen, but I also need to get to the safety of the theatre. Miraculously, I push through the door to the theatre without once being made fun of by a kid passing by. Weird. I’m a few minutes early, so there’s only one girl here, reading a book with her Airpods in. Macy, I think her name is. I try to slink quietly into a corner, but before I can fully disappear behind a stack of chairs, she looks up, and our eyes meet. Uh oh.

“Hi,” probably Macy calls across the room. Or was her name Jenna? Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She's talking to me… or maybe there’s someone behind me. I gesture my pointer finger to my chest, questioning if it was, in fact, me that she was talking to. “Yes, you. There’s no one else here!” she replies.

Great. Now she thinks I’m dumb. “Hi. What do you want?” Oops. That was harsher than I meant to be. I prepare myself for her to criticize me.

She gives me a confused look. “I was just saying hi. I also just wanted to say that I’m the male lead, so… I guess I’m saying that you’re not alone.” Then, she adds, “Like, with bullying stuff.” Her face flushes. And then a thought pops into my head—our names were next to each other on the list! Maybe I’m the male lead and she’s the female! I have to go talk to Ms. Garcia! I can’t help but grin as I leap to my feet and run towards her office.

I fling open the door while shouting, “Ms. Garcia, Ms. Garcia!”

She spins around in her office chair. Sighing, she replies, “Who died?”

“The cast list is messed up! I’m supposed to be Mike! And the girl…” I trail off. Was her name Jenna or Macy? Think! “Jenmacyna” I slur, and Ms. Garcia raises an eyebrow. “Yeah! She’s supposed to be Rachel! And… and… yeah.”

My heart sinks when I see Ms. Garcia shaking her head. “No, I didn’t make a mistake with the list. You both are incredible actors and singers, so you had to be leads. But Grace sings alto, which is why she is cast in lower parts.” GRACE? Wow, I was so far off. And she doesn’t even look like a Grace! “You have a higher voice. And that wasn’t the only factor. I have my ways.” She says this last part with a mischievous grin on her face.

I sigh and nod, heading for the door. Before I pull open the door, she stops me. “Wait. Can you please just trust me that I’m not trying to ruin your life? I know that you’ll do amazing.” I nod again and head back to the theatre.

The rehearsal goes by better than expected. Sure, there were some rude jokes and name-calling here and there, but whenever it got to be too much, Ms. Garcia shut it down. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

For three months we rehearse twice a week for two hours after school. It’s surprisingly fun? I say it as a question because seventy percent of the time other kids are being a pain in the

butt, and not letting me live down the fact that I play a girl. But the other thirty percent, I’m on the stage, pretending to be a girl… and I like it?

I’ve always been into pink and “girly” things like Taylor Swift, but there’s always been a part of me wanting more. Everyday, it’s like I have to just stare into a glass box filled with all the things I wish I was allowed to like… like nail polish and makeup and having slumber parties with girl best friends. I don’t have many friends to paint my nails and the only sleepovers I’ve been to feel like The Hunger Games. And this glass box… It’s just there for me to look at. Every time I try to get inside, I just get pushed out and end up hurting more. That’s why I have to crush it as the female lead. Maybe I won’t be weird then?

Finally, FINALLY, opening night rolls around and I am bursting with excitement and nerves at the same time. If I do horribly, the bullying will get worse. But if I do amazing? A guy can dream.

And then… I do amazing. Not like, “Oh wow, there’s this little skinny guy up on a stage singing a merry little tune kind of good.” I CRUSHED it. As I finish the last note in the final song, and take a bow, the crowd goes wild. I smile so wide that my mouth begins to hurt.

I practically skip off the stage and wrap Mac—no. Jen—no. Grace in a hug.

“We did it!” she half-scream half-whispers into my ear, and I begin to laugh because her fake beard has almost completely rubbed off.

As I walk backstage towards my changeroom, I am engulfed in many, many “great jobs!” from my castmates. And then something happens that makes my whole face light up.

I hear one extremely popular girl whisper to her boyfriend, “Honestly, I kind of feel bad for pestering him. He did really great.”

“Yeah,” he replies, “I might try out for a girl next year. I know this sounds cheesy, but when Zach was up there, he just embraced himself and didn’t care about what others think. I think I might try out for a female role next year.”

I grin, bigger than the one onstage. I inhale, and then breathe out a satisfying breath. Mission accomplished. Glass box shattered.

Valarie Yip, Lauremont School, Grades 7 & 8

Home Sweet Home

Dogs aren’t allowed to be out of the zoo. How on earth did he escape? I need to take him back before the policía finds him or the poor thing will be treated as a stray and get executed. But he’s running so fast and I can barely keep up with him. Where is he going anyways? It’s been almost 30 minutes and I’m literally at the edge of the City.

I have never been this close to the City boundary. The High Council forbids us from travelling outside the City for our own safety. There are many homeless people lurking within the shadows beyond the City. I have never met any homeless people before but they are said to be ruthlessly dangerous savages.

“WOOF! WOOF!” he turns around and begs me to keep up. I pick up my pace as he sprints off again. I am now officially outside of the City. What have I done? This perilous journey into the unknown has to be the worst mistake I’ve ever made. I must have broken at least a dozen rules by now. I am only two months away from getting my own pod. Every summer, all 13-year-olds are presented with their own pods. I can hardly wait to move away from my parents and live by myself.

Where am I? Everywhere I look, there is vegetation. I look up and see the blinding sun. I turn around and all I see is a sea of trees, stretching for miles. The dog is nowhere to be found now. I am all alone, lost and scared in a strange and unfamiliar place.

“RUFF! RUFF!” I follow the sound into a small clearing. That’s when I see him.

Kneeling next to the dog is a boy. The dog is now running circles around him, wagging his tail and licking the boy’s face. When the boy sees me, he stands up. The first thing I noticed is that he is about my height and that he is not wearing his uniform. He has a strange and peculiar look about him. He has long braids down his back and feathers sticking out of his hair. He is wearing some sort of animal hide “jumpsuit” with matching embroidered boots. I have never seen anybody like him before. Could he be a homeless person? But he looks far too friendly to be one.

“Hey you! Who are you and what are you doing here?” I am freaking out on the inside but I speak loudly, trying my best to sound brave. I also speak slowly in order to enunciate every syllable, in case he doesn’t understand English.

“I should be asking you the same! This is our land and you don’t belong here. Your kind lives in the City of Pods. I heard all about your kind. Who are you and why are you here?”

“I’m Valarie and I... wait, how did you know I’m from the City of Pods?”

“First of all, your kind always wears the same boring uniform. Second of all, everyone here knows me. I’m Kevin, the great-grandson of Grand Chief Tecumseh. Are you here to hunt us again?”

I don’t understand. I’m not a hunter. Who’s hunting them? “Hey, what do you mean?! I’m not a hunter. I was just trying to rescue that dog and somehow got lost.”

“Well, Mufasa doesn’t need rescuing. He’s my dog and he lives with me.”

“What?! The High Council has straight rules against pets. Animals are only allowed in the zoo!”

“Well then, it’s a good thing that I don’t live in the City.”

“So where do you live? Aren’t you one of those homeless people that the High Council warned us about?”

“Just because I don’t live in a pod like all of you City people, it doesn’t make me a homeless person. In fact, I live together with my family and friends in a very nice community. You can come visit and see for yourself. My HOME is not far from here.”

My brain tells me not to go. The High Council warned us repeatedly to stay away from homeless people. These savages are dangerous. I could lose my pod for breaking the rules. But my heart is curious and something about him tells me Kevin is sincere. Still I’m not sure if this is a risk I should take.

“You know, I don’t bite if that’s what you’re thinking. Anyhow, I’m going home now because I’m starving. Have a nice life in your little pod!” With that Kevin turns around and starts to walk off. “Come Mufasa! Good boy! Let’s go home!”

“Wait! Kevin, I’m coming!”

I was lost and desperate so I followed Kevin deeper into the heart of the forest. After a while, we emerged into a sunny clearing.

I am at a loss for words, which is unusual for me. But I don’t know how to describe where I’m at or what I’m seeing. I think I’m in the middle of an encampment. There are tents everywhere with people hustling about. It’s unorderly but not chaotic. People laugh and engage in conversations with each other while they work and small children run around giggling. It’s noisy but it feels strangely welcoming. Suddenly, a pungent aroma whiffed into my nose.

“It looks like we’re having chili for dinner. You’re in luck! Auntie Patty makes the best chili around here.” Kevin nodded over at an old lady nearby who was standing over an open fire and stirring a gargantuan pot.

“Are you a good cook?”

“Cook? No, it’s dangerous Kevin! The High Council forbids it. We have our breakfast and lunch at the school cafeteria and have our dinners delivered to our pods every night. The High Council makes sure our meals are purified and meet our daily nutritional intake requirements.”

“The City of Pods has so many rules. We all know how to cook and we’re free to choose what we eat.” Kevin said, as he led me inside one of the bigger tents. “Great-grandpa, this is Valarie, a podster. She followed Mufasa to our reserve.”

Grand Chief Tecumseh has a scrawny physique but like Kevin, he also has a friendly face. He hugged me and welcomed me to the community. “A long, long time ago, I used to live in the City too. Back then, it was called Toronto and people needed to work to earn their money to buy their house. But then, some people could not afford to buy a house and they became homeless. As time passed, more people became homeless and lived on the streets. At the same time, there has been more extreme weather due to climate change. Every year, we have more and more homeless people dying from the scorching summers, frigid winters or drowning in the frequent flash floods.”

“How come I never learned about this?” I might not have done well in history class but I swear this is the first time I’ve heard about this.

Grand Chief patiently explained, “It was a very painful memory. Everyone tries to forget so no one wants to talk about it. To solve the homelessness problem, the High Council became responsible for providing housing to all citizens. Given land is limited, the High Council took back all the land and built pods to ensure that every citizen has a place to live. It was a great idea at first but then other problems arose, forcing the High Council to keep adding more rules. For example, citizens are not allowed to cook in their pods for fear of fire hazards. Citizens are not allowed to have pets in their pods for fear of spreading diseases and pests. A few of us felt that this was not how we should live. Our pod felt more like a prison than a home. We started protesting for our rights and our freedom but the High Council argued that their way kept everyone safe and sheltered. In the end, a group of us left the city and moved here to start our own community where everyone has the freedom to live the way we choose to. While you might think of us as homeless, the homes we build mean so much more to us than your city pods. Our home is where we live, with the people we love, doing the things we love. I know this is a lot for you to process but I sincerely hope that you would consider staying with us. For the first time in your life, you have a right to choose and I hope you choose us. Get some rest and let us know your decision in the morning.”

I was stunned and dazed. As I lay there under the clear night sky, I gazed up into the scintillating stars and pondered where I should live. The cool night breeze gently caressed my cheeks. The nightingales’ lullaby serenaded the night as I floated away into darkness.

Aiden Matthews, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School, Grades 7 & 8

The Case of the Blue Bulldog

As I walk down the spiraling stairs of the library I see the delightful librarian, I complimented him on his formal attire I then saw his little dog, but for some weird reason there was a lot of fog But I didnt perfectly see the dog, and all I could see was my shoe I saw that the dog was a tiny teeny little bit blue. Sky blue, dark blue, baby blue, electric blue I'm not sure which blue the dog was

But the dog was blue, and the dog was big I slowly walked out of the building and the warmth disappeared from inside my body

My limbs soon became very numb I couldn't move and I couldn't linger I saw the dog again and it was blue. It was cobalt blue. I laughed and laughed until I couldn't breathe but the bulldog then again disappeared I waited for two days, and I went to the library again The man was there as calm as ever his eyes showed that he cherished these books and that he was clever I noticed that he must have worked a great endeavor. The shelves were stacked with books and statues

But the statues were of dogs, blue dogs I asked the man why blue? but he left the building without a clue I wondered day and night where the dog was Until I heard a small sound, I looked out of my window And all I saw was a tiny little red crow I followed it but to my surprise He led me to the blue bulldog

And beside the blue bulldog was a black leash with the librarian He looked up at me, I got startled and spilled coffee on my electrical bill I went to the doctor the next day because I felt very ill He then made me lick this purple popsicle stick I said I love the color purple and he said that it was blue I said no it's purple, and then he put me in front of an eye exam I put my foot down and said no, I then found out I was just red/green color blind I went back to the library with my new glasses and saw that The dog was not blue no, He was a very light purple.

Once I noticed he was a beautiful color I found I should do something new I like the color purple too!

New me

My hair might get duller

But I will try and dye my hair a new color

A different color, orange.

Ishaan Grotra, Appleby College, Grade 10

Echoes of Her Song

I slip off my shoes and carefully push open the front door. It's unlocked, just as grandmother always left it every Sunday. The warm smell of cardamom, saffron, and sandalwood wraps around me like an unspoken welcome. The scent belongs to this house, to Sundays, to her. As I walk towards the kitchen, I can hear the sharp whistle of the kettle releasing the rich scent of masala chai and the gentle crackle of pakoras frying in hot oil. Here, time moved at its own pace, measured not in minutes but in the rhythmic creak of the old ceiling fan and the steady hum of my grandmother’s voice as she sang.

She sang every Sunday, her steady and unshaken voice floating through the house. I never knew her words, and she never knew mine. I was born in Canada. My parents spoke Hindi to each other but English to me, slipping between languages as if expecting me to follow. But I never did. I could catch familiar words in a sea of unfamiliar sounds, but they never felt like mine when I tried to speak.

Grandmother only spoke Hindi. I only spoke English. Our conversations were a series of gestures and smiles stitched together by my parents’ translations: words passed back and forth like an echo, fading a little more each time. But when she sang, we didn’t need translation. Her voice carried across the room, removing the language barrier between us. Some days, the melodies were bright and full, weaving between the sound of rolling dough and the clatter of steel cups. Other days, they’re softer, laced with something heavy I couldn’t name. I would sit at the table, watching her hands move with the rhythm, wondering what the songs meant and what memories they held.

I never asked. Maybe I was afraid of the answer, afraid that even if she told me, I still wouldn’t understand. So, instead, I just listened and sometimes sang along. It wasn’t perfect; I didn’t know the words, only their shape. But in those moments, it didn’t matter. In song, the space between us didn’t feel so vast. One Sunday, the house was louder than usual. The kitchen was packed, voices overlapping as my relatives from India filled the space with stories and laughter.

I sat at the table, listening but not quite following. The conversation moved too fast, words blending before I could separate them. I nodded along anyway, smiling when everyone else did.

“You don’t understand, do you?” my aunt Maasi teased, nudging me playfully.

A few chuckled, and their laughter weighed in my chest.

“I understand some,” I mumbled, shifting in my seat.

“Ohh, acha!” My uncle leaned in with a grin. “Then tell us, beta, how’s your Hindi these days?” Winning Entry

I hesitated, the words forming in my head before slipping out clumsily. “Uh… Hindi, um… bohot… accha?”

It was wrong. I could hear it as soon as I spoke. The pronunciation felt stiff and unnatural, as if I was trying on a shirt that didn’t fit.

That was enough to send them into laughter.

“Ay, wah! So cute,” my cousin smirked. “His accent is like a firangi.”

“He’s forgetting his roots,” someone joked, shaking their head.

I forced out a small chuckle, pretending it didn’t bother me, but heat rose to my face. I stared down at my plate, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place I felt.

At school, it was the opposite.

There, I was too Indian.

“Does your house smell like curry?” someone asked in third grade, scrunching their nose. I didn’t answer.

“Bro, wait. You don’t have an Indian accent?” a classmate in middle school said it was like some achievement. “You actually sound normal.”

I was always too Canadian to belong.

Too Indian to fit in.

I felt like I was living between two places, never fully stepping into either. Like I was standing on a border I couldn’t cross. And yet, every Sunday, grandmother sang to me. In those moments, the lines didn’t seem so sharp.

One Sunday, something was off. The warm smell of turmeric and cardamom still greeted me, but grandmother seemed different, quieter, and heavier. Later that night, my parents sat me down. “Your grandmother, she’s getting weaker,” my mother said softly. “The doctors say it’s her heart.”

I nodded, but my stomach twisted. I’d spent my life feeling like there was always time: time to learn Hindi, understand her songs, and finally cross the invisible space between us. But now, it was slipping through my fingers.

The next Sunday, I went to see grandmother again, but this time, I felt like a stranger walking into a familiar world.

I sat beside grandmother, watching her lips move around the lyrics of the song she

always sang, wishing I could hold onto them, trap them in my hands before they slipped away. But they floated past me, just as they always had, lost in a language I didn’t know.

