WRiting Contest #1

Laureate Category Winning SUbmissions

And It All Falls Down
By Adhisri Venkat
First Place, Laureate Category 

Walking home with my friends beneath the withered and lifeless trees, I let myself transcend into a feeling of being lost and unaware of who and where I was. Wordlessly, we all shared the silence and the presence of one another, as we stared into the concrete floor, now hidden by a mosaic of leaves. The cold air carried a warning of the darkening sky eating away the remnants of the day. In the silence, it felt as though my existence was bound to disappear, as if I was fading slowly, or perhaps we were all just doomed to this inevitable fate. Except for change, it was always there. For some reason, it always made its presence known. But tonight it was louder than ever as it refused to settle, eating at the very building blocks of my life I placed my stability on. My left foot stood on comfort and familiarity while my right stood on ambition and drive as the bridge began to widen. 

Each fall reminded me of the last, as the memories would come fleeting into the first sip of coffee I would ponder over, each October morning. Yet now, I couldn’t find them. Memories were replaced with anticipation for the future, and I became distant to what it was like to live in the present once again. 

Change was what had carried me across the ocean to Vancouver, it was what brought me to a new city and was dragging me into the last year of high school. Each time I glanced back into the past I’d see an unclear image of dominoes that came crashing as I felt myself become glued to the ground, another domino that would fall while they kept relentlessly crashing down. I gather fragments of the world around me as I attempt to find my path, to find my career and goals and ambitions. But it was different this time. At seventeen, change was no longer alone, it came with the anticipation of a ticking clock, beating a rhythm of constant uncertainty. (Maybe if I caught it, held on, and swallowed it whole, maybe then I would no longer hear its ticking.?)

Tonight, looking at my friends I’m reminded that in months from now we’d be walking separate ways, oceans apart and no longer seventeen. Change stood in between us while we walked down the street. Around us, change existed in the trees, it manifested into the changing weather and metamorphosed into fall. At least now, underneath the reddish leaves, I could watch the tumbling dominoes from afar, rather than to have been standing in between as they fell. 

Tonight was timeless.

Finding Things Out at Camp
By Angelina Sunwoo
Second Place, Laureate  Category 

It’s not just Red Bull that gives you wings. Two hot months with nothing to do gave me mine. 

My school is a breeding ground for ambition. The people at my school would willingly choose to study instead of going to a dance. It’s a bit vain, trying to impress teachers to impress your peers. I will admit — I also give up pleasure to put in work for an easier future, and I know that there is merit in delaying satisfaction, but when all I had to enjoy was the idea that I would eventually find a success that I couldn’t yet see, I stopped completing my workbooks pretty quickly. You can imagine I was relieved when the end of year carnival came about, and I could be rid of my work.

At once, I was plunged into the emptiness of summer. I was free to do whatever I liked, so I filled my days with endless beaching. I was coasting through life; I had no obligations, and I hated it. Nothing to study for and nobody to impress, and there was no reason to stress, which was unfortunate for someone who makes it a daily habit. I had to delight in real life instead of grades. There was a day where I lay on my grainy towel against a log at the beach for nearly an hour, tanning and gossiping, until I saw spots and my skin felt hot on the outside but cold underneath, and I was sure I wasn’t contributing to society. 

In all my free time, I did some pasta making with my friends, and while we cut tough yellow dough, we discussed what form will the pasta take, will the cheese filling melt in the pasta water, and oh we need to put this in for a few minutes longer, so haha my pasta is better than yours! I forget the little in between conversations, maybe more meaningful than functional. In this little community we built (me, my friends, the pappardelle) I felt the most pleased that I had in months, simply living among friends, and I believed that this was my purpose.

I rode on the adrenaline of searching for good times. When I arrived in Asia, we immediately set off on a road trip where we switched hotels every night, and I was almost forced to go ziplining. Shopping and dining out were non negotiable. Surrounded day after day by activities abroad, I thought: Is this the way to spend life? Moving back and forth between places, feeding the relationships that feel good in the moment while trying to find the next best thing that will make me happy? 

The tree covered landmass of inner South Korea ran from us in our speeding car as quickly as we flew from place to place. Like those wandering hills, everything in my life renewed, then returned to its resting state as if nothing had changed. I felt this when we returned to our Canadian house, and the slight staleness of my apartment filled my lungs like it belonged there. I had not been transformed by my vacation, except that I was more aware of the uselessness of rushing after physical satisfaction. These thoughts bugged me like a racoon, returning night after night for more sustenance. The masked bandit snacked on my sleep and left crumbs of what is the point of striving for accolades when I’m a speck in the galaxy and my legacy might just die with me? 

I am ever grateful for my church retreat for providing some relief from the monotony of my own house. The drive to horseshoe bay was reminiscent of the Korean road trip, but I was in familiar territory now, on stable ground. I expected an unexceptional campsite. In reality, the grounds were pasture and forest for as far as the eye could see. I spied a duo of them— cows, honey smooth and marbled black with white. It had been long since I had seen something so pastoral. 

