TRUE, TRUSTABLE AND NOT SCAM (continued)
By Millie Farley (11)
...
No one knows where I am—and that includes myself. They blindfolded me when they took me here on the ship.
In my dreams, my father, the King, passes by my prison in his royal ship. ‘Where are you my sweet prince? Come home. Where have they taken you?’ and when I try to yell out, my throat is too dry and raw and I can only faintly mutter ‘here, here!’ in a breathy, pathetic utter. I wake up alone, and I repeat this cycle of misery, but next night it’s my mother calling for me, then it’s the housemaid, then it’s you...and I tell you in my breaking voice ‘Here, here! Donate to my GoFundMe to save me!’ but you do not hear me. This is why I am writing to you. Keep reading.
I write out this email with shaking, desperate hands. My gold locks of hair go unwashed, I miss my Yorkshire Orange Pekoe (I’m suffering caffeine withdrawal), my silk covers, my prince suits. They do not feed me. Ever. I don't know how I am alive. Donate before it's too late for me. I will tell the gulls to deliver this email to you. I will watch my inbox for your reply like my father watches the horizon for my boat. Donate to my GoFundMe and fund my escape from this torturous place. You are the only thing stopping me from returning home, you are the only thing stopping a young, sweet, blond prince from living his joyful, deserved life. So much power in your hands. How does that feel? It is ok—I trust you. I know you will do the right thing. I know you will not turn your back on me, or on Sealand. Let me remind you that you are the only pathway to my freedom.
Mes sincères salutations,
Prince Maximillium Perfectium
No one knows where I am—and that includes myself. They blindfolded me when they took me here on the ship.
In my dreams, my father, the King, passes by my prison in his royal ship. ‘Where are you my sweet prince? Come home. Where have they taken you?’ and when I try to yell out, my throat is too dry and raw and I can only faintly mutter ‘here, here!’ in a breathy, pathetic utter. I wake up alone, and I repeat this cycle of misery, but next night it’s my mother calling for me, then it’s the housemaid, then it’s you...and I tell you in my breaking voice ‘Here, here! Donate to my GoFundMe to save me!’ but you do not hear me. This is why I am writing to you. Keep reading.
I write out this email with shaking, desperate hands. My gold locks of hair go unwashed, I miss my Yorkshire Orange Pekoe (I’m suffering caffeine withdrawal), my silk covers, my prince suits. They do not feed me. Ever. I don't know how I am alive. Donate before it's too late for me. I will tell the gulls to deliver this email to you. I will watch my inbox for your reply like my father watches the horizon for my boat. Donate to my GoFundMe and fund my escape from this torturous place. You are the only thing stopping me from returning home, you are the only thing stopping a young, sweet, blond prince from living his joyful, deserved life. So much power in your hands. How does that feel? It is ok—I trust you. I know you will do the right thing. I know you will not turn your back on me, or on Sealand. Let me remind you that you are the only pathway to my freedom.
Mes sincères salutations,
Prince Maximillium Perfectium
I knew you (did you find what you were looking for?) (continued)
By Sofie Henschel (10)
...
My last night at home, we were sprawled out on my roof, sipping from my brother’s secret beer stash and staring up at the stars. I laughed at her question, the sound too loud in the still air. “From what?”
“Everything. All the pressure…why do we gotta do what everyone else does? Why can’t we just…leave the system?”
“We’re leaving home, anyway; getting out of this place. Isn’t that enough?” I’d been looking forward to the freedom of adulthood for years, and couldn’t comprehend following any other path.
“What’s the point, though? One hellhole to another. Why should we follow the rules if we don’t get anything back?” We hadn’t spent much time together that summer, her mother’s declining health and my lifeguarding filling our days. To me, this line of conversation was completely out of the blue. I didn’t understand.
I blink hard, banishing the memory of that night. I can’t afford to let my relationships affect my performance. I park, kill the engine.
