SPRING 2014 this issue - Saskatchewan Writers GuildThe stars danced along the treeline their lights, a story each star, a beauty Here down on Earth we’re extensions each with a tale

$10.00 CDN SPRING 2014

this issueq AWARD WINNERS 1

q PARTICIPATING SCHOOLS 24

q SUBMISSION GUIDELINES 25

The Best in Poetry and Prose From High School Students in Saskatchewan Visit us online: www.skwriter.com

CONTRIBUTORSAlia Aluma-BaigentWyatt BachmanAmy BaldwinJaecy BellsEmil BernardoTerri Lynn Brule-FrancisJessie Chamberlain Enya DyckKezia FourieRachel HusseyMatthew IrwinJennifer KaiswatumDerrik KayLinden KohutJasmine KumarTaliah LavertuCarter LovelaceSydney MoffattMaryl O’SoupBrian ParseleloShelby PiechottShaheer SaidyarCarter StenbergGloria SunJosiah Theissen Matthew ThomsonSamuel Yusif

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HistoryFounded in 1969, the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild is a provincial cultural organization that represents writers in all disciplines and at all levels of achievement. It operates as a not-for-profit provincial cultural organization, fosters excellence in Saskatchewan writing and promotes public awareness of our literature.

MissionThe mission of the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild is to support writers by raising public awareness of the value of the work of Saskatchewan writers; to advocate on behalf of writers and work to improve their economic status; to foster a sense of community among writers; to promote excellence in writing; and to support and facilitate public access to and participation in writing.

Photos Courtesy of: Jessica Riess, Lost and Taken, iStockphoto

AcknowledgementsThe Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild gratefully acknowledges the support of the Saskatchewan Arts Board, SaskCulture and the Saskatchewan Lotteries Trust Fund for operational and program funding and the publication of Windscript magazine

WINDSCRIPT VOL 30 2014

windscripthistory

Over the years, more than 1000 young writers have been featured in Windscript’s illustrious pages and a considerable number have

gone on to become published authors and professional writers, such as Taylor Leedahl and Alison Currie.

Windscript was created by Victor Jerrett Enns, Executive Director of the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild from 1982 to 1988. Victor first presented the idea of Windscript to the Board of the Guild in 1983 and his enthusiasm and determination kept the magazine alive in its first two years until more permanent funding could be found.

Windscript sought the best in poetry, prose and art from high school students and featured these in the magazine. Artwork was eventually eliminated from the magazine due to the high costs of coloured printing.

For twenty-one years the Guild continued to publish a print form of the magazine, but in 2004 decreased funding forced a temporary replacement of the print version with an electronic one on the SWG’s website (www.skwriter.com/publications/windscript).

Due to numerous requests from students and teachers, and the testimonials of the value of this magazine in print form, the Guild managed to publish a print issue again in 2011. The return to print has created a buzz of excitement in high schools throughout Saskatchewan, and the SWG hopes to continue to publish Windscript in both print and online form if funding can be found to sustain this valuable resource and outlet for high school students. The SWG believes the physical copy of Windscript is important to the future and present development of our high school writers.

from the guildWindscript is the annual magazine of high school writing published by the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild (SWG) since 1983.

The SWG is a Canadian Charitable Organization: # 119140556 RR0001

Volume 30, 2014ISSN: 0822-2363 ©2014 SWG

PUBLISHERSaskatchewan Writers’ GuildBox 3986, Regina, SK S4P 3R9Tel: (306) 791-7746Email: [email protected]

EDITOR Sandy Marie Bonny

CONTRIBUTORSAlia Aluma-Baigent, Wyatt Bachman, Amy Baldwin, Jaecy Bells, Emil Bernardo, Terri Lynn Brule-Francis, Jessie Chamberlain, Enya DyckKezia Fourie, Rachel Hussey, Matthew Irwin, Jennifer KaiswatumDerrik Kay, Linden Kohut, Jasmine Kumar, Taliah LavertuCarter Lovelace, Sydney MoffattMaryl O’Soup, Brian ParseleloShelby Piechott, Shaheer SaidyarCarter Stenberg, Gloria SunJosiah Theissen, Matthew ThomsonSamuel Yusif

ADVERTISINGSaskatchewan Writers’ GuildBox 3986, Regina, SK S4P 3R9Tel: (306) 791-7746Email: [email protected]

DESIGN & LAYOUTJessica Riess Coverwww.iStockphoto.com

PRINTHoughton Boston Tel: (306) 664-3458Email: [email protected]: www.houghtonboston.com

COPYRIGHTAll material appearing in Windscript is copyright unless oth-erwise stated or it may rest with the provider of the supplied material.

TO THE 2014 AWARD WINNERS

JARRETT ENNS AWARD FOR POETRY: Wyatt Bachman

Honourable Mention For Poetry: Alia Aluma-Baigent

JERRETT ENNS AWARD FOR PROSE: Jessie Chamberlain

Honourable Mention for Prose: Josiah Theissen

CURRIE-HYLAND PRIZE: Amy Baldwin

Honourable Mention for Currie-Hyland Prize: Maryl O’Soup

congratulations


congratulations

contentsSECTION 1 THEIR LIGHTS, A STORY Sky-lit Night, Maryl O’Soup Colours, Samuel Yusif Under the Stone, Carter Lovelace Days in a Small Northern Community, Jasmine Kumar Self-portrait, Kezia Fourie

Oath of Silence, Amy Baldwin

SECTION 2 EACH STAR, A BEAUTY The One That Got Away, Derrik Kay Stationed, Sydney Moffatt Her, the Residential School, Matthew Irwin Isolation, Rachel Hussey Trauma, Linden Kohut Soccer’s field, Shaheer Saidyar Gaming Paradise, Emil Bernardo Veil, Amy Baldwin Marksman, Carter Lovelace

SECTION 3 EACH WITH A TALE Please Tell Me, Alia Aluma-Baigent Labelled Scars, Jaecy Bells The Warmth of Winter, Carter Stenberg FOURTEEN, poetry, Gloria Sun Home, Jennifer Kaiswatum Where I’m From, Terri Lynn Brule-Francis Driving on a Wet Highway, Jaecy Bells My Special Place, Brian Parselelo Pedro, Enya Dyck

SECTION 4 [EACH WITH] ACCENTS Social Affections, Taliah Lavertu The Events of June 28th, 1954, Jessie Chamberlain That Small Prairie Hill, Shelby Piechott Tongues, Wyatt Bachman Oh Eagle, Matthew Thomson Walk of Shame, Amy Baldwin ARMIES OF INK, Alia Aluma-Baigent Writer’s Block, Josiah Theissen

editor’s forewordWhat do you get when you put twenty-seven high school students from around the world, vibration speakers, pencils, sharpies and a keyboard in a big blue jar… and shake it? NEW Saskatchewan AUTHORS!*WHO VOICE fascinations of history, of future, of maple walnut ice creamflow of rhyme, paleontology, the beauty in barren things hunting, walking, fishing, outdoor soccer… the good life: sandwiches and waking up at noonGO LEAFS!THEY ARE very punnyterribly well-roundedcarefree and carefultrying new things… TELLING THE TRUTH THEY ARE ASPIRING CONSPIRING to play that funky music; to build things up, read, learn, and lecture about the evils of disposable water bottles; to travel the world, meet new people, pull pranks, nurture passion; to help [old people] when they get in a bind with technology; and to leave everything behind and CREATE! WHY WORRY?[They seem to know what they’re doing]*a poem found among the Contributor’s biographical notes (p. XX)

Dear Windscript Vol.30 Contributors,

I look forward to the change and energy you bring to the provincial literary scene. In high school, and beyond, I know you’ll be busy with many things—please keep a pen (or recorder) at hand. Keep writing, loving, agonizing and celebrating your perspectives. There’s a new soundscape coming here, it has amazing momentum, and you are the weight behind it.

