just breathe by Logan Markou-Heppell

“This is Ryan. He was spending too much time outdoors and is now hospitalized and is fighting for his life. Inhaling too much outside air could lead to serious lung problems and many other diseases. Always wear a mask outside. Protect yourself.” 

The same old commercial I hear every day. I’m sitting on my couch just watching everything that's going down. Making me feel worse. All you hear on Television these days is, breathe with protection, be careful, join the pollination crew, it's a mess. You can't go outside, you can't breathe normally. 

I often imagine if I were born a long time ago how life would be. I watch all these documentaries that teach you how life was way back when people had the choice to actually go outside whenever they wanted. Maybe if I lived that long ago I would see a bee. That would be amazing. 

I like learning about these extinct creatures called Bees. Albert Einstein hundreds of years ago ago once said, “if the Bee disappeared off the face of the earth, man would only have four years left to live.” Which is not true because here I am, living. 

With the thought of bees still in my head, I get up to go into the kitchen. My Google assistant Alexa 10.5 turns on the lights, and opens the fridge. Apparently before the bees faced extinction, there were way more foods than there are now. But now it's dull, tasting like nothing.

As I'm walking back to the couch I feel my feet vibrating a little. I shake it off like it was nothing and continue walking. No, wait… the floor is vibrating… I suddenly went into panic. I bolt to the underground room, meant for these types of emergencies. 

With every frantic step I took, I could feel the ground getting shakier and shakier, I get to the cold metal door, open it, get in. close the door, and frantically climb down the ladder, my shaking hands barely grabbing onto the cold bars. I finally get to the ground. It is cold and dry down here. I sit myself in the corner, wondering if the people I love are safe. 

I grab my iphone X20 and pull up the security cameras. I screamed. I could not believe what I saw...

**********************************************

Submitted to the First Page student writing challenge.The challenge? We asked students to give us a glimpse of the great Canadian novel of the year 2167. They wrote the first page of a book set 150 years in the future, with the protagonist facing an issue that's topical today and set the scene for how it's all playing out in a century and a half.How will the world leaders of today impact the world of tomorrow? Who will be the biggest name in pop culture in the future? How will climate change impact the protagonist's life, where he or she lives, the struggles he or she is facing? (Oh, and speaking of he/she — does gender even exist in 150 years?)The book could be from any literary genre, from mystery or thriller to literary fiction, from adventure or romance to satire or sci-fi.

Senelis By: Erika Vytas

When the Germans came,

they dragged me out of hiding with my mother,

Escorted with the sound of machine guns around us

We were marched to the market square

And as the masses stood,

I smelled the smoke,

I watched my city burn,

My helpless despair floating up into the sky

With the ashes.

I let myself be herded

With everyone else

To a churchyard

And stood there for the night,

hollow

In the muffled morning light

When they separated the Jews

The soldiers let us go home.

What home.

My mother and I

Found scorched foundations

Where our house stood.

Just yesterday.

Grateful for a small miracle,

We took the surviving piglets,

And started walking.

Fly filled soup

Now tasted so good.

The image of Jewish men,

In lines down the road,

Who were digging in the ditches

Who were making their own graves

Is forever in my mind.

And we walked

Until we came to the farm

But sometimes when I stand still

I remember.

The Persona Poem By: Madison Teas

I was born in 1929

In Moldava nad Bodvou Slovakia

Tragedy struck in 1944

I was 15 years old

We were shoved into cattle cars

Made to stand for what felt like a lifetime

My mother,

Brothers,

Grandparents,

My baby sister

All taken from me

Two cousins were left

We marched,

13 days,

Without stopping

A death march,

From Auschwitz to Mauthausen

Sergeant Johnnie Steven

One of the many who helped

May 6 1945

I heard the planes

Then a cannon came crashing in

I was free

16 years old

And all alone in the world

Persona Poem By: Hannah Rossi

Entry Number One

Freedom,

Something that's worth fighting for.

