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36th Edition
Copenhagen International School
Journal of the Arts

All rights of reproduction and copyright are reserved and the sole property of the
COPENHAGEN INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL, Copenhagen, Denmark. This book may
not be reproduced in whole or in part, in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying without expressed permission from CIS.
Dear Reader,
Before you turn the page and hopefully
Welcome to the 36th edition of have the same wonderful experience that
Labyrinth! we had, a reminder that this book
represents only one part of Labyrinth,
For us in the editorial team the creation don’t forget to explore our online section
of each year’s Labyrinth is certainly hard (available on the Arts tab of the school
work but ultimately a hugely rewarding website) where you can see some of
process, one that always rewards our our performing arts work.
faith in the imagination, thoughtfulness
and dedication of our student body. So, thank you to all those who submitted
Each year when we open for work, congratulations to those who are
submissions we don’t know what we’re published and we hope you all enjoy this
going to receive and there is perhaps a year’s collection as much as we enjoyed
little feeling of doubt: “Our students putting it together!
work so hard”, we think to ourselves,
“Maybe they don’t have time to be The Labyrinth Editorial Team
creative?” Guiltily, we think about the
homework we set and wonder “Did we Darren Howard, Gora Lisazo,
leave them time to write, to paint, to play Damhán McLaughlin, Daniel Sarstedt
music, to find pleasure in creativity for
its own sake?” And yet, every year they CONTENTS
amaze us. We have, once again, received
a staggering number of submissions that
2D Art 3
really opens your eyes to the enormous
Poetry 31
number of talented students, often
working modestly and quietly on Printmaking 55
wonderful things. The creative energy of Short Fiction 69
these young adults cannot be stopped! Photography 79
The Bob Carignan Art 95
Our job was also made more pleasurable Purchace Award
by continuing with the decision made in Opinion Pieces 97
recent years to dispense with the process 3D Art 107
of awarding ‘prizes’ for the ‘best’ work. Parody 113
This was always an impossible task and
Digital Art 117
one that felt so unnatural; what on earth
does it mean for a poem to be “the best”?
We don’t leave an art gallery confidently Cover Art by Ryan Shultis

ready to declare which painting has

“won”! Instead we have attempted to
curate the student work that we felt
succeeds on its own terms; to select from MORE LITERATURE, VISUAL
all the submitted pieces that moved us in ARTWORK AND PERFORMING
some way; to seek out the heartfelt and ARTS ON
the genuine. WWW.CIS.DK/Labyrinth
Labyrinth 2018
2D Art

Anastasiia Katona


Laura Svarrer


Lucia Carai


Carolina Fabiani


White Noise
Pauline Hahnemann


Benedicte Lund


Sunaina Chander


Tess Kauffmann


Cry Me a Bouquet
Laura Svarrer


Julie Jahant


Pauline Hahnemann


Frank Okoth-Menya


Miruna Lopata

Claudia Christensen


Anastasiia Katona


Laura Volmer


I Deserve It
Pauline Hahnemann

My Room
Maja Sjostrand


Julia Jahant


Sunaina Chander


Rimondi’s Fountain
Lucia Carai


Laura Svarrer


Lucia Carai


Xi Huang


Xi Huang

Horns of Amethyst by Anastasiia Katona


Maja Sjostrand

Benedicte Lund


Plants Have Feelings

Benedicte Lund

The Tale of Amethyst

Anastasiia Katona


Les Animeux by Isa Schulting

My Lundi by Isa Schulting


Role Models by Isa Schulting

Sasha Calvert


I often get funny looks when I try to tell my students that poetry reflects our
shared reality and has the potential to tell us something universal and
enlightening about how we experience the world. And yet that’s exactly how I felt
when I read through this year’s poetry submissions. These poems, while often
intensely personal, nevertheless speak of experiences that I feel will resonate with
many of us in the CIS community.

For this reason, it felt appropriate to try to find some common ground between the
poems and group them in four broad categories.

First up we have a selection of poems that reflect on places, spaces and the natural
world. In this section it’s interesting to note how the act of describing the world
around us ultimately ends up telling us about ourselves.

Secondly we have some poems that could be called political as they grapple with the
big ideas that shape our society. There are some things, it seems, that only poetry
has the language to describe.

Next, we have poems that deal with some of life’s darker emotions. We often think
that people we don’t know very well are content and happy, yet a huge number of
the poems submitted this year dealt with ideas of grief, loss, pressure, and isolation.
As poets, trying to describe these overwhelming emotions can help us to
understand them, maybe even to tame them and as readers we might simply realize
that when are low, we are not alone, and certainly that is something to find
comfort in.

Finally, our poets have reserved their most beautiful language and most soaring
description for poems that talk about that most reliable source of inspiration: love.
Here you’ll find heartfelt tributes to family, friends and to those we hope will be
more than friends. To read them is to relive the exquisite tragedy of young love.

What all these poems have in common is that each one is the product of someone
taking time to describe their reality, taking time to share their world. I hope that
you read them and find in them something, a beautifully described detail that
blossoms in your mind’s eye, a phrase that echoes on in your head long after you’ve
closed this book, something that helps you understand your world a little better

Damhán McLaughlin
High School English teacher and Labyrinth Literature Editor 2018


Labyrinth 2018


Poetry About Place And Nature

Footsteps In the Snow

I first saw snow when I was eight

I made a snowman in the front garden,
It was that day my dad returned,
He had been fighting in the army

When I first got here it was spring,

The grass was dewy and there was hope for us.
We have watched less and less planes come home,
Now, our planes are out of storage.

The elegant snow fell overnight,

Coating the bare camouflage of the bomber’s
The freshly coated flag on the tail left clean
Urging our nationalistic pride to fight through

As the squaddies scrape the ice off the wings,

I remember that day my father came home.
My mother running out to meet us on the grass,
My father crying as he held us tighter than ever before.

The piles of snow leaning up against the plane’s shields,

Almost trying to stop it moving forward,
The squaddies fighting to keep things going,
Their footprints marked in the snow

Back and forth, Back and forth,

They climb the ladder to the pit,
Never quite reaching the top of the plane,
It takes one to drop a bomb but three to clean the plane.

As I stand here, I block out the feeling,

You must have no feeling to get into that plane.
I think about my father, and all the footprints he left in france,
I think about the footprints I will leave.

Chloe Nash


Ancient Messini

Scattered pillars ahead of us are barely visible over the tops of trees.
Corinthian pillars; the archaeologist says.
The Romans built here too after the Spartans;
You can tell by what the walls are made of, the archaeologist says.
The Greeks used marble blocks, the Romans iron-red bricks.
Four of us sprint down the track of the stadium, following the footsteps of athletes long ago
We continue on their path to the changing rooms: it has bumps on the floor.
So the athletes wouldn’t slip in the water.
Wasps buzz in and out of their nests in the timeworn walls.
Did they do the same when the city was new and prosperous?
There’s a hole in the wall in the butcher’s shop;
Someone had hidden a box of coins there.
There’s a familiarity to this;
Something a good number of crime shows would write in their scripts.
Perhaps someone was evading taxes? Or hiding stolen money?
We’ll never know, but it reminds us of ourselves.

Sasha Calvert



The sweet perfume of nature,

Its inviting beauty
A harmless deadly trap.
The relief of knowledge,
Until the last breath it will surround you.
What you want, what you fear,
An irresistible lullaby.
Sugary blue, confused for a sweet,
The beautiful lady of the dark.

Mathilda Lundqvist


Spacestation CIS

I have heard people describe the landscape around our school as being ‘lunar’
And I can see it, the buildings have a certain geometric functionality,
A practical ugliness, jutting up into the emptiness
Cranes and diggers constructing little sealed boxes of survival on this remote rock grey moon.

But it’s not the ramshackle tinfoil spider of the moon lander that I think of
When the building finally, slowly swings above the handlebars of my bike
It’s some other floating space object, more fiction than science,
A spacestation, like those in some shared dream of a future interplanetary federation.

