Areeg Al-Zayadi (she/her)
I have always loved writing but wanted to explore more. The Literary Arts program has given me that opportunity, to grow more as a writer and also to try out different styles. It has given me the confidence to share my pieces and love what I do. Most importantly, it has taught me to always speak my truth and to use art to express myself freely with the messages I want to share. I am forever grateful for everything I’ve learnt in the past four years in the program and all the experiences I shared with others.
ignorance is bliss / the truth frees you
Kieran Butler (he/him)
Kieran Butler is a perfectionist when it comes to his writing. He's worked with poetry, though he doesn't care much for it, short stories, though he's afraid of writing sci-fi, and of course, scripts, which are his favourite. He has a passion for history, and isn't afraid to show it through his writing, even if it's blatantly inaccurate. In class, he is known primarily for his love of Quentin Tarantino and oversharing capabilities (as well as that one time in grade nine) though he has realized a lot about himself and others in his four years at Canterbury. As he continues to explore the world of screenwriting, he's grown a taste for directors such as Martin Scorcesse and Christopher Nolan, and is currently writing a screenplay that he is likely to continue to write 'till the day he dies. Next year he plans to find work amidst a global pandemic, and will be applying to Queens and McGill the year after for teaching.
The Cardinal
Aiko Byrne (she/her)
Even after four years of support group and recovery, Aiko will always remember the sheer terror upon seeing David Scott in all his glory on the first day of lit. Since then, she has starred in the documentary mini-series We are Friends under the encouragement of Mr. “Hot Stuff” Van Buskie, co-written sickening amounts of potty-humor themed coffeehouse jokes (including, but not limited to, the never performed 10 Things To Do When Sh*tting Yourself on the LRT), and has found enlightenment in midst of the chaos and anarchy of lit class debates. She looks forward to continuing to start projects the day before they’re due in post-secondary and although her plans for next year are slightly unclear, she hopes to continue writing and will be forever grateful for the opportunities and lifelong friends the lit program has given her.
Methuselah
Tyler Champion (they/he)
Tyler is a poetry and fiction writer whose time in the lit program has been spent making friends, learning new things, and pestering his classmates about homoerotic subtext. When they’re not writing romantic-era poetry, Tyler can be found daydreaming about living on a little farm, or otherwise, being silly with the rest of the class.
So You Died, Now What?
Knock on your coffin lid. Wait for a reply, and when none comes, push with your decaying hands and don’t stop pushing until the dirt comes rushing in. No one will help you this far down.
Rebuild your body out of the dirt that cascades towards you. Let soil into the space between your legs, the crook of your neck, and behind your eyes. It will heal most of your scars, but leave precious few. These are reminders. Treasure them greatly.
Now dig until you see sunlight.
Start to live again cautiously. Your roots are fragile. Take your first few steps with humbleness. Your first ten with curiosity. Your first hundred with purpose. Guide yourself out of the forest you were buried in.
Get back to normal. Learn how to make cherry pies. This one isn’t a metaphor. Bake a damn pie.
Meet and love fat butches, and disabled punks, and anarchists. Never shy away from the parts of them that resonate with you. Love, with reckless abandon. Lean into it so hard that you can’t tell where the drunk boy wearing a wedding dress ends and you begin and that’s okay.
When faced with the thing that killed you, don’t look directly at it. Wait until the day you can tell it “I Am Not Afraid Of You Anymore”. This is how you’ll know you’re ready.
When you finally go back to where you died, bring those you’ve met along the way with you. Those who love you will hold you back from burying yourself where you once laid.
Gather up all your hurt, lay it bare. Scream to the sky it was unjust.
Then get up, move on.
Never tell anyone why you like ghosts so much.
Leave your grave where it lies, and visit every winter.
Knock on your coffin lid. Wait for a reply, and when none comes, push with your decaying hands and don’t stop pushing until the dirt comes rushing in. No one will help you this far down.
Rebuild your body out of the dirt that cascades towards you. Let soil into the space between your legs, the crook of your neck, and behind your eyes. It will heal most of your scars, but leave precious few. These are reminders. Treasure them greatly.
Now dig until you see sunlight.
Start to live again cautiously. Your roots are fragile. Take your first few steps with humbleness. Your first ten with curiosity. Your first hundred with purpose. Guide yourself out of the forest you were buried in.
Get back to normal. Learn how to make cherry pies. This one isn’t a metaphor. Bake a damn pie.
Meet and love fat butches, and disabled punks, and anarchists. Never shy away from the parts of them that resonate with you. Love, with reckless abandon. Lean into it so hard that you can’t tell where the drunk boy wearing a wedding dress ends and you begin and that’s okay.
When faced with the thing that killed you, don’t look directly at it. Wait until the day you can tell it “I Am Not Afraid Of You Anymore”. This is how you’ll know you’re ready.
When you finally go back to where you died, bring those you’ve met along the way with you. Those who love you will hold you back from burying yourself where you once laid.
Gather up all your hurt, lay it bare. Scream to the sky it was unjust.
Then get up, move on.
Never tell anyone why you like ghosts so much.
Leave your grave where it lies, and visit every winter.
David Cuevas (he/him)
David Cuevas was born in Niagara Falls, Canada on the hot summer night of July 27th, 2002. In the past couple of years, David has grown an unhealthy passion for cinema. Since 2013, David has been creating and even writing films and articles about cinema. At Canterbury, David loved writing poetry; more specifically free-verse pieces. He also appreciated his peers and the incredible hard work and determination of the entire Grade 12 class. Peer editing was always something he was specifically enamoured by. David is set to study at Sheridan College for a BFA in Film Production. He wishes everybody at Canterbury a safe future into the unknown that is the great game of life.
and there was love in the art gallery
Dula Deb (she/her)
For the past four years at Canterbury, I’ve learned a lot about myself because of my craft and the support around me from my classmates. I went from being insecure about every piece I had ever written to accepting and appreciating my pieces for what they are. Every workshop, edit and work period has taught me something (whether it be about my craft or myself). Thank you, Literary Arts, for the past 4 years of laughter, internal screaming, good vibes and confusion!
