Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild

The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing 


windScript 

windScript is a publication of the 

Volume 24 2007/08 

Contributors 

Jonathan Alexson 

Ceara Caton 

Katherine Sthamann 

Sarah Neufeld 

Blaire Stevenson 

Amanda Johnson 

Arden Angley 

Will Gordon 

Rebecca Tera 

Ben Whittaker 

Jocelyn Lukan 

Charlie Peters 

Renee Dumont 

Haley Muench 

Amanda Ahner 

Victoria Pawliw 

Stephanie Clarkson 

Annette Nedilenka 

windScript volume 24


Foreword – 1 

Prose Editor’s Foreword – 2 

Poetry Editor’s Foreword – 3 

Artist Statement – 4 

History 6-2, 6-1 – 5 


Waiting for My Perfect Picture 

– 6 

Ceara Caton 

Imagination – 7 


Third World Speaks – 8 

It Would Be Easy 

Sarah Neufeld 

Hair – 9 


Armarillo – 10 


The Red Dress – 11 

Arden Angley 

The Oracle’s Guard – 12 

Will Gordon 

Bombs Chase me to My Grave 

– 14 

Rebecca Thera 

iPod Generation – 15 

Ben Whittaker 

The Age of Computers – 16 

Sarah Neufeld 

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Light Bulb Moments – 18 

Victoria Bridge Blues – 18 

Currie-Hyland Prize 

Feline Simplicity – 19 

white is not black – 19 

i am – 20 

Jocelyn Lukan 

Dear Santa – 21 


The Astronomy of 

Friends and Strangers – 22 


Relationships – 22 

Renee Dumont 

Nightmare – 23 

Ceara Caton 

Widower – 25 

Your woman soft and small – 25 

Jerrett Enns Award for Poetry 

Arden Angley 

The Chinese Restaurant – 26 

Hayley Muench 

Toothflesh – 27 

Jerrett Enns Award for Prose 

Bright Lights – 28 

Amanda Ahner 

Daughter to Mother – 29 


The Last Tea Party – 30 

Sarah Neufeld 

contents 

A Reaction to my Stupid 

Action – 32 


Kill the Songbird that 

Does Not Sing – 33 

Sarah Neufeld 

Painter – 34 

Arden Angley 

Water Flirting – 35 

Hayley Muench 

My Blunt Obituary – 36 


Jerrett Enns Award for 

Prose 

Writer Biographies – 37 

volume 24


Foreword to windScript 

Welcome to windScript, the Saskatchewan Writers Guild’s e-zine of high school writing. 

windScript volume 24 

1 

foreword 

Volume Twenty-four of windScript is published on-line at http://www.skwriter.com. We hope you enjoy reading 

the remarkable poetry and stories from the high school students whose work was selected. 

Many thanks to Jennifer Still, the poetry editor, and to Adrienne Gruber for editing the fiction and non-fiction. 

Special appreciation to artist Chad Coombs for providing some of his exciting work to accompany this issue. 

Thanks to each and every student who sent in their work, and to Saskatchewan’s teachers and librarians who 

encourage student writing. 

For more information, please contact: 

Beth McLean 

Education & Publications Officer 

windscript@sasktel.net 

Phone: (306) 791-7746 

2007 Award Winners 

Amanda Ahner Arden Angley Jocelyn Lukan 


The Jerrett Enns Awards are awards of excellence named in honour of Victor Jerrett Enns, Executive Director 

of the Saskatchewan Writers Guild from 1982 to 1988. It was Victor who first presented the idea of 

windScript to the Board of the Guild in 1983. His enthusiasm and determination kept the magazine alive in its 

first two years until permanent funding could be found. 

The Currie-Hyland Prize was established as a tribute to Robert Currie and Gary Hyland in recognition of their 

literary excellence, commitment, and generosity to students and fellow writers. The prize is awarded for excellence 

in poetry to a high school writer living outside Regina or Saskatoon.

The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing prose 

Prose Editor’s Foreword to windScript 

It’s been an exciting process, acting as Prose Editor for 

this issue of windScript. Reading over all the pieces pulled 

me right back to my own experiences submitting to high 

school literary journals. If there’s one thing that hasn’t 

changed for me, it’s the anticipation I feel sending work 

out to magazines and the absolute thrill I continue to get 

when I receive an acceptance letter. 

I applaud all the writers who submitted their prose, as 

submitting is always a risk. You’re risking, not just your 

work, but a part of your identity. The payoffs are sometimes 

few and far between, but they’re so satisfying that 

we continue to take that risk. 

What amazed and excited me the most while reading 

these submissions was the passion and the commitment 

to the process these writers have taken. After I chose 

the accepted pieces, I had several email exchanges with 

many of the writers, sending drafts back and forth. These 

writers not only love to write, they take such pride in the 

rewriting and editing process, and are not afraid to experiment 

with their work to create stories that are fresh 

and potent. For me, these pieces are important because 

they don’t shy away from intense emotional experience 

and complex language. They can reach the reader on a 

variety of levels. 

I didn’t have a specific idea of what pieces I was looking 

to accept when I began reading the submissions. This 

process, for me, was more about feeling out the work, 

seeing what sparks curiosity in me, what pulls me into a 

fresh world and allows me to disengage from day-to-day 

reality, or (even better) makes the everyday a complex 

and unique experience. Much of the work I chose is not 

just well crafted, but walks the careful line between image 

and narration, allowing the reader to both hear and 

feel that specific world being created. There’s tension in 

these pieces, often raw and unyielding, and a touch of the 

absurd. There’s beautiful language, lines that made me feel 

like I was getting punched in the stomach. What amazes 

me about the work in this issue is the attention to detail 

and voice. Each piece, no matter what the subject matter 

or content, was true to its voice. 

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2 

This was a major factor in my decision to award both 

Annette Nedilenka, author of My Blunt Obituary, and 

Amanda Ahner, author of Toothflesh, the Jerrett Enns 

Award for Prose for this issue. Though both pieces 

are extremely different, both have maturity in voice 

and craft. My Blunt Obituary reached me immediately 

with its wit and honesty. To use humour successfully 

in prose is an incredible accomplishment, as it opens 

the reader up, breaks down barriers, and creates a 

connection between the reader and the writer. I was 

equally impressed with Toothflesh, and while it isn’t 

in traditional prose form, it is a skilled cross-genre 

piece, combining the long lines of prose with intense 

poetic images. In the end, I couldn’t decide which 

piece was more deserving of this award, and so we 

have a tie. Congratulations to Annette and Amanda! 

Thank you to everyone who submitted to this year’s 

issue of windScript. It was a pleasure to read your 

work and I hope you continue to share and create 

your stories. 

Prose Editor 

Adrienne Gruber 

volume 24 

Adrienne Gruber

The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing poetry 

17 for life: A foreword by Jennifer Still 

Poetry is about possibilities, about saying what normally 

eludes words, definition. It’s about pinning down that 

which is fleeting, bursting open the minutiae into myriad 

worlds. If this was 17 years earlier, I would be sitting down 

at my PC 286 (floppy-disk drive) in my basement bedroom, 

scented candles lit and flickering, the green DOS cursor 

(yes, DOS!) pulsing the 14” monitor, blinkblinkblink. I’d 

be writing about my recent break-up, my fight with my 

parents, the desperate poverty of the world. I would be 

holding close the words of my high school teacher (keep 

writing, you have talent) and listening to a voice that is 

simultaneously the loudest and quietest part of myself, the 

most genuine and the most hidden. 

A friend recently told me how she is eternally 17. I agree 

with her. There is a fearless, hopeful, ambitious part of ourselves 

that remains this youthful being filled with potential. 

It is that time when we are just beginning to figure out 

who we are, or, as Ceara Caton so aptly writes, when we 

are “waiting for (our) perfect picture.” And despite the 

fact I needed Wikipedia to enlighten me on the meanings 

of such terms as “emo hair” (with thanks to Ben Whittaker, 

and for those who are no longer 17, this is a style 

that is “emotional, sensitive, shy, introverted or angsty”), 

in reading the submissions I was instantly 17 again, connecting 

in a very present way to themes of loss, identity, 

suicide, poverty, bullying, relationships, drug abuse, family. 

And as I sunk into the work and worlds that connected so 

deeply with my youth and early risks as a writer, I realized 

it is not so much an age that places these young voices as 

it is an immediacy, an experience, a presence that is less 

reflection and intention as it is desire and action. As serious 

and grim as much of the content is, the poems remain 

rich with life, with hope, with the experienced voices of 

those deeply in the presence of this particular moment. 

It is these first wadings into language that will feed the 

work, in some form, for the rest of their lives. It was an 

absolute thrill to read this work and to engage in discussion 

with these writers who not only have the talent, but 

the dedication, the curiousity, and the bravery to listen to 

their voices and address their deepest concerns through 

words. It is such a gift to have a venue for these original, 

stunningly aware and imaginitive voices. Thank you to the 

Saskatchewan Writers Guild for providing the stage that is 

windScript, an immensely important publication. 

A special congratulations must go to Arden Angley, 

winner of the Jerrett Enns Award for Poetry, and Jocelyn 

Lukan, winner of the Currie-Hyland Prize. Arden’s 

poem “Your woman, soft and small” immediately struck 

me for its incredible imagination and arresting imagery. 

Arden’s navigation through landscapes such as “She 

paddled her rowboat in the gaps of your gums, waved 

to your childhood before it was swallowed” instantly 

broke language into new possibilities for me. Arden’s 

intuitive approach to writing, combined with her deft 

sense of language, narrative, and dialogue is very much 

at work in the poems published here. And Jocelyn 

Lukan’s suite of poetry has the efficiency and efficacy 

so desired in poetry. From the subtle suggested metaphor 

of “smoke billow ascends up / smoothstretched / 

Saskatchewan skies // I sprinkle your ashes / upon taut 

forehead flesh” to the sharp and gut-punching directness 

of “naïve candy virgin / waiting / waiting / waiting 

to be”, Jocelyn transposes the ephemeral with the particular, 

the particular with the ephemeral in a language 

that is as resonant as it is focused, as reaching as it is 

grounded. 

