Library locations and hours
RICHMOND HILL CENTRAL LIBRARY*
1 Atkinson Street (corner of Major Mackenzie & Yonge)
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4C 0H5
Telephone: (905) 884-9288
Oak Ridges
Moraine
Library
Bathurst St.
*In-depth resources & information services
Bayview Ave.
King Rd.
Leslie St.
Bloomington Rd.
HOURS:
Monday - Thursday . . . . 9:30 a.m. - 9:00 p.m.
Friday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9:30 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
Sunday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . noon - 5:00 p.m.
Hwy 404
19th Ave.
HOURS:
Tuesday & Wednesday. 10:00 a.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Thursday & Friday . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
Richmond
Green Library
Elgin Mills Rd. E.
Richmond Hill
Central Library
Major Mackenzie Dr.
Atkinson St.
RICHMOND GREEN LIBRARY
1 William F. Bell Parkway
(Leslie St. & Elgin Mills Road)
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4S 2T9
Telephone: (905) 780-0711
Richvale
Library
Hwy 7
HOURS:
Tuesday & Wednesday . 10:00 a.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Thursday & Friday. . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
Leslie St.
Bantry Ave.
Bayview Ave.
16th Ave.
Hwy 407 (toll)
RICHVALE LIBRARY
40 Pearson Avenue,
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4C 6T7
Telephone: (905) 889-2847
Youth
Literary & Art
Festival
Scott Dr.
Pearson
Ave.
HOURS:
Monday - Thursday . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Friday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
N
Stouffville Rd.
Yonge St.
OAK RIDGES MORAINE LIBRARY
13085 Yonge Street, Unit 12
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4E 3L2
Telephone: (905) 773-5533
Richmond Hill Public Library’s
2009
Anthology
RICHMOND HILL
PUBLIC LIBRARY
www.rhpl.richmondhill.on.ca
greetings from the CEO
staff contributions
Jane Horrocks, CEO, Richmond Hill Public Library
Rebecca Abitbol
Adult Services Librarian
Franca Perri
Receptionist/Secretary
The winners of this year’s Youth Literary & Art Festival represent the creative powers of our youth. They
have all worked very hard to express themselves with the written word or through the visual art
medium. Our wonderful judges have volunteered their time and expertise and have chosen the best
entries in the various age groups. The winning submissions are printed and reproduced here.
Brian Bell
Manager of Richvale Library
Cathy Peters
Manager of Oak Ridges Moraine Library
Congratulations to all of you.
Katarina Boljkovac
Adult Services Librarian
Robin Rakowsky
Teen Services Librarian
Kathy Bertucci
Communications Assistant
Cecily Reid
Children’s Services Librarian
Catherine Charles
Corporate Relations Officer
Alice Torrance
Art Consultant
Joan Girot
Business and Government documents Librarian
Greg Taylor
Branch Services Librarian
Lesley Holland
Children’s Services Library Technician
Laurie Valentine
Programming Librarian
Cameron Knight
Local History/Genealogy Librarian
Michelle Weinberg
Manager of Children’s Services
message from the judges
Barry Dempster
Writing a story is like putting everything you know all together in a brain blender and creating an
entirely new and compelling world. A story is more than just character and plot: it’s the smell of mud
on a soaking April afternoon, the look in a hero’s eyes as he realizes that the stranger he’s staring at is
staring back at him, the sound of an old woman asking for directions in a foreign land. Congratulations
to all of you for creating these bold new worlds and for having the courage to invite us, the readers, to
participate in your adventures. Thank you for lending us your wonderful imaginations. My own world is
richer for having read you.
Barry Dempster is the author of the novel, The Ascension of Jesse Rapture, two collections of short stories, a
children’s book, and nine volumes of poetry. His most recent poetry collection, The Burning Alphabet,
published in 2005, secured his second nomination for the Governor General’s Award for Poetry. Other writing
prizes include a 2nd place finish in the international poetry competition for the Petra Kenney Award and the
Canadian Author’s Association Chalmers Award for Poetry. He is also an editor for the prestigious publishing
house, Brick Books. Barry was the 2005 Writer in Residence at Richmond Hill Public Library. His 14th book,
a new collection of poetry entitled Love Outlandish, was published early spring 2009.
Greg Patterson
Virtual Services Specialist
Volunteer contributions
Margaret Glew
Jurying the prize winners in this competition was extremely difficult. The quality of the work was very high,
and all entrants have reason to be proud of their accomplishments. While all the work was technically
good, the winning entries possessed a more personal element, an original point of view or approach that
stood out. Congratulations!
Katherine Belrose
Member of the Richmond Hill Public Library Board and Chair of the Library Board’s Art Committee
Margaret Glew lives and paints in Toronto. A mostly self-taught artist, her abstract paintings are intuitive, gestural,
often multi-layered; like the eroding surfaces of the earth, they reveal traces of their own history.
Karen Stoskopf Harding
Member of Library Board’s Art Committee
She has been exhibiting her work in Toronto since 1989 and is represented in Toronto by Engine Gallery . Her
paintings were exhibited at the Toronto International Art Fair in each of the past three years and in July, 2007 she was
one of eight Canadian artists exhibiting in “Parca, Canada in New York”, at the 511 Gallery in Chelsea, New York.
Her work is in a number of public and corporate collections, including the City of Toronto Archives, the City of
Scarborough Art collection, and the Richmond Hill Public Library.
Mary Vautour
Member of Library Board’s Art Committee
Published by Richmond Hill Public Library © May 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Still Life - Graphite & Pencil Crayon
Lucy S.
by CampbellbyDrohan
Al Groen
I was inspired to draw this picture when
admiring some Chinese antiques, which were
very old, but still held a certain beauty in my
eyes. In my picture, an old wooden chair and
dressing table stand. A bird perches proudly
upon a twig pertruding from a jar, reflected in
the old, stained mirror. A majestic golden vase
stands on the table, which is also adorned by
golden draperies, contrasting with the dark
colour and rough texture of the wood. The
furniture is old and dilapidated, but even the
oldest of objects can have a beauty of their
own, and we should appreciate that.
Art is a process of discovery and exploration of ideas. It demands a great deal of perseverance
and working through mistakes. Above all, it has to be fun!
Al Groen is a painter, sculptor, designer, poet, teacher. Al has been the heart and soul of GroenArt for over 25
years. His work reflects a deep passion for life...its struggles, journeys and triumphs. He works without
boundaries from a simple backyard studio. From this small sanctuary, works of art emerge that are bold,
intellectually provocative, inspired and beautiful. GroenArt paintings and sculptures are featured in galleries
and private collections throughout Canada, the United States and Europe.
Ken Sparling
To each person who submitted a story to the Richmond Hill Public Library’s Young Adult Short Story
Contest:
You are all winners. You put yourself out there. You gave of yourself, through your story. You asked to
be heard. That’s what matters, not whether or not you won. There was room for four winners, but
that’s just a structural issue. It has nothing to do with the meeting of souls that occurs when a writer
seeks a reader. There were stories that I loved that didn’t win, didn’t even place. But you touched me,
and that’s what it’s all about. So thanks, and stay out there.
Ken Sparling is the author of an untitled novel (Pedlar Press, 2003); Hush Up and Listen Stinky Poo Butt (homemade
by special order); Dad Says He Saw You At The Mall (Knoph, New York, 1996); and most recently, For Those Whom
God Has Blessed With Fingers (Pedlar Press 2005). In the November 2005 publication of Quill & Quire: Canada’s
Magazine of Book News and Reviews, he was the subject of a cover story. His latest novel, Name of Book, will be
published by Pedlar Press in 2010. Ken is Communications Officer responsible for youth programs at Toronto
Public Library.
Karen Stoskopf Harding
North Spirit - Pastel
Yacov K.
by CampbellbyDrohan
North Spirit is one of my first pieces
done with oil pastels. It is a
representational artwork, which represents
the melancholy, dreamy state at which I
was during the creative process. I have had
great fun creating this work and I hope you
enjoy it, and extract from it, your own
meaning.
In this year’s Youth Visual Art Festival, judges considered the artwork of 146 entrants representing 25
schools in our community. Twelve awards were made in various categories, from first prize to
Honourable Mention, with prizewinners coming from different schools.
There is much exciting talent in our young visual artists and I would like to congratulate everyone who
participated. Next year may be your time to receive an award! I sincerely hope that the opportunity to
exhibit your art and to view the work of your peers will have a lasting impact on your creative energies,
whether you choose in future to become a professional artist, an art hobbyist or an admirer of the
visual arts. Practice and learn in every way possible, experiment with new methods and materials
and keep your mind open to the great variety of artistic expression in our world. Above all, let your art
be a genuine reflection of your inner creative impulse, thereby making it uniquely your own.
Karen Stoskopf Harding holds an Honours BA in Visual Art Studio and a Masters Degree in Art History. In 1984 she
became a member of the Sculptors Society of Canada and has exhibited in Canada, the USA and Europe with the
S.S.C. and independently. She acts as the Society’s Archivist and is also a member of the Richmond Hill Public
Library Art Committee. In 2007 she worked with the Library in establishing the Youth Art Festival which was cosponsored by Arts Richmond Hill. In 2008 the Festival became an official programme of the Richmond Hill Public
Library.
Please note: The short stories, works of art and their introductions are published as originally submitted.
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
winners 2009
(Cont’d)
Cloud 11 - Acrylic
Short Story Contest
Grades 7 & 8
Kathryn H., Academy for Gifted Children - P.A.C.E. - grade 8, Thirteen ........................................................ 2
Tannaz N., Sixteenth Avenue Public School - grade 7, Hysteria ..................................................................... 4
Kyla M., Adrienne Clarkson Public School - grade 7, The Secret Souls .......................................................... 6
Grades 9 & 10
Justin H., Academy for Gifted Childre - P.A.C.E. - grade 10, Taxi to India ...................................................... 7
Linda Z., Langstaff Secondary School - grade 10, Touched by a Figure in the Snow ..................................... 9
Iris Y., Langstaff Secondary School - grade 9, Monkey See Monkey Do ......................................................... 11
by Drohan
Nicco M.
by Campbell
I’ve had the idea of painting a piece like this for
quite a while, but never got a chance until now. I
can’t say it turned out exactly how I planned, but
that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. This piece means
a lot to me for a variety of reasons. From a purely
aesthetic and visual standpoint, this painting is just
about as “me” as it gets – incorporating a female
figure, graffiti and bright colors. I wanted give this
girl’s hair the energy that it deserved. All that’s left
to say is that good things come in 11’s.
Grades 11 & 12
Maybelle L., Bayview Secondary School - grade 12, Milky Way .................................................................... 13
Jackie B., Richmond Hill High School - grade 12, As Silence Reverberates in the Silence.............................. 15
Diana J., Academy for Gifted Children - P.A.C.E. - grade 12, Cliquot .............................................................. 17
Honourable Mention
Daniel B, Richmond Hill High School - grade 9, Hallowed Be Thy Name ...................................................... 20
Youth Visual Art Festival
Grades 7 & 8
Zachary H., Our Lady Help of Christians - grade 7, Canadian Landscape ................................................... 22
Kerenza Y., Sixteenth Avenue Public School - grade 8, Teatime .................................................................. 22
Freedom S., Toronto Waldorf School - grade 7, Study of Student Portrait-Renaissance Style ................... 23
Grades 9 & 10
Sarah Z., Bayview Secondary High School - grade 9, Still Life ...................................................................... 23
Apoorva S., Toronto Montessori School - grade 9, Mother Theresa ............................................................ 24
Angela W., Richmond Hill High School - grade 10, Migrant Worker ............................................................ 24
Grades 11 & 12
Shamara S., Langstaff Secondary School - grade 12, The Man Behind The Steel ........................................ 25
Angie S., Richmond Green Secondary School - grade 12, Angel In Us ........................................................ 25
Nicco M., St. Robert Catholic High School - grade 12, Cloud 11 ................................................................... 26
William F. Bell Award
Ananta T., Oak Ridges Public School - grade 8, Waiting Cat ........................................................................ 26
Waiting Cat - Pastel
by Drohan
Ananta T.
by Campbell
Thank you for choosing my Art
work and encouraging me to do even
better in future. My artwork portrays
a mysterious looking cat waiting in
the darkness. It appears to be
waiting for its prey with its watchful
eyes. This painting caught my
attention and the obscurity and
mystery in this painting really stood
out to me, which is the reason why I
selected to recreate it.
Founder’s Award
Lucy S., Crosby Heights Public School - grade 11, Still Life ........................................................................... 27
Yacov K., Alexander Mackenzie High School - grade 10, North Spirit ........................................................... 27
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
The Man Behind The Steel - Acrylic
by Shamara
S.
by Campbell
Drohan
Superman has always seemed like the ideal
man – the muscles, the eyes and of course the
ability to fly. An idea came to me to strip him of
these superficial aspects and to make him
simply a man, not a superman. Therefore, the
red and yellow were no longer included; only
blue acrylic paint captured his features. The
portrait was cropped to be more focused on his
face and less focused on the ‘big S’ on his chest.
I really brought the iconic superman right down
to the basics. As result, he no longer seemed
like some unreachable superhero; he seemed
more like everyone else. I hope this painting
tells all those trying to find their Superman,
that this may not be so impossible, if you look
for the man, not the steel.
Thirteen
by Kathryn H.
(cont’d)
I have just entered my teenage years and like most kids, facing many new experiences. I wanted to write about a strong
emotion; possibly something with the fear of the unknown. Everybody faces something similar in their teenage years; whether it's
joining a new sports team, entering a competition, or moving to a new neighbourhood. The one experience that brought the most
emotions together for me was the trip to a possible new school.
Many young readers will be able to understand that as a teenager, one starts to look at new experiences with a different
perspective. I was hoping to convey to the reader that it doesn't matter how confident one is, old and new experiences can become
unfamiliar in an instant and all of a sudden, fear and anxiety can change the way you experience something.
Writing is a great way to express oneself and is one of the best ways to reminisce an eventful experience. Writing is first a
great way to logically organize my thoughts and to express myself. Writing is also interesting because depending on your mood,
you can go back and rewrite something and change the mood of a story which you can't do when you talk with a friend.
Angel In Us - Graphite
Angie S.
by CampbellbyDrohan
This unique still life is rendered in soft graphite
pencil on illustration board. The small angel figurine
has been moved forward in the frame leaving behind
a translucent negative space. This technique gives the
composition the illusion of movement and perhaps a
little magic.
The inspiration for my art work, called, “Angel in
Us” came to me one night while I was dreaming.
These are the symbols in my art work:
Marble - contains trapped emotion (bad emotion evil
corruption)
Shell - the texture of the shell is bumpy and rough
(representing how we all have ups and downs)
Angel - innocence, we are born innocent
Angel's shadow - white to represent goodness
This way to Subway. I remember
staring at the tiled letters. Tilting my
head slightly to the right and upward,
the white and red lighted public
transit sign casted a shadow over my
frail stature. This was the beginning
and the end. The beginning to my
first of many lonely trips to school
unaccompanied by anyone who had
any resemblance to a family member,
relative, friend, neighbour or
acquaintance. The end to the
comfort and luxury of sitting in the
back of an SUV on those hot summer
or cold winter days where public
transit would be similar to living
without my cell phone.
Why is “13” the magic number
for adults? My mother somehow
convinced my father that that magic
number was the end of my childhood
and that it was time to learn how to
survive in the real world. I keep
hearing that reference to the “real
world” so many times that I think
that there must be two earths; one
for children and one for adults who
obviously live in the “real world”. I
am guessing that that fact that
thirteen ends with the dreaded four
letters that somehow is the topic of
most parties that my parents attend.
Teen this and teen that. One of my
friend's parents says that their girls
get everything they ask for because
then they won't need to marry
someone for things they never got
when they were growing up. I don't
know if this true but I know that it is a
topic of discussion for my parents
whenever I ask for something that
they tell me I only “want” but don't
“need”.
Stairs never intimidated me.
Even when I was only old enough to
crawl around on all fours, I was never
scared to crawl to the top of the stairs
and rattle the safety gates that my
parents put up to keep me from
falling down the stairs. But this time,
the cement stairs looked much colder
and intimidating; as if the stairs were
leading to some place where I didn't
have a chance of coming back up.
Braced with my backpack pressed
tightly against my back, I could feel
tiny beads of sweat forming between
the nylon backing and my jacket.
Suddenly, I jolted back. There was
a loud ringing sound, which I
eventually discovered was the signal
before the subway doors closed. But
somehow, standing at the top of the
stairs, any musical notes sounded
more like the trumpets that preceded
the gladiators walking out to their
death with the lions in the old Roman
collisiums.
My father had already bought me
a monthly pass so I didn't have to
fumble for a subway token as most
passengers seem to be doing. It was
easier than I thought. The simple
sliding of the pass through a raised
metal slot gave way to a loud click,
which signaled the release of a lock
on the turnstile. I walked quickly
through since I could tell that people
behind me were annoyed with the
time I took to examine the
instructions on the top of the
turnstile.
How do people do this every
day? I only hesitated for a moment
but it seemed like eternity. I still had
to make a major decision before the
journey could begin. I had two
choices; either go North or South? I
could have taken the easy way out by
asking the person working behind the
newspaper stand but I figured that
this was where my teenage years
would mark their beginning. What is
it about teenagers and trying to look
cool all the time? My dad always
lectured me about knowing when to
eat my pride and this seemed to fit
the scenarios that my dad described.
I could jump on the wrong train
platform and risk the possibility of
being late for school or I could take
out the map that my dad drawn out
for me. For me, it was easy to
choose the latter because none of my
school friends were around to
witness my moment of weakness. I
brought out the map as if I was
staring at my beautiful face in front of
the mirror and little to my surprise,
the newspaper stand and stairways
matched the drawing as if I had a
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Thirteen Cont’d
photograph of it in front of me. If
anybody ever said that grown-ups
were air-heads, I would certainly
challenge them that my dad was very
detailed and though it would have
been easier to take a picture with his
cell phone, he was out to show me
how they did it in the good old days.
My dad takes every opportunity to
show me how it was done when he
was growing up since he already
knows that his “war stories” are
falling on deaf ears when it comes to
making me relive his childhood.
The musical warning signal
snapped me out of my sleepy
condition and a rush of people from
two directions looked as if there was
going to be huge crash of bodies.
Somehow it reminded me of Boxing
Day sales at the mall but people
seemed like they knew when it was
their turn to start walking. I
managed to get a seat even though
the subway car seemed filled to
capacity.
All of a sudden, everyone of my
senses seemed to be triggered.
Different smells crept into my nose
from people to the left, to the right
and even worst, the people in front
of me. Some smelled like my mom
when she sprayed that Chanel
cologne in the morning and some
smelled like dad when he comes
back from hockey practice with my
brother. My ears were filled with
conversations from all directions;
some louder than others. The
people on the cell phone were the
loudest, almost sounding like they
were screaming through a
megaphone. In my line of sight,
were a group of high school kids
looking half asleep but obviously
knowing each other. The advertising
lined up across the top was selling
everything from cell phones to sunny
vacations. A lot of the advertising
Richmond Hill Public Library
by Kathryn H.
didn't make sense.
At each stop, people came onto
the train and people left. Some
people looked for seats and others
grabbed the bar and preferred to
stand. Some people sat with their
eyes closed, some were reading and
others were listening to their ipods.
Out of no where, someone's cheap
cologne seemed to come out of the
crowd and hit my nose like my
brother's left hook. I had to scratch
my nose but in my haste, my elbow
brushed against someone's leg.
Luckily, they just smiled when they
saw that it was just a child rubbing
her nose. The journey seemed
longer than the 20 minutes my dad
estimated but he did say it all
depended on the size of the crowds.
Just as I felt my eyes closing, I
caught the name of my stop pop up
out of the corner of my eye. I quickly
jumped out of my seat and ran out of
the subway doors. I took a deep
breath and started walking toward
the exit sign. All of sudden, someone
grabbed my arm. Blood rushed to
my head and my first response was
to scream. I turned and saw another
teenager. I instantly recognized her
as the girl who was sitting beside me.
She was holding my backpack. With
a smile, she held out my backpack
and I quickly grabbed it. I thanked
her and she joined the crowd up the
stairs. I noticed her backpack had
the same school crest so I followed
her group of friends since they
seemed to heading towards the
general direction of the school.
As I followed behind, I began to
wonder what grade these girls were
in. They looked just like out of a
magazine with their Abercrombie
clothing and Converse runners. As
we walked out of the station, the
rising sun beamed off the girls'
braces and their cell phones hanging
3
from their purses. I slowed my pace
because I was wearing “yesterday's
style” and I didn't want to feel any
more insecure than I already was.
Ever since Mom brought in the rule
that I could buy anything I wanted as
long as it came out my allowance, I
stopped surfing the internet for the
latest fashions that I could not afford.
As I stood before the school, I
stopped before the big brass statue.
The statue was dedicated to the
founder of the school. I wondered if
he knew he was going to have a
school named after him when he
started teaching. My parents keep
reminding me to find a role model
and stop watching the programs on
Family channel with the taped
laughter. I shut off my cell phone but
not before noticing that I only had
five minutes left before the start of
classes. I counted the stairs as I
walked. The doors closed behind
me. I made it.
(Cont’d) - Scratchboard
Mother Theresa
by Apoorva
by Campbell
DrohanS.
Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I
think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the
person who has nothing to eat." said Mother Theresa.
This artwork is a social portrait of Mother Theresa using the medium
of a scratchboard. Mother Theresa created jobs for the poor, taught the
children is slums, made homes for the dying and clinics for the sick, and
a leprosy clinic in Calcutta. She fought for people's dignity and did not
care about their status or religion.
I was inspired by the generosity and kind nature of Mother Theresa.
Migrant Worker - Oil
by Drohan
Angela W.
by Campbell
I am honored to have my work selected among
the many talented pieces by young artists of
Richmond Hill.
Canada is a multicultural country, and there are
many different races living in our community--but
seldom do we find those that look like the man in
my painting--for he is a young migrant worker, paid
to in meager wages compared to what we earn,
sending all his money but those spent on survival
to his family back home. The large, rough strokes
create texture that contrasts with the smooth
refinement of a commissioned piece featuring a
wealthy man of higher class. However, representing
these diligent citizens of the global community is
perhaps as important as showing our own diverse
culture and heritage through the arts.
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
DrohanS.
Study of Student Portrait - Mixed Media by Campbell
by Freedom
This painting is loosely based on my friend Kathleen but I
have made many changes:I have placed the girl on a chair
draped in red cloth against a dark background, changed the
colour and the shape of her face. I am sure that it would have
been a lot more romantic if I had seen a girl and had a sudden
urge to paint
her but the truth more realistic. In school we studied
Leonardo DaVinci's life and work
and so we practiced copying some of his
artwork and using class mates as models of our own. This
picture started out as one of these sketches . when my
teacher said that we
could paint one of our drawings in tempera I chose this one!
Still Life - Graphite
Hysteria
by Tannaz N.
I wanted to write this story because I wanted to write something with suspense. I'm a huge horror fan and I've read so
many stories of that genre but I've never actually written one. When I write, I tend to gravitate towards fantasy, realistic or
science fiction when horror is my favorite genre. I decided I'd try it in this story just to see how it'll turn out. Now that I've
written one, I can't stop writing stories like it!
Since it was a short story, I wanted to keep readers alert. The last thing I wanted was for my story to be overlooked. I
wanted to keep people on the edge of their seat and wanting more. I wanted it to be memorable, something people can keep
with them for a while. I wanted to intrigue them, so I focused on intriguing myself with it.
To me, writing is letting my imagination out. I enjoy creating different characters and situations. I like watching my
characters unfold and react to the situations they're in. I love playing with words and making them sound perfect. To be
perfectly honest, I only recently began paying so much attention to my writing. It's therapeutic, I do it on my best and worst
days. Now I literally jump at any chance to write.
Sarah Z.
by CampbellbyDrohan
My drawing is about still-life sketch:
title Pot, glass bottle, carrot and green
peppers. The inspiration of my drawing was
from my mom. When she cooks, she always
uses lots of bottles, jars and pots, and she
has always wanted to have a drawing to
hang in the kitchen. So I have been
thinking, why can’t I draw something about
her kitchen stuff and vegetables? She will
be a lot happier as well. So then I created
this drawing.
“Help!”
