Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild
Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild
Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild
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The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
windScript<br />
windScript is a publication of the<br />
<strong>Volume</strong> <strong>24</strong> <strong>2007</strong>/08<br />
Contributors<br />
Jonathan Alexson<br />
Ceara Caton<br />
Katherine Sthamann<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
Blaire Stevenson<br />
Amanda Johnson<br />
Arden Angley<br />
Will Gordon<br />
Rebecca Tera<br />
Ben Whittaker<br />
Jocelyn Lukan<br />
Charlie Peters<br />
Renee Dumont<br />
Haley Muench<br />
Amanda Ahner<br />
Victoria Pawliw<br />
Stephanie Clarkson<br />
Annette Nedilenka<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Foreword – 1<br />
Prose Editor’s Foreword – 2<br />
Poetry Editor’s Foreword – 3<br />
Artist Statement – 4<br />
History 6-2, 6-1 – 5<br />
Jonathan Alexson<br />
Waiting for My Perfect Picture<br />
– 6<br />
Ceara Caton<br />
Imagination – 7<br />
Katherine Sthamann<br />
Third World Speaks – 8<br />
It Would Be Easy<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
Hair – 9<br />
Blaire Stevenson<br />
Armarillo – 10<br />
Amanda Johnson<br />
The Red Dress – 11<br />
Arden Angley<br />
The Oracle’s Guard – 12<br />
Will Gordon<br />
Bombs Chase me to My Grave<br />
– 14<br />
Rebecca Thera<br />
iPod Generation – 15<br />
Ben Whittaker<br />
The Age of Computers – 16<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
windScript<br />
Light Bulb Moments – 18<br />
Victoria Bridge Blues – 18<br />
Currie-Hyland Prize<br />
Feline Simplicity – 19<br />
white is not black – 19<br />
i am – 20<br />
Jocelyn Lukan<br />
Dear Santa – 21<br />
Katherine Sthamann<br />
The Astronomy of<br />
Friends and Strangers – 22<br />
Charlie Peters<br />
Relationships – 22<br />
Renee Dumont<br />
Nightmare – 23<br />
Ceara Caton<br />
Widower – 25<br />
Your woman soft and small – 25<br />
Jerrett Enns Award for Poetry<br />
Arden Angley<br />
The Chinese Restaurant – 26<br />
Hayley Muench<br />
Toothflesh – 27<br />
Jerrett Enns Award for Prose<br />
Bright Lights – 28<br />
Amanda Ahner<br />
Daughter to Mother – 29<br />
Victoria Pawliw<br />
The Last Tea Party – 30<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
contents<br />
A Reaction to my Stupid<br />
Action – 32<br />
Stephanie Clarkson<br />
Kill the Songbird that<br />
Does Not Sing – 33<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
Painter – 34<br />
Arden Angley<br />
Water Flirting – 35<br />
Hayley Muench<br />
My Blunt Obituary – 36<br />
Annette Nedilenka<br />
Jerrett Enns Award for<br />
Prose<br />
Writer Biographies – 37<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Foreword to windScript<br />
Welcome to windScript, the <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> Writers <strong>Guild</strong>’s e-zine of high school writing.<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong><br />
1<br />
foreword<br />
<strong>Volume</strong> Twenty-four of windScript is published on-line at http://www.skwriter.com. We hope you enjoy reading<br />
the remarkable poetry and stories from the high school students whose work was selected.<br />
Many thanks to Jennifer Still, the poetry editor, and to Adrienne Gruber for editing the fiction and non-fiction.<br />
Special appreciation to artist Chad Coombs for providing some of his exciting work to accompany this issue.<br />
Thanks to each and every student who sent in their work, and to <strong>Saskatchewan</strong>’s teachers and librarians who<br />
encourage student writing.<br />
For more information, please contact:<br />
Beth McLean<br />
Education & Publications Officer<br />
windscript@sasktel.net<br />
Phone: (306) 791-7746<br />
<strong>2007</strong> Award Winners<br />
Amanda Ahner Arden Angley Jocelyn Lukan<br />
Annette Nedilenka<br />
The Jerrett Enns Awards are awards of excellence named in honour of Victor Jerrett Enns, Executive Director<br />
of the <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> Writers <strong>Guild</strong> from 1982 to 1988. It was Victor who first presented the idea of<br />
windScript to the Board of the <strong>Guild</strong> in 1983. His enthusiasm and determination kept the magazine alive in its<br />
first two years until permanent funding could be found.<br />
The Currie-Hyland Prize was established as a tribute to Robert Currie and Gary Hyland in recognition of their<br />
literary excellence, commitment, and generosity to students and fellow writers. The prize is awarded for excellence<br />
in poetry to a high school writer living outside Regina or Saskatoon.
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing prose<br />
Prose Editor’s Foreword to windScript<br />
It’s been an exciting process, acting as Prose Editor for<br />
this issue of windScript. Reading over all the pieces pulled<br />
me right back to my own experiences submitting to high<br />
school literary journals. If there’s one thing that hasn’t<br />
changed for me, it’s the anticipation I feel sending work<br />
out to magazines and the absolute thrill I continue to get<br />
when I receive an acceptance letter.<br />
I applaud all the writers who submitted their prose, as<br />
submitting is always a risk. You’re risking, not just your<br />
work, but a part of your identity. The payoffs are sometimes<br />
few and far between, but they’re so satisfying that<br />
we continue to take that risk.<br />
What amazed and excited me the most while reading<br />
these submissions was the passion and the commitment<br />
to the process these writers have taken. After I chose<br />
the accepted pieces, I had several email exchanges with<br />
many of the writers, sending drafts back and forth. These<br />
writers not only love to write, they take such pride in the<br />
rewriting and editing process, and are not afraid to experiment<br />
with their work to create stories that are fresh<br />
and potent. For me, these pieces are important because<br />
they don’t shy away from intense emotional experience<br />
and complex language. They can reach the reader on a<br />
variety of levels.<br />
I didn’t have a specific idea of what pieces I was looking<br />
to accept when I began reading the submissions. This<br />
process, for me, was more about feeling out the work,<br />
seeing what sparks curiosity in me, what pulls me into a<br />
fresh world and allows me to disengage from day-to-day<br />
reality, or (even better) makes the everyday a complex<br />
and unique experience. Much of the work I chose is not<br />
just well crafted, but walks the careful line between image<br />
and narration, allowing the reader to both hear and<br />
feel that specific world being created. There’s tension in<br />
these pieces, often raw and unyielding, and a touch of the<br />
absurd. There’s beautiful language, lines that made me feel<br />
like I was getting punched in the stomach. What amazes<br />
me about the work in this issue is the attention to detail<br />
and voice. Each piece, no matter what the subject matter<br />
or content, was true to its voice.<br />
windScript<br />
2<br />
This was a major factor in my decision to award both<br />
Annette Nedilenka, author of My Blunt Obituary, and<br />
Amanda Ahner, author of Toothflesh, the Jerrett Enns<br />
Award for Prose for this issue. Though both pieces<br />
are extremely different, both have maturity in voice<br />
and craft. My Blunt Obituary reached me immediately<br />
with its wit and honesty. To use humour successfully<br />
in prose is an incredible accomplishment, as it opens<br />
the reader up, breaks down barriers, and creates a<br />
connection between the reader and the writer. I was<br />
equally impressed with Toothflesh, and while it isn’t<br />
in traditional prose form, it is a skilled cross-genre<br />
piece, combining the long lines of prose with intense<br />
poetic images. In the end, I couldn’t decide which<br />
piece was more deserving of this award, and so we<br />
have a tie. Congratulations to Annette and Amanda!<br />
Thank you to everyone who submitted to this year’s<br />
issue of windScript. It was a pleasure to read your<br />
work and I hope you continue to share and create<br />
your stories.<br />
Prose Editor<br />
Adrienne Gruber<br />
volume <strong>24</strong><br />
Adrienne Gruber
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing poetry<br />
17 for life: A foreword by Jennifer Still<br />
Poetry is about possibilities, about saying what normally<br />
eludes words, definition. It’s about pinning down that<br />
which is fleeting, bursting open the minutiae into myriad<br />
worlds. If this was 17 years earlier, I would be sitting down<br />
at my PC 286 (floppy-disk drive) in my basement bedroom,<br />
scented candles lit and flickering, the green DOS cursor<br />
(yes, DOS!) pulsing the 14” monitor, blinkblinkblink. I’d<br />
be writing about my recent break-up, my fight with my<br />
parents, the desperate poverty of the world. I would be<br />
holding close the words of my high school teacher (keep<br />
writing, you have talent) and listening to a voice that is<br />
simultaneously the loudest and quietest part of myself, the<br />
most genuine and the most hidden.<br />
A friend recently told me how she is eternally 17. I agree<br />
with her. There is a fearless, hopeful, ambitious part of ourselves<br />
that remains this youthful being filled with potential.<br />
It is that time when we are just beginning to figure out<br />
who we are, or, as Ceara Caton so aptly writes, when we<br />
are “waiting for (our) perfect picture.” And despite the<br />
fact I needed Wikipedia to enlighten me on the meanings<br />
of such terms as “emo hair” (with thanks to Ben Whittaker,<br />
and for those who are no longer 17, this is a style<br />
that is “emotional, sensitive, shy, introverted or angsty”),<br />
in reading the submissions I was instantly 17 again, connecting<br />
in a very present way to themes of loss, identity,<br />
suicide, poverty, bullying, relationships, drug abuse, family.<br />
And as I sunk into the work and worlds that connected so<br />
deeply with my youth and early risks as a writer, I realized<br />
it is not so much an age that places these young voices as<br />
it is an immediacy, an experience, a presence that is less<br />
reflection and intention as it is desire and action. As serious<br />
and grim as much of the content is, the poems remain<br />
rich with life, with hope, with the experienced voices of<br />
those deeply in the presence of this particular moment.<br />
It is these first wadings into language that will feed the<br />
work, in some form, for the rest of their lives. It was an<br />
absolute thrill to read this work and to engage in discussion<br />
with these writers who not only have the talent, but<br />
the dedication, the curiousity, and the bravery to listen to<br />
their voices and address their deepest concerns through<br />
words. It is such a gift to have a venue for these original,<br />
stunningly aware and imaginitive voices. Thank you to the<br />
<strong>Saskatchewan</strong> Writers <strong>Guild</strong> for providing the stage that is<br />
windScript, an immensely important publication.<br />
A special congratulations must go to Arden Angley,<br />
winner of the Jerrett Enns Award for Poetry, and Jocelyn<br />
Lukan, winner of the Currie-Hyland Prize. Arden’s<br />
poem “Your woman, soft and small” immediately struck<br />
me for its incredible imagination and arresting imagery.<br />
Arden’s navigation through landscapes such as “She<br />
paddled her rowboat in the gaps of your gums, waved<br />
