Sacred Heart Literary Magazine 2010-2011

Penned With Heart 150 years

Cover Art by Lisa-Marie Giorgio

Lorem Ipsum Dolor Amet Pretium

Penned with heart

The Sacred Heart School of Montreal

Literary Magazine 2010-2011

Lorem Ipsum Dolor Amet PretiumAcknowledgements

Faculty AdvisorMs. Gisela McIvor

Editor-in-ChiefKatherine Chamandy IVC

Senior EditorsAmanda Atallah VC

Amanda Larosa IVC

Alexina McLeod IVA

Junior EditorsNorah Woodcock IIIC

Myriam Zakaib IIIC

from the pen of the Editor-in-Chief,

I am so proud to be the Editor-in-Chief of this year’s literary

magazine, Penned With Heart. Our Editorial Review Board has worked so

hard soliciting, reading, discussing, selecting, and editing these wonderful

pieces of literature and art of the Sacred Heart students, for your

enjoyment.

The process of selection was a very democratic one. The Editorial

Review Board members had the opportunity to read all submissions, edit

them, and vote on inclusion in the publication. Final editing and layout

decisions rested with the Editor-in-Chief and the Faculty Advisor.

Without the dedication of the Editorial Review Board members and

our Faculty Advisor, Ms. McIvor, Penned With Heart would have remained

but an idea. I thank them sincerely for their commitment and hard work. It

has been a real pleasure working with them.

We of the Literary Magazine would like to thank everyone who

contributed to this year’s issue. We received more submissions than we

could include due to physical and financial constraints. Please do not be

discouraged - we need you to keep submitting, so we can continue this

wonderful Sacred Heart tradition.

This year’s Literary Magazine is truly a wonderful exposé of Sacred

Heart talent, both literary and artistic. We hope you enjoy exploring these

pages as much as we enjoyed creating them.

Enjoy,

Katherine Chamandy

Lorem Ipsum Dolor Amet Pretium Table of Contents

War of Change ... Emily Kyte 6

Fairy Tales & Other Things that Never Happen ... Victoria Perrotta 7

Affliction ... Katherine Chamandy, Isabella Girardi 8

As Time Goes On ... Hannah Ryan 9

Lucy ... Jasmine Rach 10

The Setting of Your Sun ... Camilia Amouzegar 13

Curiosity ... Kelly Burchell-Reyes 14

Cheater ... Laura Griffin 15

You ... Candice Law 16

R.S.W. III ... Caroline Chamandy 17

Loss of Innocence ... Deidra Robertson-Chois 19

Eyes of War Cannot See ... Alexia Tummillo 20

The Fight ... Julia Martignetti 21

Nature is Losing ... Valeria Cori-Manocchio 24

I Am a Song Unfinished ... Sarah Turcotte 25

A Day of Rain ... Alessia Castonguay 26

A Rainbow of One Colour ... Thea Koper, Angelina Smolynec 27

Marionette Doll ... Claudia Lucente 28

Just Once More ... Jasmina Ciccocioppo 29

Turning a Page ... Jasmina Ciccocioppo 29

Like We Used To ... Jessica Abreu-Moore 30

Rain ... Norah Woodcock 32

Lost Love ... Caterina Alfieri 33

Denial ... Laura Griffin 34

Gone ... Jasmine Rach 35

RUN! Hide... ... Camilia Amouzegar 36

The Mirror ... Jennifer Anne Baratang Junio 37

Eat Your Heart Out ... Amanda Larosa 38

Tough Kid ... Laura Griffin 40

Untitled ... Lisa-Marie Giorgio 41

My Life is Pointless ... Kelly Burchell-Reyes 42

A Fairytale ... Julia Ryan 44

The Poet ... Jasmine Rach 46

Springtime ... Norah Woodcock 47

Lost ... Jennifer Anne Baratang Junio 48

Just One Sniff ... Lauren Maruya-Li 50

What is a Book? ... Maris Jacobs 51

I Am a Mystery ... Joanna Tsotas 52

Open Up a World of Imagination ... Caterina Alfieri 53

A Rough Start ... Elisabeth Dimitratos 54

The Spartan Way of Life ... Alexina McLeod 56

Wanna-Be Barbie ... Victoria Perrotta 58

Gymtastic ... Myriam Zakaib 59

Building and Breaking ... Sarah Turcotte 60

War of Changeby Emily Kyte IVC

Fairy Tales & Other Things that Never Happenby Victoria Perrotta IVC

6 7

Dinner was always his favourite time of dayBecause of all he got to say.Never once was he quiet or sad,He always talked as if nothing was bad.

Whenever someone thought of him,They always thought of conversation.He was always positive, not shy,He wouldnʼt even hurt a fly.

Then one day, there came a manWho said he had to leave right away,Far a war had just began,And he would participate.

The years passed with fear and doubt.No one knew whether he would come out.Finally news came he had been capturedAnd had seen and felt a lot of pain.

He had to come home after he was freedWith lots of scars and wounded memoriesHe did not arrive with his usual smile or laugh.In fact, he looked like his weight had been cut in half.

His family thought that they could cheer him upBy making him a wonderful dinner.He arrived at the table looking at the food quietly,But his eyes filled with a look of savagery.

Everyone stared at him with awe.The war had definitely changed him …For him now there were no words, and no movementsBut the tearing of teeth and claws.

Sometimes a story is not good enough to tell. Sometimes life does not

play out like a fairy tale. Maybe Cinderella never meets the prince at the ball and

instead is subjected to a miserable life of scrubbing her step-sistersʼ floors until

sheʼs 95. Maybe the popular cheerleader never goes on a date with the star jock,

and they never have ten pretty babies and live in the perfect red brick house with

the white picket fence. What if the indie punk-rock band never got its break-out

gig? Yes, I am very aware that these stories arenʼt the ones with the five gold

stars and the academy award nominations. The almost dreams and the failed

wishful thinking arenʼt exactly the ingredients to the feel-good movie of the year.

Why is it that unless a tale is brighter than the sun, shinier than the moon,

and more magical than any sort of princess fluff, we just donʼt seem to remember

or even want to care? Is it so bad that an ordinary story is just dying to be told?

That maybe if we look a little closer at each other, none of us are as we appear?

What if instead of blending and being normal, weʼre all freaks? Or to put it nicely,

we are not ordinary, but extraordinary. Is it so impossible to believe that inside of

every normal person is someone special just waiting for their chance at life? It is

true that fairy tales are pretty and wonderful to think of, but they are nearly

unattainable for anyone who wants to try.

In the end, we never know what will be worth it, because unlike a rented

DVD we canʼt just fast-forward through the beginning and middle. It is a slow and

often painful trek to the finish line, and it is sometimes impossible to know if the

victory will be worth the effort. We try, we fail, we succeed, we win, we lose, and

we love, all in the hopes that someday our dreams will be answered. We want

our hopes to be recognized, and we want the five-year-old we once were to

become the princess we wish to be.

Sometimes the story is good enough to tell. Sometimes we get the white

picket fence and the aspiring actress makes it in time for the Oscars to accept her

award. Sometimes our wishes do come true. We just have to hold out long

enough for it to happen.

8 9

Afflictionby Katherine Chamandy IVC & Isabella Girardi IVB

As Time Goes Onby Hannah Ryan IVB

When I see him I just want to

Throw my hands up and scream

Because I know he doesnʼt see me

I just want to cry because I miss him so

Even though Iʼve never talked to him

That girl heʼs with, I hate her because

Sheʼs not me

And Iʼm not her

All I think about when Iʼm away from you

Is you, and the next time I can see you,

Be with you

My heart is pounding out of my chest

My palms are wet with sweat

My stomach churns and burns

Iʼm breathing fast and I canʼt catch my breath

Just at the sight of you

I want to say something, let you know

Iʼm here

But every time I work up the courage

Youʼre gone and itʼs too late

When youʼre gone, when Iʼm away from you

Everything hurts, like missing you

Is a physical affliction

Being with you, near you

Is like nothing you can imagine

Nothing I could have imagined

Until I felt it

For you

What I want to know is

If this is

Love,

Why does it feel so

Terrible?

7:00 am " Good morning! Sleep well Jim?

7:30 am " A hot shower feels great. Sorry Jim, what did you say?

8:00 am " I cannot hear myself think. Are you there Jim?

9:00 am " Where do we work, Jim?

"

12:00 pm" Time for lunch, are you hungry Jim?

1:00 pm " What time is the big meeting Jim?

2:00 pm " I did not understand a word anyone said, did you Jim?

5:00 pm " The day is done, ready to go Jim?

9:00 pm " Time for bed, are you tired Jim?

9:05 pm " Time for my medication, do you have yours Jim?

11:00 pm " Where are you Jim? I thought you were my friend Jim?

"

This time, are you gone for good Jim?

by Caterina Alfieri IA

10 11

Lucyby Jasmine Rach IVC

Iʼm not one to carry loose change in my wallet, or toss money into the

dirt-ridden hands of invisible homeless people, slouched against heavily

graffitied concrete or huddled in bus stops. Iʼm usually in a hurry anyway, and

coins weigh my pockets down and make me sound like a piggy bank. Coins are

for children to cherish after cleaning their room, or losing a tooth. The worn,

leathery feel of a twenty dollar bill is much more encouraging than the cold, loud

clang of quarters.

