NONANON
AGS LITERARY MAGAZINE 2012-2013
NONANON ERRATA September 2013 The following are corrections that have been brought to our attention since our print publication. Corrections were made in the online version. • The inside cover photograph was taken by Samantha Roach ’16, whose name was not on the Contributors page. • The watercolor artwork on the Contributors page is the work of Margaret Putnal, Winterim 2013 art student. • The artwork at the end of “Chase Scene” and before “Soothing Comfort” is the artwork of Leslie Glanville ‘13, not Africa McLeod. • The winged animal in black and white on the page with “The Chain Gang” is the artwork of Priya Vatsalya ’15 instead of Ryan Griffin. • The photograph under “Untitled” was taken by Emily Russ, ’13.
• Thank you to Ms. Cassie Streich and Ms. Melinda Burke for technical assistance related to our print and online publications.
CONTRIBUTORS Priya Arya Matilda Avirett-MacKenzie Miranda Battle Sofia Broffman Mara Bugler Gabriella Canzian Sophie Coffman Faith Coffman Ava Dean Imani Guy D. Morgan Fulton Meredith Furbish Leslie Glanville Ryan Griffin Georgia Hippe Honora Johnston Saajidah Kalla Frances Kelley Katherine Langford Margaret Langford Ashley Laurens
Caroline LeDuc Alex Levine Jade Lockard Lindsay Malkin Erika Markson Mary Elizabeth Marquardt Shannon McCarthy Adele McLees Africa McLeod Morenike Okuwobi Margaret Putnal Claire Rinck Samantha Roach Emily Russ Maya Salpekar Kaitlyn Sanders Carrie Smith Rachel Vellanikaran Sally Weltner Danielle Williams Kate Zahniser-Word
Artwork by Margaret Putnal, ‘18
The Beast
I. The Darkness I sit alone. I see none, h ear none. I feel at home; the world is gone. It cannot reach me here. Unless she comes, to seek her kin, The Mistress of eternal sin, No! she will not come. My heart grows weary, but no! I stay in s ubmission. Hark! the sounds of bliss reach me And tales of the world of old How it came to be, in beauty And in light, a nd yet The world now is not that. I fear to hear ‘t, of what Shall ne’er be mine! It awakens, yearning To be free. The battle Ensues, a s the mighty warrior, Strongest of all, is thrown Down. The Beast emerges… II. The Gnats They conspire, they hurt; the gnats! They swarm, they buzz, they fly, They taunt, t hey bite, they sting! They bite again; the poison Flows, the sickness Spreading. They shall Go down. All of them. They shall buzz nevermore.
Matilda Avirett-‐MacKenzie III. The Beast The gnat-‐house draws Near. The gnats Unsuspecting. But They have strength Unseen, beyond Claws, or teeth, or Crushing arms: the power To taunt, to bite, to sting! The world grows Dark; the gnats Abate. They rest Unseeing, unknowing, unsuspecting! The doors flung wide, The gnats away, in The land of the mind; Fifteen should a Small swarm make. The gnats are smashed, broken On the ground. From Them it flows, the blood, So sensual a feel, A scent, a flavor! The Essence of life Itself! Yet it flows Away, across the hall, Up to the throne, the God-‐blessed seat, which Screams. It is pain Itself. The throne dazzles With violent light, a scream Of rejection and rage. The Burn blinds, staggering, Fleeing towards the men. The men, the gnats, with Their buzzing! Fifteen More are smashed, dragged Down, down into the darkness Of no return.
IV. The Battle Twelve winters, Summers, springs, falls, The endless cycle Of torment and retaliation, And fulfillment of desire. The gnats flee and are smashed, And the essence of life Extracted, smelt, tasted, Consumed! The lunar orb Rises, ugly, a Vehicle of pain. The Gnat-‐house buzzes. How odd. The life-‐essence of many Shall be spilt, but not A drop lost. The delight Of gnats silenced grows Stronger. The gnat-‐house approaches. The doors are flung wide, And innumerable gnats lie, Completely unaware of the Impending silence. The nearest, Broken, the sleek limb-‐lifters And smooth support structures And luscious life-‐essence All consumed! The feast Sublime, yet doing naught To pacify the thirst, the need For blood! The next, Limb-‐lifters taut, looks To satisfy? To quench The unquenchable fire? The man awakens, reaching To crush, a man Like no man before! The Crushing arms grasping For anything to tear, to Crush, to kill! The door Can’t be far…But The crushing arms cannot Be removed. They close Ever tighter, crushing, Bending…breaking…pain Shoots through, a Sickening snapping, the
Sharpness of attack Destroyed. Struggling, Fighting, wrenching Away from the Crushing arms. Alas, It follows, seeking Naught but to Destroy. The crushing Arms fling, and it Is in turn Flung. Then the crushing Arms begin to crush Once more. Muscles Taut, striving to Find release. The Crushing arms begin To tear, to twist, to Crush! The other Gnats attempt to Sting, but they are tiny. The strength Deserts, though The life-‐essence Sparks ever stronger. A vast wrenching, tearing Of limb-‐lifters and support Structures, and a spilling Of life-‐essence; pain beyond The gnats, the lunar Orb, perhaps even the God-‐blessed seat itself. I wrench away from The crushing arms, Belonging to a man Of strength beyond strength, And a power beyond men. I reach the door, Off-‐balance, falling Struggling to fight the Asymmetrical balance Of losing such a large Portion of myself.
V. The End I stagger across the land, seeking The safety of the darkness. I seek the knowledge of the Beast; O why did it, Needing of its own survival, Actively plot the pain, the Loss of the essence of life That results in its final loss? Could the others be correct In saying that the Beast is strong, Too strong to compete, for It could only ever be the victor? Could the Beast itself, Being born of that original Beast, The Beast of Jealousy, in All its wretchedness, Being imbued of that primal Hatred and Greed, be Made stronger, for the sole Purpose of controlling the Man? Is the Man, even the strongest of all, Too weak to vie with such Hatred? Or can the Man, in knowing That the monster of the Beast Can only lead to misery In others, as well as in Oneself, do battle, to protect The little good of this world? But why should others matter? What did others do for us, Besides suffer, solely for the sensuality Of the essence of life Draining away, the body Broken, and the spirit Deserted? Why should we Wonder at others? What did Others do, other than cause Us true pain? Others, of Course, gave to no pursuit Other than their own pleasure, Which is the end that all of us seek
To attain, eventually. Why should others suffer For our own pleasure? Naturally, we suffered, So that others could have pleasure. Does that mean That we deserve to suffer? And should feel no pleasure From life? But what is Life? Life, so fleeting, Why seek other ends Than pleasure? Why care What others wish for? But why suffer At the hands of others, For no purpose Other than their pleasure? Why not end their pleasure And our suffering While gaining pleasure Of our own? Life is fleeting; Life is fleeing. Life wishes Naught but to depart. But the Man Wishes Life to stay Life can mean pleasure. Life can mean pain. Life can mean Taming the Beast, or Life can mean Freeing the Beast. Life shall not continue. We do not like Life. We fear Death. Will The Beast forever dominate, or Will the Man forever subjugate? Or will both be forever Tormented to watch others’ pleasure In punishment of the Beast, Which can be controlled, but which Exists eternally to suffer? Life departs. I sit alone. I see none, hear none. I feel at home. The world is gone.
