Amelia Parry
By, Iris Richmond-Pierpoint and Evelyn Tu
Amelia Parry does not need an introduction. A thoughtful and enthusiastic grad that has been the backbone of Ad Verum and a key contributor to Arts Mag this year, Amelia is brilliantly talented in literary arts. Her eloquent phrases stem from her relation to the world around her. Amelia’s ancestors hailed from Scotland, England, and the Netherlands. Born in Montréal but raised in Vancouver, she expresses her love for both cities and their polar cultures. Parry described Montréal as “the Europe of Canada”, a bilingual historic hub, while Vancouver embodies Canada’s wealth of natural treasures. She began attending Collingwood in Kindergarten. The adventurous grad has seized all the opportunities that the school has had to offer. She is incredibly well-travelled, having been to Lima, Peru, Tofino, and Jasper through Round Square and service trips. Amelia is not purely a bookworm however. She’s participated in most of the sports teams that can be thought of throughout her Collingwood career. She was also passionate about the equestrian arts, having spent virtually every summer of her pre-teen years on a ranch. After trying out so many activities, Amelia has chosen to stick with soccer during her varsity season. She is incredibly proud to call herself a well-rounded individual.
Although she has taken visual arts classes and enjoys listening to Lorde while plunking some notes on her guitar, Amelia knows that literary arts are her calling. Ever since she was young, she has engrossed herself with all kinds of literary arts: public speaking, debate, reading, and writing. Reading and writing are essential to her everyday life and the building blocks of her passion. They give voice to her inner thoughts, helping her understand new perspectives while preserving her own ideas and memories. If Amelia had to pick between the two, she would pick reading. So far this year, she has read a whopping number of over 70 novels, a new record for her reading goals. However, her achievements in writing are not to be ignored. She is Editor-in-Chief for the Collingwood newspaper ‘Ad Verum’, an activity she thoroughly enjoys. Managing a newspaper is an arduous task. It involves meticulous and devout planning, diplomatic communication to encourage writers to maintain the standards of the paper, and patience when multiple articles need to be published in the same week. Her efforts have turned to fruition seeing how the Ad Verum has seen an upturn in readership the past few weeks. Check out her first book review of the year on Kimberly McCreight’s twisted mystery novel ‘Friends Like These’ at theadverum.com!
A great writer possesses a great mind. Not only is Amelia able to put words to paper, but she is also constantly synthesizing thoughts from her daily life. In regards to art, Parry believes it is a sophisticated form of expression. Even debate, which many think of as an academic club, allows one to express oneself verbally. Many ideas are shared surrounding controversial topics such as whether human cloning should be legalized, or whether juveniles should be tried and treated as adults. Amelia believes that a common misconception regarding debate is that it is all about politics and international relations. This is entirely not the case. Despite being uninterested in politics, Amelia loves to stand up and share her opinions to a critical audience. Participating in these activities has shaped her character into one that is willing to be assertive, aggressive, and confident in necessary situations.
Amelia will absolutely continue to read and write voraciously after graduation. She is incredibly grateful that practicing literature has developed her ability to express herself, and how it has offered her a creative outlet. While she does not plan on debating in the future, she recognizes how invaluable the lessons she learned from it are. To all the aspiring literary artists, she urges them to “read, read, read”. Reading offers one exposure to so much invaluable knowledge concerning culture, literary techniques, vocabulary, and more. However, reading more would likely not lead to immediate improvements in one’s literary skills. Amelia herself had to struggle to improve her reading threshold from the young adult novels she enjoyed in her early teenage years to more adult reads. But the most crucial part is to keep on reading and writing. Books have greatly impacted Amelia’s life, and she hopes to create the same change for future readers. She hopes to author a couple of books when she is older that can move the world in some way. She has yet to decide the plot of her project but she is leaning towards a murder mystery!
(Keep reading to read some of here work!)
