An oasis presents itself in many forms: a sanctuary, isolated from surrounding conditions. A place of safety. The word conjures to mind images of calm pools, gently swaying palm trees, and an air of tranquility. But what if it wasn’t any of those things? It seems almost too good to be true. What if this perfect refuge was stripped away, like a figment of your imagination? Perhaps the oasis was but a mirage, and you were disillusioned. This is a barren wasteland. Forget the trees, forget the flowers. They’re not there anymore; forget yourself. An oasis evokes a sense of escapism, after all. But not all hope is lost. Anything, anyone, anytime, anywhere, can be your oasis. New seeds can be planted, and the sun will rise again. An oasis is hope. 

WELCOME TO THE LAST SPOTLIGHT OF THE YEAR; WE HOPE YOU ENJOY!

A Name, by Abigail Jennings (10)

A name is such a funny thing
So tangled up with familiarity
That the eyes skip past its letters
The heart its beat

Such a funny piece of identity
So wholly mine
Yet so un-mine I seem selfish
For hoarding it
For clutching it close to my chest
For turning my head in its utterance
In its wake

My name is never mine,
Not in the mirror
Not in the bylines
Not mine
My name is only mine when my mother says it.

She sets it alight
As though she knows some secret about it
Like it's a poem she's written that no one can quite decode

But she knows it.
She holds a key
A cipher wheel

She holds my name in the palm of her hand,
With a gentle rocking,
As though she can still nurse it,
Like the child I can no longer be

"Abby," she says, and of course I am.

My Room, by Rose Berube (10)

White walls and brown wood furniture,
Pictures on the walls of moths and butterflies.
The grand hanging tapestry with all those flowers on it,
The deep blue blankets on the bed.

A place of refuge, cool and dark
When the rest of the world hurts my eyes with its brightness
And shining warm and welcoming like a beacon in the night
When the rest of the world seems to have fallen under shadow.

An oasis from the crush of people
And the crush of life alike.

the sweet in between, by Nina Jones (9)

​
i live in the sweet in between
the before and after
before I go wherever
passed souls go
after my body was buried
my last ashes of life with it, too

i live in the sweet in between
but
they tell me to go to the oasis that awaits me
where old grief and love and memory
linger no longer
where i will never
see her again

i live in the sweet in between
but
they tell me that i am wasting my time here
that peace and quiet are close by
an eternal tranquility but seconds away
i chuckle
i tell them that

i am the guardian of the sweet in between
praying to keep her light out of my land
i tell them that
my smile grows wider
every moment i spend here
knowing that her heart still beats
knowing that she is still safe
knowing that

she is not in the sweet in between
and that
i will be there when she does arrive
so as they ask me
once again if i will move on
from the grief and love and memory
of the earth down below
i will tell them that 

this sweet in between
is an oasis of my own.

​

we are an Anti-Storm Solidarity, but it's platonic, okay? by Alexander Lam-Gaudet (11)


I plagiarized the dream from you,
​from the beaches we dipped in and out of.

It’s where the rain comes in, 
where I sink into an undertow to avoid getting wet,
as you learn how to breathe in a hurricane. 

I never hated truly hurricanes, 
as you never hated oasis. 

I would have liked to go in the great big blue,
the light beams, glittering the water,
romanticising death. 

When the weather pulls through,
and a lifeline is pulled out, 
we can skip back to the cabin in the woods:
hand holding,
water dripping,
sun shaped– baked. 

We will dry off with towels and sweet tea, 
reading by the bay window
with the fire in the corner, hugging the cold away.