I screamed as loud as my lungs
would let me. I ran as fast as I could
to get away from
him. I bumped into walls, lockers and
people who looked at me like I was
insane; didn't
they see the big man with a knife
behind me? Why wouldn't they help
me? I was crying now, crying and
screaming. My throat felt like I had
just swallowed sewing needles. My
arms throbbed from running into
walls and I could feel blood from my
scars running down my face. I was
covered in sweat and I could feel
myself about to vomit. My knees
began to buckle but I forced them to
keep going.
I risked a look back. He was there,
running towards me with that sick
smile on his scruffy face. His knife
was clutched in his outstretched
hand. Suddenly, something smacked
me hard in my stomach. My
abdominals ached as I fell to the
ground. Looking up, I noticed I'd run
into a water fountain, looking up
again, I saw the man; arm held high
in the air, knife tightly gripped. His
hand came down swiftly, right above
my chest. I shut my eyes tight, not
wanting to see the blade dig into me
like I knew it was about to. I brought
my hands up to my ears to plug out
the sound of cracking bones, my
bones, when it plunged into me.
“AH!”
But nothing happened. I opened
my eyes, there was no man. He was
there, a second ago. I hoisted myself
up on my elbows and looked around.
Students were staring at me
awkwardly. They were all in the
hallway, surrounding me like you'd
surround men who were about to
fight. Some were crying, others were
cupping their mouths with their
hands. One or two looked as though
they were going to embrace me, but
they stopped.
“Mitchie, are you alright?” I
recognized that voice; it was Ms.
Houston, my third period biology
teacher. “Somebody call an
ambulance!” she yelled out to the
crowd. Several people flipped their
phones out.
“Where is he? Where'd he go?” I
screamed at her, crying hysterically.
“It's nothing, nothing happened,”
she hugged me and kissed my
forehead gently.
“It's not nothing!” I yelled, pushing
her away from me. I hardly made an
effort, I was too weak, but she knew
my intentions and separated herself
from me, “He was there, he had a
knife. He was after me, yelling things”
I shouted as I pushed her off some
more. She just stared at me,
confused.
Looking down at my body, I could
see a huge bruise on my stomach. I
was a bloody, sweaty mess and my
chest moved so fast I thought my
heart would burst through any
minute.
“Why aren't I dead?” I whispered.
The ambulance arrived minutes
later. Ms. Houston help me onto the
stretcher were they cleansed my
large wounds with antiseptics. I was
surprised how I didn't recognize the
pain, normally I hated the stingy
feeling, but my mind was far too
clouded from what had happened
earlier.
There was a man, tall with an
alabaster complexion. I thought he
was darker at first, tanned, but it was
just gasoline or soot. He had a knife,
and he was fast. Faster than me,
faster than anyone I had ever seen on
the school track team. He was yelling
at me, telling me horrible things he
would do to me. Telling me how he
would break my bones before
stabbing my heart out, and he almost
did.
But he didn't.
The first thing I did once they
checked on me at the hospital was
use the bathroom. In the mirror I saw
myself, looking ravaged and
continued...
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Hysteria cont’d
frightened. My hair was sticking up in
random places. I had bags
underneath my eyes and dozens of
bloody cuts. A light red liquid glazed
over my skin, and I smelled. None of
this compared to how my head felt.
I used the bathroom rather
quickly. Washing my hands I noticed
how bloody I really was, ripped my
clothes off and hopped into the
shower. The hot water felt amazing
on my wounded flesh. The soap
stung, but only a little.
My skin felt cold after I finished
showering. As soon as my hand
reached for the towel, I heard him.
“I missed you,” He snarled. I could
see his yellowing teeth behind his
unwashed beard.
“S-stay away from me,” I tried to
be brave, but my voice faltered.
“I'd rather not,” he snarled again,
and from behind his back he grabbed
a knife.
Screaming, I burst out of the
room. There stood three doctors and
my parents. My black hair was
dripping; my skin was still red from
the heat of the water and covered in
nothing but a towel.
“He was there!” I screamed when
they wouldn't stop staring. I cried
out, tearing up in fear and
frustration. Why didn't they believe
me?
I then felt a pair of thick, strong
arms on me, clutching my elbows. I
could remember these hands, but
only faintly. They were my father's
hands, but I didn't recognize them.
They weren't the same hands that
held me as I road my bike or when I
fell off the swings at the playground.
These hands were forceful. They
grabbed a hold of me as I cried,
kicked and screamed. Moments later,
a needle slipped into the flesh of my
right arm and I immediately felt
drowsy. I gave in to the fluid in my
veins as the room blacked out.
Richmond Hill Public Library
by Tannaz N.
Waking up, I felt immediately
scared. Questions like “where is he?”
and “when's he going to get me?”
filled my head. I felt venerable, alone
and unprotected on the hospital bed.
He could've gotten me while I was
asleep, but he probably wanted to
wait until I was conscious so I could
fully experience the intense pain
he'd planned for me.
I rolled over on my side, hoping to
sleep again. I'd neglected the burn in
my throat. I was parched. I realized I
hadn't had a thing to drink since my
fist encounter with him, and I
couldn't remember when that was. I
opened my eyes and waited for them
to adjust. I cracked my stiff bones
before reaching for the water by my
bed.
That's when someone walked into
my room.
“You've been asleep for a long
time,” his rough voice spoke. I
paused, and then I could see him
through the darkness that
surrounded me.
“You've been asleep for a while,”
he grinned, knife ready.
“Who are you?” I asked. He
gasped, it sounded much more
feminine than his voice. It confused
me.
“Just a....friend,” he chuckled and
raised his knife like he had at school.
Acting on impulse, I grabbed the
closest thing I got my hands on, a
silver pair of scissors. With one deep
breath I plunged them forward, into
him. It made the nastiest noise I ever
heard in my life. I could feel my
bones cringe as the scissors impaled
his chest. I let go of the metal and
threw myself into my pillow, covering
my head with my arms, in case he
was still coming for me. He was real,
I wasn't insane.
I was also safe.
He made a noise, finally. It was a
squeal, far more feminine than I
5
would ever imagine on him. He was
hyperventilating now. I was confused
at how delicate and feminine he
sounded.
The room around me brightened.
He must have made it to the light
switch. I whipped my body around to
face a woman. Her eyes were wide
and her mouth hung open. She held
her hand on her thin bust line, her
chest moved rapidly. Simply inches
away from her hand, I saw what I
had done.
A pair of scissors stuck out from
under her bust.
I'd stabbed her. I felt blanketed by
horror. I immediately loathed myself
for what I had done to her. The
emotions attacked my heart and I
felt pain almost similar to what hers
must have been. I put her in
unimaginable pain, just like he was
going to do to me. I felt sick for
thinking it, but it felt nice that I
wasn't alone in this. It killed me that
it was at this pretty woman's
expense.
I blacked out once again. Through
the darkness I could hear voices, two
I recognized as my parents. Others I
didn't.
“She's a threat,” One spoke
“She's my baby” my mother cried.
When I woke up, everything
around me was white. I'd been
placed all alone in a padded cell.
Sometimes, people would come in
with drugs, sometimes my parents
visited me, but mostly it was me and
him. Sometimes he'd talk, but the
words he chose were disgusting.
Sometimes he'd raise his knife as if
to kill me, and then disappear. I
hated those times.
I just wished he wouldn't
disappear.
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Hallowed Be
(cont’d)
Thy Name con’td
where you are wrong. The snake that
partook in the judging of this story is
much like the law: incapable of
passing 'true,' 'legitimate,' 'impartial'
judgment.”
Shallowly, the pale man smiled
Daniel B.
by CampbellbyDrohan
“That doesn't prevent it from passing
judgment.”
The man with the black hat,
completely oblivious to the pale
man's latest remark, continued,
“Once I kill you, I will go on to kill the
Canadian Landscape - Watercolour
lion.”
“So then you are the
trombone?”
**Gunshot**
The man with the black hat
dropped the gun, and walked away.
by Zachary
by Campbell
DrohanH.
I chose this photo to paint because I
found the landscape beautiful, and it was an
in-school project so I thought I would
challenge myself with a real life picture. I also
chose this because I love the outdoors, and
this is a perfect scene. I really like the colour
of the water and clouds, and these are some
of my favourite things to draw and paint.
Teatime - Graphite
by Kerenza
by Campbell
DrohanY.
During my art lessons every Saturday, I have
completed this piece of art. In the picture, the
main technique is pencil shading still life objects.
I chose to use this because different shades can
show various moods. For example, if an artist
showed very dark shading in their art, with a
spider camouflaged in the background, the artist
is probably showing us that he wasn't very
happy. What I was trying to draw are different
objects in a household. They are placed
randomly on a piece of a not-so-neat piece of
cloth because my house isn't very tidy like
others. In my opinion, putting everything
straight and neat wouldn't be natural; therefore,
it wouldn't appear realistic.
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Hallowed Be Thy Name con’td
As if the fate of his being rested
on this one, final response, the pale
man concluded “The situation would
indeed 'NOT' be the same for the
sole reason that the lion is right, and
has rightfully won, and the trombone
is wrong, and has lost. Therefore, it
would be ill of 'us' to say that the
dilemma is the same on both sides,
for although the means are the
same, the ends most certainly are
not!”
Scratching his chin, the man with
the black hat asked. “...what?…what
'are' these ends you are so profusely
referring to?”
Immediately, the pale man
snapped, “The trombone has
lost…And the lion - has won!”
Again, the man with the black
hat scratched his chin, only this time;
he titled his head, as if foreseeing a
glimpse of the future. “And the
means?”
Calming down a little, the pale
man took a breath, and said, “They
both partook in this contest. And
both believe to have been
successful.”
Appearing to understand, the
man with the black hat tilted the
direction of his hat, and simply said,
“I see.”
The pale man coughed. “Do
youreally?”
Straightening his back, as if an
epiphany had hit him, the man with
the black hat responded. “I do.”
The man with the black hat
continued, “My dear friend, would
this contest not be improperly
judged? It seems to me that this
whole 'dilemma', on both sides,
could have been avoided if the snake
had ears, and was capable of feeling
both the vibration, as well as the
physical manifestation of sound.”
Confused, the pale man asked,
“the 'physical manifestation of
sound'? I am not quite sure what you
mean?”
“My dear friend, do you believe
our senses to be flawless? Do you
believe that you can hear everything
that is to be heard; see everything
that there is to be seen; taste
everything that there is to be tasted,
feel everything that there is to be
felt; smell everything that there is to
be smelt; and, my dear friend, do
you believe that you know
everything that there is to be
known?”
“Why, of course not!”
“Then clearly our senses 'are'
flawed. How can one rightfully judge
another? It would be absurd for us to
condone this! Could it not be said
that my views of this world are
notably different than yours?”
“It could.”
The man with the black hat took
out a pistol.
A look of cowardice spread
across and overwhelmed the pale
man's face.
“Do you see this gun; my dear
friend?”
The pale man gasped. “I do.”
“What is the difference between
the way that you perceive this gun,
and the way that I perceive it?”
The pale man was still, and did
not make a sound.
The man with the black hat
slightly angled the gun so that it was
employed directly into the pale
man's chest. Without uttering a
word, the man with the black hate
did indeed elicit a response.
Taking a sharp breath, the pale
man implored, “I suppose it could be
due to the circumstances of this
situation.”
“Go on.”
Taking multiple sharp breaths, the
by Daniel B.
pale man continued, at times
stopping, gasping, until all that was
legible was the pale man's fear.
“We are both seeing the same gun,
the perspective, though, is different.
I see the barrel of the gun; you see
the back of it. This in itself is enough
to alter our perspectives.”
“Oh?”
”Seeing the back of the gun
would imply, and in this case, hold
true, that you wield the gun.” Taking
another sharp breath, the pale man
stated. “You weld the gun, you wield
the power.”
The man with the black hat
smiled. “Explain.”
Fear continued to grip the pale
man, as a realization occurred to
him. Saying it more to himself, than
to bring enjoyment to the man with
the black hat, the pale man went on.
“With a single, slight motion of your
finger, you could kill me.”
The man with the black hat
laughed. “I suppose I could.”
Devoid of emotion, the pale man
asked, “Are you going to?”
The man with the black hat
answered swiftly yet calmly, “Yup.”
The pale man swallowed, and
closed his eyes. “Then do it.”
The man with the black hat lifted
the gun so that rather than it being
aimed at the pale man's chest, it was
aimed at the pale man's head.
In a fake British accent, the man
with the black hat asked, “I thought,
I, wielded the power.” The man with
the black hat smiled. “We wait.”
Beckoning with the gun again, the
man concluded. “Now go on, let us;
finish this story of ours”
Ignoring the command uttered
by man with the black hat, the pale
man grimly stated, “You'll never get
away with this.”
“You see; my dear friend, that is
The Secret Souls
by Kyla M.
When I started my story, my heart was swelling with the holiday magic that occupies my spirit during the early winter, a period
when I always feel inspired. I always am over-enthusiastic while anticipating the holidays, so I channeled those emotions into my
story. Lots of my friends also feel excited in preparation for the holiday that their family celebrates. The majority of my relatives
and close friends celebrate Christmas, so I decided that the story would revolve around that topic. I wrote a simple story that I
would have fun creating. I wanted to capture some of my festive spirit, but still have a moral to the tale. I wanted to connect with
my audience by using some characters that were easy to share personal experiences with mingled amidst characters pulled from
my imagination. I also wanted to convey that by not observing things closely, you might not get the chance to collect knowledge or
experience new things.
Ever since I was a toddler with bouncy brown curls and sapphire blue eyes, I enjoyed the art of writing. Of course back then, my
“books” were laboriously written tales about different characters from television shows or other stories meeting each other.
Despite the fact that they had no plot or original characters, I still loved writing them. Writing in one simple word? Expression.
The holiday season was
approaching with increased
momentum and as the rosy-cheeked
carollers chirped their merry tunes,
snowflakes danced lithely from the
Heavens and armies of gingerbread
men marched bravely into the fiery
oven, a damp box sat in the deepest,
darkest corner of a cupboard. The
top was sealed tightly with a thick
band of duct tape that was coated in
a slight covering of dust similar to the
layer of snow that blanketed the
blades of grass outside. Entrapped
inside, a tangle of ornaments lay
mourning in their deep slumber and
dreaming of the week when they
would truly experience Christmas.
They imagined the rich pine smell of
the evergreen tree, felt the blaring
glow of a winding string of lights
reflecting off the golden tinsel that
drooped over each limb of the
majestic tree and almost experienced
the joy of young children as they
eagerly opened each package with
excitement.
A graceful ballerina adorned in a
tulle tutu and blue leotard with soft
blue slippers lay in an awkward
position upside down at the top of
the heap. Her delicate porcelain
cheeks were airbrushed until they
were flushed to ultimate perfection.
Her straight chestnut locks were
fastened in a tight bun, small wisps of
hair escaping its grasp. She was
stunning; even the loop of blue silk
on which she hung was beautiful.
She yearned to stretch out her long,
elegant legs, dance upon her dainty
toes and hear the thunderous
applause of the crowd as they
beamed at her marvellous
performance.
Directly underneath the ballerina
lay a small baby, exquisitely painted,
who was swaddled in a cozy pink
blanket placed in a woven basket.
She had tufts of black hair and
sparkling green eyes, a round nose
and fat fists that ached to feel the
warm touch of a mother.
Strewn all around the box were a
family of reindeer. They had
twinkling brown eyes, soft pink ears
and smiles plastered on their faces.
Contrary to their injection-moulded
grins, they longed for the rest of their
family and couldn't wait until the day
when they would ride majestically
together once more.
Standing upright over in the
darkest corner, a glorious angel
stood. Her blonde curls cascaded
down her cheeks, framing her large
blue eyes curtained with rows of long
black lashes. Her ivory skin lit up her
face, and her feathered wings were
spread out widely. The long white
continued...
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
dress she wore creased as she lifted
her arms to the skies, smiling gently.
She was anticipating the day she
would perch at the very top of the
tree, watching over her many friends
and guarding them from danger.
Light enveloped the tiny space as
a portly woman with friendly hazel
eyes and a warm smile entered and
picked up the box and contents.
Padding gently up the winding
staircase, she opened the box,
caressing each ornament with her
delicate touch. She carefully placed
each ornament atop a sprawling
branch, and they beamed as they
witnessed the scene of their dreams
spread out before them. The
ballerina still couldn't dance, the
baby's mother was still out of reach;
the reindeer couldn't reunite, the
angel was sorrowful to see her
friends so melancholy in the festive
season, but they were much happier
than before, now that at least one
wish to be out of the stuffy, cold box
was fulfilled.
On Christmas Eve, they all
positioned themselves elegantly to
please the old woman as much as
they could to make her Christmas a
joyous occasion. The day slipped
away and led to night, the time when
each ornament prepared for the
arrival of the jolly old saint who
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
The Secret Souls cont’d
delivered parcels and packages every
year.
When they heard a muffled
thump near the family room, each
one emitted a gasp of delight. Saint
Nicholas had made his arrival! His
gift to them and the community
around them would be bestowed
once more this year! They heard the
anxious stomp of waiting hooves on
the roof and heard a slosh and a
slurp as Santa downed his milk in
one swift gulp. His footsteps echoed
closer and closer until the beaming,
rosy-cheeked man stood in front of
them, big belly swelling out in front
of him and making him seem all the
merrier.
He touched each of them with a
stubby finger and gave a mirthful
chuckle. Reaching deep within his
pocket, he withdrew a bottle full of a
shimmering powder and popped the
cork off to send the substance
clinging onto each porcelain body.
Their stiff limbs could once more
flow in the movement that they
hadn't experienced for almost a year.
They knew that they owed each
believer in the gift of holiday spirit
and selflessness a magnificent
Christmas, and knew that by making
by Kyla M.
a couple of Christmases miraculous,
that Santa would continue giving
them the gift of movement every
Christmas.
He winked and, with a heaving
sigh, flew up the chimney and was
gone.
A knock at the door notified
them that the woman's
grandchildren had arrived. Grinning
ear to ear, the children barrelled into
the family room where a fire roared
and crackled.
“Grammy, Grammy! Your tree is
beautiful!” gasped an angelic little
girl with wild red ringlets that
matched her grandmothers'.
“No Ella, the presents are
beautiful!” chortled a young boy
with skinned knees and a
mischievous expression.
While he scrabbled with his
slippery parcels, fiercely
concentrating on his gifts, the tiny
girlEllascrutinised each ornament
with pure awe flickering through her
chocolate brown eyes.
Ella, whispering sweet
compliments to each ornament, had
her magical Christmas morning
completed when the ballerina
twirled for her, arms poised to
Taxi to India
perfection, the baby babbled like a
spring brook, the reindeer family
galloped through the air and the
angel flapped her wings contentedly
and smiled at the girl. Ella gasped
but clamped a hand over her mouth,
not wanting to reveal her secret to
her slightly untrustworthy younger
brother. She grinned widely at the
ornaments, exposing her pearly
white teeth and utter joy.
The ornaments would have
traded their very freedom for that
one smile; it was worth much more
than graceful dances and the cheer
of the crowd, a mother's soft touch,
a loving reencounter, or a happy
group of friends.
Glancing up from the corner, the
grandmother was at first bewildered
but then thrilled to see the
ornaments dance for Ella as they had
for her forty years ago. She was full
of pride in knowing that her
grandchild was unselfish enough to
be granted the enchanting gift that
the figurines had given her, and
knew that she would grow up to be a
generous woman and a loving
person.
by Justin H.
I chose to write this story to raise awareness about immigrants who are being prohibited from doing necessary jobs in our
society. Many immigrants have studied in other countries but have been rejected for Canadian jobs due to employers who do
not recognize their foreign degrees. These immigrants may have left the lives that they have created to follow their dream in
Canada. It is wrong to completely deny the credentials of these people. My story focuses on doctors, of which Canada
currently has a shortage.
Writing is a way to share ideas. I learn a lot when I am writing. It requires thinking and allows a controlled amount of
creativity.
(cont’d)
Hallowed Be
Thy Name
byDrohan
Daniel B.
by Campbell
I wrote Hallowed Be Thy Name three days before the official deadline. In those short three days, the plot of the story
changed three times. In the first draft, the dialogue had been between two men, both of whom had just committed murder,
and were conversing on how best dispose the body. The second draft dealt with euthanasia, where one man was critically ill,
and had been condemned to life support. His only means of communication was through seemingly abstract allegories, riddles,
and rhymes. These two dialogues; as they had originally been written as dialogues, have adapted themselves into what you
see now.
On that particular night, I had just finished reading Plato's Apology, and had been reminiscing on the merits of my past
life, whilst contemplating as to whether or not the sins of my past would come to haunt me in the karma's of the future. Do I
continue to discredit moralities as words of the past attempting to dictate the future, or continue a life of rectitude
influenced by experiences my own, and the unimpeachable argumentation of others of whom I associate myself with? It was
then that I recalled a comical play I had written months earlier, which dealt with the concept of Enlightenment vs. Ignorance. I
decided to take this notion one step further, and wrote Hallowed Be Thy Name.
"Indeed," the man with the black hat
replied.
"What do we do now?" The
other man asked; a hint of scorn
accompanying the escaped words
from the pale man's frail open
mouth.
It appeared to pain the man with
the black hat to answer the pale
man's inquisition. "The only thing
that is left to do, I suppose."
Upon hearing his response, a
sense of anger overtook the pale
man. He acted as though he was
accustomed to the constant tricks
and riddles that the man with the
black hat spewed. Quickly attempting
to find an apt response to the
statement; while the man with the
black hat adjusted his hat, the pale
man began “And just what is 'that'
supposed to mean?--“ only to be cut
off with an unusual allegory. ”If a
lion, and a trombone, were to
compete in a contest, to see who had
the loudest roar of the two, and if
the only witness to this contest were
a snake, who, my dear friend, would
win?"
The pale man, despite his belief
that this 'investigation' was quite
foolish, was intrigued and his
response was rich with ridicule and
sarcasm.
"Well, 'surely' they both would
lose. The snake, not having ears,
would be unable to properly mediate
the contest, thus the match would
result in a draw!"
The man with the black hat
cocked an eyebrow, and without
looking directly at the pale man's
face, simply muttered, "perhaps".
The pale man condescendingly
asked, "You disagree?"
With a laugh that appeared to be
more forced than a Canadian is free,
the man furthered his inquest. "Out
of the three beings, my dear friend,
which is capable of hearing sound?"
"The lion, I would think, so long
as there was nothing impairing his
ability."
"Then surely, the lion would win,
would he not?"
With wide eyes, the pale man
responded. "Well… yes… come to
think of it. I suppose he would." The
pale man nodded in agreement.
Without missing a beat, the man
with the black hat asked, "Then your
previous statement that the match
would result in a draw would be a tad
bit...incorrect...would it not?"
After a moment's thought, and
what appeared to be much effort,
the pale man simply replied, "It
would". The pale man spat. Ignoring
this, the man with the black hat
continued, "However, would the lion
not be in a dilemma as to 'how' he
would go about proving that he had
truly won the contest, to the other
two beings?
Not liking where this was going,
the pale man did not reply.
The man with the black hat did
not pursue the inquiry.
After a moment, the pale man
submitted, and through clenched
Continued...
teeth agreed.
"Now, let us imagine, my dear
friend, that the Trombone, rather
then hearing sound as we hear it,
was able to 'feel' the vibrations, and
it believed that these 'vibrations'
were what 'we' call sound. When the
trombone let off a sound, would it
not feel the vibration of its own being
more strongly and more fiercely than
it would the roar of the lion?"
In the midst of a wide yawn, the
pale man replied, "I suppose it
would."
“Then would it not be in the
'same' dilemma as the lion in trying
to prove that it had won, in it's belief
that it had?”
Outraged, the pale man retorted,
“It most certainly, would not!” The
pale man coughed.
The man with the black hat,
curious as to the nature of the pale
man's outrage, asked “And why is
that, my dear friend?”
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
by Linda Zhang
Cliquot cont’d
something dangerous about those
brown shifting orbs which almost
emitted a pale light that beckoned
her, somewhere. Lost in her
thoughts, she almost jumped out of
her skin when she heard a strong
knock at the door. Rushing to the
door in a panic, she yanked open the
door handle, and was ecstatic when
she saw him standing at the door
with his hands in his pockets. She fell
upon him with a hug, grabbing his
slim shoulders with her hands. “Miss
me?” he said mischievously. “Uhh.
