Young Authors Booklet 2009 by @OECTA

YOUNG AUTHORS AWARDS

THORS A W

2009

•

U N E S ÉCRI

PREFACE This collection is a celebration of the literary talents and accomplishments of the provincial winners of the Ontario English Catholic Teachers’ Association’s 2009 Young Author Awards/Prix jeunes écrivains program. Congratulations to all the provincial winners. The writing selections produced by these young authors remind us that the famous Canadian authors of the future are presently in our classrooms. We also extend our congratulations to all the thousands of students across the province who participated in the classroom, school, and unit levels of the awards program. Everyone’s enthusiasm and hard work ensures that the Young Authors Awards/Prix jeunes écrivains program continues to grow and improve each year. We also show appreciation to all the teachers – without whose inspiration and encouragement, the students would not have had the opportunity to challenge themselves and enter the competition. The Young Authors Awards/Prix jeunes écrivains program would also not be possible without the hard work of many OECTA members across the province. Teachers, school OECTA Association Representatives, Unit Presidents and Unit Executive Members all play a critical role in administering the program in their respective classrooms, schools and units. The members contribute their talent, time and effort, to preserve the spirit and continued success of the program, and to celebrate the outstanding work of our teachers and students. Once again, thank you very much to all the dedicated members of the Ontario English Catholic Teachers’ Association who ensure that the program flourishes year after year.

Susan Perry Professional Development Department Ontario English Catholic Teachers’ Association

B E AC H T I M E

Father Serra TEACHER: Monica Holzapfel SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

John MacRory UNIT: Toronto Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Anthony Bellissimo by

CHARLIE GIANNIS

ne day a little boy lived on the beach and he played in the sand. First, he went swimming. He saw a SHARK! The little boy tried to escape, BUT the shark bit his leg. Second, he played horseshoes. One of the horseshoes got caught on his toe. Third, he was playing with his beach ball, but the ball broke. He was having a REALLY bad day.

To make it a better day, he collected shells. He found a shell that you can hear the sea with. He tried it out and it worked. Then he put the seashell in his bucket full of shells. Then he went inside the house. And he had a treat. He had Smarties. He had 9,945 boxes of Smarties. He got so fat that he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fit through the door. But he did, so he went back outside to make a sand castle. It was so big! It was even bigger than a building. And he went inside the castle. When he went inside the castle, he saw a princess. They hugged each other, and kissed, too. And then they went to church, and they married each other. The end.

L OV E

St. Theresa TEACHER: Dinah Leslie SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Dinah Leslie UNIT: London District UNIT PRESIDENT: Sheila Brescia by

HAILEY BURK

I love Mom I love Dad I love Grandma I love Grandpa Love is in my heart!

M Y L O S T TO OT H

Cardinal Newman TEACHER: Anna Maria Humeniuk SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Marre Cardillo UNIT: Niagara Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Marie Balanowski by

R AC H E L M C G A R R

One day I lost my tooth in the bathroom. My tooth started to bleed. Then I asked my brother if I could borrow his tooth box and I put my tooth in the tooth box. I felt so happy because it was the first tooth I lost!

BIGHAND CINDERELLA

St. Matthew TEACHER: Gillian Duggan SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Annamaria DiNatale UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Noel LaPlante by

K AT H E R I N E G O L D F R I E D

long, long, long, long, long, long time ago at about 10:30 pm in the land of Fake, there was a girl named Cinderella. She was the silliest girl in town. Everybody liked her, everybody but her evil stepmother, three stepsisters Beauty, Beautiful and Beautilicious, stepfish and stephamster. They all lived together. Her biggest feature was her giant hands. She needed to buy a glove for every finger! The size of Cinderella’s hands caused her a lot of problems. When she was going to take a drink, she would always break her cup. Also, when her hands were itchy, she would take off her gloves and leave them around town. When the Prince and Princess had a disco party, they would never, ever, ever invite Cinderella, because she would always smack people in the face when she did some dance moves. The night of the disco party, Beautiful, Beauty and Beautilicious hopped into their party dresses, one pink and sparkly, one green sequin dress, and one blue and glittery dress. “I’m so excited!” squealed Beautiful. “This night Prince Smelly Nacho Man will choose who he will marry!” screamed Beauty. “I know it will be me!” screeched Beautilicious, as she put on her lipstick and brushed her hair. Soon the three stepsisters skipped off to the ball.

Cinderella started to play on the computer. Suddenly, a fairy Codmother (who is a fish wearing a butterfly costume) popped on top of the keyboard. “Can you please move your flipper? I’m trying to play a game here!” said Cinderella hesitating. Cinderella paused the game. The fairy Codmother said, “I’m your fairy Codmother. I would like to send you to the disco party.” “But I wasn’t invited,” sobbed Cinderella. “Well, I’m here to invite you to the disco party!” “Really?” Cinderella said as she stopped crying. The fairy Codmother twirled her wand. Swoosh! Suddenly, an invitation slid through the movie tape slot. “Wow! You’re the best!” screeched Cinderella with tears of joy. “But there are a few things missing.” “What?” “The sparkling dress with beautiful shoes.” Swish! A glamorous dress and glass high heels popped onto Cinderella. “Beautiful!” screamed Cinderella, as she grinned. “I need a carriage, too.” “Take the subway,” said the fairy Codmother, as she rolled her eyes. She sneezed out a subway token. “There! You better go now!” “Thank you!” Then she walked outside to the subway. “Wait! Before you take another step, be back before midnight.” “Bye!” screamed Cinderella. When Cinderella arrived at the disco party, Prince Smelly Nacho Man couldn’t get his eyes off of Cinderella! He said, “Come dance with me, girl.” Once she started dancing, her hands smacked Prince Smelly Nacho man. “Ouch! Ouch!” Soon the clock struck twelve. Dong, dong, dong! “I have to go!” shouted Cinderella. “What’s your name?” yelled Prince Smelly Nacho Man. “I’ve got to go!” I’ve never heard that name before, thought Smelly Nacho Man, who wasn’t too smart. Cinderella was gone. She had left her one sparkling glove behind. Size 89, triple A, and it blocked half of the castle. Everyone left through the back window with a creepy crawler landing. Prince Smelly Nacho Man shouted in a brave voice, “I’m going to find that girl, whatever her name is!” He let every girl in town try on the glove. First one hand, then two hands, then both feet! After a whole day, Prince Smelly

Nacho Man found Cinderella’s house. “What a beautiful house!” Prince Smelly Nacho Man said. Beautiful stuck her whole body in the glove. “It’s mine because it fits!” Then Beauty and Beautilicious stuck both their big heads in it. “It fits!” they screamed with delight. A minute after they tried on the glove, Cinderella popped into the room to try on the glove, and Prince Smelly Nacho Man put the glove on her and they married each other. The mom and the stepsisters cried, “He’ll only be our stepbrother inlaw! Boo-hoo!” And they lived happily ever after. The end.

SUMMER TIME

Holy Rosary TEACHER: Mary Lou Micheli SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Les Robelek UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Warren Grafton by

JAIDEN SCHUTZ

Warm winds, warm winds Have just blown in, To say that summer Will soon begin! Let’s go to a beach. Let’s go swim and dive. Let’s have some fun. Hey, why not make a sand castle To reach the sky. Let’s go collect shells. One, two, three Purple, pink and green, All different colours For us to see. Come on, let’s look for some more. Now it’s time to go home. VROOM, VROOM in the car. Good-bye, friend. Adios, good night. Into bed I go. ZZZZZZZZ.

M Y B R OT H E R

St. Kevin TEACHER: Morie Giesen SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Barbara Symbolik UNIT: Dufferin-Peel Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Berni Campbell by

ELIJAH JOSE MARIE C. BARON

have a brother, his name is Elje and he is five years old. He goes to the same school as I do and is in Senior Kindergarten. He goes to daycare after school. Our parents drive us to school everyday. I like my brother. I like him because he is special. He is special because he can’t talk. He can’t talk because he has autism. I like my brother because I play wrestling with him. Here are some things I don’t like about my brother. At night my brother mostly sleeps late. He makes noises while I sleep. I don’t like it when he does that. I don’t like it when I have to take care of my brother because it’s hard. It’s hard because he does not follow the instructions. Every time my mom buys Lucky Charms, my brother eats all of the marshmallows. I get very sad when he does that. Here are some things that my brother likes to eat. He loves to eat Ritz. He eats the cheese, not the crackers. My brother’s favourite fruit is apples. He doesn’t like it without peeling the skin. He really likes it when it’s peeled off. He likes it when the apple is sliced. He doesn’t like it without slicing it. Here are some things my brother likes to do. He likes to watch movies with me. He likes to play with my blanket. He likes to ride a three-wheeler bike in our basement. I love my brother and I wish he could talk soon. My mom and dad said Elje needs much love and care because he is heaven’s very special child.

BIRDIE AND THE BEAST

St. Augustine TEACHER: Deborah Mawdsley SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Jeremy Farwell UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Warren Grafton by

E M M A L I S E C O N W AY

nce upon a time, there was a princess and also a prince. One day, the princess was told to go pick berries. The princess took ten steps into the forest. She spotted a patch of blueberries. She was about to put her hand out to touch one single berry. But before she could, a witch appeared. “Never touch my berry patch again!” Before the princess could take one step, the witch raised her wand. She chanted, “Feathers like fabric, never eating my berries!” Blue magic burst out of the witch’s silver wand. The blue magic swirled around her. In a second she was gone. The princess was changed into a bird! In another kingdom, a young prince was taking his horse out of the gate. The young prince was going to venture into the forest. His horse took a couple of steps into the forest. A blue glow appeared in front of him. It was the witch! “No one enters my forest,” she cackled. It was the same witch who turned the princess into a bird. It was also the same forest. The witch began to chant, “A reptile, yes! Scales so rough. Never venture into my forest again!” A blue explosion came from the witch’s silver wand. In a second the prince was turned into a lizard. His horse was turned into a flat leaf. The witch flew away cackling. Soon the prince went on venturing deeper and deeper into the forest. He climbed up a tree. He could see a great view from way, way up there! He saw a blue bird perched on a branch. She was eating a ripe banana and singing a beautiful song. It was called “Ripe Bananas.” That bird was

the princess. The princess stopped singing. She looked at the prince and hopped a few spaces forward. She looked at him. The prince stood still. The prince was still staring at her. The princess was first to speak. “I’m Birdie,” said the princess. After all, her name really was Birdie. “Who are you?” she chirped. “I’m a lizard,” replied the prince. “My name is Beast,” he said. After all, his real name was Beast. “I’m under a spell from the witch of the forest.” “Me, too!” replied Birdie. A week passed. Birdie and Beast became best friends. They secretly found over twenty types of fresh berries! Before long the animals of the forest found out why they were under a spell. You see, a little black bird came to see each one that was turned into an animal. The prince and the princess learned the animal language, but still remembered the human language. The prince and princess were told about a fairy who could help them. She lived in a secret home where the witch couldn’t find her. She was guarded by a flock of magic butterflies. The prince and the princess were told in order to find the fairy’s secret home, they would have to find her three special gifts: gifts of beauty, nature and friendship. Legends were interesting to Birdie and Beast. Birdie would go to find a Pearl of Beauty. Birds don’t swim, but Birdie could swim. Birdie came back. She came back with a pure white Pearl. Now it was Beast’s turn. He was going to find her the gift of nature. “An acorn!” he thought quickly. Beast finally found a wonderful green acorn. Now it was time for both of them to find the gift of friendship. But what would it be?! As if they didn’t know where or how to find the gift of friendship! Finally they decided what they needed to get for the fairy. A coconut, of course. The coconut was a sign of great friendship. The sign of friendship was this: if there were two friends, they would share some coconut milk on a beach by the moonlight. The night before they set off, a scroll appeared in Birdie’s beak. She called a meeting for all her friends in the forest. “Greetings to all my friends,” Birdie announced. “A scroll appeared inside my beak. I must read it! It could be very, very important!” “She must!” shouted the animals. They read it. “Beware, a lot of danger is here! Also, beware of the witch.” But the prince and princess would let nothing stand in their way!

They managed to escape all danger that passed. Finally, they reached the secret entrance to the fairy’s home. A butterfly stood in the way inside. “Who goes there?” asked the butterfly. “Some cursed animals,” Birdie said. “You may go,” said the butterfly. The fairy sat on a stool by the fire, reading a book. “I’ve heard about you,” she said. “I can’t undo all the witch’s spells. It depends on what the problem is. I cannot really undo this spell, not without my magic recipe book. According to the list, you will need three things. You will need something of beauty, nature and friendship.” “We have those three things,” Beast answered, giving her the three things. She sprinkled some fairy dust on the three objects. The objects rose from the table. They turned into fairy dust. It seemed like some wind was pushing them up from the fairy’s fingers. The fairy was hearing the whispering of the spell. The whispering was this: “Magic may not make this spell work! But in our friendship, be friends forever and the spell shall be broken.” The fairy thought for a moment, and then announced her name was Cutie. She told them what she had heard. The princess and prince did just that. It was now time to leave. The witch appeared. She began to chant, “Destroy the two people of royalty!” But nothing came out of her sliver wand. A strange light was coming from Birdie and Beast. It was over. Birdie and Beast were winning the battle! It was finally completely over! As for the witch, well, she was a frog. Actually not a frog, but a warty old toad! And everybody lived happily ever after!

R A I N Y DAY

Our Lady of Good Counsel TEACHER: Colleen Barrie-Adams

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joanne Baker UNIT: Eastern UNIT PRESIDENT: Barb Dobrowolski by TA N N I S

ZERAN

The wind howled. The rain poured. And I was stuck inside my door. I asked my mom if I could go out, but all she did was start to shout. No, no you can’t go out, so I sat down and started to pout. I was so bored, it was no fun, I wished I could go out and play in the sun. As I sat down and tried to sleep, I felt something – It felt like…HEAT! I looked out the window and I saw the sun. It was so grand. I asked my mom if I could go out, and this time she said… “KNOCK YOURSELF OUT!” I played outside – It was so fun! And that is why I love the sun!

TREE KANGAROOS: HELPING E N DA N G E R E D S P E C I E S

SCHOOL:

Our Lady of Lourdes TEACHER: Mary Mercer

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Mary Mercer UNIT: Renfrew UNIT PRESIDENT: Mike Silmser by

A L I N A G DA N I E C

am going to take you on a journey deep through the jungles of Australia, through the dense forests and up, up, up to the canopy of this habitat. But who will we encounter way up there? Who or what will we meet way up high in the jungle trees? Well, if we really were going on this trip, we would meet a lot of animals, but today I’m going to tell you about the cool, climbing creature of the canopy: the tree kangaroo. The tree kangaroo, like its cousin the kangaroo, is a marsupial, which means it carries its young in a pouch located on its belly. I think that it would be pretty tricky walking on branches up to 40 metres above the ground with the extra weight of a baby tree kangaroo. You might even have to jump 9 metres across from one branch to another. Life isn’t easy for a tree kangaroo, not only have they got to deal with pythons, eagles, owls and dingoes, they’ve got humans to fear, too. Humans are constantly killing the tree kangaroos by running over them with cars and letting dogs prey on them on the ground. Also, tree kangaroos have been made a regular meal in the towns near their habitats in Australia, Indonesia and New Guinea. Tree kangaroos are herbivores, which means that they eat only plants, fruits and leaves. However, since we are taking over their forest habitats, their numbers have been dropping rapidly, and now some species have become endangered. Destruction of habitat is a major factor endangering

many other species, as well. Global warming and the burning of fossil fuels is contributing to this risk, and affecting the whole animal kingdom. Luckily, there are agencies and other groups of people trying to help save the tree kangaroos and their habitat. Some scientists are asking the people native to the land to put away a large area of forest for creature habitat. Other people are helping tree kangaroos by studying them. They catch them and put radio-collars on them, then they let them back into the trees. The scientists take lots of notes and observe for a while. The radiocollars help scientists figure out what the range of a tree kangaroo is. You can also help tree kangaroos and other endangered species by giving donations or having fund-raisers. Remember, everything is special in its own way, and deserves to survive for as long as possible. Global warming shouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be ignored. People have to act and this is how: conserve energy, give donations, or just learn and do research about endangered species. We must take care of our earthâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s future and weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got to take action now!!

S TA R B OA R D

St. Catherine of Siena TEACHER: Heather Murphy

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joanne Schleen UNIT: London District UNIT PRESIDENT: Sheila Brescia by V I C T O R I A

K AC E R

awoke suddenly to the ear piercing sound of tearing metal. Instinctively, I leaped up from my silky jade cushion and began to fret. An ever growing silence replaced the constant roar of the ship’s great engines, and the slow lapping of waves against the metal coating could now faintly be heard. It seemed as though nothing had happened but my sixth sense kept urging me inside that something was wrong. I crept slowly over to my best friend Emily’s canopy covered mahogany bed. Her golden curls were slipping down her childish face and her eyelashes fluttered as her hazel eyes saw unreadable visions beneath their lids. She breathed in deeply and let out a sigh, assuring me that she had not heard, or not heeded, the noise. I trotted slowly over to the door and peered out beyond the crème coloured entryway. Lamps flickered, illuminating the hall with a golden light, which reflected off the shimmering doorknobs. I nudged it open and crept out. I could be back before Emily woke up; all I needed was a little fresh air to help me fall back into a world of visions and fantasies. Padding softly down the hall, I reached the Grand Staircase, its shining stairs glimmered with the light from the fluttering lamp, which was held by a carving of an angel with its wings outspread. I walked up that grand way, in between railings full of intricate designs made from gold that sparkled like stars on a crisp autumn evening, until I reached the boat deck. I leaned

against the silver railing and peered over it. The dark waters rippled while creatures unseen moved just beneath its surface. The top layer of the water was littered with chunks of ice and glaciers as tall as the ship with crystal white sides. The moon reflected its radiant light onto the surface of the water and irradiated the night with its golden glow. I breathed deeply and the taste of the salt air filled me entirely. I closed my eyes and let the gentle sea breeze blow my long black hair. My eyes flew open as the antique clock on the grand staircase struck twelve. I began to head back to our bedroom, ready for a peaceful night’s sleep, when I heard a loud crunch as a black boot crushed my right forepaw underneath its hard, black sole. The pain was so great that my head spun and my stomach lurched. Just as I passed out of consciousness, I heard a voice say: “What should we do? The Titanic is sinking!” After what seemed like a lifetime, my eyes fluttered open and my head swam as blurry images floated before me. Finally, I was able to focus and I shakily tried to stand, but as soon as I placed my right forepaw down on the ground, the unbearable pain returned. I lay back down on the cold boat deck, cradling my paw underneath my body to keep it from the bitter wind that whirled around me. I began to think about what I had heard before I had plunged into unconsciousness. “The Titanic is sinking, what should we do? Sinking, Titanic, what should we do?” The words replayed through my mind, as I lay there shivering in the chilly midnight air. Suddenly, a wave of drowsiness hit me and I felt as tired as if I had just run across the whole ocean and back to our apartment in New York. We would have been safe and warm and away from this cold night in New York, and Emily wouldn’t have been on a ship that was slipping away into the bottomless ocean filled with creatures of the deep. I began to think about home and my comfy bed with Emily snuggled next to me, and soon I was drifting off to sleep. When I awoke again, I found that I was no longer on the boat deck. Where was I? Cautiously, I stood up and placed my weight on my other three paws. I bounded forward and crashed into a wall made of thousands and thousands of chain links. I staggered backwards and tried again. I howled. “Where am I?” I thought to myself. “I need to find Emily! The ship is sinking!” I heard whines of laughter coming from behind me. Whirling around I saw three dogs huddled in the corner of my metal prison. A large, toffee coloured Airedale terrier, a stumpy, little, black French bulldog, and a Pekingese with hair so long that I could barely tell whether it had eyes or not. I barked

