Hannah Angione
Hannah has tried to quell her family’s misunderstanding of what she has been doing for the last four years (“So you just... read and write all the time? Is that it?”) to no avail. She has not helped to dispel this idea, as she has decided to attend University of King’s College’s Foundation Year Program while pursuing a journalism degree. She hopes to finally put to use her non-fiction writing skills, while trying to bite back her satirical tendencies. If you find yourself in Halifax in the next four years, you may find her in one of the many bookstores she has already begun to stalk research.
Eleven
I have a picture in my mind of who we were.
It burned in my thoughts as you appeared,
It wasn’t the you I remembered, but I knew it was you.
In my mind we’re 11 years old, we’re unblemished by the cruel reality of time. Today we both carry life’s scars, they have changed us.
We aren’t 11 years old anymore, and the kindleship that once drew us together is replaced by polite obligation.
Both of us know it is no use trying to hold on, still neither of us let go. We’re still 11 years old in this moment.
We’re not ready to let go of who we were, what we’d once meant to each other.
Times goes on, but as we sit here parallel, time doesn’t exist.
When I am with you, we are both 11 years old.
It burned in my thoughts as you appeared,
It wasn’t the you I remembered, but I knew it was you.
In my mind we’re 11 years old, we’re unblemished by the cruel reality of time. Today we both carry life’s scars, they have changed us.
We aren’t 11 years old anymore, and the kindleship that once drew us together is replaced by polite obligation.
Both of us know it is no use trying to hold on, still neither of us let go. We’re still 11 years old in this moment.
We’re not ready to let go of who we were, what we’d once meant to each other.
Times goes on, but as we sit here parallel, time doesn’t exist.
When I am with you, we are both 11 years old.
Gene Case
Gene’s writing has been recognized by Amazon Canada, NILVX Magazine, and Canterbury’s ArtsFest theatre festival; however, they’ve always had the most fun writing and performing in the annual Lit class coffeehouses. In the future they will be joining Trinity College at the University of Toronto, studying English and trying not to get sucked into any dark academia secret societies. For now, though, Gene is usually found staring blankly into space for three hours of the four-hour school day, or else reciting a complete oral history of the life of British author E.M. Forster to anyone who’ll listen. Adieu, dear program.
Three Selves of Divinity, Translated
I have only a little interest in storytelling, for I am not actually a creator, contrary to human belief; I am only a watcher. I do not weave worlds, just wear them. I leave storytelling to the supernovas, which in the act of narrative dilute themselves, and leave behind only dim translations. Everything’s brighter, purer, when it’s in your eyes or ears or nostrils, and I prefer it that way.
But I know not everyone has the luxury of omniscience. And I feel for you, kindred, truly I do; I cradle you, after all, in the space between my belly and breasts, and press you up against my hearts. How can I not feel what you feel? That is the luxury. To understand, and be understood. No translation.
It is a gift I cannot give you, kindred, but I will tell you a story. A dim, inbred little thing a story is, but it may just suffice.
*
For I do not wish to frighten you, we will begin with your own planet. Many years from today — today is the size of my fingernail, but this is a translation for your benefit, kindred, so I will speak in familiarities — the aliens arrive. They are the engydes, from the dwarf planet Entudar, but no one knows this. All anyone sees in an eclipse, a great black oblong moon blocking out the sun, and then suddenly there it is on the news: word of an extraterrestrial spacecraft, mere miles overhead. (In another story, another translation, the arrival might have been concealed from public knowledge. But it is difficult to ignore a Coming.) People think, Jesus, it’s something Lovecraftian, and they look at the faces of the people around them, which are wrinkled with bottled-up emotion, and then they think, It’s a mass hysteria, it’s the end of the world. The engydes, who hear them, are confused by the reaction.
They do not land, but stay locked in orbit, and this causes another bout of panic. For many days they hang in the sky unchallenged, suspended there by celestial means. (There are conclusions reached later, of course, about the intricacies of their technology; but from these days rises the purest understanding of the engydes, that they are something divine.)
Eventually the ship is investigated: eleven bodies, dated older than the mountains below. But they do not move. Are they dead? Do we have dead aliens on our hands? No, it is decided, they are in some kind of biological stasis. They aren’t — the engydes are arduously slow, always have been, even to me. (Though I am spry for my age; I am not so lethargic as you might suppose.) They are wide awake, although it is understandable that you would miss the signs.
In fact they are abuzz with activity. While they are being prodded through the sardine-tin walls of their ship with gamma radiation and sonic blasts, the engydes are speaking, shrieking down at you in curious gelatinous whalesong that, if you were me, would bounce off the cavernous walls of your mind until your belly ached.
You are not quite me, though. Nor are the engydes, who are both deaf and mute. If you asked them, they would compare their speech to something more like bioluminescence, like that of the fungi which grows in the caves of their birthplace. It doesn’t matter — you can ask them, but you cannot perceive the answer.
I wish I had been your creator. This seems like a design flaw.
For two years the engydes’ ship hangs alongside a crescent moon, and everyone is on edge. Humanity has no means of negotiation other than nuclear weapons. The engydes do not expect to be harmed; in the end their naïveté proves correct, because most people still want to know what happens next.
What happens next is this: at two years’ end, the engydes encounter otherness in their own psyche. Before, you were kindred, your planet home; or those are the translations I can offer. But in your blindness, they spot difference. They realize that they are telepaths, and humans are not.
*
Is everything clear? Remember, this is only a pale translation. Once from me to words, once from words to you. (Shut your eyes and ears — think for a moment: how do the words take root inside you? That is the language you perceive them in, the mother tongue.) I know you need illumination, and I am trying my best — you’re spoiled on light, do you know that? Most of the universe is dark.
You cannot know the engydes, although you speak their language, because you cannot hear it spoken. But they are the other half of this story, kindred; and I do not play favourites. So I will try to tell them to you, secondhand.
(Their species and planet were named by me, for the engydes do not use words; nor do I, when I can avoid them. But I thought names might be helpful to you, lacking as you are in the precision of thoughtspeech.)
They were born in the black core of the dwarf planet Entudar, which was the only warm place life could find there. Funny little porcine things they were, round-bellied and oily; sweet to look at, but then, all things are sweet to me. They lay for eons in cramped caves, peering up at the dimly glowing mushrooms which grew overhead, or down at the black rivers which reflected their light.
Truthfully, it was agony watching them evolve. I knew what they would become, but they were so slow. Of course they had no measure of time down there, not days nor nights nor stars; only death, which visited rarely, and was nearly as alien to them as they are to you. So they were in no hurry. For that great expanse of time they were content, waiting ponderous under the earth; they snuffled in black bedrock for nutrients, and coupled in the shallow beds of subterranean rivers. And all that time, they were thinking.
Does this clarify things? Oh, the telepathy.
I always took it for granted. Thought, after all, is the first language, of anything with a language; what was it for but to communicate? I hadn’t considered all that burdensome translation, the middle-management of speech and writing. The engydes started to read each other’s minds, and I supposed it was only natural. They stayed in each other’s minds, and I assumed it was a practicality. With mouths there’s an off switch, but with minds you’re speaking even when you’re alone.
They could read the thoughts of anything with a brain, and because of it, all things became part of a greater them. The engydes never had a sense of foreignness. How can you, if you can know what’s inside a stranger’s heart? Everything is family; everywhere is home.
If I could have created anything in my own image, it would have been them. They are not mine, no more than you are; and yet I love them as a self.
*
Lifetimes passed. While the engydes slept, storms battered the roof of their world; moons became, then ceased to be. They talked quietly amongst themselves, rearing children and learning to light fires. Occasionally they made stabs at civilization.
That is another difference between the engydes and you. Human beings act like civilization is a necessity, like if they don’t get their hands on it, the earth will collapse under them. You try to translate family into brick and mortar, enlightenment into astronomy; they are dim copies, and you all know it. But I suppose there’s something noble in the attempt. Perhaps your world is more vicious — after all, the engydes were born with a roof over their heads.
For my own part, I abhor civilization, although I can’t fault you for the instinct. Culture and all the rest is the stuff of particles. Stars may tell stories; I do not.
