Grade 11-12 Winners
HONOURABLE MENTION (GRADE 11-12)
Elizabeth Rodenburg, Riding of Wellington-Halton Hills
The Colour of Lilacs
I never understood her. She was too evasive, too mysterious. I used to think she was shy, but now I know she didn't want to be understood. She liked being evasive, being mysterious. If no one can get in, no one can hurt you.
We rode our bikes together, when we were younger, mine was blue and hers was lilac and we’d go so fast the colours became a blur. When we rode side by side Lilac mixed with blue. When we slowed down the colours became brighter, more defined. Lilac. Blue. She’d tell me about her dad and how he was going to come back any day now. I thought maybe he'd gone away on a trip, maybe for work, my parents did that a lot. I thought he'd probably bring back some sort of cheesy souvenir, to make it up to her after being gone for so long. I thought, because he was her dad, he had to come back because parents aren't supposed to leave. He didn't come back.
We swam in the river sometimes. It was cold and we'd lay down in the shallower parts and let the water wash over us until our entire bodies turned numb and our lips turned a light shade of purple and we could barely speak with our lips chattering so much. We looked up at the big, blue sky. We pointed out clouds and their funny shapes and the way they'd float along without a care. Somehow she always ended up seeing the same thing, no matter how lumpy the cloud, how fluffy, how deformed. She always managed to find her grandfather's glasses. She said he used to wear them all the time. Said he'd prop them up on the very tip of his nose and look over them at her, his expression stern, his eyes twinkling. He'd grab her and tickle her until she screamed with laughter, but then he always had to stop. He was getting too old, his heart started to hurt. I didn't understand that, back then. How can a person have a sore heart?
I understand now. Sore hearts are a lot more common than I once believed.
We'd chase each other through the forest in the middle of autumn, always autumn. With the red and orange and yellow leaves crunching beneath our feet and the skeletal shapes of bare branches outlined against the fading sunset. We'd flop down exhausted and laugh and laugh and laugh. I liked it when she laughed, she didn't do it a lot and it was nice to see her happy. Then she'd grow quiet and we'd lay there and I'd think that maybe this time it would be different, but it never was. Every time, after a minute or two, she'd roll over onto her stomach and sigh a little and tell me about how she and her sister used to make great, big piles of leaves in the yard and how they'd stack them up so high they almost couldn't touch the top and they'd jump into them and make leaf forts. Her sister grew up though. She didn't want to make leaf forts anymore. She didn't want to play.
I never knew what to say so I never said anything. I think that's why she liked me, she could talk all she wanted and no one would ever tell her to be quiet, or to keep it down. She didn't have to be scared. I think I made her feel safe.
Not anymore though. I thought I understood her, but I don't.
She visited me yesterday. Climbed the tree outside my bedroom and knocked on my window just like she used to when we were younger and the world wasn't so messed up. I opened it and she told me to grab my jacket. She told me we were going for a drive. I hadn't spoken to her for years, but I climbed out the window and into the car waiting down in the street. We drove for a long time, I don't remember how long. The sun started to set and the stars came out and we drove and drove and I didn't bother to ask her where we were going. I knew she wouldn't tell me.
We were well past the city limits by the time she stopped the car and turned off the engine and we just sat there, in silence for a while. Then she got out of the car and climbed onto the roof and I climbed up after her and we sat there in silence for a while. I was beginning to realize that silence was a defining part of our strange relationship.
"Everything's changed." I looked at her, she wasn't looking at me. "No one's who they said they were." I let out a breath and lay down on my back gazing up at the stars and trying to trace the patterns with my fingers. "People change," I paused, she didn't look at me. "But memories don't." She looked at the sky thoughtfully. "My entire life is made up of memories," She replied softly. I looked at her and through the darkness I could see the freckles on her face and so I started to trace those patterns in the air with my fingers and still she didn't look at me.
We lay there for a long time, me looking at her and her not looking at me and the stars looking at both of us and then the sun began to rise and the sky turned grey and then the fog rolled in and we got down off the top of the car and climbed back in and drove away.
