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In A Grove – Arts Journal 2009
The Arts at
A Celebration of Writing and Art Lakefield College School
Featuring the winners of LCS Writes!
Sponsored by The Grove Society
In a Grove 2009
Grades 11/121st Kate Seo, “Gratitude”2nd Alison Cameron, “Alternate Perspective”3rd Yasin Sridhar, “It Was Written”
Grades 9/101st Sophia Walter, “The Sun's Path”2nd Christopher Chan, “Perennial Satisfactions”3rd Dina El-baradie, “I Can See Through You”
Grades 7/81st Prag Rajdev, “Your Heart”2nd Evie Jenden-Selway, “Ice Cream”3rd Natalie Wagner, “Open Door”
Grades 11/121st Gabrielle Cormier, “A Greater Apartheid” 2nd Rachel Grant, “Winston”3rd Bea Chan, “Dead Simple”
Grades 9/101st Meggy Chan, “Mother and Son”2nd Anna Heffernan, “Triage”3rd Christopher Chan, “Sweet Revenge”
Excerpts of prose selections published due to space restrictions.Please see page 38 for artists’ names. Visit www.lcs.on.ca and click PARENT to read prose pieces in full.
Poetry Section
Prose Section
LCS Writes! Winners
1
By Kate Seo
Your wrinkles deepen
My face wears make up
Your height shortens
My height lengthens
Your dark spots spread
My skin wears luxurious accessories
Your health wanes
My children are born
My wrinkles deepen
My height shortens
My dark spots spread
I finally realize the gratitude of love
1st place, Grades 11/12 poetry
Gratitude
2
By Alison Cameron
The blue sky shimmers above me
one…two…three…
The blinding sun pours into my eyes
seven…eight…nine…
The words I should have said turn to liquid in my mouth
twenty…twenty one…twenty two…
I try to pull my past towards me, try to fix my grave mistake
twenty nine…thirty…thirty one…
slowly, surely, the water engulfs me
there is nothing I can do to stop it
forty one…forty two…
around me, inside me, suffocating me.
All is quiet, all is dark,
Save for ‘Old father time’ who counts the seconds pass by…
Fifty nine…sixty…
2nd place, Grades 11/12 poetry
Alternate Perspective
3
4
By Yasin Sridhar
A morning too early, my eyes shan’t unfold,
To stand is to conquer shallow sleep untold.
The cold that pervades is of little help,
Deceit is compelling, a trait of the whelp.
I am the aged, lucid, never led,
Lead I must, from sunrise to bed.
My charge is strong, my bark is soft,
My impact great, to quell the aloft.
Tellurian to live; to die in the flame,
The sky holds promise; heed not to fame.
Exist to exist; neither pass nor obey,
Question the uncertain, practice the lay.
To seek immortality is to be mortal,
To seek such power leaves much to chortle.
I seek the Sleep who sleeps by death,
I seek the Time who times my breath.
O Knowledge, come, come hither, take rest,
Rest you in me at no one’s behest.
It Was Written
5
But O Knowledge so cloudy, should you be untrue,
Fear not, my trust you shall not undo.
I need not your trust to love or see,
To feel, to hear, to lust, to be.
There lies no fear in hearts of men,
Joy is not what or how, but when.
When shall I cease my time, to depart?
When will unhappiness break my heart?
Never! It shall not! I live to enjoy,
From gentile old man to jubilant boy.
To humble statue from bashful slumber,
See bonds between the letter and number.
Bathe in the truth, lest truth be afar,
Chide not what they deem profoundly bizarre.
The world shows the cliff from which you shall fall,
Alas, he stands! The Saviour ‘bove all!
3rd place, Grades 11/12 poetry
6
7
By Sophia Walter
The sun rises as it welcomes the wail of a child.
A new, bright day is washed with light.
It climbs up the ladder of life,
Till it shines like the vibrant, pulsing soul.
Slowly sinking down it still glows with eternal youth,
Till it disappears in a vibrant burst of colours.
Yet the moon lights its path.
And the stars sparkle in greeting.
