We stare at the dead, decomposing, and run over carcasse on the side of the road. The colourful array of umbrella shaped mushrooms cluttering the field; earthworms slinking through the dirt. An old cottage sits abandoned. A fridge lays open. Three shelves, and an open drawer at the bottom. Bags of spoiled milk and a carton of eggs which had long gone bad sat on the right side of the bottom shelf. On the middle shelf, decaying produce, apples, bananas, cucumber, tomatoes, squash, sit filled with maggots and swarmed by flies. The top shelf was empty, save for the filth and grime cakes into the corners. Laying in bed. Check your phone. Stare at the ceiling. Check your phone again. Rigid legs stretch out, moving for the first time in what feels like years. Stare at the ceiling again. Wait. Wait for your body to decompose, disintegrating into your own demise. The undead, roaming earth in a semblance of what once was, putrefying. Their skin comes off in flakes, deteriorating and crumbling, like an unstoppable cancer taking over. The rot creeping on what once was. Diseases, death, gruesome turn of events. Rancid mold growing fat and fury over what toy used to love. Relationships and their heavy tolls. It lurks in the shadows, or fills rooms with its stench. The rot, sickly and sticky coats everything eventually. 

WELCOME TO THE ROTTING SPOTLIGHT

​

The Empty-Handed Hoarder, ​by
​Moth Torgunrud

compulsive hoarding is a mental disorder marked by an obsessive need to acquire and keep things, even if the items are worthless, hazardous or unsanitary
…
I fear I might be turning into a hoarder. 
Physically, mentally, spiritually
What is a hoarder
What is it to hoard?
What is it that I hoard?
thoughts
I can’t seem to let go of my sentimentality, 
I can’t seem to want to and don’t know if I can.
I am trapped, garbage piled up too high to see over
I am masked in the stench of my own filth, memories too old to recount
Whatever really happened, I can’t recall
but everyday i feel just like i did all those years ago
Because I am surrounded by the stuff i had then

Because I don’t want to let go of what little good that time brought
Because this is all I’ve ever known, so this is where I will always believe i truly
Belong.
I’m suffocating under here, but i’ll tell you I can breathe just fine if you ask
Living like shit, encased in my own squalor, too dull to ever imagine escaping
Like a hamster in a cage
Mental receipts, bags, gifts, cards, papers, overdue bills, “boxes, unopened mail, clothes strewn about wildly, electrical cords tangled
All encased in complete garbage, unusable to some,
it’s everything to me. 
​I fear i’m fully aware of where I am, who I’ve become,
 but secretly don’t want to leave
I don’t want anything to change
​I won’t give up spending my glory days haunting the endless labyrinth 
that is the mess I call my memory
…

Photo sourced from pinterest

continued pIECE

A Brief Pause on the Roadside, By Breana Kirby (10)

Photo taken by Kevin Farley

There is something on the side of the road. 

Dead, 

Mangled,

Rotting. 

And for a moment you pause, you press the brakes on your bike and set a foot down next to the small, rotting corpse of an animal. 

You pause to stare. To stare at the blood, to stare at the bugs, to stare at its eyes, lifeless and dark. Are those its eyes? The body is beyond recognizable. It's all bloody and it's all rotting. 

​​You imagine what it could’ve been, in place of this corpse.

Could it have been a bird? Flying happily and free, spreading its wings to catch the gentle breeze. Gliding and diving and dying- maybe it was too free, and flew into a truck. 

Could it have been a squirrel? Running and jumping across treetops, searching for food. Maybe it believed that it could never lose balance, and then it fell. Splat onto the ground. 

Or maybe, this animal had always been rotten. Always been mangled and torn, the ugly duckling of its kind. Perhaps all it wanted was freedom, and maybe a little bit of food. To love and to be loved. Maybe it had had enough, and just collapsed on the side of the road, onto the cold, unforgiving pavement. Maybe it died alone…?

