In A Grove 2015

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In A Grove 2015 Integrated Arts Journal

Holly Tuner, Acrylic

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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

Grades 11/121st Yi Cheng, “The Birds” 2nd Asic Chen, “Ode to Guerillas” 3rd Mary Dunn, “Always Too Much, Always Not Enough” 3rd Sarah Williams, “You Used to be Alright, What Happened?”

Grades 9/101st Besty Macdonnell, “Girls” 2nd Olivia Gao, “Young and Beautiful” 3rd Geeta Narine, “Destruct”

Grades 11/121st Simon Dell’Aquila, “My Mother’s Father” 2nd Sarah Williams, “My Monstrous Shadow” 3rd Rachael Wootton, “The Cooking that Kills”

Grades 9/101st Vandana Narine, “Snapshot of Innocence” 2nd Sophie Milburn, “The Library” 3rd Geeta Narine, “Saturday Mornings” Front Cover by Sarah Elliott, Acrylic PaintingBack Cover by Ariela St-Pierre-Collins, Mixed Media

Photography: Simon Spivey

Poetry Section

prose Section

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When I was young I didn’t like

to brush my hair

I didn’t know what was

in or out.

All I knew was what I picked up from

girls around

me.

Pretty girls.

Girls with dolls.

Girls with sisters.

I only had brothers.

I scaled trees, and played sports

clothes didn’t interest me

bugs didn’t scare me.

But that wasn’t right

I wasn’t right.

Because I wasn’t like

other

girls.

At first I didn’t care.

I was confident?

Besides

only some girls were opposed

suddenly

girls that liked me were less

and

less

I was a freak.

An outcast.

Or at least I seemed to be

to her.

To them.

girlsBy Betsy Macdonnell

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1st Place, 9/10 Poetry

School petrified me

I had to see

them.

All together

a herd of hyenas

laughing

about

Me.

Never ending days.

Sleepless nights.

Lightless night was void of

girls.

Shattered, broken, crying.

“Why don’t they like me?”

These words hugged me.

Until I suffocated.

There I was hiding

between the cramping cell

the mildewed bathroom walls.

My tomb.

I just sat.

Too afraid to come out.

My fear,

My pain,

My insecurities

telling me

“stay away”

you’ll just get hurt

again.

Sometimes I’d see girls

between the cracks.

Nice girls.

Girls who smiled

Girls who laughed.

Maybe I could try again.

Just

Maybe.

Fiona Murray, Graphite on Paper

L-R: Kaitlin Keating, Becca Garrison, Monica Scrocchi

Liam Chen, Acrylic on Paper

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Spring is the season of love, and birds the messenger.

“Certainly we are to sing the praise for love,” says the nightingale,

“But a name isn’t everything.”

“What should you say,” comes the swallow in his black suit,

“When you don’t even know what it is?”

“Better find it,” twitters the linnet,

“Than wandering in vain.”

Only the white peacock urges no word;

With all his dazzling grace he perches on the cypress,

A king in a white gown.

“Certainly you know,” gingerly mutters the swallow,

“For the most beautiful creature you are, and beauty goes hand in hand with love.”

“I shall not bother to think, nor answer,” replies the peacock,

“I always have what I want. My ancestors lived in the garden of a king,

“He dyed their feet purple, their mouths gold. If beauty is love, already it is in my

possession,

“And if not, I want it no more.”

So mysterious is the matter

That the sunlight of spring day becomes dimmed and pale.

Those creatures on two legs walk in pair

As if two halves make a whole.

Bees serenade the very shy blossoms of lilac, of dandelion and of daisy,

It is only when a breeze sweeps by

That an elegant bow is addressed to their devoted suitors.

“I once saw a boy watering his garden,” says the nightingale in a musical voice,

“And the purest white roses the soil did bear.”

“That is love—you give your heart, and it shall be rewarded.”

