05-453 YV body.indd

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05-453 YV body.indd

YOUNG
VOICES
2004/5
Young Voices
Toronto Public Library is proud to present the 2004/5 edition of Young Voices. It
includes poetry, prose and artwork selected from entries submitted by teens age
12-19. We have included items representing the variety of materials received at all
99 of our library branches.
Thanks to the writers who selected the material for this year’s Young Voices:
Anne Laurel Carter; Angela Rawlings; Teresa Toten; and Mark Truscott.
A hearty thanks to all who submitted and congratulations to those whose
work is published here.
Toronto Public Library
October 2005
Teardrop, Muzhda Hakime, Age 12
Contents
Prose: Age 12–14
Victory!? Prerana Das . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Victory!?,
Escapism—The Path to Freedom,, Tamie Dolny . 4
The Game, Isabel Yael Fine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Hear My Cry For Help, Linda Gomez . . . . . . . . . 6
The Little Girl
Girl,, Tegan Gow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Midnight Fright
Fright, Cindy Binyue Li . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
Truly Within, Christine Ng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Kevin Carter
Carter, ZheShu Xiao . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
The End of the World
World, Billy Zhao . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
How to Cope With Being a Malfunction Magnet
Magnet,
Billy Zhao. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Prose: Age 15–16
Revealed Lorraine Blas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Revealed,
Pain Forgotten, Catherine Chan . . . . . . . . . . . .
Silence, Sarah Ghazi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Son of a Broken Man, Linda Li . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Treasure Chest Sky
Sky, Jason Liu . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In a Darkened Alley
Alley, Emily Paskevics . . . . . . . .
With Closed Eyes,, Ksenia Stassiouk . . . . . . . . .
The Mirror
Mirror, Laura Taylor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Man with the Pursed Lips,
Vanja Vukosavljevic. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Dripping with Rage, Shoshana Wasser . . . . . . .
Prose: Age 17–19
Grey Salomeh Ahmadi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Grey,
Don't Hate, Appreciate, Temaj Basha . . . . . . . .
The Lilac Bush, Melissa de Quadros . . . . . . . . .
The Fighter
Fighter, Samreen Faraz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Everyday Struggle, Temesgem Ghebremicael .
All the Lonely People, Joyce Lam . . . . . . . . . . .
Reality 101, Anita Li. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Today Feels Like Yesterday and the Tomorrow
Before That
That, Elena Lissitsyna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Perspective, Natalija Milicevic . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Scarlet Letter: A Review
Review, Julia Zhao . . . . . .
Poetry: Age 12–14
My Life Poem, Alice Dang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Untitled, Gabrielle Felio . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Untitled
My Room,, Tegan Gow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Broked, Tina Hang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Broked
This Day
Day, Illya Mykytyn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Life is, Peter Nawara. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Me,, Denys Pavlov . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Queen of Pranks, Julia Varshavska . . . . . . . . . .
Tragedy, Junaid Warwani . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Tragedy
High Heels, Mattie Wiseman . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Poetry: Age 15–16
18
19
22
23
25
27
28
30
31
32
34
35
37
37
38
38
40
41
42
43
45
46
46
48
48
50
51
51
53
53
Wasted, Erin Cassidy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Wasted,
Storm, Michelle Wong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
The Street
Street, Daniel Bacchus . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
I am, Ana Knezovic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Isn’t it funny?
funny?,, Nina Plotnik . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Peeling Wallpaper
Wallpaper, Vanja Vukosavljevic . . . . . .
Rich Emptiness of History
History, Adela Rexha . . . . . .
Ode to my Pillow
Pillow, Marta Polanska . . . . . . . . . .
Dance, Saara Punjani . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Days, Phillip Livingston. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I Grew Up, Anna Dziuba. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Poetry: Age 17–19
I love you, Mohamed Awad . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mother Nature and More, Ibrahim Baig . . . . . .
The Waiting Room Tales,
Nicholas Constantine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Room 335, David Han . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Mister Marcus, Aresell Joseph . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Girl Reading the Letter
Letter, Sosena Kassa . . . .
Minute of Silence, Cecilia Ki. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Superheroes, Elena Lissitsyna . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Between Take-Off and Nowhere,
Stephanie Law. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Tears of Shame, Tatum Joanne Bernardo. . . . .
The Fountain of Youth, Hoa Pham . . . . . . . . . .
58
59
59
60
61
61
62
63
64
64
66
68
68
69
69
71
72
73
73
Illustrations
Reach, Vicky Zhao. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . front cover
Teardrop, Muzhda Hakime. . . . inside front cover
Potential, Jaewon Jung . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .2
Potential
Leftovers, Ann Han . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .7
Broken Will
Will, Stella Ha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .9
Peace After a Battle, Johnny Choi . . . . . . . . . . .13
Worth a Thousand Words, ZheShu Xiao. . . . . .15
The Enigmatic Smile (self-portrait),
Kushi Chachcha. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Subway Crowd
Crowd, Malcolm Loo . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19
The Sound of Happiness, Lisa Meng. . . . . . . . .21
A New World
World, Sai Paranjape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .22
Chapter #1: Light of Evil, Mary Zhao . . . . . . . .26
Long Travels, Adela Rexha . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31
The Springside in My Dream,
Zhen Hua (Mark) Xiong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33
Childhood, Igor Sinitar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .36
Childhood
Watch Out! We're Coming!
Coming!, Ryan Shin . . . . . . .40
Roots, Carina Chan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44
Solitary Candle, Christina Li. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .49
Artwork, Kelly Hu . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52
Artwork
For You, My Dear Valentine, ZheShu Xiao . . . .55
Melodic Garden, Lisa Meng . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .56
Pigeons in Flight
Flight, Christina Cook . . . . . . . . . . . .60
Rock 'n' Roll
Roll, Alexandra Gidoiu . . . . . . . . . . . . .65
De Original Sketch (D.O.S), Tristan Isaac . . . . .70
Meteora, Jessica Leen. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .74
Eagle Dreams, Vicky Zhao . . . . inside back cover
Caught in the Act
Act, Rebecca Wen . . . . .back cover
Cover illustration:
Reach, Vicky Zhao, Age 16
Prose
Potential
Jaewon Jung, Age 12
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YOU NG VOICE S 2004/5
PROSE: AGE 12–14
Victory!?
Take one look at me, and you’d know I’m not a sporty person. I’m skinny and
have no muscles. I’m always the last to get picked for a team, the person who
nobody passes the ball to at games...
So one day, I decided to change. I knew I had the capability. I just needed the
will. At the next game in gym, I’d steal the ball from the opposite team, and shoot!
It would be a bold act to commit, but I was tired of being stereotyped as a nerd. I’d
made up my mind; there was no turning back now. Next gym class, I’d score.
Lucky, though, next gym period, we were an eager-to-get-out-of-class group
Lucky
of students. When the game started, I was on the bench.
“Off the bench and into the game, KID!” That was Coach.
The black-striped-orange menace bounded across the court in the hands of a
different person every 15 seconds. The hands holding the ball bounced it against
the gym floor at a fast pace as time kept running out.
It was neat to watch, but my team was winning by a small margin, and time
was running out. I decided my time had come. I was a boy with determination,
a boy with a will.
Raphael from the other team had the ball. He wasn’t a really good player
either. This made me stop and think a second. Why’d they pass him the ball, but
not me? I didn’t think about this long, though, because I sprinted over to him and
stole the ball.
I started running. Everything began to happen in slow motion after that. I was
actually starting to feel like one with the ball; my movements were synchronized
with it. I knew I could do this. I ran…ran…and everyone in the crowd became
silent.
My team-members were shouting.
“Don’t do it!”
“STOP!”
“Pass it here!”
I knew they were saying discouraging things because they thought I couldn’t
do it. But I could be a jock too. Nothing would stop me now. I ran my last metre
up to the hoop and threw the ball with all I had.
The crowd was silent.
The ball didn’t go straight in. It circled the rim for what seemed like an
eternity. My teammates were chanting, “No…no…” I knew they were afraid the
ball wouldn’t go in, so I gave them a reassuring smile. They all frowned back at
me, which made me start to wonder. Just as the ball went in, I gasped.
When the ball fell through the hoop, the audience started clapping and
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laughing at the same time. There was cheering…lots of cheering.
But it came from the other team.
I realized too late, that in haste to prove myself worthy of playing basketball,
I had run to the wrong side of the court and scored for the other team!
Victory felt rotten.
Prerana Das, Age 13
Escapism — the Path to Freedom
Are you stressed out from your arduous homework, extensive projects and
exasperating daily tests? Do you crave for your lazy summer holidays, so you
can finally read that award-winning book, watch that newly-released movie or
listen to that refreshing music? We all have a shared need to escape. That’s right,
escape. Escapism is the desire to retreat from unpleasant reality through diversion
and fantasy.
Let me provide you with a little more evidence. Right now, I will give you
a choice. You can either sit in reality and worry about all the work you need to
complete, OR you can escape with me. Please join me in a thrilling mind ride
where you can explore your imagination.
Can you see the door? That’s right, the Door of Opportunity in front of you.
It’s about five metres high, coloured in a cherry red gloss. There’s one shiny,
brass, circular doorknob and one octagonal window. Take a chance and walk
through the Door of Opportunity. NO! Don’t touch the handle! It’s burning hot!
Quickly reach for the octagonal window and turn it 45 degrees to the right.
Unfortunately … you are now standing in total darkness, on the edge of a
large cylindrical tunnel. Can, can, can, you, you, you, hear, hear, hear, the, the,
the, echo, echo, echo? You have but one way to go — straighten your body, cross
your arms over your chest and slide down the tunnel towards the little, shining
beacon.
Whew, Whew, Whew — you are sliding downward at 60 km/hr. Look!
There’s a bed of soft, luscious clouds at the end of the tunnel. Plop! Ohh …
sooo luxurious. But, but, what’s that smell?? Ewwww!!! It’s potent, strong, putrid,
reeking, stinking … scrambled eggs! The scrambled eggs are really your floating
cloud and you’re lying on top. There’s only one way out. You’ll have to do a front
somersault over the edge of the egg cloud and hope for the best.
You’re in free-fall mode, spread your arms! Hold your breath — you’re going
down to the bottom of the ocean. SPLASH! Ow! What’s that sucking sensation on
your right ankle? Just flick it off. Unfortunately … it’s a brown, slimy, slithering
leech. The leech sucking your blood dry really doesn’t matter because there’s a
three metre long shark on your tail! SWIM FOR YOUR LIFE! Fortunately … you
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spy a solitary island with a single mud hut on the shore. Look, the mud hut has
the same cherry red-coloured Door of Opportunity. Stop! Remember the handle
is burning hot. Just turn the octagonal window 45 degrees to the right.
Unfortunately … our time is up. Thank you for joining me on our cerebral
trek. Maybe you could finish your story by adding the next cyber journey. You see,
we all need to diverge from reality by indulging in fantasy. Escape your reality
by taking your own individual path to freedom, simply by using your powerful
imagination.
Tamie Dolny, Age 12
The Game
It’s a game at the end of the lesson. You stand with one end of your long belt
gripped in your right fist, resting on your right hip. The belt curves behind your
back to run diagonally in front of you toward your partner who grasps the other
end, curved behind her back, in like fashion. You face each other, bare feet
planted in squishy blue mats, and begin the odd tug-of-war. The mission: to
unbalance. The teacher bounces up to you in his dishevelled, half-starved liontype way, his gi hanging from him like so much skin off gaunt flesh and bones.
The extra-long brown belt that kept it together is being used by another couple
engaged in the game. He relieves your partner of her end and faces off against
you. You are unprepared. You balance against his pull but the belt slacks off
suddenly and you almost fall back. “Don’t commit too much,” he warns as you
regain your balance. “I may let go.” The second time around you calculate and
observe and keep your feet and head. You make your move with a yank that
brings him stumbling forwards. You win.
Isabel Yael Fine, Age 14
5
Hear My Cry For Help
I was covered in blood. I couldn’t feel my face. I could hardly see. My vision was
blurry. I felt his hand hit my face again. I fell on the ground from the force. “Help
me.” I could feel the blood running out of my mouth. “Help me,” I tried to call for
help. It seemed like no one could hear me. “Why don’t they help me?” I thought.
