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Young voices

T O R O N T O P U B L I C L I B R A R Y

2007

2 Young Voices 20 07

Welcome to Young Voices 2007this year is the beginning of something new and exciting for Young Voices: the stories and artwork in this edition of toronto Public library’s magazine for teen writing and art were selected by editorial teams consisting of teens working with toronto writers Hadley Dyer, emily Pohl-Weary, Karen Krossing, Dwayne morgan, Jay millAr and Angela Rawlings and toronto artist michael Brown. thanks to members of the editorial Youth Advisory group who selected the works you are about to enjoy:

Jinesh Bhatt mandy che otiena ellwandguia gali Patricia gali Patrycja KhucznikAnna li Justin moga Jessica PaczuskiKirsten Parucha Aruna Raghuraman sula sidnell-greenesimli srivastava Deanne Vincent Jenney Wangshawna Wang stephanie Zhou

our biggest thanks, however, goes to everyone who submitted to Young Voices this year. Just the fact that you put yourself out there is a good thing. if you didn’t get published, don’t give up – try again this year. there’s an entry form at the back of the magazine.

congratulations to all those whose work is contained in these pages. You are all talented, creative individuals enriching the cultural landscape of toronto. Keep creating!

SNeABRAY u k u n s n o w e r i a Z h a n g , a g e 1 6

Young Voices 20 07 �

CONTeNTS

a r T w o r ki Wish Arriane lo coversneabra Yukun snoweria Zhang 2camouflaged Dragons max mak 4gothica sandy escobar 6living in Harmony Philip mak 7the mask We Hide under sai Paranjape 10Frost Kimia moozeh 12the nightingale and the Rose Da eun Kim 15Protection elena Wu 16Bottom of Death Valley salome siktanc 19leosaurus Ka Wai leung 21Behind those Hazel eyes shamera sathiaruban 22coast Watchers Hongjin Yan 25if this is What We look like on the outside tina saul-nurse 26Angel of Darkness Robin skinner 29sleeping Angel Jonoel macaraeg Alegria 30success muzhda Hakime 33the Pencil Did it grace liang 35the easy Part of life Danyang (sunny) lin 39mahatma ghandi Ramya Rajagopal back cover

P o e T r Ysunrise sabrina scott 5the stupidest Animals Justine shackleton 6the Ballad of an outlaw tamara thompson 8Karamchand Aneesha chopra 9i nuwan tilakaratna 10silence of the Abyss minnie Kong 11Winter madeleine cummings 12Rain Dew emily Bruce 14the Wilting Rose: A sonnet Keren ginzberg 15When i look at the sky at night maria Yancheva 17illusions Anonymous 18Fairytale childhood: A sonnet Paige laframboise 18ode to cheerios Aletheia chiang 18Poem for the Day in Between Birth and Death schirin Rachel oeding 23the Anti-socialite stephanie santiago 23lament of a student trapped in a Particularly Dull Philosophy class isabel Zaw-tun 23Heaven mary elizabeth campo 24midnight storms shannon clarke 24Reversing unspoken sound gabriela naces 27We Are not those silent creatures mathusha senthilmurugan 27i Am Julia goyal 27silence Keisha toney 27After life David Zada 28‘Dirty’ cindy Huang 28...no more Asma Khalil 28i Want martha Porado 28through it All Jabari tamkeen 31Why? christi-Anne nazareth 32the Force of nature – Winter Rumman Khondker 34i’ve Formed myself an Allen ginsberg cover Band nevena martinovic 34

I WISha r r i a n e l o ,

a g e 1 8

P r o s ethe sun Rises in the West Yukun snoweria Zhang 5complexity of Dating Andrew Antinicci 7the Fundamentals of eyeliner and Burns Jennifer lamb 9A Day in the life Augustin Petre 11surrender Ksenia stassiouk 13A contribution Althea gorospe 13Performance of a lifetime lynn tay 14A soul set Free sara Vladusic 17the magician’s Apprentice tiffany chan 17Behind the curtain Prerana Das 18long time coming tina long 18midnight memories michelle Huang 20Just Another story About a teen with a Depressing take on the World nihaal silk 23Happiness stephanie Yip 23the ericsson Dinah mcKay 24‘Round We sit shelly luu 31confessions of the modest gina nigro 32Rats Jack Feng 34my little Hearts tina Hang 36

� Young Voices 20 07

CAmOUfLAged dRAgONSM a x M a k , a g e 1 4


SUNRISe long walks home; i sipped a beer, with chips possibly the best conversation i have ever had with myself. let me visit you at three in the morning not my friend, but the Room-mate offers good conversation and a lack of being ignored at the most inconvenient of times; too bad it complicates things psychedelic music at five am mind drifts from body to symington apartment b, knock knock knock no answer, goddamn i had planned on saying thank you give me a hug, let’s be friends it drowns out the other tenants’ snores as i breathe in cold air springing into something i would rather do sooner than later, like knowing someone like you seem to be. prom is a party of people i don’t like, but still there is room in this cardboard box for you and me to dance to songs that bleed into each other in the moon light, if you were home next time i came a-knocking on door b, made of plywood and regretted words and botched goodbyes, uttered lies and a sense of suspense when all you need to do is walk thirty minutes knock and wait for the symphony to end: clap once clap twice, the door opens and watch your palms turn to ice

s a b r i n a s c o T T , a g e 1 7

The SUN RISeS IN The WeST

“… And that concludes my presentation.” i finish presenting my artwork and go back to my seat amid my peers’ languid applause.Art classes on Friday afternoons are always listless. every Friday ms. tinkerbell makes us spend one hour on critiquing each other’s projects. she doesn’t allow anybody to interrupt during the critique. no one – probably except ms. tinkerbell – finds it interesting to look at other people’s work and try very hard to pick out the nonexistent highlights and colour schemes. i look around and see that more than half of the students are either nearly asleep or biting their nails. “the next piece is by Avril, an artist par excellence. Avril, come up and show us your magnus opus.” ms. tinkerbell’s overuse of foreign words reminds me of a witch casting out random spells. Avril goes up. she is not really “an artist par excellence.” ms. tinkerbell calls every student that. in fact, Avril is rather shy and mediocre. she is not a cheerleader, not an athlete, not an artist, not a musician, not even a geek. she is not anything. “my artwork is called the sun Rises in the West,” Avril begins in a voice that can hardly be heard. nobody except ms. tinkerbell pays attention to her. “Hold on a moment, my dear,” ms. tinkerbell interrupts, “what did you say your artwork was called?” more students are listening now. ms. tinkerbell just interrupted a presentation – something is happening. “the sun Rises in the West,” Avril repeats, looking embarrassed with more people paying attention now. “oK,” says ms. tinkerbell after a long pause, “you know, honey, the intention of our project is to illustrate our wish. i understand that everybody’s wish is going to be a little different, but i expect it to be something more than just unrealistic science fiction.” she looks at Avril trenchantly. Avril looks as if she can burst into tears in any moment. she bites her lips really hard and says, “it is about a realistic wish.” everybody in the class is awake now. We want to hear how a “sunrise in the west” is realistic. “my mother died of cancer three years ago,” Avril begins, her voice shaking. every eye in the classroom is staring at her. We don’t see where this is going. “Before she died, i asked the doctor what could save her. the doctor said, ‘little girl, if the sun rose in the west, your mother is probably going to be saved.’” Avril stops and goes back to her seat, not looking at any of us. silence is devouring the room. this silence is different. it is neither stagnant nor listless. it is the retrospection of each of the wishes we have illustrated. We wanted to meet the rock star; we wanted to have the best shirt; we wanted to have what everybody doesn’t have. Avril’s wish awes us. For the first time we are introduced to some wish that is so simple, and yet so powerful.

Y u k u n (snoweria) Z h a n g, age 16


The STUPIdeST ANImALS

the stupidest animals,We know them very well,We interact with them every day,they’re transforming the earth into hell.

they’re ruining this planet,As if it is a game,the world’s future is on their shoulders,But they refuse to take the blame.

continuing with their selfishness,they simply are not caring,All these horrendous conditions,the world must keep on bearing.

With their stupidity,they’re destroying this earth,With global warming,the world’s death, they’re giving birth.

J u s T i n e s h a c k l e T o n , a g e 1 2

gOThICAs a n d Y e s c o b a r , a g e 1 5

Young Voices 20 07 7

COmPLexITY Of dATINg

i got home from a date tonight. As i prepare to go to sleep, i wonder how today’s date was. it must have been one in a million. like who goes out to play hockey with a bunch of random people, wrestle on the beach, and throw eggs at an abandoned house? All in one day! geez, that’s quite original! i could have went out and done the good old dinner and a movie. But like any other guy, you want your date with your girl to be the best because you never know; it could be your last. this leads to the whole complexity i’m about to throw out there that revolves around dating. generally, and it’s very blunt, the guy in a relationship (or a relationship to be) does the planning, driving, opening doors, closing doors, and initiating the almighty “kiss”. the thing is, these are things that mothers teach their sons, and they are things mothers expect their daughters to receive. i remember my mom telling me to be courteous and generous when i’m going to go on a date, and my mother telling my sister to be sympathetic and thankful for everything. the question here is, is paying for a meal, picking the right movie, and opening doors original, when they are “expected”? guys generally want to go over the top with dates, well at least i do. i’m not trying to represent guys here, but trying to show how hard it could be when you have “expectations”. these expectations could act as barriers that can hold guys back

from expressing our true selves, which is something a girl looks for. so the question here is, are these “expectations” supposed to be broken, or met? this is tricky. if the door closes in her face, and you laugh, everything could falter, and you could kiss that date goodbye. if you open the door, she already knows what to do. then there could be that possibility that she might open the door for you! Home free! this is where strategy takes place. You see, the date i went on didn’t involve doors, money, or driving (god bless the ttc). these factors weren’t even considered when i was planning the date. i looked for stuff that would express myself in the limited time i had with her. Wrestling on the beach was out of the blue, but fun, and i kicked her ass; egging the abandoned house was perfect to get some good down time in there; and the hockey game in the end gave me a chance to showcase my skills in hockey! the end result – as i brought her to the foot of her front door, a Huge smile blasted from within that beautiful face, and sHe kissed me! Wow! crazy, eh? trying to impress a girl in the end is far too complex and trying to make the night perfect is complex as well. When you know you’re with someone that you feel comfortable with and you know they are comfortable with you, everything seems to fall into place. guys – if you do your thing, everything will be just fine.

