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In A Grove 2012 Arts Journal

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A Celebration of Writing and Art at Lakefield College School

Featuring the winners of LCS Writes! Sponsored by The Grove Society

In a Grove 2012

Grades 11/121st Shane Madill, "Noises"2nd Christina Chan, "The Weeping Willow"3rd Dee-Dee Laski, "The Other Side of the Coin"

Grades 9/101st Ocean Saunders, "The Birch Tree" 2nd Alex Hooke-Wood, "First Day at the Cottage"3rd Alex Hooke-Wood, "The Birth of a Royal Child"

Grades 7/81st Megan McShane, "Still a Day"

Grades 11/121st Zoe Knowles, "The Tale of Mr. Lewis" (Exerpt*) 2nd Millie Yates, "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" (Exerpt*)3rd Chloe Rees-Spear, "Vietnam and the Middle East: America's Mistakes" (Exerpt*)

Grades 9/101st Adrien Vilcini, "Glutton for Punishment" (Exerpt*) 2nd Sam Dalton, "The Whiteout" (Exerpt*)3rd Dylan Purves, "The Forgotten Reindeer" (Exerpt*)

*Excerpt of prose selection published due to space restrictions. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read prose pieces in full. Please see page 28 for artists’ names.

Poetry Section

Prose Section

LCS Writes! Winners

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By Shane Madill

I remember

The symphonic sights and sounds of the succulent

orchestra that rang in my ears for days

Satisfaction suddenly achieved as tails of the seventh

sonata strung through the air

And the singer strumming alone in a closed coffee shop

Only strings on her guitar and voice to keep her thoughts

company

Hopes and dreams and desires of someone hearing these

on a starlit stage plagued her mind

Barrages of noise coming from garage ploys

Hipster jeans and graphic tees belting out quick poetry

based on memories of you and me

Anger and lust raged through shredded vocal cords

He stays strong with his words in melody

Dreaming of something he will never be

Violins put away, piccolos to blow no more

Few remain to hear the quiet applause of working labourers

We must disassemble and get on the road

For our next show we must go

1st place, Grades 11/12 poetry

noises

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By Christina Chan

Found near water is a weeping willow,

bent in grief, a masterpiece of sorrow.

I was unsure of why this tree was broke,

so in a lowered voice I softly spoke:

“Willow, will you please tell me why you weep?

Are you sick of these waters running deep?

Do you despise this heavy hum of flies?

Longing for an end of these glaring skies?”

“Boy, for years I have been watching this world

I have reached for stars every limb unfurled.

Too many years in silent thought I spent,

longing to continue on my ascent.

I who was always reaching for the sun

have now ceased to grow I am nearly done.

For as each of you all live fleeting lives

willows can merely reach a certain size,

I can only hope to grow to this tall

and soon my long leaves will begin to fall.

Now this is how you will find me here,

so I ask, is it weak to shed a tear?”

2nd place, Grades 11/12 poetry

the weeping willow

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By Dee-Dee Laski

Dark and dismal the wolves’ cave seemed

Their mother’s ribs stuck out

The cub’s faces were green.

Their father could scarce lift a stone.

Their fur fell from their snouts

As hunger ate at their bones.

Bright and cheery, running down the trails,

Little Red Riding Hood was deft to their wails

Obliviously, she ran down the way

To see her old gran that sunny day

When their father saw this little red girl,

His spine shivered and his sore back curled

He was no villain, but now he knew

It was his cubs or a petty shrew

So he howled to his pack,

Who came rushing from the dark trees.

They quickly ambushed for attack

Trying to ignore her meek pleas.

As they feasted through the night

Their cave turned from dark to light

The children’s smiles all glowed bright

The wolves were in pure delight.

Yet, later, Father thought of the girl

And he felt his shivering spine curl

But one look at his cubs and he was sure

He’d done the right thing, his love unquestionably pure.

3rd place, Grades 11/12 poetry

The Other side of the coin

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By Ocean Saunders

The wise old birch tree

Stretches her limbs out, like arms in the sky,

And slowly rocks herself to sleep in the wind.

Far above us, but yet so small,

She told me once before:

“When you grow older, you will leave me,

But I will remember you,

For as long as I live.”

