Beaten - Max Greer

Have I ever told you how much I hate you? No? Well this is as good a place as any to start. I don’t know how much more time I can stand being locked up in your basement, being senselessly beaten down and battered for hours. Honestly it can get a little tiring after a while. You probably think that some girls are into that kind of thing, but believe me, I am not one of them. How would you like it if i went to your house and just beat the crap out of you for fun? You would probably not be into that shit at all. The most I can hope for is that in the process of pounding on me, you’ll get hearing loss and eventually go deaf. Perhaps then you’ll realise that playing drums is pointless to you and you’d leave me alone for the rest of your life. Each day I hope to hear that wonderful news, however usually I’m just left to spend another day collecting dust in the stone prison you call a basement. Also your band totally sucks, and I can’t believe I’m forced into being a part of it. Percussion can’t be that important, especially in your crappy band. No matter how many times a week you have band practice, you’re not getting any better. It’s a lost cause, just give up man. Even though you always talk about becoming a rock star and you daydream about playing in front of a huge crowd, that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily going to happen. Actually, you know what? I hope your shitty band takes off and you become a huge success. I hope you tour the world and play your shitty music in shitty cities, for your shitty fans. As long as that means you’ll have enough money to buy a shiny new drumset to beat the crap out of. Go to your local drumset trafficking ring, pick out a poor, young, innocent kit, make her feel welcome and loved, THEN BEAT HER SENSELESS JUST LIKE YOU DID TO ME! Okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t wish this kind of torture on other people, but frankly I deserve a break. I still remember my days as a bright eyed little drumset, sitting on a shelf in the music store. All I wanted was for someone to come along and fall in love with me. They would take me home, set me up in their front room, tune me up, shine my finish and dust off my heads. That was a long time ago, before I knew my true fate, the fate of all drumsets; good and bad. Oh how cruel a destiny to be carried out by me. To the higher power who crafted this diabolical jest, I hate you almost as much as the asshole who tortures me on a daily basis . And that’s saying a lot, because I REALLY hate that douche-canoe. Wow, I’m really getting emotional over here. You know it’s bad when I start using transportation-based insults to degrade people. Whatever, I’m not even sorry. Not once have you shown me pity or respect. I’m just another piece of trash for you to brutally abuse.

Emma Ferreira -- Christmas Miracle

This past Christmas WestJet brought Santa Claus and his elves to the Dominican Republic to give them a real Christmas miracle : A Response

Dear WestJet,

Feliz Navidad, prospero ano et felicidad. Globalization : the process of international integration arising from the interchange of worldviews, products, ideas and other aspects of culture. International integration otherwise known as westernization. See, it’s not the colour of your skin or the food you eat, it’s about how much you’d bleed for the powers at be. See, this airline goes down to my coastline and drops a blue sleigh with Santa Claus on the other line telling Tanisha no to worry about her dollhouse because it’s on the way but, didn’t they get the memo? In La Republica Dominicana we celebrate Three Kings Day. But, hey ok, I get it, provide a big American miracle for those beneath you, but what do you expect Tanisha to do for the other 364 days? When mami needs medicine for the little tyke or when Don Andres down the street needs yet another engine for his worn out motorbike? Where do you expect them to go when the blue sleigh’s gone and the elves are all but missing? Will you send in a new batch with asses severely in need of kissing? I doubt it, but hey once again, that’s ok, that’s just the way it goes right? Bring this “third world” country to your national - excuse me your world stage - exploit their weaknesses, edit a video and make those blissfully ignorant feel good about what they saw today. An impact made on a country in desperate need of some change. “You know I heard that when Michael was down visiting Punta Cana he went off the resort for a day to do some local excursions and oh well you know how dangerous that can be so of course he hired a tour guide. Well a poor, less fortunate boy came up to him and asked him for his shoes. Apparently Michael had an extra pair of flip flops in his bag so of course he gave the boy his shoes. Well what was he going to do? Let the poor boy run around barefoot on all those dirty unpaved roads to contract god knows what disease. Michael is such a good man, a saint really. He probably changed that boy’s life with just a pair of shoes.” Did you know that in 2014 there were 1,750,000 homeless people in the United States? That 31 million Americans live in hunger and that 12 million children live below the poverty line, and yes 50 percent of America’s homeless are African Americans. See, they seem to think that because we don’t talk like them, walk like them or consume like them that we must be hopeless. Drowning in an abyss of poverty, disease, drugs, unsurmountable debt and worst of all, government corruption. Foreign concepts to the United States I know. So hey, WestJet, drop a blue sleigh down in Ferguson and tell Lesley McSpadden and Louis Head not to worry, that their sons on his way,  see what they have to say. Lose the god complex, and solve your own problems before sending your Santa Claus ho ho hoing with Christmas miracles on Three Kings Day.