a n d r e w a n T i n i c c i , a g e 1 8

LIvINg IN hARmONYP h i l i P M a k , a g e 1 2


The BALLAd Of AN OUTLAW

i rode into town,one Friday afternoon,tied my horse,At the local saloon,

entered the premises, With a certain despair,As uncertainty and melancholy, overshadowed me with care,

At the bar i drank,Worry put aside,the feeling of my gun,tinkling with pride,

At the cowboys’ souls,Who ventured afar,to the creator himself,commanding the stars,

i was the quickest of them all, i bragged to all the men,one challenged me,We never saw him again,

the old man beside me,Who before caught my eye,sat me down beside him,And said not to question why,

When he said:

“there’ll always be a gun,Faster than yours,Your time will come,that’s for sure.”

i sprang up from my seat,not willing to hear,the old man’s words,that played in my ears,

With satan beside me,And temperament in my veins, i shot the old man,to prove i say what i am.

His once wise eyes,Became lifeless and hazed,As he joined the men,of whom i shortened their days,

i ran from the saloon,got on my horse,Rode it vehemently,till the night came with force,

the old man’s words,stung my mind,As i wondered,if he was right,

i shook my head,As it ached in vain,And challenged the next man,Who rode alone on the plain.

i proved myself,As the man drew his gun,He dropped it instantly,And i knew i had won,


i snorted with resentment,At the old man’s words,He was gone now,thinking of him was absurd,

For many months i roamed,challenging every man in my path,All of them consequently,Feeling my wrath,

i had become a beast,Feared by all,A killing machine,that drew his gun once an’ for all,

every night,As i uneasily rest,i see the old man’s face,And think in disgrace,

of his words etched in my mind:


Wearily i woke,As my next challenge arrived,He was large and fearsome,But i was deprived,

Deprived of my killing,of my murderous ways,i was ready to draw my gun,no matter where death lay,

As i drew my gun,i felt a pain,i lay on the ground,in my life’s stain,

i stared at the night sky,the stars mocking me,i thought of the old man,And now i see,

“there’ll always be a gun,Faster than mine,A man must die,When it’s his time.”

T a M a r a T h o M P s o n , a g e 1 4


KARAmChANd The fUNdAmeNTALS Of eYeLINeR ANd BURNS

“Approach someone new. You may be surprised by the warm reception you receive.”-Fortune cookie

Applying eyeliner is one of the most testing feats for any girl who is going for a bold-sexy-in-style-but-in-an-offbeat-nonconforming-just-so-devious stare. With every tick of the second hand, each stroke of kohl aches with a desired perfection and blazes like the gentle pulse behind a burn. As every second passes, the dull pain becomes more intense and unbearable. i reach out to soothe the pain but where i should feel tender skin i feel cold glass. there is no burn. there is only me in a mirror applying eyeliner. if i stare closer, if i look beyond my frozen eyes, i can see the reflection of my dream last night. usually, when he holds my hand, i take it eagerly and despair momentarily vanishes. As they alter our reality, a world where those feelings do not exist, these dreams are my most precious device. But last night, when he gallantly captured my hand in his, i faced the greatest dilemma. i knew if i let this go any further, it would irrefutably be my greatest regret. i do not know how releasing someone’s hand can hurt so much. How can i dispel an illusion i revisit relentlessly? i return my gaze to the mirror and realize my frozen eyes are melting. i can see into them for miles, yet i see no contradiction to my dream. there is no uncontrollable sobbing, just tears running down my face. each blackened capsule traces a promise on my cheek; the black residue burns my skin. i begin to feel a dreaded pulse and search for some sense behind my reasoning. there is no more life and no more love. time has stopped because my meaning is over. my eyes flicker to the clock on my right, pushing past the pain of my burns, to verify my theory. much to my disappointment, it is still ticking, but much slower than usual. With each passing second, another fragment of insight is added to my anomalous epiphany. it comes to me slowly as the clock drags on, but my comprehension is undeniable. Regardless of the difficulty of the obstacle, time will progress. it may seem impossible and hurt beyond belief with no evident cure. nevertheless, the remedy of time mends all wounds, tangible or not. no matter how unevenly, if it lurches then drags, time will eventually go by and the burn will heal. eyeliner can always be reapplied or a more appropriate waterproof brand can be used.

J e n n i f e r l a M b , a g e 1 5

if each person on the subway is going to the same placea place farther from sleepless nights, angry trumpets, unhappy dreamswhy do we not help each other smile beyond oppressive social

regimes

maybe we’re all just waiting to be saved from ourselvessaved from unravelling at the drop of a tear, an obscenity in

truthshortcomings are magnets to old iron hearts erasing a yearning

youth

i thought people just needed Beatles love and the Doors freedom

but all they got was Radiohead karma and nirvana’s short-straw-ed end

music that pulls generations to cry out that we are forty feet underground with no godsend

so beyond my pressure tests, scheduled advancement and drinking water

i will have to gobble oceans of unsynchronized equations to find where happiness lives

i pursue it alongside deflated wars on a rainbow earth that teaches to only give

a n e e s h a c h o P r a , a g e 1 9


I

i ran,i ran through the school,i ran through the school in the hallway,i ran through the school in the hallway trying to get away.

i slipped,i slipped on the ice,i slipped on the ice at school,i slipped on the ice at school while running.

i thought,i thought about hiding,i thought about hiding from him,i thought about hiding from him as i got up.

i screamed,i screamed in pain,i screamed in pain as he punched me,i screamed in pain as he punched me hard in my arm.

i laughed,i laughed evilly,i laughed evilly in the classroom,i laughed evilly in the classroom as i punched him.

He laughed,He laughed evilly,He laughed evilly in the classroom,He laughed evilly in the classroom as he knocked me out.

n u w a n T i l a k a r a T n a , a g e 1 3

The mASK We hIde UNdeRs a i P a r a n J a P e , a g e 1 7


SILeNCe Of The ABYSS

the timepiece struck two o’clock,Buried under the blanket were her tormented sobs.Ferocious pain attacked her ruthlessly like a thunder,Her strength was utterly battered, she begged to surrender.

in hopes of finding indication,she gazed into the sky with great trepidation.But the dark night only brought turbid obscurity,As if a black cloak falling to cover her dejection,And engulfing her with the deeply hidden memory…

she would not even dare,to let the thought of trust enter.observing the cold world enveloping no care,Her guarded heart held grief and fear.

Yet the obdurate icebergs started thawing,As you came into the picture.she learned to give in,And embraced the comfort.

until you committed the utmost treason,For abandoning her without a reason.sitting alone yet again inside her head,legs resembled sculptures of lead.

Deceiving loyalty tattered,Her mere hopes shattered.Your every word seemed so genuinely captivating,Yet you left them deserted in her thoughts aching.

Deep down inside those innocent eyes,Vicious tornados of rage lied.so full of confliction and contradiction,life was anything but absence of inspiration.

every deplorable day she lived her hollow fate,enduring the suppressions she contained.locked up at the disruptive side of the barred gates,the succulent rivers of vitality slowly drained.

though so much to express on her mind,Withholding her was the fears she confided.Walking between those fine lines,insanity left trails of her tears behind.

Rocks and stones could only break those bones,But you walloped into her soul and swept her off the throne.she was always there to listen to your woes whispering from the heart,But you could not even hear her screaming now as if the two were oceans apart…

Words were repetitious,But her emotions all came out the same:so besieged she could not get across,Her feelings and her thoughts.

exhaustions gashed her soul a blood-splattered gap,Faiths struggled with despair as gradually they sap.Without warning now and again,slamming in the suffocation of pain.

Being dragged down to the fathomless depths,she lost consciousness from the brutal jabs.maiming her with every bit of its madness,legacies of woes continued in the silence of the abyss.

M i n n i e k o n g , a g e 1 7

A dAY IN The LIfe

Warm sunlight peers into the room. You are awakened by the sound of squawking gulls and waves. the salty breeze enters your room through an open window, filling your nose with an unmatchable feeling, one only the sea can provide. You have breakfast. through the air travel the voices of playing children already swarming on the beach. the rhythm of the waves relaxes you and the squawking seagulls call you to run free with them on the sand. You do.

clanging tramways and honking car horns wake you, along with the ring of your alarm clock. strays are barking on the streets. You quickly microwave your breakfast. You are in a race against yourself to get to work on time. not again, you think to yourself, as you get into your car, turn on the a/c, and race to work. the power button of your computer haunts you, but nevertheless you push it. You toil away until lunchtime, trying to get as much work done as possible and please your boss. it’s 8 p.m. You have been working for 12 hours. You exit the office. You meet a wall of exhaust fumes that drive you even crazier but you drive home, and collapse. Before you know it, the tramways are clanging, the cars are honking, and your alarm clock is ringing. they awake you from your nightmare about how you’re going to get through the next day, and the next. Here you go again, like a robot.

