SUBMISSIONS

Submissions are accepted on a regular basis, year-round.
Can include, short stories, essays, poetry and prose.
Must not exceed 3,000 words.
Must be written by a current ESA student, or alumni.
Submissions are accepted: e.s.say.says@gmail.com

Sunday 21 December 2014

Quote of the Week:
“I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” 
-Joan Didion

Thursday 18 December 2014

And What of Society
By Militza

It’s often said, that one should smell a flower 
but what if the beauty lies within the thorn
a rose subsides to a strong april shower
but the spike defies nature’s scorn

And perhaps the wisest of us all is a child
untamed, untouched and unabashedely soft
the world is ours, beguiled and wild
yet, curiosity is discouraged so oft

But who is clever in the grand scheme
the mild complacent or the fierce maverick
what occurs when one runs full steam
away from a life that moves too quick

Perhaps it is best to have quiet picnics in the snow

and amongst the ice observe the sunset’s golden glow
Space
by matt healey

Cold coffee abandoned on marble

Hum of fridge increasing
Silence

Cold dim light streams through window
Onto neat dusty countertop

Photos and drawings ring
Echo of life scarce

Finding respite
In confinement


I need to let out the cat
Storm 
By Elise Wang

drip

drip drip drip

dripdrippitydripdripdripdrip

Light has fallen asleep. Mother dropped a 
blanket of ashes over the sailing skies. I yawn. 
Heavenly dew parts from above to nourish my dusty throat. 
My eyelids gravitate towards the earth, but the back of my mind 
tells me to watch. And listen. So I do. It is strange how time always 
devours me when I kindly leave it be. Tick, tock, tick—somewhere in the
land of pirates, the dark tides are rising to conquer—tock. My toes stir
up my very own whirlpool of sludge. Then it pulls me under. I raise my
gaze, as the sailing skies become a symphony. Woodwinds whistle 
freely through my earth-drenched hair. The base drums 
sound-the hour has come. I wish to hear
the full length of Mother’s
symphony
but my
eardrums fully 
object. So I rise and go back.
Crescendo. The symphony goes on- it is 
a wondrous but icy song. I can feel my bones,
Thrilling and shaking with every thrill. My right hand
grips the frosty doorknob. The Great War has begun—
BOOMCRACKBOOMBOOMCRACKBOOMBOOM...How
strange- there are constellations flickering on the back
of my eyelids. There is molten steel dripping from
my ears. There are needles ricocheting
within my skull. What is
happening? As
quickly as it
started,
it is over.
Light has awoken.
The symphony has ended. 
The War has struck its final blow. And
 I, brave soldier, return from battle in triumphant
 victory. As I glance back at the lonely battlefield, now bare
and silent, reminiscent thoughts engulf me. I remember green leaves
trembling as they wept for tomorrow, and lush meadow grasses sending
fragrant love notes to each other through the tear-streaked air. I remember
watching Mother drop blanket after blanket of ashes on to sailing skies, and 
how the whole world hushed down to watch Light fall in to sweet dreams.
Oh, how I wish to hear that symphony with my own ears again, and 
fight bravely in that beautiful War, just to feel the wood-
winds through my hair once more. Tick--somewhere
in the land of pirates the dark tides
have ceased to conquer—tock.

dripdripdrippitydrip


It's going to be bold...
It's going to be breathtaking...
It's going to be beautiful...
It's going to be... the second round of E.S.Say Creative Writing!!
WHA BAM! KA POW!
*fireworks explode all around you as you become overwhelmed with the desire to read poetry*

Friday 12 December 2014

Quote of the Week:
''There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.''
Maya Angelou

Wednesday 10 December 2014

Writers' Week IndieGogo: ESA's first Festival of Canadian Authors

Writers' Week: ESA's first Canadian Festival of Authors, Jan 19th to 23rd, 2015.

Over the course of four days, every student at ESA will have the opportunity to spend time in a workshop or presentation session with a local Canadian author. 

In total, we have 12 Visiting Authors coming in to do 19 individual sessions with students. 

  • Help support the ESA Library and English Departments bring this wonderful experience to ESA. 
  • Please also spread the word on your social networks.

THANKS

Ms. Wray and Mr. Batten

Tuesday 9 December 2014

Teens Share Their Stories: Teen Health and Wellness

Teens can read personal stories of others who have experienced tough issues firsthand right here, then write one of their own.

Read stories on accidental death, binge eating, birth order, citizenship, death of a parent, decision making, dyslexia, leadership, religious discrimination, or volunteering for some ideas.

It's a great way to practice for your college essays, and teens can submit stories for possible publication in Teen Health & Wellness.

You could become published authors!

