The Cold Winter Wind

This is one of my favorite pieces I wrote, the first one that I really spent a lot of time on, although I still feel it's not quite right. I'm constantly coming back to it to edit, change, etc. But that's the thing about writers, or even potential ones: they're their greatest critics and will always go back to something they wrote that they really like to "fix".

"The Cold Winter Wind"

When I wake up I notice it’s another cold day. The wind is blowing its cold intentions across the city, turning the snow into little knives that cut down to the bone, and I find warmth on a train looking out the window. Surprisingly, it’s quiet; the only sounds that can be heard are the trundles of the trains running up and down their tracks and people walk briskly towards their destinations bundled up in their armour of winter jackets, toques, and gloves, while they complain that this city is too cold during the winter, and wish for summer to come. When summer comes they complain that this city is too hot, and wish for winter; they never get what they want. Rushing and rushing from one place to another, they hunger for that something else that their homes can provide.

Or maybe there’s something more that they want. Rather than the warmth of a house, they prefer the warmth of friends or lovers—the warmth of people close to them. Maybe they leave this cold city for a world inside a book, written for the express purpose of delicious disassociation. Or maybe they leave this place all together for somewhere warm, somewhere where people and relationships are fleeting.

It’s always interesting to watch these people, with their jackets, toques, and gloves; they always give the air of delirious desperation. They can teach a person a valuable lesson. But how many lessons are there to be learned in the cold wind blowing its cold intentions across the city? Intentions? What intentions? Dress up, be warm, so that you can slow your situation down and enjoy this life that is so cold? Dress up, be comfortable, so that you can quickly run through the snow to the warmth that your friends and lovers can provide? What a paradox; slow down, speed up, complain, want, and wish. Winter is a great season to watch people—they can teach you so much.

So the city in the weather is really cold. What I mean to say is, weather is a cold city. What I mean to say is winter is a season when nothing makes sense. Colours blend, blemish, and blush together till everything is grey and you can’t tell white from black anymore; Mike’s, Jon’s and Ben’s become “Hey”, Jessica’s Stephanie’s and Michelle’s become “you”, up becomes right, right becomes west, south becomes north, and left becomes something else entirely. Is there any point to knowing this many people or doing so many things? Or maybe knowing so many people and doing so many things is the point itself? Who’s to say, there has to be a point, hasn’t there? Otherwise, it’s all pointless anyway.

And now it’s night. The house is silent, but not, and the cold is left outside while the bubbles from the fish tank gurgle and giggle their merry tempo through the floors of the house, and the cats can be heard from time to time roaming around the open rooms. A board creaks, stirring a person oh-so-slightly from their sleep, just for them to mumble something incoherent, while they venture back deeper into the halls of dreams.

I myself stay up, listening to all these noises, wondering what the house could be trying to tell me. There are no days from long ago for this place; it was built very recently, my sister and her husband are in fact the first owners; there are no ghosts to come by the bed-frames to chill their master’s cheeks, no ghouls to glide into their dreams.

So what, then, is the house trying to tell me? “Stop what you are doing young man, and clean that room of mine that you’re so obliged to live in! Stop young man, and clear that room that is your realm!” Or, to say that the room is clean, what would the house say then? “Come young man, escape to this room of mine, your own place, and forget the foils and follies that follow you. I will embrace you, and let you sleep, as you are.”

The nightly noises that nobody ever hears is the berceuse that the house sings to me, pulling me into the sense of security that I long for at the end of the day. The warmth of the bed, so comforting and familiar, the shape of the pillow, which is only so after months of pounding and punching, combine to provide the rhythm of the house’s song. The cats jumping and shuffling provide the accompaniment. The bubbles from the fish tank gurgling and giggling provide the bass and set the pace for the lullaby to follow.

Finally, the house itself provides the melody. In the creaks groans yawns taps clicks and moans that float around the house come the feelings that make up the words of the song:

“Come young one, be calm.
You will not feel the cold here.
This is a warm room.

Come, growing one, sleep.
Worries will not follow you.
Here, dreams are pleasant.”

With the house singing to me its tune, I sleep, and sleep is a curious thing. So many feelings rush through my body every time I close my eyes and try to get comfortable; my body tingles, comfortably, slowly becoming heavy until that tingling turns into a tickle and always my thoughts turn and crawl into the more obscure cracks of my memory, quietly, almost without a sound at all while they turn into dreams.

I never remember those dreams. They are fleeting, like feet through the shallow waters of a beach; they touch my imagination, stir up emotion, and then leave. When the sun comes up and I wake, I’m left just as shifted, as conflicted as the sand on that beach, outside shivering in the cold winter wind.

