LCC Lit Mag
Volume 2, Issue 1
A Note From The Editors
By: Elizabeth O’Meara
This year, LCC is proud to present a literary magazine full of interesting and thought-provoking literary works. We have, among others, interviews,
fictional stories, non-fiction stories, book reviews, and essays, and we’ll also be
including some art. Many of our pieces talk about human nature, fortune and
misfortune, and self-awareness.
A repeating theme that stands out in many of the pieces is being aware
of who we are and what we value. Do we find most important honesty, loyalty,
equality, kindness, or selflessness? How do our values compare with those of
others? Is money important to us? Is education? These are many questions that
our literary pieces hope to evoke in our readers. Other pieces are to be read for
fun, and are more light-hearted.
Among our editors and staff are Elizabeth O’Meara, Matheus DaSilva,
Julia Peterson, Reda Belhadfa, Kelsey Wiseman, Allison Mayers, and Ms. Oelmann. Also, we thank Ms. Loeb for the artwork and Ms. Levy and Ms. Paradis
for recommending the necessary software to make our project possible.
Be sure to send us your writing and artwork for our next issue!
Sincerely,
The Editors.
P.S. A big thank you goes to Ashely Gold (front cover) and Vittoria Belli
(back cover), our amazing cover artists!
Panda and Bear, Michael Rubin (9)
Lower Canada College Literary Magazine
Volume 2, Issue 1
February 2013
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Rain, Allison Mayers (11)
I took a deep breath and glanced at the mostly-blank page that rested on
my crooked desk. Large, loopy letters spelled a lonely, unfamiliar word beside
the Abigail that sat comfortably in the top left corner. Compassion stared at me.
I tapped my pencil in agitation. Compassion. I pushed my chair back, causing
the floor to screech, and grabbed the tattered dictionary that sat on the kitchen
table atop my father’s mountain of books. I quickly flipped through the pages,
scanning the words as they flew by. Cheer, collude, compare, compass... Finally,
I spotted the word that Ms. O’Connor had written on the blackboard earlier
that day. Compassion: Sympathetic pity and concern for the sufferings or misfortunes of others. To suffer together.
To say that a great deal of my life had been spent suffering would be unfair. Not only to my father, who tried so incredibly hard to ensure that each of
my days included a partially full stomach and a pillow to rest my head on, but
to the millions of people who really were suffering. According to Ms. O’Connor,
the world was full of unhappy people. There were millions upon millions of
people who ate a fraction of a fraction of what I ate each day. Children half my
age were lifting things double their size. Their stomachs were hungrier and their
tears, bitterer. I couldn’t sincerely say that I suffered together with them. Of
course, I did care. But in the cage that was my eleven-year-old body, there was
nothing I could do. And frankly, there was not much I knew about the world
beyond Summerdale, Alabama.
I had lived in Summerdale my entire life. In fact, I had never left Baldwin
County, let alone the state. Growing up in a town with a population of less than
900, faces became familiar very quickly. There were no strangers. But misfits –
there were plenty. In a small town so tightly bound by shared morals and communal opinions, any slightly different outlook or conduct awarded you with a
big, fat stamp of disapproval. Your options boiled down to two: you could simply conform, or become a social pariah.
I flipped my paper over, revealing the second word that Ms. O’Connor had
written on the board: Charity. At least I knew the meaning of this one. As she
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had assigned, I began to make a list of all of the ways that I could contribute to
charity. Before my pencil hit the page, I was struck by a revelation: I had nothing to give. I was overcome with a sense of emptiness. My heart drowned in a
pool of helplessness as I realized how tiny I was on the world’s stage. I was like a
speck of dust on the fan in our living room (which hadn’t worked for as long as
I could remember) – microscopic, insignificant, and without purpose. Charity
meant giving, and how could I give when I had nothing to start off with?
I folded the paper and dropped it into my schoolbag. I brushed my teeth,
changed into an old nightgown, and tucked myself into bed. Wrapping my arms
around my pillow, I allowed myself to float to a happier place. I only completely
drifted off to sleep when I felt my father plant a kiss on my forehead after hours
of tossing and turning.