to your childhood before it was swallowed” instantly<br />
broke language into new possibilities for me. Arden’s<br />
intuitive approach to writing, combined with her deft<br />
sense of language, narrative, and dialogue is very much<br />
at work in the poems published here. And Jocelyn<br />
Lukan’s suite of poetry has the efficiency and efficacy<br />
so desired in poetry. From the subtle suggested metaphor<br />
of “smoke billow ascends up / smoothstretched /<br />
<strong>Saskatchewan</strong> skies // I sprinkle your ashes / upon taut<br />
forehead flesh” to the sharp and gut-punching directness<br />
of “naïve candy virgin / waiting / waiting / waiting<br />
to be”, Jocelyn transposes the ephemeral with the particular,<br />
the particular with the ephemeral in a language<br />
that is as resonant as it is focused, as reaching as it is<br />
grounded.<br />
And finally, congratulations to everyone who took the<br />
risk of putting their concerns, their observations, their<br />
passions into words. The stack of poetry I received<br />
was enormous. Hundreds of poems were whittled into<br />
various piles and various piles into yet smaller piles<br />
that became, eventually, a handful of poems. The subjectivity<br />
involved in selection is inevitable. I read for<br />
surprise, for music, for originality. I looked for an image<br />
that challenged me, a subject that evoked, a music that<br />
lifted. So thank you all for some fine reading this fall.<br />
It was no small job to make the final selections. The<br />
work published here, though varied in tone and content,<br />
shares a common attempt to say the unsayable,<br />
to place the world, if only momentarily, into a tangible,<br />
clarified state. On behalf of windScript and all the readers,<br />
for your words, I thank you.<br />
Poetry Editor<br />
Jennifer Still<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong><br />
3<br />
Jennifer Still
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Biography/Artist Statement: Chad Coombs<br />
I was born in 1982. I live in a small city in the middle<br />
of Canada. Nothing happens here at all, no fashion, no<br />
advertising campaigns of anything good, just all mediocre<br />
bland and old thinking. Every company and person<br />
in business is too worried about offending the next, so<br />
chances are hardly ever taken. So this all being said, it’s<br />
really hard for me to do anything but the images I create<br />
in my head. These images are with my friends and such<br />
in my bedroom studio I’ve created in my rental place. My<br />
bed is in my living room area. I use old studio lights from<br />
the 40’s, I think. The only way of lessening the power<br />
wattage is by taping transparent material over the front.<br />
Model lamps were removed to prevent fires from starting,<br />
and I’ll primarily use flickr for my photo hosting and<br />
ranting, which I do ALOT. I am very opinionated, but also<br />
firmly believe my opinion is not right, or wrong, but only<br />
an opinion, much like everyone else’s. I live for creating<br />
arguments and opening discussions, and I love debating<br />
controversial topics. Many of my images ask questions<br />
and give answers, and both can be interpreted in almost<br />
opposite ways if you look at them hard enough. This past<br />
summer of <strong>2007</strong>, I traveled to New York where I met<br />
much of David Lachapelles’ studio and gallery staff. I met<br />
and photographed Amanda Lepore, all due to Paul (the<br />
studio manager) seeing my Milk Maidens tribute image of<br />
Lachapelles’ original up on flickr. After a few emails, and<br />
an invite to New York, I hung out for two weeks snapping<br />
photos and networking. I hope to go back soon. Nothing<br />
else really matters except that I have opportunity to<br />
create my images and then reveal them, and hopefully to<br />
get constructive criticism to further my next attempt.<br />
My next image is only as good as the next shot I take,<br />
so it better be good, is what I tell myself before I plan<br />
to execute my ideas. Primarily I live for commercial and<br />
fashion based shooting; sets, sets and more sets. I love<br />
building sets with things hanging from the ceilings and so<br />
windScript<br />
on. I can use Photoshop very well, but always try to do<br />
things in real life instead, by building instead of cloning.<br />
I dream of being the next Richard Avedone or creating<br />
masterpieces like David Lachapelle, but in the end,<br />
being only Chad Coombs. My inspirations are evident<br />
in my work, but as I grow and learn, more of me will<br />
be revealed and hopefully create some things new and<br />
never seen. Time will tell and my watch is ticking. To<br />
leave a small Canadian city bedroom studio and shoot<br />
on the shot would be a dream come true and one of<br />
the many steps I plan to take with my camera in hand.<br />
No matter what, this is just the beginning, the shot or<br />
no shot. Check out www.flickr.com/photos/unscene/<br />
click, if you really feel brave.<br />
Chad Coombs<br />
Artist<br />
4<br />
volume <strong>24</strong><br />
Chad Coombs
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Jonathan Alexson<br />
History 6–2, 6–1<br />
Let’s talk about what justifies Real Native!<br />
Being a Six-Two is being Meti-Kid!<br />
Six-One are Highbreds. So Creative,<br />
Con-together or First Nations won’t live.<br />
Live to see another Millennium,<br />
Or ten generations later. Due to pre-cum,<br />
Confirm who you are marrying is the right one.<br />
Who is erasing our History?<br />
Like who killed hip-hop, this is History!<br />
When we gone! You all be missing Cree,<br />
But all influenced, when reading thee.<br />
Two Six-Twos are officially one.<br />
Offspring now—Six-one.<br />
Two Six-Ones—First Nation’s newborn sons.<br />
Let the government pay millions.<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong><br />
5
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Ceara Caton<br />
Waiting for My Perfect Picture<br />
windScript<br />
This is the beginning of a beautiful idea, maybe, I really couldn’t tell.<br />
If one day you wake up and you feel like something inside of you has changed, will you draw a<br />
different picture? Feeling like a totally different person must affect your art.<br />
Or maybe only what’s on the outside of your carefully crafted environment. If I was lying on a<br />
train trestle, basking in the sun, would I perceive my talents differently? Especially if I was surrounded<br />
by birds, trees, water, dragonflies…or sun. I love the sun.<br />
Lately, I don’t feel like I can draw, paint or create. I wonder if I have raised standards or if my<br />
imagination is failing. Could there be such thing as a lack of sun? Once, I told a friend I was<br />
stuck in a perpetual snow bank called <strong>Saskatchewan</strong>. No one would ever believe me. He didn’t.<br />
Maybe there’s nothing to paint. Maybe I left it all at home, with my ocean. Maybe beside my collection<br />
of possessions on the beach: my ocean, my pointless love life, my drug habit, my phantom…<br />
is my picture. Do I, in reality, sit on my snow bank, pining for something that I was just<br />
stupid enough to leave behind?<br />
No, my phantom stole it.<br />
There really is no point focusing on a gap in a process, only on filling that empty space. Trying to<br />
not so eloquently describe a phantom, the one I really want. The stimulation that would make<br />
my picture is only wallowing in what I can’t obtain. The insane…love…of being sure you don’t<br />
know what you’re doing and yet knowing you must. That’s my phantom.<br />
Waiting for my perfect picture.<br />
If I was writing this in a notebook, I would be confident no one would ever read it. Would the<br />
pleasure of being completely secretive help me tell my story? Do I draw for others or for myself?<br />
I only create what I don’t understand, yet I don’t understand why I create for you. I don’t<br />
trust your judgment, I don’t believe you would never laugh, but I guess I need to know.<br />
6<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Katherine Sthamann<br />
Imagination<br />
I think the term “I want to kill myself” is false and much overused. In my short life experience<br />
I’ve found that human beings generally will make their best interest priority over anyone else’s,<br />
therefore people don’t really want to kill themselves. Everyone loves themselves too damn much,<br />
nature made it that way. No, what they want to kill is the feeling inside of them. Feeling useless<br />
and ugly. The feeling when you look at yourself and say, “You suck.” And believe it. The feeling<br />
inside of you, that’s what you want to kill, not yourself. That’s kind of me, that’s not entirely truthful.<br />
They all ask, “How are your brothers?” To which I reply, “Good.” Long and strenuous silence,<br />
asker looking for more detail, askee wanting to flee, she would rather be taking a nap. “Really<br />
good.” End conversation. It’s in my imagination where they ask me how I am doing. And in my<br />
imagination I reply, “Fuck.” It feels really good. A lot of things in your imagination can feel really<br />
good. Like sometimes, in like, Bio or whatever, the teacher will be all like, “Flagella and conjugation<br />
and Chlorophyta.” And I’ll be all like “Kkkllaschtttbvw.” When I get to the Kkkllaschtttbvw stage is<br />
when my imagination comes in real handy. It’s right then when suddenly my breasts start to grow.<br />
Well, actually, they’re finished growing. And you would never believe it, but to a really nice size as<br />
well. It seems everything is growing. My hair is long, like down to my butt (my nice butt). It smells<br />
very appealing, like raspberries. My hair that is, not my butt. And this is all happening right there in<br />
period 2! So there I am, nice boobs, nice ass, nice hair, and it’s like where did the time go, and what<br />
were you talking about? And why do I care? Because at that moment the feeling inside, the “You<br />
suck” feeling, has officially been slaughtered, at least for that moment. So here I am, and as I said<br />
before I kind of feel like Fuck right now. And I’m all like, “I want to kill myself.” And then myself<br />
replies, “No you don’t, you want to kill the feeling inside of you, you invented that theory, stupid.”<br />
And then I think, “Oh ya, I am stupid.” And I’m trying so hard to write a postcard story while<br />
myself is telling me how stupid I am at the same time, and then my imagination pulls through right<br />
when I need it the most. Because right at the moment I start to threaten to poke my own eyeballs<br />
out if I don’t finish my homework, Luka Kovac is like, “Will you be my bride?” Luka Kovac, by<br />
the way, is the Russian doctor from ER aka the best looking male specimen the world of medicine<br />
has ever seen. So I’m sorry that this story has a lack of plot and deep meanings. But like, hello!<br />
Creative writing, or running my fingers through hot Russian facial stubble? It’s called imagination,<br />
bitches, invest in one.<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong><br />
7
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
Third World Speaks<br />
Talk about hunger<br />
like you’ve felt it<br />
gnawing your gut,<br />
stripping meat from bones,<br />
growing fat off flesh<br />
sitting bloated in belly.<br />
Yes, talk about hunger.<br />
Talk about thirst<br />
as if you’ve been there<br />
with thirst evaporating your essence,<br />
cracking lips like parched pond,<br />
suffocating with saliva,<br />
watching as eyes glaze over.<br />
Yes, talk about thirst.<br />
Talk about sickness<br />