On sight

My eyes feel heavy, like they do when I'm tired, but maybe not. I think 'heavy' is the wrong word. My eyes aren't heavy, but there's something there, something behind them. I've noticed that since I've given myself a goal, since I've started working towards it, that a feeling fell behind my eyes. It's kind of like I'm seeing things differently, or maybe that I'm more aware. My eyes see the world, but the feeling behind them tells me that there's something more that's there--a hidden agenda, that's not always so sinister in its design, lies just beyond the fabric of life and makes me want to write about it. What I want to write about exactly, I don't know, but tomorrow when I see the world, maybe I can write something that'll create, hopefully, just a little bit of change.

The Person in a Place in a World

I've always been a fan of authors like Robert Munch and Dr.Seuss and Shel Silverstein. When I was a kid and only just learning how to read, it was those authors, among others, that really taught me the beauty of words. They also taught me how to look at the world; they taught me how to keep my head up, my eyes open, and to always look at what's around me. And so, I wanted to try and do that myself. I wanted to try to teach a lesson. Here's my attempt at a children's story.

The Person in a Place in a World

Once there was a person. And the person lived in a place. And the place existed in
a world.

And the person was a curious person. And the place was a curious place. And the world was a curious world.

Since the person was curious, he wanted to know. And since the place was curious, and the world was curious, they wanted to know. And so the curious world asked the curious place,

“Where is that curious person going?”

And the curious place didn’t know. And so the curious place asked the curious person,

“Where are you going?”

And the curious person didn’t know. And so the curious person asked its self,

“Where am I going?”

And since the curious person didn’t know, he went.

The curious person went into the curious place that existed in the curious world until a thing came across the path.

And this thing was a curious thing that met a curious person that lived in a curious place that existed in a curious world. And since the thing was curious, it asked the person,

“Where are you going?”

And the curious person answered,

“I don’t know. Would like you to join me?”

And the curious thing answered,

“Yes.”

And then the curious thing and the curious person went into the curious place in the curious world until they came across a hard-thing.

And this hard-thing was a not a curious hard-thing, but still it asked the curious thing and the curious person,

“What are you doing?”

And the curious thing and the curious person answered,

“We’re going.”

“Going where?”

“Well, we don’t know.”

“Then why are you going?”

“Well, just to go.”

“And why?”

“Well, we suppose it’s because we wouldn’t be doing anything else otherwise.”

And the curious thing and the curious person went some more into the curious place that existed in the curious world while the hard-thing just stayed and was not curious.

Eventually, they came to know where they were going.

Blackmail

This is me avoiding our final project. These are also your classmates. This was fun.









I expect you all there next time (May?)

Songs and Habits

Everybody has habits; those things that people do in their everyday life that they do absolutely every day. I can’t leave my house without all my little bangles and bits; my friend can’t go to school without going to the bar and having a beer with his friends. In fact, it’s not just my buddy who has his watering hole; everybody has a place where they can feel at ease outside of work or school or their house; the home isn’t always the most stress free of places. Me, I have two places: my campus bar, and Nanta. At the Liberty Lounge at school I always have a great time mingling with the other students who go there. Admittedly, that place is one of higher learning and so, typically the people who go there have something meaningful and interesting to say; it’s just so much fun to have a conversation with them.

But at Nanta…oh Nanta. I’ve never seen a place where so many cultures criss and cross and mingle in such a complete and alcohol induced way; it’s a beautiful thing. At Nanta, a person could sing, if they so choose, in Chinese, Japanese, Korean, English; in almost any language they could want to. As a consequence Chinese people, Japanese people, Korean and English people among others all go there on Friday night and pack the place with all kinds of revelry. From the table three ways down you’ll hear a group cheers, “Kanpai!” and at the group just a few seats down from your own you’ll hear some others cheers , “Kanpei!” You’ll hear people yell, “Ganbatte!” and “Do your best!” and “Salute!” And when you go up to sing, all those different kinds of cheers will be yelled at you, almost teasing you to let just a little looser. It’s one of the most fun places in the world; at Nanta, there are no borders between countries.

That’s the problem with the world. In high school students all break off into cliques, and then they stick with those cliques throughout most of their life. Emos, punks, metal-heads, preps, chachs, nerds, Christians, Catholics, Asians; the list goes on and on, and none of it makes sense; borders are put up during what’s “supposed” to be the most fun times of our lives, and then fights start, and people get hurt all because they think that they’re so different. I remember reading once that between the races there’s a genetic difference of less than .0009%. I’m not even sure if that’s the real number, but I know that whatever the number is, it sure is pretty small. If there were someone out there who could figure out the real difference between people and give it a name, I think they would call it something like ‘genetic personality difference disorder’. It’s an innate thing, and it’s a damn shame that it’s just so ingrained into people. Personally, I think people might get a long a lot better if they just went up on stage once in a while and sang a song in French to cheers of “Kanpai!” “Kanpei!” “Ganbatte!” and “Do your best!”

