VOLUME 1
The Inkwell VOLUME 1
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VOLUME 1
The Inkwell
Cover photo by Julia Chuang
JUNE 2014 HAUT-LAC SCHOOl
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A word from the editors
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Black & white
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Lies
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A poem about freedom
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The story behind the smoke
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A contemporary fisherman’s home
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New hope
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Avertissement: tempête
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Sonnet
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Me
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Building a fire
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Bumble bees
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La vie d’aujourd’hui
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Simplified complications
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La petite boîte aux rêves
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The right way to camp
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The warmth of summer
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Haikus
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The hauting memories
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Paradise
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Rengas
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My life as a rat
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The Inkwell
VOLUME 1
A word from the editors
Dear members of the Haut-Lac community, We four editors first initiated The Inkwell to celebrate the extraordinary creativity of our school. As editors, we strove to greaten the culture of student involvement within the community. The Inkwell encourages students to explore ideas beyond their classrooms, promoting cross curricular involvement and broad student participation.Without the help from our community, including teachers, parents, and most of all, students, we could not have fulfilled our goal. We hope that with this first edition, we have truly given Haut-Lac students and teachers a voice and an audience. The Inkwell editors: Arielle Ben Hur, Mirko Laflamme, Andrew Schmitz and Julius Wanner. We would also like to extend special thanks to the Haut Lac PTA, Secondary School Student Council, and Tobias Blickle.
Un mot des éditeurs
Chers membres de la communauté Haut-Lac, Nous sommes quatre éditeurs à avoir fondé le magazine The Inkwell afin de célébrer l’extraordinaire créativité présente à l’école. En tant qu’éditeurs, nous voulions stimuler l’engagement des étudiants au sein de la communauté. The Inkwell encou rage les étudiants à explorer des idées au-delà des salles de classe, en promouvant l’implication multidisciplinaire et la large participation des étudiants. Sans l’aide de la communauté, y compris des enseignants, des parents, et, plus que tout, des étudiants, nous n’aurions pas pu atteindre notre but. Nous espérons qu’avec cette première édition, nous avons véritablement donné une voix et un public aux étudiants et aux enseignants de Haut-Lac. Les éditeurs de The Inkwell: Arielle Ben Hur, Mirko Laflamme, Andrew Schmitz et Julius Wanner. Nous aimerions aussi particulièrement remercier l’APP Haut Lac, le Conseil Secondaire des Etudiants, et Tobias Blickle.
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The Inkwell
VOLUME VOLUME 11
Black & white A series in monochrome
An exploration of the power of black and white photography. These pictures capture unique moments which are strengthened by the simple monochrome color scheme. Black, white, and all the shades of grey in between allow for a different form of expression. The limited color pallette means one must think more carefully about the composition, lighting, and mood of the picture in order to create an emotional and moving piece. Photography by Mirko Laflamme, Andrew Carl, Tobias Blickle and Blanka Blickle.v
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VOLUME VOLUME 11
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The Inkwell
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VOLUME 1
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The Inkwell
When you look in my eyes, do you see my story, my dreams? Because when I look into your eyes, I see pain, I see fear. When you bring my hopes down, do you know how it feels? Because when you don’t get what you want, there is always tears. Do you ever feel like breaking down? Do you ever feel out of place? Because you are always with someone else, deep down you know what you do, you crush dreams, you crush truths. But in a way, I think it’s true, we’re all different so I won’t judge you.
VOLUME VOLUME 11
It took an early-winter evening To connect her to the landscape. As dusk approached She fell in love with the sky, Just as it had fallen for the sun. Their romance ignited a pallet of colours, With smudges of clouds. Night approached like blue ink Spilling into their affair. Above houses, she walked, And her thoughts untangled As she strode through The wild uncut grass. The cool air condensed From her mouth as she stared. Exhaling, her shackles loosened And were made brittle by the cold. As they broke she continued onwards, The wind freeing her right down To her soul to her soul to her soul.
Lies Fernanda Garcia MYP4
A poem about freedom Maddie Reid Discolored Lassitude Alexandra Baey
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The Inkwell
“An exploration of light and shade diffused through smoke”
The story behind the smoke
A behind the scenes look at the short film “Moonlit”
“Moonlit” is a short film shot in one evening with the intent to create beautiful visuals using an extremely constricting setup and a tiny crew. I was accompanied by Mirko Laflamme and Barend Schweigman who acted while also simultaneously working as the assistants, while I filmed and directed. The minimal narrative derived entirely from the scenery and the atmosphere of the location.
