Windscript Volume 26, 2009 - Saskatchewan Writers` Guild

The Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild’s
Magazine of Saskatchewan
High School Writing
Volume 26 2009/10
C ontributors
Jennie Baginski, Melissa Bereti, Darick Bourassa, Andrea Hannaford,
Kimberley Hartwig, Kelci Hopcraft, Brynn Krysa, Sophie Long, MJ,
Nicole Nedilenka, Dexter Neufeld, Jessica Poncsak,
Shea Poncsak, Paige Schuett, Megan Vogelsang
The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
contents
F o r e wo r d
Words
from the
Page 1
E d i to r
Pam Bustin
Page 2
Sophie Long
Megan Vogelsang
MJ
Page 4
Page 6
Page 7
Kimberley Hartwig
Jessica Poncsak
Jennie Baginski
Dexter Neufeld
Megan Vogelsang
Shea Poncsak
Jessica Poncsak
Page 8
Page 10
Page 10
Page 11
Page 11
Page 12
Page 13
Brynn Krysa
Darick Bourassa
Jennie Baginski
Megan Vogelsang
Darick Bourassa
Shea Poncsak
Page 14
Page 15
Page 16
Page 16
Page 17
Page 17
Paige Schuett
Andrea Hannaford
Kimberley Hartwig
Melissa Bereti
Sophie Long
Page 18
Page 18
Page 19
Page 20
Page 22
Kelci Hopcraft
Sophie Long
Melissa Bereti
Kimberley Hartwig
Nicole Nedilenka
Sophie Long
Nicole Nedilenka
Page 23
Page 23
Page 24
Page 25
Page 26
Page 27
Page 29
A wa r d W i n n e r s
Daddy’s Girl, The Vampire
Strings
Highs and Lows
“It’s
m y m a s t e r p i e c e .”
Jack’s Masterpiece
The First Snow
Based on Detective Dark Eyes
Winter
Digging a Hole
Twins
The Brindled Cat
“I’ll
b e o n m y m i l k y way … ”
The Man in the Sun Is My Father
Mirror
Debating Your Own Personality
My Monsters
Find Me
Released Through Music
“It
s p l a s h e s a n d da n c e s … ”
The Rain
You looked like you today
Droplets of Life
Chelsea
Sparkles
“The
wo r l d a r o u n d u s … ”
Honey
Holly
Motherly Love
Heartthrob
Dívínitás
Abused
Winter Heat
Writer Biographies
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
foreword
Welcome to windScript, the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild’s e-zine of high school writing.
Volume Twenty-six of windScript is published on-line at http://www.skwriter.com. We hope
you enjoy reading the remarkable poetry and stories from the high school students whose
work was selected.
Many thanks to editor Pam Bustin for her dedication and skill. Thanks to each and every
student who sent in their work, and to Saskatchewan’s teachers and librarians who encourage student writing.
For more information, please contact:
Beth McLean
Education & Publications Officer
[email protected]
Phone: (306)791-7746
Award Winners
Sophie Long
Megan Vogelsang
MJ
The Jerrett Enns Awards are awards of excellence named in honour of Victor Jerrett Enns,
Executive Director of the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild from 1982 to 1988. It was Victor
who first presented the idea of windScript to the Board of the Guild in 1983. His enthusiasm and determination kept the magazine alive in its first two years until permanent funding could be found.
The Currie-Hyland Prize was established as a tribute to Robert Currie and Gary Hyland in
recognition of their literary excellence, commitment, and generosity to students and fellow
writers. The prize is awarded for excellence in poetry to a high school writer living outside
Regina or Saskatoon.
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editor’s foreword
In the last issue of windScript, Ed Willet talked about the fact that all writing is an act of courage, and that
sending your work out into the world is especially courageous. I couldn’t agree more.
I want to send out a huge,“Way to go!” to all the students who submitted pieces for this issue and an equally
huge, “Thank you” to the teachers who encouraged their students to submit. Encouragement and support
is invaluable to writers at any stage of the game—but especially important when we are just starting out.
I also need to say a big thanks to Beth McLean and the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild for giving me the
opportunity to read the work of so many talented young writers. The reading, as always, was a joy. Making
my selections of what to include in this year’s issue was tough. I read and re-read. I made my piles—yes, no,
maybe so. I gave myself time to think, to see which pieces stuck with me. The piles, as always, kept shifting
with each day and each pass through the material. Maybe became Yes. Yes became Maybe. A few Nos even
leapt up into the Yes pile after a few passes.
Finally, I made my choices and I really hope that you enjoy them. These pieces are the ones that tickled me,
made me think, or just wouldn’t get out of my head. To me, that equals interesting writing.
My congratulations to all the contributors and my thanks for all the hard work you did in the editing process.
That was my favourite part of working on windScript. It was an honour to “meet” you all and discuss your
work. I think that is the most valuable thing that windScript offers—the chance for young writers to talk
about their work with a more established writer; the chance for an older writer, like me, to hear some fresh
new voices.
The contributors and I did most of our work together online for this issue, which is why Beth and I chose
the cover photo (a photo I took on the island of Zanzibar in 2009). Email chats and documents flew back
and forth. A few late night phone calls helped as well. Overall, it was a joy for me. I hope I offered useful
and constructive feedback and maybe even passed on a few “tips of the trade” to you all.
My final duty as Editor is to choose the Award Winners. Again, it was tough—but here are my choices for
this issue:
The Jerrett Enns Award for Prose: Sophie Long of Regina for Daddy’s Girl,The Vampire
The Jerrett Enns Award for Poetry: Megan Vogelsang of Regina for Strings
The Currie-Hyland Prize (Poetry): MJ of Moose Jaw for Highs and Lows
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editor’s foreword
One of the special joys of the way the selection process for windScript is set up is that it is a “blind”
competition—meaning I didn’t know who wrote which piece. I was not, as is often the case, limited to
accepting only one piece from each contributor. I was able to select the pieces that stood out for me and
if there were four pieces by one writer then … so be it. This is what happened with Sophie Long. She has
four pieces in this issue—three prose and one poem. My favourite piece is Daddy’s Girl. It’s all in the voice
of the character. She is so clear and strong and so … annoyingly believable. She also made me laugh out
loud—more than once.
