We all know the feeling of nostalgia. We look back at the past with a feeling of desire, yearning for a time that we're no longer in. Often, we don’t recognize the good parts of the present until we’re looking at it in hindsight. We listen to music from decades past, and buy clothes worn by other people with other lives, clothes far from new. Watch movies that immortalize actors already long gone, and read books by authors who never saw the rise of the twenty-first century. We romanticize times long past, yearning for what we never got to experience.
Feel something that makes us human, and take a trip through the past.
Feel something that makes us human, and take a trip through the past.
The Forest of My Childhood by Heidi ElderI remember the sky was an unparalleled shade of black. An immersive black that swallows you whole should you take even a single step into its inky waters. Stars twinkled at the bottom of that untouchable ocean and though I knew they were merely tricks of the light, they were the brightest I'd ever seen. On clear nights, once-hidden galaxies would reveal themselves and join Orion and Heracles in the sky. It was as though the clouds which passed so softly across the sea, were painting it as they went, this divine picture.
But walk a little deeper into the forest where the glow of the starry night fades, and you'll find that the ominous branches of pines and oaks have even succeeded in devouring the moonlight. So thick is the mess of tangled limbs and leaves surrounding you, that you lose all meaning of where you are. But you remain in this darkness because a flashlight would ruin the illusion. It would jolt you awake and wash away this incomparable scenery like the shattered remnants of a lost dream. The darkness used to scare me with its swaying stories of danger dwelling beneath its cover but as I grew up, I somehow managed to find my way within it. Along paths and trails I knew where I was; and I could see its beauty. The beauty of this forest which raised me. |
dried flowers by Bailey Anne Curtin dreaming at 7:30 PM in a double-decker bunk bed by Irene Yu
pages, crinkled, tinged the colour of weak tea. petals pressed in between the leaves of paper- whispering secrets amongst them, as if they are both still here.
two thousand ten: a decade ago that feels like yesterday and a century at the same time. so much has happened since then- friends made, and lost. the fragility of her wellbeing hanging in the silence. she remembers his touch; his fingers soft and gentle, defined as they moved deftly to create a mess of a braid in her tangled hair. she wishes now she had never taken it out, that the elastic never slipped off the tail of it. maybe, things would have been different, had he known how much she appreciated him. she looks over her shoulder now to see the stacks of moving boxes, whose purposes have been fulfilled, perhaps, now that they have performed their task. multiple books are strewn across the vinyl floor- notepads, dictionaries, and a particular set of the magic tree house series they both had loved in third grade. exquisite ribbons of memories encircle her, hold her tight, nuzzle her cheek where he once dropped a small kiss. she caresses the small book filled with pressed flowers, each holding a story for another time. daisies, violets, lily-of-the-valleys from playing hide and seek down the road. pansies from his bedside table in the hospital, the flattened bloom of a rose from the funeral. sometimes, she concludes, you have to mix the good memories with the bad to fully remember those who are gone. |
Reminds Me of My Past by Jenna Mihalchan
 she never leaves by Irene Yu
When you think of Nostalgia, what comes to mind?
A time before the internet, smart phones and computers. She said. Of old photos, yearbooks, of how people dressed. He said. Music and food, events that no longer happen. They said. Things that remind us of our past. They said. They tell me things of their past. That is their nostalgia. But it’s not mine. Nostalgia is the encompassing feeling for wanting to go back to a moment in time. It hits so hard when you hear a certain song, eat a specific food or see a once special person. My nostalgia comes in waves like an emotional tsunami. Flooding in sadness, fear and pain. A lot of my nostalgia is from the internet. I said. Of photos and videos of friends on my phone. I said. Meme songs, concerts and tv shows no longer on. I said. Things that remind me of my childhood. I said. Everyone’s nostalgia is different but somehow the same. |
Happy New Year by Ella Pegan10 i miss new years as a kid. i miss when staying up until midnight was an adventure every time. now it feels like a punishment in which i am judge jury executioner and executed
9 if the start of a new year is a new chance, that means i have about ninety times a year to change things up. maybe less. i’m stuck in the binary of months and days and constantly wanting to fix myself and having to wait 8 but what am i waiting for? why am i pretending i’m not the one in charge of my body, my actions? 7 sometimes it does feel like my brain is at war with me. i know what the right choices are. i just can’t stand up and make myself do the things that are good for me 6 why do i choose to stay stagnant? i could waste hours watching TV while feeling the weight of my responsibilities. they hang like dumbbells around my neck. the chain is biting my skin 5 i want to change but i feel ashamed about it, because when did i start always wanting to fix myself? when did i become convinced i was broken? 4 i don’t think it was something i decided. it was just obvious to me. but mom says i shouldn’t talk like that about myself 3 change is good, though. at least, that’s what i’ve heard. i’ve never dealt with change well. christmas new years birthday all within two weeks. it kept winter from being my favourite season 2 i don’t like to think that i’m broken. but how many other synonyms are there for not working properly 1 maybe things will work out this year. maybe i’ll follow through on my resolutions. maybe i’ll fix things and be happy and i won’t feel so- ah. too late. maybe next year. |
Untitled by Hinata Derouin
I don’t have many clear memories of my childhood. When I think back to the past, I see a blur, like a camera trying its best to focus on their subject but ultimately failing. The details and images of it all are lost in my brain, stuck between the narrow wedges of my mind. But, I remember the emotions, the sentiments, the fervour of all my happiest memories.
