Sacred Heart Literary Magazine 2011-2012

Straight from the Heart 151 years

Cover Art by Kylie Sura VB

Straight from the Heart

The Sacred Heart School of Montreal

Literary Magazine 2011-2012

Acknowledgements

Faculty AdvisorMs. Gisela McIvor

Editor-in-ChiefKatherine Chamandy VA

Senior EditorsAlexina McLeod VASara Turcotte VA

Norah Woodcock IVCMyriam Zakaib IVA

Junior EditorsCorinne Darche IIA

Constantina Gicopoulos IIAMary Lynne Loftus IIA

And a great Thank You to Ms. Michelle Lessey for special

assistance.

straight from the heart of the Editor-in-Chief,

Dear Reader,

This year, our Editorial Review Board has had the honor of showcasing some of our students’ most sublime pieces of art and writing in the 2012 edition of the Sacred Heart literary magazine. Pieces have been edited as little as possible - the true style and intent of the author shines through.

As a graduate of 2012, this year was my second and last opportunity to act as Editor-in-Chief of the Sacred Heart School of Montreal’s Literary Magazine. I was fortunate again this year to work with a terrific Editorial Review team; I thank them sincerely for their commitment and hard work. I want to extend a special thank you to our wonderful faculty advisor, Ms. McIvor, who has again this year been a tremendous inspiration and resource. I, personally, have learned so much from her - she will always help breathe life into my writings. This year, we would also like to thank Ms. Lessey for her unique take and input on the magazine's layout.

To all the brave souls who submitted poetry and prose for scrutiny, thank you. The scope of your talent and imagination is breathtaking. We received more submissions than we could include. Please do not be discouraged; keep submitting, but more importantly, keep creating!

This year’s Literary Magazine is a truly diverse collection of poems, paintings, stories, and sketches, including, for the first time, several submissions in French. Straight from the Heart is entertaining, inspiring, and thought provoking. There are pieces in this magazine for everyone: sweet and raw, harsh and tender; these words are straight from the heart, from our Sacred hearts, to yours.

Enjoy,Katherine Chamandy

by Kylie Sura VB

Table of Contents

Love Just Is ... Elana Floriani 6

War ... Liana Caprera 7

Secrets Calling in the Breeze ... Thea Koper 8

The Royal Snowsuit ... Myriam Zakaib 9

What Am I Supposed To Be? ... Anon 12

Write A Poem? ... Jessica Abreu-Moore 13

A Few Shades of Grey ... Anon 14

Taken ... Evdokia Konstantopoulos 15

The Land ... Alexina McLeod 16

Worried ... Rosemarie Cianci 20

Dreams ... Victoria Karamitsos 21

The Boy ... Norah Woodcock 22

Soldier ... Monica Petras 23

La vie comme une montagne ... Rachel Rubbo 24

Rain ... Katherine Chamandy 25

Enough ... Katherine Chamandy 25

Eyelashes ... Anon 26

Reality vs Illusion ... Jessica Abreu-Moore 34

Alice ... Kelly Burchell-Reyes 36

Signal Flares ... Norah Woodcock 37

A Secret ... Thea Koper 38

Kristina ... Katherine Chamandy 39

On Independence ... Sara Turcotte 40

Time ... Monica Petras 41

Marks On the Wall ... Katherine Chamandy 42

The Glimmer of Light ... Nicole Tieman 43

Pig Squeals ... Sara Turcotte 44

Murder on Simpson Street ... Alessia Castonguay 46

Only Human ... Maris Jacobs 48

Once Upon a Time ... Alexina McLeod 49

Time Ticks for No One ... Katricia Durham 50

Snow, Glass, Apples ... Alexina McLeod 52

My Reflection ...Jasmina Ciccocioppo &

Melissa Likoray 53

L’égarement ... Norah Woodcock 54

Fairy Tales ... Norah Woodcock 56

by Isabella Girardi VB

Warby Liana Caprera IA

Why do people reject love from others?Today, that is the question on my mind.Were they broken by dishonest lovers,Or do they think that I am just unkind? She was the light in my miserable lifeAnd I never really knew what to say.Black lines under eyes, an immature strife,Our emotions always got in the way. Yet while wandering in my miseryAnother, my true bright sun, crossed my path.I found my way with her, no bad historyLove beyond reason, knowing like telepaths. Silence that used to cut me to the core,Now gone, replaced by kisses I adore.

What was once a beautiful sunny sky,Is now blackened by the dusty coloured clouds.Children that were once able to walk by,Are now escaping, screaming very loud. War. An abusive, lying, endless game.Everywhere I turn, people are dying.People that fight this war are full of shame.Their families are at home crying. When a soldier comes from the battlefield,Families celebrate, rejoice with glee.He may be scratched from the lack of a shield,But now that he is home, he’s free, free, free! Though the sky may not always be blue,Just know these people fight to protect you.

6 7

by Sara Mannarino VA & Marina Preziuso VB

Love Just Isby Elana Floriani IA

by Emma Pallay VA

Secrets Calling in the Breezeby Thea Koper VC The Royal Snowsuit

by Myriam Zakaib IVA

Swinging softly in the breeze,Enchanting, calling you in a whisper.Careful, careful, go about it nimbly.Reach out not in vain, but a simple caress.Each secret, swaying from its branch,Take one and capture it, forStolen things cause much excitement.Chase it down,All at once,Leave no trace, andLay it out, withInk stained hands,No one knows your deed.Go now, for secrets areCalling your name.

It was a cloudless Friday afternoon and I had just finished my final exam of the year that morning. To be specific, it was my science exam. I was finally free and ready for my break after a final term of hard work. After leaving the school, walking down the streets, the sidewalks were covered in puddles of grey slush. There was a cool breeze but I could feel the sun’s warm rays on my cheeks. My friend and I decided to visit this dear old lady at a senior citizen’s home nearby. She was quite lonely. She was 94 years old but in very good shape. She was able to walk up and down the halls easily. Her short curly hair was dyed brown and one curl fell upon her forehead. I could see the happiness glowing in her dark eyes when she saw that there were two visitors standing outside her door to see her. We continued walking down the hall with her to a room and sat down at a table together. We began to talk as she savored a piece of cake that my mother had sent with us and sipped her coffee. She told us about a significant day in her life. It was in the year 1957, 5 years after Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth II ascended to the throne; it was the year of the Queen’s first official visit to Canada. Thylia, the sweet old lady, used to work at Morgan’s, today known as The Bay. “I had been working there for quite a few years, at least ten,” she said, “and I guess I was well known as a very polite and good sales lady.” I could tell it wasn’t the first time she shared this story yet she didn’t seem to mind sharing it again. She smiled as she began recounting her tale. It was a regular workday. Everyone was doing their usual work when Thylia was called to her supervisor’s office. “My supervisor called me to his office because he wanted to talk to me about something serious. I worried I was in trouble but told myself I had done nothing wrong. I knocked on the door and entered when I was told to.” She sat down on one of the leather chairs that she described as placed in front of his chestnut office desk. “He seemed very stressed but not the bad kind.” He said to her: “You have been working here for many, many years now and I have not once heard a complaint. You are truly the model sales representative every store wants. That is why I am asking