Then,
we will piece together collages and photographs. 
TRUSTWORTHY SALESPERSON: (Phone rings, three times, then stops abruptly.) HELLO THERE, MY GOOD FRIEND! Oh, I-I’m sorry, that was a bit loud–I suppose I’m just happy someone actually picked up… WELL, I come to you today with an amazing opportunity! Are you an aspiring entrepreneur, looking for the perfect way into the world? A young fellow, looking for opportunity? A worn and tired folk, looking for a place to relax? A sad chap, looking for something to make you happy? Do you… uh… Do you have a beating heart? Heck, actually, even if you don’t–LISTEN UP! This is the miracle you’ve been waiting for!
    I understand that life is hard, I understand that the modern day is filled with turmoil and anguish. But fear not, for I am about to offer you a solution to your problems! You see, I’m about to give you happiness that you never knew was possible! In the midst of chaos and confusion, I bring to the table… an oasis! Literally! I’m about to offer you a literal oasis! Woot!
    Okay, okay. Hear me out. Imagine this: life has got you worn down to your final, frayed strand. You’re buried in problems, suffocating under the weight and pressure of others’ eyes. But, oh, the relief of escaping it all. Running away to a place outside of the bustle. Away from the bland greys of the city.
    Imagine finding yourself in a beautiful new world. Warm, sandy hills everywhere that you sink your bare feet in as if you’re at the beach. Crisp, blue water shimmering at your side. Or, uh, potentially brown water. A very nice shade of beige, I’d say. …If you don’t like water, that’s okay! There’s only about a bottle’s worth, so you won’t have to deal with much of it. Oh! And I’ve even planted a few plastic plants to contribute to the aesthetic of the land. Which is a gorgeous aesthetic, don’t worry. The vibes are very much vibing.
    Doesn’t that sound amazing? And if you aren’t looking for a jaw-droppingly elegant escape from life, then don’t hang up! This oasis land that I offer you is also rich in resources! Like… sand! But also other things! Um, you may have to figure out for yourself what those things are, but, really, this plot is a fortune to be made! Or… Or… Oh! It’s the perfect location to open a shop! Any visitors traversing through the desert are sure to want to buy from you! I mean, really, if you sell lemonade there, you’d make a killing. Most of the people I’ve seen around there are absolutely parched! Even the live ones! Truly, this oasis is a prime location for your entrepreneurial endeavours.
    Um, does that not appeal to you? That’s okay! Because this is such an amazing plot of land that I know you’re going to love. It’s really nice and quiet, and it’s full of… of nature! Oh! Do you like nature? Because, man, is there nature. And you’d think animals would be easy to pick out from all the sand everywhere… I mean, if you still don’t see anything, just pull out a UV light and them scorpions will be lighting up like glow sticks… Hah…
    Uh… Did I mention that nobody’s died there? That I know of? I mean that seems like a low bar, but I thought it’d be nice to mention, haha…
    WELL, I see I’ve piqued your interest! I can tell you’re just dying to know how to acquire such a sacred piece of earth! You’re in luck, my friend. This oasis–the opportunity of your dreams–is all yours for a meagre price of $799.99! That’s right! With the real estate market all the way up in Mount Everest, I really should be charging you thousands, especially considering how amazing this land is. Have I mentioned that? That it’s an amazing piece of land? It really is. But for you, my dear friend, I’m only charging $799.99! What do you say?
    No? I mean… I can give you a 20% discount, bring it down to $640… Um, or $400, but now you’re really pushing it!  This is quite the opportunity that I’m offering you! I won’t go lower than half off! …How about $200? $100? Please?
    (Long pause.)
    Okay, at least say something. Will you take this fine offer? Will you–waitaminute… Did this thing hang up? Oh my goodness, it did. Have I been talking to nobody for the last four minutes?! Hell…
    (Sigh.)
    Well, on to the next number.
Artwork by Callie Blasutig 

The Twinkling Oasis, by Divya Prakash (10)

The moon smiled at its desert from a vast milky, star-speckled sky. The wind stirred the silver dunes. Nestled below the earthy floor hid a small furry desert dweller. A sand cat in its burrow.
“Goodnight, sleep well, my friend,” whispered the moon, as the wind sang a soft lullaby. 
The gusts above were cool and arid. The cat sat curled in a ball of warmth, its body gently rising and falling. Her eyes swelled, pointed ears pivoted as she listened to the wind. She soon bowed her head and fell asleep to the desert’s song.
Light peaked from the horizon as the moon slipped away. The cat perked up. Bobbing her head as she opened her eyes, she made her way outside, pupils narrowing with each step. She gazed out from her hollow home. A sand cat must awake before dawn. She sniffed the air. Her heart fluttered as she surveyed the world around her, bubbling with wonder. The cat’s ears swiveled as she heard the chorus of early birds. 
What might the birds have to say? thought the cat, eyeing the sky.
“The twinkling oasis! It’s like no other!” sang the Arabian swallow swooping above.
“It glows at night’s fall!”  screeched the owl from the clouds.
“A true wonder to behold! Have you seen the dazzling waves, the dancing palms, rocks touching the sky!” piped the warbler from its high perch.
 A twinkling oasis? What a spectacle that would be! Her tail shivered in excitement.
Artwork by Divya Prakash

Atlantis, by Maja Kolakovic (10)

Streetlights irradiated the harsh snowfall. The glass door struggled against me as I attempted to turn its rime-encrusted lock. Stepping outside at last, I could discern a familiar, though dimming, landscape in the distance. It was quite a sight to behold. The city scintillated with the radiance of the arctic tundra, despite its somber surroundings. In solitude, I noticed things I normally didn’t: the vessels and their lithe figures, clinging to the water. The cadence of the ocean. Configurations of objects in the skies, atomic masses. Baubles of light, however meagerly they shone, stringing the cables. Hail peppered me as it did so often, riddling the city. Surely we would become submerged in this tempest; it had been months. 
I wondered if I was alone in my fears. I could not be. Recently, my worries have grown. Recurring visions of yet another cataclysmic event plagued me; intuition told me the day was approaching. Shivers would envelop me, then recede, as the snow did not. It would cross my mind that we were being punished, but that could not be. As a civilization, we were among the most elite. 
I had come up with many different theories as to why God had decided to spite us: firstly, of course, He might claim that we were fueled by mercenary actions. If this were the case, I could only imagine that deep down, He was envious of our advancements – all of which had come through without His aid. Though, I did not think this was a reasonable enough cause to exterminate us. He should know that we had seen economic prosperity for a while now, and this was cause to celebrate! This was cause for Him to be proud. Our turbines were installed on every corner of land, our dams dominated the waterways. What a demonstration of our ingenuity and our prominence, it was! Smoke-spewing factories worked with assiduity, as did their employees. We certainly weren’t failing industrially. 
So, what else could be the cause? Some sort of human action He wasn’t content with? Perhaps it was that crime remained widespread. Vindictiveness collectively painted us in a bad light. However, it was worth mentioning that statistically, we had the lowest rates of burglary, arson, trafficking, and abuse compared to other areas. White-collar crimes occurred minimally. Clearly, we weren’t governed by deceit as other nations were. Our cells were able to keep even the most cunning of wrongdoers imprisoned – courtesy of our technological sophistication. Newly developed modules permitted us to integrate artificial intelligence into our surveillance systems and rehabilitative care. We had sharpened up judicially as well; our prosecutors and judges were astute, the keenest of the keen. No, that theory couldn’t be true either. 
My last big hypothesis centered around healthcare. We resided in the digitalized age; robotics allowed us to perform operations with accuracy that human hands could never achieve. Radiation therapy had evolved, as had other substantial treatments. Telemedicine was extremely popular. Technology was able to catch disease early. Our candidates were qualified, well spoken. Many patients had confirmed the excellence of our system, and the rate of illness had decreased by 30% in the last two decades. That seemed to be pretty impressive, in my opinion.
I shivered all of a sudden. Perhaps this was God’s way of letting me know He was here, and that all of my theories were incorrect. Or were we failing in these sectors for reasons I was unaware of? I racked my brain, telling Him to be patient. I’d come up with it eventually. 
We were just so advanced in every single way – industrially, judicially, medically, technologically, and agriculturally – that I couldn’t think of a reason. His voice penetrated my ears, murmuring words that punctured me. I scoffed. What was this in comparison to our grand endeavors? Maybe I was a fool to have thought so hard. 
(...)