Perfect Silence Africa McLeod
A lone cloud drifted sluggishly through the clear summer sky, the forest below creeping forward, surrounding the town like an army laying siege. The houses within the encroaching ring of green were silent; the people still, as if the air itself, so thick it seemed to have a presence of its own, were whispering some unspeakable evil. They seemed to wait with baited breath for something; what it was, exactly, they did not know, and yet, at the same time, there was no question in their minds as to what it was that hung in the air like an impatient secret. They strained their ears for any sound, but even the crickets had silenced their songs. And then, it came. It was soft, so faint it was like the whispering wind, but their strained ears picked it out of the stillness: a dim battle cry ringing from the depths of green, a perfect harmony of galvanized voices joined together. And then, the spell broke. Irregular footsteps sounded heavily through the village, screams echoing off the walls in their wake, frantic running steps desperate to escape them. The streets and houses were suddenly shrouded in darkness as the sky, lamenting the fresh scarlet streams and rivulets flowing through the cobblestone streets, watched a plague of darkness and suffering overtake the people who looked to it for guidance. The stillness returned, just as it had been before, and yet different. The crickets still held their notes back, the trees still waged a peaceful war against the town, and the houses were still silent. Only the red stains and saddened skies told a different story. Artwork by Ashley Laurens, ‘15
Calligraphy by Honora Johnston, ‘14
Thunder Maya Salpekar, ‘19
The rain starts The wind blows The people run To get inside Shut the doors And the windows Get inside And hide Start a fire Make some tea See some light and close your eyes Count the seconds In between BOOM! Put on some earmuffs BOOM! Hide in your room BOOM! Pretend you don't hear it BOOM! Is it over? Oh, it's letting up now Oh, the rain is stopping Oh, the wind has Blown itself out The sun is coming from Behind an Ugly cloud Oh joy! Put on your Shoes and hats and Go outside and play.
String Art by Ava Dean, ‘19
Photo by Jade Lockard, ‘16
Spring Mara Bugler, ‘18
In the snow covered ground, a flower bud peeks out. The white sun becomes hotter and hotter and the snow begins to melt. Weeks later, The snow has turned to green grass in the cold air. And the flower has bloomed. The edges of the petals are encrusted in the frozen wind. But it is still beautiful.
The Resting Place
Erika Markson, ‘14 Some people say that if you Stay in the same place, You’ll never learn anything. Well I’ve never moved Not one inch in my whole life And oh, the stories I could tell. I am never a participant. I am always an observer, a listener, But most of all a silent supporter. I am a resting place, and refuge. People come and sit and They speak of their lives, Or more often say nothing at all. I have seen snow built up too high for Me to measure, And summers so sweltering That not a single soul
Photo by Jade Lockard, ‘16
Came by to see me. In winter they tie me up With bows and lights, And I will never forget the smile On her face When he knelt beside me, and asked, “Will you marry me?” When the days are warm, Children skip around and bounce on me, Dripping their popsicles in my lap. But I never mind. I have seen more Worn-‐out people Than I can count. Some are just bone-‐tired From traveling too far. Others are broken down In their very souls. But they always seem to Leave With a little more Strength in them Than when They found me. I am old, And I am wise now. I creak, I’ve a few screws missing, And some of me is, Damaged beyond repair. Still people visit, and sit with me, And I suspect they will Until this old frame of mine gives out. And still not a day goes by That I do not learn something About the human heart. Published in VOX Newspaper
Trees Ava Dean, ‘19
In the winter The leaves will fall One by one The tree will be bare In the spring We wait until night Then watch the stars above In the summer A wonderful place To read and draw To sit and play In the fall Tall long trees Bend in the wind, Let the birds Make a home Mother Nature In green, yellow, and red Magnificent trees Photo by Saajidah Kalla, ‘13
Photo by Jade Lockard, ‘16
When I Am Alone Imani Guy D., ‘17
When I am alone I take off my clothes. I untie the knotted laces of my thoughts. I slip out of the prison my toes had been banished to. I turn my feet into crab’s pinchers, Clawing at the cotton that covers my moist feet. I peel off the pants That were stitched with a needle called worry And a thread named stress. I yank off my shirt that protected my skin From the foul blows of the day. I step out of my panties carefully, like they are made of thin glass. I expose my most vulnerably innocent parts. I twirl out of my wired bra. I let what loves to hang Hang like nobody’s business. I let what loves to wiggle, Wiggle Iike a child escaping from tickling hands. I let what enjoys being wild Be as wild as a beast’s eye when its prey is in sight. I let what wants to soar Soar higher than any redwood would dare to grow. I let my songs seep out of my soul, To be carried on the back of the sweet breeze.
Doll Shannon McCarthy, ‘19
You're finally out of the box! A new friend to play with. Here is my room. It's your room too. Let me brush your hair. It's so perfect. I hope it always is. Let's go play. You can be a princess Or a model Or an actress Or a pretty teenager. No matter what you are, I'll always love you Do you love me too? You know what? I'm gonna go do something else. Stay here in the basement for now. I'm done with dolls anyway. They're for little kids. Here's your new home: A box. I'm more into big girl stuff anyway. I finally found you! I've been looking all week! Did you miss me? It's been months, or years, since we played. I'm sorry for leaving you alone. Maybe you can come back to my room. Oh no, your hair isn't as pretty as it was. Where's your gown? And your shoes? And your hair brush? Why were you in the basement? Never mind. We'll play anyway. Oh…, my friends are here. You can just stay in this drawer for now. Don't worry, one day you'll be with a new little girl. And we'll see each other again. Someday.