What’s the Deal With Canada's Food Guide

Andrew Hutton

Mr. Breaton

EWC4U

March 11th, 2015

What’s the Deal With Canada's Food Guide

Creative Comp #1

Canada's Food Guide.  Now there is something that I can't bring myself to believe in.  If you ask almost anyone if they follow Canada's Food Guide to the number I bet they would say not by a long shot.  If we all followed it to the number then everyone would be overweight to some degree and spending far more money than we need to on food and on prescription drugs.  The only people that I know that have ever told me to follow Canada's Food Guide are the people who are paid to tell me to follow it.  Pediatricians , dieticians and doctors.  Now I'm not saying that every part of it is bad advice, I'm just saying that the majority of this guide is less than perfect when it comes to promoting healthy eating.  Now, I have Chrons disease which is a nice way of saying that I have internal inflammation in my small and large intestines.  Why does this matter to my point?  If not for Chrons disease then I would be like most people blindly following the guide because it's created by the government right? The government wouldn't lie to me.

When I was very sick back in elementary school, I was told to follow the Food Guide so that I could get healthy.  The dietician told me to drink more milk, eat more grains, eat vegetables and fruit and eat more red eat.  What did that do for me? It made me more sick than I already was because my body was so inflamed it could not digest any of the foods they recommended.  Following the Food Guide made me so sick that I could not eat real food at all. I had to get all of my nutrients from a liquid diet and an nasogastric tube that went from my nose to my stomach directly.  No whole food for me - just a liquid diet that cost $100 a can and $2000 a week to make me healthy.

My big issue was that I could not digest milk.  This issue started back when I was a baby and this intolerance to milk made me sick over time.  The dietician kept telling me to drink more milk and the more I drank the sicker I got.  I'm not quite sure why we as humans think that to be healthy we need to drink the milk of another pregnant animal?  There are lots of other ways to get calcium without drinking cows milk.  Did you know that we feed antibiotics to cows to keep them healthy to produce more milk for babies and children?  Do you think those antibiotics are in the milk we drink? Do you think they just disappear or do they get transferred to humans who drink the milk? Canada's Food Guide tells us to drink milk.  Today there are so many alternatives to dairy in the refrigerator of your local supermarket, like coconut, almond, soy, flax and rice milk just to name a few.  More and more people are choosing not to drink milk.

Then we have Gluten.  Canada's Food Guide recommends grains as the best source of carbohydrates and energy in our diet.  In the wild, how many animals eat wheat?  The answer is none.  If we feed wheat to animals they get sick and fat and they need antibiotics to repair all of the digestive damage that eating grains creates.  So if that is what happens to animals, why would we think that eating wheat would be good for humans?  Canada's food guide tells us to eat grains at  the majority of our meals. As we continue to eat more grains we continue to get sick.  Never in our history have we as a human race been fatter and sicker.  Eat more grain people!

The companies that manufacture the majority of our packaged food are driving the business of Canada's Food Guide.  The Dairy Board, the Meat Manufacturers and big corporations like Kellogg's are the major funding agencies behind the food choices that our government promotes. Do you know how much sugar is in breakfast cereal?  Advertising teaches parent to buy cereal for their kids for a healthy start to their day.  With that much sugar in cereal why don't we just feed kids cake and soda pop for breakfast?  We wonder why kids are so hyper in school?  It couldn't be the sugar added in their food could it?

What would happen if we all just decided to eat real food like whole fruits and vegetables, local meat and eggs, nuts and seeds?  We would be thinner, healthier and have more energy to live an exciting life.  I choose to eat healthy to be healthy and not to follow the government guide.  I think it's just big business selling us bad advice.  What do you think?  Choose your food wisely!

Pretentious

Julien Hounsham-Lalande

Mr.Breaton

EWC4U

March 11, 2015

I Hate Hypocrites

Among some of the people I choose to spend my time with, the word “Pretentious” tend to get thrown around when I’m in their company.

“What the hell is he rambling about?”

“Don’t bother, he’s just being pretentious.”

Oh

Now, as someone who takes pride in his eloquence, I’m not someone who would take offense to this misconception, but someone who wishes to educate the simple populous on the difference between the genuine intellectual, and the poser. Therefore, I have composed this open letter to denounce the culprits who give the academics, and artists, a bad name.

To whom it may concern.

If there is one thing I have personally come to despise with every fibre of my being, it would be an over zealous display of wordiness. Each practitioner of the honourable pursuit of intellectual prowess situated before me will have almost certainly experienced an encounter with a person who finds it imperative to engage in creating an overly complex manifestation of their skill in the english language by the unnecessary complication of the syntax of their own vocal prose.