That night, in the silence of my room, I did something I had never done before. I opened my phone and typed: How to learn Hindi

The first lesson started with simple phrases. I whispered them under my breath, my pronunciation uneven, my tongue tripping over syllables that should’ve felt like home.

I kept going. At dinner, I asked my parents about grandmother’s songs.

“That one?” my mother said, taking a sip of chai. “It’s about resilience.”

My father added, “It’s about pushing forward, even when the path is unclear.”

I let the words settle in me, like something I’d always known but never truly heard.

Over the next few weeks, I listened more carefully. I memorized the melodies, even if I didn’t fully understand the meaning. I found myself humming them when I was alone, letting the notes guide me like a bridge between us.

One day, I found something I wasn’t expecting. Buried deep in the back of my parents’ closet, beneath old photo albums and rusted bangles, was a cassette tape with grandmother’s name written on the front in faded ink. I stared at it, my fingers tracing the letters as if touching them would bring me closer to the version of her that had existed before I was born. I dusted off an old cassette player in the basement and pressed play. Her voice that filled the room, young, strong, and unmistakable. Not just singing — performing

Grandmother had been a singer.

For the first time, I saw her beyond Sundays beyond the kitchen. I pressed play again. And again.

Until I could finally sing it back to her.

Monday after school, my father came unexpectedly to pick me up. As I sat in the car, my father’s tired eyes stared at me, his face heavy.

“She’s in the hospital,” he said quietly. “We’ll go see her now.”

The car ride was silent.

When we arrived, the room smelled of antiseptic, not chai. The steady beeping of a heart monitor replaced the hum of the ceiling fan. Grandmother looked small in the hospital bed, her hands resting on top of the blanket, still. I sat beside her, my throat tight. I wanted to tell her that I had been learning. That I had been listening. That I finally understood. But words had

always failed us. So instead, I sang. My voice shook, the words slipping between English and Hindi, my pronunciation still rough, my breath uneven. But I sang anyway. Her eyes fluttered open, just slightly. For a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

And then she was gone.

In the following weeks, I found myself humming when I was alone, the songs curling around me like an echo of something I had almost lost. I listened to her tapes again, not out of sadness, but because they felt like a part of her, I could still hold onto. I learned the lyrics, slowly, carefully, not perfectly, but with pride. At school, the comments didn’t stop. Someone still said, “You don’t even have an accent? You’re basically white.”

Another still joked, “I bet your house smells like curry.”

But I didn’t laugh along this time.

Because I wasn’t standing on the edge anymore, afraid of what people thought.

I had crossed the boundary.

Because identity wasn’t just about language. It wasn’t about fluency or pronunciation or being enough of something. It was about carrying her voice forward and finding my own. The words, the history, the songs I had once felt so distant from, they weren’t foreign anymore.

They were home.

Eloise Bramer, The York School, Grade 10

Will You Hear Me

Can you hear me when it feels like I’m shouting at the sky

Your face unmoving unchanged

Can you hear me

Through my sentences that Dance and flourish on a page

Bringing life to the tales of Greek heroes

Or is all you see the way I look as I age And the places where my maturity shows

Though I can easily recite endless facts

Of the world that surrounds us and of poets past

You still consider me less and try to put my words last

Can you hear

My rasping, broken voice

Lost, screaming the too common stories like that of Atalanta, surrendered to the wild by her father who desired a son, Hatshepsut, first female pharaoh erased from history by the jealousy of men, Hina, harassed by a man over and over, until her husband decided he had gone too far

We repeat and recite Their struggles and stories

Hoping we won't have to fight

To be a statistic in your movies

Pretend we don't know

You're impatiently

Pacing

Waiting

Praying

For the day when we Throw our books into the flames

That feed your fragile ego

Let me go

Forget thriving in your fishbowl, In your claustrophobic display, We’re outgrown, Prying at the seams

And at the seeds of hope that one day Winning Entry

Our lives won't be diminished to A political decision

By those trying To fan the flame

For a popularity gain

You’ll paint the roses red And me a villain

But you won't lose your head

You’ll watch the world burn And throw us in it

If you set me aflame

At least there will be light

Then maybe other women

Will feel safe walking alone at night

You may stake me out

But at least, I’ll know I can guide those who’ll come after me

And

We won't have to Survive another day In a man's world

Can you hear us

When the only acceptable sound Is the shrieking cries

Of our burning mouths

And what's funny is Though I’m fighting To be heard

This poem Doesn't pass The Bechdel test.

Adhya Chandradat, The Country Day School, Grade 10

Victoria Caldwell: The Truth Behind the Tech

My name is Victoria Caldwell. I am thirty-two years old, and I was born on the seventh of January, 1962. By picking this up, you have consented to listen to my story. I will not beg you to believe the words that I say; however, if you do, I thank you. A woman’s truth is often dismissed.

My story began in a small room, with a maze of desks, half-finished lines of code, and deserted coffee cups. Wires jutted out from the walls like the roots of a tree pushing through cracked pavement. The wires and the papers seemed to have more presence than I did. I’d walk in every day, and the only other women I’d see were the secretaries. They’d be off chatting, fetching coffee, and doing everything they were told. I, on the other hand, would move to my lonesome desk, isolated from the men’s collaboration in the tiny space. Although no one would ever explicitly say it, the silences when I’d enter the room and the sideways glances spoke louder than words ever could. I could’ve become a teacher or a nurse, but I ended up working with computers to perform research and expand our understanding of how they worked.

I was nineteen when I began working at the company. Young, but I was already doing more than most. The process was simple: Refine, test, debug, and do it again. I always had an aptitude for mathematics in school, so it only made sense to put that to good use. I remember learning about what a computer could do. It seemed beyond what anyone would ever dream of, and there I was, designing and programming.

We had books full of hastily scribbled notes, and my lungs were filled with chalk dust from the times I’d stand up and handwrite my code on the scrawny chalkboard on the wall.

Most girls my age had gotten married to their high-school sweethearts, but I never cared for that. I talked myself out of that idea when I was fourteen. All I wanted was to put my brain to work, and that was enough.

I could perform iterations faster than anyone, my hands moving nimbly and swiftly across the papers. My mind was the sharpest, and I felt that I was inching closer and closer to a discovery. I was right. Sorting through vast amounts of data efficiently was a daunting task, but I had found a connection. Patterns have always come easily to me, and this one emerged on the chalkboard. It seemed like an overnight success, but it took me two years to work it out, on top of my actual workload.

I was twenty-four when I crafted the sorting algorithm, using quicker methods that would save time and money. I found it while repeatedly checking a large data set for a condition, but I could not get through it fast enough. Then it hit me: break up the set into subsets, and sort through those to find anomalies, before merging them back into one set. It worked well. So well that the company wanted to sell the plans to businesses and generate a massive profit.

The only way anyone would take it seriously would be if the algorithm were created by a man. I wrote a paper to explain the function, entitled “Optimizing Data Flows for the Microprocessor Era.” This was credited to Warren Whitaker. In the midst of the cluttered desks, there he was, bringing me coffee on the days when I would stay at work so late, that I wouldn’t end up going home. The other men never so much as glanced at me, but Warren would always strike up a conversation. Always so intrigued to know what I thought. He was altruistic, and we had bonded over the fact that we were the youngest in the room, him being two years my senior.

I noticed his glances at my work, but I’d always counter my cynicism with, “You’re just being silly, Victoria.”

He listened intently when I spoke to my boss about my work, but I brushed it off by remembering my mother’s words: “People take notice of good work.”

I was suspicious, but in a world like this, I was taught to ignore and accept. If anything happened, it must be my fault. I now realize that the signs were always there, but I was “too naive.”

I wasn’t naive, I was conditioned by the system I was raised in.

It was too late when I realized his kindness was simply a ploy. He was the second-best in the room and the first one the company decided to pawn off my work to. Warren’s ambition had proved to be stronger than his loyalty.

I vividly remember the words, “This is bigger than you, Victoria.”

The company said I would be compensated accordingly. A payout of ten thousand dollars and a modest salary increase for me—if I signed away my intellectual property rights. I didn’t know then that the “standard contract” would erase my involvement and discovery, leaving everything transferred to Warren. They told me that I would be credited “internally” and that the agreement was “just a formality.”

I recall my mother telling me in her no-nonsense tone, “I need you to be mature. We do not have any time for these antics, so go along with it. Take the money, Victoria.”

It was never about the money.

It has been five years since I made the decision, and it has been destroying every single part of me. I began working at the bank, and tedious can’t begin to describe my new job.

One day, Warren stopped by the bank to make a massive deposit. He refused to make eye contact. He saw how upset I looked, how maddening this whole ordeal was.

I had to forget my past, forget my involvement, forget it all. This contract would effectively silence me for life, as I was forbidden to speak of its creation and details.

This brings me to why I have written this. I lost something great, and it should have been mine to hold. The company pried my work from my delicate fingers, leaving me to clutch on to the lingering weight of what I once had. It was never intended for me to receive credit, no matter what I did. The world wouldn’t accept me, or my work.

So now I ask you, was it just? I know it is radical for me to be asking this, but if you had the gall to pick this up, then on some level, you must believe me.

The absolute truth is that I was never meant to be behind the scenes in my own story. The company wanted me subjugated because they could never fathom a woman leading us into the future. I refuse to be silent. What I have done, what I have created, is not just a series of calculations, it is proof of my potential, and the brilliance that every woman is capable of. The company was right when they said that this was bigger than me. This is about every voice that has been drowned out. This is about every woman who was told to stay in her place because she didn’t fit what they wanted. This is about every single mind that has been erased from what they chose to include in history.

I am writing this because I will not let them take any more from me than what they’ve already taken. My silence was theirs, but my words are mine. You can choose to ignore me, to dismiss me as a bitter reminder of the past, but if you truly believe me, then I command you to ask questions of history.

Question the systems that erase people like me. Who has power? Who controls the narrative? Who benefits from secrecy? Make demands. Destroy the social structures that enable those in power to thrive in an environment that diminishes the accomplishments of others.

They took my name off of my work, but they cannot take my name off of this.

My name is Victoria Caldwell.

I am thirty-two years old, and I will not let them define me and my legacy.

Ashley Smith, St Mildred's-Lightbourn School, Grade 10

My Honest Poem

An adaptation of Rudy Francisco’s poem “My Honest Poem.”

Hi my name is Ashley Adele Smith, I was born on November 8, 2009.

I hear that makes me a Scorpio.

I’m 5’9, with blue eyes and blonde hair. I weigh 130 pounds and I don’t know how to whistle.

I’m still learning how to stop apologizing for things that were never my fault, to let go of burdens I didn’t pack myself, to understand the things given to me but not deserved.

I’m often stuck— walking the same path as yesterday, and today.

I like iced coffee— maybe too much.

I’ve been told I’m kind, considerate, sweet, and responsible.

I don’t find it hard to be.

People say I have ocean eyes, golden hair, and a heart that gets scared easily.

Secretly,

I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I never knew I would be writing a victim impact statement at 13.

Honourable Mention Entry

I never thought innocence would be taken from me so quietly.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm her again with a loud voice of disappointment.

There wasn’t always a trusted guardian in my life— a father meant to be a guide, but a daughter taken for granted.

The hands that were supposed to protect and comfort me.

And to be honest, sometimes I wonder what people would think or say if they read my old chapters— the ones with damaged pages and scribbled-out lines, the ones I hate to flip back to.

Sometimes I wonder if they’d still look at me the same.

I’m afraid

I'm afraid that without my second face— the one I’ve learned to wear so well—

I’d be raw, too plain, I'm missing my mask.

Hi, my name is Ashley Adele Khan.

I enjoy spending time with my sisters, eating pints of brownie batter ice cream,

Playing the notes of my feelings on the piano, and finding any chance I can to spend time with friends.

I don’t allow myself to put down the weight of blame, to rest from carrying things that were never mine to begin with.

I have friends with time limits, tears that come to my eyes too often

My hobbies include postponing tomorrow’s promises, balancing oars, coating my lashes with 3 coats of mascara and playing my social roles as best as I can.

I know.

I know. I know there’s still a little girl I’m looking down to, asking why her last name changed.

I know she’s come so far.

So many things she’s learned

And I know

She still loves her friends and family. She still hugs Mousey at night. She still loves pomegranates. And she got away from him— something she thought would never happen.

Aliya Makada , Hillfield Strathallan College, Grades 9 & 10

Alexandra’s Favours

I’ve never felt good at anything.

Math, painting, sports, driving, sewing–even being in my own body was hard for me. I had always been envious of people who can talk to anyone, bring a smile to people's faces, speak out against the things they hated. But my hands wouldn't move, my mouth wouldn't talk, my feet would stand still, and I was left watching as moments of my life passed without me. I simply laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, my body still unable to rise.

But in September, everything changed. I remember it clearly, the window shining brightly on my face as I looked at the textbook in front of me. It was getting to that point in the day where the words had started to jumble together. I heard laughter next to me and I tried to block it out, it always hurt my ears, like a monster's screech. “Stop it!” I heard. It was a highpitched voice paired with angelic laughter. I turned my head towards the back of the classroom, and there she was. Casually sitting with her friends, her bewitching smile was glowing. She stood out with her dark, shiny hair and tanned skin, like a ruby in a sea of pebbles. She noticed me staring and gave me a weird look as I quickly averted my attention away from her and her friends. I wiped the back of my hand over my face, feeling my cracked tan skin rough against my hollow cheeks.

I had put my headphones on, trying to block out the sound of my thoughts and the screeching laughter. I had tried to forget about what had just happened as I replayed every moment. Her smile had slightly dropped when she saw me. I remember thinking, Does that mean she doesn’t like me? I felt a tap on my shoulder and I moved to slide my headphones off my ear. “Hi!” I heard in a warm, cheerful voice. My body had stilled before I turned in my chair.

“Hey,” I replied, patting down my slightly flushed cheeks.

“I’m Alexandra, I’ve never seen you around before, are you new?” she said, trying to contain her smile.

“Uh, yeah sure” I said, scrambling for words. I still don’t know why I lied, as I’d been going to that school for five years.

“Oh um, nice! What's your name?” she replied, looking curiously into my green eyes.

“Grayson,” I replied. My hands started to clam up.

“Nice! Well I hope to see you around,” she said, turning around to go back to her seat.

I’d been at that school for five years and nobody had even tried to talk to me. I turned back and saw her laughing with her friends, all clapping their hands over their mouths to

muffle the sound of their laughter. I distinctly remembered her winking at me and her friends starting to laugh harder. I swiftly turned in my seat, completely dazed by the interaction. My cheeks were burning, and I could hear the ringing in my ears start to grow louder.

As I arrived home from school and reached my bedroom I dumped my backpack on the floor and flopped onto my bed. Completely frozen once again, my eyes burned into the ceiling. My phone dinged and I checked it to see a message from someone who had once made my stomach drop to the floor: “Hi Grayson, this is Alexandra I got your number from a friend.”

My hands were shaking as I texted back, “Hey, how are you?” My eyebrows creased as I stared at my screen.

Was it possible for one’s world to revolve around someone? I memorized her perfume, her mannerisms, her likes and dislikes. She was the only person I felt safe with, the only person at school who liked me. With that, her friends started talking to me and even some guys in our grade spoke to me for the first time in years. For a while, it felt like I was someone. Someone special, someone who was liked, someone who was good at sports and math and drawing. But it wasn’t until it was too late that I realized what was happening.

The issues started in October. “Grayson, do you have a charger?” “Grayson, can I borrow your airpods?” “Grayson, just say it! It doesn’t mean anything anyway.” “Grayson, can I copy your homework?” “Grayson, can you lie to the teacher for me?” Everything she said to me was suddenly a request, a favour that anyone would do for their friends. Except, she stopped treating me like a friend and more like a servant, one who would lie and cheat just to appease her. And suddenly her lips and smile didn’t matter anymore because all I could hear was every sentence coming from her mouth being a demand.

Suddenly, those things I had loved about her turned into feelings of hatred and all I could see was pure rage when I looked at her. Her once glossy hair looked dead and dry, her bubbly personality seemed as if a demon had stolen it from an angel. Her bright smile turned into a devilish smirk willing to get what she wanted no matter the cause. It didn’t happen in the blink of an eye, it got gradually worse. A friendship that was once flourishing started to wilt.

It was one day at school when I suddenly broke. “Grayson, give me your airpods,” I heard behind me in class, as Alexandra’s footsteps approached my seat. The rage in my fists started to build. She didn’t even ask; she just acted like the item was hers. But I calmly straightened my fingers out. I slowly blinked my eyes, starting to feel like I was in my bedroom again, frozen, letting everything go by. Until one, very unknown word came out of my mouth, “No.”