She’s slumped in the backseat. I hadn’t noticed when she stopped mumbling, but I’m glad for the silence. It makes this easier. I open the door and extract her from the car. She glares, eyes unfocused. She’s probably drunk, too.
I watch her retreating back as she is escorted away. I never answered her question, that night on the roof. I didn’t understand the need for a bigger meaning to my life; I had my purpose laid out for me since the first grade when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Every year, my answer stayed the same while hers shifted to wildly different career paths.
I wonder if we’d be here now, if I had empathized with her. If she hadn’t awkwardly laughed off my silence and climbed down from the roof with only a lacklustre goodbye and a final piece of wisdom.
“You know…sometimes I think…maybe there’s no point at all.”
My last night at home, we were sprawled out on my roof, sipping from my brother’s secret beer stash and staring up at the stars. I laughed at her question, the sound too loud in the still air. “From what?”
“Everything. All the pressure…why do we gotta do what everyone else does? Why can’t we just…leave the system?”
“We’re leaving home, anyway; getting out of this place. Isn’t that enough?” I’d been looking forward to the freedom of adulthood for years, and couldn’t comprehend following any other path.
“What’s the point, though? One hellhole to another. Why should we follow the rules if we don’t get anything back?” We hadn’t spent much time together that summer, her mother’s declining health and my lifeguarding filling our days. To me, this line of conversation was completely out of the blue. I didn’t understand.
I blink hard, banishing the memory of that night. I can’t afford to let my relationships affect my performance. I park, kill the engine.
She’s slumped in the backseat. I hadn’t noticed when she stopped mumbling, but I’m glad for the silence. It makes this easier. I open the door and extract her from the car. She glares, eyes unfocused. She’s probably drunk, too.
I watch her retreating back as she is escorted away. I never answered her question, that night on the roof. I didn’t understand the need for a bigger meaning to my life; I had my purpose laid out for me since the first grade when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. Every year, my answer stayed the same while hers shifted to wildly different career paths.
I wonder if we’d be here now, if I had empathized with her. If she hadn’t awkwardly laughed off my silence and climbed down from the roof with only a lacklustre goodbye and a final piece of wisdom.
“You know…sometimes I think…maybe there’s no point at all.”
Untitled (continued)
By Steve Long (10)
“Hah! It’s more about mental capabilities. Say, what day of the week is… The 6th of January, 1923.”
“Saturday.”
“Hah! Quick answer, I like it! There’s a one in seven chance you’re right, who knows?”
“I feel like it is, right? Because it’s just- well…” His brow furrows, and he seems lost deep in thought. This time, the silence hangs uncomfortably, as the doctor and I await the end of the sentence that never comes.
“Oregano?” Nothing.
“Yoo, Oregano, you good man? He looks so relaxed as the doctor prods him and says something about an absence seizure. I stand there, taken aback.
“Unfortunately, seizures are not an uncommon symptom after a TBI. Call me the moment he’s responsive, or his condition changes.”
And then he just leaves me with him.
I sit and monitor him as I was told, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes unfocused, for two minutes. And then his mouth closes as conspicuously as a blink, and his eyes lazily meet mine.
“Basil.” He says. And I jump slightly.
“Oregano! You’re better? What happened man?!” I turn to call the doctor “Doc-”
“Stop. Don’t call the doctor.” I turn back to him, surprised. He cuts me off as I ask him why I shouldn’t.
“I knew you were going to do that, Basil.”
“Oregano, what do you mean man? Let me call the doctor.”
“I’m not physically preventing you from doing so, Basil. You may if you wish, but I know you won’t.”
“Dude, if there's a reason I shouldn’t, let me know.”
Oregano looks at me differently then, and I feel myself frown as he watches me, something alien behind his eyes. More so, I feel the need to call the doctor, but for a new reason, a bizarre one. That small, unexplainable knot of fear that burrows itself into my chest.
But I don’t call the doctor, just as Oregano had said I wouldn’t, and that realization sickeningly validates my unease.
