The Flavour Issue by Blueprint Magazine

Volume 14 Issue 1 June 2014

The Flavour Issue

CONTENTS

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VOLUME 14 ISSUE 1 JUNE 2014

Variety’s the very spice of life, that gives it all it’s flavour William cowper (1731 - 1800)

PROSE

POETRY

Snow White’s Poison Apple

The Spice of Life

The Monster Inside

The Flavours of Life

Ye’ll Tak the High an I’ll Tak the Low

Simone’s Legacy

Synethesia

Bitterness

Closer to Dinner

Child

Wings

Passport Palate

Expiry Date

Vanilla Privilege

I Scream, You Scream

Hatred By Association

Sarah Lane

MITCHELL KOOH

AMANDA SCHEIFELE

Carina Rampelt

Erin Popelka

Amanda scheifele

Front Cover SELENA WONG

Back Cover

CARINA RAMPELT

joseph brannan

Brittany Bennett

Fiorella Morzi

DOnnique williams

Joshua Lewis

Amara ngozi

Sarah rana

Katrina Behr

Howie Good

Katelyn Stewart

Inside Back

JESSICA GROOM

THE FLAVOUR ISSUE EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Jessica Groom jessica.groom@blueprintmagazine.ca

Production Manager Virginia Tremaine virginia.tremaine@blueprintmagazine.ca

Literary Editor Joseph Brannan joseph.brannan@blueprintmagazine.ca

Art/Photography Manager Carina Rampelt carina.rampelt@blueprintmagazine.ca

Promotions Manager Rachael Hargan rachael.hargan@blueprintmagazine.ca

Brantford Manager Brittany Bennett brittany.bennett@blueprintmagazine.ca

Web Editor Roxanne Nicolussi

roxanne.nicolussi@blueprintmagazine.ca

Radio Manager Hiring Interns Sally Amoabeng, Breanna Kettles

CONTRIBUTORS Sarah Lane. Fiorella Morzi, Amanda Scheifele, Sheri Wright, Mitchell Kooh, Donnique Williams, Joshua Lewis, Amara Ngozi, Heather Kennery, Sarah Rana, Katrina Behr, Caroline Bordignon, Erin Popelka, Katelyn Stewart, Howie Good

ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Dani Saad Executive Director Bryn Ossington Advertising Manager Angela Taylor Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Treasurer John Pehar Director Taylor Berzins Director Shelby Blackley Director Angela Foster Director Fred Kuntz Director Neha Soni Corporate Secretary Laura Buck

Imagine you have a piece of rich chocolate-- what does it taste like? In order to truly taste a piece of chocolate, they tell you to place it on your tongue and slowly let it melt. You need to savour every flavour profile, or you might miss that subtle but unique flavour that makes that piece of chocolate yours. You know how they say your life is like an unmarked box of chocolates? I believe that the sentiment is true, although it’s more than simply “you never know what you are going to get”. If you want that box of chocolates to last, you have to savour it. You have to pay attention to the piece that your fingers grab, whether it’s a creamy caramel centre, a sliver of almond, a hint of chili, or a dash of fruit that makes your piece delicious. There are so many things that give life flavour; you have friends, family, adventures, emotions, and the people you meet on lazy summer afternoons in the coffee shop around the corner, among so many others. Like that box of chocolates, you have to savour your moments and appreciate the people around you to extract the “flavour” of your life. Life, along with that unmarked box of chocolates, is like a recipe without measurements. The ingredients can be hit or miss on their own, neither one softening or spoiling the other, but the combination of each one together, well: It creates something beautiful.

Jessica Groom Editor-in-Chief

CONTACT Blueprint Magazine 75 University Ave W Waterloo ON N2L 3C5 p 519.884.0710 x3564 blueprintmagazine.ca Advertise angela@wlusp.com blueprintmagazine.ca/advertise Contribute submissions@blueprintmagazine.ca blueprintmagazine.ca/contribute

COLOPHON Blueprint is the official student magazine of the Wilfrid Laurier University community. Founded in 2002, Blueprint is an editorially independent magazine published by Wilfrid Laurier University Student Publications, Waterloo, a corporation without share capital. WLUSP is governed by its board of directors. Content appearing in Blueprint bears the copyright expressly of their creator(s) and may not be used without written consent. Blueprint reserves the right to re-publish submissions in print or online.

