spine “Unknown Dock Whatever” by Shannon Cumisky REVIEW · out: rhianna sings Disturbia and she...

THE PCREVIEW OF WRITING 2011/2012

PICKERING COLLEGENewmarket, Ontario16945 Bayview Avenue, Newmarket, ON, Canada L3Y 4X2TEL (905) 895-1700 • 1-877-895-1700 • FAX (905) 895-9076E-MAIL [email protected] • WEB www.pickeringcollege.on.ca



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T h e P i c k e r i n g c o l l e g e r e v i e w o f w r i T i n g 2 0 1 1 / 2 0 1 2

The Joshua weinzweig MeMorial liTerary awards

&

The Pickering college review of wriTing

Joshua was born in Toronto in 1973 and enrolled at Pickering college in grade eight where he spent the next

five years. at first, he didn’t like it there but, after a time, he began to thrive at the school. he made many friends

and excelled at his schoolwork. he was chair of his house, made the headmaster’s list on several occasions and

learned to love chaucer and shakespeare. Josh cultivated a love of language, composing short stories and poems

that leapt out of his rich imagination.

students whose work is published in the Pickering college review of writing are eligible to win the Joshua weinzweig

Memorial literary awards. at the end of the academic school year, one winner from each of grades nine through

twelve may be selected at the discretion of the english department. notably, each will have his or her name

engraved on the award plaque, receive a certificate of acknowledgement and/or book awards and small, cash

prizes.

The process: all students are invited to submit writing to their english classroom teacher who will consider its

literary merit, and the degree of creative and critical thinking. after considering the quality of the submission, the

english classroom teacher may forward it to the editor of the P.c. review of writing should he/she see merit. The

Pickering college review of writing supports primarily the publishing of creative prose and poetry. nonetheless,

good writing in other genres is also considered. The key objective is to provide a forum for senior school Pickering

college students to publish their writing. editors try to establish a fair balance between providing opportunity to

young writers and a reasonably high degree of quality for readers.

The Pickering college review of writing is one component of the Joshua weinzweig literary Program: this program

receives generous support from daniel weinzweig.


Table of conTenTs____________________________________________________________

stilina anagnostakos “I felt free”......................................................................................................................... 5

bronwyn andrews “Snowflake” .......................................................................................................................... 6

briana beswick “A Long Day” .............................................................................................................................. 7

alyssa chin “Country Life” ................................................................................................................................. 8 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Memorial literary Award (grade 11)

alyssa chin “Fear Can Consume You” ................................................................................................................ 9 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Memorial literary Award (grade 11)

charley coleman “Age Line” ........................................................................................................................... 10

shannon cumiskey “A Moment So Fragile” .................................................................................................... 11

shannon cumiskey “A Pair of Old Shoes” ........................................................................................................ 12

wendy du “People Ask Why I Write Poetry” ................................................................................................... 13

winner of the Joshua weinzeig Memorial literary Award (grade 12) winner of the Joshua weinzweig Poetry competition (grade 12)

wendy du “Fall from Hope” ............................................................................................................................. 14 winner of the Joshua weinzeig Memorial literary Award (grade 12) winner of the Joshua weinzweig Postcard fiction contest (grade 12)

lindsay floyd “My Addiction” .......................................................................................................................... 15

June gleed “Expiry Dates” ................................................................................................................................ 16 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Poetry competition (grade 9) winner of the Joshua weinzeig Memorial literary Award (grade 9)

Pinky gong “My Favourite Season” ................................................................................................................. 17

amanda graves “Barn Love” ............................................................................................................................. 18

amanda graves “Concrete Feet” ...................................................................................................................... 19

isaac hambrock “The Mugging” ....................................................................................................................... 20 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Poetry competition (grade 10)

shannon hamilton “Unforgiven” ...................................................................................................................... 21 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Memorial literary Award (grade 12) winner of the canadian federation of University women Short fiction contest Youth Division

shannon hamilton “Ingratitude” ...................................................................................................................... 22 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Memorial literary Award (grade 12)

James hare “Flicker of Fear” ............................................................................................................................. 23 winner of the write across ontario Postcard fiction contest (grade 9)

grace hilton “Someone to Watch Over You” ................................................................................................... 24 winner of the write Across ontario Postcard fiction contest (grade 10)

alycia hubbard “Bitter Sweet” ......................................................................................................................... 25

alycia hubbard “Fake” ...................................................................................................................................... 26

Mo kara “26 Purcell Square” ............................................................................................................................ 27

ryan kaszuba “Life Lessons” ............................................................................................................................. 28

youping li “Sweet Nostalgia” .......................................................................................................................... 29

Jason liang “Truth to Power” ........................................................................................................................... 30 winner of the incite 2012 creative writing competition (School category – grade 10)

aleksa Macdonald “Fragile Hearts” .................................................................................................................. 32

nicolas Macias “Edge” ...................................................................................................................................... 33

winner of the Joshua weinzeig Memorial literary Award (grade 10)

katie MacPherson “My Spotlight” .................................................................................................................... 34

raina Mallory “Old Mrs. Ellis” ........................................................................................................................... 35 winner of the write across ontario Postcard fiction contest (School Division – grade 11)

Michael Marchese “The Fork in the Road” ....................................................................................................... 36 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Postcard fiction contest (grade 9)

ciara Mohamed “He’s Thunderstorms”............................................................................................................ 37

ciara Mohamed “To Me” .................................................................................................................................. 38

shiori ono “You Inside of Me” ......................................................................................................................... 39

Michael scott “Ferrari” ..................................................................................................................................... 40

Michael scott “Morning Blues” ........................................................................................................................ 41

Jade scrymgeour “Charmer” ............................................................................................................................. 42

Jessica scrymgeour “Swimming Lessons” ......................................................................................................... 43

nicola shaw “The Clock was Ticking” .............................................................................................................. 44 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Postcard fiction contest (grade 10)

nicola shaw “The Fog of Fear”......................................................................................................................... 45

aidan slind “Every Man An Emperor” .............................................................................................................. 46 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Poetry competition (grade 11)

aidan slind “Old York” ..................................................................................................................................... 47

nicholas sopuch “Challenging Digression” ..................................................................................................... 48 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Memorial literary Award (grade 11) winner of the Joshua weinzweig Postcard fiction contest (grade 11)

nicholas sopuch “Delusive Effort” ................................................................................................................... 49 winner of the Joshua weinzweig Memorial literary Award (grade 11)

Paige steirman “Razed Expectations” .............................................................................................................. 50 winner of the write Across ontario Postcard fiction contest (grade 12)

christina Tourloukis “A Visit” ............................................................................................................................. 51

derreck veitch “Call of the Pit” ......................................................................................................................... 52 winner of the incite 2012 creative writing competition (School category – grade 12)

derreck veitch “Sleight of Hand” ..................................................................................................................... 54

adam wang “Bereft” ........................................................................................................................................ 55

Table of conTenTs____________________________________________________________



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5

i felT free____________________________________________________________

by Stilina Anagnostakos

i was young when the morning sun peakedstamping a warm kiss on my face, i ran tomy parentswho grunted and complainedbut i wasn’t worriedi would get my way.i skippedThey dragged themselves we were there.The wavescrashed crashed crashedThe sun beat youdown down downand i loved it.who needed any toys? friends? company?not menot when i was at the beach.The waves were always more fierce up closewhen they would drag you inand, faithfully,they would always bring youback.everything is faithful if you give it trustfear only the faithless.

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6

i wake up to total silence.The hissing of wind through the grass has silenced allbut the howling of the wind through the frosted branches.

The cold is a thin blanket overthe sleeping earth.

gazing out of the frosted windowi see the canvas of the world slowly become blank againuntil tiny footprints create speckles on the winter quilt.

lower and lower the mercury on the thermometer declinesuntil it reaches to the ground below with the snowflakesone by one.

snowflake____________________________________________________________

by Bronwyn Andrews


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7


a long day____________________________________________________________

by Briana Beswick

i wake up at 7:30 and go to turnon the shower. i hop in and am immediately stunned by the cold water beating downon me. i waitfor it to heat up and continue to wash my hair and body. i turn the tap off and, as i get out, i hear my mom come into my room. from behind the door, she yells, “we’re leaving in 15 minutes, make sure you’re ready!” i quickly dry off and put on my clothes. i pack the rest of my suitcase and struggle to zip it shut. i roll it out of my room and down the stairs. clunk. clunk. clunk.an english muffin and blueberry jam will have to wait. “no time for breakfast!” screams my mother: i will have to content myself with the distinct odour of axe cologne.My whole family,

all five of us, pile into the car and we blast the heat. My brothers are fighting, as usual, and all i can hear is the littlest one yelling “MoM! MoM!” not interested in listening to them bicker anymore, i turn on my iPod and put my earphones in.

i can’t help but to admire my mom; she really is the rock that holdsour family together. i’m already feeling annoyed, but i come to realizethat there is no other place i would ratherbe.

My music is blasting and i begin to tune everyone out: rhianna sings Disturbia and she could be singing about my flight from suburbia. i peer out the window, watching as we passtrees and other cars.before i know it, we are turning into the airport. we park and shuffle out of the truck one by one, each one of us grabbing our own suitcase and rollingit into the airport where we then find our line and wait. This is going to be a long day.

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8

counTry life____________________________________________________________

a memoir by Alyssa chin

in the early morning the sun awakens, and peaks through the east mountains, lightly kissing each blade of dew-coated grass that carpets this rural Jamaican town. as daytime approaches my white feathery friend retreats to his unknown home. not to show his bright owl eyes until the farewell of the sun. This house is my home. if walls could talk, they would tell all my childhood stories. They would spill my secret hiding spots, and laugh at all my fumbles. Throughout the years this house has been tweaked and changed, but its spirit remains the same.

