a
literary journal of canada's north
cover artwork — catharsis: it's how the light breaks through by Barbara Madden
Leonard Cohen wrote, “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” That idea was the seed of inspiration for the cover image, Catharsis: It’s How the Light Breaks Through.
I was trying to capture the emotional intensity of emerging from a catastrophic inner state: the raw blend of laughter and tears that arrives when you can finally see a way through. That inner light finding its way through the cracks and fissures we accumulate as we navigate life’s more difficult experiences.
If this image were part of a series, the next would be a Kintsugi-inspired repair of the cracks with gold or silver. Something to highlight the beauty and resilience that comes from imperfection, lived experience, and the discovery of inner strength.
Catharsis is a powerful theme. I love the promise it conjures.
fate by Hira Noor
dreamer's release by Curie Dhawan
editorial
Screaming at the sky. Punching a pillow with all your might. Telling your boss how you really feel about them. These three actions jump to my mind when I think about how I’ve experienced catharsis. (I’ve only done two of these three, by the way!)
I’ve never thought of the act of writing a story or poem for publication as a form of catharsis. Then I read the more than 80 submissions to this issue of NorthWord. I had been expecting descriptions of sharp acts of short duration like those I just described…symbolic acts that neatly ended a person’s longsimmering frustration or pain, or that signalled their triumph over their own doubts and hesitations and temptations to quit on their path to victory. Like we see in the movies!
Not so here. In some of the pieces in this issue you will instead share the author’s experience of catharsis as self-realizations after a great loss. Or the healing comfort found in love at the end of a chaotic spell of unwellness. Or the admission of being insecure at a point in their life. Or the experience of becoming who they are.
Sorry for being vague, but I don’t want to spoil the endings! Some pieces describe the author’s catharsis as peaceful, some as painful, some as a great release of emotions, others as a determination to hold onto those emotions. Thank you to the writers and visual artists for your vulnerability in sharing these revealing works. It’s been a joy experiencing it!
Greg Halinda | issue thirty-two
editor
keyano college nursing graduation by Greg Halinda
shale
zach wood
Where are you?
I’ve searched the cracks and shadows, Trying to find the mind that once shone— Heart pure as mountain streams, Words soft as spring rain. But the world carved into me, Drip by drip, Erosion by the constant kiss of cruelty. I hardened like shale under pressure, Brittle, cracking, Each assault sharpening my edges. Too much.
Too much.
A mirror shattered into a thousand shards. Cullet— Jagged, discarded, worthless. But the fire came.
Intense heat softened brittle fragments, Turning sharp edges into fluid light.
Pain melted me down, Poured me into something new. From the ruins,
A stained glass window rose— Beauty born of brokenness, Fractured, yet whole.
Each crack holds the memory of fire, Each shard, a lesson shaped by flame. What was destroyed was not lost— It was remade.
In the light that filters through, I see the strength hidden in fractures, The glow only pain could create. Even broken things can shine.
for betty
natalie wilson
And then it is the end. With no planning, no precision, no grand entrance— Death arrives.
Sometimes majestic, sometimes serene, She travels on soft feet, tiny footfalls almost silent, arriving in the quiet, between breaths. She will hold your hand, if you choose. Soothe you with supple fingers, massage the fear from your joints, ease the terror in your grip.
Or, She will stand, quietly on guard, wait for the signal that it is the moment you both have been waiting for.
Death offers no comfort to any of the living but only to you— She brings gifts of release, remembrance, reckoning, that no one else will dare touch.
Still, She waits, as shadowed as your waning senses, understanding that She will always know when it is her moment to act.
And when your breaths become uneven, when your heart slows and your lungs close and your limbs ease into empty, She swiftly wraps you in cool comfort, releases your hurt, your hope, your despair, your destiny.
Ends your life, begins your peace. Standing alongside you in the quiet, until leaving, as soundlessly as She came.
not broken, just done
chris bowers
I found them in the back of my closet, buried beneath all the things I never wear anymore. Old coats, shirts that didn’t fit, and shoes that had outlived their usefulness. But there they were, tucked away in the corner—my old, worn-out shoes. The ones I used to wear every day.
They were nothing special—just simple sneakers, the kind that had been with me through everything. They had seen long walks, long nights, and countless days of running from something I couldn’t name. The soles were thin from use, the laces frayed from the miles they had covered. They smelled of dust and quiet memories.
I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. The fabric was softer than I remembered, the soles worn almost thin. They sagged a little, like they’d finally given up the work of holding me up. I had left them there, I suppose, because I didn’t know how to part with them. They had been with me for so long; they felt like a part of me—like a comfort I couldn’t explain. Even when they were no longer being worn, I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.