That day, I did not believe what she said.

I grew up and moved away,

As the birch tree had said.

When I came back, father had moved.

All that was left of the tree was

A short little stump.

When I went up to it,

It seemed so sad,

But when I got close enough,

I saw a little sapling,

Growing by the stump.

1st place, Grades 9/10 poetry

the birch tree

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By Alex Hooke-Wood

The old family boat, slices through the cold spring water

As the young May sun, grows hotter and hotter.

The dock they all love, again comes into view

As the cottage they all know, seems strangely ban new

The people will be here, days, months and years

But as they look inside, it summons all their fears

There on the floor, is a terrible mess

Scattered and shattered, they had to address.

Pieces of China lay strewn on the ground

They set down there bags, and everyone frowned.

Like lottery winners, whose tickets a joke

Hope of a smooth opening, goes up in smoke

They went right to work, cleaning away

And when they were finished, they escaped to the bay

With the sun on the water, and the sky a great red

They noted exhaustedly, that it was time for bed

2nd place, Grades 9/10 poetry

First day at the cottage

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By Alex Hooke-Wood

The first born child of Will and Kate

Is going to have a royal fate

If it’s a girl, then she shall be

The Queen of England, someday, maybe.

But if she has a little brother

Will he be the King, or another?

A world of voices, we are told

Have a say, in what will unfold.

Little children, what they might be

When born into the Monarchy

3rd place, Grades 9/10 poetry

the birth of a royal child

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By Megan McShane

The grass, the raindrops,

The trees, the sky,

My flower stem of a poppy

Awakens The Below.

A few trickles of blood

Pours down from above.

How will these soldiers spend all their love?

1st place, Grades 7/8 poetry

still a day

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By Zoe Knowles

Hi. My name is Mr. Lewis. You barely recognize me, but there are parts of

me—my slanted shadow, my disquieting smirk—that you do very well

remember. I’m the man from the dreams you forget when you open your eyes.

I’m your father, your brother, your boyfriend, your teacher, your dog, and I

keep you asleep long enough to see me. It doesn’t matter if what I tell you is

utterly forgettable. It’s what lingers that counts. It’s whatever part of me that

you remember that makes me Mr. Lewis. Usually it’s the eyes. The almost-

yellow orbs that entice you, mesmerize you, memorize you. You know me as

Queen Mab, Morpheus, the Sandman, which all derive from my line of work. I

am sleep for hire.

But this story isn’t about me, or you for that matter. It’s about her. The girl with

the pretty eyes. Eyes like ghosts. The girl with the dark eyebrows and sharp

stare and indelicate features. Briar-Rose. To save her from death, a fairy

condemned the girl to a deep sleep for a hundred years. Simple enough. You

see, fairies don’t really have that much power, they’re only mediums, a

palpable portal through which people like me—those from the other side—

seep our power. So, as requested, I waited for the princess to prick her finger

on a spindle and fall over the threshold into my land.

Everyone has a different dream state, so my world always looks different.

Sometimes my world looks like your bedroom, sometimes it’s the moon. But

her state was original, I’d never seen so many trees so intrusive and green; the

flowers were too pink, the sky too blue. But my opinion really doesn’t matter.

She loved it and she was going to be staying there for a while so it would be

unfortunate if she were to hate it. She appeared at the foot of the thickest tree

with the palest leaves in the center of the world. She sat there comfortably with

her eyes wide open, which was normal, so I never could have expected this

job to go so horribly wrong.

Enter Mr. Lewis with his hands in his pockets. “Hello,” I said in my usual polite

tone with a hint of eagerness.

the tale of mr. lewis

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1st place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "The Tale of Mr. Lewis" in full.

She stared at me with those aurorally grey eyes. Even though I knew Rose’s

name perfectly well, I asked her for it out of common courtesy. Before she

even spoke, I already knew her. Her posture, her bent knees, this was a girl

who had never left her palace, save for the wilderness of her own imagination.

She was cautious, but in a curious way, because she was a child stepping out

into the world for the very first time. But mine is not the real world.

“Well, Mr. Lewis,” Rose said, with an edge to her voice. “I don’t mean to be

rude, but I really should get going. I just met a woman with some strange

contraption that I want to try out. So,” she glanced around at her surroundings

while I stood still in front of her. “How do I leave this place?”

