the 2016 edition of Celebrating Words.

Transcription

Celebrating
WORDS
Fill your paper with
the breathings of
your heart ...
—William Wordsworth
English Language
Arts Council
of the Alberta
Teachers’ Association
2016
Contents
Editorial...................................... Catherine Euston2
Grades 1–3 Poetry
First Place
Soccer............................................ Calista Sortland3
Grades 4–6 Poetry
First Place
The Magic of Life........................ Mareike Poelzer4
Grades 4–6 Prose
First Place
Brain Essay....................................... Cate Chorney5
Second Place
A Wild Adventure.......................... Chelsea Wiebe7
Third Place
Getting Back Together................... Kimberly Fehr10
Honourable Mention
Mutant Mummy Mayhem........ Connor Sortland13
Grades 7–9 Poetry
First Place
Just Being a Teen................................... Isabella Li15
Second Place
The Brush....................................... Julia dela Pena16
Third Place
The Last Farewell........................ Jonathan Ewing17
Honourable Mention
Fear of the Dark.......................Kassidy Gorgichuk 18
Grades 7–9 Prose
First Place
Blue........................................ Angelina (Yang) Jiao 19
Second Place
Tear-Stained Eyes..........................Graeme Gibson21
Third Place
Her............................................... Elykah May Tejol23
Honourable Mention
Uncertainty.............................Sarah Montgomery25
the little things................................. Yohan Kebede 26
Grades 10–12 Poetry
First Place
Suits.................................................. Selena Verhun 29
Second Place
Battle of the Bands.............................Chance Blais30
Third Place
The Storm...................................... Name Withheld31
Honourable Mention
Remember September..................... Emily Stobbe33
Grades 10–12 Prose
First Place
How to Feel for Dummies
(Emphasis on the Dummies)..........Jenna Koenig34
Second Place
Music Is Life and I Eat Cake.... Natasha Marcille36
Third Place
In the Hands of Death.............. Morgan Leakvold 38
Honourable Mention
Devoured by Mania.................... Isabella Thorsen 39
Teacher Poetry
First Place
A Necessary Glimpse....... Kyla Coulman-Absher41
Second Place
Scars....................................................Darryl Feser43
Third Place
Making a Difference.......................... Vic Mensch44
Teacher Prose
First Place
Coloured Toothpicks..................... Carey Klassen45
Celebrating Words is a supplement to Alberta Voices and is published by The Alberta Teachers’ Association (ATA) for the English
Language Arts Council (ELAC). Copyright © 2016 by The Alberta Teachers’ Association. Unless otherwise indicated in the text,
reproduction of material in Celebrating Words is authorized for classroom and professional development use, provided that
each copy contain full acknowledgement of the source and that no charge be made beyond the cost of reprinting. Any other
reproduction in whole or in part without prior written consent of the ATA is prohibited. Opinions expressed herein are not
necessarily those of the ATA or the ELAC. Editorial and production services: Document Production Services staff, ATA.
Alberta Voices is a member of the NCTE/CCTE Information Exchange and is indexed in NCTE/ERIC and in the Canadian
Education Index.
Individual copies of this journal can be ordered at the following prices: 1 to 4 copies, $7.50 each; 5 to 10 copies, $5.00 each;
over 10 copies, $3.50 each. Please add 5 per cent shipping and handling and 5 per cent GST. Please contact Distribution at
Barnett House to place your order. In Edmonton, dial 780-447-9432; toll free in Alberta, dial 1-800-232-7208, ext 432.
Editorial
It has been a genuine pleasure to serve as editor for the Celebrating Words writing
contest for the 2015/16 school year. The submissions are a keen reminder of the many
ways writing can enrich the lives of both the writer and the audience. The poetry and
prose in this year’s publication explore the beauty and richness of language. They delve
into both the simple joys of life and life’s darkest moments. Most important, they show
the vast talent of students and teachers in Alberta.
The Celebrating Words writing contest invites students and teachers from all levels
of public schooling to submit their prose and poetry. Winners are selected by a panel
of volunteer judges made up of teachers across the province who carefully review the
many contest submissions. The writers’ names are removed from all submissions before
being given to the judges, along with a rubric to aid them in selecting the winners.
This year’s judges were Christina Waller, from Vista Virtual School; Norine Dodge,
Sarah Rogers and Vanessa Mathieson, from the Alberta Distance Learning Centre; and
Genevieve Court, from the Grande Prairie Public School District and the Peace Wapiti
Public School Division. I sincerely thank the judges for graciously donating their time
and expertise.
All contestants will receive a complimentary copy of the publication. The winners
will also receive a Chapters gift card.
Thank you to the Document Production staff at the Alberta Teachers’ Association for
their excellent work in preparing this wonderful publication for distribution. Thank you,
as well, to the English Language Arts Council executive for their support.
Most of all, thank you to the students and teachers who submitted their writing
to Celebrating Words. Writing is an act of courage. Exploring one’s own heart, delving
into the depths of one’s own creativity, and then seeking the words to express oneself
effectively require confidence. Sharing those words with others requires bravery. I
honour all of you who took the risk of writing those words and who had the courage to
share them. Keep writing.
Catherine Euston
Editorial Note
In editing the pieces in Celebrating Words, we have corrected
simple spelling and punctuation errors but have left in
word choice, paragraphing and sentence structure to reflect
the age and development of each writer.
2
Grades 1–3 Poetry—First Place
Soccer
Calista Sortland
Soccer
Fast, tough
Running, kicking, passing
Excited to get goals
Football
Calista Sortland is a Grade 1 student at St Elizabeth Seton School in Calgary (Lisa Fulton, teacher).
3
The Magic of Life
Mareike Poelzer
It’s in the sun, the apple seeds,
It’s in the flowers, plants and trees.
It’s right there, watching flowers bloom,
It is the sun and is the moon.
It coasts along the ocean waves,
Watching the sea creatures play.
It’s in the air in which you breathe,
It’s in the book of which you read.
Feel it in the air;
Embrace it;
The Magic of Life.
Mareike Poelzer is a Grade 5 student at Woodhaven Middle School in Spruce Grove
(Christina Davidson, teacher).
4
Grades 4–6 Prose—First Place
Brain Essay
Cate Chorney
In Language Arts this year we have been learning about something very interesting, the brain. For
me this was completely new and a lot of information to take in, but I managed to keep most of it in my
head. We were taught information by watching videos, reading articles and talking to the classmates
around us about what we got from those lessons. Throughout this essay I am going to tell you about
how your brain learns, parts of your brain, how to keep your brain healthy and lastly things that I
found interesting about the brain. I am going to get started and I hope that you learn a lot about the
brain and also respect it more!
Your brain learns in a very cool way. It shows that you have to practise to learn fully. When being
taught something new the very first thing that your brain does is create a new neuron for whatever you
are learning. This neuron is located in your first memory and travels down into your sixth memory.
The neurons do not just stay there, they travel back and forth. When they are travelling back and forth
the connection to what you are learning grows stronger and your schema for that thing gets bigger
because there is now more information in your schema. Although it takes time to learn new things and
you can feel like you could never lose anything, you can actually forget and lose neurons. Your brain is
malleable, just like a muscle. It is like a muscle because if you build a muscle in your arm and then do
not work it out for a long time you will eventually lose the muscle. The same thing can happen with
your neurons. One of the reasons that your brain lets go of unused neurons is because your brain has
so many basic things to remember that the ones that you do not use just because extra ones use up
energy and space that you could be using for the neurons that you actually use, so if you want to keep
something in your head make sure you practise that thing. Now that you know how your brain takes in
information I hope that you read this essay catching what you are thinking and what it means.
Since you now know the way your brain takes in information and learns from that information
I think that it is important that you know the three parts of your brain. In your brain you have three
main parts, the amygdala, the hippocampus and the prefrontal cortex. Each of these all do very
different things, which are important to keep your brain working together. The very first one is your
amygdala. Everything and anything that happens to you goes through your amygdala. Now do not
think that your amygdala just lets anything pass without a second glance because that is not the case.
Your amygdala reacts in three different ways, flight, fight or freeze. Personally when something that I
think is frightening happens I go into freeze mode. When this happens your body sends out chemicals
such as adrenaline. Which can be good for you at times but only in small moderations. The way you
are outside of your body shows that you are freezing is by either crying or having a panic attack. By
fighting you will usually go and yell at the person, or go and approach the “scary” thing. Finally by
going into flight mode you will run away from the situation and pretend that you were never really
there. Now that you know what your amygdala does in certain experiences you could say that it is just
like a guard dog. If you manage to get through your amygdala without it shutting down the rest of
your brain, which it will do, then the next part it goes through is your hippocampus. This is like your
filing cabinet where the new things that you are experiencing get compared to all of the old information
from what you have previously experienced. To get to the prefrontal cortex your hippocampus has to
let the information pass by. Finally, your prefrontal cortex. In your prefrontal cortex you make all your
decisions, purposefully and thought out. Your prefrontal cortex makes all your important decisions, but
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it also makes the small ones. In this sense you could say your prefrontal cortex is like a wise old owl or
a CEO. Those are the three main parts of your brain that make all the decisions for what you do. I hope
that you remember to use your hippocampus and your prefrontal cortex in the next thing that happens
to you and not only your amygdala!
Now I know that I wrote before that your amygdala, hippocampus and prefrontal cortex work
together but it does not always happen like that. My amygdala, hippocampus and prefrontal cortex
do not work together when I am in a crowd. When there are a lot of people around me my amygdala
sometimes turns off the rest of my brain and I am sent into freeze mode. However this does not
always happen, sometimes my amygdala lets the experience go through to my hippocampus which
tells me that this has happened before and I have not died so I am going to be OK. Then it goes to my
prefrontal cortex where it just tells me to get out of that crowd. I think that it is very cool that my brain
can react so differently to the same experience. I can either panic or just tell myself to leave. That is
one experience that my brain either takes complete control of my body and shuts it down or gives me
advice. Can you think of an experience like that?
Considering that you now know the three parts, I think you should know how to keep them and
the rest of your brain healthy. To keep a healthy brain you have to do lots of things like eating healthy,
getting enough sleep, being active and drinking enough water. Each of these things do good for your
brain when you do them alone, but when you put them together your brain is going to be very happy.
Drinking water is almost the most important one I think because if you do not have enough water in
your brain you cannot make any more neurons. Also it can cause headaches and stress. “Speaking” of
stress, that is another thing to watch out for. Do not try to learn when you are stressed because it will
not do you any good. Something that goes along with that is take brain breaks. This means that you are
giving your brain a rest and letting all the information settle. Lastly is to use your brain more. I know
that this interacts with what I just told you but your brain is not going to get stronger without any work
done to it. I hope that you take all of those into consideration and try them out. Who knows, maybe
you will feel better!
