Literary Magazine draftD (editable version) - The Sacred Heart ...

Cover Art by Kylie Sura VB
Sacred Heart Literary Magazine 2011-2012
Straight from the Heart 151 years

Straight from the Heart
The Sacred Heart School of Montreal
Literary Magazine 2011-2012

straight from the heart of the Editor-in-Chief,
Dear Reader,
This year, our Editorial Review Board has had the honor of
showcasing some of our students’ most sublime pieces of art and
writing in the 2012 edition of the Sacred Heart literary magazine.
Pieces have been edited as little as possible - the true style and
intent of the author shines through.
As a graduate of 2012, this year was my second and last
opportunity to act as Editor-in-Chief of the Sacred Heart School of
Montreal’s Literary Magazine. I was fortunate again this year to
work with a terrific Editorial Review team; I thank them sincerely for
their commitment and hard work. I want to extend a special thank
you to our wonderful faculty advisor, Ms. McIvor, who has again this
year been a tremendous inspiration and resource. I, personally,
have learned so much from her - she will always help breathe life
into my writings. This year, we would also like to thank Ms. Lessey
for her unique take and input on the magazine's layout.
To all the brave souls who submitted poetry and prose for
scrutiny, thank you. The scope of your talent and imagination is
breathtaking. We received more submissions than we could include.
Please do not be discouraged; keep submitting, but more
importantly, keep creating!
This year’s Literary Magazine is a truly diverse collection of
poems, paintings, stories, and sketches, including, for the first time,
several submissions in French. Straight from the Heart is
entertaining, inspiring, and thought provoking. There are pieces in
this magazine for everyone: sweet and raw, harsh and tender; these
words are straight from the heart, from our Sacred hearts, to yours.
Enjoy,
Katherine Chamandy
by Kylie Sura VB
Acknowledgements
Faculty Advisor
Ms. Gisela McIvor
Editor-in-Chief
Katherine Chamandy VA
Senior Editors
Alexina McLeod VA
Sara Turcotte VA
Norah Woodcock IVC
Myriam Zakaib IVA
Junior Editors
Corinne Darche IIA
Constantina Gicopoulos IIA
Mary Lynne Loftus IIA
And a great Thank You to Ms.
Michelle Lessey for special
assistance.

Table of Contents
Love Just Is ... Elana Floriani 6
War ... Liana Caprera 7
Secrets Calling in the Breeze ... Thea Koper 8
The Royal Snowsuit ... Myriam Zakaib 9
What Am I Supposed To Be? ... Anon 12
Write A Poem? ... Jessica Abreu-Moore 13
A Few Shades of Grey ... Anon 14
Taken ... Evdokia Konstantopoulos 15
The Land ... Alexina McLeod 16
Worried ... Rosemarie Cianci 20
Dreams ... Victoria Karamitsos 21
The Boy ... Norah Woodcock 22
Soldier ... Monica Petras 23
La vie comme une montagne ... Rachel Rubbo 24
Rain ... Katherine Chamandy 25
Enough ... Katherine Chamandy 25
Eyelashes ... Anon 26
Reality vs Illusion ... Jessica Abreu-Moore 34
Alice ... Kelly Burchell-Reyes 36
Signal Flares ... Norah Woodcock 37
A Secret ... Thea Koper 38
Kristina ... Katherine Chamandy 39
On Independence ... Sara Turcotte 40
Time ... Monica Petras 41
Marks On the Wall ... Katherine Chamandy 42
The Glimmer of Light ... Nicole Tieman 43
Pig Squeals ... Sara Turcotte 44
Murder on Simpson Street ... Alessia Castonguay 46
Only Human ... Maris Jacobs 48
Once Upon a Time ... Alexina McLeod 49
Time Ticks for No One ... Katricia Durham 50
Snow, Glass, Apples ... Alexina McLeod 52
My Reflection ...Jasmina Ciccocioppo &
Melissa Likoray 53
L’égarement ... Norah Woodcock 54
Fairy Tales ... Norah Woodcock 56
by Isabella Girardi VB

y Emma Pallay VA
Love Just Is
by Elana Floriani IA
Why do people reject love from others?
Today, that is the question on my mind.
Were they broken by dishonest lovers,
Or do they think that I am just unkind?
She was the light in my miserable life
And I never really knew what to say.
Black lines under eyes, an immature strife,
Our emotions always got in the way.
Yet while wandering in my misery
Another, my true bright sun, crossed my path.
I found my way with her, no bad history
Love beyond reason, knowing like telepaths.
Silence that used to cut me to the core,
Now gone, replaced by kisses I adore.
War
by Liana Caprera IA
What was once a beautiful sunny sky,
Is now blackened by the dusty coloured clouds.
Children that were once able to walk by,
Are now escaping, screaming very loud.
War. An abusive, lying, endless game.
Everywhere I turn, people are dying.
People that fight this war are full of shame.
Their families are at home crying.
When a soldier comes from the battlefield,
Families celebrate, rejoice with glee.
He may be scratched from the lack of a shield,
But now that he is home, he’s free, free, free!
Though the sky may not always be blue,
Just know these people fight to protect you.
by Sara Mannarino VA & Marina Preziuso VB
6 7

Secrets Calling in the Breeze
by Thea Koper VC
Swinging softly in the breeze,
Enchanting, calling you in a whisper.
Careful, careful, go about it nimbly.
Reach out not in vain, but a simple caress.
Each secret, swaying from its branch,
Take one and capture it, for
Stolen things cause much excitement.
Chase it down,
All at once,
Leave no trace, and
Lay it out, with
Ink stained hands,
No one knows your deed.
Go now, for secrets are
Calling your name.
by Caroline Jeanson IIIB
The Royal Snowsuit
by Myriam Zakaib IVA
It was a cloudless Friday afternoon and I had just finished my
final exam of the year that morning. To be specific, it was my science
exam. I was finally free and ready for my break after a final term of
hard work. After leaving the school, walking down the streets, the
sidewalks were covered in puddles of grey slush. There was a cool
breeze but I could feel the sun’s warm rays on my cheeks. My friend
and I decided to visit this dear old lady at a senior citizen’s home
nearby. She was quite lonely. She was 94 years old but in very good
shape. She was able to walk up and down the halls easily. Her short
curly hair was dyed brown and one curl fell upon her forehead. I could
see the happiness glowing in her dark eyes when she saw that there
were two visitors standing outside her door to see her. We continued
walking down the hall with her to a room and sat down at a table
together. We began to talk as she savored a piece of cake that my
mother had sent with us and sipped her coffee. She told us about a
significant day in her life.
It was in the year 1957, 5 years after Her Majesty the Queen
Elizabeth II ascended to the throne; it was the year of the Queen’s first
official visit to Canada. Thylia, the sweet old lady, used to work at
Morgan’s, today known as The Bay. “I had been working there for
quite a few years, at least ten,” she said, “and I guess I was well
known as a very polite and good sales lady.” I could tell it wasn’t the
first time she shared this story yet she didn’t seem to mind sharing it
again. She smiled as she began recounting her tale.
It was a regular workday. Everyone was doing their usual work
when Thylia was called to her supervisor’s office. “My supervisor
called me to his office because he wanted to talk to me about
something serious. I worried I was in trouble but told myself I had
done nothing wrong. I knocked on the door and entered when I was
told to.” She sat down on one of the leather chairs that she described
as placed in front of his chestnut office desk. “He seemed very
stressed but not the bad kind.”
He said to her: “You have been working here for many, many
years now and I have not once heard a complaint. You are truly the
model sales representative every store wants. That is why I am asking
8 9