COVER Art by Selena Wong This is the ice cream parlor of my dream. It serves all of my favourite flavours and is decorated in a delicious colour scheme. Not to mention, rabbits visit it on a frequent basis. Do you have a go-to flavour at the ice cream parlor?

Opinions in Blueprint are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of Blueprint’s management, Blueprint, WLUSP, WLU or CanWeb Printing Inc. Blueprint is created using Macintosh computers running Mac OS X 10.5 using Adobe Creative Suite 4. The circulation for a normal issue of Blueprint is 3000. Subscription rates are $20.00 per year for addresses in Canada.

NEXT ISSUE Behind the Masquerade On stands September 24th 2014

The Spice of Life Joseph Brannan

You tasted of saffron and cardamom, and all the spices I had never tried, a camel-caravan of mystery in a mouthful of exhilaration. Your lips were like the tea leaves of Assam and Ceylon and your eyes bit like ginger into the palate of my soul, welling up cayenne tears when you left with a bitter farewell. You were an orange zest ovation peeling my tender mango heart but you dug too deep and bit the flesh. Like dark chocolate you spoke like an aphrodisiac to my mind yet sometimes the searing skin of scorched tastebuds was all you left, you coffee-black-hearted wretch. Your weak-tea excuses were nothing next to the whiskey fire of my anger when I found memories of you lingering like mould amongst my belongings

Snow White’s Poison Apple Sarah Lane

She tasted like homemade apple pie: warm, fresh, and sweet. He was the gourmet cake in the window that everyone wanted a piece of. Despite their differences, she was just the meal he’d been looking for. In the beginning, he was like that flawless food from the Gods. He was strong, energizing, fulfilling, and rich. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve a taste of his sweet ambrosia. But after having feasted on him for months, savouring every bite, she finally got a taste of his bitter, rotten core. He picked at her slowly, breaking her down, piece by piece. He liked to play with his food, to toy with her and prolong his enjoyment. One minute he’d spoil and delight her, filling her with delicious morsels of love, but that was only the appetizer. The entrée was equal parts sweet and sour, not always pleasant, but easy enough to stomach. But for dessert he would destroy her, humiliate her, throw the pie in her face. His insults and repugnant behaviour were difficult to swallow; they singed her soul and ate away at her once beautiful fruit until it was nothing more than a hard, crispy pit sitting in her chest. He devoured her, leaving nothing behind but crumbs of the woman she used to be. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve his foul cruelty. But like a glutton who eats and eats till they’re bursting at the seams, she could never stop herself from wanting more of him, even when she knew that each bite, each day she spent with him, was bringing her one step closer to the end. He was Snow White’s poison apple: seemingly beautiful and perfect, but laced with lethal venom. One bite was all it took to seal her fate.

Joseph Brannan

Amanda Scheifele

The Flavours of Life Brittany Bennett

We can sense but we cannot see. The flavour is sweet to him, bitter to her, but not as it is. The smell is strong to him, faint to her, but not as it is. The world is here for him, for her, just as it is. I want to see as you see, hear as you hear, feel as you feel. Maybe then I could understand.

Simone’s Legacy Fiorella Morzi

How many times do I have to repeat a dead woman’s words to you? In what ways can I make you understand, that, yes, One is not born a woman, but becomes one. I have become, and I will become again. Mom, dad, sister, brother, yes, You heard me right. There is nothing in my eye That gives my womanhood away, for it’s mine. Don’t you see? I’ve created it. It did not attach itself to me In the lining of your stomach, in your blood, Not even in your song. It happened in, through, with, as me. It happened after I existed. Do you understand I am unessential? Do you understand, now, that I am not pure? Mom? Because I am made, I come undone. With some courage and some luck, I am responsible for the undoing. Sheri Wright