He kicked me. I screamed in pain. I forced myself up. Then he pushed me into
the wall. I screamed in pain again. I felt his hands on my shoulders and his body
against mine. “I’m the boss here. You got that?” he whispered into my ear. I closed
my eyes. “Good…” he said, then he took his hands off my shoulders and left. I
fell to the ground. I could hear the feet of people leaving. I was drenched in my
blood. How could they just watch? Why didn’t they help me?
Just then I felt a hand on my back. All of a sudden I was lifted off the ground.
I looked up and saw a man with brown hair and a blue eye and a green eye.
“What’s your name?” he asked me. What if he was a perverted psycho? Oh well,
I didn’t care, at least he helped me. “Linda,” I answered. “Lydia?” he asked. I
shook my head. “Linda,” I repeated, a little louder this time. “Linda?” he asked.
I smiled. His eyes searched my body then rested back on my lips. “You’re hurt
badly…” I nodded my head in agreement. “Where are you taking me?” I asked.
He didn’t reply. I was scared. Without me realizing it, I had fallen asleep in the
stranger’s arms.
I woke up to find myself in a white room. I sat up and saw a nurse. “How are
you feeling, Linda?” she asked while fixing some flowers in the room. “Where’s
the man?” “What man?” she asked. “He brought me here…” I was interrupted
when someone walked into my room. It was the man. The nurse walked up to
him and started doing some strange things with her hands. “What are you doing?”
I asked. “Sign Language, he’s deaf.” I was shocked. The man that had saved me
was deaf. “What is his name?” “Kyle.” “Tell him thank you and…and that I am
grateful.” The nurse looked at me for a bit then did some more movements with
her hands. The man looked at me. “Thank you Kyle,” I mouthed. He smiled at me.
“You’re truly welcome,” Kyle said before leaving my room.
Linda Gomez, Age 13
6
Leftovers
Ann Han, Age 12
The Little Girl
“Come on, Chris!” yelled Sam from the porch of the old house.
Chris looked at his older sister. She was so eager to go into the haunted
house. Not him, though. He’d never go in — never ever, ever.
“You’re such a baby!” his sister taunted. Chris frowned and took a hesitant
step forward and then followed Sam into the house.
It was old and musty. The once beautiful lace curtains on the windows were
moth-eaten and covered in dust, just like everything else in the house. No one
had lived here for a very long time.
“Sam? Let’s go, okay?” begged Chris. He was shaking all over with fear while
Sam looked around bright-eyed.
“Oh, Chris, don’t be such a prat,” chided Sam. “We’ll only stay on the first
floor. Besides, I don’t like the look of those stairs.” Chris had to agree. The
grand staircase leading to the second floor was rotten and mouldy, not good for
climbing.
“Did you hear that?” asked Sam, her face lighting up like a lantern.
“What?” asked Chris, straining his ears. Then he heard it. Crying. The crying
of a young child.
“Let’s go find the poor thing and see what’s wrong,” urged Sam, walking off
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towards the sound. Chris followed reluctantly.
They walked down the main hall, its walls filled with paintings of the people
who used to live in the house. The portraits' eyes seemed to follow Sam and Chris.
One in particular, a floor-to-ceiling portrait of an old lady with snow white hair
and a ratty grey shawl draped about her thin shoulders, made them both stop and
stare with disbelief. Leaning with her back against the lower part of the portrait
was a shimmering white little girl, crying.
“What’s wrong?” asked Sam, crouching down beside the child. She looked up
at Sam and then to Chris, her pale eyes brimming with tears.
“I want someone to play with,” she whimpered, her voice cute and sweet
like a child actress from an old black-and-white Hollywood movie. “Will you play
with me?”
“Well... we can’t play right now, but how about tomorrow?” asked Chris.
“Noooo... play now,” she pleaded in the same cute tone.
“We’d like to. We really would, but we can’t,” said Sam, sadly.
“THEN YOU SHALL PERISH!!” screamed the girl with chilling ferocity.
Sam and Chris jumped to their feet and ran as fast as they could back down
the hall past the strange portraits, past the crumbling staircase and out the front
door. Once outside, Chris turned around expecting to see his sister close behind,
but all he saw through the open door was the decaying old lace curtains blowing
in the wind.
Chris was the only one to make it out of that frightful place. And, although the
experience remained as a terrifying memory he would rather forget, he vowed
never to forget his brave sister.
“At least,” he thought with some sense of comfort, “that little girl now has a
playmate.”
Tegan Gow, Age 13
8
Broken Will
Stella Ha, Age 14
9
Midnight Fright
A gentle breeze blew from the far north, rustling the leaves on the trees. The lake
surface shimmered under the light of the moon. I shivered at the sight of a wolf
howling on the weatherworn cliff. The owls on the tree hooted with every step I
was taking. The old bell tower hovered over me and started to chime. Midnight.
Any minute now...
There had been a lot of talk around our town about the spirit of Minas. My
friend, Jenny, had dared me to go up to the lakeshore and stay there for a night.
The lakeshore was now completely silent except for the wind once in a while. I
spread out my sleeping bag on the sandy shore and waited for the spirit of Minas.
Was she here?
Creak, step, creak, creak. Something was there. I glanced from side to side
and saw an eerie shadow in the nearby woods. My heart started to pound like
a jackhammer: if anyone were to come along right now, they’d be hearing the
loud thump, thump of my heartbeat. I wanted to scream and run, but my throat
was caught and my muscles were so tense that moving around was almost
impossible.
I craned my neck, hoping to see who was there without being seen. There was
nothing. I blamed my bizarre imagings. I was SO stupid.
Creak, step, creak, creak. There it was again. That couldn’t be my imagination
again, could it? I got up, turned on my flashlight to take a look in the woods. But,
I accidentally stepped on a twig lying on the ground.
Ahead, someone jumped up and screamed, as scared as I was. I looked more
closely. Brown curls? It was no ghost. It was Jenny. I ran towards her. Branches
stuck out from the trees. I had to slow down. I called out, reaching for Jenny. But
every time I got closer, Jenny seemed farther away. The ground here was very
muddy and slippery. I tumbled down, got up, slipped, got up, and fell again and
again. Finally, I saw her crouched by a tree with her hands hugging her knees.
I helped her to her feet, but all she did was make a strange sound: “arghh
arghh.” She pointed behind me. I turned around, half expecting a spirit to jump
out. But I was greeted by a silent lakeshore. I grinned. It was my friend’s illusion
this time. But she kept uttering the strange noise. As I turned around for the
last time, I saw a girl standing in front of me, her dark, wavy hair shining in the
moonlight. Her big brown eyes stared back at me curiously. Her lips curled up
in a small smile. We were there, just staring at each other for an unwavering
moment until, I screamed out with all my might. But what came out was “arghh
arghh…”
Cindy Binyue Li, Age 12
10
Truly Within
I don’t wanna be alone anymore… Soft tapping sounds from the rain attacking
the windowpanes compelled the silent figure to glance up. For a moment she
considered just going back to doing what she’d been doing earlier – berating
herself – but decided against it, and padded over instead to look out at the grey
skies. Placing a palm onto the window’s glass, she watched as her quiet breaths
steamed it up. Outside there was mostly darkness, but she could make out a
light, floating above treetops that framed her window. Though she had already
identified the spot of white amongst the black, she raised a hand to wipe clear
her view, and pressed it on the other side of the light. The two hands bordered
the large object.
Blinking away the tears that had gathered earlier as she degraded herself,
she peered into the depths of the night, confirming her guess. The moon shone
brightly, full and complete. It seemed to her a beacon of hope, encouraging her
to do what she knew she needed to do, though she had been too cowardly and
stubborn before to do more than just think about and reject the notion.
The next day she noticed that he carefully avoided her, not meeting her eyes
if he had to glance in her direction, and shaking away his friends’ inquiries about
his actions. Hesitating a moment, before bracing herself, she strode away from
her own friends, walking up to him, looking much more confident and bold than
she felt. I don’t wanna be alone anymore… she repeated silently. Reaching him,
she let her gaze drop, and hung her head. From that position she saw him come
near. When he paused, she forced herself to look into his confused eyes, and
whispered, almost too quietly for him to hear, “I’m sorry.” His bewilderment only
increased before it cleared from his face and a smile broke over. “I know,” he
replied quietly as they embraced.
Christine Ng, Age 13
11
Kevin Carter
Kevin Carter won a Pulitzer for his unsettling photograph of an emaciated
Sudanese girl being stalked by a vulture while struggling toward a food centre.
Carter didn’t help the girl. Two months after receiving the prize, he committed
suicide. No one ever knew if the girl had reached her destination.
No one could see her – no one ever saw her, even when she had been alive.
She was almost free. Just one more thing needed to be accomplished before she
could be at rest.
A vulture landed a little bit away from her, and stared at her unblinkingly with
inscrutable eyes. She was invisible, but this thing looked at her as if she wasn’t.
Perhaps it was dead too.
Triggered by the bird, mortal memories rushed back: dry abrasive ground
that she had dragged herself across to reach the food centre; the blurriness of her
vision; the way her stomach had twisted, feeling as if it was digesting itself since
nothing else was available.
A hand planted itself on her shoulder, and she spun around, surprised. The
man’s long face seemed somewhat familiar – perhaps she had known him in her
other life. No, that was impossible. Her father was still alive. Somewhere. Mother
told her so. Her mother never told lies. She was dead as well, but the girl hadn’t
seen her yet.
The man’s face was contorted with an emotion she knew well: agony. He
held, in his free hand – the one not on her shoulder – a prize of some kind. She
didn’t know what it was. “I’m sorry,” he told her, “I’m really, really sorry.”
She turned and looked at the vulture wordlessly, compelled by something she
couldn’t describe, and he turned along with her. She could tell he was horrified;
she knew that emotion just as well. He started to cough, dry hacking coughs, and
dropped the prize.
When he stopped shaking, he started to wave his arm angrily at the vulture
in an attempt to shoo it away, hitting the bird. The bird snatched the man’s prize
with its beak, vengeful. The man stepped forward, his arm removing itself from
the girl’s shoulder. She felt frozen, filled with dread, and a whimper escaped her
trembling lips.
The man turned, stared at her. The vulture paused in mid-takeoff. The man’s
gaze travelled between the two of them, and it was as if time stopped. As he
turned toward the bird, she felt her non-existent heart palpitate.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, to the vulture this time. Then he leaned
down and scooped the girl up, walking away.
They came into view of the food centre; the girl leapt out of his arms – she
realized that she had completed the task! She saw her mother’s silhouette in the
12
doorway and ran towards her.
When the girl finally looked back, no one was there anymore. She wasn’t
worried, however — she knew his journey, like hers, had finally come to an end.
ZheShu Xiao, Age 13
Peace After a Battle
Johnny Choi, Age 14
13
The End of The World
As one thinks of consequences of our natural resource consuming, environment
destroying, wasteful lifestyle, there are many ways in which we can “screw
ourselves over.” Think about it. The United States has enough firepower to blow
up the earth seven times; Russia has enough to blow up the world four times.
Seems kind of stupid, doesn’t it? There’s only one planet, so how on earth are
we going to be able to blow it up 11 times? Meanwhile, as the Russians and
Americans stand scratching their heads wondering what to do with the nukes
they’ve buried under their countries, A. Q. Khan has created a nuclear arms black
market, dealing supplies needed to make “the bomb” to North Korea, Libya and
Iran. So in a few years, we’ll probably be able to blow ourselves up 12 times.
And speaking of North Korea, after 20 years or so of government corruption
and starving its population, it has finally achieved its own nuclear bomb, which
is “strictly for defence purposes.” Well, in the state that the country’s in, who the
hell would want to attack it? To make matters worse, the most powerful nation in
the world is being led by a trigger-happy idiot, Mr. George W. Bush. Perhaps it’s
a strong opinion, but in three years, he’s started two wars. Furthermore, he let
Osama bin Laden slip away from his hole in the mountains to chase after Saddam
Hussein and his oil. So what does Mr. President have at the end of all this? A
dictator that couldn’t have done anything to America, and some oil pipelines that
are constantly being sabotaged.
So let’s just say that by some act of God we don’t manage to blow ourselves
up. That leaves two options: either our greenhouse gas emitting lifestyles will
cause the earth to retain so much heat from the sun that we eventually fry
ourselves, or such a high concentration of gases will cause a major climate
shift that brings about another ice age. Again, we can put most of the blame
on Uncle Sam. As the world’s largest producer of greenhouse gases, America
refused to take part in the Kyoto Protocol. If we could tap into the thoughts of our
neighbours south of the border, they’d probably run along the lines of “Oh Gosh!