The engydes, though, were always curious about advancement, even if they did not have a need for it. Sometimes they would have dreams of great open spaces, where they could not see stalactites hanging overhead. They woke up and dug tunnels in the rock of Entudar, closer and closer to the surface of the planet, where the air is cold enough to rearrange your matter. (Nowadays — many years from now, whenever — the planet resembles the innards of an asteroid, hollowed out as if chewed by woodworm.)
Eventually they did emerge. There, on the face of Entudar, bundled in equipment and smothered in hot domes which protected them from the assault of the atmosphere — there the engydes looked up with fine instruments of crystal, and saw the size of the universe.
You were born beneath an atmosphere that was little more than a bridal veil, kindred, and only your own self-obsession keeps you from seeing the stars. But try to imagine learning of them. Now try to imagine you are a creature to whom everything seen becomes a home.
(Truly, I am trying, kindred, to say what can’t be said in words; but simile is a watery substitute for experience, so your own mind must make a contribution.)
The engydes’ hivemind, usually so courteous, lit up all at once. They all saw it, even the ones whose bodies were still deep underground, beyond the optic nerve and into the deep pockets of the mind. Even the younglings still in their incubatory membranes could see it, the image was so bright; and so they kicked their growing legs, yearning for more space.
It was like tunnels in the black earth, waiting to be explored. It was like unshuttered windows and a view of the woods. You see what it was like, kindred — I cannot believe that you don’t. Deep down you must know, have always known the truth, that space is not a foreign land but an expansion of the spirit.
*
I will not walk you through the steps of civilizing. Figure it out yourself. You know already, anyway, that the engydes learned to fly; you can presume they conquered moons and built cities next to stars and named it all home.
What is important to the story — your shared future, or perhaps history — is when they met you. Although meeting may be a generous translation: to the engydes it seemed that way, but it wasn’t mutual, and humanity might call it an invasion. They entered your minds without you knowing, and ventured into your home without your consent. (Humans are predisposed to invasion, though, having instigated so many themselves.)
Whether it was espionage or whether it was love, the engydes did discover you. Across the galaxy they saw you speaking, not aloud nor even through radio waves or chemical means — well, they are telepaths, kindred. What do you think they saw?
Your thoughts are not like their own. They are not sonorous or polite, they come in quick pitter-patter, they pulse rapidfire like the lights of your cities. They are fragments only, you do not piece things together. The engydes knew right away that you were intelligent; they knew, too, that you spoke another dialect from them. But in many ways, kindred, they are as blind as you. They could not quite conceptualize that you might be different.
I have called you kindred, because I understand you, although we are beings apart. But if I were to translate for the engydes, they might use a word more like self.
It is a difficult business, communication.
*
The engydes, who were always slow, take two years to comprehend your nature. When they accept it at last — that you speak without expecting to be heard; that their own bright communications went unseen — there is an uproar inside them. Some liken humans to illness, an unwanted presence in the body, the closest concept they have to foreignness; many more, though, press against the tendrilous networks of the hivemind and insist that humanity must be loved. It is the nurturers, none of whom are there in body, who speak the loudest: blindness is not a disease, they say. Silence (to you; darkness to them) is not a sin. We care for self, they say, or might, if they had words; We give self what self needs. We sought companionship, which is beyond self’s grasp. We offer protection instead.
This is agreed upon, but the engydes on the ship feel lonelier for it. The voices of humans are brighter in their minds now than those of their own kind, but it is strange, knowing none of their attentiveness is reciprocated. They are accustomed to limitless empathy in the life surrounding them, to perfect understanding, always. They have never known the efforts of communication. The engydes came to Earth expecting to be loved, not as gods, but as kindred species.
Do you understand now? To the humans the story is horror. To the engydes, it is tragedy.
*
You must grow weary of translation. Doesn’t it ever get lonely? I know you have all your approximations, speech and writing and nebulous arts, but these are second languages. Your thoughts stay locked away inside your head. So it goes, too, for other people. You love on blind trust, for their hearts are not something you can ever see for yourself; you will never hold their emotions as your own, never give them a little of your courage or shoulder some of their sadness. You lack the contagious feeling of the engydes, the perfect empathy of divinity.
I admire your tenacity, of course. Do you know, when the engydes arrive, humans send linguists up in space capsules? You are determined to understand, and to be understood. There is something — not beautiful, but stark as a neutron star; powerful, in its way. There is something to your communication.
(And you can lie. Which I cannot.)
I’m getting bored with storytelling. It requires so much translation. Metaphor, narrative: this is how you must communicate. It’s a burden meant for beings with eyes, tongues, fingers. Translation is a problem for creatures whose minds are caged inside their skulls.
(Even the engydes suffer this ailment. They cannot be understood by just anyone.)
But if you saw me, you would know me. That is the luxury of omniscience. I could hold you in the hollow of my hand and call you kindred, and you would love me, as a friend; as a self.
Or so it goes in this translation, anyway.
But I know not everyone has the luxury of omniscience. And I feel for you, kindred, truly I do; I cradle you, after all, in the space between my belly and breasts, and press you up against my hearts. How can I not feel what you feel? That is the luxury. To understand, and be understood. No translation.
It is a gift I cannot give you, kindred, but I will tell you a story. A dim, inbred little thing a story is, but it may just suffice.
*
For I do not wish to frighten you, we will begin with your own planet. Many years from today — today is the size of my fingernail, but this is a translation for your benefit, kindred, so I will speak in familiarities — the aliens arrive. They are the engydes, from the dwarf planet Entudar, but no one knows this. All anyone sees in an eclipse, a great black oblong moon blocking out the sun, and then suddenly there it is on the news: word of an extraterrestrial spacecraft, mere miles overhead. (In another story, another translation, the arrival might have been concealed from public knowledge. But it is difficult to ignore a Coming.) People think, Jesus, it’s something Lovecraftian, and they look at the faces of the people around them, which are wrinkled with bottled-up emotion, and then they think, It’s a mass hysteria, it’s the end of the world. The engydes, who hear them, are confused by the reaction.
They do not land, but stay locked in orbit, and this causes another bout of panic. For many days they hang in the sky unchallenged, suspended there by celestial means. (There are conclusions reached later, of course, about the intricacies of their technology; but from these days rises the purest understanding of the engydes, that they are something divine.)
Eventually the ship is investigated: eleven bodies, dated older than the mountains below. But they do not move. Are they dead? Do we have dead aliens on our hands? No, it is decided, they are in some kind of biological stasis. They aren’t — the engydes are arduously slow, always have been, even to me. (Though I am spry for my age; I am not so lethargic as you might suppose.) They are wide awake, although it is understandable that you would miss the signs.
In fact they are abuzz with activity. While they are being prodded through the sardine-tin walls of their ship with gamma radiation and sonic blasts, the engydes are speaking, shrieking down at you in curious gelatinous whalesong that, if you were me, would bounce off the cavernous walls of your mind until your belly ached.
You are not quite me, though. Nor are the engydes, who are both deaf and mute. If you asked them, they would compare their speech to something more like bioluminescence, like that of the fungi which grows in the caves of their birthplace. It doesn’t matter — you can ask them, but you cannot perceive the answer.
I wish I had been your creator. This seems like a design flaw.
For two years the engydes’ ship hangs alongside a crescent moon, and everyone is on edge. Humanity has no means of negotiation other than nuclear weapons. The engydes do not expect to be harmed; in the end their naïveté proves correct, because most people still want to know what happens next.
What happens next is this: at two years’ end, the engydes encounter otherness in their own psyche. Before, you were kindred, your planet home; or those are the translations I can offer. But in your blindness, they spot difference. They realize that they are telepaths, and humans are not.
*
Is everything clear? Remember, this is only a pale translation. Once from me to words, once from words to you. (Shut your eyes and ears — think for a moment: how do the words take root inside you? That is the language you perceive them in, the mother tongue.) I know you need illumination, and I am trying my best — you’re spoiled on light, do you know that? Most of the universe is dark.
