Celebrating
WORDS
Fill your paper with
the breathings of
your heart...
—William Wordsworth
English ­Language
Arts Council
of the Alberta
Teachers’ Association
Volume 7, Number 1
2007
Contents
Editorial............................................. Lana B Black 3
Lower Elementary Poetry
First Prize
Puppy Scruff....................................Gabriel Lappa 4
Junior High Prose
First Prize
My Very Bad Day...........................Jordan Jackson 12
Second Prize
A Twisted Fate..................................Monica Frick 14
Lower Elementary Prose
Third Prize
First Prize
Ghosts of Vimy............................ Victoria Hansen 16
The Three Princesses.................. D Emma Riseley 5
Upper Elementary Poetry
First Prize
Indian Summer...............................Rebecca Lappa 6
Second Prize
Into Africa..........................................Carson Grose 7
Honourable Mentions
Fat, Fat, Fat...................................Annette Panejko 21
Cool Enough for
the Field................................... Julianne Champion 25
Familiar Faces,
But None Understood.................... Erica Bolanos 28
Senior High Poetry
Junior High Poetry
First Prize
First Prize
Where I Belong.................................Cole Goodine 31
The First Day...............................Katherine Brown 8
Second Prize
Second Prize
Gone............................................ Alberto Martinez 33
Shadows........................................Ivanna Kruhlak 9
Third Prize
Third Prize
Pride.................................................. Milou Rupert 35
Fire and Ice............................... Keyfer Mathewson 10
Honourable Mentions
Honourable Mention
Saying Goodbye.......................... Kristine Nielsen 36
The Life of a Star..............................James Beaton 11
BFF....................................................Dylan Scriven 37
Celebrating Words is a supplement to Alberta Voices and is published by The Alberta Teachers’ Association (ATA) for the English
Language Arts Council (ELAC). Copyright © 2007 by The Alberta Teachers’ Association. Unless otherwise indicated in the text,
reproduction of material in Celebrating Words is authorized for classroom and professional development use, provided that
each copy contains full acknowledgement of the source and that no charge is made beyond the cost of reprinting. Any other
reproduction in whole or in part without prior written consent of the ATA is prohibited. Opinions expressed herein are not
necessarily those of the ATA or the ELAC. Editorial and production services: Document Production Services staff, ATA.
Alberta Voices is a member of the NCTE/CCTE Information Exchange and is indexed in NCTE/ERIC and in the Canadian
Education Index.
Individual copies of this journal can be ordered at the following prices: 1 to 4 copies, $7.50 each; 5 to 10 copies, $5.00 each; over
10 copies, $3.50 each. Please add 5 per cent shipping and handling and 6 per cent GST. Please contact Distribution at Barnett
House to place your order. In Edmonton, dial (780) 447-9400, ext 321; toll free in Alberta, dial 1-800-232-7208, ext 321.
Contents
Senior High Prose
Teachers/Student Teachers Poetry
First Prize
First Prize
Human Obsoletion..................Elizabeth Woollard 38
Back to School.............................Colleen Shukalek 50
Second Prize
Second Prize
Pacemaker, Peacemaker..................Erin Banham 41
Sister in Elementary.........................Alicia LeBleu 51
Third Prize
Third Prize
The Golden Tractor.................Natalia Starostecki 44
Memo............................................ Donna Macbeth 52
Honourable Mentions
Honourable Mention
Dive................................................. Ella Beaumont 46
The Unknown.................................Cindy Stevens 53
Harold’s Shadow................................. Jada Tellier 48
Teachers/Student Teachers Prose
First Prize
Untitled.............................................. Miriam Berg 55
Second Prize
Escape .........................Jason Michael Collingridge 56
2
Editorial
This is the second time I have served as the ELAC writing contest editor. The first time was a few
years ago when the publication had gone by the wayside and needed to be revived. I took on the task
of assisting the ELAC executive to simply provide a venue for writers to publish their work. However,
my attitude toward the writing contest changed as I came into contact with the contributors. I had
no idea how important it is for writers to have a place to share their work or how much pleasure I
would garner from seeing the satisfaction and joy that their words on the page brought to them and
their support networks. Students would stop and ask me when the winners would be announced or
when they would receive, not their prize for a winning entry, but a copy of the Alberta Voices Student
Writing Contest. One mother of a high school contributor took a copy to her family reunion to share her
daughter’s accomplishment with everyone she visited. I then became more interested in the writing
contest and viewed it as an important initiative for ELAC members. I saw firsthand the joy that writing
brings to writers and readers from creation to publication.
I would like to thank our judges for volunteering their time and expertise: Glen Huser, a teacher,
writer and recipient of the Governor General’s Award for Young Adult Fiction; Irene Heffel, junior
high school language arts consultant, Edmonton Public School Board; and Rhonda Day, drama and
English teacher, Jasper Place High School, Edmonton Public Schools and former editor of the high
school literary magazine Rebel Runes. Many hours were required to review the submissions and decide
which selections would be awarded in their particular category. This year the writing contest received
more secondary entries than ever before, which is a tribute to the scope of writing invited by the newest
Alberta English program of studies.
This publication has a new look and name as well. Formerly it was simply known as the
supplement to Alberta Voices. We decided that it should have a look of its own and a name that better
reflected what we were trying to accomplish—Celebrating Words does this admirably.
Thank you to the ELAC executive and membership for diligently working to ensure that we had
sufficient entries for this year’s publication and to Karen Virag and the ATA publications staff for
preparing Celebrating Words for distribution. I would like to extend a warm welcome to Katherine
Goldberg, who will be the 2007/08 writing contest editor. Kathy teaches Grade 1 at Mayfield
Elementary School, with the Edmonton Public School Board. Serving as contest editor will be Kathy’s
first position on the ELAC executive. Welcome, Kathy!
Enjoy!
—Lana B Black
Contest Editor 2006/07
3
Lower Elementary Poetry­—First Prize
Puppy Scruff
Gabriel Lappa
Scruff is my stuffy.
He looks like a baby dog.
He’s silver and he has a pudding colour right on his forehead.
And he has a small black nose.
He likes to skateboard.
He likes to eat cake.
He likes to eat candy.
He likes to eat cupcakes.
And so do I.
I made a house for him out of cardboard.
His house is number 122.
In the house is his bowl.
Yesterday, we had a tea party.
I put crackers and fishes in his bowl and he ate them all up.
I like to hug him, because he is cuddly.
And I like to sleep with him.
I love Scruff and he loves me.
Gabriel Lappa is a Grade 1 student at Victoria School of Performing Arts, in Edmonton, Alberta.
(Sandra MacRae, teacher)
4
Lower Elementary Prose—First Prize
The Three Princesses
D Emma Riseley
Once upon a time there lived three princesses. They lived in a palace. The queen and king had royal
chairs and beds. The three princesses had royal beds and chairs, too. The princesses had gold and silver
dresses and beautiful pearl necklaces and bracelets, and earrings made out of real pearls.
One day the three princesses decided to go to the Snow Queen, so they went to the Snow Queen
and she said, “Hello. How are you? Today, I was looking forward to seeing you.”
“We were too,” the princesses replied.
They kept on chatting for quite a long time. Then they heard a noise and wondered what that noise
was. Then they went upstairs to see what the fuss was all about. The Queen’s slippers kept on getting
mixed up. She screamed, “Help, help! My slippers keep on getting all mixed up!”
“We need to solve this,” thought the three princesses. Then they got a great idea and whispered,
“Why don’t we get a microscope because then we can look at what’s making that big mess?”
So that’s what they did. Then they found out it was little tiny pigs that wanted Queen shoes. The
princesses said to the queen, “Calm down! Calm down! We know what to do.”
And they bought the little pigs some pretty shoes. Then they gave the queen her shoes and there
was never a problem again. Everyone lived happily ever after.
The End.
D Emma Riseley is a Grade 1 student at Victoria School of Performing Arts, in Edmonton, Alberta.
(Jenna Heron, teacher)
5
Upper Elementary Poetry—First Prize
Indian Summer
Rebecca Lappa
I can taste ice cream and sweat.
I can see Indians in my mind.
I can hear laughter and music.
I can smell hot, hot air.
I can touch the dirt and grass.
I can see colours white and bleached as snow.
But sun so blazing hot cannot bleach your heart, the deepest of burgundy.
Your heart is leaping, dancing with the Indians in my mind.
Dancing round and round with the Indians in my mind.
Twisting with fabric blue and green with the Indians in my mind.
Yellow, orange, many assort with the Indians in my mind.
Rebecca Lappa is a Grade 4 student at Victoria School of Performing Arts, in Edmonton, Alberta.
(Allison Vermeulen, teacher)
6
Upper Elementary Poetry—Second Prize
Into Africa
Carson Grose
getting over jet lag
sweat dripping down my face
I watch the white clothes
turned red with sand
coming up from
the ground
I walk down the street
and see people
rich and poor
homeless
and school-less
kind and good
I watch animals
wandering anywhere they please
Place
By
Place
I learn different
things
Carson Grose is a Grade 5 student at Ecole Mountview School, in Red Deer, Alberta.
(Erin Lerouge, teacher)
7
Junior High Poetry—First Prize
The First Day
Katherine Brown
I open the door and walk into the driving rain.
He clings to my hand, his cold head pressed against my leg.
And I know that his heart, like mine, is pounding harder and faster than the rain beating
against the street.
I move forward, and he stiffly follows.
We both take a reluctant glance back at hut—
Dirty, cramped,
But safe.
The soil walls that had protected him from the harsh, metal world recede into the distance
As we walk on.
I set my face toward the mine.
In my mind, I begin to chant,
‘Be strong, be strong,’
Intertwined with the rhythm of the angry rain,
The fierce beating of my heart,
And our slow, heavy footsteps.
At the mine, I try to ignore the sounds of coughing, and groaning.
I try to close my eyes to the men staggering out of the tunnels, their faces as black as death.
I kneel down in front of my son.
I tell him to obey the man standing near, while in my heart, I loathe the supervisor’s uncaring,
clean face.
I look into the empty eyes of my son, and bend my head over his wet hair.
His quivering arms hug me tight.
I remind myself that this is what I must do,
What he must do.
So I tell my son to be strong,
And pray that I will see him at the end of the day.
Katherine Brown is a Grade 8 student at Ottewell Junior High School,
in Edmonton, Alberta. (Wayne Krys, teacher)
8
Junior High Poetry—Second Prize
Shadows
Ivanna Kruhlak
At night,
when the sun set,
and the house turned dark,
the only thing possible to fear,
were the mischievous movements of black.
They race across my room,
peeked over my shoulder,
and breathed down my neck.
They are always moving,
and would not stop,
until shivers coldly flew down my spine.
And even after I shook,
they continue rampaging,
chasing one another,
while staring me in the eye.
Then I remember,
as I switch on the light,
they disappear,
leaving only a memory.
Now I sit,
staring into a blank world,
not noticing a thing.
I fear nothing as I close my eyes,
and sleep peacefully through the night.
It’s different now,
for as I grow older,
I grow out of all the fears of my past.
I sleep peacefully,
all through the dark long night.
Ivanna Kruhlak is a Grade 8 student at St Kevin Junior High School, in Edmonton, Alberta.
Ivanna was in Grade 7 when she wrote this poem. (Mrs Peregoodoff, teacher)
9
Junior High Poetry—Third Prize
Fire and Ice
Keyfer Mathewson
Fire is the heat under us, inside us.
Guiding the way in troubled times.
Leading our burning desire to fight.
Fighting for what is right, mercy.
What we know should and shouldn’t be.
All these things I’ve done, for better or worse.
The aftermath of us, melting, without us knowing.
Ice is the cold, on the exterior.
Extinguishing the flame within us.
Making those ways that confuse us.
To give up, curl up, alone.
Like an evil conscious, fighting to kill.
The aftermath of us, freezing, without us knowing.
Two minutes to midnight, which way to go.
The cold of the night, creeping up your spine.
Body shaking, teeth chattering.
Look the other way, flame.
Heating you up, burning, A Fire Within.
The cold of the night, the heat of the flame.
Two separate paths, two lives.
Keyfer Mathewson is a Grade 8 student at Talmud Torah School, in Edmonton, Alberta.
(Sandra Marianicz, teacher)
10
Junior High Poetry—Honourable Mention
The Life of a Star
James Beaton
A star is born, and so it lives for years and years on end,
Peering out on volumes of space with weakening eyes to spend,
Separated by years and far away, patches of time to mend,
Yet giving out its waning rays and little heat to lend.
It’s mid in age and still it sits in a blackness all its own,
Bored and aging, but having no choice, rooted all alone.
No years have passed, it’s all the same—no time or space to roam,
It grows, expands, and gathers in its body shades of chrome.
And now its life has passed, its time to sing has gone,
The star still knows, knows it’s never ever yet been wrong.
It does not brace, it hovers loose among the still-live throng.
It explodes, pushed out from itself but still…life goes on.
And at a time that’s not yet known, it shall regather there,
Among the others from which it was carefully spun for no one else to bear.
And coloured cotton candy drifts in colours ever rare,
Until it is one all its own for no one else to share.
And in the black, in the depths of the void, the gases softly burn,
But ablaze it is when its life is covered and in its heart, life churns.
That star becomes one of the morn when the night of faraway yearns,
That star is young and it is bright: Life comes when death does turn.
James Beaton is a Grade 9 student at Winston Churchill High School, in Lethbridge, Alberta.
(Wallis Allen, teacher)
11
Junior High Prose—First Prize
My Very Bad Day
(A story based on Hansel and Gretel)
Jordan Jackson
I’m just a poor old lady; you most likely refer to me as “The Wicked Witch.” I’m not a witch; it’s a
total misunderstanding! I was just coming home after going to the store because those annoying ants in
my house ate all of my food. I saw the weirdest thing, a trail of bread crumbs in the middle of the path.
Can you believe that?