We’re killing the planet. But that doesn’t matter. We’re Americans. We’ll just blow
ourselves up right before global warming kills us.” However, the United States
isn’t the only one at fault. China has just recently surpassed the United States in
the consumption of steel and coal. But China probably doesn’t care either. The
Chinese train of thought probably goes: “As soon as global warming starts to
be dangerous, the Americans will just blow us up.” Which brings us back to the
outrageously large supply of nukes in the world.
No matter how one thinks about it, life these days continues in a vicious cycle.
Build factories, use factories to build bombs, use bombs to start wars. There’s not
a chance in hell that the Americans, Russians, Pakistanis, and even the Chinese
will give up their bombs, and as long as a country’s making money, its factories
14
aren’t going to shut down. Basically, we’ve got a choice between Armageddon
and Thermageddon.
Billy Zhao, Age 14
Worth a Thousand Words
ZheShu Xiao, Age 13
15
Learning to Cope With Being a Malfunction Magnet
Dear Reader,
Are you familiar with the term “malfunction magnet?” The proper definition
may run along the lines of “person or object that usually has technology and/or
machines malfunction around them,” but I define that with only two letters. Yes,
only two letters: “m” and “e.” You may now gasp loudly with feigned surprise.
And let’s face it: you may also be a malfunction magnet, only up till now you’ve
been in denial. But rest assured, with the help of this short passage, you will feel
as comfortable about being a malfunction magnet as I am. Just think of this as a
visit to a shrink, who will teach you the Holy Trinity of feeling better about being
a malfunction magnet.
Rule Number One (and this is the most important rule): Always blame
the machine. Remember, it isn’t your fault that a computer was built by an
incompetent fool. I mean, what could you, the user, have done to a computer
(short of dropping it out the second-story window) to have it crash on you a week
after you’ve bought it?
Rule Number Two: Never try to fix anything yourself. Fixing anything related
to technology yourself always results in disaster. Think about it: you have no idea
why it broke in the first place, so how on earth are you going to fix it? Furthermore,
you’ve already identified yourself as a malfunction magnet, wouldn’t it be wiser
to not touch the broken machine? In addition, by not touching anything, you’ll be
able to honour Rule Number One: you can lay all the blame of your misfortunes
on the machine.
Rule Number Three: Only buy machines that your friends have bought and
have had good experiences with. There’s no sense in taking a risk buying a new
product that hasn’t been consumer tested. Besides, being a malfunction magnet,
chances are that you will break the latest gadget that no one else has. Like adding
insult to injury, none of your friends can tell you what to do, because they’ve
never seen your new toy. To summarize this third rule, it’s good to follow the
bandwagon.
There you have it: the Holy Trinity of malfunctionalism. Follow these three
golden rules, and I’ll guarantee you that the failure of some dumb machine will
never give you a down day. Please don’t thank me for this incredible load that I’ve
taken off your shoulders by means of this ‘how to cope’ article. Us malfunction
magnets have to stick together and look out for each other. However, if you, dear
reader, are so overwhelmed with gratitude, I do accept donations of $10 to Billy
Zhao’s Fund For Unfortunate Malfunction Magnets.
Billy Zhao, Age 14
16
The Enigmatic Smile (self-portrait)
Khushi Chachcha, Age 13
17
PROSE: AGE 15 –16
Revealed
She plummets downward, wind fiercely whipping at her face. She goes so fast she
can only make out blurs of skyscrapers and dots resembling faces that will witness
her horrible fate. She can’t hear anything but her heart racing. She doesn’t
understand what she’s feeling; fear, sadness, remorse, anger… relief? Is this what
it has really come to? Life wasn’t that bad for her — there were her good days and
then her bad. She had to admit that lately it was mostly the bad.
Having to juggle school, work and taking care of her siblings while her mom
went out on dates was all too much. When her mom went on a date she’d
normally come home the afternoon after, usually hung over and sometimes even
high. It didn’t help that her dad was never around to help out with anything, more
so — support them financially like he should be. Instead, he’s in California, living
with a girl who is practically old enough to be her older sister (but possesses the
intelligence and maturity of a 12-year-old).
For the most part, she was a good kid; before high school, at least. She was
on the honour roll with an 85 percent average and even received the academic,
music and female athlete awards at her elementary school graduation. She also
was an active member of the community, involved in many fund-raisers and
summer day camps.
Once high school hit, nothing seemed to matter anymore. Her grades
managed to slip very quickly and she began developing bad habits. She’d even
talk back to teachers and engage in lengthy arguments with them. She’d been
suspended a few times for that; and other things. The good-girl gone bad. Just
yesterday, she took coke for the first time, hoping it would relieve some of her
tension and make her life even remotely enjoyable.
So this was her life flashing before her eyes, not a single happy memory; just
the crap that was going on. She got closer and closer to the ground; hearing the
crowd below shrieking in terror and…
…she woke up in a cold sweat. All cozy in her pink room, on her queen-sized
bed, underneath her big, white duvet comforter. She looked at her alarm clock; two
hours earlier than she normally would have awakened. “That was just a dream?”
she asked herself in awe. She sighed, and got out of bed to begin her day.
Lorraine Blas, Age 16
18
Subway Crowd
Malcolm Loo, Age 14
Pain Forgotten
Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong.
The grandfather clock finally seemed a worthwhile invention as its short, timerelated announcement echoed through the long corridors and multiple rooms of
the Allson family mansion, one of the most expensive estates in Toronto. The clock
had chimed six o’clock in the evening – dinnertime. Fifteen-year-old Erica Allson
hastily closed her books, rubbed the tiredness out of her eyes and ran quickly
through the dimly lit hallways to answer the call of hunger.
As Erica glided down the spiralling staircase, her mind raced with ideas for
the family conversation at dinner. It was Saturday evening; her parents would
be at home in time for dinner. She decided to talk about school – her day’s
achievements would make her parents proud. She would tell her father how
she received top score on the math midterms. She would tell her mother how
her drama teacher had praised her profusely; told her to consider a career on
Broadway! Erica’s pale, flawless face brightened in expression as the thought
slowly fashioned a grin on the usually stone-like features.
“Dad will smile his warmest smile, and Mom’s eyes will twinkle as they focus
on me,” Erica whispered to herself, her heart bursting with anticipation.
When Erica entered into the dining hall, all her imaginings dissolved before
her eyes as she saw that the long polished dinner table was set for only one. Her
19
face was instantaneously masked with a serene, authoritative appearance, but her
eyes flashed in anger, hurt and despair. The happiness within her disappeared
without a trace.
“Albert,” she addressed the manservant standing nearby, with a cool,
commanding tone. “I believe there is to be three for dinner today.”
“I’m sorry, Miss,” Albert replied quietly, “but your parents called in saying
they would eat out with each other tonight.”
“I see,” Erica responded with a calm smile. “Thank you, Albert.”
She stood motionless for a minute. The servants standing in attendance held
their breaths awaiting the outburst of rage, but it did not come; instead, Erica
turned around and walked stiffly out of the room. Ten years of etiquette lessons
had won out, forcing her to use every ounce of energy in her body to refrain from
grabbing and smashing each breakable piece of dinnerware on the expensive
hardwood floor.
Flicking on the light of the bathroom near the dining hall, she stared into the
large mirror above the sink. She beheld a tall, skinny girl with a fair complexion
accentuated by dark hair and piercing, sapphire-coloured eyes. One thought crossed
Erica’s mind: was she really so repellent that her parents would refuse to eat one
dinner a week with their only daughter? Erica slammed her fist on the countertop,
struggling to bottle up the anger and hurt inside as she had always done in the past;
this was not the first time her parents had been the source of her disappointment:
when and how will she forget? The bathroom remained silent, as her reflection
could not give an answer. Erica darted out of the bathroom towards the front door;
she snatched her winter coat and joined the blizzard in the outer milieu.
The wind swept snowflakes forcefully across her face as she proceeded
onto the street, but she did not mind. She welcomed the coldness, the billowing
winds; the rage of the storm was so complete it eased her pain and extinguished
her anger. Every part of her body was numb from the cold and fatigue, and her
stomach growled due to its emptiness. The will to live still blazed in her soul, and
her mind told her it was time to return home. As Erica turned to try to retrace her
steps, she walked unknowingly onto a sheet of ice. Within seconds she slipped,
and blackness engulfed her as she fell into unconsciousness.
Hours later, Erica awoke in a warm, brightly lit room. She was lying on
her back on a stiff hospital bed and her head was bandaged. She lay very still,
listening to the soft words exchanged outside her door. One man she had guessed
was the doctor, speaking comforting, bass tones. “She has suffered nothing lifethreatening, only amnesia.”
Then suddenly her door opened and in stepped a man and a woman, while
the doctor hovered in the corridor. Erica’s strength was drained, but curiosity won
out in the end. She raised her body and lifted her hand to greet them both with a
handshake, while her face took on a cool, grim smile, and said, “Hello. My name
20
is… my name is… I’m sorry, but I don’t remember.” She paused, confused; then
she spoke again. “Forgive me if I seem bold, but who are you?”
“James Allson,” replied the man, “and this is my wife, Elaine.”
“Oh.” She turned her questioning eyes to the distraught couple. The woman
broke into uncontrollable sobs, while the man wrapped his arms around her.
Erica continued to stare, unmoved by any emotion. She no longer knew anger,
disappointment or hurt in her life, only peace and puzzlement.
Catherine Chan, Age 15
The Sound of Happiness
Lisa Meng, Age 16
21
A New World
Sai Paranjape, Age 15
Silence
Thunder shakes the house and fear washes over me. I feel the worst because I see
no rain. I glance at the window. Yes, there is no rain. Then why is there thunder? I
bewilder, in my cold, makeshift bed. I receive no answer. The house holds; deadly
still. I console myself. There was too much to die for and too little to live for. An
explosion rips open the blackened sky and I hear the screams. Too near yet too
distant. I block my ears. I knew it couldn’t be helped. It wouldn’t be helped. It
was hopeless. My ears start hurting and tears streak down my face. Then I hear
nothing more. I see the screams, yet no sound comes. I know what has happened.
Unable to move, unable to understand my loss, I let sleep and exhaustion engulf
me knowing that more blood has been spilled.
I feel the morning sunlight wash over my face and I open my eyes. I smell the
morning dew but it smells different. It smells like Father’s cigarette after I have
stepped on it a few times. I smell the earth, but realize it’s the ashes that make
the smell. “Ashes of what?” I wonder, and then I remember. I remember the
previous night. How a blackened sky had ripped open into light, spewing dancing
fire everywhere. I remember the fear and the sensation overpowers me. I shiver.
22
I wait for someone to call me from the kitchen. I wait and wait, yet no one calls. I
glance out the window. I see charred ruins next to my house. I see women crying
and children screaming, yet they are silent. I see men separating the burnt boards
and digging. One man pulls on something. I see him gasp. I look and also gasp.
The man is pulling a hand. A charred, blackened hand. I see the men praying, and
the women wailing. Yet to me, the world has become silent.
Sarah Ghazi, Age 16
Son of a Broken Man
I jump in just as the door slams shut. The tight, cramped space of the closet is not
large enough for a full-grown man to fit in, but we fit – just barely, but we fit. I
touch Ben’s hot, wet cheek. He is struggling to smother his cries of pain. His cheek
is still burning from the slap. I do what I can to soothe his pain. I stroke his face
and hair, making quiet comforting noises.
“HEY BOY! Where are you? If you have time to hide, you should use it to
practice!”
I wish that drunken man would leave Ben alone. Ben is just a child. That man
has always criticized Ben for being small. How can Ben help it if he’s smaller and
thinner than other boys? Ben’s father often describes his son as weak, but Ben has
talents that more than make up for his small stature.
Ben is hugging me tightly, keeping still and quiet. His blue eyes are full of fear.
They are red and swollen from all his crying. His pale skin, though one couldn’t
really tell in the darkness of the closet, is marred by a red mark on his left, tearstained cheek.