And finally, congratulations to everyone who took the 

risk of putting their concerns, their observations, their 

passions into words. The stack of poetry I received 

was enormous. Hundreds of poems were whittled into 

various piles and various piles into yet smaller piles 

that became, eventually, a handful of poems. The subjectivity 

involved in selection is inevitable. I read for 

surprise, for music, for originality. I looked for an image 

that challenged me, a subject that evoked, a music that 

lifted. So thank you all for some fine reading this fall. 

It was no small job to make the final selections. The 

work published here, though varied in tone and content, 

shares a common attempt to say the unsayable, 

to place the world, if only momentarily, into a tangible, 

clarified state. On behalf of windScript and all the readers, 

for your words, I thank you. 

Poetry Editor 

Jennifer Still 


3 

Jennifer Still


Biography/Artist Statement: Chad Coombs 

I was born in 1982. I live in a small city in the middle 

of Canada. Nothing happens here at all, no fashion, no 

advertising campaigns of anything good, just all mediocre 

bland and old thinking. Every company and person 

in business is too worried about offending the next, so 

chances are hardly ever taken. So this all being said, it’s 

really hard for me to do anything but the images I create 

in my head. These images are with my friends and such 

in my bedroom studio I’ve created in my rental place. My 

bed is in my living room area. I use old studio lights from 

the 40’s, I think. The only way of lessening the power 

wattage is by taping transparent material over the front. 

Model lamps were removed to prevent fires from starting, 

and I’ll primarily use flickr for my photo hosting and 

ranting, which I do ALOT. I am very opinionated, but also 

firmly believe my opinion is not right, or wrong, but only 

an opinion, much like everyone else’s. I live for creating 

arguments and opening discussions, and I love debating 

controversial topics. Many of my images ask questions 

and give answers, and both can be interpreted in almost 

opposite ways if you look at them hard enough. This past 

summer of 2007, I traveled to New York where I met 

much of David Lachapelles’ studio and gallery staff. I met 

and photographed Amanda Lepore, all due to Paul (the 

studio manager) seeing my Milk Maidens tribute image of 

Lachapelles’ original up on flickr. After a few emails, and 

an invite to New York, I hung out for two weeks snapping 

photos and networking. I hope to go back soon. Nothing 

else really matters except that I have opportunity to 

create my images and then reveal them, and hopefully to 

get constructive criticism to further my next attempt. 

My next image is only as good as the next shot I take, 

so it better be good, is what I tell myself before I plan 

to execute my ideas. Primarily I live for commercial and 

fashion based shooting; sets, sets and more sets. I love 

building sets with things hanging from the ceilings and so 

windScript 

on. I can use Photoshop very well, but always try to do 

things in real life instead, by building instead of cloning. 

I dream of being the next Richard Avedone or creating 

masterpieces like David Lachapelle, but in the end, 

being only Chad Coombs. My inspirations are evident 

in my work, but as I grow and learn, more of me will 

be revealed and hopefully create some things new and 

never seen. Time will tell and my watch is ticking. To 

leave a small Canadian city bedroom studio and shoot 

on the shot would be a dream come true and one of 

the many steps I plan to take with my camera in hand. 

No matter what, this is just the beginning, the shot or 

no shot. Check out www.flickr.com/photos/unscene/ 

click, if you really feel brave. 

Chad Coombs 

Artist 

4 

volume 24 

Chad Coombs



History 6–2, 6–1 

Let’s talk about what justifies Real Native! 

Being a Six-Two is being Meti-Kid! 

Six-One are Highbreds. So Creative, 

Con-together or First Nations won’t live. 

Live to see another Millennium, 

Or ten generations later. Due to pre-cum, 

Confirm who you are marrying is the right one. 

Who is erasing our History? 

Like who killed hip-hop, this is History! 

When we gone! You all be missing Cree, 

But all influenced, when reading thee. 

Two Six-Twos are officially one. 

Offspring now—Six-one. 

Two Six-Ones—First Nation’s newborn sons. 

Let the government pay millions. 


5


Ceara Caton 

Waiting for My Perfect Picture 

windScript 

This is the beginning of a beautiful idea, maybe, I really couldn’t tell. 

If one day you wake up and you feel like something inside of you has changed, will you draw a 

different picture? Feeling like a totally different person must affect your art. 

Or maybe only what’s on the outside of your carefully crafted environment. If I was lying on a 

train trestle, basking in the sun, would I perceive my talents differently? Especially if I was surrounded 

by birds, trees, water, dragonflies…or sun. I love the sun. 

Lately, I don’t feel like I can draw, paint or create. I wonder if I have raised standards or if my 

imagination is failing. Could there be such thing as a lack of sun? Once, I told a friend I was 

stuck in a perpetual snow bank called Saskatchewan. No one would ever believe me. He didn’t. 

Maybe there’s nothing to paint. Maybe I left it all at home, with my ocean. Maybe beside my collection 

of possessions on the beach: my ocean, my pointless love life, my drug habit, my phantom… 

is my picture. Do I, in reality, sit on my snow bank, pining for something that I was just 

stupid enough to leave behind? 

No, my phantom stole it. 

There really is no point focusing on a gap in a process, only on filling that empty space. Trying to 

not so eloquently describe a phantom, the one I really want. The stimulation that would make 

my picture is only wallowing in what I can’t obtain. The insane…love…of being sure you don’t 

know what you’re doing and yet knowing you must. That’s my phantom. 

Waiting for my perfect picture. 

If I was writing this in a notebook, I would be confident no one would ever read it. Would the 

pleasure of being completely secretive help me tell my story? Do I draw for others or for myself? 

I only create what I don’t understand, yet I don’t understand why I create for you. I don’t 

trust your judgment, I don’t believe you would never laugh, but I guess I need to know. 

6 




Imagination 

I think the term “I want to kill myself” is false and much overused. In my short life experience 

I’ve found that human beings generally will make their best interest priority over anyone else’s, 

therefore people don’t really want to kill themselves. Everyone loves themselves too damn much, 

nature made it that way. No, what they want to kill is the feeling inside of them. Feeling useless 

and ugly. The feeling when you look at yourself and say, “You suck.” And believe it. The feeling 

inside of you, that’s what you want to kill, not yourself. That’s kind of me, that’s not entirely truthful. 

They all ask, “How are your brothers?” To which I reply, “Good.” Long and strenuous silence, 

asker looking for more detail, askee wanting to flee, she would rather be taking a nap. “Really 

good.” End conversation. It’s in my imagination where they ask me how I am doing. And in my 

imagination I reply, “Fuck.” It feels really good. A lot of things in your imagination can feel really 

good. Like sometimes, in like, Bio or whatever, the teacher will be all like, “Flagella and conjugation 

and Chlorophyta.” And I’ll be all like “Kkkllaschtttbvw.” When I get to the Kkkllaschtttbvw stage is 

when my imagination comes in real handy. It’s right then when suddenly my breasts start to grow. 

Well, actually, they’re finished growing. And you would never believe it, but to a really nice size as 

well. It seems everything is growing. My hair is long, like down to my butt (my nice butt). It smells 

very appealing, like raspberries. My hair that is, not my butt. And this is all happening right there in 

period 2! So there I am, nice boobs, nice ass, nice hair, and it’s like where did the time go, and what 

were you talking about? And why do I care? Because at that moment the feeling inside, the “You 

suck” feeling, has officially been slaughtered, at least for that moment. So here I am, and as I said 

before I kind of feel like Fuck right now. And I’m all like, “I want to kill myself.” And then myself 

replies, “No you don’t, you want to kill the feeling inside of you, you invented that theory, stupid.” 

And then I think, “Oh ya, I am stupid.” And I’m trying so hard to write a postcard story while 

myself is telling me how stupid I am at the same time, and then my imagination pulls through right 

when I need it the most. Because right at the moment I start to threaten to poke my own eyeballs 

out if I don’t finish my homework, Luka Kovac is like, “Will you be my bride?” Luka Kovac, by 

the way, is the Russian doctor from ER aka the best looking male specimen the world of medicine 

has ever seen. So I’m sorry that this story has a lack of plot and deep meanings. But like, hello! 

Creative writing, or running my fingers through hot Russian facial stubble? It’s called imagination, 

bitches, invest in one. 


7


Sarah Neufeld 

Third World Speaks 

Talk about hunger 

like you’ve felt it 

gnawing your gut, 

stripping meat from bones, 

growing fat off flesh 

sitting bloated in belly. 

Yes, talk about hunger. 

Talk about thirst 

as if you’ve been there 

with thirst evaporating your essence, 

cracking lips like parched pond, 

suffocating with saliva, 

watching as eyes glaze over. 

Yes, talk about thirst. 

Talk about sickness 

like you know it, 

infection spreading inside out, 

decaying bones like rotten wood, 

sapping strength, 

dragging to death. 

Yes, talk about sickness. 

Talk about poverty 

as if you’ve lived it, 

a hunger screaming in stomach, 

a thirst wailing in dry eyes, 

a sickness exhausting the soul, 

the cold reality of truth. 

