Issue I Pluvia Lit Mag

Welcome to Issue I of Pluvia Literary Magazine

Welcome to Issue I of Pluvia Literary Magazine


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Rising Upon by Nina Tsai

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Editor’s Letter - pg. 5

Abecedarian Proceedings by Divya Mehrish - pg. 6

Mistake by Elaine Zhou - pg. 7

chronoception by Millie Sharman - pg. 8

untitled by Maggie Yang - pg. 9

The Laundromat by Isabella Demianczuk - pg. 10

Change by Sofia Rocha Zandbergen - pg. 11

All American Doll by Vanessa Chan - pg. 12

untitled by Grace Du - pg. 13

The Pen, Our Voices by Amy Mo - pg. 13

Unsafe by Cynthia Wei - pg. 14

A Way Out by Vanessa Chan - pg. 15

i wish i were Heather by Amelia Lim - pg. 16

The Dragon of Interpretations by Amy Mo - pg. 17

Rain-Smudged Lights by Joyce Huang - pg.18

Purple Grain by Vanessa Chan - pg.19

Vessels of Growth by Jenalyn Ng -pg. 20

6ft apart by Amelia Lim - pg. 24

After the Rain by Alexsandra Vujisic - pg. 24

Cooper by Isabella Demianczuk - pg. 25

Mary Mary by Emily Li - pg. 26

Space by Margaret Kuts - pg. 27

star-crossed lovers by Sofia Rocha Zandbergen - pg. 27

Luminous by Amelia Lim - pg. 28

Sometimes by Alexsandra Vujisic - pg. 28

the power of love by Sayde Shuster - pg. 29

The Colours of Rain by Amy Mo - pg. 30

Freedom by Margaret Kuts - pg. 32

Ordinary July Poem by Alexsandra Vujisic - pg. 32

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For advertising or sponsor inquiries, email pluvialitmag@gmail.com

Cover artwork by Grace Du

Magazine Designer: Maggie Yang


Maggie Y. as Founder

By Bohdan Lee




​Young voices are often trampled over or lost in the

tumultuous waves of life, identity, or even homework,

but we seek to uplift and amplify those voices. We

hope to give raindrops a chance to ripple in the puddles

in which they drop, surrounded by like-minded

artists and writers, and form a rainstorm of creativity

together. We believe that expression through the

creative arts is key to finding ourselves, especially

in these turbulent times. It is here that writers and

artists are able to really focus on the small, beautiful

and raw details of life--from water droplets jeweled

on a spider’s web to the petrichor after a striking but

soothing rainstorm. Whether you dive into a personal

experience, a heartfelt poem, or a nostalgic photograph,

we hope that you enjoy being submerged

in the world of Issue One. Without further ado, I

present Issue One of Pluvia, an international literary

magazine dedicated to showcasing work by youth

from around the world.







Divya Mehrish

utumn is coming I drink

blueberries from the palms my mother wears today

cloudy with ink stains from phone bills, black

congealing with brine melting from eyes

drunk with yesterday’s cramps

dripping through hollows of ribs

echoes of glockenspiel eroding bone

For Sale sign bleeding scarlet onto

grass in the backyard my father

hammers away at the swing set

island of plastic my childhood disembodied

juxtaposition of hollow plastic oozing neon

kisses onto the wheat

leather work boots he can’t retire out of now since

money needs to keep sliding, crisp, between fingers

Nicotine can’t pay for itself

on my sixteenth birthday in June mom

puckered her lips and proposed

quitting from family divorce papers

raiding dad’s eyes

rabies prickling papery eyelids

she tried to kiss him on the forehead

throbbing temples stinging lips the truth

unsung they sobbed into each other’s hair

vodka wails staining our walls this house poison

we are waiting now for our blood to stop flowing through

xylem veins heaving syrup against gravity

you are waiting for memories to transpire lemon

zest materializing on skin like oil after sticky sleep

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Elaine Zhou

This is a drawing that represents our mistakes, which shape who we are and

what ideals we hold as a person. I never intended to paint this piece, but an

accidental smear on the top of the page from a painting on the previous painting

led me to create this drawing. With the smudged lines of ink and watercolour

flowing to create a person, this painting represents that although we

exemplify many faults throughout our lives, the learning, improving and experience

from our mistakes is what makes us a flawed, perfect, human being.