More loud bellows boom like thunder just outside the closet door. Ben is
shaking as if the words are echoing right to his bones. He looks like he is about
ready to burst out of the closet and run, but salvation comes. The man’s words
are beginning to slur together. The loud bellowing becomes mere mumbling and
then a loud heavy thud signals the falling of a large body. The angry words are
replaced by loud snoring. The man has finally passed out.
Ben relaxes a little bit. “Oh Bell, I’m so sorry. Daddy is so mad at me. I didn’t
do well today.” His voice is barely a whisper. His voice is so frail it makes me want
to cry. I wish I could take away his pain. I wish I could take Ben away from here.
But, alas, I can’t.
“I was a finalist at the recital today. The notes were all perfect, but the last
song. I played the wrong notes. I couldn’t make up my mistake. Everything was
ruined. I can’t believe I lost, Bell. Daddy is so mad! He was counting on me and I
let him down. All that practice for nothing.”
Poor Ben. If I could, I would chase that drunken fool out the door. He always
23
did put too much pressure on Ben and now Ben thinks it is his fault. That stupid
man, he had his dreams broken, and so he forces his son to make up for his lack
of talent. Does he plan to break his son, also?
“Bell, Daddy went out again today. He came home early.” Ben’s tears begin
to fall again. I hush him. He doesn’t need to tell me. I know what happened. I was
there but I couldn’t help Ben. That man left Ben at home and went off without
even a goodbye. He came home when Ben had just finished his song, the same
song he couldn’t play at the recital.
When that man came home, I could feel there was something wrong. I saw
him and knew that there was no mistake; he was drunk. I had escaped his notice
but Ben had not. That hateful man went into a mad frenzy and screamed in mad
rage. The next thing I knew, Ben was scrambling away, clutching his cheek and
crying.
Oh Ben, you deserve so much better.
“Bell, maybe Daddy will be better when he wakes up. Daddy sometimes feels
better after sleeping.” Ben is so naïve, so small and innocent.
“When Daddy is feeling better, he’ll tell me he’s proud of me.” I can’t even
remember the last time Ben’s father said that.
“Bell, Daddy loves me, I know it.” That stabbed my heart. Every word of false
hope seemed to be increasing in confidence. Ben, don’t you see? How could that
man treat someone he loved the way he treated you? Your father is just a broken
man without a soul.
Ben curls up on the floor of the closet and wraps the clothes around him.
He falls asleep and I know there is little I can do for him. I cannot stop him from
believing his father loves him. I cannot protect him from his father. But there is
one thing I can do for him tonight.
I open the closet door slightly and sneak out. I carefully shut the door behind
me, not waking the sleeping father or son. No one hears my footsteps as I prowl
around the large body and stop at the leg furthest from the closet door.
You deserve this!
I sink my claws into the flesh and pull. The scream that follows is not
something uncommon. I’ve done this often enough. The man wakes up and whirls
around to face me.
“Bell! Get out of here you stupid cat!”
Linda Li, Age 15
24
Treasure Chest Sky
It was getting dark, too dark to continue. Resigned, I threw aside my backpack and
collapsed onto a thick, powdery layer of snow. The night air was brisk and prickled
the insides of my lungs. Still I breathed deeply, letting the chilly winter air flood into
my lungs, filling me with a peculiar sense of relaxation. I let my eyes close and let
the darkness consume me. After a few minutes, a chill began to run through my
body and so I decided it was time to get up and set up a tent for the night.
Having used up the last of my energy setting up the tent, I thought sleep would
come to me instantaneously. However, the sweet allure of sleep could not work its
magic on me this night. After having tossed around in bed for a bit of time, I decided
to abandon the thought of sleep for a while and just sit under the canopy of stars. As
I left the tent, a blast of refreshing arctic wind fully brought me to my senses. Staring
upwards, I was shocked to see countless shimmering stars on an empty black canvas.
Slowly, the seemingly random stars formed into the shapes of the constellations.
Almost directly overhead is the queen of the autumn and winter sky, Cassiopeia. Not
that Cassiopeia enjoyed being there; the ancient gods had chained her upside down
on her throne and placed her in the sky as punishment for her boastfulness. Not
far at her side is her husband and king, Cepheus. Along with the king and queen, I
noted that Andromeda the princess, Cetus the whale, Pegasus the winged horse and
Perseus the hero, the other characters in the autumn sky opera, are still in the sky.
I turned to the north and there some familiar creatures lurked. Chasing each
other around the celestial pole are the bears, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. Not far
from the two bears is the tumultuous dragon named Draco. With such fearsome
creatures battling for space in the northern sky, a peacekeeper is needed in the
area to keep the beasts from unleashing chaos in the heavens. Keeping a stern
watch on Draco and the two bears is law bringer of heaven, Hercules.
As I swivelled my head to the opposite sky, I saw another famous constellation
floating above the horizon. Orion the hunter is out again tonight, looking for
animals to hunt. He doesn’t have to look very had to find a creature to slay. Directly
in front of the hunter is the rampaging bull, Taurus. Taurus is a worthy challenge
for Orion, I think to myself. In case Orion may need any help, his hunting dogs,
Canis Major and Canis Minor are just a step behind him. Along with the hotheaded bull, other zodiac constellations in the sky right now are Aries the ram,
Pisces the fishes, Gemini the twins, Cancer the crab and Leo the lion.
Captivated by such treasures the night sky has to offer, any remaining thoughts
of sleep soon evaded me. The sky seemed like a treasure chest full of wonderful
celestial stories. “Treasure chest sky,” I whispered to myself and beamed. So while
the world slept, I was alone and awake, avidly retelling the stories of sky to myself.
Jason Liu, Age 16
25
Chapter #1: Light of Evil
Mary Zhao, Age 15
26
In a Darkened Alley
“The meaning of life is –” began Zeke, closing his eyes and spreading his arms
wide. He nearly toppled off the edge of the dumpster he was perched on.
“Oh, give it up, Zeke,” snapped Lois, lighting a cigarette. She finished counting
the change she had scrounged that day and slipped it into her coat pocket.
“But we need to look past this hole,” Zeke pleaded. “There’s a better place
out there somewhere!”
“Face it, Zeke, there isn’t. Not for us.”
“Don’t start again,” mumbled Dean, voice muffled by the bundle of rags he
was using as a pillow, “I’m trying to sleep.”
A hollow wind blew down the narrow alley. After several moments, Zeke burst
out: “Just look at this place! How can we live here?”
“We’ve lived here a long time,” remarked Lois calmly, slowly exhaling
cigarette smoke. She tucked her ratty blanket tighter around her thin legs.
From the open kitchen door of a restaurant came a crash as a platter was
dropped. Curses echoed through the night.
“You know, I ain’t seen stars before,” Zeke murmured, moving from the
dumpster to sit beside Lois. He leaned his back on the brick wall behind them and
picked up a cigarette. “All these bright city lights hide ’em.”
“No big loss,” Lois said, eyes closed.
Zeke turned to the cluster of rags that was Dean. “Have you seen stars
before?”
“Nope.” Dean’s voice was thick with sleep.
“Mountains?”
“Nope.”
There was a grim silence until Zeke murmured, “There ain’t nothing for us,
you know? There’s gotta be something somewhere else.”
“I’m tryin’ to sleep, man,” Dean groaned, rolling over.
Zeke ignored him and continued, “There’s something for everyone in this
world. And that means us, too.”
Voices, angry and urgent, burst out from the restaurant kitchens. Another
crash of tinkling glass shattered the alley’s stillness, followed by more cursing.
Lois tossed her cigarette butt into the gloom and lit another, letting out a smoky
sigh. She snuggled against Zeke and whispered, “I wish you were right, Zeke. But
we ain’t much of anything so there ain’t much out there for us. It’s a rich man’s
world.”
Zeke smiled sadly into the darkness and put his arm around her. Past the
alley, the busy main street rushed with honking cars, yawning buses and flashing
lights. Nearby, a pair of glowing raccoon eyes stared at him, then ducked out of
sight. Zeke closed his eyes and murmured, “The meaning of life might not be in
27
this alley, but it’s somewhere, and someday I’m gonna find it.”
Somewhere above them, beyond the dark alley, invisible stars twinkled in the
blanket of the night sky.
Emily Paskevics, Age 16
With Closed Eyes
She stood silently outside, in the loud blur of bright lights and unwanted
questions. Flashbacks of most recent horrors dwelled in her mind. She shivered
as the doctors picked up a stretcher and rolled it into the truck, topped with a
body she knew so well.
“There’s nothing you could do,” Dr. Watson reassured her. A single tear
trickled down her cheek. “I’m sorry. We did all we could.”
But I didn’t do all I could. I let her die. If only I took the keys, and drove
instead of her… But I let her drive. I let my sister, my best friend, die because
of me.
That dream has been haunting me forever. That nightmare had driven me
to insanity. A horrible truth which I’ll never be ready to embrace. Ever since she
died three months ago, the same damn thoughts pierced my ears, blinded my
already dark mind, and wounded my heart over and over again, each time more
painful than the last… It just never stopped hurting me. The memories were all
around me. They hurt. It hurt every time I walked past her room, with adorable
stickers and pictures of us taped on her door. I never even dared to enter it after
she died.
I remembered old promises we weren’t able to keep, like getting a boyfriend
just for fun or losing three pounds before Christmas. I started working on that a
month ago, after I realized that she’s not coming back. I had lost 27 pounds since
then, but I didn’t want to stop. I needed something I could have control over. I was
slipping at school, mostly because I was barely there; I got horrible mood swings
and lost it every time someone mentioned her… My best friend, my mirror-twin,
Catherine…
I loved her more than life and, since she left me, life was just a black hole I
was unable to break from. It was like an empty shell, where everyone was just
so fake and wrapped up in their fabrication, spitting out forged sympathy about
her death. School just wasn’t the same since Catherine died. It wasn’t the people
around me, though. It was I alone.
I opened my eyes, aware that I was once again covered in icy sweat. After
a quick shower I looked at my bony physique. With my six-feet height the skin
on my body seemed to stretch tightly over the skeleton, hugging every muscle. I
knew I had gone far enough. But it didn’t really matter to me anymore. It didn’t
28
matter that all of my clothes were three sizes too big on me, or that I had made
myself ugly. Catherine and I used to be beautiful. Everyone said so. Everyone
stopped after she died, and I started to ruin myself.
I decided to once again skip school and go to three guys whose minds were
filled with ‘the significance of reproduction.’ I had never talked to them before
Catherine. They seemed like the wrong crowd to me, but at this time they seemed
more appealing than ever.
I met up with the guys soon. They once again offered me drinks. I didn’t want
to take them, but they were harder on me this time, pressing against the fact that
I looked depressed and needed something to cheer me up. Nothing could ever
cheer me up; nevertheless I grabbed the vodka bottle and took a sip. I heard them
urging me on in the background, so I continued drinking.
By the end of the day the drink captivated me. I was swinging the bottle from
side to side in a helpless haze. I had never drunk before. I never wanted to start,
and it was no different today. I hated it. I hated the feeling of cold glass clasped
in my hand. I despised the cold liquid burning my insides. I hated the fact that I
couldn’t hate it.
“I’m going… home now!” I blurted out, my sentence being torn apart by
a sharp breath. I took another gulp from the almost-empty bottle, once again
feeling the strong alcohol taste explode in my mouth.
“Maybe you shouldn’t… You’ve had too much to drink!” one of the guys,
whose name I wasn’t even able to remember anymore, warned me. I waved my
hand at him and slid behind the wheel of my car and started the engine, barely
being able to see the road from my fogged up vision. I glanced at the rear-view
mirror and noticed my own ghost-like pale face, mascara smudged under my
tired eyes, my hair bungled on my head. I felt my insides turn as I sat down.
A sick desire to vomit rolled over me. But I didn’t care. I stepped on the gas.
She stood silently outside, in the loud blur of bright lights and unwanted
questions. Flashbacks of most recent horrors dwelled in her mind. She shivered
as the doctors picked up a stretcher and rolled it into the truck, topped with a
body she knew so well. She watched her second daughter being taken to the
morgue.
Ksenia Stassiouk, Age 15
29
The Mirror
Kate Dover thought ‘her mirror’ would never lie to her. But what happens when
her obsession goes overboard?
In Kate’s mind she was fat. She’d tell herself so while standing in front of her
mirror every morning. Her mother always commented on how beautiful she
looked, but she never took those compliments well. “I’m so fat, Mom!” she’d
cry. And her mother, as always, would just sigh and shake her head. “You’re not
fat, Kate!” she’d calmly say under her breath, knowing fully if she said it aloud
another conflict would arise.