8 9

by Caroline Jeanson IIIB

you to do this. Her Majesty the Queen Elizabeth II is coming for a visit in two weeks and I want you to be her clerk.” Thylia began, “I could not believe that I was the one who was selected. There were so many other wonderful employees who were just as nice and polite as I and who with no doubt could have also served the Queen with class and elegance.” She paused. I could tell she was going back a long time. She then proceeded to tell us about what accessories she had to wear. In order to serve the Queen, Thylia had to wear white gloves. They were a pure white pair. “On the top part of the glove there was three rows of pin-tuck stitching” she said as she showed us on her hands where they would have been sewn. When the day finally arrived, she was very nervous. Morgan’s was closed for the day in honor of the Queen’s visit. Thylia worked in the children’s department of the store and for this reason it wouldn’t be a surprise if the Queen stopped by Thylia’s department. At the time, Prince Charles was only nine years old and Princess Anne was around the age of seven. Thylia took another sip of coffee and as she put her cup down on the purple coaster she spilled a little bit of it. I pulled out a napkin and cleaned it for her. She smiled. Thylia then continued her story. “The Queen had arrived outside and many things were going through my mind: do I curtsey when she comes, or not? Do I shake her hand, or not? What if I make a mistake, will she be insulted? I felt like the reputation of Morgan’s was on my shoulder.” The Queen was now walking towards Thylia. They said good day to each other and the Queen told Thylia she was looking to buy a snowsuit her son, Charles. Thylia showed the Queen the most select ones. The Queen chose her favourite and asked Thylia for the size she thought would best fit for her son. Thylia gave the Queen her chosen snowsuit in the size she had requested. “I knew based on my years of experience, on her description of Charles, and from the age she told me, the bigger size would have been a better choice,” said Thylia, “I tried to tell her,” she giggled. Thylia told the Queen her opinion but the Queen was one hundred percent sure the bigger size would be too big. Unfortunately, Charles was not there to try on the different sizes. “I wasn’t going to argue with the Queen,”

said Thylia. “She is the Queen after all.” She described the Queen as very polite, young, beautiful, nice and down to earth. The Queen had made her choice, thanked Thylia for her service and continued her visit to Canada. A few weeks later, a snowsuit came back in the mail with a letter to Thylia. It was from Her Majesty the Queen. She wrote that yes, indeed, Thylia was correct about the sizes and that in fact the size was too small for Charles. In her letter, she thanked her once more for helping her choose a snowsuit and requested a bigger size. She included a picture of her family with the note. “I couldn’t help but smile while reading the letter,” Thylia told us. “I was so honored to receive a personalized note from Her Majesty The Queen of England,” she confessed. By the time the letter had come in, the design the Queen had chosen for the snowsuit was out of stock, but of course, they could not say no to the Queen! Morgan’s had a snowsuit especially made for the Queen and had it shipped to her in England. “I kept the letter and picture,” Thylia told us. As if knowing what I was about to ask next, Thylia replied that she had not seen the picture and the note since she moved to her current residence at the elderly home. “The other day, as I was watching the news to see all the celebrations going on for the Queen. I could not believe that it was the sixty-year anniversary of her ascension to the throne, and that it had already been fifty-five years since I had met her at Morgan’s. Wow, time really does fly. I often wondered how many times Charles wore that snowsuit,” she laughed. That was the end to her s t o r y. I f o u n d i t amazing to see that although Thylia had trouble remembering certain things, this experience would stay with her forever. We walked Thylia back

to her room and promised to visit again soon.

10 11by Karen Golfi IIIB

What Am I Supposed To Be?by Anon

Write a Poem?by Jessica Abreu-Moore VA

What

Am

I

Supposed

To

Be?

Is the norm? Blonde hair, blue eyes, skinny, tall… the definition of beautiful.The type of girl you only see on bigHollywood sets. I what they call normal? Never.Never in a million years will I ever becalled normal by anyone… I am waytoo different. Am my own person, with my ownbeliefs, morals and values. But I amseen as an outsider… someone whohas never belonged. I am To live by society’s rules but I neverhave and never will. Who makes thesedecisions? Who dictates what is rightand wrong, normal or not? The world I am a freak, a weirdo. Justbecause I wear black clothes, blackmakeup. But life does not always comewith a list of do’s and don’ts. So, myfinal question is, what does this universewant me to

I wanted to write a poem about confusionand how it can haunt youand tear you apart.How the uncertaintyis attached to youlike a freaking ball and chain. I wanted to illustrate how it takes over your whole bodyAnd controls you.How you can’t think straight,Or feel the right things.How everything seems like it has been takenFrom where it belongsAnd thrown into a whole new place,A place that shouldn’t even exist inside you. I wanted to make you understand.I thought it would helpTo sort it all out.But I can’t,Confusion is just too confusing to put into words.If you’ve ever felt itYou’d understand whyI just can’t write a poem about confusion.

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by Lauren Mezzaluna & Joyce Salvo IIB

by Emma Pallay VA

A Few Shades of Greyby Anon

Takenby Evdokia Konstantopoulos IB

Black,White,With only a few shades of grey.That grey binds the others together,Like glue, a staple,Unable to move, unable to change.Bound together forever.Black,White,A few shades of grey that transform the entire image.Make it what it is.Make it whatever you want it to be.Black,White,Mixed together to make those few shades of greyMixed together to become one.

Taken away from me in a second,Her carefree laughs still haunt my fractured soul,She looks at me, her grey eyes still beckon,Men took away part of what makes me whole. My once full and glorious life gone black,Her pleas of help still echo in my mind,Gone, gone, gone, gone; nothing will get her back,Lost forever; impossible to find. She would not want me to give up on her,I will search the four corners of the world,She’ll be mine no matter what occurs,I’ll even voyage to the Underworld. With every dragon I will conquer,No matter where she is, I will find her.