I looked at the crumbs, smelled them, and gave one a little taste. They were so good! I decided to
eat them. I can’t pass up a snack, as I love to eat! Anyway, I finally got home to see two little darn kids
feasting on my house. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I just got those walls put in (they’re 100 per cent
hardened liquid sugar).
I said, “What are you kids doing?” They tried to run off, but I grabbed them and the little girl said,
“GET OFF ME, YOU OLD BAG OF BONES.” Those little brats! Who did they think they were messing
with? I took them inside and asked the boy, “What’s your phone number?” “I’m not telling you, you
old fart,” he yelled. I tried to reason with them, but they just kept on yelling and eating my yummy
candy house!
I was pretty frustrated by now and I just wanted a cup of tea, so I opened the cage cover to my
fireplace, fired it up, put the teapot on and started to boil up my water. “There, tea’s done. Would you
kids like some? You look really thirsty,” but they never answered. They were jumping around like wild
men! You know how it is when you mix candy and kids together!
It was around 6:00 pm and I finally got those two mongrels under control. By now I looked like
the Grinch on a bad hair day! I started to get worried those two children would not get home in time
for their dinner. I asked again, “What’s your phone number?” “1-800-kissmybut,” he rudely replied.
12
Junior High Prose—First Prize
“Do you want to get home or not?” I asked.
“Yeah, the number is 555-1234.”
I was just about to grab the phone when I felt
something crawling up my leg. “Ants!” I yelled.
I went running up and down the house, back and
forth like there was no tomorrow! Those pesky
kids went running to the house like madness,
“ooowwwweeeee aaaa.” They ran and hid in the
fireplace, closed the cage (which is self-locking
so no creeps try getting into the chimney). “I’m
going to kill you,” I screamed over and over to
the ants!
Just as all of this was going on a very
handsome young lumberjack (I think his name
was Jordan or something) was working about
100 yards away and ran to the house. He kicked
the door down and saw me yelling, “I’m going
to kill you little pesky things” as the kids were
yelling, “Help us, please!” He called the cops!
I don’t blame him; the house and I looked like a tornado hit us.
The cops came and I was still “antsing” around. They took me in thinking I was some kind of crazy
lady and never even let me tell my side of the story. The judge gave me 3,000 hours community service,
because he said I was trying to kidnap them. Are you kidding me? I don’t want kids. I was happy when
my son moved out two years ago.
I don’t want to bore you with my somewhat of a sob story. I just want you to know the truth, and
the truth is, a series of very unfortunate events is what caused all of this. Besides I’m just a poor old
lady; you most likely refer to me as “The Wicked Witch.” I’m not a witch. It’s a total misunderstanding!
I was just coming home after going to the store and…well…you know the rest.
Jordan Jackson is a Grade 9 student at Mistassiniy School, in Wabasca, Alberta. (Mandi MacLennan, teacher)
13
Junior High Prose—Second Prize
A Twisted Fate
Monica Frick
The late night’s wind blew the bare branches of autumn across the windows of Edmontonians.
What was a normal night for most citizens was the start of a new life for Jamie. With a tall stature,
a bold look and a calm personality, most people would believe that Jamie would be able to handle
a death easily, but was that ever a wrong assumption. His parents had died in a fatal car crash last
weekend. Now that Jamie was 16 and old enough to care for himself, he lived alone in the house where
he and his parents used to live. Now it was just Jamie and the memories that raced through his head,
over and over again. Each moment of regret, each moment of joy, each moment of anger and each
moment of pure, unselfish love that he and his parents had shared rushed through his head, bringing
him more pain than he could ever imagine. Nothing was more real to Jamie than the love he held inside
for his parents. If only he could see them one more time, just to tell them how much he loved them,
and how much he would miss them. Although just the thought of seeing his parents again could wipe
away tears and bring a smile to Jamie’s face, it was impossible and unrealistic, but he could only pray
at a time like this. Maybe God was watching out for him tonight, and maybe God would make his wish
come true. Jamie’s luck was at its best tonight, because God was listening and his wish really did come
true … except it came with more responsibility than he had thought.
Jamie rolled over in his bed. The duvet and sheets were practically on the floor now with all of the
tossing and turning he had done tonight. He couldn’t erase the thought of his parents dying from his
mind. Suddenly, the door leading to Jamie’s room swung open. He turned around quickly, practically
falling out of his bed. As he looked at the doorway, he stared in disbelief. Right there in front of him
were both of his parents. Jamie shut his eyes so tightly trying to get back in reality that he gave himself
a headache. Opening his eyes again would be hard, but he knew he would have to do it eventually.
With his eyes opened only a crack, he could still see his parents in front of him. He wanted to hold
back, but the temptation was killing him. Jamie opened his eyes as wide as he could and kept them
open for as long as humanly possible. So many questions bounced around in his head, but he knew
which one was most important to answer. Were the figures in front of him the ghosts of his parents, or
were they just figments of his imagination? He opened his mouth to speak, but his mind was blank,
and his mouth was dry. All that his body was capable of doing right now was crying. Tears rolled
down his face so quickly as if they were wild stallions running free. Jamie was still a little boy inside,
with fears blocking his way from saying or doing anything, but he knew he would have to overcome
his fears now. Jamie was the type of person who usually kept his emotions bottled up, left things
eating away at him. It never mattered to him whether it hurt or not; he didn’t want to be upfront with
his problems, but this situation was different. What he wanted, now more then ever, was to talk to
his parents before it was too late. He finally built up the courage to talk with his parents and what he
realized is that it would never have been too late.
“Mom? Dad? Is that really you?”
“Yes it is, Jamie. God has answered your wishes, but what you don’t realize is that when God does
something for you, a deed must be done for him.” Jamie just stared at them blankly, not quite sure if he
was absorbing what was going on. His blank look made it obvious he was baffled and his parents
explained everything. “You see, Jamie, by having us right here in front of you, your life will change forever.
You are now blessed with a gift not quite explainable to the human mind. Not only will you be seeing us in
14
Junior High Prose—Second Prize
our ghostly forms, but you will be seeing other
ghosts. The dead cannot communicate with the
living unless the living want the dead more than
anything. Apparently, your love was strong enough
to bring us back, but not many others are that
lucky. Your job for the rest of your life is to
communicate to the living for the dead. You may
not get this now, but you will get it later,” his
mother explained. Jamie was extremely puzzled
and wasn’t sure if he wanted to do this, but he
knew it was what God intended for him to do. “We
will leave you alone for now, Jamie. Get some good
night’s sleep because this might be the last night
you sleep with both eyes closed. Tomorrow is when
your journey begins. See you soon. Goodbye.”
“Wait! Mom, Dad, I love you!”
“We love you too, Jamie.” Jamie knew what was about to happen would be stressful and tiring, so
he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
Jamie awoke the next morning, ready to greet the day. Stepping out of bed, he remembered what
would become of him today. Great, now I am going to be some stupid ghost whisperer, he thought to
himself. The confusion inside of him was bottled up in his mind, ready to explode as if the confusion
were champagne spraying out of a bottle. One thought of seeing dead people could take Jamie away
from the rest of the world, but it brought him to a world of anger. Jamie felt as if he were living in a big
question mark, because he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his life. Was he supposed to just sit there
and wait for the spirits to come to him, or was he supposed to walk around and act as if life was still
normal? He didn’t see how it was possible to act as if life was normal, because it wasn’t—it was the
furthest thing from being normal. Jamie was like an alien in the world that he lived in, some strange
thing that didn’t belong in society.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The smell of bacon arose in the air. Grease spat from a pan as Jamie made himself breakfast. Toast
sprang from the toaster and Jamie grabbed the butter from the fridge. He quickly snatched a knife from
the drawer to spread his butter. Sitting down, eating a peaceful meal, Jamie’s mind was completely
taken away from the thought of his parents and the gift he was supposedly granted today. Although
this morning seemed happier than most, it was still just another disheartening lonely and silent
morning, just another day gone by without his parents. Jamie looked up after taking a bite of his toast
and swallowed so hard, it felt as if he had just swallowed a pocket knife. Right there in front of him was
a man. Now this man was not the type of person you would see every day walking down the street.
The man that stood in front of Jamie was translucent and bared very little skin. It looked as if he had
died in a fire. Jamie stared. He stared hard. He remembered his parents telling him through their sweet,
sweet voices that his journey with the dead would start today, but he never realized that it would be
so soon. The realization that his life had taken a full 360‑degree turn completely shocked Jamie. Not
only had he lost his parents in a fatal car crash this week, but now he saw spirits of the dead. Although
this was all such a shock to him, it was also something of a relief. Jamie would now be occupied and to
some extent, still get to see his parents. Shock, relief and questioning were all part of the new journey.
Old memories flickered through his mind, but the only thing that Jamie focused upon was everything
that was in front of him now. A new life and a second chance to be everything that he could be. Today
was a chance to be everything he could have never been yesterday, and for that he was truly grateful.
Monica Frick is a Grade 8 student at St Edmund School, in Edmonton, Alberta. (Heidi McInnes, teacher)
15
Junior High Prose—Third Prize
Ghosts of Vimy
Victoria Hansen
“Oh great, what are we supposed to do now that we’re snowed inside the school?!” Shane pouted.
I don’t blame him though it is quite boring when you know that you’re stuck in school for who
knows how long. “Natasha, what do you want to do?” Mindi asked me, as she followed Dillon, Mike,
Shane and me out of the classroom. “I don’t know. We’re probably gonna be stuck here till tomorrow,”
I answered. Then there came an announcement over the intercom. “Would all students please come down
to the large gym for a briefing of what will happen for the rest of the day.” Ya, like we’re gonna do that!
All they’re gonna do is yap off about safety while we all sit in the crowded risers trying to breathe!”
Mike exclaimed. “But what if someone catches us?” Mindi questioned, trying not to look too worried.
“Just wait here. They won’t notice that we didn’t show up,” Dillon stated. Soon enough people started
to clear out of the hallways and within five minutes the five of us were alone in dead silence.
“Hey, I have an idea of what we can do!” Mike said while leaning his back on the wall. “I heard
that when you stand by yourself on top of the main staircase, when no one else is there and the doors
on both sides of you are shut.” He paused. “What?! What happens, Mike?!” Mindi whispered in a
scared voice. “Well, they say that you can hear the moaning and screaming of the soldiers that walk
the halls. Taunt them, and your worst nightmares will come to life,” he said, making his eyes wider
with every word. “Ya, right! Just because our school is named after a battle doesn’t mean it’s haunted
by the people that fought in it!” I retorted and hit him on the shoulder. “Who’s ever heard of ghosts?
I mean ya right. Like they would be in our school of all places anyway!” Dillon raised an eyebrow. “
You don’t believe it? Then I guess you won’t mind proving it to us, would you? I mean you’re definitely
not scared!” Uhh! The nerve of him thinking
that I would be scared of a bunch of rumours!
“Fine. I’ll do it!” I wasn’t gonna let him get the
best of me!
Quickly turning around I started to walk
toward the main staircase, I noticed they were
following me. Hah I don’t care, let them see
that they’re all wrong. I then noticed that I
was there. Shane and Mike ran to both sides
to shut the doors and quickly ran behind the
safety of the doors, where the others were
waiting. As soon as I knew that my friends
were tightly behind the doors, it struck me; I
was afraid, no matter how many times I told
myself I wasn’t. They were all safely behind
the glass and wood and there I was standing
at the edge of a haunted staircase. Then I
heard it. Low and painful moaning echoed
through the halls. Terrified by the sudden
sounds I turned my head to stare at Mindi
with a pleading look. Next to her stood Shane
16
Junior High Prose—Third Prize
and the others waving to me to start and mouthing words that I couldn’t understand. They’re the ones
making the sounds. There’s nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. Standing up straight and gazing hard
at the banners that hung from the ceiling in front of me, I screamed trying not to show the fear in my
voice. “I’m not afraid of you! Get out of my school!” The moaning stopped. “I did it!” I whispered to
myself. Relief flooded my body, but it didn’t last for long. Hands groped my back. Surprised by the
sudden feeling of someone behind me I swivelled on the spot. I gasped. I half expected to see Dillon
or someone but I found myself looking at nothing; no one looked me in the eye. I was still alone in the
hallway. Stepping back to stabilize myself, I found the edge of the stair. My hair brushed up in front of
me. Once again the feeling of hands hit my shoulders and gave me a quick and stern shove. Losing my
balance, I was sent flying backwards down the stairs. Mindi rushed out from the doors followed by the
guys. She ran down the stairs putting out her hand to reach me, but she wasn’t quick enough. Pain hit
my hips as I struck the stairs. Then there was nothing.
“Ooowww!” I opened my eyes. My body ached with bruises. I looked around. I was alone again.
I was on the platform between the two staircases, and the walls seemed to loom overtop of me, as if
waiting for something. “Mindi! Shane!” Panic struck me. “Mike! Dillon!” Where is everyone? Did they
all just leave me?! I couldn’t move; my body ached. There was no one to help me; I felt so helpless,
like a child. Hot tears started to run down my cheeks. What should I do? I put my arms to the ground;
I should at least attempt to get up, I told myself. My arm trembled under the weight of my body;
I collapsed, hitting my elbow even harder on the stone. No, I wasn’t gonna give up! This time I started
with both arms and straightened my body. Then I took a huge breath and pushed myself up from the
ground while using the wall to steady myself. I wobbled under the sudden effect of gravity. Now,
I thought to myself, I have to find help.
I took a step forward. This might take a while, I thought to myself. Slowly I made my way down
the stairs. Maybe there might be someone in the office; it was worth a shot. I got inside, oh great no
one there! Just as I was about to turn around I heard something; it sounded like giggling coming from
Mr Arndt’s room. “Guys!” I yelled at the closed door. “Guys! Please come out! I’m hurt and this isn’t
funny anymore!” More giggling came from the door. Uhh what’s their problem? Frustration built up in
me along with the constant throbbing of my temples. “That’s it. I’m coming in!” No response came. My
hand tensed up over the edge of the secretary’s desk. Why were they doing this to me? It took four long
strides to get to the door, and they seemed to bellow through the room. My fingers brushed the door
knob. It was so cold, and before I knew it I had grabbed it again and yanked the door open.