Heavenly Bodies
I sit by the maple tree and gaze at the clear night sky. I sigh, take out my journal, and fiddle with my pen, awaiting a spark of motivation. Then, from the corner of my left eye, I see some stars playing tag with each other, giggling and roaming around the sky with no care in the world. Their innocence beams in my direction, bringing me to smile uncontrollably. I look over once more as they run off to continue their game. I jot down my encounter, but the spark was still absent. I sigh, thinking back to when the biggest worries I had were getting my friends gifts for their birthdays, getting cooties from my classmates, and not knowing how to tie my shoes. I lean against the maple tree, wondering if it will ever come back to me.
Some time passes, and in the corner of my right eye, I see a couple of stars using the sky as their canvas to create the most stunning constellations. I flip to the next page of my journal and sketch them out, tilting my journal at different angles to see how each constellation looks. As I look up, I was startled to see Pictor peeking over me. Pictor looks over my journal with approval. I give him an awkward smile and continue sketching. Pictor rearranges the stars to create a dazzling path for himself to walk on, but before I could sketch it out, he and his path vanish. I scowl at myself and throw the journal on the ground.
After some time, I notice Orion dancing graciously. He takes me by the hand, and we dance around the maple tree. I begin to laugh and loosen up, spinning, and moving freely. Orion smiles and pirouettes his way into the night, leaving me to dance on my own for some time. I search for him, but he is nowhere to be found. I glower at myself for being naive until I notice Gemini gleaming above me. She holds my hand delicately and caresses my cheek, providing me reassurance. I sob uncontrollably, but Gemini comforts me with her twinkling eyes. She kisses my forehead and waves goodbye, departing back to the sky.
I take a couple of deep breaths and look over the pages of my journal. Some pages were filled with laughter, others with sorrow. Some with love, others with repugnance. Some with pride, others with envy. I look over the innocence, the visions, the loss, and the love. I flip over to the last page of my journal and notice it’s emptiness. That’s when I hear a howl from the night. I look up from my journal and notice the moon giving me the warmest smile, her light embracing me. I grab my pen, a spark of motivation finally hitting me. I fill every space on the last page of my journal. Some time passes and the page becomes completely filled. I close the journal and put it back in my bag. I get up, grab my bag, and look over the night sky once more. The constellations wave their goodbyes to me as I head back home.
Some time passes, and in the corner of my right eye, I see a couple of stars using the sky as their canvas to create the most stunning constellations. I flip to the next page of my journal and sketch them out, tilting my journal at different angles to see how each constellation looks. As I look up, I was startled to see Pictor peeking over me. Pictor looks over my journal with approval. I give him an awkward smile and continue sketching. Pictor rearranges the stars to create a dazzling path for himself to walk on, but before I could sketch it out, he and his path vanish. I scowl at myself and throw the journal on the ground.
After some time, I notice Orion dancing graciously. He takes me by the hand, and we dance around the maple tree. I begin to laugh and loosen up, spinning, and moving freely. Orion smiles and pirouettes his way into the night, leaving me to dance on my own for some time. I search for him, but he is nowhere to be found. I glower at myself for being naive until I notice Gemini gleaming above me. She holds my hand delicately and caresses my cheek, providing me reassurance. I sob uncontrollably, but Gemini comforts me with her twinkling eyes. She kisses my forehead and waves goodbye, departing back to the sky.
I take a couple of deep breaths and look over the pages of my journal. Some pages were filled with laughter, others with sorrow. Some with love, others with repugnance. Some with pride, others with envy. I look over the innocence, the visions, the loss, and the love. I flip over to the last page of my journal and notice it’s emptiness. That’s when I hear a howl from the night. I look up from my journal and notice the moon giving me the warmest smile, her light embracing me. I grab my pen, a spark of motivation finally hitting me. I fill every space on the last page of my journal. Some time passes and the page becomes completely filled. I close the journal and put it back in my bag. I get up, grab my bag, and look over the night sky once more. The constellations wave their goodbyes to me as I head back home.
Clara Demke (she/her)
Clara has enjoyed her time at Canterbury immensely, and is so grateful for every single wonderful person in Lit. She loves them all very much. She’s going to miss the crazy class discussions, the chaotic brainstorming sessions, and
the incredible unparalleled energy of putting on a Coffeehouse. It is such a strange feeling for her to look back and see how much everybody in that class (including her) has grown because of Lit and each other. In July, she’s moving back to Germany to learn how to build violins in Mittenwald (a tiny German town in the Alps). If the instrument making doesn’t work out though, there’s every chance she might study physics, or you know, maybe get some goats? If any of her classmates ever travel to Europe though, she really hopes they will swing by for a visit. <3
Tooth Fairy Tale
Bo Doyle (they/them)
Participation in the Literary Arts Program may or may not have occurred by Bo Doyle. They may or may not be extremely grateful for their time there, if they had attended. Last known citing depicts they may or may not still be possibly upset about the alleged fantasy unit, or lack thereof. They were last seen supposedly moving on to bigger better “things”. Due to lack of funding, they will no longer be tracked.
Wicker Twins
Monty - Teenager, smart and cynical, Charlie’s twin brother
Charlie - Teenager, Social and upbeat, Monty’s twin sister
Setting: A table with two chairs, a counter to one side with a kettle and access to two mugs and a plate. On the table is a book, notebook and pens.
[Charlie is making herself some breakfast at the counter. Monty is at the breakfast table.]
CHARLIE: Have you eaten?
MONTY: Mhm.
CHARLIE: When did you eat last?
MONTY: This morning.
CHARLIE: This morning this morning or at two am this morning?
[pause.]
CHARLIE: Okay. (pause) Why don’t you have some fruit from the fridge?
MONTY: Not hungry.
CHARLIE: Liar.
[pause. Charlie sits at the table with her breakfast.]
CHARLIE: You good?
[Monty stares at her, steepling his fingers.]
CHARLIE: Monty, are you scheming? [pause.] Are you planning my birthday present?
[Monty continues to stare, he sighs.]
CHARLIE: Oh my god I hope it’s a pony.