“I- I-... What if I did call the doctor? How could you know I won’t? Oregano…”
“Because I have asked you not to, and you didn’t know why, and you still don’t know why, and you’re confused. You had a decision with so much uncertainty, so you chose the safer option.”
“That’s nonsense,” I say, but his words ring true in my heart. “No, wait… Oregano, that’s correct somehow. That’s so incredibly weird… why?”
“Because, Basil, I needed to prove that I could. I’ve verified now that I understand you better than you do. I know exactly how you think, down to the neuron, and I know what I can say to make you do what I want. I offhandedly decided I wanted you not to call that man over, and the simplest of the hundred ways to achieve such was to make you afraid.”
“Oregano, are you insane?”
“I knew you were going to say that, Basil. I knew how you would perceive every word I’d said, and I can choose what you’re going to say next. I can manipulate you simply with my word choices and vocal inflections. If I wanted the next thing you said to be the entire alphabet backwards in Morse code, I have two thousand paragraphs prepared to do so. If I wanted you to jump out of that window over there, I could do it in twenty-three sentences. If I wanted you to believe me, I could make you with the last two hundred and forty-four words."
And somehow on that last word, I believed him.
“Saturday.”
“Hah! Quick answer, I like it! There’s a one in seven chance you’re right, who knows?”
“I feel like it is, right? Because it’s just- well…” His brow furrows, and he seems lost deep in thought. This time, the silence hangs uncomfortably, as the doctor and I await the end of the sentence that never comes.
“Oregano?” Nothing.
“Yoo, Oregano, you good man? He looks so relaxed as the doctor prods him and says something about an absence seizure. I stand there, taken aback.
“Unfortunately, seizures are not an uncommon symptom after a TBI. Call me the moment he’s responsive, or his condition changes.”
And then he just leaves me with him.
I sit and monitor him as I was told, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes unfocused, for two minutes. And then his mouth closes as conspicuously as a blink, and his eyes lazily meet mine.
“Basil.” He says. And I jump slightly.
“Oregano! You’re better? What happened man?!” I turn to call the doctor “Doc-”
“Stop. Don’t call the doctor.” I turn back to him, surprised. He cuts me off as I ask him why I shouldn’t.
“I knew you were going to do that, Basil.”
“Oregano, what do you mean man? Let me call the doctor.”
“I’m not physically preventing you from doing so, Basil. You may if you wish, but I know you won’t.”
“Dude, if there's a reason I shouldn’t, let me know.”
Oregano looks at me differently then, and I feel myself frown as he watches me, something alien behind his eyes. More so, I feel the need to call the doctor, but for a new reason, a bizarre one. That small, unexplainable knot of fear that burrows itself into my chest.
But I don’t call the doctor, just as Oregano had said I wouldn’t, and that realization sickeningly validates my unease.
“I- I-... What if I did call the doctor? How could you know I won’t? Oregano…”
“Because I have asked you not to, and you didn’t know why, and you still don’t know why, and you’re confused. You had a decision with so much uncertainty, so you chose the safer option.”
“That’s nonsense,” I say, but his words ring true in my heart. “No, wait… Oregano, that’s correct somehow. That’s so incredibly weird… why?”
“Because, Basil, I needed to prove that I could. I’ve verified now that I understand you better than you do. I know exactly how you think, down to the neuron, and I know what I can say to make you do what I want. I offhandedly decided I wanted you not to call that man over, and the simplest of the hundred ways to achieve such was to make you afraid.”
“Oregano, are you insane?”
“I knew you were going to say that, Basil. I knew how you would perceive every word I’d said, and I can choose what you’re going to say next. I can manipulate you simply with my word choices and vocal inflections. If I wanted the next thing you said to be the entire alphabet backwards in Morse code, I have two thousand paragraphs prepared to do so. If I wanted you to jump out of that window over there, I could do it in twenty-three sentences. If I wanted you to believe me, I could make you with the last two hundred and forty-four words."