The Monster Inside Mitchell Kooh

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The simple question fills the air. Eyes glued to the floor, I cannot answer him. Walls close in, crushing, compressing me, and I’m trapped. It fills the air, pushes air, that air from my lungs and I’m lost. How did it come to this? I try to lift my arms, to run fingers through hair and cup the back of my neck and rock back and forth and cry and scream, but I can’t. “Well do you?” His tone is not yet cold. It will be. So many questions, so many faces. Why, when, how, why why why. Who. Who are you? Why are you here? The floors are white. I don’t like white. Too dull, all clean and crisp. Patterns of tile with light-grey (read offwhite?) caulking, all parallel and perfect. Uniform. They all wear uniforms here. “I – I think... I don’t know. I mean, I know, but... I just want to go home. Can I go?” His face is stone, this man in black. He wears the suit with conviction. I’m never leaving. Calmness of the void I seek. The quiet of peaceful days and evergreen youth. Absence clears my mind. But chaos enters through means of madness. Blackness inviolable suddenly flame-pierced, passion eviscerates those idle figments. All is facade. Day in, day out: The Routine. Humanity is a supplicant worshipping that false idol normalcy. Obsequious banality I name it. Quotidian experience of the soporific mob, neither agony nor ecstasy. Calmness of calamity I seek. “Can I talk to my lawyer?” I say. “Ed. I think I need to see Ed.” “Sir, you won’t be seeing anyone but me for a long while. You know who I am, don’t you?” “The, uh, the man before said you were coming to evaluate me. Said you were with the FBI.” I can’t muster more than a whisper. The tightness of the walls closing in, still closing, reaches my throat and warm beads of sweat drip down my temples, along my hairline, into my eyes and ears and I’m downing and I can’t think. “That’s right,” he says. His voice is full of crags and gullies: gravel with a dulcet timbre. “But to do my job I need to know how much you understand.” He taps his calloused finger on the table between us. He on one side, me on the other. A perfectly square table and two identical chairs. Identical, except I’m handcuffed to mine. The monotonous tap tap tap of his finger burrows under my skin. Just ‘tap tap tap tap,’ each time landing his thick finger on a folder bearing my name. “I know from in here,” he says, “that you’re not insane. The doctors say you’re fine, the psychologists and the good people down at the courthouse too. By all accounts you’re quite an ordinary man.” Lifting the file in his burly hands he clears his throat and I sense a change.

Now he’s like everyone else. “University educated, a steady job, a wife and kids, friends, family,” he reads. “Work all week and church every Sunday. It looks like you’ve got everything figured out.” He looks up, I look up, and I see his monstrous heart. “So why’d you do it?” That withering sneer staining the corners of his mouth: disdain or confusion? “I don’t know. I just... did.” It’s the only answer I have. “Was it the fucked-up childhood? Parents divorced April of ‘79 and mommy offed herself a month later. Is that why? You fucking take it out on a little girl?” “No! It wasn’t like that!” “Ok, new story. You were a straight A’s student, but that wasn’t enough. I get it. Working two jobs on the side and you still can’t cover tuition. Fresh out of school and you’ve got debt, a new family to support and the deadlines at work are piling up. You just cracked. Lots have.” “Come on, I studied English lit. I read that stuff for fun! My job’s fine, my family’s fine, it’s all just... fine.” “So what was it?” he barks. “We found the animals, Mr. Harmon. We found the bodies.” The visage of true contempt seeps from the lines of his face. “You were convicted, Mark. You’ll die in prison, and I think you deserve to burn in hell, but that’s not why I’m here. I need answers. Why did you fucking do it?” Why. WhowhatwhenwhereWhy. The flush of her face the moment before. Walking on my way, sun in my eyes and I can’t feel. Like deadened nerves. I want to howl, shout, anything to disturb the still. Days and years with wings fly by and carry with them all sound and fury. I must seize them back chose to act break the mold with no regrets must be who I am give it my all 110% true to myself trusting my instincts holding them tight and never letting go. She is it. I see her and compulsion claims my soul. These rags of light he calls them and I shed both them and me and love only her and the moment: this moment. The struggling pulse I remember. Pleading face bright. White skin then whiter. A gagging sound escaping, and then nothing. Hot tears flood from the start and I can’t stop them and I don’t want to stop them.

Bitterness

Donnique Williams

Bitterness. You embrace it. Hold tight to its darkness like forbidden fire. Desire. Bitter like the dark roast, you douse it with Sweetness. To try and dull its taste. But the effects remain. Energy. Bitterness thrives on your shadows. And yet you embrace it, pour it in your cup lace it with your lies. You consume it with artificial Identity. Because Bitterness gets you going. And now it is your Need. You have lived with it for so long That thoughts of a life without it make you fear Withdrawal.

carina rampelt

Child

Joshua Lewis

I can’t get that taste out of my mouth I’ve had nothing and now what’s bitter has become sweet to me I am thankful for everything and that life is bigger too much honey and you become sick too much honey and you become sick a little bit is okay but too much and I will disown God as a dog returns to his vomit so does a fool to his folly I am like a dog but the foolishness of God is wiser than men and I am a holy fool a child in the eyes of God

JoShua Lewis

Passport Palate Amara Ngozi

From my grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stew and the waakye of my homeland to the market bustle garam masala of a distant place or food cart poutine in my new home I am discovering the tastes of the nations visiting culinary embassies and learning to read flags with my tongue.