Yes, talk about poverty. 

windScript 

8 

It Would Be Easy 

this chasm stretches far, a giant laceration in the 

earth’s skin, a deep wound. these years haven’t 

healed it, it’s a lie. time doesn’t cure. look now, the 

black blood flows cutting a deeper injury, it’s infecting. 

water’s running fast, racing to the unknown. 

i would disintegrate with reality. dashed against 

jagged skeletons of cannon walls, my bones would 

break, spray red. in confusing eddies i would be 

ground to dust, washed away as silt. it would be 

easy. 

right now i stare at death, with frigid gravel digging 

into my soles; it embeds itself into my flesh. my toes 

curl over the lip, chilled breeze licks them, moist air 

is having a taste of me. “here” is one step before extinction. 

how far have they pushed me? i remember 

when they asked, DOES IT HURT? of course. HERE? 

THERE? yes, see, wounds still fresh: my ears still 

ringing, my brain still reeling, my skin still raw, my 

eyes still swollen, my nose still broken, my mouth 

still full of blood. OF COURSE NOT YOU’RE LIKE 

A ROCK YOU DON’T FEEL ANYTHING. that’s 

right, don’t look, don’t see what you’ve done to me. 

HA HA HA HA HA. words like punches. HA HA 

HA HA HA. it’s just a joke between- YOU’RE SO 

LAME, YOU SHOULD JUST DIE! –friends. HA HA 

HA HA HA. my soul a corpse. my heart a carcass. 

jeering, leering, you pushed me here. i stare into the 

abyss. water hypnotizes me, whispering in my ear, 

swelling an invitation. 

i am a statue or tree, your words pushing and pulling. 

it would be easy to let you win, i know this. i 

step back, grit crunching beneath my feet. i turn 

around. 




9 


Hair 

His head is shaped like a mutant almond. That is if he didn’t have any hair. He’s 

grown a brown frizzy-curly bush overtop of his once delicate baby pink scalp. 

It has now become untamed and has taken its own course against the rushes 

and bustle of society. He’s hunched over on the sidewalk with his head between 

his knees playing with the dust in the curb. The cars, the people, the stray dogs 

all hurriedly pass him by with their busy lives leaving only their lingering scent 

and the interruption of wind they cause, which momentarily sucks in the man’s 

hair towards their passing shadows, making a brief disturbance inside, then the 

release. But he remains in solitude making pictures with the dust. 

It’s amazing, the things to be found in this chaotic entanglement of single hair 

strands. From this view, thickets wrap up swallowing the trunks of magnificent 

trees. Vines multiply and attach the trees together forming a shield that conceals 

the jungle’s secrets. What do you hide in there, old man? What information buries 

itself in that mess above your head that is so precarious that you conceal 

yourself from the rest of the world and choose to suffer alone… 

The barrier of trees creates a shelter for the homely vegetation and wildlife hidden 

beneath. The vines wrap down to the swamps of molded foliage and a steady 

gray haze. It’s humid down there. The water that drips down the trees becomes 

trapped in the undergrowth. Fungus and mold thrive on the dreary bark and 

make up for most of the surface of this jungle. Leeches suck the blood from your 

once delicate baby pink scalp and slugs feed on the follicles of your skull. Snakes 

intertwine and coil around your ears whispering threats of your innocence. 

Are you frightened, old man?



Armarillo 

windScript 

Fuzz cackles, 

crackles 

on a tiny silver box. 

Music pounds 

and bumps 

from a black stereo. 

Virgin of Guadalupe 

gets all the blame 

while innocent minds are brainwashed 

and Cola takes over 

an entire nation. 

Values and morals 

are nothing to them. 

The poorest of the poor 

live in cardboard boxes 

with small televisions 

crackling across the country. 

(Note: Armarillo is the Spanish word for the color 

yellow.) 

10 



11 

Arden Angley 

The Red Dress 

I wore my red dress. Pulled it over my back, the spiders playing my piano key 

bones. Took the dye from my dress and washed it over the sky. The moon untainted 

beamed above our bloodied art. We painted this town red. We watched 

the screen at the public library. You were smiling like a three-year-old child. Relief 

caught in your lungs. Ten thousand spiders ran the blood through my veins. You 

wondered what the racket was. Rested my right hand beside your white left one. 

You have such beautiful wrists. My mouth infested with spiders tapping on tiny little 

typewriters. I felt one fighting along side my tongue to push a letter through my 

lips. Swallowed hard, crushed its spindly legs with the muscles in my throat. There 

was still more pattering along in my heart and head. They told me about the signals, 

reassured me with the red lining of your lips, and staining your fingernails. Said you 

touched me with both of them. If I read it right I would not leave empty handed. 

Empty hearted. We walked out of the theatre gloved hand in gloved hand. You 

spoke of your favourite albums. We disputed the notoriety of Joanna Newsom’s 

voice. Told me she is the best writer you’ve ever heard. Your fingers are always 

marked with pen. I know you’re trying. 

I just wanted to walk in silence. Our hot feet melted the snow; our hot breath 

clouded the glass in our eyes. We reached the coffee house. It put a pause on your 

running mouth and my dripping nose. I dropped a few sentences, dribbling spiders. 

They were attached to my teeth by the strings of their webs. You talked more 

when we sat down. My red dress faded like the sky outside. Through the window, 

homeless men sat like statues beside their brothers of cold stone buildings. You 

giggled at how my nose wiggled when I spoke. I tittered at your puns. Your motor 

finally sputtered. Took your hands and held them to my cheeks, smelled the coffee 

and soap. Kissed your fingers and thumbs, palms and wrists. You have perfect wrists. 

You drove me home. I apologized for not speaking. I don’t think you understood. 

Stepped out of the car and waved good-bye. Sprawled out in the deep feet of snow. 

Froze there until I unraveled: Ten thousand spiders dead in the cold. 



Will Gordon 

The Oracle’s Guard 

Cepra glanced at the door he was guarding. He adjusted his chair again until he was certain no one could 

sneak past him. He looked down the brightly lit hallway as a man approached. 

“Still the oracle’s guard are you Cepra?” Asked the man as he passed by. 

“It’s Oracle Vaura,” corrected Cepra. He crossed his arms and scowled when he recognized the man. “Get 

out of here if all you’re going to do is cause trouble.” 

“Alright!” growled the man, quickly leaving down the hallway. 

Cepra looked around the hallway and relaxed. 

“Quit being so jumpy,” he whispered to himself. The guard had never been like this before on a job. 

That’s what you get for falling in love! He didn’t know how, but he had fallen in love with Vaura. 

The oracle was very secretive. Cepra was only allowed into the room to escort guests, and never past the 

violet curtains. The voices in his head jeered him about his feelings for her. He had never seen her full face. 

Vaura wore a large blue cloak that almost completely engulfed her. The guard rarely saw her, until it was time 

to escort her to her living quarters. Even then she stayed hidden. “You’re an idiot,” Cepra told himself, punching 

himself in the leg. He was getting used to these feelings though. Cepra had never had luck with love. 

Cepra quickly grabbed his chair as the door opened. A pale man quickly left the room. Cepra watched the 

customer leave. The man didn’t look very happy. Vaura slowly appeared at the doorway and watched her supplicant 

leave. Cepra looked at her and almost blushed. In an effort to hide his redness, if it did come, Cepra 

bowed to her and watched the pale man go away. 

“If it is not too much to ask, I’m assuming that things didn’t go well,” Cepra said, trying to make conversation. 

He silently cursed after he said it. 

“It is not too much to ask,” Vaura said. Cepra’s neck prickled as his hair stood up. He loved listening to her 

accented voice. He loved everything about her. 

“My customer asked when he would die. I warned him about asking such questions from one like me. He 

refused and demanded. That man is going to die tonight. Poor soul.” Cepra turned and stared at her. Her 

face was hidden to him, but she moved a hand out of her cloak and toyed with the glowing rock on a necklace. 

Cepra stared down at her hand and the necklace. One of the few things the guard knew about her was that 

the necklace was precious to her. 

In his thoughts, Cepra came to his senses as a snap sounded. The glowing rock on her necklace fell off. Vaura 

made a mad grab at the rock, missing it as it tumbled to the ground. Cepra fell to the ground and caught the 

glowing rock. At the same moment Vaura too fell to the ground and they knocked heads. 

“Sorry!” Cepra moved backwards. He opened his hand and gave the rock back to her. 

“It’s okay. Thank you,” she said, clutching the rock. Vaura attempted to retie the rock back onto her necklace, 

but failed. 

“Let me,” offered Cepra. 

Vaura looked up at him. Her eyes were the only things Cepra could see of her face. She handed over the 

necklace and watched him like a hawk. Strangely, Cepra didn’t blush as he thought he would when she looked 

at him. He retied the necklace in an efficient knot, tested the strength of it and handed it back to Vaura. The 

oracle placed back on her necklace, finding it a suitable fit. 

“Thank you again,” Vaura said. She got up and went back into her room. 

“My pleasure,” Cepra said, speaking the truth. He softly closed the door and replaced his chair. 

windScript 

12 



Cepra woke from his daydreams as an armed man came down the hallway. Cepra drew his gladius from his belt 

and raised it. 

“Disarm yourself!” the guard yelled at the man. The man hid his face in his cloak. 

“Of course!” the man responded. He drew his weapons and tossed them on the ground. The man raised his cloak, 

but not his hood, to show Cepra that he didn’t have any more weapons. 

“Alright, approach!” Cepra told him. The man walked up to Cepra. 

“I wish to see the oracle,” the man said. 

“Oracle Vaura,” corrected Cepra. “Do you have an appointment?” 

“No.” 

Cepra checked the scroll containing Vaura’s timetable. 

“She doesn’t have an appointment. I’ll go and tell her,” Cepra said. 

“Good,” the man said. He pulled off his hood. Cepra instantly remembered the man as the customer Vaura had 

prophesized to die. The pale man drew a knife and stabbed Cepra in the chest. Cepra went down to the ground, 

blood staining his shirt. He dropped his gladius. Blackness took his sight and he heard the door being kicked 

opened. 