Umm,” she said, then cleared her
throat and let go of him, arranging
her frock about her, “Well, I was
expecting someone…but you can
come in.” She walked regally in front
of him, and motioned that he sit
down on the couch. She deftly
knocked Elliot the cat off the
cushions along with some outdated
fashion magazines. Jamie sat down
opposite to her, and began speaking
in a slow voice, fixing his gaze on her
eyes, “You're going to marry me
Ethel, and you're going to do it now
because you can't live without me
just as I can't live without you, and
we are going to live together and I
will buy you everything you want and
we will have Elliot the cat with us,
and we will be happy and we will
love each other.” Ethel bit on the end
of her nail nervously, her small eyes
vigorously searching his face, before
her voice cracked and she asked
Jamie in a small voice, “Why me,
Jamie? I'm old, and I'm not so good
anymore, and my skin has wrinkled
and I can't remember things so well,
and you're young and handsome,
and…why me?” Jamie took her soft
hand in his and stroked it with his
thumb. “Because you're mine,” he
said, closing his eyes then opening
them to look at her, searching
for…something, but she couldn't
quite tell what. “Yes…yes!” Ethel said
Richmond Hill Public Library
by Diana J.
quickly, getting off her feet and
busying herself around the
apartment, trying to appear as
industrious and wifely as possible.
Jamie watched her for a few seconds,
then excused himself on some
errands and walked out the door.
A month passed and Ethel and
Jamie were happily married. There
had never been anyone in Ethel's life
that treated her as Jaime did. He
bought her everything she wanted,
from stockings to purses and piles of
rouges and perfumes. Ethel was so
enamored with this new life and with
the fact that she never had to work
anymore, just to sit around the
house and wait for Jamie. She doted
on him like no other person, he was
her husband, her lover and her
principal support. In time, she fell
madly in love with him to a point
where she could barely stand it. On
their first anniversary, he burst in the
apartment while she was cooking a
special feast. He grabbed her by the
hair and threw her to the kitchen
tiles. “You wicked woman! You told
them! You told them where I live
and now they're going to hunt me
down and kill me because I told this
guy I work for once that I knew some
guy who was an artist who was
working on something about the
government and now he's trying to
kill me because I know all this
information and I know that you told
them all about what I do and where I
work and they're going to get me
now because they've been tapping
the phones now for months and I
know this because I can hear them
tapping at night and I know they're
spying on me because I see the
cameras that are all over the
bedroom and I know you're spying
on me because I see you look at me
funny sometimes and you're selling
the information to them and I know
it because I saw this guy following
19
me back from the studio and he had
a big coat and he's going to kill me
because he thinks I'm involved in this
terror plot to overthrow the
government…” he rattled off with
dilated pupils. “Jamie, Jaime! Stop!”
she cried, “What is going on with
you? What is the matter? What
happened to you?” Jamie paced
around the kitchen wild-eyed,
shaking slightly and muttering to
himself, wringing his hands. “Jamie?
Jamie! Talk to me! Who is after you?
Who planted what?” Ethel said
desperately, crawling on her knees
towards him. Jamie fixed her with a
steely glare, “Don't even touch me.
Traitor. I knew you had it in you. I
knew you were out to get me. I kept
trying and trying to throw away the
cameras, I thought we could live
together and be happy, but you keep
putting them back! I can't do this
anymore! I can't stand by why you
try to kill me!” He wailed and pushed
Ethel away before backing out the
door. “I'm leaving and this time no
one will know where I'm going!” He
cast one last fleeting glance at Ethel's
tearstained face, and then ducked
out of her life.
Ethel sat in a crumpled heap on
the floor. Wiping her eyes, she
realized that she was right back
where she started. This oh-so-brief
romance, this illusion with the
mysterious and strange Jamie had
ended as suddenly as it began. She
should have known there was
something off with him since she
looked into his countenance. Fishing
in the pockets of her crumpled dress,
she pulled out a cigarette and
smoked it down to a filter, before
slowly falling into a stupor of sleep.
Elliot the cat shuffled by and lay
down by her feet on the warm
kitchen tiles. The flies slowly buzzed,
comatose, in the hot Spanish sun.
Taxi to India cont’d
The young man waved his arms. Taxi! Taxi! The rain grew heavier on
the streets of the hectic city. The man
took cover under his newspaper,
protecting his expensive suit. Two
taxis, desperate for business, raced
towards him. The first made a sharp
turn, barely avoiding a collision with
a beggar. It stopped directly beside
the young man.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.
“The airport, thank you,” said the
man.
The man noticed the driver's
slight grin, despite his efforts to hide
it. The driver was a middle-aged
Indian man. Under his hat, the driver
was bald. His eyes, behind a pair of
thick glasses, were completely
focused on the road.
There was silence in the taxi cab.
All they could hear was the constant
beating of the rain.
“Back home in India, we used to
have this kind of rain. But it would
rain for months at a time,” said the
driver as the traffic slowed to a halt.
He sighed. “Our city would be
flooded from June to September and
dry as hell for all the other months.”
The young man was surprised by
the driver's decision to talk. “I've
been to India once; on a business
trip, selling computers. The trip was
nice, great food, architecture and
atmosphere.” He fixed his wet hair in
the mirror. The young man had bright
green eyes and long auburn hair that
reached his broad shoulders.
“Life for my family was difficult.
We did not have all the luxuries that
you have in America,” the driver said
somewhat angrily. “Clean water was
a daily struggle. My mother and
father worked everyday from 6 in the
morning 'til 9 in the evening trying
the harvest their crops. You tourists
only see the nicest parts of my
country. My family still lives in these
Justin H.
by CampbellbyDrohan
conditions!”
The young man did not know
how to respond. He decided that he
would avoid any further discussion
with the driver, not wanting to say
something offensive. He looked
around the worn-down cab. The fluff
of the seat cushion was visible. The
rear window was repaired with tape.
On the dash, the identification card
showed the driver's name as Hiranya
Khan. On the front seat, the young
man saw a pillow and a blanket.
The driver, Hiranya, become
aware of him looking around. “I have
to sleep in my car,” he said. The
young man nodded, avoiding eye
contact while looking down at his
golden watch. The driver noticed this
and he started to weave through the
traffic. Hiranya wanted to make more
money on the taxi fare.
“You don't need to rush,” said
the man with a smile. “I have plenty
of time.” At this moment, the driver
began to show his true emotions.
Nobody in America had ever been
friendly towards him before. The
driver thought the young man would
understand his problems.
“This job is tougher than I
thought it would be,” said the driver.
“I didn't intend to become a taxi cab
driver when I first came to
Philadelphia. I wanted to become a
doctor,” he laughed sarcastically.
“Seventeen years ago, I left my
home state of Kerala. My parents had
used all of their savings to send me
to the med school in Pariyaram. They
wanted me to have a good job. I had
a few sets of clothes, some food,
books and a couple thousand rupees.
For two days, I walked to Pariyaram.
My feet turned black with bruises. I
almost died from dehydration.”
The young man carefully listened
to the driver's story, while he looked
out the window, watching cars
splashing through the puddles on the
road.
“For the next nine years of my
life, I was devoted to studying. I knew
this was my opportunity to succeed.
At times, I questioned my desire to
become a doctor but my family
depended on my success. I needed to
work in a small restaurant to make
ends meet.”
“When I finished studying, my
friend Varghese and I moved to
Kollam. With the little money we
had, we started our own medical
institute. We would split the profits. I
sent my portion of the money to my
family in Kerala. For months,
Varghese and I treated the diseased
and poor for next to nothing; we
were paid in services and food. But I
was greedy. I wanted to make more
money.” A tear ran down the driver's
boney cheek.
The young man interrupted, “You
don't have to tell me your story if it
hurts to remember your difficult
past.”
“Telling my life story to
somebody who will listen relieves
me,” replied the taxi cab driver. “I
wanted to come to America for a
better opportunity. It was my dream.
One of the worst choices I've ever
made. You would think that my
degree would be recognized here. No
one will even consider my credentials
as a doctor. Maybe they're just
racist.”
“Now, I don't have a good job, a
home, a family. I'm just a taxi driver.
No matter how hard I work, I can
barely support myself. How can I help
my family in India!” cried the driver
in agony. “I can't even go back to
India. I've disgraced my family by
leaving my job in Kollam to follow a
fantasy. I don't even have the money
to get back home.”
The young man was visibly
continued...
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
8
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Taxi to India cont’d
moved by taxi driver's story. He had
never been exposed to such
extremes before. He did not know
what to do. The taxi approached the
airport. The taxi cab swayed because
the driver was shaking. “At home, I
was helping my people. In America, I
am the poor. I am the one who needs
help.”
The driver veered towards a
cement pillar. The young man yelled,
“Don't do it!” It was too late for the
driver to stop himself. The driver's
foot was frozen. His eyes were
closed. He prepared himself for
death. Three seconds before the
collision, the driver had thought of
his family. Two seconds. He had
remembered his childhood. One. He
was thinking of his failures.
Zero. The young man had jumped
out of his seat and forced the wheel
by Justin H.
from the driver. The car made a sharp
and sudden turn, avoiding the pillar.
He exhaled a sigh of relief. The
driver's eyes remained closed. His
foot released from the pedal.
The young man slowly got out of
the car. On the dashboard, he left an
amount of money equivalent to what
the taxi driver would make in a
month. He looked at the driver. He
was still alive. “Thank you, sir,” the
young man said as he deserted the
cab.
The driver remained on his seat
with his taxi cab blocking the entire
road. He sat there, crying.
Ten years passed. The taxi driver
is still a taxi driver. He has lost all
connections with his family in India.
He has not attempted to kill himself
again.
The driver is cruising around
Touched By a Figure in the Snow
Philadelphia, searching for
passengers. He wants to cross the
Delaware River using the Benjamin
Franklin Bridge.
He notices someone standing on
the edge of the Franklin Bridge.
Instinctively, the driver rushes out of
his car towards the person. He pulls
the man back from the edge. It is a
familiar face, bright green eyes and
long auburn hair that reached down
to his broad shoulders. The young
man remained in the driver's grasp.
They look each other in the eye. The
young man is shaken and relieved.
“Many years ago, you saved my
life,” said the driver. Then he pushed
the young man into the river.
by Linda Z.
I believe there is no greater source of inspiration for short stories like these than a personal experience. Five years ago, I
survived a disastrous ski trip that left me somewhat haunted since. A string of events led me to the summit of the scariest
slope at the resortominously named, Black Diamond. The gist of what transpired is told through the eyes of my protagonist.
The story, although laced with fictional details, originated from the core of something real. I hope to convey the message of how
a stranger in the least expected of circumstances can emerge to deeply impact the life of a young girl. I believe in the power of
human action, and how sometimes a single kind deed can touch more people at a greater level than can be ever perceived or
imagined.
The sky is the limit for writing, and that ideology has always been the chant of a small voice in my head in driving me to pick
up that pen and paper. Writing can be therapy, an escape to a time and place not humanly possible, and a form of conveying
profound lessons. But to me, writing is a gift that has made me a happier person, and it is hard for me to imagine even with all
my might a life without the ability to create.
Sometimes first impressions are
like shadows that only eclipse our life
for a moment in time … The story I
am about to tell is a tale of survival,
and about how a single act of
kindness from a stranger saved my
life on a chilly winter day.
The frosty air of early February
nipped 15-year old Sasha Flanner's
rosy cheeks and whipped her
chestnut hair back, as the girl skied
down the gentle slope. I think I'm
getting the hang of this, she thought.
Relaxing, she lifted her gaze towards
the sky. It was an unbroken expanse
of azure blue. A split second later,
she was flying off a ski bump,
spinning out of control, and
embarrassment hit her just as Sasha
fell face-down in the snow. She must
have looked a tangled mess, as a
circle of concerned faces surrounded
her.
“I'm okay,” Sasha mumbled,
wiping the snow off her face. As the
small crowd dissipated, she saw a
huddle of tall teenage boys in the
distanceclose enough for her to
make out the face of Stephen
Sanders, and certainly close enough
Cliquot
Diana J.
by CampbellbyDrohan
(cont’d)
The sunlight was concentrated in
thick, yellow beams in the room
where Ethel lay. The potted plants
given to her by her now-dead aunt
lay suffocated and dying in an
abandoned corner. Dust lay thick on
every visible surface, coating the
dressers in a gray fuzz that made the
old ginger cat, Elliot, sneeze
uncontrollably when he awoke from
his slumber. The flies buzzed
dejectedly, disoriented after hours of
attempted escapes through the
unforgiving screen mesh. Draped in a
large, fraying silk dress on an ancient
and decaying sofa, Ethel quietly
unwrapped a stale mint and popped
it into her lipstick-caked mouth.
Crunching the sugar between teastained teeth, she delicately surveyed
her apartment. Her treat finished,
she pulled a squished package of
Galouises Blondes from her beaded
purse. Digging for a match in her
large purse, she found one and
elegantly placed the smoke between
her lips and with a practiced motion,
lit the cigarette. Chucking to herself
she finished her cigarette and
extinguished it in an overflowing
ashtray balanced delicately on the
arm of the faded scarlet sofa. She got
up slowly, pulling the material of her
dress away from her damp arms. She
meandered to the kitchen and
poured herself two fingers of scotch
into a somewhat dirty glass cup.
Sipping at the lukewarm liquid, she
slowly walked back to the sofa, and
lowered her great bulk onto the
cushions. At that moment, a hesitant
knock sounded at the wooden door,
it's once turquoise paint flecking onto
the ground. Ethel made no move to
get up at this intrusion, merely
sipping another bit of her drink.
Another meek knock propagated
from the doorway. Ethel set her drink
down and closed her eyes, slowly
fading into a state of sleep. The
knocks steadily increased in intensity
until the sound was pounding against
her eardrums.
She woke up with a start and
sleepily blundered to the door.
Opening the rusty latch, she leaned
against the splintering doorframe
and groaned, “Whaddya want?” The
man on the other side of the door,
the man with fragile brown eyes,
wispy hair and a soft, mumbling voice
poured words out at her in a torrent.
“I can't live without you Ethel, ever
since…you're incredible, you're the
most beautiful thing I've ever seen
and I am going to die without you
Ethel, I am going to die and nothing is
going to save me and they are going
to get me and I'm going to be all
alone again because you won't love
me Ethel and nothing is going to be
worth living for and Ethel, please.” He
ran out of breath and looked at her
with wide eyes. “Go home, Jaimie, go
home and get some sleep,” Ethel said
gently before closing the door on his
scuffed canvas sneakers. Sighing as
she moved back into the apartment,
Ethel shook her head slowly. This was
the third month that he had shown
up at her door, every day. At the
beginning, she thought it was merely
because he liked her so much, after
all once she had been great and
served many customers, but as the
weeks went on, she realized that this
young man went beyond her regular
job. He showed up every day,
pleading his love for her, giving her
flowers, chocolates, cigarettes and
packets of nylons. Every day, she had
gently pushed him away, annoyed by
his insistence.
She pulled another cigarette out
of the folds of her great dress and lit
it, blowing smoke out of her nostrils.
His visits were irritating. She had
always considered that there was a
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
9
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
barrier between what she did and
who she was. It was difficult moving
to Barcelona at her age, it was
difficult starting a life anew, but it
had to be done. She had always been
attracted by the rich opulence of the
European capitals, so vastly different
from the deep south Americana she
had grown up in. Deep in her
musings, she was interrupted by the
sound of the telephone ringing. She
picked it up and listened attentively
to the voice on the other line. Slowly,
she dictated her address to the man
on the other line. There was a pause
and then she hung up. And then she
waited…
It had been two weeks since
Jamie last came. She was so used to
his everyday visits that she found
herself staring hard at the antique
clock when 2:15 came about.
Perhaps its battery had died, perhaps
the buses weren't running, perhaps
she wasn't really in this world, but in
another. She nervously pulled out
another cigarette and smoked it
quickly, coughing up phlegm inbetween lungfuls of smoke. At 2:30,
she walked over to the clock and
wrenched it off the wall. Perhaps he
had died. Staring at the clock on the
ground, she started to laugh pitifully,
her great shoulders heaving up and
down. She hadn't bathed in a week.
She hadn't left the house in a week.
She hadn't gotten a call in a week,
and the stack of money behind the
replica Starry Night painting was
getting awfully short. She didn't even
like the lad! Or at least she hadn't. He
was too twitchy, too soft spoken, too
crazy-haired and his words rushed
out too fast. His demeanor was
frightening because he was so unlike
the other men, but his eyes scared
her the most. They changed colours
with his moods, they stared at her
searchingly, and there seemed to be
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
18
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
(cont’d)
As Silence Reverberates
In The Silence cont’d
not judgemental.
“My tutor.” I quietly admitted,
reluctant to confess that my own
grain of knowledge was not truly my
own.
“Hmm,” she mused, “that's not
necessarily true. I did say to ask a lot
of questions, and when it comes to
understanding things which have
definite answers, go ahead. But if it's
a subjective question….” She trailed
off. “You understand.”
“Yes,” I replied, though I didn't.
She smiled a sad sort of smile.
“You know, it's so much easier to
give out advice than to heed it. You
know what heed means?” I decided
to guess.
“Take?” Her face lit up.
“My granddaughter is so smart!”
She exclaimed, almost giddy, but at
the same time contained. Before I
could relish the happiness I felt, she
continued. The giddiness was gone
from her voice, and only purpose
remained. “It is much easier to give
out advice than to heed it.” She
paused possibly for emphasis, more
likely to collect her thoughts. The
pause invited a sense of panic to fill
me and, desperately, I willed the
phone to ring; my parents to come
home; for something to happen.
Nothing happened and she
continued.
“I'm 65 years old,” she stated. “I
look much older, don't I?”
“I'm…bad with…ages…” I replied.
“No matter. I know it's true.” She
tried another tactic. “Let me ask you
this,” she began, almost
nonchalantly. “Do you know what's
wrong with me?”
“Diabetes and complications,” I
stated. My words reflected my pride
in sounding like an intelligent adult;
though the words themselves held
no meaning to me.
“Diabetes and complications,”
she repeated almost in monotone,
except for the second half of the last
word, where her voice broke and she
fumbled for my hand. “Do you love
me?” The desperation in her voice
was frightening and I hesitated for
half a second, unsure. Memories
flashed through my mind like
pictures in a slideshow. Embarrassed
and ashamed, I thought of the time
my brother and I sneaked up on her
and put frilly pink underwear on her
head. Another image came to mind
where I complained to my mother
about how annoying my
grandmother was; she didn't ever do
anything fun. I thought of the time I
hid her hideous purse in the couch;
the time I poured Lysol-flavoured
chicken soup down the drain. I
remembered how she had helped
Cliquot
by Jackie B.
me with math and how I had ripped
up the examples. I shook my head as
a feeling of regret washed over me. I
could barely breathe, but I somehow
managed to respond; “of course.” I
willed my tears not to spill out of my
eyes but, in spite of my attempts,
something wet splashed on my hand.
My grandmother gave it a tight
squeeze, as, surprised, I looked up.
Tears covered her face and matted
her eyelashes together.
I froze.
Adults cry?
She let go of my hand, and
quickly I stood. I picked up a box of
Kleenex and handed one to her. She
patted at her eyes, her freshly
manicured salmon tinted nails
shining from the combination of
stray tears and sunlight.
She sang a mourning song with
only notes and without words as her
otherwise silent tears slid down her
face and splashed at times, into her
ears.
After a few moments, she
seemed fine. She was all smiles and
her gold tooth shined brighter than
ever. I fleetingly wondered if,
perhaps, the whole tear thing had
been a facet of my imagination, or,
perhaps, a dramatic exploration on
her part.
I knew it wasn't.
by Diana J.
I chose to write Cliquot because I was inspired by the Balkan-style music of the band Beirut. I wanted to write a story that
had a distinctly old-world European feel, which I hope came out in the reading of it. I had actually read, previously to writing the
story, an interview in a independent magazine with a musician paranoid schizophrenic. I was so amazed by his speaking style,
where a torrent of words rushed out at the reader, that I wished to incorporate this sort of a paranoia in Jamie. I was hoping to
convey a message of disillusion and false impressions with my story. We see the main character fall in love with Jamie out of an
accustomed familiarity and when this love falls apart, she is left with the realization of the fantasy and insignificance of her
world. Writing to me is a way to exercise my brain in a different dimension. I believe that writing is so important, whether the
story turns out accomplished or merely a drabble, every new piece created teaches its writer something more about thinking
and the significance of communication.
Touched By(cont’d)
a Figure in the Snow cont’d
for him to have witnessed her klutzy
fall. Dread and humiliation punched
her in the stomach again.
Sighing, she snapped off her skis,
and trudged up towards the ski
resort café. A wafting aroma greeted
Sasha as she walked in. In the corner
of her eyes, Sasha saw a table of
popular girls from her school.
Suddenly, one of the girls hushed,
pointing to Sasha, and an ominous
silence fell over the group. Sasha
averted her eyes, feigning intense
concentration on the overhead
menus.
A moment later, she sat down at
an empty table with a cup of hot
chocolate by a window overlooking
the resort. She had once been an
occasional member of that clique of
girls. They were all from the school's
cheerleading team, and Sasha had
been an active part of it… until she
decided not to try out in September.
Everything had changed five
months ago. Her social circle, her
extracurricular life, her passion for
cheerleading, her father… everything
shifted in life as she knew it, other
than her friendship with Audrey, and
her crush on Stephen Sanders.
Audrey was sick, and couldn't make
it to the school ski trip. Why did I
even bother to come? Sasha
wondered, but deep down, she knew
the answer.
In spite of alienating herself from
her peers, school was still a respite: a
day-time escape from her home. Five
months ago, her home had been an
oasis of warmth and lovebut that
was before her mother was killed in
a hit-and-run accident. Nowadays, a
dark cloud of silence hung over the
house. There had always been
distance between Sasha and her
father, and her mother's absence
only exacerbated the tensions in
their relationship.
In her mind, she had replayed
her vague recollection of the
argument that led to her mother's
death over a thousand times. Sasha
was on the phone with Audrey, idly
gushing about her latest eye-contact
with Stephen when she heard her
parents bickering downstairs.
Moments later, she heard the
argument escalate in a series of
shouts, ending with her mom
storming out into the streets, and
disappearing in the vast darkness.
Sasha remembered bolting down the
flight of stairs to find her father at
the kitchen table wearing a grave,
unfathomable expression.
Over the course of the next
twelve hours, the local police found
Mrs. Flanner's abandoned dead
body, and that unfathomable
expression on his face crumpled into
a weary devastation. The shattered
look never once faded in the months
since her death. But Sasha couldn't
forgive him, for she had settled on
the real culprit behind everything:
her father. He was the one who
pushed her to wander off in the
middle of the night. He was the one
who shattered our family.
They were called to the scene of
the crime near the crack of dawn.
The gruesome sight of her mother's
wrapped body on the bloodied
asphalt road seared into her
memory, and served as a haunting
tableau that would provoke endless
nightmare episodes. My mother is
gone. The woman who never missed
a single cheerleading drill, who was a
proudly smiling figure on the
sidelines at every important
milestone in my life… taken away, like
a candle in the wind.
Sasha jerked back to reality,
realizing with a jolt that her vision
was swimming in tears. While wiping
her eyes, her heart stopped as she
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
17
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Linda Z.
by CampbellbyDrohan
noticed Stephen Sanders
approaching her. With his spiky
bronze hair swept back; his deep-set,
striking blue eyes fixated on Sasha;
his chiseled jaw tightened in a smirk,
he was certainly the most desirable
senior boy at their school, if not the
nation.
“Sasha Flanner?” Without
waiting for a response, Stephen said
coolly, “Listen, I was wondering if
you're up for a little challenge with
me and my friends?”
Sasha was at a loss for words.
She had fantasized about this
moment in countless daydreams, but
never had she envisioned that
Stephen Sanders would approach
her. I must be seeing things. But as
she blinked once, Stephen's daunting
figure still towered over her table.
“Y-Yeah,” she stammered.
“We're gonna go up to Black
Diamond, so why don't you tag
along?” he flashed a thousand-watt
smile worthy of a Colgate
commercial. Are you out of your
mind? Sasha Flanner, you are a lousy
skier. You'll die on that slope. A boy is
not worth the risk. “Cool. Let's go.”
Sasha was wracked with severe
anxiety, regret, and fear the second
the words slipped out of her mouth.
As the ski lift lurched forward, panic
struck. Her legs felt like wobbling
jelly. Her eyes bore into the back of
Stephen's head in the lift ahead of
her, searching for a source of
courage. The string of events that
followed was a nauseating blur.