“Love is not about giving away,” disputes the swallow,

“I would steal sapphires and rubies from lords’ and ladies’ chamber

and lay them at the feet of my beloved, for—if I ever find her—she deserves the best of

them,

“and nobody shall take them away from her.”

“I want to find a place where there is no children,” suggests the linnet timidly, for she is

The BirdsBy Yi Cheng

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no good singer like the nightingale, nor smartly dressed like the swallow,

“They throw rocks at me and scares me away.

“Where there are children, there is no love.”

The debate goes on and on,

The moon rises and falls and rises again,

But no conclusion is drawn,

And the white peacock never says a word,

For he is the most graceful of them all

And has the love of everyone, if he wants.

On the third day of spring the messengers of love decide to extend their wings

And look for the answer.

The messengers of love are gone,

So are the lively dreams that pervade the air,

As they runs away from the looming storm and dazzling light of summer

And take refuge on the wings of fireflies.

After summer comes autumn, still creatures walking on two legs are to be seen

everywhere,

Some still in pairs, some no longer are.

When the white peacock shakes off the last discarded feather from his crown,

The first piece of snowflake rests on its side.

And, when the last sign of lingering winter melts into a drop of tear,

The season of love awaits her messengers.

None have returned, and this is indeed a very lonesome season.

On a morning of the silent spring the white peacock thinks again of love,

Of what his ancestors once saw

Under the pallid moonlight in the garden of that old king.

And, somewhere far, far away,

A blood-red rose,

A heart of lead,

And a garden of white blossoms.

1st Place, 11/12 Poetry

This piece is referring to a few of Oscar Wilde’s short stories, including “The Happy Prince”, “The

Nightingale and the Rose”, “The Selfish Giant”, and his play, “Salomé”. “A name isn’t everything”,

the peacock’s purple feet and gold mouth, the rose, the lead heart and the garden are all references

to the aforementioned stories.

Jessie Pan, Spirit Stick

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One more minute,

Just one more minute,

I am addicted to the smell of the spring willows

And the warmth of your hands on my hair

The old tree in front of the house blooms again

Although memories couldn’t race the flowing time

One more second,

Maybe just one more second,

I begin to miss the times when we quarrel

Sometimes it was difficult to get along,

We think a lot but say very little.

I used to ask for everything,

And did not cherish every moment we had

At the last second I understood how much you have done

To try to make me positive and strong

Am I too late?

Only I realized I should have said a thousand more “I love you”s

When it was time to leave

You pretended to be relaxed and easy

Kept smiling and told me that I should get going

But I know our eyes were wet after I turned with my valise

The dream is to sail higher and further

The sky’s too far and wide

But with your courage and faith, I could go anywhere

Will you be proud of me?

Are you still worrying about everything?

Time, can you please go slower?

young and beautifulBy Olivia Gao

2nd Place, 9/10 Poetry

Sydney Ginns, Acrylic

Please give her more time to feel young

Please allow her to keep being stunning and bright

I am willing to give up everything

To rinse up the marks of time on your face

To keep my mother young and beautiful.

Jessie Pan, Acrylic on Paper

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They despise us

They say we fight dirty

And to be honest

We do

We sneak

We ambush

We steal clothes from dead bodies

We stalk

We trap

We are the danger in the night

They condemn us

Because we don’t fight fair

They are afraid of us

Because we don’t fear death

Because when we are fearless

We are peerless

They can kill however many of us they want

But they can never win

So here’s one to the guerrillas

Lithe spirits underground

Jumping treetops

Hopping freight trains

And we’ll never stop

Till we put down our lives

Because for our people

We will gladly die

We are a peaceful people

Or at least we were

This is our land

Every square meter of it

Our sweat and blood and future and past

Until the monsters came through the borders

Ode to guerillasBy Asic Chen

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They cheated

We stayed calm

They exploited

We stayed put

We laid low

And waited

Thinking the worst would pass

Until they tried to take our motherland

Then we too

Stopped playing fair

So we sneak trap ambush stalk

We throw dirty bombs

We send our children to war

Are we in the wrong?

