The stars are a gateway to the heavens.

My Lola used to cradle me in her arms and cusp my ears with her gentle hands, willing away the paroxysms of thundering shakes that resonated from the bombs. She would hum a lullaby, with my head against her chest, and the soothing vibrations enveloped me like a loving grasp. She would tell me stories of her times with students, studying the patterns in the skies, the celestial lights that peered down upon us. She told me of a time when they were celebrated like gods - like they were messengers of a greater being.

She used to bring me into her study, where the books were stacked high enough for my chin to point towards the ceiling when I took a glance. I would run my fingers along the spines, too young to fathom what beheld in those pages, the textures and colours of the covers flashing by my eyes. They were bound by different colours and leathers, yet they all held the same knowledge, the same people who wondered just as I of what world was beyond our skies. These books, in a way, resembled the people of our world: exteriors in a prism of colours and dissimilitude when internally, we share the same thirst for knowledge and drive of passion. That small, intimate library is destroyed now, replaced with ash and lingers of radiation; the hope that we would all be treated as the same — equal — fulminated with it.

Our culture was stolen from us, lost for years. My people have spent the last generations nursing our traditions into rich blooming vines that are rooted deep in our hearts. We see what others cannot and know what others cannot understand; such connection with our spirits has imposed fear and violence from those blinded by greed and ignorance. They called upon extinction, declared war and disguised their seek for indifference — for assimilation — by insisting this was to ameliorate our people.

The skies are not nearly as pretty as they once were. Clouds of swirling dust remain, permanently shadowing the skies. There are no stars that glimmer from above; no signs that my Lola is watching me from the heavens. I am the last one who carries my family name, but I will not allow myself to be the last generation.

CBC Books asked students to give us a glimpse of the great Canadian novel of the year 2174. They wrote the first page of a book set 150 years in the future, with the protagonist facing an issue that's topical today and set the scene for how it's all playing out in a century and a half.

Two winning entries — one from the Grades 7 to 9 category and one from the Grades 10 to 12 category — will be chosen by middle-grade author Basil Sylvester.

They are the co-author of the middle-grade novel The Fabulous Zed Watson and the recently published second book in the series, Night of the Living Zed.

Both winners will receive a one-year subscription to OwlCrate, which sends fresh boxes of books to young readers across Canada on a monthly basis. In addition, each winners' school libraries will receive 50 free YA books.

Last year's winners were Christian A. Yiouroukis for his story Where the Maple Leaf Grows and Bee Lang for their story One Question.

The winner will be announced on CBC Books on June 12, 2024.