Megan Vogelsang is another contributor with multiple entries in this issue. She was also in last year’s
windScript and she really is a writer to watch. I also want to let the world know that she is already a
consummate professional in taking care of the business side of writing. She was always the first one to
respond to any emails and calls I made along the way. I chose her poem Strings for the Jerrett Enns Award
for Poetry because it simply would not leave my head. The idea at the core of the poem rang so true to me.
MJ’s Highs and Lows was like that too. Here it was the rhymes and the rhythms that stuck in my brain—and
the complicated conversation that the narrator is having with himself that seems so simple on the surface.
I had a great time editing windScript.
My thanks again to the contributors for their courage to write, their generosity in sharing their work
with us, and their willingness to work on the craft of writing. I really hope that I meet you all face-to-face
somewhere down the writing road.
Keep Scribbling!
~ Pam Bustin
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Award Winners
Sophie Long
Daddy’s Girl, the Vampire
The Journal of Casey-Lee Jones
January 3rd.
So some jerk totally attacked me last night and bit my neck! Then when I woke up he made me
drink his blood. I mean, it tasted good, but still, how rude! He totally screwed my life over!
I can’t get to my mani-pedi at the end of the week! This is so dumb. At least I found my way
home before the sun came up. I don’t know what would have happened if I didn’t.
January 4th.
So today, a ridiculously important question popped into my mind, and I can’t find out the
answer! How many calories are in blood? Like, seriously, I keep getting these cravings—it’s
worse than wanting McDonalds food when you’re on Slimfast! Anyways, I totally got super
cravings so I went out to find some blood. Did you know they don’t sell blood at the grocery
store? I was almost more pissed off than Kate Gosselin was at Jon when he started dating that
teenager! Whatever. I’m like, the quintessential dieter or something. I can totally persuade
myself that I’m not hungry when I need to. God, this vampire thing is totally gonna get lame.
January 5th.
The girls called today. Ick, they’re so clingy. I guess I should tell them what happened the other
night. Then they’ll want to be vampires, too. This is my thing. They always steal my trends!
Whatever.
I guess I can’t just ignore them. We could go clubbing one night. It’s like, the only time I can go
out anyway. I heard that vampires like, fry if they go in the sunlight.
January 6th.
I’m totally going out clubbing with the girls in half an hour. It’s a good thing I bought that Vera
Wang dress last week before that jackass bit my neck. Today, I learned that being a vampire
makes you like, automatically bulimic or something. I’m glad, actually, because at least it’s not an
ugly disease, like cancer or something. I always wanted to try bulimia. Anyway, I tried eating my
Caesar salad (without the Caesar) and I was totally sick. I guess I can still drink blood though.
I’m still seriously craving that. Oh, but I stopped wanting to smoke. I still will, though. It’s just
cooler.
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Award Winners
January 7th
Oh my god. Last night was so crazy. I totally got super drunk ... and vampires and alcohol is a
strange mix. I ended up dancing with this totally cute guy. The night was going, like, perfect. I
wasn’t even getting that annoyed by the girls and their constant following. Anyways. This guy
and I (Dominic, I think his name is), ended up heading to his place so we could ‘get to know
each other better’. So, anyways, we got to his apartment and I was so relieved that he had a
nice place—the night wasn’t going to be a total waste, after all. We were like, kissing and stuff,
and I couldn’t help it, I ended up biting his neck! He was cool though, he thought it was kinky or
something. Whatever.
I think being a vampire makes me really good in bed.
Whatever, it’s morning now. Donald, or whoever he is, hasn’t woken up yet, but I’m gonna leave
before he does. I hate these ‘morning after’ situations.
It’s only like, 9am. If I hurry, I might be able to make it to my mani-pedi.
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Award Winners
Megan Vogelsang
Strings
the third kind.
they’re funny little devils.
they’re the ones that people cut.
every person i know
gets an end of a Thread.
some people get thicker, stronger, Threads
than others.
it’s your choice what to do with it.
it’s deliberate.
and painful.
cause what nobody knows
is what these Threads are made of.
when one gets cut,
it doesn’t heal the same.
it’s not easily wrapped up
and it’s not easily covered.
it requires careful attention,
and sandpaper.
i have to slowly,
slowly,
get rid of the horrible Thread.
and oftentimes,
take off a little too much
and damage my heart
just a little.
then,
when the sanding is done,
there is still the root.
planted firmly within the core of my heart.
it tries to grow back
towards the person who cut the Thread.
to stop the sprout,
i must find
this person.
i take their Scissors away
and melt them
into hot,
liquid
steel.
pour the solution on the struggling root
so a shiny new skin forms over the wound,
and nothing can grow there.
i take my ends and attach them to my heart.
but.
with each end,
comes Scissors.
when you’re done with me,
you can cut the Thread.
i’ve never cut one.
not yet, anyway.
some just snap.
most just snap.
the snapped Threads usually don’t matter,
cause they were made of cheapish string.
snapped ends, left to hang
get pulled back inside.
my heart of tangled string.
is kept hidden and safe.
other Threads get ripped out.
these require careful nurturing
band-aids and rubbing alcohol.
the rubbing alcohol stings
and the band-aids itch
but they do the trick
in the end.
the torn out Threads leave a tiny scar.
and it’s not long
before i don’t notice them at all.
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Award Winners
MJ
Highs and Lows
Between your lips, above my eyes,
that size, and summarize surprise,
beholds a bitter sweet surprise,
between my lips,
above your eyes.