MONTY: I’m not scheming.
CHARLIE: Okay, well, is everything okay?
[pause.]
CHARLIE: Do you... wanna talk about it?
[Monty steeples his fingers again, and Charlie waits.]
MONTY: Do you feel safe here?
CHARLIE: I mean... I guess? Sometimes the stove makes a weird noise and it freaks me out but I think it’s because Finn doesn’t use it much.
MONTY: That’s — that is not what I meant at all. The house, as a whole. And Finn. I don’t trust him.
CHARLIE: Monty, we’ve only been here for three weeks.
[pause]
MONTY: Can you make me a hot chocolate and let me lay it out for you?
CHARLIE: Yeah, yeah sure.
[Charlie stands and goes to start the kettle and stands by the counter]
MONTY: I have evidence. I swear, look— Big house right? There’s like a dozen bathrooms--
CHARLIE: I’ve counted seven so far.
MONTY: Okay, seven, whatever. But seven bathrooms, ten bedrooms, a fucking library, a huge garden, place he won’t let us access. [he pauses, waiting.] Right?
CHARLIE: Yeah, it’s huge.
MONTY: How does he pay for it?
CHARLIE: How does Finn pay for it?
[Monty nods, Charlie shrugs]
MONTY: Did you know that this house doesn’t show up on Google? I tried to find it on Google Maps. Not there. It says this entire plot is all trees.
[Charlie pours the hot water into a mug and makes hot chocolate. She brings it over to the table but stays standing.]
CHARLIE: That is actually really weird.
MONTY: This massive incognito estate would probably cost about, what, ten thousand dollars a month-ish, to upkeep? For reference, we have a pretty nice house, right? At home? Nice middle class suburbia? $2000 a month. I did the math--
CHARLIE: Last night?
MONTY: — and our family’s lifestyle is about 60k? A year? All expenses including surprises and keeping up living in our house. 60k. Easily met, yeah?
CHARLIE: Yeah--
MONTY: That’s for four of us. For just our dear uncle? $200,000 a year. It would be 150,000 bare bones. 200k, Charlie. Where would he get that money? Because if he won the lottery that would burn up fast. And this is a house he’s clearly lived in for a while.
CHARLIE: Fancy job?
MONTY: Do you know what jobs make 200k a year?
CHARLIE: I have the feeling you’re going to tell me anyways.
MONTY: Airplane pilots. Med school professors. Forensic pathologist. Anaesthesiologist. Parliamentary commissioner. And all of those are at the high end of the job. The CEOS. And all are full time, all year round.
[long pause..]
MONTY: Where is he getting this money?
[pause.]
MONTY: I mean you said it yourself, we’ve been here three weeks. That’s three weeks of him sneaking around, forbidding us from parts of the house, I’ve been hearing voices that aren’t his… something’s up.
CHARLIE: I still think you’re being paranoid but I guess I can see your point. Oh! Here’s a hole in your theory, if he really was all that bad why would mom and dad make us stay with him?
MONTY: Maybe because they don’t know? As far as they’re concerned Finn’s just our spry, eccentric uncle. They don’t know anything else.
CHARLIE: Hm. I guess that’s true. I just don’t believe mom and dad wouldn’t know.
MONTY: It’s not like he’s been a big contact, if we only learned he existed a month ago. Plus it’s clear he’s good at covering his tracks.
[Monty huffs.]
MONTY: There’s something else going on here. We both know it. Our uncle has found a way to get a massive amount of cash and keep his entire estate under wraps. He’s totally untouchable. And he’s hiding something. You see what I’m getting at here?
CHARLIE: Yeah.
[long pause.]
CHARLIE: What do we do?
MONTY: That’s what I’ve been up since 2am thinking about. What do we do?
[The sound of a distant door opening, someone coming down stairs, getting closer and closer. Charlie and Monty look to the sound offstage.]
[Blackout, end.]
Charlie - Teenager, Social and upbeat, Monty’s twin sister
Setting: A table with two chairs, a counter to one side with a kettle and access to two mugs and a plate. On the table is a book, notebook and pens.
[Charlie is making herself some breakfast at the counter. Monty is at the breakfast table.]
CHARLIE: Have you eaten?
MONTY: Mhm.
CHARLIE: When did you eat last?
MONTY: This morning.
CHARLIE: This morning this morning or at two am this morning?
[pause.]
CHARLIE: Okay. (pause) Why don’t you have some fruit from the fridge?
MONTY: Not hungry.
CHARLIE: Liar.
[pause. Charlie sits at the table with her breakfast.]
CHARLIE: You good?
[Monty stares at her, steepling his fingers.]
CHARLIE: Monty, are you scheming? [pause.] Are you planning my birthday present?
[Monty continues to stare, he sighs.]
CHARLIE: Oh my god I hope it’s a pony.
MONTY: I’m not scheming.
CHARLIE: Okay, well, is everything okay?
[pause.]
CHARLIE: Do you... wanna talk about it?
[Monty steeples his fingers again, and Charlie waits.]
MONTY: Do you feel safe here?
CHARLIE: I mean... I guess? Sometimes the stove makes a weird noise and it freaks me out but I think it’s because Finn doesn’t use it much.
MONTY: That’s — that is not what I meant at all. The house, as a whole. And Finn. I don’t trust him.
CHARLIE: Monty, we’ve only been here for three weeks.
[pause]
MONTY: Can you make me a hot chocolate and let me lay it out for you?
CHARLIE: Yeah, yeah sure.
[Charlie stands and goes to start the kettle and stands by the counter]
MONTY: I have evidence. I swear, look— Big house right? There’s like a dozen bathrooms--
CHARLIE: I’ve counted seven so far.
MONTY: Okay, seven, whatever. But seven bathrooms, ten bedrooms, a fucking library, a huge garden, place he won’t let us access. [he pauses, waiting.] Right?
CHARLIE: Yeah, it’s huge.
MONTY: How does he pay for it?
CHARLIE: How does Finn pay for it?
[Monty nods, Charlie shrugs]
MONTY: Did you know that this house doesn’t show up on Google? I tried to find it on Google Maps. Not there. It says this entire plot is all trees.