My God is the Sun, by Abella Vasquez (10)

Artwork by Abella Vasquez
I would’ve given up. I would’ve given up my title, my status, my whole domain just to stay with the sun. To feel its warm rays along my skin, the light it brought to my face – I would give everything. Whatever he wanted.

As I stole a final blinding glance my whole body grew cold. The powerful figure stood above me, towering over my shivering body. There was nothing I could do. I knew I was overpowered and so did he, and took so much pride in it, almost too much. His lips pulled up in a smirk as he stroked his bearded chin. I could tell he was so pleased with himself, pleased to keep me away from my only strength and power. “Maybe next time you’ll think before you decide to rat me out, son.” 

Son. Funny. Was I ever really his son? I certainly never felt that way. I was just the other bastard he’d bore from an innocent, unwilling widow. My jaw clenched as I held back. (...)

What a Wacky World, by Devin Caguioa (9)

I’ve never known peace before. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. I’ve had temporary moments of relaxation. Moments where it feels like the world stops spinning, where the wind blows through your hair at the right velocity, where you feel like you can leave all of your past behind. But, that feeling never lasts long. Sometimes, I suddenly get whipped back into the past where I’m reminded how I messed up the performance of a song in the first grade for a talent show, or the locks on my head get pushed forwards, causing strands of hair to fly into my mouth. And suddenly, you feel you’re at square one again; the land beneath your feet rattling.

I have tried everything in my power to give myself full peace, even if it’s just for a few hours — I'd be ecstatic I got a full day of calmness. I have tried to lay down on the grass in hopes to ride out the trembling ground, I’ve tried to close my eyes and breathe to forget about my surroundings, I’ve tried everything. Everything I could to calm the storm. Yet, the tremors beneath my feet never cease. They just continue on, and on, and on. Trying to find a solution to the quaking world I live in feels like dividing anything by zero: undefined, pointless.
(...)
Photo by Devin Caguioa
Photo by Sadie Johnstone

All It Takes, by Sadie Johnstone (12)

 All it takes is a crowded room with voices overlapping
in waves of muffled noise to feel as though I am drowning –
my brain oddly at comfort with the lull of the water pulling me under 
but my lungs screaming that it is terribly wrong

All it takes to snap me out of this reverie is the realization
that above the surface I am expected to make easy conversation,
even when I am choking up mouthfuls of salted water,
and would prefer plunging back into my muddled senses

All it takes to feel as though I am a castaway
is a room of people with voices chiming in and out
but never pausing for a second in the rushing ocean 
of conversation – and there is nothing more to say

All it takes for doubt to come knocking at my door 
is a fist hammering against my ribcage, terrified
of making a mistake that will pry judging eyes my way –
eyes that will scrutinize the flawed parts inside and find
that there is an anomaly, something deathly wrong with me

Yet all it takes for fear to be gently washed away
in soft lapping waves that kiss the ends of my feet
is for your eyes to meet mine.
​
Then I am swimming in cerulean,
your smile so unwaveringly certain 
leaving no room for desolate concern
when I know I was destined to find
each grain of sand in pools of blue

All it takes is your hand holding mine, 
a stubborn grasp pulling me up 
for you to be a steady raft amid this storm,
to be my lifeline keeping me afloat

All it takes is your laughter drawing me in
sending sparks of happiness to my synapses
for my nervous neurons to believe I am seen
to stretch the corners of my cheeks into a grin

Through your eyes I am capable of breathing
your eyes see me as treasure worth discovering
eyes that have examined what lies inside
yet chart each imperfection and virtue as golden

All it takes is you insisting I am 
precious stone, to have the clearest evidence 
that I am blessed to be known.
​
Artwork by Tobias Dorsemane

