2025 Amazon Canada Shortlisted Youth Short Stories

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Now in its eighth year, the Youth Short Story category of the Amazon Canada First Novel Awards invites authors aged thirteen to seventeen to submit short stories under 3,000 words. In 2025, Vicky Zhu was awarded the top prize of $5,000 for her story, “Suzanne”, while each of the five shortlisted youth authors received a cash prize of $500. Read the winning story here, with the shortlisted stories featured below.

Having just read hundreds of short stories written by young Canadians, I can confidently say that this country’s literary future is assured. The mandate of a competition is that there can only be one winner, but the percentage of work in this competition worth honouring is unusually high, providing me with perhaps my greatest jurying challenge so far. The storytelling talent exhibited is amazing—a real delight; sometimes I completely forgot the task at hand and caught myself indulging in the sheer pleasure of reading. But what has moved me is the ability, almost across the board, of these young authors to brilliantly express their era’s and their generation’s zeitgeist. The joys, angsts, pain, urgent hopes, fears, and dreams of a generation are deeply felt, well-understood, and unreservedly explored in stories crafted to enlighten and entertain. I truly say the pleasure has been mine. – Shani Mootoo, 2025 Youth Short Story Category Judge

“Lost Boy” by Emma Chappel”

A cool breeze runs through your hair as you walk along the beach, tracing the edge of the lake. Across the water, over the treetops, the sun is setting. It will soon be dark, but you either don’t realise or choose to ignore it as you continue down the beach. This night is like the many others you’ve spent at this camp, the one your parents have been bringing you to since you were a child.

You can hear the waves crashing onto rocks and insects chirping in the grass. You feel the sand move under your shoes and the wind on your face. You aren’t even looking where you’re going. Eyes closed and face to the wind; you don’t need to. The path you’re on is bare of grass and plants from the many times you’ve walked it. You know where you’re going, and the path has never changed.

Until now.

You hear the cracking of a fire, something that you’ve never encountered here before. You open your eyes and ahead of you there is a teenage boy, around your age. He is sitting by a fire pit, gently prodding the flames, his face illuminated by their orange glow. Then, you see something else. By his feet are stacks of papers and books, and he takes them in small amounts and adds them to the fire. The paper quickly catches and burns, with some pieces flying upwards, glowing like fireflies.

You don’t realise it at first, but you walk toward him. You’re curious; who is this strange boy? You don’t recognise his face, and no one else has ever been here during your walks before.

As you approach him, you silently watch him poke the fire with a stick, sending leafy ashes into the air. It’s not until you’re within the light of the fire that he looks up and finally notices you. Shock passes over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. For a moment, you both stare at each other, before he gestures to one of the chairs around the fire, an invitation to join.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come over,” he says as you take a seat. You don’t say anything in return, nodding your head at him in thanks instead. Now that you’re closer, you look back to the papers, curious.

They’re drawings, you realise. Drawings of places and plants, some drawings of people. You recognise some of the faces as other people at the camp, others as characters from a movie you liked, and others were unknown to you. They’re all detailed, drawn with an expert eye and only done in pencil. There’s no colour in any of them, except for the orange from the glow of the fire. The boy watches you and seems to read your mind. “You’re wondering why I’m burning my drawings,” he says, barely above a whisper. You know he isn’t asking, rather stating a fact. You nod. He doesn’t look away, and you can see how his eyes have such a weight to them, more than anyone his age should be bearing.

You watch him closely without realising, and he seems to mistake your intense gaze and slight scowl for judgement. The boy squirms in his seat, looking back to the fire.

“I have a good reason for it, you know,” he mutters, slightly defensive, before deflating and letting out a sigh. “Or, I should. I don’t really have one that makes sense to others. It’s hard to explain why . . .” His voice trails off, unspoken words hanging on the tip of his tongue. He looks hesitant, almost scared .

He looks lost.

You motion for him to continue and give a gentle smile. You don’t dare speak, lest you break the strange, almost peaceful bubble you both find yourselves in.

He gives a small smile in return and takes a breath. You ready yourself to hear his story, or explanation, but are surprised by what actually comes out. “Have you ever felt lost?” he quietly asks, as though he was admitting to a terrible secret. “Or untethered? Like you aren’t sure what you’re doing, where you’re going in life?”

Strangely, you haven’t thought of this much before. Have you?

“Sorry,” he says, seeing the confused look on your face. “You don’t have to answer that.” He turns back to the fire for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

You wait in silence, in case he wants to continue. It also gives you a chance to let his question sink in.

The feeling of being lost is not unfamiliar to you. You got lost as a child, scaring your parents. In new places, you weren’t sure where to go. Big buildings were overwhelming in their vastness, and you would find yourself at a loss when faced with them.

But you have a feeling this isn’t what the boy means.

“It’s just . . . I feel like that a lot, like I don’t know who I am, who I’m supposed to be. People always say you should be and do what makes you happy, right?”

You nod again, listening closely to each word. He gives a humourless chuckle. “That’s the problem for me. It’s like nothing I do makes me happy. Actually, no, that’s not true.” He scowls at the fire and pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. “Things make me happy, but it never stays that way, like the thought of doing that for the rest of my life takes all the joy out of it. I feel like I can’t try things if that’s not what I’m going to do with my life, and I would just be wasting my time if I tried something else.”

“So I’m stuck with what I do know. And I know that I’m good at it, but it never feels like it’s enough. How is one simple thing worthy to do for the rest of my life? How could I be stuck with it forever?”

You notice the tremble in his frame and turn to face the lake instead of him, giving him space.

After a moment, he continues, his voice barely more than a whisper in the air. “I feel like I’m not doing good enough and that everything I did was worthless and horrible. I always ask myself, ‘why couldn’t you just get it right the first time around? Why can’t you be good at the one thing you’re supposed to be good at?’” His glazed eyes rest on the dancing flames. “Those thoughts follow me around everywhere. It brings this cloud of anger and resentment, and it blurs my vision. It makes me see everything I’ve done as worthless. It envelops me and never leaves me alone. And these emotions control me, they take over my mind and my thoughts. I am a servant to my emotions and regrets.”

His voice quiets and another dry laugh escapes him.

“How poetic,” he mutters to himself. His chest heaves as he leans away from the fire.

You don’t say anything, you can’t interrupt him now. It’s evident that this boy has not had a chance to speak to anyone about this (or maybe no one would listen), and far be it for you to take this from him. At any rate, you’re happy to listen and to let him speak.

“Well, that’s why I’m burning these drawings.” He gestures to the stack of papers. “I feel like they’re holding me back, as ridiculous as it sounds.”

When you look at this boy now, you see him in such a different way. Under the light of day, he would be quite normal looking—maybe the way his dark curls rest above his shoulders or the sharp lines of his profile would stand out in a crowd—but now that you know of the emotions he keeps inside, the inner turmoil that wraps his head in a storm, he will never be just a normal boy to you again.

It is then that you decide that emotions are dangerous. They can chain your thoughts and control you if you let them. But at the same time, you would be devoid of life and being if you don’t let yourself experience them. It’s a dangerous line to walk. Is it better to be overwhelmed by emotions and the thoughts they bring, or to feel nothing at all, as if you are but a husk moving numbly through life?

There’s no single answer for that, you suppose. Each person will think differently and react differently to the situations brought to them. It’s never cut and dry, never one clear solution, as you can clearly see with this boy. There will always be more hidden under the surface that you can’t see.

