Now in its seventh 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 2024, Khaliya Rajan was awarded the top prize of $5,000 for her story, “Waves”, 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.
– Souvankham Thammavongsa, 2024 Youth Short Story Category Judge
“Japanese Cheesecake” by Noaah Karim
I can’t say I never wondered why my mother walked out. I was only a baby when she left, so I never got to know anything about her that might’ve offered some reasoning. My father didn’t know or care where she had gone. Over the years, I had managed to console myself with the fact that I had no mother of my own.
I was calm when I received the letter. It said my mother was dead, she had been for two years. It was signed by a woman named Stella, who claimed to be my mother’s friend. The letter was accompanied by a set of keys and a plane ticket. Each line seemed more alien to me than the last. My mother had moved back to Japan, lived there for the rest of her life. I reread the letter countless times on the plane ride there. In some cruel twist of fate, my father and mother had died in the same year, together to the end. When I got to the house it was already night.
It was obvious no one had been in here for quite a while. Most things in the house were covered with a thin coat of dust. Only faint imprints that someone had once lived here remained: a closet filled with coat hangers but no clothes, the marks of cups on the wooden table, a lampshade with painted fingerprints on it but no bulb inside.
There were a few cardboard boxes sitting on the floor, filled with the belongings of my mother. In one, I found a picture of her. She stood between two other people: a man with a thick beard and another woman that looked to be my age. The woman was Stella; I knew that much because I had seen her picture.
The man must have been her second husband. His facial hair reminded me of how much my father hated beards, how he would go on and on about how they would catch all the food that missed your mouth. I wondered if my mother was reminded of that when she married this man, if she held the same gleeful sense of spite my father often did.
My mother herself had aged gracefully. I had her nose. I had always known that because it didn’t fit with the rest of my face. Her hair came down in black sheets, carrying a sheen that I had often tried but failed to achieve with my own hair.
I kept trying to reimagine the picture. First, I placed myself where Stella was and my father in the man’s position. I tried swapping our spots, and then considered just my mother and I or my parents alone. I put myself in front of all three of them, joining in on their smile. It never looked right.
Among the old cardboard boxes was a smaller wooden one, dark and rich in colour. There were shiny metal clasps keeping it shut. I handled it delicately, moving it up to the kitchen table and undoing the mechanisms holding it closed with light fingers. When it opened, I was amazed.
It was a selection of papers that was inside. Some were cut out from larger sheets, some printed out sections of articles, others cropped photographs. What they all shared in common was me. They were of my accomplishments, arrivals, announcements. There was a picture of me for every year up until the last two. Someone must’ve been sending them to my mother, to get so many like this.
I had told myself on the plane not to get too emotional, but it was hard to contain the lump in my throat as I sorted through the stack of papers. There were so many moments I had forgotten about. I found a photo similar to the one I had seen of my mother, with two friends on either side of me. We were only teenagers. I remembered that photo, how my friends’ parents had been on the other side of the camera, telling us to come in closer and slink our arms around our shoulders. I had wished so badly for my own mother to be there. I guess she was, just in a different way than I had expected. At the very end of the stack was a lonely, innocuous note. On it was a single word written with blue pen. For you. I wasn’t sure who it was addressing.
I had never asked exactly how Stella had managed to find me. The only thing she said was that she had found something in my mother’s belongings after she died. It must’ve been this. It was practically my whole life, encased in a wooden box. An unwanted thought snuck into my mind, weaseling in between the bombardment of memories from the box. Maybe if I had done something remarkable, she would’ve seen it. Maybe then she would’ve come for me and my father. Was she ever planning to return? Was she content to simply sit away, watching me from afar until she died? I had often asked myself if my mother would’ve cared for what I was doing. She had been keeping track of me all along, from the other side of the world. And yet, she never came. With the mass of papers laid out before me, I asked myself if I would’ve wanted her to return. I could hear the doorbell ringing, my mother standing at the door with a suitcase, my father shouting and yelling. I didn’t know if I liked it or not.
In the dramas my father liked to watch, big reveals were accompanied by a host of sound effects and overacting. I always thought they were silly, that no human would really react like that no matter what the news was. But sitting here, with the box my mother had made before me, I found myself longing for the comedic crash of a drum or a cymbal. It was better than what I was left with: me, the thoughts of what could’ve been, and the silence of what was.
The next morning, I was woken up by the sound of a doorbell ringing. It was well into the day already, but the jetlag dragged my eyelids down. I stumbled towards the front door, opening it in the clothes I had slept in.