They all say we are

Regardless

We are judged by different gods

And when we are fearless

We are peerless

They can level mountains

And scorch forests


So they bomb

They burn

They poison

They tear rock to shreds

But we are fearless

And peerless

Even as they kill us

When one of us falls down

A thousand more

Stand up

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So here’s one to the guerrillas

Making tunnels our new home

Tree tops and freight trains

We will never stop

They can turn rain into bloodshed


Here’s one to the guerillas

(They can never win)

A thousand more stand up


One to the guerillas


Stand up


Stand up.

2nd Place, 11/12 Poetry

Tom Tian, Graphite on Paper

Philip Carr-Harris, Graphite on Paper

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Water waved past

The boat was shaken

Cloudy skies, stormy days

An innocence taken

My laugh long faded

From a non-existing smile

Waiting for the right time

To run in your mile

A long lost shadow

Finally shattered like glass

The reflection forever broken

She wasn’t made to last

Truth hidden below

Disguised by time

But the burn marks remain

The matches were mine.

3rd Place, 9/10 Poetry

destructBy Geeta Narine

Grace Zhu, Linoprint

Marlo Groh, Graphite on Paper

Becca Garrison, Acrylic

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Too happy to be heartbroken,

Too talented to be defeated,

Too nerdy to be fashionable,

Too gorgeous to be smart,

Too quiet to be entertaining,

Too unique to be popular,

Always too much for one person,

Always not enough for another.


always too much, always never enough

By Mary Dunn

Maria de Leon, Linoprint

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Silly child,

You sit at the edge of the world

weeping oceans

that people bathe in.

There is a slumbering wolf

inside your ribcage.

There is a full moon hanging

above your head.

But you are mute.

You have a heart ideal for growing

trees and roses.

Instead it nests decaying words,

left unspoken.

There is no dirt

under your fingernails,

with edges of reef and razorblade.

There is no salt

dancing through your hair,

which could once rival Aslan’s mane.

You have been sitting at the edge

for weeks, unmoving,

while thoughts of leaving

drag themselves through your mind

with gray fingers.

And watch as one by one,

the stars expire.


you used to be alright, what happened?

By Sarah Williams

Samantha Mauro, Mixed Media

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L-R: Melissa Pede, Zoe Tudisco, Ariela St-Pierre-Collins, Kana Hashimoto

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L-R: Liam Chen, Ilke Ersoz, Denise Jiang, Delaney Stedman

Tara McCleery, Mixed Media

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I never knew my grandmother. Not truly.

My mom tells me that, before I was born, her mother was a wonderful woman, who

cared for her family and her friends. She loved to bake cookies, tend to the garden in

the backyard and play with her grandchildren. Hearing that today, she sounds to me

like a nearly ideal maternal figure and a person impossible to hate. There’s a picture of

me playing in a sandbox as an infant, with her sitting in a lawn chair watching over me.

If there was a full meal of ham, potatoes, and pie for dessert, included in the picture, it

would have been the thousand words needed to describe my grandmother. You could

also add the picture of her waltzing along to an old record in the living room of her old

house with my grandfather.

However, when I was about one year old, before any memories began to stick really

with me, the Alzheimer’s that she had been fighting for years took most of her

abilities of independence and communication. The woman that I was told was my

grandmother was a stranger to me, a curious person who always needed help, and

only spoke in moans and grunts. I was able to accept that, despite the uneasiness I

admittedly felt in her presence.

The hardest part for me during that time was adapting to my grandfather. At my

house, as well as when we visited my father’s parents, my siblings and I loved to run

around and make noise, and we were usually allowed. When we visited my maternal

grandparents however, such behaviour was met with barking from my grandfather,

about how “Grandma’s trying to rest!” or “You’re in Grandma’s way!” My little child-

sized brain couldn’t understand what the problem was, and I began to resent my

grandfather immensely.

After a few years, I hated visiting that house.