For Patrick, by Daisy Benson (9)

sand wedges itself between your toes, the frigid water above your hips,

I’ve avoided the sand thus far,

perhaps I could have lasted forever,

though something within you draws me towards the fearsome grains,

the sand and soft rocks you traversed with ease debilitating me,

worries of bugs and jagged edges and the inability to reverse the action clinging to my flesh

while I ignore them all in hopes the risk was worth the reward,


A drop off, a steep fall,

sand-filled icy water swirling across my vision,

muscles freezing up while you watch, eyes wide,

nothing to do but watch as I flail,

seemingly having forgotten how to swim,

shock overtakes you,

leaving me on my own to remember a useful stroke,

to swing my limbs into use and push through the sand-filled waves,


soon enough, I’m by your side,

or perhaps you’re by mine,

not that it matters when our heads are above water,

our legs moving in familiar circles to remain that way,


unforeseen waves rock us to our core,

forcing our heads under,

only a few seconds without air,

enough to instill terror within the both of us,

enough to slick our hair back when we find ourselves on the surface,

leaving me without bangs

you resembling an egg,

and us both laughing at the other’s expense

Opposite Oasis, by Ishana Aidroos (10)

 Flowers bloom around her. Sunflowers reach upwards towards the bright warm sun. Bees buzz from foxgloves to zinnias to black-eyed susans, searching for sweet nectar. Squirrels chase each other up tree trunks as butterflies — morphos and monarchs alike — fly high, displaying their brightly coloured wings for the world to see. Birds sing cheerful melodies in plump fruit trees. Frogs croak, jumping from lily pad to lily pad. The stream ripples. The grass dances in the wind.

She watches. Not from afar; she’s only a couple of steps away. But it feels like forever.

She lives here. In her Opposite Oasis. Where no flowers bloom bright. No bees buzz. No butterflies boast. No birds sing. Life grows where the grass grows. Here, there is no grass. Here, there is no life. 

Here, there is sand. Dry and hot. The punishing wind blows it into her hair, mouth, eyes, ears, but she doesn’t wipe it away. She is parched, and can barely feel her sandpaper tongue. She is numb, body limp on the sand beneath her. She could pass as dead. 

Except she’s not. 

Her eyes are alive. Red-rimmed and broken, heavy and barely blinking. But alive. The gateway to her soul floods with all she has kept locked away for so long. Calmness replaced by fear. Modesty replaced by shame. Love replaced by hate. A silent surrender to the emotions she truly feels.  (...)
Artwork by Elizabeth Todd

Mirage, by Ivy Janes (12)

In the desert, this barren wasteland
There’s little comfort to be found
As the sand scalds your feet
And the sun scorches above

But right beyond where you can reach
You see a pool so clear and crystalline
Refreshing waters that you know
Would quench your every thirst 

So you trek one hour more
Ten, thirty, one hundred steps further 
Dragging your weary form towards
An oasis that just won’t stay in place

It’s real, it has to be
Or what has all this been for?
These days on the brink of collapse
Spent moving ever forward?

You refuse to let it end here 
With a fool on their last legs
You’ll reach the damned oasis
And prove you’ve made no mistake

You’ll drink til you’re swollen 
Until the spoils of your journey
Spilling out the corners of your lips
Threaten to burst you open

And even as the raw skin of your feet stings
And the sweat trickles down your face
You will forget the desert
At last
And you will be saved 

Pieces of Paradise, by Julia Janes (10)

It was just over the horizon 
I could see it
Almost feel it 
The breeze that would break up the humid air 
The shade that would stop the burning rays of the sun 
Somewhere to hide 
To be safe
To breathe
But I didn’t realize it then
Only when it was no longer within reach
As it became a thought disappearing into the horizon 
I realized my mistake 
As it set into the darkness 
Leaving only shards of light  
Fading into shadows   
I couldn’t help but watch it disappear
Trying to take in every last possible detail 
But all too soon the sky returned to its dark hue
Only the stars remained 
Each one a fragment of a memory 
Each one a piece of paradise 
Now I cling to them  
Desperate to remember 
To relive 
To reminisce 
Because I couldn’t capture it 
Not until it was too late 
Now I’ve lost my sanctuary 
I’ve lost my refuge 
I’ve lost my home

Smokers Oasis, by Rachel Kilgour (9) & Theia Taylor (9)

Oasis is the crispness of the paper at my fingertips. 
It’s the heavy feeling of smoke filling my mouth, floating into my nose. It’s the haze in my lungs and the clouds in my mind. My eyelids are tired, and my pupils blown out.
Oasis is a red velvet wallet and a lighter at my lips.
A puff of smoke in the air and the brush of someone's fingertips against my own. A breath too deep, a fit of coughs, the sight of tears in your eyes. 


The calm washes over me, such a stark contrast to the wind whipping our hair around, the storm clouds hanging low in the sky. 
Oasis is when I hold the smoke in my mouth for a bit too long and a little fire starts right there on my tongue.
It’s the way your hand shoots out to cover the flame as water droplets start to fall heavy from the grey above. My eyelashes flutter open at the breeze hitting my face, and I look up.


As your eyes flutter open to meet mine, I swear my breath stalls in my lungs, and that smoke is back in my mouth and muddling my thoughts. Oasis is the look in your eye that beats any high the cigarette could give me. 
Oasis is my other hand reaching out to grasp your chin as I take the roll from your lips and set it on mine.
(...)