The boy looks at you from across the fire, as though he read your mind. “You get it, don’t you?” he asks, though it’s more of a statement than a question. “Everyone has secrets, and even if you try to find out what they are, you can never really know unless they tell you. It’s like a balancing act.”

You let the words drift into silence, wordlessly agreeing, and slowly take your eyes off the boy. The embers and ash from the fire fly into the night. It’s strange how time can pass, because now the sun has dipped under the horizon and the sky is painted with stars. You’re only noticing this now; before, the light of the fire hid how dark it had gotten.

The boy shifts, drawing your attention again. He picks up some papers and lets them fall into the fire. A sigh escapes his lips, and he draws his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m talking so much,” he says, voice small and quiet. “It’s normally so hard. And I don’t mean to just dump all this on you, either. I’m not sure what’s different now.”

His eyes, goodness, his eyes. They’re so sad, so heavy. They hold a pain there that should never be placed on someone so young. This boy not only looks lost, he is lost. He and so many others have been told what their potential is, what their futures could be, before they have the chance to find out and learn for themselves. They are places in boxes and expectations, and it’s a struggle to break free of them. They will rarely find themselves, who they truly are, if a path is already pre-picked for them.

“What’s different is that you have started, you have talked,” you begin quietly. The boy startles, and looks at you as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually talk. Truthfully, you weren’t expecting to either, but here you are. “The hardest part about overcoming your problems is finding the courage to put them into words, laying them out for others to see and hear, for them to listen and understand.”

You meet his eyes from across the fire. In the sunlight, his eyes would’ve been a dark brown, almost black, but the fire makes them glow like embers, a red and orange with flecks of gold. His eyes were wide with surprise and something else you can’t quite place. You turn back to the fire and continue.

“Words have power. They can either be used to build yourself up or tear you down just as quickly. They are life, and while life is a risk, it’s still life. You need to live it and experience it all in order to be yourself, to be human.”

The boy shifts in his chair and you look at him. The hurt is written all over his face, and the look he gives you is almost pleading.

“But how can I let myself live how I want to when I’ll only make mistakes?” he asks, voice breaking slightly.

You give him a small smile, only tinged with a bit of sadness. “Mistakes are part of being human,” you tell him.

The wind flows by again, but the warmth of the fire takes away its cold bite. It twists the flames and the papers shift, with some flying away from their stacks. A few land by your feet, and you lean down to pick them up.

One is a detailed drawing of another boy. His smile is bright and goes all the way to his eyes, which glitter with mirth. The details are immaculate; you can practically see every individual hair that makes up his tight curls and every blemish on his skin. It was drawn with an evident care and love for the person in it.

The second drawing is a landscape, one you recognise quite well. It is the lake, and the well-worn path you walk along every evening. At a closer look, you realise it’s also a drawing of you. You’re walking by the lake, as you have done many times before, face up to the sky and eyes closed, at peace. Though you’re small and the focus of the piece is more on the landscape, it’s still clearly you, with your distinct hair, favourite sweater and worn shoes, walking along the path on the beach.

You hold the drawings gently in your hands with great care and turn back to the boy. With careful steps, you walk around the fire until you’re standing in front of him and he’s looking up at you.

You realise the other emotion that was in his eyes was hope. A careful, cautious hope that all this trouble in his mind can start to go away. Hope that he can feel understood and loved regardless of what other people see in him. Hope that he can finally, finally, find a solution with the help of others, and not alone.

“Even though living is a risk,” you say gently as you hand him the drawings. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t allowed to receive help when you’ve gone too far, or that you don’t deserve help. Opening up is the hardest thing a person can do, but it’s also the most important. Talking about our problems is the first step to healing.”

The boy glances toward the drawings you’re holding out. The one of the boy with the bright smile is on top. With gentle, shaking hands, he takes the papers from you and looks at it with the eyes of someone reliving a happy memory but knowing it’s lost.

“I messed up. So bad,” he admits, tears in his eyes. “I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.”

You don’t know the other boy in the drawing, or what this boy did to him. But if he’s anything like the warmth and joy of his smile, you would take him to be a kind and forgiving person. And knowing the boy before you, you think he is someone worth that chance.

But these are all just your thoughts. There’s only one thing you know for sure. “He can’t forgive you until you learn how to forgive yourself.” You gently lay a hand on his shoulders as they shake and shudder. “You have to start down the path of healing before all else, but you don’t have to walk it alone.”

He looks up to you, and though he seems sad, there’s that hope in his eyes again, even stronger than before. With a shaky breath, he slowly takes your hand in his and gives you the drawing of the lake landscape.

“This might be a lot to ask of you,” he begins quietly. “But would you be willing to take that path with me?”

You look down to the drawing of a path worn down by all the times you’ve walked it. A path you know like the back of your hand. You could lead someone along blind and still make it to where you need to go. It’s about time you brought someone down that path with you.

Without needing to think it over and consider what accepting would bring you, in your heart and in your mind, you know with complete certainty what your answer is.

Emma is a seventeen-year-old writer and artist from Toronto, Ontario. As an avid reader, movie lover, and musician, she enjoys all the hidden secrets and deep messages that can be fit into a few minutes of one’s time.

I wrote the first version of this story in 2021, when I was struggling to find myself and who I wanted to be. When I revisited it, it became a conversation between the version of me who was struggling with feelings of doubt and unworthiness, a fear reflected in the Lost Boy’s thoughts, and a version of me that has been healing and learning how to be kind to myself. In my writing, I hope to be able to help others in ways I needed help back then. Though our lives and experiences can sometimes feel isolating, we aren’t as alone as we may think. Others are there to help us heal and grow; we just have to be open to it first.

“Autumn Nights” by Willow Greenfield

It was after midnight, and a serene emptiness permeated the streets of New York. All the lights of the surrounding apartment buildings had long been extinguished and, in the distance, it was possible to hear the faint cries of sirens and car horns echoing over the landscape with all the melancholy beauty of a dream.

Autumn was now well underway in the city; outside, the trees had turned to a brilliant array of oranges and reds and fallen leaves scraped softly along the pavement everywhere one went. It was the kind of season where it was easy to feel a little lost, as though every time one stepped off a street corner one might simply fade out of existence, but I was happy enough in my own way. I had been going to the movies a lot in the last few weeks. It was deliciously warm and dark inside the theatre, and girls looked beautiful when you saw their faces bathed in the ethereal, bluish light of the screen. Even strolling down the sidewalk carried a certain pleasure when one could feel the crisp, autumnal air blowing gently against one’s skin.

On this occasion, however, I had lost my joy of everything to the profound loneliness of the night. Looking out at the scene from the leather armchair in my apartment, I felt ill at ease with the world, as though my very soul was being poisoned by the cruel realities of existence. For several days now, it had been impossible for me to sleep peacefully; I was disturbed by strange, recurring dreams and, despite my general weariness of life, often found myself awake for hours on end, waiting with resignation until the gentle light of morning would bring a stop to the insufferable tedium of my nights.