you to do this. Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth II is coming for a visit
in two weeks and I want you to be her clerk.”
Thylia began, “I could not believe that I was the one who was
selected. There were so many other wonderful employees who were
just as nice and polite as I and who with no doubt could have also
served the Queen with class and elegance.” She paused. I could tell
she was going back a long time.
She then proceeded to tell us about what accessories she had
to wear. In order to serve the Queen, Thylia had to wear white gloves.
They were a pure white pair. “On the top part of the glove there was
three rows of pin-tuck stitching” she said as she showed us on her
hands where they would have been sewn.
When the day finally arrived, she was very nervous. Morgan’s
was closed for the day in honor of the Queen’s visit. Thylia worked in
the children’s department of the store and for this reason it wouldn’t be
a surprise if the Queen stopped by Thylia’s department. At the time,
Prince Charles was only nine years old and Princess Anne was
around the age of seven. Thylia took another sip of coffee and as she
put her cup down on the purple coaster she spilled a little bit of it. I
pulled out a napkin and cleaned it for her. She smiled.
Thylia then continued her story. “The Queen had arrived
outside and many things were going through my mind: do I curtsey
when she comes, or not? Do I shake her hand, or not? What if I make
a mistake, will she be insulted? I felt like the reputation of Morgan’s
was on my shoulder.” The Queen was now walking towards Thylia.
They said good day to each other and the Queen told Thylia she was
looking to buy a snowsuit her son, Charles. Thylia showed the Queen
the most select ones. The Queen chose her favourite and asked
Thylia for the size she thought would best fit for her son. Thylia gave
the Queen her chosen snowsuit in the size she had requested. “I
knew based on my years of experience, on her description of Charles,
and from the age she told me, the bigger size would have been a
better choice,” said Thylia, “I tried to tell her,” she giggled. Thylia told
the Queen her opinion but the Queen was one hundred percent sure
the bigger size would be too big. Unfortunately, Charles was not there
to try on the different sizes. “I wasn’t going to argue with the Queen,”
said Thylia. “She is the Queen after all.” She described the Queen as
very polite, young, beautiful, nice and down to earth.
The Queen had made her choice, thanked Thylia for her
service and continued her visit to Canada. A few weeks later, a
snowsuit came back in the mail with a letter to Thylia. It was from Her
Majesty the Queen. She wrote that yes, indeed, Thylia was correct
about the sizes and that in fact the size was too small for Charles. In
her letter, she thanked her once more for helping her choose a
snowsuit and requested a bigger size. She included a picture of her
family with the note. “I couldn’t help but smile while reading the letter,”
Thylia told us. “I was so honored to receive a personalized note from
Her Majesty The Queen of England,” she confessed. By the time the
letter had come in, the design the Queen had chosen for the snowsuit
was out of stock, but of course, they could not say no to the Queen!
Morgan’s had a snowsuit especially made for the Queen and had it
shipped to her in England.
“I kept the letter and picture,” Thylia told us. As if knowing what
I was about to ask next, Thylia replied that she had not seen the
picture and the note since she moved to her current residence at the
elderly home. “The other day, as I was watching the news to see all
the celebrations going on for the Queen. I could not believe that it was
the sixty-year anniversary of her ascension to the throne, and that it
had already been fifty-five years since I had met her at Morgan’s.
Wow, time really does fly. I often wondered how many times Charles
wore that snowsuit,” she laughed.
That was the end to her story. I found it
amazing to see that although Thylia had trouble
remembering certain things, this experience would
stay with her forever. We walked Thylia back
to her room and promised to
visit again soon.
by Karen Golfi IIIB
10 11

What Am I Supposed To Be?
by Anon
What
Am
I
Supposed
To
Be?
Is the norm?
Blonde hair, blue eyes,
skinny, tall… the definition of beautiful.
The type of girl you only see on big
Hollywood sets.
I what they call normal? Never.
Never in a million years will I ever be
called normal by anyone… I am way
too different.
Am my own person, with my own
beliefs, morals and values. But I am
seen as an outsider… someone who
has never belonged. I am
To live by society’s rules but I never
have and never will. Who makes these
decisions? Who dictates what is right
and wrong, normal or not?
The world I am a freak, a weirdo. Just
because I wear black clothes, black
makeup. But life does not always come
with a list of do’s and don’ts. So, my
final question is, what does this universe
want me to
Write a Poem?
by Jessica Abreu-Moore VA
I wanted to write a poem about confusion
and how it can haunt you
and tear you apart.
How the uncertainty
is attached to you
like a freaking ball and chain.
I wanted to illustrate how it takes over your whole body
And controls you.
How you can’t think straight,
Or feel the right things.
How everything seems like it has been taken
From where it belongs
And thrown into a whole new place,
A place that shouldn’t even exist inside you.
I wanted to make you understand.
I thought it would help
To sort it all out.
But I can’t,
Confusion is just too
confusing to put into words.
If you’ve ever felt it
You’d understand why
I just can’t write a poem
about confusion.
by Lauren Mezzaluna & Joyce Salvo IIB
12 by Emma Pallay VA
13

y Kayla Cabanas IVC
A Few Shades of Grey
by Anon
Black,
White,
With only a few shades of grey.
That grey binds the others together,
Like glue, a staple,
Unable to move, unable to change.
Bound together forever.
Black,
White,
A few shades of grey that transform the entire image.
Make it what it is.
Make it whatever you want it to be.
Black,
White,
Mixed together to make those few shades of grey
Mixed together to become one.
Taken
by Evdokia Konstantopoulos IB
Taken away from me in a second,
Her carefree laughs still haunt my fractured soul,
She looks at me, her grey eyes still beckon,
Men took away part of what makes me whole.
My once full and glorious life gone black,
Her pleas of help still echo in my mind,
Gone, gone, gone, gone; nothing will get her back,
Lost forever; impossible to find.
She would not want me to give up on her,
I will search the four corners of the world,
She’ll be mine no matter what occurs,
I’ll even voyage to the Underworld.
With every dragon I will conquer,
No matter where she is, I will find her.
by Angelina Griffin IIIA
14 15