“Playing with silhouttes to tell story through form”
The illusion of a thick, smoke filled forest was accomblished by using a smoke machine in combination with two powerful lights suspended at a three meter height to give the scene a moonlit feel while also using the smoke to diffuse the light. The layer of smoke diffusing the light adds depth to the scene, making the entire film an exploration of light and shade diffused through smoke. Inspired by the lighting of film noir and the cinematography of Roger Deakins, “Moonlit” tries to create an eerie atmosphere, playing with silhouttes to tell story through form. Tobias Blickle Watch “Moonlit” by scanning the QR code or visiting vimeo.com/tobiasblickle/moonlit
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The Inkwell
“The inspiration to design this house came from my visit to Samui where I saw a fishery boat dock”
A contemporary fisherman’s home The creative process behind a modern take on a fisherman’s house
“Fishery boat dock inspired house” was created as part of my personal project 2014. It was designed with the help from a professional architect Paderm Putcharonemongkon, and is based on a business man’s desire to get away from work to the beach with his friends and family. The inspiration to design this house came from my visit to Samui, an island in the south of Thailand, where I saw a fishery boat dock. The house includes a dining room, a living space facing the sea, private rooms for two families and the house owner, a reading room, and service zones such as laundry room, kitchen, and a storage.
The process of making this house consisted of making draft compositions from my inspiration, adding functions to the house, scaling each room, and finally making a floor plan of the house. The finished floor plan is then later reduced in scale from A3 size paper to 20x10 cm as the template of the model. The model was then made from a precisely cut foam core, acrylic sheet, and pressed wood. These materials were chosen to reflect the very minimal and simple modern design. Prim Khurewathanakul
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HOW ABOUT THE FACT THAT IT IS
PLASTIC IS MADE FROM OIL AND OIL IS ALSO USED BY AUTOMOBILES
CONSERSO
THAT’S WHY VATION
SOURCES.
URAL
NAT-
THERE IS S O M E THING ELSE THAT IS DROPPING AT TREMENDOUS RATES IN OUR SOCIETY AND IS RAPIDLY APPROACHING EXTINCTION. IT IS COMPASSION IN OUR EVERY DAY LIVES. IN THE 1950’S, A SCIENTIST BY THE NAME OF HARRY HARLOW DID A STUDY AND FOUND THAT BABY MONKEYS WOULD CHOOSE RECEIVING AFFECTION FROM THEIR MOTHERS OVER RECEtIVING THINGS LIKE FOOD AND WATER. HUMANS ARE PART OF THE ANIMAL KINGDOM AS WELL, AND WE HAVE JUST AS STRONG OF A NEED FOR AFFECTION. ALTHOUGH IT’S COOL TO SEE WILDLIFE, WE NEED TO REALIZE THAT PEOPLE ARE NOT EXOTIC ANIMALS AND LETTING OUR DIFFERENCES CAMOUFLAGE OURSELVES IS NOT GOING TO ENSURE OUR SURVIVAL. DESPITE OUR DIFFERENT APPEARANCES, EVERY HUMAN BEING FEELS THE SAME WAY AND I CAN PROVE IT. HOW MANY OF YOU LIKE THE COLOR BLUE? HOW MANY OF YOU CAN TIE YOUR OWN SHOES? HOW MANY OF YOU HAVE EVER HAD YOUR FEELINGS HURT? AND HOW MANY OF YOU HAVE MADE FUN OF SOMEONE ELSE, WHICH IS EVEN WORSE? AND HOW MANY OF YOU HAVE EVER FELT ALONE? AND WHO JUST WANTS TO BE LIKED AND TO STOP FEELING LIKE A CLONE? ANIMALS HAVE BASIC INSTINCTS, THE NEED TO HUNT AND THE NEED TO REPRODUCE. AND WE CAN GO IN AND DESTROY THEIR LAND AND THE ANIMALS WILL TRY TO ADAPT. BUT SOCIETY IS LOSING ITS WILL TO SURVIVE AND THERE’S NOT AN APP FOR THAT.
RE-
OUR
CONSERVE
TO
NEED
DON’T JUST
WE
BUT
PORTANT.
IM-
OLATE.