14 15

by Angelina Griffin IIIA

by Kayla Cabanas IVC

As I look out the window of our light blue carMy eyes are blessed with the emeralds and the mints,

The olives and the jades, secrets of an ancient and mystical land.

I am suddenly overcome by an overwhelming desire to feel the crisp wind on my face,

to smell the fresh spring scent emitted from the earth,and to become one with the land.

I slowly open the window of our modest cyan automobile

And take it all in.I breathe in utter purity and am transported through centuries of love,

of hate, of war, of peace, of ancestors and of strangers.

I bravely let my hand leave the security of our light blue carAnd feel the soft winds of a secluded land, untouched, pure.

I am going to a place made known to only a few, a secret place, a

beautiful place.My mind is clouded with visions of lush, green mountains,

Of a wild and ancient land.

I am fascinated by this land, this place made new to me.An unprecedented feeling of familiarity washes over me like a tidal

wave…I have been here before.

I have been here before, perhaps in a faraway dream

A land of such perfection could only be dreamt up by the dreamer I am known to be.

Yes, a dream I once had. A dream.

I close my eyes and listen to the wind whisper the secrets of the land.I am blessed with the knowledge of ancient truth, the land is beauty,

perfection.The land is a dream.

As I gently open my eyes, I am welcomed by a portrait. Tall, majestic mountains surround me, protect me, the grass a vibrant emerald

blanketing the land, keeping me warm, the brook of clear blue water races down the hills, like a thousand wild horses.

The land is alive.

I look up at the sky. I can’t help but smile. I am greeted by a flawless ocean of endless possibility. The sky smiles back at me.

Again I am overwhelmed by a feeling of excitement. The land trusts

me.I slowly push my face out into the world and cry out the battle cry of

the land.No one questions me or snubs my unorthodox expression, for the land

is free and I am now a part of the land. It has accepted me.

The light blue automobile makes its way along the hills and the glades. It does not disturb the balance of nature and the land in return

let’s us pass, a wee spot on this great Earth.

Our car comes to a gentle stop, like a decrescendo at the end of a symphony.

Our short journey has reached its end as we arrive at the vee. The outermost part of the land. Nirvana. A place touched only by God.

I leave the car, now a symbol of human interference and enter the

land.I pause and touch the ground. It is soft and fertile.

I stand in awe at the mountains of the mighty land, how proud they

stand.They breathe out a gentle song. The song of the land. I can hear it in

the wind, in the trees, in the rocks and the brook.

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The Landby Alexina McLeod VA

by Emma Pallay VA

I am on the edge of the world. Where heaven and Earth meet.I cry soft tears of humility. Any doubts of a higher being, the Creator,

God have vanished from my heart. I have seen the soul of God.

My meditation is interrupted by the sound of stray sheep making their way across the great plain. They watch me and I watch them, now

their protector. They trust me.

I glide along the man-made bridge of iron or steel, the one imperfection in this perfect land. I peek down at the ever-flowing

brook. It acts as the artery of the land, the messenger.

I cross the bridge and stand at the foothills of a great mountain. Its presence humbles me.

It stands, a mighty beast touching the smiling sky.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.Echoes of Poe’s poem resonate in my mind.This is truly a place of dreams and dreamers.

I look to my left and see the vee, the place where the mountains meet. All around me is a soft mist. It covers the land, hovering above it as if

unworthy to touch it.

I am enveloped in the land. It becomes my eyes, my skin, my mind.I feel it deep within my soul, invigorating me.

I look to my right and see an endless landscape of greens.I am awestruck at the sight of the land, constantly changing

everywhere I look.

I take a deep breath and close my heavy eyes.Even at the budding age of thirteen I have discovered what it means

to be alive. To feel a part of the land, to feel at peace with myself. Silence engulfs me. All I see through my closed eyes is darkness.And suddenly the land is made known to me. I see the lush greens, the mighty mountains, the pale mist and the cool brook. I hear the

faraway sounds of wild sheep singing, of the wind breathing, of the water splashing among the jagged rocks.

I open my eyes one last time and gaze upon befallen ruins. Old ruins

of a time before.Although not a natural part of the land, it belongs there

among the greens and the mountains and the mist and the brook.

I enter the ruins made of solid stone, the stone of the land.

A house perhaps or a chapel, Its purpose is only known to the constructors of such a place. A safe place nonetheless, a place of

comfort and tranquility.

I have reached the Wicklow Mountains: where rebels and saints once hid away.

I dance on the hills and I dance on the grass.

I dance for me, and I dance for the land.I am a lone dancer, who dances for the sake of dancing.

The land has set me free.

The land is alive and I am its keeper.

This is our land. Ireland.

18 19

by Emma Pallay VA

Worriedby Rosemarie Cianci IB Dreams

by Victoria Karamitsos IB

I’m scared, I’m fearing, I’m not sure for what.Am I imagining, or is this real?Sometimes, I just want to follow my gut.Am I normal; is it strange what I feel? I’m always scared everything will go wrong,I just want to run, I just want to hide,Always on my mind, the day seems so long,What a bad feeling; it kills me inside. Although I always feel worried and sad,Happiness could come if I really tried,Think about all the good times that I had,Break free of my shell, there’s no need to hide. Even though healing might take me some time,I’ve calmed myself down; I know I’ll be fine.

Some dreams are far and cannot be chased, Wishes of the heart, longing to escape, They can stay long or they can move in haste, Some keep you awake in the night’s dark cape. Your soul gets heavy knowing it’s not true, The thoughts, figments of imagination, Shatter the walls making a big breakthrough, Fade away spirits like de-creation. But, sometimes dreaming is our only hope,Lifting your spirit and heart at the most,And so, helping us through, learning to cope,Sailing our boat to our daydreaming coast. At times, dreaming is our get-away car,Not knowing, but helping us from afar.

20 21

by Alice Brais IVC

by Elyana Lafrance VA

The Boyby Norah Woodcock IVC

Soldierby Monica Petras IVA

There was a boy with a bruise on his kneeWho held his head proudly for all to see.He had a dog, with a name and a boneWho could chase after sticks all on his own. And the boy whispered at night to a friendWho lived in his mind and promised no end.His parents were wed, and in a church blessedAnd they shared a bed, asleep or at rest. In the day the boy ran in the playgroundAnd always stood back up when he fell down.And he never cried when he scraped his kneesAnd he went home when asked, wanting to please. There was a boy with bruises on his kneesAnd all he ever wanted was to please. He went to church and never made a soundAnd always stood back up when he knelt down.And he never cried when he scraped those kneesHe said his prayers when asked, wanting to please. His parents were ill, and in a church blessed They soon shared the bed, forever at rest. And so the boy cried at night to the friend Who lived in his mind and gave him an end. His dog had the boy’s name, with a new bone And chased after the crows all on his own. There is a boy with a bruise on his knee Who holds his head proudly, And no one can see.