Sasha trudged out of the lift like
a walking mummy. One by one,
Stephen and his buddies edged over
the cliff-like drop, and zoomed down
at the speed of light. There was only
her now. Staring down the first
descent, she realized it was a near 80
degree drop. Gulping, she gave
herself a gentle push with the poles,
continued...
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Touched By a Figure in the Snow cont’d
and then leaned forward, ready to
break out the “pizza” stop at any
moment. It wasn't necessary.
Instead of cruising down like
those before her, Sasha was spreadeagled, careening off to the side, and
ready to crash within seconds. The
fork in the slope where two distinct
paths lay drew closer and closer.
Sasha could now see the tops of
trees beyond the fork; she was
hurtling towards it, doomed to fall to
her death. The girl lost her balance
all at once, falling down, and coming
to a skidding halt at the mouth of the
drop. Gasping, Sasha felt herself slip
closer to the edge.
Clawing at the snow, she hung
on. Several skiers came down the
same descent, but didn't cast a
second glance at the helpless girl.
Seconds ticked into minutes, and
minutes transcended into what felt
like an eternity of struggle for Sasha.
The reality of a sprained ankle sunk
in. With despair, Sasha knew that
Stephen had probably long forgotten
about her. I'm useless. I'm an outcast
in school. I'm invisible to everyone
around me: teachers, peers, my own
father… Bowing her head in grief,
Sasha broke down. Visions of her
deceased mother began to cloud her
thoughts again. She missed her, and
yearned for her warm touch.
Out of nowhere, Sasha saw a
shadow cast on the snow. Raising her
tear-streaked face, she saw an
outstretched hand from a woman.
Wearing ski goggles and a tracksuit,
she pulled the girl to her feet. Sasha
instantly crumpled to the ground, as
her ankle gave away. Understanding,
the woman let Sasha's arm hang
across her shoulder, as she
supported her from under. Every
couple of steps they took, Sasha
would stumble, but each time the
stranger assured her they were
approaching the bottom of the slope.
In time, they did reach the end
where the café stood in the snowy
distance. Grateful beyond words,
Sasha thanked the woman for
helping her, for saving her.
For the first time, as Sasha took a
long glance at the woman, her heart
felt surprisingly light. It was almost
as if the hobbling journey down
Black Diamond had relieved a burden
that fettered her all this time. “Skiing
is a metaphor for life,” the woman
whispered. The school buses honked.
As Sasha turned back, the stranger
had disappeared. Whipping around,
15-year old Sasha Flanner looked
back at Black Diamond towering in
all its glory behind her, and she felt
Monkey See Monkey Do
by Linda Z.
what the stranger had told her click
into place.
Three years have passed since
then. My ankle healed within a week,
but it is the valuable lesson I learned
that has never left my side since that
day. Like many things, skiing is a
metaphor for life. Everybody falls at
some point in their journey, but the
key thing is to offer a helping hand to
those around you. I have chosen
forgiveness, compassion, and an
open heart to embrace my father. For
the longest time after the death of
my mother, I couldn't even evoke a
smile, let alone the preppy spirit of
the cheerleader I used to be. This
year, my graduating year, I am senior
captain of the cheerleading team. I
am sure my mother would have
wanted as much.
Sometimes when I recall the face
of that woman who came to my
rescue, I am struck by the odd idea
that she bore an uncanny
resemblance to my own mother.
Maybe that's just the crazy
imagination in me talking. Whoever
that woman was, she created an
indelible first impression on me, and
as a result, I am inspired to reach out
and make an impression on those
around me.
by Iris Y.
I chose to write this particular story, Monkey See Monkey Do, because many of the emotions portrayed were experienced
by not only myself but many other teenagers. The words on paper can easily tie into many aspects of a teens' life. There was
no specific message that I wanted the reader to leave with because everyone will relate differently to certain situations. The
only thing I hoped for is to make the reader think, to maybe realize something that has never come to their attention before.
Writing is a learning experience and thanks to all the literature out there you are able to improve. The more you read, the
better your writing becomes. It allows you to search for the certain flare or style that's unique in your own writing. By reading
different genres and authors, the search becomes easier. As students, we only read stories by authors in the same age group
that perhaps have lived through the same experiences but as we all know, times have changed and new perspectives are
waiting to be gained.
(cont’d)
As Silence Reverberates
In The Silence cont’d
I was twelve years old. It was
summer time, and the bright warm
sun beckoned to me. I didn't want to
stay in the not-quite-cool enough
house which belonged to my
grandparents and smelled of
mothballs and medication.
It was just us two: my
grandmother and I. She was sitting
on the loved and beaten leather
couch, listening to the dim television.
I was perched beside her, intrigued
by the vivid outdoors.
“It's so yucky in here.” I
complained, my voice rising as I
attempted to sway her into letting
me go outside. Strong woman that
she was, she didn't give in. She was
nice about it though.
“Why don't you get an ice-cream
bar instead?” She suggested. “That'll
cool you off.”
“I don't want an ice-cream bar,” I
protested “I want to go outside. It
smells like old people in here, and the
air is stale.”
“When your parents get back”
she began to suggest, but I cut her off
in retort, my voice strong and oozing
with bravado confidence. A shadow
of surprise flickered across her face,
and I could feel her getting angry. My
voice was hard, and my words,
though not cruel in nature, stung.
The atmosphere tensed; sparked;
chilled. My heart began to pound, as I
considered the possibility that I may
have gone too far. She didn't say
anything; she just turned back to the
television and continued listening,
the smile gone from her face and her
lips pursed in anger.
Eventually, I got up and walked
into the crammed kitchen, looking for
something to eat.
I got an ice-cream bar.
I licked the last of the artificially
flavoured vanilla ice-cream off the
wooden stick. My eyes were bright
and my palms were dry despite the
heat. I knew what I'd do. I felt
pleased with my problem-solving
abilities as I entered the television
room.
Like in a badly made horror flick,
the floorboard creaked and she
turned, her ghostly pale face lined
with years of wisdom. I noticed
something was wrong. Like oysters
before their prime, her eyes were
clamped shut. Then she took a deep
breath and quickly, surprisingly,
unseeing enhanced cobalt-tinted
eyes were revealed: unexpected,
counterfeit pearls.
“Is that you?” She asked. Her
voice wavered. Her vulnerability was
more apparent than ever.
My entire plan forgotten, I stood
there. Just stood there. Finally, I took
a deep, albeit shaky breath and
rushed into a jumble of thoughts and
half-finished ideas. She heard my
futile attempts at explaining myself
and recognition crept across her face.
I saw the lines relax. The lack of
tension and the hint of a smile told
me that she knew who I was. Still,
she refused to make my situation
even a little easier for me. I paused
for a breath and caught site of her
smile. It no longer lingered upon the
edges of her mouth and I never
actually finished my apology; more
intrigued was I by her gold tooth
which was slightly out of place and
looking much more like a kernel of
corn than anything else.
She finished my thought for me.
“You mean to say…” she prompted as
I looked on, not quite sure of what
she would decide I had meant to say.
“…that you're sorry.” I smiled, my
own row of sparkling white teeth not
amidst jewels like hers. “Gold teeth
are representative of wisdom, you
know” she had once said. When I was
older, I knew, I too would have a
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
by Jackie B.
sparking gold tooth. At least one that
caught the sunshine just the way hers
did and represented my vast wisdom.
I tuned out as she spoke, and
instead, I studied her. Beneath years
of flabby skin and wrinkles, I caught
glimpses of the beautiful woman she
had been; the one wrapped in picture
frames, adorning the walls. Not to say
that she was no longer pretty- she
was, but in quite a different way. I
watched as her many chins bounced
as she talked; as her hands used
gestures, she herself couldn't
appreciate; and as her rose-petal like
tongue periodically grazed her dry,
sandpapery lips. Her blonde wig sat
atop her balding head, askew, and
her features were jagged, as if she
were an incomplete statue begun by
an amateur and not very devoted
student.
I tuned back in to what she was
saying just in time to oblige by her
command.
“Sit,” she directed. I sat. Beneath
me, the weathered leather couch,
with perhaps as many lines upon it as
on my grandmother's face, groaned
in refutation. “I've said a lot about
needing to respect your elders and
you're undoubtedly wondering why,”
she began.
“I” I tried to interrupt, but she
shook her head and continued.
“Wondering why is good. Doing
things without ever asking questions
is silly. Always ask questions.”
“There is no such thing as a
stupid question.” I piped up, pleased
to share a grain of wisdom with my
grandmother. Perhaps that would be
enough to grant me a golden tooth.
“Ah,” she sighed; a sigh which
expressed so much in its not-quitesyllabic-state. I waited. She didn't
keep me waiting for too long. “Who
said that?” She inquired, more
curious than anything else; certainly
continued...
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
(cont’d)
Milky Way cont’d
obviously got your head in the clouds
or rather, above! You've chased the
moon, lost yourself in the way. Now
simplify. Get back to reality.”
“I-I'm only a shadow.”
“And?”
“That's all I'll ever be.”
Months passed. Finally, a package
with no return address arrived at the
boy's front porch. Curious, he tore
the wrapping apart and came across
his very own story of the past. And a
message:
I've read your story. It's too
unreal and I don't get a single thing
from it.
Aghast, the robot went home and
fervently finished a new story. This
time, he wrote about something he
understood. He wrote about a
longing and a desperation for space.
How to catch shadows. How to it was
like to reach out, talk to thin air, hold
Socratic discussions, and return to
earth with nothing in hand. A real
story.
When he was done, he decided
to send the story through CyberMail.
by Maybelle
by Campbell
DrohanL.
But that was too inhuman; he'd only
be another obscure name in the
volumes of spam that snaked through
CyberMail day by day. So he took a
deep breath, went to her house, and
gently slipped his package through
her door.
(Maybe you're not real, Milky
Way.
Perhaps this is what you're telling
me; your taciturn silence. I'll mistake
it for an answer but it's only a cold,
cursory glance. I can stand by the
phone and wait: war of attrition. I
can always be waiting. Perhaps,
someday, you'll unfold like those
Russian dolls and the truth will hit me
like a whiplash.)
What would the Milky Way
know? Ninety percent of it is dark
matter without a feeling or form.
There are one hundred billion
galaxies in this universe, but only one
reason to die.
Perhaps that was all life
amounted to. Death paved the way
to the stars.
The astronaut takes a deep
breath: because you are more real
than I'll ever be, therefore…
He slices the cord.
NoosMail; a conversation
Hi, I have no ideawhat is going
on.
Hmm?
The story you sent me. What's
with that astronaut? And him
committing suicide??
What did you think of it?
I don't understand. Why would
he do that?
I dunno, perhaps he was sick of
life. Or couldn't wait to find another.
You call this a real story and you
won't even explain why the astronaut
got sick of life.
…I'm sorry.
That's okay. Just a hint.
Alright.
But really, your story gave me the
chills. It's so… surreal.
Thanks.
Does the astronaut have a name?
…You know who he is.
What?
I'm in love with a galaxy.
Jackie B.
As Silence (cont’d)
Reverberates In The Silence by CampbellbyDrohan
I'm usually struck by some sort of inspiration, and in this case, the inspiration was a desire to take an event that was
crucial to me in my life and turn a part of the experience into something profound. Indeed, seeing my grandmother cry when I
did sent me into a shock similar to that of the character in my story. Adults cry? Is exactly what crossed my mind that day.
To be clear: this story didn't happen to me. There is very, very, very little similarity between what happens in this story and
what happened in real life. Yet it seems real, and the reason why it seems real is because it is a combination of reality and
imagination - life experiences and observations - rather than a story devoid completely of truth. Looking around me, it's the
world that I see.
There are so many words in the English language, yet somehow, so few that are fitting to a particular idea. Words are more
than the means by which a writer tells a story. Words are the story. And when the words reflect, unequivocally, real life…that
is when the story truly comes to life.
(cont’d)
Monkey See
Monkey Do cont’d
Four twenty-one. The feeling of
worry dwelled in my stomach; with
every minute going by it got heavier.
My room was dark and the silence
turned into a ringing in my ears. I
propped myself up at every sound,
my breath held, but they weren't the
sounds I was hoping for. Four twentytwo. The anxiety continued to weigh
me down against my bed as I awaited
Mason walking through the front
door. He was never out this late, and I
couldn't help my mind from running
towards the “what ifs”. Mason never
seized to surprise me at what he was
doing; he went from skipping class, to
drinking, to stealing. Well the list
goes on but it was never strong
enough to eat away at my love for
him. He was my only brother and
when his little sister needed him, he
was there. Four twenty-three. What
would I do without him? What if he
got in trouble? Four twenty-four. But
what always made me feel better was
saying to myself, at least he doesn't
smoke, like dad. A car door slammed
shut ripping through the silence and
my thoughts. My hands clenched
together in a tight fist and I held my
breath waiting for him to walk
through the door. Four twenty-five.
As soon as he did, I could stop
looking at the clock and look for
sleep instead.
The smell of pancakes filled my
room and pulled me awake. I got out
of bed and pulled up my blinds; there
was a thick blanket of snow covering
the ground and I couldn't help but
smile at the sight.
“Jackie!” Mason yelled with once
again, his mouth full.
I continued to stare out the
window and focused on its reflection.
I stared into my pale blue eyes and
quickly noticed the way the purple
circles under my eyes contrasted
against my pale complexion. I
brushed through my knotted brown
hair and heard a cough from the
other room. This past year my dad
started smoking, he didn't even feel
the need to try and stop; that hurt
the most. September 3rd 2007 we lost
my uncle Charles to lung cancer. And
a year and three days later, we lost
my grandpa for the same reason. So
smoking“Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!” Mason
continued in his annoying sing song
voice.
“Coming!” I replied dropping the
brush and pulling a black cardigan
over my shoulders. The smell of
chocolate chip pancakes was
palpable in the air. I quickly made my
way down the wooden steps and
walked into the kitchen.
“Hey sleepy head.”
“Morning” I said grabbing a
plate.
“Morning honey” My mom said
with a smile. She was in a pink robe
and as I guessed, was sitting beside
Mason. He was wearing a white tshirt and lightly faded jeans.
“There's so much snow outside” I
said trying to make conversation as I
sat down. Mason was too engaged
with his food to notice the remark
and the same goes for my mother;
her face in a newspaper. I tried to
look for something of interest; a
magazine, anything. It seemed like I
was the only person who seemed to
notice the silence. I continued
looking; there wasn't even a stupid
logo on Mason's shirt to read.
“Oh, there's going to be a new
museum opening up this- hmm, this
February!” My mom started to
babble reading the paper.
My eyes were drawn to
something in Mason's pocket.
“Very nice…rocks….bones…..a
new exhibit!” my mom went on
enthusiastically, but I only caught
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
by Iris Y.
by Campbell Drohan
onto some of her words. I felt my
nose wrinkle.
“Please don't cry” I said so low,
that I could hardly hear it myself. My
jaw clenched and my head didn't feel
like it belonged to me. The room
went into a blur like I was wearing
glasses with a prescription too
strong. Tears rolled down my cheek. I
took my plate, put it in the sink and
ran upstairs.
“Oh, this museum is going to be a
big thing!” I heard my mom still going
on about that same article. I lay
down on my bed and closed me eyes.
My jaw was still clenched as I hit my
fist against my mattress. I couldn't
believe him.
“What I hypocrite” I said angrily,
my words being muffled into the
pillow. I was sure of what I saw, even
a bit of the front. CAUSE LUNG
CANCER. How could he smoke? I
knew how much it bothered him that
my dad smoked, how could he go join
him?
I could feel the burning in the
wound of the stab in my back, but I
wasn't just going to watch him do
this to himself.
The next day at school I searched
for my friend Greg Jager, people
usually called him plain Jager, but I
still referred to him as Greg. We were
best friends in grade two but we
separated into different crowds. We
still talked a lot but just never really
hung out. I zipped up my grey jacket
and threw on my hood. As I opened
the front door a surge of cold air hit
me like a wall.
“Urgh, why is it so cold?” I said
under my breath. I waddled my way
through the thick snow, trying to
walk on other people's foot prints. I
turned behind the portables and
there was Greg, as I suspected, with a
cigarette in his hand.
“Hey” I said. Three others guys
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Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Monkey See Monkey Do cont’d
and two girls turned around. Clearly
they were surprised to see me;
maybe I should go back“Oh hey Jackie, what brings you
here?” Greg said with a smile.
“Oh, just walking around.” I
replied, smiling back. The other guys
looked away and went back to their
conversations, which made me feel a
little better. I still wasn't sure about it
but then thought of Mason.
“Can I have one?” I asked
smoothly.
“Uh sure” he replied hesitantly.
He handed me a cigarette. I took it
with a nervous smile and pulled it
towards my mouth.
“Thanks”
“Anytime. Need a light?” he
asked flashing me his bright red
lighter.
“Yep, and thanks again.” He lit
the cigarette with a chuckle. For
Mason. I took a deep breath and put
it between my lips. I inhaled. The
smoke scraped the insides of my
throat and lungs like a pair of
scissors. I exhaled, trying to keep the
cough imprisoned in my throat. For
Mason. If he saw me smoking,
maybe he would feel the way I did
and stop, just maybe.
The next couple of days I found
myself with Greg. Each day I smoked
more than the other. The burn began
to subside and it became…relaxing. I
was walking down the hall and
stopped in front of Mason's room.
The door was closed but I could hear
him quietly singing along to music.
“Mason, can I come in?” I asked
loudly.
“Yeah, one sec” he yelled. I stood
waiting and thirty seconds later he
opened the door for me.
“What's going on?” he asked
bobbing his head. I thought out my
plan very carefully. I would ask him
why he started smoking.
“Why'd you start smoking?” I
asked assertively. Then he would
either deny it at first, or tell me it
was no big deal.
“Ha, where did you get that
from?” he replied light-heartedly.
Just as I thought, well he would
admit it; it was just a matter of time.
If he didn't, I could just say I saw the
cigarettes in his jean pocket. As soon
as he would cave in, I'd ask him to
stop, and if he told me he wouldn't, I
would tell him I smoke and see how
he'll feel then.
“Just tell me why you started
smoking.” I knew when I told him I
smoked, he would feel guilty. He
would blame himself for me smoking
and the compunction would make
Milky Way
by Iris Y.
him quit.
“Oh.” His face lit up in
realization. I waited but he didn't say
anything else.
“Oh?” I repeated impatiently.
“Well it's kind of stupid.” He said
glumly looking at his computer
screen and avoiding my gaze.
“Ya, it is. Why would you start
smoking?” I said with a bit more
hostility than intended.
“No, I don't smoke. I wouldn't
ever. Well it's just- dad. Dad smokes
and it kills me to see him getting
worse like that. And I thought that if
he saw me with cigarettes he would
feel the way I do towards him.” He
finished and turned to meet my eyes.
“Oh.” I said again. At first I was a
bit confused, but then I felt so happy
I couldn't fight back the smile. I
walked out of his room without
saying a word, feeling relieved.
Words can't even describe how
happy I was, I felt lighter; the weight
has been lifted. A sense of relaxation
washed over me; I almost felt as
relaxed as when I'd be having a
cigarette.
by Maybelle L.
This story was inspired by my childhood memories. As a child, I loved to read books on space because they seemed to open up a
whole world of possibilities. Also, my dad liked astronomy, so sometimes we would stargaze in our backyard. The theme came back
to me about a year ago after watching Artificial Intelligence. This time, I was prompted to wonder the philosophical implications of
personhood: What is a soul? Can machines replace humanity? I thought space would be a wonderful backdrop to explore this
concept, since it adds such mystery and ambience. This story was also an experiment in the science fiction genre. Most people tell
me they dislike the genre because they find it boring, overly technical, or impersonal, but I believe science fiction does not have to be
that way. This is why I've made my story more personal and lyrical, focusing on the emotions as opposed to other more hardcore scifi elements. Overall, writing is an art which I hope to continue throughout my life. Most of my stories have a haunting quality, and I
like playing with emotions that aren't clear on paper but apparent in the reader's mind. I hope you enjoy this one.
(cont’d)
Milky Way cont’d
The stars are quiet tonight.
Rising and falling, breathing and
whirling, they prick against the velvet
cushion of space in sheets of black
and navy. The spaceship suspends on
airless wings, smiling and winking at
the sun. And thousands of light-years
off, a supernova will spiral and
recycle into new worlds.
Only one astronaut stands at the
tip of the door, peering at the starlit
wash of milk like a careless brush,
streaked across the sky. Only one
cord that connects him to the ship
and keeps him from slipping away.
(Am I real?)
Milky Way smiles like a bright,
unblinking eye.
(No, you are real. You sow stories
in my heart and the impossible in my
eyes. You gave me wings to fly. You
gave me a reality that was not quite
mine.)
And a lifetime.
(I spent my whole life
understanding you.)
But what he remembers now is a
story lodged at the back of his mind.
Once upon a time, a boy who was
not quite real fell in love with a girl
who was truer than earth. He did not
know why; but knew he was borne of
an innate longing to give. The sun
shone in her eyes. Grass in her hair.
He cradled her memory on wet earth
days, preciously, and branded her
smiles on his heart.
He could pass days and nights
just dreaming of her. Skipping stones.
Tracing stars. While ignoring
Civilization's sporadic structures, he'd
stand on top of a hill and feel
Greatness washing over his metal
frame. He'd pose questions: what is
greatness? What is real? What's it
like to drown in blue, nothing but blue
and milky stars?
There was only one problem, or
premise, or idea that lingered in the
by Maybelle
by Campbell
DrohanL.
spaces between spoken words.
The boy was a robot.
The girl was human.
There's a scatter of stars in the
distance, budging the ship ever-soslightly.
Well, now, the astronaut
whispers. His voice echoes, like Darth
Vader underwater. But Darth Vader is
gone. He'd haunted dreams, closets,
and empty halls; a Past, dark and
unknown as the world from whence
he'd come. (What the astronaut
never told anyone was why he
became an astronaut in the first
place.) And suddenly Darth Vader no
longer exists. Isn't real. How it must
have been like, moving those limbs
that were not his and inhaling a
detached world.
(But then again, how do humans
know they're not really inhaling a
detached world?) At least Darth
Vader will never haunt the
astronaut's mind again.
(If only they knew what I'm
capable of, Milky Way. If only…)
Far away, a supernova grins.
Elsewhere, a star will die
unwillingly.
It's ironic, the astronaut muses.
There are at least one hundred billion
galaxies in this universe, ninety
percent of which is formed from dark
matter. But there is only one
astronaut who doesn't feel quite real.
And the astronaut is so close to
the earth that one step can send him
into the deep, inky depths of an
endless milky sea.
So, the boy who was not quite
real got down to business and
mapped an invincible plan. He
pondered and poked around the
AeriLibrary, that airborne shrine of a
hundred-and-one books. He studied
picnics, analyzed chocolate.
Experimented with adhesive tape
and, unintentionally, locked himself
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Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
in a stalemate war between robot
and relentless stationery. When he
succeeded in stripping the last piece
off his elbow, he was still unable to
unlock the mystery of being human.
That's when the robot decided to
write a story. After what seemed like
an eternity of planning, he finished
the first draft of Captain Jackie and
the Amazing Phosphorescent
Mushrooms of Andromeda Duplex.
He'd never met a pirate before only
in visual simulations so he was
spared history's gruesome and tragic
truth about pirates. This was why, as
the robot tucked the story under his
arm and skipped happily to the girl's
house, he couldn't help feeling happy
and unreal as the story he'd written.
It was a fine, sunny day when he
rung her doorbell. He waited for
thirty-two seconds before the door
turned. Then, the robot was suddenly
struck by a fear of the unknown and a
terror of the all-too-familiar. He felt
weak in the ears. Squeaky in the
brakes. So he threw his story on the
ground, by the door, and fled into the
nearby trees praying for a miracle.
“Hey you, whatcha doing here?”
The astronaut frowns. His head is
talking again and telling stories he
doesn't want to hear. Or maybe it's
the Earth talking.
“Whatcha doing at the top of the
world?”
(Watching the Milky Way,
dreaming, that milky splash of sea,
wondering how I can fill her mystic
holes of dark nothingness.)
“Contemplating.”
Is the earth crossing her arms?“Or perhaps-”
“Now, now, close the door and
get real. You've wasted a whole lot of
resources just standing there and
gaping at nothing.”
“I am not gaping at nothing.”
“Then, smart ass, you've
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Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Monkey See Monkey Do cont’d
and two girls turned around. Clearly
they were surprised to see me;
maybe I should go back“Oh hey Jackie, what brings you
here?” Greg said with a smile.
