Fall Showcase

The Richview Voice presents The Fall Showcase, displaying creative writing, poetry, visual art and photography by RCI students. 

Sincerely, the Sun

By Jasmine Miljure

(inspired by ‘Sincerely, the Sky’ by David Hernandez)

I’ve loved you dearly
Giving you everything I possibly could

I hold you so close
And care for all your needs

I let you bask in my warmth
Even when I am furthest from you

I do everything I can
But still you do not gaze at me

You don’t stare in wonder
Not in the way I watch over you

I want nothing more than your love
Perhaps that’s why I keep coming back

I depart from you and in my wake
I am given what I so desire

You admire my colours
And then you capture my beauty

Perhaps that’s why I keep coming back
So you can love me as I leave

So you love me
As I have loved you


Better Times

By Benny Streeter

I sit on the roof at the crack of dawn, I think of all the better times 

When all who I loved were never gone, when life was not an unending climb 

They grasp my hand stare into my eyes, the warmest smile graces my face

If only this all wasn’t lies, I truly wish that were the case 

Their fingers touch my cheek, it’s something I can almost feel 

I know I’m acting weak, for loving someone that’s not real 

If I went back to reality, maybe for a second I’d feel empowered 

But this will not happen to me, for I am just a coward 

Real-life is so cold. I’d rather just stay here 

But maybe I’d feel bold, if I embraced all the fear 

I force myself out of the bliss, it needs to be said 

If I live life like this, I’m better off dead 

I want to resist, I need out of this prison 

So I raise up my fist, fight the struggles that have arisen 

I’m pulled back to imagination and think “what a beautiful thing”

But this false amalgamation disappears at the faint sound of a ring 

I finally escaped my trance, with the sound of autumn chimes 

I’m ending this horrid dance, I’ll make my own better times

By Natalie Skinner
By Madison Ayllon
By Natalie Skinner
By Natalie Skinner

The Looking Glass

By Shabahat-Noor Husnain

Our reflections become our inhibition

Enough to be used as ammunition

We are the petals, the leaves and the thorns

As we listen to our own thoughts or should we say scorns

We keep looking back

We keep looking forward

Never in between

Wishing to go unseen

Tainting every recollection

Not worth a single mention

So able yet we limit our capacity,

Tirelessly with great tenacity

Submerged in futility

Swallowed by hostility

Dumbfounded by content

Unfounded by torment

An abundance of aimed animosity,

Towards what the looking glass deems

A monstrosity


By Matthew Grisolia

Her and I

Shelley Debartolo Campos

Each chain she gives me…

The one with the music note…

The maple leaf…

The dream catcher…

Each time she commemorates my inclinations for after high school…

That’s when she rings my shell bells – 

Her aesthetic living room glowing behind the kitchen full of her smell, 

She just connects with me so well.

Questions and questions she asks me, 

They drain unknown, endless thoughts I’ve never seen in myself.

The roads that have been orbiting inside me,

That holds all the meaningful things I could vent about.

They are the keys she gives me, 

Like she’s trying to tell me,

It’s a way of opening those doors.

She can forget to lock that back door,

But I’m there for her.

She can get down when she hears of a friend’s demise, 

She’s so wholesome.

She makes me more wholesome.

But the way she pulls herself up,

Makes me document the moments we felt most in love with ourselves.

Just the both of us,

And I hope that

Her and I can stay together. 

Hold onto each other every little moment. 

And being as little as 6 years old entering her life and her entering mine – 

I’m happy she still hasn’t lost her battle,

Because that’s how it all equals to be, 

Her and I.

Chanie Wenjack

Ana Downes

He is Charlie.
He is Christian.
He has short hair.
He dresses “properly”.
He goes to school.
He prays to god.
He speaks English.

This is a mask.
You can see through the eye-holes.
Below the mask
You can see
A scared boy.
A lonely boy.
An abused boy.
A boy who has been deprived of his family.
Deprived of his culture.
Deprived of being himself.

But, when you look deeper through the mask
You see
Chanie Wenjack.

He is Chanie.
He is brave.
He is a proud First Nations person.
He styles his hair the way he wants.
He wears what he wants.
He is not afraid.
He is loved.
He has a voice.

He had a voice.
That was not heard.
And now it’s too late.

The past can never be reversed.
But we can try to travel
The long road to reconciliation.