The sky was aflame. The bursts of fire were so constant. So much heat. So much devastation. The ground was stained with blood. Robbie waited for the bombings to cease. The ground shook as another fleet of airplanes passed overhead. Robbie clutched his mother’s rosary, praying for his safety. Robbie imagined being at home; the prairie wind sweeping his face, his mother’s soft embrace, apple pie, and long summer nights. He wished things could be as they were, but war changes everything. Robbie’s mother used to tell him stories of peace and prosperity. Where was that now?

The world was burning around them and nobody stopped to question if this war was worth the sacrifice. No one wondered if the cause was just or righteous. That was all there was left: war. War consumed a person. It was a parasite eating away deep in the recesses of one’s mind. Robbie remembered playing soldier when he was a young boy, being the valiant leader of a glorious battle. War is not valiant, it is not glorious; war is pain, war is destruction, war is proof of a wasted species. When Robbie looks around, he does not see glorified stories to share with future generations; he sees shame, denial, feuds, and differences. Then suddenly the sky is aflame, the bursts of fire constant. So much heat. So much devastation.

Little Robbie wakes with a start, crying for his mother. His mother rushes in for him quickly. She sits beside him and pats his head, assuring him it was all just a dream. It was all so real; Robbie can still imagine the burning buildings, the smoke building in giant clouds, the cries of agony. One thing is for sure: little Robbie will never play soldier again.

22 23

by Kimberley Marks-Beaubrun IVA

by Angelina Griffin IIIA

La vie comme une montagnede Rachel Rubbo IVC

La vie, par définition, c’est l’espace temps entre la naissance et la mort.La vie, mais qu’est-ce que la vie pour moi alors ?La vie, elle a beaucoup, tant, énormément de décisions.La vie, selon le jour, peut avoir des milliers d’interprétations,Mais pour moi, la vie...notre vie on la domine, non ?

La vie peut parfois être injuste comme le tiers-monde.La vie, elle nous jette des obstacles à chaque seconde.Je peux choisir de les surmonter et continuer,Ou abandonner et ne plus rien essayer.Mais pour moi, persévérer vaut bien mieux que lâcher.

La vie est comme une merveilleuse, magnifique montagne,Elle a des hauts et des bas et des souvenirs qui nous accompagnent.Mais la vie est courte comme une chanson, alors profites-en.Les secondes, les minutes, les heures s’envolent comme des pélicans.Savourez le meilleur de chaque remarquable moment.

On ne vit qu’une fois, alors vivons sans aucun regret.La vie est une montagne parfaite, grimpons-la jusqu’au sommet,Et malgré la route cahoteuse, souvenons-nous toujours d’avoir du plaisirEt de partager parfaitement pour toujours notre sourire.Alors vivons absolument, entièrement, totalement notre vie pour réussir.

La vie, par définition, c’est l’espace temps entre la naissance et la mort.La vie, mais qu’est-ce que la vie pour moi alors ?La vie, elle a beaucoup, tant, énormément de décisions.La vie, selon le jour, peut avoir des milliers d’interprétations,Mais pour moi, la vie...notre vie on la domine, non ?

by Jasmine Rach VA

Round drops falling, hitting the windshieldand forming perfect beads. Sliding down,taking turns, like models on a runway, particlesbreaking off the nucleus and trailing behind,remembering what was before. The light, turningred, scattering, shining through the water, embedding.Rain spattering like my bleeding life.

Push, push, pushbut it’s never enough tobudge the sheer oppressivewall aheadFasterHarderStrongerBut it is neverEnough

Rainby Katherine Chamandy VA

by Jasmina Ciccocioppo VB

24 25

Enoughby Katherine Chamandy VA

Eyelashesby Anon

The day you went aged mein ways I still do not understand.And now I sit here, holding it all in.Mom’s trying to hold my handbut you cannot consolesomeone this way whenthis was not part of the plan.We didn’t know, we never knew,Uncle, daddy, best man.

The lights are dimmedto a comfortable level.Someone please define “comfort” to me.Daddy stands, walks up to the altar.The tears. They burn.I cannot see.His trembling voice, trying to projectitself across the silent hallreminds me of the familiar storyof someone’s silent downfall.To cry silently,desperately,alone,without-I swear there was a different route.I swear.

Dad’s dark brown Eyelashesalways lengthen when he cries.Those short brave magical Lasheshave never framed so vividly his eyes.And it pains me worsethan anything warmed by sunlight,that good people(as opposed to those who are trying to improvebecause no one has done something so wrong as to be considered

worthless)should lose all motivation and might.His Eyelashesshould not be forced like so.his Eyelashesshould not be forced to grow.

I go back to a time when I was careless, naive, and free,showing off at my softball game,because he had come to watch me.I glance up into the boisterous crowddiscretelyand catch his eyewinking at mesecretively.I try to hide a smile.

His softball mittmade of tough leatherso toughsits in my lap, still as a stone.I wonder exactly how the mitt might be feelingnow that it, too, is alone.I wonder exactly how he had been coping;how long his Lashes became.I wonder how to act, what to say, what to do,why no one will speak his name.

Daddy speaks, still,tears not yet able to pass the turnstiles of his eyes.The bravest man I’ve ever known.He tends not to his own criesbut reaches,extends himself,to those who grieve likewise.Putting on a brave face,daddy,is not going to silence those screaming cries.

26 27

by Kaia’ati:io Barnes IVA

Dad turns a page, the sheet so crisp;his tensely formed letters build up the ragethat is secretbut present in all of us.I try to hide mine as I glance over at her.Eighteen years of love.Eighteen years of pain and mistakes.Eighteen years of apologies and hugs and violence and lies.It takes eighteen years to gain your independence,but just a moment of weaknessto destroy someone else’s.To “hate” a person,ultimately meansto hate yourself.I glance at her and I cringe.And I hide the rage. the wraththat now governs my cingulated cortex.I am like a pre-adolescent childwondering about the secret world of Santa Claus;Should I believe it?Should I give in?Do you deserve my sympathy?Or do youperhapsneed a little timeto abandon your naiveté?Will it take eighteen more?Or will it pass over the course of today?

