What’s Your Story?

If, as Mr. Storsly, Langley Fine Arts School’s psychology teacher, always says, “Everyone’s life is a story,” it is also true that we create narratives. This week we’re proud to bring you a look into these storiestold through different types of media.

Even an ordinary day has moments worth sharing, whether it’s a math test or a solo, and we thought we’d highlight those moments by asking …

“How has your day been?”

Photo majors Amanda Muirhead and Danielle Kool have allowed us to share their year-end projects as they were seen in the Photo/Writing show last month. Through still media stories are told in a way that often brings you to unknown places.



Ninth grade student Emma Irvine has also given us a written piece, telling a story not often told. Natural landscapes are turned into cloned suburban neighborhoods, and this is the story of our suffocation.


The flood plains have been enveloped by the toxic fog of suburbia.
I sit by the river and wait for the waves to swallow the houses, identically perched side by side.
It sort of makes me sick, to look upon the modern interpretation of success.
A nice car, a boardroom job, a pretty wife and a few children, all swarming towards a common goal; a throne of dollar bills and jewels.

These houses represent that.
The suffocation of innovation, originality and individualism. This lethal belief that in order to be happy one must conform to the polluted main stream.
People don’t understand how to drown in three inches of water. Not even when it happens, not even when the air in their lungs is traded for the murky fluid of the American dream.
All of the colours that paint us who we are must be whited out, that we who chose to speak out against the repression have our voices stolen.

It’s a silent genocide.
Neat and precise, the incision across our chests where the surgeons reach in to remove our souls is the same on each body.
We carry the same scars.

I miss the trees.
The willowing bodies that folded over the land like a scarf to keep the animals warm in the winter.
River water would wallow through the roots and the beautiful chaos would support the eggshell dome of sky.
It was beautiful.
Constructed like a tower of cards, each layer dependent on that below it. Written in sound and fury, the cloudy breaths of the little woods and the inhabitants would sigh in contentment each time someone took a second out of their day to realize how incredible it was to just exist among the bird calls.

I remember the day the monsters rumbled in.
Formidable and industrial, choking up plumes that turned the sky black, everyone knew they were here.
With claws and hooks and they tore down my little woods.

This place isn’t where you start a family.
This place is where you come to mourn the loss of our purity.
This isn’t a home.
It’s a graveyard.

Emma Irvine

As a final story, we made a stop motion video based on a fairy tale. Let’s see if you can read the body language well enough to identify the tale.

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