I didn’t understand why we had to go see a man who seemed to hate us, or how my

mother could claim that he loved us. My younger brother, my older sister and I began

spending our visits in the attic where we couldn’t be heard, or watching TV, with the

volume unbearably low. When we were dragged out to church, which I hated to begin

with, the experience was made even more unpleasant when I would ask why we were

doing this and the answer was “Because it makes Grandpa happy.” That’s stupid, I

My mother,s fatherBy Simon Dell’Aquila

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would think. Why should I do anything for this grouchy old man who never lets us have any

fun, and who doesn’t care if we’re happy?”

My grandmother died in February 2006, when I was nine. When I first visited my grandfather

after she passed, it was as if I was staring at a different man. He was gentle, soft and quiet,

so unlike the man who yelled at me for as long as I could remember. It was obvious that he

had been deeply shaken, and his whole demeanor had changed. The visits after that, he was

kinder every time I saw him, even though we were louder than we had even been allowed to

be in the past. I couldn’t understand it.

One day, sometime during the past few years, my mother came up to me, and she explained

to me how Grandpa loved Grandma, and he acted the way he did because he wanted the

last of her years to be enjoyable. She said that he knew what we thought of him, and how

it pained him to hear me say that I hated him. It was then that I understood how hard it

must have been on my grandfather. Not only did he have to dedicate himself to making my

grandmother as happy as possible; he had to listen to his grandson say how he hated him

because of it. That realization flipped my opinion of my grandfather upside-down. In my

mind, he went from a cranky old man to a strong and loving husband, and as I was slowly

discovering, a caring grandfather.

At the end of December 2013, I got a phone call from my mother. As she, my uncle, and

his eldest son, stood by his bedside, my grandfather had passed away in a hospital. My

Christmas vacation started early so I could head over to the small Quebec town where he

had lived out the better part of six decades. My aunt and her daughter flew in from BC and

my uncle drove up from Montreal to join my mother, her brother and the relatives who

were there for my grandpa in the end. The funeral service was held in Trois-Rivières, where

my grandfather had attended an English-speaking church, and the amount of people who

showed up was a testament to the kind of person he was, and how I never realized that there

was something else to the man I had known my whole life.

The evening of the service, after everyone else had gone to bed, I, my sister, and two of my

cousins stayed up to play cards and talk. Eventually, the conversation took an inevitable

turn towards the topic of my grandfather. We talked about stories we heard from our

parents, and as we pieced them together, we realized that though we knew our grandpa our

whole lives, which were all near twenty years, we knew next to nothing about him. He

had been a proud forester, who came over from Ireland when he was 18, promising to

return home the next year, and ended up making a whole new life for himself. He had

been a husband, a father, a hard worker, and when I was a stupid little kid, I only saw

him as a crabby old grouch. We soon came to a sort of epiphany: that the way that we

are remembered is by the tales others tell.

So I hope to properly tell of the great man that I barely knew, and I hope that he is, as

my mother says, dancing with Grandma again.

1st Place, 11/12 Prose

Jessie Pan, Clay

Sophie Welch, Graphite on Paper

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When I was a child I believed that my house was filled with monsters. I could sense

their presence as I played with my dollies. Ever-ignoring and ever-optimistic, I

hummed my favourite tunes in order to forget the feel of beady eyes stalking my

movements.

My mother and I followed a routine. Every night she would read me a book, or two, or

four. Every night my high-pitched voice would ring and plead,

“One more story! One more story please, mommy!”

The bones of my mother were built from a pile of flowers. Each joint and hinge in her

body was oiled by hope. I have never known someone with so much love to give the

world, and it was no shock that every night she would agree to read me just one more

story. Every happily-ever-after was followed by a kiss goodnight, and a check of the

closet opposite my bed for monsters.