[Charlie pours the hot water into a mug and makes hot chocolate. She brings it over to the table but stays standing.]
CHARLIE: That is actually really weird.
MONTY: This massive incognito estate would probably cost about, what, ten thousand dollars a month-ish, to upkeep? For reference, we have a pretty nice house, right? At home? Nice middle class suburbia? $2000 a month. I did the math--
CHARLIE: Last night?
MONTY: — and our family’s lifestyle is about 60k? A year? All expenses including surprises and keeping up living in our house. 60k. Easily met, yeah?
CHARLIE: Yeah--
MONTY: That’s for four of us. For just our dear uncle? $200,000 a year. It would be 150,000 bare bones. 200k, Charlie. Where would he get that money? Because if he won the lottery that would burn up fast. And this is a house he’s clearly lived in for a while.
CHARLIE: Fancy job?
MONTY: Do you know what jobs make 200k a year?
CHARLIE: I have the feeling you’re going to tell me anyways.
MONTY: Airplane pilots. Med school professors. Forensic pathologist. Anaesthesiologist. Parliamentary commissioner. And all of those are at the high end of the job. The CEOS. And all are full time, all year round.
[long pause..]
MONTY: Where is he getting this money?
[pause.]
MONTY: I mean you said it yourself, we’ve been here three weeks. That’s three weeks of him sneaking around, forbidding us from parts of the house, I’ve been hearing voices that aren’t his… something’s up.
CHARLIE: I still think you’re being paranoid but I guess I can see your point. Oh! Here’s a hole in your theory, if he really was all that bad why would mom and dad make us stay with him?
MONTY: Maybe because they don’t know? As far as they’re concerned Finn’s just our spry, eccentric uncle. They don’t know anything else.
CHARLIE: Hm. I guess that’s true. I just don’t believe mom and dad wouldn’t know.
MONTY: It’s not like he’s been a big contact, if we only learned he existed a month ago. Plus it’s clear he’s good at covering his tracks.
[Monty huffs.]
MONTY: There’s something else going on here. We both know it. Our uncle has found a way to get a massive amount of cash and keep his entire estate under wraps. He’s totally untouchable. And he’s hiding something. You see what I’m getting at here?
CHARLIE: Yeah.
[long pause.]
CHARLIE: What do we do?
MONTY: That’s what I’ve been up since 2am thinking about. What do we do?
[The sound of a distant door opening, someone coming down stairs, getting closer and closer. Charlie and Monty look to the sound offstage.]
[Blackout, end.]
Daria Gordon (she/her)
Daria Gordon came to Canterbury Literary Arts her final year and arrived very confusingly. Having been in the Literary Arts Program for only a year, she is greatly thankful for the experience and will treasure it for years to come. As for her future plans, she hopes to move to Scotland where she will become a sheep herder and solve murder mysteries in random villages. Or she will go to McGill University first... yes, that seems about right.
A World Class Murder
Ladies and Gentlemen, there is a problem, of sorts, a worrisome problem. Do not fear, though, for fear will not get you anywhere- but rather ponder, observe, do what you must to solve this precarious issue. And, let me be frank, it is quite a challenging one. In simpler terms, we have a murder on our hands. As a side note, if you wish to participate in this deduction, I highly advise you all to take notes on details you deem are most crucial. Now, let us begin, as I recall the events of last week:
There was an actor, a world class actor in fact, I’m sure you’ve heard of him- Mr. William Fallcrest. He was in his dressing room, reading through his newly printed script, when he was interrupted by a knock from Richard Johnson, the director, who only wished to say that they would commence filming in a couple of minutes. Fifteen minutes passed and yet there was no sign of Mr. Fallcrest.
“Would you like me to go get him?” said James Warrens, the cameraman.
“No, I’m sure he’s getting dressed,” replied the director.
Mr. Christopher Langdon, the other actor on set, was complacent, saying he was never late for filming. Another minute passed when all of a sudden Mr. Fallcrest’s stylist, Mary Tanners, came running towards them.
“It’s Mr. Fallcrest. He’s- I think something has happened,” she said.
Now here is where I come in. I received a call from the police saying there had been a suicide at a small studio, but I knew upon arrival there was much more to the story. Mr. Fallcrest had hung himself by his belt from the light fixture on top of the ceiling. According to the director, he expressed that he did notice inconsistencies in Mr. Fallcrest’s behaviour but was not expecting him to commit suicide. What kind of man would commit suicide right then and there? On his first day of filming? It’s rather preposterous. Though, in any case, suicide seemed to be the only reasonable explanation. The room itself had no windows and no vents large enough to squeeze through. It was a fairly small room: a table with a mirror, a chair, and a small rack of clothing. A quick scan of the table led to there being only a hairbrush, some cosmetics, and a wallet.
“Smells like alcohol,” Inspector Lawrence reported, picking up a nail from the ground. “No suicide note?” I asked.
“Nothing yet, we’ll examine him and get back to you,” he replied.
The stylist proceeded to explain how the room was locked from the inside when they first broke the door.
“We rushed over, James tried the door but it was locked, Richard ran to get one of those fire extinguishers to break the knob,” she stammered.
I looked towards the doorknob and, sure enough, the key was still in the hole. When the body was removed, I individually asked each of the suspects to recollect the events that happened before and when they first entered the room.
“Well, I visited Mr. Fallcrest a couple of minutes prior to filming. He had just arrived a few minutes beforehand and said good morning to all of us. He seemed alright and there was nothing suspicious that I noticed,” said the director, fidgeting in his seat, “though, there was a painting hanging on one of the walls in the dressing room. It was always there, I think Mr. Fallcrest won it at an auction, but when I broke the doorknob- I guess I’m now realizing that it wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t get to see much when we first entered. I’m too sensitive to smells and there was this rancid, bitter almond smell. I left right away instead and contacted the police” said the stylist, twirling a loose thread of yarn from her coat, “earlier in the morning, I was bringing Mr. Fallcrest clothes to change into, I knocked at the door but he wouldn’t answer so I assumed he went to the bathroom. When he wasn’t there, I went to find everyone else.”