Millie Sharman

the currents of time,

tsunamis of heat and history

run through the form of every tree,

roots trodden on in unknown centuries

fixed to their posts,

the trees watch every year

through famine and blood

seasons of frostbite

their underground networks

dirty cousins of the constellation

do nothing but entwine and grow;

slowly the trees’ regular visitors

stop walking by

new people arrive,

playful children who grab at their bark

but the orchards mourn

the willows weep

a sadness sits in the thicket

each year

another ring forms slowly

and their thick trunks rest in

perpetual anticipation of an axe

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By Maggie Yang






Isabella Demianczuk

The Laundromat is a rather decieving

piece; although the final product appears

to be on paper, much of the creative process

happens with a carving tool and a

solid block of linoleum. Printing is vastly

different from my typical acrylic process,

and has undoubtedly challenged me as an

artist. Unlike drawing where artists make

coloured lines on (typically) white paper,

this process involves removing linoleum

to create lines of white on a solid surface.

This means that to create a black line on

a linoleum carving, you must isolate the

desired spot by removing all surrounding

linoleum. In the printmaking process,

the printing block is then covered in ink

and the image is then transposed onto the

sheet of paper. It is also important to note

that once a mark has been made in a sheet

of linoleum it is irreversible - I always

struggled with accepting imperfection,

but this project has made me recognise

that sometimes flaws can serve as opportunities

rather than hindrances.

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Sofia Rocha Zandbergen

ife flew by fast like pouring rain

blurring good and bad, sane and insane

into one big puddle that led to a drain

that led to the fearful part of my brain.

Home –

I did not want to leave.

Stay –

I beg and beg and plead.

Oh, how I would miss this place

How I will miss looking upon a familiar face.

The rain turned to thunder that rumbled

through my heart,

The thunder turned to lightning that

struck me apart.

I could not go on and watch my work come undone

Memories were all I had left of my fun


Where I belong.

But if I stay, everyone else

Will be gone.

And I’ll be alone,

Out in the storm.

So I have to go.

But I want to stay here where I don’t feel so torn.

I want to stay in a place

Where everyone knows me,

And I know everyone

Not a place where

We’re all suspicious,

We’re all uncertain.

We’re all strangers

Sinking slowly

In a vast ocean.

I’ll have to live in

the Unknown, the strange

So goodbye Familiar, and

Hello, Change




All American Doll

It was a seven-year-old girl’s paradise: the American Girl Doll

Store. I stood underneath the auspicious fluorescent lights with my fingers

wrapped tightly around my mother’s hand. The day had finally come.

I faced my mom with a smile stretching from ear to ear, and she squeezed

my hand.

“Aren’t you excited?”

“Yes!” I squealed.

Unable to wait another second, I broke free from my mother’s

grasp and dove headfirst into shelves upon shelves of sparkling, plastic-boxed



A girl bounced up to the front of the class for show and tell. I

sat criss-cross applesauce on the rainbow carpet, admiring the glossy doll

in her hand.

“It’s my American Girl Doll and it looks exactly like me!” She

held up her hair to the doll’s, showing the perfect match. “You can’t even

tell our hair apart.”


I came to a stop at the section of black-haired dolls. I moved

slowly across the line, taking my time to meticulously examine every doll.

My mom had caught up to me, and I turned to face her, pointing at the

one I wanted. A curtain of shiny black hair cascaded down her shoulders

and her deep brown eyes gleamed under the lights. She was me: flesh and

bones replaced with plastic and fabric. I reached up on my tippy toes to

pick her out, but my mom got there before me. She took one look at it

and shook her head before placing it back on the shelf.

“But Mom, I wanted that doll!” I protested.

In response, she picked up my hand and led me to the blonde

dolls. I stood in front of them, with my head tilted and dark eyebrows

furrowed as my mom browsed the section. Their hair gleamed like fields

of gold and their eyes glinted like ocean water. Sure, they were pretty,

but they looked nothing like me. My mother chose a doll and presented

her to me with a flourish, gesturing at the wavy blonde hair and blue eyes.

She placed her in my hands with a wide grin.

“These dolls are prettier, don’t you think?”


Ms. Nolan just announced that we were going to be writing

our own stories! I wanted mine to be about a pretty princess. Her name

is Ashley, I wrote. She has wavy blonde hair and the prettiest blue eyes.

