I love you very much!” said Grandpa Albert in a weak voice. Those were the last words that he said to me. He was tired and fell asleep, as I wept by my grandpa’s hospital bed. My Grandma gave me a hug to comfort me.

My Grandpa Albert was the kindest person I know. He helped take care of me since I was a baby and took me to pre-school. We spent time together every week. I loved going downtown with him on the skytrain. (Expo line not Canada line) We would have drinks at Starbucks. Grandpa was always very thoughtful, as he always bought me my favorite, delicious foods like noodles and pork sausages. Some of my best memories with Grandpa was when we went on a trip to the Caribbean. We went swimming, explored the cruise ship and ate a lot of ice cream!

Then one day, when I went to Grandpa’s house, he was in bed all day and Grandma told he was very tired. I sat next to him on the bed, not knowing something was wrong. We went about our usual routine there. He even got up to say goodbye to me before I left. I didn’t think this would be the last goodbye at his house. Later that evening, he went to the hospital.

The evening before my Grandpa passed away, my parents brought me to the hospital to visit him. Tearfully, I told Grandpa how much I loved him and said my last goodbyes. He left the next day. My mom told me he was on his way to heaven and that he will always love me.

Whenever I go to my grandparent’s house, I look around and only my Grandma is there. It makes me feel very sad, like something was missing. I cried everyday thinking of him passing away. Albert was the best grandpa in the world. I know I won’t see him again, but he will be in my memory and in my heart for always.

Have you ever gone hiking on Lake Agnes trail? I was there this summer! At first, my brother Tom came with us, but then after a little while, he thought it was too tiring and went back to our hotel. I thought it was tiring too, but wanted to keep going.

The cool breeze swept through my body as I walked through the forest. There were a lot of other people coming and going, so we had to give them space. I was with my mom and dad. As I walked along the trail, I could hear the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, and the birds chirping gently. I could see the beautiful forest and I could sense the sweet smell of nature.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of rushing water. “It means we’re close to the stream,” my mom said. Then we saw a stream right in front of us. To cross the stream we had to leap over it. I got my feet a little bit wet, but I didn't care.

As we walked along, we saw a line of horses, their riders, and a long trail of horse poop. We walked right past them and I noticed that the air was very stinky. Then I saw it was a big clump of horse poop! I ignored it, but then noticed a lot more clumps of poop. It was everywhere! Ewwwww! I pugged my nose until we were past the poop.

We walked a long way. At Last! The beautiful Agnes lake was right in front of me! But the big lake wasn't the most exciting part… Right along the pathway, there was a huge pile of snow. There was snow! I was too exhausted to get too excited. I lay down on the ice cold snow and made some tiny snowballs. Soon, we had to go back to our hotel. I tried to take a tiny snowball all the way back, but it soon melted. “Oh well,” thought I. “I guess I’ll have to tell Tom all about it. I can't wait!”

Sisters Are Sparklin’… Not!!!

Boy, you won’t want to have a big sister like mine ’cause I’m gonna tell you why.

A few reasons why me and my sister DO NOT get along :

My sister and I argue because I’m annoying and because we don’t like each other much.

We always fight for our toys.

We have fights (I always start them, “Mwa ha ha ha”), sometimes we don’t talk for days.

I kick, punch, bite, and slap my sister and she kicks, punches, and slaps me back.

There’s something my teacher Mr. Hirsch doesn't understand about my relationship with my sister. That’s because in class once he had a “vision”, he closed his eyes and said “Wait…. Elisa and Reina are probably thirty-nine and they are holding hands singing ``I love my sister, she is so funny and she is my best friend-``''AM NOOOT!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, Mr. Hirsch suddenly opened his eyes, jumped and said “Woah, wait I’m in the classroom, where is that grassy meadow full of cherry blossom trees and flowers and Elisa and Reina, huh?”

I wish my sister would disappear or I could be the big sister or at least have a brother.

What a messed up life. I wonder what it’d be like if things were different?

If I were the big sister, I would be taller, smaller, have a bigger bedroom, and have computers, iPad, and iPhones.

If I had a little brother, my mom would be busy with him all day, so I would have free time every day. Also, when my baby brother was older, he would go to my school and I would get to see him all year.

If I had no siblings, my parents would pay attention to me and no one else. I also wouldn’t receive those annoying “sister corrections.” One time, I was writing, and I wrote ‘someone else’ and she said, “Elisa! You wrote ‘someone else’ wrong!” And I was like, “Yeah, yeah.”

Fortunately, when I’m bored, we can play Lego together. I guess it’s a teeny-tiny bit okay having a sister.