I’m dying, Cepra thought as the pain grew. He knew what the pale man was going to do. The man was going to kill 

Vaura. Not her! Not her! Don’t let her die! She isn’t going to die! Cepra coughed and staggered up. His love 

for Vaura overcame the pain in his chest. He looked down and saw that the dagger had sliced deep. Cepra grabbed 

his gladius and stumbled into Vaura’s room. 

Cepra entered Vaura’s room and pushed through the violet curtains. He found the oracle struggling against the 

pale man as he tried to slash her throat. The pale man laughed as he overpowered her. 

“You touch her again, and I’ll make sure her prophecy about you comes true!” warned Cepra. The guard raised 

his gladius and advanced. 

The pale man looked up and used Vaura as a hostage. 

“I’ll kill her!” he screamed, and pulled away her cloak. Cepra barely registered her beauty, only seeing the fear in 

her eyes. 

“You…” growled Cepra. He wondered what he was going to do to save the woman he loved. The pale man raised 

his dagger closer to Vaura’s throat. Cepra knew he had only one action. The guard threw his gladius to the ground 

and raised his hands in defeat. Vaura’s eyes filled with more fear. Cepra’s heart felt as if he had been stabbed again. 

The pale man laughed. The former customer pushed Vaura to the ground and rushed at Cepra. A grin spread 

across Cepra’s face. He had always appreciated irony. Cepra drew his own dagger from his secret spot and stabbed 

the pale man in the heart. The pale man coughed blood and stared at Cepra. He hadn’t had a chance to react. 

Cepra staggered to Vaura to make sure she was okay. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. His concern for her was clear, but he no longer cared about hiding his feelings. Vaura 

nodded in response. 

“Let me see your wound,” she asked. The oracle took out a box and treated Cepra’s wound. 

“You better sit down, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Vaura told him. 

Cepra gathered Vaura’s cloak and handed it back to her. He sat down quickly as he felt dizzy. Vaura came over and 

placed her necklace around his neck. Cepra froze at the display of love from her. Vaura came to him and hugged 

him. 

“I don’t think I’ll sleep after this,” Vaura said. “Poor man.” The oracle looked at the darkening sky. “Stay with 

me…please.” 

Cepra nodded and let himself smile. 

“I’m here.” 

13 



Rebecca Thera 

Bombs Chase Me 

to My Grave 

windScript 

Poisoned ground smeared on my skin. 

Mud thick with this murderer’s sin. 

I often imagine my clever demise. 

Sinister, romantic and filled with lies. 

Red roses lined up around my pine box. 

A fateful battle with deadly small pox. 

A strong hand on my delicate white face. 

Teary mourners layered in gentle black lace. 

There’s no one here to cry over me now, 

as blood seeps slowly over my brow. 

I shift my head to glance at my arm. 

I gag and retch back, dizzy with alarm. 

I pray to be taken from this earth. 

My perfect home is Satan’s hearth. 

Whose body is this? Torn and mangled, 

it can’t be my limbs, at these strange angles. 

A million others are dead at my side. 

Numbness hits me with a dysphoric tide. 

Darkness encloses me in his embrace. 

I leave the charred remains of this place. 

14 



Ben Whittaker 

The iPod Generation 

15 

I don’t want to know 

I’ve got my own problems to deal with 

I can’t take care of the world 

I can’t take care of them 

I need to make sure 

My iPod has the right songs 

That the logo on my shoe is visible 

That my hair is not emo 

And that I don’t look like a fag 

Where did my shirt come from? 

I got it from The Gap 

It’s a bit too tight 

But it says The Gap 

Oh, where was it made? 

I don’t know 

I can’t pronounce it 

What are we having for dinner? 

Shall it be baked Alaska? 

Or chicken cordon bleu? 

Tommy, eat your vegetables 

A starving child in Africa could live off of your supper 

For three days 

And yes, take some brown beans for the food drive 

I’m not giving them tomato soup 

I like tomato soup 



Sarah Neufeld 

The Age of Computers 

Intense blue eyes shine in the glare of the computer screen, the red rimmed irises darting across the monitor, 

quickly glancing at flashing icons. Beads of sweat stand out on a pale forehead, which at the moment is furrowed 

in concentration. Nimble fingers move across the keyboard with practiced ease. Rows of letters and 

numbers flood the screen in random pattern, a foreign language known only by its author. 

A window pops up, bolded text appears inside. 

NEO_THEI says: Are you in yet? 

thekid says: no 

NEO _THEI says: I thought you’d be quicker than this, the recommendations I received made me think you’d 

be amazing. 

thekid says: at least I’m quicker than you :P 

NEO_THEI says: Just tell me when you’re finished, all right. 

the kid says: 0_0 

With a quick click he closes the window, the rhythm of the keyboard resumes. He enters commands, fingers 

dancing furiously over the alphabet. He’s been trying to crack this system for days and has only just recently 

bypassed the outer firewalls; it’s a tough system. He knows he’ll need to be alert now, if he isn’t his hard drive 

will be fried. He swallows nervously, wondering if it’s really worth it. After all, his computer is his most prized 

possession. 

He shakes off his fear; he can do it. At any rate, it’s too late to go back now. He charges in, destroying firewalls 

and cracking passwords, imagining himself to be a warlord, with the keyboard as his mighty sword. He chuckles 

silently to himself and continues typing. This will be one big payoff. 

He’ll be able to get some more RAM, or maybe that new graphics card, or- his thoughts are interrupted as the 

screen begins flashing a warning. Instantly he knows they’re onto him. His eyes widen, his breathing quickens, 

his fingers tremble on the keyboard. He’s frozen. The flashing screen is like a beacon in his mind. He is exposed; 

they see him. ‘No,’ he thinks, ‘I won’t let this happen, I’m better than them.’ 

Adrenaline pumps through his veins. An onslaught of genius attacks him; an epiphany. Concentrating, he forces 

his joints to move. By the breadth of hair, he escapes their clutches. He freezes his enemies in their tracks, 

overloading their CPU’s and destroying whatever security they have left. He feels a sense of triumph as he 

sails past what’s left of the system. He opens up a window. 

the kid says: i’m in XD 

NEO_THEI says: Nice work... how was it? 

the kid says: your system needs work, any decent hacker could get in 

NEO_THEI says: Send your analysis and suggestions and we’ll send you the paycheck. 

windScript 

16 



the kid says: i’ll mail it tomorrow 

NEO_THEI says: Silver Electronic Enterprises thanks you. 

the kid says: @ :P 

NEO_THEI says: Can’t you just say thanks like a normal person! 

He closes the window and shuts down his computer. Standing, he stretches and heads upstairs. “Finally you’re 

up!” says his mother. “Jimmy called, he’s inviting you to his birthday party. He’s ten now right?” 

“Yup same age as me,” replies Billy as he heads to the door. “I think I’ll go play at the park today, okay mum?” 

“Sure. Anything to get you off those computer games you like. Kids these days never go outside anymore. 

-I’m so glad you’re not like that, Billy.” 

“... of course mum,” says Billy. 

17 



Jocelyn Lukan 

Light Bulb Moments 

This species has never completely 

made its escape 

from the Garden of Eden. 

We live in a skipping record 

Making the same mistakes. 

Making the same mistakes. 

Making the same… 

Listen to the reptilian whispers 

and eat of the forbidden fruit. 

Devour it early on 

through needles and dust and vapors; 

sometimes a light bulb 

torn from its place on the ceiling – 

smouldering, searing hot in the night. 

Does it even matter that it’s dark? 

Then stagnant gazes 

can’t view sick reflections 

staring back through shattered glass. 

It seemed brilliant at the time. 

Please, a drop of ammonia to cool my tongue… 

These sins redden our eyes. 

Crawling limbs contused; 

acidic boils that burst and fester 

with a horrible release. 

Will any of us see morning? 

Our creator chooses the damned 

with his fatherly judgment. 

They end in prisons or hospitals 

with cold white walls; 

controlled by machines. 

The lucky ones 

end their wasted fling in paradise 

with a long rest in the morgue 

and a longer one in the dirt. 

The sweetest sleep. 

So let’s fly away to Eden, 

windScript 

18 

and choke our misery 

in hundreds 

of broken light bulb moments. 

“It’s the only way out,” they say. 

We’ll crumble 

like the walls of fallen Babylon. 

Or burn to ash 

like Sodom and Gomorrah. 

It’s such a waste of life. 

Such a wasted life. 