For there is “no need to say goodbye”
As it waits for another child’s cry.
1st place, Grades 9/10 poetry
The Sun's Path
8
By Christopher Chan
I love the spring puddles which wash my snow-tired feet
Scrubbing away the winter blues.
In winter I long for the spring breeze.
I wait for the road-side slush.
A summer paddle on a pristine lake soothes my heart
Calming down my spring fever.
In the spring I sit around dejectedly,
Wishing I could see green grass
An autumn leaf pile crunches out a quick march for me
Sounding the end of summer’s lull
In the summer I pray for reds and yellows.
I need to have that autumn bite, to toughen me for winter
I love the way a winter icicle cracks a whip that says back to work
Taming the gypsy autumn colour
In autumn I feel as if I must have a snowman to greet me
I call for a hill to slip and sled down
2nd place, Grades 9/10 poetry
Perennial Satisfactions
9
10
By Dina El-baradie
I still remember
Remember who you used to be
It’s sad how you’ve changed
You may have them fooled, but not me
You’ve been through so much
But you hide your feelings, your pain
You’re not one to show weakness
After all, you have an image to maintain
You still have the same beautiful smile
But now it’s fake, only there to conceal your cries
It stretches far enough to convince
But it still doesn’t reach your eyes
A split second of eye contact
And I can hear all your silent screams
But you carry on in conversation
And it kills me to know that it’s not what it seems
I Can See Through You
11
You’re not an open person
Your feelings you never share
But I read you like an open book
And I know you are oblivious to how much I care
I look at you and my heart aches
Because I realize I lost everything I thought I knew
Where is the fire of passion that once blazed in your heart?
It’s unfair how much life has taken away from you
You used to strive to accomplish your dreams
Now you stand around and watch life pass you by
They call themselves your friends, but they’ve fallen for your false image
Not me though, and I swear I wish I knew why
Maybe it’s because you’re always in my head
Maybe it’s because I notice everything you do
Or maybe I’m so attached to you I feel like you’re a part of me
But for some reason, I can see through you
3rd place, Grades 9/10 poetry
12
13
By Prag Rajdev
Your heart is like a dove
It just wants to love
Hearts want to be warm
Not cold like a storm
You should keep it above
So that it can love
Do remember just keep it above
1st place, Grades 7/8 poetry
Your Heart
14
By Evie Jenden-Selway
Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate and mint
It rumbles in my tummy yum yum yummy
I sprinkle chocolate chips on top
Boy oh boy that hits the spot
Lemon, Coffee, Mango and Lime
When mum comes home with ice cream
i call it "that's mine!"
2nd place, Grades 7/8 poetry
Ice Cream
15
16
By Natalie Wagner
Your life here on Earth goes by really fast so take all
opportunities don't just skip them and be mad.
Trust me I know it’s happened to me I missed parts in my
life that I regret every day.
When you first get on a bike and pedal real fast. When you
fall, hit the ground, and cry until you’re dry.
When you spend more than one hour doing your hair. Then
you get stood up and think it’s really unfair.
So take all opportunities trust me they won't last. It’s all
happened to me and I wish I would have grasped the fact
that we don't last.
3rd place, Grades 7/8 poetry
Open Door
17
18
19
20
21
By Gabrielle Cormier
On Saturday March 21st 2009, I sat inside a classroom in a township or
“shantytown” of South Africa’s Cape area called Philippi. Adjudicating (the
term for judging in South Africa) beginners in debating ultimately consists of
offering constructive feedback and also praise for displays of prowess in
speaking and reasoning. Prowess, I knew I would encounter, but to find it
emanating in tidal waves from the very first speaker I heard remains a mem-
ory that will epitomize my belief in the power of education forever. The com-
ment card I wrote for Lwando was riddled with annotations like, “excellent
eye contact,” “powerful rhetorical questions,” “great literary reference,” and
“rich content.” This was Lwando’s first tournament and he had exhibited a
facility for public speaking in his second language and ability to reason and
rebut which the majority of debaters including myself, took years to master.