As we both matured our regimen was disregarded. It was left behind in a pile of

my playthings, pampers, and potties. No more story telling, no more searching for

unwholesome creatures of the darkness. Yet there were nights when I would discern

a glimpse of gray skin or razor teeth in the gaps between the wooden planks of my

wardrobe doors. My monster was a forever antagonist trapped behind layers of red

cedar and white cotton. That is, until I came home and it – well, she – was sitting on my

bed.

The being from the closet became my closest friend. Her razor teeth morphed into

a bright smile, her gray skin to a glowing tan, her yellow talons into brightly painted

fingernails, and her dusty horns to glowing hair. She was a master of deception, and I

started to view the world through tinted lenses.

We journeyed everywhere together; shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip, but our limbs

started to knock against each other. Clack, clack. Each of our figures hung from the

end of a string. Clack, clack. We were two large acrylic balls that swung in tandem and

collided; a muted explosion of flying shrapnel and sharp edges. She twirled me and

dipped me and tripped me until our footsteps mingled together in a vehement dance.

I became a whirlwind of flailing arms that grasped at empty spaces. I became a falling

my monstrous shadowBy Sarah Williams

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mass of unsuccessful bourrées, passés, and jetés. She became my shadow. There were

days where I would block the sun in such a way that when I looked at the ground in

front of my mud stained sneakers, a figure with horns peaking out of its head would

sluggishly lift up its claws and wave.

I rarely go outside now. There is a hunk of trepidation sitting in my stomach.

Sometimes I can breathe. Sometimes it folds up easily, and other times it anchors me

to the dirt. My days are wasted on the floor, unresponsive and unhinged. It would be

so easy to breathe in dust and suffocate, to breathe in dust and become dust. There is

school, work, and similar obligations knocking at the window. I stay on the floor and try

to become dust.

There is no room for me on the bed, it is a forgotten treasure buried beneath empty

take-out containers. Empty take-out containers are covered by dirty clothes and blank

journals. I never expected that I would become a messy haired, chapped lipped, blue

handed, haven’t-showered-in-six-days vessel of gloom. The tongue of losing is now a

familiar one. But right now it is three in the morning, and I am being brave.

My kitchen is beaming brighter than the New York skyline. Every light is on, so I can see

through every nook in her soul and crevice of her bones. There will be no shadows here,

at three in the morning, in the hopes of preventing a glimpse of the end of my world.

Blue hands turn red. My cup sits comfortably in my palms. I tell myself that my eyes

are not dotted with tears. I tell myself that it is steam and not saltwater that makes my

vision cloudy. I know that I am being dishonest when my eyes overflow and droplets

plop into my tea.

The thud of footsteps on the stairs jolts me from my unfocused state. My mother is

hugging the wall, and is the epitome of tired. She is messy hair, and baggy eyes that

squint at me. Her cotton nightgown is dishevelled, her slippers on the wrong feet, and I

can tell she is shaken.

“Honey,” she croons, “This monster is an invisible figment of stress and grief. You’re

afraid of something that doesn’t exist.”

My mother cannot grasp that this does not matter. Why would it matter when none of

us exist at all?

2nd Place, 11/12 Prose

Alan Song, Linoprint

Sydnee Korculanic

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My family has many admirable traits and skills but cooking is not among them.

Somehow along our long line of genetics the culinary gene is absent. While my father

has tried his best at the culinary arts, his performances have always fallen significantly

short of perfection. The meals are often black, and the house is usually so smoke filled

we have to keep the windows open for days. This inability to cook does not just trace

back to my father though. It began long ago when he was just a boy.

My grandmother is the queen of pressure cookers and her idea of family Sunday

dinners is throwing all the leftovers from the week all together in the pressure cooker

and having a mystery meal. This obsession with cooking food in pressures non-existent

on our planet results in tasteless, nutrient-deprived and downright disgusting food.

The vitamins, essential nutrients and anything remotely appetizing have been leached

out of the food after reaching just over 15 psi.

