A
Day
on
the
Hide
by
Pen
The
landscape
is
familiar,
the
scene
occurs
over
and
over,
each
day...
As
far
as
its
eye
could
see,
there
was
a
rolling
pink
landscape.
The
landscape
had
ridges,
pits
and
fibers.
Here
and
there
others
were
going
about
their
business.
Eating,
sleeping,
or
just
moving,
looking
for
something.
The
pits
and
ridges
were
the
only
real
features
that
caught
the
eye.
They
were
spread
randomly
everywhere,
deep
pits
which
would
seem
to
stretch
down
forever.
They
usually
connected
to
the
ridges.
From
some
of
the
pits,
the
fibers
would
reach
out
to
the
sky
and
bend
to
touch
the
surface.
Not
all
the
fibers
would
do
this.
Some
of
them
seemed
to
stretch
on
forever.
The
eeriest
part
of
the
landscape
was
the
silence.
Even
when
the
torrential
rains
came,
or
the
winds
blew,
it
was
still
silent
He
did
not
know
this.
He
had
never
heard
a
sound
and
could
not
know
if
there
was
one.
The
land
was
harsh,
but
it
supplied
all
of
his
needs.
Water
would
fall
from
the
sky,
often
violently,
but
it
quenched
his
thirst.
Sometimes
when
it
was
extremely
hot,
the
pits
would
fill
with
salty
water
which
would
overflow
and
flood
the
ridges
driving
him
and
the
others
out.
S
oon
it
would
evaporate
into
the
sky,
leaving
only
deadly
salt
behind.
The
ground
would
often
come
apart
and
giant
flakes
would
come
free.
These
could
be
eaten
and
when
there
were
not
enough
flakes,
there
were
always
the
other
residents,
(to
eat?)
It
happened
one
day
that
he
came
across
another
feeding
on
something.
The
flakes
had
been
constantly
washed
away
by
a
rash
of
violent
rains
and
he
was
very
hungry.
The
other
did
not
wish
to
share
what
it
had
found
and
so
a
fight
began.
Arms
grasped
and
mandibles
locked
in
a
life-death
struggle.
The
landscape
began
to
quiver
and
shake
as
if
it
was
warning
of
some
impending
disaster.
The
quiver
became
more
constant
and
grew
with
each
passing
moment
until
it
become
so
strong
that
the
combatants
stopped.
Everywhere
others
were
scurrying
to
hide
in
the
pits
and
ridges
or
running
in
blind
panic;
they
all
knew
what
was
coming.
From
over
the
horizon
a
tall,
pink
piece
of
the
landscape
came
rushing
toward
the
two
combatants.
Ripples
proceeded
in
making
the
ridges
and
hills
rise
and
fall,
crushing
inhabitants
of
the
landscape.
He
ran
in
fear,
trying
to
get
away,
trying
to
hide.
But
the
pink
pillar
drew
closer
at
a
terrifying
speed.
On
it
a
huge
ridge
was
scooping
up
everything.
Flakes,
fibers,
the
others,
everything.
Just
when
he
thought
it
had
him,
it
stopped
and
disappeared
into
the
sky.
It
would
quickly
return
again
and
drag
across
the
landscape
once
more.
It
seemed
to
continue
forever.
Each
time
it
came
down,
it
seemed
for
sure
it
would
have
him,
then
it
only
disappeared
again.
Finally
it
stopped.
The
eerie
silence
returned
again.
Inhabitants
who
had
survived
scurried
from
their
hiding
spots
to
eat
those
who
hadn't.
There
would
be
much
food
for
awhile.
The
ground
was
torn
up
everywhere
and
that
alone
should
suffice.
But
none
of
these
thoughts'
entered
his
mind.
He
only
knew
that
it
was
time
to
eat.
Creative
Writing
at
CNC
by
Molly
Eichar
"Writing
is
easy
you
sit
down
in
front
of
a
typewriter
and
open
a
vein."
I
can't
remember
who
said
this.
Red
Scheindienst,
Red
Skelton,
Red
Tape;
some
famous
writer
did
it.
Whoever
may
have
said
it
caught
the
essence
of
writing
in
these
few
words.
Despite
the
fact
that
writing
is
a
difficult,
demanding
process,
many
people
continue
to
attempt
it
A
Creative
Writing
course
is
currently
being
offered
here
at
CNC,
and
I
want
to
share
with
all
the
prospective
writers
on
campus
some
of
the
invaluable
insights
that
I
have
gained
in
only
a
few
short
weeks
of
this
class.
First
of
all,
writing
is
like
golf.
No
matter
how
hard
you
swing
with
how
long
or
how
heavy
a
stick,
you
must
still
hit
that
little
white
ball,
or
you're
a
'scuse
me
write-off.