CHOC-
OF IS
RUN
WORLD WILL
OUT
TIME, THE
LIFE-
OUR
IN
AND IT IS
PROTHAT
THEM
DUCE
CAN
FASTER
ESTIMATED
WE
BEANS
THAN
COA
HOW MUCH WATER IS WASTED. AND IF THAT’S NOT ALARMING ENOUGH, WE ARE CONSUMING CO-
TO WATER, BUT IF THE AVERAGE AMERICAN ALONE TAKES a 30-MINUTE SHOWER THINK ABOUT
OVER TWO TRILLION ONE HUNDRED BILLON GALLONS A DAY. NOT ALL THE WORLD HAS ACCESS
THIS WATER DAILY AND IF THE ENTIRE WORLD TOOK A 10 MINUTE SHOWER, WE WOULD WASTE
WATER IS FRESHWATER AND OUT OF THAT LESS THAN 1% IS DRINKABLE. PEOPLE SHOWER WITH
AND WE WONDER WHY GAS PRICES ARE SO HIGH...ON TOP OF THAT ONLY 2.5% OF THE EARTH’S
EARTH 110 TIMES.
TAP WATER, YET WE HAVE PRODUCED ENOUGH OF THESE WATER BOTTLES TO WRAP AROUND THE
2000 TIMES MORE EXPENSIVE TO DRINK OUT OF PLASTIC WATER BOTTLES THAN IT IS TO USE
SPECIES WILL BECOME EXTINCT DUE TO HUMAN ACTIVITY?
DECREASES BY 55,000 SPECIES EACH YEAR AND THAT BY THE YEAR 2030, ONE THIRD OF ALL
DID YOU KNOW THAT IT IS ESTIMATED THAT THE WORLD’S PLANT AND ANIMAL POPULATION
New hope Brianna Hooijberg
The Inkwell VOLUME 1
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The Inkwell
VOLUME 11 VOLUME
Doux, Calme, Écoule, Délicatement. La grande lagune transparente. L’horizon lointain Sur un bord d’azur clair Flux de vagues Oscillantes, insouciantes, Chuchotant parmi eux. Une réunion des larmes de l’humanité. Rassemblés, amassés, Un tourbillon indéfini Ils dansent, en cadence La danse au rythme de l’éternité. Le ciel gronde Expirant des nuages cendrés Brusque arrivé du vent Perturbant le ballet synchronique Par la lumière de la lune, Le messager de nuit annonce L’obscurité qui vient couvrir l’île D’un châle ténébreux. Ils tournent, instables, Plus vite, plus rapides, plus brusques. En colère souffle le vent Et chante d’une voix fracassée ; « Tempête », il prononce. Waves Andrew Carl 19
Avertissement: tempête Anushree Mathur 20
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The Inkwell
Le néant avale le sang du crépuscule, Laissant le monde illuminé par les ombres. Évoluant sans bruit, silhouette d’onyx, Ses pattes de velours noient le monde, l’étouffent.
We judge when we don’t know We don’t know when we judge Only the person judged knows their story, Knows their hopes.
En équilibre sur les toits, ses yeux nous guettent, Ces étoiles, arrachées à la voûte céleste, Plongent le monde dans le non-être, teintant D’horreur la ville endormie, tombe de nos nuits.
I don’t know what you know You don’t know what I know. We were born different So why judge what we don’t know?
Sa douceur cruelle, bien que silencieuse Nous appelle, au loin, cherchant à échapper à L’astre sauveur, qui décolore son pelage. Les griffes du néant se rétractent, nous libèrent, Laissent place au soleil, sans vraiment disparaître. Des lambeaux de ténèbres attendent son retour.
Sonnet Marie Gillet
Fireflies Julius Wanner
Been hurt Been loved But only your words change my world. If I stop being different I’ll stop being me. I’m in the middle of a battlefield Fighting a war against myself. You survived this battlefield So would you save me? Borderline Poppy Adamson
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Me Fernanda Garcia
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The Inkwell
VOLUME 1
There’s plenty of wood here – Clumps of gnarled Green and brown strewn like yarrow stalks Across a shallow basin by the burn. In the pale light of evening beneath a marble sky, Rich with rain, I smoke. I make a circle of moss covered stones In a nook of mud. I gather wood. I break branches over my knee, and note How easily they break, with a soft, muted thunk. The world is porous tonight. I gather grasses from the slippery bank. They are crisp And hollow – perfect for kindling. I place them in the centre of the hearth. Then around this thurze I teepee twigs – You have to build a fire. I click my lighter and start an ineffectual blaze. I blow into the heart of it and the embers burst into raggedy flame. But soon it dies. A grey and general twilight chills the air. The smell of lichen covered bark, cold water And the night diffused. I start again. I gather grasses, and use only The finest, knobbliest twigs this time. My hands are white flesh snapping. The lighter takes and I watch A small fire whisper A few bold sentences And expire. Ach well, I think. There is always the butane primus, And the thunder of raindrops Ringing A polyester bell.