“I knocked on the dressing room a few minutes after he arrived to give him a copy of the script. He thanked me and then I went to give one to Mr. Langdon but I couldn’t find him,” said the cameraman, slightly clenching his hands, “then, when we entered the room, the stylist said there was a bitter scent in the air but all I could smell was alcohol from Mr. Langdon.”
“I was having my morning drink. By myself. It calms the nerves, gets me into character. I’m hardly surprised this has happened, he probably couldn’t handle the fame,” Langdon said, tapping his foot, “I would see him at these gallery auctions and he was always up to no good, bribing everyone so he would get the paintings he desired. In any case, when we found him the stylist ran out to call the police and the three of us left the room.”
When I finished interviewing them, Inspector Lawrence explained how it was merely impossible for this to be murder- the room was locked from the inside. Though, if it was murder, what about the weapon? Where did it go? The body itself had no wounds except the one around his neck. A murder must always have a weapon because without the weapon there would be no murder. And so, the question I pose to all of you is: Who killed Mr. Fallcrest?
There was an actor, a world class actor in fact, I’m sure you’ve heard of him- Mr. William Fallcrest. He was in his dressing room, reading through his newly printed script, when he was interrupted by a knock from Richard Johnson, the director, who only wished to say that they would commence filming in a couple of minutes. Fifteen minutes passed and yet there was no sign of Mr. Fallcrest.
“Would you like me to go get him?” said James Warrens, the cameraman.
“No, I’m sure he’s getting dressed,” replied the director.
Mr. Christopher Langdon, the other actor on set, was complacent, saying he was never late for filming. Another minute passed when all of a sudden Mr. Fallcrest’s stylist, Mary Tanners, came running towards them.
“It’s Mr. Fallcrest. He’s- I think something has happened,” she said.
Now here is where I come in. I received a call from the police saying there had been a suicide at a small studio, but I knew upon arrival there was much more to the story. Mr. Fallcrest had hung himself by his belt from the light fixture on top of the ceiling. According to the director, he expressed that he did notice inconsistencies in Mr. Fallcrest’s behaviour but was not expecting him to commit suicide. What kind of man would commit suicide right then and there? On his first day of filming? It’s rather preposterous. Though, in any case, suicide seemed to be the only reasonable explanation. The room itself had no windows and no vents large enough to squeeze through. It was a fairly small room: a table with a mirror, a chair, and a small rack of clothing. A quick scan of the table led to there being only a hairbrush, some cosmetics, and a wallet.
“Smells like alcohol,” Inspector Lawrence reported, picking up a nail from the ground. “No suicide note?” I asked.
“Nothing yet, we’ll examine him and get back to you,” he replied.
The stylist proceeded to explain how the room was locked from the inside when they first broke the door.
“We rushed over, James tried the door but it was locked, Richard ran to get one of those fire extinguishers to break the knob,” she stammered.
I looked towards the doorknob and, sure enough, the key was still in the hole. When the body was removed, I individually asked each of the suspects to recollect the events that happened before and when they first entered the room.
“Well, I visited Mr. Fallcrest a couple of minutes prior to filming. He had just arrived a few minutes beforehand and said good morning to all of us. He seemed alright and there was nothing suspicious that I noticed,” said the director, fidgeting in his seat, “though, there was a painting hanging on one of the walls in the dressing room. It was always there, I think Mr. Fallcrest won it at an auction, but when I broke the doorknob- I guess I’m now realizing that it wasn’t there.”
“I didn’t get to see much when we first entered. I’m too sensitive to smells and there was this rancid, bitter almond smell. I left right away instead and contacted the police” said the stylist, twirling a loose thread of yarn from her coat, “earlier in the morning, I was bringing Mr. Fallcrest clothes to change into, I knocked at the door but he wouldn’t answer so I assumed he went to the bathroom. When he wasn’t there, I went to find everyone else.”
“I knocked on the dressing room a few minutes after he arrived to give him a copy of the script. He thanked me and then I went to give one to Mr. Langdon but I couldn’t find him,” said the cameraman, slightly clenching his hands, “then, when we entered the room, the stylist said there was a bitter scent in the air but all I could smell was alcohol from Mr. Langdon.”
“I was having my morning drink. By myself. It calms the nerves, gets me into character. I’m hardly surprised this has happened, he probably couldn’t handle the fame,” Langdon said, tapping his foot, “I would see him at these gallery auctions and he was always up to no good, bribing everyone so he would get the paintings he desired. In any case, when we found him the stylist ran out to call the police and the three of us left the room.”
When I finished interviewing them, Inspector Lawrence explained how it was merely impossible for this to be murder- the room was locked from the inside. Though, if it was murder, what about the weapon? Where did it go? The body itself had no wounds except the one around his neck. A murder must always have a weapon because without the weapon there would be no murder. And so, the question I pose to all of you is: Who killed Mr. Fallcrest?
Brenna Hynes (she/her)
I’ve had a wonderful four years in the lit program with my lit family, it sucks that our time together was cut short. I’m sure we can all agree that it was because the universe was scared of the immense power our soirée would hold. We are and will forever be ‘The Coffee House Class’, and the universe would have cracked and ruptured at the seams from the power, everything as we know it would have ceased to exist. So maybe it was for the better that we couldn’t do a normal soiree, either way, I’m sure we’ll blow it out of the water. Lit class was always the highlight of my day and I can’t wait to see where everyone’s lives lead them because I know it will be to great things. Thank you all for being a part of this experience, it wouldn’t have been the same without you, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Carpe Noctum
Everything seems worse at night.
When you can’t sleep,
can’t shut your brain off for the life of you
Even if you haven’t slept in weeks.
There’s something about the darkness.
That rouses us humans,
something about the duality of the dark
That makes things seem grander, clearer.
In the dark, there is also light.
Infinite stars speckle the sky,
and the moon smiles down upon us
Inimitable in her beauty and brilliance.
Clouds may blanket the sky but
Ceaselessly her light radiates down,
she lights up the sky despite its starlessness
Caressing the soft edges of the night.
