What do you think of when somebody says the word horizon? The limitless frontier, or the lovely painted sky? Or maybe it's not a physical horizon, but the infinite possibilities that your future could hold. The fact that the uncertainty of the future is something that is real yet neverending. The fact that try as you may, the future will forever dangle in front of us, taunting but out of reach. Perhaps you think of the sapphire blue ocean touching the grey sky, with the sun in the middle like a beckoning ray of hope. The word horizon has countless meanings, the interpretation in the eye of the beholder. But the question remains, what does the beholder see?
Intro by Nadia Golah-Rusnak
Intro by Nadia Golah-Rusnak
Letting myself go by Dua Khan (10) |
The Sunset by Lily Smith (10) |
“We go through changes, challenge and opportunity pass us by.
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<-- Photo by Mei Al-Dawodi
Photo by Lily Smith --> |
A brief pause,
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Changing Tides by Nina Jones (10) |
11.13.2025 by Theia Taylor (10) |
He presses a sun warmed stone into my palm
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Photo by Nina Jones |
at the bus stop right as the overhead lights turn on
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Photo by Theia Taylor |
I Watch the Horizon by Ainsley Morris (10)
Upon the newly dewy hill at dawn
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Photo by Ainsley Morris |
Untitled by Daisy Benson (10) |
Hugging the Sun by Barbara Mazarova (10) |
Constrained to metal death traps alongside you,
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When I was little, I wanted to hug the sun. I wanted to show my gratitude for all the light and warmth it provides us with here on Earth. I would wait until sunset, when the sun would be low enough on the horizon it looked like I could touch it. It looked like it was waiting there just for me, shining bright colors all over the darkening evening sky.
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Photo by Barbara Mazarova |
Flying Forward by Lily Smith (10) |
15 going on 15 by Nadia Golah-Rusnak |
My wings ripple in the steady gusts of wind. The world is a blur around us as we soar through the crisp air, letting our minds flow free as our bodies do what they do best. Fly. Left wing, third from the back. That is the only world I have ever known. We have flown over sky high mountains, everlasting oceans, fog covered forests and sun soaked deserts. Yet we never fly down, not for a moment. We hardly even let our eyes drift to the landscapes below. The leader of the flock, the one who flies up front, promises to guide us over the horizon. To reach the point where sky hits ground and there, finally, we will rest. We will find the beauty, the sanctuary for which we have been desperately searching. But my heart fails to fill with hope. Call it melancholy, call it pessimism. I just cannot seem to convince myself that we will ever make it. We have been chasing nothing more than a dream, like a cat chasing a laser, who is never able to catch it in its paws. We are running a race we will never win, searching for a finish line that does not exist. And I wish so desperately to be able to let my wings… stop. To drop. To be able to land on solid ground and find that what we have been looking for has been underneath us this whole time. All the beauty, all the wonders that I am told will be waiting for us when we reach the end, are right below our beaks. If only we would just look down.
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16: 16 years is now my age I learned how to drive Still in Ottawa
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No More Second Chances by Mei Al-Dawodi (10) |
Untitled by Daryna Medvedieva (12) |
The wind felt cool and calm, a nice breeze filled the air.
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Photo by Dua Khan |
I want someone to hug me
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Sunrise on a Spring Morning by Barbara Mazarova (10) |
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A Blue Car and a Beautiful Boy by Nina Jones (10) |
6:37 am. That’s what my bedside clock says. 6:37am and I’m already feeling ready for the day. I’m not usually an early riser, but some days are my “sunrise days”. Today is a sunrise day, I decide. I launch the covers off of me and sit up in my bed. I stretch, then get out of my cozy blankets and tiptoe downstairs, out into the front yard.