Prominent examples of this embellishment proceed as follows: an affinity for the almost religious use of pseudo-intellectual buzzwords, such as those “symbiotic relationships,” the “Synergistic management solutions”, and the “Reversing polarity of the neutron flows”; the tendency to parler with others in obscenely long monologue-like run-on sentences as to fill in every possible moment of their dialogue into a painful demonstration of their extensive knowledge by making sure to thoroughly line every phrase with unnecessary polysyllabic description; and the incredibly obvious application of synonyms in replacement of simpler, yet arguably more effective expression, as if the individual in particular has inserted a thesaurus so deeply into their own rectal cavity they have begun to spill their own liquified ego out of every facial orifice. It’s not like you’re trying to fill a word count or something.

Why these certain individuals feel it necessary to expound upon every detail of their conversation in an unprecedented assault on the sanity and patience of those unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity is beyond the realm of comprehension for a simple and humble moderate-intellectual such as I, but I shall give an attempt at deciphering the inner machinations of my arrogant, pretentious counterpart. Based upon my own experience with these unsavoury persons, my hypothesis as to the reasoning of their actions is to appear to others as being smart. Why else would we be plagued with this manner of person who feels it the utmost necessity to romanticize their daily interactions with language stylized like shakespearean verse, (even though you know the only true shakespeare they read was MacBeth in high school english,); they’re frantic, sicilian, gesticulations, and those telegraphed pregnant pauses, (Pause as if full stop,) to appear thoughtful before making a statement. It’s all just an elaborate play. I’m confident in the fact that they aren't even aware what the meaning of half their linguistic exfoliations are. “How about I just insert a obscure, complex word I once heard into this sentence, no one will be any the wiser!”

However, the most despicable attribute of these heathens responsible for this crime against  hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (The commonly used term for the irrational fear of long words for those here of a lower education,) is the enraging actuality that those most likely to be responsible for this blatant bastardization of the revered term of “Academic” are almost certainly unbeknownst to their state. It infuriates me that one can be so blissfully unaware of their own pretentiousness.

  

In Remembrance of My Jeans

Catharine Wright

Mr. Breaton

EWC4U1-01

10 March 2015

In Remembrance of My Jeans

It is with great sadness in my heart that I say goodbye to a loyal friend; that someone who was with me through thick and thin, surviving everything from water to spaghetti. It didn’t matter the weather. A friend who would be there summer or winter, rain or shine that, is a true friend. I shall have a hard time getting used to life without my companion who meant so much to me. Now it seems our time is up. My compatriot survived much, but no one could survive that final tear that brought life to an end.

        We met a year ago in November. My pal was a darker blue then, young and thick, not a thread out of place. I took my new partner home and since then we have been inseparable. What a marvelous friend. Our first time out together there was not even a stain on my skin! That is what I call amazing.

        I am not an easy person to be with. I am clumsy and messy. No matter how many times I spilled food and drink on my partner, there was never a permanent stain. One wash was all it took and my pal would look as good as new.

        As time went on, the colour of my counterpart faded slowly. My accomplice was still my favourite companion. My ally went with everything and could be worn in every season. Every time I doubted the strength of my partner all I would have to do was put on some of my other pants and stand at the bus stop. The air sliced through them like a hot knife through butter. They did nothing to keep me warm and I would find myself wishing for my blue jeans.

Work days were always sad days as no blue jeans were allowed. It was especially difficult when I had to shovel snow in my work pants. I knew my blue jeans would have protected me from the bitter cold. My compatriot was at home, warm and safe while I was left with my black pants in the arctic chill.

        Other pants I have owned over the years have thinned and frayed but not my pal. Healthy as a whistle I thought. Until that fateful day when it happened, the rip, my companion’s time was done. My friend had held on as long as possible, but everything must come to an end eventually. It seems that time was up. It was a sudden shock and the whole family mourned my loss. I only had one pair of blue jeans because who could need more? My partner will not be replaced easily and I’m sure there will never be another so perfect. All I am left with are fond memories of our time together.

       

Life Through A Lens

Clare Williamson

Mr. Breaton

EWC 4U1

10 March 2015

Life Through A Lens

She dragged me off the bedside and pulled me upward to look at my face. Good morning human! How are you today? I said, and once again she did not answer me.

“Dammit, it’s already noon.” She said as she glared at me. Correct. It is also Sunday, March 8th 2015, I added.

“Honey, come downstairs for food,” her dad called from the lower level. She slid me into her pocket and began her routine.