Tennis courts and a chain-linked fence

The road to my house is very plain and uninteresting. At the first corner of my community and across the plain and uninteresting road, there is a community center. The grounds of that center are well kept; there’s a fountain during the summer that turns into a skating rink during the winter; there are tennis courts, surrounded by high, black, chain-linked fences. I almost never see anybody there. When I do see them, they’re walking around, hunched, looking at the ground in the same way I do, when the weight of the world sits high on my shoulders.

Turning the corner all you’ll see lining the road are houses. Those houses sit almost exactly but not quite 5 feet apart from each other; rows of houses where every third one down looks exactly the same as the third one down. A little farther down that road is a park to the right that’s painted in bright dull hues of blue, red, and yellow. I never see kids playing in that park. This makes me worry about a lot of things, and has made me make decisions about the direction of my own life.

Communities like the one I live in are boring. I see no people, and those people see no people, and those people that aren’t seen also see no people. It’s a dull way to live, and I don’t want it. I’ve noticed that in my own life it’s only away from home where I can mingle and enjoy the company of others, and I don’t think it should be this way. Nothing exciting ever happens in that community.

And people are content. Or so it seems. I would say that they’re more comfortable than anything else. They live in their box, and do nothing interesting outside of taking care of that box. At the place I work at I rent out tools to those comfortable people, and when I ask them what’s new and exciting, they have nothing to say. Typically the conversation ends, with a shrug of the shoulders, a tilt of the head, and a “Nothing really.”

You know, I can only speculate so much. I realise that what I’m saying is a bit biased and unfounded, but I can’t help but think those plain people in their plain houses on their plain road have helped me in a way. Being as young as I am, I don’t really have a direction in life and it’s really easy for people as young as me to become complacent in the environment around us. I remember these two guys who went to high school with me who still have the same job they had when they were fifteen years old. They go to work every day, they have weekends off, they have a car, a house, a girlfriend; they don’t wish for anything much more exciting than that.

Maybe it’s just me who thinks this, but being young is not taken advantage of all too often; I see it happening all the time all around me. If this is how the world’s next generation of leaders are going to be, well, I can’t say I expect much. There’s a time and place for everything, and when you’re twenty one and able, it’s time to see everything the world has to offer, rather than being happy in a community where the center has a fountain that turns into a skating rink during the winter, and tennis courts typically surrounded by high, black, chain-linked fences.

Silly Moth

The silly moth drives itself toward the flame of a night exhaustively. Drawn by unknowable forces, it endlessly drives toward the heat and the light. The moth completely disregards safety, it is completely oblivious to the flames harsh bite. Even after it is burned, it continues the tireless race toward the uncatchable attraction hidden somewhere within light. These poor moths play the same game every night, uncontrollably, inexplicably, irrepressibly. This pathetic dance of death with light, when observed from the human eye, is perceived as humorous, a bit puzzling, perhaps with a tinge of annoyance. But, is it beautiful? Hardly, the poor moth is looked on with contempt and amusement. Its passionate pact of dance unto death with fire just exemplifies the little insect’s insect brain, doing what it has been programmed to do. Stupid little moth! Thank you for showing us your clear inferiority, your helpless efforts cause me a small degree of satisfaction. It is not beautiful, no.

But what if the moth knew what the fire would bring? What if the moth, clearly conscious of the injuries awaiting him, does it anyway? The moth’s determination to capture the fire’s essence propels him forward, always to be burned by the fire’s cold heat. Still, the moth urges on, hazard falls to the wayside; though you shall burn me, the chase is worth it! The thrill of being in pursuit of that what seems unattainable, it’s worth it! There is nothing else on this world of more value than the fire’s cruel temptation. I shall solve your riddle fire, I shall share your essence. Beautiful.

Shlalta

Last year I took a philosophy class and used this notepad to record some of my thoughts on the topic. On the top of one of its pages, resting next to an abstract doodle, stood the word Shlalta. Shlalta, what could it mean? What could it possibly signify? I had no idea. If it were intended as an acronym to remember some philosophical concept it certainly didn’t work. It wasn’t an English word either, it had more of an aura of Aramaic. Hmm, Shlalta.

