Oasis
noun, plural oasis
[oh-ey-seyz]
1.   a small fertile or green area in a desert region, usually having a spring or well.
2.  something serving as a refuge, relief, or pleasant change from what is usual, annoying, or difficult
The library was an oasis of calm in the hectic city.

Welcome to Spotlight’s first issue in the 2016-2017 school year!  The theme that we chose for this month is "oasis", which could be interpreted in so many different ways: a literal oasis, a place where you feel safe, a person with a calming presence, or even the popular juice brand Oasis! The possibilities are endless.  Why did we choose this theme? As the temperature drops, as the days become shorter, as we get swept into the chaos of the school year, we all better hold on to something to avoid getting lost. Below are many great pieces of writing and photography by students in the Literary Arts program at Canterbury High School.
Enjoy.
-Oasis Spotlight Team

Mirage
Nimar Dhaliwal

It Flies?
Gabriel Karasik
I've been wandering in the desert for long enough. There's vultures, snakes, all that we're warned about. There's no water, of course. Did you expect there to be? There's a big change. There aren't people. There aren't churches and there's no trace of the man who used to pray. There's only solitude - what's a God to a man who's only savior is the mirage of an oasis?

Based off the line "the only God in the desert is an oasis"
Picture
Photo Credit: Jackson Hunter

​

Untitled
Victoria Noon

​I never thought that we would actually leave.
Leave what was not a house, but a home.
Not a family, just a group of lonely people.
The truth was always embedded in the lies to create to make it seem
alright.
It may have taken awhile
and we got our hands dirty
but we found it.
We dug
and we dug
and we kept on going until our fingers bled and still from there.
We didn’t mind because the blood helped us recognize
the life we were going towards
the life we never knew.
We ran and then ran
like one does from a wolf
and I’ll always admit that I was scared
but I knew one day we would find our oasis
then we wouldn’t have to worry about the wolves anymore.

Under the Blanket
Clara Demke

In a hide-away nook,
​I hid with my book,
and sipped some tea which was sweet.

In my sanctuary,
In my library,
In my personal place of retreat.

It was very serene,
And I felt like a queen,
Of my kingdom, tidy and neat.

So warm and so cozy,
cheeks pink and rosy,
And my book nearly complete.
​
I nodded away,
To the land of the fae,
In my oasis, so safe and so sweet.
Picture
Photo Credit: Jacob Arnold-Martindale

The Oasis of Wishes
​Dula Deb

“Mohammed, you must go. Go for the leader Alrick, the people living in the village, the future of this village. We need that cure for leader Alricks sickness. Please Alli!” Alli, leader Alricks servant cried. I nodded, “of course. If it’s for the village, I’ll do anything!” Alli smiled, “thank you Alli! Go to the Oasis of Wishes.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Isn’t it just a mythical place?”
“Oh no! It’s very real! If you want the real story, go to elder Alrick. He’s seen the fountain with his own eyes.”
I nodded, “Okay Alli. Thank you!”
“No, thank you!”
I nodded, and headed to leader Alrick’s place. Once I arrived, I asked if anyone was home. Leader Alrick told me to come in. I entered his place and headed to his bedroom. “Leader Alrick? Are you alright?” He chuckled, “I’ll get better,” he coughed. I awkwardly smiled back. He raised his eyebrow, “what’s wrong Mohammed? Is everything alright?” I took a deep breath, “tell me about the Oasis of wishes.” He sighed and patted his bed, “sit here Mohammed.” I nodded, and sat down. He coughed, and began explaining.

My Perfect Oasis
Alyssa Ellenor

Waves splashing,
Crashing,
Thrashing against the rocks,
Sending foam along the shore.

Birds,
Squealing,
Kneeling,
Stealing food from one another.
Their angry cries,
Causing me to arise.

My feet squeak and creak
Along the sleek floorboards,
As I cross the small space,
At a very slow pace.

I look out at the ocean,
Admiring all the exotic motion.
The thick, salty air fills my senses
And coats the surfaces of my lair.