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Photo by Barbara Mazarova |
The blue car door slams and a tear slips down my cheek. It paints a pale trail down my skin before succumbing to gravity, watering the grass down below. My last reasons to be strong fall with it. A sudden smile catches my lips as the morning sun shines bright in my eyes, much like it did all those years ago, through the windows in the hospital room the day that he was born. Just my boy, the sun, and I. How lucky we were to have had a room with such a big wide window, spring air lingering just outside. Spring air like that of the afternoon when he crawled in the park grass, crying because he hated the feel of it. He stood himself right up, and took his first step while trying to flee from the itching ground below. We spent that afternoon crying together. Crying just like he was when he came home from his first day of kindergarten… and middle school, too. So shy, that boy. But so sweet, too. Sweet like the cake we ate at graduation. It was for the students only, but he stole a slice for me. It had a sickening amount of icing, as cake always does, and he spooned some off my paper plate, onto his own, as he always does. I ate until the raw ache in my gut was squashed way down, down. Squashed like I was when he hugged me mere moments ago. Maybe it was the gripping embrace that stole the air from my lungs. I couldn’t tell. Still can’t. I watch him adjust the overhead mirror in the car, so carefully. He is ready for this. I am not. The engine whirs to life and before he can think about retreating back home, the wheels begin to turn. He honks the horn twice as I wave goodbye to the last eighteen years of my life, fading down the horizon. I think about chasing him, pulling him back into my arms when I reach him, gasping, yet finally finding my breath. I know I could chase the horizon forever, but I may never reach him again. My boy. My bright-eyed baby. My bold, beautiful light to brighten my eternal night. My horizon: I miss you already. |
The Perspectives of a Horizon by Mei Al-Dawodi (10) |
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Horizon by Nadia Golah-Rusnak (10) |
The horizon, so peaceful and quiet.
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Photo by Dua Khan |
Horizon, a beautiful thing. Filled with a never ending elegance. Infinite, colorful, charming. Full of surprises. Painted with red, orange and yellows, so colourful and bright. The one thing separating the sky from the earth, the boundary, the edge. When you see a horizon you can't help but smile. Or at least gaze at it for a while. Layers and layers of mystery tied in. Where did it come from? Why is it there? Where does it end? We may never know…What is the future, what will you become? You will find out, at the end of the horizon.
Photo by Ainsley Morris |
Forgotten In the Fog by Dua Khan (10) |
Island Time by Norah Carthew (10) |
Toronto's Horizon by Millie Farley (12) |
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"Don't stop chasing after your goals, we have always been told since the beginning.
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The taxi cab was stuffy. It smelt of one hundred different people, the worn seats scratching underneath me. The driver was kind, he smiled and made small talk in broken English. It was so early in the morning that it almost seemed like it was still night. The streets were empty with the occasional driver under the dim streetlights. I loved this feeling, the excitement, the anticipation…The taxi pulled into the terminal alongside the departure curb. A warm gust of air hit my face as I walked through the revolving doors of Pearson Airport. Crowds of travelers swarmed around me. Toronto’s people never rested, and it was a struggle to make it to the check in area. I pushed through families and newly wed couples, my luggage wobbling after me. Our flight was departing from Gate 3 around 3:17am, in exactly two hours. It involved two layovers and a total of 18 h 45 min. My friends would meet me at our gate, having all arrived at different times. We’d been planning this trip forever, but no one ever had the time or the money. In the past year, everyone had received a promotion of some sort, so we decided to finally visit our dream resort in Bora-Bora. I took the closest escalator and stopped for some coffee to ease the tiredness of my eyes. Each step toward the gate became more and more exciting. Once I arrived, my friends and I chattered eagerly as if we were little girls again. Dreams of the crystal clear waters and sunkissed sand filled my head, and soon the hours were flying by. The layovers were fun, and we spent the majority of them exploring stores in the terminal. Finally, the plane touched down for the last time. We grabbed our luggage from the conveyor belt and loaded it all into the van provided by the resort. Everything following that was a blur. The bus ride felt long but the views were amazing. When we arrived, I was hungry and tired from the long day. Our resort hut was beautiful and right on the water, equipped with seven bedrooms, two pools, and countless slides leading into the ocean. At the entrance, we were offered pina coladas by the staff. This was where I'd be spending the next two weeks sunbathing, eating, and swimming. I sat down on the sunchair and leaned back. Finally, I could relax. I watched the sunset slip into the horizon… and slowly closed my eyes.