I lowered my head slightly, tucking in my chin, and smiled at her. Here’s where

things went awry: usually I would shrug my shoulders and say that I don’t

know, that I’m just like you and I don’t know where I am, let alone how to get

out of it. But I couldn’t lie to her. Her gaze was too sharp, and I doubted she

was the type to forgive liars. I wanted to be forgivable in her eyes. A century

spent in bitterness and resentment isn’t exactly my idea of a good time. And I

wanted her to be happy. So I told the job the truth.

Rose leaned against the tree, clutching her forehead, and we were silent for a

long time. Having never been in this situation, I was unsure of how to react. So

I just stood there. Waiting for her to speak.

“One hundred years,” she glared at me, suddenly angry, “what’s that supposed

to mean? How can I be stuck here for a whole century?”

“Rose, calm down—” it was a stupid thing to say.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! People don’t live for a hundred years; will I just

wake up dead?”

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By Millie Yates

I once fell asleep in a grocery store. I dreamt of bright, pulsating lights

flickering down on me and a taunting musak echoing off the shelves bulging

with fruit cups and granola bars. I awoke to find that I had not been asleep

all along; my eyes had drifted only for a moment out of their efficient

product-scanning focus. As I blinked, the merchandise lining the shelves

menacingly loomed towards me. It was almost as if the bright colours and

shine and low prices and plastic and paper were jeering at me and my half-

stocked cart. As I regained my vision and my head cleared it occurred to me

that I had been personally victimized by the food industry. Shelves laden with

a cornucopia of fatty, salty and sweet foods promising happiness had been

boring down on me almost as if they had a will of their own. As it turns out,

they do. And the worst of the worst are those miserly products from the

processed food industry.

Effective and ubiquitous: two words that sound more like business mumbo-

jumbo than everyday jargon. Who knew that these two words are the driving

force behind what’s in your hand during your mid-morning coffee break? To

sell a commodity, brands push their products with two different propellers:

the ability to advertise on every surface available and the ability to place their

products in the space left over. In 2001, the United States spent over $10

billion dollars on advertising foods. In 2004, $11.256 billion was spent in the

same area. Those ads pay off, too. Today, over 90% of all food related

expenses are linked to the purchase of processed foods. No matter which way

it’s looked at, the food industry is a business above all, meaning that their

primary objective is making money. In fact, some companies are so effective

with their advertising that the omnipresence of their products has turned them

into household names. Big shots Pepsi and Coca Cola are currently sold in

every single country except for North Korea. And when was the last time you

called a hamburger with Long Island dressing anything but a Big Mac?

I can't believe it's not butter

2nd place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter" in full.

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By Chloe Rees-Spear

Since the 1800s, the histories of Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan have

similarities that began before the Americans ever became involved in their

affairs. All are post-colonial countries that fought against a European rule,

Vietnam against the French, Iraq and Afghanistan against the British. America

too, has a history of fighting European colonialism. From rebelling against the

British to their involvement in the Middle East, America has been present in

several wars around the world. Its foreign policy has put the U.S. into the

position of a global police force, protecting the world from dangers such as

terrorism and communism. America’s most prominent activities regarding these

two threats are the Vietnam War and America’s presence in Iraq and

Afghanistan today. Vietnam was an embarrassment for the American

government that one would assume, they hoped to never experience again.

After the events of the late 60s and early 70s, many people expected American

war time actions to change so that such a war would not be repeated.

However, it is far from clear that this has been the case. There is great debate

today on whether or not America’s warfare strategies have changed since the

70’s. David Hackworth, a Colonel in the American Army, said, “The American

people can’t afford to treat this new war against terrorism like they did

Vietnam.” America’s actions during the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan

have often been compared to those taken during Vietnam. Many people believe

that America is still making the same mistakes today that it was making 40

years ago. The American government, military, and even some historians, argue

that America’s foreign policy during war has changed since Vietnam and that

the wars going on today are not at all alike. Nevertheless, there are very

obvious parallels between then and now in the reasons behind each war and

the way they have been carried out. This essay will prove that America’s

wartime actions have not truly changed since the Vietnam War.

