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 Amanda Johnson Armarillo windScript Fuzz cackles, crackles on a tiny silver box. Music pounds and bumps from a black stereo. Virgin of Guadalupe gets all the blame while innocent minds are brainwashed and Cola takes over an entire nation. Values and morals are nothing to them. The poorest of the poor live in cardboard boxes with small televisions crackling across the country. (Note: Armarillo is the Spanish word for the color yellow.) 10 volume 24
The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing 11 Arden Angley The Red Dress I wore my red dress. Pulled it over my back, the spiders playing my piano key bones. Took the dye from my dress and washed it over the sky. The moon untainted beamed above our bloodied art. We painted this town red. We watched the screen at the public library. You were smiling like a three-year-old child. Relief caught in your lungs. Ten thousand spiders ran the blood through my veins. You wondered what the racket was. Rested my right hand beside your white left one. You have such beautiful wrists. My mouth infested with spiders tapping on tiny little typewriters. I felt one fighting along side my tongue to push a letter through my lips. Swallowed hard, crushed its spindly legs with the muscles in my throat. There was still more pattering along in my heart and head. They told me about the signals, reassured me with the red lining of your lips, and staining your fingernails. Said you touched me with both of them. If I read it right I would not leave empty handed. Empty hearted. We walked out of the theatre gloved hand in gloved hand. You spoke of your favourite albums. We disputed the notoriety of Joanna Newsom’s voice. Told me she is the best writer you’ve ever heard. Your fingers are always marked with pen. I know you’re trying. I just wanted to walk in silence. Our hot feet melted the snow; our hot breath clouded the glass in our eyes. We reached the coffee house. It put a pause on your running mouth and my dripping nose. I dropped a few sentences, dribbling spiders. They were attached to my teeth by the strings of their webs. You talked more when we sat down. My red dress faded like the sky outside. Through the window, homeless men sat like statues beside their brothers of cold stone buildings. You giggled at how my nose wiggled when I spoke. I tittered at your puns. Your motor finally sputtered. Took your hands and held them to my cheeks, smelled the coffee and soap. Kissed your fingers and thumbs, palms and wrists. You have perfect wrists. You drove me home. I apologized for not speaking. I don’t think you understood. Stepped out of the car and waved good-bye. Sprawled out in the deep feet of snow. Froze there until I unraveled: Ten thousand spiders dead in the cold. windScript volume 24
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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>
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