Between your lips, between your sighs,
between your hips, between your cries,
between your heart your passion flies,
under my lows,
over your highs.
Between our hearth, above our skies,
between your earth, above my rise,
undone our love and done our lives,
between your lips,
above my eyes.
Between your lips, between your thighs,
between what’s said, between what shies,
between the summer eyes surprise,
between, our passion,
slowly dies.
Between our hearts, our minds and eyes,
between our bodies, beds and lies,
we shiver, and reflect unwise,
between my lips,
above your eyes.
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“it’s my masterpiece.”
Kimberley Hartwig
Jack’s Masterpiece
Chalk, not oil or acrylic, is his medium of choice. He says the others are not “natural enough” for
him. Does he use canvas? Oh gosh no. Too “pompous” he says, scoffing at the suggestion. He prefers the
pavement.
“Does he stay out there all day?” my friends ask.
“Yup,” I reply, “and sometimes into the night.”
Their eyes widen and they nod with respect of his commitment.
He’s out there right now. His arms swooping and diving deliberately in every direction in perfect
unison like the Snowbirds in the clear prairie sky. His bare knees and toes dig and scratch into the grey
rock until raw, but he doesn’t mind. They say you have to suffer for art.
The shades of blue and yellow he has chosen perfectly compliment the green of the plants
bursting through the cracks in the pavement. His artwork is bursting. Bursting from the 2-D world into
our three dimensional one. That’s what I tell him.
He always asks me, “Where did my picture go?” and I tell him that it didn’t like being stepped
on by stinky feet in sandals and run over by the wheels of bicycles so it decided to take a vacation.
Sometimes, I say it went to California or Australia; other times, it’s to the French Riviera. I tell him that
it came into the house when he was still asleep to say goodbye and thank you. Then he runs outside to
start another picture. “This one will be better than the last,” he promises.
I don’t have the heart to tell him what really happened to his picture. I can’t tell him that the rain
washed away what he spent all day slaving over. That where his picture really went was down the drain—
where it will be “vacationing” with the sewer rats and alligators. I figure it’s okay, to lie to him like that.
Our mother lies to him all the time, tells him, “Yes, of course Santa is real” and, this one’s my favourite,
“The hamster ran away to join the circus.” I know he’ll figure it out eventually: that there is no Santa, that
the hamster didn’t join the circus and that his picture didn’t go on vacation—but I figure, if I can put off
the suffering, even just for a little while, shouldn’t I?
One time, this kid in his class told him the tooth fairy wasn’t real. I’d never seen anyone so
distraught. I met him in the playground after school, to walk home with him, and he stumbled over to
me—feet dragging in the dirt, Curious George backpack sagging off one shoulder, head down, his brown
curls in his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Timmy told me the tooth fairy isn’t real!” he wailed, throwing his arms around me and
burrowing his head into my stomach. For the record, I’d never much liked this Timmy character and now
that he’d made my brother cry, I really wasn’t a fan.
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“it’s my masterpiece.”
“What?” I said, lowering myself to his level. His eyes were glistening behind his curls, and his lip
was trembling. “Psh, Timmy knows nothing. See, I was talking to the tooth fairy just the other day, we had
lunch, and she told me, no lie, that she doesn’t go to Timmy’s house because he’s such a mean little boy.
She told me that he hid his tooth so she couldn’t find it and she hasn’t been back since.”
“Really?” he asked, begging, needing for it to be true.
“Oh yes,” I said. “I swear it.”
He smiled, “I knew it! I knew Timmy was lying!”
“Of course!” I wrapped my arm around his shoulder and we walked home together to the
soundtrack of him telling me stories of why he should have never believed Timmy in the first place.
I figure that if he wants to believe in that kind of thing, I should let him. Why initiate him into the
world of harsh reality before absolutely necessary? Is it ever necessary?
Grownups believe in love. Is that really any different? There is no physical evidence to support the
existence of love; there have been no legitimate pictures of Cupid taken with his bow and arrow ready
for action. Yet, no one tells them it isn’t real. All the movies and books end with proclamations of love,
marriages or proposals. People, no matter what age, are always searching for love—going on blind dates,
posting classifieds. So, this is what I figure—believing in love is the grownup version of believing in the
tooth fairy, or Santa, or impromptu vacations. And those that don’t believe in love, the sinister, grumpy,
loathing people, they’re the Timmy’s of the world.
Outside, it’s getting dark. The sun is disappearing behind the suburban landscape.
“Would you tell your brother it’s time for supper?” a voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yup,” I reply, and make my way to the door.
“And make sure he comes in this time!”
The air is cool and I shove my hands into my pockets as I make my way down the driveway.
“What we got today Jack?” I ask as I bend down to inspect his work. The colours swirl in every direction,
colliding and blending into a perfect mess of rainbow.
He stands up and wipes chalk-laden hands on his jeans, smearing the colour over the denim.
“It’s my masterpiece,” he says.
It sure is.
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“it’s my masterpiece.”
Jessica Poncsak
The First Snow
The wind goes slowly
Across the virgin white ground
Mourning summer’s end
Jennie Baginski
Based on Detective Dark Eyes
Watching inevitability come closer each step … Inhale
Piled up trash complements the scent of raw fish,
caved in by alley walls, our views of starlit skies are limited.
Ravenous glow off an alienated street lamp.
Smoke signals, trailing down towards a wide brimmed fedora.
Raised collar; camouflage within a trench coat,
desolate below the heels.
Eyes confine lit shadows; dancing moon beams capturing mine.
:::smoke and mirrors::: Imminent wrinkles are formed.
Unable to overlook a man’s face, worn from the world’s reluctance to love.
This thumping heart inherits another’s insecurities.
Minding a rabid ¡Ba-Bum!
A tabby cat is flirting with puddles.