loudly at them and their laughter grew even louder. Looking more closely at them, I saw that they all had cards attached to their collars that read their name and owner: Kitty, Pye and Sun Yat Sen. They were just like me – they had best friends, too. The other dogs lost interest in me and began a rowdy chase around the small, enclosed imprisonment. I turned around, pretending to be too distinguished for their game, but I was actually keeping an eye out for Emily. Where was I? The room was filled with other steel boxes and most were filled with three or four different breeds of dogs. Some were staring back at me, while others were playing gaily, or cuddling with the other puppies. The full room was painted a dull gold, and in one corner was a stately looking oak desk. Seated in a wooden chair behind the desk was a boy with flaming red hair. His face was covered with freckles and his grey eyes shone like diamonds. He was completely absorbed in watching the dogs. He soon stood up slowly, and strode to another corner of the room. When he came back, his hands were filled with brown bags, which vaguely resembled sacks full of wheat or feed on a farm. He shook the bag, and the room became silent – then he ripped off the top and it was as if it had exploded with barks, yips and howls of excitement and joy. The bag was a feed sack, but it was filled with kibble. He walked over to each cage and bent down, pouring some food into four red dishes. Finally, he came over to our cage and clicked open the latch. I sprung out like the jack-in-the-box that Emily had received for her birthday, and landed gracefully. Then I painfully crept up so that I was standing on all four paws, and now I could stand on my right paw. Peering down, I saw that my forepaw had been wrapped in some sort of white plaster. Quickly, I hobbled out of the room without one glance backwards. The fresh air hit me as soon as I stepped outside of the horrible jail, and I greedily took deep breaths to revive myself from the disgusting smell of the kennel. I began to make my way across the crowded boat deck in search of Emily. I reached the Grand Staircase and padded down its shining steps, paying little attention to its beautiful designs. I reached our suite, and found the ivory coloured door left completely wide open! Emily and our companion, Miss Everett, were gone! “What now?” I thought to myself. “The Titanic is sinking and I can’t find Emily!” I decided to search the lower decks first. I made my way to the bottom deck and found that it was almost filled with salt water. It was swiftly rising and soon would fill the whole hall, and carry away anything in

its path. The water began to rush towards me, covering my paws with freezing cold ocean liquid. My feet felt like they were frozen to the ground, unable to run or move. Why did we have to ride on a ship? Water was my greatest fear. Finally, I managed to pull myself away from the dangerous waves and back up the hall. When I reached the boat deck again, I looked down to see the ocean rising up the decks. Up on the top deck, groups of passengers were waiting. It seemed more like a party than a disaster. People were lounging on chairs, or talking in small groups joking and laughing, but most seemed annoyed that they were woken up in the middle of the night for something that “wasn’t even happening.” Everywhere that message was spreading and women in pink nightgowns were yelling and men in red robes were shouting, while ship officers tried to calm everyone down. Then came the call that pierced all of the screams and laughter and caused a brief silence in the commotion: “WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST IN THE LIFEBOATS!!!” There was quiet while everyone pondered this, and then the silence exploded in yells and shrieks and cries. I wove my way through the throngs of passengers in search of Emily, cautiously trying not to have my paw squished under a shoe again. At the front of the crowd, I saw Kitty the Airedale terrier sitting faithfully next to a tall man in a royal blue robe with a brown mustache and a blue hat. She yipped a hello and I barked back. Then, as if some power was at work, I felt the urge to turn around. When I did, I saw Emily and Miss Everett sitting in a lowering lifeboat. I rushed to the railing, my chest burning and my paw throbbing with a dull pain, but when I reached it, the chestnut coloured rescue boat was bobbing on the surface of the salty ocean, following the slight rushing of the foamy waves. Water, my greatest fear, separated me from my best friend. “What should I do?” I thought to myself. I peered back at Kitty, who was standing loyally next to her owner, and suddenly I knew exactly what I had to do. I walked slowly back beside Kitty, turned around and sat on my haunches, resting, preparing for the biggest risk I had taken in my entire life. I shakily raised myself onto three legs and awkwardly cantered towards the railing. I leaned back, crouching down like a cheetah ready to spring onto its prey. I could feel my muscles rippling under my black coat of heavy fur, and then all in one motion, my hind legs flexed and I leaped forward, over the railing and plunged down into the black water filled with mystery and hidden dangers.

I could hear shouts of confusion coming from above me, but I focused only on the task ahead, which was to swim against the rushing current to find my lifelong friend. I dog paddled towards the boat, my body almost completely submerged in icy water. Chunks of ice floated past, and unseen creatures and ice floated beneath me. My paws felt like icicles by the time the boat came into my sight. I swam up quickly behind it, and rested my forepaws on one of the idle oars leaning on the starboard side of the mini vessel. It was crowded with people, most were wearing pajamas or nightgowns underneath their white star lined life belts. Suddenly, an ear splitting crack broke through the pressing silence. The stern of the Titanic was slipping into the ocean, and she had cracked in half. People were clutching onto the railing, holding on for dear life, while some were diving into the depths of the ocean. That was the last time the ship was seen, as she slipped into the murky, black water. I turned away, not wanting to see anymore. Instead, I looked at my injured paw. The white plaster had fallen off and it was drenched with blood. I licked at it sorrowfully, but began to lumber clumsily up into the boat. Women screamed and men shouted as the lightweight boat began to collapse, but I quickly scrambled in and shook the frozen water off of my fur, which earned me some complaints. I thought for a moment as I glanced around. What if I had gone through all that trouble trying to find Emily, but had gotten onto the wrong boat? I spun around and came face to face with the answer to all of my problems, Emily. “Star!” she cried. And she hugged me with all her might. “I’m home!” I thought to myself and I fell asleep in her arms. When we got home to New York, we stayed in bed all day cuddling with each other and reminding ourselves that we were safe. I was rewarded with many hugs and kisses and praise for following Emily, even Miss Everett complimented me saying: “You were quite magnanimous, Star.” Sun Yat Sen the Pekingese and her owner, Mr. Harper, came over the day after looking for room and board, and Sen and I have been buddies ever since. I never did see Pye or Kitty again, but I hope that they were safe and had a loving family, just like me. That all happened a long time ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. I haven’t forgotten, and I don’t want to forget my voyage on the Titanic.

HISTORICAL NOTE The Titanic was built from 1908-1909 in Belfast, Ireland by the White Star Line. The White Star Line had already made some other fantastic ships like the Olympic. On April 10th, 1912, the Titanic began her maiden voyage from Southampton, England. She also made two other stops in Cherbourg, France and Queenstown, Ireland. On April 14th, 1912, no more than 400 miles off of the coast of Newfoundland, lookout Fredrick Fleet called out that there was an iceberg dead ahead. The ship made a turn but scraped its starboard (right) side on the iceberg. Her metal coating was torn and water began to rise on the bottom decks. By midnight, the passengers began to board the lifeboats, but because many people thought it was a joke or a test, they stayed on the ship. At 2:20am the Titanic split in half and slid into the water, never to be seen again. At the end of the night, over 700 survived, while over 1,500 died. One of the odd things about the sinking of the Titanic was that an American author, Morgan Robertson, wrote a book called Futility in 1898. The book was about a British passenger liner called the Titan, which hit an iceberg in the North Atlantic on her maiden voyage, and sunk. The story was set in April, there were not enough lifeboats, and the numbers of the Titanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s size, speed, equipment and lost passengers were eerily like the Titanicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s.

D R . S E U S S H E AV E N

St. Paul TEACHER: Alijha Girgis SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Anne Marie Everitt UNIT: Wellington UNIT PRESIDENT: Jim Whitechurch by

DA N E N E S P O L I

I’m Docta’ Seuss, Don’ cha know me, ma’am? I’ve written lots o’ books, Like the “Green Eggs ‘n’ Ham!” “Cat in da’ Hat,” “Horton Hears a Who” Are a few more books That I’ve written just for you! “And to Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street,” “Gerald McBoing Boing,” These books are pretty neat! Now, why am I rappin’? A question you might ask.

In every book I’ve written, Rhyming is my task. I’m rapping just for fun and You’d better believe, If I ever did this in my books, They’d ask me to leave! I’ve written tons more, Dr. Seuss style rhyme, But then one day, My life ran out of time! It was the saddest day for me, The year 1991, But now I’m up in Heaven, Where the fun has just begun!

IN HEAVEN Most people believe when you die, that that’s it, But I don’t believe it, not one little bit. You think when you die, you’re just part of the pile, But come on with me – and die Dr. Seuss style! My Heaven is awesome and fun and so nice. A simple no-brainer, don’t even think twice. Your mom and your dad – well, they’ll understand That you wanted to be in the Dr. Seuss Band! YES – singing and playing is part of the plan. Play guitar and piano? Everyone can! We’ll rock till we’re tired, then silence will come, And sleep will take over – the old and the young. There’s a feast to be had in my rock and roll place – It’s all you can eat, till there is no trace

Of food or of drink of any old sort. It has been gobbled up by the tall and the short. There are rides everywhere, like the big Ferris wheel. It’s ginormously huge, but try if you will To hop on safely with the moms and the pops – You see, there’s one problem, it just never stops! Then there’s the coaster – so long and so wide, It’s only the brave ones who look to the side – And NEVER look down – that’s the rule, they say. I’ve heard if you do, there’s a big price to pay! But here in Seuss Heaven? What could go wrong? Well, nothing, of course, if you follow along. We have rules, you see – not to be disobeyed. They’re simple to learn – that’s the way they were made! The first one of course is the rule we call ONE – Everyone’s favourite – to have lots of fun! The SECOND one came on my third day in heaven – never, ever repeat the rule we call SEVEN. The THIRD rule to follow – be nice and say please, Always cover your mouth when you’re ready to sneeze. Never keep someone waiting – there’s a knock at the door – Answer it quickly – rule number FOUR. The FIFTH rule of Seuss, You’ve heard it before – When braving the coaster, Don’t look at the floor! The SIXTH rule we have, Some find hard to obey. Always eat fruits and vegetables – A healthier way.

The Whos down in Whoville will always be proud, If you think for yourself – don’t follow the crowd. This wonderful law, A rule entered quite late, Is a good one to follow, And it’s number EIGHT! Just two rules to go, The commandments of Seuss, Now straighten your back, You look like a moose! The second last one – you know it’s NINE, It has a great name – “The rule so fine.” “The rule so fine” is perfect for me, It’s easy as pie…like climbing a tree. Get plenty of rest, relax, and do sleep. The way to accomplish? Always count sheep. And now number TEN, the biggest of all, Comes from the heart of one who is small. Cindy-Lou Who made this rule come to life, And the Grinch – he agreed, and so did his wife! This rule is so big and so great and so grand, I really do hope that you all understand – To keep it is good and to break it, just wrong, So please listen up, if you want to belong. Be a great person – you must do so on Earth, Then judgment will come and see what you’re worth. My brothers and sisters, family and friends, Always care for each other and there’ll be no end, From the life you are living, to the life you will live – Set the example, be willing to give. Just follow these rules, with me by your side, So when your time comes, you can hop on MY ride!

P E O P L E I WO U L D S E N D TO THE MOON

Queen of Heaven TEACHER: Frank Mangiardi SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Ernesto Arduini UNIT: Dufferin-Peel Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Bernie Campbell by

CIARA ZOGHEIB

ave you ever been really annoyed with somebody? Not just frustrated or upset, but really angry? So upset that you wanted to send that person to the moon? On a one way trip? I know I have. That’s why I’m writing this. So, let’s meet my choices for a one way trip to the moon. The first person I’d send would be Jack Frost. Why? Because he’s always turning the weather cold! I’m one of those people who likes warm weather, so winter weather is a definite no! My brother actually likes cold weather, but luckily his craziness hasn’t spread to the whole family. Another reason I’d want him on the moon is because every time he makes the weather really cold, we have to stay in for recess. Trust me, having boys inside all day is not a wise choice. (Especially if they are with their friends.) All of these reasons are why Jack Frost is the first person I’d send to the moon. The second person I’d send is not really a person…he’s more of an animal. I’m talking about my neighbour’s dog, Buddy. That dog has to be the most annoying thing ever! Buddy is always waking us up in the middle of the night because of his barking. Once he starts to bark, my dog Truffles starts barking back at Buddy, and then about a million other dogs from around the neighbourhood start barking, too! All together, it equals a sleepless night for my family and me. Don’t even get me started on what

Buddy does when my dad turns the lawn mower on. So Buddy, I hope you enjoy the scenery on the moon. The security people at the airport would be my last choice for a trip to the moon. They never fail to make me go through the metal detectors over and over again. Honestly, I think they actually want me to be embarrassed in front of all the other travellers. They also always pull my dad over for an extra security check, and then they search him. Do you know how humiliating that is? They even check my dad’s computer! Those guys are the reason I wear sweat pants every time I’m going on a plane. Sometimes it looks like their only purpose in life is to make mine miserable. I have one thing to say to them: “Have fun on the moon, guys!” Now that you have read about the people I would like to send to the moon, think about who you would send. You might be surprised by who comes to mind – I know I was! This short story is mostly fictional. Any likeness to real people, animals or imaginary characters that create snow is completely by accident. I would like to thank my dad for telling me about airport security, and my neighbours’ dog for letting me insult him and his barking issues. A special thank you…maybe…to Jack Frost for the horrible and freezing winter we’ve been having.

Q U E E N O F T H E P I R AT I N G S E A

St. Joseph’s TEACHER: Marcia Van Haverbeke SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Marilyn Kew UNIT: Brant Haldimand-Norfolk UNIT PRESIDENT: Len McDonald by

L I N D S AY K A L L I O K O S K I

The island was beautiful. It was perfect in every way: bright green palm trees, powder-white sand, and aquamarine waters. The sun never stopped shining, and the sky was always cloudless and blue. All in all, a magnificent place to hide treasure. I glanced down at the smooth, crisp, white map that I’d stolen from one of the most esteemed governors in the Caribbean. A small grin stretched across my lips, and I felt a surge of pride ripple through me. Stealing this from the Governor had been one of the greatest raids ever known in history. I stared at the lines and dots scattered across the parchment, tracing a calloused finger over the big, red X that stopped the flow of lines abruptly. If my calculations were correct, I’d be the richest woman alive in just a few hours. I heard people call out to me from behind, and I turned to locate the rough voices… Their long, sun-bleached hair fell in tangles all the way down to their waists. Their tanned skin was tattooed and branded in places. They all wore grimy, dirty attire that ranged from tattered dresses to ripped jackets and pants. Their eyes were all dark and devious. This was my crew. And we were pirates.

I watched them strut up the beach, excited expressions on their faces. They were ready to do a little hunting, and so was I. I had been waiting for this day for a long time, and I wanted to get moving. “Alright, miscreants!” I yelled out loudly. “Ready to do some huntin’?” I threw my hands in the air, towards the blazing sun. My crew responded with a mighty roar. “Get movin’!” I ordered, and the ladies plunged into the jungle, bellowing and shouting. I stalked behind them, laughing in my excited high. I held the map tightly in my hands. The big earrings I wore clattered with each step, like gold falling onto a treasure chest. I pictured myself after I took this treasure. Everyone would know my name – Captain Charlotte Lush, Queen of the Pirating Sea. I daydreamed as my crew and I ventured deeper into the jungle. Every few moments, I checked the map to see if we were still headed the right way. We didn’t have to stop once. I was truly pleased with myself. I was a beautiful pirate, and had never been caught. I had robbed more people than were countable, and had fought and won numerous battles. My crew was a strong, loyal collection of women that I treasured almost as much as gold. My ship, the Gem, had braved the stormy seas and was still in stellar condition. I was unstoppable. The jungle was teeming with life, full of buzzing insects and screaming monkeys. The palm trees that grew here in the deepest parts of the jungle were taller than any ship. Exotic flowers and plants grew everywhere, their bright colours splashes of life against an otherwise green background. The sun shone on, cutting through the greenery above. My crew tramped on, swatting at bugs and slashing their way through vines. I could tell they were still exhilarated, but serious about the mission ahead. They quieted almost entirely, except for a few grunts every now and then. I smiled, my silver tooth glinting in the sunlight that filtered through the trees. We were getting close. I gripped the ruby medallion that swung from my neck – something I always did when I was full of anticipation – and ambled on after the girls. It was the change in noise that first alerted me that something was wrong. The animals and birds abruptly stopped their chirping and chattering. Even the bugs seemed to quiet. An eerie silence settled over the jungle like a choking fog. Some of my crew peered through the trees and branches

uneasily and gripped their weapons. I frowned. There wasn’t anything we, the most feared pirates in the south, couldn’t handle in this little jungle. It was probably nothing, a large feline at the most. Nothing a gun couldn’t kill in one shot. Still, I didn’t like the feeling emanating from the trees. I slipped the map into my vest pocket and drew my sword. I felt like something was watching me…. The rest of my crew followed my example, drawing their weapons. I could read the fear in some dark eyes, but pure thrill in others. Whatever was out there, this was bound to be interesting… A quick movement darted through my peripheral vision. I stiffened and whirled around, my sword straight out in front of me. A small growl escaped my lips, and I glared at the thick tangle of forest around me. One thing I was certain about: we definitely weren’t alone. Whether it was a mere animal, or something else, we still weren’t alone. My crew had stopped and was staring at me with apprehensive eyes. They began to merge around me, their guns and swords raised high. One young girl, Elizabeth, smiled as if this were a fun game. Her emerald-green eyes glowed like a cat’s. I had to agree with her in some ways. No one liked a good, robust fight like a pirate. Robust fights were what pirates lived for – that, and treasure. I still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us. I looked at my crew, glowering intently into their dark faces. “Stay close,” I snarled quietly. “Be ready for anythin’ that’s comin.’” They all nodded; delight flashing across their hard features. “We’re almost there,” I reminded them in a hiss. We continued much more quickly and quietly the rest of the way. No one spoke, far too afraid to disturb the silence that sliced through the muggy air like a knife. Whenever I checked the map, I was cognizant of every ruffle and crinkle the parchment made. The day wore on, and we trekked through the wilderness. It was late afternoon when we reached our destination. We broke through a thicket of trees, and stepped into a sandy clearing that was in the direct inferno of the sun. I ripped the map from my vest pocket and stared, disbelieving that the lines ended here with the big, red X. I let out a small whoop, and spun in a circle grinning. All of my former fears about being watched evaporated like a drop of water on a black stone. My crew danced with me; obviously they were able to neglect their worries,

as well. I strode right to the middle of the clearing, and stood with a large smile on my face. “I declare this treasure to be Cap’n Charlotte Lush’s, Queen of the Piratin’ Sea!” I cried out. My crew cheered and ran to my feet, shoving their hands into the sand. They flung the hot dirt into every direction, digging holes excitedly. I hopped out of the mayhem, watching for any hints of large chests, or glinting pieces of jewels or gold. It was the strange smell that told me to worry. It was the tangy stench of a burning fuse. My light eyebrows mashed together. None of the crew had brought explosives, and no one would be stupid enough to light anything when we were all huddled in such close proximity to each other… I was about to ask my crew if they knew anything about the abnormality just as a huge cannon ball came soaring through the trees. I threw myself to the ground, pressing myself into the sand. I heard the deafening roar as the cannon ball smashed into a tree nearby, and the screaming creak as the tall tree toppled over. My crew had stopped digging and was staring wide-eyed at the source of the attack. Even a pirate didn’t appreciate an ambush. My breathing was coming in ragged gasps, my heart pounding from the close call. Another earth shattering explosion pierced the air, and a cannon ball flew into the clearing. Some of my crew fell to the ground like me, covering their ears. The others lurched themselves far out of the missile’s path. When another cannon ball was fired, I rolled closer to the tree line, and farther from the open space of the clearing. I thought about this ambush, anger and annoyance swallowing up my former fear. What was going on? Was it other pirates or the military? How did they know where to find us? Did they have a map of their own? And why hadn’t we noticed them before? My mind spun in answerless circles while my crew yelled and screamed in the clearing. “Duck!” I screamed over the thunderous attack. My order was lost in the noise. I looked around me helplessly, praying that the enemies would run out of ammunition soon. I nearly shrieked when a cannon ball missed one of my crew members, Margaret, by a hair. Suddenly, the air was still. There was nothing but the sound of the palm trees swaying and the rough grunts and groans from my crew. I stayed under the canopy of leaves, not trusting this sudden serenity. My crew began to rise, brushing off their clothes, and glaring into the trees. They

drew their weapons and bared their teeth. Apparently, they were getting angrier, too. I could see excitement start to stir in their faces. “Don’t you move!” I whispered maliciously. They nodded, but kept their eyes on the unruly maze of jungle. I rose slowly, not making a sound amongst the ferns and sand. I drew my sword, careful not to scrape the blade too loudly against the sheath. I strode to the middle of their grouping, barely breathing. This ambush was about to get messy. If they wanted to fight dirty, so could we. I slowly backed towards the dead center of the clearing, and sat down on the hot sand. I saw my crew regarding me confusedly out of the corners of their eyes. I cupped a handful of sand in my palms and threw it over my shoulder. I gasped theatrically. My crew swiveled their heads in my direction, perplexed. “Well, what be here? I found the treasure, me mates!” I spoke loudly, feigning excitement. My crew’s expressions only looked more mystified. “Look at all this gold, mates! And the rubies!” I spoke even louder, practically signing the words. Understanding flitted across my crew’s dark faces. Slowly, they all began to smile toothlessly, nodding their heads approvingly. All pirates approved of traps. And I was setting one. My crew began to join in with my exclamations, whooping and hollering. I knew any time soon our attackers would run through the trees, expecting us to be distracted by our new found wealth. That wouldn’t be the case. Even in our little façade of seeming to be occupied, we were ready. Guns were loaded and swords were held out. Any fool who walked into the clearing at this moment would die quickly. Through the mayhem, I heard a soft rustling in the trees. Someone was coming. And the trap snapped closed… We all stationed ourselves right in front of the jungle, not having to pretend anymore. We waited, the thrill of a soon coming battle settling over us like a blanket. I stroked my fingers against the sharp blade of my sword. Straining my ears, I heard more quiet swishes disturbing the leaves and vines in the jungle. I tensed, smiling. It was time. The men that entered the clearing were in half-crouches, expectant. We stayed in our line, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gretchen and Elizabeth beckon them forward.

