A Co q u i t l a m O p e n L e a r n i n g Wr i t i n g 1 2 A n t h o l o g y touchstones

touchstones /tuhch-stohns1. A test or criterion for the qualities of a thing.

2. A black siliceous stone formerly used to test the purity of gold and silver by the colour of the streak produced on it by rubbing it with either metal.

3. An anthology of student writing and complimentary artistic images as a joint venture between the Writing 12 students of Coquitlam Open Learning and the Fine Arts department at Gleneagle Secondary School.

Writing 12 ContributorsSteven Bae, Colin Deans, Isabelle Docto, Mariana Gorjao, Hannah Kelly, Youmy Han, Micah Lao,

Rebecca MacDonald & Sumbul Vallani, Instructor - Scott Findley ~ sfindley@sd43.bc.ca

Drawing & Painting 12 Contributors Xena Dahye Choi, Nailya Gafitulina, Emily Huang, Sarah Jung, Leslie Kwong, Angela Schmold, Michaela Stebbe,

Hee Jo Yang, & Jack Cheol Jin Yun, Instructor - Melanie Stokes ~ mstokes@sd43.bc.ca

Additional Student Artist Contributors Travis Anderson, Donna Kim, Cheyenne Manning, Christine Park, Anna Semyonova, Kathy Wong, Yillin Wang,

Heejo Yang, Instructor - Mike McElgunn ~ mmcelgunn@sd43.bc.ca

Cover Art by Anna Semyonova

This anthology is funded by Coquitlam Open Learning and Gleneagle Secondary School. For more information about the course or a digital copy of the Anthology, please visit http://teachers.sd43.bc.ca/sfindley/Subpages/Writing12.aspx

All artists retain the copyright to their own work with the exception of printing and publishing within this journal. No copies may be made for sale with the exception to fund or recoup costs of publishing and printing this anthology.

©2012

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Contents

You Have to Make Your Own Luck, Honey ........................................................................................................5

Shadow of Trouble ................................................................................................................................................6

The Next Station Is... ..............................................................................................................................................7

No Goodbye, No Hello .........................................................................................................................................8

A Morning Bird’s Song ........................................................................................................................................10

From Clay to Sculpture ........................................................................................................................................11

Lolo ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 12

Awakening............................................................................................................................................................13

Mr. Bubbles ..........................................................................................................................................................14

What a Shame ......................................................................................................................................................15

The Beginning of the End ....................................................................................................................................16

The Water under the Bridge .................................................................................................................................20

The School of Hard Knocks .................................................................................................................................21

Who I Am ............................................................................................................................................................22

An Insight of Cecity .............................................................................................................................................23

When I Look at this World ..................................................................................................................................24

The Lion and the Mouse .....................................................................................................................................25

Rumana Monzur..................................................................................................................................................26

Pride .....................................................................................................................................................................27

Abby Kinsley ........................................................................................................................................................28

A Heartless Winter ...............................................................................................................................................30

A Heartless Winter ...............................................................................................................................................30

Four Visitors .........................................................................................................................................................31

Longing for the Sea ..............................................................................................................................................32

The Tale of Thalson Thatcher ..............................................................................................................................33

Capture the Flag ..................................................................................................................................................36

Hike .....................................................................................................................................................................37

Slave of the Sky ....................................................................................................................................................38

5

You Have to Make Your Own Luck, Honey

It worries me When my mom looks at me and says, “You have to make your own luck, honey, we can’t do that for you.” Because that one sentence Sends me catapulting to the future Where luck is sold in stores Packaged in a tiny gold box And it makes a low humming noise, yearning to radiate its coat of fortune onto someone But everyone just stands there Mounted on a concrete island On the outside looking in Staring with despair through the DNA smudged store windows Like children drooling over toy trains during christmas Except our stomachs aren’t filled with excitement or hope They’re filled with apprehension A catalyst that leaves their bellies yearning for fortune Etching crevices of worry onto our skin Because in the future, luck is for the rich This auspicious noun coaxes money

into many wealthy palms Leaving the penniless reaching for nothing but matter Basically, you can only buy luck, if you’re lucky enough So what does that come down to? Without that gold package, could we possibly survive? Is luck the ultimate driving force there is to becoming successful? That can’t be true For I’ve seen people create their own versions of luck Woven from the delicate strands of their aspirations And they fabricate webs that they lie on Rely on And it envelopes them A beautiful blanket made from the sky Not created from luck at all, but from something much stronger Something as immovable as an anchor plunged in the ocean As sturdy as a rock welded into the earth for millions of years As solid as a band of fists held up in the air So after this long reverie, I look at my mom and say, “Luck is for losers.”

Text by Isabelle Docto ~ Image by Yillin Wang

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Text by Sumbul Vallani ~ Image by Angela Schmold

Shadow of Trouble

A clingy presence trails, An entity lurking behind as I pace I hesitantly turn my head Deception upon my eyes, I view nothing

My body trembles in terror I am an item in the lost and found The presence creeps up once more But there are no faces in my view

 

Shade cloaks the boundless vista I stagger snared in a binding corridor Every shift of my eyes tormented By flashes of blurred strangers

Panic strikes my clammy body My legs pumping like a steam engine Horses’ hooves on dirt is the sound of my heart  The place reeks of wickedness

7

The Next Station Is...

his chubby cheeks reflect an innocence with a slight intimation of sadness, as if he was yearning for something. I shift my head fifteen degrees. I look at my hand gripping the yellow handle bar so tight that it resembles the paleness of milk. Just below my hand rests another that’s easily forty or fifty years older than mine. I regard the man that this other hand belongs to. Yellow, cloudy eyes guarded by large square lenses and a coarse skin that says enough about this man’s years. A forest green baseball cap rests upon his withering grey hair while a beige jacket hides his hideous, Christmas sweater.

Bing-bong! Shfff. Just as the doors open, I take a look around. Never before have I seen such a diverse collection of people. Never before have I seen such a range of colours and designs in clothing and baggage. As I watch everyone around me I wonder, Where did they come from and where will they go? Will the old men and women wander off to bingo night? Will the teenagers scurry off to do mischievous deeds or tend to their studies? Will the young couples stride hand in hand to a park bench to publicly embrace one another? Or are they all going off to do something not so stereotypical? Time seemed to slow down as I gazed in wonder at all the different people going their different ways. With a glance at my watch and one more scan about the Skytrain station, I take a step, and then another. I begin walking upon the path unknown to the others around me. The same unknown path that others walk on around me.

Bing-bong! Shfff. The doors open and I shuffle into the sky-train like a penguin. I have only ever been on the Skytrain once before. I take a rear facing seat without hesitation. At the back of the train, an old, moustachioed man sits contently. I immediately take notice of his Elvis hairstyle, amber-tinted aviators and leather jacket. It looks like this old man didn’t receive the memo saying Grease is out of style. His hands rest ever so daintily, though, on the wooden handle of his black umbrella.

Bing-bong! Shfff. Due to rail maintenance, we all have to step off and wait for a new train. Tiled walls, concrete floors and lethargic, incandescent lights greet me in the tunnel-like station. Hundreds of people are slowly shifting from side to side, like trees in a strong wind, in anticipation. Two Skytrains go by full to the brim with sardine-packed people. Finally, a train rolls into the station with a little space for a few more sardines.

Bing-bong! Shfff. I take one step on the Skytrain and have to reach for a handle just below the roof. There is no such thing as personal space on the Skytrains of Vancouver. Adjacent to my elbow is the white-and-black checkered hat of a short granny. She speaks, with a foreign accent, in English to her grandson. Sporting an electric blue hoodie, the ten year old looks around with eager, winsome brown eyes. His cocoa powder skin and

Text by Colin Deans ~ Image by Hee Jo Yang

8

No Goodbye, No Hello

emotional mess, while Nancy sat quietly beside me, bearing a hardly noticeable frown, and refusing to look me in the eyes for the past half an hour.

“So yeah…” I began again, only to hear my own voice drift off weakly into the moist air, like a tiny droplet of dew vaporizing into the heat.

At that moment, Nancy finally spoke, “It’s good that you’re telling me now. It means At least we’ll have a year for some things.”

I cringed; the simple thought of talking about departure seemed unbearable to me. Yet I still shrugged and agreed, “Sure.”

Nancy shrugged too, slowly calculating her words. “We would have time to…well, practice goodbyes.”

I think I smirked when I heard the words, almost blurting out, “When did you become so cheesy?”

Nancy laughed too. “I know, I know… But it actually makes sense if you think about it after a while.” She paused for a few seconds there, letting me go over the words in my head.

“I mean, if practice means perfect, maybe we can say the perfect goodbyes in the end, where none of us will get swollen eyes and red noses and no passing person will think something terrible just happened…”

Nancy stopped again as we both chuckled at this. Then she went on, “What I want to say is, with a perfect goodbye, maybe the goodbye itself will not be that scary.”

My ghost of a smile vanished at those words. Looking sideways at Nancy, I could see hers disappeared too. We both stayed soundless for a long time.

It was me who finally broke the silence. “I just don’t want to say it. I don’t want it to happen.”

Nancy sat up at this point and faced me. “Hey. Remember the verse from the book we loved, “no goodbye, no hello”?”

“Yeah.”

“So, no matter how much time passes, we’ll always have a chance to say hello to each other again, right?”

“Right.”

Nancy smiled at that point Looking at me straight in the eye, she slowly moved her lips to form the vowels creating the Chinese expression  for “goodbye”:

The teeth closing on each other in the beginning, the tongue

The sun was shining. Big, bright, hot.

Blinding. Like her gaze.

The leaves danced in the wind, fluttering like helpless butterflies, whispering their tiny secrets. Fall has arrived, but summer still peeped around the corner, giving some last blistering hot days whenever there’s a chance, reminding people she’s not gone, not yet.

“I’ll be leaving next summer,” I spoke suddenly, too suddenly, that I choked on my own saliva. “So…so this will be my last year. Last year here, I mean,” I continued, sniffing a little. I then fell quiet for a few moments, blinked the sweat from my eyes, reminded myself to breath.

I stole a nervous glance at her in the middle. Luckily, she was looking at the other direction, silently, still, sad.  

“I just wanted you to know,” I said casually, “that I’ll be leaving. Here. Next summer.” That I’ll be leaving you.

The last sentence didn’t form the way the others did. Somehow I was too harsh, too keen, too much in a hurry to get rid of it, that it got stuck on the way out, like a fish bone in your throat.

I gave a few more coughs, but it wouldn’t budge. Just like the last stubborn part of me that still thought this was all a bad dream.

 It was the day we came back to school after a lengthy pampering from the summer vacation. Technically, school hasn’t started yet. This served more as a reminder that the beginning of a new semester wasn’t far, and as students we should probably start gathering our unruly souls back together after the long summer.

It was the day where everything begins to fold back to normal.

But for me, that was the start of a most unnormal year: it was my last year in Shanghai.

I always knew the day was coming, since the second I first set foot on this foreign soil; I just kept taking risks, always gambling my chances for another year to stay, locking away the fear of saying farewell in a dusty corner of my heart.

 But my time was finally up. So here I was, saying the first goodbye to my best friend Nancy. Except it’s all wrong.

When I pictured this, I always imagined Nancy disbelieving me at first, then she’d probably fall into my arms and maybe even sob into my shoulder after realizing the truth, while I’d pat her on the back and say things like “at least we still have a year left.”

But in reality, I was the one struggling not to tumble into an

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Text by Youmy Han ~ Image by Xena Dahye Choi

rolling back next, then flattening out again, touching the lower front teeth, the lips relaxing into a small grin.

“Zai jian.” Goodbye.