Rain may fall during the night.
Running down stones and rooftops
soaking its way into the ground.
Releasing the pent-up moisture of the clouds.
Or the night may flutter with life.
Owls and moths and bats fly through the cold,
a flurry of fluttering feathers and wings.
Outside, life can bloom in the moonlight.
Flowers are not the only things waking up at night,
Fireflies light up the night with their bioluminescence,
wolves, owls, crickets, porcupines, raccoons.
Countless animals shuffle in the dusk.
Dozens of sounds can be heard,
hoots, chirps, and squeaks,
Drawn out howls and ribbits echo through the dark.
But the sounds echoing through the night
aren't what keep me awake.
Sometimes your head just won’t shut the hell up…
he tells me that everything seems worse at night,
Something tells me that he’s right.
He makes all my nights easier.
Hides me from my nasty thoughts which grow in the dark,
reminds me that everything will be better in the morning,
Holds me until I fall asleep.
Yes, everything seems worse at night,
But when you aren’t alone,
night is just another part of the day and
You can make the most of it.
Carpe Noctum.
When you can’t sleep,
can’t shut your brain off for the life of you
Even if you haven’t slept in weeks.
There’s something about the darkness.
That rouses us humans,
something about the duality of the dark
That makes things seem grander, clearer.
In the dark, there is also light.
Infinite stars speckle the sky,
and the moon smiles down upon us
Inimitable in her beauty and brilliance.
Clouds may blanket the sky but
Ceaselessly her light radiates down,
she lights up the sky despite its starlessness
Caressing the soft edges of the night.
Rain may fall during the night.
Running down stones and rooftops
soaking its way into the ground.
Releasing the pent-up moisture of the clouds.
Or the night may flutter with life.
Owls and moths and bats fly through the cold,
a flurry of fluttering feathers and wings.
Outside, life can bloom in the moonlight.
Flowers are not the only things waking up at night,
Fireflies light up the night with their bioluminescence,
wolves, owls, crickets, porcupines, raccoons.
Countless animals shuffle in the dusk.
Dozens of sounds can be heard,
hoots, chirps, and squeaks,
Drawn out howls and ribbits echo through the dark.
But the sounds echoing through the night
aren't what keep me awake.
Sometimes your head just won’t shut the hell up…
he tells me that everything seems worse at night,
Something tells me that he’s right.
He makes all my nights easier.
Hides me from my nasty thoughts which grow in the dark,
reminds me that everything will be better in the morning,
Holds me until I fall asleep.
Yes, everything seems worse at night,
But when you aren’t alone,
night is just another part of the day and
You can make the most of it.
Carpe Noctum.
Phoebe (Vernon) Ivie (they/them)
Vernon Ivie has unfortunately been a ‘writer’ since as long as they can remember being able to write, which has led to some interesting keepsakes from 3rd grade English classes. They have built up a habit of writing almost exclusively gay and cowboy themed poetry, the lit teachers have taught them to branch out and experiment with all sorts of written form, such as scripts and—god forbid—journalism. While they have enjoyed every moment of the Literary Arts program to the fullest and will cherish every memory within the walls of Canterbury, they are more than excited to head off to OttawaU next year to study Sociology and Anthropology in the Co-op program.
chicago
Gabriel Karasik (he/him)
Gabriel Karasik, sometimes known in the hallowed halls of Canterbury as Gabe Comedian, became an overnight sensation of comedy… overnight being over several nights spanned across four years and a lot of virtual pages of notes, and scripts, and varyingly successful jokes. Developed through a combination of test tubes and Python code, Gabe was designed to be the most human a computer could ever conceivably be, and went on to dazzle his peers and teachers with impressively adequate feats of intelligence and wit. As he sits at his computer, writing this bio in the third person because he thought it would sound cool, he is—as of today (May 25th, 2020)—impressively, and very irresponsibly undecided as to where it is he will be going for university because McGill and Queens both make extremely compelling offers, okay!? Regardless, he hopes to one day break through into the professional comedy scene and make it big!!... Or at the very least get a paid gig.
In lieu of a Stand Up Routine...
Rebecca Kempe (she/her)
Rebecca spent her four years in the Literary Arts program avoiding fiction writing and is puzzled as to why the rest of her class hates non-fiction. Despite this slight difference in opinion, she dearly loves her lit class and would like to thank them for both keeping her sane and driving her insane. She will miss planning coffeehouses with her class, participating in heated class discussions (aka yelling matches), and freaking out in the increasingly panicked group chat during the days (or sometimes hours) before a deadline. She feels blessed to have been able to watch everyone (and also shockingly, herself) mature both in personality and writing and is jealous of anyone who has managed to get taller as well. Rebecca will be studying Architectural Engineering at the University of Waterloo in the fall and intends to find out whether too much procrastination can actually kill her.
The Thing With Jewels
Eva Lynch (she/her)
Eva Lynch was unfortunately diagnosed with severe indecision and has yet to figure out what she’s doing next year. She seems to be waiting for some sort of divine intervention, but until then, she’ll continue to flip coins for her choices. There’s a 50/50 chance you might see her at McGill, but she misplaced all her quarters and thus has postponed making said decision. She would like to thank her friends and family for everything, as well as apologize profusely (specifically to Adrienne) for being perpetually late. She has spent the past few years obtaining a reputation of mystery and has had people believe she left the program on no less than three separate occasions, but in reality, Eva has loved every minute in Lit. From the opportunities and projects, to the good friends she’s made, it’s been an unforgettable few years and she will miss it all very much.