The leftovers the boys were forced to take to school they often had to scrape mould off

the top so the food could appear edible and has resulted in the scarring of my uncle

Pete. He boycotts the idea of eating any leftovers to this day. My grandfather did not

help much on this front either. His idea of seasoning for salmon was peanut butter

followed by grilling it in the toaster oven. The other occasion he did decide to cook

resulted in him locking the pizzas in the oven and us having to turn the fire alarms off

so as to not distress the neighbours.

My father is a child of four and all his brothers have endured and learnt just as he has:

keeping as far away from kitchens as possible. Good riddance too. By the time I was

four years old I was already well aware of the fact that when my father was cooking I

often needed an extra glass of water for dinner. By the time I was six my mother had

restricted him to three meals that he was allowed to cook: pancakes, fajitas and cheesy

corn chowder. By the time I was eight my mother had duct taped over the broil button

after an incident with my father when he decided that the name ‘broiler chicken’ was

not a mere name but cooking instructions. By the time I was twelve my mother had

finally learned her lesson. It may have been the result of her coming home late from

a conference one night to find all the windows open on a frosty evening in February

and the distinct smell of charcoal emanating from the house. This was caused by my

father’s forgetfulness while we played shinny on the rink while the rice in the kitchen

The cooking that killsBy Rachael Wootton

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became its own black, hard puck. Or it may have been the simple act of burning a full

tray of burritos while he played violin utterly oblivious in the next room. But whatever

it was, after that my mother reserved the cooking to her faithful and trusty crockpot.

My cousins have learned just as I have: that when Dad is cooking it is best to snack up

right before supper. Their own father is not a natural cook either and when our fathers

are together, it is downright disastrous.

During the summer we spend our months on an island in a secluded bay on Stoney

Lake. I have nine cousins and this is where we all grew up together, learned our lessons

together and developed our highly intellectual coded language. This language was

reserved for the dinner table and eventually many of the parents integrated it into

their dining habits as well. Growing up it was a constant subtle hand signal for whether

the salad dressing was five years over the due date or simply 6 months (believe me

it matters), or whether the boiled celery was a bit bland for our taste. We were well

accustomed to finding wheat fleas in our pancakes; dotting them like unappetizing

treats. Upon our complaints my grandmother argued that they were added protein.

One morning we had the pleasure of discovering that our maple syrup did not have an

advertisement for the up and coming Olympic games in Vancouver 2010 but actually

the Calgary games in 1988-which made the syrup just over twenty-two years old. It

was the lunches of white Wonder Bread with canned tomatoes dumped on top and the

smell of blackened popcorn late at night that made our family’s hallmark well known.

Cooking did not come easily.

But I can’t help that think somehow it was a compliment. Even with all the scorched

meals and utterly unpalatable cuisine, it has taught us something . We have grown

up loved and cherished, and our parents and grandparents have tried their very best

to nourish us despite this genetic trait that hinders them. The cooking could not hold

their interest because they were too busy holding ours; teaching us and fascinating

us and enrapturing us in so many aspects of the world. It was in so many of those

moments where my father should have been keeping an eye on the food that he was

teaching me to skate backwards or take a slap shot. It was in those moments where

my grandfather was giving me history lessons or science lessons or engineering

lessons. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the lives of those around us that we

3rd Place, 11/12 Prose

can’t be bothered to care enough to spice a dish properly or check the expiration

dates. Although I do not miss the inedible food for supper, or the hellish demands of

a scorched pan ready for cleaning, I do miss the moments leading up to the disaster.

It was in those times that I learned and in those times I felt the most loved. The

charcoaled meal as result of this time was a signal that we had spent the time well.

Samantha Mauro, Clay

Nickie Mak, Graphite on Paper

Delaney Stedman, Clay

Samantha Mauro, Mixed Media

45

I look back on this photo with more meaning than

the typical, sickeningly nostalgic teenage-white-girl-

at-heart. I look at this picture, and see distortion,

transition and transformation from who and what

those people in the photo are today. The stark contrast

from then and now is appalling. The growth is

exponential, physically, mentally, and atmospherically.

