The Battle of the Raven (By: Jennifer Eagle)

King's sword held high,

Warriors about to die.

Horses at the head,

Knights already dead.

Electricity running through the air,

Burning like a golden flair.

Rows of thoughtless minds,

Creatures of all kinds.

Timeless tales are told of this,

A battle we dare not miss.

Arrows spinning as they fly,

People with only tears to cry.

No hope for this land;

Destroyed by a King's hand.

An eagle flies above the fight,

An ancient symbol of might.

They charged on in,

Imagine how it must have been.

Staring Death in the face,

And rushing on as if in race.

Death claimed many,

Could he have left any?

Hope started to fade,

In the growing shade.

But still one fought without battle cry,

A childish girl refusing to die.

She continued to fight on alone,

With a foundation carved of stone.

She alone fought to stay,

As autumn slowly faded away.

Such a proud and distant face,

In a filthy warring place.

Radiant smile upon her face,

Only matched by unbound grace.

Slaying with her left hand,

In a harsh and hostile land.

Right hand behind her back,

With such a strength that did not lack.

Raven hair flying about,

And hazel eyes without a doubt.

She finished the battle by herself,

A single girl in bountiful health.

It did not matter if it was over sea;

She would fight and kill for me...

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My IRHS Experience (By: Kat Rooney)

As I sit here writing this, I am in the process of my last set of summatives. Ever. It definitely is a nice feeling, knowing that in a few weeks I’ll be finished high school forever, and it had me thinking, mostly reflecting on my years at this school. I can’t say I’ve loved all of my years here, but they’ve been some pretty important ones to me. These are the years of our adolescence, where we make mistakes, find ourselves, and I suppose learn to be adults. The one thing I’d really like to attribute to this school was my own personal journey, the one where I figured out what I wanted and learned not to care about the rest of the world.

In grade 9 I was really shy. Really shy. I remember stressing about what kind of clothes I should wear on the first day so that I wouldn’t stand out too much, and working myself up, convincing myself I would talk to at least one person that day. I spent a good part of the year not really feeling comfortable and looking forward to university, despite it being eons away. It was really tough; I came from a private school and knew next to no one, and wasn’t used to the freedom of wearing what you want, or the casual tone students took to not doing well in courses. Everything felt foreign. My first step out was when I noticed a recurring trend in our vocal class. If someone was sick, they’d come in wearing a fashionable scarf to signify their illness. I knew I had to get a unique scarf in case I got sick as well. I’ve always loved scarves, the more colourful or unique the better. I started to wear scarves all through winter; it wasn’t much, I didn’t suddenly become confident, but I had something that was my own. And I must admit that having something of my own was a very nice feeling indeed.

My summer passed quietly, and I moved into grade 10. I didn’t have a lot of friends at this point but I was better off than I had been. The beginnings of the year started off uneventful. I focused on my vocal studies, and was comfortable with a few friends to sit with at lunch. I joined the newly budded Manga Club, a decision I will never regret. I found myself dreading the rest of my high school life less and less, which was a relief. At the time I didn’t know it, but my gradual involvement in the school is really what helped me open up. It was through clubs like choir and manga club that I’d feel more comfortable talking to people and worried less about silly things like embarrassing myself. I am a very emotional person, and in years prior had trouble getting a handle on my emotions when I was embarrassed or scared. I’m glad to say I’ve mostly outgrown this, and this is because I stuck my neck out and joined a few clubs.

Now that I’m in my final year, I’ve grown a lot as a person, something I don’t think I would have done if I hadn’t taken a risk coming to this school, putting myself out there and doing things how I want to. If I had to give advice to any younger grades, or anyone who wants to reach out and make friends, I’d say put yourself out of your comfort zone, join groups of people with similar interests and don’t worry about how people see you.

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Life in High Resolution (By: Grant Jenkins)

Here we go again… same as every day this week; this lazy teenager just flaked out on the couch staring at me. I mean, I get I’m the focal point in the room, but seriously, all he does is lay there staring at me, you would think at some point he’d get bored, but no. I mean the room would be a lot more boring without me in it, but this kid is starting to give me the creeps. Yesterday he did the same thing, came down here all sweaty and out of breath, drinking a giant bottle of water, then he lays down, and just stares at me for hours. I can understand the laying down part, those couches look like they are made of leather. Maybe it is suede, I don’t know… but they must be comfortable, because all the kid does is lay there! At least he gets to rest his legs every once in a while, he’s not standing all day and night for months on end; he has no idea what real leg pain is!