A noble deep space dream in which travellers from a thousand ancient cultures
Leave behind their cold blue suns or their quantumly entangled home planets
To come here, united in their difference, in their endless variation-
Green skin? That’s nothing here, wait until you meet the Holo-Priests of Helos 4
Or consult with the slumbering hyperbrain jellyfish on the deep ocean deck-
To skim screens of glowing data, to seek out, eternally, answers to the mysteries of the cosmos
To snack on freeze dried fluorescent cubes while chatting of interstellar diplomacy

Out among the shipping containers, eyes squinting against the streaking lunar dust
I see the the spacestation roll into view, the solar panels sparkle
A hundred different eyes winking in invitation:
Come on board, they say, the docking bay is ready for your arrival,
Come, test the gravity under your feet, we’ve got it tuned just right
Come, share the oxygen we breathe together.

Damhán McLaughlin


You, Archibald Macleish

And here face up below the clouds
And here upon earth’s darkness lights
The feeling of the coming light
The always winter clouds they float:

And now at CIS the gate

The light full and the blooming grass
And through the winters dawn approach
Rush of students in northward port

And across lane the air it blasts

Still flashing does the shawl twist on
The icy gust it does not cease
Bike teetering and falling deep

And strange though the ladders steep

The gray brine swells the waves they heap
The blue-gray color of the deep
How frigid and yet welcoming

To sense the creeping dark on north

The earthy cold of darkness reach
Beneath the road the tunnel goes
And ever creeping shadow moves

And strange around the gravel mounds

Take rock by rock the night shall come
The growing clouds above their tips
The buildings over Nordhavn shift

And Nordhavn darkens and the dock

Across the silent seaward gone
And through østerport the end
Of evening grow and creep on

And deepen the dark on Weyse’s street

The tyre marks upon the curb
And Copenhagen fades til night
Low through the mist and windswept land:

And here face up below the night

To feel how slow how stealthily
The cold of winter it dissipates…

Tarne Lamp


Political Poetry


Rage, hate, love,

It is a must
For society, in which we exist
Let it be; we cannot
we turn hate into love;
Take action
Leave no one behind,
For in love, in passion there’s humankind.

Valdemar Hellmann


The Wall

A country of two streets

Divided by a wall
Able to be breached
But never to fall

Stranded in the middle

A girl from two sides
Said to be given privilege
But feared by those with too much pride

She’s careful to avoid

The words brought with disguise
As those attempt to fit her
Into either side

Her hand against the wall

Her mind faced towards the future
A world with no fights
A system that only nurtures

Her hand a generation

Of promise and of peace
A chance to help the future
Away from this unease

“And I wonder what would happen

If the walls fall down” she said
Maybe then the threats would stop
Maybe that’s when this would end

-An ode to those who struggle for peace

Skyler Cook



As the tendril of time extends

No matter how hard you fight it
Forget not how it descends

Like an old foe or friend

You cling and you submit
Beware, you’ll meet your end

You roll in lush, green fields of it, never to end

Be wary the callous grip will never submit
Escape it you may try, forget not its descent

Its repetition cannot end

For it’s eternal and won’t quit
As the tendril of time extends

It finds new victims to befriend

And ruins them bit by bit
Forget not how it descends

Until your last dying breath echoes

Until it turns your efforts to ash
As the tendril of time extends
Forget not how it descends

Saloni Gupte


Sleep’s Game

Men fear the devils of the night

They rest in caves: the hollow ears
They speak the ignored fears aloud
They make your pillow hard though soft
They prod and poke and prod our sides
They squeeze the salt out from your pores
They steer the spiders to your toes
They pull the covers off the bed
They scuttle over wooden floors
They feed on fear to stay alive
We’re fooled once more to their delight
The devils play a funny game
One that ceases to exist when
Opening the eyes again.

Isa Shuting


A Call for Change

The world is spinning,

Words, pictures, voices,
So many choices.

Responsibilities are endless,

Small changes are monumentous,
Yet change is slow,
And controversial.

I wonder sometimes,
If my world was different,
If all the decisions rested with a king,
Maybe then I wouldn’t have so much responsibility.

Maybe then,
I would finally be carefree.

But not caring,

Means I am acquiescent.

Not knowing,
Means I am unread.

And not craving, yearning, campaigning,

For change,
Means I am complacent.

Things which I cannot be,

Because as much as it would serve me,
And be easy,
It would kill my consciousness.

Time is of the essence,

Change must be awakened,
And one day,
When I have worked for my ambitions,
I may consider,
A world of bovine contentment.

Shiva Ivaturi


Name Calling

Name calling is childish,

That much, everyone can agree on.
Adults reprimand their kids,
For calling each other names,
For calling someone gross
Or weird,
Or whatever awful adjective that is being said.
But then why do they do it too?
Instead of gross or creepy,
They call people things much worse,
They hurl slurs and swear words at each other,
Sometimes jokingly, sometimes not so much.
But either way,
Words hurt.
They arm themselves with these words,
Mowing down other people,
Thinking it doesn’t hurt.
But the moment the bullet is redirected,
They are hurt,
For just a moment,
They understand
But they turn their backs,
And carry on shooting.
Name calling is childish.
Yet everyone does it.

Megan Widjaja


Poetry about Dark Emotions


we were meant to meet in february.

you would come and light our house with the fire of joy
you would make my brothers laugh and my mother smile
you would ask my dad to pick you up
you would take my clothes you would talk too much and sleep too little

can you miss someone you’ve never met?




When you want to scream but can’t,

So you just scream inside your head and cry,
Hearing the voices wake up and go about their day

When no matter how hard you try you just can’t,

Until you mellow into that state where your curled up clinging on,
Feeling nothing

When the sun is shining through your window,

But all it does is annoy you,
Getting brighter and brighter

When a simple task feels like hell,

When a website can send you down a spiral,
So you end up crying in a hallway

When you can’t get to sleep but can’t stay awake,

The thoughts running around,
Bringing you back in time

When you’re not happy but have to fake it,

The laughing and the smiling,
Tearing you down from inside

When it’s a continuous cycle,

Restarting everyday.

Chloe Nash



Never underestimate grief

The life that was taken by a thief
It takes time before you can breathe

Imagine the life as big as a tree

Visit from the grim left no leaf
Never underestimate grief

They say you’re gone away in three

But in one second comes life’s thief
It takes time before you can breathe

My heart for her was big as the sea

The soul as fine as the coral reef
Never underestimate grief

The demon filled my heart’s black sea

All around we were in disbelief
It takes time before you can breathe

From this earth I want to flee

May she rest in peace, my sole relief
Never underestimate the grief
It takes time before you can breathe

Caspar Wulff


Rooted Pain

It is tearing me apart, bit by bit

The words; horrendous words do I care to yell?
School… I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

There’s pushing, shoving, loneliness is there an end to it?

Again I am trapped; locked in an endless hell.
It is tearing me apart, bit by bit.

The staring, the whispers, it’s a good fit

For the victim that is afraid to tell.
School… I hate it, I hate it, I hate it

My name, another bruise, another slit,

What will break me from this hurtful spell?
It is tearing me apart, bit by bit.

Why me? They will never stop so shall I just quit?

Upon all decision I am able to dwell
School… I hate it, I hate it, I hate it

My last tears roll down as my life ends with just one slit,
No connections can be formed all I do is split
Finally I’m torn apart, bit by bit.
School… I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

Samantha Jensen


Poetry about Love and Friendship


Your love is a river,

Like water --
constant, cutting
Unwavering, it flows

I mustn’t forget:
I cannot let it drown me
or run me too cold
But like Moon, like Wind
I am in control

Instead I’ll allow it to wash,

To rinse me, to clean my soul
Until I am filled to the brim
(and not a drop over)
Until I am whole

Petarina Danardatu


My Golden Love

She owns my heart

I have a prediction
She has had it from the start

She is so funny
A sweet depiction
She owns my heart

I call her my honey

There isn't much friction
She has had it from the start

She loves my money

It's more like an addiction
She owns my heart

She wants me to be her bunny

There isn't a restriction
She has had it from the start

You're never a waste of money

We are immune to contradiction
She owns my heart
She has had it from the start

Joseph Saouma


Raining Memories

The sound of rain on the windowpane,

Each time different yet still the same.
I slip out of bed, a laugh on my face,
The rain reminding me of a far-off embrace.

The sound of memories on the roof tiles,

Take me to my childhood, one that’s full of smiles.
The way I see it, everything’s changed,
But still, the rain remains unchanged.

The memories that I used to share,

The caresses from the one that cared.
A love for a person does not fade,
A love for a person as pure as jade.

