Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild
Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild Windscript Volume 24, 2007-2008 - Saskatchewan Writers' Guild
The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing Sarah Neufeld Third World Speaks Talk about hunger like you’ve felt it gnawing your gut, stripping meat from bones, growing fat off flesh sitting bloated in belly. Yes, talk about hunger. Talk about thirst as if you’ve been there with thirst evaporating your essence, cracking lips like parched pond, suffocating with saliva, watching as eyes glaze over. Yes, talk about thirst. Talk about sickness like you know it, infection spreading inside out, decaying bones like rotten wood, sapping strength, dragging to death. Yes, talk about sickness. Talk about poverty as if you’ve lived it, a hunger screaming in stomach, a thirst wailing in dry eyes, a sickness exhausting the soul, the cold reality of truth. Yes, talk about poverty. windScript 8 It Would Be Easy this chasm stretches far, a giant laceration in the earth’s skin, a deep wound. these years haven’t healed it, it’s a lie. time doesn’t cure. look now, the black blood flows cutting a deeper injury, it’s infecting. water’s running fast, racing to the unknown. i would disintegrate with reality. dashed against jagged skeletons of cannon walls, my bones would break, spray red. in confusing eddies i would be ground to dust, washed away as silt. it would be easy. right now i stare at death, with frigid gravel digging into my soles; it embeds itself into my flesh. my toes curl over the lip, chilled breeze licks them, moist air is having a taste of me. “here” is one step before extinction. how far have they pushed me? i remember when they asked, DOES IT HURT? of course. HERE? THERE? yes, see, wounds still fresh: my ears still ringing, my brain still reeling, my skin still raw, my eyes still swollen, my nose still broken, my mouth still full of blood. OF COURSE NOT YOU’RE LIKE A ROCK YOU DON’T FEEL ANYTHING. that’s right, don’t look, don’t see what you’ve done to me. HA HA HA HA HA. words like punches. HA HA HA HA HA. it’s just a joke between- YOU’RE SO LAME, YOU SHOULD JUST DIE! –friends. HA HA HA HA HA. my soul a corpse. my heart a carcass. jeering, leering, you pushed me here. i stare into the abyss. water hypnotizes me, whispering in my ear, swelling an invitation. i am a statue or tree, your words pushing and pulling. it would be easy to let you win, i know this. i step back, grit crunching beneath my feet. i turn around. volume 24
The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing windScript volume 24 9 Blaire Stevenson Hair His head is shaped like a mutant almond. That is if he didn’t have any hair. He’s grown a brown frizzy-curly bush overtop of his once delicate baby pink scalp. It has now become untamed and has taken its own course against the rushes and bustle of society. He’s hunched over on the sidewalk with his head between his knees playing with the dust in the curb. The cars, the people, the stray dogs all hurriedly pass him by with their busy lives leaving only their lingering scent and the interruption of wind they cause, which momentarily sucks in the man’s hair towards their passing shadows, making a brief disturbance inside, then the release. But he remains in solitude making pictures with the dust. It’s amazing, the things to be found in this chaotic entanglement of single hair strands. From this view, thickets wrap up swallowing the trunks of magnificent trees. Vines multiply and attach the trees together forming a shield that conceals the jungle’s secrets. What do you hide in there, old man? What information buries itself in that mess above your head that is so precarious that you conceal yourself from the rest of the world and choose to suffer alone… The barrier of trees creates a shelter for the homely vegetation and wildlife hidden beneath. The vines wrap down to the swamps of molded foliage and a steady gray haze. It’s humid down there. The water that drips down the trees becomes trapped in the undergrowth. Fungus and mold thrive on the dreary bark and make up for most of the surface of this jungle. Leeches suck the blood from your once delicate baby pink scalp and slugs feed on the follicles of your skull. Snakes intertwine and coil around your ears whispering threats of your innocence. Are you frightened, old man?
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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?
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