It doesn’t matter. All rotten things are forgotten eventually. 
​
You put your foot on the pedal, and you bike home. ​

Preened, by Bailey Curtin (12)

The raven answers when Alice calls. Her whistle is sharp and honed, soaring across the manor grounds and reaching his nest, a nook alongside the formermost buttress housing his sanctum of trinkets. In the courtyard, Alice outstretches her arm, awaits the rustle of the wind signifying her friend’s appearance. He arrives swiftly, clipped talons digging into the ruddy kidskin of her glove. She opens her palm and offers him scraps of breakfast’s biscuits. Crumbs fall onto her crinoline, catching in a disarray of ruffles and lace. Doughy, stale. Mother has been teaching her how to bake. The raven disposes a silver ornament in Alice’s long fingers and regards her apathetically.
She should be inside right now, Alice knows. She’d promised to practice her embroidery, but the fabric moon within its oaken frame ignites a gulf of restlessness in her chest that she wishes to ignore right now. She must be here, outside, with the swell of the sky above her and the nearby forest coursing through her veins. Yet the wrought iron gate is swung open far too easily. Her companion ruffles his ink-black feathers and gently pecks her cheek in hopes of more morsels. His eyes are beady, set in a sea of coal. She feels as though he can see past the layers of grime embedded in her fingernails, through her skin deep into the convolution of muscle she’s only observed in Father’s anatomy books. 

Alice speaks as she walks, swinging the garden gate open and venturing into the trees. The raven listens, perched on her shoulder. He was not there when the letter came, when her refusal mocked Father’s honour and the flames in the fireplace threatened to lick her petticoats. She’d put her foot down and let out a cry of a warrior; the paper asking for her hand was so translucent the duke’s handwriting was visible through both sides when held by the candlelight. The stars had been out that evening, a midnight canvas weighted with jewels, and Alice had watched them through the latticed window as the hounds at Father’s feet howled. She wishes now the raven could have collected the shining gems in the sky for her; they could have hung around her neck to give her strength, a necklace of amulets just as the Amazonian queens had. Alice has read about them from the books in Father’s library. She longs to wield their spears in the absence of her voice. But she has not been allowed to pore over his collection since.
As Alice finishes her tale, the raven, preening his feathers, lets out a wavering caw. The sound escapes into the trees above them, free of gravity. Untethered. Desperation roots itself within her bones, sinks into her riddled body. She can still stop this. Perhaps, if she is brave, she can make time to face Father before the wedding. But then she is crying, the teardrops streaming down her face shinier than any bauble the raven has ever brought her, and as he attempts to collect them in his beak, her eyelids feel heavy with rage and the earth tilts sideways.

Continued PIECE

Hunter, by Abella Vasquez (9)

A shot rings through the redwood trees, my body falling backwards as the flocks of silver birds scatter through the foliage. My hands slip on the mixture of muck and leaves, unable to withstand the slop of the misty forest. The leaves beneath me are far past rotten and I feel them crumble between my fingers. My dirty hands brush along my gun and I quickly grab it, holding it close to me. I don’t fully know what just happened, but I know it was me. 
My head shoots up in alarm at a crunch of leaves at my legs. It’s a deer, tall and lanky, fur of velvet and horns that pierce the sky. Its dark gaze burns into my eyes and I’m frozen, my body turns to ice but I feel like I’m on fire. My chest heaves and my palms grow sweaty, rotten leaves sticking to them. The deer starts to prance forward, past me and to my gun, never leaving my gaze. I have to watch it, my body gives me no other choice. The deers wet nose carefully sniffs the gun and only then do I notice the bloody scarlet hole ripped through its head. Blood falls onto me and the gun, falling in thick clots that stain the veneer and my jacket. The smell is awful, like bad meat left out to gather mold. My body tightens at the scent, and I blink. I keep blinking until I squeeze my eyes shut, praying, hoping that this is nothing but my imagination. 
My vision grows fuzzy as I finally open them again, adjusting back to the hazy lighting of the forest. Beside me lay the deer, limp and old, the bullet hole in its head folded inwards in a pit of black and rot, decaying tendrils splayed across its silky pelt. White bone peaks out through the velvet, pushing the flesh aside. The smell still lingers. It makes me gag and lean forward on my hands, trying to regain a sense of balance. All of it feels like just a second in a reality I don’t remember anymore. Like a dream, just a dream. 
But when you’re faced with a truth that’s just too horrible to comprehend.. it’s better to turn around and just run. 