As I did find everything I just described very interesting, I also picked up some other cool facts
that I felt just did not really fit anywhere else, so why not share them here! One of the first few things
that I found out were that your brain weighs three pounds, uses 20 per cent of your body energy and
looks like a grey sponge. It also has billions of nerve cells. The last thing I am going to tell you about is
also my favourite. It is that the left side of your brain controls the right side of your body and is better
at math and writing. While the right side of your brain controls the left side of your brain and is more
artsy with things like shapes, colours and drawing. Our brains can do so many cool things. In fact they
do pretty much everything for us!
It has been a lot of fun to get all of these facts and I feel like I have a lot of new neurons in my brain
and I hope you have a few more as well. I hope that next time something big happens to you that you
go back after and remember how your brain reacted and what you did!
Cate Chorney is a Grade 6 student at École Coloniale Estates School in Beaumont (Kimberly Epp, teacher).
6
Grades 4–6 Prose—Second Place
A Wild Adventure
Chelsea Wiebe
“Speed up! The bear’s going to get us!” Addison Parker yelled over Grace Jones’s shoulder.
“I’m trying!” Grace yelled back. She glanced over her shoulders to see the humongous grizzly bear
bound toward them. As she looked back, she didn’t see the log lying in front of her.
“Look out!” Addison shouted quickly as the girls stumbled to the damp ground. “Oof!” The
terrified 10-year-old girls looked up. They glanced at each other and smiled weakly, but when they saw
that the bear was closer than it had been before . . .
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”
Addison and Grace tried to stand up and run for their lives. However, it didn’t work the greatest.
They just toppled back down.
“Ahhhhhhhhhh!”
The girls were finally able to get to their feet the third time.
“Hey, Addison! I think I see a tree in front of us!” Grace exclaimed, gasping for air.
“I think I see it too! Look back to see if the bear is still there!” Addison shouted into Grace’s ear.
“But the last time I did it we . . . ,” Grace had started to say.
“GRRRR!” the bear growled at them.
“Umm . . . I mean, I think that the bear is still there!” Grace finished, trying to sound more confident
than she really was.
“What if the big bear gets us? Will he eat us?” Addison asked.
“Yes. . . . Hey, let’s climb up the tree. That way the bear’s never going to get us,” Grace said, startled
as the grizzly had interrupted her once more.
“GRRRRRRR!” the bear growled.
Once the girls reached the tree (which was huge), they grasped its trunk and wrapped their arms
around it. When they tried to climb it, they slid back down, scratches on their hands and everything.
“This isn’t working . . . ,” Addison groaned, as if to say everything was Grace’s fault. Grace and
Addison were at a Girl Scout camp for summer vacation. It was their first day there. Now it was dark
out, and a grizzly chased only Grace and Addison out of the camp. The counsellors and the other
scouts had quickly hid in the tents, out of the way of the bear. While Grace and Addison were still
frozen at the sight of the bear, who certainly was starving.
“I know. . . . Any ideas? Ones that are only . . . um . . . ,” Grace replied as she nervously glanced back.
“Th-th-th-the b-b-b-bear is-is v-v-very c-close,” Addison stuttered. The bear was very close. Probably
about only five feet away.
“CLIMB!” Grace shrieked when the grizzly growled at them once more, as it continued storming
toward them.
The freaked-out girls finally managed to get hold of the tree trunk and lift themselves to the lowest
branch. From there, they shakily made way to the highest, strongest branch.
The bear just stood there for a while, then finally wandered back into the blueberry bushes.
“Whew! That was absolutely, very, very, very close! We could have turned out as dog food!”
Addison exclaimed as her giant eyes slowly turned to her friend.
“Bear food,” Grace corrected Addison.
“Whatever!” Addison said in disgust, holding up her scraped hands.
7
“Ew! Gross! What happened?” Grace exclaimed, holding up her own hands.
On their hands were the scrapes, covered in wet dirt. But on top of all that was disgusting mushy
brown stuff.
“Idea . . . ,” Addison replied slowly, trying to get Grace’s attention.
“WHAT?” Grace said, glancing at her mushed-up dirty hands.
“Let’s get down the tree—” Addison started.
“How . . . ?” Grace interrupted.
“We’re going to climb. . . . And then we’re going to wipe the gross stuff off our hands . . . ,” Addison
continued.
“Won’t it hurt?” Grace interrupted again.
“No. We’re going to do it on the grass. Come on. I’ll race you!” Addison said as she grasped the
trunk and slid down.
Grace carefully followed Addison. When the girls reached the ground, they stooped down and
rubbed their mushy hands against the ground, which was moist, covered with dirt, grass and leaves.
“I think it’s good enough,” Grace mumbled when her hands were cleaner than before.
“I guess. But what should we do now? We’re lost. In the middle of the woods. We’re lost in the
jungle,” Addison complained.
“We are not lost. And definitely not in the jungle,” Grace said.
“Well, where are we then? They say that in jungles there are lots and lots of trees, wet ground, and
cute little monkeys, and lions . . . ,” Addison said, smiling from ear to ear of the thought of having cute
little monkeys and lions racing around the trees.
By now, the girls were wandering around the woods, searching their way back to camp.
“See anything?” Addison asked Grace after a while.
“Not much” was Grace’s reply. All the girls could see were bushes, trees, weeds, and leaves. Grace
grasped Addison’s wrist and quickly leaped back. “Addison! I think I see the bear again!” she shrieked,
trying to fool her friend with her trick, which was most likely going to fool her.
“Ahhh! Where? Where is that humongous grizzly bear?” Addison cried, and gulped down the lump
in her throat.
“Ha! I fooled you!” Grace exclaimed.
“Hey! No fair!” Addison wailed.
“It is too fair,” Grace said.
“Is not!”
“Is too.”
“Is no—. Hey. . . . Do you see that tall tree up ahead?” Addison asked.
“Yup.”
“Let’s climb to the top. We can find our way back from there,” Addison explained.
“Good idea. But I think that we have one problem,” Grace said carefully.
“Oh? And what’s that?” Addison asked.
“I know what you’re saying . . . ,” Grace continued. “But will we both climb the tree? Shouldn’t one
of us stay down here?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’ll climb up. You stay down here,” Addison instructed. She always did that.
“OK,” Grace agreed.
The girls had reached the tree, and Addison had started to climb already. When she reached the
top, she announced that in order to get to camp was to go east, and that the camp wasn’t far away at all.
The girls started their short trip.
“I can’t wait to tell everyone about our adventure!” Addison exclaimed.
8
“Yeah. That was a close one. The one with the bear, I mean,” Grace sighed, then looked up. “Hey! I
see the camp! I see the camp!” Grace cried as she and Addison dashed toward the nearest pitched tent.
Several other girls their age surrounded them, along with one of the counsellors.
“Where were you girls? You had us scared to death!” the counsellor greeted them. Her name was
Julie. All the girls started to talk at once. “Hold it, girls! They can’t answer all your questions at the
same time!” Julie laughed. All the girls began to giggle. Addison and Grace did the same. They began
to tell everyone what they had experienced on this adventure.
The End
Chelsea Wiebe is a Grade 6 student at Buffalo Head Prairie School in Buffalo Head Prairie
(Marc Doucette, teacher).
9
Grades 4–6 Prose—Third Place
Getting Back Together
Kimberly Fehr
Glossary
Nome—name
Geh—go/get
Unkel—uncle
Daed—dad
Madah—dinner
Kapp—something Amish wear on their heads
There once lived an Amish girl with the name Linda. She lived in a house, and had a mom, a daed and an
older sister with the nome Addy. Addy was the age of 17, and had a full-time job that was babysitting. They had a
horse, cat and a stray dog that was always wandering. The dog’s name was Rascal. The nome was given to her by
Linda and the name was 100 per cent perfect for him because that is what he was.
“Linda,” called mother from behind the door. “Your cousin from California is coming over and she
will be here tomorrow so I want you to get up a bit earlier.”
Her mom came in and started talking about her cousin.
“Unkel Jake is leaving the same day that he’s bringing her,” she said.
“Why is she coming?” asked Linda.
“I know you really want to know but I’m not sure that I’m supposed to tell you. Don’t pester her
about it,” replied her mom.
“I don’t even know her nome,” said Linda, adjusting her kapp.
“Her nome is Nicole,” said mom.
The next morning, Linda went downstairs and ate breakfast. After that she went and got the
extra mattress, blanket and pillow and ran upstairs to her room a few times because she couldn’t take
everything in one load. She was practically jumping up and down.
“Mom, could you please help me with the mattress?” asked Linda. “I can’t do it by myself because
it’s too big and too heavy.”
“Alright, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Meanwhile, why don’t you geh and clean up your room so
that there’s enough room for Nicole,” said mom.
***
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in,” said mom and daed together.
“Linda,” called mom from downstairs, “Nic and Unkel Jake are here, come and invite her in.” Linda
came down, in a hurry.
“Hi,” said Linda. “C’mon inside, I’ll show you around,” but Nic didn’t want to and her red tearstained face told Linda why. Linda knew she wouldn’t want to leave her mom or dad if she couldn’t
see either of them for a few months and she wouldn’t want that.
“Nic, go with your cousin,” said Unkel Jake.
10
“Nooo,” cried Nic, clinging to Unkel Jake and tears running down her cheeks. “I’ll miss you too
much and I won’t see you again. Ever!”
“Yes, you will. I will make sure that I will come back as soon as things are all back to normal,” said
Unkel Jake. “I will miss you as well, but I have to do things you and I will both not like too much. You
just do what you gotta do to get by,” he said. “Bye.”
“You’re not leaving already, are you? Why don’t you stay at least for madah?” asked her mom.
“No, I must be on my way. The bus I’m supposed to geh on is leaving in a bit. If I don’t geh now, it
will leave without me, then I’d have to wait till tomorrow, and I don’t have the time.”
“Well, then, see you, Jake. Safe trip back home and good luck.”
“Bye, Mary. Bye, Dave. I hope I made the right decision,” said Unkel Jake.
“I’m sure you did, anyway the part of bringing her here. I’m sure the girls will get along just fine.
The bed and everything is already all made for her. They’ll be fine,” said mom and straightening her
apron and dress as she closed the door behind Unkel Jake. “Well, Linda, go show Nic where she is
supposed to sleep and put her belongings.”
“OK, c’mon, Nic. Let’s geh,” answered Lin.
That night as Nic was already sleeping, Linda looked out her window. To her surprise, in the dim
light, she saw an old man digging and then put something in the hole he just dug and fill it up with dirt
again.
“Lin, what are you doing?” asked Nic. Linda’s heart nearly sank to her feet.
“I thought you were sleeping,” said Lin, “but I guess not. You won’t believe it, come look. There’s
this old man digging in his backyard. He’s dropping something into the holes he’s digging and then
filling it back up again.”
“Really?” asked Nic.
“Yes, it’s good that mom and dad are going to town tomorrow, so we can go and see what is going
on,” replied Linda while turning off the light.
***
“Bye, mom. Bye, daed,” said Linda and Nic in echo as Lin’s parents went out the door.