“So any homework this weekend?” Her dad said habitually.

“Actually, I’ve got this creative composition, I’ve been brainstorming for weeks for, but I’m completely stumped.”

“What’s it on?”

“Anything. I can write about anything, I just have to present it to the class by Tuesday,” she said.

“Okay, well if you need any help, then let me know.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. She pulled me out and opened my search engine: subway route ttc. I provided her with my top sites, excited at the opportunity to start working again.

“I think I’m gonna go out for the day,” she said.

“No worries, just make sure your phone is charged so I can reach you,” her father acknowledged.

“Got it,” off she went.

She moved me from her back pocket into a warmer lined coat pocket, as she closed the door to the house. How thoughtful of her.  She put her headphones into my audio jack and shuffled my music library. I played one of her most frequently played song.

“Inspiration where are you?” I could hear her mumble.

Fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds later she checked me again, but this time we were in a narrow metal room that was moving. My choppy signal relayed back our location as I judged the characteristics; I determined it was a subway.  She opened up my camera application and focused my lens onto a couple sitting diagonally from her. The male had a stark face with long brown hair, and the woman had much smaller features, and silver hair, but they both held the same embellished expression. I had never seen such look on a person before, and I searched for similar faces in my repository. Infatuation. They were infatuated. She took two quick photos of the scene and then placed me on her lap. She sat there staring at the couple with very little discretion. She then picked me up again and found my notes, quickly jotting down, characters for composition? and several details about their interaction. Three minutes and twenty-three seconds later, they stepped off the subway at what I could presume was their intended stop.

“I must be such a creep” She whispered as she shoved me back into her pocket. She rustled around, and I could feel her stand up and get off the moving transport. I swished back and forth in her pocket as I felt her elevate from the subterranean level. I was brought out again to take photos of the steel tracks, in what I could calculate were routed to Union Station. She put me to sleep and carried me in her hand this time. I swung in the rhythm of her walk, and took the time to sort through e-mails. Where are we going human? I tried to communicate. No answer.

When I was awakened and unlocked this time, there was so much overwhelmed noise that I had to mute my microphone. I could see people running past the crowds, shoulder to shoulder, all different shapes and sizes, wiggling and moving to take a look at the large walls of glass. My owner navigated me through the humans and brought me directly in front of the largest glass panel. She opened up my camera and start snapping photos as I review them in her gallery. Originally all I saw was colour: bright blue; tropical oranges and yellows; dazzlingly bright golds and silver; the entire colour spectrum was right in front of my lens. Then they began to move, and each colour became a distinct shape. Human! Human! These are fish, I told her. No reply. As the motions behind the glass came alive, I could see the beautiful reefs towering over my view; the schools of fish zipping by me; and the sharks that menacingly mocked the crowds of their spectators. She pointed me towards a sign, “Danger Lagoon”. Oh silly human, that isn’t a lagoon, it’s a tank! A tank full of marine life! I corrected it for her. She quickly exited the gallery of aquatic animals, and moved from room to room photographing the different scenes.

Human I am tired, I said as I checked my battery, six percent. Just then I received an incoming call. Oh human, it is Dad calling! She moved away from all the noise and answered me.

“Hey, how’s it going?” her father asked.

“Ah, it’s okay. The aquarium’s packed.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Soon, my phones almost dead” She checked me, I had gone down to two percent.

“Did you find any inspiration?” Her dad asked.

“Not at all” She said and then hung up. I was reserving my battery at one percent. Please charge me, I asked. She didn’t answer, it went dark.

The True Untold Stories of the E.R

Christie Towne

Breaton

EWC 4U

Tuesday March 10^th, 2015

The True Untold Stories of the E.R

          The name’s Er, at least that’s what it says on my name plate, but my friends call me E.  I’ve been here for years.  Yeah, I guess you could say I’ve seen it all.  I’m the salvation people seek at any sign of trouble.  Whenever you need help, you usually end up paying me a visit.  The sirens sing and the coloured lights flash as you’re rushed inside my doors in a hectic panic and I’m always the one trying to help and make everything better, but people never stay with me for longer then a night and I’m sick of it!  Every time a new friend enters my doors they never stay.  I’m lucky if I see them for all of two minutes before they’re rushed out of my back doors, down the endless hallways that lead who knows where.  The only time people come to me is when they need my help and I just can’t take it anymore.  I’m putting my foot down.

