The students were asked to write stories and poems inspired by the photographs that they took during the workshop. Each student chose a poem or story related to a photograph made during the workshop sessions for display here. Their chosen photos, printed large, will also be displayed the during the month of May, 2008, at the Addison Woolley Gallery in Portland, Maine, along with the poems and stories chosen. The gallery is at 87 Market St., in Portland's Old Port (on Post Office Park).


     I ran, following the footprints, trying not to let him go. I didn't know what I was following--it was mysterious, obscure, unknown. All I knew was that it was there, as silent evidence of something. They emerged from nowhere and sank deeply into the snow, as if burning it.

     The footprints led me through a mysterious cave bedimmed in a forest. I'd explored this forest many times, but I never saw this. I sprinted through the darkness with one small gleam of light ahead, and it was gently fading. I ran even faster and emerged from the other side. I wore a thin long sleeve shirt that said, “Winners don't wait for chances, they take them.” It had a red soccer net with a soccer ball speeding straight for it and said, “Fall Classic '07” on the side. I also wore long blue pants that had a rip over each knee cap. When the cold hit me, I deeply regretted this. I thought, what a perfect example of this, I'm taking a great chance, going into a mysterious cave that just appeared out of nowhere, without knowing what lays for me ahead.

     The wind blew against my face, the snow pelting me. I looked around, I was nowhere in the forest. In fact, there was no sign of civilization anywhere. When I looked down, the footprints had disappeared, as if they had dematerialized. They were there a second ago . . . they vanished.

     A dark figure like a shadow shot across my face. It continued to do this as if saying, “Ha ha, you can't get me.” I thought it was some strange demonic spirit, and it seemed to be mocking me for some reason. But then it flew through the trees and disappeared.

     The wind was getting stronger, along with the snow. It got worse until a point where I couldn't see anything except white blurs falling to the ground. Except . . . except when I looked more closely, I saw another light, but barely. It was so faint, I questioned whether it was even real. I walked toward it, fighting the wind. When it seemed like it was right in front of me, five feet away, it vanished.

     Where was I? Why did everything keep vanishing? I felt like I was in the Bermuda Triangle in a really bad blizzard.

     I decided to keep going, just slowly walking forward, hoping I wouldn't go in circles. I walked forward slower than ever, since the wind was pushing me back. There were times I felt like I was going backwards.

     Then I saw the faint outline of something, a house? An igloo? A tree house? When I got closer I realized, it seemed to be a combination of all three. It seemed to have the base of a tree house, with two floors like a house. The top part looked like it was much smaller that the other, like a fortress. It reminded me of someplace I saw in a movie, Mohenjo Daro. I told myself that that didn't matter.

     Anyway, the weird part was it had wood, but there were gaps, filled in with ice. A strange light flickered illuminating the small gaps between the ice. Then at random times it would disappear and reappear.

     I saw a staircase, about twelve steps, then climbed up them. Half way up, I felt something go down, I must've stepped on a trigger. Everything suddenly went dark . . . again.

     The darkness fell, emptier still, and I felt a warm breeze like a subway tunnel. Then I realized, there was heat ahead, the light just went out. I questioned myself, how could there be heat without light? I stared very, very closely ahead, then began to see a glow of red light, emitting from a fire behind an ice wall.

     I entered the strange building, and saw a man inside. He spoke, “I am Luke, where do you come from?” There was confidence in his voice, and he had a loud clear voice that seemed to suggest he was the only one there. He had a brown bearskin coat that was way too big for him, and had a scruffy white beard that matched his hair and the snow. He even had a dull look in his face, like he was waiting for something that never came.

     “I come from Montana, where am I?” I responded. I wondered whether or not to trust him, but I was in no condition to question this. “MONTANA!” he exclaimed, absolutely bewildered. “You're not even close, you're on an island of Nunavut.”

     “Like Canada?”

     “Un . . . yea.” I took this in slowly and thought carefully.

     All I remember after that was waking up in my bed. I was wearing the same bearskin coat that the guy was wearing before, and had a strange, cold tingling feeling. Then I wondered, had it happened?

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