What struck me was the hiddenness of the place. In the mornings, we heard every small noise made from the trees that city clamour wouldn’t allow us to hear. We were in safety, herded by the camp leaders and isolated by the channel. Basking in the beauty of the quietness, without the constructs of my ordinary life, I listened to His creation around me. The fresh fields made me think of the city without its adornments — the shine of new buildings or the beeping cars. It was like the island came to us humbly, without fantastic flair, and showed only that it was grateful to have us. 

Cows are awesome. They were the highlight of camp — greeting us every day after promenading around their enclosure. They reminded me of the rewards of simple things. I spent so much time worrying about the tangible reputation I could gain, like university and winning against other people, even though there is little to gain from the perfect image or credentials in a life that I know is temporary. Through summer camp, it was less so that I discarded the need to be perfect, more so that I found the need to focus on what truly matters, though it was difficult to let go of the plans that I had originally made for my future. 

The things that don’t follow me to the grave do not deserve all my effort. I don’t want a life where I am constantly putting effort into goals that will only bring a dull sense of completion. My sole hope is that I will never waver in the firmness of my faith. I’d like to think that by the time my mind isn't so sharp anymore, and my body cannot carry much, I can be satisfied with at least one thing, and that is the safety of God’s wings. 

Path to a New Horizon
By Oscar Li
Third Place, Laureate Category  

While most kids today think of puberty or moving to a new school as a huge change, my father’s first memory of change as a youth was far more brutal. Armed militia wearing red armbands, carrying rifles and clubs, stormed into his village to seize "surplus grain" that the village simply did not have. They hung resistors from rafters, beat them with clubs, and executed those labeled as "bourgeoisie landlords." At just five years old, Hunter saw his world turned upside down by forces beyond his comprehension. Change, he would learn, was not always something he could escape.

Born in 1964 in a small village in Shandong Province (meaning “East of the [Taiheng] Mountains”), Hunter grew up in poverty. His family was one of many struggling to make ends meet, with barely enough food to survive. The Great Leap Forward had drained the country, and the Cultural Revolution that followed took whatever hope was left. School was not a place of learning but of indoctrination—propaganda was drilled into students, and loyalty to the Party was the only thing that mattered. The Red Guards, teenagers emboldened by ideology, roamed the streets, smashing anything connected to the old ways. Hunter learned to stay silent, to hide, to endure.

Hunter's family survived those chaotic years through sheer resilience. They patched their clothes until they were nothing but patches, worked long hours, and stayed out of trouble. Hunter remembered the rare taste of meat as a luxury, a small moment of happiness in an otherwise bleak existence. But even in those times of scarcity, there was a glimmer of hope—the belief that, one day, things might change for the better. 

That change seemed to come when Mao's death marked the end of the Cultural Revolution. With the rise of Deng Xiaoping, China shifted towards economic reform. Hunter, now a teenager, seized the opportunity to pursue an education. The schools were no longer just instruments of propaganda—they taught real subjects, subjects that could open doors. Hunter worked hard, earning a place at university, studying physics, and hoping to make something of himself.

After graduation, Hunter became a professor. But the changes in China—the Reforms and Opening Up—presented new opportunities, and Hunter was determined to take them. He left academia to start his own business, repairing radios and televisions. It was a difficult choice, but for the first time, Hunter felt he had control over his own fate. The harder he worked, the more he earned, and it felt like his effort finally mattered. He was building something for himself and his family.

But not all change was positive. With economic growth came corruption. Hunter found himself forced to bribe officials just to keep his business afloat. The pollution that came with rapid industrialization was suffocating—the stream where he had played as a child was now black with waste, and the air was thick with smog. The optimism that had once driven him began to fade. The system was still rigged against people like him, and it was clear that real freedom was still out of reach.

By the early 2000s, Hunter had reached a breaking point. He had fought for a better life, worked tirelessly to provide for his family, but the corruption and pollution were too much. He wanted something different for his son—a life without constant fear of losing everything to those in power. In 2008, Hunter made the hardest decision of his life. He left China, taking his wife and young son to Canada. They spoke no English, had no connections, but they had hope—hope for a better future. Of his whole clan, Hunter was the only one to have gotten past the bureaucratic wall that is the Chinese government. 

Now, my father is a businessman in Vancouver. His journey was not easy, and change was never simple. But each challenge and each hardship shaped him into the man he is today. Change, he learned, is not necessarily as simple as good or bad—it simply is. There is no point in dwelling on what you can't control. It’s how you react and adapt to it that matters. For Hunter, change was the force that took him from a small village in China to a new life in Canada. He adapted to it, survived it, and ultimately thrived because of it. In the end, change is just change—what defines us is how we choose to face it.