One
approach
to
both
writing
and
golf
is
just
to
get
out
every
single
day,
rain
or
shine,
and
go
at
it
for
a
few
hours.
I
have
tried
this.
I
have
gone
out
to
a
driving
range
and
written
for
three
or
four
hours
straight
Sadly,
my
golf
game
has
not
improved
one
iota,
and
I
suspect
that
the
same
thing
can
be
said
for
my
writing.
The
golfers
walked
past
me
in
their
toothpaste-coloured
clothes,
wearing
their
toothpaste-whitened
smiles.
I
wrote
and
wrote,
but
the
same
tired
similes
came
to
me
over
and
over
again.
"He
swung
the
5-Iron
like
a
club."
This
image
repeated
itself
ad
nauseum.
One
difference
between
golf
and
writing
is
that
you
get
to
stop
golfing
when
it
snows.
I
decided
to
try
another
tack
to
improve
my
writing.
There
are
"rules"
in
writing,
did
you
know
that?
Yes,
and
these
seem
to
be
a
safe
haven
for
someone
floundering
on
the
sand
traps
of
fiction.
Rule
number
one
is
'START
WITH
ACTION!!"
"The
sand
exploded
around
his
ball
as
the
5-Iron,
which
he
swung
like
a
club,
dug
into
the
dirt."
Hmm,
has
possibilities.
Maybe
rule
number
two
will
help
continue
this.
What
was
rule
number
two?
Furrows
dug
deep
into
the
space
between
my
eyebrows
as
I
struggle
to
dredge
rule
number
two
from
the
recesses
of
my
memory.
TAKE
ARISK!!
That'sit!!
"Withthe
crimson
sun
dripping
rays
into
the
clouds
like
the
sanguine,
red,
oozing
blood
of
a
Spanish
bull
running
into
the
sands
casting
its
brightness
into
his
eyes,
the
golfer
packed
his
clubs
and
scurried
through
the
trees,
marking
par
for
most
of
the
holes."
Ha!
No
golfer
would
ever
confess
to
fudging
his
score
card.
What
a
risk
to
take!
Moving
right
along
now,
I'm
on
a
roll,
and
a
writer's
high
is
not
to
be
stopped.
Rule
3:
be
visual;
hey,
I
got
that
one
in
at
the
same
time
as
2,
no
sweat
What's
more
visual
than
a
red,
sanguine,
crimson
sun?
I
can
cruise
past
that
one
and
hit...
4.
Use
the
senses.
Now
wait
a
minute,
just
hold
it
a
moment
or
two
or
three.
Even
four.
Senses.
Senses?
These
are
tactile,
auditory,
olfactory.
Ho
w
can
I
get
that
sense
of
smelling
something,
that
nose-wrinkling
experience
of
air
wafting
across
nasal
cilia
into
a
story?
"The
odour
of
wet
golf
balls
that
had
sat
too
long
in
a
plastic
bag
was
sweet
compared
to
the
odour
that
assailed
his
nostrils
when
he
waded
through
the
skunk
cabbage
in
the
water
trap.
Quickly
he
covered
his
nose
with
the
nearest
thing
that
came
to
hand.
It
was
a
wet
plastic
bag,
the
one
he
used
to
store
his
gold
balls.
It
felt
like
the
slimy
hand
of
a
swamp
monster
clasping
his
nose
and
mouth,
but
its
scent
was
sweet
compared
to
skunk
cabbage."
Well,
I
have
failed
to
overcome
my
inability
to
hit
a
golf
ball,
but
perhaps
I've
made
some
progress
in
the
writing
field.
I'll
go
out
again
on
Saturday
and
see
what
happened
to
that
guy-Writing
well,
I'vebeengiven
to
understand,
is
simply
a
matter
of
doing
it
often.
Like
constipation,
more
is
better.
I
have
trouble
making
sense
of
this
one,
but
if
someone
who
is
being
paid
in
the
four
figures
tells
me
it
is
so,
I'll
think
on
it
longer
before
rejecting
it.
Like
constipation,
more
is
better.
Quantity
is
better
than
aualitv.
Right
Later
days
for
that
one.
Another
thing
that
I
have
gleaned
from
my
creative
writing
course
is
that
a
writer
must
be
willing
to
explore
areas
of
emotion
and
truth
that
others
are
unwilling
or
unable
to
investigate.
A
writer
must
be
willing
to
reveal
personal
weaknesses
and
search
within
themselves
for
answers,
as
I
have
done
here.
This
exercise
has
exhausted
and
drained
me;
therefore,
I
am
going
to
leave
you
with
a
final
aphorism
from
those
who
write
well
don't
wait
for
the
perfect
idea.