Chapter 1

When I was 6 years old, I was scared of swimming in the ocean, because I would always sink. I couldn't hold my breath and I was afraid that I would drown. One day when I was eating lunch at home, my mom came and asked me a question. “Ivan, do you want to learn how to swim to be safe in the ocean?” I carefully thought for a moment. At first I thought NO, because sharks would try and eat me. Then I realized, if I learned to swim, I could be safe in the water. I would learn how to hold my breath, how to float and swim away from the sharks. “Of course, I want to go!” I said. Mom smiled at me, “I know that you can be as fast as anyone else.” “I know I can be better than ANYONE else” I hoped.

Chapter 2

After school on Wednesday, mom drove me to Wayland Sports Centre. When I first came there I was afraid that I would sink, because I didn’t know how deep the pool was. I tried holding my breath underwater for three seconds. I was doing well. I was getting better so I tried my best. I held my head underwater for five more seconds. Each time I held my head underwater I became stronger. After two weeks I leveled up and the moves got harder for me. My hard work paid off. “Wow you are doing well Ivan,” the coach complimented me. I am not afraid of the ocean now. I began to like swimming. When I grow up, I want to be as good as Michael Phelps.

The day I got Kiko was the most important and happiest day of my life because when she was that little, she was sooooo cute! She was tiny. She was as tall as a laptop screen and as wide as two thick books stacked together. Her eyes were big and black, and she had a tiny black nose, with her little tongue sticking out. She was adorable! It was difficult to choose her name because it took a week to decide! My sisters, Catherine and Victoria, and I had to go on a lot of different websites to search up girl names for dogs. We even looked up girl names for babies! We chose Kiko because it is a cute name, which means “be happy and joy,” and it’s from a show we watch called Winx. It was the most important day of my life because I had waited ten weeks to get her. She was in a doggy bag, so I couldn’t see her at first. So, I had to wait for a while until I could see her. When the bag was opened, she stood up and stared up at me with her big black eyes. I was like, “Stop staring at me you cute, little, adorable dog!” I think she was the most delightful dog I’ve ever seen and I was overjoyed.

Last summer during the lockdown, I spent a lot of my time cooking with my mom. I learnt how to cook many dishes, including chicken noodle soup, spaghetti, and fried noodles. But, I believe that the most memorable dish I learnt was cooking Bouillabaisse, a French tomato based seafood soup. And, the reason why it is memorable isn’t what you would expect…

At first, I didn’t notice. I just thought that the tomato was giving off some weird juice-sunset ruby red. I was about to turn around and tell my mom when I suddenly realised: It wasn’t the tomato! It was MY FINGER! I cautiously told my mother, whose face was as pale as a piece of paper.

“Eleanor”, she said slowly, “how did you cut your finger?”

“I was cutting the tomatoes. They are so slippery.”

“Did you put the tomato upside down so that the flat part is on the cutting board like I told you to?”

“No...”

I could tell that my mom was angry at me, but she didn’t show it. Instead, she took me to the bathroom, and wrapped up my cut with a bandage. So, while the soup bubbled and laughed on the stove top, I was sitting glumly on the sofa, reading. The soup was delicious, the tomato broth was light, the seafood soft and fresh, and there was absolutely not a taste of blood in the soup. I promise! Even my dad couldn’t tell that I had cut my finger until my mom and I told him the whole story. The next day, she told me that she forgave me (and don’t worry, she didn’t end up fainting from the blood). But I had a feeling she wasn’t going to let me into the kitchen for a month.

In the dressing room, I was nervous and excited. Of course, I expected to lose against our A1 team, but fears of losing by more than ten filled my head. That was even before I got on the ice.

Coach Mach said, “What’s the most important thing today?”

I blurted, “D-zone.”

Mach said, “Correct.”

We went to the warmup. We ran, and when we changed and stepped on the ice, I had a feeling of relief. I had waited an hour to get on the ice.

*****

I was indignant at the goalie, Connor. I wanted to say that he was horrible. He didn’t block the obvious shots. My excitement died away, still nervous. I was standing on one knee. At the bench, I felt that my teammates felt the same. I knew each of them was mad at a different person.

Mach said, “What are we doing? Why is F2 going down to F1 and D1? Wingers, we need to keep our positions. D1 and F1. Have your man and fight. D2, find a guy and lift their stick.”

Coach Bill said, “This period is a new game, 0-0.”

The buzzer rang. The second period started.

*****

I felt determined… to say the forwards were horrible. I thought we knew that we were going to lose, and we should play defensively. I wanted to say that the defence was bad too. I wanted to shout that everyone was bad, and so we were losing.

Mach said, “Now I don’t care if we win. We NEED to just work harder than them.”

The buzzer rang. The third period started.