The haunting smell of springtime taunts me.

I miss that smell.

How fresh it was,

How free it made me feel.

But now,

Everything's changed.

My surroundings are different.

The streets are no longer laughing,

They're screaming.

Hiding,

The darkness is surrounding me.

The blackness of the small crawl space swallows me whole.

Fear.

Fear of being caught.

Fear of death.

Fear.

BANG!

The sound of gunshots ring in my ears.

I'm alone,

But I’m not.

I am lucky.

Lucky that I can still imagine the sweet smell of freedom.

The light of the sun kissing my cheeks.

Life seems so far away.

Seems so unhappy.

I've already lost what I've been fighting for.

There is no freedom,

No hope.

The world I used to love is full of murder.

Redrum.

Innocent people being slaughtered.

Jews.

Me.

By: Elysse Shirley

when I am happy

I feel so light

I fear that I may float away

so I breathe deeply

hoping the air in my lungs

will be enough

to keep me on the ground

--

quite often

I find myself wondering

what it would be like if

I just stopped.

I also wonder

what mighty courage

that would take

--

I wonder if anybody would miss me

or if I’d just continue as a ghost of a memory

as a foreign feeling in their spine when someone mentions my name

or if I’d just become a question

• if I dropped off planet earth

--

are you okay?

what’s wrong?

why won’t you tell me?

and then they’re gone.

• what they say

--

always lurking

always watching

constantly searching

for you to lose

• what they do

--

always present and creeping
mouths with broken switches

minds with broken glitches

never here, but always leaving

• how they are

--

water droplets fall softly

floating down your cheeks

they were crafted perfectly

derived from the corners from your mind

mined from the corners of your eyes

noiselessly being swept away

by a shirt sleeve

or tissues quiet like clouds

• tears like helium balloons

Frozen Palisade By: Petra Alexson

The place that teems with bears pinned in the clear
Cold night,
The flat and dormant realm reaps coal
Clutching with their fur and claws,
Some time before dawn withdraws
They have a chance to control
On the glass during spiralling

Silver birch sonata
Spellbound to certain pink snow,
And sprawling branches heavy with ice,
Holding and storing
Cooking a pancake in the sweet morning

Lazy paladin, come meet me halfway
Each clay idol lined kilometres astray
Not depicted but as a standing pawn
Of the raincloud that it reflects upon
Trying not to dazzle with the staff’s blinding point of starlight

A Study in Falling By: Emma Cretu

A Study in Falling

What’s left when the most powerful part of your being,
Has been burnt and reduced to practically nothing?
When the wings that once carried you amongst the stars
Were ripped from you, leaving battle scars.

It’s interesting to think what it all felt like, torn off you slowly?
The noise of the action, filling you wholly.
But that’s not how it went in reality, not really
It was done quietly, precise and quickly.

That will never mean that what you felt isn’t true or valid.
This is you then and now, your story, your ballad.
Though it changes everything, like it changes you
It doesn’t change what you can become, what you could do.

What’s left when the most powerful part of your being,
Has been burnt and reduced to practically nothing?
You build wings of a different kind, and you build up a wall
So next time you’re prepared, the next time you fall.

-Emma Cretu

Creative Writing Workshops for Students

Refer to the various items in this shared Google Folder to find out about a variety of opportunities available NOW for students.

Content includes the following:

• Toronto Public Library Teens: Writing Group

• Toronto Public Library Young Writer's Conference
• Registration open now and it fills up quickly!

• Write Across Ontario
• IFOA and LitOntario writing contest
• Closes November 6th!

You can find information - and registration links, where applicable - in the shared Google Folder linked above.

New Student Editors 2017-18

It is with great pleasure and delight that I announce the appointment of Laura Kim and Heather Martin as our new student editors and creative directors for the 2017-18 school year.

Looking forward to a great year of student writing...  culminating in the publication of ESA Letters Vol IV in the spring of 2018.