Image taken by Nicole Vasquez

The Flowers I Gifted Her, by Nazeefa Alomgir (9)

Image sourced from Pinterest

They were dying. The flowers I gifted her. She kept them in the tall glass vase that sat silently on her small dining table
Lilies, Roses, Daisies. Petals once full of colour and life, now faded away.
The leaves were frail and brittle. 
She needed to replace them.
I would remind her every time. Yet every time, she refused to buy new flowers. 
Every morning, she watched them slowly rot away. She watched as time dried them out.
Did she not want to go to the market to buy new flowers? Did she cherish these withered ones that much?
Why would she hold onto something that is already lost?
I did not understand at the time.
I wish I did before it was her that withered away. 
I wish I had held onto her.
She kept a part of me in her vase, even if they were dying. 
Now I keep a part of her in my vase.

The Prawns p4, by Astrid Wasteneys (10)

They are soon rotting
Return to the sea, birth them
The sour grape, watching 

Disease is your cure 
The deep blue is strong with you 
Why can’t you hate us?


A silvery fish 
A quest for revenge complete 
A forgotten shell 

When will it be my story? Pieces of the tail, the empty shell. The sour grape is all that's left, as the world moves on only the bitter are remembered. We may not know the days or the months but we know you, you in all your glory. Inside and out we are rotting. Why must you outshine me? Oh pink prawn, did the blades of grass cut you or were you born this sharp?  

Summer comes and goes, as does the rot. The stench that fills the shell. The disease that attacks the grape. The toxins that consume the deep blue. Inside and out we are the prawns.  If I asked you to jump would you? If we could swim in the fields together I would take your hand.  If we couldn't? I'd cover your rotting shell body with the tarp.

Art by Larissa Egarhos

Corpse, by Kye Rogers (10)​

My skin burns and itches,
Sometimes I feel like it’s melting,
Other times I want to rip it off myself.

My bones hurt,
Like they’ve been ground to dust,
But still forced to work.

My eyes don’t see well anymore,
The images are distorted,
Only clear if I’m looking in a mirror.

My brain is dead,
I can’t think,
I can’t feel.

I feel like I’m rotting,
Decaying,
Decomposing.

I look at my body and just see a corpse.

Self-care Tip: Clean Your Ribs, by Millie Farley (10)

He wakes up in early, early morning, distressed and sweating. He’s thinking again of all those people who hate him. Usually he can get past moods like these. Even if there are people who hate him, there are more out there who love him, aren’t there?
But some days, some hours, like this hour, he can’t keep everything controlled. Not with only shallow thoughts to help him, not when he’s alone in the dark of his room.
This self hate and shame is suffocating. He lies there, only half there, half of his mind asleep and the waking parts torturing him with endless shameful memories. Over and over and over and oh it’s endless, here we go all over again, back into this destructive cycle.
But he has read self-care books before. And he will do brutal, wild things to like himself more. When you are drowning in guilt, sometimes only wild things can bring you air.

He slips out of bed. He gets in an empty cold bathtub. It’s tight, but he manages to relax his legs, stretch them out before him. Do not let the wording fool you. He is far from relaxed.
He dips the pad of his thumb into that spot at the base of the neck, the middle of the collarbones, where there’s that vulnerable dip.
Then, without any care, the man pries his fingers in and rips himself open. Peeling away his flesh to get a look at the bones. The smell that comes up is disturbingly sweet odour. He exposes his ribs and sternum. Behind that cage, a rotten heart pumps. It has stained everything around it in a disgusting dark brown-red. Sickened by himself, the man digs his fingers into the fat of his face. He closes his eyes. Those hating people deserve to hate him, he’s sick and he’s rotten. 
Oh it’s endless, here we go all over again, back into this destructive cycle.

He blinks…he’s back in the smooth bathtub. He’s read the self-care tips before. Always, when you feel like this, clean your ribs.
The man takes a wetted cloth. 

Art by Jori Poulin

CONTINUED PIECE

Uninhabited, by Arson Mctaggart (12)

Dirt caked body fits tight like a dress
My nails are chipped and bent 
I don’t know where I am 
I drag my legs 
Broken as they are

Something’s rotting 
I smell it
Where am I?