Today Iʼm early, so I treat myself to a low-fat cranberry muffin and

Starbucks French Roast coffee. I nestle myself into the cleanest corner I can find,

brushing the trash away with my new stilettos to keep my purse clean as I

strategically lower it to the pavement. I lift my hand up to shield my face from the

early sun as I slip my blistered feet out of the shoes and let out a long, relieved

sigh, standing on my toes. The dirty ground is the last place I want touching my

new pedicure.

Whenever I have the time, I like to watch. Watch the mismatched parade

of people fumble by, so unaware of so many things around them. Itʼs when the

human stampede slows that I notice her. Sheʼs more camouflaged than me, even

though sheʼs trying desperately to be seen. Her quivering hand is stretched out

as she mutters quietly to everyone, anyone.

“Change, please. Could you spare some change?” She repeats it over

and over. Her matted hair is short, sticking out in all directions, grazing the collar

of her frayed, faded, thin plaid shirt. Her pale skin is smooth, but stained with a

mixture of dust and tears. The violent wave of colour in her eyes is what catches

my attention. Their green screams for a second glance, had anyone cared to take

a first one. Our eye contact is short before I impulsively take out the change from

my snack and drop it into her hands. I walk away without looking back, but her

eyes stay on my mind as I arrive at the office.

“Have you seen that girl across the street from the Starbucks?” I greet

almost all my coworkers with this line, hoping that someone else had seen her.

Itʼs not until noon that I get an answer I want to hear.

“Lucy? Yeah, sheʼs there all the time. Best eyes Iʼve ever seen,” the

mailman says distractedly as he stares with confusion at the vending machine.

“Her name is Lucy?”

“Oh, Iʼm not sure, but she has kaleidoscope eyes, like Lucy in the Sky with

Diamonds.”

Kaleidoscope eyes, the perfect description. They haunt me and I crave the

story behind them. All day their hypnotic gaze haunts my head. Theyʼre the last

thing I see at night and the first thing that grab me as I wake. As

Iʼm getting dressed, I check around my apartment for change. The clothes create

a swamp on the floor in my closet and by the time I walk out the door, my

Blackberry buzzes with texts wondering where I am, but today I ignore it instead

of answering with a sugar coated, overly apologetic reply. "

As I approach her corner, my heart races. Part of me wants Lucy to be

there, another part want her to be gone. Wants to never see her again. The street

is crowded and thereʼs not a sign of her. I decide to lie to myself, say thatʼs a

good thing, and continue on my way. Itʼs not before I go to open the industrial

glass doors of the office that I jump in surprise. Lucy is sitting there, shaded from

the sun. Sheʼs looking the other way, but her flannel shirt is what makes me

recognize her.

I clench my hands inside my trench coat pockets and approach her with a

deep breath. I clear my throat to get her attention and she flings herself to her

feet in surprise. Our silence is stolen by a car horn nearby, but our eye contact

never breaks. I take a minute to catch her kaleidoscope eyes up close before I

get nervous and drop my eyes to my feet. I manage to stutter out the sentence I

had practiced so many times:

“I thought youʼd need some extra change.” She looks frightened as she

watches my shaky hand pull out a fistful of cash and hold it out to her. She

remains frozen so I try plan B.

“I was just going to grab some breakfast. You can come join me if you like.

Iʼm buying.”

Her expression softens but her silence gets harder. As I lead her in the

right direction, she surprises me by following closely. She doesnʼt seem

interested in talking, so I donʼt try to make conversation. I take her to a café which

serves the best Belgian waffles Iʼve ever had, and as we walk through the door, I

shut off my now constantly vibrating phone.

“What do you want to order?”

I wait for an answer but she acts as if she never heard anything. So I order

the largest meal on the menu for her and a cinnamon bagel for me. We get many

stares from people in the café, but Lucy doesnʼt seem to notice. She never says a

word and keeps her eyes, her only weapon, on the tacky table cloth.

When the food comes, she eats ravenously, but remains polite. She uses a

fork and knife but the urgency in her crazy eyes says differently. Still, she keeps

her elbows down and her napkin in her lap. Ten minutes later, she finishes. She

stands up, walks over to my side of the table, takes my hand and whispers a

small thank you. Her two words blend with her piercing stare and Iʼm hypnotized.

Iʼm left speechless as she turns and walks out.

12 13

The Setting of Your Sunby Camilia Amouzegar VB

I never saw her again.

The lectures I received later that day went in one ear and out the other. I

know that Iʼve given Lucy something more important than Iʼll ever understand. It

may have been small, but her kaleidoscope eyes told me that it meant so much

more than $25.97.

Continue on the path of right,

Which you know not without insight.

Why is it that we do not know whatʼs good?

So far from where you first stood.

Donʼt stand there whilst they criticize,

A mere opinion through anotherʼs eyes.

You must decide which sign is best,

Because when youʼre alone, you do the rest.

Begin your journey with a run,

And open arms will turn to shun.

You must stay strong,

It wonʼt be long,

Until the setting of your Sun.

by Erika Cheng-Tarantino IB

by Chloe Sorella VC

Curiosityby Kelly Burchell-Reyes IIA

Cheaterby Laura Griffin VA

Who invented questions?

Do bugs ever sneeze?

Who named that finger “pinkie”?

Is curiosity a disease?

Do turtles ever hiccup?

What is the difference between a rabbit and a bunny?

Can hamsters get fleas?

Can a lionʼs nose get runny?

Why does Caesar have a pizza place?

And a salad named after him too?

Was King Henry good at chess?

Will my questions ever be through?

Why is one plus one two?

And why does two squared equal four?

Who invented infinite?

When comparing one and a hundred, why is one hundred always more?

Why are some people patient,

While others easily become furious?

Why do I ramble on so much?

Why am I so curious?

Walking through a valley of wild flowers he picks up a rose,

She calls on him with her red seduction and dangerous thorns,

Although pleasing to him,

Her beauty fades, his intrigue dies,

And so he walks along the valley,

Flower after flower he picks,

None fully satisfying the desire for ecstasy so deeply engraved in his mind,

So visible on his body,

At last his eyes fall on a simple flower,

Her white beauty so captivating, so subtle,

Instantly in love, his desire does not ebb,

He is selfish; he cuts her roots realizing only too late sheʼs gone,

He looks back to the valley and all is dark,

Gone, gone with him,

All because he couldnʼt resist lust.

by Lauren Goforth VB

14 15

by Laura Griffin VA

Youby Candice Law IVC

R.S.W. IIIby Caroline Chamandy IIIB

Who cares what you believe?

People judge based on what they see.

They predict what you can achieve,

They predict what you can be.

Do they really know what you have to offer?

Maybe, but whether that offer is worthy of recognition,

Worthy of being acknowledged,

Is based on their judgement of you.

Does their judgement define you?

Only if that definition is accepted.

Only if that definition is never challenged.

Only if you do nothing to change it.

What you believe, is what defines you.

What you have to offer, is what defines you.

Judgements are made from their minds,

Nobody will ever stop judging.

It takes one who knows everything about you,

One who knows your intentions and your beliefs.

So, who can judge you?

You are the person who has the best clue.

I had an entry published in the Youth section in the Montreal Gazette, in

2008. The Editor of the Youth section also knew that I yearned for a companion

and that I was in a relentless search for not just any match, but the perfect one.

Aware that I was zeroing in on a potential pick, he asked me to share this

momentous interview of my potential life companion.

It had been a long road until this point in my life. For the last nine years, I

have felt I was in the right place to finally enter a lasting and profound

relationship. But my parents kept insisting that I wasnʼt ready, that I was still too

young, that I wasnʼt mature enough, and that I wasnʼt responsible enough. In any

event, my family couldnʼt handle it for many different reasons, to say nothing of

the fact that they never liked anyone I brought home.

The name of my subject for this interview is Remington Spencer Winslet

III. He is descended from a long line of vigorous, accomplished, and family-

oriented ancestors. I recently made my way to his familyʼs estate near Knowlton,

Quebec. It was shortly after lunch when Remington ambled into the room, eyeing

me sheepishly.

Caroline: Do you know why I am here?

Remington: No, I was not informed. I was on my morning constitutional with two

of my brothers when one of the staff advised me that I had an important visitor.

Caroline: Well, I am here to see if you would be a suitable companion for me…

Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?

Remington: Of course. My mother told me not too long ago that I should start

looking, while I am still young.

Caroline: What are you looking for in your future companion?

Remington: I would want what my parents have given me and much more. They

have given me loyalty, love, and commitment. They have kept me safe. What I

need from a companion is a different kind of love. I want to experience more and

I need adventure. I need to explore my surroundings and make my mark.

Caroline: Do you want to explore a relationship?

Remington: Yes, I need a relationship.

Caroline: Are you ready to settle down? And that means returning home every

night.