Back when I was a small child before I started school, I can remember carefree days, warm happiness bubbling in the pits of my stomach and laughs tumbling out of my mouth at my little games with my younger sister. The adrenaline pumping through my veins as I ran around the household, the surroundings a blur but my feelings magnified like a telescope looking at the night sky. The lazy joy of being a child, no responsibilities, everything a simpler world back then. Thinking back to the start of school I can remember an intensified sense of consternation. Hands fumbling with the other, my skin rubbing desperately to relieve the intense emotions. A sense of impending doom at the thought of interacting with the other students. Presentations an absolute horror as I looked at the gazes of the other kids. The warm happiness bubbling in the pits of my stomach now a mere memory as anxiety and horror brewed together creating a poisonous concoction. Each day, this mixture filled my veins, infecting my cells one by one but eventually, things changed. At some point, stuff got better. The happiness came back. The gleeful memories and delightful smiles made their return. The hands of friends rubbing against mine replaced the anxious fidgets of my own. The world around me started to feed me mixes of sweet syrup and fondue instead of the poison from before. Warm pleasure tingled up my body as everything became alright again. As things started to become pleasant memories, nostalgic. |
The Slaughter of the Pink Soldiers by Olivia Ersil
She stared them down,
hungrily eyeing her prey. Deciding which would be the first to die. She reached out with a grubby hand, almost beckoning to them, as if it was safe. That was a sad myth. Her teeth were bared, a sadistic smile began to form. She’d enjoyed the little game, but now it was time to feast. She lunged forward, her victim smeared everywhere. Its fellow soldiers lay there, helpless. She sat back, satisfied. And continued to eat her smushed, pink cupcake. |
it's been a long, long time by Abigail Mcghieit's been a long time.
i'd almost forgotten the warmth of the music, the trilling of our laughter, the spikes of anticipation. it has been a very long time. how do you forget the way she looks at you, that telling smirk, the teasing nudge of an elbow? it has been too long a time. i forgot the brightness of the colours, the company, the voices; i forgot the diary entries, the walks home from school, the rants to my mother; i forgot what it was like! it has been too long, but just as everything always is, it's here when i return. |
Untitled by Jocelyn Van HeesNostalgia is a liar.
A trance romanticising the past for something better than it was. A mirage, a glimpse of the false golden age. Nothing will ever fill the seldom hole of your remembrance of adolescence. A dream of feeling and wistful belief, a deceiver of reverie. |
Untitled by Elliotte Hall-Plourde |
Looking Back by Tara Fitzgerald |
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he led me to a street near the school that was no longer mine.
we stopped along the highway overpass to take it in. it was smaller. i was taller. it was older. as was i. its doors seemed to gape open welcomingly upon sensing my distance. it yawned innocently and familiarly. i wanted to go in. he wanted to keep walking. it hit me that what we were looking at, although it was the same three-story brick establishment, was very different indeed. he saw a lonely yard, an old park with rusted structures, a few young children playing roughly in the grass-barren field. i saw myself and john and klaude and zelda shooting up in the empty plot behind the woodworking room. he saw dusty windows, small doorways into vacant rooms filled with unoccupied desks. i saw a group of thirteen year olds joking around and a teacher laughing with a gruff, billowy voice that filled the room and our hearts and made us all feel safe and loved. nostalgia is such a strange thing. he saw nothing. felt nothing. the same brick building made me feel everything at once, all happiness and sadness and shame and myself with the power of a thousand lightening rods all lumped together during a wild storm. i was pulled towards the school as a sailor to the sea; the feeling of unfathomable serenity, undeniable comfort. home. i could smell the old gym locker room, all sweat and hairspray and floral deodorants. i wanted so so badly to run back into its structural arms. i wanted to walk closer... he started in the opposite direction. i was left alone on the highway overpass. i ripped myself away from the building’s glare like sharp nails tearing at nylon fabric. i went back to holding his hand and wiped a lone tear from my rosed cheek. the next time i walked past the area with him, the school had been demolished. i no longer felt the need to reminisce. i only mourned. not for the building, but the memories that lay amongst the rubble. the edifice i had for so long viewed as home seemed so measly now; just concrete bricks and linoleum floor tiles in a deep pit. the doors that had welcomed me so many times lay stationary like a dead kitten. my memories had been bombed. their innocence was now gone. and he had begun his steady march again. this time, i followed immediately. i didn’t even have to wish a solemn goodbye. |
I am an infant.