And today was no different. Kate’s mother stood outside her door as she was
looking at herself apprehensively in the mirror. “Wow! You look great!” she said
amazed, walking into her room. “Are ya going somewhere, sexy?”
“Yup, Lydia’s. We’re going to the movies.”
“Cool! Well, have a good time!” She paused to look at her daughter, then said
jokingly, “Jeez, I don’t want to let you out of the house looking that good! Who
knows what’s going to line up behind you, trying to get some!?”
“Not funny,” Kate said sternly. Kate’s mom looked at her daughter with
anxiety. “For the love of God, Kate! What’s wrong with you? Can you not take
a simple joke?” She shook her head. She’d had enough of it. For the past three
years Kate had been moody and full of attitude. Months of counselling had done
nothing but to make Kate stubborn. “You know what Kate, go out and have your
fun! And I don’t care if you ever come home again! I’m so sick of you complaining
that you’re fat! When clearly, YOU’RE NOT!” she yelled at her daughter as she
stormed away. Kate ran out of the house yelling, “FINE! I WON’T!”
As Kate sprinted to Lydia’s house, her mind was racing. The mirror never lies!
I am fat, she told herself. And who was her mother to tell her otherwise? When
Lydia answered the door, she took no notice of Kate’s preoccupied state. “Yo,
Kate, you got cash, right?”
“Yeah,” Kate sighed heavily.
“What’s up?” Lydia suddenly asked.
“I’m so fat, Lydia!” Kate replied.
“What? Not again…” Lydia sighed. “Kate, you’re not fat!”
“Yes, I am, Lydia! The mirror never lies!” Kate was adamant.
“The mirror?” Lydia questioned. “Come on, Kate, if you lose any more weight,
I’ll lose you in the wind,” she joked.
“Not funny, Lydia!” Kate yelled.
“Whoa, sorry… pinched a nerve there,” Lydia said mockingly.
“You don’t understand, Lydia…” Kate began.
“I don’t understand? Who has been here for you since you started to lose
30
weight, Kate? What is going on in that thick skull of yours? Me, of all people, know
what you’re going through, and you’re telling me I don’t understand? God damn
you, Kate!” Lydia slammed the door in Kate’s face. All Kate could do was cry.
The mirror lied this time…Kate.
Laura Taylor, Age 15
Long Travels
Adela Rexha, Age 16
The Man with the Pursed Lips
The aged man sits in the mushroom-coloured chair that dwells in a dim corner
of his drawing room, hiding behind a veil of shadows. The cloth of the chair is
greasy and stained, but it moulds to his body and he will sit nowhere else. His
lips are slightly parted, his broad nose is creased and his wide, black eyes are
closed as he softly hums his favourite tune. It is a sad song; a lonely one, and
the steady drumming of the grandfather clock opposite him only highlights its
cheerless nature. In his lap, resting on his skeletal knees, lies a scrapbook from
his youth. It is open, its bare interior exposed to the cool breeze of the room.
The man opens his eyes and runs his coarse fingertips over the stiffened, yellow
pages. He fingers the edges of the photographs and outlines the figures in them,
as if painting a picture. His picture is pregnant with passion, but his brittle fingers
31
ache and quiver and, in spite of his efforts, the picture is flawed. He has become
frustrated, but the lovely figures are a flame to the moths in his fingertips and he
continues to paint. The old man pushes up his large, round glasses and stabs his
nose into the photographs. Striking women smile at him, revealing strings of milky
pearls from behind their fleshy lips. He is dancing with them, his trousers ironed
to perfection and his polished hair glistening. He is youthful and handsome in the
pictures, and unshakable. A single hair on his head would not have been stirred
by the most powerful storm. Now the old man must envelop himself in a blanket
for every paltry wisp of air that incidentally finds its way into the room. The elderly
man tires of the women and, licking his index finger, flips to the following page.
This is a photograph of courage and adventure. Our man is standing in a grassy
field with an army of soldiers. Their uniforms are crisp and their badges gleam
in the sunlight. He wears the look of pride; of belonging. The man feels a flame
rising through his abdomen and erupting in his cheeks, bringing life to their wilted
spirit. He closes the scrapbook, restoring it to the coffee table beside him. His
eyes well up and a tear inches down his cheek, finally nestling in the crease of his
mouth. The water moistens his thin, dried lips as it pushes through the folds of
skin, desperate in its attempt to reach the tepid dampness of his tongue. The man,
however, purses his lips; he has grown weary of the salty taste. Such shameless
tears appear much too often and he has tired of them. The water dries up, dying in
the desert of his lips and his cheeks return to their withered state. But only until the
next night when the aged man will continue with a new page; a new memory.
Vanja Vukosavljevic, Age 16
Dripping with Rage
Angst. Rage. Fury. For a teenager, I express these emotions surprisingly
infrequently. There are very few things that make my blood boil. However, there
is one injustice that I face on a daily basis, which causes me to uncharacteristically
explode. It is not a person who mistreats me, nor is it a serious issue in my life
with which I must deal. My sworn enemy lives at my high school, silently waiting
and grinning sneakily, anxiously awaiting its chance to torture me each day. My
nemeses are the sinks in my school’s bathrooms — and in the battles they wage
against me, somehow, they always win.
These daily struggles are completely inevitable for me. Medical studies have
proven the benefits of drinking substantial amounts of water daily and I strive to
consume at least a litre per day. So, my meetings with the school bathrooms and
thus the sinks are frequent and necessary. The hand-washing stations wouldn’t be
so dangerous if our school had at least opted for the type of sink found in most
homes. Those are a more docile model with knobs to turn the faucet on and off.
32
Sadly, this is not the case at my school. Our sinks are semi-circular basins with
water streaming in all directions from a metal disc overtop. They are operated
by a pipe that encircles the bottom of the basin and which one steps on to turn
on the water. The benefit of this hands-free model is that one doesn’t need to
touch any bacteria-infested knobs. However, in my opinion, the consequences of
hands-free sinks are dire.
The problem is, if one steps on the pipe to turn on the water too hard, instead
of streaming nicely into the basin, the water loses all control and splashes its way
ferociously onto innocent bystanders like myself. I don’t understand hydraulics,
but I know that it’s not the water’s fault. Equally, I can’t blame the people
operating the sink because the pressure required to work the sinks varies from
day to day. The only thing I can really blame every time I am drenched is the
shoddy manufacturing of the sink itself.
I have tried to take out my rage on these misleading devices, but it has only
made me wetter. All too often, I shuffle back to class shamefully looking as if I’d
had a little ‘accident’ while I was out. I have discovered that I have no hope in my
valiant battle against the school bathroom sinks.
And so, until the fateful day when I graduate from Grade 12, I will learn to grin
and bear it — and become better friends with the hand-drying machines.
Shoshana Wasser, Age 16
The Springside in My Dream
Zhen Hua (Mark) Xiong, Age 15
33
PROSE: AGE 17–19
Grey
Since those minutes inside the wall, I’ve imagined that the dead lose every sense
except hearing. — Anne Michaels
Why hold onto ‘hearing’ of all the five senses? It is simply because without sight,
one cannot observe the horrors caused by humans, without taste, one does
not realize the hunger, without feeling, one cannot suffer through the pain like
numbing needles, and without smell, one cannot sense the stench of dead bodies
or the suffocating bomb smoke. The candour may strike an odd note. Yet, in
the mythology of war, our men are never beset by elemental fear, but instead,
somehow paralysed by it.
The scene of no man’s land was that of deadly desperation. Hands full and
weighted down by the heavy burden of their arms. The thing that bothers me the
most is that the people who decided to fight are never here and will never know
what it is like to kill a man, or feel pain and suffering from hunger and the absence
of love. This is the paradigm of fear. Of having to think that if you don’t kill first,
you are going to be killed.
The ground is like an abstract canvas that changes with every tremor. It has
been painted on with humans, stamped upon by tanks, grenades and sprinkled
with bullets and shells. Matters don’t appear black or white, but grey, which is not
to be mistaken for the darkness itself. The darkness is the release, but the grey is
more sombre like the fear before the moment of release, like a suicide afraid of
dying. That is what we are.
Although it is daytime, the smouldering residue, rising from the land and
falling from above, meets in the centre of the sky where collision occurs like
atoms in a compound. Much like how we men are on opposite sides, ready for
collision, but on a greater scale.
I don’t want to believe that I am not so much behind the wall as I am under it
as if it were my tombstone devoid of etchings except that of blood.
Salomeh Ahmadi, Age 17
34
Don't Hate, Appreciate
You know what’s seriously humorous, the fact that females run off their mouths
about other females. Hatin’ on them because they look and act better than them.
Have you ever had these kniving females disrespecting you, brushing you in the
streets for no apparent reason. Well, you see it’s time they learn the real meaning
of “GET A LIFE.”
Females who consistently waste their time conversing about you or harassing
you is just showing you that you’re worth their precious time. It’s sad, sickening
and just plain pathetic. However, the really ironic and funny thing about these
females is that they’re the ones who’s either tied down, uneducated or jobless.
I say that their pathetic insecurity is the main cause for this. If these females
just had the right self-confidence, they wouldn’t be harassing you physically or
verbally. The envy and self-pity that these females bottle up inside honestly disgust
me. I am revolted at females that take the time to analyze you meticulously to
make you feel insecure and them feel good. You know the ‘issue’ is extremely
difficult to comprehend. I mean are these females hatin’ because you’re fit, or is
it gear, or is it just because you’ve been blessed with beauty that they envy so
much? Or is it just a form of stupidity that’s gripping the females in our society?
Eighteen-year-old Kimiya takes on a serious approach to this. She tells her
story of how her best female friends turned out to be her worst enemies. She
says: as I walk down my neighbourhood dressed to kill, I glance over to my right
and recognize a few of my former high-school dropout friends. I wave and all
three of them have the nerve to smirk my way trying to degrade me by calling
me the famous word BITCH. I realize that envy and jealousy have really taken a
toll on these females. So I bluntly glance at the baby strollers sitting next to my
former friends and laugh. Because I realize that I’m one of the rare educated
virgins in the area living under these vital circumstances. So instead of ending up
like Latoya, Karen, Maria and Wendy I grin and keep abstinent to the idea of my
self-confidence. Because I don’t have the time or patience to aggravate myself
over childish and immature matters.
Well, to be honest, it doesn’t really matter. So to all those females who are
positive, trying to accomplish something in life and not trying to hurt nobody,
keep your head up. Respect yourself and be optimistic towards life no matter
how despicable females can be toward you. I’ve come to the conclusion that we
are all females so where is the love? Where is the love? Aren’t we all supposed
to protect and praise each other? Let’s not hate each other girls, let’s try to make
peace, appreciate and accept females for what they are.
Temaj Bashsa, Age 17
35
Childhood
Igor Sinitar, Age 17
36
The Lilac Bush
It is spring, I see the delicate blossoms of the apple tree cascade down to my
unsandalled feet. It feels lovely to be free – to have no boundaries or expectations.
We are free, you and I.
It is morning. On the old garage door a spider’s web glistens. Dewdrops cling
to the silvery threads. The sweet smell of the purple blossoms draws me closer
and closer toward the flowers. The heavenly fragrance intensifies with each step.
The powerful scent transforms my coherent thoughts into delusions. I
remember, years ago, when my sisters and I were children, we would play
together under the lilac bush. We were young and naïve. We believed in fairy
tales. All of that is now lost. A tear runs down my cheek, like a drop of dew.
You wipe it away. We do not speak, you and I; but I can tell, through your
loving brown eyes, that it is not all lost. Gently, you brush away some topsoil and
leaves. There sit small chairs of twigs and twine we made for the fairies. I kneel
down to the hollow in childish wonder and awe.
I rise. I pluck a deep, purple lilac blossom from the centre of the bush. As
the succulent nectar touches the tip of my tongue, memories flood my mind.
Someone once told me that memories live with you forever. I remember all of
them that we had together, under the lilac bush. The violet blooms protected us
from the world, enclosing us with a veil of innocence, imagination and splendour.
They still do to this very day.
We leave, hand in hand, past the gate, past the weathered garage door, and
go inside for ice cream.
