Youth
Art by Tobias Dorsemaine
Sometimes growing up makes us forget about our youth, but it doesn’t have to. Remember when days felt endless, when the air felt welcoming and everything seemed a little brighter than it really was? When it was easy to laugh without thinking about it, when the world was something to explore, discovering it piece by piece, not yet something to fully understand. Mistakes felt bigger, but so did dreams, stretching far beyond what we could comprehend. Everything was magical in a way that didn’t need explanation, shaped by our imagination and feeling more than harsh reality and logic. Time moved differently, slower and faster all at once, slipping by without you noticing. It contorted around memories that now feel distant but somehow closer than ever. However, as we're growing up, we learn life isn't as bright and colourful as it was in childhood. There are pains that come with maturing, but also beauty. Growing can feel like losing things most of the time, but what we don't realize is that we're constantly gaining things too. Naïve, yet euphoric, and constantly changing, youth is less a time and more a fleeting moment of growth. It lives in who you were, who you are now, and who you will be, full of potential you just don’t yet understand.
Ribbons by Abigail Jennings (11)
I hedged my bets on girlhood, from the moment I could latch my fine, spindling ivy to the silver meshwork fences on the schoolyard. My dearest childhood friends, with whom I shared half-lockets and giggled secrets and tiny plastic hair ties that tugged like boys’ teasing against our scalps, were the girls who creeped up the walls with me, carving identity between the holes in the metal. It was among pinks, then purples, then teals, that I grew my adoration of girls, and women. Before I ever felt my heart jump over itself upon its first infatuated blush with burgeoning teenage pseudoromance–before I Loved, I loved girls. And I belonged to them, perfectly indistinguishable in a crowd of my peers.
Something happened the day I fell in Love with a girl. The world seemed to crash and bend around me, uneasy fists uneager to brush against my open palms. To me, Loving girls was only ever for the same reasons I loved them; their spirits overflowing with apple wine, long aged in untraceable gardens; their hands, with chipped nail polish or perfectly groomed cuticles; the little drops of spirit crystalized in their irises: amber and citrine and quartz, fossilizing the moments their souls came alive. The others didn’t see it that way. I had taken girlhood too far, and wrapped back around to masculinity in the process: Lesbians weren’t girls, not really.
Something happened the day I fell in Love with a girl. The world seemed to crash and bend around me, uneasy fists uneager to brush against my open palms. To me, Loving girls was only ever for the same reasons I loved them; their spirits overflowing with apple wine, long aged in untraceable gardens; their hands, with chipped nail polish or perfectly groomed cuticles; the little drops of spirit crystalized in their irises: amber and citrine and quartz, fossilizing the moments their souls came alive. The others didn’t see it that way. I had taken girlhood too far, and wrapped back around to masculinity in the process: Lesbians weren’t girls, not really.
Yellow Rose by Thea Faruquee (10)After searching long and wide, I finally found a vase of perfect size and width. In it I placed a rose, my most cared for possession. It was a vibrant yellow rose, the colour of the radiant stars and moon, crocheted from ever so soft yarn. You could see a few hairs of the silky string fraying. A few of the stitches were pulled loose whereas others, drawn tight, as though stitched with an unsteady, loving hand; it added character. The fact that it was slightly imperfect made it perfect, just like him, the one who gave it to me. It's a bit wilted due to the fact that the yarn lacks a strong structure. The stem however, was a bright green, almost like fake grass, and the only hardened part of this craft, with a bit of the wire sticking out; the only thing giving this flower support. The rose smelled of men’s cologne; specifically his cologne. It had a musky, woody scent, with a slight hint of citrus. It was the summer of grade eight when he handed me that rose. The school year was coming to a close and soon enough, we’d barely ever see each other again. He and I were going to different schools. My school would become an hour bus ride, his, a brisk walk. To remember him by, he handed me a yellow crocheted rose the day of our middle school graduation, and since then, I’d never part from it. I used to think I’d have a chance with him; that he’d love me back, but there was no possibility of that. The rose was yellow, a sign of friendship. |
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Sushi Chef DJ by Alexander
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Hand Stitched Memories by Rachel Kilgour (10)Sweater holes on torn up sleeves, thread and ruin cluttered about. Clinging to cloth, picking with nails, at those who had the privilege to fall. Stretched and Clinging, curled and layered. With no strings attached, I sew them together, embroidered flowers over your fabric scars. Heartfelt reminders of hand stitched love. Needle and thread flying over history, stories and memories manifested forever. Humans can't help but decorate what hurts them the most, Be that with love, with sorrow, or with stitched up flowers on torn up sweaters. 