It was therefore imperative, for me, to apprise him of his enormous talent
and also of how he could improve the aspects of debating in which he still
demonstrated the characteristics of an eager beginner. Somehow, it seemed
undeniable as he listened attentively that he would strive to put my sugges-
tions into practice.
A wise Nigerian saying reads, “Knowledge is not the main thing but good
deed is.” This holds true. After all, what is the worth of knowledge if used
with the worst of intentions? But on the flip side, good intentions in an
unskilled, un-resourceful individual sadly produce efforts that lack even the
smallest influence. Acquiring skills can range from carpet weaving in the
South African township of Khayelitsha to learning basic numeracy in a
Ugandan primary school. This knowledge, especially in the areas of craft
making and literature can solidify ties between a people and their culture.
These ties may have been previously denied to them under empirical hegem-
ony. Culture represents an integral part of building a person’s identity, partic-
A Greater Apartheid: The Denial of Education
22
ularly during adolescence. South Africa is moving on from Apartheid because
of better and more accessible education. Today, with the allocation of the
greater part of the $US 76 billion dollar national budget to national educa-
tion, the post-Apartheid cultural revival is being stimulated. The vivacity and
residential development in the Khayelitsha township are moving in sync with
the literacy rate that has skyrocketed from 23% in 1994 to 78% today. In that
time span one of those new readers was Lwando.
With education, youth from poverty-stricken areas would be part of a new
group of innovators and could obtain international grants from the World
Bank themselves. With education, individuals who truly understand the
dynamics of their own regions and peoples will lead their communities with
knowledge and adaptability in different sectors. These sectors include health,
sanitation, teaching, construction and the establishment of small businesses.
Millennium Development Goals that rely on improving nutrition, Milennium
Development Goals that rely on halting the spread of HIV/AIDS, and
Milennium Development Goals that rely on economic development are inex-
tricably linked to the level of education provided to the general population.
Educated citizens have skills that make them employable, and a falling unem-
ployment rate usually means reduced crime and a better standard of living.
Educated citizens tend to hold government more accountable, which reduces
corruption and resultantly increases the efficiency of their government’s serv-
ices. Families in Honduras with a daughter enrolled in primary school,
acquiring priceless skills that assure them financial security in their senior
years are less likely to sell her into exploitive domestic work during child-
hood. Overall, knowledge-acquiring experiences built Lwando’s confidence.
Overall, academia ensures 10% higher wages per additional year of schooling
according to the Center for Global Development in Washington DC, and over-
all, students who ever attended school are less than half as likely to contract
HIV/ AIDS than students who never attended school. Does anything more
need to be said to convince industrial nations that universal primary educa-
tion is the greatest necessity of our time? The necessity for universal educa-
tion derives from its power to provide health, to provide employment oppor-
tunities and in its power to build a child’s confidence and readiness to take
on challenges.
23
So why hasn’t universal education been achieved yet? Are the estimated 11
billion dollars necessary, too costly? The same culprit for the financial crisis
will become responsible for the failure to reach the Millennium Development
Goals in 2015; the tendency of the citizens of the developed world to want to
keep up with the Joneses. The problem is how high numbing nonsense and
consumption are ranked in comparison to the resolution of glaring problems,
such as rampant illiteracy in Sub-Saharan Africa, on the list of priorities. The
war in Iraq, condemned by the bulk of the UN Security Council, will have cost
$659 billion dollars to the American people. Americans bought $10 billion
worth of pornography last year, more than the part of American foreign aid
funds that reached their rightful recipients. So what we see is a clear double
standard and a belief that the African continent and other regions of the
world are fated to be messes, riddled with starved and war-torn corpses for-
ever. When Romeo Dallaire, witness to the world’s failure in Rwanda was
asked why the world chose not to come to the rescue of 800 000 people con-
demned to death, he answered, "Because there was no self-interest....No oil.
They didn't come because some humans are [considered] less human than
others."