Victoria Bridge Blues 

spoken word 

attempted 

lips crack 

; sounds of symphonies 

not words 

pour from hot mouth 

: not enough to distinguish 

the river, water aflame 

smoke billow ascends up 

smoothstretched 

Saskatchewan skies 

sprinkle your ashes 

upon taught forehead flesh 

my sister 

and i 

tear our clothing 

, wail in grief 

, hung 

her lover 

a mobile of sorrows 

yet hasn’t quit 

whispering in my ear 

since four; a deep December mourning 



Jocelyn Lukan 

Feline Simplicity 

tired question 

over and 

over 

why 

can I not sit; 

a cat 

beside the fireplace? 

curled upon myself 

in radiant bliss 

I would lay 

calmly 

licking 

my amber fur 

instead to be 

page three-hundred one 

torn from romantic novel 

the part where 

the heroine dies 

(natural sacrifice, 

for her lover) 

hinging fingers 

create my life 

to paper cranes; 

wings crackling into flight 

between creases 

listen for shining silver bell 

tolling from my collar 

for rest 

19 

white is not black 

white is not black; 

it is a blank page 

to be spit on in ink 

also naïve candy virgin 

waiting 

waiting 

waiting to be 

torn open marked discarded 

it is not the color 

shadows 

are composed of – 

[stealthy, malicious] 

it is - in fact 

a >slap< 

in the face 

from a stranger informing 

that it is completely unacceptable 

to dance in the rain 

on a sunny day 

rainbows : 

- assorted color masses 

- a twisted tie-dye of character 

- finest silk ribbons 

whereas white 

is consistently 

the pigment with no pigment 

nothing; 

nothing but absence 

white is only black 

in a singular respect 

: neither are red 

or blue 



Jocelyn Lukan 

i am 

acid trip – 

white line fairy dust 

for real men 

fearless women 

there will be 

no 

more 

rain 

water dripping trees 

as tap left on 

bathing in /piss/ and \fear\ 

sketch 

not on papers no papers need papers 

leaf through bible 

holy texts 

that make you cry 

with onion skin pages 

solving life when rolled correctly 

bend backwards back breaking back arching 

bridge for 

tiny demons 

crawl down open throat 

with tiny pickaxes 

digging for gold 

in the morning 

windScript 

20 




Dear Santa 

I’m not going to pretend that I’m the proper age to be writing this letter to you. Let’s just put it out 

there, I’m 16. And a half. I’m not going to pretend that I’m even sure I believe in you. I will not sit 

here and say I’ve been good this year, because really, I haven’t. But I think I score some points for 

honesty, so please hear me out. There’s this boy I know. His hair is always messy and his shoes have 

holes in them. He says fuck at the end of all his sentences. I know it’s a far cry from the “tall, dark 

and handsome” but I can’t help myself. I wish I could. I like him, Santa. Like a dog to table food, a 

math teacher to his calculator, like a preteen girl and the colour purple. You could even say I like him 

a lot. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. It couldn’t have been that long ago when 

you first met Mrs. Claus, with the snow dancing around her rosy cheeks, the hint of perfume on her 

neck. It’s the same thing for me, pretty much, except with fog dancing around the lenses of his glasses, 

and a hint of stubble, not perfume, on his neck. I’m a Christian girl so I could’ve very well went elsewhere 

with my request. But I figured I’d need bigger issues than teenage romance to go to the boss, 

what with acronym pandemics, global warming and all. What I’m trying to say is, I’m not expecting a 

miracle. I’m not going to ask you to make him like me back. What I will ask you to work your magic 

on, however, is this thing he has. That thing that makes my bladder all crazy so that I have to go to 

the bathroom like 5 times a day. His locker is on the way to the washroom. That thing that makes 

me giggle. Giggle. What do I want to do with this thing, you ask? Destroy it. Take it and feed it to a 

snow blower, burn it at the stake. I want this thing gone, history, finished, if not for my sanity’s sake 

but for my friends. I really don’t think they care how cute he looks with his touque on sideways, and 

frankly, they cannot analyze body language any better than I can (you’re a guy, what does a side glance 

in my direction mean? I think the clock on the wall behind me could be a variable, no?). If you could 

successfully exterminate that dreaded thing of his, I would have the merriest of Christmases. Or you 

could just give him body odour, one of the two. 

Thanks in advance, 

Jody Height 

P.S. His address is 4210 Jones Road, if that helps. And no, I totally did not follow him home on my 

bike that one day in order to find out that information. 

P.P.S. Okay, so maybe I did. You see what he does to me? 

21 




The Astronomy of Friends 

and Strangers 

People orbit my life. 

Sometimes I feel their gravitational pull 

on my equator. 

Often they are as moons, 

faithful, but also demanding: 

always trying to guide 

the tide of my oceanic mind. 

Infrequently they are comets, 

in vast loops, beautiful 

regardless of the cost 

of their coveted tail. 

Yet most seem to be asteroids, 

with their own lunar 

orbits, blank pieces of rock 

with which I will never 

interact. 

windScript 

22 

Renee Dumont 

Relationships 

Pointless moments in life 

make you worry about every word said, 

paint on a face to look perfect and push earrings 

through the tiny holes made to hang cheap 

pieces of plastic which will cause infection 

but you will still wear anyway because he says 

you “look good” with them on. 



23 

Ceara Caton 

Nightmare 

The girl stepped out into the alley’s glow. He wouldn’t be on her trail for a while. She had time to rest. At 

least for a moment she would try to seize back the air that had been deprived from her as she ran. The 

ground beneath her feet was littered with fragments of broken glass and garbage. Mammoth cardboard boxes 

towered above her small outline as she curled herself in the space between the two buildings. The air around 

her was heavy and smelled strongly of the filth that prevailed through the city. 

She rocked back and forth, trying to create any warmth she could. Her elbow knocked against a brick and 

cursing, she put pressure on the scrape to convince it not to bleed. The last thing she needed was another 

injury, no matter how minor it was. 

She rose from her nest. Resting time was over, no matter how much her muscles ached. Footsteps echoed in 

the alley behind her. Spinning around, she saw nothing, but crouched back into her hiding spot just in case. She 

looked and her anxiety eased as she realized it was just an old drunken man, trying to find his solace in the 

dark. Almost like her, running from something, not even sure what it was. 

Well at least I’m not stumbling around drunk. The thought rang hollow inside her. A voice in her head laughed 

sardonically. At least no one is trying to kill him. 

She got up and stretched. The bruises on her arms and thighs were starting to show more clearly now. They 

looked black in comparison to her pale skin. She could almost make out his fingerprints where he had held 

back her arms, and on her legs, where he had thrust them apart. She scolded herself again for not changing 

clothes. Her short jean cutoffs did nothing against the cold of the alley; they did nothing to cover the marks 

that the last few days had left her with. 

Looking around, she took a survey of her surroundings. She couldn’t see much because of the dark, but a light 

farther down the roadway was all she needed to read the street sign. Kingsley Ave. The name opened another 

emotional wound as she remembered a small diner a few blocks away. One of the many times he had tried to 

apologize, he had taken her there for breakfast. Back when he actually cared enough to make her happy. 

She made her way past the wino who seemed to have fallen asleep where he fell. She picked her way over the 

broken debris and carefully tried not to make a sound. She looked over her shoulder, aware of every shadow 

that she passed; trying not to imagine a man ready to jump out at her. 

She could be with her family right now. Her mother had said she shouldn’t have left to go with him. She had 

been so young at the time, and was now cast out on the street, running for her life at twenty-one. 

A part of her wanted to call her mother, wanted to ask to come home. But she was stronger than this. She 

could never call. Her mother could never know. 

As she rounded the corner at the end of the alley and turned onto an empty street, she allowed herself to 

sink into a memory. She didn’t do this often for fear that she would break down and completely lose her 

nerve. 

It was her wedding day; everything had been perfect. They didn’t have the money for a nice proper wedding in 

a church, but she had done her best to fix up her mother’s garden for the special event. The small family wedding 

remained in her mind as the most beautiful afternoon of her life. She still had a clear image of walking 

around the corner of the house down the flowered aisle. It was the same corner of the building she had torn 

around countless times, running with her friends when she was young. Part of her saw it as a right of passage. 

She was really growing up. No more games and running around as a child. Her wedding day had arrived and 



she had finally matured into a place where she chose the responsibilities of a wife. 

The thought had now turned into a disheartening realization. As an adult she still had so much more to learn. 

Her story had only begun to grow and it had already been wounded. 

She stayed in the darkest areas, walking, almost clinging to the building walls. Her fear of being caught was 

more pronounced because she couldn’t see the man that wanted to hurt her. It’s hard to run from something 

you can’t see, or hide from someone you know will find you. 

I know you’re in here. I just want to apologize. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was an accident. His coaxing 

tone echoed in her mind. 

The pains of her past shot through her yet again. Most nights she had hidden and cried until the next morning 

when he drove off to work. 

There was a part of her that she hated; the part of her that never fought back, the part of her that threatened 

to leave but never had the will power to follow through. Was it considered strong to cower, as long as 

she didn’t ask for help? 

As she moved forward, her tender walk showed her need. She didn’t want to remember him anymore. All 

she wanted was a new life somewhere safe. 

It was almost daylight and she hadn’t gone very far. The thought of him calling her name from his white 

Dodge truck frightened her, and she picked up her pace. 

The dark enveloped her as she turned into a different alley. Now that she felt hidden, she sat down to rest 

again. The night seemed calm, and sleep beckoned to her. Eventually it claimed her, throwing her into tormented 

dreams. 

The distress of the nightmare shook her small frame; even in her sleep her arms rose with tremors. The 

images were burned behind her eyes. Her husband’s last sentiments played over and over. The memory of 

unrelenting laughter and of her own pathetic screams finally tore her back into the alley. 

Her arms and legs slowly unfolded, stiff from the cold, she started to walk, looking up at the stars. They 

seemed to help her carry on. She had been to church as a child, but never really believed in God. Now, in 

her time of need she felt silly starting into the sky, hoping for a miracle. 

You are as strong as you think you are. Her mother’s words flowed through her as if she whispered in her ear. 

The broken spirit gave one last effort to stand. She gasped in pain and began to run towards the glow of 

morning. Slowly at first, and finally sprinting like she had as a child, she rounded the corner to find the same 

diner. A waitress set tables and looked questioningly with worried eyes. 

She laughed. She had known it all along. You are only as strong as you think you are. 

“Please, ma’am, may I borrow your phone.” 

windScript 

24 



Arden Angley 

Widower 

I’m so happy you can control your temper 

with such dignity. Throwing blankets and chairs, 

even me if I gave you the chance. 

I’m glad that I have to lie about your 

whereabouts when you decide to up and leave. 

Above all, I thank you 

for the childhood that I am clawing at and clinging to, 

for facing things I’m not supposed to 

and for growing up too fast. 

Because it’s so fulfilling to watch your 

kids rot from the inside 

right, dad? 

To watch the tears multiply like maggots 

right, dad? 