The sounds bounce from wall to wall. bang! bang! dad’s cleaver pierces through the hard coconut shell. each blast shakes the kitchen island like an earthquake as the rigid seed bashes against the countertop. old time reggae music dances from Mom’s black iPod speakers, circling the room with ‘irie’ vibes. The chatter from the television is background noise to an inattentive audience. drip. drop. only in our house does the coconut water drip from the ceilings, blasted there from the sheer force of dad and his beloved steel cleaver. Tires of passing cars grinding against the country road can be heard through the open, french windows that let in the tropical breeze. it is hot. without the gentle breeze and the blow of the wicker fans, we would all retreat to our air conditioned bedrooms. on the veranda the smack of dominos echo from the old wine barrel that was made into a table, adding to the orchestra of noise, and the soothing flow of water is constant as it circulates through the beautifully crafted garden waterfall. The phone rings relentlessly. The old door hinges scream. The hardwoods groan. and my cousins and i laugh as Mom squabbles about dad and his coconuts, as he guzzles the sweet water from the freshly chopped hole. only in our country home is this the norm.

outside, the green grass prickles the soles of my bare feet, and peaks between my toes. as the sun makes its way towards the majestic mountains of the western horizon, each ray wraps around me in a warm motherly embrace. i am beckoned by the smells meandering from the outdoor grill, around the gravel path, across the boardwalk and over the pond. a mixture of smells; fresh fish roasting on the grill, jerk chicken and roasted breadfruit. curtis, the fisherman arrives with his forty-five pound catch of the day which dad will likely season with black beans, garlic and onions.

here, where the plants are always green and lush, and the goats wander eli drive, you’ll find this country house. only in this rural house do i have stare downs with daunting lizards, chase out bull frogs and shoo away an orange stray cat that occasionally sneaks in to try to steal my favourite reading spot in the white hammock. The family pictures that clothe every book shelf and adorn each wall are starting to show their age. a picture says a thousand words, but the walls know the stories; they’ve been there all along.

My comrade the sun retreats to his slumber behind the mountains to the west. The stars wink in the cool night sky as if keeping my secret of being up at this hour. back again is my white feathery friend. he loves this house as much as i do.

w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g M e M o r i a l l i T e r a r y a w a r d ( g r a d e 1 1 )

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9

fear can consuMe you____________________________________________________________

by Alyssa chin

when i was a kid, i was always afraid of the end of the streetMy fear would consume mei lived in a townhouse along the mountainside in the busy city of kingstoni wanted to know what was beyond the row of houses but i was scared of the unknownsometimes, i would dare and walk a few steps farther, but the fear would always consume mei’d go running back to my front yard safety because i was scared of dangerMy mother always told me never to stray too far from homeso, i was mostly scared of getting in troublebut i had my suspicionsin fact, i was near certain that at the end of the road was the end of the earthi would dare to go closebut not too close because i was scared of falling,heights, The unknown, danger,drifting through space,getting lonely, aliens, starving,and getting in trouble.when i was a kid, i let my fears stop me from exploring the mysteries of the universe.


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10

we are getting older and don’t know it.

There is a line. right here.you cannot cross it. we are on the other side.

some will join us. some leave.

you can watch from that side. appreciate the art. but not the Power.

our super power.

you want it? Too bad.it is not something you can have.

you are too old.

we can tell. we see the green wrinkles lining your face.

do not cross.

i cross. i am a child.

To you, the room is dull, you are wrong, you cannot see. Maple floors, mirrored walls, steel bars, dancers.

not people; we don’t know what we are.

Queen bees stripped of the black stripes under their eyes. laugh.insecurities hitch hike tears of joy out their eyes.

out of here. beyond the

line. for an outsider -you- we will explain their reasons; midst gasps of laughterThoughts come out only as words; words come out only as sounds.

you, an outsider, will not understand.

we play. we dance. we sing. we cry. we laugh. The room’s so loud; every word is heard.

Just listen. Just

dream: dream a child’s dream, close your eyes to what you can see. be as carefree as the fairies who live here,buzzing in our ears cleaning our brains.

with purple poke-a-dotted washcloths they scrub the stress away.far away. we giggle.

it tickles.

we fall; the floor splatters our legs with purple and blues. failure is not possible with them.

falling is a new step.

if you look just right, tilting your head to the right; you see it. everywhere. here. The walls are covered in it imitating our minds.

Magic. here. everywhere.

we cross the line. we are older.

stripes return, races start, brains get dirty. but even here, if you tilt your head a little to the right.

you see it.

age line____________________________________________________________

by charly coleman


a MoMenT so fragile____________________________________________________________

by Shannon cumiskey


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11

finishing my bowl of cereal, i wipe my mouth clean and rise from the couch. i catch a glimpse of white flakes landing gingerly on the pines of the evergreens, hear the winds whistle against the frames of the wide windows, and i shiver at the sight, glad to be inside. yawning sleepily, rubbing my eyes as i approach the counter, i lay my bowl with the others that i had dumped into the sink the previous night. hearing my favourite show flick back on,i race back to my fortress of plush pillows and blankets,wrapped in warm softness, sinking further into my snug ocean of comfort;i have no desire to ever leave

this couch. There is a sudden disturbance above; the squeak of a hinge, the shutting of a door, bare feet paddingalong the wooden floor. The unmistakable yawn (like the roar of a monster emerging from its cave); i twist myself tighter into the couch hoping, wishing, for quiet but knowing that there would soon be none. The monster lazily stalks down the stairs, and when it enters the kitchen, i know what will come next. The bellowing roar pierces the silence as my father demands i clean my dishes. not wishing to anger the monster further, i very reluctantly rise from the warm haven of the couch, still wrapped up, refusing to be parted from my blankets. can i not clean them later?“you aren’t going to leave this sink until every dish is cleaned and put away.”even if my dishes had been cleaned, there would still be something to yell about.

There always is (something to yell about).

i remember watching a home video once, of my dad andme sitting on his favourite armchair when i was five.it was boxing day and i had receiveda play doctor’s kit from my parents for christmas. as i tapped my dad’s knees with my tiny reflex hammer and listenedintently for a heartbeat through my plastic stethoscope, he chuckled. i was caring and empathetic, he always said, and i would make a perfect doctor someday. as a very hyperactive child, i was always amazed at how calmi became when sitting with my dad; his soothing voice, his deep, hearty laughs, his big arms always ready for a hug. Moments with him gave me peace, calmness in a crazy household, and his dreams for me were always bright. as he helped me put away my tools (because he had always stressed cleaning up after myself) i wished to be a good doctor, as he was.he leaned in close, gave me a kiss, his unshaven face tickling my cheek. “i bet my millions,” he said, “that you will be even better than i am.”

but now there are no kisses.no sitting together. colossal dreams of a future without limits no longer dance in the air above us, shot down by the annoyance of my bad habits.cleaning my dishes, such a simple task, yet somehow hard to master when the moment arises.one day, i will talk to him again, one day we will dream together again on his armchairin a moment so fragile,it could burst like a bubble.

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12

a Pair of old shoes____________________________________________________________

by Shannon cumiskey


you are a pair of old shoesbound in leather (broken-infrayed lacings, and a heel

that has worn into nonexistence).it is hard to understand why i keep you

after all these long years of decay;

but i know that however i shall try,i just cannot hope to give you away.

it has been many yearssince you were shiny and new,

when your surface gleamedwith unique luster,

and held the eye at a glance.

long times have passed and a shabbinesshas overcome your old fresh beauty,

like long grass submerging a hard thingbut you are more familiar (no matter the sight

of your canvas toe, your ties, your well-worn heel)than anything i have had before.

your surface is tattered, and i don’t knowhow you stay in one piece.but always you are there

waiting, comfortablewarm and friendly,

a stiff dose of just what i need;

we may not be together as much as before,for new shoes wane like the moon;

but i know in the endwhen the hard day is done,when my feet become tired

and worn, and sore,you will provide love and comfort.

for me, it is the way you are shapedperfectly to my form, bending with my body,

molding and twisting with my growth;or perhaps i am shaped perfectly for you.

either way, it seems, that no matter the day,no matter the who, the where, and the how,

we will always fit,grow together

complete something.

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13


w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g P o e T r y c o M P e T i T i o n ( g r a d e 1 2 )

PeoPle ask Me why i wriTe PoeTry____________________________________________________________

by wendy Du

People ask why i write poetry.i could have answered,selfishly perhaps,That i write it for personal pleasure, or maybe if i dare, because i can.but no, those are not the only cases. although putting what and how i see things, what i think and how i think of themonto paper is enjoyable on its own,i like to think that i am writing poetry for a higher purpose.when i turn to dust, i do not wish to leave behind only dull jewelry, worn-out clothes and old photographs.in fact, i don’t want to leave anything behind. People leave garbage on the side of the road. animals leave the remains of their meal.i want to provide my children (grand or great grand)windows into their grandmother’s (grand or great grand) past.i want to bestow upon them any wisps of courage or whispers of wisdom that i can.i want to bequeath upon them verses and phrases, sentences and words,That will tell them it is okay to look beyond what is right in front of them and dream further. i do not wish to become a giant gravitational force around which the lives of future generations will rotate.but if, Perhaps,one day my children (grand or great grand)go snooping and searching in dusty closets or locked chests,They will find more than vintage clothing or antique store goods.

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14


w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g P o s T c a r d f i c T i o n c o n T e s T ( g r a d e 1 2 )

fall froM hoPe____________________________________________________________

by wendy Du

a short story inspired by robert frost’s “My november guest”

shades of life occupy the shadows of the skeletal village. The slender fingers of the emaciated tree scrape the ground for her dew, and are greeted with more salt than desired. The people, napes of their neck heavenward and shoulders towards the cracked, fruitless earth, have made the once arable land into a dry ocean. what had once kept bellies full and chins high have been infested with plague, and brings down all along with it.

what was once solid ground and stable wall has crumbled beneath the hands and feet of those whom on it depended.

a mother looks into the eyes of her child, knowing she cannot provide for him, and reciprocated, he knows there is no hope. a father looking at his family of five knows that the number may only hover at this for a day or two before famine takes another.

yet, to me, through some maniacal wit, these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be. Though the thin corpses may fall like the tears of the fleetingly-living, the people still fight till each sunset and battle for each sunrise. Though the spindly hands of the mothers struggle to grip the fabric which binds life of their newborns to their bodies are always threatening to slip, i see the raw nature of tenacity that only shows itself when the being is robbed of flesh and whose only weapon has become nothing but the soul and the mind. Tenacity that cannot be found on a leather couch or next to a warm hearth.

The desolate, deserted trees, the faded earth, the heavy sky, are ancients to which the dim ambiance is nothing new. They have seen rome rise and fall, kings ascend and dethroned. They know that this too shall pass. They see the grip of the powers on the people; they see the strong iron fist of few that crush the livelihood of too many as it did in another land time and time again. They know that the people were not born to kneel in surrender and will once again stand with a straight back.

Not yesterday I learned to know the love of bare November days, when hope, like a young and confused bird, spread-eagles her way downward towards rock bottom. Before the coming of the snow, which will beneath it hide the stirrings of change and the tints of golden-green, man conflicts in vain with the inevitable downward spiral of events he is unable to control as he is unable to control the falling of the leaves.

but what i see is quite different from the man whose belly is touching his spine. in his eyes i can see the first flickers of dawn after a cold autumn night.