like you know it,<br />
infection spreading inside out,<br />
decaying bones like rotten wood,<br />
sapping strength,<br />
dragging to death.<br />
Yes, talk about sickness.<br />
Talk about poverty<br />
as if you’ve lived it,<br />
a hunger screaming in stomach,<br />
a thirst wailing in dry eyes,<br />
a sickness exhausting the soul,<br />
the cold reality of truth.<br />
Yes, talk about poverty.<br />
windScript<br />
8<br />
It Would Be Easy<br />
this chasm stretches far, a giant laceration in the<br />
earth’s skin, a deep wound. these years haven’t<br />
healed it, it’s a lie. time doesn’t cure. look now, the<br />
black blood flows cutting a deeper injury, it’s infecting.<br />
water’s running fast, racing to the unknown.<br />
i would disintegrate with reality. dashed against<br />
jagged skeletons of cannon walls, my bones would<br />
break, spray red. in confusing eddies i would be<br />
ground to dust, washed away as silt. it would be<br />
easy.<br />
right now i stare at death, with frigid gravel digging<br />
into my soles; it embeds itself into my flesh. my toes<br />
curl over the lip, chilled breeze licks them, moist air<br />
is having a taste of me. “here” is one step before extinction.<br />
how far have they pushed me? i remember<br />
when they asked, DOES IT HURT? of course. HERE?<br />
THERE? yes, see, wounds still fresh: my ears still<br />
ringing, my brain still reeling, my skin still raw, my<br />
eyes still swollen, my nose still broken, my mouth<br />
still full of blood. OF COURSE NOT YOU’RE LIKE<br />
A ROCK YOU DON’T FEEL ANYTHING. that’s<br />
right, don’t look, don’t see what you’ve done to me.<br />
HA HA HA HA HA. words like punches. HA HA<br />
HA HA HA. it’s just a joke between- YOU’RE SO<br />
LAME, YOU SHOULD JUST DIE! –friends. HA HA<br />
HA HA HA. my soul a corpse. my heart a carcass.<br />
jeering, leering, you pushed me here. i stare into the<br />
abyss. water hypnotizes me, whispering in my ear,<br />
swelling an invitation.<br />
i am a statue or tree, your words pushing and pulling.<br />
it would be easy to let you win, i know this. i<br />
step back, grit crunching beneath my feet. i turn<br />
around.<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong><br />
9<br />
Blaire Stevenson<br />
Hair<br />
His head is shaped like a mutant almond. That is if he didn’t have any hair. He’s<br />
grown a brown frizzy-curly bush overtop of his once delicate baby pink scalp.<br />
It has now become untamed and has taken its own course against the rushes<br />
and bustle of society. He’s hunched over on the sidewalk with his head between<br />
his knees playing with the dust in the curb. The cars, the people, the stray dogs<br />
all hurriedly pass him by with their busy lives leaving only their lingering scent<br />
and the interruption of wind they cause, which momentarily sucks in the man’s<br />
hair towards their passing shadows, making a brief disturbance inside, then the<br />
release. But he remains in solitude making pictures with the dust.<br />
It’s amazing, the things to be found in this chaotic entanglement of single hair<br />
strands. From this view, thickets wrap up swallowing the trunks of magnificent<br />
trees. Vines multiply and attach the trees together forming a shield that conceals<br />
the jungle’s secrets. What do you hide in there, old man? What information buries<br />
itself in that mess above your head that is so precarious that you conceal<br />
yourself from the rest of the world and choose to suffer alone…<br />
The barrier of trees creates a shelter for the homely vegetation and wildlife hidden<br />
beneath. The vines wrap down to the swamps of molded foliage and a steady<br />
gray haze. It’s humid down there. The water that drips down the trees becomes<br />
trapped in the undergrowth. Fungus and mold thrive on the dreary bark and<br />
make up for most of the surface of this jungle. Leeches suck the blood from your<br />
once delicate baby pink scalp and slugs feed on the follicles of your skull. Snakes<br />
intertwine and coil around your ears whispering threats of your innocence.<br />
Are you frightened, old man?
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Amanda Johnson<br />
Armarillo<br />
windScript<br />
Fuzz cackles,<br />
crackles<br />
on a tiny silver box.<br />
Music pounds<br />
and bumps<br />
from a black stereo.<br />
Virgin of Guadalupe<br />
gets all the blame<br />
while innocent minds are brainwashed<br />
and Cola takes over<br />
an entire nation.<br />
Values and morals<br />
are nothing to them.<br />
The poorest of the poor<br />
live in cardboard boxes<br />
with small televisions<br />
crackling across the country.<br />
(Note: Armarillo is the Spanish word for the color<br />
yellow.)<br />
10<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
11<br />
Arden Angley<br />
The Red Dress<br />
I wore my red dress. Pulled it over my back, the spiders playing my piano key<br />
bones. Took the dye from my dress and washed it over the sky. The moon untainted<br />
beamed above our bloodied art. We painted this town red. We watched<br />
the screen at the public library. You were smiling like a three-year-old child. Relief<br />
caught in your lungs. Ten thousand spiders ran the blood through my veins. You<br />
wondered what the racket was. Rested my right hand beside your white left one.<br />
You have such beautiful wrists. My mouth infested with spiders tapping on tiny little<br />
typewriters. I felt one fighting along side my tongue to push a letter through my<br />
lips. Swallowed hard, crushed its spindly legs with the muscles in my throat. There<br />
was still more pattering along in my heart and head. They told me about the signals,<br />
reassured me with the red lining of your lips, and staining your fingernails. Said you<br />
touched me with both of them. If I read it right I would not leave empty handed.<br />
Empty hearted. We walked out of the theatre gloved hand in gloved hand. You<br />
spoke of your favourite albums. We disputed the notoriety of Joanna Newsom’s<br />
voice. Told me she is the best writer you’ve ever heard. Your fingers are always<br />
marked with pen. I know you’re trying.<br />
I just wanted to walk in silence. Our hot feet melted the snow; our hot breath<br />
clouded the glass in our eyes. We reached the coffee house. It put a pause on your<br />
running mouth and my dripping nose. I dropped a few sentences, dribbling spiders.<br />
They were attached to my teeth by the strings of their webs. You talked more<br />
when we sat down. My red dress faded like the sky outside. Through the window,<br />
homeless men sat like statues beside their brothers of cold stone buildings. You<br />
giggled at how my nose wiggled when I spoke. I tittered at your puns. Your motor<br />
finally sputtered. Took your hands and held them to my cheeks, smelled the coffee<br />
and soap. Kissed your fingers and thumbs, palms and wrists. You have perfect wrists.<br />
You drove me home. I apologized for not speaking. I don’t think you understood.<br />
Stepped out of the car and waved good-bye. Sprawled out in the deep feet of snow.<br />
Froze there until I unraveled: Ten thousand spiders dead in the cold.<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Will Gordon<br />
The Oracle’s Guard<br />
Cepra glanced at the door he was guarding. He adjusted his chair again until he was certain no one could<br />
sneak past him. He looked down the brightly lit hallway as a man approached.<br />
“Still the oracle’s guard are you Cepra?” Asked the man as he passed by.<br />
“It’s Oracle Vaura,” corrected Cepra. He crossed his arms and scowled when he recognized the man. “Get<br />
out of here if all you’re going to do is cause trouble.”<br />
“Alright!” growled the man, quickly leaving down the hallway.<br />
Cepra looked around the hallway and relaxed.<br />
“Quit being so jumpy,” he whispered to himself. The guard had never been like this before on a job.<br />
That’s what you get for falling in love! He didn’t know how, but he had fallen in love with Vaura.<br />
The oracle was very secretive. Cepra was only allowed into the room to escort guests, and never past the<br />
violet curtains. The voices in his head jeered him about his feelings for her. He had never seen her full face.<br />
Vaura wore a large blue cloak that almost completely engulfed her. The guard rarely saw her, until it was time<br />
to escort her to her living quarters. Even then she stayed hidden. “You’re an idiot,” Cepra told himself, punching<br />
himself in the leg. He was getting used to these feelings though. Cepra had never had luck with love.<br />
Cepra quickly grabbed his chair as the door opened. A pale man quickly left the room. Cepra watched the<br />
customer leave. The man didn’t look very happy. Vaura slowly appeared at the doorway and watched her supplicant<br />
leave. Cepra looked at her and almost blushed. In an effort to hide his redness, if it did come, Cepra<br />
bowed to her and watched the pale man go away.<br />
“If it is not too much to ask, I’m assuming that things didn’t go well,” Cepra said, trying to make conversation.<br />
He silently cursed after he said it.<br />
“It is not too much to ask,” Vaura said. Cepra’s neck prickled as his hair stood up. He loved listening to her<br />
accented voice. He loved everything about her.<br />
“My customer asked when he would die. I warned him about asking such questions from one like me. He<br />
refused and demanded. That man is going to die tonight. Poor soul.” Cepra turned and stared at her. Her<br />
face was hidden to him, but she moved a hand out of her cloak and toyed with the glowing rock on a necklace.<br />
Cepra stared down at her hand and the necklace. One of the few things the guard knew about her was that<br />
the necklace was precious to her.<br />
In his thoughts, Cepra came to his senses as a snap sounded. The glowing rock on her necklace fell off. Vaura<br />
made a mad grab at the rock, missing it as it tumbled to the ground. Cepra fell to the ground and caught the<br />
glowing rock. At the same moment Vaura too fell to the ground and they knocked heads.<br />
“Sorry!” Cepra moved backwards. He opened his hand and gave the rock back to her.<br />
“It’s okay. Thank you,” she said, clutching the rock. Vaura attempted to retie the rock back onto her necklace,<br />
but failed.<br />
“Let me,” offered Cepra.<br />
Vaura looked up at him. Her eyes were the only things Cepra could see of her face. She handed over the<br />
necklace and watched him like a hawk. Strangely, Cepra didn’t blush as he thought he would when she looked<br />
at him. He retied the necklace in an efficient knot, tested the strength of it and handed it back to Vaura. The<br />
oracle placed back on her necklace, finding it a suitable fit.<br />
“Thank you again,” Vaura said. She got up and went back into her room.<br />
“My pleasure,” Cepra said, speaking the truth. He softly closed the door and replaced his chair.<br />
windScript<br />
12<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Cepra woke from his daydreams as an armed man came down the hallway. Cepra drew his gladius from his belt<br />
and raised it.<br />
“Disarm yourself!” the guard yelled at the man. The man hid his face in his cloak.<br />
“Of course!” the man responded. He drew his weapons and tossed them on the ground. The man raised his cloak,<br />
but not his hood, to show Cepra that he didn’t have any more weapons.<br />
“Alright, approach!” Cepra told him. The man walked up to Cepra.<br />
“I wish to see the oracle,” the man said.<br />
“Oracle Vaura,” corrected Cepra. “Do you have an appointment?”<br />
“No.”<br />
Cepra checked the scroll containing Vaura’s timetable.<br />
“She doesn’t have an appointment. I’ll go and tell her,” Cepra said.<br />
