the inkwell - haut-lac international bilingual school · what you do, you crush dreams, you crush...

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The InkwellVOLUME 1

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The Inkwell

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VOLUME 1

JUNE 2014HAUT-LAC SCHOOl

3 A word from the editors

5 Black & white

11 Lies

12 A poem about freedom

13 The story behind the smoke

15 A contemporary fisherman’s home

17 New hope

20 Avertissement: tempête

21 Sonnet

22 Me

23 Building a fire

25 Bumble bees

28 La vie d’aujourd’hui

29 Simplified complications

30 La petite boîte aux rêves

31 The right way to camp

32 The warmth of summer

33 Haikus

35 The hauting memories

36 Paradise

37 Rengas

39 My life as a rat

Cover photo by Julia Chuang

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The Inkwell VOLUME 1

A word from the editors Dear members of the Haut-Lac community,

We four editors first initiated The Inkwell to celebrate the extraordinary creativity of our school. As editors, we strove to great-en the culture of student involvement within the community. The Inkwell encourages students to explore ideas beyond their classrooms, promoting cross curricular involvement and broad student participation.Without the help from our community, including teachers, parents, and most of all, students, we could not have fulfilled our goal. We hope that with this first edition, we have truly given Haut-Lac students and teachers a voice and an audience.

The Inkwell editors: Arielle Ben Hur, Mirko Laflamme, Andrew Schmitz and Julius Wanner.

We would also like to extend special thanks to the Haut Lac PTA, Secondary School Student Council, and Tobias Blickle.

Un mot des éditeursChers membres de la communauté Haut-Lac,

Nous sommes quatre éditeurs à avoir fondé le magazine The Inkwell afin de célébrer l’extraordinaire créativité présente à l’école. En tant qu’éditeurs, nous voulions stimuler l’engagement des étudiants au sein de la communauté. The Inkwell encou rage les étudiants à explorer des idées au-delà des salles de classe, en promouvant l’implication multidisciplinaire et la large participation des étudiants. Sans l’aide de la communauté, y compris des enseignants, des parents, et, plus que tout, des étudiants, nous n’aurions pas pu atteindre notre but. Nous espérons qu’avec cette première édition, nous avons véritablement donné une voix et un public aux étudiants et aux enseignants de Haut-Lac.

Les éditeurs de The Inkwell: Arielle Ben Hur, Mirko Laflamme, Andrew Schmitz et Julius Wanner.

Nous aimerions aussi particulièrement remercier l’APP Haut Lac, le Conseil Secondaire des Etudiants, et Tobias Blickle.

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A series in monochromeBlack & white

VOLUME 1

An exploration of the power of black and white photography. These pic-tures capture unique moments which are strengthened by the simple mono-chrome color scheme. Black, white, and all the shades of grey in between allow for a different form of expression. The limited color pallette means one must think more carefully about the compo-sition, lighting, and mood of the pic-ture in order to create an emotional and moving piece.

Photography by Mirko Laflamme, Andrew Carl, Tobias Blickle and Blanka Blickle.v

VOLUME 1The Inkwell

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VOLUME 1The Inkwell

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When you look in my eyes, doyou see my story, my dreams?Because when I look into youreyes, I see pain, I see fear. Whenyou bring my hopes down,do you know how it feels?Because when you don’t get what youwant, there is always tears.Do you ever feel like breaking down?Do you ever feel out of place?Because you are always with someoneelse, deep down you knowwhat you do, you crush dreams,you crush truths. But in a way,I think it’s true, we’re all differentso I won’t judge you.

LiesFernanda Garcia MYP4

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It took an early-winter eveningTo connect her to the landscape.

As dusk approachedShe fell in love with the sky,

Just as it had fallen for the sun.

Their romance ignited a pallet of colours,With smudges of clouds.

Night approached like blue inkSpilling into their affair.

Above houses, she walked,And her thoughts untangled

As she strode throughThe wild uncut grass.

The cool air condensedFrom her mouth as she stared.

Exhaling, her shackles loosened And were made brittle by the cold.

As they broke she continued onwards,The wind freeing her right down

To her soul to her soul to her soul.

A poem about freedomMaddie Reid

Discolored LassitudeAlexandra Baey


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The story behind the smokeA behind the scenes look at the short film “Moonlit”

“Moonlit” is a short film shot in one evening with the intent to create beauti-ful visuals using an extremely constricting setup and a tiny crew. I was ac-companied by Mirko Laflamme and Barend Schweigman who acted while also simul-taneously working as the assistants, while I filmed and directed. The minimal narrative derived entirely from the scenery and the atmosphere of the location.

