Young Authors Booklet - 2014 by @OECTA

Yo u n g A u t h o r s A w ar d s YOUNG AUTHORS AWARDS PRIX JEUNES ÉCRIVAINS 2014

70 years

www.oecta.on.ca

2014

YOUNG AUTHORS AWARDS 2014

THORS A W

•

U N E S ÉCRI

PREFACE Congratulations, Young Authors/Jeunes écrivains! This collection is a celebration of the literary talents and accomplishments of the provincial winners of the Ontario English Catholic Teachers’ Association’s 2014 Young Authors Awards/Prix jeunes écrivains. We applaud all of our winners as well as the thousands of students across the province who participated in the classroom, school and unit levels of the awards program. The insightful, skillful works crafted by these young authors remind us that the great Canadian writers of the future are presently in our classrooms. The enthusiasm and dedication of every student and supporter ensure that the Young Authors Awards/Prix jeunes écrivains program continues to grow and improve with each year. We deeply appreciate the commitment of our wonderful teachers, whose inspiration and encouragement provide students with the opportunity to empower themselves through this competition experience. The Young Authors Awards/Prix jeunes écrivains program would not be possible without the hard work of many OECTA members across the province. Teachers, OECTA School Association Representatives, Unit Presidents and Unit Executive members all play critical roles in directing the program in their respective classrooms, schools and units. Members contribute their talent, time and effort to preserve the spirit and continued success of the awards. Together, we honour the outstanding work of our teachers and students. We cannot overstate the value of the contributions of all the dedicated members of the Ontario English Catholic Teachers’ Association, who ensure that this program flourishes each year for the benefit of our students. Thank you, and keep on writing! Susan Perry Professional Development Department Ontario English Catholic Teachers’ Association

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS YOUNG AUTHORS AWARDS/PRIX JEUNES ÉCRIVAINS 2014

Dianna David Anne Denning Louise Murray-Leung Delia Tavares

Administrative Assistant, Professional Development Department Bilingual Editor, Professional Development Department English Editor, Professional Development Department Desktop Publisher, Communications Department

PROVINCIAL SELECTION COMMITTEE 2014

Cynthia Gittins, Co-Chairperson Nancy Molnar, Co-Chairperson Caitlin Chaput Edith Melinda Cotton Margaret D’Agostino Nayana D’Costa Eric Démoré Antonella DiCarlo Tammi Downing Sarah Gallah Laryssa Gorecki Aleksandra Lada Sam Mangiacasale Maria Massarella Stefania Moscone Christine Otshudi Donna Lynn Paquette Craig Phillips Angela Rzazewski Jeanneda Saulnier

SUNDANCE

St. Joseph French Immersion Centre TEACHER: Julie Tremeer

SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

AndrĂŠe Coutu UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Dean Spence by

KRISTIN SHARPE

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Emma. She had a horse named Sundance. Sundance liked to eat grass, carrots, apples and hay. Most of all, Sundance loved to dance in the sun. When the sun hit Sundance it made her dance. Emma took good care of Sundance. They loved to play together. When it rained, Sundance liked to stay inside her barn and play with Emma all day long. If it rained for too many days, Sundance would be sad because she missed dancing in the sun. One rainy, foggy day, Sundance wanted to play puddle jumping with Emma. She had so much fun she realized that playing in the rain was as much fun as playing in the sun.

GYMNASTICS

Corpus Christi TEACHER: Adele Agostino SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Ky Nott UNIT: Thunder Bay Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Aldo Grillo by

ABIGAIL PEDWYSOCKI

Gymnastics. High bars and beams. I can do flips forward and backward. Tumble track and vault. Gymnastics.

MY TRIP TO DISNEY

Jean Vanier TEACHER: Annie Obili SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joyce McLean-Seely UNIT: Brant Haldimand Norfolk UNIT PRESIDENT: Len McDonald by

MAXX BOAKE

I went to Disney Florida. It took a little long to get there. When we got there, it was bedtime. We stayed in a hotel. Then we went to Disney. When we were driving there, I saw a Disney sign. At Disney, we went on a pirate ride. I like the pirate ride because at the end of the ride there’s a shop that has pirate toys. My brother wanted to go on the pirate ride again. He went with my dad. I went pirate shopping with my mom. I bought a Jack Sparrow costume and handcuffs. My brother went on the stage with Jack Sparrow. Jack gave him a piece of paper with words on it. There was a kid with stickers all over his face and he showed them to Jack Sparrow. There is also a ride that you can go on with a boat on tracks in water. It was kind of light in there, but the pirate ride was dark. The boat ride is called “Small World After All.” The machines in the ride talk. I don’t get it! I drove in the car to come home. Actually, I was on a plane first and then we drove home.

THE EVIL COMMENTATORS OF NEW YORK

Holy Family TEACHER: Susan Seredynsky SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Julie Henhoeffer UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

BRYAN PIATTELLI

One warm spring afternoon, Bryan and Michael were getting ready for their baseball game. As they practiced, Michael and Bryan noticed that their head coach, Gus, was gone. When they were getting ready for baseball again the next day, they detected that Gus was still missing. Bryan and Michael thought, “Where could Gus be?” Bryan thought Gus might have been captured by aliens from outer space. Michael thought he might have been eaten by a hippo. Then they both thought he got kidnapped by the evil commentators of the New York Yankees. So, they booked a flight and flew off. It took them three to four hours to get to New York. When they got off the airplane, they got a hotel. They made a list of where the team could be playing: Boston, Toronto, Pittsburg, San Francisco, or last but not least, New York. About two hours later they got some mail in their hotel room. Michael started to read. In the letter, it said that New York had a home game. Michael and Bryan later found out when the game was and went to it. They had to take a taxi. When they arrived at the game, they got some food, took their seats, and watched the first inning. Their favourite team, Toronto, got to bat first. A couple of minutes later, Jose Bautista was running home. When he was almost there, he tripped on a rock and fell. The first inning was over. Bryan and Michael made their plan. They swung into the commentators’ room, pushed them out of the room, grabbed Gus and escaped. Finally, Bryan, Michael and Gus were all back home. They had a happy baseball game that day!

LADY BUGS

SCHOOL:

Our Lady of Mercy TEACHER: Pam Berko

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Kate Tagseth UNIT: Simcoe Muskoka Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Joe Martone by

BROOKE SIMMONS

Lady bugs, lady bugs, they are so cute. Lady bugs, lady bugs, dressed in a suit. Polka dots and red wings, six legs and antennae, too. You land on my shoulder and on my shoe.

HOW MY PASSIONS IMPACT THE WORLD

Holy Rosary School TEACHER: Mary Lou Micheli

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Les Robelek UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

SARAH EVELYN PACE

My passion can change the world by making either a good change or a bad change. An example of that is when Eve was tempted in the Garden of Eden, and she took the forbidden fruit. This caused a bad change. Your passion can change the world, too. We all have different passions. Someone may have a passion to become a vet when they grow up. One of my passions is to be a good soccer player. Another one of my passions is to do well in school. I can achieve that by listening to the teacher and paying attention when instructions are given. I can ask a question if I don’t understand what my teacher has instructed. At home, I can take my time to do my homework and not try to rush through it. I could do extra work connected to the topics we’re learning at school when I’m home. If I get tired or frustrated about something I’m trying to do at home, I should take a break. I can get at my homework before it is too late in the evening and time to go to bed. I can remember to put my agenda in my backpack the night before, so I won’t forget it the next morning. I can try to get to bed early enough so that I won’t be tired the next day. If I practise those habits, it will be easier to get a job when I am older because I will have done well in school. Maybe I will even be able to earn some scholarships. I am also passionate about swimming lessons because I want to be able to swim when I am older. I can listen to my swim teacher when he or she is explaining something important. I can listen and accept when my coach tells me something I need to work on. I can eat healthy food when I am at home and not have too many sweet treats. I can exercise every day so that I can stay fit and have enough energy to swim well.

In Bible times, Noahâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passion was to listen to God and do what God wanted. The way your passion can change the world can sometimes be like a chain reaction. For example, if you live in a community that does not believe in God and you think that they should, if you protest, some people MIGHT think that you are right. Then that would change your community. Terry Foxâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passion made a BIG chain reaction. His passion was to raise money to try to find a cure for cancer. He had cancer himself, and he wanted to find a cure because he knew how terrible having cancer is. He made a good change when he ran his Marathon of Hope. People were amazed because he had cancer and he was running across the whole country. Once he started, he felt he could not give up. Even though Terry Fox is dead now, we still carry on his idea by doing a Terry Fox run every year. He changed the world, and all of us can change the world if we want to. St. Martin was a generous soldier who gave half his cloak to a cold beggar. Can you think of his passion when he did that? I can! His passion was to help that cold beggar. Father Jerome, from a long time ago, was given the task to write the Latin Bible into English. His passion was to do the task he was given and he really changed the world. In Bible times, there was a little boy who believed in God. He had two loaves of bread and five fish and he gave them to the hungry people who followed Jesus. His passion was to give the hungry people food so they would have something to eat. What passions do you have? How could those passions change the world? Could those passions change the world for the better, or even make a chain reaction? Why are your passions important to you? Do you know anyone who has the same passions as you? Even though I am still young and the future is unknown, I know that MY passion will change the world for the better.

PACKS

St. Aloysius TEACHER: Glen Shindler SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Marcia Delisle UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

CADENCE EMILY DONNELLY

PART ONE Once there was a pack of wolves that lived in the woods. The wolf leader stood on a tall rock to address the pack. “There is an apprentice who is now ready to be a fighter,” he began. “Blackpaw, your fighter name will be Blackclaw.” He leaped down from the tall rock and padded away. Blackclaw jumped with joy. He ran over to join his friends, Sharpclaw and Thornfur. They were newly named fighters like Blackclaw. “Congratulations, Blackclaw!” exclaimed Sharpclaw. Thornfur padded in front of Sharpclaw and barked, “Blackclaw! Welcome as a fighter.” At dusk, Blackclaw, Sharpclaw and Thornfur padded over to the huge bush that the fighters slept under. Blackclaw lay down and put his head on his paws, thinking of what dangers could come to him now that he was a fighter. There were not one, but four, packs in the forest. He thought he would never get to sleep, but finally, it overtook him. The morning brought a clear sky and scents of the sweet warm forest loomed around him. He turned his gaze to the fresh kill pile that lay on a tree stump. It looked far too small to feed the whole pack. He decided to go hunting. He padded off to a tunnel leading in and out of the camp and went through it.

He was out for a little while before he heard a rabbit. He stalked it quietly and pounced, killing it with his massive jaw. When he returned to camp, Blackclaw had caught a rabbit, a huge vole, three mice and a thrush. He turned and padded over to the fresh kill pile and dropped the prey. It was afternoon when he had returned. Blackclaw turned around to see Thornfur and a beautiful she-wolf touching noses and then parting. Blackclaw quickly turned his head, acting as if he had not seen. Thornfur then came up beside him and said cheerfully, “Hi Blackclaw!” Blackclaw turned his head to face Thornfur and said, “Hello Thornfur,” as calmly as he could. Thornfur looked down for several heartbeats and looked up with sad eyes. “You saw me with Leafpelt, didn’t you?” Blackclaw’s stomach twisted and then he replied, “Yes, Thornfur, I did. But it’s okay you know, you’re in the same pack, you’re allowed to see her.” Thornfur nodded then turned away. Blackclaw sighed and then padded off to join Sharpclaw by the fighters’ den. That night Blackclaw was visited by their fighter ancestors, Star pack, in a dream. Their messages were never clear enough to be understood right away; they would be put together in pieces through time. Star pack showed Blackclaw his pack’s former leader. She had three other wolves behind her, though they were in shadow and he couldn’t make out who they were. Clawstar, the former leader, began saying, “You will meet these wolves, and you will save the packs.” Blackclaw was confused and said, “Tell me more! I need more information! Please!” As he continued yelping for more information, Clawstar began to fade away into the shadows with the three other wolves. Blackclaw woke up within a second of when his dream had ended. He wondered if he should tell Thornfur and Sharpclaw about his dream or keep it a secret. He first wondered if he could keep it a secret from his two best friends, or anyone, for that matter. That day, Blackclaw did his best not to think about his dream. He padded over to Thornfur and Sharpclaw, who were lying down peacefully in the middle of the camp. When he padded closer, both Sharpclaw and Thornfur looked up and greeted him.

Sharpclaw barked quietly, “Thornfur told me about Leafpelt. He told me what you said and I agree, he is allowed. So I don’t know why you’re worried,” he finished, turning his gaze to Thornfur. “Anyway,” Blackclaw began, “Do you two want to come hunt with me? Please.” Thornfur and Sharpclaw exchanged glances and nodded their heads, sitting up. Sharpclaw looked at them both and then dashed off through the entrance. Blackclaw glanced at Thornfur and they both dashed after him. The wolves held gatherings at the half-moon. The four packs would meet in peace to talk and discuss important things. The names of the four packs were: Dark pack, River pack, Wind pack and Thunder pack, which Blackclaw and his friends were in. The gatherings started with a sharp howl from the Dark pack leader. Blackclaw had been thinking about the dream he’d had from Star pack. He thought that the other wolves would be from different packs. But he could not just go and guess that some random wolf from one of the packs would be the one. He must meet with them in private, but how? He finally thought that they should go to Tall Trees and meet alone during a full moon. It was the only spot where they could go without trespassing on the other packs’ territory. He decided this was the right plan. It was the day he was going to Tall Trees to meet the other wolves. Blackclaw was worried that the others wouldn’t go. He thought, What if they don’t go, what if the sign was just for me? He could only hope he was right. He wondered whether Star pack would give him more guidance if he slept for a moment now. Laying down in the comfortable moss bedding, he shut his eyes tight. Blackclaw was at Tall Trees with Clawstar and the other three wolves. “Young Blackclaw, you have chosen correctly, you will go to Tall Trees.” Blackclaw was relieved to hear that he was right. Clawstar and the other three wolves began to fade and Blackclaw woke up. When Blackclaw finally managed to leave unnoticed, he ran as quickly as he could to Tall Trees. When he reached Tall Trees, there was one shadow moving in the dark hollow underneath the tall rock. He felt a weight lifting off his shoulders when he saw the other wolf. He padded down to meet her. When he made a noise, she turned around to look at him. Blackclaw recognized the wolf at once. It was Ashfur of River pack. Ashfur came closer to Blackclaw and said, “Hello … Blackclaw, right?” Blackclaw stared and then said “Yes, Blackclaw is my name. You are Ashfur, right?”

“Yes,” Ashfur replied. “So you had the dream too,” began Blackclaw, “the one with your former leader.” “Y-yes, I did,” stumbled Ashfur. “Well, we have to wait for the others now,” she stammered. Then both Ashfur and Blackclaw turned their gaze to a movement in the undergrowth. They saw two more wolves appearing from the tall, fern-like grass. It was Oakclaw from Dark pack and Whitefoot of Wind pack. The four came up to each other and barked greetings. Then Blackclaw barked, “So we’ve all had the dream where our former leaders tell us to meet three wolves. Well, we are the wolves. I, for one, think we should stay this night and sleep underneath the stars and see if we get a sign.” Whitefoot exclaimed “No! Who made you leader, anyway?” Blackclaw sighed, for everyone knew that Whitefoot had a very sharp and demanding tone. Oakclaw and Ashfur looked up at Blackclaw and nodded, agreeing. Oakclaw, the oldest warrior of the four, spoke up: “I agree with Blackclaw, that’s a good plan,” he began. Turning his gaze to Ashfur, he asked, “What about you, Ashfur?” Ashfur hesitated and then barked confidently, “Yes, I agree.” Then all three turned to Whitefoot, who had burning fury in his eyes but ended up saying, “Fine!” Whitefoot turned an angry gaze toward Blackclaw, who took no notice and looked up at the stars. The time has come, Star pack. Show us our destinies, he thought. It was the full moon. The three others turned their gaze to what Blackclaw was looking at and then Oakclaw barked, “It’s time for us to go to sleep and see what Star pack has to say.” While Blackclaw slept, he had the dream he had been waiting for. This time his mother, Spottedfur, was there with Clawstar. Clawstar began, “You will save the packs. Now that you have met the other wolves, you must journey here.” Blackclaw was taken suddenly to a mountain. If he looked off the edge he could see their forest in the distance. He knew it would be a short but hard journey. When he awoke, the others were already up. When Ashfur saw him wake up she padded over to him. “You’re awake,” she barked softly.

“Yes, I am,” replied Blackclaw. “So, we’re going to the mountains, right?” asked Ashfur. “Yes, I figure you all had the dream about the mountain,” barked Blackclaw. Whitefoot and Oakclaw looked at each other and nodded. “Then let’s go,” he finished. That day Blackclaw, Ashfur, Oakclaw and Whitefoot crossed great distances but were still pretty far from the mountain. They knew that they would reach the mountain soon enough. They traveled non-stop for a while until Oakclaw stopped dead in his tracks. “What?” asked Blackclaw. “Badger!” replied Oakclaw, turning his gaze to the three other travelers with deep, deep worry in his eyes. “We can’t fight a badger!” yelped Whitefoot. “We can survive, but not without injuries,” barked Ashfur. Great injuries, thought Blackclaw. The four wolves looked at each other, realizing the badger was right behind them. Ashfur turned around as the badger ran closer to her and attacked. “Ah! Help, Blackclaw!” Determination burned in Blackclaw’s eyes. He leaped on the badger’s back and bit. It yowled and released Ashfur. Now mad, the badger ran for an attack at Blackclaw. Blackclaw just managed to escape the attack and turned to face the badger. He leaped on its back and dug his teeth deep in its neck. It shook him off and ran. “Thank you! Thank you, Blackclaw!” Ashfur said gratefully. “Ummm … can I talk to you in private?” Oakclaw and Whitefoot looked at them awkwardly and then backed away to leave them alone. “I like you, Blackclaw. That’s all there is to say.” Ashfur looked up at Blackclaw nervously and asked, “Do you like me?” Blackclaw looked her in the eyes and barked softly, “Yes, I do, Ashfur.” Blackclaw pressed his nose to hers and then backed up. “We’re in different packs, though. How can we be together? It is forbidden,” barked Ashfur. “Even if it is, we will be together,” he whispered before padding away to join the others.

That day they reached the base of the mountain, although they would have been faster without Ashfur’s injury. It was getting colder by the minute. “Brrr! It’s freezing out here!” exclaimed Whitefoot. All the other wolves nodded their heads in agreement. When they slept that night, there was a freezing wind that woke Blackclaw. He looked at Ashfur and padded over to her so they could share their warmth and sleep. When he nuzzled her furry coat he felt warm and let sleep overtake him. In the morning, Blackclaw awoke to Ashfur sleeping beside him. Oakclaw padded back from a hunt with lots of fresh kill in his jaws. Blackclaw licked his lips and gently woke Ashfur. Ashfur looked up, confused, and said, “I smell rabbit.” “Oakclaw went and hunted for us.” Blackclaw barked, “Come and grab something.” Ashfur slowly got up and padded over to the fresh kill that Oakclaw had brought back, grabbing a plump rabbit. She began ripping it apart and gulping it down in a leisurely fashion. Blackclaw padded to the fresh kill and grabbed a vole. He was eating slowly when he noticed Whitefoot looking up the mountain. “We should get going soon, unless you plan to stay here for a few nights,” stated Whitefoot. “He’s right,” barked Oakclaw, “we’d better get a move on.” Ashfur sighed and slowly pushed herself up. They started padding toward the top of the mountain. “Look,” began Blackclaw, “we’re almost at the top!” Whitefoot let out an excited squeal as if he were a pup and then looked up, embarrassed. “It’s getting dark,” Ashfur said, “I think we should rest.” Blackclaw knew it wasn’t just the dark that made Ashfur want to rest, he knew her shoulder was not healing from the badger attack. They found a little cave to settle down in. “If we travel non-stop tomorrow, we’ll reach the mountain top and what’s waiting for us,” exclaimed Oakclaw. “You are right, Oakclaw. Let’s set out at dawn,” agreed Blackclaw. “Now let’s get some rest.” It was a beautiful morning, with a clear sky. “Come on, let’s get up, you lazy furballs!” exclaimed Whitefoot. Blackclaw raised his head and woke Ashfur. She looked up and then stood. “Well, let’s go,” barked Oakclaw. Whitefoot looked at the three others and ran out of the cave.

“Wait up!” called Blackclaw. The three wolves that were left ran to catch up to Whitefoot. “Look! If we travel for one more hour, we’ll reach the top!” howled Ashfur excitedly. When they finally reached the top of the mountain, Blackclaw breathed in deeply. “There is another wolf up here!” barked Whitefoot. “Welcome to the top of the mountain,” whispered a strange voice. “I’m Dusk. I have a message from Star pack: You will unite as one or die from what’s to come. I wish you luck,” barked Dusk, as he backed into the shadows. The four wolves looked at each other, unsure. “We must go home to tell the packs,” barked Blackclaw confidently.

PART TWO When the four travelers reached the forest there was a half-moon in the sky. “This is perfect! We’ll go to the gathering and tell all four packs!” squealed Whitefoot excitedly. “There’s Tall Trees,” barked Blackclaw confidently. The four raced through the trees. “Attention, all packs!” began Blackclaw, “We have a message from a wise wolf! We must unite as one or die from what’s to come.” The packs stared at him, confused. Then Oakclaw came up and stood beside him and howled to the silent night, “We will unite as one.” TO BE CONTINUED …

MUSIC

SCHOOL:

Our Lady of Good Counsel TEACHER: Karen Poirier

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Maria Dametto UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Liz Stuart by

RACHEL MARSHALL

The sounds flow in your head like a sailboat gliding down the river of inspiration, with tunes and melodies that make you shiver. Even the wildest of lions can be tamed by the calming sound of beautiful words going along with the melody that turns into music, the sound grows and grows and won’t stop until it’s gotten what it came for— perfection. The sound and lyrics that can change any image or splash any amount of colour into someone’s life, bring joy back into the world after people think all is lost. Music, it brings our dark side a little more light, shows us what to do and what step to take, it takes your hate away.

THE ART OF FISHING

Immaculate Conception TEACHER: Shannon Duguay

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Chantal Rancourt UNIT: Sudbury Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Kent MacNeill by

ETHAN MATTE

Tick, tick, tick, swoosh! Fishing is an art, not a skill. If you disagree, well, I will prove you wrong. It was a bright, sunny day in the middle of summer 2013. My family was going to Bell Park to celebrate the middle of summer, but Isaac and I stayed at my camp and we went fishing. Isaac is a handsome, strong, helpful, independent, twelve year-old boy. I’m a strong, skinny, independent, nine year-old boy with good looks. Before we knew it, we were out fishing. We went to my favourite fishing spot. It is a rock about two feet deep, four to five feet long and wide. It also caves at the bottom, so bass love it. We went in my green rowboat. It doesn’t have a motor, just oars, but it’s still very good. It has three seats, an anchor and a safety box. I always bring my dad’s tackle box with me. That afternoon, I was using my red fishing rod. It had a twenty-pound line with one sinker. It had a button on the handle. If you pushed it down, it let out string. If you wanted to cast you had to hold the button, swing the rod, then let go of the button. The lure I was using was my favourite fishing lure, a purple jighead with a fuzzy cuff and string. It looked like a minnow in a dress. Bass loved it!!! It was my favourite lure because it gave me good luck. So Isaac and I cast and just as my family was about to leave, a three-foot bass came and bit my lure! It was huge. I tried to hold it back, but, SNAP! The line broke and the fish swam away, lure and all. “That was huge!” said Isaac. “Yeah,” I replied. And that’s the art of fishing …

THE SECRET OF LIGHT

St. Nicholas TEACHER: Mirela Smith SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Lori McKenna UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

NATALIE CUNDERLIK

CAST OF CHARACTERS HOOTER: Bold and inexperienced owl, apprentice to the great wizard FIRCONE: Mischievous and energetic little russet-coloured squirrel AUTUMN: Sly, cunning and very clever red fox COLETTE: Reasonable yet chirpy porcupine BRUNO: Very opinionated bear with great leadership skills STALITIKK: Old, wise and experienced badger (opposite of Hooter)

PROLOGUE This tale begins on a cold, late winter afternoon with the wind blowing frost across the prairies, a petite village settled nearby. Dark clouds puffed across the dusky sky as a signal to the town that a storm might come. In the blink of an eye, freezing flakes started to flurry down. The townsfolk were crisscrossing merrily through the rocky streets and gathering fresh food for their young and their elders. As the snow poured down, twinkles of alarm flashed in the corners of the eyes of some of the experienced. The evening was bitter and a caped figure walked silently through the roads of the town. After buying some fresh products, the man wearily creaked open the door to the icy tower where he preferred to live. Carefully, he walked up the frozen staircase, went into a very old room and gazed out the window. He knew very well what was about to happen, and it was not good news. He sighed, and then his cracked voice echoed through the crisp air. “Hooter! Time for dinner!” he called.