February 12th, 1987
9:57 pm
He looks at his watch. It reads 9:57 pm, the small dial clicking with each second that passes. He has about an hour left, before the sun sets, leaving the city, and the mountain he is on, completely dark. Gunnar Grétarsson keeps going. He roots his boots into the snow, careful not to slip. He is a man of determination and tenacity, never giving up even in minus 17-degree weather. The snow came down this morning, in heaps, as if a giant was flipping buckets of it over and over onto the city of Reykjavík. The trees are delicately coated in a fine layer of white powder, occasionally spilling on his toque. He carries a wooden cane with him, engraved with his father’s initials, PG, Pall Grétarsson. He runs his thumb over the crooked carving, out of habit, the smooth indents caressing his skin. Gunnar continues, anchoring the cane into the snow between each step.
“Damn, it’s cold.” He says under his breath. The mits he wore aren’t doing much justice for his frozen fingers. They feel like icicles. He is bundled in layers of fleece and cotton, itching uncomfortably against his skin. The air is frigid, burning his nostrils with each inhalation he takes.
His voice is gruff, edging on a heavy Icelandic accent. Gunnar was born in the capital, raised by his mother and father. He likes Iceland, it’s home for him but nothing more. He wanted to explore it, walking on the lands his ancestors walked on. The mountain was open years ago for tourists, but after countless mudslides, the trail closed. Looking up with his brown eyes, he sees the tip of the mountain. The top is closer than he thought. Trudging up even further, he buries his cane into the soft powder, only to let it fall all the way through. Then the floor beneath him disappears and he is falling or floating, defying gravity.
And then, he is gone, covered in piles of snow, almost deliberately.
11:26 pm
Kristen is awoken by a knock at the door. The rasp echoes through the hallways, aggressively, as if someone is in a panic. She nervously gets out of her warm bed, questioning what someone would need at this hour. Her husband is away camping to do some ‘research’ on the mountain. She thinks about him for an instant, wondering if he is okay. Kristen knew it was a bad idea for letting him go. Scurrying down the stairs, Kristen unlocks the door, opening it an inch. Her nose pokes out, instantly hit with the frost of Iceland’s night. Her eyes adjust to the darkness, not seeing anybody.
“Hello?” She whispers, her voice garbled from sleep.
Opening the door more, she notices something on the ground. Bending down, she picks up Gunnars cane. Her mind is racing with thoughts, remembering that Gunnar brought it with him for his trip. Kristen runs her frail hands along the wood. Only, it’s not entirely smooth. Something new has been carved into the wood, along with a cold metal object taped around the pole. She squints her eyes, cursing herself she didn’t wear her glasses.
‘Your husband is gone.’ It reads. The carvings are even, seemingly innocuous. Next to it, is her husband’s wedding ring, duck taped to the pole.
Kristen screams, slamming the door. The ring clatters to the hardwood floor, smacking and clacking. It’s drowned out by Kristen screaming.
February 15th, 1987
10:06 am
Everyone had questions. Nobody had ever disappeared, it was a small and safe community. There was an unexpected fishing accident years back but it was during a storm.
That’s it.
‘What was he doing up on the mountain in the first place?’
‘Why was he alone?’
‘Who would've known he was suicidal?’
The police released a statement 3 days after he first went missing. Though they were unable to find his body, they ruled his death a suicide. Kristen did not tell the police about the pole, it petrified her too much. The police team searched for a couple of hours, but the mountain was too dangerous, everybody knew that. Kristen was livid.
“You need to look for him more!” She seethed through her teeth. Kristen didn’t think they even cared about finding him. She thought the policemen were lazy, oafs. She believed that her husband was still alive and that the whole cane scenario was just a sick prank. At least, Kristen hoped that this was the case.
Despite being in her early 30’s, alive and youthful, her eyes were wild, and her hair was wrangled as if she hadn’t brushed it for the past 3 days her husband had been missing. Kristen looked tired, and it wasn’t the dark shadows under her eyes that gave it away, but rather, she looked faded all over. Her skin and hair were grayer. She pointed her fingers in the officer’s face.