My hands are clammy.The leather of the mittin my graspstarts to slip.I feel the heat, now.I feel it really start to take over;rising up in my torso, filling my cheeks,exploding out my eyes.

I cannot see my own Eyelashes,and so I cannot specify how long they are at this time.I can only say that whenever I blink,my brow bone laughs as though it is being tickled.It is careless, naive, and free,like a younger version of mewho used to glanceinto the standsand hide genuine smiles of happiness and pride.

And now I hide rage.And now I hide rage.

I have been told many timesnot to feelresponsiblein any way.And so I don’t,and so I won’t.I try to look at her and tell herthe same thingbecause it is good advice.And it is nobody’s fault.But saw you no sign of this?Maybe it is not my business.Or maybe ignorance is bliss.But, hell,I am certain that you are a red checker piecewho stood diagonally to his black oneandjumped.

I feel sick insideknowing that I just made this connection.Because after eighteen years,you are only a baby.I see the trepidation that you expressfrom across the room.

28 29by Erika Gentile VB

And I cry for youbecause I am not so braveand my Eyelashes are very weak.I try to be strong.

I have been tryingsince Sunday.But I ammy Eyelashes.

Daddy sits down next to me.I play with the string unravelling on the mittand widen my eyesto help the escaping criessilence themselves.

Embarrassment.We all know it.We all feel it.But how might we conceal it?I know he felt ittowards the end.I know how much pride he had.Did he yelp?Secretly.Did he ask for help?Silently.And then rejected the tiny reply.

How was I unable to seewhen my Lashes were so short?My vision was not so distorted by them.I tell myself not to ask that questionanymorebecausedaddy wouldn’t want me toandbecauseI am too small a checker peice in this gameto be able to make a difference.

So I sit here, instead,watching everyone treadthe water that was toopowerfulto keep him afloat.

She walked up to the podium,her heels clunking up the aisle.And as she speaks,I want to believe in the braveryandstrengththat she appears to possess.I miss our carefree days together.I want to understand,to empathize,to relate,and to believe,butliescan deceive.

I cannot even listen;my ears are fussing.And so I wait.And I stroke the leather of the mittuntil dad and everyone stand slowly.I walkup the aisle and look downinto theblackcasket.I gasp a little at firstbut then strive to calm myself.He is unreal-made of wax, almost.His crisp red dress shirt,ironed and ready,lies flatand does not budge.

30 31

by Sarah Murphy VB

32 33by Kylie Sura VB

I hear a noisethat I have never heard before come frommyownmother.She cannot breathe! Someone help her!Help her stand, help her breathe.Please, God,help these people.

I stare in disbeliefand I mourn.And I try to understandthe way he feltbeforehefell.He couldn’t breathe,either,but nobody heardthe noise that he made.Because thatnoisewas only in his own head.

It is a feeling like no otherto not be ableto connectdots that you cannot see clearlyexpressed on a page..Without clear dots,an imageisinvisiblebutstillexistent.

And so as they carry him off,and lashes lengthenonce again,I try not to pretendthat I do not understand.And in the days to come, I see a dot.And in the months to come,I see forty-six more.And today I see a picture;black dotsconnected by a black lineon a white page.And I do not even need to carry thatpicturein my pocket anymore becauseI getit.And I avoid it.

My Eyelashes are a little stronger now,but if you look really closely,you will notice thatthey cangetverylongsometimes.

Reality vs Illusionby Jessica Abreu-Moore VA

I’m confused. Babe, it’s just the booze.Is this real,Is this happening?She said she loved me,She said this was right. He promised he’d hold me all through the night.

We can’t let this goDon’t worry, everything’s fine.

I’m sorry baby, but you crossed the line.It’s time to get real. You’re just making this into a big deal

Nothing happened, Nothing changed.Soon, we will become estranged. It wasn’t real!Is that really how you feel?Nothing can ever be the same again. These things happen every now and then.Baby, I think you’ve gone a bit crazy. No, it’s you who’s seeing hazy.I can’t believe that this is it. Babe, we aren’t going to split.This is hard for me too,I never thought this day would come. Is this really what we’ve become?There is no longer a we.From now on it’s just me. I know that this is only a dream. Together forever, That’s what we said.Instantaneously, the pain spread.

This is one thing I absolutely dread,But we both need to move on to our new lives ahead. I’m so confused, this can’t be true. I stand here desperately looking for a clue.This is goodbye. Oh but that’s a lie.Please don’t cry. Without you I would die.

He won’t flee,I repeat to myself, though I am staring at an emptyspace before me.

34 35

by Sabina Alka VB

Aliceby Kelly Burchell-Reyes IIIB

Signal Flaresby Norah Woodcock IVC

Have you ever heard her call you? Her whisper tickling your ears, her yearning driving you to insanity? Have you ever sensed her presence, near, but oh, so far away? I have felt it. When I walk down the fifth floor hallway on my own, when I step into the chapel, when I explore a new area of the school, I feel it. That is how I met Alice.

Who is Alice, you ask? A more accurate question would be, what is Alice? She never told me her name; I learned it from the stories they tell.

When I first met her, I thought that she was just another student. Her hair was brown and pin-straight, falling to her shoulders. Her eyes, hidden behind large, oval glasses, were a deep black, like a bottomless well of tar.

I was in my second year. I was in the chapel, early for Tuesday morning Mass. The wooden floorboards creaked eerily under my footsteps, sounding my arrival. The air was warm and peaceful, the way it always is. I made my way to the front, to wait for everyone else, when I saw her. Kneeling in front of the altar like an ancient sacrifice waiting for the priestess’ knife. As serene as an angel, garbed in an outmoded school uniform. As I approached her, she abruptly looked up, as though alarmed by my presence. She fled, and I followed. Across the sanctuary, through the sacristy, up a flight of stairs, and another. Into an old attic, covered in a layer of grime and dust, screaming of neglect.

But it was not the filth of the attic which startled me most. It was the eerie presence. On the floor lay hundreds of candles, lowly burning away to pools of melted wax. Alice sat, and beckoned for me to join her. Frightened as I was, I could not help but join her on the sludge floor, compelled. She took both my hands in hers, and closed her eyes. I followed suit.

A flood of images inundated my sight, blocking out all other senses. A girl in this very attic. Stabbed with an ornate knife. Years and years ago. A girl left here, forgotten. Alice.