The pirates in front of us didn’t look frightened, just slightly amused. As if they would ever beat us. As if they would take my treasure. I gripped my sword tighter. “What do we have ‘ere?” a tall, bald man sneered. A silk sash hung from his hips, and he wore a big, feathery hat. I guessed him to be the captain. “My name be Sam. Couldn’t help but notice your ship from the other side of the island. Did ya ladies lose your way?” “We don’t like when men shoot cannons at us,” I hissed sarcastically, not bothering to answer his questions. “And we hate other raiders on our lands.” “This be no land for a lady. This is my treasure.” He held his pistol high. “Now, maybe ya better go buy a pretty dress.” His comment sent chuckles through his crew. I smirked and rolled my eyes. “Ya wear one first, mate, then maybe I’ll think ‘bout it.” A tremor rocked his body; his amused expression turned hostile. “I made a promise to ne’er hit a lady,” he spat. “Guess you’ll have to break it, mate,” I laughed. That did it. Sam lunged towards me with a howl tearing from his lips. His crew followed him, running at my crew. I hopped agilely out of the way of his rage, and whipped my sword in his direction. He stepped around it, shooting his pistol at me. I dove to the ground, swinging my sword all around me. I struck something hard, and heard a curse. I’d hit his boot. He shot his gun again, the sand exploding in a cloud of dust around me. I rolled away, slashing my sword in the air. All around me was chaos. By the looks of it, we were winning; half the men were on the ground, knocked unconscious. None of my crew appeared hurt – just truly exhilarated. Sam fired another bullet at me, only missing my arm by a few inches. I ground my teeth together. He was making me angry. I jumped off the sandy ground, slicing my sword through the muggy air. I caught him in the shoulder, and he fell back, moaning. He landed on the ground with a thud. I turned to the rest of my crew, helping the few ladies whose defense was faltering. Within the hour, every single man in Sam’s crew was laying face first in the sand. They groaned and moaned, but we didn’t kill them. After this was all over, we’d turn them into the Governor, like the good little ladies we were.

The battle had left me electrified. I didn’t know how I’d come to be so lucky – treasure and an epic battle, all in one day. And I had always thought pirates were cursed. I stepped over a groaning man, smiling. “Alright, ladies,” I called out, mocking Sam’s words. “We’ve won!” They cheered for what seemed like the millionth time today. “Let’s do some diggin’,” I added, and pointed to the middle of the clearing. They threw their fists in the air, and then shoved their fingers into the dirt. “Can’t you tell us what happened, Grandma Charlotte?” Jaclyn whined, her baby face pouting. Her brother’s face, Andy, was an exact mask of hers. I shook my old, withered face. “Not tonight,” I told them softly. I halfsmiled. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” Jaclyn’s mouth fell open. “We have to wait until tomorrow?” She echoed me in shock. “Yes,” I answered, kissing her softly on her forehead. “Tomorrow?” Andy repeated, stifling a yawn. “But I can’t wait that long, Grandma Charlotte.” “It will come in no time,” I promised them both. “Now, good night, my darlings.” “Night, Grandma,” they whispered back sleepily. I rose stiffly out of the old, wooden rocking chair and shuffled out of my grandchildren’s room. I flicked off the light, and closed the door gently. I waddled down the hall and into my old bedroom. I shut the door, and kneeled beside my bed. I lifted the blanket, and pulled an ancient-looking chest out from underneath. Engraved in the front of the chest were the words Captain Chartlotte Lush, Queen of the Pirating Sea.

AT T H E A I R P O RT

St. Catherine TEACHER: Anne Normand SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Patrick Mackey UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by V A N E S S A

KRAUS

I sit on a hard chair Amongst old magazines. I look on As lives are changed. One family cries out with joy, As their newest arrival appears. A boy still in arms From far Taiwan. Another family listens To a woman in camouflage As their worst fears are confirmed: They’ve lost their son To the Taliban. Friends offer comfort, but no one can stop A mother’s tears. A young couple, The husband with suitcase, The wife big with child.

Tears streak her face as he says, “It’s only for one year. I need this job for all of us.” One last kiss and he’s gone, Leaving her in silence. A family returns with joy, Bearing stuffed animals and Mickey Mouse ears. One girl, about ten, in front, Wearing a bandana. Her T-Shirt reads: Bald is beautiful. “I hate to go back to chemo After Florida,” she tells her mom. One man passes calling, “Please let me through! My mother is dying, I need to catch a plane!” His face is drawn and weary with the knowledge That when he makes this trip, She’ll be gone. A part of him Will die with her. Another man kneels Beside his five-year-old son, Who clutches dad’s hand like it’s the only thing Holding him to the earth. “I don’t want to go with Mommy!” he whimpers. “You’ll have lots of fun!” Neither one looks convinced. I sit very still, Trying hard not to be nosy. Trying hard not to stare. It’s intoxicating to watch As people’s lives unfold Amongst rush and suitcases. People’s lives are changed At the airport.

THE PLEASURE OF HELPING SOMEONE AS GOOD AS BRITTNEY

Good Shepherd TEACHER: Greg F. Nugent SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

David Rahilly UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

E M I LY M C C A R T H Y

Ben calls Brittney Brittney:

(Sniffles) H-H-Hello?

Ben:

Hey Brittney, do you have the geo note? I was a total idiot and forgot it in my locker today.

Brittney:

Yea. U-u-uh, want (sniffles) me to get my m-m-mom to drive over with it? She can drop it off in a few hours.

Ben:

You don’t sound fine. You sound quite bad, actually… Do you want to talk about it? I can’t guarantee that I can help, but I can listen.

Brittney:

Uh, okay. Well, I am not allowed out of the neighbourhood, because I am baby-sitting my little brother, and it isn’t something I would want to tell you on the phone.

Ben:

There is a park beside your house, isn’t there?

Brittney:

Yeah…

Ben:

There we go. Your younger brother can play and we can talk.

Brittney:

Don’t you live quite a ways away?

Ben:

Don’t worry about where I live. I will be at the park in 15 minutes.

Brittney brings her little brother to the park. They play and wait for Ben to arrive. Ben arrives and walks over to Brittney and her brother. Brittney:

Hey, Taylor, are you okay to play on the playground for a bit by yourself?

Taylor:

Yeah, I’m almost four.

Taylor runs back to the slide and Brittney and Ben go to the bench to sit and talk. Brittney:

I suppose you want to hear the whole story now?

Ben:

You know you don’t have to tell me anything – but I want you to know that I’m not a jerk who would go tell everyone else what you said. I also know that it isn’t good for people who are as upset as you are to keep things bottled up.

Brittney:

I suppose you’re right. Well, my father lost his job last night, and my mom has never worked a day in her life – only volunteering at the hospital, and my brother’s pre-school.

Ben:

Oh, I’m really sorry to hear that – but if your dad is even half as nice of a person as you are, it’s his old company’s loss, and his next one’s gain.

Brittney:

Sadly enough, that’s not all. You know how Brad and me were going out?

Ben:

I take it that the key word in that sentence was were?

Brittney:

Yes, it was. Well, last night when I was all upset about my father losing his job, I went to Brad’s house to vent to him. I was ranting to him while we were cuddling, then he stood up and was all like, “Oh, I can’t do this anymore! I like someone else – and it’s not fair for you to be with me anymore.” Then I told him it was over, and I stormed out.

Ben:

Wow! You owned him! I see how you would be upset, but again, his loss!

Brittney:

Oh, there’s still more. My best friend, Amanda, was the only person I had left to talk to. So, I called her and I told her that I needed to talk to her, and that it was really important. We met at this very bench, and I told her everything. Then she said, “It isn’t fair of Brad to do that, and it’s not fair that who he likes is me.” I was completely in shock; I didn’t know what to say. It took about two and a half minutes of silence for me to comprehend what she said. When I asked her how this happened, she explained it to me, but I don’t completely know what she meant.

Ben:

Woah, I doubt that she is still your bestie?

Brittney:

Oh, she isn’t. I had no one to talk to about it, so I’m glad you coaxed me into telling you.

They both laughed. Ben:

Well, I am glad you did – stuff like that isn’t good to keep bottled up.

Taylor runs over to Brittney and Ben.

Taylor:

Brittney, I want to go home!

Brittney:

Ten more minutes?

Taylor:

I got sand in my mouth and up my nose!

Brittney:

Okay. Sorry, Ben, I have to go.

Ben:

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s okay, I have to be home soon for supper anyway.

Brittney and Taylor start to walk away. Suddenly, Brittney looks back. Britney:

Thanks.

Ben smiles and gets on his bike. He rides away and is happy that he could help a person as good as Brittney.

GHOSTS

St. Paul TEACHER: Vladimir Koledin SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Anne Marie Everitt UNIT: Wellington UNIT PRESIDENT: Jim Whitechurch by

R E I L LY E V E R I T T- C U N N I N G H A M

ure, we all see them at Halloween or in the occasional movie. We think we hear them in our attics. We’ve all sensed their presence when we walk into a dark and spooky place. But do ghosts really exist? Do they walk with us and around us? Is there anything normal about the paranormal? These are some of the questions I have faced at night while I lay wide awake in bed. Then suddenly, my floor creaks and a burst of wind comes through the window. Are my ancestors really watching over me, or is there some evil being lurking in the shadows? We often hear stories about ghosts and wonder if they are true. Whenever I’m out camping in the woods with my aunts and uncles, they try to scare me with stories about ghosts. At sleepovers, my friends and I try to creep each other out with ghost stories, too. Usually, I don’t believe a word of it, but one particular story made me second-guess my strong beliefs. It happened when my mom and I were visiting my nana’s house, which is over 100 years old and can sometimes look kind of spooky. It was a dark and rainy night, and my family and I were huddled around the fireplace. My uncles showed me a picture of the first owners of the house and told me a story that I would never forget. They said that both of the owners had died in the house, upstairs in the front bedroom. That was the same bedroom that I always slept in – all by myself.

That night I went up to go to bed. My mom spent a long time trying to calm me down and reassure me that everything was fine, and that dead people didn’t linger in their old houses, but I wasn’t convinced. When she turned off the light and left the room, my mind started racing. There were long spidery shadows on the wall, and a groaning, creaking sound. I was terrified. I was only six years old and knew that I needed some serious ghost-busting. I screamed as loud as I could for my mom! She came, and we talked about how shadows from the huge trees outside the window were the culprit, and the stormy night was making them bend and groan, as if they were alive. I accepted that. Mom calmed me down, and I tried to sleep again. As soon as the light went out, and I heard my mom’s footsteps slowly fade down the hallway, my mind started its tricks once again. This time, I was sure I heard heavy breathing. I thought it might be mine because I was very scared and my heart was racing – but then, I heard a rumble under my bed. Once again, I screamed for my mom. She came running up the stairs, and as she rushed into the bedroom, I could see that she was more annoyed than concerned. However, when I asked her to look under the bed, she didn’t really want to do it. We decided that we’d do it together. So we took a broom handle and poked it under the bed – only to find our poor, frightened Cocker Spaniel hiding under there. Mom and I had a good laugh. I thought that maybe she was right and that ghosts didn’t live in my nana’s house. I settled down to sleep once again, but this time I heard noises coming from the attic. I knew that no one would believe me a third time, so I just took my blanket and snuck downstairs to find a place to sleep. I don’t remember all the details, but I do know that I wouldn’t sleep upstairs by myself for at least a year after that. I still don’t know what made the noises in the attic, and I can’t believe my nana sleeps in that house every night. It’s stories like these that make some people believe in life after death. According to a recent poll, 32 percent of Americans believe in the paranormal. That’s a lot. They might be people like me who have had unexplained traumas, or perhaps there are a lot of people who really have met strange and unexplained creatures of the night. Today I don’t believe in any ghosts, except for one. Casper the friendly ghost. I’m sure most people have seen the movie. Casper isn’t scary at all. So, why are the majority of us afraid of ghosts? Maybe we’re afraid of dying and we like the idea that we will stay around after we pass on. Maybe we feel that they have something over us. Whatever it is, it gives me chills down

my spine. If I were a ghost, I wouldn’t want anyone to be afraid of me. I definitely wouldn’t haunt anyone. I would probably stay in Guelph with my family and friends. I’d try to have a normal afterlife, whatever that is. I’d want to continue my daily life as much as possible by adding a little spice to the lives of my family and friends, by leaving a treat for them once in a while, or helping them find items that they may have lost. I would hover around them more as an angel than a ghost. Speaking of that, isn’t an angel like a ghost? After all, isn’t it all the same concept: the spirit of a dead person? When people die, do they become angels or do they become ghosts? Some people have angel memorabilia, but are terrified of ghosts. Why is that? Are ghosts forces of good or forces of evil? Do they linger around where they died, or travel to wherever they please? Are they even real? Do they all haunt people – do they even have a choice? Is there a ghost beside every one of us right now? These are all questions I think of every once in a while. I’d love to find an answer to them, but the only way I’ll figure it out is if I become a ghost myself. I’m not ready to die just yet. I guess some questions will have to go unanswered for now.

T R I P D OW N M E M O RY L A N E

St. Paul TEACHER: Brian Cameron SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Mark Woermke UNIT: Ottawa UNIT PRESIDENT: Elaine McMahon by

JAN B. LEGASPI

was never afraid of dying. It wasn’t until my body lay still on the cold, damp soil of battlegrounds that I realized my end was nearing. The warm feeling of blood flowed onto my hand as I pressed lightly against my stomach. The sounds of bombs and guns were pounding in my ears. I opened and closed my eyes again and again, hoping all this horror would fade away, but the feeling of drilling sharp pains made it almost unbearable. Then, ever so briefly, ever so quickly, I was gone. I awoke with a punch. Although I was no longer in the darkness, or loudness, or agonizing pain, I found myself still lying on the ground. Only this time I was lying in the comfort of fresh green grass, and welcomed by the illuminating glow of sunlight. A strong, deep voice spoke to me. “I told you kid, don’t mess with me. Gimme your money, or I give you my knuckle. Take your pick.” Startled, I reached into the pocket of my faded blue jeans. In it was a dollar bill. I quickly pulled it out and looked at the boy once more. Memories flooded my mind. I was not the grown man of 30, anymore: I was the scrawny little boy I used to be at age 12. The boy who towered before me was no other than the old school bully, Jonathan. I recalled all the times when he, along with his posse, would corner and rid me of my lunch money. No one had ever stood up for me, and never did I stand up for myself. This time, however, was different. Fed up with Jonathan’s nonsense, I stashed the dollar right back into my pocket, picked myself up off the ground, and with a firm voice I told him, “No.”

“Oh! Little ol’ Peter wants to fight me, now does he?” Jonathan taunted. His friends crowed. Feeling a little misunderstood and agitated, I responded, “I don’t want to fight you. Would you, just this once, kindly let me eat my own food?” Jonathan’s grin turned into exasperation. Without any further eye contact, I tried to brush past him, but with no surprise, he stepped right in front of me. “Give me that dollar, or else,” he threatened. I responded to him with only a simple headshake. Suddenly, he pushed me back and poised himself for a wing. I swung my hands over my face to defend myself, but to my surprise his fist never reached me. The next thing I saw was Jonathan lying on the ground, his face filled with utter disbelief and embarrassment. “You go pick on somebody your own size, you jerk!” My sister, Casey, had just taken him down. She had come to my rescue, just in the nick of time. Being so much taller than Jonathan and his friends, she had managed to scare them all away in a heartbeat. When the coast was clear, she rested her hand on my shoulder. “Peter! Are you okay? Peter? Peter!” My eyes sprang open. “Peter? Peter!” I was looking into the eyes of a fellow soldier, his hand rested on my shoulder. “Hang in there, Peter,” I think he said. He then went on to wrapping a long, white bandage around my waist. No matter what he said, or how much bandage he wrapped around me, the pain would not stop. For the bandage was too tight, almost suffocating me. I was beginning to feel light headed and delirious. He kept telling me to hang in there, but once again I was gone. I jumped out of my seat. The drill of the school bell alarmed me. I found myself seated in the back of a classroom, watching as some students walked out the door, heading out for their next class. I was back in high school. I recognized my 12th grade teacher erasing whatever was left on the chalkboard. I was 17, a teenager once again – and running late for math class! I stood up and paced to the door, and the next thing I knew…SMACK! I quickly picked myself up from the floor, and apologized to whomever I so carelessly collided with. I looked down at the person, now on her knees picking up her books. I rushed to my knees, as well. I passed her the last book. She looked up and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. She was definitely the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I managed a shy, “No, it’s okay, it was my fault,” stammer. Embarrassed, I shot her a little wave and we began to walk our separate

ways. Suddenly, she turned around and called out, “Excuse me, I’m new here and I’m not really sure where my next class is. Can you help me?” Although I was willing and excited to help, I was also extremely nervous. She took out a piece of paper with her time schedule printed on it. Coincidentally, she had math. On our way to math class, I decided to end the awkward silence. I managed to start a conversation. “I’m Jane,” she quickly responded. She had a strong southern American accent, which I had perceived to be the accent people from Texas were immune to. “So, where are you from?” She chuckled. “You must have noticed my accent, right?” I turned red. “Uhh, no, I was just wondering.” “Oh, don’t worry about it. This is about the tenth time this has come up today,” she joked. “Yes, I moved here from Dallas late in the summer. My parents just got divorced, and my mom has a lot of people here, so we figured we’d give California a shot.” I smiled and nodded. Her smile, her laugh; everything about her intrigued me. When we finally made it to our class, there were only two vacant seats left in the back. Math was usually the one and only class I paid attention to, but the whole time spent in class with Jane consisted only of conversations about the most irrelevant and random things. When the bell rang, I walked her to her next class, and I headed off to Italian. I had never been so distracted in my life. I knew very well the Italian language, but today I just couldn’t comprehend a single word the teacher spoke. I just couldn’t get Jane, the new girl off of my mind. “Peter.” The deep voice of my Italian teacher broke my trance. He was walking towards me from the front of the class. His footsteps started off light, but gradually turned heavy. There were more footsteps now, much louder, as well. I could hear the rustling of their boots against the dead leaves. It was impossible for me to distinguish whether their voices were the sounds of my fellow men, or the voices of the enemy. There was just too much fog. I could still feel the tightness of the gauze around my waist, but sensed no more of my fellow soldier. He probably thought I had passed, so had no choice but to leave me. As the voices grew louder, and the footsteps grew closer, it was apparent that they weren’t speaking English. They were speaking clear Italian. Terrified, I laid as still and as lifeless as possible. I closed my eyes.