Everything went dark and slowly the pain throughout my body started to edge away. My awareness
seemed to flow outward as though all of my senses had been enhanced, and I realized I wasn’t in
Mr Arndt’s office. It looked like an old battlefield. The stench of rotting corpses, blood and gunpowder
filled the air and made me hold my nose. Bodies with different coloured clothes covered the ground.
Screaming and gunshots could be heard off in the distance. “Where am I?!” I screamed, not even trying
to hide my fear.
“You are in northern France, and I would like to ask you almost the same question; why are you
here?” A young man’s voice said. I shrieked again and tried to turn around as quickly as I could, but
instead I found a body on the ground and tripped. He laughed. I looked up at him; I was surprised to
see that he was no more than 17, only two years older than me. He wouldn’t even have been in Grade
12 yet. I felt my heart drop thinking about it; he was fighting a war and probably had no chance of
getting out alive. “Are you okay?” I had zoned out and not noticed that he had carefully walked over
and extended his hand for me to grab. I blushed, still feeling bad for his having to fight. I took his hand,
and allowed him to pull me up. His hand was so cold and full of fresh cuts and bruises. He seemed
amused by my wandering eyes. “They don’t hurt that much. Ya get used to it after a while.” “Oh,
what?” I stuttered. I zoned out yet again. “Wait, what is today?” I had to know where or when I was.
“Why it’s April 9!” He said cheerfully, as if advertising something. “No, I mean the year too.” “You’re
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Junior High Prose—Third Prize
an odd one, not knowing the date.” He paused. (Man I’m getting tired of everyone pausing!) I gave
him a glare to show him I was serious. “It’s April 9, 1917,” he said quickly. “What?” I spassed. The
young soldier jumped back in surprise from my reaction. “Well, anyway,” he said, recovering from
my sudden reaction. “Why aren’t you with the other villagers, hiding? You should really head for
safety. The Germans are coming this way and they should be here shortly.” I was surprised he seemed
truly worried about my safety. Wait, it struck me—1917, France and Germans. It all sounded so much
like that battle that happened in, was it World War I or II? Ah whatever. Man, I wish I had paid more
attention in military history now! A gunshot went off. It sounded closer. The soldier grabbed me and
pushed me to the ground. It came to me—the Battle of Vimy Ridge. “You have to get out of here!” He
screamed at me. More soldiers emerged from the bushes, clad in the same crest worn by the one I had
befriended. But it seemed like they were outmatched at least two to one. The soldiers that I assumed
were the Germans seemed to double by each second and were getting closer. The air was soon filled
with the rumbling of gunshots, but the one that stood out the most seemed to echo through my ears.
It was the one that hit him. He told me once more to go and just as he was apologizing to me, he
stopped, dumbstruck. One single tear ran from his eye and he slid down to join the pile of forgotten
corpses. Time seemed to stop as I watched him. Was it my fault that his life was taken? Another
gunshot followed it and I fell to the ground in pain. They got my kneecap. This time the pain was far
worse. It was no scratch, bruise or concussion. I let my body drop, not wanting to be noticed.
I looked next to me and saw his face. Blood already clotted his hair, but he had a look on his face of
true happiness. That look, I thought, would haunt me forever. Someone laughed. A far older man with
a strong German accent stood above me. “Let me put you out of your misery. It’s such a terrible shame
that you got caught up in this.” He snickered again. He wasn’t sorry. Something glittered in his hand;
he had taken out his machete. That I remembered from military history. My friends and I would laugh
as people would be taken out by cannonballs and when people were stabbed. I knew from watching
those movies so many times that I didn’t want to get stuck in this situation. Too late. The knife had
pierced my lower thigh. I screamed in terror as he pulled it out along with half my muscle and skin.
Why me? What did I do? Then a pain struck my chest. Five seconds went by with slow terrible pain
as I watched my own blood flood from the upper part of my chest. The last thing I saw was that nice
young soldier’s face staring at me. I tried to cry but it was over.
I wept for awhile. He was gone and it was my fault. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered out loud. The
words bounced around. I was confused; how could I still hear myself? I opened my eyes. Huh? I’m
in Mr Arndt’s office now? My head hurt. First I was in the staircase, then the office. I went to go into
Mr Arndt’s office but found myself in an old battleground, and now I was back at the main office.
I tried to scratch my head and the almost familiar feeling of bruises and sprained muscles twinged
through my arm. Yup, I’m back here alright. Then I remembered what I was doing in the first place;
I was looking for help. “Hmm,” I thought to myself. Where could I find the nearest help? Outside!
I got up and struggled toward the nearest exit. Happy that I had found a way out, I pushed open the
doors. “Wait. Aren’t we snowed in?” I asked myself, but a bit too late. Ice cold snow burst out of the
newly opened escape and reluctantly covered me on its way in. I was starting to lose feeling in the
lower part of my body and I could see nothing. Finally I went into a deep sleep.
I shivered. Cold, so cold. My clothes were stuck to my body like a bucket of water had been
dumped over top of me. I moved my fingers to find a thick puddle of mud and worms. I screamed
at what I had found and retreated as far as I could away from the puddle. Rain started to fall harder
from the angry, grey sky. I shivered again and looked around. Now how did I get here? It was like a
ghost town. A couple of buildings surrounded me, but there was no life; nothing but the squirming of
the worms in the dirt. Well, at least I was outside like I planned to be, but there was no civilization.
No sign of my school anywhere.
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Junior High Prose—Third Prize
An inhuman scream burst out behind me. “Aaaahhh!” I shrieked and slipped on the mud.
“Oowww.” I rubbed my head from where I lay. My hand felt warm, like warm air was being blown
onto it. I looked up. Putrid breath—the smell of rotting flesh—met my nose. And the eyes—huge, black
and unemotional—stared me in the face. I took in a quick breath and cursed under it. For I was sure
that I stood in the way of the devil’s pet. It was lined with a thick black shaggy fur like the costume
Shawn would wear when he scared us on our survival camps. But this, this was far more horrifying. Its
catlike figure with millions of tails and a head of a bloodthirsty dog looked at me, waiting for the first
move to be made. One thought ran through my head; I had to get out of there. Instinctively I turned
and bolted in the opposite direction. I ran as fast as I could for as long as I could. Scared of what I might
find, but having to find out, I turned my head to look behind. It was gone; only a long endless trail
of puddles followed me. Then something caught the edge of my eye. Black fur skimmed the top of a
puddle far off. Then in a puddle closer to me a head stuck out. It had found me. I was terrified beyond
belief. I was frozen stiff; nothing could move me. How was that physically possible? That creature
was far bigger than the puddle. What can I do against something like that? It disappeared again and
appeared a puddle closer, then the next one and the one after that. Soon it was no more than a foot
away from me. I had one last thought—I had to try once more to get away. I had cheated death before
and might not have as much luck this time. I bit my hand; I had to get out of this trance! It lunged
for me, and I jumped away just in time to save my head. Instead it caught my calf and dug its fangs
deep into my muscle and bone. It started to make its way toward the puddle it had come out of. I was
helpless. My flesh was being torn more and more every second. No one was here to try to protect me
this time. Then his face came to me again. His lifeless face stared at me, still caught in mid sentence.
“Please, please let this nightmare end soon,” I murmured. My toe dipped into the water. No less than
five seconds and I was under water. Pressure seemed to push onto my lungs and I gave up.
“Are you okay?” His voice still ran through my head. I didn’t feel like opening up my eyes. I just
wanted all of this to end. The walls and floor seemed to shift. Reluctantly I opened my eyes to see walls
closing in toward me. They were getting closer and closer. I could feel the air slowly being sucked out
of my lungs. “Noo.” I moaned to myself. Darkness surrounded me again.
“Uuuhhh.” I groaned. Automatically I opened my eyes to see where I was this time. Snow dripped
on my nose. “Uuuhh.” I groaned again, out of annoyance. I was back in the doorway where I had
stupidly tried to open up the exit. Familiar bruises tinged my body. I knew now where I had to go to
get help. I had to go where I started. I had to talk to the ghosts once more. Again I got up with lots of
effort but this time it was different. For one thing I was going upstairs, but this time I had a feeling of
respect inside me. My meeting with the ghosts this time would not be to insult them, but to apologize.
For someone had taught me a different meaning of respect. I was now on the platform where I had first
woken up. I grimaced at the thought of going up the stairs and seeing the things I saw before I fell. But
my body had already started to walk up. A figure in an army uniform stood at the top of the stairs and
told me, “I’m so sorry. Just once more.” I started to cry. It was him. As in slow motion, again he made
his way down the stairs toward me. His left hand extended and gave me a careful, gentle nudge in the
same spot I was pushed before. “Not again,” I said pleading. Once again I started to fall down the stairs
not sure that I would make it this time. He said “I’m sorry,” once more, and for what I hoped to be the
last time, I fell asleep.
A calm breeze drifted through my hair. There were no gunshots polluting the air, no screams. No
hair splitting shrieks or demonic breath. I could finally breathe after what felt like a lifetime of torture.
I sighed. Was it finally all over? The wind got stronger. “Huh?” I perked open my eye. Tops of the
buildings towered next to me and millions of people walked below me like little ants. I screamed and
tried to jump up, but stopped myself in time. Metal creaked as I moved it, for I was standing on the
edge of a crane. Another gust of wind picked up the edge of my clothing and hair. My weight started
to shift. I struggled but could not fight the continuous wind. I started to fall as my fingers brushed the
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Junior High Prose—Third Prize
hard cold metal. The world started to wash by me. Was this what it was like to die? What did I do to
deserve this? Memory of that stupid dare and the ghosts came back to me. Then I thought maybe I do
deserve this. I insulted the people that fought for my freedom. They had risked their lives, and I didn’t
even acknowledge them, yet they went to war on their own free will. His face made its way to the top
of my thoughts. He died to protect me when he could have run or left me. But he tried to help me every
way he could. Pictures of his lifeless face still seemed to be staring at me. He looked so happy and free
where he lay. Maybe, I thought to myself. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to accept what life has given
me. I had been given a chance at freedom and happiness but I threw it away. Someone else deserves
my spot in time. Now I will finally be able to be back with him. I opened my arms up wide and looked
down on the people below me. I felt no regrets. A humungous gust veiled my vision and I saw no more.
“Natasha, Natasha!” It sounded like Mike’s voice. “Why won’t she wake up?” I heard what
sounded like Mindi’s worried tone. What’s happening now? Are the ghosts still fooling with me?
I opened my eyes. The school banner hung above me and a crowd of people were pushed in around
me. One person noticed that I was awake. “Natasha, are you alright?” Mrs Haugen asked me.
Everything seemed real enough, I decided. All of my friends jumped at the mention of my name.
Chaos struck as they all started to ask me questions. “Now, now. You are all going to let her rest now,
and she will be able to talk with you later,” Mrs Haugen told them with a shooing motion of her hands.
Mr Yonge came up the stairs and grabbed my other arm. Before I knew it, my friends were left on the
stairs in awe and I was whisked away to the bed in the office. Mrs Haugen walked next to me. “What
happened up there?” she questioned. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know for sure myself; all I knew was
one thing. Either I still had a bit of luck left or I had been given another chance at life. “Thank you,”
I whispered to the air. “Wherever you are.”
Victoria Hansen is a Grade 9 student at Vimy Ridge Academy, in Edmonton, Alberta. (Lisa Haugen, teacher)
20
Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
Fat, Fat, Fat
Annette Panejko
Fat, fat, fat and fat. That’s all I see when I look in the mirror. Flab hanging over my too-tight jeans
and my gigantic thunder thighs looking severely stretched out in the mirror. I hate these thunder
thighs. My hair hangs straight and lifeless over my face and as soon as my dull brown eyes open,
strings of brown hair is all I see. Chubby fingers, chubby toes. Welcome to the life of Haley Lane.
Fat people are resented at J Taneten High. We’re like sixteen-year-old axe murderers; everyone stays
as far away as possible. They believe I should be quarantined. Maybe I should.
It was the day after spring break, and before school that morning. I stood in front of my full-length
mirror, my fat feet padding against the grey plush carpet as I paced in front of the mirror, pulling
at bits of fat. Two hundred pounds, and I was getting fatter every day. I quote Coco Rio Denise,
blond perfection and head cheerleader galore. She wasn’t that pretty, though. My best friend Payton
Thompson was gorgeous. Thin and gorgeous. God knows why she was MY best friend. We’re complete
opposites, yet best friends.
“Haley, hon! Payton’s here!” my mother called from downstairs.
As quickly as I could, I slid into a pair of size 19 sweatpants, probably the only pants that fit me,
and a baggy J Taneten High sweatshirt. At least my clothes covered the fat, sort of.
I ran downstairs only to find a stack of blueberry pancakes awaiting my arrival, my mother
standing over them with a huge, proud smile plastered on her face. I stared at the stack for a long
time before turning away and looking at Payton. Her stick-straight butterscotch-coloured hair looked
great against her skin, long bangs nonchalantly covering her left, chocolate-coloured eye. She wore
exceedingly low-rise cargo pants; her flat toned stomach exposed completely, a small jewel shining
brightly against her caramel-coloured skin. Her upper half adorned a tangerine-coloured, spaghettistrapped tank top, a silver friendship necklace around her neck.
“Haley! Hurry up and eat,” she said, smiling, her brilliant white teeth shining against her skin like
white pearls. I stared at the pancakes and averted my eyes.
“I’m not hungry,” I announced. “Let’s go.” I led Payton out the door, not feeling guilty at all.
When we got to school, I tossed a napkin and candy bar wrapper in the garbage; the candy bar
that Payton had fed me in the car and the pop-tart in the napkin that she had brought along and not
wanted. I had glanced at myself in the rear-view mirror
while I ate. Fat reflected back to me.