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The Inkwell
VOLUME 1
Bumble bees
“Boring bees buzz busily”, That’s what they always say. Little creatures have personalities, Each one a brilliant sun ray. Let’s look at some flowers this way: They’re giant pieces of candy! The bees come here to pollinate, And everything’s totally dandy. I love the bees, they’re hard workers! They make lots of honey for us. They worship their queen, just like they should, And they make quite little fuss. My bees live in a big beehive, It’s awfully large and beige. They fly in and out, like they’re ADHD; Can’t think of their story’s next page! For what, must the end be now? Poor bees! They’re getting quite old. But hmmm, how could I thank them? My bees, so lovely and bold!
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The Inkwell
Aujourd’hui, 15 août 2018, la jeune femme qui s’appelle Liana est seule, assise sur le réacto-siège recouvert d’éiate de couleur très sombre, au fond de la grande salle de loisirs. Dehors, la chaleur pèse sur les murs de tianit et sur le toit plat en élastoverre. Malgré les fenêtres ouvertes, aussi faites en élastoverre, il n’y a pas un souffle d’air toxique, que de l’air pur. Depuis la catastrophe de 2000, l’air s’est toxifié à cause des toxines de champignon egnaro, mais certains endroits de la planète ne furent pas touché. Aux pieds de Liana, Nick halète bruyamment. C’est le seul bruit à l’intérieur du space house, depuis que la moitié de la planète a été évacuée. Sauf, de temps en temps, on entant au loin, un moteur de spacio-auto ou de spacio-moto, ou bien un horrible cri d’un iench affamé qui fait tressaillir la jeune femme. C’est comme s’il n’y avait personne à des lieues à la ronde, les pays que l’on connaissait ont disparut, il n’y avait plus de continents, plus de villes, que des terres désolées et désertes. Il ne restait plus que le silence. Il y a si longtemps que Liana a vu quelqu’un. La dernière fois, c’était avant de les voir partir à la conquête de l’espace. Ils avaient fuit leurs maison, leurs planète. Liana était restée, elle était trop vielle pour des choses pareilles. Ils étaient partis il y a quelques années déjà, 4 ou 5. 27
Liana ne sait plus très bien, c’est à peine si elle parvient à mettre en marche son esprit pour chercher des souvenirs. Et cette solitude n’améliorait pas les choses. Quand elle réfléchit trop, il y a quelque chose qui se déclenche en elle, comme si un petit muscle se raidissait, comme ces petits nerfs qui se mettent à trembler dans la paupière ou sur la joue. C’est un signal pour qu’elle arrête de chercher. Elle aurait put se faire opérer et se mettre une puce pour que son état s’améliore. Mais elle avait refusé, elle trouvait ça contre nature. Alors pour aider, elle se lève, elle marche un peu le long du space house, pieds nus sur la vieille moquette râpeuse de sa grand-mère et marquée de brûlures de cigarette à fusion. Le plancher du space house tremble sous ses pas. Le chien tigre se redresse, ses oreilles pointent en avant. Puis il laisse retomber sa tête, il se rendort, ou fait semblant de se rendormir. Lui non plus n’a vu personne depuis des jours, mais sans doute ça lui était égal. Il n’aimpersonne, il n’a besoin de personne. Cityscape Andrew Schmitz
La vie d’aujourd’hui David Bischof
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VOLUME 1
The Inkwell She’ll stand there feet held down by gravity And wait for a smile to happen in her empty eyes A smile so far away from the one she used to know So distant. She lives in the darkness of her smile And she’ll fight for the life She saw once in a dream She’ll close her eyes to see the horizon she felt when the world went silent. There’s a broken branch to the tree she built deep in her heart. She lies in a world of lies, but at the exact same moment, She resides in a beautiful mind of truth. The mirror lies to her The opinions lie to her Life within her grasp lies to her. there’s an anger a pain an ache a tear drop. but the smile will cover that the phone in hand. Will cover that But despite it all the lies the hate the cruelty She still looks straight ahead at the hurricane of purpose and grief. And she’ll still say “I refuse to drift away, gimme my wings I’m flying through this” You know why? because she is stronger and her heart is bigger than any of the words you set in her path. Now watch her. Simplified complications Watch her fly. Martha Hooijberg
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La petite boîte aux rêves Elena Wanvig
Quand je l’ouvrais, elle se déployait comme les ailes d’un paon, Elle buvait de l’encre noire, Et à chaque nuit, dans mon lit, je l’écoutais, Quand je la fermais, elle se fendait comme une huître ou une fleur du tipanier. Son couvercle : humble comme un coquelicot mais aussi noble qu’une rose. Au cœur de ma petite boîte aux rêves, j’apercevais la nudité de leurs organes, Blêmes et légèrement boursouflées. Quand le trésor a été trouvé, et l’aventure se finissait, Je disais au revoir et a bien tôt, Car l’histoire recommençait.