The Land
by Alexina McLeod VA
by Emma Pallay VA
As I look out the window of our light blue car
My eyes are blessed with the emeralds and the mints,
The olives and the jades, secrets of an ancient and mystical land.
I am suddenly overcome by an overwhelming desire to feel the crisp
wind on my face,
to smell the fresh spring scent emitted from the earth,
and to become one with the land.
I slowly open the window of our modest cyan automobile
And take it all in.
I breathe in utter purity and am transported through centuries of love,
of hate, of war, of peace, of ancestors and of strangers.
I bravely let my hand leave the security of our light blue car
And feel the soft winds of a secluded land, untouched, pure.
I am going to a place made known to only a few, a secret place, a
beautiful place.
My mind is clouded with visions of lush, green mountains,
Of a wild and ancient land.
I am fascinated by this land, this place made new to me.
An unprecedented feeling of familiarity washes over me like a tidal
wave
…I have been here before.
I have been here before, perhaps in a faraway dream
A land of such perfection could only be dreamt up by the dreamer I am
known to be.
Yes, a dream I once had. A dream.
I close my eyes and listen to the wind whisper the secrets of the land.
I am blessed with the knowledge of ancient truth, the land is beauty,
perfection.
The land is a dream.
As I gently open my eyes, I am welcomed by a portrait. Tall, majestic
mountains surround me, protect me, the grass a vibrant emerald
blanketing the land, keeping me warm, the brook of clear blue water
races down the hills, like a thousand wild horses.
The land is alive.
I look up at the sky. I can’t help but smile. I am greeted by a flawless
ocean of endless possibility. The sky smiles back at me.
Again I am overwhelmed by a feeling of excitement. The land trusts
me.
I slowly push my face out into the world and cry out the battle cry of
the land.
No one questions me or snubs my unorthodox expression, for the land
is free and I am now a part of the land. It has accepted me.
The light blue automobile makes its way along the hills and the
glades. It does not disturb the balance of nature and the land in return
let’s us pass, a wee spot on this great Earth.
Our car comes to a gentle stop, like a decrescendo at the end of a
symphony.
Our short journey has reached its end as we arrive at the vee. The
outermost part of the land. Nirvana. A place touched only by God.
I leave the car, now a symbol of human interference and enter the
land.
I pause and touch the ground. It is soft and fertile.
I stand in awe at the mountains of the mighty land, how proud they
stand.
They breathe out a gentle song. The song of the land. I can hear it in
the wind, in the trees, in the rocks and the brook.
16 17

I am on the edge of the world. Where heaven and Earth meet.
I cry soft tears of humility. Any doubts of a higher being, the Creator,
God have vanished from my heart. I have seen the soul of God.
My meditation is interrupted by the sound of stray sheep making their
way across the great plain. They watch me and I watch them, now
their protector. They trust me.
I glide along the man-made bridge of iron or steel, the one
imperfection in this perfect land. I peek down at the ever-flowing
brook. It acts as the artery of the land, the messenger.
I cross the bridge and stand at the foothills of a great mountain. Its
presence humbles me.
It stands, a mighty beast touching the smiling sky.
All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.
Echoes of Poe’s poem resonate in my mind.
This is truly a place of dreams and dreamers.
I look to my left and see the vee, the place where the mountains meet.
All around me is a soft mist. It covers the land, hovering above it as if
unworthy to touch it.
I am enveloped in the land. It becomes my eyes, my skin, my mind.
I feel it deep within my soul, invigorating me.
I look to my right and see an endless landscape of greens.
I am awestruck at the sight of the land, constantly changing
everywhere I look.
I take a deep breath and close my heavy eyes.
Even at the budding age of thirteen I have discovered what it means
to be alive. To feel a part of the land, to feel at peace with myself.
Silence engulfs me. All I see through my closed eyes is darkness.
And suddenly the land is made known to me. I see the lush greens,
the mighty mountains, the pale mist and the cool brook. I hear the
faraway sounds of wild sheep singing, of the wind breathing, of the
water splashing among the jagged rocks.
I open my eyes one last time and gaze upon befallen ruins. Old ruins
of a time before.
Although not a natural part of the land, it belongs there
among the greens and the mountains and the mist and
the brook.
I enter the ruins made of solid stone, the stone of the land.
A house perhaps or a chapel, Its purpose is only known to the
constructors of such a place. A safe place nonetheless, a place of
comfort and tranquility.
I have reached the Wicklow Mountains: where rebels and saints once
hid away.
I dance on the hills and I dance on the grass.
I dance for me, and I dance for the land.
I am a lone dancer, who dances for the sake of dancing.
The land has set me free.
The land is alive and I am its keeper.
This is our land. Ireland.
by Emma Pallay VA
18 19

Worried
by Rosemarie Cianci IB Dreams
by Victoria Karamitsos IB
I’m scared, I’m fearing, I’m not sure for what.
Am I imagining, or is this real?
Sometimes, I just want to follow my gut.
Am I normal; is it strange what I feel?
I’m always scared everything will go wrong,
I just want to run, I just want to hide,
Always on my mind, the day seems so long,
What a bad feeling; it kills me inside.
Although I always feel worried and sad,
Happiness could come if I really tried,
Think about all the good times that I had,
Break free of my shell, there’s no need to hide.
Even though healing might take me some time,
I’ve calmed myself down; I know I’ll be fine.
by Elyana Lafrance VA
Some dreams are far and cannot be chased,
Wishes of the heart, longing to escape,
They can stay long or they can move in haste,
Some keep you awake in the night’s dark cape.
Your soul gets heavy knowing it’s not true,
The thoughts, figments of imagination,
Shatter the walls making a big breakthrough,
Fade away spirits like de-creation.
But, sometimes dreaming is our only hope,
Lifting your spirit and heart at the most,
And so, helping us through, learning to cope,
Sailing our boat to our daydreaming coast.
At times, dreaming is our get-away car,
Not knowing, but helping us from afar.
by Alice Brais IVC
20 21