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Allison's Monologue by Thea Faruquee (10)In Allison’s son’s bedroom, she mourns his broken hourglass; her face a mess. (beat) Do you ever stop to wonder why we make the choices we do? You’ll choose between seemingly inconsequential choices —like left and right, whether to speak up or stay silent. They seem so small, don’t they? Trivial almost. But then (beat) life clings to that puny, pathetic choice of yours, grasping on. What follows is the inevitable. Lately it’s all I can think of… choices. The doors we open, doors we leave behind, and the doors we never even noticed. Recently, I made a choice. A big decision –or maybe it wasn’t that big at all. But it feels big now… (beat) I can’t seem to stop asking myself whether it was right. Out of all possibilities, all alternate outcomes, was this the right one? Was this the path I was meant to take? Can I even change it now? Or is this just it…? Do we have the power to fix the mistakes of our past? That’s the real question, isn’t it? What’s worse is I don’t know what I should even be doing anymore. I hate this. Everything depends on the choices I make, all the responsibility on my shoulders. It’s like this hourglass. The only thing left by our beloved son. We bought this for him together! Because of you, chipped and cracked, I keep staring at it. I don’t know how to fix it but still, I sit here thinking, the sand slips through, it’s time seeping through my fingers. Cracks can be fixed though, right? With time, and patience, anything can be fixed. Anything can be made whole again, but what if the glass was never meant to be whole in the first place? What if it was meant to fracture into thousands of tiny pieces? Then, you’re left with a choice. Do you keep trying to mend it, knowing it would never be the same again, or do you let it shatter, forever lost? 
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Nostalgia by Theia Taylor (10)There is a girl who sits on Diamond Beach, in a little grove between the trees on the south side. She sits right at the edge of the shore, the water lapping over her feet every-so-often. She props herself up with her hands, hands that draw spiral patterns in the sand, and stares forward at the horizon, the wind blowing her short-cropped hair backwards. No one seems to have noticed her but me— this little girl, can’t be older than eight, sitting and staring. She ripples in the sunlight, like a hologram. Almost translucent, a haze of campfire smoke and blinding bright lights. Sometimes, she sparkles. Her sundress is white and covered in colourful flower patterns. I missed her today, while taking some of my old clothes to the charity shop. So, I took a drive. She’s always there when I arrive, though her opacity oscillates. Today, I don’t even need to squint to make her feel real. She looks like a real girl, except for some blurring of her edges. I sit down next to her, knees pulled up to my chest. The water froths where it hits the sand, wiping out her spiral drawings. She seems unfazed. “You seem sad.” When she turns to me, her eyes are wide and shining. She smiles and reaches out to pat me on the knee. “Are you okay?” “I just…” My emotions wrap their hands around my neck. “I miss you.” She sighs, before getting onto her knees and throwing her arms around my neck, breathing soft in my ear. She’s never felt more corporeal. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She’s warm. I nod. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.” Life goes on by Rachel Kilgour (10)"Life goes on" they told me,
Giving me a pat on the back and pitying looks. They think it grants me comfort. What if I don't want life to go on? What if I want life to stop at a standstill, To turn the clock and bring me back to tears shed of scraped knees and not scratched arms. I wish I didn't feel empty, I wish my only emotion wasn't longing. I'm always left to wonder, Is it possible to miss something you never had? Because if it is I miss my childhood. |
Faded Flowers by Nazeefa Alomgir (11)
“Dont move, Mahua. You’ll smudge it”.