Remington: Of course I will do my very best, but my commitment should never

be in doubt. My limited experience has taught me, however, that meaningless

diversions can happen.

Caroline: Would you like to have a family?

Remington: Thatʼs certainly a possibility. I am open-minded on this issue, but

16 17

by Kathleen Brown-Vandecruys VA

Loss of Innocenceby Deidra Robertson-Chois IVA

ultimately the decision will be yours.

Caroline: I come from a very close family. Would you have an objection to my

parents and sister living with us?

Remington: Of course not. I am very people and family oriented.

Caroline: Remington, I have covered all my questions. Do you have any to ask?

Remington: As a matter of fact I do. What may I expect of my living

accommodations? I am quite comfortable here. The staff attends to my every

need.

Caroline: We live in Saint-Sauveur with six hundred feet on Riviere Simon, which

is a wonderful place to frolic. There is an acre of land and a swimming pool. Our

house is very cozy and charming.

Remington: Where would I sleep?

Caroline: With me of course. But my sister may get jealous!

Remington: Iʼm sure we can deal with that.

Caroline: Okay Remington, Iʼm sold. Letʼs make the announcement and then

find you a leash!

Itʼs been a day

Where i am not the same

Everybodyʼs motives shift, their angel faces given away

You can see people have changed, whoʼs to blame?

Nobody old really understands

how much this loss is in demand

Your inner child loses command

on what your thoughts say no to

by Laura Griffin VA

18 19

by Maya Taylor-Barnett IIIB

Eyes of War Cannot Seeby Alexia Tummillo IVB

The Fightby Julia Martignetti VA

When war rears its ugly head,

It wreaks havoc without mercy and leaves many dead.

Gone forever are those who served to protect,

Forgotten are all the reasons they fought for respect.

Tears fill the eyes and wails fill the air,

Of the ones left behind in complete despair.

Inconsolable souls, too weak to go on,

Living in a world where their loved one is gone.

Is there any justice in the injustice of war?

Bombs on every corner and bullets continue to soar.

“They blinded me. See?”

Now all the soldier has left is nothing but glory.

A fight between sexes,

Questions we cannot answer,

Yet they do not cease to ask

Persistent and stubborn as always

They shout.

Are men better than women?

Are women better than men?

To me it is evident this battle goes on without a real cause

Yet for most, this seems to remain unclear.

An issue that has been going on for centuries,

As relentless as the tides hitting the shore,

Forever bound to this routine.

To think it would have run its course, is a wishful thought

For the buzzing of a dwindling argument is unheard,

The whispers of despair overshadowed by the panicked shouts and cries

Begging for acceptance and acknowledgement to be granted

Women and Men protest alike,

The subject does not seem to die down.

Why is that you ask?

So many problems in this world and this foolish fight is still not resolved,

you say?

Well should we blame pride?

Our pride that engulfs us, filling us with artificial power,

We mount ourselves on this pedestal untouchable,

This unattainable height that is only existent in our own conceptions.

Are men to blame, too stubborn to accept the facts that lay beneath their

eyes?

Intimidated by what a woman may bring to the table,

No pun intended.

Humans have deluded themselves into accepting stereotypes,

Creating assigned roles, creating limitations.

There is a difference between fact and fallacy,

One is irrevocably true and the other is a lie, ever so convenient at times.

We conform and accept our fates as they are dictated by tradition and

“duty.”

Slowing down the evolution of life, slowing down the progression to unity.

By now it is just a matter of admitting to it, we are wrong.

by Beatrice Richer Laflèche VC

20 21

Men are physically stronger than women,

But not all strength is physical,

Women can bear children,

But not all women are good mothers.

We are not all right. We are not all wrong.

We are all human, hence we inevitably make mistakes.

Donʼt however misinterpret my intent,

For to change oneʼs point of view can easily be a tricky task…

Or not.

Considering that inculcated into the mind, our opinions are not our own.

We search for perfection, when it lingers on the edges of our blind sides.

It is in what is fair and just,

It is in love.

It can be a temporary perfection, but it exists.

And it deserves to be recognized.

This perfection is harbored in the hearts of good women,

Therefore meriting equality and respect,

Beautiful in their uniqueness,

These creatures that nurture the world ask not to be elevated but to be

Accepted.

Why they donʼt receive this recognition, is still puzzling.

Are they not worthy?

Is their delicacy disturbing? Does it cause one to be repulsed?

Is their caring nature a form of weakness?

These statements could easily be revoked

And the word women could be replaced by the word men.

The words caring and delicate could be replaced by distant and strong.

And yet the world would be lacking if either were removed.

We maintain that we are proud of our ingenuity, innovation, and modern

ideologies,

Asserting that we are always one step ahead.

Then why is it that our values are a step behind, why do we focus on

these medieval

ideologies of stature, class, and duty?

Is it a matter of Fear?

It holds us back from our success, from opening up to change.

A change we so desperately need.

Our face (humanityʼs) is a manʼs.

The working man, because somewhere along evolution, the woman was

cast aside.

Except for birthing, cooking, cleaning, and nurturing.

All unworthy of actual praise.

So men work,

And women satisfy the workingmanʼs needs.

Is that her place? Her purpose?

No exceptions for anyone?

Why wasnʼt I privy to these accounts?

Am I strange for thinking that we deserve more?

That we deserve to be along men?

That our face should be a twin?

Man and woman side-by-side, depending on each other to provide

stability,

Both equally as important, equally capable?

Well, it has been this way for as long as I can remember.

Should I dare overlook the circumstance of our existence, and be

wrong?

The fashion of our lives for all this time,

So why should we change it, right?

by Beatrice Richer Laflèche VC22 23

by Lauren Goforth VB

Nature is Losingby Valeria Cori-Manocchio IIIC

I Am a Song Unfinishedby Sarah Turcotte IVC

I awoke today as I did yesterday: my back aching from the park bench I

sleep on, even during the coldest nights, and my fingers red with irritation from

the holes in my tattered gloves. I hear sirens; they are so loud that the piercing

sound would keep ringing in my ears unless I covered them. The delicate scent

of freshly fallen snow takes over my nostrils for a moment. The most dreaded

part of my day commences. I smell the passing people and I feel their frigid

stares. They cringe walking past me.

Reluctantly, I pull myself up from under my blankets and open my eyes to

my surroundings, thinking maybe today will be different. Perhaps people will

finally draw their eyes away from their controlling screens and see the natural

beauties that envelop them, before they disappear entirely.

Day after day, people saunter through the park where I sleep; some smile

or stare while others do not even glance in my direction, unaware that I watch

them as they pass by. I scornfully observe the father ignoring his children as they

eagerly tell him about their day and giving his undivided attention to his phone.

The childrenʼs carefree smiles fade away as their father vigorously unlocks his

secure grip on them to pick up his phone. I hear their quiet sighs and I cannot

help but hope they will not turn out the same way. I witness the people centered

on the screens of their laptops who donʼt apologize when they bump into

someone. I can almost hear the foul remarks they utter in their heads as they

walk away. No matter how much they smile afterwards, you undoubtedly feel the

hardness in their hearts. When these people amble past me, part of me sees

something that is nearly robotic that depends on an item of technology to enable

them to live a piece of their lives. Another part sees them as having lost almost

all affection for what surrounds them and was created before their cell phones or

laptops, the wonderful thing called nature.

I sit on a bench dreaming that someone will pull me out of this state of

blurriness, where I see people attached to technology like itʼs their only source of

oxygen. Slowly I drift off into a sea of memories; today I distinguish myself as a

child with my father outside in the same park where I am now, except it is spring

and the flowers have bloomed. The park seems less tense. I smell fresh cut

grass and I hear the ice cream truck jingle in the distance. My father and I are

walking together along a familiar path and I turn to him and begin a seemingly

endless tale about my day at school. His pager rings but he ignores it and keeps

listening. I continue speaking and the scene begins to fade: I wake up and see

the same park, but somehow it is different.

I am Sarah, pronounced with a long “a.” I am an aspiring singer who is waiting to

be heard. I am a caterpillar, waiting to burst out of my cocoon. I am the music

that drives me through life. Any problem I cannot solve with my guitar is either

unsolvable or is not a problem. I am a pencil, trying to write the lyrics of life. I

am who I want to be, not who others want me to be. I am a wannabe American

citizen. I am a teacup: delicate and feminine. I am still young, but I already love

somebody who loves me back. I am a heart; you canʼt go on without me. I am a

best friend. I am only a teenager now, but one day, I will be a great mommy. I

am a shoulder, which you can cry on whenever you need to. I am a dog lover

who still carries the dog around on my hip like a toddler. I am curious.

Sometimes, I am as confusing to others as algebra is to a 5-year-old. I am

obsessive-compulsive; if you contaminate me with your germy hands, please

fetch me a bottle of Purell. I am insane. I am a broken record. I am a maid, but

only in my own bedroom. I am a nurse who will disinfect and bandage up

anyone who needs me. I am a hairdresser to all who are having a bad hair day.