The rain washes me clean, mingles with my tears,

Brings back the voice that was once music to my ears.
Connected in the thing we love,
A blessing from the world above.

I see the world in a different light,

And boy, is it a beautiful sight.
To see the flowers dripping with kisses,
A gift for the one that constantly misses.

I look again, look once more,

Stand taller than I did before.
I’m soaking wet, free again,
Hoping, dancing, dreaming, the rain.

Ema Guryčová


Rebecca Icarus (‘I believe I can fly’)

Office workers at Skudehavnsvej reportedly witnessed “a young woman biking at breakneck

speed round the bend and biking straight into the water”. With the help of two dumbstruck
bystanders she managed to clamber back up on the quai and rescue her school bag and other
belongings. Despite a heroic struggle the bike sunk down to the bottom, and had to be hauled
up with a pulley the next day. The identity of the woman is unconfirmed, but rumour has it she
works at CIS sharing an office on the third floor.

And all of a sudden she is when she notices the two dudes
airborn in upscale business suits on the quai
reborn smoking
weightlessly shooting through air and casually enquiring
like Icarus on wings could they be of any help
a duckling on her maiden flight (or was this some film project,
amazed at unimagined powers of levitation some creative endeavor)
waiting for the impact and she responding
(while she dreams of cameras flashing) in purest Oxbridge accent
one, two that reaching for that bag
bobbing up and down among the weeds
when she hits the water would be most kind,
and goes down class starts in 8 minutes
down and she is already late
through molecules of wetness as it is
gravity pulling like an old octopus
angry at the world while she battles on
sucking her down a Cornish Amazon
and the bike plunging like an anchor hoisting, heaving on that chain
thrown carelessly at sea trying to lift herself up
and her bike that weighs a ton
when she snatches that chain up, up
quick until her limbs weaken
and her feet cradle that bike and she lets go of her flying bike, her iron
her flying bike steed,
her hovercraft and clambers up onto the quai
her Pegasus like a wet cat
her fiery steed pissed on in London rain.
and she knows
she will never let go She gets up,
never, never thanks the lads for that bag,
and trudges towards Nordhavn,
only now noticing the cold,
as she readies herself for
just another normal day.

Lorenz Hindrichsen


You’re always trying to build a permanent home
Inside those who have been itching to leave
Since you first came to town

Chloe Wheeler


Maybe I showed no spark
And that's why you set my world on fire

Chloe Wheeler


A Farewell Tribute to Dr Engelberg on the Occasion of his Retirement.

(To the tune of “I am the very model of a model Major General” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s
The Pirates of Penzance)

He is the very model of a model ´ssistant prinicpal

On follow up of absences a force that’s quite invincible
His insight into CAS reflection simply unequivocal
From ManageBac to Veracross he’s more or less pontifical.
From ManageBac to Veracross he’s more or less pontifical.

His office on the 5th floor is a place that’s paradisical

His tracking of construction of the metro is permissible
His answer-phone is risible, his gait is slightly instable
(But in) courtesy and gallantry he’s utterly impeccable
In courtesy and gallantry he’s utterly impeccable

His management of self-taught Language A is quite remarkable

His mastery of Hindi and of Chinese is commendable
In Arabic he’s passable, in Dutch he’s irrepressible
(But in) Hebrew and Swahili he is simply bloody terrible.
In Hebrew and Swahili he is simply bloody terrible.

A teacher of the very highest order of scholarity

On Shelley and on Heaney he’s an unrivalled authority
He’s taught Macbeth and Ibsen, Othello, Ozymandias
And as for teaching Godot, well he’s braver than the lot of us
And as for teaching Godot, well he’s braver than the lot of us

And now that he’s departing we are suddenly vice-principless

We’ll miss his sweet gentility, that lovely Oxbridge Britishness
His terrorizing students emerging from the the liftishness
And his goodness and his kindness and his everlasting Karstenness!
His goodness and his kindness and his everlasting Karstenness!

A very fond farewell


Labyrinth 2018

Addi Copas
Valdemar Rommelhoff


Tiger in the IV
Anastasiia Katona


Julie Jahant


Do Not Conform
Pauline Hahnemann


A Greek Building
Lucia Carai

Lewis Foster


Hunky Dory by Valdemar Rommelhoff

Alina Debyser


Ebba Cotton

Iona Sinclair



Katia Debyser

Kirsten Quin


Lucia Carai

Pia Mehdwan


Sunaina Chander

Xi Huang


Faia Rommelhoff

Julie Jahant


Lauren Foster

Leah Marcus


Sigrid Vestergaard

Records Pop

Labyrinth 2018
Short Fiction


I can feel it. A storm. It’s coming.

I can feel it. A storm. It’s coming.

The calm is gone, the sky darkens. The dark from below, rising and falling. It pushes me up. I
fall and foam. It’s a never-ending cycle.

I swirl and splash and rise and fall and swirl and splash and rise and fall. It’s getting intense,
the storm.

I jump up and over the rocks, people run to avoid me. The wet, cold and dark seeming
somewhat unpleasant. I run back down the edge of the wall, back into the dark below.

The sky is dark, the wind howls. The storm. It’s here now.

The shack on the shore, I just noticed it. Swaying and creaking in the wind. I jump up again,
making it further this time. Everyone has gone, no people to run away. It’s just me and the
shack. The shack and me.

I look at it closer, eager to get inside. It’s old and wooden, the wood slightly stained from its
once blue coating. The sand whips the shack, wearing it down. There are holes in the wooden
walls, the door hangs from one hinge. Windows wide open, the wind whistling through where
the glass once was. I back away to the wall and down, pulled into the dark. Next time, I will
make it.

The dark swirls beneath me. It pulls me under the surface. I rise again, enough impact to jump
over that wall. The shack comes nearer and nearer, still no people. Just me and the shack. The
shack and me. I hit it. Stained, sand whipped wood flies around in the howling wind.

I knocked it down. I destroyed it.

The currents pull me back. The shack comes running back down with me. I grasp the shacks
remains, pulling them under.

They gurgle and gasp for breath, I hold them tight. Tighter. They drown, motionless in the dark

The storm. It’s still howling. But I can feel it. The storm. It’s going.

Abigail Pattison


The Waitress

A man is sitting in a quaint, quiet café on the outskirts of a quaint, quiet town. The only other
people in the café were the two waitresses who worked there. One of them the man knew, the
other he did not. It was a small space; there was only enough space for about six tables. There
was also a battered, light-brown loveseat; its fabric was worn away by the pressure of
supporting the weight of two people at once, and supporting it for years and years. There were
small wooden frames of colorful art pieces, at least twenty of them, hung up on the walls. They
were new to him. Some of them look as though children had made them, and perhaps some
had been. The paint on the walls was peeling. There were a few discernible shoe prints on floor
that were made by dirty shoes worn by those who neglected to wipe their feet on the mat
outside the door. Despite every evident flaw he recognized, he managed to retain a sort of
tender fondness for this place, though he would never care to admit so. It felt like decades ago,
the man would come here every day, even if just for a cup of coffee or to have somewhere nice
to sit and think. Now, he loved the hustle and bustle of the big city. He had gotten bored of the
coffee that was brewed. He found a nicer place to sit to ponder the new things he had to think

Years and years, the man had not thought about this place since he last left it. He had lived –
flourished – without the warm (bland) coffee or the quiet (too quiet) town. Though, lately he
found himself craving those things, wondering if he still felt the way about them as he did the
last time he had felt anything about them at all. The man reminisces about the time he enjoyed,
really, that the only sounds he ever heard were those of his own breath, the clinks of coffee cups
being placed back on saucers, and the soft voice of the waitress that served him. She had always
been kind to him. He never minded that. Though, this time felt like a lifetime ago; perhaps it

As he sits, one leg crossed over the other, he reads over the menu: croissants, Danishes, coffee,
tea (English Breakfast or Forest Fruits), chocolate muffins, Eggs Benedict. There’s nothing
special here, he thinks. He sets the menu down, and straightens the spoon and fork that lie on a
napkin on a table. A waitress soon approaches him. She is the same one who had always served
him before. He uncrosses his legs, and fixes his posture, as she would often tell him to. She was
always telling him that he was going to suffer the consequences one day. So far, he has not. As
she arrives at the table, he lets out a long, soft breath. The waitress looks older now. She is, as is
he. Her hair was just as long and just as chocolate-brown as it had always been (excepting a few
gray strands, but they suited her). Her face had formed some wrinkles under her eyes and on
her forehead. She had gained some weight around her hips, and her arms, and her belly. Still,
somehow, she looked as small as she ever did. As if a too-strong gust of wind could just pick
her up and whisk her away forever. The man wondered if one day it would. The waitress’ eyes
meet his, linger, then she speaks,

“Well, hello. My, I must say, I didn’t expect you here.” He had almost forgotten how soft the
sound of her voice was; almost. He clears his throat.

