The Early Harvest 2010 magazine

ARTISTS PHOTOGRAPHERS WRITERS VIDEOGRAPHERS

www.vaughanpl.info • 905-653-READ(7323)

Vaughan Public Libraries

arlyarves 2010

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From the Chair, Vaughan Public Library Board

Gino RosatiChairman, Vaughan Public Library Board

VPL’s Board MembersFront Row

L to R - Marie Chiaromonte, Michael McKenzie (Vice Chair),Gino Rosati (Chairman), Filippo Gravina

Back RowL to R - Rajbir Singh, Suri Rosen, Tony Genco, Mario F. Ferri,

Margie Singleton (Chief Executive Officer), Devender Sandhu, Lorraine de Boer, Jeffrey Stone, Rocco Capone

The Early Harvest Competition is a celebration of the creative accomplishments of localteens and their valuable contributions to the growth and development of the arts in ourcommunity. On behalf of the Vaughan Public Library Board, I am pleased to introduce the2010 Early Harvest Competition winners and invite the community to explore the beautifulartwork, poems, short stories and screenshots featured in this magazine.

For over 20 years, Early Harvest has been instrumental in encouraging local teens to sharetheir artistic expressions in the categories of writing, photography, sketching and painting.This year, VPL has added a new video category for teens to showcase their videographyskills.

I am very proud to announce that VPL has received a 2010 R.A.V.E. Award (Recognizing Arts Vaughan Excellence) in the category of Literary Arts as an ArtEducator/Mentor for organizing the Early Harvest Competition for teens inVaughan since 1989. Developed by the Vaughan Arts Advisory Committee withthe support of Vaughan Council, these awards recognize vast contributions thatenhance the vitality of the arts in our City.

On behalf of the competition organizers, I would like to extend a sincere thankyou to all individuals who have supported Early Harvest. Thank you to ourjudges, Deborah Kerbel, Fil Martino, Mirella Tersigni, David West and ElanaWolff for reviewing the submissions and selecting the winning entries. We wishto thank our sponsors, Library Services Centre and Canadian Video ServicesInc. for their generosity. The Board also acknowledges the hard work andcommitment of the staff at VPL who conduct outreach to promote Early Harvest at all area schools and numerous community organizations.

Vaughan Public Libraries is dedicated to creating a stimulating and rewarding environment that inspires learning by encouraging teens to share and showcase their ideas.On behalf of the Board, I congratulate all authors, photographers, artists, videographers andcontributors who participated in this year’s Competition. I warmly encourage them to continue developing their creative talents.

Absent: Isabella Ferrara, Pradeep Puri, Alan Shefman

A tap on her shoulder brought Erin out of her daze for a moment. The line was moving at amuch more reasonable pace now, and the middle-aged woman behind Erin was willing to wait no longerthan absolutely mandatory. Erin stumbled forward to close the gap between her and the person in frontof her, fleetingly catching the eye of a young man exiting the bank. Had Dalia been with her, nudging heralong, Erin would have noticed how cute the curly-haired boy was. The girls would have bet on howquickly Erin could get him to offer her his number, and then she would have giggled, posed prettily andmade one of her trademark faces that always won those bets for her. But it was impossible for Dalia tobe there, and so all that Erin could do was slip once more beneath the crushing weight of the memories.

This time, she did not revisit those early days, the fun ones. These were shadowy, chaotic images that possessed a dark aura, tinged with the scent of danger and a pending sense of tragedy. Erincould see Dalia’s brightly lit bedroom in stark contrast to the terrible substances and utensils assembledon her duvet cover. Her nose filled with a phantom whiff of the smoke that used to transform the roominto a place of hazy ecstasy and drift upwards to form a high-up cloud near the ceiling. Erin flinched as amontage of fragmented thoughts flashed rapidly through her mind – bottles cluttering a table, filled withalcohol and little pills; music played at ear-splitting volumes as the girls danced and spun; bubbles of daringand excitement rising in her chest and threatening to overtake her. How could they have known that oneof them would soon be overtaken?

Erin braced herself for the difficult part that she felt approaching. Her ears perceived the echo ofa piercing shriek as Dalia, at her peak, took her fateful fall. As though she were living through it onceagain, Erin noticed how totally emptied the bottles were. She watched her friend lying on the floor, suffering from the excessive substances she had taken in and the steady pouring out of too-much bloodfrom her head. After an eternity, the wailing of an ambulance was finally audible. But even through thefogginess that had settled over her mind, Erin had seen what escaped from Dalia together with herbreath to join the haze near the ceiling. She knew it was too late before the others ever did.

The middle-aged woman cleared her throat loudly. She had no time to waste on this teenager’sfolly. Erin staggered forward to the teller’s booth. Like artefacts from the distant past, revived remnantsof her earlier curiosity about the teller returned to her. Apparently, though, she was not destined to besatisfied that day; the female teller had ended her shift and a pleasant, nondescript man in his mid-thirtieshad replaced her.

Erin approached this new unfamiliar teller. With grim determination in her voice, she said, “I’dlike to close my account and withdraw every penny.” Looking down, she added in a whisper, “I’m gettingout of here.”

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Meet the WinnersSKETCHING & PAINTINGMy World1st Prize Robert Thompson p. 42nd Prize Julian Quattrociocchi p. 43rd Prize Michelle Su p. 4

The People Around Me1st Prize Melissa Thompson p. 52nd Prize Rhiannon Knibbe p. 53rd Prize Danielle Zandueta p. 5

VIDEO 1st Prize Arkin Sampath p. 62nd Prize Anjelo Niko L. Acob, Anthony Iannarella, p. 6

Erin Mitchell, Joshua Soosaithasan 3rd Prize Katya Kisselev p. 6

POETRY1st Prize “Yonge and Eglinton” by Edmee Nataprawira p. 72nd Prize “The Sunset” by Shayna Goldenberg p. 83rd Prize “This Trip Down Memory Lane

is Hard for me to Explain” by Stefano Recchia p. 9

PHOTOGRAPHYMy World1st Prize Daniel Zanon p. 102nd Prize Stefano Recchia p. 103rd Prize Kara Schuringa p. 10

The People Around Me1st Prize Victoria DeRooy p. 112nd Prize Marcel Mazzucca p. 113rd Prize Samantha Bifolchi p. 11

Digitally Manipulated1st Prize Mitchell Castellano p. 122nd Prize Theo Tsanas p. 123rd Prize Louisa Au p. 12

SHORT STORY1st Prize “Made” by Tali Voron p. 142nd Prize “The Book” by Jordi Klein p. 163rd Prize “Broken Bottles” by Courtney Firestone p. 18

Early Harvest is an annualcompetition of creative

writing, sketching, painting and photography

for teens 12 to 18 years of age who live

or go to school in the City of Vaughan.