Mighty wings fluttered through the sky and a little owl landed on the windowsill. “Yes, old wizard, as old as the heavens above,” twittered the owl. The elderly wizard did not find that very amusing. “Go eat your meal.” The owl looked at his treat curiously. There was a plump mouse on his plate. “Why, is that a mouse? I told you I liked voles.” The wizard rolled his eyes. “Is there a difference?” Hooter nodded. “Voles have shorter tails.” The wizard huffed. “Why is the dumbest owl in the world my apprentice?” After ravenously devouring the prey, the owl flew off for his nighttime flight. Weeks passed and chaos descended on the village. The harsh winter was threatening the food supply. Hooter stared at the wizard and asked, “Why can’t you use your magic to help us?” The wizard replied, “I cannot save the village because I don’t have enough magic. I need more strength.” “Really?” the owl queried. Nodding, the man responded, “You and your friends must find a source for my power in three days or else we may be doomed. Please go now!” “But—” “Go!” The owl flew off in surprise.

CHAPTER ONE The breeze rattled the bare trees as Hooter and his five companions trailed through the woods. A bushy-tailed squirrel named Fircone piped up, “What exactly are we looking for?” Beside her, an intelligent badger stared at the sky. “A source the wizard can use to make strong magic for the village, Fircone,” he explained. The badger’s name was Stalitikk, which is an odd name. Hovering by the badger was a slender vixen as orange as flickering flames.

“Autumn, where do you think we’ll find a source for the magician?” asked Hooter. The fox answered, “I have no idea. What about you, Bruno?” Nearby, a large brown bear was licking sweet honey from his paws. “Why don’t we see what we find?” he suggested. “That’s a reasonable idea,” a porcupine perked up. Her spiky quills were bristling with excitement. “Imagine what we’ll find!” The porcupine preferred to be called Colette because she was excellent at speaking French. Beady red berries clutched on to her quills, ready to be eaten. “Look! The hills are eating the sun! They’ve become monsters,” hollered Hooter in bewilderment. Fircone rolled her eyes as they caught the scarlet beams of the dropping red sun, “You dumb owl! The sun is sinking down beyond the hills so we can have nighttime.” The moon rose and illuminated the forest, casting an eerie effect over the landscape. Autumn’s eyes glittered mystically in the silvery moonlight. “I say we go to sleep so we have our strength for the journey. It’ll be our second day so we can travel rapidly and farther into the wild,” insisted Bruno as the animals settled in and dozed off. Streams of dawn sunlight filtered through dewy leaves and slanted off the backs of the animals as they slowly heaved themselves onto their paws and wings. Autumn’s fur shone even more vividly in the sunlight. Bruno stifled a yawn and declared boldly, “I say we start to move now and rest later so we can travel farther.” The muscular bear set off briskly. Sleepily, Hooter plucked a berry from Colette’s pointy quills. “Stop, those berries are poisonous!” she squeaked in alarm. “Huh?” said Hooter, dropping the berry in surprise. Colette quickly replied, “The berries are just for decoration. They are actually yew berries and can often be fatal.” Hooter nodded and set out with Autumn in search of prey.

Fortunately, the forest was rich with food, and the animals returned in a matter of minutes. With their strength replenished, they journeyed faster and could now manage a reasonable distance. The sun was flickering high in the sky. A fizzing sound echoed in the misty distance and startled the group. “What on earth was that?” asked Fircone gingerly. Autumn cocked her ears to the side. “I can hear it, too!” she agreed. The bear came over. “Why not investigate what it is?” Then, without his friend’s opinion, he stubbornly led them on. Hooter followed him eagerly until the bear halted and, taking no notice, Hooter crashed into him. What the startled owl could see was a massive bear vanishing behind some shrubs, followed by a splash. In utter confusion, Hooter peeped and squeaked at the sight of Bruno sputtering and tossing in the river’s currents. His fur was soaked and he struggled to breathe in the rushing water. Hooter let out a sigh of relief when Autumn, Fircone, Colette and Stalitikk arrived, panting for breath. “Where’s Bruno?” questioned the suspicious badger. Hooter pointed with his wing. “He appears to be taking a bath,” replied Hooter, because he had no idea what had happened. “Actually, it looks like he is about to drown and fall off the waterfall,” Stalitikk murmured crossly. “Well, let’s help him!” declared Colette.

CHAPTER TWO Bruno, for his part, was soaked and furious, but before he could think another grouchy thought, he found himself falling down a waterfall. Tumbling through the air, he plummeted into the water. From a distance, he heard Hooter insist, “I think it might be too late now!” Then, just when Bruno anticipated that he was safe, he saw another massive waterfall, only this one was five times as huge. “Uh-oh!” Again, he found himself falling through the cloudy air. The nearest branches slowed down his fall until his claws felt a thick, sturdy oak branch scraping underneath. Bruno let out a sigh of relief, and then the branch went SNAP! He tumbled into the water!

There was a noisy splash and Hooter flew over to Bruno, landing neatly on the lowest branch. “Maybe you should be more careful next time,” suggested Hooter. “What?! I should be more careful?! You bumped right into me, and knocked me into the river!” hissed Bruno, as he scrambled out of the cold river, shivering. “What? I think—” “Hooter, leave him be,” Colette cut Hooter off. “He’s been through quite a shock.” Grumbling, Hooter flew off through the lush treetops, feeling the wind in his feathers. He soared straight through a small, black, puffy cloud, only to fly into another one. His tiny instincts told him that there was something wrong or hazardous up ahead. Hooter hurried swiftly back to his companions ready to report his findings. “Everybody, there are black clouds around this area! We need to be cautious about what is up ahead!” he declared. Stalitikk added, “Up ahead, what Hooter described, well, it isn’t a cloud. It’s smoke from a blazing fire.” Alarm flickered across Fircone’s face. “Fire can be very harmful and destroys everything in its path. We should avoid it if we can.” Autumn made a suggestion, “How about we travel away from the fire and only circle around it?” Colette murmured softly, “An obvious plan, yet it just might work.” Bruno was grumbling behind, quiet like the night. “Why don’t we check it out instead? It could be a lot of other things!” The big bear responded. Hooter snorted. “It’s too risky! If it is fire, we could get hurt!” Stalitikk was staring through the trees. “It’s definitely a fire, Bruno. We’ll have to go around. Yes, without a doubt.” As the wisest, his opinions were respected. Bruno paused hesitantly and followed behind the others. “I would love it if Stalitikk could be incorrect for once! I would love to try being the leader,” he muttered curtly under his breath, a pang of envy creeping up his spine.

Hooter picked up the pace, although he was already tired. The creatures trudged along heavily, and Hooter almost fell asleep. The day swooped by and nighttime soon came down upon the animals. Hooter sat down, dozing off. Bruno found a nice patch to sleep on, and the bulky bear rolled onto his back. “Hey! Watch where you’re sleeping!” To Bruno’s surprise, Hooter popped up behind his back. “I’m sorry!” grumbled the furry bear, sounding as if he didn’t mean it. Hooter fluttered up to the nearest branch of a thick beech tree, found a hole and fell asleep. Hooter’s dreams flurried by, and were too blurry for him to identify. He felt a paw strike him mildly and he woke up to a bright light. Blinking, he strained his eyes to look up. With his paw, Stalitikk signaled for Hooter to fly down from the tree. Hooter gasped in amazement at the sight of vivid orange flames sizzling up his tree. “How did the fire come so close to us? We traveled for hours. How can it be so close now?” Hooter asked in confusion. Stalitikk responded, “The wind must have carried it over.” Hooter shot Stalitikk a glance. “Are you sure it could come near so quickly?” Hooter queried. “Unless you can think of a better reason why, say so,” Stalitikk huffed, before calming the alarmed animals. “Everybody,” summoned Bruno, “we must stick together!” Hooter watched as everything that had been relaxed and calm turned into chaos.

CHAPTER THREE Hooter stretched his wings, ready to fly away, voices ringing in the air. Colette and Fircone huddled together beneath a tree. “Get away from the tree!” shouted Hooter as he doubled back to get his companions. The porcupine and bushy squirrel were cornered behind the stump of the tree. There was a loud snap and a blazing branch fell, blocking the path. Hooter couldn’t get to the two little friends. There were sharp squeaks from behind the wooden wall. Hooter wheeled around to get help from the other animals, who were racing away from the peril. “Everyone stop!” Hooter hollered as loud as his beak would allow.

“What is it?” Autumn cried anxiously, leaping over. She began to fret, “What’s wrong?” Bruno arrived seconds later. “Please don’t say something ridiculous like ‘Ahh! My butt’s on fire!’” the bear added. “I can’t, I said that at the tower a few days ago,” Hooter explained crossly. “The wizard has stupid potions. Anyway, as I was about to say, Colette and Fircone are trapped behind the burning branch!” Bruno slapped his forehead, “That’s even worse!” Hooter looked up at the bear optimistically. “Got any plans?” he asked. Bruno was staring at the badger. The black and white creature peered at the burning forest. Fire danced around the four desperate animals. Bruno huffed at Stalitikk, “Well, think of something!” The badger shook his head. “No, it’s your time to shine.” Bruno was taken aback. “But—but—alright! We need to … break down the branch. It may be hot, but it’s not impenetrable. We just have to be careful. And we should work in groups of two,” started the bear. The others nodded obediently and the plan was set.

CHAPTER FOUR As the owl set off, his wings were beating through the air. Autumn, the fox, was in Hooter’s claws, and they flew through the dawn sky. The clever fox had created a bucket of strong leaves which she carried in her paws. She held it cautiously so her claws would not scrape holes through the fragile container. A beautiful lake appeared in the distance, reflecting the twinkling starlight. All of a sudden, the owl did an impeccable dive. Hooter settled down on the sandy, silver beach. The graceful fox filled the bucket up with water. “It’s all good so far!” Autumn said enthusiastically. “Er, never mind that, Hooter, it looks like the bucket idea failed. I’m going to rebuild it, and hopefully it will be a bit sturdier.” With that, the fiery-pelted fox headed off. Hooter sat impatiently on a thick rock, casting uncertain glances back at the scampering vixen, her tail sweeping the forest floor as she gathered leaves off the ground. Soon she skipped back, her bucket ready for use. The two eventually reached

the burning area. Autumn walked briskly up to the fire. “Ouch!” she exclaimed as a spark from the sizzling fire fell on her fur. She dropped the water bucket she had made from strong, crispy leaves over a twig frame. Autumn licked the spot vigorously. Hooter picked the bucket up and approached the fire reluctantly. He poured the water out on the branch. Everyone watched hopefully as the flames died away. Two little heads popped up from behind the branch. “Hey! We aren’t dead! Hooter saved us from the fire!” cheered Colette with delight. Fircone’s hair was sticking out in all different directions. “Are you sure this isn’t heaven?” mumbled the squirrel. “It’s pretty convincing.” Colette shook her head energetically, “Oh, really! A burning forest is what you imagine heaven to be?” Hooter stepped into the conversation, “Um, we were wondering if we can continue on with our journey now. We really want to find the secret of light.” The two rescued animals blinked, still stunned. “Um, can you please explain what happened?” Fircone asked, “I am still puzzled.” Bruno cut in, “I made a plan and Stalitikk encouraged me, Hooter gathered up water to put out the fire so that you could be saved, and Autumn got the bucket and put the water in.” Hooter and the others nodded. The four looked up proudly. “Why did you risk doing that?” asked Colette. Hooter stared at the rest of the forest. “Because together we are strongest. Without each other, we don’t have much! It’s what anyone would do, I think.”

CHAPTER FIVE There was a swirl around the animals and Hooter watched in astonishment as the world began to blur and colours mixed with each other. Hooter couldn’t tell the difference between Autumn, the little red fox, and Stalitikk, the huge black and white badger. Hooter felt himself being lifted off his feet and then everything turned black as night. Hooter squeezed his eyes shut. When he reopened them, he was back at the tower, and so were Colette, Fircone, Autumn, Bruno and Stalitikk. The wizard greeted them

with a friendly smile. “So how was your little adventure? Fun, I assume? Now tell me about your findings. Did you find the secret of light? I certainly hope so. Well, Hooter, tell me everything, and if you have failed, you cannot be my apprentice,” the wizard explained. Hooter took a deep breath. “I … We haven’t found anything that can help us with the shortage of food or the bad weather problem ….” Hooter trailed off, afraid to say more. The wizard had started to beam brightly, which was very confusing to the animal gang. “Why are you so happy?” asked Bruno. “I think you should be very disappointed in us.” The wizard shook his head. “You do not realize that I had the power all along. You still have the whole day to search.” Colette piped up, “You mean we almost died for nothing?!” Now, the wizard let out a chuckle. “You did not almost die for nothing. You learned that we are a light sometimes caught in darkness, and that together we are stronger than anything.” The wizard got out his wand and beams of light shot from it, illuminating the village. “Our home is safe.” Autumn couldn’t believe it. “So you risked the entire town just so that we could learn this?” The wizard shook his head. “I could have put the trouble off the village at any time, since I had the power all along.” The animals all headed home. “Congratulations, Hooter, I am proud to have mentored you. You are now ready for magic training.”

EPILOGUE Of course, everyone was perfectly happy, especially Hooter and the wizard. The wizard looked up from his window with a mysterious smile on his face and thought, “Now is the time for some real magic …”

WHERE IS PARADISE?

St. Gabriel TEACHER: Vince Francia SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Pati Cosman UNIT: Windsor-Essex Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Harold Fox by

SERAFINA ROSE PIASENTIN

As the leaves turn a variety of colours and the wind blows in a chilly autumn, where is all the comfort? When the leaves shrivel and start to fall and the first flakes of snow drift to the ground, where is the warmth? As the moon fades to black and you start to turn toward it, where is all the light? When the earth shakes and water floods the land, where can you find love? When you stray from the path, a motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s arms are wide open, ready to guide you back to safety. This is where you find Paradise.

A PERSON I ADMIRE

Notre Dame TEACHER: Allison McCord SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Marie McLennon UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Liz Stuart by

NICOLE HISCOX

A person whom I admire very much is my classmate and friend, Simona. She has been in my class for three years now. Simona has special needs, but that doesn’t stop her from being a part of our classroom and community. I admire her for her creativity, her imagination, her learning skills and for how social and friendly she is. Simona’s creativity is so wild and imaginative. She’s into so many different things, like zombies, mummies and more. I find she has a liking for supernatural beings. I don’t have a clue why! Whenever I’m with her during recess, she comes up with many different crazy and fun games, like playing roller coasters or grabbing a lost key from a mummy. Her learning skills are amazing. Simona loves to learn about astronauts, early explorers, space and many more subjects. Simona may not learn the same way some of us do, but she’s really smart. Not a lot of people recognize just how intelligent she is. She has a fantastic memory, and she’s very good at remembering people’s names and facts about them. Simona is very social, too. When she meets new people, she will ask a few questions about them, like their name, age and who their teacher is. If the person she is talking to doesn’t go to her school, she might ask what their school’s name is. She makes lots of friends really easily. I have to say, there are many different reasons why someone might admire Simona. Simona has many talents, but these three stand out to me the most. She makes me smile, she makes me laugh, and most of all, I feel blessed to call her one of my best friends.

A GHOST OF A MEMORY

St. Vincent de Paul TEACHER: Juanita Vandenberg SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Mary-Jo Pereira UNIT: London District UNIT PRESIDENT: Sheila Brescia by

ALANA HRYWKIW

The morning of December 16th dawned crisp and clear and I was awoken by a low clucking sound echoing through our home from the old red barn just a short stroll away. At first, I was less than eager to rouse myself, but the promise of a visit with Naphtali drew me away from the inviting warmth of my duvet. At lightning speed, I slapped on the clean clothes closest to hand (a faded pink T-shirt and worn-out jeans), brushed my teeth and my long chestnut-coloured hair, and bolted out the door towards the barn. As I gently eased open the faded and peeling wooden door, I was attacked by a mass of red and brown feathers hurling towards me. “Hey, girl!” I cooed, dropping on my knees to rub Naphtali’s plumage. Because it was December, her colours were brighter and her tail was fuller. Naph responded by nuzzling my arm and clucking softly—a turkey’s way of purring. When I first received Naphtali for my tenth birthday, you could say I was a little bewildered as to why my parents would give me a scrawny little chick instead of the sparkly green phone I had wanted so badly. “You never know, Gretel,” my mother had mused when I’d asked her, “someday you might call this bird your closest friend.” After the years it took to accept a turkey as my friend, Mother’s words finally rang true. As each day passed, it was harder and harder to imagine life Before Naphtali (B.N.). Even scarier was imagining life After Naphtali (A.N.). Without the downy-feathered, bright-eyed turkey, who would scoot in the back door and nuzzle me awake in the

morning? Without Naphtali’s monster appetite, who would empty box after box of Corn Flakes, leaving me none? Life A.N. was something I knew I would experience someday—it was just a fact of life—but I was glad I wouldn’t have to go through it any time soon. Suddenly, I heard the soft pit-pat of footfalls on the frosted grass as well as a steady crunch-crunch, as when dead leaves are being crushed beneath feet. Lying in a bed of prickly golden straw, I managed to catch a snippet of muffled conversation from outside the barn. I held my breath. “Oh, John … it’ll break her heart!” Intrigued, I leaned forward, cringing as the hay crackled along with my movement. “Ambrose, let’s be reasonable here,” growled a voice I recognized instantly as my father’s. “Gretel will come around eventually. After all, she’s just a girl—barely a teenager!” “And that’s exactly why I won’t let you do this to either of them,” finished my mother in an impressively firm tone. “Naphtali or Gretel.” I smiled, imagining Mom with her hands planted on her hips, her delicate nose in the air and curly midnight locks tossing in the breeze. “Go Mom!” I thought with a grin. I was still smiling as my parents began to march away from the barn and back to the house. I gasped and fell backwards onto the hay as a stroke of realization hit me full force. All traces of previous happiness vanished from my face, leaving me white as a ghost. I was reeling with the shock, head whirling and heart telling me ‘NO’ with each horrified thump. Dad was going to kill Naphtali and let her be served for Christmas dinner. “NOOOOOOOOO!!” I shrieked, startling poor Naphtali so much that she began to totter around the wooden floorboards, squawking. Despite myself, I giggled, then scooped her up and buried my face in her warm, round, fluffy body. “Don’t worry, Naph,” I mumbled through brimming eyes which threatened to overflow. “I’ll always be here for you to depend on, and I know you’ll always be here for me.” Naphtali bawked in response, and I squeezed her all the more tightly. My anguish and all memories of Dad’s terrible threat melted away in one fierce embrace.

The very next morning, I sprang out of bed before the rooster had even crowed. It was 5:30 a.m. Hurrying, I bounded down the worn, carpeted staircase three steps at a time. Once I had located a bowl and spoon, I stood there waiting for Naphtali to come barrelling into the kitchen, to present me with an empty Corn Flakes box. I found the box crisp, clean and unopened. Still thinking this whole thing was some silly game, I fell on my knees and patted the chilly tiles. “C’mon girl!” I called softly. “You got me this time, Naph!” Yet again there was no response; I began to panic. I searched frantically for a pointed yellow beak peeking out from a drawer or maybe a beautiful brown feather lying on the floor somewhere. Suddenly, I remembered with a jolt of terror—Dad promised to slaughter Naphtali!!!!! Blood pounding in my ears, I dashed as fast as my short legs could carry me out the back door and down the cobblestone pathway to the barn’s scarlet gate. Shoving it open, I began to search high and low for my very best feathered friend, Naphtali McNewton. Throwing my head back, I screeched frantically, “Naphtali! Naph? Naphtali!!! Come on, girl!” I stopped dead when I heard Dad’s low growl and the rattle of our dog Sparky’s old cage. Following the sound, I was led straight up a creaky metal ladder and into the loft. That’s when I spotted them. Naphtali, my beloved pet, trapped behind round steel bars, clucking feebly and desperately trying to claw her way out, while my father shouted at Naph to “shut her beak” and “stop her bellyaching.” Enraged by this sight, I fell on my knees again, shaking the bars of her prison, tears pouring down my cheeks like a white-hot, never-ending wave of sorrow. Then my dad turned around. I’d expected him to slap me, or tell me to go away, but instead he just said evenly, “Gretel, I’m sorry,” and without another word he hoisted the caged Naphtali off the ground and trudged away. Inside her cruel, too-small jail, a confused Naphtali squawked and stared at me questioningly with her beady black eyes. I hated to see her this way, so pitiful and defenseless. It made me feel hopeless, too. But I wasn’t done yet. Confidently, I picked up my pace and stopped directly in front of Dad. His usually calm blue eyes were beginning to crackle dangerously, giving his prominent features a terrifying appearance. However, this did not faze me in the slightest—the bubbling rage in the pit of my gut rose in my chest and burst out of my mouth in a torrent of furious words. “Dad! What do you think you’re doing????!” I exclaimed, breathless with anger. But Dad, cool as a cucumber, didn’t even flinch.

“Gretel, get out of my way.” His blank stare was fixed straight forwards. Tears streamed down my face like salty rain. I grabbed hold of his red and black jacket, worn thin from years in the barn. Again my father insisted, “Gretel … Please. I’m having a hard enough time on my own. Now out of the way. Gretel, I said NOW.” But I had an awful lot of courage that morning. “Why, Daddy?” I sobbed, “Why Naphtali? Just to think that you would murder my pet, why, that’s just sick, that’s—Oh, Daddy, please…” “Gretel Amanda McNewton!” bellowed my father, eyes ablaze with rage and veins popping out in his forehead and neck. By now, I was crying so hard my throat was raw. All the while, Naphtali slept peacefully in her cage, completely oblivious to the fact that those calm, shallow breaths would be among her last. “The government just passed a new law that prohibits private farms from raising turkeys, so Naphtali will have to be killed regardless. I also had a chat with Mr. Alderson yesterday. He offered me a huge amount of money for handing Naph over to the slaughterhouse and then to him for Christmas dinner. Gretel, I’m very sorry, but there really is no fair way for her to stay alive any longer.” Without another word, my father shoved me away and stomped off to his rusty, beaten-down, ancient blue truck. Roughly, Dad stuffed Naphtali into the back seat. Through the back window, I could see her turning around, fluffing her feathers, disoriented. As the truck’s engine revved up with a strangled sort of noise and chugged away to the slaughterhouse, I fell into a spell of mourning that was so deep, I found I was too grieved even to cry. “Naphtali Amber McNewton,” I whispered in such a small voice I could barely hear myself, “You were the best friend I ever had.” And then I fainted, dropping to the grass with a soft whump. * * * After that horrible morning, I cried endlessly for days and days and could not be comforted. When the weekdays rolled around, I couldn’t find it in me to face everyone at school, for fear I’d start bawling and run home. A few days after December 20th, I was drawn to the balcony by the scent of roasting turkey. Normally the aroma made my mouth water, but tonight it only nauseated me. Peering straight down into the loathed Alderson family’s dining room, I saw each member’s plate crammed with buns, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, corn, and— worst of all—a fat slice of Naphtali, smothered in gravy. Fighting back tears, I lifted my

head and gazed up at the thick, black blanket studded with diamonds covering the sky. Suddenly, I was disturbed by a soft rap at the door. It was Dad, the very last person on Earth that I wanted to see right then. As he tentatively stepped into the room, I could clearly see in the dim candlelight that tears shone in his now sorrowful, sea-coloured eyes. Tears welled in my own eyes; I dropped my gaze to the floor and muttered, “Go away.” I could see he was about to leave, but courage got the better of him and he slowly stretched his closed fist out towards me instead. When he uncurled his fingers, I saw the beautifully glossy brown feather in his callused palm, and I was so overcome with grief that I finally let out one lonely sob. I felt baffled when Dad put his arms around me. “Honey, you must think me a monster,” Dad croaked between heaving sobs. I glanced up, surprised. “And you’re absolutely right.” My mouth dropped open. Now I was shocked! But some part of me agreed. “Gret, I know you’ve always wanted a cat.” I looked up. “And I’ll buy one for you. Anything you want, anything at all. How about that, sweetie?” At any other point in my life, I would’ve said yes in a heartbeat. But somehow, I felt that this would be wrong. As much as I’ve always wanted a purring little ball of orange fur, I knew I’d never be able to love it as I loved Naphtali. I told my father this, and he just nodded, saying, “Honey, I get that.” He paused for a moment then went on. “Gretel, I came to you tonight to tell you that I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart. It was a despicable crime and a murder, and you don’t have to forgive me. Ever. Not if you don’t want to. All I ask is that you take my deepest apology to heart.” I looked up at him warily through my wet eyelashes. I wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet. “Oh, and I wanted to give you this.” Digging deep inside his coat, Dad produced a beautiful, creamy brown egg! I squealed with excitement. “Is that … is that Naphtali’s?!” I spluttered, breathless. Dad just grinned. “Yes! She laid it just before she … she … ” We both stared at the floor for a moment, blinking back tears. “Her name will be Ghost when she’s hatched, which should be fairly soon,” my dad commented. “Here, take it.” Gently, I eased the egg into my cupped hands, savouring its quiet warmth. “Ghost, it’s perfect. She’s perfect. But there’s only one thing … What will the turkey farm say?”