Melissa de Quadros, Age 17
The Fighter
While I revel in my peaceful slumber, the sun rises. And she rises with it. Dragging
herself out of the bed, ending her dreams, she walks with drooping eyes into
the kitchen. Half in sleep she prepares my breakfast and then fusses over me.
I saunter out of the house leaving behind a mess. Eventually I get on with my
day and believe me she gets on with hers. Cleaning, cooking, working on the
complete energy of her will. Once the sun climbs higher, her batteries begin to
die out. She takes a shower, hot water massaging every hurting nerve. And then
I knock: louder; Louder; LOUDER. Until she rushes out to open the door. She
feeds me, yet again. Before the evening strikes, she is out of the door, walking
towards her job with full dignity and elegance; leaving the house at my mercy.
The moon guides her weary steps back to her home. By this time every bone in
her body cries out in agony. But she smiles. After dinner she tucks us in and calls
37
it a day. But lying in the darkness of my room I can still hear her moving around
preparing for tomorrow’s ordeal. And then finally I listen to her climbing into her
bed and instantly drifting off. This is when I creep into her room and kneel down
to look into the most peaceful face. Closed eyes, rhythmic breathing, a slight
curve of her lips… I wonder who made her heart so big. Silent tears roll but I sip
them back. I touch her in a desperate attempt to absorb her pain. But I realize I
can’t do anything for this fighter. I leave her battles to her. I kiss her and whisper,
“Goodnight Mom, tomorrow will be a better day.”
Samreen Faraz, Age 18
Everyday Struggle
I don’t want to live no more because sometime I hear death knocking on my front
door where I’m from I’m taught to stay humble but every time I do something
positive there’s always something or someone that’s burst my bubble.
In sports they say defence is better than offence. Where I’m from it’s like a
game I avoid the obstacles by playing the defence but even when I don’t play the
offence I still commit the offence.
Some of us are masters in disguise. But most believe we’re not intelligent and
wise. We portrayed as having that atrocious attitude like ‘get bent’ because we
apparently all got from rappers such as 50 cent.
Most of us don’t have a lot so we don’t give a lot then we classified as being
stingy, well we all trying to make it out that’s why we listen to Nas not Chingy.
The government is quick to donate money to countries around the world
where times are hard but how are they going to help other countries when they
didn’t help their own backyard. It’s tough going out everyday on these streets
that’s why I feel the government gave so much to the tsunami relief.
We walk by the negativity and continue to stay humble. This is another
episode of the everyday struggle.
Temesgem Ghebremicael, Age 17
All the Lonely People
All the lonely people/Where do they all come from?/All the lonely people/Where
do they all belong? —from ‘Eleanor Rigby’ by The Beatles
Every time I hear the song ‘Eleanor Rigby’ by the Beatles, I reminisce about a
summer volunteer position that I once had at a nursing home that was especially
devoted to the care of residents with Alzheimer’s disease and other forms of
38
dementia. In particular, my thoughts wander to the memory of an elderly resident
in her 90s whom I befriended during my time at the home. Her name was Anne,
and first impressions revealed her to be a cranky and unfriendly woman whose
only companion was solitude. She had no family or friends, and she sat by herself
in the common room day after day, waiting for her inevitable departure from the
world of the living.
My first encounter with Anne occurred during one lazy summer afternoon as
I was entertaining residents on the outdoor patio of the nursing home. Feeling
sympathetic towards her lonely lifestyle and lack of loved ones, I promised myself
that during my time working at the home, I would strive to touch Anne’s lonesome
life with my concern for her well-being and happiness. Over the next few weeks,
I began visiting Anne quite frequently, in the hopes that my visits would allow
her to feel the companionship and love of a fellow human being for her. Anne
grew to enjoy the times that we spent together, as I provided her with the
friendship that was sorely lacking from her daily life. Through our conversations,
I discovered that beneath the façade of old age and unfriendliness, Anne was a
treasure trove of wisdom and experiences. As we became more comfortable in
one another’s presence, she began to tell me of various life experiences that she
had undergone in her past. Her tales of life as a schoolteacher in Nova Scotia were
especially memorable for me, as they presented an image of a younger, stronger
and more vivacious Anne than the elderly lady that I physically perceived before
me. Although I have long since moved on to different volunteer placements, my
experiences of Anne’s wisdom and life stories have greatly influenced my manner
of perceiving the world and the individuals whom I encounter.
Over the course of numerous years of community involvement, I have met
numerous individuals of all ages and from all walks of life, who, like Anne, have
been innocent victims of neglect and abandonment. Although modern society has
taken measures to address issues affecting its destitute and its weaker members,
too often are the voices of the unnoticeable and forsaken individuals silenced.
Society as a whole has become so caught up in the lives of the wealthy, the
powerful and the famous that it is blinded towards the fascinating and invaluable
experiences of those who lead seemingly simple, unremarkable lives. In ‘Eleanor
Rigby’ the Beatles challenge humanity to reach out to its ‘unimportant’, neglected
members in the common bond of love and friendship that should exist between
all peoples. As such, I have taken up the challenge of seeking out and comforting
the neglected as one of my life missions. Through my efforts, and the work of
others, I hope that someday all people will find a place where they belong and
are loved.
Joyce Lam, Age 17
39
Watch Out! We're Coming!
Ryan Shin, Age 18
Reality 101
Frightened, then fulfilled. These three words sum up the entirety of my experiences
as a volunteer with The Route — a group of students who hand out sandwiches
and drinks to the homeless people of downtown Toronto every Friday night.
Treading unfamiliar territory, I was essentially taking a crash course in Reality
101. Although my parents frequently educated me about the difficult truth of life
on the streets, encountering it first person and at night, when the harshness of
reality particularly shone through, proved jarring to say the least.
As a privileged girl who was born into a loving family with a roof over her
head, I could not even begin to fathom what these individuals endured day in,
day out. Cold winds and sub-zero temperatures seemed to be the least of their
worries. Food was an essential that too often made itself scarce.
But more often than not, the homeless were reluctant to take handouts from
us and refused what we had to offer, sometimes angrily so. I will admit that,
40
initially, this left me uneasy and unaware of how to deal with such a situation.
But through observation of veteran volunteers’ attitudes and general demeanours
when dealing with homeless people, I realized that, in order for respect to be
reciprocated, patience as well as additional respect must be given. This principle,
in my opinion, should be applied to all people, regardless of economic status.
My experience volunteering with the homeless opened my eyes and made
me realize that, despite the education schooling provides, no amount of books
can teach you what life can. While on The Route, I discovered a personal route
of my own.
Anita Li, Age 17
Today Feels Like Yesterday and the Tomorrow Before That
Yesterday. No, it is today that I wake up at 7:30 and rush to where I think I belong.
Kitchen first. I make myself a large cup of coffee and cookies to start this day. Or
maybe this was yesterday? Wash up, dress up, step downstairs and go straight
ahead. The traffic zooms by before my eyes: thousands of people running to work
and to school. We’re all trains, following our schedule, almost never late and so
blindly bored.
Weeks collided, and I found myself waking up at 7:30 on a Saturday morning.
Kitchen first. I made myself a large cup of coffee and cookies. But that was
yesterday. And I turned on my television to watch the weather forecast. But that
will be tomorrow. Sometimes I want to be a train and follow the tracks ahead of
me. I want to think that I’m free to go anywhere, and that it just so happens that
the tracks lead me to where I want to go. It’s so easy to believe that all the paths
lead to a destination. It is this destination that we anticipate, forgetting we are
alive. I’m forgetting that I’m alive. I’m not a machine. I’m not a metal frame. I don’t
live on gasoline or breathe out toxins. I don’t. I’m not. I’m not. Stop. Someone
disassembled my tracks, and I stop. And I wait.
I am waiting for my bus on a Saturday morning. Ladies first. It comes up,
opens up, and I step up and walk straight ahead. Today feels like yesterday, and
it’s funny how I’ve been here tomorrow. I watch the world rush by me as the
bus accelerates. It just so happens that it goes to where I have to go. I sit by the
window, surrounded by trains, who think that they’re free. I like the bus ride. It
is during my ride in the morning that I get to slow down and look through the
window, forgetting that I am late.
I once knew a man who would sit in his basement watching the toy trains
circle around him over and over, again and again. He would sit there all day after
his 7:30 cup of coffee and weather forecast, and watch the trains run in circles. He
once told me that it is truly remarkable that they never reach their destination.
41
“But they try,” he said. “They try to finish their circles, except what they think
is an end is actually the beginning.”
He would watch them for hours, running around and around. Hypnotized.
While the trains hurried in circles, he slowed down.
The bus comes to a stop. I get off and stand on the street. It’s my choice not to
go. I lift my head up to the sun and stretch out my arms, welcoming its warmth. I
stop for a second, and then try the door. But it is locked. I try again – still locked.
Saturday. I am free to go.
Elena Lissitsyna, Age 18
Perspective
In life, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. We each have different lifestyles,
opinions and perceptions on the world. These perceptions are dictated by the
circumstance in which we were raised. You and I are different people and we
experience and absorb the world in different ways. Imagine a rainy day. Now
imagine two people observing this same day, and let me depict to you their
varying views.
Ugh, it’s raining. The water is pounding down in profounding torrents. The whole
world looks grey, from the ominous black clouds to the cracked concrete, life
seems to have been washed away. I’m trapped behind these four walls by the
miniscule little droplets, mustered together to ruin my day. The sky has opened
up and unleashed its tears upon the world. Err… rain is sooo… depressing.
The rain is drumming a rhythmic beat on the windowpane, creating a backbeat
for the symphony of life. It cascades from the heavens above and brings with it a
surge of renewal. Each miniscule tear is in essence a capsule containing vitality.
The withered plants absorb the precious water and flourish, as the life cycle is set
in motion once again. Ahhh… rain is so refreshing…
It is important to be aware of oneself and to form your own opinions, but it’s also
wise to stop and listen to the minds of others. Through their eyes we might see
something different, yet astoundingly beautiful. We can choose to live a half full
or half empty life, based on how we choose to perceive.
Natalija Milicevic, Age 17
42
The Scarlet Lette
Letter : A Review
A touchingly human story of a time in history that made us wonder how far
religious and moral extremes can take us, this classic has flourished for centuries.
At once a dire warning and a moving story of the human will, The Scarlet Letter is
still read and studied more than 300 years after its publication.
The Scarlet Letter tells the story of Hester Prynne, a young, recently married
woman sent to start life in America while her husband stayed in England. She is
found to be with child by another man. Because she would not reveal the name
of her lover after a public trail in the marketplace, she is forced to wear a scarlet
letter “A” sewn onto her breast, marking her as the town adulteress. Unbeknownst
to her or her lover, her husband stood among the crowd that condemned her.
As both Hester and her lover deal with the results of their uncontrolled passion,
Hester’s husband, a cold-hearted, demonic man described as “having successfully
turned himself into a fiend by taking on the office of one” moves forward with his
plan of revenge in this intriguing, dramatic page-turner.
Nathaniel Hawthorne draws from his own experience as he writes about
a time where moral and religious zeal outweighed human passion. His story
criticizes the framework of Puritan society in ways so subtle that the reader may
very well miss it amidst the fast-moving plot and intriguing, dynamic characters.
Making good use of magic realism and vivid imagery, he portrays the Puritan
mindset so well that the reader is drawn into the world of 16th century New
England complete with witches that fly around on broomsticks at night, people
who meet the Devil out in the woods and a scarlet letter “A” imprinted in the flesh
of Hester’s secret lover.
Despite its gloomy message and solemn warning, The Scarlet Letter is also a
story of human emotion, passion and the will to survive. Hester’s very exclusion
from her Puritan township is as much a blessing as it is a punishment. Marked
as the adulteress, she no longer needs to abide with the strict morality of New
England. She can live a life that really is human, complete with its passion, pain,
lusts and love. Her lover, however, is forced to deny his desire, his needs and even
his humanity because he would not choose Hester’s fate.
More than 300 years after its publication, this book contains a message that is
as relevant and poignant as the day it was written. It’s as much about the abuses
of women in a society too rigid in its moral and religious ideals as it is about two
people’s will to survive in spite of it. With the vivid imagery, magic realism and
profound symbolism that mark a Hawthorne novel, The Scarlet Letter is a must
read for anyone concerned about their society, their values and their right to be
human.