We embraced for a long time, each giving the other a hard slap on the back when it was time to let go. Turning around swiftly without giving a second look behind, we set off into separate paths towards home.

We didn’t contact each other after that for three days. Then, on the first day of school, before class started, I felt a light pat on the back, and I didn’t even have to guess to know who that was.

Nancy, grinning and beaming, said one word: “Hi.”

“Hi.”

 One will say many goodbyes in life. Some will be easy, with only short partings and less familiar people; others will be tough, where you’ll be separated from loved ones for long years.

But no matter the situation: no goodbye, no hello.

So I will always say my “goodbyes” merrily, and hope with all my heart and soul, for the most splendid hello between us next time we meet.

10

A Morning Bird’s Song

Look,

Right there

Feathers that flutter

like the wings of a pixie.

It rides on the whimsical notes that escape its beak,

and you sail on it too.

You catch its current

that mixes in with the peaceful breeze,

and your sneakers no longer scuff

the asphalt of velvet petals.

The trees seem to sway at the sound,

obeying the little bird’s

every nimble note.

You follow entranced

each step matching its melodic melody

Towards the egg

that has just been cracked

in the powder blue horizon

The yoke splits,

dripping its way into the sky,

and then your lips part,

exhaling music

In desperate imitation

Of a morning bird’s song

Because you want to have that power

to greet everyone good morning. 

Text by Isabelle Docto ~ Image by Angela Schmold

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Text by Steven Bae ~ Image by Leslie Kwong

From Clay to Sculpture

It’s true Mom, Dad, There once was a time When I fit into the cradle of your arms When every minute you’d make sure I was safe from harm

I was a fresh piece of clay Unblemished, and tender, Requiring your hands so slender To guide me towards splendour To shape me and to sculpt me To be my guardian and defender

And you worked so hard To mould me so gingerly Into the sculpture that I now am

I know because I can smell The blood and the tears The hopes and the fears The sorrows and the cheers That are forever embedded in me

But if you try to change me now When my body and mind Have aligned and been refined

I will crack I will shatter like glass raindrops Splintering against the asphalt Cold and unyielding

And lying broken on the ground I’ll stare at you With my grieving eyes I’ll eternally scorn you You’ll never be able to piece me back Or magically backtrack In time Not this time

So do it; Put me on display This beautiful sculpture of clay And admire me from far away

For I swear All the care, and fallen wispy hairs Will never be forgotten Not from anywhere

You are the hands That have guided me You are the heart That pounds with life within me You’ve made me Into a soaring sculpture I’m infinitely proud to be Thank you

12

Lolo

rang and I woke up, still very drowsy. My hearing was blurred by sleep, but I could still make out the few muffled words of my dad. Hello? What happened? Who died...? And then came that silence—the silence of a sad surprise that lulled me back to a melancholy slumber.

When I awoke to the beeping of my alarm, my eyes were shut with dried tears. I could hear gloomy voices in my parent’s room. I numbly walked to the bathroom, pretending that I hadn’t heard anything.

So, here I am now. I muster up the courage to turn off the shower, and slip my bathrobe on. I can’t hide my sniffling. I hear my dad open the door to their bedroom. I gulp. I swallow my tears, sadness, and heartache and sickly twist my mouth into a smile. As if I hadn’t heard anything.

I open the door. My eyes are a broken dam, and water rushes out quickly. I fall into my dad’s embrace.

Death was once a myth to me. Now, I realize death morphs your cherished memories with someone into mere myths themselves.

Pitter, patter goes the people’s feet as they amble around the mall.

I push myself past the sea of humans, like a whale breaking through a cluster of plankton, holding my Lola’s hand as we make our way to the movie theatres. The loud voices jabbering in my native tongue fill the tiny crevices between everyone’s bodies, making the mall contract like someone’s queasy stomach. I do a shoulder check to see if everyone’s with me. My Lola has a peaceful smile on her face, despite the boisterous atmosphere. My Lolo is the caboose, keeping a steady pace as we chug our way through the crowd; he’s wearing his favourite ragged hat, and a jolly gap toothed smile. His smile says that he’s happy, happy to see his granddaughter after ten years of separation. I return the smile, not with as much conviction, for I really wanted to get out of this rowdy crowd.

We finally reach the movie theatre, buy our tickets and I aid my grandparents to their seats. I am impatient, not used to the slow, rusted joints of my Lolo and Lola and their carefully measured steps. We settle into our seats, and the movie begins. Every few moments I look to check if they’re comfortable. My Lola’s face is forever serene. My Lolo’s is serene too, his head slumped back, mouth open as he lets out great snores. I laugh and shake my head.

After the movie, we meet my mom and dad at Maxim’s, a popular food chain in the Philippines. My Lolo, famished from his sleep, orders the sinfully delicious fried pig dish, Crispy Pata.

“Lolo doesn’t know the word ‘healthy’,” my grandma laughs nonchalantly.

“Pa, you should watch the food you eat, your body isn’t as forgiving as it used to be,” my dad says seriously.

“Don’t worry about me, anak,” my Lolo says jovially, “I’m not living to count calories.”

Pitter, patter goes the water, as it rains down on me.

I stand, a stagnant silhouette parting the curtain of downpour. I feel like my body will burst into water too, for it spills out of my eyes as if I am a human waterfall. Is it my tears or the stream coming out of the shower? I can’t tell anymore.

Helpless questions pop into my head as I stare at the shower wall. Why did it have to happen now? He was living a calm life at the age of 72. How come no one was able to help him? I can picture him melting to the ground, eyes wide as death holds her hand out to him. I can see her beckoning him with her eyes made of time, ticking the seconds away.

My brain can’t stand still; it mines non-stop for those precious memories, thoughts, and feelings. His sunny demeanor that filled the room with warmth and the fantastic stories of his childhood that he weaved into my eager mind. My dad’s face and voice filled with love and care when he was reunited with Lolo last summer. I can’t believe those memories are all that are left of him.

Who knew, that an innocent ringing of the phone could result in this. It was around four in the morning when the telephone Text by Isabelle Docto ~ Image by Donna Kim

13

Awakening

It is so quiet, so empty, that I cannot even hear the silence. In music, it is said that rests and pauses are just as valuable as the notes themselves; the silence is just as much a part of the music as the melody. Silence is something that you can hear. It is relative, a contrast to the noise. I hear the muffled sounds of my brother’s videogame downstairs, I hear a dog barking outside, and then I hear the silence when those sounds cease to exist.

I love silence. I love the peacefulness of being alone with my thoughts. It is quiet, but still the refrigerator hums, the tree by my window taps the glass as a gust of wind blows by. The neighbour’s phone rings. In between all the brief musical interludes of life there is beautiful silence. But when there are no sounds, no dogs or videogames, there is no silence. There is only emptiness.

The yellow earplugs on my desk taunt me, daring me to try the task at hand. An hour without sound. An hour without silence. One full hour of emptiness. I put the earplugs in and hold my breath, as if I have momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

Emptiness, nothingness, terrifying. I am only faintly aware of anyone else being home. The smell of baking muffins wafts in from the kitchen, which means that my mom must be somewhere preparing dessert for her book club. The car is outside with the bike rack loaded, so my brother and my dad must be getting ready to leave for their BMX race. I have no idea where they are though.

Text by Rebecca MacDonald ~ Image by Emily Huang

I cannot hear. I do not hear my bedroom door open when my mom comes in to tell me she is leaving.

When her hand touches my shoulder I yelp. I do not hear the stairs creak as the dog comes upstairs. When she presses her wet nose against my shin I am startled again. Not even half an hour has passed and I am already desperate for music. I feel like an addict going into withdrawal.

Taking my saxophone out of its case, I run my fingers along the keys, silently playing a familiar tune. But there is no sound. I sing songs in my head, then close my eyes and lie down on the floor. Meditation doesn’t work. It is too quiet. I count the minutes, longing for it to be over already.

One hour has passed. Everyone has left; even the dog has gone outside again. I am alone. I remove the yellow foam ear plugs. Sounds rush into my ears, almost deafening, yet there is no noise. There are no birds or dogs or people, no washing machine or wind. Then the refrigerator begins to hum. The fish tank down the hall gurgles. I breath a sigh of relief as the sounds wash over me. When the noises fade away again, I hear the most beautiful sound in the world.

Silence.

14

Mr. Bubbles

“Ty! You’re gonna be late!” The only answer Kristyn received was the fizzling echo of the shower in the upstairs bathroom. She finished feeding their goldfish, Mr. Bubbles, who circled his bowl with oblivious serenity, and then headed for the stairs. Kristyn’s light, golden blonde hair waved from side to side as she bounced upstairs. She wandered into the bathroom. “Why do you even have a shower before a game?” she asked, taking a seat on the closed toilet. “Aren’t you going to have a shower after the game anyways?”

“Showers loosen me up, they relax me,” Ty said over the hiss of the water. As Kristyn waited patiently she began to fold Ty’s clothes. She picked up his necklace, a tarnished cross made of bona-fide silver on a worn out chain, wondering why he wore it when he wasn’t even religious. The squeak of the metal faucet allowed silence to fill the room, granting her ears repose from the incessant hiss of the shower. She stood up, a purple towel spread wide, ready to wrap it around Ty.

Ty shoved the shower curtain across with a sweep of his well muscled arm. He stood a foot taller than Kristyn, his dark brown skin taut against his chest. “Thanks, Krissy.” Ty smiled as Kristyn wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Dry off fast, I’ll get your bag ready,” she said, handing Ty his chain and disappearing out the door.

“Don’t I get a kiss?” Ty called after her. Kristyn turned around, half out the doorway, green eyes smiling and continued on her way.

A moment later, Ty came down the stairs, fully clothed in his faded blue jeans and his black winter jacket. Silently amused, he watched as Kristyn tried to heft his hockey bag. “I’m surprised this hasn’t ripped in half!” she panted, plunking the bag by his feet.

“It’s got a few holes after all these years,” Ty admitted, hauling the worn straps over his shoulders. “Got everything you need?”

Kristyn dashed upstairs. “Let me grab my purse!”Snatching her yellow purse from the bed, she froze. Turning

slowly, she scanned the room. Something wasn’t right. Something was out of place. Her meticulous eyes zeroed in on the bookshelf. Astronomy... Biology... Chemistry... Economics... Her diary! A tidal wave of angry and unsettling emotions overwhelmed her. Taking a deep, calming breath, Kristyn walked out into the hall.

She descended the stairs, head down, one step at a time. Immediately, Ty sensed something wasn’t right. “Are you alright?” He leaned his hockey stick against the dusty, Old West saloon piano. Mr. Bubbles, from his vantage point at the top of the piano, watched as Ty stepped forward hesitantly, trying to take Kristyn’s hand. “C’mon... talk to me! What’s wrong?” Ty asked, honest concern in his voice.

“Where is it?”“What?”“WHERE. IS. MY. DIARY?!” Her gorgeous countenance

was now red with rage. Ty dropped his hands and eased away. Unzipping his hockey bag, he pulled out a navy blue, pocket-sized notebook. Guiltily, he offered it to her.

“Why?” Kristyn asked tearfully. “Why’d you take it again?” They stared at each other as if from opposite sides of a canyon.

“I had to know... I had to know if...” Ty struggled with his words, “if you were fooling around with Randy.”

“Randy? He’s just my Astronomy study buddy... You thought that we were...?”

“I saw you two in Starbucks yesterday.” “We were studying!”

“How am I supposed to know?” Ty yelled defensively.

“You’re so stupid! We grew up together and after all these years you still can’t trust me?!”