A rooster’s call wakes you. the smell of dung enters your room. You can see the sparkling sun peer over a hill, saying good morning to your farm. good morning, sunshine. You walk to the well to the sound of peeping birds and grunting pigs. A bucket of sparkling spring water poured over your head wakes you fully. You head for the barn, joined by your trusty dog. All the animals are barking, neighing, mooing, clucking, grunting, and peeping, as if they’re asking you to feed them. the cow is waiting to be milked, the sheep to be sheared. After the chores are done, you sit down for a hearty meal of fresh cheese, just-baked bread, onions from your own garden, and butter you’ve just finished churning. When the day is spent, you lay on a feather-filled pillow and a straw mattress, and fall soundly asleep, to the sound of raindrops falling on your roof, looking forward to another day like this.

A chilly breeze opens the window with a creak, breaking the perfect silence. You lift your head and look around: the sun is waking up, the mist is rising from the base of the mountain, and the spring is dripping by your lodge. songbirds of many colours – wonders of nature – sing to you their wondrous songs, luring you to go outside. mountain flowers are everywhere. You have never smelled such perfectly clean air. A squirrel approaches and knocks my pencil out of my hand.

a u g u s T i n P e T r e , a g e 1 3


WINTeR

We have learned once,and swept our doorsteps.good riddance.

We don’t identify, with defiance and the insightfulcriticism waltzing out of thin lips.

We shovel away and with great pains,kiss away beginning.

Winter’s always been here.

M a d e l e i n e c u M M i n g s , a g e 1 6

fROSTk i M i a M o o Z e h , a g e 1 7

Young Voices 20 07 1�

SURReNdeR

it was the light in his eyes that broke her heart. the way his arms found her the moment she was there, and reached for her when she wasn’t. it was his love that killed her inside. the way he leaned on her as if she was strong made her feel weak. she did not realize the strength of his commitment to her, and now it was too late to rethink it. she was in too deep, and there was only one way out. in the end, it was the affection he had given her that made up her mind. He consumed her in a way that left her with nothing. she looked back on all the sleepless nights she had spent by his side, or waiting for him to call her again. the minutes and hours she had spent thinking over her decision, regretting it, before she had even made it. As soon as the thought entered her mind, she regretted everything. getting drunk, enduring the pain that followed, and eventually, he was with her 24/7. if not physically, his voice constantly spoke in the back of her mind. she just couldn’t handle it any more. she was only fifteen. she had school to worry about – she would one day like to make something of herself, but with him always there, always on her mind, it was nearly impossible. she picked up the phone and made the call. He was as good as out of her life. Her grip tightened around the receiver and then relaxed. it fell to the ground and so did she. crumpled on her knees, she started to cry in tune with the sound of an ended call ringing somewhere in the distance. His cries haunted her. every moment of the next week it was all she heard, even if he wasn’t around. somehow she still found it hard to let him go. He was her life, her everything, for almost a year, and now it was all over. soon, another woman’s arms would hold him close, as hers used to. soon, she would be erased from his mind, and she would be left remembering him. it pained her to think about having him in her mind, always making her think about him when her name probably wouldn’t even stay in his system. soon, someone would be happy with him, and she would never be the same. she knew what she was doing was right – she wanted him, more than anything, to be happy. she wanted him to laugh, and live his life as if she was never a part of it. the next week was a blur of strange faces and voices revolving around her. Her world didn’t seem to be her business anymore – it was now open to everyone who wanted to see it. they all wanted him. But they all had to go through her, and make sure it was okay to even look at him before making their next move. many didn’t even get that far. on that fateful day she felt raw and exhausted. Having cried the entire previous night, just as she had many nights before that, she was tired and heartbroken. But today was different. Days were slowly ticking away, and it was at the point where she had no more control over him. A knock on the door startled her, and pulled her from her thoughts. it was time. she opened the door, and stared blankly into the grinning faces of the people standing in the hallway. tears she didn’t know she had poured out of her eyes. she waved the procession in, and walked back into the apartment. she reappeared a minute later with him in her arms. With a quick breath she handed him over to the woman. Her son – her child, was now in the arms of a new mother. He was no longer hers. she no longer shared her life with someone else, and no matter how right her decision was, she could not bring herself to realize that just yet. it was his love that killed her inside, but it was her love for him that finished the job.

k s e n i a s T a s s i o u k , a g e 1 7

A CONTRIBUTION

the airport is a funny place. it is always packed with people, always busy, always moving. in the airport, i walk by dozens and dozens of unfamiliar faces, not giving a single thought past what i see right before my eyes. But one day, in a crowded new York airport, my dad asked me a question that got me thinking. “Did you ever think why all these people are at the airport?” he had asked me quizzically. i had to admit, i was surprised. “no, not really,” i replied. “i mean, i hadn’t really thought about it.” my dad just looked at me. then, after a moment, he replied. “me neither, until today. But all this time at the airport got me thinking. When you look around, there are so many faces to see. so then i thought: every face – men, women, even children – has a story. every single one. think about that for a moment. i mean, are they at the airport to go to visit their families? Are they having a hard time at work, and want to go on vacation on some unknown, tropical island?” “tropical island?” i questioned, cocking an eyebrow. my dad laughed. “You get my point.” the gears in my mind started to turn furiously, thinking about this. my dad continued. “then i thought about bigger things. Are these people at the airport going to a funeral someplace far from here, where one of their relatives or loved ones has passed away? Are they having trouble in their lives, or their relationships, and looking for a fresh new start somewhere else? All these things i thought of. i thought of seeing so many faces, most that i would probably never get to see again, and all of the stories each person has that i would never get to hear. i didn’t know if the stories were sad, or happy, or tragic, or anything else, and i thought that if i didn’t make an effort, i would never hear them. this made me think hard and long, harder than i had in a long time. i thought that when you put it that way, the world seems like such a huge place, vast and endless and full of discoveries waiting to be discovered. When i thought about this strange thing that my dad has told me, i got inspired. to this day i always try to make an effort to know people. to listen to their thoughts and opinions or laugh with them or maybe even tell them my own thoughts, because i know that if i try to do this whenever i can, i will be giving a small part of me to this big world. Because when i think of all those faces, all those stories and thoughts and opinions that fill up this world, i feel proud that i’m telling my stories and thoughts and opinions too. A contribution, if you will.

a l T h e a g o r o s P e , a g e 1 2

1� Young Voices 20 07

RAIN deW

empty your buckets on to meDrip ever so lightly till you pourBlue ochre blue gasp in the lightWeightful cloudsDrain, drainDewdrops rest upon these treessoak in moisture through my skinsuck me drysuck thy earth dryDry core dryempty your buckets among us pleaseRid of empty wasteful beingsspit your spitPour your drinkWater gun mePour out your teaBleed your water, dry we aremusky nightsee no starsmoonful glassRainful maskempty your rain bucketsDew rainRain dew

e M i l Y b r u c e , a g e 1 7

PeRfORmANCe Of A LIfeTIme Katrina’s heart pounded a mile a minute. sitting in that waiting room was making her very nervous. she stood and paced to and fro, up and down the length of the room. Her thoughts were running wild with possibilities of what could happen in the hours to come. then, the dreaded voice: “all contestants of the Performance of a lifetime Piano competition please report to the auditorium.” Katrina stood, and slowly made her way to the auditorium. When she walked in, she was awed by the number of people in there. “there must have been millions,” she thought. But at the front was where she would have to sit. Right up there was where the best piano players of the world were. tonight was the night! the night that would decide her future. “Katrina Whity,” the announcer called. the audience applauded as she strode down the aisle to her seat in the front. she sat down in seat number three. she’d be third to perform that night. she’d be the third contestant who would give the performance of their life. the first two performances passed rather quickly with no significant events. then, it was her turn. she rose and made her way onto the stage in front of millions of people. stopping beside the grand Petrof piano, she stood, and bowed. the audience clapped. then, she sat down on the piano bench, and with one sweep of motion, she began. she played like a feather in the wind. As she played, her soul flew through the room, caressing every face, transforming everyone into a tranquilized dream. Her fingers grazed the keys as her hands flew through page after page. she played for her family, her dead brother, who had believed in her. she played, as the heart-wrenching song told a story of her own life, and her own family. Brightness returned and shimmered in her soul. Her soul, one that had once echoed with happiness and joy. then, she struck the final note; the end of her story, a page in her life finished. the audience was silent for a moment, then, they burst into applause. two hours later, the adjudicator stood in front of the many hopeful faces gazing back at her. she said, “this is by far the best competition ever! the decision i was asked to make today was not an easy one. so, without further ado, in third place, Kenneth stone, in second place, Rachel Jolene, and the champion of today’s competition is Katrina Whity! congratulations!” Katrina was in shock, she had done it! she had won the highest award there was for musicians! Katrina rose from her seat, and made her way to the podium, where she accepted the grand trophy. As she made her way back to her seat, she overheard someone say, “she’s done it again! she has swept us off of our feet, and she’s taking home the gold. Katrina Whity has given the performance of a lifetime!”

