Marley’s piece
papercuts Arts Magazine
Volume 1, Issue 1 June 2013 Writing from KSS Creative Writing Students
WRITER’S BLOCK PRESS | KELOWNA
papercuts
arts magazine
Copyright © 2013 Respective KSS Creative Writing Students All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, with the exception of brief passages in reviews. Any request for photocopying or other reprographic copying of any part of this book must be directed in writing to: The Writer’s Block, Kelowna Secondary School. Printed and bound at Staples, Kelowna, Canada Cover & book design: Jon Derksen Front cover art: “Papercuts” by Claudia Lum (Grade 12) Inside cover art: Julia Roigk (Grade 11) Middle insert: Marly Merrill (Grade 12) Back cover art: Claudia Lum (Grade 12) “City in the Trees” Additional art: Pp. 14, 19, 25, 36, 37 & Marantha James; Typesetting & Interior Design: Didot & Trajan Pro Editor: Jon Derksen, Creative Writing - KSS Represented in British Columbia by The Writer’s Block Distributed by Kelowna Secondary School Creative Writing NOTE: This book is a work of both non-fiction and the imagination. The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support from KSS administration.
Writer’s Block Press 1079 Raymer Avenue, Kelowna, BC, V1Y 4Z7 Canada
The following collection of writing and artwork was produced by Kelowna Secondary School’s Creative Writing Class, which ran from February 1st - June 4th, 2013. We dedicate this compilation of writing to the many teachers and mentors who have helped to shape us into the writers we are becoming, and who have given us the drive to always strive for better; this is also for those of us who were told we couldn’t, but did.
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Color outside the lines. –Justin Nykilchuk Grade 12
There are a thousand fish in the sea all being chased by sharks. –Marly merrill
Grade 12
Sometimes the madman is the brightest of us all.... –Tarran kostiuk
Grade 12
The lonely supernova I’m a supernova. I can feel the universe around me; all blackness. I sit for centuries at a time. Bigger than everything around me. But small to the things that matter most; those silly little people with ideas bigger than any universe I’ve ever seen. I want to touch them; I want to play. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend. But… I’ll only ever hurt them. Because I’m a supernova, and they’re tiny people made of the stars I’ve watched die. So I’ll sit here in all my glory and hope that a friend will come along, who is big enough and strong enough to hug. Milan Paul Grade 11
Dear grandpa Cancer Is like a foreign word to me I don’t know what you’re up against But if I saw you Wasting away To nothing more than sunken eyes And shallow breaths Then maybe It would kill me, too
The picture of two people whom I don’t know Sunset casts an orange glow on the balcony. The wind carries a gentle breeze through the young woman’s dress. She stands alone at the railing, looking out at the trees. Quiet footsteps can be heard on the stairs, and she glances over to see the young man coming toward her. A soft smile spreads easily on his lips as he slips his hand on her waist, guiding her to the middle of the floor. No words need to be spoken. His hand glides from her waist to the small of her back, as the other clasps her delicate fingers. Caught in this embrace, they start to turn. Dancing to the music in their heads, they keep their gaze always on each other. The man tips his partner back, and they stare into each other’s eyes. The rest of the world falls away, and in that moment it is only the two of them.
Shawn Greavette Grade 11
Untitled I fall into bed Wishing I could drown I want the sheets to swallow me up But your smell That intoxicating scent Pulls me back to the surface If I close my eyes And just relax (like you would always tell me) I can feel the world moving on But I’m at a standstill Untitled “Hallo schone frau,” he tells her, Maybe today she’ll listen “Ma belle amour,” he greets her, She doesn’t know what she’s worth Soft kisses are pressed against skin, For her to carry around for the day, A reminder that she is loved Because if there is one thing he wants her to know It is this; She is smart chauntal rosborough She is beautiful grade 11 And above all, She is loved
To the sky and back I was three years old when my mom made me join a local swimming club. My mom and my grandma used to swim as well; it was kind of predicted that I was going to continue this sports tradition. At this time nobody knew I was going to be more successful than everybody else in my family; I was eight years old when I won my first trophy. I felt overjoyed, satisfied and confirmed; I enjoyed all the attention I got from my family members and friends. My ambitions grew and my mom, together with my trainers, set new goals for the future. I was too young to decide and having my own opinion about the things my mom planes for me. The only thing I thought about is making everyone proud; the pressure was intolerable and I felt trapped and forced to push myself to the limit. At eleven-years old I had nearly virtually no free time because school and training kept me busy from sunrise to sunset. I started living for the success; good was not enough, everything needed to be perfect. My ambitions triggered my confidence, but on the other hand I thought critically about myself. Am I strong enough to handle all the pressure, and am I good enough to be one of the best? I felt miserable and excited at the same time. Of course I wanted to hang out with friends but on the other hand I had to train to for making it to the top. Nobody could imagine how frustrating that has been. The worst was I only had half a year left till one of the most important competitions in entire Germany. I was scared because I knew if I make it there I could make it into one of the best sport schools in the country. I worked even harder and my mom rewarded me with little gifts and high-tech swim suits. I got treated like a princess, getting all the attention I always wanted; it made it easier to endure the pain I suffered from because of the excessive training plan. For me swimming was not just a sport, it was a passion and lifestyle. A life without it, something I could never picture at this time. Two months before attending the ‘German Open’s’ I felt in good shape; my trainers perfectly prepared me for the upcoming event. Even the training volume decreased for not overloading me and getting in danger of pulling a muscle or something similar.