“Oh, just walking around.” I
replied, smiling back. The other guys
looked away and went back to their
conversations, which made me feel a
little better. I still wasn't sure about it
but then thought of Mason.
“Can I have one?” I asked
smoothly.
“Uh sure” he replied hesitantly.
He handed me a cigarette. I took it
with a nervous smile and pulled it
towards my mouth.
“Thanks”
“Anytime. Need a light?” he
asked flashing me his bright red
lighter.
“Yep, and thanks again.” He lit
the cigarette with a chuckle. For
Mason. I took a deep breath and put
it between my lips. I inhaled. The
smoke scraped the insides of my
throat and lungs like a pair of
scissors. I exhaled, trying to keep the
cough imprisoned in my throat. For
Mason. If he saw me smoking,
maybe he would feel the way I did
and stop, just maybe.
The next couple of days I found
myself with Greg. Each day I smoked
more than the other. The burn began
to subside and it became…relaxing. I
was walking down the hall and
stopped in front of Mason's room.
The door was closed but I could hear
him quietly singing along to music.
“Mason, can I come in?” I asked
loudly.
“Yeah, one sec” he yelled. I stood
waiting and thirty seconds later he
opened the door for me.
“What's going on?” he asked
bobbing his head. I thought out my
plan very carefully. I would ask him
why he started smoking.
“Why'd you start smoking?” I
asked assertively. Then he would
either deny it at first, or tell me it
was no big deal.
“Ha, where did you get that
from?” he replied light-heartedly.
Just as I thought, well he would
admit it; it was just a matter of time.
If he didn't, I could just say I saw the
cigarettes in his jean pocket. As soon
as he would cave in, I'd ask him to
stop, and if he told me he wouldn't, I
would tell him I smoke and see how
he'll feel then.
“Just tell me why you started
smoking.” I knew when I told him I
smoked, he would feel guilty. He
would blame himself for me smoking
and the compunction would make
Milky Way
by Iris Y.
him quit.
“Oh.” His face lit up in
realization. I waited but he didn't say
anything else.
“Oh?” I repeated impatiently.
“Well it's kind of stupid.” He said
glumly looking at his computer
screen and avoiding my gaze.
“Ya, it is. Why would you start
smoking?” I said with a bit more
hostility than intended.
“No, I don't smoke. I wouldn't
ever. Well it's just- dad. Dad smokes
and it kills me to see him getting
worse like that. And I thought that if
he saw me with cigarettes he would
feel the way I do towards him.” He
finished and turned to meet my eyes.
“Oh.” I said again. At first I was a
bit confused, but then I felt so happy
I couldn't fight back the smile. I
walked out of his room without
saying a word, feeling relieved.
Words can't even describe how
happy I was, I felt lighter; the weight
has been lifted. A sense of relaxation
washed over me; I almost felt as
relaxed as when I'd be having a
cigarette.
by Maybelle L.
This story was inspired by my childhood memories. As a child, I loved to read books on space because they seemed to open up a
whole world of possibilities. Also, my dad liked astronomy, so sometimes we would stargaze in our backyard. The theme came back
to me about a year ago after watching Artificial Intelligence. This time, I was prompted to wonder the philosophical implications of
personhood: What is a soul? Can machines replace humanity? I thought space would be a wonderful backdrop to explore this
concept, since it adds such mystery and ambience. This story was also an experiment in the science fiction genre. Most people tell
me they dislike the genre because they find it boring, overly technical, or impersonal, but I believe science fiction does not have to be
that way. This is why I've made my story more personal and lyrical, focusing on the emotions as opposed to other more hardcore scifi elements. Overall, writing is an art which I hope to continue throughout my life. Most of my stories have a haunting quality, and I
like playing with emotions that aren't clear on paper but apparent in the reader's mind. I hope you enjoy this one.
(cont’d)
Milky Way cont’d
The stars are quiet tonight.
Rising and falling, breathing and
whirling, they prick against the velvet
cushion of space in sheets of black
and navy. The spaceship suspends on
airless wings, smiling and winking at
the sun. And thousands of light-years
off, a supernova will spiral and
recycle into new worlds.
Only one astronaut stands at the
tip of the door, peering at the starlit
wash of milk like a careless brush,
streaked across the sky. Only one
cord that connects him to the ship
and keeps him from slipping away.
(Am I real?)
Milky Way smiles like a bright,
unblinking eye.
(No, you are real. You sow stories
in my heart and the impossible in my
eyes. You gave me wings to fly. You
gave me a reality that was not quite
mine.)
And a lifetime.
(I spent my whole life
understanding you.)
But what he remembers now is a
story lodged at the back of his mind.
Once upon a time, a boy who was
not quite real fell in love with a girl
who was truer than earth. He did not
know why; but knew he was borne of
an innate longing to give. The sun
shone in her eyes. Grass in her hair.
He cradled her memory on wet earth
days, preciously, and branded her
smiles on his heart.
He could pass days and nights
just dreaming of her. Skipping stones.
Tracing stars. While ignoring
Civilization's sporadic structures, he'd
stand on top of a hill and feel
Greatness washing over his metal
frame. He'd pose questions: what is
greatness? What is real? What's it
like to drown in blue, nothing but blue
and milky stars?
There was only one problem, or
premise, or idea that lingered in the
by Maybelle
by Campbell
DrohanL.
spaces between spoken words.
The boy was a robot.
The girl was human.
There's a scatter of stars in the
distance, budging the ship ever-soslightly.
Well, now, the astronaut
whispers. His voice echoes, like Darth
Vader underwater. But Darth Vader is
gone. He'd haunted dreams, closets,
and empty halls; a Past, dark and
unknown as the world from whence
he'd come. (What the astronaut
never told anyone was why he
became an astronaut in the first
place.) And suddenly Darth Vader no
longer exists. Isn't real. How it must
have been like, moving those limbs
that were not his and inhaling a
detached world.
(But then again, how do humans
know they're not really inhaling a
detached world?) At least Darth
Vader will never haunt the
astronaut's mind again.
(If only they knew what I'm
capable of, Milky Way. If only…)
Far away, a supernova grins.
Elsewhere, a star will die
unwillingly.
It's ironic, the astronaut muses.
There are at least one hundred billion
galaxies in this universe, ninety
percent of which is formed from dark
matter. But there is only one
astronaut who doesn't feel quite real.
And the astronaut is so close to
the earth that one step can send him
into the deep, inky depths of an
endless milky sea.
So, the boy who was not quite
real got down to business and
mapped an invincible plan. He
pondered and poked around the
AeriLibrary, that airborne shrine of a
hundred-and-one books. He studied
picnics, analyzed chocolate.
Experimented with adhesive tape
and, unintentionally, locked himself
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
in a stalemate war between robot
and relentless stationery. When he
succeeded in stripping the last piece
off his elbow, he was still unable to
unlock the mystery of being human.
That's when the robot decided to
write a story. After what seemed like
an eternity of planning, he finished
the first draft of Captain Jackie and
the Amazing Phosphorescent
Mushrooms of Andromeda Duplex.
He'd never met a pirate before only
in visual simulations so he was
spared history's gruesome and tragic
truth about pirates. This was why, as
the robot tucked the story under his
arm and skipped happily to the girl's
house, he couldn't help feeling happy
and unreal as the story he'd written.
It was a fine, sunny day when he
rung her doorbell. He waited for
thirty-two seconds before the door
turned. Then, the robot was suddenly
struck by a fear of the unknown and a
terror of the all-too-familiar. He felt
weak in the ears. Squeaky in the
brakes. So he threw his story on the
ground, by the door, and fled into the
nearby trees praying for a miracle.
“Hey you, whatcha doing here?”
The astronaut frowns. His head is
talking again and telling stories he
doesn't want to hear. Or maybe it's
the Earth talking.
“Whatcha doing at the top of the
world?”
(Watching the Milky Way,
dreaming, that milky splash of sea,
wondering how I can fill her mystic
holes of dark nothingness.)
“Contemplating.”
Is the earth crossing her arms?“Or perhaps-”
“Now, now, close the door and
get real. You've wasted a whole lot of
resources just standing there and
gaping at nothing.”
“I am not gaping at nothing.”
“Then, smart ass, you've
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
(cont’d)
Milky Way cont’d
obviously got your head in the clouds
or rather, above! You've chased the
moon, lost yourself in the way. Now
simplify. Get back to reality.”
“I-I'm only a shadow.”
“And?”
“That's all I'll ever be.”
Months passed. Finally, a package
with no return address arrived at the
boy's front porch. Curious, he tore
the wrapping apart and came across
his very own story of the past. And a
message:
I've read your story. It's too
unreal and I don't get a single thing
from it.
Aghast, the robot went home and
fervently finished a new story. This
time, he wrote about something he
understood. He wrote about a
longing and a desperation for space.
How to catch shadows. How to it was
like to reach out, talk to thin air, hold
Socratic discussions, and return to
earth with nothing in hand. A real
story.
When he was done, he decided
to send the story through CyberMail.
by Maybelle
by Campbell
DrohanL.
But that was too inhuman; he'd only
be another obscure name in the
volumes of spam that snaked through
CyberMail day by day. So he took a
deep breath, went to her house, and
gently slipped his package through
her door.
(Maybe you're not real, Milky
Way.
Perhaps this is what you're telling
me; your taciturn silence. I'll mistake
it for an answer but it's only a cold,
cursory glance. I can stand by the
phone and wait: war of attrition. I
can always be waiting. Perhaps,
someday, you'll unfold like those
Russian dolls and the truth will hit me
like a whiplash.)
What would the Milky Way
know? Ninety percent of it is dark
matter without a feeling or form.
There are one hundred billion
galaxies in this universe, but only one
reason to die.
Perhaps that was all life
amounted to. Death paved the way
to the stars.
The astronaut takes a deep
breath: because you are more real
than I'll ever be, therefore…
He slices the cord.
NoosMail; a conversation
Hi, I have no ideawhat is going
on.
Hmm?
The story you sent me. What's
with that astronaut? And him
committing suicide??
What did you think of it?
I don't understand. Why would
he do that?
I dunno, perhaps he was sick of
life. Or couldn't wait to find another.
You call this a real story and you
won't even explain why the astronaut
got sick of life.
…I'm sorry.
That's okay. Just a hint.
Alright.
But really, your story gave me the
chills. It's so… surreal.
Thanks.
Does the astronaut have a name?
…You know who he is.
What?
I'm in love with a galaxy.
Jackie B.
As Silence (cont’d)
Reverberates In The Silence by CampbellbyDrohan
I'm usually struck by some sort of inspiration, and in this case, the inspiration was a desire to take an event that was
crucial to me in my life and turn a part of the experience into something profound. Indeed, seeing my grandmother cry when I
did sent me into a shock similar to that of the character in my story. Adults cry? Is exactly what crossed my mind that day.
To be clear: this story didn't happen to me. There is very, very, very little similarity between what happens in this story and
what happened in real life. Yet it seems real, and the reason why it seems real is because it is a combination of reality and
imagination - life experiences and observations - rather than a story devoid completely of truth. Looking around me, it's the
world that I see.
There are so many words in the English language, yet somehow, so few that are fitting to a particular idea. Words are more
than the means by which a writer tells a story. Words are the story. And when the words reflect, unequivocally, real life…that
is when the story truly comes to life.
(cont’d)
Monkey See
Monkey Do cont’d
Four twenty-one. The feeling of
worry dwelled in my stomach; with
every minute going by it got heavier.
My room was dark and the silence
turned into a ringing in my ears. I
propped myself up at every sound,
my breath held, but they weren't the
sounds I was hoping for. Four twentytwo. The anxiety continued to weigh
me down against my bed as I awaited
Mason walking through the front
door. He was never out this late, and I
couldn't help my mind from running
towards the “what ifs”. Mason never
seized to surprise me at what he was
doing; he went from skipping class, to
drinking, to stealing. Well the list
goes on but it was never strong
enough to eat away at my love for
him. He was my only brother and
when his little sister needed him, he
was there. Four twenty-three. What
would I do without him? What if he
got in trouble? Four twenty-four. But
what always made me feel better was
saying to myself, at least he doesn't
smoke, like dad. A car door slammed
shut ripping through the silence and
my thoughts. My hands clenched
together in a tight fist and I held my
breath waiting for him to walk
through the door. Four twenty-five.
As soon as he did, I could stop
looking at the clock and look for
sleep instead.
The smell of pancakes filled my
room and pulled me awake. I got out
of bed and pulled up my blinds; there
was a thick blanket of snow covering
the ground and I couldn't help but
smile at the sight.
“Jackie!” Mason yelled with once
again, his mouth full.
I continued to stare out the
window and focused on its reflection.
I stared into my pale blue eyes and
quickly noticed the way the purple
circles under my eyes contrasted
against my pale complexion. I
brushed through my knotted brown
hair and heard a cough from the
other room. This past year my dad
started smoking, he didn't even feel
the need to try and stop; that hurt
the most. September 3rd 2007 we lost
my uncle Charles to lung cancer. And
a year and three days later, we lost
my grandpa for the same reason. So
smoking“Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!” Mason
continued in his annoying sing song
voice.
“Coming!” I replied dropping the
brush and pulling a black cardigan
over my shoulders. The smell of
chocolate chip pancakes was
palpable in the air. I quickly made my
way down the wooden steps and
walked into the kitchen.
“Hey sleepy head.”
“Morning” I said grabbing a
plate.
“Morning honey” My mom said
with a smile. She was in a pink robe
and as I guessed, was sitting beside
Mason. He was wearing a white tshirt and lightly faded jeans.
“There's so much snow outside” I
said trying to make conversation as I
sat down. Mason was too engaged
with his food to notice the remark
and the same goes for my mother;
her face in a newspaper. I tried to
look for something of interest; a
magazine, anything. It seemed like I
was the only person who seemed to
notice the silence. I continued
looking; there wasn't even a stupid
logo on Mason's shirt to read.
“Oh, there's going to be a new
museum opening up this- hmm, this
February!” My mom started to
babble reading the paper.
My eyes were drawn to
something in Mason's pocket.
“Very nice…rocks….bones…..a
new exhibit!” my mom went on
enthusiastically, but I only caught
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Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
by Iris Y.
by Campbell Drohan
onto some of her words. I felt my
nose wrinkle.
“Please don't cry” I said so low,
that I could hardly hear it myself. My
jaw clenched and my head didn't feel
like it belonged to me. The room
went into a blur like I was wearing
glasses with a prescription too
strong. Tears rolled down my cheek. I
took my plate, put it in the sink and
ran upstairs.
“Oh, this museum is going to be a
big thing!” I heard my mom still going
on about that same article. I lay
down on my bed and closed me eyes.
My jaw was still clenched as I hit my
fist against my mattress. I couldn't
believe him.
“What I hypocrite” I said angrily,
my words being muffled into the
pillow. I was sure of what I saw, even
a bit of the front. CAUSE LUNG
CANCER. How could he smoke? I
knew how much it bothered him that
my dad smoked, how could he go join
him?
I could feel the burning in the
wound of the stab in my back, but I
wasn't just going to watch him do
this to himself.
The next day at school I searched
for my friend Greg Jager, people
usually called him plain Jager, but I
still referred to him as Greg. We were
best friends in grade two but we
separated into different crowds. We
still talked a lot but just never really
hung out. I zipped up my grey jacket
and threw on my hood. As I opened
the front door a surge of cold air hit
me like a wall.
“Urgh, why is it so cold?” I said
under my breath. I waddled my way
through the thick snow, trying to
walk on other people's foot prints. I
turned behind the portables and
there was Greg, as I suspected, with a
cigarette in his hand.
“Hey” I said. Three others guys
continued...
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Touched By a Figure in the Snow cont’d
and then leaned forward, ready to
break out the “pizza” stop at any
moment. It wasn't necessary.
Instead of cruising down like
those before her, Sasha was spreadeagled, careening off to the side, and
ready to crash within seconds. The
fork in the slope where two distinct
paths lay drew closer and closer.
Sasha could now see the tops of
trees beyond the fork; she was
hurtling towards it, doomed to fall to
her death. The girl lost her balance
all at once, falling down, and coming
to a skidding halt at the mouth of the
drop. Gasping, Sasha felt herself slip
closer to the edge.
Clawing at the snow, she hung
on. Several skiers came down the
same descent, but didn't cast a
second glance at the helpless girl.
Seconds ticked into minutes, and
minutes transcended into what felt
like an eternity of struggle for Sasha.
The reality of a sprained ankle sunk
in. With despair, Sasha knew that
Stephen had probably long forgotten
about her. I'm useless. I'm an outcast
in school. I'm invisible to everyone
around me: teachers, peers, my own
father… Bowing her head in grief,
Sasha broke down. Visions of her
deceased mother began to cloud her
thoughts again. She missed her, and
yearned for her warm touch.
Out of nowhere, Sasha saw a
shadow cast on the snow. Raising her
tear-streaked face, she saw an
outstretched hand from a woman.
Wearing ski goggles and a tracksuit,
she pulled the girl to her feet. Sasha
instantly crumpled to the ground, as
her ankle gave away. Understanding,
the woman let Sasha's arm hang
across her shoulder, as she
supported her from under. Every
couple of steps they took, Sasha
would stumble, but each time the
stranger assured her they were
approaching the bottom of the slope.
In time, they did reach the end
where the café stood in the snowy
distance. Grateful beyond words,
Sasha thanked the woman for
helping her, for saving her.
For the first time, as Sasha took a
long glance at the woman, her heart
felt surprisingly light. It was almost
as if the hobbling journey down
Black Diamond had relieved a burden
that fettered her all this time. “Skiing
is a metaphor for life,” the woman
whispered. The school buses honked.
As Sasha turned back, the stranger
had disappeared. Whipping around,
15-year old Sasha Flanner looked
back at Black Diamond towering in
all its glory behind her, and she felt
Monkey See Monkey Do
by Linda Z.
what the stranger had told her click
into place.
Three years have passed since
then. My ankle healed within a week,
but it is the valuable lesson I learned
that has never left my side since that
day. Like many things, skiing is a
metaphor for life. Everybody falls at
some point in their journey, but the
key thing is to offer a helping hand to
those around you. I have chosen
forgiveness, compassion, and an
open heart to embrace my father. For
the longest time after the death of
my mother, I couldn't even evoke a
smile, let alone the preppy spirit of
the cheerleader I used to be. This
year, my graduating year, I am senior
captain of the cheerleading team. I
am sure my mother would have
wanted as much.
Sometimes when I recall the face
of that woman who came to my
rescue, I am struck by the odd idea
that she bore an uncanny
resemblance to my own mother.
Maybe that's just the crazy
imagination in me talking. Whoever
that woman was, she created an
indelible first impression on me, and
as a result, I am inspired to reach out
and make an impression on those
around me.
by Iris Y.
I chose to write this particular story, Monkey See Monkey Do, because many of the emotions portrayed were experienced
by not only myself but many other teenagers. The words on paper can easily tie into many aspects of a teens' life. There was
no specific message that I wanted the reader to leave with because everyone will relate differently to certain situations. The
only thing I hoped for is to make the reader think, to maybe realize something that has never come to their attention before.
Writing is a learning experience and thanks to all the literature out there you are able to improve. The more you read, the
better your writing becomes. It allows you to search for the certain flare or style that's unique in your own writing. By reading
different genres and authors, the search becomes easier. As students, we only read stories by authors in the same age group
that perhaps have lived through the same experiences but as we all know, times have changed and new perspectives are
waiting to be gained.
(cont’d)
As Silence Reverberates
In The Silence cont’d
I was twelve years old. It was
summer time, and the bright warm
sun beckoned to me. I didn't want to
stay in the not-quite-cool enough
house which belonged to my
grandparents and smelled of
mothballs and medication.
It was just us two: my
grandmother and I. She was sitting
on the loved and beaten leather
couch, listening to the dim television.
I was perched beside her, intrigued
by the vivid outdoors.
“It's so yucky in here.” I
complained, my voice rising as I
attempted to sway her into letting
me go outside. Strong woman that
she was, she didn't give in. She was
nice about it though.
“Why don't you get an ice-cream
bar instead?” She suggested. “That'll
cool you off.”
“I don't want an ice-cream bar,” I
protested “I want to go outside. It
smells like old people in here, and the
air is stale.”
“When your parents get back”
she began to suggest, but I cut her off
in retort, my voice strong and oozing
with bravado confidence. A shadow
of surprise flickered across her face,
and I could feel her getting angry. My
voice was hard, and my words,
though not cruel in nature, stung.
The atmosphere tensed; sparked;
chilled. My heart began to pound, as I
considered the possibility that I may
have gone too far. She didn't say
anything; she just turned back to the
television and continued listening,
the smile gone from her face and her
lips pursed in anger.
Eventually, I got up and walked
into the crammed kitchen, looking for
something to eat.
I got an ice-cream bar.
I licked the last of the artificially
flavoured vanilla ice-cream off the
wooden stick. My eyes were bright
and my palms were dry despite the
heat. I knew what I'd do. I felt
pleased with my problem-solving
abilities as I entered the television
room.
Like in a badly made horror flick,
the floorboard creaked and she
turned, her ghostly pale face lined
with years of wisdom. I noticed
something was wrong. Like oysters
before their prime, her eyes were
clamped shut. Then she took a deep
breath and quickly, surprisingly,
unseeing enhanced cobalt-tinted
eyes were revealed: unexpected,
counterfeit pearls.
“Is that you?” She asked. Her
voice wavered. Her vulnerability was
more apparent than ever.
My entire plan forgotten, I stood
there. Just stood there. Finally, I took
a deep, albeit shaky breath and
rushed into a jumble of thoughts and
half-finished ideas. She heard my
futile attempts at explaining myself
and recognition crept across her face.
I saw the lines relax. The lack of
tension and the hint of a smile told
me that she knew who I was. Still,
she refused to make my situation
even a little easier for me. I paused
for a breath and caught site of her
smile. It no longer lingered upon the
edges of her mouth and I never
actually finished my apology; more
intrigued was I by her gold tooth
which was slightly out of place and
looking much more like a kernel of
corn than anything else.
She finished my thought for me.
“You mean to say…” she prompted as
I looked on, not quite sure of what
she would decide I had meant to say.
“…that you're sorry.” I smiled, my
own row of sparkling white teeth not
amidst jewels like hers. “Gold teeth
are representative of wisdom, you
know” she had once said. When I was
older, I knew, I too would have a
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Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
by Jackie B.
sparking gold tooth. At least one that
caught the sunshine just the way hers
did and represented my vast wisdom.
I tuned out as she spoke, and
instead, I studied her. Beneath years
of flabby skin and wrinkles, I caught
glimpses of the beautiful woman she
had been; the one wrapped in picture
frames, adorning the walls. Not to say
that she was no longer pretty- she
was, but in quite a different way. I
watched as her many chins bounced
as she talked; as her hands used
gestures, she herself couldn't
appreciate; and as her rose-petal like
tongue periodically grazed her dry,
sandpapery lips. Her blonde wig sat
atop her balding head, askew, and
her features were jagged, as if she
were an incomplete statue begun by
an amateur and not very devoted
student.
I tuned back in to what she was
saying just in time to oblige by her
command.
“Sit,” she directed. I sat. Beneath
me, the weathered leather couch,
with perhaps as many lines upon it as
on my grandmother's face, groaned
in refutation. “I've said a lot about
needing to respect your elders and
you're undoubtedly wondering why,”
she began.
“I” I tried to interrupt, but she
shook her head and continued.
“Wondering why is good. Doing
things without ever asking questions
is silly. Always ask questions.”
“There is no such thing as a
stupid question.” I piped up, pleased
to share a grain of wisdom with my
grandmother. Perhaps that would be
enough to grant me a golden tooth.
“Ah,” she sighed; a sigh which
expressed so much in its not-quitesyllabic-state. I waited. She didn't
keep me waiting for too long. “Who
said that?” She inquired, more
curious than anything else; certainly
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
16
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
(cont’d)
As Silence Reverberates
In The Silence cont’d
not judgemental.
“My tutor.” I quietly admitted,
reluctant to confess that my own
grain of knowledge was not truly my
own.
“Hmm,” she mused, “that's not
necessarily true. I did say to ask a lot
of questions, and when it comes to
understanding things which have
definite answers, go ahead. But if it's
a subjective question….” She trailed
off. “You understand.”
“Yes,” I replied, though I didn't.
She smiled a sad sort of smile.