“Good,” the man said. He pulled off his hood. Cepra instantly remembered the man as the customer Vaura had<br />
prophesized to die. The pale man drew a knife and stabbed Cepra in the chest. Cepra went down to the ground,<br />
blood staining his shirt. He dropped his gladius. Blackness took his sight and he heard the door being kicked<br />
opened.<br />
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<br />
Vaura. Not her! Not her! Don’t let her die! She isn’t going to die! Cepra coughed and staggered up. His love<br />
for Vaura overcame the pain in his chest. He looked down and saw that the dagger had sliced deep. Cepra grabbed<br />
his gladius and stumbled into Vaura’s room.<br />
Cepra entered Vaura’s room and pushed through the violet curtains. He found the oracle struggling against the<br />
pale man as he tried to slash her throat. The pale man laughed as he overpowered her.<br />
“You touch her again, and I’ll make sure her prophecy about you comes true!” warned Cepra. The guard raised<br />
his gladius and advanced.<br />
The pale man looked up and used Vaura as a hostage.<br />
“I’ll kill her!” he screamed, and pulled away her cloak. Cepra barely registered her beauty, only seeing the fear in<br />
her eyes.<br />
“You…” growled Cepra. He wondered what he was going to do to save the woman he loved. The pale man raised<br />
his dagger closer to Vaura’s throat. Cepra knew he had only one action. The guard threw his gladius to the ground<br />
and raised his hands in defeat. Vaura’s eyes filled with more fear. Cepra’s heart felt as if he had been stabbed again.<br />
The pale man laughed. The former customer pushed Vaura to the ground and rushed at Cepra. A grin spread<br />
across Cepra’s face. He had always appreciated irony. Cepra drew his own dagger from his secret spot and stabbed<br />
the pale man in the heart. The pale man coughed blood and stared at Cepra. He hadn’t had a chance to react.<br />
Cepra staggered to Vaura to make sure she was okay.<br />
“Are you alright?” he asked. His concern for her was clear, but he no longer cared about hiding his feelings. Vaura<br />
nodded in response.<br />
“Let me see your wound,” she asked. The oracle took out a box and treated Cepra’s wound.<br />
“You better sit down, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Vaura told him.<br />
Cepra gathered Vaura’s cloak and handed it back to her. He sat down quickly as he felt dizzy. Vaura came over and<br />
placed her necklace around his neck. Cepra froze at the display of love from her. Vaura came to him and hugged<br />
him.<br />
“I don’t think I’ll sleep after this,” Vaura said. “Poor man.” The oracle looked at the darkening sky. “Stay with<br />
me…please.”<br />
Cepra nodded and let himself smile.<br />
“I’m here.”<br />
13<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Rebecca Thera<br />
Bombs Chase Me<br />
to My Grave<br />
windScript<br />
Poisoned ground smeared on my skin.<br />
Mud thick with this murderer’s sin.<br />
I often imagine my clever demise.<br />
Sinister, romantic and filled with lies.<br />
Red roses lined up around my pine box.<br />
A fateful battle with deadly small pox.<br />
A strong hand on my delicate white face.<br />
Teary mourners layered in gentle black lace.<br />
There’s no one here to cry over me now,<br />
as blood seeps slowly over my brow.<br />
I shift my head to glance at my arm.<br />
I gag and retch back, dizzy with alarm.<br />
I pray to be taken from this earth.<br />
My perfect home is Satan’s hearth.<br />
Whose body is this? Torn and mangled,<br />
it can’t be my limbs, at these strange angles.<br />
A million others are dead at my side.<br />
Numbness hits me with a dysphoric tide.<br />
Darkness encloses me in his embrace.<br />
I leave the charred remains of this place.<br />
14<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Ben Whittaker<br />
The iPod Generation<br />
15<br />
I don’t want to know<br />
I’ve got my own problems to deal with<br />
I can’t take care of the world<br />
I can’t take care of them<br />
I need to make sure<br />
My iPod has the right songs<br />
That the logo on my shoe is visible<br />
That my hair is not emo<br />
And that I don’t look like a fag<br />
Where did my shirt come from?<br />
I got it from The Gap<br />
It’s a bit too tight<br />
But it says The Gap<br />
Oh, where was it made?<br />
I don’t know<br />
I can’t pronounce it<br />
What are we having for dinner?<br />
Shall it be baked Alaska?<br />
Or chicken cordon bleu?<br />
Tommy, eat your vegetables<br />
A starving child in Africa could live off of your supper<br />
For three days<br />
And yes, take some brown beans for the food drive<br />
I’m not giving them tomato soup<br />
I like tomato soup<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
The Age of Computers<br />
Intense blue eyes shine in the glare of the computer screen, the red rimmed irises darting across the monitor,<br />
quickly glancing at flashing icons. Beads of sweat stand out on a pale forehead, which at the moment is furrowed<br />
in concentration. Nimble fingers move across the keyboard with practiced ease. Rows of letters and<br />
numbers flood the screen in random pattern, a foreign language known only by its author.<br />
A window pops up, bolded text appears inside.<br />
NEO_THEI says: Are you in yet?<br />
thekid says: no<br />
NEO _THEI says: I thought you’d be quicker than this, the recommendations I received made me think you’d<br />
be amazing.<br />
thekid says: at least I’m quicker than you :P<br />
NEO_THEI says: Just tell me when you’re finished, all right.<br />
the kid says: 0_0<br />
With a quick click he closes the window, the rhythm of the keyboard resumes. He enters commands, fingers<br />
dancing furiously over the alphabet. He’s been trying to crack this system for days and has only just recently<br />
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<br />
will be fried. He swallows nervously, wondering if it’s really worth it. After all, his computer is his most prized<br />
possession.<br />
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<br />
and cracking passwords, imagining himself to be a warlord, with the keyboard as his mighty sword. He chuckles<br />
silently to himself and continues typing. This will be one big payoff.<br />
He’ll be able to get some more RAM, or maybe that new graphics card, or- his thoughts are interrupted as the<br />
screen begins flashing a warning. Instantly he knows they’re onto him. His eyes widen, his breathing quickens,<br />
his fingers tremble on the keyboard. He’s frozen. The flashing screen is like a beacon in his mind. He is exposed;<br />
they see him. ‘No,’ he thinks, ‘I won’t let this happen, I’m better than them.’<br />
Adrenaline pumps through his veins. An onslaught of genius attacks him; an epiphany. Concentrating, he forces<br />
his joints to move. By the breadth of hair, he escapes their clutches. He freezes his enemies in their tracks,<br />
overloading their CPU’s and destroying whatever security they have left. He feels a sense of triumph as he<br />
sails past what’s left of the system. He opens up a window.<br />
the kid says: i’m in XD<br />
NEO_THEI says: Nice work... how was it?<br />
the kid says: your system needs work, any decent hacker could get in<br />
NEO_THEI says: Send your analysis and suggestions and we’ll send you the paycheck.<br />
windScript<br />
16<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
the kid says: i’ll mail it tomorrow<br />
NEO_THEI says: Silver Electronic Enterprises thanks you.<br />
the kid says: @ :P<br />
NEO_THEI says: Can’t you just say thanks like a normal person!<br />
He closes the window and shuts down his computer. Standing, he stretches and heads upstairs. “Finally you’re<br />
up!” says his mother. “Jimmy called, he’s inviting you to his birthday party. He’s ten now right?”<br />
“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?”<br />
“Sure. Anything to get you off those computer games you like. Kids these days never go outside anymore.<br />
-I’m so glad you’re not like that, Billy.”<br />
“... of course mum,” says Billy.<br />
17<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Jocelyn Lukan<br />
Light Bulb Moments<br />
This species has never completely<br />
made its escape<br />
from the Garden of Eden.<br />
We live in a skipping record<br />
Making the same mistakes.<br />
Making the same mistakes.<br />
Making the same…<br />
Listen to the reptilian whispers<br />
and eat of the forbidden fruit.<br />
Devour it early on<br />
through needles and dust and vapors;<br />
sometimes a light bulb<br />
torn from its place on the ceiling –<br />
smouldering, searing hot in the night.<br />
Does it even matter that it’s dark?<br />
Then stagnant gazes<br />
can’t view sick reflections<br />
staring back through shattered glass.<br />
It seemed brilliant at the time.<br />
Please, a drop of ammonia to cool my tongue…<br />
These sins redden our eyes.<br />
Crawling limbs contused;<br />
acidic boils that burst and fester<br />
with a horrible release.<br />
Will any of us see morning?<br />
Our creator chooses the damned<br />
with his fatherly judgment.<br />
They end in prisons or hospitals<br />
with cold white walls;<br />
controlled by machines.<br />
The lucky ones<br />
end their wasted fling in paradise<br />
with a long rest in the morgue<br />
and a longer one in the dirt.<br />
The sweetest sleep.<br />
So let’s fly away to Eden,<br />
windScript<br />
18<br />
and choke our misery<br />
in hundreds<br />
of broken light bulb moments.<br />
“It’s the only way out,” they say.<br />
We’ll crumble<br />
like the walls of fallen Babylon.<br />
Or burn to ash<br />
like Sodom and Gomorrah.<br />
It’s such a waste of life.<br />
Such a wasted life.<br />
Victoria Bridge Blues<br />
spoken word<br />
attempted<br />
lips crack<br />
; sounds of symphonies<br />
not words<br />
pour from hot mouth<br />
: not enough to distinguish<br />
the river, water aflame<br />
smoke billow ascends up<br />
smoothstretched<br />
<strong>Saskatchewan</strong> skies<br />
sprinkle your ashes<br />
upon taught forehead flesh<br />
my sister<br />
and i<br />
tear our clothing<br />
, wail in grief<br />
, hung<br />
her lover<br />
a mobile of sorrows<br />
yet hasn’t quit<br />
whispering in my ear<br />
since four; a deep December mourning<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Jocelyn Lukan<br />
Feline Simplicity<br />
tired question<br />
over and<br />
over<br />
why<br />
can I not sit;<br />
a cat<br />
beside the fireplace?<br />
curled upon myself<br />
in radiant bliss<br />
I would lay<br />
calmly<br />
licking<br />
my amber fur<br />
instead to be<br />
page three-hundred one<br />
torn from romantic novel<br />
the part where<br />
the heroine dies<br />
(natural sacrifice,<br />
for her lover)<br />
hinging fingers<br />
create my life<br />
to paper cranes;<br />
wings crackling into flight<br />
between creases<br />
listen for shining silver bell<br />
tolling from my collar<br />
for rest<br />
19<br />
white is not black<br />
white is not black;<br />
it is a blank page<br />
to be spit on in ink<br />
also naïve candy virgin<br />
waiting<br />
waiting<br />
waiting to be<br />
torn open marked discarded<br />
it is not the color<br />
shadows<br />
are composed of –<br />
[stealthy, malicious]<br />
it is - in fact<br />
a >slap<<br />
in the face<br />
from a stranger informing<br />
that it is completely unacceptable<br />
to dance in the rain<br />
on a sunny day<br />
rainbows :<br />
- assorted color masses<br />
- a twisted tie-dye of character<br />
- finest silk ribbons<br />
whereas white<br />
is consistently<br />
the pigment with no pigment<br />
nothing;<br />
nothing but absence<br />
