Writers Unblocked Issue 3

WRITERS UNBLOCKED 

VOL. 1/NO. 3

INTRODUCTION 

We are thrilled to share our third annual curated compilation of poetry, fiction, 

narration and so much more! What an absolute joy it has been at the Writing Circle, 

where budding and accomplished writers come together each month to celebrate, 

nurture, and push their creative aspirations, just a little further. Our Circle 

continues to grow and we are grateful to the Libraries for hosting and nurturing the 

germ of an idea that has blossomed into something we deeply care about. 

Writing is one thing. Writing to share with others, another. It requires a leap of faith 

and often, a platform. Writer’s Unblocked started as an effort to bring latent writing 

skills to the fore and our third edition reflects just that – an expressive streak, a 

sense of warmth, the genuine intent to share with one another, an honest attempt, 

curiosity that knows no bounds, a will to persist and the willingness to share and 

be acknowledged for it. 

Indulge, as our writers take you on an imaginative and reflective tour - from coffee 

in Kigali, to orange peeling, to reflections from the Mother’s womb. You can choose 

to hear spoken words or read through poetic expressions that are sure to make 

you pause and ponder. Dig deeper into the meanings of ‘success’, or discover the 

power of Kitchisippi. Perhaps you enjoy pets or you may have encountered a terrific 

set of twins, or just reminisce about memories bygone, or caught in the midst of 

a storm even! This edition is a vibrant patchwork with unique flavours, colours 

and moods. 

Writers Unblocked would not have been possible without our returning copy editor, 

and student graduate from SCMAD’s professional writing program, Shannon Attard 

and our colleague Gosha Trzaski who gracefully anchors and patiently steers 

the Circle each year. This publication stays true to its intent, to offer unhinged, 

uninhibited and unblocked versions of our truest selves... we hope you enjoy 

reading it as much as we did compiling it for you! 

By Sowmya Kishore

LAND ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

Centennial College is proud to be a part of a rich history of education in this 

province and in this city. We acknowledge that we are on the treaty lands and 

territory of the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation and pay tribute to their 

legacy and the legacy of all First Peoples of Canada, as we strengthen ties with 

the communities we serve and build the future through learning and through our 

graduates. Today the traditional meeting place of Toronto is still home to many 

Indigenous People from across Turtle Island and we are grateful to have the 

opportunity to work in the communities that have grown in the treaty lands of 

the Mississaugas. We acknowledge that we are all treaty people and accept our 

responsibility to honour all our relations.

TABLE OF CONTENTS 

How Do You Define Success? by Shirley Merith 2 

A Week of Reflection in Kigali: 

Coffee and Companionship by K. Jane Burpee 3 

Times Two by Sowmya Kishore 6 

Insubstantial Chains of Self-Criticism by Catherine Raine 10 

Poems by Srishta Chopra 12 

Kitchisippi by Lana Findlay (Durst) 14 

Stories by Cathy Schlender 16 

Ode to Our Cavies by Alice Hsiung 18 

In my Mother’s Womb by Priti Parikh 20 

Orange Peeling by Renée M. Sgroi 22 

A Writing Story by Philip Alalibo 23 

Poems by Brian Roberts 24 

Copyright Information 26 

Thank You 27 

WRITERS UNBLOCKED VOL. 1/NO. 3 

1

HOW DO YOU DEFINE SUCCESS? 

BY SHIRLEY MERITH, Professor | School of Hospitality, Tourism and Culinary Arts 

DEFINING SUCCESS IS DEEPLY PERSONAL AND 

VARIES GREATLY FROM PERSON TO PERSON. 

There is no universal standard that applies to 

everyone. While some may equate success with 

material possessions like large homes, boats, 

and fancy cars, others find success in everyday 

accomplishments, such as waking up worry free, or 

in more challenging ones, like locating a long-lost 

family member after years of searching. Success 

has no timeline or measure, it just has to be 

something that assists you in constructing a life 

that fills you with pride and satisfaction. 

Success can also manifest as a journey guided by 

individual values and priorities. It encompasses 

personal growth, diverse viewpoints, and passion. 

One is more inclined to achieve success in 

endeavours that captivate and fulfill them. Even if 

the initial goal isn’t reached, success can still be 

attained through meaningful efforts. The essence 

of success is multifaceted and continually evolving, 

which is why not everyone seeks it in a big way, 

given the expectations and responsibilities it 

entails, which can often be arduous to fulfill. 

One could argue that society often conditions 

individuals to compare success with wealth, power, 

or status. Yet, how many of those who attain such 

markers find genuine contentment? For many, 

the pursuit of more becomes insatiable. In the 

autobiographies of affluent figures, a common 

theme emerges, their riches often come at the 

expense of personal relationships, like family 

and friendships. Moreover, many public figures 

frequently admit discomfort with the constant 

facade they must maintain. Furthermore, 

possessing abundant wealth loses its significance 

when one lacks good health. No amount of riches 

or success can substitute for the vitality and wellbeing 

that accompanies good health. 