She is the most beautiful girl in the world.


I shook my head and tugged at my mom’s sleeve

“Why can’t I get the one that looks like me?” I questioned.

“I’m not going to spend 80 dollars on that one when you

could get a much prettier one.” she countered.

I pushed the doll back into her hands and turned away to hide

the glistening tears collecting in my eyes. What would the girls back at

school think if the doll didn’t look like me?


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Vanessa Chan

A girl at school scrolls through the Brandy Melville Instagram

account. The light of her phone reflects in her blue irises. Her eyes were

focused on the trendy clothes, but looking with my own brown eyes, I

only saw the glaring presence of blonde hair and spray-tanned skin. Even

the clothes I wore looked better on white girls.


I gazed up at my mom’s dark chocolate eyes, contemplating

her naturally black hair that had been curled and lightened to a caramel

colour. Maybe she’ll let me get a doll with brown hair, and I can dye my

hair that colour too!


The days of quarantine had blended together into a concoction

of hour-long walks and monotone online classes, and every inch of

me ached for change. Unbeknownst to my mother, I ordered two packets

of bleach powder and a bottle of developer. That night, I spent three

hours in the tungsten light of my bathroom, watching my reflection paint

bleach on black hair. During breakfast the next day, my mom noticed the

brassy, copper-toned hair draping my shoulders.

“Why are you trying to be white?” she accused. “You know

that no matter how light your hair colour is, you will never look like a

white girl.”

She was right. My black hair, despite undergoing two rounds

of bleach, still could not reach that golden blonde, and my monolid eyes

and rounded nose clearly depicted a Chinese girl.


I scurried off to the section of brunette dolls, and my mom

followed behind. I grabbed an unboxed doll by her arm and held up her

hair to match my mother’s. She shook her head once again and marched

me straight to the cashier. My mother held the blonde doll with her left

hand and reached for mine with her right, but my arms stayed glued to my

sides the rest of the day.


“Do you ever wish you were white?” my voice quivered as I

asked my Asian friend, hoping to find solace in shared sentiment.

“Yeah, all the time.”


The next day, I brought my American Girl Doll to school.

“Why didn’t you get one that looks like you?” asked the girl

whose hair matched her doll’s.

“This one is prettier.” I parroted my mother.


It was the opening day of Crazy Rich Asians. My mom, with

her hair dyed back to black, and I went to the movie theatre to see it


“How whitewashed! She can’t even speak Mandarin properly,”

my mother whispered to me about the lead actress, whose Mandarin

was coated with a thick English accent.

It felt so foreign to see myself represented on screen.



The Pen,

By Grace Du

Our Voices

She came to this world with a pen—

As the indelible ink flows, it shall write under her command.

Whether she will fly or plummet, the pen shall choose her fate.

As she matures and lives, the pen shall mark her place,

Whether she love or hate, the pen shall draw her life,

As her life proceeds, the pen shall pronounce her narrative.

Whether she is good or evil, the pen decides.

Yet, she did not only take this mighty pen, she created something beautiful.

This mighty pen rewrote history.

She wrote words that formed ideas, inspiring hope.

This mighty pen fostered growth—

She composed music of love that built families.

This mighty pen inspired nations.

She stood up with her pen and took a stand.

She can change the world; she will change the world.

With her pen, she will find her path and walk on it with confidence.

With her pen, she will learn to write and inspire,

With her pen, she will give others a chance to shine, to soar,

With her pen, she will break others free from their chains,

With her pen, she will seek problems and find solutions,

With her pen, she will introduce a new beginning.

I came to this world with a pen.

We all came to this world with our own pen— our voices.

Amy Mo





Cynthia Wei

I walked down the pavement,

With my hands in a fist

Until I finally reached the store

For something from my wishlist.

It was sly, sleek and slender,

Very easily concealed

It was for safety I told myself,

The gun would be my shield.

When I held it in my hand

I felt a certain power.

A feeling never felt before,

I could make them cower.

I walked back to my home,

What an easy buy,

I knew I’d never pull the trigger

For I am a good guy.

But then one night things changed.

I felt a certain urge.

There was one man I did not like,

My anger it emerged.

I crept to my secret drawer,

Pulled the gun out to my hand.