“You know, it's so much easier to
give out advice than to heed it. You
know what heed means?” I decided
to guess.
“Take?” Her face lit up.
“My granddaughter is so smart!”
She exclaimed, almost giddy, but at
the same time contained. Before I
could relish the happiness I felt, she
continued. The giddiness was gone
from her voice, and only purpose
remained. “It is much easier to give
out advice than to heed it.” She
paused possibly for emphasis, more
likely to collect her thoughts. The
pause invited a sense of panic to fill
me and, desperately, I willed the
phone to ring; my parents to come
home; for something to happen.
Nothing happened and she
continued.
“I'm 65 years old,” she stated. “I
look much older, don't I?”
“I'm…bad with…ages…” I replied.
“No matter. I know it's true.” She
tried another tactic. “Let me ask you
this,” she began, almost
nonchalantly. “Do you know what's
wrong with me?”
“Diabetes and complications,” I
stated. My words reflected my pride
in sounding like an intelligent adult;
though the words themselves held
no meaning to me.
“Diabetes and complications,”
she repeated almost in monotone,
except for the second half of the last
word, where her voice broke and she
fumbled for my hand. “Do you love
me?” The desperation in her voice
was frightening and I hesitated for
half a second, unsure. Memories
flashed through my mind like
pictures in a slideshow. Embarrassed
and ashamed, I thought of the time
my brother and I sneaked up on her
and put frilly pink underwear on her
head. Another image came to mind
where I complained to my mother
about how annoying my
grandmother was; she didn't ever do
anything fun. I thought of the time I
hid her hideous purse in the couch;
the time I poured Lysol-flavoured
chicken soup down the drain. I
remembered how she had helped
Cliquot
by Jackie B.
me with math and how I had ripped
up the examples. I shook my head as
a feeling of regret washed over me. I
could barely breathe, but I somehow
managed to respond; “of course.” I
willed my tears not to spill out of my
eyes but, in spite of my attempts,
something wet splashed on my hand.
My grandmother gave it a tight
squeeze, as, surprised, I looked up.
Tears covered her face and matted
her eyelashes together.
I froze.
Adults cry?
She let go of my hand, and
quickly I stood. I picked up a box of
Kleenex and handed one to her. She
patted at her eyes, her freshly
manicured salmon tinted nails
shining from the combination of
stray tears and sunlight.
She sang a mourning song with
only notes and without words as her
otherwise silent tears slid down her
face and splashed at times, into her
ears.
After a few moments, she
seemed fine. She was all smiles and
her gold tooth shined brighter than
ever. I fleetingly wondered if,
perhaps, the whole tear thing had
been a facet of my imagination, or,
perhaps, a dramatic exploration on
her part.
I knew it wasn't.
by Diana J.
I chose to write Cliquot because I was inspired by the Balkan-style music of the band Beirut. I wanted to write a story that
had a distinctly old-world European feel, which I hope came out in the reading of it. I had actually read, previously to writing the
story, an interview in a independent magazine with a musician paranoid schizophrenic. I was so amazed by his speaking style,
where a torrent of words rushed out at the reader, that I wished to incorporate this sort of a paranoia in Jamie. I was hoping to
convey a message of disillusion and false impressions with my story. We see the main character fall in love with Jamie out of an
accustomed familiarity and when this love falls apart, she is left with the realization of the fantasy and insignificance of her
world. Writing to me is a way to exercise my brain in a different dimension. I believe that writing is so important, whether the
story turns out accomplished or merely a drabble, every new piece created teaches its writer something more about thinking
and the significance of communication.
Touched By(cont’d)
a Figure in the Snow cont’d
for him to have witnessed her klutzy
fall. Dread and humiliation punched
her in the stomach again.
Sighing, she snapped off her skis,
and trudged up towards the ski
resort café. A wafting aroma greeted
Sasha as she walked in. In the corner
of her eyes, Sasha saw a table of
popular girls from her school.
Suddenly, one of the girls hushed,
pointing to Sasha, and an ominous
silence fell over the group. Sasha
averted her eyes, feigning intense
concentration on the overhead
menus.
A moment later, she sat down at
an empty table with a cup of hot
chocolate by a window overlooking
the resort. She had once been an
occasional member of that clique of
girls. They were all from the school's
cheerleading team, and Sasha had
been an active part of it… until she
decided not to try out in September.
Everything had changed five
months ago. Her social circle, her
extracurricular life, her passion for
cheerleading, her father… everything
shifted in life as she knew it, other
than her friendship with Audrey, and
her crush on Stephen Sanders.
Audrey was sick, and couldn't make
it to the school ski trip. Why did I
even bother to come? Sasha
wondered, but deep down, she knew
the answer.
In spite of alienating herself from
her peers, school was still a respite: a
day-time escape from her home. Five
months ago, her home had been an
oasis of warmth and lovebut that
was before her mother was killed in
a hit-and-run accident. Nowadays, a
dark cloud of silence hung over the
house. There had always been
distance between Sasha and her
father, and her mother's absence
only exacerbated the tensions in
their relationship.
In her mind, she had replayed
her vague recollection of the
argument that led to her mother's
death over a thousand times. Sasha
was on the phone with Audrey, idly
gushing about her latest eye-contact
with Stephen when she heard her
parents bickering downstairs.
Moments later, she heard the
argument escalate in a series of
shouts, ending with her mom
storming out into the streets, and
disappearing in the vast darkness.
Sasha remembered bolting down the
flight of stairs to find her father at
the kitchen table wearing a grave,
unfathomable expression.
Over the course of the next
twelve hours, the local police found
Mrs. Flanner's abandoned dead
body, and that unfathomable
expression on his face crumpled into
a weary devastation. The shattered
look never once faded in the months
since her death. But Sasha couldn't
forgive him, for she had settled on
the real culprit behind everything:
her father. He was the one who
pushed her to wander off in the
middle of the night. He was the one
who shattered our family.
They were called to the scene of
the crime near the crack of dawn.
The gruesome sight of her mother's
wrapped body on the bloodied
asphalt road seared into her
memory, and served as a haunting
tableau that would provoke endless
nightmare episodes. My mother is
gone. The woman who never missed
a single cheerleading drill, who was a
proudly smiling figure on the
sidelines at every important
milestone in my life… taken away, like
a candle in the wind.
Sasha jerked back to reality,
realizing with a jolt that her vision
was swimming in tears. While wiping
her eyes, her heart stopped as she
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
17
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Linda Z.
by CampbellbyDrohan
noticed Stephen Sanders
approaching her. With his spiky
bronze hair swept back; his deep-set,
striking blue eyes fixated on Sasha;
his chiseled jaw tightened in a smirk,
he was certainly the most desirable
senior boy at their school, if not the
nation.
“Sasha Flanner?” Without
waiting for a response, Stephen said
coolly, “Listen, I was wondering if
you're up for a little challenge with
me and my friends?”
Sasha was at a loss for words.
She had fantasized about this
moment in countless daydreams, but
never had she envisioned that
Stephen Sanders would approach
her. I must be seeing things. But as
she blinked once, Stephen's daunting
figure still towered over her table.
“Y-Yeah,” she stammered.
“We're gonna go up to Black
Diamond, so why don't you tag
along?” he flashed a thousand-watt
smile worthy of a Colgate
commercial. Are you out of your
mind? Sasha Flanner, you are a lousy
skier. You'll die on that slope. A boy is
not worth the risk. “Cool. Let's go.”
Sasha was wracked with severe
anxiety, regret, and fear the second
the words slipped out of her mouth.
As the ski lift lurched forward, panic
struck. Her legs felt like wobbling
jelly. Her eyes bore into the back of
Stephen's head in the lift ahead of
her, searching for a source of
courage. The string of events that
followed was a nauseating blur.
Sasha trudged out of the lift like
a walking mummy. One by one,
Stephen and his buddies edged over
the cliff-like drop, and zoomed down
at the speed of light. There was only
her now. Staring down the first
descent, she realized it was a near 80
degree drop. Gulping, she gave
herself a gentle push with the poles,
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
10
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Taxi to India cont’d
moved by taxi driver's story. He had
never been exposed to such
extremes before. He did not know
what to do. The taxi approached the
airport. The taxi cab swayed because
the driver was shaking. “At home, I
was helping my people. In America, I
am the poor. I am the one who needs
help.”
The driver veered towards a
cement pillar. The young man yelled,
“Don't do it!” It was too late for the
driver to stop himself. The driver's
foot was frozen. His eyes were
closed. He prepared himself for
death. Three seconds before the
collision, the driver had thought of
his family. Two seconds. He had
remembered his childhood. One. He
was thinking of his failures.
Zero. The young man had jumped
out of his seat and forced the wheel
by Justin H.
from the driver. The car made a sharp
and sudden turn, avoiding the pillar.
He exhaled a sigh of relief. The
driver's eyes remained closed. His
foot released from the pedal.
The young man slowly got out of
the car. On the dashboard, he left an
amount of money equivalent to what
the taxi driver would make in a
month. He looked at the driver. He
was still alive. “Thank you, sir,” the
young man said as he deserted the
cab.
The driver remained on his seat
with his taxi cab blocking the entire
road. He sat there, crying.
Ten years passed. The taxi driver
is still a taxi driver. He has lost all
connections with his family in India.
He has not attempted to kill himself
again.
The driver is cruising around
Touched By a Figure in the Snow
Philadelphia, searching for
passengers. He wants to cross the
Delaware River using the Benjamin
Franklin Bridge.
He notices someone standing on
the edge of the Franklin Bridge.
Instinctively, the driver rushes out of
his car towards the person. He pulls
the man back from the edge. It is a
familiar face, bright green eyes and
long auburn hair that reached down
to his broad shoulders. The young
man remained in the driver's grasp.
They look each other in the eye. The
young man is shaken and relieved.
“Many years ago, you saved my
life,” said the driver. Then he pushed
the young man into the river.
by Linda Z.
I believe there is no greater source of inspiration for short stories like these than a personal experience. Five years ago, I
survived a disastrous ski trip that left me somewhat haunted since. A string of events led me to the summit of the scariest
slope at the resortominously named, Black Diamond. The gist of what transpired is told through the eyes of my protagonist.
The story, although laced with fictional details, originated from the core of something real. I hope to convey the message of how
a stranger in the least expected of circumstances can emerge to deeply impact the life of a young girl. I believe in the power of
human action, and how sometimes a single kind deed can touch more people at a greater level than can be ever perceived or
imagined.
The sky is the limit for writing, and that ideology has always been the chant of a small voice in my head in driving me to pick
up that pen and paper. Writing can be therapy, an escape to a time and place not humanly possible, and a form of conveying
profound lessons. But to me, writing is a gift that has made me a happier person, and it is hard for me to imagine even with all
my might a life without the ability to create.
Sometimes first impressions are
like shadows that only eclipse our life
for a moment in time … The story I
am about to tell is a tale of survival,
and about how a single act of
kindness from a stranger saved my
life on a chilly winter day.
The frosty air of early February
nipped 15-year old Sasha Flanner's
rosy cheeks and whipped her
chestnut hair back, as the girl skied
down the gentle slope. I think I'm
getting the hang of this, she thought.
Relaxing, she lifted her gaze towards
the sky. It was an unbroken expanse
of azure blue. A split second later,
she was flying off a ski bump,
spinning out of control, and
embarrassment hit her just as Sasha
fell face-down in the snow. She must
have looked a tangled mess, as a
circle of concerned faces surrounded
her.
“I'm okay,” Sasha mumbled,
wiping the snow off her face. As the
small crowd dissipated, she saw a
huddle of tall teenage boys in the
distanceclose enough for her to
make out the face of Stephen
Sanders, and certainly close enough
Cliquot
Diana J.
by CampbellbyDrohan
(cont’d)
The sunlight was concentrated in
thick, yellow beams in the room
where Ethel lay. The potted plants
given to her by her now-dead aunt
lay suffocated and dying in an
abandoned corner. Dust lay thick on
every visible surface, coating the
dressers in a gray fuzz that made the
old ginger cat, Elliot, sneeze
uncontrollably when he awoke from
his slumber. The flies buzzed
dejectedly, disoriented after hours of
attempted escapes through the
unforgiving screen mesh. Draped in a
large, fraying silk dress on an ancient
and decaying sofa, Ethel quietly
unwrapped a stale mint and popped
it into her lipstick-caked mouth.
Crunching the sugar between teastained teeth, she delicately surveyed
her apartment. Her treat finished,
she pulled a squished package of
Galouises Blondes from her beaded
purse. Digging for a match in her
large purse, she found one and
elegantly placed the smoke between
her lips and with a practiced motion,
lit the cigarette. Chucking to herself
she finished her cigarette and
extinguished it in an overflowing
ashtray balanced delicately on the
arm of the faded scarlet sofa. She got
up slowly, pulling the material of her
dress away from her damp arms. She
meandered to the kitchen and
poured herself two fingers of scotch
into a somewhat dirty glass cup.
Sipping at the lukewarm liquid, she
slowly walked back to the sofa, and
lowered her great bulk onto the
cushions. At that moment, a hesitant
knock sounded at the wooden door,
it's once turquoise paint flecking onto
the ground. Ethel made no move to
get up at this intrusion, merely
sipping another bit of her drink.
Another meek knock propagated
from the doorway. Ethel set her drink
down and closed her eyes, slowly
fading into a state of sleep. The
knocks steadily increased in intensity
until the sound was pounding against
her eardrums.
She woke up with a start and
sleepily blundered to the door.
Opening the rusty latch, she leaned
against the splintering doorframe
and groaned, “Whaddya want?” The
man on the other side of the door,
the man with fragile brown eyes,
wispy hair and a soft, mumbling voice
poured words out at her in a torrent.
“I can't live without you Ethel, ever
since…you're incredible, you're the
most beautiful thing I've ever seen
and I am going to die without you
Ethel, I am going to die and nothing is
going to save me and they are going
to get me and I'm going to be all
alone again because you won't love
me Ethel and nothing is going to be
worth living for and Ethel, please.” He
ran out of breath and looked at her
with wide eyes. “Go home, Jaimie, go
home and get some sleep,” Ethel said
gently before closing the door on his
scuffed canvas sneakers. Sighing as
she moved back into the apartment,
Ethel shook her head slowly. This was
the third month that he had shown
up at her door, every day. At the
beginning, she thought it was merely
because he liked her so much, after
all once she had been great and
served many customers, but as the
weeks went on, she realized that this
young man went beyond her regular
job. He showed up every day,
pleading his love for her, giving her
flowers, chocolates, cigarettes and
packets of nylons. Every day, she had
gently pushed him away, annoyed by
his insistence.
She pulled another cigarette out
of the folds of her great dress and lit
it, blowing smoke out of her nostrils.
His visits were irritating. She had
always considered that there was a
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
9
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
barrier between what she did and
who she was. It was difficult moving
to Barcelona at her age, it was
difficult starting a life anew, but it
had to be done. She had always been
attracted by the rich opulence of the
European capitals, so vastly different
from the deep south Americana she
had grown up in. Deep in her
musings, she was interrupted by the
sound of the telephone ringing. She
picked it up and listened attentively
to the voice on the other line. Slowly,
she dictated her address to the man
on the other line. There was a pause
and then she hung up. And then she
waited…
It had been two weeks since
Jamie last came. She was so used to
his everyday visits that she found
herself staring hard at the antique
clock when 2:15 came about.
Perhaps its battery had died, perhaps
the buses weren't running, perhaps
she wasn't really in this world, but in
another. She nervously pulled out
another cigarette and smoked it
quickly, coughing up phlegm inbetween lungfuls of smoke. At 2:30,
she walked over to the clock and
wrenched it off the wall. Perhaps he
had died. Staring at the clock on the
ground, she started to laugh pitifully,
her great shoulders heaving up and
down. She hadn't bathed in a week.
She hadn't left the house in a week.
She hadn't gotten a call in a week,
and the stack of money behind the
replica Starry Night painting was
getting awfully short. She didn't even
like the lad! Or at least she hadn't. He
was too twitchy, too soft spoken, too
crazy-haired and his words rushed
out too fast. His demeanor was
frightening because he was so unlike
the other men, but his eyes scared
her the most. They changed colours
with his moods, they stared at her
searchingly, and there seemed to be
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
18
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
by Linda Zhang
Cliquot cont’d
something dangerous about those
brown shifting orbs which almost
emitted a pale light that beckoned
her, somewhere. Lost in her
thoughts, she almost jumped out of
her skin when she heard a strong
knock at the door. Rushing to the
door in a panic, she yanked open the
door handle, and was ecstatic when
she saw him standing at the door
with his hands in his pockets. She fell
upon him with a hug, grabbing his
slim shoulders with her hands. “Miss
me?” he said mischievously. “Uhh.
Umm,” she said, then cleared her
throat and let go of him, arranging
her frock about her, “Well, I was
expecting someone…but you can
come in.” She walked regally in front
of him, and motioned that he sit
down on the couch. She deftly
knocked Elliot the cat off the
cushions along with some outdated
fashion magazines. Jamie sat down
opposite to her, and began speaking
in a slow voice, fixing his gaze on her
eyes, “You're going to marry me
Ethel, and you're going to do it now
because you can't live without me
just as I can't live without you, and
we are going to live together and I
will buy you everything you want and
we will have Elliot the cat with us,
and we will be happy and we will
love each other.” Ethel bit on the end
of her nail nervously, her small eyes
vigorously searching his face, before
her voice cracked and she asked
Jamie in a small voice, “Why me,
Jamie? I'm old, and I'm not so good
anymore, and my skin has wrinkled
and I can't remember things so well,
and you're young and handsome,
and…why me?” Jamie took her soft
hand in his and stroked it with his
thumb. “Because you're mine,” he
said, closing his eyes then opening
them to look at her, searching
for…something, but she couldn't
quite tell what. “Yes…yes!” Ethel said
Richmond Hill Public Library
by Diana J.
quickly, getting off her feet and
busying herself around the
apartment, trying to appear as
industrious and wifely as possible.
Jamie watched her for a few seconds,
then excused himself on some
errands and walked out the door.
A month passed and Ethel and
Jamie were happily married. There
had never been anyone in Ethel's life
that treated her as Jaime did. He
bought her everything she wanted,
from stockings to purses and piles of
rouges and perfumes. Ethel was so
enamored with this new life and with
the fact that she never had to work
anymore, just to sit around the
house and wait for Jamie. She doted
on him like no other person, he was
her husband, her lover and her
principal support. In time, she fell
madly in love with him to a point
where she could barely stand it. On
their first anniversary, he burst in the
apartment while she was cooking a
special feast. He grabbed her by the
hair and threw her to the kitchen
tiles. “You wicked woman! You told
them! You told them where I live
and now they're going to hunt me
down and kill me because I told this
guy I work for once that I knew some
guy who was an artist who was
working on something about the
government and now he's trying to
kill me because I know all this
information and I know that you told
them all about what I do and where I
work and they're going to get me
now because they've been tapping
the phones now for months and I
know this because I can hear them
tapping at night and I know they're
spying on me because I see the
cameras that are all over the
bedroom and I know you're spying
on me because I see you look at me
funny sometimes and you're selling
the information to them and I know
it because I saw this guy following
19
me back from the studio and he had
a big coat and he's going to kill me
because he thinks I'm involved in this
terror plot to overthrow the
government…” he rattled off with
dilated pupils. “Jamie, Jaime! Stop!”
she cried, “What is going on with
you? What is the matter? What
happened to you?” Jamie paced
around the kitchen wild-eyed,
shaking slightly and muttering to
himself, wringing his hands. “Jamie?
Jamie! Talk to me! Who is after you?
Who planted what?” Ethel said
desperately, crawling on her knees
towards him. Jamie fixed her with a
steely glare, “Don't even touch me.
Traitor. I knew you had it in you. I
knew you were out to get me. I kept
trying and trying to throw away the
cameras, I thought we could live
together and be happy, but you keep
putting them back! I can't do this
anymore! I can't stand by why you
try to kill me!” He wailed and pushed
Ethel away before backing out the
door. “I'm leaving and this time no
one will know where I'm going!” He
cast one last fleeting glance at Ethel's
tearstained face, and then ducked
out of her life.
Ethel sat in a crumpled heap on
the floor. Wiping her eyes, she
realized that she was right back
where she started. This oh-so-brief
romance, this illusion with the
mysterious and strange Jamie had
ended as suddenly as it began. She
should have known there was
something off with him since she
looked into his countenance. Fishing
in the pockets of her crumpled dress,
she pulled out a cigarette and
smoked it down to a filter, before
slowly falling into a stupor of sleep.
Elliot the cat shuffled by and lay
down by her feet on the warm
kitchen tiles. The flies slowly buzzed,
comatose, in the hot Spanish sun.
Taxi to India cont’d
The young man waved his arms. Taxi! Taxi! The rain grew heavier on
the streets of the hectic city. The man
took cover under his newspaper,
protecting his expensive suit. Two
taxis, desperate for business, raced
towards him. The first made a sharp
turn, barely avoiding a collision with
a beggar. It stopped directly beside
the young man.
“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.
“The airport, thank you,” said the
man.
The man noticed the driver's
slight grin, despite his efforts to hide
it. The driver was a middle-aged
Indian man. Under his hat, the driver
was bald. His eyes, behind a pair of
thick glasses, were completely
focused on the road.
There was silence in the taxi cab.
All they could hear was the constant
beating of the rain.
“Back home in India, we used to
have this kind of rain. But it would
rain for months at a time,” said the
driver as the traffic slowed to a halt.
He sighed. “Our city would be
flooded from June to September and
dry as hell for all the other months.”
The young man was surprised by
the driver's decision to talk. “I've
been to India once; on a business
trip, selling computers. The trip was
nice, great food, architecture and
atmosphere.” He fixed his wet hair in
the mirror. The young man had bright
green eyes and long auburn hair that
reached his broad shoulders.
“Life for my family was difficult.
We did not have all the luxuries that
you have in America,” the driver said
somewhat angrily. “Clean water was
a daily struggle. My mother and
father worked everyday from 6 in the
morning 'til 9 in the evening trying
the harvest their crops. You tourists
only see the nicest parts of my
country. My family still lives in these
Justin H.
by CampbellbyDrohan
conditions!”
The young man did not know
how to respond. He decided that he
would avoid any further discussion
with the driver, not wanting to say
something offensive. He looked
around the worn-down cab. The fluff
of the seat cushion was visible. The
rear window was repaired with tape.
On the dash, the identification card
showed the driver's name as Hiranya
Khan. On the front seat, the young
man saw a pillow and a blanket.
The driver, Hiranya, become
aware of him looking around. “I have
to sleep in my car,” he said. The
young man nodded, avoiding eye
contact while looking down at his
golden watch. The driver noticed this
and he started to weave through the
traffic. Hiranya wanted to make more
money on the taxi fare.
“You don't need to rush,” said
the man with a smile. “I have plenty
of time.” At this moment, the driver
began to show his true emotions.
Nobody in America had ever been
friendly towards him before. The
driver thought the young man would
understand his problems.
“This job is tougher than I
thought it would be,” said the driver.
“I didn't intend to become a taxi cab
driver when I first came to
Philadelphia. I wanted to become a
doctor,” he laughed sarcastically.
“Seventeen years ago, I left my
home state of Kerala. My parents had
used all of their savings to send me
to the med school in Pariyaram. They
wanted me to have a good job. I had
a few sets of clothes, some food,
books and a couple thousand rupees.
For two days, I walked to Pariyaram.
My feet turned black with bruises. I
almost died from dehydration.”
The young man carefully listened
to the driver's story, while he looked
out the window, watching cars
splashing through the puddles on the
road.
“For the next nine years of my
life, I was devoted to studying. I knew
this was my opportunity to succeed.
At times, I questioned my desire to
become a doctor but my family
depended on my success. I needed to
work in a small restaurant to make
ends meet.”
“When I finished studying, my
friend Varghese and I moved to
Kollam. With the little money we
had, we started our own medical
institute. We would split the profits. I
sent my portion of the money to my
family in Kerala. For months,
Varghese and I treated the diseased
and poor for next to nothing; we
were paid in services and food. But I
was greedy. I wanted to make more
money.” A tear ran down the driver's
boney cheek.
The young man interrupted, “You
don't have to tell me your story if it
hurts to remember your difficult
past.”
“Telling my life story to
somebody who will listen relieves
me,” replied the taxi cab driver. “I
wanted to come to America for a
better opportunity. It was my dream.