In an attempt to soothe my troubled state, I had taken to reading Proust in the dim candlelight of the living room. The book brought me a gentle solace, and I read every sentence twice with the desire to fully absorb the words until they spoke to me alone, as though I believed they could reveal some hidden answer to my vague, comprehensive sorrow. It was a feeling which often overcame me at strange moments, sometimes brought on by the mere sight of a stranger walking past on the street, or a glance out of a particularly dreary window which gave me the sick premonition that everything was marching slowly toward death.

As I flipped absentmindedly through the pages of the novel, driven to distraction by a lingering exhaustion which plagued me ceaselessly, this familiar misery seemed to become almost palpable. I tied and untied my shoelaces, tormented by a curious sensation that I was needed elsewhere, or specifically that it was imperative for me to get up and go home at once. It did not matter how many times I tried to convince myself that I was already in the only home which I possessed; I could not shake the feeling of being drawn toward some unknown place or ideal, as ever-present and alluring as the call of the abyss itself.

In the midst of contemplating this, my reverie was suddenly broken by the opening of a door on the other side of the apartment. I turned instinctively in the direction of the sound. It was my roommate, Charles, returning at last after a night out in an endless procession of suave, mysterious bars.

I watched as he slid off his coat and walked languorously over to the refrigerator. He was a frail, waifish man with a pallid complexion and unkempt black hair which fell in a tangle around his silver, wire-framed glasses. In his movements and bearing, he sometimes possessed the slightly haughty self-importance of an exiled prince, and it seemed as though he glided, rather than walked, through the world with a certain disdainful radiance.

When he noticed me after a moment, he came to a standstill and furrowed his brows. “You’re still reading?” he asked, evidently bemused. “I thought you would have gone to bed by now.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I was asleep for a few hours.”

Charles continued to look at me expectantly, as though he was waiting for some further explanation, but the languid and otherworldly quality of my isolation had not yet worn off and I felt strangely unable to speak. Turning away from him evasively, I began to survey the rest of the apartment. It was a barren, slightly dilapidated place, with white-washed walls and only what little furniture we had managed to find discarded on the streets, but in the darkness its everyday mundanity seemed to take on a grotesque quality that worked only to enhance my despair.

After a few seconds, the feeling became too much to bear, and I glanced back in Charles’ direction in an attempt to distract myself. He was carefully examining the contents of the fridge and eventually pulled out a half-finished cup of coffee. When he met my gaze, he strolled over towards me and flung himself down on the tattered grey sofa next to my chair.

Charles took a pensive sip of his drink and looked at me. “Micheal, do you remember, before we moved to New York, how we used to talk about what life would be like when we got here? I was thinking about that tonight. I believe we were under the impression that we would be living in the penthouse of some irresistible skyscraper by now.”

He smiled at me playfully for a moment, and suddenly I felt myself overcome with that desperate desire, felt with nauseating persistence by all lonely people, to make him understand me in some profound, fundamental way.

“You know what I’ve been thinking about lately? The fact that we only get one life and for the most part all we do is waste it on vain, meaningless trivialities. I mean, this is our only chance and instead of doing anything that actually matters, we slowly let everything beautiful in our hearts get eaten away by this horrible society that just wants to take everything we have until we’re dead. It’s like this dream I keep having where I’m standing in a crowded room, and I keep grabbing people by the shoulders and asking them why they’re here and what they want, but they don’t say anything because they don’t know. Everybody forgets all the things they care about in the end. It makes me sick.”

I knew that my speech was rapid and confused, but I could not bear to slow down and organize my thoughts; I was possessed by an irrational compulsion to say everything on my mind before I could come to my senses. When I had finished, I searched Charles’ face breathlessly for the slightest hint of comprehension, and my disappointment was indescribable when I was met only with bewilderment and concern.

Charles stared at me helplessly for a moment and then cleared his throat to break the unbearable silence that had fallen over the room. “Well, I mean, just because we don’t really live in a penthouse doesn’t mean everything is so bad,” he stammered. “Just look at the view outside our window. It’s certainly better than some basement apartment, wouldn’t you say?”

He continued to ramble on in this manner about the multitude of things for which I ought to be grateful, but I was too immersed in my own sorrow to listen. Looking at his gentle, worried expression, I was suddenly aware that I was searching for a depth in him that most likely did not exist, and it seemed to me that we were both in mourning for something which had been irrevocably lost between us.

Eventually, it seemed impossible to endure his attempts to reassure me any longer and I interrupted him abruptly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I actually feel like I might be able to sleep now, so I think I’ll head back to my room.” As I stood up and saw the surprise and hurt on his face, however, I felt a sharp pang of remorse over my harshness and hesitated slightly. “Thank you, though. I mean it.”

Before he could say anything more than a soft goodbye, I had rushed out of his sight and into the comfortable seclusion of my own room. Quietly closing the door behind me, I sat down on the edge of my bed as bitter tears began to cloud my vision. For the first time in my life, it was heartbreakingly clear to me that no one, no matter how close to me, could ever truly understand me. I wondered if perhaps this was the one unifying truth of human existence; from the beginning of one’s life until the very end, whatever torments and joys one might experience will ultimately be felt alone. As long as one lives in ignorance of this fact, one can be happy, but when it is recognized as one’s fundamental reality, it is the same as knocking for the rest of one’s days on the door of unhappiness.

Willow is an eighteen-year-old writer who enjoys avidly reading the works of Oscar Wilde and writing furiously in her bedroom. Her future plans include getting a degree in English Literature and pursuing a career as an author and poet.

I wanted to write this story as an expression of what I believe are almost universally held questions about existence and finding one’s place in the world. I know that, especially when one is young, it is easy to be discouraged by the casual cruelty of society and to feel slightly lost and alone. In light of this, I wrote “Autumn Nights” to show that there are others who feel this way and as a reminder to always hold on to the things that matter most.

“In the Chair” by Thivya Jeyapalan

milk teeth

The prey dangled by a stubborn thread of flesh, wiggling with every prod of the snake. It had been trapped for days—long enough to savour the novelty but not long enough to dull the quiet dread of its inevitable departure. The snake coiled its long neck around the prey, and with a silent snap, swallowed it whole—only to disgorge it moments later. Blood rushed from the wound, spilling like a deep crimson river as the serpent gently probed the open space, feeling the warmth of the escape . . .

“Mom, I lost another tooth!”

On the drive to the dentist, I couldn’t help but cradle the small Ziploc bag in my hand, the tooth resting inside like a delicate treasure. There was something oddly satisfying about holding it, a soothing comfort that softened the nervous flutter in my chest as we neared the visit.

Running up the stairs—two by two by two—I secretly raced against my mother, who took the elevator. But this time, I slowed a little, clutching my tooth tightly in my fist.

The receptionist’s office greeted me with its usual mix of minty freshness and the eerie buzz of the TV in the corner, cycling the latest headlines no one cared to watch.

The walls were lined with strange paintings of storks in pale grey tones. Sometimes, if I stared long enough, I swore I could see them fly—or maybe it was just my imagination.

The clock on the wall seemed to be dilly-daddling, as if the mother hand of the clock had told the child hand to keep moving, but it stubbornly refused, dragging its feet with each tick.

The rhythmic clickity-clack of the keyboard filled the room where the woman behind the desk worked in silence, occasionally glancing at her phone before returning her glare to the screen. Whenever we made eye contact, there was an uncomfortable pause, as if she needed to prove that she was, indeed, doing her job.