It begins with a soft but commanding sh. This sh is than immediately followed by an l. This awkward l brings your whole tongue to the front, jamming up the revolving door of the mouth. The awkwardness gets extended, elongated, exacerbated by the A that follows and the painful knowledge that there’s another l just around the corner. Shlal, like an old comedy routine, these five letters all try to get through the door first and fail miserably. But, not to worry! These bungling fools do get the release they so desperately seek. The Ta. Ah the Ta! It expands the doorway and springs the shlal and all the tension it created. The way of the Ta frees the words from their awkward bindings and allows it to romp happily through the conversational landscape. It becomes a word to congratulate with: “It’s a girl? Shlalta!”. Or the name of a ritualistic ceremony: “I’d love to come but my nephew’s Shlalta is next Tuesday and I can’t miss it”. Conversely, it could be a place to put things. “It’s over there, on the Shlalta” or something your Grandmother makes when you’re down. “Don’t worry my dear, Grandma is going to make you some nice baked Shlalta!” Mmm, baked Shlalta. You prefer fried Shlalta, but are you going to say that to your Grandmother? Of course not! You will say “Grandma, it’s the best Shlalta I’ve ever had”.

And it will be.

A

Another writer, another introduction: "ME"

Last semester I took a class that introduced me to the concept of "free-writing". What free-writing is and it's purpose is still eludes me, but it's fun. I'm told that the reason behind this activity is to get your ideas out of your head and onto paper, to essentially prime the canvas that will be your written piece. How effective it is...well, I like to think it's very effective.

That's what this article is. It's a free-write. The reason why I'm writing off the cuff at the moment is because I feel that anybody who reads this deserves a sort of introduction into who I am. I assure you I'm much more interesting in person, but you're going to have to make due until I become famous and you come to one of my many book signings.

I am Mitch. I am smart (I think), insightful (I think), and annoying (my professor thinks). I have my views about life, and some of them you might disagree with, but I think it's safe to say that I always like to have a good time. Having said that, I will now open myself up and let you all have a glimpes at the wonderful world of "ME".

"ME"

I made an observation today. An epiphany came to me. It's not anything amazing, or life changing, or important but it is, for lack of a better word, intriguing.

Coming to and from school I have to take a bus, a train, and a bus. The total trip time amounts to an hour and fifteen minutes with each vehicular ride lasting about 25 minutes each. When a person who has, through much training and physical exhaustion, become a morning person it's fun to look around with headphones on and no music playing. There's a certain degree of separation that this act creates which allows a person to observe the world rather than be a part of it. I am that person, and I create some dandy stories to entertain myself during those hour and fifteen minute long trips.

Look at the old man sitting across from me. Hunched with rheumatism, he's starring at the floor with eyes that are sunken and bulging, dull and alive. Wow is he old. But he doesn't seem defeated by life. I'm sure that this man fought. Was he an assassin? The way his eyes dart around...he could've been. Maybe he knew things and worlds that us normal humans can't see. After all, there seems to be a kind of magic running through his blue veins; they're not quite even blue.

Two seats ahead of me and across the isle to the right a person just sat down. A girl of about 25 who is absolutely beautiful. She's looking out the window, and her chin is trembling the same way mine did when someone near to me died, and now she's crying. Is that what happened to her? Was that person a friend? A parent? No, that can't be it. She is not crying tears of sadness, but something much more profound; nobody can know or understand what it is that makes this beautiful girl cry such beautiful tears.

I love watching people with headphones in my ear. My world is so much more interesting for it.

The Great Beavers of Lore

Here's a little bit of silly piece based on a conversation I had with my girlfriend while walking in the forest. Enjoy.

The Great Beavers of Lore.
Walking through the woods there is always trees knocked over, cut at odd angles and even uprooted. Now when I tell you of what is to follow don’t be alarmed; although some of you may. What I tell you now is the secret between these fallen timbers. Don’t be fooled into thinking the destruction of these mighty oaks, soaring pines, and delicate birch is nature—oh no! This destruction is caused by the great green eyed beavers of legacy!
The beavers posses great height, often ten to twelve feet of it, and eyes as big as the full moon. The reason behind this is the way they cut down trees to form their great trapezoid shaped damns, which ironically are often confused as log jams on a river. They cut down trees with their massive size and the use of a laser like greenish orange ray emitted from their eyes.
We often can find no trace of these elusive creatures, other than what is obviously their handy work. This is because when they want to hide they can look exactly like a pile of dirt, or even some leaves in the bush—but don’t be fooled!
When you go walking in the woods tonight, don’t go and disbelieve your eyes. The teddy bears may be having a picnic, but the beavers will be out, so don’t be surprised.