I have divided your work into four parts, taking a title phrase for each from a line in our first poem, ‘Sky-Lit Night’ by Mary O’Soup. This is a poem that honours the uniqueness we each bring to life, and that you have each brought to this collection.

With many thanks,

Sandy Marie BonnyWindscript Vol. 30 Editor

One

Sky-lit NightMaryl O’Soup

The stars danced along the treelinetheir lights, a storyeach star, a beauty

Heredown on Earth we’re extensionseach with a tale

Soat night when you see a starremember you’re equally as uniquecharacters with expansive accents

Tonight look up and starewhile grace is up thereelegance is also down here

Along the treeline

ColoursSamuel Yusif

As I was walking downA light fading path I captured

A colourful sight above where a light sat Staring up at the trees

And it began to rain leavesOrange and green began to pour out of the trees

As I flew to catch some I fell out of the skyColourful leaves began to fall on the land

As I reached out it fell on my hand

Under the StoneCarter Lovelace

The pickaxe struck stone with a great crackAnd once again pebbles came tumbling back

But nothing special was uncoveredNothing significant was discovered

For the stone held tight to its secretsA beautiful treasure, wish you could see it

The secrets of time that that are guarded so wellAn important discovery, as you can tell

And once again the pick bit into the stoneLike a tooth of the animal lost long agoBut not again the scientist distressed

For the bones of a creature had been undressedThe fossils were taken and caressedDiscoveries put theories to the test

THEIR LIGHTS, A STORY editor’s foreword


Days in a Small Northern Saskatchewan CommunityJasmine Kumar

The raindrops, they were falling tap-tap, tap-tap. It was spring at last. One of the most gorgeous seasons of the year. The season when leaves start peeking out and flowers bloom. The eagle was soaring through the clouds and the birds were chirping. It was quiet and calm. Emerald sunshine pouring through the trees and making the dew drops on the leaves glisten and sparkle. But at the lake it was all noise and bustle. The lake had been freed from winter’s icy lock. And people were buzzing on the beach. A typical day. And yes, there was mud. Lots of it. Slushy, muddy, sucky, gooey, and most of all, simply wonderful. Then, there was the air. It was clear and amazing. It smells best in spring. The fragrance was showing off for us. I’d forgotten all about the pretty butterflies and yellow dandelions. There were hundreds and thousands of yellow dandelions everywhere. Furthermore, there were lots of butterflies, small and delicate, and graceful and big. They were there in all colors, red, blue, yellow, white, black, brown with fascinating designs. Lots of bees too. Lots and lots of bees going in and out among all the thousands of different kinds of beautiful flowers. There were also lots of bugs. That’s the not so nice part. The bugs slowly start coming in and get thicker and thicker. They buzz about and bug everyone out, so that everything in the evening is not quiet. In the night it’s usually starry and bright with stars galore and the moon. Sometimes, the aurora borealis would come down too, so that the nights were almost better than the day. But that does not continue for long because the sun slowly stays up longer and goes down later as summer comes on. And so you can see the sunsets. All very beauteous and all of them have something different in them making them the best in their own way. They are the beauty and highlight of the season. The sun slowly setting behind the shady trees. Such were the ends of those days.

Oath of SilenceAmy Baldwin

The first words are the hardestno matter how sincere or earnestyou could call me a cowardfor silence I have favored with God as my witness

My body collects dustwhile my wits begin to rustmy heart’s securely armored the first words are the hardest

Some may wonder how an artistcould be so numb with that much practice?but I am too rational to let myself be hindered by a heart that has been shattered so I give up! It is hopeless

when the first words are the hardest

Self-PortraitKezia Fourie A small tapping begins, The beat of music within, Or the sound of heels, Walking the floor in even counts. A mind says one thing, An action relays another, A mind thinking fast, As to not trip on mistakes. Quiet until the shell breaks, Then louder than a sfozando, A hidden pearl waits, To be exposed and brought to life. Thoughts going a mile a minute, Yet a voice going much slower, When the two meet, An intangible sound ensues. Like an ocean in the calm, Smooth and soft on the surface, Yet Deceiving the wary sailor,A wild storm broods beneath.

7WINDSCRIPT VOL 30 2014 7

The One that Got AwayDerrick Kay

On a frigid December day, eager hunters travelled the countryside in search of a big buck. Jeff stood still as a statue waiting and hoping. Three does ran out, with a massive four by four buck following closely behind. Jeff took aim and “click.” He looked down to see his safety was still on. He tried to turn it off, but his fingers were too cold to be useful. Jeff glanced up. The trophy winning buck was gone.

The sound of his alarm sent Jeff flying out of bed. He turned down the hallway with the memories from last year’s deer season still tumbling through his sleepy head. He strode to the kitchen to find some cereal. He met his brother Jared at the table already eating some Fruit Loops. He looked at Jeff with a smirk on his face and said, “Going huntin’ Jeff? You might as well hunt with a knife. The way you shoot, you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.” Jeff ignored him, trying not to let Jared get the satisfaction of getting his goat. Jared proceeded to add insult to injury, “It’s a good thing that the buck you saw last year didn’t meet a real hunter like me, because his head would be on our wall right now.” Angrily, Jeff gulped down his cereal as fast as he could and stormed out of the room.

After breakfast, the two boys gathered their hunting gear. The whole time they packed, Jared never stopped harassing Jeff. At seven thirty, Jared and Jeff were finally ready. They drove along when Jeff noticed a few deer standing in a snow covered pasture. Jeff grabbed his binoculars. He got a glimpse at one buck running into the bush. Before he could move his lips, Jared had it out, “That one that just ran into the bush looks like a nice buck.” Jeff nodded his head in agreement. Jared whispered, “I’ll push the bush to the north. You stand point on that little hill over there. Can you handle that?”

Jeff answered back, “Ya, but which way do you think he’ll run?”

“He’ll probably try and bust out the west side. If he’s big, make sure he’s down before he gets to the wildlife land or we’ll probably never find him. Let’s quit wasting time, and get hunting!” Jared excitedly replied.

Jeff dropped Jared off at the south side of the bush. He proceeded to the hill that Jared had suggested. No sooner had he got out of the truck, four does came running out of the bush. Jeff put a bullet in the chamber; he was ready for the buck. He looked down to check and make sure his safety was off. He was ready. Jeff could see Jared getting near the end of the bush. Jeff let his guard down knowing that the buck must have doubled back. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a buck sprinting for its life. Jeff raised the gun to his shoulder. The feel of the trigger against his finger was ice cold. Jeff thought, I can’t miss him, not now, not again. He pulled the trigger. The gun echoed through the indifferent trees.

Jeff ran to where he thought he shot his prize. Only blood splattered snow greeted him at the impact point. He looked behind to see Jared running and yelling, “Did you get him? Did you get him?”

Jeff answered swiftly, “Yes, at least I hit him. Let’s follow the trail. Make sure you don’t step on the blood in case we get lost.” The two boys followed the trail like foxes hunting their prey. When they reached the top of a hill there was no buck, only a wide open space. The wildlife land was two miles away. Their excitement left them, and disappointment set in. “Well, what we should do now?” muttered Jeff.

Two

EACH STAR, A BEAUTY


Jared replied, “I think he’s gone. You must have just skimmed him. We better head back to the truck.”

Jeff answered quietly, “How about we look for him in the wildlife land for half an hour, and if we don’t find him, we’ll leave.”

Jared looked at Jeff with disbelief, “If you hit him good enough to kill him he’d be dead. We won’t find him. He’s long gone by now. Let’s just get on the road. We’re wasting daylight.”