I was early, and the bell wasn’t going to ring for
at least another 15 minutes. I was alone at my locker
stupid, yes, pulling at the bags beneath my eyes,
wondering what on earth I did to receive this body.
I truly didn’t know but it made me even more
depressed. How I wished I was skinny … like Coco
Queen and how she ruled the school. Like that would
ever happen to me.
Today was the day. Two days before this first
day back, I had promised Payton that I would go to
Brookson Modelling Agency. It was my best friend’s
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Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
dream to become a model and I thought I’d be nice and go with her. I knew this was a mistake the
moment I took a step through the glass sliding doors. Everyone at Brookson was six feet and so
skinny, their legs looked like toothpicks and their ribs showed through their tight, skimpy tops. It was
unnerving, yet at the same time I wanted to be like them.
“Oh, look at this place!” Payton exclaimed as she burst through the doors. I followed slowly,
avoiding everyone’s disapproving eyes. I could almost hear their thoughts of “What is she doing here?”
and “Ew, what is that?” I wanted to disappear right at that moment. It was brutal.
“Look, Haley!” Payton was like a six-year-old, jumping up and down, pointing at a desk, waving
her model portfolio in the air. I trotted after as she went toward the desk, a huge smile on her face.
“Um, Pay, I’m going to the bathroom, okay?” I muttered in her ear when I reached her.
She waved her hand as she spoke to the slender woman sitting behind the desk. I distinctly heard
her say, “What is that?” as I retreated.
I found the bathroom easily. I placed my hands upon the granite countertop, watching the water
run into the marble sink. I stared at myself in the silver-framed mirror. My cheeks were stained with
tears and my eyes rimmed in red. My hair was string and wet around my pallid skin. Fat, fat, fat.
I heard a wrenching sound and a toilet flush behind me. I whirled around and grasped the counter
behind me, holding my breath. A black stall opened and a tall skinny girl in a tiny black dress stepped
out, her face as white as a ghost. She smiled at me and when I looked closely, I noticed that her teeth
looked burned.
“Was that you?” I asked, mustering up as much courage as I could.
She stopped smiling and turned on the silver faucet of the sink beside mine. She rinsed out her
mouth and washed her face.
“Nerves,” she said unconvincingly, before she zipped out the door. I had heard of bulimics but I’d
never met one before.
Before I knew what I was doing, I was running into the stall that the girl had previously occupied.
I thrust my finger into my mouth, watching, sobbing and wrenching as caramel-coloured barf plunked
into the toilet. I covered my face with my fat hands, letting tears fall freely down my face.
What had I done? I was doing exactly what I promised myself I would never resort to doing. I
burst through the stall door and leaned forward, my hands pressed down on the sink. My mouth was
encrusted with puke and my face was looking paler than usual. Tears were still falling down my face.
I rinsed out my mouth and washed my face, wiping the leftover food of my chubby fingers. I left
the bathroom feeling worse than ever. I took small steps back to the lobby, still avoiding everyone’s
eyes, feeling as though if I even looked at these models, I would start sobbing.
I found Payton conversing excitedly with the model at the front desk. I didn’t look at the model,
focusing my attention on Payton. I could feel the other girls’ piercing glare on the back of my head.
“Can we please leave?” I whispered in Payton’s ear. She turned around and grinned widely at me.
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “Guess what, Hal? I’m a model!”
I managed to muster a smile.
“Great, Payton!” I tried to sound as excited as her, but I couldn’t, not after what I had done.
And I definitely wasn’t going to tell her.
The next week was probably the worst week of my life. I had gone through an entire week of
barfing up my food, weighing myself every day, pleased that I was losing pounds quickly. Even though
I had dropped to 108 pounds, nobody noticed my abrupt weight loss.
I walked through the halls with a newfound confidence, my head held high, ignoring the snickers
I passed in the hall. I found that I could be at my locker alone now. I still wasn’t ready to face the
endless teasing of Coco Denise, but I knew that I never would be.
I was putting books in my locker with a huge smile on my face, when Coco leaned her body against
the locker next to mine, her slender legs clad in skinny jeans and knee-high boots.
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Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
“What are you so happy about?” she sneered. “Did Ben & Jerry’s come out with a new flavour of
ice cream?”
“The fat is probably clogging up her mouth,” someone suggested when I was silent for a few
minutes. Coco laughed extra loudly, attracting the laughter of her entire posse and the rest of the
people in the hallway.
At that I darted into the nearest bathroom, pushed open the first empty stall and leaned over the
toilet. I pushed my fingers into my mouth, making myself gag.
I left the stall and checked beneath the stalls for any shoes. Thankfully, it was empty. I rinsed my
mouth and splashed cold water onto my face, trying my best to mask the redness of my eyes. I took a
deep breath and opened the beige door, placing my foot on the linoleum.
The moment I stepped out I was met face to face with Coco Denise herself. She laughed in my
face and started to chant, “Fat! Fat! Fat!” Her clones joined in, and soon everyone in the hallway was
chanting that.
Without hesitating, I ran back into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall for the rest of the day.
Ever since that day, my bulimia got worse. I threw up more than three times a day and barely ate
anything. A month later I weighed myself again. A hundred and six pounds! I had lost 94 pounds in a
little over a month.
Nobody noticed my weight loss though. Except my mother, who kept trying to force me to eat
more. I didn’t though, knowing that even one donut could cause me to start gaining more weight. Even
the kids at school didn’t notice, let alone Payton. I still saw fat in the mirror, so I assumed that other
kids saw this, too.
One day my mother announced to me that she thought I was anorexic. I was enraged with her
trying to meddle, but when I got to school I looked up anorexia on the Internet, and a few key terms
caught my eye.
“Death, interruption of premenstrual cycle, death, heart failure,” I breathed out. My period was
late, and I felt a tiny nagging feeling in my stomach that my mother was right.
“Haley!” Payton exclaimed as she wrapped her arms around me. I jumped.
“What are you looking up?” she said, glancing at my screen. I quickly closed it and jumped up,
grabbing my bag.
“Nothing! Gotta go!”
I left the room without saying goodbye.
I felt horrible and nauseated when I walked home after school. I had seen Payton leaving school
with a troubled expression on her beautiful face but I didn’t stop and talk.
I reached my house feeling completely dehydrated. Just as I reached the kitchen, my vision grew
fuzzy and I swayed back and forth, grasping the kitchen counter, before falling on the floor in a heap.
I awoke later, my mother and Payton leaning over me, concerned expressions on their faces. I sat
up, feeling slightly dizzy, and propped myself up on my elbows.
“What … what happened?” I asked quietly, wishing more than ever that my head would stop
spinning.
“You fainted.”
Payton frowned sadly at me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked sadly.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me about your problem.”
The moment she said this, I burst into tears, which automatically prompted me to tell them
everything. My mother and Payton sat there listening and crying along with me. When I finished, my
mother drew me into a huge hug, her salty tears splashing down on my shoulders.
“Oh, honey, you’re perfect the way you are,” she whispered in my ear. Payton joined in the hug.
23
Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
“I love you, Haley. You have to remember that you are my best friend in the whole world, and I’m
totally postponing my career until you’re better,” she said. I could feel her smile even though I couldn’t
see her.
“You can’t!” I exclaimed, even though I was happy that she was doing that for me. She just smiled
and helped me stand up.
Maybe I was not so alone after all.
It’s been months since I collapsed and gained back half the weight I’d lost. My mom had brought
me to a centre where they help you get back on track, like rehab.
It was difficult at first to eat anything besides fruits and water, and I still couldn’t eat full meals.
I don’t think I ever will be able to. I regret almost everything except the weight loss.
I don’t think my life will ever be the same. But the good thing is, I didn’t die.
And people love me.
Annette Panejko is a Grade 8 student at Cardinal Leger Junior High School, in Edmonton, Alberta.
(Daniella Orsini, teacher)
24
Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
Cool Enough for the Field
Julianne Champion
The wind blew pleasantly across my face. The bright sunlight made my golden hair seem more
golden than usual. My eyes reflected the clear blue sky perfectly. If only the glorious weather, with the
sweet aromas of spring flowers and sun-dried fruit floating across the rippling grass of the soccer field,
reflected my mood instead of my looks.
My family often said that the weather reflected my mood perfectly. Today, though, there had to be
an exception, just like there had been an exception all year. Inside, there was a thunderstorm raging
around. If it could be unleashed, I knew who would be at the centre of the storm—Jason Fielder.
“Elizabeth? Are you there? Or are you still in Dreamland, where Jason gets struck by lightning?”
I immediately snapped out of my pleasing daydreams and looked at the person sitting beside me
on the worn, wooden soccer bench—Alicia Sorry, my best friend in the entire world. At times, her
timing was a little bad—like right now—but she was always there for me.
“I’m still away,” I moodily responded. I returned to staring at the soccer field again.
Once again, for the umpteenth time that year, I couldn’t believe what had happened. The boys—
headed by Jason—had a daily soccer game against some other school team at lunch. Every year I
always played. Then, on the first day of Grade 8, I walked up to Jason and asked him when I’d get to
play that day. The response:
“I don’t want you to get hurt. There’s supposed to be really bad weather today.” He said those
things to me, but all what I really heard was, “You’re not cool.”
That day, I moodily sat on the bench with Alicia, watching Jason’s team completely slaughter a
team half their size in perfect weather. And since then, when I longed to be playing on the field, I had
to content myself with sitting on the bench with Alicia.
I scowled as Michael Smith—Jason’s rookie keeper—let in his sixth goal of the current-day game.
I jumped up, storming off to the school in disgust.
Every day after school, I would always stay an hour later, training on the soccer field. Alicia was
always with me, but she never really did anything. She mainly whined for ice cream. I usually ignored her
for an hour. Then I’d give in to her requests, and we’d walk to her parents’ ice cream shack 10 blocks
away. Today, though, was completely different, and it totally changed the way things were going for me.
As I went through a complicated drill, I saw out of the corner of my eye someone sitting on my
bench, watching me. I wasn’t worried—some of the younger kids often stopped by to watch.
The next time I ran by the bench, I looked up and saw, completely to my surprise, the attentive face
of Jason Fielder. I was so shocked that I tripped right in front of him. I cautiously looked up from my
embarrassing position, spitting out a mouthful of grass and dirt. Jason smiled, trying his best not to
laugh.
“I forgot how funny you could be, Elizabeth,” he joked. I smiled back. He offered me his hand, and
I gratefully accepted it. It wasn’t until I was back on my feet that I remembered how much I disliked
him for cutting me from his soccer team. I quickly jumped back. He did too. We both stopped smiling.
“What are you doing here?” I asked coolly after a few awkward seconds.
“Oh, Coach Bob gave me another detention because I was late for class again,” he responded.
“I saw you on the field, and I thought that you had gotten pretty good over the school year.”
25
Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
“Thanks, but I don’t need a fan—that’s Alicia’s job,” I replied. I turned around, restarting my drill.
After a few minutes, I looked up again. Jason still hadn’t left.
“WHAT?” I shouted at him.
“NOTHING!” he shouted back. At that moment, Alicia’s soccer ball rolled by. It was soon followed
by Alicia, who yelled out for ice cream. I smiled and packed up for the day.
The next day, we had gym first thing. Since the weather was good, our instructor, Coach Bob, made
us go outside. The chilly wind and the smell it brought told me that it would rain soon.
Coach Bob forced us into teams to do a small soccer tournament. I was forced into Jason’s team.
Jason quickly took over our team, and we won the gym tournament. That was no surprise—Jason was
easily the best guy athlete in our grade. What was a surprise was that Jason put me on the field for more
than the five seconds I had originally expected. I played for five minutes, and in those five minutes, I
managed to score the winning point for the tournament. Afterwards, Jason congratulated me. I acted as
if I didn’t care, but inside, the storm subsided for a bit, and golden sunlight poured in. But then Alicia
had to spoil the moment with her bad timing and sarcastic comments—she really didn’t like soccer.
That same day at lunch, Alicia and I took our usual places on the bench. I had asked Jason if I could
play. He gave me the usual response, but this time, I could see that he was almost pained to tell me to
sit down on the bench. I quickly surveyed the field. Jason’s team was playing a team twice their size
today. Also, huge, menacing, dark grey thunder clouds were rolling toward the field. I shivered as the
wind picked up. The ref blew his whistle—the game had started. Somehow, I just knew that today’s
game would be a lot different than any other.
Sure enough, five minutes in, Michael Smith—the pathetic excuse for a keeper—got kicked in the
face. He stormed off the field, screaming at Jason to find a new keeper. Michael’s face was completely
covered in blood, sweat and dirt streaks. Jason looked wearily around at his team. None of them had
any keeper experience. I quickly grabbed my gloves, and sprinted onto the field.
“Ready, Captain!” I exclaimed as I slid to a stop by Jason.
Bursts of laughter resonated from the rest of Jason’s team and their opponents. Joking phrases
drifted out to me.
“She’s a girl! Girls have no place on our field!”
They said those things, but I only heard their one thought.
“She’s not cool!”
I looked at Jason. He was their
captain and my captain too. If he told
me to scram I would. But if he told his
teammates that I could play, then they’d
listen to him. All that I could do was cross
my fingers and pray.
Finally, Jason looked up from his
intense thinking. He shouted out for all to
hear: “She plays!”
I jumped in the air, cheering. Alicia
did the same thing on the bench. Both
of the teams just stared at Jason. He just
turned around and told everyone to get
into their positions. Right when I happily
positioned myself in net, the rain started
pouring, hard and fast and furious. It
was almost as if all the bitter storms that
had been brewing inside me for the past
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Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
school year were finally leaking out into this storm. However, inside, there was nothing but a fierce,
burning desire to finally prove myself on the field to all these boys.
To prove that I was cool enough for the field.
I didn’t give up for a minute. The rain crashed down and the mud splattered everywhere, but it was
entirely worth it. Due to my goal-keeping abilities and Jason’s forward skills, we managed a tight win.
After the final whistle blew, all of Jason’s team rushed at me. They lifted me onto their shoulders and
marched around, cheering all the way.