Joseph Brannan

Heather Kennery

Expiry Date Sarah Rana

Joseph Brannan

I took a bite of you today. Amid the deep June morning mist, you tasted like the softest golden pound cake, slathered with the creamiest vanilla bean frosting. There was a hint of dried lavender to you, and a trickle of the most slender honey. Later in the hot and sticky afternoon, you tasted like an icy tart raspberry sorbet, filled with the freshest Keitt mangoes. You had the tiniest touch of fresh mint, and a slight tinge of the lushest orange peel. When you stumbled and bruised your leg later that day, you tasted like the fieriest cinnamon gingersnap cookie… being downed by the sharpest chai tea. You were infused with an overbearing amount of cardamom, and the deadliest French cloves.

As the calm and cool evening rolled around, you tasted like a fluffy and tangy lemon cranberry mousse. There was a graceful garnish of candied kumquats about you, with a trace of freshly baked buttery almond tuiles. Finally, as the starriest of nights loomed over your shoulders, you tasted like the deepest and richest mocha coffee, made from the finest beans grown in Yemen. You crumbled like the most brittle wafer thin, entirely dipped in the most velvety dark chocolate. I’ll take a bite of you until my stomach starts to hurts. I’ll take a bite of you until you turn stale. I’ll take a bite of you… until your expiry date.

Ye’ll Tak the High an I’ll Tak the Low Amanda Scheifele

She says I am the great-great-great-grandaughter of a Scottish king. I don’t believe it. I’ve never been to Scotland before, I don’t have an accent and I don’t know how to dance. I don’t even have red hair. Besides, I don’t even know it I want to be the great-great-great-granddaughter of a Scottish king—what if he was Macbeth? I’d be doomed to run into three witches doubling and troubling over their burning fire and cauldron bubbling. She says with a wink that it’s true, that you never know what you’ll run into on the moors, that Scotland is a terrifyingly beautiful place. How can that be? How can something be terrifying and beautiful? Terrifying is tapping on your window at night, growling in the dark, falling off a cliff. Beautiful is the rain, a lion in the dusk and great white wings over canyons. I’m not related. I went over to her house yesterday and she gave me a curtsy and said ‘Your Highness’. I didn’t smile. I just stubbornly went over to the fridge and poured a glass of milk. She clicks on a movie and I munch on the oatcakes from a wooden plate on the table with these delicious sausage things on top. She tells me later it’s sheep innards. Then, it’s Skyfall. The movie is Skyfall. The big climax is in Scotland. She did that on purpose. When I confront her about it, she smiles with her cheeks and says, “You wore a plaid scarf today.”

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Vanilla Privilege Katrina Behr

Vanilla tubs sitting at the top of the freezer They’re always the first to get scooped up No matter what the circumstance They get the most sprinkles and the thickest drizzle of sauce The richest whipped cream is practically their right Chocolate’s barely scraping by Caramel isn’t doing much better Strawberry is melting away To make more room for vanilla Vanilla sits in glass dishes on glass table tops Shooting ice cold looks and glacial glances to those who are not pure Vanilla tainted by crumbles of dark Oreo And muddied with ripples of butterscotch All the unseemly combinations Lurk at the bottom of the frosty chamber Frozen in their place Beneath the smooth vanilla But is it flavours I’m speaking of? And is it a freezer that they live in? Or a world that’s just as cold

Joseph Brannan

Synesthesia Carina Rampelt

“It tastes like an ocean,” the girl says, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of watermelon. She and the boy are fighting an unspoken battle for space in the shade of a young birch tree. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not salty in the least,” the boy says. He leans over to grab another slice. She seizes this distraction to rest her elbow in the place his arm just vacated. Attempting to look nonchalant, she says: “I mean, it tastes like what the ocean looks like. Sweet and fresh and enticing.” “Not enticing,” the boy says, mouth full of watermelon, “dangerous. You can never tell what’s going on under the surface.” He’s suddenly aware that their knees are touching, just a bit. He gently moves his away, but instantly regrets it. He’s not brave enough to put it back (heaven knows what that might imply), but he doesn’t want to lay it down again either, so he lets it hover midway in indecision. “Maybe it’s both.” “Maybe.” “You know, it’s funny,” the girl says, her fingertips making circles on the grass, “people think it’s so quiet underwater. But the silence they hear is heavy with a thousand noises that they’re missing.” “Why do you keep going on about this? We’re not at the ocean.” The girl says nothing. She just leans back and smiles. And then, for tiniest split second, her knee brushes his.