I am an executive chef who specializes in the making of anything coming from a

box. I am a gym-goer, equipped with tacky spandex shorts and a sweat rag. I

am secretly a body-builder, but my abs are currently in hiding. I am a catcher,

and if you run, I gun. I am a washing-machine with ideas and worries tumbling

around inside my head. I am stressed. I am happy. I am excited. I am nervous.

I am still waiting for the world to need me. I am a song unfinished.

24 25

by Alexa Michelle Eberle IVC

A Day of Rainby Alessia Castonguay IA

A Rainbow of One Colourby Thea Koper IVC & Angelina Smolynec IVB

There is no sun in the sky and water is dripping down the sides of my

house. It is raining. This kind of weather makes me feel gloomy and slows me

down. The wind is so strong and fierce it pulls many leaves off the tree branches.

I hear no birds chirping, no bees buzzing, only the sound of the rain drops hitting

the ground, pitter patter, pitter patter. I wonder if it will ever stop – it feels like it

will go on forever. All I can do now is sit by the window and watch the rain fall.

Songs about love and hate and how we struggle through our daily lives

searching for meaning,

that we're special in our own way.

Songs that haunt us, taunt us, with a sweet melody.

These are the whispers, the chants, the anthems of our lives.

We breathe for music, die for it.

So why has it become so easy to mock?

Love and loss have been replaced by dancing and drinking.

Heavy beats have replaced blissful guitar strokes.

These heavy beats have drowned out our lives, our emotions, our identities.

Our personalities have become one: thrown in a mixer set on high.

We are no longer individual.

We are one.

A soulless mass of dancers and drinkers.

We all must party, or be taken away by the tide, lost at sea.

Why does pop culture promote this wild behavior?

Radio, TV, magazines, our ears constantly bombarded with subconscious orders

Demanding we act a certain way, talk a certain way, live a certain way.

Lost in a world without imagination,

A rainbow of one colour,

Weʼre all just the same.

We are all carried out by the same current.

One false move, and you are lost; lost without direction or proper mindset.

You are alone.

No one to help you.

They haunt you, taunt you, mock you.

The white noise filling up your ears and soul is being drowned out by the heavy

beats in the distance.

You are the black sheep, the ugly duckling, and if you choose to stray from the

shallow, superficial path of life, then you must live forever in sheer terror of being

thrown out of society because you werenʼt afraid to stand up tall and speak your

mind.

We all have a voice for one reason and one reason only: to be heard.

And how can it be, if it is locked away in a little box unable to be found?

by Vanessa Minicozzi-Capozzolo VC

26 27

Marionette Dollby Claudia Lucente VC

Just Once Moreby Jasmina Ciccocioppo IVA

Words whizz by my ears,

Drowning me in a sea of white noise.

I struggled to stay afloat in the madness

But tendrils of malice drag me under.

Her tongue,

So sweet and docile,

Turned into a finely honed cutlass.

Her words flew straight and true,

Like an arrow that sprang from a willow bow.

They pierced my heart

And her cruelty seeped into my bloodstream.

It clouded my vision and made my breath grow shallow.

I felt the world slow then

STOP.

It reached my brain

Where it twisted it,

Pulled it,

Rendered it useless.

I became a doll,

A shell of a girl I used to be.

She then stitched my mouth into a smile,

Sewed fishing wire

Into each of my limbs.

She dressed me in pretty clothes

And taught me how to paint my toes.

I was her plaything,

Her little puppet.

She pulled the strings

And I lept to obey.

But ropes fray,

Bonds break.

Slowly by slowly

The doll was free of her cage.

She blinked in the bright light

I feel it.

Passing through my skin,

like a sting but almost a sensation.

I say to myself: enough.

Tears rolling down my face.

It's pain that makes everything else go away.

But itʼs always never enough,

Something just brings me back to it.

Each time, deeper and deeper.

All I really want, is to be gone.

And took a hesitant step forward

Before she ripped off her stitches

And repaired all of her glitches.

Turning a Pageby Jasmina Ciccocioppo IVA

In this world a lot of shit happens.

Not everything can go the way

you want it to.

Shouldnʼt let one thing bring you down

even when it means the world to you.

Letting go may be the hardest thing,

but in fact itʼs the bravest thing you can do.

Life is just one big book,

with your whole life in it

and sometimes, just sometimes,

you must turn the page and begin a new chapter.

28 29

by Caroline Chamandy IIIB

Like We Used Toby Jessica Abreu-Moore IVC

“Ask for what you want and be prepared to get it,” my dad would say every

night after we made our wishes on the first star we saw from my bedroom

window. I spent a lot of time thinking about that quote; after all, I heard it every

day. I was always afraid to wish for something and then realize I didnʼt want it. So

every night, when we stood looking out my window, I never made any wishes. My

dad used to. I could tell by the look he had on his face. I used to pretend to make

them, but the truth is, at six years old, I had no idea what to wish for. But today, at

sixteen years old, I know exactly what I would wish for. Regardless of whether I

made a wish or not, it was important to me because I got to spend time with my

dad.

My dad is dead now. When he died, I was eight and only a couple of

minutes away from turning nine. It was the worst birthday imaginable. To this day,

I donʼt know what happened; I have no idea how he died. He had left the house

early that morning; I remember it perfectly. Before he left he came into my room

with an uneasy smile, almost forced. As he kissed me on the forehead, he wished

me a happy birthday and told me how much he loved me, and then before I could

even answer he rushed out. His voice when he spoke was quivering and his eyes

were red; it was obvious he had been crying. I have replayed this in my mind

countless times; I have analyzed it as best I can; I know every detail of those ten

seconds. Thinking back, I can read all the expressions on his face: he knew he

wasnʼt coming back. At the time I was too oblivious to realize.

My mother thinks it is better off left unsaid and I hate her for that. The

evening of my birthday when we usually invite the family over and have cake, she

went out. She left me at the neighbourʼs house and only picked me up the next

morning. I was young and confused, but it didnʼt take a genius to notice

something was wrong.

“Halley, your father died yesterday evening. I am so sorry, Halley,” she

announced as we got back into our house. She said it very bluntly as if it was

really a joke, but I knew it wasnʼt when her knees collapsed and she fell, crying

and hitting the floor, hard. I felt my throat swell and I suddenly couldnʼt breathe.

My body was numb. I started sobbing and crying and right at that moment,

nothing made sense anymore; I didnʼt know how to feel or what to do. In a matter

of seconds my life had just crumbled right beneath my feet. My dad, my best

friend, was gone and there was nothing I could do.

I learnt how unexpected these things are; even with the signs, I had no

idea. Without my dad around, I didnʼt go near my window; there was no point, no

one to pretend to make wishes with. In any case, the stars never seemed to

shine as brightly anymore.

During the silent dinners, when passing by the huge portrait that hangs

over the staircase, and before I fall asleep, I think about him. My mother and I

donʼt get along very well; my dad was the glue that kept us together and since

heʼs gone we just donʼt speak, unless we have to.

When I was seven, my mom, my dad and I got all dressed up, went to a

photographer and had a family portrait taken. We all had big sincere smiles on

our faces. My dad had his hand on my shoulder and I knew his other hand was

holding my motherʼs. They had a great relationship; they complemented each

other perfectly. Passing by this photograph is a challenge on its own, for both of

us.

And of course I miss him the most when Iʼm lying in bed just thinking about

how things used to be. I cried for two weeks straight after that birthday, and I still

cry pretty often. Things still havenʼt really settled down and I donʼt think they ever

will. Nothing will ever be the same again without my dad. My mom has drastically

changed; itʼs as if sheʼs a completely different person. Even to this day she still

has that worn out, tired and depressed expression painted on her face that I first

saw the moment she choked out the words “your father is dead.”

And today, for the first time in exactly seven years, Iʼm standing at my

window, just like we used to, looking at the stars, just like we used to. I close my

eyes and envisage my dad standing next to me, “star light, star bright, first star I

see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, I wish this wish I wish tonight...” and as I

stand here making my first wish ever, it seems like for the first time the stars are

shining just as brightly as they used to and I know if my wish comes true, that it is

exactly what I want and I am prepared to get it. When I open my eyes and snap

back to reality, I feel so empty because I know that my wish isnʼt going to come

true. And no matter how many more nights I stand here making the same wish,

the next night I will be standing here doing it alone.

30 31

by Adrianne Silva VA

Rainby Norah Woodcock IIIC

Lost Loveby Caterina Alfieri IA

Stir of mist and cool wind whistling

Boom of thunder and lightning flashes

Bronze flame dimming, fading, leaving

Disappearing into the darkening sky.

Trees and warmth and joy and dreams

Scattered and crushed under the rain,

Rain,

Rain.

Gushing water, tidal waves

Raindrops drumming against the roof

Farewell heat, farewell clear sky

Gold sunlight gone, storms in its place.

Crystal falls of eternal showers

Everywhere and forever, endless rain,

Rain,

Rain.

The sun was a flower that bloomed for an hour

The sun was a mirage, a forgotten dream

The sun was a wish that the rain extinguished.

When love is lost and I, not one desires,

And humanity turns its back on thee,

Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires,

For thy good Lord shall forever guide me.