Dad’s eyes were soft but serious. “I quit.” My jaw unhinged again. “What? But Dad!” My father only smiled, and a twinkle of mischief crept into his eyes. We stared at each other for a long moment, then, out of the blue, both of us burst into hysterical laughter, clutching our sides and wiping our eyes. As father and daughter shared a close embrace, the leaves blew along the dry grass, the chimneys puffed out clouds of foggy smoke, and the heavens smiled down upon the world, for the sinner had repented and been forgiven. At that moment, I had the feeling that everything was going to turn out alright.

WHY DO I HAVE TO REMEMBER, WHEN ALL YOU DO IS FORGET?

Sacred Heart TEACHER: Michael Bortolin SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Michael Bortolin UNIT: Windsor-Essex Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Harold Fox by

CHLOE GIGNAC

I visit you, but visits are an obligation. I feel guilty and want to blame you, but it’s not your fault. I feel so sad because you’re not even there. You’re a shell of your former self, a shell that is empty. All the memories we’ve made have been stolen. But the thief is the disease, I know this. Some visits are good. Maybe not good, just easier. You ask my name and I answer, over and over. You ask if I love you. And I do. But you ask again and again, although you don’t even know me. Some visits are bad, hard for me to sit through. You’re angry. I didn’t do anything, but you tell me to be quiet. And I obey. I sit watching you sleep and I don’t enjoy the silence. Silence gives me time to remember that all you do is forget. You’re scared. When you’re scared, I’m frightened. You say they’re going to kill you. Who? Why?

I reassure you over and over. I’ll protect you, you are safe. Hasn’t the crime already occurred? The thief stolen all he can? Visits are an obligation. When mine is over, I feel relieved. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. You ask me if I will come back, And I always say yes. You wouldn’t know if I didn’t. But I would. You didn’t choose this, it’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. So I return over and over. Visits are an obligation.

BULLIED TO THE POINT

St. Pius X TEACHER: Lucas Bertran SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Susan Letwin UNIT: Brant Haldimand Norfolk UNIT PRESIDENT: Len McDonald by

VERONICA MARIE WEBB

CHARACTERS: MR.FURRN (A teacher) CLIQUE LEADER PEER #1 JENNA JENNAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MOTHER DANIEL POPULAR CLIQUE (Three girls) OTHER STUDENTS

ACT I SCENE I (MR. FURRN walks on stage. The curtains are still closed.) MR. FURRN:

I see my students fight all the time.

(The curtains open to a classroom full of students. MR. FURRN is at the front teaching.) CLIQUE LEADER:

(Whispering) Did you see what Jenna did yesterday?

PEER #1:

No, what did she do?

CLIQUE LEADER:

(She looks at JENNA and then back at PEER #1.) We told her about her ugly dress. Really, it was the only kind thing to do! But she started crying! (Laughs) It was pathetic!

MR. FURRN:

(Smacks CLIQUE LEADER’s desk) Quiet in my class!

CLIQUE LEADER:

Sorry, Mr. Furrn …

(The curtains fall.)

ACT I SCENE II (The curtains open on JENNA in her bedroom talking to her friend on the phone.) JENNA:

Why would she tell anybody that?! She said she’d never tell … (Opens her laptop) She posted that? … Oh my gosh … My life … it’s over!

JENNA’S MOTHER:

Sweetie! Dinnertime!

JENNA:

(JENNA stutters but doesn’t look away from the laptop.) I–I’m coming!

JENNA’S MOTHER:

Come eat when you’re hungry then!

(The curtains fall.)

ACT I SCENE III (The curtains open on the high school courtyard. JENNA is surrounded by the POPULAR CLIQUE.) CLIQUE LEADER:

Jenna, you’re so fat! (POPULAR CLIQUE is laughing.)

CLIQUE LEADER:

Fatty fattity fat fat! You’re sooo fat!

JENNA:

(Starts crying) S-stop it!

CLIQUE LEADER:

What are you going to do about it?! Sit on me?!

OTHER STUDENTS:

(Gathering around JENNA and laughing) Fatty! Fatty!

JENNA:

I–I’m not fat! (JENNA falls to the ground and curls up in a ball.) Go away!

(Several boys start to kick her as the curtains close.)

ACT I SCENE IV (JENNA is in her bathroom with her laptop, crying.) JENNA:

I just want to die …

(There is a knock on the door.) JENNA:

Go away!

DANIEL:

J–Jenna?

JENNA:

Who let you in here?! My mom?!

DANIEL:

Yeah. She doesn’t know what’s going on at school. But I do.

JENNA:

Why do you care?! Don’t you hate me? Like the rest of the world …

DANIEL:

Why would I hate you?!

JENNA:

Well, I dumped you in grade six … and I’m a fatty who cries about everything. There’s a picture of my butt all over Facebook saying “Fat people should die” with comments like, “Jenna, you should go drown yourself!”

DANIEL:

None of those things are true! I still care about you, Jenn! Don’t listen to the girls at school …

JENNA:

(She opens the door and hugs DANIEL.) I’m sorry.

DANIEL:

Tomorrow, we’ll give them a piece of our minds!

JENNA:

(Pauses) Okay …

(The curtains close.)

ACT I SCENE V (The curtains open on JENNA, DANIEL and the POPULAR CLIQUE.) DANIEL:

I’ve had enough of you!

CLIQUE LEADER:

(Laughs) Come to protect your fat girlfriend?! How can you protect her when you can’t stop hurting yourself, emo?!

DANIEL:

Shut up! You pampered popular! Jenn and I have had enough!

JENNA:

Y–yeah!

CLIQUE LEADER:

Thank you for the compliment.

DANIEL:

Leave me and Jenna alone. Leave everybody alone!

CLIQUE LEADER:

You think you can tell me what to do?!

(MR. FURRN walks up behind the CLIQUE LEADER.) MR. FURRN:

No, he can’t. But I can.

CLIQUE LEADER:

(She jumps back to face MR. FURRN.) H-hey! M-Mr. Furrn …

MR. FURRN:

Office. Now.

CLIQUE LEADER:

Grrr … (Frustrated, she walks off the stage.)

MR. FURRN:

Are you okay, Jenna? Daniel?

JENNA:

Thank you …

DANIEL:

Do I look okay? What took you so long?!

MR. FURRN:

Don’t yell at me. I needed proof of what she was doing before I could step in.

DANIEL:

I guess our work wasn’t enough …

JENNA:

We should get to class. Bye, Mr. Furrn!

(JENNA and DANIEL exit.) MR. FURRN:

This won’t stop the cyberbullying, but at least I got to see them smile.

(MR. FURRN also exits as the curtains fall.)

ACT I SCENE VI (The curtains open to the classroom with only the teacher present.) MR. FURRN:

Not long after this incident, Jenna overdosed. Daniel made it his job to ensure that would never happen again.

(DANIEL walks in.) DANIEL:

I won’t let that happen. After Jenna OD’d, that primped popular got suspended for cyberbullying. But she’ll be back, and I hope she will have learned a lesson.

MR. FURRN:

Thank you for listening to my story. Our story. No, Jenna’s story …

(The entire cast gathers on stage.) EVERYONE:

Thank you! (All bow.)

(The curtains fall.)

THE END

IF I WERE

TINY

Our Lady of Fatima TEACHER: James Gauthier

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Gina Piché UNIT: Algonquin-Lakeshore UNIT PRESIDENT: Bob Giasson by

ISOBEL KYTE

Imagine you were the size of a Crayola crayon. If you could go anywhere and do anything that you wanted to, what would you do? Would you try to accomplish the impossible task of scaling the stairs? That would probably feel like climbing a mountain. Would you try to open the refrigerator or climb to the top of the cabinet just so you wouldn’t starve to death from lack of food? If I was shrunken down to the tiny size of a crayon, there would be lots of things that I would want to do and also things I’d prefer not to do, but I will limit my ideas to six so as not to bore you. #6. Avoid going outside at all times. There are so many reasons not to go outside even when you’re normal-sized, but don’t you think there would be a whole lot more if you were super tiny? You could get lost in a lawn of uncut grass, or be speared to death by a prickly weed. A common reason for people not to go outside even when they’re normal-sized is bugs! For example, people don’t like ants even when they can crush them with one step, but an ant to a crayon-sized human would be like a massive rat to you or me. So why in the world would you want to go outside and face rat-like, exoskeletal beasts (also known as ants) and other insects? Not to mention, someone might not see you and, well, accidentally squash you like a bug. #5. Play in a bag of flour. I don’t know why, but it feels like if I were super tiny I would really, really like to play in a bag of flour. I think it’s just one of those things that is something you can’t normally do, so if you had the chance you would do it just because you could. I don’t know about you, but if I could do it I would, because I don’t know when or where I would ever find the money to buy enough sacks of flour to flop around in at average size. Also, for some reason, I think that it would just be more appropriate to play in a sack of flour if you were teeny-weenie.

#4. Build a fort out of bed covers. Have you ever gone underneath your covers and looked around and then wanted to shrink so badly because it looked just like a cave and you wanted to explore it? This might not be the case for you, but it is for me. If I was super tiny, this would be something that I would really like to do, even if it might not be fun. It would be something you just had to try. #3. Take a nap on a queen-sized bed. Even if I weren’t tired, I’m sure I would want to do this one. Just imagine … you’re so tiny the bed almost seems like a giant island, and with every step your feet sink further and further into the enormous duvet cover. You flop back and squish deeper and deeper down into the covers until it’s almost like there’s a giant wall all around you. Then you just sleep. It seems like it would be super relaxing once you were asleep. Clinging to the side of the bed to get up there would probably be extremely exhausting, but worth it! #2. Try to play the piano. This would be so, so, so much fun to do. Being crayon-sized would mean that you couldn’t sit down and play the piano with your hands—you would have to hop all over the keys. For anyone who plays the piano, you know that people are always telling you to be gentler and not to bang the keys so hard. So you know how great it would be to jump all over the piano keys. #1. Hang out in a dollhouse. Just imagine … you walk through a tiny door and you enter a room full of tiny furniture and little things that are a perfect size for miniature you. I assume that being inside a dollhouse would seem just like being in a real house except for the fact that everything would be super uncomfortable and there would be a giant hole in the side of the house, splitting it straight down the middle. I always thought that if I could shrink down, I would want to go and hang out in a dollhouse and see what dolls get to see. It would be awesome! You could sleep in the doll’s bed, make fake food in the fake kitchen, stare at a blank TV screen for hours of enjoyment, or if you were feeling chilly, you could cozy up to a fake fire and get fake warm. On the other hand, I don’t think visiting a dollhouse would be that awesome, but there is no doubt about it—it would be pretty neat to see things from a doll’s point of view. You could probably get ten or fifteen minutes of enjoyment out of this activity before you realized there was absolutely nothing to do but look around. Most of the things on my list are pretty normal and some are a little strange, but I don’t think any of them would be boring to do. I don’t think a second of life could be boring if you were the size of a crayon. There is no end to the fun things you could do— or the scary things that could happen to you! The most important thing to do would be to unshrink yourself afterward, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be a crayonsized human forever. Would you?

WARRIOR WOMAN

St. Mary’s TEACHER: Jane Cowan SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Patti Shea UNIT: Waterloo UnIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

BEVERLEY OSEI

My father considered himself an artist, meticulous in his craft. The instruments he used were his hands. Depending on his mood, they were sometimes open-palmed, fingers wide and splayed out and other times balled up in tight fists. The blue, green and violet ink that he produced flowered upon his canvas in an intriguing contrast to its original olive tone. He indulged often in his art, but only in the secrecy of our home, surrounded by the veil of nighttime. Father took extreme care to paint his works upon my mother’s skin in places that were visible to his eyes alone. The bruises that he left on her were thoughtfully placed where they could easily be covered by the flick of a sari and a plastered smile. The scariest thing about my father was his uncanny ability to change, to transform. The cold, violent monster, whose lithe shadow I’d see slinking nightly towards my mother’s cowering silhouette, vanished completely in public view. Replacing it was an exuberant man who walked confidently through the dusty streets of Mumbai shaking hands, laughing loudly and kissing babies. However, I could see him. The real him. I could see it in the way that his bright eyes narrowed ever so slightly at the mere mention of my mother’s name, how his smile would stretch much too widely. I could feel it in his subtle yanks and his too-tight grips on the crook of my arm. He was always aggressive enough to keep us behaved, but restrained enough that no one noticed. That was the way he liked it. At times, when I just couldn’t bear to hear the sounds of my mother’s whimpers, and blocking my ears just couldn’t suppress the sounds of the storm raging in my home, I would try to comfort myself by remembering the way things used to be. I would think

especially of my mother’s laughter. It had been the richest and fullest sound that I knew—hearty and round, flowing like chocolate. It had filled every room that she was in. I did not hear that sound anymore. I would remember how my mother had never walked; instead she had glided from place to place, the vibrant colours of her clothes dancing about her like a waving flag. Sometimes, I would pretend I was back on her lap, my head resting against her breast as she whispered to me excitedly, wild tales of adventure and courage. But now … Now she was just negative space, and the memories were all that I had left. That strong woman had been shrunk into the timid animal that I had become accustomed to. I feared that one day this fragile creature would become so weak that she could easily be crushed by her all-too powerful predator. Then we met Aasha, and everything changed. That day was hot and loud. Not the normal, sun-shining, summertime kind of warmth, but the sultry, vibrating type of heat that beat upon your skin and left you drowsy and irritated. Even the flies hovered lazily over the discarded piles of overripe fruits and smelly fish. The red dust was a hazy cloud that tinted the market’s usual bustle of people bartering loudly over stalls of fresh food, jewelry, statues and other goods. It settled on my sweat-dampened skin in a thin, coppery film. My father was his daytime self, each stride boasting with swagger as he juggled mangoes and papayas for the young children, making them drunk with glee. I stayed close to my mother as we walked a few steps behind him. Her thin fingers clutched mine in a twisted grip so tight that it almost hurt. The market streets were filled with people calling out and waving to my family, beckoning us over to them and enticing us with their sweet smelling spices. My mother barely glanced upwards. She kept her eyes on the ground, staring intently at the dust which clouded around her feet before settling back down. “Suprabhaat! Good morning!” a deep voice called from behind us. My mother stiffened instantly. We turned around to recognize one of my father’s old friends. Large, loud and hairy, the man spoke without filter and acted without thought. My mother shrank away from him as he grabbed at her with his large hands. Laughing at the sight, my father told my mother and me to leave so that he and his friend could talk. The hand he placed on my shoulder and the look he gave me sent a message that could only be interpreted in one word: behave. We heard the voices before we saw them, not long after leaving my father. Chanting in unison, these female voices were filled with confidence, power and explicit rage. The people around us were as shocked as we were and stopped in their tracks to listen more closely to the voices. Some were disgusted to hear women being so outspoken in public. Inspired by what they were hearing, the children in the street began yelling at the top of

their lungs. At first, the voices just sounded like a mass of noise, but as we walked, I began to pick out individual voices like threads drawn from a tapestry of raw passion. “Stop the war on women now! Stop domestic violence! Stop committing violence against women!” We rounded a corner and the source of the noise finally came into view. A multitude of women were congregated in the market square. They were both old and young, of all different backgrounds, but they shared one thing in common. Every single one of their faces wore a mask of pure and unadulterated power. They resembled warriors, much like the mythical Amazon women my mother used to tell me about. Looking closer, I could see that some of them had scars and burns etched onto their faces and bodies, like maps detailing the journeys that they had all travelled. My feet were wedged into the ground as I took in the spectacle of warrior women in front of me. People continued to stream past me, going about their daily business, but I took no notice of them. My eyes were especially drawn to one woman who was on the front lines of the protest. Her pretty, slender face was distorted by an ugly scar that streaked across it, from the bottom of her right cheek to the corner of her left eye. It was raised and bloody red, but I thought it made her beautiful. I wondered what had happened to her. What—or who—could have done such a thing to a person? The woman turned towards me, her bright ocean eyes taking hold of mine as she began to walk over to my mother and me. With only a name as introduction, she grasped both our hands firmly and launched into a story that caused tears to stream down my mother’s face. Her name was Aasha, and she had been a young woman with big dreams of becoming a school teacher. Halfway through her schooling, she had met a doctor. She thought that he was perfect, the man of her dreams. Loved by Aasha’s family and friends alike, they were soon engaged. But jealousy was a disease festering inside the man, making him wildly paranoid and controlling. Each perceived glance at another man or late night out fueled his envy until he resorted to drawing his ownership across her face so that the entire world would see that she belonged to him. Afterward, she dropped out of school and began to isolate herself from everyone that she knew. She spent her days locked up in her room, cursing the man who had ended her life. But Aasha soon realized that she couldn’t continue to live her life in such a way. Her life had not ended. She still had every breath and every heartbeat. She began to wear her wound not as a stain of shame but as the mark of a survivor. Meeting with other victims-turned-fighters, Aasha started a protest group to raise awareness of stories like hers. “You see,” she told us,

“I was able to turn my tragedy into hope for others. I became not only a survivor of violence, but a woman reborn.” Looking up, I saw my mother’s tear-soaked cheeks. Aasha touched one of her almost faded bruises and said, “When are you going to escape from your tragedy, my soldier?” My mother was silent, but trembling. Aasha nodded, seeming to accept this as an answer, and after kissing both our cheeks, left us to continue with her protest. After a few moments of absolute silence, I placed my arm around my mother and we began to travel homewards. * * * Dusk had passed and I tried desperately to fall asleep quickly before my father began to play his games with my mother. Restless, I tossed back and forth across my bed, the sheets twisting violently. I was waiting for the hoarse, strained threats and the accepting whimpers and low moans that invaded my house every night. They never came. Instead the air was pierced by a raw, bloodcurdling, inhuman scream that caused every hair on my body to rise. It was drawn out and full of absolute power, resembling a lion’s roar. It was a battle cry. I crawled from my haven into what I had always seen as a battleground of silent warfare: the living room. At first, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. In front of me was my father, writhing on the ground in agony, blood pouring from his temple like spilt paint. Across from him was a catlike figure, crouched low in attack position. It was watching my father intently, making sure that he did not make any sudden movements. Seeming satisfied with his condition, the figure whipped its head around and stared directly at me. I shrank back against the wall in fright. Its face was contorted by fury into something unrecognizable, but it had my mother’s eyes. “You. Pack your things. We’re leaving,” my mother growled. I nodded my head vigorously, any and all forms of coherent speech having already escaped from my vocal chords. Gripping my hand, my mother left the door to the house wide open as we walked into a great unknown. The ebony night enveloped us, greeting a young girl and her Amazon mother with wide open arms.

SKATING

Resurrection TEACHER: Barbara Downey SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Andrea Craig UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

NICOLE GROSS

I love figure skating. The speed. The power. The exhilaration. I love the elements. The jumps that seem to defy gravity and spin so fast above the ice, the spins that make your fingertips tingle from the g-force, the artistry that creates grace and beauty and breathes life into the performance. I love the delicate work put into each stroke and turn, each toe pick and rotation in the air, each edge traced into the ice. I love doing what so many people CANNOT. They can shoot pucks at a net. Push through water. Hit balls with a racket.

They CANNOT execute the intricate elements that I CAN.

Skating is art. A picture drawn on an ice canvas with steel blades instead of a pencil. Skating is SPORT. A dance-like performance mixed with the precise techniques and intense training of SPORTS. My sport. BUT. BUT few people appreciate it. Hockey is Canadaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s SPORT. The arena crowds are for hockey. The backyard rinks are for hockey.

Not figure skating. Not figure skating. Not figure skating.

BUT. BUT no one understands figure skating. They say it is subjective, the judges just picking favourites. They say it is easy and simplistic. They say it is ridiculous. They are WRONG. They do NOT understand. They have NO right to ridicule something they do NOT understand. They will NEVER understand. They will NEVER understand what it feels like to spin three times in the air in a split second. To spin so fast on the ice that you cannot breathe. To perform a variety of turns and carve edges across the ice. They will NEVER know what it feels like. At least I DO.

LILACS FOR CORA

Loretto Abbey TEACHER: Mary Harper

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Cosmo Femia UNIT: Toronto Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: René Jansen in de Wal by

KATE VICKERY

ACT I SCENE I EXT. LATE AFTERNOON (EDWARD, CORA’s forty year-old father, is walking home from work. He is a cobbler. He passes a meadow and stops to pick lilacs. After picking a few flowers, he resumes his journey and soon reaches a cozy looking cottage. He opens the door to find nineteen year-old CORA sweeping. There are wilted lilacs in her hair.) CORA:

Father! Welcome home, I have baked you your favourite: blueberry pie.

EDWARD:

Thank you, my darling Cora! I, too, have brought you your favourite.

CORA:

Lilacs? Oh, Father, you are so thoughtful!

EDWARD:

You can thank me by putting them in your hair.

(CORA smiles and kisses her father on the cheek. She disappears for a few moments while EDWARD sets the table. When she returns, the lilacs are braided into her hair. EDWARD is beaming.)

EDWARD:

I have never seen a fairer sight. You are truly the most beautiful maiden in the village, inside and out.

CORA:

Oh, Father!

EDWARD:

Only a king would be worthy of such beauty, but I hope you can settle for a prince.

CORA:

I beg your pardon, Father?

EDWARD:

Do you recall a Prince Phillip?

CORA:

Why, of course. It is hard to forget a handsome man, never mind a prince.

EDWARD:

Well, during his time in our village he became quite smitten with you. He has requested your hand in marriage!

CORA:

Prince Phillip wants me to be his wife? Oh, Father, we must celebrate!

EDWARD:

How about a dinner in honour of our new princess? I have invited the neighbours.

CORA:

Then I shall bake another pie. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m off to pick some berries!

ACT I SCENE II EXT. DUSK (CORA is in the woods, picking blackberries. Nearby, twenty year-old ALEXANDER is walking. He stops and hides behind a bush when he sees CORA.) ALEXANDER:

Such beauty.

CORA:

Is someone out there?

(A hedgehog scurries out from a nearby bush. It whistles three times.) CORA:

Oh, hello. Are you hungry?

(She reaches into her basket of blackberries and feeds some to the hedgehog. ALEXANDER sneaks away, stopping at the gloomy old cottage where CRESSIDA, a thirty-eight year-old sorceress, is making a potion.) CRESSIDA:

Back so soon, Alexander? Did you bring me my ingredients?

ALEXANDER:

Mother, I am in love.

CRESSIDA:

Love? With whom, may I ask?

ALEXANDER:

Her name is unknown to me, but her beauty is not. She has the most glorious hair, braided with lilacs.

CRESSIDA:

Lilacs, you say? That is Edward’s child, Cora.

ALEXANDER:

Cora! Even her name is lovely.

CRESSIDA:

I am afraid it can never be, my dearest Alexander. Cora’s father has promised her to another man.

ALEXANDER:

Who?

CRESSIDA:

Prince Phillip.

ALEXANDER:

Then Prince Phillip must die.

CRESSIDA:

And I suppose you are going to be the one to do it?

ALEXANDER:

Yes, Mother … Of course it will be by my hands.

CRESSIDA:

Alexander, so sloppy! I thought I had raised you better. You kill the prince and Cora will never love you. You will only destroy her hopes and dreams of becoming a princess. No. Cora must kill Phillip herself.

ALEXANDER:

How?

CRESSIDA:

Bring me my spell book.

ACT I SCENE III INT. NIGHT (Guests are leaving the celebratory dinner.) CORA:

Thank you all for coming.

BRIDGET:

Wonderful pie, Cora!

BEATRICE:

If anyone deserves to be a princess, it is you. Good luck, Cora.

CORA:

Thank you, Beatrice.

EDWARD:

How is my princess?

CORA:

Oh, Father, I am feeling grand! This night was perfect, though I am so very tired. I think I will go to bed now.

EDWARD:

Very well, then. Have a peaceful sleep, Cora.

(CORA kisses him on the cheek and exits.)

ACT I SCENE IV EXT. MORNING (ALEXANDER crouches by a raspberry bush and pours a potion on the plant. Just as CORA approaches, he ducks behind a tree. CORA picks some berries and ALEXANDER runs back to his cottage.) CRESSIDA:

Did you poison the berries?

ALEXANDER:

Yes.

CRESSIDA:

And did the girl pick them?

ALEXANDER:

Yes, but Mother, what if Cora gets poisoned?

CRESSIDA:

My dearest Alexander, the girl bakes the pies and the father eats them.

ALEXANDER:

But what if she were toâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

CRESSIDA:

Do not question my powers, Alexander. Now, go and pick me some lilacs.