white is only black<br />
in a singular respect<br />
: neither are red<br />
or blue<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Jocelyn Lukan<br />
i am<br />
acid trip –<br />
white line fairy dust<br />
for real men<br />
fearless women<br />
there will be<br />
no<br />
more<br />
rain<br />
water dripping trees<br />
as tap left on<br />
bathing in /piss/ and \fear\<br />
sketch<br />
not on papers no papers need papers<br />
leaf through bible<br />
holy texts<br />
that make you cry<br />
with onion skin pages<br />
solving life when rolled correctly<br />
bend backwards back breaking back arching<br />
bridge for<br />
tiny demons<br />
crawl down open throat<br />
with tiny pickaxes<br />
digging for gold<br />
in the morning<br />
windScript<br />
20<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Katherine Sthamann<br />
Dear Santa<br />
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<br />
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<br />
here and say I’ve been good this year, because really, I haven’t. But I think I score some points for<br />
honesty, so please hear me out. There’s this boy I know. His hair is always messy and his shoes have<br />
holes in them. He says fuck at the end of all his sentences. I know it’s a far cry from the “tall, dark<br />
and handsome” but I can’t help myself. I wish I could. I like him, Santa. Like a dog to table food, a<br />
math teacher to his calculator, like a preteen girl and the colour purple. You could even say I like him<br />
a lot. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. It couldn’t have been that long ago when<br />
you first met Mrs. Claus, with the snow dancing around her rosy cheeks, the hint of perfume on her<br />
neck. It’s the same thing for me, pretty much, except with fog dancing around the lenses of his glasses,<br />
and a hint of stubble, not perfume, on his neck. I’m a Christian girl so I could’ve very well went elsewhere<br />
with my request. But I figured I’d need bigger issues than teenage romance to go to the boss,<br />
what with acronym pandemics, global warming and all. What I’m trying to say is, I’m not expecting a<br />
miracle. I’m not going to ask you to make him like me back. What I will ask you to work your magic<br />
on, however, is this thing he has. That thing that makes my bladder all crazy so that I have to go to<br />
the bathroom like 5 times a day. His locker is on the way to the washroom. That thing that makes<br />
me giggle. Giggle. What do I want to do with this thing, you ask? Destroy it. Take it and feed it to a<br />
snow blower, burn it at the stake. I want this thing gone, history, finished, if not for my sanity’s sake<br />
but for my friends. I really don’t think they care how cute he looks with his touque on sideways, and<br />
frankly, they cannot analyze body language any better than I can (you’re a guy, what does a side glance<br />
in my direction mean? I think the clock on the wall behind me could be a variable, no?). If you could<br />
successfully exterminate that dreaded thing of his, I would have the merriest of Christmases. Or you<br />
could just give him body odour, one of the two.<br />
Thanks in advance,<br />
Jody Height<br />
P.S. His address is 4210 Jones Road, if that helps. And no, I totally did not follow him home on my<br />
bike that one day in order to find out that information.<br />
P.P.S. Okay, so maybe I did. You see what he does to me?<br />
21<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Charlie Peters<br />
The Astronomy of Friends<br />
and Strangers<br />
People orbit my life.<br />
Sometimes I feel their gravitational pull<br />
on my equator.<br />
Often they are as moons,<br />
faithful, but also demanding:<br />
always trying to guide<br />
the tide of my oceanic mind.<br />
Infrequently they are comets,<br />
in vast loops, beautiful<br />
regardless of the cost<br />
of their coveted tail.<br />
Yet most seem to be asteroids,<br />
with their own lunar<br />
orbits, blank pieces of rock<br />
with which I will never<br />
interact.<br />
windScript<br />
22<br />
Renee Dumont<br />
Relationships<br />
Pointless moments in life<br />
make you worry about every word said,<br />
paint on a face to look perfect and push earrings<br />
through the tiny holes made to hang cheap<br />
pieces of plastic which will cause infection<br />
but you will still wear anyway because he says<br />
you “look good” with them on.<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
23<br />
Ceara Caton<br />
Nightmare<br />
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<br />
least for a moment she would try to seize back the air that had been deprived from her as she ran. The<br />
ground beneath her feet was littered with fragments of broken glass and garbage. Mammoth cardboard boxes<br />
towered above her small outline as she curled herself in the space between the two buildings. The air around<br />
her was heavy and smelled strongly of the filth that prevailed through the city.<br />
She rocked back and forth, trying to create any warmth she could. Her elbow knocked against a brick and<br />
cursing, she put pressure on the scrape to convince it not to bleed. The last thing she needed was another<br />
injury, no matter how minor it was.<br />
She rose from her nest. Resting time was over, no matter how much her muscles ached. Footsteps echoed in<br />
the alley behind her. Spinning around, she saw nothing, but crouched back into her hiding spot just in case. She<br />
looked and her anxiety eased as she realized it was just an old drunken man, trying to find his solace in the<br />
dark. Almost like her, running from something, not even sure what it was.<br />
Well at least I’m not stumbling around drunk. The thought rang hollow inside her. A voice in her head laughed<br />
sardonically. At least no one is trying to kill him.<br />
She got up and stretched. The bruises on her arms and thighs were starting to show more clearly now. They<br />
looked black in comparison to her pale skin. She could almost make out his fingerprints where he had held<br />
back her arms, and on her legs, where he had thrust them apart. She scolded herself again for not changing<br />
clothes. Her short jean cutoffs did nothing against the cold of the alley; they did nothing to cover the marks<br />
that the last few days had left her with.<br />
Looking around, she took a survey of her surroundings. She couldn’t see much because of the dark, but a light<br />
farther down the roadway was all she needed to read the street sign. Kingsley Ave. The name opened another<br />
emotional wound as she remembered a small diner a few blocks away. One of the many times he had tried to<br />
apologize, he had taken her there for breakfast. Back when he actually cared enough to make her happy.<br />
She made her way past the wino who seemed to have fallen asleep where he fell. She picked her way over the<br />
broken debris and carefully tried not to make a sound. She looked over her shoulder, aware of every shadow<br />
that she passed; trying not to imagine a man ready to jump out at her.<br />
She could be with her family right now. Her mother had said she shouldn’t have left to go with him. She had<br />
been so young at the time, and was now cast out on the street, running for her life at twenty-one.<br />
A part of her wanted to call her mother, wanted to ask to come home. But she was stronger than this. She<br />
could never call. Her mother could never know.<br />
As she rounded the corner at the end of the alley and turned onto an empty street, she allowed herself to<br />
sink into a memory. She didn’t do this often for fear that she would break down and completely lose her<br />
nerve.<br />
It was her wedding day; everything had been perfect. They didn’t have the money for a nice proper wedding in<br />
a church, but she had done her best to fix up her mother’s garden for the special event. The small family wedding<br />
remained in her mind as the most beautiful afternoon of her life. She still had a clear image of walking<br />
around the corner of the house down the flowered aisle. It was the same corner of the building she had torn<br />
around countless times, running with her friends when she was young. Part of her saw it as a right of passage.<br />
She was really growing up. No more games and running around as a child. Her wedding day had arrived and<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
she had finally matured into a place where she chose the responsibilities of a wife.<br />
The thought had now turned into a disheartening realization. As an adult she still had so much more to learn.<br />
Her story had only begun to grow and it had already been wounded.<br />
She stayed in the darkest areas, walking, almost clinging to the building walls. Her fear of being caught was<br />
more pronounced because she couldn’t see the man that wanted to hurt her. It’s hard to run from something<br />
you can’t see, or hide from someone you know will find you.<br />
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<br />
tone echoed in her mind.<br />
The pains of her past shot through her yet again. Most nights she had hidden and cried until the next morning<br />
when he drove off to work.<br />
There was a part of her that she hated; the part of her that never fought back, the part of her that threatened<br />
to leave but never had the will power to follow through. Was it considered strong to cower, as long as<br />
she didn’t ask for help?<br />
As she moved forward, her tender walk showed her need. She didn’t want to remember him anymore. All<br />
she wanted was a new life somewhere safe.<br />
It was almost daylight and she hadn’t gone very far. The thought of him calling her name from his white<br />
Dodge truck frightened her, and she picked up her pace.<br />
The dark enveloped her as she turned into a different alley. Now that she felt hidden, she sat down to rest<br />
again. The night seemed calm, and sleep beckoned to her. Eventually it claimed her, throwing her into tormented<br />
dreams.<br />
The distress of the nightmare shook her small frame; even in her sleep her arms rose with tremors. The<br />
images were burned behind her eyes. Her husband’s last sentiments played over and over. The memory of<br />
unrelenting laughter and of her own pathetic screams finally tore her back into the alley.<br />
Her arms and legs slowly unfolded, stiff from the cold, she started to walk, looking up at the stars. They<br />
seemed to help her carry on. She had been to church as a child, but never really believed in God. Now, in<br />
her time of need she felt silly starting into the sky, hoping for a miracle.<br />
You are as strong as you think you are. Her mother’s words flowed through her as if she whispered in her ear.<br />
The broken spirit gave one last effort to stand. She gasped in pain and began to run towards the glow of<br />
morning. Slowly at first, and finally sprinting like she had as a child, she rounded the corner to find the same<br />
diner. A waitress set tables and looked questioningly with worried eyes.<br />
She laughed. She had known it all along. You are only as strong as you think you are.<br />
“Please, ma’am, may I borrow your phone.”<br />
windScript<br />
<strong>24</strong><br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Arden Angley<br />
Widower<br />
I’m so happy you can control your temper<br />
with such dignity. Throwing blankets and chairs,<br />
even me if I gave you the chance.<br />
I’m glad that I have to lie about your<br />
whereabouts when you decide to up and leave.<br />
Above all, I thank you<br />
for the childhood that I am clawing at and clinging to,<br />
for facing things I’m not supposed to<br />
and for growing up too fast.<br />