A brand new life I now wish to begin,

He who is loved by family and friends,

Jealous am I of the hearts he does win,

Woe and deceit, towards me that man sends.

Yet doth this truth grow clearer day by day,

And I appear lost in all mankindʼs sight,

To thy glorious heavens I shall pray,

And live and love in Godʼs brilliant light.

In the end, Love will dream and Faith will trust,

Since He who knows our wants and needs is just.

by Beatrice Richer Laflèche VC

32 33

by Lauren Goforth VB

Denialby Laura Griffin VA

Goneby Jasmine Rach IVC

Silk wrapping itself around your senses

Blinded and deaf to the dark core of the smooth word

Whose sensuality will begin to atrophy

Words devoid of truth cut away your conviction, your will

Cutting you off

All that is left is a lie

Yet the only truth you will ever want to know.

Like ice in heat

or the summer sun,

or the feeling

that youʼve found someone,

it swiftly goes.

Unnoticed, alone.

Hearts soon turn to lifeless stone.

What then was dear

is now the past.

First place has now turned to last.

Priorities change,

Intentions, needs.

Forbidden plans now let one succeed.

The world, that understandable and lawful world,

was slipping

away.

How easy it is

for rules to stray.

what happens next?

Endings, goodbyes.

And letting all things go

to die.

by Sarah Murphy IVC

by Jasmine Rach IVC

34 35

36 37

RUN! Hide...by Camilia Amouzegar VB

The Mirrorby Jennifer Anne Baratang Junio IVC

Sometimes it matters not whose company is there,

Just knowing they see weakness is too much to bear.

To hear yourself think without a reply,

Completely invisible to anyone who walked by.

It isnʼt always a fight to find the bad,

It isnʼt the ridiculous arguments to be had.

Quarantine of a freedom-fighting optimism,

Prisoners fear the tainted glare of the ventriloquist.

Run! Itʼs a twisted world to face,

Hide... try to upstage the human race,

Leave the reasons you sob behind,

Leave your autobiography blank, unsigned.

You want to see the glance or smile,

The effects last on you for a while.

The ringing telephone with no wire or dial,

Arrogance will soon go out of style.

Walk a bit faster, youʼre currently alone,

Stop placing yourself in a silent zone.

You need the company they provide,

It isnʼt safe to Run and Hide.

I didnʼt see this coming

Bit by bit I feel a change

As I stand in front of the mirror

I donʼt feel the same

I see some fall under the influence

Embracing the power theyʼve received

Every word, action affects their lives

Yet theyʼre blind and completely deceived

I donʼt want to be like them

Iʼve seen the better roads to follow

Though it is easy to give up and give in

Iʼd rather fight than regret my tomorrow

My life has become a mind game

Filled with voices in my head

A fight between the devil and the angel

Is the moment I begin to dread

One voice is taunting me screaming

You knew didnʼt you? Iʼm part of you?

Maybe I should have know better

I feel it in everything I do

Then a calmer, hushed tone whispers

This doesnʼt have to be the end

Turn back from your old ways

There is still time to start again

As I face the mirror before me

I see a change in the reflection I see

The girl standing before my eyes

Is a girl Iʼll never be

by Beatrice Richer Laflèche VC

by Emma Pallay IVC

38 39

Eat Your Heart Outby Amanda Larosa IVC

“Rise and shine sweetheart! There is a surprise waiting for you in the

kitchen!” Well this is just lovely. Waking up on a Monday morning to the sound of

my mother yelling at me because it takes too much effort to walk upstairs and talk

to me like a normal person should. I get up and look at myself in the mirror. As

usual, I am disgusted by the very sight of my reflection. My thighs touch when I

stand, my love handles are overwhelmingly large, my arms should be half their

size, and the list continues, but I cannot bear to look at myself any longer.

I step into the kitchen and the smell of French toast is nauseating. My mom

is rambling on and on about how she made my “favourite breakfast” and I just

continue to nod my head and smile because I cannot let her know about last

night. She kisses me on the forehead and I cannot help but notice how dark the

circles under her eyes are. Mother finally leaves the room and now it is just me

and the toast. The mere sight of them makes me sick to my stomach and the

thought of eating them makes me want to gag. I am so tired from the confusion of

last night and I am still shocked that no one has found out yet. I woke up at four

and spent half an hour pacing around my room debating on whether or not I

should go downstairs and have a late night snack. In the end, the pros

outweighed the cons and I snuck downstairs, promising myself I would only have

an apple. Five minutes later, I come out of the odd daze I was in and found

myself sitting in the pantry surrounded by wrappers, empty cookie boxes, and

bags of chips. Thinking back on it now, I cannot actually remember eating the

food, as much as I can remember the embarrassment I felt. What would my

parents and my brother think if they knew that I did this yet another time? I

obviously had to dispose of the evidence before somebody wandered into the

kitchen, so I quickly thought of a new hiding place for all of my leftovers. I shoved

all the packages into a plastic bag, picked up every single crumb and went

outside to put it in the neighbourʼs trash. I must say I was quite proud of myself

for having come up with that on the spur of the moment and I am sure that no

one would notice a few more containers in their garbage, besides my family of

course.

I grab the plate of toast off the table and try to find a bag to put the food in

before my mom comes back. At this point, the smell has filled the entire kitchen

and it is so repulsive that I cannot stand it anymore. However, my mother does

have a point…French toast is my favourite breakfast and she only makes it on

rare occasions. I might not have any French toast for weeks, so maybe I could

have only a piece or two. I head for the pantry and sit in my usual corner, inhaling

the food like there is no tomorrow. Before I know it, I have also eaten my fatherʼs

portion and the strange part is that I am not even remotely hungry. I hear my

mom coming back downstairs. I will just tell her that my dadʼs plate fell on the

floor and I threw it away, she will not suspect a thing. I am now realizing what I

have done. What kind of sick person am I? I will make a compromise with myself.

Who needs to eat lunch anyway?

***

I walk down the hallway at school and I feel everyoneʼs eyes burning holes

into my back as I pass them by. I can see what they are thinking in their stares

and it is almost as if they are screaming in my ears, “Go lose a few! Just leave

and do not come back! No one likes you!” I feel like one of those horrible car

accidents that people always gawk at so I make a run for the bathroom and hide

in the stall marked “Out of Order.” I decide to sit here and cry until the bell rings

for class. Anyway, it is not like anyone will miss me at lunch.

***

People are talking, even more that they were before, and now, I am

hearing about it from my parents and the few friends that I have left. They say

that they are worried about me and that I should see a doctor, but I refuse to do

so. I know they all think that I am crazy, but I know for a fact I am not. Sure my

grades are slightly lower than usual and I have put on a lot of weight over the

past few weeks, but I am fine. I should not even be thinking about this today

since it is my sixteenth birthday. I rented a hall, invited family and a few people

from school, and bought a gorgeous dress for the occasion. I have been

especially careful lately and have only been eating soda crackers so that I would

be able to fit into my dress. I even bought it a couple of sizes

too small in order to motivate me to drop the weight faster.

My stomach hurts and I have to go to the

bathroom because I cannot stand up straight anymore.

My chest feels blocked, as though I have dry-swallowed

a large pill and the pain in my stomach is intensifying. I

have to blink quickly to keep my eyes open and my body

feels heavy. Maybe I ate one too many crackers before

the party? I make a mental note to reward myself when I

get home and indulge in a few sweets later tonight in the

pantry. It is getting harder to think and I am having

trouble remembering how to breathe. I will just lie down

on the bathroom floor for a while and I will fix this later.

My parents have a point, this is not normal, but it is fine

because maybe when I wake up everything will be okay?

That is, if I do wake up.by Beatrice Richer Laflèche VC

Tough Kidby Laura Griffin VA

Untitledby Lisa-Marie Giorgio IIIB

She walks with a silent scream in her heart,

Only her eyes can occasionally give away,

The faint ghost of a smile still lies on her lips,

Her feautures carry the beauty of a young girl,

In their corners hiding the secrets of a woman,

All the troubles of the world on her shoulders,

Yet she walks,

composed,

determined,

focused,

She opens the door and steps in,

With all the conviction and strength in the world,

She faces her life.

In the moonlight all these parading people look the same. The sounds of

blurred city lights echo in the night. I walk down the sidewalk with my hands in

my pockets. Everything I see is somehow morphed and twisted. The sidewalk is

distorted, the buildings are inverted, and the people are just shadows.

There is a buzzing sound in the back of my head as I walk into the

midnight show. The music plays like a violent melody fuelling blazing rebels. The

sweat that pours from their bodies smells like trouble and fury. I drop off my

jacket and give into the temptation, joining in the celebration. A gut-wrenching

terror wraps around me, yanking me into the pit of lions and bears. With every

touch, their skin ripples grotesquely against mine. The blood rushes to their

heads, making their hearts beat wildly. Their eyes burn and sting, shaking their

points of view. The guitaristʼs chords make their disguises fade away. The

drummer makes them frantic. The vocalist makes the most familiar faces

unrecognizable. The music makes me disappear.

Left in a trance where my mind and fingertips are numb, incapable of

speaking, I ramble in tongues. I am unable to distinguish reality from fantasy.