“Wake up, Daddy! Wake up! I haven’t flown my kite, yet!” A little boy stood before me. “I’m up, I’m up,” I declared. I was taking a little nap on a small grassy hill, after a long, fun game of tag with my five-year-old son, Kyle. The instant I got up, my son latched onto my hand, and started down the moderate hill with his kite gripped tightly in his other hand. As we dashed down those grassy hills, I urged Kyle for a few breathers here and there, but he just laughed and refused. It wasn’t until we heard a familiar voice calling out to us that we stopped our game. “Peter! Kyle! Lunchtime!” The voice belonged to Jane. After a couple of minutes, we found Jane with a fully prepared meal of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, lemonade, and all sorts of fruits on a blanket. After a satisfying meal, the three of us laid on the blanket distinguishing the shapes the clouds formed in the sky. All at once, Kyle sat up and asked, “Daddy, why are you leaving tomorrow?” Jane sat up, looked at me, and gave me a nod. I felt a strong sense of guilt and heartache. “I’m just going to be on a little world trip, Kyle.” “Well, why can’t I come, then?” I opened my mouth, but Jane interrupted. “It’s getting dark; I think it’s time to go home now. Daddy’s going to be really tired tomorrow, if he doesn’t get enough sleep.” Kyle whined for a bit, but in the end he gave in. I thought I had dodged a bullet for a while, but on the walk home I could no longer avoid it. “Daddy, how long will you be away for?” I thought about it for a moment. Of course I wasn’t about it break it down that I was headed off to war, and would have to fight for my life every day during it. I responded, “However long I have to be there, Kyle.” Satisfied with my response, he simply shrugged. “But don’t be too long, ’cause you have to help me make a new kite, okay?” At this point, I could only assure him with a nod, for I was fighting back persistent tears. Kyle slept with Jane and me that night. I wanted to spend every possible waking second with them. Even though I would be shipped off to Poland in the morning, along with hundreds and hundreds of brave men, my mind was only concerned about Jane and Kyle. I couldn’t stand the fear of losing the two of them forever. I woke up once more. The sounds of bombs and guns were no more. There were no soldiers in sight, and I felt no more pain. I was no longer in war. I stood up, and found myself face to face with Casey, Jane and Kyle. They were so clear in sight, but unreachable. There were no tears or

sorrow. They seemed happy. Suddenly, everything around me started to glow, except for them. I turned around, and a spread of white light stood behind me. I wanted so badly to go back to them, but I could not. An invisible force seemed to keep me grounded and stationary. I knew and accepted at that moment that my time had come. I turned for the white light, but turned around once more. Their faces still appeared painless, as Casey blew me a kiss and Kyle waved his little hand. I then looked at Jane. Tears sprung down my cheeks as she blew me a kiss, and then gave me a nod. I looked at all of them once more, turned around, and was embraced by the white light. The End.

T H E F I E L D O F G R AV E S

Bishop Reding TEACHER: Maryanne Scime SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Maureen Bujold UNIT: Halton Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Keith Boyd by

A N G E L I K A J A N K AC

I walk through the field. Flowers, Sunlight, Graves. I stop. The bodies of five soldiers lay beneath me. Honour. The graves read, “To those who lost their lives.” Glory. My mind races. They did not deserve this. Dignity. Machine guns, Shells, Bombs.

They roar through the skies like a child, Screaming for â&#x20AC;&#x153;Daddy.â&#x20AC;? Sacrifice. Bodies start to fill a pit. One by one, They fall. One by one, They die. Death. And then I wake. Terror invades my body. The soldiers endured The morbid, terrorizing realities of war, For us. As I fall asleep, I think of those who fell. Of those who sleep, In the Field of Graves. Honour, Glory, Sacrifice, Dignity. Where they will lie for eternity.

W I N N I N G T H E WA R

Resurrection TEACHER: Janet Lienhardt SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 nd 10 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Anne Charters-Klaver UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Warren Grafton by

S H A N N O N L O D O E N A N D R AC H E L M C D O N A L D

CHARACTERS Jarod: the sixteen-year-old son of Geoffrey, who is the cousin of Richard Lionheart. He has dark brown hair, green-grey eyes, and is tall and slender. Geoffrey: Jarod’s father. He is a well-known captain within Richard’s ranks, but is ill with yellow fever. Ara-Zhadi: the fifteen-year-old daughter of Nasan al-Karim, a military strategist and advisor for Saladin in Jerusalem. She has long, black hair, dark, golden-brown eyes and a slim build. Nasa Al-Karim: Ara-Zhadi’s father. He is very intelligent and logical. However, he is a loving father, and always has his daughter’s best interests at heart. Saladin: the leader of the Muslim army and ruler of Jerusalem. He is loved by his people and determined to keep control of the city. Richard Lionheart: commander of the Christian force and head of the Third Crusade for the Holy Land. He is certain that his army will be able to defeat the Muslims and take Jerusalem.

It is 1190 – the year of the Third Crusade for the Holy City of Jerusalem led by Richard Lionheart against the Muslim leader, Saladin. The Muslims are currently in control of Jerusalem and have taken up residence there. Richard Lionheart and his militia plan the city for Christ, and wish to rid the Holy Land of those opposed to Christianity.

SCENE 1 (As Jarod is speaking, the scene he describes is seen.) Jarod:

(narrating from above) We have been riding for many weeks. The scenery has been gradually fading from the green forests and misty fens of my beloved England to the dry, dead wastelands of the Middle East. Now, stretching for miles around us, all we can see is rocky, barren ground reaching up to meet the sweltering, cloudless sky. The sun burns us during the day; at night, its disappearance nearly causes us to freeze. Sir Richard’s men, including my father and his regiment, have begun to feel the toll of the long journey. My father fell ill barely a day’s ride out of Jerusalem. Our meagre supplies having already been depleted. Now, as the sun is descending beyond the stark horizon, we have arrived at our destination and have begun to set up camp. Extra guards have been dispatched to the outskirts of camp to warn us of enemy scouts and raiders sent from the city. Now, it is time to rest my weary bones for the imminent battle…

SCENE 2 (Ara-Zhadi is seen walking through the cobblestone streets of Jerusalem, making her way swiftly towards the citadel where Saladin’s counsel hall and the infirmary are located) Ara-Zhadi:

(narrating from above) … There is no rest for Baba now that Saladin is in constant need of his counsel. The scouts returned from Eastern Wall bearing news

of the Christian host that is now assembled a little ways out from the gates. Baba is sure that they are intent upon capturing our city, especially after their previous failed attempt. This time, however, they come under the command of Richard Lionheart, who is said to be a great and powerful man. I fear this English man may not be as easy to thwart as the last few have been. I wish there was more I could do to assist those in battle, but Baba has ordered me to remain safe within the city, tending to the injured and wounded. And now, since the scouts have finally returned, I must go and prepare the infirmary for the imminent battle… (Ara-Zhadi passes Saladin’s chamber where he is discussing battle tactics with his council. She pauses, hoping to catch any new information from the returning scouts) Scout 1:

Sir, we have underestimated the size and strength of the Lionheart’s army.

Scout 2:

Naam, yes. They come on horseback, with enough numbers to match even our own forces. This shall be a battle of wits.

Saladin:

(turning to Nasan) Exactly, friend – this is where you come into the plan. Collaborate with the scouts and see if they can provide any useful information. I have a few ideas of my own, but I need a more detailed battle sketch to make sure they are flawless.

Scout 1:

One moment, Saladin. We did not yet mention the fact that one of the Lionheart’s best commanders has fallen ill.

Saladin:

(triumphantly) Perfect! That will greatly lessen their forces; perhaps even turn the battle in our favour…

Scout 2:

(regretfully) No, I’m afraid there is more. The commander’s boy, Jarod, is already of age to replace his father. He has been receiving training from the Lionheart himself, who is his uncle, I have been told. Be wary, for this boy will indeed be a formidable commander over a very large battalion.

Saladin:

(irritated) We can’t have this… I refuse to let a mere boy defeat me! Something must be done to assure he will not interfere.

Nasan:

(pensive) Sir, if I may speak; perhaps, if we were to stop this Jarod from commanding the battalion…

Saladin:

(intrigued) And just how do you propose we do such a thing?

Nasan:

Simple. We capture the boy.

(Ara-Zhadi gasps, unable to believe her own father would suggest such a devious plan. However, she hears footsteps coming in her direction, and composing herself, hurries along down the corridor)

SCENE 3 (Back at the Christian camp, Jarod is receiving the battle plans from Richard and his father. They are in Geoffrey’s tent, as the captain is bedridden from his illness. Richard is demonstrating the army’s actions with figurines on a rough map of Jerusalem.) Richard:

(pointing to the Easter Wall) Now remember, Jarod, the main objective of this attack is to capture the lower levels of the city. This means that we will have a two-pronged attack – first from the front, head on, and then secondly closing in from the sides. It is meant to take the Muslims by surprise, so they will have no time to react.

Jarod:

What time will we attack, then?

Geoffrey:

The best time will be in the morning, just as the sun clears the horizon.

Jarod:

(nodding understandingly) Ah, so that the defenders will be disadvantaged by the sun? If we attack from the Eastern Wall, the sun will be at our backs and directly in their eyes.

Richard:

(approvingly) Yes, Geoffrey, you have indeed taught the boy well. Jarod will become a fine officer one day.

Jarod:

(humbly) Thank you, Sir.

Richard:

(clapping him on the back) Well, I cannot stay; there is still much to prepare for! Jarod, I would like you to go see Gavin the smith in the armoury tent later on – I believe you are still in need of a new mail suit, yes? (Exits with a curt nod to Geoffrey)

Jarod:

(solemnly going over to his father’s bedside and sitting on a stool) And what do you think about all of this, Father?

Geoffrey:

Jarod, you know that fighting is a duty that needs to be done, whether we like it or not.

Jarod:

(startled) Do you not like fighting?

Geoffrey:

(shrugging) Over my many years as commander it has become second nature, akin to breathing, even. I cannot tell if I like it or not; it is a part of me. And so it will become a part of you.

Jarod:

(distressed) But what if it doesn’t? What if I fail you and Richard and my men? You must know, Father, there is rather a lot to live up to, being your son.

Geoffrey:

(chuckling) Ah, is that what you fear? Jarod, listen. You will make some mistakes – only God is perfect, and He will guide you through the hardest parts of battle.

Jarod:

I’m not afraid of killing. Or dying. I don’t want to give my army a death sentence, simply because I am inexperienced. How could I live with that?

Geoffrey:

(comfortingly) But those men made the choice to follow you, Jarod.

Jarod:

I didn’t know that!

Geoffrey:

Yes, when I became sick, Richard asked them if they would be willing to fight under your command, and they agreed. These men respect you and will not hold you responsible. (Smiling) I would not worry about them.

Jarod:

Thank you, Father. I will remember your words. (Standing to go)

Geoffrey:

Off to Gavin, now, Son. I will see you tomorrow night.

Jarod:

(confused, uneasy) But, Father, won’t I see you before the battle?

Geoffrey:

(sadly) No, Jarod. You will need to stay with your men tomorrow, and there will be little time to converse.

Jarod:

As you wish. Good-bye, Father. (At the door)

Geoffrey:

(whispering) Good luck, Jarod.

SCENE 4 (Ara-Zhadi is summoned to Nasal Al-Karim’s chamber. She enters quietly to find him at his desk, an array of compasses, maps and papers strewn about the table. He is working furiously, but looks up when she enters) Ara-Zhadi:

Good evening, Baba.

Nasan:

Ah, Ara-Zhadi. I hope I did not wake you?

Ara-Zhadi:

No, Baba, I was merely preparing the infirmary for tomorrow.

Nasan:

(distractedly) Good, good… I summoned you because I wished to speak with you privately about a matter that concerns tomorrow’s battle.

Ara-Zhadi:

(moving closer, intrigued) Yes, what is it I can do?

Nasan:

It is said that there is a boy by the name of Jarod who has inherited his father’s army, and is now in command of one of the most powerful regiments in the English force. Tomorrow, we intend to capture the boy and hold him captive in Jerusalem.

Ara-Zhadi:

(pretending to be surprised) But why? What can one boy possibly do?

Nasan:

(edgy) It seems you do not understand. This boy could perhaps lead to the destruction of our city, and the downfall of the greatest Muslim leader of all time, Saladin! This cannot and will not happen. That is why you will be tending to him whilst he is confined here.

Ara-Zhadi:

(truly shocked) What? How can I possibly do such a thing? It is barbaric.

Nasan:

But so is war. We must do what we can to win. And Saladin has declared we do this. (Pause) So will you do it?

Ara-Zhadi:

(bitterly) Do I have a choice?

SCENE 5 (The Christians are standing assembled outside the Eastern Wall, waiting for the signal from Richard to commence the attack. Everyone is suited in their finest armour, and anxious to use their newly-sharpened swords. On the other wall, concealed from view, are Jarod and his men. They will wait until a second signal before sneaking through the side gates.) Jarod:

(narrating from above) I squint as the first rays of sunlight reflect off the sea of soldiersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; helmets in front of me. My body is tensed and ready for the attack, yet still I feel unprepared. In my mind, I rehearse and recall everything Richard and Father have ever taught me, from my sword swing to how best to infiltrate a guarded building. I look round to see Richard give a wave of the British flag: the first signal. I am poised and alert, although I know the moment I await will not come for some time. In the distance, I see the first wave of soldiers reach the Wall. In retaliation, a line of Muslim soldiers appear upon the battlements, and the struggle begins. How long it lasts, I cannot say; it feels like a lifetime later that Richard, who is still sitting astride his horse observing the battle from the hillside, gives us the signal to advance. With a nod to my men, I step forwards, carefully skirting the high stone walls. The sounds of battle drift down from the ramparts above our heads: the clash of metal on metal, whistling arrows, and, most chilling, the screams of the dyingâ&#x20AC;Ś

(Jarod and his men advance towards a broken-down section of the wall and slip into a side street. Jarod, who is leading the soldiers, sees several enemy attackers and issues directions to his own regiment.) Jarod:

(raised voice) Thomas, take your half of the men and engage the opposition. Once you have defeated them, meet us in the side courtyard. Daniel, you and the rest will come with me and we will continue our rounds to secure the lower levels.

Thomas:

(saluting) Yes, Captain. (Gathers men and hurries towards the Muslim soldiers)

Jarod:

(turning back to the others) Come now, Daniel, we must make haste!

(Jarod and Daniel proceed along the streets) Jarod:

(to himself) Something seems… off. Why aren’t we seeing any Muslims? Surely Saladin would not send all his men to the East gates. But then… where are they?

(Muslim soldiers suddenly emerge from the shadows and surrounding buildings, taking Jarod’s men completely by surprise. They greatly outnumber the Christians, and seem to have been spying on them for quite some time.) Jarod:

(yelling in a panic) Hold your positions! Do not retreat, I say! Do not retreat!

Daniel:

(shouting) But Jarod, we cannot hold them off! There are too many!

Jarod:

(angrily) Do as I say, Soldier. (Lowering his head, to himself) Is this wrong? Am I asking too much?

(Jarod is suddenly knocked off his feet and crashes to the cobblestone road. Before he can shout, he is gagged and a sack is thrown over his head. He tries to struggle free, but whoever holds him captive is too strong. Jarod blindly reaches for his sword, forcing the soldier to release his hold. Suddenly, he is struck on the side of the head by a heavy force, knocking him unconscious as the battle rages on around him…)

SCENE 6 (Jarod is sleeping in a small stone chamber, sunlight shining in from the sole window. He is in the citadel, held captive in a turret that overlooks the main courtyard. There are guards stationed outside the door to prevent escape, and Ara-Zhadi has been tending to him since battle.) Ara-Zhadi:

(narrating from above) I watch him as he sleeps, growing more anxious with every passing hour he fails to wake. It has been three days since his capture during the battle at the Eastern gate. I care for him nonetheless, reporting his status to my father each night. His dreams do not seem peaceful, for his sleep is often restless and fitful. Still, I await the moment when his eyes will open…

Jarod:

(narrating from above) …My eyes open. I glimpse my surroundings, at once noticing how foreign they appear to be after the many months of tents and desert. I struggle to remember how I ended up here, but there is a blank space where my memory of the battle should be. The battle. I try to sit up, but my head spins and I slump back once again. I turn my head and catch sight of an astonishingly beautiful girl, sleeping in a chair in the corner of the room. Instantly, I chastise myself for this first observation. She is a Muslim. And I am a Christian. Besides, it was the cursed Muslims in the first place who brought me here. I pity the girl; for when she wakes, I will bombard her with every question I can think of. Where am I? Who are you? Why did you do this?

(Ara-Zhadi’s eyes open, and she smiles hen she sees Jarod is awake. However, he merely glares at her and turns away to face the opposite wall.) Ara-Zhadi:

(tentatively) You are awake.

Jarod:

(bitingly) Obviously. And so, it seems, are you.

Ara-Zhadi:

(anxiously) How do you feel?

Jarod:

(sardonically) Oh, wondrous. How do you think I feel? I have just been captured by my enemies, and now my men have no captain.

Ara-Zhadi:

(apologetically) Well, really, Briska didn’t mean to strike you so hard; only enough to disarm you for an hour or two –

Jarod:

Wait. You planned to capture me? (Angry with himself for not realizing this earlier) Why? (Mockingly) Was Saladin afraid of a mere boy like me?

Ara-Zhadi:

(defensively) Saladin is fearless. He only wished to assure his victory over you Christians.

Jarod:

(gasps) The battle! My Lord, how could I ever forget? Who won?

Ara-Zhadi:

No one, really; we still have control of the citadel, whilst you have only the lower levels of the city. (Adds boastfully) And Jerusalem is a big city.

Jarod:

But we are a big army. The Christians will have it in no time.

Ara-Zhadi:

Oh, we shall see, Jarod.

Jarod:

(suspiciously) How do you know my name? How long have you Muslims been watching us?

Ara-Zhadi:

I wouldn’t tell you, even if I could; but if it helps, I’m Ara-Zhadi.

Jarod:

(with a small smile) Surprisingly, it does.

SCENE 7 (It has been seven days since Jarod’s capture. During this time, Jarod and Ara-Zhadi have begun to develop a simple understanding of one another, and have formed a tentative friendship.) Jarod:

(narrating from above, pensive) I don’t know why I’m even friends with this girl. We are worlds apart: she is Muslim, and I am Christian. Yet we still share an odd sort of understanding, an unspoken truce. In our conversations, we speak of many things: our homelands, so different, yet so similar; our families; even the war raging outside these walls. It is hard to fathom that people are fighting and dying within this very city, whilst we sit and speak of trivialities. I have found my opinions about war are changing. Truthfully, my opinions about everything are changing. How does one girl have the power to change something that has been taught to me all my life?

Ara-Zhadi:

(narrating from above) My ideas about everything are changing faster than the many currents of the wind. It feels like one minute I know everything, and the next, nothing. It is Jarod that is doing this to me! So many new worlds have been opened by the arrival of an outsider, no less. He has shared his knowledge with me, and for that I am grateful. I think. I am not sure I want the responsibility of choosing what I want to believe. All my life, it has been “do this” or

“do that” – no options for a girl to choose from. For once, I find myself wondering about the God that the Christians speak of, wonder if he is as great as our Allah. (Jarod is sitting alone in his room on his bed pondering the next attack of the Christians as well as how his father’s illness is progressing, whist Ara-Zhadi is at a council discussing the latest news from the scouts. She returns looking grave and serious. Immediately, Jarod senses something is wrong.) Jarod:

(concerned) What is it that troubles you so, Ara? (Teasingly, mockingly) Have the Christians won, already?

Ara-Zhadi:

(grimly) The scouts have just arrived bearing news from your camps.

Jarod:

(wonderingly) How do you get into our camps, anyway? Are we really that easy to infiltrate?

Ara-Zhadi:

(ignoring his question) The yellow fever is spreading. Many of your soldiers have fallen ill, and –

Jarod:

(cutting in) And why should that bother you? Doesn’t Saladin want us to die?

Ara-Zhadi:

Not only the Christians have been affected, you know. Many of our citizens are plagued, as well. Our supplies are short as it is; I do not think we can last through an epidemic.

Jarod:

(quietly) My father has yellow fever. Geoffrey. He was captain before me.

Ara-Zhadi:

I’m terribly sorry to hear this. But I regret even more the news I bring.

Jarod:

(with trepidation) What is it?

Ara-Zhadi:

(hesitantly) Well, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not that bad for us, but your commander, Richard Lionheart, has fallen gravely ill with the disease, as well.