ACT I SCENE V INT. LATE AFTERNOON (EDWARD is returning home from work, lilacs in hand. CORA has just finished baking him a pie with the poisoned berries.) CORA:

Hello, Father!

EDWARD:

Good evening, my darling. Let me guess … raspberry?

CORA:

Let me guess … lilacs? Go ahead, Father, enjoy the pie while I put these in my hair.

EDWARD:

I do not know what I’ve done to deserve such a lovely daughter.

(CORA exits, leaving EDWARD to the pie. He eats the entire thing and starts to grow tired.) CORA:

Father … Father? Are you alright?

EDWARD:

Just very tired, my dear.

CORA:

Father, you look ill. You need to rest.

(CORA helps her father to his bedroom and kisses his forehead. She exits and fog consumes the stage. EDWARD is dreaming.) CRESSIDA:

Hello, Edward.

EDWARD:

Who are you?

CRESSIDA:

Names do not matter, all that matters is that I am here to help you.

EDWARD:

Help me?

CRESSIDA:

You have been poisoned, Edward. It’s rather terrible, really.

EDWARD:

Why are you lying to me?

CRESSIDA:

You do not believe me? Can you not feel the poison eating at you? Besides, why would I lie? I told you, I am here to help you. I have come to give you the antidote. I just need you to do one thing for me in return.

EDWARD:

What is that?

CRESSIDA:

(She produces a lilac wreath.) You must promise me that Cora will wear this on her wedding day.

EDWARD:

That is all?

CRESSIDA:

That is all.

EDWARD:

I promise you.

CRESSIDA:

(She tosses him the antidote.) Good choice.

ACT I SCENE VI INT. NIGHT (CRESSIDA appears, fresh from her encounter with EDWARD. An eager ALEXANDER is waiting.) ALEXANDER:

Did he accept the wreath?

CRESSIDA:

Of course he did.

ALEXANDER:

Now what?

CRESSIDA:

Now, we wait.

ACT I SCENE VII INT. DAY (CORA stands in a dressing room in the palace. She is being dressed for her wedding. Ladiesin-waiting swarm around her, some tending to her hair and others to her dress.) ELEANOR:

You must be so excited!

CORA:

I cannot wait to marry the prince. Phillip is such a wonderful man! He is so kind and caring.

PENELOPE:

Oh, I know that better than anyone. I raised him myself.

ELEANOR:

Would you like to see how you look, Princess?

CORA:

I would love to … (Pause) Oh, my! Eleanor, you are the most skilled seamstress in all the land! This is the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. And Penelope, you have done such wonders with my hair.

PENELOPE:

You are too kind, Cora.

ELEANOR:

Your carriage awaits you, Princess.

EDWARD:

Can the carriage wait a few more minutes?

CORA:

Father!

EDWARD:

May I have a word alone with my daughter?

ELEANOR:

Of course.

PENELOPE:

We will leave you two.

CORA:

What is it?

EDWARD:

I have a gift for you.

(He gives her the lilac wreath just as a black crow alights on the windowsill.) CORA:

It’s beautiful! Did you make it yourself?

EDWARD:

No darling, a friend gave it to me in hopes that it would adorn your head on your wedding day.

(The crow caws three times and EDWARD closes the window. The bird starts pecking at the glass.) CORA:

Well then, Father, it would be an honour to wear it.

(EDWARD kisses his daughter’s cheek and exits. CORA turns to the mirror and places the wreath on her head. CORA changes; she is no longer the glowing bride of moments ago. She is now very cold and robotic. Eerie music begins to play. ELEANOR enters.) ELEANOR:

Cora, the prince has not left yet. You will have to wait.

(CORA walks up to ELEANOR and strangles her. ELEANOR’s body drops to the floor and CORA walks out of the room.)

ACT I SCENE VIII INT. DAY (CORA wanders the palace halls. A maid comes out of a door and CORA slams her into the wall and keeps walking. Then she runs into the Prince, who smiles.) PHILLIP:

It is bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, my Princess.

(CORA attacks PHILLIP, however he has had years of training. He fights back but in the end CORA is too strong. She has him pinned down with her hands around his neck. As she chokes him, a butler rounds the corner and drops his tray. CORA whips around, the wreath flying off her head. However, it’s too late and the Prince is dead. CORA stares at PHILLIP in horror, and the butler runs off.) BUTLER:

Guards! Guards!

CORA:

Phillip? Phillip? My dear, sweet prince, please wake up!

BUTLER:

Guards!

CORA:

I am so sorry.

(She kisses him, gathering up her dress and the wreath, and runs offstage.)

ACT I SCENE IX EXT. LATE AFTERNOON (CORA is in the woods now, still running and refusing to look back. She trips suddenly, hitting the ground hard and staying down. Almost instantly, ALEXANDER appears.) ALEXANDER:

Why do you weep, Princess?

CORA:

I am not a princess.

ALEXANDER:

Forgive me; I thought you were Prince Phillip’s bride.

CORA:

Prince Phillip is dead.

ALEXANDER:

How tragic. Do they know who murdered him?

CORA:

(Quietly) Yes, a butler witnessed the attack.

ALEXANDER:

I can keep you safe, Princess. My mother has built a cottage for me in the forest. It will give you shelter and keep you hidden for as long as you desire.

(CORA stares wide-eyed at ALEXANDER.) ALEXANDER:

When I look at you, I see sadness and grief. I also see guilt. I do not know why you killed your prince and I do not think you know either, but I promise to protect you.

(CORA stays silent.) ALEXANDER:

(Breaking the silence) My name is Alexander, by the way.

CORA:

I am Cora. Thank you, Alexander. You are a complete stranger to me, yet you have shown me such kindness. Why?

ALEXANDER:

Come on, we will have to leave now if we want to make it to the cottage by sundown.

(ALEXANDER offers CORA his hand, pulling her up. They exit the stage together.)

ACT II SCENE I INT. DAY (Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s one year later, in a different cottage that belongs to ALEXANDER and CORA. CORA is rocking a baby in her arms, humming, when ALEXANDER walks in.) ALEXANDER:

How is my beautiful wife?

CORA:

Oh Alexander, finally, you are home! I have good news. I have decided on a name for our baby: Lilac.

ALEXANDER:

Lilac?

CORA:

Yes, my father used to bring me lilacs every day. He even gave me a lilac wreath to wear for my wedding … I miss him terribly! I wish I could see him again.

ALEXANDER:

And risk getting caught by royal guards?

CORA:

I know … it was just a thought.

(ALEXANDER walks up to CORA and kisses her on the forehead.) ALEXANDER:

I think that Lilac is a beautiful name.

CORA:

You do?

ALEXANDER:

I do. Now, I must leave you again, darling.

CORA:

Where are you going?

ALEXANDER:

(Lying) Out for a hunt.

ACT II SCENE II INT. DAY (CRESSIDA stands in her cottage petting a dead cat. ALEXANDER enters.) CRESSIDA:

Alexander! It has been so long.

ALEXANDER:

My apologies, Mother. I have missed you.

CRESSIDA:

Hmm, I suppose I have missed you, too. Now, why have you come?

ALEXANDER:

Cora wants to see her father, but I cannot let her go. She will get caught and they will kill her.

CRESSIDA:

Get to the point, child.

ALEXANDER:

I need a potion, one that will make Cora forget about her father.

CRESSIDA:

(Smiling wickedly) Go and pick me some lilacs.

ACT II SCENE III INT. DAY (ALEXANDER returns to his mother’s house with lilacs.) CRESSIDA:

Good boy, Alexander.

ALEXANDER:

Mother, you must promise me that this potion will not hurt Cora.

CRESSIDA:

It will only take away the memories of her father.

ALEXANDER:

Thank you, Mother. Cora’s father is the only thing holding her back. With him forgotten, Cora will love only me and Lilac. Then she will never leave us.

CRESSIDA:

Lilac?

ALEXANDER:

Oh, yes. Cora has given birth to a beautiful baby girl whom we have named Lilac. She has your eyes, Mother. You must meet her.

CRESSIDA:

We will see, child, we will see. The potion is complete. You will present your wife with this bouquet of flowers. Soon, she will forget all about Edward.

ACT II SCENE IV INT. LATE AFTERNOON (CORA rocks LILAC for a few moments before putting her down in her crib. Then, she opens a closet and pulls out a large box. She opens it and a toad jumps out. The toad croaks three times.) CORA:

Oh my!

(She picks up the toad and puts him outside.) CORA:

Lilac, would you like to see what Momma wore on her wedding day?

(She reaches into the box for her wedding dress and then holds it to her body in front of a mirror.)

CORA:

This was Momma’s wedding dress. Isn’t it resplendent? It took twelve seamstresses ten days to make. They had to import the silk and lace from three kingdoms away. Everyone worked tirelessly to make my wedding day perfect. Four bakers were brought in from the neighbouring kingdom. They created the most wonderful, delectable creations! All kinds of pastries and treats … My cake had six tiers! As I was about to leave for my carriage, my beloved father came in and presented me with a lilac wreath.

(She puts the wedding dress back in the box and picks up the lilac wreath. She places it on her head and we see the change again, cue eerie music. LILAC starts to cry and CORA exits, returning with a knife. Just then, ALEXANDER enters the room holding the lilac bouquet.) ALEXANDER:

Cora, no!

(She advances towards him. He drops the lilacs and runs.)

ACT II SCENE V EXT. DUSK (ALEXANDER runs into the woods. CORA can be heard screaming a battle cry … She’s close. He’ll never outrun her, so he hides behind a tree. Enter CORA. She nears ALEXANDER’s hiding spot. He grabs a fallen branch and swings it around, but misses CORA. She pins ALEXANDER against a tree, killing him. As she turns around, she trips over the tree branch that ALEXANDER used earlier and the wreath falls off her head.) CORA:

No, no, no. Alexander! I am so sorry. What have I done? I love you, Alexander. I love you.

(She kisses him and exits the stage, leaving her wreath behind.)

ACT II SCENE VI INT. DUSK (CRESSIDA is carrying a cauldron. A dog howls in the distance and she drops it.)

CRESSIDA:

Alexander … She’s murdered him! That little imp killed my precious son. She must suffer. She must pay for what she has done. I will torture her mercilessly, until the pain is too much for her murderous heart to bear. I will destroy the thing that she loves most. She will have nothing left. She will welcome death and die by her own filthy hands. I have decided her punishment: Edward must die.

ACT II SCENE VII INT. NIGHT (EDWARD is sitting at the table eating dinner when he hears a knock at the door.) EDWARD:

Cora? Is that really you?

CORA:

Father! I have missed you so much!

EDWARD:

(Hugs her) My beautiful Cora, you are alive! My lovely daughter lives and breathes and is now back in my arms. The King has accused you of doing horrible things and said you had been executed … but here you are! You are here, my Cora is here.

CORA:

(Pulling away) Father, apart from my execution, the King speaks the truth. It was me who murdered Prince Phillip, but … it wasn’t me. Something, someone, took over my body. I can’t explain it. Father, can you ever forgive me?

EDWARD:

Of course, I can forg—

(Suddenly, CRESSIDA appears and uses her powers to slam CORA against one side of the cottage and EDWARD against another. She walks over to EDWARD and grabs his neck, then turns her head so she can see CORA.) CRESSIDA:

You do not deserve forgiveness. You deserve to feel pain. The pain the kingdom felt when you murdered the Prince. The pain I felt when you murdered my son.

CORA:

I am sorry! I did not mean to kill them. I am not a murderer. I loved the Prince, and Alexander. I loved them so much. And I love my father … Please let him go!

CRESSIDA:

I do not care if you loved Alexander. You killed him and now your father is going to pay.

(CRESSIDA strangles EDWARD and CORA tries frantically to break free from CRESSIDA’s hold, but her attempts are fruitless. EDWARD falls limp and CRESSIDA walks over to CORA, who is screaming in anguish.) CRESSIDA:

Tell me, child, how do you feel? Do you feel pain?

(CRESSIDA slaps CORA in the face and CORA cries out in agony again. CRESSIDA smiles.) CRESSIDA:

Good.

(CRESSIDA exits and after a few beats, CORA is released. She runs to her father and kisses his forehead. She stays, crying over his body for a few moments. Then she grabs some lilacs from the table and lays them on her father’s chest. Finally, she finds a knife and lies down beside EDWARD.) CORA:

I love you, Father.

(She stabs herself in the heart.)

ACT II SCENE VIII INT. NIGHT (We are in CORA’s cottage, where LILAC is sleeping soundly in her crib. The door creaks open … It’s CRESSIDA. LILAC wakes and begins to cry.) CRESSIDA:

Poor baby … Hush. Hush, now. Your grandmother is here.

(CRESSIDA approaches the crib, laughing maniacally. In the distance we hear a hedgehog whistle once, followed by a crow’s caw and finally, a toad’s croak.) THE END

CONSUMER OR CONSUMED?

St. Benedict TEACHER: Meghan McMillan SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Giorgio Urso UNIT: Sudbury Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Dan Charbonneau by

NIKKI LEMIEUX

“He who buys what he does not need, steals from himself.” -Swedish Proverb In a culture consumed by a chronic drive to purchase new goods, but with little understanding of real value, bad spending habits are dangerously common. Whether it’s via catchy commercials seen numerous times or blinking online ads demanding attention, consumers are bombarded by images that feed their desire to buy. The use of credit has allowed individuals to stretch their bank accounts to the maximum by providing a seemingly unlimited supply of money. Entrenched mass consumerism convinces us that our self-worth is based on the items we buy, which promotes resentment as well as a diminished self-image. Individuals are unaware of their role in driving consumerism because of brainwashing from subliminal advertising, the acceptance of credit as a way to live beyond their means, and the belief that buying into trends is the only way to achieve happiness. Advertisements are everywhere. Large advertising companies shape our desires for material possessions. They use skillfully thought-out techniques to get inside consumers’ heads and blur lines between ‘needs’ and ‘wants’ (Overcoming Consumerism). The first known experiment with subliminal advertising was in 1956, when a special projector was installed in a theatre in New Jersey. The projector flashed the words “Drink Coca-Cola” across the screen multiple times in order to reach the viewers subconsciously (Subliminal Messages). Reports stated that sales increased, however, exact numbers were not released. Over the years, society has become used to

the intrusion of such advertisements into daily life. According to a recent study done at a local high school, 64% of teenagers believe that humour is the most effective means of advertisement. In addition to humour, advertising companies use colour, catchy phrases, repetition, and celebrity endorsements to tap into our conscious and subconscious desires (Subliminal Advertising). They are able to use their extensive resources and newest technologies to manipulate and exploit our vulnerabilities. As a result, commercials and advertisements are an extremely effective way to encourage consumer spending. Society has come to accept the use of credit as part of living comfortable lives. Credit allows consumers to take possession of something immediately but pay for it later, and can have serious consequences when overused. Consumers have developed false ideas about money and bad spending habits. Today, the average American owns 3.5 credit cards. When those bills aren’t paid off, the unpaid balances begin collecting interest. The average household credit card debt stands at $15,185 (Shocking Facts). This false sense of wealth allows people to purchase beyond their means. In extreme cases, unpaid bills can lead to foreclosure or bankruptcy. In fact, 48.5% of Americans live in a household that receives some form of government benefit, meaning almost half of Americans may find themselves going into debt as they try to keep up with consumption trends. With little real understanding of money issues and the true cost of luxury items, people can rack up astronomical debts easily using credit cards they are unlikely to ever pay off. Our consumerist society has socialized us to believe that we are only worth what we own. The idea that one will never be enough kindles the desire to follow trends in hopes of belonging to a more “popular” group in society (Richards). The introduction of Apple’s signature product, the iPod, was an example of this. Aside from having a slightly larger storage capacity, this product didn’t offer consumers any features that weren’t already available in other MP3 players at the time, yet it came with a higher price tag. Sales flopped when it was first released. Before long, sales turned around. This was not because of the iPod itself, but because of the seemingly inconsequential pair of white earbuds that came with it. These earbuds became iconic, making the iPod salient and trendy. Being spotted with these earbuds came to imply membership in an elite group of society. Trends like these encourage competitive social desires and associated spending. Trends can be started in other ways, as well. Celebrities who draw a great deal of attention from the masses are able to drive consumer trends. Criticized for her controversial image, performances, and music videos, Miley Cyrus is a perfect example of this manifestation of consumerism. After her performance at the MTV Awards was

widely criticized, Cyrus’ hype grew to levels never seen before. She was idolized for her willingness to take risks. Cyrus made global headlines, topped international trends on Twitter, and achieved new heights of fame due to her controversial performances. Her album sales skyrocketed. Despite the negative shock factor and criticisms, Cyrus’ antics made people buy her music. Many people are willing to spend money to feel like they are part of the newest trends, unaware of how their desires are being moulded by other factors. Society is easily captivated by the “latest and greatest,” whether it is a product or a celebrity, believing that satisfaction and happiness come with following along. In conclusion, individuals are unaware of the roles they play in driving consumerism because they are brainwashed by subliminal advertisements, encouraged to live beyond their means through credit, and convinced that buying into trends is the only way to achieve happiness. The feeling that we will never be truly satisfied with what we have is what keeps this culture of consumerism alive.

JOURNEY

Holy Name of Mary TEACHER: Terry Murphy

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Divera Groot UNIT: Dufferin-Peel Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Peter MacDonald by

ELIZABETH MARTIN

The cutting winter winds blew as James Wavering stood in a pool of harsh light from a street lamp. He was waiting for the bus to take him on his long journey home. The bus emerged slowly, as public buses do, beginning as two headlights casting cool light and then growing into a bulky mechanical beast which screeched to a halt in front of him. James, a common fellow who had never cared to learn how to drive, contemplated bemusedly the fact that the driver always seemed to stop so that the door was right in front of him. He realized happily that the usual 5:11 PM bus driver must be back. The driver’s shift had changed recently, or he had been sick or away and, in James’ opinion, his replacement was incompetent. The replacement always stopped too late, never managing to stop precisely in front of James. The new driver’s imprecision was a fault that James simply could not forgive. Fortunately, the usual driver had returned. James entered the bus, stepping out of the biting arctic winds and into the subtle warmth of the heated bus with its fluorescent lights. As any shy young man would, he walked to the back of the bus with his head down. He took one of the few remaining seats, a single seat on the left side of the bus. This seat faced the aisle as opposed to the front. James noticed a girl watching him. He wondered what she saw. No doubt she saw what he expected her to, but also more. The tall, thin James Wavering had dressed for work in a pale cornflower-blue shirt, though only the collar was apparent below his long black coat which fell to just below his knees. He wore grey dress pants which were slightly too short, revealing maroon socks when he sat. The shoes he wore were not meant for winter. James Wavering disliked the idea of changing one’s shoes for a single season. So his black leather shoes had lost their luster and were speckled with the dirty white marks of snow and salt.

Sitting hunched as if there were heavy weights on each of his thin young shoulders, James stared down into the lukewarm, black liquid inside his coffee cup. It was part of his routine to stare into the cup during his ride, as he thought about going home to his familiar apartment and familiar girlfriend. He would only stir when he heard the woman’s automated voice announce Paisley Street. At that point he would pull the cord, requesting that the driver stop the bus and allow James to slip quietly out the back door and into the night to continue his commute with a short walk to his apartment. On this particular night’s ride, James’ eyes were drawn to the window and to the world outside. Across the street from where his bus sat at a red light, James noticed a stand of trees, branches heavily weighted with snow. The thicket reminded James of when he was a boy. He remembered days of familiar warmth, innocence and invincibility. A time when he would parade about in the ravine behind the bungalow his parents owned. He and another boy (a school chum of James’) had started their own club, The Balloon Adventurers’ Club, they called it. Both James and the other boy had imagined they would remain members of this club forever, not understanding the vastness of eternity. They planned to travel the world in brightly coloured air balloons sailing through the skies, collecting rare treasures of gold and rubies and fighting bad guys with their swords. Of course, none of that happened. The club house had been simply a lean-to shed built out of sticks that the two boys could crawl inside. James recalled the club’s demise with a pang. James Wavering had been elated by the idea of having a secret club. But he couldn’t keep a secret club a secret from the person he admired most, the person he thought of as his ultimate hero—his father. After creating The Balloon Adventurers’ Club, James had raced home for dinner and told his father about their great ideas and plans and, most importantly, about the great cabin they had built which James was sure could’ve withstood a hurricane (though there weren’t any hurricanes where they lived), and that he simply had to come see it the following day. In his mind’s eye, James could see himself begging fervently for his father to come with him to see the fort. He saw his own face, younger and rounder, with two bright brown eyes imploring his father. His father had looked down from a face similar to James’, but with sun-weathered skin and shrunken eyes that had lost their light, and wearily agreed to go. “You promise?” James had asked suspiciously. “James, you know I never make promises. But I will come see this fort you built in the yard,” was his reply.

The following morning, James had left the house early to go to the ravine and tidy up the shack which he knew would so impress his father. He had waited through the morning. He had waited through the afternoon. He had waited till evening before finally returning home, disappointed that his father had never visited to look at James’s great work. When James had walked through the front door and looked into the living room, he’d found his father just sitting under a warm reading lamp, engrossed in the daily paper. The heartbroken, weary, hungry, teary-eyed, eight year-old James had stormed across the room and cried out, “You lied! You said you would come. You promised! And you didn’t.” Without lowering the paper, James’ father had said, “I never make promises, James. I told you that. Sometimes things come up and promises can’t be kept.” James, completely unconvinced that anything could be more important than The Balloon Adventurers’ Club, had choked back a sob and run to his room, where he had fallen blindly to the floor and wept at the betrayal and hurt he felt. A female voice, cool and computerized, called out “John Street,” reeling James back to the present where he sat on a city bus as a grown adult. He took a sip of cool coffee and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He’d never understood why his father hadn’t shown up to see his fort, and he felt guilty for having destroyed it the next day without a thought for the other boy who had helped to build it. James cleared his throat. He felt the old fire in his stomach; he was indignant all over again. The gall of his father! The man had one son and a nine-to-five job, yet he couldn’t be bothered to show he cared by leaving the house for five minutes to look at something his young son had done. Instead, his father had refused to pay any attention to him. He had left him in the cold all day until his son’s hope turned to doubt and then to despair. James promised that he would never do such a thing if he ever had children. If he ever had children … James thought, his stomach beginning to churn. He was brought back to that morning when his girlfriend, the sweet girl with soft skin, had handed him a cup of coffee and told him she was pregnant. In his alarm, he had dropped his blue ceramic mug on the cold white tiles and gawked at her. She had stared at him with an anxious, hopeful look on her face. “She is happy about this,” he had thought, and knew she wanted him to be happy as well. Unable to process what he had heard and how he felt about it, he had simply kissed her on the forehead and bent to clean up the brown rivers of rushing coffee currents that had begun to flow across their kitchen floor. He

hadn’t spoken to her since then, and he felt a swell of butterflies in his stomach at the thought of returning to their apartment to find her—his now-pregnant girlfriend— sitting there in the kitchen waiting for him. His mind dragged him back to the past again, this time to a kitchen. Not his own kitchen, but another familiar one. This was the room where he had been forced to eat his vegetables, where he had learned his multiplication tables, and where he had blown out his birthday candles. James recalled standing in the dark hallway outside the lemoncoloured room. From where he stood, half hidden in shadow, he could see both his parents sitting at the kitchen table. James took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of pine from the Christmas tree mixed with the smell of the detergent that his mom always used. James had felt happy to be home and having his laundry done by someone else. He hadn’t imagined that he would have missed his family as much as he had the past semester. Charlie, a brown cocker spaniel, sat at his feet. He scratched the dog behind the ears and smiled. Abruptly, James stood up. His ears had pricked up at the one word he knew best, from years of writing it at the top right hand corner of papers, from hearing it called out by friends and family. His mother had just said his name. She hadn’t called him. No, it had been quite the opposite. She and his father were whispering about him. He moved out of view of the kitchen and listened closely from the hall. He imagined his mother with her curly, graying hair hanging to just below her shoulders, her frail, aging hands clasping a warm mug of tea. He pictured his father with his greasy, grey hair slicked back, resting his fingers against his closed eyes. His navy robe was open and revealed a protruding stomach covered in a white undershirt. The two sat beside each other at the breakfast table. They were leaning toward each other out of habit. “I am worried about him, that’s all,” said his father. “You have no need to worry,” replied his mother, “James is perfectly capable of taking care of himself.” James smiled slightly at that, his mother had been coddling him since he had arrived back from university. “He isn’t taking care of himself. We pay for his tuition and for him to live there. What will happen when he graduates?” “He will get a job in business. That is why he is going to school. Don’t you think he will be able to get a job?” “Of course he will. He is smart. He is very smart. Smarter than I ever was, that’s for sure.”