With each passing generation, the notion of 

success transforms. In today’s context, particularly 

within the realm of social media, success is 

frequently associated with the magnitude of one’s 

online presence across platforms like Facebook, 

Instagram, YouTube, or TikTok. Moreover, personal 

satisfaction often hinges on the quantity of 

“Followers and Likes”, potentially positioning roles 

such as influencer or gamer as viable career paths. 

Nevertheless, I can’t help but ponder the challenge 

posed by the persistent pressure to maintain this 

status quo, even as individuals evolve beyond 

this phase. While they may achieve success in 

certain domains, it often comes at the expense of 

increased anxiety and sadness, especially when 

the foothold they once held on their followers 

diminishes. 

I’ve frequently noticed individuals discussing their 

achievements in different environments such as 

buses, restaurants, or workplaces. Usually, one 

person proudly recounts their successes, while 

the other might react with a discreet eye roll or a 

courteous nod. The speaker aims to impress and 

highlight their accomplishments, whilst the listener 

either is envious or simply doesn’t care to hear it. 

Sometimes, celebrating someone’s success can 

be uplifting and exhausting within my social circle. 

This mixed experience stems from several factors, 

such as how humble they were with sharing their 

success, and how they make you feel about it. 

Supportive individuals who motivate you to pursue 

your goals, drawing from their own experiences, are 

invaluable allies. This stands in contrast to those 

who solely aim to impress you or undermine your 

ambitions and accomplishments. 

I recall a chat with someone where I mentioned 

my involvement with a women’s group and 

being successfully offered the role of committee 

leader. Rather than receiving encouragement, the 

other person inquired as to whether I was being 

compensated for it. Upon hearing my response 

of no, they questioned my motivation. Their 

perspective on achievement revolves solely around 

financial gain, disregarding the intrinsic value of 

social engagement and voluntary contributions. 

2 WRITERS UNBLOCKED VOL. 1/NO. 3

During a different chat with a dear friend, she 

confided in me expressing her belief that success 

was beyond her reach. Curious, I inquired further, 

and she elaborated, citing her routine job, modest 

car, simple attire, and limited social circle as 

reasons for her sentiment. Her remarks caught 

me off guard. She seemed to equate success 

solely with visible markers, overlooking the 

significant achievements she’d quietly amassed. 

As we conversed further, I recounted her 

accomplishments since we’d met. She’d earned her 

degree, raised her son single-handedly, purchased 

her own home, navigated a job loss after fifteen 

years with resilience, and even managed to 

squeeze in a few trips along the way. In due time, 

she shifted her negative mindset and rediscovered 

aspects she had long overlooked. Ultimately, she 

proclaimed her success in life’s journey, realizing 

she had been viewing it through the wrong lens all 

along. 

Some of these may align with your definition of 

success: 

• Recovering from a serious illness 

• Moving to a new country and starting over 

• Finding your way out of a bad relationship, 

whether it’s a friendship or a romantic one 

• Leaving a career that you thought you 

would love forever 

• Starting your own business 

Success, to me, means independence from relying 

on others. It’s the assurance of steering my own 

path and enjoying peace of mind. I refuse to be 

burdened by comparisons with others or societal 

expectations. Satisfaction stems from personal 

achievements, visible or not, with or without 

financial gain. Ultimately, it’s about embracing 

authenticity and finding contentment in the life I 

lead. It’s about finding joy in laughter, cherishing 

life’s little moments, extending kindness to others, 

and recognizing that even if you’ve contributed to 

someone’s happiness, no matter how small, you 

have done something meaningful that ultimately 

brings enriched success. 

As you journey through life’s twists and turns, 

pause occasionally to ponder your definition of 

success. You might be astonished by the many 

accomplishments you’ve attained, even if they’re 

not readily apparent to those around you. Embrace 

each small triumph with a smile, and refrain from 

comparing yourself to others. Focus on your own 

path and journey with the utmost confidence. 

“Success is liking yourself, 

liking what you do, and liking 

how you do it.” 

– Maya Angelou 

• Beating an addiction 

• Raising a family 

• Having life long friendships 

• Having a passion 

• Finding another job after being let go 

• Getting a promotion 

• Graduating from any educational program 

• Having the courage to say “No” especially 

to those you love the most 

• Making a difference in someone else’s life 

• Being a good and unselfish person 

• Not being afraid to stand up for yourself 

SHIRLEY MERITH 


3


A WEEK OF REFLECTION IN KIGALI: 

COFFEE AND COMPANIONSHIP 

BY K. JANE BURPEE, Director | Library and Learning Centre 

I TOOK A RECENT JOURNEY TO KIGALI, 

Rwanda to reconnect with a dear friend who now 

calls this vibrant city home. Kigali, with its rolling 

hills and bustling streets, offers a perfect backdrop 

of warmth and hospitality for reconnecting with 

my friend. The city is on the move — safe and 

bustling. Construction is everywhere, adding to the 

sense of dynamism. Among the city’s charms are 

its beautiful cafés, which my friend and I explored 

together, each one offering a peaceful haven where 

time seems to slow down. 

As we wandered, I couldn’t help but absorb the 

Kigali energy and spirit. Cafés are filled with the 

aroma of freshly brewed delicious coffee. Each stop 

became our backdrop to catch up, share stories, 

people watch, and soak in the ambiance of these 

beautiful and unique, indoor-outdoor spaces. 