*****

After the game, I was livid. I was so tired in the dressing room. I did my part. They didn’t. I felt everyone would feel they were wrong. That’s before I saw that we were in a good mood, blaming each other. Still, I could do better. Two goals were my fault. But my feelings persisted. They were not as good. Then, Mach came in. The room fell silent.

Mach wrote HUNT. “What’s here?” he asked.

We said, “Hunt.”

Mach nodded.

It was a new day of school for me at a new school. I had just transferred from my other school that was too far from my house. The new school’s name was Uhill and it was really close to my house. At my old school and at home, I didn’t read that much. I could read but why would I when I could watch TV instead?

In my new school, we had library class each week. The librarian's name was Jordan, he was amiable and encouraged everyone to read books.

Every day I would come a bit early and go to the library to borrow some books. It became a daily school habit, I was borrowing at least one book each day to immerse myself in.

One morning, after I had continued coming to the library many weeks in a row, Jordan said, “Teresa, you are my number one customer for coming here so many times!”

And I replied, “Thanks, I will keep coming!”

Whenever I needed a new book, Jordan patiently walked me through all of the books that I could be interested in. It was as if he had drawn a map of the library and could recite the location of every book backwards.

Day by day, my reading ability increased, I began reading more complicated longer books. I felt like I was studying, enjoying and actually achieving something by having fun!

In the school, the library was amazing, not because it had countless books, a lot of space or anything like that, but because it had a very encouraging librarian. The library was a delightful place for me to indulge myself in the magical world of books, whether it was fantasy or Robert Munsch or mystery.

Many people contributed to my love of books and all of the support built up like fireworks. Jordan was the person who made them explode.

You know, some people are afraid of commas, which I get, but semicolons are even worse! What I fear most are semicolons. Yup, the period and the comma. My main reason is because the comma has a sidekick: the period. They are kind of like Batman and Robin.

In my theory, the period gets trained by the comma and they fight together. My calculations say that semicolons are 2.7 times more dangerous than commas and are getting more and more dangerous every second; when the period finishes it’s training, it trains FIVE commas and the commas choose certain periods to train, and it goes on, and on, and on.

And where are semicolons used, you ask? You use a semicolon to join two related independent clauses in place of a comma and a coordinating conjunction (and, but, or, nor, for, so, yet). You HAVE to make sure when you use a semicolon that the connection between the two independent clauses is clear without the coordinating conjunction. Or else?

Well, now I’ll tell you a story. It all started when I had finished a piece of writing. I went down for dinner, but when I came back I saw that there were many BIG red semicolons in the WRONG places on my piece of paper.

From then on, I had nightmares about them. One of my nightmares was that there was a war between punctuation marks and humans, And the punctuation marks were winning. Picture this: an army of semicolons marching furiously with their weapons, waiting for the humans to attack. And at school, I told my friends about my fear, and of course, they didn’t believe me. But after a few stories they were too scared to sleep. Oh, and my sister, she was scared to be in a room by herself! And if I die (from Semicolons) please pass this story on and on.

What it feels like to be the only child in my family Do you have siblings? Can you imagine if you’re the only child in your family? I’m the only child in my family. That can be good and bad. When you are the only child your sibling won’t bother you while you’re reading books or playing with your friends. They won’t steal your favorite toy or mess around with your books. You’re completely alone at home. You can do anything secret that you don’t want anybody to know. One time, I was writing a story that I’m not sure was great enough. I didn’t want anyone to see my story. But if my sibling had barged into my room, then they would have read my story and embarrassed me. It is only sometimes fun being an only child though. If you have no sibling, then you will be bored when you have nothing to do. A sibling will keep you busy because two kids can have lots of fun ideas and games playing together. I remembered when I was young, I was so bored that I lay on the sofa and imagined what it would be like if I had a sibling. All the bad thoughts about having a sibling just raced out of my mind. My imaginary sibling is an older sister who is kind and likes to play with me every day. She usually chases me around the house; we play chess or “Monopoly” after school. So much fun!! But my mom said it’s impossible for me to have a big sister because I’m her first child. I was very disappointed when she told me that. Then I accepted it when I was older. Now, I’m used to being the only child in my family. I’m used to being bored; whenever I feel bored I’ll read a book. So now you know the good and bad of being an only child. If you have a sibling, when they bother you, just try to ignore them and pretend you’re the only child. If you’re the only child, like me, then pretend you have an imaginary sibling when you’re bored.

Confusion.

It was like adults at a business meeting.

Professional, but casual. Friendly, but tense. Eagerness, but annoyance.

A little laugh, it pops out here and there.

Uh oh, awkward silence.

Should I say something?

Or is she going to say something?

Oh thank god,

She said something.

Oh wait,

It wasn’t to me.

Together.