I remind you of everyone 

and you remind me that I am 

the worthless daughter you were stuck 

with when your fat wife died. 

25 

Your woman soft and small 

I. Prior 

Like when she was one 

she loved him as a ghost. 

For lack of reason 

he teased her with silence. 

The tongue of which corpses speak. 

Death is only in the air. 

She’d breathe in and swallow 

the idea of him. 

Alone and gasping, 

she’d remember 

that ghost was mine. 

II. Ideal 

In his palms, he held her 

safe and sound in the boundary, 

between thumb and forefinger. 

The two of them tied a string around the swelling of her 

heart. 

Morning after- bulbs broke; soil soaked. 

The water climbed her cotton shirt. 

Nothing he could say would move her eyes from his lips. 

He sees what isn’t said. 

The stories between her teeth, 

small secrets in the gaps of her gums. 

III. Present 

She said 

“I’ve drowned today. 

I floated in luke warm water. I bloated in thoughts 

of my mother.” 

He said 

“Life is feeble.” 

She said 

“It was when I grew beyond my years. 

I’m always older, drowning 

in my wisdom.” 



Hayley Muench 

The Chinese Restaurant 

The long string of dingy brass bells tinkled against 

the dull silver door frame, stirred by the sudden thrust of 

the glass door and the reckless gust of winter wind that followed 

it. The thick, warm atmosphere of the tiny restaurant 

immediately evaporated the cold, its unwelcome guest. It 

was replaced with the all too familiar mugginess, a combination 

of the sizzling deep fryers and the balmy breath of undisturbed 

conversation, melding together from each individual 

table. Patches of haze lingered in the room, from smoke 

emitted from smouldering ashtrays and steam from the hot 

dishes of Chinese food. Candles flickered a red glow from 

inside their molded, wax covered glass jars, contrasting the 

dim illumination overhead from the low brass fixtures. The 

oriental print rug, worn and faded, seemed to be the only 

thing that tied the restaurant together. Mismatched pictures 

of strange faces from the homeland hung unevenly on 

the wall, coated with a thick layer of dust that seemed to 

have an intention of permanence. No music played in the 

background; instead the room was filled with the insignificant 

sounds of clinking silverware, and voices as dull as the 

tablecloths the words were exchanged over. Sometimes, 

over the hushed chatter of the couples engrossed in their 

meals and conversation, the broken English of an ancient 

Chinese woman, skin like the bark of a bonsai tree, could be 

heard. This restaurant was her home, with bits and pieces 

of her memories, life, and culture, cluttering the walls – its 

only purpose to remind her that she was not lost in this 

windScript 

26 

strange country. Yet behind her small, creased eyes, were 

secrets held as the novelty fortune cookies held their 

trivial messages. Each couple eventually cracked them 

open, eyes grazing the red typed message printed on the 

slip for a small instant before they became less favoured 

to the crunchy treat. And after that, they got up, carelessly 

slinging their coats on and venturing out into the frigid 

evening as the forgotten paper fluttered with silence to 

the oriental carpet. When closing time finally crept upon 

the restaurant, the old woman carefully tucked each slip 

away in a hand made box sent back from her home country. 

She never forgot the people who came and went, as 

they were not trivial to her, and neither were the printed 

fortunes she so devotedly saved. 



27 

Amanda Ahner 

Toothflesh 

I sit in their chair, the sole performer on this stage lit by an overhead lamp. Four rubber 

hands execute murderous ballet in my mouth. Dull eyes blink back at me from 

behind thick-lensed and masked mouths. With antiseptic tones they address one 

another, ignoring the subject upon their operating table, sterilized words. A slight 

waver betrays excitement in his voice; she hands him the needle. Silent screams 

shatter inward silence. 

The spider vines creep through my cheek, numbing my nerves, my tongue, my throat. 

Impossible to breathe through accumulating spit. He whips out his shiny pokers and 

prodders, tools with names known only to him. His pride is the drill, handed to him 

last. I see a smile hidden by his mask, an antiseptic smile, before he zealously assaults 

my enamel. Spectral chains enclose my wrists and ankles, preventing a speedy escape, 

mentally shackled by hardwired codes of etiquette. Vapours of nauseating toothflesh 

attack my nostrils, inhaling the dust of my slaughtered self. 

Held captive by a blue sheet of rubber, electric drill buzzing in my head; I wonder 

how they might silence my screams. I clench my teeth together trapping all in my 

jaw. Broken stubs of former fingers spill rivets of blood down my throat. Suffocating, 

I choke on thick life. 

Held captive by a blue sheet of rubber, a mist of water and bone shavings sprays my 

face, I realize the freezing is just for this purpose; to prevent rogue teeth from biting 

precious dentistry hands. Between that and the bright lights, a complete sedation to 

create the perfect complacent victim. 

Lying in their chair, I let myself fade, and wonder what etiquette demands of meeting 

my dentist in the grocery store. 



Amanda Ahner 

Bright Lights 

They never turn these lights off you know. Cold words 

tumble from her lips as she sits, stone still, a frozen embodiment 

of apathy. Her long wheat blond hair cascades from 

her shoulders, glinting dully in the harsh industrial light of 

the white room. No days, no nights, no passage of time. A 

cold perpetual sun. Hard light to drive the insane, insane. The 

words cut through the deaf silence with no echoes to greet 

her ears. The sound is dead on her thirsty being. Her voice, 

her thoughts, her memories, no longer soothe the loneliness, 

yet she continues to speak. 

There’s no imagination in the brightness, only the cold 

hard truth. Slowly untangling her lithe body from its crosslegged 

position, she lifts herself from the floor. A hint of 

regret tints her harsh tone. In the dark, I could imagine you 

were here with me, that I was there, with you. 

Nostalgically she wanders through the room, as if it 

were a place from a dream. I live in the memories these days, 

the bright, blinding memories. She stops at an invisible kitchen 

sink, her voice softer now, like ice. His blood was so beautiful. 

The blood that washed off my hands, and spiraled down the 

drain. I remember I kept all the lights on that night. I wanted to 

watch them die beside me. 

Pacing across the open floor she wades through 

the memories, remembering her daughter’s whimpers in 

the dark. Callie was her name. She always needed a nightlight 

at her bedside. A vivid image of Callie’s midnight tears 

scrawled across her mind. The night the bulb burnt out, I 

came to her, and held her close in the darkness. Closing her 

eyes, she wraps the unseen child in her arms and rocks 

her back and forth to an unsung lullaby. But now, I’ll never 

hold her and I’ll never hold him. Her calm face breaks into an 

anguished grimace as she shouts into empty space. But he’ll, 

he’ll never hold Her. And I’ll never have to wonder when he’s 

coming home, or who he’s with. I’ll never find them in our bed! 

Retreating into the back corner of the cell she holds 

windScript 

28 

herself in pitiful self-righteousness, lamenting her condition 

to the lights, her only audience. No, I never did anything 

wrong, I didn’t kill him. They shouldn’t have locked me 

up. He betrayed me! Betrayed our life together! The life I 

built! She thinks of the home that had been ripped apart 

by his adulterous excursions, a home that at the back of 

her subconscious, she knows never really existed. Tears 

began to stream down her light blanched face. In this 

living nightmare of the mind she won’t accept the truth 

that lies before her. 

Rising from the corner she ambles to center 

stage, her eyes large and mournful but her voice calm. 

They told me she is dead, but it can’t be true. They just don’t 

want me to look for her when I get out. She remembers 

that they told her she’d never get out. She would be 

stuck in this room, forever. The room with the lights. 

She pauses and her fragmented thoughts return 

to the man, her husband, who’d betrayed her. He must 

have taken her away. He took her away, yet her rational 

mind knows the truth. He’s dead. I killed him. 

Slowly she lowers her slim, colourless body 

to the floor where she kneels in cold reverence, eyes 

closed, her face empty. 

The blood, his blood, her blood, drips onto the sheet, 

onto the floor. It trickles down the knife, down my arm. I 

hear a footstep behind me, and I turn. “Mommy?” I hesitate, 

but my hand is too quick, and she falls to the floor. 

Awakening from the trance, Sara blinks her eyes 

rapidly and then settles herself crossed legged on the 

floor. They never turn these lights off you know. No days, no 

nights. No passage of time. A cold perpetual sun. Hard light 

to drive the insane, insane. 



i’m getting older, 

balloons fill my room. 

my mommy takes care of me. 

she could buy me whatever i want. 

i wish, 

feeling alone and helpless, 

i lay in my bed for someone to tuck me in. 

i cry. 

thrusting my mind into lunacy, 

anxiously chewing on my slowly crippling nail, 

glued to my ever-shrinking memory. 

glued to my ever shrinking memory, 

anxiously chewing on my slowly crippling nail, 

thrusting my mind into lunacy. 

i cry. 

i lay in my bed for someone to tuck me in, 

feeling alone and helpless. 

i wish, 

she could buy me whatever i want. 

my mommy takes care of me. 

balloons fill my room, 

i’m getting older. 

29 


Daughter to Mother 



Sarah Neufeld 

The Last Tea Party 

Mister Jenkins and Miss Jillian are sitting around a 

small wooden table. Dressed in their finest, a bowtie and 

yellow sundress respectively, they wait for their host to arrive. 

Becky, the host, enters the room. She closes the door behind 

her with a soft click. She is carrying mother’s best china teapot. 

She holds it gently so as not to break it, but also firmly 

so as not to drop it. Becky places the teapot in the center of 

the table. 

The table looks like a galaxy, moon saucers, satellite 

cups, and comet spoons all orbiting the teapot like it’s the 

center of the universe. Becky begins to giggle, then quickly 

covers her mouth, smothering her smile. Mum is sleeping just 

next door. Becky kneels at the table, elegantly spreading her 

handkerchief across her knees. Mister Jenkins and Miss Jillian 

look at her expectantly, unwavering expressions sewn to their 

faces. Becky speaks softly, “Hello Mister Jenkins, Miss Jillian, 

I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Shall we begin?” 