My addicTion____________________________________________________________

by lindsay floyd


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15

you are an addiction. you trap her mind in a spindled cobweb that is made with your fine silk she can’t go anywhere without thinking about youyou broke her heart and hold the pieces in your catacomb of threadshe tries to get over you, but she is imprisonedshe is unable to escape your laser throws; she is caught and held and helpless. you were the air she breathedThe floor she walked on but you ripped the floor out from under her and bled the air from her lungs she thirsts for your attention longs for a cup that will never comebut the power of addiction is a horrible disease(stronger than precious metals)(a disease that is surely like the sufferings of hell). escape from you is like penance without graceor forgivenesslike inoculation that requires you love someone that does not love you.

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16

exPiry daTes____________________________________________________________

by June gleed

i am just like you, and represent who you will be. so why is it that when i walk down the street, people rush past and ignore the fact that i cannot make it past the road alone?or is it just that, ignoring the loneliness?society has you all thinking that aging is a crime, because we live in a disposable world, and that you when you grow old you become too fragile for life’s cruelty. but in reality, we are the ones suffering.from neglect, ageism, ourselves. i’m reminded of it every day.even when i go to the hair salon, it was one of my favourite things to do and now it’s now one of my biggest stressors. “i’m so sorry to interrupt, but can you please fix my hair?” i ask politely. “sorry old lady, but i don’t have time for your brittle hair. i have real hair to cut.”your words dig deeper than any knife could. where did the respect go?all you see me as is a problem; somebody who uses your tax money. it’s sad, because you are just falling into karma’s little handsbecause if you stop and look around for a momentyou will see that you are teaching the younger generation. The ones that will be looking after you when you’re older, do you think that they will be saints to you?after all, we all follow what we’re taught.when you’re reading,and you reach the climax, do you just end the book?Just because you think i’m declining,doesn’t mean i actually am.

death is everywhere i look, my friends, my family. even a part of myself,just because society decided that i was past my expiry date.

w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g M e M o r i a l l i T e r a r y a w a r d ( g r a d e 9 )

w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g P o e T r y c o M P e T i T i o n ( g r a d e 9 )

My favouriTe season____________________________________________________________

by Pinky gong

My favourite season is winter.winter is a magician.he turns everything into whitewhen the snow slowly falls.it is crystal-clear and beautiful.

The christmas is in the winter.The special festival brings people happiness.gifts and dreams fill the children’s hearts.snowmen stand everywhere to spend christmas with kids.

at the same time, winter sports will bring us joy.especially skating which gives me a feeling of flying.shelley famously says that “if winter comes, will spring be far behind?”winter is a season which gives us the expectation of spring. i like winter.


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17

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18

barn love____________________________________________________________

by Amanda graves

when it’s winter and autumn, the barn is always cold.

it smells like hay and grain and leather. The floor is dirt brown. There are grooves and potholes… where time has left its marks.

i always sneak in at nightwhen nobody is there except the two horsesone of them, mine. The row of lights that follows the ceilingis soft, and just bright enough

in the distance, the coyotes yip every so oftenThe sound of the pack making a kill echoes through the field

i huddle up with ned in his stall,and listen…

The lady is bustling around upstairs,what she’s doing,i don’t know.

up there.i wonder if she gets lonely…

upstairs,i want to goand ask her, what keeps her here,

and ask;doesn’t she have somewhere else to be? a place that isn’t so cold and lonelyPerhaps.

but if i try to find her, she will always be, Just out of my sight. so i leave her be.

i wonder if she knows,when i was a tiny girl, i stood here, too. head barely reaching the horse’s shoulder, legs not even falling below the saddle. i learned quickly that i belonged here, with them.As the years have passed, it has become etched into who i am.

Just two years ago, as a tiny girl again,but in a different way, i clung to my horse,Placed my cheek in the soft spot between his ear and his neck, and told him what i could tell no one else. his hair caught my tears, and his whiskers tickled my eyelashes. when i was done, he promptly wiped his nose on my jeans,grabbed my ponytail with his teeth and gave me a nudge on my back. i immediately understood. You know what you have to do girl,now go do it.

when it is time for me to go home, i feel the familiar tug of wishingi could just curl up in his pile of hay, pretend the world doesn’t exist.

instead, i adjust his blanketlike an overprotective mother,kiss him on the nose, and hand him a carrot. i whisper goodbye to the lady upstairsand turn out the lights.


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19


concreTe feeT____________________________________________________________

by Amanda graves

you are like a hurricane.Psychopathic silence on the inside but a furious rage on the outside…

dark and demented in this way,your soul is an insane asylum.

edgar allan Poe wrote about you –once.

he screamed, alone, too,you know. your insanity is not exclusive.

The demons are coming for you, i know. you are not safe for long.

The monsters are not in your headfor you are one.

like a twisted fairy-tale,the trees snarlat you and

the river screams;a thousand haunted voicescombine.

The branches will lace a crown for you on the waydown.

Try to saw off your concrete feet,love.

you will neverescape this

hell.

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20

The Mugging____________________________________________________________

by isaac hambrock

w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g P o e T r y c o M P e T i T i o n ( g r a d e 1 0 )

The starry sky seems veiled by city lights,shifting, crisp fall leaves paint the streetscape“crunch” your foot lands on a small twig,and the sound reverberates between buildings.

The apprehension sweeps over like a burst of cool air.you are completely and utterly alone.row upon row upon row, of dull lights dot the streetfading, yellow luminous darkness surrounds you

Pace quickening, cool air rushing past your face,you turn down an alley into the bowels of the city.Movement in the distance jolts you out of conscious restblack, menacing, ominous silhouette comes into view

fear reaches a climax during a cautious approach.it is nothing more than a scrawny, gaunt black cat.you allow yourself to briefly exhale as it scampers away,and you continue on your narrow path.

cool steel presses against your throat and muscles tense“Money. now.” These two words echo down the alleyway. you fumble for your wallet and let it out of grasp.The hooded figure fades and an eerie calm settles.

you don’t feel immediate pain,only the anger of the cool fall wind.but part of you has been forever scarred.you exit the alley, and a desolate square comes into view

settling down on a hardwood bench, thoughts wonderingeyes unintentionally tracing the impending skyone is not usually troubled by cool autumn nights,when starry skies seem veiled by city lights.

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21


w i n n e r o f T h e c a n a d i a n f e d e r a T i o n o f u n i v e r s i T y w o M e n s h o r T f i c T i o n c o n T e s T y o u T h d i v i s i o n

unforgiven____________________________________________________________

by Shannon hamilton

i can feel everyone’s eyes burning a hole through me. all the disappointment in the room seeps through my body as i try to hold back my tears. My eyes are closed and i do not want to open them. i am afraid of what i am going to see. i hear mumbling and whispering, and i know that they are talking about me. The words of my mother echo through my mind, “you’re a disappointment.” i am slowly beginning to go crazy. life behind bars is not going to be easy.

i hear my name being called – “Jack white” – but for some reason i cannot move. i am afraid. The thought of sitting in front of all these people – having them watch me knowing what i did – did not appeal to me. i opened my eyes, took a deep breath and walked up to the stand. The orange suit was way too big on me. absurdly, i felt foolish. i approached the bench and even though i did not want to, i put my hand on the big book and swore to tell the truth. i’m an atheist. another decision my mother could not fathom.

as the questions proceeded, it became more and more of a blur. “yes i did this...no i did not…it was my idea…this is my fault.” i had almost forgotten what i was there for, and i could feel the sweat dripping down the nape of my neck and onto my back. The air in the room was contracting. it was as if i was choking. in a room that was so full of people, i have never felt so alone. for some odd reason, i wished my mother had been there. i was asked to go back to my seat.

no matter how hard i seemed to try, flashes of that night kept coming back to me. The party, the girls, the drinks, the screams, the fear… the lights, the car, the glass… the blood, i could not get it out of my head. i was the driver that night.

i could feel the rage within me begin to mushroom. it was like someone had lit a fire under me. i was angry, angry at myself. how could i let something like this happen? i couldn’t help it. i began to cry. it had no control over my own body. i wanted to stop; i wanted to get up and run out. This was not fair. i was imprisoned already.

There are many different parts of that night that i wish i could have forgotten that seem to have been stuck on replay. i relive every single moment, over and over again. it was eating me up inside. i could still see her face. her lifeless body just lying there in the car and her eyes slightly open, looking in my direction. That was the worst part. she was looking directly at me, but not in a judging or a scared way. They were forgiving.

i came back to reality for a minute, afraid of what the end result was going to be. i didn’t want to go away; i didn’t want to lose my best friend and then my family. My breathing got heavier and heavier and my heart beat was in my ears. i knew that my sentence was coming soon, but i just wanted to pause time. i wanted to rewind and do it all over again. i wanted to let everyone know how sorry i was, and how stupid i felt. it was an accident, just an accident. everything went silent, and everyone looked over at me. here it was. i knew it was coming.

The judge looked down at me; he paused and then began to talk. The rest of my life depended on him. here it was; my sentence. as if that mattered.

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22

ingraTiTude____________________________________________________________

by Shannon hamilton


like an oak tree,your ridges and carvings show battle wounds. summer is upon us, as you sway backwards and forwards with the wind,tall, strong, wise. for many years, you have been standing, looking over the little ones running beneath you.

we come and sit beside you, using your shade; using you,but no one says thank you. no one notices. you give and no one gives

back until winter, when your leaves begin to fall and the people become fewer and fewer. Taking you for granted, we forget what you used to provide for us. still, you stand tall, as we begin to build our snowmen; you, watching over us.

spring soon unfolds; you come back to lifethe children are out,coming back to use you, once again. we take you for granted.

and as the winds during the night get stronger and strongerThe less and less we begin to see you. it is not until you are fully gone that we truly understandthat throughout all of this time, we have taken you for granted.

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23

w i n n e r o f T h e w r i T e a c r o s s o n T a r i o P o s T c a r d f i c T i o n c o n T e s T ( g r a d e 9 )

flicker of a fear____________________________________________________________

by James hare

he was out there again. except maybe ‘he’ was a ‘she’ – it was hard to tell in the dark. Three nights in a row, i’d looked down on to the street from my bedroom window and watched the shape standing there, almost hidden behind the tree that refused to die. i got the feeling whoever they were, they were only a year or two older than me… The first night i’d just stared for a while and then got bored. The second, i’d opened the window to shout something, but there’d been nothing there to shout at. Tonight, i was going to scramble downstairs and throw open the door. really i was. really.

i had never believed in monsters. all the stories i ever heard as a child never resonated with me and tonight certainly wasn’t going to start that. nothing ever scared me, not even the flickering street lamps by our quiet street.

i elected to discuss this with my sister, sarah. although younger than myself, she seemed to have more fears than i did. i figured if anyone would know, it would be one of those easily scared people. when i came over to her room, she was busying herself with the newspaper. The only thing that was orderly in there was all the neatly piled books.