“Shame on you. This is your job and you're just going to quit!” Kristen’s face was red with anger. She was scared at first, but now her blood was boiled, and steam was escaping from her ears. Then she spun around, flip flops clacking across the tile floor of the station, leaving out the door without another word.
“Crazy lady.” One of the officers grunted. Taking a sip of his coffee, he took Gunnars report and placed it in the filing cabinet. He sat in his chair, placed his clunky feet up on the table, stretching out like a cat. And then his mouth started to foam, his head rolling back.
Another suicide in a matter of 3 days. But nobody ever mentioned the fact that murder was a possibility. 12:06 pm
Detective Alexander silently slipped into the police station. The police called him up to look over the files of Gunnar’s death. Opening the heavy door, escaping the chill, he dusts off the snow from his clothes. He was shivering like a scared puppy.
He walks around the desk to the filing cabinet, whistling a tune. He was a confident man, dressed well and was highly educated. His hair was slicked back, glasses perched on his nose.
“Helvíti,” Alexander mutters in disbelief. The body is slouched over, weightless. He doesn’t know this officer specifically but recognizes him from past cases, Officer Stefán. His heart rushes, though he remains calm. He is a detective, after all, death shouldn’t worry him, yet somehow, it does.
“Anyone here?” he yells, his voice wavering more than he would have liked. Poking his head into each room, he finally finds Officer Jax working at his desk, munching down lunch.
“Excuse me, Jax,” Alexander clears his voice, “Um, Stefán is dead.” He states, blank of an expression. He registers Jax’s face switch from calm to complete and utter panic.
Jax abruptly stands up from his desk, eyes wide with fear. His hands are shaking. Jax follows Alexander to the body. It doesn’t even look real.
“My...god. What happened?” Jax frantically asks, hesitation in his voice. He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing in terror. He shifts his gaze from the corpse back to Alexander.
“This can’t be happening again…” Jax whispers under his breath. The poor man was worried. This was only his first year in the profession, he had never seen or heard about death prior to Gunnar.
“Looks like poison,” Alexander replies, motioning to the thick foam surrounding his mouth. He picks up the partially drank coffee cup, gives it a whiff, and nods his head in agreement. The pungent, sour smell burns his nose. The men look at each other, unable to do anything, hands at their side.
“Two deaths in three days. This doesn’t seem coincidental anymore.” Detective Alexander declares.
February 16th, 1987
12:37 pm
The town was full of horror. Assumptions were being tossed out faster than anybody could keep up. Officer Stefán was declared poisoned by Arsenic. Nobody felt safe. Who would, when two lives were lost in 4 days? It felt like the apocalypse.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I know you are flooded with panic.” Mayor Anna calmly announces. Her stiff blonde hair was pulled into a low bun, accompanied by red lipstick, a complete contradiction to her pale skin. She called for a town meeting the day after Stefán’s death. Everybody was worried to be around a potential murder suspect, but they desired an answer and a plan.
“I brought you all here today to inform you that we have no potential suspects at the time.” The audience groaned, whispering in agitation.
“Whoever they may be,” Anna continues, “is still a mystery. They are smart, leaving no tracks. But, I assure you that this will all be over soon. We have brought a search team from Denmark, to assist us in finding Mr. Grétarsson, and to find out who killed Officer Stefán. These deaths may be possibly linked, but maybe not. I need you all to stay calm, remain close with your loved ones, and look out for each other. You need to...”
Anna’s speech was cut off. A piercing ‘snap’ to her forehead, and then her body is lying on the group, limp. The blood pools out quickly. It’s flawlessly red. A perfect shot to the forehead and she is dead. Gasps and screams of horror from the townsfolk erupt almost immediately. They turn around, searching for who fired the shot, but there are too many people to tell. They run home, hand in hand, screams of terror, locking their doors and lowering their curtains.
Another one bites the dust.