The illusion of a thick, smoke filled forest was accomblished by using a smoke ma-chine in combination with two powerful lights suspended at a three meter height to give the scene a moonlit feel while also using the smoke to diffuse the light. The layer of smoke diffusing the light adds depth to the scene, making the entire film an exploration of light and shade diffused through smoke. Inspired by the light-ing of film noir and the cinematography of Roger Deakins, “Moonlit” tries to cre-ate an eerie atmosphere, playing with silhouttes to tell story through form.

Tobias Blickle

“An exploration of light and shade diffused through smoke”

“Playing with silhouttes to tell story through form”

Watch “Moonlit” by scanning the QR code or visiting vimeo.com/tobiasblickle/moonlit

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The creative process behind a modern take on a fisherman’s house

A contemporary fisherman’s home

“Fishery boat dock inspired house” was created as part of my person-al project 2014. It was designed with the help from a professional architect Paderm Putcharonemongkon, and is based on a business man’s desire to get away from work to the beach with his friends and fami-ly. The inspiration to design this house came from my visit to Samui, an island in the south of Thailand, where I saw a fishery boat dock.

The house includes a dining room, a living space facing the sea, private rooms for two families and the house owner, a reading room, and service zones such as laundry room, kitchen, and a storage.

The process of making this house consisted of making draft compo-sitions from my inspiration, add-ing functions to the house, scaling each room, and finally making a floor plan of the house. The finished floor plan is then later reduced in scale from A3 size paper to 20x10 cm as the template of the model. The mod-el was then made from a precise-ly cut foam core, acrylic sheet, and pressed wood. These materi-als were chosen to reflect the very minimal and simple modern design.

Prim Khurewathanakul

“The inspiration to design this house came from my visit to Samui where I saw a fishery boat dock”

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VIVE AND THERE’S NOT AN APP FOR THAT.

New hope

Brianna Hooijberg

VOLUME 1

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Doux,Calme,Écoule,

Délicatement. La grande lagune transparente.

L’horizon lointainSur un bord d’azur clair

Flux de vaguesOscillantes, insouciantes,

Chuchotant parmi eux.

Une réunion des larmes de l’humanité.Rassemblés, amassés,Un tourbillon indéfini

Ils dansent, en cadenceLa danse au rythme de l’éternité.

Le ciel grondeExpirant des nuages cendrés

Brusque arrivé du ventPerturbant le ballet synchronique

Par la lumière de la lune,Le messager de nuit annonce

L’obscurité qui vient couvrir l’îleD’un châle ténébreux.

Ils tournent, instables,Plus vite, plus rapides, plus brusques.

En colère souffle le ventEt chante d’une voix fracassée ;

« Tempête », il prononce.

Avertissement: tempêteAnushree Mathur

WavesAndrew Carl

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Le néant avale le sang du crépuscule,Laissant le monde illuminé par les ombres.Évoluant sans bruit, silhouette d’onyx,Ses pattes de velours noient le monde, l’étouffent.

En équilibre sur les toits, ses yeux nous guettent,Ces étoiles, arrachées à la voûte céleste,Plongent le monde dans le non-être, teintantD’horreur la ville endormie, tombe de nos nuits.

Sa douceur cruelle, bien que silencieuseNous appelle, au loin, cherchant à échapper àL’astre sauveur, qui décolore son pelage.

Les griffes du néant se rétractent, nous libèrent,Laissent place au soleil, sans vraiment disparaître.Des lambeaux de ténèbres attendent son retour.

SonnetMarie Gillet

FirefliesJulius Wanner

We judge when we don’t knowWe don’t know when we judge

Only the person judged knows their story,Knows their hopes.

I don’t know what you knowYou don’t know what I know.

We were born differentSo why judge what we don’t know?

Been hurtBeen loved

But only your words change my world.If I stop being different

I’ll stop being me.

I’m in the middle of a battlefieldFighting a war against myself.You survived this battlefield

So would you save me?

MeFernanda Garcia

BorderlinePoppy Adamson

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There’s plenty of wood here – Clumps of gnarled Green and brown strewn like yarrow stalksAcross a shallow basin by the burn.

In the pale light of evening beneath a marble sky,Rich with rain, I smoke.

I make a circle of moss covered stonesIn a nook of mud. I gather wood.

I break branches over my knee, and note How easily they break, with a soft, muted thunk. The world is porous tonight.

I gather grasses from the slippery bank. They are crispAnd hollow – perfect for kindling. I place them in the centre of the hearth.

Then around this thurze I teepee twigs – You have to build a fire.

I click my lighter and start an ineffectual blaze. I blow into the heart of itand the embers burst into raggedy flame.But soon it dies.

A grey and general twilight chills the air.The smell of lichen covered bark, cold waterAnd the night diffused.

I start again. I gather grasses, and use onlyThe finest, knobbliest twigs this time. My hands are white flesh snapping.

The lighter takes and I watchA small fire whisperA few bold sentencesAnd expire.

Ach well, I think. There is always the butane primus,And the thunder of raindropsRingingA polyester bell.