Cafés seem to double as offices for many, with 

many laptops open, buzzing conversations, and an 

entrepreneurial spirit in the air. 

Tutsi in 1994, a period of immense sorrow and loss 

for the country. It is a day to pause and remember 

the atrocities that took place, and honour the 

resilience, courage, and strength of the Rwandan 

people who are rebuilding their nation with dignity 

and peace. 

Spending a week in Kigali deepened my respect for 

human resilience and renewal. The city teaches the 

importance of remembering the past while moving 

forward with hope and innovation. Rwandans show 

great strength and a deep capacity for healing, 

revealing a world of possibilities. A piece of my 

heart will forever be attached to beautiful Rwanda. 

In addition to the moments spent in Kigali’s 

cafés, we took time to explore. My friend took me 

to an essential visit to the Genocide Memorial 

and also to the Kandt Museum of Rwanda. The 

Kandt provided fascinating insights into the nation 

before colonization. There was also a visit to the 

Nyamirambo Women’s Collective, explorations of 

art galleries, culinary delights, and live music at 

the Repub Lounge, Heaven, and Hotel des Mille 

Collines, known to many from its movie depiction 

as “Hotel Rwanda.” My friend, who is both a private 

chef and a yoga instructor, recommended that we 

spend an afternoon at a food truck event called 

Taste Kigali. It turned out to be a lot of fun. 

Writing this on April 7, a day of profound 

significance in Rwanda, adds a layer of reflection 

to my visit. April 7, 2024 marks the 30th year of 

the commencement of the genocide against the 

K. JANE BURPEE 


5

TIMES TWO 

multiple jumps, 

multiple joy 

BY SOWMYA KISHORE, Faculty 

School of Hospitality, Tourism 

and Culinary Arts 

“Gosh, ma, we already fed this one! 

Give me the other!” 

I was mildly exasperated as I called out in complete 

exhaustion to my mom, who was just as confused 

as I was. 

“What do you mean? I thought I handed 

you Baby A,” she tried to reason, shuffling through 

the bundle she had. She was trying to make sense 

of the routined nonsense in the space we liked to 

call ‘nursery’. 

But it was more like ‘mother dairy’. 

Me chained to the glider, half asleep, trying to 

nurse the bundle at hand, while the other would be 

tackled with a bottle by grandma, at the same time. 

We had built an intentional, beautiful rhythm in a 

way that would have us all up and about each time 

either of the babies woke up, and that would mean 

trying to sync her twin to the same cycle. This would 

allow the entire group an hour or two of rest, before 

it started all over again. Nights and days merged 

subliminally. With this very poetic plan in place, the 

outcome was often chaotic, comedic and circus 

like. My circadian rhythm was being retro-fitted, 

special order, by my offspring. 

This specific situation had fully woken us up, as 

we frantically swapped bundles. We could have 

continued because Baby B was always more 

compliant, so long as she was filled up. But it was 

her twin, the sly little one, always protesting her 

way to me somehow. So we had to ensure a swift 

exchange after double checking their faces as 

best as we could, to keep the balance and not let 

one take over the scene like this. Nope. Not on 

our sleepy watch. With my first child, the entire 

household slept straight through, after he hit the 

three month mark. I haven’t yet slept that sound 

ever after my girls. Nature has a funny way of 

getting even. 

Suggestions were aplenty for fixing such a kerfuffle 

of telling the two apart: “use post its, paint their 

toenails different colours, use specific colours for 

each.” None of that works. Trust me. They were 

fraternal, yet they looked like identical twins. 

When you’re trying to battle body and mind aches, 

sleepless nights, brain freeze, a grandma who 

insists she’s right or has forgotten the order, or a 

half ignored older toddler who fills your heart with 

a bucket load of guilt, even a glow in the dark timer 

that magically lights up the belly of the correct 

hungry twin would not have caught my draining 

attention. I could only rely on my instinct, which was 

just about there, most times. 

Going with the flow was one possible and practical 

way I realized. At least, in the early days. There was 

never really a set formula and the catch phrase 

monkey see monkey do couldn’t have been truer. 

What happened once, was about to happen again, 

if not within the minute, in the hours or days that 

followed, for sure. This was applicable to hitting 

milestones, germ sharing, exploring or just plain 

mimicking silly moves. I’m not quite sure how I 

managed to capture some ridiculous moments live 

or via still photography, but I am glad I did. When 

we have a ‘baby pictures’ session once in a while, I 

recall those moments fondly and wonder when that 

happened? They all seem a blur in hindsight. The 

first few years were most definitely a daze. Thank 

heavens for a year of maternity leave. I’d gladly 

argue that with multiples one deserves a year and 

a half maternity leave, if not double that time, just 

to feel human again. 