Only remembered days later, found by hazard, her murder never avenged, her curse, her final wish, left unfinished, stained forever like her seeping blood on the wooden floor. Revenge, vengeance, the death of her killer.

A face. A different, new one. Another young girl. The face of Alice’s killer. Wavy auburn hair framing a thin face. Powder masking the freckles on her cheek. Unmistakeable green eyes. The same emerald sheen as my

own. My mother.The visions became faster, more urgent. Vicious, sweet revenge. Blood everywhere. Gore, red, death. The smell of death filled the air. Suddenly, the visions ceased. A stinging pain was embedded in my stomach, along with an ornate knife. The same one used to kill Alice. Blood flooded the room. The world turns black.

your heart is a fire and your body’s a seaand it’s a war inside, a storm – the currents twist around

and around, flushing out the flames. and the fire is extinguished, inevitablydidn’t we know all along that it couldn’t be escaped?

and deep in the ocean, it’s dark. I knew when you smiled it wouldn’t take longbefore you’d draw me into your depths, and I’d swim, swim

while the fire shuddered and dwindled. the waves have pulsed and pulled and poundedI tried to pray but wound up choking, and you watched from above

and I knew then that I had lost. water beats fire as rock beats paperas scissors beat paper and paper beats rock; maybe this is,

maybe this is just a game. you cried for me but it made no differencejust like when you fought, fought against it, you were too weak

but weren’t we both weak? and I may have cried for you, if it matteredthe tears got lost in the salty water, and I wondered

did that many girls cry for you? would you rather die burning or drowning?I gathered the last of my strength, and let myself sink towards

the feeble light that remained. your heart is a fire, but your body’s a seaand of course it wasn’t enough, we were never enough

you floated; I drowned. so tell me which is worse, my fate or yours?to be lost in cold darkness, or endlessly drift along above?

it was for pride, never for love.

by Lauren Maruya-Li VB& Victoria Sarker VC

36 37by Lisa-Marie Giorgio IVB

A Secretby Thea Koper VC

I wish I’d never told youOut behind the yard that day.For in that moment clear and true,I’d voiced all I had to say.

But you went and snatched my heart away,With not a care in the world.And on that chilled October’s day,Stole my trust with all you heard.

Friends will come and friends will go,But a secret’s a secret, no matter how small.With your smiling face and radiant glow,You’ll sweetly push me and watch as I fall.

How long must I wait here,All alone in the cold?Watching you break nearAnd laugh as I grow old.

But the lock is fastened tightAnd I hold the key,Making you the master of your plight,And far from free.

38 39by Angelina Smolynec VC

by Kayla Cabanas IVC Caroline Chamandy IVA Adrianna Mauchan IVC Rachel Rubbo IVC

had it goodbefore she veeredoff the straight andnarrow. Shealways chosethe monster overus, her own kids.What she didn’trealize wasthat the monsterwas part of ustoo. I don’t lovemy mother,but I don’tcare enoughto hate her.

Kristinaby Katherine Chamandy VA

Timeby Monica Petras IVA

On Independenceby Sara Turcotte VA

I long for the years, the months, and the days,The hours, the minutes, and the secondsWhen life heeds to my independent ways;Fresh paint on my own picket fence beckons.For now, life appears to need a new coat;one that is uniquely chosen by me,so as to ensure that I stay afloat,in making decisions, I must feel free.Bite your loose lip or your tongue if you must,to restrain from painting my fence yourself.Do what you must to exhibit your trust;to raise your tendencies up on the shelf.For I am ready to spread my own wings,For I am eager to see what life brings.

We should rule the world. With blood and blackness, we guard our ships and live in the dark, waiting for a sign from above. This was meant to be just you and me: sucking energy, zapping life away. Day by day, in the light, we sleep on pillows of broken dreams. The pen of knowledge is five minutes away from the paper we may read the knowledge from. When we decide to be free, our hearts are lifted and free of fatal choices and consequences of which we think little. We think of the sea with its never-ending waves within which is a key to the heart of all life in the world we live in. The rarity of a good life is never too distant nor is it too complicated. It is the right to print with the ink of truth that keeps me writing with certainty that I will live another day. And by the time you have read this entire thing, you’ll realize that it has no philosophical meaning and that I just jumbled words together, so basically you wasted twenty seconds of your life

40 41

by Nicole Tieman VA

by Maria Power VC

Marks On the Wallby Katherine Chamandy VA

Marks, gouges, grooves, holes.A film of grime from cooking grease and muffled hallway trysts.Old faded wallpaper and ceiling paint the colour of pink slime peeling, curling backin messy webs of disgust, like it’s trying to get away and it can’t.One fingernail, dragged or snagged under jaggedcorners could scratch the restaway, if someone cared enough to try.A gaping void at shoulder height, too muchanger taken out on one spot in an ocean ofweak. Tendrils of paper hang like filaments made wearyby trying to mend injuries beyond repair.The plaster is punched right throughto the hollow behind the battered shell.

A scratched outside disguising an empty inside. Just like me. Too many marks on the wall.

The clouds have rolled in on the beachHeavy clouds, as dark as the night skyEveryone begins to desert the beach but meGiant waves begin to roll inLost seas creatures washed up on the dark sand try to find their way homeInching closer and closer into the sea foamMy hair begins to glow in the salty windMoisture begins to fall from the skiesEach droplet is cool as a frosty drinkRumbling can now be heard in the distanceOut of the jet-black atmosphere,Forming in the cracks of the heavy cloudsLies a glimmering golden light thatIs trying desperately to peek throughGrey turns to whiteHot rays of sunshine,Try to break down the barrier and pour light into the world again