l Y n n T a Y , a g e 1 3


The WILTINg ROSe

A sonnetupon the ground it sat resolutelyWithdrawn into the world of silent thoughtit would be gone soon and absolutelystanding with the sad dignity death broughtthe rose had once been red but now was notPetals edged with black, wilting peacefullythe rose stood tall as it began to rotPassersby looked and grimaced dreadfullythe withered leaves fell; sad and patheticmaking not a sound as they touched the stonesit quietly died; proud and poeticinvisible to the world and alonein the minds of people it would remainBeautified, thornless, its beauty retained

k e r e n g i n Z b e r g , a g e 1 4

The NIghTINgALe ANd The ROSed a e u n k i M , a g e 1 5


PROTeCTIONe l e n a w u , a g e 1 6


A SOUL SeT fRee

i ran through the dark forest, the shadows crawling on the old trees and their branches. my feet patted the compact earth, and the low tree boughs ripped and caught on to my clothing. i was running out of breath, and i stopped, panting, in a large clearing. it was a graveyard, and on the dark grass i saw gruesome spiders crawling creepily to the menacing iron gate. the gravestones were a dull grey, and they were covered with dark green vines, looking rotten with the dust of the crumbling stone upon them. i stepped closer, to see the name carved into the stone nearest to me. stooping down, i gazed at the rock. it read: Ryana Dreamt, 1992-2005 my own name. no, it was not possible. Was i dead? it can’t be true. if i was dead, would i be able to read this? Was i dead? Was i? “i’m not dead!” i shouted out, and it echoed eerily with the swirling wind. “not dead…” i added shakily, and sat down, crying. i felt a sort of gel-like substance on my cheeks. i wiped it off, and found that it was a tear. i looked at the hand that had wiped it off, seeing it translucent. i attempted to poke it with my other hand, but it went right through. like thin air. not like an alive person’s hand. i looked down, my vision blurred by tears, and saw that i was not sitting on cold earth. i was floating in a sitting position. everything about me was translucent, from my fingernails to my skin. suddenly, images came to mind: A knife, glinting ominously amid the splattered blood. my mother, crying, with mascara running down her face, her tears black. A wooden coffin, closed with me inside, death taking its toll. i floated back to my grave, where i saw rays of sunlight dancing on the carved letters, illuminating them. golden specks glittered, and an elegant hand seemed to rise out of the heavens, inching near me bit by bit, beckoning me to hold it. i took up the offer, and was lifted up, soaring. At every second i felt more at peace. my soul became free. st. John stood quietly, watching the scene as he stroked his long beard. this child would be let into heaven, and walk through the Pearly gates, where she would meet her dead relatives. content, the saint said: “A soul set free.”

s a r a V l a d u s i c , a g e 1 2

WheN I LOOK AT The SKY AT NIghT

When i look at the sky at night,i see a flicker of stars, and i think:When people the world over look at the sky,what do they think?

toronto, lisbon,Baghdad or london,people the world overlook at the sky at night.

then i close the curtainsand go back to sleep, and i think:Do the people the world overgo back to sleep?

A fireball of light punctures the skylike a missile.the falling star disappears, but i think:is it a falling star the world over?

As i close my eyes, i begin to dream,and i think: if the peopleshare the night sky the world over,why can’t they share the earth?

M a r i a Y a n c h e V a , a g e 1 6

The mAgICIAN’S APPReNTICe

Angry clouds gathered on the horizon, staining the red with black. “lower the sails,” the captain ordered. “We will have to ride out the storm.” Roan stood on the prow of the ship. ever since that fateful day, he had been running from master. master, who had such powerful magic he could blot out the sun. His only hope was to escape across the sea, escape to sourdain. then the storm struck without warning. Rain lashed out at him, needling his face and hands with cold. He struggled to keep himself steady as the ship lurched. the crew rushed here and there as Roan had heard them do, slipping and sliding. He staggered to the mast and clung to it desperately. then there was what could best be described as a screech of some kind. But it sounded unearthly and ancient. the screeching of a creature, long and keening; it filled his stomach with ice. thrown into sharp relief by lightning was a long, slimy tentacle. Dripping with water and seaweed, it stood taller than the highest mast and three times as thick, tapering to a tip above their heads. “it’s the Kraken!” Roan heard a sailor cry. “load the ballista!” the order was relayed to the front of the ship where the giant harpoon-launching crossbow stood. Quickly, crew members carried a giant spike forward, securing it with a loud mechanical clank. “Fire!” Roan whipped around just in time to see the spike streaking off towards the limb. Almost immediately, there was another shriek so loud it hurt his ears and left them ringing. it was a noise of anger. the appendage reared up, the spike jutting out like some grotesque splinter before withdrawing into the murky depths. next second, a truly monstrous head rose out of the sea, a mottled green, as the tentacle had been. enormous, quivering fins flanked it like ears. Bright yellow eyes deep in their sockets burned with hatred. “load!” there was a series of metallic noises as the ammunition was loaded. “Ready!” the captain squinted, concentrating all his effort into one shot. the beast screamed its defiance. “Fire!” A whoosh and it was away. it found its mark. Dark red blood spurted out of the Kraken’s eye, staining the sea. the creature roared in pain, its tentacles thrashing in its last, desperate hour. there was a horrible crunch as one knocked the masts clean off. Another whipped out, punching straight through the hull of the ship. With a great shudder the craft began to sink. A third dealt the final blow, splitting the vessel clean in two. Roan heard one last, agonized screech before he hit the churning water. When Roan finally woke again, he found himself on the white beaches of sourdain where the tide had left him. He thanked the gods that brought him here. Roan was free.

T i f f a n Y c h a n , a g e 1 3


ILLUSIONS

You are so sure you know me, and youDon’t even think twice about it, butRealize there is more to me, and that, if you let mei will step out of the box that iAm encased in, let the mask that i hide behindJust fall away, and shatter to piecesAn empty promise i no longer fulfill, myillusion has become a part of me

i am not loud and rude, and iAm not tough, spiteful or disturbednot any of the things you say i amWho are you to say when i still hide fromYou and your clouded eyes? i know youthink i am strange, different, but you don’t knowi am just bleeding on the inside, and iAm really the opposite of the illusions that you see of me

give me some time, try to letme feel safe without my dreaded disguiseFaith in the end will bring me out of my shellAnd finally, i can be free and be myselfi’ll be released from that hollow darkness, and you’llshed some light back into my life, but don’t tearmy costume away from me, because thisillusion is the shield that i hide behind

a n o n Y M o u s

BehINd The CURTAIN

it’s 11:45 p.m. All i can hear is arguing, from downstairs, but that’s normal. i’m in my bedroom, looking out the window. i think i’m supposed to be asleep right now, but i can’t sleep with all the arguing anyway. so i look out the window, trying to block out the screaming. it’s a beautiful night, with a full moon. All the houses and streets have a silver-ish glow, and the sky is cloudless. opposite my window, there is a row of houses, and i have a clear view of what is going on in each window. in the far left house, i see a computer, and an overwhelming collection of stuffed animals on the windowsill, making me think that this is a child’s room. some houses to the right, i see a lit room with a couple arguing behind the blinds. my heartbeat quickens for a second, and i am again aware of the arguing voices coming from my first floor. i quickly look away, and move my eyes along the remaining houses across the street. Dark room. Woman brushing. somebody asleep. then i see something that makes me stop. in one of the houses, to the right, is a girl looking out her window. Her white curtain is drawn by her hand, and she has a curious expression on her face. the moonlight is so strong that i can see she has impossibly large green eyes, and straight brown hair. Her skin is pale, made only paler by the moonlight. i don’t understand why, but this girl is too interesting for me to look away. Her eyes wander the streets as mine were, behind her white curtain. she looks at the row of houses on my side now, and i am waiting for her to look in my window. she is getting closer… closer… and finally, she looks. my heart jumps, though i don’t know why, and caught in the moment, i wave. there is a moment of waiting, which seems to take forever. i’m waiting in anticipation, to see if she will acknowledge me. then, in a split second, i see it. Her enormous eyes blink once in surprise, and her face cracks a smile. i smile back. this is very exciting. maybe we could be friends? What’s this girl’s name? Why haven’t i seen her before? Who… “Hey, useless! You’d better be asleep!” the voice comes out of nowhere, bringing me back to reality. i quickly draw my curtain and lie down, covers over my face. i wait to see if they’re coming upstairs to check on me, but i hear no footsteps. i wait two minutes to be safe, then sit up again. i know it’s hopeless. she must have gone by now, back to sleeping, or maybe looking at a different row of houses, but who knows? my heartbeat quickens again as i slowly draw the curtain to see if the girl is there. i look out the window, smiling. she is not there.

P r e r a n a d a s , a g e 1 5

fAIRYTALe ChILdhOOd

A sonnetthe sky, beach-stretched across both of their heartsin rapture with own southern snow globeWith luscious hopes and barely timely startsAware of all and nothing, wrapped in robesAdorned in crowns of shells and lizards’ tailsKnew every secret to the gordian knotsaw beauty even amid scabrous shalein hybrid morning they found what they soughtDoomed to be split by time and unclaimed loveonce unmovable mountain’s curtain tornto reveal scaffolding, nothing aboveelizabeth and Robin mutely mournlike a fading starfish washed on the shoreA fairytale childhood, nothing more

P a i g e l a f r a M b o i s e , a g e 1 6

LONg TIme COmINgit started when i attached a single red rose to her locker door. the next morning, she was giggling at the idea of a shy admirer. she called me over as i was walking. “Hey Dom, any idea who got me this charming rose?” she teased. “For you? my money’s on the janitor,” i coyly laughed. We chatted, and then set off for separate classes. When i turned the corner, my smirk became a full-blown smile. nice job, i told myself. Just a rose and no card. she liked it. i had fancied Karina since the ninth grade. i never had quite the bravado to say anything. We were casual friends. i took care to keep my distance. sometimes, i would creep up to her locker, after school, and leave anonymous gifts and compliments. she was never to know the identity of her gift bearer. i imagined that she would be terribly disappointed if she found out. usually, i left flowers and cute trinkets that she might have liked. she really loved the candygrams on Valentine’s Day. it was the inherently sappy stuff that she treasured. she was the type of girl who would save the ticket stub from your first date. not that i even stand a chance for a first date, i thought. one day, i got her a sizable, goofy chocolate bunny. it was for easter. From my locker, i took the package and began slinking toward Karina’s locker. the halls were emptied. no one had ever seen me doing this. no one had ever seen the earnest smile on my face. As i neared, i saw a note stuck to her locker. i began to worry. Who was it from? Was someone mocking me? it read:

Dominic – for i am almost sure that you are Dom,

i can’t keep accepting the things you leave here. it’s lame. You need to flee your little shell. if you agree, meet me in the utility closet across the hall and we can do some bonding. it’s been a long time coming. Karina.