This feeling that I couldn’t resist,

For, I was in command.

I drove out to his house,

In the middle of the night.

I kicked open his door,

And he was filled with fright.

At once I pulled the trigger,

Blood was gushing out.

What had I done, I thought.

A mistake, without a doubt.

I thought back to the day,

I had bought that gun,

And I wish that I knew then

I would kill someone.

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A Way Out

Vanessa Chan

A foreboding train nears the empty platform, illuminating a line of advertisements on

the wall of the King Edward station. The viewer ponders what the train and the future

might hold for them




i wish i were


Amelia Lim

ocean eyes and golden locks

parties, drinks, drugs and jocks

happily ever after, dream come true

she doesn’t remember the true love’s kiss, but i do

paper thin waist

not a blemish on her face

i think about her while lying in bed

but i have never once entered her head

big jacket, big hair, big lies

seeking validation from all the guys

martha is beautiful, but not next to Heather

no one has ever given me their sweater

we all hate her

but, everyone wants to be her

i’m just a pawn, i don’t know what i’m saying

already checkmate, and she didn’t even know we were playing

i bet she doesn’t cry herself to sleep

a 94 doesn’t make her weep

she starts the race at the finish line

how does that give me enough time

she’s the angel, yet i’m the one who’s dying

i wish she were dead, getting by without even trying

i wish i could be her, just for a day

maybe then all my problems would go away

Heather, Heather and Heather

won’t someone just tell her

i wish i could look like her

live like her

shut up Heather;

sorry Heather.

think like her

drink like her

i’ll groan and moan

but she’ll forever remain on the throne

talk like her

walk like her

born into intangible royalty

i crave her immunity

i wish i were better.

i wish i were Heather

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The Dragon of


Amy Mo

The Dragon of Interpretations: The stoic and plain dragon encourages you to add your own flare to him.

He is open to interpretations since he knows everyone's perspectives are different.






Joyce Huang

Blurry window. Iridescent dots loitered on it lazily, swaying with the irregular stops and starts of the

car. Droplets of rain crowded the glass, jostling quietly for space and trailing broken radiance behind them.

Outside are the city lights -- they’re always alight and shining, unlike the stars who never keep their word.

I leaned against the car window, staring out. The night’s view was made picturesque by

the rain. This seemingly colorless liquid had the magical capability to paint the most vivid and dreamy scenes.

Colors stood out in the dark -- though they were in dim light, they somehow seemed more striking than usual.

Even the most miniscule amount of brightness was amplified, reflected by and glinting in wavering puddles

and flashing shop windows. They crisscrossed and intertwined to weave a web of light in the night.

The sight of the bright night comforted me. Head against the window, the rain’s

murmuring? A lullaby resonated through my skull. It was during moments like these when I felt true leisure

and serenity. The noise and movements from outside surrounded me, fragments from the ordinary

lives of thousands of people putting together this picture of a city. The car drove silently through this picture:

so separate and undisturbed it almost seemed ghost-like. Inside the car was an entirely different world

-- peaceful and still, like everything’s been frozen by the snap of a camera. What does the photo look like? A

play of spinning rays against calm shadows, rain-smudged lights painting a picture of contentment and hope.

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Purple Grain

A girl and her purple umbrella head down Main Street on a rainy night in Vancouver.

This photo is reminiscent of a grainy still from an old movie.

By Vanessa Chan




Vessels of


By Jenalyn Ng

“Plant pots sustain the life

of a plant and similarly,

bodies are like vessels for

the soul.”


“These six ceramic

plant pots were made

in response to the

unrealistic beauty

standards often

wrought by social


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“While the pots may

differ in appearance,

they all serve the same

purpose: to foster life.

They are reminders

that all bodies are incredibly

beautiful regardless

of shape or


“When working with

ceramics, at every single

stage, a piece may explode

in the kiln, warp, crack or

break so I have to remind

myself not to get to attached

to my work until it’s

completely finished. This

uncertainty also adds to the

fun of working with clay—

you never knowwhat you’re

going to get until it’s done!”




6ft apart by Amelia Lim

After the


Aleksandra Vujisic

A fter the rain

unfinished conversations remain

and painful words and broken things

and the colours are shedding

on white shirts with imperfect


After the rain

you ache for what is left after

being a friend,

after the rain

unfinished negotiations remain

on where does that portrait with

your image end.