“OK,” said Lin, “let’s get started. You get the shovel while I go get started with my hands. The
shovel is in the barn where Rascal and my horse are. Oh, daed said if there’s an emergency, we should
use the emergency phone that’s in the barn as well,” said Lin as Nic and Lin went to their task.
“Good, the house where our neighbours live looks dark, and I think that means nobody’s home,”
whispered Lin to herself, as she was walking toward the place where she started digging. Suddenly,
she felt a huge, dry hand grip her arm and pulled her inside the house that was NOT her house. Her
heart skipped a beat.
Meanwhile, Nic came out of the barn and wondered where Lin could have gone. Hadn’t Lin said
that she saw the old man digging in this backyard? She decided that she would look into the window
to see if Lin was in there. Now it was Nic’s turn to skip a heartbeat. She had doubted that Lin would be
in here and then of all things, with a stranger holding her with a tight grip and asking her where the
treasure was buried.
“I don’t know,” wailed Lin.
“Don’t cry, I’ll bring you outside and then you have to show me where it is, then me and you are
going to town and then I’ll have enough money to gamble for a long time and make even more money
when I sell you,” replied Raymond.
“Oh no,” groaned Nic as she scrambled to get away before Raymond would get her too. As she
watched, she remembered the emergency phone! Yes, she would call her dad to see what she should
do, she thought as she very carefully crawled out of her hiding spot and ran as swiftly as her legs
would carry her.
11
“Daed, please you have to help me. Lin just got kidnapped and her mom and daed aren’t home and I
don’t know what to do,” said Nic almost out of breath.
“Nic, run inside, lock all the doors and windows but before you do that, call 9-1-1 and tell them
where you are then do as I said.”
“OK, bye.” She hung up the phone and called the police. She told them exactly what her dad had
told her to say. After, she ran inside, locked all the doors and windows and ran upstairs into Lin’s room
and prayed. She prayed and asked God to help Lin, and that the police would arrive soon. Then to her
amazement, as she looked out of the window someone was walking toward her cousin. What in the
world was that guy doing?
“Let me go,” wailed Lin again.
“Raymond, let her go,” said a voice behind her. Raymond turned around only to see his dad
holding a shovel. “What are you doing with my neighbour?” asked Raymond’s father, smacking him in
the face with the shovel and leaving him lying there.
Just then, the police arrived and Nic ran outside to tell them what happened. Breathlessly, she said,
“I wanted to get the shovel to dig up what was in all the holes that the old man was digging.”
“So it sounds to me that you and your cousin trespassed,” said the deep voice, “but I better go take
that guy to jail. He’s been wanted for a while.”
When Lin’s parents got home their neighbour came over and explained that he was burying hatred
letters, that his son had sent hatred letters while Raymond was in jail.
“Sorry,” Lin and Nic apologized.
“There are still going to be consequences,” agreed mom and dad.
“Nic, did you think your daed would really come?” asked Lin.
“No, but that was the hardest prayer I ever said,” replied Nic, “and this time it really helped.”
“Your dad is coming to get you tonight. Apparently things are going smooth with your mom.
They’re getting back together,” Lin’s daed said excitedly, “and you will get a baby brother. Your mom is
already in the hospital.” Lin couldn’t stop smiling.
Kimberly Fehr is a Grade 6 student at Buffalo Head Prairie School in Buffalo Head Prairie
(Marc Doucette, teacher).
12
Grades 4–6 Prose—Honourable Mention
Mutant Mummy Mayhem
Based on Egyptian mythology
Connor Sortland
Once there was a mummy following the scent of magic. It was running as fast as it could (which
wasn’t very fast) in the Sahara Desert. Meanwhile, a young traveller (about 20 to 25 years old) with no
travelling gear at all (except a hiking stick) was also walking in the desert. Then the hiker said, “Am I
ever thirsty.” Suddenly there was a water bottle in his hand. The traveller put it to his lips and took five
big gulps. The traveller wiped his water-dripping chin with his arm. He then threw the empty water
bottle up in the air and it disappeared! The truth is, the traveller was actually a magician. His scent is
what the mummy was following because he wanted to eat the magician’s magic like a treat!
The magician heard footsteps and turned to see the mummy heading towards him. He was
speechless. The mummy moaned, “Heqat,” then a thick wooden staff appeared in the mummy’s
hand. Then it moaned, “Ha-di,” and a series of mini explosions came from the staff and were heading
towards the magician. To defend himself, the magician threw a white figurine in the air and yelled,
“N’dah!” It instantly turned into a golden eagle, and the eagle protected the magician and the
explosions hit it. Another figurine went flying in the air and the magician yelled, “Pwah ey Ha-wi,” and
the figurine turned into a rhino and the rhino charged at the mummy. The mummy put its hand out
towards the rhino and groaned, “Sa-hei,” and the rhino collapsed.
The traveller yelled, “Geb, u-ha ey pwah,” then a bunch of sand gathered and formed a human of
sand with two rocks for fists. The sand figure ran towards the mummy waving its two rock fists. The
mummy moaned, “Isfet,” and the sand warrior dissolved into normal rocks and sand. The sand slowly
turned red and the sky looked like it was filled with blood. The magician knew what to do and yelled
at the top of his lungs, “Ma’at!” And the sand turned yellow and the sky turned blue. After that the
magician took three figurines from his pocket and rolled them like bowling balls towards the mummy
and they turned into lions. The mummy pointed at the first lion and moaned, “Tas,” and the lion was
wrapped in seven ribbons. Then the mummy groaned, “A’maz,” and the second lion burst into flames.
When that lion was defeated, the mummy moaned, “Maw,” and a jet of water came from the mummy’s
staff and it turned the third lion to white water.
The magician pointed at the water and it swirled into a penguin. The penguin waddled towards
the mummy. “Se-kebeb!” said the magician and the penguin blew freezing breath on the mummy
surrounding it in ice. Finally, the magician yelled, “Ha-di,” and the mummy exploded into bits of ice.
“At last,” said the magician. “Now I can have an ice cold glass of water!”
Glossary
Borrowed from The Kane Chronicles
Heqat—summon staff
Ha-di—destroy
N’dah—protect
Pwah ey Ha-wi—attack and strike
Ha-wi—strike
Pwah—attack
Sa-hei—bring down
Geb—earth god
Geb, u-ha ey pwah—arise and attack
U-ha—rise
Isfet—chaos
Ma’at—restore order
Se-kebeb—cold
A’maz—fire
Maw—water
Connor Sortland is a Grade 4 student at St Elizabeth Seton School in Calgary (Nichole Cruz, teacher).
13
Advisory
The following sections contain mature subject matter.
Parental discretion is strongly advised.
14
Just Being a Teen
A slam poem
Isabella Li
Sadness. Depression. Isolation.
They can clog your brain and ruin your life.
Singlehandedly make your smile lose its cheery gleam.
But, according to some adults, seeing these burdens on any adolescent can be summed up as
“just being a teen.”
We are taught all our lives not to judge a book by its cover, but now the people who used to
read us those books are doing nothing other.
They think we are too young to know suffering.
They think we are too naive to know pain.
But, what they don’t see, is that melancholy cares not about age.
You don’t have to be old enough to drink to know what it feels like to have your heart breaking
inside your rib cage.
They think we have no reason to cry.
So, they smile and make jokes and turn a blind eye.
They think hormones affect us all the same.
That all teenage anguish is equal and that it is “just a phase.”
They think because we don’t pay taxes, we don’t understand the taxing effects distress can
have on your mind.
How it can drag you down and make some wish they would die.
They think we’ll all be fine.
That all we need is time.
That with some sugar and spice and everything nice, they can mend the scars that mark our
arms and clear the despair that clings to our hearts.
Because according to them, “being social” and “doing something useful with our time” will
solve our problems and win our battles.
According to them, our lives’ biggest issues can be solved by simply “getting over it.”
According to them, no matter how empty you feel, or how beaten up your heart is, or how badly you
want to just break down and scream, you should “stop being such a moody brat and smile more.”
But, according to us, we understand pain’s endless abyss.
According to us, our young age doesn’t shield us from life’s cold tricks or save us from
depression’s harmful grip.
According to us, it’s not as easy to fight off the darkness as to some it may seem.
But what should I know?
I’m just being a teen.
Isabella Li is a Grade 9 student at Dr Donald Massey School in Edmonton (Barb Fouts-Melnychuk, teacher).
15
Grades 7–9 Poetry—Second Place
The Brush
Julia dela Pena
Come
The brush whispers to Her.
Come
The paints call to Her, pleadingly now,
Desperately wanting to be used.
Under a spell, Her feet walk Her over to them.
Thump thump thump.
Her hand lifts the brush,
Dipping it into the paint.
The brush twirls around her fingers,
Dancing across the canvas,
Colours being applied.
The swift and gentle movements
Blend the colours,
Taking shape.
Clank.
Her hand drops the brush.
Silent,
Wondering.
She picks the brush up again.
Slashing, swiping and scowling at the toxic scent,
She paints, forcefully now,
Knowing where to put things.
Almost there.
Every detail being placed.
Almost . . .
She sets brush down,
Steps back,
Signs the image.
A huge grin spreads across her face
From the satisfaction of being finished.
Julia dela Pena is a Grade 7 student at St Elizabeth Seton School in Calgary (Tamara Dooley, teacher).
16
Grades 7–9 Poetry—Third Place
The Last Farewell
Jonathan Ewing
She is on a knee, I am not.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for,
Praying for.
It breaks my heart, but I must say no.
As I see her run away my heart breaks,
I yearn to follow.
Maybe in time she will understand.
Understand why I said no.
It is because I am a soldier,
I might not come home.
She is on a knee
And I said no.
Jonathan Ewing is a Grade 9 student at Ardrossan Junior Senior High School in Ardrossan
(Jan Macklam, teacher).
17
Grades 7–9 Poetry—Honourable Mention
Fear of the Dark
Kassidy Gorgichuk
The day will end before I fall apart
Envisioning the stars shining brightly in the night
Not able to live because of my fear of tomorrow
Building a life made from marble and stone
Listening to my heart beat deep inside
After the sun rests and the sky goes dark
As a child I remembered my fear of the dark
One little sound could tear me apart
Creeping from under the bed, already inside
I waited endlessly for a kiss good night
The lack of happy endings were being carved in stone
Hoping to live another day, at least until tomorrow
Only thinking about today, reminiscing about tomorrow
Dry my eyes before my sight goes dark
Using my mistakes as stepping stones
I call for sleep before I break apart
When you grow up it gets harder to fall asleep at night
Because the monsters are now creeping inside
Deep thoughts ripping at me from inside
Wishing that it would stop tomorrow
Letting my true colours show only when alone during night
No one can see my tears in the dark
Dreaming about staying together, instead of falling apart
To move mountains, I have to start by skipping over stones
Burying my sorrows under the stones
No longer hiding my feelings inside
Stitching my heart that was once torn apart
Looking forward to another tomorrow
The monsters can no longer be seen in the dark
Never again will I cry at night
The full moon illuminates during the night
In the past I lived a life made from marble and stone
The light chasing away the dark
Creating a heart so pure inside
This is the beginning of a new tomorrow
Everything is falling into place instead of apart
Thousands of miles apart from the stars at night
Realizing tomorrow is not set in stone
Deep inside the light cascades over the dark
Kassidy Gorgichuk is a Grade 9 student at Dr Donald Massey School in Edmonton (Barb Fouts-Melnychuk, teacher).