What Heaven Is Like Morenike Okuwobi, ‘16
Some may say that death is the worst thing to ever happen to someone because it's, well, death. Trust me, it's not. Walking through the doors of this tall, British building, it was like I could feel every single thing that was happening in my body. The bass drums in my heart were beating as if playing for a tribal dance. I could feel my cold blood rushing back and forth through my veins. All I heard was a constant, steady beep and nothing else. Everywhere I turned, I saw people tucked firmly into crisp, white sheets and plugged into the wall like electronics. I knew that the more I looked, I would finally see the person I was looking for. She was there, plugged into the wall just like all the others. Here hair was gone, her bones were perfectly outlined by her skin with nothing in between. Her eyes were dull and lifeless as if her spirit had already drifted far, far away to a place beyond where we can comprehend. Seeing my aunt who just months ago was so jovial and youthful being taken over by this invisible force, I knew that she needed to go to that place far beyond the clouds and the stars. She was happy. She was happy because after forty-‐two years of wondering and dreaming, she finally got to see what heaven was like.
A Picture of Hope Katherine Langford, ‘18
Small, tiny droplets of water pouring onto a roof. What is it to you? To many this means sadness like angels are crying, pouring their tears and forcing us to feel their pain. But for me it is different. Why? Why does everything have to be so sad? For me, this event, raining down from the clouds above, for me it is different. A picture of hope, giving us water giving us life giving us happiness and love, a picture of hope. what is rain to you? For me-‐-‐ A picture of hope.
Photo by Lindsay Malkin, ‘18
Zeal Kaitlyn Sanders, ‘17
She stood proudly on the rock, Fists clenched, Gazing out. Her hair was whipping her face, And sea salt stung her eyes. She did not feel it, No pain, Just pride. The rock she stood on, Still, strong, tranquil, In perfect contrast to her zeal. It would start to go away, Like the lapping waves, Then return, Bringing with it, Like the water, Hope and joy, Over again.
Drawing by Kaitlyn Sanders, ‘17
Artwork by Erika Markson, ‘14
Photo by Jade Lockard, ‘16
Kokopelli’s Return Miranda Battle, ‘13
I laid in my bed, staring up at the glow in the dark stars that were stuck firmly to the ceiling. I was lost in the sea of my thoughts, thinking about everything from what would be for dinner tomorrow, to the fact that winter break was ending in a couple of days. I let out a sad sigh when I was reminded of winter break’s end approaching rapidly. I looked over and saw that my alarm clock read 7:30. My grandma would be coming today, and that scared me a bit. She was a very traditional Zuni Indian and lived on the Zuni Indian Reservation. The reason this scared me was because I was only half Zuni, did not live on the reservation, and she often took that as a reason to criticize me for every wrongdoing. I squeezed my eyes shut and decided I would do some mentally preparing by reminding myself to dodge the bullets of her sometimes malicious comments. The mentally preparing didn’t last long because all of a sudden I heard a loud bang downstairs. My eyes widened; were we being robbed again? Panic took over my body. I decided I would lie there and let my dad handle it because he had the shotgun. But still, I fought with myself over whether or not I should go check it out. Suddenly, the nasally high-‐pitched voice of grandma pierced through my thoughts. She was here early. Too early. “Meli! Mike! Are you guys awake yet?” She yelled through the house. I heard my dad’s heavy footsteps run downstairs. I sat up and focused in on their conversation. “Hey Janice, you’re here awfully early.” My dad’s voice sounded like a mix of surprise, confusion, and tiredness. “Mike, how are you? I wanted to beat the morning traffic, so I came early. I figured at least Meli would be awake.” I could hear her voice getting closer, as my dad was leading her upstairs to the spare bedroom. “We had a late night last night, so Meli and Mansi are still asleep.” “Well get them up! I’d like to see my daughter and granddaughter.” My grandma was definitely not patient. “Janice-‐“ “Oh I like what you did with the room!” She cut him off, and I could hear their voices trailing away as they approached her room. I slowly opened my bedroom door and tried to tiptoe downstairs. The plan backfired. “Mansi! Where are you going? Are you just going to ignore your grandmother?” I gritted my teeth and turned around to face her, putting on my fake smile. “You look so much older!” I could only make out her silhouette, since most of the house was still dark. However, I still detected the disgusted undertones in her voice. “Thanks.” was all I could bring myself to say. She only nodded and turned back around like a robot, as if being nice to me shut down any kind of human ability to communicate. How long was she staying here? Breakfast was painfully uncomfortable for me. Once grandma had asked me what my grades were. I couldn’t just shrug the question off. When I told her my grades, a slight smirk formed on her face. “I made all A’s when I was your age.” She said in a smug voice.
I took a sip of my coffee so I could avoid having to respond. For the remainder of breakfast, she only talked to mom and dad, talking about mundane things such as her health issues and the family back on the rez. I excused myself from the table, not wanting to have to interact with her. My parents went out that afternoon, strategically leaving me alone with grandma. I also figured that it was my punishment for rudely leaving breakfast this morning. The house had been silent, I was in my room, and grandma was in the living room napping. I took in a deep breath and decided it was safe to go downstairs to get myself something to drink. My tongue felt rough and dry, and I had a massive headache. Grandma being here made me forget to hydrate myself. When I got downstairs, I observed grandma napping. She looked calmer while she slept. Even the most odious of people could look tranquil in their sleep. My eyes were quickly diverted to an object resting peacefully on her neck. It glistened in the sunrays that poured through the window. I snuck closer to see what it was, trying to remain dead silent. When I got closer, I made out the object on the necklace. It was a golden humpback flute player. It looked like such a joyful, content creature. Why was it on grandma’s neck? I didn’t realize how focused I was on it until grandma’s harsh voice brought me back down to reality again. “What are you looking at child?” She sounded aggravated, as if I purposefully woke her up. “Grandma, who’s that on your necklace?” I asked. She felt around her neck, forgetting she had a necklace on. When she finally found it, she held it tightly. “It’s Kokopelli. I got this necklace from your grandfather before he passed away.” “Kokopelli…?” I was puzzled. My grandma’s eyes widened, and I could tell she was about to criticize me again. “You don’t know who Kokopelli is? How can you not know?” She shook her head, her hair managing to stay in place as if it was some clay structure constructed on her head. “No one ever told me about him.” I shrugged. “Sit down child.” She motioned towards the floor. I sat with careful movements just incase she was about to lash out at me. “Kokopelli is a huge part of Zuni history. In fact, he’s a huge part of all the Pueblo tribes.” She took in a deep breath, held it there, and then let out a long sigh. I tilted my head sideways, wondering if she was about to cry. “He has many different roles, he’s been known as the god of fertility, trickster, healer, and story teller. He’s always been sort of a mystery.” My mind was racing, if he was a big part of my heritage, how come I have never heard of him? “So what exactly was his purpose? What did he do?” Grandma’s features calmed, as if she was happy that for once her granddaughter actually cared about her heritage. “What makes you interested in this all of a sudden?” “He just looks interesting…” That was the only response I could think of. My thoughts were racing. “Well… he doesn’t have just one purpose. Like my grandmother always said, he is not just one thing, but also many things. There are many myths as to who he was and what he did.” Grandma paused, stretching her legs out, making herself more comfortable. I had the slightest bit of hope that she was actually excited about having a conversation with me. “One myth is that when he played his flute, which could be heard in the spring breeze, every woman would be pregnant the next morning. But of course, even as a little girl, I found this myth to be slightly ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes, a grin slowly fighting its way onto her face. “The hunch on his back was thought to be a sack of songs that he carried around. When he played his flute, it meant spring was coming. He would travel to different towns, playing his flute,