Unsure if the voice in my head is really mine. Unsure of the language spewing

out of my mouth. Unsure if I will make it through the midnight show whole.

Unsure of anything at all. I push and shove, trying to make my way out of the

crowd. As soon as Iʼm free from the asphyxiation, my senses begin pulsing

erratically. I pick my jacket up off of the floor, and make my way out the door. I

look back, realizing that behind these windowless walls is a scary place, where

mind has more control over matter and time is relatively non-existent. Heaven for

some. Hell for others.

In the sunlight all these lonely people look the same. The sound of

morning traffic echoes through the day. I walk down the sidewalk with my hands

in my pocket. Everything I look at is somehow innocent and clean. Sidewalks are

straight, buildings are neatly placed side by side, and the people are smiling. I

sigh loudly for all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

by Kaia’ti:io Barnes IIIB

40 41

My Life Is Pointlessby Kelly Burchell-Reyes IIA

My life is pointless.

It is foolish to believe that

The meaning of life is faith, hope and love, and

We can all agree that

Studies show that the world will end in 2010 anyhow.

It is false to believe the myth that

“Love is the strongest force on Earth”

But believe the more logical statement

“Not everything that you hope for will come true.”

Ignore it when someone tells you

To never give up.

But remember

To stay logical.

You need a lot of strength

To run lifeʼs challenging race.

It is a privilege

To be able to accept that

Life is a useless, hopeless wandering.

I used to say that

I love life.

~

All of this is true if you see a glass that is half empty. We need to turn this

upside down to see it half full.

~

I love life.

I used to say that

Life is a useless, hopeless wandering.

To be able to accept that

It is a privilege

To run lifeʼs challenging race.

You need a lot of strength

To stay logical.

But remember

To never give up.

Ignore it when someone tells you

“Not everything that you hope for will come true.”

But believe the more logical statement

“Love is the strongest force on Earth.”

It is false to believe the myth that

Studies show that the world will end in 2010 anyhow.

We can all agree that

The meaning of life is faith, hope and love, and

It is foolish to believe that

My life is pointless.

42 43

by Lauren Goforth VB

A Fairytaleby Julia Ryan IA

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, lived a princess named Julia.

She lived in a beautiful palace and had anything and everything a princess could

ever want. On the outside, her life seemed flawless and beautiful. From the tip of

her teal silk slippers up past her shimmering silver gown sewn with glittering

diamonds, up to her silky brown hair topped with a spectacular crown that was

covered in iridescent gemstones, her life could have been perceived by an

outsider as perfect. But on the inside, things were not as they seemed for the

princess. Her fairy godmother had given her everything materially possible to

have from her unicorn-hair headband to the dragon-scale box on her nightstand.

But the thing that was lacking in the princessʼ life was not an object; it was

something she did not have but needed emotionally in her life. She had no love.

She remembered it faintly from her childhood before her mother died, but it

seemed to be totally gone. No one loved her anymore. Her dad never had time

for her because he was always away, and being the youngest child of six none of

her siblings were still living at the palace. All of her sisters had married and her

brother had run away from home when her mother died.

Julia sat down on the window seat in her pink bedroom and sighed. If only

there was someone in her life that she could talk to! Someone she could trust

with her secrets. That would never happen, she thought sadly. Mother was gone

forever. A lone glittering tear slid down her pale cheek. She wiped it away quickly

and walked into her room. She sat for a while brushing her hair at her big, gilded

mirror, but soon she crawled into bed. She didnʼt want to have to think any more

than she had to about the hole in her heart that she was sure would never be

filled.

A few weeks later, Julia was sitting in the sun on the bench outside her

palace reading a book. Under the trellis of roses, the sun was reflecting off her

long hair and caught the attention of a prince who was passing by on a big black

horse. He pulled his steed to a complete halt and gazed at the oblivious girl.

Completely captivated, he decided to take a break in his journey to stop by their

palace.

As he rode his horse up to the gates, Julia finally noticed him. She blushed

a deep rose color and hurried back inside. The prince was intrigued and went to

knock on the caste door. The guard opened it and ushered him inside. He was

waiting in the parlor when the king came down to see him.

They discussed trivial matters of the kingdom until the prince could no

longer handle the suspense. He casually asked the king who the lovely young

lady he had seen was. The king replied that it was his daughter. The prince asked

if he could go and see her and the king consented.

The prince mounted the winding staircase up to Juliaʼs bedroom. He

stopped and tapped tentatively. She answered and gasped in surprise at the sight

before her. She blushed again and invited him in. They sat for hours on her

balcony talking of nothing and everything. They got along perfectly from the

moment they met, as if they had been specially made for each other. Julia felt

something warm glowing inside her. It felt like with every word the hole in her

heart got smaller and smaller. She realized then exactly what she was feeling.

The one thing she had been missing in her life she had found: love.

Six months later she and the prince were married. They had a beautiful

wedding and Julia had the chance to sit down with her father and actually talk to

him. She realized that he had loved her all this time, even if he hadnʼt shown it in

the ways she expected. Julia came to see that love was around her everywhere,

even in the most unexpected places.

A year later she gave birth to her first son, a small rosy child whom they

named Nicholas after Juliaʼs lost brother. And with this small new arrival to her

life, the hole in her heart that had been there for so long was completely full.

by Beatrice Richer Laflèche VC

44 45

46 47

The Poetby Jasmine Rach IVC

Springtimeby Norah Woodcock IIIC

The cool ink traced loops across the table

In his quiet study he wrote his fable

Of simple things: of lace and string.

How long had he been lingering?

To find a tale that danced in dreams.

And change things more than it may seem.

What will occur when nothingʼs left?

When time is lost and love bereft.

The mind will melt, as fragile glass

Will wear and stain and soon to pass

The final memory through the gate.

I stop and picture my own fate.

His life is but a tainted flaw,

In this perfect plan we have to draw.

Whatʼs left of words still came around

Typewriter clicks, the only sound.

The lone man stood, and left without

The willingness to feel with doubt

The heat, and watch his things ignite

As hungry flames engulfed the

night.

Warm breath on my skin.

A breath to melt fear away.

A breath to bring light.

You bring a spring to my step,

springtime to my path.

Tender arms around me,

Arms to keep cold away.

Arms so tight.

You bring a spring to my step,

springtime to my path.

You make me stretch my wings

and prepare for flight,

You make my buds blossom

into a beautiful sight.

You bring sun to my sky,

no more is there night.

Your warm breath is all mine,

you are my springtime.

by Lauren Goforth VB

by Caterina Alfieri IA

Lostby Jennifer Anne Baratang Junio IVC

I woke up to my cell phone vibrating incessantly. When I finally looked at

my phone, Jibs had already called 12 times, and left four voicemails and one

exclamation mark-filled text message to announce her arrival at my house in

exactly 21 minutes. If it was anyone else, I wouldnʼt even bother to get out of

bed, but Jibs wasnʼt just anyone; she was my best friend.

Jibs was always one to wake up on the right side of the bed, start her day

on the right foot, and fall asleep delighted with her day. So, when she arrived, I

wasnʼt surprised to see her with a huge smile on her face. “Here,” she said,

handing a small decorated box to me, “Itʼs your favorite!” As I took the box in my

hands, I noticed the watermelon stickers she had used to decorate the wrapping

of my delicately garnished mocha cupcake. Although I wasnʼt going to eat it, I

couldnʼt help but smile, and, knowing my best friend, I couldnʼt wait for the day

she had planned for the two of us.

After a batch of Pillsbury cookies, a movie marathon, and a Justin Bieber

karaoke session, our day was finally coming to an end, but by the looks of it, Jibs

had something else up her sleeve. She never came on too strong, but I knew

exactly what she was trying to say when she asked me how I was keeping up. I

told Jibs anything and everything, but I wasnʼt sure how to answer. I would be

lying if I told her the last few weeks were fine, but how was I supposed to tell her

how I really felt?

Finally, I raised my head slightly and shook it lightly from side to side. “I…I

just donʼt know,” was all I said. Jibs looked at me, sighed, then slowly turned

away. Her smile faded and the glow in her eyes turned into emptiness. Before

she could say a word, I asked her how she was doing. “All right, I guess,” she

started, “Iʼm failing math with an 80, which isnʼt something Iʼm used to, and after

dress shopping last week, I feel fat and ugly, but apart from that…”

“Stop it,” I said coldly.

“You asked, so I answered you,” she answered sharply.

“Donʼt give me that, Jibs. You know youʼre beautiful and any girl would kill

to be in your shoes,” I replied.

“How would you know?” she asked bitterly.

“Because I would,” I said quietly.

I was suddenly irritated. She knew I was anorexic and that I was having a

hard time in school. Why did she have to bring this up? She was flawless;

anyone could see that. Before I knew it, my mouth spoke my thoughts. “You

know, just because you get an 80 in math doesnʼt mean youʼre failing. Iʼd do

anything just to get an 80. You get an 80 and take it as a fail; I get an 80 and look

at it as an accomplishment. Also, have you seen yourself? Youʼre beautiful. You

might be plump around the edges, but everyone sees right through that because

you have such a bubbly personality that lures people into your life! Some people

would give anything to be smart and beautiful. Youʼre practically perfect without

even trying, yet you still question yourself.”