“No, I didn’t imagine you would.”

“So tell me, what can I do for you?”

“I’ll have a cup of coffee. Please. Small, milk on the side.”

“Yes sir, right away,” The girl reaches for the menu, and he picks it up for her, holding it out in
her direction. She grabs a hold of it but their hands do not touch. Before she can turn away, he
quickly mentions,

“I can’t stay for long.”


“Yes, understood, Mr. Daniels.” She flashes him a short smile, but she didn’t mean it. He knew
so but ignores it anyway and crosses his legs. The girl turns and walks away.

While she’s off brewing his coffee, and pouring milk inside a separate tiny jug, the man recalls
the last time he came to the café. It was the day he left his house, this town, and his love. He left
all for a new job, in a new city, and where he knew he’d eventually find a new love, too. It was
raining that day, he knew that would slow his drive out; that annoyed the hell out of him. He
figured he better bring some coffee for the road, because driving can get tricky in the rain so he
would need to stay sharp. When he arrived at the café, he wiped his feet on the mat right
outside the door, not wanting to leave any marks on the place. He walked up to the counter,
where the waitress with the soft voice was standing. She looked sad that day: her hair was put
up in a messy bun with half of it falling out, her under-eyes were red and swollen, the corners
of her mouth seemed to be perpetually angled down. He thought it best not to ask what was
wrong, after all, he had to get going. He was determined to. So, all he asked for was a small
coffee with milk on the side. When she served it to him, she told him that it was on the house
and to come visit soon. The man softly chuckled in response because he didn’t know how to tell
her that he wouldn’t, because at the time he didn’t think he ever would. (He now knows he was
wrong.) He took the coffee, turned, and walked out of the café without even looking back over
his shoulder. Sometimes he wonders if he would have stuck around, just a while little longer, if
he had looked back.

The woman finally comes back with his coffee, holding the cup with both hands. She had
always been careful, too careful – afraid to let things fall from her grasp. As she sets the cup
down, Mr. Daniels uncrosses his legs.

“Excuse the potential overstep, but I just have to ask. How is he? I mean, how’s your boy?
Though, I suppose he’s hardly a boy anymore. Hardly so.”

The woman beams, “Oh, yes, he is absolutely wonderful. Growing up to be very handsome,
and intelligent, too. He has a quick tongue though, and is as hard-headed as they come. I think
he’s going to be a lawyer. Funny, isn’t it? He’ll be a lawyer, just like his father.”

Mr. Daniels sips his coffee and thinks, no, it’s not funny. Knowing that from this point on he
will have to try his best not to think about how her boy’s going to be a lawyer (and how truly
awful that is), but also trying not keep her any longer, he lies and tells her, “Oh, is that right?
That’s wonderful.” He too often speaks from his mouth and not from his heart; that’s the whole

“Let me know if you need anything else,” says the mother with a smart son. Mr. Daniels shook
his head, no. He did not. He leaves a brand-new $5 bill on the table, the corner tucked under the
saucer of his coffee cup.

“Thank you, really, Beth. For the coffee, and all. I better get going.”

“You’re welcome. Goodbye, Henry.”

Next, without hesitation or doubt, the lawyer stands up, turns, and begins to walk away. He
walks to the end of the road, turns to the right, then to the left, and waits at the bus station
where the bus would eventually come to take him back into the city where he would live out
the rest of his life. He never would return, and she knew.

Petrina Danardatu


Her flowers

I walked in and dropped my bag on the floor. I had come straight home because it mattered. I
plastered a huge smile on my face and shouted merrily:

“Hi, I’m home!”

“Hello. How was your day?”

“It was great. I love you.”

“Love you too, honey.”

I came into the bedroom. She lay there, smiling up at me.

“Any homework?”

“Yup, some physics and English. You up for it?”

“You know I am. Let’s tease these old grey brain cells of mine.”

I laughed. I knew she was still as sharp as anyone.

I walked in and dropped my bag on the floor. I saw that someone had put some flowers on the
kitchen table. The buds were still closed, it would take some time. I came into the bedroom. She

“Any homework?”

“Yeah. How are you?”

The smile faltered almost unnoticeably. But I noticed.

“The nurse was here.”

“Oh. What did she say?”

“Not much. Don’t you worry. Soon, I’ll be skipping over puddles again.” She used to say that a
lot. We both knew it wasn’t true.

“Of course.” I grinned. I had learnt how to fake convincing smiles. I forced myself to keep
going. “How about a little vacation, just the two of us, when you get better? Maybe Greece?”

She brightened up a little. We had been there together. It was a long time ago. But it mattered.

I walked in and dropped my bag on the floor. The flowers had started blooming.

“I have a test tomorrow. Would you mind helping me?”

“Sure. What subject?”

“Biology. Fifteen pages.”

“Alright then.”

We started studying. We were at it for four hours. She got tired.


“Would you like anything to eat?”

I already knew the answer. I had to keep trying.

“No, I’m not hungry.”

She was thin. I had been told I had to make her drink and eat. Otherwise, more transfusions
would follow.

“No. You have to eat something. Let’s go to the kitchen.”

I helped her sit up. She caught her breath.

“Okay. One. Two. Three.”

We stood up. I went with her to the kitchen and made a toast.

“This is your snack, okay?”

She looked at me. She ate a quarter of the toast. For me, a success. It mattered. She was very

I walked in and dropped my bag on the floor. The flowers hadn’t yet opened fully. The nurse
was now here every day.

“Any homework today, darling?”

I had too much of it.

“No, nothing. Would you like to watch a movie?”

“That would be great.”

The nurse helped me and we shuffled to the living room. I switched on the television.

“Oh, look! They’ve got one of your favourites.”

She watched. I got a banana from the kitchen.

“Here you go.”

I handed it to her.

“No, I don’t feel like eating.”

“Please, you have to eat something.”

I was desperate. I had to make her eat.

“It’s only a banana. You can eat that much.”

She took two bites.

“I’m full. I can’t eat anymore.”

It wasn’t much. But it mattered. She was tired. Very, very tired. She had been fighting, bravely.
It had just been too long.


I walked in and dropped my bag on the floor. It was taking the flowers a long time. I didn’t ask
how she was. I lay next to her and played Strangers in the Night. We both sang, slightly out of
tune with Sinatra. We held hands and sang a few more.

“Shouldn’t we be doing homework?”


She didn’t ask again. We just sang. There were too many things to say, too many questions to
ask and so little time. Instead, I lay there, scared to speak lest the fragile moment slip away and
shatter. You have to cherish every second of your life. You only ever live a day once.

I walked in and dropped my bag on the floor. I had been told she wouldn’t be there anymore. I
felt like I was drowning. At the same time, I didn’t feel anything. There was now a small hole
inside me as if made by a bullet. But bullet wounds can heal. These holes take longer and
sometimes don’t heal at all. I went to the kitchen and looked at the table. The flowers had now
fully blossomed. The sun still shone, the sky without a trace of clouds. The world went on, not
noticing. But it mattered. She mattered.

Ema Gurycova


Maddox and Theo

Inspired by J.D Salinger

There were seventy-four screws painted blue, but only one painted green. The woman sat on
the newly painted red bench in the park, and counted each screw that held the metal slide to the
rest of the swing-set. She used her afternoons noticing the incompetent structure, while her son
played with the children, who came and left the park as the days went on. She spent hours
watching her son sit in the sandbox, thinking of all the flaws. She thought to herself, the sharp
edges on each corner of the triangular sandbox was a safety hazard, no child should be running
near that. Why had the architects chosen to paint all but one screw blue? The many faults of the
playground stayed on the woman’s mind and followed her home. Her son looked up at her
while she was preparing their dinner, his little smile brought joy to her mind, and for those few
seconds her mind was only on his happiness. She reached up to the top cabinet and took out
two plates, with a damp towel she gently polished the plates before placing them on the little
round table.