Jarod:

(gasps and leaps from his bed) No! Surely not! (Ara-Zhadi nods in regretful confirmation and Jarod sinks back, putting his head in his hands) He is like a second father to me. Who will I have once they are both gone?

Ara-Zhadi:

Some of the Muslim captains are rallying; they believe with Richard ill, we will have the greater chance of victory.

Jarod:

(bitterly) So war is all that matters now.

Ara-Zhadi:

But is it not the same for you? Surely, your objective was first to wrest Jerusalem from our hold, without trying to negotiate or make a treaty. To you Crusaders, war was the only answer.

Jarod:

For some, yes. For others, not so muchâ&#x20AC;Ś

Ara-Zhadi:

(curiously) What do you mean?

Jarod:

(sighing) You have never been responsible for the lives of others, I gather. You could not possibly understand.

Ara-Zhadi:

At least you have had the privilege of making decisions for yourself in your life. My religion and culture leaves no room for choice.

Jarod:

(smiling) It appears we are both trapped in situations we would rather avoid. You are imprisoned by society. I am imprisoned by duty.

Ara-Zhadi:

(confused) But I thought you liked being a captain.

Jarod:

So did I. But things change. People change.

Ara-Zhadi:

They always do.

(Share a smile)

SCENE 8 (Saladin and Nasan are sitting in Saladinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s council chamber. They are surrounded by the army captains, and all are anxiously awaiting the arrival of Richardâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s messengers, who have come with an urgent request. There is a knock on the door and two men enter bearing a scroll.) Saladin:

(authoritatively) Greetings from Salah al-Din Yusuf. You have come to us for aid, and we will give you audience, as I commanded by our faith. Speak quickly, for you have only a short time.

Messenger 1:

Many thanks. We come in a time of great need.

Messemger 2:

As you may know, the yellow fever has devastated our troupes already, which has lessened our appetite for battle. Richard Lionheart has succumbed, as well, and is now bedridden. We are still prepared to fight for him, if need be. However, we are also open to negotiate.

Muslim Captain:

(angrily) Negotiate? Why are you troubling us with this news? What concern is it of ours, after what you have done to this holy city?

Saladin:

(raising a hand to silence him) Hush now, Habib. (Captain retreats, abashed) Forgive his words, brothers. He sometimes forgets what our religion dictates we must do.

Messenger 1:

(apprehensively) And what, pray tell, may that be?

Saladin:

(looking pointedly at the captain) That every man must help his neighbour when they are in times of need. And I believe this is one of those times.

Muslim Captain:

(unable to remain silent any longer, bursting out) But Sir, they are not even Muslim! They do not know our ways, they worship foreign gods; they are not worthy of your kindness.

Saladin:

(angrily) Silence! You forget your place. (Turning to messengers) All I can say is I would hope to receive the same treatment if I were in your position. We will help you, on one condition.

Messenger 2: Name your price. Saladin:

You must cease your attack at once upon our holy city. However, we recognize that Jerusalem is a sacred place for many; therefore, we permit you to remain here, as long as we may live peacefully together.

Messenger 1: That is indeed heartening news; however, we intend to return home with no further combat, once Richard is well again. Saladin:

(nodding) Very well. It will be done.

Messenger 2: (hesitantly, not wishing to cause offense) We are very grateful, Saladin, but we have one more request. The boy. Saladin:

(knowingly) Ah. The boy.

Messenger 2: Since we do not plan to attack further, withholding the boy will not be of any benefit to you. Besides, his father wishes to speak with him, perhaps for the last time. You see, the yellow fever has him, as well.

Saladin:

We are sympathetic to your needs. The boy will be released when we send the medical supplies.

Messenger 1:

(bowing as he exits) That is greatly appreciated; we will hold you to your word.

Saladin:

(smiling) And I to yours.

SCENE 9 (Nasan-Al-Karim is aiding Ara-Zhadi a she prepares the medicine to be taken to Richard. Jarod is eagerly awaiting his departure, as he has not left the citadel for many days now. He is anxious to see his father and to return to his men.) Nasan:

Daughter, I am very proud of you for taking care of the boy for so long. You did well.

Ara-Zhadi:

Thank you, Baba. It was not difficult; (smiling) I thought it rather enlightening, in fact.

Nasan:

(puzzled) That is well, Ara-Zhadi. It seems you have everything under control; let me go summon the boy.

(Nasan leaves. Jarod enters a minute later, apparently unaware that Nasan is searching for him. There is a short pause.) Ara-Zhadi:

I guess this is it, then.

Jarod:

(despondently) I suppose it is. Now I will go back to the camp, and youâ&#x20AC;Ś.

Ara-Zhadi:

I will stay here.

(Sad pause as they realize this is truly good-bye. Jarod had not realized how good of friends they had become until this moment.)

Jarod:

I will not forget you, you know. My routines and days will return to normal, but my perspective and thoughts will never really be the same. Thank you.

Ara-Zhadi:

The same is true for me; you are a very interesting captive. (Smiling) For a Crusader.

Jarod:

And you are a very interesting captor. (Returning her smile) For a girl.

(Last pause. Finally, Ara-Zhadi rushes forward and embraces Jarod. Jarod is at first taken aback, but then returns the gesture with gratitude.) Jarod:

I never thought I would say this â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Ara, you are a true friend.

Ara-Zhadi:

(tears rolling down her cheek) And you, as well, Jarod.

(Nasan enters, just as the two break apart.) Nasan:

(oblivious) Are you ready to depart, Jarod?

Jarod:

(turning to Nasan) I believe I am.

(Nasan hands Jarod the supply pack and ushers him to the guards waiting to escort him back to the Christian camp, which has retreated outside the city limits. Jarod turns back and waves to Ara-Zhadi, as he turns the corner and disappears from sight.) Ara-Zhadi:

(narrating from above) I watch as he disappears from my sight and cannot help but shed a tear for the boy who has become my friend. I did not take on this task willingly; however, I now realize its significance. My many hours of conversation have opened my eyes to the world around me, and to all the different people within it. He has shown me we

are all much alike, although we do not appear so on the surface. The fighting has ceased, and for now, we can all live in peace. Muslims have the city â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but it is still a holy place for all. Jarod:

(narrating from above) I wonder if she is watching as we ride out, is she thinking about me as I am of her. She changed my views on everything, and for the better. War is not always about fighting and death, but about the fact that we are willing to stand up for a cause in which we believe. She has her faith, and I have mine. I cannot change it, but I can respect it. And that is enough. The lights of Jerusalem fade into the background, as the Christian army retreats once more into the desert. Although the city belongs to Muslims, I feel in my heart that we are victorious, as well.

(The night fades to blackness as the stars of the desert shine overhead in the inky sky. All is quiet.) Together:

The war is won.

W R I T I N G PA R AG R A P H S

Catholic Central TEACHER: Eleonora Csepregi SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joe Sisco UNIT: Windsor-Essex Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Brian Hogan by

DINO Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ANDREA

TYPES OF PARAGRAPHS: DESCRIPTIVE PARAGRAH The soft glow of a supple, black Italian leather sectional immediately captured my attention as I entered the room. It was a stark contrast against the cold, beige porcelain tiles upon which it sat. It leaned against the neutral coloured wall, which soaked up the rays of incandescent light that shone down from a ceiling embedded with pot lights. I could feel the radiant warmth of a natural gas fireplace against my back. Tucked in the corner was a mammoth LCD television mounted to the wall. An antique brassfinish lamp arched from the opposite corner, stretching its neck over a matching love-seat, almost beckoning me to sink my weary body into the soft leather with a remote control in my hand. NARRATIVE PARAGRAPH It was a sweltering summer day of typical Windsor weather â&#x20AC;&#x201C; hot, hazy, humid. In an attempt to escape the pounding sun, my little brother sought shelter in the comfort of the air-conditioned living room. Of course, having just filled a balloon full of water, he could not resist the temptation of bringing the water balloon into the house with him. He was so proud of his accomplishment, having stretched the latex balloon to its outer limits. As he

entered the room cradling his water balloon like a baby, his wet and slippery hands lost grip of the slick latex. With a splash, the balloon burst, spilling its contents all over my mother’s new black Italian leather sofa. Fearing his mother’s scorn, my little brother scampered back outside to face the sweltering summer heat, as if running would cause his mess to disappear. COMPARING/CONTRASTING PARAGRAPH My living room is a peaceful place for rest and relaxation. However, my kitchen is a busy and active place full of commotion and activity. Of course, our kitchen attracts family and friends drawn by the aroma of homemade Italian cuisine. Instead, in the living room I am drawn to the peacefulness of my surroundings where I can drown myself in solitude if I wish. Likewise, I can escape reality here with a good movie or gentle background music from my stereo. Besides, it is so peaceful here that its solitude often puts me to sleep. Both rooms can be satisfying. The kitchen can fill an empty stomach. Likewise, the living room can recharge your spirit after a hectic day’s work. Both are a place of interaction; however, the kitchen is a place to discuss and debate events of the day, whereas the living room is more a place of quiet reflection. Often, the living room is a place of one-way interaction with the television. OPINION/PERSUASIVE PARAGRAPH In my opinion, the décor and organization of one’s living room speaks volumes about a person. For example, it is a reflection of a person’s style and taste. In fact, crisp, bright colours and modern décor point to a person with a flare for fashion. More importantly, a well-organized living room is a reflection of a well-organized mind. On the other hand, if the room is chaotic and disorderly, this is the mark of insanity. For instance, when disorder is evident in the room, this is an obvious sign of loss of control in one’s life. In fact, those friends of mine whom I visit that live in such a disorderly state are generally disorganized themselves. Truly there is some correlation because their lives are out of control, too. Living rooms that are simple and uncluttered reflect that state of mind. Furniture arranged in just the right position, with the right balance of fabrics and colours are inviting. For this reason, I am drawn to such living rooms, and as a result I feel comfortable and uncluttered in thought.

CAUSE/EFFECT PARAGRAPH Every time I take a seat upon my monstrous living room sofa, I find myself gravitating towards the far left corner of the one-piece sectional, as if there were some sort of black hole. This is the result of years of abuse from countless numbers of people who all chose to sit in one particular favourite part of the sofa – the far left corner. Consequently, the cushion slowly began to give way and flatten. This collapsed region of sofa has created a downward slope, which acts as a slide when you are trying to sit comfortably and watch television. The fact that the sofa is made of smooth leather only adds to the annoyance. Although, in trying to understand this problem, one might ask why the far left corner is such a popular spot. The reason is in the way that the furniture is arranged. By sitting in the far left corner of the sofa, you have a direct view of the television fixed in the corner of the room. Also, the far left corner is the most comfortable place to sit because it gives your back the perfect support (even though the cushion may be flat). I have given up on the struggle of leveling out the sofa. Therefore, every time I go to sit, I just relax and enjoy the ride. EXPLANATORY/INSTRUCTIVE PARAGRAPH The proper procedure for cleaning the living room is poorly understood by many. First, it is necessary to assess the condition of the room. Begin by putting everything back in its place. Everything – magazines, toys, coffee cups, pillows and blankets – must have a place of its own. Using coasters for the heavier items, roll them aside so that the larger dust-balls can be manually removed with a damp mop. Next, locate the central vacuum, connect the hose to the power-head and run it along the floor and baseboards. Reposition the larger pieces of furniture now that the floor has been cleaned. Next, a damp cloth can be used to remove dust from the television and coffee table. Glass cleaner and furniture polish will complete this task. Next, leather cleaner can be applied to the leather sofas. In addition, it may be necessary to beat the rug along with the pillows outside to remove excess dust and debris. Finally, scan the living room area for any other misplaced items or areas requiring special attention, such as electronic devices. Once the area meets your criteria of cleanliness, sit back and relax.

B E AC H E S

Sacred Heart TEACHER: Susan Tourigny SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Brian Boggs UNIT: Ottawa UNIT PRESIDENT: Elaine McMahon by

E LY S I A M A L U D Z I N S K I

hey had insisted I come. If it had been any other way, the scene I now observed would have continued without me. It was not difficult to imagine, no one would have noticed if the skinny girl standing at the edge of the parking lot were missing. I gulped back the growing lump in my throat and clung tighter to the towel, which was tucked neatly under my arm. It was itchy and unfamiliar on my bare skin. “Cummon!” Kim had grabbed my arm, dragging me towards the sand. I dug my heels into the pavement, ignoring the pain that flew up into my calves. “The water is beautiful!” she said, letting go of my arm and stopping to examine my hesitant expression. “Come on, Sara!” “I need to warm up,” I mumbled. “I can’t swim unless I’m warm.” I even threw in a shiver to add to the effect. Kim rolled her eyes. “Grab the bench, then, will you?” She looked from me to the girls who had unloaded from our SUV and were now testing the water with their toes. “Just…” She seemed to consider continuing, and I braced myself subconsciously. “Don’t be a downer, alright?” She cast a worried glance at her friends, then turned back to me, whispering now. “I’m going out on a limb inviting you.” “I know.” She smiled, her brilliant white teeth blinding in the sunlight. “Look at those waves!” She chirped. “I wonder if the surfers will be out…” I could still hear her quiet musings as she left me standing at the edge of

the sand to go and meet her friends, who had now proceeded to drag one another into the water. Their shrill laughs filled the air, adding to the chorus of families also enjoying the waves. I studied the thin line between the pavement and the sand. I could see where the grains had trickled over into the cracks in the asphalt. See, it isn’t that bad, I thought to myself. I could do this. I took one unsure step onto the sand, gasping as it scorched the pads of my feet. Soon I was running with an awkward twitch, bee-lining my way toward the bench Kim had pointed out earlier. Brushing my hair from my eyes, I dropped the horrible towel onto the wooden surface and took a seat, lifting one foot to examine the underside of it. Relieved to see that my skin was still intact, I relaxed a bit. I had never imagined sand could be so hot and sat cross-legged on the bench, so that my feet wouldn’t have to undergo the continuous torture. It was the kind of heat your skin never got used to, no matter how determined you were to endure. It was difficult to be the new kid, but it was a role I had often played. It was one I had mastered, every line perfectly memorized. Yes, my name is Sara. I could see myself vividly saying, like a bad rerun. Yes, my accent is funny. It had been weird, moving to a trailer park in Florida. I’d always imagined that the big houses were closest to the coast. Clearly I had been wrong. After that day, however, my family had never been settled. Never whole… Of course, Kim had decided almost immediately to take me under her wing. Sometimes I wished she hadn’t, but I was grateful for a friend. It had been such a long time since… I let the thought trail off, remembering how Kim had insisted I come to the beach with them this weekend. I remembered my throat clogging at the idea, sweat dripping down my back at the thought. “I can’t.” The answer had been too quick. Kim had looked hurt. “Why not?” “I don’t swim.” My stomach was churning, I was going to be sick. I could feel the clammy perspiration on my forehead. “You live in Florida,” Kim said, matter-of-factly. “Time to learn.” “I’d rather not…” I cast my eyes downward. The air was growing thick. I couldn’t breathe. I was drowning in it. “Don’t be silly.” Kim was frowning at me now. She was trying to decipher me, like I was some sort of mystery. “Come.”

My parents had been just as hesitant as me, but at last my father had spoken up. His eyes were tired and weary, deep shadows cast under them, making him appear hollow. “It’s time the girl moved on,” he said, his tone bleak. “We all have to move on.” His hollow eyes met mine. “We can’t keep living in the past.” Guilt had flowed through me in a cold wave. My heart threatened to rip from my chest. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Moved on. The words left a sour taste in my mouth. So now, here I was, stuck on the beach for the entire day. I watched as the girls continued to splash each other. Kim cast an expectant look my way every few minutes, and I attempted to avoid eye contact. The waves pounded with the rhythm of my heart as the tide dragged itself inwards. As the shores turned white from the foam of the crashing waters, my memory began to venture, bringing me back to a day I longed to forget. It had been too cold to swim. Far too cold. Still, Freddy had insisted that I take him down to the shore to play in the waves. I had agreed, though my brother’s happiness was not high on my list of priorities. I allowed him to hold my hand as we walked toward the beach, slightly nauseated by the stickiness of his tiny palm. The sky was overcast, and I could not imagine why he would choose such a day to insist on swimming. I stopped at the edge of the sand, my eyes fixed on the lifeguard chair. I smiled to myself, patting Freddy on the top of the head as he tugged on my sweater. “Sara!” he whined. “Sara! I want to go play.” A set of eyes met mine from the lifeguard’s chair, and I quickly dropped my eyes to examining the thin line where the pavement met sand. Freddy took the opportunity to grab my chin. Normally, the kid only came up to my waist, but as he pulled me into a crouch, he seemed like more of a young man. He was only 6, but still, his eyes seemed to be coloured with a wisdom I seldom saw in my own teachers. “I’m going to swim,” he informed me. “Watch me.” “Alright,” I promised. “I’ll be right here.” It was not long before my eyes were once more pulled from my brother, who was splashing in no more than knee deep waves. The muscled, defined arms and strong back perched on the white chair drew my gaze like a magnetic pull. His hair was messy and straw coloured. Kyle. I had talked to him once…in passing. Your brother is cute, he’d said. I see him here often. I had been unsure of how to respond, and unsure if I was even capable of forming words. They came out as more of a gurgle. “He’s a fish.”

“Sara!” I could hear Freddy calling me. “Sara! You aren’t watching!” I waved him off. He would survive. He was a smart kid. “Why are you not in the water?” Kim’s voice pulled me from my reverie. I did not have time to protest before she and the other girls had begun dragging me towards the waves. The sand scorched my feet, the dread burning in my chest. “No!” I wailed. Oh God, no! Please! The waves were drawing nearer… Kyle had stood abruptly, his powerful shoulders squared. His angular jaw was tight, his expression urgent. He grabbed his life raft in such a swift movement, I had barely seen him reach out. Before I knew it, I was watching him sprint towards the waves, his legs pumping rhythmically beneath him. He dove into the water and out of sight. With the distraction absent, my eyes seemed to be released from his magnetic hold. I returned my gaze to my brother, who was nowhere in sight. “Freddy?” I searched the shore, as he had a tendency to wander. “Freddy!” He was nowhere to be seen. My voice cracked as I screamed out his name, my heart leaping. “Freddy!” Oh God, no! My silent prayer was overpowered by the deafening roar of the surf. My eyes searched the water, landing on the lifeguard – now nameless in my dread – and his red life raft. He was paddling towards shore, a tiny form propped above water in his arms. The wind whipped my hair against my cheek, blurring the scene before me. The salt coated my skin with a sticky film. I could taste the metallic fear on my tongue, it clotted my lungs, choking me. “It’ll be fun!” Kim screeched. “Throw her in!” She smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Sara, we’ll teach you how to swim.” “Didn’t he know how to swim?” Kyle was hollering at me in between compressions. Tears streamed down my face, my cell phone dropped into the sand at my feet after making the vital call. My shaking hands could not hold it. I dropped to my knees beside my brother’s lifeless form, pulling his hand into mine. It was an icy blue, and cold to the touch. He should have been shivering. He should have been begging me for my sweater. His fingers were limp in mine. I pressed my forehead onto the back of his hand, my warm tears spilling onto it. Wake up, Freddy, wake up… “Sara?” Kim’s voice felt far away. “Sara? Don’t be afraid, it’s only water.”

WRITER’S BLOCK

Holy Trinity TEACHER: Vincent O’Brien SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joe Mainolfi UNIT: Simcoe Muskoka Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Michele MacDonald by

REBEKAH BRUCE

He slouched at his desk, The pen shook in his hand, In front of him, the pure white vast piece of paper grew larger by the minute. A single candle’s flame flickered, Bouncing fire off his hair, dancing with his lonely shadows. His foot jittered, fending off the hours of idleness, begging the chair to do something other than “creak.” It didn’t. The silence teased his lack of words, the emptiness laughed at his lack of cause. But he could only respond with that “creak.” He wanted to capture picturesque worlds, not with pictures, but words.