With my first born I had the energy and new parent 

spirit to take him for mom and baby aqua fitness 

when he was only a few months old. It was a 

great way to see him snooze after the therapeutic 

session. With the girls, if I could manage a shower 

without either or both of them waking, crawling to 

the shower stall door or avoiding any accident, it 

was an everyday victory of sorts. Their favourite, 

and cutest, ritual was talking to one another 

across their cribs after naptime. Upon hearing 

the babbles, big bro and I would quietly creep to a 


slightly open door, take a peek and watch them do 

their baby talk. As they grew, I had to ask one to 

translate what the other said, because I’d have a 

hard time comprehending the gibberish. But they 

understood each other perfectly well. After all, 

they had spent quality time together since being in 

the fetal position. They had an unsaid connection, 

knowing exactly what the order of play should be, 

without speaking a word, just using body language, 

signs and emotions. And it continues to this day. 

Second born are survivors. 

“They are not here for permission, just for 

information,” my mom would remind me. 

Absolutely. She should know, she’s last. First 

born may win a prize for pleasing everyone and 

upholding world peace. I should know, I’m the older 

one. Younger siblings are usually meant to remind 

their older ones of their jobs, actually, giving them 

a job, while they go about wreaking havoc in the 

most subtle ways. And we had two of the kind here. 

This invariably involved discovering genius activities 

like jumping on the dishwasher door to test for 

bounciness. Or emptying the petroleum jelly jar 

onto their bodies and floor to have a slip and slide 

session. Or deftly climbing out of their cribs, onto 

the diaper change table and then the floor, like it 

was a specially designed jungle gym just for them 

(actually, that may have well been the start to their 

competitive gymnastics training). Or walking on all 

fours, in reverse, around the kitchen island, one 

behind the other until they were completely dizzy 

and fell down, one after the other. They looked like 

drunken little monks, up to no good. Lots of broken 

toys, items and damaged or lost objects later, I 

concluded, so long as no one is hurt, the harmless 

hunger games can go on. 

They knew how to entertain themselves, they didn’t 

necessarily need toys, just themselves. Baby B 

would treat her twin like a toy, tasting her finger 

or toe, egging her on, asking her to join in. Baby 

A was anointed Queen Victoria, she was used to 

calling shots while Baby B, the obedient worker ant 

followed simple orders and kept busy. It was like 

watching an old Chaplin movie, played to the famed 

Modern Times soundtrack and loosely 

close-captioned as below: 

Baby B: gingerly poised on a stool, strategically 

reaching for the cookie jar 

Baby A: busy sucking her thumb, comfortably 

seated on her favourite green Playskool throne 

Baby B: signaling to Queen V with a wave, “This is 

yum, would you like one?” 

Baby A: no big movement, thumb still intact, a 

slight nod, back to business, awaiting room service 

Baby B: overwhelmed at having received the go 

ahead to grab another bite, eagerly brings it home 

Baby A: decides to taste, approves, continues to 

warm the chair 

Cue music: “we are family... I got all my sisters 

with me...” 

It was a strange but funny dynamic they shared. 

Just that ten years on and it’s like they switched 

personalities, or maybe Tween B is now seeking 

sweet revenge for years of bonded labour and 

Tween A has resigned to being told off. 


7

Having multiples after a single basically amounts 

to many deja vu elements. You know there’s 

going to be endless diapers, many bottles, lots of 

patience, juggling with sleep, chores and building 

a new routine. All of that, twice over essentially. 

The first time we decided to go for a drive was one 

I will never forget. We timed ourselves to see how 

it would unfold. Twenty minutes later, we were still 

on the driveway, both babies loaded in their car 

seats, one being fed, one being cleaned, big bro 

patiently waiting for the car to start, showing mild 

restlessness. We may have managed a five minute 

actual drive, because by then, I was ready to return 

home. How was this ever going to work out, I asked 

myself? How was I supposed to grocery shop, run 

errands, do drops and picks, go for a walk or even 

do nothing? 

By the end of the year, I could have published a 

book and signed autographs. I had discovered new 

arm muscles, lifting two car seats at the same 

time. When folks would offer help, I’d argue plain 

facts: “Thank you, but it helps me retain better 

balance.” I had become a pro in selecting stores 

that had buggy space for two infants. I knew trails 

and pavements that would accommodate a double 

stroller like the back of my hand. I could go up and 

down the stairs carrying them like pups, with their 

body hanging behind. This sight would leave a lot 

of family and friends aghast, but the animal-like 

clutch was a lot safer and easy on my back. I had 

started using my feet to pick things up, who knew! I 

guess the experience gave me more resilience, not 

to forget flexibility and thinking impromptu, all the 

time, every time. Yes, for some strange reason, less 

sleep meant making the most of small rest periods 

and being more alert, be it day or night. 

It was a bit nuts, but like I told many, I didn’t know 

better. I once jokingly remarked to my then ten-yearold 

son, “If I had had your sisters first, I wouldn’t 

have had you.” 

“Thank you, mom,” came his calm response. 

The relationship he shares with his sisters has 

grown from being sweet innocence to more casual 

given their respective growing up years. The first 

day he went back to school since they had arrived, 

he was afraid they’d forget him. 

He ran back to their faces, looked them in the eye 

and asked, “It’s me, I’m back, do you remember 

me?” 

It was priceless. Cut to a few years ago when he 

had gotten slightly tired of one of them being 

annoying and casually remarked to her at the 

dinner table, “I hate to break this to you, but you 

were adopted.” I was left to do damage control. 