Her mother’s fingers gently wrap around her daughter’s wrist, holding her still as she meticulously pipes beautiful traditional designs on her small, fragile palms. The cold touch of mehndi paste kisses Mahua’s warm skin. The herbaceous aroma from the eucalyptus and clove melanges with the air and lingers on the skin. Burgundy vines curl around her arms, leaves twist into flowers that bloom on her palms. Her mother purses her lips and blows against the fresh paste, tickling her skin. When cracks start to appear and the paste begins to flake, Mahua runs to the sink and rinses away the brittle, dried umber to reveal the deep, rich orange stain underneath.
As the years pass by, Mahua’s love for henna continues to grow. Soon enough, she learns to wield the cone herself. At first, her lines wobble, flowers tangle into a scribbly mess and vines smudge. She makes mistakes often, scrubbing her skin until it burns, but her mom always helps her fix it. Henna doesn’t last forever. It will always fade, mistakes will disappear and soon become a blank canvas again. She found comfort in knowing that nothing lasts forever.
Her mother’s fingers gently wrap around her daughter’s wrist, holding her still as she meticulously pipes beautiful traditional designs on her small, fragile palms. The cold touch of mehndi paste kisses Mahua’s warm skin. The herbaceous aroma from the eucalyptus and clove melanges with the air and lingers on the skin. Burgundy vines curl around her arms, leaves twist into flowers that bloom on her palms. Her mother purses her lips and blows against the fresh paste, tickling her skin. When cracks start to appear and the paste begins to flake, Mahua runs to the sink and rinses away the brittle, dried umber to reveal the deep, rich orange stain underneath.
As the years pass by, Mahua’s love for henna continues to grow. Soon enough, she learns to wield the cone herself. At first, her lines wobble, flowers tangle into a scribbly mess and vines smudge. She makes mistakes often, scrubbing her skin until it burns, but her mom always helps her fix it. Henna doesn’t last forever. It will always fade, mistakes will disappear and soon become a blank canvas again. She found comfort in knowing that nothing lasts forever.
Lay there and Bleed by Ella Morin (10)This Poem is heavily based off of the finishing of the book "All My Puny Sorrows" by Canadian Author Miriam Toews, and the passing of the character Elfrieda Von Riesen.
I’m bleeding out, The floor is cold, I hear the sink running behind me, My body starting to go numb, Tearstained cheeks, Hollow eyed, Shaky hands, I’ve done it again, I’m a witness to my own destruction, A bystander to this mess I’ve created, Feeling my body fade as my mind goes with it, I’ll dig my fingernails into my flesh, Trying to feel something Watch myself bleed, Let it sting, Trying to dismantle and repair the creation I call myself, But Will I ever be fixed? Or Am I too far gone? |
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The Deep, Dark Woods by Theia Taylor (10)Behind the wooden swings held up by ropes,
Tied around a wooden plank, nailed to two trees Two trees with tops completely cut off, two trees that were long dead Lays the deep, dark woods Sitting on the swing this Easter Legs aching from over-exertion At fifteen years old They are neither deep nor dark The sunlight behind me lights up a straight path to the spot they end But at seven years old, Me and my brother would get on the four-wheeler with our grandfather And we would ride into the forest, between the low hanging trees and over the sharp pebbles Ride past the pet cemetery where our childhood cats rested, where my mother’s did as well Their wooden crosses lined up in the grass How our cats' were so pristine, never weathered How they were caked in dirt, how moss only grew over Moss’s wood-covered name |
Young Love by Devin Caguioa (10)Love, a truly fundamental concept to human life. It’s something that everyone yearns for, no matter the form. Familial, platonic, or romantic; We all want that fuzzy warm of comfort, That sweet intimacy of knowing others on a deep level, That we consider our “home.” Yet at such a young age, In the midst of academics, stress, and hormones peaking, High school seems to be the home of love and heartbreak. The media the youth have consumed, With love expressed in its thousands of forms, Makes them want that love, crave it. So, they walk into love blindly. They enter relationships without fully understanding how they work, And they end up making mistakes. Sometimes that naivety can help them learn and grow, Understand how to navigate relationships better. Other times, it’s one miscommunication that breaks the relationship. Nonetheless, most teenagers crave that sweet sensation, the achievement of being high school sweethearts, Or being apart of that one friend group. Even at the cost of getting hurt. |
Angels and Ash Trays by Ella Morin (10)Do you ever feel like your guardian angel went out for a smoke?