Finally the day came when I hopped into the car and got made my way to Bremen, a small city in Germany where the German Open took place that year. My excitement turned into seriousness and later into fear. Suddenly I did not feel that confident anymore. What if I don’t nail it? It is my big chance to but if something goes wrong I lose everything I worked the last years for. The pressure got unendurable and I just wanted to get off the car. I was driving myself crazy, leaving me sorrowful and nostalgic. Why does my mom allow all this happening to me? She should support me but she loved being in the spotlight for being the mother of this successful kid? That was the point, I was still a child; not mature enough for this pressure. I should be with kids of my own age, playing kids’ games and not sitting in a car on the way to such a big competition. I was one of the youngest participants. It was stupid thinking I could make it, it was too soon. I perfectly remember the moment I had to enter the start bridge. I was shaking, scared and feeling helpless…I could not focus at all. I heart the start signal and I knew I had to retrieve everything I had, but the worries inhibited me to move properly. At the end it was a huge failure; my time was terrible and dreams were destroyed at least until the following year. I remember the expressions on my mom’s and my trainer’s faces; pure disappointment. My mom was crying and I was near a breakdown. Is this the reward I deserved for doing years of hard training? Just because I failed ONE time? I hated my mom for treating me like that; I am human, not a machine, I have my mistakes and I am not perfect but my mom only cared about the result which has been bad in this particular situation. I loved swimming, I really did, but it broke me. It took my pride away and I did not feel like continuing this sport. I told my mom and for her a world collapsed, it took her years to accept it. I had the throne, I had the attention, I had the satisfaction and in the end I lost it all because I decided to act in favour of other instead of acting in favour of me. It took me months to confess that.
Sandra BAETHGE Grade 11
Whipped for womanhood She is whipped For Being a woman. Pain lances up her back, She feels her dignity dying. On her knees in the street, Dirt-smeared faces stare, But are soon melded together, Lost in a haze As she kisses the dirt. The crowd swells. Her friends and neighbors join the mob, Consumed by the cruelty That is their custom. She did not ask For that night of shifting shadowsTo be pinned down, Penetrated Left gasping for breath By the man that gave her life. The evidence was left between her legs And on her face. Escaping into the stillness of the night, She remembers‌ Life had grown inside her once, The result of a night Almost exactly like this. But that babe Was wrenched from her arms
And drowned before her eyes… She is lost in screams and dreams Until the light turns on. Her keeper is back, Home from making merry With women without marriage. Escape is attempted But she is held hostage By his hold on her hair And by the wedding vows That had been forced upon her. She tries not to exist As his knuckles tear her skin. He spits in her face. “So you want to be a slut?” He is inside her, Another body heaving, Trying to find satisfaction Within her. When his gyrations finally slow And his eyes droop shut, Breath heavy with drink, She pushes him aside Removing his weight. Lying there, Alone as ever, She cries. Silent tears roll Down her purple cheek To be lost in the dark. These tears are found
When they tell her “You are to blame” For this brutality. They tell her she is whipped For being a whore But she is whipped For being a woman. Author’s Note: This poem was inspired by the true story of a woman in a developing country who was raped by her own father and then publicly whipped for having extra marital sex. This same man killed the baby she bore by him earlier that year. She still lives with him, and the husband she was forced to marry. My heart goes out to her and the millions of other women that live similar lives. I hope this poem can help raise awareness about the horrors of abuse against women.
skylah ginette Grade 11
Wrap me up Wrap me up in a world Of dragonflies wings; made up of Sugar coated dreams and tender gestures Then leave me stranded out in an ice age Built up of resentment; shove me Out of the way into the cold And the shadows cast icy stares Continue to chase me through This haunted mansion This spook has become a terror Cage me in prickly hugs Even when I beg to be let free Burry me six feet under, I’d rather be lonely in earth Than be filthy with guilt In this city In this city, I find myself engulfed in sadness Surrounded by soul stealing hopelessness A layer of dread painted on Main Street Excessive similarity building to building Winter broads and slimy blokes cast a shadow Over the delicates and the fascinating Manipulating this unfortunate hell holes Perception of current, current realities Typical tendencies are strategically Sharpened like a double edge sword How am I supposed to breathe? When this wasteland is drowning in a tsunami of sorrow chlÖe grayson Grade 11
Change your ways... I was on the subway when he sat beside me. He was a young man and very well spoken. We struck up conversation easily. He was incredibly interested in politics, and one issue seemed to fascinate, astound, and enrage him. His eyes flamed when he spoke to me. “On December 14th, 2012, Adam Lanza shot and killed twenty-seven people before taking his own life. I had hoped that the deaths of twenty children would cause some sort of change to the legislation on gun control. And, yet, your right-wing politicians shudder and bristle at the thought of someone touching their firearms. They flaunt the Second Amendment as some sort of defense. I wonder if they know that only militias have the right to keep and bear arms. The United States of America has had no need of militia since the nineteenth century. I know for a fact that very few of your gun-toting right-wing fanatics will sprint to the local Army recruitment office if war is declared. Honestly, I have no idea how you could ever need a weapon that gives ‘peace of mind out to 1200 yards’. Are you seriously that paranoid that ‘they’ are going to attack? “Forgive me, I do not mean to stereotype. But doesn’t sixty-two mass shootings in the past thirty years cause you some alarm? What about the 396,646 deaths related to gun violence since 1999? If you don’t understand the gravity of that number, let me give you an example. According to your 2000 census, Miami, Florida, has a population of just over 360,000. The entire population of Miami could be extinguished. Just like that. All of them, gone. Do you understand now why I watch your politics from my country and become astounded by the attitudes people have towards firearms? Twenty children!” The young man’s stop came. He stood up to get out, but not before saying over his shoulder, “You have to change your ways.” justin nykilchuk grade 12
Drifting - a moment in time Everything just fades out and I can only hear the soft buzz of music. My feet vibrate gently, but not to the point where they tickle. The only natural noise I can hear, besides the four tumbling wheels, is the wind. Cars pass occasionally, but I cannot hear them over the screaming wind. However, just before I move to the side of the road to make way for the car I feel something, even if it’s just for a second. It’s at times like these where I can really just think—stop and think. Everything is clear, everything fades away.