It was an odd reunion, one I seemed to have every six months, like clockwork—a familiar yet strangely unsettling ritual of pokes, prods, and small talk I had no interest in participating in. As I sat down, the noise of the waiting room faded into the background, leaving me with only the distant hum of my thoughts and the baffling, oddly comforting discomfort of it all.

The silence between me and the receptionist stretched until the faint, almost imperceptible squeak of her chair broke it. She looked at me again—this time with a fleeting, almost apologetic smile, unsure whether to ask me about my day or simply return to the glow of her

screen. Her fingers danced across the keys with mechanical precision and sharp staccatos, yet the air seemed thick with an unspoken expectation.

The room itself was waiting for something to happen.

And so was I.

But then something did happen. The door to the dental chairs creaked open, its hinges letting out a muted groan as a new man in a white coat appeared in the doorway.

“Next,” the receptionist called out, and it felt like a sudden jolt to my chest. I stood up too quickly, bumping my knee on the edge of the chair. My mom reached over to rub it, but I was already stepping toward the hallway.

And there he awaited me, with his big goggles and a mask on his face, the shadows of his features hidden behind layers of fabric.

The moment I crossed the threshold into the room, I felt the cool air rush past me like a silent wave. The chair, so large and imposing, loomed ahead, waiting for me to climb into it. It was as if I had volunteered for a magic show and suddenly had second thoughts when the magician asked me to hop into a box for him to cut me in half. Cut me in half. There were mirrors, drills, and little vials of something that looked like bottled potions, all organized neatly on trays. A swish of water here, a faint murmur there, and the air thick with the scent of mint.

It smelled like gro—

“Growing up, aren’t you?”

His eyes twinkled behind his goggles, like he was about to perform a secret ritual only he knew. He gently tilted my head back, and the bright light above shined down on me, making the shadows dance on the walls like a mermaid in the ocean.

Blinded by the light, I closed my eyes.

The tools, as if on cue, began to swirl around my mouth, sending waves of water crashing in and out. A quick spray, and then the rising tides rushed in, swirling around my tongue like an unforgiving storm.

And suddenly, the storm hit, and the lightning struck. A sharp prick. I winced and my eyes shot wide open.

His fingers brushed my cheek—gentle, precise.

“Let it hurt,” he said, a softness in his voice as he worked the tool in my mouth, “and trust that everything will be okay.”

I tried. The whirr of the drill, the solid metal, the shifting shadows—it all blurred together, hypnotic, endless.

Until suddenly, it wasn’t.

“All done,” he said, stepping back. Wiping his hands clean, he removed his gloves with a swift movement and lifted his goggles so I could see his eyes. He raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be in a rush to lose them all. The tooth fairy doesn’t stick around forever.”

And before I could respond, he was gone.

The receptionist handed me a small blue cup. I swished the liquid, its cool sting dissolving the last traces of numbness.

On the way out, I turned back, hoping for one last glimpse of the magician. But the doorway stood empty.

The bell chimed faintly as I stepped outside, the sound lingering like a whisper, marking the end of something I didn’t quite understand.

I pressed the button to the elevator, and the floor light blinked to life. It glowed steadily, descending down the building. As the doors began to close, I caught a glimpse of my tooth in its Ziploc bag, left behind on the other side. I stared through the narrowing crack, until the doors shut with a soft, almost final click, swallowing me whole in their cold embrace.

And for half a second, I thought about going back, but I convinced myself that it was already too late—that everything would be ok.

Besides, it’s not like I believed in the tooth fairy anyway.

brace face

The snake found that escaped prey always led to more in their place—only this time, they were stronger. Its fangs meeting something unnatural. Tall figures with steady hands pulled the prey into line, stretching them, caging them in gleaming metal bars. No more wobbling. No more escaping. The snake coiled back, watching as its old domain was sealed away, its grip useless against the silver prison. The snake brushed against the bars, feeling the prey just beyond its reach—so close, yet untouchable. It lingered for a moment, then recoiled, slipping back into the black hole of its home. Powerless. Thirty-eight calls from mom.

Shit. I missed my alarm.

Water slapped my face, a weird sense of consciousness brushing over me. Droplets streaked down the mirror, distorting my reflection in a way that almost made me look like someone else. Almost. But beneath the water stains, I was still me.

Braces cutting into my cheeks. Lips chapped. Eyes a little more tired than yesterday.

I hated that face.

I yanked my phone off the charger, lighting up a mess of notifications. A group chat explosion. Ami left the chat. Raj was added. Scrolled up. A warzone of passive-aggressive texts. Someone’s “joke”about their ex didn’t land right. Someone took it too seriously. And now, someone wasn’t talking to anyone. I sighed, thumbs hovering over my screen.

Apologize? Pick a side? Or pretend I didn’t see anything?

I don’t have time for this.

I threw on yesterday’s hoodie and rushed downstairs, stuffing my aligners into my pocket before grabbing my bag. I was ready to slam the front door shut when . . .

I forgot my keys.

The drive was loud, cars honking and stupid traffic. On top of it all, the screaming pings of notifications I refused to check. My hands tightened on the wheel, the same way the wires pulled at my teeth, shifting them into some picture-perfect version of a smile.

I walked into the smell of stale mint and latex gloves. The TV was old now—screen cracked, the black corners chipped.

The walls, freshly painted in a dull shade of gray, were covered in abstract paintings, random lines trying too hard to be meaningful. I stared, hoping that if I looked long enough, they’d rearrange themselves into something that made sense.

And the clock. That damn, stupid clock. Would someone just fix the broken thing?

The receptionist didn’t seem like the type to notice things like that. She looked like the dolls on display. Too perfect to touch. Flawless. Gelled nails tapping the keyboard, eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, teeth so white they practically glowed. She barely glanced at me as she passed over the clipboard.

I took it with fingers I suddenly hated—nails too short, jagged from constant biting. My knuckles looked dry. I curled them into my sleeve, frayed and oversized on my awkward frame.

In the waiting room, I scrolled through my phone again. Ami rejoined the chat. No sign of Raj. It felt odd, that everything was fine now, or at least fake-fine. The same way my teeth would be once the braces came off. Not really natural, just forced into place.

I’m about to send a text when my phone blares loudly.

Mom. I forgot to call her back.

I rush out of the office, my legs tripping over themselves. I pick up on the fourth ring.

“Hello? Hello? Hello, can you hea—” “I called you thirty-nine times.”

“I’m here now. I arrived.”

“You were late.”

“I’m sor—”

She hangs up.

I swallow hard and shove my phone into my pocket. If I didn’t see the screen, I could pretend the call never happened.

I breathe deep, trying to shake off the tension in my chest. Pushing through the doors into the clinic—there he was.

He glances up from the tray of instruments, adjusting his gloves with a practiced ease. “Long call?” he asks.

How the hell did he know I was on the phone?

I force a shrug, settling into the chair as he tilts it back. The overhead light glares down at me, too bright, too exposing.

“You’ve been keeping up with your aligners?” he asks, peering into my mouth.

I nod, even though I left them in my hoodie pocket. He hums like he knew, but doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, he reaches for a tool and gently taps against my teeth.

“Teeth only move if you let them,” he says.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just stare at the light, knowing it’ll burn my eyes.

I focus on the ceiling, counting the tiny specks in the fluorescent light panel, anything to ignore the way my mouth feels. My tongue presses against the back of my teeth, searching for space that isn’t there, bumping against smooth plastic and metal. There’s nowhere to rest, no room to move. Trapped.