“don’t be silly, Jeremy, no one ever comes around here at night,” was all i got from sarah. it wasn’t the blunt reply that upset me, it was her calling me silly. she had probably noticed it too, but was just too scared to say anything to confirm both of our beliefs. She was the silly one.

That evening i read quietly to pass the time, but after a while it was no use and i was forced to stare at the motionless tree, and the stupid flickering street lights. i went to turn on my lamp, since my room was dark. when i returned to the window, i caught a glimpse of something ducking behind the tree! if we were going to be watched i thought i might as well inform sarah. Moments later, we were in the front entrance.

i turned the cold door knob and thrust the door aside, sarah trailing. The wind pounded against my face as i ran out into the snow towards the tree. suddenly, the figure emerged from behind the tree, about as tall as me, the black figure was faceless. Then, a second, smaller person came from behind the tree. i ran faster, sarah followed. The figures were getting larger, and larger, and larger. The figure was now twice as tall as i was. i stopped a few meters before the tree, so did the figure. from behind me i heard a quiet voice speak,”hey, Jeremy! it’s just our shadows. come on, let’s go back upstairs and work on my papier maché project, or we can read together.” as we turned back, the street lamps flickered out, so did our shadows.

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24

w i n n e r o f T h e w r i T e a c r o s s o n T a r i o P o s T c a r d f i c T i o n c o n T e s T ( g r a d e 1 0 )

soMeone To waTch over you____________________________________________________________

by grace hilton

he was out there again. except maybe ‘he’ was a ‘she’ – it was hard to tell in the dark. Three nights in a row, i’d looked down on to the street from my bedroom window and watched the shape standing there, almost hidden behind the tree that refused to die. i got the feeling whoever they were, they were only a year or two older than me… The first night i’d just stared for a while and then got bored. The second, i’d opened the window to shout something, but there’d been nothing there to shout at. Tonight, i was going to scramble downstairs and throw open the door. really i was. really.

in an instant, i lost sight of my observer. i looked out the window frantically, thinking just how unfortunate it was that i was currently home alone. Then, my heart leapt into my throat as i caught sight of the mystery man – yes, it was for sure a teenage boy – striding purposefully across the street, directly towards my house.

i jerked back from the window as i heard a light knock on my front door. surprisingly, i felt absolutely no fear. This strange feeling of calm had come over me and almost without my own volition i found myself walking over and opening the front door.

Tall, blond-haired, and clad all in white, the boy looked at me rather expectantly as i faced him. all he did was hold out a single hand, as though inviting me to take it, and said in a deep, soothing voice, “come.” it was more of a statement than an order, but i found myself complying right away, taking his hand and following him out into the night.

i didn’t say a word as i walked with this boy, moving through the neighbourhood streets. i didn’t even think about how strange it was that he could be dressed all in white, yet still have remained hidden in the shadow of that twisted tree. some part of me wouldn’t let me think, “what’s going on?” i simply let this boy lead me, through street after street, somehow feeling some infinite trust for a person i had just met.

we had been walking for at least half an hour when suddenly this incredibly loud, shrill whistling noise engulfed the night. looking up, i witnessed a small regional jet streaking across the sky, coming in far too low to land safely and headed directly for my house.

The crash was tremendous, striking the place where i knew my house stood, and lighting up the night as flames licked the air. automatically, i turned to the young man beside me, and simply asked, “who are you?”

releasing my hand, he smiled slightly at me. “Just someone to watch over you,” he replied simply. and as i watched, this boy spread his wings wide and took off into the night, leaving me alone yet safe on the street below.

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25


biTTer sweeT____________________________________________________________

by Alycia hubbard

you are a cup of hot chocolate on a cold snowy day. you are the cup of hot chocolate my mom used to make(The only kind i know)you comfort those who need comforting, whether it’s the cold weather or a devastating breakup. you are the first one there to warm the heart with a sweet embrace. your words go down easylike every sip.when i come in from the coldyou’re the first one i want to seethe first one i want to think about:but just like my hot chocolate,sometimes you disappoint.sometimes, you lack sweetness or maybe you get too hot under the collarand burn me(Making me scared to take another sip)or your passion cannot match my need: the fire is cooled…or i feel shame on my lips and returnfor more;but,Just like my hot chocolate,one day, i will outgrow you.Just like my hot chocolateit’s bitter sweet.

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26

fake____________________________________________________________

by Alycia hubbard


i got out of my car dreading the cold rush of wind and snow. i grabbed my bag from the back seat and slammed the door shut

making a noise tooloud

for this early in the morning.i spun around and headed towards to door.

as i walked into the school, i saw her and knew she would get on my nerves today:

she always does. she was sitting there, intruding on people’s conversations

using her fakelaugh

that sounds as if someone told a bad joke.(and using her utterly annoying, deceiving smile.

The kind that pulls people in, than spits them out like a

pieceof gum that’s lost all its flavour.)

why can no one else see through her? it’s so

obviousthat she only cares about

herself.

The bell rings and it’s time for class.she stands up

shortens her skirt (not that it could get any shorter)and fixes her long brown hair

trying to impress the boys she turns around to face meand gives me a death stare.

The room is instantly

filled with pure

hatred. as if i were the one to do something wrong.she has no reason to be

angry with me.

i should be the one giving her thenasty glances.

for a moment, i feel upset but i soon realizeshe’s pathetic.

The boys she’s trying to impress with her fake

personalitydon’t actually like her.

i guess that is what you get for being a compulsiveliar.


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27

26 Purcell sQuare (My firsT house)____________________________________________________________

a memoir by Mo kara

The uneven interlocking stone would guide me to the black wrought iron gate that opened into a courtyard. There my family and i would spend many summer evenings sitting on our Muskoka chairs nibbling on fresh mango and singing our favourite bob Marley tunes….

The door of Purcell opened up to the history of my life. The house had this inexplicable warmth, perhaps the reason being that it was where i spent the most memorable years of my childhood. They were the years that i cherish because my father was alive then. hence, Purcell has a special place in my heart – a place that i would easily call my childhood “sanctuary”.

The bright light from the skylight above the staircase would collide with the eye-catching 15-foot-long crystal chandelier that hung from the second floor to the basement. The crystals would disperse the light all over the walls of the front foyer, that as a boy, i believed to be our very own rainbow. i felt, that during my childhood, i never had to look for rainbows because the were the epitome of my home.

The living room had a unique sense of design with my grandmother’s traditional furniture fitting in perfectly with my mother’s modern artistic flare. it was also the room where our upright bergmann piano was—the music room of the house. My passion for music was awakened the first time i laid my 8-year-old fingers on the white and black keys. My teacher, Ms. Mcdowell would tell me to sit on the piano stool like a king sits on his throne, and to play for the whole kingdom to hear.

The kitchen was very charming and had a large window that stretched from the ceiling to the floor that would let in just the right amount of natural light. it was a part of the house that held many memories, whether it was happy or sad. it was where i first watched my grandmother make mouth-watering traditional Tanzanian and indian foods with my grandmother such as Mandazi, a Tanzanian donut delicacy and Maani, a soft, warm bread-like food that would go perfect with fresh raspberry jam from the local market. The smells of Purcell were enticing for a small boy, and nourished my senses as well as my body. There were grand dinners and family gathering held here and to the connecting dining room which always made me feel excited and united with many of the family and friends that my parents invited home. My 10th birthday was celebrated with over a hundred people. The kitchen and dining area opened to the backyard. laughter, love, music and the sharing of delicious delicacies filled the day and night. There was so much joy during my childhood years.

The basement was a creative universe to me. it was where i worked with my father on science fairs, practised my Tae kwon do patterns with him, experimented with new sounds on my drum kit and played imaginative games with my siblings. My fondest memory there was when my father and i worked tirelessly for a york region Tae kwon do competition at 11 years old. My father was a perfectionist and made sure that every move i made was flawless. at that time, i was upset with my dad, but i now i thank him for injecting a sense of determination into my body…The weekend of the competition i ended up winning first place in both my sparring and patterns in the york region u12 division.

Purcell became a heavy place to stay after my father fell from a seizure one morning in the front foyer of Purcell. That day, i didn’t see the rainbow on the wall. i was 12 years old.

The memories of Purcell became sad as my dad fought the battle of his life with cancer. we moved to newmarket—my father wanting to settle us in a new home. at the age of 16, my present age, i still take the odd drive to Purcell with my Mom and siblings to bask in the memories of my childhood.

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28

standing up for yourself

My brother is four years older than me, and is my best friend. as a child, i looked up to him in every way, and would do anything he asked me to do which got me into a lot of trouble. when i was eight years old, my brother said that i could fly if i had a feather in my hand; he said that he and his friends used to do it all the time. so there i went, up to the roof; my heart was pounding in my chest. i knew that it did not make any sense. nobody could fly, but my brother would never lie to me, right? sweat poured down my face as i took a leap of faith into the open air in front of me. i soon found out that my brother was wrong. it all happened in slow motion: i waved the feather hoping for its magic powers to work as i fell faster and faster. The sound i heard was just like the one i hear when my mom is cracking eggs. after a short ride to the hospital i learnt that my brother had caused me to break my leg.

later that year, we were out in the back yard and my brother saw a worm. with a warm inviting smile on his face he said that my favourite hockey player, Mats sundin, ate four worms before every hockey game because they are full of protein. More importantly, though, he said that they were responsible for his unbelievable skill. how could i argue my brother? he would never tell me something that crazy if it weren’t true, right? i slowly ate one. it wiggled, and twisted in my mouth as a swallowed it whole. My brother, an a+ drama student, didn’t even flinch or giggle as he watched me eat the poor worm. i went upstairs that night with five more worms in a jar for late night snack, thinking if Mats eats four then i will eat five. later the week i had another trip to the hospital to get my stomach pumped for eating thirty-six worms in order to get ready for a big playoff hockey game i had on the weekend.

now as you are reading this you probably think my brother was horrible, but these were the cases that my mom called “just brothers being brothers;” but it never seemed to stop. in fact, it got worse and worse.

when i was eleven years old, my parents told me that i was adopted. it was the hardest time in my life, and, knowing this, my brother struck. he was fifteen in grade nine at the time, and he had a lot more friends than i had, so when he invited me to a hangout with his friends i was thrilled! i bought a new jacket from old navy, and i was so excited to finally be a part of my brother’s gang. we were going to a movie, or at least i thought we were. we all went into the theatre but it wasn’t to see a movie we went into get drugs. we saw a guy, he looked different his eyes were red, and he was very twitchy. i didn’t like him. he gave my brother a bag of what he called pot. My brother turned to me and said, “steve try it, it will make it all better.” There i was, having to make a big decision. he said, “would i ever lie to you steve? i am your brother, don’t you trust me?” in that moment i remembered the roof, and the worms.

i said no, no to the drugs, and, for the first time, no to my brother.

life lessons____________________________________________________________

by ryan kaszuba


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29


sweeT nosTalgia____________________________________________________________

by Youping li

when i was a child, nostalgia seemed a long distance coach.every week it carried me back to school.here was i,and there, my mother was waving goodbye.