You don’t believe, And you haven’t in a while… But the construct is always in the back of your mind. You think of hell so much it drives you mad, God can atone for your sins, but what about your guilt? You’re spiteful, with your twisted bitter personality and your vicious words. You’re a stray dog who bites. Not out of rage, Not out of confusion, Not out of revenge, But out of fear, out of condition. Arrogance aside, nothing truly terrifies you as much as God. “God knows all of your ugliness” your mother preaches, “And loves you despite” It’s supposed to make you feel loved, But you are still ugly, and he’s still God. You beg for forgiveness, mercy, love. |
Throw a Bone by Serenity Albert (10)
“No, I want a puppy!” The little girl screeched, stomping her small foot and piercing the ears of everyone nearby. “I don’t want a stupid dog, I want a puppy!”
She looked at the dropping eyes of the creature in front of her, who sat obediently still, wagging it’s tail patiently. And she turned away.
The taller figure sighed, and then the sweet old dog was on it’s feet, and ushered out of the room and back into the crate where it lived. The metal door of it’s small cage shut carelessly, and it’s tired eyes watched a smaller dog be let outside the room. Just through the door it could see the little girl scream in delight, and pet it’s fluffy fur. Nobody scolded the puppy when it yipped and jumped all over and about.
The puppy had a spark in it’s eye. A bubbly name and such a sad backstory.
It had youth, and a chance for a new start. And it’s not like that old dog that would never be young again. So when it was led away, it didn’t make a sound.
She looked at the dropping eyes of the creature in front of her, who sat obediently still, wagging it’s tail patiently. And she turned away.
The taller figure sighed, and then the sweet old dog was on it’s feet, and ushered out of the room and back into the crate where it lived. The metal door of it’s small cage shut carelessly, and it’s tired eyes watched a smaller dog be let outside the room. Just through the door it could see the little girl scream in delight, and pet it’s fluffy fur. Nobody scolded the puppy when it yipped and jumped all over and about.
The puppy had a spark in it’s eye. A bubbly name and such a sad backstory.
It had youth, and a chance for a new start. And it’s not like that old dog that would never be young again. So when it was led away, it didn’t make a sound.
To be loved is to be changed by Juniper Labelle (10)
On my bed, tucked beside pillows and stuffies, lies an old, floppy, worn out stuffed-bunny, gifted to me during my first few months of life. Its once soft, grey fur was now pressed permanently to its slack body in the aftermath of countless hugs, and the two beady black eyes that once studded its face were long gone.
It was one of many stuffed animals I had grown to cherish, but it was the only one that ever remained throughout my life and in my arms at night.
It was there when I took my first steps, giggled my first words, and underwent my first surgery. It was there when I suffered loss and heartbreak, laughed until my ribs hurt, and it nursed me quietly to sleep. At times, you could say it was all I had when the weight of the world came to rest on my shoulders.
We've both grown and changed. The once vibrant gleam of my bunny had dulled, and my own childlike wonder had crumbled. Stress of growing up began to hold me away from cradling the small stuffie to my chest like I once had when things got hard. But my love for it never faded.
Even into the life I see paved for my future ahead, it's always there. When my hair has faded a papery-grey, and my wistful smile is lined with the wrinkles of time, part of my heart will still lie alongside that rabbit, tethered by longing and nostalgia.
And so, the worn out stuffed bunny remained slumped against my pillows with a body that's seen better days, but a soul that's been loved to bits.