Stella was standing on the other side, slightly older now than I had seen in the photo. The overlapping greens of her clothing made her stand out against the background of cement and brick. She opened her mouth and I nodded, but it all seemed like a blur of noise. The words only slipped past my still-closed ears and disintegrated into the air.
She let herself into the house and I scrambled upstairs. The splash of cold water on my face kickstarted my brain just enough to function. I readied myself for the day, slamming my contacts into my eyes and grabbing the first clothes I found, before returning to Stella. She was standing next to the kitchen, examining my mother’s things that I had taken out the night before. The wooden box was removed, placed next to the bed upstairs. Stella held up a scarf.
“Well, what do you know?” Her voice sounded like she had dipped it in crushed walnuts and covered it in honey. It was accompanied by a slight accent. “This is my scarf! She never gave it back.” I smiled, an attempt to break the tension that filled the space between the two of us.
“Have you had anything to eat?” Stella asked. “We could go get some breakfast.”
“No, not yet,” I replied. “Sorry, I haven’t really looked around. I’ve barely thought about
food.”
“No problem, no problem. I know you must be feeling a lot right now.” She thought for a moment. “And if you have any questions, feel free to ask.”
“Did you know?” The question came out suddenly, so fast even I was surprised. “About me? Did she say anything before she died?” Stella looked at me like she was considering what and what not to say.
“No,” she sighed. “Your mother… I don’t think she told anyone. I only found out about you when I was cleaning out her house.”
“I figured.” Both of us directed our eyes to the floor before Stella clasped her hands back together.
“You know, your mother had a guilty pleasure when it came to breakfast,” she said. “We could try that.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure. I don’t have any plans.”
“Sounds good. Something you can only find in Japan, I promise.”
We put our coats on and headed outside. Stella was wearing the scarf she had liberated from my mother’s possessions. The morning sun brought with it a slight cold that nipped on our skin as we walked down the street. The walk wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short either. The minutes seemed to melt into each other as I took in the street, the light illuminating every detail I had missed the previous night.
We stopped at an inconspicuous corner. It held two large vending machines, complete with multicoloured lights on the edges of the metal. One of them held drinks, sodas, and sweet teas. The other was more interesting. I moved my face closer to the glass to get a look. An array of cans sat inside.
“You know what they are?” Stella asked.
“No.” There were groups of Japanese letters plastered all over the machine, bold and brightly coloured, but I couldn’t read any of them.
“Canned cakes.” Stella announced it proudly, like she had made them herself.
Canned cakes. The cans were transparent, but all you could see was the cream that covered the outer layer of the can. Each can looked identical to me, though I assumed they had to be different flavours.
“Are they any good?” I wasn’t sure of the quality of a baked good in a can, though admittedly I had never tried one.
“I like them,” Stella shrugged. “But your mother loved them. On days she felt lazy, she would come here and eat one of these for breakfast.” Cake for breakfast sounded like something my father would complain about my mother doing.
“It was a tradition for just the two of us,” Stella continued, “getting one of these in the morning.” Her voice quieted. “The week before she died, I was here. She was too.”
I ran my finger down the glass until I found one with more than just cream visible. There were layers of brown graham crackers in it as well.
“What’s this one?”
“Cheesecake,” Stella responded.
We bought two, one for each of us. I got the cheesecake while Stella got chestnut. I waited for the cans to fall off the display, but instead two new ones appeared in the open slot.
“They want to keep the display cans looking perfect,” Stella explained.
The cakes came with two spoons. I opened the top and only then could I see what was in them, past the layers of cream that covered the walls of the can. It was light and fluffy, easily scooped by the spoon. Even when I was finished eating, I scraped at the cake sticking to the bottom. I thought if I looked hard enough that I might find a lifetime hidden inside.
Noaah Karim is a sixteen-year-old writer from Vancouver. He has enjoyed reading as long as he has been able to read, which developed into a love of writing poetry and short fiction, ignited by the 2020 short story collection “How to Pronounce Knife.” He has a soft spot for sock puppets and unsolved mysteries, and when possible, both at the same time.
“The Creator” by Abigail McGhie
“Hello? Are you there?”
The shuffling of feet, an echo off cathedral ceilings. A man sits in a pew.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’m sorry I went away. It was… a momentary lapse in judgement. But I’m coming back now, you know? I won’t just get up and leave again.”
A head slumping into hands.