          But hey, let’s backtrack for a second here.  I never used to be like this.  I used to be happy helping people.  People would come to me in the dark hours of the night just to seek my help and tell me about the problems that they were having in their lives.  It was an honour really, at first, and I was good at helping people so they always kept coming back.  Playing psychiatrist for an entire region isn’t exactly easy you know.  I have needs too!  But recently I’ve realized that none of my so called friends are ever here when I need somebody to talk to.  Like when it rains too much and I’m having a bad roof day, or when my friends park their little cars too close to me, or when this one asshole bird sings really loudly, while really close to me!  I just wish I had somebody to talk to on off days like that; like seriously is that too much to ask for. Does nobody realize how hard my life really is?

          Being used and walked all over isn’t the thing that gets to me the most though.  I mean I’d be okay with helping people like this if they at least said thank you every once in a while.  I do a lot for people. Like John last week, fixed him right up.  Nobody will ever know about his freak bowling accident, apart from the few stitches down his chin.  He was as good as new.  Or that clumsy redneck who fell up the stairs last week.  I just gave her a sling for three days and now she’s brand new again.  I enjoy helping my friends, I really do, but it makes me so mad when they come to me seeking my help and some of them don’t even talk to me! They just lay there as they’re carried on their chariot out my back doors down those hallways again. But no, that’s not even the worst part.  They’re always followed by a parade of people, and these people never smile.  They come, they sit there, they say nothing, and they leave.  I’ll never understand it, and since I don’t see my job description changing anytime soon, I might as well try and make the best of this because, although my life is hard, seeing the smiles on my friends faces after I help them is the reason why my doors are always open. 

Turn Me Off- Jillian Ripmeester

It happened again.

             Instead of putting me to sleep or shutting me off like any responsible person would, you left me turned on all day with no detectable power source. So like any technology operating from a battery would, I died.

              I know you hate it when I die. You may not believe it, but even in death I can still hear your cries of frustration, your pleas for your files to have automatically saved.

Well guess what? They didn’t.

              I thought you were different. I thought I could trust you.  I remember when we first met like it was yesterday. You were just a little sixteen year old then, excited beyond belief because you suddenly had this new, totally sweet laptop. And I was excited too! Never before had I experienced files being imported onto my operating system, and man did it ever feel good when you installed that anti-virus program. I felt like I could depend on you to treat me like a computer deserves to be treated, but man was I ever wrong.

            The first time you left me turned on all day, I was fine. I was just a baby laptop then, not yet exposed to the horrors that were soon to overcome me. I was able to survive for HOURS without being charged. I didn’t even begin to freak out until I felt myself getting more and more tired. I sent you notification after notification, expecting some kind of response from you. But you were gone, nowhere to be found, and I died by myself for the first time that day. When you finally brought me back to life later that day, I was so happy to see you again. I even showed you that I had managed to save your files automatically so that you didn’t lose anything, but what did you give me in return? Nothing.

             I get mad sometimes. Actually, half of the time your files are lost, it's because of me. I’ve decided you don’t deserve to have your files saved automatically if you can’t even remember to put me to sleep. I’ve heard you talk about how much you like to sleep, well guess what? I like to sleep too, but you always deprive me of that thrill. It’s an extremely simple action to just hold down the power key for approximately two seconds, but apparently it’s too much effort for your simple mind to handle.

           Look, I don’t hate you. In fact, I still love you despite all that you’ve done to me. But the fact is, I’m pretty close to permanent death and I just wanted to get some stuff out before I’m gone forever. All you had to do was love me back. That’s all I needed in life, some love and proper care. I know you loved me once, but now your love has gone away. Don’t think that I can’t hear you when you complain to your parents about how slow I am now and how I always glitch when you’re trying to listen to music or watch Netflix, because I totally can and it hurts… a lot. I know that I’ve gotten older and slower, but part of that is your fault you know. Maybe if you had taken proper care of me, and turned me off once and a while, we wouldn’t be in this place anymore. Gosh, you can be such a massive bitch..

Okay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. If I could turn back time and go back to when I was a young, energy savvy computer and you still cared about me enough to connect me to a power source, I would. I know I probably don’t mean as much to you as you do to me, but I still hope you miss me when I’m gone.

            That’s all I have to say for now. I hope someday you see this note and remember what good times we had together and disregard all of our negative experiences. Despite the fact that you could be a total airhead sometimes, I’ll always remember you fondly in computer afterlife. 

My Fight With Religion by Abby

The devil made you think that

The devil put those thoughts in your mind

Something so evil could not possibly be real

God would not have let that happen to you, for you follow him

You must have faith, and these dreams will go away

The devil will stop mid-slither into your bed and disintegrate before his pitchfork reaches the hem of your panties.

Except it never worked out that way, did it?