It was one of many stuffed animals I had grown to cherish, but it was the only one that ever remained throughout my life and in my arms at night.
It was there when I took my first steps, giggled my first words, and underwent my first surgery. It was there when I suffered loss and heartbreak, laughed until my ribs hurt, and it nursed me quietly to sleep. At times, you could say it was all I had when the weight of the world came to rest on my shoulders.
We've both grown and changed. The once vibrant gleam of my bunny had dulled, and my own childlike wonder had crumbled. Stress of growing up began to hold me away from cradling the small stuffie to my chest like I once had when things got hard. But my love for it never faded.
Even into the life I see paved for my future ahead, it's always there. When my hair has faded a papery-grey, and my wistful smile is lined with the wrinkles of time, part of my heart will still lie alongside that rabbit, tethered by longing and nostalgia.
And so, the worn out stuffed bunny remained slumped against my pillows with a body that's seen better days, but a soul that's been loved to bits.
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Mature for my Age by Cyerra Clostre (10)I’ve always been too mature for my age.
Having thoughts rush down my brain, going 90 in a 35 in my under developed brain. Everyone used to say, That I’ve developed well for my age. That my mind never stayed little, it matured with all that has made me grown. That my heart always grew fonder, That I wore it upon my sleeves. That my heart never spoke out, And never bothered to make sure my door was locked; Or more so that anyone had a key. I’ve always been mature for my age. Acknowledged that it was such a surprise when adults realized they could have an adult conversation with me; When they realized I always thought before I spoke. I’ve always been more mature. Always would rather being alone, Never had very many friends, Always had a thought that could never leave me because well, Maybe my brain just hated being alone. I’ve always been more mature. |
Time Capsule by Serenity Albert (10)I remember the warm sun against our backs and faces as we walked. I can feel the dryness in my throat, and the fast beat of my heart after racing around. My head turned left, and right, searching for any approaching cars, And then we ran. The roundabout was our spot. It wasn’t large, but it was like a small hideout just for us. You would climb the trees and throw down a crab apple, and on- one two three- we both took a bite and would overdramatically scrunch our faces at the sourness. I would tiptoe around the circular platform, hiding behind rocks and trees, And when it came to your turn to hide, your neon orange shirt wasn’t hard to spot. We spent so much time there. We fought there, we whispered secrets that fifth graders shouldn’t have had, and sat on rock piles watching the sun set. Knowing that soon the streetlights would turn on and across the road our moms would yell for dinner. I don’t wish I could go back to that, like I do with so many of my other memories. It’s one of the few things I leave untouched in my mind. So thanks, for being my neighborhood friend, and thanks for moving when you did. |
Stars by Ellen Scott (10)My knees are mapped in summer scars, From climbing trees and touching stars. The grass was tall, the world was wide, With a thousand secret spots to hide. I watched the moon from my car, And wondered just how tall we are. I measured life by grains of sand, Even years I hadn’t planned. I didn’t know that time was fast, Or that those days weren’t meant to last. I only knew the breeze was sweet, And not my world was incomplete. To be a kid in a dress of blue, With dirt in my nails and a world that’s new. The sun stays up until I’m done, And every race is easily won. 
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The One Who Lived by Juniper Labelle (10)
His fingers thrummed absentmindedly against the worn leather of his steering wheel, the tires of his truck turning up tendrils of dust as he coasted down the secluded old dirt road. Dessert sand stretched for miles beyond view on either side of the truck, rippling with fiery shades of red and orange as the sun began to dip beyond the horizon line.
He tilted his head back, the rim of his sun-bleached cowboy hat tipping up just enough to allow the last fleeting rays of sunlight to catch his irises.
It took him back — the wistful ring of a melody long since abandoned, leaving the shell of a ghost town behind. The empty vastness of sky hanging above him where the silver coined moon would hang years ago, bathing the past of his young face in an ethereal glow, felt almost haunting now.