They hero worship their brother in a weird sort 

of way. From following him around, to snooping 

around his room in his absence, to mocking and 

roasting him these days, to genuinely caring for 

his well being when he’s out late or ribbing him if 

he had a date for his first ever semi-formals. On his 

part, the protective side hasn’t let go. It was more 

about being attentive to their daily needs. Now it’s 

worldly advice, peppered with occasional sarcasm 

to put them in their place while they roll their eyes 

and defy the sermonizing. Constant power play. 

With a dash of hormones thrown in. I’m hoping 

it won’t change. It makes for good arm chair 

entertainment. 

Girls can be known to have a thicker bond as 

siblings. I for one, am lucky and do, with my own 

younger sister. The sharing of space, belongings, 

clothing and just the insane inexplicable moments 

are one of a kind. These two arrived a minute apart 

into this world and have pretty much shared most 

things in,around and outside the house. I was guilty 

of dressing them alike as well. Blame it on the 

identical gifts we got - clothes, toys, objects. 

All in twos. I’ll admit it though, it was cute. 

And easy. Why rack your brains when you throw 

on the same or similar coordinated outfits and 

matching accessories and they don’t even know 

how to protest. Or so I thought. Until one day, 

Baby A, the fashionista, decided she wanted what 

her sister was wearing. It was the most astonishing 

noncooperation movement at play. Gandhi would 

have been proud. She wouldn’t budge until 

I swapped out clothes from Baby B, who couldn’t 

care less. Today, it’s the opposite. What goes 

around, comes around? 

It took a giant leap of faith to have them 

purposefully separated in elementary school in the 

new year, so they continue to blossom into their 


own personalities. Not to mention, dealing with 

the aftermath of two parent teacher meetings, 

two sets of homework, two different teaching and 

learning styles and what happens when one gets 

invited to a friend’s birthday party and the other 

does not. The last piece continues to play a key role 

in scheduling conflicts and emotional turmoil from 

a parental perspective. They also have a shared 

passion for the same sport. So when one wins but 

the other doesn’t, it’s the hardest pill to swallow 

and I have to share that bitterness with them. The 

competition is good for their body, mind and soul 

but the desired outcomes don’t always play out 

evenly. Such is life. We have learned that we can’t 

always split things down the middle, like we do their 

fruit or freezie. They have a rack full of hardware, 

an accomplishment we are all immensely proud 

of and it’s a life lesson, whether they choose to 

continue the journey solo or together. It’s hard to 

explain. They need each other, yet they need to 

not have each other and learn to cope with and 

without. They have grown together, shared secrets 

and still need to translate the nuances I don’t quite 

get fully at times. 

It’s very different from just being a sibling, it’s a 

little more than that. It’s special. Beyond mere peas 

in a pod. It’s half of your intertwined spirit as nature 

meant it to be, times the other half that makes you 

who you are. 

For me, it’s all of that, times two. 

SOWMYA KISHORE 


9


INSUBSTANTIAL CHAINS 

OF SELF-CRITICISM 

BY CATHERINE RAINE, English Tutor Lead | English Tutoring Centre (SELS) 

At nine o’clock in the morning, serrated leaves 

by the fence receive the signature of dark steel 

lines. Dominant chains have eclipsed the delicate 

veins, and the diamond shapes seem to define 

the screen of the leaf-surface, imposing rigid 

patterns on what needs to grow free. 

But the fence’s shadow, looping and stamping 

itself at nine, will be gone by noon, leaving the 

victorious leaf unchained. After all, it never asked 

to be cast in a shadow play. Nor did the plant sign 

a lease with the barricade that straddles its roots. 

It only desires to rise from the soil in peace. 

NOTE: The link above contains an audio 

recording of this poem (read by the author). 

The tattoo of links is impermanent, for 

a seemingly solid fence in the morning 

becomes a shadow of itself as the day wanes. 

By psychological extension, shifting solar 

movements can suggest a hopeful metaphor: 

harmful habits that create barriers to happiness 

can dissolve like so many shadow-chains. 

For example, the bruising self-criticism that 

overshadows confidence and disturbs inner 

peace may not be the iron-grey shackle of truth 

we assume. 

If distorted thoughts are building a cage one steel 

rod of fear at a time, consider the power of one 

question, “Are these thoughts true?” Then take 

a deep breath and call out chimeras from their 

hiding places — behind benches of judgment, 

beneath shaming silences, under tongues that 

tsk-tsk on the regular — and watch them melt into 

phantoms with the passage of the sun. Challenge 

the cruelty that crushes self-love and reject the 

quelling projections of others. Above all, hold fast 

to what illuminates, such as visions of leaves that 

turn fences to trellises, limitless shelters that 

dapple and shine. 

CATHERINE RAINE 


11

BY SRISHTA CHOPRA, Learning Strategist (Math Specialist) | Library and Learning Centre 

YET AGAIN 

Glad that it was over, I placed my hand. 

Beasts, gold-sterling tried to hold. 

Here in I was defeated, yet again. 

Loving eyes looked, held the gaze 

Made me shudder, yet again I was defeated. 

Nine yards stern but placid moors and blinding 

breeze, 

Cursed I stood, oblivious of the storm, 

The one within me. 