Being in the same class, doing a partner project together, learning together, and laughing together. It was exhilarating. 2019, pure, innocent happiness. I remember we sat together during math. In the end we got in trouble, but we laughed, we learnt, and we both remember it clearly to this day.

She flashes me a smile.

I flash one almost as bright as hers back.

And we meet right in the middle.

“Come on! What are you waiting for?”

I open my mouth a little in disbelief.

But I quickly run after her,

Because I will not stand and watch

While she grows smaller

And smaller.

Waiting.

There’s this unofficial tradition, you could say, in my grade.You knew someone was friends with another if they waited for each other at their locker. You find yourself walking straight to their locker, wondering how you knew exactly where it was.

Anxious, wondering if I was doing the right thing.

If I had misread all of our conversations together.

If she would never show up.

But there she was.

Growing bigger

And bigger.

The next day,

She was there too.

Watching

While I grew

Bigger and bigger.

I remember there was a time, someone wouldn’t stop talking about my appearance. Now, I’m not going to say who that “someone” was, but they played a really important role in my life. I thought, “Why does my appearance matter so much?” Not only did they keep mentioning things like “Your skin is so dry” or “You have a lot of acne,” they also kept mentioning my weight and my body. “You should do more workouts, you’re gaining weight” or “Stop eating, you’re eating too much. You’re going to get so fat.” Everything I did, I always felt like it related to my appearance. I laughed whenever someone mentioned it because I didn’t want to seem upset. But honestly, those words hurt, a lot.

I thought that maybe if I started skipping meals, or eating only a little might help, so I tried that. Now when I did, they went “Why aren’t you eating? You’re so skinny eat more.” I didn’t want to seem rude, but in my mind I was thinking things like “You told me I was too fat and needed to eat less, now you’re saying to eat more when I’m eating less?” I was really confused. It seemed as if nothing I do would ever make them happy or stop talking about my body. That went on for years. The jokes started when I was around 9, then the comments started when I was around 11. Now, this is still going on. Yes, these comments do still bother me sometimes but I have realized that there’s really nothing I could do about it. Maybe some people just like to judge a book by it’s cover, so just let them be. I can’t control what others think or say. Life is short and you only get to live once, so why not enjoy it? Other people’s opinion isn’t important, it's yours that matters. Stop focusing on trying to live to other’s expectations and trying to make them happy. You are your number one priority, make yourself happy, make sure you feel safe.

It was on a dull rainy day the incident happened. As much as I would LOVE to blame the mastermind of this plot, I know I was also responsible. One thing I can promise you, is that this story, if made into a video, would’ve become viral.

I trudged through mud thicker than the school’s most infamous student’s skull. Each step was agony, and all my muscles wanted to do was plopping down in that oozing brew of glue. Unfortunately, the petrifying notion of ending up in the principal's office dripping goo and dirtying her prestigious office floor outweighed the desire. After a millennia of analyzing my options and crossroads, I came to the conclusion that to persevere is to defeat the source of my suffering.

Awaiting me on the other side of this swampy nothingness was something. Something so disastrously deformed and glutinous it was impossible to aim my fragile eyeballs at this appallingly hideous creature that my lunatic friend cradled in her palm as if it was a sumptuous, pristine ball of gold!

“C’mon Tri! Look at what I found!” Without waiting for my consent, she sank her clawed hands into my arm’s flesh, and dragged me over. A blurred shape appeared before my eyes. I rubbed them, and squinted… “HOLY-” I shrieked. At that moment, nothing could convince me that my friend’s mind is anything related to saneness. AN ENTIRE HIDEOUT FULL OF THESE ABOMINATIONS! Trudging through ten tons of mud sounded like a more reasonable plan after witnessing what my friend did. I lament the moment I ever decided to set foot inside the mud swamp. But, alas, regret for my actions cannot undo this dreadful mistake, unlike Voldemort’s soul. With two fingers, Lola lifted a tiny creature, gently stroking it's revolting back, coating her finger in an unacceptable amount of slime. I opened my mouth to explicitly, and creatively state my repugnance. Suddently, the ghost of adoration possessed me, and embraced my mindset with its vile, evil talons. I gingerly crept forwards, bouncing the pudding-like body of this abnormal creature, I peered down, cooing at those retracting antenae. The victorious lunatic behind me is surely gleefully snickering with even more wicked plots dancing in her mind. Just as I pulled my hands back...

My eyes were savagely assaulted by jets of liquid, a ghastly shriek tearing out of my throat as I directed my closed eyelids towards where I thought this treacherous thing was. That fleeting moment of curiousity and adoration fled, and horror and nausea drenched me from head to toe. Needless to say, the end result of this epic failure of an experiment according to Lola, is a pile of slimey pulp.