For a second, Jibs was silent. She stared at me with a blank expression,

and then said, “Yeah, I guess so. You donʼt have to be so mean about it.”

I was shocked. “You came in here and brought me a cupcake. You were

the one who wanted me to do all those stupid things with you. You told me how

you felt and I told you what I really thought. You brought this upon yourself.

Donʼt blame me,” I snapped at her.

Tears gradually filled my eyes as Jibs said, sniffling between each word, “If

you didnʼt want to sing, bake, or watch movies you could have told me. I was just

trying to comfort you.” Before I could say anything, Jibs ran out of the room. I

could hear her apologizing to my parents and politely excusing herself. How

could she just walk away like that?

The next few days were slow and long. I tried to convince myself that

nothing had happened between us, but I still couldnʼt get myself together. As I

sat in class, my mind replayed the scenes of our fight over and over again. When

I saw her walking down the hall, I thought about talking to her, but I was

speechless. I felt disoriented and disconnected from the world I usually lived in. I

wanted to just forget the fight, but Jibs didnʼt call, text, or even email me. Though

I was frustrated and upset, I still felt guilty and forgotten. I felt senseless without

her.

Days became weeks and weeks became months, and I trudged through

each day, barely awake and scarcely eating; I was hardly alive, but I tried to

brush it off. To my parents, the only real consequences of our fight were more

weight lost and a displacement of concentration from schoolwork. To me, those

were not the only things that I had lost. When I lost Jibs, my emotions left with

her. As time passed, I became more bitter. I was hurt, confused, infuriated. In

an attempt to accept the reality of the truth, my heart grew cold. It felt as is I were

carrying a heavy burden, but I felt empty inside. Through everything, I realized

that I simply missed my best friend. Even with all the damage done, I still wanted

to believe in her, but most of all, in us.

48 49

Just One Sniffby Lauren Maruya-Li IVC

What is a Book?by Maris Jacobs IIIB

Do you see? Youʼre not wanted.She doesnʼt need you anymoreShe has me.I wake up, it was just a dream, thank God..

I walk into school waiting for herLooking through the herd of miserable teenagersI spot my best friend walking towards meHer eyes are still bloodshot And she is still built of bones.

She hugs me, I hug herShe is like a twig; Iʼm afraid sheʼll snapI still remember her promiseHer promise to never put me through it again

We walk to class togetherTalking about good old timesShe goes to the bathroomEnglish class goes by and still no attendance.

Sheʼs not at her locker, nor in the library.. I enter the washroomSheʼs lying on the floor, not breathingShe looks so peaceful, put out of her own miseryShe is surrounded by white powder.

And once again I hearDo you see? Youʼre not wanted.She doesnʼt need you anymoreShe has me.

And for the last time, she has broken her promiseI have lost her, my best friend To the evil that can take over your bodyYour whole body, with just one sniff.

Dear student let me be heard

To you, books are just words

To others, books are like water, like fire, like air

But for you they just want to make you pull out your hair

Yes boy, yes I do understand

Let me assist you, lend you a hand

Iʼll find you a book, a book you can feel

With your heart, your soul, let it be real

Open up more, donʼt be so tense

Open the door to the white picket fence

To a world with magical, scary, and adventurous tales

Because books are our saviours when all else fails

Donʼt fight this war, itʼs not about winning

Books open doors to whole new beginnings.

by Meagan Coleman VA

by Victoria Brand VC

50 51

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I Am a Mysteryby Joanna Tsotas IVB

Who am I? I am not a princess. I am the conflict of a fairytale, waiting for my

happy ending. I am the rhythm without a beat; I am incomplete. I am the song

waiting to be heard, the lyrics waiting to inspire. I am the mystery of the unsolved

puzzle. Donʼt try to figure me out; you will be wrong. I am the confusion; I am

hard to read. I am the passion; I give from my heart. I am loyal. I am a

perfectionist. I am the talent. I am the beauty. I am a daughter, a sister, a friend.

Iʼll be a mentor and help those in need. Never give up because I will always

believe in you. I am gullible but not stupid. I am a great liar; donʼt believe

everything I say. I am very sensitive, therefore, do not upset me. I am the fear

that fears the unexpected. I am the whisper, I am the tear, I am the laughter. I

am a dreamer. I am the fingerprints you left behind. I am the comfort in your

eyes and the compassion in your words. I am your average teenage girl. In the

eyes of a stranger I am always being judged. I am the author of the unfinished

novel. I am the past that keeps on changing, yet the memory that will be

remembered. I am the shadow of my parentʼs expectations. I am a spider caught

in its own web. I am a nightmare, something left unspoken. My body is a cage,

imprisoning my heart from those who cannot be trusted. I am the shooting star

that will one day make your wish come true. I am a listener; trust me with your

words. I am whoever you want me to be. I am the mystery of the unsolved

puzzle.

Open Up a World of Imaginationby Caterina Alfieri IA

Stories form our ideas,

About how the world works on a moral scale,

The choices we might make,

And how the “right” choice always does prevail.

Stories contain a struggle,

Between good and evil,

And contain a journey,

Of heroes battling great odds,

To overcome their foes,

Leaving but impressions on our developing minds.

Stories expand our imagination,

The spark of excitement in the depths,

Of suspense and adventure,

Lucy, Edmund, Susan and Peter,

Magically transported,

From a safe but humdrum existence,

To a land of danger and fantasy,

Where they learned to take responsibility for their actions,

And to fight for good,

Where they learned about temptation,

And the evil that lingers,

Inside all people.

Stories allow us to explore,

And help us learn the differences,

Between the goodness and badness,

Of human behaviour.

Many flawed judgments,

And consequential decisions,

Lead to Macbethʼs eventual defeat,

As Shakespeare reveals,

The punishments he does face,

As the result,

Of his bad decisions.

Stories reflect our lives,

Of how Huckleberry Finn learned to overcome

The idea that coloured folks,

Are less equal than white folks.

Jimʼs friendship with Huck Finn

by Beatrice Richer Laflèche VC

Is an inspiration for people,

To overcome this dreadful idea.

Present in the hearts of a large

number,

Of humanity.

Stories build our spirit,

And every time you open a book,

You are opening a new world,

Of imagination.

by Elisabeth Dimitratos VC

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A Rough Startby Elisabeth Dimitratos VC

This is the beginning

Of a period where

A little girl was bullied

And to them, it seemed fair

She was nice and sweet

To all around her

But as it turned out

She wanted to transfer

What was the problem?

It was her weight,

What they did was

Criticize the way she ate

Not only that,

But the way she walked

Not like a normal person

And that made them talk

She was picked last

For every team

She felt unwanted,

She wanted to scream

Can I play?

The girl asked.

She was ignored,

They had a blast

Feeling lonely

Walking around

Sheʼd better go

Before she broke down

She looks pregnant!

Sheʼs so fat!

In class avoiding

Where she sat.

No one really cared,

Highly unaware.

To be nice to her,

Was something rare

Too scared to speak,

Too afraid to act,

One mistake

Would make them react

To be laughed at

Was not the best,

So she remained quiet

And soon became depressed

People asked

Why she was down,

All she wanted,

Was to leave town

Two years later

She slimmed down,

Grabbing the attention

Of everyone around

Befriending one

Continued the trend,

Likeable, she was

Hard to apprehend

They were clueless

To what they did,

Ruining the life

Of this little kid

This made her realize

When she finished,

Her relationship with them

Should be diminished

A different school

With new faces,

They welcomed her

With friendly embraces

When I look back,

In my eyes

I see someone

Whom I cannot recognize

But then I realize

As I look intently,

I know her

And I see her differently

This was me

Five years ago,

I have changed

So I have to let go

by Lauren Goforth VB

The Spartan Way of Lifeby Alexina McLeod IVA

The year 2410 marked the beginning of the end. It was the year that everyone thought would be the beginning of a new era, a technological era where machines served man and where war was a notion that only existed in the history lessons. You see, people lived isolated from one another. There was no need to see people face to face since they could see each other through a screen, therefore preventing disputes which could lead to wars. It was a very peaceful time in the world.

Technology was the epitome of progress. People didnʼt have to do anything, not even work. For the past century, robots were manufactured to keep things running smoothly and without difficulties. The robots did everything for humans, even telling them what to do. But humans were happy to comply because this new technology would make their lives better.

The year 2410 was the year I made a horrible decision. I was a member of the Council, an elite political group that made important decisions regarding new technology. One day, a decision had to be made that, though at the time I did not know, would change the world.

“Alright everyone,” came a voice from the screen, “this meeting has been called to determine whether or not we should destroy the old library to make way for a new database.” There was an eruption on the screen. All members shouting out their answers at once, including me.