Silhouette of illusion, by Amira Omer (10)

The pitch black cosmos up above are illuminated by the stars shining so bright
In worn out sandals and soiled clothing, proof of my journey.
They are being held by such fine threads, almost giving up
I’m giving up
I’ve travelled for so long, hand constantly pressed against the restart button
I keep going round and round in circles
I can't break the cycle, so close to losing hope, 
My soul can’t take it, my mind can’t take it, my body can no longer take it anymore
Please, someone help
Help me 
Someone come to my rescue and be my hero, my light in the darkness, my saviour
Someone liberate me from this recurring, haunting nightmare
Someone, please, anyone….
Wait, who are you…
Someone has come??…
Oh dear lord, someone came!
A source of life after searching for so long
I drag my decaying feet across the freezing grains of sand
And I breath heavily 
Step by step, I’m getting closer to you
It’s you I’ve been waiting so long, heaven on earth
Oh dear lord, someone actually came
Please come to me, I’m reaching out to you
My oasis, my safespace, my refuge
I’m reaching out, please grab my hand
Wait, where are you?
Where have you gone… WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?
Why are you gone?
I need you back
Please come back
Don’t leave me alone
To rot under the pitch black cosmos
Artwork by Julia Janes

Do You Copy? by Milana Wheeler (10)

 
Six people run into a massive cavern with stalactites dripping water. The path where they came from is blocked by the rocks and debris. There is a large river, ebbing out into a wide, slow moving channel, before narrowing back down into a tunnel that isn’t even big enough to reach the smallest member’s thigh at the end of the cavern. There is a smattering of rocks near the entrance to the cave that one could theoretically use to cross said river, requiring they had a surplus of skill or stupidity. Bugs that seem just divorced of fireflies keep a consistent light of the cavern. Thick stalks of some kind of bracken glowed with luminescent bulbs at the end. Pale mice with bloody pink eyes nibbled on the low hanging fruit. The group of newcomers, six people in identical orange hazmat suits of various height and build, had gray gas masks covering their faces. They all take out their walkie talkies from their pockets and fiddle with the dial on the side, tuning in to Channel Six.

MIC#1: (beep) …Well, that happened. Everyone, come in. Over.

MIC#2: Copy that. Thank god for this place. How’d we even find it between all the running and screaming? Over.

MIC#4: Copy. Four calls to Two, it was in the ‘Don’t Bother’ section of the topography files. Over. 

MIC#2: Two calls to Four, I take back what I said about this place, we’re doomed. Over.

MIC#3: 10-4. Three calls to Four. Of course you’d bother reading the ‘Don’t Bother’ section. Over.

MIC#4: Four calls to Three. In my defense, I was bored and we aren’t allowed cellular devices. Four calls to Two. It’s either be doomed alive in a cave that’s actually very pleasant, if I do say so myself, or be doomed dead in a pile of rocks. Over. 

MIC#5: 10-4. Thank you, Four. I like not being dead. How long do you think we’ll be stuck here? Over.

MIC#2: Two to Five. Might be forever. Over.

MIC#1: Record amount of time to make me regret calling everyone in, great job. One calls to Two, please stop being dramatic, it’s freaking me out. One calls to Four, good thinking with the cave, I also like not being dead. One call to Six, do you copy? Over. (...)

Home, by Owen Barker (10)

My Oasis, by Callie Blasutig (10)
This is home.
The sunlight dancing across a crystalline pool,
A gentle breeze rustles the palm fronds,
The hot sand under my paws,

This is home.
The dull tapping of a beak on cactus,
The long-eared fox slinking towards me,
I bury myself in the hot sand, hoping it doesn’t hear me,

This is home.
The wind picks up, sending sand whirling through the air,
A dark wall approaches, a wall of sand, come to swallow all,
My burrow, my only refuge,

This is home.
The sand shakes above my head,  threatening me, 
Threatening to smother me, fill my lungs,
The winds and earth seem alive, bent on my destruction,

This is home.
The sand above me is swept away, taken by the storm,
The earth slips away under me,
I’m aloft, my hurtling through the air,

Where is home?
The sand grains pelt me like a flurry of needles,
My limp body, tossed by the wind, slammed against the ground,
The sand fills my ears, my eyes, my lungs.

Darkness.

There is no home anymore. 
My oasis is beautiful.
Spring’s shoots shine like emeralds.
Crisp, cool air whispers through the warm water
Whose cerulean surface shimmers under the sun.
My oasis is my escape.
Here, the vegetation remains viridescent,
The breeze never ceases.
The lake stays still as ice.
My oasis is perfect.
Outside, the world warps.
A cacophony of constant chaos,
Where green crumbles to grey,
And tornadoes tear through the trying terrain,
And the dried ground starves for the tiniest taste of liquid,
Every crook and cranny encrusted in clay.
So stay with me.
Submerse yourself in suspense,
Here in my oasis.

Portrait Of A Traveller, by Rose Berube (10) 

The sun beats down, hot, merciless. The sands shift beneath his feet as he stumbles through the desert. He trips, once, twice, but rights himself each time—he can’t fall now, or he’ll never get up. All the moisture in his body is long lost to exertion and scorching heat, but to stop moving would mean certain death.

He only realizes where he is when the sand beneath him abruptly transitions from sunny to shaded. For the first time in hours, he looks up—forces his blurring, burning eyes to focus—and almost falls to his knees right then and there. Thank God. A circle of trees with green leaves like blots of ink against the pale sand, and in the middle of them all (thank God, thank God) an expanse of rippling, blue-black water.