(Bellow are PDFs which are two more examples of her amazing work:)
By, Iris Richmond-Pierpoint and Evelyn Tu
Amelia Parry does not need an introduction. A thoughtful and enthusiastic grad that has been the backbone of Ad Verum and a key contributor to Arts Mag this year, Amelia is brilliantly talented in literary arts. Her eloquent phrases stem from her relation to the world around her. Amelia’s ancestors hailed from Scotland, England, and the Netherlands. Born in Montréal but raised in Vancouver, she expresses her love for both cities and their polar cultures. Parry described Montréal as “the Europe of Canada”, a bilingual historic hub, while Vancouver embodies Canada’s wealth of natural treasures. She began attending Collingwood in Kindergarten. The adventurous grad has seized all the opportunities that the school has had to offer. She is incredibly well-travelled, having been to Lima, Peru, Tofino, and Jasper through Round Square and service trips. Amelia is not purely a bookworm however. She’s participated in most of the sports teams that can be thought of throughout her Collingwood career. She was also passionate about the equestrian arts, having spent virtually every summer of her pre-teen years on a ranch. After trying out so many activities, Amelia has chosen to stick with soccer during her varsity season. She is incredibly proud to call herself a well-rounded individual.
Although she has taken visual arts classes and enjoys listening to Lorde while plunking some notes on her guitar, Amelia knows that literary arts are her calling. Ever since she was young, she has engrossed herself with all kinds of literary arts: public speaking, debate, reading, and writing. Reading and writing are essential to her everyday life and the building blocks of her passion. They give voice to her inner thoughts, helping her understand new perspectives while preserving her own ideas and memories. If Amelia had to pick between the two, she would pick reading. So far this year, she has read a whopping number of over 70 novels, a new record for her reading goals. However, her achievements in writing are not to be ignored. She is Editor-in-Chief for the Collingwood newspaper ‘Ad Verum’, an activity she thoroughly enjoys. Managing a newspaper is an arduous task. It involves meticulous and devout planning, diplomatic communication to encourage writers to maintain the standards of the paper, and patience when multiple articles need to be published in the same week. Her efforts have turned to fruition seeing how the Ad Verum has seen an upturn in readership the past few weeks. Check out her first book review of the year on Kimberly McCreight’s twisted mystery novel ‘Friends Like These’ at theadverum.com!
A great writer possesses a great mind. Not only is Amelia able to put words to paper, but she is also constantly synthesizing thoughts from her daily life. In regards to art, Parry believes it is a sophisticated form of expression. Even debate, which many think of as an academic club, allows one to express oneself verbally. Many ideas are shared surrounding controversial topics such as whether human cloning should be legalized, or whether juveniles should be tried and treated as adults. Amelia believes that a common misconception regarding debate is that it is all about politics and international relations. This is entirely not the case. Despite being uninterested in politics, Amelia loves to stand up and share her opinions to a critical audience. Participating in these activities has shaped her character into one that is willing to be assertive, aggressive, and confident in necessary situations.
Amelia will absolutely continue to read and write voraciously after graduation. She is incredibly grateful that practicing literature has developed her ability to express herself, and how it has offered her a creative outlet. While she does not plan on debating in the future, she recognizes how invaluable the lessons she learned from it are. To all the aspiring literary artists, she urges them to “read, read, read”. Reading offers one exposure to so much invaluable knowledge concerning culture, literary techniques, vocabulary, and more. However, reading more would likely not lead to immediate improvements in one’s literary skills. Amelia herself had to struggle to improve her reading threshold from the young adult novels she enjoyed in her early teenage years to more adult reads. But the most crucial part is to keep on reading and writing. Books have greatly impacted Amelia’s life, and she hopes to create the same change for future readers. She hopes to author a couple of books when she is older that can move the world in some way. She has yet to decide the plot of her project but she is leaning towards a murder mystery!
(Keep reading to read some of here work!)