Then i grew up, nostalgia changed to an airplane.every year it took off, and then sent me to the opposite Pacific coast.here was i,and there, my mother was quietly watching me disappear in the terminal hall.

during later years, nostalgia became a telephone.every month, i made phone calls but i seldom went back to visit my hometown.here was i,and there, my mother treasured every moment of my greetings through the phone.

and now at present, nostalgia is no more than a sour and sweet dream. Misses and tears are but as illusions,because here am i,and there stands my mother, a distance between two hearts.i am back.

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30

w i n n e r o f T h e i n c i T e c r e a T i v e w r i T i n g c o M P e T i T i o n s c h o o l c a T e g o r y ( g r a d e s 9 - 1 0 )

TruTh To Power____________________________________________________________

by Jason liang

it was in 2009 when i realized that my dad and i had a difference of opinion. i loved my country deeply as my dad did but he wasn’t supportive of u.s. foreign policy. My brother scott was like me; he studied political science and was hopeful of a career in american politics. being seventeen, he was idealistic and thought that america could save the world. after mom’s death during the 9/11 event, scott became even more supportive of the us war against terrorists. Mom’s death also caused dad to be both parents. he was a man of strong principles and was always teaching us about the necessity of being honest. at the same time, he had a challenging job as the new York Daily news editor. he was so good at his job, that he was known as addison ‘The attacker’ fish. even though he was highly respected, there were many times that he ran into difficulty because of his strong opinions. we lived in new Jersey but we might as well have lived in Manhattan because of how much time we spent there. dad always took us to his office to show us unpublished newspapers. in other words he had a lot of articles that simply could not be printed because of their content. he was big on teaching us right from wrong.

we lost our mother during the horrific 9/11 event and it was a terrible blow to our family. for days after Mom’s death, we ate very little and were quite unmotivated. dad and scott were arguing over every little thing. The loss of mom was really affecting everyone and in every way. it was very hard for dad to take over Mom’s job. after all, he had his newspaper job as well as being a father to two idealistic kids. however, he became ever stronger in his focus to teach us good morals and correctness. That was when he started to take us to the office. he taught us about the world. in his eyes, the 9/11 was more than a terrorist attack, but scott and i disagreed. we had many arguments with dad during that time.

we didn’t witness the beginning of the afghanistan war but know much about it. The terrorists took down the Twin Towers on september 11, 2001. in the name of peace and defence, the united states of america and naTo declared war with al-Qaeda group. it was a critical time in our history as americans. dad wrote an article about the afghanistan war and it caused a lot of repercussions. he published his thoughts about how he believed that war was a cover for the u.s. government. he also wrote about foreign policy – the way in which the u.s. interacted with foreign nations and set standards of interaction for its organizations, corporations and individual citizens. dad did not support the foreign policy; he believed that it was a way for u.s. to interfere with political issues in other countries. when the article was first published, there were hundreds of critical blogs and emails pouring into newspaper headquarters about dad’s article. his boss was not happy about his actions and gave him a stern warning letter. dad’s article also caused a bit of trouble while we were at school. being at an elite university, we were hanging out with the sons and daughters of big shots from around washington, so our peers knew a lot about what was going on in political circles. They called us names such as traitors, aliens and one even told us to stop studying political science since we didn’t love america. as a result of this, scott was extremely angry with dad and did not talk to him for a long time. i was always asking

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31


myself why dad hated the country so much, but there was no one answer. This situation lasted for weeks and it finally started to cool down. however, just when things were getting better, dad was asked to resign. we found out later that the fbi was involved. To both scott and me it was very strange. why did the government want dad to resign? was it because of the articles? after all, america is a free country. we’re allowed to express our views. had dad gone too far? was there something we didn’t know? i was very confused and made many attempts to understand what dad was saying about the government. was the u.s. really hiding important information from the citizens? was it really interfering in other countries’ business?

back then north korea and south korea were in an extremely tense situation. They were about to start a nuclear war and it would have destroyed our world. luckily the u.s. government and united nations stepped in and stopped the potential disaster. weeks after the resignation, dad wrote an article on the internet about how he strongly disagreed with the u.s. getting involved in issues in asia. according to his article, “on March 26th, 2010, a south korean Petrol ship was on its shift taking rounds near the border line from north and south korea. around midnight, the ship sent out a rescue message and it sunk to the sea minutes after.” after the “accident”, investigation teams from the united states and the united nations arrived and tried to find out the cause of the explosion. This really intensified the relations between north and south korea. dad pointed out, “why should the us have any involvement in north and south korean issues. The u.s. needs to stop being a bully and focus its attention on the home front.” That was the statement that really changed everything. There were hundreds of supporters and dad had home pages on facebook and other sources of social network. scott and i still didn’t fully support him until the police came in one day and took him away. we had already lost our mother; we could not afford to lose our father.

we waited for hours until he came home. we rushed to comfort him because we had never seen his face like that before. i knew something must have happened at police headquarters. That night, dad was crying with Mom’s photo in his hand. i was starting to get the real picture. The police had come because dad wrote articles that were causing a lot of concern in washington. apparently, the government, through the police, had threatened dad that if any more articles were to be written that he would pay very heavy consequences. dad refused to tell us what those consequences would be but i knew that they were severe. i could not believe how our government could do something like this. i finally started to see the light. i was shattered at the thought that america could use threatening tactics against one of its own citizens. later on that night dad showed me more articles that he wanted to publish, but for the safety of the family he could not publish them. after i went to bed, i heard dad shredding the articles. i knew then that america was the real terrorist.

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32

fragile hearTs____________________________________________________________

by Aleksa MacDonald


a young gambling fisherman cast out his linefar into a pulsing sea of

desire.

he whisked away the summer flies,and patiently waited for whatever creature swam into his unpleasant

snare.

countless souls were drawn to his line and some nibbled at his bait,but only one took the

lure.

as he pulled in his catch,he was not interested to have such a small and eager fry like

me.

but he reeled me in and gave me a chance;he dragged me away from everything i knew and everything i

loved.

his barb hooked me deep.it punctured my heart and promised to love me,

and promised to never to letgo.

as if from a fairy-tale,the boy transformed me into something

beautiful.

he raised me up where i grew and thrived.i felt like the Queen of the world and he was the king of

hearts.

but then as if from a nightmare,the boy became an animal, an ugly and savage

beast.

My friends told me to break away,to cut the thread kept us

together.

i desperately tried to push him away,but the line was solid,

unbreakable.

he pulled me deeper to his precarious lairand warned me to never

disobey.

i tried to swim away,but my heart was fragile and

weak.

i pulled and forced myself away.but he held me fast, like a desperate soul in the devil’s firm

grasp.

his hook was caught deep and was fused to my injured heart,promising to never let

go.

he carved out my heart and replaced it with cold stones,as he shoved me into the polluted

sea

My eyes swam in tears as blackness consumed me,but he turned his back, abandoned me, and left me to

die.

once again he fastened another bait to his cruel hook.he tossed his line into another desperate sea and

waited.

he closed his eyes in the light spring breeze,and dreamed for something

better.

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33

edge____________________________________________________________

by nico Macias


standing on the edgehundreds of feet from the ground

my package sits next to mewaiting to be deliveredi don’t know what’s in it

i do know that it is importantand if the police catch mei will never see light again

This package may save our countryThis city

and it rests on my shouldersi hear them coming

so i runalong the edge

vault over a fencejump

and to another buildinghere i hand it to the next runner

she must do the same as mei sit and look

The cityscape reflects back white with shimmering glass

beautiful lying mirrorsus runners

we live up hereon the edge

we don’t plan the revolutions or riotsin this deceptive city

we just runup here

on the edge

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34

My sPoTlighT____________________________________________________________

by katie MacPherson

i hear the call, five minutes left. The nerves roll on, My palms become sweaty, and my heart gets stuck in my throat. i have to shake off the nerves, and i take a deep breath.i can’t let anything get to me, not now.not ever.The lights go dim, The talking becomes a dull lull,and then suddenly, silence. i move with such grace, such dignity, as i glide to my spot. i close my eyes; i take a deep breath,The light comes up,and a circle of gold encircles me,and i am no longer myself. i am someone else. i have entered a different role, i have a new persona. and even though i am not myself,i feel right,i finally feel whole.


old Mrs. ellis____________________________________________________________

by raina Mallory

i don’t know which one of us saw it first. suddenly—just—there it was. glinting a little in the sunlight, half-hidden in the tall grass. a key. The old-fashioned kind. Parts of it rusted so badly it looked as though, if we picked it up, it might crumble away in our hands. how long had it sat out there, like that, i wondered. rusting in the overgrown grasses at the edge of Mrs. ellis’s front-yard. Ten years? a hundred? how many times had we just walked on by? More to the point, though—what was different about this time? why had we both, all of a sudden, paused—our eyes drawn to the same, almost invisible fleck of light, just barely glinting on the lawn? at first, when ben knelt to pick it up, i wanted to put out my hand to stop him. but then i didn’t. and he picked it up. and held it. it looked surprisingly heavy in his hands. he turned it in slow circles, so we could get a look at it from all sides, and when he did, so all but the most rusted bits—even in the diminishing sunlight—seemed to glow. i am not sure how, but in that moment i knew: nothing, after that, was going to be the same.