“So what’s the problem?” “I’m not sure. I’m just worried about him.” The confession sounded odd, coming from his father’s strong voice. James heard his mother stand up from her chair. He risked a peek in the kitchen and saw her leaning down with her arms around his father’s chest. She kissed him on the cheek. “You worry because you love him,” said his mother warmly and knowingly. She spoke in the honey-sweet way that only mothers seem to. James felt a surge of pride inside of him. His father believed him to be smart. His parents were worried for him, not because he was in trouble or because he had done something to worry them. They were worried simply because they cared about him. James knew, of course, that his parents cared for him, but the proof, there in the kitchen, served as a warm reminder of just how much he was loved. The present-day James felt confused as he sat under the white lights of the city bus. The anger towards his father over The Balloon Adventurers’ Club remained, but the bite in his stomach had been eased by the warmth and peace of the memory of his parents in the kitchen. He didn’t understand how he could feel both of these feelings at once. He was almost at his stop. Once he arrived there, James realized in panic, he would have to walk home. Once he arrived home he would have to face his girlfriend and finally admit how he felt—and that he didn’t want to be a father. The thought of his girlfriend sent James back to a breezy spring day not so long ago. He was sitting on a bench and waiting, miserably, for a girl to join him. His friend had set them up. Apparently, this girl was going to be just what he needed. A mousey-looking girl in a beige coat walked up to him and sat down on the bench. She glanced at him, then in the direction that he was looking, back at him and finally began to stare across the road with him. “What exactly are we looking at?” The mousy girl spoke finally, breaking the silence. “I am staring across the road, absentmindedly, waiting for someone,” James replied. “Well, I am waiting for the person who is waiting for someone to realize that I am the person he is waiting for,” she said with a smile. James apologized for not realizing sooner and the girl forgave him instantly, suggesting that they move along to their dinner. James and the girl walked up the road towards the pizza place in silence. Along the way, James snuck not-very-subtle looks at

this girl who had muted brown hair, warm brown eyes and a thin pair of pink lips. She smiled as they walked and sweetly greeted everyone they passed. They had almost finished their walk when they were met by an old woman in an emerald-coloured winter coat walking a fluffy white dog. James’ date stopped and petted the dog gently. She began to ask the woman about the dog’s breed and age and asked how she was finding the weather. James, who normally could not stand small talk, found himself smiling at the girl’s questions and the cheerful nods with which she responded to the woman’s lengthy responses. When they reached the pizzeria, they each ordered a slice (James: plain cheese; his date: olives, anchovies and green peppers) and sat down to talk between bites. As the two chatted, James felt, strangely, that he was enjoying the stranger’s company. She asked him out again a few days later and he agreed. James soon discovered that though the girl seemed quiet, she was not shy. She would talk to anyone and brighten their day in the process. It seemed she was always willing to try new things, and never perturbed if her schedule was disturbed. James began to try new things, too, when he went out with her. Perhaps most surprising was that he went out. He started to leave behind his familiar schedule and familiar apartment when, for instance, she would call suddenly and suggest that they try a new type of tea she had found. This girl was good for James, just as his friend had said she would be. James was jolted out of his reverie when the bus stopped suddenly and he braced himself against the seat beside him. He loved her, he really did. He felt as if his head was splitting from confusion. Too much change all at once was too much for James. He had known from the beginning of their relationship that change was awful and he had let himself be coaxed into it. Tricked by tea and her sweet smile! Now James would have to leave her, or else face total upheaval in his life. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t hurt her, and himself. But he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t let everything change. He couldn’t be a father! He didn’t even understand his own father! James heard Paisley Street being called. It was time for him to get off the bus. James felt light-headed as he stood up and pulled the cord. The computerized voice rang in his ears, “Stop requested.” The bus pulled onto the shoulder of the road and stopped too forcefully. James almost fell over. As the automated back door opened with a whoosh and a burst of cold air hit him, he realized how uncomfortably hot it had been on the bus. James stepped into the dark street and out of the bus’ harsh fluorescent lights only to find his foot slipping away and out of his control. Suddenly, the entire world was turning and James found the ground rising to meet him with a cold slap that burned his cheek with its icy vigor.

James Wavering had fallen, and as he lay on the icy sidewalk beside the bus shelter he felt his mind clear. It was as if all the pressure and noise that had been pushing forcefully against the inside of his skull had been released. He felt no desire to move and get up, to continue on his walk home. He wanted merely to remain where he was, surrounded by silence and peace. He could see from where he lay that some of the snow had started to melt, revealing a sprig of bright green grass underneath. James stared at this curious piece of new life that seemed to thrive and grow, indifferent to the grey slush and blackened snow around it. James felt a stir of something inside of him. Next to this patch of new life sat the empty coffee cup James had planned to drink on the ride home but felt too sick to finish. James sat up slowly and looked around. The street was dark and deserted. He felt relieved that no one had seen him fall and sent a silent prayer of thanks for being spared any embarrassment. He imagined what his girlfriend would say when he told her about this. She’d probably suggest that he stop drinking coffee; it seemed to be making him accident-prone. Then it occurred to James that he did want to go home to his familiar apartment. He wanted to see his familiar yet changed girlfriend. He wanted to tell her about his day, his memories and his fall. James wanted to hear how her day had been and ask how she knew she was pregnant. This meant that James would have to be comfortable with her being pregnant. James stood up slowly, rising first to his knees and then pushing off of his right knee, before standing to his full height. He realized that he did want a child. James wanted to prove that he could care for another human’s feelings, that he could make promises to see this child’s fort and keep those promises, unlike his father. James wanted to look into a pair of eyes like his own, only younger, and feel entreated to make promises. But he would also, like his father, sit up late at night whispering worried words with his wife out of love for their child. Most importantly, James realized that he wanted a new little person like his girlfriend to be born. He wanted a child who would pet dogs gently, greet neighbours on the street cheerfully, and order ridiculously strange pizza toppings. Not only did he want this person to exist, he wanted to be a part of his child’s life. He wanted to make his child smile and he wanted to sit proudly at concerts and graduations. He wanted to have a child. He wanted to see his girlfriend become a mother and develop the honey-sweet voice that all mothers have. He wanted to have a family. James knew that this also meant he wanted to get married. James turned away from the bus shelter and began to stroll along the row of puddles of white light cast by the streetlamps. James Wavering was walking home, and he had a lot of changes to make.

FINISH LINE

Resurrection TEACHER: Andrea Craig SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Andrea Craig UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

ROBEL JOSEPH BERHANE

We spend 18 years deciding what we want to do with our life, but life is tough and we’re out here using a plastic knife. But what happens after? We are advised to get masters with high expectations being led to disaster, life isn’t full of laughter when your body gets slow and your mind gets faster, filling with thoughts of regret and what if you did what your heart had set. I can’t talk like I have experience I just observe our ro-models who say do as they say not as they do but if we do what they say then we have no say in what we want to do. Go ahead and be a lawyer if you want to get dictated by your employer being a slave for money stuck at your job like a bee making honey. I’m letting you know that you do not need to be bright for your future to be sunny, make every day last because you are the predictor of your own forecast. Right now I’m worrying about the

things I do but others are worrying of what people think of you. Try to tell me no? Then explain why your nails and teeth are yellow from doing something you said you’d never do. Match your shirt with my dress tell me who are you trying to impress because you’re standing on the floor not doing one dance step, but it’s something we choose not to accept so keep snapping those selfies while sticking out your chest but do not request sympathy when he only wanted you for your breast. You get what you give that’s why those people that got it gave it their all. I’m no different, I also complain, I don’t think I’m the only one who doesn’t like school uniforms. The only thing uniform about us is our disability to conform to a passion which we can’t do if past wins and we lose letting our past choose what happens after the storm. I’m told to go to school and get a good job, opportunity is knocking on my door but I’m not turning the knob, tell me how is it my choice when I have to be quiet and listen to someone TELLING me to use my voice? If life was a race we’d still be at the start but you cannot spell start without star and art and you are all stars in God’s work of art. So get back down to earth and listen to your heart. Do what will bring you joy just make sure it’s not a toy because you’ll still be playing the game. On your marks, get set, go chase your dreams just don’t chase mine, stay in your own lane and I’ll see you at the finish line.

THE SAVAGE WAR

Holy Name of Mary TEACHER: Terry Murphy

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Divera Groot UNIT: Dufferin-Peel Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Peter MacDonald by

SIMONA ARIAN

ACT I SCENE I (Lights come on and an old Afghan man, ABIDAD KHAN, stands centre stage. His long white beard hangs past his chest and a tight turban is wrapped around his head. A quiet Arabic lullaby is playing in the background and as the lights grow brighter, the set is exposed. He stands in a desert wasteland, with snow-capped mountains in the distance and a thin blanket of frost covering the rocks which litter the set: Kunduz, Afghanistan. He clears his throat and speaks in a strong, thickly accented voice which is at odds with his frail looking body.) ABIDAD:

I was given the treasure of being born in a safe home with a rich income and a devoted mother. My father sold bread at the market when money was short, and when I was not working or learning, I knelt to pray. It seemed idyllic, but nobody ever warned me that it would be so painfully temporary.

(Enter MARIEM BARAKI, a middle-aged Afghan woman wearing a long black burka. While ABIDAD remains standing in the middle of the stage, she stands to his left.) MARIEM:

From the time that I was a little girl, my grandfather read to me before it was time to sleep at night. During the day, my mother taught me how to cook and clean for the family. We visited the mosque three times a week and I played with my cousins in the desert oceans which fill up my country. It seemed idyllic, but nobody ever warned me that it would be so painfully temporary.

(Enter SVETLANA GIROVA, a young Polish woman dressed in a hijab, blonde hair sticking out. She stands to ABIDAD’s right, so that they are all in a row.) SVETLANA:

When my Afghan husband introduced me to his home, to his country, I fell in love. Not only with the hospitality of his parents, but with the warm air and the old songs … I fell in love with the way the children played in the sand and the way the snow fell softly in the winter. It seemed idyllic, but nobody ever warned me that it would be so painfully temporary.

(Sounds of explosions and screams gradually begin to fill the background and soldiers in full uniform run across the stage, yelling and shooting at unseen enemies as well as at each other. The characters speak loudly over the commotion, not moving from their vigil.) ABIDAD:

When the extremist monsters ripped the heart of Afghanistan out of its protective cavity, my home bled.

MARIEM:

When the Taliban shot my grandfather for teaching me to read, not even troubling to drag his body away from the feet of my screaming mother, my life bled.

SVETLANA:

When my husband was forced to escape his own home and family in order to save my life, our family bled.

(During the last three lines, the soldiers continue to fight until they die, one by one. Three are left standing.) ABIDAD:

Whether you are an Afghan or an American …

(A soldier walks up behind him and puts a gun to his head.) MARIEM:

Whether you are a woman or a man …

(A soldier walks up behind her and puts a gun to her head.) SVETLANA:

Whether you are on the side of the enemies or the allies …

(A soldier walks up behind her and puts a gun to her head.)

ABIDAD:

War does not discriminate, and in the end …

ALL:

Nobody may live, because everybody dies.

(As the word “dies” is spoken, there is a loud bang and ABIDAD, MARIEM and SVETLANA drop to the ground. The stage goes black for one minute. When the lights come back on, the set has changed to a dining room. The walls are light blue with flowered wallpaper trim. The room is neat and cozy, with a patriotic U.S. flag hanging on the wall. The set is entirely new, except for the bodies of ABIDAD KHAN, MARIEM BARAKI, and SVETLANA GIROVA, which remain lifeless on the floor of the room. A young woman of forty, KELLY DAVIS, sits praying before starting dinner. She does not notice them.) KELLY:

Come, Lord Jesus, our guest-to-be and bless these gifts bestowed by Thee. Please bless our loved ones everywhere, and keep them in your loving care.

(She has begun to eat when ROBERT DAVIS, her graying 48 year-old husband, enters. He is still in the suit and tie that he wears to work at the bank. He drops his heavy briefcase on the ground as he enters.) KELLY:

Well, you’re home early. (She smiles at him.) I wasn’t expecting you until later tonight.

(ROBERT walks up behind her and gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. He steps over the bodies without seeing them and sits. He fills his plate.) ROBERT:

Yeah, well, the boss finally decided to let me off early for once, that old bugger.

KELLY:

Robert, don’t say that.

(ROBERT sighs and apologizes, unwillingly.) ROBERT:

Sorry, sorry, it’s just … long day, you know? This world is getting ridiculous. Gotta work fifteen hours a day, five times a week, just to pay the rent … It’s crazy! Crazy, crazy, crazy …

KELLY:

Well that’s the world we live in, I guess. It’s not easy. You don’t need to tell me that.

(They eat in quiet, awkward silence for a few seconds.) ROBERT:

So, what’s in the news, eh?

KELLY:

Oh, nothing interesting except for this shooting in Afghanistan. Twelve soldiers dead, can you believe it? I called my mom right away. You know that Nick is over there—

(ROBERT interrupts her with a snort.) ROBERT:

That’s not news, those people just can’t help blowing things up. That’s the way they are. It’s in their holy book or something. (He waves his hand to dismiss the topic.)

KELLY:

Yes, well, it’s pretty terrible.

(ROBERT shrugs, unconcerned, and they continue to eat. After a strained silence, he grabs the bottle of wine from the middle of the table and fills his glass. KELLY watches him nervously.) KELLY:

Not too much, hon. Remember?

(ROBERT grimaces and replies in a cold voice.) ROBERT:

Of course not, honey. But I don’t need you to treat me like a child.

KELLY:

I’m not trying to, you know I just don’t want anything to happen. You’ve done so well lately, dear, and—

ROBERT:

Nothing is happening! (Clearly agitated) Can’t a man come home from a long day at work and enjoy a glass of wine? One glass? What, exactly, is “happening” that’s got you in a fuss?

KELLY:

(Frowning coldly) I’m just trying to help.

ROBERT:

You aren’t helping, you’re nagging. There is a significant difference and it might do you some good to educate yourself in the matter.

KELLY:

Oh, good grief, you wouldn’t know a problem if it was staring you in the face!

ROBERT:

What exactly is the problem with one glass of wine, darn it?

KELLY:

You and I both know that it’s never one glass, Rob.

(KELLY slams her utensils on the table and storms out of the room. ROBERT mumbles to himself angrily and takes a long sip of wine.) ROBERT:

(Grumbling) “Wouldn’t know a problem if it was staring you in the face.” Hah! What a world this is … What a world … Where an innocent man has to slave away at a job he hates to feed a woman who doesn’t have the decency to let him drink. (Sighs deeply) I always get the short end of the stick. Somehow everywhere else in the world, people are given what they’re due, but not me—never me! After all the work I put in!

(He drinks his entire glass of wine in a few short gulps. Once he is finished, he fills it to the top again. Sighing, he pushes his meal away and grabs the newspaper that has been placed at the corner of the table and, with a grunt, begins to read.) ROBERT:

And I’m supposed to care about terrorists way out in the middle of a blistering desert. I’ve got my own problems to deal with, without all this media nonsense trying to guilt me into caring about dead people halfway around the world. Ridiculous! They shouldn’t have bombed our towers if they didn’t want retaliation. If you ask me, they put themselves …

(Continues to grumble then throws the newspaper on the ground and downs the rest of his glass. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arm with a deep sigh. He sits still. The lights dim so that he is barely visible in the shadows. Spotlights shine on the three bodies in front of him. Though the audience has presumed he is dead, ABIDAD stands up.) ABIDAD:

When the soldiers came and massacred our innocents, we asked for help from the world, from the “free” West and our friends around the globe. Nobody came. They were too busy catering to their own problems, while their brothers and sisters in God died by the thousands. They look at our turbans and burkas and scream, “Terrorist!” without knowing that we are one family. Through Jesus, through Allah, through Buddha, through any natural ties one sees fit, we remain just that—a family.

(In the shadows, ROBERT stands up with a shocked look on his face, staring at the old man facing the audience.) ROBERT:

W—who are you? What is this?

ABIDAD:

Open your eyes, dear Robert.

ROBERT:

Kelly! Kelly, there’s a man—

ABIDAD:

She cannot hear you, and she never will. Not until you hear those around you. (He gestures to the bodies of MARIEM and SVETLANA which remain lifeless on the dining room floor. ROBERT stares at them in horror, suddenly registering the carnage surrounding him. He gapes at the bottle of wine in his hand and throws it to the ground where it shatters, staining the carpet red.)

ROBERT:

(Agitated) I’ve had too much, oh no, too much—

ABIDAD:

(Calmly) No, Robert. You must listen, for our God sent me to you.

ROBERT:

What do you mean, our God? (Pointing furiously at a portrait of Jesus Christ on the wall) There you see the Son of my God! Not ours, but mine!

ABIDAD:

(Unfazed by his anger) God is One. We find him in different forms, whether sacrificed on a cross, in the smiles of children, or in the temples of India which stand hundreds of feet tall. I am here to help you.

ROBERT:

(Hysterical) This is ridiculous! (He stares at the newly red carpet and curses under his breath.) Oh no, I’ve done it now … Kelly won’t let this go, I— (Rubs his temples and begins to leave the room, his words becoming increasingly slurred.) Too much … Sleep it off …

(He leaves the room, slamming the door violently, and the lights turn off. The quiet Arabic melody plays again and only ABIDAD stands centre stage, spotlight on him. He smiles a small, soft smile and speaks to the audience.)

ABIDAD:

As you see, Robert did not know The Truth. Were it not for my help, he never would. For when the innocent are slaughtered, their blood stains and corrupts the hearts of all who do nothing to help, including those who prefer to live in euphoric blindness. (Gestures to the bodies of MARIEM and SVETLANA, lying upon the drenched red carpet.) And when the pages of history are weeping red ink, the dead will rise again … Spirits travelling without rest, each assigned a single person trapped in sin. We are to pull them out. We are to show them that the world is not as they think it is. We must grab them by the shoulders—rip open their eyelids if needed—just to make them see The Truth, to see The Savage War which goes on and on within … (He steps forward until he is on the edge of the stage). I have become old and weary. Even in the afterlife, I have seen many lost men and women. Some I helped, and some I failed, but none were quite like Robert Davis. No, never was there a man like this. This is a story worth telling: the story of a dismal man with a restless heart who was Catholic in name only. This man was given the opportunity to care and threw it away without a second glance. But he did find God. Oh yes, he did … In fact, he showed me God in places I never knew He could be found. Sit quietly and I will tell you this story, if you will listen. Sit quietly, and I may take you through the looking glass, and let you see for yourselves.

(The music fades slowly away, quieting until all that can be heard is the sound of ABIDAD turning and walking slowly off the stage. Once his footsteps stop and the music is gone, the lights shut off and the stage turns black. End Act I, Scene I.)

THE MAN IN THE GREEN COAT

Holy Name of Mary TEACHER: Terry Murphy

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Divera Groot UNIT: Dufferin-Peel Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Peter MacDonald by

SIMONA ARIAN

Nobody has to be taught to fear the dark. In the Arian household, however, twilight is no time for hiding under covers or checking under the bed for monsters with frightening teeth. Instead, under a blanket of stars accompanied by a kerosene lamp, my mother tells me her stories. Those brilliant, too good to be true tales that are soaked in European heritage and told in an accent as thick as custard. More often than not, she begins with the same line, but only for the very best. This is precisely where our story begins. * * * In communist country… There was once a kind young man by the name of Imrich Nikolov. He was born in Czechoslovakia, and married young to a lovely plump woman. He was my Superman. Not in the classic sense, of course. Instead of a cape, he wore an olive-coloured soldier’s uniform. Instead of the ability to fly, he had the ability to carry me up on his shoulders like a jet plane, without a single ache ever burning his shoulders. Now that I am older I realize I must have strained his back, but he never showed it, and he never slowed down. His name translates directly to “ruler of the estate” and that was what he was: the concrete foundation, the brick and mortar of our household. He led our family, oh yes, and I always knew we would be lost without him. What I did not know was how soon he would leave us. This is the story of how he died. * * *

We were about as Czechoslovakian as they came. The Nikolova family was born on the day that Imrich married Kvetka Patakiova. Within three years, two little girls named Tatiana and Katka roamed the house, eating nothing but salami and sweet, sweet buchty for dessert. We had our father’s grey eyes and our mother’s large hips. Every morning we walked precisely fourteen kilometres uphill to school and in the afternoon, we walked the fourteen kilometres downhill back home. When our ucitelki beat us with sticks (and on one occasion, electrocuted us) we would cry all the way home to Ocko’s arms. You could say that he was our favourite, and you would be right. You see, every good Czechoslovakian girl loves to eat. In the old days, however, communist countries could only trade with each other. This meant that bananas were a rare treat that only came around Christmastime from a faraway place called “Cuba.” It also meant that the population’s diet consisted almost wholly of potatoes, bread and butter. But our family was special because Ocko was a hunter. He would leave the house with his rifle and come back with a deer in its place, just like magic. When I was six years old, after my knitting lessons with babka, he snuck me out into the field behind our apartment and taught me to shoot my first rifle. “All ladies should know how to shoot well, darling,” he told me earnestly, “to scare off any cowards who can’t handle a real lady.” We shot at targets, and I felt alive. That afternoon, I looked at him with big, round eyes and asked, “Ocko, can we please practice some more?” He had never learned to say no to his little girl. Ten minutes later, we were shooting at a target that he had painted onto the backyard fence. We kept at it until the sun flew away to wherever the sun goes when the moon comes out. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. All I knew was that he was my favourite, indeed. Of course, that’s not to say that Mamka wasn’t wonderful, but she was still Mamka. That meant that when she came home to find bullet holes in her fence, she grabbed the nearest veracha and chased Ocko around the house. Laughing cheerfully, Ocko hid with me under my bed while Mamka tried to lure us out, her large breasts thwarting her attempts to crawl under and catch us. Eventually, she gave up and paced the house, swearing under her breath about how she had somehow acquired three children. Ocko gave me a high five for victory, and soon enough, Mamka thought it was pretty funny too. His hands were always so much bigger than mine, as was his heart. I inherited my mother’s resilient, obstinate character. Though I was perfectly fine with this, I always envied Ocko’s ability to generate hope in situations where there was none. As you can

see, we were a stereotypical Czechoslovakian family with large bosoms, rifles and all. Of course, being the good Europeans we were, we knew that the correct answer to the question, “Is there enough butter on this?” was always, “No.” Nonetheless, Ocko always stayed healthy and slim as a pencil. Until one day, he wasn’t. Tatiana and I called it, “The Worst Day.” We had been sent home from school early with heads covered in lice and Mamka’s friend, Veronika, recommended benzene to get rid of them. Mamka, who was always focused on how much things cost and was scandalized by the price of medicated shampoo, thought this was a remarkable idea! Now you’re probably wondering, “Did Mamka really pour gasoline onto her children’s heads?” The simple answer is yes, and to be fair, it did work. The lice were not just gone, they were annihilated. Two hours later, so were our scalps. Raw, red, and bleeding, we cried into Mamka’s lap while she scolded us for letting her try such a thing, as if Veronika hadn’t nonchalantly mentioned that benzene is dangerously corrosive. She wrapped our heads in homemade plaster, our blonde curls sticking to the makeshift helmets. But it had not become The Worst Day just yet. No, the most despicable series of events began soon after, with a single phone call. We walked to the hospital, lead in our hearts and worms in our bellies. For once, Ocko wasn’t in his smart green uniform. Instead, they had cloaked him in an insultingly itchy gown. I couldn’t understand why they would take away his special coat with its special buttons and its special badge. He scooped Tatiana and I into his arms and rocked us, even though we were much too grown up for that. You see, he had stones in some place called a kidney, and they were hurting him really badly. I certainly didn’t want my Ocko in pain, so I wondered aloud why they didn’t give him any painkillers. For once, he said nothing. He didn’t even giggle at my plaster hat. The silence in the room stole the breath from my lungs and I said not another word. Imrich Nikolov had developed a heart condition. It was a result of exposure to the fumes from the tanks that belonged to the army that he loved so much. By the time of his hospitalization for kidney stones, his heart was too weak to receive anaesthesia without falling into cardiac arrest. As the pain got worse, his heart got weaker, and there was nothing to do but watch as Superman died. * * * “They’re moving him to the intensive ward, where children aren’t allowed,” Mamka explained. It was only three days after The Worst Day. He left us like smoke—gone in an instant. “Come and say goodbye, alright?”