The Boy
by Norah Woodcock IVC
There was a boy with a bruise on his knee
Who held his head proudly for all to see.
He had a dog, with a name and a bone
Who could chase after sticks all on his own.
And the boy whispered at night to a friend
Who lived in his mind and promised no end.
His parents were wed, and in a church blessed
And they shared a bed, asleep or at rest.
In the day the boy ran in the playground
And always stood back up when he fell down.
And he never cried when he scraped his knees
And he went home when asked, wanting to please.
There was a boy with bruises on his knees
And all he ever wanted was to please.
He went to church and never made a sound
And always stood back up when he knelt down.
And he never cried when he scraped those knees
He said his prayers when asked, wanting to please.
His parents were ill, and in a church blessed
They soon shared the bed, forever at rest.
And so the boy cried at night to the friend
Who lived in his mind and gave him an end.
His dog had the boy’s name, with a new bone
And chased after the crows all on his own.
There is a boy with a bruise on his knee
Who holds his head proudly,
And no one can see.
by Kimberley Marks-Beaubrun IVA
Soldier
by Monica Petras IVA
The sky was aflame. The bursts of fire were so constant. So
much heat. So much devastation. The ground was stained with
blood. Robbie waited for the bombings to cease. The ground shook
as another fleet of airplanes passed overhead. Robbie clutched his
mother’s rosary, praying for his safety. Robbie imagined being at
home; the prairie wind sweeping his face, his mother’s soft embrace,
apple pie, and long summer nights. He wished things could be as
they were, but war changes everything. Robbie’s mother used to tell
him stories of peace and prosperity. Where was that now?
The world was burning around them and nobody stopped to
question if this war was worth the sacrifice. No one wondered if the
cause was just or righteous. That was all there was left: war. War
consumed a person. It was a parasite eating away deep in the
recesses of one’s mind. Robbie remembered playing soldier when he
was a young boy, being the valiant leader of a glorious battle. War is
not valiant, it is not glorious; war is pain, war is destruction, war is
proof of a wasted species. When Robbie looks around, he does not
see glorified stories to share with future generations; he sees shame,
denial, feuds, and differences. Then suddenly the sky is aflame, the
bursts of fire constant. So much heat. So much devastation.
Little Robbie wakes with a start, crying for his mother. His
mother rushes in for him quickly. She sits beside him and pats his
head, assuring him it was all just a dream. It was all so real; Robbie
can still imagine the burning buildings, the smoke building in giant
clouds, the cries of agony. One thing is for sure: little Robbie will
never play soldier again.
22 23
by Angelina Griffin IIIA

La vie comme une montagne
de Rachel Rubbo IVC
La vie, par définition, c’est l’espace temps entre la naissance et la mort.
La vie, mais qu’est-ce que la vie pour moi alors ?
La vie, elle a beaucoup, tant, énormément de décisions.
La vie, selon le jour, peut avoir des milliers d’interprétations,
Mais pour moi, la vie...notre vie on la domine, non ?
La vie peut parfois être injuste comme le tiers-monde.
La vie, elle nous jette des obstacles à chaque seconde.
Je peux choisir de les surmonter et continuer,
Ou abandonner et ne plus rien essayer.
Mais pour moi, persévérer vaut bien mieux que lâcher.
La vie est comme une merveilleuse, magnifique montagne,
Elle a des hauts et des bas et des souvenirs qui nous accompagnent.
Mais la vie est courte comme une chanson, alors profites-en.
Les secondes, les minutes, les heures s’envolent comme des pélicans.
Savourez le meilleur de chaque remarquable moment.
On ne vit qu’une fois, alors vivons sans aucun regret.
La vie est une montagne parfaite, grimpons-la jusqu’au sommet,
Et malgré la route cahoteuse, souvenonsnous
toujours d’avoir du plaisir
Et de partager parfaitement pour toujours notre sourire.
Alors vivons absolument, entièrement, totalement notre vie pour réussir.
La vie, par définition, c’est l’espace temps entre la naissance et la mort.
La vie, mais qu’est-ce que la vie pour moi alors ?
La vie, elle a beaucoup, tant, énormément de décisions.
La vie, selon le jour, peut avoir des milliers d’interprétations,
Mais pour moi, la vie...notre vie on la domine, non ?
by Jasmina Ciccocioppo VB
Rain
by Katherine Chamandy VA
Round drops falling, hitting the windshield
and forming perfect beads. Sliding down,
taking turns, like models on a runway, particles
breaking off the nucleus and trailing behind,
remembering what was before. The light, turning
red, scattering, shining through the water, embedding.
Rain spattering like my bleeding life.
Enough
by Katherine Chamandy VA
Push, push, push
but it’s never enough to
budge the sheer oppressive
wall ahead
Faster
Harder
Stronger
But it is never
Enough
by Jasmine Rach VA
24 25

Eyelashes
by Anon
The day you went
aged me
in ways I still do not understand.
And now I sit here, holding it all in.
Mom’s trying to hold my hand
but you cannot console
someone this way when
this was not part of the plan.
We didn’t know, we never knew,
Uncle, daddy, best man.
The lights are dimmed
to a comfortable level.
Someone please define “comfort” to me.
Daddy stands, walks up to the altar.
The tears. They burn.
I cannot see.
His trembling voice, trying to project
itself across the silent hall
reminds me of the familiar story
of someone’s silent downfall.
To cry silently,
desperately,
alone,
without-
I swear there was a different route.
I swear.
by Kaia’ati:io Barnes IVA
Dad’s dark brown Eyelashes
always lengthen when he cries.
Those short brave magical Lashes
have never framed so vividly his eyes.
And it pains me worse
than anything warmed by sunlight,
that good people
(as opposed to those who are trying to improve
because no one has done something so wrong as to be considered
worthless)
should lose all motivation and might.
His Eyelashes
should not be forced like so.
his Eyelashes
should not be forced to grow.
I go back to a time
when I was careless, naive, and free,
showing off at my softball game,
because he had come to watch me.
I glance up into the boisterous crowd
discretely
and catch his eye
winking at me
secretively.
I try to hide a smile.
His softball mitt
made of tough leather
so tough
sits in my lap, still as a stone.
I wonder exactly how the mitt might be feeling
now that it, too,
is alone.
I wonder exactly how he had been coping;
how long his Lashes became.
I wonder how to act, what to say, what to do,
why no one will speak his name.
Daddy speaks, still,
tears not yet able to pass the turnstiles of his eyes.
The bravest man I’ve ever known.
He tends not to his own cries
but reaches,
extends himself,
to those who grieve likewise.
Putting on a brave face,
daddy,
is not going to silence those screaming cries.
26 27