Chanie’s voice was never heard.
But, now it’s time to make a change.
Peel off the mask and show his beautiful face.

We must mend
The horrors of the past
We must acknowledge
We must make a change

For all the victims.
For the families that have been ripped apart.
For Chanie.


By Klodiana Kamberi

Gone but not Lost

By Ana Downes

It all happened so fast
This time with my family might be the last
A strange man came into our house
I looked at my sister in her favourite blouse

I tried to blur out what was going on
I tried to hear only my sister’s yawn
“Brother, where is our dad?”
He was gone and I was very mad

I screamed and yelled
My heart fell
They took me away
To a place I would have to stay

I tried to leave
I cried, I grieved
But they took me away
Away from the place I used to stay

My parents couldn’t stop my shouts
Or my crying, sadness and doubts
Before I could look the man in the face
We had arrived at the horrible place

Girls and boys of all the tribes
Are forced to learn how to forget their pride
They cut our hair very short
They seem to torture us for sport

Everything is set, nothing is loose
Physical, emotional, sexual abuse
Study the prayers
Wear “nice” clothes, forget the furs

Forget your races
Your people are disgraces
Forget your hopes, your dreams, the ones you love
Believe in god from up above
Your people are gross, savage and drunk
Learn to worship god and become a monk
Forget the ones you loved
Believe in god from up above

Do you want to end up in jail
Follow your parents and waste your life drinking ale
Years of learning to hate
The people you loved until age eight

You get to go away from the school when you are old enough
The horrible memories are very rough
I look at my parents and feel so sad
Now they make me embarrassed and mad

I was taught that I am the son of savages, drunks
The people I loved look bad and my heart sunk
I couldn’t get over how bad they look
My life and family was what the school took

Soon my sister would be done
Back to home she would come
We would try to forget the pain
But nothing would ever be the same

My parents and I both cry
I take a deep breath and I sigh
I will stay alive
I will survive

The scars will always stay
I ignore my parents as they pray
The prayer of my tribe
I will live, I will survive

They thought they took everything away
But something inside of us will always stay
I thought of this as I closed my eyes
Something inside of us never dies

I tried to blur out what was going on
I tried to hear only my sister’s yawn
“Brother, where is our dad?”
He was gone and I was very mad

I screamed and yelled
My heart fell
They took me away
To a place I would have to stay

I tried to leave
I cried, I grieved
But they took me away
Away from the place I used to stay

My parents couldn’t stop my shouts
Or my crying, sadness and doubts
Before I could look the man in the face
We had arrived at the horrible place

Girls and boys of all the tribes
Are forced to learn how to forget their pride
They cut our hair very short
They seem to torture us for sport

Everything is set, nothing is loose
Physical, emotional, sexual abuse
Study the prayers
Wear “nice” clothes, forget the furs

Forget your races
Your people are disgraces
Forget your hopes, your dreams, the ones you love
Believe in god from up above
Your people are gross, savage and drunk
Learn to worship god and become a monk
Forget the ones you loved
Believe in god from up above

Do you want to end up in jail
Follow your parents and waste your life drinking ale
Years of learning to hate
The people you loved until age eight

You get to go away from the school when you are old enough
The horrible memories are very rough
I look at my parents and feel so sad
Now they make me embarrassed and mad

I was taught that I am the son of savages, drunks
The people I loved look bad and my heart sunk
I couldn’t get over how bad they look
My life and family was what the school took

Soon my sister would be done
Back to home she would come
We would try to forget the pain
But nothing would ever be the same

My parents and I both cry
I take a deep breath and I sigh
I will stay alive
I will survive

The scars will always stay
I ignore my parents as they pray
The prayer of my tribe
I will live, I will survive

They thought they took everything away
But something inside of us will always stay
I thought of this as I closed my eyes
Something inside of us never dies

Like Joy

By Jasmine Miljure

Like tiny little orbs
Descending from above
Coming through the ceiling
And glowing

Like whispered words
That you don’t understand
But they sound so happy
And you nod along
Happy for them

Like the smell
That wafts through the air
Just after the rain has finished
And you close your eyes
Inhaling until your lungs are full
The storm has past

Like the stillness of a park at night
When all the kids are gone
And the chaos doesn’t understand
What happened
The swings sway in the wind
Languidly rocking back and forth
For no one but themselves