And yet still, I see miniscule pieces of themselves today

in their former selves.

My father is utterly recognisable to me, but as well he is not completely himself, as

I know him today. His eyes shining brighter than 100 tanning beds, his cheeks rosy,

rounded apples, his lips pink and spontaneously glossy. He is so young, freer at 28

years than 43 now, even though he’d just fathered triplets. He has yet to fully gain

‘jiggles’--the name I’d given his rather larger stomach about seven years later. New

parent to triplets, his hair is still an impossible thick, full sea of black that I loved

feeling against my powdery baby skin. He hasn’t yet had to deal with his daughters’

choice in boys or his son’s disregard for hygiene. He hasn’t yet had to deal with teenage

outbursts and his children’s successes and failures at a competitive school. His hair

hasn’t yet begun to grey and thin out; his back hasn’t begun to act up yet.

Though he is older, now with many prestigious awards, three exquisite teenagers, and

‘Jiggles’, this snapshot captured a part of him that has stayed the same over 14 years.

When he’s truly happy, in the garage or on the driveway with his kids and wife cleaning

or shining his motorbike, he captures the essence of the snapshot once again. His eyes

twinkle with joy, his hearty laugh fills the space and his beam never abandons his face.

He’s basking not in our utter newness and adorableness, but our witty banter, our

opinions, our thoughts. Just as he’s changed, we have.

My brother, he’s entirely a little shadow of himself today. He reminds me of a solid

little hot wheels truck in his solid colours; he’s square, a little chubby, jaw set and

lips pouting. The little hot wheels truck would always try his hardest to win a fight

with Dad, wrapping his tiny arms around Dad’s neck like a vice, and securing his

gums on Dad’s nose. He’s always been a tough little guy, never ceasing his slobbery

snapshot of innocenceBy Vandana Narine

46

fight. Reaching outwards, and I imagine him wriggling like a worm trying to escape

from Dad’s firm grip. His eyes stay blank and bored, though they are focussed on the

camera.

Today, his rounded face has morphed into something structured with a defined

jawline. His outstretched arm reaching away from Dad definitely foreshadowed his

rebellious antics. Though some of the play-fights have mutated into very legitimate

arguments, their playful bond has become even stronger as they’ve grown together.

My sister in this snapshot is quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever laid

eyes on. She’s centered in cylindrical perfection, in her reflective teal and red top

sprinkled with polka dots. This was before her first crush, her first heartbreak, her first

fight. Before her first bad grade, her first speech, her first test of character. The nearly

toothless smile on her shiny, rounded face reveals defined dimples at the corners of her

mouth. There’s so much this little baby doesn’t know, even today. Being the youngest,

Geetanjali’s always been the most naïve. Even though her rounded face has thinned

out and sharpened her impeccable cheekbones, even though any trace of her chubby

days is gone, she’s still the baby of the family. Yes, she’s a strong young woman, but to

her family she’ll always be the small, playful baby in the photo.

The smallest child, though eldest in the photo is me. This snapshot captures a very

vulnerable and still prevalent side of me. I’m clinging to my Dad’s side like I wouldn’t

let go if you paid me in animal crackers (my favourite food at that point in time). I’ve

always been dependant on my family; they are my biggest and strongest support

system. As a premature baby, obviously I needed my parents physically. My tiny

limbs couldn’t possibly grasp, hold, and use everything they needed to. Now, I need

my parents more emotionally. My Dad’s fuzzy arm is holding me up and keeping me

close in this snapshot, just like his wisdom and advice support me today. I continue to

smile almost every waking hour of the day, then it was because of my naiveté, now it’s

because I’m in awe of the potential of myself and many amazing individuals around

me.

The physical pieces of this picture remain contrasted to what they are today. However,

I realize that in our young innocence, many of our definite emotional and mental traits

are set and moulded. It is through experience, through living life that we put the skills

we were born with to use.