Becky’s hand upon Mister Jenkins’ neck forces him to 

nod. Becky smiles, “Well then, I’ll pour the tea, but only if you 

tell me where you got that beautiful bowtie from. It looks 

very nice on you…what’s that? You got it while on vacation! 

In Disneyland! You have to tell us about it! Why I’ve always 

wanted to go there. Tell me, is the castle as big as it looks?” 

Becky becomes silent after speaking this. 

“Maybe Mum will take me there next time.” Becky’s 

mother had gone to Disneyland once before; her boyfriend at 

the time had two kids. “I wasn’t invited that time; Mum said I 

was a bad girl so I couldn’t go…he doesn’t like bad kids. If I 

could have gone I would have been so good, like an angel…” 

Becky stares at the table blinking her eyes quickly. She brings 

her hanky up to her face and holds it there. She is completely 

still for a moment, then shudders and returns the hankie to 

her lap. 

“Sorry Miss Jillian, Mister Jenkins, I had something in 

my eye. Oh, look at this! I forgot to pour the tea! I’m sorry! 

What an awful host I’ve been!” Becky picks up the teapot 

and with care fills the tiny teacups with invisible tea. “There 

you are…what’s that Miss Jillian? Sugar you say? Of course, 

one lump or two? Two? Certainly.” Becky drops two imagi- 

windScript 

30 

nary lumps of sugar into the invisible tea. “Now we’re 

all set, except…we don’t have any snacks!” Becky 

always gets cookies from Mrs. Phillips next door. 

With haste Becky sets her teacup on the table. 

She rises from the floor, bumping her knee on the 

underside of the table. The teapot, which is resting on 

the edge of the table, teeters on the lip. Becky rushes 

towards it. The white molded china slips. It seems to 

fall in slow motion, but still, Becky does not reach it in 

time. It hits the floor. Becky’s face is ashen. She sighs 

sinking to her knees, her limbs feel like jelly. The knot 

in her stomach loosens and dissipates. The teapot 

did not break when it hit the soft carpet. Becky picks 

up the teapot and hugs it to herself. She then sets it 

in the middle of the table once again. She leaves her 

bedroom, shutting the door gently, as if any sudden 

movement will shatter the teapot. She leans against the 

door a moment. 

Becky pushes off the door. She makes her way 

down the hall with a quick-footed sureness. She creeps 

into the living room. Mum is laying on the couch, 

asleep A few long stemmed glasses stand on the coffee 

table. One is half full of neon blue liquid. Mum never 

lets Becky have any juice. Becky stares at the glass. Its 

contents are the same colour as the blue raspberry 

candy she likes. A drop of condensation trickles down 

the side of the glass. The pink straw waves at Becky. 

Becky licks her lips. 

Becky steps towards the coffee table. Her mother 

turns over on the couch. Becky freezes. Her mother is 

still again. Becky looks at the glass once more, then tiptoes 

around the couch to the front door. She opens it 

as narrowly as possible then slips out into the corridor. 

She walks to door number 5B and knocks. No one 

answers. Becky continues to knock, still her rapping is 

unheard; there is no one home. 

Becky returns. Her mother is still on the couch. Becky 

glances at her mother and to the kitchen. She walks 

into the kitchen. Quickly, she opens the third cabinet 



on the left and moves the pots aside. She pulls out a bag of 

cookies. Becky selects three then glances over her shoulder. 

Her mother has not moved. She replaces the cookies and 

rearranges the pots. She stealthily returns to her room closing 

the door behind her. 

Becky places a cookie on each of the three plates on 

the table, “There you are Mister Jenkins, Miss Jillian, a treat for 

everyone.” Becky smiles and takes a seat. She eats the cookies 

ravenously, pausing only when she hears a noise in the hall. 

She halts; she is sure she heard footsteps outside her door. 

The silence is deafening. Becky finishes the cookies. Mum 

will wake up soon. 

Becky cleans up the tea party. She places the dishes 

back onto the shelves and puts Mister Jenkins and Miss Jillian 

on her bed. Then she picks up the teapot. She quietly opens 

her door and travels to the living room. She pauses, the same 

as last time. She sees her mother under a blanket now, her 

body all rolled up. Becky tiptoes to the kitchen. She places 

the teapot on the counter. Becky places her hands on the 

counter and prepares to jump up. She hears a noise. She 

turns around slowly. 

Becky’s mother stands in the doorway. She speaks. 

Becky’s mother always did have a way with words. Becky 

closes her eyes. China shatters. Becky’s mother always did 

know just what to do. Becky covers her ears. Skin becomes 

a rainbow. Becky’s mother always did have that loving touch. 

Becky curls into a ball. A door slams. Becky uncurls. She 

walks over the broken china. Blood drips among the shards. 

Becky’s been a bad girl. Next time she will be good, an angel. 

There is no next time. Becky’s mother does not return. A 

tall lady comes for Becky. There are no more tea parties. 

31 




A Reaction to My 

Stupid Action 

I see your face 

from across our distance 

contorted, transformed with rage. 

And this seems so funny to me. 

I feel a smile escaping 

(from where I keep them under lock and key) 

a defiant giggle flees from my lips 

(the only small rebellion I allow myself). 

I see the words storm 

out of your mouth. 

They are dark, lumbering, cruel and inhuman 

(like beasts that dwell in my nightmares). 

But I’m too panicked to make out what they read. 

I know that the smile has left my face. 

Whatever was funny 

(I can’t even remember what it was anymore) 

seems hundreds of years away 

and I can barely breathe for fear. 

All I can sense is the smell of burning food 

left forgotten on the stove. 

I don’t see much 

other than the grainy floor we stand on. 

My eyes feel hot and heavy. 

I can’t seem to muster any words 

(all of the ones I had rehearsed). 

My bones are twisting and collapsing in on themselves 

and I will the floor to swallow me whole. 

I want to call up my clever, witty, bold and strong words 

(too bad my tongue turned to ash in my mouth) 

to use as a shield for more than my body. 

windScript 

32 

I see your words 

(rather than feel them) 

bite, whip, cut and burrow into my flesh 

(I never feel it till later anyways). 

You remind me that I forgot 

how everything is my fault 

(I’m sorry I didn’t commit them all to memory). 

Even things that happened 

before 2:28 a.m. 16 years ago. 

But you never forget 

and you never hesitate to remind me. 

The setting sun is backing you up 

through the open kitchen window. 

I see my pitiful mistake now 

and my mouth tastes of salt. 

I know you’re waiting for an answer 

(wish I knew the question). 

But what am I to do? 

You are omnipresent. 

A natural-born persecutor 

(and I am just your daughter). 

So I nod my head and utter 

“I won’t do it again.” 



Sarah Neufeld 

Kill the Songbird that Does 

not Sing 

Nobunaga is dead, killed by one of his own officers. Is it a 

blessing or a curse? As of yet I am unsure. Nobunaga Oda’s 

harsh rule has ended, but still, unease fills me. I can look 

back as far to recall the chaos, the revolts, the divisions 

that made us weak, made us open for invasion. I recall the 

fear, the uncertainty. We were lucky then that the foreigners 

were concerned with their own matters while we were 

trying to sort out ours. I say sort out but really we were 

going nowhere. It was during this time we began to become 

aware of Nobunaga. 

Being the young head of the Oda family, conflict surrounded 

Nobunaga. However, like a true warlord, he dealt with these 

problems in a military fashion, gaining power through his 

victories. His status increased tremendously and soon he 

was even able to conquer the capital, Kyoto, and choose the 

next Shogunii. Nobunaga was not our legitimate ruler but I 

thought of him as our unofficial Shogun. 

Nobunaga was definitely the person the rest of the nation 

was looking at as well. Riding into power on a river of Japanese 

blood that was quickly turning to a sea he was ruthless 

and commanding. Whether this is the way of the daimyoiii 

or just the way of Nobunaga I do not know. However, I do 

know that no one was safe under Nobunaga. Even those 

loyal without fault came into suffering under his suspicious 

glare, sometimes paying with their lives. When it came to his 

own survival Nobunaga had no friends. I laugh as I say this 

because Nobunaga had no enemies either. He killed them, 

every one, slaughtered. Young, old, man, woman, there was 

no discrimination, only brutality. Even thinking of it now I am 

appalled at his cruelty, it is unimaginable. 

All his battles became massacres, a sight difficult to forget. 

I see them clearly now, as if I’m living them once again. The 

tension that warps the air swaying around me, the sickness 

in my belly, the rust that stains the earth, the scent of charred 

flesh and the sound of flames crackling, perhaps it was hell, 

that is what it felt like. Those who died, their last moments, 

were they like that? I can only imagine; in this aspect I am 

33 

glad for Nobunaga’s fate, perhaps retribution came in the 

form of his death. How ironic for him I suppose, he died 

in the same way he killed his defeated enemies, by being 

burned alive. I only hope those dead by his hand can rest 

with that. Still that is the past and I can only wish that the 

era of senseless violence is over. 

What is in store for Japan? Will we realize Nobunaga’s 

dream? I pray it will be so, for although his methods drove 

fear into even the stoutest heart, it was he who forged 

the foundations of Japan, by blood. His ultimate goal ‘Tenka 

Fubuiv’, were it completed would make Japan strong, 

something we will need to be in the future. Nobunaga 

rest easy, as the new leader of Japan I will take it upon myself 

to create a unified country. A country where life will 

once again be prosperous, no longer uncertain; a Japan 

that will face the future with strength. 