“Grayson, you're joking right? Just give them to me, I promise I’ll give them back,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips.

“No, I want to use them,” I said, determined to not stutter as I spoke. She gave me an annoyed look and went back to her seat. I watched as she told the friend sitting beside her what

I said and they both gave me annoyed looks. It took everything in me not to get my Airpods from my bag and pass it to them. I turned back in my seat, took a deep breath, and resisted thinking about it. They didn’t care about me, so why should I care about them?

But it wasn’t that one moment that changed everything. It was saying “No” over and over again that finally got her to break.

“Grayson, can I copy your work?”

“Grayson, can I have food?”

“No.”

“Grayson, can I borrow your water bottle?”

“No.”

It wasn’t just one thing that made me feel like this. It was constantly asking and asking but never giving. I had given her a gift for her birthday in November and she hugged me tightly. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. But when it came to my birthday in March, she said, “I’m so sorry I forgot a gift, I’ll get it for you next week!” Until next week turned into next month and next month turned into summer and somehow she still hadn’t given me a gift. Even when I spent $70 dollars on her gift. That's the thing with Alexandra–she puts in just enough effort to ever stop me from wondering why she never put in more.

It never felt good leaving. It felt like icing my heart again, transporting me back to when I didn’t feel anything but uselessness. When I felt like nothing. It took me so long to realize that what I had before was more authentic and true then anything with her would have been. She treated me like a project she took under her wing, but after the project failed she simply discarded me.

She still looks at me sometimes, says hi, but knowing what I know now, I would never go back. I see her new project now, a new girl from Washington, very quiet. I see it now in other people. Laughing at the things that aren’t funny, seeming interested in things they aren’t just to appease the person they are with. I see it now, because it’s what I used to do. When Alexandra would tell a story I would laugh and laugh because I wanted to see that smile on her face. But doing that only dug a deeper hole for me to lay in as she shoveled the dirt on top of me.

I know all friendships end, but I truly thought that Alexandra and I would always be friends. It doesn’t matter if she's changed or if I want to go back to being friends. I will never cross that boundary again, or else, I might very well return to that bedroom, slowly sinking into my bed, never returning to the surface.

Allegra Ricci, The Bishop Strachan School, Grades 9 & 10

Backstage

It was the day of our provincial championship on a chilly February morning. Everyone was snuggled up in their team onesies, desperately trying to stay warm, with their sparkly uniforms just underneath. As I looked around, I saw the younger kids running around like animals in the wild, clutching their stuffed animals and little toys. I saw parents grabbing their children by the hand, saying, “Say cheese!” as they posed for photos, which were definitely not the first ones they had taken that day. The smell of hairspray gave me butterflies in my stomach, a mix of excitement and nerves.

As I walked to the warm-up area, I felt an unfamiliar sensation. As I walked to the warm-up area, I felt an unfamiliar sensation. My stomach was no longer filled with butterflies, but birds. I looked around, realizing how many people were there, even though an audience had never really bothered me. I brushed it off, hoping it would go away on its own. I started to do my stretches, holding each for a few extra seconds to make sure I was properly stretched. I could hear the loud music coming from the stage that was just on the other side of the wall, knowing it would be my turn soon.

Coach gathered us in a tight circle, his voice scratchy from screaming all day.

“Remember, you guys have got this. We’ve done this routine hundreds of times in the gym, and performing it here is no different. This is practice for nationals, so do your best. Trust yourselves and remember to breathe.”

His words made me feel something like they were hitting close to home. My teammates and I often joked about how he sounded like he was giving us a TED Talk or a lecture, but this time I didn’t participate in the jokes. Why did he think we needed reassurance?

“I’m so excited,” my best friend, Abby, said, “I heard the medals are really big!”

The birds became hawks, why wasI the only nervous person? As we walked toward the stage, I felt sick—not like I had the flu, but as if everything I had ever eaten was about to come back up. I felt dizzy, and the noise of the excited crowd was overwhelming; it sounded both loud and quiet as if it were coming from another universe. My heart felt like it was about to explode from my chest, pounding so hard that I almost couldn’t hear Abby ask, “Are you okay? Do you want some of my water?” A moment went by, I still couldn’t hear her. “Legs! Do you want me to get coach?”

“No. I’m fine.”

Truth is, I wasn’t. I was feeling a feeling I had never felt before. When I heard the announcer call out that our team was on deck, I felt even worse. I was overwhelmed with adrenaline, my heart racing, and my hands sweating and shaking.

Once it was our turn, I was supposed to go on stage. However, the usual excitement of running out onto the stage had gone. I stepped back deeper into the backstage area, feeling overwhelmed and out of control. I felt the tears dripping down my face and onto my uniform. I watched as the music started, my team frantically looking around trying to find me. I stumbled around, trying to find a wall to lean on. Suddenly, I felt someone grab my shoulders. At first, I was startled; it couldn’t be a teammate, since they were on stage, and it definitely wasn’t coach, because he was watching my team perform. The person pulled me closer, wrapping one arm around me in a tight, comforting hug while the other hand gently wiped away my tears.

We hugged in silence until I was able to catch my breath. I looked up and realized it was Skylar, one of the main tumblers on the international team. I immediately attempt to wipe away my tears. She couldn’t see me like this. She was Skylar, one of the best athletes in all of Canada, if not the whole world. Stop crying, Allegra. Stop! This was so embarrassing. She was going to think I was a crybaby.

She noticed that I was trying to wipe away my tears, “Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright. I’m right here.” She hugged me tighter and continued, “I’ve been exactly where you are right now. I know it feels like everything is going wrong. Like you can’t breathe and everything is out of control, but I promise you, it’s going to be okay.” She leaned in, our eyes meeting, “Don’t worry about the routine, or the people, or doing all your tumbling. Just focus on taking one breath at a time, slowly. You're not here to be perfect, you're here to have fun because this is the sport you love!”

“I... I don’t know what happened. Everything just went dark, and then it started spinning. It felt loud and quiet at the same time.” I paused for a second, starting to hyperventilate and struggling to find my words. “I can’t breathe.”

“You can, I promise. I can feel it,” she replied, rubbing my back in a circular motion. “You know, my love, it’s completely normal to feel this way.” I shook my head, no, but she continued, “It really is. It happens to me all the time.”

“It can’t happen to you. You're on a world's team. I mean you’re you! Your Skylar Beckham, one of the best cheerleaders ever. This doesn’t happen to you! You're just trying to make me feel better!”

“I wish I could say I was lying, my love. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but when I was your age, I was a gymnast, and I went through something similar. My chest would tighten, my hands would shake, and I would always wonder if there was something wrong with me. It made me feel like I wasn’t strong enough, like the other gymnasts in my class. And over time, I got more and more anxiety and depression, so I ended up quitting gymnastics. There was a period

of time when I didn’t leave my room to eat, to shower, to exercise. Never. But then I found cheer, and I learned that your feelings don’t define you. I mean look around, there are so many people standing here wanting to make sure you're okay because they love you. Just remember to take care of yourself, one step at a time. I’m right here.”

I took a moment to think. One part of me thought she was making this up to console me, but the other part felt so reassured that I didn’t even care if it was true or not. We watched the final moments of the routine, my team on the stage without me. I felt a strange mix of disappointment and pride. I didn’t compete on the stage, but instead, I competed with something bigger; the realization that asking for help and allowing myself to step back was just as important. And even though I hadn’t gone on the stage, I felt stronger, knowing I could try again another time, and I wasn’t alone.

Alexandra Mui, St. Clement's School, Grades 9 & 10

Glass Ceiling

Every action movie has this one big chase scene. The music is building up, and the main character - usually played by Tom Cruise - crashes through a glass window, just to continue running like it was nothing, completely unscathed, with no chips of glass in his shoulder or anything. Kira always found it ridiculous. She’d shout at on-screen Tom Cruise.

“You just ran through glass, man! How are you acting so unaffected?”

Granted, she wouldn’t know. She had never run through glass before. She never felt the urge. However, as she listened to Mr. Stevens explain how to run her own company in her own office on the 13th floor, the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her and the drop-down below looked especially appealing.

“Hey, hey!” Mr. Stevens inquired, as he snapped his fingers, cutting through her inner spiel. “Are you paying attention?”

Did he just snap his fingers at her? Kira was about to slap his hand away. In another life, another marvellous gratifying life, she probably would have. However, she was CEO now, so she kept her hands under her desk, clenching them into fists.

She took a steadying breath.

“Yes, Mr. Stevens. I was paying attention. I’ve been working for this company for 10 years. I think I know my way around.”

She speaked in what she hoped was an understanding tone. Maybe her understanding would have been better conveyed if she hadn’t glowered at him, but hey, she only had a finite amount of patience.

At least he seemed to understand that it was wearing thin.

“Yeah, no problem,” he muttered, backing out of her office.

Kira let out a weary sigh as soon as he was out of sight. If the dark circles around her eyes were any indication, it had been a hard month.

A month ago, Cello, one of the world’s largest business conglomerates, appointed her as the first female CEO. She had felt on top of the world because - well - she kind of was.

“Marks makes HER mark!” headlined every magazine. However, from those same magazines spouting their self-proclaimed feminist message, soon came articles detailing her aggressive behaviour, her attitude or even the lines on her face when she frowned.

Kira realized that as the first female CEO, there was a certain a certain standard she had to hold. She had to be patient, graceful, and demure, which meant that she could never show an ounce of anger, even when faced with a walking headache like Stevens.

Kira was used to the behaviour of these men. It was even worse before she was CEO, but she had previously channelled all her anger into determination as she worked her way up the corporate ladder, putting in two times the work than her male co-worker to be taken seriously. She was so busy focusing on becoming CEO, she had never really considered what came after. She had just assumed it would be her corporate happily ever after.

Kira was usually right about things. Oh, how she wished she was right about that.

Last week, Mr. Thomas interrupted her during her meeting. Yesterday, Mr. Evans asked if she would be able to handle her responsibilities. Each time her anger flared stronger, only to be restrained with no proper outlet.

So, her poor computer bore the brunt of her anger as she completed her reports with incredible capability because, contrary to what Stevens thought, she was good at her job. She was making great progress when her computer broke down. Maybe she was hitting the computer pad a little too hard. She was pretending it was Stevens’ face.

Slightly embarrassed, Kira tucked the laptop under her arms and went to go to the IT office. As she made her way to the office, she was about to head in when she heard a familiar grating voice coming from inside the room. Really, the office building had 13 floors and somehow Stevens was everywhere.

“- I was explaining her own job to her and her eyes were completely glazed over.” Stevens was saying mockingly.

“A typical woman’s response,” laughed another masculine-sounding voice.

Kira’s face flushed with anger. Oh, she’ll show them a typical woman’s response“Hey.”

A hand came to her shoulder startling her. Kira spun around. A friendly face came into view: Elizabeth Garmen. A woman in HR with a friendly smile.

“I know Stevens has only gotten worse since you made CEO, but please don’t commit in-office homicide,” she joked.

“What do you mean?” Kira asked. To Kira, Stevens was a perpetual mid-grade douchebag. It was as certain as the sunrise. One of the most constant facts of life. How had he gotten worse?

“I mean,” Elizabeth chuckled, “feel free to fire him, I just don’t want to become a murder witness.”

“What do you mean he’s gotten worse?” she questioned again. She wasn’t really in the mood for jokes.

Elizabeth looked hesitant and unsure of the situation she had accidentally gotten herself into. “Well, ever since you’ve made CEO, he’s been going around saying...” she trailed off, nervously avoiding eye contact.

“Saying?” Kira urged, impatient.

“That you slept to the top,” Elizabeth finished. “Everybody knows it isn’t true though.”

Kira nearly smashed her already-broken laptop to the ground.

“Oh, does everybody know that? Because I can think of a few people that might believe him,” Kira hissed as she gestured to the men still laughing inside the IT room. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kira felt betrayed. Even if the men didn’t respect her, she at least thought the women did.

Elizabeth winced, but then her gaze emboldened to something akin to irritation.

“Well, would you have done anything?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know I thought that when you made CEO, things would start to change. Stevens wouldn’t be able to get away with the same things he always had, but you’ve just continued playing by his rules.”

Kira spluttered, shocked at how quickly this conversation had turned on her. “Playing by his - I can’t afford to lose my temper! I’m CEO!”

“Exactly! Not just CEO, but the first female CEO in the history of Cello! Yet, you brushed it off like it was nothing.” Elizabeth’s hesitancy was gone, replaced by passion and anger that reminded Kira of what she used to be like.

“Stop acting so grateful like you haven’t clawed your way, tooth and nail to that spot. Like you don’t deserve it. What’s the point of breaking past the glass ceiling if you don’t even acknowledge that there was - and still is - this glass boundary that makes it hard for women like us?”

Kira was unable to decide if she should be defensive or not. She carefully turned Elizabeth’s words in her head and found reason in them. She had broken through the glass ceiling, and, ironically, everyone was making a big deal about it except herself.

“Oh my god. I’m Tom Cruise.”

“What?”

Kira turned to the other woman.

“Can I borrow your laptop?”

Elizabeth handed it over wordlessly, looking at her like she was crazy. She signed into her email account and sent a broadcast to all the executives, calling a meeting. Elizabeth was right. What was the point of being the first female CEO, if she didn’t make sure there would be a second?

“I called this to discuss your behaviour.”

Kira glared pointedly at Stevens, sitting in the corner of the room.

“Now, I don’t care if you think I slept to the top or just think I had it easy. You are wrong, and I shouldn’t have to prove that to you. I should not have to earn your respect. I am your boss and a woman, I should already have it. If you don’t think I or any other women deserve your respect, then you won’t have a place here at Cello Corporations. Otherwise, you will treat us professionally, meaning no interrupting us while we speak in our meetings -”

Mr. Evans closed his mouth.

“No asking us if we can handle the jobs we were hired for, and no commenting on our outfits or bodies. Is that understood?”

It was a rhetorical question, but a hand raised anyway.

“What, Mr. Stevens?” Kira bit out. She was done with him. She could fire him on grounds of discrimination and insubordination.

Mr. Stevens must’ve also sensed that his time at Cello was coming to an end because he didn’t even try to hide his blatant contempt when he asked, “Kira, what’s with the chip on your shoulder? Maybe it isn’t our behaviour, but your attitude that’s causing you to feel ‘disrespected’?”

Kira banged her hand on the table, startling everyone. Kira looked at the man in the corner. It was men like him who set the barriers for women like her.

What’s with the chip on your shoulder? he had asked.

She was so tired of acting grateful. She was so tired of acting undeserving. She was so tired of acting unaffected.

“Have you ever broken through glass, Mr. Stevens?”

Bianca Neagoe, Pickering College, Grades 9 & 10

The Boundaries We Would Never Cross

The smell of carrots filled the air. Every kind of it, carrot cake, fried carrot, boiled carrot, even churro-flavored carrot. It was fitting, considering the fact that it was the Carrot Festival. Once a year the main street in Bradford closes for two days, and all the restaurants and street vendors gather to sell merchandise, specifically designed for carrots. There are little competitions for the kids, blow-up slides for the toddlers, and the food was one of the best parts, especially for a carrot-lover like myself. My mother and I walked up the street taking in the smell of the food, playing some of the funny games, and even entered in the draw-the-bestcarrot-show. It was no surprise that my mom won against me, for her artistic skills were beyond anyone else's. It was almost like Van Gogh met Molière but accidentally bumped into Picasso on his way out. And though she always was modest about her victories, I could see the twinkle in her eyes that jumped for joy. But this year was different. I had moved schools and hadn't kept in touch with my friends to go together, as we always would.

I had switched schools and lost touch with my friends from grade 7—the friends I have had for 8 years, including kindergarten. It had been six months since I hugged Abby, Cole, Liza, David, and Stella goodbye. Their absence lingered like a shadow. Every time I passed the Wheel of Fortune, I remembered David failing to hit the jackpot. When I saw the mega-stuffed carrot prize, I recalled Abby winning it at the “Keep Your Eye on the Ball” game.

“Which game should we play next?” my mom asked, smiling, her eyes wrinkled with joy as she tried to keep my spirits up.

“How about the churro challenge?” I grinned. “I could go for some churros right now.”

I sat at the contest table, my mouth watering at the smell of carrot-flavored churros. The host introduced the contestants.

“Please welcome Bianca Neagoe, Luke Jackson, Bonnie Richardson, Jackson Fredrik, and... Stella Princon!”