A Blue Called Envy
By Sara Chow
Honorable Mention, Laureate  Category 

In third grade, I started wondering what it meant to be “pretty.” Late at night I would stare at the mirror until my eyes unfocused and I saw doubles of myself. I pulled and tugged at the dark strands of my hair, hyperfixate on the shapes of what was reflected back to me. What started out only as a mere glance and “what if,” something that took no longer than seconds at most, turned into five minutes. Then into ten. Twenty. Half an hour. Eventually, it ate up my time spent in the bathroom to where I’d begun to get questions about why I took so long. I couldn’t just tell them. How could I when I didn’t even understand it myself? But I knew envy was never meant to be green; it would always be blue. 

In fourth grade, I realized I wasn’t pretty. Not by my standards, or by society’s perception of beauty either. I was born in the poor side of a province in China, adopted, and raised in Canada. Regardless of how far I moved, I stayed surrounded by my culture. By people who looked like me. Monolids, deep brown eyes and hair that was just a shade away from being black, I fit in. Until I didn’t. At least, it felt like it. My eyes became the issue because these eyes weren’t mine; they were the result of a heritage I didn’t—couldn’t—choose to be part of. I went to bed at night wishing that I did. 

One day, I used to think, one day I will wake up and my eyes will be the right colour. I will be pretty. It never did. 

Green eyed envy never felt right, it was never for me. In elementary school, it wasn’t green eyes that I was envious of. 

Untitled
By Anonymous 
Honorable Mention, Laureate Category  

Have you ever had an ex-partner that would never leave you alone? One where you continuously try to escape but they keep clinging to you, unwilling to loosen their grip. And sometimes they’d give you a semblance of hope, leaving you for a moment before coming back, more determined than ever, their mouth open to reveal rows of death ready to chew you to bits? That’s the sort of relationship I have with change. When it wasn’t happening to you, moving seemed cool—I mean, who wouldn’t want to explore the world? But when it’s happening to you, when you’re packing your life into boxes, watching as it flows past you like a roaring river as you try desperately to scoop up the liquid and stop it with your hands—it’s not so cool. It’s tiring, it’s nerve-racking, and it leaves you with a lack of stability. How can you truly settle into a place when you don’t know how long it’d be before you inevitably had to leave? 

4 times she moved, +1 time she stayed. 

One (1) 

Her apartment in Burnaby is green and white, the colour of the drawers enrapturing to a young girl who continues to plaster stickers all over the surface. With her dark hair and darker eyes, she smiled as she hid in closets with her sister, and threw balls with her grandma, running all over the apartment. They built different structures with the chairs, making secret entrances and spaceships, playing games of make believe. Though she was here now, the two year old girl was born in Beijing, the evidence of her heritage shining through her features, her eyes a distinct Chinese shape. As she traversed the sea to reach Canada, the young girl doesn’t remember much of her home in China, and does not yet understand what the words ‘immigration’ or ‘Chinese Canadian’ means. She is only a carefree child, laughing with joy as she dances. 

Two (2)

All of a sudden, her life was thrown in disarray as she returned to her homeland, refamiliarizing herself with Chinese, and China. It’s like getting on one of those scary roller coaster rides, but with no seat belt to keep you safe. She’s now five, old enough to craft memories, the brilliant colours spinning in her mind through images, nestling themselves in the recesses of her brain to be revisited later. The girl attended international school, head spinning as she memorised Chinese poems and took English lessons, her day split between the two languages. She makes new friends, and connects with her new home in Beijing, the neighbourhood she lives in memorable as she takes walks with her grandma, and watches shows with her dad. She laughs, as again the world shapes itself around her. 

Three (3)

Now in Grade Two, the young girl returns to BC, except it’s no longer the BC she knows. She’s in West Vancouver now, miles away from Burnaby. The buildings are different, the schools are different, everything is different, different, different. The bustling of Burnaby is nowhere in sight in the sereneness of West Van, where the whole place seems to be enveloped in a bubble of silence and even a slightly too loud breath could be heard. But like always, the girl smiles, attempting to take everything in stride. She makes new friends, she relearns English, she familiarises herself with another house she can eventually call home. 

Four (4)

In Grade Four, the girl’s life is turned upside down once more. They are moving. Again. This time, from West Vancouver to Vancouver West. What kind of cosmic joke was this, the girl thought. Moving to a place where the only effort to differentiate was to flip the words in the name around. But, like always, the girl could only pack her belongings—her life—in boxes to be driven in a truck towards the new place she’s supposed to call home. The girl doesn’t understand, she doesn’t get why they have to move again. Weren’t they happy in West Van, didn’t they have a house there, a community, a life? She had planned it out. The girl would go to Pauline Johnson for late French immersion, or maybe Mulgrave. The girl was so sure that that was the place they would be forever. But it seems that the world didn’t agree with her plans, rewriting her string of fate yet again. 

+ One (1) 

Now, the girl is older, she’s in highschool. She is about to graduate. She is soon going to be in university. And since Grade Five, she has not moved places. She has moved houses, yes, but she has not moved places. The girl finally stayed in one place. She was finally able to make friends, and stay 

friends. She was able to fall in love with a place, and stay in that place. Like the drifting island of Delos where the twin Olympian gods were born, the—now old—girl planted her roots and never drifted again.