As comedic as my incident, if made into a video, could've been, it loses the entertainment value when you are the one experiencing this scandalizing jet of liquid. The worst thing, is that I never found out which hole it came out of...

Do you have an evening routine? Maybe, Watching some Netflix, reading a book, or just staring at the wall? My evening routine can be summed up like this: My evening routine = a few of the world's most detested creatures + a beautiful sunset - my mom freaking out. You guessed it; entering: moths.

Every evening when the sun is setting, no, sinking into the ocean; I’ll sit in my jammies, pressing my face against the window, sucking in all the vibrant colors at once. Ashen reds, pastel oranges, vibrating yellows, dashes of light greens, softer blues, and so much more… SPLAT! Something furry and small sticks itself to the glass, blocking my view. I try to knock it off. Making sound, turning off the lights, closing the blinds. But the stubborn creature wouldn’t budge. As the sun sank deeper and deeper into the sea, more and more of them came; sometimes in flocks, sometimes alone. This continued until finally, there wasn’t an inch of glass left for stargazing.

Yet these moths, other than annoying, were pretty much miniscule, furry, and obnoxious human beings (let’s face it, we’ve all met those before). They had one goal in mind: to get to the light in my room. When they barged face-first into the barriers, they stayed there. When people tried to stop them, they stayed there. When it was obvious the glass was never going to disappear and let them through, they stayed there. See, in the morning many, many of these moths had succumbed to the cold; lying dead on the windowsill. But those who still had an ounce of energy within them were still grabbing on, grabbing on, to their dreams…

In life, there will always be some sort of dream, some sort of light that we all chase. But how many of us will stay that way after the barriers, after the hardships, after we think we’re all alone?

In a way, we’re all moths.

So go chase that light.

My name is Cici. I grew up in Jiangsu, China. We moved to Canada when I was only three years old.

It was my first day of kindergarten at this new school I didn’t even know. I could barely speak English and couldn’t understand what my teachers were saying. Lack of English meant I didn’t have any friends. What I thought was a greeting from one girl, turned out to be a frown of disgust. She pushed me off the swing and then proceeded to make fun of me. That was a day I’ll never forget.

As that year went by, it was finally time for 1st grade. I had no one as my friend for the first day again. No wonder, people thought I was a loser! First recess has gone by just sitting on a bench. Suddenly, another Asian girl came up and sat beside me. I was too scared to look up at her. Eventually she just looked down at me. She smiled, without further inspection, I could see all the missing teeth she had. “Yuck!” I muffled quietly. She ran away crying. I remained friendless for the rest of grade one.

The day I was finally moving onto 2nd grade made me happy. The one thing that upset me was making that little girl cry. I found out that her name was “Sophie.” She moved to a new school that year. I felt so guilty about what I said. I was in a pit of shame. To this day, I still regret how I acted.

The year after the incident, our moms ran into each other at a grocery store one day. Sophie came to my house for a playdate. It was awkward at first, I guess she remembered me and what I did. I said I was sorry for teasing her and she accepted my apology. Playdate followed a birthday party, then weekend dinners and we became best friends. I’m so grateful that she and I were able to make up. I am happy to have a friend like Sophie.

后花园, Quanxing Rd, Pidu District, Chengdu, Sichuan, China

“Ten, nine, eight..”

The Wizard’s voice grows increasingly distant as we sprint with short legs up the winding stairs.

“Mei,” I call after the chubby seven-year-old moving her legs as fast as they’re willing to go, “do you wanna hide together?”

No answer comes and only laboured heaving can be heard as footsteps play skipping stones with the steps of the staircase. My breath comes in pants as my legs give out at the top floor, muscles collapsing in a jellied heap.

“Let’s go into this room first,” Jun Yi’s whisper comes from the door on my right.

I pick myself off the ground, hands dusting off the debris that has become one with my dress. Little feet gentle and imperceptible, I shuffle into the empty bedroom, rid of any furniture or care.

Dust flies as we open the door to a closet, home to disrepair instead of clothes. We cram our malleable bodies into the closet in the peak of the Wizard’s lair, the room filled with the tangy aftertaste of huajiao*.

“Hurry up and get in! We’re gonna get caught!” I mutter to my little cousin.

Our socked feet slide as we tuck our lanky limbs in, the space brimming with perpetual neglect.

“Jie, you hidden?”

“Be quiet! You’re so loud!” I shush.

We hear thumping up the ancient staircases and the floorboards wail as my uncle makes his way up his lair. In one fluid movement, my uncle bursts into the room, throwing open the closet door.

Jumping, we squeak.

“I caught you,” the Wizard says, beaming.