Vaughan Public Libraries’Annual Early Harvest

Competition is administered by the

Vaughan Public Library Board.

Chief Executive OfficerMargie Singleton

Early Harvest TeamElaine Barr

John PichetteFarida Shaikh

Jennifer StephenElyse TrojmanTerri WatmanArielle Zomer

Cover Artwork: Mitchell Castellano

Broken Bottles

The line at the bank was long that day. Erin picked idly at an ingrown fingernail while she listenedto the teller reiterate her instructions for a fourth time to an old man who was hard of hearing. Normally, these kinds of things would annoy her. She briefly wondered why her infamous temper hadnot flared up yet, but then she remembered – she did not care. The teller could repeat herself all dayand she probably would still not care. She had nowhere to be.

No, sir, swipe your card this way, please. The teller sounded young, although Erin could not see herface from this distance. Her voice was saturated with professional politeness, as though her patiencewere never-ending and saying the same words over and over were included in her contract. Erin wondered if this professional girl had a boyfriend, or if maybe she was an older woman who was marriedand happened to have a bizarrely youthful voice.

No, I said this way, sir. Erin smirked. An edge of irritation had crept into the teller’s voice. Itmade her seem normal, more human. Erin had already learned not to trust the sort of false kindness thatthe woman had been exuding previously. The expression “sickly sweet” had to originate from sometruth, after all. Too much sweetness got nauseating and needed to be balanced. Dalia had taught herthat.

Finally, the old man shuffled away with his bundle of traveler’s cheques. The floorboards seemedto heave a sigh of satisfaction when the people still in line took a step forward. As the teller began assisting the short man with a heavily accented voice who was next in the queue, Erin’s mind wandered.Thinking of Dalia had brought suppressed memories to the forefront of her consciousness. She allowedthe images to float one by one before her eyes.

There was Dalia in black jeans and a leather jacket sitting in the back row of history class. ThenDalia’s blond ponytail bouncing as she ran to catch up with Erin that first time, back when Erin was theshy one and Dalia was some distant star in an alternate universe, shiny and beautiful but unreachable.Dalia waving her over to sit behind the storage shed with her rebel friends while they mocked the conformists who called themselves popular. That area was always buried beneath a layer of litter, butErin had secretly cherished each piece of trash on the ground. They were concrete evidence of the timethat was spent there, little mementos of the conversations that slowly swept away her inhibitions, statements that shouted, This is who we are! Erin realized there was nobody who would tell her if theplace was cleaned; her stomach clenched when she considered all the memories thrown away.

3rd PRIZEby Courtney Firestone, age 16

318Special thanks to our sponsors:

‡ Short story entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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My World

Noam ran down to the canal. He wound up and launched the leather book into the air, where itfell into the water with a satisfying splash. He grimaced and watched it sink. After several minutes hadgone by, Noam was content with his handiwork and left to inspect what a cluster of pigeons were pickingat. He hoped it was something that could satiate his stomach. He jogged up to the flock. What he saw notonly caused him to lose his appetite for any kind of food, but left his mouth hanging open comically. It wasthe book. But he had just thrown it into the river…he heard it splash, watched it sink…

Slowly, carefully, he picked up the book by the brass embellishments, trying not to touch theskin-leather of the cover. To his surprise, there were several more pages filled than the last time he’dread.

He tried to dispose of me again. When will he learn? In time, I suppose, but by then it will be toolate...When should I dispose of the boy? His time is running out, certainly, but the question is when. And how.Soon he will no longer be of use to me.

The boy is starting to aggravate me. He tried to burn me this morning and ruined his lantern whiledoing it. Silly boy. There is no more time for games. I think the river will be an appropriate place; I will disposeof him as he first tried to dispose of me.

A few days later found Noam weak and sickly; he was running a fever and a crippling cough,barely strong enough to keep his head up. He was flipping the pages looking for anything more in the perfect handwriting when he saw the light was fading fast, too fast. He scrambled for a candle, fumblingand burning himself as he tried to light it. He picked up the wax stump and held it a few centimetres awayfrom the book. Barely able to see the page, Noam squinted as he read the fresh lettering:

The end.A sharp icy wind blew into the alcove, extinguishing the candles and practically blinding him. If

Noam could have screamed, he would have. He doubled over, writhing in inexpressible agony. The bookfell silently next to him. Then something smooth and cold was washing over him, dragging him. And heprayed and waited for the end that had been promised.

When Noam’s lifeless corpse was found by a fisherman three days later, the police were baffled.They found no evidence of physical harm to the boy- the only thing they did find was a book, which theboy was holding in his arms. It was an empty journal. The cover was made of soft black leather with oldbrass embellishments on the corners and thin, creamy pages. What struck the police as most unusual wasthat the journal showed no traces of being in the water at all. It was too perfect.

1st PRIZE ~ Robert Thompson, age 13

2nd PRIZEJulian Quattrociocchi, age 18

3rd PRIZEMichelle Su, age 16

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The People Around Me

The Book

“Stop!”“Thief!”The cries followed Noam as he ran down the slippery cobblestone street, but he paid them little

notice. The sky was thick with dark storm clouds and the rain was growing steadily heavier, and he wasnot going to be caught, thanks to the storm. The book he had stolen just moments earlier was safelyunder his tunic. He knew nothing of the book or its contents, only that it had been so long since he’d hadsomething decent to read. The wind blew dripping strands of dark hair into his eyes and he brushed themaway impatiently, blinking rain out of his eyes as he went. In a few minutes, he was a fair bit away fromthe bookshop, where there were no people wandering the streets. Noam ducked into a safe alcovewhere a blanket, an old lantern and a dry set of clothes were waiting. He sighed happily and removed thebook from under his tunic.