My mother puts me in pretty dresses every day, My relatives pick me up and swing me around. My laugh is young and precious, carefree. I am a small child. I just started school. I’m beginning to make friends, School is starting to become my second home. My biggest worry is if I’ll be able to play with the blocks tomorrow. I am a bigger child. I’m just beginning to be exposed to the bad things in life. Friend drama is about who hangs out more at recess. Essays are one page long. I’m still just an innocent child. I am a pre-teen. I have pimples and split ends. I wear glasses and a make-up free face. My wardrobe consists almost exclusively of hoodies and sweatpants. School is beginning to actually be challenging. My friends are getting meaner and more selfish. I am a teen. My acne is bad, My glasses badly frame my face. I’m exploring different aspects of life, Friendships, Clothing, School work. I’m just starting to gain my footing in the world. I am where I am now, A fifteen year old. A writer, A swimmer, Someone just trying to fit in and be happy. Looking back I remember how much I hated those earlier times. Now I’d give my soul to have them back. I spent so much time thinking about what was wrong, What I didn’t have, Waiting for the long days to end. I didn’t even realize how quickly all those moments slipped into the past. When my hair would be up in two ponytails. When I’d wear bright pink shirts with unicorns. When I’d run to the door when my parents got home. When the thought of the future excited me rather than scared me. I’ve been reflecting on the past a lot, On all the memories. But they are just that, Memories. Soon to be forgotten moments in time. They are the past. But now, it is time for the future. |
Untitled by Arson McTaggartA touch, a feeling, the sent of something faint.
Brings back the feeling in my stomach, the trigger in my brain and strings in my heart. I used to know this, I used to know you, Your figure that stands, your sound that rings through my head, And the sickly smell of smoke in your breath. Sweet, but painfully sour. You could bring it back, you could bring it all back. Every memory of every moment, Every laugh and every cry, every time I saw your figure through the old coloured glass. Could I handle those memory’s, those moments, all those times I was there, all those nights I wished to be there. Could I handle your moving pieces, or have those pieces cracked and crumbled from the last moment I saw you. The rain was like ice, showering us, then me as it washed away the smell of engine fuel in the air. Has the time that’s passed crushed you like you did to me, have all your graves and skeletons choked you like they did me. You brought me excitement and passion, nights of no knowledge and nights of scars. How could it be that you brought it all back with one glance, How could it be that my mind betrayed me and never erased your image. I was sixteen when you left me in the ice rain, But I’ve never felt warmer as your figure enters the view of the old coloured window, And nostalgia consumes me as I recall your gemstone eyes. what I never had by Kara Brulottewhen I look back on the picture of my parents wedding, it makes me feel sick
in a funny kind of way I don’t yearn for it in the way that I used to for a version of my parents I never had the chance to see only in theory a picture of my family, where me and my sister where in the middle and my parents where as far apart as I could put them it makes me feel sick too (parents in separate rooms, bare ring fingers, arguments in the kitchen when we were asleep, words sticking to the linoleum floor) the nuclear family I didn’t have a broken marriage under fluorescent lights sweet and sickening |
You’re My Best Friend by Natalie WueppelmannA young girl (Jacqueline, age four) sits on her bedroom floor with her dad. Her dad pulls out a cassette of A Night at the Opera by Queen and puts it into a tape player. Music starts to play. The two listen to the music together.
A short montage of them listening to this cassette plays as Jacqueline grows up. Jacqueline, about four years older, enters her bedroom after school. Jacqueline takes out a CD from a bookshelf and places it in a CD player. Music starts to play. She sits down on the floor to do some homework. Jacqueline, about eight years old, enters her bedroom with a friend. As they settle down in her room, Jacquline accidentally kicks the cassette, listened to by herself and her dad, beneath her dresser. We see a close-up zoom of the forgotten cassette. For her 16th birthday Jacqueline is given an ipod by her mom. She thanks her mom and hugs her tightly. Her dad smiles beside them. Jacqueline's dad is driving home from work when a patch of ice throws him into a ditch. Jacqueline’s mom gets a phone call from the paramedics. Jacqueline’s mom seems to be distressed. The two of them rush to the car. Jacqueline seems to be about 20 years old. Jacqueline and her mom are shown at a funeral. It appears to be for Jacqueline’s dad. The camera slowly zooms in on Jacqueline. Jacqueline and her mom return home. Jacqueline shuts herself in her room and listens to music on her ipod. The camera follows her, showing her sitting on her bedroom floor with tears falling down her cheeks. Four years later, Jacqueline is moving out. As she’s packing boxes she finds the cassette she used to listen to with her dad in a box from the attic. Tears start to well up in her eyes as she recalls how it was her dad who taught her the importance of music. She finds the cassette player and plays the cassette. Tears stream down her face as she listens in a bittersweet moment of nostalgia. |
Untitled by Lucas Zylstra
Whatever happened to having all the time and not a worry in the world?