Mise En Abyme
Samantha Muhlig (she/her)
Hello! My name is Samantha Muhlig and I am one of many students who are a part of the Literary Arts class of 2020. This class has taught me so much not only to do with writing, but with my personal life and more. Our lit class was the one class I would look forward to throughout the day because of the laid back and friendly atmosphere it had, and I will miss this class dearly. A fond memory of mine throughout my four years with the program would have to be the ridiculous yet amusing arguments our class always seem to have with Mr. Scott, and our class hosting amazing coffeehouses. My future plans consist of me attending Humber College for their acting for film and television program.
the adolescent memoir
Victoria Noon (she/her)
Victoria has thoroughly enjoyed her time at Canterbury for the Literary Arts program. The lit program taught her so much, and she made lifelong friendships and she developed her literary skills. Although it was cut short, her confidence in the integrity of the lit class of 2020 has never wavered, and she feels so fortunate to have such a hardworking, motivated, kind group of people. She would like to thank all of the lit teachers for teaching her lessons that weigh more than just writing, and for their patience and kindness. Victoria is moving forward to Queen’s University to pursue an honours degree in psychology, although she hopes to continue to practice her love for poetry. Thank you lit!
Confession
at dusk
when the room glowed violet,
i etched my soul into the
bed frame.
etched in symptoms, waiting
for an answer.
playing alchemist in
hues of sickened sundowns,
having gone through all the
prophets, the platos.
the time when “God” felt morbid.
Why do I feel this way?
this is a fever dream,
shakes and cold sweats at 4 AM,
designed to wake me up,
hold me down.
arms weak from tension,
they taught me He wouldn’t let this happen.
to believe a saving grace would
spoon-feed me wisdom, hold my hand when
faced with any ill.
because my mother taught me to be good,
my father to be obedient,
but i was always better at
hopscotch than
Our Father.
they came to me deaf.
swallowed my words,
lent me a smile,
sent their pity,
before they neglected,
baptized every word i uttered.
i can still feel the cool water
in my spine like needles,
wearing out each nerve in my body,
which has brittled with invocation.
i was prompted this way
in that violet haze;
i’ve felt this all the same.
everytime a chorus hymn hummed up my neck,
soaking my thoughts with hopeless worship,
i am spun back into countless offerings for answer,
resolution.
Why does He let me feel this way?
i learned to wear my sunday best,
utter confessions to hidden,
shadowed men.
i learned to praise the absent,
to keep my notions hushed
until Father opened the gate.
Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
they don’t recognize invisible illnesses
but they recognize the Creator,
and blood as blood.
They don’t believe me.
i had to stop wandering places i didn’t belong,
aimless.
homesick in my home.
my mother taught me to be good,
my father to be obedient,
so i taught myself to study.
count every rosary bead 4 times,
read the scriptures before bedtime,
the final desperate act of seeking.
yet i couldn’t be votary,
as much as i had tasted His blood on my tongue,
carolled his praises to the sanctuary.
i was vexed at how, somehow,
my thinking was counterfeit.
i cannot go there with open arms anymore,
the gaping eyes of the devoted burn at
the back of my skull like holy water,
i only asked,
Why don’t you believe me?
i don’t resent the faithful,
i admire their hope,
i’m not bitter towards their parish.
yet there came a point,
for myself,
where i couldn't neglect inner twistedness
couldn’t search unwelcome for ease in places where invisible is valuable until it questions grace.
i came to realize;
Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.
when the room glowed violet,
i etched my soul into the
bed frame.
etched in symptoms, waiting
for an answer.
playing alchemist in
hues of sickened sundowns,
having gone through all the
prophets, the platos.
the time when “God” felt morbid.
Why do I feel this way?
this is a fever dream,
shakes and cold sweats at 4 AM,
designed to wake me up,
hold me down.
arms weak from tension,
they taught me He wouldn’t let this happen.
to believe a saving grace would
spoon-feed me wisdom, hold my hand when
faced with any ill.
because my mother taught me to be good,
my father to be obedient,
but i was always better at
hopscotch than
Our Father.
they came to me deaf.
swallowed my words,
lent me a smile,
sent their pity,
before they neglected,
baptized every word i uttered.
i can still feel the cool water
in my spine like needles,
wearing out each nerve in my body,
which has brittled with invocation.
i was prompted this way
in that violet haze;
i’ve felt this all the same.
everytime a chorus hymn hummed up my neck,
soaking my thoughts with hopeless worship,
i am spun back into countless offerings for answer,
resolution.
Why does He let me feel this way?
i learned to wear my sunday best,
utter confessions to hidden,
shadowed men.
i learned to praise the absent,
to keep my notions hushed
until Father opened the gate.
Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
they don’t recognize invisible illnesses
but they recognize the Creator,
and blood as blood.
They don’t believe me.
i had to stop wandering places i didn’t belong,
aimless.
homesick in my home.
my mother taught me to be good,
my father to be obedient,
so i taught myself to study.
count every rosary bead 4 times,
read the scriptures before bedtime,
the final desperate act of seeking.
yet i couldn’t be votary,
as much as i had tasted His blood on my tongue,
carolled his praises to the sanctuary.
i was vexed at how, somehow,
my thinking was counterfeit.
i cannot go there with open arms anymore,
the gaping eyes of the devoted burn at
the back of my skull like holy water,
i only asked,
Why don’t you believe me?
i don’t resent the faithful,
i admire their hope,
i’m not bitter towards their parish.
yet there came a point,
for myself,
where i couldn't neglect inner twistedness
couldn’t search unwelcome for ease in places where invisible is valuable until it questions grace.
i came to realize;
Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way.
Laura Slabbert (she/her)
The past three-and-a-bit years at Canterbury were important to me, and I’m sad to see them cut short. The lit program was a huge privilege to be a part of, despite the many ups and downs. Next year I’m off to Concordia I’m staying at home doing online courses and sinking into student debt. What I’ll miss the most about Canterbury is sitting on the floor with my friends and refusing to write anything other than high fantasy for every lit project. All in all I really am grateful that I got to go to such a warm and welcoming school like Canterbury, and I’m excited to see where everyone ends up in a couple years.
The Tree Would Never Speak Again
“Where are you going, little one?” The fox asked from beneath the porch.
The child sighed and looked down the street.
“I’m going to find it this time, I know I will. Tonight’s the night I’ll get my answer.”
The fox looked into the child’s eyes, closely this time.
“An answer, yes, but to what question?”
“Where is my childhood?”
“Oh, dear. You’re not going to like what you find.” The fox curled up once more, shielding its eyes with its tail.