Angrily, she shoved Ty’s chest with all the strength her little body could muster. Caught by surprise, Ty fell backward. Arms windmilling, one flailing hand hit the fish bowl sitting on the piano just as Kristyn lost her balance and fell on top of him. CRASH!

Horrified, Kristyn’s anger evaporated. “Oh my God! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Ty looked around. “What about...”

“Mr. Bubbles!” They cried in unison. Glass littered the soaked hardwood. In the middle of it all lay Mr. Bubbles, barely twitching.

“Oh my God! Mr. Bubbles!” Kristyn scooped him up tenderly. “What do we do?!”

“Krissy...”The sparkle in Mr. Bubbles’ eyes faded as his gills gave one last

valiant effort to preserve his existence. Kristyn fell to her knees, sobbing, “This is my fault... I shouldn’t have pushed you...”

Ty put an arm around Kristyn. “It’s my fault... I should have trusted you,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

Cradling a lifeless Mr. Bubbles, Kristyn and Ty moved into the bathroom. Kristyn lovingly slid him into the toilet bowl. At Kristyn’s nod, Ty solemnly pushed the lever. Mr. Bubbles swirled down into the abyss of Fishy Afterlife.

Kristyn sniffled. “You missed your bus.”Ty took her hand. “I’ll catch the next one.”

Text by Colin Deans ~ Image by Sarah Jung

15

What a Shame

I let myself fall into the ground. The mahogany tiles were gelid, they made sweat even more, and release a violent shiver which made me feel all the soreness of my muscles; but it also sharpened my senses, and just for a second, I didn’t feel as sick.

There was a sudden tickle in my face. My mother was picking me up. I put my arms around her neck; she was wearing an old brown wool sweater. She took me to the bedroom and laid me down on the already open sheets. That bed, no matter how many blankets it had, was always so cold. Whenever I laid down I was careful not to move, for I knew that was the only warm spot.

My sister laid next to me, her outline was all I could see. I looked at her and said “I’m scared, sis. It’s so hard to breathe, what if I fall asleep and suffocate?” She turned around. I could see the green of her eyes, spreading from the reflection of light just beside her pitch-black pupils. How strange that it could be so dark around us, and yet there was still that bit of light left. The green was soft and quickly blended with the rest of the grays and blacks of her face.

“Don’t worry silly, that can’t happen. Just go to sleep.” I didn’t believe her. It was a strange feeling. She was my big sister, how could she be wrong? However, she had to be. I was aware of how strenuous each breath was, if I became unconscious then I wouldn’t force myself to make that effort; therefore, I would suffocate. It was simple.

My eyes closed with the full notion that I might not wake up. What a shame, Christmas was coming up. It was my fifth one, and I had been truly looking forward to seeing Santa again.

Christmas is coming up.

I decided to join everyone in the kitchen. I walked up to the main table and snatched a cookie. That spicy, sweet, and yet surprisingly fresh taste of gingerbread took over my mouth. I truly appreciated how it could be so tasty but not too sugared; so that one could eat as many as one wanted without getting nauseated. Gingerbread cookies, my favourite.

I felt a hand on my sore shoulder. When I turned around I could see the useless plastic tube in my mom’s hand just two inches away from my face.

“Open your mouth honey. Now breathe in.” It felt as if hundreds of tiny little specks of dust were rushing down my throat. My chest felt lighter and my vision started to clear. My mom was squatting down as she patted my hair. A familiar frown met my eyes as I looked up. Guilt rolled and twisted uncomfortably in my stomach. I wish she didn’t have to worry.

Her hand felt cold as she caressed my cheek. My head was heavy; everything around me was regaining that feverish beige tone I loathed so much. I could hear the kittens coming back; with every breath they were there, crawling up my airways, their weight pressing down on my chest. I remembered how at first, I had thought that it was cute how my respiration sounded like kittens purring, but I was tired now. I wanted them to go away. I wanted to sit down. The conversations around me were all muffled. I tried to focus on each person’s voice.

“Her asthma isn’t getting any better.” It was my grandma. Her expression matched my mother’s. She had one hand resting on the blue granite counter, the other rubbing her forehead.

Text by Mariana Gorjao ~ Image by Jack Cheol Jin Yun

16

The Beginning of the End

“You must have magnificent valour or complete stupidity, but you definitely have the bravado to strut into this house as if it were your own. What do you want?”

It was a beautiful day in Berlin. As the song of the meadowlarks sang sweetly in the air, a shaft of golden sunlight pierced the veil of white clouds amidst the backdrop of the clear blue sky. Today was the perfect day for picking apples in the orchard.

Abigail expected to be using her hunting knife that day for nothing but slicing fruit. After much grovelling, she finally persuaded Christine to bake some of her delicious apple pies. Her taste buds tingled at the thought of a succulent slice topped with a sweet scoop of French vanilla ice cream.

However, those plans had been shattered as soon as Christine and Kaihan found her in the foyer with her hunting knife drawn. And she was far from mincing apples.

The intruder gave a satisfying gurgle as she pressed the edge of the blade against his throat. “Message…for…the sisters. Very, very urgent.”

“What else do you want from us?” Abigail snarled. “Does the life of my older sister refuse to satiate your thirst for blood?”

“Abigail, wait.”

At the voice of the de facto leader, she reluctantly withdrew her dagger. “Start talking or you will start smiling from your throat instead of your mouth.”

Getting to his feet, the stranger straightened, bowing warmly to Kaihan and Christine.

“My apologies for the intrusion. My name is Joran, and I offer a proposition.” He cleared his throat. “I have something very precious that belongs to you. If you want to restore what you have lost, I am willing to help you.”

Abigail sized him up carefully. Judging from the medals pinned to his tunic, Joran was a veteran warrior. Combined with his height of at least six feet, his defined biceps and chiselled pectorals made bodybuilders look like wannabe models. With the symbol of the Code emblazoned on his black tunic, it was as if a wolf had approached a flock of sheep with a promise for preservation.

“This is absurd,” Abigail said. “We don’t even know if we can trust you.”

“True, you don’t. But if you still have doubts…” He pulled out a small object and tossed it to Kaihan. “That alone should be proof enough of what you want.”

Intense rage filled Abigail. Hand poised upon her knife, she was ready to carve the stranger’s smirk off his face, but Kaihan blanched as she turned to them. Wordlessly, she raised the silver chain and blinked at the dangling orange key attached. Abigail gulped.

It was Minka’s Kingdom Key of Fire.

Subconsciously, Abigail fingered her own Kingdom Key of Air. Since birth, it had been her sense of familiarity when everything around her crumbled apart. To reflect her own physical condition, Abigail’s key hummed with power and was warm to the touch. As she huddled with her sisters, she shivered at the thought of a dull, lifeless key.

Barely burning with life, the Kingdom Key of Fire sizzled pathetically instead of its usual blaze of vitality. If she hadn’t already, Minka was running out of time.

Slowly curling her hand into a fist, Kaihan tightly grasped Minka’s lifeline and held it over her heart.

“I made an important vow to protect my sisters. I intend to keep it, no matter what happens to me,” Kaihan said firmly. “Even if this is a trap, I would cross Earth and Hades for Minka.”

In the past two months after the incident, Kaihan lost virtually all of her motivation to study. To the dismay of the professor, she had isolated herself in her room for days as her grades steadily dropped. After missing several university orientation meetings, it was evident that she was ill-prepared to face the competitive rigours of school.

“The stakes are tremendously high,” Christine pleaded, “but I refuse to entertain the thought of Minka dying alone.” She clasped Kaihan’s shoulder supportively. “You will not embark on your journey without me.”

Abigail was thoroughly impressed with Christine’s persistence. Then again, she had always been more protective toward Minka than to Kaihan and her. Though they were polar opposites, the artist and the athlete had spent numerous hours together, whether it was dedicated to cooking a five course meal or playing a heated basketball match.

Instantly, guilt washed over her like a tsunami. Her sister had sacrificed her life for hers, yet she was unwilling to break a sweat if it meant Minka would be saved. Accompanying her sisters was the least she could do to honour her.

“His presence screams betrayal,” Abigail mumbled, “but Minka would have taken these risks for us.”

With her sisters right behind her, Kaihan turned to Joran, who stood ramrod straight with a stoic expression.

“How soon can you get us to the castle?”

Before the girls could react, Joran raised his massive armoured fist and swung it across their skulls. Stars immediately revolved around Abigail’s head before she had the chance to fight back.

Their assailant was grinning ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.

“Bon voyage.” 

***

17

Abigail awoke to the sound of her sister’s vexed demeanour and to a vile stench.

“It was a set up,” Kaihan said, irritation blatantly etched on her face. “How could we have put our guard down so easily?”

In her hazy vision, Abigail’s wandering eyes studied her surroundings. From the foul odour that assaulted her nose and the grubby surface of the walls, Abigail’s stomach churned. Small squeaks and skittering paws confirmed the presence of rats in the room.

“That no longer matters,” Abigail remarked, “because exploring Earth and Hades for Minka also entails waking up in smelly prison cells with filthy rats.” She flinched and covered her nose as Kaihan vomited all over the ground. That was definitely not a good sign.

“Kaihan, Abigail,” Christine called. “we have bigger matters to take care of.”

Her older sister was bending over something, but as Abigail got closer, she realized it was someone. As soon as she laid her eyes on the incapacitated individual, she nearly fainted from astonishment.

Minka!

Grimacing as her missing sister stared blankly at Christine, Abigail didn’t like what she saw. With skin deathly pale, Minka’s hand was glazed pottery rather than flesh. Her bloodstained tunic rose and fell at irregular intervals, and the calf of her left leg was bent at a humanly impossible angle. A shard of white had pierced through the skin in that area, and Abigail was afraid to guess what it was.

Kaihan sank to the ground. “Minka, what did they do to you?”

“They fixed her up to keep her alive,” a masculine voice interrupted, “and tortured her to relish her pain and agony.”

The girls jerked their heads toward the sound. With the shuffle of footsteps, a man and woman emerged from the recesses of prison. Though his unkempt hair and her deep wrinkles frightened Abigail, she was drawn to the sparkle of life in their shining eyes.

“We did our best to ward off the rats,” the woman said, “but we don’t know how much longer she will last.”

Christine lifted Minka’s Key. “Would this help?”

As soon as she placed the pendant around her twin’s throat, the key softly hummed to life. The man gasped, reaching for the key and watching it pulse an orange hue. Although Minka’s breathing was still ragged, tension from her face relaxed.

“This key…” The man analyzed the pendant carefully. “How did you get it?”

Producing her Kingdom Key of Earth, Kaihan stroked her chin, thoughtfully considering her answer. “This key has seen all eighteen years of my life. I was born with it.”

He shut his eyes for a moment. “We have been in this rotting prison for fifteen years, imprisoned when our firstborn was

three.” His intense blue eyes flickered open as he scrutinized Kaihan. “And you say you’re eighteen years old.”

Sheer silence set over them like a heavy fog. Although Abigail and her sisters were at the edge of their seats with the fact that their parents were about to piece the puzzle together, they feared cheesy words like “Girls, you are so brave! You have no idea how much your mother and I missed you!” The last thing they wanted was an awkward atmosphere.

Instead, delight filled the man’s face as it poured fatherly love and pride. Trembling slightly, he rose to his feet and enfolded Kaihan and Abigail into his arms. “God be praised! He has kept you well all these years.”

Abigail slowly returned her father’s warm embrace. He didn’t hug her the same way her adoptive parents had, but there was a tranquil aura that swirled around him. The giant rip in her heart that she never noticed had begun to sew itself up.