The next morning, I jumped out of bed, dressed quickly, and ran to the
kitchen where I was greeted by a “good morning” note written by my father and
a small piece of bread. I stuffed the bread into my dress’ pocket and began my
trek to school beneath the scorching southern sun. I didn’t know it yet, but that
walk would change my life.
My path was identical every day, and that day was no exception, but I could
sense that something was different. I looked around, and noticed a shadow to my
right. My eyes lifted to find the source of the shadow, and I saw a familiar boy
walking in the same direction – practically in sync with me – on the opposite side
of the road. I knew this boy. In fact, I had been in the same 10-person class with
him since kindergarten, but oddly, had never seen him take this path before.
His name was Rain, which, on its own, was unusual for a state full of Williams and Johns. He was quiet, but not silent. Big in stature but small in presence. Clever, but no one knew it. He was almost invisible, it seemed, to the other kids. Although they had seen him every day for almost six years, I doubt they
could have described his face. But I could.
Rain had always fascinated me. His voice, which I had heard no more than
two dozen times, was practically inaudible. His eyelids were weighed down by
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far more sorrow than any eleven-year-old should have. His lips, which I had
never witnessed transform into a smile, were thin and tense. His speckled gray
eyes held true to his name. Rain was one of Summerdale’s misfits, one of the
few nonconformists, and what really drew me to him was the fact that I felt like
in a way, I was one, too.
My eyebrows furrowed in curiosity as I realized the peculiarity of the situation. The fact that Rain’s family was one of the wealthier in town was common
knowledge. It was also common knowledge that the wealthier families lived on
the opposite side of the school. What would Rain be doing on the poor side of
town? I shrugged off the question, knowing that my father would not approve
of me asking my peer a query of such a personal nature.
Although I was sure Rain detected my presence, he avoided my eyes. Instead, we continued our journey to school in silence, each fabricating a deceptive bubble of solitude.
The rest of the day passed as usual. I sat at my desk, raised my hand when
I knew the answer to Ms. O’Connor’s question, and slowly chewed my slice of
stale bread at lunchtime. Rain appeared to be the same, too – he was quiet and
withdrawn as usual – but there was one small detail that caught my attention.
Curiously, Rain didn’t eat lunch.
became a cage, curbing my voice’s passage. I wanted to ask him what was
wrong. I wanted to understand what I had witnessed the night before.
Instead, I reached into my pocket and clutched my bread in my hands.
Slowly, I inched toward his side of the road and extended the stale slice to him.
When he noticed it, he quickly shook his head, refusing the offer. Carefully, I
ripped the piece in two, and extended my arm once again, offering him one of
the two pieces. He only hesitated slightly before accepting the bread. The corners of his thin lips tugged his face into the most grateful smile I had ever seen.
I had been right; I didn’t have much to give. But I did have something to
share. Compassion: To suffer together. Each day from that point on, this became our new routine. And although neither of our lives was perfect, Rain and
I had each other. I guess the true lesson that I learned on that sunny morning
was that even if each of us is merely a single star in a universe full of stars, that
shouldn’t stop us from shining. No one can singlehandedly change the world,
but if we can each touch the life of one person and change it for the better, maybe our universe could be just a little bit brighter.
At the chime of the final bell, I retraced the steps that had led me to school
as I returned home. Once again, I noticed Rain’s shadow beside mine. When
I approached my home, instead of heading inside as usual, I hid behind the
peach tree in my front yard. My eyes followed Rain down the road.
I watched as his silhouette shrunk into the dusky horizon. A vague image
came into view: Rain dug through a dumpster in a hurried search for food. I
could barely make out the tears rolling down his cheeks; they fell like raindrops.
The next morning, I woke up with the sun and quickly began my routine.
Dress quickly. Grab my bread. Hit the road. Sure enough, Rain appeared beside
me once again. I hesitated, searching for something to say, but my throat
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Weep, Juliana Yang (9)
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The Baby, Kate Hickey (11)
Hummingbird,
Julia Peterson (11)
The smoke is suffocating
like drowning in the ocean
my lungs are on fire
my vision is blurred
I fly –
- wings beat and thrum inside of me.