18
Blue
Angelina (Yang) Jiao
The sky is red. No, not the sky. It is the smog that shines red, hanging over the city, over the entire
kingdom, and now, after the war, the entire continent, reflecting the bloody dirt ground below. Smoke
from the recently destroyed factories billows into the open like a phantom or a wraith, filling the thick,
constantly crackling air and the lungs of anyone it catches. The weather is dry, drier than it had ever
been before the war, and no more rain falls from the crimson mass of clouds above, acidic or otherwise.
Combined with the unforgiving scorch of the sun, it was as if the world had been enveloped in some
sort of oven, the dry heat growing steadily until there was nothing but crisp and dirt.
Liel’s small arms strain with effort as he pushes yet another body over, the cold flesh stiff against
his hand. There is not much hair, the remaining strands scorched past the point of recognition, and the
dust coats the skin in thick layers, completely obscuring the colour. The face of the corpse is bloodied
and plastered with dried mud, and Liel hesitates before scratching away the filthy layer with short,
dirt-encrusted fingernails. He doesn’t know what he expects, maybe nothing, but when the face, young
and strangely peaceful and all too unfamiliar, comes into view, the relief and disappointment hit him
so abruptly that his head spins and his knees buckle. There is nothing there he recognizes, no kind
scowl or worn face, no proud royal blue colouring the stained uniform. Dried blood coats the hard,
cracked ground, but Liel ignores the filth and pain as his knees hit the hard surface. Hot, sour liquid
splatters the dust as he dry heaves for the umpteenth time, exhaustion churning in his stomach. He
spits and pushes himself up with shaking arms, crawling to the next lump.
The next one, eyes closed and teeth visible through tattered skin, is no different. Just another
stranger’s corpse, another soldier, another parent or sibling or child taken away, or maybe they were
no one at all. Maybe there was no mourning, maybe they have been forgotten, never known in the
first place, just another casualty of war. Liel doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know, because he can only
protect himself with ignorance, blinding himself and shielding himself.
A horn sounds in the distance, loud and intrusive. Almost time for bed. Out here in the plains
of battle, the orphanage is a lone sanctuary, tall and clean and completely isolated from the death
surrounding it. Even so, or maybe because of that, no children are allowed out at night.
No one was allowed out at night back then either. Back when the king sat on his throne, cruel and
unforgiving, his monstrous guards at his side. When the children cursed to live on the streets, strange
and powerful, had roamed the night in the light of the moon, along with more sinister things. Liel
wasn’t scared of them then, didn’t spare a thought to the monsters who came out at sundown. He
turned a blind eye to his father’s nightly absences as well, because his father was tall, strong, the king’s
most trusted guard. But even his father could die.
It hadn’t been that way when he had first come to the orphanage. Liel didn’t think that way.
The war had just ended, the cruel king and his men defeated, and the throne occupied by the five
rebel leaders. They were the youngest kings in history at 10 and 15, but still older than Liel now.
Orphanages, kind and forgiving, had sprung up across the land, overflowing with the many children
whose parents were “casualties” of war. Liel had been sent to one of them, screaming and crying,
dragged by warm hands and a gentle grip. “No one is out there for you,” they told him, trying to feed
him lies. “Your father is dead.” The small strip of newspaper—“Escaped: The King’s Watchdogs at
Large?!”—had been torn to pieces underfoot. They were so sure that not a single government soldier
remained, and without even realizing, Liel had slowly began to think that way too.
19
Papa is dead. Papa, with his large, kind hands, with his wire glasses and thoughtful scowl, was evil,
and now he is dead.
Liel pushes himself up with shaking arms. No one is allowed on the not-yet-cleared battlefield, and as
desperate as he is, Liel has no desire to be caught. The crimson sky slowly darkens into a savage violet as
Liel stands. His fingers throb, the pain real and solid, anchoring him in reality. He swallows as he looks
up, trembling, mouth sour with bile, and it takes all he has not to spit out and let the acrid liquid trickle
down his chin. The corpse he is still clutching is carelessly dropped back onto the ground, his arms
unable to take any more of the strain, and it lands with a dull thump, clouds of reddish dirt puffing up
around it. The sky is gradually deepening in colour, approaching sundown, forcing Liel’s past instincts
to run rampant, screaming and wailing for him to find shelter. Liel ignores them. They don’t realize
that there is no more a reason to hide. That there are no more street children, no more cursed boys and
girls running barefoot in the acid-filled streets, no more ghosties and ghoulies hiding in the shadows.
The war has already destroyed them all.
A voice calls out, making Liel flinch. It is time to be back, time for bed, time to act as if he had not
just trekked out to the forbidden battlefield and searched through the corpses. A white-clad worker
from the orphanage approaches, curious golden eyes sweeping across the ravaged land, and Liel ducks
his head and runs. The ground is hard, pounding against his bare feet. He never wears shoes; it is too
dangerous, and makes it easier for them to notice his disappearance. Of course, even the blistering
sores on his bare feet will be all for nothing, if he doesn’t make it to the orphanage before they check
each room for lights out.
Liel’s hair is a pale streak of colour, stark against the bloody red of the setting sun, but the worker
doesn’t spot him, doesn’t come forward, and Liel nearly cries with relief as the worker slowly disappears
from sight. His feet are dusty and caked in muddy crimson and the sores on his heel throb with every
thundering step, but Liel is used to dirt and pain. Anyone who lived in the kingdom of acid rain would
be, even Liel, with his life clothed in expensive silks and leather, and not a drop of blood on his hands.
The sun is travelling faster and faster, too fast. Liel’s lungs scream in pain as he breathes in,
desperate gasps pouring out as he wills his tired legs to go faster, faster than the sun. His legs are too
short, he is too small, too slow, too insignificant, too incapable. The orphanage’s pale spires, usually
stark against the smoky red sky, are nowhere to be seen, and Liel frantically scans the distance before
a pang of exhaustion hits him, nearly blinding him. He has gone the wrong direction. There is no other
explanation, in the scorched fields, all directions look the same. The threat of being caught had loomed
and taunted him, and he had run away in a panic. He had gotten too comfortable, stayed out too late . . .
Figures, strange and foreign, appear in the distance, just as despair forces the air out of his lungs
and Liel takes his last steps, slowly stumbling forward. The figures are coming close, too close. They
are orphanage workers, coming to take him away, somewhere alien, somewhere far from his home, his
land (his father), even without looking, he knew . . .
But his eyes never lie, and when he does raise his head, they are met with blue. The people, things,
monsters, whatever whoever they are, wear coats stained in royal blue. A familiar blue, the same blue
of the late king’s guard. A dark, noble blue that he had seen every day on the coat rack at home, laying
in a pile on the table, in the hands of the servants, in front of him, strong and unyielding, protecting
him. One of them pauses, before coming closer and closer. This one is tall, taller than the others, and all
at once, it comes back to him.
Men wearing the king’s blue escaped from the king’s execution and disappeared—
He approaches slowly, almost hesitating, wire glasses glinting gold in the setting sun, blue eyes
under light brows narrowed in a thoughtful permanent scowl, and Liel freezes in place, throat and eyes
both burning, light-headed, heart pounding its way out of his chest, and is barely able to choke out . . .
“Papa . . . ?”
Angelina (Yang) Jiao is a Grade 9 student at Hunting Hills High School in Red Deer (Shantelle Gervais, teacher).
20
Tear-Stained Eyes
Graeme Gibson
The sun never shows its light here.
I know this to be all too true. It’s too ashamed to illuminate the destruction of humanity that occurs
within its dull grey walls. Made firmly with stone and mortar, the barriers loom high above its captives
like the faces of judges against a man who has committed a terrible crime. They smother any shred of
joy that could be found within, a constant reminder of how grave the circumstances are.
Inside is not much better. Hundreds of buildings are lined in parallel rows, some filled with
prisoners and some filled with bodies. The ground is a landscape of dirt, with bits of rock and broken
glass littering the ground everywhere you step. Not a spot of grass can be found. I wish I could say
that wasn’t a big deal, but without any shoes for protection, prisoners often find themselves picking
glass from broken bottles of scotch out of the soles of their feet. Whimpers and cries for help are not
uncommon, as soldiers beat, punish and drag prisoners away to be slaughtered almost every day,
without any subtlety or humanity.
So you see, there is nothing as terrible as being in one of the Nazis’ concentration camps. Having
been one of the guards here for two and a half years, I would know. You lose all joy; everything that
makes you see the good in people flies away like a bird without its mother. I’ve always regretted the
time I’ve been forced into by my country to spend here, but there has never been more a time as gutwrenching as that December winter.
Never will I be able to forget that boy and his mother.
A bone-chattering evening was where it all started. The previous day a new batch of civilians had
come in from Austria, bringing with them tightened security and null tolerance for misbehaviour. I
watched as they were ushered out of the railcars and moved into orderly, corresponding lines, potent
fear hanging around them like a plague of insects. As soon as they were lined up, the Commandant
came strolling out of his office, jacket loosely draped around his shoulders and gun presented
noticeably at his waist. Speaking calmly to the new group, he told them all about how this was a war,
and how they would be treated as prisoners of war. How they would be beaten if they were breaking
the rules of the camp, and how every second day, they would take a group of people and end their
lives in the gas chamber. He promised a quick death, should it happen to them.
Every person in the camp knew that that was a lie. A powerful wave of unrest washed over the
arrivals.
I remember the following events very clearly. Commotion. A little boy jumping out of line and
running for a crying lady. Shouting, yelling. A young boy, punching and biting at my fellow guards.
CRACK! A warning shot. More shouting. Panic in the new group of prisoners. Men grab and wrench
the boy up. Punch. Kick. Scream. A mother, crying out for them to stop. Shove. Thump. CRACK!
Another warning shot. The guards stop, backing off of the boy. Body on the ground, he’s motionless
for too long. Finally, the boy weakly lifted his head and turned to face his mother. Teardrops curtained
over fresh bruises and cuts, his face a mess of blood and dirt. The mother sobbed and cried out the
boy’s name.
“My William, my poor, beautiful boy!”
Interrupting the sobbing woman, the Commandant stepped in between them and looked directly at
the boy.
21
“William, hmm? Well, boy, I believe that this is a perfect time to teach you just how important
obedience is here at your new home,” he said intensely.
With that he drew his pistol, lifted his arm and shot the mother three times in the chest.