The woman reached for Christine’s hands and squeezed them gently. “I am Sophia, and this is your father Hazel,” she said tenderly. She turned to her husband. “Look at them, honey. Don’t you think Kaihan and Abigail take after you? They have intelligent blue eyes, just like yours.”

“Christine looks just like you when you were her age, Sophia.” Hazel offered his wife a small smile. “And it lifts my heart to see that Minka has inherited your fighting spirit.”  

Her parents were doting on them as if they were babies, but, Abigail basked in their approving words. They were nothing like the media portrayal of knights with gleaming armour and swords; despite their current situation, she was unafraid in their presence.

Minka feebly tugged the hem of her twin’s pants. As blood peeked from the corner of the chest wound, Christine ripped one of her shirt sleeves and pressed the cloth against the gash to staunch the flow. Their mother slid to her knees and placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder.

“Please, tell me what to do to save her life,” Sophia said with a helpless lilt in her voice. She glanced down at Minka and lovingly stroked her forehead. “I will not rest until you are back to good health.”

“I believe that, Mother.” Managing a tiny grin, Minka reached for Christine’s hand. “Christy, will you do something for me first?”

Steering them away from their mother and the twins, Hazel drew Kaihan and Abigail into his arms, leading them toward the entrance of the cell.

“My heart aches to converse with you and to be with Minka, but we must save the reminiscing for later,” Hazel pressed his hands against the prison bars. “We need to secure our escape before she worsens.”

Abigail jumped on the ground a couple of times. Strange. The earth beneath her felt soft, mushy even.

“We may not be able to go through these iron bars,” Abigail dropped to her knees. “But we can certainly go under them.”

18

She clawed at the ground, shovelling fistfuls of dirt into the air.

“My goodness,” Hazel grumbled. “I never cared to notice this after all these years locked away. The Code has the laziest workers I’ve ever seen.”

“No doubt,” Kaihan agreed, “but they seem to be more diligent when torturing their prisoners.”

A contemptuous scowl crossed his face. “You don’t even know half of it. After breaking her leg, they dragged her here to die in her own blood.” He lowered his sorrowful gaze. “All this time, my daughter was with me, but I never attempted to protect her or to say, ‘Leave her alone! Take me instead!’ I wallowed in my own filth like a pathetic coward so I could pray for my children and comfort my wife.”

Abigail’s throat closed.  She struggled to find words of comfort, but before she could come up with anything, their grimy gateway to freedom was open.

It became evident that Minka’s condition had deteriorated once they carefully pulled her out. Every now and then, she gave a loud hacking cough, and her phlegm was tinged with blood. Abigail stole a quick glance at Sophia and Christine. Were those tears streaming down their cheeks?

“She’s running out of time,” Hazel frowned grimly as he took her in his arms. “Let’s get out of here!”

“Not so fast!”

At the top of the corridor, Joran sneered with a torch in his hand. “You’re too late! If you even attempted escape, this entire castle is lined with gunpowder and oil. This place will fall like a house of cards, and mark my words; you and your family will die with me this very day!”

Abigail noted Minka’s shaky breath as she whispered into Hazel’s ear. He frowned slightly, but gave a short nod and set her carefully to her feet. Although the wall bore most of her weight, her limping steps were confident, her strides filled with purpose.

“You can take away my body and my life,” Minka said quietly, “but you are not taking my family along with me.”

Clearly taken aback, Joran winced. Although he had crippled Minka, he was unable to snuff the zealous flames that smouldered in her intense gaze. “What’s this?”

Without a warning, Minka propelled herself forward, slamming her weight against the barrel of oil toward Joran. As the dark sticky liquid splashed over him, he lost grip on his torch, watching as it sailed onto his black tunic. Engulfing flames instantly devoured everything they touched and he crumpled to the ground like a scorched rag doll.

“Take cover!” Hazel tackled his family to the ground just as a deafening blast filled his ears.

BOOM!

Once the smoke had cleared, a huge chunk of the wall had blasted apart. Sophia pulled Christine back just as a slab of charred wood landed at the place where she had been lying the

second before.

“It’s caving!” Kaihan shielded her head from the oncoming rain of rubble. “Abigail, grab Minka and get out!”

Leaning heavily against Abigail for support, Minka struggled to stand, but a massive stone beam crushed her back, pinning her solidly to the ground.  As her face contorted with pain, the pulsing radiance of her Kingdom Key waned into a dim, flickering glimmer.

“NO!” The beam held fast, but Abigail was just as resolute to free her sister. When another gigantic block of debris nearly clipped her legs, Minka grabbed her hand.

“Abigail, leave me. Go!”

“I won’t let you die again, Minka!” She gritted her teeth, holding her torrent of tears at bay. “Do you hear me? You are going to live!”

In her failing strength, Minka wrenched her Kingdom Key pendant from her neck and slipped it into Abigail’s hand. She smiled wearily. “I’ll see you in the morning, Abigail.” Dropping her head to the ground, Minka exhaled once and fell asleep.

***

Kneeling at Minka’s grave, Abigail set fresh white roses at the foot of the tombstone. The peak of the hill behind the professor’s house was the perfect place to lay her to rest. It had been their favourite place to watch the sunsets on their late afternoon hikes and point out constellations as they twinkled at night. Abigail took her usual stargazing spot before her sister’s grave and huffed dejectedly.

“Hey, you.”

Without turning to acknowledge her surviving sisters, Abigail fiddled with the lacklustre Kingdom Key of Fire. For two instances in a row, Minka had died because of her. And this time, she wasn’t coming back.

“Long time, no see.” Kaihan and Christine seated themselves next to her. “Dinner’s in a few minutes.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Christine made Brathühnchen and your favourite apple pies,” Kaihan coaxed, “and Father and Mother are dying to tell us stories about their childhood.”

Under normal circumstances, this would have pleased Abigail immensely, but her heart fell. What would her parents say if they knew about what she did to Minka before the whole mess started?

“It’s just not the same, Kai,” Abigail squeaked. “Prof told me once that ‘adversity makes a man meet himself,’ but I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

“There was nothing else you could have done, Abby.” Christine wrapped her younger sister in a sideways hug. “At least we came to see her before she passed on. Honestly, I did not expect Minka to last very long.”

Abigail stared at her and choked. “How can you say

19

something so cruel?”

“Christine was expecting for the worst, but hoping for the best.” Kaihan explained. “Which reminds me, do you know Minka’s favourite Bible verse?”

“Psalm 30:5,” Abigail recalled. “‘For his anger lasts only a moment, but his favour lasts for a lifetime; weeping may last for the night, but joy…joy…’”

Tears snaked down her cheeks, but she sucked in a breath to steady her voice. “‘Joy comes in the morning.’”

I’ll see you in the morning, Abigail.

Abigail brushed her tears away. In spite of her sister’s death, Kaihan and Christine were still at her side, acting like balm to the Minka sized void in her soul. She could manage without her, until the day the Lord called her home.

However, something gnawed at her soul. And Abigail knew it was something she could not leave buried beneath the sands of time.

“Christy,” Abigail began gently. “Before Kai and I went to help Father, what did Minka ask you to do for her?”

Face falling, Christine swallowed hard. “She asked me to sing.”

Kaihan lifted an eyebrow. “Sing?”

“Yeah.” Minka’s twin wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “She told me, ‘I want to dance on Heaven’s streets with the sound of your voice leading my steps.’”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but Abigail merely smiled. “Seems like she’s dancing up a storm in there.”

With the sound of her sisters’ laughter ringing in her ears, Abigail held them closer and stared up at the darkening evening sky.

Waiting for morning to come.

Text by Micah Lao ~ Image by Nailya Gafitulina

20

The Water under the Bridge

Along the wooden rail I run my hand; it is sleek and delicate to the touchThe wind is singing sweetly through the trees; they dance to its melody.Overlooking the bridge is the river underneath, flowing swiftly The strong, steady gurgle of the water plays over the rocks along the riverbedand five flocculent duckling splash in a scattered line behind their mother.It is here I wait.

It is so green, everything I see. Green and blue, like your eyes.

The quiet chatter of the distant waterfall fills the silence of my waitingMy patient waiting.

Have you forgotten your promise?Overhead birds chirp mournfully, waiting for your arrival.

The water beneath me rushes impatiently.

How many fish, I wonder, have swam in the river underneath this bridge?How many scales have been sacrificed in this deadly rush of water?

Is it peaceful beneath that rippling sheet of blue?Is it a rush of adrenaline to fight the current against your skin?

Is it an easy way to pass the time,Surrounded by a myriad of weightless bubbles?

The suns rays shiver on my skin, and I wait.You have not come.But still, the trees bow to the wind, and the waterfall playsNever ending, the river’s sound carries on, even in the distant meadowAnd so I will wait.Until the riverbed is dry from the sun and the smell of a rose loses its sweetness

Text by Hannah Kelly ~ Image by Kathy Wong

21

The School of Hard Knocks

Racing down the hall, I clutch my textbooks in a vice-like grip, managing to catch a fragment of a rather vulgar conversation.

“Yeah, like, school, like, doesn’t teach you anything. Like, how am I going to use, uh, math in the world when I’m, like, a super rich dude living off my inheritance? So yeah…”

Not only does this student suffer from severe colloquialism, but he is also sorely misinformed: there’s more to school than meets the book.

Believe it or not, school slowly teaches you the bare basics of housework. Thanks to the massive amounts of homework that my teachers chain to my ankle, I am better educated in the art of cleaning. After a cruel session of Pre-Calculus equations, there’s nothing like sweeping up the eraser shavings that make such a huge mess on the floor. Although I have those crumpled up History questions and shredded up English essays, my desk is sparkling clean as the rejected copies are promptly tossed into the wastebasket. It’s preposterous to leave a workspace in disarray after a hardcore night of studying, so I keep Mr. Clean in my pocket at all times. If you think about it, “homework” and “house chores” are essentially one and the same; after all, “home” and “house” are synonyms, and doing school work at home is certainly a chore.

School encourages us to socialize and mingle, even in the Internet realm. Having 500 friends on Facebook is no doubt an achievement that proves your mettle as a “social butterfly” supreme. Need someone to talk to? With a few clicks, you can already chat with a good friend…sort of. Actually, you’ve never met him/her/it before, but because you know John Doe is very regular with his blue cheese bagels, it’s like you already know him as well as your BFF, whose birthday is next week. What happens when the chat box remains empty for more than an hour? You must develop patience and exercise your thumb muscles, since getting up to dial a phone number is extremely strenuous. It’s best to avoid laryngitis while you still can.

School does follow its dictionary meaning after all; it educates us in the art of learning. If you count all of the crude profanity, the little tidbits about the latest couple, and criticism about inadequate teachers, I suppose we actually learn something in school. I’m absolutely certain that badmouthing peers, spreading rumours, and gossiping about superiors will get us very far in life. Who needs English class and Model UN when we can talk in the fashion of “like, uh, like, so yeah…” and let our fists do most of the work? A little outspokenness never hurt anybody too badly.

As long as you can speak your mind and carry yourself boldly to the world, you have mastered all of the things that you need to know from school! Congratulations!

So go get ‘em, tiger!

Text by Micah Lao ~ Image by Michaela Stebbe

22

Who I Am

Text by Youmy Han ~ Image by Jack Cheol Jin Yun

Who am I in this world? Who am I to it?

I wander between sky and earth, looking for the answer.

Reality is my paradise, dreams are my escape.

I smile and nod when I’m awake, and whisper in my dreams.

I am one vague voice among thousands; one quiet shout amidst a crowd.

One falling leaf, one single straw, one colorless petal in a meadow stretched afar.

One atom in this universe.

One streaming ray of sun.

One droplet of rain from the great blue above.

Yet I am still One

I watch and hear and smell and taste and feel,

As this extraordinary world spins forth.

