TBT – Poems and Short Story

Haiku written in Grade 5:

It stills the rapids
which wept and wailed, raged, yet failed
to flow in numbness


Sonnet from 2003 (gr 12)

Charming and elegant, he hosts parties

His house is in a valley, large, obscene

He floats about his house with silky ease

Within his tailored face, his mind is keen.

Illegal to harbour, he makes money

He escapes banishment and is toasted

His change pours like the colour of honey

Although his associates are roasted.

Thence came a time, he gazed upon the sky

With sullen thoughts reaching, alert and bright

And whilst I walked in glazed veil by

His mouth stretched wide with empty sounds of fright.

And ere hours had passed by, my mind yet sloshed

But up I got through pounding head and washed.


‘Designer Glasses’, a short story, written in 2002 (grade 11)

Squinted eyes stared out cynically through the lens of his drugstore glasses.  Perspiration formed beaded droplets on his forehead and over his upper lip. The midday sun was blazing its fury on the insignificant spec circling its robust form. It was just another day to
the columnist: another bus ride through the blaring horns of the city, another society degrading column, another threat of being fired, and of course, another sift through his collection of hate mail. He let a small corner of his lips rise at the thought of the latter.

He turned himself in his swivel chair at his lonely corner desk.  He stared at the blank screen before him, as if threatening it to intimidate him. The buzz around him–typing, periodic phone calls, spurts of laughter, the sound of high heels on a ceramic floor–fused into one distant hum. His fingers began their allotted task, hovering over the keys between spurts of his sardonic wit.

The reflection off his glasses read the lines on the screen. They read his words disapproving the trends of conformity and the sarcastic mockery of politics, western culture, and the inferior thinking of the human species in general. Often he would be bribed, threatened, and even blackmailed to undue the damage of his poisonous words. Yet he would not recant. He cherished his drugstore glasses.

The insufferable smell of perfume polluted his nostrils. He snorted in an attempt to salvage his mind from the invasion. A stealthy creature placed her paw upon his wooden working surface, leaning with her figure in a curvy bend. Her designer glasses surveyed his
scowling face, resting momentarily on his framed homage to poor,quality.

“Hello,” spoke the seducer. He grunted. She continued. “So, you are the famous controversial writer. You know, I am a big fan of your work.” She slithered her body to the screen. “Impressive. There might be hope for you yet.”  Suppressed laughter drooled on her lipstick. “These are unique. May I?” Her hand slid up and down his face until resting on his glasses. She drew them off his face, which featured a dumbfounded expression.

His eyes, narrowing to the task, gazed frantically for a familiar form to no avail. There was a crackle of broken glass, cruel feminine laughter, and high heels disappearing into the distance.

His brow dripped the former beads of perspiration from the vigorous pace he set. The kaleidoscope of colour whirled on either side. Nothing had a distinction and even sound merged into one echo passing like an old memory. The drugstore passed him by without a notice. A radiant light beamed from a curvy building, catching his eye with its drastic contrast. The sun bowed its celestial authority to the impressive shine. He walked with sightless clumsiness toward the glimmering object, to behold it: a pair of designer glasses. Shaky hands raised the glasses level with his eyes. He tried them on.

The seducing creature held him tightly, her nails digging into his arm. Her appearance was sudden and her presence alarming.

“Belonging,” she cooed.


Streaks of sunlight reflected off cars, which crammed through lines of traffic in an adrenaline spurting rivalry for success. Buildings sandwiched the contesting horns, animated by flashing neon lights.

Tinted glass offices stretched to kiss the clouds, rocking to and fro from their dizzying heights. It was a glorious day.

The columnist took lengthy confident strides to his newly adorned office, pausing briefly to receive messages from his short-skirted secretary. He plopped himself in his swivel chair, releasing a sigh with a (middle­-aged­-person) groan. He casually leafed through
the messages he had tossed on his desk: invitations to appear on radioshows, talk shows, and several money contributions in exchange for favourable publicity. He let satisfaction curl his lips as he swivelled to face the screen.

His smug fingers pranced across the keys, flaunting his humour, shaming philosophical freaks, and flattering those in key positions. He was the envy of every writer–the example for prestige. His designer glasses served him well.

The sun elapsed, footsteps diminished and the office lights dimmed. He leaned back in his chair, scrolling down the article with his right arm on the mouse. Pleased with himself, he saved his column to a disk and then to a backup file. He clicked for his computer to shut
down, while he cleared his desk, and grabbed his jacket from the chair’s back. He stretched over and pressed the power switch. He was confronted with an unexpected image reflecting off the black screen.

The stealthy creature, Lady Conformity, mimicked his expression of shock.

His irregular, fast­-paced breathing let out clouds of white smoke, frosted by the cool air of the twilight. He sprinted along the side walk, merely avoiding collision with a newspaper rack. The drugstore stood before him like a refuge. He opened the glassed door and walked briskly toward the racks of eye glasses. Eyes bugged and mouth wide, he gaped at the glasses. Instead of drugstore glasses, were row upon row of designer mock-ups.



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