The day after, I found the boy sitting at one of the building’s stair entrances. He was now wearing
a torn man’s shirt, multiple sizes too big with the sleeves rolled up to make them fit. He cradled his
head in his hands, but hearing my footsteps he looked up at me with red, tear-stained eyes. It looked as
though he had wept the whole night, and his tears had just dried up now.
Don’t get me wrong, guards are not supposed to talk to prisoners unless ordering them to do
something, but I couldn’t bring myself to just ignore his misery. I approached him.
“Hey, listen, I know that you probably just want to be left alone, but you’re only a kid. Can I at least
get you some water?” I asked him as sincerely as I could.
He didn’t answer, just looked blankly into the courtyard.
I decided to take a chance. “William?” I hoped that saying his name would get a response.
“Leave me alone. Please.”
So I did. Days passed, and nobody talked to the boy again. He went about, seemingly without a
purpose, wandering the yard and not interacting with a single soul. I wasn’t sure what would happen
to him, or what the Commandant would eventually do with him. Instead he took matters into his own
hands, and what he did was beyond anything I could’ve ever feared.
Even for the cruelest of guards, running the gas chamber was the worst job in the camp. The smell
of rotten flesh blanketed the entire building and surrounding grounds, so thick that it was vomitinducing. Behind the chamber a pile of burnt and mutilated bodies was building up. Soldiers who
worked the camp’s crematorium only came to take them away every week, and we still had three more
days to go before they got here.
I was with another one of the guards, waiting for the next group of prisoners to arrive at the
chamber. He went to see what the holdup was at the other end of camp, and just after he left the boy
came running through the door and up to me. He grabbed my arms tightly and looked me straight in
the eye. Sorrow, pain and anguish were among the many things I saw in him, and my heart instantly
tore.
Then he spoke.
“There is nothing left for me on this Earth,” he whispered, voice raw and full of hurt. “Let me in
before they come back. I can’t stand to live, but I have no means myself to do what I have to do. Please,
let me in so I may join my mother.” Tears began to swell in his eyes.
Truthfully, I don’t know if I made the right choice, but seeing all the pain behind his words in those
dull brown eyes made me give. I opened the door for him to go through, and he walked with his head
up, forcing back any doubt, and marched fearlessly into the chamber. I was about to shut the door
when the guards arrived with the other prisoners. Single file they all went in. Some cried for mercy,
some prayed to their god, and others did nothing but tremble, silently. But none went in with the
affirmation and courage that the boy did.
The other guards ordered me to shut the door. Whirring to life, the gas chamber hummed with the
sound of a thousand hornets, as I collapsed to the floor and broke down in tears.
Graeme Gibson is a Grade 9 student at Namao School in Sturgeon County (Kalinda Wiebe, teacher).
22
Her
Elykah May Tejol
Every time I walk in my room, I see her. This ugly person in front of me. She had bloodshot fish-like
eyes, curly blonde hair and a body that I’d rather not see. I see her every day. Every time I get out of
my bed or when I’m about to sleep, I always see her. It makes me wonder if she even likes being here,
in my room. She always looks like she is depressed. Sometimes, I even see her in buildings. I wonder
what she would look like if she smiled.
When I first saw her, I was terrified. I screamed on top of my lungs and rushed out of my room.
“Who was that girl? Why was she here?” A lot of questions were in my mind, but I kept my mouth shut.
I slept in my mother’s room whenever I saw her but I could still feel her presence. Then, one day, I
decided to sleep in my room. She was still there. She was silent but she always stared at me with wide
eyes. What’s up with that?
When it was prom night, I couldn’t find her. I was worried even though I knew that she probably
was just an image in my mind. I didn’t try to find her since I didn’t know where to look. She was
always everywhere but it’s unusual that she just disappeared, just like that, but my night still continued
and I went to prom.
After prom was finished, I saw her immediately when I arrived home. I was shocked when I saw
her. She was wearing a dress too, but she still looked like herself. Slouchy back, messy hair, ugly legs
and teeth that even braces couldn’t fix. I sat on my bed and investigated her. I still wonder, what
happened to her that led her to that figure?
One night, I woke up from a loud screeching sound. Even though I shouldn’t have, I opened my
mouth to ask: “What was that noise?” Then, I saw her. She looked different, but not better. She looked
scary. She glared at me like she hated me. She looked like she wanted to kill me. I was scared of what
she would do to me so I ran to the living room and decided to sleep there.
I always wondered why she was there with me. Was she a dead relative? Or is it someone that used
to live in this house and died here? That wasn’t possible though. Our house was newly built so only me
and my mom have lived here.
She started changing. She got scarier. When I would go up to my desk and do my homework, I
would see papers scattered everywhere. All the papers would have scribbles in them that would always
be related to death. Did I do something wrong to her?
While I was eating dinner with my mother, I started thinking deep. When did she start appearing?
I thought about it, for hours. I didn’t know. I walked back in my room. As usual she was there. I took
my journal from the bottom of my bed and flipped the pages. Then, I saw it.
It was written on August 29, 2006, nine years ago when I was just eight years old. It weirdly had a
picture of her. Does that mean she’s real? I shrugged that thought off. I hope not. Back to the date. Why
was that date familiar? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a birthdate or something. I asked my mother about
what the date was but she didn’t answer me. Her expression did change. Her face got sadder.
I wanted to decorate my room. It was too minimalistic. My walls were plain white, so was my
beddings and pillows. I had a black table and a chair. The only thing that wasn’t plain was the art on
top of my bed frame. It was a drawing drew by my sister.
23
My mom recently got me a phone and my gallery was full of pictures of her. It was weird. The thing
though is that she was smiling in some pictures. When I saw it, I thought: “Oh, so that’s how she looks like
when she’s smiling.” She looked beautiful when she did smile but every picture she was smiling in, they
all looked fake.
Earlier this morning, when I woke up, my arms stinged. I looked at them and saw cuts. I was
shocked. Couldn’t it be, that she did this to me? I looked at my side, there she was.
“Doesn’t it feel good?” she said while grinning.
That was the first time I’ve ever heard her. I was scared. I cried my eyes out and screamed for my
mom. What was happening? Is she trying to kill me? But I was so scared that my brain was only full of
her voice.
Don’t you want to leave earth? Are you really happy here? Just end it. You don’t care anymore, right? Your
mom was the reason of everything. She caused it. She did those things that she can’t take back.
“MY MOM’S INNOCENT!” I screamed as I walked up to her. “Don’t you dare accuse her!”
I swung my arms and punched her with all my might. Ow. That hurt more than I thought it would.
I looked at my fist, it was bleeding. I saw shards of glass on the ground of my room. I looked up and
saw her. This ugly, depressed teenager, that looked like she was from a ward. The worst thing was that
she looked worse every single day. I wish she never appeared. I wish that she was never on my side.
This time, my vision of her was different. I had lines in front of me while I was facing her. I
investigated her physical appearances. She was wearing a white dress, she looked like she was 17 years
old, she had blonde hair, she had cuts on her arm, her fist was bleeding. I laughed, did I forget again?
I was her.
Elykah May Tejol is a Grade 7 student at St Clement Catholic School in Grande Prairie (Peter MacKay, teacher).
24
Uncertainty
Sarah Montgomery
I’ve always been told: you know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is better
than your dreams. Conceivably, this is the reason I lay here, wakeful. His coarse leg hair brushes mine
as our legs intertwine. Our bodies molded into one. The way his touch sets my whole body alight
with adoration. Listening to his steady breathing. The feeling of belonging and safety, being wrapped
up in his arms. Two souls kept warm by each other’s company. I could lay here forever, but perhaps
I don’t want to. Is life supposed to be comfortable? Easy? As if part of me is looking for something
more. The possibility of the unknown. Seems like I have all the time in the world. Maybe I should do
something about it. Laying here, completely sedentary, I feel as if I’m missing something. With slow
and steady movements, I raise my head to look at him. Analyzing each, any, every one of his features.
My mind and heart in two completely different places. It could just be a matter of opening myself up
for love. We had been so coherent since the beginning. Nobody questioned it, we were “meant” to be
together. I shouldn’t be bored. I’m just a girl, lying beside a boy, asking him to love her like she needs
to be loved. But, should I have to ask? There’s nothing holding me back from walking out this door
and never looking back. Perhaps it was explicit infatuation, which I have confused with love. Maybe
I never learned to love so then he’s my home sweet home. He came into my life when I needed him,
but I’m questioning if I still do. At the beginning, my intentions were clear, but now the lines have all
blurred. I squirm off the bed, gently padding across his apartment floor. After I’ve collected all of my
belongings, I make my way towards the door. Before I step out, I take one last glance behind me. He
lays there, oblivious to what’s happening. With all the courage I can muster, I sneak out. A sense of
accomplishment overwhelms me. From then on, I never look back. I lost him, but found myself, and
somehow that was everything.
Sarah Montgomery is a Grade 9 student at Lindsay Thurber Comprehensive High School in Red Deer
(Geoffrey Parker, teacher).
25
the little things
Yohan Kebede
Nora wasn’t one of those cold people who spat on anyone who tried to talk to her. No, she just
cared about money more than most people usually do. Not a lot of things mattered to her, just money
because it could buy you anything, at least that’s what Nora liked to think. Sure, happiness couldn’t be
bought with money. For her, money was worth more than happiness, because happiness was just a silly
emotion. Happiness wasn’t going to buy her a new car, but money could. Nora Mitchell was a greedy
person, plain and simple. Though her attitude enabled her to rise up in the workplace, Nor had yet to
learn how deeply wrong she is.
“Have all your bags, Nor?” asked her sister, Briah.
“Of course, Bri, what could I possibly forget?” retorted Nora.
“Sorry, just making sure,” Briah said sheepishly with a grin on her face.
The two sisters were practically carbon copies of each other. They both had the same long, auburn
brown hair and jade green eyes, the same soft pearl white skin and high cheekbones. The only way to
differentiate the two was their personalities. Briah is warm and caring, often cracks jokes and loves to
make people smile. Whereas Nora can be a bit aloof, she can be rather stubborn and slightly rude, but
deep down she’s just as loving and caring as her sister.
“Oh, I’m gonna miss you, Bri,” Nora said earnestly.
“Hurry! Or else you’ll miss your flight too!” Briah smiled as they embraced before Nora sped
towards Gate B for her departure. Briah was a little disappointed but not in the least surprised that
Nora had cut her vacation short for a business meeting. But this was not just any business meeting,
oh no, Briah thought to herself. This meeting could be Nora’s big break, the one where she gets a
promotion with an even bigger paycheque. At least that’s what she had said. Even if she had stayed
for the rest of their holiday, all Nora would’ve been doing was answering phone calls and replying to
e-mails. Briah didn’t even try to ask Nora to stay longer this time. She knew her sister. Money was what
ruled her, and in Briah’s opinion Nora was too far gone down her rabbit hole to be pulled back up.