The noise, the sight, never felt before, I sometimes get quite confused.

Time speeds along; there are no second chances to take,

I wonder what I should do?

Too many broken souls to fix, shattered dreams to repair:

Is there actually a difference that I can make?

But although I am small and plain and unknown to this world,

I believe there’s a choice, to strive and to search, and find my way in this grand game.

To be the spark that makes the flame, the fraction that makes the whole.

To be the note in that special song,

And to be the smile that makes your day.

Therefore, in God I trust

I set my way.

23

An Insight of Cecity

The moment my sister wrapped the light green cloth around my eyes and fastened a tight knot, I felt nothing; I observed nothing. Even the colour of the cloth had disappeared. It was as though I was staring into a never-ending distance of black fog. I was alone; the room became a gaping hole of emptiness with me in the centre. All light had been consumed by the colour of night-time. From this description, you’d think that all the good in the world had been abolished, but after two minutes of being blindfolded, I discovered it had not.

My sister guided me to the unlocked window in my room where I could clearly perceive the sound of a piano being played; the melody was sublime. I leaned over and felt a breeze of nippy air press up against my face. The feeling tingled and I felt a shiver down my spine. Then I noticed something else. While my fingers lingered on the glass of the window, I  felt like I was touching something that had just been taken out of the refrigerator. The surface felt so frigid.

As the hour went on, I allowed myself to travel all over my room, under the inspection of my sister, and I noticed that almost everything felt altered, strange and uncanny, yet I could still identify precisely what I was touching. I gripped onto the wood of my bed and noticed how well built and strong it was. I could feel one of the screws securely locked into the block of wood, helping to maintain the bed from falling apart. Gradually, I navigated my hands from my bed all the way to my closet, which was located on the opposite side of my room from where I had begun my hour-long blind journey.

Then my hands wandered to the floor where I dug my fingers into the coarse, yet flocculent carpet. I had never acknowledged this feeling of my carpet before, but the material I touched wasn’t that pleasing. Ever since I moved into my house I was not content with the carpet encompassing the floor of my room. However, I felt that bringing up the fact that I wanted it removed was not worth the effort; I knew the answer would be no. When I observed this feeling, the one thing racing through my mind was “I wish I had hardwood.”

Then, I heard a distant voice coming from downstairs and it came to my knowledge that my sister had rushed out of the room so fast, she couldn’t even find the time to shut the door. I was on all fours when she said Text by Sumbul Vallani ~ Image by Emily Huang

something that I couldn’t quite make out, and before I could try and comprehend her, something wonderful had happened. An aroma of something sweet and sensational was being pulled into the area. It surrounded me, and wrapped around my body like a warm hug. I could smell chocolate and I wanted to savour the taste of it. To my disappointment, I realized that sticking my tongue out had not caught it.

While I positioned myself back into an upright body position, I listened to the sound of firm footsteps approaching, and I realized it was my sister. I could faintly hear her mumbling to herself, and judging by the tone of her voice, she sounded quite satisfied and delighted. I noticed that the smell of chocolate had grown and it felt like whatever object the smell was coming from was right in the room with me. I could feel her presence right by my side when she said, “How come you didn’t come downstairs when I told you to?” She sounded like she had her mouth full. I asked her why she had left and she then remarked, “Mom made chocolate chip cookies!”

Apparently, chocolate chip cookies are more important to her than making sure I don’t hurt myself while being blindfolded.

24

When I Look at this World

When I look at this world, many things meet my gaze:

Blue skies. White clouds. Small white flowers with only seven petals, dutifully displaying their part of the beauty of nature.

Crumpled paper. Broken pens. Invisible tear drops in a hidden away diary, whispered secrets entrusted only to the wind.

Grey hairs. Old hands. Foggy glasses and hot tea, shadows of a beautiful young maiden swift with life, under the cover of an aching body wrinkled by the grains of time.

Red mittens. Soft curls of hair.   Smiles complete with cute  dimples, innocent little angels covered in mud and dirt.

 And I would wonder what other people would see.

  Hitler. What about Hitler? What did he see when the news that the Soviets had plunged into Berlin reached his ears?

Did he see himself standing once again in front of thousands, giving his most impassionate speech yet,  and feel  the roar of his supporters beneath his feet, as if the whole Earth itself was shaking?

Did he care to see the screaming souls in the gas chambers, as Death gently carried them off one by one, while he and his dear Eva enjoyed luxurious pleasures of life?

Did he see those grieving young lives out in the barbaric north, frozen in their primes of life, lost forever in ice and snow?

Did he see the Danube River, the way it always shimmers in the setting sun, like a winding sea serpent with colourful glimmering scales gracefully gliding away, and recall the days when he was only a nameless little painter?

 Van Gogh. What about him? What did he see when his life flashed before him as he pulled the trigger, the cold gun barrel up to his temple?

Did he see his Starry Night? See the swirls of starlight whirl and twirl mysteriously before his eyes, as he feel back into the gentle

embrace of earth and grass?

Did he look back and sighed at his pitiful life, always called a weirdo, the mad man, the travelling painter with no real destination?

Did he see the crows above the Wheatfield, flapping their wings in the fierce wind, and hear their lonesome cry echo up into the troubled skies?

Did he see Theo before him when the last silk of life slipped through his fingers, and even for a split second, regret his actions in fear of departing his dear brother, the only one who ever truely loved and cared about him?

  And Napoleon. What did he see? What did he see when time froze for him up upon the Alps, his cape flying, horse rearing, and his finger pointing towards an unknown enemy?

Did he see his people crying out his name before Versailles, hearing the shouts of “Vive l’Empéreur ” pierce his ears as he glowed with triumph?

Did he see himself placing the divine crown upon his head with his own  hands of flesh, declaring an empire that would rage through Europe with war and reformation?

Did he recall the horrid battles in Egypt, full of bloody slayings and cruel

deaths, and vowed to himself never to return with such failure again?

Did he see his beloved Josephine appear in the mist on the highs mountains, with her soft smile and beautiful hazel eyes, twinkling at him just as the night they first met?

  One used to say, that we were born with eyes to cry at birth,  and  born with hearts to seek in the voyage from life to death. To see the glorious rays of hope, and recognize the blinding light of love.

 What do you see?

Text by Youmy Han ~ Image by Christine Park

25

The Lion and the Mouse

  For the rest of the day, the king of beasts scavenged the jungle for some rope from poorly set traps and fashioned a crude net that he himself would ‘fall’ into. The lion growled with content as he strode to his den. He was eager to see how the mouse would score on his brilliant test.

The next day, he took his regular prowl through the jungle in adamant search for breakfast. Once he had fallen prey to his own masterfully crafted trap, the lion roared numerous times to catch the attention of the mouse. Sure enough, the same scrawny rodent cautiously crept up to him.

In order to make his ordeal more believable, the lion pretended to struggle against the trap. “Well, little one, it seems like we meet again. Are you ready to repay the favour?”

Twitching his whiskers twice, the mouse smiled wryly. “Now you know what it feels like to be totally helpless. The hunters are going to get you soon. Besides, I’m not ready to be your snack or someone else›s, for that matter. Good riddance, your Majesty.”

Anger rushed as quickly as the lion tore free from his bonds. With a gigantic leap, he pounced upon the ungrateful mouse.

With his curiosity satiated, his mind clear, and his belly grumbling victoriously, the lion resumed his majestic march through the jungle.

Beneath the shade of a towering tree on a scorching summer’s day, a mighty lion slumbered in peaceful respite. As he slept, an absentminded field mouse crawled over his master to cross the tree’s circumference. This undoubtedly aroused the lion, and he instantly snatched the criminal with his powerful paw, ready to squeeze the life out of his unfortunate prey.

The mouse trembled with great fear as the gaping jaws of the lion prepared to devour him. “Please, spare me, O great king! I swear I will return the favour!”

Stopping for a moment, the lion took another glance at his meager lunch. His victim’s desperate plea piqued his curiosity. “What can a puny rodent like you do for a noble beast such as me? You are better suited to be my snack than my servant.”   

“Who knows, great one? I could save your life one day.”

The lion roared with tremendous laughter. “I hardly believe a word you say, but I will let you go. You have provided me enough amusement for one day.”

Loosening his crushing grip, the lion watched as the field mouse scurried away. As he remained under the shadow of the tree, he stared intently in the direction the mouse had left. Those were such big promises from a tiny creature, and he wanted some way to prove the tiny field mouse’s word of honour. Thus, he hatched a plan, a test of sorts.

Text by Micah Lao ~ Image by Nailya Gafitulina

26

Rumana Monzur

My name is Rumana Monzur, 33 years old, a diligent student aiming for my PhD at UBC. In June 2011, I was callously assaulted by my husband who almost gouged my eyes out and left me with gruesome scars. The scars, the doctors say, have been treated. But my vision is irreparable.

When I realized the magnitude of my disability, my mind spiralled into insanity. I recall the immortal nights I spent rolling frantically on my diminutive bed, too often deprived of sleep. 

One night in particular, I felt as though time was crawling backwards. Agonized and irate,  I tumbled one too many times and with a cringing smack I fell in an awkward cocoon position onto the icy wooden floor.

I stifled my excruciating cries, afraid my precious five-year-old daughter would hear. I knew her petite ballerina figure would come dashing to my aid, like an ambulance devoted solely to me. No, instead I listened intently to her tranquil breathing opposite the scanty room.  When the pain  abated to a faint thumping on my right forearm, I caressed the solid bed frame, clasped its soft mattress, and climbed back on it.

I lay in bed. Amid the devouring silence, my mind wandered off like a mischievous trespasser,  opening deep chambers; opening my very insides.

And suddenly I was outraged. Because being blind was not like losing an arm or a leg; it was like losing your entire body,  left with a hideous shell torturing you with what you used to be. Because God’s omnipotent gavel struck the wrong soul. Because this endless void of black has defiled the life I was supposed to lead.

Beep! Beep! The sudden ringing of the alarm clock jolted my senses—except one. I was its slave, reliant on it to tell me  it was morning, for to me, night triumphed every moment as if permanent ink were splattered on my eyes. For me, morning never came.

I grabbed my white cane as my mind coiled around one objective: walking my daughter to school. Her tiny tender hands embraced me before we departed, into the acrimonious outside. A rush of thoughts, clanking and hollering, swept my conscience.

Just because I am blind does not mean I do not see the glares of others around me; they pierce my heart as if it were hollow. Even my opaque sunglasses against thunder and rain  indicate what I am. Trying to escape, though, is like trying to win a lottery—no, a myriad people have won lotteries. But no one has, or ever will, escape the judgement of man.

As I strolled along the gravel sidewalk, I felt tempted to tear my glasses off and stick my eyes in their censorious faces. “I am blind, yes,” I craved yelling. “But I am still Rumana Monzur. I will get my PhD, I will live a successful life, and so will my daughter!”

I remember her gentle squeeze of my hand, telling me we had arrived. As her hands left mine, I felt the warmth sucked away from my veins...

A picture speaks a thousand words. But I would handwrite each word in every dictionary if it meant allowing me to see again, the 4-by-6 oak picture frame with my daughter’s flawless baby smile, and her bright-eyed sparkling face.

Text by Steven Bae ~ Image by Michaela Stebbe

27

Pride

My room was small; not enough to make it claustrophobic, but enough to make it useless for practically anything except sleeping. On the right hand corner there was a small shelf made of wooden planks and bricks serving as columns. Most of the books were for infants, and have been untouched for years. However, laid on top of all the other books was my favourite one: “The Call of the Wild” by Jack London. It had been a gift from my English 10 teacher; another one trying to rescue me from the dark path no doubt. People always assumed the worst when they saw me, sighing, head turning slightly away.