But as I sat with them, something shifted. I could feel the weight of the years they had carried with them, the weight of all the steps I had taken. And I realized something: sometimes, you don’t have to keep holding something just because it’s familiar. The shoes had taken me as far as they could. They had done their job.
I set them down on the floor, just for a moment, and looked at them. They weren’t broken—they were just done. And that was okay. Sometimes, things don’t have to be fixed to be let go.
I didn’t throw them away right away. Instead, I set them by the door, just in case I needed to say goodbye. When the time came, I picked them up one last time and slipped them into the trash. This time, I didn’t look back.
It was strange how light I felt after. As if carrying those shoes—those old, worn-out pieces of my days—had been holding me back. And for the first time, I could see that walking forward was easier when I wasn’t dragging anything behind me.
dictionary release
bea price
What is catharsis?
What does it mean?
If I look it up, what will I glean?
An experience evoking all of the feels, leading to a release—crying that heals.
A cleansing of pent-up emotional tension, causing a feeling of lightness... ascension.
Finding a sense of spiritual renewal— through engaging with art, it’s not unusual.
It brings awareness, insight, and grace— a way to process the traumas we face.
A therapeutic release of suffering and fear, a primal scream that makes my heart clear.
That is catharsis— that’s what it is.
You're well on your way—an emotional whiz.
commute
You wait until the first left turn to scream. Into your fist. Spitting out angry shrieks. Because it’s a straight drive for five minutes. It’s safe to shout until your face is red. Until your eyes tear up, your voice is hoarse.
There’s a right turn and make sure to signal. You cry and sob, white knuckles on the wheel. Up from your belly, forced through your lungs. Breath. Fill the vehicle with pained, wounded noise.
Anguish in all the small, little spaces.
Ten more minutes to your destination. Silence now as you consciously untense. Wiggling your fingers and cracking your neck. Can you feel the emptying inside you?
A quiet hollowness.
ana manderson
grief, and the stillness after
stacey grant
I see glimmers of you in the quietest places, where sunbeams dance through the trees. You walked this path with quiet resolve. A flame against inky darkness, each laboured step carrying the weight of battles unseen, stories unwritten. The forest held its breath, as did I— The air thick with pine and damp earth, branches bowing their heads under winter’s frigid hush, while unseen threads wove beneath my feet: Binding what was breaking, holding what was fading. They held out their mushrooms like small, cupped hands, growing in the hollowed spaces, climbing upon the fallen, turning loss into life once again. I sent words across the silence, wisps of breath on cold air, hoping they would reach you somewhere— Somewhere, in the space between worlds where they linger. Did you hear them? Did you know?
You wanted to grow a home of your own: A place where love would branch wide, like the canopy you danced beneath… Where laughter would ring, long after sunset— With stories passed by loving hands and gentle voices: Never lost, never forgotten. You should have had that. You should have had more time. I press my palm to a fallen log, where turkey tail unfurls in rippled rings,
each layer, a quiet remembering… The forest does not forget. I whisper your name, cradling twin embers of anguish and acceptance, half expecting the wind to answer, yet half knowing it already has. The wood is cold beneath my hand, but life stirs beneath the surface— Not of slow molder, nor specter, nor shadow, but the quiet pulse of life, that carries your soul forward, alchemizing your absence into seeds, into echoes.
I stand where the world remembers you.
i met god in the gas station bathroom when i was bh charles "c" masear
i met god in the gas station bathroom when i was 17.
he stood beneath the only fully-functioning fluorescent light, back pressed against the corner near the sink, and i could feel his eyes transfixed on me as i mopped up more god-knows-what [vomit, piss, blood] and he took another drag of his cigarette that i tried my hardest to not notice. the blood rushed inside my skull as i bent myself over the puddle of shit and i watched the ground smudge and mix, unknown partially-dried substance dissolving away in the same way you and i will [someday] beneath the stick, and my eyes felt like they would pop out of their sockets, and the hum of electric commercial this and that was louder than anything ever, and it was then that god asked me;
“are you happy?”
but my nose started to bleed so i responded truthfully with;
“i don’t know.”
and before it could all sink in he gave me a knowing smile that i caught in the corner of my vision and closed his eyes.
i met god in the gas station bathroom when i was 17.