It was only then that he got a proper look at the book. Its cover was of soft black leather withbrass embellishments on the corners to hold it down properly. He reached out, stroked the leather onceand then drew his hand away quickly- it felt too much like skin. The pages were worn and creamy andthey had a distinct old quality. Noam dried his hands on the blanket, settled in against the brick andopened the cover. The first page held the title in perfect cursive, which Noam was too impatient toread... he flipped a few pages in- he found introductions to be boring- and read in the same neat script,

It was in the midst of a storm that he stole me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a tornado onthe way. Very basic thievery, I must say- no one would be mad enough to chase after a boy in rain and windsuch as that.

Noam’s forehead creased in frustration. He found this story boring already. He flipped to theback of the book, but found it blank. Pages kept turning backwards until Noam found himself reading thesame passage he had just read. He yelled and threw the book away into the storm. Noam wrapped himself in the thin wool blanket and sighed, letting the rhythmic pattering of the rain against the cobblestones drag him into sleep.

He did not sleep well that night. In the morning, he awoke to find he was sleeping on the skin-like leather book, looking like it had never been in the storm at all. Or had it? Noam didn’t remember much from the night before. He moaned. A tantalisingly mouth-watering scent was waftingout of the bakery, and his stomach roared.

But first, he had to take care of that book. It was starting to worry him. Now that he was reallyawake, he remembered that he had definitely thrown away the book last night. But how had it returned?

1st PRIZE ~ Melissa Thompson, age 17

2nd PRIZERhiannon Knibbe, age 16

3rd PRIZEDanielle Zandueta, age 14

2nd PRIZEby Jordi Klein, age 15


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1st PRIZE ~ Arkin Sampath, age 13“My Library is a Community Necessity”

3rd PRIZE ~ Katya Kisselev, age 12“What the Library Means to Me”

2nd PRIZE ~ Anjelo Niko L. Acob, age 13Anthony Iannarella, age13

Erin Mitchell, age 12Joshua Soosaithasan, age 13

“The Perfect Place”

I discovered horrible things too. I saw flashes from my difficult childhood, learned that I was divorcedtwice and widowed once, and I looked like I hadn’t set foot in a gym for quite a few years if you knowwhat I mean.

A strange yet new emotion flooded through me as soon as my brain began completely understandingthis new set of information. I can’t quite explain it. My face burned red, and I felt hot and itchy all over. Ifelt a fire raging inside of me and it was threatening to explode. The word describing this new emotionpopped into my head. Anger.

“This isn’t right!” The words flashed out and I heard them echo around me. Who did that? Who said it?

“This isn’t fair!” There it was again. But this time the voice sounded more menacing. The voicesounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t concentrate on it just yet.

“Change me back this instant! I am not THAT hard to live with! Or fat!” Right then I realized the voicewas mine. I had no idea I gained so much strength. All of a sudden, I heard something beyond the clicking.It was another voice.

“This is you Jenna, You’re staying just the way you are.” I was taken aback; I guess this is the creator of my marvellous life. There must be something more I can do. I finally have a somewhat interesting existence and it fills me with misery? Oh no. I am not the right person to mess with.

“Look buddy, thanks for making me, and we both know I am not an angry woman but if I was left twiceand widowed once, I don’t think you want to get on my bad side.” I was proud of my quick-witted comeback,it’s not often I have those.

“You don’t scare me Jenna! I made you! And I will do with you what I please! It’s not like youcould make me change you anyway.”

“Oh you did not just go there. Alright well let’s see, a little positive thinking should do the trick.” I startedto focus all my energy into making myself skinnier. It’s best to start small. Within moments, I was lookingdown at myself with a brand new figure, my old clothing draping over me like a curtain.

“You may have created me, but I can change myself as much as I please. I have the power. You mighthave made me, but I have it made. You know, if I really wanted to, I could just walk out of your story andthere goes the main character of your book...”

“Jenna wait! Let’s negotiate!” The voice wavered but it sounded sincere.

“Oh alright. Conjure up a Starbucks for me will you? I’ll meet you there in 10 minutes; I want to take aride in my brand new Ferrari first.”

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Made.

I was minding my business one day, just floating around in eternity. All of a sudden, I felt a slight tugging onmy left side. It was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I had never really felt much before, letalone anything like this. Yet the sinking feeling wouldn’t go away, in fact over time it turned into more of ayanking. Of course, being me, I didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary, so I carried on with my dull,self reliant, lonely existence.

That’s when it happened. I was floating gracefully one second and being wrenched into what seemedlike a deep, bottomless hole the next. It was as if an invisible arm had gotten a hold of me and was haulingme down. I was a paper clip, and there was a giant magnet below me.

Shockingly enough, the so-called “bottomless hole” wasn’t as infinite as I had originally thought because I did eventually land. Luckily, the wrenching sensation was gone but in its place was this awfulclicking. It was incredibly loud and could’ve easily overpowered any sound, if there were to be one anyway.

It’s funny because I thought the worst possible feeling was being jerked down into that never endingpit, but boy was I wrong, very wrong. With the clicking noises getting louder and more frequent, I feltmyself being pulled in every direction, being altered in minor ways at a slow, painful pace. I don’t knowhow long it continued for, but being alive for eternity I have no use for time. It’s not like it really exists or Iactually acknowledge it. But now I know what it really is. I felt like the pinching and prodding went on forlonger then I’d been alive. Believe me, that is saying something.

Thankfully, it ended. A wave of relief swept over me. Immense relief. I gazed down at myself and realized that I was no longer a transparent blob. With each click clicking sound, something was added tome, whether it was to my physical appearance, personality or mind. I couldn’t believe it, the day had finally come. Soon enough, I gained true sight and I began to know everything for what it really was.

Strange black shapes were whizzing past me, going at a mile a minute. Something inside my headtold me they were letters, which then formed words. Knowledge was filling me as I became more comfortable with my new body. I had no idea how this was happening but somehow these “words” werebecoming one with me. I was being made.

***

With each word, something was added to me. I could feel myself evolving and growing stronger.More powerful. I was gaining information, my brain soaking up knowledge at a rapid pace. I could formthoughts and phrases. I even had a set personality. I learned that I had a family, and I lived in a nice cottageby a beautiful beach. However, I was learning more than positive things about my life and myself.