We followed obediently, but of course it wasn’t goodbye. Not yet, it couldn’t be. We stepped onto the train and ten stops later, we stepped off. To this day, I wish I had never gotten off that train. I should have kept going, off to a land where fathers don’t die. Supposedly, such lands do not exist. When I saw Ocko in his scratchy gown, I knew Mamka was just scaring us in the way all European mothers like to. He was glowing, and smiling, and he held us in his arms like always. We gave him a bag of special candies (his favourite), which cost half of our month’s rent, but the grin on his face reassured Mamka that she had chosen wisely. I never intended for them to be his last meal. I insisted that he was going to be just fine. Ocko smiled at that, and then he did something strange. The silly man I had loved all my life turned to my sister and me with a grave, stony face. “Remember, sweethearts, always listen to your mother, and do well in school, and …” He went on, each word sounding more awkward and forced than the last. Never one for clichéd life lessons, I should have known that it meant he was ready to go. But that didn’t matter, because I wasn’t ready, and he would never allow for me to be disappointed. He died that night. In our small town of only 1,489 citizens, 600 came to the funeral. I knew this was because he was the most important man in the world. At the funeral, the city’s mayor told me that God needed him up there, that God needed good men like Ocko to look after us all. I wondered why he couldn’t look after us from his comfy couch in the living room, but I said nothing. I still regret all that he missed: taking me to the hospital when I swallowed a nineinch nail, laughing at Tatiana and me when we ate thirteen buchty and fell ill, teaching me how to drink like a real European, showing his grandkids how to shoot, and so much more. Instead, I focus on how fortunate I was to call that man my father, to hug that jade uniform which protected me from everything and then some. Most of all, I am thankful for the way I used to fly on his shoulders like they were the top of the world. I am thankful for the last words he ever said to me: “Ahoj, moja,” he smiled. “Goodbye, my dearest.”

PRIX JEUNES ÉCRIVAINS 2014

THORS A W

•

U N E S ÉCRI

L’AVION

Jean Vanier TEACHER: Linda Cinelli SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joyce McLean-Seely UNIT: Brant Haldimand Norfolk UNIT PRESIDENT: Len McDonald by

VIOLET POPE

Je ramasse les billets d’avion de Madeline et Zoe. Nous sommes en destination pour la Russie. Nous allons regarder les Olympiques.

JE PEUX

Jean Vanier TEACHER: Maria Sampson SCHOOL:

Elementary Junior and Senior Kindergarten Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joyce McLean-Seely UNIT: Brant Haldimand Norfolk UNIT PRESIDENT: Len McDonald by

ADALIA CANIGLIA

Je peux ranger la classe. Je peux faire une ligne. Je peux danser. Je peux chanter. Je peux aider mes amis!

LE VAMPIRE

St. Joseph French Immersion Centre TEACHER: Lise Pipe

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Andrée Coutu UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Dean Spence by

NICOLA BEYNON

Un jour il y avait un vampire qui s’appelait Thorn. Un jour Thorn avait bu du sang. Après Thorn avait vu une chauve-souris qui pouvait parler. Le jour suivant la chauve-souris avait demandé à Thorn s’il pouvait passer la nuit avec lui. Thorn a dit : « Oui » mais il ne voulait pas que la chauve-souris voyait qu’il portait un pyjama rose. Quand la chauve-souris est venue il avait un pyjama rose aussi. Les deux ont ri et se sont amusés toute la soirée.

NEIGE FRAÎCHE

Our Lady of Peace TEACHER: Maria-Teresa Ortiz SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Adriana Galloro UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Liz Stuart by

ELIZABETH PARILOV

Les matins de neige fraîche, on se lève, on se dépêche. On joue avec des boules de neige. On va patiner. On fait du ski alpin. On va à l’école pour jouer avec nos amis. La neige peut fondre et s’en aller. Quand elle est fraîche on va jouer.

LE PÈRE NOËL

St. Joseph French Immersion Centre TEACHER: Lise Pipe

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 1 and 2 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Andrée Coutu UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Dean Spence by

SOPHIA CARLSON

Il est grand. Il a une barbe. Il porte du rouge et du blanc. Le Père Noël mange beaucoup de biscuits. Il fait des cadeaux pour les enfants. Il va à ta maison la nuit de Noël. Il travaille avec les lutins. Le Père Noël met des bonbons et des jouets dans ton bas de Noël.

LE JOUR DE L’HALLOWEEN

St. Joseph French Immersion Centre TEACHER: Lise Pipe

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Andrée Coutu UNIT: Peterborough, VNC UNIT PRESIDENT: Dean Spence by

SAMUEL HURTUBISE

Le jour de l’Halloween, Sam cherche un costume. Il veut aller de porte en porte avec son ami Ninja. C’est maintenant le temps de l’Halloween. Sam et Ninja vont à une maison. Il n’y a personne dans la maison. La prochaine maison n’a personne non plus. Sam et Ninja sont surpris! Quand ils retournent à la maison de Sam ils entendent « SURPRISE ! » Leurs amis sont dans la maison de Sam. C’est une fête de l’Halloween. Après une heure, les amis retournent à leurs maisons. Sam et Ninja ont eu beaucoup de plaisir et beaucoup de bonbons.

UN POÈME POUR MES PARENTS

Jean Vanier TEACHER: Michelle Sauvé SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Joyce McLean-Seely UNIT: Brant Haldimand Norfolk UNIT PRESIDENT: Len McDonald by

JAYDEN COUDENYS

Mes parents sont toujours là pour moi, pour me faire rire et sourire. Ils sont là pour moi quand je pleure. J’aime mes parents pour être qu’ils sont. Ne changez jamais, mes parents, je vous aime comme vous êtes. Vous ne tentez jamais de me faire mal et vous êtes toujours heureux. Vous êtes prêts à faire des choses que vous ne voulez pas faire. Ne changez jamais, mes parents, je vous aime comme vous êtes. Vous m’aidez quand je ne comprends pas, vous n’êtes pas fâchés quand je fais une erreur. Vous m’aidez dans les moments difficiles. Vous êtes fiers quand je reçois un prix et vous me consolez quand je suis triste. Ne changez jamais, mes parents, vous êtes parfaits maintenant. 95

IMMERSION FRANÇAISE

St. Gertrude TEACHER: Nicole Benevides SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 3 and 4 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Isabella Talerico UNIT: Dufferin-Peel Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: David Dolan by

ALEXANDER DOWLING

« Je ne veux pas changer mon école ! Mes amis me manquent, mes enseignants me manquent, ma famille me manque. Je déteste l’immersion française ! » Je crie à l’oreille de ma mère quand elle m’emmène pour la première fois à l’école de l’immersion française. C’était trop difficile en premier, mais maintenant c’est facile ! Aujourd’hui je pense que l’immersion française est très bonne. Pourquoi ? Parce que : En premier, si j’apprends le français je peux impressionner les autres, quand je change de l’anglais au français et tout le monde est jaloux. Par exemple, quand je parle en français avec ma sœur et ma mère, mon père ne comprend rien ! Imaginez les blagues que nous pouvons jouer sur lui ! Mais ça, c’est sa faute. Il n’a pas essayé d’apprendre le français quand il était à l’école. Il a pris FSL chaque jour, mais il ne sait que dire « Bonjour ». On peut avoir beaucoup de secrets. En deuxième, si j’apprends le français, je peux communiquer avec les autres. Ça m’aide de rencontrer beaucoup plus d’amis quand je voyage autour du monde avec ma famille. Quand je dis : « Hi, my name is Alex, do you want to play ? » et il ne répond pas, je dis : « Salut, je m’appelle Alex, veux-tu jouer avec moi ? » Et voilà, j’ai un nouvel ami ! C’est si facile ! Alors, quand je voyage à Paris cet été je vais communiquer avec les Parisiens facilement — pas de problème ! Savez-vous que l’année dernière, quand je suis allé à Bruxelles avec Jetlite Airlines, j’étais un traducteur pour une hôtesse de l’air, parce qu’elle

ne pouvait trouver personne qui parlait français et anglais. Elle m’a dit « Merci » au moins mille fois, et elle m’a apporté un repas de première classe, seulement pour moi, un grand gâteau. C’était délicieux. Finalement : Si j’apprends le français, je peux avoir une bonne carrière, grâce à mon éducation. Je vais à l’école pour sept heures chaque jour, comme tous les autres élèves au Canada, mais à la même temps j’apprends pratiquement double ! Les mathématiques, les sciences, l’éducation physique, etc., comme les autres, mais j’apprends aussi deux langues : l’anglais et le français. Quand je grandis, je vais avoir des avantages si je cherche du travail. Si un jour je voudrais être enseignant de français, ou le Premier Ministre du Canada, je peux ! Il y a beaucoup plus de carrières pour les gens qui sont bilingues. Aujourd’hui, j’aime ma nouvelle école, j’aime mes nouveaux amis et j’adore mes enseignants. Vive l’immersion française !!!

MA VIE DE REQUIN

St. Peter TEACHER: Isabelle Viroulaud SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Shelley Bray UNIT: Eastern Ontario UNIT PRESIDENT: Barb Dobrowolski by

SHALINI MENON

2 AVRIL Ma mère me dit que nous aidons la mer à être propre parce qu’on mange les animaux morts. Alors mes frères et moi sommes allés chercher des carcasses pour le dîner. 10 AVRIL Aujourd’hui, mon ami Remora m’a invité chez elle. Elle m’a dit que sa maison est très grande. Grande pour elle. Petite pour moi. 18 AVRIL Mon père veut que je joue au ballon-poisson comme mes frères. Je suis contrarié ! Moi, je veux faire de l’équitation avec les hippocampes. 25 AVRIL Je suis allé nager aujourd’hui et j’ai vu Remora avec son banc de poissons. Remora m’a regardé mais elle ne m’a rien dit. Comme j’étais fâché ! Mon ennemi, Daph le dauphin, a vu que j’étais fâché, alors il a commencé à rire. 1 MAI Aujourd’hui c’est ma fête et j’ai de l’école ! Mon professeur crie parce que je ne fais pas attention quand elle parle. (Je pensais à mes cadeaux de fête !)

Quand je suis arrivé chez moi, mon père m’a donné un cadeau. C’était un … Ballon-poisson ?!?! Je ne veux pas un ballon-poisson ! 10 MAI J’ai des problèmes pour trouver une enseignante pour l’équitation avec les hippocampes. Toutes les enseignantes dans ma région sont à peu près la longueur de mes dents en taille ! Elles ne veulent pas me prendre comme élève ! 18 MAI J’ai nagé et j’ai vu une bande de requins. Ils m’ont approché et j’ai réalisé qu’ils étaient mes amis. Ils m’ont invité à chasser avec leur bande de requins. Alors on est allé chercher de la nourriture. On a trouvé beaucoup de crevettes à manger. 11 JUIN Aujourd’hui j’ai vu un bateau avec des caméras alors j’ai posé pour leur photos. Comme j’étais gentil, j’ai montré mes dents. Je veux être un mannequin professionnel comme mon frère. C’était la vedette de l’émission « Shark Week ». 18 JUIN Aujourd’hui Remora s’est excusée. Elle était avec sa banc alors elle ne pouvait pas parler aux autres animaux. Après, Remora s’est accroché à moi et on est allé nager ensemble. 25 JUIN J’ai faim, et je ne sais pas ce que je vais manger ! Il n’y a rien à manger, peut-être un … un journal ! 30 JUIN Ce n’est pas toujours facile d’être un requin. Avec nos grosses dents pointues, on fait peur à tout le monde. C’est difficile de se faire des amis. Mais l’avantage c’est que personne ne me dérange ! J’aime ma vie !

QUAND J’ÉTAIS DANS LA GUERRE

St. Francis de Sales TEACHER: Marie-Claude Akeson SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Megan Stanistreet UNIT: Eastern Ontario UNIT PRESIDENT: Barb Dobrowolski by

SHAELYN KAVANAGH

Quand j’étais dans la guerre J’ai pensé à ma mère Je pensais à ma famille Et je pensais à mes amis

Quand j’étais dans la guerre Beaucoup de mes amis sont morts Mais je ne pense pas qu’ils sont morts Je pense qu’ils dorment

Quand j’étais dans la guerre Je passais mon temps dans l’air Volant les avions J’entendais les coups de feu au sol

Quand j’étais dans la guerre Je voulais rentrer à la maison Je voulais que tout soit fini Et j’espérais qu’un jour le monde aurait la paix

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LE FEU DANS LE CIEL

Good Shepherd TEACHER: Ghislaine Laflèche-Trépanier SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 5 and 6 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Christine Rochon UNIT: Ottawa UNIT PRESIDENT: Beth Dowe by

MACK FOURNIER

C’était une journée très froide au milieu du mois de janvier en Allemagne. Je marchais avec mon meilleur ami Quinn à gauche et son sergent Vrinckton à droite. Nous avions déjà mangé le petit déjeuner : des bleuets et de l’avoine détrempée. Les repas à la cafeteria démontraient un sort d’allure triste et grave à mesure que la guerre progressait. Quand j’avais fini mon repas de matin, j’ai rassemblé mes affaires et ensuite lavé ma fourchette et ma cuillère. Finalement, j’ai marché en direction de ma chambre. Quand je suis arrivé, j’ai ressenti un léger étourdissement alors j’ai lancé mon sac et mon casque sur mon lit et ouvert la fenêtre pour respirer un peu d’air frais. À ce moment-là, j’ai vu à loin … C’était une attaque venant des ennemies, les Allemands. Les alarmes criaient dans mes oreilles comme quand j’étais un petit garçon et je retournais à la maison. J’avais l’impression que c’était un rêve horrible, que ce n’était pas réel, mais j’ai réalisé ce qui se passait quand Quinn est entré en courant dans ma chambre. Mon ami a crié : « John, qu’est-ce que tu fais ? Il y a une bataille maintenant ! » À ce moment, je me suis dépêché à bourrer ma veste et mettre mon casque dur ! Et me voilà, je courrais avec Quinn vers le champ de bataille. Le ciel était en feu et j’entendais des personnes qui criaient et plusieurs bombes qui explosaient sur notre côté. Quinn et moi, nous avions un travail très spécial à faire. On devait prendre des personnes blessées en bataille et les transportés dans les petits centres médicaux ou les soulager nous-mêmes quand on le pouvait. J’ai couru autour du champ de bataille pour au moins quelques heures. J’ai trouvé six personnes blessées par des fusils et deux personnes blessées par des bombes. Un autre soldat avait cassé sa cheville sur la colline alors on a dû le soutenir jusqu’au camp, moi et Quinn.

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J’avais transporté toutes ces personnes au centre médical numéro 1. À ce momentlà, j’ai trébuché sur quelque chose et j’ai tombé sur un drôle d’objet. C’était la jambe de Quinn. Je l’ai entendu dire, « John, John ! Aide-moi, s’il vous plait ! » Il était blessé par deux balles de fusil — un chacun dans le bras et la jambe, et il ne pouvait pas marcher. Alors je l’ai pris dans mes bras et j’ai couru vers le centre médical numéro 1. J’étais presque là, à un demi-kilomètre quand je fus blessé au dos par un coup de fusil. J’étais déterminé et j’ai couru lentement au centre. J’ai crié : « Aidez-moi, aidez mon ami ! » et je suis tombé par terre. Quand je me suis réveillé plusieurs jours plus tard, Vrinkton m’a dit que Quinn était sauvé de tout danger. Il m’informa alors que je pourrais marcher comme avant et que mon dos était intact car la balle n’avait pas transpercé mes côtes. Deux jours après, cette longue guerre était finie. J’ai finalement retrouvé mon enfant de quatre ans et ma femme. Une petite fête fut organisée dans mon village pour célébrer mon retour. Je suis heureux de dire que je n’ai jamais revu des personnes blessées par la guerre ensuite.

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LES QUARANTE-SIXIÈME HUNGER GAMES

SCHOOL:

Saint Dominic Savio TEACHER: Hilde Acx

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Michelle Soulard UNIT: Waterloo UNIT PRESIDENT: Michael Devoy by

KELVIN KELLNER

Ma vie a changé après les quarante-sixième Hunger Games. J’étais choisi avec mon amie Carly de mon école. Maintenant je dois assassiner des personnes que je ne connais pas. J’ai douze ans et ma vie peut se finir. J’ai très peur d’être assassiner dans quelques jours. Les Hunger Games commencent en 10 (dix) secondes. L’arène est enneigée. 9 (neuf) secondes. 8 (huit) secondes. La corne d’abondance est large et ressemble à une stalactite de glace, 7 (sept) secondes, 6 (six) secondes, 5 (cinq) secondes. Mon plan est de prendre une épée et de courir. 4 (quatre) secondes, 3 (trois) secondes, 2 (deux) secondes, 1 (une) seconde. Un coup de feu ! Cours ! Vas-y ! Je cours très vite. Je prends une épée. Je cours. Je ne regarde pas les autres. Je cours, cours et cours. C’est tard, donc je décide de dormir dans un arbre. Je me réveille quand j’entends un bruit. C’est l’hymne national. J’entends 9 (neuf) boums. On non ! 9 (neuf) personnes sont mortes hier. Je veux dormir. Je suis fatigué. Je me réveille parce que j’entends un bruit. Je vois une personne. Je saute de l’arbre et je frappe le garçon avec mon épée (BOUM). J’entends un bruit. Probablement une autre personne ! Tout à coup, je vois Carly. Je veux faire une alliance avec Carly. OUF ! Elle accepte. Je suis content. Après une heure, nous trouvons un petit groupe de personnes. Je dois survivre ! Je frappe un garçon avec mon épée (BOUM). Carly frappe une grande fille (BOUM). Je frappe un autre garçon (BOUM). Il y a 11 (onze) personnes encore. Tout à coup, on voit beaucoup de personnes. Je pense que c’est le groupe de la carrière. Ah ! Ils sont dangereux ! Nous courons. Nous courons très vite. (BOUM) Il y a 10 (dix) personnes encore. (BOUM) … Il y a 9 (neuf) personnes encore.

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Nous sommes dans un arbre. Quand le groupe de carrière passe, Carly et moi sautons de l’arbre. Je frappe 1 (un) garçon avec mon épée (BOUM). Carly frappe 1 (une) fille. Nous courons pour éviter les autres du groupe de carrière. Il y a 7 (sept) personnes encore. Carly et moi dormons dans un arbre. Le jour après nous cherchons les autres personnes. Après 3 (trois) heures nous tuons deux personnes (BOUM) (BOUM). Après trente minutes j’entends un (BOUM). Je cours et je trouve le corps de Carly. Je tue la personne qui a tué Carly. (BOUM). Oh non, c’est terrible. Il y a 3 (trois) personnes encore. C’est le 6ième (sixième) jour dans l’arène. Je cherche pour une autre heure et je trouve les deux dernières personnes. Je les tues. Tout le monde est mort. J’ai gagné, j’ai gagné, j’ai gagné ! Je suis très, très excité. Finalement, je peux retourner à la maison !

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LES SAISONS

Our Lady of LaSalette TEACHER: Colleen Haegens

SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Rosanna DeRochie UNIT: Brant Haldimand Norfolk UNIT PRESIDENT: Len McDonald by

ADDISON DWORNIKIEWICZ

C’est l’hiver Il est brillant et blanc La neige est partout Les animaux dorment Le vent souffle Et moi, je suis dans mon lit Et je rêve du printemps C’est le printemps Les fleurs fleurissent Le soleil brille La pluie tombe Et moi, je suis dans mon lit Et je rêve de l’été C’est l’été Les jours sont longs Il fait chaud Les plages sont pleines de monde Et moi, je suis dans mon lit Et je rêve de l’automne C’est l’automne Les feuilles tombent Les jours sont courts La température change Il fait frais Et moi, je suis dans mon lit Et je rêve de l’hiver

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LE BISTRO DES ANIMAUX : QU’EST-CE QUI SE PASSE APRÈS ?

St. Anthony TEACHER: Milly Crescenzi SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 ad 8 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Milly Crescenzi UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Liz Stuart

LAUREN MASON

and

JULIA TUDOR

PERSONNAGES :

LE NARRATEUR GRAND ÉLÉPHANT BEAU LION MME. SOURIS CHAT ANGORA LOUIS ALICE L’ALLIGATOR

NARRATEUR :

Dans cette histoire, Grand Éléphant, Beau Lion et Mme. Souris travaillent au café ensemble. Ils dansent, chantent, et font de la cuisine avec Alice l’Alligator. Tout à coup, Chat Angora, le fameux détective, entre dans le café.

CHAT ANGORA :

Est-ce que je peux avoir un peu de jus de raisin, s’il vous plait ? Je suis en retard pour aller au travail.

NARRATEUR :

Tous les animaux veulent l’aider parce qu’il est fameux. Alors ils se disputent et se battent pour donner le jus de raisin à Chat Angora. Il y a beaucoup de bruit quand Grand Éléphant, Beau Lion et Mme. Souris se battent.

ALICE L’ALLIGATOR :

Il y a un problème, Louis. Les animaux se battent et se disputent, encore ! Qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire ?

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LOUIS :

Je ne sais pas … (Il pense un peu.) Oh ! Je sais ! Les animaux peuvent participer à une compétition pour savoir qui va donner le jus de raisin à Chat Angora.

ALICE L’ALLIGATOR :

Bonne idée, Louis ! On va commencer la compétition dans 15 minutes.

NARRATEUR :

Après 15 minutes, les animaux commencent la compétition. Ils doivent prendre un verre de jus et courir 50 m et puis retourner.

LOUIS :

Bienvenue à la course ! Vous devez courir 50 m et puis retourner. L’animal qui gagne la compétition va donner le jus à Chat Angora. Alors, commencez !

(BEAU LION, GRAND ÉLÉPHANT et MME. SOURIS commencent à courir très vite d’un côté de la cuisine à l’autre pendant que le NARRATEUR parle.) NARRATEUR :

Mais, les animaux ne savent pas que Louis et Alice ont déjà donné le jus de raisin à Chat Angora. Les animaux commencent la compétition. Quand ils finissent, Alice l’Alligator prend la parole.

ALICE L’ALLIGATOR :

Il y a égalité !

NARRATEUR :

Grand Éléphant, Beau Lion et Mme. Souris sont choqués !

LOUIS :

(Il rejoint les animaux.) J’ai déjà donné du jus de raisin à Chat Angora. Je n’aime pas voir que vous vous battez et vous vous disputez.

BEAU LION, GRAND ÉLÉPHANT, MME. SOURIS : Désolé, Louis, Alice, et Chat Angora. Nous sommes très fous, de se bagarrer seulement pour donner du jus. CHAT ANGORA :

Ça va, mais je dois aller au travail. Au revoir, mais je vais essayer de venir souvent pour boire quelque chose !

TOUS LES ANIMAUX :

Ça va ! À bientôt !

La fin !

