St Johns Kilmarnock School - Eagle Yearbook (Breslau, Ontario Canada)

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GR. 11 LITERATURE Words strip me of my words and i am nothing naked and bare to the stares of people and the gods for i live in a world of words i reside in a tall house made of letters i live, breathe, sleep and eat words the words have formed about me over the years letter by letter covering my entire being in the strongest armour able to turn the mightiest blade it is a great treasure and a terrible curse ah - to be wordless and carefree John Starchuk The dancer’s sweat was not visible to the audience. The modern dance took everything out of her, both physically and emotionally. After her bow, the audience gave her thunderous applause. It was her first solo on an opening night. She should have been joyful, the crowd loved her. But she wasn’t joyful. She wasn’t even happy. In her white dressing room she put on a white robe and cracked open a bottle of first rate champagne. She poured the sparkling bubbles into a champagne glass and clinked it to the reflection in the mirror. She then lit up a Benson Hedges cigarette. With that in one hand and the champagne in the other, she walked to the bathroom. After turning on the hot water, she took of her robe, dropped the champagne glass to the floor, and the cigarette after it. She then slipped into the scorching water. Once her skin was hot and pink, she stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around her, and walked, head held high, through the broken glass, ashes and champagne, to her dressing table. As she sat down and slouched in the chair, blood ran off her feet, leaving crimson stains on the white tiled floor. A knock on the door broke her train of thought. It was the delivery boy, bringing her a dozen red, long-stemmed roses. She looked at them listlessly and opened the tiny card. Congratulations Dancer was scrawled across the paper. Tears whelled in her eyes as the roses fell to the floor in the pool of blood that was forming. Christi Simard 96

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Robillard sat in the blazing Caribbean sun. Sweat trickled down his face, and a throbbing headache left him too in- capacitated to move very much. Without turning his head, he opened his mouth and said “It’s your turn.” “What?!” demanded Nicki, his girlfriend. “You expect me to shinny up that stupid tree, just for a lousy coconut?” “It ' s your turn.” Robillard insisted. Angrily, Nicki got up and began to shake the tree. Robillard protested. “But” . . .WHAM! A two pound coconut cut his sentence short as it contacted his head and rebounded off landing quietly in the white sand. Robillard winced as the pounding in his head increased. “Satisfied?” Nicki snapped. “Why the hell can’t you just shut up, catch some rays, and hope that those stupid friends of yours pick us up soon.” The friends Nicki spoke of were Robillard’s old-time buddies. Stick, and Cowboy Ned. Although they were great guys, they were also reknowned practical jokers. The night before, Robillard and Nicki had been at a big party to celebrate Cowboy Ned’s new job as a bus driver. The alcohol had been flowing freely and by the end of the night, the couple were quite innebriated. Nicki had a vague sense of being carried to the docks and put in a boat, but Robillard had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. The next morning they had awakened on a tiny island with a single coconut tree. For some reason Nicki was not as hungover as Robillard and she had no sympathy for him, in his wretched condition. “It’s just a practical joke, honey.” he pleaded. “It’s not like they’re going to leave us here forever.” “Shut up and have your damn coconut!” Resignedly, Robillard tilted the coconut to his mouth, and as its delicious milk tumbled down his throat, he silently vowed that he would return the injustice that Cowboy Ned and Stick had done him. Happy in this knowledge, his thoughts turned to the coconut. Richard Donald Conversations on a bridge there is a bridge i know who is a wonderful friend he is quiet and thoughtful not at all flashy or gaudy and quite particular to long meaningful conversations a very real bridge below is a 35 foot splatter to criss-crossing railroad tracks which lead to new experiences seeing my life splashed red below me riding the next train away, away, far away from here where the pain of sunrise sunset is not so overwhelming John Starchuk 97