Pick up your pens and start writing...

Cheers

Ms. Wray

It's Cold, We WIll Sleep Now by Petra Alexson

It’s Cold, We Will Sleep Now

Petra Alexson

Lapidary rabbits create a curl

Of smooth, swept viridian

Fleece foliage

Shut eyes and pilose paws touch ear to ear

In thick, soft grass at the height of sticky clarity

Days of sleet

Mist feeding moisture, covering the star-sheet

They composed the whorl of the forest

Eternal as the cloud seep

Synchronized colour

We fall into sleep

Periodicity by Shenbei Fan

Periodicity

The bosoms of the universe

Spawn a watchful Clock

Eager to end all life

Scorch the Earth with fire

And butcher the soul of man

But it waits, ponders, waits…

The Clock will remain ticking

When evil deeds are done

By mortals upon mortals

Forgiving yet never forgetting

The atrocity of cellularity

The Clock will remain ticking

When lives are lived and wasted

On trite gestures and finite causes

The cunning maker of regret

With boundless room for “sorry”

Never forgetting yet always forgiving…

The Clock will remain ticking

When light becomes darkness

Becomes light becomes…

Like an eternal cyclic wave

Blind to the human psyche

And freed from mortal chains

Everything new will one day become old

And life will be un-born

Earth will be un-created

But the Clock will remain ticking

Gaps

Kira Bentley

“So… what should we do now?” 

His eyes were hopeful. She kept staring at the rubble beneath her shoes. Her sneakers were beat enough for the debris to jab through to her tired feet. 

“We? When was there ever a we?” Distaste coated her tongue like a glob of bubbling black tar. Tears began to flood her eyes, but they still chased the asphalt. 

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything. “There was you, and there was me. Never once was there a we.” 

Silence of dusk smothered her admission as a salt-water tear hit the earth with an audible smack. She began to step away, but he quickly grasped her wrist with a softness he never knew he possessed. 

“Please,” he croaked. Tears welled in his eyes as they fell from hers. It became hard to swallow. “I just… I’m sorry.”

He wanted to explain everything so badly; his father, the angriness below their feet, the blood in his veins. His chest was tight with the repression of his voice, but the words, the story, simply flew past him like signs on the highway. 

All he had left was his stagnant two-word apology, an old friend of his strangled tongue. Pathetic. 

She tore her wrist from his pleading hold. Frustration bubbled in her throat as palms curled into fists.

“I want to believe you. I want to believe you so fucking badly.” Her eyes scaled the evening trees and finally poured into his, her crestfallen glare a punch to his stomach. “…It just never ends.”

She was digging; clawing ever so desperately for the answers withheld beyond his soil irises. 

He could’ve sworn he was swimming in the Pacific. 

Hair Power
Endale Facil

For the longest time, I had my hair cut short, so I decided I needed a change. I then decided that it would best if I let my hair grow. The reason why I wanted to do this was because I always found it empowering to see my cousins with their natural hair. Subsequently, I started to think about growing out my own hair and looking for that empowerment in myself. That reflective moment guided my contemplation over the stereotypes of black males with thick natural hair. The stereotype was the affiliation with gangs because of how they looked (whether it was in cornrows, twists etc). Nowadays, if you see rappers or famous singers with braids or with an afro, they tend to sing about sex, drugs and money. Unfortunately, many people (of all races) will then copy and paste this image onto people who look or style their hair in a similar manner. Both of these images are portrayed in the media, but how did this come to be?  Black men have been growing out their hair for centuries, long before these artists even existed. They grew their hair out before the media was created and before gangs were even popular. From royalty to peasants, braids and lengthy hair were, for the most part, a normality. Take King Tewodros for example: This man was one of the most influential people in Ethiopian history. And guess what? He had cornrows! Imagine a black Canadian candidate with cornrows running for office as prime minister. Would you listen to what he has to say or deem him as unsuitable, simply because he doesn’t look professional? The point I’m trying to make is not whether it looks professional or not, but rather that these braids and hairstyles represent so much more than what meets the eye. They represent our history as black men and as black people. Needless to say, braids and afro-like hairstyles are important to me because they represent my culture and my heritage.