Because it’s so fulfilling to watch your<br />
kids rot from the inside<br />
right, dad?<br />
To watch the tears multiply like maggots<br />
right, dad?<br />
I remind you of everyone<br />
and you remind me that I am<br />
the worthless daughter you were stuck<br />
with when your fat wife died.<br />
25<br />
Your woman soft and small<br />
I. Prior<br />
Like when she was one<br />
she loved him as a ghost.<br />
For lack of reason<br />
he teased her with silence.<br />
The tongue of which corpses speak.<br />
Death is only in the air.<br />
She’d breathe in and swallow<br />
the idea of him.<br />
Alone and gasping,<br />
she’d remember<br />
that ghost was mine.<br />
II. Ideal<br />
In his palms, he held her<br />
safe and sound in the boundary,<br />
between thumb and forefinger.<br />
The two of them tied a string around the swelling of her<br />
heart.<br />
Morning after- bulbs broke; soil soaked.<br />
The water climbed her cotton shirt.<br />
Nothing he could say would move her eyes from his lips.<br />
He sees what isn’t said.<br />
The stories between her teeth,<br />
small secrets in the gaps of her gums.<br />
III. Present<br />
She said<br />
“I’ve drowned today.<br />
I floated in luke warm water. I bloated in thoughts<br />
of my mother.”<br />
He said<br />
“Life is feeble.”<br />
She said<br />
“It was when I grew beyond my years.<br />
I’m always older, drowning<br />
in my wisdom.”<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Hayley Muench<br />
The Chinese Restaurant<br />
The long string of dingy brass bells tinkled against<br />
the dull silver door frame, stirred by the sudden thrust of<br />
the glass door and the reckless gust of winter wind that followed<br />
it. The thick, warm atmosphere of the tiny restaurant<br />
immediately evaporated the cold, its unwelcome guest. It<br />
was replaced with the all too familiar mugginess, a combination<br />
of the sizzling deep fryers and the balmy breath of undisturbed<br />
conversation, melding together from each individual<br />
table. Patches of haze lingered in the room, from smoke<br />
emitted from smouldering ashtrays and steam from the hot<br />
dishes of Chinese food. Candles flickered a red glow from<br />
inside their molded, wax covered glass jars, contrasting the<br />
dim illumination overhead from the low brass fixtures. The<br />
oriental print rug, worn and faded, seemed to be the only<br />
thing that tied the restaurant together. Mismatched pictures<br />
of strange faces from the homeland hung unevenly on<br />
the wall, coated with a thick layer of dust that seemed to<br />
have an intention of permanence. No music played in the<br />
background; instead the room was filled with the insignificant<br />
sounds of clinking silverware, and voices as dull as the<br />
tablecloths the words were exchanged over. Sometimes,<br />
over the hushed chatter of the couples engrossed in their<br />
meals and conversation, the broken English of an ancient<br />
Chinese woman, skin like the bark of a bonsai tree, could be<br />
heard. This restaurant was her home, with bits and pieces<br />
of her memories, life, and culture, cluttering the walls – its<br />
only purpose to remind her that she was not lost in this<br />
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26<br />
strange country. Yet behind her small, creased eyes, were<br />
secrets held as the novelty fortune cookies held their<br />
trivial messages. Each couple eventually cracked them<br />
open, eyes grazing the red typed message printed on the<br />
slip for a small instant before they became less favoured<br />
to the crunchy treat. And after that, they got up, carelessly<br />
slinging their coats on and venturing out into the frigid<br />
evening as the forgotten paper fluttered with silence to<br />
the oriental carpet. When closing time finally crept upon<br />
the restaurant, the old woman carefully tucked each slip<br />
away in a hand made box sent back from her home country.<br />
She never forgot the people who came and went, as<br />
they were not trivial to her, and neither were the printed<br />
fortunes she so devotedly saved.<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
27<br />
Amanda Ahner<br />
Toothflesh<br />
I sit in their chair, the sole performer on this stage lit by an overhead lamp. Four rubber<br />
hands execute murderous ballet in my mouth. Dull eyes blink back at me from<br />
behind thick-lensed and masked mouths. With antiseptic tones they address one<br />
another, ignoring the subject upon their operating table, sterilized words. A slight<br />
waver betrays excitement in his voice; she hands him the needle. Silent screams<br />
shatter inward silence.<br />
The spider vines creep through my cheek, numbing my nerves, my tongue, my throat.<br />
Impossible to breathe through accumulating spit. He whips out his shiny pokers and<br />
prodders, tools with names known only to him. His pride is the drill, handed to him<br />
last. I see a smile hidden by his mask, an antiseptic smile, before he zealously assaults<br />
my enamel. Spectral chains enclose my wrists and ankles, preventing a speedy escape,<br />
mentally shackled by hardwired codes of etiquette. Vapours of nauseating toothflesh<br />
attack my nostrils, inhaling the dust of my slaughtered self.<br />
Held captive by a blue sheet of rubber, electric drill buzzing in my head; I wonder<br />
how they might silence my screams. I clench my teeth together trapping all in my<br />
jaw. Broken stubs of former fingers spill rivets of blood down my throat. Suffocating,<br />
I choke on thick life.<br />
Held captive by a blue sheet of rubber, a mist of water and bone shavings sprays my<br />
face, I realize the freezing is just for this purpose; to prevent rogue teeth from biting<br />
precious dentistry hands. Between that and the bright lights, a complete sedation to<br />
create the perfect complacent victim.<br />
Lying in their chair, I let myself fade, and wonder what etiquette demands of meeting<br />
my dentist in the grocery store.<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Amanda Ahner<br />
Bright Lights<br />
They never turn these lights off you know. Cold words<br />
tumble from her lips as she sits, stone still, a frozen embodiment<br />
of apathy. Her long wheat blond hair cascades from<br />
her shoulders, glinting dully in the harsh industrial light of<br />
the white room. No days, no nights, no passage of time. A<br />
cold perpetual sun. Hard light to drive the insane, insane. The<br />
words cut through the deaf silence with no echoes to greet<br />
her ears. The sound is dead on her thirsty being. Her voice,<br />
her thoughts, her memories, no longer soothe the loneliness,<br />
yet she continues to speak.<br />
There’s no imagination in the brightness, only the cold<br />
hard truth. Slowly untangling her lithe body from its crosslegged<br />
position, she lifts herself from the floor. A hint of<br />
regret tints her harsh tone. In the dark, I could imagine you<br />
were here with me, that I was there, with you.<br />
Nostalgically she wanders through the room, as if it<br />
were a place from a dream. I live in the memories these days,<br />
the bright, blinding memories. She stops at an invisible kitchen<br />
sink, her voice softer now, like ice. His blood was so beautiful.<br />
The blood that washed off my hands, and spiraled down the<br />
drain. I remember I kept all the lights on that night. I wanted to<br />
watch them die beside me.<br />
Pacing across the open floor she wades through<br />
the memories, remembering her daughter’s whimpers in<br />
the dark. Callie was her name. She always needed a nightlight<br />
at her bedside. A vivid image of Callie’s midnight tears<br />
scrawled across her mind. The night the bulb burnt out, I<br />
came to her, and held her close in the darkness. Closing her<br />
eyes, she wraps the unseen child in her arms and rocks<br />
her back and forth to an unsung lullaby. But now, I’ll never<br />
hold her and I’ll never hold him. Her calm face breaks into an<br />
anguished grimace as she shouts into empty space. But he’ll,<br />
he’ll never hold Her. And I’ll never have to wonder when he’s<br />
coming home, or who he’s with. I’ll never find them in our bed!<br />
Retreating into the back corner of the cell she holds<br />
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28<br />
herself in pitiful self-righteousness, lamenting her condition<br />
to the lights, her only audience. No, I never did anything<br />
wrong, I didn’t kill him. They shouldn’t have locked me<br />
up. He betrayed me! Betrayed our life together! The life I<br />
built! She thinks of the home that had been ripped apart<br />
by his adulterous excursions, a home that at the back of<br />
her subconscious, she knows never really existed. Tears<br />
began to stream down her light blanched face. In this<br />
living nightmare of the mind she won’t accept the truth<br />
that lies before her.<br />
Rising from the corner she ambles to center<br />
stage, her eyes large and mournful but her voice calm.<br />
They told me she is dead, but it can’t be true. They just don’t<br />
want me to look for her when I get out. She remembers<br />
that they told her she’d never get out. She would be<br />
stuck in this room, forever. The room with the lights.<br />
She pauses and her fragmented thoughts return<br />
to the man, her husband, who’d betrayed her. He must<br />
have taken her away. He took her away, yet her rational<br />
mind knows the truth. He’s dead. I killed him.<br />
Slowly she lowers her slim, colourless body<br />
to the floor where she kneels in cold reverence, eyes<br />
closed, her face empty.<br />
The blood, his blood, her blood, drips onto the sheet,<br />
onto the floor. It trickles down the knife, down my arm. I<br />
hear a footstep behind me, and I turn. “Mommy?” I hesitate,<br />
but my hand is too quick, and she falls to the floor.<br />
Awakening from the trance, Sara blinks her eyes<br />
rapidly and then settles herself crossed legged on the<br />
floor. They never turn these lights off you know. No days, no<br />
nights. No passage of time. A cold perpetual sun. Hard light<br />
to drive the insane, insane.<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
i’m getting older,<br />
balloons fill my room.<br />
my mommy takes care of me.<br />
she could buy me whatever i want.<br />
i wish,<br />
feeling alone and helpless,<br />
i lay in my bed for someone to tuck me in.<br />
i cry.<br />
thrusting my mind into lunacy,<br />
anxiously chewing on my slowly crippling nail,<br />
glued to my ever-shrinking memory.<br />
glued to my ever shrinking memory,<br />
anxiously chewing on my slowly crippling nail,<br />
thrusting my mind into lunacy.<br />
i cry.<br />
i lay in my bed for someone to tuck me in,<br />
feeling alone and helpless.<br />
i wish,<br />
she could buy me whatever i want.<br />
my mommy takes care of me.<br />
balloons fill my room,<br />
i’m getting older.<br />
29<br />
Victoria Pawliw<br />
Daughter to Mother<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
The Last Tea Party<br />
Mister Jenkins and Miss Jillian are sitting around a<br />
small wooden table. Dressed in their finest, a bowtie and<br />
yellow sundress respectively, they wait for their host to arrive.<br />
Becky, the host, enters the room. She closes the door behind<br />
her with a soft click. She is carrying mother’s best china teapot.<br />
She holds it gently so as not to break it, but also firmly<br />
so as not to drop it. Becky places the teapot in the center of<br />
the table.<br />
The table looks like a galaxy, moon saucers, satellite<br />
cups, and comet spoons all orbiting the teapot like it’s the<br />