“You’re the best!” “You’re our hero!” “You are so on the team!”
As I soaked up the glory that I had been denied for the past year, I once again only heard their one
thought.
“You’re cool!”
We were all really late for our next class. Combine that with the fact that we were soaked to the
skin, freezing cold, covered in mud, and we couldn’t stop cheering, we found ourselves in detention
after school.
All of the guys officially respected me after that. Jason told me that I could play at lunch any time.
I became a key player during those lunch-time soccer games, both in net and out. Jason and I became
close friends.
As for Alicia, she didn’t really change from this whole experience. I still trained after school. She
still went with me. And we still walked the 10 blocks to her parents’ ice cream shack every day.
The only difference is that, now, I’m cool enough for the field.
Julianne Champion is a Grade 8 student at H E Beriault Catholic Junior High School, in Edmonton, Alberta.
(T Pino, teacher)
27
Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
Familiar Faces,
But None Understood
Erica Bolanos
There’s a silence out here that I can’t describe. Maybe it’s the feeling you get when you think you’re
escaping reality. When really, your problems and worries are right around the corner. Today, there’s
nothing to think about. Just the warm summer air running through my hair and brushing against
the trees.
I sit here, in front of my small white house wondering what it’s like to be out there in the real world.
A lot of people have lives. They have jobs and friends, a family who cares and confidence. While I have
none of that, there’s a part of me screaming not to have it either.
Sometimes when I sit out here, I want to wake up from this nightmare. The nightmare of knowing
that nobody cares enough to see who I am. They take me as the girl that’s quiet and ugly. When, really,
I don’t have to be that way.
I have a lot of questions. Why do people like me get treated this way? Why is it so hard to see that
I’m really not that bad a person? What have I done? And is it my fault? I don’t quite understand what
the world is meant for either. And life? Why are we made to live if we just die in the end?
I’d like to meet someone that can understand me. Someone that can just take me out of all this, and
put me in a world where no harm can come. You know how people say that they’re afraid of dying?
I don’t understand. I’m not, not at all. The only thing I’m afraid of is … living.
But like I said, today there’s going to be nothing to think about. It’s a warm summer day and I should
be enjoying it like the rest of the kids. Of course, I don’t think every other 16-year-old girl is going to be
outside doing cartwheels or playing hopscotch.
I’m not really sure what that is, actually. As a kid, I never had much of it. I was stuck in my house,
the same one I live in now, listening to my mom and dad argue about what school they wanted to send
me to. They picked the wrong school.
Anyway, back to the point here—no 16-year-old girls are doing that stuff. They’re either out with
their best friend shopping, or out on a date with their boyfriend. I couldn’t possibly do that, considering
I have neither. Though I don’t mind that much anymore. I’ve learned not to care.
After a while of thinking that life was perfect, I snap back into reality when some kid decides to hit
my head with a rock. Mind you, it was a big one. I black out for a second. The kid points, laughs and
runs away. I mumble some words under a breath and get up. I push my long brown hair away from my
face. Sometimes, I wish I looked like Alora.
Alora’s tall with straight blonde hair, and has a body like a model. All I wonder is, how does
she manage to get boys to fall in love with her if she’s rude and arrogant? Never mind. Everyone’s
exactly like that. No one seems to care about anyone else; it’s all about themselves. But being Eliza,
I’m nowhere close to her.
There is no one home today, so I have the house to myself. Mom’s out shopping again, Dad’s on
a business trip and Dani went out with her friends again. I walk up to my room and fall on my bed.
I groan loudly and stuff my face into the soft white pillow thrown there.
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Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
I really need to get away. I think. I sit on my bed and look out the window. My curtains are torn and
burgundy red. How ugly. Dani—who is my older sister—says they’re exactly like me—ugly. My gaze
darts around my room. I think of how my room would look if I remodelled. Nope, still ugly. I turn to a
mirror. I don’t like the way I look, myself.
I guess with my hair flying all over the place, my pale colour, and my lips bitten to the point where
the flesh is ripped off and all that is left are the scars, you’d hate it too. But the part you’d hate most is
the way people look at you like they look at me.
A while later, lying on my bed, I fall asleep. I sleep for about 20 minutes, and my mother arrives.
I don’t care so much to go and greet her at the door. I debate on it, though. The final answer leads to a
yes. I have to. I walk down the stairs slowly and shoot my mother a smile. She looks at me and looks
back at the bags in her hands.
I quickly gather them from her and place them in the kitchen. She didn’t buy anything good. “Did
you do homework yet?” she asks me. I shake my head, putting away the soda. “Did you have any?”
She questions me, as if I’m in some sort of trial. I think about it for a minute and then come back to her.
I shake my head again. This day was boring; I wanted it to end.
Tuesday
I wake up at eight in the morning. I’m late and I’ve missed my bus. I sit in the living room, flipping
from channel to channel. My mother walks down the stairs. “You missed your bus again,” she says as
if it’s no surprise. I nod and turn my attention back to the TV. “You don’t expect me to drive you again,
do you?” I look at her with a puzzled look. “I have to go to work and I’m late already.”
Harsh, but not bad. It’s summer. I can walk. It will only take me 30 minutes to get to school. I decide
to leave at lunch so I won’t interfere with any of the classes. When I get there, I pass by groups of kids;
the “clans.” I study every person.
Would you really want to be in that social clique? Or are you just trying to get away from yourself?
I ask myself. I shrug it off and head to social. I sit at the back … again.
The day passes slowly. I’m walking home, but I bump into a boy about my age. Maybe a year older.
I like his face. “Sorry,” I whisper. He looks at me for a second, studying what I’m about. He smiles
sweetly, “Hi.” I’m not used to being talked to so randomly. This boy is nice.
A weak smile comes out. I look back down at the ground and continue walking for three more
steps. “I’m Michael.” He stops me. I
turn around and stare at him. Small
frame, glasses, blonde hair. “Eliza.”
I introduce myself. “Where are
you headed?” he asks as he walks
behind me. “Home.” It’s not that
I’m antisocial. I’m just not used to it.
“Monroeville?” He questions.
I nod. There was a part of me
wanting to scream out why I wasn’t
speaking, but I couldn’t. “I don’t
see you around.” He picks a flower
from a bunch and hands it to me.
“You’re pretty, though. I want to see
you more often.” He compliments.
He leaves after a while of me saying
nothing. I wish I had, though. He
was the only person nice enough to
even say hi to me.
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Junior High Prose—Honourable Mention
Saturday
“I’m going out for a walk.” I say to my mother. She nods as if it doesn’t matter. I hope to see
Michael once more. As I walk around the block, he comes out of a house. “Eliza, right?” He smiles. I
nod slightly and smile back. It’s been a while since I’ve smiled perfectly. I tried to look pretty today. I
pulled my hair back and covered the scars on my lips.
He invites me to his house, which is right behind us. We sit drinking coke, and he talks about
himself. He has a girlfriend. I don’t like the way this is going anymore. No matter, being friends is
fine. “And you don’t talk because…?” He waits for an answer to escape my lips. I shrug, “I’m not
necessarily what you call popular.” He ignores what I say and continues.
“Anyone talk to you?” I don’t take this as an offence. I keep my mouth shut, looking away. “If it
helps, you’re my only friend right now.” I stand up. “Thank you.” I walk out the door and the warm
summer air hits my face.
I want to overcome this frail state and learn to speak. I need a voice. I admit everything to him.
I just seemed to blurt it out. I cry on his shoulder. He stays with me. We sit outside escaping reality.
No need to fake a smile any longer. I have a friend who understands.
Erica Bolanos is a Grade 8 student at Cardinal Leger School, in Edmonton, Alberta. (Daniela Orsini, teacher)
30
Senior High Poetry—First Prize
Where I Belong
Cole Goodine
Time is winding
My turn is coming
Ice, fear
I strap on my spurs, tie on my boots
Getting ready
Strap on my chaps
Hear the echo as the first man tries his hand
Ice, fear, adrenaline
Rosen up my glove
Put it on and tape it up tight
Put on my rigging, suck it down tight
Another gate is opened and the crowd cheers
Ice, fear, adrenaline, anticipation
Two more left
I see all the people who stand behind me
The people who support me
I stop a minute to pray
Crouch down and bow my head
For every time I enter that arena it may be my last
Another horse is let loose
Ice, fear, adrenaline, anticipation, anger
Step over the horse in the chutes
Anger, pride, anger, pride, anger, pride
I put my hand in the rigging
Blood flows more quickly through my veins
This is truly my love
And I would be nothing without it
Ice, fear, adrenaline, anticipation, anger, love
My soul feeds of everything about it
The fear, adrenaline, anticipation, anger, love
My soul feeds of everything about it
The fear, adrenaline, the pain of any kind
The desire to win, the taste of blood on my lips
Memories of my past, the speed, excitement and anticipation
Another horse lets loose its fury
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Senior High Poetry—First Prize
Ice, blurry, adrenaline, pain, fear, excitement
Pride, memories, love, friends, accomplishments
My turn
I sit back
Hat sucked down tight
My heart skips a beat as the gate cracks
My legs go forward on their own will
Lash out at the beast beneath me
Lift, spur, lift, spur
Never give up
The hammer of hooves on the earth
This arena is my life
I would be nothing without it
Then when you get thrown
True pride is when you get back on and try again
Cole Goodine is a Grade 11 student at Carbon School, in Carbon, Alberta. (Cindy Stevens, teacher)
32
Senior High Poetry—Second Prize
Gone
Alberto Martinez
What is gone? I ask myself
For I fear that something is indeed gone
For gone is more than simply not here
For what is not here is elsewhere
But gone is more than lost for lost can be found
And yet not destroyed and torn apart
Is gone no more than no longer anywhere
And if that is so I ask myself
What is gone?
The days pass by
Unnoticed as future slips to present and then slips once more to past
Yet as they slip away, eventually to be forgotten in the grand scheme of time
Something else also slips away
For when I look back into the presents of the past
The world seemed warmer, brighter, safer
A world where the good profit, where parents always love their children
A world where hunger and starvation are nothing more than stories told
In order to remind us to be grateful for what we have
And yet the days pass by
Was it that the sun was brighter, the land warmer, I think not
For I know that when summer comes round again these things will return
Was the world safer, no, for as danger rises so do the cures
Eliminating old dangers as new dangers appear,
So yes there are new dangers but many old ones have faded
Did the good always profit, no,
For aside from heaven, and in the actions of the good,
I must ask, how can someone profit from doing good for to do good means to put others first,
I have seen children abandoned by their parents,
I have seen people with no food,
And I see more each day that passes away
And I ask myself, what if it is innocence that is gone
Fading with each day that passes away
Never to return, not destroyed,
But slowly slipping away like water in the hand of a person dying of thirst
33
Senior High Poetry—Second Prize
And yet as the world gets colder, I will not sit and watch the world I love pass away
I will love, sing, create, laugh, help and care
I will be good,
Not to profit, but in memory of that golden world
And the vision of all that this world could be
I will feed those with no food, comfort the abandoned
Cherish each dawn, friend, smile
And I pray that someday every person will do the same
This I pray each and every day that passes away
Alberto Martinez is a Grade 11 student at Bishop Carroll High School, in Calgary, Alberta.
(Melissa Cobb, teacher)
34
Senior High Poetry—Third Prize
Pride
Milou Rupert
Early morning rise, a chill;
The sun, glaring through to meet my eyes,
What is to come?
Work, perfection, and work some more.
I open the door,
The whinnying from in the barn,
The commotion of people,
Step by step I come closer,
My horse, just about ready to shown off now.
Butterflies fill my stomach,
Should I prepare some more?
Have I done enough?
The show is about to begin.
Feeling ready,
Feeling good,
Today is the day!
Stop!
Correcting myself,
I pause … and sigh, another sigh,
Frustration builds up inside me,
I’m back to the start again.
A simple stain,
Washing,
Working;
All this for a stain.
Re-encouraged,
With a sense of completion now.
I lead her out,
The sun,
Glaring off the sheen of her coat,
One, two, thr…
Waiting to test myself,
My work,
Have I done enough?
I know not to be too confident.
It has happened before.
Succession stopping in its tracks from a simple
obstruction,
My heart racing,
I enter,
To start again, for that same feeling,
Pride!
Milou Rupert is a Grade 11 student at Carbon School,
in Carbon, Alberta. (Cindy Stevens, teacher)
35
Senior High Poetry—Honourable Mention
Saying Goodbye
Kristine Nielsen
The pain is so far away it’s like I don’t even feel
But I see the blood and I know this is real
I know it should hurt when I see
The blood soaking into the concrete
There’s so much, how was that all inside me?
My night started out with a kiss at the door
From a boy I thought I could love forever and more
He swore he would always protect me
Where is he now when I’m lying on the street?
He gave me a kiss and said, “Have a drink”
“No, I’m not too love-struck to think”
I thought that was the smart thing to say
How did I end up here feeling my life slip away?
I told him I love my life too much to waste it
And once you make the choice you can’t remake it
I guess it didn’t matter much
Since I’m going to end my life feeling the winds icy touch
Has he finished now? I can hope
But it’s like the world decided to make me its cruel joke
Because my eyes that once gazed at me so lovingly
Are staring empty and drunken down at me
He stands there looking down
Too drunk to know he put my blood on the ground
I know I lay here dying but strange as it seems
All my thoughts are of him and me
I was so sure I loved him an hour ago
When he whispered “I love you” and held me close
He did something I never thought he would do
And now I think “how else was I wrong about you?”
I hope he makes the choice, if he has the chance
To change his life after he took mine with his hands
I should be mad, or bitter at least, I’m just confused
How could you make this choice, one that will never be excused?
They never plan to, that part is clear
But so is the part where I’m lying here
On a road about to die
And the boy I love is too drunk to say goodbye
Kristine Nielsen is a Grade 10 student at Ardrossan Junior/Senior High School, in Ardrossan, Alberta.