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“Boring bees buzz busily”,That’s what they always say.Little creatures have personalities,Each one a brilliant sun ray.

Let’s look at some flowers this way:They’re giant pieces of candy!The bees come here to pollinate,And everything’s totally dandy.

I love the bees, they’re hard workers!They make lots of honey for us.They worship their queen, just like they should,And they make quite little fuss.

My bees live in a big beehive,It’s awfully large and beige.They fly in and out, like they’re ADHD;Can’t think of their story’s next page!

For what, must the end be now?Poor bees! They’re getting quite old.But hmmm, how could I thank them?My bees, so lovely and bold!

Bumble bees

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Aujourd’hui, 15 août 2018, la jeune femme qui s’appelle Liana est seule, assise sur le réacto-siège recouvert d’éiate de couleur très sombre, au fond de la grande salle de loisirs. Dehors, la chaleur pèse sur les murs de tianit et sur le toit plat en élastoverre. Malgré les fenêtres ouvertes, aussi faites en élasto-verre, il n’y a pas un souffle d’air toxique, que de l’air pur. Depuis la catastrophe de 2000, l’air s’est toxifié à cause des toxines de cham-pignon egnaro, mais certains en-droits de la planète ne furent pas touché. Aux pieds de Liana, Nick halète bruyamment. C’est le seul bruit à l’intérieur du space house, depuis que la moitié de la planète a été évacuée. Sauf, de temps en temps, on entant au loin, un moteur de spacio-auto ou de spacio-moto, ou bien un horrible cri d’un iench affamé qui fait tressaillir la jeune femme. C’est comme s’il n’y avait personne à des lieues à la ronde, les pays que l’on connaissait ont disparut, il n’y avait plus de con-tinents, plus de villes, que des terres désolées et désertes. Il ne restait plus que le silence. Il y a si longtemps que Liana a vu quelqu’un. La dernière fois, c’était avant de les voir partir à la conquête de l’espace. Ils avaient fuit leurs maison, leurs planète. Liana était restée, elle était trop vielle pour des choses pareilles. Ils étaient partis il y a quelques années déjà, 4 ou 5.

La vie d’aujourd’huiDavid Bischof

Liana ne sait plus très bien, c’est à peine si elle parvient à mettre en marche son esprit pour chercher des souvenirs. Et cette solitude n’amélio-

rait pas les choses. Quand elle ré-fléchit trop, il y a quelque chose qui se déclenche en elle, comme si un petit muscle se raidissait, com-me ces petits nerfs qui se mettent à trembler dans la paupière ou sur la joue. C’est un signal pour qu’elle arrête de chercher. Elle aurait put se faire opérer et se mettre une puce pour que son état s’améliore. Mais elle avait refusé, elle trouvait ça contre nature. Alors pour aider, elle se lève, elle marche un peu le long du space house, pieds nus sur la vieille moquette râpeuse de sa grand-mère et marquée de brûlures de cigarette à fusion. Le planch-er du space house tremble sous ses pas. Le chien tigre se redresse, ses oreilles pointent en avant. Puis il laisse retomber sa tête, il se rendort, ou fait semblant de se rendormir. Lui non plus n’a vu per-sonne depuis des jours, mais sans doute ça lui était égal. Il n’aim-personne, il n’a besoin de personne.

CityscapeAndrew Schmitz

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VOLUME 1

She’ll stand there feet held down by gravityAnd wait for a smile to happen in her empty eyesA smile so far away from the one she used to knowSo distant.She lives in the darkness of her smileAnd she’ll fight for the lifeShe saw once in a dreamShe’ll close her eyes to seethe horizon she felt when the world wentsilent.There’s a broken branch to the treeshe built deep in her heart.She lies in a world of lies,but at the exact same moment,She resides in a beautiful mind oftruth.The mirror lies to herThe opinions lie to herLife within her grasplies to her.there’s an angera painan achea tear drop.but the smile will cover thatthe phone in hand.Will cover thatBut despite it allthe liesthe hatethe crueltyShe stilllooks straight aheadat the hurricane of purposeand grief.And she’ll still say“I refuse to drift away,gimme my wingsI’m flying through this”You know why?because she is strongerand her heart is biggerthan any of the wordsyou set in her path.Now watch her.Watch her fly.

Quand je l’ouvrais, elle se déployait comme les ailes d ’un paon, Elle buvait de l’encre noire,

Et à chaque nuit, dans mon lit, je l’écoutais,Quand je la fermais, elle se fendait comme une huître ou une fleur du tipanier.

Son couvercle : humble comme un coquelicot mais aussi noble qu’une rose.Au cœur de ma petite boîte aux rêves, j’apercevais la nudité de leurs organes,

Blêmes et légèrement boursouflées.Quand le trésor a été trouvé, et l’aventure se finissait,

Je disais au revoir et a bien tôt,Car l’histoire recommençait.