February 12th, 1987
9:57 pm
He looks at his watch. It reads 9:57 pm, the small dial clicking with each second that passes. He has about an hour left, before the sun sets, leaving the city, and the mountain he is on, completely dark. Gunnar Grétarsson keeps going. He roots his boots into the snow, careful not to slip. He is a man of determination and tenacity, never giving up even in minus 17-degree weather. The snow came down this morning, in heaps, as if a giant was flipping buckets of it over and over onto the city of Reykjavík. The trees are delicately coated in a fine layer of white powder, occasionally spilling on his toque. He carries a wooden cane with him, engraved with his father’s initials, PG, Pall Grétarsson. He runs his thumb over the crooked carving, out of habit, the smooth indents caressing his skin. Gunnar continues, anchoring the cane into the snow between each step.
“Damn, it’s cold.” He says under his breath. The mits he wore aren’t doing much justice for his frozen fingers. They feel like icicles. He is bundled in layers of fleece and cotton, itching uncomfortably against his skin. The air is frigid, burning his nostrils with each inhalation he takes.
His voice is gruff, edging on a heavy Icelandic accent. Gunnar was born in the capital, raised by his mother and father. He likes Iceland, it’s home for him but nothing more. He wanted to explore it, walking on the lands his ancestors walked on. The mountain was open years ago for tourists, but after countless mudslides, the trail closed. Looking up with his brown eyes, he sees the tip of the mountain. The top is closer than he thought. Trudging up even further, he buries his cane into the soft powder, only to let it fall all the way through. Then the floor beneath him disappears and he is falling or floating, defying gravity.
And then, he is gone, covered in piles of snow, almost deliberately.
11:26 pm
Kristen is awoken by a knock at the door. The rasp echoes through the hallways, aggressively, as if someone is in a panic. She nervously gets out of her warm bed, questioning what someone would need at this hour. Her husband is away camping to do some ‘research’ on the mountain. She thinks about him for an instant, wondering if he is okay. Kristen knew it was a bad idea for letting him go. Scurrying down the stairs, Kristen unlocks the door, opening it an inch. Her nose pokes out, instantly hit with the frost of Iceland’s night. Her eyes adjust to the darkness, not seeing anybody.
“Hello?” She whispers, her voice garbled from sleep.
Opening the door more, she notices something on the ground. Bending down, she picks up Gunnars cane. Her mind is racing with thoughts, remembering that Gunnar brought it with him for his trip. Kristen runs her frail hands along the wood. Only, it’s not entirely smooth. Something new has been carved into the wood, along with a cold metal object taped around the pole. She squints her eyes, cursing herself she didn’t wear her glasses.
‘Your husband is gone.’ It reads. The carvings are even, seemingly innocuous. Next to it, is her husband’s wedding ring, duck taped to the pole.
Kristen screams, slamming the door. The ring clatters to the hardwood floor, smacking and clacking. It’s drowned out by Kristen screaming.
February 15th, 1987
10:06 am
Everyone had questions. Nobody had ever disappeared, it was a small and safe community. There was an unexpected fishing accident years back but it was during a storm.
That’s it.
‘What was he doing up on the mountain in the first place?’
‘Why was he alone?’
‘Who would've known he was suicidal?’
The police released a statement 3 days after he first went missing. Though they were unable to find his body, they ruled his death a suicide. Kristen did not tell the police about the pole, it petrified her too much. The police team searched for a couple of hours, but the mountain was too dangerous, everybody knew that. Kristen was livid.
“You need to look for him more!” She seethed through her teeth. Kristen didn’t think they even cared about finding him. She thought the policemen were lazy, oafs. She believed that her husband was still alive and that the whole cane scenario was just a sick prank. At least, Kristen hoped that this was the case.
Despite being in her early 30’s, alive and youthful, her eyes were wild, and her hair was wrangled as if she hadn’t brushed it for the past 3 days her husband had been missing. Kristen looked tired, and it wasn’t the dark shadows under her eyes that gave it away, but rather, she looked faded all over. Her skin and hair were grayer. She pointed her fingers in the officer’s face.