King Tewodros

A's and B's

Ben Elhav

A’s

1. If I could tell you something that you already know, I would tell you that I love you.

We both know the definition of this love has changed and mutated into a subconscious feeling which may no longer exist in a conceivable or comprehensible form.

I once thought that admitting this would be shameful, yet perhaps it is braver because I have the audacity to create the feeling of love through my admission of it.

With shame comes vulnerability, yet perhaps I am anything but vulnerable, because through this admission I become the creator and destroyer of worlds. My feeling is reality which is reality because I say it is. Every possibility and door which has yet to open or can be closed is at my discretion. I take pride in the fact that I am shaping reality and creating truth by holding my subjective understanding of the world (and of you) as objective fact.

2. If I could tell you something that you need to hear, I would tell you that I think we’ve been drifting apart.

I feel as though you’re stuck in a pattern of rush and excess, and when I’m around you I accomplish nothing but enjoy everything. I think we just view these things fundamentally differently and maybe I am a workaholic, and vain, and a hypocrite in thinking that everything must have meaning when I myself create that meaning and it has no intrinsic value. But if we can’t create meaning, does anything matter? Does it matter if nothing matters? I think it matters to me. I don’t think it matters to you.

You crave the rush of sugar and the rush of a pointless rush which makes you rush for more. I crave fulfillment. I crave the illusion of closure. Go ahead, mock me for craving an illusion, yet the illusion I chase is more tangible than the nothingness with which you are so content.

3. If I could tell you something irrelevant, I would tell you that I was wrong to love you.

We are on opposite ends of the platform looking in opposite directions. I think it is best that we remain this way, for I once came down to meet you, a deer in the headlights already resembling flattened roadkill.

And that was before the train hit!

---

B’s

1. Strong.

I was once there, 6 to 16, bags in hand, laboring up the endless flights of stairs to my house and the endless stairs away from you and from each house to the next. I then confronted each doorway - each world of endless possibility a vast and terrifying chasm of the unknown - and yet I labored on. Over the stairs, and through each doorway, and into the room where I left my brain, and into the room containing your heart. There I found nothing but darkness and when I turned to leave I noticed that the door was locked. The true terror is not of what lurks beyond the open door but what is kept away from the one that is shut.

2. Wise.

As I was born I knew every detail of the world, but in waking lost my knowledge, that familiar world changing before my very eyes. I became a hermit, collecting passages from designated texts and relics from designated persons, truly believing I was a worthy curator of a world too vast to fully inhabit or comprehend. One day I came across a passage I could not read and yet I read and read and transcribed my findings with great confidence and apparent comprehension yet was proven wrong when that which I had written was re-written by the pesky hand of time. The etchings on the cave are now meaningless scratches with the same value of etchings in flesh in providing the same amount of displeasure.

3. Good.

Begrudgingly accepting the unwritten contract I had been handed by those who begrudgingly wrote and rewrote it to their liking, I stumbled and fell onto the beaten path with a reluctance which I mistook for elegance. I must have fallen on my head because at once I had a perverted desire to tear up the godforsaken covenant for the sole purpose of feeling the intangible paper tufts between my claws. But once I felt instead the tearing of flesh and blood and tasted iron and salt I ran and fell and stumbled away from the narrowing path ‘till I was consumed in earth.

From Your Son

Spoken by his daughter

I only wish

You smelt the air

That time

the trees caught

Fire.

Maybe then

You’d have

        Sh

           ak

              en

Awake

In time

To taste the

    Ashes

And hear

The crackling

Before

The light

      Faded

               Fa r    a w   a    y