You cannot know the engydes, although you speak their language, because you cannot hear it spoken. But they are the other half of this story, kindred; and I do not play favourites. So I will try to tell them to you, secondhand.
(Their species and planet were named by me, for the engydes do not use words; nor do I, when I can avoid them. But I thought names might be helpful to you, lacking as you are in the precision of thoughtspeech.)
They were born in the black core of the dwarf planet Entudar, which was the only warm place life could find there. Funny little porcine things they were, round-bellied and oily; sweet to look at, but then, all things are sweet to me. They lay for eons in cramped caves, peering up at the dimly glowing mushrooms which grew overhead, or down at the black rivers which reflected their light.
Truthfully, it was agony watching them evolve. I knew what they would become, but they were so slow. Of course they had no measure of time down there, not days nor nights nor stars; only death, which visited rarely, and was nearly as alien to them as they are to you. So they were in no hurry. For that great expanse of time they were content, waiting ponderous under the earth; they snuffled in black bedrock for nutrients, and coupled in the shallow beds of subterranean rivers. And all that time, they were thinking.
Does this clarify things? Oh, the telepathy.
I always took it for granted. Thought, after all, is the first language, of anything with a language; what was it for but to communicate? I hadn’t considered all that burdensome translation, the middle-management of speech and writing. The engydes started to read each other’s minds, and I supposed it was only natural. They stayed in each other’s minds, and I assumed it was a practicality. With mouths there’s an off switch, but with minds you’re speaking even when you’re alone.
They could read the thoughts of anything with a brain, and because of it, all things became part of a greater them. The engydes never had a sense of foreignness. How can you, if you can know what’s inside a stranger’s heart? Everything is family; everywhere is home.
If I could have created anything in my own image, it would have been them. They are not mine, no more than you are; and yet I love them as a self.
*
Lifetimes passed. While the engydes slept, storms battered the roof of their world; moons became, then ceased to be. They talked quietly amongst themselves, rearing children and learning to light fires. Occasionally they made stabs at civilization.
That is another difference between the engydes and you. Human beings act like civilization is a necessity, like if they don’t get their hands on it, the earth will collapse under them. You try to translate family into brick and mortar, enlightenment into astronomy; they are dim copies, and you all know it. But I suppose there’s something noble in the attempt. Perhaps your world is more vicious — after all, the engydes were born with a roof over their heads.
For my own part, I abhor civilization, although I can’t fault you for the instinct. Culture and all the rest is the stuff of particles. Stars may tell stories; I do not.
The engydes, though, were always curious about advancement, even if they did not have a need for it. Sometimes they would have dreams of great open spaces, where they could not see stalactites hanging overhead. They woke up and dug tunnels in the rock of Entudar, closer and closer to the surface of the planet, where the air is cold enough to rearrange your matter. (Nowadays — many years from now, whenever — the planet resembles the innards of an asteroid, hollowed out as if chewed by woodworm.)
Eventually they did emerge. There, on the face of Entudar, bundled in equipment and smothered in hot domes which protected them from the assault of the atmosphere — there the engydes looked up with fine instruments of crystal, and saw the size of the universe.
You were born beneath an atmosphere that was little more than a bridal veil, kindred, and only your own self-obsession keeps you from seeing the stars. But try to imagine learning of them. Now try to imagine you are a creature to whom everything seen becomes a home.
(Truly, I am trying, kindred, to say what can’t be said in words; but simile is a watery substitute for experience, so your own mind must make a contribution.)
The engydes’ hivemind, usually so courteous, lit up all at once. They all saw it, even the ones whose bodies were still deep underground, beyond the optic nerve and into the deep pockets of the mind. Even the younglings still in their incubatory membranes could see it, the image was so bright; and so they kicked their growing legs, yearning for more space.
It was like tunnels in the black earth, waiting to be explored. It was like unshuttered windows and a view of the woods. You see what it was like, kindred — I cannot believe that you don’t. Deep down you must know, have always known the truth, that space is not a foreign land but an expansion of the spirit.
*
I will not walk you through the steps of civilizing. Figure it out yourself. You know already, anyway, that the engydes learned to fly; you can presume they conquered moons and built cities next to stars and named it all home.
What is important to the story — your shared future, or perhaps history — is when they met you. Although meeting may be a generous translation: to the engydes it seemed that way, but it wasn’t mutual, and humanity might call it an invasion. They entered your minds without you knowing, and ventured into your home without your consent. (Humans are predisposed to invasion, though, having instigated so many themselves.)
Whether it was espionage or whether it was love, the engydes did discover you. Across the galaxy they saw you speaking, not aloud nor even through radio waves or chemical means — well, they are telepaths, kindred. What do you think they saw?
Your thoughts are not like their own. They are not sonorous or polite, they come in quick pitter-patter, they pulse rapidfire like the lights of your cities. They are fragments only, you do not piece things together. The engydes knew right away that you were intelligent; they knew, too, that you spoke another dialect from them. But in many ways, kindred, they are as blind as you. They could not quite conceptualize that you might be different.
I have called you kindred, because I understand you, although we are beings apart. But if I were to translate for the engydes, they might use a word more like self.
It is a difficult business, communication.
*
The engydes, who were always slow, take two years to comprehend your nature. When they accept it at last — that you speak without expecting to be heard; that their own bright communications went unseen — there is an uproar inside them. Some liken humans to illness, an unwanted presence in the body, the closest concept they have to foreignness; many more, though, press against the tendrilous networks of the hivemind and insist that humanity must be loved. It is the nurturers, none of whom are there in body, who speak the loudest: blindness is not a disease, they say. Silence (to you; darkness to them) is not a sin. We care for self, they say, or might, if they had words; We give self what self needs. We sought companionship, which is beyond self’s grasp. We offer protection instead.
This is agreed upon, but the engydes on the ship feel lonelier for it. The voices of humans are brighter in their minds now than those of their own kind, but it is strange, knowing none of their attentiveness is reciprocated. They are accustomed to limitless empathy in the life surrounding them, to perfect understanding, always. They have never known the efforts of communication. The engydes came to Earth expecting to be loved, not as gods, but as kindred species.
Do you understand now? To the humans the story is horror. To the engydes, it is tragedy.
*
You must grow weary of translation. Doesn’t it ever get lonely? I know you have all your approximations, speech and writing and nebulous arts, but these are second languages. Your thoughts stay locked away inside your head. So it goes, too, for other people. You love on blind trust, for their hearts are not something you can ever see for yourself; you will never hold their emotions as your own, never give them a little of your courage or shoulder some of their sadness. You lack the contagious feeling of the engydes, the perfect empathy of divinity.
I admire your tenacity, of course. Do you know, when the engydes arrive, humans send linguists up in space capsules? You are determined to understand, and to be understood. There is something — not beautiful, but stark as a neutron star; powerful, in its way. There is something to your communication.
(And you can lie. Which I cannot.)
I’m getting bored with storytelling. It requires so much translation. Metaphor, narrative: this is how you must communicate. It’s a burden meant for beings with eyes, tongues, fingers. Translation is a problem for creatures whose minds are caged inside their skulls.
(Even the engydes suffer this ailment. They cannot be understood by just anyone.)
But if you saw me, you would know me. That is the luxury of omniscience. I could hold you in the hollow of my hand and call you kindred, and you would love me, as a friend; as a self.
Or so it goes in this translation, anyway.
Braelyn Cheer
Braelyn is a conduit to all things mystical and magical. She believes that everything holds a story and she has a passion for bringing these tales to life. When she’s not dreaming of fantasy realms or writing new stories, you may find her playing guitar, drawing, or baking. Next year, Braelyn will be studying Theology in Youth Ministries.
Into Serida
Isabella Diotte
Isabella has been a daydreamer her whole life. Her mind is filled with fantasy story after fantasy story. When she isn’t daydreaming, she’s most likely reading a Sarah J. Mass book, writing an idiotic satire piece or writing notes for her fantasy novel. Isabella’s writing might not be where she wants it to be just, yet, especially having only entered Canterbury in grade 11. However, she will continue to work towards the growth of her writing. As she graduates, she moves into a new chapter of her life, but writing will always be a part of each chapter, no matter where she winds up.