1st PRIZEby Tali Voron, age 14

Yonge and Eglinton

It was new, once upon a time,before tiny ticks toddled like a silent line of ants, stitching bridges between torn seamsand scarring the tired fabric with their f o o t p r i n t s o f t h r e a d .

It shields him from the half-staresof the strolling silhouetteswho casually brand him

s-t-u-p-i-d and l-a-z-y,dirty and dangerous.

And is this all because he has exactlytwo cents in a paper cupand a coat that was new

once upon a time?

1st PRIZEby Edmee Nataprawira, age 15

‡ Poetry entries have been reproduced as submitted.

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The Sunset

The sun flails,Its luminescence quivering as the looming threat,Whose sadistic laughter is heard amongst the skies,Rises to obtain power from the light.

The sun screams in agony,Its bright glow muted by the coldness of the night,Its struggle, a vain attempt to remain superior,Thwarted as the darkness creeps closer.

The sky rumbles a menacing laugh,Words thick and incoherent to instill fear, Like a predator stalking its prey, Relishing the fear before the attack.

The sun sets indignantly,Unwilling to relinquish its reign in the sky,But can no longer withstand the power of the night,As night’s malignant power corrupts the heavens,Upset and defeated,Light retreats.

2nd PRIZEby Shayna Goldenberg, age 16

Mirella TersigniMirella Tersigni established A Stroke of Art Inc., providing services for youth in creative development using thevisual arts. She has created resourceful workshops with both the York Region and Toronto school boards, aswell as art programs for those with intellectual disabilities. As an arts advocate, Mirella is an active member ofthe Vaughan community and sits on several boards and committees involved in promoting the arts. In 2009,she was awarded the Vaughan R.A.V.E Award for Educator/Mentor in the visual arts. Mirella is a graduate ofthe Ontario College of Art & Design.

David WestDavid West is the owner of West Photo, and has been the principal photographer at his studio for the past 25years. David has been the recipient of numerous national and international awards for his work, includingtwice winning Ontario Portrait Photographer of the Year. He has earned the prestigious Master of Photographic Arts degree from the Professional Photographers of Canada, and received a Richmond HillChamber of Commerce, Business Achievement Award. He is currently the Chair of the Board of the Chamber. David’s studio, West Photo, specializes in creative portrait, wedding, and special event photography. It is located at 120 Newkirk Road in Richmond Hill.

Elana WolffElana Wolff has taught English as a Second Language at York University and at the Hebrew University inJerusalem. She currently divides her time between writing, editing, and facilitating therapeutic art. Elana haspublished four collections of poetry with Guernica Editions: Birdheart (2001), Mask (2003), You Speak to Me inTrees (2006)—winner of the 2008 F.G. Bressani Prize for Poetry, and Slow Dancing: Creativity in Illness (2008), ajoint work with the late Malca Litovitz. Implicate Me, a collection of short essays on poems by Greater TorontoArea poets is scheduled for release this summer.

Fil MartinoFil Martino is a reporter for First Local on Rogers Television. She has produced many news serials including:The Last Days of the Dump – chronicling the life of the Keele Valley landfill site and Life After SARS – a look atwhat life is like for EMS workers in York Region after SARS, among others. Fil has received media awards forher coverage of crime stories and police programs from both the OPP and York Regional Police. She holds aBachelor of Arts degree in English Literature from the University of Toronto and a Radio and Television Arts diploma from Seneca College.

Deborah KerbelDeborah Kerbel is an author of primarily young adult fiction. Her previous novels include Mackenzie, Lost andFound and Girl on the Other Side, which was shortlisted by the Canadian Library Association for the 2010 YABook of the Year Award. She has also co-authored the Quizmas series of family Christmas trivia books. Deborah’s latest novel, Lure, is a YA thriller about a teenager being drawn to a library that is rumoured to behaunted. A lifelong avid reader, she began writing soon after she finished her degree in English Literature at theUniversity of Western Ontario. Born in London, England, Deborah currently lives in Thornhill with her husband and two children.


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3rd PRIZEby Stefano Recchia, age 17

DigitallyManipulated

1st PRIZE ~ Mitchell Castellano, age 18

2nd PRIZETheo Tsanas, age 16

3rd PRIZELouisa Au, age 15

This Trip Down Memory Lane is hard for me to Explain

I took a walk in a big ticking clock,The hands swayed too quickly, I couldn’t keep up; I fell out of the way,I fell far away,I felt the heat and tension around me because I’ve heard what people say,A strong taste of warm heat drenched me, When I fell down a long drain, I swear it almost drowned me as I couldn’t find my way,My way back up, back on the ground.Stuck in this drain, my veins cold and gray, I remembered the strangest thing, A time when I flew away,That day, seems so far away, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I saw Images on the floor, The colours jumped up, and set in my mind.They reminded me of the pictures I drew once upon a time,The memories don’t last, as they did once before, However I don’t consider going back anymore.

I heard the loudest crash, but wasn’t quick enough to look back, It reminded me of how fast life has passed, life can pass, and life will pass, Hold on to the hands on this ticking clock, or you’ll become part of the past,Stuck in the past, you won’t last!You’ll never last.

I smelt the smell of an unfinished piece, Awaiting for me, And it reminded me, Of how uniform life, tends to be.