T i n a l o n g , a g e 1 5

Ode TO CheeRIOS

oh, tiny imperfect rings of perfection!crispy, crunchy, wholegrain goodnessAromatic nostril invasioni feel your coarse, grainy, little bodies crumble between my fingertipsAnd i sprinkle you, golden dust, the way our gentlest mother sprinkles blissPremature snowfall – despite all of our fuss –

i observe you with fascination as you struggle to stay afloat A million miniature ring buoys made of wholesome oatBobbing up and down in a frothy sea of whitein a moment you will vanish out of sightonly to resurfacetriumphant and victorious

a l e T h e i a c h i a n g , a g e 1 7


BOTTOm Of deATh vALLeYs a l o M e s i k T a n c , a g e 1 2


mIdNIghT memORIeS

leave now… get out of this world. Blood… piercing… shrieking. You won’t see the lights of tomorrow, memories… memories… say goodbye… she awoke from her delusion, wearied and perplexed. she shifted over to one side of the bed, checking the time. 11:50. she straightened up, got off her bed, grabbing a bottle of whisky as she left. she walked out of her room without hesitation. the dark stairs creaked as she slowly dragged herself down. in nightgown and slippers, she wobbled down her front door steps, hearing her drink swing back and forth in the miniature bottle. I see you’ve changed… good. she grinned. it was dark out, and she liked it that way. complete emptiness filled the air, followed by the faint sounds of the crickets. A loud police siren roamed across the street, fading and fading. she looked at her house one last time and turned away. the whisky was still with her. she walked to her car and hastily grabbed the handle. she slid in and closed the door. Go now… into the beyond. A sly smile came across her face. she opened the bottle of whisky and took several gulps and drove off into the dark. the leaves clattered and the wind roared as she opened the window. the wind brushed her thick black hair as she narrowed her eyes. Rain started to fall, beating the windowpanes like little fingers tapping. Yes, blood… sweet. she found herself drowsing off on the highway. to her surprise, many people were still on the streets. she wanted to be alone, away from her spirits. the wind roared heavily through her window. it was now midnight. Yes, my dear… drink, drink, take it all in. she snatched her whisky and drowned it in her mouth. she gasped for air and dropped the glass bottle. “i ca-n-n’t…go aw-a-ay.” Take your time… drink it all… plenty. the gleaming pavement caught her eyes. she drove faster. she wanted to be with the light. Her hands, thick with sweat, clutched on to the wheel. the rain beat faster and soon the sky brought thunder. Her breath was short. she felt teeth – real teeth – hanging on her neck. she needed air… for she would of… she skidded off to the bridge. stopped and got out. other cars flashed past her. Why… WHY DID YOU STOP! WHY? GO! THE OTHER WORLD AWAITS YOU! A paroxysm rushed through her. she broke down, screaming. “sHu –t-t-t uP!!” she struggled for air, groaned in pain. the rain covered her by the second. “AHH! g-go A-W-AY!” she stuttered. Sweet rain. she crawled to the bridge and looked ahead. the sky was hazed and filled with spirits. it felt like a nightmare in hell with thousands of needles piercing her helpless body.“What… what is this place? Where’s terry… my little boy?” Terry was a mere child… a sensitive one. His blood was so cold, yet sweet. One lick fulfilled my body. “teRRY is not DeAD! He’s…” A rip of fire lashed right through her chest. she collapsed. the rain washed her hot body, soothing yet cold. she knew she was at the border to the other world. she clenched her teeth to overcome the pain.

*

“mom!! see this!! i drew this today at school!!” He was jumping for joy to see my reactions. “What is it?... a poop on a stick?” i snickered. “But mom, it’s a rose! i drew it for you! isn’t it pretty?” “oh, pfft, yeah… just put it on the fridge and while you’re at it, get me a bottle.” “sure, mommy, but what is that stuff anyway? Why do you drink it a lot… is it good?”

“it’s none of your business, just get one already!” “Here, here, mom… can you read me a story?” “You think i would?” “umm… okay… i’m gonna go play outside!”

*

At that moment, she cried. Her moments with terry were flooding back in her mind, refreshing all the good times with her little child. the spirits swiftly faded away in an instant but came back as she thought of it. “terry… why did you have to go… why… my only child… don’t you remember all the good times you had with mommy?” she whispered to herself. “TERRY DIED YOU FOOL, NOW IT IS YOUR TURN!” “noo! go AWAY! i can’t take it anymore!” she bellowed into the dark night sky. “i want to be alone… just go away.” this night, is the night, where life will end. Her own soul inside her has been vanquished. the spirits inside her will dominate once again. Her memories and pictures flashing inside her head surrounding her like a wall. “terry… terry… Where are you now?” The time has come. she inched towards the edge of the bridge. closer and closer, she felt like terry was coming. she sat on top of the parapet, looking across the grey clouds. A sudden pain fluttered in her head. she seized her hair and began to rip it. she grunted and shouted. nothing would stop her pain. “terry! terry! come back!”

*

“oh look, mom!! A field of flowers!” He held my hands real tight. “Wow, it’s beautiful.” “mom!! Wanna run in the flowers with me?” He looked at me with those eyes of his, desirable and tempted. “i dunno son, it’s kinda...” “c’mon! Follow me!” He held my hands and danced around the flowers. that was the first time i saw what life really meant. seeing him giggling and prancing in the colourful blossoms, i felt as if my life was complete. the day after that was… when terry died. Found in his room, murdered without a trace. He was covered with a blanket when i saw him. Blood was on his bed splattered everywhere. His tiny little face was covered. i wanted to see him one last time.

*

the rain stopped. Her pain had eased and she stood up. Birds flew over her, breezing her wet hair. Her light blue nightgown, now torn and muddy, waved behind her bare legs through the wind. she closed her eyes. “How… how selfish was i? oh terry… forgive me… i never meant it that way… terry… thanks again for that rose.” she spoke softly, “now, terry, i will join you. i want to be with you again.” she stepped closer to the very edge and sighed deeply. she leaned forward and dived down. she felt calm as the force dragged her down. A familiar face appeared in the waters. it was terry’s. she reached for him and tried to touch his warm cheeks. she smiled. “terry!”

M i c h e l l e h u a n g , a g e 1 4


LeOSAURUSk a w a i l e u n g , a g e 1 2


BehINd ThOSe hAzeL eYeSs h a M e r a s a T h i a r u b a n , a g e 1 4


POem fOR The dAY IN BeTWeeN BIRTh ANd deATh

there is that cracking and hatching,and so it speaks to you in a languagethat tastes of fruit flesh– the inside of a fig – complicated, sweet.

on the day of your birth,you tattoo their writhing concepts onto the palm of your hand.And so, as a friend opens your palmyou remember the sweet stain of fruit flesh.

there is that cracking and hatching,there is that language that pushes itselfthrough the earth.You glance towards gravity and seetoes, ankles, held fast.

And so you stand.And feel rotation after rotation of this globe ofinfinity whirling you through space.

there is that memory that defines you.there is that knowledge that thought and word are as transient as the garden in which you stand.go pilgrim,forget a little! And see mecca growing fromyour wrists.

s c h i r i n r a c h e l o e d i n g , a g e 1 7

The ANTI-SOCIALITe

catabolic atrophy after a collision of delightenigmatic foraylaughter barraging the air of awkward silencesnames litter the groundtorn asunder to leave or be drowned by the prattlethis is why i’d rather be home instant messaging youmy life underground is by choiceno situations to leave me unravelledsworn to facades on my own termssee you online

s T e P h a n i e s a n T i a g o , a g e 1 7

LAmeNT Of A STUdeNT TRAPPed IN A PARTICULARLY dULL PhILOSOPhY CLASS

if death is like a dreamless sleepeternal rest – no counting sheepi think that i would rather beDead than in Philosophy.if death’s a change, a better placeA paradise we hope to face,i think that i would rather beDead than in Philosophy.if death hands me harsh punishment,A pit of fiery tormenti don’t think i’d rather beDead than in Philosophy;But i don’t think i’ll go to Helli’m imperfect, but i’ve behaved well.if purgatory’s what’s in storeA painful waiting place, a bore,i think perhaps that i might beDead – not in Philosophy.

i s a b e l Z a w - T u n , a g e 1 7

JUST ANOTheR STORY ABOUT A TeeN WITh A dePReSSINg TAKe ON The WORLd

it’s the end of school, and i head for my locker, grab my stuff and leave. But i remember to sit on the bench by the wall, because if i leave the school, the safety of its walls disappear. As a mass of students rush by me, talking about things i don’t know about, i wonder if i will have to be scared forever. no one talks to me and i don’t talk to anyone. that’s how it works these days. i feel completely and utterly alone. to them, i am unimportant, just another piece of air. Finally, the crowd thins out. As i sit, i watch the clock tick, careful not to do anything suspicious, i have an idea. i think i’ll write about my story. i mean write just for myself, not school. After an eternity, i get ready to leave. Before i step outside, i check that the coast is clear. seriously, that sounds like it’s out of a children’s chapter book. not for me it isn’t. As the chilly november air greets me on the front steps of the main entrance of my high school, i start to think of homework. something else to dread. Around me, i see many groups of teenagers heading home. they’re talking, laughing, yelling and i just wish i could pop up in one of them and be accepted. As i trudge along the already salted street, melting the first snow of the year, and look up to see the bleak sky, my spirits fall to a record low. the dirty road and the bare trees just make me lonelier. As i look ahead of myself, i see what is probably the dingiest starbucks in the history of the world, and remember what happened to me a few months ago. What makes me more scared than i already was. What i’d probably say is the worst thing that’s happened to me in my life. one day, as i was walking home, i got attacked... they’d come out of nowhere, and told me to get into the alleyway. i had just stared at them, petrified. And then one of them had thrown a punch. scared as hell, i’d retreated backwards into the alley. i was cornered, so they’d attacked. A punch here, a kick there – soon i’d blacked out. When i’d come back, all i could feel was the pain. i had countless bruises, cuts and broken bones. i’d stumbled into the coffee shop, but the waiter had just said to me, “either you buy something, or you get out – your pick.” i’d been out of cash so i’d left... ever since, i’ve been so scared. As i finally get home, a feeling of safety washes over me. my mom says hello; she doesn’t know about my problems in school and out of it. And then, i say hello back to somebody who’s probably my only friend in the world.