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Isabella Demianczuk

This painting is of our beloved family dog Cooper who likes to spend his

days lounging in the sun and sleeping on the couch. The subject of the

piece was chosen as it conveys tranquility. This ultimately serves as a reminder

that like Cooper, we must remember the importance of slowing

down, basking in the sun, and enjoying the simple things in life.




Mary Mary

Mary Mary is convinced all humans are inherently evil.

Nevermind that the town mayor always greets her, strolling leisurely

down the streets as she hustles her way to school, long

braids trailing behind and whacking unfortunate passersby in the

face. She ignores the cheerful comments about the weather, mistrustful

of his words, thinking the mayor only bothers to be nice

in order to convince the townspeople to elect him again the next

year. Anyways, the mayor will definitely have to try harder than

that, especially with the smith’s son gaining popularity and fans.

Once Mary Mary is safely at school, just in time

for the warning bell, Ms. Paisley leads the class into the rust

brick building and begins their daily nursery rhymes. She

smiles at the matching toothy grins of the class; but to Mary

Mary, those artificial smiles are only the result of her obligation

as an elementary school teacher, and nothing more.

Call Mary Mary a pessimist if you will, everyone else

quite agrees. She spends her days underneath the shade of an

oak tree and amidst the red dahlias of the school yard, declining

every and all invitations from kind-hearted classmates, who

gawk at her isolation. Oh well. Mary Mary has always fervently

believed that all people MUST have a motive, and this doubt has

protected her through her eight years on this planet. No one

bothers to be nice to others without badgering for some gain.

On Wednesday, Mary Mary has to undergo a fatiguing

examination during health checkup day at her school. Distrustful

of the warm smiles on the faces of nurses and doctors,

she longs for the shade and comfort in her hovel of a bedroom,

where she spends her days in the company of her books and television.

As the line in front of her thins and declines, Mary Mary

cynically remarks to the chatty, nervous boy behind her that

“the principle only mandates this check-up to ensure there isn’t

a surplus of corpses going towards the already brimming cemetery

in town.” It effectively frightens him into awkward silence.

Emily Li

for cavities and her gums for signs of rot. The nurse

then hands Mary Mary an apple sticker as she hurriedly

ushers her out, both adults cringing as the child dramatically

flicks her prize into the nearest grey garbage can.

Mary Mary grins at their wincing faces and smirks as the

boy behind her shuffles reluctantly towards the makeshift clinic.

The next day, our gnarly protagonist wanders around the

library, waiting for the librarian who seems to aid every child but

her. Probably because Mary Mary insulted her polka-dot glasses

the last time she visited. That came back to bite her when the picture

books section managed to elude Mary Mary for the past thirty

minutes. She sighs in exasperation and wails towards the ceiling,

with heavy beams skeletal, as if asking for some divine guidance.

Mary Mary then returns to earth and mutters, “Picture books.

Picture books. Picture books,” repeatedly under her breath like

an obsessed maniac, scanning fervently through the shelves,

until a short tug at her elbow sleeve startled her into pause.

Mary Mary turned around and stared down her nose at

a young boy with wide eyes, a chocolate-smeared chin, wearing

faded denim overalls and a sailor’s bonnet.

“Hey miss? Um, I heard you were looking for the picture

books section?”

She scrutinizes and surmises, thinking he must be in

hopes of earning some candy or popcorn, but follows the young

child through the winding walls of book spine patterns until they

reach a bright yellow sign that proudly proclaims, “Early Readers

Section.” Right underneath are the long-sought books.

As Mary Mary’s eyes light up in excitement, she turns

towards the boy to ask his terms of recompensation, only to discover

the aisle empty and the boy gone, elusive as a trace of wind.

As Mary Mary is led into the makeshift clinic in the middle

of the school’s gym, she makes sure to glare daggers at the matronly

nurse and stomps towards the doctor with a dark frown on her

lips. She sits down on the spindly chair with a small plop and snorts

like a bull before leveling her gaze at the doctor. Under her judging

gaze, the young doctor shifts, self-conscious, as Mary Mary crosses

her arms and wrinkles her nose in distaste. Doctor Pleura, brown

hair gelled against their skull, takes out a clipboard and measures

her height and weight. Then, shining a light within

Mary Mary’s mouth, Doctor Pleura checks her teeth

Mary Mary wonders, what was his motive?

