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

More documents

Recommendations

Info

The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing Ceara Caton Waiting for My Perfect Picture windScript This is the beginning of a beautiful idea, maybe, I really couldn’t tell. If one day you wake up and you feel like something inside of you has changed, will you draw a different picture? Feeling like a totally different person must affect your art. Or maybe only what’s on the outside of your carefully crafted environment. If I was lying on a train trestle, basking in the sun, would I perceive my talents differently? Especially if I was surrounded by birds, trees, water, dragonflies…or sun. I love the sun. Lately, I don’t feel like I can draw, paint or create. I wonder if I have raised standards or if my imagination is failing. Could there be such thing as a lack of sun? Once, I told a friend I was stuck in a perpetual snow bank called Saskatchewan. No one would ever believe me. He didn’t. Maybe there’s nothing to paint. Maybe I left it all at home, with my ocean. Maybe beside my collection of possessions on the beach: my ocean, my pointless love life, my drug habit, my phantom… is my picture. Do I, in reality, sit on my snow bank, pining for something that I was just stupid enough to leave behind? No, my phantom stole it. There really is no point focusing on a gap in a process, only on filling that empty space. Trying to not so eloquently describe a phantom, the one I really want. The stimulation that would make my picture is only wallowing in what I can’t obtain. The insane…love…of being sure you don’t know what you’re doing and yet knowing you must. That’s my phantom. Waiting for my perfect picture. If I was writing this in a notebook, I would be confident no one would ever read it. Would the pleasure of being completely secretive help me tell my story? Do I draw for others or for myself? I only create what I don’t understand, yet I don’t understand why I create for you. I don’t trust your judgment, I don’t believe you would never laugh, but I guess I need to know. 6 volume 24
The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing Katherine Sthamann Imagination I think the term “I want to kill myself” is false and much overused. In my short life experience I’ve found that human beings generally will make their best interest priority over anyone else’s, therefore people don’t really want to kill themselves. Everyone loves themselves too damn much, nature made it that way. No, what they want to kill is the feeling inside of them. Feeling useless and ugly. The feeling when you look at yourself and say, “You suck.” And believe it. The feeling inside of you, that’s what you want to kill, not yourself. That’s kind of me, that’s not entirely truthful. They all ask, “How are your brothers?” To which I reply, “Good.” Long and strenuous silence, asker looking for more detail, askee wanting to flee, she would rather be taking a nap. “Really good.” End conversation. It’s in my imagination where they ask me how I am doing. And in my imagination I reply, “Fuck.” It feels really good. A lot of things in your imagination can feel really good. Like sometimes, in like, Bio or whatever, the teacher will be all like, “Flagella and conjugation and Chlorophyta.” And I’ll be all like “Kkkllaschtttbvw.” When I get to the Kkkllaschtttbvw stage is when my imagination comes in real handy. It’s right then when suddenly my breasts start to grow. Well, actually, they’re finished growing. And you would never believe it, but to a really nice size as well. It seems everything is growing. My hair is long, like down to my butt (my nice butt). It smells very appealing, like raspberries. My hair that is, not my butt. And this is all happening right there in period 2! So there I am, nice boobs, nice ass, nice hair, and it’s like where did the time go, and what were you talking about? And why do I care? Because at that moment the feeling inside, the “You suck” feeling, has officially been slaughtered, at least for that moment. So here I am, and as I said before I kind of feel like Fuck right now. And I’m all like, “I want to kill myself.” And then myself replies, “No you don’t, you want to kill the feeling inside of you, you invented that theory, stupid.” And then I think, “Oh ya, I am stupid.” And I’m trying so hard to write a postcard story while myself is telling me how stupid I am at the same time, and then my imagination pulls through right when I need it the most. Because right at the moment I start to threaten to poke my own eyeballs out if I don’t finish my homework, Luka Kovac is like, “Will you be my bride?” Luka Kovac, by the way, is the Russian doctor from ER aka the best looking male specimen the world of medicine has ever seen. So I’m sorry that this story has a lack of plot and deep meanings. But like, hello! Creative writing, or running my fingers through hot Russian facial stubble? It’s called imagination, bitches, invest in one. windScript volume 24 7
Page 1 and 2: The Magazine of Saskatchewan High S
Page 7: The Magazine of Saskatchewan High S

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

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?