“Okay. You leave. I’ll find him myself. When I find him, I’ll call you,” snapped Jeff stubbornly.

“That sounds good to me. Have fun! See you later,” Jared shot back.

Jeff staggered through the knee deep snow, staying on the blood trail. The closer he got to the bush the bigger the splatters of blood got. After about two miles, he reached the wildlife land. There to greet him was his prize. It was even bigger than what he thought. Its massive tynes were one and a half feet long, and as thick as the shaft of a pitch fork. Jeff then proceeded to gut and tag the deer. He grabbed his phone with his bloody hands and typed in his brother’s phone number. Jeff listened to the phone ring three times before he heard, “Sorry, the customer you have dialed is away from the phone, or out of service area.” He tried again, same thing. Jeff looked down at his phone. He had no service.

He had to walk to where his phone had service. Jeff decided he would head back the way he came so he wouldn’t get lost. He followed his path back towards the road. Every ten steps he stopped to check his phone. Every time, no service. Sweat dripped down his face. His shoes felt like they were filled with cement. Still no service. After a mile and a half, he looked down at his phone, and finally there were full bars. Jeff dialed the number frantically. Ring, ring, ring, “Hey Jeff, you finally gave up on looking for your deer?” said Jared enthusiastically.

Between gasps of air Jeff got out, “No, I found him. I dragged him out of the bush and he’s ready to be picked up. I’m on the road just past Gray’s old farm. Bring water.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” Jared replied.

“Bye,” Jeff managed to mumble. He collapsed to the ground exhausted. Jared was on his way and he would be taking home his trophy buck.

Jared rolled up in his old Ford truck with a giant smile on his face and said, “Take me to the deer.”

Jeff hopped in the truck and said, “Did you bring me some water?”

Jared replied gloomily, “No, I forgot. I was too excited that you found the deer. Now where is he?”

“He’s outside of the wildlife land lying by a group of willows. He won’t be too hard to find.” Jared flew through the bumpy fields. When neared the wildlife land, they saw that there were a set of fresh truck tracks leading to the bush. Jeff sighed in disbelief. Right where he left the deer was a pile of blood, but no deer. Jared said, “Are you sure that it was your deer and not someone else’s?”

“No, it was definitely my deer and someone took it,” Jeff sputtered. “Someone else must have taken him! He was right there! I had him tagged and everything! Who would do something like this?”

Jared replied softly, “I guess another one has gotten away.”

WINDSCRIPT VOL 30 2014 9

StationedSydney Moffat

“Homesick” has always been a foreign term to me but I cannot find any other way to explain this ever growing pit in my stomach and I’ve hardly left home

They’ve told me what it will be likethey’ve told me that after it is all said and done I can return home but I’ll hardly be the same

I’ve heard the stories before about souls lost somewhere on their trip to hell and back stuck back where bombs falland faith falls even further

That’s where I am headed to fight for liberty of the men and women back home but I am hardly a man myself

And I realize that now as I look out the plane window at the new country below meat the land, and the water hugging it’s every edge, not wanting to let go

And it’s hardly a war zonebut when I land, I will treat it as oneas that is what I have been commanded to do

I vow to not let my bravado falterto hold my head high no matter how low my heart may feel to keep my promise of return

But when words are only said to stop the tears falling from her eyes

they’re hardly a promise


Her, the Residential SchoolMatt Irwin

She grabbed my life.St. Anne’s took me for eight years.

From seven-years-old,the beatings got worse,

the pain got worse,the nuns got worse.

Her, the red brick building,still reaches deep into my soul.The heart-wrenching isolation,

hurtful memories take me back to the pain.She won’t let me go.

I am doubly punished –punishment is only entertainment for her.

Her, the residential school.

IsolationRachel Hussey

No signs point the wayOnly arthritic limbs

Gesturing to endless sky

The wildest of the wildGlacier scoured terrain

Unmarredby roads

Tugged atby wind

On the shoulder

of the Continental Divide



Gaming ParadiseEmil Bernardo Pushing the power button, Entering a phantasmal world...From vast grandeur collectionsThe excitement will arise. Controller is the sibling,Discs are associates,The console is the keyTo make bonds with them. Dominate the grotesque enemies,Advance to objectives,Before the time is devouredTo conquer the game. Share the victorious results,Brag your intellectual prowess,Improve the skills to the fullestTo surpass them all.

Soccer’s fieldShaheer Saidyar

The soccer field gives me hopeAnd the two nets filled with rope

With the bright green grassI’ve received a beautiful pass

With the ball I fell so hardThis made the ref pull a card

I got a free kickThis made the players feel so sick

I kicked the ball through the airLike a rocket in space

The ball spins to the keepers faceAnd that’s the reason

That fills each season

Veil Amy Baldwin

Now and then I must hide from youevery time I see that look then I run away or burrow in for my soul is the best disguise

It’s not your fault, I tell myselfnow and then I must hide from youI just have to. Trust is fragile and mine the weakest of them all

You wouldn’t like what you would seemy words - disgrace - how could I? Sonow and then I must hide from youit is for your own good and mine

Just one more day, I tell myselfthe mask is worth what comes after when will the mask no longer fit?

Now and then I must hide from you

TraumaLinden Kohut

A sharp hard blowHis heart heaved looseThe man broke to tearsComprehending the truth

The light in his songBecame a dull humIt became overpoweringLike the roar of a gun

And it all fell awayLeaving him hereHe was surrounded by griefSurrounded by fear

Losing his gripLosing his controlTaking his kindnessTaking its toll

Bending at kneesHis skin was so whiteClammy and paleLosing his might

Tighten the nooseHanging him highThe rest of his lifeWondering why

Chased by his dogsIn a mental hazeTrapped in his thoughtsFrantic for old ways

And without any comfortSpiralling aloneHe was slowly fadingFading to bone

Losing his sceneLosing his mindTaking his patienceTaking its time

Bending as kneesHis skin was so whiteForgetting his loveForgetting what’s right



MarksmanCarter Lovelace

Name: Alessandro ZaccarellaAge: 21Nationality/Place of Origin: Calabria (Italy)Cause of Death: Shot by police in the Abruzzi MountainsOccupation: Bandit…But that’s just a statistic, a record of information for computers to file away; numbers. Not all statistics are accurate, though most have a background like this, an exciting tale lost to the ages. Forgotten in time… Far across the plains high above 19th Century Italy, deep in the thick forests of chestnut and oak, a small fire gave off a warm glow that softened the sunset on that cool fall’s eve. Surrounding the fire was an equally small group of silhouettes, heartily laughing as they reminisced about the events that had lead them all to where they were at that moment. Illuminated by the fire, the group’s leader, a tall and muscular man dressed in ill-fitting, torn jeans and a stained white shirt silenced the gathering. He loomed over the others and addressed them, “It was not the night of our first work… or the eve of 100 fires… It was today! Today, starting before the crack of dawn and until far past sunset was the day that, finally --”… The man stopped mid-sentence, and for a moment just stood, motionless. With a thud, the man collapsed to the leaf-strewn forest floor. Gazes of anticipation were replaced by shock and terror as they stared at the limp figure before them. A small trickle of blood dripped down his back, from where the arrow had skewered his heart. This event caused a panic throughout the now leaderless group. One man ran the second the body hit the ground, two crept away seconds later, only to be shoved apart by the fourth who sprinted for his life in the opposite direction of the first. But the fifth stayed. Paralyzed, and the last living bandit in his camp, Alessandro Zaccarella knew he was the next target for whoever had just assassinated his leader. So he stood. For ten minutes he stood, but not because he was waiting for death, but because he had realized that death must have followed the other bandits. He was half right, death had caught the other bandits, but the issuer of the arrow had not left. No, the deadly marksman hadn’t moved an inch, and she was watching. How’re you doing today?” she asked. Grandma sat solemnly in her chair. She looked up with a bleak expression on her face. “I hate it here! Annabelle, you promised. You have to get me out of here!” Annabelle felt like a lead weight had just been dropped on her chest. She fought back the tears that stung her eyes. “I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing I can do,” she said helplessly. “I’ll still visit as often as I can.” “Sweetie, you should probably get going. They’ll make me go to bed soon. I’ll walk you to the door,” offered Grandma. They slowly walked side by side, Grandma pushing her walker. “Well, Grandma, you can’t go any farther than this,” Annabelle told her at the door. “See you next time. I love you.” Her grandma reached out and kissed her hand. “See you next time,” whispered Grandma. Her hand moved back and forth in a feeble wave, and a large tear rolled down her wrinkled face.