She dropped me off in front of my house and I climbed out. I didn't look at her, I knew she wouldn't be looking back. I trudged up the pathway to my house and climbed the stairs onto the old wooden porch that she'd gotten a splinter from so many years ago. I heard her car start up and I turned around to watch her pull out of the driveway and head off down the street. The sky had just turned a brilliant shade of lilac and gold and sapphire and who knows what else and I watched as the outline of her car sped down the road going much faster than it should have been. After a minute or two it disappeared and still I stood on the porch and I stayed there until the sun had risen and the mist had rolled away and the postman had dropped off our mail. I never saw her again.
WINNER (Grade 11-12)
Abby Kaneko, Riding of Ajax-Pickering
A Canary Called Constance
The first thing that Constance thought when she received the letter from her husband was that he should have saved the paper to wipe his behind.
“Honestly,” Constance’s eyes scanned over the paper while she stitched purposefully. “Does that man have nothing better to do? If I were out there I would actually be doing something with my time! Not writing these incessant scraps of foolishness. Look here. He says that the other day he nearly shot his own friend’s foot off while playing some shooting game with a rat! What a waste I tell you. Why bother sending any of these men out there if all they’re going to do is just injure themselves instead of the enemy?”
Anne, Constance’s dear (and only) friend, replied that it was nice her husband wrote to her. She did so with a gentle smile and a small pat on her swollen, pregnant stomach. To Constance’s knowledge,
Anne’s husband did not write often. Of course he wouldn’t. Constance always thought of him as a loathsome pig with too curly of a moustache, unworthy of being with Anne but she never told her friend this.
“Nice?” Constance scoffed. “This paper he sent me is most likely riddled with disease. He may as well have sent me a dead rat covered in body lice!”
As one could tell, Constance was not an immensely ‘nice’ person at all. She picked arguments where she could, spat on people’s shoes, and only truly smiled around Anne. She would have been beautiful if it were not for her hunched shoulders, curved beak of a nose and permanent scowl with frown lines surrounding her mouth. Children knew not to go near her and adults knew better than to talk to her.
Behind her back she was called horrid (but well-earned) nicknames such as ‘the bitch of Britain.’
“Oh Constance,” Anne timidly shook her head. “You act as though you hate your own husband.”
Constance chuckled. “Hating him would require thinking about him and I rarely give him a single thought.”
“Constance!” Anne gasped.
At that moment, Rudy, Constance’s three year-old son, walked into the room having just woken up from a nap. Anyone that saw him felt sorry when they realized who his mother was.
“It’s about time.” Constance clucked, setting down her sewing and getting up to take dinner off the stove. “Now that you have napped for so long you won’t be able to go to sleep at night! You better not wake me up, I have to go to work tomorrow.” She clunked the dinner in front of her child.
“Don’t be so hard on him,” Anne said gently. “ He’s only a child.”
Anne’s older friend, ten years her senior, pursed her lips. “An unwanted child at that. Only had him because my parents pestered me so. Perhaps I would have been alright if it had been a girl but a boy of all things!”
Anne sighed. “Do you hate men that much?”
Constance went back to her sewing. “I do not hate men.”
That was arguable. She was accountable for multiple slurs and kicks handed out to many of the opposite sex. It was a miracle that she hadn’t yet been arrested or attacked.
“I simply dislike them.” Constance went on. “I have no need for them and I hate what they become.” She used a bit of cloth to wipe some food that had dribbled down Rudy’s chin. “Look at this one. He seems sweet now but one day he’s going to order me and his own wife around just like all the other men around here. He’ll tell us to get back to cleaning or just plain ignore us as though we’re the carpet beneath his feet.”
Anne tried to protest but Constance cut in some more.
“You also don’t see women starting these blasted wars now do you?”
“You just said you wanted to be in the trenches!” Anne said in disbelief. This was all in good fun.
She had grown accustomed to her friend’s more than difficult personality.
Constance stood, taking her husband’s letter in her hand. “Indeed. Women do not start wars and they don’t get to fight in them either. We don’t get a say. We fight a different battle and get no praise for it.”
“Well, just the other day I saw in the paper that women are getting more involved in the war now.
Maybe you can join the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps.”