It takes all his strength to stumble the few yards left between him and the little pond; once he’s there, his knees give out. He cups his hands and lifts them to his face, drinking deep. His beard gets wet. The water is lukewarm, tepid, gritty. He doesn’t care.

Oasis, by Lily Smith (9)

*Clears throat
"For my presentation on our theme 'Oasis', I have prepared a poem completely on my own, with absolutely no help from my obsessive parents whatsoever. Every night when I close my tired eyes, silence seems to muffle the screams and cries. The pain that surrounds me each and every day, melts away when with you I lay... really mom? Ugh, okay, umm... where was I? What I wouldn't give to be with you for eternity, umm... something about a fraternity... I think. Oh my god, I'm sorry, I can't read this. Look I get it. Life is hard, love makes it easier, things are better when you're with your soul mate, blah blah blah. Honestly, if you ask me, all this talk of finding an 'oasis' is nonsense! There aren't magical people who are 'meant to be' and who make pain go away just by existing. There is just you, stuck in the moment, stuck in the pain, left pretending you have found your 'saving grace' because it is all you can do. Left hoping that if you believe hard enough that you have found your precious 'oasis' maybe you might gaslight yourself into getting a break from the torture. But seriously, I think if people stopped believing in 'the one' or 'the only hope' they might find that it's not that hard to relieve yourself from the suffering. Stop to smell the flowers on the way home from work. Catch a breath of fresh air when the wind blows new possibilities in your face. Watch a sunset every now and again. It's stupid really, because if people stopped trying so hard to find their mythical saving grace that instantly whisks them away to paradise, they might realise that maybe it isn't so hard to find a brief moment of beauty. Maybe it isn't so difficult to come by an 'oasis'. Maybe we're all surrounded by little 'oasis'' and we just need to get better at noticing them" 
LONG PAUSE
"Umm, anyway. Shoutout to my mom for... inspiring me to... write this original poem... of mine. And uh, thanks for listening to my presentation."

Learning To Love, by Maja Kolakovic (10)

Kindness is not Azonic, by Ishana Aidroos (10)
For a while, I’ve been trying to understand human nature
Wondering what causes desolation,
I would feel things vicariously 

I recall thinking that seclusion was impermanent 
That there is always room to heal 

Instead of giving in, I fought a little 
I turned my light on and wrote a few lines 
I thought of you

Attempting to maintain a stolid demeanor,
You would struggle to feign indifference 

I grew accustomed to transient touches,
And a body in desuetude 
Though instead of giving in, I fought a little 

Do you wonder if others feel to the same degree? 

We all gaze at identical portraits 
Though optical deformities 
Persistently divide us 

Coveting something other than captivity
I’d peer at the horizon in wondrance
Praising our exploits 
Searching for solidarity

Telling myself that 
Though unity remains a foreign concept 
We will have to reach it eventually 

I had written things about credence
Wondering if faith was salvageable 

I’ve been trying to understand how desolation is so universally human
While conceptualizing some sort of solace

You can wonder what it’s like to be loved
Just as we can ask ourselves
What it’s like to be accepted by the world

We can wonder if people feel things with the severity that we do
And what the determinant of loathing is 

For a while, I’ve been trying to understand human nature
I told myself chemical imbalances were the cause of desolation 

I would feel things and react accordingly

While maintaining a stolid demeanor,
You would find it easy to feign indifference 

I am accustomed to transient touches
And a body in desuetude 
Though instead of giving in,
I recall reaching for an opportunity to heal

Affirming that seclusion was permanent 
I had known my faith was unsalvageable 

Though instead of giving in, 
I wrote with the last will I had preserved

Gazing on the portrait with solemnity 
Picturing unification
I turned my light on and wrote this

Seeing how pain and love amalgamate in my responses 
And in the faces of others 
I have just begun to understand what it means
To accept desolation as a part of human nature

I was programmed to disregard the optical deformities 

I would feel things and
React accordingly. 
Artwork by Maja Kolakovic
It’s ironic,
The oasis we live in.
Some places grow trees,
Others grow nothing.
Some have water,
Others have sand.
So many imbalances.
It’s ironic. 

We’re hedonic.
Seeking out everything pleasant,
Enjoying all that we have
And all that we want.
We turn a blind eye to the desert,
Look the other way and smile.
Smile at our luscious oasis.
We’re hedonic.

To us, they’re laconic.
Using very few words
Which are muffled and silenced
By us.
Yet we blame the oasis winds
And the tweeting birds.
We can’t hear their desert cries.
To us, they’re laconic.

We act aphonic,
Voiceless. 
We hear their screams 
And whisper back,
Too selfish.
We don’t acknowledge it.
We don’t raise our voices.
We act aphonic.

It’s not azonic.
Oasis and desert,
There are no borders.
Caring
Helping
Listening
Loving
It’s not azonic. 

Kindness is not azonic. 

It’s ironic,
The oasis we live in.
An abundance of greenery, 
An abundance of life.
Fresh water streams, 
Skyscraper-tall trees,
Animal families,
Peace.

It’s ironic.
They live in the desert
Yet we are still greedy.
Yet we are still ungrateful.
Yet we take advantage,
Selfishly keeping the oasis ourselves.
Not sharing. 
Not helping.