Everything stopped. Stella? She was here? My gaze snapped from the churros to my mom in the crowd before landing on her: Stella. She was smiling, like in all of my memories with her! As soon as the contest ended, we ran into each other's arms, the hug filled with an overwhelming mix of joy and relief. As you can imagine, neither of us won the competition, too distracted by the joy of seeing an old friend! The hug filled those six months of longing between us. But something was different about her. Her skin was paler, almost grey. Dark bags weighed under her eyes, and her teeth had a yellow tint when she smiled at a joke or nice comment. But it was her! We talked frantically with each other! Events, achievements, goals, everything was shared from the past.

“How’s that new school you went to?” Stella asked me.

“Great! But the uniforms are a bit uncomfy. Too bad you can’t argue with the rules,” I replied, making her laugh in the process, as an old, amusing memory filled our minds.

Suddenly, a small but meaningful echo of our past jogged my mind.

“Hey, do you remember the paper we signed in grade 7?” I asked.

“Yeah! The one with all our agreements! We called it the ‘Boundaries We Will Never Cross’!”

We laughed at the simple name, but it quickly died down, for we remembered what was in it our pact.

“Do you guys still follow it?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended, but still serious.

She hesitated. Too long. “Yeah... yeah, we do.”

My stomach sank. I knew that pause. Our pact had weight—promises we vowed never to break. Mine was to never lose myself, knowing I’d be moving to a different, much fancier school. To never lose my joyous, happy being, as my group of friends liked to call it. Stella’s? Never to fall under the influence of drugs and smoking. She had older friends who dabbled in dangerous things, and she used to call us for help when she wanted to leave their houses because things were getting too intense. We helped out whenever possible, despite telling her to just leave them.

We talked a little more and got some carrot churros, to make up for the ones we couldn’t eat during the competition. At the end of the day, we said our goodbyes and my mom and I wanted to do one last amusement before leaving. After dunking Mr. Carrot in what looked to be orange water, we finally decided to head home. But as we walked toward our car, I saw her. Stella. Smoking.

She stood in a circle of people, cigarette in hand, her once-bright blue eyes dulled with exhaustion. My mom saw her too and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“Be calm, I will be in the car if you need me,” she murmured. I couldn’t look over at her. I was just staring at Stella’s eyes, noticing the joyous girl I called my best friend slowly drain out of her.

Calm? My world was crumbling. I couldn’t stay calm! My knees felt like they were boiled noodles as I felt the rage rise to my face. Without thinking, I stormed up to Stella and snatched the cigarette from her fingers, throwing it to the ground.

“Bianca, what the hell?” she snapped, anger flashed on her face

“You said you'd never smoke! You swore it! You signed your name on the boundaries we would never cross!” I shouted so loud I could feel the rest of her group's eyes fall on me. But I couldn’t care less at that moment.

She scoffed, her lips trembling. “Grow up. Things changed when you left. Everyone eventually broke their promise. I wasn’t the only one.”

I had never heard such venom escape from my best friend’s mouth. Her words shattered me. But she seemed just as startled from what came out of her own mouth.

“You were supposed to be different,” I whispered, sadness beginning to take over.

Tears welled in her eyes, as if she, too, was missing the person she used to be. Mourning the loss of her 7th grade innocence. When she was happy and filled with joy. Not now.

A shadow loomed over us. One of her friends, a towering girl with a cigarette between her fingers, exhaled a thick cloud of smoke out into the air above us. The smell wasn’t enough to make me choke yet. She wore gangly clothing, but muscles were visible under her thick jean jacket. She was huge, could rip me to shreds if she wanted to. She stepped in front of Stella, almost as if she were protecting her. That used to be my job.

“Is there a problem Stella?” she asked.

With tears rolling down her cheek, she shook her head no. The girl slowly bent down, and took another drag from her cigarette, and looked at me. With out warning, she blew out a puff of smoke to which I coughed, and wheezed. Every sound I made to get the horrid stench out of my nose made Stella flinch.

“What can Stella help you with?” she asked, looking me up and down as if to see with what little pipsqueak she was dealing with.

I looked at Stella. She didn't look back, she just stared at the cigarette that was now smashed on the ground.

“Nothing, because that's not the Stella I know,” was all I said as I walked away. Her tears spilled over, landing right next to the fallen cigarette on the ground.

“You’ll be next to break your promise!” she shrieked as I walked away. Her voice cracked, echoing in my mind long after I left.

I got into the car next to my mom, silence stretching between us. She didn’t push me to talk. She just drove.

I sat there, replaying Stella’s words for a long time, the terror of everything sinking in.

But besides the fear of my other friends’ decisions, and Stella’s new habit and friends, I feared knowing the day would come when I crossed my own boundary too.

Nya Pooran, Bayview Glen, Grades 9 & 10

Untitled

Walking through life

Scared and in pain. Back and neck aching; A girl’s limits feel engraved

Scared to stand up, Scared to shoot higher. The glass ceiling looms. Frustration burns like fire.

They pretend it’s not there. They think success their right. But we know the game is rigged. That ceiling is a blight.

It’s quiet and invisible. But we can feel the cage. Working just as hard For a fraction of the wage.

Not an equal, just a number. Stay seen but not heard. So pretty when we smile, So long as we don’t come in first.

But I’ve had enough!

I know my worth and my might! They can’t deny my meritThe truth will come to light.

I know how I’ll do it; I’ll stand and be brave.

The glass will start falling. Us? No longer afraid.

Now, I brace myself. Strong even though I’m scared. I must do this. I told them, I swear.

My hands above my head, Blast through the falling glass. Force them to finally see me: My power and pride through barriers crash.

Look out boys!

Ceiling’s coming down! Can’t stop us now! We are making up ground!

Braced myself for nothing?

Not glass, just fresh air. Why were we hiding? I just look and stare.

Why were we so afraid?

Scared to reach for the light. We could set records.

Reach new heights.

Built on lies and myths, They made that glass ceiling. It had no real substance. Only power in the lies we been drinking.

Why did we listen?

There’s no limit. We can do this.

I see the finish.

We break these chains. Make room for others to follow.

It’s our time and our right. We’ve got depth – bye shallow!

Ceiling’s gone, sky’s the limit! They don’t know what hit them. Like nothing seen before. We rise and outwit them.

No longer just a number. An object for their stares. This is not just for me, But for all the women out there.

Lexya Momo, Albert College, Grades 9 & 10

Unpretty?

May 7th, 2016

Am I not beautiful? Today was my best friend Rose’s 10th birthday. At school, she got to pick the movie we watched since it’s Friday. She chose The Little Mermaid. When Ursula came the whole class made fun of Ursula and called her ugly. During recess, we were talking about which character everyone is. We all agreed that Rose would be Ariel. Someone said that I would be Ursula because I looked just like her.

December 3rd, 2019

I think I’m ugly. At school, they always look right past me. When they talk to Rose it’s as if they are enthralled, like she’s the most amazing thing they’ve ever seen. But when they talk to me it feels as though they are counting down the seconds until I’m done speaking. Mom asked what was wrong when I came home, she can always tell. I told her I feel like I’m ugly. She hugged me and said, “Ugly? How can the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me be ugly? You are beautiful.” I think she’s the only person who believes that. All the people called beautiful look nothing like me.

June 30th, 2024

I’m ugly. At the restaurant, my coworker, Jasmine, always gets all the tips. I also need the extra money. I don’t get it, I’m just as nice as her and we’ve been working here for the same amount of time. There is only one visible difference. Mom said that back home I would be the prettiest girl and that the people here don’t know how to appreciate my beauty. But now there are other girls here with my eyes, my hair, and my skin. I need to stop bothering Mom with this, I’m eighteen. It really does hurt though. What hurts even more is that calling myself ugly means calling my beautiful mother that and I can’t stand it. I can’t stand myself. This needs to change.

February 11th, 2029

Everything is stagnant. Work, love, life. I thought I would get a promotion this year, but I didn’t. I’m in the same spot I was when I started, even though I work hard. Valentine’s Day is next week, and I still have never been on a date. Some of my friends have already gotten married. It seems everyone around me is moving forward. Jobs, relationships, families. Everyone except for me. My younger self would be even more disappointed than I am. She really wanted to “glow up.” But I’ve tried so many times and each time I end up exactly where I started.

July 22nd, 2029

This is it. I did it! I finally stuck to it! And I did all the other things the internet told me to do. I

went to Pilates, got my hair done, did my nails, bought skincare, and so much more. I enjoyed it, but I never thought beauty would be so expensive.

January 19th, 2030

Work has been going so well! I got that promotion! Life is good lately. Things have changed; they finally look at me. This morning, when I went to get coffee and forgot my wallet, the barista told me it was on the house. It feels like everyone is so much kinder to me. I think it’s because I’ve become beautiful.

April 2nd, 2030

It used to feel like people looked past me. Then I changed and thought they were looking at me. I am now beginning to realize that they look right through me. I’m not respected. At work, I overheard people talking about how I only got that promotion because of my looks. I tried confronting one of them. She told me, “Just sit and look pretty.” I never imagined that it would feel so insulting to be called pretty. I am upset but deep down a part of me thinks she is right. I feel a huge pressure to maintain this appearance. It’s weird, I’m much more confident in myself but at the same time, just as insecure as before.

November 18th, 2030

Someone once asked me this question, “What is your biggest regret?” I think I know the answer now: I based my worth on beauty standards defined by others. I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger self that caring about her appearance is not an issue but fixing her value upon that is. There is so much I need to unlearn but finally, I can proudly say these three words, “You are enough.”

Bryony Chan, The Bishop Strachan School , Grade 12

White Sheep

Nativitas

Light illuminates my new world, scattering eyes scour, to pick apart the flawed scabs of the world.

The undeveloped knowledge that circulates, spins my world into oblivion.

Making me feel trapped, Exposed,

Labelled as malleable prey, as the white lamb.

Bricks bear the weight of every head, internalizing the pressure of society’s pre-determined wishes tightly binds the community together.

The brick wall permanently engraved with rules I was coerced to obey with the flock.

Mould metastasizes around archaic customs that keep my thoughts in tether, The imprinted brick wall closes in, compressing my lungs to my last faint-hearted breath.

So I r u n.

Effugium

Peering up at the seraphic sky I pray for a path of clarity, ‘the sky is the limit’, but I want to reach beyond.

expose the disguised realities buried in the core of the earth before burned from visibility.

I yearn to escape the constricted globe, coated in the seeping oleaginous morals of governed society,

For lungs to have freedom of breath, to exhale without judgment.

Each thirsty stride erases the sketch tattooed on the bricks, As it exposes, the future at my fingertips.

I am not a white sheep.

Libertas

The tide hiding my subconscious has shied, the wall that imprisoned me, freshly decorated with my prints.

A blank wall, where individualism is unmute, where novel words are sought.

The peace of freedom from expectation’s shackles, Assuages society’s iron chokehold.

More eyes will open, tinted with clarity, More heads will swivel, digesting awareness.

I can paint my own world, Envision echoing laughter waltzing with joy, Escape into a future intertwined with independence, Erode the flock of complete dependence.

Run into a world where I can leave beautiful

For the future.

Glossary

Nativitas: Latin for Birth

Effugium: Latin for Escape

Liberatus: Latin for Freedom

f o o t p r i n t s

Michael Soares, Hillfield Strathallan College, Grade 12

On the Glass

"I’ve been here a long time, and most of ‘em didn’t make it to see 15. I will not let you follow the same fate because of an irrational thought. Do you think I lasted this long by thinking I would make it out there? This here—what you’re on—is guaranteed. You can see it, right? Freedom is right there. Just wait."

“How do you know they died? Have you even bothered looking? You’re keeping me here. You’re keeping me here because you’re scared of being alone. You’re scared of a scenario you conjured to keep you on this invisible wall. It is not guaranteed! For your entire lifetime, you’ve sat here, flying your dull head into it occasionally to see if you could go through it. After your 30 long days, you think you’d learn that you’re not strong enough to break it. Hell, Dad, how do you know they didn’t get out of this place either?”

“Because if they had a way out, why wouldn’t they come to tell us, Bruno? I raised them the proper way, the way my father taught me, yet they left their brother and father here to be killed at the hands of man. They couldn’t have found a way out.”

“They didn’t care about us, Dad. Why do you think they left us in the first place?”

“Then why do you want to leave me?”

“Don’t ask me that. All you do is tell me how long you’ve been here, but that’s the irony in your justification! How can you define freedom if you haven’t searched for it? This is keeping us here. What are you doing to make sure that one day it does break and you can get through? You and all these other scum, flying into it yet getting nowhere. I love you, Dad, but you’ve wasted my life to give purpose to your fear. I’m done.”

So, I flew. A dead weight was lifted as my legs left the glass, and I entered the kitchen. I had only ever left, under my father’s supervision, from the opening, as a pupa to chow down on those sweet, nectar-filled fruits. My siblings and I would land gracefully near the bottom so as not to alert the man, bite through the tough skin, and bathe in their juices. We’d return to Dad, rubbing our hands and polishing them off. I miss those days but could never go back.

Those days were easy—days when I was bound to my father for support. I didn’t have to think about tomorrow because I wasn’t aware it existed. Now that two weeks have passed, I know my time is fleeting. For the past few days, I have watched my elderly father blabber on and on about where he stood. Every day of my damned life, we would stare out into the light that revealed the green land, jagged purple flowers, and a blue, limitless ceiling.

“Soon, son, we will be free.”

How could I ever go back to a liar? Part of me felt pity for him, yet the other could no longer bear his pessimistic demeanour. I had to leave; that’s what they all did when they grew up. Once the first one left, my father would shoot piercing eyes if any of our wings so much as twitched. I have no compassion for someone like that: fearing loneliness to the point of imprisoning your own family. I left him because he was bound to the wall, believing it would keep him alive. But to me, he wasn’t living.

I made my way past the kitchen and found a clearing to the outdoors. The rays of light hit the floor, which bounced up and illuminated the entire room. Freedom was right here, and my dad didn’t even bother to look. I wondered if I would ever get a chance like this again, and without allowing hesitation to overwhelm me, I went for it. I shot toward the opening, the golden light pulling me in like a siren’s call—until, crack. A shockwave rippled through my body as my head slammed into something I could not see. I tumbled downward, my wings buzzing erratically before I caught myself in midair. Dazed, I tried again, picking another gap, another promise of escape—only to crash, again and again. The barrier mocked me, showing me the world but keeping me from it. I frantically searched for a way out, to no avail. Not before long, the light faded, and I was left on my own. I decided to land in the lower room and rest to still the frantic thoughts that plagued my mind.

Creeeeak.

I awoke to the sound of the man entering and a dim yellow light seeping into the room.

The sudden brightness stabbed at my eyes, each of them burning with the harshness of the light. But the real weight of the moment settled over me when my gaze fell to the floor. The bodies of my people were scattered, crushed beneath the swatter the man swung with such ease, their once vibrant wings crumpled and still.

I was running, not just from the man, but from the realization that I had left my father behind. Guilt churned inside me as I fled through the room, my thoughts tangled. Had I been wrong to leave him? Could there ever have been a way out?

But before I could even reach the stairs, a groan echoed through the stillness of the house:

“Ma, quit leaving the door open. You got flies in the house!”

He sprinted down and locked me in the room with him. Even though I was precise in my evasions, I slammed into objects while dodging the swatter, and the walls closing in forced me to halt my persistent flight. Wall. Wall. Wall. Freedom. My instincts guided me to the outdoors. Though dark, the light from the streetlamp outside revealed the green landscape, freely emerging from the ground whenever Dad and I looked out. I zipped toward it in a desperate attempt to flee. As I got closer to the world, the lights grew brighter. I was just outside the frame before the light—

—turned to dark, and my only son left did not return. None of them did. I told myself they were dead—that the world had swallowed them whole—but what if they lived? What if they saw something I never will?

I used to tell myself this was freedom. That watching the world meant we were part of it. That staying here meant surviving. But I see it now. This is not life. This is waiting to die. I told my children we would be free while doing nothing to make it so, and one by one, they left. One by one, they vanished into the light I never dared to chase.

The ones who left belonged to the corpses in the pile of many. But me? I was the only proof that this barrier existed. I was the thing that didn’t belong. I sat here, pressed against the glass, a smudge on its surface, making it clear where freedom stopped and captivity began.

I used to tell myself we were part of the world beyond. I told myself that we belonged to the sky, the trees, the light, and if we just waited long enough, freedom would find us. But we were never meant to be part of it.

Bruno is gone. Maybe dead. Maybe free. It doesn’t matter. Wherever he is, he won’t come back to what I made of this place, and I don’t blame him.

I tell myself the light will come again tomorrow, that I will see the world pass by once more, that I have chosen to live, and it is all a lie.

I know that waiting will be the death of me.

And yet, I will wait.