Dad turns a page, the sheet so crisp;
his tensely formed letters build up the rage
that is secret
but present in all of us.
I try to hide mine as I glance over at
her.
Eighteen years of love.
Eighteen years of pain and mistakes.
Eighteen years of apologies and hugs and violence and lies.
It takes eighteen years to gain your independence,
but just a moment of weakness
to destroy someone else’s.
To “hate” a person,
ultimately means
to
hate
yourself.
I glance at her and I cringe.
And I hide the rage.
the wrath
that now governs my cingulated cortex.
I am like a pre-adolescent child
wondering about the secret world of Santa Claus;
Should I believe it?
Should I give in?
Do you deserve my sympathy?
Or do you
perhaps
need a little time
to abandon your naiveté?
Will it take eighteen more?
Or will it pass over the course of today?
My hands are clammy.
The leather of the mitt
in my grasp
starts to slip.
I feel the heat, now.
I feel it really start to take over;
rising up in my torso, filling my cheeks,
exploding out my eyes.
I cannot see my own
Eyelashes,
and so I cannot specify how long they are at this time.
I can only say
that whenever I blink,
my brow bone laughs
as though it is being tickled.
It is careless, naive, and free,
like a younger version of me
who used to glance
into the stands
and hide genuine smiles of happiness and pride.
And now I hide rage.
And now I hide rage.
I have been told many times
not to feel
responsible
in any way.
And so I don’t,
and so I won’t.
I try to look at her and tell her
the same thing
because it is good advice.
And it is nobody’s fault.
But saw you no sign of this?
Maybe it is not my business.
Or maybe ignorance is bliss.
But, hell,
I am certain that you are a red checker piece
who stood diagonally to his black one
and
jumped.
I feel sick inside
knowing that I just made this connection.
Because after eighteen years,
you are only a baby.
I see the trepidation that you express
from across the room.
by Erika Gentile VB
28 29

And I cry for you
because
I am not so brave
and my Eyelashes are very weak.
I try to be strong.
I have been trying
since Sunday.
But I am
my Eyelashes.
Daddy sits down next to me.
I play with the string unravelling on the mitt
and widen my eyes
to help the escaping cries
silence themselves.
Embarrassment.
We all know it.
We all feel it.
But how might we conceal it?
I know he felt it
towards the end.
I know how much pride he had.
Did he yelp?
Secretly.
Did he ask for help?
Silently.
And then rejected the tiny reply.
How was I unable to see
when my Lashes were so short?
My vision was not so distorted by them.
I tell myself not to ask that question
anymore
because
daddy wouldn’t want me to
and
because
I am too small a checker peice in this game
to be able to make a difference.
So I sit here, instead,
watching everyone tread
the water that was too
powerful
to keep him afloat.
She walked up to the podium,
her heels clunking up the aisle.
And as she speaks,
I want to believe in the
bravery
and
strength
that she appears to possess.
I miss our carefree days together.
I want to understand,
to empathize,
to relate,
and to believe,
but
lies
can deceive.
I cannot even listen;
my ears are fussing.
And so I wait.
And I stroke the leather of the mitt
until dad and everyone stand slowly.
I walk
up the aisle and look down
into the
black
casket.
I gasp a little at first
but then strive to calm myself.
He is unrealmade
of wax, almost.
His crisp red dress shirt,
ironed and ready,
lies flat
and does not budge.
by Sarah Murphy VB
30 31

I hear a noise
that I have never heard before come from
my
own
mother.
She cannot breathe! Someone help her!
Help her stand, help her breathe.
Please, God,
help these people.
I stare
in disbelief
and I mourn.
And I try to understand
the way he felt
before
he
fell.
He couldn’t breathe,
either,
but nobody heard
the noise that he made.
Because that
noise
was only in his own head.
It is a feeling like
no
other
to not be able
to connect
dots that you cannot see clearly
expressed on a page..
Without clear dots,
an image
is
invisible
but
still
existent.
And so as they carry him off,
and lashes lengthen
once again,
I try not to pretend
that I do not understand.
And in the days to come, I see a dot.
And in the months to come,
I see forty-six more.
And today I see a picture;
black dots
connected by a
black line
on a
white page.
And I do not even need to carry that
picture
in my pocket anymore because
I
get
it.
And I avoid it.
My Eyelashes are a little stronger now,
but if you look really
closely,
you will notice that
they
can
get
very
long
sometimes.
32 33
by Kylie Sura VB

Reality vs Illusion
by Jessica Abreu-Moore VA
I’m confused.
Babe, it’s just the booze.
Is this real,
Is this happening?
She said she loved me,
She said this was right.
He promised he’d hold me all through the night.
We can’t let this go
Don’t worry, everything’s fine.
I’m sorry baby, but you crossed the line.
It’s time to get real.
You’re just making this into a big deal
Nothing happened,
Nothing changed.
Soon, we will become estranged.
It wasn’t real!
Is that really how you feel?
Nothing can ever be the same again.
These things happen every now and then.
Baby, I think you’ve gone a bit crazy.
No, it’s you who’s seeing hazy.
I can’t believe that this is it.
Babe, we aren’t going to split.
This is hard for me too,
I never thought this day would come.
Is this really what we’ve become?
There is no longer a we.
From now on it’s just me.
I know that this is only a dream.
Together forever,
That’s what we said.
Instantaneously, the pain spread.
This is one thing I absolutely dread,
But we both need to move on to our new lives ahead.
I’m so confused, this can’t be true.
I stand here desperately looking for a clue.
This is goodbye.
Oh but that’s a lie.
Please don’t cry.
Without you I would die.
He won’t flee,
I repeat to myself, though I am staring at an empty
space before me.
by Sabina Alka VB
34 35