“The women in that don’t do anything.” A clearly misinformed Constance stated. “They sit around pretending they’re contributing and expecting a pat on the head for doing so. I don’t want to be a part of something designed just for women. I want us to be equal to men.” She ripped the letter up in her hands and threw it in the oven.
It burned black before Anne had even left.
The next day Constance had to go to her job at the munitions factory. Before she got this job she had never worked in a factory or anywhere for that matter. But money was scarce. She managed to put food on the table every night but just barely. Secretly, she gave herself a bigger portion than Rudy.
Before heading to the factory she had to drop him off at Anne’s. What a travesty that was each morning. For an unfathomable reason he cried and tried to hang on to his mother.
“Get off! Get off you foolish child! I need to get to work. Do you know exactly what will happen if I do not go to work? We will not have money and without money both you and I won’t have food and we’ll both starve and die. Now let go!” She swatted at him and eventually Rudy released his grasp of his mother’s leg and ran over to Anne waiting at her front door of her small house. It was quite convenient that she lived so close—just down the street. So difficult to find good help for childcare these days.
“I will take good care of him!” Anne waved as Constance walked away.
“Feed him to a pack of stray dogs if you want! See if I care.” Constance mumbled.
Eventually, she arrived at the factory. Five A.M. Sharp.
She quickly changed into her uniform and headed to the factory floor.
Her boss noticed her choice of attire faster than she expected him to.
“Winifred.” Mister Lester said, walking as fast as his short legs could take him. “What exactly do you think you’re wearing?”
“I believe I’m wearing my work permitted uniform.” Constance replied coolly.
“Is that so?” Mister Lester eyed the woman’s legs. “Last I checked, pants were not a part of the women’s uniform!”
“Other women in different factories are wearing pants. I think they are suitable to wear in dangerous work conditions. More easy to move in than skirts I believe.”
Mister Lester clenched his teeth in frustration. “You know full well that this factory does not allow women to wear pants. We aren’t like ‘other’ factories Ms. Winifred. Now get changed into a skirt this instant!”
“Why?” Constance asked in mock curiosity.
Mister Lester uncrossed his arms and practically stomped his feet on the ground. “Because trousers are for men!”
Constance grimaced defiantly. “Do not think I wish to dress as a man. I wish to dress as me and right now I want to wear pants during work and you will let me because what I am wearing does not affect you or anyone else in this factory. Do you understand?”
If a man that was not as weak-willed as Mister Lester had been Constance’s boss she would most likely have been kicked out in an instant for her attitude and rule-breaking, however Mister Lester was in charge and he was a man with bones of rubber.
“I-I must certainly do not!” Mister Lester sputtered.
Constance stared down her crooked nose at the bumbling twig of a man. “Mister Lester are you aware that many men are dying this very minute?”
Her boss replied that of course he did.
“Our men, the enemies’ men, they’re all being killed. I don’t know about you but I would most definitely be more keen if our men not be killed. If you do not allow me to wear trousers I will go to a different factory to make shells and take the several women I have standing behind me. Your factory will not be known for efficiently making weapons for our troops but instead as a factory hardly making any weapons because a sniveling twat of a man wouldn’t let his female workers wear trousers!”
After this discussion, Constance was allowed to wear pants for the majority of time spent in the factory. She conned her boss into letting her do so with a simple lie. Constance did not have any women standing behind her. She only had herself.
Every day was a whirlwind of the same tedious tasks assigned to the ‘weaker’ sex.
Constance woke up at four, got herself dressed, made breakfast, dropped Rudy off at Anne’s, walked to work, did her job for twelve hours with an immensely short break (barely enough time to eat) and with the knowledge that she was being paid less than men, hoped that it wouldn’t be one of the days that something exploded, walked to the shop to get food for supper, picked up Rudy, made the meal, washed the dishes, cleaned the house, did laundry, gardened in the winter, knitted or sewed, dressed her son for bed, and then prayed that a shell wouldn’t fall on the house while they were sleeping.
It was a life that Constance deeply disliked.
She didn’t like her own child, hated the factory because of the noise and potential death, and despised having to sit idly at home while men got praised for something she could do.