Claire Dai, Appleby College, Grade 12

His Name is Sisyphus

The common man wakes up, gets dressed, and sits through the Commute to work. All of this is aided, of course, by Efficiency. At work, he does his job respectfully, diligently. He takes lunch through the Feeder, and to process, strolls through the Courtyard afterwards. It is balmy and bright from the lamps. On his walk, he smiles at his colleague in an agreeable way. They stop to discuss how well-manicured the Greenery is today—just as it was yesterday, and the day before. They marvel at whatever advertisement is on the Screen, and either he or his Colleague will order it. On some days, they both will. He does this everyday.

In the evening, he clocks off work. He leaves the Screen and sits through the Commute home. He watches the advertisements fly by: a hypnotizing landscape of saturated hues and a blended chorus of jazzy commercial rhapsodies. He arrives home to Efficiency having prepared his room. The end of his day is the same as it began. He returns from the Commute, gets undressed, and heads to bed to recharge. He does this everyday.

The next day is the same. Waking up is quick. The Commute to work is long, but it is colourful, jazzy, and tempting. Work is long, but his colleagues are agreeable, and the Courtyard is well lit, and the Greenery is well manicured. The Commute back from work is long, but he indulges in the color and the jazz. Going to sleep is quick. He does this everyday.

The next day is the same. The Commute is longer, the colours are brighter. Work is longer, the Courtyard is whiter. The Commute is longer, the jazz is louder. He does this everyday.

The next day. Commute. Long. Colours. Violent. Work. Long. Courtyard. Blinding. Commute. Long. Jazz. Deafening. He does this everyday.

He does this everyday.

He does this everyday.

Once, long ago, longer even than before he left the knowledge of the public, a man wrote, “Weariness comes at the end of the acts of a mechanical life, but at the same time it inaugurates the impulse of consciousness. It awakens consciousness and provokes what follows”. His name was Camus. This is what follows:

The common man wakes up. Efficiency turns off his alarm. He stares at It for a very, very long time. It reminds him to get dressed, proffering his uniform for the day. For yesterday. For the day before. Nothing seems to have changed, but the man, the man feels he has forgotten something. This lurking quizzicality stays anchored on the Commute. It pulls him from the screaming advertisements, where instead, he glances sidelong at the passengers. They stand

pin-straight, gaze locked staunchly outside the glass walls of the apparatus. Colours strike across their glassy, black pupils—blazing comets crashing indefinitely. Surely the jazz stabs the same smarting sting in their ears, the way it does in his. He is almost, almost tempted to ask. Everyone is unbothered and unchanging, headed to work to do their jobs diligently and respectfully. He turns back towards the advertisements.

At work, the Screen greets him. He does his job. He goes to the Feeder for lunch. He does not remember what he ate. The lamps in the Courtyard seem to be getting brighter, still. He greets his colleague amongst the well-manicured Greenery. They watch an advertisement. His colleague purchases the product from Efficiency. The man understands, suddenly, that they will do this tomorrow, too, just as they did yesterday. Because they did yesterday. He stares at them in silence, face placid. His colleague smiles at him tepidly, before leaving the man to echo in his soundless horror.

He carries this new awareness into the following days. Each day, he attempts something new. He shuts off his alarms the night before. Efficiency wakes him up anyway. He refuses to leave his room. He ends up on the Commute somehow, anyway. He gesticulates garishly at his colleague, post discovering he cannot yell, to be met with no less than agreeability. His colleague’s unwavering phlegm stirs the feeling of having forgotten something. The disorienting starkness of the lamps reflects off their infinitely smiling, equally blinding teeth.

“What follows is the gradual return into the chain or it is the definitive awakening”. The man fights the former. He relishes the latter. Yet, nothing in his life changes. He flounders and falters, Efficiency keeping him precisely on track, every single day. Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow blend into one. They were always one. There is nothing but certain foreverness.

“At the end of awakening comes, in time, the consequence: suicide or recovery”. For the man, there is no end. There is no recovery if there is no divergence. There is no suicide if Efficiency is there, and Efficiency is always there, tantalizingly holding what he has forgotten, simultaneously reminding him that there is something he does not have. What he does not have is the option of death, for the ability to die is granted by the prerequisite of life, and he is not alive.

Is he not?

But what is a brain if not a computer? What are nerves if not transmitters? What are veins if not wires? What are eyes, ears, noses if not sensors? What are nails if not a thin sheet of aluminum, conducting electricity, sparking shock amidst the friction of flesh? What is flesh if not…? What is blood if not…? What are guts if not…? These are the things that make man, man: flesh that rips and blood that spills and guts that churn, churn, churn. A brain that acts accordingly, protecting the fragility of these functions. Nerves that explode under the touch of another’s. Veins that course and thrum to the rhythm of a heart. Eyes that see the sun and the sky and find God in them. Ears that hear the wind, the waves, and a nose that catches its

untameable mane. A mouth that tastes the salt. A mouth that eats and laughs and loves and screams. Nails that drag through skin turned dust turned dirt turned ash—the history of man caked dry in its crevices. These are the things that make man, man. These are the things the man does not have.

It is not because he has forgotten them. It is because he never had them to begin with.

Humans are given the privilege of death: the liberation from a laborious, gasping life. Or perhaps the impermanence of life protects the pursuit of living it well. Perhaps it then provides the liberty to act on whatever human caprice, no matter how primitive or carnal. Anyway, it is the certain knowledge of an end that inspires change, so that the remainder of time is not spent in vain. The hope to not gasp, but to breathe. This is what transforms consciousness into an awakening, unless it is ignored, thereby relinquishing the innate human ability to change.

It is only computers that cannot change, yet we are told to imagine Sisyphus happy.

Fin.

Ray Law, St. Clement's School, Grade 12

call it what it is

Honourable Mention Entry

It started in seventh grade. It became worse from there very quickly.

It was negligible at first, and so my parents didn’t pay it much mind. There’s no reason to rush to repair a floating boat. You don’t scramble to put out a fire that doesn’t exist, and it would be absurd to carry an extinguisher around all the time just in case one starts. It would have been ridiculous, and I know this, but sometimes, I wish they had. The smallest of fires, if left unchecked, can become a raging inferno that consumes your whole being.

My parents tried to be kind; they listened to my concerns. I asked them to wait a second after dinner one night, fumbling my words and staring at my swinging feet. At that moment, pouring my heart out across empty sauce-stained dishes, I remember thinking that I had always been short for my age. In the next moment, as they shared soft but hesitant reassurances and exchanged doubtful glances they thought I couldn’t see, I remember wishing that I was taller. As tall as my mom, so she would stop seeing me as a child who could never feel these things. As tall as my dad, so he would finally look me in the eye as I told him that I did.

Seventh grade passed, my boat rickety but still afloat, my fire restrained to the hearth. I escaped Middle School. My grades weren’t stellar, but they weren’t as abysmal as they would be in later years when I gave up completely, deciding to spend my school evenings staring at my bedroom ceiling instead of making the increasingly strenuous effort to pick up a pencil. In those years, it would instead be my parents who sat me down at the dinner table. What’s going on, Rhea? You used to be so smart. You used to be so happy.

That’s generally what it’s left at. They ask a few questions, but never the ones that will lead to you being helped. By the time it really starts to matter, it’s too little and too late. A single fire extinguisher is nowhere near enough to put out a building that’s been burning for hours. For years.

I’m thinking about all of this as Dominic swipes a chair from another desk closeby, not noticing its former occupant’s look of indignation.

“How you doin’, Rhea?” he asks. It’s not a question that needs an answer. “I just got back from the doctor’s. They said I’m all set for the next two months.”

He waves the small orange bottle in his hands. “Congratulations,” I say. It’s sincere. I would be lying, though, if I said I wasn’t envious. I try not to make it noticeable by forcing a small smile. “That’s amazing.”

Not convincing enough. Dominic’s grin wavers for a second, and with a loud screech of metal chair on floor, he’s beside me, squinting at me like a detective through a magnifying glass.

He’s much too close. I scoot away from him slightly, and he seems to get the hint. He’s a good distance away when he talks again. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Dominic stares at me pointedly for an uncomfortably long time. “Stop that. Please.”

“What’s up?” he repeats. In most instances, it’s not hard for me to ignore someone like this; I just turn away from them and they walk away, irritated. Dominic, unfortunately, is a different case, and very hard for me to refuse. Though not impossible.

“Nothing,” I repeat simply. It’s a lost cause the second the words leave my tongue; my hands are sweating and I’m sure my face is red, and Dominic knows the signs of me lying.

“What’s wrong, Rhea?” he asks. There’s a shift in his tone. He sounds gentle. He definitely knows.

I want to refuse. All I see is his little orange bottle and how I’m never going to get there. It’s tiring explaining time and time again to be met with nothing but insistences that what I’m going through is normal, part of life, it’ll go away eventually. I’m sick, I’m tired, and after five years, I am ready to accept that it will not change. I open my mouth to say no.

My heart doesn’t agree. Its pace quickens, blood rushing to my face. My lungs, the heart’s best friends, follow suit. I stumble, falling against the nearest wall, a harsh ringing in my ears. My senses shut down, close in on themselves. My body is telling me there is something to be afraid of. It does that a lot as of late.

It’s not being told no that I’m afraid of; I’ve accepted that it’s an outcome. It’s that if I am told no, then what? And even if I’m told yes, I think I can never come back from it. Will Dominic, my parents, my classmates, all look at me from now on with nothing but pity and fear that whatever they might do will set me off? Will this define who I am?

But amidst my panic, my eyes lock onto Dominic’s, which are now full of concern. I think he starts shaking me, but I can’t tell. My world is spinning either way. He’s saying words I cannot hear, his hands steady on my shoulders. Why is my heart afraid of someone who wants to help me? Rhea.

That’s always been my name. Amidst the turbulent waters of high school, I had to wade through, all the fires I had to put out myself because there was nobody to help me, it has been a constant. A mantra. Something to remember as I lost my sense of self, forgot who I was amidst the fog that overtook my mind. My name is Rhea. I am seventeen. I am seventeen when I thought I never would be.

The boy in front of me is my friend. He wants to help me. I want to let him.

A window is open. Cool air brushes across my face. I remember how to breathe.

My world swims back into focus. The classroom is empty, all the chairs assigned to desks and tucked in neat little rows. It’s still light outside. The sun is pouring through the windows. “Rhea,” Dominic is repeating. Shouting, even. And he is shaking me, it turns out. Rather violently. “Rh—”

“Hi,” I manage. He lets go of my shoulders instantly, like I burn to the touch.

“Oh my God, what’s wro—”

“I need help.”

He falls silent. He looks at me, waiting for me to continue. I stare at the slightly open window behind Dominic through which soft, orange light spills through, just barely meeting the tips of my toes. The path forward, which before had been so dark, suddenly seems illuminated, shining so clearly. Most importantly, it exists

A person is not one thing. As Dominic gives my hand a tight, reassuring squeeze, I’m not thinking about what’s wrong, or what’s to come. Just right here, right now, and what I’m about to tell my friend because I trust he will understand. I think he would, even if he did not have that orange bottle of his own.

A single fire extinguisher isn’t a lot, but it can put out small fires. With only one, it might seem hopeless. With two, it’s a little more plausible. I don’t want Dominic to somehow extinguish the entire fire; I just want to not have to bear the flames alone.

Emboldened by the encouragement of a star, I say the four words that have been eating at me for five years.

“I think I’m depressed.”

Chloe Nicolas-Etienne, Villanova College, Grades 11 & 12

Curls

Preface:

This poem is about my journey to embrace my curly hair. The symphony is mentioned multiple times throughout the poem as it signifies the acceptance and love for my hair. The poem starts in my childhood when I had no cares and little insecurity about my hair. As I grew up, I felt insecure and pressured myself to change my curls by braiding and straightening my hair. Near the end, I share that it might be too late since now I must deal with damaged curls from an overuse use of heat tools, but there is still hope since I am embracing my hair. My hair is beautiful, and it is a part of my identity. The day that I felt liberated wearing my hair naturally and curly was a beautiful and unforgettable day for me as it felt like I was accepting myself wholeheartedly once again. Enjoy!

Oh, Coils and curls

A symphony of spirals, wild and free

Ringlets that hold the laughter of childhood when one could keep their integrity

Without a thought, without a thought, they’re for a mane that is only fit for a Queen

A crown of rebellion against conformity that refuses to be tamed.

But beware of the heap on your head for it is timid

Feeling the pressure of heat and weather; years later the coils and curls are caged. Forced to be flat when all they want to do is tell a symphony of a story like waves. Cast in a shadow of an idea of beauty that is not true to oneself, Your integrity is on your head which is so curly.

Then one day you will mourn, mourn the loss of childhood laughter, Mourn the integrity of your crown, mourn your curly mane. One day it will be too late – and your crown will break. One day, one day, one day, you will ask for the music, but the symphony won't play.

For the symphony is a world within itself that not everyone understands. The waves crash and retreat as the curls whisper soft secrets, Secrets of the symphony, secrets of a joy that was once there Secrets of beauty, secrets of an heir, secrets of integrity.

One day those whispers become shouts, blaring lights, screams that say fight! Fight for the laughter, the symphony, the joy, the crown, Fight for yourself and you will never back down.

Your curls are short, but they cannot be belittled. Your curls may be wild – but they are beautiful.

The world may say otherwise but your curls cannot be tamed

Your curls SHOULD not be tamed

Because your curls make you, YOU

Let them spiral as they will

Let them spiral towards dreams, towards the symphony towards the infinite truth of what it means to be free

Your curls are your laughter, your joy, and your smile

Embrace the crown that was blessed upon you so loudly that you can hear it for miles and miles

And one hopeful and beautiful day, the music will come back, and the symphony will play

And we will laugh and sing again, And it will be one unforgettable day.

Yasmin Hiranandani, Pickering College, Grades 11 & 12

Feedback

The lights are bright, harsh and blinding, I see the shadows, long shadows at my feet

I stand in fright,

My hands are pulsing

My breath catches every second

The mic screeches

Something splits the silence

SCR

EEE EEE

Bounces off the walls

Trapping me

It scrapes my ears

Sharp

The noise fades I feel the weight of waiting

The rustling of bodies shifting in their seats,

Expectation is knocking I clear my throat

I swallow

I feel my pulse

Bend my fingers

They tremble

I exhale

Long Slow Calm

The room feels bigger

The mic hums in my grip

It’s waiting

I open my eyes

I open my mouth

I push my air onto my vocal cords

For a moment nothing

“Mmm”

“Mmm”

“Mmm”

“My name is…”

A voice, my voice Breaks through the static Cuts through the noise

The lights stop blinding me The mic stops screaming at me

The fear lets go of its hold on me

I speak

I stand tall

The silence listens

Mkhaya Karimjee, Albert College, Grades 11 & 12

Invisible

She felt like she might be invisible

Like no one could hear the words she said

Or at least the words she said didn’t matter

People would smile at her walking by

But as soon as she was right in front of them

She disappeared

There were always more interesting people

Or more interesting things to talk about

She felt herself getting smaller

Like there wasn’t enough space in the room

Or at least not enough for her

She didn’t shrink in size

But in personality

Like other people needed the space to survive

But she needed to prove she didn’t take much

If she didn’t take to much space or time

Maybe just maybe she wouldn’t disappear

If she proved that no one would notice her

Maybe just maybe she wouldn’t have to disappear

She watered down who she was

She shrunk to size so no one could notice

She realized she had become invisible

She made herself invisible on her terms

So she could control something in her life

She hated being invisible but maybe just maybe it was easier

This time being invisible was her choice

Not something someone else told her to be

There was so much comfort in being invisible

Yet there were so many things she had to say

Just no chance to say them

Because she didn’t hear her own voice

So how could anyone else?

Kaitlyn Zhang, The Country Day School, Grades 11 & 12

pink.

i shouldn’t tell my birthday wishes, because then they wouldn’t come true.

but on each childhood birthday, the world wrapped itself in pink: pink bows, pink cakes, pink balloons.

i was gifted Barbies, instructions hidden between cherry-red lips planted in soils of womanhood.

my brother unwrapped cars and Legos, his hands racing each other reckless, while mine were swathed in lace, supposed to stay still, to sit pretty.

and yet, the first time i held a wrench, my fingers fit more sure around it than they would around any doll’s waist. the cold metal did not freeze my hands— grease turned pink under my nails. (do boys even like calloused hands?)

for all our lives, we were taught to act graceful while he learned to be strong. we were given a figure to admire; he was given tools to shape his own.

wrenches are heavier than barbies because unspoken rules count even more pounds than a teenage girl.

burying cherry pits and saying “thank you” was always easier, but you know what i really want?

i shouldn’t tell my birthday wishes, but i wished for a pink Barbie.