Caroline Bordignon

I Scream, You Scream Howie Good

At the end of the Ben & Jerry’s factory tour, a twenty-something in a white lab coat gave us each a sample of strawberry rhubarb ice cream. This flavour, she kept repeating, isn’t sold in stores. I told her I went to Hebrew school with Jerry. He was also in my homeroom in junior high school (our last names– Good, Greenfield– both begin with G). Awesome, she said, though she might not have believed me. The strawberry rhubarb tasted just OK.

Hatred By Association Katelyn Stewart

I wonder why people eat shrimp. Is it for the great value Red Lobster deals Or the feminine need to add pink to our meals? Or marketing; The French, you know, Call them sea-fruits in their tongue, Calling up images of Fresh berries, melons and peaches Drawn slowly up from the depths, Shining skins glittering like gems Inside the soggy, seaweed-entangled net. Or maybe the allure comes from their diet Of fishy carrion. You wouldn’t eat a crow.... Try this: Melt butter, chop a clove of garlic, Heat the barbecue. Prepare a nice salad. Baste and sauté Either worms or larvae – I bet they would taste just like shrimp.

Carina Rampelt

Closer To Dinner Erin popelka

What a Christmas morning. Greasy wheezed. He could see his breath out in front of him. It was coming hard and fast, despite the fact that he was doubled over with his hands pushing on the flab above his hips. He spat a loogie onto the rocks. He tried not to retch along with it. I got cocky and this is what I get for it. Now I remember why I wrote off running five years ago. Now I remember why the only McMurdo hike I ever do is the Armitage Loop. Nice and flat. He straightened up. The race had started six minutes ago. He could see Slim and Darren almost to the top of Ob Hill. Greasy put his hand over his eyes. The spinning had stopped but throbbing was taking its place. He needed a drink of water. He needed to cough out the needles in his lungs. He needed the glaring white clouds, sea ice, and snow to turn it down a notch. The thirty-degree Antarctic air didn’t help. If it weren’t for Sharon... Why did she have to say that? Why did she have to throw Blanche into it? Why did I have to fall for it? He looked at the path in front of him. The view was like looking up the side of an Egyptian pyramid. He heard Sharon yelling from the road, probably only a hundred yards away. One hundred yards straight down. “C’mon, Greasy, y’big lug! Git yer ass up there!” I can still hear her from last night, “I bet yer gonna talk about stupid old Blanche tonight.” “I won’t. Why would I talk about her?” “I bet you start blubberin’ over her again tonight, jus’ like yesterday, and I’m not gonna listen to it.” “I won’t talk about her.” “I’m gonna make you put yer money where your mouth is, Greasy. You say her name, and you’re runnin’ tomorrow’s Ob Hill Uphill thingamabob.” “What?” “You say ‘Blanchie’ or ‘Blanche’ or anything resemblin’ her name tonight, and you’re gonna make it up to me by runnin’ that

“Then there will be Christmas dinner: shrimp and cocktail sauce, fresh baked rolls, a huge slice of roast, mashed potatoes and gravy.” race tomorrow mornin’.” He forced himself to take ten steps. He counted them. They didn’t get him far, but they got him moving. Then he gave himself ten breaths and allowed himself to imagine Sharon naked. This distraction didn’t last very long before he crumbled back into his pain. If it weren’t for Maria walking out of the john with toilet paper dragging from her foot, I would have made it. Why the hell did I have to say, “You’ve got Blanchie’s Halloween costume hanging off your shoe!” The last thing I heard before I passed out was Sharon, “And if you don’t make it to the top, you’re going to climb that hill every day until you do!” He took ten more steps. He never would have done this if he’d already gotten into her pants. Darren was the first one to pass him going down. He was cruising downhill with long strides. Volcanic rock was crunching and slipping under his feet. “Hang in there, Greasy! You’re doing great!” Easy for you to say, skinny twenty-something. “Thanks, Darren. Nice running, there.” One foot in front of the other. Greasy stopped looking up, stopped looking to see who was getting close to the top. He gave himself a break every time someone passed him on the way down to say “Congratulations” or “Nice job.” They probably didn’t drink as much as I did last night. They probably all got good rest in preparation for the big race. They did it to get their name printed in The Antarctic Sun. I’m just here because of Sharon. Though Blanchie would approve of my exercising. That’s gotta get her goat. We break up and I finally