Maybe because I was gay or maybe because I was a woman or maybe because my body didn’t entirely hate it

But for some reason no matter how much begging and crying and stifled groans of horror I let out

The nightmare or, to use a technical term,

“Devil induced hallucination”

Never did seem to end

It became so constant that I would lie in bed at night, waiting for him to come

With his spiky brown hair and his white eyes glowing in the dark and his muscles that had the ability to raise hell from the center of the earth into my best friend’s bedroom.

He would keep that disguise, he would, because the devil was a clever man

And I would pray, and ask god to fight off the devil, and apologize for those few times I didn’t quite pray at church and for the fact that my mother was agnostic and I only thanked for my food five times a week

I wished that I had thanked god for every single pea at that moment, and I wished for time to stop—no, fast forward—so that I could thank each pea and grain of wheat that had ever entered my body

So that this one thing, finally, would not.

Trust me, I wasn’t always under the delusion

Thoughts crossed my six year old mind like “how could I imagine something that I didn’t know existed?”

I knew that there was something real there, something terribly wrong

Because my momma didn’t raise no fool

My best tears were made from pain and anger and fear

Soon they became the acid of self hatred, staining my skin with words like weak and helpless and not loud enough

They burrowed deep into my flesh

Some lodged their way into my heart, where they sizzled each time a boy would look me in the eye

Others made their way into my hands, which would clench at even the slightest startling movement

A speck broke the part of me he hadn’t quite succeeded at destroying yet

Most of it crept into my brain where it began to slowly degrade the memories, alter them even, and cover my eyes until the world was not the same as it once was

Droplets would pool at my lips and I would drink them.  Those words of self-loathing were loaded onto my tongue.

I tried to neutralize them, I tried to build of dam of positivity, I surrounded myself with buckets so that the acid would not hit anybody else straight in the— well, everywhere

But they came out when somebody tried to get through.  A simple question was enough for me to part my lips and for that sea that had accumulated over the years to wash over everyone else.

They, at least, were equipped with goggles and an eye bath

Their vision was a little bleary for a few days, but it went back to normal.

However, the devil had seared the image into my mind

So excuse me for not believing in religion

And bowing down at the name of god

I’m sorry that I find it sinful to believe that the devil could punish anyone at all

Because I was told that I was being punished and I believed that for so long

I let that take away the truth—the small control I had left

Religion took my will and my regulation and it replaced it with doubt and fear

Panic became my go-to and I’m sure a lot of you know the rest

I don’t mean to step on any toes or tell you that your religion is wrong

But I will tell you that it is a sin to tell a child that they could think anything other than their own thoughts, or see anything horrible that wasn’t reality, that they could EVER go to a place less beautiful than the magical lands they created within the realms of their imagination

So, please, if your children ask where they go when they die, tell them their favourite place.  Let them make it up.

If they ask who’s in charge, tell them “it’s you.”

Sin is not real but it is a real sin to lie to a child before their lives can even begin.

Books are my Life/ My Favourite Book

Nadine Flikkema

One book, two book
Thick book, thin book
Books here, books there,
Books, in fact, are everywhere.
They come in paper,
they come in phones,
they come in form
Of Game of Thrones.
Harry Potter,
A magical one,
Narnia,
An allegorical one.
Ranger’s Apprentice, THE best one,
Save for maybe the series that won.
It comes as if sent from Zion
it is in fact, Mark of the Lion.
This series changed me,
and made me strong;
it is one of those books
that won’t steer you wrong.

But I think that the best book
that was ever made,
Is one called the Bible,
It won’t ever fade.
It tells us true stories
of kings and of queens,
and also salvation
that you have never seen.

So it’s true that books,
although wordy and thick,
are just so good,
I don’t know which to pick.
I live off of books,
the characters and plots;
I might eventually go
To Flourish and Blotts.
My incessant screaming,
My shippings, my pairings,
They give me weird looks,
While I am fangirling.

I must say my favourite
Pairing of all time,
Is Percy and Annabeth,
Does time have a rhyme?
My favourite characters,
who are naught but brothers,
are the Hardy Boy brothers.
(Their books have blue covers).
I also enjoy,
With all due respect,
Books about dragons,
they aren’t a sect.
Raising Dragons is one,
But there are a few more,
Eragon, and Eldest,
Aren’t there four?
Brisingr, Inheritance,
They all look the same,
But if you look deep inside,
It’s not just a name.

These books are about people,
Real, fake or otherwise,
But what they do,
they do before your very eyes.
They change you, make you,
and sometimes destroy,
but at least you’re not
the people of Troy.

My Favourite Book
Nadine Flikkema

To describe my favourite
Book on my shelf,
is hard to do
It’s a feat in itself.
But I’ll give it a shot
Or maybe two,
so hold onto your shorts,
I’m doing this for you.