Three

Please Tell MeAlia Aluma-Baigent

Please tell me;could an assembly of words powerful enough to make him hear me exist,when he was already deafened by the gun shot.Please tell me;through what power could I convince him to take a courageous step downwhen he’d already hung his rope,and the darkness that consumed his thoughts, tied his knot.Please tell me;in what manner could I have aided him seeinghow excellent and admirable he wasin all the mirrors that he had smashed.Please tell me;the proper number of times I should have said I loved himin all the love letters I trashed.Please tell me;an ideal arrangement for a heart that aches so madlyfor the one who left.Please tell me;how to keep afloat in the painwithout ceasing my own breath.

EACH WITH A TALE



Labelled ScarsJaecy Bells

she woke one day, the sun was brightbut somehow she still couldn’t fightthe pain she held, deep in her chestshe clutched the heartbreak to her breast

she then cut with a silver knifeto free herself, to live her lifeshe reached inside and took her heartto finally make a fresher start

she trimmed with care and shut awaythe remnants of things people saythe ruined organ hit the grounda smoker’s lung, but more profound

one by one, she sealed in jarsthe fragments of her labelled scarsthis butchered heart is hers alonethe hiding place is still unknown

her heart now pure, she sews it backbut it’s been changed, lighter by halfthere’s less to love, but less to acheshe tells herself her jars won’t break.

The Warmth of WinterCarter Stenberg

The frozen tundra covered with snowShines in the light as a halcyon glow.

Under protection of the great sun,The candescent light dances as one

Red, orange, and vibrant goldIlluminate as this story’s told

The light stands stagnant, the light lies cold,This is something that can’t be controlled.

The sun draws back, its time is done.As much as we chase, it must outrun;As much as we follow, it goes below,

We all know that we must let go.

FourteenGloria Sun

scrawled handwritten note on the windowsill.your name everywhere your ghost my ghost oh my god1. kitty under the bed. no monsters. meowing meowing clawing in clawing out meow meow2. soft blankets.3. good books.4. food in the oven.5. notebook open.6. headphones in. drunk on memoriesheadphones in. violin strings remember, remember, oh god, do you remember?headphones in.violin stringspiano keysgentle voices. sway. waves. singing. songs about love. i miss you.headphones in!7. quiet rooms. sunlight. 8. lights sparkling.9. tasting stars.10. big sweaters.11. soft eyeliner.12. writing. thinking. believing.

okay, okay, okay, I am okay, I am feathery razors, electric cashmere I am glowing fairy lights in bedrooms, lights wrapped around trees, shining, shiningI am okay, I am the soft light in the morningI am a handful of smeary pastels and I am the little girl hugging her teddy bear under the blankets during a thunderstorm,but I am finally warm

13. alone, not lonely.14. smiling. smiling. still smiling.


Where I’m From Terri Lynn Brule-Francis

I am from Company’s Coming Cookbooks,From Crisco and Dairy Land.I am from the quiet country, where you can catch the stars, Where fireflies are more welcoming than the artificial lighting of the cities.

I am from Lady Slippers, And the Prairie Roses that grow where I sit to think.

I am from baking family favorites and laughter,From Hazel and Alma,Whose cooking could rival the greatest chef’s.

I am from learning to cook before you learn to readAnd improvising if you don’t have what you “need”.

From “We will always be proud of you,” and“You will do something great one day.”

I am from saying prayers every nightTo celebrating His day.

I'm from small town Saskatchewan,From meat and potatoes

From the loss of my almost brother in a snow storm,To a menial fight that can tear a family apart.

I am from a book of few photos that have recognizable faces of the past and of the present Containing memories that never stuck.

I am the growing sapling that has become my family tree.


Home Jennifer Kaiswatum

My life’s couples were hoping, When they were little kids,

That their kingdom would not crumble.They hugged their memories, And kissed their tears,

When it was over,The kids surprised us.They had late night exploits.But in June, they found maternity,

And they’re thankful for their abundant goddess.The arrival was everything, And once they reached their destination,The journey was perfected.

One hundred things they’re thankful for?As the life’s couples were hoping,They had a little kid.

My Special PlaceBrian Parselelo

As cold as iceAs hot as lavaIt don’t matter

I‘ll always be there

It don’t matter I will always be there

My special placeNobody finds me Nobody finds it

I value this place like Wherever it goes I go

I follow like a beeTo a flower

I find it no matter where it isEven in the midnight bliss I will find it

Find things to play withPeople see it as junk

I see it as a paradise on earthI wish I owned it but

If wishes were horses beggars would ride


driving on a wet highwayJaecy Bells

some people feel alone in a crowd a thin veil of “don’t-talk-to-me-“ cutting them off from everyone

others can feel alone under the moon in a locked room, or a closed door bathed in sallow, artificial lights hours pass, thin morning comes they haven’t heard their own voicein a lifetime

i feel alonewhen i’m driving this morning i left in the dark the smell of rain hung like a heavy mist the small, wet rocks glistened under the orange glare of my headlights

the crackly radio is too obnoxious for the dim hours before 7am so i flick it off

raindrops burst across the windshield the soothing swish of the wipers squishes them away

the long black road gleams as it rises up to meet my lights the feeling i am alone is there dark hollow pervasive, a pit inside me the majestic autumn leaves are dulled and quieted, their colors just a suggestion

the cloudy sky awakens as it hints at the sunrise


driving on a wet highwayJaecy Bells

some people feel alone in a crowd a thin veil of “don’t-talk-to-me-“ cutting them off from everyone

others can feel alone under the moon in a locked room, or a closed door bathed in sallow, artificial lights hours pass, thin morning comes they haven’t heard their own voicein a lifetime

i feel alonewhen i’m driving this morning i left in the dark the smell of rain hung like a heavy mist the small, wet rocks glistened under the orange glare of my headlights

the crackly radio is too obnoxious for the dim hours before 7am so i flick it off

raindrops burst across the windshield the soothing swish of the wipers squishes them away

the long black road gleams as it rises up to meet my lights the feeling i am alone is there dark hollow pervasive, a pit inside me the majestic autumn leaves are dulled and quieted, their colors just a suggestion

the cloudy sky awakens as it hints at the sunrise

no people are moving. no houses are lit no cars are travelling, no animals are darting in the gray bushes at the side of the highway

it’s easy to believe, in the gray hours,that something devastating swept over the world

capturing people, these bags of bones taking animals and life and leaving silence

the colors are muted, everything is different.

there’s just me exempt, driving, safe inside my warm car alone.


PedroEnya Dyck

Pedro Le Pocus stalked into the school head held as high as his posterior. The inferiors stared in envy, orthodontic headgear drooling envy. He pompously strutted past a group of fraternizing cheerleaders and jocks. The jocks offered cold stares as Pedro passed and the girls swooned, sending out a rush of air, the wind sweeping Pedro’s fabulous fur.