Even after we’ve moved out of that tower, I like to think a part of my childhood is still stored there, within the winding staircases, and weathered shelves, once wandered through by two little kids. Two who are now grown up.

Glossary:

*Huajiao - a regional spice native to Sichuan

Her glowing hair, her eyes, her smile. I met this girl in my second grade ballet class while struggling to point my feet and turn out. She was like a diamond rose, pretty, transparent, and shining with beauty.

I remember one Wednesday night where she walked in front of me at dance, laughing with her friends, and I had just held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut until their footsteps and giggling faded away like your memories of youth. Only then was I bold enough to open my eyes

Fast forward 3 months and this girl became my friend. She’d come over for sleepovers and we would sing our souls out jamming to 2013 Taylor Swift while filling our stomachs to the brim with root beer. I was with this girl six days a week and on the rare occasion that we were not together, we were texting or calling each other. We were so close that some people had thought we were a couple. Although, we would’ve made a great couple.

I remember that October night, 4 years later, I got a call from her saying she was moving away to a boarding school. A month later she stopped replying to my messages altogether. I was confused. No, I was furious. The last call I had with her was terrifying. I was angry and she was exasperated. When the line went dead, I never heard from her again.

The first two weeks without her being there for me was scary. Everything had reminded me of her, from tying my shoelaces to remembering to feed my fish. I missed her. The fish died. The bitter taste of loneliness hit me when I realized she wasn’t coming back.

I remember that one rainy autumn night when I walked to the place where we’d wait until it was dark then run out onto the streets like idiots dancing in the rain.

But all my memories hold on to a string of hope that one day she will text me and say “Do you remember that night?”

The plane had landed at the Toronto Pearson International Airport. We got into the rented car, rushing to the hospital. A strong chemical and antiseptic scent filled the air even before we entered the building. It was quiet in the hospital on this Thanksgiving night, and the only sound was our footsteps echoing against the walls of the hallway. After the elevator door opened on the eighth floor, we hurried to the third room down the corridor.

Inside the room, a man, with different medical machine wires attached to his body, was sleeping. Holding my hand, my mom brought me closer to the bed.

“Max, we are here. Do you want to talk to little Cy?”

Wait. Something must have gone wrong. My dear Uncle Max used to be strong as a bull. This person in front of me was frail and bony. Seeing the stranger’s bald head and colorless face, tears escaped my eyes. Where did my Uncle Max go?

Uncle Max slowly opened his eyes and when he saw me, he gave me a huge but weak smile. Looking at his face, I held his hand tightly.

“Are you very sick? Are you going to die?”

“I am sick, but I am not going to die. I promise I will get better very soon. We can then spend time together in December building gingerbread houses and singing Christmas songs as we always do.”

Feeling his warmth, seeing his bright smile, and listening to his assured voice, I truly believed in him. I knew that he was going to recover, and I knew that we were going to have many more fun moments in the future. Before I left, I gave Uncle Max a big hug while he said to me:

“Remember to stay strong and keep fighting, my little girl, no matter what happens in your life. Never give up easily.”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Max. I will always remember what you taught me. I will become a brave and courageous person like you.”

I whispered those words to Uncle Max... two weeks later at his funeral.

Brilliant blue strikes the ground outside. Heavy rain drenches the grass and pounds against the window, mercilessly disrupting sleep throughout. Blankets were tossed to the side as my eyes gaze out, camera ready in hand, waiting for the perfect moment to capture. Excitement could be sensed within the room as I peered into the night, watching as raindrops started to fall; knowing that if I had the window open, the scent of petrichor would flood my nose.

Though, the situation was quite funny. I had grown up with a distaste for storms and the dark, too worried about what was lurking beneath all the ruckus in the hallways and shadows that littered every crevice. Shoulders would shake at the slightest of sound and let out inaudible whimpers when crashing noise from above hit the earth. But it was moments like these, where the thunder and heavy thud of the rain felt soothing to the ear, creating a bubble in the nearly pitch black room that illuminated with every crash and flicker of lightning, that I wondered what would’ve been if I’d stayed scared of beauty forever.

Objects come to life for split seconds, casting their silhouette on the walls before returning to their dormant state. The camera clicks. Light bounces away from view with vigor in its step, followed by the roar of the clouds. The seconds fly by as I wait for the next bolt to hit, longing to hear and witness the blues that would brighten the quiet streets. But it would never come. Rain trickled to a slow stop as clouds moved by and winds died down bit by bit. With a camera roll filled with pictures of the natural phenomenon, the blankets were rearranged and tossed over myself, anticipation leaving me buzzing as I laugh about the past and wait for the next arcs of light to come once more.

It was in the middle of autumn and I was reading a Captain Underpants book that had several missing pages and smelled like stale orange juice, when my teacher gathered everyone onto the bright, red carpet.