Runaway Train - a moment in time
patrick parry grade 11
The train finally pulls up to the stop, and I take a shaky breath. This is it. With my luggage in hand I climb up to the cart’s second floor, find an isolated seat near the back and throw my suitcase in the overhead compartment. As the train starts to fill up I put on my music and try to be invisible. A middle-aged man claims the seat next to me, and he’s out like a light, asleep before the train even starts moving. He looks to be the same age as my father, and I start to wonder what my parents will think when they wake up and realize I’m gone. As the train starts to roll through the California landscape I look out the window, but it’s too dark to see anything. Sighing, I close the window and try to ignore the electronic voice reviewing the train’s safety procedures. We’re headed to Chicago, a place I’ve never been before. Will I finally find happiness there, away from the chaos of my past life? I suppose only time will tell. The electronic voice wishes us a good trip, and it’s just me and my music, heading off to an unknown future. aislinn mcdivitt grade 12
The mask Living with a mask To hide the truth To hide all the pain Never to be removed Never to deeply speak of Once this mask decays The truth that’s been hidden Will finally show Everyday the mask slowly breaks A new chip a new scratch How long can is withstand this? I fear for the day that it won’t hold All the fear that’ll pour Into the souls around Will turn into a living nightmare
The darkest reflection The reflections I see are dark and cold Unforgiving, unwanted, alone, upset, Evil, demonic, vicious, gruesome Wanting to tear me to shreds Yelling for it to go, to leave me alone For the peace and quiet I long for Is it too much to ask for? But it sit there, smiling, and mocking Every turn I make its still there Mocking and smiling at every move Trying to trick me deeper into the darkness I slowly follow into the end of my sanity Ash GRADE 11
Curiosity There it was again. The noise I’d heard a few seconds ago. My heart started to beat faster and I tried to determine where the noise came from. Was it from the window or the door right next to the window? I was unsure, the only thing I felt certain about was that it came from the left side of my room. I screwed up my eyes and tried to see anything, but it was too dark to see even my own hands. Still jumpy and totally nervous, I reached for my glasses, even without seeing anything I felt more comfortable with them than without them. Should I try to fall asleep or should I go and look where the noise came from. Like an answer the noise came back the third time. This time even louder than the two times before. I decided to search for the source of the scary noises; I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep again anyways. I sat up and opened my eyes hoping for the slightest inkling. And there it was, a quiet sighing, like a wind. This time I was able to locate from where it came, right near my door, and I started to scream. Lenni Sixtus GRADE 11
CALLUM BARBOUR & PATRICK PARRY, GRADE 12
Full Moon The sea of black expands above me and I listen. Their fingers of nothing rip at my clothes and I can’t see them. Their stale breath moves against my neck but I can’t feel them. The distant voices play tricks on me as they scream, laugh, cry, sing. I can’t hear them. I try to walk and I am left unmoving in the dark. The silver dollar above me guides me, but I am lost in this world of forgotten life. I am alone, alone within the crowd of weathered stones that mark their places. My eyes are wide and my vision is blurred. I am alone surrounded by the people of the night. The full moon calls to them; they do not listen. They strain against the chains that bound them to darkness and I stand. And I listen. And I hear nothing. ERIN DAY GRADE 12 Innocence Are there people who are completely innocent? I don’t think so, because every human has done something guilty, because of certain thoughts, certain acts etc. To me, innocence means a lack of guilt with respect to any crime, sin or wrongdoing. This does not mean that we are corpses in a garden, it just means that in our lifetimes we have all done something we knew was wrong. It could be a little lie that did not hurt or effect anyone or anything, but it was still wrong; or we cheated during a test, ate the chocolate sibling’s chocolate.... I have never met someone who is truly innocent. He or she might exist, but they are rare. LAURA -MARIE NIEMANN GRADE 11
Monologue: Killing floor It will be 33 years tomorrow. thirty-three years of killing, gutting, cleaning, rinse and repeat. I gotta say that I am tired of these damned cattle looking at me. Looking at me knowing that the very eyes that stare me down, I will be sending to death and mopping up off of the floor before my shift is over. They try and speak to me, I know cuz I can hear em. They say stuff like “How much of my family have you put through that mill?”–too many let me tell ya, one by one, one after another, each one as dead as the next. Hanging from the ceiling like a fucking chandelier on a hook, instead of roaming the fields and chewing up cud to spit it out for her young , who, like their late mother, have been fattened on up for killin’. No, she finds her way into the darkest place in the entire country, if not the world. It’s an alright living I guess, I mean there are worse jobs. Worse jobs that I’m not, what’s the word, Qualified for. Killing cows is all I know and you know what they say, can’t teach an old dog new tricks, something like that. So I’ll keep on mopping up the blood and the guts, chopping these helpless critters to bits. One can’t help but think that these eyes who have seen so many pups put to the slaughter, will be put to an end themselves before long. If there is one thing you learn working on the killing floor, it’s that no matter how fine the machine cuts, there will always be a mess to clean up.. After I finish this cold cup of coffee and this bloody cigarette, I’ll make the most memorable damn mess these kids ever seen.