“Always getting so dusty in these cabinets,” she said to herself, while she continued to clean the
two plates.

“You would think this house had never seen a feather duster with the amount of dust in here,”
the woman looked at her son as if expecting a reply. He looked at her confused, wondering
what dust she might have been talking about.

“Maybe after dinner I could give Theo a call, I’m sure he would be willing to help us out.
Anyway, I’m sure he’s just looking for things to keep him busy after she took off to Paris,” the
woman was interrupted by a spot on the table, she wiped it away, and quickly found her train
of thought again.

“You know Maddox, you really shouldn’t be sitting like that,” she said as she put both her
hands on her son’s shoulders, pulling them back, preventing his hunched back.

“It’s been a while since you’ve seen your uncle anyway, how about we call him and he can
come over tomorrow. Maybe I could even bake some cookies,” she looked at her son for
consent, and without him moving his perfect right angled posture, he nodded.

“She was a good baker, even though it was seldom we ever saw her. Do you remember when
Theo brought her over a few days before he found out? She made delicious muffins. A little too
sweet for my taste, but it was fine for a woman like her,” the woman looked at her son, while
rolling her eyes at the thought of the other woman.

“Oh no, never mind, the cookies won’t be baked. That oven takes such a long time to heat up,
by the time the oven is warm Theo would already be on his way out. Us two, we’ll walk down
to the bakery tomorrow. What do you say to that?” She stated, it wasn’t up for discussion. That
was the plan. While the two sat at the small dinner table, the woman continued.

“And you know, I think that one lady working at the baker would be perfect for Theo, don’t
you think? The woman from the dry cleaner never wrote back to him, maybe the baker will be
the one for him,” she said as she wiped Maddox’s cheek to remove the tomato sauce, with her
napkin she had recently dipped in her water.

“I remember when we were younger, probably around your age, Grandma got mad at us for
something, don’t recall what exactly, but if you ask Theo he’ll know every detail. Anyway, she
got mad and I remember him running into his room and not wanting to come out for three
whole days,” she looked at her son to make sure his little ears were still attentive.


“God knows how he ate any food, or went to the bathroom,” she said with raised eyebrows, an
indication to Maddox to take more food.

“But I didn’t see him for three days straight, and when he finally came out it was like he was a
changed person. I remember him stepping out, slowly opening the door to his room, with the
biggest smile on his face. Weird isn’t it?” The woman stood up from the table to poor more
wine for herself.

“Maddox, you actually slightly remind me of him,” a faint smile appeared on her face. A rare
sight for her son. He looked up from his plate piled with broccoli and only a few pieces of his
favorite pasta, confused as to how his mother saw any resemblance between him and his uncle
who always carried the same scent as the tobacco store two blocks away.

“You do,” she insisted. “You’ll grow to be the same giving man he is,” she sat back down to the
table with the bottle in her hand.

The post office was shockingly empty for a Tuesday afternoon. He knew only to go then, if he
wanted to be surrounded by many. There was an old man, to his right, trying to read the
address on his small envelope. He turned, and read the address out loud for the old man with a

“790 Madison Avenue, Apartment 10B, New York, New York, 10021,” he said avoiding eye
contact and continued to look through his pile of mail. The old man thanked him silently with a
smile and walked out of the door.

“My sister lives on Madison Avenue, just around the block from the park,” he quietly said to
himself, as he watched the old man cross the road. The man pulled out a torn and stained piece
of paper, only he could comprehend the many scribbles and put them into demanding words
and phrases. The man stood in the post office for quite some time, and studied the worn out
paper over and over again, until his watch made a sound. He was quick to silence the watch, as
if no one should hear the alarm. He stamped his last letter that was to be delivered in Paris with
an aggressive touch, however his faint smile said otherwise. As he put the envelope into the
blue mailbox, he scratched out a line on the stained paper and walked out of the building.
Without thinking twice, the man walked across the road with his eyes set on the apartment
building a block down from where he was. He walked into the empty lobby, and expected there
to be a crowd of people like there usually was. Thereupon, the man began pacing in and out of
the apartment building, unsure of where he belonged.

“Always right on time, Theo,” a calming voice said. The man looked up and put on his usual
fake smile.

“Now are you sure you don’t mind bringing along my daughter’s dog as well? I wouldn’t want
you to feel I am putting a burden on you by asking you to walk all three dogs,” the woman’s
voice was soft and reminded him of a woman he once loved.

“No problem, Mrs. O’Connor. None at all. Really,” the man said as he reached out for the
leather leashes. Avoiding eye contact with the soft voiced woman, he lead the dogs outside and
began to walk towards the park. The streets were, as predicted, packed with loud engines and
drivers who honked unjustifiably. As the man stepped into the park the smallest of the dogs
stopped, however the two larger dogs continued to walk by the man’s side.

“Come on now. Come on,” the man said to the small dog as he gently tugged on the leash. The
dog didn’t move a bone.

“Let’s go, come on your friends are waiting for you,” he began to pull harder on the leash.


“The small ones are always the most stubborn,” a young woman appeared behind the man.
Without saying a word to the woman, he smiled and nodded.

“Come on boy, come on,” the woman crouched down and reached her hands out to the little
dog, encouraging it to walk forward. Suddenly, a crowd of women were surrounding the man
and the three dogs, all trying to get him to walk into the park.

“You’re lucky he’s a small one, you can just pick him up -” The woman tried to lift the small
dog but the man quickly interfered to prevent her.

“Don’t force him,” he blurted out.

“Oh I’m… I’m sorry,” the woman backed away.

“Don’t force him,” he repeated, with a calmer tone. “If he doesn’t want to move on, we
shouldn’t push it. He’s just not ready. Maybe if everyone just stopped forcing him, stopped
talking to him about it, maybe then he’ll be ready. He doesn’t need others help. He doesn’t,” the
man looked around at everyone’s surprised faces. Not long after the silence died, they all
walked away, and continued their lives as if the man with the three dogs, one of them not
wanting to move on from where he was, was just another dog walker in New York having a
bad day.

“He’s just not ready. Not yet,” he whispered to himself. He turned around and began to walk in
the other direction, away from the park and back to where the small dog was comfortable.

She hung up first, she was always the one to hang up first. The man placed his phone on the
bathroom floor, and felt a tear roll down his cold cheek. The bathtub was filled to the rim. The
water was cold, but it didn’t concern him. Slowly, with his shaking hands, he pulled his shirt
over his head and got into the tub. Tears filled his eyes, but he kept a strong face as he closely
examined the blade. He watched as the water turn a light red, and closed his eyes as his last
teardrop rolled down his cheek.

Nora Krogsgaard

Labyrinth 2018

Bleeding Out
Miruna Lopota


Laura Svarrer


Splash by Tarne Lamp

Bonfire by Ryan Shultis


Megan Widjaja

Flowers by Samuel Marcus


Ride Home by Ryan Shultis

Some Things Never Change by Ryan Shultis


Alexandra Christensen

! !

Alexandra Christensen Megan Widjaja 


Alexandra Christensen:


! !

Isabella Fear:




Skyler Cook:



Ryan Shultis:



Tarne Lamp:



Media: Rayon and polyester embroidery thread, co6on cloth, acrylic glass
Size: 29.7 x 42cm

Stitched connotes the idea of altering societal expectations and literally seeing beneath the surface. The acrylic glass
holds an embroidered portrait that borders on androgynous. The acrylic glass allows both sides to be seen and thusly
the audience is brought beneath the surface to examine the flaws. This piece strives to bring out the beauty in the
otherwise ugly.

Labyrinth 2018
The Bob Carignan Art
Purchase Award

Labyrinth 2018
Opinion Pieces

Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels

Did you know that 81% of 10 year olds are afraid of becoming fat? Or that 41% of 1st to 3rd
grade girls want to be thinner? How about the fact that, according to Anorexia Nervosa and
Related Eating Disorders, one in every one hundred girls between the ages of ten and twenty,
have Anorexia Nervosa and are starving themselves, sometimes even to death? We are
bombarded with the pressure to be thin every day. Social media is a huge part of our lives and
plays a huge part in contributing to this belief that we have to be thin. Whether you notice this
every time you are on social media or if you are just subconsciously taking it in, we all have the
idea that to be pretty or handsome, you have to be thin. However close these social media
problems are to eating disorders, and while they often may be triggers for them, they aren’t the
causes of eating disorders. So what is the cause? The straight answer is nothing.