Kyle Brachman

A Coin Toss

To pick up pizza from Canadian Pizza Unlimited, or not to pick up pizza from Canadian Pizza Unlimited. That is the insufferable question that has been tormenting my mind for the last four hours. There are obvious pros to ordering pizza from Canadian Pizza Unlimited. It's easy and cheap and good and I'll pass it on my walk home. And then there's the lonely con: I'll undoubtedly atone for my crime when the scale weighs my judgements at the gym tomorrow. This is quite the dilemma, for the last thing I wish to endure is a venture to my local Safeway to obtain a healthier alternative after such a long day. I know what I'll do to solve my quandary; I'll flip a pretty penny and let fate decide. Heads, and it's Canadian Pizza Unlimited. Tails, and I humour a healthier substitute. With a flick of my thumb the fate of my supper is airborne. Just like when the rebellion depended upon Luke Skywalker to destroy the Death Star, and when Middle Earth depended upon Frodo to destroy the One Ring, my future depended upon this copper coin. It seemed the world around me held it's collective breath as the coin spun in the afternoon sun. It landed upon my palm as if the outcome would decide the fate of innumerable lives. I glanced down with cautious trepidation. It was tails.

Eye Candy

Sorry for not contributing any writing, but I've been hitting a literary wall lately. So instead here's the link to my photo page and a couple examples. Yes, there is a picture of my cat (one of many). I'm one of those women.

Michelle's Flickrpage

Cacophony in the Night of a Student

This is another older piece of mine:


"Cacophony in the Night of a Student"

Zzzzzz...

The clock kicked over to two in the morn
Homework to do, sleep long away torn
Eyes as peeled grapes, shrivelled and dead
Oops, the brain popped out of the head
Clock can tick all crummy night now
Can't be deprived of sleep anyhow?
Hang on, could that have been said already?
Can't recall, couldn't care less
Just want night and bits of rest
Parents screeching, squawking cruelly
"Go to bed, stop this unruly
Homework finishing right this instant!"
"Love to, can't," cackled back at 'em
As the head started to jerk
Down with sleep
Unwelcome, and needed
Drooping eyelids that are not heeded
Can't rest, can't not, can't...
Can't...
Zzzzzzz...
Never mind.

(Stacy)

Prehistoric Boogers

I remember promising to share this with you before, but never got a chance too. Instead, I'm posting it here.


What did man do before the invention of disposable tissues? Certainly, there were cloth handkerchiefs for a time, but even that could pose a problem: would a person really want to carry around a booger infested cloth for any length of time? What if they had a sinus infection? That doesn't sound very appealing. What did the caveman do to dispose of his snot? I suppose he could have picked his nose, but that doesn't really work for a sinus infection. He could have let it hang there, but I can only imagine that the cavewoman would promptly direct him outside of the cave... So what does the caveman do? He could wipe it on a saber tooth tiger, but that's a little dangerous. He could use a stick, but that might hurt. He could use a leaf, but what if it was poisionous?

What did early caveman use for a tissue? Perhaps we may never know.

(Stacy)

Ice Cream: The Cream of the Crop

This is a piece of writing that I did for class last semester. Hope you enjoy.


Ice cream is the best food in the world for a number of reasons. Ice cream makes people feel good, and it tastes wonderful. Ice cream does have some nutrional value: it is a dairy product, which is an important part of a human's diet. Ice cream comes in a variety of forms, and it would have to take a lot for a person to stop liking all of its glorious goodness. Ice cream is an inspiration. Even jobs are brought about by ice cream.

Ice cream is good for the soul. Ice cream has long been known as the perfect comfort food. It has helped people get through break ups, disappointing situations, and depressing moments in life. Ice cream is often the food of choice at birthday parties, fancy dinners, or summer outings. Ice cream has a sweet taste and texture, and melts on the way down. It comes in beautiful colours, and is shaped like lovely, fluffy clouds. It has a pleasant scent, and helps people rise to the heavens in their minds.

Besides being a part of the dairy family, ice cream also contains sugar. People should be aware that vegetables break down into simple sugars; therefore, what could be a better health food? I like to think so, anyway. It leaves a person's breath fresh--thus improves the overall quality of the surrounding citizens' environment; this contributes to everyone's mental health, and makes the world a much better place. Ice cream can also cool and hydrate a person on a hot summer day, which also aids a person's well being.

Ice cream can come in a number of ways. Ice cream comes not only by the truck, by the store, or by the ice-cream parlours; it also comes in different forms and flavours. Ice cream can come in a sandwich. It can come in a cone; one can choose between a lovely cardboard flavour, or a waffle cone. For the less adventurous, ice cream can come in a bowl. Ice cream can come on a stick. Ice cream can even come in a float. Ice cream can be served with cake or pie; it is even a good way to follow up pizza. If a person leaves ice cream to melt, one can compromise with ice cream soup--it still tastes good! Ice cream can be vanilla, strawberry, mint, caramel, rum and raisin, cotton candy, bubblegum; the list can go on and on! Ice cream can be topped with countless items; one could top the dear frozen delicacy with flavoured syrups, sprinkles, marshmallow topping, chocolate chips, various fruits, gumdrops, candy pieces, and anything the imagination can create! Ice cream can be eaten with a spoon; it can also be eaten with fingers for those with less decorum or the young at heart.