Alice
by Kelly Burchell-Reyes IIIB
Have you ever heard her call you? Her whisper tickling your ears, her
yearning driving you to insanity? Have you ever sensed her presence, near,
but oh, so far away? I have felt it. When I walk down the fifth floor hallway
on my own, when I step into the chapel, when I explore a new area of the
school, I feel it. That is how I met Alice.
Who is Alice, you ask? A more accurate question would be, what is
Alice? She never told me her name; I learned it from the stories they tell.
When I first met her, I thought that she was just another student. Her
hair was brown and pin-straight, falling to her shoulders. Her eyes, hidden
behind large, oval glasses, were a deep black, like a bottomless well of tar.
I was in my second year. I was in the chapel, early for Tuesday
morning Mass. The wooden floorboards creaked eerily under my footsteps,
sounding my arrival. The air was warm and peaceful, the way it always is. I
made my way to the front, to wait for everyone else, when I saw her.
Kneeling in front of the altar like an ancient sacrifice waiting for the priestess’
knife. As serene as an angel, garbed in an outmoded school uniform. As I
approached her, she abruptly looked up, as though alarmed by my presence.
She fled, and I followed. Across the sanctuary, through the sacristy, up a
flight of stairs, and another. Into an old attic, covered in a layer of grime and
dust, screaming of neglect.
But it was not the filth of the attic which startled me most. It was the
eerie presence. On the floor lay hundreds of candles, lowly burning away to
pools of melted wax. Alice sat, and beckoned for me to join her. Frightened
as I was, I could not help but join her on the sludge floor, compelled. She
took both my hands in hers, and closed her eyes. I followed suit.
A flood of images inundated my sight, blocking out all other senses. A
girl in this very attic. Stabbed with an ornate knife. Years and years ago. A
girl left here, forgotten. Alice.
Only remembered days later, found by hazard, her murder never
avenged, her curse, her final wish, left unfinished, stained forever like her
seeping blood on the wooden floor. Revenge, vengeance, the death of her
killer.
A face. A different, new one. Another young girl. The face of Alice’s
killer. Wavy auburn hair framing a thin face. Powder masking the freckles on
her cheek. Unmistakeable green eyes. The same emerald sheen as my
own. My mother.
The visions became faster, more urgent.
Vicious, sweet revenge. Blood everywhere.
Gore, red, death. The smell of death filled the
air. Suddenly, the visions ceased. A stinging
pain was embedded in my stomach, along with
an ornate knife. The same one used to kill
Alice. Blood flooded the room. The world
turns black.
Signal Flares
by Norah Woodcock IVC
your heart is a fire and your body’s a sea
and it’s a war inside, a storm – the currents twist
around
and around, flushing out the flames.
and the fire is extinguished, inevitably
didn’t we know all along that it couldn’t be escaped?
and deep in the ocean, it’s dark.
I knew when you smiled it wouldn’t take long
before you’d draw me into your depths, and I’d swim, swim
while the fire shuddered and dwindled.
the waves have pulsed and pulled and pounded
I tried to pray but wound up choking, and you watched from above
and I knew then that I had lost.
water beats fire as rock beats paper
as scissors beat paper and paper beats rock; maybe this is,
maybe this is just a game.
you cried for me but it made no difference
just like when you fought, fought against it, you were too weak
but weren’t we both weak?
and I may have cried for you, if it mattered
the tears got lost in the salty water, and I wondered
did that many girls cry for you?
would you rather die burning or drowning?
I gathered the last of my strength, and let myself sink towards
the feeble light that remained.
your heart is a fire, but your body’s a sea
and of course it wasn’t enough, we were never enough
you floated; I drowned.
so tell me which is worse, my fate or yours?
to be lost in cold darkness, or endlessly drift along above?
it was for pride, never for love.
by Lisa-Marie Giorgio IVB
36 37
by Lauren Maruya-Li VB
& Victoria Sarker VC

A Secret
by Thea Koper VC
I wish I’d never told you
Out behind the yard that day.
For in that moment clear and true,
I’d voiced all I had to say.
But you went and snatched my heart away,
With not a care in the world.
And on that chilled October’s day,
Stole my trust with all you heard.
Friends will come and friends will go,
But a secret’s a secret, no matter how small.
With your smiling face and radiant glow,
You’ll sweetly push me and watch as I fall.
How long must I wait here,
All alone in the cold?
Watching you break near
And laugh as I grow old.
But the lock is fastened tight
And I hold the key,
Making you the master of your plight,
And far from free.
by Kayla Cabanas IVC
Caroline Chamandy IVA
Adrianna Mauchan IVC
Rachel Rubbo IVC
had it good
before she veered
off the straight and
narrow.
always chose
the monster over
us, her own kids.
What she
realize was
that the monster
was part of us
too. I don’t
my mother,
but I don’t
care
to hate her.
Kristina
by Katherine Chamandy VA
38 39
by Angelina Smolynec VC
She
didn’t
love
enough

On Independence
by Sara Turcotte VA
by Maria Power VC
I long for the years, the months, and the days,
The hours, the minutes, and the seconds
When life heeds to my independent ways;
Fresh paint on my own picket fence beckons.
For now, life appears to need a new coat;
one that is uniquely chosen by me,
so as to ensure that I stay afloat,
in making decisions, I must feel free.
Bite your loose lip or your tongue if you must,
to restrain from painting my fence yourself.
Do what you must to exhibit your trust;
to raise your tendencies up on the shelf.
For I am ready to spread my own wings,
For I am eager to see what life brings.
Time
by Monica Petras IVA
We should rule the world. With blood and blackness, we
guard our ships and live in the dark, waiting for a sign from
above. This was meant to be just you and me: sucking energy,
zapping life away. Day by day, in the light, we sleep on pillows of
broken dreams. The pen of knowledge is five minutes away from
the paper we may read the knowledge from. When we decide to
be free, our hearts are lifted and free of fatal choices and
consequences of which we think little. We think of the sea with
its never-ending waves within which is a key to the heart of all
life in the world we live in. The rarity of a good life is never too
distant nor is it too complicated. It is the right to print with the
ink of truth that keeps me writing with certainty that I will live
another day. And by the time you have read this entire thing,
you’ll realize that it has no philosophical meaning and that I just
jumbled words together, so basically you wasted twenty seconds
of your life
by Nicole Tieman VA
40 41

Marks On the Wall
by Katherine Chamandy VA
Marks, gouges, grooves, holes.
A film of grime from cooking grease and muffled hallway trysts.
Old faded wallpaper and ceiling paint the
colour of pink slime peeling, curling back
in messy webs of disgust, like it’s trying to get
away and it can’t.
One fingernail, dragged or snagged under jagged
corners could scratch the rest
away, if someone cared enough to try.
A gaping void at shoulder height, too much
anger taken out on one spot in an ocean of
weak. Tendrils of paper hang like filaments made weary
by trying to mend injuries beyond repair.
The plaster is punched right through
to the hollow behind the battered shell.
A scratched outside disguising an
empty inside.
Just like me.
Too many marks on the wall.
by Victoria Perrotta VA
by Lisa-Marie Giorgio IVB
The Glimmer of Light
by Nicole Tieman VA
The clouds have rolled in on the beach
Heavy clouds, as dark as the night sky
Everyone begins to desert the beach but me
Giant waves begin to roll in
Lost seas creatures washed up on the dark sand try to find their
way home
Inching closer and closer into the sea foam
My hair begins to glow in the salty wind
Moisture begins to fall from the skies
Each droplet is cool as a frosty drink
Rumbling can now be heard in the distance
Out of the jet-black atmosphere,
Forming in the cracks of the heavy clouds
Lies a glimmering golden light that
Is trying desperately to peek through
Grey turns to white
Hot rays of sunshine,
Try to break down the barrier and pour light into the world again
42 43