melting the snow, and bringing rain for the harvest.” A hint of sorrow gleamed in her eyes. I wondered what she was sad about, but I didn’t dare ask in fear of ruining our rare bonding moment. Suddenly, the answer to my question came rather quickly. “Kokopelli used to come to my town as a child.” She looked up at me, her eyes starting to water. My eyes widened. What on Earth was she talking about? “Kokopelli isn’t actually a real person though…” I wanted to say, but I restrained myself from making any snide comments. “It was always a joyous time. His music brought joy to everyone. After he’d leave, we’d have a plentiful harvest. He brought rains like you read about. My friends and I used to go out into the rain and dance with Kokopelli, and the rest of the village. His music had been the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.” She looked over out the window, at the dry barren desert that lay all around us. “It hasn’t rained like that since the year I turned ten.” She sighed and turned back towards me. “Grandma, did this actually all happen? Or were these all dreams?” I asked, still very puzzled at this whole thing. Her eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean a dream? Of course this is all happened. You wouldn’t understand though, growing up in this, brainwashed way that your mother brought you up.” She was starting to get up, but I pulled on her hand so she’d sit back down. “Look, Mansi, I have to go do something…” “No, continue what you were saying. Why did Kokopelli stop coming to your town?” Her features softened a bit at my question. “Because people lost faith. Faith was the only thing that kept him strong. But then people started to convert to Christianity, or leave the reservation, or just not believe in him. So his spirit sort of disappeared. There hasn’t been a night that I didn’t listen closely to the breeze so that maybe I could catch his flute playing. But nothing.” She fiddled with the gold bracelets that covered her teeny wrist like a winter coat. I wanted to bring grandma that happiness again, so that maybe she could start acting like my grandma rather than my enemy. Nothing had come to mind. For the rest of the day, we didn’t interact much again. But this time was different; I couldn’t bring myself to just sit in my room. I felt a hole forming in my side, a hole of emptiness and sadness that grandma’s story had brought along. I woke up in a sweat, not realizing I had fallen asleep. The numbers on the alarm clock were more harsh than usual, making me squint my eyes when I looked at it. A soft breeze invaded my room, establishing itself in every crack and corner. I could hear a faint flute playing, somewhere. Looking around, I could not find the source of the mysterious music. All of a sudden, a feeling of joy and merriment filled my body, sending a burst of energy along with it. I wasn’t sure whether or not I should fear this feeling, or go along with it. A figure started to form beside my bed, and the music got louder. I studied the figure forming, paralyzed. This figure had a defined arc in its back, playing a long flute that seemed to look like a part of its body in the dark. Then I realized that it was Kokopelli! All of a sudden, everything went black, and the room was silent. Had it all been a dream? Whether it was or not, I couldn’t fall back asleep, but instead sat there and pondered as to what had just happened. Was it a sign? Grandma wasn’t going home. A few weeks went by, and I was curious as to why she was still here. I hadn’t told her about my dream, because she was starting to be cold towards me again. Every time I tried to talk to her, she’d brush me away as if I was just a fly that landed on her
shoulder. School got to be sort of a get away for me. One afternoon, her behavior towards me got so ridiculous, that I caved in and cried to my mom. She sat so still, typing frantically on her computer when I stomped up to her, demanding answers. “Why is she still here, mom? Why can’t she just go home?” I felt angry, barking at my mom more than I should’ve been. “Mansi, she’s not going home. We’re here to take care of her, she needs it a lot right now.” “Mom she’s perfectly fine on her own. She doesn’t need to be taken care of.” Mom looked up from her computer, tears streaming down her face in plump little droplets. “She’s got stage four lung cancer. They’ve tried chemo, radiation, everything, and nothing works. She’s only got a couple of months to live.” I was stunned, covering the “O” my lips formed with my hands. “Why didn’t anyone inform me of this?” I shook my head in disbelief. Why would my parents lie to me about this? “Because, we didn’t want you to act differently around her.” “Differently? Well now I feel bad for being so rude to her. Maybe if you would of told me, I would’ve tried harder to get along with her. I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.” I stormed away, flustered. Mom called after me, but I just ignored her. I didn’t need her excuses. The whole upstairs was filled with the sound of grandma’s snoring. I peaked into her room to find her fast asleep, an opened book resting on her chest. Now that I knew she had lung cancer, I could hear her struggling to breathe. She kept holding her breathe for several seconds at a time, and it sent chills down my spine. Watching her struggling to breathe made me realize that I needed to help her; I needed to heal her somehow. That night, he returned to my dreams. I was surprised because I hadn’t seen Kokopelli in weeks. He stood beside my bed again. This time, I wasn’t scared. I called him to my dreams, still not quite sure how much faith I had in him, and if he was real or if I was just slowly going insane. I talked to the silhouette beside my bed. I remembered grandma saying he was a healer, out of the many other roles he took. Knowing this, I took him to my advantage. Whether this was just a dream or not, I needed to pour my heart out to someone. After speaking to him, he disappeared. Just then, I knew the answer to what I needed to do. Had it been Kokopelli that had given me the answer? Or was it all me, coming to a conclusion? Either way, the next day at school I couldn’t hold back my excitement. I darted towards my friends, Chelly and Gabby, at lunchtime. “Why are you all giddy today?” Chelly asked, giggling at my hyper activeness. “Chells, Gabby, I need you guys to come over Saturday. That night is the last night before spring, and I want to celebrate the spring equinox.” Both of them looked at me as if I had horns growing out of the side of my head. “When have you ever been excited about the first day of spring?” Gabby cocked her head sideways. “Yeah and not only that, but isn’t your grandma at your house? By the way you make her sound, I don’t think she’d like me either.” Chells tapped on her nose piercing. She was right, my grandma couldn’t stand anyone with any kind of body piercing or tattoos. “Guys, just please come over. I’m trying to make things right with her.” I found myself trying to hold back tears. Was I really that devastated about grandma being sick? “Okay, okay. But why the spring equinox?” Gabby asked, picking the peperoni off her pizza as if she was performing an intricate brain surgery.