My reflection being summoned by a bright yellow taxi #303 - ads out the wazoo.
It is 11:11; I am wishing she will guide detective dark eyes home.
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“it’s my masterpiece.”
Dexter Neufeld
Winter
Winter comes
on quick rabbit feet
falling gently everywhere
Megan Vogelsang
Digging a Hole
Finally
I have filled in
the hole
and patched it with dirt
and let the grass grow
and I can’t even see it anymore.
Though sometimes
I get stupid
and I go to my garden shed
find a shovel
go to the hole
and dig.
And basically
put things back
to where they were
in the first place.
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“it’s my masterpiece.”
Shea Poncsak
Twins
Two snowflakes flutter
greetings to my eyes.
Startled hands festooned with wool
rise up to meet
my unexpected visitors.
My eyes zoom in
like microscopes,
that bulge in surprise,
when identifying them
to be—incredibly alike.
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“it’s my masterpiece.”
Jessica Poncsak
The Brindled Cat
The child wanders down the grassy slope in front of her uncle’s home, aiming for the fence at
the bottom. She comes to a stop when she reaches it, and rests her arms on the ledge that juts out
from underneath the decorative spikes. Gazing down the deserted lane stretching from somewhere to
her right to somewhere beyond her left, the girl seems to be waiting for someone. Anyone watching
her from one of the windows in the large house would think that she is reminiscing of the family she
has lost, hoping they will miraculously come round one of the bends in the lanes. But that’s not what
she is looking for; it is something far less remarkable.
The bushes across the lane rustle almost imperceptibly—though it is enough to draw the child’s
gaze. She watches a tabby cat, just barely out of kitten-hood, step cautiously out from under the
branches. It looks up and down the lane before running over and squeezing through the narrow bars
so that it can sit at the child’s feet. The child sits down, crossing her legs beneath her soft white dress,
and the tabby climbs into her lap, curling up in it. The child reaches into her pocket for a piece of
baked fish delicately wrapped in a handkerchief. She has smuggled it out of the house especially for the
cat. The scrawny thing gobbles the morsel up as if it hasn’t eaten in days before it gives itself a quick
wash and goes to sleep in the child’s lap.
She first found the poor stray last week, crouching in front of the fence, when her uncle and
aunt held a garden party. She had taken a piece of fish and held it at arm’s length for the kitten to eat.
The tabby wolfed it down before disappearing into the bush across the lane. The child went to look for
the kitten the next day, and it appeared again. The cat continued to visit the little girl at the same time
of day after that, and the girl continued to feed it. No one came looking for her, for which she was
thankful. The child wanted to spend every minute she could with another orphan like her, even if it
was just a kitten that couldn’t talk back. It was her friend, and she was glad to have found someone to
whom she could relate.
The time is over too soon for her, though. Even now, when they have reached this time of trust,
the tabby only stays for half an hour before it gets up, stretches, and runs back across the lane again to
go on its way. The child feels a profound loneliness as she watches the cat disappear, wishing she could
bring it into her uncle’s house to stay.
She sits where she is, for a long while, before she gets up and makes her way back up to the
large house on the hill.
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“i’ll be on my milky way ...”
Brynn Krysa
The Man in the Sun is My Father
Satellites and comets orbit and collide
In my spaced out mind
Telescopes won’t find me now
I’m too far gone
Black holes take me and swallow me whole
Rip me apart; I disintegrate into pieces of dust
Or maybe
I find a parallel universe
Where the moon rises and the man in the sun
Is my father
Run around the rings of Saturn
And count all of the stars
I give them all names and have them send you a postcard
If you want me back home
I’ll be on my milky way
Astronomers have got nothing on me
They say you can’t survive in space
Secluded and having no direction
Well look at me, I’m headed straight to Pluto
And I’ve heard it’s a nice place
Gaze at the stars in the morning
Watch the moon fall at night
I drench myself in a meteor shower
Let the stars fall in every direction
Until an eclipse brings darkness
And in the darkness, I count all the stars one more time
To make sure I didn’t forget one
I give them all names and have them send you a postcard
If you want me back home
I’m sorry, I can’t make it today
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“i’ll be on my milky way ...”
Darick Bourassa
Mirror
“It hurts,” she said. Well now she’s dead
I feel no guilt, my hands are red
The blood is stained upon the bed
The sinful deed fulfills me
I stare into this hopeless mirror
My mind is dark, it brings me fear
And in the darkness shines a tear
This torture nearly kills me
Please do not reflect my pain
What’s wrong with me? I can’t explain
From thoughts like these I can’t refrain
My days and nights are spent in vain
The person looking back at me
Is not the man he used to be
There’s something wrong and I can see
He needs his mind to set him free
I turn away, from night came day
From day to night, the light won’t stay
I need the dark to go away
My mind can’t take much more
So here I go, again so low
My twisted thoughts begin to flow
My breaths are taken deep and slow
Just like the night before
They’re in my head
The dreams I dread
“It hurts,” she said
Well now she’s dead
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“i’ll be on my milky way ...”
Jennie Baginski
Debating Your Own Personality
While guileful governments discuss social graces, I’m tickling technological tendencies.
Your random religions wring out rights and wrongs,
as mischievous mannerisms molest multiculturalism.
All we hear are forced apologies.
All we need is fashion sense.
Guts in! Grooves out.
Megan Vogelsang
My Monsters
Sleep is a beautiful thing
when I don’t dream.
When the monsters aren’t under my bed.
When my closet doesn’t groan.
That’s the worst.
When the closet starts talking.
Murmurs.
Scratches, sighs and screams,
beckoning me to it.
Pleading with me to open the door.
So I do.
Setting my skeletons free.
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“i’ll be on my milky way ...”