n i h a a l s i l k , a g e 1 2

hAPPINeSS

Dear Happiness, You are the bright star in everyone’s life. You give hope to those who have given up, give life to the dead. You are the one we all look for, the one who is never found sad. You are happiness, the fairy that even the most deceived still know. You pick us up when we fall down, tell us “yes” when we say “no.” You have faith in us and in return, we trust you like a mother. You help us through all trial, through pain and the saddest grief. Without you, nothing good would rule, with you, that is all we see. You are found in the warm wind that blows smiles on our face. every morning, we see you in the golden streaks of sunlight and in the cheerful song of a bird. You’re the “A” that shines in our report card, the “super!” on corrected homework. You’re the one who keeps us going when things are just plain bad. You’re there after mean words are struck and we’re feeling awfully sad. Bullies torment, monsters laugh, but still we keep our heads held high ‘cause we know you’re waiting for us, just around the corner. life isn’t real without your starry eyes to guide the way. no one is a person without you inside. You float through dreams, dance through days, people run to reach you; you’re that important to us. You are always within arm’s reach, whether we’re in a desert or on a mountain top. sometimes we think you’ve left us – if only we would look. You are the bright sun that is always there even when hidden by clouds of sadness. And once we wipe our tears away, we’ll see you shining once again.

Yours forever,

s T e P h a n i e Y i P , a g e 1 2


heAveN

my favourite jewellery boxHad a ballerina that danced to a songWith the turn of a key.

she glides across the wooden boxin a dress like summerAnd with a face like spring.

Her dancing helped me toDream.And her song was so beautiful thatit could paint every crumb of my childhood.

these were the days When i watched Heaven through these eyes.Back when my heart was young And my eyes recognized only innocence.

i dreamed that paradise was achievable.i dreamed that all my wishes would come true.

But as my strides grew weary,And my wrinkles deepened, i began to wishthat my life could’ve beenAs lovely as that same song i danced toBack when i was a child;When life was forgiving.When someone was thereto bandage my every scrape.

At times i find myself Winding that stupid boxover and over and over again.trying to remember the stepsi used to taketo that same old song.

Yet i never stopped to question myself:Why?

i learned that there were many things Beyond my capacity.that fairy tales were just thingscarved on the back of our mindsAnd that happy endingsYou could not graspthrough wishing and dreaming alone.

in every shame and weaknessshe slowly erased every crumb of my childhoodWhich withered away With her song.

Perhaps i’d trade all the wisdom i’ve gainedJust to have a last glimpse ofWhat seemed like –Heaven.

M a r Y e l i Z a b e T h c a M P o , a g e 1 5

The eRICSSON

i can feel it in my pocket. A solid square. it’s actually a sony ericsson, thick and navy on the outside. the keys, which are a little bit scratched now, light up as i open it. it wasn’t always mine, though. i inherited it from my sister. she had it for a while, before she got a new one. so yes, it’s a hand-me-down. Just like the pair of jeans she gave me last week. But i can’t complain. it doesn’t have internet access or a camera or a built in mp3 player. But it’s a phone. my phone. And i made it my own. i changed the ring to something funkier. And the background on the screen is now a picture of jellyfish. i even have a personalized welcome message saying: “Bonjour Dines.” so it’s definitely mine. there’s a little crack on the side. Just a tiny one. my sister’s fault. When it belonged to her, she dropped it, and a friend rolled over it with her car. it reminds me of the time she dropped a different phone in the toilet. Another ericsson. stuff like that happens to her. But i’m always responsible with my phone. sometimes i take it out and look at it just to make sure it’s still alive. i even feel lost when i’ve forgotten it at home. For awhile, it actually made my obsession with time worse. i’d be sitting on the bus, and then i’d take out my phone just to look at the time displayed on the front screen. even if i knew i wasn’t late, i just had to make sure. so now, i just turn the phone off when i’m going to school. But the little round screen can be useful. it shows an arrow when i’ve missed a call – which happens a lot, as the phone’s always off. or an envelope when i get a text message. i think at one point i was doing more texting than making actual calls. i remember the morning i found out that a friend of ours, a lively woman who had once been in our congregation, had died. i texted my sister to tell her, but i felt weird at the same time. i guess it’s because i usually send text messages when i’m meeting up with friends, or to tell my sister about something funny. the subject of death seemed too serious for a text message. Anyway, i’ve gone back to sending silly texts again. And now that my time obsession has gotten better, i’m taken up with Alien scum, a game on the phone. so as long as my ericsson stays alive, it will be the time keeper, storage for all the comical experiences i have, the lifeline in my pocket.

d i n a h M c k a Y , a g e 1 7

mIdNIghT STORmS

tremors. Ripples through my creaky steps everything feels, and looks like metal i wait for the strike, listen for the rain drops brace myself for the clap How do they sleep through it? it’s rainyor cold or quiet where they are But in here, my heart is racing i’m tense i want to peek out my window glimpse at my street covered in summer weather And in the morning, the sleeping ones will wake up and mumble about fall weather suggest that it rained never having peeked out their window

s h a n n o n c l a r k e , a g e 1 5


COAST WATCheRSh o n g J i n Y a n , a g e 1 4


If ThIS IS WhAT We LOOK LIKe ON The OUTSIdeT i n a s a u l - n u r s e , a g e 1 2


ReveRSINg UNSPOKeN SOUNd

i steadily stepped into an eerily silenced roomnaked and void of previous human entitythe lights, they shine unsteadilyeven then, the room remains drab

And there it wassitting in the centre of all unvibrancyFashioning an ostentatious ebony,imperial ivoryBut rests in dust and dwells aloneDead over a surfacing earthemitting just an unspoken soundthat no mortal can ever dare to heari taunted its presence and stoodAnd stared in awe and desolationBecause it would not make a soundexceedingly craved and desired

in overwhelming greedinessi scuttled alongto the ultimate grandeurAtop of coarse wooden flooringDevoured in a blanketof powder coloured greymy sweaty feet compressesleaving footprints overlooked

Without a doubt, i sat on the stoolDisregarding the layer of filth on the seattaking an immaculate breath of saccharine airi blew the grey particles off my ivory keyssmiling whilst i tickled them and played

As if i was drifting off to sleepin complete consciousnesslike a darkened dreamonly effervescentFrom the passionate tunes and tinkles

Alas, the ivory was seen no moreAnd ebony invaded ominouslyFinally feeling the dust between my toesAmid the monotonous roomthe light expired

g a b r i e l a n a c e s , a g e 1 6

We ARe NOT ThOSe SILeNT CReATUReS

We are not those silent creatures,that once roamed this earth.We do not take treatment lower,than what we deserve.We once may have acted weak,but that, no more.We won’t watch our others,fall to the floor.We are not an it,or a thing at that.We give our respect,we ask you give it back.no one can touch us,hurt us,or mistreat us.We shall stay silent no more.Disrespected no longer.We are your mothers,wives, sisters, daughters,cousins, nieces,friends in all.We are human.We are an equal.We are proud, independent and honest.Who are we?We are Women!

M aT h u s h a s e n T h i l M u r u g a n , a g e 1 5

I Am

i am a slave, a slave i am with no identity or rights,i wonder if i flee from here i’ll find the gourd tonight.i hear stories mammy tells me day to day and dangers to be caught,i see though now that if i follow the path to find the gourd dots.i want to be away from here with all my oh so might,i am a slave, a slave i am with no identity or rights.

i pretend it doesn’t hurt to be treated like an ass,i feel i could bray the entire day but i’m not just high as their class.i touch the rough cotton as i pick them from the fields,i worry and wonder as i pick these if my life has any means.i cry and sob as i cook and clean with my pillow drenched at night,i am a slave, a slave i am with no identity or rights.

i understand my situation and i got to do best with it you see,i say to find the underground Railroad and flee is the best for me.i dream that one day the kids of the future will have better lives to lead,i try to be my very best ‘cause god always rewards your deeds.i hope to flee from here and travel safely tonight,i am a slave, a slave i am with no identity or rights.

i Am

J u l i a g o Y a l , a g e 1 3

SILeNCe

in the stillness of the nightunderneath the envious mooni can hear the silence

A sense beyond all the logic of sightRevealedin the dead of nightonly to those that choose to hearHer quiet noise

she’s waning... waiting... whisperingsinging songs of neglectto the slumbering creatures of the darknessWishing that someone would hear her call

But when a creature stirsthe calling silence is chased awayAs unwelcome as the plagueDisclaimed like a blemished lamb

And sometimes,i can barely hear her cry

k e i s h a T o n e Y , a g e 1 6


AfTeR LIfe

Blind and deaf and dumb decayskin and flesh that rot awaycurious and tempting thoughtsWhat of my soul as my body rots?

Will i drown in grievers’ tears?or will i fade with passing years?tell me now, before i try,What will happen when i die?