“It used to be a huge celebration for her as a kid. Her whole village would come together and dance and have a really good time. Then the next day, it would rain.” I didn’t tell them about the Kokopelli part. “And I think if we did this for her again, she’d feel like a kid again. Not only that, but maybe we’d actually get a significant rainstorm again.” Gabby and Chelly’s faces looked unconvinced. “Dude, it hasn’t rained like that since, who knows how long. I don’t think it will anytime soon. Dancing and partying won’t change anything.” I was sure that if they were convinced of anything, it was that I was deranged. “Just please guys.” I put on my best puppy dogface. They both tried their best to smile, and nodded hesitantly. Saturday crept up behind me and scared me like an old friend visiting unexpectedly. My grandma was struggling to get around the house, occasionally having to hold on to my mom’s hand to keep from falling. She looked so fragile, her hand completely disappearing into my mom’s when she grasped onto it. I had told mom about my plans to surprise grandma tonight, and after a lot of brow furrowing and stubbornness to agree, she finally did. “Okay, but no craziness.” She mumbled the last part, not meaning for me to hear it. “Don’t you think this is a good idea? I’m trying to help her.” I was starting become aggravated with her again. “Yeah it’s just…she’s really sick. I don’t know how much she’ll be able to fully enjoy it.” She looked at me, and for the first time, I felt sympathetic towards her. She was trying so hard to make everyone happy. “Mom, it’ll be perfect. You’ll see. I hope you and dad partake in it.” What I did next was something I hadn’t done in so long, that I forgot how it felt. I hugged her. I could feel her tears warm my shoulders as they fell. “Thanks Mansi, for doing this. It helps me a lot.” Her voice was muffled through her tears, but I could hear her perfectly fine. Chelly and Gabby showed up around late afternoon, and I was ecstatic that they came. “You came!” I beamed as I opened the door for them. “Anything for our best friend. I even brought blue corn pancakes and sheep stomach soup. I read that they were a Zuni specialty, and if we want to make your grandma feel at home…well we need the proper cuisine.” Chelly winked at me. They had actually made an effort for me, and I had a faint gleam of hope that tonight would be unforgettable. We snuck out into the backyard, which was all decorated. Dad had pulled out the picnic table we had hidden in the shed. My parents had been convinced we would never use it, since we weren’t the most social family. However, that was about to change. I observed the snow that was still laying around, compact in tight clumps around our yard. It didn’t look like it was going to melt anytime soon, but then I remembered that Kokopelli melted the snow when he came. If he were in fact real, the snow would be gone tomorrow. Later that evening, the wind was strong, and nearly knocked grandma over when my mom led her outside to see what we had set up for her. “Oh, this is beautiful!” Her eyes twinkled as she looked at the display we set up. There were blue lights strung around the deck, and beads and ears of corn used as confetti on the table. I had read once that Kokopelli was believed to have carried beads and corn seeds in his pack, and I figured they would make good decorations. Mom and I worked together to walk grandma over to the table, which spread the aroma of corn and spices. “This looks delicious. What is this for?” Grandma sat down, overwhelmed by everything.
No one answered her, but rather replied with their actions. We had a feast filled with laughing and gleeful conversation. Silence fell over us after our stomachs were extended to their full capacity. Distantly, I heard the sound of a melodic breeze. It was a bit nippy outside, but the breeze brought warmth. I looked over at my grandma, who was focused on something off in the distance. She seemed to hear it too. Suddenly, the sound of thunder rumbled in the same direction. If the table had been silent before, it was dead silent now. “Was that…thunder?” Mom’s eyes widened to the size of coins. “I think so…” Chelly responded. Grandma’s face looked beyond thrilled, and for the first time, she looked comfortable, as if she was truly put back into the happiness of her girlhood. I couldn’t help but smile with her. “Let’s move everything inside.” Mom got up abruptly, hearing the heavy pitter-‐patter of the rain inching towards us. We packed up everything, leaving the picnic table and decorations outside. We settled in the living room, watching as the rain pounded down onto the windows. “I can’t believe this rain. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it like this.” Dad said in astonishment. I could still hear the melodic breeze, and I looked over at grandma, our eyes meeting. We grinned at each other, both knowing exactly what was going on. Kokopelli had returned. The joyousness in the room had been heightened now, as the presence of Kokopelli entered our home. Grandma went to bed earlier than everyone else that night. She went around the room and hugged everyone, holding on longer than she ever had. Mom and I had helped her upstairs. Once we got to her room, she hugged mom again, giving her not just a friendly hug but a mother-‐ daughter hug. Grandma stroked her hair as she hugged her. “I love you very much Meli.” Grandma said, almost whispering. “I love you too mom.” Mom squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep from crying. I had a feeling that tonight would be the last night for grandma, as I watched her struggle to get into bed. She let out a struggling sigh when she settled in the bed, wincing in pain. Her eyes were still filled with joy. Mom went back downstairs, leaving me alone with grandma. “Mansi, I want you to come here.” She patted the side of the bed, and I wondered what she was going to say. The fear of hearing her judgment was long gone now. “Tonight was fantastic. Somehow, you made him return. I felt like a little girl again.” My grandma grabbed my hand and squeezed it with what little strength she had left. “Thank you. Truly. It meant the world to me. And tomorrow, spring will truly have returned.” She closed her eyes, still squeezing my hand. “Listen to the rain…” She trailed off. The warmth followed us up into grandma’s room. I knew Kokopelli had come in here with us. He stood in between grandma and I. Along with the warmth, a celebratory feeling spread the room. Neither one of us could necessarily dance, but I could feel my spirit dancing inside. Grandma’s was too by the way her eyes danced rapidly behind her eyelids. The melodic breeze was still blowing, this time into the room. I shivered a bit, but I wasn’t cold. Kokopelli danced around us, playing jubilant tunes on his flute, encasing us in serenity and peacefulness. I stood there, holding my grandma’s hand, until it fell limp. I woke up the next morning, feeling sluggish, but still happy. Grandma had passed peacefully in her sleep. I didn’t feel sad though, or any sort of grief. No, what I felt was that sense of serenity I had felt last night. I knew Kokopelli had healed my grandma of her suffering, playing one of the many roles he had. Kokopelli had also led her on a migration. “A migration to where?” I wondered. One of Kokopelli’s many roles was to lead groups of people on migrations. Where had he taken my grandma though? But then the answer came to me as a flash of lightening struck outside. He had taken her back to the happiness of her childhood,
where she could live forever now, wherever she was. He truly was a healer, but he was more than just a healer. As my grandma had told me a few months back, he was a healer, a teacher, a trickster, a trader, a storyteller, and a God. He brought the rains, he led grandma to a better place, but more importantly, he taught one of the most valuable lessons I would learn in my life. This lesson was to appreciate everyone in my life, because I never knew when he or she would be gone for good. The funeral planning had been hectic, my mother being her stressed filled self. However, she wasn’t as stressed as usual. Ever since Kokopelli had come that night, my mom and I grew a closer bond. I was more grateful for all the things she did, even the little things. My dad and I also became closer, talking more than we ever had. I felt I knew my parents better, and they knew me. The rain hadn’t stopped for days, and when it finally did, everything was green and lush, despite being smack dab in the middle of the desert. One afternoon, the weather was so pleasant, that we decided to take a walk at the park down the street. The spring breeze hugged me every now and again. While at the park, I noticed a tiny figure that had been sprayed in graffiti on the side of one of the park buildings. As I got closer to it, I made out the familiar humped back flute player. Kokopelli! I grinned as I studied it. And just then, I could have sworn I heard the comforting sound of a flute playing softly, somewhere off in the distance.