Precisely because of the development in education since the Apartheid, hun-
dreds of thousands of non-whites have the resources to be something they
could not have dreamed of becoming under the Apartheid regime. Because of
objective education serving differently than within the narrow scope of prop-
aganda, the previously exclusively wealthy minority is learning that Apartheid
meant more that just “Separation”. Finally, I myself, know that South Africa’s
Apartheid era was merely a microcosm of the world’s own Apartheid today.
The world’s macrocosmic Apartheid might be marked by great distances, but
most importantly it is stained by the same social and economic inequity
which Nelson Mandela fought. This inequity stems, and continues to, from
the denial of education.
1st place, Grades 11/12 prose
24
25
By Meggy Chan
Hugh tapped his left breast pocket for luck. I’m finally here, a bird in the sky,
flying high over the landscape with the wind on my face. Not much to look
at though—a wasteland scarred by trenches laid out like crazy giant zippers.
Everything here is grey—the earth, the sky, the unending rain. Odd to think
that a couple of years ago this was all farmland and colourful old towns, and
there wasn’t a war. Damned Huns and their crazy Kaiser—the devil incar-
nate—that’s what he is. That’s what they all are. But it makes for great sport,
and I can play this game as well as the next lad. Each Kraut plane that I
shoot down’ll earn me a German black cross on my plane. Five down’ll make
me an Ace. Not a bad goal for a 20-year-old English boy from London, Hugh
mused to himself as he settled more securely in the seat of the Sopwith
Camel he was piloting for the first time over Belgium.
I’m after the first one now, he reminded himself. It’s out there for sure ‘cause
Company 4 spotted it. I’ve got to find it and take it down. Simple. Hugh
scanned the sky for the German plane. Nothing above him, in front, or to
the sides. He circled. Nothing behind. He circled again, lower, and scanned
the disemboweled landscape below. He cocked his head, straining to catch
the sound of an enemy plane. Like a robin listening for a worm, he thought
to himself. All he could hear was the drone of his own engine, changing
pitch with each change in altitude or direction. Not a robin, he thought, a
hawk, gliding up, down, in circles, looking for that sneaky Kraut plane.
Suddenly his alert senses brought Hugh the information he craved. He tight-
ened his grip on the joystick of the plane. There it is in full view, an enemy
plane gliding just above the landscape, just barely airborne, momentarily
silent. He’s hedge hopping low enough to see what the lads are eating for
lunch in the trenches, Hugh thought.
Hugh’s training took over. He began to assess the situation in a detached
way. I’m above him; he’ll never be able to win this fight. One or two shots
and he’ll be aresy tarsey.
Mother and Son
26
Hugh dropped down on his prey. The chatter of machine gun fire--chcuchu-
chuchuchuchu. No hit. The high pitched whine of the other plane exploding
upwards, dodging the bullets. That black cross standing out like the perfect
target. The guns again. A dodge, down and around. The black cross momen-
tarily on top.
Hugh shifted the joystick quickly, and the engine screamed as he looped
upwards and maneuvered himself into an advantageous position. The black
cross at zero. A burst of bullets. The German plane careened in a dizzying
tailspin to the ground. One down, four to go till I’m an Ace, thought Hugh
proudly.
In his excitement at the kill, Hugh acted upon an instinct to see his defeated
opponent up close. He scanned the skies again for more planes but could see
only grey emptiness. He circled, brought his plane down, and neatly landed
it beside the smoldering wreck. Hugh cut the engine, jumped lightly to the
ground, and strode confidently over to the wreck.
As he approached he could smell the acrid stench of smoke and could make
out a man in the wreckage. As if waking from a dream, he suddenly became
aware of an awful fact: He didn’t just bring down a plane; he’d killed that
pilot. Hugh reeled at the thought.
The German plane was a tangled wreck. The wings were bent, and the propel-
ler had been nearly ripped off. Hugh ran like a crazed man to the wreck, pull-
ing and tugging at the mangled metal that imprisoned the warm corpse.
He dislodged the metal, gently pulled the German pilot away from the smol-
dering wreck and knelt beside him on the torn ground. He isn’t an old Kraut
at all, he thought with horror. He’s a kid like me. Hugh scanned the lifeless
young man’s face--blonde hair and blue eyes, just like me. The look that had
followed the dead pilot into his death still lingered on his face-- excited, fear-
less, as if he could’ve done anything in the world. A fresh wave of horrified
empathy washed over Hugh. That’s exactly how I was feeling up there. This
so easily could’ve been me.