Ice cream can be a muse for people's creations. There are songs about ice cream, including "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream," and Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby". Ice cream is the inspiration for this piece. There is art created from ice cream, but my favourite art is the sensation it leaves on my tongue.

Ice cream helps create jobs for society. People are employed in making ice cream, and harvesting the ingredients. People also get jobs from transporting and selling this splendorous dessert. There are also jobs created from the people who provide vendors with uniforms, and those who create bowls. Ice cream is simply beneficial to unemployed folks around the world.

The moral a person should learn from this information is that ice cream is a diverse food that brings joy, improves health, inspires various art forms, and helps society. Hopefully, the population can appreciate all the magnificence that ice cream represents.

(Stacy)

"The Shadow" pages 7-8

Brian was nearly at the end of the hall when I went out.

"Brian, wait up!" I called after him.

Brian stopped and turned around to see me. He waited as I ran down the hall to catch up.

"What was going on with everyone?" I frowned.

Looking just as confused as I was, he replied, "I don't know."

Then a thought occured to me--what if it was all just a joke? I suggested this to Brian.

"If it is, it's a cruel one, and I wasn't let in on it," he answered.

"No kidding!" I agreed.

"We should probably still go to the office, though. Maybe we'll find out what's happening then."

We walked down the halls in silence; each wondering what on Earth was going on. Finally, we arrived at the office.

As we stepped in, we stumbled across the principal speaking solemnly to the vice principal.

"Yes, that's right. Her mom was just going home to retrieve a document she had forgotten for work. They found her dead, just lying cold in her bed. No one knows the cause. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling; she was completely frozen.

"Poor Eva," answered the vice principal, "She was a good student."

I backed up in horror, not believing a word. Brina seemed shocked as well, and he was staring at me in disbelief.

Just then, the principal noticed us standing there... Or noticed Brian, anyway.

"Oh! Brian!" he said with surprise.

He must have seen the look on Brian's face, because he chose his next words carefully, "You didn't hear that did you? I'm sorry; I didn't mean for you, or anyone else, to find out that way. We were planning to announce it in an assembly tomorrow. Could you keep this quiet until then?"

Brian just stood in shock, and I didn't move either. It didn't make sense... What was going on?! How could Brian see me then?

Then something from the other side of the window across the office caught my eye. It was the hand of a Shadow, slowly appearing.

(Stacy)

This is the final piece of this story that I plan to post. This is how the original story was set up. Later on, I created more, but it needs a lot more revising for me to consider presenting it to the public. Hope you enjoyed the story.

"The Shadow" pages 5-6

"Yep," I answered.

He mustn't have heard me, because he asked again, "Eva?"

This time I spoke up clearly, "Yes, I'm here."

I was sure he must have heard me that time, because I was much louder. Yet, right afterwards, he asked the class: "Does anyone know where Eva is today?"

There were a few mild shrugs around the room, and some people looked towards my desk. Everyone just looked past me, though. It was as if they couldn't see me.

I was just about to yell out to catch his attention, when suddenly a voice rose from the other side of the class.

"What are you talking about? Eva's right there; she's sitting in her desk."

The person who had spoken up was Brian. He's a friend of mine, but I don't really see him too often. Nobody knows much about him; he's kind of mysterious. I guess that seems to annoy people, for some reason. As a result, many of my classmates turn against him, but I don't know why. He's a good person, but sometimes others are just too blind to see it.

I breathed a sigh of relief to know that not everyone was ignoring me. At least now I knew I wasn't invisible, or something crazy like that.

The funny thing was, the moment he said that, everyone turned and gave hime a strange look, as though he'd just said something really weird. Mr. Briggs cast him a stern gaze.

"Brian," he began, "Do you think you're being amusing? Do you find it funny to pretend that someone is there, who really isn't?"

Pausing to smirk, he continued, "I'm sorry, but your humor rahter escapes me. Perhaps you'd like to discover it with the good people at the office?"

I opened my mouth in protest. Mr. Briggs was being so unfair! I was obviously sitting right there, so why was he saying those things? What did Brian do to deserve that?

Brian looked at Mr. Briggs strangely.

"But she's right there..." answered Brian slowly.