Lonely as indeed, yet again defeated. 

Hot sand beneath my feet, 

Slow soft whisper in my ears, 

The familiar voice, the familiar chill. 

And I open my eyes. 

But all I see is a blur. 

Trying past ‘em I stop but yet again with defeat. 

Once that was the sweet breeze, 

And the tinkling gurgle, 

Seemed the scary hiss of the leaves, 

The roar of the waves, 

Those stacks of hold, that blurr!! 

I was defeated. 

But he was there, right there. 

Close to me, close to my heart. 

The Calm, my calm… 

Glad that it was over, I placed my hand. 

Beasts, gold-sterling, sparkling on my finger 

tried to hold. 

Here in I was defeated yet again. 

Loving eyes looked, held the gaze 

Made me shudder, yet again I was defeated. 

And I smiled. 

WHAT STORM…? 

Like a storm that walks, 

A doom that stays, 

Words that don’t stop, 

And a road that sways: 

When it will lie in front of us, strong as it may, 

Then will the truth be as gold 

to the world now astray. 

I had many ideals, 

And some did change. 

But, the ones that didn’t, 

They still take up the stage. 

Through all the experiences, 

And many mains; 

They stood the tides of time, 

The waves of misguided realities, 

And the brutal game. 

Wait! It’s that storm again: 

Rolling, toiling, waiting to be tamed. 

Astronomically cold, 

Abominably bold, 

Preciously named. 

What warmth will reveal the gem beneath? 

We know the answer, but afraid to bequeath? 

What moment shall reveal to all eyes? 

The similarities of us all amidst differences? 

What moment will...? 

What warmth...? 

What storm...? 

When...? 


THEM/THEY/US 

Soft embrace around my heels 

As earth pushes under my feet. 

Fragrant breeze over the multitude of 

Flora and fauna around me. 

I sift through the lens-ed scenes about me, 

Looking through the walls of greens, 

Screens of ferns, 

Whispers of life 

For the source: 

I plead it to be just one, the beautiful whiff. 

‘How naive!’, 

I hear THEM say. 

I swiftly place my steps, 

Shift my gaze, 

Work through my senses, 

And I see: 

Willfully fleeing fleets, 

Wishful specks and flakes, 

Ripples of cools, 

Glowing lights, 

And buzzes of greeds. 

Slow paced walks over the 

Silver lines of the faulty ‘isms’ 

And the fierce lives, I see, 

As I walk through this gentle fragrant breeze 

Still looking for the source, 

‘How naive!’ THEY say. 

Which way it emanates from 

Which way it goes, 

Which direction it rose from, 

Which direction it flows? 

I have lost all my senses, 

But just that one, 

That ABSOLUTE whiff: 

That smell of fragrant roses, of peonies, 

Of cherry blossoms, of marigolds, 

Or of lavender 

Or of posies; 

Of shimmering greens, of shivering ferns, 

Or of brown earth coarses. 

‘How naive!’, I hear again 

THEM say, 

For it is all or none 

In this wilderness 

If you just pause and think, 

And feel, and be, 

And appreciate, 

As it should ALWAYS be. 

THE CHAIR 

Hopping over the world 

Swift spaces of blazing shine 

On the chair. 

The chair walks, talks, 

Leaps over the spance 

Whispers quickly, the words of word 

Rocking, poking 

On the collective guilt work. 

The Chair 

Spot cleans the Weak, 

Speaks volume of Walls 

As votes Spring on the blank space. 

The Chair 

Chomps 

On colours, 

Spits one out, 

Repeat. 

The Chair 

Humps on Wealth 

Steals wreak whole of Beads. 

Yes, hopping over the world, 

Reads just one word: 

I. 

Yes, writes just one word: 

Divide. 

Yes, spits just one word: 

Kill. 

And yes, just one word 

Hate. 

But, you know what, 

I don’t like one, 

But a rainbow: 

A beauty of togetherness, 

Each showcasing their own. 

And so: 

Not just one word 

But more 

Like a rainbow of adjectives, 

Each showcasing their own 

The Chair: 

This 

Vile, 

Immoral, 

Beastly, 

Gruesome, 

Yoke of Oppression, 

Obnoxious, 

Rotten 

Chair. 

SRISHTA CHOPRA 


13


BY LANA DURST, Faculty | The Business School 

KITCHISIPPI 

All along it has been the River. 

We gather at its banks and bathe in its water. 

It hears our songs and prayers, 

Washes away tears and blood. 

It holds our gaze and hears our vows, 

Baptizes babies and saves souls. 

It provides us with fish and ice, 

Carries lumber and generates power. 

It ferries us in our birch bark canoes and our kayaks; 

Our tug boats, houseboats, sailboats and seadoos. 

Its current bears the beliefs and prayers of generations, 

cultures and religions, 

tossing them over rocks, mixing them in eddys, 

pooling them into tranquil bays. 

All along it has been the River. 

Sustaining us, entertaining us,...uniting us. 