by Victoria Perrotta VA

by Lisa-Marie Giorgio IVB

The Glimmer of Lightby Nicole Tieman VA

42 43

Pig Squealsby Sara Turcotte VA

I sigh in anticipation and shift my hip to the right as I wipe the tiny droplets of perspiration that coat my hairline with the back of my hand. I look behind me into the distance. We have advanced quite a bit; at 11:00 am when everyone was arriving, we were in the exact middle of the mosh pit. Now, seven hours later, we stand three rows from the rusty metal rail that separates the raging spectators from the Teggart Main Stage (the biggest stage in the festival, naturally). It is always a little quieter during the half hour break in between acts when the sound check crew floods the stage, transporting equipment on and off, looking professional. I take this opportunity to regain hearing in my ears, as we’ve been subjected to over six deathcore metal bands since this morning. Deathcore isn’t usually my cup of tea, especially when combined with moshing adolescents and crowd-surfers three times my size. If I can just hang on until the 8:00 pm act, it will all be worth it. The soles of my feet ache as I awkwardly try to reach my pointer finger into the side of my left shoe to remove a rock that lodged itself in there during Dead Sara’s act at around 4:00pm. Dead Sara…what a coincidence. The crowd erupts as a large banner drops behind the drum set, revealing The Devil Wears Prada’s name and logo. A fast, heavy guitar riff projects through Teggart’s speakers, followed by an intense double-bass follow-up by the drummer. The lead singer starts to growl and scream; this, I have learned, is referred to as “pig squeals” in deathcore music. I feel anxiety start to well up as the people around me form a circle and begin to mosh. Dust now occupies the air and it is difficult to simply find oxygen, never mind maintain balance to stay standing. The girl in front of me turns around, glancing over my head. Her eyes widen like a child who’s just seen a ghost. She taps my arm several times, points enthusiastically and cries “Look out!” I do not turn around in time, for as my head shifts slightly to the left to see what’s coming, I black out suddenly. A 300-pound man has crowd-surfed his way over, kicking me in the face with his size twelve feet. My vision is distorted for a moment, but a second later when it is restored I give every ounce of strength I have to maneuver the fat man over my head. There are many similar manifestations in the following hour. At 7:59 pm, my body is covered in brown soot. My shoes are ripped, exposing my calloused feet. My hair has a crunchy texture from having been subjected to several beer

showers. My hips are bruised from pushing and shoving. At 8:00 pm, however, none of it even matters. I am one of fifteen people leaning against that rusty metal rail (the one that separates the spectators from the stage), about to see and hear my heroes up close. The “pig squeals” are over. I am ready. I hear a familiar tune emanate from the black Pevey monitor to my left. Someone pushes me from behind and I am thrown forward. My sunglasses (suspended from the middle of my tank top) crack in half as I hit the rail. I don’t even have a moment of reaction time before the four of them appear onstage. It seems as though from the moment they begin playing, from the moment they make eye contact with me, from the moment I am absorbed in the music that they devote their lives to, I am in a different world. I am safe now. Nobody can push me, or hurt me, or tell me anything I do not want to hear because I am in my safe place. I might be bruised and dirty, but my heart is full of love and thankfulness. A bruise will repair itself, but a heart left too long without music…that cannot be healed.

44 45

by Sarah Murphy VB

Murder On Simpson Streetby Alessia Castonguay IIA

Katherine, a young girl around the age of 14, awoke one morning in her beautifully sunlit room, excited for another wondrous day to unfold before her. In Utopiopia, Katherine’s town, everything is beautiful and perfectly symmetrical. The buildings were all built in the same style, but were painted in various different lively colours. The trees, though made out of plastic, were perfectly round at the top. Everything was vivid and full of life.

On the way to school, she passed by the perfectly bloomed flowers in an assortment of bright colors. She stopped and stared at what was right before her eyes, took a breath, and thought about something she had never thought about before: death. Katherine had never thought about something so disturbing or scary before. She shook her head to clear her mind of this frightening thought and ran towards her school.

When she got to school, she sat down and stared at her teacher, thinking of ways to kill her. Her mind was becoming filled with more and more dreadful things. She was thinking of death, sorrow, and murder. Her eyes were fixed on her teacher and would not budge. Then, the bell rang.

“Today we will be doing a project on the person who makes you happiest.” said Miss. Carlyle.

Katherine raised her hand rather slowly and asked, “Miss Carlyle, what is death?”

“Oh, Lord! It’s happening. This hasn’t happened since… Oh dear, we need to get you to the hospital now!”

Katherine was so confused. She was only asking a simple question. How could that be so bad? Before she knew it, she was being temporarily frozen and transported to Utopiopia hospital.

When Katherine awoke, Miss Carlyle was staring at her with a big smile. But Katherine was thinking of something different, very different. Then, suddenly Katherine’s eyes turned a very bright red. A red, which can be seen for miles and miles, though, strangely, Miss Carlyle didn’t notice at all.

“Miss Carlyle”, said Katherine, “where do you live?”Stupidly, she responded “143 Simpson Street, why do you ask

honey?”“Just asking,” Katherine responded.

Katherine awoke the next morning in the same sunny room as she d id yesterday, but with completely different thoughts. Same as yesterday, she passed by the same flowers and the same buildings, and then was on her way to school.

When she got there, everyone stared and whispered. All this because of one simple question. Katherine was very annoyed by the end of the day, with the constant staring and pointing. To calm herself, she went to the reference section in the library and looked for a certain book. Then she came upon the book ‘Deadly People and Deadly minds by: Alexandra Hagrid’. Katherine pulled it out and began to read.

“There are certain people in this world who aren’t quite alright. Those people think about what we normal people never dare to think about. They think about death, sadness, depression, murder and other things we ‘normal people’ don’t. Those people are called ‘Drainers.’ Drainers suck the happiness out of our world. They kill and murder people of all shapes, sizes, and colors…”

Katherine was enraged and disgusted. She ran out of the library, on a mission to find Miss Carlyle. Thankfully, she knew her address.

When Katherine got there, it was very late, about midnight. She snuck in to Miss Carlyle’s home and tiptoed straight to the kitchen. She looked through every drawer and cupboard and finally found what she needed, a long silver knife. Katherine slowly crept up the stairs and found her teacher snuggled up in a mountain of blankets. Yes, she thought, this will only make it easier to kill her.

Katherine pulled out the silver knife and stabbed Miss Carlyle right in the heart. She looked at the body and smirked. She stayed there for about an hour to make sure Miss Carlyle was really dead. She was.

Katherine then ran home and snuck back into her bed like nothing had ever happened. While in her warm bed she thought of what she had just done, smiled gruesomely, then quickly fell asleep.

46 47

by Caroline Jeanson IIIB

Only Humanby Maris Jacobs IVB

Once Upon a Timeby Alexina McLeod VA

I live and learn just like you do.I sweat and I fight and try hard too.Today I love romance and sappy love songs,Tomorrow I’ll love rock and Rocky Balboa.Right now I wear red and in an hour I’ll wear green.So what? Who cares? I’m a teenager; sue me.We walk the same earth and breathe the same air,So why do most things seem so unfair?I want me here and you want me there.You make me go crazy and pull out my hair.You expect so much and I give you so little.I’m not that easy,I’m a puzzle; I’m a riddle.I wish I could be what you want me to be.But I’m not all you think I am,Look closer you’ll see.They call me a star, an Olympian champ.How do you know this, if I don’t even know who I am?I’m not a machine; I don’t like to be usedThen thrown to the side like an old pair of shoes.This is not your game; I follow my rules.I’ll apply my own knowledge and use my own tools.I’m not sure what I’m doing, Maybe I never will.But it’s not your concern,It’s my dream to fulfill.Life isn’t easy and mine is no exception.I’m not a robot. I’m a girl.I am only human.