storm
Like a gentle morning breeze
Don't let your thoughts deceive
Breathe
Let the negative emotions leave
Inhale
You will not fail
Exhale
You can prevail
Breathe
Feelings crash over me
Like a storm that bends the trees
The thought of you calms me
A whirlwind fading to a breeze
Memories of you surge in me
Like a tsunami stirs the seas
Love completely holds me
An anchor amidst the storm
zach wood
zach wood
how the body remembers
stacey grant
He told me I was nothing: a vessel— that pain would carve a shell from my bones, but time has taught me to live within the aching, to press the jagged breath against my chest— Wings, never mistaken for a cage. The body remembers every unkind season, but also, the thaw found in between, forming staggered rings—time etched in grain, memories of drought, of lushness returned beneath bark weathered by chaos and calm. My story unfurled slowly, yes…
But not without ferocity. I am here.
I am whole.
I am mine.
No miracle came—only morning, and the quiet, defiant choosing to try again. Healing did not pour from the sky like daylight bursting through the night, but like lichen, in its stubborn fragility, weaving its way through the cracks.
The land has never questioned my worth. It has held me when I could not rise, sung back when I could only whisper. What they called weakness—
The silence, the waiting— Was always simply becoming.
family catharsis
ashley makey
Panic. Disorder. Confusion. Unfamiliar faces all around.
Heart racing. Misplacement.
Hoping for a familiar sound.
Sterility. White. Brightness. Masked beings hover.
Crying out. Seeking.
Suffocating swell of emotion all over. Calmness. Dark. Comfort.
A voice I've known since birth.
Vision fading. Tired.
The scent of home and hearth.
Solitude. Darkness. Silence. Thoughts have gone away. Distant echoes. Alone.
No sense of where I am today.
Crying. Choking. Fear.
Mother's face looms near.
Stressed cries. Reaching. It's me she holds so dear.
Confusion. Displacement. Unmoving. I cry out but no sound comes. Alien faces. Pain.
A sudden breath can now move my lungs. Freedom. Release. Energy!
The air fills me loud and full.
Parents near. Familiarity. As the unfamiliar continues to pull. Calmness. Warmth. Love.
Mother pulls me in to her breast.
Father smiles. Comfort.
I can finally relax and rest.
hollow
shaylean gladu
He digs the dirt around me
Forms a circle with his shovel
His sweat glows under the moonlight
I look up at the sky
The stars show the past
The moon knows my secrets
The hole gets deeper and deeper
I soon cannot see
Dirt has surrounded my visions
I ask
"Where is the moon?
Where are the stars?
Why is there only darkness? "
He stares at me
Alone with him
"Look at this hole I made for us
I worked so hard to get us here.
Aren't you grateful?
Aren't you happy?"
The empty earth is swallowing me
I am detached from all I know
I forget the past
I forget the future
I forget how high I could grow I dig my roots deeper
And he fills the space
With his own hollow
While I pray that one day
The moon will meet my gaze again
The stars will guide my way
And I will never have to be so low
And I will never feel the rocks
At the bottom of this pit
Cutting into my feet
As they are now
healing ink
melinda finlayson
I sit in the darkness of the night, A pen to paper and begin to write.
A voice no longer heard, a hug no longer felt, Pen in hand, heart full of ache, each stroke a feeling dealt.
In the darkness where grief prevails, A paralyzing sadness is unveiled.
A heart so heavy, it begins to weep, A flowing river ever so deep.
While struggling and drowning in the depths of despair, I panic and I fight for air.
The paper absorbs some tears I shed, As I pour out whispers of things unsaid.
By putting ink on paper the river wanes, In the act of writing, I find less pain.
Through my writing, the catharsis begins, As I honour the pain, the healing begins.
Writing is a refuge, a solace, a balm, In the depths of sorrow, it helps me feel calm.
The grief I feel I will be happily carrying, It means you were here, and to me you were everything.
zach wood
A tear falls and then another
Thinking of how great a mother
You would have been If only i had seen
The darkness that grew inside
Hardened heart that once did confide
A second chance i may not find I wish i’d been more kind
To myself so i would know
That i was worth the love you'd show
the black meets the white
jamal-e-fatima rafat
Finally, like a stifled cry stuck in my chest for far too long I let it out a wailing shriek I let my word in ink fall on the calmness of the blank sheet creating chaos its time, the black meets the white.
his ex
kimerica s. parr
We all stumble, we all fall, We are, indeed, sinners all
But when my life-long lover chose to love another
Something inside me broke, And something inside me awoke - a feeling like no other I felt determined, I felt renewed, I felt alive
No longer a couple, but one to stand alone, I could rely on myself, stand tall, be strong
For it is only in times of trial that we learn who we are
What we are capable of—what mettle of which we are made
For this difficulty, I am gravely hurt, but also glad.