Darick Bourassa
Find Me
The sun is high, my head is low
The time ticks by, forever slow
I always try so hard to go
Where no one else will find me
I feel at ease when no one’s home
I seem to want to be alone
I’ll just ignore my telephone
So no one else will find me
The more I hide, the less I hear
From all the people I had near
It’s very strange, but now I fear
That no one else will find me
Shea Poncsak
Alone I sit here, tired and sad
Scared and sick, weak and mad
For now my mind is far from glad
I need someone to find me
Released Through Music
Insert earbuds
into the caves of my ears.
Turn on my mini-juke box.
Flip through the options.
Stop.
Select.
A river is unleashed
into my soul,
And purges it of the dust
Collected through my day
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“it splashes and dances ...”
Paige Schuett
The Rain
The rain comes
on tiny rain boots.
It splashes and dances
on unstable legs,
then runs silently home.
Andrea Hannaford
You looked like you today
You looked like you today.
Sitting there with a blanket, and a book,
and a cup of coffee at your side.
Music playing in your head, songs of stars and legends.
Whispering words to inspire, and help you understand.
Sending tapping to your foot, freeing hum - soft from your voice.
Wearing clothes, bought on sale, but never seeming so.
With boots to make you 5’ 9”, and a green scarf to top it off.
Those awkward glasses, slouching to the right, with a clashing bold necklace.
The sarcastic tone of your words,
The off centered act, crude, to those you distain
The spaced out expression, deep in thought, just as before
While you dream, your familiar dreams
Of magic creations of culinary artworks,
And a variety of clothes, blending in colours, unreal … or just unknown.
Yes, you looked like you today.
Regained from another.
You are you again.
It’s nice to have you back.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“it splashes and dances ...”
Kimberley Hartwig
Droplets of Life
Beads of water roll and ripple down the nylon of my orange umbrella and drop onto the glistening
grass below. I watch the little dance the rain performs. My favourite part is when the raindrops hit the
edge and, just for a second, the drop wonders whether it should fall. For a second, it’s scared. I see it
shudder, and then decide—to let go—to fall into the unknown, oblivion perhaps. It doesn’t know where
it’s going, but it lets go all the same. What if that raindrop just kept falling? And falling, and falling. Would
it feel bad about its decision or would it say, “Well, at least now I know?” This is all if raindrops had
thoughts and feelings, of course. Like you did, once.
Sometimes, I think of falling off the face of the earth. Deciding that I don’t like gravity anymore
and just falling. And falling and falling. I wonder where I’d end up. Maybe on Mars or Jupiter or the Planet
of the Apes. Of course, it isn’t where I’d end up that would matter; it’s the letting go. The free fall into
the unknown. I’m not sure I would be brave enough to let go. I guess you were, though.
It’s like that game we played when I was young. The one where I held my arms out by my side and
fell backwards, and you would always catch me. Except, this time, there’s no one there—just air, empty
space and nothingness. Maybe when I fall I’ll be suspended in nothingness. I’d like to be suspended in
nothingness. It would be very relaxing, give me time to clear my head, pluck out my thoughts to fill the
nothingness around me. Maybe my thoughts would become stars and my good thoughts would shine
brightly and my not so good thoughts would shine dully. Maybe that’s what the sun is, a giant thought.
God’s giant thought, if you believe that kind of stuff. Or maybe it’s everybody’s thoughts all crammed and
jumbled into a giant ball of thought. I think that’s why the sun will never burn out, because people will
never stop thinking. The sun isn’t out today. It’s concealed by grey clouds. Wrapped in a baby’s blanket
of soft fleece. Why was your last thought so dull?
Is nothingness where you are now? Eternal nothingness? Well, I hope you’re enjoying it there. Is it
warm this time of year? You could let me know sometime. Send me a message, any kind. A text message.
One on my answering machine. It would be nice to hear from you again. A “hey, what’s up?” or anything
like it. That’s the thing I miss the most—the little conversations, the so insignificant they’re significant
conversations. I want to tell you I miss you.
I squish my feet into the grass. Water oozes over my feet and in between my toes. I’m wearing
purple flip-flops today, probably not the best choice considering the weather. I like the squishing sound
the rubber makes against the wet grass. I keep stepping. Squish, squish, squish. I could stay here all day.
Keep you company, if you wanted. I think you must get lonely. I am.
I look up, into my umbrella, and watch the shadows of the rain. A single drop lands on the
orange nylon, a perfect oval. I follow it with my eyes, watch it pirouette and glissade down the slope.
Its movement quickens as it nears the edge. Now it’s moving at full speed, like a runner to the finish line.
But once it gets to the edge, it halts. It hangs there, gripping. It twinkles in the dull light, reflects. I look
at it, and it looks back. And then it falls. Oh brother, why did you have to fall?
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“it splashes and dances ...”
Melissa Bereti
Chelsea
The cloth beneath my fingertips is cool; the stiff linen softens as I rub my hand over it. My head
spins, but no thoughts whir within. The air outside is crisp and I shiver as someone opens the door. It’s
cold for the tenth of October. Rather fitting, I feel, for this sort of event. Well, I don’t want to call it an
event. That makes it sound as if this is fun, or wanted. But this isn’t wanted. A funeral is never wanted—
especially for someone as young as Chelsea. Chelsea—twenty-one, newly engaged, with the rest of
her life ahead of her. All she has ahead of her now is being buried in the half-frozen ground next to her
grandmother with the cloth that sits before me.
The cloth is already partially covered with colourful words and sad stories.
This is how we get to say goodbye to Chelsea, seeing as her death was an accident. Everyone has
the opportunity to sign the cloth with a story or memory of Chelsea, and then it will be buried with her,
in the casket.
I turn around, to look at Chelsea’s family. They’re standing behind me, thanking people for coming.
Chelsea’s father and younger sister, my uncle Scott and his daughter Emilly, stand side-by-side, giving
hugs and comfort to those who need it. Chelsea’s mother stands away from them with her new husband,
tightly clutching his shoulder as she weeps.