Eating disorders aren’t something we wake up one day and have; they are mental
illnesses that shouldn’t be taken lightly. I took the time to speak to some people here at CIS,
such as the councillor, Chelsea Dulla, and the school nurse, Charlotte Zeeburg. I wanted to
know why most people didn’t take EDs seriously, and after speaking with Chelsea Duella I
realised that it was because people didn’t fully understand the definition of an eating disorder.
Here is the Oxford dictionary definition: “Any of a range of psychological disorders
characterized by abnormal or disturbed eating habits (such as Anorexia Nervosa)”. I believe
that the key word in this definition is ‘psychological’. It indicates that it is a mental illness and if
someone is brave enough to confide in you with this burden, don’t tell them to “just eat”,
because it isn’t as simple as that. For many people impacted by EDs, eating is about having a
sense of control; they feel as though they can control nothing in their lives except what they eat,
and how much of it.

There are many different eating disorders; Anorexia Nervosa is an illness in which the
person constantly feels they need to be thinner than where they are now, even if they can see
how thin they already are. Bulimia Nervosa, similar to Anorexia, is an illness characterised by a
distorted body image and an obsession to lose weight, where periods of extreme eating are
followed by self-induced vomiting, fasting or purging.

Fortunately, there are people who can help with mental illnesses such as eating
disorders. I spoke with a professional psychologist, Heidi Thygesen, to see things from her
point of view. She, among other psychologists, believes that support from friends and family is
not enough. Although it is great to surround yourself with people who love you, there is a
mindset that people with EDs have, and it is important to remember that. They don’t see
themselves as others do: for anorexics, all they see is needing to be thinner, and psychologists
can sometimes help by changing this mindset and making them see the other parts of
themselves; this does not mean that they are ‘cured’. Much like depression, eating disorders are
often battled throughout the a person’s life, and for many there are moments of relapse perhaps
triggered by something they can’t control. For example, for a lot of women pregnancy can
trigger an ED as a woman will get heavier during this time,which can often be difficult for the

According to the National Health Service in the UK, some of the symptoms of Anorexia
1) missing meals
2) complaining of being fat - even though they have a normal weight or are underweight
3) repeatedly weighing themselves and looking at themselves in the mirror


4) making repeated claims that they've already eaten - or they'll shortly be going out to
eat somewhere else and avoiding eating at home
5) cooking big or complicated meals for other people, but eating little or none of the food
6) only eating certain low-calorie foods in your presence- such as lettuce or celery
7) feeling uncomfortable or refusing to eat in public places - such as at a restaurant
8) the use of "Pro-Anorexia" websites.

How many of us can look at a few of these symptoms and relate to them? Does this
mean that we all have Anorexia? This is part of the reason that if you feel you may have an
eating disorder, it is important to see a specialist before diagnosing yourself.

There is a vast difference between having an eating disorder and having low self esteem.
Some people may believe that they have a disorder, or an “EDNOS”, an Eating Disorder Not
Otherwise Specified. However, after consulting psychologist Thygesen, I learned that this term
is not widely recognized; looking up your symptoms online to draw your own conclusions can
be dangerous. A person with low self esteem may try to fit themselves to the symptoms of the
illness they believe they are afflicted by. We should not feel the need to to diagnose ourselves
with these mental illnesses to be noticed. Rather we should be trying to help the 20% of people
who do have serious eating disorders get the treatment they need.

Luckily for us, here at CIS we have excellent counselors to help people with eating
disorders through their tough times. The councillors have pledged a confidentiality oath, which
means they cannot disclose to anyone what you came to see them about unless they have
reason to believe that you are endangering yourself, or anyone else. They are also able to refer
you to specialists if needed although some psychologists may believe that this alone is
unhelpful, it is still important that a person struggling with an eating disorder is supported in
every possible way.

I was able to consult with someone who previously identified as a sufferer of an

EDNOS, and they gave the following statement about seeking help: “With talking to someone,
comes solutions and ways to improve your situation.” This person also said that they believe
seeking help from a counselor was the most effective aid. “[Councillors] can definitely help you
to open up, understand yourself a bit more, and they will try to find a good therapist for your
situation. This is really the best type of help that I got from anyone during this time.” They also
said that “it can be really hard to want to get help”, mentioning that “it will take time”

Referring to the ED symptom checklist above, if you feel that you, or someone you know, has
an eating disorder, you should consult an adult, counselor, or your family doctor for help.
As a society, we need to grow to love ourselves, and to stop labeling ourselves. That is why I
wrote this article for you. So that you can see for yourselves what is happening to our
generation, how quickly we have normalised the idea of an eating disorder, because we don’t
understand its full meaning. I hope that now, with a little more knowledge on the issue, you
will take eating disorders and other mental illnesses more seriously.

Clódagh Cunningham



Rape culture; the foundation of our society’s normalization of sexual harassment and violence.

One of the main problems with today’s society is our blatant disregard and normalization of
pressing issues, that affect, especially minorities. We live in a world that not only refuses to
acknowledge reality, but also criticizes and blames victims, making it even harder for people to
take a stand against their attackers. One of these issues, being the normalization of sexual
harassment and violence. An issue, so pressing, that we’ve even named it; rape culture.

Rape culture is consistently being perceived incorrectly across the globe. Lots of unreasonable
and foolish “menists”, think rape culture is merely an illusion, created by their perception of
“feminists” to make men appear “inferior” and “guilty”. However, this is not the case at all,
rape culture, by definition, is; “A society or environment whose prevailing social attitudes have
the effect of normalizing or trivializing sexual assault and abuse.” Which, clearly, has nothing to
do with the blatantly incorrect definition the “menists” have come up with.

Rape culture is seen almost everywhere in our daily lives, but is particularly significant in
young groups of boys. This is not because young boys necessarily want to be perceived as
offensive by others, but young boys specifically, are so vulnerable to peer pressure. This is as, in
order to be “cool” or to be a part of the “group”, they follow group dynamic, and non-
consensual sex jokes and offensive comments are often made. As Alan Maguire tweeted, the
guys making the “dodgy comments” about women, ought to be the ones being outed by the
group-- however, instead, they're the ones leading the group and considered the “funniest”.
This is a serious problem. Boys are consistently being excused with the sentence “boys must be
boys”, however, just that sentence in itself ought not to be tolerated, and is one of the key
problems with our society today. Boys, should not be allowed to be excused with that phrase,
but should instead be taught how to behave properly and taught to be conscious of the effect
their words and actions can have on others. Sexually explicit jokes and tolerance of sexual
harassment should be ended immediately.

Recently, in Canada, a university named “Halifax’s Saint Mary's University”, had a frat house
chant that went as; “SMU boys, we like them young. Y is for your sister. O is for oh so tight. U is
for underage. N is for no consent. G is for grab that ass.”. This chant sexaulises young underage
girls, and consents to predatory behaviour. These chants and comments should be considered
repulsive and inexcusable, yet instead they are laughed at, and younger boys look up to those
behind this recklessness and thoughtlessness.

However, unfortunately, rape culture does not only exist in frat houses and high schools.
Predatory behaviour and sexual violence is constantly being condoned in pop culture and social
media. Only recently, several victims subjected to sexual harassment and violence, by the well
known and popular, Harvey Weinstein, have stood up and told their story. Most of the
accusations being brought up now, happened in the 1990s, and although it is great that some
women have finally had the courage to tell their story, the odds are still not in our favour.
Statistics show that for every 1000 rapes, 994 rapists will walk free. Perpetrators of sexual
violence, are much less likely to go to jail than other criminals, which just shows the extremity
of the situation, and why both male and female victims feel so alone and disregarded. If we
can’t even rely on our justice system to incriminate our attackers, how are we supposed to ever
feel safe and at ease-- when we are constantly being put in a vulnerable state, at the hands of
our predators?