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Space by Margaret Kuts

star-crossed lovers

Sofia Rocha Zandbergen

sun so bright,

so powerful, yet he

can’t even reach his moon.

he tries so hard,

he shines so bright,

but he rules the day

and she the night

it’s like they were destined for doom.

meeting only for an eclipse,

there’s not even enough time

for the two to touch lips.

moon so supreme

causing the tide,

the highs and lows,

whilst hopping to catch a gleam

of her lover before he goes.

knowing she’ll never be his bride.

knowing their love is only from a far.

still, the sun longs for his moon.

still, the moon wishes upon her star.

Space by Margaret Kuts




luminous by Amelia Lim


By Grace Du

Aleksandra Vujisic

Sometimes I hide into the yellow leaves

and I erase the memories of grey days.

The sun is looking at me, worried,

and it sends me songs and birds,

singing of the new ways.

And like that, hidden in the golden silence,

I put days together like old mosaics,

tired of the art I make

I push the moon through darkness,

fearing the daylight, splendid and fake.

Sometimes I hide in what I remember,

counting the poems written by wind,

waving to birds lined on a wire.

The autumn leaves burn on the ground,

but the rain will stop the fire,

the rain will stop the fire.

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the power

of love

Sayde Shuster

“These art pieces were

created to display the

diversity in families in

our society,”

“... and highlight that

families are not

defined by people,

but rather by the love

that is shared between




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of Rain

Amy Mo

“As rain falls onto the

trees, it brings vibrant

colours and calmness.

The colours shift easily as

one's perspective and

mood change. Some trees

look closer, while others

are more hidden. The rain

brings meanings and

colours to all.”




Freedom by Margaret Kuts

Ordinary July poem

Aleksandra Vujisic

I am tearing apart yesterday

like a coupon from newspapers

waiting for the main prize

waiting to get hit by happiness


like Rain

falls onto my palms

I don’t have time

for ordinary

I live in the rhyme

I am tossing and turning at night

like if I didn’t know

that a day will come

when I will return

the debt to the Earth

and fit into plan

32 www.pluvialitmag.com



Editor in Chief and Founder:

Maggie Yang


Joyce Huang

Emily Li


Kelly Lau

Emily Lau

Sidney Low

Nina Tsai

Serena Wang

Emma Wei

Jolin Yu




Vanessa Chan is a grade 12 student at

York House School. Writing is both a

creative and emotional outlet for her—

one that she has always loved but begun

practicing more frequently this past year.

In her free time, she enjoys taking photos

of her friends, meeting cats of all kinds,

going on walks to the beach, and baking

almond cookies.



Isabella Demianczuk was first introduced

to art through school in Grade Eight, and

immediately fell in love with the subject.

The last three years have been fundamental

to her development as an artist, and

she credits her art teachers for nourishing

and encouraging her passion. Isabella’s

favorite medium is acrylic paints, as she

finds them easy to manipulate and quick

to dry. Isabella favours these characteristics

as they allow her to make sudden

changes, and add a painterly effect to her

pieces. In the future, Isabella will be pursuing

art through an AP art course, and

perhaps even a career in the industry.





Joyce has been fascinated by stories ever

since she was little, and she grew up

spending much of her free time reading

and writing. She likes fiction in general,

but her all-time favorite genre is fantasy.

She loves creative writing -- from creating

short stories and poems to simply describing

things, she finds them all immensely

enjoyable. She hopes to continue exploring

the beauty of languages and storytelling

throughout her high school career.



Margaret Elizabeth Kuts was born on

a very lovely Thanksgiving weekend of

2006 in Vancouver the largest city of the

beautiful British Columbia, Canada which

many people believe to be the best place

on Earth. After graduating French immersion

elementary school with straight A

grades she was accepted to enriched Mini

program for highly motivated students at

Vancouver Point Grey secondary school

and wholeheartedly loves it. She's been

student council representative of her class

since the first year. In 2021 Margaret

graduated Vancouver Japanese Language

School Fundamental program.She speak

4 languages: English, Russian, French,

and Japanese and is thinking of learnings

more. She particularly loves art and crafts,

horses and horseback riding, and rhythmic

gymnastics, where she is National

level junior athlete, preparing for being

National Senior next season and hoping to

represent Canada at the Olympic Games

one day. You can find more information

about her hobbies, interests, contests,

competitions, awards and achievements at






Emily is an almost-9th-grader who

enjoys fawning at her pet bunny and

eating chicken nuggets. However,

lately she feels her memory is deteriorating

and thinks she should sleep

more to not only boost her memory,

but also to hopefully grow taller, as

this world is a world of giants.