It's ironic.
All it takes is a single seed
To grow an oasis
Amidst the desert sand,
Yet the imbalances remain.
It’s ironic.

Paddling The Oasis, by Divya Prakash (10)

The little crescent canoe wobbles as I sit at its stern, the bow lifting to the cloud streaked sky. Each step is gingerly placed. A breeze whips by, but my plump orange vest hugs me tight. I breathe in the air of the morning, golden ores breaking the still surface. Teal ripples cascade and fade. I row toward the orange sun, my ores stirring its rippling reflection. Palms dance on the shores. I smile. Paradise. Each stroke a beat in the song of the oasis. Perfection. As if life was but a dream.
    The sun and moon come and go, day after day the ores paddle forth. I stay in beat, I keep pushing eastward. As time goes on, the water grows darker, the teal glows duller, and the palms lean low. I feel alone atop the water. My heart begins to bear a weight, the burden of each sweep of the ores a searing pain within my arms. My paddles are weaker, I slow. It rocks the boat, but I carry on, afraid to fall, afraid to lose it all.
    The little boat waddles onward, swinging back and forth. As though it were a teeter totter, it sways from side to side. My stomach begins to feel a weight as each tip seems a horror. Water spills over the wooden rim. The canoe sways, a puddle sloshes under my feet. One night, my canoe goes from smile to frown, it topples below the ripples. I gasp and push my hands up toward the sunlight, in hopes to reach the surface. Something holds me down, the weight I carry deep inside. I held it with me all along to keep my boat atop the water. Anything to not risk the fall. I did it all to stay afloat, only to lose it all. Now it held me like an anchor, pulling me further down. My desperate nylon friend held tight, pushing me up to safety. My golden oars sunk deep below, hitting the sandy floor. That’s it, all I had to do was simply let it go.

The Watering Hole, by Milana Wheeler (10)

 The carcasses were kept warm by the sunlit rocks on the overhang, overlooking the light running off the ripples of the only fresh water for miles with cold, dead eyes. 

They were scrappy little things; a couple of hyenas who wanted to beat the others to a drink and then stalk back into the tall grass and kill whatever dopey, bleary-eyed desert mice had just drank their fill. Unfortunately, the lionesses in charge of guarding the spring had just seen a new litter: small bundles of fur that could only eat the same doomed desert mice. So, the hyenas lay dead, displayed at the top plateau of rock to ward off anyone else who might go after the drinking mice, for they were already spoken for.

The lionesses had the first sips, water dripping from their bloody snouts into the clear pool. It would be refilled by rainwater as the dirt and filth from animals sunk into the clay insulation of the spring, but whoever drank after the lionesses still had to pray that the hyenas were relatively clean.

The vultures–these bald, scaling creatures of the sky who knew they would get first pick of anyone who disobeyed the lionesses–started snapping at the hyenas, violently tearing off their fur with sharp beaks and swallowing their eyes whole. They descended upon the pool, screeching at the poor animals who were just trying to get a drink. They taunted and they pecked, begging the scuttling mice and the unseeing snakes to step out of line. They had already eaten their fill, but vultures didn't earn their reputations by being easily satisfied. (...)

The Eye, by Daya Prakash (10)


​Sunlight spills from the cerulean sky 
As I lay on melting sands below;
A drifting, rhythmic lullaby
From frothy waves, their ebb and flow.

I feel the sea, its misty air,
The shimmering dew on fronds.
Seagulls scan for marine fare,
Diving into waters beyond.

But whispers simmer from the trees:
Their fallen fruit and creaking trunks
Muted by the salty breeze,
And tides that harbour driftwood chunks.

I stand to watch a promenade
Of scurrying crabs, marching sideways
Deep inland, towards the shade,
To spurn the far-off horizon’s haze

For a wall rises at that line
A wall that’d dwarf the tallest pine.
Into the heavens, a creeping vine;
I see it staring as the seabirds whine.

Looming darkness will circle the shore,
A hole above, where the sun can pour
Desperate rays through a closing door
Before thundering clouds inflame uproar:

I see the glare, 
Electric blue,
The streaks that flare,
The storms that brew;
I see the turmoil, 
The raging gusts, 
The clouds that coil,
The hail, robust;
I see the winds, 
The torrents of rain,
The blinding lightning
The striking pain--

So I close my eyes. 

And sink back into the sands,
Bathing under azure skies,
In rolling waves, I wash my hands
And float on a raft of soothing lies.

Screw the crabs and their anabasis 

For this is my fleeting oasis. 
Artwork by Milana Wheeler

Silence, by Owen Barker (10)

Silence.
Silence is a desolate plain.
Red sun, beating down on scorched sand.
In the shadows, hidden creatures lurk,
Things with too many eyes and too many legs.
Already, the vultures circle,
Worst of all, it's silent.

You wish you could hear something, anything,
Something to assure you that you’re still alive.
You could try to scream, try to make a noise,
But the silence is an unspoken vow,
The desert doesn’t take kindly to those who break it.
And so the silence endures.

Foxes prowl, light steps barely touching the sand,
Ahead, a cactus, or is it a tree?
Sunlight bathes you, boiling your mind,
Sand drifts over the dunes, held by the wind,
The wind is slow, the sun so hot.
Both observe your struggle in silence.

