ashley kerr, sandwich secondary school · told me she thought andre dubus was the american...

Ashley Kerr, Sandwich Secondary School

Fatima Chokr, W.F. Herman Secondary School

2017 Pluralist Winners

Contents

Message from the Director................................................................................... 1

Message from the Editors..................................................................................... 2

Message from the Judges...................................................................................... 3-4

Poetry

HAIKU SENIOR

Leigh Medel “The Dress”...............................................................

5

Alanna Budden “The Send Off”.......................................................... 5

Alexandra Murphy “Never Moving For-ward”..........................................

5

JUNIOR

Jacquelynn Lalonde “Assuming”...............................................................

6

Kalein Fields “I Could Love Ei-ther”................................................

6

Natasha Sadler “Deceiving Crossroads”............................................ 6

ODE SENIOR

Giana Long “An Ode to the Cosmos”........................................... 7

Katharina Fehr “Standing Between Two Fires: An Ode to Choice”… 8

Farah Ghafoor “Ode to this Archaic Light”…................................... 9

JUNIOR

Anumita Jain “Ode to Math”...........................................................

11

Sarah Hussain “An Ode to Pillows”.................................................. 12

Riordan Palmer “Ode to a Pencil”...................................................... 13

Prose

POSTCARD

SENIOR

Katharina Fehr “Greetings from Califor-nia”........................

15

Masa Shaikh Ibrahim “Hope”........................................................ 15

Nora Eldabugh “A Sunny Day in the City”...........................

16

JUNIOR

James Xu “The Things We Do For Our Friends”..........

17

Emily LeClaire “Delivered”................................................. 17

Breanna Charette “Post-Elementary”..................................... 18

FLASH FICTION

SENIOR

Jenna Warwick “Ana and the Box-car”..................................

19

Maryam Ahmad “A Road Travelled All Too Of-ten”................

21

Ryan Brown “What’s in a Name”..................................... 24

JUNIOR

Emma Lavictoire “Dear Editor”.............................................. 25

Ivie Lock-Luttmer “Dying To Be Skinny”................................. 27

Sarah Burk “The Beauty of Darkness and Dawn”..........

28


M e s s a g e f r o m t h e D i r e c t o r The Pluralist is a wonderful gift - one unique to our school board. It is a beautiful way to showcase the voices of our students and to capture the essence of a time period in our board's history. In its 28th year of publication, we had submissions from 11 of our secondary schools - impressive. The diverse writing of our winners in this year's edition is a testament to the plurality of ideas explored in our classrooms. Great writing is great thinking and both are taking place in classrooms across our system; I would like to thank the English teachers in each of our secondary schools who promote writing and who encourage students to find their voice. As a former English teacher, the thing I miss most about being in the classroom is exploring the thoughts of my students through their writing. Thank you to the contributors of The Pluralist 2017 for allowing me the chance to explore student voice through this powerful collection of poetry and prose. Erin Kelly, Director of Education

Emma Flynn, Kingsville District High School

1

M e s s a g e f r o m t h e E d i t o r s

The Pluralist is a labour of love upon which we devote our time, energy, and editing pens. It is remarkable to see the creative work of our students year after year. In this 28th year of the contest and publication of the anthology, it is clear that students within the Greater Essex County District School Board are able to create vivid images with their words. It is a testament to the fantastic and thriving writing programs within our school board. This year's art-work submissions were equally as vivid and convey the variance of emotion that come with the complicated decision making so inherent in the human condition. It is an honour to spend time with the creative work of our talented students and we are forever thankful for the sup-port of parents and staff who continue to push our students to express themselves through creative outlets. Deirdre, Mary, and Mike

Ayden Ryan, Kingsville District High School

2 Pluralist 2017

M e s s a g e f r o m t h e J u d g e s

Hannah Bryan, Kingsville District High School

Lenore Langs, Poetry Judge

Reading the poems for The Pluralist is always a reminder to me that teenagers are the hope of the world. Teenagers are not yet jaded or cynical or bored with life. They care about one another and the planet. They care about truth and kindness.

They are often sad because of the behaviour of the adults they see and read about. They express their feelings and hopes and dreams in the poems that they write, and we would do well to read them carefully. It has been a privilege to be entrusted with the selection of the winning poems. Thank you.

3

Paul Vasey, Prose Judge MANY years ago in a bookstore in Toronto, I came across a collection of stories by the New England writer Andre Dubus. I did not know of his work, but my friend who worked in the store told me she thought Andre Dubus was the American equivalent of Alistair MacLeod.