(Donna MacBeth, teacher)
36
Senior High Poetry—Honourable Mention
BFF
Dylan Scriven
I take care of myself
I take care of her
I’m not afraid to die
I’m afraid for her to die
I am not afraid to get hurt
I am afraid to see her get hurt
I am scared for her
I love her, but I don’t know how she feels about me
As I get hurt, I don’t feel bad for myself
As she gets hurt, there is more fear in me for her
I can’t make myself happy
She makes me happy very easily
When she hurts herself, she doesn’t understand how she hurts me.
Dylan Scriven is a Grade 10 student at Carbon School, in Carbon, Alberta. (Cindy Stevens, teacher)
37
Senior High Prose—First Prize
Human Obsoletion
Elizabeth Woollard
“Clear!”
The sounds of an electrical current jolting through the human body filled the sterile room. Nurses
and doctors looked on as the Mecho-Surgeon diligently stitched tissue and healed bone.
The victim was a girl, probably in Grade 5. She had crossed the road on the way from school
and been hit by a car. The ragged edge of an art project stuck out through a rip in the stitches of her
backpack. The remains of her clothes, bloody and torn, sat in a plastic biohazard bag waiting to be
destroyed.
Dr Andrew Jameson watched as a machine did what, 10 years ago, would have been his job. The
MS took care of everything needed to heal and monitor the patients. Only the fact that the technology
still had some bugs and needed to be double-checked by a human kept Andrew his job. He looked at
the girl’s stats—breathing was good, heart rate had returned to normal, a stimulant was encouraging
blood production. The MS was constantly receiving information about every patient in the hospital,
from kids with broken bones to burn victims—all were hooked up to the Central Monitoring Station.
Their brainwaves, blood pressure and muscle responses were recorded and reported to doctors to
double-check and verify the information.
Walking through the pediatric ward Andrew called up a survey screen from his wrist computer.
His next visit was to a boy who had an artificial heart transplant. He had to return because it failed.
“Hello, Chad.” Andrew wore his “friendly doctor” smile. “How are you feeling after the operation?”
The boy was pale and small. Repeated trips to the hospital and sickness had worn him down to a
pale ghost. He blended in with the white sterility
of the hospital sheets, a sore thumb sticking
out amid the illusions of health. A coral bed
filled with fish, a grassy meadow with flowers
and buzzing bees. The walls were giant screens
forcing their happiness on families losing a child.
“Same as yesterday.” Chad stared at the TV
hanging from the ceiling. There was a game show
on; the host was congratulating the winner. Chad
turned off the TV. “So, doctor, how long have I
got?” Tired blue eyes looked up from under limp
blonde hair. The last year had seen a vibrant
12‑year-old age to 50; skin hung from his bones.
MS kept constant vigil, almost like a mother,
waiting for the moment when Chad’s artificial
heart would give out.
“Well, with any luck, you’ll be eating solids soon.”
Chad looked amused. “With my luck, I’ll be
needing a new heart soon.” It was the truth; Chad
had already gone through two cybernetic hearts,
and his current one was starting to fail.
38
Senior High Prose—First Prize
“We’ll see how you feel in a couple of days.”
Andrew walked back into a hallway filled with fairies and unicorns and princesses being carried off
into the sunset. He continued to check on patients under his care, ensuring that the infernal MS wasn’t
accidentally giving a child a lethal dose of morphine or cutting off the air to a coma patient. Deep down
he hated the computer that was stealing his job. Placing lives in the hands of a creature that wasn’t alive
and feels no empathy is just ridiculous, he thought. He could never do that to himself. He would never
leave his life in the hands of automation.
Andrew looked at the quote hanging inside his locker: “God never made his work for man to mend.”
Maybe some people weren’t meant to be saved. He shook his head at this thought, preposterous!
Even if a machine was needed to do it, saving lives could never be wrong! Every day he saw people
who would have died walk out healthy and happy. He left the hospital shaking his head at the crazy
thoughts.
“Andrew! Hey! Andrew!” A hand grabbed his arm, “Going deaf, old man? I called you three
times.” In front of him stood his friend and colleague Dr Carmen Parker.
Andrew smiled, “You’re only three years younger than me, Carmen. Don’t think you can go around
harassing me about my age or I’ll tell the new intern how old you really are.”
A faux gasp, “You wouldn’t!” A laser and hair colouring treatment as well as a strict diet and
workout regime had made the elderly female doctor look closer to 30 than her age of 53. Carmen
smiled and brilliant white teeth reflected the sun, “Don’t be jealous, Andrew. You’ll always be number
one in my heart!”
Smiling, Andrew asked why Carmen had been so adamant about catching up to him.
“Well, I was hoping you would like to come for dinner with Lexington and me tonight. You’re my
daughter’s favourite uncle and she’s been asking about you all week. We’ll go for spring rolls!” Carmen
was hoping the promise of his favourite food would lure him out for an evening, instead of home to
build more models. Hobbies were good, but people need social lives too.
Andrew considered the offer. After all, he did love spring rolls. But he was almost done New York and
he really wanted to finish. “Sorry, Carmen, I can’t make it tonight, but tell Lex I’ll see her this weekend.”
Carmen smiled, “She’s looking forward to kicking your butt at fishing.”
“Don’t let her get too cocky! I know how to take her down a peg or two on a lake!”
Carmen nodded, “I’ll give her your warning. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
Walking to his self-navigated car, Andrew considered what needed to be finished in his model of
New York.
Arriving home Andrew instructed his car to refuel the power cells. As he walked in, motion sensors
told the house that he was home. “Welcome home, Dr Jameson. Would you like to activate your
companion?”
“Yes. And have dinner ready in an hour. Spring rolls and pork chops.”
“Yes, sir. Activating Home Companion.”
A whirring sound could be heard. The lights on the wall flashed, and a human shimmered into
existence in the hallway.
“Good afternoon, dear. How was your day?” In front of him stood Penelope, his holographic
companion. Her hair was the colour of fox fur. Laugh lines had formed and her chocolate brown eyes
were warm.
“The children are playing upstairs.” From above them the sounds of running feet rushing from
room to room could be heard. Andrew smiled. Whenever he came home the children were upstairs.
When he was upstairs they were in the den watching TV, and they’d already gone to bed by the time he
was tired. He never saw them and there was no mark of them, no peanut butter fingerprints, no messes
or toys to be tripped over on the stairs.
39
Senior High Prose—First Prize
He went through the motions of unwinding before supper. Talking with Penelope, having the closet
take his jacket to wash and iron. His shoes untied themselves and scraped the mud off. A slot in the
wall delivered his evening newspaper. He leaned back on the couch, and tiny massage balls under the
leather surface massaged his neck and shoulders. Penelope sat down with him and started knitting.
She asked about his day.
“There was a car accident today.” He sighed; the newspaper was reading to him about the accident.
Two schools buses had collided. The children had arrived at the hospital, and thanks to the MS all were
in recovery. Dr Jameson doubted a human could have done that. “Sometimes I feel like a dying breed.
A species on its last legs, something more adaptive and better arriving to take over.”
Penelope leaned over and kissed his cheek, and a slight automated whoosh of air was felt. “You’re
not some aging relic, Andrew, and you still have some uses left.” She patted his knee and walked
upstairs. “I’m going to check on the children.” The giggling had increased with a sudden thud, like
something had fallen that shouldn’t have been touched.
“Dinner is ready, Dr Jameson.”
“Thank you.” Rising, Andrew walked over to the table, set for one, and waited as his food was
delivered on an energy plate. It’s remarkable, Andrew thought, I swore I would never rely on an
automation to live, and yet it’s automation that provides my food, companionship. I doubt I could tie
my shoelaces myself. Looking at his watch he quickly called over the video link.
“Contact Carmen Parker.” The telecommunication device turned on and sent a message away into
cyberspace.
“Hello? Andrew did you need something?” The concerned face of his friend appeared.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I was just wondering if it was too late to take you up on your offer of dinner?”
A child appeared on the screen, “Yea! Uncle Andrew can come over anytime he wants! Please come,
Uncle Andrew!”
Andrew laughed, “I surrender! I’ll be there in 10 minutes.”
Sending his dinner back to the recycler Andrew got ready to leave. “Deactivate Home Companion.”
“Deactivating Home Companion. Deactivation complete.”
Andrew returned the newspaper to its slot, the closet put his jacket on and he watched gloomily as
his shoelaces tied themselves.
Elizabeth Woollard is a Grade 11 student at Vimy Ridge Academy, in Edmonton, Alberta. (Olli Megley, teacher)
40
Senior High Prose—Second Prize
Pacemaker, Peacemaker
Erin Banham
He woke from a troubled sleep in a cold sweat, hair sticking to his forehead. This was how he
awoke most nights these days, head swirling with fleeting dreams of bright lights, gas masks and loud
voices.
Getting up from his warm cocoon, he stumbled over to the old stove, joints creaking as he shuffled
along the big oak table for support. Finally he made it to the kettle and put it on for tea. As he waited
for the water to boil, he saw his daughter’s old high chair sitting in the corner. A piece of time forever
covered in unknown stains of family dinners. He thought back on his life as a farmer, father and
husband.
“Back then I was some use,” he grumbled to himself as the water boiled. After making his tea,
black as usual, he went and sat in the large overstuffed chair looking out the darkened window onto
the vast, open fields. He had loved that chair when his children were young; they used to pretend that
anyone who sat in it was the king and could reign over their own kingdoms of prairie gophers and
grasshoppers. He drifted into a light sleep.
He awoke again to a knock, looking around in confusion. He noticed that morning had come and
his tea had gone cold. Walking over to the door, rubbing his chest as he went, he knew only one person
would come to see him.
He opened the door to a pretty woman with sad concerned eyes, fidgeting with a key he knew she
was about to use.
“Gramps!” she said with relief. “Did you just get up? It’s almost noon. Well I guess it’s good that
you get your rest. Mind what the doctor said now.”
“Ya, well that quack says a lot of things,” he mumbled as he slowly picked his way back to his seat,
trying to cover the pain he felt in his chest.
“Grandpa, I know it’s not what you’re used to, but medicine is a lot better these days. No leeches to
suck your blood,” she said, amused at the grimace that followed.
“Ah, well enough of that fuddy-duddy stuff. How are the boys? I hope they aren’t being too rowdy;
I might have to bring my strap next time I come to visit,” he said with playful edge to his voice.
“Don’t worry, Gramps,” she said with a smile, knowing he loved those boys as much as she did.
“They are just fine. Luke just got his yellow belt in karate, and Sean is about to start school.”
“Mmm,” he mumbled. “You know, Kate, without you and those boys I don’t know what would
keep me young.”
“I think you had better stick to middle age for right now,” she replied, slightly saddened by her
words.
“You don’t think I’m young?” sounding slightly affronted. “Well, just the other day I hopped up
and did the foxtrot around the living room.”
“I bet you did,” she said, smiling. “You know, Gramps, maybe you should come and stay with us
for a while, just until you feel better from the surgery. I’m sure Luke and Sean would love to see more
of their great-grandfather. I would like to see more of you, too,” she added softly.
“No, no, I couldn’t do that. Besides, I like my home here. It’s where my children grew up. No no,
I think it best that I stay here,” he said shaking his head.
“But there’s no electricity or gas. You barely have running water—only after we fought with you for
months,” exasperation raising her voice.
41
Senior High Prose—Second Prize
“I don’t need that new-fangled stuff. I have lived this way my entire life and I’m still here, so there
can’t be that much wrong with it. I like living this way, as an honest man,” he said, head still shaking.
“But you don’t even have a TV. What do you do when you’re bored and it’s raining?” she asked.
“You look at the rain. How could you be bored looking at the rain? It never hits the same spot
twice. It’s more entertainment than those fake women trying to find husbands,” he replied defiantly.
“Gramps,” her voice was softer now. “You’re about to have open heart surgery. They are going to
put a pacemaker in. You need to be somewhere that people can look after you. How would I explain it
to mom that I left you out here and you just …” she said trailing off.
“I know, honey, I know,” he said patting her hand. “But my place is here. I can’t just leave it. I don’t
like all those gadgets anyways. They take people away from their families,” he replied. Looking at his
granddaughter’s face fall, he sighed and continued, “Well, maybe we can give it a try for a while.”
“Luke and Sean will be so happy. I can’t wait to see their faces,” she said with a laugh. “OK, we’ll
come by tomorrow and pick you up. You can stay with us until the surgery and then however long
after, OK?” she asked.
“Fine, fine but just be sure nothing happens to my farm while I’m away. Don’t want nobody coming
in here, thinking it’s deserted, making a home for themselves,” he said with a grumble in his dry throat.
After an hour or so, Kate left leaving the old man alone once again with his thoughts. Although he
would never admit it aloud, he was terrified of doctors and what waited for him ahead.
Making himself tea, he sat and pondered what it would be like to fall into sleep without recollection
while the doctors worked their magic. He fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of bright lights, gas
masks and loud noises.
The next day he sat nervously fiddling with his overnight bag filled with clothes and an old picture
of his wife on their wedding day.
She was so beautiful that day. Kate reminded him a lot of her. Never
raising her voice or hand, she was always patient with the boys.
He had always been the one to strike too quickly, often regretting his
harshness. A quick light knock at the door brought him back to reality. As
he moved to the door with his bag, he could see Kate’s silhouette outside
the window.
“Didn’t think you’d be ready,” she greeted the old man with a
warm hug. As they climbed into the car, the man felt it odd, the
interior felt like they were in an elaborate house of some kind.
With plushy seats, long views and the speed of the car to comfort
him, the old man relaxed and, for the first time in many
weeks, fell into a peaceful slumber.
He awoke to the joyful yelling of his great-grandsons.
“Grampy!” they exclaimed, throwing themselves into a
hug. He cringed at the tussle but tried not to show it.
“How about if we let Grampy inside before we start
attacking him, OK boys?” Kate said catching the pained
look on the old man’s face.
The next week passed in a daze of home-cooked meals,
card games and medication.