Avery Dhamija, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School, Grades 11 & 12

The Council of the Wiser Sex

Behold the council proud and grand, Their heavy pens in wrinkled hands. Decisions, decisions so many to make But focus on women's rights to take.

Their laws are linked with practiced grace, A firm, refined, yet thoughtless pace. No need to think, no need to dwell For men know best, they rule so well!

In church, they sing such lovely hymns, And pray to God to banish sin. With charts and graphs they barely read, They nod and hum and then proceed:

“Their buildings are made of beams and brass But ceilings shall be made of glass”

A cough, a pause, then ideas - Click!

“Screw glass, my gents, just lay more brick!”

Their poor old seats all cracked and jammed, Sentenced to owners who love to sham. Their wives must love them, their hearts must bleed, But their spouses' closets have begun to recede.

What happens when they have girls and boys Who are approached by men and offered toys? When they ask for support to commit a “crime” What then will they say? “It is just… not right”?

My my, what a world we live in today, That takes rights and freedoms and voices away. But don't worry dear readers - rejoice, be gay! The wiser sex will be gone… Someday.

Huda Al Abri, Ridley College, Grades 11 & 12

Untitled

Sarah’s family didn’t hug—it was just not a thing they did. Sarah’s family didn’t say “I love you.” It was weird. Sarah’s family loved each other very much…she thought. Didn’t they?

When Sarah turned 15, her sister graduated from university, and her family celebrated with a huge party for her—balloons, cakes, and gifts—but only one hug was shared, between her sister and her father. Weird. That day was very happy, so why didn’t they all say they loved her and that they were proud of her? Why did the hug look forced? Why did no one step up to say how much they loved her sister and how proud of her they were? Did they not love her enough to show it?

When Sarah was 16, her paternal grandmother passed away, and at 16 and a half, her paternal grandfather was gone too. Sarah wanted nothing more than to embrace her father, tell him she loved him, and reassure him that things would be okay. Yet she didn’t. Why? She didn’t know. It wasn’t something they did in her family, but was that really a valid reason? She should hug him. The guilt ate at her, kept her up that night. Why didn’t her family share hugs of comfort the way everyone at the funeral did? When she saw her father after the funeral, she still didn’t give him the comfort he so desperately needed, or she needed for that matter. Weird.

When Sarah was 17, her brother got into a terrible accident; he couldn’t walk for months after. Sarah noticed how her whole family was there for him throughout this journey. They were there at 2 a.m. when he had surgery, there when he needed to drink water. They were there with him for every meal, every small recovery. But no one dared to say "I love you," hold his hand, or give him the faintest touch of comfort. Weird. Did they not love him enough to show that? Did almost losing him not make them closer to him? Why couldn’t they openly show their love for him?

When Sarah was 18, her maternal grandma passed away. She had never seen her mother so devastated before. Sarah took the news hard, feeling sad not just due to her own grief, but because she felt the weight of her mother’s sorrow more than her own. Sarah sat in a two-hour car ride in utter silence. She watched her mother break down like never before. Sarah couldn’t take it anymore. She wrapped her arms around her mom, desperate to comfort her. Sarah told her mother over and over that she loved her, yet her mother said nothing. She hugged her siblings and told them the same, but only her brother said "I love you" back and returned the hug. Why? Did they not feel the same way? Why didn’t her family love each other? Why was it hard to show what they felt?

When Sarah was 19, she had to leave her family behind. Life had plans for her that were thousands of miles away. In the absence of the ones she loved most, she realized how loved she

was. It all made sense now. It wasn’t that her family didn’t love her—no, not at all. They shared a love so strong; it’s absence could break hearts. She had just refused to see it in any other form than the one she wanted. When they didn’t embrace her the way her friends' families did or say "I love you" every day the way they do in the movies, it wasn’t lack of love. That distance she always thought was there was nothing but a blindfold she wore. When they didn’t hug her for her honoring grades or say "I love you" on her birthday, or embrace her as they sat side by side, it wasn’t lack of love. It didn’t mean they didn’t love her, it just meant they loved her in their own special way. It’s the way she hears her name in their prayers, in the way she finds an encouraging note left on her desk while she was studying, in the way the fridge always had her favorite drink, and in the way they waited for her to start eating. They didn’t hug her, but their warmth came through in other loving gestures.They didn’t say "I love you," but said all the words that made her all alright.

Just because their way of showing love didn’t mirror her own didn’t mean that love was absent. She can hug them, tell them how much she loves them, and not expect that back. She can expect those notes, the prayers, and the place on the dinner table kept for her. Sarah realized that everyone is different, even in the same family. Not everyone shows how they feel the same way. Sarah needed to keep an open mind and accept all the love she was given.

Amber Loxton, The Country Day School

Amy Lan, St. Clement's School

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Ivy Zhao, St. Clement's School

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Livia Easton, The Country Day School

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Victoria Sari, The Country Day School

CITE Fall Writing Competition Winners

Jacqueline Poenaru, Bayview Glen, Grades 7 & 8

The Darkness Within

My mother used to say that the dark was a place of wonder. Creativity. Imagination. A place where anything can happen, and where dreams can finally seep into reality. I never believed her. I should have.

To me, the dark was cold. It was evil. It was the place where all the nightmares lurked about. Hidden in a cloak of shadows. Waiting to claim the one who fears them most. It was the blood-curdling fear that they sought. Devoured. I was like a full-course meal. When I was younger, the transition between light and dark was the most terrifying moment. My mother would come and give me a kiss on my head and smile down at me, as she always did, a smile filled with emotion. For me. Then she'd go to bed, dead silence following her absence. The ringing of quietness my only companion as I drift off to sleep. My dreams, my escape and bliss, would soon overtake me, only to quickly be wrenched from my grasp when I would be roughly awoken, feeling hands on my arms. Shoulders. Shaking me back to reality. I used to squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hide from her presence. Her touch was cold, her breath not stirring the air around her, like a ghost, an echo of reality. And as I lay there, petrified, she'd whisper in my ear to open my eyes. Her voice, raising the hairs on the back of my neck in warning, so unlike the mother I knew in the light, the one I trusted and loved, and the one who trusted and loved me. Looking at the mother hovering over me was like looking at a vessel of a body without a soul, with all the kindness and light sucked out of her.

She would beckon me to follow her through the depths of the house, and I did, foolishly hoping each time that my mother would come back to me, and show me the warmth I craved, instead of the cold I received.

I would see horrors in the dark. Monsters lurked in every corner of the house, unseen, but their presence a known shadow to my footsteps, their eyes on the back of my neck, as though they could see into my soul, know my greatest fears, without even knowing me.

The monsters had become worse over time, a higher dose of fear in the cold with each passing night. The memories come back extremely vivid now, the horrors haunting me and growing stronger, gripping me in their claws, tighter, and tighter, stunning me in place. Fear claiming control of my body. But unlike what I previously thought, it wasn't the dark that had been scaring me, but my mother. And as I look at her now lifeless body, the light truly forever gone from her eyes, I start to realize that the person who had raised me in the house of shadows had never been my mother at all.

The laughter and voices that I had convinced myself were in my head, grow louder. The laughter becoming a deafening screech in my ears, as I drop the bloodied shovel from my hand. I turn around to face her. My monster. The person I fear most. The one who had haunted me from the beginning. My nightmare. And as I look into her pupilless eyes, I let her claim me.

One last time.

Liliana Au, Bayview Glen, Grades 7 & 8

The Bridge Between Us

AARON – Five years. Five years, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake his voice. It’s always there. A reminder of what I left behind that night. It takes me back to that moment when I could’ve done something. Anything. But in the end, I chose to run. I abandoned Ethan, the closest friend I ever had, and left town.

Stretched out on the couch with my tablet, I scroll through the news headlines. I haven’t been thinking straight the past few days, ever since Ethan’s birthday. Reading the news has become my escape from reality, even though I know deep down, I can never really escape. And I don’t deserve to either.

The next headline makes me freeze. “Local Town to Restore Riverside Bridge, Memorializing Ethan Montgomery.” I stare at the headline, then muster up the courage to read on. My hometown is restoring the Riverside bridge as a memorial to Ethan. He and I would go there when we wanted an escape. It was our spot to have deep conversations without Sophie – Ethan’s younger sister – eavesdropping. It was also where I lost him forever. I close my eyes as my mind takes me back to that painful memory.

Ethan and I were out that night. We were bored so he made up a crazy dare, challenging me to walk the bridge’s edge. We would always dare each other to do stupid things, but I had a bad feeling about this one. When we reached the edge, it hit me how narrow that wooden plank really was. The bridge creaked beneath my weight, and just as I lost my balance, Ethan grabbed my hand to pull me back. The sudden weight shift must have knocked him off balance, and he slipped. Paralyzed in fear, I watched him fall, then ran, leaving him there alone. I knew I’d lost him so I kept running, leaving my hometown and that painful memory behind.

But the truth is, Ethan wasn’t the only one that I lost that night. I lost Sophie too.

SOPHIE - I used to believe that time healed all wounds, but as time passes by, the scar from losing my brother somehow grows deeper. I stare at the photo on my bedside table. It’s a picture of Ethan, Aaron, and I at the park. We were inseparable back then, but that all changed after the accident.

It was hard enough for me to accept losing my brother, but the fact I lost Aaron too broke what little was left of me. After the incident he became unreachable, but I thought he just needed space since it all happened so suddenly. When he didn’t show up to the funeral, and my calls and wall of texts went unanswered, I realized he had no plans to ever come back.

The lonely years that followed showed me the importance of having support through life’s toughest moments. Now as a school counselor I try to be there for my students the way I

wished Aaron would have been there for me. When I comfort my students, a part of me heals in a way too. I hope Ethan is proud of me, even if he’s not here to see it.

The Riverside bridge is being restored as a memorial for Ethan tomorrow, and part of me is holding out hope that Aaron will come back for the ceremony. I begin to type a message to ask if he’s coming but put my phone down before I can hit send. I don’t know why I continue to reach for him when I’m trying so hard to let go. I stare at the picture of the three of us a moment longer, and I know that Ethan would have wanted him there. I steady my shaking hand and reach back down for my phone.

AARON – My screen lights up, and my heart skips a beat when I see who’s calling. It’s Sophie. I remember the calls and texts she sent me the morning of the funeral, and throughout the weeks that followed. How could I face her after what I did? I leave my phone ringing, until it eventually stops. But the silence makes it all worse.

I can’t ignore her forever though, and avoiding Sophie hasn’t eased my guilt. She deserves the truth. Tomorrow, at the ceremony, I’ll tell her everything. But what if seeing her again only makes things worse? What if she won’t hear me out? What if she never forgives me for what I did? The only way to make things right is to face the past, no matter how difficult. I need to tell her what really happened. I missed the funeral, but I can at least be there for the ceremony.

When I arrive the next morning, doubt rushes over me as I remember the silent promise I made yesterday. As I push through the crowd searching for her, I hear a familiar voice call my name. “You actually showed up?” It’s Sophie. I feel kind of hurt that she thinks so little of me, but I know I deserve it. “I knew today would be difficult and I wanted to be here for you. For Ethan too,” I say, trying to ignore how fast my heart is beating. Her body is tense, hands balled into fists, and she’s scoffing to herself.

“Since when do you care about me or Ethan, Aaron?” Her voice cracks and tears fall down her cheeks. “I lost my brother and my best friend all at the same time. Do you have any idea what that was like?” I can feel the pain in her voice. “When you left, a part of me left with you too. And now you show up and act like nothing’s wrong when you made each day a living hell for me. You’re a monster.”

Emotions suddenly overcome me - a strong cocktail of guilt, regret, and anger. It’s as if the fiveyear countdown on my emotional time bomb has finally run out. “Do you think it was easy for me? I was there that night! I saw everything.” My eyes are wet, tears streaming down my cheeks as the words just slip out. Her eyes widen in shock as she whispers, “What?”

“I was with him that night,” I start my painful confession. “We were walking on the bridge when I lost my footing. Ethan tried to pull me back, but he slipped. He fell and I had no clue what to do. I was terrified and ran away as far as I could, somehow thinking the distance would make it less real. I left him there, all alone. Do you know how many times I think back to that night? The memory haunts me, every day. If only I grabbed him when he was falling, or called

out for help, maybe Ethan would still be here. But I didn’t. And I hate myself for it.” I pause for a minute to catch my breath before continuing. “I couldn't bring myself to face you. How could I when I’m responsible for what happened? I thought running away would silence the screams in my head. But it didn’t. It only made them a thousand times louder.”

There’s a long moment of silence, neither of us really able to say anything. Finally, the silence breaks. “Aaron… it wasn’t your fault. After the incident, engineers inspected the bridge. It was declared unsafe and never should have been accessible in the first place. They closed it after that night. It was nobody’s fault, just a terrible, unfortunate accident.”

I look up and see that her eyes are softer than they were in the last few minutes. I still feel guilty about what happened but hearing that the bridge was in disrepair lightens it in some way. For the first time, I feel a little less responsible for Ethan’s fall.

She takes a few steps towards me and places her hand on my shoulder. “I don’t hold you responsible for my brother’s death. I know you never meant for it to happen. But there’s one thing that I do blame you for,” she continues. “You abandoned me when I needed you. You never even give me the chance to understand why before you disappeared.”

Knowing that she doesn’t hold me accountable makes me feel better, even if it doesn’t free me from the guilt completely. “Sophie…” I start to say, but my voice trails off. I don’t know what to say to her. She smiles at me. Not a big smile, but a reassuring and understanding one. It’s enough. “It’s okay, Aaron. We’ll face what comes next, together.”

Hearing her say that makes something shift inside of me. For the first time, it feels like the bars in my mental prison are beginning to fade. I know I may not be able to fix everything. But for now, it’s at least enough for me to stop running.

Atlis Sandomierski, Montcrest School, Grades 7 & 8

The Door

Witchcraft. The word nestles into my head, making space for itself where it is not welcome. I squeeze my eyes shut, in an attempt at forcing it out. It echoes, louder still. The great, cavernous chambers of my mind all seemingly empty except for this one, taunting word that has possessed me, taken over my brain as if it were nothing but space to be occupied, without regard toward other thoughts inside of it. My mind is betraying me. Now there is only this one, treacherous word in my mind. The door in front of me. And the memory of when it all began.

“Down the stairs. Corridor on the right- sorry, my mistake- left. Elevator as an alternative, although it is quite unreliable. Walk down on the left. Third door on the right. Witchcraft.”

“Whatever do you mean, Lachlin? Surely there are guards?”

“Ah, these ‘guards’ are of myth and mist. No guard has the courage to stand in front of the door, for fear of what is behind it, my dear Encasgor. For fear... of what is behind it.”

“Folly!”

“I fool you not. Surely in all our years of gambling, you know my tell?”

“A twitch of the left eyebrow.”

“And should it be going about now?”

“I... the light is too dim to see.”

“Or is the dimness of your own two eyes, Encasgor?”

“...” ***

This conversation has been haunting me for weeks now. The first time I found myself wondering about the truth in Lachlin’s tale. The first time I found myself standing at this door, with nothing in my hands but a simple handkerchief- I’d had a cold that day. The second time, when I had discovered myself to be standing in front of the door again- closer, that time, a mere meter away, or so. And the third, this time. When I had come prepared to open it. In the satchel hanging at my side, I feel the weight of the small metal rod I had brought. I consider using it, should the door be locked. But, according to Lachlin, it is not.

I take a breath. I can do it now. Right now. No one is in sight; this is the perfect window and this opportunity may never present itself again. Breathe again.

My breath rattles throughout my skull, as if it knows I may never take another. This terrifies me. I begin to breathe again and again, assuring myself that this is something I am capable of. Once I’ve settled some, I realize that this could be the last thing I do. Witchcraft. To even ponder this concept is treason. To go actively searching for it is quite certainly condemning yourself to a most horrible, gruesome demise.

I think of how it must feel to be tortured out of your wits, with no idea of how you may die. I imagine the feeling of whips on your back, the pain they cause nothing in comparison to the holes torn in your heart. It would do that to you, would it not? The humiliation, the heartbreak of knowing that the light will leave your eyes, that you will never gaze upon another sunrise, or hear another bird sing? The knowledge that everyone else will carry on, but you will not?

Why am I doing this?

Why am I curious?

Why is every voice in my head saying to me-

Witchcraft?

It is still here. It is still screaming at me its existence, no matter how much I tell it, yes, I hear you. And I do hear it.

I have not yet uttered the word aloud, and yet it is every part of me. It is the breath I breathe, the sound I hear, and everything I see. And yet I have never experienced it. And this is why I am here, I suppose.