Like wet sand
Washed under the waves at high tide
Slipping through your fingers
Playing a game only they understand
Laughter as the grains roll over your palm
Too gentle to be mocking
But too quick for you to grasp
Why

By Lia Marchione
By Annie Tims

For My Boy

By Jasmine Miljure

I love him more than words can hope express
He came into my life and changed it all
He shows me care when I am in distress
He runs to me at just my very call

But scratches leave me weeping and in pain
His bites do break my skin in his cold rage
I hope one day he lets me breathe again
He watches while I clean up his wreckage

Yet cuddles from him heal my every sore
I know I’ll never blame him for his crime
We soon act like we’ve never fought before
I know he’ll love me ‘til the end of time

My precious cat whom I so much admire
Not single a thing more could I desire

By Claire Kim
By Annie Tims
By Charlotte Pong
By Sh’rye Johnson

Where did you go?

By Claire Taylor

March, April, May, June, July, and August where did you go? It felt as though I was stuck in my home, with no one to see, nowhere to go, and a deadly contagious disease just waiting to try and find me. I wanted to wake up from this dream so badly. You ruined my life, had me worried sick about what you were going to do, and what lives you were going to take next. Now you listen to me. Stay away from the people who look after me. They are what keep me going, they are the reason I am alive today. 

March, April, May, June, July, and August, I am sorry that you got caught up in the middle of this. You were mere casualties to this deadly disease. September, October, November, and December there is still hope for you, and next year too. Just don’t go by too soon, because I want to truly appreciate each and every one of you. I know how hard you are trying to be seen and to not disappear with the rest of the year. No matter what happens, I want you to know, this isn’t your fault, it’s not your job to fix, we are the ones who need to come together and try to beat this. 

January and February, you give us hope for a better year, a fresh start and a new beginning. You may come with baggage but so do we, and together we will learn what it truly means to be one of the biggest parts of history.


By Christina Dinh
By Emma Howarth
By Leo Burchert
By Sh’rye Johnson

By Emma Howarth
By Matthew Grisolia
By Charlotte Pong

A Quick Delivery

By Natasha Kangrga

Today the store was getting a new mannequin delivery. I had to stay late because the delivery needed a signature and my boss had a family emergency. It had been half an hour since the store closed. Then I heard a knock on the glass door: the delivery had finally arrived! I made my way through the store, taking lefts and rights, zig-zagging through the racks of clothing. I opened the door.

“Mannequin delivery for Cherry Connel?”

“Yes, she’s my boss.”

“That’s okay. Just sign here.”

“Okay… thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

The man looked at me with a worried face. He began moving the mannequins from the truck into the store. The mannequins were wrapped in bubble wrap. He placed them on their side explaining that the bubble wrap makes for an uneven base and they can fall. I was surprised by the size; they were huge.

“Bye” I said to the man.

“Bye” he repeated. He ran to his truck.

Cherry told me I could just leave after the delivery; she and some other employees would unwrap the mannequins in the morning. I made my way to the back of the store where my coat, lunch, and backpack were. I zipped up my coat, put on my hat and scarf, replied to a text, and then I heard something. Something strange considering that there was no crash and I was the only one in the store. I heard a bubble pop. And then another. And then another…


By Jaeda-marie Dennis
By Leo Burchert
By Klodiana Kamberi
By Emma Howarth
By Sh’rye Johnson
By Leo Burchert

The Host         

By Sathya Siva

The library was almost empty. It was a Tuesday after hours, but Nigel felt at home in the quiet, empty room.  Still, that wasn’t the real reason why he was there. At the back of the room, near Nigel’s desk, was a neatly stacked pile of newspapers. Nigel liked to tell himself that the articles were unbent, crisp, and new because the children took such good care of them. Obviously, that wasn’t true. In 2010, kids rarely paid attention to the news – let alone actually read a newspaper. 

Many people would wonder to themselves, why did Nigel keep newspapers a middle school library? Surprisingly, it wasn’t actually a habit until two years ago. Nigel had noticed that over time, in Ontario, children from very well known schools were disappearing mysteriously. Strangely enough, the same missing kids would always turn up exactly a week later not saying where they had been or why. 

That is when Nigel’s research began to pay off. It took him awhile, but he soon realized that the authorities never released the interviews taping the parents or the kids. Nigel decided to take matters into his own hands. He found as many addresses as he could and tried to question the parents and their children. Most of them called him crazy, some even threatened to call the police. Dissatisfied, the curious librarian pushed his questions to the back of his mind and focused on his school.