“Shame on you. This is your job and you're just going to quit!” Kristen’s face was red with anger. She was scared at first, but now her blood was boiled, and steam was escaping from her ears. Then she spun around, flip flops clacking across the tile floor of the station, leaving out the door without another word.
“Crazy lady.” One of the officers grunted. Taking a sip of his coffee, he took Gunnars report and placed it in the filing cabinet. He sat in his chair, placed his clunky feet up on the table, stretching out like a cat. And then his mouth started to foam, his head rolling back.
Another suicide in a matter of 3 days. But nobody ever mentioned the fact that murder was a possibility. 12:06 pm
Detective Alexander silently slipped into the police station. The police called him up to look over the files of Gunnar’s death. Opening the heavy door, escaping the chill, he dusts off the snow from his clothes. He was shivering like a scared puppy.
He walks around the desk to the filing cabinet, whistling a tune. He was a confident man, dressed well and was highly educated. His hair was slicked back, glasses perched on his nose.
“Helvíti,” Alexander mutters in disbelief. The body is slouched over, weightless. He doesn’t know this officer specifically but recognizes him from past cases, Officer Stefán. His heart rushes, though he remains calm. He is a detective, after all, death shouldn’t worry him, yet somehow, it does.
“Anyone here?” he yells, his voice wavering more than he would have liked. Poking his head into each room, he finally finds Officer Jax working at his desk, munching down lunch.
“Excuse me, Jax,” Alexander clears his voice, “Um, Stefán is dead.” He states, blank of an expression. He registers Jax’s face switch from calm to complete and utter panic.
Jax abruptly stands up from his desk, eyes wide with fear. His hands are shaking. Jax follows Alexander to the body. It doesn’t even look real.
“My...god. What happened?” Jax frantically asks, hesitation in his voice. He swallows, his adam's apple bobbing in terror. He shifts his gaze from the corpse back to Alexander.
“This can’t be happening again…” Jax whispers under his breath. The poor man was worried. This was only his first year in the profession, he had never seen or heard about death prior to Gunnar.
“Looks like poison,” Alexander replies, motioning to the thick foam surrounding his mouth. He picks up the partially drank coffee cup, gives it a whiff, and nods his head in agreement. The pungent, sour smell burns his nose. The men look at each other, unable to do anything, hands at their side.
“Two deaths in three days. This doesn’t seem coincidental anymore.” Detective Alexander declares.
February 16th, 1987
12:37 pm
The town was full of horror. Assumptions were being tossed out faster than anybody could keep up. Officer Stefán was declared poisoned by Arsenic. Nobody felt safe. Who would, when two lives were lost in 4 days? It felt like the apocalypse.
“Ladies and gentlemen. I know you are flooded with panic.” Mayor Anna calmly announces. Her stiff blonde hair was pulled into a low bun, accompanied by red lipstick, a complete contradiction to her pale skin. She called for a town meeting the day after Stefán’s death. Everybody was worried to be around a potential murder suspect, but they desired an answer and a plan.
“I brought you all here today to inform you that we have no potential suspects at the time.” The audience groaned, whispering in agitation.
“Whoever they may be,” Anna continues, “is still a mystery. They are smart, leaving no tracks. But, I assure you that this will all be over soon. We have brought a search team from Denmark, to assist us in finding Mr. Grétarsson, and to find out who killed Officer Stefán. These deaths may be possibly linked, but maybe not. I need you all to stay calm, remain close with your loved ones, and look out for each other. You need to...”
Anna’s speech was cut off. A piercing ‘snap’ to her forehead, and then her body is lying on the group, limp. The blood pools out quickly. It’s flawlessly red. A perfect shot to the forehead and she is dead. Gasps and screams of horror from the townsfolk erupt almost immediately. They turn around, searching for who fired the shot, but there are too many people to tell. They run home, hand in hand, screams of terror, locking their doors and lowering their curtains.
Another one bites the dust.
(Bellow are PDFs which are two more examples of her amazing work:)
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