“It’s been a rough little while. It’s been…” a sniffle. “It’s been the kind of time you would have saved me from, if you’d been there. If I’d been here. I’ll never stop being sorry, you know. I never will.”
A beat, listening.
“I would do anything, anything in the world for you to forgive me. No, I know you already do.
Please, just let me repent. It’s what I deserve,” he says, the dawn casting patterns across the man’s folded hands. He sighs. “You’re too kind for your own good. You always have been. Just… what do I do?”
Another beat.
“And I don’t want to talk to someone else. This is between us, and besides, I know what they’d say, I’ve said it enough myself. They’ll just tell me I shouldn’t have left in the first place, and you already know I wish I never had. You understand better than they ever do, anyways.”
He laughs, half-hearted.
“I know what you’re going to say, too. But let me have my way, just this once, won’t you? Let me not be too deep in the pits for even that.”
Outside, a bird chirps in the early morning air. The man clears his throat.
“She was nothing. Really. She was… something I thought I wanted, but it turns out I want you more than anything.” A pause, a struggle to find the right words. “In the grand scheme of things, on your scale of things… she was a passing fancy, barely a blip. Nothing. But it did happen, and I could only think of you that whole time. For all those years. She was nothing like being with you, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse, that I only thought of you, but it’s true and that’s how it was. I prayed all the same.”
Silence settles over the pews, longer than is comfortable.
“So what can I do?” he murmurs.
He sinks to his knees, looks toward the placid face of God’s only son, strung up for our sins. Head tilted to the heavens, throat bared and vulnerable, hands clutched desperately under his chin. The man’s eyes are wide, desperate.
“Please. Is there anything?”
Another, surer, pair of footsteps.
“What are you doing here?”
His eyes close.
“Am I not allowed to pray?”
“No, it’s just—Didn’t you give your key back?”
“We both know the back door is never locked.”
“Ah. I see. I’ll… leave you to it, then.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m on my way out,” he says, standing.
He brushes off his wrinkled cassock. It looks like a costume now, like another life. It is.
“Right. Well. God be—Goodbye.”
The footsteps hesitate, then retreat, and the man is alone once more. He presses his palms into his eyes, tears still wet on his cheeks. Light filters through the stained glass windows, colouring the man with Jesus on the cross, crown of thorns atop his head.
“I’m sorry. I’ll come back to you soon. I’m— I’m so sorry.”
The soft exit of a man trying not to disturb holy silence. He leaves behind only mud and stirred dust, and takes with him much less than he’d hoped.
Abigail McGhie was a twelfth grade student from Ottawa, Ontario at the time of writing. Currently, they attend the University of King’s College in Halifax. To this day, they write about everything from surrealist lamp-wives to a weird dream they had one time.
“Live With It” by Avery Moschee
1 ½ Weeks Before
Rory
I thought I would die when the phone rang. I figured I would choke and cry, or scream and beg. Instead, I stand in my dull kitchen, listening quietly, as a cop tells me that eight days ago my father took an entire bottle of sleeping pills and shut off the light. Eight days feels too long; I swear I called him yesterday. I lose it, but only a little bit. I tell the cop he’s incompetent and that they should’ve found him sooner. But he lives alone, so it was no one’s fault. I am tired of grieving. Two dead parents is two too many. Arthur comes into the kitchen so he can wrap his large, warm arms around me. My sobs seep deeply into his shirt, and after a few minutes, his warm breath tickles the side of my face as he speaks.
“Do you want me to call them?” I nod, knowing the second time will be even harder than the first.
4 Days Before
Ruby
“Are you cold?” Lily’s voice is soft, almost overly sympathetic. I shrug, my tongue
lodged in the back of my throat. We stand outside of the banquet hall. The sky’s so blue it almost drowns out the sound of Marianne’s mother’s sobs. Almost.
“This seems more bleak than other funerals I’ve been to,” I say. Lily frowns at my attempted joke but doesn’t say a word. Even the saddest funeral couldn’t beat the one we had for my mother a year ago. Except the one we’re about to have for my father I suppose. I feel bile bubble up in the back of my throat and press on to stop myself from vomiting. “I mean, there wasn’t even a choir or a priest. What’s the point?”
“Marianne is dead, Ruby. That’s the point,” she mumbles solemnly.
“Well, it was a long time coming,” I shoot back at her. Lily bites her lip but I note that she hasn’t cried either. In fact, she looks great today. Her perfect family and lovely, living parents have done her well. Bitterness gnaws at me and I’m about to speak before she breaks the silence. “It can’t be a long time coming at twenty three.”