I felt the heat of the sun overpower me, as it usually does, when I rest my hand on the future,I can’t stand what it does to me,

Today I know where it will take me, But I’m scared for tomorrow I don’t,I’m scared of the outcomes that haunt me,Especially when everyone believes that I won’t, I won’t achieve the dreams in which only I believe in,And I dislike who I’m being here,What I’m writing because, you see,This has no meaning, just many words put together,To give everyone a false sense of feeling,I’ve felt like this once before, scared of the ideas I had, not able to be shown, On a stage,But all alone


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The PeopleAround Me

My World

1st PRIZE ~ Daniel Zanon, age 13

2nd PRIZE Stefano Recchia, age 17

3rd PRIZEKara Schuringa, age 15

1st PRIZE ~ Victoria DeRooy, age 14

2nd PRIZEMarcel Mazzucca, age 12

3rd PRIZESamantha Bifolchi, age 17

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The PeopleAround Me

My World

1st PRIZE ~ Daniel Zanon, age 13

2nd PRIZE Stefano Recchia, age 17

3rd PRIZEKara Schuringa, age 15

1st PRIZE ~ Victoria DeRooy, age 14

2nd PRIZEMarcel Mazzucca, age 12

3rd PRIZESamantha Bifolchi, age 17

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3rd PRIZEby Stefano Recchia, age 17

DigitallyManipulated

1st PRIZE ~ Mitchell Castellano, age 18

2nd PRIZETheo Tsanas, age 16

3rd PRIZELouisa Au, age 15

This Trip Down Memory Lane is hard for me to Explain

I took a walk in a big ticking clock,The hands swayed too quickly, I couldn’t keep up; I fell out of the way,I fell far away,I felt the heat and tension around me because I’ve heard what people say,A strong taste of warm heat drenched me, When I fell down a long drain, I swear it almost drowned me as I couldn’t find my way,My way back up, back on the ground.Stuck in this drain, my veins cold and gray, I remembered the strangest thing, A time when I flew away,That day, seems so far away, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.

I saw Images on the floor, The colours jumped up, and set in my mind.They reminded me of the pictures I drew once upon a time,The memories don’t last, as they did once before, However I don’t consider going back anymore.

I heard the loudest crash, but wasn’t quick enough to look back, It reminded me of how fast life has passed, life can pass, and life will pass, Hold on to the hands on this ticking clock, or you’ll become part of the past,Stuck in the past, you won’t last!You’ll never last.

I smelt the smell of an unfinished piece, Awaiting for me, And it reminded me, Of how uniform life, tends to be.

I felt the heat of the sun overpower me, as it usually does, when I rest my hand on the future,I can’t stand what it does to me,

Today I know where it will take me, But I’m scared for tomorrow I don’t,I’m scared of the outcomes that haunt me,Especially when everyone believes that I won’t, I won’t achieve the dreams in which only I believe in,And I dislike who I’m being here,What I’m writing because, you see,This has no meaning, just many words put together,To give everyone a false sense of feeling,I’ve felt like this once before, scared of the ideas I had, not able to be shown, On a stage,But all alone

912



The Sunset

The sun flails,Its luminescence quivering as the looming threat,Whose sadistic laughter is heard amongst the skies,Rises to obtain power from the light.

The sun screams in agony,Its bright glow muted by the coldness of the night,Its struggle, a vain attempt to remain superior,Thwarted as the darkness creeps closer.

The sky rumbles a menacing laugh,Words thick and incoherent to instill fear, Like a predator stalking its prey, Relishing the fear before the attack.

The sun sets indignantly,Unwilling to relinquish its reign in the sky,But can no longer withstand the power of the night,As night’s malignant power corrupts the heavens,Upset and defeated,Light retreats.

2nd PRIZEby Shayna Goldenberg, age 16

Mirella TersigniMirella Tersigni established A Stroke of Art Inc., providing services for youth in creative development using thevisual arts. She has created resourceful workshops with both the York Region and Toronto school boards, aswell as art programs for those with intellectual disabilities. As an arts advocate, Mirella is an active member ofthe Vaughan community and sits on several boards and committees involved in promoting the arts. In 2009,she was awarded the Vaughan R.A.V.E Award for Educator/Mentor in the visual arts. Mirella is a graduate ofthe Ontario College of Art & Design.

David WestDavid West is the owner of West Photo, and has been the principal photographer at his studio for the past 25years. David has been the recipient of numerous national and international awards for his work, includingtwice winning Ontario Portrait Photographer of the Year. He has earned the prestigious Master of Photographic Arts degree from the Professional Photographers of Canada, and received a Richmond HillChamber of Commerce, Business Achievement Award. He is currently the Chair of the Board of the Chamber. David’s studio, West Photo, specializes in creative portrait, wedding, and special event photography. It is located at 120 Newkirk Road in Richmond Hill.

Elana WolffElana Wolff has taught English as a Second Language at York University and at the Hebrew University inJerusalem. She currently divides her time between writing, editing, and facilitating therapeutic art. Elana haspublished four collections of poetry with Guernica Editions: Birdheart (2001), Mask (2003), You Speak to Me inTrees (2006)—winner of the 2008 F.G. Bressani Prize for Poetry, and Slow Dancing: Creativity in Illness (2008), ajoint work with the late Malca Litovitz. Implicate Me, a collection of short essays on poems by Greater TorontoArea poets is scheduled for release this summer.

Fil MartinoFil Martino is a reporter for First Local on Rogers Television. She has produced many news serials including:The Last Days of the Dump – chronicling the life of the Keele Valley landfill site and Life After SARS – a look atwhat life is like for EMS workers in York Region after SARS, among others. Fil has received media awards forher coverage of crime stories and police programs from both the OPP and York Regional Police. She holds aBachelor of Arts degree in English Literature from the University of Toronto and a Radio and Television Arts diploma from Seneca College.

Deborah KerbelDeborah Kerbel is an author of primarily young adult fiction. Her previous novels include Mackenzie, Lost andFound and Girl on the Other Side, which was shortlisted by the Canadian Library Association for the 2010 YABook of the Year Award. She has also co-authored the Quizmas series of family Christmas trivia books. Deborah’s latest novel, Lure, is a YA thriller about a teenager being drawn to a library that is rumoured to behaunted. A lifelong avid reader, she began writing soon after she finished her degree in English Literature at theUniversity of Western Ontario. Born in London, England, Deborah currently lives in Thornhill with her husband and two children.


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61369-wrk 13 12/10/10 4:16 PM

Made.

I was minding my business one day, just floating around in eternity. All of a sudden, I felt a slight tugging onmy left side. It was something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I had never really felt much before, letalone anything like this. Yet the sinking feeling wouldn’t go away, in fact over time it turned into more of ayanking. Of course, being me, I didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary, so I carried on with my dull,self reliant, lonely existence.

That’s when it happened. I was floating gracefully one second and being wrenched into what seemedlike a deep, bottomless hole the next. It was as if an invisible arm had gotten a hold of me and was haulingme down. I was a paper clip, and there was a giant magnet below me.