He wanted records of his dreams, not on records, but on pages. He wanted to write his own story. Make his own mistakes, erase them, and start anew. He wanted to underline the good, or blot the bad with tears. Draw hearts around the names, and dot the i’s with stars… Because only he’d know it was there. He wanted to turn that naked silence (punctuated by “creaks”) Into a story, starting with one page, and ending with a thousand. Into a poem, illustrating each word with significance and life. He wanted to accompany that slow, lonely, rhythmic creak, with furious scratching of his pen… He knew that one word would start it all, but he just couldn’t find it. In frustration, he crushed the pages between his palms, then sent them flying across the room, just to envy their freedom in flight. Inspiration hit. An idea grew. He took a single sheet of paper. And laid it on the table, freezing for a second, afraid to scar that flawless, white surface with the permanent blue ink.

But it drew him in, waiting for his mark. Slowly, he paired the tip of the pen with his storyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beginningâ&#x20AC;Ś And he wrote. He wrote from his past. He wrote about his present. He wrote for his future. He wrote from his heart. One last time he crumpled the paper into a ball, cradled it in his hand, then sent it sailing through the air. He watched his dreams take flight.

T H E W I L L OW T R E E

St. Mary’s TEACHER: Jon Zagaja SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Mark Devlin UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Warren Grafton by T H O M A S

SLABON

SCENE ONE A group of youth rests together under a weeping willow tree set at the center of the stage. The group is joined by an old man (Tiresias). Tiresias:

Oh hearts of youth, I envy you As Adam longed for Eden’s song, For I, like you, thought love was true. But now the years have passed along And my youthful naiveté Has faded, while my heart beats strong. Although it’s said humility And humble recollections are The wet-nurse of senility, Indulge me, you whose ends are far Though I am old, my candle dim, My life a twinkling, faded star, My mind still sings a vernal hymn.

A young woman (Deianira) rises from the group to address Tiresias.

Deianiraa:

And we, who still enjoy life’s spring, With wealth of hope and untried limb, Will listen as newborn birds sing – As yet unable to take flight, As yet untouched by winter’s sting.

Tiresias:

You poor hatchlings, behold the might Of torment in the guise of hope, The echo of Pandora’s plight. Forman, that mystic misanthrope, Consumed by Atlas’ own hate Will lurch through life as blind men grope; We cannot see our only fate Is loneliness without relent. Like animals we lie in wait For love – our self-induced lament – The nymph we chase through shaded wood – The Siren’s song.

Deianira:

Please don’t resent This interruption – if we could, We’d listen ‘til the summer’s end But time grows short and we soon should Return to hearth and home.

Tiresias:

And spend Your life in blissful ignorance? It is your choice, but in Eden, If Eve had shared your same hindrance, Where would we – without truth – now be? So disobey the ordinance You’ve set yourselves, and stay with me Until Apollo’s chariot Rejoins the sky by God’s decree.

Deianira;

You speak the truth – we shall forget The call of home beneath the shade Of willow trees, to thus abet Your urge to sing life’s serenade So long before the curtain call.

Tiresias:

The night is young, the fire’s made. Behold the trees embracing fall, And see in them the presaging Of shadows that will soon enthrall With tales of two hearts once raging.

SCENE TWO Scene begins in the middle of the night, with the moon casting a faint glow over the stage. Tiresias sits, surrounded by youth, in a circle around a fire to the right of the willow tree. Tiresias:

My friends, do you see in these flames The same torture and agony That once befell God’s servant James? Reborn through his own tragedy I wandered long upon his way In penance for the melody I sang in life. You, too, will pay A price one day in recompense When you, like Adam, disobey The laws of God that Moses henceForth carved in stone and hearts of men. But I digress, and shall commence The stories that, time and again, Rain tears and pain in tempest down Upon my heart – that barren glen Left dead by a black wedding gown, The tale of which I now must tell.

Two figures – a male and female – clad entirely in grey emerge from the audience, slowly walking onto center stage to stand under the willow. Deianira:

Why wear you not a worried frown At these specters who now compel Such fearful loathing from my friends? I see in them the face of hell For in their gaze the thought impends That life is hopeless loneliness

And love the spawn that Satan sends. Do you not feel the same darkness Conscripting spirit, mind and soul, Decrying hope as wastefulness, Now daring us to face the whole Of life as they envision it – A rotting and condemned Maypole? Tiresias:

Why do you sound so desperate? These wraiths you fear are but shadows Of words and tomes that Fate has writ Upon my soul. Beware not those Who mean no harm to anyone But me for paths that I have chose.

Deianira:

Oh were have you, most holy sun, Fled to tonight, leaving me here – No shield but Luna’s candle dun To guard me from their eyes that spear My heart as if they wish to pare Away my mortal skin and peer Within my very soul.

Tiresias:

Nightmare Indeed these ashen creatures be But fall ye not unto despair, As they have eyes for none but me. You see, the fairer specter long Ago naively did agree To be my wife. Our blood ran strong And thence was born, from sacred love, My son – whose first verse of life’s song Became his coda, called above By choirs sweeter than this earth Shall ever hear – but death’s sweet dove Contents him not. Does Hell feel mirth At taunting me with this depraved – Hellish – pantomimic rebirth Of my dear son?

Deianira:

You mean engraved Upon these daemons’ souls is your Adoration?

Tiresias:

They could be saved! The shades you piously abhor Could angels be!

Tiresias leaves the circle around the fire, running to join the phantasms beneath the willow. A rainstorm begins, extinguishing the fire. Tiresias:

I love you – miss You with…

Deianira:

Come back! Heaven’s sole door Is oft confused with Hell’s abyss.

As Deianira attempts to pursue Tiresias, the willow tree is struck by lightning. Scene closes as the stage is engulfed with smoke and Tiresias is embraced by the two phantasms.

SCENE THREE Deianira and youth awake at the foot of an ashen stump – all that remains of the willow tree. Deianira:

There are his clothes – but where is he Who danced with ghosts inside his heart? Perhaps his fate was like this tree, And yet his clothes did not depart But lie here still, seemingly left In peace, long after rain did start To calm the flames. I am bereft Of any way to here explain What has transpired – thus this theft Must lie outside of mortal domain. My friends, tonight we’ve witnessed hell And heaven dance beneath the rain. Let us go forth – the world tell –

Deianira and youth leave the stage to walk amidst the audience. Youth:

How mortal man did once transcend The shackles of our last farewell And cry with joy â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Amen! The End!

Exuent

T H E T RU T H M AY N OT SET US FREE

Loretto Abbey TEACHER: Andrew Cluff

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Marcel Cigna UNIT: Toronto Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: René Jansen in de Wal by

K AT H RY N C H A N

here lies a fundamental difference between truth and opinion. In society, we continuously absorb biased perceptions, thereby incorrectly accepting opinion as truth. The most common, yet least detected, example of this mix-up concerns the environment. In contrast to the information presented daily in the media, the mannerisms that society currently employs to “save” the environment perpetuate its very demise, which is why humans need to stop protecting the environment. History has illustrated that the environment has been abused through human practices. The vast majority of evidence from the scientific community also foretells of an environmental disaster if current trends are allowed to continue. The collected scientific evidence, available in masses, has the capability to scare. The modern portrayal of the environment is one presented with an underlying sense of fear, an emotion that in itself is dangerous. Fear is a sensation that humans instinctively avoid. It has the capacity to influence our reasoning and interrupt our logical thought process. The decisions that our mind makes when scared tend to be rash and impudent. As a result, in the given situation, we have a fragile, delicate environment where reckless humans are responsible for its fate. That combination is the basis for serious concern. The capability to make sound decisions while fearful is severely compromised due to our firm resolve to find a solution. The hunt for a solution becomes so pressing that it blinds all other matters. Normally that

passion and drive can be harnessed to be a benefit. However, the solutions that are adopted are often the first to come to mind, which are the cheapest, quickest and least effective. Researchers from the University of Southern California have even found that desperation is followed by a phase of “motivated reasoning,” where even the least credible of products are adopted out of sheer desire for aid1. Even the most sensible of environmental endeavours can harbour hidden undertones with long-term consequences. The practice of recycling previously used products sparked a development in creating sustainable systems. As another example, bio-plastics were materials developed in an effort to protect the environment. Composed of natural substances such as sugarcane and wheat, they were designed to provide a green alternative to their plastic counterparts. Both projects appeared as suitable initiatives to assist in preserving the environment, the recycling and bio-plastic ideas were celebrated more so for the comfort that they provided rather than the intention of the solution. The mere attempt to protect the environment was enough, and people were so satisfied with the act itself that no one bothered to investigate the consequences. Too often, the immediate success of small efforts is taken without question; the successful fulfillment of one design distracts us from the bigger picture. It is not until later that we discover the implications of our hasty decisions. In the province of Ontario, the scraps from the blue-box recycling program are shipped to China, sorted and reprocessed, only then to be transferred back to Ontario2. What began as a mechanism for environmental conservation has left an unnecessary carbon footprint and wasted precious fossil fuels in its execution. New scientific evidence also shows that the biodegradable bio-plastics release methane, a harmful greenhouse gas, when decomposing in the presence of oxygen3. Additionally, the use of raw materials in the production of bio-plastics has competed with the already-stressed global food supply. Environmental hazards have been allowed to masquerade in society as approved practices; a fact that speaks volumes in regards to the attention paid to important details. 1

“Threats To Hope: Desperation Affects Reasoning About Product Information.” Science News. July 15, 2007. February 6, 2009. <http://sciencedaily.com/release/2007/07/070713131444.htm>

Welsh, Moira, “Blue-box leftovers go to China and back.” The Toronto Star 9 February 2009: A1:A7 3

Vidal, John. “‘Sustainable’ bio-plastic can damage the environment.” The Guardian April 26 2008: P1

It is important to objectively consider not just these examples, but human behaviour as a whole. We are afraid, and mislead by mass media to believe that catastrophe is both imminent and pressing, without being provided contrasting information to make our own judgments. We make swift and thoughtless decisions, fuelled by the desire to take action in any form. We accept those decisions without question, too grateful for the presence of a solution to actually test its merits. This pattern of procedure is dangerous and concerning, because soon, procedure develops into habit. The predisposition to apply new processes without first critically evaluating their repercussions can very easily translate into all areas of human life. If environmental practices are exempt from assessment, then why should health or economic decisions differ? If not human appraisal, what is preventing new drugs to be circulated without adequate testing, or major economic investments from being made with no long-term goals? The relevance of this human behaviour pattern may appear as some farfetched slippery slope, but closer inspection reveals that it is frequently present and alarmingly ignored in our modern lifestyle. The magnitude of research, emphasis and support dedicated to nuclear power generation is astronomical. With no direct fossil fuel emissions, it is being hailed as the energy of the future: an environmental dream. In contrast, compare the ratio of the funds devoted to the disposal of nuclear waste. Nuclear waste, a completely preventable byproduct of a man-made process, becomes a secondary thought. In 1979, the Atomic Energy of Canada Limited allocated only $16 million out of a $250 million budget towards nuclear waste research4. We somehow place more emphasis on the immediate power generation than its future implications – ones of which have the potential to change society, create disaster and take the lives of innocent civilians. The aftermath of our actions is disregarded, and inherent human behaviour is responsible for the destruction of our environment. We often hear of a doomsday environmental catastrophe just waiting to occur. However, that disaster is of our own doing: we are sealing our own fate and fastening the last nail into the coffin. As competition for the earth’s finite resources grows, the preservation of the environment will become necessary for human survival. However, our current manner of “protecting” our planet is flawed in its own progression. The solution is simple; we must stop trying to protect. We must 4

Edwards, Gordon. “Canada’s Nuclear Dilemma.” Canadian Journal of Business Administration. 13,1 and 2.

stop committing valuable time and effort to concoct idealistic and unrealistic solutions. We don’t need these odd, inventive and rash bandaids; we need to re-adopt fundamental and simplistic basics. The preservation environmental industry in Canada is worth $6.9 billion dollars5 and has only succeeded in creating gimmicky products that often prove to do more harm than good. There comes a point where we must realize that there is no quick fix, no magic eraser capable of undoing years of past environmental damage. The only thing that we can change is our mannerisms and our approach to problems: a true solution. As often is the case, the approach society needs to adopt is one that is radical, but easy. The best thing we can do to protect the environment is to stop the damage we create by our feeble attempts at protection. The environment will improve once we start thinking a little more about the environment and a little less of our own quest for a quick fix. It may mean that we need to abandon entrenched mannerisms and turn conventional thinking on its head, but that is just an inconvenient truth.

WORK CITED 2004: Environmental Labour Market (ELM) Report. Calgary, Alberta: The Canadian Council for Human Resources in the Environmental Industry. Edwards, Gordon. “Canada’s Nuclear Dilemma.” Canadian Journal of Business Administration. 13,1 and 2. “Threats To Hope: Desperation Affects Reasoning About Product Information.” Science News. July 15, 2007. February 6, 2009. <http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2007/07/070713131444.htm> Vidal, John. “‘Sustainable’ bio-plastic can damage the environment.” The Guardian. April 26 2008: P1 Welsh, Moira. Blue-box leftovers go to China and back.” The Toronto Star 9 February 2009: AL:A7

2004: Environmental Labour Market (ELM) Report. Calgary, Alberta: The Canadian Council for Human Resources in the Environmental Industry.

PRIX JEUNES ÉCRIVAINS

THORS A W

2009

•

U N E S ÉCRI

NOOK SUR LA BANQUISE

St. Patrick TEACHER: Ann Powers SCHOOL:

Elementary Kindergarten Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joanne McGrath UNIT: Ottawa UNIT PRESIDENT: Elaine McMahon by

MAI-LINH VIET NGUYEN

Nook sur la banquise

MERCI

St. Joseph TEACHER: Nicole Viren SCHOOL:

Elementary Kindergarten Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Nathalie McDermott UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

ZOEY HANNAH ZAHORODNY SMITH

Merci pour ma famille.

DA N S L’ E S PAC E

St. Josep’s TEACHER: Josée Nadeau SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Nathalie McDermott UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

NICHOLAS BURKE

l était une fois un petit garçon qui s’appelait Jack. Jack n’était pas un garçon normal parce qu’il vivait dans l’espace avec ses parents. Jack et sa famille étaient dans l’espace parce que le gouvernement les avait choisis pour découvrir l’existence des extraterrestres. Alors, la famille de Jack avait accepté l’offre. Un jour, ils ne pouvaient plus retourner à leur maison sur la planète Terre parce que le vaisseau spatial était en panne… Deux jours plus tard, quand Jack dormait, il y a eu un gros boom. Ce bruit a réveillé Jack. Jack s’est levé pour voir ce qui avait fait ce bruit. Il a regardé dans le hublot. Tout à coup, il a vu un extraterrestre. Jack a crié, puis, l’extraterrestre a vue Jack. L’extraterrestre a dit à Jack: ‘‘N’aie pas peur! Je veux seulement être ton ami. Tu parles l’anglais?’’ dit Jack. ‘‘Oui je parle l’anglais,’’ dit l’extraterrestre. ‘‘Mon nom est Xener et je peux réparer le problème de votre vaisseau spatial’’ dit Xener. ‘‘Comment saistu que nous avons un problème,’’ demande Jack. ‘‘Parce que je viens ici toutes les nuits. Je peux vous emmener, toi et tes parents, sur la planète Terre,’’ dit Xener. Alors, Jack a réveillé ses parents. Ses parents ont fait confiance à l’extraterrestre. Quelques heures plus tard, le vaisseau spatial est arrivé sur la planète Terre. Tout le monde était content de revoir Jack et sa famille arrivés sains et saufs.

L E C H AT

St. Joseph TEACHER: Josée Nadeau SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Nathalie McDermott UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

A L E X A N D R A VA N M I L

Je suis un chat Qui s’appelle Judas. Je suis bleu. Ça va mieux. Cet ourson est le mien! Si tu le prends, je n’ai plus rien! Mon amie est un loup Et elle court partout. Elle s’appelle Claire Et elle aime nager dans la mer.

LE HAMSTER

St. Theresa TEACHER: Monique Lebel SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Caroline Parker UNIT: Nipissing Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Gail Geddes-Bell by TAY L O R

B OT TO M S - C A U

on histore est à propos des hamsters. J’aime les hamsters. Ils ont peur des plus grands animaux domestiques comme les chats. Les nids des hamsters sont faits de brins de scie. Les hamsters boivent de l’eau et mangent des graines de toursenol. Des hamsters sont des mammifères et des animaux domestiques. Les hamsters aiment jouer beaucoup. Les hamsters sont comme des cochons d’Inde mais plus petits. Les hamsters meurent très vite. Tous les hamsters que je connaissais sont morts. Je suis triste, mais j’adore les hamsters encore.

L E VOYAG E D ’ U N E P I È C E DE 25 CENTS

St. Joseph TEACHER: Nathalie McDermott SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Nathalie McDermott UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

D O N N I E M AC I N T Y R E

e suis une pièce de vingt-cinq cents et je peux te raconter plusieurs histoires au sujet de mes aventures. Un jour, je suis allée dans la caisse avec toutes les autres pièces de vingt-cinq cents. La caissière mettait toujours ses doigts sur moi. Plus tard, un jeune homme a acheté une couverture qui coutait dix-neuf dollars et soixante-quinze cents. La caissière me donne en change. Je me retrouve dans la poche d’une paire de jeans d’un jeune adolescent, avec des bonbons, de la gomme et quelques autres pièces de monnaie. Ce n’est pas le meilleur endroit. Il fait chaud là dedans! Un homme barbu achète un café chez Tim Hortons. Il paie avec moi. Je me retrouve encore dans une caisse. Cependant, j’aime cet endroit parce que ça sent bon. L’odeur du café et des beignes, c’est super! Une femme aux longs cheveux bruns va chez Tim Hortons pour dîner. Elle achète une soupe et un petit pain. La caissière me donne en change. Je me retrouve dans son porte-monnaie à l’intérieur de sa sacoche noire. Il fait très noir là dedans! Malheureusement, un jour, la dame me laisse tomber par accident. Elle sortait de son auto bleu et elle a échappé sa sacoche. Je me suis retrouvé dans une flaque d’eau. Depuis ce jour là, les gens marchent sur moi. L’hiver, j’ai très foid et l’été, j’ai très chaud. Je me sens si seule… J’espère qu’un jour, quelqu’un me ramassera!!!

100

L’ O I S E A U

St. Joseph TEACHER: Nathalie McDermott SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Nathalie McDermott UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

LÈSHAUN BERNETT

Petit oiseau qui aime manger du gâteau habite sur un bateau. Petit oiseau qui aime faire fou comme son ami le loup. Petit oiseau qui aime chanter des chansons en jouant au ballon. Je sais tout sur mon oiseau car c’est mon animal préféré. Il est toujours sur mon rideau tout près de mon épée.

101

L E R E C Y C L AG E E T C O M P O S TAG E

SCHOOL:

Immaculate Conception TEACHER: Cheryl Miller

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Lynn Tomlinson UNIT: Bruce-Grey Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Anna Morrison by

ABBY HAHN

l faut faire le compostage et le recyclage parce que tu peux utiliser les matériaux beacoup d’autres fois. Tu peux aussi aider la terre. Dieu nous a donné juste une Terre et tu dois composter et recycler pour vivre sur une bonne Terre. C’est bon de participer au recyclage et au compostage parce que c’est mieux pour la terre et tu aides ta communauté a être en plus bonne forme. Une autre chose c’est que quand on composte et recycle on a moins de déchets. Tu dois composter et recycler parce que ça c’est comment on aide notre environnement. Une autre chose c’est que si tu lances un papier dans la poubelle, tu as gaspillé parce que tu peux placer le papier dans le recyclage ou tu peux l’utiliser une autre fois. Beaucoup de personnes oublient d’utiliser l’autre côté d’une feuille. Si tu compostes et recycles, tu vas aider le monde. Si tu penses que c’est beaucoup de travail de recycler et composter tu as tort. Il faut des sceaux différents au lieu de juste une poubelle. Il faut mettre les fruits et les légumes dans un sceau, les papiers dans un autre, et les bouteilles, canettes etc. dans un autre. C’est facile. Je veux que tu compostes et recycles, pas juste pour moi, mais pour la terre et des communautés aussi! N’oublie pas comment ça aide Dieu. Dieu nous a donné la terre et c’est notre responsabilité de prendre soin de la terre.