And somehow on that last word, I believed him.
The Beach (continued)
By Ari Van Loon (10)
“Like running away? That’s so dumb. Where would you even go?”
Something twists in my stomach. “My brother’s. In Montreal. I already asked, he said I could.” It comes out more clipped than I meant it.
“Fuck off. You’re not running away. Is this about the thing with Eli? He didn’t mean anything, he was just being an idiot. I’ll talk to him.”
“It’s not just Eli. Ever since it got out it’s been weird. With everyone.”
“When have I ever said anything weird?”
“Not you.”
“Then who?” He’s pulling at his hoodie, eyes flitting around, never at me. “If someone’s giving you shit I’ll take care of it. You know I will.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I bite back frustration. Arguing with him is like arguing with a brick wall, but I try anyway.
“The problem is it’s not about that! It’s not about Eli, it’s not about anything anyone says, it’s just…”
I stop. His eyes bore into the side of my head and I stare pointedly at the water, fingernails scraping sand off the rock’s surface.
“Just what?”
“Just- I’m not one of you anymore.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I told you, it’s just weird! No one wants to joke around me, everyone’s walking on eggshells. When I come over everyone stops laughing and the conversation dies.”
“So you’re running away from home because you think we’re acting weird? That’s so gay.” He stills. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t-”
“Oh my god, this is exactly what I mean! I don’t care, I never have, but ever since you all found out you’re acting like I’m going to get all offended if you say the wrong thing! I just wanted things to go back to the way they were, but none of you could just fucking get over it! And when everything happened with Eli you wouldn’t even tell me what he said, I had to ask Jamie!”
He flinches. “I just wanted to protect you.”
“I don’t need you to protect me! I don’t need a saviour, I just want my friend back!”
He’s silent for a long time, picking at his nails. “And what about Zach, huh? After all this, you’re just leaving him?”
“It’s a high school relationship. It’s not like we were gonna get married.” I say, with as much indifference as I can muster, though it had been something I agonized over for days before making the call. “Plus, I’ve already talked to him about it.”
“You already talked to your brother and your boyfriend. Am I the last one to know?”
“I haven’t told any of the others.”
I see him roll his eyes from my peripheral. “That’s different.”
I take a long breath. “I know.”
He draws his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs and hugs them like his life depends on it.
I know this moment requires honesty, or I might lose him completely. Still, it’s hard. “I was scared to tell you the most.”
“About leaving or about Zach?”
“Both.”
“Why?” I can feel him steeling himself for my answer.
“Because you’re my best friend, and I didn’t want to do something that would make you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” He’s never quiet like this, going back to absently fiddling with his hoodie strings.
“I know.”
The moonlight blinks over the dark water like glitter. The only sounds are the wash of the waves breaking over the shore, and the soft scratching of sandstone.
I don’t expect him to be the one to break the silence. “You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.” He swallows. “Is it me? If I had… taken it better. Would you have stayed?”
I chew on that for a few seconds. “No.”
He nods microscopically. I press on. “There’s nothing for me here.”
“I’m here. And Zach. And everyone else, even if they’re being shitty right now.”
“I know, it’s everything else. I don’t want to live the rest of my life as that kid. It’s different in Montreal, you wouldn’t believe it. You’ll have to visit sometime.”
“Won’t you miss it?”
I rest my head in my hands, taking a deep breath of the salt air. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
He looks up at me through the coils of his hair. “Come on dude, just stay a little longer. Give it another chance, things could get better for you here.” But I can see it in his eyes that he already knows the answer.
I hook my arm around him, clasping his shoulder. “I love you man.”
He hangs his head.
Later it’s just me. The beach is silent. I take my shoes off, laying them in the gray sand and carefully wade into the shallows.
The late summer water is warm, and the ripples lap at my ankles. I stand for so long that hermit crabs begin to scuttle over my feet, just staring straight ahead at the horizon line dotted with the far lights of PEI.
I know there’s more out there.
