Bowmanville High School - Screech Owl Yearbook (Bowmanville, Ontario Canada)

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Grandmother There sat grandmother giggling, humming and tittering away to her- self. She was singing a rhyme she had once taught us children years ago. The time released many memories that had become buried under a rubble of more important things. I remembered her good night kiss which had protected me from day through dark and I wondered why I had abandoned its magic for grown-up values. Mischievous memory had blurred these visions and replaced them with that sombre lady I had left in the autumn. For some reason I had always pictured grand- mother knitting, reading the Bible and sleeping. They were right: she had changed. Her hair was snow white, now, and the sunlight from the morning sky caused a warm glow to embrace her. I drew nearer and caressed her hand- much softer than I had remembered. She smiled and her eyes smiled, but not at me. Her at- tention was focused on the corn husk doll. Clay fingers gripped my spine and a sharp pain plunged into my heart. My desperate glance asked shy? - but the rest of the family had the same look in their eyes. I stepped out of the room with my sister and she blurted out the details of the accident. It had happened just after the last snowstorm. The following day had been fresh and bright. There had even been a rainbow in the sky. The neighbouring children had swept off our pond and were skating on nature's glass. I recalled how exciting skating was when I was a boy. I could hear the songs, the laughter and see the coloured scarfs flash by. I reached out to touch them and- then I remembered- grandmother! Her thoughts had been there too as she watched us through the closed window. Sister had stopped talking, she realized I was not following her. I turned and met her distressed look. She continued. Grandmother had found my old skates in the basement that day and before anyone had noticed, she was gone. Her footsteps cut through the heavy snow towards the clear ice. She had been skating in a circle with the local youths when the family spotted her. Before Jenny reached the pond grandmother had fallen through the ice. Thank God the water only came up to her ankles-- but that was enough. Sister sobbed, The old soul has lost her senses. I re-entered the room and one by one, heads turned as if to say, We believe it too. This upset me more than grandmother's illness. The sun was higher in the sky and its beams danced on the mirrbr. It was an old mirror, the wooden frame was hand carved and compared to the glit- tered frames of the family portraits on the mantle, it harboured a mellow warmth. Yes, the mirror was unique. Grandmother suddenly burst out laughing. I went to her and smiled. Her hand touched my cheek, and on kneeling, she kissed me. In answer to my puzzled look, her eyes grew big, her wrinkles faded away and she raised her head, staring into the looking glass. I knew what she had found. Dennis Francis 5B

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1st Prize Prose Forgive Me, Sally' The sparkling eyes of the city man reflected his pleasure. Lovely, he said, as he looked at the surrounding landscape. Lovely. It's exactly as I remember it. After twenty years there's no change. I've never forgotten this village, it's so peaceful, so lovely . . . But you must think me a sentimental old fool. Not at all, the villager said kindly. Our little town often does that sort of thing to people. I suppose it's because it's so different from the city. It certainly is. It has always been my dream to come back and see this village once more. But tell me, Mr. Holden is there a woman here with shiny blonde curls and the most wonderful brown eyes? She was about seventeen or eighteeen when I was here last. I've always remem- bered her working among the flowers in a garden. I think it was down by the old stone church. She such a lovely girl and I'd like to see if she has changed very much. You mean Sally Larnes. Mr. Holden informed him. Yes, she was a pretty little girl. Had a wonderful personality too. She was always kind to everyone. WAS! What happened to her, Mr. Holden? Ah, that's a sad story, Mr. Jones, said Mr. Holden, shaking his head. Sally was happy enough till a city fella came to town. You might say he swept Sally off her feet. I lived outside of town in those days so I never met him but they say he was handsome and fast, a lot dif- ferent from the men around here. I think Sally wanted to marry him but he left town suddenly and never come back. Sally was heartbroken and one day she went for a walk in the woods and never returned. People say she drowned herself, but one can't be sure. Oh, its already 3:30. Well enjoy the view, Mr. Jones I've got to go. Goodbye, whispered Mr. Jones. He turned to face the view. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Oh Sally, he sobbed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Helen Wesselius 2F

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Alone Alone is an isolated desk at the front of a class when everyone else is at the back. Alone is the empty library with just you and musty books. Alone is walking down Lover's Lane in the rain. Alone is Christmas with only a bare, dead pine tree. Alone is no parents. Alone is fighting a false reputation. Alone is an unwed mother. Alone is being black when everyone else is white. Alone is dying in Viet-Nam. Anonymous Grade 9 f67 2nd Prize Prose Running I've done it! I'm free! They nearly got me today. Every day it gets harder and harder to run. I've got to find a hiding place, one where I can rest for an hour or two between the chases. They keep getting bigger and stronger each day but I'm just falling apart. I don't know how long I can keep up this pace. Now I'm exhausted but soon I'll be sleeping. How beautiful sleep is! It's serenity and peace are all- enveloping. The tranquillity of slumber provides a temporary release of my tensions. My mind and soul alike seem to be floating in a sea of something . . . something more than peace, something much, much more and total. I'l1 be dreaming of a place where they can't get me anymore. It seems to be an oasis . . . an escape, a door with peace on the other side. Will I possibly be free at long last? Totally free? Forever? No wait! Something is always pulling at me, something dragging me back to the contest. The piercing sound of the dutiful alarm drags me back. Oh God! Not again! I hope in heaven's name that I won't have yet another day of reckoning. And yet, as I stand in despair, I see people laughing at me as they would laugh at a fool. Why? Why? But I'll have no time to think, for they will be on my tail again. Is this all there is to life ? Is it nothing but running from one's mistakes? Chris Jones 2E