“should we ask old Mrs. ellis if she knows what this is? it has to open something.”

ben disagreed. “we can’t bring this to her! what if it’s special? what if it found us? i’ve seen the old lady and she scares me… finders keepers!” against my better judgement, we kept it in a tiny, toy box we had built the summer before at the back of our room. My imagination fluttered through the stories this key could hold. Pirates could have fought to the death for this key. This key could sequester valuable documents or the bones of forgotten kings and queens. we watched the key for days.

each morning, we found it was glowing even brighter than the previous day. it intrigued me. it scared me. one week later, on a morning thick with fog and irony, an evenly paced and direct knock pecked at our front door. ben approached and i followed. he raised himself onto his toes to peer through a tiny window that presented a limited view of the hunched over, shriveled up silhouette of old Mrs. ellis. he looked back at me with surprise and the words “it’s her” tiptoed from his lips. sweat drizzled down my cheek as he slowly opened the door. our key glowed like her eyes.

whispered Mrs. ellis, “The key you stole unlocks a treasure far greater than you could possibly imagine. Treasures and documents and royal retinue?” she laughed. My eyes bulged like those of an exotic monkey. “i would have shared the bounty,” she said, “if honesty had been your motive.”

The key appeared in her hand and the door swung shut behind her.

w i n n e r o f T h e w r i T e a c r o s s o n T a r i o P o s T c a r d f i c T i o n c o n T e s T ( s c h o o l d i v i s i o n – g r a d e 1 1 )

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36

The fork in The road____________________________________________________________

by Michael Marchese

once upon a time, a young traveller was on his way to start his new life away from war and destruction when he came to a fork in the road wrapping around a mountain on both sides. This traveller was somewhat startled by this fork. The traveller thought long and hard about his choice.

Maybe i should go right since there is a river on that side. or maybe i should go left as there is a large forest there and i think i can see a rabbit or two. The traveller pondered. i will have plenty of food if i go left but unlimited water if i go right. stumped, the traveller sat down and stared at the mountain.

The mountain had a tall cliff face around eighty feet tall with many holes and flat surfaces big enough for a man to rest on. it also seemed to have a large flat surface on its summit instead of a snow capped tip. still thinking, the traveller paced to and fro wondering what would happen if he made the wrong choice.

if he went down the right side the traveller could come to a swamp and have to come back without enough food to get back to even the fork. on the left side he might be hunting and get attacked by wolves or a bear or get to the forest only to realize that there is very little food and no water.

The traveller then came to a decision. i’ll go a little ways down each path to see which one i like better. down the right path he found that the river had gone over the path and led straight into a cave. he heard a grumbling from the cave and decided that this would not be the best choice of the two paths to take. down the left path as he entered the forest he found the forest to be half-dead. discouraged, he went back to the fork to think.

he thought that a good night’s sleep would help him choose the right path. The traveller woke up the next morning with a clear mind and an interesting idea. he looked at the mountain and started to climb.

The traveller found this a much easier choice than taking risks in a cave or a dead forest. here he had many footholds and many ledges to rest on. soon the traveller reached the peak of the cliff. as he pulled himself up onto the ledge he found himself in the middle of a lush forest with a small waterfall flowing to the left side of the trees. he decided to explore this new found glory and found a small cave big enough for him to live in but small enough for there to be no other strange creatures secretly living there. as he emerged from the cave and felt the sunlight on his face he realized that he had made the right decision by creating his own path.

w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g P o s T c a r d f i c T i o n c o n T e s T ( g r a d e 9 )

he’s ThundersTorMs____________________________________________________________

by ciara Mohamed

when your mouth opens, immediately i want to scream. frustration, anger and fury seep into the roomsuffocate meyou are thunderstorms and my face is /crumpled.

in the kitchen, i fill the glass with ice cold water, much like the blood flowing through your veins.My fingers tighten against the delicate glass, my knuckles’ bulge. would you like one of snow white’s five a day with that? i ask politely.

you look like you’ve been living at heartbreak hotel.once again, you’ve made a mistake, done something wrong.it’s the same show every time,we fight and hurl insults, eventually calm downnever apologize; we both have too much pridelike drowning victims’ ugly bloated

corpses. i wish i could deflate my arrogance/breakthe hard shell blocking my soft side.Tell me, where’s your hiding place?i’m scared i’ll never see what’s behind the mask.when i’m not being honest, i pretend that you’re nothing to me.

i draw the curtains before the credits begin(who would want to take responsibility for this mess?)you tell me you’re sorry in your own twisted way andeverything is okay: for a while and i find a better method of pretending.i feign reconciliation when really i have come to bury the dead.


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38

To Me____________________________________________________________

by ciara Mohamed

you are a star burning in a constellation moving at an extraordinaryrateProviding light, beauty and grace even in the darkest of atmospheres.

your mind is comprised of the greatness of churchill and wilde,you steal me away from my sleep but i am hopeless, fascinated, intrigued by everything that escapes your celestial lips.

but you are not solemn.you are clark gable, effortlessly charming your way through everything and anything because you know you can.

oh iridescent creature you are an enigma to some, wasting your time with trinkets and rhinestones all because of what delilah has done.do not succumb to being a samson. use your twinkling eyes to search for something deeper, tantalize with your pearly whitessmother me with peonies and like a leaf in the autumn you’ll have fallen and nothing else will seem important.


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39

you inside of Me____________________________________________________________

an elegy by Shiori ono

do you really think that i don’t remember you anymore?Then you have to listen to me.

you are a part of me,i never leave your side,even though it is painful to know that you are not here,i rather choose to be in the pain than get you off my mind.i never stop loving you,even though i can’t hug and kiss you,i still can see you smiling at me with deep wrinkles on your cheek.

because the you inside of me never dies.your smile never stops shining,and you keep on talking to me Just like you did before you went to heaven.as if the time has stopped since then.

i love you, i love you, i love you.i love everything about you and in you,include the small wrinkles on your cheek.


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40

ferrari____________________________________________________________

by Michael Scott

you are a ferrari on life’spothole-littered highway. you wantto run,you wantto fly, but you are scuppered by the ravages of time. you can see clearly where you want to go. you have the power to get there quickly and yetyou must take care to avoid the accidents that wait to happen. you must be completely annoyed with your dna.

i’ve watched you run. your power is unmatched as is my envy of that gift, (a gift so valuable and yet useless on this highway). There was a time when i considered you the unstoppable force but recentlyi’ve come to realize the potholes are the immovable objectsthat serve as markers that will bring even the strongest to a screeching halt. but wait; all you need is a beacon; a light to guide your way; an old beater with a winch to travel the road with youand pull you out of even the deepest hole. for me, i cannot outshine yourimmaculate paint job or your chrome rimsbut i know how to lend a helping hand. i could guide you through this parcel of land.


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41

Morning blues____________________________________________________________

by Michael Scott

when i see her every morningin the locker hallway, i pray that she doesn’t see me.(i want to vanish)and drown in the crowd.being six foot four sucks.(Try hiding).if we make eye contact,reflexively, my eyes drop to the ground.i wish they wouldn’t. you can’t control a reflex;it’s like trying to stop your heart from beating.i shove the door.why would i push a door i’ve pulled for three years?The bridge is widening every time. it’s funny because it’s not a bridge over troubled waters;it’s a troubled bridge;There is no water. i can remember when we were betterbut i can only remember the spacewhere the memory should be.


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42

charMer____________________________________________________________

by Jade Scrymgeour

every morning i put it on;the clasp is difficult, but i’ve gotten used to it.sometimes i stop. love paraphernalia from you can’t always go unnoticed.each charm on my braceletwas a gift from people closest to mefor my birthday, christmas and anniversaries.sometimes, just for a surprise. but the bracelet started to fill up,and you asked me to a remove a few charms.The ones from my family and friends slowly disappearedto make room for the ones you gave me.of course i complied, how could i not? it seemed easy filling my life with you.each charm a symbol of our euphoria,but it seems that good things can never last. i remember the rage i feltwhen i found out what you had done.The charms became a symbol of our failed attempt at love and i ripped them off.i still wear the bracelet every day, but your charms are in the box-underneath my bed.i sometimes look at them,but i’ve moved on.The holes you left were easily filled.


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43

swiMMing lessons____________________________________________________________

by Jessica Scrymgeour

i was always afraid of diving into the pool

i would spend hours playing in the bright blue water every day in the summer

My sisters and i would jump what felt like olympic size long jumps

but it was merely just a small hop off the diving board.

swimming after each other

both my sisters were faster than me i always lost the race.

but though they were both impressive little swimmers i

had Perfected

The Pencil dive

i always tried to dive, but at the last second i would switch positions

i spent long summers in that pool

and the day i was able to fully stretch out and land

head first

into The

water

i never noticed until now

That it took me a long time just to let go . . .


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44

The clock was Ticking____________________________________________________________

by nicola Shaw

i paddled myself out into the water as fast as i could. The clock was ticking and i needed to go fast. each stroke of my arms into the water pushed me forward. My wet hands were cupped, which allowed me to move more quickly. a small wave travelled towards me rapidly and violently. i ducked underneath it like it was as easy as counting to three. holding onto my board, i angled my body downwards and then back up. i kept my eyes open the entire time to make sure i could see where the wave ended. i took a breath as i popped back up to the surface and again paddled faster and faster. The clock was ticking.

i felt a surge in the water that signals a wave. it pulled me and my board into it like a vacuum sucking up dust. knowing this was a good one; i turned myself around and looked over my shoulder at the wave that was now towering over me. it picked up the back of my board and shot us both forwards with remarkable force. i stayed down until i knew the moment was right and then i popped up gracefully- like a gopher or a marmot - and stuck my arms out for balance as i cut across the inside of the wave. in one smooth and quick motion, i angled my body towards the beach and then slashed it back to where it was, remembering to keep my centre of gravity balanced. i did a few different tricks that all resulted in the same thing; a loud, cheering crowd on the sandy beach miles away. after i’d put on my show, i focused on nothing but the wave; subconsciously, however, i knew that the clock was ticking. i ran my hand through the wave’s curved side and splashed the water out in front of me. smiling, i bent lower to my board as the water crashed down overhead. for a moment, everything was blurry and dark but then i could see again. The salty water was like mist all around me. it splashed in my face and trickled down my legs. i licked my lips, enjoying the familiar taste.

i crouched lower on my board as i passed through the inside. it was the most amazing thing in the world. The ocean water surrounded me and the sun snuck its rays into the entrances on either side of the tunnel. The water sparkled like glittering, multicoloured crystals. i leaned forward allowing myself to move faster. The beach was close now and i needed to get out of this tunnel and off of this wave; i didn’t want to leave. i never did but the clock was ticking. coming outside the tunnel, i was blinded by the light. i glided off of the wave and listened for the roaring of the crowd. it was like music to my ears. i smiled again, knowing that the clock had stopped ticking.