Something’s crawling at the back of my throat 
Pushing at my tongue until it’s lolling out my mouth 
I smell it 
I smell it all

I crawl across the ground 
Picking at the surviving grass
Digging my nails into the soil 
It pushes into my nails until it’s all I feel

I don’t think I feel anything anymore 
Anything that is alive
I beg to any God
To be alive

Give up, by Breana Kirby (10)

I am rotting, falling apart by my own will. 

“Start doing something useful with your life, stop sitting around.” My mind would yell. 

“You're going to be all alone soon, you need to be independent.” it would scream. 

I could feel the tips of my fingers decay and turn to dust. I drown in the nightmare of my own mind- except… drowning isn’t quite the right word. Rotting. I feel myself begin to rot. My hands have become dirt, it is picked up by the wind and by the time I realize, it is too far gone.

I should stop, I should stand up… but was there even a point anymore? My hands were gone, what could I do without my hands?  

The grass brushes against my cheek, moss crawls up my legs, my blood mixes with the dirt that used to be my body, turning into a muddy pulp. It becomes suffocating. I am rotting away. 

“Get up!” I scream. 

“Do something!” I shout.

Yet my own cries fall on deaf ears, because they too, have already rotted away. 

Image taken by Breana Kirby

Strip, Bleed, Rot, by Anamika Dave (9)

The first time, I wondered what I'd done wrong. 
I brushed it off. 
The second, I thought I had done something wrong. 
The third, I was sure I had done something wrong. 
But when I grew to understand why, 
why you had shunned me, 
why my stomach had become an endless pit of insecurity when you were around, 
I stripped.
That was the first time. 
I tried to strip myself of just one facet of myself, 
tried to gain one I thought you’d like. 
The next time, when that wasn’t successful, I stripped off a few more.
I was just growing, right? 
Growing forcibly, but still growing. 
I stripped everytime your comments slashed.
Months later, I had soft, fleshy substance under my nails instead of the rough skin I was used to. ​

When I looked down, I realized my entire identity had been stripped. 
Stolen off my body, 
the body that’s now naked, 
bare of what was me. 
No matter how I tried, 
you always went for her. 
How many times I twisted myself to your preference, 
I molded myself to perfectly fit your hand, 
changed myself to be what you wanted, 
it would never be. 
I wasn’t able to be her for you, 
not even once. 
So now,
 I lay here bare with no purpose while you twist the knife in my heart, 
only successful at letting you watch me bleed. 
Letting you watch me rot

Withdraw, by Abigail Amos (10)

Silence

I wait for the quiet whispers to stop
Hoping that the days will go by faster
As lay rotting with my roaring hunger
Will it ever stop?

Silence

I wish for all time to cease as none
Longing the pain of others to desist
As their muted cried still persist through the silent of night
Will all of us be freed?

Silence 

I want to feel the sun's rays on my arms
And the warmth in my heart
It is but a dream that may not be reached
Will I be found?

Nothing

The silent night is quickly replaced by booming shots
And mourn of the wounded
I cry the tears of life itself
Will there ever be nothing?

I rest in silence.

The Life Cycle, by Millie Farley (10)

Mural by Olivia Sabourin

The snow all melted out, soaking the forest floor. Moss sipped up the moisture. March mushrooms grew through the last of the slush. As the snow cleared, it left behind my dead body lying in thick mud. It left me decomposing, deader than ever, mildew on my clothes and shoes. I could feel the tree roots sucking me under, into the forest floor, in their slow motion racing. Life hasn't felt right. No, obviously not for awhile. This winter, I dropped down in the snow, through all the layers, and couldn't get up. But today, the weather was warmed and the birds flitter overhead and today, I feel just a bit less tired. Throughout spring and its rain and its buds, the birds bring me berries and I feel much happier. By June, I've found the energy to sit up, but when I tug, I realize I'm half underground. The line between my body and the soil is becoming unclear. The white of my bones show through the remaining flesh of my fingers. I guess I'll stay here, just a little bit longer. I bathe in summer's heat all July and August, September comes, there's not much left of me now. The mushrooms have eaten my rotting body and now I’ve been spat back out in fresh flowers. Life feels beautiful. I think I'll stay here just a little longer.