27
Instinctively Hugh checked his left breast pocket to make sure that the old
photograph of his mother was still there. He whispered, “Mum, looks like I
made it through this one okay.”
Then wondering, he checked the dead man’s pocket to see if he had a picture
there. He did. Hugh took it out and looked at it long and hard. That German
pilot isn’t just a young man; he is somebody’s son, just like I am. He has a
mother back home who adores him and is worrying about him right now.
And now she won’t know what happened to her boy. Did I do this? Did I kill
somebody’s son? Hugh pressed his hands to his temples to calm the throb-
bing accusations.
He slumped to the ground beside his enemy, sobbing, oblivious to everything
around him. When the sobs subsided, he set aside his horror and grimly
searched the pilot for his identity, perhaps a name, an address. Hugh found a
letter, still unopened in the pilot’s pocket. He opened it, hoping to read it, but
it was written in German. However at the top was an address, and it was
signed with an easily understandable, “Meine Mutter.” Without thinking,
Hugh slipped the letter and the picture into his own pocket, arranged the
dead man’s body into a dignified repose, walked slowly back to his plane, and
took off into the grey Belgian sky to return to his base.
After that the war went on and on in an endless maze of muddy trenches and
a blur of dogfights fought in colourless skies. Hugh treasured the letter he
had taken from that first downed pilot as if it were a letter from his own
mother, and he kept the German mother’s photograph in his left breast pock-
et along with the picture of his own mother.
Almost unbelievably, three years later the war ended, and by December 1918,
Hugh was on his way home to England, along with the thousands of other
British young men. On the streets of London, the arriving troops were greet-
ed as victorious heroes amidst festive crowds of women and children, all wav-
ing, all reaching out to touch their returning boys. Hugh felt a rising panic.
I’m not a hero, he thought. I just survived. Hands reached out to touch him,
and the familiar voice of his sister, Lucy, pushed the panic away.
28
29
“Oh, Hugh, it’s so good to have you back alive and well. I can’t believe this
bloody war is finally over.” She hugged him and pulled him away from the
crowds, talking all the time. He only heard snatches, things like, “had so little
news of you” and “so worried about you” and “so proud when you.” Her
chatter ended at the door of their house. She fumbled with her keys, turned
to him and smiled, “And it’s such a relief that you survived the whole thing.
Come on, Dad and Fred are waiting inside.”
“Yes,” he grinned back at her. “I’m so glad to be back here with you where it’s
dry and warm. The food is decent, and I don’t have to worry about being shot
at. It’s such a relief; you have no idea!”
Once inside, they were greeted joyfully by their father and little brother, Fred.
“So good to have you home, Son,” his father said, clasping his hands. “Your
mother would have been so proud, so proud.”
Fred was dancing about Hugh asking questions and leaving no room for
answers. “Yeah, Hugh, what was it like over there? How many of the enemy
did you kill? You wrote something about being an Ace in your letters, did you
ever get that? Too bad it ended so soon, I wanted to join up but Pa wouldn’t
let me--said I was too young.”
“Actually, it was awful over there, Fred, and oh, I dunno, I guess I shot down a
few. No, I never did get that Ace though,” Hugh replied without much inter-
est.
“I wish I could’ve been out there with you shooting down the enemy planes.
It must’ve felt so good knowing you’re helping England and ridding the world
of those awful Huns!” said Fred earnestly.
“Yeah, it was great, just great…” Hugh said half-heartedly.
“Freddie,” Lucy interjected as she herded them all towards the kitchen, “stop
pestering Hugh. He’s just arrived, and he’s tired. Let him alone.”
30
The family sat down to supper and exchanged the news of three long years of
separation. Shortly after, Hugh retired to his bedroom thinking, I’ll just crawl
into my own bed and go to sleep. But sleep escaped him and left him with
the image of that first boy he had shot down. I killed him was the verdict that
went round and round in his head. He isn’t arriving home to his family now.