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45

The fog of fear____________________________________________________________

by nicola Shaw

he was out there again. except maybe ‘he’ was a ‘she’ – it was hard to tell in the dark. Three nights in a row, i’d looked down on to the street from my bedroom window and watched the shape standing there, almost hidden behind the tree that refused to die. i got the feeling whoever they were, they were only a year or two older than me… The first night i’d just stared for a while and then got bored. The second, i’d opened the window to shout something, but there’d been nothing there to shout at. Tonight, i was going to scramble downstairs and throw open the door. really i was. really; but i didn’t have to because he beat me to it.

it was a foggy night. you couldn’t see three feet in front of you. somewhere deep inside i felt like it wasn’t a coincidence that it was this way on this particular evening. i had a gut twisting feeling that that shadow, that shape, was somehow responsible for the fog. foolish, i know, but i couldn’t help myself. it was only 10:00 p.m. My mum had left the house for dinner with a “friend”. Mum always said she’d never be with another man after my dad died, i guess she’s eating her words.

i’ve never been a fan of being home alone. i can’t stand the silence. i feel abandoned, deserted and worst of all, isolated. i was in my little bedroom that, unfortunately, happens to be over the garage, remote and extremely chilly in the winter. i heard the familiar creak of the old, tired wood on my front door. instantly, my heart was in my throat. it pounded so loudly i wondered if it could be heard from downstairs. i breathed deeply, trying to remain quiet as i did so. i heard footsteps on the stairs. They were slow, which indicated that “he” or “she” – it would have to be “he” – was taking his time. carefully, i sprang up and out of my cozy, warm bed. i picked up the bed skirt and reached for– nothing. My baseball bat was not underneath my bed. Thoughts raced through my mind, why wasn’t it there? it was always there. Then it dawned on me; the fog was no coincidence. The one night my mother chose to go out was no coincidence; and the fact my only defense was gone, was no coincidence.

i had nothing. i could not fight, scream or call the police. My phone was downstairs. i was doomed. how had this man planned everything so perfectly? how could he possibly have gotten rid of my baseball bat? fear crawled up my spine forcing the hair on my arms to stand on end. i was ice cold. My lips and throat were both completely parched. My knees felt like rubber and my whole body was shaking like a leaf. when he opened my door, i would’ve died from fear had i not already been unconscious.


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w i n n e r o f T h e J o s h u a w e i n z w e i g P o e T r y c o n T e s T ( g r a d e 1 1 )

every Man an eMPeror____________________________________________________________

by Aidan Slind

ceiling ten thousand feetgrey, dour, some windcommanding officer had his doubtsbut the jump went

ahead. four plastic Playmobile paratroopers i had on the porchTheir square white paper parachutes primed and attached to their torso with mum’s green yarnand transparent scotch tape

no hangar trainingno 200-foot mock towerno second chance

into the air went the firstsix feet to mefifteen hundred to himfloating down to the forest

floor by the backyard pathway. smooth landing in the damp soilcushioned by dead needlesno entanglementThen went the other twoi envied their easy flight

and, at last, the Platoon sergeant was thrown with full force into the brush and found his home on the dank forest floor beside the path

located next spring on a hunting expedition:he received the Military cross.

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47

old york____________________________________________________________

a memoir by Aidan Slind

The capital of ontario is, to those who know her, more than just egomaniacs and the cn Tower. she has many glorious and infamous façades; smelling both of sewer gas and of incense and of dusty store shelves that only locals know.

it was a somewhat dour, damp, pious spring morning when my father and i, in all our finery, entered the church of our lady of sorrows. The place was absolutely packed, and the only space left was behind one of the small pews by the side altar, where we stood, and from there could make out my godfather and his family across the nave.

“i used to call this place our lady of the cadillac,” dad would say, “on account of all the rich people living here.” as we drove back home, he showed me all the churches he had taken me to as an infant, the restaurants out young family used to eat at and, as we always did, the old house on high Park.

Though the records show me as having left Toronto at age two, i don’t believe i ever really quit the city; a part of me was left there to wander, and i would go to visit whenever i could.

roy Thompson hall was where i got my first real measure of classical music. My aunt used to take me to hear the symphony when i was small and i would take my seat in that hall, sitting amongst the same beige surroundings countless times thereafter to hear any number of different concerts. i have seen there under that same warm glow the sombre black of the Toronto symphony orchestra and brilliant scarlet of the irish guards, brass buttons and boots brightly beaming in the light.

Just up the road from the hall there is my aunt’s office at first canadian Place, bay street. it stands tall and proud over the Toronto skyline, staring down intimidatingly at the heart of canada’s economic capital. from that intersection of bay and yonge we’ve set off to any number of destinations, traversing the city that is a part of us both.

There was never any lack of food in Toronto either. The bloor Jane diner, located exactly where one would guess, ranks among the greasiest spoons on the planet, and the memories of classic Toronto breakfast sausage and fried eggs ricochet in the mouths of each patron of that place as the greek waitress comes by to take their order. here can be found the trendy new farmers markets, with food stalls by Jamie kennedy, vegan sausage and homemade mayonnaise. here are the expensive french restaurants where you order steak frites and strudel and the full-tilt italian eateries which give no heart to canadian culinary sensitivities. and of course, if we ate at shopsy’s, we were off to see the leafs. That went without question.

My father would from time to time take me to st. basil’s church on the grounds of the university of Toronto. i can remember, as a young boy, touring the campus of his alma mater, being absolutely convinced that i would one day graduate from st. Michael’s college.

My mother, being a Trinity alumna, has had me tour her old campus as well, showing me the charming grey bricks and courtyards of that little oxford i have come to much admire. her office, too, was once down town, and i was always as excited as a child to be taking the bus or go Train up with her on weekday mornings.

Toronto is a city that i have never known conventionally; never have i divided it by its geography or navigated it by the names of its streets. i find my way by connecting the dots of the monuments that see my way through. The churches, the cafés, the schools, the garrisons, the museums, the concert halls, the cenotaphs; these are the street signs in my Toronto. My city knows no names, it is a city of people and of places; it is one great marketplace where anything one could ever want can be found. it is the cultural and economic capital of canada, and each proud maple that stands within her boundaries may show that pride to all foreigners who visit her, by the hundreds of thousands, every year.

and, with three and a half million others, it feels like home.


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48



challenging digression____________________________________________________________

by nicholas Sopuch

an adaptation of J. D.Salinger’s “catcher in the rye”

huntington hill was another private school that i attended. it was located in bingham, Pennsylvania. The place was not picture perfect as the cheesy brochure parked on the headmaster’s desk falsely outlines. Truthfully, more than a few modern renovations were desperately needed. The classrooms were dark, small, and housed a bunch of rodents that were willing to freeze their ears off. naturally, my parents bought into all the stuff from the internet about academic excellence, pristine grounds, and modern technology. i admit that the only thing huntington has genuinely got right is that part about the luscious, green, rolling acres. yet, there were not enough greens to withhold any headaches induced by strict rules and monotonous routines bestowed upon me.

i was focusing on huntington’s disappointing flaws when Mr. bestneezer, the headmaster, flustered me further by abruptly opening his office door and promulgated, “Mr. caulfield, this is your last warning. escort yourself to your next class!” really, i wasn’t the first student to be lectured for observing lewd acts on a laptop, so what was the big deal? didn’t Mr. bestneezer begin his lengthy sermon by applauding my efforts? he even went so far to suggest that i tutor little kids. That would have driven me crazy. i mean, i did like little kids and maybe tutoring would have been handy for cash, but what kind of a phony role model would a guy repeating twelfth grade for the fourth time be?

The truth of the matter was that my recent conformity was due to my sister Phoebe. after the carousel ordeal, she and i made a pact. i promised not to flunk out of schools anymore and she pleaded with our parents until they surrendered, enrolling me into huntington. she impressed me with her maturity and compassion. i had a terrible fear of disappointing her and i felt like a fool for putting her in such a depressing spot. My embarrassment was obvious and i wanted to run outside and smoke a cigarette. instead, i smiled thankfully at Phoebe.

i guess i started doing more of that. complying that is. i even swallowed my pride and skyped sally hayes. initially, she sent me an impudent reply, but recently she started signing off her messages with bff. That was fine with me. as for ackley, stradlater and the rest of the selfish morons i knew, well i blocked them on facebook. dr. Phil and i could have agreed upon one thing. That would be that beneath our social mask lies the truth. That’s probably why i only had two reasonably good, new friends to hang out with and no girlfriend.

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49

delusive efforT____________________________________________________________

by nicholas Sopuch

My procrastination inducing xbox resides downstairs,in the familiar corner of an unfinished, grey basement.and when my agenda is crammed with important tasks,it infiltrates my unresisting psyche with the power of napoleon’s forces.always intrigued, i am led to strategize about my future gaming experiences,and how i wish to complete the final quest.

like a mindless drone,i gradually wander in the direction of the pearly, white machine.as i carefully press the power button of the resting console,green lights and faint ‘humming’ acknowledge successful activation.subconsciously, my mind has been cleared of all else.

My world has lazily faded,amist the mythical, fictitious province of skyrim.in my hands lies an ergonomic black controller,its limited edition encasement bridges me to an alternate reality.feverishly, i battle dragons with swords and arrows,driven and focused on salvaging a non-existent world.

as the day grows old, my mind forbids my weary eyes to leave the screen,“such thrills are inconceivable in your life” it taunts me.and so, i remain slouched,clinging to the controller like a sloth to a branch,for nearly the entire weekend.

as i part from the addictive recreation,i depressingly realize the consequences of my actions.My mind is overwhelmed by the behemoth-like workload i possess.so i sleep with a guilty conscience,and reflect on how carelessly i threw away my precious time.


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50


razed exPecTaTions____________________________________________________________

by Paige Steirman

i don’t know which one of us saw it first. Suddenly—just—there it was. glinting a little in the sunlight, half-hidden in the tall grass. A key. The old-fashioned kind. Parts of it rusted so badly it looked as though, if we picked it up, it might crumble away in our hands. how long had it sat out there, like that, i wondered. rusting in the overgrown grasses at the edge of Mrs. ellis’s front-yard. Ten years? A hundred? how many times had we just walked on by? More to the point, though—what was different about this time? why had we both, all of a sudden, paused—our eyes drawn to the same, almost invisible fleck of light, just barely glinting on the lawn? At first, when Ben knelt to pick it up, i wanted to put out my hand to stop him. But then i didn’t. And he picked it up. And held it. it looked surprisingly heavy in his hands. he turned it in slow circles, so we could get a look at it from all sides, and when he did so all but the most rusted bits—even in the diminishing sunlight—seemed to glow. i am not sure how, but in that moment i knew: nothing, after that, was going to be the same.