102

C E C I L I A AV E C L E C R AYO N

St. Joseph TEACHER: Jeanneda Saulnier SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Angela Rzazewski UNIT: Halton Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Richard Brock by

C. MCLEAN

« Je vais dessiner un chien, » dit Cecilia. « Une ligne là, une autre ici. Un peu de brun et c’est finit! » « Roof, roof! » « Wow, le chien est vrai. Est-ce que c’est mon imagination? Ici le petit chien… Awe… C’est vrai? Maintenant le chien est le mien! Elle s’appelle Alice! Mais ce chien est le chien que j’ai dessiné? Est-ce que le crayon ou le papier est magique? Je vais dessiner sur un autre papier mais avec le même crayon. » Cecilia dessine une chatte et… Vous savez, c’est magique! « Oh, la, la! C’est mon crayon! Mais je vais effacer la chatte. » Maintenant Cecilia et Alice vont dans la forêt. « RAAA! » « Ahhh! Uh oh… qu’est-ce que c’est? » dit Cecilia. « Je vais chercher mon crayon et dessiner un parapluie magique! » Le parapluie peut voler à Toronto! Cecilia tient Alice et tient le parapluie. Sous Alice et Cecilia est un ours. Cecilia efface l’ours! Elles sont sur le lac Ontario. Elles ont faim. Cecilia décide de chercher une collation. « Mmm… Du poulet… » Oui! Elles mangent du poulet! Maintenant elles vont chez-elles. Cecilia dessine d’autres choses comme une fille, un vélo, un D.S. et un chien. Elle aime son crayon mais chaque fois qu’elle l’utilise, il est plus petit!

103

L’ É C O L E , L’ É C O L E

Good Shepherd TEACHER: Ghislaine Trépanier SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Christine Rochon UNIT: Ottawa UNIT PRESIDENT: Elaine McMahon by

E M I LY M I L L A N

L’école, l’école, Que je déteste le mot! J’étudie pour le test, Mais j’ai toujours des fautes. Mathématiques et lecture Pendant le matin Oh! Que j’aimerais mieux Être dans un sous-marin. Pour aller à l’école, Je dois me réveiller à 7h! Et dans l’autobus, j’ai dit: « Mon dîner! J’ai oublié de le prendre! » Je rentre dans ma classe. Oh! Non! Je suis en retard! Je dois rester à la récréation Avec ma professeure.

104

Pourquoi je dois aller A l’école? Cette mauvaise place! Nous ne pouvons pas Glisser sur la glace! Tu ne peux pas Mâcher la gomme! Et dans ma classe Il y a plus de filles que d’hommes. Je ne peux plus Voler comme un aigle… Mais je dois Obéir aux règles! Mais toutes les règles Sont importantes pour moi, Elles peuvent aussi être Importantes pour toi! Et tu peux apprendre Les choses nouvelles… Maintenant que j’y pense L’école est belle!

105

DA N S E I R L A N DA I S E

St. Joseph TEACHER: Jeanneda Saulnier SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Angela Rzazewski UNIT: Halton Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Richard Brock by V A N E S S A

SILANO

l y a beaucoup de différents types de danse, mais je préfère la danse irlandaise. La danse irlandaise est originalement d’Irlande. Elle a été inventée à peu près 400 ans après Dieu. Les paysans ont toujours adoré la danse et la musique, même après la conversion au Christianisme.

Qui fait la danse irlandaise aujourd’hui? Aujourd’hui, beaucoup de personnes font la danse irlandaise partout dans le monde. Je fais la danse irlandaise aussi. C’est devenu un phénomène international. Il y a des compétitions aussi. Les danseuses portent un costume avec les couleurs et les symboles celtiques. Les jeunes enfants portent le costume de l’école. C’est très simple. Quel chaussures est-ce que les danseuses portent? Sur les pieds, les danseuses portent des chaussures spécifiques. Ils s’appellent les chaussures ‘fortes’ et les chaussures ‘lègères’. Les chaussures sont fabriquées en cuir mais les chaussures fortes ont des pièces de métal au talon et à l’orteil sur les deux pieds. C’est ce qui fabrique le bruit.

106

Le maître de danse Le maître de danse était un homme qui voyageait à chaque village pour enseigner la danse irlandaise. Les maîtres de danse portaient les vêtements aux couleurs vives. Ils enseignaient les paysans et ils faisaient les danses en groupes. Chaque maître de danse avait un territoire. Si un maître de danse allait à un territoire d’un autre maître de danse, les résidents et les voisins kidnappaient le maître. Les maîtres avaient les compétitions aussi. Aux foires, ils dansaient jusqu’à ce qu’un un maître s’évanouissait de fatigue. Quel sont les instruments utilisés pour sonner la musique irlandaise? Les instruments utilisés pour sonner la musique irlandaise sont le violon, la flûte et les cornemuses. Le violon est l’instrument le plus populaire dans la musique irlandaise. La flûte a approximativement mille ans dans les pays celtiques. Il y a différents types de cornemuse. Ils ont différents lancement, taille et différentes façons de les tenir. J’espère que vous avez appris beaucoup d’informations sur la danse irlandaise.

107

LE PETIT GÉANT

St. Joseph TEACHER: Edwin McAnany SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Traci Coulas-Gaca UNIT: Wellington UNIT PRESIDENT: Jim Whitechurch by

HANNAH LOREN ALLERA

Voici un conte d’un géant et son ami et de vrai amitié. L’habit ne fais pas le moine… l était une fois, un géant nommé Humperdink. Il habitait à Glorfindal, le village des géants haut dans le ciel. Différent des autres, Humperdink était très petit. Humperdink était toujours humilié à cause de sa taille et parce qu’il ne pouvait rien faire. Et dans un autre village, appellé Agglethorp, il y avait un garçon qui s’appelait Gaston. Gaston était un humain et il était un garçon assez agréable et aimable. Son village était sur la Terre. Alors un jour, Gaston a trouvé un grand arbre. L’arbre était si grand qu’il semblait toucher le ciel. Gaston est monté dans l’arbre et il a trouvé le monde des géants. Les géants étaient énormes, bien sûr. Par curiosité, Gaston est allé vers le village des géants. Alors, il est arrivé à la cour de récréation d’une école. Gaston a vu un géant solitaire. Il s’est approché du géant. Ce géant était Humperdink! Gaston parlait avec Humperdink. Ils s’amusaient, jouaient et parlaient ensemble. Mais, d’autres géants sont arrivés. Gaston et Humperdink furent bousculés et intimidés par les autres géants. Gaston, comme un ami de Humperdink, l’a défendu! Les géants ont demandé pardon, et sont partis.

108

Cet incident a fait que leur amitié devienne plus forte. Humperdink et Gaston sont devenus de très bon amis, et sont restés de bon amis dans les bons et les mauvais temps. Humperdink avait un bon cœur, même s’il était différent des autres géants. Ceci est pourquoi « L’habit ne fait pas le moine… » La Fin

109

L’ A M O U R E T L A H A I N E

St. Andrew TEACHER: Jill Mercer SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Jill Mercer UNIT: Halton Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Richard Brock by

C A R LY F I S E T

L’amour est ce qui nous uni C’est un lien réservé aux privilégiés C’est une sensation merveilleuse qui réchauffe notre intérieur Même dans nos moment les plus sombres. C’est une lèvre d’espoir au fond de notre âme Ceux qui reçoivent notre amour Sont ceux qui sont importants dans nos vies. Tout le monde peut facilement accéder à cette force magique qui unie tous ceux qui la possèdent ensemble. Il y a par contre ceux qui sont moins chanceux. Là où il devrait y avoir de l’amour On y trouve des flammes de haine comme un monstre vénimeux qui ravage notre âme. C’est la pire des émotions que nous puissions vivre Elle donne naissance à des actes imprédictables et impardonnables.

110

Quand on est possédé par la haine Les portes du ciel commencent discrètement à se fermer. Seulement quand on vie pleinement dans l’amour Que les portes s’ouvrent comme une paire de bras grands ouverts. L’amour est vraiment la seule chose dont on a vraiment besoin L’amour est inconditionnel. Quand on a l’amour, on comprend le sens de la vie Une vie vécue dans l’amour est une belle vie Quand on a pas l’amour, on n’a RIEN Quand on a l’amour, on a tout! Aucune somme monétaire ne s’y compare Peut-être que l’argent peut acheter l’illusion d’un bonheur dans les choses matérielles de ce monde. Mais l’argent n’achètera jamais l’amour Une personne qui possède l’amour est vraiment millionaire du bonheur!

111

L’ E S C L AVAG E D E S E N FA N T S

St. Catherine TEACHER: Anne Normand SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Patrick Mackey UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by V A N E S S A

KRAUS

ombien d’entre vous avez un petit frère, une petite sœur, un cousin ou même un enfant qui a moins de six ans? Imaginez-vous alors cet enfant tenant une grande machète, coupant des tiges de canne à sucre. Ou bien, imagine le enchaîné à un métier à tisser, attachant des milliers de nœuds minuscules dans la lumière faible. Ou encore, imaginez le portant des charges de briques pesant autant que lui-même. C’est dur à croire, mais c’est la vie pour 250 mille enfants dans le monde. Dans plusieurs pays du tiers-monde comme l’Afrique, le Sri Lanka, l’Océanie, des parties du Pacifique du Sud et même dans l’Asie du Sud, des familles ont souvent des dettes. Ils n’ont pas beaucoup d’argent pour payer ces dettes, alors la seule chose qu’ils peuvent faire, c’est de vendre leurs enfants à l’esclavage. Certains enfants sont même forcés par leurs parents à gagner de l’argent pour la famille. Des enfants esclaves doivent travailler dans des métiers qui sont dangereux pour des adultes. Ils doivent travailler avec de l’équipement volatile et opérer des machines dangeureuses. 22 000 enfants meurent au travail chaque an. S’ils survivent, ces enfants n’ont pas d’avenir, car ils ne vont pas à l’école. Mais, il y a une lueur d’espoir. Il y a de nombreuses organisations pour combattre l’esclavage des enfants. Ces organisations donnent des options de travail aux familles, alors ils n’ont pas besoin de vendre leurs enfants. Ils donnent aussi aux enfants une chance di aller à l’école.

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La mieux connue de ces organisations est ‘‘Enfants Entraide.’’ ‘‘Enfants Entraide’’ était fondée par Craig Kielburger. À l’age de douze ans, Craig a lu un article sur l’esclavage des enfants. Choqué, il l’a apporté à l’école. À la fin de la journée, onze amis et lui ont commencé ‘‘Enfants Entraide.’’ Jusqu’à présent, ‘‘Enfants Entraide’’ a construit plus de 500 écoles dans 45 pays et a donné à plus de 22 500 femmes un métier, ainsi, elles peuvent garder leurs enfants. Combien pèse un flocon de neige? Pas beaucoup. Mais, quand un flocon se pose sur une branche où il y a déjà des milliards de flocons, la branche se casse. Qui sait? Peut-être qu’il ne manque qu’une voix pour terminer l’esclavage des enfants.

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U N S O L E I L VA N I T E U X

St. Mary’s TEACHER: Marjolaine Trottier SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Paul Crowley UNIT: Peteborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

MARIE-ÈVE POMERLEAU

l était une fois très très longtemps, dans une galaxie très très éloignée… Actuellement, ça s’est passée dans la nôtre. Continuons avec l’histoire. Le Soleil était en train de baigner la Terre dans la lumière jaune chaude. Il pouvait entendre les villageois crier « Oh comme j’adore cette belle température, le Soleil brillant, et cet air pur. » Le Soleil sourit à soi-même. Il était adoré. Il rayonnait de toutes ses forces pour ce village, car il aimait trop entendre les vénérations du peuple gentil. Le Soleil était vaniteux, et il le savait. Il pensa, « Ça peut rien faire de mal, avoir un excès d’amour pour soi-même, quand tout le monde m’aime aussi! » Et le Soleil continua à vivre en paix, ensoleillant le village, jusqu'à un jour quand quelque chose d’immense et noir le couvrit. Et la chose commença à laisser tomber de grandes quantités d’eau sur les villageois. « Quelle gloire! Cette pluie, réchauffée par le beau Soleil, ça va créer un joli arc-en-ciel pour en prendre plaisir » se disaient les villageois. Mais ça n’a pas été le cas. Le Soleil était fâché car il ne voulait pas partager son village avec cet intrus. En fait, Nuage (la chose « immense et noire ») a entendu parler du village adorant et de leur grand Soleil, il y a pas longtemps, et il a commencé à être jaloux, et a voulu voler de la splendeur du Soleil.

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Pour trois jours et trois nuits, le Nuage et le Soleil se sont battus dans le Ciel. Les villageois suffirent une immense tempête, complet de seaux et seaux de pluie, et même du tonnerre éclatant et grand éclair éblouissant. Ils ont ennuyé le Vent avec tout le fracas, et il a commencé à hurler dans le village. Quand tout le monde était trop épuisé pour se bagarrer plus, la tempête a commencé à se calmer un peu. Les villageois étaient soulagés. Ils pensaient que peut-être finalement les deux pourraient voir toute la destruction qu’ils ont causée, et essayer de la réparer. Parce que la destruction, il y en avait trop, là. Les maisons, les arbres, et les bâtiments se sont fait jetés de l’eau dessus, puis mis en feu par le tonnerre, et puis attaqués par le Vent fâché. Le village était détruit. Même si le Nuage et le Soleil s’arrêtaient, ça ne veut pas dire qu’ils voulaient réparer les choses. Ils continuaient à se crier des insultes. « Tu n’es rien qu’une grosse balle jaune comme du pipi!! » « Toi, t’es mouillé et noir comme de l’huile!! » « Arrêtez! » crient les étoiles. « Vous ne devez pas vous bagarrer. Regardez tous les problèmes que vous avez causés. Essayez de réparer tout ça! » « C’est TOI qui as tout commencé! » crie le Soleil au Nuage. « Non! Tout, c’est de TA FAUTE! » crie le Nuage au Soleil. Le Soleil n’aimait pas se faire insulter. Il était très fâché et il décida de partir. « Je n’en peux plus de toi, là! » Le Nuage était finalement tout seul avec les villageois gentils du Soleil. Il sourit. Pour une semaine au complet, il a plu sur le village. Les rivières débordaient. Il faisait très, très froid dans le village, parce que le Soleil était parti, et le Nuage commença à neiger de grands flocons blanc mélangés de grésil. Mais le Nuage n’a pas eu récompense qu’il croyait mériter. Les villageois avaient froid, et étaient malades. Les petits et petites tremblaient comme des feuilles sous leur gros chandails mouillés, et les vieux et vielles éternuaient sans cesse, malgré toutes leurs couvertures. « Je partirai alors! Ce village n’est pas aussi bien que j’ai cru! » disait le Nuage en partant, laissant en arrière de lui une traînée de brume. Le Soleil, qui nétait vraiment jamais parti, était caché dans le brouillard. Il ne voulait pas laisser ce Nuage seul avec son village, et en plus, il avait trop peur de ne pas trouver quelqu’un d’autre qui l’aimerait autant que ce village, ce qu’il ne pourra pas supporter. Et maintenant le Nuage était parti, pour qu’il puisse ensoleiller son village en paix. « N’inquiétez-vous pas, je suis de retour! » cria-t-il joyeusement. Les villageois étaient contents aussi. La chaleur, ça sera bien pour eux.

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Mais quand tout était séché, et les villageois n’avaient plus besoin de gros manteaux, le Soleil n’a pas arrêté. Il était si excité d’avoir son village à lui encore qu’il continua à briller de toutes ses forces. Après un couple d’heures, les nouveaux bébés souffraient de fièvres, et les papas et mamans ruisselaient de sueur. « Qu’allons-nous faire pour ce pauvre village?! » se demandaient les étoiles. Ils devaient trouver une façon de les mettre ensemble, sans conflit entre les deux. Ils décident alors d’impliquer la Lune dans la situation. Ils expliquaient alors le conflit, et disaient: « Que devrions-nous faire? » « Je sais quoi faire, » réponda-t’il gravement. Il savait que les deux ne comprendraient pas sans qu’il ne fasse quelque chose de très important. Il pouvait apparaître très épeurant quand il le voulait. Il est allé vite dans le village, explosant de colère, et le Soleil parti immédiatement, parce qu’il pouvait voir que la Lune était fâché. Il fesait nuit maintenant dans le petit village. « Et il fera nuit jusqu’à ce que vous puissiez résoudre votre problème! » cria-t-il. Le Soleil et le Nuage errent sur différents côtes de la Terre, pour penser à quoi faire. Soudainement, ils se rencontrent. Ils restent silencieux pour une seconde en essayant de ne pas se regarder. Finalement le Soleil ouvrit sa bouche. Il savait que c’était à lui de dire quelque chose. Il prit une grande gorgée d’air. « Heu… » Le Nuage lui regarda. « Oui, » dit-il simplement. « Je comprends. » « Je suis tellement désolé. Je sais que tant de ça c’est de ma faute. » « C’est de ma faute aussi, et je suis désolé. » « Alors on peut essayer de réparer ça maintenant? » « Oui, ça sera une bonne idée. » Il sourit. Le Soleil sourit aussi. Il tourna et le village eût finalement son arc-en-ciel. LA FIN.

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MA PHILOSOPHIE

St. Mary’s TEACHER: Marjolaine Trottier SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Paul Crowley UNIT: Peteborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Bart Scollard by

ROSALIE BYRNES

J’accepte mon destin sans hésitation Je rejette sans peur les exceptions Les exceptions formées Lorsqu’on essaie D’être accepté Dans les groupes Et dans les cliques Lorsqu’on essaie De joindre les élites Je refuse ces mentalités Qui supprime l’individualité Car ceux sont mes droits Et ceux sont mes choix Alors, c’est pour ça que je dois Maintenir mes morales Et toujours choisir En accordance de ma foi Peu n’importe ce que les autres ont à dire

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DIEU M’A TROUVÉ

St. Theresa of Lisieux TEACHER: Gino Marcuzzi

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Matthew Kavanagh UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Noel LaPlante by

E L I S A K WO N

e père Luigi Giussani a posé une question: « Est-il raisonnable d’abandonner la seule chose dans ma vie qui a ému mon cœur parce que je ne la comprends pas? » Il nous dit aussi, « L’obéissance est née d’une attitude raisonnable, » une attitude raisonnable qui nous permet de voir la grâce de Dieu dans notre vie, et de suivre cette grâce parce qu’elle nous émeut. Avec cette même attitude, j’ai suivi un chemin que j’ai vu dans ma vie qui m’a ému de telle manière qu’aujourd’hui je ne suis pas le même personne que j’étais l’année dernière. En avril passé, ma sœur est devenue membre d’un groupe catholique qui s’appelle « Gioventù Studentesca » (GS): un mouvement international qui est inspiré de la vie de Luigi Giussani. Durant le temps que ma sœur était membre de ce groupe, elle a tellement changé que c’est absolument magnifique! Avec ce changement est venu un bonheur incroyable que je ne pensais pas possible. Cela seul m’a inspirée et m’a causée à désirer le même bonheur, la même belle perception de la vie. Bien que je n’aie pas compris ce que cela signifiait, je sentais que toutes les choses qu’elle faisait, je voulais faire aussi. En novembre passé, je suis devenue membre du groupe aussi, et j’ai éprouvé le plus grand moment décisif dans ma vie la chance de voir la grâce dans ma vie, et le désir de voir cette grâce chaque jour dans ma réalité. Dans notre groupe de vingt personnes, nous parlons des livres de

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Giussani, et nous parlons de la correspondance du livre à nos vies. Notre groupe a un leader qui s’appelle Paolo, un homme extraordinaire, qui nous aide à suivre le chemin dans la vie de chaque personne du groupe. Après les réunions, nous mangeons le dîner et parlons de chose comme l’école, les amis, etc., et nous nous amusons bien! Ce qui est plus incroyable est que je peux aller à ces réunions avec ma meilleure amie de cinq années. Ironiquement, j’ai appris plus de choses de mon amie en ces derniers quatre mois que j’en ai dans quatre années! Dans GS, notre amitié a grandi plus fort et la manière dont je vois mon amie est plus belle. Comme un autre ami a dit, « les personne que j’aimais déjà, j’aime plus aujourd’hui, et les choses que je n’avais pas vues l’année passée, j’aime aujourd’hui. » Ma sœur est mon inspiration, elle a été inspirée par son amie, son amie a été inspirée par le père Giussani, et il a été inspiré par sa réalité – Dieu. Qui suis-je, que j’ai reçu cette grâce dans ma vie? Mais qui suis-je, si je ne passe pas cette grâce aux autres? La meilleure chose de mon moment décisif dans ma vie est qu’il ne commence pas avec moi, et il n’arrête pas avec moi. C’est un cercle qui ne s’arrête pas parce que Dieu ne s’arrête pas, et Il est partout où nous allons, tout le temps.