I lean my elbows across the railing,
Absorbing all the anxious wailing
Of the lovely creatures below,
And ignore the vicious blow,
Of winds that come and go.

Soon, I see a small family,
Walking the beach so happily,
Merily,
Excitedly,
Making footprints in the sand,
Continuously holding one another’s hand.

They look up at me in my treehouse,
Their eyes squinting,
glasses glinting,
As they register the rare sight.
And try the might,
But I am no kite;
I am here to stay.

Why would someone want to live in a treehouse? they think.
Across from a beach, nonetheless,
Where they are visible to all?
I understand their curiosity,
However some become suspicious,
Or just plain malicious,
As the try and make me sway,
Try and make me stray,
From my beautiful treehouse.

I now realize that they simply can’t admit that this,
While not very spacious,
Can be a perfect oasis.
My perfect oasis.

Desktop
Jackson Hunter

Me: Is this where you write?
Em: Sometimes, not always.
Me: It’s cool to see where you birth your ideas.
Em: That’s a weird way of putting it.
Me: Thank you.
Em: Here’s just one of the places I write. But really I can write anywhere where I can just sit and focus, when it’s just me and the paper.
Me: How poetic.
Em: Thank you.
Picture
Photo Credit: Katherine Gibson


​What Relapse Feels Like
​Madeleine Chinneck

I live in a desert
Nothing around but me and sand
Water and land
I’m alone
Trying to hold onto
nothing
nothing left
no more breath
no more sleep
no more success
my eyelids open and close
but I don’t blink
the sun that used to feel warm on my skin now just burns
the dark i used to be scared of i know prefer
I’m back to square one
Sitting in the sand
And existing
I couldn’t tell you why

Days pass by
It feels like it did before
The sky feels cold
I feel cold

In the pain I find comfort
I thought I erased
everything about me that used to exist
But here I am
Remembering the times
When I was really alive

False Hope
Jasmine Hrynyk Seabrook

I had been walking for days, I had run out of food and  water, and now I was running out of energy. I knew I was going to die soon, my mouth was dry, my legs were weak, and I was incredibly thirsty, but I kept walking anyways.

Since you have no idea what’s going on let me explain. I’m a very adventurous person and decided to walk across a small desert for my week long vacation, but now that I’m here I realized it was a mistake. My idea of small desert is very different from what it actually is. I thought I could make it, but I was clearly wrong. I decided to walk for a couple more hours then die, because it was clearly going to happen at this rate.

It had been about three hours since then and it was getting really hot. When I started wishing for food, water, or some sort of miracle I realized I was walking straight towards one. An oasis! I was saved! I started running towards it with the little strength that I had left. There were trees! That meant there’s shade! Oh how I missed the shade. It was a break from the blinding sun and it was so nice and cool. It also looked like there was lots of fruit on the trees. This was a gift from the Gods! Sadly nobody was there so I couldn’t get any help. At least I had the whole place to myself. I climbed up the nearest tree which luckily wasn’t that tall. I got most of the fruit to fall off the tree then jumped down. I decided to take my time to relax and eat.
I was walking through the desert. Feet dragging, head hanging, blazing sun beating down on my neck. I was parched. The last time I had a drink of water had to be… what? Two, three, four minutes ago? I feared this would be the end me.
That is, until the dry sand under my feet turned into lush, green grass. I looked up, and saw it. Gleaming, just ten metres away. A pool of water. Beautiful, blue water.
New strength surged through my limbs and I rushed forward towards the oasis. Too numb to be able to stop, I tripped, and fell headlong into the pool. But I didn’t care. It felt so good to feel water again.
I tasted it. Perfect! Not salty. I began to gulp down large amounts of it, eyes closed. It felt like I was floating, it tasted so good. Then it stopped coming. I tried to gulp but all I got was air. I opened my eyes.
I was hanging two centimetres above the water. Wrapped around my waist was a huge tentacle. I followed it with my eyes until it merged with the huge head of an octopus.
“So that explains the floating feeling.” I had time to exclaim before being dumped, rather unceremoniously I might add, onto the grass at the edge of the pond.
I stared in wonderment as the enormous creature rose out of the water, looking at me with what I could only assume was a stern gaze. A tentacle rose out of the water and waggled at me, as if reprimanding me for drinking the water. Befuddled, all I could do was gape. I occurred to me only later that I probably should have felt scared.
As I watched, more tentacles came out of the water, wings unfurled from its… wait. Wings?! Last I checked, octopi don’t have wings! One of its arms grasped me around the middle, and before I could so much as squeak, the octopus flapped its wings. And together, we flew off into the sunset.
​