I'm
glad,
really
glad,
that
he
said
that
(With
apologies
to
S.
Chung).
Limerick
Contest
The
Free
Press
and
the
CNC
Library
are
sponsoring
a
LIMERICK
CONTEST
PRIZE:
1
10-HOUR
COUPON
FOR
THE
MAC
LAB
THEME:
CNC
student
life
A
geography
student
from
Red
Rock
Did
nothing
all
semester
but
talk;
He
made
no
plans
For
final
exams
When
he
couldn't
tell
granite
from
chalk.
Deadline
for
submissions:
October
31
(Halloween)
Please
note:
original
work
only
is
requested
---.-
-
Canyzatulatianb
Stan!
(Submitted)
Last
year
Stan
Chung
was
awarded
runner
up
in
the
Canadian
National
Drama
Festival
for
his
play,
"Ebb
and
Flow."
This
year
Stan's
feature
film
screen
play,
"The
Rubbing
Beach,"
has
been
selected
to
participate
in
the
prestigious
Praxis
Film
Development
Workshop.
Stan's
Project
was
one
selected
out
of
hundreds
of
entries.
Stan
will
be
workshopping
his
project
with
internationally
known
film
professionals.
Stan
teaches
English
and
Creative
Writing
at
the
College
of
New
Caledonia.
Thoughts
of
an
Old
Man
(submitted)
I
rose
early
this
morning,
made
a
cupof
coffee
and
wentout
to
watch
the
day
begin.
In
the
sky
I
could
see
a
golden
hue
beginning
in
the
east.
It
was
a
familiar
colour
and
I
knew
it
was
the
Chariot
Rider
beginning
his
ascent
across
the
sky.
His
horse's
hooves
struck
with
flame
as
they
rose,
carrying
the
golden
chariot,
spreading
light
across
the
sky.
But
this
morning
there
was
something
different
in
the
golden
hue,
something
I
had
not
seen
before.
A
sickly
red
fog
surrounded
the
golden
glow,
a
red
glow
that
seemed
somehow
familiar
in
a
way
I
did
not
want
to
recognize.
I
waved
to
the
rider
and
motioned
for
him
to
come
down.
When
he
had,
I
asked,
"What
is
the
red
hue
which
seems
to
fill
the
sky
and
murks
the
air
through
which
you
ride?"
His
smile
disappeared
and
was
replaced
with
a
serious
look.
"It
is
blood,"
he
replied,
"It
is
the
blood
of
the
earth,
blood
flowing
from
her
soul.
It
flows
red
across
the
horizon
so
that
her
sons
and
daughters
may
see
it
and
realize
that
she
is
wounded."
"But
where
is
the
wound
that
hurts
her
so;
I
have
seen
no
gaping
holes
which
should
give
such
a
red
hue?"
He
smiled
a
sad
smile
and
replied,
"This
wound
is
not
gaping,
nor
is
it
one
which
is
obvious
to
many
a
mortal
man.
It
is
a
festering
wound,
one
which
grows
slowly
unnoticed,
until
it
becomes
so
vile
and
evil
that
one
becomes
sick
from
it
and
can
do
naught
to
stop
it"
I
felt
alarmed,
"What
is
the
source
of
this
wound
which
you
say
threatens
us
so?
Tell
me
so
that
I
can
go
and
heal
it!"
"It
is
you,"
the
Chariot
Rider
said.
"Your
cities,
your
factories,
your
abuse
of
what
the
earth
has
given
you
is
killing
her
and
all
of
her
children.
You
twist
all
that
she
has
given
to
you
into
something
which
poisons
and
eventually
kills."
He
looked
deep
into
my
eyes
as
if
expecting
to
see
something,
and
after
a
while
perhaps
he
did.
Turning,
he
walked
away.
But
he
did
not
walk
like
the
proud
Rider
of
the
Chariot
of
Flame;
he
walked
as
an
old
man
who
feels
only
shame
from
what
he
has
seen.
I
was
disturbed
at
the
harsh
words
which
the
Rider
had
said
to
me.
I
felt
that
he
must
be
wrong,
for
all
that
was
about
me
was
as
it
should
be.
The
coffee
in
my
cup
was
warm
and
sat
well
in
my
stomach.
The
trees
stood
high
and
my
house
sat
sturdy.
All
was
well.
As
I
gazed
up
and
saw
the
Chariot
Rider
blaze
across
the
sky,
I
saw
something
I
had
never
seen
before.
I
saw
blood
pouring
forth
from
the
places
within.
I
saw
a
festering
wound
growing
and
taking
all
that
I
loved
and
cherished
with
it
I
saw
all
of
this
and
more.
After
gazing
upon
it,
I
wept