Shockingly enough, the so-called “bottomless hole” wasn’t as infinite as I had originally thought because I did eventually land. Luckily, the wrenching sensation was gone but in its place was this awfulclicking. It was incredibly loud and could’ve easily overpowered any sound, if there were to be one anyway.

It’s funny because I thought the worst possible feeling was being jerked down into that never endingpit, but boy was I wrong, very wrong. With the clicking noises getting louder and more frequent, I feltmyself being pulled in every direction, being altered in minor ways at a slow, painful pace. I don’t knowhow long it continued for, but being alive for eternity I have no use for time. It’s not like it really exists or Iactually acknowledge it. But now I know what it really is. I felt like the pinching and prodding went on forlonger then I’d been alive. Believe me, that is saying something.

Thankfully, it ended. A wave of relief swept over me. Immense relief. I gazed down at myself and realized that I was no longer a transparent blob. With each click clicking sound, something was added tome, whether it was to my physical appearance, personality or mind. I couldn’t believe it, the day had finally come. Soon enough, I gained true sight and I began to know everything for what it really was.

Strange black shapes were whizzing past me, going at a mile a minute. Something inside my headtold me they were letters, which then formed words. Knowledge was filling me as I became more comfortable with my new body. I had no idea how this was happening but somehow these “words” werebecoming one with me. I was being made.

***

With each word, something was added to me. I could feel myself evolving and growing stronger.More powerful. I was gaining information, my brain soaking up knowledge at a rapid pace. I could formthoughts and phrases. I even had a set personality. I learned that I had a family, and I lived in a nice cottageby a beautiful beach. However, I was learning more than positive things about my life and myself.


1st PRIZEby Tali Voron, age 14

Yonge and Eglinton

It was new, once upon a time,before tiny ticks toddled like a silent line of ants, stitching bridges between torn seamsand scarring the tired fabric with their f o o t p r i n t s o f t h r e a d .

It shields him from the half-staresof the strolling silhouetteswho casually brand him

s-t-u-p-i-d and l-a-z-y,dirty and dangerous.

And is this all because he has exactlytwo cents in a paper cupand a coat that was new

once upon a time?

1st PRIZEby Edmee Nataprawira, age 15


14 7


1st PRIZE ~ Arkin Sampath, age 13“My Library is a Community Necessity”

3rd PRIZE ~ Katya Kisselev, age 12“What the Library Means to Me”

2nd PRIZE ~ Anjelo Niko L. Acob, age 13Anthony Iannarella, age13

Erin Mitchell, age 12Joshua Soosaithasan, age 13

“The Perfect Place”

I discovered horrible things too. I saw flashes from my difficult childhood, learned that I was divorcedtwice and widowed once, and I looked like I hadn’t set foot in a gym for quite a few years if you knowwhat I mean.

A strange yet new emotion flooded through me as soon as my brain began completely understandingthis new set of information. I can’t quite explain it. My face burned red, and I felt hot and itchy all over. Ifelt a fire raging inside of me and it was threatening to explode. The word describing this new emotionpopped into my head. Anger.

“This isn’t right!” The words flashed out and I heard them echo around me. Who did that? Who said it?

“This isn’t fair!” There it was again. But this time the voice sounded more menacing. The voicesounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t concentrate on it just yet.

“Change me back this instant! I am not THAT hard to live with! Or fat!” Right then I realized the voicewas mine. I had no idea I gained so much strength. All of a sudden, I heard something beyond the clicking.It was another voice.

“This is you Jenna, You’re staying just the way you are.” I was taken aback; I guess this is the creator of my marvellous life. There must be something more I can do. I finally have a somewhat interesting existence and it fills me with misery? Oh no. I am not the right person to mess with.

“Look buddy, thanks for making me, and we both know I am not an angry woman but if I was left twiceand widowed once, I don’t think you want to get on my bad side.” I was proud of my quick-witted comeback,it’s not often I have those.

“You don’t scare me Jenna! I made you! And I will do with you what I please! It’s not like youcould make me change you anyway.”

“Oh you did not just go there. Alright well let’s see, a little positive thinking should do the trick.” I startedto focus all my energy into making myself skinnier. It’s best to start small. Within moments, I was lookingdown at myself with a brand new figure, my old clothing draping over me like a curtain.

“You may have created me, but I can change myself as much as I please. I have the power. You mighthave made me, but I have it made. You know, if I really wanted to, I could just walk out of your story andthere goes the main character of your book...”

“Jenna wait! Let’s negotiate!” The voice wavered but it sounded sincere.

“Oh alright. Conjure up a Starbucks for me will you? I’ll meet you there in 10 minutes; I want to take aride in my brand new Ferrari first.”

156


The People Around Me

The Book

“Stop!”“Thief!”The cries followed Noam as he ran down the slippery cobblestone street, but he paid them little

notice. The sky was thick with dark storm clouds and the rain was growing steadily heavier, and he wasnot going to be caught, thanks to the storm. The book he had stolen just moments earlier was safelyunder his tunic. He knew nothing of the book or its contents, only that it had been so long since he’d hadsomething decent to read. The wind blew dripping strands of dark hair into his eyes and he brushed themaway impatiently, blinking rain out of his eyes as he went. In a few minutes, he was a fair bit away fromthe bookshop, where there were no people wandering the streets. Noam ducked into a safe alcovewhere a blanket, an old lantern and a dry set of clothes were waiting. He sighed happily and removed thebook from under his tunic.

It was only then that he got a proper look at the book. Its cover was of soft black leather withbrass embellishments on the corners to hold it down properly. He reached out, stroked the leather onceand then drew his hand away quickly- it felt too much like skin. The pages were worn and creamy andthey had a distinct old quality. Noam dried his hands on the blanket, settled in against the brick andopened the cover. The first page held the title in perfect cursive, which Noam was too impatient toread... he flipped a few pages in- he found introductions to be boring- and read in the same neat script,

It was in the midst of a storm that he stole me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there was a tornado onthe way. Very basic thievery, I must say- no one would be mad enough to chase after a boy in rain and windsuch as that.