Saturday 6 December 2014

Work in Progress… 
Dove Byrd
The speaker handed out a package to all the tables. She looked down and the label 'making sense workshop'. 
'Oh god."
"Right?" a classmate giggled back.
"Hi my name is Anthony" the speaker started off. "I hope you all brought your objects to write about." The class groaned, about two people had brought their objects. "It's okay, just use your imagination" the cheery guest gleamed back.  She looked around the room. Shelves, books, computers... None of these things meant anything special to her. 
"He wants me to think of an object that means a lot to me." She looked down at her peeling fingers and decided to use those as her objects. 
She had always thought of her hands as stubby and blob-like, never forming anything right or useful. They were shapeless. And soft. Smooth. Never worked a day in their lives those hands. 
        

As she touched them she held her fingers in her right palm. Ice cold. They usually were, only after vigorous exercise did her circulation get started. She flipped her hands around palm facing her, she could see the crinkles where her hand moves and bends. She could tell which were the red arteries and the warm tinge of her skin made her veins have a green tinge. The baby pink polish was so light it was more fetusy then baby like and it hadn't been put on very well. She had to explain to many people that, yes, she was sober when she did them, just in a morning hurry. She didn't really even like nail polish but she used it as a tool to stop herself from biting her nails to a nub. That didn't stop her from picking at the cuticle skin around the nail. The cracked, dry, bleeding part around her long nails made sure she still hid her hands whenever she wasn't at home. Which was often. "Taste your object" She already knew what her hands tasted like. Lush red #72. The lipstick she wore with black outfits. It was also metallic and copperlike taste. Blood. Salt. Whatever she had last touched. 

Wilted Jasmine
Sauvanne Margaux

She smelled of cleaned sheets and wilted jasmine. 
All the while, she thought about the rush of youth. The burdening desire to grow up, but to remain youthful. She remembered the sensation quite clearly. It was like a rock that was lodged in her stomach. Sometimes when the sensation was even stronger, she felt it in her throat. It made it difficult for her to breath. Every exhale would come out hollow and pained.

 She remembered always being so confused as to why she felt this way. 
Why she was confused about being confused. Some days, nothing made sense. Others, her brain felt like a fountain of knowledge. Thoughts filled with wisdom would flow continuously out of her mind. These days pleased her most. 

She enjoyed the sensation of knowing more than she was meant to. 
It felt like she was consistently in on some kind of joke most people did not understand. Life often felt like a joke to her. There were moments where she found it to be laughable. Like all those drunken stupors spent alongside strangers. Teenagers who were drinking their worries away, without realizing they had none yet. She would always vow herself to never do that again, to never get so drunk she would make a fool of herself beside other fools who didn't even care. 

She came to the conclusion that she truly was no better than anyone else her age. 
This is when the fountain of knowledge began to fade into a trickle and the stone found at the bottom of it got stuck again. It was felt like a reminder that the greatest feelings will always pass. Especially when you least want them to. This is what makes them so great. They are surrounded by placid or downright nauseating ones. There were times where the pain of the stone got to be too much. 

She had to move to breath again, to will her lungs back into motion.
 So she would run. She would fly out her front door, and head straight for the park. Her strides were inexplicably strong. Otherwise, she was never fast. But in these moments it felt like the only way to feel alive. Running so fast every thing around her was an absolute blur. Her mind thus became a blur. No room for unwanted thoughts, which so often accompanied the low trickle following her knowledgable days. There was only motion, colour, and air, sweet crisp air. On winter days it burned her throat, as though she had just sucked a mint before inhaling. 

She enjoyed the sharp pang , because it was an introduction to a different kind of pain. 
After these sprints she often felt so exhausted she would collapse and fall into a most satisfying sleep. 
In the morning the rock would be a little less stuck, and a few days later it would altogether recede into a small featherlike pebble. Only offering her a tickle once in a while as a reminder, that it still had some control over her. 

The tickle made her laugh. 
You and i
by anonymous

when I think of you i cringe
my every inch starts to itch
i start unravelling at the fringe
i come undone, stich by stich

when I think of you i gulp
my lungs search for absent air
as my muscles turn to pulp
then crumble without a care

when i try to put it in words
i can never quite grasp it
the feeling is absurd
and mildly claustraphobic

when i attempt to forget
the time i walked into your room
i’m simply left with regret
your bed is my soul’s tomb

when remembering that day 
i shiver and break a sweat
is this the price to pay
for an action you regret?

Friday 5 December 2014

Tomorrow is an exciting day : it will be our first bi monthly publication to the E.S.say writing blog! We have some fantastic work by various ESA students lined up and are very excited to share.

Haven't had the chance to send us anything yet? Do not put down your pens in defeat, there is still hope! E.S.say accepts submissions all year round. So send us the absurd, the witty, the bold and the downright nonsensical. And remember, this blog will culminate in an end of year book of letters!

What are you waiting for? Grab your plumes and start scratching!  As Somerset Maugham once said: 
''If you can tell stories, create characters, devise incidents, and have sincerity and passion, it doesn’t matter a damn how you write.''
Quote of the week:
I feel like I'm too busy writing history to read it.
-Kanye West