She spins and walks inside, and any bitterness I feel is replaced by the ache that spread in my chest one week earlier. I shouldn’t leave, but sitting through two funerals back to back is not something I can stomach. So as Lily reenters to comfort and coo, I trudge to my car and hope no one sees. Waiting in my inbox is a direct ticket from Vancouver to Toronto from Rory, and an invitation to a “celebration of life” set four days away. I almost laugh at my sister’s quickness. Almost.
One Day Before
Eric
Sophia wails as loud as her small body can handle and yet, no one on the plane says a word. I know I look like a mess. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and occasionally my own sobs join my daughter’s. Thirty feels far too young to lose both your parents, but no one plans on this. I pray my rocking will silence her wails but she continues for the entire flight and persists during the drive to my father’s house. I awkwardly get out of the car, trying to carry both my screaming infant and our bags. Stumbling slightly, I make it through the door into the home that was never mine and find myself facing the living room. It’s filled with clutter: an oversized television and the same worn red couch that dad took when he moved out. It’s practically a relic of dad’s post divorce days. It was Arthur’s decision to stay here before we sell, and I already regret not ignoring him and getting a hotel room. Creaking floorboards sound down the hallway and Rory appears. She looks at Sophia and smiles somberly, extending her arms to hold her. I nod, immediately feeling woozy at the sight of my older sister looking thinner and sadder than I’ve ever seen her. Sofia’s tears stop almost immediately and Rory looks at me amused.
“I guess she likes me more than you.” Sighing, I collapse to the floor, sitting
cross-legged like a child. “Don’t take offence Eric, she just misses her auntie,” I smile wanly, watching my sister quietly as she sits on the faded couch.
“You look tired,” I whisper.
“I wouldn’t say looking nice is my top priority right now.” Her words aren’t cruel but they have bite to them. I see the bitterness in her face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” I say, guilt seeping into my chest. She only smiles lightly. I’m sure Rory wishes she had someone to take care of her like she cares for everyone else, but I can’t carry her weight and mine. A hand pats my head gently, and I look up to find Ruby standing behind me.
“Don’t feel too guilty Eric, she didn’t call you either.” Ruby’s face twists as she speaks but Rory doesn’t respond, no doubt hoping Ruby won’t pick a fight. I was initially upset that Rory got Arthur to call as well. But looking at my exhausted sister hunched over on the couch, any anger I felt disappears.
“Is Jen coming soon?” I say, hoping to change the subject. Apparently, I said the wrong thing because Ruby spits out a laugh and Rory sighs.
“She is such a baby!” Ruby moans, “she’s still mad about Christmas and won’t pick up the phone.”
“So… she doesn’t know?” I ask. Rory shakes her head. “She does, she finally answered yesterday,” says Rory..
“Oh, so you managed to talk to her? Was Arthur busy?” Ruby retaliates. Rory shakes her head and stands, walking over to hand me my daughter. “I would be careful what you say, it sounds like she’s not planning on coming,” Rory replies.
“What do you mean she’s not planning on coming?”
Rory rubs her face and sighs.“I don’t know, she sounded overwhelmed and she freaked out on the phone.”
“Well I wonder why?” Ruby replies sarcastically, though she sounds less confident now.
Rory’s quiet for a moment before she moves towards the stairs.
“I’m going to take a nap.” As she treks up, Rory pauses and says, “Ruby, you should call Jen and convince her to come. It’s you she’s mad at.”
Ruby’s quiet for a moment, no doubt remembering the explosion that was this past Christmas.
“I’m not calling her,” she whispers. “Not everything is my fault.”
The Night Before
Rory
Ruby’s angry voice floats through the halls of the house. Sophia has long since been put to bed, afterwhich I got the assignment of listening to Eric tell me what an amazing sleeper my niece is for forty-five minutes. Ruby called Jen a half hour ago, and since then, their conversation has gotten more and more hostile.
“I can’t understand what would ever be more important than your father, no… don’t interrupt me! No, I don’t care… you have to come, Jen. You can’t not come to this.” A long silence fills the house. “Jen,” Ruby sighs, “please just get on the plane, okay, please? I know, okay, I know dad’s… I know.” I perk up at the sound of Ruby’s defeated voice. Jen and Ruby argue more than they talk, usually about how Jen ignores everyone and Ruby only talks bad about us. But this time, Ruby seems like she may be losing. Eric looks defeated, staring numbly at the floor.