Tyler Dyck Grade 12 Untitled There’s a pretty boy who sits by himself and his skin is kissed with sadness. His head is bowed and his shoulders hunched, protecting himself from nothing and everything.
There’s a really pretty boy sitting in the corner and everyone calls him ugly, but he’s the most beautiful person in the room. He’s delicate and sharp like breaking glass. And he is breaking. Broken. Waiting to be put back together again. We hold a breath tight in our chest because we’ve watched this pretty boy beaten to the ground, shoved in the dirt and cracked. But this time he’s too far away for us to pick up again. Instead we got little phone calls full to the brim with shaky words from a boy who promised to keep him safe. He’s a boy whose mum wasn’t strong enough to hang up the phone when drugs came calling, a boy whose father built an empire on top of piles of money but it took it all away when University needed paying. He’s a boy whose aunty loved him like his mum was supposed to. Who gave him a home instead of a house; but she wasn’t as lucky as most, and stopped her heart beating before her time was up. And he’s a boy in the body of a man who grew up before he could walk. There’s a pretty boy who wears a big ‘f-you’ on his skin and in his hair because the worst has already happened and you can’t effing hurt him. But he’s also a beautiful boy who’s delicate and needs an army to protect him. Milan Paul Grade 11
The Horrors of One’s Imagination I remember when I used to feel normal. Every day I feel myself slipping further and further away. Slowly I’m going crazy and all I can do is sit back and watch the show. Before I began to lose my mind I always wondered what it was like to go crazy; do you simply go crazy or do you have to watch your mind deteriorate with no way to stop it? The simplest way to explain it is like being drunk, your drunk brain thinks it knows what’s best but your sober brain knows that your drunk brain is being an idiot yet has to watch in horror as your drunk brain takes control. That’s what going crazy is like for me, although it probably varies from person to person. I’m not crazy, I have my moments but I believe that I am still sane, which is why I am able to think rationally. Well I guess I’m as sane as a person who is going crazy can be. I have strange episodes, they come out of nowhere. In these episodes I will either talk to myself or talk to “spirits”, which are really just figments of my imagination. These conversations can last from minutes to hours and in the back of my mind I know I’m not being sane but I can’t help it. It isn’t logical to talk to yourself or pretend like someone is there. It makes me feel less alone. Cause you see, I have no one else to talk to, everyone has left me. I also see things. . . and hear voices. I see shadows dancing across the corners of my vision but when I turn to face them there is nothing there. And as soon as I turn back to what I was doing the shadows reappear. They glide and dart and linger and taunt me. I have never felt such fear, I feel like they’re demons creeping up on me, ready to snatch my soul. And the voices. Oh the voices. When I lay down in my bed to rest they whisper to me. I strain to make out what they say but it’s incomprehensible. They just keep whispering and whispering and whispering till all I can do is cover my ears with my pillow and scream to drown out their demonic words while I wait for them to stop.
I am plagued with nightmares. It has gotten to the point where I don’t even want to sleep anymore. The demons that control my mind during the day take shape during the night. They have planted their seed of fear inside my brain. Every night that I do manage to fall asleep I wake up trembling, dripping in cold sweat and gasping for breath. It’s the monsters of our childhood. The monsters of our own imagination that haunt me. I want to be normal. I wish I didn’t have to worry about the things that creep up on me. I wish I could go out in public without the fear that I’ll sink into an episode and be humiliated or sent to the looney bin. But wishing for something doesn’t make it true. Hoping doesn’t guarantee that everything will be all right. But all I can do is hope. Hope that one day I’ll fit in; be able to enjoy life like everyone else. Hope that these demons will leave, that my sanity won’t flee completely. This last shred of sanity is all I have left to cling to. Once it is gone I’ll succumb to the horrors of my own imagination. Renee Berger Grade 11
Monologue: Writer’s Block I remember a teacher once said that there is nothing called a writers block, since technically, you can always write something. You can just keep on writing one word a hundred times, or write what happened to you the day before. But the term writer’s block is not as simple as that. If I say that I can’t write anything, that doesn’t mean that my fingers just fell off. I just can’t write anything that make sense, that people will read, that I will read myself in a couple of years from now. So why are people pressuring me to write something. Write a story here, and a monologue there. Tell me about your day, or about your family problems. Tell me what you ate for breakfast, or what you are thinking about right now. And to be honest, I don’t think that much. I try to think as little as possible, for if I take a breath and look around, I will end up in a corner, crying my eyes out because I don’t know what to do with my life. There is so much stuff I would like to do. Travel, get to know people, record an album, and write a book. But many of my dreams will never happen, and that’s why I don’t want to think, to write or to have to look around for other reasons than just to avoid getting run over by a crazy biker. So what do you want me to do? I cannot be Shakespeare, and I’m not a Jane Austen, writing things that will be read a hundred, two hundred, maybe three hundred years from now. I feel so small compared to people like that, that use big words, that know things about life, even though they may only have been sitting in their bedroom, their living room, or another room for that matter, not experienced anything else than the four walls around them, or the city a couple of miles from their little home. I have been to the other side of the world and back, and I still feel like I don’t know anything. I am sitting here on my bed, writing things I wish I knew, wish I could do, wish I could figure out how to succeed inn. But the truth is that I am too scared, to scared too live out my dreams. Too scared to reach a little bit further, too afraid to get out of my own com-
fort zone. That is one thing I wish I could do, be braver, be stronger, be a little more alive.