Artwork by Africa McLeod, ‘14
The Chain Gang Morgan Fulton, ‘13 Somebody yanked the chain Once Hard enough to Cross His legs and Throw him into the mud. He never figured out how He knew. How anybody did. But he did know He did. And he took both hands And yanked the length Of chain at his left So the next man would know too. The water was above his ankles, Flowing over the wooden plank He slept on. And then it wasn’t water anymore. It started like the chain-‐up But the difference was The power of the chain. One by one, From Hi Man Back on down the line, They dove. Down through the mud Under the bars, Blind, Groping. The chain that held them Would save all Or none, And Hi Man was the delivery.
Artwork by Ryan Griffin, ‘16
Artwork by Priya Arya ‘15
Chase Scene Katherine Langford “Huh-‐huh” My loud breathing echoes around me. Come on, you can do it Talen. (That’s my name by the way) Just a little bit farther. I try to encourage myself. My skinny legs burn as I move them back, forth, and my ankle-‐length pitch-‐black hair swings from side to side. I’ve always thought of running from something dangerous to be exciting and adrenaline-‐boosting, but boy was I wrong. A long, low howl sounds, sending cold shocks up my spine. Those wolfs must be getting closer. This just makes me run faster. If there’s anything I don’t want right now, it’s to be eaten alive by moonwolves. Suddenly, my vision is obscured by sweat dripping from my drenched forehead. I wipe it off with a sleeve, dampening the already moist fabric. A soft padding of paws sounds from behind me. Oh God. I panic, and try to run faster. But my legs have reached their breaking point. I have to stop soon, or I’ll collapse. I turn my head, but even this takes effort. I search desperately, looking for a place to hide. Then, it hits me. Duh, I’m surrounded by trees! Woods aren’t that easy to run through, but the trees are the ultimate place to hide. I scan the area around me, looking for a decent tree, one that looks sturdy, and one that wolves won’t be able to catch me in. Then, I freeze, as if encased in ice. Another howl, and then the eyes. A pair of ice-‐blue, ferocious eyes shines at me through the darkness of the night, added on by the shadow of the trees. A blood-‐curdling scream emits from my mouth, and I turn as fast as lightning to a tree directly in front of me. It’s the tallest tree I’ve ever seen, it’s uppermost branches grazing the stars. I’m not very good at tree climbing, at least for a 15 year old, but if I don’t try, I’ll be dead in seconds. I reach up one hand and grasp the nearest branch, and pull up a leg onto another low branch. I yank up, pulling myself into the depths of the tree. I dare to take a look down, and see three, no four, moonwolves at the bottom, their silvery-‐blue tails shining like silver swords in the erie moonlight. I scurry up the tree, every once in a while missing a knob, or branch. My breathing is rapid, but I can barely keep myself up, barely keep myself from falling. Finally, after what seems like hours, I come to a sturdy-‐enough branch that’s about 1/2 way up the tree, my eyes still wide from sheer panic. I climb up onto it, and as I do, my legs slip out from under me. A short gasp is all I get. I’m hanging for dear life by only my exhausted arms, my legs free prey for the predators beneath me. I have to try to pull myself up, there’s no perches for my legs, at least not ones that I can reach. So, I clench my arm muscles, and try to pull myself up, this draining nearly all the energy out of my already exhausted body. Eventually, I’m able to scramble up onto the branch with my legs, and when I have my whole body onto the branch, I sit down, my head leaning against the trunk. I give my breathing a chance to slow down, my aching limbs a chance to relax. But I only get a minute to rest, because the next thing I know, a strange scratching noise is coming from the bottom of the tree. I turn my head to look down, and fast as lightning stand up, my hands glued to the tree, as if for some kind of safety. The over-‐a-‐dozen moonwolves that are standing at the bottom, all their mouths are watering, waiting to eat me alive. One of the moonwolves, the one that looks like the leader, is clawing at the tree. Then, it’s front claws lock in the tree, and it brings its back legs on, and starts climbing up the tree to me. My expression one of full terror and raw fear, and my mind track stopped by fear, I can’t think of anything to do. I have to get out of this tree, that’s all I know. But I can’t climb down, that would take to long. And I knew I couldn’t go from tree to tree, the next one is too far away. Through the darkness, I look down the tree, opposite the side the moonwolf is climbing up. It’s a long drop, about 15 feet. But it’s the only chance I’ve got. I’ll have to jump. A low, horrible growl sounds behind me, and pushed on by sheer terror, I hurl myself from the tree, onto the ground. The fall lasts for only a few seconds, and when I hit the ground, I can register nothing but the pain. It takes all of the strength in me to not cry out. I feel like all of my bones are broken, and for a while I can’t get up. But then, I lift my head, and look behind me, hecking for the wolves.
Evening Pasture Mara Bugler, ‘18
An afternoon breeze dances on the grass in the pasture, making it sway. It cools my skin, making it tingle with happiness. It gently blows my golden hair back, and the sun catches its light. And there is no other place I would rather be.
Storybook Cover by Sofia Broffman, ‘16
Wide-eyed Child Imani Guy D., ‘17
Wide-‐eyed child, Lonely, bright, and her own, A daughter of a maternal village who holds individuality, truth, and acceptance next to her heart. Who fears the slices she receives from the jagged edges of a broken promise, Is inspired by pure inspiration, And is eager to relieve people of the heavy burdens life gifts. Who is frightened by the speed, at which her thoughts travel the universe, By the way the present hides the future And how easily a lifeless object can break a person’s will. Who slayed growling beasts that were foaming at the mouth, only to watch them Rise up again. Who conceals the stench of decay with the parting of her lips and a flash of her teeth And continues to stay afloat in a pool of murderous waves. Who dreams of helping others learn to help themselves And becoming the person she was disappointed never to meet. Who lives among savage animals, In a world that morphs every time she blinks, But is consistently littered with shattered souls. Who makes the world her own.