To Live is to Love and to Love is to Rot, Moth Torgunrud (10)

To live is to love and to love is to rot
to rot is to have yearned and to have yearned is to have had hope
Long ago before it shriveled in the palm of your doubtful hand

the rotting is all around us 
Seeping into the little life we have left
draining it until it bleeds dust
Poisoning the little love left hiding

It is getting to me, it is taking over
I am too tired to fight back, too tired to do anything
I am too weak, at least you believed so

I never realized how fast mold spread until you came knocking on my door
I welcomed you with open arms, loving, careful, patient arms
you mirrored my warmth, i was fooled by your simplicity
but now i see where the root of the problem always was

it lies within the evergreen tree you planted in my name
promising me eternal life, endless love, empty words
Complete lies. All i asked for was the truth

And all you gave me were falsities disguised as genuine concern, genuine care
But nothing about you was real, I realize that now
It never was. We never were, you never existed
Or at least the girl you disguised yourself to be didn’t

image taken by Breana Kirby

CONTINUED PIECE

Floating Head, by Kayla Nixon (10)

Image taken by Kayla Nixon

After too long it all meshes together 
In the pit. Hands shake. Knees bounce.
Hearts on high alert
Every hour of each day, week.
Spine, bumps, curved, jutting.
Lifting arms would be
Sinking. Further. Shrinking.
Eyes still fight to perceive.
Energy consumption inside of a wither
Is rationned.
Bone, blood, muscle, Creak.
Tissue repair, the closed sign laughs
Hanging in the window.
Intentions. Blurrier. Deeper. Moats.
Joints rattle, flesh bursts under pressure.
Apathy changes directions.

You're Dying, by Kye Rogers (10)

The look in your eyes,
You’re dying.

The shortness of breath,
You’re dying.

The hacking cough,
You’re dying.

The constant pain,
You’re dying.

Cancer is killing you,
You’re dead.

You’re buried in the ground,
You’re body is decomposing,
You’re rotting into a corpse.

You’re dead,
And I didn’t get to say goodbye.

Image created by Glovertown Monuments

Someone Rotten, by Jasper Brown (10)

Photo sourced from Pinterest

 An old house sits at the top of a hill. 
A rickety, rusty, copper picket fence 
Winding around. 
A dirty decrepit cobblestone path leading to 
A collapsing, sagging porch,
​Like the mouth of a drooping face, 
Eyes crusted over and eyebrows wilting;
Top floor windows fogged over and grimy, 
Eavestrough rotting and falling apart. 

The wooden boards crafting the walls --
Decorated with holes vermin had chewed their way through,
And were crumbling in places.

Through the attic window 
Sat a teddy bear 
A washed out pink 
With purple and green stains 
Like giant blistering bruises
And beady, black eyes
Watching 
The overgrown garden 
And the maimed, muddied marble fountain

​With its nose, it could smell
The damp, musky, fungal scent                                                                                              
Of the rotting wood. 

Its ears, 
One torn down the middle, 
Stuffing spilling out.
And the other hanging on by only a thread, 
Stained with a dark red, 
Could hear the creaking and croaking the elder house 
Swaying in the wind.
But the breeze is light
And the teddy hears more than just the wind 
​
There’s someone inside the house 
Someone cold. 
Someone callous. 
Someone rotten. 
​

Phasing, by Kayla Nixon (10)

You wax and wane
Glowing crimson, emerald, jade
Sleeping beauty in a sunbelt,
Troubles floating out from your head,
Fleeting, and never felt,
Clay cracking up the sides of your lake bed
Dragonfly, blowing in the ebbing and flowing
Castaway, growing through coming and going
Every phase of your smile demands clear view
Days try to sink their teeth through you
You shine water colour, purple, yellow, blue
Strange and still nothing new
And you glow
And you grow

​

Photo taken by Kayla Nixon

The Horrible Truth, By Hadley Dubois (10) 

He lies.
He stares.
I look up, into his once comforting eyes.
My heart is hollow.
Words do not come easy,
Not how they used to.
It was passionate,
The love we had.
Now I lie in bed, passionate  nausea overwhelming my body.

​At what point did it turn bad?
Maybe when he lied.
Maybe when he stopped holding my hand,
Embracing my insecurities,
He only ever ​embraced his own.
What did she have?
Why didn’t I have whatever it was?