Don’t even get me started with the older version of him; he’s a real riot too. Always coming in the room yelling, which of course bothers the kid, and he’s not happy until we’re both screaming and drowning each other out. They’re both inconsiderate too, just look at the cobwebs in the corners of the room, I have them in behind my face too, but do they care to clean me? Nope, they just let me sit and be a filthy mess, I’d love to see how much they’d enjoy being filthy for extended periods of time. I swear if I could do it myself, I totally would…

They’re all inconsiderate too, real jerks if you ask me. Lazing around, complaining, then saying how they’re going to replace me because I’m getting “old,” I’m not old! I’m in my prime! Best shape of my life! And I mean…it’s not like I can’t hear them, and I can’t grasp why they keep mentioning Sunday, I guess I’ll wait and see.

Sunday

Hey, never seen those two guys before, they look like oversized apes if you ask me. Hey… what are they, get your brutish hands off of me, and stop! It’s not my time yet! Well this is just great… back of a dark truck, this is just wonderful… wonder where I’m going, oh well, guess I’ll have to wait and see.

(The old projection television was taken to the recycling plant, and was melted down into various different newer objects. Meanwhile, at the local best buy, the family was purchasing a new high definition television, an LG television if I remember correctly. LG never spoke much, but when he did, he didn’t have a lot to say, he only said one thing)

Life’s good man.

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The City That Never Sleeps (By: Liam Casola)

            The man’s heavy footsteps echoed loudly across the nearly-empty street, his feet slapping the pavement with the intensity of someone sprinting at full speed. Panting heavily, the man stopped for the briefest of moments to adjust his large, baggy overcoat and tie his shoes. Satisfied, he continued onward, splashing through a number of large puddles created from a torrential downpour of steady rain the entire night. As the man continued to run, the rain continued to fall; his entire body was soaked from this natural onslaught of water. He had been running for hours all over Manhattan, desperately searching for information that could lead him to the whereabouts of someone important to him, someone he might never see again. Most people would have given up such an incredulous task long ago, but not him. It was almost two o’clock in the morning, and the normally busy areas of Downtown Manhattan were eerily quiet. However, there were signs of life in the city that never sleeps. A flicker of lights across the street indicated that the owner of a small flower shop was still awake, while the faint outline of the Brooklyn Bridge was just visible to the naked eye. Large, flashing billboards lit up the desolate area, advertising the latest 4.8-inch screen cell phone.  A large, white car zoomed by, blaring loud reggae music out of its windows. Looking up, the man noticed an old woman hobbling past him, muttering to herself in a foreign language. The man forced himself to ignore these distractions, and instead focused on a tattered piece of paper he had been carrying in his back pocket. Once neatly printed, but now smudged in blue ink was an address, one that the man had preciously treasured for years. Now, he was finally here. He had finally arrived.