"Brian, I will not tolerate your talking bck to me. Go to the office," Mr. Briggs responded angrily.

"But..."

"NOW!" exclaimed the furious teacher.

Looking up in disgust, Brian shook his head. However, he took up his books, and walked out of the room in compliance. A few scattered laughs could be heard around the class as he stepped out the door.

The whole thing shocked me. What was going on here?

With a determined look on my face, I spoke out to Mr. Briggs.

"Then I'm going too!" I announced.

No response.

"Whatever," I thought, annoyed with him. I got up from my desk and strode out of the class.

(Stacy)

"The Shadow" pages 3-4

"Eva..." repeated the haunting voice I had hear earlier, "Come... Follow me... Come... Eva..."

Entranced, I began to move foward towards it. Then the shadow leaned eagerly in my direction, waiting for me to come. I snapped back to my right mind, and hook my head.

"N-no! I won't come! Who are you? What do you want?" I protested in resistance.

The shadow let out a terrible scream of anguish, and dove back into the ground, speeding directly at me.

I tried to step backwards, tried to turned and run, but it came too quickly. The next thing I knew, it was at my feet, and its arm shot out of the ground and lunged for me. I recoiled, attempted to get away, but its long, dark fingers had already gotten a hold of my wrist. An icy feeling spread through my veins, crept up arm and throughout my body. I could feel inky blackness grabbing a hold of me, covering my eyes...

Then I woke up. I still felt cold, and shuddered at the terrible nightmare I had. Pulling the blankets closer around me, I rolled over to check my clock.

"Ughh..." I groaned, "7:30... I slept in!"

Also, my parents would have already left for work. Grudgingly, I got out of bed and got ready for school.

I stepped out the front door and into the cool morning air. Seeing our street made me think of that awful dream again. For once, I was actually glad to be going to school--at least it would be something to distract me from my nightmare. I could still imagine the shadow's icy grasp, and the cold darkness spreading over me.

I shivered; then caught a glimpse of the warm sun above me.

"Oh well," I though, and shrugged my shoulders, "I'm sure things will be better at school."

I managed to getere just when the first bell rang. I rushed to my locker, ran to class, and managed to slide in just in time.

As I sat down in my desk, I heaved a huge sigh of relief, then turned to my friend, Mara.

"Made it just in time!" I exclaimed with a smile.

Mara didn't give any response. She just sat there, staring forward to the front of the class.

"Mara... hello?" I said as i waved my hand in front of her face.

Mara still just sat there. I rolled my eyes, and remarked sarcastically, "Someone's awake this morning!"

I didn't have time to say anything else just then, becaue Mr. Briggs started taking attendance.

He went down the list as always, naming each of my classmates. Finally, he reached my name.

"Eva?" he called out.

(Stacy)

"The Shadow" pages 1-2

This is part of a story that I created back in grade 12. I'll post the first chapter in parts so that it's easier to read through, but the other chapters need to be completely re-worked; you'll be left with a cliffhanger, which was actually all the story was intended to be at first ;)

A smile rose to my lips as I watched the autmn leaves dance across the deserted street. Soon it faded, upon the realization that I still didn't know where I was. Things just dindn't seem right about the place. Ancient Victorian houses loomed above me from both sides of the cold road, and an eeire silence hung menacingly in the air. Everything seemed to be tinted with a strange grey hue, like the saturation had been med. It dulled all of my surroundings. Coulour still lingered beneath the surface, yet seemed to be... masked, in a way.


A burst of frigid wind suddenly thrust the strands of my long, brown hair in front of my face. I pushed it away from my dark eyes, and slowly took a few steps forward.


As I cautiously made my way down the road, I became more and more aware of the silence. Nothing was there, but it seemed as though everything was waiting with baited breat. Just waiting; anticpating some great event to occur. I stopped in my tracks, and paused to listen. Still nothing.


For a long time, the silence stretched on. I stood alone in the middle of the street, and cast my sharp gaze around the unfamiliar setting. Then I heard it: a faint whisper, rising with the wind.


"Eva..." it called, "Eva..."


The voice was barely a sound. Upon glancing around, I still saw no on one.


I boldly raised my voice, "Who's there? Who's calling me?"


Though I had responded with confidence, I could feel my heart gaining speed, beating rapidly. Something about that voice... it made me feel on edge, and nervous.


For a moment, there was nothing again. Only the silence... but that was broken in the next instant.


"Eva," the chilling voice rang out, "Eva..."


"What?!" I cried out in distress.


The voice grew louder, came close, "Eva... Eva..."


This time the voice was closer than ever. I glanced around anxiously, expecting to see someone, but there wasn't a soul in sight. Everything was hushed again; not a single noise could be heard anywhere.