I fly –
- towards the sweet nectar.
Then I see it,
the soft blue
of a baby’s
blanket
I fly –
- crash into the glass wall.
I grab him,
And put his face to my chest
I jog
run
sprint to safety
I fly –
The house is falling behind me
and as I approach the truck
I hear the cry at first
then feel the heat,
and lastly
the unmistakable smell
of burning
skin
I fly –
- because this time, there will be no
glass.
I fly –
- because this time, it will be worth it.
I fly –
- and crash again.
The baby is saved
but not my soul
his cry will forever
ring in my head
I fall to the ground
and
I thank God
the baby is not dead
- crash again.
- and again
- and again
I fly –
- I am the hummingbird.
Red Flowers, Parker Currey (10)
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Purple Flowers, Anne-Sophie Collier (10)
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Pure Beauty, Sarah Salzman (11)
My eyes have been opened. My senses have been awakened. The sound
of excited chatter grows as I approach the yard. A few hundred children stand
crowded together. Before I know it, they are surrounding me. I look down to see
small children, with dark skin and snotty noses. Beside me stands a girl, a good
head taller, watching my every move. Above me the sun shines, warming the
earth of the barefoot children. Behind me a cluster of children gathers, eager to
catch a glimpse of my pasty skin, which is already starting to cook in the heat.
A sudden drum beat pounds out the conversations. The beats form a
rhythm and bodies begin to sway. Feet lift from the ground, colors blend together and beads rattle along with the drumming. The music enters my body,
tossing my head up and down. I feel little fingers brush the tip of mine. To my
right stands a little girl, smiling up at me. The initial shock of my arrival floats
away, replaced with a feeling of belonging. I begin to dance along with the kids,
and in this moment, we are the same. We are equals. Together our bodies dance
to the music. We have different backgrounds, different futures and different
cultures. Them. The poor, black African children. Me. The rich, white Westerner. But this is not about me and them. This is about us. The inequalities of the
world melt away. This is a moment of man and woman, white and black, rich
and poor.
When the song comes to an end, a rush of hands reach out in my direction. The children touch my arms and face, and some stroke my curly brown
hair. Small arms wrap their way around my legs. Young boys blow kisses in my
direction. Everyone wants a piece of me. The smell of pap cooking in large rusty
cauldrons fills the air. The center of attention shifts as the children scurry off to
collect a plate of the milky white substance, a staple in the diet of many South
Africans. The first to receive the meager meal carry their tin plates to the shade
of the school building, and eagerly scoop the pap into their mouths. Before
long, the children’s hands are covered in the white gunk and they are happily
licking their fingers clean.
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Once the crowd thins out, I notice the tall girl from earlier. She must be fifteen
years old and is glancing in my direction. Our eyes meet, and her lips form a
gentle smile. I grin back as I walk over to her. I expect her to be shy; however,
she exemplifies her confidence as she embraces me in a warm hug. Then, she
asks if we could take a picture together. Afterwards, she tells me that I am beautiful. My heart sinks. Normally I would consider this a compliment, but not
today.
Today, I am “beautiful” because of the colour of my skin, because of my
class in society. Why do I deserve this treatment? To many people, I seem “better” than my fellow adolescent. I have the “upper hand” in life. I have a great
education, endless opportunities and excessive belongings. Judging by our
materialistic, capitalistic society, I’ve got it all! Fortunately, this standard lacks
depth. It doesn’t account for the simple, fulfilling pleasures in life, like love,
happiness and kindness. According to our Western “values” they have nothing,
yet they possess a ‘joie de vivre’ beyond any other children I have met in my
life. In spite of famished stomachs and worn out clothing, the kids are smiling.
They are truly beautiful.
Golden Woman, Claire Greenbaum (11)
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Glad to be Free, Olivia Yip (11)
No grown-ups close or near,
What’s that I seem to hear?
Just schoolboys like me to meet,
This ought to be real sweet!