center of the universe. Becky begins to giggle, then quickly<br />
covers her mouth, smothering her smile. Mum is sleeping just<br />
next door. Becky kneels at the table, elegantly spreading her<br />
handkerchief across her knees. Mister Jenkins and Miss Jillian<br />
look at her expectantly, unwavering expressions sewn to their<br />
faces. Becky speaks softly, “Hello Mister Jenkins, Miss Jillian,<br />
I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Shall we begin?”<br />
Becky’s hand upon Mister Jenkins’ neck forces him to<br />
nod. Becky smiles, “Well then, I’ll pour the tea, but only if you<br />
tell me where you got that beautiful bowtie from. It looks<br />
very nice on you…what’s that? You got it while on vacation!<br />
In Disneyland! You have to tell us about it! Why I’ve always<br />
wanted to go there. Tell me, is the castle as big as it looks?”<br />
Becky becomes silent after speaking this.<br />
“Maybe Mum will take me there next time.” Becky’s<br />
mother had gone to Disneyland once before; her boyfriend at<br />
the time had two kids. “I wasn’t invited that time; Mum said I<br />
was a bad girl so I couldn’t go…he doesn’t like bad kids. If I<br />
could have gone I would have been so good, like an angel…”<br />
Becky stares at the table blinking her eyes quickly. She brings<br />
her hanky up to her face and holds it there. She is completely<br />
still for a moment, then shudders and returns the hankie to<br />
her lap.<br />
“Sorry Miss Jillian, Mister Jenkins, I had something in<br />
my eye. Oh, look at this! I forgot to pour the tea! I’m sorry!<br />
What an awful host I’ve been!” Becky picks up the teapot<br />
and with care fills the tiny teacups with invisible tea. “There<br />
you are…what’s that Miss Jillian? Sugar you say? Of course,<br />
one lump or two? Two? Certainly.” Becky drops two imagi-<br />
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30<br />
nary lumps of sugar into the invisible tea. “Now we’re<br />
all set, except…we don’t have any snacks!” Becky<br />
always gets cookies from Mrs. Phillips next door.<br />
With haste Becky sets her teacup on the table.<br />
She rises from the floor, bumping her knee on the<br />
underside of the table. The teapot, which is resting on<br />
the edge of the table, teeters on the lip. Becky rushes<br />
towards it. The white molded china slips. It seems to<br />
fall in slow motion, but still, Becky does not reach it in<br />
time. It hits the floor. Becky’s face is ashen. She sighs<br />
sinking to her knees, her limbs feel like jelly. The knot<br />
in her stomach loosens and dissipates. The teapot<br />
did not break when it hit the soft carpet. Becky picks<br />
up the teapot and hugs it to herself. She then sets it<br />
in the middle of the table once again. She leaves her<br />
bedroom, shutting the door gently, as if any sudden<br />
movement will shatter the teapot. She leans against the<br />
door a moment.<br />
Becky pushes off the door. She makes her way<br />
down the hall with a quick-footed sureness. She creeps<br />
into the living room. Mum is laying on the couch,<br />
asleep A few long stemmed glasses stand on the coffee<br />
table. One is half full of neon blue liquid. Mum never<br />
lets Becky have any juice. Becky stares at the glass. Its<br />
contents are the same colour as the blue raspberry<br />
candy she likes. A drop of condensation trickles down<br />
the side of the glass. The pink straw waves at Becky.<br />
Becky licks her lips.<br />
Becky steps towards the coffee table. Her mother<br />
turns over on the couch. Becky freezes. Her mother is<br />
still again. Becky looks at the glass once more, then tiptoes<br />
around the couch to the front door. She opens it<br />
as narrowly as possible then slips out into the corridor.<br />
She walks to door number 5B and knocks. No one<br />
answers. Becky continues to knock, still her rapping is<br />
unheard; there is no one home.<br />
Becky returns. Her mother is still on the couch. Becky<br />
glances at her mother and to the kitchen. She walks<br />
into the kitchen. Quickly, she opens the third cabinet<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
on the left and moves the pots aside. She pulls out a bag of<br />
cookies. Becky selects three then glances over her shoulder.<br />
Her mother has not moved. She replaces the cookies and<br />
rearranges the pots. She stealthily returns to her room closing<br />
the door behind her.<br />
Becky places a cookie on each of the three plates on<br />
the table, “There you are Mister Jenkins, Miss Jillian, a treat for<br />
everyone.” Becky smiles and takes a seat. She eats the cookies<br />
ravenously, pausing only when she hears a noise in the hall.<br />
She halts; she is sure she heard footsteps outside her door.<br />
The silence is deafening. Becky finishes the cookies. Mum<br />
will wake up soon.<br />
Becky cleans up the tea party. She places the dishes<br />
back onto the shelves and puts Mister Jenkins and Miss Jillian<br />
on her bed. Then she picks up the teapot. She quietly opens<br />
her door and travels to the living room. She pauses, the same<br />
as last time. She sees her mother under a blanket now, her<br />
body all rolled up. Becky tiptoes to the kitchen. She places<br />
the teapot on the counter. Becky places her hands on the<br />
counter and prepares to jump up. She hears a noise. She<br />
turns around slowly.<br />
Becky’s mother stands in the doorway. She speaks.<br />
Becky’s mother always did have a way with words. Becky<br />
closes her eyes. China shatters. Becky’s mother always did<br />
know just what to do. Becky covers her ears. Skin becomes<br />
a rainbow. Becky’s mother always did have that loving touch.<br />
Becky curls into a ball. A door slams. Becky uncurls. She<br />
walks over the broken china. Blood drips among the shards.<br />
Becky’s been a bad girl. Next time she will be good, an angel.<br />
There is no next time. Becky’s mother does not return. A<br />
tall lady comes for Becky. There are no more tea parties.<br />
31<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Stephanie Clarkson<br />
A Reaction to My<br />
Stupid Action<br />
I see your face<br />
from across our distance<br />
contorted, transformed with rage.<br />
And this seems so funny to me.<br />
I feel a smile escaping<br />
(from where I keep them under lock and key)<br />
a defiant giggle flees from my lips<br />
(the only small rebellion I allow myself).<br />
I see the words storm<br />
out of your mouth.<br />
They are dark, lumbering, cruel and inhuman<br />
(like beasts that dwell in my nightmares).<br />
But I’m too panicked to make out what they read.<br />
I know that the smile has left my face.<br />
Whatever was funny<br />
(I can’t even remember what it was anymore)<br />
seems hundreds of years away<br />
and I can barely breathe for fear.<br />
All I can sense is the smell of burning food<br />
left forgotten on the stove.<br />
I don’t see much<br />
other than the grainy floor we stand on.<br />
My eyes feel hot and heavy.<br />
I can’t seem to muster any words<br />
(all of the ones I had rehearsed).<br />
My bones are twisting and collapsing in on themselves<br />
and I will the floor to swallow me whole.<br />
I want to call up my clever, witty, bold and strong words<br />
(too bad my tongue turned to ash in my mouth)<br />
to use as a shield for more than my body.<br />
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32<br />
I see your words<br />
(rather than feel them)<br />
bite, whip, cut and burrow into my flesh<br />
(I never feel it till later anyways).<br />
You remind me that I forgot<br />
how everything is my fault<br />
(I’m sorry I didn’t commit them all to memory).<br />
Even things that happened<br />
before 2:28 a.m. 16 years ago.<br />
But you never forget<br />
and you never hesitate to remind me.<br />
The setting sun is backing you up<br />
through the open kitchen window.<br />
I see my pitiful mistake now<br />
and my mouth tastes of salt.<br />
I know you’re waiting for an answer<br />
(wish I knew the question).<br />
But what am I to do?<br />
You are omnipresent.<br />
A natural-born persecutor<br />
(and I am just your daughter).<br />
So I nod my head and utter<br />
“I won’t do it again.”<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Sarah Neufeld<br />
Kill the Songbird that Does<br />
not Sing<br />
Nobunaga is dead, killed by one of his own officers. Is it a<br />
blessing or a curse? As of yet I am unsure. Nobunaga Oda’s<br />
harsh rule has ended, but still, unease fills me. I can look<br />
back as far to recall the chaos, the revolts, the divisions<br />
that made us weak, made us open for invasion. I recall the<br />
fear, the uncertainty. We were lucky then that the foreigners<br />
were concerned with their own matters while we were<br />
trying to sort out ours. I say sort out but really we were<br />
going nowhere. It was during this time we began to become<br />
aware of Nobunaga.<br />
Being the young head of the Oda family, conflict surrounded<br />
Nobunaga. However, like a true warlord, he dealt with these<br />
problems in a military fashion, gaining power through his<br />
victories. His status increased tremendously and soon he<br />
was even able to conquer the capital, Kyoto, and choose the<br />
next Shogunii. Nobunaga was not our legitimate ruler but I<br />
thought of him as our unofficial Shogun.<br />
Nobunaga was definitely the person the rest of the nation<br />
was looking at as well. Riding into power on a river of Japanese<br />
blood that was quickly turning to a sea he was ruthless<br />
and commanding. Whether this is the way of the daimyoiii<br />
or just the way of Nobunaga I do not know. However, I do<br />
know that no one was safe under Nobunaga. Even those<br />
loyal without fault came into suffering under his suspicious<br />
glare, sometimes paying with their lives. When it came to his<br />
own survival Nobunaga had no friends. I laugh as I say this<br />
because Nobunaga had no enemies either. He killed them,<br />
every one, slaughtered. Young, old, man, woman, there was<br />
no discrimination, only brutality. Even thinking of it now I am<br />
appalled at his cruelty, it is unimaginable.<br />
All his battles became massacres, a sight difficult to forget.<br />
I see them clearly now, as if I’m living them once again. The<br />
tension that warps the air swaying around me, the sickness<br />
in my belly, the rust that stains the earth, the scent of charred<br />
flesh and the sound of flames crackling, perhaps it was hell,<br />
that is what it felt like. Those who died, their last moments,<br />
were they like that? I can only imagine; in this aspect I am<br />
33<br />
glad for Nobunaga’s fate, perhaps retribution came in the<br />
form of his death. How ironic for him I suppose, he died<br />
in the same way he killed his defeated enemies, by being<br />
burned alive. I only hope those dead by his hand can rest<br />
with that. Still that is the past and I can only wish that the<br />
era of senseless violence is over.<br />
What is in store for Japan? Will we realize Nobunaga’s<br />
dream? I pray it will be so, for although his methods drove<br />
fear into even the stoutest heart, it was he who forged<br />
the foundations of Japan, by blood. His ultimate goal ‘Tenka<br />
Fubuiv’, were it completed would make Japan strong,<br />
something we will need to be in the future. Nobunaga<br />
rest easy, as the new leader of Japan I will take it upon myself<br />
to create a unified country. A country where life will<br />
once again be prosperous, no longer uncertain; a Japan<br />
that will face the future with strength.<br />
Toyotomi Hideyoshi<br />
i The title, “Kill the Songbird that Does not Sing”, is in<br />
