SO YOU THINK YOU CAN WRITE

FInalist Shannon Moneo’s entry in Sunday’s edition of the TImes Colonist was missing the last three lines. Here is the complete story.

Birthplace: Erickson, Manitoba

Occupation: Freelance journalist

My favourite author: Tough to answer, but Guy Vanderhaeghe rapidly surfaces, as well as Stephen King, Herman Koch, Philippe Claudel and trashy autobiographies.

My writing background: In high school, I wrote short stories, in my 20s, it was poetry, when a few poems were published, and I have a bachelor of journalism and communications degree from the University of Regina.

How often I write: Because writ-

ing is my “job,” at least five days each week, but writing for pleasure is a rare occurrence.

Where I write: Usually at my desk, on my laptop.

My preferred style of writing: I thought about writing a historical novel about the Métis but that hasn’t worked out, so I’m leaning toward short stories. The inspiration for the piece I submitted: The residential school experience.

Ig-nite

Behind her was the memory, still standing, anchored into the Island rock.

Rachel could still taste the gruel and smell the bleach, feel the leather strap and hear the curses, and most of all see the terror.

Even after 20 years, just the glimpse of it pierced her emotions, flattening her rage and sorrow into one tight, red pellet, waiting for a chance to strike.

Rachel got up, her long dark hair, once tightly braided, being thrown around by the wind coming off the bay. She didn’t care. It was called freedom.

She walked off the dock toward the four-storey memory. Behind her now were the waves, everchanging, pushed and pulled by the moon, unharnessed and untamed, what was not so long ago, driven out of her.

She scanned the sky, looking for a message. Soon the sun would drop behind the memory, which had a way of blacking out the light.

Rachel listened too, remembering that at dusk, the cries would begin. Perhaps guidance would appear from the woods that surrounded the memory on three sides. But it was the wind that began to speak to her in one voice, as it shifted higher and mightier, telling her it would help.

Rachel stood before the memory.

As she poured gasoline and then lit the match, a smile flared across her face.

The spit, tears and blood that once covered her face were gone. Soon, the concrete memory would be burnt out of her mind, into the dust.