Julia Zhao, Age 17
43
Poetry
Roots
Carina Chan, Age 14
44
POETRY: AGE 12–14
My Life Poem
I am from a dim and empty room.
From hardwood floors and white, smooth walls,
From a cozy feeling with the cleanest of the house,
And comfortable pillows beneath these covers of warmth.
I am from home – quiet but chatty with hearty laughter.
I am from a clean, nearly dustless environment,
From smells of whatever is cooking and sights of busses passing by,
From airplanes above, and buzzings of traffic behind,
From a piano to an entertainment system,
I am from the warm rooms with comfy seats.
I am from Dixon Grove, with plazas and malls around.
From the CN Tower to the SkyDome,
From the Exhibition, to the ACC, and welcoming others at Pearson,
From “Little Italy” on College and Chinatown downtown,
I am from a very multicultural city.
I am from the five Great Lakes, and between the Pacific and the Atlantic,
From the Rockies to the Flatlands, to the cold arctic provinces,
From fish to oil and wheat to potatoes,
From Niagara Falls and great big malls,
I am from a bilingual, Maple Leaf country.
I am from boat people and refugees and immigrants.
From Mid-Autumn Festival to Lunar New Year,
From doctors and dentists to lawyer and bank manager.
From many superstitions and very skilled, well-mannered people,
I am from where elders are first and respected and I’m proud of it!
I am from a music-surrounding atmosphere.
From minor troubles that will occur, yet still have the freedom we have today,
And people living happily, with great healthcare
And doing the best I can to reach my hopes and dreams.
I will soon grow up and become a lady who can make a change in this world.
Alice Dang, Age 13
45
(Untitled)
I’ve always wondered
Ever how,
People say,
Don’t have a cow.
I’ve also wondered why,
Someone came up with,
When pigs fly.
Because in this world,
In all of places,
You see the strangest things,
That most amazes.
Like machines that talk, and walk, and
Sing,
And also correct the most important things.
Or things that cure you of a cold,
And (so they say) prevent you from being old.
And coffee cups from three feet high,
Or plastic trucks that drive up high.
So in the modern way we’ll say,
When pigs fly to Pluto and decide to stay!
Gabrielle Felio, Age 12
My Room
My room is mine
Where I face my problems
Where my demons take their last stand
Where I break down all barriers.
I make things in my room
Grow and create things in my room.
Drawing this, writing that
Painting this, gluing that.
No one ventures into my room
They are not sure what they may find.
They could see pencils and paper
Scattered all across the floor.
46
My room is like my mind
Confused with war and words,
Songs and poems,
Advice to give,
Advice to receive.
My room is mine
When life gets too rough outside
I come in and unwind.
Radio blaring,
Pages of a book turning.
Morning, noon, and night
My room is mine.
With the smell of ocean breezes or lavender fields
I finally find my solitude.
As I sleep, my thoughts of the day
Seep into the surrounding walls.
A new day ahead
I start with a fresh mind.
My room is mine
Tegan Gow, Age 13
47
Broked
I was that of me, once
And you were which of you
I’ve now lost myself someplace
Myself doesn’t want me to find it
But that’s OK
I’m most of me
I mean, I think me is a part of me
Or I and me are the same
But if that is so, aren’t we missing myself?
If myself joins us, we won’t become an ‘us’
We’d become one whole
One mind
One self
But that will never happen
Because myself doesn’t want to be found
It’s OK
I don’t mind
I mean, I think I don’t mind…
Tina Hang, Age 14
This day
the day was dark and quite dreary,
the clouds shone in a pathetic shade of gray.
I’m not sure the sun wanted to exist
through the haze of a drizzle of rain there could be seen a trio of noxious columns
gently trickling out of smoke stacks
aside the sidewalk, in the gutter, a small yellow frog bathed in the streaks of purple
petrol upon the sewer water
further down a small child’s voice coincided with the din of cars on the road
the rain started to fall more substantially and umbrellas bloomed along the street
as people passed they failed to see the beauty of their day and only saw its misery
whether it was the haze, or the fog, something about this day was nice.
Illya Mykytyn, Age 14
48
Solitary Candle
Christina Li, Age 12
49
Life is;
A never ending game of chess
A gift from God
A box of chocolates
A swaying mountain road
A mystery
Something to be taken advantage of
To be lived to the fullest
Cherished
A highway leading to heaven
To be celebrated
A flame having to be protected from the wind
A journey taken by all
Dependant on choices made
A wonderful thing
A giver of opportunities
An open door waiting to be walked through
A newborn infant
Inescapable
A bumpy path
A chance to do something great
Your
Very
Own
Peter Nawara, Age 14
50
Me
What do you do to get here?
You go around the family tree,
Over the art bridge,
Past the rock of music.
You jump over the waterfall of life,
Around the mountain of happiness,
Through the forest of fun,
Swim in the fountain of wealth,
and warm by the log of friends.
Under the snow of skiing,
Go past the statue of sleep,
and around the lake of winter.
You get to the very place I want to be,
You get to a place that is called Me!
Denys Pavlov, Age 13
Queen of Pranks
Splat! Goes the yogurt on Johnny’s pants
Spit with a straw from the table across
Beware here comes the Queen of Pranks
She’ll make you know what you did wrong
“Ain’t I sexy now?” is the sentence written there
On one of the girl’s birthday posters
And the rock star that she likes has
A Hitler moustache drawn under his nose
The kid in front has his underwear showing
So She takes a picture with her phone
And shows Her friends – they’re all laughing
The kid has no idea what’s going on
The Royal Highness sticks Her gum on a guy’s seat
The peppermint gum is stuck to his ass
She is laughing so hard that it’s hard to breathe
He walks on like that on his way to class
51
Then the girl with the auburn hair
Walks towards you silently
Her angelic pretty stare
Her eyes like pale sapphires
So innocent Her smile is
Her lips so tender sweet
But when She walks
Past you on the street…
Her smile turns into a laugh
Her lips voluptuous red
Just when you thought She fell for you…
You run your hand through your hair
You realize there’s a spitball stuck in there.
Julia Varshavska, Age 14
Artwork
Kelly Hu, Age 13
52
Tragedy
Running away from the HUGE, roaring waves,
E
S
T
In sorrow, thinking an end has come to our days.
N
Partly because of the tragedy chasing us, partly thinking
E
of leaving our loved ones far away.
A
C
E
Dedicated to the victims of the attacks of the Asian Tsunami, 2004.
Junaid Warwani, Age 12
High Heels
High heels are good for anything,
for anything they are.
They jam, and jab, and jiggle,
and jut, and jet, and jar.
Every lady needs them,
in order to teeter-tot.
They’re just about as useful,
as often as they’re not.
An original, creative idea,
to help damsels in peril;
Surgeons could use them easily,
so long as they’d be sterile.
The long thin ones are dangerous,
get stuck in every crack.
You jet forward in a stumble, then . . .
get up and trip right back.
Short, thin ones look silly,
they jut at every step.
They’re just great for throwing, the latest craze,
A code of rules is set:
When throwing ‘cross the street,
53
be sure to look both ways.
In a darkened alley, knock him out,
or leave him in a daze.
The thick heels are most useful,
for tapping out a dance
to melodies, and bouncy bees,
and funny, silly, chants.
Clicking down the pavement,
making lots of noise.
Say . . . how come they never make this stuff for boys?
Just think of playing basketball
feet clickin’ to the beat
echoing off the backboard
clackin’ down the street.
This is what they’re used for,
this is what they are
this is why I haven’t appreciated them so far.
Mattie Wiseman, Age 14
54
For You, My Dear Valentine
ZheShu Xiao, Age 13
55
POETRY: AGE 15–16
Wasted
When the morning comes I know I will be shortened.
He takes me out of the box and puts his fingers on my waist,
and starts writing.
I am being wasted.
He erases me with my friend the eraser.
He once too, was tall and white, but now he is short and black.
We will all disappear from the world of humans.
I get sharpened once in a while. It’s torture to get sharpened.
They put your head in and twist.
Then I get put back in the dark box until later.
Once again to be wasted.
Erin Cassidy, Age 15
Melodic Garden
Lisa Meng, Age 16
56
Storm
Darkness creeping in
Black canopy develops
Air weighing heavy
Pellets of rain plunge
Clatter of droplets echoes
Haze of drizzle hangs
Eerie lightning flash
Patterns of warped light emerge
Striking hard, forceful
Sky bellows with rage
Majestic roars of thunder
Punching resonance
Battle rages on
Rich bass surmounts orchestra
Waiting for solo
New sweet tune comes forth
Rising counterpoint to bass
Melody of calm
Beams of light emerge
Filtering through the shadows
Dancing with new song
Blanket of black lifts
New glow brightens slow but sure
Come, new day awaits
Michelle Wong, Age 16
57
The Street
As I stand here gazing at the street from a distance
A newspaper slides across the cold floor
The street light stands tall and alone
The darkness of the night causes me to tremble
As the cool gentle breeze caresses my frightened face
A bright red leaf falls from a great oak tree
It floats through the almost empty street
As if it is trying to escape something
Passing deranged pedestrians
It gains no attention
It floats with such elegance and grace
Until it lands in a half-frozen puddle of mud
It will soon crumble up and die
It reminds me of life
Life on the streets.
Daniel Bacchus, Age 15
I am.
Life, Love, strength
I care very much about my family
and friends.
Trustworthiness is important to me.
Unselfishness is important to me.
Happiness is important to me.
Optimism is a good thing.
Being self centered is bad but can
be good to love yourself.
The weather is destroying many
countries.
The night comes out earlier during
Winter and it's beautiful.
People are too selfish.
This is me.
Ana Knezovic, Age 15
58
Isn’t it funny?
Isn’t it funny how one person can make you feel so good?
Without any words, just the way he looks at you
Makes you smile for months (with no particular reason),
Makes you day-dream (on a regular basis),
Makes you laugh (even when the joke is not that funny),
Makes you forget all your troubles (and find everything perfect).
Mind those pointy arrows the chubby (for you – adorable)
Winged-baby insists on aiming (and shooting) at you.
He simply makes you so happy…
One moment, somewhere along the way, you wake up.
Without any words, just the way he looks at you
Makes you cry for months (with no particular reason),
Haunts you in your sleep (at night, when you think you’re safe),
Makes you angry (even when the comment is not insulting),
Makes you forget all your joys (and find everything depressing).
Mind those apathetic looks the sarcastic (for you – stupid)
Tall guy insists on aiming (and shooting) at you.
He so simply makes you miserable…
Isn’t it funny how one person can make you feel so sad?
Nina Plotnik, Age 16
Peeling Wallpaper
Peeling wallpaper, torn by the edges.
Once littered with cherry roses, petals of pure blood,
thorns that sliced through the hearts of pale-faced visitors
and crept along the walls in the silence of midnight hours.
Roses now faded to a yellow-tinted pink,
thorns now blunt and dull.
Thick with memories, drenched in grease.
Soiled, cracked, drained of all life as the elderly occupant.
Four walls now, nothing more.
Vanja Vukosavljevic, Age 16
59
Rich Emptiness of History
Under the coat of old-bloody red,
The sound of my heart softly beats
Through the curves of my hollow body.
As the naked wind flowing in an autumn day,
An uncontrollable empty movement, I feel,
Tuneless words and numbers, I hear
Of long travels gone and yet to come.
Spanning continents,
Sweeping centuries in four paths of life
As four gut-made strings tragically marked
By empty history.
O rhythmic-beating time!
Thou that exposes the numbers of this adventure,
The beauty and passionate sound of life.
Free my sprit and sound!
Adela Rexha, Age 16
Pigeons in Flight
Christina Cook, Age 15
60
Ode to my Pillow
As I lean in with relief toward you,
I smell the delicate smell of my sweet shampoo.
Your skin acquaints itself with mine,
So soft, so fine.
You sleep with me through the night,
Making sure that I’m alright.
Laying on you, my relaxed feelings show,
Taking you everywhere my dreams want to go.
Hearing you move from under my head,
Reassures me that I’m still safe in my bed.
As morning arrives, I don’t want to part,
For being in your presence, reassures my heart.
I press you up against my cheek, and hold you in my embrace,
Your soft, featherlike touch so smooth upon my face.
As I slowly get up, I give you a glance,
Knowing that soon I’ll get a second chance.
I place down to your usual spot,
And I say to you, pillow, you mean a lot.
Marta Polanska, Age 15
Dance
Possessive fingers encircle my waist.