            Looming above the man was a monstrous skyscraper, its mere presence frighteningly overwhelming. Its frame cast long, dark shadows of epic proportions. The man frustratingly fiddled with the door, entering after what seemed to be an eternity. He slowly glanced around, taking in his surroundings, noticing the lighted interior and realizing that this was the first time in hours he was out of the rain. Suddenly, a scuffling sound broke the eerie silence. The man slowly turned and was surprised to see a construction worker standing before him. The worker silently gestured to follow him, and began to lead the man through a series of stairs, walkways and complicated internal areas of the building. Although the man could not tell where exactly they were going, he did notice that they were heading upward. After a particularly strenuous set of stairs, the worker stopped at a rusty steel door. He turned to the man and said, “You must go alone from here. Wait for the contact to arrive.” The man thanked the worker, entered, and grimaced as the door quickly slammed shut behind him. He was alone, outside and on the roof of the building. As he waited, the man slowly walked around the perimeter of the roof, taking in the beautiful sight of the restless city. The rain had finally subsided. Gleaming lights were shining everywhere and the buildings magnificently lit up the skyline. Despite the beautiful view, he was bitterly disappointed. Time ticked on and on, and no one had arrived yet. Feeling duped, the man was getting ready to make his way back to the door when he began to hear a low humming sound in the distance. It slowly grew louder and louder, eventually culminating into a deafening roar. Looking up, the man saw the shape of a black helicopter flying across the sky, heading towards the building. It quickly descended upon the roof of the building, perfectly landing on yellow “H” circle. The man stood in amazement as the rotors of the flying machine spun slower and slower, eventually coming to a complete stop. After what seemed like an eternity, the door finally opened. Carrying a thick package in one hand and an umbrella in the other, a woman slowly made her way out of the cockpit of the helicopter. She wore the same 6-inch high heels, the same long, black coat, the same pair of gloves with a small hole directly above the index finger. The woman began to stride towards the man with a crisp, very matter-of-factly gait. The man noticed the woman had a face of stone as she came to within speaking distance. However, when she finally approached the man, her expression softened for the briefest moment. A hint of recognition appeared in her eyes as she whispered a simple, “Hello.” Time stood still as a floodgate of memories between the two burst, a wave of nostalgia passing over the man as he desperately tried to relive his former life. The woman handed the package to him and said, “Inside is everything you’ll need. Make sure you’re careful and don’t arouse any suspicion. Lay low for a while, then act when you get the chance.” The man solemnly nodded, knowing this was it. He opened the package and found a number of essential items; fake passports, social insurance numbers and driver’s licenses, all with different names; a business card of a former associate, a map of St. Petersburg, Russia, and a silver, Glock P14 pistol. For a moment, neither of them spoke as they both took in their surroundings and breathtaking view. Finally, the woman said, “I can’t stay for long, I have another assignment. Take care Allan.” The woman opened her umbrella (for the rain had begun again), marched to the cockpit of the helicopter and started its engines. As the rotors began to spin faster and faster, the man was caught in a state of shock. Was this what he really wanted? Did he really have a choice? The rain began to fall more ferociously, splattering down in thick drops on his head. The rotors of the helicopter spun faster and faster, soon gaining enough momentum to lift the helicopter from the ground. With one last sly smile, the woman turned the helicopter around and propelled it away from the building. The man looked onward as its shape became smaller and smaller, assimilating itself into the city that never sleeps, until it completely disappeared, forever lost in the shadows of the night.  

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The Wild Ones (By: Eden Lewis)

The warm, dry air was disturbed only by a cool breeze that rushed through the trees and momentarily evaporated the perspiration on my face. The sun beat from above but the vibrant grass below was cool and soft and lush.  A stream steadily flowed, close enough to hear the gurgling and bubbling as the clear water flowed over rocks that had become smooth and round - but far enough that you couldn't smell the stagnant water that pooled along the edges, decorating the winding stream and providing breeding grounds for buzzing, dutiful mosquitoes and aquatic life. I walk slowly through this natural plot, coming ever closer to the end of the peace and beauty that only nature can replicate. The stench of plastic and chemicals begins to mingle with the scent of rich dirt and blossoming flowers, I'm regretting my decision already. I walk towards the suburbia of the end of my land. My lonely green pack of bountiful, beautiful land that is surrounded not by more beauty or even those appreciative of beauty, but by the bricks and wrought iron fences and expensive things that these people, these sad beings, these ever-lonely and emotionless robots surround themselves with to protect themselves, to make them feel less . . . less lonely, less hungry for passion, less lovely. 

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High Flying Bird (By: Peter Herriman)

“Once the events on the evening of November 27^th 1948 started, nothing would ever stop them until sunrise.” 

            As I walk up to 52^nd street between Fifth and Seventh Avenue I think to myself “I wonder who is playing at the 3 Deuces Jazz club tonight?” The night is frigid from the quick change of season in late November. The leaves have fallen, the cold breeze skimming my face and the roads are rather slick from the light dusting of snow we’d had the night before.  I know I am close to the action as the streets become dense with people. The well-dressed women and the men in their newly tailored suits surely bring a sense of style to the New York Jazz scene. Once I hit Fifth Avenue, I can see the presence of a nearly God like atmosphere. Although it is nighttime, the neon club signs brighten the sky around 52^nd street. The strong smell of marijuana is also prevalent throughout the clubs on Fifth Avenue. Continuing up the street I pass by one of the hippest joints in town, the “3 Deuces” Club.    