“Class, today we’re drawing a self portrait!” she exclaimed. Whilst everyone groaned, I beamed: I loved art. Happily, I scribbled my short, brown hair using a waxy umber crayon onto the printer paper. When it was time for the face, I was stuck. I rummaged through the Crayola pack, but none of them matched my skin tone.

“Just use yellow, it's an Asian skin colour,” a classmate blatantly said. I stared at the buttery yellow crayon: it was chipped and cracked like lips. His words glided into my ears like a drop of water on an oily surface. I glanced at my skin and back at the crayon. There was no resemblance whatsoever.

“How?” I thought, yet, I didn’t argue.

My next encounter occurred in grade three after a math test. When I was handed back my test, I pressed my eyes shut, before then reluctantly opening them. “13/16”. My eyes burned into the crinkled page, silently wishing that I could erase the mark with a snap of my fingers. The paper rustled as I tried to stuff the worthless sheet of paper into my backpack before a peer of mine snatched the paper out of my hands.

“Oh Em Gee,” she said snidely, “Aren’t Asians supposed to be good at math? I thought you would get a hundred percent or something like that.”

We made eye contact for five whole painful seconds, my mouth gaping at her the whole time. I could hear the plastic chairs scraping against the metal table beneath my feet while I processed the information.

“...What do you mean by that?” I finally spat out, confused.

She looked at me, as if I were dumb, “Asians are supposed to be smart, obviously.” So I tried harder each day, to become what others expected me to be, without realizing that I was drowning my identity into the gutters.

I remember when I was younger, I used to have nightmares about my mother having cancer. The thought of it would make my mother ask if I had been crying in the night. When I was younger I said that I would protect my mother and that I was here for her.

A few months ago, my mother started coughing. She thought nothing of her symptoms and didn’t let it get in the way of her work; now she is going to die soon. My grandmother followed shortly after passing away first.

I imagined grieving to be something like breaking down in tears in the middle of class, but nothing happened. When I showed up to my grandma’s funeral, I was the only one that didn’t cry. Grief affected everyone differently though; some were disrespectful, some cried, and some didn’t care at all. Grief is a strange thing. At first, I didn’t cry. My friends all texted me and sent their blessings and best wishes and kept asking if I was alright, but I was alright. I just didn’t seem to think about what had happened since then; I had other things to worry about.

Grief was expressed very differently within my family. My family swore to each other to never mention what had happened within our family to outsiders to preserve our superficial code of honor. When my mom left, life felt different; my elder sister took over the house. She threw out the majority of my mother’s belongings. She also took over my mother’s room and proceeded to clean out the entire house to suit her needs. The house seemed to be a lot emptier, I try not to think about my current situation often as it doesn’t make me feel any better in any sort of way.

Now you just kind of notice it, things, where you would normally think, would be here would be somewhere else. The house no longer seemed to be my home, I am homesick even while I am at home.

The tropical stench of the clustered bananas was a smell I could never forget, reeking of moist socks, sweet alcohol, and rusted copper, stenching the entire house.

But I seemed to always forget about my grandmother.

At last, my mom retrieved a banana bread recipe from the dust. It was strikingly crisp and flat and white, with few vanilla extract splotches. “Let’s make some banana bread for po-po,” my mom said. Just looking at the bananas made me scrunch my face; but because it was for her, I inhaled and smiled willingly.

I locked my eyes at the recipe every now and then, making sure everything was right. The warmth of the preheating oven gushed into the effort I put into each ingredient, ensuring the measurements were exactly flat, the butter microwaved to a shiny, translucent glaze free of clumps, and the brown sugar clusters crushed into glistening granules.

While revolting, the crusty banana peels with mushy flesh made for the perfect mashable secret ingredient. I used all my strength to scoop and fold and stir, scraping the sides of the bowl to dissolve all the powder.

Through the blurry oven window, I could see the globs of batter rise and crisp to a firm golden brown. The banana bread suffused mellow sweetness, baked yeast, and toasted butter.

It was time for the special delivery.

In her suite, my grandma was pan-frying plantains. I handed her the box of muffin tops, the smile on her face making me feel as warm as the sizzling frying pan. She showed me how to fry the plantains in thick slices, dripping in some oil. They smelled sweeter than bananas.

While I was otherwise useless in the kitchen, I could plan my banana bread journey. First: the grocery store, where I can learn from my mom’s righteousness. Second: The produce section, where I can grab the spotted yellow bananas over the green. Third: Home, where I’ll make more banana bread, so my grandma can enjoy them sooner. Fourth: My grandma’s house, where my banana bread takes me so I will never forget her again.