Lost & Found
Jacob Arnold-Martindale

Alone in the world was a man with no will
to live at all, but yet he lived, still
walking on numb feet, he searched for the lost
item he sought, but he’d only exhaust
his limited supply of energy,
if he wanted to survive, he needed his accessory
walking for miles and miles, and the sand
was an endless pattern, in his hand
he longed to hold the one he loved, now lost
like him, in this desert of death, what was the cost
of searching here? He’d never find
the one that had such a bind
He then stumbled, tripped and fell,
he knew in the end he’d fall into hell,
looking up he saw the thing he longed for
his Oasis juice, and he was tired no more
walking home, the little boy smiled
opening the front door, walking on floors tiled
his journey was complete, he needn't worry anymore
​I mean, what would you have to worry about when you're only four?

Untitled
​Dylan Harrington

When did I realize my oasis was a land away from you?
Was it when you cut me out,
or was it when you ignored me?
When did you realize I had moved on?
Was it when I didn’t need you anymore,
was it when I stopped texting you,
or was it when I actually smiled.
The past and the present merge to meet us here.
Are you okay now?
I’m okay.
I’m happy.
But are you?
Or are you still as miserable as before
when your favourite pastime was to cut people down until you had skinned them to the very echo of their existence?
That doesn’t sound like a happy person.
That sounds like a cry for a help,
yet you never made a peep.
You would remind me how great your life was,
and then leave, remind me that you had other friends.
What a friendship, what a curse.
Was it when I walked past you for the first time with other people,
that you noticed I wasn’t wallowing in sorrow without you,
and that I was happy,
did you realize,
you were the
problem?
Although I was skinned,
I was burned at the stake until my ashes were all that remained,
my ashes grew,
my bones got stronger,
my skin became unbreakable,
and you weren’t there to see it.
You were there to see me burn,
cry,
disintegrate,
but you weren’t there when I was rebuilding myself.
And that was enough.
I had had enough.
And when I hear your laugh in old videos,
all I can see is my frown,
and that is when I realized,
My oasis was away from you.

Hominum
Isabelle Flack

A man is going to the moon as we
speak, and somewhere in my mind
I will swim alongside giant squids, because although these
extremities couldn’t be farther apart,
we can both taste stars on our tongues.
I won’t think of this man any longer, because
my heart breaks when I am forced to believe the
world isn’t flat (oh, how much simpler things could be).

I won’t compare a boy’s eyes to a Picasso painting—art has done
enough to convince us of godly affinities.
I may be predisposed to this thought because the second time I
saw Venus on a seashell, I could not help but believe her flesh to be
the same ivory as mine. It doesn’t scare me that these theories slip through my teeth like a poison, but then again, none of us truly owes
the world anything.

And if you’ve now decided my mind to be a terrible place, then breathe, because I can still wear blushed cheeks, though:
1 - the colour may be of a more heterogeneous existence, or,
2 - I may simply find the world less enchanting.
You can blame this hesitancy on fairy tales, because
I’ve come to worry when the Prince shows up late, or
when the Dragon arrives a touch early.