“Order!” boomed the voice. All went quiet. “Now, weʼll take a vote,” he said, “All who are against, type ̒ NOʼ on your keyboards now.” There was scarcely any movement. “Now, all who are for, type ʻYESʼ on your keyboards.” There was a mad rush of typing and then silence. We were all pleased with the final decision, most of us. Of course I had voted Yes, seeing no advantage in keeping an old library collecting dust. That was the biggest mistake of my life.

A few months after the new database had been installed, I woke up in total darkness. “Thatʼs odd,” I thought to myself, “usually Dolly, my robo-maid, is making me my coffee.” I got up and stumbled around until I found the door.

“Door open,” I said. Nothing. “Lights on,” I said. Nothing. I was starting to worry. “What if thereʼs a power outage?” I thought. Little did I know, it was the largest power outage the world had ever seen. My brain began forming ideas, suggested by action movies I used to watch when I was little. I felt around for something I could use to beat down the door. When I emerged from my bedroom, I found Dolly on the ground. “Out of battery,” was being repeated to me. Now, I started feeling a general panic: without Dolly, I would die. I didnʼt know how to make food or heat. How was I going to survive?

I managed to get out of my house and into the wild. There, I was greeted by dark clouds, which fascinated and frightened me at the same time. All around me was the civilization which I, like many others, had thought would change history. But all I managed to see were cold lumps of metal, no civilization, no progress, but more like the defeat of humanity. We were so vain to think that our technology would last forever.

It was then that I realized that keeping the old library would have meant

salvation. It held the knowledge of the world. With it, we could have learned to survive by cooking our own food, making our own heat, and learning to build a better civilization from our mistakes. But it was gone forever. I was wrong: there was an advantage to keeping the old library: survival. It was my mistake that would cost lives, my mistake that ended the world as I knew it. We had taken technology too far. So, I looked up at the broken sky, and cried for all mankind.

by Caterina Alfieri IA

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Wanna-Be Barbieby Victoria Perrotta III

Gymtasticby Myriam Zakaib IIIC

Obsessions, compulsions, delusions, deceits

When you look in the mirror, what do you see?

For one girl,

Itʼs hard to know that she wonʼt measure up,

With role models like Barbie, how could she?

Just give it up.

With perfect hair, a perfect body and face,

This girl canʼt handle the pressures at stake.

Lose 10 pounds, lose 20,

Does anyone care?

No one knows of her terrors,

Is she really that scared?

Backed into a corner, all she can see,

Is the perfection she wants,

The perfection she canʼt be.

Iʼm sitting here, on this rusted bench, hearing silence in one ear, and

cheers in the other. The gym is light blue, like my room; thatʼs why I like it so

much. I feel a breeze coming from the back window. Pressure and nervousness

fill the air. I see a girl on beam. She lands a perfect double backhand spring as

her blond ponytail follows behind and the biggest smile begins to form on her

face. I see another at the bars; she began with a front flip. As the crowd cheers

for the first, the second is performing in silence; eyes are staring at her as she

tries to concentrate. At the same time, as another chalks her hands in preparation

to begin, her father stands and yells, “I love you.” He is fairly tall, and she is quite

short, the average height for a gymnast, 5ʼ2. She canʼt be more than 15 years of

age.

Blue mats cover the floor. You can see the chalk footprints made by the

petite yet strong feet of the gymnasts walking by. Coaches are on the side,

mumbling the steps to themselves, as if it will help their athletes score high and

go beyond their potential.

A lady in a black dress walks up to the front of the room and takes the

microphone. She has blue eyes and long golden hair. The crowdʼs uproar begins

to come to a silence as she is going to announce the winners. The once anxiety-

ridden room is now filled with pride. As names are being called, gymnasts run to

their coaches with tears streaming down their excited faces. Parents stand proud

to point to their children; everyone is happy.

My gaze falls upon the window. The once sunny sky is beginning to fill

with clouds. Rain starts coming down, in a melodic sort of way. I see a reflection

in the window, a young girl with a leg brace. I recognize her big brown eyes. I saw

her practice her routine. She had started by cartwheeling onto the springboard

and doing a front flip as she landed in splits on the beam. A handstand came

next. To follow, she brought one leg down and exulted a full 360-degree turn

before lowering her other leg. She ended her routine with a triple Arabian front

tuck. She would have scored a perfect 10 today.

The reflection I see in the window is none other than my own. All that we

see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

by Chloe Sorella VC

58 59

Building and Breakingby Sarah Turcotte IVC

I showed much determination in my early teenage years. The day I turned

thirteen, my twenty-year-old brother Tristan drove me to the Sam Asch music

store on the corner of Dusty Creek and Hidden Oak Boulevard in my uncleʼs

1974 Mercedes Benz. Tristan inspired me; he was my hero, my idol, and my

inspiration to become a musician. I remember walking home from the bus stop

every afternoon at 3:56 and finding him parked in his swivel-rolling chair with his

feet up on his desk. He always cradled his Les Paul guitar in his arms, almost

like it was his child. His body language changed completely when he was playing

his music; he was in another world where nothing could touch him but the depth

of his lyrics. I wanted so desperately to be able to go there, to be in that place. It

wasnʼt until I was about sixteen that I realized how many people out there shared

that same fantasy. It was at that moment that the wall went up between me and

my dream.

I recall walking from school to my three oʼclock guitar lesson with Taylor

Fitzgerald, the best in Nashville. I canʼt even really put my finger on what it was;

it just happened. Maybe it was the droves of “wannabe” musicians striding out of

Sam Aschʼs with new instruments or maybe it was the string of primary schoolers

waiting for their lessons at my music school. I just donʼt know. But all it took was

that little bit of doubt in order for me to close myself off to the one thing that

actually made me happy. “Youʼre a good guitar player, Hayley.” Taylor would tell

me. “Youʼre a good songwriter, Hayles,” my best friend Josh would say. At the

time, I felt that my only obstacle was the fact that there were musicians who were

better than I was. When I thought about people like Tristan and Taylor who put

their hearts into their music for most of their lives, I wondered why they hadnʼt

made it. I never intended to be a skeptic, but for the first time in my life, my

music just wasnʼt giving me the confidence I needed to keep moving toward my

goal of getting noticed.

Although I continued taking lessons from Taylor, I wasnʼt all that serious

about my song writing in my graduating year. “Hayley, try out for the variety show

with me!” “Hayley, letʼs do battle of the bands this year!” All of it went in one ear

and out the other. What was the use in trying when the chances of anything

coming of it were so slim? If thereʼs one thing I regret, itʼs spending half my

teenage life under a rock because I feared failure and rejection. Eventually,

people just stopped trying. They stopped trying to convince me that I was great,

that I should keep going.

Josh dragged me by my ear lobe to my senior prom. Theyʼd hired ʻMiss

Guidanceʼ, an alternative rock band from just outside Nashville, to play. While

Josh and I were checking out the band, a bunch of the instrumental music

students noticed their agent standing in the back corner of the gym. I rolled my

eyes as they mobbed him, trying to attract attention so maybe he would want to

hear one of them play. They struck me as pathetic and desperate. If someone

as talented as Taylor couldnʼt make it, then they sure as heck couldnʼt. Sipping

my ginger ale, my attention turned back to the band. I was watching the guitar

player who was entering that other realm when Derrick, the hotshot quarterback

of the football team, twisted and squeezed his empty water bottle, popping off the

cap which flew like a bullet towards the guitarist. Everything after that is a blur;

again, I donʼt really know how it happened. The guitarist was lead off stage, his

eye bleeding. The singer was calling out to the graduates, asking if there was

anyone who could quickly learn the set list. All eyes were on me, and Josh spat

out “Hayley can! Hayles is great!” I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my

face as I slid deep into my seat.

“Josh,” I whispered. “Stop it! Thereʼs no point-”

That was it for Josh. He vented, “No, Hayley, you stop. When are you

going to stop hiding from your dreams? Youʼre blocking yourself off from

something so great, something youʼve always wanted, because you donʼt think

youʼre good enough. Guess what, Hayles, youʼll never be good enough if you

donʼt let yourself try.” Tears welled in my eyes. This was my moment. I needed

to step up. I lightly kissed Josh on the forehead, mouthed “thank you” with my

lips, and gave him a little smile as I made my way to the stage.

Iʼm sitting on a couch, staring at a bottle of orange Gatorade. Itʼs Taylorʼs

favourite. He sticks his tongue out at me, playfully. Jordan, our agent, peeks his

head into the room. “Youʼre on in 60 seconds, guys, letʼs go!” I take Taylorʼs

hand, who takes Jamieʼs, who takes Spencerʼs. Jogging on stage, the screams

of the audience are piercing. I look out and spot Josh in the front row, a huge

grin across his face. Even though Iʼve done this a thousand

times, I still get nervous. Josh always seems to calm

me down. Jamie starts the four-count, and our

music fills Madison Square Gardens. Fans are on

their feet, dancing, jumping, and singing. As I slip

into my other world, I wonder what theyʼre

thinking, what theyʼre going home to. But none of

that matters right now, because for the next two

hours, we are their escape. Itʼs amazing how

something I thought was impossible came to me

so easily. All I had to do was tear down the wall.

From there, the dream built itself up quite nicely.

by Jasmine Rach IVC

60 61