Living in Tendring got you a reputation no matter what you did. I only had to walk two blocks from my house to get to school, but that was enough for that burnt, acid, yet sweet odour to entrench itself in my clothes and my hair.

Still, that time I didn’t mind, at least it got me a good book. The cover was thin, the edges almost gone, folded too many times. Some of the pages threatened to fall at any moment. Mr. Davis might have given it to me, but he certainly didn’t buy it for me.

I couldn’t hear a sound outside of my bedroom. My parents were never home till after dinner. My sister was still at her dance lesson. Dance class. I had never had any sort of classes outside of regular school. From my parents point of view I was a man, I could fight my way through life. My father used to say “If you want to learn something, learn how to get a job”. My father worked more than anyone I knew. He didn’t have to, I knew my grandparents were rather wealthy. Still, he would

rather work two jobs and never sleep than to ask for help. As a boy, to me, my dad was just the man whose slippers were always at the entrance, unused.

I was sixteen but I had had more jobs than most adults. I remember my first one, working at old Frankie’s coffee shop. I never even told my parents about it. I was ten and I spent every other afternoon cleaning the entire shop. Old Frankie was a good boss, he gave me 30 pounds a month and a lollipop, a different flavour every month.

I spent my first pay check on some Gola shoes. Black espadrilles with volcanic rubber, it was the latest fashion. All the guys at the school had them. Horrible idea naturally, with all the rain the shoes never lasted long. The fabric sucked all the water it touched, deteriorating. The nauseous smell of teenagers sweaty feet with rotten fabric could knock anyone out. Still everyone wore them. It defined us, separated us from the opera shoe wearing nerds.

I stretched out my arms, grabbed my head with both hands and cracked my neck. There was a sudden release of tension that I wasn’t even aware existed. I kicked off my shoes, unbothered by the laces. I allowed myself to fall backwards, welcoming the warm, cushioned blanket laid on top of my bed. I turned to my body to the side and with one hand holding my head I started reading.

Text by Marina Gorjao ~ Image by Hee Jo Yang

Old longings nomadic leap, Chafing at custom’s chain;

Again from its brumal sleep Wakens the ferine strain.

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Abby Kinsley

34 results, all of which were dead ends. Abby had checked and rechecked phonebooks for all of Ontario. Her father seemed to have disappeared off of the face of the earth. But Abigail Kinsley was determined to find him.

***

Flopping down onto the lumpy mattress in her bedroom, Abby picked up her diary and began to write. The latest apartment was smaller than the last one, with less space for Christina’s assorted hoardings and “work materials”, which meant much less space for Abby. At least they were back in Toronto for now, although there was talk about moving to Georgetown, PEI. “Oh, isn’t it quaint?” she had squealed, “Ten historical buildings, oh it would be sooo educational! And the inspiration you could find there! You’d like that, wouldn’t you Abigail?” Yeah right. Georgetown, population: 693. It was a death sentence. Besides, Abby was beginning to warm up to people for once. There were a couple of other teens in the neighbourhood that were almost tolerable.

As Abby scribbled violently onto the paper all of the things she was angry about, she began to relax a little. With that relaxation came a deep sense of regret. She shouldn’t have yelled. Christina meant well, she just wasn’t very good at being a mother. If only there was a class at the community college; that was the solution to everything in Christina’s life, not that she ever ended up going to any of the classes she signed up for. With a sigh, Abby put down the guitar and got up to go apologize. She would probably have to make dinner too, it was getting late.

Wandering into the main room, there was no sight of Christina. She had probably gone out to go spend money on more useless crap. Abby considered heading out to try to stop her, but reluctantly forced herself to stay. Instead she headed to the kitchen, where dozens of unopened letters lay piled on the counter; the bills had to be paid. Abby couldn’t help but remember that normal girls didn’t have to worry about bills and dinner and their mothers’ emotional instability. There was no use complaining though, life wasn’t always fair. Abby began to sort through the bills and paperwork, but paused. Wedged in between two credit card statements was a small postcard with no return address. In neat handwriting, the card read:

Abby,I would like to meet with you, we need to address some issues.

482 Willowbrook, Saturday 9:00 am.Please refrain from telling your mother.

Mr. Kinsley

‘I hate you,’ Abby yelled, ‘You’re pathetic, why can’t you do anything right? I can’t always be the one to take care of you. Why can’t you just get a real job? I mean, do people actually believe that you can read palms and predict their future because the Moon is closer to Jupiter than Pluto? Which, by the way, isn’t even a real planet anymore.’

‘Abby, please.’ The woman, who only moments before was bouncing with energy like a young child on a sugar high, now had a tired look in her eyes, the look of defeat. ‘Please don’t do this, you know I love you.’

‘Oh really? Really Christina? You named me Abigail. As if I was some bloody old person. Do you remember why? Because I was born on July 12th, which, just happens to be the same birthday as some freaky witch hunter in the 17th century, which you believed was fate. So what, it’s my destiny to go around accusing people of being witches?’ Abby couldn’t believe she was doing this; usually she was so patient with her mother. After all, Christina was so fragile. But she couldn’t take it anymore.

‘Abigail…’ Another attempt at making peace. ‘I know you’re upset, it’s because you’re a Cancer and it’s halfway through the lunar phase of the-’

‘No. No! My name is Abby. Because I am not some crazy old woman like you. And you know what? If I were to ever go around accusing people of being witches, you’d be the first one on my list. I hate you!’ Hands trembling, she pushed past her mother and slammed the door on her way out.

***

Abby Kinsley was tired of taking care of her mother. It was supposed to be the other way around, like in normal families. Instead, for as long as she could remember, she was the responsible one, the one who said, “don’t forget to pay the rent”, or, “we’re out of food again, I’m going to the store”. They weren’t poor by any means, but it didn’t help that Christina never actually made any mone. When she did, she spent it all on things like glow-in-the-dark crystal balls and jumbo packs of Hot n’ Spicy Spam. “Oh but they were on sale!” she would insist. Really though, who needs 300 travel-sized bottles of shampoo?

It would be different if her father was here, if they had a normal family. He would fix everything; he would take care of Christina, teach Abby to play the guitar properly, pay the rent, and maybe even buy presents at Christmases and birthdays. Mark Kinsley was the answer to everything; Abby just had to find him. It was her fault he was gone, so it was her job to fix it. He had left before Abby was born, but she knew that if she could just talk to him, just once, he would make everything better.

Nobody knew where he went. A facebook search brought up

29

Text by Rebecca MacDonald ~ Image by Xena Dahye Choi

30

A Heartless Winter  

A Heartless Winter  

Text by Hannah Kelly ~ Image by Donna Kim

What secrets are you keeping, on this dark, malicious night? What causes you to burn with rage to scream and cry with spite? What hollow grave have you somberly burrowed upon each broken hill? And how can you possibly wish to escape if the tomb you’ve made continues to fill?  I’ve heard your broken weeping calling for a name It echoes through the night unanswered always shrieking the same. Why do you sear and sting at skin, tear flesh and shatter bones? What makes you so ever-hungry, unsatisfied and alone? Your blinded fury has whistled death to each ear that could still hear Until your victim gives in to your torture slowly forgetting their fear. Keep me far away from your torment inside these solid walls But still I’ll hear your agonized searching your scorching anger calls.

31

Four Visitors

Abby sat, legs outstretched, on the cool grassy field next to the Hawksbury Park tennis courts. She was nestled into the crook of an old oak tree, the perfect spot for afternoon studying. A curl of dark hair brushed at her cheek as a soft gust of wind blew past, and Abby carefully tucked it behind her ear as she flipped the worn page of her Biology textbook, silently mouthing the words as she read.

“Hi! Whatcha studying?”

A shrill voice interrupted her thoughts. Glancing up lazily, Abby was met with two very large blue eyes, which were very close to Abby’s own face. The girl obviously had never been taught anything about personal space. She was an average height, slender, but with round baby cheeks that made her look like she was four. More intriguing though, were the frills. The lacy, puffy, girly pieces of fabric were everywhere. Her slender frame was clothed in a bubble gum pink that made Abby gag; the girl looked like a life-sized Barbie, but with an even worse sense of fashion.

“I’m bored, wanna talk with me?”

It took Abby a second to realize that the pink creature had spoken; it took her even longer to process exactly what she had said.

“No,” she didn’t even attempt to hide the cynicism, “I’m busy and I don’t even know you. Go away.”

It was a little harsh, she realized, but she had no desire to spend any time with Barbie. The girl bounced off like a rabbit, maybe with a little less spring than before, but still obnoxiously chipper.

Grumbling absentmindedly to herself, Abby nestled herself back into the groves of the old oak tree and closed her eyes to refocus. This was a mistake, as she toppled over when something collided with her face. Eyes darting around frantically, Abby desperately searched for whatever had just hit her. She could feel her head pulsing, her cheek stung as if she had been slapped.

“Oops! Sorry!”

A young child approached tentatively, his head hung in shame. No more than five or six, the boy’s lips quivered as he stared down at his blue Velcro shoes. Messy brown hair hung over his eyes, almost blending in with the streaks of dirt caked onto his face, a result of the soccer game he had just left.

Abby couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the boy, who seemed so scared of her. Had he been any older he probably should be scared, but Abby wasn’t about to beat up a little kid just for an accident. Searching the ground around her for the ball that had hit her, Abby’s hand skimmed over the grass blindly before finding the partially deflated soccer ball. Refusing to tear her eyes from the page in front of her, she rolled the ball back toward to the young boy.

“Here you go, kid. I won’t be so nice next time, so watch out.”

Frustrated with the constant interruptions, Abby warily eyed the group of children playing soccer in the field. They seemed

far enough away now, but she did not want to get hit again; she could still feel the sore bump that the ball had left. She let her gaze wander back down to the pages in her lap, but an approaching dog caught her eye. Black and white, like a border collie, but with a much rounder face, squashed in a little bit like a child’s face pressed up against a window. Tongue lolling out of the corner of its mouth without shame, the dog padded over and sat down a few paces away from Abby. It cocked its head to the side playfully, inquisitively, before lying down and sighing dramatically. Abby couldn’t help but chuckle a little, and reached out to scratch soft tufts of fur before returning to her studying. If she hadn’t been the rational, logical person that she was, she would have said that the dog smiled at her.

Turning another page, Abby groaned aloud with the discovery that she had read exactly four out of thirty nine pages. She thought she heard a chortling laugh come from a few feet away, but decided that even her imagination must be mocking her. A few blades of grass tickled her shins, however, as someone plopped down beside her. Abby refused to look up; she would not face yet another interruption. Long, skinny fingers reached out and gently closed her textbook. Abby spun around furiously, dropping her textbook on her foot in the process, and let loose a string of very offensive words. Expecting an apology, Abby paused to take a breath, and was met with laughter. It was the same teasing laughter that she heard before.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

It was Peter. Peter, from the Pizza Palace, who worked with her at the lamest place on earth, was sitting on the grass, gangly limbs splayed out, head tipped back, laughing. Abby looked at him incredulously. Then, tossing her textbook at him in mock anger, she started laughing too. Abby was not going to study today. Biology could wait.