“Do you think Jen’s really not coming?” He looks at me as he says it, and tears begin to prick behind my eyes. I’ve never been a crier, but it seems that doesn’t apply this week. He hesitates before shifting closer, pulling me into a light hug. I haven’t hugged my brother since I was a kid. It’s strange at first, but the sound of his quiet sobs in my ear makes me hug him tightly, for his sake more than mine.
“She’ll show up, she always does,” I say, knowing it’s a lie. None of us are close but Jen still manages to be the odd one out. At eighteen, she moved to Nova Scotia and never came back. She would call occasionally at first, but every conversation was awkward and bitter. Eventually, she stopped. She talked to mom more; they were always alike, fierce and loyal and stubborn. Jen and dad were always distant, and he never made much of an effort to change that. Part of me is really mad at her, but it’s so like Jen to put up a fight and we’re all so tired of loss.
Eric releases me and leans back, rubbing the tears from his eyes and sighing. We were close as children, at least closer than any of us were. Mom was the one who held everything together. She would bring us together for birthdays and holidays, carefully maintaining the peace we so tentatively had. She had a stroke one year ago. No one saw it coming. She was in perfect health. It completely destroyed all of us. Ruby got angry, yelling at anyone who came within ten feet of her. Jen cried so hard I thought she’d faint at the funeral and then, stopped answering phone calls altogether. Eric focused only on Sophia, and I tried to play mom. I made sure to call everyone weekly, planned birthdays and holiday parties, but I wasn’t very good at the job. Last Christmas, Jen and Ruby finally snapped and tore everything to shreds, and I gave up holding us together. Dad just got sad; he missed mom more than any of us.
Ruby walks into the room, exhausted and shrunken. Her pretty face looks puffy from crying.
“She’s coming,” Ruby announces, “Jen said she’d be here.”
Three Weeks Before
Johnny
I wasn’t expecting quiet. When I imagined what would happen, I thought she would stand up and start screaming. She would tell me that I’m a horrible father, or that I’m selfish, and awful, and that she hates me. I thought she would call me crazy, say she could never understand, and instruct me not to be an idiot. Instead, she just sits there, hunched and small. I notice now how wispy she’s become; my perfect eldest daughter, silent, for the first time in her life. Finally, she begins to nod.
“I feel the same way.” If I had been a betting man I would have just lost a fortune. She’s deadly still, and repeats, “I feel the exact same way. All of the time.” Her voice breaks on the last word, but she doesn’t move. She swallows hard before continuing. “Everyday I wake up in the same bed, with the same person.” Tears fall gently from her eyes. “I wear the same clothes, eat the same food, and go to the same job that I hate with all my heart. But… I honestly think that…” she looks around, searching, “if that weren’t the case, it’d all be the same.” She shrugs and laughs, lip quivering. “It’s always been the same, I could have the greatest life on earth and it’d be the same. It’s just… well… the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I guess we’re alike.” Silence begins to fill the room.
“We are,” I say. Rory looks up, smiling wanly. “I’ve been doing this forever, Rory, you’ve got to understand… it’s… it’s been forever. I’m tired, I’m done,” I pause. “I’m just done.”
She nods. She knew, unfortunately, that I was not visiting family in those months I spent in the hospital almost a decade ago. She’s known for years that her father cannot be as strong as he would like to be. “But remember that you’re not done.” She stares at me. Large, brown eyes hollow, shoulders slumped. Out of all my kids, she looks the most like me. She nods, shrugs simply, and nods again.
“Don’t worry dad… I’m not done just yet.” She stands and meets me for a hug. I feel her shoulders shake, but she doesn’t say a word. I just let us stand there, holding my baby girl for the last time.
The Day Of
Jen
The pew is cold and hard, and the wood digs into my spine. Dad’s eldest brother stands at the front, somberly delivering his eulogy. Eric sits to my left, holding Sophia. Ruby’s on my right. Rory is nowhere to be found. Uncle Tom drones on and on, and suddenly, I just can’t take it anymore. I stand up, shuffling past Eric, and make my way down the aisle. In the fresh air, everything seems clearer. I take a deep breath just as a quiet voice speaks from behind me.
“You’re supposed to be inside.” I sigh, turning around to face Rory, slumped against the wall behind me, face blotchy and puffy from crying.