Here’s one of the first paragraphs in the first story of that book: ‘Separate Flights’. He’s describing a woman named Edith.

“She is dark and very small with long black hair, and she has the same charming gestures that other girls with long hair have: with a slow hand she pushes it from her eye; when she bends over a drinking fountain, she holds it at her ear so it won’t fall into the basin. Some time I would like to see it fall: Edith drinking, lips wet, throat moving with cool water, and her hair fallen into the chrome basin, soaking.”

Well, how much better could a paragraph be?

I met Andre a few years later when I went to that little Yonge Street bookstore – Longhouse Books it was called – and found him browsing the aisle: black beard tinged with grey, well-worn blue jeans, lumberjack shirt, looking more than a little like a broad-shouldered Ernest Hemingway.

We wound up in a tavern nearby where we spent a couple of hours talking of writing and reading and families and friends and feuds and forgiveness and much more besides. I asked him about his work habits and mentioned that paragraph about Edith in his short story “We Don’t Live Here Any More.”

He didn’t remember how long it had taken him to finish it, but he said it was not uncommon for him to spend a morning working on a paragraph and then an afternoon editing, re-writing, re-editing.

Echoes of Alistair MacLeod.

Someone asked Alistair how his work had gone that day.

He said it had been a very good day. “I finally found a place for that comma.”

Only half-joking.

Alistair spent hours crafting a sentence.

Here’s one of them, the opening line of a story named “The Golden Gift of Grey”: “At midnight, he looked up at the neon Coca-Cola clock and realized with a taut emptiness that he had already stayed too late and was perhaps even now forever lost.”

Alistair spent days working on a paragraph. His first book contained seven short stories. It took him seven years to write it. People will be reading his stories, and the stories of Andre Dubus, a hundred years from now. They are that perfect. Read Andre Dubus. Read Alistair MacLeod. Work as carefully and thoughtfully and diligently as they and see how close to perfection you can come.

That’s precisely how high I’d suggest you set the bar.

David Scott, Sandwich Secondary School

4 Pluralist 2017

First Place Leigh Medel Kingsville District High School The Dress Caught off guard by the slits in her little black dress; I wish I had left.

Second Place Alanna Budden Belle River District High School The Send-off Old dandelion Takes his final breath and then Sends his sons away.

Third Place Alexandra Murphy Walkerville Collegiate Institute Never Moving Forward It’s a brand new day but I still find myself stuck on yesterday

Ariel Shearer, Sandwich Secondary School

Victoria Brown, Sandwich Secondary School

Spencer Ginn, Sandwich Secondary School

5

First Place Jacquelynn Lalonde Kingsville District High School Assuming Assuming that I stay, there will be nothing left to say between us Assuming that I go, I will have to find a road away from you

Second Place Kaleia Fields Tecumseh Vista Academy I Could Love Either He was beautiful. I could be happy with him. But she was gorgeous. . .

Third Place Natasha Sadler Tecumseh Vista Academy Deceiving Crossroads Ghostly decisions One path haunting, one lovely —Both draped in darkness


Grace Olson, Belle River District High School

Mady Pickle, Kingsville District High School

6 Pluralist 2017

First Place Gianna Long Tecumseh Vista Academy An Ode to the Cosmos O mask of cloud, I can but envision what veracities dwell behind The azure veil, never to be fully lifted by time nor trust This eternal intrigue calling to adventurous O pale moon, redoubling sun’s radiance Conduct me as you do the waves, and I shall follow the tide Be it high beyond reach or low beyond fall O planetary embodiment, you bear the blessing Of Jove’s red spot of temper, of Neptune's ice Of Venus' grace and the will of Mars O brilliant stars, alight at the night that is love Set upon me your gentle glow in a gaze once more And we shall be called connected as a constellation


Nathan Malette, W.F. Herman Secondary School

O fantastic galaxy, ever-changing, a constant wonder With each moment bringing new life This eternity, this existence, but one of a universe And its limitless expanse, In which lies elucidation infinite, Resigns before a single, simple inquiry As to how I was able to leave its pursuit behind Swallowed by the black hole of these deceitful earthly pleasures.