I can’t swear I’m born of this transparency—I
too would like to be held like a rosary, and I too
want to be bought carnations, and though I have nothing
to sway the millennium and a month
of people dipping their fingers into reservoirs of black
ink and white keys,
I’ve determined everything to be a little unnecessary, and
yes, I suppose that’s alright.
Picture
Picture by: Katherine Gibson

Untitled
Alicia Monteiro

The first thing she noticed was the heat. The second, was the sand on her face that was preventing her from breathing.
    Sitting up in a panic she coughed violently, spitting out what had fallen into her mouth. She stood up and looked around wildly. The strong winds whipped her hair around, and the leftover sand stuck to her skin blew off. Where was she? She had no idea, no memory.
    What struck her about her surroundings was how empty it was, barren. Nothing but miles and miles of sand. She was in a desert, alone, with nothing to keep her alive.
    She raised a hand to her eyes, shading them from the invasive sun and attempted to find some explanation as to how she got there. But there was no one in sight, no sign of life except her. She began to tremble, a stray tear ran down her face.
    “Ok, calm down.” She muttered to herself as she wiped her eyes, and took a moment to just breath.
    She then decided to walk, she had to go somewhere. With no set destination in mind she decided to simply begin walking forward. There was no looking back.

Water in the Desert?
Rebecca Kempe

​He thought it was a myth. There couldn’t possibly be water in the desert, could there? He’d trekked during the day, when the sun beat down relentlessly and the hot wind burned your throat. Sometimes he travelled during the night, when it was pitch black and freezing cold. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

He had seen the erosion, seen the dunes. On particularly bad days the ground dried up and cracked from lack of water. There were no cacti in sight. He had no idea how those plants survived, anyway. His water supply had run out a few days ago, and he had resorted to drinking poorly filtered cactus juice (if there were any cacti in the first place) and collecting what condensation he could from the ground. Unfortunately, he’d had no luck with that, and he was on the verge of collapse.

But then the ground started to soften under his feet. It was no longer chunks of excessively dry earth, but brown sand, darkening the more he walked. A few feet in, it started to stick to his feet. His eyes lit up. He blindly ran towards the source. Here was his salvation. But when he arrived, all he saw was mud and a shriveled up tree.

Loop
​Brenna Hynes

The sun beats down upon the top of her head which she has unsuccessfully covered with a torn and dirtied flannel. Her clothes are torn, her jeans, her shirt. All of it is covered in blood, some of it from the slice under the makeshift tourniquet around her arm- some from other sources. Not even she can tell which is which.
She stumbles through the sand, kicking it up in clouds of dust as her bare feet try to get a grip- failing miserably as she tries to sprint. She ends up on her stomach, her arms stopping her from face-planting. She keeps on having momentary blackouts, she started having them as soon as she woke up, bound to a chair. She can’t remember where she was though. She can’t remember anything from before waking up.
Not her name, nothing. She sees drops of water splash into the sand beneath her face. She looks up- hoping for rain, but she realizes that she’s crying. She sits down, folding her legs under her, letting the tears roll down her face, letting them clear the blood off of it. Not knowing anything, it’s hard- you don’t know what to do but survive, and you don’t even know how to do that. She begs silently to remember anything- her name, a name. Anything. She doesn’t even know who she was begging though.
She can’t even remember what she looks like. What anything looks like- except that building, the wooden chair she sat on, the rope that bound her to that chair, and that squat little cement building. The sun begins to soften its harsh rays as it dips beyond the horizon- it seems in a hurry to be somewhere. But the friendly moon replaces it not shortly after and bathes the sad girl sitting in the sand in it’s pitiful light.
Picture
Picture by: Katherine Gibson

Rooftop
Samantha Muhlig

My eyes were glued to the book I held, my hands trembling in sadness and fear. My desperate attempts to block out my parents bickering were in vain, their voices raising louder by the second.
“He is just a kid!” My mother screamed, my father’s feet stomping around the living room.
“Yet he can still help around here! All he does is read his stupid books as we practically cater to him! We work for hours and for what? To come home to a damn pigsty! “ My father spat, his words burning into my memory. I whimpered, curling into a hopeless ball.
The sound of glass shattering scared me to death. I listened as the house grew quiet, a door slamming shut before my father’s car backed out of our driveway and sped down the road.