Photo sourced from Pinterest

I can’t help but laugh.
The stupidity of this situation.
Our relationship,
R o t t e n.
Over a stupid nothing.

​Now we are gone.
He is gone. 
She is gone. 
I am gone. 
g       
    o             
         n
              e.
Maybe it’s for the best.
Finally, I can rest, and so can he.
    g
       o
           o
               d
                   n
                       i
                           g
                              h 
                                  t……
​

Top of a Hill, Jasper Brown (10)

I sit at the top of a hill,
Peaceful and quiet.
Winds smearing white soft clouds across the sky, 
Like ill tempered brush strokes of indigo and teal striking the page, 
Overlapping and dripping down. 
But i couldn't care less about the way 
My prettiest white dress gets stained,
When the view from up here is 
Hopeful. 

I get lost in the ocean,
Giant, deadly waves lapping at the jagged, dirty rocks
The bench upon which i sit bends and molds to keep me in place, 
Keep me comfortable. 
The flowers around me come in luxurious shades of sunset, river, and jungle.
But if i move, 
My fate is sealed. 
For the clouds are toxic, the water is poison.
And the flowers wait for their prey to come;
Ignorant and blissful.
When I fall into the trap, there won't be anyone to blame 
But myself. 

I created the clouds, and I created the water. 
The toxins are my tears, and the poison is my disappointment.
​And the flowers bloom 
With the force of my anger.
Anger that floats in the air like a soft fragrance 
But chokes whatever it can wrap its gnarly, ragged, bloodied hands around.

Photo sourced from Pinterest

Your Inner Ugliness,  by Hadley Dubois (10)

Photo sourced from Pinterest

My bed is my home.
Food wrappers and dishes surrounding me, my pillowcases yellow.
My hair unwashed, my teeth unbrushed.
My four day old makeup is crusting off of my face.
Mascara stains my cheeks from last night.
My clothes reek. 

My repulsive outside is a reflection of my inner rotting.
Each bone deteriorates as my heart aches.
Each artery dry.
There is no blood left to pump,
No tears left to spill.
No screams left to be heard.
No love left to be given. 

It is all because of you.
You cause my inner rotting,
My outer ugliness.
You will never be forgiven.
Your inner hideousness is the cause of my inner rotting.

​

---

Of Acronyms and Blue Light Screens, by Alexander Gaudet (10)

Light rays project on his flattering face, unbeknownst to him. Pursued with the malison of eternal fatigue, and hides away under a horizontal curtain.

Humbling my pride, I dissect my brain, attempting to understand his. 

With a heart so full, it anchors him to the bed where I spilled out sorry. I fear others might admit disgust. I find a companion in a boy who confides himself in the grotesque nature of decomposition. 

We are twin flames if the flames were a forest fire, where my face is full of soot and his lungs are heavy and bored. 

Slurping maggots accompany bone breaking attributes he draws his skeleton, he resides west of a tree’s seed split in two. 

The signs aligned on the outer rim of the forest are bold and highlighted of danger. Potential victim, roars a bird drowned in tears. 

My brother cries, rotting of acronyms and blue light screens.

Healthcard, by Kayla Nixon (10)

slipped my health card from
that place where things die
lost, buried stone under lies
brutal hostile gaze, your girl dumb
your girl, and I never felt it
yellowed kitchen soaked in repentance
rotted, creaking under your invisible weight
from beforehand
hair line bruises split
blood replaces kindred
inheriting the scapegoat
dirt walls seeping into the wound
​fury shouted loudest notes

hate we’ve been rid
yelling in crescendos
all I remember you for
shut birchwood door
heart scars, sticks, and stones
left as linoleum floor
sunshine streams in through the holes
forgotten before
eyes the same and firelit
painted my room with buttery straw
bound to repeating your mistakes
fists drawn turning violet

Thank you for reading the last spotlight of the 2023-2024 school year: Rotting Spotlight! Big thanks to all submissions for their talented pieces and to M. P. for the gorgeous banner. We appreciate the help from our lit teachers, Mr Blauer and Mr Serroul. Were we the best spotlight or were we the best spotlight??!

See you next year Canterbury,

- Kye, Hadley, Jasper, Moth, Kayla, Millie & Breana