Patriot No More
“Tyrant would be the word most befitting that man, not politician or democrat, but tyrant, there’s no other word to describe him.”
Everyone I'd spoken to, who had a similar distaste in King Roger, every single one of them, would most likely have described him in the same way Calum did. And why wouldn't they? They weren't titling him as such for the simple excuse of hatred, but because that is precisely what Rodger Kerner was.
“Mhm, I heard the speech a million times Stacy, how does it go again? Oh yes, ‘A corrupt politician who used his charms and connections to climb to the top. A supposed democrat who used lies and false promises to gain trust. A president who used his newfound power to dismantle the very system our ancestors had been cultivating for generations.’ I know the story I was there, remember?” As I recited the words I knew so well, I let myself act as I always had, letting us interact as friends one last time.
Calum had never missed the chance to recount the events of that decade, of how with a new era of confusion and chaos, Kerner was made out as a hero of sorts. Soon enough, he was crowning himself King of this demolished constitution. No one fought this, as we had all yet to realize he was to blame for our misfortunes.
“However, you, Calum Stacy, an unabated war veteran and a true leader, my mentor, awakened us to Kerner's wrongdoing. Stacy, the face and voice behind the revolution.” I theatrically said this, drawing a rare laugh from my old companion. However, unbeknown to him was how this revolution he had fought for tooth and nail was meer hours away from crashing and burning before it even had the chance to truly begin. All because I had no will of my own and let my weaknesses ruin us all.
I can remember that exact conversation as it was yesterday, and it might as we have been with the way it still haunts my dreams. It was the last time I spoke and joked with my friends leading up to the end of the revolution.
Not even a week later, I stood in the king’s courtyard, amongst a crowd of faces, some familiar and some strangers. I made myself tall, not daring to look guilty or regretful, out of what I told myself was fear for my family. But truthfully, my treachery hadn't been for anything other than my own selfish gain. It seemed worthwhile at the time, but in the end, it was my downfall and the worst decision of my existence.
Turning to glance at my wife, I’d found her expression the same as it had been since she'd learned of what I'd done; cold, detached, void of love. Although, I knew my wife, and under all of that was unyielding burning hatred, and every ounce of it was directed at me. That knowledge was almost what broke me. Almost.
“Eyes ahead, dear.” Her voice was strained. I did as I was told, and that was when the drumming began, the signalization that any hope the people had was about to end.
Dragged out by heavily armed guards were the members of the revolution. One by one, each of my old comrades were dragged to the podium, having to pass me on the way. None of them missed that chance to spit on my first ever pair of polished dress shoes. A luxury I’d only ever longed for in my prime, not that they’d brought me much joy in the end. With each passing friend, now turned foe, my heart turned the slightest bit grayer, and when Calum finally walked by me, he mouthed that simple word that sapped any remaining colour that my heart once held. Turning it black. "Traitor."
The King did not address the crowd or justify his actions as he sat on his throne, and that sent a message far more significant than any speech could. It instilled fear and absolute obedience as he motioned his hand, ordering the commencement of the executions.
As each friend fell, my black heart crumbled and burned until there was nothing left but ash. Yet still, I looked on, refusing to look pained as I met eyes with my dictator and smiled—the expression foreign and excruciating to upkeep.
The executed were heroes. I, however, was no hero in this story, and I most definitely did not go down as one in the history books. I am a man who thought himself brave enough to fight for his rights, for the freedom of his country, only to succumb to fear and greed at the feet of a man I claimed to despise. Who I am is a weak, pathetic excuse for a patriot, nothing more than a traitor.
Everyone I'd spoken to, who had a similar distaste in King Roger, every single one of them, would most likely have described him in the same way Calum did. And why wouldn't they? They weren't titling him as such for the simple excuse of hatred, but because that is precisely what Rodger Kerner was.
“Mhm, I heard the speech a million times Stacy, how does it go again? Oh yes, ‘A corrupt politician who used his charms and connections to climb to the top. A supposed democrat who used lies and false promises to gain trust. A president who used his newfound power to dismantle the very system our ancestors had been cultivating for generations.’ I know the story I was there, remember?” As I recited the words I knew so well, I let myself act as I always had, letting us interact as friends one last time.
Calum had never missed the chance to recount the events of that decade, of how with a new era of confusion and chaos, Kerner was made out as a hero of sorts. Soon enough, he was crowning himself King of this demolished constitution. No one fought this, as we had all yet to realize he was to blame for our misfortunes.
“However, you, Calum Stacy, an unabated war veteran and a true leader, my mentor, awakened us to Kerner's wrongdoing. Stacy, the face and voice behind the revolution.” I theatrically said this, drawing a rare laugh from my old companion. However, unbeknown to him was how this revolution he had fought for tooth and nail was meer hours away from crashing and burning before it even had the chance to truly begin. All because I had no will of my own and let my weaknesses ruin us all.
I can remember that exact conversation as it was yesterday, and it might as we have been with the way it still haunts my dreams. It was the last time I spoke and joked with my friends leading up to the end of the revolution.
Not even a week later, I stood in the king’s courtyard, amongst a crowd of faces, some familiar and some strangers. I made myself tall, not daring to look guilty or regretful, out of what I told myself was fear for my family. But truthfully, my treachery hadn't been for anything other than my own selfish gain. It seemed worthwhile at the time, but in the end, it was my downfall and the worst decision of my existence.
Turning to glance at my wife, I’d found her expression the same as it had been since she'd learned of what I'd done; cold, detached, void of love. Although, I knew my wife, and under all of that was unyielding burning hatred, and every ounce of it was directed at me. That knowledge was almost what broke me. Almost.
“Eyes ahead, dear.” Her voice was strained. I did as I was told, and that was when the drumming began, the signalization that any hope the people had was about to end.
Dragged out by heavily armed guards were the members of the revolution. One by one, each of my old comrades were dragged to the podium, having to pass me on the way. None of them missed that chance to spit on my first ever pair of polished dress shoes. A luxury I’d only ever longed for in my prime, not that they’d brought me much joy in the end. With each passing friend, now turned foe, my heart turned the slightest bit grayer, and when Calum finally walked by me, he mouthed that simple word that sapped any remaining colour that my heart once held. Turning it black. "Traitor."
The King did not address the crowd or justify his actions as he sat on his throne, and that sent a message far more significant than any speech could. It instilled fear and absolute obedience as he motioned his hand, ordering the commencement of the executions.
As each friend fell, my black heart crumbled and burned until there was nothing left but ash. Yet still, I looked on, refusing to look pained as I met eyes with my dictator and smiled—the expression foreign and excruciating to upkeep.
The executed were heroes. I, however, was no hero in this story, and I most definitely did not go down as one in the history books. I am a man who thought himself brave enough to fight for his rights, for the freedom of his country, only to succumb to fear and greed at the feet of a man I claimed to despise. Who I am is a weak, pathetic excuse for a patriot, nothing more than a traitor.
Jason Domingo
My name is Jason Domingo. There was not a thought in my head that when I moved to Canada from the Philippines would I be attending a Literary Arts course in Canterbury. After my memorable chapter of life at Canterbury High School, I will be attending the University of Ottawa for their Biochemistry program where I can delve deeper into my interest in the sciences.
I can say with confidence that the Literary Arts program and the classmates I shared it with are my biggest takeaways from my high school experience. I would like to give my deepest gratitude to Andrew James Hollinger, for making sure to keep every single lit class entertaining to the highest degree. Without Andrew James Hollinger, the literary program would not have been complete as a whole. I would also like to take the time to appreciate Eman, Lauren & Tudora for being consistently supportive throughout our time of knowing each other. As well as to all of Lit Class 2021, though not all of us were the closest, I mean it when I say I will miss the bunch of us that made it throughout these four years.
I would also like to apologise! For the lit teachers that had to deal with all our antics and rowdiness. But also thank you, to Mr.Scott, Ms. Dobson, Mrs. Potts and Mr. Blauer, for being an integral part of my lit experience.
I hope for everyone to be well for the following years!