I feel my heart sink. I long to write something nice—something that will ease everyone’s pain,
even though I know that isn’t possible. I turn back to the fabric and force myself to pick up a marker.
Pink. I smile at this; it was Chelsea’s favorite colour. I remove the lid and tap it lightly against the table.
What can I say? What fond memories do I have of Chelsea and me together?
I draw a blank.
Well I must have a million; I’ve practically grown up with her.
I stop tapping the pen as I realize that I don’t have any really strong memories of Chelsea. No
happy, loving, fun memories of us together. Chelsea was never a huge part of my life, although her dad
and sister are. This stops me for a moment. Chelsea was so much older than I that our paths rarely
crossed.
In that moment, I only remember two things about her—the band, Hanson, and pink. One day,
when I was about eight, I accidentally taped over Chelsea’s video of her absolute-all-time-favorite band,
Hanson, performing live. She was so mad that she refused to speak to me for months. Chelsea loved
Hanson so much that her license plate read “Mmm Bop”, the lyrics to one of Hanson’s most popular
song. The second thing I remember is that her favorite colour was pink—and everyone knew that. The
funeral was pink—pink flowers, pink photos, the people who attended were even asked to wear pink.
Pink has completely taken over.
However, I can’t exactly write, “Hanson” or “you liked pink” on the cloth. I’m not going to
put something meaningless on here. Chelsea’s family would think I’m inconsiderate for taking up space
on the material. I put the lid back on the marker and set it down. I feel stupid for almost writing
something so generic about Chelsea.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“it splashes and dances ...”
I turn my back to the table, and I feel a hand come to rest on my shoulder. I look up and I see
my uncle Scott standing next to me. I see the brick wall beginning to crumble behind his eyes; His body
begins to sag with sorrow. I wrap my arms around his waist and I pull him close for a hug. He wraps his
arms around my shoulders firmly, and he rests his head on top of mine.
“Thank you, my dear,” he says softly.
“You’re welcome,” I say without hesitation. I feel a hot tear fall on my head and I gently rub his back.
As if reading my mind, my uncle begins to speak. “You know, she might not have shown it, but
Chelsea loved you. You two didn’t say much to each other, but I could tell.”
Another drop falls on my head as I speak. “I know, Uncle. I just wish I knew what to say to her now.”
“Tell her how you honestly feel. That’s the kind of girl my baby was. She would want your honesty.”
I nod into his chest. I feel my face flush and hot tears blur my vision. My uncle kisses the top of
my head, releases me, and nudges me back towards the cloth. I try my best to smile at him as I pick up
the pink marker and uncap it. I bend over the table and search for an empty space. I pull the blank slate
towards me, and I set the marker down, allowing the pink to bleed into the cloth.
Chelsea, I begin—the words forming in my mind.
Chelsea,
We were different, and honestly not close. My biggest regret is not seeing you enough;
not trying to get to know you. I’m sure you were wonderful,
and if only I had been given more time to get to know you.
But I guess we’re out of time.
I’ll remember you Chels in my own way, and will continue to until I see you again.
Love always.
As I set the marker back onto the table, I find myself staring at what I’ve written. I don’t know
where these words have come from, they just … found their way onto the cloth by themselves. The
longer I stare at the words, the more I feel the forced grief that I was shoving upon myself lift. All I feel,
now, is sadness for those around me who are heartbroken. The sorrow that has been tugging at my
stomach for days subsides, and is slowly replaced with hunger.
My words begin to swim before my eyes, so I close them. I keep thinking about what I’ve written,
and how I know that I should feel sadder. Yet I can’t seem to push myself to feel anything more than …
sympathetic to those around me.
I look down, softly saying a “sorry” to Chelsea. As I look up, I see my uncle standing before me,
watching, and smiling the best that he can. He doesn’t know how I feel.
“Time to get some snacks, my dear?”
I put a smile on my face and say, “You know it.”
I take him by the hand and pray that my hollow emotion doesn’t show on my face. I don’t want
to hurt him more than he already has been. He and Emilly have been my rock—it’s my turn to be theirs.
As we walk toward the table of food, I gently squeeze his large fingers with my smaller ones, silently
giving him my unneeded strength. His hand squeezes mine back, silently accepting.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“it splashes and dances ...”
Sophie Long
Sparkles
It’s cold, but I really can’t feel it. The silver sparkles are coming at me from every direction.
I shouldn’t have worn a skirt. It’s only March. The trees sway, like birds ruffling their feathers. They
bow to us as we walk by, dripping green glitter to the ground. The grass is damp beneath my flats.
Last October’s leaves are piled at the bottom of the hill, still emitting the occasional brown spark.
I love these moments. I can feel the pink gems floating off of every inch of my body. I can’t
help it. It’s so amazing when everything just fits together perfectly. I always feel like that with Sara.
We make our way through the park. It feels like nothing exists, except us. The trees float away
and pop in the sky like bubbles. The play structure turns to dust and falls to the ground. I watch it all
happen with a smirk. It’s just my best friend and I, walking through it all. We don’t talk, but it’s not like
we have to stay silent.
We reach the top of the hill and stop.
Sara and I turn to one another. She stands out against the Nothing. Her hair is on fire, her skin
is snow. How could I not smile at her? Her cherry lips reciprocate, and a few purple sparkles trickle up
to the sky.
I want to spend forever on this hill.
Sara and I look at one another. She reaches for my hand. Tingles whisper along my arm as her
sunshine fingers wrap around my wrist, then slide down to grasp my hand. Yellow glitter tumbles to
the ground from my arm.
Soon, every colour erupts from our joined hands. We are surrounded by rainbow sparkles that
float around us like a veil, shielding us form the world. I look at Sara again, and I can tell she sees it too.