She had heard the nasty stories of the trenches but hadn’t really sunk in that it was all that bad. She knew about the unhygienic conditions, rats, disease, death and more, but in her head it was something she could deal with if males ever gave her the chance to try.
“What do you think it is that makes us so different Anne?” Constance asked one evening.
“I beg your pardon?” Anne looked up at Constance with her usual doe eyes. Her face was so different compared to Constance’s which held scrunched eyebrows. Anne’s face was young and pure like a ray of sunlight. Constance sometimes wondered what Anne thought of her. In the girl’s eyes she must have seemed like an old bat, just the other day she had found a grey hair.
“Men and women. We try so hard to separate ourselves from each other. Put us in boxes. Say ‘males must do this and females must do that’. I despise that. Why is the concept that we’re the same— equal even—so hard for some people to understand?” Constance knitted the last pearl on her hat.
A hat for a soldier. Constance made many hats to send to the men in the trenches (in her own words she said dying with a ‘little cold’ had to be about one of the stupidest ways to die in war). A soldier would wear that hat and not know that the hands that made it desperately wished they could line up with his.
“Where’s Ethel today?” Constance asked impatiently. She didn’t like Ethel all too much—too annoying and slow at her work.
“I heard she’s ill.” One of the factory workers said.
“I heard her skin’s turned yellow.” Dorothy, another factory worker, piped in. “Such a shame but it happens you know. We should all watch out. I for one don’t want to be a canary girl.”
“No need to worry. If you were a bird you would be a dodo bird because you’re such a bloody idiot. Canaries serve a purpose, they let us know when danger is afoot. Like a dodo bird you may as well not exist. Get back to work Dorothy.” Constance spat.
Although no one said it, Constance was the true boss. At least in the female workers’ eyes she was.
The same thing that happened to Ethel occurred in many munitions factories. A chemical compound known as trinitrotoluene that was used to make explosives became harmful when one was exposed for too long. Symptoms included yellow skin, vomiting, migraines, sore throat, anemia, fertility problems, and in some cases hair could turn green or fall out. It was something that many of the factory workers, including Constance, hoped to avoid.
After a long day of work, Constance headed home, trudging through thick snow because a blizzard was beginning to start. She went to the shop and used what little she had made that day to buy food. Her throat was feeling a bit achy and her head felt a tad dizzy but she ignored it. Sickness was not a luxury she could afford.
After purchasing the goods, Constance arrived at Anne’s house. After three knocks Anne still had not answered. Constance was beginning to grow pissed, cold, and concerned.
Snow was beginning to fall heavier.
Finally, she decided to just let herself in. Anne never locked her door, she was too trusting.
Upon entering the home Constance Winifred was greeted by a scream. A scream is about the last thing you ever want to hear when arriving at a house. And this wasn’t just any scream, it was bloodcurdling.
“Anne?” Constance yelled and rushed to the source of the noise.
When she found her friend she realized the cause.
“Oh. The baby’s coming.” She quickly, but reluctantly, went to her friend’s side.
Anne was lying on the bed, clearly in severe pain. Rudy was cowering in the corner unsure of what to do.
“Where is the doctor?” Constance asked, noticing the absence of any medical help.
“He probably couldn’t come because of the blizzard.” Anne was incredibly red and though she tried to not show it her face was a portrait of agony.
“Honestly, what a sodding—“ Before Constance could continue her sentence barraged with venom a huge sound interrupted her. The sound of an explosion.
“Oh joy.” Constance said dryly but with a shocked expression.
Anne closed her eyes and screamed again. Whether it was because of the explosion or pain, Constance did not know. It was abnormal to hear Anne screaming considering her meek nature. It scared Constance to death.
“Anne we must get out of here this instant. You need help and it isn’t safe here.”
“It is fine.” Anne replied weakly and opened her eyes to stare up at her jaded friend. “You may go if you want to. I wouldn’t blame you. In my condition right now I cannot move.”
Constance grasped Anne’s hand in hers. They were slender but calloused from cleaning. “You know I can’t do that. I would never do that! I will never leave your side.”
Anne smiled at this. “Then please help me have this baby.”