7

Shyla Williams, W.F. Herman Secondary School

Second Place Katharina Fehr Kingsville District High School Standing Between Two Fires An ode to choice Dostoevsky told me, we have the answers, not the questions. I have not the answers and my questions scratch the back of my throat, unable to form in my mouth. Eventually it morphs into "I don't knows," which translate into the adult language of laziness and a poor attitude. My heart’s desires are freedom and travelling but its label is "desolate, empty wishes." "Follow your dreams!" "You'll never get a job with that degree.” "Do what makes you happy!" "Be a bit more reasonable dear..." Scorching tongues of flames lick at your feet, demanding for you to run left or right. Do what's right or leave and chase those aspirations. Sweating bullets, unable to choose.

8 Pluralist 2017

Third Place Farah Ghafoor Vincent Massey Secondary School Ode to This Archaic Light This is to the rivers splitting from the seas, the arms of the wind dashing around new corners, the cell division of bodies growing toward the sun no matter where it hides in the sky, no matter where they were planted. Days will petal off the fresh green bulb of your life, each one bringing a different source of light. There will always be two, and always, your determination will waver in their blinding beams. The clouds will confuse you, dreamless and distant, their faces empty and flat. Sometimes you will think the sun to be glowering back at you, its heat too furious to bear, and that the riverbank, and the lands of still, honest air might not even exist. The company of jostling waves, the kiss of sweet breezes, and the life of the garden may even look tempting. But beyond the clouds, the sun will continue its dance, and you will be rejuvenated. You will stand up straighter, flushed with hope, and only follow the light that takes you where you want to go.

Meghan Tongo, W.F. Herman Secondary School

9

Tyra Coates-Stringer, W.F. Herman Secondary School

10 Pluralist 2017

First Place Anumita Jain Vincent Massey Secondary School Ode to Math O, Math you are a gift to the world. The backbone of technological advancement. The person behind the scenes, integral to the success of the show.

Like an ocean, you are vast, deep and powerful, mesmerizing and beautiful, awaiting exploration and discovery. You are always reliable and truthful. People who defame you are blind to your power. Secretly they are jealous, and wish to know you better. You are an ancient language, lost and rediscovered. Challenging to learn, satisfying to speak. Choosing you is difficult. Your perfection is intimidating. Forgive my imperfection. Forgive my countless mistakes. But please believe me when I say, I wish to choose you one day.

Alexandra Crowell, W.F. Herman Secondary School

11

Second Place Sarah Hussain Vincent Massey Secondary School An Ode to Pillows O pillow, I lie above you counting an endless series of sheep jumping over the fence only for their remains to be found in the dungeons of my skull, guarded by the coyotes who cackle and howl in contentment. I turn to you begging to put an end to the ruminating thoughts pacing within the depths of my cranium like the particles of a gas- both in constant, random motion. O pillow, your cover is like a dense mat of ivy crafted with intertwined emerald and silk fibers. My sorrows disperse within your layers of lustrous and smooth leaves. My tears soak into you as you create a fusion of the salty moisture and your faint, jasmine scented detergent from the wash last week. The aroma itself is an invitation to escape into the open arms of the unknown and beyond. As I press my right ear against you, I am deaf to the voices of my insecurities. I begin to catch the slightest movement of my eyelashes brushing against your fabric. I hear my pulse as it steadies with the rhythm of my beating heart, just as the hands of a clock rotate with the rhythm of the passing time. My mind buzzes with fear as I cling to your edge leaving the other half of you cold and untouched. You send my mind into a hypnotic trance as my fingers begin to trace the swirls delicately sewn onto your surface. O pillow, night after night I choose to surrender to your serenity. My eyes oblige and gradually the laughter of the coyotes lessens to distant snickers. They become the least of my worries when I'm with you, and for that, I thank you.

Safa Mroue, W.F. Herman Secondary School

12 Pluralist 2017

Third Place Riordan Palmer Riverside Secondary School Ode to a Pencil You are a life changing tool. A staff of creation, yet you can also wipe the slate clean. You can create new paths and alter people's stories. I chose you, Pens cannot be changed; markers and crayons will not be taken seriously. But you, the perfect combination of change and steadfastness, You can do anything. There are Infinite Possibilities for you. Made from only the oldest, wisest woods, The purest lead, And the most pink and clean erasers. No one deserves to judge you as you were my choice. Although mighty trees have fallen, You were worth it. Your opportunities cannot be wasted. What we do with you, it is a decision. A fork, In our road.