The wires pull, the brackets press, the pressure constant, unrelenting. My jaw aches with the weight of something I can’t fight, can’t escape.

“You’re almost there,” he says. He adjusts the bands, the snap of rubber against metal sharp in my ears.

I swallow against the tightness, but it doesn’t go away. And slowly, the tear forms in my eyelid. It makes its way down my cheek without permission. A single drop of wetness on my rough skin.

“It’s uncomfortable. Looks worse before it looks better,” he says.

I exhale through my nose, the only sign that I heard him. He grabs a tissue, wipes the teardrops without a word, and hands it to me.

I clench it tightly in my fist, and for the first time in a long time, I feel in control. Powerful.

wisdom teeth

The snake has a home, a place carved into the world. It’s dark at times, a hollow refuge where shadows stretch long. But it can leave the hole. It can emerge, slipping between the cracks of daylight, tasting the air, the richness of it. The world is vast, but the snake does not need to chase. The prey settled into place, no longer trembling, no longer fleeing. They do not fight. They do not fall. They move together, balanced in perfect rhythm. There is power in motion, peace in stillness. The sun warms its scales, the earth steadies its path, and finally, it belongs.

A dish shatters in the kitchen. Glass splinters across the floor, a thousand tiny reflections of the morning light.

“Baby, careful. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

My mom holds the broom as I sweep the pieces into the basin. I grab my keys—

“I can drive you.”

She says it softly, like an offering, like she’s hoping I’ll let her. I nod, handing her the keys.

The driveway is painted with a fresh layer of white, last night’s snowfall already filling in the tire tracks.

As we pull away, the turn signal clicks rhythmically, the car humming its age-old tune. My mom doesn’t say much, just drums her fingers on the wheel, a rhythm I’ve known since childhood.

The radio plays something mellow, a song I don’t know but don’t mind. I lean my head against the window, watching the morning light stretch long shadows across the pavement. At this hour, the world looks innocent—golden and quiet, like it hasn’t quite woken up yet.

We park and take the elevator up. I take a deep breath, waiting for the bell of the dental office to chime as we step in.

Inside, the walls are a new color. A new shade of beige. Boring, but beautiful. Beautiful.

The paintings are gone, replaced by posters. Not the glossy, perfect-smile advertisements, but something real. Kids with gapped teeth grinning wide, elderly faces framed by laughter, a couple beaming with almost-aligned smiles. And then—

I see myself.

A photo I barely remember taking. Neutral expression, teeth pressed together. It’s me, right after getting my braces off, right before leaving for college. I looked young. I looked—

“Beautiful. You look beautiful.”

My eyes shift rapidly to a voice that is all so familiar. He grins, lingering at the doorway, my file thick in his hands. He motions for me to come along, and I open the door to the chair. I pause.

“Mom, are you coming?”

She looks up from her magazine, a small, knowing smile on her lips. The type only a daughter would recognize.

We walk in together, our strides matching. The receptionist offers a smile. “Good luck.”

Surgery is a scary word. The thought of slipping under, the weight of metal instruments pressing against my gums, the sharp scent of antiseptic settling in my throat—it’s enough to make my fingers curl against the armrests. But they don’t. My mother’s hand brushes over mine, light and steady, as she takes a seat beside me.

The chair tilts back, and my world narrows to the bright ring of the overhead lamp.

The mask settles over my nose. Cool air rushes in. I see his big goggles and face blurring away. My breath slows. The sounds around me stretch—gloved hands adjusting trays, the subtle clink of metal against metal, the murmur of voices . . .

Then, nothing.

A dull, deep, insistent . . . nothing. The kind that exists somewhere between sensation and absence, like something being pulled from the roots. My jaw feels heavy, my tongue foreign in my mouth, pressed into whatever space is left. There’s tugging, and I know it should hurt, but it doesn’t—just a deep, distant awareness that something is being undone.

When I wake, the light dims. My mouth is stuffed with cotton, my lips too numb to form words, but I’m here. The chair rises, slowly, and my world steadies with it.

“It takes time, but it’ll heal. Just keep your tongue out of the way,” he says to me, handing me a booklet with care instructions.

I glance at him, my mouth stuffed with cotton, making my face as round as it was when I was a kid.

And I don’t know how, or when, or why. But my mouth can’t help it.

I smile. I smile so wide my lips start to crack and my teeth show. Every. Single. One.

He pauses, just for a second, and nods. Then, like a magician, he’s gone, disappearing into the hallway before I can say anything more.

My mom walks ahead, still watching me carefully, worried about the anesthesia. My head spins slightly, the waiting room blurring at the edges, but I feel light. I feel effortless.

I wave at the receptionist before stepping out.

At the last second, I turned back, a part of me hoping he would be there.

In the elevator, the doors begin to close. As the gap narrows, I stick my hand out. Then, with a timid chime—ding—they glide open again.

“Mom. . . can we take the stairs?”

We run down—two by two by two—laughter echoing against the walls. A crisp breeze greets me as I exit into the parking lot. Snowflakes swirl in the daylight, dancing down at their own pace.

I tilt my head back, my tongue out, spinning just once.

A snowflake lands, cold for a moment before it disappears.

I glance up at the clinic windows. There—in the room with the chair—I see him. Watching. Then, just before he turns away, he smiles.

I blink twice, and he’s gone.

Was it a trick of the light? Or maybe just magic?

The snow keeps falling, and for the first time, I don’t need another explanation

Thivya is an eighteen-year-old writer from Stouffville, Ontario. Her work has been featured in CBC Kids, Broadview, and The Teen Walrus. She was recently named a 2024 Rise Global Winner for her work in innovation and music.

Growing up, the dentist’s office was a constant in my life—partly because my father is a dentist. He always said he watched his patients grow up in the chair, and one day I realized he had done the same for me. This story blends real memories with daydreams and reflects on coming of age, embracing what makes us young, and being seen through every stage by someone who cared.

“Heed My Prayers” by Victoria Nguyen

Midnight

The winter of 1716

The confessional is a mouth hungry for her bones. A yawning and insatiable chasm, its splintering lips whispering prayers that taste of blood and bite. The sea clings to the cliff like a corpse to a coffin, clawing at the earth, stripping flesh from bone until the land lies bare, a raw weeping wound. The cathedral lays silently, staining hands seeking divinity incarnadine with devotion. They say a woman haunts the land between the sea and cathedral, her body a mosaic of scars and rot, limbs barely tethered to her frame, eyes tinged with the haze of ash-fall. She moves with the grace of a shadow, her form a mirage in the pale moonlight.

“Why stay?” A passing fisherman asks. “Why not let the sea have you?”

She smiles, all teeth and no mercy.

“Because,” she says, her lips curling up on its edges, “we are the prayer that refuses to die.”

She was a body hand stitched by Lachesis who measures and Atropos who cuts. She sang in two voices tangled in one throat, a cacophony of despair and desire. One of a woman’s wails, and the other a lover’s dirge, low like the tolling of a bell in an empty cathedral. At low tide, she offers wandering lovers roses—thornless, rootless, red as a scream but only to those who can meet her eyes. To meet her gaze is to see yourself unraveled, your soul laid bare, your heart stripped of its armour. She is not a woman, not anymore. She was now a myth carved from stone.