Pig Squeals
by Sara Turcotte VA
I sigh in anticipation and shift my hip to the right as I wipe the
tiny droplets of perspiration that coat my hairline with the back of my
hand. I look behind me into the distance. We have advanced quite a
bit; at 11:00 am when everyone was arriving, we were in the exact
middle of the mosh pit. Now, seven hours later, we stand three rows
from the rusty metal rail that separates the raging spectators from the
Teggart Main Stage (the biggest stage in the festival, naturally). It is
always a little quieter during the half hour break in between acts when
the sound check crew floods the stage, transporting equipment on and
off, looking professional. I take this opportunity to regain hearing in my
ears, as we’ve been subjected to over six deathcore metal bands
since this morning. Deathcore isn’t usually my cup of tea, especially
when combined with moshing adolescents and crowd-surfers three
times my size. If I can just hang on until the 8:00 pm act, it will all be
worth it. The soles of my feet ache as I awkwardly try to reach my
pointer finger into the side of my left shoe to remove a rock that
lodged itself in there during Dead Sara’s act at around 4:00pm. Dead
Sara…what a coincidence. The crowd erupts as a large banner drops
behind the drum set, revealing The Devil Wears Prada’s name and
logo. A fast, heavy guitar riff projects through Teggart’s speakers,
followed by an intense double-bass follow-up by the drummer. The
lead singer starts to growl and scream; this, I have learned, is referred
to as “pig squeals” in deathcore music. I feel anxiety start to well up as
the people around me form a circle and begin to mosh. Dust now
occupies the air and it is difficult to simply find oxygen, never mind
maintain balance to stay standing. The girl in front of me turns around,
glancing over my head. Her eyes widen like a child who’s just seen a
ghost. She taps my arm several times, points enthusiastically and
cries “Look out!” I do not turn around in time, for as my head shifts
slightly to the left to see what’s coming, I black out suddenly. A 300pound
man has crowd-surfed his way over, kicking me in the face with
his size twelve feet. My vision is distorted for a moment, but a second
later when it is restored I give every ounce of strength I have to
maneuver the fat man over my head. There are many similar
manifestations in the following hour. At 7:59 pm, my body is covered in
brown soot. My shoes are ripped, exposing my calloused feet. My hair
has a crunchy texture from having been subjected to several beer
showers. My hips are bruised from pushing and shoving. At 8:00 pm,
however, none of it even matters. I am one of fifteen people leaning
against that rusty metal rail (the one that separates the spectators
from the stage), about to see and hear my heroes up close. The “pig
squeals” are over. I am ready. I hear a familiar tune emanate from the
black Pevey monitor to my left. Someone pushes me from behind and
I am thrown forward. My sunglasses (suspended from the middle of
my tank top) crack in half as I hit the rail. I don’t even have a moment
of reaction time before the four of them appear onstage. It seems as
though from the moment they begin playing, from the moment they
make eye contact with me, from the moment I am absorbed in the
music that they devote their lives to, I am in a different world. I am
safe now. Nobody can push me, or hurt me, or tell me anything I do
not want to hear because I am in my safe place. I might be bruised
and dirty, but my heart is full of love and thankfulness. A bruise will
repair itself, but a heart left too long without music…that cannot be
healed.
by Sarah Murphy VB
44 45

Murder On Simpson Street
by Alessia Castonguay IIA
Katherine, a young girl around the age of 14, awoke one
morning in her beautifully sunlit room, excited for another wondrous
day to unfold before her. In Utopiopia, Katherine’s town, everything is
beautiful and perfectly symmetrical. The buildings were all built in the
same style, but were painted in various different lively colours. The
trees, though made out of plastic, were perfectly round at the top.
Everything was vivid and full of life.
On the way to school, she passed by the perfectly bloomed
flowers in an assortment of bright colors. She stopped and stared at
what was right before her eyes, took a breath, and thought about
something she had never thought about before: death. Katherine had
never thought about something so disturbing or scary before. She
shook her head to clear her mind of this frightening thought and ran
towards her school.
When she got to school, she sat down and stared at her
teacher, thinking of ways to kill her. Her mind was becoming filled with
more and more dreadful things. She was thinking of death, sorrow,
and murder. Her eyes were fixed on her teacher and would not budge.
Then, the bell rang.
“Today we will be doing a project on the person who makes you
happiest.” said Miss. Carlyle.
Katherine raised her hand rather slowly and asked, “Miss
Carlyle, what is death?”
“Oh, Lord! It’s happening. This hasn’t happened since… Oh
dear, we need to get you to the hospital now!”
Katherine was so confused. She was only asking a simple
question. How could that be so bad? Before she knew it, she was
being temporarily frozen and transported to Utopiopia hospital.
When Katherine awoke, Miss Carlyle was staring at her with a
big smile. But Katherine was thinking of something different, very
different. Then, suddenly Katherine’s eyes turned a very bright red. A
red, which can be seen for miles and miles, though, strangely, Miss
Carlyle didn’t notice at all.
“Miss Carlyle”, said Katherine, “where do you live?”
Stupidly, she responded “143 Simpson Street, why do you ask
honey?”
“Just asking,” Katherine responded.
Katherine awoke the
next morning in the same
sunny room as she did
yesterday, but with completely
different thoughts. Same as
by Caroline Jeanson IIIB
yesterday, she passed by the same flowers and the same buildings,
and then was on her way to school.
When she got there, everyone stared and whispered. All this
because of one simple question. Katherine was very annoyed by the
end of the day, with the constant staring and pointing. To calm herself,
she went to the reference section in the library and looked for a
certain book. Then she came upon the book ‘Deadly People and
Deadly minds by: Alexandra Hagrid’. Katherine pulled it out and began
to read.
“There are certain people in this world who aren’t quite alright.
Those people think about what we normal people never dare to think
about. They think about death, sadness, depression, murder and
other things we ‘normal people’ don’t. Those people are called
‘Drainers.’ Drainers suck the happiness out of our world. They kill and
murder people of all shapes, sizes, and colors…”
Katherine was enraged and disgusted. She ran out of the library,
on a mission to find Miss Carlyle. Thankfully, she knew her address.
When Katherine got there, it was very late, about midnight. She
snuck in to Miss Carlyle’s home and tiptoed straight to the kitchen.
She looked through every drawer and cupboard and finally found what
she needed, a long silver knife. Katherine slowly crept up the stairs
and found her teacher snuggled up in a mountain of blankets. Yes,
she thought, this will only make it easier to kill her.
Katherine pulled out the silver knife and stabbed Miss Carlyle
right in the heart. She looked at the body and smirked. She stayed
there for about an hour to make sure Miss Carlyle was really dead.
She was.
Katherine then ran home and snuck back into her bed like
nothing had ever happened. While in her warm bed she thought of
what she had just done, smiled gruesomely, then quickly fell asleep.
46 47