Noam’s forehead creased in frustration. He found this story boring already. He flipped to theback of the book, but found it blank. Pages kept turning backwards until Noam found himself reading thesame passage he had just read. He yelled and threw the book away into the storm. Noam wrapped himself in the thin wool blanket and sighed, letting the rhythmic pattering of the rain against the cobblestones drag him into sleep.

He did not sleep well that night. In the morning, he awoke to find he was sleeping on the skin-like leather book, looking like it had never been in the storm at all. Or had it? Noam didn’t remember much from the night before. He moaned. A tantalisingly mouth-watering scent was waftingout of the bakery, and his stomach roared.

But first, he had to take care of that book. It was starting to worry him. Now that he was reallyawake, he remembered that he had definitely thrown away the book last night. But how had it returned?

1st PRIZE ~ Melissa Thompson, age 17

2nd PRIZERhiannon Knibbe, age 16

3rd PRIZEDanielle Zandueta, age 14

2nd PRIZEby Jordi Klein, age 15


516


My World

Noam ran down to the canal. He wound up and launched the leather book into the air, where itfell into the water with a satisfying splash. He grimaced and watched it sink. After several minutes hadgone by, Noam was content with his handiwork and left to inspect what a cluster of pigeons were pickingat. He hoped it was something that could satiate his stomach. He jogged up to the flock. What he saw notonly caused him to lose his appetite for any kind of food, but left his mouth hanging open comically. It wasthe book. But he had just thrown it into the river…he heard it splash, watched it sink…

Slowly, carefully, he picked up the book by the brass embellishments, trying not to touch theskin-leather of the cover. To his surprise, there were several more pages filled than the last time he’dread.

He tried to dispose of me again. When will he learn? In time, I suppose, but by then it will be toolate...When should I dispose of the boy? His time is running out, certainly, but the question is when. And how.Soon he will no longer be of use to me.

The boy is starting to aggravate me. He tried to burn me this morning and ruined his lantern whiledoing it. Silly boy. There is no more time for games. I think the river will be an appropriate place; I will disposeof him as he first tried to dispose of me.

A few days later found Noam weak and sickly; he was running a fever and a crippling cough,barely strong enough to keep his head up. He was flipping the pages looking for anything more in the perfect handwriting when he saw the light was fading fast, too fast. He scrambled for a candle, fumblingand burning himself as he tried to light it. He picked up the wax stump and held it a few centimetres awayfrom the book. Barely able to see the page, Noam squinted as he read the fresh lettering:

The end.A sharp icy wind blew into the alcove, extinguishing the candles and practically blinding him. If

Noam could have screamed, he would have. He doubled over, writhing in inexpressible agony. The bookfell silently next to him. Then something smooth and cold was washing over him, dragging him. And heprayed and waited for the end that had been promised.

When Noam’s lifeless corpse was found by a fisherman three days later, the police were baffled.They found no evidence of physical harm to the boy- the only thing they did find was a book, which theboy was holding in his arms. It was an empty journal. The cover was made of soft black leather with oldbrass embellishments on the corners and thin, creamy pages. What struck the police as most unusual wasthat the journal showed no traces of being in the water at all. It was too perfect.

1st PRIZE ~ Robert Thompson, age 13

2nd PRIZEJulian Quattrociocchi, age 18

3rd PRIZEMichelle Su, age 16

174


Meet the WinnersSKETCHING & PAINTINGMy World1st Prize Robert Thompson p. 42nd Prize Julian Quattrociocchi p. 43rd Prize Michelle Su p. 4

The People Around Me1st Prize Melissa Thompson p. 52nd Prize Rhiannon Knibbe p. 53rd Prize Danielle Zandueta p. 5

VIDEO 1st Prize Arkin Sampath p. 62nd Prize Anjelo Niko L. Acob, Anthony Iannarella, p. 6

Erin Mitchell, Joshua Soosaithasan 3rd Prize Katya Kisselev p. 6

POETRY1st Prize “Yonge and Eglinton” by Edmee Nataprawira p. 72nd Prize “The Sunset” by Shayna Goldenberg p. 83rd Prize “This Trip Down Memory Lane

is Hard for me to Explain” by Stefano Recchia p. 9

PHOTOGRAPHYMy World1st Prize Daniel Zanon p. 102nd Prize Stefano Recchia p. 103rd Prize Kara Schuringa p. 10

The People Around Me1st Prize Victoria DeRooy p. 112nd Prize Marcel Mazzucca p. 113rd Prize Samantha Bifolchi p. 11

Digitally Manipulated1st Prize Mitchell Castellano p. 122nd Prize Theo Tsanas p. 123rd Prize Louisa Au p. 12

SHORT STORY1st Prize “Made” by Tali Voron p. 142nd Prize “The Book” by Jordi Klein p. 163rd Prize “Broken Bottles” by Courtney Firestone p. 18

Early Harvest is an annualcompetition of creative

writing, sketching, painting and photography

for teens 12 to 18 years of age who live

or go to school in the City of Vaughan.

Vaughan Public Libraries’Annual Early Harvest

Competition is administered by the

Vaughan Public Library Board.

Chief Executive OfficerMargie Singleton

Early Harvest TeamElaine Barr

John PichetteFarida Shaikh

Jennifer StephenElyse TrojmanTerri WatmanArielle Zomer

Cover Artwork: Mitchell Castellano

Broken Bottles

The line at the bank was long that day. Erin picked idly at an ingrown fingernail while she listenedto the teller reiterate her instructions for a fourth time to an old man who was hard of hearing. Normally, these kinds of things would annoy her. She briefly wondered why her infamous temper hadnot flared up yet, but then she remembered – she did not care. The teller could repeat herself all dayand she probably would still not care. She had nowhere to be.

No, sir, swipe your card this way, please. The teller sounded young, although Erin could not see herface from this distance. Her voice was saturated with professional politeness, as though her patiencewere never-ending and saying the same words over and over were included in her contract. Erin wondered if this professional girl had a boyfriend, or if maybe she was an older woman who was marriedand happened to have a bizarrely youthful voice.

No, I said this way, sir. Erin smirked. An edge of irritation had crept into the teller’s voice. Itmade her seem normal, more human. Erin had already learned not to trust the sort of false kindness thatthe woman had been exuding previously. The expression “sickly sweet” had to originate from sometruth, after all. Too much sweetness got nauseating and needed to be balanced. Dalia had taught herthat.