Their tips kissing softly like the starting wires in that Chevy we stole last week.
The roar of the live engine ricochets through my lungs
Just now as I sense your fingers.
If I am your orange, you are my peel,
Rich in fibre and tough as chicken-wire wrapped thrice around the coop.
You wrap me up like a warm turkey sandwich in paper
As we sway to the rhythm of the candlelit dance floor.
A smile flows from my cheeks to yours,
Lingering like the perfume of dead mouse in a dank basement.
I know now, this is not another dance of the moth, smouldering in the passion of a
100 watt bulb.
This is the dance of the spider, graceful and trusting.
61
Yesterday we swung fast to the music,
Tongue to tongue like a tribe of angry chimpanzees.
The projector rolled and slides flashed,
A door, a couch, and then myself running way.
We don’t need all that.
Today we’re the ocean waves and the red sand;
Always together and always apart.
The dance floor is unpolished but we like it that way,
And the music is the engine in our ears.
Saara Punjani, Age 15
Days
Every Day there’s a
New day, there’s a
New day every day.
Every day is a
new beginning, there
Is no stopping the
days from going by
without days
there will be no
life, Days are
always going
by.
Phillip Livingston, Age 16
62
I Grew Up
I grew among lights,
fluorescent neon caressing the
windows of antique shops
and corner stores
The buzzing land of the busy,
black umbrellas turning their backs
on rain and crowded alleys
clogged with crisp fall leaves
I grew up with cars and
factory chimneys spewing
smoke like
ripe cigarettes
and the television arguing
with the radio over the
nonsensical issues that
supposedly affected me
I grew with the river,
Summer days plucking snails
off of moist leaves and holding
annual caterpillar circuses
Anna Dziuba, Age 16
63
POETRY: AGE 17–19
I love you
You are the best time of my life.
You are a flower from heaven.
Your eye is the light of my soul.
Your face is a bright star in the clear.
Your cheeks are the rose of my life.
I see them every moment.
You are the sun and the world.
You are a colourful rumba in a dark sky.
I would die to hear your voice.
And see your face, your hair, even your shadow.
Your heart is like honey.
I can’t get enough of
Your voice like a white bird
In a sunny weather sky.
To the girl that I love
Mohamed Awad, Age 19
Mother Nature and More
bahot gahram hawa
suraj maringay sid
naram hawa wal ganta
hair bahot tanda coke
nasdik avas
bara hanara
mara chotay so ako suraj ho ga ya
nazr saf hogi
hot and humid air
sun beating down on head
gentle breeze through
ice cold coke
closer to sound
big shadow
sun small eyes
vision became clearer
Ibrahim Baig, Age 18
64
Rock 'n' Roll
Alexandra Gidoiu, Age 17
65
The Waiting Room Tales
The Prologue
Such a sad, depressing and sickly place,
Is the doctor’s office waiting room space.
The patients give dark, solemn, empty stares,
But make too much noise and you will get glares.
Everyone anxiously awaits their turn
Wanting insight on what the doctor’s learned.
A BUSINESSMAN, brief case, there right from work
Talking loudly on his phone like a jerk,
A stressful job, he looks awfully worn out,
Young but is wrinkling ‘round the eyes and mouth.
Neatly ironed suit, neatly knotted tie,
He hangs up his phone and lets out a sigh,
Every day for him is the same routine,
He’s stern but wants a change or so it seems.
Whether it is the pressure of his job
That makes him hack, wheeze, vomit, sweat and cough.
Hopefully the doctor can figure out
What this complicated man is about.
The SINGLE MOTHER is there with two kids,
She is struggling not to flip her lid.
She is beautiful under all the stress
Trying to get rid of all of life’s mess.
Always working at least 3 or 4 jobs,
She falls asleep every night to her sobs.
Her husband left and ran out of her life,
Intent on leaving her for his new wife,
Left with the two kids to fend for herself,
They used to have nothing but their own health.
The TEENAGER is the one no one likes,
He’s the perfect teenage stereotype.
His headphones on with his music on loud,
Angry because his parents are not proud.
He thinks he doesn’t need to go to school,
66
He’d rather act tough and try to be cool.
On the outside he acts superior,
On the inside he feels inferior,
Like an elephant frightened of a mouse,
He is sometimes afraid to leave his own house.
She is slow moving, small and very frail,
The OLD LADY who moves slow as a snail.
Lost her hearing but her aid is turned off,
Not wanting to hear everybody’s coughs.
It is her third time at the doctor’s this week,
She is in her nineties and she feels weak,
Dressed moderately in her Sunday dress,
But even Sunday can’t cure the depressed.
She knows that the end is approaching near,
But she is prepared and she feels no fear.
The DOCTOR emerges with his white coat,
Clean, pure, waiting to give someone some hope.
Constantly spending long, hard days at work,
Ridding the body of the germs that lurk.
In his career he’s seen so much dying,
He’s seen buckets filled with family’s tears from crying.
He started his own family practice,
Now he just works and never relaxes.
He’s a middle-aged man who is wealthy
Just wanting to keep his patients healthy.
There is much to see looking at faces
In large, sad, empty, waiting room spaces.
Faces looking sombre and sometimes blue,
Whether it is a check-up or the flu.
Personal problems are left at the door,
Everyone is equal; no one is more.
Nicholas Constantine, Age 17
67
Room 335
Step by step into the room that awaits
Enlightened by a flick of a switch
Wine-red couch
Waiting for me to be seated
Room 335
The way it should be
Electric artwork of flame-maple leaning on the wall
Rockin’ cube ready to ring like a bell
Tender touch of jazz?
Roaring beefy overdrive?
Silky smooth, crystal-clear?
Twang-twang inspiring cries of blues?
Or distort the hell out of it
Scream and Shred like a madman?
Step by step into the room
The room that makes my day
Neither rule nor definition
Improvised sound waves of freedom
Heaven easing boredom
And this life’s fatigue
Room 335
The way it is
David Han, Age 18
Mister Marcus
Soaked right through with the early morning rain;
I marched over to Mister Marcus’ house.
Mister Marcus! Mister Marcus! Miiiiiiiiiisster Maaaaaaaarcus!
Where is mi mother’s green bananas that she put under di house?
Sitting on his veranda, he turned around and said to me,
“In my belly Miss Joseph, you mama’s green bananas is in my belly.”
Aresell Joseph, Age 17
68
The Girl Reading the Letter
The room is dull
With red curtains
Red bed sheets
Fruits in a bowl
A chair on the side of the room
A girl with blonde hair
She has curls
Colour of her dress is green
Her face expression is sad
As she is reading the letter
Near the opened window
Curtains are opened too
She seems to be expecting someone
There’s a reflection on the window
Minute of Silence
Sosena Kassa, Age 18
Let’s turn off the streetlights
Tonight
And stop all traffic
For just one minute
—A minute of silence—
Not for mourning,
But a celebration
Of God’s creation.
Let us stare in awe of the pure ivory moon
—Jade, if you prefer—
And the glittering jewels we call
Stars.
Let the only orange glow
Be of a sunset
—Sunrise, for the optimists—
As the minute of silence
Begins.
Cecilia Ki, Age 17
69
De Original Sketch (D.O.S)
Triston Isaac, Age 17
70
Superheroes
(dedicated to Coach House Press)
Superheroes in the closet
In the press, in the mess
The books stacked on the shelf
The postcards on a stand
The books in the press
Superheroes in the armchairs
Cozy and crammed up in tiny space
Factory of books in the press, in the mess
Old pictures, old armchairs
Spider webs on the shelf
Superheroes on the paper
Their spines glued to the covers
Their arms cut off by book cutter
Their pages coloured one by one
Spider webs on the window
Their spines glued to the window
Postcards on a stand
Superheroes downstairs
Squeaky, screechy turns of wheels
Their arms stretched out, turning
Factory of spider webs
Factory of wood in a wooden press
A guest – impressed
My spine glued to the armchair
Superheroes in my head.
Elena Lissitsyna, Age 18
71
Between Take-Off and Nowhere
8:45
Fresh rolls baking. Asphalt screeching. Stiff boarding pass.
10:10
Sweet exhaust wafting. Phones chirping. Slippery aisles.
11:30
Break!
“Do you know what you want?”
“The special.”
“You always get the special.”
“Yeah. I always get the special.”
12:45
Sour sweat pouring. Cameras laughing. Prickly smiley face.
2:10
Old milk spoiling. Bags crashing. Icy closed sign.
3:30
Grounded!
“Do you know what you want?”
“Out of here.”
“You always wanted that.”
“I said four years and I’m gone.”
*
**
***
High school cancelled >
***
**
*
Stephanie Law, Age 18
72
Tears of Shame
Through which
Shall be known
The call for rain
Is just to hide
The pain of the
Heart
To wash away
What wept out
It is shame
For it is worthless
Of her love
Tatum Joanne Bernardo, Age 18
The Fountain of Youth
Sweet lilacs tickle your neck, sitting on an old oak bench whistling and
watching the fountain flow endlessly and infinitely as if you had been
drowning and drained of memories and that to be young is to have great
dreams and to laugh like that little youth of a boy playing firefighter under the
hot sun burning to save his red truck being run over by sand thrown by
immaculate virgin queens who knew where to wash their secrets away by
swinging the sparkles out of their hair that waved in beautiful grace through
the skies while warning their princes to slide down the tower and climb the
monkey bars to heaven where gardens of trumpet playing marigolds and wind
whispering lilies exist full of colour and entrancing fragrance, circling you like
a potion that impels you to dance and run across the fields of rich green,
chasing the villains who bark and scrape for your precious treasures you hid
so deep and will never find because they are all gone and you have lost all
memory because you are blank as paper, until today when you remembered
this one day when they were laughing and you were watching, believing,
pretending that you were still alive, that you were so young, so free, and once
joyous like them.
Hoa Pham, Age 18
73
Meteora
Jessica Leen, Age 17
74
YOUNG VOICES 2005/6
Toronto Public Library magazine of teen writing and art
Call for Submissions
Express yourself!
GUIDELINES
1. Write what you want to write!
Write about monster trucks, flower
petals, dew on the morning grass, a
dark and stormy night, love, death,
bands, lyrics, your friends, your
parents, your dog, your favourite
librarian (or not)…
2. Submit only your own original
work
3. Submissions are not returned
— keep a copy of your work
4. Toronto Public Library has onetime print and electronic rights to
all written work, as well as
the right to excerpt from the work
for purposes of promotion
5. All artwork becomes the property
of Toronto Public Library
6. Written submissions will be
selected from each of the
following age categories: 12–14;
15–16; 17–19
7. Artwork will not be categorized
by age for the purposes of
choosing what to publish.
Who can enter
Teens 12–19 years who live or go to
school in Toronto.
What can be entered
Written Work: poems, stories, rants,
reviews…
• one entry per person
• 500 words maximum
• Typed entries preferred, but not
required
Artwork: for inside the magazine or on
the cover
• 8 1/2” x 11” preferred
• One-colour artwork only
• Submit only originals; no
photocopies, electronic scans, etc.
• Artwork will not be returned and
becomes the property of Toronto
Public Library.
How to enter
• Complete fully the submission form
(see over)
• Attach the form to your work
• Drop your work off at any library
branch
• For written work only
only, you can
submit online:
> www.torontopubliclibrary.ca
> Click on ramp
> Click on Express Yourself
> Click on Young Voices
✃
Submission Deadline: April 7, 2006
YOUNG VOICES 2005/6 Submission Form
Submission Deadline: April 7, 2006
Please fill out this form fully and attach it to your submission.
Submissions with incomplete submission forms may not be considered for publication.
Last name _______________________________________________________
First name(s) _____________________________________________________
Address _________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________
Email ___________________________________________________________
Telephone number _________________________________________________
Age ________
□ Male
□ Female
Today's date ________________________
Title of your submission ____________________________________________
Genre of submission
□ Poem □ Fiction □ Rant □ Review □ Art
□ Other (please specify what type of work you are submitting) _____________
Name of library branch where you submitted____________________________
I heard about Young Voices
□ at the library □ at the mall □ at school □ at a shelter
□ online at ramp □ Other (please say where) _________________________
Eagle Dreams, Vicky Zhao, Age 16
Caught in the Act, Rebecca Wen, Age 14

05-453 YV body.indd

Transcription

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