My feet are damp and gritty with sand as I put them back in my shoes. Remorse and anticipation swell and clash in my chest. I savour the long walk home.
Something twists in my stomach. “My brother’s. In Montreal. I already asked, he said I could.” It comes out more clipped than I meant it.
“Fuck off. You’re not running away. Is this about the thing with Eli? He didn’t mean anything, he was just being an idiot. I’ll talk to him.”
“It’s not just Eli. Ever since it got out it’s been weird. With everyone.”
“When have I ever said anything weird?”
“Not you.”
“Then who?” He’s pulling at his hoodie, eyes flitting around, never at me. “If someone’s giving you shit I’ll take care of it. You know I will.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I bite back frustration. Arguing with him is like arguing with a brick wall, but I try anyway.
“The problem is it’s not about that! It’s not about Eli, it’s not about anything anyone says, it’s just…”
I stop. His eyes bore into the side of my head and I stare pointedly at the water, fingernails scraping sand off the rock’s surface.
“Just what?”
“Just- I’m not one of you anymore.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I told you, it’s just weird! No one wants to joke around me, everyone’s walking on eggshells. When I come over everyone stops laughing and the conversation dies.”
“So you’re running away from home because you think we’re acting weird? That’s so gay.” He stills. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t-”
“Oh my god, this is exactly what I mean! I don’t care, I never have, but ever since you all found out you’re acting like I’m going to get all offended if you say the wrong thing! I just wanted things to go back to the way they were, but none of you could just fucking get over it! And when everything happened with Eli you wouldn’t even tell me what he said, I had to ask Jamie!”
He flinches. “I just wanted to protect you.”
“I don’t need you to protect me! I don’t need a saviour, I just want my friend back!”
He’s silent for a long time, picking at his nails. “And what about Zach, huh? After all this, you’re just leaving him?”
“It’s a high school relationship. It’s not like we were gonna get married.” I say, with as much indifference as I can muster, though it had been something I agonized over for days before making the call. “Plus, I’ve already talked to him about it.”
“You already talked to your brother and your boyfriend. Am I the last one to know?”
“I haven’t told any of the others.”
I see him roll his eyes from my peripheral. “That’s different.”
I take a long breath. “I know.”
He draws his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs and hugs them like his life depends on it.
I know this moment requires honesty, or I might lose him completely. Still, it’s hard. “I was scared to tell you the most.”
“About leaving or about Zach?”
“Both.”
“Why?” I can feel him steeling himself for my answer.
“Because you’re my best friend, and I didn’t want to do something that would make you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” He’s never quiet like this, going back to absently fiddling with his hoodie strings.
“I know.”
The moonlight blinks over the dark water like glitter. The only sounds are the wash of the waves breaking over the shore, and the soft scratching of sandstone.
I don’t expect him to be the one to break the silence. “You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Damn.” He swallows. “Is it me? If I had… taken it better. Would you have stayed?”
I chew on that for a few seconds. “No.”
He nods microscopically. I press on. “There’s nothing for me here.”
“I’m here. And Zach. And everyone else, even if they’re being shitty right now.”
“I know, it’s everything else. I don’t want to live the rest of my life as that kid. It’s different in Montreal, you wouldn’t believe it. You’ll have to visit sometime.”
“Won’t you miss it?”
I rest my head in my hands, taking a deep breath of the salt air. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
He looks up at me through the coils of his hair. “Come on dude, just stay a little longer. Give it another chance, things could get better for you here.” But I can see it in his eyes that he already knows the answer.
I hook my arm around him, clasping his shoulder. “I love you man.”
He hangs his head.
Later it’s just me. The beach is silent. I take my shoes off, laying them in the gray sand and carefully wade into the shallows.
The late summer water is warm, and the ripples lap at my ankles. I stand for so long that hermit crabs begin to scuttle over my feet, just staring straight ahead at the horizon line dotted with the far lights of PEI.
I know there’s more out there.