Protector of the Moon
Dylan Russell

In a perfect place
The air tastes sweet off her tongue
The grass smells cozy for the sun
There's no tragedies
Catastrophes
Illness as far as I can see

Marianne oh
Could I please visit you one day
Marianne knows
This is the only way

On a perfect day
You whisper with a frosty smile
The music of our last oasis
Light girl
Strong girl
Won't you promise me the moon

Marianne oh
You're tempted to hold the light
Marianna knows
Only little things’ll be alright

Yesterday
The sky was the colour of your eyes
And your eyes were the colour of everything I loved
And what I loved was your speech
Your never ending reach
You were my favourite echo and again

Marianne oh
You promised me the moon
Marianne knows
I'll be seeing her soon
Picture
Picture by Eva Lynch

Untitled
Kieran Butler

He grabbed the glass of rum with a drunken smile on his face. Surrounded by a country full of beautiful women and endless beaches, he couldn’t care less where his ex-wife was. After years of searching for the perfect place to call home, he found himself by the tiki bars with other single middle-aged men, howling and laughing at stupid jokes while the bartenders sighed.
All the excessive drinking and meaningless sex had changed him from a hard working family-man to a complete nobody. He didn’t care about his family, or his debt, or how much his wife told him to clean up his act. Scott was free. Free as the blue and gold macaws that soared through the colourful skies while the sun set.
And by the bar a native stood next to him, her tan and wet body leaning up against the counter.
She spoke portuguese with a foreign accent, waving the barkeeper over. “Um rum nas rochas por favor.” She asked. The young bartender combed his hair back and smiled at her.
“Vindo direto.”
Scott couldn’t understand what she said and frankly didn’t care, but she was so beautiful he just had to try and win her heart.
Barely awake, he stumbled over to her with enough drunken confidence to ask her for her number.
Hours past and the morning sun was shining on his face through the blinds. She must have walked him home. The bed sheets were stained with vomit, most likely his.
The dreadful hangover hit him hard, and he couldn’t remember anything that he had done the night before. As he stumbled into the kitchen of his cabin he opened a water bottle and poured the cold liquid all over his face. “Just another day in paradise,” he chuckled as he looked at his empty wallet. “Just another day in paradise.”
Picture
Picture by: Katherine Gibson

The Oasis of Peru
Chloe Wilson

Sand ripples away on the wind,
twisting and swirling across the land
Footprints flatten dunes into dust,
leading away from the rusty roofed houses and slanted shacks,
to the lapping water of a lagoon
A speck of life in a sun scorched world
A small bit of green in miles of dry, brown sand
An eye of colour, gazing out of the desert
at the brilliant blue sky above,
A sky reflected in the still waters and gentle ripples
Of home

Music
Kieran Butler

When she’s alone, her inner demons prepare.
In the silence, they feed.
Sharpening their swords on her insecurities.
They can never love you, they’ll chant.
No one would ever love you, how could they.
They’re loud, so loud.
They drown out anything else that’s happening,
Suddenly reality isn’t real.
It’s just a battle field.
And she’s fading underneath the pressure.
Hurt, and alone, forever.

So she protects herself with music.
Blasted louder than they can ever wish to be.
Builds a shield made out of drum beats.
Armor made out of musicians screams.
Swords made out of guitar riffs.
The songs that have saved her,
And made her feel like she’s not alone.
No, she has an army of tortured souls backing her up.

So when those voices come back,
Start to whisper then shout,
She goes to war.
With a song millions have sung before,.
And it hurts and she knows,
she won’t make it out without scars.
But she’s going to make it.
She’s going to be fine.
She has to be.

My Oasis
Zach Weber

Sitting under the shade of a blossoming oak
fighting the wind, just to stand
the sun peeks through the clouds
to welcome friends, with open hands
a medium low heat on bare skin
until the clouds come, and the sun is gone again

By the Water
Eva Lynch

An oasis. More definitively, my oasis.
Whether it’s here or not, who knows, but it was real once.
A sanctuary kept alive from a single thriving thought.
I enjoy it there, I visit a lot.