Photo by Sophie Coffman, ‘13
Je m’appelle Fred. Matilda Avirett-‐MacKenzie, ‘14
In loving memory of my goldfish, Fred. This girl’s a bit annoying, Peering in at me like that. This other fish is annoying. Well, at least he’s not a cat! I suppose that I should like her: She saved me from certain doom. She saved me, yeah, sure, But I live now in her room. This girl’s a bit annoying; The other fish is dead. This girl is always crying, “Well, at least I still have Fred.” I think I’ve grown to love her. She says I’m her best friend. As a dog so loves his master, So this love shall never end. This girl’s a bit annoying. She was really very sad When belly-‐up she found me floating; She wouldn’t give me to her dad. Je m’appelle Fred. Je suis un poisson. Why, yes, I am dead, But my spirit still lives on.
Artwork by Faith Coffman, ‘18
Wide Eyes
Dancin g o n Stars
Adele McLees, ‘18
Adele McLees, ‘18
Dancing on the stars, leaping, jumping, twirling, until I have to sit to steady spinning eyes and streaks of bright, white light. Galloping along the Milky Way, stealing a star or two as I go, placing them carefully inside the pocket of my sky-‐blue sundress. Skipping along the rings of Saturn, circling closer and closer until I stop. place my hands on its cool surface. Then, I dive back to Earth.
Water Whispers Meredith Furbish, ‘17
You drift like m ist Through the noon-‐time harvest Speaking cool words of Midnight waterfalls Gracefully pouring into Moonlight grottos
Midnight
Adele McLees, ‘18 The moon’s bright reflection stares down at you on this dark night, its gaze casting silver rays to encircle you as its eyes glow, its mouth curving into a warm smile.
My head cranes back to stare at the stony heavens above, arches upon arches, acres of stained glass stretched tight across the high sky. An extraordinary presence presents itself, lovely and serene in m anner, and I choose to stay for a long time indeed.
Untitled Gabriella Canzian, ‘19
As the sun rises over the mountains, The sycamores shine, the leaves start to drop as fall drives near. The sun is bright, and I know today will be amazing. I run outside, looking up at the sky. Suddenly, clouds start to wrap around the most beautiful sun. Thunder crashes, loud. A raindrop prickles my nose. As I run back home, the thunder begins to calm, and the rain slowly fades away The most beautiful of rainbows appears The colors So blazing So striking As the sun rises.
Icy Blue Eyes
Adele McLees, ‘18 Her blue eyes pierced my skin from the moment we first set eyes on each other -‐ those icy blue eyes that seem to belong to the arctic, should never have run away. She trailed behind me, a shadow the sun refused no matter the subject of my wandering gait. Then, the day came. to affect, I crossed, looked both ways -‐ swear I did -‐ and I ran like I always do, but my shadow didn’t.
My hands felt her slender form one last time while my mouth cursed her killer for the first time of millions -‐ the one who hit and ran. My eyes turned to waterfalls, while my cheeks turned to riverbeds, and they chose to stay that way.
Photo by Claire Rinck, ‘17
The Rain Frances Kelley, ‘17
As I sat down to supper Looking out the window I saw rain falling Down Down Down There he was standing In the rain That’s when The sparks flew Now I turn back I am just a girl Alone So alone
Rings Frances Kelley, ‘17 One small band Some are simple Some are elaborate So many girls wait for it Some thirty-‐one years Some nineteen years Others will never Get this bond from another
Under the Summer Night Sky Shannon McCarthy, ‘19
Photo by Sby ophie Coffman, ‘13 Photo Sophie Coffman
Soft sun shining over her family's barn A twirl of her skirt and a light dusting of fresh silver moonbeams that had just come out after the sunset And she ran. Dragging her fingers along the white-‐painted wooden boards that kept the barn on it's feet. She ran till she could reach the dancing stars And dance with them too. A silver ring was set down right under the moon And she knew he had come.
Tom’s Tree Margaret Langford, ‘15
His name is Tom, and he stands fast by the ivy-‐covered tree trunk. It is his guardian; it is his concealment. He had discovered it only ten seconds before, but during that time had come to the decision that this tree, situated behind the woodpile stacked up in the forest on the backside of the empty house, was his. This house is more like a tower than any home I know, he muses to himself. It’s a lonely, spired tower where broken-‐hearted princesses weep, hoping for a savior. It’s the kind of evil place that no child other than I can imagine, because in this story the captured doesn’t come out alive. Tom is correct. In this very place, only three months from this moment, he is going to die. He will die alone, abused, broken, weeping beside the tree, clutching the ivy’s leaves as if they are his hope, his last chance. He will perish by their side, dressed in the same old t-‐shirt and sweater, wearing the very same frayed denim shorts, with the identical pair of worn out trainers on his raw, cold feet. His long, brown hair will be gone, for it will all eventually fall to the ground, as he will yank it out handful by handful in his distress. At this moment, though, Tom is calm. He looks at the forest surrounding him, feeling strong in his freedom, freedom that will last only seconds longer. In a few seconds, while Tom is leaning against the ivy-‐covered tree trunk, a large, rough-‐looking fisherman stumbles into view, explains to Tom that he is taking a shortcut home from the lake nearby, and, for reasons unknown, pulls out a camera and snaps a picture of the boy. His dark, black eyes pierce through the lens as the camera pops. At the sound, Tom’s muscles tense. His legs don’t move, even though in his head he is running away, his panicked thoughts pulling him to safety. Memories flood Tom’s mind. They are flashes of his mother using a similar machine to record his early childhood. It is the feeling, remembering how he felt on his eighth birthday, greedy eyes hanging over the three-‐layered cake on the table beneath him or recognizing the joy of zooming down the street on his two-‐wheel bicycle for the first time, that shatters him. Heavy footsteps rustle the leaves nearby, coming closer, getting faster. His knees buckle in his realization. Suddenly Tom knows that an ivy-‐covered tree will never give him safety. It will never take him home; never bring him hope. The feeling of freedom is a lie. They will kidnap him, he knows. They are coming; it is true.