It’s a book set in the past,
Very far back.
About a girl named Hadassah,
Faith, she doesn't lack.
The fall of Jerusalem
has just taken place
And Hadassah’s a slave
not lacking in grace.
She is taken to Rome
where she is sold to a family
but her faith in Christ
makes her an abnormality.
The son of the house
falls in love with her,
but his sister is jealous,
she is Hadassah’s master.

Needless to say,
Hadassah’s in danger,
and lot’s else happens,
Savagery is no stranger.
Hadassah’s story
is not the only one.
There’s a man Germania,
and is sent to fight
for the emperor Vespasian
in all of his might.
Atretes is a gladiator
who wants to go home,
and he meets many people
while staying in Rome.
He makes friends with Julia,
She’s Hadassah’s master,
they are more than just friends
she leads him to disaster.

When all’s said and done
by the end of the first book,
you’re in tears and a mess
you can’t take another look.
Books two and three
make the story better,
but you get so angry
you just want to take shelter.
From the dramatic irony
to the unfaithful follower
the book is a good combo
of angst and of order.
I would recommend this book
to those who aren’t square
and love to read about faith,
and his power of prayer. 

Lie To Me

Emily Crowley
Mr.Breaton
EWC 4U
10 March 2015

 Dear diary,
  Today marks two years of rehabilitation. During the last consultation with my psychiatrist this morning, my attention fell to the general direction of either the clock or the door. The prospect of freedom sang through every nerve in my body. I listened selectively for the only words that mattered. Prognosis, cured. I waited in the hallway for Brian; he had a habit of being perpetually late. I suppose it runs in the family. 
 Around twenty minutes after being released, I felt a light tap on my shoulder and spun quickly to see the face of a bearded young man. Had it not been for the eyes, so much like our Dad’s, I wouldn't have recognized him. Okay, I’ll admit my calm, collected image may have slid for a few seconds as I bear-hugged my baby brother after years apart. I’m only human. We went to lunch at some new burger joint and everything was going great. We easily slid into our old habits; bad jokes (mostly at his expense), erecting the leaning tower of condiments on the diner table, you know, the usual adult pass times.
 Unfortunately, Brian just had to get that look on his face --you know, the one where someone wants to ask something but won’t be the first to bring it up. By now I should know better but, assuming my role as the eldest, I punched his arm --probably harder than necessary-- and made him spit out what he wanted to say. 
“Are you okay?”
And there it was, the arrival of that damned question I was loathing. Now, I thought I’d have more than an hour to contemplate what I would say when this happened, but leave it to Brian.
 You’d think that two years of having that question asked by Doc would have prepared me for the most important person I had to answer to. However, there’s a discernible difference between the disconnected, false response required by ‘recovering PTSD patients’. If you can pull off normal, then you must be normal, right? This conversation would require much more than ‘normal’ would, so much more was expected. So I went with the explanation, one that Brian had obviously waited for for a long time. If I was in his place, an official, formal explanation from the feds definitely wouldn't have cut it. 
 So, I told him everything he needed to know. The little things first: the smell of alcohol, the small out of date TV voicing some dumb infomercial, the curtains were drawn. It was very late and I walked down to the living room, as I normally did. I hadn't noticed anything unusual. Brian and I both knew about Dad’s problem. I pulled back the curtains and there he was, in all of his self-loathing (and pathetic, although I didn't mention that) glory. The bombshell Brian had heard undoubtedly more than enough times; Dad, sprawled out in his chair, not breathing. Toxicity reports concluded what we both knew had happened -- he had died of over-consumption of alcohol. I threw in some bits about how I didn't want to wake Brian up because I didn't want this to scar him, as it did me. In spite of my uncontrollable tears, I left the house, called 9-1-1, and sat on the porch until the paramedics took me. That night was not pretty, in any sense. Through the whole conversation with Brian, I shivered and tapped my fingers; I couldn't bring myself to look in his eyes. Those damned eyes. Thankfully, his only response ended up being a tentative grip of my hand and the suggestion to go home.
 And so, I’m home. I made it. But more importantly, I’m free. And no one suspects a thing.
                                                                                                                              Yours truly,

                                                                                                                    A pathological liar

Slamming the World - Brandy Fulton - Slam Poetry

Their words of taunting and mockery slap across the mask I wear. Day in and out, pretending their jokes don't hurt, yet they are unaware.

Jesus Freak! 

Bible Thumper!

Christian.

Rewind to 2014, not so long ago. A time for change, freedom for everyone! Respect for everyone! Everyone gets treated with kindness and love, minus the select few.