She opens her mouth to talk, and little wisps of mist escape and swirl up to the sky.
“I’m so glad we’re friends,” she says.
I tell her I feel the same, and that I hope we never grow apart.
Sara begins to talk again but she is interrupted by a dog, barking in the distance. It brings the
trees back, and the play structure. I want the Nothing back.
Our veil is broken, but our hands still give off sparkles.
I pull her closer. Sara’s other hand finds mine. I look into her eyes once more. The sparkles are
there, I just need to get them out.
Our faces are inches apart. I gently touch my lips to hers, and I can feel the sparkles. The kiss
grows, and she tastes just as sweet as I anticipated. We’re there for two minutes. We’re there for ten
years.
Finally, we break apart, and we turn and walk down the hill, hand-in-hand. The veil is back.
We know, now we’ll always have the sparkles.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“the world around us ...”
Kelci Hopcraft
Honey
the world around us is still asleep
dim lights flickering above
chewing burnt toast masked with honey
I glance across the table
He smiles, His face worn and creased
with memory
Lips, like leather, pull back to reveal
a gummy smile.
Sophie Long
Holly
straightjacket legs from twisted up sheets
sticky skin
cold feet
lines of light breaking through his curtains
dry mouth
lemons in the back of your throat
yellow brick road of crumpled clothes
black smudges
corrupting pale skin
beneath lashes
pile of brown bottles
telling your tale
stench of beer filling the air
once more hit
with the realization that
Oz isn’t as pretty
when he’s not shrouded by the night.
stay where you are
the world won’t find you.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“the world around us ...”
Melissa Bereti
Motherly Love
she stabs me once with her new little knife;
this metal is foreign to me.
the second stab is deeper
her knife rakes down,
opening me up; revealing my hurt.
but she’s too busy to realize i’m bleeding;
she enjoys the game too much.
she stabs once more;
the final blow.
and her dirty, cold knife is now
so familiar
so welcomed
and desired
that i smile as she twists the knife
because this time, it has gone so deep
that my heart goes with when she pulls the knife out.
she looks at her hands,
now covered in my hurt
and she smiles proudly at her masterpiece.
my heart in her hands,
with that fucking knife of hers
sticking out the front.
content with her work, she puts it back in place,
satisfied with her victory.
looking down at the handle, i pull on it—hard—and
her trophy comes out of my chest, fully intact.
i throw it in the garbage.
i don’t need that heart and i don’t need my mother’s love.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“the world around us ...”
Kimberly Hartwig
Heartthrob
You carved your name into my heart long ago.
Etched it on the arteries and veins
like you did on the bark of a tree
on a cloudy day in June
with a key and a message,
I love you.
Scar tissue has filled in some of the craters
your name created
since I saw you last
and others have tried to claim
the territory of my heart
by replacing your consonants with their own
but your name remains.
You left your signature on a cloudy day in June
and ever since you left I’ve been trying to
reclaim what used to be mine,
but every time my heart pumps
corresponding to my breath,
my heart spills your name.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“the world around us ...”
Nicole Nedilenka
Dívínitás
There he stands, leaning back against the kitchen counter.
His head rolls back, mouth agape, arms crossed.
Body swaying like trying to walk after spinning.
Around and around the carousel goes,
where it stops nobody knows.
“Has his liver rotted out yet?”
I ask this not out loud, but to his black hearted daemons.
Tomorrow will he join them in Hell?
They are always close by, to whisper in his ear,
“Drown your worries away.”
That’s what demons say.
And he listens to their seductive suggestion.
I leave him in the kitchen
Too far gone to listen to reason.
I climb into bed with another nightmare.
I say my bedtime prayer.
But, unlike most,
Who pray to a bearded man up high,
I pray, to black heated daemons
to take his sullied soul away.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“the world around us ...”
Sophie Long
Abused
“If you scored 11–15 out of twenty, you’re in the group we affectionately call Substance
Abusers.”
I look down at the bright piece of paper sitting on my desk in front of me.
Fourteen.
Suddenly, I’m afraid that I gave it away. Was it obvious that I looked? I think everyone
hates these classes, except for that group of preps sitting in the front row who would run and
hide if they saw so much as a beer bottle. I hate them. If this were a year ago, I’d be sitting beside
them, with their shiny hair and their manicured nails and their perfectly arched eyebrows.
Okay, that’s too much. I’ve been there; I know their lives aren’t perfect. Still, the rest of
it’s true. They don’t know what it’s like to live outside a plastic bubble.
They don’t understand what it’s like to not have to worry about what happens next. All
they focus on is the future. I’d just rather live in the now. And be free.
Those people don’t matter though, it’s not like I’ll ever see them again after June.
It’s Friday. I think they plan it that way. They bring the drug counselors into Math on a
Friday every now and then in the hopes that we’ll all listen to them and decide not to go to the
party. Decide we won’t get drunk. Decide we won’t get high.
Not likely.
I look around at my friends, and I can tell they all have the exact same expression on their
faces as I do, while this washed-up hippy goes over the characteristics of ‘Substance Abuse’. I call
them friends for want of a better word. They’re all just like me—they’d choose the drugs over
any person. That’s why we’re friends. We know what it’s like. We understand needs. We have the
same priorities. Besides, who wants to get high alone?
If you were to see me at school—not know me, just see me—I’m pretty sure you
wouldn’t know about the ‘substance abuse’. That’s the way I like it.
I like to think of it as having two lives. There’s the me that is seen from the outside:
decent grades, no trouble, not gorgeous but not ugly, a bit shy, never loud, mediocre through and
through. Then there’s the other me. The one you’d want to get to know. The funny, extraverted,
happy, real me.
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So what if I need some help getting there?
I know the risks. I know I could get hurt or do something terrible, but that’s why I do it.
It’s dangerous, exciting. So much better than the other me.