Where is it?
I’m unsure, but it was a place once.
A place I went and wished to stay,
but has changed and morphed with me every day.

It started as a trip to a place in the heat,
where I’d go to leave the winter.
Those dreary days,
when you’re suffering the haze of a long winter’s season.

At first, I’d fly to the sunny West Coast.
I’d lie on the beach and wade in the water. Smile to my heart's content.
I’d go home, dry off and get ready to drive.
The wind in my hair,
I feel alive.

Yet as I finish Lana Del Rey,
that is when my mind starts to stray.
Back to the happy land all turned grey,
a country that’s cold up until May.

Over the years, my oasis changes.
A relaxing escape, yet never the same.
Always sunny and blue, it’s warm but turns cool;
As the ocean breeze reaches you.

It fills you with joy and you stand there in awe,
outlooking the beauty below.
Although it differs, one thing’s certain;
I find peace wherever I go.

An oasis, My Oasis, whatever you like.
It’s a beautiful place to visit.
I close my eyes and count to nine,
Leave my home and my town behind.

I awake by the big blue ocean,
It feels real although it’s in my mind.
Here I am happy,
I take a break.
Live a life of wonder,
Until I’m awake.

The Window
Phoebe Ivie

I’m alone here. Voices around me try to say otherwise. I’m aware that physically I’m surrounded by people, but mentally, I really am by myself. No person nor object in this place tells me I am in reality, everything is dark. I can’t see anything. Anything but a broken window, hiding in my peripheral vision. Surrounded, crowded in utter blackness and all that shows is this window.

A window peering out at a grey blue sky and puffy white clouds and an aroma of wet grass and the drips and drops of crystal clear rain.
If I climbed out of that window I could dance under that grey blue sky and spot the puffy white clouds and breathe in the aroma of wet grass and feel the crystal clear rain on my skin, so I will.

My feet are bare and the gentle sprinkle of rain becomes stronger, beginning to soak me, but I don’t care. The clouds are the same from the view inside the house. They swirl in the grey blue sky like fresh cream when you pour it into coffee. Everything out here smells better than the nothingness I had before. The grass is fragrant, a lilac tree nearby gives off the most satisfying breath of floral tones.

As I walk forward, feeling the moist earth between my toes, I don’t look back. I don’t look back at that place that gave me nothing, that made me feel so empty and alone. Because when I’m out here, I feel everything, I know I’m safe. Physically, I am alone now, but something about this is more secure, more reassuring.

And I will always remember that window.
A window peering out at a grey blue sky and puffy white clouds and an aroma of wet grass and the drips and drops of crystal clear rain.
And I climbed out of that window and I danced under this grey blue sky and I spotted these puffy white clouds and I breathed in the aroma of wet grass and I felt the crystal clear rain on my skin. And even if I don't know why, I’ve never felt more together.

My Oasis
Adrienne Vandenberg

​It’s eight o’clock at the oasis, my oasis
Sun shines down, drying the teardrops of morning dew on the leaves
Security inside walls of tall trees
If I don’t look past the vines I can pretend I am in isolation
Safe in the oasis I created in my mind

Noon at the oasis, my oasis
Sun beats down, burning
My thoughts burn without the shade of my oasis
Desperately searching for security in the shadows of the tall trees

It’s five o’clock at the oasis, my oasis
The scorching sun fades over the dunes of smooth sand
Night sets in, beyond the leaves I can see the glowing eyes of creatures watching
The looming trees are filled with biting insects
Trapped in the vine prison I built, caged in by the oasis I created in my mind

Two a.m. at the oasis.
Even in the night, there is light
The fire I lit radiates a heat that warms me
It doesn’t burn me the way the sun does
Setting fire to the jungle cage
Scorched leaves leave the branches that reach out to run away from the flame
I’ve destroyed what will protect me from the desert, but what traps me from escape
Picture
Picture by: Katherine Gibson