Kate woke up very early in the morning; unable to
sleep she decided to go downstairs to make herself
some tea. As she walked past the living room, she
spotted the old man looking out of the window, tea
in hand.
42
Senior High Prose—Second Prize
“Hey,” she said softly, putting her arm around him.
“Mmm,” he mumbled back. “Look. A rabbit. By the tree.”
As she searched the dark exterior, a white rabbit jumped from behind a large evergreen. “Whoa,
she scared me,” she said with surprise.
“Mmm,” he replied, drifting in and out of sleep.
“I’m going back to bed,” she said after a long while. “You had better get some sleep. I love you.”
“I love you too, my dear” he said with a yawn. With that Kate went back to bed, but not back to
sleep.
The next day, Kate saw her Grandpa on a gurney being transferred to surgery. “Don’t worry. I’ll be
here when you wake up,” she said in what she hoped was a reassuring voice to which he didn’t reply.
“OK, time to go,” the nurse ordered, putting an anaesthetic mask on the old man.
Slowly he succumbed to bright lights, gas masks and loud noises.
Erin Banham is a Grade 11 student at Vimy Ridge Academy, in Edmonton, Alberta. (Olli Megley, teacher)
43
Senior High Prose—Third Prize
The Golden Tractor
Natalia Starostecki
Chills ran down my spine as I stepped outside to grab some water from the well. The air was still
cold from the night but the sun caressed my skin. The morning dew lingered on the grass, forming
rainbows on the evaporating haze. This is exactly what pulled my family off that rustic train. It was
the tranquility of the unbroken plain. It held a promise of new beginnings, away from the rugged
wartorn lands.
My family and I came to Canada from Poland right after the war ended. My father fought in World
War II and he lost half his leg. Since then he became withdrawn from the rest of the family. As the
rest of us cried as we sailed away from our tortured homeland, father remained obdurate. When we
reached port after a long journey by ship, we exchanged our prized possessions for money. My mother
was clever enough to have sewn our valuables into our jackets so that the Nazi soldiers wouldn’t find
them. Once we had our money we boarded a train and headed west. We stopped at a lot of settlements
along the way, but father just shook his head with reprehension, and we continued on until we reached
Meadow Creek. At first, father just stood there, his dim eyes looking out across the prairie, then limped
off the train with his crutch. The rest of my family leaped off the train laughing, encircling and kissing
my stationary father. We were home.
A year has passed since then and now we share a field with a gracious Ukrainian family. They let us
borrow their horses, because we could not afford a tractor or a plow. My family had never even heard
of a tractor before—a tank, yes, but never a tractor. Back home, we used the few supplies we had: shovels,
small plows, etc. Of course it was Jan, my older brother, who did all the farming, because father
couldn’t move efficiently. When I came inside one day to wash up for dinner, I saw my father hunched
in his chair by the window gazing out onto the flawless field. He jerked his head toward the door when
he realized someone else was in the room. He was looking at me as if I were eavesdropping on his
thoughts. “Go wash up for dinner,” he muttered. And, as always, I obeyed and silently left the room.
After dinner, while I was helping my mother wash the dishes, I asked, “How come Tata doesn’t like
us anymore?”
“Oh, Ania, he does. With all his heart. It is just that after he lost his leg he feels useless to the family.
He wants the best for his sweet children.” She paused and touched my cheek. “He feels he’s not much
of a man anymore, much less a father. Give him some time.”
“Okay, Mama,” I replied.
“Go on to bed. I will finish up here.” I gave my mother a kiss on the cheek and started up the steep
stairs. I stopped when I noticed a lamp lighting up the field outside. It looked as if Apollo were lighting
up the field with his golden torch. I adjusted my eyes and realized it was my father. He was leaning on
the fence and looking out onto the extensive field. “What was he thinking about?” I wondered. I stayed
awake all night thinking of ways that I could help my dear father. The sun started to rise from its
slumber, and that is when I got an idea.
The next morning after breakfast I sprinted to our neighbour’s house. My dress rippled through
the wheat fields as if it were a part of the wheat flowing in the breeze. I was welcomed at the door
by a smiling Mary Molchuk. Since she was from the Ukraine we understood each other pretty well.
I explained to her the whole situation concerning my father, and she agreed to give me the Molchuk’s
old tractor in return for doing the housework and such for an entire year. “You could also bring your
44
Senior High Prose—Third Prize
youngest brother along to help with the farm work. Stefan is getting a little too old and needs the extra
help. Could you ask him? That way you may receive the tractor earlier.” A little tingle of excitement
coiled through my body, like a boa in the Amazon. I offered to help at once. As soon as I got home,
I let Jan and Pawel know about the deal I made with the Mulchuks. Jan looked down at me, beaming,
“You have a heart of gold.” After we rearranged our schedules, I went straight to bed. My body ached
with happiness.
For the next few months Pawel and I got up before the sun rose and did our morning chores. As
soon as we were finished we would race across the honey grass and we would work until our fingers
were giant bubbles of calluses. I could tell that Mama was getting suspicious but she never questioned
us. Strange. She would usually peck at us until our ears were about to fall off. But nothing came out of
her—just a smile. “I wonder if she knows,” I asked Pawel one morning.
“You know mama,” he replied.
“Wwwaaakke…uppp. WAKE UP ANIA!” I woke up startled to find my younger brother jumping
on my bed. His eyes sparkled the same way they do right before we open presents on Christmas Eve.
“Ania, you’re never going to believe this. We did it. We did IT!!!”
“What are you talking about? Calm down and tell me.”
“Oh, just follow me!” With that he hurled me down the stairs and flung open the front door. It
was a spectacular sight. The great mound of steel towered over us. It gleamed in the sun like a gold
Roman sword. We ran upstairs and woke up the entire family. My mother and Jan rushed downstairs,
while father trudged along behind them. Then he reached the front door. His eyes were transfixed on
the machine, and then it happened. “It is for you, Tata.” I said timidly. A single tear drizzled down his
face, forming a river across his cheek. All of us were silent. My father’s laughter and cheering broke
the silence. It was as if we had finally broken into Tata’s safe and released all its treasures. I had waited
almost two years for my Tata to come back to us from his darkness, and now he had.
After my father enveloped my mother and my two brothers, he finally came to me. He looked
down at me and then I saw it. I saw a hint of colour in his eyes. A golden field decorated the specks
in his eyes and could feel the love and warmth emitting from them. He smiled and he picked me up,
twirling me around like I was his princess again. For the first time in years his body didn’t feel stiff
against mine. As I was flying in the air in my father’s arms, I caught a glimpse of the Mulchuk family in
the distance holding each other and watching my family. I could tell that they didn’t need a thank you
or an embrace. Just looking at my joyous Tata was thanks enough for them. And as I looked across the
prairie I noticed that it was not flawless. The trees were broken, the fences were crooked, the sky was
charcoal. But it seemed perfect just the way it was. Just like my Tata.
Natalia Starostecki is a Grade 11 student at Vimy Ridge Academy, in Edmonton, Alberta. (Olli Megley, teacher)
45
Senior High Prose—Honourable Mention
Dive
Ella Beaumont
The first time was by accident. She was four.
Her mother had always seemed to thrive on the connection she shared with the land. Ren would
watch her marvel at the living world and would grow up to find the same wonder entrenched in
her soul so deeply it was impossible to tell whether she had learned it or had been born with it. On
mornings such as these, they would take the short path through the green fields, always pausing to
admire the untamed flowers’ simple strength that seemed to promise renewal against the harshness
of changing times and changing seasons. That day it was sunny and the air was fresh with spring
moisture. Not even a speck of gloom in the corners to foreshadow the future. The simple rhythm of
a simple life sang through the pure notes of bird voices, drifted across the free spaces of rich prairies
and soft skies, easily sewing the two halves together with strings of simple beauty. But nothing ever
lasts the same for long before time takes up the slack and plunges the world back into change. The
straightforward path curved slightly and there it was; the pond in all its deep blue-green glory.
All it took was one misstep in the slick grass as her mother was absorbed in bird song, and Ren,
by fate, was diving into the water. It wasn’t graceful by any means.
The second time was by choice.
Somewhere between swimming and jumping in, her mother taught her to dive. With its grey
wooden dock and deep clear water, the pond was perfect for diving. After the first success, the feeling
of sliding swiftly and smoothly through the water lured Ren to its spell. Forever after that, Ren didn’t
just jump into the water, she dove.
At 10, the world around her changed. They moved to the city. The gloom began to collect as the
green fields and simple beauty vanished and a different reality crept into her life. The pond was gone;
there was only a public pool. But her mother still went
swimming. Her first dive off the small diving board wasn’t a
disaster, and she soon found herself tempting fate on the high
dive. Ren instantly fell in love with the sensation of falling
from so high up. It was like diving through air before diving
through water. It gave her wings; she just wished she could
open them. At 12 she almost joined a diving team and almost
went to competitions but couldn’t pay the membership fee,
so she settled for just watching and practising on her own.
Then life threw sand in her face, and all she could see
was the gloom. Her mother died. The curved path she was
walking down suddenly dropped away beneath her feet and
this time she couldn’t handle the feel of falling. In the space
of the five minutes it took for her mother to stop breathing
Ren found herself lost in pieces of nothing, because what
made up her broken life was wheezing and fading in front of
her. In the end there was nothing left to put back together.
When she moved in with her uncle, she stopped going
swimming. At 13 Ren stopped diving.
46
Senior High Prose—Honourable Mention
It wasn’t until many years later that she remembered her old pastime.
Now in the army, she was skydiving on a training exercise. It wasn’t until her drill sergeant
commented on her courage that she realized it was not natural for trainees to leap fearlessly from fast
moving aircraft, thousands of feet in the air. It had been natural for her.
She had thoroughly enjoyed that day up until that point.
Many grains of sand later, the sad thoughts of her mother settled like the silt in the pond always
had after swimming. There was nothing left to hold her back anymore. So when her difficult life took a
turn for the worse she didn’t hesitate. Without fear, sadness, debate or doubt, she dove.
Most people would have died on that cliff, frozen between two fears, both absolutely paralyzing,
left awaiting death without the will to leap, but not Ren, who had dived forever and had been falling
her whole life. Not Ren.
The death that chased her to this cliff was not the force that pushed her over. The height, the air, the
water and the danger pulled her with their spell. She was weary of the battle, too exhausted to continue
the struggle against the forces pulling her into submission, so she let the spell embrace her.
She leaped.
To fall gracefully through the air like a bird about to open its wings. The water below glistened,
welcoming, as the wind played through her hair and whispered in her ears. She rediscovered the lost
wonder as the sensation brought the sunken happiness to the surface. In her element, her death grip
of control loosened and she found herself surrendering to it. She became the grain of sand telling the
passage of time, letting the natural course of life take hold and drive her actions. Smooth and fluid she
straightened in the final seconds, arrowing into the water to end a perfect dive.
The water was cold as she sliced through it. It wrapped around her, its clutches moulding
completely to her form like her mother’s arms always had. Like being woken up by a cold shower it
brought reality into sharp focus. For a brief moment it was all there, laid out before her, and she found
the understanding she had been searching for her whole life.
And that was it.
Closure to an old and scarred injury, an ending to an old story long unfinished, an old beat-up
horse finally laid to rest, it was all there.
And Ren accepted it.
To find renewal among the harshness of change one required the strength to recognize and let it
happen. It wasn’t a battle, it was acceptance.
She broke the surface back into the air and found the freedom of a straightforward path before her.
This changed world was light and fresh, all the gloom washed away in the new beginning.
Ren smiled, silent laughter spreading like rediscovered wings, for once content to just exist. At last
prepared to meet the next bend in her simple road, she wished her mother’s ghost a final goodbye.
Ella Beaumont is a Grade 12 student at William Aberhart High School, in Calgary, Alberta.
(Margie Johnson, teacher)
47
Senior High Prose—Honourable Mention
Harold’s Shadow
Jada Tellier
Almost every aspect of Harold McClelland’s life could be described as mediocre. He wasn’t
horribly unattractive, yet he wasn’t breathtakingly gorgeous. He had a loving relationship with his
widowed mother, yet was not completely overwhelmed by her, and he and his girlfriend were at a
satisfactory point within their romance and had no current thoughts of taking it one step further. He
lived in a small, homely apartment in New York, and had no desire to improve its interior.
The only difference that set Harold apart from the majority of the real world was his superior IQ
of 231.
Harold had been working as a specialist for a bioengineering technology centre for a number of
years and currently his plate was overflowing. Nowadays, he was either at the lab working on the
project people could only whisper about, attending conferences and meetings that discussed new
biological technological advances, testing fresh ideas on small very unlucky specimens or spending the
small amount of free time he had with his girlfriend of four years. Harold was completely and utterly
exhausted and people soon began to take notice.
“Harold, you really should try and get some sleep,” his mother would say to him. “I’m worried
about you, and you’re beginning to look like Old Father Time.”
“I appreciate your concern, Mother,” Harold would say in his defence, “but right now I need to
focus on my career.”
“Harold, dear, maybe you should come back to bed,” his girlfriend would suggest. “If you continue
working as much as you do, you’re going to get run down. Just get some sleep, OK?”
“In a minute, Gina, I’m almost done with these notes,” he would quickly reply.
“Dr McClelland, I think you could use a vacation. You would be of more help if your main goal
wasn’t trying to stay awake,” his boss told him one day. “Take a few days off and come back when your
mind is clear.”
Harold went home early that afternoon and sat on his brown velvet couch, itching for some form
of task to accomplish. He detested having nothing to do, and his home was a prime example of a place
with nothing to do. Instead of catching up on his much-needed sleep like he clearly should have been
doing, Harold began to conjure up ideas that could improve his life. Right now what I need is more
energy ... more time to be everywhere at once ... more of me, really, to be everywhere at once... Harold
quickly snapped back to reality. Remembering the project that people could only whisper about,
Harold decided his problem was solved. All he had to do was clone himself, and then there would
be two of him. How simple it was. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Burying the thought of the
experiment having any consequences in the back recesses of his mind, Harold hurried back to the lab
to transform his vision into a reality.