Text by Rebecca MacDonald ~ Image by Cheyenne Manning

32

Longing for the Sea

His body is covered Like a canopied bed

Grains hiding between his toes, Piles of pebbles resting on his palms He is protected by a blanket Of bitter, rough sand As he looks up into the clear sky, The cool breeze tickles his ears He hears her monstrous roars Rapidly rising Then collapsing The noise is thunderous Like the ignition of spacecraft She desperately crawls to his feet Barely touching his toes

His body is covered Like a canopied bed

Grains hiding between his toes, Piles of pebbles resting on his palms He is protected by a blanket Of bitter, rough sand As he looks up into the clear sky, The cool breeze tickles his ears He hears her monstrous roars Rapidly rising Then collapsing The noise is thunderous Like the ignition of spacecraft She desperately crawls to his feet Barely touching his toes

Text by Sumbul Vallani ~ Image by Leslie Kwong

As he spreads his arms and legs,

She lingers near him, unable to departHer fury has diminished,

Like a fish out of water, She is lonesome, and desires his company

He tries to clutch her But she keeps gliding effortlessly,

Through his vain fingers She vanishes,

The jealous sand has consumed her He beckons for her revisit,

Urging her to rush backShe returns to him,

Barely touching his toes 

As he spreads his arms and legs,

She lingers near him, unable to departHer fury has diminished,

Like a fish out of water, She is lonesome, and desires his company

He tries to clutch her But she keeps gliding effortlessly,

Through his vain fingers She vanishes,

The jealous sand has consumed her He beckons for her revisit,

Urging her to rush backShe returns to him,

Barely touching his toes 

33

The Tale of Thalson Thatcher

Water dripped from the tree branches as chickadee and robin alike tweeted their springtime chime. Spring, the season of rebirth and second chances. It had been a long winter for Thallson Thatcher and his trusty companion, Cedar the fox, being stuck in their hometown of Cladstone, waiting for winter to end.

The two of them were on their way home now, to their peaceful cabin in the middle of the forest. They were returning with many burlap bags full of supplies courtesy of Thallson’s uncle, Renard. They had, however, a rather peculiar gift from Uncle Renard, too. Thallson let his mind wander back to just a few hours ago, to when he said his terse farewells to his uncle. Yet, his uncle had given him a rather cryptic farewell...

“Uncle, I have been barely holding onto my sanity for the entirety of this dreadful winter,” Thallson said with hot irritation, running his fingers through his short, chestnut hair. “For so long you have put off telling me the reason of why you needed me to visit this wretched town.”

Renard put down his spoon and rubbed his thick, wrinkled palms together as he swallowed the last of his porridge. “I will return in a moment,” he said as he stood up from his place at the table and made his way towards the stairs.

Thallson exchanged a puzzled glance with Cedar, and before they knew it, Renard had returned. Uncle and nephew stood eye to eye, yet Thallson was a good two inches taller. The young hunter still couldn’t fathom how silver-grey his uncle’s blond beard and wavy long hair had become. Renard offered his hand to Thallson, in which lay a foot-long object wrapped in red silk.

Thallson raised a brow at the expensive cloth. “What is this?”

“Take it.”

Thallson hesitantly, yet curiously, took the object and unravelled the red silk to find the most wonderfully carved flute he had ever laid his eyes upon.

“It belonged to your father,” Renard said with proud remembrance. “It is yours now.”

“Where did you get it? I thought all of my parents’ belongings died with them.”

“Think nothing of it,” Renard replied with a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Now begone! I have had enough of you for one winter.”

“But what is it for?” Thallson persisted, confused.

His uncle sat back down on his chair slowly, as if his back was bothering him. Renard smiled knowingly. “I’m sure you will find the use for it.”

Cedar yipped excitedly, breaking Thallson’s reverie. Their cabin, built of wood and animal hide, was as damp as the rest of the forest. The well travelled earth around the cabin had gone muddy from the melting snow. Thallson would have to wait a few days before he could use any of the firewood from the pile adjacent to the cabin. Luckily, he kept a good dozen

logs inside.

Thallson looked down at his copper-furred companion. “We’re home Cedar.”

With his broken arm mended and his impatience tempered by a winter with his sagacious uncle, it was time to tame Storm.

***

The most peculiar thing had happened to Thallson three days before his uncle had sent him a letter, asking him to come to town. He had encountered the rarest beast in the forest while he was hunting a deer. It had been a horse, a grey horse. Thallson had no idea what the beast was at first, it had blurred past him, as fast as lightning. Hence the name Storm, with which Thallson had dubbed the beast as soon as he had a good look of the creature, drinking from a pond.

He had never ridden a horse before, he had only ever encountered them in Cladstone, but those “beasts” were dull and docile. Storm was a wild horse. Such speed, such power, such freedom... Storm was without equal, a steed of which no man was worthy. Thallson attempted to tame the horse later that night, luring it with apples while he waited, hidden behind some bushes. However, the ordeal left him with a broken arm and a stubbornness that festered in his gut like venom. He hadn’t even succeeded in mounting the beast.

Despite being ever eager to face his adversary again, Thallson answered the urgent call of his uncle and ventured south to Cladstone in a fortnight. He and Cedar only intended to stay for a day because an early winter was fast approaching. Due to his blind stubbornness to return to his cabin as soon as he could, Thallson met his uncle with impatient arrogance. After refusing his uncle’s advice to stay in town till his arm mended, Thallson stormed out of his uncle’s workshop. Yet he was too late. Winter’s Wind had come in full force. The first snow had fallen in a raging flurry. So, against his will, Thallson had to heed the advice of his uncle and stayed in Cladstone for the whole winter. His second meeting with Storm had to wait a little longer...

***

The bitter cold remnants of winter echoed throughout the forest on this cool spring night. A familiar scene lay still in the empty silence: a small clearing with a pond at its centre, shimmering from what little moonlight pierced through the thick canopy of evergreens and pines. A bushel of carrots rested next to the water, waiting to be eaten by whatever manner of creature stirred in the night.

Thallson crouched behind the nearby bushes encircling the clearing. For any other man, crouching for hours as still as stone would drive him mad, but for this hunter, such a task was as easy as drawing a bow. He had barely moved a hair since he first rested one knee on the forest floor. Hunters dominate in the realm of patience.

Thallson’s head twitched sharply as a horse emerged from

34

the bushes on the far side of the clearing. Storm’s grey coat mimicked the shimmer of the pond, warily approaching the bushel of carrots. The beast stopped and gave the carrots a curious sniff. Thallson noticed the horse’s ears twitch and nostrils flare, trying to detect the hunter. Storm knew Thallson was near but could not pinpoint his location due to the hunter’s lack of movement.

Thallson half expected that the horse would turn around and meander off into the forest, too smart to fall for the same trick twice. Yet the horse began to blissfully munch away at the carrots. No animal would ever give up the chance at free food.

Thallson’s muscles were tense with anticipation. He was waiting for the “opportune moment.” Any second now, he thought, any second...

An orange blur shot out of the bushes behind the horse.

Now!

Thallson charged swiftly, like an arrow from a bow. Storm aimed a powerful kick at Cedar, but the fox was far too short to be struck by the powerful blow. With the steed distracted, Thallson leapt, turned in midair and landed square on Storm’s back.

A great whooshing sensation of power swelled inside Thallson. His triumph, however, was short lived. Storm whinnied, bucked and he was launched into a tree but managed to avoid any broken bones.

The defeated hunter managed to catch a glimpse of Storm before his adversary disappeared once again into the shadowy security of the forest. Thallson soothed his boiling frustration with a heavy sigh. Slowly, he stood up, his back aching with the impact of his collision. Cedar strode over to his master and looked up at him with disappointed black eyes.

”I know Cedar,” Thallson said as he squatted down and picked up a pebble. “How did I not foresee that happening?”

He knew his mistake. He had been distracted... distracted by that strange overwhelming power.

What was that sensation? Thallson mused, rolling the small rock in his hand. He had learned one valuable thing, though. Clever, uncooperative, abrasive... Storm was undoubtedly female. Thallson flicked the pebble into the pond and stood up.

“Let’s go home.”

***

Twenty-three years ago, Thallson’s parents died. He was just one year old at the time. With the little information Renard told him of their deaths when he was growing up, Thallson could tell that it was no accident. No, he could feel it in his blood and in his bones that they were murdered. By whom? His uncle never told him. Renard did, however, tell him numerous tales of his father. Thallson’s father was known throughout the land as The Beastmaster, for he had a way with animals. His father was most famous for his taming of the largest, most ferocious grizzly bear ever known. This bear was so big that Thallson’s father tamed the beast to be not only his companion but his mount too. So it was that the five-fingered

paw of the bear became his father’s insignia, his mark.

His father went on to marry Thallson’s mother, Renard’s sister. And so Thallson was born... but things did not end happily ever after. He had heard that the only trace left of them was a lock of his mother’s golden hair in a patch of blood soaked grass. His father’s bear is rumoured to roam the eastern mountains, forlorn. His father’s bear would have never harmed Thallson’s parents, for the bond between man and beast is far too great and supersedes any feeling of anger or betrayal.

Thallson grew up just the same as any other child: happy and innocent. It wasn’t long, though, before his father’s talent shone through him. By the age of six, every now and then a bird would land on Thallson’s shoulder like a bee to honey. By the age of eight, he had tamed a crimson cardinal he named “Red.” By the age of fourteen, Thallson had tamed a fox that he named “Cedar.” His uncle couldn’t be more proud of him. All the while, however, the villagers thought otherwise. They called Thallson things like “demon” or “heathen,” but the most common derogatory name was “bastard of a beast.”

This behaviour was unprovoked. Thallson suspected that it was because of the reason his parents were murdered... What reason? He never knew. Nevertheless, Renard always defended Thallson as if he were his own son. Sadly, Renard could do nothing to deter the resentful villagers of Cladstone. The harassment escalated to the point where, when Thallson was sixteen, some sadistic boys nailed Red to the door of Renard’s workshop. Thallson was overcome by devastating misery and rage... and the villagers got what they wanted. The young hunter ran away to the forest, with Cedar at his side. And he didn’t return till recently when, eight years later, his uncle sent him a letter...

***

The crackling fire brought comforting warmth to the pensive hunter and his fox. Thallson sat on a hand-crafted wooden stool, staring into the dancing flames while Cedar was curled up on a stag-hide rug, sound asleep. A torrent of rain poured down ceaselessly from the heavens on this dreary spring morning.

On days such as this, Thallson mused, I am thankful for having built such a sturdy roof.

In his hands, Thallson admired the craftsmanship of his father’s flute. Having carved several flutes of different shapes and sizes himself, Thallson was impressed by the perfection of this one. He could not put a name to the tree that had given birth to this masterpiece. The amber wood was smooth and looked as though it had seen a hundred summers and winters. Miniscule, curvy carvings depicting the flow of nature decorated the entire surface of the flute. Eight finger holes indicated the topside with the hole of the mouthpiece near the butt of the flute. On the underside, opposite the mouthpiece, was a marking that Thallson knew too well from the stories his uncle had told him as a child. The five fingered paw of the bear, his father’s signature, the mark of The Beastmaster. The question of how his uncle obtained his father’s flute remained a mystery.

Thallson raised the flute’s mouthpiece in a horizontal fashion to his lips. He began to play. A languid, melancholy melody

35

filled the cabin. Suddenly, Cedar awoke and lethargically lifted his head towards his master.

Cedar stood on all fours, stretching with fatigue from his long, rainy-day nap. He sat back on his hindquarters and stared deeply into his master’s eyes. Thallson continued playing his tune, curiously watching the fox’s strange behaviour. Cedar was still, but seemed to sway ever so slightly from side to side, mesmerized. Something made Thallson return Cedar’s intense gaze. Despite having eyes as black as night, Thallson swore he saw something in Cedar’s eyes... he felt something in them. Thallson could not recall Cedar behaving like this whenever he played his other flutes. Thallson halted his melody, the hiss of rain returning to his ears.