One of the worst choices I've ever
made. You would think that my
degree would be recognized here. No
one will even consider my credentials
as a doctor. Maybe they're just
racist.”
“Now, I don't have a good job, a
home, a family. I'm just a taxi driver.
No matter how hard I work, I can
barely support myself. How can I help
my family in India!” cried the driver
in agony. “I can't even go back to
India. I've disgraced my family by
leaving my job in Kollam to follow a
fantasy. I don't even have the money
to get back home.”
The young man was visibly
continued...
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The Secret Souls cont’d
delivered parcels and packages every
year.
When they heard a muffled
thump near the family room, each
one emitted a gasp of delight. Saint
Nicholas had made his arrival! His
gift to them and the community
around them would be bestowed
once more this year! They heard the
anxious stomp of waiting hooves on
the roof and heard a slosh and a
slurp as Santa downed his milk in
one swift gulp. His footsteps echoed
closer and closer until the beaming,
rosy-cheeked man stood in front of
them, big belly swelling out in front
of him and making him seem all the
merrier.
He touched each of them with a
stubby finger and gave a mirthful
chuckle. Reaching deep within his
pocket, he withdrew a bottle full of a
shimmering powder and popped the
cork off to send the substance
clinging onto each porcelain body.
Their stiff limbs could once more
flow in the movement that they
hadn't experienced for almost a year.
They knew that they owed each
believer in the gift of holiday spirit
and selflessness a magnificent
Christmas, and knew that by making
by Kyla M.
a couple of Christmases miraculous,
that Santa would continue giving
them the gift of movement every
Christmas.
He winked and, with a heaving
sigh, flew up the chimney and was
gone.
A knock at the door notified
them that the woman's
grandchildren had arrived. Grinning
ear to ear, the children barrelled into
the family room where a fire roared
and crackled.
“Grammy, Grammy! Your tree is
beautiful!” gasped an angelic little
girl with wild red ringlets that
matched her grandmothers'.
“No Ella, the presents are
beautiful!” chortled a young boy
with skinned knees and a
mischievous expression.
While he scrabbled with his
slippery parcels, fiercely
concentrating on his gifts, the tiny
girlEllascrutinised each ornament
with pure awe flickering through her
chocolate brown eyes.
Ella, whispering sweet
compliments to each ornament, had
her magical Christmas morning
completed when the ballerina
twirled for her, arms poised to
Taxi to India
perfection, the baby babbled like a
spring brook, the reindeer family
galloped through the air and the
angel flapped her wings contentedly
and smiled at the girl. Ella gasped
but clamped a hand over her mouth,
not wanting to reveal her secret to
her slightly untrustworthy younger
brother. She grinned widely at the
ornaments, exposing her pearly
white teeth and utter joy.
The ornaments would have
traded their very freedom for that
one smile; it was worth much more
than graceful dances and the cheer
of the crowd, a mother's soft touch,
a loving reencounter, or a happy
group of friends.
Glancing up from the corner, the
grandmother was at first bewildered
but then thrilled to see the
ornaments dance for Ella as they had
for her forty years ago. She was full
of pride in knowing that her
grandchild was unselfish enough to
be granted the enchanting gift that
the figurines had given her, and
knew that she would grow up to be a
generous woman and a loving
person.
by Justin H.
I chose to write this story to raise awareness about immigrants who are being prohibited from doing necessary jobs in our
society. Many immigrants have studied in other countries but have been rejected for Canadian jobs due to employers who do
not recognize their foreign degrees. These immigrants may have left the lives that they have created to follow their dream in
Canada. It is wrong to completely deny the credentials of these people. My story focuses on doctors, of which Canada
currently has a shortage.
Writing is a way to share ideas. I learn a lot when I am writing. It requires thinking and allows a controlled amount of
creativity.
(cont’d)
Hallowed Be
Thy Name
byDrohan
Daniel B.
by Campbell
I wrote Hallowed Be Thy Name three days before the official deadline. In those short three days, the plot of the story
changed three times. In the first draft, the dialogue had been between two men, both of whom had just committed murder,
and were conversing on how best dispose the body. The second draft dealt with euthanasia, where one man was critically ill,
and had been condemned to life support. His only means of communication was through seemingly abstract allegories, riddles,
and rhymes. These two dialogues; as they had originally been written as dialogues, have adapted themselves into what you
see now.
On that particular night, I had just finished reading Plato's Apology, and had been reminiscing on the merits of my past
life, whilst contemplating as to whether or not the sins of my past would come to haunt me in the karma's of the future. Do I
continue to discredit moralities as words of the past attempting to dictate the future, or continue a life of rectitude
influenced by experiences my own, and the unimpeachable argumentation of others of whom I associate myself with? It was
then that I recalled a comical play I had written months earlier, which dealt with the concept of Enlightenment vs. Ignorance. I
decided to take this notion one step further, and wrote Hallowed Be Thy Name.
"Indeed," the man with the black hat
replied.
"What do we do now?" The
other man asked; a hint of scorn
accompanying the escaped words
from the pale man's frail open
mouth.
It appeared to pain the man with
the black hat to answer the pale
man's inquisition. "The only thing
that is left to do, I suppose."
Upon hearing his response, a
sense of anger overtook the pale
man. He acted as though he was
accustomed to the constant tricks
and riddles that the man with the
black hat spewed. Quickly attempting
to find an apt response to the
statement; while the man with the
black hat adjusted his hat, the pale
man began “And just what is 'that'
supposed to mean?--“ only to be cut
off with an unusual allegory. ”If a
lion, and a trombone, were to
compete in a contest, to see who had
the loudest roar of the two, and if
the only witness to this contest were
a snake, who, my dear friend, would
win?"
The pale man, despite his belief
that this 'investigation' was quite
foolish, was intrigued and his
response was rich with ridicule and
sarcasm.
"Well, 'surely' they both would
lose. The snake, not having ears,
would be unable to properly mediate
the contest, thus the match would
result in a draw!"
The man with the black hat
cocked an eyebrow, and without
looking directly at the pale man's
face, simply muttered, "perhaps".
The pale man condescendingly
asked, "You disagree?"
With a laugh that appeared to be
more forced than a Canadian is free,
the man furthered his inquest. "Out
of the three beings, my dear friend,
which is capable of hearing sound?"
"The lion, I would think, so long
as there was nothing impairing his
ability."
"Then surely, the lion would win,
would he not?"
With wide eyes, the pale man
responded. "Well… yes… come to
think of it. I suppose he would." The
pale man nodded in agreement.
Without missing a beat, the man
with the black hat asked, "Then your
previous statement that the match
would result in a draw would be a tad
bit...incorrect...would it not?"
After a moment's thought, and
what appeared to be much effort,
the pale man simply replied, "It
would". The pale man spat. Ignoring
this, the man with the black hat
continued, "However, would the lion
not be in a dilemma as to 'how' he
would go about proving that he had
truly won the contest, to the other
two beings?
Not liking where this was going,
the pale man did not reply.
The man with the black hat did
not pursue the inquiry.
After a moment, the pale man
submitted, and through clenched
Continued...
teeth agreed.
"Now, let us imagine, my dear
friend, that the Trombone, rather
then hearing sound as we hear it,
was able to 'feel' the vibrations, and
it believed that these 'vibrations'
were what 'we' call sound. When the
trombone let off a sound, would it
not feel the vibration of its own being
more strongly and more fiercely than
it would the roar of the lion?"
In the midst of a wide yawn, the
pale man replied, "I suppose it
would."
“Then would it not be in the
'same' dilemma as the lion in trying
to prove that it had won, in it's belief
that it had?”
Outraged, the pale man retorted,
“It most certainly, would not!” The
pale man coughed.
The man with the black hat,
curious as to the nature of the pale
man's outrage, asked “And why is
that, my dear friend?”
continued...
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Hallowed Be Thy Name con’td
As if the fate of his being rested
on this one, final response, the pale
man concluded “The situation would
indeed 'NOT' be the same for the
sole reason that the lion is right, and
has rightfully won, and the trombone
is wrong, and has lost. Therefore, it
would be ill of 'us' to say that the
dilemma is the same on both sides,
for although the means are the
same, the ends most certainly are
not!”
Scratching his chin, the man with
the black hat asked. “...what?…what
'are' these ends you are so profusely
referring to?”
Immediately, the pale man
snapped, “The trombone has
lost…And the lion - has won!”
Again, the man with the black
hat scratched his chin, only this time;
he titled his head, as if foreseeing a
glimpse of the future. “And the
means?”
Calming down a little, the pale
man took a breath, and said, “They
both partook in this contest. And
both believe to have been
successful.”
Appearing to understand, the
man with the black hat tilted the
direction of his hat, and simply said,
“I see.”
The pale man coughed. “Do
youreally?”
Straightening his back, as if an
epiphany had hit him, the man with
the black hat responded. “I do.”
The man with the black hat
continued, “My dear friend, would
this contest not be improperly
judged? It seems to me that this
whole 'dilemma', on both sides,
could have been avoided if the snake
had ears, and was capable of feeling
both the vibration, as well as the
physical manifestation of sound.”
Confused, the pale man asked,
“the 'physical manifestation of
sound'? I am not quite sure what you
mean?”
“My dear friend, do you believe
our senses to be flawless? Do you
believe that you can hear everything
that is to be heard; see everything
that there is to be seen; taste
everything that there is to be tasted,
feel everything that there is to be
felt; smell everything that there is to
be smelt; and, my dear friend, do
you believe that you know
everything that there is to be
known?”
“Why, of course not!”
“Then clearly our senses 'are'
flawed. How can one rightfully judge
another? It would be absurd for us to
condone this! Could it not be said
that my views of this world are
notably different than yours?”
“It could.”
The man with the black hat took
out a pistol.
A look of cowardice spread
across and overwhelmed the pale
man's face.
“Do you see this gun; my dear
friend?”
The pale man gasped. “I do.”
“What is the difference between
the way that you perceive this gun,
and the way that I perceive it?”
The pale man was still, and did
not make a sound.
The man with the black hat
slightly angled the gun so that it was
employed directly into the pale
man's chest. Without uttering a
word, the man with the black hate
did indeed elicit a response.
Taking a sharp breath, the pale
man implored, “I suppose it could be
due to the circumstances of this
situation.”
“Go on.”
Taking multiple sharp breaths, the
by Daniel B.
pale man continued, at times
stopping, gasping, until all that was
legible was the pale man's fear.
“We are both seeing the same gun,
the perspective, though, is different.
I see the barrel of the gun; you see
the back of it. This in itself is enough
to alter our perspectives.”
“Oh?”
”Seeing the back of the gun
would imply, and in this case, hold
true, that you wield the gun.” Taking
another sharp breath, the pale man
stated. “You weld the gun, you wield
the power.”
The man with the black hat
smiled. “Explain.”
Fear continued to grip the pale
man, as a realization occurred to
him. Saying it more to himself, than
to bring enjoyment to the man with
the black hat, the pale man went on.
“With a single, slight motion of your
finger, you could kill me.”
The man with the black hat
laughed. “I suppose I could.”
Devoid of emotion, the pale man
asked, “Are you going to?”
The man with the black hat
answered swiftly yet calmly, “Yup.”
The pale man swallowed, and
closed his eyes. “Then do it.”
The man with the black hat lifted
the gun so that rather than it being
aimed at the pale man's chest, it was
aimed at the pale man's head.
In a fake British accent, the man
with the black hat asked, “I thought,
I, wielded the power.” The man with
the black hat smiled. “We wait.”
Beckoning with the gun again, the
man concluded. “Now go on, let us;
finish this story of ours”
Ignoring the command uttered
by man with the black hat, the pale
man grimly stated, “You'll never get
away with this.”
“You see; my dear friend, that is
The Secret Souls
by Kyla M.
When I started my story, my heart was swelling with the holiday magic that occupies my spirit during the early winter, a period
when I always feel inspired. I always am over-enthusiastic while anticipating the holidays, so I channeled those emotions into my
story. Lots of my friends also feel excited in preparation for the holiday that their family celebrates. The majority of my relatives
and close friends celebrate Christmas, so I decided that the story would revolve around that topic. I wrote a simple story that I
would have fun creating. I wanted to capture some of my festive spirit, but still have a moral to the tale. I wanted to connect with
my audience by using some characters that were easy to share personal experiences with mingled amidst characters pulled from
my imagination. I also wanted to convey that by not observing things closely, you might not get the chance to collect knowledge or
experience new things.
Ever since I was a toddler with bouncy brown curls and sapphire blue eyes, I enjoyed the art of writing. Of course back then, my
“books” were laboriously written tales about different characters from television shows or other stories meeting each other.
Despite the fact that they had no plot or original characters, I still loved writing them. Writing in one simple word? Expression.
The holiday season was
approaching with increased
momentum and as the rosy-cheeked
carollers chirped their merry tunes,
snowflakes danced lithely from the
Heavens and armies of gingerbread
men marched bravely into the fiery
oven, a damp box sat in the deepest,
darkest corner of a cupboard. The
top was sealed tightly with a thick
band of duct tape that was coated in
a slight covering of dust similar to the
layer of snow that blanketed the
blades of grass outside. Entrapped
inside, a tangle of ornaments lay
mourning in their deep slumber and
dreaming of the week when they
would truly experience Christmas.
They imagined the rich pine smell of
the evergreen tree, felt the blaring
glow of a winding string of lights
reflecting off the golden tinsel that
drooped over each limb of the
majestic tree and almost experienced
the joy of young children as they
eagerly opened each package with
excitement.
A graceful ballerina adorned in a
tulle tutu and blue leotard with soft
blue slippers lay in an awkward
position upside down at the top of
the heap. Her delicate porcelain
cheeks were airbrushed until they
were flushed to ultimate perfection.
Her straight chestnut locks were
fastened in a tight bun, small wisps of
hair escaping its grasp. She was
stunning; even the loop of blue silk
on which she hung was beautiful.
She yearned to stretch out her long,
elegant legs, dance upon her dainty
toes and hear the thunderous
applause of the crowd as they
beamed at her marvellous
performance.
Directly underneath the ballerina
lay a small baby, exquisitely painted,
who was swaddled in a cozy pink
blanket placed in a woven basket.
She had tufts of black hair and
sparkling green eyes, a round nose
and fat fists that ached to feel the
warm touch of a mother.
Strewn all around the box were a
family of reindeer. They had
twinkling brown eyes, soft pink ears
and smiles plastered on their faces.
Contrary to their injection-moulded
grins, they longed for the rest of their
family and couldn't wait until the day
when they would ride majestically
together once more.
Standing upright over in the
darkest corner, a glorious angel
stood. Her blonde curls cascaded
down her cheeks, framing her large
blue eyes curtained with rows of long
black lashes. Her ivory skin lit up her
face, and her feathered wings were
spread out widely. The long white
continued...
continued...
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dress she wore creased as she lifted
her arms to the skies, smiling gently.
She was anticipating the day she
would perch at the very top of the
tree, watching over her many friends
and guarding them from danger.
Light enveloped the tiny space as
a portly woman with friendly hazel
eyes and a warm smile entered and
picked up the box and contents.
Padding gently up the winding
staircase, she opened the box,
caressing each ornament with her
delicate touch. She carefully placed
each ornament atop a sprawling
branch, and they beamed as they
witnessed the scene of their dreams
spread out before them. The
ballerina still couldn't dance, the
baby's mother was still out of reach;
the reindeer couldn't reunite, the
angel was sorrowful to see her
friends so melancholy in the festive
season, but they were much happier
than before, now that at least one
wish to be out of the stuffy, cold box
was fulfilled.
On Christmas Eve, they all
positioned themselves elegantly to
please the old woman as much as
they could to make her Christmas a
joyous occasion. The day slipped
away and led to night, the time when
each ornament prepared for the
arrival of the jolly old saint who
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Hysteria cont’d
frightened. My hair was sticking up in
random places. I had bags
underneath my eyes and dozens of
bloody cuts. A light red liquid glazed
over my skin, and I smelled. None of
this compared to how my head felt.
I used the bathroom rather
quickly. Washing my hands I noticed
how bloody I really was, ripped my
clothes off and hopped into the
shower. The hot water felt amazing
on my wounded flesh. The soap
stung, but only a little.
My skin felt cold after I finished
showering. As soon as my hand
reached for the towel, I heard him.
“I missed you,” He snarled. I could
see his yellowing teeth behind his
unwashed beard.
“S-stay away from me,” I tried to
be brave, but my voice faltered.
“I'd rather not,” he snarled again,
and from behind his back he grabbed
a knife.
Screaming, I burst out of the
room. There stood three doctors and
my parents. My black hair was
dripping; my skin was still red from
the heat of the water and covered in
nothing but a towel.
“He was there!” I screamed when
they wouldn't stop staring. I cried
out, tearing up in fear and
frustration. Why didn't they believe
me?
I then felt a pair of thick, strong
arms on me, clutching my elbows. I
could remember these hands, but
only faintly. They were my father's
hands, but I didn't recognize them.
They weren't the same hands that
held me as I road my bike or when I
fell off the swings at the playground.
These hands were forceful. They
grabbed a hold of me as I cried,
kicked and screamed. Moments later,
a needle slipped into the flesh of my
right arm and I immediately felt
drowsy. I gave in to the fluid in my
veins as the room blacked out.
Richmond Hill Public Library
by Tannaz N.
Waking up, I felt immediately
scared. Questions like “where is he?”
and “when's he going to get me?”
filled my head. I felt venerable, alone
and unprotected on the hospital bed.
He could've gotten me while I was
asleep, but he probably wanted to
wait until I was conscious so I could
fully experience the intense pain
he'd planned for me.
I rolled over on my side, hoping to
sleep again. I'd neglected the burn in
my throat. I was parched. I realized I
hadn't had a thing to drink since my
fist encounter with him, and I
couldn't remember when that was. I
opened my eyes and waited for them
to adjust. I cracked my stiff bones
before reaching for the water by my
bed.
That's when someone walked into
my room.
“You've been asleep for a long
time,” his rough voice spoke. I
paused, and then I could see him
through the darkness that
surrounded me.
“You've been asleep for a while,”
he grinned, knife ready.
“Who are you?” I asked. He
gasped, it sounded much more
feminine than his voice. It confused
me.
“Just a....friend,” he chuckled and
raised his knife like he had at school.
Acting on impulse, I grabbed the
closest thing I got my hands on, a
silver pair of scissors. With one deep
breath I plunged them forward, into
him. It made the nastiest noise I ever
heard in my life. I could feel my
bones cringe as the scissors impaled
his chest. I let go of the metal and
threw myself into my pillow, covering
my head with my arms, in case he
was still coming for me. He was real,
I wasn't insane.
I was also safe.
He made a noise, finally. It was a
squeal, far more feminine than I
5
would ever imagine on him. He was
hyperventilating now. I was confused
at how delicate and feminine he
sounded.
The room around me brightened.
He must have made it to the light
switch. I whipped my body around to
face a woman. Her eyes were wide
and her mouth hung open. She held
her hand on her thin bust line, her
chest moved rapidly. Simply inches
away from her hand, I saw what I
had done.
A pair of scissors stuck out from
under her bust.
I'd stabbed her. I felt blanketed by
horror. I immediately loathed myself
for what I had done to her. The
emotions attacked my heart and I
felt pain almost similar to what hers
must have been. I put her in
unimaginable pain, just like he was
going to do to me. I felt sick for
thinking it, but it felt nice that I
wasn't alone in this. It killed me that
it was at this pretty woman's
expense.
I blacked out once again. Through
the darkness I could hear voices, two
I recognized as my parents. Others I
didn't.
“She's a threat,” One spoke
“She's my baby” my mother cried.
When I woke up, everything
around me was white. I'd been
placed all alone in a padded cell.
Sometimes, people would come in
with drugs, sometimes my parents
visited me, but mostly it was me and
him. Sometimes he'd talk, but the
words he chose were disgusting.
Sometimes he'd raise his knife as if
to kill me, and then disappear. I
hated those times.
I just wished he wouldn't
disappear.
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Hallowed Be
(cont’d)
Thy Name con’td
where you are wrong. The snake that
partook in the judging of this story is
much like the law: incapable of
passing 'true,' 'legitimate,' 'impartial'
judgment.”
Shallowly, the pale man smiled
Daniel B.
by CampbellbyDrohan
“That doesn't prevent it from passing
judgment.”
The man with the black hat,
completely oblivious to the pale
man's latest remark, continued,
“Once I kill you, I will go on to kill the
Canadian Landscape - Watercolour
lion.”
“So then you are the
trombone?”
**Gunshot**
The man with the black hat
dropped the gun, and walked away.
by Zachary
by Campbell
DrohanH.
I chose this photo to paint because I
found the landscape beautiful, and it was an
in-school project so I thought I would
challenge myself with a real life picture. I also
chose this because I love the outdoors, and
this is a perfect scene. I really like the colour
of the water and clouds, and these are some
of my favourite things to draw and paint.
Teatime - Graphite
by Kerenza
by Campbell
DrohanY.
During my art lessons every Saturday, I have
completed this piece of art. In the picture, the
main technique is pencil shading still life objects.
I chose to use this because different shades can
show various moods. For example, if an artist
showed very dark shading in their art, with a
spider camouflaged in the background, the artist
is probably showing us that he wasn't very
happy. What I was trying to draw are different
objects in a household. They are placed
randomly on a piece of a not-so-neat piece of
cloth because my house isn't very tidy like
others. In my opinion, putting everything
straight and neat wouldn't be natural; therefore,
it wouldn't appear realistic.
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
DrohanS.
Study of Student Portrait - Mixed Media by Campbell
by Freedom
This painting is loosely based on my friend Kathleen but I
have made many changes:I have placed the girl on a chair
draped in red cloth against a dark background, changed the
colour and the shape of her face. I am sure that it would have
been a lot more romantic if I had seen a girl and had a sudden
urge to paint
her but the truth more realistic. In school we studied
Leonardo DaVinci's life and work
and so we practiced copying some of his
artwork and using class mates as models of our own. This
picture started out as one of these sketches . when my
teacher said that we
could paint one of our drawings in tempera I chose this one!
Still Life - Graphite
Hysteria
by Tannaz N.
I wanted to write this story because I wanted to write something with suspense. I'm a huge horror fan and I've read so
many stories of that genre but I've never actually written one. When I write, I tend to gravitate towards fantasy, realistic or
science fiction when horror is my favorite genre. I decided I'd try it in this story just to see how it'll turn out. Now that I've
written one, I can't stop writing stories like it!
Since it was a short story, I wanted to keep readers alert. The last thing I wanted was for my story to be overlooked. I
wanted to keep people on the edge of their seat and wanting more. I wanted it to be memorable, something people can keep
with them for a while. I wanted to intrigue them, so I focused on intriguing myself with it.
To me, writing is letting my imagination out. I enjoy creating different characters and situations. I like watching my
characters unfold and react to the situations they're in. I love playing with words and making them sound perfect. To be
perfectly honest, I only recently began paying so much attention to my writing. It's therapeutic, I do it on my best and worst
days. Now I literally jump at any chance to write.
Sarah Z.
by CampbellbyDrohan
My drawing is about still-life sketch:
title Pot, glass bottle, carrot and green
peppers. The inspiration of my drawing was
from my mom. When she cooks, she always
uses lots of bottles, jars and pots, and she
has always wanted to have a drawing to
hang in the kitchen. So I have been
thinking, why can’t I draw something about
her kitchen stuff and vegetables? She will
be a lot happier as well. So then I created
this drawing.
“Help!”
I screamed as loud as my lungs
would let me. I ran as fast as I could
to get away from
him. I bumped into walls, lockers and
people who looked at me like I was
insane; didn't
they see the big man with a knife
behind me? Why wouldn't they help
me? I was crying now, crying and
screaming. My throat felt like I had
just swallowed sewing needles. My
arms throbbed from running into
walls and I could feel blood from my
scars running down my face. I was
covered in sweat and I could feel
myself about to vomit. My knees
began to buckle but I forced them to
keep going.
I risked a look back. He was there,
running towards me with that sick
smile on his scruffy face. His knife
was clutched in his outstretched
hand. Suddenly, something smacked
me hard in my stomach. My
abdominals ached as I fell to the
ground. Looking up, I noticed I'd run
into a water fountain, looking up
again, I saw the man; arm held high
in the air, knife tightly gripped. His
hand came down swiftly, right above
my chest. I shut my eyes tight, not
wanting to see the blade dig into me
like I knew it was about to. I brought
my hands up to my ears to plug out
the sound of cracking bones, my
bones, when it plunged into me.