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We drove to Toronto to go to The Danforth, awaiting its high ceilings, the 106 year old wood trimming, at the front of the line the security guard marks my hands with black X’s, I’M NOT Torontonian, I’m a unknowing outsider, I know I don't belong in this world built of theatres and mass sports centres and mass malls, towering skyscrapers so tall we get vertigo when we look up, lock up, men here wander after dark, the sidewalks are turned into tunnels with scaffolding, pigeons tilt to keep balance on wires, every dog here wears a sweater—you’d think it was law. Every university student here has a café drink like it’s a permanent accessory, green matcha, pink bubble tea, white latté, the art gallery, the ROM, the aquarium, the lake Ontario peeking through in the distance past glass apartments, we can see it from the dozen lane highway, at the CN tower we peer down on crowds of blue ants crawling into the Roger's Center, the horizon’s like a fully loaded bar graph, the y-axis climbs past the sun, the x-axis is crowded with high rise buildings, I know I don’t belong in this world of silver skyscrapers and dense population
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Photo by Millie Farley |
Painting the Horizon by Ainsley Morris (10) |
The Lighthouse Keeper by Norah Carthew (10) |
Untitled by Sofia Bjornson |
Have you ever wondered why the sunrise is so bright and colorful? Well it all started in a small house in a small town with a small boy named Nicolas…
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The lighthouse’s light burned steadily across the ocean, catching nothing but water under its glow. I leaned forward on the railing and watched the waves crash against the coast’s sharp rocks. It was a breathtaking view that I’d had the pleasure of witnessing day and night for the past two years. I hadn't been at this job for too long, most lighthouse keepers lived here their whole lives. That was not my plan. Although the job description was easy enough, it was constant. This meant I never got a break, unless another person was willing to take over for me -which so far had proved to be unsuccessful. It paid well, and when I had been on the brink of homelessness it had saved me, but I was ready to move on. I was tired, and lonely. I yearned to speak face to face to someone else, and feel the bustle of the city again. Some lighthouse keepers got lucky enough to be placed in a small town on the coast, or even close enough to drive to civilization, but not me. I was on the tip of a deserted island off the coast of Nova Scotia, the nearest town being at least a two hours drive away. I only got to visit once or twice every two weeks for groceries, since it was always foggy out here and the light needed constant care. I was ready for a change, I was ready to go back to the city and restart my life. I had the money this time, but I couldn’t leave until someone else could take over for me. It was late now, and I had made sure the light was all good for the night. There was no reason for me to be up here anymore, so I made my way downstairs to my bedroom admiring the waves the sea had to offer tonight. When I woke up, everything seemed normal. I did my routine, had some breakfast, and then went upstairs to check on the light. When I got up there, something was off. The light was fine, still rotating side to side, but there was definitely something… different. I looked out at the rising sun across the water, and realised the waves were calm. Normally in this particular area there were always large swells, but this morning everything was still, even peaceful. I wondered what had happened. Maybe this was the calm before the storm? Like when a tsunami appears? But the water was the normal level, although maybe a little lower where the tall waves used to be. As I looked closer, I could see tiny dots of land spread out in front of the lighthouse. I’d never noticed them before. They seemed to circle the lighthouse, creating a sort of stepping stone walkway. I raced downstairs and out the door to see up close what these things were. Cautiously, I put one foot on the first stepping stone. It felt like every other piece of land around, sturdy, rough, and damp. Slowly, I placed both feet on the second stone, and then again and again until I was steadily walking through the water. The stones circled the light house once then spiraled away along the coast, leading me to a big tide pool. It was beautiful, with mossy rocks and clear water. I could see starfish on the bottom and some colourful fish eating algae. I felt like I was visiting a fancy aquarium, beautiful and rare. I sat down on a somewhat dry, flat rock perched near the edge of the pool, and just watched. It was so beautiful that it was hard to imagine this being natural. The sun had almost completely risen, and its warm yellow light cast a beautiful glow on the surface of the water. Right then, I felt happy. The pool made me feel less lonely, and it made me feel like maybe, I didn’t need to go back to the city, maybe, I just needed to notice the things around me instead.
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