I can say with confidence that the Literary Arts program and the classmates I shared it with are my biggest takeaways from my high school experience. I would like to give my deepest gratitude to Andrew James Hollinger, for making sure to keep every single lit class entertaining to the highest degree. Without Andrew James Hollinger, the literary program would not have been complete as a whole. I would also like to take the time to appreciate Eman, Lauren & Tudora for being consistently supportive throughout our time of knowing each other. As well as to all of Lit Class 2021, though not all of us were the closest, I mean it when I say I will miss the bunch of us that made it throughout these four years.
I would also like to apologise! For the lit teachers that had to deal with all our antics and rowdiness. But also thank you, to Mr.Scott, Ms. Dobson, Mrs. Potts and Mr. Blauer, for being an integral part of my lit experience.
I hope for everyone to be well for the following years!
The Heart & the Tongue
where am i,
beside me, another life form,
and when our eyes meet my lungs fill with fire.
despite it all, i see through that menacing glint,
and relish the aphrodisiac i so regrettingly crave.
you are the peak of my pedestal,
the flames you feel,
isn’t it comforting?
it’s a gift,
from me.
for you.
from us.
am i to be grateful
for the void that’s filled half full.
or half empty?
the cup that so often was full but now,
mostly empty?
my heart and tongue are fighting,
over who gets to mourn over the restless nights,
but neither are excited.
sorry.
of course you are my one and only,
but please, bear with me a little longer.
just give me a second.
hold on.
now,
can you hear me?
you should listen.
come,
you can see it from here.
let us forget for a moment, and look at the view.
i promise it’s beautiful.
how powerful is it?
to occupy my mind.
to layer every neuron with a doubt,
with a stroke of hesitation.
making sure to dot my eyes and cross my teeth,
not a single surface without a cell that contains those damned initials.
hello?
tend to my illness.
my lungs feel like fire and you’re to blame.
i welcome you.
rip my heart out with my tongue.
now no distraction is distracting.
beside me, another life form,
and when our eyes meet my lungs fill with fire.
despite it all, i see through that menacing glint,
and relish the aphrodisiac i so regrettingly crave.
you are the peak of my pedestal,
the flames you feel,
isn’t it comforting?
it’s a gift,
from me.
for you.
from us.
am i to be grateful
for the void that’s filled half full.
or half empty?
the cup that so often was full but now,
mostly empty?
my heart and tongue are fighting,
over who gets to mourn over the restless nights,
but neither are excited.
sorry.
of course you are my one and only,
but please, bear with me a little longer.
just give me a second.
hold on.
now,
can you hear me?
you should listen.
come,
you can see it from here.
let us forget for a moment, and look at the view.
i promise it’s beautiful.
how powerful is it?
to occupy my mind.
to layer every neuron with a doubt,
with a stroke of hesitation.
making sure to dot my eyes and cross my teeth,
not a single surface without a cell that contains those damned initials.
hello?
tend to my illness.
my lungs feel like fire and you’re to blame.
i welcome you.
rip my heart out with my tongue.
now no distraction is distracting.
Eman Elawad
My name is Eman. It’s pronounced E man. I went through the entirety of high school, and elementary allowing people to call me Aman. Or Amon. I think now I will correct people when they pronounce it. I enjoy writing, but I love to write poetry. Next year I will be attending Carleton in their BAH in Psychology with a concentration in forensic psychology. Coming into the Literary Arts programs I was filled with so many nerves. Thankfully the nerves have faded. Canterbury has given me so many opportunities to grow, and for that I’m thankful. Many thanks to my lit teachers over the years. Mr. Scott who taught me about how what you write in your head won’t be read the same way, Miss.Mcdougall poetry, Miss Potts that most writing occurs outside of writing,and Mr. Blauer non fiction. Many thanks to my friends in lit. Lauren who taught me more about myself than I ever could and self-love, Jason about having a laugh at yourself, Puppie about peace, love and guitar, Tudora about the joys of living in the moment, and being kind to yourself. Sayonara lit program! Eman is free!
A Flower in the Mud
An object of desire
As you watch from afar
Amazed?
Enthralled?
Mystified?
Am I disgusting?
A creature not of this world.
I have travelled quite far to get here
I’ve crossed multiple seas
And met many people
To tell my story
One of sorrow
One of love
One of beauty
Is it not a sad thing
I am filled with magic?
And the closest you’ll achieve it is through painting me
Taking photos of me
Capturing me in an image you see fit.
In order to just feel a bit?
No matter what I do I am simultaneously too much, and not enough
A seed planted in stolen land
I will still grow
Am I not gentle enough for you
Frail?
Lithe?
Do I not ‘look’ right to you?
When I grow I am grand
And my stems encompass the world
May the petals which fall under me continue to grow and give life
To women who grow from me
Out of the mud a lotus grows
Softness lives with brutality
There is not one without the other
As much love there is hate
As much darkness there is light
As much beauty there is ugliness
But to be beautiful in your eyes means to discard the very essence of
Who I am at my core
The femininity you see fit is not one I am found in
Andromeda chained to the rock as a sacrifice
For the monster Cetus to torment and die
Perseus sees her and is taken by her beauty
And takes her away
From her home
My blue turban
My peonies
Mother of Moses
Flowers of evil
Velvet darkness
Why must I always be Black Venus?
When Oshun already exists?
Beauty is not synonymous with skin colour
‘I am Black and beautiful’
Said the Queen of Sheba
You take her image and contort it
To resemble who you see fit
To fit the title
Of
Queen
And when the day comes
When you can see clearly what you have done
And what you ravaged
And ruined
And raped
And reduced
You will see
My skin is not a cloak of shame
Or an object of desire
My skin is not sin
Nor am I only bound to my skin
I am the soul that lives within
Flowers can’t help but bloom inside of me.
As you watch from afar
Amazed?
Enthralled?
Mystified?
Am I disgusting?
A creature not of this world.
I have travelled quite far to get here
I’ve crossed multiple seas
And met many people
To tell my story
One of sorrow
One of love
One of beauty
Is it not a sad thing
I am filled with magic?
And the closest you’ll achieve it is through painting me
Taking photos of me
Capturing me in an image you see fit.
In order to just feel a bit?
No matter what I do I am simultaneously too much, and not enough
A seed planted in stolen land
I will still grow
Am I not gentle enough for you
Frail?
Lithe?
Do I not ‘look’ right to you?
When I grow I am grand
And my stems encompass the world
May the petals which fall under me continue to grow and give life
To women who grow from me
Out of the mud a lotus grows
Softness lives with brutality
There is not one without the other
As much love there is hate
As much darkness there is light
As much beauty there is ugliness
But to be beautiful in your eyes means to discard the very essence of
Who I am at my core
The femininity you see fit is not one I am found in
Andromeda chained to the rock as a sacrifice
For the monster Cetus to torment and die
Perseus sees her and is taken by her beauty
And takes her away
From her home
My blue turban
My peonies
Mother of Moses
Flowers of evil
Velvet darkness
Why must I always be Black Venus?
When Oshun already exists?
Beauty is not synonymous with skin colour
‘I am Black and beautiful’
Said the Queen of Sheba
You take her image and contort it
To resemble who you see fit
To fit the title
Of
Queen
And when the day comes
When you can see clearly what you have done
And what you ravaged
And ruined
And raped
And reduced
You will see
My skin is not a cloak of shame
Or an object of desire
My skin is not sin
Nor am I only bound to my skin
I am the soul that lives within
Flowers can’t help but bloom inside of me.
Victoria Fancy
Victoria has enjoyed her time at Canterbury immensely and is grateful for the time she has spent in the literary arts program and for the people she has met. Her most fond memories of the literary arts program being the first coffee house she attended which was the wedding themed coffeehouse. Not everyday of course was a walk in the park especially due a worldwide issue, but it still was an incredible experience. Everyone in this class has grown so much as people including Victoria and she has her teachers and peers to thank for it. What she hopes for in the future is to see her work published and to see them on the shelves of book stores beside her peers’ work, she hopes that everyone reading her work feels at home and accepted in the stories created.