Amelia Lim is a high school student

from Canada. She loves to express herself

through writing and reciting poetry,

for she believes it is an excellent way to

let your emotions out. Amelia's

writing is inspired by the music she

listens to and the issues she feels most

passionate about. Most notably, whenever

she is angry or upset, she likes to

channel that energy into her writing.



Divya Mehrish is a writer and student at

Stanford University. Her writing has

appeared in or is forthcoming in many

journals, including Sojourners, PANK,

Coastal Shelf, and Amtrak's magazine

The National. She is intrigued by the

intersections of the written word with

nature, politics, scientific innovation,

and the visual and performing arts.



Amy Mo is an outgoing, responsible,

and caring girl who loves reading,

drawing, figure skating, and music. She

is currently a student at Point Grey Mini

Secondary School. Her favourite books

are Lord of the Flies, Never Let Me Go,

and Pride and Prejudice.



Jenalyn Ng is a seventeen-year-old

student attending Point Grey Secondary

School. Her friends, family and faith are

valued dearly by her. In her free time,

she enjoys going on bike rides around

the city, tending to her many houseplants,

watching anime or dreaming

about returning to the ceramics studio

at her school. Her dream, fueled by her

love of plants and pots, is to one day

open up a plant store in conjunction

with a ceramics studio but considering

how spontaneous her interests and

passions redirect, it will be a surprise to

see where she ends up!





Sofia Rocha Zandbergen is a fifteenyear-old

Vancouverite who likes reading

and writing and basking in the sunlight.



Millie Sharman is a young writer with a

passion for poetry. She loves exploring

complex concepts - such as the passage

of time - through her writing, tackling

each blank page with a different




Sayde is a mental health advocate that

creates art to promote diversity, inclusion,

mental health awareness and positive

body image. Sayde enjoys spending

her time reading, watching sunsets,

cooking and making flower bouquets.

She has both a cat and a dog at home,

and enjoys playing and cuddling with

her furry friends. Sayde is looking

foward to graduating high school this

year, and going into the field of psychology

in the future.



Nina is currently a tenth-grade student

attending the mini program at Point

Grey Secondary School. When she isn't

procrastinating at home, you could

probably find Nina at the skating rink or

practicing piano. She likes to spend her

free time reading a book (and realizing

an hour later she spaced out) or trying

to tutor her little brother.



Aleksandra Lekić Vujisić (Podgorica,

Montenegro, 1979) is a professor of

English language and a passionate writer

of prose and poetry for children and

grownups. She participated in

festivals across Europe and her work

have won prizes and acknowledgments.

Aleksandra writes in her native language

and English, and her poetry has been

translated in Italian, Spanish, and

Chinese. Starting from 2021, she is

a member of the national Association

of Montenegrin authors for youth and




Cynthia is thrilled and honoured to be

a part of this magazine. She is an avid

writer who enjoys writing anything from

essays to screenplays to short stories.

Aside from writing, you can find her

dedicating her time to another passion,

Theatre and acting in/reading plays.

Cynthia is going into her second year

at University of British Columbia

studying Biochemistry and is excited to

be furthering her skills in both science

and arts fields.



Elaine is a student at Lord Byng Mini

School. She is in the visual arts program

and has a passion for creating her own

characters, as well as making up stories.

She also animates alongside drawing,

and enjoys making playlists for her art







December 10, 2021

34 www.pluvialitmag.com



Pluvia is an international literary magazine

dedicated to amplifying ripples of creativity

formed by young voices through literature

and the arts.





Pluvia means rain in Latin. Inspired by rain’s

beauty and ethereality, and by how it is often

disregarded and lost in the scheme of life,

Pluvia was established to bring light to the

overlooked feelings and opinions of young

people, uplifting voices that were once lost in

the tumultuous waves of life and identity.





AUG 2021

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