reference to a story told in Japanese where each ruler<br />
that played a part in Japan’s unifications meets a songbird<br />
who will not sing. The story demonstrates the character<br />
of these three rulers by their reaction to problem.<br />
ii Military Ruler<br />
iii Feudal Lord<br />
iv ‘A unified realm under military rule. ‘<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Arden Angley<br />
Painter<br />
It is my sister’s 19th birthday; we are going to our cousin’s farm. We’re blowing down highway #10. Turning<br />
off left about a half kilometer past Woseley on our way down to the Qu’Appelle Valley. The land is<br />
littered with stationary cows that seem intentionally set up for the perfect prairie picture. Our city van<br />
desperately scrapes along the frozen back road. I look up from my lap just as we pass Elisboro. A hamlet<br />
of six people, four of whom are staring at us trying to spot the idiot family inside. I blink and press my<br />
hands to my eyes for a moment. I forgot how long I had been battling to keep my eyes open against the<br />
enormous weight of light. I open them again. The sky’s lid is the stirred blue you’d find on homemade pottery,<br />
descending into a frayed grey around the edges, and somewhere in the middle it’s cracked by the sun<br />
screaming out like an open wound over the winter wheat and the stubble of summers shadow. The roads<br />
climbing the hill curve in and swoop out lulling the countryside into unconsciousness. A painter lives at<br />
the very top of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Her house looks over the plateau of toast and butter land. In every<br />
season she paints a picture of where she lives. My eyes are sewn to the house as our van pulls past waiting<br />
for it to move, or breathe, or wink. Anything to show some life. My legs are bent underneath my weight<br />
and my cheek is hugging the back of the seat where my head should sit, transfixed on her house watching<br />
it through the back window get smaller and smaller. My sister is sleeping. My dad and I are ignoring the silence.<br />
When my mother and father divorced I wasn’t surprised. I didn’t ask why or how could you do this<br />
to me. I just wondered why it had taken so long. Mom moved away immediately, to a house out here. She<br />
quit her job and paid for a few acrylic and oil painting classes. When her license expired she didn’t drive<br />
in anymore. She met a new man who bought her paints and groceries. They live together. I don’t know his<br />
name. They do not own a phone. My mom lives to paint her neighbourhood. The cows never move and<br />
all the bales stay put. She sells every piece of artwork. Each of her paintings is the same and yet customers<br />
buy them and hang them in their houses in an attempt to bring the outdoors in. To surround themselves<br />
in nature. To bask in pictures of valleys. My dad has to take care of my sister and me. Somewhere along the<br />
way he lost his temper. We are both sitting in the back seat. We roll up to our cousin’s house and unload.<br />
My dad hollers for one of us to bring in the cake. I step out and roll the door shut. The shadows of the<br />
moving clouds stumble on the still life down here. I look up at the clouds tumbling in, furrowing their<br />
brows at each other. Disappointed at all the dead life below.<br />
windScript<br />
34<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Ferocious sidestreet puddles<br />
They think they’re so s l y with their<br />
Water flirting wetness and perhaps their ability to<br />
Suck you in<br />
(oh how vulnerable you are)<br />
Hayley Muench<br />
Water Flirting<br />
They’re not so tough (you can see right through them)<br />
quite shallow, such a dreary personality, really.<br />
And<br />
I hate to be the one to tell you this but<br />
they won’t call you back after your waterendezvous<br />
What sorry excuses for melted snow<br />
dirty winter leftovers, only good for<br />
dampening spirits & April shoes.<br />
Avoid their splash-antics and mucking around<br />
they’ll tell you anything you want to hear.<br />
Those pitiful puddles and their rain-cloud talk<br />
Portraying my dress print as I carefully peer<br />
(from a d i s t a n c e … )<br />
Nottooclose . . . they’re much too deceiving.<br />
I never liked spring anyway.<br />
35<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Annette Nedilenka<br />
My Blunt Obituary<br />
In some cases you can choose the way you want to die. In others you have no choice. I sometimes thought about death<br />
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<br />
when you die, you want to go back.<br />
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<br />
everything and anything in our lives to know one thing; our meaning to breathe, think and feel. It’s just the basic senses<br />
of recognizing the environment and relationships around us. But really, we don’t pay much attention anyways. I think the<br />
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<br />
for you’ll say,<br />
“Oh. I think I’ll have some tea.”<br />
Or you’ll say, “I fancy dying now.”<br />
Once I wished I was dead just to know what it felt like. Because that’s all we do everyday, we live.<br />
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<br />
nature decided it to be so. I died by getting hit by a bus. Bluntly.<br />
On January 22, 2015.<br />
Simple as that.<br />
And when you are laying on that stretcher, piercing sirens lap out like an opera singing your favourite ballad, plastic gloved<br />
hands trying so hard to bring you back, and all you can think is, “Just give up already.”<br />
Everyone dies alone, whether they are embraced or not. They travel through time like a backwards circuit. And the<br />
flight is better off alone. Wouldn’t it be annoying to have someone beside you in a theatre calling out every few seconds,<br />
“Wow! Awesome! Oh my goodness, that’s so sad. What’s gonna happen now?”<br />
Wouldn’t it?<br />
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<br />
happening, not me analyzing every little nerve break. You can only die once, so you should remember it.<br />
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<br />
was snow.<br />
Snowflakes. Fuck.<br />
windScript<br />
36<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
windScript writer biographies<br />
Amanda Ahner is a grade 12 student currently attending the Swift Current Comprehensive High School. Last<br />
year she was challenged artistically by Creative Writing 20 and is pleased to have these prose submissions to<br />
show for her hours and hours of revision. Although writing has taken a back burner this year to make time for<br />
choral, band, and an awfully difficult physics course, she plans to continue exploring creative writing in the future.<br />
Jonathan Alexson lives in Fort Qu’Appelle, SK.<br />
Arden Angley is 17 years old and attends Miller Comprehensive High School. She likes Regina. She doesn’t like<br />
decision making, and is late for almost everything. She is just a big idiot that some people accidently take seriously.<br />
Caera Caton was born and raised in the Cypress Hills. The strongest calling to write has always come from<br />
her incredible surroundings, the wind and the forest. This is why she now lives in a small and quaint purple cottage<br />
on Vancouver Island only steps away from new and different inspirations.<br />
Stephanie Clarkson is a broke young woman with a passionate love for shoes, jewelry and books of all kinds<br />
(which is why she has no cash to her name). This 17-year-old is often misunderstood due to her sarcastic sense<br />
of humor. After she leaves Miller High School she will go to a University (her mother claims that it will be the<br />
U of R…she can’t leave the nest yet!), to learn more stuff that she is sure will be important.<br />
Renee Dumont is currently in grade 12 attending the Lafleche Central School. This is her second year in<br />
WindScript. Among many various activities such as curling, piano and karate, writing is one of her favourites and<br />
something that she wishes to continue for the rest of her life.<br />
Will Gordon (not William!) was born on July 14, 1992, two minutes after his twin sister. At the age of five he<br />
started writing and has continued since then. Nowadays when he is not writing, Will utterly wastes precious<br />
time that could be used for far better purposes.<br />
Amanda Johnson is an 18-year-old high school graduate living in Humboldt, SK. She is currently working as a<br />
lifeguard at the local pool, volunteering at the SPCA and spending her spare time writing poetry.<br />
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<br />
saying just that because she can think of nothing else.<br />
Hayley Muench is 18 years old and resides in a 99 year-old house in Humboldt, <strong>Saskatchewan</strong>. She loves flamingoes,<br />
Mango-Lime Salsa, and making lists. Her pet peeves include banana-flavored anything, bad grammar, and<br />
when there is not enough cereal left in the box to have a full bowl.<br />
Annette Nedilenka is a grade twelve student currently attending Miller Comprehensive high school in Regina,<br />
<strong>Saskatchewan</strong>. Her works range in a variety of different subjects and are usually short stories or prose. She<br />
enjoys painting, art, literature and often a tasteful film. Her goal after high school is to go to post-secondary for<br />
animation and character design.<br />
37<br />
windScript volume <strong>24</strong>
The Magazine of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong> High School Writing<br />
Sarah Neufeld is a graduate of the Swift Current Comprehensive High School, which was the birthplace of<br />
her passion for writing. Always a fan of reading, writing seemed a natural succession for her, and when she took<br />
her first creative writing course in high school, her obsession was born! Writing is something she will definitely<br />
continue to study and explore in the future.<br />
Victoria Pawliw is currently in her first year of Arts and Sciences at the University of <strong>Saskatchewan</strong>, working<br />
towards a medical degree. In her spare time she enjoys art of all forms, political discussions and being with<br />
friends and family.<br />
Charlie Peters is a grade 12 student from Saskatoon who loves writing, acting, filmmaking and reading (mostly<br />
books but also the occasional cereal box or road sign when driving). He likes making people laugh with comedic<br />
films and the improv he does with the Sa-SKIT-toon Comedy Troupe. He prefers that people not laugh<br />
when he writes poetry on serious subjects, or when discussing his appearance.<br />
Blaire Stevenson: “Let’s just say I’m the type of person who spends most of my time digging for earthworms<br />
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<br />
splash inside to peel off my socks when I think… I should have stayed in today.”<br />
Katherine Sthamann is 17 and lives in Regina. She is a senior at Miller High School and is their SRC Treasurer.<br />
She is also a member of their FaNtAsTiC improv team. After school, Katherine loves to read, go skating and<br />
write whenever she gets the chance.<br />
Rebecca Thera is17 years old and lives in Regina where she is in her grade 12 year at Miller High School. She<br />
loves being at the pool and wearing warm bunny hugs.<br />
windScript<br />
38<br />
bios<br />
Benjamin Alan Whittaker is a marvelously strange person. Currently attending Humboldt Collegiate Institute,<br />
he is the biggest penguin fan ever. He enjoys writing poems, as well as short stories where the main character<br />
dies, and he despises writing biographies of himself.<br />
volume <strong>24</strong>