High and low Alexandra Baey
Nightfall Anna Michel
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The right way to camp Arabella Macrae
Waking up from the heat Of the overcooked tent, Smell of pancakes drift Round the campsite. The wet dew dampens the bottom Of my pyjamas, everyone half awake, Finding cups, making coffee, Children drenched in sunscreen, Bikinis, board shorts, swimmers, towels, Surfboards and hats all in the bag. Long beach with only a lonely surfer, Pink cheeks, sandy feet, salty hair. Sun kissed legs running up and down The long sandy beach. Lazy afternoon in the dry heat, Card games, sleeping and reading. Sun setting, boys collecting the wood Girls chattering, squealing, giggling. Mums drinking, dads cooking. Everyone comes together Listening to the guitar. Peaceful. Back in pyjamas, cold face wash, Brushing my teeth with a water bottle. Kids in bed, wrapped up in sleeping bags, Faint sounds of drunk laughter.
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The warmth of summer Evening And man lays down To the warmth and sound of summer All around him The chirping and laughter. The stars And meteors crossing the sky The moon cresting the horizon From the east Of his home among trees He will always remember. Remember the lights Of a dark infinite sky To laughter of children To the song of crickets. Chirp Chirp His summer sounds The man relaxes. Another night in the sky.
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The Inkwell
Even my watch says there is no such thing as the time.
The smell of resin on my fingers, Climbing over fences Between back yards.
Raindrops falling on a tin roof – tac, tac, tac. The sound of writing.
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Paradise Paradise, it speaks to me And so the boat began to move, The motor leaving behind a trail. I began to gaze at the nature circling me, All alone yet surrounded by many
The haunting memories
Paradise It speaks to me.
Morning and the sound of the water swiftly flowing down the stream wakes her up, as their suffocating words play in her head, repeatedly, and the leaves changing from green to grey show her that the past and present could never be the same, and the place where love and loss means the same is where she is still unfortunately chained to him
So small, yet so full of life, Doors painted red, Windows painted white. The sweet smell of the water, The tingle it brings to your feet, The smiles of the children, The sound of the creek. I knew it was the place for me to be. The sun awoke As did I. Looking at him tickled my eyes, The soothing scent of the ocean breeze, Brought me to smile and think of many things. The look of the roses, The sound of the gulls The sea was calling me
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Words unspoken Anna Michel
I felt oh so at home.
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The Inkwell
VOLUME 1
Branch to branch Wings lightly flutter Songs filling the air. Verdant trees Reflect the blaring light. Rain falls Ever so lightly On cold metal. Cool silver Wrapped In a wet cocoon Luscious plants droop More and more – Buckets full to the brim. Beneath the fragile leaves One ladybug Seeks shelter.
Side to side They softly sway Like waves. A crow struts nearby – Sleek in the sun Blinding sun Hurts my eyes – Oh the pain! All around, The buzzing of bugs and machine.
Small streams Slide over moss.
In the undertones Of the air Faint traces of sweat.
By Sarah & Maddie
A glimpse of mountains Snowy at the peaks. Winter is gone, Fare thee well My icy friend. By Sarah & Maddie
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The Inkwell
I would love to see the outside world, See it through and through. Explore it and gnaw it, And see the sky o’so blue. I know this will never happen, Because when I show a foot, Somebody gasps, and in a flash, I am flying into soot. Why won’t you let me see the sky? I didn’t choose to live this way, I don’t like living in a smelly sewer, Where slime sits on me all day. In your eyes I am as dangerous as can be, A monster, But that’s not the real me.
Thank you for being a part of The Inkwell
My life as a rat Oliver Roberts
Street Lights Julia Chuang
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The Inkwell VOLUME 1
The Inkwell is a student initiated, student ran, and student produced magazine that celebrates the creativity of the Haut-Lac Secondary School. The editors meet weekly to review, read, and critique the unique literary and artistic entries submitted by students, and teachers. Although almost all of the submissions were included in the first editions, ones that were not are eligible for re-submission in the upcoming school year. The Inkwell est un magazine créé, dirigé, et produit par les étudiants afin de céleber la créativité des étudiants de l’école Secondaire HautLac. Les éditeurs se rencontrent chaque semaine afin de passer en revure, lire, et critiquer les soumissions des étudiants et des enseignants. Bien que la majorité des soumissions font partie de cette première édition, celles qui n’en font pas partie peuvent être présentées pour le prochain numéro.