The Answer
We need the resolve to save what’s close and dear,
sacrifice does not come naturally at all,
Yet we don’t yield in the face of pain and fear.
But for others we will always take the fall.
We have strength on par with war gods,
But we protect peace at any cost at all.
We charge into battle no matter what odds,
If your peace means my ruin, gladly take it.
Among us there will never be any frauds.
Against cruelty we will never stand to quit,
We love our own more than anyone could know.
Our passion starts like when a fire is lit.
Even when angry, hearts melt like snow,
Even with mistakes our perfection stands out,
We always see the dawn of tomorrow.
There is loads to uncover and know about,
This now is but a simple easy riddle,
There will never be a time without any doubts.
Was the answer left, right, or middle.
Think, this is something you clearly know,
Now that it’s out it’s hardly a riddle.
If your answer is Hero, sorry but no.
The answer is someone like me and you,
The answer is people through and through.
sacrifice does not come naturally at all,
Yet we don’t yield in the face of pain and fear.
But for others we will always take the fall.
We have strength on par with war gods,
But we protect peace at any cost at all.
We charge into battle no matter what odds,
If your peace means my ruin, gladly take it.
Among us there will never be any frauds.
Against cruelty we will never stand to quit,
We love our own more than anyone could know.
Our passion starts like when a fire is lit.
Even when angry, hearts melt like snow,
Even with mistakes our perfection stands out,
We always see the dawn of tomorrow.
There is loads to uncover and know about,
This now is but a simple easy riddle,
There will never be a time without any doubts.
Was the answer left, right, or middle.
Think, this is something you clearly know,
Now that it’s out it’s hardly a riddle.
If your answer is Hero, sorry but no.
The answer is someone like me and you,
The answer is people through and through.
Andrew Hollinger
First name Puppie, last name Chien. Born in Yellowknife, raised in Manotick. I currently work in the pharmaceutical industry, I love dogs, and I’ll be pursuing an education in Political Science at Concordia University. Unless if you see me at Trent next year, in which case my final average was below a 77%.
I’d like to thank Mark Jason Pajela Domingo for listening to and putting up with my, no-doubt, ridiculous antics since the ninth grade. Also sending lots of love to Eman, Lauren, and Tudora. The four of you never fail to make me laugh and distract me, and because of that, my poor mum has received emails and phone calls from nearly each of the lit teachers. Speaking of which, thank you to Mr. Scott, Mr. Blauer, Mrs. Dobson, Mrs. Potts, and Mrs. McDougall for all taking turns teaching the lit grads of 2021.
I’m going to miss my classmates tremendously, and I wish everyone of you good luck going into post-secondary. With peace, love, and guitar, thank you all for an amazing four years. -Andrew
I’d like to thank Mark Jason Pajela Domingo for listening to and putting up with my, no-doubt, ridiculous antics since the ninth grade. Also sending lots of love to Eman, Lauren, and Tudora. The four of you never fail to make me laugh and distract me, and because of that, my poor mum has received emails and phone calls from nearly each of the lit teachers. Speaking of which, thank you to Mr. Scott, Mr. Blauer, Mrs. Dobson, Mrs. Potts, and Mrs. McDougall for all taking turns teaching the lit grads of 2021.
I’m going to miss my classmates tremendously, and I wish everyone of you good luck going into post-secondary. With peace, love, and guitar, thank you all for an amazing four years. -Andrew
Waves
For about two weeks I had no idea who I was. When you lose something which tells you everyday who you are, it can feel like your identity has been stripped from you in a matter of seconds. Who you thought you were, what you believed you lived for. Now this person, the person who you woke up for, the person you ate for, the person you existed for, now this person is gone. And it’s just you.
It took me a while to remember how to talk to my friends again. To regain my sense of humor. To enjoy the things I used to. Even at the time of writing this script, there is still a lingering sense of guilt associated with taking time for myself. “Why should I be enjoying this time with my friends?” I still have an obligation to serve, playing in the back of my mind. I still have a responsibility to obsess and ruminate. I can’t even watch a TV show without getting sucked back into what seems like an endless swirlpool of self doubt and regret. But other than that, I’m okay. I can still laugh.
I often feel like people must think I should feel more free now. I don’t have any commitment to live my life for anyone but myself anymore. Talking to others, I have heard the phrase “It must feel like a weight off your shoulders!” or sometimes, “There isn’t anything holding you back anymore.” Honestly, it couldn’t be any farther from the truth. I have more freedom than ever, but there’s an ever growing weight attached to both my feet. Preventing me from walking forward. Preventing me from moving on. A weight which binds me to the past, and has me question everything. Has me questioning everything I did wrong, every decision I made which led to disappointment. The truth is, although I have more time to myself than ever before, I have never been less focused on me in my entire life.
The feelings come in waves for the most part, and there is so much room to grow. So much time ahead of me to improve on the shortcomings which I pin to my self worth. So much time to fix the habits my mind deems as shameful. Despite all of this, despite the opportunities I’ve been given to improve, the same voice which is telling me I am broken is refusing to fix anything. It’s telling me I don’t deserve redemption. I’m too far gone. It’s contradictory, it’s essentially self-gaslighting. It’s exhausting, but it comes in waves. I’m able to enjoy myself here and there.
Spending time with friends, there’s a consistent feeling of dread. I want to be enjoying myself, but I can’t. I don’t deserve to be in the moment with these people. I am left browsing the shelfs of whatever store we’re in, daydreaming and obsessing in my mind. And then feeling awful about it in the moment as well. It’s as if there are two opposing sides of my brain, one logical and one emotional, but I can’t tell the difference most of the time.
Codependency is nothing more than a disease which infects self perception. It feeds you an illusion of what you think your life is, for months, years even. And it is ruthless in making sure you know you’re not worth fighting for. Thinking others' needs are above your own is a poisonous belief. It requires self-respect to counteract, self-appreciation, and most importantly self-love to heal. For someone without experience in any of those mindsets, it can be a grueling task to learn. In the words of the poet Rumi, “Water is everywhere around you, but you only see barriers that keep you from water.” It’s overcoming those preconceived barriers which needs patience. Effort. Trust, with who you are. The most difficult person to trust is yourself.
It took me a while to remember how to talk to my friends again. To regain my sense of humor. To enjoy the things I used to. Even at the time of writing this script, there is still a lingering sense of guilt associated with taking time for myself. “Why should I be enjoying this time with my friends?” I still have an obligation to serve, playing in the back of my mind. I still have a responsibility to obsess and ruminate. I can’t even watch a TV show without getting sucked back into what seems like an endless swirlpool of self doubt and regret. But other than that, I’m okay. I can still laugh.
I often feel like people must think I should feel more free now. I don’t have any commitment to live my life for anyone but myself anymore. Talking to others, I have heard the phrase “It must feel like a weight off your shoulders!” or sometimes, “There isn’t anything holding you back anymore.” Honestly, it couldn’t be any farther from the truth. I have more freedom than ever, but there’s an ever growing weight attached to both my feet. Preventing me from walking forward. Preventing me from moving on. A weight which binds me to the past, and has me question everything. Has me questioning everything I did wrong, every decision I made which led to disappointment. The truth is, although I have more time to myself than ever before, I have never been less focused on me in my entire life.
The feelings come in waves for the most part, and there is so much room to grow. So much time ahead of me to improve on the shortcomings which I pin to my self worth. So much time to fix the habits my mind deems as shameful. Despite all of this, despite the opportunities I’ve been given to improve, the same voice which is telling me I am broken is refusing to fix anything. It’s telling me I don’t deserve redemption. I’m too far gone. It’s contradictory, it’s essentially self-gaslighting. It’s exhausting, but it comes in waves. I’m able to enjoy myself here and there.
Spending time with friends, there’s a consistent feeling of dread. I want to be enjoying myself, but I can’t. I don’t deserve to be in the moment with these people. I am left browsing the shelfs of whatever store we’re in, daydreaming and obsessing in my mind. And then feeling awful about it in the moment as well. It’s as if there are two opposing sides of my brain, one logical and one emotional, but I can’t tell the difference most of the time.