Vietnam and the middle east: america's mistakes

3rd place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "Vietnam and the Middle East America's Mistakes" in full.

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By Adrien Vilcini

“This is going to be the most amazing trip ever!” I whispered excitedly to my

wife Naomi as our helicopter hovered over a snowdrift somewhere near the

Kluane National Park in the southern Yukon. We were scheduled to be

picked up in this exact spot in two weeks’ time.

Naomi and I had been through seven survival training courses since our

marriage six years ago, but this one is the first we have ever done solo. I

have always felt I should go on a solo trip to prove to myself that I could, but

I never truly had the courage to be in the middle of nowhere without anyone

knowing where I was. Until now.

That’s why I chose to come here. My college roommate, Phil, had

disappeared out here in the middle of the school term about ten years back.

He was one of those guys who kept to himself and you couldn’t read him

very easily, but he had always stuck his neck out for me and I had done the

same for him.

What a nasty, dark year that was. In the middle of the term Phil found his

new girlfriend decapitated and naked on the floor of our dorm room. At first

he thought I did it, which was crazy in itself, but then the police traced the

murder back to one of the chemistry professors within three days. The thing

was, the professor had been Phil’s favorite. They had often met up after class

to discuss the lesson in further detail and you could say that he had taken

Phil under his wing. Phil trusted that man like a father. Phil couldn’t handle

anything after that. He hardly spoke at all. Everyone thought he was nuts,

and then he just packed up and moved north.

We stayed in contact for a while after that. He wrote me some letters and

told me that his trust for other people was destroyed and that he was never

coming back to civilization no matter what I said.

glutton for punishment

1st place, Grades 9/10 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "Glutton for Punishment" in full.

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By Sam Dalton

Elliot Hoyle couldn’t believe his ears when he got the job in Antarctica. Ever

since he was a little boy he had stared at the bottom of the world and

wondered what it would be like to go there. He also had a strong ability and

enjoyment of chemistry from a very young age. So it was no surprise to his

family when in high school he had said that he wanted to be a chemist and

hoped one day to go on a research expedition to Antarctica. Almost 15 years

and a Ph.D later he got his wish; he was finally going to Antarctica. However

his wife Barbra was not as excited as him. Ever since Elliot began his Ph.D he

was constantly working and never had time for her or his two children, Andrew

and Elizabeth. And it was true, Elliot was a workaholic. Even when he wasn’t

working, he pursued his countless hobbies like biology, chess, Latin and

sailing. When he left for Antarctica Eliot’s marriage was held together by a

string that could snap at any moment.

“I know you’ve been waiting for this a long time” she had said. “But you’ll be

gone for months, maybe close to a year and you don’t even care that I’ll be

here all alone with the children, again.”

“No need to worry Barbra” was all he had said. “I know you can handle it”

He had missed countless milestones in his children’s lives: his son’s

championship soccer game, his daughter’s dance showcase and his son’s band

concert. He had not spent a deal of time greater than 1 day with his wife since

they had been married. She rightfully should have divorced him, but she was

still in love with the 18 year old boy that she had married so many years ago.

But in the white world where he now stood that life seemed so far away. His

precious hobbies and his dedicated research were nowhere to be seen. What

was he to do? It was his fifth day at the research station when he found himself

in this situation. Elliot was walking to another building to fetch some lab

equipment during a whiteout and lost his footing, tripped and let go of the

rope connecting the two buildings and landed face first in the snow,

completely disorientated. He was told about whiteouts countless times during

the whiteout

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2nd place, Grades 9/10 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "The Whiteout" in full.

his training for the expedition. The clouds would be so dense that the light

scattered over the snow fields and the wind would blow into a swirling frenzy

where no landmarks could be seen, including the horizon; there was only

white. People who got lost 10 metres from their dwellings and walked in the

wrong direction, completely disorientated. Now, lifting his head from the snow

Elliot had no idea where the rope was and no matter how much he felt around

he could not find it. Reason told him to stay where he was until the whiteout

cleared and he could see again, but his gut told him to walk. So he walked,

and walked, and walked until his feet grew blisters and he toppled to the

ground.