When they close the casket caseAnd send me to a better placeHeaven and Hell, are they just lies?excuses for better goodbyes?

my flesh won’t even leave a tracethe worms and maggots eat my faceBut where has gone my heart and soul?Haunted questions leave me cold...

d a V i d Z a d a , a g e 1 6

‘dIRTY’

two little stepsAs one carry on,she approaches.Whipped, like lightningcarved in her bare, bare hands,

strugglingto turn the knob from the fountainAs that just cause more pain.more pain, more hatred memoriestimes like today, yesterday or eventhe days before that,

When there wasn’t a dayshe wasn’t made fun of, or beaten up.maybe it was because of her colourAs some would recall ‘dirty’such harmful wordsshe shakes her head and gulps some water

From the fountain –Her thirst clenchesthose tiny hands again, ready to turn the knobHer mouth, ready to drink some more.

But someone pushes her and flung her downto the ground and she screamslike an animal running away from its prey.the girl looks up to see a white boymaybe four years older than herself.

“Hey! You savage! Read the sign stupid!Who says you can drink here!”tears roll down her eyesAs she strolled away, feeling like garbage

turnin her head back, only once, toRead those two words:

‘Whites only’

c i n d Y h u a n g , a g e 1 4

…NO mORe

i cry these tearsAnd feel alonei hide my fears And cry some more

Why can’t anyone understandAll these things i’m feelingi need to find a way to copeBut i just can’t stop stealing

these tears won’t stop Running down my cheeki see the cop then run down the street

Why did i take that ringFrom the jewellery storei don’t even need the thingBut i promise ... no more!

a s M a k h a l i l , a g e 1 2

I WANT

i will continuespeaking, walking, hearing.i will continuedisagreeing, listening,and volunteering.i will continue to try to live at ease.i will continue to search for inner peace.i will continue to nurture, love and care.i will continue to give all that i can spare.

But think of the many things i’ve never done before.of all the things i know and lovei can’t help but want more.

i want to see a cloud that can carry me away.i want to see snow fall from a clear blue summer’s day.

i want to have a friend who knows me from inside.i want to see a person who has never ever lied.

i want to see a sunset that is timid yet so bold.i want to see a hand for every child who’d like to hold.

i want to see a mother who will not ignore their need.i want to see the hunger that was made for man to feed.

i want to hear the melody that will always make me cry.i want to see pink cherry blossoms falling from the sky.

i want to see the darkness fall at the noble hand of light.i want to see the good prevail in these crazy global fights.

i want to hear the warning that i know the world won’t heed.i want the revolution that i know i’m meant to lead.

i want to see the poverty and hear its muffled scream.i want to listen closely to a child’s wondrous dreams.

M a r T h a P o r a d o , a g e 1 4


ANgeL Of dARKNeSSr o b i n s k i n n e r , a g e 1 4

�0 Young Voices 20 07

SLeePINg ANgeLJ o n o e l M a c a r a e g a l e g r i a , a g e 1 5

Young Voices 20 07 �1

ThROUgh IT ALL

Her footsteps were quiet,muffled through the snow.she had no gloves or jacket,Yet ran as fast as she could go.

He flung the cabin open,And followed her outside.“Wait, please, i’m sorry,”He screamed with all his might.

“i do not care how you feel,For you did not care how i did.i can’t believe you did that, And you didn’t try to hide it.”

she tried to run much faster, But that cold was too much to bear.He caught up and held her tight, then gently stroked her hair.

she wanted to pull away, But his arms were just so warm.she missed his touch and kisses,Around him, she felt no harm.

“i need to know you’re worth it,that you will never hurt me.” so he did the absolute unthinkable,He got down on one knee.

Her eyes they sprung with tears,And not just from the cold.He really loved her, he always did,He was strong, he was smart, he was bold.“Please, will you marry me?i know i’ve made mistakes.But i know that you will help me,if your hand, you’ll let me take.”

A lump was forming in her throat,And tears were running down her face.she knelt down, kissed him,Held on to his sweet embrace.

“take my hand and marry me,i love you too much to go.”His eyes lit up and he kissed her neck,making his way to her lips, nice and slow.

He pulled off his sweater, wrapped it around her,And she didn’t appear that much colder.so he lifted her up and carried her in,throwing her body over his shoulder.

she let out a squeal of embarrassment,And wrapped her arms around his waist.she pressed her lips to the small of his back,And it was his time to turn pink in the face.

He opened the door to the cabin,And tossed her gently on the bed.“now, my dearest future wife,it’s your clothes that i want shed.”

outside the falling snow was cold,inside the bedroom was hot.this teaches you, you can make it work.even if you two have fought.

J a b a r i T a M k e e n , a g e 1 4

‘ROUNd We SIT

i try to imagine myself as King, sitting at the head of his dinner table, flanked by his sons and his wife, with a full view of his long line of subjects and their plates. or as the more common man, sitting at his head of the table, at his side are his children and wife. or as the typical chinese rural woman, kneeling in the kitchen corner, surrounded by the wood stove on one side and the bucket of water on the other, with a full view of the grubby floor and her dinner plates on it. i try to picture these things, since myself, i always sit on the fourth seat to the left of the head seat every chinese new Year dinner. it seems like i’ve been assigned a seat from birth, and there is a certain hierarchy in my family. Being a chinese born in canada, it usually means feeling misplaced when looking back at rural chinese practices with a “western” eye. i’ve grown in a world where there is a high level of equality and standards in which we live. However, in rural china, there is a gap between social levels and the living standards are not high either. noticing many inequalities in rural china, the topic of dinner time seats stood out most to me. in many villages, it is custom for men to take their dinner sitting at the table, while women and daughters take their time waiting in the kitchen. When the men are done their dinner, the women bring the remaining food into the kitchen, where they eat standing. every woman in each household eats her meals the same way, except for the oldest woman in the household, who has the “privilege” to sit with the men. A dinner time seat is more than a chair and the distance one has to reach to grab the food. Dinner is where families gather, where everyone talks about their day, where we all do the essential thing – eat, and last but not least, where the family members find their sense of self in the family hierarchy. At my chinese new Year dinner, it gets really hard to talk to my second cousin who is around six seats to the left of me. it also gets hard to see my grandfather at the head of the table, four seats away from me. noticing this, we have adopted a huge round table, and in this way, everyone sees everyone else, and everyone can talk to everyone else. of course, the grandparents are unhappy. it’s too open, they say. i can’t feel everyone in order. to the rest of us, the round table suits just fine. We feel equal. this might also explain the exploding number of round tables at chinese restaurants. We have had enough of this hierarchical seating system, either in rural china or at our new Year dinner. it seems like it has been catching on, and ‘round we sit.

s h e l l Y l u u , a g e 1 7

�2 Young Voices 20 07

WhY?

Why did you leave me,Why didn’t you stay,When i needed you most,You went away.

now i’m here crying,now i’m here sad,now i’m here wondering what i did wrong,now i’m here writing another sad song.

i picture your face,engraved in my mind,Writing down words that i can’t seem to find,my body is shaking,my cheeks stained with tears,Your leaving me here confirmed all my fears.

i don’t understand why god took you away,Why couldn’t you stay for just one more day,You were my angel,my one sense of hope,now that you’re gone,it’s so hard to cope.

i want to laugh,i don’t want to cry,i really don’t want to have to say goodbye.

But the tears have been cried,the pain has been felt,the game must go on cuz the cards have been dealt.

the fact that you’re gone i will have to accept.

But i’ll look back on yesterday,At the memories we shared,

And i’ll know that losing you has made me stronger.

i have to move on,i have to be strong,i have to let myself deal with this loss.

i’m not scared anymore,cuz i know in my heart,everywhere i go,You’ll always be there with me,smiling and caring.

c h r i s T i - a n n e n a Z a r e T h , a g e 1 4

CONfeSSIONS Of The mOdeST

You kneel here, elbows glued to the cobblestones, hands cupped with plea. Your head is tucked between your arms and you stare only at the cracks in the street underneath you. You dare never look up to meet the eyes of passersby. Your eyes help you tell time when you are forced to squint your closed eyes when the sun catches them as you greet a new day on elbows and knees. Your hearing is all you truly own as you hear the chatter and the hustle of the workers, tourists and children as they pass you, and the hourly chime of the astronomical clock that rings through the streets that are busting at the seams with life. You know that they are staring at you when their chatter suddenly ceases as they approach you. You kneel there and you hope desperately that you will feel the cold crones hit your hands.

*

i open my eyes to the world that surrounds us. the beautiful city welcoming us; the spires shine lights of greeting as we walk the streets in its evening beauty. my eyes stare to try and carve the scenery, sound and smell that take me out of the ordinary and allow me to dream...

*

the sun sets as you count down another day spent pleading, and the street lamps start to provide light for the window shoppers, and walkers who enjoy evening strolls through the very streets that are your home. You’ve pocketed the coins that you have collected throughout the day so that you are not robbed of the very little you have. You beg there patiently, hoping that a few more crone coins will hit your tired hands.

*

street lamps gleaming with light and life encourage all to take an evening walk and take in the charm that fills the air. We have been walking for merely an hour, but we will never forget the clean mountain air that fills our lungs and cleanses our very beings. i stop for a moment to capture this world that i am discovering for the first time and that is passing by in a dream-like setting, but out of the corner of my eyes i witness a sadness that makes my limbs feel numb. unable to move, i feel useless because i don’t know what to do. there, in the shadows, silent, on elbows and knees lays a plea for help.