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LES MOUCHOIRS

St. Cyril TEACHER: Hélène Lavertu SCHOOL:

Elementary Grades 7 and 8 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Denise Wales UNIT: Toronto Elementary UNIT PRESIDENT: Mario Bernardo by

CATHERINE LI

Ah … ah … ah … TCHOUM ! Ah, grâce à Dieu, j’ai un mouchoir. Mais chers juges, professeurs et élèves, d’où viennent les mouchoirs ? Qui a inventé cette nécessité de la vie ? Et pourquoi est-ce que tout le monde dit « Kleenex » au lieu de « mouchoir en papier » ? On ne sait pas exactement d’où proviennent les mouchoirs mais le premier signe d’un mouchoir civilisé est au Japon, au neuvième siècle. Les Japonais nobles portaient des mouchoirs blancs faits de soie à la ceinture pour se moucher. En France, au Moyen Âge, se moucher dans un mouchoir, plutôt que dans ses mains ou ses vêtements, était un signe de noblesse. Apparemment, seulement les nobles avaient de l’argent pour acheter quelque chose spécifiquement désigné pour se moucher. Les mouchoirs primitifs avaient d’autres utilisations aussi. On a, par exemple, le cas de Henri de La Rochejaquelein, qui était le général de l’armée dans une des guerres de Vendée en 1793. Général de la Rochejaquelein portait des mouchoirs blancs sur son chapeau, sur sa poitrine et sur son côté pour que ses hommes puissent mieux le reconnaître. En 1924, la compagnie Américaine Kimberly-Clark a mis sur le marché un produit qui a changé le monde : le Kleenex. Au début, le Kleenex a été annoncé comme un moyen d’enlever la crème ou encore le maquillage. En 1926, Kimberly-Clark a changé sa publicité pour Kleenex comme moyen de se moucher après qu’un journal a montré que 60% des lecteurs et plusieurs consommateurs ont dit qu’ils utilisaient le Kleenex pour se moucher. Les ventes Kleenex ont doublé immédiatement. Aujourd’hui, les boîtes de Kleenex sont vendues dans plus de 175 pays et Kleenex est le meneur mondial dans le

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marché des mouchoirs dans plus de 80 pays. En fait, Kleenex est tellement populaire et utilisé partout que le nom de la marque est devenu le mot pour désigner « le mouchoir en papier ». Quand on dit le mot « mouchoir », presque tout le monde pense au fameux « Kleenex ». Mais le mouchoir fait de tissu peut être utilisé pour d’autres raisons. En France, le mouchoir peut être utilisé comme décoration dans la poche d’une veste ou autour du cou. Dans ce cas, ça s’appelle un « mouchoir de col ». Bien sûr, le mouchoir peut aussi être utilisé pour dire au revoir quand vous l’agitez doucement. Les Kleenex sont fabriqués d’écorce traitée, appelée « pulpe », dans des usines. La pulpe est mélangée avec l’eau et, après que l’eau est enlevée, la pulpe est roulée dans un grand rouleau. Deux rouleaux sont compressés ensemble si on veut un mouchoir à deux plis. Les mouchoirs sont ensuite coupés et emballés. Un seul mouchoir prend trois mois à se biodégrader et 70% des familles utilisent des mouchoirs. De plus, trop d’énergie et d’électricité sont utilisés chaque fois que des boîtes de mouchoirs sont fabriquées. Nous avons un très grave problème entre les mains. Comme cela prend 90 ans pour croitre la quantité d’arbres nécessaires pour fabriquer une seule boîte de Kleenex, chaque fois que vous vous mouchez, des tas d’arbres dans des forêts anciennes sont détruits. Heureusement, les progrès technologiques nous permettent de fabriquer des mouchoirs composés de matériaux recyclés aujourd’hui. Maintenant que vous savez tout à propos des mouchoirs, j’espère que vous allez apprécier et choisir vos types de mouchoirs judicieusement ! BIBLIOGRAPHIE: http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mouchoir#Origines http://inventors.about.com/od/kstartinventions/a/Kleenex.htm http://www.consoglobe.com/mouchoir-papier-montre-doigt-2694-cg http://interbrand.com/en/best-global-brands/2013/Kleenex http://thedailygreen.com/going-green/tips/recycled-facial-tissues http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/28/business/media/researching-the-sneeze-andhow-to-handle-it.html?_r=1& http://www.kleenex.be/fr/faq.html http://www.lifegoggles.com/1474/it-takes-90-years-to-grow-a-box-of-kleenex/

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LA COULEUR D’AMOUR

SCHOOL:

Bishop Alexander Carter TEACHER: Rachel Emond

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Marah Pardoe UNIT: Sudbury Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: Dan Charbonneau by

SHANLEIGH BROSSEAU

À Rosedell, le jour de la Saint-Valentin est le jour le plus important de l’année. À ta naissance, tu reçois un collier à placer autour de ton cou avec un demi-cœur pendant. Ton cœur est rose au début et devient plus rouge avec chaque Saint-Valentin qui passe, et aussi lorsque tu rencontres ton partenaire de vie, quand vos cœurs vont ensemble parfaitement. J’ai toujours été un peu bizarre par rapport à mes camarades de classe, parce que mon cœur était gris. Mes grands-parents m’ont amené chez le médecin pour savoir pourquoi mon cœur s’est transformé au gris. C’était peu de temps après le mort de mes parents. Les médecins m’ont dit que c’était gris car j’avais un cœur brisé. Je marchais devant le calendrier lorsque j’ai vu un grand cœur rouge dessiné autour de la date. C’était un rappel qu’aujourd’hui était le 14 février, mon jour le moins préféré de l’année. J’ai regardé et froncé mes sourcils au collier autour de mon cou. C’était un demi-cœur gris. J’ai remarqué qu’il devenait de plus en plus gris depuis l’année dernière. Chaque année, presque tous les cœurs de mes camarades de classe sont devenus plus rouges car ils ont trouvé leur quelqu’un spécial. Ce fut difficile de vivre à Rosedell quand tout le monde avait des cœurs roses et rouges et j’étais la seule avec un cœur gris. Ma grand-mère était assise dans le salon, derrière un livre. J’ai ouvert la porte d’entrée espérant de me faufiler dehors sans être remarquée. « Chérie, les crêpes sont sur la table » elle m’a dit, son visage mince surgissant derrière son livre. J’ai poussé un soupir.

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« Merci, mais je n’ai pas faim. » À l’époque, mon père faisait toujours des crêpes en forme de cœur le jour de la SaintValentin et cette tradition était pratiquement la raison pour laquelle je détestais les crêpes ! Elle baissa le livre et le posa sur ses genoux. À côté d’elle sur le mur était un cœur encadré. Nous avions collé les deux moitiés des cœurs de mes parents ensemble après leur mort et leur cœur est resté rouge brillant. C’était vraiment de l’amour ! « Je te souhaite une belle journée à l’école » m’a dit ma grand-mère. Son sourire a disparu quand elle a vu que mon collier été caché sous ma chemise. En chemin vers l’école, il a commencé à pleuvoir. Un jeune garçon et une jeune fille couraient devant moi en se tenant la main et en riant. Ils jouaient et sautaient dans les flaques d’eau. Les colliers autour de leurs cous étaient roses. Je levais les yeux pour voir un garçon de mon âge en train de marcher à côté de moi. Son visage était très familier. C’était le garçon de mon cours de science, mais je ne me suis jamais rendue compte qu’il était si beau. Je remarquais quelque chose de particulier chez lui. Je regardais le cœur autour de son cou. Son demi-cœur était gris comme le mien ! Soudainement, j’ai glissé sur une flaque d’eau et tombé par terre. Il s’est dépêché tout de suite vers moi. « Es-tu d’accord ? » il m’a offert sa main pour m’aider à mes pieds. J’ai pris sa main et me levais. « Je suis bien » je bégayais. « Je suis Clay » son visage rougissait. « Je m’appelle Ellie. Veux-tu marcher à l’école avec moi ? » je lui ai demandé. Il a hoché la tête lentement. Le silence me faisait anxieux. « Merci de m’avoir aidé » je lui ai dit avec un sourire. Il jouait avec son demi-cœur. « Ton cœur est gris aussi » il a dit soudainement. « Il a été gris aussi longtemps que je m’en souvienne » j’ai répondu. « As-tu un parapluie ? » il a souri légèrement. J’ai secoué la tête. « Nous n’allons pas fondre » je riais un peu. « Pourquoi est-ce que le tien est gris ? » je lui ai demandé.

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C’était à ce moment qu’il m’a expliqué que lorsqu’il avait cinq ans, son cœur a simplement commencer à grisonner, peu de temps avant la mort de ses parents. C’était vraiment difficile pour lui de faire des amis. Nous continuons à pied. Nos vêtements étaient trempés de pluie. « J’ai été malade pendant un certain temps » a t’il dit soudainement. Je l’ai regardé confuse. « Quand j’avais cinq ans » il a dit, « j’ai été diagnostiqué d’une insuffisance cardiaque et mon cœur a tourné complètement gris. » « Je suis désolé » j’ai dit doucement. Mon cœur a coulé. Je n’ai jamais été à l’aise avec des excuses ou des mots de sympathie. « Je suis désolé pour tes parents aussi » il a dit, « je n’ai jamais eu beaucoup d’amis non plus » en fronçant les sourcils. Je pouvais sentir l’attraction entre nous. C’était presque magnétique. Je me suis rendu compte de la corrélation entre la couleur de nos cœurs. Nous avions le même âge quand nos cœurs ont changé de couleur. Quand il a été diagnostiqué de la maladie, mon cœur est devenu gris. Le plus malade qu’il était, le plus que mon cœur brisait et le plus foncé devenait nos cœurs. Soudainement, une expression de douleur a envahi le visage de Clay. Il est tombé par terre. J’ai tenu sa main, qui a été placé sur son cœur. Son cœur se rétrécissait dans la paume de ma main et la moitié qui pendait de mon collier devenait de plus en plus sombre. Il y avait de la boue étalée sur la côté de son visage et sur ses vêtements. Je l’ai embrassé. Quand mes lèvres ont pressé sur les siennes, son cœur a commencé à virer au rouge. J’ai pris sa moitié et l’a attaché à la mienne. Ils s’emboitaient parfaitement ! Soudainement, la pluie a cessé et le ciel est devenu bleu. À ce moment, nous avons réalisé que c’était l’amour. Il a pris mes mains dans ses mains. « Les personnes seules forment le meilleur type d’amour parce que nous avons le plus d’amour à donner » il a dit en souriant. J’ai placé mes mains autour de mon cœur gris. Je sentais la chaleur dans ma main et j’ai regardé mon cœur. C’était rouge brillant !

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DES BARRIÈRES BRÛLANTES

Mary Ward TEACHER: Eric Démoré SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Pamela Spearns UNIT: Toronto Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: René Jansen in de Wal by

NAOMI NICOLE MARRON

Il était une fois un monde Fait de sept milliards de villes Chaque ville était unique Chaque ville avait des défauts Chaque ville était belle, mais pas toutes ne sont convenues Chaque ville était entourée par un mur imposant Certaines étaient faites de boue, de brique qui s’éboule D’autres de marbre étincelant Personne déjà ne semblait sentir des trésors Cachés dans les murs Le plus souvent Les villes avec des murs en terre — couvertes Ils contenaient toutes les merveilles du monde Et le plus souvent Les villes dont les murs brillaient comme des diamants Étaient aussi ennuyeuses que possible Mais personne ne semblait sentir Tout ce qu’ils semblaient voir Tout ce qu’ils semblaient voir Étaient les murs

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Naturellement, les cités de marbre se collent ensemble Mais les villes de boue ont été évitées Jamais appréciées Jamais aimées Toujours en morceaux Toujours peureuses Peur du monde dans lequel elles se trouvaient Ces villes — ce monde — n’est pas parfait Et ne le sera jamais Pas jusqu’à ce qu’elles Brûlent les murs trompeurs Donc je suis assise ici en attente patiente Torche à la main Avec la foi que nous serons prêts Pour une fin à ce monde de murs Et la naissance d’un monde de trésors Le jour où le feu arrivera Sera le jour quand nous allons connaître finalement L’espoir La paix L’harmonie L’inclusivité Et l’égalité Parce que nous allons enfin savoir Les trésors de ces villes

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LES DIFFICULTÉS D’AVOIR UNE GRAND-MÈRE

Loretto Abbey TEACHER: Anthony Tommasone SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Cosmo Femia UNIT: Toronto Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: René Jansen in de Wal by

JULIA JACQUELINE SWIST

LE SCÉNARIO ET LE PROBLÈME Christine veut aller au magasin pour acheter des billets pour le concert des Amitiés, mais sa grand-mère lui rend visite. Alors, Christine doit trouver une façon de convaincre sa grand-mère d’aller acheter ses billets. LES PERSONNAGES HÉLÈNE : La grand-mère JULIE : La mère CHRISTINE : La petite-fille LE SERVEUR LA RÉSOLUTION Hélène a déjà acheté des billets pour Christine. LE DIALOGUE HÉLÈNE :

Bonjour, tout le monde !

JULIE :

Salut Maman, quelle surprise ! Je voudrais passer du temps avec toi, mais je dois aller au travail … Alors, Christine va t’accompagner.

CHRISTINE :

Mais Maman, je dois acheter mes billets aujourd’hui ! Tu sais que si je ne les achète pas maintenant, je n’aurai pas d’autre chance !

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HÉLÈNE :

Oh, comme tu dramatises ! Tu sais que je suis vieille et qu’un jour je vous laisserai tout seules sur cette planète, peut-être même aujourd’hui. Mais si les billets sont plus importants que ta grand-mère …

CHRISTINE :

Les billets ne seront jamais plus importants que toi, sauf que je voulais tellement aller au concert !

HÉLÈNE :

Peut-être que nous pouvons acheter les billets plus tard, s’ils sont tellement importants.

CHRISTINE :

Oh, merci mille fois !

(Pendant quelque minutes, CHRISTINE parle à sa grand-mère et lui montre des photos dans l’album familial. Mais plus tard, CHRISTINE devient un peu impatiente et elle essaie de convaincre sa grand-mère de quitter la maison.) CHRISTINE :

On a vu trop de photos ! Je pense que c’est bien temps de sortir respirer l’air frais. On pourrait aller au parc, ou peut-être au magasin qui vend mes billets ?

HÉLÈNE :

Plus tard ! On a encore beaucoup de temps. Je veux premièrement regarder toutes les photos dans l’album. Oh, cette photo était quand …

CHRISTINE :

Je suis allée chez tant Marie et j’ai brisé son meilleur vase à fleurs. Est-ce qu’on peut acheter mes billets maintenant ?

HÉLÈNE :

Non, je dois encore prendre le petit déjeuner.

CHRISTINE :

Il est déjà midi !

HÉLÈNE :

Comme le temps passe rapidement ! Ça ne fait rien, je vais prendre le déjeuner maintenant.

CHRISTINE :

Si tu veux, on peut déjeuner au restaurant Toujours Gourmet au centre commercial. Après, on pourra même acheter mes billets.

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HÉLÈNE :

Christine pour une fois, tu as raison ! De plus, parce que tu veux aller, tu peux payer l’addition pour ta grand-mère que tu aimes tellement.

CHRISTINE :

Quoi ?! Je dois payer une autre fois ?! Chaque fois que tu me visites, tu trouves une autre façon de dépenser mon argent. Je m’en fiche de toutes tes demandes !

HÉLÈNE :

Comment peux-tu parler comme cela à ta grand-mère qui peut …

CHRISTINE :

Mourir un jour ?! Un de ses jours, je vais devenir folle !

HÉLÈNE :

Tu n’es pas folle, mais tu n’es pas vraiment gentille …

CHRISTINE :

Comme tu es gentille avec tes compliments ! Tu es comme un ange, grand-mère !

HÉLÈNE :

Oui, je suis même trop gentille !

(Plus tard, CHRISTINE et HÉLÈNE arrivent à Toujours Gourmet au centre commercial. Après qu’elles ont commandé, HÉLÈNE parle avec LE SERVEUR.) HÉLÈNE :

Monsieur, vous êtes un bel homme ! Peut-être que vous voudriez le numéro de téléphone cellulaire de ma petite-fille ? Elle est vraiment intelligente, c’est triste que les garçons pensent qu’elle est laide. Personne ne l’a même invitée au bal des lycéens ! Mais, cela ne fait rien, elle a quand même des qualités aimables … n’est-ce pas ?

CHRISTINE :

Grand-mère ! Arrête cela, c’est très gênant !

(HÉLÈNE écrit le numéro téléphone de sa petite-fille sur une serviette et la donne au SERVEUR, qui rit.) SERVEUR :

Madame, vous êtes drôle !

HÉLÈNE :

Christine, voilà ! Il aime s’amuser, pas comme toi ! Vraiment, tu devrais apprendre comment t’amuser, ce n’est pas un crime d’aider ta petite-fille à trouver quelqu’un qui pourrait l’aimer.

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CHRISTINE :

Grand-mère ! Je pense que je vais mourir, je me sens tellement humiliée.

(Pendant que CHRISTINE se plaint du comportement de sa grand-mère, HÉLÈNE est en train de montrer des photos gênantes de CHRISTINE au SERVEUR.) HÉLÈNE :

Oh attends, je vais vous montrer une photo de Christine quand elle a pris son premier bain, ça va prendre seulement une minute …

CHRISTINE :

Grand-mère, c’est assez ! On doit aller acheter mes billets.

HÉLÈNE :

Mais pourquoi est-ce qu’on doit aller acheter les billets quand je les ai déjà achetés hier soir ?

CHRISTINE :

Quoi ?!

HÉLÈNE :

Tu ne me crois pas ? Je vais te montrer … les voilà !

CHRISTINE :

Tu as déjà acheté les billets ! Pourquoi n’as-tu rien dit auparavant ?!

(HÉLÈNE commence à rire bruyamment.) HÉLÈNE :

Je voulais passer un peu de temps avec toi ! Tu sais que je suis vieille et que je pourrais mourir à n’importe quel moment. De plus, je voulais m’amuser un peu ! Tes réactions pendant la journée étaient rigoleuses et les grands-mères ont le droit de s’amuser avec leurs familles.

CHRISTINE :

Tous ses efforts gaspillés pour que ma grand-mère puisse s’amuser ?!

FIN

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IL EST TEMPS POUR UN CHANGEMENT: LE CANADA COMME RÉPUBLIQUE

Bishop Allen Academy TEACHER: Martin Clough

SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 9 and 10 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Andrew MacDonald UNIT: Toronto Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: René Jansen in de Wal by

JAMES TY

L’histoire du Canada est très mouvementée : commençant par les colonies britanniques et français au XVIème siècle, nous avons combattu aux guerres, surmonté nos difficultés et écarté nos différences pour établir un pays impressionnant — un pays canadien. Il est important de reconnaître notre histoire avec le système monarchique britannique. Il est sûr que la monarchie nous ramène à notre héritage mémorable, mais à quel point devons-nous continuer avec ces traditions anciennes ? Je crois qu’il est temps que le Canada lâche la main de la monarchie et devient une république, pour le bien commun de notre société et pour développer notre fierté et indépendance comme nation. Aujourd’hui, le Canada est un pays diffèrent et changeant, au niveau de sa géographie et de sa culture. Chaque jour, nous accueillons de nouveaux immigrants et notre multiculturalisme est démontré dans nos grandes villes, comme à Toronto et à Vancouver. Il est évident à travers de notre société que nous sommes une nation indépendante. Nous avons nos propres traditions maintenant, donc pourquoi comptonsnous encore sur le rôle du monarque et du gouvernement en général ? Comme le souligne Michael Bliss, « Les vestiges devraient être conservés dans les musées, et non utilisés tous les jours sur le marché, où ils ternissent, rouillent et deviennent sales » (Bliss 97). De plus, la majorité des Canadiens ne valorisent pas la monarchie ni la couronne. Notre pays est tellement culturellement divers et unique que nous n’avons plus besoin de ces liens avec le gouvernement britannique.

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Pendant des siècles, la monarchie a été un symbole au Canada, mais il est clair que « les Canadiens tiennent beaucoup plus à la Charte des droits, à leur drapeau et à une demi-douzaine d’autres symboles qu’à la famille royale » (Bliss 97). Henry N. R. Jackman dit que « c’est la monarchie qui symbolise l’équilibre des pouvoirs au sein de la société » et qu’elle « incarne le cadre constitutionnel de nos libertés, l’ensemble des croyances et des attitudes de tolérance » (Jackman 96), mais est-ce vraiment la vérité ? Si on examine profondement le système de monarchie au Canada, une injustice parfois cachée est démontrée aux croyances de nous, les Canadiens. Premièrement, le fait que les Canadiens ne peuvent jamais élire leur propre chef d’État est dérangeant et s’oppose à notre droit électoral. Deuxièmement, la famille royale britannique discerne des titres à certains individus, les classant au-dessus des autres citoyens, ce qui est la discrimination classiste. Troisièmement, la famille royale utilise un système qui passe la couronne toujours aux hommes ensuite aux femmes, ce qui démontre de la discrimination entre les sexes. Oui, c’est « la tradition » mais est-ce que cela correspond à nos croyances et à nos libertés inscrites dans notre propre Charte canadienne des droits et libertés ? En conclusion, la monarchie au Canada est inutile. Elle est en fait le contraire de nos valeurs, croyances et droits aujourd’hui. Il est bien le temps pour un changement et la suggestion d’un referendum présenté par Michael Bliss est une bonne idée. Nous devons avoir la chance d’élire notre propre chef d’État, donc une république démocratique est le bon chemin pour la future.

BIBLIOGRAPHIE Bliss, M. « Est-il temps pour le Canada de rompre les liens avec la monarchie ? » Guide de l’enseignant : La citoyenneté – Responsabilité, démocratie et engagement. Montréal : Chenelière Éducation, 2001. Jackman, H.N.R. « À la défense de la monarchie. » Guide de l’enseignant : La citoyenneté – Responsabilité, démocratie et engagement. Montréal : Chenelière Éducation, 2001.

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LE PIANO MÉCANIQUE

St. Robert TEACHER: Nancy Torresan SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Short Story

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Denis Zmak UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Liz Stuart by

LORETA SINN

Après avoir couru à ma chambre, je haletais fortement en ouvrant la porte. J’ai essayé de faire taire les hurlements venant d’en bas et les bourdonnements dans mes oreilles. Je les ai couvertes en essayant frénétiquement d’empêcher les bruits d’y entrer. J’ai couru vers mon lit et je me suis caché sous les couvertures. Mais, le son continuait à résonner à travers la chambre comme s’il ricochait sur les murs. Je pouvais sentir les larmes se formant et coulant, une par une. J’étais effrayé, mais où est-ce que je l’avais mis ? J’étais sûr qu’il était là … Alors, mes yeux se sont fixés sur le piano cristallin et noir qui était centré au milieu de ma chambre. C’était bizarre de le dire mais mon piano avait la capacité de m’enlever de la réalité et de contrôler le temps avec des chansons. Je pouvais revivre des expériences et des souvenirs passés. J’ai trébuché vers le piano et ensuite, je me suis écroulé sur son tabouret. Avec ma main droite, j’ai touché l’extérieur en granit qui était froid et lisse en déplaçant l’autre sur les touches noires et blanches. J’ai ouvert une boîte à côté du piano et j’ai sorti un livre bleu qui était attaché par des rubans jaunes et semblait avoir survécu une guerre. Il avait perdu sa couverture, avait été gribouillé, et avait été tâché par le café. Cependant, c’était mon livre préféré, qui m’avait été donné par mon professeur de piano. Je l’ai placé devant moi et j’ai feuilleté les pages jusqu’à ce que j’en aie trouvé une avec une note rouge. J’ai préparé mes doigts sur les touches en me concentrant sur les vieilles pages froissées du livre. Finalement, j’ai commencé à jouer.

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J’ai joué un accord majeur et j’ai entendu le son résonner. Soudainement, les images lumineuses des requins et des hippocampes se sont écroulées et ont glissé sans bût sur le parquet. Leurs queues se balançaient d’un côté à l’autre et créaient des ondulations comme des vagues qui disparaissaient peu après sans bruit. Je me suis rappelé le jour où mon père m’avait amené à l’aquarium qui avait été construit près de ma pâtisserie préférée. L’aquarium était plein de touristes portant leurs appareils photos autour de leurs cous. J’avais mis mon visage contre le verre froid qui remplissait la pièce avec des lumières bleues. Des poissons clowns, des hippocampes, et de grands requins blancs courraient et se cachaient parmi des récifs coralliens pendant que mon père riait et tenait la main de ma mère dans la sienne. L’eau continuait de se déverser du piano jusqu’à ce qu’elle ait complètement couvert le sol de bleu et d’argent. Mon esprit était entièrement vide de pensées négatives, tant que la dernière goutte d’eau est tombée sur le fond de l’océan. J’ai recommencé à jouer et mes doigts ont frénétiquement remué pendant que le son entourait la chambre. J’ai levé les yeux et j’ai vu des colombes blanches qui volaient avec grâce au-dessus-de ma tête. Elles m’encerclaient et quelques-unes de leurs plumes moelleuses tombaient sur le sol. Je m’inquiétais qu’elles frapperaient leurs becs contre le mur mais elles l’ont franchi sans problèmes. Tout à coup, le plafond a été teint par des bleus merveilleux comme s’il s’était ouvert pour montrer toutes les étoiles et les constellations dehors. Je me suis rappelé le jour où mon père m’avait surpris avec un voyage aux quais quand il m’avait laissé monter à bord de son bateau. J’étais étonné par les sons des vagues, par les klaxons des bateaux de croisières, et par les cris des muettes qui se battaient pour des morceaux de pain. La nuit, mon père et moi, nous nous étions reposés sur les couvertures et avions regardé le ciel étoilé. Ce jour-là, c’était la première fois que j’ai regardé la Grande Ours et le Chasseur. À mon piano, j’ai poussé la pédale d’or et ma dernière note a été maintenue. Le temps et le mouvement se sont arrêtés. J’ai regardé la lune avec mon père qui riait près de moi comme si rien n’allait changer depuis ce moment-là. Je pouvais compter combien d’étoiles avaient apparu dans le ciel et je faisais des vœux pendant la pluie d’étoiles filantes. Ayant arrêté le temps, je pouvais voir quelques météores que j’avais manqués. J’ai tendu mes bras en essayant de toucher la plus grande étoile, qui était située à côté du Chasseur — « Mathéo ! » J’ai violemment frissonné quand mon nom a été appelé. Puis, j’ai entendu un claquement et un craquement fort contre le mur. Des fentes ont commencé à se former et grandir dans le ciel. Les colombes sont tombées dans l’eau en créant des éclaboussures

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fortes pendant que les requins plongeaient dans les abysses de la mer où ils disparaissaient. Le ciel a commencé à s’assombrir lorsque les étoiles et la lune ont disparu derrière les nuages orageux jusqu’à ce que je n’aie plus pu voir le visage de mon père s’allongeant à côté de moi. Ensuite, le ciel s’est complètement effondré en se bouleversant comme des éclats de verre et en révélant le parquet banal et les murs incolores de ma chambre. J’ai ouvert les yeux et j’ai vu mon père s’appuyant sur ma porte d’une main et de l’autre tenant une bouteille de vin. Le dernier accord que je jouais a disparu dès que j’ai enlevé mes mains tremblantes du piano. Le silence a sinistrement rempli la chambre à l’exception des souffles courts qui s’échappaient de ma bouche et des coups de gosiers qui me descendaient à la gorge. Il a lancé un regard furieux vers moi et j’ai remarqué qu’il avait des cernes sous les yeux qui étaient violets et gonflés. J’ai avalé avec difficulté. « Toi » a-t’il dit en état d’ivresse, son souffle relâchant une mauvaise odeur. « Arrête de jouer cette musique incessante. C’est ennuyeux. Et où est ta mère ? Elle a promis de rentrer dans une minute mais c’est déjà l’heure de dîner. » J’ai prudemment reculé du piano en baissant mes yeux au sol. Alors, j’ai décidé. Cela devrait s’arrêter. « Papa » ai-je dit. Ma voix ressemblait à un couinement faible malgré l’intention de montrer ma puissance et mon courage. Je lui ai donné la photo de ma mère souriante qui restait sur ma table de chevet. Mes mains tremblaient. « Maman est … » j’ai essayé de retenir mes larmes et parler fortement. « Maman est morte. » Nous sommes restés debout pendant un moment en se regardant l’un l’autre. Les yeux de Papa étaient débordés de colère et confusion en essayant de comprendre ce que j’avais dit. Enfin, il a jeté la bouteille de vin par terre. Elle s’est fracassée en brisures pendant que le vin s’est renversé sur le sol en créant une flaque rouge. « Qu’est-ce que tu as dit ? »

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Il s’en est pris à moi en boitant vers moi avec ses poings si serrés que j’ai vu ses veines. « Je t’ose de le redire ! » a-t’il dit. J’ai essayé de rester immobile et de garder le contact visuel bien que mon esprit et mon corps m’aient ordonné de fuir. Cependant, j’avais besoin de sauver le père qui m’avait aimé une fois, qui m’avait acheté des crèmes glacées, et qui avait eu des sourires plus brillants que le soleil. Avant que l’accident soit passé, mon père, ma mère et moi, nous partions souvent de la maison et nous faisions de la randonnée et du camping. Je me suis rappelé qu’il avait promis de ne plus boire d’alcool ni fumer parce que ma mère le détestait. À ce moment-là, sa peau bronzée est devenue pale mortelle comme un fantôme qui était piègé entre le paradis et l’enfer. Son esprit vigoureux a été remplacé par des cernes sous les yeux et un cœur faible. Il était une créature pitoyable qui avait désespérément conservé sa vie sans la personne qu’il aimait le plus. J’étais un symbole de leur amour mais jusqu’ici, j’étais un rappel douloureux de cela. Néanmoins, ça ne me touchait pas tant que je pourrais revoir son sourire. « Tu ne te rappelles pas, Papa ? » ai-je dit. « Tu ne te rappelles pas l’accident ? Nous devons en parler car je veux t’aider. Je sais que Maman a été très importante pour toi, et pour moi aussi — » J’ai été interrompu quand il a soudainement apparu devant moi. Il mesurait quelques centimètres plus grands que moi, donc je devais lever les yeux pour le voir. La lumière du plafond a jeté une ombre menaçante sur son visage. « Qu’est-ce que tu sais ? » a crié Papa. « Rien ! » Il m’a poussé sur le sol. Je suis tombé dans les éclats de verre de la bouteille de vin que mon père avait jetée. J’ai senti une douleur vive dans les bras. J’ai soulevé les manches de mon chandail et j’ai vu de nouvelles égratignures se formant au-dessus des anciennes que mon père avait causées avant. En me regardant avec mépris, il a écrasé le piano avec un coup de poing en détruisant son mécanisme. « Non ! » ai-je crié. « Pourquoi est-ce que tu l’as, pourtant ? » a dit Papa. Il a ramassé les morceaux cassés et les a jetés.