As he lay staring into the white with snow striking his face he started to think about his work. The research he had been conducting was almost complete and it would enhance his reputation in the scientific community greatly. Then he began to plan all the things he would investigate when he got out of this bloody weather. Then he did something, something he hadn’t really done for many years: he thought. All he could see and feel was slow and white, a kind of nothingness. When he stood up he felt like he was floating. He had a certain feeling of nothingness which warmed him in a way. For the first time in over ten years he had nothing to see, nothing to do, and nothing to worry about. No research to work on, no books to read, no problems to solve, no…. nothing but nothing. This was when he realized, staring into the white blank world where he now lay, what life was like when you could think, you could reflect, and truly live. So many things had passed him by: his family, his life, his happiness, his soul. He realized how badly he had treated his family and how much they needed him. His son must hate him, and his daughter probably did too. Did they hate him? He didn’t know, he barely ever saw them apart from the few times they came back from boarding school and he came back from work at night. What had he done? How could he have treated his family like that? He thought back to his high school days, the ones that were packed with work and play that would never end.

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3rd place, Grades 11/12 prose. Visit lcs.on.ca and click Beyond the Class > Co-curricular Arts to read "Vietnam and the Middle East America's Mistakes" in full.

By Dylan Purves

“You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and

Donner, and Blitzen. But do you recall the most famous Reindeer of all?

Rudolph the red nosed reindeer had a very shiny nose” is how the song goes

but does it ever say anything about Sylvina? Well, that’s me. I’m friends with all

the other reindeer but do you ever hear about me? No you don’t. I don’t mean

to sound rude but I never get mentioned. It started when we were just young

reindeer. Every year around Christmas time there is a day where there are

events in which all the young reindeer participate. The winner is believed to be

the ‘protégé that year and eventually gets to go on to fly Santa’s sleigh. Ever

since I was born I have wanted to be part of the team that helps Santa deliver

presents to children around the world.

I trained for the events every year, but was never able to beat some of the faster

reindeer. Luckily the reindeer wasn’t chosen until the fifth race each year and

all participants must be five years old to enter. I trained harder the year I

turned five because I wanted to help Santa so badly.

Race day was two days away when we were informed that Dasher had dropped

out the race because of a pulled hoof. This meant that Rudolph was my

competition. Race day came and Rudolph and I wished each other luck before

the race. Then we went back to preparing for the race. There were ten reindeer

participating in the race this year. Santa (who was announcing all the events)

came on the speaker and told us to step into the gates. The next thing I knew

the race was on. I had a fairly good start and was in third place for most of the

race, but then I passed Flurry to get into second place. The race was almost

over when I managed to pass Rudolph which put me in first place. We were

entering the last stretch. I was running as hard as I could when Santa

announced “one hundred metres left” so I just kept running. I looked behind

me to see Rudolph was catching up. I was ten metres from the finish line when

Rudolph passed me. I was devastated! Rudolph was surrounded by fans giving

him praise and Santa came down and gave him a wreath for around his neck.

the forgotten reindeer

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Front Cover: Maya Sibbald

Inside Front Cover: Andreas Engel

Opposite “LCS Writes! Winners” (top to bottom): Hayley

Shortly, Seb Jones

Opposite “Noises”: Andy Mui

p3 L-R): Kylie Clark, Cecilia Yang

p4 (L-R top to bottom): Guillermo Martin-Almendro,

Rachael Wootton, Vanessa Smith, Abraham Lau,

Samantha Ramsay, Lauren Beckett, Kristen Evans, Jil

Echevarria von Gusovius

p6: Jessica Tsang

p8: Mara Marchand

p11: Millie Yates

p12-13: Annabel Harding

p14: Rachael Larose

p18: Akinyemi Akinwale

p21 (L-R top to bottom): Guillermo Martin-Almendro,

Rachael Wootton, Travis Cove, Abraham Lau, Samantha

Ramsay, Katie Garland, Alexa Armstrong, Jean-Baptiste

Gault

p22: Fanbo Zhou

p27 (top to bottom): Paige Sampson, Erica Armstrong

Inside Back Cover: Risako Tamura

Photography: Simon Spivey

Artwork

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4391 County Rd 29, Lakefield, ON K0L 2H0 lcs.on.ca

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