ISSUE I SUMMER 2021
POETRY | PROSE | ART
Rising Upon by Nina Tsai
PLUVIA LITERARY MAGAZINE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
For advertising or sponsor inquiries, email firstname.lastname@example.org
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.
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
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.
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
another ring forms slowly
and their thick trunks rest in
perpetual anticipation of an axe
By Maggie Yang
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.
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.
I did not want to leave.
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
In a vast ocean.
I’ll have to live in
the Unknown, the strange
So goodbye Familiar, and
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
“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?
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
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.
By Grace Du
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.
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.
A Way Out
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
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;
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
The Dragon of
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.
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.
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
By Jenalyn Ng
“Plant pots sustain the life
of a plant and similarly,
bodies are like vessels for
“These six ceramic
plant pots were made
in response to the
wrought by social
“While the pots may
differ in appearance,
they all serve the same
purpose: to foster life.
They are reminders
that all bodies are incredibly
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
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.
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 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.
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
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?
Space by Margaret Kuts
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
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.
“These art pieces were
created to display the
diversity in families in
“... and highlight that
families are not
defined by people,
but rather by the love
that is shared between
“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
I am tearing apart yesterday
like a coupon from newspapers
waiting for the main prize
waiting to get hit by happiness
falls onto my palms
I don’t have time
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
I S S U E I
Editor in Chief and Founder:
PROSE & PHOTOGRAPHY
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
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.
POETRY & PHOTOGRAPHY
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.
POETRY & ART
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
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
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.
PLUVIA LIT MAG