Rebekkah Rustad Grade 11
Monologue: It’s Not You, It’s the Alpacas I’m just gonna get straight to the point- I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, I just can’t. No, it’s not you. It’s not me either… Well it’s kind of you. But mostly it’s the alpacas. They need me a lot more than you need me or I need you, especially Gisele after her hoof surgery last week. She can be a bit of a princess, so it’s taking a while. And I think Bill and Chapman are feuding over Luna, so I need to take care of that… Oh right. Okay, so like I was saying: we need to break up. I just don’t think you feel as passionate about running an alpaca ranch as I do. I mean, it’s my life. I eat, sleep, and breathe alpaca. Well I don’t eat alpaca, this is a no kill farm, you know that. But my life revolves around them- Rick, Bill, Old Ellie, Gisele, Snuffles, Bernadette, Latifa, Chapman, Luna, and Kurt. They’re my family, my best friends, my source of income. Sure, it’s the slow season now, but just wait. Let me tell you, everyone loves a good alpaca petting zoo in summer. They’re so important to me, and you act like you don’t even care about them! Remember last Friday when we were going to see Bucky, Idaho’s largest alpaca, and you said you wanted to a movie instead? I mean, what’s with that? We met at an equestrian fair. Yeah, yeah, I know you were just dragged there by your parents, you’ve mentioned that… Also, you call them llamas. They’re not llamas; they’re alpacas for god’s sake. There are some very key differences. Whatever. I just think it’s best for the both of us if we go our separate ways. So I guess this is goodbye. But before I forget, could I have that alpaca wool sweater I knitted you back?
Paris Begrand Fast Grade 12
A moment in time I lie in my bed, sick to the bone, hating my feeble body, wishing I could escape it and leave my pain behind. Then you walk in and lay a tray of chicken soup on my lap, give me a smile and kiss my forehead. You climb into my bed and fill my cold body with your warmth. I stop hating my sickness; in fact, I love it, because it was the reason a moment like this exists.
Note: Sung to the tune of “Ocean” by The Bravery There once was a wall Made of brimstone and dimes Little tiny jewels sparkling in the dark of night It was polished by royals It was touched by kings This wall had it all, it had everything Painted with the colours of a thousand divines Sweet summer rainbows with stars in their eyes Orange-ping sunsets covered its stones It was pretty, I suppose. Then one day, came a long autumn rain It poured and it fell, for thousands of days And after the sun came peeking through the clouds The wall had already gone down Bricks on the floor, muddy and brown Jewels sunk through the earth to be buried underground Colours all faded, their brightness was gone The wall just couldn’t carry on
Lolu Oyedele Grade 12
Face it Your name is divine, By association to all things that once were great. Let it be fear or love, The feelings are strong. My heart is weak when this fear is high. But sometimes fear is a good companion. Better than numb, Than nothing at all. If your voice was quiet, I’d strain to hear. But in reality, I just want somebody to talk to.
Stuck The secrets and truth both lie in those eyes, But somehow the thoughts are caught between fingers. The feeling still lingers although the hair’s all been cut. Am I searching enough? To search is to ruin the process at hand, But the thoughts in the mind will never find land, The answers are all wrong, but his are more right. It’s a fight. A struggle to see the skin that was once so close but now so rough, But this is all just a code and this lock is tough.
Nikki Wilkinson Grade 12
Bad days It’s all I can do not to punch you. It would get me nowhere, no kidding, I know that, but sometimes I can’t help myself but dream. Wishful thinking… You stare at me, mocking me silently. I grit my teeth, see you do the same. The urge to punch you spikes suddenly. I want to damage, destroy, hurt; myself or others, I don’t care. I take a deep breath, tell myself to calm down. Some days, I really don’t want to see you. I don’t have a lot of choice; you’re almost always there, sometimes when I least expect it. On a childish impulse, I blow you a raspberry. You blow one right back, not an inch more mature than I am. No, you’re just as childish, have always been and will always be, the same as me. Sometimes I forget, but you never fail to remind me. How immature I can be, that is. I never forget that you are the same. There are bad days, days where it’s hard to look at you. Days where it’s tough to swallow down the dread I feel when I think about facing people, exposing myself to their judgment. I’ve had practice with that, it comes like a reflex now, excepting those days. I try to avoid looking at you, on bad days. On good days, everything’s fine, I don’t have a problem with you. I smile at you. You smile back. I like your smile. I like you, I think. I like your lips, your face, your whole appearance. But on bad days… I go out of my way not to look at you, unwilling to feel the shame and disgust well up inside me. Sometimes I wonder whether you would be hurt if you could understand what I’m doing. I’m glad then that you don’t. It’s nothing I’m proud of, the shame of feeling
that way almost overpowering what I experience upon laying eyes on you. I try not to think about it. It’s unavoidable on bad days, though, and I don’t know what’s worse; you being the way you are, or me being unable to accept you for the way you are. I think it’s the latter; it must be, because on good days, I don’t want you to change. I like the good days. But the bad days are as certain as the next full moon. They’re not as frequent as they could be, I know. And I am thankful for that, I really am. But when they come, they sneak up on me, on you, on us; more often than not, I don’t even feel them coming until I am—until we are—caught in their relentless grasp. One second, everything’s fine. The next, I can’t even stand looking at you. Today is a bad day. I look at you anyway. For some reason I can’t avert my eyes. You look back at me, level headed, your face even. Expressionless, I like to think. I can’t see what’s going on in your head; at least not on your face. I know anyway, know you. Too well, I think on some days. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though, and I know you wouldn’t, either. I’m not sure what I’d do if I didn’t know you inside out. Focusing on your eyes helps. I like your eyes, like the way you squint when you smile or laugh. But today, you don’t. Your expression stays blank, and my gaze doesn’t linger on them long, flits over your face, taking in every single spot the skin is marred. On some days (most days) I hate myself for what I have done to you. I have to stop. I am well aware I have to. I can’t do it, is the problem. It’s anyway at a low right now, the frequency of the urges. I can ignore them, for the most part, catch myself early enough not to do real damage. It comes in ebbs and flows, like a sinusoidal wave.