“Take it,” she croons, long, velvety fingers curled around its stem. “Love is a knife. Love is the wound. Love is the salt that keeps it fresh.” Her voice is smoke, serrated, a hymn scraped raw from the belly of a wolf.

The villagers cross themselves, mutter of demons, of sins that run in her blood like the rot in an apple’s core and manifest as horns. They don’t see how her hands still tremble, how she presses them to the chapel walls. They don’t know she is stitching a new gospel from your hair and her own tendons, that she prays in the language of your old scars and of those before you.

“Let them call us hell-bound,” she thinks, watching the tide gnash its jaws against the shore. She was the sea tonight, fractured, hungry. Her laughter is a blade unsheathed. “We’ll drown the sky in our howling. We’ll be the sin that outlives every god.”

—————————————————————————

12:15 p.m.

The winter of 1715

The chapel is a carcass, its ribs stripped bare by devotion, leaving only the remnants of its flesh for the desperate and the damned to gnaw at. Its flesh hangs in tatters, a shroud of decay draped over splintered bones, while the confessional yawns, wide black-eyed maw, its iron grille teeth rusted to the colour of dried blood, of sacramental wine spilled on unholy ground.

The soles of your feet patter against the softened wooden floors, fitting the grooves worn into the wood by penitent hands and weary knees as you drifted into the confessional. Your breath fogged the lattice, the air thick with myrrh, of the dampness of perfume, of the ghost of charred flesh. Hymns slither through the rafters, broken-throated and bitter. The booth is a coffin lined with velvet teeth. Iron grille rusted into scabs, latticework like broken capillaries. You kneel, your spine a question mark, fingers tangled in the ghost of your hair, as if trying to weave it back to existence, but your soul had already been lost the day your lover made a temple of your skin and burned it down in the same breath. The silence is a

living thing, coiled around you like a serpent, its breath hot and fetid against your neck. Your lips part as its hand grips your chin, fingers like iron claws that rip the words from your lips. Your voice is a ragged thing, frayed from screaming, as you whisper through the gate, unsure if anyone would be on the other side to hear you.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

The priest’s voice is mellifluous, dripping with the sweetness of honey sap and the warmth of the first rays of dawn. It was wrongly familiar.

“What haunts you child?” His voice syrupy and decayed.

“Love.” You whispered under your breath, fawning over the very word, trembling on your tongue like a dying moth.

Your breath hitches, fingers faltering in your lap as you waited for the priest to speak. You taste iron under your tongue and swallow. The other priest spat at you, called you unnatural, a sinner. But this one listened as you spoke with your entire being dancing on the tip of your tongue. He was not like the others, whose calloused hands and rough voices spat damnation, who made your love a thing to be scourged from your skin. No, this one lingers, lets the silence swell like a bruise before breaking it.

“Love is not a sin child.”

“But loving them feels like one.”

Silence pools between your feet trapping them. Then, a hum like wet parchment peeling.

“Tell me his name.”

“Salem.”

You taste iron, your throat cinching at the memory: Salem’s fingers tracing constellations on your spine, their laugh a psalm, lips murmuring, “They’ll name a star after you when you burn.”

“And why do you believe loving them to be a sin child?”

“How could loving them not be one.” You argued, “He was a good lover, my only one. He read me psalms, sang scriptures into my skin.” A weak smile flickers across your lips, a ghost of memory. But the smile curdles, turning sour and bitter, like milk left too long in the sun. “But it is repulsive, sinful, isn’t it? It was sinful, the way he touched me like I was something holy. It was sinful, the way I let him.” Your voice lowers, grief tying itself to every syllable. “It was sinful the way I had loved him, yet it was the most holy thing I had ever known.” The confessional is a lung now, breathing rust and oleander. The priest asks, “Do you miss salvation?”

You laugh, a sound of splintering glass. Salvation was the way they peeled an orange for you—slow, meticulous, the rind curling like a lost script. Salvation was their thumb swiping the juice from your chin, their whisper, “They’ll have to invent a new hell for us.” You did not miss salvation. No, not in the way you missed her.

——————————————————————————

Nightfall

A woman writhed in the pyre, skin peeling like birch bark, eyes two coals. Flames braid her ankles like golden shackles, licking up her legs as if worshipping her ruin. The crowd chants “sinner, sinner,” but their throats are nests of wasps—swollen, venomous. Too many of them had roses in their hair, more with thorns than not. They did not notice the blood beading down their temples, the way their own skin pricks and weeps as they damned a love that had never drawn blood. The woman on the stake laughs, ash blooming from her lips. “They fear our love will outlive their gods.” You stagger back; the world unsteadies beneath your feet. The vial slips from your grasp, shattering against the earth with weakness as a dying breath. The broken glass gleams, fallen stars scattered at your feet. But you do not move. Do not dare to breathe. Your gaze is chained to her, bound by the ruin you left in your wake, and for a moment, the flames that devour her seem softer than the guilt that devours you.

A priest grips a handful of the woman’s hair, yanking her head back violently as he sneered at her.

“What have you been accused of?”

“Of love,” her voice breaks the night, hoarse as she whips her head to the side, wrenching herself free of the dream-priests grasp, then bows it—her chin grazing her collarbone, her breath shuddering over her chest.

Nearby, the chapel groans. Its stones are salt-bitten, bleeding rust. The villagers say the confessional digests the damned. You hope it’s true.

“And whom do you love?”

“A woman.” Her voice is light, impossibly so, as if she has captured the fragility of a dove in those two words. And yet, as she speaks to them, her head lifts, her gaze cleaves through the smoke and the chanting, through the faceless mass of bodies—Until it lands on you. Your breath stutters. You want to scream. To throw yourself at her feet, to confess that the woman they saw kissing her in the alley was you. That it was your hands tangled in her hair, your lips murmuring psalms into her skin. You want to tell her you are sorry, so, so sorry, for pushing her to the ground and running when they came. That you were a coward, that you had saved yourself while she burned. But it is too late. You do not dare to look away, even as she whispers, barely audible over the crackling flames- “You.”

-—————————————————————————

One year ago

The winter of 1714

You are praying in the hollowed chapel—praying for salvation to tear yourself free from the grips of love and its torment. You are praying, praying for an angel to ascend, for a god to step forth and explain why you were chosen for their cruelty.

“You pray like you are begging for a war.” Her voice is a low, hypnotic murmur, meant to soothe and ensnare in equal measure. You rise from your knees, watching the soft apparition cloaked in midnight before you. Her hair is as dark as Lenten ashes, the blackened veil of a funeral. As she steps closer, her shadow stretches long, a noose tightening. You show her your teeth, each one a headstone.

“Salem, I am praying to prevent one.” Her fingers finally found hers, you call it a wound that remembers. She pulls you close, her lips brushing your ear, her voice a whisper spun from dusk. “Come with me, my love,” she breathed, “I have something to show you.” She dragged you through the Cathedrals walkways and paintings that stared at them with distaste until her feet finally faltered before a mural. They were at the back of the cathedral now, a small nook that priests or nuns rarely visited. Salem had painted their love onto chapel walls—ochre for their laughter, umber for the mole beneath her left breast. Roses climbed their throats, thornless, their roots drinking deep from blood spilled like communion wine. You smile, knowing you will whitewash it by dawn.