“So are you”
“Well, I planned the whole thing so I figured I can stand outside.” She’s angry with me. I understand why, obviously, I’m not stupid. “Why the hell would you not come to your own fathers funeral?” Embarrassment floods my chest, heat rising into my face.
“Of course… of course I was going to come… I just… I don’t know I was acting like a brat okay? Two funerals in one year is a lot and when they’re both for your parents, it’s just a little much.”
“Well imagine if you knew one of them was coming,” Rory blurts out. I stare at her, and she looks back, unblinking. She straightens her spine and squares her shoulders, ready for a fight. I don’t give her one.
“This one, you mean? You knew this was coming?” I ask. She nods, lips trembling. My family is full of big personalities and my eldest sister might have the largest one, but right now she looks microscopic.
“He called me and asked me to come over a few weeks ago. I had no idea what to say.” Her legs begin to shake and she squats down wrapping her arms tightly around her knees. I go over and join her.
“Did you try to stop him?” I ask even though I know the answer. People say I’m like my mom. I’ve always disagreed. She shakes her head. I nod, and we sit in silence for a few minutes.
“That was mean of him,” I say finally. She laughs.
“He’s done a lot of mean things in my life.” Dad was a complicated guy. He was kind, loving, and smart but unfortunately, cursed with some unfortunate genetics that took his mother in a similar way.
“I remember, I was probably in grade ten, so you were a senior,” I say, and Rory nods quietly. “You got into the worst fight with mom about dad, and how you couldn’t believe she was letting him leave, and how if she really loved him she would make him stay and all this stuff.” I rub my face, exhausted. “You loved him so much and only ever wanted him to be happy.”
“Is the point of this story that it’s not my fault?” She asks with a sigh. I’m quiet for a moment.
“The point is that it’s no one’s fault, and we all tried the best we could to hold him together.” Rory nods quietly. “And… that this has been a very long time coming.”
The Night After
Rory
We all sit quietly around the kitchen table, and it finally occurs to me that this is the first time we’ve all been together in months. These are the people who know me the best in the world, and also the ones who don’t know me at all. They are the only people who will understand what I am feeling and will continue to fight me on everything despite this. Things will settle down and become relatively normal. We will meet for birthdays and holidays. We will fight and laugh and cry. I will love them with all my heart while not understanding how we can be related. I will forever be jealous of close families. But I can deal with this one because unfortunately, I’ll always love them.
Avery Moschee is a seventeen-year-old writer from Newmarket, Ontario. She enjoys reading mystery novels, writing poetry, and is currently finishing her senior year of high school, with plans to study medical science in post-secondary after graduation.
“The Very Hungry Caterpillar” by Natalie Webber
High noon is almost here. I can tell by the way the morning doves have long since ceased their song, and the humid heat only increases as the blazing hot sun beats down on the world. I have nearly stuffed myself just enough to last me the long slumber I have ahead of me. High noon will tick and I will prepare myself for the event I have been longing for ever since I stepped out of my egg. I have been consuming unbearable amounts of foliage, listening to endless reminders from my Elders: “Keep it up, and soon you will be beautiful!”
All my life has been a preparation, a preparation for how “great and beautiful” I
will be, not how great and beautiful I am.
There have been days where I was so determined to be beautiful that I ate three times as much as I was told, looking to my Elders as I stifled down the bile that attempted to escape my throat. They never returned my desperate gaze.
There have been days where I felt exhausted, fed up with all my hard work leading to nothing but more waiting and more eating. Those days left me so disheartened that I ate nothing at all. I would go days without any nutrition, seeing how long it would take for my Elders to notice until I simply couldn’t take it anymore and return to my gluttonous habit. I once again become a vacuum, shutting off my brain and consuming all.
High noon, it finally ticks. I stop myself from vomiting up all my worth, and I begin to form my cocoon. I will never be the same. I will finally be beautiful.
However, I can’t move my legs. I can’t move my legs. I can’t think. I can’t think. I’m not done, I’m not ready yet. I haven’t worked hard enough; I haven’t eaten enough. I need to keep eating, need to keep going, I’m not done.
I’m sent into a frenzy. My stomach, despite being filled to the brim, now feels completely empty. I latch on to the first thing I see, and I begin to chew. I chew like my life depends on it, and by the Elders, this is the most delicious meal I have ever sunk my fangs in. I taste warmth, I taste love, I taste complete. My legs deteriorate one by one; my torso disappears into my stomach. I am in deep, deep pain, more than I have ever been warned of. I slowly, painfully, beautifully disappear into myself, and it is deeply, beautifully satisfying. It’s beautiful.
