Writer’s Itch Splashing whispers dance across a snow white sheet causing havoc with thunderous dark lead; lead like jet black night. A water fall of thoughts soar through the air before dropping vertically into a pool of art and lan- guage. Silver fish of memory and meta- phor slip and slide between the mol- ecules of flowing letters: they feed upon inspiration and imagination. Numbers and formulas have no meaning here where entropy rules and equilibrium is designed. I scream silence, the voices of dolphins and mermaids only exist- ent in the mirror of a two dimen- sional world. Although my own voice is bitter and treacherous, theirs is of sweet sorrow, beauty and adventure. The atmosphere twitches in an- ticipation as another drop, from the cascade, technicolours another tale. The lonely white sheet is slowly re-born as the mermaids sing, the frog princes dance, and the magical - pool shimmers our mirrored reality. The dam, above the falls eases, tension about to break and feel the oh-so sweet chorus of release. A light bulb is illuminated and triggers the tsunami to soar. The hand, urging the waves forth ward, can’t stop moving and the lead feels the pain: The waterfall is thunderous as creativity, pent up - and caged, finally breaks the lock and overflows... Like a hungry lion we feed with the silver fish until the pen goes dry and the page is spent! Tortoise Pond | Misty Rain falls, Gently shadowing distance. All is dark and sleepy. Faded in the background, Silently standing; leafless tree. Shadows of Past, Present and Future. Lush green Foliage, Like a fleecy winter blanket. Colour of Mother Nature. Family Solitude, Gathering of love in reunion. Tortoise in their pond. Rain On Grey Roofs, Barely audible; Pitter, Patter. Gypsy caravans: shields of armor. Filling the air, Sweet smells of summer rain; green, living. All is bright and beautiful. Morning Tromping down the cold grey pavement, I can feel the squeeze of my aching thighs. Nature’s steamy breath blankets the moist autumn ground. Heavy water droplets lick my face as I head south-west. The air is refreshing, void of the usually fried stench of the pulp mill. A billion electrical impulses of thoughts zip through my head like panicked last minute Christmas shop- pers in the streets of Vancouver. At the back of my mind, a dozy neuron rolls out of bed and groans something sleepily about Monday mornings. The sun barely filters through the fog, heavy with sleepless.nights. Suddenly, the mist thins; briefly I catch a glimpse of the cozy university building, curiously peeping back at me to, only to fade a moment later, back into the abyss. I take a deep breath of the chilled air and continue to saunter down the grassy hill, away from the vigilant structures of resting inhabit- ants. But a moment later, I materialize in front of two imposing glass doors. I compete, stareing them down ruthlessly. Finally, with a desperate sigh, I attack, shoving the barracades inward, revealing its soul. 1LAm a Vase Iam a Vase Cherry wood of strength You cannot anger my soul My love I pour to you Iam a vase Innocence yet to burn away Hardship will mark my flesh A cage of mesh wire in my core : Iamavase _ A vessel yet to experience I will carry you, I will carry me My love I pour to you (Inspired by Gina) Emo By Laura Gaspard and Aaron O. ‘The sight of my own blood dripping crimson red warm down my pale arm frail yet powerful in the night while my green and gold pain drain into the canyon of endless darkness ; ' pulsing stars as the droplets dance dramatically downward (on angels wings of black- est night lost forever alone in the darkness, the canyons wail sings the worlds hatred to my ears) and reach out with craving arms mirroring my own sliced agony in a silence that deafens even the most soundless of man- kind. © - The greatest fear of all Take a seat, here in my place T’ll show you what I’ve been Working away, the mind drifis to other scenes Andtheroomchills yourbloodtoice The lungs constrict in’ the thirty degree chamber Staring at noth- ing a terror like no other Squeezing, ever squeez- ing until you’re shaking like a birch in an earthquake Your mind screams to explode Your hands holding you like glue Spiraling of overwhelm- ing everythingness Everything ready to ex- plode to nothingness Help Help Where is my air Where is my life, my fu- . ture, my present My past an oxymoron who would’ have _ thunk... For she would have been the last The door opens to your right A comforting pres- ence looms to break The trance evaporates for a time And -life can be taken piece by _ piece again Slowly from a shat- tered spread eagled stance Am I? Clatter This aching heart oh mine needs compensation for its broken benders hiding within the ashes of thy spirit oh mine, this heart aching If wishes were indeed horses then thou greedy heart doust spin carousal atop the waters of thy doom and drown amidst the blues Words of circling cyclone spin recklessly piercing with ones sharp fleshy mouth stuffed with socks of feet and life’s element it scathes the forlorn soul Insane as the yellow bearded sun . eyes of scorn dine with tongues that flicker red, black, night, blood, heart of grey stone flash a storm of incomprehension : drinks upon the stars Yearning simmers over flames of envy wounds of the past poking and prodding the flames laughing with the enemy I burn to ashes and smoke Epiphany: university first year, rule number 241 sleep, and will eventually catch up to you in the end. It hit me like a runaway freight train: cold and ferocious. For a couple weeks now, I’ve been challenged to the ultimate question, “Why am I here?” Not life in general but more as why did I travel north. As I look around me at the wild green forests, endless starry sky and the dancing rainbow coniferous’, I start to subconsciously list off all of my conscious reasonings: to play basketball; to get away from home, but be able to go home every once in awhile; to embark on an adventure; or just because this is one of the nicest cities and campus’ I’ve ever encountered. But as I struggle to my feet, deadly shivers of dread shooting up and down my spine, I realize that none of the above are applicable; sure in theory, but life isn’t about theory. Subconsciously, on a deeper level than I could ever have imagined, I chose this far away place in the northern boonies to escape. Yes, I admit I wanted to start anew, to rid my life of complicated history. But it goes deeper than that; I was running away from myself, And now i have caught up with me. I’m still on the everlasting odyssey of self discovery, yet whoever i am, managed to return with a giant baseball bat. Unfortunately it took a mighty swing and an even mightier bout of psychological pain before i realized my error. My old self, whom I had mistakenly assumed to be left boxed up in amongst my storaged stuffies, books and sports medals, had come knocking, and with a vengeance. Sadly, my shadow shakes its head disapprovingly, like an adult scolding a curious child that went ahead and ate too many cookies before dinner. “I told you so” from the back of my mind, the shadow chides. Now, with a certain apprehensive mixture of disappoint- ment and bitter delight, I conclude: You cannot run from who you are, for your problems don’t