I too have found myself,
Freeing the Devil itself,
For control is left behind,
‘Till when they’ll come to find.
Screaming, running, laughing,
Cries from across the island,
No fear of loud chants or singing,
Forget about those errands
Free we’ll be for long,
Who knows? I could be wrong,
But now, let’s all have fun,
Until down goes the sun!
Littluns, bigguns, and me,
Why not include the sea?
A never-ending retreat,
Oh! What a veritable treat!
Before I go and savor,
What life has got to offer,
Alone I sit in a corner,
To question my behavior.
When Wild, When Savage, When Barbaric, When a Tribe,
Olivia Yip (11)
Across the island, where Freedom awaits us in the loudest of forms,
There they are, dancing like crazed monkeys, singing their guts out.
But I know better, I follow rules; I understand what they don’t:
We are humans, civil beings who were made to be disciplined.
And when they run wild, like animals on trees,
It is clear to me that I have lost them to Savagery.
Impulsive, they only seek pleasure and games,
Yet what they do leaves nothing but shock.
I try to comprehend what I seem to miss,
Only to find myself disagreeing with them.
Chief, I have been elected,
To be the one to speak,
Brave, smart boys I seek,
As we need be protected
They seem to kill without reason,
As if Inhuman they were called.
They remind me of Primitives,
Only worse; heartless, crude.
I see, I smell, I touch,
Amid a gift from nature,
But forests wild as such,
Safe we can’t be sure
Numerous foolish actions,
Make them seem Barbaric.
But once you observe,
You’ll rapidly notice,
“Hunt!” they always say,
As food can rarely be found,
They teach and learn a way,
To catch without a sound
What defines them,
Not their behavior,
Horse and Dog, Arianna Galbraith (9)
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But rather a desire,
A kind of hunger,
A thirst to fulfill,
Longing to end,
Within them,
This craving,
Violence,
Power,
Chaos,
Tribe.
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A Stronger Person: My Inspiration - Ishmael Beah,
Zihan Cai (11)
in video games, which give people an erroneous sense of security. The reality is
an indescribable nightmare. Terrified children, brainwashed to become killing
machines are capable of dreadful violence.
Introduction, Elizabeth O’Meara (9)
The Encounters With Canada initiative is a youth forum for young role models – people inspired to bring about change in our society. To join Encounters
with Canada, a student must submit an essay about someone who inspires him
or her. Only five people from Quebec are chosen. Grade eleven student, Zihan
Cai, submitted an essay about Ishmael Beah, a child soldier rescued by Unicef,
who has become a source of hope to many worldwide.
In assembly one week, two organizers of the forum came to our school with
the great news that someone had won a place on the forum. After introducing
themselves, they called Zihan Cai up to congratulate her. “The win was a complete surprise.” She hadn’t been informed about who had won, and was shocked
– but in a good way! We are pleased to bring you her prize winning story:
A Stronger Person: My Inspiration
“Why did you leave Sierra Leone?”
“Because there is a war.”
“You mean, you saw people running around with guns and shooting each other?”
“Yes, all the time.”
“Cool.”
That’s what came to mind when anyone said the word “war”. Soldiers
shooting enemies with machine guns, exploding grenades, bombing structures
and ash flying everywhere. It never really hit me personally, because in Canada,
war is not a problem. The issue never presented itself in my day-to-day life. But
when soldiers are mentioned, only one image appears: a man in his late twenties in a rugged military uniform, face singed with dust. As I read books and
stories by Beah however, I realized that this is often not the case. War is not like
in video games where people run around and shoot each other. War is not like
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Born in Mogbwemo, Sierra Leone, Ishmael was just twelve years old when
the RUF (Revolutionary United Front) rebels attacked his village. He was forced
into conscription as a soldier for the Sierra Leone Armed Forces, as his very existence became a test of survival. From that day on, he never saw his parents or
his family again. Throughout his entire childhood, he fought child soldiers just
like him, tricked into thinking that each killing would avenge his friends’ and
his families’ demise. Much blood was spilt and many young lives were lost as
Ishmael faced unspeakable sights of gore and massacre. To deal with this emotional disturbance, the young soldiers resorted to drug addiction to be able to
have the nerve to wake up and fight each day, as well as to contain their anxiety
and fright.