I try to forget the way your skin is dotted with red spots and scabs where the urges have gotten the better of me. It’s easier to give in. Twenty-three days, I repeat in my head, twenty-three days until a new habit is formed. I never get past day seven. Barely get past day five. The yo-yo effect usually makes it even worse. It’s easy enough to ignore, as long as I don’t have to face you. I’m glad about that, about the reprieve I get throughout the day until I catch a glimpse of you out of the corner of my eye or the loneliness comes slamming back into me or the day simply catches up with me in the evenings. The piano used to take the brunt of my stress and hurt. I don’t have a piano here. All I have is you. Evenings are the worst; I hardly ever manage to escape you then when the stress from the day becomes overwhelming and all I want is a release, relief in some form, but mornings aren’t the easiest either. Sometimes I think you judge me for it, and it makes looking at you all the harder. Makes the wish to escape your silent, knowing stares so much stronger. I have to go, need to leave for school. You still meet my stare dead on and I zero in on your eyes. They are nice, the iris green in this light and a thin ring around the huge pupils. I like their look. Twilight suits you, I can’t deny it, and I’m glad I can narrow my vision almost exclusively down to your eyes. Even on bad days, I like them. Stupid bad days, anyway. I bare my teeth, an approximation of a smile. Stay positive, I tell myself and let the smile become real. I’ve had some practice at that, too. You smile back at me, a distorted version of reality. Sometimes I wonder how convincing my mask seems to people around me. Whether they can tell what I think every time I see you. I know I sometimes (for very short stretches of time) manage to fool you. But I don’t know about anybody else,
and I don’t have time to dwell on it now. It’s something to ponder, later, when I have time. For now, I give it a rest, turn away and leave. I know without looking that you turn with me, walk in the opposite direction. The click of the door is final as it shuts behind me, and all that remains... ...is an empty mirror. Julia Roigk Grade 11
#25: I make waves... Crash upon the sands and leave the shore stirring, steaming and silent. I sink into each changing current, spin, then surrender to the sea. Let it take me and tangle my hair, caress my curvature then throw me upon land. The tide turns and with it I burn for one more touch from that same cold breath which left me here. ..breathless and wrapped in it’s weeds and debris. I tumble with my feet and my hands are no help as the sun begins to take leave. the clouds roll toward me ..see me naked and pale, damp and diseased. I scream to the skies but I receive no response, the beach it is desolate, much like my thoughts which are no longer living, are dead just like me.. as my last breath slips into the closely throbbing sea. Marly Merrill Grade 12
That Day She walked along the sky that day Then she stopped and looked at me Her air flowed gently in the breeze Like an angel, forever free She left me in a daze that day My heart would long for hers She’s beauty incarnate, wonder, and joy My strongest feelings stir I fell into her eyes that day And I never wanted out So exciting, enticing, bright and inviting Unparalleled, with no doubt I became a slave to love that day I search beneath its reign I doubt I’ll have a day like that Until I see her once again
Hired Gun The man stood against the rough cement wall and felt the rain sting his face. The street light flickered, almost as if it was startled out of its constant state of suspended life. The man adjusted his solid black hat, and pulled his scarf over his face so that only his eyes were visible. He lent an ear to the corner, listening to the footsteps that inched ever closer. They sounded so close, yet so far. He slipped his hand into his pocket and rested it against his pistol. That damn pistol. The gun that was anything but innocent. It was cold, hard, and anxious. He relieved his pocket of the shameful gun, and checked his
surroundings. It was dark and isolated; this was perfect for the man. He inserted a suppressor on the end of the gun. He couldn’t be heard, not by anyone, for even a moment. He listened around the corner once again; the footsteps were closer, but not by much. The wait was driving the man crazy, but it was a wait that he had to endure. It was his job after all. The man runs his gloved hands over his stone cold face, hardened by regret, to assure himself of who he is. He leans towards the corner one last time, and listens. At last! The time is near. His anticipation is painful. At this point he could not tell whether the moisture on his brow was sweat or rain. The tension was unbearably thick, and he felt anything but pride. The man makes sure his face is concealed, and stills his breath. Silence, absolute, maddening silence was all there was as he stepped around the corner. The footsteps came to a startled halt, and the mysterious man forces himself to look upon the face of the life he must end. He does this every time. It’s his way of punishing himself for the road he walks. The man lifts his gun, and before his victim has a chance to blink, the hired gun fires. He doesn’t even glance at the lifeless body as it smashes against the cold, wet sidewalk, for that would crush him, it would kill him. The man just runs into the night, never to be seen, heard, or even noticed. Thus is the cursed life of the hired gun. Tarran Kostiuk Grade 12
Untitled His lips traced the outline of her collarbone, tugging gently at her skin with his teeth. The room was dead silent, with the only sound being his breath gently flowing over her soft, white skin. It wasn’t often that he found himself in an intimate situation with such a beautiful, young girl. He brought his eyes level with hers, but was not disappointed when he found her eyes still closed. “I’ll make you happy,” he whispered in her ear, as he teasingly bit her, again. His hand moved down her body without resistance. He continued to look for a change of emotion on her face, but did not seem bothered when she held the same, peaceful look. Just as his hand made out the outline of her hip, he placed a soft kiss on her neck. He began to place another when someone knocked at the door. “One second!” he shouted as he pulled the black cover back over her face. He zipped up the bag, and pushed the aluminum bed back into the wall. He opened the door calmly. “I understand it is after hours, but I wish to see my daughter one last time.”