Zack Eaton, Kennedy Collegiate Institute

13

Alexandra Crowell, W.F. Herman Secondary School

14 Pluralist 2017

First Place Katharina Fehr Kingsville District High School

Greetings from California! Greetings from California! Dear Ma, Yes, the postcard says "California." I made it. I miss you. The baby and I are doing fine, her first tooth finally came in last week. I had to leave, for her safety and mine. The pain of starting new is nothing compared to his fists. Visit us soon. Lots of love, Ruby

Julie Duong, Kennedy Collegiate Institute

Second Place Masa Shaikh Ibrahim Westview Freedom Academy

Hope Lily moved the ventilator with her five year old hands while she gazed at a big tree from the window. She was thinking that she would die when all of the leaves fell down. Then, she asked her older sister, "How many leaves are still on the tree?” Her sister said, "Don't worry, there are leaves that will not fall.” Days passed and she kept watching the leaves. Lily got a lot better. At last, she could visit the tree, and when she touched the last remaining leaf, she found that it was made of silk and wire .

Tiffany Dang, Kennedy Collegiate Institute

15

Third Place Nora Eldabugh Westview Freedom Academy

A Sunny Day in the City A girl walking on the street spotted two musicians. One musician played his acoustic guitar singing a touching song. The other musician played his banjo singing a sweet country song. Their performances were incredible. They both eyed one another for the five-dollar bill visible in the girl's hand. The girl looked down, wondering to whom she would give the money. And then, strangely, she turned around, and glimpsed an old woman sitting in a doorway across the street. The girl walked toward the homeless woman, and when she placed the bill into the woman's old hands, she touched them lightly, and they were warm.


16 Pluralist 2017

First Place James Xu Vincent Massey Secondary School

The things we do for our friends I saw him slip the tiny yet incriminating calculator into his pencil case before the standardized math test. It was an agonizing decision, to find where the gray line exists on the black to white spectrum dividing friendship and morality. Friends are hard to find and keep. I think I will just let it slip.


Second Place Emily LeClaire Kingsville District High School

Delivered I had enough with all the stuff that had happened in the past week at school, so I picked up my phone and started typing... I looked at the long, ugly, nasty text I wrote to Samantha... I erased it... I started typing again... I knew it was wrong, I was angry, I hit send.

Chloe Dockrill, Kennedy Collegiate Institute

17

Third Place Breanna Charette Essex District High School

Post-Elementary Enriched, Academic, Applied. The immense choice, the giant leap I made that took me from elementary to secondary school. Thoughts raced, pressure built, I had to figure out what I wanted to be, where I wanted to go. One of the most substantial life verdicts I made with just a couple clicks of a mouse.

Emily Trepanier-Harley, Kennedy Collegiate Institute

18 Pluralist 2017

First Place - Jenna Warwick - Tecumseh Vista Academy

Ana and the Boxcar

From atop the rusted boxcar, Ana could swear the world was flat. She knew it wasn't, of course; she'd learned the contrary in school, but on the slow-moving train, it seemed the horizon was infinite. Mirages beat off the barren El Salvador landscape, rippling in the distance with the promise of a nonexistent lake. The air was hot and still, and her eyes stung. She swallowed hard.

"Mamå," Osmin cried. Her brother was far too young for this journey. Tears streaked through the red dust on his round face, marring his features like a dripping watercolour. He clung to their mother's serape, the worn material a time capsule of memories. It was colourful, unlike the browns and oranges of the countryside, and smelled like the smoke of fiestas of the past. It was casa, and these days, it was all they had left of their old life. She and Osmin were leftovers of what had been. Huérfanos. Orphans.

Ana focused on the sturdy boxcar beneath her, and willed her grief away. It swayed from time to time, slugging along the rickety tracks, and sometimes it stopped completely. Usually, it took hours to get moving again. But it was reliable. It continued, no matter what. She had to be like the boxcar. Strong. For her brother. Ana didn't know the route by heart, or even if it was headed in the right direction, but she had to keep her faith in una Vida mejor.

A better life.

The boxcar was to take them halfway to a better life, near the Mexican border. Then, they'd get off, and be on their own. Two

children, somehow slipping undetected passed the American border on foot. Ana wasn't sure of her plan. She hadn't thought that far ahead. The idea of policia was sobering.

Nujood Shehadeh, W.F. Herman Secondary School

19

The others huddled in bunches, adults and infants alike, some tied to the boxcar to avoid falling off during sleep. Ana's body was heavy with exhaustion. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept through the night. Sleep was a luxury of the past. Now, it was just dangerous. She knew of the unspeakable terrors that came out in the night. She could not risk it.