High noon, it ends. All other caterpillars have wrapped themselves in their cocoons. I am the only one, and there is nothing left of me. My head is the only piece of me that remains, although there is nothing left inside. I have never been more beautiful in my entire existence.
With my final strength, I gaze upwards at my Elders for the final time. I leave this world with one final question for them:
“Dear Elders, am I finally enough?”
Natalie Webber is a seventeen-year-old creative writer from Nova Scotia. She frequents theatre, often performing in several different types of plays or musicals, and is currently part of her school’s drama club. “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” is one of her first ever writing pieces, and it takes a small amount of inspiration from the book of the same name.
“The Voicemails of Marie DuBell” by Payten Josephine Woldanski
“Hey, it’s Marie DuBell. I’m too busy to talk, so leave me a message after the…”
Beep
August 31, 2018, 10:05 a.m.
Beep
“It’s Stacey. You told me to call you, but you aren’t answering. Happy seventeenth birthday.”
September 5, 2018, 7:07 p.m.
Beep
“Hey, this is Isabelle from Homeroom. You gave me your phone number, earlier. Well, see you at school tomorrow.”
November 8, 2018, 5:05 p.m.
Beep
“Please cancel the subscription to Netflix before it charges the card.”
November 20, 2018, 12:08 a.m.
Beep
“Marie, Mom’s drunk again. I know you’re sleeping over at Isabelle’s, but I need you. Oh crap! She’s going into your room. You better pray she won’t find your photo albums. I don’t think she would be happy if she realized those are all pictures of Dad.”
December 2, 2018, 11:57 p.m.
Beep
“Where are you Marie! You promised you would be home by 12:30!” “Mom, it’s 11:57!”
December 19, 2018, 04:26 p.m.
Beep
“Oh. My. God. You will never guess who was asking about you in art today. It was Nathaniel Ebony. He is such a good artist, and he was wondering what flowers you like. So if you stumble across some lilacs in your locker in the next few days… you might want to thank a handsome baseball player. Imagine, the drama kid and the baseball player. One love story, bound to happen. Let me be your maid of honour.”
January 8, 2018, 7:59 p.m.
Beep
“Hey Marie, it’s Nate Ebony from Mrs. Stratic’s science class. I’m not a stalker, your friend Isabelle gave me your number. I hope you got those flowers. Call me back.”
January 14, 2019
Beep
“Hello Ms. DuBell, it’s Sarah from Green Oak, calling to confirm your appointment on January 15 with Dr Thelm.”
February 1, 2019, 09:05 a.m.
Beep
“Marie, it’s Stace. Mom had another episode, and cut herself on one of the bottles. She’s bleeding a lot. I called 911, and they’re sending an ambulance. I’m scared, and she keeps on asking why I’m not at school, and won’t stop calling me by your name. Have a good day at school.”
February 1, 2019, 10:08 a.m.
Beep
“Hello Ms. DuBell. This is Dr Thelm from Green Oak, I am calling in regards to the testing you had done on January 15. Please call me back so we can discuss options.”
February 4, 2019, 9:40 p.m.
Beep
“Hey, when are you coming back to school? It’s been three days since your moms accident. This is Izzy.”
February 5, 2019, 10:26 p.m.
Beep
“It’s Nate. You seem a little off since what happened with your mom. Isabelle refused to tell me what happened. If you need anything, I’m just a call away. See you at school on Monday?”
February 8, 2019, 8:19 p.m.
Beep
“Your little sister called me. She said you locked yourself in your bedroom and won’t come out. There’s something you are not telling me, and I’m starting to worry about you. Call me. It’s Iz.”
February 14, 2019, 05:17 p.m.
Beep
“Happy Valentine’s day baby. Can’t wait to see you later.”
February 30, 2019, 11:38 a.m.9
Beep
“Hello, this is Dr. Thelm from Green Oak. We’ve spotted two new masses on your latest screening. Your condition is worse than last month, and I fear the chemo isn’t working.”
March 5, 2019, 5:58 p.m.
Beep
“Marie, I love you, and I’m really concerned. You don’t look good. Wait. You always look beautiful, but something’s off. Your sister keeps calling me, asking if I know where you went last Tuesday. You told me you were sick.”
April 3, 2019, 07:46 p.m.