1st Place, 9/10 Prose

Monica Scrocchi, Clay

48

It was 300 years ago today. 300 years ago today was the end of humankind on Earth.

The resources ran out. No more fresh water. No food. All the animals died out. They

couldn’t survive in the polluted waste area everyone called home. It had become so

bad, you couldn’t even see the sun. That’s how much pollution there was. It was so bad,

that all of the important people were rushed out on a space shuttle to Saturn. There

was a groundbreaking discovery that led scientists to believe life could be held on

Saturn if needed, which then, it was. So they rushed them off Earth to Saturn. A new life

had begun. Soon, a new generation of humans were living on Saturn. And that’s why we

are all here. Today. The 300th anniversary. A project had started. It was called Earth 300.

We are planning to go back to Earth, to collect data on how it is now, and if it’s safe. It

leaves in minutes. I’m one of the astronauts going. I’ve been training all my life for this.

I’m ready. I close my eyes as I hear the countdown to blast off. 10...9...8...7...6...5...4…3

...2...1...Blast off! I brace myself for the lift off, but I’m surprised on how easy it feels. I

relax as we start our journey to Earth.

…

I awake to feel a slight bump. We have just landed. We get out of the shuttle, and I

look over at the other astronauts. We look around in shock. It is horrible. Worse than I

ever imagined. Black smog covers the sky. Just a small amount of light breaks through

and I survey the scene in front of me. Abandoned buildings, forests growing wildly

throughout, and to my disgust, the occasional skeleton of animals that didn’t survive it

all. How could they? It’s hardly possible. I think to myself. My friends and I nod at each

other and start our walk towards some buildings where it seems likely to get data. We

walk into what looks like an abandoned library. I look around for a few minutes and

open the bad I’m holding and pack a few of my favourite books in it.

“What are you going to do with that?” One of the other astronauts asks.

“Data.” I lie quickly, my face reddening.

There are no books on Saturn, and I miss them. We keep walking through the library

and I’m astounded as to how big it is. We get to the center, and we all stop moving.

I’m shocked. There is a huge hole in the floor, and out of it, a large tree is growing. It

reaches all the way to the top of the library and touches the ceiling. I shoot one sad look

back at it, as we leave the library and keep walking.

the libraryBy Sophie Milburn

…

After a few hours of walking around, collecting data, we get back on the shuttle, and

prepare to go back to Saturn. As we lift off and get into space, I can’t help feeling

disappointed that we are leaving. A wrenching pain in my gut makes me realize how

much I wish Earth was back to normal and we could live there again. But I cannot lose

hope. Maybe one day...

2nd Place, 9/10 Prose

Kana Hashimoto, Clay

L-R: Lea Chowdhury, Matthew Elphinstone, Liam Sinclair

51

It was Saturday morning. I had just rolled out of bed and was on my way to breakfast.

The aroma of coffee met me as I slowly descended down the stairs. As usual when I

arrived at the kitchen my father was already at the table, sipping his drink and looking

at the paper. Whenever I saw him like this, I would think that he had a great Atticus

Finch quality to himself. He pulled me into a hug and I was greeted with a smile. We

ate silently, enjoying the comfortable silence. It was only at the end of the meal that he

spoke. “Cleaning the bikes?” I followed him to the garage and stepped into the white,

exhaust-scented room. He gently clicked the button along the wall and the door began

to rise. The machine was wheeled out onto the driveway, as if it were a spectacle for all

to see. I went to turn the lever; water began to emerge from the hose. He picked it up

and showered the white beast with the clear fluid. I stepped back and admired it.

When the day had come to a close, my father and I appeared from the garage, our

clothes damp and reeking of grease.

3rd Place, 9/10 Prose

Saturday MorningsBy Geeta Narine

Lea Chowdhury, Pen and Ink

Alexandra Rousseau, Graphite on Paper

Nathalie Heyden, Graphite on Paper

Max Finkeissen, Acrylic

56

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In A Grove 2015