After what seemed like forever, the child was brought into the world while snowflakes and bombs fell from the sky. It was a child that Constance did not want to exist but loved the person who gave it life. This person was dying but her friend didn’t know it yet.
“So? What do you plan to name this thing?” Constance said, referring to the baby she had just finished washing and was now holding in her arms.
Anne was very, very pale. And cold. However, she still spoke with a soft, gentle voice.
“I am going to name her after a person I hold very dear to my heart.”
Dorothy? Ethel? Oh! It must be her pathetic husband, Thomas.
“Well, I think a girl with a name like Thomas will get more than enough odd looks but—“
“Her name is Constance.”
Constance, the thirty year-old woman, blinked.
That was her name.
How had she—an unpleasant, ill-natured, spiteful person become dear to such a kind girl’s heart? Things like that didn’t happen. Constance did not deserve to be rewarded in this way. She didn’t deserve to have such a friend.
“That’s an interesting choice.” She said.
“I hope one day both Rudy and her may run side by side together in a field with no fear of shells.”
“So do I.” Constance whispered.
Near midnight the snow stopped its fall. The ringing explosions had long since faded. No bombs had killed them. Anne, however, was losing a lot of blood. Constance refused to acknowledge this.
“You should eat.” Constance said, coming over with a bowl of food. Anne did not open her eyes.
“Anne?” Constance worriedly took her friend’s wrist. Slowly, Anne’s eyes fluttered open.
“Constance—“
“I know my cooking is rather horrid but I do try my best. I bet you haven’t eaten all day. You should build up your strength because once you recover you’ll have to find a job and—“
“Constance.”
“What is it?” She demanded.
“Watch over my baby when I’m gone.”
Constance’s voice caught in her throat.
“Don’t be daft. Gone? Where are you going? Germany? It’s not very nice this time of year.”
Anne feebly wrapped her hand around Constance’s wrist. “There’s something I want you to know.” Her once bright eyes had dulled but they were still as wide and kind as the day Constance had met her. What a fantastic day that was.
“What is it?” Constance swallowed.
Anne took a struggling breath and slowly let it out. Her chest moved very little. “You know, I know sometimes that you wish to be a man—I know you are proud to be a woman but at the same time you think it would be easier. I know you Constance. I know who you are. And it’s okay. I know no one’s ever told you that but it is.”
Her friend breathed. “You know, it’s the funniest thing. I only wish to be a man when I’m with you and even then I don’t really want to be. Not really.”
Being a woman was hard. You were expected to do basically only a few things in life: look pretty, give birth, be a housewife. Men talked down to you, bossed you around, and some even attacked you either verbally or physically. Life was not easy. Life is not easy for everyone but it can suck even more if you are forced to continually bleed for five days. And yet Constance was not ashamed to be a woman. She sometimes thought about what it would be like to be a man but at the end of the day, she liked what she had been born as.
“If I were to be reborn and you were there with me—“ Anne smiled up at her friend with glistening eyes. “I hope we’ll both be reborn as birds. I want to fly. Be free. Wouldn’t that be nice? You and I?”
“Constance’s eyes shone. “Yes. Yes that would be nice. If I could…I would fly away with you forever.”
Anne gave one last beautiful smile and closed her eyes with a certain finality. It was like watching the sun go down on an amazing day.
“I love you.” Constance whispered because it was true. There was little she did love but it was certain there was one person. And it wasn’t her husband.
Anne lay cold on the bed, her hand still tangled in her friend’s. She wasn’t there anymore and Constance never quite knew if she had ever heard her final, most important declaration.
Anne’s baby was now Constance’s responsibility. She coddled the baby close to her chest and took her son’s hand as they walked out the door.
Constance coughed. Her throat was sore. Burning.
“I may not like it but this is Anne’s child.” Constance said to herself as she made her way through the deep, blankety snow. “ And I will protect her as long as I can.”
She coughed again and touched the bald spot on her head. “Although that may not be for long.”
The baby awoke and began to whine.
Constance prayed that the war would be over soon so Thomas could collect his child.
“Don’t worry, Anne.” Constance said, looking up at the sky and then at her hands that would soon become yellow. “I will become a bird with you soon.”
A small canary flew through the grey sky.