“AH!”
But nothing happened. I opened
my eyes, there was no man. He was
there, a second ago. I hoisted myself
up on my elbows and looked around.
Students were staring at me
awkwardly. They were all in the
hallway, surrounding me like you'd
surround men who were about to
fight. Some were crying, others were
cupping their mouths with their
hands. One or two looked as though
they were going to embrace me, but
they stopped.
“Mitchie, are you alright?” I
recognized that voice; it was Ms.
Houston, my third period biology
teacher. “Somebody call an
ambulance!” she yelled out to the
crowd. Several people flipped their
phones out.
“Where is he? Where'd he go?” I
screamed at her, crying hysterically.
“It's nothing, nothing happened,”
she hugged me and kissed my
forehead gently.
“It's not nothing!” I yelled, pushing
her away from me. I hardly made an
effort, I was too weak, but she knew
my intentions and separated herself
from me, “He was there, he had a
knife. He was after me, yelling things”
I shouted as I pushed her off some
more. She just stared at me,
confused.
Looking down at my body, I could
see a huge bruise on my stomach. I
was a bloody, sweaty mess and my
chest moved so fast I thought my
heart would burst through any
minute.
“Why aren't I dead?” I whispered.
The ambulance arrived minutes
later. Ms. Houston help me onto the
stretcher were they cleansed my
large wounds with antiseptics. I was
surprised how I didn't recognize the
pain, normally I hated the stingy
feeling, but my mind was far too
clouded from what had happened
earlier.
There was a man, tall with an
alabaster complexion. I thought he
was darker at first, tanned, but it was
just gasoline or soot. He had a knife,
and he was fast. Faster than me,
faster than anyone I had ever seen on
the school track team. He was yelling
at me, telling me horrible things he
would do to me. Telling me how he
would break my bones before
stabbing my heart out, and he almost
did.
But he didn't.
The first thing I did once they
checked on me at the hospital was
use the bathroom. In the mirror I saw
myself, looking ravaged and
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Thirteen Cont’d
photograph of it in front of me. If
anybody ever said that grown-ups
were air-heads, I would certainly
challenge them that my dad was very
detailed and though it would have
been easier to take a picture with his
cell phone, he was out to show me
how they did it in the good old days.
My dad takes every opportunity to
show me how it was done when he
was growing up since he already
knows that his “war stories” are
falling on deaf ears when it comes to
making me relive his childhood.
The musical warning signal
snapped me out of my sleepy
condition and a rush of people from
two directions looked as if there was
going to be huge crash of bodies.
Somehow it reminded me of Boxing
Day sales at the mall but people
seemed like they knew when it was
their turn to start walking. I
managed to get a seat even though
the subway car seemed filled to
capacity.
All of a sudden, everyone of my
senses seemed to be triggered.
Different smells crept into my nose
from people to the left, to the right
and even worst, the people in front
of me. Some smelled like my mom
when she sprayed that Chanel
cologne in the morning and some
smelled like dad when he comes
back from hockey practice with my
brother. My ears were filled with
conversations from all directions;
some louder than others. The
people on the cell phone were the
loudest, almost sounding like they
were screaming through a
megaphone. In my line of sight,
were a group of high school kids
looking half asleep but obviously
knowing each other. The advertising
lined up across the top was selling
everything from cell phones to sunny
vacations. A lot of the advertising
Richmond Hill Public Library
by Kathryn H.
didn't make sense.
At each stop, people came onto
the train and people left. Some
people looked for seats and others
grabbed the bar and preferred to
stand. Some people sat with their
eyes closed, some were reading and
others were listening to their ipods.
Out of no where, someone's cheap
cologne seemed to come out of the
crowd and hit my nose like my
brother's left hook. I had to scratch
my nose but in my haste, my elbow
brushed against someone's leg.
Luckily, they just smiled when they
saw that it was just a child rubbing
her nose. The journey seemed
longer than the 20 minutes my dad
estimated but he did say it all
depended on the size of the crowds.
Just as I felt my eyes closing, I
caught the name of my stop pop up
out of the corner of my eye. I quickly
jumped out of my seat and ran out of
the subway doors. I took a deep
breath and started walking toward
the exit sign. All of sudden, someone
grabbed my arm. Blood rushed to
my head and my first response was
to scream. I turned and saw another
teenager. I instantly recognized her
as the girl who was sitting beside me.
She was holding my backpack. With
a smile, she held out my backpack
and I quickly grabbed it. I thanked
her and she joined the crowd up the
stairs. I noticed her backpack had
the same school crest so I followed
her group of friends since they
seemed to heading towards the
general direction of the school.
As I followed behind, I began to
wonder what grade these girls were
in. They looked just like out of a
magazine with their Abercrombie
clothing and Converse runners. As
we walked out of the station, the
rising sun beamed off the girls'
braces and their cell phones hanging
3
from their purses. I slowed my pace
because I was wearing “yesterday's
style” and I didn't want to feel any
more insecure than I already was.
Ever since Mom brought in the rule
that I could buy anything I wanted as
long as it came out my allowance, I
stopped surfing the internet for the
latest fashions that I could not afford.
As I stood before the school, I
stopped before the big brass statue.
The statue was dedicated to the
founder of the school. I wondered if
he knew he was going to have a
school named after him when he
started teaching. My parents keep
reminding me to find a role model
and stop watching the programs on
Family channel with the taped
laughter. I shut off my cell phone but
not before noticing that I only had
five minutes left before the start of
classes. I counted the stairs as I
walked. The doors closed behind
me. I made it.
(Cont’d) - Scratchboard
Mother Theresa
by Apoorva
by Campbell
DrohanS.
Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I
think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the
person who has nothing to eat." said Mother Theresa.
This artwork is a social portrait of Mother Theresa using the medium
of a scratchboard. Mother Theresa created jobs for the poor, taught the
children is slums, made homes for the dying and clinics for the sick, and
a leprosy clinic in Calcutta. She fought for people's dignity and did not
care about their status or religion.
I was inspired by the generosity and kind nature of Mother Theresa.
Migrant Worker - Oil
by Drohan
Angela W.
by Campbell
I am honored to have my work selected among
the many talented pieces by young artists of
Richmond Hill.
Canada is a multicultural country, and there are
many different races living in our community--but
seldom do we find those that look like the man in
my painting--for he is a young migrant worker, paid
to in meager wages compared to what we earn,
sending all his money but those spent on survival
to his family back home. The large, rough strokes
create texture that contrasts with the smooth
refinement of a commissioned piece featuring a
wealthy man of higher class. However, representing
these diligent citizens of the global community is
perhaps as important as showing our own diverse
culture and heritage through the arts.
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
The Man Behind The Steel - Acrylic
by Shamara
S.
by Campbell
Drohan
Superman has always seemed like the ideal
man – the muscles, the eyes and of course the
ability to fly. An idea came to me to strip him of
these superficial aspects and to make him
simply a man, not a superman. Therefore, the
red and yellow were no longer included; only
blue acrylic paint captured his features. The
portrait was cropped to be more focused on his
face and less focused on the ‘big S’ on his chest.
I really brought the iconic superman right down
to the basics. As result, he no longer seemed
like some unreachable superhero; he seemed
more like everyone else. I hope this painting
tells all those trying to find their Superman,
that this may not be so impossible, if you look
for the man, not the steel.
Thirteen
by Kathryn H.
(cont’d)
I have just entered my teenage years and like most kids, facing many new experiences. I wanted to write about a strong
emotion; possibly something with the fear of the unknown. Everybody faces something similar in their teenage years; whether it's
joining a new sports team, entering a competition, or moving to a new neighbourhood. The one experience that brought the most
emotions together for me was the trip to a possible new school.
Many young readers will be able to understand that as a teenager, one starts to look at new experiences with a different
perspective. I was hoping to convey to the reader that it doesn't matter how confident one is, old and new experiences can become
unfamiliar in an instant and all of a sudden, fear and anxiety can change the way you experience something.
Writing is a great way to express oneself and is one of the best ways to reminisce an eventful experience. Writing is first a
great way to logically organize my thoughts and to express myself. Writing is also interesting because depending on your mood,
you can go back and rewrite something and change the mood of a story which you can't do when you talk with a friend.
Angel In Us - Graphite
Angie S.
by CampbellbyDrohan
This unique still life is rendered in soft graphite
pencil on illustration board. The small angel figurine
has been moved forward in the frame leaving behind
a translucent negative space. This technique gives the
composition the illusion of movement and perhaps a
little magic.
The inspiration for my art work, called, “Angel in
Us” came to me one night while I was dreaming.
These are the symbols in my art work:
Marble - contains trapped emotion (bad emotion evil
corruption)
Shell - the texture of the shell is bumpy and rough
(representing how we all have ups and downs)
Angel - innocence, we are born innocent
Angel's shadow - white to represent goodness
This way to Subway. I remember
staring at the tiled letters. Tilting my
head slightly to the right and upward,
the white and red lighted public
transit sign casted a shadow over my
frail stature. This was the beginning
and the end. The beginning to my
first of many lonely trips to school
unaccompanied by anyone who had
any resemblance to a family member,
relative, friend, neighbour or
acquaintance. The end to the
comfort and luxury of sitting in the
back of an SUV on those hot summer
or cold winter days where public
transit would be similar to living
without my cell phone.
Why is “13” the magic number
for adults? My mother somehow
convinced my father that that magic
number was the end of my childhood
and that it was time to learn how to
survive in the real world. I keep
hearing that reference to the “real
world” so many times that I think
that there must be two earths; one
for children and one for adults who
obviously live in the “real world”. I
am guessing that that fact that
thirteen ends with the dreaded four
letters that somehow is the topic of
most parties that my parents attend.
Teen this and teen that. One of my
friend's parents says that their girls
get everything they ask for because
then they won't need to marry
someone for things they never got
when they were growing up. I don't
know if this true but I know that it is a
topic of discussion for my parents
whenever I ask for something that
they tell me I only “want” but don't
“need”.
Stairs never intimidated me.
Even when I was only old enough to
crawl around on all fours, I was never
scared to crawl to the top of the stairs
and rattle the safety gates that my
parents put up to keep me from
falling down the stairs. But this time,
the cement stairs looked much colder
and intimidating; as if the stairs were
leading to some place where I didn't
have a chance of coming back up.
Braced with my backpack pressed
tightly against my back, I could feel
tiny beads of sweat forming between
the nylon backing and my jacket.
Suddenly, I jolted back. There was
a loud ringing sound, which I
eventually discovered was the signal
before the subway doors closed. But
somehow, standing at the top of the
stairs, any musical notes sounded
more like the trumpets that preceded
the gladiators walking out to their
death with the lions in the old Roman
collisiums.
My father had already bought me
a monthly pass so I didn't have to
fumble for a subway token as most
passengers seem to be doing. It was
easier than I thought. The simple
sliding of the pass through a raised
metal slot gave way to a loud click,
which signaled the release of a lock
on the turnstile. I walked quickly
through since I could tell that people
behind me were annoyed with the
time I took to examine the
instructions on the top of the
turnstile.
How do people do this every
day? I only hesitated for a moment
but it seemed like eternity. I still had
to make a major decision before the
journey could begin. I had two
choices; either go North or South? I
could have taken the easy way out by
asking the person working behind the
newspaper stand but I figured that
this was where my teenage years
would mark their beginning. What is
it about teenagers and trying to look
cool all the time? My dad always
lectured me about knowing when to
eat my pride and this seemed to fit
the scenarios that my dad described.
I could jump on the wrong train
platform and risk the possibility of
being late for school or I could take
out the map that my dad drawn out
for me. For me, it was easy to
choose the latter because none of my
school friends were around to
witness my moment of weakness. I
brought out the map as if I was
staring at my beautiful face in front of
the mirror and little to my surprise,
the newspaper stand and stairways
matched the drawing as if I had a
continued...
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
winners 2009
(Cont’d)
Cloud 11 - Acrylic
Short Story Contest
Grades 7 & 8
Kathryn H., Academy for Gifted Children - P.A.C.E. - grade 8, Thirteen ........................................................ 2
Tannaz N., Sixteenth Avenue Public School - grade 7, Hysteria ..................................................................... 4
Kyla M., Adrienne Clarkson Public School - grade 7, The Secret Souls .......................................................... 6
Grades 9 & 10
Justin H., Academy for Gifted Childre - P.A.C.E. - grade 10, Taxi to India ...................................................... 7
Linda Z., Langstaff Secondary School - grade 10, Touched by a Figure in the Snow ..................................... 9
Iris Y., Langstaff Secondary School - grade 9, Monkey See Monkey Do ......................................................... 11
by Drohan
Nicco M.
by Campbell
I’ve had the idea of painting a piece like this for
quite a while, but never got a chance until now. I
can’t say it turned out exactly how I planned, but
that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. This piece means
a lot to me for a variety of reasons. From a purely
aesthetic and visual standpoint, this painting is just
about as “me” as it gets – incorporating a female
figure, graffiti and bright colors. I wanted give this
girl’s hair the energy that it deserved. All that’s left
to say is that good things come in 11’s.
Grades 11 & 12
Maybelle L., Bayview Secondary School - grade 12, Milky Way .................................................................... 13
Jackie B., Richmond Hill High School - grade 12, As Silence Reverberates in the Silence.............................. 15
Diana J., Academy for Gifted Children - P.A.C.E. - grade 12, Cliquot .............................................................. 17
Honourable Mention
Daniel B, Richmond Hill High School - grade 9, Hallowed Be Thy Name ...................................................... 20
Youth Visual Art Festival
Grades 7 & 8
Zachary H., Our Lady Help of Christians - grade 7, Canadian Landscape ................................................... 22
Kerenza Y., Sixteenth Avenue Public School - grade 8, Teatime .................................................................. 22
Freedom S., Toronto Waldorf School - grade 7, Study of Student Portrait-Renaissance Style ................... 23
Grades 9 & 10
Sarah Z., Bayview Secondary High School - grade 9, Still Life ...................................................................... 23
Apoorva S., Toronto Montessori School - grade 9, Mother Theresa ............................................................ 24
Angela W., Richmond Hill High School - grade 10, Migrant Worker ............................................................ 24
Grades 11 & 12
Shamara S., Langstaff Secondary School - grade 12, The Man Behind The Steel ........................................ 25
Angie S., Richmond Green Secondary School - grade 12, Angel In Us ........................................................ 25
Nicco M., St. Robert Catholic High School - grade 12, Cloud 11 ................................................................... 26
William F. Bell Award
Ananta T., Oak Ridges Public School - grade 8, Waiting Cat ........................................................................ 26
Waiting Cat - Pastel
by Drohan
Ananta T.
by Campbell
Thank you for choosing my Art
work and encouraging me to do even
better in future. My artwork portrays
a mysterious looking cat waiting in
the darkness. It appears to be
waiting for its prey with its watchful
eyes. This painting caught my
attention and the obscurity and
mystery in this painting really stood
out to me, which is the reason why I
selected to recreate it.
Founder’s Award
Lucy S., Crosby Heights Public School - grade 11, Still Life ........................................................................... 27
Yacov K., Alexander Mackenzie High School - grade 10, North Spirit ........................................................... 27
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Still Life - Graphite & Pencil Crayon
Lucy S.
by CampbellbyDrohan
Al Groen
I was inspired to draw this picture when
admiring some Chinese antiques, which were
very old, but still held a certain beauty in my
eyes. In my picture, an old wooden chair and
dressing table stand. A bird perches proudly
upon a twig pertruding from a jar, reflected in
the old, stained mirror. A majestic golden vase
stands on the table, which is also adorned by
golden draperies, contrasting with the dark
colour and rough texture of the wood. The
furniture is old and dilapidated, but even the
oldest of objects can have a beauty of their
own, and we should appreciate that.
Art is a process of discovery and exploration of ideas. It demands a great deal of perseverance
and working through mistakes. Above all, it has to be fun!
Al Groen is a painter, sculptor, designer, poet, teacher. Al has been the heart and soul of GroenArt for over 25
years. His work reflects a deep passion for life...its struggles, journeys and triumphs. He works without
boundaries from a simple backyard studio. From this small sanctuary, works of art emerge that are bold,
intellectually provocative, inspired and beautiful. GroenArt paintings and sculptures are featured in galleries
and private collections throughout Canada, the United States and Europe.
Ken Sparling
To each person who submitted a story to the Richmond Hill Public Library’s Young Adult Short Story
Contest:
You are all winners. You put yourself out there. You gave of yourself, through your story. You asked to
be heard. That’s what matters, not whether or not you won. There was room for four winners, but
that’s just a structural issue. It has nothing to do with the meeting of souls that occurs when a writer
seeks a reader. There were stories that I loved that didn’t win, didn’t even place. But you touched me,
and that’s what it’s all about. So thanks, and stay out there.
Ken Sparling is the author of an untitled novel (Pedlar Press, 2003); Hush Up and Listen Stinky Poo Butt (homemade
by special order); Dad Says He Saw You At The Mall (Knoph, New York, 1996); and most recently, For Those Whom
God Has Blessed With Fingers (Pedlar Press 2005). In the November 2005 publication of Quill & Quire: Canada’s
Magazine of Book News and Reviews, he was the subject of a cover story. His latest novel, Name of Book, will be
published by Pedlar Press in 2010. Ken is Communications Officer responsible for youth programs at Toronto
Public Library.
Karen Stoskopf Harding
North Spirit - Pastel
Yacov K.
by CampbellbyDrohan
North Spirit is one of my first pieces
done with oil pastels. It is a
representational artwork, which represents
the melancholy, dreamy state at which I
was during the creative process. I have had
great fun creating this work and I hope you
enjoy it, and extract from it, your own
meaning.
In this year’s Youth Visual Art Festival, judges considered the artwork of 146 entrants representing 25
schools in our community. Twelve awards were made in various categories, from first prize to
Honourable Mention, with prizewinners coming from different schools.
There is much exciting talent in our young visual artists and I would like to congratulate everyone who
participated. Next year may be your time to receive an award! I sincerely hope that the opportunity to
exhibit your art and to view the work of your peers will have a lasting impact on your creative energies,
whether you choose in future to become a professional artist, an art hobbyist or an admirer of the
visual arts. Practice and learn in every way possible, experiment with new methods and materials
and keep your mind open to the great variety of artistic expression in our world. Above all, let your art
be a genuine reflection of your inner creative impulse, thereby making it uniquely your own.
Karen Stoskopf Harding holds an Honours BA in Visual Art Studio and a Masters Degree in Art History. In 1984 she
became a member of the Sculptors Society of Canada and has exhibited in Canada, the USA and Europe with the
S.S.C. and independently. She acts as the Society’s Archivist and is also a member of the Richmond Hill Public
Library Art Committee. In 2007 she worked with the Library in establishing the Youth Art Festival which was cosponsored by Arts Richmond Hill. In 2008 the Festival became an official programme of the Richmond Hill Public
Library.
Please note: The short stories, works of art and their introductions are published as originally submitted.
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
greetings from the CEO
staff contributions
Jane Horrocks, CEO, Richmond Hill Public Library
Rebecca Abitbol
Adult Services Librarian
Franca Perri
Receptionist/Secretary
The winners of this year’s Youth Literary & Art Festival represent the creative powers of our youth. They
have all worked very hard to express themselves with the written word or through the visual art
medium. Our wonderful judges have volunteered their time and expertise and have chosen the best
entries in the various age groups. The winning submissions are printed and reproduced here.
Brian Bell
Manager of Richvale Library
Cathy Peters
Manager of Oak Ridges Moraine Library
Congratulations to all of you.
Katarina Boljkovac
Adult Services Librarian
Robin Rakowsky
Teen Services Librarian
Kathy Bertucci
Communications Assistant
Cecily Reid
Children’s Services Librarian
Catherine Charles
Corporate Relations Officer
Alice Torrance
Art Consultant
Joan Girot
Business and Government documents Librarian
Greg Taylor
Branch Services Librarian
Lesley Holland
Children’s Services Library Technician
Laurie Valentine
Programming Librarian
Cameron Knight
Local History/Genealogy Librarian
Michelle Weinberg
Manager of Children’s Services
message from the judges
Barry Dempster
Writing a story is like putting everything you know all together in a brain blender and creating an
entirely new and compelling world. A story is more than just character and plot: it’s the smell of mud
on a soaking April afternoon, the look in a hero’s eyes as he realizes that the stranger he’s staring at is
staring back at him, the sound of an old woman asking for directions in a foreign land. Congratulations
to all of you for creating these bold new worlds and for having the courage to invite us, the readers, to
participate in your adventures. Thank you for lending us your wonderful imaginations. My own world is
richer for having read you.
Barry Dempster is the author of the novel, The Ascension of Jesse Rapture, two collections of short stories, a
children’s book, and nine volumes of poetry. His most recent poetry collection, The Burning Alphabet,
published in 2005, secured his second nomination for the Governor General’s Award for Poetry. Other writing
prizes include a 2nd place finish in the international poetry competition for the Petra Kenney Award and the
Canadian Author’s Association Chalmers Award for Poetry. He is also an editor for the prestigious publishing
house, Brick Books. Barry was the 2005 Writer in Residence at Richmond Hill Public Library. His 14th book,
a new collection of poetry entitled Love Outlandish, was published early spring 2009.
Greg Patterson
Virtual Services Specialist
Volunteer contributions
Margaret Glew
Jurying the prize winners in this competition was extremely difficult. The quality of the work was very high,
and all entrants have reason to be proud of their accomplishments. While all the work was technically
good, the winning entries possessed a more personal element, an original point of view or approach that
stood out. Congratulations!
Katherine Belrose
Member of the Richmond Hill Public Library Board and Chair of the Library Board’s Art Committee
Margaret Glew lives and paints in Toronto. A mostly self-taught artist, her abstract paintings are intuitive, gestural,
often multi-layered; like the eroding surfaces of the earth, they reveal traces of their own history.
Karen Stoskopf Harding
Member of Library Board’s Art Committee
She has been exhibiting her work in Toronto since 1989 and is represented in Toronto by Engine Gallery . Her
paintings were exhibited at the Toronto International Art Fair in each of the past three years and in July, 2007 she was
one of eight Canadian artists exhibiting in “Parca, Canada in New York”, at the 511 Gallery in Chelsea, New York.
Her work is in a number of public and corporate collections, including the City of Toronto Archives, the City of
Scarborough Art collection, and the Richmond Hill Public Library.
Mary Vautour
Member of Library Board’s Art Committee
Published by Richmond Hill Public Library © May 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Richmond Hill Public Library
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Youth Literary & Art Festival 2009
Library locations and hours
RICHMOND HILL CENTRAL LIBRARY*
1 Atkinson Street (corner of Major Mackenzie & Yonge)
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4C 0H5
Telephone: (905) 884-9288
Oak Ridges
Moraine
Library
Bathurst St.
*In-depth resources & information services
Bayview Ave.
King Rd.
Leslie St.
Bloomington Rd.
HOURS:
Monday - Thursday . . . . 9:30 a.m. - 9:00 p.m.
Friday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9:30 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
Sunday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . noon - 5:00 p.m.
Hwy 404
19th Ave.
HOURS:
Tuesday & Wednesday. 10:00 a.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Thursday & Friday . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
Richmond
Green Library
Elgin Mills Rd. E.
Richmond Hill
Central Library
Major Mackenzie Dr.
Atkinson St.
RICHMOND GREEN LIBRARY
1 William F. Bell Parkway
(Leslie St. & Elgin Mills Road)
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4S 2T9
Telephone: (905) 780-0711
Richvale
Library
Hwy 7
HOURS:
Tuesday & Wednesday . 10:00 a.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Thursday & Friday. . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
Leslie St.
Bantry Ave.
Bayview Ave.
16th Ave.
Hwy 407 (toll)
RICHVALE LIBRARY
40 Pearson Avenue,
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4C 6T7
Telephone: (905) 889-2847
Youth
Literary & Art
Festival
Scott Dr.
Pearson
Ave.
HOURS:
Monday - Thursday . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 8:00 p.m.
Friday . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 6:00 p.m.
Saturday . . . . . . . . . . . . 10:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
N
Stouffville Rd.
Yonge St.
OAK RIDGES MORAINE LIBRARY
13085 Yonge Street, Unit 12
Richmond Hill, Ontario L4E 3L2
Telephone: (905) 773-5533
Richmond Hill Public Library’s
2009
Anthology
RICHMOND HILL
PUBLIC LIBRARY
www.rhpl.richmondhill.on.ca