Instead of sleeping, Ana held her brother and imagined the cool breeze of a mountaintop.

She described it to Osmin, using words like bonito and amor to soothe and entertain his young mind. He liked stories. Their mother used to tell them stories as they beaded necklaces and— The boxcar suddenly lurched to a halt. Voices cried out in alarm through the dusk, struggling to maintain balance. Flashlights appeared. More voices. A scream—a gunshot—the thud of a body hitting the ground. Ana's heart seized in horror. They had been found.

To jump—to risk the fall, Osmin in her arms—and be shot in the back, or to wait for the bullets to come, regardless, and die atop a boxcar? A choice, suspended in air, a moment frozen in time. To jump... to wait...

Saltar. Jump.

Alex Pierzak, Sandwich Secondary School

20 Pluralist 2017

Second Place - Maryam Ahmad - Vincent Massey Secondary School

A Road Travelled All Too Often

Sam was dying, he knew that.

His family was in the hospital room with him, the way they had been the last four days. His wife sat in a chair next to his bed, holding his hand in hers, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. His son was leaning against the wall next to the door, his head down and arms crossed over his chest.

Watching them, Sam felt like the bland, white walls of the room were crowding in on him, as he lay in bed contemplating his ultimate decision.

I should tell them now, Sam thought for what felt like the billionth time since they'd walked through the door days ago and learned of his state. He knew that they were bound to find out eventually — secrets couldn't stay hidden forever.

He couldn't escape what he'd done and his conscience wouldn't let him forget that they deserved to know. But every time he tried to talk, he froze. He was afraid of seeing the look of hurt, betrayal and hate on their faces once they knew about the mistake he'd made years earlier. Will they hate me more if they find out after I die?

Sam loved his wife. It had just been a moment of weakness — or so he told himself— some eighteen years ago that led to an endless amount of secrets and lies. A moment that sent him on an infinite amount of "business trips," that were really just visits to his Florida home, where his daughter and her mother lived.

Over the years, Sam had thought about coming clean almost every day but something always held him back, often last minute.

There was no going back now.

Tyson MacDonald, W.F. Herman Secondary School

21


Deciding that he wanted to do the right thing, even if it was the last thing he ever did, Sam cleared his throat, "l need to tell y'all somethin'." His voice was hoarse, cracking with every word.

His wife and son lifted their heads and looked at him.

Moving towards the bed, his son said, "Dad, don't talk. It's not good for your throat." It was physically painful to talk but Sam was determined to not let that stop him.

Sam shook his head. "No, I need to tell-" He was cut off by a fit of coughing. It was becoming harder to breathe with every passing second. But Sam wanted to do right by the ones he loved the most.

Once the coughing stopped, he tried — and failed — to talk again. Defeated, Sam decided that he would close his eyes for a second to rest, and try again.

He never did open his eyes. Once again, he chose the wrong path, this time with no chance of return .

22 Pluralist 2017

Rebecca Baylon, Westview Freedom Academy

23

Third Place - Ryan Brown - Westview Freedom Academy

What's in a Name?

"Jesus, Jimbo. Help me up," Victor said.

I don't like the name, Jimbo. Some random asshole gave it to me. It wasn't this guy hanging off a building. This guy, this guy shouldn't be here. Let me explain where all this starts. A few weeks— "Jimbo! What the hell! Get over here and help me up dammit!"

"No."

"What—a

"Shut up."

This guy, who I barely know, is hanging from a building because of me. I got a folder a few weeks back, this guy's photo, his name, a few family pictures, and the order to kill him. I don't usually kill, but whoever wants him dead, is offering me lots of money.

"Jimbo, I swear to—

"Who's gonna help you besides me? Hmm? No one. Shut up. You keep talking, I will kill you. Right now."

That should keep him quiet. He has a family. Image of the perfect family. There's a shot of him laughing at a little girl who's pulling a face.

"I'm slipping, Jimbo. Hear me out. I'll pay you to help me. Please help me."

He keeps calling me Jimbo. It's annoying. I don't like the name. I'm not even a guy and the jerk names me "Jimbo." I need money. Lots of money. Is it worth it? Shit.