Mirage Amongst the dark, threatening clouds forming in the reflection of the calm waters of the pond, were the innocent faces of two young people. They were facing each other, staring deeply into the others eyes. A small pair of feminine hands reached out and put themselves in the larger hands of the young man. His eyes followed her body down to where their hands were now joined, but his face became overwhelmed with sadness as he looked at their connection. The waters reflection showed intent gleaming from the eyes of the young lady. She pulled their bodies closer, but the young man still looked sad. As his eyes began to find their way back to hers, she brought her face ever so close to his. It became clear to him what she intended, and the sadness drifted from his eyes until it vanished entirely. He placed his hand on her cheek, and brought his face level with hers. The rain began to fall, and the clear image on the pond was gone. Ryan Dorosh Grade 12
Moment in time With sweat, blood and dirt covering my arms, I peered out into the outfield grass. A massive metallic fence marked the end of the diamond. There were three players dressed all in grey roaming the outfield space. One spat every few seconds to remove tobacco discharge, another chomped vigorously on his bubble gum. As my eyes continued down onto the infield dirt, five men stood between the base paths with one toeing the rubber on the mound. I don’t know what it is about the dirt between my fingers, or the chalk on my face. I don’t know why I love having baseball Callseams tattooed in my arm from a blocked pitch. There may be blood running from my elbow, but the game still, and always will, course through my veins.
Monologue I sit alone in a sterile, empty room. My only company is the brown leather La-Z-Boy and a mini fridge. They try to take my mind off the obvious by putting an electronic picture frame on the pine desk beside me. Close ups of snowshoes, deer in the dense woods and frogs laying pond side rotate between the frames. I like to peer through my window and see what the world presents to me. It shows everyone has a place to go. Pedestrians have a purpose when they walk or run, cyclists commute to work or pedal home and all the vehicles have a destination. It seems ironic that looking through a tiny window, I can see so many simple things I don’t want to leave behind. While all the walkers and runners, the people on bikes and everyone riding a bus or driving a car have places to go and places to be, I know this sterile room is the only place I have anymore. Going to my back room in my cozy condo to watch hockey games is no longer an option. I can’t book times at the golf course anymore. My son gets married in two months but I won’t be there. I won’t be able to talk
hockey with my grandsons, or ask my granddaughter about dance. Meghan works hard and will be extremely successful. I’m going to miss Christmas dinner with my family and afternoon visits with them all. The only option anymore is to lay here and reflect on memories, moments and good times I have been blessed by. When everyone comes to visit, I manage to let out a cheerful, “Hey guys!”, and try not to let them observe my fear. I know it’s not fair, and I know there’s no beating this, but all I can do is try. I hope they understand when the phone rings throughout their houses before the sun rises to bring bad news, I didn’t want this. I hope they aren’t worried about my pain because the only pain I feel is that which accompanies not being able to see any of them again. I could see the fear in my grandchildren’s eyes when they arrived, I was sorry they had to see their grandpa like he was and I prayed they wouldn’t remember me like I am but for who I was. Looking back, I couldn’t have asked for anymore. I had a loving family, a strenuous but satisfying life and a thirty year retirement. I can accept it is my time, this is my place. My eyes can close and I’m ready to lose my first battle.