S hadows
Of Them
Margaret Langford, ‘15
The voice breathed into my ear-‐-‐ Wake, Eve, rise from your dark sleep and see. I jolt awake and sit up in the darkness. That dream again! The same strange whisper, so real I could feel the lips tickle my ear as they spoke to me. I put my hand to my ear because I swear I can still feel it tingling. No. It’s just my imagination. I wrap my arms around my shaking torso and fight against the sudden chattering of my jaw. Is it the dream that makes me shiver, or did the temperature dropped so dramatically as I slept? As I stand up from the bed, my eyes adjust to the darkness, and I am able to make out the few items around my room: The dark form of my wardrobe facing the left side of my bed on which I now sit, the shadow of my hat hanging on the wall beside it, and the faint glow of the glass thermometer attached to the wall adjacent to my bed. Following the small glint in the darkness, I drag myself over to examine the device: thirty-‐one degrees Fahrenheit. I sigh, relieved to find that it is indeed the air that is cold and not I. I reach out my hand and touch my finger to the long shell of glass. Sure enough, my skin chills against the glass and I jump away. I despise the cold. I crawl back under my thin sheet for another hour’s sleep, but suddenly realize that the fabric is damp with perspiration. I don’t remember him in my dream. I didn’t wake up panicked or afraid, for if I had it would have been the cruel boy who once haunted me in my sleep come back to scare me again. I had only awoken with one small drop of curiosity, but my bed and I are indeed coated in a sea of sweat. I try to relax for a minute, enveloped between my hard mattress and cold, wet cover, but I cannot even close my eyes. Questions have begun to spin in my head, and I can feel fear starting to slither its way into my thoughts, too. Knowing that I won’t get any more rest, I decide to head out for work early. For me, though, this early means a rising sun and a moment of freedom. The tips of my toes pad along the dark hallway as I silently make my way toward the door that will let me enter the garden outside. With eyes and ears alert, I brush my hands along the wall to guide myself. A perfect screw of hair flops over my forehead, and as my left hand reaches up to tuck it back behind my ear, I realize that I’m missing something. Squeak… I almost jump at the sound of the floor as the thought hits me that I do not have my hat with me. Praying that the noise went unheard, and knowing that the hat will be crucial when I step out into the blinding Ever-‐Sun lights that hang over the garden, I quickly turn around and head back to fetch it. What a strange thing to forget! It was foolish of me to get so distracted as to leave my hat. I don’t pause for a second until I’m almost at the threshold of my room.
Just down the pitch-‐black hallway, I swear I see them: My sister’s piercing green eyes glowing in the dark. I blink, and suddenly they are gone. Just my imagination, again. The shivering has begun again, though, and I hastily retrieve my hat from its hook on the wall and tiptoe hurriedly back down the hall, not taking the chance to look back. At the door, I push my large-‐brimmed hat upon my head, put my hand on the knob, and close my eyes, prepared for the flood of shocking, white light. But it doesn’t come.
Created by students in Winterim Art Class 2013
Alternate Ending of La Chasse Galerie Kate Zahniser-‐Word, ‘15
And the clock struck four o’clock in morning. I did not have time to say goodbye to my little beauty of Lanoire, Liza Guimbette. Then I saw Baptiste. He was not ok. He had a little too much to drink. The others were drunk also. No one listened to Baptiste’s rule but me. We piled into the flying wooden canoe. Baptiste took up the back of the canoe. Me, I paddled from the front. We made zigzags in the night sky. The wind felt like knifes on our skin. We flew south by the River St. Lawrence. With every minute, Batiste got worse. One time we almost hit a church steeple. We were not following the correct river. It seems as though we should have died that night. But God was with us. All the men returned to the logging site just as the clock struck six. We had just crawled into bed when the wakeup horn sounded. It seemed like all went back to the way it was. But when spring arrived and we finally could hug our families, our wives were not home. All the loggers searched for their wives, but they were nowhere to be found. When the loggers were finally about to quit the hunt, they heard a faint noise. It was like a small laugh but deep and evil. And when the laugh stopped, the loggers looked upon their wives for the last time before the ladies were engulfed into the hellish flames. All the loggers were overwhelmed by depression with the loss of the wives. Not alcohol or the king’s girls could please them. If you want to look for these lost souls, go to the mountains of Quebec. There the loggers are, never to forget the loss of their wives. And the devil laughs with the new additions to his collection of souls. You can still hear the eight loggers of la Chasse Galerie in each of the their houses. And the motto of Quebec, that all the people know, is not for their French roots, but for the legend of la Chasse Galerie and the reason “Je me souviens (I remember)” all things happen in the flying canoe.
La Fin Alternée de la Chasse Galerie (Français) Kate Zahniser-‐Word, ‘15
Artwork by Danielle Williams, ‘13 Mais le Dieu a été avec nous. Touts les hommes sont retourné au -‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐-‐chantier jusque l’horloge a sonné six heures. Nous nous sommes couché quand la trompette a commencé. Il a senti que touts les choses ont était normal. Mais si nous sommes arrivé au printemps et finalement nous avons embrasé nos blondes, elles n’ont pas été à la maison. Touts les bucherons ont cherché pour elles, mais elles n’ont été nulle part. Quand touts les bucherons ont quitté finalement la chasse, ils ont écouté un bruit faible. Il était comme un petit rire mais plus grave. Et jusque le rire que fini les bucherons ont regarder leur blonds pour le temps final après elles ont englouti pars des flammes. Touts les bucherons étaient déprimés avec la perte des leurs blondes. Ni l’alcoolé ni les filles du roi ont fait plaisir des bucheron. Si vous voudrais chercher les âmes perdues, allez aux montagnes de Québec. Les bucherons pauvres était ici, abattre pour oublier le perdu de leurs blonds. Et le diable ont ri avec les gagnés des son nouvelles additions du sons collections. Vous pouvez entendre les huit bucherons à la chaque maison des bucherons de les Chasse Galeries. Et le devise du Québec, que touts les gens connaissent, n’a pas crée au cause du les racines français mais du l’histoire de la Chasse Galerie et le raison. « Je me souviens » touts les choses que passait dans le canot volant. Et l’horloge a sonné quatre heur-‐es. Je n’avait pas le temps de dire au revoir à me petite Boisjoli de Lanoraie, Liza Guimbette. J’ai vu Baptise. Il n’était pas d’accord. Il a eu une autre Jamaïque un plus. Les autres était aussi saouls. Personne n’a entendu que moi les régulations de Baptiste. Nous avons empilé dans le canot d’écorce. Baptiste a pris le arrière du canot. Moi, j’ai conduis par le devant. Nous avons fait des zigzags au ciel. Le vent était comme les couteaux contre la peau. Nous sommes allés au sud par le fleuve de St. Lawrence. Avec chaque minute, Baptiste devenait le plus mal. Un fois nous presque avons percuté dans une croix d’église. Nous ne sommes pas été au fleuve correct. Nous avons senti que nous allons mourir à cette nuit.