Obviously, not all men are rapists and perform non-consensual acts towards women or other
men. If you’re a man, and is someone who does not tolerate offensive and predatory behaviour
against both men and women, and speaks out about it when seeing it, then congratulations, this
article is not for you. However, if you are someone who is a part of a group that makes jokes or
comments that have a rape or sexual violent undertone, then you’re condoning sexual
harassment and violence, and you are one of the root causes of the normalization and disregard
of rape culture.

So how do we get past this issue? How can we make sure that when we, as women, step out on
a street in the dark, don’t feel vulnerable and at risk? How do we get rid of the nagging and
small voice in our head, telling us to look where we step and to watch out when we hear men
talking up ahead on a dark road? It’s not easy, but the issue must be addressed. We can no
longer sit back, and let a judge sentence a 50 year old man, who raped a 15 year old girl, to 30
days in jail. We can no longer consider it acceptable, for trucks to have pictures of women tied
up and looking distressed, as a sexual joke.

Times need to be changed, and as a society we can do it together. We need to have faith in each
other and no longer excuse intolerable behaviour. Rape culture must be focussed on, and we
can only do this together, as a group. So let’s take a stand. For those who have been harmed, for
those who continue to be put in harm's way, and for our children who will be put at the same
risk, unless something changes. So, together, let’s put our feet down, and put an end to rape

Isabella Egvang


The Future of Media - here’s the honest truth.

Posted on January 28, 2018, at 4:31 p.m.

Luke Gregory
BuzzFeed News Reporter

In light of recent discussion about the “disruption” of media due to emerging technologies,
people often ask, “Luke, what do you think the future of media is?” By now, it’s such a
common topic of conversation, that I thought I’d address my opinion here. I’d like to talk about
why media use needs to change, and an example of media being used beneficially.

Let me start by stating the obvious: The media that we know today, is here to stay. After the
explosion in popularity of online media over the past few decades, it may seem as if we’re all
just waiting on the next big thing. While this is mostly true, the reality is that until the current
online media “setup” stops working for the big names like Facebook and Twitter, they will
continue to rake in money, without a care for change.

It’s a classic example of - If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. This is the mentality that has been taken
by many large names in the industry. However, I think it’s an awful viewpoint in this scenario.
Sure, it “ain't broke” for them, but they must consider their platform as more than a money
making machine, and take into
account the global influence it
has. Nonetheless, Facebook has
doubled their amount of
monthly active users in 5 years,
so from their perspective,
everything is working as
intended, and thus they see no
need to drastically change
anything - sorry to say folks.
After all, if you ran a business
with statistics like these, it
probably wouldn’t be hard to
Fig. 1 -
lie back watching the figures

With all this said, it’s not all

pessimism here! While
asking for revolutionary
change in the near future
might be optimistic, we as
consumers of media can still
change the way we use it.
What do I mean by this?
Well let’s take a look at some
recent online events, starting
with the “Me Too”
campaign. Designed to raise
Fig. 2 - awareness of sexual


harassment, the campaign went viral in October 2017, highlighting the benefits of social media.
In the past, it would’ve been practically impossible to get your sexual harassment story out
there. Imagine this: pre-internet era, and you’re one of the 17% of American women who have
been a victim of rape. What separates your story from the other 27 million, and what would the
newspaper gain out of publishing it?

Now, as long as we’ve got a phone and internet access, we have the power to share our stories,
and have the chance to be heard. This is all we can ask for, and it’s had an immense effect on
people worldwide, with countless stories of the relief someone has felt being able to post their
horrific memory, after bottling it up for so long. If, somehow, this were to remain the limit of
how social media enables people to influence others, then I believe that this can be something
very positive.

But, as you might notice, we don’t live in a perfect world, and this time it isn’t pessimism, it’s
realism. People will take advantage of a flawed system. On one side of the spectrum lies the
#MeToo campaign, a revolutionary step in the battle for gender equality. But on the other,
people with personal vendettas start to harbour ideas of how they could ruin celebrities lives
with one simple online statement. Think I’m overreacting? Let’s take a look at actor Ed
Westwick’s recent case from November. The “Gossip Girl” star was accused by a woman of
sexual assault, just after the BBC’s announcement that he was to star in their new television
series, “Ordeal by Innocence.”

The BBC was quick to suspend the show’s

debut, and decided to replace Westwick with
another actor, even though the allegations
were denied and no conclusion has been
reached after months of investigation. (Picture
on the right showing Ed Westwick, right side, and
replacement Christian Cooke, left side)

So what the hell has happened to innocent until proven guilty? Sure, Westwick hasn’t been
sentenced to anything yet, but this is something that will have an immense impact on his career
and livelihood, whether he’s committed the crime or not. To be clear, I’m not expressing
particular views on the merits of the case concerning Westwick, and I fully support the progress
made in the campaign for gender equality, but the thing that scares me the most is, what’s
stopping some spiteful reader clicking through articles right here on and
deciding, “Hey, this guy’s a real asshole.. I should post something libelous about him online.”
The catch is, it can all be done anonymously, with zero consequences, and yet suddenly, my job
could be on the line.

I guess the point that I’m trying to make, is that change is needed because the power that comes
with being able to spread news, used to come with responsibility, and now it simply doesn’t. In
the past, 100 or so different newspapers would have the key responsibility of verifying stories
and filtering out false gossip, as they were relied upon to tell the truth. Nowadays, you or I
could be sitting on the toilet, flicking through Twitter, when we come across some statement
that’s been retweeted thousands of times, claiming your favourite reporter is actually a rapist.
Do you believe it? Do you fact-check it first? Your average mass-market user might just click
“Retweet” and move on with their lives, not knowing the impact they’ve just had on someone’s


Media needs limits imposed, consequences for false claims - something, or it will continue to
affect lives with fake news and accusations. As a propagator of progress, I think we all should
be careful of how we go about using media.

Comment below on how you think media will change in the future!

Luke Gregory


Keep smiling
Hurricanes Harvey, Maria, Nate, Irma. Nuclear threats by Kim Jong-Un. Autocratic leaders in
Syria and Turkey. 20 people forcibly displaced every minute. There is a ton of issues facing our
world today. Who will solve them? Politicians. We hope. Leaders. Professionals. People with
skill, leverage and power. They'll do it. I hope. You can always hope. But what can I do? It is
often difficult enough just to get out of bed in the morning. Don’t even talk about saving the
world. Me, saving the world? You must be kidding. But then again, is this true? Is there nothing
I can do to make the world a better place? No. Each and every person, no matter their age,
gender, sexuality, skin colour, religion or nationality has the power to make a difference. Don’t
ever think that your role in this huge universe is unimportant. Because we all have a secret
weapon that we can use against the trials and struggles of our ordinary, or not so ordinary,
We are all different. Every person has a unique personality and traits. Our individuality
depends on our peculiarities. One of these, which I think can make the biggest impression, is
our smile. A smile has an extremely rare feature. A smile is universal. It has the same meaning
in all cultures.

Often when I travel, I'm afraid that I will say or do something against the customs of that
country. Pretty much every gesture can be misunderstood, but a smile? Never. Unless you start
grinning at a funeral. That's just too weird. Even for me. Don't do that and you should be fine.
That's why I love smiling. No matter where you live or travel in the world, you never have to
worry about breaking the norms with a smile. You can't go wrong. Already as newborns
smiling is one of the first skills we learn. We begin smiling at five weeks old, even blind babies
smile. Very soon, we also learn that crying gets the attention of adults but smiling keeps it. But
what is so captivating about a smile? How come it’s so contagious that we can’t help but smile
Imagine. A world where everyone smiled the same. Now that's what I call boring!

Scientists have been intrigued by the 'science of smiling' for hundreds of years. Just think of
Mona Lisa. If you closely studied one person, you'd be surprised how many different smiles
you'd find. Peter Collett from Oxford did just that with Princess Diana and found six different
smiles. However, scientists mainly distinguish between a genuine and fake smile. A fake one
involves just the mouth, not the eyes. Basically, just half the story. It is often used to pretend to
show amusement and is particularly useful when that joke wasn't actually that funny but you'll
just be polite and try to smile anyway. However, the effect on the brain, whether you are truly
smiling or just pretending to is the same. If someone smiles at you, your brain tries to simulate
the expression to fully understand what that person feels. Since simulation uses the same area
of the brain as facial expression, it will mimic the expression of the smiler. This is called
'mirroring'. Our subconscious mind makes us return the expression without us even realising it.
When we mimic the smile, our brain connects this facial expression to a time you've used it, like
a positive experience or memory and creates a feeling of happiness. But that's not all. A smile
has other beneficial effects on your health. It reduces stress. Lowers your heart rate. But there is
so much more.