Callum Barbour Grade 11 Waves Uncertainty is the moss that grows between the cracks of love. Pushing apart, creating distance and division. Separation creates a river, the rushing water eroding away the once impermeable and solid rock walls created by love. The relentless liquid washing away comfort and happiness like the grains of sand caught in the craggy rocks. Deep breaths, deep breaths, fight against the current, the losing battle. Dig your feet into the unstable sand, the dissolving ground. Hold onto the slippery rocks and breaking branches, scrabble for footing. Bind up the wounds and the cracks, mend them with kisses and cover them with sheets. Ignore the death seeping around the corners, huddle against its cold fingers. You know it is there, it is around you with its tendrils creeping into your mind. You
know it is time to let go, but your muscles aren’t sore, your arms aren’t shaking. There is still a fight left, and it’s a love worth fighting for. A Moment in time It’s not so much the sudden awareness of consciousness, but the lack of sleep. There is no specific moment, no absolute realization, just a gradual coming about. The sun creeps through the cracks in my blinds, the cracks in my eyelids. It creates a tranquilly beautiful reddish brown aura behind my eyes. I keep them closed, savouring the last comfortable tendrils of sleep. The peaceful silence is swollen and I am content. The feeling spreads up from my back, around my limbs and fills up my heart, expanding it. The feeling is of absolute serenity. It feels like the sound of clinking wind chimes, the wind through the boughs of the forest or the taste of a lover’s mouth. In that moment nothing else existed. In that moment the entire world was encased in the four walls around me and the staggering happiness within me. caitlyn Thomas Grade 11 Untitled Painted smiles, and hidden veils Drape our dreams in tangled sails. Happiness lies within us, but can we reach it? We no longer love the earth and rain, But have come to thrive on others’ pain. The grass whispers to the trees, who keep the past within their leaves, We have become a different kind, We no longer have peace of mind. Claudia Lum Grade 12
Claudia Lum, Grade 12
Only after pain and suffering have shown their ugly faces can we begin to appreciate the beauty of the world...
The world isn’t falling A P A R
T
it’s falling I N T
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place.
Squandered dreams The house didn’t have much for her. Chasing around three children, two of who thought that dirt was appropriate meal replacement, was the sad reality of her life. When she was eighteen, she never dreamed that six years later she would have already settled down and given birth to
more children than she had ever wanted. She wanted to travel, to see the world. She dreamed of the warm sand under her feet as she walked along the beach, watching the sun set over the ocean. She wished that her pale skin could have a sun-kissed glow, or that she could at least have to chase her children down a path through palm trees, instead of her kitchen. She had brought up the idea of taking the family somplece warm, maybe getting a timeshare in Mexico, but every time, her husband said, “I can’t get thtat sort of time off work,” or, “How do you expect to pay to get five people down there?”, at which point she woudl calmly say it was just an idea, as she smiled, hiding the fact that her dreams had once again been squandered by a life she never wanted to live. Darilyn Bowden Grade 12
I stare down at my blank piece of paper. I start to tap my pencil on my nice old, mahogany desk in a vain attempt to get myself to focus on my work. However, I just can’t seem to get myself to focus. I look over my shoulder at the rest of my room. It’s a rather simple room with a single bed with no blanket and a dresser being the dominant pieces of furniture. The walls are painted a pale brown and are adorned with movie posters from relatively unknown movies. There’s also a magical portal in the center of my room, but I try to ignore that. I don’t know how exactly it got there, I just kind of woke up in the middle of night one time, and it was there. I haven’t gone through it or anything; I just try to ignore it… That’s kind of difficult though because occasionally it starts to suck various things into itself. Just the other night, I woke up, shivering, in my bed because the portal had stolen my blankets and I can’t begin to count the number of close calls I’ve had with the book I’m currently reading. Suddenly, my pencil flies out of my hand into the murky depths of the portal. “All right! That does it! That was my last pencil!” I glare at the portal. “Will you quit it?” The featureless darkness of the portal somehow appeared to be giving me a look that said, “Only if you get in here!” “Fine!” I shouted at the portal “Maybe I will!” Launching my self off my chair, I dive at the portal. The portal somehow gives off in the appearance of pleased as I plunge in too it’s black frame.
Moment in time A bead of sweat rolls down my forehead. I glance frantically from side-to-side. Everyone has the same paper out on their desks or rather, everyone except for me. Today was the day the essay was due, an essay I forgot about. Each syllable feels like a minute as my teacher calls out
the names that precede mine. The teacher gets to the student who is right above me on the class list. Excuses begin to form in my mind, but their feeble existences are blown away as the teacher calls my name. At first I attempt to fight against my fate, I grasp at the pieces of my shattered excuses and attempt to form a coherent story from them. Then reality sets in and I realize how resistance is futile. I hang my head and admit my foolishness to the teacher. Emerson Harbour Grade 11
Betrayal Anger coursed through me, cold undiluted fury pulsing in my veins. What I had once forgot, now remembered and the pain these memories caused me was that like no other. His smiling face mocked me, his voice ringing in my ears like the shock of something too loud. I had loved him, had cared so dearly… but everyone must see the truth sooner or later. It had been pretty outside that day. Warm and happy, all the trees alive and the birds in song. I’d been happy. I wish I remembered that feeling. I had walked, quickly up the hill, anxious to see him and wish him well. He hadn’t been at school that day. There were no cars in the drive so I let myself in, figuring he’d be sleeping. As I started down the stairs, I heard noises. I didn’t know what to think at first. I rounded the corner and the horror became reality. He saw me. Barely. The girl seated atop him blocking most of his view. I died that day. I felt my whole being crumble, collapse in on itself as I stood there with the smile melting from my face. I was too stunned to cry, to hurt to breath. How I left, I’ll never really understand. The next thing I knew I was on their lawn, puking. My body retched and I fell forward, completely unable to control my movements. That was when the crying started. When I remembered everything we had, the love I’d felt for and from him, the times he’d held me, comforted me. The fact that I had given him…everything. Trusted him with everything. I saw it all and I felt it all ripped away, like a table cloth pulled from beneath fine china. I felt it all crash down around me. Felt so so much all at once. Somehow I made it home. It was around one in the morning when I collapsed in my front yard, my body empty of both bile and tears. All the emotions flooded out and the empty cage left to rot and die. I wish they’d never found me. I wish I’d never woken up.
Marantha James Grade 11
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