“Oh good heavens! The Charlie Parker Quintet are playing, I have to go in, maybe I can finally meet the great ‘bird” himself”; no one plays Sax like Bird. Charlie Parker’s nickname was always “Bird”, whether it was his love of chicken that gave him the name or not, we can’t be sure.  But it inspired many of his classic song titles such as “Yardbird”. I enter the 3 Deuces and immediately feel a rush from the energy that permeates the place. The people, both blacks and whites, are surprisingly in the same room without conflict, why is it like that in here but total war outside? The room is rather small and a thick layer of smoke has risen to the top. There are people everywhere! Yelling, laughing and everyone is drinking. So of course, to fit in, I light up a cigarette and go to the bar for a drink. The bartender, a big man towering at least six foot three stands there “Cognac Hennessy please”, before I look back to see if the musicians have arrived a voice interrupts “Make that two, I need a good stiff drink!” I look back and it is no one other than Bird himself. I do not know what to say? Do I start a conversation, should I ask for an autograph? Or do I even have the audacity to ask to sit in with these guys I am just a white boy who likes Jazz, but can I really play it? The bartender slams the drinks down “There you go gentlemen”, and turning to me adds “No charge since you’re with Charlie.” I was shocked to say the least. Me being associated with the great Charlie Parker, it was indeed an honor just to drink the same as him. “Thanks Max” says Charlie, he was not a very old man probably not even thirty yet, but up close I see a very worn out young man. His eyes were red and he a rather gaunt look about him, not the type of look you would see from such a precious musician. Despite these changes, I hope his playing is as good as it is on the albums.

            His musicians walk in behind him, Max Roach on Drums, Miles Davis on Trumpet, Leonard Gaskin on bass and Dexter Gordon on Tenor Sax, what a lineup! However, I look at Max Roach and he looks very sick from withdrawal, almost yellow in good light. These guys work hard, I suppose they are used to it.

            As I sit down in front of the stage, the band starts, the music is invigorating and the effect these men have on the audience is outstanding. The first intermission is after two hours of essentially improvisation. I finished my Cognac 20 minutes in, but I could not get up, in respect for the musicians. I saw that Charlie Parker’s drink was also empty what’s the least I could do for someone so great, I might as well get him a drink since he “bought” me one. I go back up to the bar, “Cognac Hennessy please, could you make that two I will buy one for Charlie.” The bar tender gives me a rather odd look, “You do realize that Charlie ends up just drinking the bottle, right?” I was astounded that someone can do that and still stand up. “Really? Well might as well start.” I go back to the front and offer Charlie his new drink. “Charlie, Here’s a new drink, now we’re even.” I felt that witty remark might start a conversation of some sort. “Thanks man.” He responds. Before the second set starts, Max Roach gets up and asks Charlie something, he got worse in the first set, now his withdrawal has made him totally yellow.

            I have played Jazz drums for 15 years but when I finished university I felt I was not suited to have a desk job. I have done a few Jazz gigs but nothing on the level of these guys.  Charlie’s response to Max is rather sympathetic, “Man if you feel that bad, you should have told me, but I bet we will find someone to sit in, go home and I will see you in the morning.” Are they serious? Someone gets to sit in. This is the moment I have been waiting for. Charlie asks “Can anybody play the drums?” everybody looks around, I slowly put my hand up, “Cognac guy? Aright, might as well give you a try.” The adrenaline was beginning to kick in, was I actually going to be playing with Charlie “Bird” Parker. I got up onto the stage, shaking with fear and excitement. What was going to happen? Would I do well? Or would I fail?

            As I started, Charlie looks back, “Start us off, just swing, we will follow”. I began to swing on the ride cymbal, I was a tad fast but once I started “Bird” was right there with my right hand. He was incredible; I was incredible, what was in the Cognac? Maybe now I know why he drinks that.  Throughout the entire set, Charlie kept looking back at me and smiling, no cues, just playing with no intermissions for two more hours. By the end I’m drenched and exhausted.

            As soon as we finish playing, I decide to leave; I was not part of Charlie’s band. Before I get to the stairs that lead up to the cold nights of 52^nd street’s winter. Charlie yells my name, “Would you like to come to the other gig we have lined up tonight? I understand it’s 2:30 in the morning, but the pay will be even better than this place?’  How could I resist? Even though I was tired, this may be my chance to shine and maybe become somebody. I took the job and we headed out to the street.