Toyotomi Hideyoshi 

i The title, “Kill the Songbird that Does not Sing”, is in 

reference to a story told in Japanese where each ruler 

that played a part in Japan’s unifications meets a songbird 

who will not sing. The story demonstrates the character 

of these three rulers by their reaction to problem. 

ii Military Ruler 

iii Feudal Lord 

iv ‘A unified realm under military rule. ‘ 



Arden Angley 

Painter 

It is my sister’s 19th birthday; we are going to our cousin’s farm. We’re blowing down highway #10. Turning 

off left about a half kilometer past Woseley on our way down to the Qu’Appelle Valley. The land is 

littered with stationary cows that seem intentionally set up for the perfect prairie picture. Our city van 

desperately scrapes along the frozen back road. I look up from my lap just as we pass Elisboro. A hamlet 

of six people, four of whom are staring at us trying to spot the idiot family inside. I blink and press my 

hands to my eyes for a moment. I forgot how long I had been battling to keep my eyes open against the 

enormous weight of light. I open them again. The sky’s lid is the stirred blue you’d find on homemade pottery, 

descending into a frayed grey around the edges, and somewhere in the middle it’s cracked by the sun 

screaming out like an open wound over the winter wheat and the stubble of summers shadow. The roads 

climbing the hill curve in and swoop out lulling the countryside into unconsciousness. A painter lives at 

the very top of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Her house looks over the plateau of toast and butter land. In every 

season she paints a picture of where she lives. My eyes are sewn to the house as our van pulls past waiting 

for it to move, or breathe, or wink. Anything to show some life. My legs are bent underneath my weight 

and my cheek is hugging the back of the seat where my head should sit, transfixed on her house watching 

it through the back window get smaller and smaller. My sister is sleeping. My dad and I are ignoring the silence. 

When my mother and father divorced I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t ask why or how could you do this 

to me. I just wondered why it had taken so long. Mom moved away immediately, to a house out here. She 

quit her job and paid for a few acrylic and oil painting classes. When her license expired she didn’t drive 

in anymore. She met a new man who bought her paints and groceries. They live together. I don’t know his 

name. They do not own a phone. My mom lives to paint her neighbourhood. The cows never move and 

all the bales stay put. She sells every piece of artwork. Each of her paintings is the same and yet customers 

buy them and hang them in their houses in an attempt to bring the outdoors in. To surround themselves 

in nature. To bask in pictures of valleys. My dad has to take care of my sister and me. Somewhere along the 

way he lost his temper. We are both sitting in the back seat. We roll up to our cousin’s house and unload. 

My dad hollers for one of us to bring in the cake. I step out and roll the door shut. The shadows of the 

moving clouds stumble on the still life down here. I look up at the clouds tumbling in, furrowing their 

brows at each other. Disappointed at all the dead life below. 

windScript 

34 



Ferocious sidestreet puddles 

They think they’re so s l y with their 

Water flirting wetness and perhaps their ability to 

Suck you in 

(oh how vulnerable you are) 

Hayley Muench 

Water Flirting 

They’re not so tough (you can see right through them) 

quite shallow, such a dreary personality, really. 

And 

I hate to be the one to tell you this but 

they won’t call you back after your waterendezvous 

What sorry excuses for melted snow 

dirty winter leftovers, only good for 

dampening spirits & April shoes. 

Avoid their splash-antics and mucking around 

they’ll tell you anything you want to hear. 

Those pitiful puddles and their rain-cloud talk 

Portraying my dress print as I carefully peer 

(from a d i s t a n c e … ) 

Nottooclose . . . they’re much too deceiving. 

I never liked spring anyway. 

35 




My Blunt Obituary 

In some cases you can choose the way you want to die. In others you have no choice. I sometimes thought about death 

in general, that the way I die will change the way I will remain in this world or carry on in the next. All I know is that 

when you die, you want to go back. 

A birth and death date are just a record, a log of your life span. Does it contribute to who we are? We need to know 

everything and anything in our lives to know one thing; our meaning to breathe, think and feel. It’s just the basic senses 

of recognizing the environment and relationships around us. But really, we don’t pay much attention anyways. I think the 

real meaning of life is to search for the meaning of life, and when you figure that out and actually find what we are living 

for you’ll say, 

“Oh. I think I’ll have some tea.” 

Or you’ll say, “I fancy dying now.” 

Once I wished I was dead just to know what it felt like. Because that’s all we do everyday, we live. 

Well the simple way I died was not my fate, my choice, nor was it to happen for a reason. I died because the laws of 

nature decided it to be so. I died by getting hit by a bus. Bluntly. 

On January 22, 2015. 

Simple as that. 

And when you are laying on that stretcher, piercing sirens lap out like an opera singing your favourite ballad, plastic gloved 

hands trying so hard to bring you back, and all you can think is, “Just give up already.” 

Everyone dies alone, whether they are embraced or not. They travel through time like a backwards circuit. And the 

flight is better off alone. Wouldn’t it be annoying to have someone beside you in a theatre calling out every few seconds, 

“Wow! Awesome! Oh my goodness, that’s so sad. What’s gonna happen now?” 

Wouldn’t it? 

Winter slowly chilled my non-existent pulse. That’s all I could feel, I guess. But I didn’t really notice, because it was just 

happening, not me analyzing every little nerve break. You can only die once, so you should remember it. 

The classic death tunnel. People say all you can see is white. Well, in my case it was because I was looking up and there 

was snow. 

Snowflakes. Fuck. 

windScript 

36 



windScript writer biographies 

Amanda Ahner is a grade 12 student currently attending the Swift Current Comprehensive High School. Last 

year she was challenged artistically by Creative Writing 20 and is pleased to have these prose submissions to 

show for her hours and hours of revision. Although writing has taken a back burner this year to make time for 

choral, band, and an awfully difficult physics course, she plans to continue exploring creative writing in the future. 

Jonathan Alexson lives in Fort Qu’Appelle, SK. 

Arden Angley is 17 years old and attends Miller Comprehensive High School. She likes Regina. She doesn’t like 

decision making, and is late for almost everything. She is just a big idiot that some people accidently take seriously. 

Caera Caton was born and raised in the Cypress Hills. The strongest calling to write has always come from 

her incredible surroundings, the wind and the forest. This is why she now lives in a small and quaint purple cottage 

on Vancouver Island only steps away from new and different inspirations. 

Stephanie Clarkson is a broke young woman with a passionate love for shoes, jewelry and books of all kinds 

(which is why she has no cash to her name). This 17-year-old is often misunderstood due to her sarcastic sense 

of humor. After she leaves Miller High School she will go to a University (her mother claims that it will be the 

U of R…she can’t leave the nest yet!), to learn more stuff that she is sure will be important. 

Renee Dumont is currently in grade 12 attending the Lafleche Central School. This is her second year in 

WindScript. Among many various activities such as curling, piano and karate, writing is one of her favourites and 

something that she wishes to continue for the rest of her life. 

Will Gordon (not William!) was born on July 14, 1992, two minutes after his twin sister. At the age of five he 

started writing and has continued since then. Nowadays when he is not writing, Will utterly wastes precious 

time that could be used for far better purposes. 

Amanda Johnson is an 18-year-old high school graduate living in Humboldt, SK. She is currently working as a 

lifeguard at the local pool, volunteering at the SPCA and spending her spare time writing poetry. 

Jocelyn Lukan is 19 years old and lives in the City of Bridges. She doesn’t like writing bio’s and so will end by 

saying just that because she can think of nothing else. 

Hayley Muench is 18 years old and resides in a 99 year-old house in Humboldt, Saskatchewan. She loves flamingoes, 

Mango-Lime Salsa, and making lists. Her pet peeves include banana-flavored anything, bad grammar, and 

when there is not enough cereal left in the box to have a full bowl. 

Annette Nedilenka is a grade twelve student currently attending Miller Comprehensive high school in Regina, 

Saskatchewan. Her works range in a variety of different subjects and are usually short stories or prose. She 

enjoys painting, art, literature and often a tasteful film. Her goal after high school is to go to post-secondary for 

animation and character design. 

37 



Sarah Neufeld is a graduate of the Swift Current Comprehensive High School, which was the birthplace of 

her passion for writing. Always a fan of reading, writing seemed a natural succession for her, and when she took 

her first creative writing course in high school, her obsession was born! Writing is something she will definitely 

continue to study and explore in the future. 

Victoria Pawliw is currently in her first year of Arts and Sciences at the University of Saskatchewan, working 

towards a medical degree. In her spare time she enjoys art of all forms, political discussions and being with 

friends and family. 

Charlie Peters is a grade 12 student from Saskatoon who loves writing, acting, filmmaking and reading (mostly 

books but also the occasional cereal box or road sign when driving). He likes making people laugh with comedic 

films and the improv he does with the Sa-SKIT-toon Comedy Troupe. He prefers that people not laugh 

when he writes poetry on serious subjects, or when discussing his appearance. 

Blaire Stevenson: “Let’s just say I’m the type of person who spends most of my time digging for earthworms 

on a rainy day and hopping in puddles until the water in my boots is pouring out from the top and it’s when I 

splash inside to peel off my socks when I think… I should have stayed in today.” 

Katherine Sthamann is 17 and lives in Regina. She is a senior at Miller High School and is their SRC Treasurer. 

She is also a member of their FaNtAsTiC improv team. After school, Katherine loves to read, go skating and 

write whenever she gets the chance. 

Rebecca Thera is17 years old and lives in Regina where she is in her grade 12 year at Miller High School. She 

loves being at the pool and wearing warm bunny hugs. 

windScript 

38 

bios 

Benjamin Alan Whittaker is a marvelously strange person. Currently attending Humboldt Collegiate Institute, 

he is the biggest penguin fan ever. He enjoys writing poems, as well as short stories where the main character 

dies, and he despises writing biographies of himself.

Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild

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