Finally, the old man shuffled away with his bundle of traveler’s cheques. The floorboards seemedto heave a sigh of satisfaction when the people still in line took a step forward. As the teller began assisting the short man with a heavily accented voice who was next in the queue, Erin’s mind wandered.Thinking of Dalia had brought suppressed memories to the forefront of her consciousness. She allowedthe images to float one by one before her eyes.

There was Dalia in black jeans and a leather jacket sitting in the back row of history class. ThenDalia’s blond ponytail bouncing as she ran to catch up with Erin that first time, back when Erin was theshy one and Dalia was some distant star in an alternate universe, shiny and beautiful but unreachable.Dalia waving her over to sit behind the storage shed with her rebel friends while they mocked the conformists who called themselves popular. That area was always buried beneath a layer of litter, butErin had secretly cherished each piece of trash on the ground. They were concrete evidence of the timethat was spent there, little mementos of the conversations that slowly swept away her inhibitions, statements that shouted, This is who we are! Erin realized there was nobody who would tell her if theplace was cleaned; her stomach clenched when she considered all the memories thrown away.

3rd PRIZEby Courtney Firestone, age 16

318Special thanks to our sponsors:



From the Chair, Vaughan Public Library Board

Gino RosatiChairman, Vaughan Public Library Board

VPL’s Board MembersFront Row

L to R - Marie Chiaromonte, Michael McKenzie (Vice Chair),Gino Rosati (Chairman), Filippo Gravina

Back RowL to R - Rajbir Singh, Suri Rosen, Tony Genco, Mario F. Ferri,

Margie Singleton (Chief Executive Officer), Devender Sandhu, Lorraine de Boer, Jeffrey Stone, Rocco Capone

The Early Harvest Competition is a celebration of the creative accomplishments of localteens and their valuable contributions to the growth and development of the arts in ourcommunity. On behalf of the Vaughan Public Library Board, I am pleased to introduce the2010 Early Harvest Competition winners and invite the community to explore the beautifulartwork, poems, short stories and screenshots featured in this magazine.

For over 20 years, Early Harvest has been instrumental in encouraging local teens to sharetheir artistic expressions in the categories of writing, photography, sketching and painting.This year, VPL has added a new video category for teens to showcase their videographyskills.

I am very proud to announce that VPL has received a 2010 R.A.V.E. Award (Recognizing Arts Vaughan Excellence) in the category of Literary Arts as an ArtEducator/Mentor for organizing the Early Harvest Competition for teens inVaughan since 1989. Developed by the Vaughan Arts Advisory Committee withthe support of Vaughan Council, these awards recognize vast contributions thatenhance the vitality of the arts in our City.

On behalf of the competition organizers, I would like to extend a sincere thankyou to all individuals who have supported Early Harvest. Thank you to ourjudges, Deborah Kerbel, Fil Martino, Mirella Tersigni, David West and ElanaWolff for reviewing the submissions and selecting the winning entries. We wishto thank our sponsors, Library Services Centre and Canadian Video ServicesInc. for their generosity. The Board also acknowledges the hard work andcommitment of the staff at VPL who conduct outreach to promote Early Harvest at all area schools and numerous community organizations.

Vaughan Public Libraries is dedicated to creating a stimulating and rewarding environment that inspires learning by encouraging teens to share and showcase their ideas.On behalf of the Board, I congratulate all authors, photographers, artists, videographers andcontributors who participated in this year’s Competition. I warmly encourage them to continue developing their creative talents.

Absent: Isabella Ferrara, Pradeep Puri, Alan Shefman

A tap on her shoulder brought Erin out of her daze for a moment. The line was moving at amuch more reasonable pace now, and the middle-aged woman behind Erin was willing to wait no longerthan absolutely mandatory. Erin stumbled forward to close the gap between her and the person in frontof her, fleetingly catching the eye of a young man exiting the bank. Had Dalia been with her, nudging heralong, Erin would have noticed how cute the curly-haired boy was. The girls would have bet on howquickly Erin could get him to offer her his number, and then she would have giggled, posed prettily andmade one of her trademark faces that always won those bets for her. But it was impossible for Dalia tobe there, and so all that Erin could do was slip once more beneath the crushing weight of the memories.

This time, she did not revisit those early days, the fun ones. These were shadowy, chaotic images that possessed a dark aura, tinged with the scent of danger and a pending sense of tragedy. Erincould see Dalia’s brightly lit bedroom in stark contrast to the terrible substances and utensils assembledon her duvet cover. Her nose filled with a phantom whiff of the smoke that used to transform the roominto a place of hazy ecstasy and drift upwards to form a high-up cloud near the ceiling. Erin flinched as amontage of fragmented thoughts flashed rapidly through her mind – bottles cluttering a table, filled withalcohol and little pills; music played at ear-splitting volumes as the girls danced and spun; bubbles of daringand excitement rising in her chest and threatening to overtake her. How could they have known that oneof them would soon be overtaken?

Erin braced herself for the difficult part that she felt approaching. Her ears perceived the echo ofa piercing shriek as Dalia, at her peak, took her fateful fall. As though she were living through it onceagain, Erin noticed how totally emptied the bottles were. She watched her friend lying on the floor, suffering from the excessive substances she had taken in and the steady pouring out of too-much bloodfrom her head. After an eternity, the wailing of an ambulance was finally audible. But even through thefogginess that had settled over her mind, Erin had seen what escaped from Dalia together with herbreath to join the haze near the ceiling. She knew it was too late before the others ever did.

The middle-aged woman cleared her throat loudly. She had no time to waste on this teenager’sfolly. Erin staggered forward to the teller’s booth. Like artefacts from the distant past, revived remnantsof her earlier curiosity about the teller returned to her. Apparently, though, she was not destined to besatisfied that day; the female teller had ended her shift and a pleasant, nondescript man in his mid-thirtieshad replaced her.

Erin approached this new unfamiliar teller. With grim determination in her voice, she said, “I’dlike to close my account and withdraw every penny.” Looking down, she added in a whisper, “I’m gettingout of here.”

19


ARTISTS PHOTOGRAPHERS WRITERS VIDEOGRAPHERS

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The Early Harvest 2010 magazine