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CHEZ CLARISSE

St. Theresa of Lisieux TEACHER: Gino Marcuzzi

SCHOOL:

Elementary or Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Matthew Kavanagh UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Noel LaPlante by

ALESSIA DOLCETTI

uand Mme Dubois ouvra sa petite boulangerie Chez Clarisse au centre-ville, tout le monde était curieux. Des douzaines de clients sont arrivés à la porte pour chercher des gâteries délicieuses pour leurs familles. Ils n’étaient pas déçus. En ouvrant la porte, ils pouvaient sentir les bons fumets qui venaient de la cuisine. Les étagères sur les murs étaient pleines de baguettes fumantes, de gâteaux délicieux, de toutes sortes de tartes, et de beaucoup d’autres bonnes chose à manger. Et chaque jour, Mme Dubois s’est assise derrière le comptoir, prête à servir le prochain client. Les enfants adoraient Clarisse parce que sa boulangerie était située à côté d’une petite école élémentaire. Chaque après-midi, quand les jeunes étudiants avaient finis leurs études, ils allaient chez elle. Les pâtes et les biscuits disparaissaient des étagères en quelques minutes, mais les muffins aux bleuets étaient la vraie spécialité de Mme Dubois. Elle restait debout devant la porte avec une corbeille pleine de desserts tout chauds. Mme Dubois les donnait aux enfants mais n’acceptait jamais de paiement. Souvent, les parents, en voyant les visages sales et les doigts bleus de leurs enfants, venaient chez elle pour lui donner de l’argent. Mais toujours, elle secouait la tête en disant, « Merci, mais c’est mon plaisir. Mais si vous voulez essayer une de mes tartes aux pommes, c’est un autre cas entièrement… »

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Un jour, les enfants faisaient leur visite quotidienne à la boulangerie. Comme d’habitude, Mme Dubois était à la porte avec un muffin à donner à chaque fille et à chaque garçon. Mais à la fin de la queue, un petit garçon avec des vêtements sales et une expression inquiète poussa des pièces de monnaie dans la main de la cuisinière. Clarisse l’arrêta et lui rendit son argent avec un tendre sourire. « Vous ne devez pas me payer, petit monsieur. C’est un cadeau – j’espère que vous l’aimez. » Elle ouvra son petit poing et remplaça les pièces entres les doigts sales. Mais le garçon secoua la tête, les yeux fixés sur le plancher. Maintenant, toutes les fille et garçons avaient quittés la boulangerie avec de grands sourires et des bouches pleines. Le garçon protesta et essaya encore une fois de donner l’argent à Mme Dubois. Elle fronça les sourcils. « Quel est le problème? Tu n’aime pas mes muffins? » Le garçon rougit. « Ma mère m’a dit que je dois vous donner de l’argent, Madame. Elle serait fâchée si elle découvrait que j’ai… j’ai accepté de la charité. » Il dit les derniers mots très rapidement. « S’il vous plait, Madame, prenez l’argent. Je ne le veux pas. » Mme Dubois poussa un grand soupir. « Tu peux m’appeler Clarisse. Comment t’appelles tu? » « Frédéric. » « Viens avec moi, Frédéric. Je veux te montrer quelque chose. » Frédéric jeta un coup d’œil à la porte. « Je dois me dépêcher, Mad… – Clarisse. » Il baissa la tête. « Mes parents m’attendent. » « Ne t’inquiète pas. Peux-tu rester…environ…vingt minutes? Je vais faire une autre fournée de muffins et je serais très heureuse d’avoir ton aide. » Frédéric ouvra et ferma la bouche, avant de finalement dire, « Oui, je suppose .» « Fantastique! » dit Clarisse. « Alors, à la cuisine! » Elle pris la main du garçon et le conduit vers une porte fermée derrière le comptoir. Ils entrèrent dans une salle avec un petit four et des comptoirs complètement couverts d’ingrédients. Frédéric sourit et respira profondément. « Tu aimes cuisiner, Frédéric? » Le garçon sauta soudainement et donna un regard d’excuses à la dame. « Je ne sais pas… je n’ai jamais essayé. » « En bien, alors ça serait ta première fois. Donne-moi le livre qui se trouve sur l’étagère là, celui avec le dos rouge. » Frédéric le pris et le plaça sur le comptoir. Avec des doigts expérimentés, Clarisse ouvra le gros livre.

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Sur chaque page, il y avait beaucoup de changements que la dame avait faits au stylo. Mais quand Clarisse arriva finalement à la recette qu’elle cherchait, la page n’avait aucune correction. En haut de la page, le titre disait Les Muffins Superbes de Maman. « Frédéric, peux-tu mesurer trois tasses de farine dans ce bol? » Le garçon hocha la tête et commença à suivre les instructions que Clarisse lui avait données. En même temps, Clarisse prit la poudre à pâte, le sel, et le sucre d’un placard et, un par un, les ajouta au bol. « Clarisse, » demanda Frédéric quand il avait fini sa tâche et la dame avait commencé à mélanger les ingrédients du bol. « Pourquoi est-ce qu’il n’y avait pas de changements sur cette recette? Vous faites ces muffins si souvent… sûrement, vous avez trouvé une ou deux nouvelles variations. » Pendant un moment, la dame apparaissait perdue dans ses pensées. Quand elle commença à parler, sa voix était douce et un peu triste. « Je veux te raconter une petite histoire, Frédéric. Quand j’avais dix ans, j’adorais cuisiner. J’expérimentais dans la cuisine avec de nouvelle recettes chaque jour. Une semaine, je faisais seulement des gâteaux. La prochaine semaine, des tartes. Quand j’étais triste, je pouvais échapper dans la cuisine et imaginer que j’étais un chef fameux, un inventeur… » « Alors, » interrompit Frédéric, « Vous deviez adorer aider votre mère dans la cuisine. » Clarisse frappa un œuf contre le bol et rit. « Ma mère détestait être dans la cuisine. Mon père était mort quand j’avais seulement quatre ans et ma mère était toujours au travail. De temps en temps, je me sentais toute seule… chaque soir, quand ma mère retournait chez nous, j’étais malheureuse. » Elle donna une cuillère à Frédéric qui l’entendait, les yeux énormes. « Commence à dépenser le mélange dans ce moule à gâteaux. Alors, qu’est-ce que je disais? Ah, je me souviens. Ma mère insistait que je reçoive une bonne éducation. Mais je passais plus de temps dans la cuisine qu’à mes études. Un soir, ma mère m’a réprimandé et je suis devenue très fâchée… Je lui ai dit qu’elle était négligente, une pauvre mère…comme j’avais tort. Cette nuit-là, j’étais si inquiète que je ne pouvais pas dormir. Mais je n’avais jamais oublié ce qui s’est passé le prochain jour. Le lendemain, je suis descendue à la cuisine pour prendre mon petit déjeuner. Quand j’ai ouvert la porte, j’ai trouvé ma mère devant le four, ses yeux fatigués mais un grand sourire au visage. Sur la table, il y avait un plat de muffins au bleuets qu’elle avait fait pour nous deux. Elle a passé la plupart de la nuit dans la cuisine. » Clarisse laissa un petit rire. « Elle a dû refaire

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les muffins parce qu’elle a brûlé les muffins la première fois. » La cuisinière plaça les muffins dans le four. Frédéric sourit. « Comme vous êtes chanceuse d’avoir une mère qui vous aimait comme ça. Hier, quand j’ai apporté le muffin que vous m’avez donné chez moi, ma mère est devenue si fâchée! Elle déteste la charité. » Clarisse lui donna un sourire compréhensif. « Ma mère aussi était comme ça. Mais tu peux lui dire que je ne veux pas te donner de la charité. Quand ma mère a fait ces muffins pour moi, j’ai copié la recette dans mon livre. Aujourd’hui, je les donne aux enfants qui viennent à ma porte. Je ne dois pas faire de changement – ils sont déjà parfaits. Aujourd’hui, je ne peux pas montrer ma reconnaissance à ma mère…elle est morte depuis longtemps. Mais je peux montrer ce grand amour aux autres personnes dans ma vie. Si on ne peut pas faire de petites chose pour nos amis, ou même pour les étrangers, le monde n’est pas un bel endroit. « Mais, » elle lança un regard à la cloche. « Les muffins sont cuits! Et tu dois retourner chez toi. » Avec regret, Frédéric hocha la tête. « Clarisse, puis-je retourner ici, demain après l’école? J’aimerais vous aider encore une fois. » Clarisse sourit. « Absolument. Tu es toujours bienvenu dans ma boulangerie. Au revoir! » « A demain .» Le garçon prit son sac à dos et commença à partir. « Attends! » Clarisse l’arrêta. « Dit à ta mère qu’elle a un fils bien élevé. Et sois patient avec elle. Sa vie n’est pas facile. » Frédéric ferma la porte en souriant, très fier de leur nouvelle amitié.

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L A N O S TA L G I E

St. Theresa of Lisieux TEACHER: Gino Marcuzzi

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Matthew Kavanagh UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Noel LaPlante by

OLIVIA CINELLI

Les papillons renaissent dans mon estomac, comme ils l’ont toujours fait. Comme le printemps dernier. Les boutons de roses échappent aux cages d’hiver. Et une brise légère calme mes nerfs vivants. Comme il était pendant ce beau samedi-là, quand mon monde s’est effondré. Il s’approche du banc de fer forgé, où je suis assise; ses yeux chuchotent des excuses bien des fois. Les rose blanches dans la main, je comprends. Il prend ma main, et la pièce finale de notre énigme tient en place. Notre fin commence…

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Les portails nous accueillent, Les rues comme l’encre noir, qui crachent la boue sur les coulisses des jupes. Un tendre coup d’œil transmette une aventure. La musique est une couche de bonbon avec un centre qui a un goût amer, ce que le temps veut couper en lamelles. Le rideau final tombe, comme une guillotine. Le soleil se couche rouge sang, orange enflammé, jaune sans vie. Un cliché qui existe uniquement pour nous moquer, et sale nos blessures ouvertes. Les fleurs, poid morts dans ma main, tombent sur le ciment. Notre séparation est une brûlure sur la peau, qui touche une pièce de charbon fougueux et blanc. Les plantes de mes pieds adhèrent au sol, pendant mon ascension à ma supernova. La nourrice dit adieu, et la porte frappe, comme le marteau du juge qui punit. Les rêves de mon petit ange, ressemblent aux licornes dans un terrain miné. Sa poitrine qui monte et tombe, est un support pour la vie.

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Tout à coup, une vision au seuil, Mon mari, le père de mon ange. Son visage est un champ de bataille. Le temps est stagnant, un poing de fer serre mon cœur, pendant que l’obscurité l’encercle. La séquestration fracasse, et je suis enveloppé, dans un voile de solidarité. Mon cœur crie au paradis, et mendie. Les papillons renaissent dans mon estomac, comme ils l’ont toujours fait. Les boutons des roses enveloppés encore une fois dans leurs cages d’hiver, La brise, un mort-vivant. La sensation des roses blanches et morbides, dans mes mains une fois de plus. I’ll mattend, Mais je suis en retard.

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L’ H O M M E E T L A P O M M E

St. Theresa of Lisieux TEACHER: Gino Marcuzzi

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Matthew Kavanagh UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Noel LaPlante by

GABRIELLA SILANO

La pièce commence sur une scène noire. Il y a seulement la voix d’un homme qui a 25 ans. Homme:

‘‘Mort, ne sois pas fière.’’ (pause) ‘‘Mort, ne sois pas fière.’’ (pause) J’ai toujours voulu être philosophe.

Les lampes s’allument, l’homme est au centre de la scène. Il est assis avec ses jambes à la Turque. Il joue avec une pomme. Homme:

Je veux l’habileté de dire les mots de Donne ou Eliot…

Il se lève et commence à marcher, tout le temps, il joue avec la pomme. Homme:

Quand ils ont dit que j’étais entrain de mourir, la seule chose que j’ai voulu dire, avec certitude, étaient les mots d’Eliot… de la ‘‘Rue qui était éclairé par la Lumière.’’ Mais, on ne peut pas seulement dire leurs mots. On doit avoir une vie pour les soutenir. On doit avoir être humain.

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Il va au droit de la scène, un petit garçon court sur la scène, il joue avec une pomme aussi. Homme:

Je pensais pendant des heures. Tout seul. Des questions que mon papa m’a demandé. Beaucoup de fois, il me les a donné pour me faire taire. Mais, la raison ce n’est pas importante pour moi. Je me souviens des heures, des jours, où je considérais la question de la poule ou de l’œuf. Je me souviens, aussi, le jour quand je savais la réponse à cette question.

Les vêtements de l’homme traversent la scène sur une corde. Ils sont énormes. Le garçon court vers les vêtements et il prend un moment pour juger la grandeur de l’homme. Garçon:

Papa! (Il regarde ses pieds) J’ai la réponse! La poule est venu premièrement! Parce que… parce que… Dieu n’aurait pas mis un œuf dans le monde. Un dinosaure le tuerait quand il marchait! Un poulet peut courir, mais un œuf ne peut pas.

Quand il lève sa tête, son père n’est plus là. Garçon:

Papa? Papa?!

Il laisse sa pomme, et court de la scène. Homme:

Ce n’était pas toujours comme ça. Il m’aimait. (Pause, il commence à marcher) J’ai toujours voulu être philosophe.

Il marche au centre de la scène, encore une fois, en silence. Il joue avec sa pomme. Il prend la pomme du garçon, et il jongle avec les deux pour un moment. Homme:

Oui… j’ai toujours voulu être philosophe. Vous savez… vous savez qu’Aristote a dit qu’il y a deux types de personnes dans le monde: les bouffons qui

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pensent qu’ils sont sages, et les hommes sages qui savent qu’ils sont les bouffons. Pour beaucoup de ma vie, je pensais que j’étais dans le deuxième groupe. Seulement quand mon père est mort, j'ai connu que j'étais tellement ignorant. Il marche à la gauche de la scène. Un jeune homme qui a 18 ou 19 ans marche au centre de la scène avec un lit d’hôpital. Il s’assied sur le bord de la scène, en silence. Après quelques secondes, l’homme roule sa deuxième pomme au jeune homme. Il la grimpe. Il commence à chanter ‘‘Cerf Volant’’ (une chanson du film ‘‘Les Choristes’’). Dans un moment, il comprend qu’il chante. Il s’arrête. Soudainement, il tourne, il jette sa pomme contre le mur de fond. La pomme se casse. Jeune Homme:

‘‘Mort, ne sois pas fière?!’’ Comment?!

Il pousse le lit avec beaucoup de force. Jeune Homme:

Comment?! Il est mon père. MON père. La mort est un fier bâtard. Pourquoi?! Pour l’amour de Dieu… pourquoi?!

Il s’assied sur le lit avec la tête dans ses mains. Homme:

Je pense que dans ce moment, j’ai compris la réalité de la vie. C’était tellement arrogant de supposer que je savais tout… Mais j’ai compris, dans ce moment, que la mort était, et est, une réalité. J’ai compris que la vie était pour moi, pour moi chaque jour. Je pense que mon père est mort pour que je puisse vivre.

Il va aider le jeune homme sortir de la scène. Il lui donne sa pomme. Il pousse le lit de la scène. En même temps qu’il parle, il va au derrière de la scène où il prend les morceaux de la pomme.

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Homme:

Aujourd’hui, je sais que je ne suis pas philosophe. Aussi, je sais que je suis mourant. Mais, la première chose que je sais c’est que la vie est pour moi. Donc, la mort ne soit pas fière. Je l’ai tuée. Peut-être, je ne peux pas réciter les mots de Donne, mais je peux les savoir dans mon cœur. Je ne suis pas éffrayé.

En même temps qu’il sort de l’étage, il laisse les graines de pomme. Les lumières réduisent à noir, quand il parle. Homme:

‘‘Mort, ne sois pas fière… la Mort ne sera plus, Mort, tu mourras.’’

OEUVRES CITÉES Donne, John. ‘‘Death Be Not Proud.’’ John Donne: The Complete English Poems. Ed. A.J. Smith. Baltimore: Penguin Education, 1973. Eliot, T.S. ‘’Choruses from the Rock.’’ Inside Work. 2006. 18 Mar 2009 http://insidework.net/static/downloads/products/choruses_from_ the_rock.pdf. Les Choristes. Dir. Christopher Barratier. Perf. Gerard Jugnot. DVD. Vega Film, 2004.

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POLITIQUE…

SCHOOL:

Blessed Mother Teresa TEACHER: Ana Baptista

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

David Szollosy UNIT: Toronto Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: René Jansen in de Wal by

LISE NGO

n jour à l’école, mon professeur d’histoire nous a demandé de faire un projet sur une personne politique qui aurait eu un impact dans notre vie. Je ne savais quoi faire, qui choisir. Aucun politicien n’a jamais rien fait pour moi personnellement! Je savais, pour autant, que cela n’était pas le problème. La politique est une chose que j’ai toujours vue négativement. Le génocide, les enfants soldats, des guerres qui ne finissent jamais, des présidents qui s’imposent à une population. Pour moi, toute cette envie de pouvoir n’avait pas d’intérêt. La politique, pour moi, est juste une question d’argent et de popularité. Je vois toujours à la télévision des pays sous-développés qui sont continuellement en guerre parce que les dirigeants se préoccupent plus de leur propre bien que celui d’une population et des enfants innocents. Cela est peut-être à cause du fait que nous, les jeunes, ne prêtons pas attention au monde politique qui est parfois cruel et difficile à comprendre. Un dirigeant, président ou quelque soit le nom qu’on lui donne, devrait travailler d’arrache-pied pour pouvoir maintenir la paix dans un pays. Mais ce dernier fait d’énormes promesses à la population qu’il ne pourra sans doute pas tenir. La politique est vue comme un domaine de mensonge qui renferme malgré tout une lueur d’espoir et de changement, mais lorsqu’une personne fait des promesses qu’elle ne pourra point tenir, plus personne ne l’écoute.

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Les jeunes sont plutôt exclus dans toutes les décisions que le gouvernement du pays prend. Le gouvernement semble prendre des décisions qui affecteront les jeunes sans les consulter. Nos gouverneurs consultent les parents sans demander l’avis des personnes directement concernées. En fin de compte, ce sont les enfants qui vont à l’école et non les parents. Nous avons tous le droit à la parole, mais il semblerait que nos gouvernants aient oublié le plus important: écouter. Parce que le « futur appartient aux jeunes, » le gouvernement Canadien doit informer et attirer les jeunes. Le Canada est un pays d’immigrants, ce qui en fait sa beauté et sa richesse. Les jeunes ont besoin d’être éclairés, d’être motivés de différentes façons. Dans mon cas, j’aime participer à des événements où je peux donner mon point de vue et m’exprimer. C’est très motivant quand on semble vraiment prendre en considération ce que l’on dit. Cela nous donne une grande satisfaction intérieure et cela rend les gens heureux. Le fait de voir le sourire sur le visage des autres et d’aider est gratifiant. Une personne venant du Québec ne verrait pas les choses de la même façon qu’une de l’Ontario. Les terminologies n’aident pas non plus… C’est peut-être facile pour les parents de comprendre mais c’est difficile pour nous les jeunes. Il faudrait que les jeunes soient plus sensibilisés à l’importance de la politique parce-que cela a un effect sur la qualité de leur futur. Notre système est corrompu et c’est pour cela que nous assistons à une crise mondiale. C’est à nous maintenant de prendre la relève et de corriger les erreurs de « nos parents » mais pour cela il faudra comprendre où les fautes on été commises. Le présent nous prouve tous les jours que le passé n’est pas garant d’assimilation: ce n’est pas parce des guerres ont fini que d’autres n’ont pas commencés. Il y a urgence à apprendre avec nos erreurs sinon nous courons vers un cercle vicieux qui implosera. Être humble et reconnaître nos erreurs passées est l’unique façon de voir les situations plus clairement et de recommencer la politique d’un bon pied.

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