Then he asked me, “how long do you think it’s been here?” “don’t know. Judging by the rust, it’s been lying here for a long time.”

we both eyed the skeleton key again. ben looked at me as though i were some kind of seer or oracle, “where do you think it came from?”

“don’t know. Maybe the old abandoned weller house near the park entrance. remember when we tried to sleep there one halloween? They had keys exactly like that in the doors.”

The sun was retreating quickly and a dark veil was covering the sky. we decided to explore the old weller mansion the next morning when lots of sunlight would flood through the dirty old windows and make the place a lot less scary than it was the last time we were there. That had been a disaster. we tried to last the night but we couldn’t; too many noises, too many shadows; too much imagination; too many keyless locked doors.

The next morning we met at the neighbourhood convenience store. The key made us think of things both terrible and wonderful: a dungeon, a bedroom door, a rusted safe, a treasure chest? as we plodded along the old dirt road, we didn’t talk, our thoughts turning to rare and precious items that might be bartered for shoes or cell phones or speed boats. as we turned the corner, however, i felt like my feet were cut out from under me.

The weller mansion was gone and in its place lay an empty fenced-off field.

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51

a visiT____________________________________________________________

by christina Tourloukis

i walk into the old age homeand smell hot chocolate and cookies i hearMariah carey’s “all i want for christmas” playingon the radioThere are decorations everywherei notice an angel on top of the christmas treeand that it’s slightly crooked They must have just done all these decorationsbecause lastweek they weren’t therei see seniors decorating a tree and noticehow happy they lookbernie is putting strings of glitter aroundthe tree andcynthia is putting up bulbssimon is in the corner eating cookie aftercookie“hi, simon” i say“have a cookie!” he yellsi take one and notice it tastes kind of stalewhy is he eating so many?i get on the elevator anxious to see annie,my favourite person here, whom i visit regularly.once i get to the thirdfloor, i walk into the main Tv room.“what’re you guys watching?” i aski notice the “Price is right” is on,and it’s the part where they spin the wheelno one replies to me buti can feel them listeningit smells like cookies up here, too; they mustbe bakingsome people are asleep, two women are knitting, and oneold man is trying to get out of his chair.

i can almosthear his knees creaki help him out and proceed downthe narrow hallway to annie’s room once i get there, i knock three times:“christina?” she asks. “come in!”i go in and sit on her couch“hi, annie, is that a new sweater?” i askshe replies, “yes, dear, my daughter just got it for me last week.”i hand her my present,hoping she will like iti picked her up a necklace we saw at the mall togetherannie slowly opens iti can tell that she loves itshe stands to give me a hugi stay for a while to talk, buti know i have to goannie and her room almost ooze lonelinesseverything is put away perfectly,and the windows are openalthough it is clean, it still feelslonelyi always hate this partbecause she doesn’t like me leavingher“Please come back soon,” she says. “i love when you visit.”“i’ll see you when i get back from my trip, annie!”if only she knew how much i enjoyed it,and valued our conversationsi leave a little sadder.


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52

w i n n e r o f T h e i n c i T e 2 0 1 2 s c h o o l - w i d e c o M P e T i T i o n ( g r a d e s 1 1 a n d 1 2 )

call of The PiT____________________________________________________________

by Derreck veitch

buck wagged his tail slowly. his snow white coat rubbed up tight against Pip’s upper thigh and side. a couple years ago, buck’s head was at the same level as Pip. he found it remarkable how much he, Pip, had grown. Pip had recently become buck’s most loyal friend. buck used to only call to the general. now, the general is gone more and more. sometimes, weeks pass before the general walks through the high, thick front doors and buck comes barreling down the hallway to greet him. Pip and buck are together almost every day in the summer. buck escorts the children down to the pond where they spend hours tossing rocks and various objects into it the water.

one quiet august day, Pip and his little sister went down to the pond for another day of fun. while the two were having a rock skipping competition, buck noticed a stranger at the far side of the big land lot on the other side of the fence. he was staring directly at buck, hands gripping the fence. buck rose to his feet and stood there motionless. The two stood there for a small while, until the man continued his way along the path between the two side streets. buck kept his gaze at the man, until he disappeared in the distance.

That night, late, buck was in the general’s office, sitting by the register, as his Master sat at his own throne. buck heard footsteps approaching the door and he sprang to his feet. as the footsteps grew louder, he sauntered between the general and the door. The door creaked open and Jeffrey, the butler, came in. he was not wearing his usual attire. buck was startled at the unusual look and scent of the man, bore his long fangs and let out a growl.

“Quiet, buck!” announced the general.

“That bloody mutt will be the death of me!” complained Jeffrey. he slowly made his way around the dog, and into the seat across from the general. The tension in his voice was palpable. it was true that Jeffrey and buck had their differences. when Jeffrey started working here a couple years ago, he had forgotten to feed him on a number of occasions, and when he did remember to provide food, it wasn’t nearly as much as he got from the general’s wife. Jeffrey also did not like dogs, nor did he understand them. he would sneak up near buck while he was sleeping and was always standing right beside buck’s food bowl while he was eating.

The visit was short. There was some yelling, talk of money, and then Jeffrey left angry and in a hurry.

The next day was unusually windy. Pip rigged up his kite and set out into the field with buck. buck caught a whiff of a familiar scent and saw Jeffrey standing at the edge of the fence, and at the other side of the fence was that same stranger. This time, buck ran up to the fence, right beside Jeffrey, and growled at the strange man. The growl was ferocious.

The man was not at all fazed by the growl. he was staring at buck as if he was at the horse races, picking winners. “oh, wow. he really is huge. will he fight good?”

“well, he sure as hell wants to fight with me!” replied Jeffrey.

buck did not like this man at all. The fur stood up high on his back, his ears pinned back and he let out a fierce, bone-shaking bark. This sent the man’s hands off the fence and his body back about a foot. Then he cracked a smile.

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w i n n e r o f T h e i n c i T e 2 0 1 2 s c h o o l - w i d e c o M P e T i T i o n ( g r a d e s 1 1 a n d 1 2 )

“how much?”

“a thousand, but tomorrow’s my last day here. so, it has to be done tonight.”

“Meet me outside with him tonight.”

That night, after everyone had gone to sleep, the beautiful scotch-shepard plopped himself down in his usual place at the top of the stairs.

Jeffrey came through the front door quietly, but buck was awake at the instant of any noise. buck rose to his feet silently. buck recognized Jeffrey’s scent. having excellent vision in the dark, buck watched for a few minutes as Jeffrey, carrying a rope, shuffled around softly on the bottom floor. buck meandered down the stairs and towards Jeffrey. Jeffrey had no idea where buck was until buck’s wet nose brushed his hand.

“aha, there you are,” he whispered to himself.

buck trusted Jeffrey. so Jeffrey knelt down, slipped the rope around buck’s collar, and led the beast out the door and alongside the yard. a man was standing at the corner, the only light coming from a dimly lit cigarette. when buck got closer, his nose kicked into gear. it was the same man from the other side of the fence! There was an exchange of money, and a passing on of the rope, and buck was now walking alongside the strange man. They stopped a little way down the road where the man slid open a van door.

by the time the man wrapped his arms around the one hundred forty pound beast, a quick snap of the jaws had left a deep cut on his left side. The man pulled vigorously on the rope and sucked the life out of buck. buck kept trying to lunge at the man but every time he was forced in a different direction. he was back on his feet immediately. one time, he blundered and lost his footing on the rough asphalt. The rope was pulled really tight and buck got really tired.

buck woke to the clashing of metal on metal. he was inside the van and it was moving. he tried to stand up be couldn’t. he was put into cage so small his tail was wrapped up to his snout.

The van stopped. buck’s ears perked up and he heard the calls of other dogs, and other people. he just wanted to be out of the cage. Then things happened very quickly. The door flung open and three men with gloves on picked up the cage and moved buck down onto the floor. Placed directly in front of him was a similar cage with a dog in it. This dog was growling fiercely, but not at the people. it was growling at buck. his eyes were piercing and jet black. his mouth was foaming and his tail was pointing straight back. There was a scar on his shoulder that was huge. People started creating a circle around these two cages.

buck was scared. he did not understand why this dog was so determined to get to him. he hadn’t done anything wrong. he anticipated that the cage might not hold this dog much longer. buck’s heart started beating very fast, and buck bore his teeth and stood his ground before this dog. Then, buck let out one great roar. for a second, it silenced the crowd, and all that could be heard was the heavy breathing of both dogs. not three seconds later, the front of the cages lifted. The muscles in hind legs were loading back and then, simultaneously, both dogs lunged.

sleighT of hand____________________________________________________________

by Derreck veitch

you are like that solidary playing card.you have a very specific place you choose to be. yet, standing alone, you are entirely useless. i miss your presence. i miss your pliant shape.with the rest of the cards, you can do a great many things, but the deck without you isn’t a deckit’s just 51 solidary cards. why are you never where you belong? are you too proud to be with others like you? do you like that feeling of being alone, like a great wolf?i remember that great day when the package was unwrapped, andeveryone gathered around the cards to see what magic would result from them. now, your absence is selfish and the result for all of us isn’t magical, at all.without you, our disuse is inevitable, and we will never conflate into one.you create a mystery, and rediscovering you would be a denouement in itself.for me, you see, the game would never be the same. it would be like trying to complete a puzzle knowing there’s a missing piece, regretting the hole in the very middlewhile we try to rebuild the hole within us. (a hole that you left and a hole only you can fill). without you, There is no game.


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55


berefT____________________________________________________________

by Adam wang

i don’t knowfrom whom it comes:That laughter那样的笑声，是从哪里传来的。it is exciting at firstThen sad-- like watching the children play together看到孩童在一起玩很开心，可是突然忧伤起来friends, i say farewell; isay farewell to friendsas autumn is autumn in an alien land送别友人，被送别，在这异乡的秋天as the sound fadesThe longing for home insists upon itselfas the reverberation of the evening bell代表黄昏钟声渐远，思念渐渐弥漫上来。now, i smell the first snowon the old beautiful school.初雪，飘落在古老而美丽的校园里。what do migratory birds feel as they fly?

what does it feel like to fly home in a hurry with the year

ending?

年末了，归乡的候鸟和匆忙回家的人们在想些什么呢？

lightning seems to cry

in the dark like

the screech

哭泣的的闪电！乌鸦叫了起来。

of the crow lost its way

THE PCREVIEW OF WRITING 2011/2012




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