During the civil war, Ishmael had always kept his father’s words at heart:
“ ‘If you are alive, there is hope for a better day and something good to happen. If there is nothing good left in the destiny of a person, he or she will die.’ I
thought about these words during my journey, and they kept me moving even
when I didn’t know where I was going. Those words became the vehicle that
drove my spirit forward and made it stay alive.” Each night, he strained to envision a peaceful future and urged others to do the same. He spirit calmed the
shaken souls of many adolescents identical to him.
UNICEF came to the rescue many years later. Ishmael and some other
soldiers from his squad were sent to a rehabilitation center in Freetown, Sierra
Leone. There, he still experienced complications speaking to others, and did
not recover from flashbacks of war horrors for a long time to come. However,
love and compassion persevered as Beah found the strength to forgive himself
of the grim past and move on towards a more hopeful future. “...children have
the resilience to outlive their sufferings, if given a chance.” Beah says, “I was still
hesitant to let myself let go, because I still believed in the fragility of happiness.”
After receiving an education, he travelled to New York to share his story with
the world.
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For me and many others, Ishmael Beah brought awareness of the ongoing plight of child soldiers in universal conflicts. I had always lived in my own
world thinking that because war is not a problem in Canada, it is not really
a problem anywhere else. As written in A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah:
“Some people tried to hurt us to protect themselves, their family and communities...People stopped trusting each other, and every stranger became an enemy.
Even people who knew you became extremely careful about how they related or
spoke to you.” Now I know that civil war causes friends and family to turn on
each other, it causes suspicion of innocent civilians and the unacceptable idea
that every person you meet might try to kill you. Soldiers were not men in their
late twenties in a rugged military uniform, as I had pictured. Instead, drugged,
traumatized children wielding firearms fight wars today. I learned that fear (of
death) above all things can make people lose their humanity.
sometimes, that’s the only way you can move forward from the past. Ishmael’s
story taught me fundamental life values that will never leave me. Even when
you lose everything, you can still look towards a distant future with the hope
that one day your life will improve. He motivates me to challenge myself to
strive for excellence and to do things out of my comfort zone. You never know
where life will take you.
Works Cited:
Beah, Ishmael. ABC Antidote. Toronto: Key Porter Books Limited, 2009. Beah,
Ishmael. A Long Way Gone. New York: Sarah Crichton Books, 2007.
Reading Beah’s ABC Antidote, I grasped the importance of education
and how it can strengthen the mind to resist violence...and can reawaken the
mind and spirit after it has been broken. Part of what education gave to Beah
was assessing his own actions and that he had done atrocious deeds without
even thinking. “Shooting became like drinking water,” he described. The very
notion sends chills through my bones. I became aware of how lucky I was to
receive schooling in a first world country. No matter who you are, your entire
high school education is nearly free if you go to a public school. The perception
of living in Canada means that you do not have to face life-or-death situations
daily. There is no starvation, no one-meal a day of bread and no menial jobs in
order to save money to get an education. I am very appreciative that I have the
peaceful future that Ishmael sought after .
Most importantly, Ishmael Beah inspired me to always work hard for a
greater good, and for the brighter future that is to come. It is because of his
doings that I recognized the significance of community service. People helping people; I have the power to change the life of someone in need. Through
his inspiration, I decided that instead of going for a cruise this March break I
would go with a group of other diligent students to Peru to help build a school
and work at an orphanage. Beah’s works taught me that although it is challenging, self-forgiveness and forgiving others for hurting you is essential. Because
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Blue Man, Philippe Palotta (11)
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The Warrior, Branden MacInnis Morris (11)
Morning, noon, night
Raining or bright,
We will succeed.
1,2,3 hours a day
On and off the ice.
Warm up, train, cool down
Repeat.
We will succeed
Train harder, and harder, and harder
Adapt.
Faster, bigger, stronger.