His mother won’t have anyone to welcome home.
Hugh got up and sighed aloud to himself, “I have to write to his mother.” He
sat down at his desk and look longingly at the old framed photograph of his
own mother there. He got out a pen and paper and wrote the letter he’d been
waiting three years of war to write.
Dear Mutter,
My name is Hugh. I was a pilot for the British forces in the Great War that has
just ended. I’m sure you received a letter from the German government stating
that your son was missing in action. I am writing this letter to you because I
cannot bear what I have done any longer.
He was sent out on a mission to spy on my troops, and I was sent out to stop
him. I shot him down, thinking only of saving my men, not of him, nor of you.
It was an unfair fight, but your son must have been a very skilled pilot and
very brave one too. He tried to attack me, dodging my bullets. He held his
ground for a while, but eventually I won the fight and his plane went down. I
don’t exactly know why I did this, but after his plane crashed, I landed my
plane, got out, and stood there staring at the wreckage I’d just caused. I want
you to know that your boy did not suffer. It was all over very quickly, and when
I looked at him I saw no fear in his face, only bright excitement. My heart is so
heavy with what I did and I am so sorry. I know you must have loved him as
any mother would have. But I want you to know that I took care of your boy’s
body. I laid him out as best I could. He had your picture in his pocket, and I
took it and kept it with me throughout the war. I would continue to keep it
but I think you would want it back, so I include it with this letter. My mother
died when I was quite young, and I think now is the only time that I am almost
glad for that because I do not think she could have borne what I did that day.
31
32
33
It was my duty to my country to shoot down that plane, but when I saw your
son lifeless and saw you in the picture he had with him, it all seemed so wrong.
I know I killed your son and you probably can’t forgive me, but I will ask for
your forgiveness all the same. When I was standing there that day with your
picture in my hand, I wished so hard that you were the mother I didn’t have
and I felt almost as though I had killed my own brother. I feel so lost in this
dark world. So please, be my mother too, just for a little while, and tell me
what to do.
-Hugh
A month later, January 1919, to the surprise of his sister Lucy, Hugh received a
letter with a German postmark and stamp. He took it upstairs to his room,
sat on the bed, and read.
My Dear Boy,
I am sorely grieved by what happened to my boy, but I do understand, and I see
your dilemma. I feel you coming to me like a little boy astounded at having
done ill when you meant well. And now I long to take you in my arms and lay
your head against my breast and comfort you. But do not trouble yourself any-
more over my boy, I will willingly forgive you. His name was Kurt. He was my
baby, the youngest of four boys, all of whom went to war, yet sadly he was the
only one not to return. He was a fine boy and I miss him dreadfully, but I think
you saw his fineness and I was glad to know that it was your hands and no one
else’s who touched my boy’s body. I’m glad you took care of it and laid him out
the way a man should be laid out. It comforts me to know that he had my pic-
ture with him all that time. I feel that the picture meant a lot to you so I will
send it back for you to keep as a reminder of your second mother. When you
can, come to me. I will be waiting for you.
-Deine Mutter
Hugh took the picture from the envelope and looked at it for a while. Then he
tucked it between the glass and the wooden frame of his own mother’s photo-
graph. Once again tears poured down his face, and he sobbed.
1st place, Grades 9/10 prose
34
35
By Rachel Grant
At dinner time one of the muzungu, a boy, came to sit beside him. The boy
had sat beside him before. He talked softly and without bravado, so Winston
listened. Tonight the boy told him about his home, Canada, about the long
cold winters, about ice skating and maple syrup, he told him about the
moose, the polar bears and how cats and dogs live as a part of the family. He
had a crumpled flag pinned to his nap sack. The two red stripes on either
end of it surrounded white and on the white was a red maple leaf. Winston
pointed to himself, showing the boy the faded flag on his t-shirt. Winston’s
flag had a red stripe too, as well as green, black and a crest in the middle. The
boy asked if he could take Winston’s picture. He nodded, pointing at his
t-shirt as the boy snapped his picture. Six other children, in awe of the cam-
era, rushed over to where Winston and the boy were sitting, grabbing at the
camera to see the picture. Winston slowly backed away and headed out of the
meal area.