His ears twitched, once; his nose twitched twice.

“He’s figured it out,” Sally Turner slurred through her braces.

“S**t.” Mark Bownstein uttered the longest word in his vocabulary.

Pedro turned. A large sign not previously visible to him, which kind of defeated the purpose of it being large, none-the-less hung on the wall, reading: ‘Tuna Fish Salad for Lunch Today.’ Pedro turned again to look at all his admirers and his nemeses.

“Meow,” he said, which could mean a number of things.

(Possible meanings: 1.“I am a cat, if you haven’t figured that out yet.” 2. “Imma go get me some tuna, suckers.” Or 3. “Goodbye, friends.” It could mean all of these things.... or maybe just 1 and 2 - probably just 1 and 2.)

In any case, Pedro went off to the kitchen, dodging his adversaries: feet, binders, backpacks and more feet. He stepped into the food court. All the lunch ladies screamed and abandoned their posts.

Meow, Pedro thought (which roughly translated to “This won’t be a challenge at all”).

But then Gertrude appeared. Gertrude, Gerdy, Gert - the most foul of the lunch ladies. Their leader.

“Mee-oow,” said Pedro. (No translation needed.)

Gert understood the invitation. A duel. She was the first to move. She flung yesterday’s mystery meat in Pedro’s direction, but she was too late. With catlike precision, Pedro barreled toward the barrel of his destiny. The barrel of today’s lunch special: tuna fish salad.

He left the school with his success carried in a full stomach.



That Small Prairie HillShelby Piechotta Do you remember who you used to hang out withsitting on a small prairie hillpretending it was a cliff? Before the straight teethbefore the bracesdo you remember the crooked smiles on your faces? The children you once wereyou will never be again.You look away while parting pathsthough there’s still room

to reach across.

Four[EACH WITH] ACCENTS

Social AffectionsTaliah Lavertu

Regret is an old friend of mine,he likes to visit all the time.We sit on benches in the park,we cry together in the dark-but he doesn't hold me in the dark.Regret and I, we understand,the pricewhen things don’t go as planned.He sees my pain,I know his sorrow.I feed his gain,he fills my tomorrowwith grey and hurt,in endless wealth;

he only talks about himself.

The Events of June 28th, 1954Jessie Chamberlain

An old woman in a nursing home tells a young psychology student about a time in her life as a pyromaniac and how the situation ended.

[Lights up on a stage set as a nursing home. There are two armchairs, a couch with a throw blanket, and an electric fireplace. MRS. HENRY, an elderly lady, is sitting in an armchair crocheting. Facing her is a STUDENT with a pen and notebook.]

MRS. HENRY: Truthfully, I don’t want to tell you how it ended. That hurts too much. But the beginning was simple, as beginnings usually are. [Stops crocheting, sets needles in lap] You’ll have to forgive me if I falter; my memory isn’t what it used to be. Here in this infernal place if you forget the date for one second, the nurses dope you up and tell you you’re senile. I’m not senile. [Pause] But I’ll let them think I am. Just for kicks. [Wink]

STUDENT: Yes Mrs. Henry, but about the events of June 28th, 1954 -- [cut off by Mrs. Henry]

MRS. HENRY: Yes, yes I’m well aware of why you’re here and what you wish to discuss. Very well. [Clears throat] I was born in 1934, [STUDENT starts writing in notebook] I don’t remember the exact date, but I know it was that year. I know it because I was twenty years old in 1954… when the accident happened. My mother, God rest her soul, had a baby nine years before the accident, putting eleven years between me and my brother, Michael. With him being the youngest, we shunned him. The other children and I, that is. He was the youngest of eight, and seemed to be naturally frail and thin. Michael was weak in the chest and suffering almost chronic with pneumonia. [Shivers]

STUDENT: Are you cold Mrs. H? [Sets down notebook and takes throw blanket from nearby couch, wraps it around MRS. HENRY]

MRS. HENRY: Thank you, dear. Where was I? Michael? [STUDENT nods] Ah, yes. Addy and I – that was my sister, younger than me by months, not years. Addy and I used to prick him with our sewing needles while he was sleeping. Once, my father was out chopping wood and I joined him, eager to prove that though I was a girl, his oldest child could hold her own weight. He set me to work chopping wood, and I only dislocated one shoulder blade. [Touches left shoulder vaguely] My love for the flame started then. I asked him, “Father? What is the wood for?” and the reply was a cuff to the ear and the blunt remark, “For the fire of course!” [Laughs harshly] He let me help build it up to a roaring bonfire. For Christmas that year I received a box of matches. My parents thought it funny to have a small child playing with matches. Perhaps they thought I couldn’t get into much trouble. They were wrong.

STUDENT: [Looks up from writing] What happened?


MRS. HENRY: Oh I set the drapes on fire once, just for a moment. I put them out before my father could get to me, but my mother gave me the wooden spoon when she saw the jagged holes. That didn’t hinder me, I just kept going. [STUDENT goes back to writing in booklet] I always had burns on my fingers and hands [Splays fingers] not anymore. Not here, in this ridiculous place. That fireplace isn’t even real [Gestures to fireplace] just a picture with a switch and a mantle, blowing hot air. Perhaps they thought I couldn’t contain myself. [Snorts] Where was I again? Oh never mind. What did you want to know again, Dear? When the accident happened to Michael?

STUDENT: [Quietly] Yes, if you please.

MRS. HENRY: Ah. [Settles back into chair] By the summer of my twentieth year I had one lighter, my prized possession, boxes of matches, and even a small container of gas under my bed. All of my wages went to buying things to feed my addiction, for that’s what it was. I told my parents that the electric lights hurt my eyes; they then only used candles in the house after that. Everywhere I walked I saw fire. I saw the fire in the autumn leaves, and then set them aflame behind the barn. I saw fire in Bethany Emerson’s bright orange hair, so I ripped it out as I walked by, and delighted in it turning to ash later that night. There were dark smoke stains on the porcelain complexion of my bedroom roof. The smell of sulphur from a freshly struck match lingered on my skin until it was a permanent accompaniment. My brother, Michael, was always trailing in my wake; the smoke after my fire. I was charged with babysitting the sickly thing while the rest of my family went to church – I was no longer welcome at church. The stench of sulphur and rumors of wild bonfires had the church convinced I was possessed by Satan or some silly misconception. I was striking matches and flicking them away, watching them burn little black marks into the floor when Michael came downstairs soaking wet and stinking. “What have you done now? What is that smell?” I demanded of the boy. He would’ve been eight or nine at the time, I can’t remember. Nor do I remember what his words were. He’d been looking for a toy in the shared room of my three sisters and I. He’d slipped and fallen, his foot kicking the jar of gas under my bed, dumping on him. I hadn’t realized. I was still flicking matches… [Trails off, tears flowing]

STUDENT: The fire got him?

MRS. HENRY: He went up like a stack of dry twigs. I tried to stop it, the water didn’t do anything. I tried to stop it; I never meant to hurt him! Mother thought it was on purpose, that I’d killed little Michael on purpose. I didn’t! They had me sent to an asylum, I don’t remember the name. There were four asylums. [Starts rocking in chair] And the fire, the fire, the fire, fire fire fire.

STUDENT: [Stands up quickly] Nurse! Nurse help!

[Lights go down slowly on STUDENT calling to nurses for help and MRS. HENRY screaming] [The End]


TonguesWyatt Bachman

I see a world that’s brokenThe words that they’ve spokenIt’s an abuse of the Gift of speechAnd twisted tongues make their words out of reachThe cruelty of their words sucks Life like a leechThe walls they build to keep others out haven’t been breached Because they Build it up every day, their keep

The walls are made of stoneAnd the stones cast break their bonesAnd tears their SpiritWe cover out ears so we don’t hear itThey’re hiding in the shadows for they fear it

The Words we throwTo make ourselves growWe think we know where to goAnd it shows.