Codependency is nothing more than a disease which infects self perception. It feeds you an illusion of what you think your life is, for months, years even. And it is ruthless in making sure you know you’re not worth fighting for. Thinking others' needs are above your own is a poisonous belief. It requires self-respect to counteract, self-appreciation, and most importantly self-love to heal. For someone without experience in any of those mindsets, it can be a grueling task to learn. In the words of the poet Rumi, “Water is everywhere around you, but you only see barriers that keep you from water.” It’s overcoming those preconceived barriers which needs patience. Effort. Trust, with who you are. The most difficult person to trust is yourself.
Lily Levac
One of my favourite things in writing is the freedom of using words not only for their initial meaning, but for their sounds as well; the subtle shifts in mood each one can convey when used in the right matter. I love getting into my readers' heads, making them feel like they are part of whatever tale I'm weaving now. I want to expand on my skills though, and do this in more ways than just writing, which is why I'm going into Interactive Multimedia and Design at Carleton next year. There, I hope to learn to bring my ideas to life much more vividly than before.
The Vinanoxa
Mikaela Lewis
Over the past 4 years in Lit, Mikaela has gained a love hate relationship with poetry forms, a strong dislike of Margret Attwood, and a healthy dose of fear for people who write in iambic pentameter. They have grown and learned many things as a writer, under the guidance of the many Lit teachers and their pears. They hope to always continue writing, though they don’t think they could ever really stop at this point. They will hold the memories from Lit close to their heart and will always remember the chaos that seemed to surround the class. They want to thank everyone who has been a part of their lit class, they have looked up to and been inspired by every one of them and wish them the best of luck in the rest of their lives.
Quantum Theory is for Fairytales
I.
Quantum physics states
On the most basic level
The tiniest particles
Do not behave the same as the rest of the world
They are simultaneously particles and waves
Both a path of movement
and at rest
The transfer of
and the energy itself
The same way a summer breeze
is a thunderstorm
They are made from the same wind
Breathe the same breath through the trees
II.
We know because they are
both particles and waves
They could be in
multiple places at once
We have found particles thousands of kilometers apart
Somehow connected, bonded together
They react the same way
at the same time
They are identical twins
On either side of the world
Breathing the same first breath
Feeling each other’s pain
III.
The interesting thing about atoms made up of these particles
Is when they get close to absolute 0
They stop acting as individuals
And become one unit
As if when we zoom out
Look at the bigger picture
We are no longer individuals
Simply parts of a bigger whole
All moving together as one
IV.
Erwin Schrodinger once did a famous thought experiment
Based off the ideas presented by quantum physics
It stated if you were to put a cat inside a box filled with poisonous gas that could kill it
But didn’t check the box to see if it was dead or alive
You would have no way of knowing if the cat was dead
And because of this the cat would be both alive and dead until you looked
I present to you another thought experiment
If a tree falls in the forest
And there is no one around to see it
The tree is both dead and alive
Both standing and fallen
Even though we know quantum particles
are both particles and waves
When scientists go looking for waves
they find waves
When scientists go looking for particles
they find particles
V.
There is a particle
The cat is dead
The tree has fallen
But somewhere out there there is a world
Where it is a wave
The cat is alive
The tree is still standing
As long as we have been around we have been asking the same questions
Scientists and artists alike
Questions of other worlds
Parallel realities
Simultaneous histories
Happening together
The same
But different
There are countless stories told
Other worlds
Adjacent lives
So close to ours but so slightly different
We are captivated with the idea
this is not it
There are places out there that are
Magical
Better
Different
VI.
We want to find the greener grass
Because we have broken everything down to its tiniest particles
Our pastures are no longer as beautiful
As when they were full of unanswered questions
We like to think another world exists somewhere out there
And maybe it does
Maybe there are endless possibilities
Stretching out into the vast infinity of the universe
Maybe there particles in the place of waves
Or maybe there really are fairies hiding in the trees
Or maybe it’s all bullshit
But for now we are stuck in our own reality
The here and now
Dreamlands are only for storybooks
And physics equations
Quantum physics states
On the most basic level
The tiniest particles
Do not behave the same as the rest of the world
They are simultaneously particles and waves
Both a path of movement
and at rest
The transfer of
and the energy itself
The same way a summer breeze
is a thunderstorm
They are made from the same wind
Breathe the same breath through the trees
II.
We know because they are
both particles and waves
They could be in
multiple places at once
We have found particles thousands of kilometers apart
Somehow connected, bonded together
They react the same way
at the same time
They are identical twins
On either side of the world
Breathing the same first breath
Feeling each other’s pain
III.
The interesting thing about atoms made up of these particles
Is when they get close to absolute 0
They stop acting as individuals
And become one unit
As if when we zoom out
Look at the bigger picture
We are no longer individuals
Simply parts of a bigger whole
All moving together as one
IV.
Erwin Schrodinger once did a famous thought experiment
Based off the ideas presented by quantum physics
It stated if you were to put a cat inside a box filled with poisonous gas that could kill it
But didn’t check the box to see if it was dead or alive
You would have no way of knowing if the cat was dead
And because of this the cat would be both alive and dead until you looked
I present to you another thought experiment
If a tree falls in the forest
And there is no one around to see it
The tree is both dead and alive
Both standing and fallen
Even though we know quantum particles
are both particles and waves
When scientists go looking for waves
they find waves
When scientists go looking for particles
they find particles
V.
There is a particle
The cat is dead
The tree has fallen
But somewhere out there there is a world
Where it is a wave
The cat is alive
The tree is still standing
As long as we have been around we have been asking the same questions
Scientists and artists alike
Questions of other worlds
Parallel realities
Simultaneous histories
Happening together
The same
But different
There are countless stories told
Other worlds
Adjacent lives
So close to ours but so slightly different
We are captivated with the idea
this is not it
There are places out there that are
Magical
Better
Different
VI.
We want to find the greener grass
Because we have broken everything down to its tiniest particles
Our pastures are no longer as beautiful
As when they were full of unanswered questions
We like to think another world exists somewhere out there
And maybe it does
Maybe there are endless possibilities
Stretching out into the vast infinity of the universe
Maybe there particles in the place of waves
Or maybe there really are fairies hiding in the trees
Or maybe it’s all bullshit
But for now we are stuck in our own reality
The here and now
Dreamlands are only for storybooks
And physics equations
Alexandra Quinn
Alex has always preferred fiction over reality. Worlds with weary travellers or secret rebellions or beautiful magic is far more interesting than anything outside fiction, but the lit class made things seem less dull than they were. In their spare time, Alex enjoys diving into new stories or dissecting and analyzing animated movies. They hardly leave their room as most of their time is spent writing about fantastical worlds and daydreams, or playing video games they will never finish. With high goals they dream of, and scarcely work on, their work is set out for them. In the coming years they’ll work towards improving their writing, and maybe even complete a project. But as Alex takes on this next chapter in life, they will cherish the memories made and lessons taught in room 234.
Dust Memories
Tudora Rada
Hi, I’m Tudora. Even though I only joined the lit program in grade 11, I can truly say it was an unforgettable experience I am forever grateful for.
I made the best of friends, worked on meaningful projects, and created pieces of writing I’m genuinely proud of. I’ve cherished every moment from our grade 11 coffeehouse to astrology themed lit boards!
Thank you to Eman, Lauren, Puppie, and Jason for always making me laugh and editing my work (some more than others). Thank you to Ms. Dobson, Mr. Blauer, and Mr. Scott for having helped guide us throughout the past couple years. I am a better writer because of it.
I wish you all the best in whatever it is you may choose to pursue! All my love lit grads of 2021
I made the best of friends, worked on meaningful projects, and created pieces of writing I’m genuinely proud of. I’ve cherished every moment from our grade 11 coffeehouse to astrology themed lit boards!
Thank you to Eman, Lauren, Puppie, and Jason for always making me laugh and editing my work (some more than others). Thank you to Ms. Dobson, Mr. Blauer, and Mr. Scott for having helped guide us throughout the past couple years. I am a better writer because of it.