Cedar blinked twice, and then tilted his head, giving his master a curious aroo. Thallson looked down at the flute.

It can’t be, Thallson thought, stunned by what he had just discovered.

He looked back at Cedar who still wore a confused expression.

“One more time,” the hunter said, clenching the flute in his fist with renewed determination. “After all, third time’s the charm, eh Cedar?”

***

Night had enveloped the forest. The heavy morning rainfall had turned to a light mist. The forest lay sleeping. Only a hunter stirred in the slumbering tranquility of the shadowy trees. Thallson approached the pond clearing, alone. He felt naked and almost vulnerable without his trusty fox. Cedar was his best friend, his right-hand... fox. However, Thallson had decided that it was best for him to face Storm alone.

Thallson walked through the bushes and stepped into the pond clearing. He had laid in hiding for his first two attempts at taming the horse. Not this time.

Thallson raised his head to the sky. There was a break in the foliage, far up in the treetops. Thallson could see the moon, which shone its light upon the pond and the clearing. He looked back down at the pond, which sparkled and shimmered, like it always does.

Pulling his father’s flute from a pouch at his waist, he lifted it to his mouth and began to play. The sweet sound echoed from the clearing to the far corners of the forest for what seemed like an age.

The forest answered. Storm galloped up through the bushes on the other side of the clearing and trotted over to Thallson. For the first time, the horse and the hunter were face to face. Man and beast.

Thallson stared into the grey horse’s deep black eyes as he made his way to her side. Thallson readied himself, muscles taut... Text by Colin Deans ~ Image by Sarah Jung

The melody stopped. In one swift motion, Thallson hauled himself onto the horse’s back. Storm snapped out of the flute’s spell immediately and bucked, neighing in defiance. This time, though, Thallson was prepared. He had wrapped his arms around the beast’s massive neck, hanging in the air.

Storm stomped down. Thallson regained his position on her back. Storm kicked about fiercely, Thallson struggling to keep his balance. With no warning, Storm bolted out of the clearing, Thallson still crouched on her back. Adrenaline pumped through the hunter. Trees blurred past him like darting hummingbirds. The wind danced in his hair.

The whooshing sensation consumed Thallson’s fear and excitement.

This feeling, what is it?

The next thing he knew, he was past the forest’s edge, speeding through the endless green hills of the north.

Freedom.

The horse’s legs moved like lightning. Her hooves boomed like thunder. Thallson couldn’t believe what was happening.

He was riding Storm.

36

Capture the Flag

Evening creeps slowly through the bristles and thorns of the Alberta prairies. Darkness begins to settle in and the winds blow softly across the farmlands, dancing with the trees. In the distance an owl hoots as it swoops in low to capture its dinner, a warning to all of the brown field mice nearby.

A boy,  crouching in  the tall stems and leaves along with the grasshoppers, watches the sun set peacefully behind an old white barn on the Miller property. His face, covered in sweat and dirt, is focused on the tractor beside the barn. At every twig that snaps, his brow creases further, and his concentration deepens. A few  slow breathes later, the boy makes for the tractor, galloping in low strides, careful not to be seen.

His brother is close by, moving in from the opposite direction. There were three of them in total, closing in around the barn, three city brothers desperate to win the game against their four farm-hick cousins. The tractor is a few steps away, and almost in perfect unison, the two boys reach it at the same moment.

“Where’s Jared?” asks one to the other, but  his brother doesn’t reply.  The look of confusion is echoed in their faces as they scan the perimeter for the third brother.

“We can’t wait for him!” the oldest of the two whispers fiercely, “We have to keep moving, or else we›ll lose the game!” The youngest, upset about leaving a man behind, holds his brother back.

“Can’t we wait a few more seconds, Clayton? We can’t get the flag without Jared, it wouldn’t be fair!”

“Let’s go, Nick, we don›t have time. Mom will be calling us to leave soon, and we won›t get this chance again! We›re gonna beat them this time.» Clayton moves forward, beckoning Nick to follow. The two press up against the side of the barn and make their way around to the back.

To them, this game is everything. The silence and precision in which they carry out their task is out of the one simple, shared desire, to shut their country cousins’ insulting mouths up for good. For years, the children had bickered and fought during their family functions about being city slickers or hillbillies. For them, it all ended tonight.

Clayton and Nick crawl into the barn carefully, searching its empty corners for the flag. The wind sways the old building gently, and it groans and creaks, startling the boys. Nick›s eye catches a giant square of red fabric at the end of the barn, sitting on a pile of hay.

“There!” He shouts excitedly. They rush forwards frantically, only to be pushed over in a sudden movement.

“Ha! Got you! You’re out, and so are you! We win!” squeals a voice. Clayton gets up from the solid ground to face his cousin, full of rage.  

     “Oh yeah? Joke’s on you, ‹cause this was all part of the plan! Jared’s gonna get the flag for all of us, you just wait ‘n see!” He grabs his brother, whose face is red and scratched from the hard fall.

 “Hate to break it to ya, city slicka’,” says another cousin, emerging

from behind the lonely pile of hay along with the rest, “but Jared gave you away! He crossed over to our side in the middle of the game. That means we win!” Standing in silent shock, Clayton and Nick watch their older brother follow their cousins out from behind their hiding spot. Nick’s eyes fill up with tears and he hides his face.

    “Traitor,” whispers Clayton, spitting at Jared’s feet. Jared smiles, smug and proud of his clever deception.

    “I did what had to be done, Clay,” he said. “We could never win, you know that.” Clayton snarls and kicks at the loose dirt on the ground, his face growing redder by the moment.

      “We thought you got left behind!” Nick yells. Jared, caught off guard by his youngest brother’s sudden anger, tries moving towards him. Nick had always been the most gentle of the three, and his outburst surprised all of them. Nick turns and runs out of the barn.

    “Nick, come back!”

        Clayton and Jared follow him out; they’re both faster and stronger than Nick, and they catch up to him just as he reaches their truck parked in front of their cousin’s house. Nick opens the truck’s door and tries to get inside but Jared wraps his arms around him and pulls him out.

    “Leave him alone, Jared,” Clayton says, making a grab for his young brother. Jared

lets go and allows Nick to scramble up into the passenger seat of the vehicle. Nick sticks his tongue out at him.

    “Whatever, guys.” Jared says, and he heaves with all his might to slam the door shut, realising at the last moment that his brother’s hand, hanging down from the side of the door, will soon be crushed. Before the weight of the door can smash into Nick’s bones, Jared sticks his own hand out to stop it.  

          “Argh!” The door rebounds off his hand and swings back open. He clutches his hand, whimpering; his thumbnail hangs from his thumb, mangled and broken, bleeding and bruised.

     “Jeez, Jared, what were you thinking?” Clayton gasps when he sees Jared›s shaking fingers.

     “I-I almost broke Nick’s hand.”

        Nick and Clayton glance at each other, both unsure if they should still be angry at their older brother. Clayton sighs.

        “Jared, c’mon, let’s go ask aunty Christine for some ice,» he says, putting his arm around Jared’s shoulder. Nick follows them up towards the house.

        “Am I still a traitor?” Jared asks mischievously, an eyebrow raised and a slight grin on his lips. Clayton coughs a laugh and shares another look with Nick, who crosses his arms and rolls his eyes.

    “Yeah, Jared,” says Clayton, “you’re still a traitor.”

Text by Hannah Kelly ~ Image by Travis Anderson

37

Hike

was making me dizzier. I knew she wanted to know if I could keep going. Speaking seemed too ambitious so I nodded. Despite my efforts, my body failed me. I could still see the deplorable spot had fallen from. I wanted to cry and scream out of frustration. There was no way out of where I was than to keep climbing. I could not fail now. Time seemed absent. Then slowly I moved my hand to where my mother was pointing, then my leg. My mind was blank. I rushed out all my thoughts and focused only on the mechanics of my body. When I reached the top I didn’t stand up, I just laid on the granite, looking up.

Now I look at my poor favourite jeans. Their lightest shade of blue in the upper middle of my leg now filled with holes, showing all the new deep cuts on my thighs.

I drop my backpack onto the ground. As my muscles loosen up, I feel as if I have re-grown 2 inches. I sit down onto the cold, hard, uneven stone. I thought we would never reach a big enough shade for the four of us, I sure was glad to be proven wrong. I look around and see that my sister is already up in an oak. The branches become thinner the higher she climbs. For a moment I fear that she has gone too high but she finally sits down, her legs swinging back and forth as she eats her smoked salmon sandwich.

Sweat is still running down my face, slowly soaking up my hair, as I try to relax. It’s near noon, my cracked, dry lips are begging for water. My parents are sitting next to me. My father takes out his hunting knife and cuts a tomato in half. He was the one that would make us go hiking every weekend. We would all wake up around 4 am so we could see the sunrise in the mountains. I used to spend the entire car drive thinking about how much I wanted to go back to sleep, but those hikes made my dad happier than anything else. Nowadays that’s what I focus on as I fight back my heavy eyelids.

He passes me half of the tomato and carefully cleans his hunting knife. It’s an old knife, however, if it weren’t for the case you won’t be able to tell. Its handle is made of a dark madre pearl, it then evolves to a double-sided blade. On one side it is thin and sharp with a curved point; the other side is thick and serrated. It is still as sharp as the day he bought it. He has had that knife since he was 18.

My dad extends his arm as he passes me half of the tomato. Juice runs down my hands and I bite into it. It burns through my bloody, scrapped hands. Wincing, I think back to that one moment, I can hardly believe it happened just a few hours ago. I remember my right arm fully extended as I try to grip the next small prominence in that almost completely vertical bank. My grip was firm but the cracking sound came anyway. Then another crack, this time beneath me. In just a split second, I started falling down. I tried to press my body onto the rock, my hands searching and searching for something to hold on to. They became unbearably hot, burning with the friction. It all comes to a stop as my feet finally find a resting edge. Pain strikes my chest as it tries to keep my heart in place. Acid crawls up my throat, hazing my vision. My mother was the one closest to me. She climbs down trying to reach me. I see her lips moving but I don’t hear a sound. If I’m still, everything seems so clear, every detail painfully distinct. However, as soon as I try to move, I’m as weak as a thin, wet piece of paper on a sidewalk, waiting for someone to step on it.

My mother is right beside me now. She releases a deep sigh as she sees that I’m okay. Her lips kept moving. I wish they wouldn’t, their jagged pattern

Text by Mariana Gorjao ~ Image by Anna Semyonova

38

Slave of the Sky

You stand wiltedLike an old man’s caneFor no longer can you face the sun;It scorches your leavesAnd fries them crisp like kale chipsIt pilfers your elixir of lifeUntil you’re shrivelled with contours ocean-deepLike that lonesome, wrinkled grandma who visits you

As your parched petals swayYou’re terrifiedFor your limbs may crack and chip away;You’ll stare at pieces of yourselfLying lifeless on the barren groundAnd soonYou’ll see what you yourself will become—Dust and dirtAs vile as those worms and nasty crittersThat will eventually make a feast out of you

You’re crying;A drop of dewGlides off your torrid leafYou want so much to tango with Zephyr again

His tender tickle like sweet, seductive kissesAnd while you danced

You’d swear it wasn’t him that moved you;It was your ecstasy, defying nature

But now his touch chafes your brittle stemsLike steel-edged claws slashing prey

Like tender flesh grinding against sandpaperAnd it hurts

So badly

A slave of the skyThat’s what you are

Might as well be confined in chains;You can’t move anyway

At least you’d have that tonic touch of metalThat frigid lick you bow your ignoble head for

But youYou’re a slave of the sky

That’s what you areAnd what you will always be

Text by Steven Bae ~ Image by Christine Park