Ayden Ryan, Kingsville District High School

24 Pluralist 2017

First Place - Emma Lavictoire - Vincent Massey Secondary School

Dear Editor,

Who am l? I'm not quite sure anymore. I'm not a person, just an article. You might remember me. You might have seen me floating around your Facebook, or your twitter, or maybe your Instagram, or the most likely place you saw me, the article you printed about me. Yup that's me. Hidden behind three censored bars, I lack a name. I have lost my identity.

I don't know why I did it. I knew I was doing it. He had sent one. He told me to send one back; that if I did, he'd take me on a date. I was so stupid. I took the picture. My finger hovered over the send button as I took in the picture before me. My hips looked too big, my hair a mess. I contemplated whether or not he was worth it. I don't know how long it took me to send it; it felt like I stared at myself for hours, but I did.

I didn't even realize he had screenshotted it. The seven heart eyes he sent me held me captive. He liked me. It took me exactly sixteen hours and twenty-two minutes to realize just how big of a mistake I had made. Within sixteen hours and twenty-two minutes, four-hundred and fifty-six people had seen my body. I have never felt so exposed. Even now as I write this, the numbers continue to grow. Last I checked, an estimated twelve thousand nine hundred and forty-seven people had seen me, read about me, told their kids to never BE like me.

Maybe if I had deleted the photo or never even taken one in the first place. Maybe if I had blocked his number or told him he was a despicable human being for even asking that of me, a sixteen year old girl.

Maybe if I had just done something else, I wouldn't be the laughing stock of the seven high schools in my area. Maybe people wouldn't call me trashy, or a disgrace on the street, maybe guys wouldn't harass me when I walk into the coffee shop. If I hadn't sent that picture, so many things would be different.

The original post has over two-thousand likes. Three hundred comments pick me apart, and I feel them clawing away at my insides. Each new comment is a little piece of my identity chipped away. I feel myself slip away as I become something that is not myself. They have dehumanized me. You especially.

So, dear editor, what do I do when I am no longer a person? Maybe you can write an article on that. Maybe you can ask me this time instead of making me a possession.

"Mind if I use your picture for my article. I think it will go GREAT with what I'm writing right now." You gave him ownership of me. You and everyone else. Maybe next time you'll think before YOU use social media.

25

Isabel Grondin Hibikase, Kennedy Collegiate Institute

26 Pluralist 2017

Second Place - Ivie Lock-Luttmer - Vincent Massey Secondary School

Dying to be Skinny

Too fat, stump, thick, a monster, me; dreaming of the glamorous lifestyle of the skinny girls. Constantly worrying about my belly rolls bulging over the pants that were too small for me, just so I could tell the skinny girls we were the same size. I threw away my breakfast, gave away my lunch, and in return, I’d search my kitchen for satisfaction. After my binge, I'd lay on my bed, uncomfortably full from the mountain of food I had consumed, just for the feeling of comfort. I'd cry and pinch the fat deposits on my hips, dreaming that I could crawl out of my body and leave it in the dust. I told myself that today would be the last time. Tomorrow, I would have the willpower to fall asleep with sharp hunger pains. Tomorrow, I would do whatever it took to better myself. Little did I know, tomorrow didn't come for a couple years. When tomorrow came, it hit me like a truck. Tomorrow forced me to surrender my life to my obsession of food, weight, and the validation of the girls who labeled me as fat.

Model, gorgeous, perfect, me, but all I saw was the fat kid I once was. The periods of starvation grew longer as my energy rapidly decreased. I was not living; I was constantly striving to go further, weigh less, and once I reached my goal, it wasn't enough. All my hard work paid off! 5'8 and 100 lbs. It was time for a new goal. 90 lbs. As I came closer to reaching the distorted image I believed was beautiful, my life revolved completely around calories. I remember holding the stair railings to pull myself up as my eyes went blank and my heart struggled to keep me standing. Yes! 91 lbs. I was almost there. I would chug a litre of water because it filled my stomach, and I was willing to do anything to avoid calories. My daily caloric intake allowance was carefully calculated to ensure weight loss. After running on empty for so long, I'd eat everything in sight in a matter of minutes. The next step in my routine was crying over the cold toilet bowl, fighting against my body to let go of any and everything it had left. This vicious cycle continued until I cried if there was any oil, carbs, sugar, fat, or anything else google said was bad in the food my family made me eat.