To bring our own Kingdom upWe bring their Kingdom downThey hit the ground and the sound is LoudWhatever it takes to earn our own Crown The cruelest of rulers’ hatred resoundsThere we find those who drownIn the sound of ClownsWho think they’re justified to be called MenThen they’re kicked off their throne againSo a war begins to wage and nobody had to time to mendIn this battlefield nobody can blendInto the crowds anymoreAnd everybody who fights is poor


TonguesWyatt Bachman

I see a world that’s brokenThe words that they’ve spokenIt’s an abuse of the Gift of speechAnd twisted tongues make their words out of reachThe cruelty of their words sucks Life like a leechThe walls they build to keep others out haven’t been breached Because they Build it up every day, their keep

The walls are made of stoneAnd the stones cast break their bonesAnd tears their SpiritWe cover out ears so we don’t hear itThey’re hiding in the shadows for they fear it

The Words we throwTo make ourselves growWe think we know where to goAnd it shows.

To bring our own Kingdom upWe bring their Kingdom downThey hit the ground and the sound is LoudWhatever it takes to earn our own Crown The cruelest of rulers’ hatred resoundsThere we find those who drownIn the sound of ClownsWho think they’re justified to be called MenThen they’re kicked off their throne againSo a war begins to wage and nobody had to time to mendIn this battlefield nobody can blendInto the crowds anymoreAnd everybody who fights is poor

You can’t see the soul’s window and they won’t open their Mind’s doorThey hit the floor surely they’re unsureThey cry in desperation in this seemingly endless war

The way these people hurtIt’s the worstAnd they make this tongue of power a curseThey put themselves FirstAnd everybody in the broken world thirsts

I’ll try to show them the wellTo show them they don’t have to dwellIn the consuming darkness where they fellBecause cursed tongues consume themselvesAnd the anger that swells insideOf those who’ve been deniedTold they weren’t worth a timeImpressions that last a long timeFilled with hatred and liesThey swarm like flies buzzing false messages into ear like mineIn this world they cry insideIn this world they think they’ve already diedBecause out of someone’s mouth came a Spoken CrimeI want to slow down Time and ShineGive them hope for the nightWith Eagles they could take flightA message hardly sought and it’s so brightTongues can be violent weapons in this fightBut out of this heart I speak with lightAnd with this tongue I’ve been given I will Speak Life


Walk of ShameAmy Baldwin

I’ve come crawling back to youdear, sweet Poetry it must be like riding a bike or a broken heartyou never really forget

I’ve come back to you much less innocent and with a sharper tongue I couldn’t suffocate my voice even after an extended leave of exploring the Real Worldit still belts out never been much good at restraint

And you are still right where I left you always the best at waiting until I found the words or until I realized I needed to release them because you are the only one who knowswhat happens when I keep words like that caged and somehow you still take me

I can’t even remember why we ended in the first place

something trivial like syntax or love

Oh EagleMatthew Thomson

Oh Eagle High In the SkyWhat does it feel like to be free

Oh Eagle High In the SkyDo you feel fear like the rest of us

Oh Eagle High In the SkyWhy have you left the earth

Oh Eagle High In the SkyWhy can’t you take me with you

Oh Eagle High In the SkyWhat do you feel when you see the scorched earth below

Oh Eagle High In the SkyI now know why you left the earth

Oh Eagle High In the SkyI will join you soon

Oh Eagle High In the Sky…


Walk of ShameAmy Baldwin

I’ve come crawling back to youdear, sweet Poetry it must be like riding a bike or a broken heartyou never really forget

I’ve come back to you much less innocent and with a sharper tongue I couldn’t suffocate my voice even after an extended leave of exploring the Real Worldit still belts out never been much good at restraint

And you are still right where I left you always the best at waiting until I found the words or until I realized I needed to release them because you are the only one who knowswhat happens when I keep words like that caged and somehow you still take me

I can’t even remember why we ended in the first place

something trivial like syntax or love

ARMIES OF INKAlia Aluma-Baigent It is in my darkest times that I create the strongest armies of characters in black inkThat mark their grounds on the off white pages between leather covers.Who patiently wait to attack the hearts of any trespassersOr foreigners who travel into territory that is not their own.My soldiers protect and heal the parts of meAnother soul will never be given opportunity to explore.I am sacred land,Unmarked and unclaimed territory.I am a prophecy that stragglers will seekBut never reach.Because like the wind through willows,I am always moving.My missionaries multiply as I grow with wisdom,They grow into warriors.Eventually they are shaped into professors and proclaimers of what I preach and practice.One day there will be peace on my lands.My battlefield that once hosted violence and weaponsWill be the breeding grounds of gardens and flaws that I’ve learned to love. It is this day I will no longer forge armiesInstead I will build friendshipsFrom the rubble of the walls I grew strong enough to break down.


Writer’s BlockJosiah Thiessen

Oh, come on, think, all that I need to do is think! How did all the other kids come up with ideas for this stupid short story? Let’s see, a hunting accident? No, that’s been done. Oh, here we go, a shoot him up story with spies, action, and all that good stuff. NO, no, no! How am I supposed to write about something that I know nothing about? Yes! A dream ending, I can write about anything if I just end my story in a dream. Come on, that is the corniest way to end a story, and on top of that it has been done almost a ‘bazillion’ times. But I need something. Just one idea, that is all I need. I need an idea! How am I ever going to finish all this work by tomorrow?

The ice crunches below my feet as I speed over the barren landscape. The hungry wolves are right on my heels. They could overtake me any time. All that I have is a sturdy stick in my left hand, and my torn up glove in my right. I stumble as the ground shifts below my feet. The wolves overtake me and I feel a tearing pain in my back as I fall. My body slams into the frozen terrain, and we fall through the ice and into the freezing cold water. The wolves yip in agony as they are pulled under by the raging current. My heavy parka slowly pulls me farther and farther into the depths of the river.

“You better not be watching TV again?” my mom yells from downstairs. I quickly flick off the TV with a push of a button.

I have to get back on track. I wrack my brain for some creative ideas. A poster on the wall flutters in the breeze coming from my open window.

“A left and another left. I don’t think that he can stand this beating very much longer. He is down! This might be it folks. One, two, three, this is amazing! Somehow he is back up and is swinging wildly! Not quite sure what he is swinging at but he is sure swinging. And there is the bell. An obvious win by....”

“How is your short story coming?” my dad asks from behind his large glasses and stares at me ominously.

“Great, do you have any good ideas?” I ask sheepishly.

“I can’t say that I do, but I will get back to you on that,” my dad says, smiling as he walks out of my room.

An idea. An idea? An idea! I could always describe a personal experience. I quickly type out, It all started one Friday night. That is terrible! Who starts a story like that? I glance at a paper on the table in front of me.

My cell phone vibrates signalling a text. I glance at the message: Hi Jeff, this is Steve. Found a good idea yet? I text back quickly: Not a clue. No assignment for tomorrow for this guy. I set my phone down and knock my favorite book off my desk. Bending down, I pick up the book.

The sirens scream as we approach the scene of the fire. The apartment building is in disarray. Fire licks the walls of the lower floors. People stand frozen staring up at the windows. We stop our large fire engine and jump out. Instantly a hysterical lady grabs my


coat and almost drags me to the ground.

“My baby is still in there! You have to help her. She needs your help!” The lady shrilly screams at me so quickly that her words slur together. She points frantically to the top window of the apartment building. Her burned hands crack as she moves her raw fingers.