“Whoops, so sorry,” Nora muttered as her shoulder plowed into the man in front of her who had
suddenly stopped moving. He bent down to pick something up but Nora was in quite a rush to catch
her flight so she didn’t think anything of it. She did notice that her purse was hanging wide open so she
zipped it up. Nora hurried on oblivious that one of her closest valuables was missing, and that the man
behind her was slowly getting back up, with a sly grin creeping across his face . . .
***
While waiting in line to show her boarding pass Nora’s hand reached into her purse feeling around
for her antique key chain. It was a simple thing, a silver rectangular key chain that had an enameled
picture of her mother enclosed in it. Her mother had given it to her a few months before her death. It
wasn’t worth much but Nora always kept it with her, glancing at it whenever there was a free moment,
just to remind herself of her mom. Her mom had always loved her and always understood her. Nora
was still coping with her loss. She always kept the key chain in a small pocket compartment on the left
side of her purse, close to her heart. This time when she reached for it, her hand did not find the key
chain. Her heart froze for a moment. She opened her purse wide and fished around with her hand,
sifting through dozens of Kleenexes, a hand sanitizer and her wallet to yield nothing. She found herself
next in line to show her passport.
26
“Sorry, you can go in front of me,” Nora said to the man waiting behind her. She took a seat and
started rifling through her purse, her breath quickening. She panicked, afraid that she would find
nothing as she searched her purse. Little did she know it was useless.
***
Several minutes had passed when Nora finally realized that she had missed her flight for a key
chain. Her flight back home, where the meeting that was going to be her big break awaited her. She had
missed it, for a key chain. She had missed a chance to live a rich person’s life, a chance to be powerful,
for an inanimate object. As she let that thought dawn on her, she was surprised. Surprised that she
had made that decision, but oddly she was fine with it. She came to terms with herself at that moment.
Maybe money isn’t everything, she pondered. However, she set the thought aside so she could focus on
finding that key chain.
She started retracing her steps through the airport searching for her key chain. A sense of
determination set her on fire like never before. That key chain meant a lot to her and she wasn’t just
going to lose it. As she retraced her steps she remembered bumping into a man back when she was
racing to her gate. She took a moment, remembering how her purse was wide open when she bumped
into him. It was becoming clearer. She was just looking at the key chain before she said bye to her sister,
and it would have been fairly easy to take something from her purse. Nora came to the conclusion that
the man she bumped into had taken her key chain. Although she had no idea why someone would
want a tattered key chain, Nora was determined to find the thief and get it back.
***
“Could you repeat that again, ma’am?” the security officer asked for the third time. “He had
brownish hair and I think he had green eyes?” Nora said, sounding very unsure of herself. “And he was
wearing a large brown coat,” Nora added, trying to be helpful but sounding even more dim-witted.
“And you’re sure you had it here in Schiphol airport?” the officer asked, leaning back in his navy
blue office chair, jotting something down on a notepad. The security office wasn’t much to look at.
Cold, drab, grey walls watched as Nora informed the airport security officer of her plight.
“May I ask you, how much is this key chain really worth, ma’am?” the officer questioned, putting
his notebook on the grey table that stood in between them. He folded his wrinkled hands and placed
them on his lap.
“Well, the key chain itself isn’t worth much. It looks flashy but that’s all. It’s more of a memory
to me. My mother passed away last year. She gave it to me a few months before she died. I keep her
picture with me, to remind me of her.” Her voice trailed off and she looked down.
“Well, ma’am, we will do everything in our power to find the culprit, but it may take some time due
to the ‘general’ description of this thief,” the officer said, concluding their meeting.
“Thank you for your time, officer,” Nora said as she reluctantly rose from her seat and left the
office.
***
“One coffee, black, and a chocolate croissant, thank you,” Nora said as she pulled out her debit
card. She hadn’t eaten that morning and felt like she was going in circles. After waiting for her beverage
and snack, Nora took a seat within the folds of the plush velvet armchair in front of the window. Nora
was deep in thought. After several minutes of coffee sipping and croissant nibbling, Nora called Briah
asking if she could pick her up from the airport. She had received a call from security saying that they
had failed to find the thief and he had most likely left the airport already. She thought that most likely
they hadn’t even looked, and were just being polite. She could understand that what mattered so much
to her probably didn’t seem like an important theft to them. The security man sounded apologetic as he
hung up.
27
She felt her chest tighten. She knew that the key chain meant a lot to her. But really hadn’t expected
it to hurt this much. Sitting there gazing out the window, with her coffee getting cold, Nora decided
that she would take a break from work. She resolved that the memories made with family are more
important than a paycheque. It was time to make more memories instead of just hanging on to a few
old ones.
***
As she walked out the airport doors, Nora headed to a nearby garbage can to throw out her coffee.
As Nora turned away, a glint of silver on the edge of the can caught her eye. She swivelled around and
her jaw dropped. There on the edge of the garbage can was her key chain.
Yohan Kebede is a Grade 7 student at École Madeleine d’Houet in Calgary (Tina Sollazzo, teacher).
28
Suits
Selena Verhun
Men march like little soldiers
Suit after suit
Slick, clean concrete
Shiny black shoes scuff smooth stone
Cups with green women in every left hand
Watches ticking
Cellphones on silent
Expensive briefcases holding important documents
Masters of the street
Others move out of their way
Timing is critical
Need to make that walk light
Have to make that walk light
The wind ignores their gelled hair
Eyes fixed ahead
Cookie-cutter men
One thing is different
Every tie is not the same
Selena Verhun is a Grade 10 student at Ardrossan Junior Senior High School in Ardrossan
(Jan Macklam, teacher).
29
Grades 10–12 Poetry—Second Place
Battle of the Bands
Chance Blais
I guess it started when I was a teen
Back then when I learned about rock ’n’ roll
Back then when I was a little bit mean
Back then when I lost all my self-control
Now that I’m older and a bit more wise
I can shred a guitar with utter ease
I play in a band with some awesome guys
And now we can charge some outrageous fees
I walk on the stage in full battle gear
I’m locked and loaded and ready to fire
The screams of the fans make it hard to hear
I grab my axe and plug in my wire
The enemy stands waiting in silence
The first shot rings out and is heard by all
I stand among the screams and violence
The world goes quiet as foes start to fall
The smoke clears all are gone except the one
Who stands against us and fights for the prize
I fire out notes until he is done
He lays down his sword with tears in his eyes
Defeated and worn he walks off stage
He turned out to be the best of the rest
But in the end with a turn of the page
With a cry of joy I showed them who’s best
Chance Blais is a Grade 12 student at Coronation School in Coronation (Sharalynn Anderson, teacher).
30
The Storm
Name Withheld
The storm races inside her
From all the memories that once were
All the cuts all blows upon her face
All her worries are catching up to her in a race
The storm rages on yet she knows how to deal
The thunder and the lightning she can conceal
Despite saltwater floods inside her
Resumes lovely graceful intents
And her storm is made beautiful during events
They applaud her for her placid composure
Her lovely graceful air of light exposure
Everywhere she went the lightning from her storms
Lighted up others around her, this was her intent
She disguised her lightning shocks as
Colours, colours, colours in all her art forms
They saw no pain, her raging storm is all she has
That beautiful face has so much grace
The wondrous colours of her storm glean
They saw bravery, a heart full of agelessness
Encouraged by others despite her storm
They see her and put joy upon her face
She is full of light, a gleaming evergreen
Their lives were lit up by her light
Her lightning was her strength and might
They loved her, they loved her
For she showed light yet she had a storm
But storms grow,
And tears will grow
As distress intensifies,
And all her secret cries
Turn to screams of terror.
The result of effort isn’t her error.
But thunder will grow,
As the lightning loudens,
And floods of salt water will drench her face.
31
They mock her for her clumsy composure
Her haunting disgraced air of shadow exposure
Everywhere she goes
Her thunder goes
Her inner lightning is displayed fragility
She disguised the lightning shock as whole
Black, black, black a drawing a charcoal
They saw every imaginable pain in her ability
That intricately painted face is without grace
The true colours of her storm are seen
They saw only irresponsibility and say she is full of laziness
Tormented by thunder, tormented by her storm
They see her and put mock upon her disgrace
She is shamefully unclean, she is pitifully unclean
Their lives were proven useless by their social norm
Her lightning was her shocking weakness
They hated her, they hated her
For she showed darkness, she is the storm
For storms will crack,
And lightning will burn.
The thunder will turn black,
And tear-flooded faces always return,
As screams never diminish.
The result of her effort is her error.
But the heart pace will slow,
As the thunder will finish
And the wave of nothing but silence she will know.
The poet is a Grade 12 student at Medicine Hat High School in Medicine Hat (Tammy Vaari, teacher).
32
Grades 10–12 Poetry—Honourable Mention
Remember September
Emily Stobbe
I remember that moment of peace,
The first time I gazed into your eyes.
That was my sacred release.
I look back and think of how time flies.
It was then, a fire was ignited,
Burning until we were reunited.
At last I let go and lived my life.
Sometimes a memory comes to light,
It cuts my heart like a knife.
The memories come back and I fight,
It hurts to know that my dreams were in vain,
It became easier to bear the pain.
My heart harboured an undying hope,
And my mind, a never-ending dream.
Deep down I knew I could cope.
Although some days I wanted to scream,
I had to push the memories away,
And yet I refused to let them decay.
Then the fateful day finally came,
I found you where I met you before,
Life will never be the same.
A warm shiver shook me to the core.
My heart is sometimes unreliable,
But my feelings are undeniable.
Some gloomy days you would come to mind,
It never took much to make me smile.
Your eyes were always so kind.
I think of the day we walked a mile.
Because of you I came out of my shell,
I wished to go back, why? I’d never tell.
Now all I can do is hope and pray,
I have to wait for fate to decide.
I will talk to you someday.
I’ll push the years of silence aside.
Time’s gone by, but maybe you’ll remember,
You still haven’t forgotten September.
But the world moved on, and I did too.
I went to the forest trails alone,
But I could never find you.
I walked through the forest on my own.
I wished to let go, but my heart was bound,
And I knew deep down you wouldn’t be found.
Emily Stobbe is a Grade 11 student from Ardrossan who is home-schooled through the Alberta Distance
Learning Centre (Shelley Grey-Sortland, teacher).
33
How to Feel for Dummies
(Emphasis on the Dummies)
Jenna Koenig
Chapter 1
You have got to hold on to every word that’s aimed in your direction like it’s the edge of a cliff, like it’s
the last thing that’s stopping you from plummeting into an abyss.
Take all the words that serve the purpose of acid, and pour them down your throat.
Swallow this cocktail of condemnation once every afternoon, and you’ll never be left empty.
Chapter 2
If at some point you find that nobody is actually saying anything bad about you, it’s important to
remind yourself not to worry, because they’re definitely thinking it.
Chapter 3
Put on a T-shirt, walk out into the snow, when it’s only below freezing, and lie down. Submerge
yourself in the icy discomfort until it stings, or it burns, or it doesn’t anymore.