“They will kill you,” you murmur. She smiles, her lips hovering over the soft curve of your cheek. “Let them try. I will haunt their prayers.”

Her kiss lands like the brush of a feather, delicate yet damning, a promise sealed in the hush of candlelit devotion. She has painted you in stolen indigo, her fingers stained with the blue of veins beneath moonlight, and you wonder if this is what it means to be sanctified—turned into scripture, immortalized in pigment and prayer.

You kneel, but not to pray—your spine a question mark bowed before the altar of her collarbone, a curve of devotion that no god could claim. Her skin is a psalter, a sacred text you read with your teeth, each mark a verse, each sigh a psalm. “Sanctify this,” you think, as her mouth maps your ribs, her lips a liturgy of longing, her breath a hymn that hums against your bones. The church is a ribcage, its walls pressing close, its air thick with the wet hymn of your shared breath. You are both Eve and the apple, the bite and the bruise, the sin, and the salvation.

You want to carve a cathedral where her hips meet yours, to build a religion from the sweat pooling in the hollow of her throat, to worship at the altar of her pulse. This is how we blaspheme: her fingers, a rosary of want, counting your vertebrae like sins, each touch a bead slipped between trembling fingers. Each gasp, a confession. Each moan, a benediction. You drink her—Eucharist of her breath, chalice of her pulse—and you are both the devotee and the divine.

She moves like an omen, fingers slipping beneath her own garments until they find the two vials nestled against her skin. Her lashes lower as she grazes the glass with her fingertips, and she exhales, slow and heavy.

“Swallow it if they come for us, it will kill you kinder than they will.”

Her hands, slick with myrrh, return to you, mapping your hips like a cartographer of ruins after they slick the vial in your garments.

Later, you scrub her scent from your skin with lye and lilies. It doesn’t work. You reek of want, of sins, and it disgust you.

——————————————————————————

The next night

The winter of 1715

Guilt is a live wire. Guilt is the way you pray “forgive me” while painting her face on the chapel wall—a Madonna with wolves in her eyes. The villagers call it sacrilege. You call it “autopsy.” You are always digging her out of your marrow, her ghost a shard of divinity in your gut. You wear your grief like a veil, and even the sea is unsure if it is for a funeral or a wedding.

The chapel’s candles gutter like dying widows. Your knees bruise violet as storm-clouds, yet you crave the ache; penance for the way her teeth once grazed your wrist, a communion of salt and shudder. The rosary in your grip is not beads but bones—tiny, bird-thin, strung on a nerve. You pretend they’re hers. You drink communism wine. It tastes of betrayal, of the night she painted your spine with psalm oil and whispered, “You’re my Jerusalem.”

You had dreamed of Salem. Her limbs frayed from her frame as she pointed her rotted finger at you. “You did this,” her voice hives in the girl’s marrow. “You. You. You.”

After the fire, you crawled through embers, knees grinding to gather her bones and ash. You shoved them greedily into the vial she had given you, and now you held the vial of her in your hands. You open the wine bottle, pouring what was left of Salem into it. You drank the ashes with wine, gagging on holiness. “This is my Eucharist. My penance. To carry her, to be her. To hear her voice in my veins screaming you, you, you,” you thought, your chest a hollowed altar. “You are in my veins now.” You wanted her ashes to fill you, to be the god that guts you.

You sink deeper into the wine. Her love was a cathedral built backward—a nave of clavicles, an apse of pelvic bone. You worshipped at the altar of her wrists, kissed the blue tributaries beneath her skin like a mendicant sipping from the Ganges. But the town’s faith was a sickle moon; it cut what it could not cradle. They called your devotion “infestation,” your sighs “a canker in the cedar of God.”

There is no god here, none of them would claim this.

——————————————————————————

The next night

The winter of 1715

You wanted to give yourself up to the sea. To sink your head beneath the waves and never rise.

As you stepped into the water a tremor ran through your spine. Your breath hitching, your heart thrumming painfully against your ribs. You had always been drowning, drowning in Salem, and you loved her for it. You loved her. The realization claws at your insides, an ache that is sharp and searing, as though the ocean itself is pulling at your very soul, unraveling everything you thought she knew. Your love for Amaris was never a whisper in the dark; it was a howl in the wind, a tide that rose and fell, but never ceased, never died. You looked at the water again, and the sea churns with the image of Amaris, her face haunting the ripples like a forgotten prayer. “Let me burn too if I must remember I am alive.” She thought to herself. For love.

“For I have loved . . .” You hesitated, the words slipping from your lips like a prayer, a confession, a final surrender. “For I have loved a woman.” It is only then do you see Salem, and she sees you.

——————————————————————————-

A year later

The winter of 1716

Decades rot like overripe figs. The chapel crumbles, its stones cursive with lichen. The air is thick with the scent of mildew and dust, a decay so palpable that the stones themselves seem to groan with age, their surface slick with the breath of the earth. Boys dare each other to enter the confessional, emerge shaking, lips stained blue as if kissed by a ghost. They think you’re haunted. You know better. Haunting implies regret.

Girls come to whisper secrets to the sea and leave with roses thornless and ravenous. They speak in hushed tones of sins they do not understand, of desires they do not know how to name. One day, another girl enters the confessional. She whispers of a love so forbidden it curls like smoke in the air, of a woman whose laughter strikes like a bell, whose hands are always stained—whether with ink or blood, no one can say.

The priest (not a priest, never a priest) leans into the grille, her voice a serrated hymn: “Do you repent?” The girl pauses, her heart fluttering like the wings of a bird trapped in a cage. “No,” she says.

The priest smiles, her teeth glinting like a tombstone offering a rose without thorns. “Then here,” croons the twin voices, “is your gospel.”

Victoria Nguyen is a seventeen-year-old writer from the Vancouver area whose love for literature was ignited by the pages of classic novels and enchanting fairy tales. From the moment she could read, stories captivated her heart, shaping her into a passionate writer determined to bring her own narratives to life. As the founder of a thriving literacy magazine, Victoria is relentlessly pursuing her dream of making a meaningful impact in the literary world. With a fierce commitment to her craft and an unwavering belief in the power of storytelling, she is working tirelessly to carve out her place as an author, eager to inspire and connect with readers through her words.

I was compelled to write this story because of my deep love for gothic romances, like The Phantom of the Opera, which have always resonated with me in a hauntingly beautiful way. I wanted to weave this timeless tale with the tones of other novels, like Carmilla, crafting a story rich with the complexities of struggle and the poignant beauty of coming of age. Through this narrative, I aimed to explore the darkness of the human soul, the depths of devotion, and the painful yet transformative journey of self-acceptance. It’s a story born from a place of deep emotion, where love, loss, and identity collide to create something raw, evocative, and ultimately healing.

“The Colour of Your Thoughts” by Abbie Pasowisty

There was a world of colour That bled through the lines and Mixed in shades all Rich and Vibrant and Full. Colours that I could Feel, Taste, and Smell

Water colour was the breeze in a meadow Sharp acrylic was the bustling city Sea foam was the lull of the waves

Is there a world of colour? It is a forgotten thought resting at The tip of my tongue. A memory itching to resurface

Is it a memory? Tell me: I must know.

Because there is no colour,

All I see is black and white.

~

It was a bad habit. I knew that for certain, but I found the best way to keep the nails from being drilled into my head any further was through music. I could focus on the beat and the words. Let it pacify my mind.