LANA DURST 


15

BY CATHY SCHLENDER, Manager | Corporate Communications 

ON THE FIRST DAY 

OF SNOW MELT 

On the first day of snow melt 

my front lawn gave to me 

A Partridge Family Christmas CD 

On the second day of snow melt 


Two tattered gloves 

And a Partridge Family Christmas CD 

On the third day of snow melt 


Three drenched Depends 



On the fourth day of snow melt 


Four collie turds 




On the fifth day of snow melt 


Five old shoestrings 





On the sixth day of snow melt 


Six Fleece sheets fraying 






On the seventh day of snow melt 


Seven yards of trimming 







On the eighth day of snow melt 


Eight rags for quilting 








On the ninth day of snow melt 


Nine lades of billing 









On the tenth day of snow melt 


Ten gourds still leaking 










On the eleventh day of snow melt 


Eleven diapers ripening 

Ten gourds still leaking 










On the twelfth day of snow melt 


Hey look … there’s our rake … and my watch … 

honey, I found your keys 


WHAT I LEARNED FROM 

WATCHING SCHLOCK 

HORROR MOVIES WHILE 

STUCK AT HOME 

If you find an alien life form frozen, DO NOT THAW IT OUT! 

No matter what, DO NOT split up to cover more ground. 

Have you not heard of the saying “Safety in numbers?” 

Stay together. 

If the lights don’t work, call an electrician or wait until 

daylight. Some lame pen light will not help you. 

If you hear something in the attic, call the police. 

Especially if the phone is dead. Just leave. 

THERE IS NOTHING TO BENEFIT from going into the attic 

(or the basement). 

If a creature can throw a car, your pistol will be useless. 

You will only make it angry. 

If some weird freaky thing is slithering out of any orifice 

from someone’s body, kill it immediately. Do not stand 

there staring in horror. This does diddly squat. 

If a stranger asks you to join a mission and won’t tell 

you why, then pass. If you follow this advice, you will not 

require the other tips. 

CATHY SCHLENDER 


17


BY ALICE HSIUNG, Manager | Career Development Projects and Operations 

ODE TO OUR CAVIES 

It was love at fur sight, we screamed in delight 

Cute and cuddly, you two stole our hearts 

Fair and slender Daisy with a black eye patch 

Hazel, a curvy brunette with a white waist 

and chest 

Thrilled, at last, we found our two perfect pets 

Just two months old, the size of our hands 

Had to take you both home to join our fam 

Set up your cage with bedding, chew toys, 

and tunnels 

Fed you pellets, vitamin C, and fresh hay 

Loved leafy veggies, lettuce was your fave 

Popcorned and squealed for meals every day 

Curious and active, chased each other and 

played tag 

Bringing joy to our lives in your unique way 

Hazel was bossy, liked bothering Daisy 

But Daisy fought back and the two became besties 

On command, Hazel nuzzled our noses but 

couldn’t whistle 

Loudly and proudly, Daisy whistled for food yet 

couldn’t nuzzle 

Hazel loved to sleep, sprawled out with eyes shut, 

completely carefree 

But don’t underestimate the sleepy head, she was 

champion of the obstacle course 

Innocent-faced but a trickster in disguise, Daisy 

flipped the food bowl with her nose 

Spilled pellets everywhere, but rolled balls with her 

nose like a soccer player 

You, guinea girls, added warmth 

and love to our home 

You were the best de-stressors with 

your purring and licking 

Miss the days you were young and alive, 

so full of life 

Squeaking and dancing in delight 

whenever we were near 

You lived to age six and eight, or sixty 

and eighty in human years 

No one could tell your age by your thick coats 

of fur and playful ways 

So glad you were our first real pets, 

the beta fish we had were no match 

You’ll be forever precious in our hearts 

Hazel and Daisy, may you rest in peace 

in Guinea Heaven 

NOTE: The link above contains an audio recording 

of the song “Dancing Guinea Pigs” (composed by 

C. Hsiung and performed by the author). 

Hazel and Daisy, you bonded with us, bonded with 

each other 

We celebrated your birthdays, gave you baths, and 

even manicures 

On summer days in our backyard, you munched on 

grass like there’s no tomorrow 

Other times, we watched TV and movies while you 

chilled on our laps 

You sure loved your beauty sleep, yawning and 

revealing tiny front teeth 

With paws outstretched, it was time for another nap 

ALICE HSIUNG 


19


BY PRITI PARIKH, 

Program Coordinator/Faculty, Community Service and Child Studies Foundations Program | 

School of Community and Health Studies 

IN MY MOTHER’S WOMB 

It was warm 

It was safe 

I know it was the only place 

Where I felt like me 

Where else would that be but 

Inside my mother’s womb 

Complete, pure and real 

No more fake layers to peel 

The best version of me 



As the heat increased 

My fakeness deceased 

A union with my true self 



With every drop of sweat 

My soul felt light and quiet 

Reborn from my mother’s womb 

With a promise to myself 

No more fake layers I’ll wear 

To stay intact 

Just like I was in my mother’s womb 

This poem is an expression of my experience at the 

sweating ceremony at Glen Rouge campgrounds on 

October 21, 2019. Thank you, Pat and Linda, for 

your teachings. 