His amber gaze briefly flickered upwards, landing on the rearview mirror. And for a moment, the corners of his eyes, now creased with age, softened.
For it wasn't a man riddled with sorrow staring back at him. It was a boy, wise beyond his years.
Slowly, he tore his eyes away again, nostalgia nearly cracking his cold heart in two.
For a long moment, all he did was listen. Listen to the heavy roaring of the engine beneath him, the distant cries of the man he could have been lingering sharp in the back of his mind — the youth he'd let so mindlessly slip through his callous fingers weighing tauntingly on his shoulders.
His expression remained unreadable as the quiet decay of a town once bustling with spirit unfolded around him. Wind weaved between old buildings, their soiled wood and loose creaking shutters groaning long forgotten stories of a past that had been brushed between the cracks of history.
A chrysalis left behind.
The weight of repressed childhood memories was nearly enough to make him wince.
For years, he had silently mourned the boy he used to be. Young, resilient, everything he lacked as a man. He was no longer the child who would stare down the barrel of a gun with an excited grin, never wanting to kill. But a man who would shoot it without consideration for whom the bullet casing would shatter.
Now, under the last dying embers of day, the lonesome whispers that the wind carried seemed to ease the persistent ache of tension in his shoulders.
For once in his life, he allowed himself to let go of the past, for dwelling never did anyone any good.
He tilted his head back, the rim of his sun-bleached cowboy hat tipping up just enough to allow the last fleeting rays of sunlight to catch his irises.
It took him back — the wistful ring of a melody long since abandoned, leaving the shell of a ghost town behind. The empty vastness of sky hanging above him where the silver coined moon would hang years ago, bathing the past of his young face in an ethereal glow, felt almost haunting now.
His amber gaze briefly flickered upwards, landing on the rearview mirror. And for a moment, the corners of his eyes, now creased with age, softened.
For it wasn't a man riddled with sorrow staring back at him. It was a boy, wise beyond his years.
Slowly, he tore his eyes away again, nostalgia nearly cracking his cold heart in two.
For a long moment, all he did was listen. Listen to the heavy roaring of the engine beneath him, the distant cries of the man he could have been lingering sharp in the back of his mind — the youth he'd let so mindlessly slip through his callous fingers weighing tauntingly on his shoulders.
His expression remained unreadable as the quiet decay of a town once bustling with spirit unfolded around him. Wind weaved between old buildings, their soiled wood and loose creaking shutters groaning long forgotten stories of a past that had been brushed between the cracks of history.
A chrysalis left behind.
The weight of repressed childhood memories was nearly enough to make him wince.
For years, he had silently mourned the boy he used to be. Young, resilient, everything he lacked as a man. He was no longer the child who would stare down the barrel of a gun with an excited grin, never wanting to kill. But a man who would shoot it without consideration for whom the bullet casing would shatter.
Now, under the last dying embers of day, the lonesome whispers that the wind carried seemed to ease the persistent ache of tension in his shoulders.
For once in his life, he allowed himself to let go of the past, for dwelling never did anyone any good.
Pretty by Ellen Scott (10)A mother and her daughter walked down the street
A stranger leaned in and stopped them “Isn’t she pretty!” the woman shared with a smile And the mother smiled back because she agreed She never stopped to wonder what the woman could have meant by pretty Pretty special, pretty kind, pretty innocent? But the intentions didn’t seem to matter Because they looked pure You see, Pretty is a pale word A ribbon tied around a hurricane An attempt to dull down the sharp edges of a person So they fit neatly on a shelf Dustless and silent It’s a participation trophy of language A low hanging fruit of compliments Like comparing the sun To a burning candle Safe enough to be held Small enough to be snuffed out with a passing breath |
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Pure and Beautiful by Cyerra Clostre (10)I miss childhood,
It was pure, It was beautiful and most importantly it was so unapologetically me. Life is still great, It has less colour, Sure. But I still love the same. My face has smile lines, And my eyes still sparkle. I’m just older, No longer only six but sixteen. No longer playing with barbies but writing short stories and more. |