Block a shot,
Bruised badly,
Ice it,
Suck it up
Repeat.
We will succeed
Explode, Marissa Kyres (9)
Mentally, physically, emotionally,
Prepared for battle we are.
3rd period
Our bodies are sweating,
Our muscles in pain,
The crowd screaming.
Everything we have ever done has
been for this moment.
The clock runs down,
Last shift,
Skate, skate, skate
The Stanley Cup is ours,
We succeeded.
Repeat.
Determination, Branden MacInnis Morris (11)
Bad Hair Day, Jack Marshall (11)
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Determination,
Understood by many,
Done by few
Failure is not weakness,
Scared of failure,
That is weakness.
You do not need to be great to start,
Although you do need to start to be great.
Strength,
Is the product of struggle.
X is not given
X is worked for.
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Fresh Faces of Fiction: Interview with C. S. Richardson,
Julia Peterson (11)
C. S. Richardson is the author of “The Emperor of Paris” and “The End of the
Alphabet”
Q: What, in your opinion, is the best book that you have ever read?
A: The best novel that I have ever read is “A Farewell to Arms”, by Ernest Hemmingway.
Q: What inspires you as an author?
A: Everything. Books, movies, TV shows, photographs, paintings…
Q: What inspired you to write “The Emperor of Paris”?
A: I was inspired by a photograph of a man standing on a bridge in Paris,
watching a painter
Q: What inspired you to write “The End of the Alphabet”?
A: I asked myself the question, “What would you do if you only had 30 days left
to live?”
Q: Have you always enjoyed writing?
A: Yes, always.
Q: What advice would you give to young writers?
A: Write every day, without fail. And read. Read a lot.
Reflect, Klara Goettke (9)
Q: What is your favorite part about being an author?
A: Working hard and having a tangible thing that you created at the end.
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Q: How many drafts do you usually have before your book goes to print?
A: Too many to count. “The Emperor of Paris” had six full rewrites, but there
were lots of small parts that were rewritten within each draft.
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“Hocki” is not a word, Jordan Itzkovitz (11)
When I started the game,
I was young.
I thought Hockey was spelled with an ‘I’
‘Hocki’.
There ‘is’ an I in ‘hocki’.
I went to the rink.
I got dressed.
I got on the ice.
I played.
I got off the ice, and undressed.
I went home.
The team won, but I didn’t.
I had a bad game.
I let in a bad goal.
I was upset.
I didn’t care that the team won.
It didn’t matter to me.
I lost.
Why was it so often,
That when the team won,
And was happy,
I was not?
The Naïve Gift, Annie Dahan (11)
A scheme of already made plans
He’s just a small bump unborn
In nine months brought to life
The father held him up to the sky and prayed
The joy soon overcome by fear
The reason why,
There is no ‘I’.
It’s ‘hockey’.
I can’t win by myself.
I don’t lose by myself.
I can’t score by myself.
One guy pulling on a rope
Against six other strong men
Is hard.
Add one guy to my side of the rope,
It’s one guy easier.
Add another,
That’s three guys.
And four,
And five.
That’s six guys on the ice.
Five more than before.
Five stronger than before.
With eighteen other reserves,
Changing at a time interval of about
forty-five seconds each shift
Now that’s a team.
Its not spelled ‘Tiem’,
‘Teim’
Or ‘Tiim’.
It’s Team.
There is most definitely no ‘I’ in Team.
And none in ‘Hockey’ either.
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The blanket wrapped him into a cocoon
Away he went with the strange man
The umbilical cord severed with such quickness
And erased he was from all memory
It was as if he had never been conceived
This was the major sacrifice the father believed in
Like Father Abraham preparing to offer his son Isaac
An inner force was twisting his reasoning
Unlike Abraham, there was no angel sent from the Heavens
To stop him from committing the terrible deed
Over the rice fields, colorful butterflies fluttered
The father looked up to the heavens and asked
Can a metamorphosis occur in a human jungle?
The sky darkened, the leaves rustled
The father clung tightly to his last thread of hope
Little did he know, his little prince
Would no longer be
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