*

Back home, it’s not the same. i am stricken with sorrow as i remember the way you beg. i dream that one day all in need are helped as i carry with me the shame that i didn’t have the courage to drop a few crones into your begging hands. i continually recollect what i have witnessed and i realize that thanks to you i now see in a new light. A reach or a call for help is global; there is no shame in asking for help.

g i n a n i g r o , a g e 1 7

Young Voices 20 07 ��

SUCCeSSM u Z h d a h a k i M e , a g e 1 4

�� Young Voices 20 07

RATS

it was a long time ago, when a great drought brought forth famine to our country, with not a single drop of grain left for us poor peasants. Hunger made me as pale as paper. With me to endure this starvation were two rats. every night, they squeaked loudly, either chitchatting or complaining about their growling stomachs. one evening, as i lay exhausted on my bed, i smelt a hint of meat. i instantly jumped up and followed the smell. i found a piece of ham and beside it was a frail female rat. i shot out my hand to the ham, and as i did that, the rat bit my hand viciously. the rat looked weak, yet her eyes blazed with fury, and shone fiercely. i shook the rat off, yet she kept on attacking me, like a conceited cricket. i cursed, and slammed the rat hard on the face with my slipper. the female rat didn’t move again, yet her eyes stared at me with woe, dread, and hatred. As i was about to leave, the dead rat’s mate came back. now i finally realized why the female rat didn’t eat the ham. she was waiting for her loved one to come back and share that priceless piece of food. While i was thinking, the male rat started screeching at his motionless companion, at the same time biting its ear, then pulling its tail. suddenly, it seemed that the male rat had realized what had happened. He just stood there, still. my conscience troubled me a great deal. After all, i was the one who stole the food and killed the other rat. i ripped a small piece off the ham for the male rat that had lost his partner, yet he just ignored it. For a long time, the house was just dead quiet. unexpectedly, the male rat stood up, like he had made a great decision. He dragged his mate outdoors. out of curiosity, i followed. outside the house, the male rat disregarded my presence, and started digging. it was a cold winter evening, and i saw the bright red blood stains from the male rat left on the clear, white snow. After the male rat finished digging, he buried his loved one, then went back into the house. two days later, at twilight, the male rat died after he went on a hunger strike. He just lay there, peacefully, as if his spirit had already joined his wife’s.

J a c k f e n g , a g e 1 2

The fORCe Of NATURe – WINTeR

start with, falling of leaves,it’s getting cold and windy,Beginning of warm clothing, feels fresh and minty.green to gold, then brown to white,oh! How time changed in front of my sight.to enjoy the snowballs, the schools we skip,only to enjoy, the amazing but hard icy slip!ouch! it hurts but certainly fun,sometimes with a question arise,Do we miss the sun?

goodbye for now, to the schools we say,starting today is our holiday.Waiting all noon, for dad to bring the tree,Decorating it with heart, how marvellously we agree.christmas has arrived, it’s winter’s main course,Ho-ho, santa has left a gift, no need for remorse.

But world’s not perfect, neither is the season,comes with fever, and everything has its reason.shoo-shoo, wind blows hard, snow w a l k i n g is hard indeed,How year’s going by with incredible speed. Don’t gazebehind, the sun is about to come,Just wait till you hear again the jingle bells hum.

r u M M a n k h o n d k e r , a g e 1 7

I’ve fORmed mYSeLf AN ALLeN gINSBeRg COveR BANd

to go around and sing out-of-datePolitical calypsos.(down with the Reagan administration!) and the people throw fruit‘cause the people throw tomatoesand i must just be ahead of my time(galileo was hated when he was alive)

n e V e n a M a r T i n o V i c , a g e 1 7


The PeNCIL dId ITg r a c e l i a n g , a g e 1 2

�� Young Voices 20 07

mY LITTLe heARTS

Alala swirled the cinnamon hearts around. they clattered as her fingers dug into the small mound and pulled them from their little house. she picked two up and held them up to her dark chocolate eyes and said, “look, i’m in love.” she didn’t like them. the tiny little red things were too spicy and hurt her tongue. But it was a waste to throw them away. Besides, they were pretty. Alala placed the hearts in a pocket and went in search of friends to play with. she found a pigeon and a rock. Alala pocketed the rock. she flapped her arms and ran heavily towards the pigeon while murmuring, “coo, coo.” the white-speckled bird quickly flew off in startled feathers and landed a few feet away from Alala. she walked towards the bird with outstretched fingers, but the bird flew away again and landed on a bench in the park. Alala tried many times. A little boy on a plastic tricycle was watching her. He had sticky fingers and dirty red hair. Alala looked at him from behind long straight brown hair. she looked like a ghoul. Alala smiled at the boy and took out a cinnamon heart and showed it to him between her forefinger and thumb. she smiled an even bigger smile which exposed sharp little teeth. the girl crept up to the pigeon, showing the little piece of red at her fingertips. the heart greatly contrasted her peachy skin. the pigeon eyed the candy and Alala. the bird wobbled towards her hand and took the candy and hurriedly wobbled away. the little boy watched the bird and turned his eyes towards the girl. she was walking towards him with a pile of red stuff in her hands. He let her near him and cupped his hands to receive the treat. the candy transferred from hers to his and she ran. the little carrot top sucked on a heart. Alala walked down a sidewalk picking up pop cans. she made the gesture into a dance. every time she found a red can, she would twirl until her head hurt. When it was a green can, she’d skip over the can over and over again. When it was a blue can, she’d drop all of the cans and scramble to pick them all up again. Alala didn’t follow the rules, though. As she ran, her layered skirts moved around with her. they were dull colors of greys, but they became alive and a blur as she danced. Pockets were all over her skirt, and they bulged with hidden items. one pocket was not big enough to conceal its object—a snake’s tail. the strangers on the street watched the happy child wistfully and remembered their own short childhood. the grown-ups hurried to catch up with the stream of labour that pushed and pulled them. once the girl had collected twenty or so, she sat underneath a tree to contemplate her loot. After many minutes of watching the cans reflect the dreary sunshine, she took out many pieces

of worn string from one of her pockets. she then laboured gleefully tying the ends of strings to the cans, dropping a candy into each, and tying the other ends to the belt of her dress. now, every time she moved, a wondrous tinkly sound would be heard. Alala walked through the streets of her city. the only thing that set her apart from the dingy building was the smile on her face. the sound of her new toys was heard by everyone’s ears. the noise annoyed most, but it made a few smile. children giggled as they followed the dancing clown. they skipped alongside the girl and mimicked Alala’s strange chirping and screeching. the children followed until their parents dragged them away, but not before each of them received a bright red heart. Alala walked while admiring the dust floating in the sunlight. Alala sometimes wished that she was something else other than human. Humans have such great burdens. they forever have to worry about their actions and they might hurt people. All she had to do was float around serenely. Alala smiled at this thought. But complaining wasn’t going to do anything. Alala was trying to add happiness to the world. Alala found an old tree-man sitting on a stone stoop. He was looking at his hands. she went up to the man and sat next to him. the man turned towards the girl and looked at her uncertainly. His eyes were like the eyes of a st. Bernard. Droopy, muddy eyes, but he might not be sad. “Hi,” Alala said brightly. she leaned forward to look at the man’s hands. they were normal looking hands. they were tan and wrinkly. they had so many creases that they looked like scars. “What’s wrong with your hands?” asked Alala. the old man looked at his hands again, “i don’t know.” “Well, you’re doing it all wrong.” the man looked at the young girl at his side. she was looking up at him as if he should have known all along. “see, look at mine,” Alala pressed her own hands into his face. Her fingers were long and thin, but were dusty. “You know what you’re doing wrong?” the man shrugged, amused. “You’re not using them.” “Huh,” said the man with grey hair. He stood up and put his cap on. “maybe i should,” he said and smiled sadly down at the girl. “of course,” said the girl. she pressed a little love into his hands and walked away. As the old grandfather watched her walk away, he wistfully remembered what it was like to live in the innocence of children. the girl sucked on a cinnamon heart while weaving scraps of paper into her hair. the heart tasted spicy and hurt her tongue, but underneath it all, it tasted sweet.

T i n a h a n g , a g e 1 6

Young Voices 20 07 �7

1. write what you want to write! Write about monster trucks, flower petals, dew on the morning grass, a dark and stormy night, love, death, bands, your friends, your parents, your dog, your favourite librarian (or not)...

2. submit only your own original work.

3. submissions are not returned. Keep a copy of your work.

4. Toronto Public library has one-time print and electronic rights to all work, as well as the right to excerpt from the work for purposes of promotion.

5. written submissions will be selected from each of the following age categories: 12–14; 15–16; 17–19.

6. artwork will not be categorized by age for the purposes of choosing what to publish.

7. Those whose work is selected for inclusion in Yonge Voices 2008 will be contacted in June.

who can enterteens, 12–19 years who live or goto school in the city of toronto.

what can be enteredYou can enter both writing and artwork (one written work and one artwork per person).

Written Work: poems, stories, rants, reviews…• 500 words maximum• typed entries preferred, but not

requiredArtwork: for inside the magazine or on the cover• 8 ½” x 11” preferred• Black and white artwork only• submit only originals; no

photocopies, electronic scans, etc.

how to enter• complete fully the submission

form (see over)• Attach the form to your work• Drop your work off at any library

branch• For written work only, you can

submit online: > www.torontopubliclibrary.ca > click on ramp > click on express Yourself > click on Young Voices.

submission deadline: april 5, 2008

Young voices 2008Toronto Public Library magazine of teen writing and art

gUIdeLINeS

YOUNg vOICeS 200� SUBmISSION fORm

submission deadline: april 5, 2008

Please fill out this form fully and attach it to your submission.Submissions with incomplete submission forms may not be considered for publication.

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age Male female

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Poem fiction rant review art

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The eASY PART Of LIfed a n Y a n g ( s u n n Y ) l i n , a g e 1 6

mAhATmA gANdhIr a M Y a r a J a g o P a l , a g e 1 6

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