What wrong turn did we make where we went from disney to deadlines?
When did our number one priority after school go from playing outside with friends to doing our homework?
Back then Saturday morning meant Disney channel and junky cereal and Sunday night meant that I would get to play with my friends at recess the next day, now I sleep through saturday morning after mindlessly going on my phone the night before for hours and now all Sunday night is to me is dreading the early wake up the next morning.
Whatever happened to all the buzz and excitement leading up to holidays,
Where did all the excitement and passion about the little things go?
What happened to the beauty in the simplicity of our lives, will we ever get it back.
What wrong turn did we make where we went from disney to deadlines?
When did our number one priority after school go from playing outside with friends to doing our homework?
Back then Saturday morning meant Disney channel and junky cereal and Sunday night meant that I would get to play with my friends at recess the next day, now I sleep through saturday morning after mindlessly going on my phone the night before for hours and now all Sunday night is to me is dreading the early wake up the next morning.
Whatever happened to all the buzz and excitement leading up to holidays,
Where did all the excitement and passion about the little things go?
What happened to the beauty in the simplicity of our lives, will we ever get it back.
right now. yeah, i think. by Irene Yu
let's go look at the smelly fish! by Irene Yu
They say one falls culprit to their own deceiving mind, weaved together by chemical reactions and constant fallacies.
Entwined in forever metamorphose, take a glimpse, and it is ever-changing.
My back hollowing from the tip of my spine, I’d kick my legs and soar.
I remember the metallic stank filling my nostrils, the burning sensation of its crevices and turns, how they would print flashy red marks onto our rosepetal palms.
I remember the dandelions raked with the sun, blue cloudless skies gazing down on the bewitching scene. The newly renovated park, the toddlers in muddy overalls.
I remember my painted pasta jewelry, I remember my rainbow guppies swimming carousel circles.
I remember the lingering days and brisk nights.
Three years ago I wrote letters, like the ones sent in mailboxes clothed in cool stamps and stuffed full with wispy paper - the type that endured constant crumpling. It’s black ink running from margin to margin, slipping off-line hastily along with dotted ink pouring into forceful curves and bends. I miss its inconsistencies, the tell-off of emotion; it’s fast darkening and excited scribble.
Writing those darn letters hurt my hand, but I do miss them so.
Above all else, I miss the physical remnant of a memory. The silence of forgetfulness seams deafening now, yelling at me in minor tones. This feeling tugs at me, accompanied by sweet undertones of melancholy. I pass here often, the snips of sad wavering through the air.
Nostalgia is a dangerous thing, it endures an endless loop like a rusting music box refusing to break.
and while the world spins forward orchestrated by a sedate clockwise turn,
your feet are planted,
your skull renders ash,
your soul is stuck,
for the earth cannot spin backwards.
Entwined in forever metamorphose, take a glimpse, and it is ever-changing.
My back hollowing from the tip of my spine, I’d kick my legs and soar.
I remember the metallic stank filling my nostrils, the burning sensation of its crevices and turns, how they would print flashy red marks onto our rosepetal palms.
I remember the dandelions raked with the sun, blue cloudless skies gazing down on the bewitching scene. The newly renovated park, the toddlers in muddy overalls.
I remember my painted pasta jewelry, I remember my rainbow guppies swimming carousel circles.
I remember the lingering days and brisk nights.
Three years ago I wrote letters, like the ones sent in mailboxes clothed in cool stamps and stuffed full with wispy paper - the type that endured constant crumpling. It’s black ink running from margin to margin, slipping off-line hastily along with dotted ink pouring into forceful curves and bends. I miss its inconsistencies, the tell-off of emotion; it’s fast darkening and excited scribble.
Writing those darn letters hurt my hand, but I do miss them so.
Above all else, I miss the physical remnant of a memory. The silence of forgetfulness seams deafening now, yelling at me in minor tones. This feeling tugs at me, accompanied by sweet undertones of melancholy. I pass here often, the snips of sad wavering through the air.
Nostalgia is a dangerous thing, it endures an endless loop like a rusting music box refusing to break.
and while the world spins forward orchestrated by a sedate clockwise turn,
your feet are planted,
your skull renders ash,
your soul is stuck,
for the earth cannot spin backwards.
small windows big lives by Irene Yu