Fox has never left that porch and knows nothing of the world, the child thought, and continued on the way to the woods.
The air was thick and humid, thrumming with the warning of an oncoming storm. The child felt very small on that road, and very much alone, but not afraid. These roads were more familiar than family, and had no secrets to hide.
After a good while of stepping over cracks in the sidewalk and kicking stones down the street, the child stepped off the asphalt and into a field of tall grass. The blades scratched up the child's legs, and left red welts where their spindly fingers brushed the child’s skin. As the child reached the park, they saw that someone had taken down the swingset, and the old play structure made of real wood. A newer one made of steel and plastic stood in its place. There must have been hundreds of that exact model across the country, if not the world. The child knew why the old ones had been taken away. The swings had been rusty and the bolts would scream with every back and forth. The wood of the old structure had gone soft and rotten from too many years out in the rain, and wasps had begun to build nests in its underbelly. Nonetheless, the child was still sad to see it go. The child whispered a “goodbye” to the passed on places, and turned towards the wood.
It was very small, a pinhead of a forest in the middle of suburbia, even though those trees had been there far longer than any of the people or the houses they lived in.
The child placed every footstep with care, so as not to break any branches or hurt any of the newly born saplings still half hidden in the underbrush. The child moved as quietly as possible, but the suction of the mud that covered the ground made every step sound like the opening and closing of a great mouth. There was a groan of bending bark and the child turned, coming face to face with a great oak tree. The tree’s trunk was cracked, and pieces of dead bark fell to the forest floor as the tree leaned down so that it’s knotted trunk was merely a breath from the child’s nose.
“What brings you here at this hour, all alone? It’s not safe, you know.”
The child bowed deeply.
“I’m sorry for waking you, Oak. I am here to find my childhood.”
“No need to be sorry, my dear. Do you think your childhood is somewhere in here?”
“It is the last place I have yet to look, so it must be here. Have you or any of your creatures seen it?”
“I’m sorry. I would know if something as precious as that were in my forest, but my roots sense nothing of the sort.”
“Oh.” The child said, and sank into the mud.
The two of them were quiet for some time. The rising sun painted streaks of orange across the horizon before either of them spoke again. It was the oak tree who broke the silence.
“It is time for you to go, little one, before the rest of the world wakes up.”
The child nodded and wiped away a stray tear.
“Thank you for having me,” The child said.
“One last thing before you go.” The tree smiled sadly. “I think it is time you started looking for something else.”
The child sighed and looked down the street.
“I’m going to find it this time, I know I will. Tonight’s the night I’ll get my answer.”
The fox looked into the child’s eyes, closely this time.
“An answer, yes, but to what question?”
“Where is my childhood?”
“Oh, dear. You’re not going to like what you find.” The fox curled up once more, shielding its eyes with its tail.
Fox has never left that porch and knows nothing of the world, the child thought, and continued on the way to the woods.
The air was thick and humid, thrumming with the warning of an oncoming storm. The child felt very small on that road, and very much alone, but not afraid. These roads were more familiar than family, and had no secrets to hide.
After a good while of stepping over cracks in the sidewalk and kicking stones down the street, the child stepped off the asphalt and into a field of tall grass. The blades scratched up the child's legs, and left red welts where their spindly fingers brushed the child’s skin. As the child reached the park, they saw that someone had taken down the swingset, and the old play structure made of real wood. A newer one made of steel and plastic stood in its place. There must have been hundreds of that exact model across the country, if not the world. The child knew why the old ones had been taken away. The swings had been rusty and the bolts would scream with every back and forth. The wood of the old structure had gone soft and rotten from too many years out in the rain, and wasps had begun to build nests in its underbelly. Nonetheless, the child was still sad to see it go. The child whispered a “goodbye” to the passed on places, and turned towards the wood.
It was very small, a pinhead of a forest in the middle of suburbia, even though those trees had been there far longer than any of the people or the houses they lived in.
The child placed every footstep with care, so as not to break any branches or hurt any of the newly born saplings still half hidden in the underbrush. The child moved as quietly as possible, but the suction of the mud that covered the ground made every step sound like the opening and closing of a great mouth. There was a groan of bending bark and the child turned, coming face to face with a great oak tree. The tree’s trunk was cracked, and pieces of dead bark fell to the forest floor as the tree leaned down so that it’s knotted trunk was merely a breath from the child’s nose.
“What brings you here at this hour, all alone? It’s not safe, you know.”
The child bowed deeply.
“I’m sorry for waking you, Oak. I am here to find my childhood.”
“No need to be sorry, my dear. Do you think your childhood is somewhere in here?”
“It is the last place I have yet to look, so it must be here. Have you or any of your creatures seen it?”
“I’m sorry. I would know if something as precious as that were in my forest, but my roots sense nothing of the sort.”
“Oh.” The child said, and sank into the mud.
The two of them were quiet for some time. The rising sun painted streaks of orange across the horizon before either of them spoke again. It was the oak tree who broke the silence.
“It is time for you to go, little one, before the rest of the world wakes up.”
The child nodded and wiped away a stray tear.
“Thank you for having me,” The child said.
“One last thing before you go.” The tree smiled sadly. “I think it is time you started looking for something else.”
Adrienne Vandenberg (she/her)
Adrienne will be going to McGill University in Montreal, where she will study psychology and miss the lit class greatly. She would like to thank everyone for all the last-minute edits and support over the years, and will always look back fondly on getting Lorenzo’s with the gang before coffeehouse. Next year she will be sending every single member of the lit class lengthy handwritten letters every single day, The Notebook style, so nobody forgets to keep in touch.
Leaky Faucet
Zach Weber (he/him)
Zachary Weber has an extremely large tooth gap, that has grown in size over his years at Canterbury High School. The Literary Arts Program, and everyone in it has instilled confidence in him, and a comfort in the dark abyss in his crooked smile. Real talk though, he has grown both creatively and personally & is proud to share his favourite piece in this year’s Red Book. This year may lack similarity from those in the past, but it shares great similarity with his gap. Both involve a 2 metre distance.
Peace out.
Down To A Science