So what was Nigel doing on Tuesday night? He was scolding himself and trying not to meddle with things. If his self-persuasion had worked, perhaps he wouldn’t be found stuck in the supply closet along with the janitor the next morning. The reason he had come back to the library in the first place is that he had forgotten his coffee mug, just as he grabbed it the headline of the local news caught his eye. 

EIGHT CHILDREN DISAPPEAR, all RETURNing SEVEN DAYS LATER. NOBODY KNOWS WHERE THEY WENT. POLICE STILL WORKING ON CASE.

Then it clicked. The missing children from Hamilton… Now more children were disappearing and the same mystery was traveling across the province, perhaps the country. He rifled through the latest newspapers. His calculations were correct. Now he just had to get-

A bloodcurdling scream interrupted his thoughts. With his heart pounding, he crept down the hallway to get closer to the origin of the noise. Rosita Valdez stood over the dead body of  Thomas Walker, the janitor. Her face was pale and drained of all colour. Nigel asked her if she saw anyone, but she just shook her head. He bent over the body. There were no signs of a struggle and it seemed as though the killer had cleanly broken the neck and left. Could they have left? All the doors of the school were locked and only he and Thomas had a key. Suddenly it dawned on him. 

“Rose,” he asked slowly, “How did you get in the school?” 

She smiled, but her eyes were dead. “I am truly sorry that Mr. Walker had to die, but he knew too much. I was scared he might start telling people.” 

“Tell them what?” he asked as a lump filled his throat. 

Rose looked at the librarian casually. “That I punish those who meddle with things they know nothing about.”

“People who meddle with things…that means…” His eyes widened in realization.

Her eyes rolled back and were now completely black. Her hands grew into vulture-like claws. Rose looked straight at Nigel and answered him in a raspy voice that was definitely not her own. “You’re next.”


Five boring years later, the school reopened. Even though the whole community knew about the murders, the kids who were involved were either in university, or dead. 

The new librarian was an average-sized man in his early thirties. He was tall and lean, with skin the colour of chestnuts. He looked like a track and field coach, rather than a librarian, his teeth constantly whitened so much so that he couldn’t enjoy things like ice cream, or very hot soup. The reason why he decided to come to this specific school is that he knew a lot about the murders. Not really about the victims, but about Rose Valdez. Perhaps it was because of his great detective skills, or perhaps because they just happened to be cousins.

“Rose! Are you in there?” Francesco Valdez called while knocking repeatedly on the door. “Rose, this is important! I need to tell you something!” 

“Be right there!” cried a melodic voice, seconds before Rose Valdez opened the door. As soon as she saw him standing there she rolled her eyes. “This better be good Chester. I’m studying with Katya.” 

Francesco looked wearily at the petite blonde sitting on the couch. “I think we should talk in private.”

Rose’s eyes widened in dismay. “What’s going on? Did Abuela have another heart attack?”

Francesco just shook his head and gestured to the kitchen. “Let’s go over here.”

“You’re scaring me, what’s going on?”

Francesco looked at his feet. “I-I got the job.”

Rose looked at him with confusion. “Did I just hear you correctly?”

Francesco grinned from ear to ear. “I GOT THE JOB!”

¡Oh Dios mio! I can’t believe it!” she screamed. She slapped him on the arm. “You’re such a clown. You can’t worry me like that!” Rose squeezed his arm and let go. “I am so happy! Did you call everyone yet? We have to celebrate!”

“Come on prima, it’s not that exciting.” But he laughed anyways.


“So you guys have about fifteen minutes to pick out a book. Alright?” The class murmured and milled about; only a couple of students didn’t get up from their seats. Francesco sighed dramatically and walked over to their table. “Hi Veronica, Leonna, and…? I am so sorry I forgot your name.” 

The girl was dressed in a grey sweater and a pair of sweatpants, her long brown hair was covering her face. She timidly looked up.

 “Natalie.” 


By Matthew Grisolia
By Daniel Vlashi
By Brianna Hopkins-Winkler
By Daniel Vlashi
By Jaeda-marie Dennis
By Jaeda-marie Dennis
By Charlotte Pong
By Brianna Hopkins-Winkler

Thank you to all who submitted pieces for the show!