start doing what she tells me to. I just have to make it to the top. Then there will be Christ-

thing finished. Greasy took his hands and started to guide his legs one

mas dinner: shrimp and cocktail sauce, fresh baked rolls, a

step at a time. His thighs felt heavy even to his arms. One step,

huge slice of roast, mashed potatoes and gravy. Flaky pumpkin

one breath, one step, one breath. He looked up, and for the first

pie, with extra whipped cream on top. New Zealand lettuce,

time, could see the edge of the summit.

cherry tomatoes, red and green peppers, cucumbers, and carrots

Damn it, Sharon, you’re not worth this. I’m not putting up

drowned in thick Ranch Dressing. A slice of Yule log so big they’ll

with your shit any more. Thirteen days was enough—with or

need a chain saw to cut it. I can even eat it guilt free. The perfect

without the sex.

holiday—then back to supporting the science tomorrow. At the next trail marker, Greasy sat down on a large rock.

When he walked next to the cross at the top of Ob Hill, the other Recreation organizer stopped the stopwatch. “Fifty-seven

He figured he’d earned it. He still wasn’t the last one out on

minutes, forty-two seconds. You made it, man. I’m just glad

the course, as far as he could tell. There were two bright coats

it wasn’t windy today. I’d have frozen my balls off waiting for

that he saw bobbing up by the cross at the top. He wasn’t so far

you.”

behind. Granted, they’d been walking the course backwards for

I made it. Hell, yeah.

a better thigh workout.

Greasy let his arms dangle over his feet. A half-full water

Greasy could see the crowd at the bottom of the hill along the road. Sharon had her hands cupped around her mouth, her hunter-orange hat blazing. He assumed she was yelling at him,

bottle appeared in his hands. He didn’t straighten right away. When he did, he drank all the water in one gulp. It started to snow. Not the dry, dandruff-flakes of re-blown

but he was too high up to hear anything. He turned and faced

snow they usually got, but thick, wet, real flakes. Greasy could

the trail.

see the outlines of their crisp, bright shapes for a split second

Each step brings me closer to dinner. He got up and kept walking. His lungs were still on fire,

on his black gloves before they melted into the fleece. I’ve earned two Christmas dinners tonight.

but the knives had subsided. His legs weren’t feeling so good. He started watching his feet and counting steps—anything to distract from the pain. The backwards walkers bumped into him. “Whoa! What the…?” “Oh, sorry,” one of them said. “Hang in there!” Her voice was way too chipper. “Keep it going!” They kept walking downhill on tiptoes, their eyes focused on their feet. I’m the last one going up. He looked down. The crowd at the bottom had thinned. All the folks out to cheer had left as their friends had finished. Greasy could count the Recreation organizer, Sharon, and the two friends of the backwards walkers. A red van idled, waiting for the last of them. Shit. Time to get this Carina Rampelt

Wings

Amanda Scheifele For my Tante Hulda, Else, Olga and Ella The angry Gestapo’s shouts carried up the street as the kpak! sound of rifle bullets splintered the silence of the evening with the pew of ricochet echoing up the empty street like someone had snapped a carrot then let it drop in a pot of water.

Ella jumped up from her school work and ran to the window. She gasped at the dodging figure with the scarf the colour of

clouds: Peder!

Tumbling down the stairs, her older sisters were already at the door of their red corner house. Ella squeezed in between

Else and Hulda’s elbows. Hulda suddenly shoved back and grabbed her coat and ran down the steps, much to Olga’s protests that were silenced by Else’s hand over her mouth.

Hulda ran to the end of their house and peeked around. Peder was still running, the off white scarf streaming like wings

behind him. He rounded the corner out of sight from the Gestapo for a few precious moments, the setting sun outlining him in a glow. Hulda jumped and silently waved her hands, getting his attention. His eyes widened in relief and he made the split second decision to sprint across the street to the Hoffmann’s. Hulda waved him on, her arms open and straining as she finally could see Peder’s terrified, shining face.

Kpak! Kpak! Kpak!

Sheri Wright