            The street was very quiet, and even colder than before.  We head over to the Village Vanguard in Greenwich Village for the second gig of the night. We hop in a cab to the gig, except Charlie and the band mates were to take a detour. I already knew Charlie was a junky, but what I didn’t know was that he was addicted to basically everything you could consume. Alcohol, Heroin, Morphine, Marijuana, Women, and who knows what else.

            When we arrive at Charlie’s apartment I was surprised to see how large it was, especially for New York.  Charlie’ s Apartment was at 5 Great Jones Street, an awesomely old-time loft building between Broadway and Lafayette. He takes us up to his apartment, the stairs rickety and rotting as a cold emotion flowed throughout the hallway. His apartment was rather clean for a junky, but the examples of drug use were highly evident. The use of needles, pills and alcohol were the main diet of this genius of a musician. I began to feel uncomfortable, unsure and confused of what was actually going to happen. Was I going to do drugs? If I do will I be cool? Of course “Bird” went to his apartment for a quick session before the gig. It’s getting late and I’m wondering what time we had to be at the gig. My watch said 3:00am; the gig was at 3:30am, we had better get there quickly. “Just one minute” Charlie goes into the kitchen and the rustling of silverware and opening and closing of cupboards is quite easy to hear.  Charlie returns with one spoon, a needle, matches, and a bag of white powder. “What’s the sugar for?” I said sarcastically, “You want some? It will keep you awake. “ I was not used to drug use, I had smoked some marijuana in my as of yet eventless life of 24 years. “ What the Hell!” I thought I might as well stay awake. I stuck my arm out, Charlie stuck himself, Dexter stuck himself, Charlie inserted the needle into my arm and a huge warm rush went up my arm into my brain, I could feel the drugs spreading through my veins like a cancer.

            “Let’s get to the gig, I think we are all on the same page now.” Charlie leads us to the door my head is spinning.  Walking down the stairs this time is a Herculean feat, my balance is completely off and to me, and I felt like everything was spinning. I cannot tell if the night got colder, or if my senses were on a rush from the heroin, all I know is that once this night began, I knew it would not end till morning.

            As we looked for a cab to the show, the cars drove by very slowly, yet I had energy. I was ready for anything, The Street was quiet, dark and mysterious, yet the heavy sound of car engines was highly evident.  It takes a while for us to hail a cab,” To the Village Vanguard!” demanded Charlie. I looked out the window as we drove, I could see every last water droplet on the window, streaming past as we drove through the cold, wet night.  Was I seriously on a high given to me by Charlie “Bird” Parker? When I walked into the 3 Deuces I had no idea that this night would end up like this. How do I know this is even happening? Could this be a dream? I tried to come to my senses before the gig. “How are we going to do this?” Said Dexter Gordon. Dexter is a quiet man, rather introverted as a personality but extroverted when given a tenor sax. I often wonder how hard these men have worked to have a “steady” job. I was only 24 years old, how am I in this situation? My mind was completely free, is this real world? Am I even here? My mind was racing so much, I feel asleep.

            The cab comes to a sudden halt. Bright lights begin to go to my head, I see a large awning that says “Village Vanguard”, and I was here for the gig. The doors of the cab open, and we slide out.  “You ready kid?” the band asks in unison, “As ready as I every will be” I confidently reply. Why I was so confident I have no idea, I am nobody is this large city of talented musicians. How did I get this role? The doors of the Vanguard open and we enter.

            Much larger than the 3 Deuces, the Village Vanguard is a long roomy club; smoke filled with sharply dressed men puffing on cigarettes and tobacco pipes. The women slink by, stunning and elegant, they are the critics of Jazz, who we rely on for support and the spreading of our reputation. I felt completely self conscious, that everybody was judging me, “That’s not Max Roach!” I heard a younger, student-looking man say. I knew I had to blow people away, or Charlie’s reputation would be in jeopardy. “Please Welcome Charlie Parker and the Quintet” the crowd roared with applause as we walked on stage. There is no better feeling than sitting behind people to admire. Yet, I felt the fear of Charlie Parker counting you in shudder through my body you know that after beat four your night begins. “1, 2…1,2,3,4.” The night starts with an extremely up-tempo swing. I have never felt more alive.

            By 6:30 am I’m returning home, after a night of alcohol and drugs. Was going to the 3 Deuces worth it after all? Or have I opened a door to a new way of life? I will have to wait and see until I go next week. I hear Bird’s playing there again next week, I might just have to drop in and buy him a drink. 

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