Sick, ghostly, skeleton, me. I thought this is what they wanted. I felt completely empty on the uncomfortable hospital bed I called home. I felt as though I had lost, and as though I couldn't win the label of beauty in the disgusted eyes of society. I lay, thinking of the damage I had done to my body, and I realized something. Everyone in my life had done everything in their power to help me, but I was the only one who could save myself, and I chose not to.

Ainslie Brunelle, Herman Secondary School

27

3rd Place - Sarah Burk - Riverside Secondary School

The Beauty of Darkness and Dawn

It's cold here, the tile floor icy, numbingly comforting. Dried blood flaked in piled layers as new warmth coated ebony wrists. Burns from the kitchen stove took their place up and down my thighs as I held them, squeezing the oozing flesh from time to time.

Hours stretched on as I lost them behind closed eyelids, a small smile played upon chapped lips as my body wracked itself with spasms.

Worthlessuselessdigustingtainted

I could leave this place like this, my soul leisurely departing, or even end it quickly, a quick cut in the other direction. My choice. My power.

STOP

STOP

I SAID NO

It's my fault…

It hurt, all this hurt. I have nowhere to go in life, no one to love me, no one to trust. I just wanted to reach out and speak to someone other than uncaring officers and sympathetic nurses. But I didn't dare for the fear of their distaste.

Clogged screams worsened my shaking. My mind floated in and out of a haze.

I loved sleeping, the soft enclave of blankets, the break handed to you after a frustrating day, the comfort of happy dreams and black oblivion. What a thought it is of submerging into it forever for I was indefinitely exhausted.

A shock of lightning startled me, and I smiled as I heard the comforting patter of rain. In a lull I fell into my memories.

That boy across the street with the green eyes and fluffy hair with a perpetual smile.

The silk roses that glided against skin, the feminine scent of lavender.

The muscles that stretch as I smile, as I turn in a pirouette, as I ink pen unto paper. That breathlessness of laughter that churns your stomach in the best way possible.

The molten eyes of my mother as she smiles at me from the stadium.

The books I enjoy losing and finding myself in.

The moments I would never have again.

I pursed bloodless lips. Generally the enjoyment of rest came with the hopeful thought of morning, the ending of a day to experience a new one in eight hours.

28 Pluralist 2017

Courtney Gregorian, Sandwich Secondary School

I could feel what seemed to be somewhat of an epiphany then, an understanding that I had chosen to let myself sink to his level, that I chose this darkness. I chose sleepless nights and hungry dark days spent in bed, the curtains tightly keeping out the summer breeze, then, the snowflakes. I let him sink me, I let him make me forget about the little things.

I lost sight of my future.

I promise myself I am more than cruel words, I am more than wandering hands and muted screams. I am more than my nightmares and I am more than my pain.

I will be the leader of my soccer team, I will be an amazing journalist, I will be a bride, and I will be a mother because, no one can take that away from me, except myself.

"911 what is your emergency?"

"Please help me."

I could feel dawn break.

29

Shayla Coppola, Kingsville District High School

30 Pluralist 2017

Cover Illustration:

Sofia Piknjac Phillips Public Alternative Secondary School

Frontispiece:

Ashley Kerr

Sandwich Secondary School

Frontispiece:

Fatima Chokr

W.F. Herman Secondary School

31

A c k n o w l e d g e m e n t s Teachers of the Greater Essex County District

School Board

Kim McKinley, Chairperson of the Board

Erin Kelly, Director of Education

Dr. Clara Howitt, Superintendent of Program

Lenore Langs, Poetry Judge

Paul Vasey, Prose Judge

Deirdre Roberts, Co-editor, Art Contest, Anthology Layout and Design

Mary Quenneville, Co-editor, Writing Contest

Mike Thrasher, Teacher Consultant, Editor

Martha Martin, Library Coach and Program Support

Gordana Grmusa, OCT (retired), Proofreader

Chad Findlay, Layout and Design, Program Department, GECDSB

Dwayne Teskey, Manager of Media Services, GECDSB

Steve McLaughlin, Recording and Sound Technician, GECDSB

Carl Chevalier, Recording and Sound Technician and Photographer, GECDSB

Rochelle Langlois, Administrative Assistant, Program Department, GECDSB

Jamie Bolton and the Westview Freedom Academy Culinary Students

Taylor Roberts, W.F. Herman Secondary School

Nujood Shehadeh, W.F. Herman Secondary School

32 Pluralist 2017

ashley kerr, sandwich secondary school · told me she thought andre dubus was the american...

Documents