Stories of Our British Columbia

Stories of Our British Columbia is a collection of six short stories written by students at Highland Secondary School in Comox, British Columbia. The book has received rave reviews from authors, critics, academics, and amateur historians. The stories cover European contact to a retrospective from the year 2030. Each piece has a unique style and no pieces were sterilised in the production process. All proceeds from book sales go to future culture and heritage events at Highland Secondary School. These stories provide a sampling of the diversity that makes British Columbia the province it is. The six stories set in British Columbia are tough and sensitive and funny - stories about trust and belief; frustration and fighting back; and about being a part of a greater entity. The sotry of Campbell River is told from the perspective of a tree. The story of the railroad is told from the point of view of a Chinese labourer and from the point of view of an American foreman. Urban immigration is addressed from the perspective of an Irish youth while a native youth awaits her marriage shortly after the Potlatch laws are passed. Youthful identity is found through Eastern Philosophy in the Kootenays. There is even a story from the year 2235 that illuminates the effects of regionalism and British Columbia's manifest destiny.

The rippling mass of the Pacific melded into the ashy grey Vancouver sky; dank air cloaked the weary dock workers as the ear-piercing squeals of cranes and heavy machinery drowned out the cries of gulls circling overhead. Seamus O'Flannery removed a white, delicately embroidered linen kerchief from the back pocket of his trousers and held it tightly between his callused fingertips, blackened from years of toil. He swiped his glistening, deeply furrowed brow. "Whattcha doin' over there Paddy?" hooted Leo, a burly Italian man with evidence of a bologna sandwich on his overcoat. "Lunch break's almost over!" Seamus's desire to please Mr. Watson, his supervisor, had cost him yet another lunch break. Dropping the coil of industrial strength rope perched on his shoulder and rubbing his nose and eyes with the back of his tattered sleeve, he hastily made his way over to Leo. "You work too hard, Seamus," Leo said. "You can never work too hard, Leo," Seamus laughed, grabbing his lunchbox and carefully removing some homemade biscuits. His Irish accent was thick and honest. "No matter how many bricks you carry," said Leo, awkwardly hoisting himself to a stand, "you'll always be a filthy dock worker in his eyes." He popped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and gazed out over the water. Leo's face was like leather; crow's feet radiated from the corners of his dark brown eyes. "I just don't want you to kill yourself before you realise that." "I know," murmured Seamus. "But I also know that the men on this dock have gotta work harder, better, stronger, faster. It's like this on all the docks - all over Canada. It's not fair, but that's how it is. We have to show Mr. Watson that we're here to work and be counted. I'll be damned if I'll live my life on this dock for the next twenty years, Leo. I deserve better than this. My kid deserves better than this." Leo laughed, shoving his free hand into his front pocket. "We all came here for a better life, but you Irishmen - you're such dreamers. Always looking for a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I just hope you find it, Seamus. That's all." Seamus smiled an awkward smile. Lunch was over, and the men, like trained rats, scurried to their posts. It started to rain, and the drops, like thousands of tiny, pointed daggers, pelted down for the rest of the afternoon. While the work was hard and the conditions unforgiving, the men made it through the day - as they always had - without complaint. At the five o'clock bell, Seamus ran for cover, drenched and shivering, his mop of thick grey-brown hair plastered to his forehead. Before he could make it, however, a stout, clean-shaven man with round glasses and a woollen scarf intercepted him.