But notice the tingle,
the itch,
the pinch.
Those are all symptoms of being alive.
You are alive.
Chapter 4
Never forget the phrase “fake it ’til you make it.”
This means smiling.
Just smile.
It doesn’t matter if there’s anything to smile about, just do it with conviction.
This also means laughing at things you don’t find funny,
because maybe,
eventually,
this will happen involuntarily.
A Pavlovian response to unfunny things,
can you imagine laughing
without trying?
Chapter 5
Try to make yourself cry over the fact that you cannot cry.
Do not let yourself forget your abnormalities.
Attempt to salvage yourself from numbness with the use of misery and despair.
You cannot fall back into emptiness,
not if you’re hurting.
You just can’t.
34
Chapter 6
Take a walk,
listen to music,
self-medicate.
Activities such as these allow you to connect to the most inner and raw forms of yourself.
Introspect, drink.
Reflect, drink.
Contemplate.
Chapter 7
If all else fails, bring back to mind the scissors and the rope on the shelf.
Chapter 8
Never underestimate the power of suggestion.
I think, therefore I am,
I say,
I am living, so I am.
I am dying, so I am.
Chapter 9
Burn bridges while you are still standing on them.
Let the flames devour you like the kerosene you represent,
they will scorch
and they will sear
but they will keep you warm.
Don’t run off that bridge.
Do not jump off of that bridge.
Stand your ground,
disintegrate.
Chapter 10
Whatever you do,
Do not let affliction go.
Do not pull out the dagger, no matter how much it hurts,
Because you will bleed out.
You need something to fill that space,
Where flesh once was,
Where life
once
was.
Jenna Koenig is a Grade 11 student at St Francis High School in Calgary (Matthew Sauer, teacher).
35
Music Is Life and I Eat Cake
Natasha Marcille
Life is similar to a musical masterpiece. Filled with harsh notes and beautiful melodies, shifting
from one phrase to the next. Over time, the intensity of the music increases, finally reaching its peak,
and then the climax which changes the original melody completes it.
As with most aspects in my life involving change, I opposed it completely. I held no desire to join
band. It seemed like both a waste of time and a practice in futility—I was never a patient individual,
and frankly, I find most individuals annoying in the extreme.
I am not a people person. Parents, friends, they all have expectations. People raise their voices
and expect you to listen; however, in most cases, it is a simple matter to nod or shake my head at the
appropriate moment. Therefore, I never expected what would happen. Indeed, entering the band room
for the first time was an experience in and of itself, one I remember vividly.
I’m nervous, apprehensive, and the tiniest bit nauseous. My fellow classmates speak loudly,
creating a cacophony of overlapping sound. How irritating. The room’s scent, comprised mostly of
strong body odour and saliva, is so overpowering I force myself to breathe through my mouth. The
people around me, my comrades in a war waged against modern divas and numerous boy bands,
are loud individuals, extroverts for the most part. My terror grows. Our teacher, Mr McGregor, is an
exceptionally loud individual, and raises his voice to capture our attention. Still more than slightly
terrified, I find a place to sit, and move to one of the sky blue, exceedingly uncomfortable plastic
chairs. A few jokes into the class and I’m somewhat at ease, until we are given contracts for our future
instruments. Most of us have yet to decide on one in particular, a decision that could negatively impact
the amount of time I can afford to read on a weekly basis. As such, I await the opportune moment to
move in.
Choosing to play the clarinet was a relatively simple decision. As an instrument, it is beautiful,
easily pieced together, and while lacking the noise range of the brass, is similar enough to the recorder
that learning how to navigate my weapon of musical choice was not too difficult. With smooth, sleek
lines, a glowing black frame, and shining keys, it’s flawless.
The people in my section are not unpleasant. Most of the loud, annoying students are in the
trumpet section, but are easy to get along with. The music is challenging, and every day that passes my
confidence in both myself and my musical capabilities only grows. My patience, which I thought would
stretch too far and break, similar to a rubber band, has not felt nearly the strain I anticipated. Yes, I am
in a room filled to bursting with loud unconventional people, but, as they say, there are two sides to
every coin. While they speak, I listen. While they laugh, I laugh with them. As they learn, I learn beside
them. In addition, I’ve also learned to ignore the smell.
That room is now incredibly important to me. It is a place filled with people who have changed me.
The first time I walked into the band room, all I took care to notice were the flaws. The repulsive smell
clinging to every wall, the floor displaying patches of dried spit left from the brass section, and the
poor lighting and structure. I sincerely hope that changes within the years to come—the shape does not
properly distribute sound. There are cracks in the wall and only one exit for 50 students. However, the
people that enter that room, who share so many new experiences with me, of all people, well, suffice to
say that room has become, for me, a place of comfort. In that place, I have felt included and accepted
36
for who I am, no matter my own personal flaws. It was there that my identity was changed, and that is
something to be proud of.
In Latin, the band motto says, “Music Is Life, and I Eat Cake.” It’s something that identifies our
group, much like an athletic uniform or a team cheer. It is something that I find both humorous and
representative of my place in this group, the personal growth and maturity I have gained, and the
understanding I have experienced, which has given me a sense of belonging. I can only hope that I
have given this same understanding to others. Personally, while I could voice my many opinions on the
motto’s deeper meaning, I feel as though it’s more of a joke, band nerds only.
Natasha Marcille is a Grade 11 student at St Timothy Junior/Senior High School in Cochrane (Raquel Dallyn,
teacher).
37
In the Hands of Death
Morgan Leakvold
We are greeted by the flicking tongues of flame from the smokestacks of the crematorium and the
harsh rotting odour. Welcome to Auschwitz-Birkenau. I remember when we first arrived, we were
hustled under the arched entrance, and over the cold metal bars. The words “Arbeit Macht Frei”
taunted us. It roughly translates to “Work makes you free.” But now I’m beginning to think that the
only freedom we’ll be granted is to kiss the hands of death. We were blindly convinced that if we tied
the laces of our shoes together and wrote our addresses on our luggage, our belongings would return
to us untouched. I truly miss the simple luxury of warm, dry clothes and shoes to keep the biting cold
from my numb toes. We had also been assured that when we returned from our showers, we’d be
greeted by a hot cup of coffee. However, rather than the soothing and bitter taste of caffeine, we have
learned to subsist on the vile, iron tang of blood from gums of malnutrition. They were masters of
false hopes and shattered dreams. To them, we are nothing. We are wretched bags of bones with thin,
pale skin that falls untidily over our aching shoulders. Our jaws hollowed out by malignant wounds
that perforate our cheeks like cancer. This is the tedious march down the damned road to eradication.
Please believe me when I say that people desperately turn to things they once ridiculed in hopes of
finding faith. I’ve never been a believer, but Lord if you are there please hear my final request. I’m
ready to press my crude lips against the tender knuckles of demise.
Morgan Leakvold is a Grade 12 student at Harry Collinge High School in Hinton (Rebecca Turnbull, teacher).
38
Devoured by Mania
Isabella Thorsen
Silence has always frightened me. It was defining and overpowering, too loud but too soft at the
same time. It frightened me to know how alone I really was. So instead of feeling everything, I decided
I would feel nothing. It was easier to feel nothing, less exhausting, at first. Life turned out to be the most
demanding thing I ever had to endure. Waking up in the morning was the difficult part of my day, but
sleeping at night sometimes proved to be more complex. The routine of life, the day-to-day nuisance
of living in a grotesquely horrid gash that is known as life turned malicious. Sitting in the cafeteria was
disturbing, when I was surrounded by people; I felt nothing at all. It might have been the fact that I had
a constant headache that never ceased but instead pounded against my skull so irresponsibly that it
made me begin to feel like the blood was gathering and I would need to get a hole drilled in the side of
my skull to relieve the constant pressure.
Life was getting in the way, fresh air turned stale, and my bed was made of nails. I couldn’t be
bothered to stay in the constant routine of being lifeless. The people around me felt too close yet not
close enough, my physical needs overcompensated while my mental needs were undercompensated.
Instead of going home after school, I took wrong turns towards the mountains and drove on. I drove
until I needed gas, then drove until it was too dark to see. I paid for a room at a cheap hotel and
phoned home to say I was staying with a friend. I felt a terrible self-loathing for lying. School no longer
had a point, so not going back had no meaning. That night I lay on the cheap bedspread and listened to
the silence; I became drunk on loneliness and it was a sweet addiction. I never wanted to go back to the
reality of sobriety.
I never wanted to hear the words, “Oh look, she seems happy today!” because the truth was that
there were no happy days. I no longer wished to be around people I had no choice to be around. I
would no longer accept when people left me. I wanted to be the one that left and had everyone else
accept it, to feel the consuming loneliness that was so real I could almost touch it.
Alternatively to waking up every hour on the hour, that night I had the most pleasant sleep. I slept
into oblivion, without a shame or care in my mind; my consciousness was placed in a tomb. I couldn’t
remember the last time I had that kind of sleep, where the world disappeared and left behind no trace
of existence. It felt amazing to wake up and feel refreshed with new possibilities instead of being in the
haze of my addiction to loneliness.
The next day, I drove until a sign on the side of the road that said, “Silence.” The perplexity and
complete audacity the sign had made me begin to question my mental stability. Getting out of the car
I looked around and saw the perfect trail. To just happen upon this trail that my cracked and sad spirit
felt essential to its existence, it needed to hear what it was truly afraid of. For the silence to no longer
create a thirst for extinction.
The silence was no longer frightening; it no longer tore me apart to sit and just listen. So when I
sat on that lonesome bench after a few miles of hiking, I had the strangest feeling. I sat with my back
straight and looked at the greenery around me and sank into my addiction. My spine was straight as I
let the clean mountain air run into my body and fill my lungs to the brim with the existential feeling of
melancholy. A feeling I had been completely accustomed to.
I felt the weight of life suddenly crash down on me. The constant solitude only depressed me. It
stressed me until the fabric of my life was worn and could no longer keep the warmth in my body.
39
Letting it seep out of me until I could only feel the cold of the limitless division the wind provided.
Dividing my physical form from my mental form, creating an astral projection of myself; it was filled
with the overwhelming sadness that had once seeped from my pores. I felt my eyes begin to tear up
as the overpowering, overwhelming sadness raging inside me began to burst because the feelings I
had fought so hard to keep at an arm’s length were suddenly sitting on my shoulders with an ignorant
smile and an awkward hug; and all I could do was let them overwhelm me. They had won the war I
had started inside my body, because I could not let these emotions take over; they un-doubtfully had
known all along that they would eventually win. I let them take every piece of me away, stripping me
bare until I was left naked and the feelings of darkness were running out of my veins to drip on the
dirt-covered ground.
All the emotions fell on me, crushing my heart until I could merely gasp for air as I cried a year’s
worth of tears in a single day. The bright green on the forest comforted me as my sobs filled the air.