I run into the inferno. My oxygen tank hisses on my back as the regulator releases the vital air. The vicious heat is already seeping through my thick coat. Racing up the stairs two at a time I know that I have no time to lose. If I don’t hurry, I will go down with the burning building. My radio buzzes as my colleague calls my name. The building groans as the fire eats away at it. The echoes of a child’s wail resonate from the closet to my right. Reefing open the door, I see a charred face through the smoke. I pick up the crying child and race toward the open window. The building shifts again as if it is about to collapse. The way back down the stairs is blocked by a wall of flames so the only option I have is to leap out the window. A fine rain hits my visor as I lean out the window. The building shudders once more, and this time, it begins to tilt. I make up my mind. I have to jump. I don’t stop to think. I leap. I feel the wind whistling by. The black ground rushes ominously closer.

I rouse myself with a start as rain pelts my desk. Oh no, how long have I been out? I glance at the clock. 3:30 a.m.! This is not good. I am never going to get this story done by morning. I run my hand over the desk sending soggy papers sprawling all over the floor. I quickly turn to the keyboard and try to type. No words pop up on the computer screen and the wet keys make a loud gushing sound every time I push down a key. Great! Now I can’t use my computer. It seems as if the entire world is against me. I need my dad’s laptop. I open my bedroom door and tear down the stairs. The door to my parent’s room is open so I sneak inside; my dad’s laptop is on his nightstand.

“What are you doing?” my dad asks groggily. I jump back with a start but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Can I use your laptop?” I ask him, “My keyboard is fried and I need to have my short story done by tomorrow.”

“You’re still not done your short story? What were you doing the whole time you were in your room?” he snaps at me.

“Trying to think of an idea; it’s not as easy as it sounds,” I fire back at him.

“Well, get at it. You’ll be so tired tomorrow that you won’t make it to school,” he growls.

“For sure!” I whisper over my shoulder as I slip out the door. I enter my room and set down my dad’s laptop. Well, what if I write about writing short stories? I ponder the idea for a little while longer. Why can’t I write about writing short stories? There is nothing in the rulebooks that states it can’t be done. Yea, great idea! I am going to write about writing short stories, and I know exactly how to start.


Contributor Biographies Terri Lynn Brule-FrancisI am a grade twelve student from small town Saskatchewan. I enjoy being out in my community working, playing, or volunteering. I’m to go to school for interior design when I graduate high school. My writing comes from my heart and soul. I am passionate about writing, and hope to continue it in the future.

Jessie ChamberlainI am a young woman with ambitions almost as high as my heels. I live in a city that’s not too small and not too big, but just the right size to annoy everyone. I plan to leave behind everything I know to seek bigger things in a university education.

Enya DyckI grew up and actively reside in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. My talents include microwaving food, tripping over invisible objects, and procrastinating. (Note my submission the day before the deadline.) I’m a tragically dull person, a terribly suburban white girl, hopefully you find my writing more interesting than I am.

Kezia FourieKezia Fourie has been following the yellow brick road her whole life. Her mottos in life are “Ain’t no mountain high enough” and “Don’t worry, be happy”. She loves the good life and the sound of music. She likes to play that funky music.

Rachel HusseyRachel Hussey is a seventeen-year-old writer from Swift Current. She loves music and science, and has a secret passion for spoken word. (She’s bad at keeping secrets.) Her primary intrigue is language, and she hopes to one day become a teacher to instill her love of words in others.

Matthew IrwinMatt Irwin is a grade eleven student at Elrose Composite School. He is an engaged student who is active in all aspects of school life, a well-rounded student with a diverse skill set. He is known around ECS for his ability to help staff members with they get in a bind with technology! Matt’s poem is a found poem, created during an investigation into Saskatchewan First Nations’ literature.

Jennifer KaiswatumJennifer Kaiswatum is a fourteen-year-old actress, and to her food is everything. She is currently living in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. She is trying to write poetry and although it is for grades, she is enjoying it. She plans on finishing high school, and writing more in the future.

Derrick KayI’m a small town boy from Maryfield, SK. I enjoy hunting, fishing, and other outdoor activities. Also I love hockey. Go Leafs!

Linden KohutI have only learned two ‘simple’ things in life. The first is that there is beauty in barren things. They do not need extravagance or romance. The second is that beauty will not simply wait to be discovered. Truly said, the beauty of it all waits for no man.

Jasmine KumarJasmine is a student in grade nine. Her favorite type of writing would be descriptive though she likes all types. She wants to be a lot of things, which might include being an English professor and an author. She also loves to read. She hopes that someday her work will be published.

Taliah LavertuI am a grade twelve student at Sheldon Williams Collegiate, Regina. From the age of ten, I began writing poems and stories. Outside of writing, I enjoy other aspects of the fine arts, particularly singing and acting. I have

Alia Aluma-BaigentI’m an eleventh grade student who loves maple walnut ice cream and I’ve never actually flown a kite. I am really good at climbing trees and naming the elements on the periodic table. I have a twin brother and the two of us love to pull pranks on everybody.

Wyatt Bachman I am the youngest of four children and I hail from Rocanville Saskatchewan. I took my initial interest in poetry when I began watching Jefferson Bethke do Spoken Word¬; I found I enjoyed the flow of rhyme and was already a consistent writer. I’ve come to write with a strong passion and a personal and direct message.Amy Baldwin

Amy Baldwin is a sarcastic, coffee-addicted Sheldon-Williams Collegiate student who is way too involved with the music and theater programs. You can always find her baking or lecturing about the evils of disposable water bottles. She is in grade twelve but don’t you dare ask about her future plans.

Jaecy BellsJaecy Bells lives on a farm near Watrous and gathers her artistic inspiration from nature, as long as it’s not too cold out. She plays volleyball and piano (not at the same time) and reads a lot of books. She’s excited to go to university and meet similar nerds!

Emil BernardoEmil Lorenzo Reyes Bernardo was born in the Philippines and grew up in a crowded province with his family and other relatives. He came to Canada as a permanent resident at age eleven, and is now a high school student at E.D. Feehan Collegiate in Saskatoon. Emil likes to make and build things on his own; he plans to be a chef, architect or an engineer when he finishes high school.


been involved in Sheldon’s choir and vocal jazz ensembles, as well as musical theater and visual art. My goal is to become a performer and I will continue to nurture my passion for writing.

Carter LovelaceMy name is Carter Lovelace. I am a freelance graphic designer with a passion for creative writing, and a grade ten student at Greenall High School, Balgonie. My ‘favorite author’ is a tie between John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemmingway. I also have a special place in my heart for paleontology and paleoanthropology.

Sydney MoffattI am a grade twelve student who writes poetry in hopes of inspiring others. I love to dance, draw, and sing. I enjoy simple things like being outdoors, sandwiches, and waking up at noon. In my upcoming year, I plan to travel the world, meet new people, and enjoy new experiences.

Maryl O’SoupI am a grade eleven student at Dreambuilders’ Learning Centre, Yorkton. I enjoy writing anything, including poems, stories, or songs. I like to listen to music and create my own songs on my guitar, which I am learning to play. I am open to try new things, take risks, and learn.

Brian Parselelo

I love reading books since it takes away my boredom. I get bored easily and books are mostly what takes away my boredom. I am a student at E.D Feehan high school in Saskatoon. I can write books and I have a wattpad account.

Shelby PiechottaAt age seventeen, I live with two awesome parents in Swift Current and have two amazing siblings. Writing is the fuse to diffuse your ponderings on the universe, as I’ve learned from my encouraging English teachers. They deserve a shout-out... Hey, thank you!

Shaheer SaidyarShaheer Saidyar is a fourteen-year-old student at E.D. Feehan in Saskatoon. He loves sports, especially soccer. He also enjoys eating pizza and lasagna. He likes to draw in his free time. He would like to finish high school and then go to university and become a professional soccer player.