There is something magical

about a mirrorLooking, looking:

your image gets clearer.Don’t you break it,

you’ll have bad luck,For seven years you’ll be stuck.

Mirror, Mirror, on the wallHearing whispers in the hallIt is the image of your soul

Some like snow and some like coal.Stay far from the mirror,For it you should fear.

And do not recognize your sin.Vanity will draw you in.

Closer, closer the thing is comingAll around you the walls are humming.

The demon, the evil thingShows you itself, in a flutter of wings.

You scream and dashIt falls and CRASH!

Sprinkling the floor like new-fallen snowCracked glass surrounds you, aglow.

Looking, closer, as you peerYou are the monster in the mirror.

48 49by Angelina Griffin IIIA

by Jasmine Rach VA

Time Ticks for No Oneby Katricia Durham VB

Tick. Tock.It seems that life’s a clock.Just ticking away,As time goes byI sit in desperation watching time fly.Minutes, seconds, hours upon hoursI feel like I’m losing my mindTrying to comprehend; whyTime ticks for no one.Twenty-four/ sevenThree hundred and sixty-fiveThe fools we are struggling to stay alive,Trying to out beat timeTo live life to the fullest,What we don’t realize is that time will out smart us.Look at ourselvesCorrupt pieces of matterLiving our lives,In order to make our pockets fatter.Some of us live for the wrong reasons from the start,By the time we discover life’s true meaning We’ve drifted too far apart.Humanity,Insanity,What’s the difference nowadays?Taking advantage of innocent people,Will society ever change its ways?Huh, will we live to see it happen?I, doubt it the way that we’re going,‘Cause time ticks for no one.But what happens when your clock stops?Huh, thought you had a right to stay?Don’t be so assured, Life doesn’t work out that way.We’re all born dyingDang, I thought you heardLife’s too short for fights and mixed words

People against the world,People against each other.Everyone’s an enemyBut trust me it’s not the person in front of me,That’s what we all fail to see,That time is life’s ultimate enemy.

50 51

by Sara Pulice & Vivian Luong IVC

My Reflectionby Jasmina Ciccocioppo & Melissa Likoray VB

Sweet old lady brings me thingsWhat a sweet old lady to know.My whereabouts are secret to the world.My modest home behind me,Encouraging this newfound friendship,I follow her.Deep into the forestTo where animals roam,Where the sun no longer touches the ground,And to where secrets are forgotten.What a sight to see:The two of us in a barren forestThe ground covered with white snowAnd twisted black treesSuch a contrast to those red, RED apples.

Bruises on my body,scratch marks along my arms, torn clothes and don’t have a clue where my shoes are.Looking around the room,never seen this place before. Where am I? Where am I?I hear people outside these four white walls, but they don’t seem to hear me,no matter how loud I scream.I’m trapped in a no-man’s zone.After some time I realize I’m not alone,there is a boy curled up in the corner,unsure if he’s still alive. Thinking to myself,Am I going to be next?There are footsteps approaching the door, I shut my eyes,it was all a dream.

I finally get out of bed,look at myself in the mirror.There are bruises on my body,scratch marks along my arms.

52 53

by Caitlin Matthew VC

by Veronica Giroux & Sabrina Ste-Marie IA

Snow, Glass, Applesby Alexina McLeod VA

L’égarementde Norah Woodcock IVC

C’est ça que je ne t’ai pas dit, ou bien, que tu n’as pas compris :Comme les autres soucis que tu congédies avec les mots que tu dis,Je suis fatiguée par l’ennui des nuits d’insomnie,Mais quand tu me contraries, la voici qui surgit : l’énergie.

Je te vois hausser les épaules. Tu te penses si drôle,Mais t’oublies ton rôle, t’oublies que j’ai aucun contrôle.Je dis que je ne te veux aucun mal, mais c’est que pour rire :On sait tous les deux que le but est de te faire souffrir.

Cela ne te blesse pas? C’est ça, cesse avec ces mensonges,T’as aucun problème à dire la vérité au reste du monde.Mais à moi, tu racontes seulement tes blagues narquoises,Qui me mettent sous la terre et toi sur la croix.

Tu me dis des choses terribles, et en fait t’as raison,Mais tu ne crois pas vraiment que ce n’est pas parfait à la maison.Sans le remarquer, tes mots accusatoires font leurs marques.La colère vient : la rage noire sort avec quelques remarques.

Puis le lendemain, quand je ne ressens rien, ni remords, ni regrets,T’es tout prêt à me pardonner mes péchés, à faire la paix.Je dis que je ne te voulais aucun mal, mais c’est que pour rire :On sait tous les deux que le but était de te faire souffrir.

Je ne mérite pas ton pardon, n’oublie pas qu’avec chaque coup,Qu’avec chaque cri et chaque offense, le remords n’existe pas entre nous.T’essaies de tout réparer, de sauver mon âme,

Mais je triche aux leçons et c’est toi que je blâme.

Les attaques sont comme des trains égarés, lorsqu’on prend le pouvoir pour la gloire.Je les laisse aller par exprès, en même temps sans le vouloir.Ce n’est pas le mal que je te souhaite, mon cher, c’est l’enfer,Et on sait tous les deux que t’as assez souffert.

54 55

by Katherine Drummond IVC

Fairy Talesby Norah Woodcock IVC

56

by Alexa Eberle VA

I opened a child’s book of fairy tales and found myself folded neatly inside

Amidst wrinkled pages and time-stained words, I found myself folded inside.

I took myself out from between the pages, I felt and heard the crinkles made

Paper, on paper, on paper, on paper – and I could not smooth out the folds.

Above all the paper, I tried to unfold, but still the creases stayed in place

I found myself in a child’s book of fairy tales, and to this day bear the trace.

I charred in flames, flew through wind, soaked in water, lay pressed beneath stone

No difference was made – none at all – and I wish that I had left the book unopened.

Yet I opened a child’s book of fairy tales, where I had lost myself inside wrinkled pages

Today I’ll open it again to put myself back – after all, there are much worse cages.