The birds remained silent until I could no longer cry. My tears had become an invention to wash away
the sadness and cleanse the poisoned elements of my cracked soul until it became spotless from my
past sins. I barely made a whisper as the oppression of sadness that was left inside me, the wind taking
my delicate sobs away so I was once again left in total and complete separation from the world of
emotions. I was left in a detached state. The birds slowly began songs of remorse as the tears slowed,
my heartbeat returning to normal as I sought to take regular breaths. My only breath the only noise as
darkness rose from the depths of the green around me, replacing my sobs with a determined smile as I
sought out a new satisfaction.
A satisfaction that guaranteed happiness and the world overlaying it. The world where birds
chirped generously and the mind was freely expressed until the heart no longer had a care in the
world. Until the heart no longer had a problem so it had to create new problems. Making minor
problems into larger-than-life universes that held the existence of a new-found life that would frighten
earth. An existence that would both horrify and soothe the human race as it slowly fell, creating a
place that it had never seen. The exact place I would put myself. A place where feelings were free and
yet kept in secret. A place kept in between reality and fantasy. A place that I would forever reside in,
secretly with all my hopes and dreams while my body remained a shell.
Nothing in life makes sense when it does not exist, when it is merely in your mind. In life it is not
the fall that kills you—the journey you take. It is the landing—the routine of day-to-day living—that is
the cause of your unfortunate demise. A demise that we now know to be as surviving life.
Isabella Thorsen is a Grade 11 student at Frank Maddock High School in Drayton Valley (Gregg McNeil, teacher).
40
Teacher Poetry—First Place
A Necessary Glimpse
Kyla Coulman-Absher
Maybe if I write how much I love my job
Often enough
The synapse of joy and care will fire correctly;
Aerodynamically inclining energies
Completing the feeling,
The sensation I need
To actually do this,
To enjoy it;
To see past the fallacies of my chosen profession
That seamless synapse I need . . .
Of conviction . . .
That I might once again care deeply
About what it is I’ve chosen to do:
Care about you,
The student,
Who simply doesn’t.
I never used to pay attention
To “kids these days,”
The “youth of today.”
Rather, I noticed the effect of “these days”
On the kids.
The kids aren’t all right.
These biological indicators,
Akin to amphibians of the natural order,
Are Ethernet disfigured and ignored red flags.
I stand up here
With the intention of telling these kids
And their war zones, rap and decayed environment
That knowledge can change the world—
But the words,
Those friends I have never doubted,
Now under the harsh lights of a teenaged stare
Die a snowflake death on my tongue.
They’re not all right.
The only expression they know is hostility.
The only concern they know is apathy.
The world can’t hurt you,
If your concern stays inside the enfolding brackets;
A finally safe place,
A fiercely protected space,
An area of their being kept starved but uncorrupted
By the new, the strange and associated risks;
A place I can’t bear to see them.
I understand too well the promise of the trap.
A quill doesn’t hurt so much going in,
But it’ll tear like hell on the way out.
Don’t let it in. Guard, protect and deflect.
These lives, or lack thereof,
That they as “adults” are contemplating,
The “act now, think later,”
Teenage normalcy,
With steeper debts imminent;
They’re only 15 and their lifetime credits
Are chronically fissuring out of a lesion
In the back of their brain;
Self-induced wounds
By a weapon of learned ignorance.
I feel bad for wanting to teach you poetry.
I know that in the grand scheme of your life
That would be the pleasant part—
A distraction from merely surviving—
Unlike the privileged kids in a high school
Only three blocks away.
But pleasant isn’t good enough,
Isn’t fast enough, isn’t enough.
Money, sex, methamphetamines, coke, cars,
clothes, shoes,
Intimidating reputation . . .
All these things mask a growing awareness of
powerlessness.
It’s not going away—it’s only getting worse.
41
Teacher Poetry—First Place
The ability to think,
Not do, not run, not hide,
Is outdated;
The message overlooked,
Redundant, boring.
I hate myself for thinking any of these words.
This ugly snippet of truth so disturbing:
That this school is where critical thought goes to
die
(Am possibly getting less intelligent the longer I
stay),
That four years of vocational training
Is instantly redundant here.
In the wilds of an urban lower-class high school
I’m 18, foreign and sheltered from reality,
Again.
Ezra Pound’s “Metro” poem is laughing at me,
A cruel and succinct old white man guffaw,
As I later contemplate jumping out the window,
Running away across the football field, never to
return.
The class is unusually silent, perusing the art,
Compressed words, compressing images,
Pausing over Pound’s glimpse in the rain
Into a sea of blurry pink faces.
“How long did it, like, take him to write this,
seriously?”
A student asks.
“He wouldn’t be famous if it had taken
Only, like, two minutes, you moron,” another one
adds.
“It’s like a picture, right?”
“Yeah, like he just turned his head for a second
And, like, wrote down what he saw,
Like he was looking to cross the, like, street—
Or something.”
This conversation would have boiled Pound’s
blood,
Loose projectiles everywhere,
But something in his realm
Arrests their attention;
A challenge from an old dead poet.
It will make me smile on the way home,
Maybe even for the rest of the month;
This one tiny glimpse.
Maybe they will be fine after all.
Kyla Coulman-Absher is a teacher with the Alberta Distance Learning Centre.
42
Teacher Poetry—Second Place
Scars
Darryl Feser
as wearers of wounds,
we are
not armoured
but adorned
not disfigured,
but transfigured,
and if not beatified
—beautified
winners of wisdom
in our brokenness
bearers of grace
Darryl Feser is a teacher with the Alberta Distance Learning Centre.
43
Teacher Poetry—Third Place
Making a Difference
Vic Mensch
Making a difference
Not easy to do!
Never be content with half-hearted efforts
But be passionate and true
Caring deeply for students and what they learn:
You make a difference
Extolling, expounding, enthralling
Well-written literary texts much to your delight
Ranting about thought-provoking films and cinematic delights
And defining characters’ transformations:
Inspiring colleagues and students to do their best
Instilling a craving for excellence
Not content to bore young minds,
Not content to let stupidity rule,
Not content with inferior, lazy interpretations
Of profound literary texts:
Discussing passionately riveting writing,
effective communication,
honesty, integrity, forthrightness,
Encouraging authentic expressions of perceptions
Encouraging all to do their best:
Encouraging good choices:
Your life, given to learning, teaching, reflecting and celebrating
Opportunities of increased understanding,
Loving students, colleagues and friends,
Journeying together on exciting adventures
Of awesome learning:
The difference you’ve made!
Vic Mensch is a teacher with the Alberta Distance Learning Centre.
44
Teacher Prose—First Place
Coloured Toothpicks
Carey Klassen
The small purple scar on my right knee has been there for 23 years, a reminder of the first time I
rode a bike. It looks bumpy, but the purple puckered skin feels smooth when I run my fingers over it.
The bike was given to me on my seventh birthday; I was living with my grandparents on Florida Road
in the Kingston Township. My sister and I called them Paka and Beppa.
I sat on the banana seat of my shiny blue bike while Paka pushed me along. I began to pedal and
before long I looked like a drunk riding down the road avoiding the centre line, making winding trails
in the gravel. I remember sitting beside my new bike with a dent in the fender, staring at the bloody
hole in my knee through a rip in my jeans.
Beppa kept a jar of toothpicks on the window ledge above the kitchen sink. They were round and
dyed in the primary colours. It was with this bottle of toothpicks, peroxide and a washcloth that Beppa
cleaned my knee.
I sat on the bathroom counter, my feet in the sink, my head resting against the mirror. The bubbles
turned pink as the peroxide fizzled. She wiped away the blood with a warm cloth. Taking a coloured
toothpick from the jar, Beppa scraped away the loose skin and then folded the piece of skin out of
the way so she could clean the dirt and gravel from underneath. I don’t remember her talking to me,
I just remember her pulling coloured toothpicks from the jar and using them to dig out little stones
and fragments of denim from the cut. When that was done, she poured more peroxide on it and then
wrapped it in gauze. “Good as new,” she said, as I jumped down.
Beppa is a short woman with a humped back and is in her early 70s. Her skin is smooth and soft
and always feels cool even on the hottest days of summer. Her face reminds me of a map, each wrinkle
a road telling the story of her life. When I was twelve and on the verge of a growth spurt, I shot above
Beppa like a “bad weed,” my dad says. I used to tell her she was shrinking. She would laugh and shake
her head; I took that as a sign of agreement.
Paka is tall and straight like an oak tree. He is in his 70s, too, and smokes like a blocked chimney.
He loves to work with his hands in the wood shop. I remember sitting on his lap and begging him to
wiggle his ears; he can wiggle them without touching them.
Paka and Beppa had a huge vegetable garden that seemed to cover their whole backyard. They
would spend hours out there, tending to the plants, mucking around in their wooden shoes. During
the summer months there was a compost pile where all the weeds and rotten vegetables were thrown.
My sister and I would raid the pile for cucumbers; we would dig out their insides and make cucumber
boats with sails of paper and masts of coloured toothpicks. We would float them in puddles playing
games of war and adventure.
My first memory of their home is when I was six. It was a cloudy, rainy day, about six o’clock in
the morning. My dad, my sister and I were standing outside in the fog, throwing rocks at an upstairs
window trying to wake someone up to let us in. The house was covered in black tarpaper, hiding the
blue Styrofoam insulation. It seemed to hang like a cloak over the whole house, drawing the summer
heat in. During a storm, the paper would flap crazily and keep me awake.
45
Teacher Prose—First Place
The kitchen ceiling is low with wooden beams stretching across its length. I can remember
screaming crazily in my Uncle Walter’s face as he tossed me into the air and catching me on my way
down. My sister’s twin smile echoed on my face as we were lifted up until our heads bumped the
beams.
Sometimes Paka and Beppa would let us sleep on the floor in front of the wood stove in the kitchen.
We would stretch out on our sleeping bags, drinking tea sweetened with sugar and cooled with milk.
I would drift to sleep, lazily listening to Beppa’s knitting needles click together in their own rhythm
while Paka read the newspaper and the fire popped and crackled behind the mica glass.
Beppa told us once that all of Holland could fit inside Lake Ontario, and it has a population twice
the size of Toronto. “When we were younger,” she said, “it was the style to wear long coats—trench
coats? When the wind blew hard enough, we would pull up the bottom of our coats and hang on to
the handlebars of our bikes, making a sail. The wind would catch us and blow us down the road. You
could go a long way if you could keep your balance.” That’s the only thing I can remember learning
about Paka and Beppa’s life in Holland before they came to Canada. One wrinkled road from the map
of their faces. One coloured toothpick from the jar.
Carey Klassen is a teacher with the Alberta Distance Learning Centre.
46
Barnett House
11010 142 Street NW
Edmonton, AB T5N 2R1
English Language
Arts Council
of the Alberta
Teachers’ Association

the 2016 edition of Celebrating Words.

Transcription

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