Colours swim on the horizon,
Green, blue, an oasis, water.
The eye of the storm bleeding you dry.
Finally, your weak legs can rest,
Your throat will feel water again,
It’s been days, months. Years?

You let out a cry of joy, breaking into a run,
Falling, you begin crawling, desperately reaching out.
The wind wails, pelting you with sand,
For you have disturbed the deadly tranquility.
Colours fade on the horizon, disappearing.
You scream, but no sound escapes your parched throat.

Silence returns.
​

The War Against The Desert, by Amira Omer (10)

The war against the desert raged on for countless weeks
At this point, resisting is useless
I have tried over and over again
With unwavering resolve 
Marching towards my final destination
Where water and life can be found
I need to reach it 
The oasis
Then, I’ll finally achieve freedom
The perfect place of refuge
A safe space, shelter, a sanctuary

Choose Oasis - A Short Essay On Oasis Juice & Its Merits, by Daya Prakash (10)

​If you’re a juice enthusiast, connoisseur, or simply a casual juice-enjoyer, you’ve probably heard of the Canadian juice brand Oasis. 
With flavours ranging from apples to oranges, passion fruit to pomegranate, Oasis juice is a highly popular and distinguished drink for those in need of a bit of fresh, fruity fructose to free their spirits. However, if you go to the supermarket, it’s clear that it isn’t the only supplier to make similar products: the threat of Tropicana, and even the all-too-malevolent Minute Maid, are serious competition for the Oasis brand. For those who are familiar with this juicy dilemma and would like a little more certainty and direction when they next take a stroll down the beverage aisle, I invite you to read onward; discover why you should choose Oasis from its merits as a quality drink, a legacy brand, and a solid choice in today’s Canada. 
With that being said, let’s dive straight into the wonderful world of juice!

    When you take that first sip of Oasis-brand juice, you immediately taste the difference between it and other brands on the market. “Why,” you may ask? It’s 100% real juice. No added sugars, no artificial flavours, and if you choose, no concentrates! One might assume this would be the default state for top-market juice brands; however, it turns out that many other top companies, like Minute Maid, use added sugars (up to +40 grams per bottle) and concentrates. These additives degrade the quality of the juice and make for a flavour that is far too sweet, not to mention the health concerns linked to the heightened sugar levels. With Oasis juice, you avoid that artificial, “soapy” feel of overly-sweetened concentrate-based juice, and instead get to indulge in 100% real, natural flavours from quality fruits (and vegetables, if you’d prefer!) This, combined with affordable prices and well-chosen portion sizes, makes Oasis a superb choice of drink when it comes to the juice itself. Nevertheless, sometimes choosing a juice brand is about more than just the juice: it’s about the story.

    Most people don’t look too hard at the history behind juice brands, but that may be because there isn’t much to say about most suppliers. Though thankfully, Oasis is not like “most suppliers”: the brand has a rich history and deep roots in Canada, and more specifically, Rougemont, Québec. The idyllic community of apple orchards and maple trees is situated in the calming Monteregian Hills, the birthplace of Oasis Juice. Back at the tail end of the First World War, in the year 1918, A. Lassonde and his wife founded a humble cannery to deal with surplus tomatoes and beans from local farmers. This canning company continued for decades, constructing a trustworthy name for itself by the time new prospects appeared over the horizon: refrigerated juice. In the 1960s, the Lassonde company made use of its founding region’s plentiful apples and began producing its famous apple juice. Within the decade, the Oasis brand was established, and the flavour trio of Apple, Orange, and Grapefruit soon quenched the thirst of thousands. The brand continued to improve its selections and maintain its quality for years to come, and has now been consistently voted the most trusted fruit company in Canada. 

    With that being said, I’d say we can move on to the last major point that deserves to be discussed: the relevance of Oasis in modern-day Canada. In recent times, Canada has gone through some sour relationships with trading partners— and not Oasis-cranberry-juice-sour, might I add. As a result, there has been a push to buy juices more deeply connected with Canada and the nation’s culture; however, you might wonder how one could ever find an authentic Canadian orange juice in a country so geographically unsuitable to the citrusy fruit. Well, Oasis may be the solution for you: bottled and prepared in Canada, in facilities across the country, Oasis is about as Canadian as fruit juice can get! Though the oranges might come from the exotic orchards of Brazil, the juice is all manufactured in the Land of the Maple Leaf. For anyone who may be curious, the company headquarters are still found in the Monteregians, and the apples of the hills will always have a place in Oasis apple juice!

    Sometimes, it’s difficult to find the brand that’s right for you. It may be challenging to tell the difference between viscous, saccharine drinks and fresh, pure fruit juice. Nevertheless, I hope the information you’ve learned today will help you see through the pulp and peel of the beverage industry and decide what juice truly deserves a place in your refrigerator. In troubling times, maybe you’ll find your own personal oasis in the natural flavours, historic roots, and patriotic ties of Oasis juice. 

🌴 We'd like to thank everyone who submitted to this last Spotlight Edition of the 2024-2025 school year, everyone who contributed their artwork, and finally the Grade 10 LIT teachers for making this possible! (Our sincerest apologies to the October 2016 Spotlight Edition, that was not intentional!) 🌴

- Spotlight Team: Maja Kolakovic, Callie Blasutig, Owen Barker, Rose Berube, Ishana Aidroos, Amira Omer, Milana Wheeler, Divya Prakash, Daya Prakash