2nd place, Grades 11/12 prose
Winston (Excerpt)
36
By Bea Chan
The effect of the use of children as soldiers is appalling. Graça Machal, the
Former U.N. Secretary-General's Expert on the Impact of Armed Conflict on
Children, provides a horrifying description of the effects of war on children:
“Youth are killed, tortured, raped and forced to participate in unimaginable
acts of violence against other human beings, and many times against their
own families. The bankruptcy of human and moral values evident in this sit-
uation needs no further explanation.” In the name of humanity, the use of
child soldiers must stop.
Why must it stop? That is dead simple—fighting a war is dangerous.
According to UN statistics two million children were killed, and 4.5 million
were disabled in action in wars around the world in the 1990s. Military life
affects children disproportionately harshly: they suffer higher casualties, are
injured more often, and have more health problems than adult soldiers
because they are less able to take care of themselves. HIV is especially preva-
lent among child soldiers. Child soldiers are deeply affected individually, and
by extension their societies suffer. In the next generation, this toll on chil-
dren will result in a reduced population, in which more individuals will need
health care, and fewer people will be able to work and fuel an economy
recovering from war.
3rd place, Grades 11/12 prose
Dead Simple (Excerpt)
37
By Anna Heffernan
"Back in the waiting room, seven year old Henry Tooji sat on the dirt floor
beside the legs of a tall rebel man and his AK-47, clutching his stomach. He
tugged on the pant leg of a passing nurse.
“Can I see the doctor now? Please Miss, my stomach -”
“Your name,” she said in monotone, flipping through the charts on her clip-
board.
“Henry Tooji,” he said, embarrassed by the very fact of being there.
“We’re very busy here, Henry. You’ll see the doctor when you’re called.”
“Please, miss - !” he called after her as she walked away.
“Help the boy,” growled the big scary man sitting above Henry on the chair.
“Can’t you see he’s in pain, aren’t you supposed to be a nurse?” His huge
hand, skin shades darker than Henry’s moved to his side, trembling uncon-
trollably over his gun.
2nd place, Grades 9/10 prose
Triage (Excerpt)
38
By Christopher Chan
When he heard his mother’s not-so-gentle snoring, Max began his assault on
the locket. The hinges were already bulging under his ever-expanding body
and he jimmied the clasp by pushing his arms against the two sides of the
locket and jiggling them in opposite directions. With a tiny explosion and a
popping sound, the clasp gave way and released Max from his imprisonment.
He held his breath for a moment or two, hoping his mother wouldn’t wake.
Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, so he gathered his courage and he tip-
toed across her neck to the edge of the bed. Peering over, he shut his eyes
and jumped. Being a tiny creature, rather than falling, he seemed to drift to
the floor. When he got down from the bed he hurriedly made his way under
the door, down the empty hall, and to the staircase. Once there, he gazed
down the staircase with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Each step looked
like the Grand Canyon. He realized that even if he didn’t kill himself, by the
time he was half way down the staircase, it would be morning. He had to
find a faster way...
3rd place, Grades 9/10 prose
Sweet Revenge (Excerpt)
39
40
Front Cover: Dominic Seale
Inside Cover: Bea Chan
Opposite “LCS Writes! Winners”: Dianne Li
Opposite “Gratitude”: Ran Zhao
p3: Hannah Genosko
p6: Saki Tomioka
p9: Andrew Skeete
p12: Rebekah Sibbald
p15: Celeste Hutton
p17: Bea Chan
p18-19: Dario Gabbani
p20: Michelle Sung
p24: Hannah Genosko
p28: Alina Jebens
p31: Peter Kotzeff
p32: Philipp Duffner
p34: Natalie Jennings
p39: Marina Wang
Inside Back Cover: Rebekah Sibbald
Back Cover: Luke MacDonald
Artwork
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www.lcs.on.ca