I wish you all the best in whatever it is you may choose to pursue! All my love lit grads of 2021
Emergence
Whether I open or close my eyes, it makes no difference
I wake up surrounded by a pool of dark liquid
Unknowing night or day
Just like sleeping leaves
Opening up towards the sun
In the mouth of a cave,
I swim in and around
Muffled sounds to my ear
Inside my cocoon, across the sky’s face
As I grow, darkness begins to fade
Beams of light, budding sight
No more room to crouch
Leave this empty carcass, proudly expanded
I want to stretch toward the light, an open umbrella
Inching my way down a long worm shaped tunnel
Mimicking the arching of the sun
I see white light outside of my shell
Shadows and shapes I can’t quite make out
Vines of lace, voices crying
Pressed up against a familiar force, a small seed
I am ready to be warm
The beat of a drum against my cheek, skin to skin
The planting of a hollow pit
Marks the start of something new
Roots in love
In time, lines will become defined
Aged bark on a tree
Faces clear, soil clean
The colour red swells so bright
I know you are here
As daytime nears
I wake up surrounded by a pool of dark liquid
Unknowing night or day
Just like sleeping leaves
Opening up towards the sun
In the mouth of a cave,
I swim in and around
Muffled sounds to my ear
Inside my cocoon, across the sky’s face
As I grow, darkness begins to fade
Beams of light, budding sight
No more room to crouch
Leave this empty carcass, proudly expanded
I want to stretch toward the light, an open umbrella
Inching my way down a long worm shaped tunnel
Mimicking the arching of the sun
I see white light outside of my shell
Shadows and shapes I can’t quite make out
Vines of lace, voices crying
Pressed up against a familiar force, a small seed
I am ready to be warm
The beat of a drum against my cheek, skin to skin
The planting of a hollow pit
Marks the start of something new
Roots in love
In time, lines will become defined
Aged bark on a tree
Faces clear, soil clean
The colour red swells so bright
I know you are here
As daytime nears
Lauren Reeve
I loved the lit program and all the friends that I never would have made without it. Thank you Eman, Jason, Andrew and Tudora for never failing to make me laugh, and for being friends I can truly count on. I’ll always be grateful for all the memories of laughing at the back tables in lit class. Thanks to all the lit teachers for their patience and guidance over these past four years. Next year, I’m going to Concordia University to study behavioural neuroscience, and I couldn’t be more excited. Lit, I will miss you <3
One Summer
The first two weeks of this summer were spent in one of the places most familiar to me- our little cottage in Prince Edward Island. It smells of the sea, with a tinge of pine. The paint is chipped on the porch and the screen door. The wood planks are in need of a sanding, though they have never given me a splinter. The ocean is only twenty metres from the front door. It’s interior is incredibly dated, in a comforting kind of way.
I had rid myself of the excesses in my life, a precursory pruning. This was the beginning of a transformative period. Finally, the sun shone on my skin again, allowing my freckles to reappear, darken and multiply. I felt healthy and warm for the first time in what felt like months. The flowers in the garden seemed to open for me, the sky held me as the wind cradled birds outside my window. My hair was blonde, my skin was as golden as it ever gets, and my hands were free, my mind open. My circle of friends was warmer than ever, and the bonds between myself and my sisters grew stronger with each passing day. I felt myself filled with a love for the world around me I had forgotten all about. The sun in my bedroom, so early in the morning, sat on my pillow, waiting for me to join it each day.
The sun took its time crawling out of the ocean into the sky each morning, and fell like honey back into it at night, leaving streaks of its brightest pinks, reds, oranges in the sky. The water was cold, endless, and alive. I felt the salt water heal my skin, hair, and mind. One day, me and my cousin swam out further than we ever had before. It was deep enough we couldn’t touch the ground. We stayed out there, floating, for a while. I lay back in the water and let my ears submerge, hearing only the muffled sounds of my own body’s movements as I shut my eyes under the bright sky. I was completely surrounded by beauty.
It was this summer during which I fell in love with life, my life, again. In July, I got my first job at a small grocery store on the island. After I applied, I was too nervous to call and follow up, so my sister impersonated me over the phone for me. I walked to work for each shift excited, and walked home afterwards with such a great feeling of accomplishment. It came with a new sense of freedom, financially and personally. My sister would sometimes meet me on my way home from shifts for a ritualistic iced coffee. On the best days, our favourite barista was working. PJ gave us the generous “friends and family” discount on our drinks. We sat outside on the narrow patio, discussing our days. We smiled and shone in nearly the same way, but of course our teeth and eyes reflected the beaming sun in slightly different ways. We often walked arm in arm, our dresses trailing slightly behind us as we glided down hills and across streets.
This is a kind of peace which can only be felt after a storm, after a price paid, as unfair as it seems. It’s a feeling I get in my chest, so light my feet barely touch the ground as I walk. It’s something no one and nothing can take away from me, something I feel so lucky to have found. This is a feeling I only get when I’m by myself, out for a walk in the late afternoon, when the sun hangs low in the sky. There is a bridge near my house, if you walk over it when the sun is setting, you will feel invincible.
I had rid myself of the excesses in my life, a precursory pruning. This was the beginning of a transformative period. Finally, the sun shone on my skin again, allowing my freckles to reappear, darken and multiply. I felt healthy and warm for the first time in what felt like months. The flowers in the garden seemed to open for me, the sky held me as the wind cradled birds outside my window. My hair was blonde, my skin was as golden as it ever gets, and my hands were free, my mind open. My circle of friends was warmer than ever, and the bonds between myself and my sisters grew stronger with each passing day. I felt myself filled with a love for the world around me I had forgotten all about. The sun in my bedroom, so early in the morning, sat on my pillow, waiting for me to join it each day.
The sun took its time crawling out of the ocean into the sky each morning, and fell like honey back into it at night, leaving streaks of its brightest pinks, reds, oranges in the sky. The water was cold, endless, and alive. I felt the salt water heal my skin, hair, and mind. One day, me and my cousin swam out further than we ever had before. It was deep enough we couldn’t touch the ground. We stayed out there, floating, for a while. I lay back in the water and let my ears submerge, hearing only the muffled sounds of my own body’s movements as I shut my eyes under the bright sky. I was completely surrounded by beauty.
It was this summer during which I fell in love with life, my life, again. In July, I got my first job at a small grocery store on the island. After I applied, I was too nervous to call and follow up, so my sister impersonated me over the phone for me. I walked to work for each shift excited, and walked home afterwards with such a great feeling of accomplishment. It came with a new sense of freedom, financially and personally. My sister would sometimes meet me on my way home from shifts for a ritualistic iced coffee. On the best days, our favourite barista was working. PJ gave us the generous “friends and family” discount on our drinks. We sat outside on the narrow patio, discussing our days. We smiled and shone in nearly the same way, but of course our teeth and eyes reflected the beaming sun in slightly different ways. We often walked arm in arm, our dresses trailing slightly behind us as we glided down hills and across streets.
This is a kind of peace which can only be felt after a storm, after a price paid, as unfair as it seems. It’s a feeling I get in my chest, so light my feet barely touch the ground as I walk. It’s something no one and nothing can take away from me, something I feel so lucky to have found. This is a feeling I only get when I’m by myself, out for a walk in the late afternoon, when the sun hangs low in the sky. There is a bridge near my house, if you walk over it when the sun is setting, you will feel invincible.
Isabelle Walma
It is my enduring opinion that the apocalypse makes you re-evaluate your priorities. I wish this hadn’t been tested, but all the same, I can now say for sure that the Literary Arts program is important to me. I’m moving to Montreal next year to pursue creative writing at Concordia, and I owe it in no small part to my classmates and teachers. I was an angry little (figure of speech, I’ve always been huge) grade 9 trying to find a style other than ‘fanfiction about talking cats’ and in the course of my time at Canterbury, I partnered with Ali Lynch (not graduating from the program; disappeared without a trace last year) to steal a shopping cart and hand it in for our summative, suggest 2 out of 3 coffeehouse themes, and start an organized religion. If that’s not style, I don’t know what is. I’ll remember something from each of you. Thank you.