La petite boîte aux rêvesElena Wanvig

NightfallAnna Michel

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High and lowAlexandra Baey

Simplified complicationsMartha Hooijberg

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Waking up from the heatOf the overcooked tent,Smell of pancakes driftRound the campsite.The wet dew dampens the bottomOf my pyjamas, everyone half awake,Finding cups, making coffee,Children drenched in sunscreen,Bikinis, board shorts, swimmers, towels,Surfboards and hats all in the bag.Long beach with only a lonely surfer,Pink cheeks, sandy feet, salty hair.Sun kissed legs running up and downThe long sandy beach.Lazy afternoon in the dry heat,Card games, sleeping and reading.Sun setting, boys collecting the woodGirls chattering, squealing, giggling.Mums drinking, dads cooking.Everyone comes togetherListening to the guitar. Peaceful.Back in pyjamas, cold face wash,Brushing my teeth with a water bottle.Kids in bed, wrapped up in sleeping bags,Faint sounds of drunk laughter.

The right way to campArabella Macrae

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The warmth of summer

EveningAnd man lays down

To the warmth and sound of summerAll around him

The chirping and laughter.

The starsAnd meteors crossing the sky

The moon cresting the horizonFrom the east

Of his home among treesHe will always remember.

Remember the lightsOf a dark infinite sky

To laughter of childrenTo the song of crickets.

Chirp ChirpHis summer sounds

The man relaxes.

Another night in the sky.

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Even my watch saysthere is no such thing

as the time.

Raindrops falling on a tin roof –tac, tac, tac.The sound of writing.

The smell of resin on my fingers,Climbing over fencesBetween back yards.

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VOLUME 1

Paradise

Paradise, it speaks to me

And so the boat began to move,

The motor leaving behind a trail.

I began to gaze at the nature circling me,

All alone yet surrounded by many

Paradise

It speaks to me.

So small, yet so full of life,

Doors painted red,

Windows painted white.

The sweet smell of the water,

The tingle it brings to your feet,

The smiles of the children,

The sound of the creek.

I knew it was the place for me to be.

The sun awoke

As did I.

Looking at him tickled my eyes,

The soothing scent of the ocean breeze,

Brought me to smile and think of many things.

The look of the roses,

The sound of the gulls

The sea was calling me

I felt oh so at home.

The haunting memories

Morningand the sound of the waterswiftly flowing down the streamwakes her up,as their suffocating words play in her head,repeatedly,and the leaveschanging from green to greyshow her thatthe past and presentcould never be the same,and the placewhere love and loss means the sameis where she is stillunfortunatelychained to him

Words unspokenAnna Michel

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Rain fallsEver so lightlyOn cold metal.Cool silver

WrappedIn a wet cocoonLuscious plants droopMore and more – Buckets full to the brim.

Beneath the fragile leavesOne ladybugSeeks shelter.

Small streamsSlide over moss.

By Sarah & Maddie

Branch to branchWings lightly flutterSongs filling the air.

Verdant treesReflect the blaring light.

Side to sideThey softly sway

Like waves.

A crow struts nearby –Sleek in the sun

Blinding sun

Hurts my eyes –Oh the pain!

All around,The buzzing of bugs and machine.

In the undertonesOf the air

Faint traces of sweat.

A glimpse of mountainsSnowy at the peaks.

Winter is gone,Fare thee wellMy icy friend.

By Sarah & Maddie

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I would love to see the outside world,See it through and through.Explore it and gnaw it,And see the sky o’so blue.

I know this will never happen,Because when I show a foot,Somebody gasps, and in a flash,I am flying into soot.

Why won’t you let me see the sky?I didn’t choose to live this way,I don’t like living in a smelly sewer,Where slime sits on me all day.

In your eyesI am as dangerous as can be,A monster,But that’s not the real me.

My life as a ratOliver Roberts

Street LightsJulia Chuang

Thank you for being a part of The Inkwell

The InkwellVOLUME 1

The Inkwell is a student initiated, student ran, and student produced magazine that celebrates the creativity of the Haut-Lac Secondary School. The editors meet weekly to review, read, and critique the unique literary and artistic entries submitted by students, and teachers.Although almost all of the submissions were included in the first edi-tions, ones that were not are eligible for re-submission in the upcoming school year.

The Inkwell est un magazine créé, dirigé, et produit par les étudiants afin de céleber la créativité des étudiants de l’école Secondaire Haut-Lac. Les éditeurs se rencontrent chaque semaine afin de passer en re-vure, lire, et critiquer les soumissions des étudiants et des enseignants.Bien que la majorité des soumissions font partie de cette première édi-tion, celles qui n’en font pas partie peuvent être présentées pour le pro-chain numéro.

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