I am sick. I have the virus of curiosity, a condition heir to that of being human. It is not to be desired; this is for certain. But it is not to be denied, either. For denial brought me nowhere, nowhere save for standing at this very door, the door hiding all the supposed witchcraft. The sickening word that sends me into a trance, compelling me to open it. A simple action of turning a doorknob, as I have done countless times in my life, and yet this time may determine my future. Or to be precise, it might destroy it. So why do I have the strong, possessive urge to throw the door open and risk my future in order to catch a glimpse of whatever may be concealing itself?

My hand trembles. I force tears back into my skull, not wanting to degrade myself further. I reach forward, shaking more and more by the second, a pounding in my ears and a wheezing sound escaping my mouth. In an instant, I am back on the street, making my way to this building.

It comes back in a rush, a memory of merely hours ago. Hours that feel like decades.

Pounding footsteps. I stop at building 201, out of breath. Take in my surroundings. No one in sight.

What did Lachlin say?

“Down the stairs. Corridor on the right- sorry, my mistake- left. Elevator as an alternative, although it is quite unreliable. Walk down on the left. Third door on the right. Witchcraft.”

Witchcraft.

I breathe for a moment, stopped in front of this architectural masterpiece. No time to take in its glory. Move on, move quickly, do not wait for the right moment; there is no right moment

Breathe.

I walk in the door, not sure what is to become of me if I ever walk out.

I am going in for the final time.

I can do it. Reach for the handle, turn the knob and be done with all of this curiosity. I would know what is beyond this plank of wood and wall. Or, on the contrary to that, I could leave. No one would ever know I was here, and if they were to find out somehow, they would have no proof of my intentions. I would be forever curious, but I would be safe and alive.

Choose. The word locks into place, almost as prominent as my other word. I must choose. I take another breath, letting the word escape my lips, knowing that this is a risk I need to take

For my sanity.

For my soul.

I turn to walk away.

And then I spin. And I turn the handle.

The End.

Lara Chamoun, TFS - Canada’s International School, Grades 9 & 10

The Crying

The crying began like wind slipping through the cracks of an old window, like the cool pressure of whistling through a missing tooth. It was faint, almost imperceptible, a bit of a whimper, distant, something that should’ve been easy to ignore. You moved to open your window and slam it shut again, you expected the paint to chip and to not bother repainting it. You did not expect it to be forced open by the crying, louder, more insistent, like a rusty hinge swinging back and forth.

You lay in bed and wondered as the noise pressed into your scar like gravel, traced your tattoo like laughter. It was a cat trapped somewhere it shouldn’t be. It was the neighbour’s baby. It slipped under the bedroom door and crept closer to you. You felt it curl against your own crescent-moon form in your bedsheets, and you cradled it, thrashing, as it thread your thoughts into a loop, the limits of your tangled limbs. There was a pressure in your stomach where it settled, and there was a gnawing hunger.

You made your way down the hall and dipped a cookie in a glass of milk. The crying didn’t stop, it was still hungry, and in the dim kitchen lights you could almost see it, an infant with eyes the size of its mouth and tiny hands that pinched and pinched. It blinked and you felt the gaps between your bones. It looked like what you’d imagined in your child: vagueness, ghostliness, something that could’ve been.

It clawed at your ears in the silence of your office between the taps on the keyboard, the hum of the fridge you hadn’t yet fixed, the loose spring on the couch when you sat down to watch a trashy show and the slosh of wine in your stained glass. You drank it like it was something wrong, like a miscarriage or the reason why you felt your ribs grate your skin when you breathed in too deeply.

At night the cries filled the room and pressed against your eardrums, it now cradled you with nails digging in your skin as it towered over the bed. The bedboard creaked its cries as it snapped, and you clutched your pillow, trying to replace something, as your mattress met the floor. The threads of your limbs together in your head went taut. There were earplugs and there was music and there was a loud, distorted wailing.

You rocked the infant as the cries reached a fever pitch, and your arms curled around the empty space. You murmured soft, half-words, some soothing babble because you couldn’t manage anything more. Your throat was hoarse and you sucked your thumb. You bit it, it bled and tasted like growth. You wrapped your blanket around yourself and noticed it was stained. In the kitchen, you brought a spoon to your mouth and nursed it with your tongue as their crescent-moon shapes met each other. You hummed and offered a taste to the air and it cooed in between bawls. A mush of nonsense trickled down your chin to your fuzzy rabbit shirt. You curled up on the couch and brought your knees to your chest and rocked to the rhythm of the crying.

Audrey Zhang, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School, Grades 9 & 10

Like an Apple

I hang here,

Clinging to the branch.

The view a mesh of leaves, raindrops, and sky. My brothers and sisters dangle beside me.

Some fair and plump, Most wrinkly and blotched. I watch as they plunge headfirst

One by one.

The ground bruising their red skin.

The flies swarming around their putrid core. They reek of overly sweet syrup and sour milk.

I try my best not to look.

A meager few get chosen, Carried away by tall figures.

Leaving an empty space of what once was.

They never look back.

Each rustle of leaves

A reminder

That we’re missing out.

My siblings have a lot to say.

I hark to the whispers caught in the wind. Many dream of paradise and luxury. Many burn with envy and hunger.

I’m scared of where they really went.

After a while,

The asphyxiating smell goes away. We all dream of it now.

It’s in our nature

I suppose.

Not left to rot, But taken somewhere warm. They’d rather be picked Than to fall down.

Than to bleed.

But,

I don’t want to go anywhere.

It’s getting colder and the days shorter.

The air is thick with dread.

My flesh is flaking off

It’s all the stress.

No one comes, No one goes.

The birds are moving north.

Why can’t we?

I know all that waits beyond this tree is Fierce, untamed land.

Still,

Maybe it’s better than staying here.

I’m past my prime. My skin has softened

The colour waned.

I can’t ignore it anymore.

The need to know

If I will make or break.

The ground may be cruel,

But the chance to fly squashes my doubt.

So I close my eyes, So I release my hold, So I fall,

Like an apple.

Bingyin Geng, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School, Grades 9 & 10

INCITE Short Story

A short story on (not) facing the consequences of your actions. (second person POV an nonlinear storyline)

September, Two Months Since the Surgery

There are some days when the ache becomes unbearable. When the weight of guilt inevitably comes crashing down once again; unstoppable, in the way the ocean laps the sand and the sun kisses the horizon. Time after time, wave after wave of agony.

You pray to whatever god may be out there for it to end.

Then again, why should God listen to a murderer such as yourself?

June, One Year & One Month Until the Surgery

It is terribly hot outside. The summer heat has crept on early this year, bleaching everything in hues of blue and green so distinctly summer. It has carved itself into the backs of your eyelids, bright and blinding.

You are sitting in the parking lot of your university campus. There is a dead cicada by your feet that you have been trying to ignore, alongside the itch in the back of your throat.

Gracelessly, someone slumps down next to you.

She has a thick bandage taped to her cheek, you notice immediately. Choppy strands of ink lay damp across her forehead, glossy under the gaze of the hanging sun. There is a plastic name tag threatening to fall off her t-shirt. Seo-yeong, it reads.

You frown at her, hoping she will leave you alone, but instead, she leans forward, dark, dark eyes, sharp too, assessing.

You sigh, as obvious and irritable as you can make it.

The itch in your throat grows stronger.

December, Six Months Since the Surgery

You’re fairly sure that today is Tuesday. Recently, it’s gotten difficult to tell the days apart. “Dissociation,” the lady with hideous blonde hair tells you. “Mental shock,” she says, like it’s obvious, like the sound of her voice doesn’t color your vision red. Who is she to tell you who you are?

You realize with a start that you don’t know.

Who is she?

Who are you?

January, Seven Months Since the Surgery

It’s 3 am and you’re allergic to your favorite salad dressing and the lights are too bright and the GUILT is eating away at your bones.

Why are you like this?

A. You were born this way

B. You’re evil

C. You didn’t take your medication

D. The macaroni tasted funny

E. Your parents say, “You overexert yourself”

F. The therapist says, “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”

June, One Year & One Month Until the Surgery

You meet Seo-yeong in the summer. After twenty-something minutes of silence, you say, in tradition, because this is the first thing you say to anyone of interest, “Tell me something awful.”

She turns to you and laughs, clicking a lollipop—seemingly conjured from thin air— against her teeth. She says, with an easy smile that digs into your flesh, “It’s not your fault.”

You blink.

April, Ten Months Since the Surgery

This is humiliating.

You’re a licensed surgeon now.

You’ve worked your entire life for this.

It will take less than an hour. There’s little to no risk of death.

Pull yourself together.

There is no reason to be nervous.

Your hands shake anyway when you meet dark eyes in the reflection of the scalpel.

February, Five Months Until the Surgery

"Are you inviting me to your house...for pancakes?"

Even speaking the sentence out loud feels abnormal.

“Yeah, why?" Seo-yeong shrugs. "Got something better to do?"

You feel your vision narrow. As a soon-to-be doctor, free time has basically become something of a dream. You have two essays due in an hour and a lab report tomorrow that you have yet to start. Seo-yeong, as your classmate—dare you say friend, would certainly know that. You wonder if she’s mocking you.

"It's fine if you don't want to. More pancakes for me-"

"Okay," you interrupt. She raises an eyebrow in surprise.

"Okay, I'll come."

Later on, much, much later, you will realize how much of a mistake this was. You will claw at your own eyes and choke on your own tongue, drowning in regret. And still, it remains your fault.

Still, you are a coward.

At least for now, you only know of dry pancakes and laughter.

May, Eleven Months Since the Surgery

There’s something wrong with your mind, you’ve learned. Something. With your brain. With your neurology—whatever. The headaches, the vomiting, the guilt that swallows you alive in the maw of grief. The way you can’t do anything without remembering her. A lot of things. You wish it would all go away.

July, Forty-Eight Hours Until the Surgery

“You’re not ready for ____. What in the world makes you _______ gamble with a patient’s ____ for what?!”

You’ve always hated that screeching desperation. When they yell and scream and cry and beg, so vulnerably, uniquely human that it makes your stomach churn. She’s yelling now, yelling and begging with her hands wrapped around yours, like a prayer, ice cold. She is staring at you, scarred cheek stretching with each movement of her mouth, but the louder she gets, the less any of her words make sense.

“Look, just cancel the procedure, please. Get someone else to do it, it’s not worth the risk—”

“Stop.” The words slip out of your mouth as if on autopilot. Your head hurts.

For some reason, the silence only makes you more inclined to talk.

“I’ve been practicing for months, just because you don’t think I’m good enough doesn’t mean I’m not ready. This is my chance to gain some real experience. If you want to stay second-rate trash for the rest of your life, go ahead. But don’t expect me to drop everything and ruin my life with you.”

You’re not sure when it was that venom began to bleed through your words, bitterness welling under your tongue.

Does it matter anyway?

July, One Hour Before the Surgery

If there was one thing your parents had taught you, it was to always be prepared. Expect the unexpected, and all that.

In particular, they were firm believers of Murphy’s First Law:

If something can go wrong, it will.

You’re not sure why you think of this now.

July, the Surgery

Something is wrong.

Something has gone terribly wrong.

You’ve just killed your patient.

It’s your fault, it’s your fault and it doesn't matter that you didn’t mean to because you did and it’s your fault. He’s dead and you’re not allowed to panic. You’re not allowed to panic, you idiot, you’re not the one who’s dead! It was an accident, entirely avoidable; and now you are standing over his broken body and his blood is splattered on the floor and—and—and—

STOP PANICKING! Think about this logically: he’s dead and it’s your fault and your heart is beating so hard in your chest and you can’t hear much over the rush of your blood but it’ll be okay, right? Because it was an accident and you didn’t mean it, but you have to take responsibility anyway, you have to tell someone, you have to—

You were studying to become doctors, neurosurgeons, specifically.

You liked to think that you were good friends. That she liked you as much as you liked her, even if it didn’t look that way to others.

So when you made a mistake—

A messy, irresponsible, completely avoidable mistake; something that paying a little more attention during the procedure could have prevented...

“W-what do I do? I... I think I messed up— It was an accident, I swear... H-help ...!”

She was the person you went to.

And in your ceaseless panic, in the lingering venom that coated your tongue...

She was the one who took the blame.

“You sick! Because of you, my son is gone!”

“Aren’t you studying so you can save lives? How could you do the exact opposite?”

“Seo-yeong, we’re letting you go from the program.”

Those dark, dark eyes still haunt you.

??? IS IT YOUR FAULT?

A. No

B. Of course not

C. It was an accident!

D. Yes

E. Shut up

F. Shut up

G. Shut up

H. Shut up

I. Shut up

J. Shut up

K. Kill yourself

L. I’m going to kill myself

M. Seriously

N. Oh my God

O. It’s my fault.

Amanda Zeng, Pickering College, Grades 11 & 12

The Duet Between The Body & The Mind

Years of my life alone, in an empty room, with nothing but a mirror. The hours spent in front of this mirror, trying to reach further, push higher, left my spine knotted and my muscles stretched thin like overused threads as if to defy the anatomy that makes me human. I feel the pull on my back as a tender ache settles deep into my spine, never quite leaving, but never enough to make me stop. As if a string was pulling my vertebrae up, and out of my body, leaving my body a boneless pile of pulp.

The hardwood creaks under the weight of my body as I step foot into the practice room. The fragrance of pine and rosin fill my senses. I hurriedly slip my pointe shoes on and join the others at the barre and immediately memorizing the combination—a skill I’ve picked up to survive in this environment. My teacher walked by the rows with a piercing gaze constantly scanning for bent legs, unpointed toes, and uneven lines. I felt my heart tense in nervousness as she walked near me. I lifted my leg as high as my body allowed in the arabesque, holding my spine as if a puppet was pulling me up by a string from my head during a pirouette. I overhear the critiques she unleashed upon the class.

“Your legs can always be a little straighter, a little higher, a little more flexible. Your feet could always be more arched, more pointed. Your ribs should be folded into your torso as close as possible. You can always be more—”

These words repeated in my mind like a mantra, as if the sheer force of my muscles could change the shape of the body I was given. This was the first lesson I learned in ballet: you can always be better. But what did “a little more” mean when I was already at my limit?

During the first hour, I don’t even feel it. A slight reminder of my teacher’s words linger in my mind to push harder.

During the second hour, a dull cramp settles in my arms from being held up in the same position for too long. I would be feeling the effects of it tomorrow, but that didn’t matter right now.

During the fourth hour, an ache makes its way through my tailbone and up my spine. A fiery rush of agony strikes my lower back, feeling my pulse with every movement of the exhausted fibers of flesh and muscle. It was unbearable, but it would almost be over soon.

Just for a little longer.

At the end of class, I find myself toeing the line of fatigue and numbness, caught in a loop of straining and failing until each moment blurs into the next. Broken and mended, broken and mended, every cycle would eventually come to an end.

II

The second lesson was that the mind and body should operate in separate components. What occurs in the body should never ripple into the mind. Whatever thoughts, anxieties, and fears are negligent on the stage. The pain in the body is different from the pain in the mind. They act as two parallel rivers, always close, but never touching. Like threads woven from different fabrics, one composed of a kaleidoscope of consciousness, and the other, an interwork of flesh and marrow.

The performance passed like a fleeting breeze; I barely noticed the silence following the ending of the music—hundreds of hands drumming in a disorganized symphony. As I am brought back to reality, I begin to notice the heat of the beaming lights casted onto my face as beads of sweat form at my temples. But this wasn’t some amazing movie. The film doesn’t finish after the curtains draw, the lights dim, or even when I take my final bow and waltz off the stage. For others, this would be the grand finale before cutting to the credits, but for me, this was just another cutscene before continuing with the next part of the story. As soon as I felt the last sparks of light fade from the crack in the curtain, I finally let my heels fall into the ground. The artificial smile leaves my features, and my hands fall out of first position for the first time in what feels like hours even though I know it’s only been minutes. I often think of ballet as a double-edged sword, both a source of profound joy and a crucible of despair. It asks for everything and gives back in equal measure. Despite its grace and perfection, it can also be cruel and demanding. Peeking behind the closed curtains, the decorative tulle and satin reveals something more visceral and raw; the bruises, the blood, the hours of rehearsing alone in an empty room, and the little girl who once begged her mom to sign her up for dance classes with stars in her eyes.

Despite the applause and validation the audience displayed in their wide grins and rhythmic celebration, something felt off. Just when did I feel so hollow? A subtle dissatisfaction ached in my chest that I only notice in moments like these. It gnaws at the edges of my mind until there's nothing left, questioning endlessly if this is the purpose of my being— if this is what true passion means. Is it worth giving up half of my life just to become half as good?