I try to keep the two sides of me as separate as possible.
The hippy is still talking.
I never understood why they call it substance abuse. When they say ‘child abuse’, the child
is the one getting abused. I’m not abusing the substance. If that was true, I’d have the upper hand.
I don’t. It should be called substance-user abuse. I’m being abused by my substance, and that’s how
I like it. It’s so much easier. The pills have control, and I don’t mind it at all. When I get high, my
boring, plain life is taken over, and all I have to do is sit there and enjoy it.
I need those little pills. I don’t care about anything else. Because I’d rather be who I want to
be than be who my parents want me to be or who I’m ‘supposed to be’. You can say I’m throwing
my life away, or I’ll always be alone, or that I’ll never achieve anything, but that doesn’t matter.
The pills matter. Getting high, to me, is getting home. Getting to where I like to be. If I have to
spend my life as a slave to a ‘substance’ for that, that’s absolutely fine.
I’m not quitting; no matter how many hippies they send my way.
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The Magazine of Saskatchewan High School Writing
“the world around us ...”
Nicole Nedilenka
Winter Heat
Winter will always be my eternal warm love.
So many nights spent in the back of freezing cars.
Waiting for the heat to kick in.
Loud music.
Silent snow,
floats down from heaven like angel’s dreams.
Black hoods pulled up, the irony of the white world beyond.
These jackets are never warm enough.
Midnight Tim Hortons run, that lasts into the witching hour.
And always, back seats.
Bands yelling from the radio fill us with electricity.
Red, yellow and green lights streak past, barely visible in the winter fog.
It will never be morning again.
Spring will never come.
The snow will never melt.
We are frozen.
This is where I belong.
You know the feeling of nights, long past?
They live as ghosts, grey in our mind.
My winter nights are frosty snow globes with a small glow of warm light in their centers.
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bios
Jennie Baginski’s most accomplished hobbies tend to include supporting her habits which are biting her
fingernails and laziness; she is also an avid daydreamer. Her sense of humour isn’t so specific, and deep
down she loves cake. She’s emotional; her deep thoughts easily coincide with a laid back conversation.
Melissa Bereti is a 17-year-old student from Miller High School who loves writing while under the
influence of creativity but dislikes capital letters. She likes to believe that if she stops using them, they will
cease to exist. More than anything, she hopes her writing will someday mean something to someone.
Darick Bourassa. This is the first time Darick has shared his poetry with an audience. Darick’s high
school experiences inspire his poetry, although people of all ages can recognize life’s struggles in his words.
Oh yes, Darick is a 16 year old student attending high school in Regina.
Andrea Hannaford is in her final year of high school at Archbishop M.C. O’Neill and was taught creative
writing by a lovely Miss Baudu. Simply said, she loves to write and will continue to do so. Kimberley Hartwig is 17 and a Grade 12 student at Campbell Collegiate. When not writing, eating
or sleeping, she enjoys playing tennis and hopes to one day marry Russian tennis heartthrob Marat Safin.
If this does not work out, a career in English would be a suitable and more plausible backup.
Kelci Hopcraft was a Grade 12 student when she submitted Honey at Mount Royal Collegiate. She joined
the Creative Writing class because all she did was write in her other classes so she figured she should be
getting a grade for it.
Brynn Krysa is a Grade 12 student who enjoys expressing herself creatively through art, photography,
video, writing and music. She feels fortunate to have grown up amidst Saskatoon’s vibrant arts scene. Most
importantly, she is grateful that the muses visit her on a regular basis.
Sophie Long is a Grade 12 student at Miller High School. She is originally from Liverpool, England, but is
thrilled to be in Saskatchewan and especially to be featured in windScript. Sophie’s favourite things include:
writing poetry, Sunday afternoons curled up on her couch watching classic movies, Hello Kitty, the mall,
Saturday nights, and traveling. After high school, she hopes to continue writing and eventually become an
English and Drama teacher to high school students. Most importantly, Sophie hopes you enjoy her writing!
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bios
MJ was born in Moose Jaw, but spent the majority of his childhood in Baker Lake, Nunavut. In 2007, he
moved back to Moose Jaw, where he graduated. MJ now attends classes at the University of Saskatchewan,
where he hopes to pursue a career that involves writing, such as journalism. Writing has always been a
hobby for MJ, and he will continue to write in the coming years.
Nicole Nedilenka spends her days daydreaming, drawing, and driving her standard car around Regina.
Her passions include drinking coffee, reading books, and her friends. Nicole’s goal in life is to get her
journeymen’s in welding, go skydiving, and visit the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Dexter Neufeld is fifteen years old and in Grade 10 at Eastend School. He likes playing sports, mainly
hockey.
Jessica Poncsak is an alumnus of Miller Comprehensive High School and is currently enrolled in
the University of Regina. In Grade 11, she took a Creative Writing class taught by Daniel McDonald.
She enjoys reading, writing, listening to music, and playing her trombone or guitar in her spare time.
Shea Poncsak has a twin sister, a younger sister, a (metaphorically speaking) crazy cat, a loving dog and
two great parents. She is involved in Irish dancing, Mosaic and Tae Kwon Do. She also plays the flute, hates
winter and adores Japanese anime and manga.
Paige Schuett is 16 years old and attends Eastend School. She loves to cruise down Main Street in her
mom’s Ford Focus and jam out with friends. Paige likes to be involved, stay busy and is currently SADD
president, SRC vice president and Yearbook Editor. She loves sports and her favorite hobby is playing the
guitar while singing her own songs. Paige dreams to one day make it with her music.
Megan Vogelsang is, at the moment, 568 260 522 seconds old. Since not everyone is as math-geeky as she
is, it means she is 18 years old. She attended Miller High School where she enjoyed many improv practices
and found the love of her life, Team Handball. She also likes dancing in kitchens when no one is looking,
and Swedish Berries.
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