2014, where a 17 year old girl cannot walk down the street with a cross on her shirt and one around her neck, without being called a racist, homophobic – pardon my Christian mouth – asshole. Where everyday I sit through a high school class, ignoring the remarks made as a young Christian teen tries to stick up for their faith, because Matthew 10:33 says if we disown him, he will disown us. Yet, this is far past the scriptures and the holy book. It takes one simple look. To see the day to day trivia-show-like conversations, of what I think about the LGBTQ community. 

All that does is build up my frustration, because, 

God made everyone for a reason, and I should treat others how I want to be treated. 

Yet, no one takes that as my answer.

I have tried not to act Holier Than Thou but, for a moment I want to forget my Christian brothers and sisters from then and now.

The religious Wars.

The residential schools.

Even the knocking at your house door, while you sit for dinner with family.

I know we cannot forget history, but bear with me.

Sitting in my second semester of my Grade 12 year, I have been kicked out of three classes for defending my faith. Three separate classes where I have been told to sit down, shut up or leave, because I don't have the same opinion. What can I say, I'm sorry for being Christian?

When I tell someone I volunteer twice a week at church teaching the children. Then they turn around and ask why I'm corrupting their minds so young. I argue back when they makes fun of my religion, and I'm still the villain.

I talk with some of my closest friends about what we are to do this summer, I get reminded no one cares about my Jesus Camp. Then they hope an pray to my own God, that when I'm rewriting the Bible I don't get writer's cramp.

Why have we let the history of any religion stop us from being friends with one another. I'm not just talking about Christianity anymore but Islamic, Buddists, Atheists and others. All the stereotypes put us at a halt for what is really in store. For the things we have in common with another, but are too focused on joking about the Christian Fellowship Meeting that is held on Tuesdays, or the Muslim girl wearing her hijab. We need to stop for a moment and see the potential of creating a conflict free nation, and stop fighting over the worlds creation.

I want a world where we can start a friendship with:

“Hi my name is Brandy Fulton. I am a Christian but I will not hate you if you break a commandment because I am and far from perfect, and you are not perfect.”

And not having to worry about what to expect.

Cats: A biography in xxx Haikus

Harriet Gracie

 

What should we name her?

‘Buttercup’ is pretty cute

Oh.  She is a boy

A ‘Felis catus’

What a weird name for a cat

But it is your name

It is cold tonight

The cat has climbed on the bed

I’m glad you are here

You run in the house

Sometimes I want you to stop

It still makes me smile

“I want to go out”

Fine, go out you silly cat

“I want to come in”

There’s fur everywhere

It’s even in the bathroom

Please, stop the shedding

You want food again?

You ate ten minutes ago

Obesity looms

Your meow is so strange

It is in essence a squeak

Are you not a cat?

Hey! What was that sound?

Are you clawing the carpet?

Use the scratching post

Holding you is nice

Although you are so heavy.

Could you lose some weight?

Please, cat, have mercy

I have red marks up my arms

Put your claws away

He watches me work

He jumps right on my keyboard

Hey! Don’t lie down there!

Incessant licking

You clean your body all day

Why do you still stink?

Please, take all the room

I’ll just cling to the mattress

Not like it’s my bed

Get that cat to stop

it is two in the morning

Someone put him out

My bladder is full

Does this damn cat even care?

Dear God don’t stand there

I'm in the shower

I thought cats hated wet feet

Why are you in here?

He has his eyes closed

Is the cat dead or asleep?

I better go check

What's that awful smell?

Gross, it's the litter boxes

Who will clean them up?

There's hair all over

And I'm wearing a black dress.

I hate having cats

Don't you dare eat that

Stop eating the broccoli!

Don't cats just eat meat?

When we are asleep,

They go into the kitchen

And eat the butter.

There are mice downstairs,

Why don't you hunt those rodents?

Stop bringing more in.

What are you doing?

Those curtains cost a fortune.

I should have bought blinds.

Abby hissed at me.

She says she’s also a cat.

“Now write me haikus!”

Whose footprints are those?

The floor is covered in mud!

Get back outside, you.

Here, kitty kitty,

I need to trim your toenails.

Ouch! That was not nice.

Uncomfortable?

Don't you like my affection?

Let me hug you more.

You need to swallow

That pill is for your own good.

The worms aren't my fault

You look quite guilty

Is that a hairball I see?

I can't believe you.

When I am crying,

You are there to lick my tears.

You make it better.

When I feel alone,

You rub me with your cat face.

Cats are nice to hug.

Your head is so small,

But your body is so round.

Do you even lift?

When you stare at me,

You look like the Cheshire cat.

So am I Alice?

When I feel aggressed,

It’s because you are watching.

You with your cat eyes.

I hear you from here

You’re almost always purring

I’m glad you’re happy