Eight seconds on the grand scene of my life is not much; it is only an infinitesimally small fragment of my life. But these eight seconds can change the outcome of something more significant than the rawness of those eight seconds alone.

I could feel my arms vibrating as I went back to the serving line. Stepping back away, counting the exact six steps that I need, is a process that has become second nature. I was nervous... I knew that the fate of this game was in my hand and my hand only. The whistle blew, signalling for the beginning of those eight seconds. And what was left was deadly silence that permeated the gym; the sound killed the room. Dropping my head as I stared into emptiness, I narrowed my attention into myself and nothing else. Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.

Slowly, lifting my head as I brought myself back into reality, I fazed out the irreverence—the players on the bench, coaches, and audiences. Only the net and the target existed in my realm. I tossed the ball high into the sky with my left hand. Right-left, right-left. My eyes tracked the spinning ball as I stepped into my jump, swinging my arms behind me.

The net was an impenetrable wall that blocked all views and passage to the other side, but flying high into the sky, I could see what the other side offered. I flew like a bird with only freedom on its mind. I swung my right arm. Bang… The boom reignited the gym with sounds and cheers. I was the bird. I am no longer imprisoned to the ground.

8 seconds… In 8 seconds, I experienced the nervousness of facing challenges alone. In 8 seconds, I learned the notion of being accessible and not bonded to the limits that I set for myself. And because of those 8 seconds, I surpassed myself. Therefore, the ability to value and reflect on each second to the finest is what separates those who overcome from those who succumb.

The classroom was painted a sickly shade of cat vomit beige, highlighted by the green tables and chairs laid in nonsensical patterns. Everything smelt like decade-old butter and wet dog, though I couldn’t tell if it was coming from the teacher, or the room itself. I was sitting at the table closest to the windows, along with five other classmates who looked like they would much rather put a shard of glass into their eyes than listen to the teacher.

The teacher- Madame, she called herself- reminded me of watery ramen noodles. Her damaged yellow hair was pulled into an unflattering bun and her squinting blue eyes were the exact shade of the dollar store mouthwash I used that morning. She had the air of a particularly villainous headmistress of an underfunded orphanage.

I stared at the clock. It stared right back. The minute hand moved a quarter of a millimeter, as if to taunt my very existence.

“Bondraw too le monde! Are you having a fun first day à lecole? Let's introduce ourselves to. En frahnçais, si te plate.” She spoke in a very heavy French accent, but everyone agreed that it was fake. There was nothing genuine about her sandpaper voice, or the way she rolled her Rs like a wet tea bag slapping the pavement. Madame was a show, a spectacle- an anomaly that children gawk at at the circus as their terrified parents usher them away.

“When you say my name is, you say gem mappel! It is tress simple! And then introduce ta fam ille and your hobbies. Begin!” She smiled. Her thin, dried lips stretched into nonexistent as she proudly showed up the red lipstick stuck to her big front teeth. The words fell from her mouth like dead leaves and dried up bugs. They cluttered on her shoes, on the carpet, and started crawling to me. I could see why French was the language of romance, of crimson roses and sweet chocolates; it is complicated, cruel, pretty until the roses wither and the cocoa turns bitter in your mouth.

It was late October and we were driving by an abandoned asylum. To tame our thirst for adventure and discover new fears we decided to explore. We hoped to head home with cold sweat backs, rooted legs, and the gift to interpret the wind as summoning ghosts. White rays of light blinded us as we drove past the restricted entrance. The sky was pitch black. An eerie spirit wafted around, nurturing a tidal wave in the pit of my stomach. The gravel under the tires echoed like cracking spines, meanwhile, in the inside of the car, all I could hear were our hammering hearts. Regardless of our jumpy nerves and seized throats, our eyes were glued to the windows. It was sickening to look at. Rusting metal bars restrained everything inside, the windows were shattered, while overgrown vines suffocated the buildings. As we drove further the buildings started to evolve into ancient temples, colonized with forests of weeds. We got out of the car to take a closer look, when we got to the bottom of the cobblestone stairwell our feet were rooted in place. My nose was red and numb. The wind whipped my face and tangled my hair as if warning me of a storm. Reality started to blur and I became unconscious in my thoughts. My emotions were taking a toll on my mind. My pumping heart and twinkling eyes when we started the adventure and my fluttering stomach, and paralysis from feeling watched, all short-circuited my body. Leaving me standing in front of the old structure feeling trapped, minuscule, and exposed. My attention snapped back when I heard a scream in the distance. Then I knew it was time to go. With a mental numbness, we quickly piled into the car and drove the rest of the way in silence. There was a nonvocal acknowledgment that the night’s events would not be mentioned again, we came with the intentions of a light fright but left with sinking hearts.