Supermen. Wonder Women. I don't think we need them to make a difference (although some
more girl power would do the world good). Easily, one person can start a chain reaction. When
one person smiles at another, it will probably improve the receiver's mood. He may smile at
another person, who might do the same. There, we already have three people smiling. Think
about it. What if those people continued to smile? Maybe just a few minutes? What would
happen? I'll tell you what would happen. In just a few short hours, there would be dozens of


smiles passed on, making people happier. Simple science . There are so many of these chain
reactions going on right now, raising people's self-esteem, making their day more beautiful. We
don't need heroes to do something worthwhile. A smile won't solve everything but you know
what? Big things often have small beginnings. So go and get up from that bed in the morning
and think of something happy. Unleash the hero within you. Let the world see that you are
wonderful, special and important. And maybe, just maybe, you may find that the slightest
smile can make the biggest difference. Let your smile change the world but don't let the world
change your smile. Just keep smiling.

Ema Gurycova

Labyrinth 2018
3D Art

A Clay Head
Carolina Fabiani


Amy Tatu


Amy Tatu


Framk Okoth-Menya

Maximilian Markgren Holliday


Floating by Laura Svarrer

Time Is Running Out by Miruna Lopota

Labyrinth 2018


The Frisky Bike

- A modern day fairy tale around and in the water at Nordhavn.

Once upon a time a young bike stood in the window of a bike shop and dreamt of the world on
the other side of the glass. All the other bikes rushing by the shop, shouting ”hello”, before they
continued. Tall, wide, bright red, black and with baskets, all the bikes were different. The young
bike couldn’t wait to get out of the shop and rushing by other bikes, it would shout ”hello” and
maybe ring the bell to let everybody know here was a bike ready to conquer the world.
One fortunate day the bike was taken down from the exhibition in the window and put
on the work table to be fixed. ”Goodbye” it called out to all the baskets and helmets gogling
where the bike was going.
In a beautiful cacophony of Danglish, giggles and sunshine, the bike left the shop only to
discover it had a young, lovely woman, which allowed the bike to drive from the shop frisking
through traffic.
Ah, to enjoy the salty air every day when the bike drove along the coast all the way to
the harbour, where it had the job to stand outside a big, blue building, monitoring kids running
in and out of the building. Each morning it would call out to an old boat hook, standing on its
way, ”watch how fast I can go”. The boat hook instead closed its eyes and hoped the bike
wouldn’t drive into it. ”Why don’t you come with me on an adventure” the bike asked the boat
hook one day. ”You are built with strength and stamina, and I’m full of speed, we could
conquer the world.” But the boat hook was sensible and said, ”although it doesn’t look like
much, I like the view and prefer it here.” “How boring”, the bike thought, and so the bike
continued on its own, exploring the route back and forth from work.
But very quickly the frisky bike found the same route every day tedious and started to
get bored. Still it kept shouting ”here I come” every morning when it crossed the cobbled stones
next to the harbour. But the cobbled stones were vicious stones who liked to gossip and the bike
was quickly known to have ruined several of the cobbled stones best pigment and hurled gravel
on to several of them, when it used the brakes at high speed. But one day, after a rainy night,
the sun was beginning to shine and the bike came at full speed, strengthened by the light and
fresh air, who told promising tales of spring finally being here. ”This is our chance” an old, big
cobbled stone closest to the harbour thought. Still being all damp and wet from the evening rain
the old, big cobbled stone knew the bike would not be able to find foothold, when it came at
high speed. And so it rose a little bit, looking tempting for the bike trying to brake before the
harbour. And as predicted the bike could not stop and instead continued straight into the
harbour. In slow motion it could feel the perfect circle as it came closer and closer to the
water. And when the water broke and the bike, steer first, plunged in, it didn’t even feel the
cold sensation of the water, but instead thought of how it would be late to work.
Now lying at the bottom of the harbour, the water wasn’t deeper than the bike could see
the quay and all the bikes and people passing by. And listening to vicious cobblestones
mocking the bike being below them, it wept, thinking “how did I end up here”. All the grease
from the chain dripped of it, and it thought I will never be young and look this good again.
Here I have mocked the boat hook just standing at the quay, while I have been speeding by and
now I’m lying here, were nobody can see me. The bike felt very sad and alone in the world.
But in the evening the boat hook stretched into the water and with the last inches of the hook, it
managed to get hold of the bike and bring it up to the quay. Met by the generosity of the hook,
who the bike had always mocked, it promised to never speak badly about the qualities of others
and the role they had to fill. From then on the frisky bike would shout ”hello, my friend” every
morning, when it went by the boat hook and they became great friends and lived happily ever

Mette Sarstedt


A Hansel and Gretel Pastiche

Hansel: @hans_da_bomb
Gretel: @smartathanmybrotha
The witch: @havesomecake666
Parents: @wearecool_andersonparentz

omfg guys I can’t, this crazy lady from down the road just like tried to eat us? #scared #cake

Children are you alright? We are still very hungry, have you found food? And how did this
happen? #missingourchildren #theiradventures
@smartathanmybrotha @hans_da_bomb

bruh don’t even be that dramatic, I saved you anyway? dat lady @havesomecake666 is kinda
evil but not rlly… #isavedhim #nottheotherwayaround

Gretel you weren’t the one being SHOVED IN AN OVEN?!! #insulted #ialmostgotkilled

I don’t enjoy these allegations you two are throwing my way…. #innocent
#itwaslikeoneovenok? #bakingcakeforthenextbatchofchildren
@hans_da_bomb @smartathanmybrotha8

Excuse us for interrupting, but hang on second, what exactly happened!? Tell us it all!
#confused #hangry #whatisevenhappening?
@hans_da_bomb @smartathanmybrotha @havesomecake666

so basically right after you kicked us out #rudeparents #ripfamilylife

You know we couldn’t keep you in our house, we simply didn’t have enough food for all four
of us- would you have us all starve?

Well anyway after we left, we decided to go into the forest to find some food, and I being the
smart one, put crumbs behind us so we could find our way back. #smartsister #crumbtrail
@hans_da_bomb @wearecool_andersonparentz


Actually I’m pretty sure I was the one to crumb up with that idea #cookiepun
@wearecool_andersonparentz @smartathanmybrotha

K to continue this thread: we were like walking along, and then stupid hans saw a big ass
gingerbread house, and I was like that seems shady… #suspicious
@hans_da_bomb @wearecool_andersonparentz

But I’m super, like trusting, and plus super hungry, so I decided to go at eat some of this house
#yummy #gingerbread
@wearecool_andersonparentz @smartathanmybrotha

And then obvs. I got like super pissed so I like put them in a cage #canibeblamed
@hans_da_bomb @smartathanmybrotha

And after we’d been there for a while…. SHE PUT ME IN THE OVEN! #dying
#hanselandovenel #gretelgetsreplacedbyoven
@wearecool_andersonparentz @smartathanmybrotha

And then I saved him! ….and I pushed that cat lady into the oven whoops! #sorrynotsorry
@hans_da_bomb @wearecool_andersonparentz @havesomecake666

whoops?! WHOOPS?! YOU GAVE ME THIRD DEGREE BURNS! I don’t have legs anymore!
#shesaidwhoops #itwasonefingernottwochill
@hans_da_bomb @smartathanmybrotha8 @wearecool_andersonparentz

Ok after hearing this story we decided you can come back home… #childservicesforcedus
@hans_da_bomb @smartathanmybrotha @havesomecake666

Actually mom & dad some users made a gofundme for us, so we are gunna move to LA
and buy a penthouse… #pplontheinternetbegenerous #nowwearebillionares #donttellanyone
@wearecool_andersonparentz @smartathanmybrotha @havesomecake666

Tarne Lamp

Labyrinth 2018
Digital Art

Blurred Lines
Samuel Marcus


Valdemar Rommelhoff


Water Under the Bridge

Addison Copas


Anastasiia Katona

! Addison Copas

High School Tower by Addison Copas


Julie Jahant

Pink Sky




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