My feet are damp and gritty with sand as I put them back in my shoes. Remorse and anticipation swell and clash in my chest. I savour the long walk home.
Trajectory of Conciousness (continued)
By Ell Gurd (10)
Perhaps that was all it would’ve really taken, one singular jump free, get hit in the face by life, because what other option was there? Humans learn to live, or they learn to die, but to be contained to an unknown variable, a median, that was worse than anything your (human) brain could come up with because that’s exactly what it was - inhuman.
Could you be addicted to a route, to train tracks that were fabricated with nothing but your imagination, train tracks that were guiding you everywhere to get you nowhere? You clung to them like they were a lifeline, and yet you knew that’s exactly what they were keeping from you.
In certain lights, you were able to see your lifeline. In the reflection of the window, when the sun kissed just below your eyes and it would seem like one thousand years had passed, sags of skin clung to your fragile bones as you raised a shaky finger to try and erase the picture away, one wrinkle in the parts of yourself deemed beautiful for every year on that train. One ache for every moment that was given away to the electric blue waters and the rainbow hills, to the imaginary animals that inhabited them and the wobbly tracks that would fragment now and then. And even in other light, when you were lush and perfected, full lips and soft hair, pink cheeks and eyes that could hold a gaze for a lifetime and after, you would mourn the moments missed as you clung to the pathways that began to suck the blood from your skin, the air from your lungs, the life from your heart.
Perhaps it was this that made you get up from that vacant car, ripping your eyes away from the view that was nothing more than a faded memory of a brighter world, straining your eyes from the dark that bled through persistently.
No more than a few counts later, as the train began to make a soft turn, blending from the hills to the mountains, did you sit back down in your seat, your eyes once again taking in the never-changing view like air, your heart beat matching the mountains as they rose up and down.
It wasn’t much progress, but it was the closest step you had taken back to a life in the past one thousand seven hundred and six years.
Could you be addicted to a route, to train tracks that were fabricated with nothing but your imagination, train tracks that were guiding you everywhere to get you nowhere? You clung to them like they were a lifeline, and yet you knew that’s exactly what they were keeping from you.
In certain lights, you were able to see your lifeline. In the reflection of the window, when the sun kissed just below your eyes and it would seem like one thousand years had passed, sags of skin clung to your fragile bones as you raised a shaky finger to try and erase the picture away, one wrinkle in the parts of yourself deemed beautiful for every year on that train. One ache for every moment that was given away to the electric blue waters and the rainbow hills, to the imaginary animals that inhabited them and the wobbly tracks that would fragment now and then. And even in other light, when you were lush and perfected, full lips and soft hair, pink cheeks and eyes that could hold a gaze for a lifetime and after, you would mourn the moments missed as you clung to the pathways that began to suck the blood from your skin, the air from your lungs, the life from your heart.
Perhaps it was this that made you get up from that vacant car, ripping your eyes away from the view that was nothing more than a faded memory of a brighter world, straining your eyes from the dark that bled through persistently.
No more than a few counts later, as the train began to make a soft turn, blending from the hills to the mountains, did you sit back down in your seat, your eyes once again taking in the never-changing view like air, your heart beat matching the mountains as they rose up and down.
It wasn’t much progress, but it was the closest step you had taken back to a life in the past one thousand seven hundred and six years.
Yo yo yo!! We actually made a Spotlight edition! We would like to thank everyone who has submitted, as well as the artists and Mr. Blauer and Mr. Serroul!
- Pathways Spotlight Team :) (Sofie Henschel, Jiya Nanner, Eliana Gurd, Rosalie Chan, Abigail Jennings, Ari Van Loon, Elina Vepsa, Massimo Patullo, Evers O'Farrell, and Steve Long)
- Pathways Spotlight Team :) (Sofie Henschel, Jiya Nanner, Eliana Gurd, Rosalie Chan, Abigail Jennings, Ari Van Loon, Elina Vepsa, Massimo Patullo, Evers O'Farrell, and Steve Long)