Only Human
by Maris Jacobs IVB
I live and learn just like you do.
I sweat and I fight and try hard too.
Today I love romance and sappy love songs,
Tomorrow I’ll love rock and Rocky Balboa.
Right now I wear red and in an hour I’ll wear green.
So what? Who cares? I’m a teenager; sue me.
We walk the same earth and breathe the same air,
So why do most things seem so unfair?
I want me here and you want me there.
You make me go crazy and pull out my hair.
You expect so much and I give you so little.
I’m not that easy,
I’m a puzzle; I’m a riddle.
I wish I could be what you want me to be.
But I’m not all you think I am,
Look closer you’ll see.
They call me a star, an Olympian champ.
How do you know this, if I don’t even know who I am?
I’m not a machine; I don’t like to be used
Then thrown to the side like an old pair of shoes.
This is not your game; I follow my rules.
I’ll apply my own knowledge and use my own tools.
I’m not sure what I’m doing, Maybe I never will.
But it’s not your concern,
It’s my dream to fulfill.
Life isn’t easy and mine is no exception.
I’m not a robot. I’m a girl.
I am only human.
Once Upon a Time
by Alexina McLeod VA
There is something
magical
about a mirror
Looking, looking:
your image gets clearer.
Don’t you break it,
you’ll have bad luck,
For seven years you’ll be stuck.
Mirror, Mirror, on the wall
Hearing whispers in the hall
It is the image of your soul
Some like snow and some like coal.
Stay far from the mirror,
For it you should fear.
And do not recognize your sin.
Vanity will draw you in.
Closer, closer the thing is coming
All around you the walls are humming.
The demon, the evil thing
Shows you itself, in a flutter of wings.
You scream and dash
It falls and CRASH!
Sprinkling the floor like new-fallen snow
Cracked glass surrounds you, aglow.
Looking, closer, as you peer
You are the monster in the mirror.
by Jasmine Rach VA
48 49
by Angelina Griffin IIIA

Time Ticks for No One
by Katricia Durham VB
Tick. Tock.
It seems that life’s a clock.
Just ticking away,
As time goes by
I sit in desperation watching time fly.
Minutes, seconds, hours upon hours
I feel like I’m losing my mind
Trying to comprehend; why
Time ticks for no one.
Twenty-four/ seven
Three hundred and sixty-five
The fools we are struggling to stay alive,
Trying to out beat time
To live life to the fullest,
What we don’t realize is that time will out smart us.
Look at ourselves
Corrupt pieces of matter
Living our lives,
In order to make our pockets fatter.
Some of us live for the wrong reasons from the start,
By the time we discover life’s true meaning
We’ve drifted too far apart.
Humanity,
Insanity,
What’s the difference nowadays?
Taking advantage of innocent people,
Will society ever change its ways?
Huh, will we live to see it happen?
I, doubt it the way that we’re going,
‘Cause time ticks for no one.
But what happens when your clock stops?
Huh, thought you had a right to stay?
Don’t be so assured,
Life doesn’t work out that way.
We’re all born dying
Dang, I thought you heard
Life’s too short for fights and mixed words
People against the world,
People against each other.
Everyone’s an enemy
But trust me it’s not the person in front of me,
That’s what we all fail to see,
That time is life’s ultimate enemy.
by Sara Pulice & Vivian Luong IVC
50 51

Snow, Glass, Apples
by Alexina McLeod VA
by Veronica Giroux & Sabrina Ste-Marie IA
Sweet old lady brings me things
What a sweet old lady to know.
My whereabouts are secret to the world.
My modest home behind me,
Encouraging this newfound friendship,
I follow her.
Deep into the forest
To where animals roam,
Where the sun no longer touches the ground,
And to where secrets are forgotten.
What a sight to see:
The two of us in a barren forest
The ground covered with white snow
And twisted black trees
Such a contrast to those red, RED apples.
My Reflection
by Jasmina Ciccocioppo & Melissa Likoray VB
Bruises on my body,
scratch marks along my arms,
torn clothes and don’t have a clue where my shoes are.
Looking around the room,
never seen this place before.
Where am I? Where am I?
I hear people outside these four white walls,
but they don’t seem to hear me,
no matter how loud I scream.
I’m trapped in a no-man’s zone.
After some time I realize I’m not alone,
there is a boy curled up in the corner,
unsure if he’s still alive.
Thinking to myself,
Am I going to be next?
There are footsteps approaching the door,
I shut my eyes,
it was all a dream.
I finally get out of bed,
look at myself in the mirror.
There are bruises on my body,
scratch marks along my arms.
by Caitlin Matthew VC
52 53

L’égarement
de Norah Woodcock IVC
C’est ça que je ne t’ai pas dit, ou bien, que tu n’as pas compris :
Comme les autres soucis que tu congédies avec les mots que tu
dis,
Je suis fatiguée par l’ennui des nuits d’insomnie,
Mais quand tu me contraries, la voici qui surgit : l’énergie.
Je te vois hausser les épaules. Tu te penses si drôle,
Mais t’oublies ton rôle, t’oublies que j’ai aucun contrôle.
Je dis que je ne te veux aucun mal, mais c’est que pour rire :
On sait tous les deux que le but est de te faire souffrir.
Cela ne te blesse pas? C’est ça, cesse avec ces mensonges,
T’as aucun problème à dire la vérité au reste du monde.
Mais à moi, tu racontes seulement tes blagues narquoises,
Qui me mettent sous la terre et toi sur la croix.
Tu me dis des choses terribles, et en fait t’as raison,
Mais tu ne crois pas vraiment que ce n’est pas parfait à la
maison.
Sans le remarquer, tes mots accusatoires font leurs marques.
La colère vient : la rage noire sort avec quelques remarques.
Puis le lendemain, quand je ne ressens rien, ni remords, ni
regrets,
T’es tout prêt à me pardonner mes péchés, à faire la paix.
Je dis que je ne te voulais aucun mal, mais c’est que pour rire :
On sait tous les deux que le but était de te faire souffrir.
Je ne mérite pas ton pardon, n’oublie pas qu’avec chaque coup,
Qu’avec chaque cri et chaque offense, le remords n’existe pas
entre nous.
T’essaies de tout réparer, de sauver mon âme,
Mais je triche aux leçons et c’est toi que je blâme.
Les attaques sont comme des trains égarés, lorsqu’on prend le
pouvoir pour la gloire.
Je les laisse aller par exprès, en même temps sans le vouloir.
Ce n’est pas le mal que je te souhaite, mon cher, c’est l’enfer,
Et on sait tous les deux que t’as assez souffert.
by Katherine Drummond IVC
54 55

56
Fairy Tales
by Norah Woodcock IVC
I opened a child’s book of fairy tales and found myself folded
neatly inside
Amidst wrinkled pages and time-stained words, I found myself
folded inside.
I took myself out from between the pages, I felt and heard the
crinkles made
Paper, on paper, on paper, on paper – and I could not smooth
out the folds.
Above all the paper, I tried to unfold, but still the creases stayed
in place
I found myself in a child’s book of fairy tales, and to this day
bear the trace.
I charred in flames, flew through wind, soaked in water, lay
pressed beneath stone
No difference was made – none at all – and I wish that I had left
the book unopened.
Yet I opened a child’s book of fairy tales, where I had lost myself
inside wrinkled pages
Today I’ll open it again to put myself back – after all, there are
much worse cages.
by Alexa Eberle VA