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

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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

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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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by Christy Simard A drizzle of rain completes the perfectly dreary Friday, while the flat grey sky casts a dull light on Toronto. Blacken- ed snow dresses the sides of the highway, presenting fresh layers of rotting garbage as it melts. Janet Steele’s white Mustang GT is coated in a layer of slush, sand, and salt that seems to have become permanent decor this winter. The windshield wipers make a rythmic squeek as they clear the collecting drops of rain. As Janet approaches the airport several planes pass over head. “I wonder how many people on each flight are white- knuckle-fliers like me?” She parks her car in the Park-and-Fly lot, taking notes of the level. 2D. That means two flights of stairs to get to airport level. She collects her purse and carry-on bag then checks for her airline ticket. Low heeled shoes echo hollowly on the pavement as Janet walks to the staircase, clutching the ticket with a slightly sweaty hand. Passing through the entrance to the steps she bumps into a bulky man wearing a charcoal grey trench coat. Their bodies collide, and Janet loses grip of the ticket, sending it fluttering to the dirty floor. The man stares for an instant then continues on his way without a word or a smile. As she stoops to retrieve the stray tricket an elderly woman passes, nearly knocking Janet down. With the smell of the woman’s perfume lingering in the air, she is able to recover the ticket and get on her way to ground level. A few moments later, she enters Terminal II of Pearson International Airport. The white tiled floor gleams under flourescent lights. People rush here and there, looking very tense, dragging their luggage, or their children behind them. With an hour left before boarding the plane Janet decides to get a cup of coffee and relax. The styrofoam cup burns her hand but she pays it no attention. Rushing through her mind is every plane crash she has ever read about, every terrorist she has heard of, and every possible thing that could go wrong while she is on that plane. An irritating voice interupts her thoughts. “Flight 503 is now boarding, gate 35. Flight 503 now boarding.” Janet’s eyes flutter as she comes back to reality, like a child waking from an afternoon nap. She looks at her hands. The left hand is holding the now cold cup of coffee, and the fingernails of her right are bitten ragged. Janet has no idea where her mind has been for the last thirty minutes, but by the look of her fingernails, she is sure she wasn’t thinking happy thoughts. She stands, leaving the cold coffee on a table and brushes the wrinkles out of her blue linen skirt. While walking to the boarding gate she asks herself one last time, “Is a two day trip to see a good friend in Florida something worth getting on a plane for?” Her answer is negative but she continues toward gate 35. Once seated in the plane, Janet peers out the window. She sees that the drizzling rain has stopped and the sky has cleared a little. Good. Without rain and heavy clouds it is unlikely that they will run into a thunderstorm, or something horrid like that. Janet removes her coat and buckles her seat belt, even though there are still people boarding the plane and the ‘please fasten your seat belt’ signs were not yet lit up. When the signs do light up, Janet’s heart picks up speed, and her lightly damp hands become sweaty, shakey, useless extensions of her arms. It is a good thing her seat belt is done up because she hardly has enough control in her hands to blow her nose. She fumbles with her purse, then fumbles with the tissue, then gives up trying and fiddles with the kleenex between shakey fingers. By the end of this flight there will be nothing left of the tissue but a few scattered shreds. The engines roar as the pilot fires them up. Janet’s heart roars, pounding in her chest and ears. The wheels of the plane roll down the runway. Janet rolls the kleenex in a ball between her fingers. The plane bumps along before lift off. Janet jerks her foot up and down, another nervous habit. Her head is pulled into her seat as the plane picks up speed. Her cheeks pull to her ears and her stomach twists and turns in the sickening knots as the plane lifts off. When Janet is sure the plane has stopped it’s ascent, she opens her previously closed eyes and relaxes her grip on t he armrests. Looking around she realizes that the handle of her carryon bag is in the aisle. Not wanting a stewardess or the pilot to trip on it, she leans forward and puts it under the seat. As she does this she sees a flash of grey out of the corner of her eye. She follows the flash, and there, one seat up on the other side of the aisle is the man she bumped into on the staircase when she dropped her ticket. Unable to look away, she gapes at the figure sitting straight in his chair. He is, by all means, ugly. Janet can think of no other way to say it. When talking to her friend in Florida the only word for this man will be ‘ugly’. The top of his head looks as though it would shine in the sun, and is sprinkled with pale liver spots. What little hair there is left on his head wraps the back of it from ear to ear. His nose is small and pudgey, totally wrong for his huge frame. His full lips are almost colourless and slightly chapped. They do not move, except to part for a sip from his plastic cup that is probably full of a strong whiskey. When his drink is finished, he hands the cup to a stewardess and folds his table into the back of the seat in front of him. When this is done he looks around. First he looks up at the roof of the plane, then he leans across the passenger beside him and looks out the window. He turns and looks at Janet for a split second that seemed like minutes to her. She stares at his large meaty hands that he wrings in a way that reminds 98