Carter StenbergMy name is Carter Stenberg and I currently live in Kronau, Saskatchewan. I am an aspiring filmmaker and love writing and literature. The biggest influences in my writing come from authors TS Eliot and F. Scott Fitzgerald as well as filmmakers Martin Scorsese and Quentin Tarantino.

Gloria SunGloria Sun writes when she’s telling the truth. She laughs at her own jokes, especially the terrible puns. Her fascinations include math, light, and memories. Gloria’s afraid of capital letters, but she’s trying. Someday, she’d like to be happy. She doesn’t know what that means yet, but it sounds nice.

Josiah ThiessenI am a very carefree person. I poured hours into this short story. I am not sure what my future holds. Why worry?

Matthew ThomsonMatthew is a grade eleven student at Assinaboia Composite High School in Assinaboia, Saskatchewan.

Samuel YusifI was born in Sudan in 1998. I moved to Canada seven years ago and have two siblings; I am the oldest. I enjoy history, I find it fascinating, and I enjoy playing sports like soccer, basketball, track… and many other games.


Participating Schools Students from these schools submitted to Windscript Vol.29:

Centennial Collegiate, Saskatoon

Churchill Community School, La Ronge

Dr. Martin LeBoldus Catholic High School, Regina

Elrose Composite School, Elrose

Glaslyn Central School, Glaslyn

H. Hardcastle School, Edam

Humboldt Collegiate Institute, Humboldt

Lumsden High School, Lumsden

Maryfield School, Maryfield

Mount Royal Collegiate, Saskatoon

Saskatoon Public Schools, Saskatoon

Sheldon-Williams Collegiate, Regina

Vanier Collegiate Institute, Moose Jaw

Walter Murray Collegiate Institute, Saskatoon

Walter W. Brown High School, Langham

windscript award history

Victor Jerrett Enns Photo courtesy of SWG

Robert Currie and Gary Hyland Photo courtesy of SWG Jerrett Enns Awards

The Jerrett Enns Awards are two awards of excellence for high school student writing in poetry and prose named in honour of Victor Jerrett Enns, Executive Director of the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild from 1982 to 1988. A third award for art was discontinued in 1996. Today, the poetry and prose awards continue to be presented, as well as an Honourable Mention in each category.

Currie-Hyland Prize The Currie-Hyland Prize is awarded for excellence in poetry to a high school writer living outside Regina or Saskatoon. This award was established in 1992 by the Saskatchewan Writers’ Guild and the literary community of Moose Jaw as a tribute to Robert Currie and Gary Hyland in recognition of the literary excellence they achieved in their many published works and to acknowledge their commitment and generosity to their students and fellow writers.


Windscriptsubmission guidelinesWe invite students to submit creative writing in any and

all forms— poetry, prose, and creative non-fiction—for consideration in the next issue of Windscript.

Please note that as in all writing competitions, these guidelines are veryimportant and must be followed in order for submissions to be accepted.

1 Please send submissions by email in a word-processed text file (Word doc or docx) to [email protected] with “Submission for Windscript” in the subject line.2 All manuscripts must follow the standard 8 1/2” × 11” format with 1” borders all around, using 12-point (Arial or Times New Roman) font size, and be double-spaced.2 Do NOT put your name on the poems or stories themselves. (The judging for this competition is blind; therefore your name cannot appear on the submissions.) Categories and word limits are as follows: Poetry: Please submit no more than six poems with a maximumof 100 lines each. Do not put more than one poem on a page.Prose: (short fiction & literary non-fiction): Please submit no morethan 2 pieces of prose. Works should not exceed 1500 words.

Deadline for submissions for Volume 30of Windscript: February 13, 2015 by 4:30 pm.

All work must be original from start to finish. Writers submittingplagiarized work will be banned from Windscript.

Send a cover letter by email along with your submissions,providing the following information:1 your name, address, home phone number2 your email address3 the genre of writing you are submitting (poetry, fiction, non-fiction)4 the title(s) of your poems or stories5 the name, address and phone number of your school and teacher’s name6 Include a fifty-word biography with your cover letter (if we publishyour work, we will use this information, so be creative).

For more information, please visit the SWG website: www skwriter.com/publications/windscript

Information for Teachers and LibrariansSaskatchewan’s finest writers of every genre sharethe distinctiveness of their own stories when they visit schools, libraries, and other public venues. The SWG makesnit possible for these writers to reach students, teachers, librarians, parents, and readers around the province. People of all ages are given the opportunity to meetand listen to their favourite authors and storytellers. ReadingsAll schools, libraries, writing groups and communityorganizations may apply for up to 2 readings perprogram year (August 1, 2014to June 30, 2015) bySaskatchewan Writers’ Guild members. The writerreads from his or her work for 45 to 60 minutes andmay be available for discussion afterwards.

How to Choose an AuthorTo assist you in selecting a writerfor your event, Find SaskatchewanWriters, a searchable on-line databaseis available, which is a comprehensivedirectory of Saskatchewan writers andtheir works. Please visit : www.skwriter.com/find-saskatchewan-writers. How Much Does It Cost?Each group pays a host fee of $110 perreading. (This fee is reduced to $35 perreading for any school or communitywith a population under 100. ) The hostgroup is also responsible for othercosts, including meals, accommodation,phone calls, facility rental, and publicity.

For moreinformation andapplication forms,please visit ourweb site:www.skwriter.com

Saskatchewan Writers’ GuildAuthor Readings Program ForSchools, Libraries and Communities

Join theSaskatchewanWriters’ GuildMembership in the Guild is open to everyone.You do not need to be a writer, you may simply beinterested in supporting Saskatchewan writers orstaying current with Saskatchewan’s literary scene.

Everyone is welcome!

If you are a writer, you will find ahome with the Guild no matterwhat kind of writing you do. Ourmembers write fiction, non-fiction,poetry, plays, radio documentaries,songs, newspaper columns,screenplays, business material,television dramas, and more. Similarly, you are welcome to jointhe Guild regardless of how longyou’ve been writing. You maybe just thinking about writingyour first poem, or you may bea seasoned veteran with manypublished books to your credit.

For further information, e-mail us [email protected] or visit us onlineat www.skwriter.com

Membership BenefitsIf you’re a Saskatchewan writer,or are interested in Saskatchewanwriters and writing, membershipin the Saskatchewan Writers’Guild is more than just agood idea... it’s a must. The benefits of membershipinclude the following: • a subscription to Freelance , the newsmagazine of the SWG• free inclusion in “Books by Members” section of Freelance , if you have recently published a book• your book will also be added to the SWG Library• a subscription to Ebriefs , the weekly e-newsletter of the SWG• members can send us information about upcoming events• reduced rates on a wide range of workshops and events• connection to a wide-ranging community of Saskatchewan writers who are at all levels of development and who work in all genres Reasons for joining the SWG• To keep up with what’s happening in the Saskatchewan writing community• To be part of the writing community• To learn more about writing• To expand your inuence on public policy and other issues of concern to writers• To qualify for writers group funding• To qualify for the member rate when participating in SWG programs• To express your personal commitment your writing• To get information on writing opportunities and markets

A home for your voice for more information contact:Saskatchewan Writers’ GuildBox 3986, Regina, SK S4P 3R9Phone: (306) 791-7740Email: [email protected]

We gratefully acknowledge the support of Saskatchewan Lotteries Trust, SaskCulture, and the Saskatchewan Arts Board

Documents

SPRING 2014 this issue - Saskatchewan Writers GuildThe stars danced along the treeline their lights, a story each star, a beauty Here down on Earth we’re extensions each with a tale