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“Dr. Thelm, from Green Oak. Your sister, Stacey, I think, called our office asking about your status so far after you left. When we first started your treatment, you confirmed you had a strong support system. We have confirmed your prognosis, it would be in your best interest to take a trip, and get really close with your family. Have a good day.”
April 3, 2019, 10:49 p.m.
Beep
“I know where you’ve been. I called the doctor’s office that you’ve been going to. The doctor, Thelm I think, told me about your condition when I asked how the progress was. Stage five ovarian cancer. He shared because I am your emergency contact, and thought I was aware of your… never mind. We’ll talk when you get home. This was Stace, by the way.”
April 6, 2019, 11:39 a.m.
Beep
“This is Mr. Robert, principal of CrewHaven High School, I am calling to confirm your withdrawal from CrewHaven. Registration opens back up in the fall, please consider.”
April 7, 2019, 03:07 p.m.
Beep
“YOU DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL? What the Hell is wrong with you?”
“Mom, stop.”
“No I will not! This is unacc-”
April 12, 2019, 02:05 a.m.
Beep
“Hey, it’s Stacey, your sister. I miss you, and you’ve only been at the hospital for two days. You’re probably asleep, and I’ll be at the hospital in the morning. I just can’t wrap my head around it. Nate isn’t doing well, he was at the door, drunk, around ten. His buddy, Danny, picked him up. He was barely awake. How did this happen?”
April 14, 2019, 08:27 a.m.
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“It’s Izzy, I can’t come to the hospital today. My mom told me I needed a break from all this ‘drama.’ I talked to Dr. Thelm yesterday at the hospital, he told me what he told you, spend the most time as I can with you. I just don’t want you to go.”
April 14, 2019, 12:30
Beep
“Hello? The doctors won’t let me into your room, they asked for mom, but I said she was busy. Holy- someone’s dying! They are grabbing a- no. No no no no! Marie!”
“Ma’am, you need to-”
“That’s my sister, what’s happening to her? Please save her! Someone! That’s my sister!”
September 1, 2019, 04:46 p.m.
Beep
“It’s been a few months. God it’s been a really tough summer. Your sister is starting high school today. She asked me to drop her off. I did. She misses you a lot, I do too. I love you and miss you. This is Nate.”
November 23, 2019, 12:04 a.m.
Beep
“Hi. This is Iz.”
December 14, 2019, 02:28 a.m.
Beep
“It’s Nate. It’s been a while. It’s weird having a dead girlfriend, they give me free drinks. I’m on my fifth. Drink, not girl. Although, this one girl keeps eyeing me. Love you babe.”
June 30, 2022, 10:13 p.m.
Beep
“It’s Nate. Your sister graduated today. She was valedictorian, I was so proud. She cried, I cried. Izzy made it, she took a video. It’s been a while since we saw each other, but she’s usually at your house, helping your sister out. I took a video, it was beautiful. The whole crowd cried. She’s the first DuBell to graduate. You would be proud.”
August 29, 2025, 09:56 a.m.
Beep
“Come on Stacey! It’s three hours away.”
“Give me a sec! Hey Marie, it’s Stacey. I’m going to med school today, and I felt like I needed to tell you. I know you’d be proud. Mom’s going to meetings, she’s working on her addiction. It got really bad after you die- you died. She got a job at the library, she’s getting better. Nate just graduated from university, he opened a flower shop. He calls it ‘Lilacs for DuBells.’ I don’t understand what it means, but it keeps him happy. Izzy is getting married to Grey Hallgreen. She asked me to be her maid of honour, if she gets to be mine. I’m going to study pathology at Clove Horn University, home of the Bulls. I’m twenty-one now, it’s been six years, and this will be the last time I call. I can’t let this hold me back. I love you, say hi to Dad for me.”
Born with a distaste for reading, Payten’s literary journey transformed in elementary school when Archie comics became her gateway to a world of humor and engaging personas. It wasn’t until she encountered Percy Jackson And The Olympians: The Lightning Thief that her true passion for reading ignited, leading her on an unexpected adventure through the captivating realm of Greek mythology.
Inspired by a wide array of book genres, Payten is not only a dedicated reader but is also growing into a young author. Her journey took a pivotal turn when she found a deep love of writing during her attendance at Youthwrite, a writing camp tailored for avid young authors. When she is not reading, Payten’s heart finds joy in the graceful art of ballet and spending time with her family.
The other thought was to explore how people take different amounts of time to handle a problem or deal with grief.
In loving memory of Charlene Blinda Smith, to be loved is to never be forgotten.