Harold groggily awakened to the smell of a home-cooked breakfast reminiscent of his childhood.
The events of last night could be used in a new-age scientific horror film, but to Harold they were a
dream come true. He made his way to the kitchen, his feet sinking into the plush burgundy rug.
“Ah what a fine morning,” he proclaimed as he stared at a perfectly real, perfectly alike vision
of himself. “Now between you and me, your name is Norman, but outside these quarters remember
you’re known as Harold.”
48
Senior High Prose—Honourable Mention
“Norman it is.” The clone replied. “I’ve made up a popular breakfast that
the public enjoy and I have confirmed your appearance at the BTR conference
for tomorrow.”
“Splendid! You clearly catch on quickly so I’m going to run a few workrelated issues by you as well as some important things about my girlfriend
and mother, and then you’ll be prepared to step into the real world.”
They discussed the details of Harold’s mediocre life, which was just
about to get better, across from each other at the kitchen table that morning.
Harold explained everything in full detail, making sure not to forget anything
especially important. He decided that they should never both be out of the
house at the same time, because that could consequently expose the truth. His
plan was to work one day and then rest the next while Norman went to work,
and vice versa, so neither he nor Norman would tire.
A few days passed by, and Harold’s plan was running as smoothly as a cinnamon dolce latte.
It appeared to him that Norman seemed to impress everyone—his boss, his mother, his girlfriend.
Even the barista down the street at Starbucks seemed to notice him. Ever since Norman made his
appearance, people seemed to love Harold more than ever. Or was it Norman that they loved...?
He was perfect. He was capable of anything and everything. He almost never made a mess, and
when he did, it disappeared almost immediately. He was never worn out, even after a day of overtime,
and he had impeccable hygiene. He gave a new meaning to the word adaptable.
As time passed, Norman began to haunt Harold. It was as if he were everywhere, replicating his
every move, building upon his knowledge. He was an annoyance, like a colossal beehive on your
front porch, a shadow that followed him in the late afternoon. Everyone seemed to notice a day-to-day
difference between the two now...
“Why are you all of a sudden changing your mind, Harold?” Gina snapped at him. “You were
seemingly perfect yesterday. You brought me roses, took me out for a steak dinner... heck, we even
had thoughts about marriage and starting a family yesterday! It’s like you knew what we needed to
advance in this relationship and nothing was in your way!”
“Oh Harold, dear, what has gotten into you?” His mother worriedly asked him. “The other day
you were so lively, so eager and now you’re so... mournful and depressing...”
Even his boss made the odd comment. “Dr McClelland, be more like you were yesterday. You were
more prepared. You need to come up with more efficient ideas.”
Harold realized now that he should have listened to his inner thoughts about the consequences of
creating a clone. He could clone his looks, but he couldn’t clone his thoughts and emotions. Therefore
Norman, he felt, was superior to himself because his mindset was completely different. I can’t live up
to Norman. I’m not nearly as reliable as he is. Everyone is more content with him being around; they
hardly even noticed me before Norman existed.
As the days passed, Norman continued to push Harold deeper into oblivion, until one day Norman
confronted Harold.
“You’re stunting the growth of us, Harold,” Norman clearly stated. “Our performance is not
improving on a daily basis because you cannot meet standards. I’ve given you time to improve, but no
change has been made. I am your superior and am more efficient in meeting your life’s needs. One of
us must disappear, and it’s not going to be me.”
Weeks before, Harold would have responded with defiance and would have cared what was going
to become of him, but at this moment Harold felt defeated and was convinced that with him gone,
everyone would be better off. He realized that he was the wall blocking the path of advancement in
Norman’s existence. And as he brought his gaze up to meet the all-knowing stare of Norman, the clone
smiled ominously and Harold knew this was the end.
Jada Tellier is a Grade 11 student at Vimy Ridge Academy, in Edmonton, Alberta. (Ollie Megley, teacher)
49
Teachers/Student Teachers Poetry—First Prize
Back to School
Colleen Shukalek
(Pay attention! This is important for you to learn.)
Four young heads are bent,
crowning a brown circular table
(You’re seeing four minds becoming one;
remember synergy? That the whole is
greater than the sum of its parts?)
A glory of ideas leap into the air
Free association
fast, so fast
Has Robin Williams met his match?
They are conjuring a magical land,
the land of Garbaggio …
Dancing hippos
—No! Dancing hippies!
Pink piñatas and magenta birds
—How do you spell piñatas?
A bald monkey carrying keys
—How about his tail squirts butter!
A ping-pong playing dragon
—Meets defeat by power paddle!
—No, a fairy godfather!
—No, a HAIRY Godfather, don’t ya know?
Lucky orange pants and a portal in the toilet
Joke-telling ducks and seals living in igloos
—What do you call cheese that isn’t yours?
—What?
—Nacho cheese!
52 minutes
29 ideas
2 story plots
4 13-year-olds
I’m exhausted
50
I thought TV and video games
had devoured imagination
(Still believing everything you read?)
We marvel at Lewis, Carroll, Tolkien,
Rowling
for retaining what once danced inside of us
Where does it go?
(Now you’re getting it. Shh … listen …
watch.)
Laughter
Eyes tightly shut,
Mouths w-i-d-e,
arms protecting aching bellies
Unrestrained
Beautiful
Delighting in the power
of mind,
of fancy,
of word
Though I’m sure I’ve laughed that way
before,
thought that way before,
I can’t remember when
(Liar. It’s just been too long.)
And I wonder,
who’s teaching whom?
(Remember that.)
Colleen Shukalek is a teacher at Entwistle School,
in Entwistle, Alberta.
Teachers/Student Teachers Poetry—Second Prize
Sister in Elementary
Alicia LeBleu
[do you remember when you wrote]
Oh why, oh why did you have to die?
Oh why did she lie?
You were my best (sniff) sister
You scribbled with purple glitter paint
In great patches
Top left corner
There were orange tears
more glitter paint
I kept it on my wall
forever
I think you mixed the paint
around with a dead green marker
Oh that was my favourite.
The page is a little crumpled
now. A little torn
at the edges from old cheap tape
A little faded, a little bit forgotten.
You stopped after that.
I guess your teacher didn’t like it;
your first poem
–I guess it was supposed to be something else.
Alicia LeBleu is a student teacher with Marg Iveson, at the University of Alberta, in Edmonton, Alberta.
51
Teachers/Student Teachers Poetry—Third Prize
Memo
Donna Macbeth
in the hour of lonely souls,
my old fears,
(my old friends),
emerge;
insidious, insistent, insatiable
i think that because i am on this
“Path to Enlightenment,”
that i am
past them, above them, beyond them
but then,
they rear their ugly heads;
they grip me, shatter me, remind me
that i am
not there
… yet
Donna Macbeth is a teacher at Ardrossan Junior Senior High School, in Ardrossan, Alberta.
52
Teachers/Student Teachers Poetry—Honourable Mention
The Unknown
Cindy Stevens
Tightening of my bindings
Tight against my feet.
I pause for a moment
I am still.
I stand.
I stare.
The mountain below me
My life ahead of me.
Sun beats down causing a glare,
Eyes twitch, blurry
My life is rejected in that glare.
I adjust
Making sure things are clear before moving forward.
I push myself forward
Adrenaline
The wind, the rush,
Flying.
Love and Happiness.
Excitement, Knowledge, Wisdom
Gliding through life.
Hard flakes,
Blizzard,
Snow coming down,
Hard and fast.
Blindness.
I am scared.
I am being halted to a stop
Pulsing adrenaline
Numbness Numbness No feeling
Tears
Tears
Tears
Fear
Great fear.
53
Teachers/Student Teachers Poetry—Honourable Mention
I am scared.
I fall
Hitting the ground hard.
Packed snow against my back,
staring up at the sky.
WHY?
I lie there
I lie there
I lie there.
Still.
Has it come to an end this soon?
Stillness.
A moment.
And another.
I get up.
Faith.
Scared and nervous of what is ahead,
I continue down the mountain.
I have fear,
I fear the bottom
I do not want it to be over,
Not yet!
The wind, the rush
Flying.
The bottom has arrived.
Fear.
Stillness.
A moment.
And another
And yet another moment passes.
I am not going to quit.
I am going to keep going
Again
And again
And again.
Cindy Stevens is a teacher at Carbon School, in Carbon, Alberta.
54
Teachers/Student Teachers Prose—First Prize
Untitled
Miriam Berg
“Get up, it’s almost time to leave. If you stay in bed any longer, you won’t have time for breakfast
before the bus comes!” My mother has been periodically holding court outside my bedroom door for
20 minutes now. I dream about an impending military coup. She has most likely made me a lunch that
I’d devour with relish in the safety of our kitchen, but can only eat in secret at school.
Liverwurst on whole-grain rye! Wax paper! Brown vinyl lunch bag! How humiliating, when
everyone else has brown paper bags and cellophane, or better yet, Ziploc sandwich baggies. My mother
doesn’t believe in disposable wrappers. Even the wax paper is multi-use. She has intimate knowledge
of what will disgrace me in front of my peers.
“For the last time, get up!” The irritation is painfully apparent now.
Just five more minutes, and I’ll make the move. I feel like my head just hit the pillow. It doesn’t seem to
matter how tired I am in the morning, by the time it’s time for bed, my mind won’t leave up with the whirring.
I could sleep all day. If I deposed my mother, I would create a paradise of sleeping in on feather pillows
and throwaway lunch packaging. I mean throwing away packaging. Adults just don’t understand
what’s important. Everything is so urgent with them, but paradoxically never has anything to do with
the present. It’s all about protecting the world for future generations and deferred gratification.
I decide not to risk my mother’s wrath and cut my ritualized morning reverie short. My feet hit the
floor before my head leaves the pillow, curling in indignation on the cold wood. “I’m up!” I yell; I can
already hear the creak of the top stair under my mother’s impatient heel.
It never takes me long to dress in the morning. I’m not one of those girls who primp incessantly
in front of any shiny surface they can get their reflection on. I always bathe before bed, if I have to, to
ensure that I can eke out a few extra precious minutes in the morning. Fully dressed, I trundle upstairs
and rub cold water into my eyes and cheeks to remove the sleep still clinging to them. I walk into the
kitchen where my mother is rushing in an effort to organize my day.
“I wish you could get up on time,” is all she says as she gives my wheedling little sister her warm milk.
It’s so unfair that my sister gets all the good mothering. I wish I could get away with whining out my
wishes in monosyllables without getting that look of withering indignation every time. It’s not my fault
that I’m too old for coddling; I think I should get it anyway. Being born first should count for something.
“Mom, I need you to sign my permission slip for the field trip to the Space and Science Centre,” I state.
“When do you need it?” my mother asks. What a redundant question.
“We’re going this afternoon. I told you yesterday.” I reply sullenly. Why does everything have to be
so complicated? I ask one simple thing and I get a million questions, every time.
“No you didn’t,” she’s exasperated now, “Go get it. I’ll sign it while you’re putting on your coat.
I really wish you wouldn’t leave everything until the last minute.”
I pull the letter and permission slip from my teacher out of my bag. It’s creased and dirty from its
week-long habitation underneath my binder. I actually do feel a little sheepish when I hand it to her,
but only for a moment. Why should it be my responsibility? I don’t care if I go or not! That’s only partly
true: I happen to like science.
My mother hands me the note as I’m putting on my shoes. With her other hand, she’s shoving the
hated lunch sack into my schoolbag. She leans over to give me a wet kiss on my cheek; only she misses
and gets my ear. Gross. “Have a good day at school,” she says, suddenly cheerful. She’s probably just
happy to have one less family member to tend to. No matter. I am oddly elated as I trudge through
snow toward the bus stop.
Miriam Berg is a student teacher at Dan Knott Junior High School, in Edmonton, Alberta.
55
Teachers/Student Teachers Prose—Second Prize
Escape
Jason Michael Collingridge
The wilds await adventurous souls who seek the solitude of starlit nights. The allure of wild
and untamed wilderness and breathtaking mountain vistas invigorates me, but trapped here in the
day‑to‑day grind of this artificial world I lose myself a piece at a time. Perhaps it is easy for those of
you who have never felt the primal call of nature to say, “Stay.” But when you have heard majestic elk
sparring on the ridge above and bugling from the valley below; when you have seen snow-covered
peaks glisten, gleam, and even glow in the bright summer sun; when you see the vast immensity of a
star-filled sky undimmed by the ceaseless glow of city lights and the smog of industrial society; when
you have experienced the solitude of a comfortable camp on a misty mountain far away from the chaos
of day-to-day life in the city, and been engulfed by the smell of wood smoke as you warm yourself by a
morning fire, and seen the sun rising in the sky over distant mountain peaks, and felt a change within
your soul as you come to an unconscious realization that you are home; when you have to struggle for
words to answer a born-and-bred city dweller who is asking, “Buddy, why would you ever want to
leave the comfort and convenience of civilization?” When you have driven a winding mountain road
with your windows down and had not been bombarded by the constant noise of endless traffic; when
you have escaped the day in and day out harassment of annoying signs reading “no parking” and “no
loitering”; when your eyes are fully opened, your ears begin to ring (unaccustomed to the silence) and
your soul is finally free, and you never again want to return to the cage whence you came; when you
have banished your fears and embraced the fact that this is where you belong, freeing completely your
shackled mind, finally shedding the chains of the modern world, and are filled with inner peace and
outer confidence; when you are finally experiencing an ennobling sense of “wholeness” then you will
understand why I find it difficult to stay. There comes a time when the commotion of the city becomes
overwhelming, and I am no longer willing to be trapped in this cage of chaos. I leave, then, and escape
to the mountains to enjoy the freedom and solitude of nature.
Jason Michael Collingridge has just received a bachelor of education in secondary education from the
University of Alberta.
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Barnett House
11010 142 Street NW
Edmonton, AB T5N 2R1
English ­Language
Arts Council
of the Alberta
Teachers’ Association