III

The third and final lesson is discovering the difference between “was” and “used to be.” I learned this once I stopped introducing myself as a dancer as if it was a personality trait. Despite both sayings referring to the past tense, “used to be” carries a somber connotation, almost like a longing for the past or a wish to return to it.

Two years following my final performance I found myself packing my things to move to another city. Preceding this time, I had locked up everything that reminded me of ballet in a storage room in the basement, hidden, concealed, yet lingering in the shadows. It stopped me from mourning the version of myself that I could have become without letting it all slip away. The beauty of the past only leaves behind bitter memories. On the walls were framed professional photos of me the ballet company took every year, once a year since I was three. To the

left of the room sat a clothing rack with all my costumes from solo performances. They ranged from flashy and glittery tutus from when I was five, to more poised and elegant skirts, adorned with gems and crystals on the supple fabric. As I unfasten the tarnished buckle of my dance bag, a gust of saudade spills out of the broken zippers, worn pockets, and the masses inside.

It's so interesting how humans build such profound bonds with inanimate objects. They can’t see, hear, or even talk, yet they hold endless memories and secrets that are shared only with their owners. To me, they were more than mere objects, fragments of my soul, and an emblem of sacrifice dedicated to my childhood.

The first thing I notice is my pointe shoes. I run my fingers across the box of the shoe, worn out, and fraying at the edges. I trail the tips of my fingers through the flowy pink ribbons, contrasting with the hardness of the shank of the shoe. Gaynor Minden 1993 reads the sole of the shoe. I notice a small brown stain sullying the soft satin, now stained with age and wear. With ballet flats with frayed seams that carried countless pirouettes, hairpins that held my hair in the perfect ballet bun, and bandages that held my tattered body together during long practice days— the passion and determination of my youth bleeds from these artifacts.

Just when I had thought I emptied all of the nooks and crevices of the fabric, a crinkle perked my ears. I unwrapped the plastic package with anticipation and was met with a pink pebble of sugar. One of my previous teachers used to reward the team with candy after our group performances at the end of each season, celebrating our efforts with a sugary ending. The sweetness of the artificial strawberry flavor lingers at the tip of my tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste. The fleeting reminiscence that danced on my palate was short-lived as it quickly dissolved against my tastebuds. The taste of melancholy is tinged with sweetness. The candy tasted stale. My love for this art had expired. As soon as the bitter aftertaste disappeared from my mouth, it revealed a clean canvas of surrender, making room for acceptance. No amount of guilt or regret could change the fact that I was a dancer. And before I knew it, the twelve years of memories I worked so hard for dissolved like a drop of ink in water.

I had finally surrendered that fantasy and let it crumble to dust.

Joy McConney, St. Mildred’s-Lightbourn School, Grades 11 & 12

The Hidden Spark Beneath The Adversary: Bajan Bakes

Bajan Bakes: my cruel adversary from their launch. According to my mother, grandmother, and aunt, bakes are a staple in all Bajan households. Described by all who enjoy them as semi-flat, oval-shaped, with perfectly browned edges, they sound just as good as they look when bitten. Their golden-brown center, a trap of vanilla-rich, dense warmth, gives the illusion of lightness. So why my adversary? Simple: impatience.

I don’t recall the exact moment I was introduced to bakes, but I remember my aunt’s guilt-tripping during her visits and my mother’s relentless Saturday morning ritual. She’d chase me around the house, calling out, “Joy, I don’t have time for this! One of these days, you’ll understand the importance of this recipe.” That. That line, the weekly repetition of, “One of these days, you’ll understand the importance,” turned the trivial, hearty dough bite into an adversary. I was frustrated because my impatience clouded my understanding of why bakes had stirred such strong, warm, yet unsettling feelings in me. It had been frustrating to see everyone around me enjoying them so much while I struggled to make sense of my own conflicting emotions.

I’d never admit to being a stubborn person, but in this case, I was. While it may seem like a simple mother-daughter disagreement, there was more to it. It wasn’t just the crunchy exterior paired with the dense, starchy interior that bothered me. It was a feeling on which I couldn’t put my finger. A spark of small, but ever-present electricity surged beneath the surface, travelling through each bake to touch me. It was the feeling of warmth, an electric current I couldn’t fully understand. This current wasn’t just in the bake itself; it was in an unspoken shared history between generations. This I couldn’t yet grasp. That spark was set alight the moment my bare feet hit the cold, hardwood floor. As I descended the stairs, my mother’s gaze locked on me from the living room at the first creak of the wood panel. It surged when I realized I’d once again be constrained to making bakes, and it reached its peak when my mother inevitably caught and steered me into the role of sous chef.

While on duty as sous chef, I remember the kitchen air becoming starchy and thick as she added flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder to a bowl. The spark sent an electric pulse through me again when she insisted I add the water, “so you can feel when it’s just right.” She’d say this with her eyes sparkling in a way I could never quite understand. As I trickled water into the dry mix, I felt that same surge, not just in my hands but in my chest, as though I were somehow connecting with something deeper. That connection was both comforting and confusing: a mix of resistance and longing as the bakes themselves held the secret I had yet to uncover.

It wasn’t until the nutmeg hit the batter that the spark became undeniable. The nutty, warm scent filled the kitchen, creeping into the back of my throat and sending a wave of warmth through me—an electric warmth. It felt like safety, but it was safety from something I

couldn’t name. That warmth unsettled me, and the snap of the nutmeg jar in my mother’s hand only magnified it. The sound rang in my ears like the final spark of a live wire, cutting off my thoughts mid-flow.

I stood there, confused, trying to grasp why this simple ritual, this act of making bakes, made me feel so safe, though there was nothing to fear. Every step, every bite, carried a hidden current—a spark that connected me to something more, even if I couldn’t yet understand it.

Years went by. I had moved to Barbados, and my mother’s weekly ritual was no longer part of my life. Many things had changed, but I wasn’t ready to face that reality. As Christmas approached, my aunt flew into Barbados, slipping into her usual routine of guilt-tripping me into helping her make bakes. This time, I didn’t feel the urge to win the race. Instead, I quietly accepted my role as sous chef, content with the peaceful, serene scene of my grandmother’s cold, white kitchen made warm by the yellow sunbeams reflecting off every surface.

As the final bake sizzled in the hot oil, I took my first bite. For the first time, amid the swirling thoughts in my mind, one thing became clear: I began to understand what my mother meant by “you’ll understand the importance of this recipe.” Instead of just tasting the doughy, dry texture, I found myself smiling, not only because of the taste itself, but because of the memories and emotions wrapped in that one bite. It wasn’t long before that feeling faded, just as quickly as it had come, much like how the aroma of nutmeg had disappeared in previous years. And that feeling—I ignored it because, despite its warmth and depth, I wasn't quite ready to accept it. It had come and gone like a spark leaving behind an unspoken truth that I had yet to fully grasp.

More years passed, and countless other stubborn rivals clouded my memory until recently when the weight of the world seemed to press down on my shoulders. The more I tried to relieve that pressure, the more intense it became. To my surprise, I found myself thinking about bakes. Seven simple ingredients, amid chaos, brought me clarity. Yesterday, as the sun set and its orange rays blazed through my house, I found myself back in that serene moment, mixing the spice-scented batter, a long-lost smile spreading across my face. The feel of the flour between my fingers, the smell of nutmeg rising with the heat–it all centered me, pulling me away from the chaos of the outside world. As the stove heated, I felt a surge of energy, a spark.

When the last sizzle died down and I dodged the final splatter of oil, I took a bite of the warm, greasy dough. Time froze. Tears welled, and suddenly, I understood–a spark, a warmth. I realized then it was a connection to my roots, my family, a reminder that even when I feel as if I am standing alone somewhere in the world, I have an unwavering backbone composed of so many individuals. It is a warmth that could fill my body with the energy and hope of a thousand galaxies, without the weight or complexity of life.

The smell, the sight, the feel–it all came together, a symphony of the senses, reminding and reassuring me of who I was and where I came from. Simple ingredients. The heat of the stove. The reminder that this moment didn’t define me. That was all I needed. That spark, which had lingered all those years, revealed its true colours and purpose and showed me that the spark I truly needed was the one that could only be found in a homemade Bajan Bake.

Bajan Bakes

Ingredients:

2 cups all purpose flour

2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon cinnamon

1 teaspoon vanilla/almond essence

1 - 1 1/2 cups water

Vegetable/Corn Oil (for frying)

Directions:

1. Combine all dry ingredients in a mixing bowl.

2. Add essence and water gradually to create a stiff consistency.

3. Heat the oil in a frying pan.

4. When hot, drop spoonfuls of the mixture into the oil and allow to fry on each side, until each side is golden brown.

5. Remove from oil and allow to drain and cool.

6. Enjoy your Bajan bakes!

Smith, John. “Bajan Fried Bakes Recipe.” The Crane Resort, 10 August 2016, https://blog. thecrane.com/blog/2016/08/10/bajan-fried-bakes-recipe. Accessed 22 October 2024.

Katelyn Wong, St. Clement’s School, Grades 11 & 12

Full Moon

Alexander was supposed to be dead, an expiration label stamped on his forehead for sundown. And yet he stood, proud and smiling. What did it feel like to cheat Death, to be unbound from the rules of life? He stared at the moon, high in the sky, full and gray and shining brightly in the cloudless sky. If he squinted, he could see a trio of horns that poked out of it, equal distance from each other, like volcanoes erupting from the face of the moon. They were his lifeline.

Not half a moon cycle ago, Alexander received a letter. A waning crescent moon hung in the sky then, yellowish and waxy and small. Maybe it was the perspective in comparison to the grand willow that stood outside his house, or maybe it was the fact it looked so much larger in his life than it did before. Alexander’s eyes darted across the page, the looping script of the best doctor money could offer on the page. He caught words, floating and popping from the page, dying…heart…beating…the next waning gibbous. The next waning gibbous, past the next full moon. One last drink of the silvery moonlight and he too, would depart to the stars.

Like a last hurrah, the final burst of energy animals got before they died, the moonlight would come to sustain him one last hour, twelve hours, and it would end.

It would end, he would end.

Alexander could not end. *

Alexander set the table for his family, preparing for their monthly moon meetings. They came from far and wide, little sprites from the corners of the world. Every twenty-eight days under the brightest moonlight they sparkled and glimmered from the night nutrients, and made a trek through the woods to band together and feast. It was the once a month time that moon-sprites like Alexander could meet again. Lonely and small by nature, like their patron the Moon, the small few hours they spared were greatly treasured. How disappointed they would have been, Alexander thought, if they came today and I was already gone. Left with just a bottle of my ashy remnants, my soul to the stars. What he would do for his family, to remain together just a little longer. He was sure they’d want it too. He glanced again at the sky, trying to gauge the time. The moon glowed proudly, huge and round. Maybe a little too large.

The last time Alexander had met with his family again, he nearly collapsed. He had arrived at his sister’s abode, a hole in the ground beside a rushing waterfall, staggering and haggard from the journey. Despite the moon being as bright as it had ever been; clear and pearly, it was his heart that gave weak ba-bumps too fragile and timid to propel him forward.

When he reached her doorstep, he closed his eyes-just for a second-and a late-arriving aunt had brought him inside, slumped on the mat at the entrance. Alexander had pleaded for her not to say anything, but throughout the familial banter and activities, she eyed him closely.

“I’m fine, honestly,” he lied, “I got chased by a monster on the way here. Honest.” But the second he had returned home, taking care to nourish himself an extra lot before leaving, he’d called the doctor, asking about the painful squeezing sensations in his chest.

“Alex! My God, you look so thin!” A tall, lanky sprite walked through his door, not bothering to knock or announce herself. Waltzing straight to Alexander, she pinched his cheeks, shoving a large wrapped tin at him, “I made cookies for today! Special day, special day!”

Alexander winced slightly under her touch, “Hi mom-” he was interrupted by his cousin, who slapped him on the back, a jock-like greeting.

Alexander’s house was filled to the brim with laughter and fun. Smiling contently at the scene: his sister entertaining a couple newly born nieces, his grandparents talking to their daughters, an uncle grilling the steaks on the stove, he couldn’t help but think of how lucky he was. There was nothing he would trade for his family, not even the world.

They were gathered together, the clock striking a terrifying gong to signify midnight, when the television, which had been playing a kids’ cartoon, paused. There was a beep like an alarm, and an automated voice came over the speakers, a red banner flooding the screen:

We come to you with breaking news. The moon is falling at rapid speeds towards our planet.

Alexander’s family looked at each other, confused. His uncle was the first to break the tense silence, a roaring laughter. “What the hell do they mean, the moon?” He nudged Alexander’s sister, seated beside him, “What are we in, Chicken Little? As much as I love the moon, no one here is gonna try and steal it like that.”

Alexander’s sister smiled half-heartedly, motioning him to quiet down, “I think that was Despicable Me, uncle.” The newscast continued:

Do not panic; we have the worlds’ best astrophysicists currently at work to remedy this peculiar issue. We have reasons to believe this action was manmade.

A pause, and then the newscaster shuffled her papers, If you are the reason for this, please stop. And a blink, the cartoons connected back again on the television.

And all at once, everyone started talking.

“The moon is falling? What does that even mean?”

“Does that mean we’d be more powerful then?”

“Hey, Alex, what the hell is happening anyway? Aren’t you the astronaut wannabe here? Who’s messing around in your lab?”

Ten pairs of eyes pinned on Alexander, a hush falling over the chatter.

“I... I dunno-I mean, yes, but-you wouldn’t understand. I think. Anyway, don’t you think we should just-well-the moon’s still out there so let’s just have some fun okay?” he stammered, a shameful blush blooming beneath his cheeks, “I love y’all so cherish it, alright?”

They all nodded, and no one seemed to notice his fidgeting fingers, wringing in the pains of his lie.

Alexander was supposed to be dead. Standing alone, outside at the dawn the next morning, everything felt weird. It was the way the skin stretched unnaturally over his bones in his clenched hand, holding still the doctor’s letter. The way his family, for the first time, slept over at his house. The way the moon shone still, in the bright sunlight, the size of a basketball in the bright daylit sky, available still-and forever-for him to soak its shine.

The creak of the door startled his thoughts, “Alex? Is that you?”

A small brunette sprite stepped outside, eyes bleary with fatigue. “Oh, hey sis. What’s up?”

“Did you do it?” All of a sudden she seemed to appear right before him, piercing gaze.

“Do what?”

“You did this, didn’t you? Mess with the freaking planets?”

“What are you talking about?” Alexander shrunk away from her. It was naive of him to think his thin facade the night before got through to everyone.

“Don’t play stupid. I’m not dumb and neither are you. Did you stop the moon?”

“So what if I did? Look, we’re all so happy now. Together and everything-”

“We’re going to die if you-”

“I was going to die.” He thrust his letter to her. “And it’s not fair. Why can everyone else have something I can’t? Life?”

“Get ahold of yourself. You’re being selfish and you know it.”

“Selfish? Is it so awful not to want to be closer together? You know, all the other folk-the other sprites and the monsters-they aren’t restricted to this once-a-month. It isn’t fair, Andi.”

“It isn’t fair,” she agreed, “but we all make the most of it. So get it out of your head, Alex, and move the damn rockets. You’re off your rocker.”

Alexander didn’t move. His sister gave him another shove, a panic growing in her eyes, “I’m being serious, we’re going to die. God, Alex, please.”

A smile grew on his face, toothy and wild, “You can’t make me.” He opened his bony face towards the moon, close enough so you could see the craters on it, “You can’t make me.” He gave an ironic laugh, “It isn’t fair. But I’ve done the math. There’s four days left.” He turned to his sister, a crazed look in his eyes, “Just make the most of it, I guess.”

Kaitlyn Zhang, The Country Day School, Grades 11 & 12

How to Catch a Snowflake

[faith] (noun)

1. complete trust or confidence in someone or something. I demand a complete luxury — but I don’t need a single penny. You demand promises, — but they are fragile assumptions, like snowflakes prancing, only to vanish when met with fingers, dissolved, unheld.

You desire to grasp the slight feeling of trust in me — yet this is a desire you can’t buy when control is a luxury you can’t afford to give up.

“What if I trust, and break?”

“What if I give, and lose?”

“What if I drop it all,

an impetuous decision, and we stand in the wreckage— unmade?”

When you cannot have the confidence you seek to shape the air, the space between us, and claim it as your own.

But you cannot hold air, just like how you cannot hold snowflakes, And even so,

You can still reach me, handouts, eyes closed, having faith even when a snowflake melts.

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