I shifted uncomfortably, more conscious now than ever that something was about to happen; something undoubtedly out of the ordinary.


The absolute quiet was unbearable. It seemed to drag on forever, but then...

An excruciatingly loud noise seemed to explode out of time. A dark shadow shot across the ground, sped underneath my feet, and skidded down to the end of the street, just a short distance from where I stood.


I watched in horror as the shadow, blacker than anything around it, proceeded to slither out of the ground, like a thing melting in reverse. It began to take shape, and a cloaked figure formed from the shadow. It seemed solid, real--yet, in the same way: unreal, still shadow--wispy edges and dark colour. I stared in wonderment and terror, awed by its powerful and dreadful presence.


The thing then outstretched its skeletal hand toward me, and slowly beckoned me to come.


(Stacy)

The Horseshoe

As promised, I'm typing up the beginning of "The Horseshoe" for everyone here. Here goes:


"The Horseshoe"


A man sat on a bench in the park. He black hair and brown eyes. He was not unattractive, or attractive; he seemed to be an ordinary man.

The man's name was Jasper, and perhaps he was ordinary. He was a liar. Like many people, he lied his way through situation after situation.

Little did Jasper know, his lie was about to change. His ordinary life would soon take a turn for the extraordinary.

An old man with long, wild, grey hair and a wiry beard sat down beside Jasper. The old man was unnaturally tall, and had a missing eye. He wore an oversized plaid shirt over a dark hooded sweater, and his muddy boots protruded from his weathered jeans.

The old man turned to Jasper and his eyes crinkled as he cracked a smile. He lifted one of his large hands, and gave Jasper a hardy clap on the shoulder.

"Son," said the old man heartily, "Isn't today just beautiful? Life is an amazing thing, isn't it?"

Jasper looked up at the tall, one-eyed man, and faked a smile.

"Absolutely," Jasper lied.

"Only say it if you believe it, sosn," replied the old man, "Life will only give back what you give out. If you aren't genuine, how do you expect your life to be?"

For a split second, Jasper appeared puzzled. Then he regained his compsure, and lied: "Of course I meant it. What would make you think otherwise?"

The old man stroked his beard and looked Jasper in the eye.

"Well," the old man pondered, "You just seem a little lost."

Jasper smiled and waved his hand in dismissal. The two sat in silence for moment.

Suddenly, the old man turned to Jasper gain.

"Listen, son; I've got to get going, but can I ask you a favour?"

"Sure," Jasper said, dreading what the favour may be.

"I'm moving into a smaller place," said the old man, "and I need to get rid of some stuff. Would you mind taking some of it off of my hands?"

The favour was getting free stuff?

"OK," answered Jasper, being genuine for the first time.

A toothy grin appeared on the old man's face, and he pulled out a movie, an empty notebook, and a pen. As he set the items on the space on the bench between them, Jasper looked down. The next moment, the man was gone. Jasper shrugged, and picked up the articles

He examined the movie; it was one he'd never seen before. There were no pictures or names of actors, only the title "The Horseshoe." and a picture related to the said title.

(Stacy)

bursting the blog-cherry

Behold! the first blog entry for winter semester Advanced Writing 2207. I was intending on reading this on Wednesday and perhaps i still will, anyways hopefully this post will get the ball rolling and more writers will creep from their literary lairs. It is entitled :

Ode to a Korean Figure Skater

I watched a Korean figure skater today. She was beautiful. But she was more than that, she was liquid fire. She was the powerful feminine. She was black and yellow, free verse and English pentameter. This girl glided across the ice and put me to sleep so I could dream; things sensuous and thrilling, luscious and gorgeous, subtle and flamboyant, simple yet majestic. Ohh Korean figure skater; I know not your name, and I am happy not to know. Your mysterious smile and mischievous shimmy will happily haunt my consciousness for days, weeks. I’ll let you steep in my medulla and dance on my oblongata. You’ll slip down my spine and play patty-cake with my perineum. Korean figure skater, with your fiery tiger eyes and wispy curls that cradle those delicate ears, you can take over the world. With your strong, stunning legs you could skate to the north pole and convince the ice not to melt so you can charm the polar bears into vegetarianism with your grace. You could melt the heart of the crazed despot that resides just north of your brilliant land and unify your countries fractured soul. You could convince the misguided taliban that the female form should be celebrated and respected and that those bastard burkha’s are a betrayal of beauty at a disgusting scale. Oh Korean figure skater, with the eyes of a dragon and a form so fine, won’t you be my valentine?

Hope you enjoyed, i wrote it after seeing Yu-Na Kim's short program in the olympics, 2 1/2 minutes later and i was in love.

Alex