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« Pourquoi est-ce que tu me tortures avec la musique qu’Ava jouait pour moi ? » Il s’est tourné et a claqué la porte derrière lui pour se débarrasser de sa colère avec une autre bouteille d’alcool. Je me suis efforcé de me lever et je me suis dépêché vers le piano avec l’énergie qui me restait. « Peut-être qu’il fonctionne encore » ai-je pensé, plein d’espoir. Assis sur le tabouret du piano, j’ai placé mes doigts égratignés sur les touches. J’ai fermé les yeux et j’ai commencé à jouer le reste de la chanson en imaginant un monde calme rempli de souvenirs d’une famille heureuse. Cependant, mon rêve s’est immédiatement envolé en éclats quand j’ai entendu un son laid échapper du piano. Mon esprit était complètement rempli d’obscurité pendant que je jouais chaque touche pour trouver l’une bien accordé. Les battements de mon cœur sont devenus aussi forts et aussi rapides que le son affreux réverbérait sur les murs. Effrayé, j’ai ouvert les yeux et j’ai regardé fixement en terreur au noir de ma chambre. Le plafond était un ciel noir sans lumières ni constellations. Le parquet était plein d’une écarlate effrayante comme un océan de sang. J’ai secoué la tête en essayant d’oublier l’accident de voiture qui s’était passé il y avait un an. Il pleuvait et nous courions pour prendre l’autobus. Ma mère avait glissé sur une flaque d’eau en courant sur le passage piéton au même temps que le feu rouge avait changé à jaune. Mon père avait seulement le temps de se tourner et de voir la voiture jeter le corps de Maman au-dessus du pare-brise. Quand la voiture s’était arrêtée, ma mère était immobile dans une flaque de sang. Le lendemain aux funérailles, c’était la première fois que j’avais vu les yeux furieux de mon père. Le plancher rouge était couvert de morceaux verts entourant mon tabouret de piano. Je me suis rappelé le jour où mon père était retourné chez nous du bar avec une bouteille de bière et un portefeuille vide. Quand j’avais refusé de lui donner de l’argent, il m’avait frappé. Je n’oublierais jamais la douleur. J’ai arrêté de jouer du piano. L’obscurité a immédiatement disparu en révélant le sol moquette et les murs nus. Je me suis écroulée dans mon lit et j’ai commencé à pleurer sachant que la seule façon de toucher au bonheur avait été détruite. Mon père ne m’amènerait plus à l’aquarium. Il ne m’amènerait plus aux quais pour nous reposer sur des couvertures douces et regarder les étoiles. Mon père et moi, nous serions séparés pour toujours parce que ma mère avait été la ficelle qui nous attachait ensemble.

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L’AMOUREUSE

Mary Ward TEACHER: Jennifer Wisniowski SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Poem

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Pamela Spearns UNIT: Toronto Secondary UNIT PRESIDENT: René Jansen in de Wal by

MELANIE KESHISHI

Un poème dédié à Cosette, écrit par Marius Un doux baiser que l’on a partagé Et nos cœurs ont chaviré. Nous avons lentement réalisé Que ce jour sera pour nous Le début d’un grand amour. Un merveilleux jour que nous avons passé ensemble Montre que nos destins se rassemblent, Tu es la seule qui me fait sentir de cette manière Et tu ne cesseras jamais de m’en satisfaire. Ton charme, ta beauté, ta délicatesse Des raisons de plus pour t’appeler ma princesse. Tes yeux de couleur verte et bleue Qui brillent toujours comme un feu, Tes cheveux blonds et doux Me tournent la tête au point d’en devenir fou. Tout ce que je veux est de te prendre dans mes bras Te montrer que tout ce qui compte dans ce monde est toi.

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Ta présence est devenue pour moi primordiale Et chaque moment en absence de toi est infernal. Même dans les moments plus durs, Notre amour toujours perdure. Tu es ma vie dans un individu Sans toi, tout serai corrompu. Ces instants en or Que nous partageons Sont et resteront Pour nous Les plus beaux des trésors. -Marius

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SOLITAIRE

St. Robert TEACHER: Nancy Torresan SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Play

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Denis Zmak UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Liz Stuart by

MOLLY CONG

Une famille prend le dîner ensemble. MAMAN :

Comment vas-tu ?

FILLE :

Très bien ! Le mois dernier, j’ai rédigé une dissertation pour mon cours d’anglais et mon professeur veut la soumettre dans un concours.

MAMAN :

Je suis tellement heureuse pour toi. Je suis fière de toi aussi. Tu es notre enfant la plus talentueuse. (Regarde soudainement le garçon.) Je m’excuse. J’ai oublié que tu étais là.

GARÇON :

(Marmonne) Ça va. J’ai de bonnes nouvelles à te dire aussi.

MAMAN :

Eh bien. Peux-tu attendre jusqu’à ce que nous débarrassions la table ?

GARÇON :

(Abattu) Bien sûr.

La table desservie, le garçon reste seul dans la salle à manger. FILLE :

(Sa voix entendue des escaliers) Maman, j’ai un grand rendezvous demain. Peux-tu m’aider à choisir une tenue ?

La mére et la fille montent les escaliers.

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GARÇON :

(À personne) Maman, j’ai gagné l’Expo-sciences. S’il te plait, sois fière de moi.

Le lendemain, à l’école, le garçon cherche son ami pour l’inviter à regarder un film avec lui après l’école. GARÇON :

Alors, veux-tu ?

AMI :

(Timidement) Le film ? Je suis désolé, mais je l’ai déjà vu. JeanMarc et Philippe m’avaient demandé le week-end passé donc je viens de le voir avec eux. Il était bon, tu devras le voir. En fait, je viens de me rappeler, ils m’ont demandé de déjeuner avec eux. Ça ne te dérange pas ?

GARÇON :

Non. Vas-y.

Le garçon quitte la salle de déjeuner avec un sentiment de malaise. En fait, il va chez l’infirmière de l’école, et il reçoit le congé pour le reste de la journée. GARÇON :

Je suis rentré. Maman ?

Personne ne répond. Le garçon attend dans le salon. La porte d’entrée ne s’ouvre pas jusqu’à des heures plus tard. Il est déjà tard. FILLE :

Je suis content que nous l’ayons trouvé.

MAMAN :

Ouais. Elle était tellement soulagée.

GARÇON :

Vous êtes finalement de retour. Qu’est-ce qui est arrivé ? Je suis rentré tôt parce que je me sentais mal, mais il n’y avait personne à la maison.

FILLE :

(Indifférente) Oh, tu es ici.

GARÇON :

J’ai attendu depuis longtemps.

MAMAN :

Les voisins ont perdu leur chien et l’ensemble de la communauté a été à sa recherche. Heureusement, Bijou a été trouvé avant qu’il puisse se blesser.

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GARÇON :

Le cartier tout entier ? Vous auriez pu m’appeler. J’aurais aimé aider.

MAMAN :

(En marchant vers les escaliers) Eh bien, nous ne savions pas que tu étais à la maison.

GARÇON :

(À lui-même) Un petit chien a attiré l’attention de toute une communauté. Si un garçon disparait, toute la ville sera inquiète. Après que tout le monde se rendra compte que la vie sans moi sera solitaire, ils m’apprécieront beaucoup plus.

Le garçon se dirige vers sa chambre en passant sa maman et sa fille discutant les évènements passionnants de la nuit. GARÇON :

(À lui-même) Demain. Je partirai demain. Le plus tôt, le mieux. Je ne peux plus continuer à faire semblant d’être heureux.

Le lendemain, le garçon feint une maladie. Sa mère, toujours distraite, l’accepte. MAMAN :

D’accord. Alors, reste à la maison. Tu peux appeler l’école toimême. Je vais partir maintenant.

La porte d’entrée se referme derrière elle avec un bruit retentissant. Dès que sa voiture sort de l’allée, le garçon est sur ses pieds. GARÇON :

Je vais avoir besoin … de vêtements et d’argent. Je ne devrais pas apporter beaucoup. Je ne serai pas absent longtemps et ça serait lourd de porter tant de choses.

Il met ses affaires dans un sac de sport bleu. GARÇON :

Est-ce tout ? Eh bien. Ma chambre, au revoir ! (En riant) Je te verrai bientôt.

Le garçon sort rapidement de sa chambre. GARÇON :

Voici un autobus maintenant. Le 493 ? Je ne sais pas où cela va, mais j’imagine que je vais aller quelque part.

Après un long trajet en bus, le garçon arrive à l’arrêt final. Ici, il y a un café. Le garçon est affamé et y entre.

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GARÇON :

Un latte, s’il vous plait.

SERVEUR :

Un latte, tout de suite.

GARÇON :

Merci.

SERVEUR :

Tu as l’air assez familier. T’ai-je déjà vu ? (Tout en remettant au garçon son café.)

GARÇON :

(À lui-même) Est-ce que mes parents me cherchent déjà ? Ils doivent être inquiets ! Je ne devrais pas rentrer à la maison tout de suite. (Au serveur) Je ne pense pas. Je ressemble à beaucoup d’autres.

SERVEUR :

C’est vrai, oui.

Le garçon est assis à une table et sort son téléphone portable pour chercher l’histoire d’un garçon disparu parmi les nouvelles. À sa grande surprise, il ne trouve pas de bulletin de nouvelles. GARÇON :

Je n’ai pas regardé au bon endroit. Je sais qu’ils doivent être à la recherche.

Les heures passent. SERVEUR :

Désolé, mais nous fermons nos portes maintenant. Tu dois partir.

GARÇON :

(À lui-même) Je ne peux pas aller à l’hôtel. Je ne veux pas être reconnu. Je n’ai nul endroit où aller. (Au serveur) Puis-je dormir dans une chambre à l’arrière ?

SERVEUR :

Désolé, mais je ne peux pas te laisser faire cela. Attends … Tu es un fugueur ? (Le garçon ne dit rien) Tu ne peux rien dire. Toutefois, je peux t’aider. Il y a une église vide à proximité. D’habitude, un groupe de fugueurs y dorment. Ils peuvent t’aider mieux que moi.

GARÇON :

D’accord. Merci beaucoup.

Le garçon réagit au conseil et va à l’église.

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GARÇON :

(Dans une salle sombre) Bonjour ? Puis-je trouver de l’aide ? Je suis un fugueur comme vous.

FILLE :

(Doucement) Je ne t’ai jamais rencontré. Nous ne nous appelons pas fugueur. Tu peux me suivre. Repose-toi un peu et racontenous ton histoire.

GARÇON :

D’accord. (Il suit la fille à travers un long couloir)

Les personnes dans la cour s’arrêtent et regardent fixement le garçon comme s’il était un spécimen dans un musée. FILLE :

Quelle est ton histoire ? Nous avons un peu de nourriture, si tu en veux.

GARÇON :

Je l’aimerais bien. (À la fille) Mon nom est—

FILLE :

Non ! Nous ne révélons pas les noms ici. Juste ton histoire est suffisante.

GARÇON :

Désolé. Je ne sais pas. Eh bien, mon histoire. En fait, je ne suis pas parti à cause des abus ou d’une situation familiale horrible. Nous avons une belle maison en banlieue et j’ai une sœur. Mon père, un homme d’affaires, est souvent absent, mais au moins il fait assez pour que ma mère ne doive pas travailler.

GARÇON #2 :

Attends, alors tes parents ne se droguent pas ?

GARÇON :

(Avec un petit rire maladroit) Pas que je sache.

GARÇON #2 :

(Âprement) Alors que fais-tu ici ?

FILLE :

(À GARÇON #2) N’oublie pas nos règles. (Au GARÇON) Nous ne jugeons pas. Continue.

GARÇON :

Merci. Eh bien, j’ai senti que je n’avais pas vraiment place nulle part. Ma mère était beaucoup plus intéressée aux réalisations de ma sœur, et mon meilleur ami commençait à passer plus de temps avec ses autres copains que je n’aime pas vraiment. J’ai pensé que si je m’étais enfui alors qu’ils allaient me remarquer plus et me donner l’attention que je méritais.

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FILLE :

Attends. C’est pourquoi tu es parti ? Parce que tu étais nécessiteux ?

GARÇON :

Pas nécessiteux. Je voulais l’attention que je méritais dans la famille. Ça sera seulement temporaire. Je suis sûr que dans quelques jours mes parents vont me trouver et je vais rentrer à la maison. Je suis désolé de te déranger avant que cela n’arrive.

FILLE :

Quelqu’un va venir te chercher ?

Le groupe s’agite derrière elle. Il y a une agitation croissante dans l’air. GARÇON :

Ouais. Mes parents.

Un murmure remplit l’air. FILLE :

(Avec un soupir) Je suis désolée, mais tu ne peux pas rester avec nous. Je sais que tu es une bonne personne. Cependant, c’est dangereux pour certains d’entre nous d’être trouvés. Nous ne pouvons pas prendre ce risque. Après avoir mangé, tu dois nous quitter.

GARÇON :

Partir ?

FILLE :

Je ne suis pas heureuse de le dire, mais c’est notre seule option. En outre, tu n’es pas vraiment comme nous.

GARÇON :

Mais je suis un fugueur comme vous.

FILLE :

Tu ne l’es pas. Tu es diffèrent.

GARÇON :

Je pense que je vais m’arrêter maintenant. Je souhaite rester plus longtemps.

FILLE :

Il suffit de te dépêcher. (Pointant vers le couloir.)

Le garçon prend ses affaires et quitte la salle dans un silence complet. Une fois dehors, il se demande ce qu’il faut faire. GARÇON :

Ça a été assez long. Ils devraient être inquiets. Une journée s’est déjà déroulée. Je vais rentrer demain.

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Le garçon, utilisant son sac comme un oreiller, dort sous un arbre près de l’arrêt de bus. GARÇON :

Bonne nuit à toi-même.

Le lendemain matin, il se réveille très tôt. Il monte dans le bus dans lequel il est venu. Après un voyage épuisant, le garçon descend de l’autobus et regarde son quartier. GARÇON :

C’est bon d’être à la maison. Maman doit être folle ! J’ai été absent pendant une journée.

Le garçon arrive à sa maison. GARÇON :

Qu’est-ce qui se passe ? Pourquoi toutes les voitures garées à l’extérieur ?

Le garçon regarde de plus près dans les fenêtres de sa maison. Il voit sa mère et sa sœur en train de dîner avec un groupe d’amis. Personne ne semble remarquer qu’il est manquant. GARÇON :

(Doucement) Qu’est-ce qui se passe ?

Le garçon ne fait aucun autre mouvement pour entrer dans la maison. Il regarde sa maison de l’autre côté de la rue. Quand le prochain bus arrive, le garçon, sans regarder en arrière, monte dans l’autobus. GARÇON :

Nous vivons dans un monde mauvais. Je n’y appartiens pas. Je pensais que je serai plus heureux, mais je suis tellement vide à l’intérieur.

CHAUFFEUR DE BUS : Que veux-tu dire ? Qu’est-ce que tu dis ? GARÇON :

Rien.

Ce garçon sans nom est l’un des nombreux. Les sentiments de solitude et de rejet sont universels. Malheureusement, certaines personnes sentent plus fortement la solitude dans leurs vies. Ce sont les enfants perdus de notre société. Il est temps de les soutenir.

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CYCLE DE DÉSESPOIR

St. Robert TEACHER: Nancy Torresan SCHOOL:

Secondary Grades 11 and 12 Nonfiction

SCHOOL STAFF REPRESENTATIVE:

Denis Zmak UNIT: York UNIT PRESIDENT: Liz Stuart by

LINA MARIA SERRANO AREVALO

C’est difficile de croire que dans ce pays communément appelé « développé », on a de la pauvreté. En dépit du haut indice de développement humain du Canada, les Autochtones dans les réserves vivent dans des conditions épouvantables qui ressemblent celles des pays en développement. Ayant été isolés et discriminés par les colonisateurs, aujourd’hui, ils continuent à sentir les séquelles de la suppression historique. Ils n’ont pas pu guérir les blessures psychologiques qui hantent les nouvelles générations. Honteusement, le gouvernement canadien n’a pas un cadre d’action efficace pour les aider. Nous devons prendre au sérieux ce problème social. Par conséquent, nous devons donner un coup de main à ce 4,3% de la population canadienne, qui manque leurs droits humains fondamentauxi. La souffrance des Autochtones canadiens est survenue à cause de la discrimination qui s’était déroulée quand les colonisateurs ont pensé que l’Amérique du Nord leur appartenait. Depuis l’arrivé des colons Européens, le développement et la culture des Autochtones ont commencé à être mis en péril. Au début, les colons tuaient les troupeaux de bisons pour leur fourrure. Cette chasse a affecté le mode de vie des natifs de l’époque, car ils ont perdu leur source de nourriture. De plus, en pensant que les natifs étaient sauvages, les Européens les ont traités d’une manière inférieure. Donc, le procès d’assimilation a commencé à abolir leurs croyances. Ils ont forcé les natifs à se déplacer aux réserves et leurs enfants à aller aux écoles résidentielles. Ici, les élèves ne pouvaient pas pratiquer leur religion ni leurs coutumes. Mais la pire torture était les abus qu’ils devaient endurer. Après avoir être expulsés de leur terre et d’avoir perdu confiance en

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eux-mêmes, l’auto-gouvernance est devenue presque impossible. Il y a 614 bandes au Canada et trois groupes d’Autochtones : les Premières Nations, les Métis, et les Inuit. Chaque groupe a ses propres lois et restrictions. Récemment, le gouvernement a essayé de se réconcilier avec les Autochtones, mais ils craignent que le Premier Ministre ne suive pas les traités. Malheureusement, en dépit de nouveaux traités, les Autochtones continuent à vivre dans des conditions horribles. L’état des logements est atroce car les services de la santé ne sont pas toujours accessibles. L’éducation est médiocre, et les besoins fondamentaux, comme l’eau, sont un luxe. Dans les réserves, il y a beaucoup de défis comme la surpopulation, la violence entre les bandes rivales, et la mortalité infantile. De plus, une trop grand partie de la population adulte ont des problèmes avec la toxicomanie et des maladies mentales comme la dépression. Ce sont parmi les conséquences qui proviennent des abus qui ont eu lieu dans les écoles résidentielles. Ce cycle nuisible ne cesse pas. Le risque que ces maladies suivront la prochaine génération est grave. Les obstacles qu’ils doivent surmonter sont accablants. Par exemple, 23% des gens dans les prisons canadiennes sont Autochtonesii. Dans les réserves, le travail est limité et le chômage est très élevé. À cause de cela, à peine ont-ils l’opportunité qu’ils quittent les réserves et ils ne retournent jamais. On doit arrêter ce cycle, ainsi, on pourra avoir l’égalité parmi tous les Canadiens. Pour régler les problèmes sociaux, on doit prendre plusieurs mesures. Premièrement, on doit améliorer l’éducation du programme obligatoire, pour y inclure l’enseignement de la culture autochtone. L’éducation est — dans tous les sens possibles — un meilleur investissement pour l’avenir des jeunes que l’incarcération, et sans doute ce fait s’applique aux jeunes Autochtones. Par exemple, pour subvenir aux besoins d’un prisonnier, le gouvernement fédéral doit payer 95.000$ chaque an. Pour le même cout, dix enfants pourraient aller à l’école. Ensuite, c’est primordial que le gouvernement offre de l’aide psychologique, y compris de la thérapie, pour combattre l’alcoolisme, ciblée aux adultes et aux adolescents. Aussi, leur environnement doit être protégé, spécialement pour les Autochtones qui comptent sur les ressources naturelles. Par exemple, au Nouveau-Brunswick, la Première Nation Elsipogtog a manifesté contre l’exploration des gaz de schisteiii. Bien que la réponse du gouvernement jusqu’ici soit insuffisante, on doit continuer à les appuyer. Nous célébrons toujours la diversité culturelle du Canada, cependant, nous oublions de fêter celle des Autochtones, qui sont les ancêtres de ce beau pays. Le gouvernement doit financier plus de programmes de l’appui direct, pour qu’ils puissent aisément les

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accéder. Nos frères et sœurs canadiens ont besoin d’aide pour améliorer leurs chances de réussir et de rétablir leur patrimoine culturelle. On doit abolir la pauvreté dans les communautés autochtones pour finalement empêcher le cercle de souffrance vicieux. On doit lutter pour le remplacer avec un cycle de succès sain, rendu capable par le soutien nécessaire pour la réalisation de l’égalité.

RÉFÉRENCES i « Les peuples autochtones au Canada : Premières Nations, Métis et Inuits. »

Statistique Canada. Gouvernement du Canada, 14 janv. 2014. Web. 17 mars 2014. <http://www12.statcan.gc.ca/nhs-enm/2011/as-sa/99-011-x/99-011-x2011001-fra.cfm> ii Dib, Lina. « Autochtones en prison : Harper fait peu de cas d’un rapport très

critique. » La presse.ca. La Presse, 07 mars 2013. Web. 19 mars 2014. <http://www.lapresse.ca/actualites/politique/politique-canadienne/201303/07/014628731-autochtones-en-prison-harper-fait-peu-de-cas-dun-rapport-tres-critique.php> iii Wetere, Dr. Rongo. « Employment and Literacy Issues of Canada’s Aboriginal

Population. » National Skills Upgrade 2014. Arrow Might, n.d. Web. 19 mars 2014. <http://www.arrowmight.ca/docs/Employment and Literacy Issues.pdf>

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Yo u n g A u t h o r s A w ar d s YOUNG AUTHORS AWARDS PRIX JEUNES ÉCRIVAINS 2014

70 years

www.oecta.on.ca

2014