PRITI PARIKH 


21

RENÉE M. SGROI, Faculty | Department of Humanities and Social Sciences 

ORANGE PEELING 

we seed what we’re born to: 

lettuce, carrots, apples, a citrus fruit’s 

essence captured as zest, 

what is tangerine-like but never fully rounded. 

many thoughts are digestible: 

the anatomy of stem, a navel 

or a rind’s thick texture 

unpeeled, 

like the oranges we ate, school-aged, 

to protect exposed pith from dirt 

that lurked 

in her children’s lunchboxes my mother 

draped bare oranges in cellophane, 

repackaged fruit to give life meaning. 

remove a peel without a sharpened edge 

and you will cut yourself on bluntness 

every story carves an image 

curled, an unbroken rind shed 

my mother made an art of whittling 

shells into spirals without flesh 

of seeds in their centres. 

we travelled to the sunshine state, 

where my mother 

bought a sac of oranges, stole 

saltwater she stored in old 

gallons she thought 

would cure her mother’s cancer. 

imagine planting a grove of oranges 

how tempted you’d feel to pluck 

their fragrant white blossoms 

early, deny yourself the pulp of ripeness. 

cancer eats the flesh of any fruit, 

as what we sink our teeth into, 

the dribble that runs down the corners of mouths 

or the phantom wetness still dabbed at after 

chewing. 

sometimes we still spit seeds into open palms 

or small blue bowls. imagine cupped hands 

filled with oil of bergamot 

a woman could dip her thumb into 

and moisten a forehead, or the purse 

of her mother’s dying lips with citrus 

a woman guides her knife at oblique angles 

though it’s the juice we’re after. 


BY PHILIP ALALIBO, Chair (Interim) | Department of Humanities and Social Sciences 

A WRITING STORY 

In this engaging video, author and professor Philip Alalibo 

shares his personal journey into the world of writing. Philip 

reflects on his early inspirations, the challenges he faced, 

and how his cultural heritage shaped his voice as a writer. 

This narrative provides a candid look into the process and 

passion behind his work, offering valuable insights for 

aspiring writers and fans of his literature. Join Alalibo as he 

narrates his path from a budding storyteller to a notable 

author in contemporary literature. 

NOTE: The link above contains a video 

presentation of this story (by the author). 

PHILIP ALALIBO 


23

BY BRIAN ROBERTS, Library Technician | Library and Learning Centre 

FAKE NEWS IN A COLORBLIND WORLD 

Here, here said the blind one who wrote me no prose. 

Such quips thee protests ne’er garner no foes. 

Blind is the prose of justice unkind. 

Redemption so sought from mentions in mind. 

Vamp rage is the vanquish, of the unjust. 

To those who sought refuge of answers untrust. 

Minds want of freedom from acts, acts amiss. 

We do see the blind one whose thoughts are of bliss. 

Trust not the bliss, abyss as it be. 

Set true minds to freedom, free of tyranny. 


AN ODD SORT OF PLACE 

Walking on sea horse shells on our planet we nod, 

it seems such an oddity were it not for such burnt sod. 

In this instance we see our sun shining “its” best, 

we see trickling from sea shores west. 

Highways back in the day now lumps of boulders on clay, 

old marker signs point directions to places no longer in play. 

Loud were the bangs of such thunderous might, 

away went our structures after flash of Gama rays’ light. 

Can’t we believe now is wasted the land, 

and soon comes the winter of nuclear blasts plan. 

Away went the logic of peace and life’s content, 

to selfish leaders who reigned greed, power and contempt. 

Gain trust not anew for we must survive our plight, 

now we step forward in changed scenes of fright. 

Have lessons been learned of histories repeat phrase sent? 

now we must pass into future’s lament. 

BRIAN ROBERTS 


25

COPYRIGHT 

INFORMATION 

Except where otherwise noted within the work, Writers Unblocked (2024) by 

Centennial Libraries-Writing Circle, Alice Hsiung, Jane Burpee, Renee Sgroi, 

Catherine Raine, Lana Findlay (Durst), Shirley Merith, Philip Alalibo, Brian Roberts, 

Sowmya Kishore, Priti Parikh, and Shrishta Chopra is licensed under a Creative 

Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike License (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0). 

You can read about the terms of the license here: 

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/ 

Any content not licensed under a Creative Commons open license should be 

assumed to be All Rights Reserved and require permission from the copyright owner 

for further uses. Material included in this text that is not covered by an open license: 

On the first day of snow melt… and What I learned from watching schlock horror 

movies while stuck at home by Cathy Schlender. 


THANK YOU FOR READING 

WRITERS UNBLOCKED! 

We hope you enjoyed the third issue of Writers Unblocked, the Libraries and Learning 

Centres’ Writing Circle publication. The Writing Circle welcomes you to join us in our 

monthly meetings. 

For details, please contact Gosha at gtrzaski@centennialcollege.ca. 

To view the previous editions and podcasts, click here. 

For this edition, we would like to extend a special thank you to all authors for their 

contributions to this issue of Writers Unblocked. 

We look forward to seeing you with our next issue. 

Sincerely, 

Writing Circle Group

WRITERS 

UNBLOCKED 

VOL. 1/NO. 3 

RITM0013521

Writers Unblocked Issue 3

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