It was a bad habit. I knew that for certain, because I found that even if my teachers’ mouths moved, I couldn’t hear the words being spoken. If anybody’s mouth moved, I wouldn’t hear the words.

It was a bad habit, and yet, before I shouldered my backpack and reached for the doorknob, I snatched the earbuds from their charging stand. I stared at them for a moment. In my hands they burned, crackled, and roared. The heat rose to my cheeks. A deep smell, pleasant and poignant, entered my nose. When I blinked, the earbuds were white and all I could smell was my cologne.

I shoved them in my ears and scrolled through the songs in my playlist. My fingers hovered over one that lay chained in the depths of the sea. Water filled my lungs, and I began to buckle under pressure. Before it got to the threshold, I clicked the top playlist, and a raging guitar solo vibrated my skull. I was standing in my room again.

I found the best way to keep the nails from being drilled into my head any further was through music. Was it a bad habit? I slung the backpack over my shoulder and stepped out of my room into the crumpled sketches of the city. And then I wandered down the route to the bus stop with my head down.

I observed the shoes of each person passing me in the swarm. They were more intriguing than the straight, restrictive charcoal lines that outlined towering oNices and purring cars. There was a wedged heel, some Oxfords, a pair of Chukka boots, and were those stilettos?

I peered up at the women walking on knife points. It was difficult to make out the lines of her face. They were hidden in smudges caused from erasing and redrawing her features repeatedly. Tape glistened at the tattered edges of her cheeks. I forced my eyes back down and I felt a tightness in my chest.

Never look up.

At the bus stop, I leaned against a streetlamp, tapping my finger to the heavy beat drilling in my ears. Down below, I noticed a moth resting under the shadow of a frail flower that protruded from a crack in the pavement. The insect’s antennae quivered as a butterfly fluttered down and landed on top of the flower.

That’s when I noticed a pair of shoes next to mine: embroidered converse.

Never look

up. I looked

up.

And she smiled.

I slammed my locker shut and clicked the lock back in its place. Around me, students chittered as they navigated their way to the next class. Here, the shoes were all the same. Birkenstocks.

Zekial walked past me, laughing along with a group of jockeys with his straight, smudged teeth and perfect nose. He kept his eyes trained forward. Slime dripped from the ceiling and plopped onto my face. The sticky, cold goop stunk of bitter hate and beetles crawled in my stomach. I felt sick. I felt gross.

I turned up the music. Zekial was gone, and I walked to the third period surrounded by smudged faces and perfect teeth. Nothing but black lines and white in between. Nothing but Birkenstocks.

My third period was English. I picked a seat in the back of the room as the class began with the teacher speaking inaudible words. Looking at the ground, I spotted a pair of converse near the front. The butterfly embroidered on the sides of the shoes flitted around and circled my head before flying back to the girl from the bus stop. I recalled the clean lines on her face as my teacher spoke.

“Take out your novels and turn to page 134.”

I mechanically reached into my backpack and pulled out the thick book. “Chapter four,” my teacher started, “A Happy Accident. Jonah shielded his eyes from the sun as he strained to see the girl from last week. She was . . .”

My hands stopped flipping through the pages. My body went rigid. Listening to music was a bad habit. I knew that because even if my teacher’s mouth moved, I couldn’t hear the words being spoken. My hands found their way to the earbuds and pulled them out. In my hands, they sat with the red light flashing.

Dead.

My head spun and floated out of existence. They were fully charged this morning. How did they die? How did this-

“. . . she smiled at me and that night all I could remember were her deep, ocean eyes,” my teacher finished. I was back in my seat gripping the earbuds in a closed fist as my skin flashed hot and cold.

“Now I am going to number you one to five. With your group, discuss the symbolism in the book,” my teacher explained, “Ok, Saraphina you’re one, two, three . .

. .” She continued to number students as she went down the rows. I got grouped with the threes, who had their books open. Mine stayed closed on a bouncing knee. I glanced at the clock: 1:27 p.m.. When did this class end? I still had chemistry after. What were we doing again? Was it a lab?

“The author is very specific about colour. Maybe that symbolizes something?” A boy in my group ventured.

What was this book even about? I looked at the title: The Colour of Your

Thoughts. What colours? Black and white?

“‘The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts.’ I think Marcus Aurelius said that,” a girl’s voice said.

I whipped my head around at her. “What did you say?”

My classmates looked at me with pitying eyes and smudged features. Not her. Smooth, clear lines. Bright eyes. The butterfly from earlier flitted around her head. “‘The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts.’ Marus Aurelius said that,” she smiled. “I think it explains the author’s use of colour.”

I nodded. My knee bounced.

When the bell rang, I went home and placed my earbuds into their charging stand.

BREAK

When my grandparents asked why I skipped fourth period during dinner, I told them I wasn’t feeling well. They let it go. They understood and the rest of dinner was spent in silence.

Most dinners were spent in silence.

I cleaned the dishes and said goodnight. An attempt was made to get some studying done. Although I made the attempt every night and it never was successful. In the bathroom, I splashed warm water onto my face and looked at my reflection. What I saw reminded me of the women wearing stilettos. Smudged, charcoal lines caused from erasing and redrawing her features repeatedly.

My stomach caved in. A suffocating, sharp pain stung my eyes and burned my nose. My vision blurred with tears. I splashed cold water on my face and turned on the lights. In my room, I laid face up on my mattress.

“‘The soul becomes dyed with the colour of its thoughts.’ Marcus Aurelius said that,” a woman with deep, ocean eyes told me. I could hear whales calling and taste sea salt just by looking into them.

“Is that true mommy?” I asked. She hummed to the piano waltz and handed me a flower painted with water colour. It was the colour of love. “Of course, my Chrysanthemum.”

I drifted on to sleep. In my dreams, I fell headfirst into a pit of violet shadows. Silhouettes reached with clawed hands to grab me. I ran but their words made of broken glass sliced my skin.

“His father couldn’t handle it.”

“He used to be such a good kid.” “She’s gone.”

Before I shouldered my backpack and reached for the doorknob, I snatched the earbuds from their charging stand. The battery read 100 percent. After I chose a playlist, I slung the backpack over my shoulder and stepped out into the city.

Never look up.

At the bus stop, I looked at the flower from yesterday. Its white and black hues appeared so lifeless. I thought about the flower in my memory. The one with the colours of love.

Was it a

memory? Was

the world

once full of

colour? Or

was I making

it up?

A butterfly landed on the petals. A pair of embroidered converse stepped next to mine.

Abbie is a seventeen-year-old who will be graduating from high school this June. She spends her free time playing soccer and rugby, rehearsing for musical theatre, reading, and (most importantly) writing. Since the moment she finished her first chapter book, she has been drawn to the art of painting pictures with words. Although fantasy has a place in her heart, Abbie loves to experiment with different genres and ideas to create unique and symbolic stories.

This idea has had a place in my heart for over ten years. It started with a simple question: what if I were the only person in the world to see colour? Through the years, the story developed into a unique way to explain emotions such as grief. The problem was that it was unlike anything I have ever read or written. I was originally going to write my usual fantasy type genre, but in my heart, I felt this story wanting to come alive. So, I leaped and tried my best to bring the story to life. The post 2025 Amazon Canada Shortlisted Youth Short Stories first appeared on The Walrus.