I now know—or remember—just who I am
jeffer louwie salvante peralta
The shadow of the smoke continues to haunt Fort McMurray even after all the years it has been gone. When spring comes, snow melts and the river expands, the remembrance reappears just like a scar that pains as every season changes.
Martha stood behind her newly built home, where the fire had once roared like a wild god. Below her, new houses rose like seedlings, and children laughed in backyards that hadn’t existed years ago. The boreal forest had started to heal—sprigs of green bursting from blackened bark, nature’s quiet defiance.
Her camera hung around her neck. For months, she had been capturing the town’s return—not for news, not for profit, but to remind herself that survival wasn’t the end of the story. Healing was.
She walked down to the riverbank, where the community had gathered. People had come with candles, stories, and silence. Not everyone spoke. Some stared into the firepit at the center, where cedar branches crackled in remembrance.
She heard a voice saying, “We are not here to forget, we are here because we remember, and we choose to keep going.”
Martha stepped forward when invited, lifted her camera, and clicked once. The shutter echoed like a heartbeat.
Later that night, she uploaded the photo. A line of people, faces lit by flame, shadows of trees in the background—new ones, young and reaching for sky.
She titled it: “From the Ashes.”
And as she hit “share,” Martha felt it. That deep, chest-loosening exhale. Grief, love, memory—all pouring out at once. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it in.
Catharsis didn’t come in a single moment, she realized. It was in the rebuilding, the remembering, and the quiet choosing to live again.
and still, you bloom
stacey grant
You are goldenrod, blazing in the fading summer heat— Bold and unwavering, bending but never breaking, standing tall even as the birds trilled omens of the coming rain. We never knew it would come so fast, sweeping through your being before we could trace the weight of four-and-a-half moons. Oh, how time can fold in on itself… Stretching and disappearing, all at once. I wanted to be ready, to hold your spirit with hands steady in prayer, a foundation, solid beneath you. It was the knowing. It broke the earth beneath me.
The excruciating pulsing of helplessness. The flowing, inevitable surrender to something beyond us. Despite this, you stood.
Chasing the wind when your body could no longer hold you, embracing your faith with a strength like no one I have ever known: Choosing release when the war waged heavy. When I cowered under the weight of your fear, when I thought I might drown in it, I realized - you were already radiant. Already unchained. Already stepping behind the threshold. At your funeral, they said your name meant “bringer of light,” but I had known that long before it was spoken. I had seen it in your laughter, in the way that joy seemed weightless in your hands, even when the world piled a lifetime of winters upon your shoulders. I tried to explain your ascent to my daughter, her innocence yearning to understand pain I wish she would never have to feel. Her silken head tilted, eyes brimming with certainty: “You lost your friend? I’ll help you find him, mama.” I told her the truth the best I could: That we don’t have to. That you are not lost. That I feel you now more than ever.
You are eternal goldenrod, dancing in late summer’s song, a panther slipping through the borderlands of my dreams, the warmth that was never bound
by the hours of dusk ‘til dawn.
The veil thins when I speak your name: Your young soul walks with the old ones now, woven in the stars. Still, your medicine grows in the fields. Still, I gather it. Still, you bloom with me.
only you
zach wood
Little did I know
How much my heart would grow. Little did I see How much you mean to me. Little did I dream How much you made me beam. Your smile made me glow, A voice I couldn't forego, Eyes that lit a room, A heart that cleared the gloom.
A wit that tore my mind asunder— When you walked in the room, I'd blunder.
My heart is only yours, Even when on distant shores. Waves crashing against my mind, In a darkened forest, I was so blind.
That ray of hope that helped me stay, My guiding star, my Milky Way.
half canoe
natalie wilson
The swaying rock of the water laps just below the steady of her voice, telling me to dip the paddle, push the water back, feel the power in my arms pull us forward. She teaches, again and again, as I, watching from behind, do my best to paddle word into clumsy action. And though we travel not in a straight line, she cheers my practiced progress with shouts into the early morning sunshine, celebrates the sloppy strokes I am learning, loving my own attempts to steer and steady this shared vessel I have never chartered before. As we continue, again and again, she quietly says yes, you are right, you are doing it right,
no impatience at my inaccuracy, no frustration at the pained slowness of my paddle pace, no sense of push for me to be faster, be better, bend a straighter path through the deepening water. To her, my mis-strokes, my backward manoeuvres, my uncertain skims on the top of the surface are all movement in the right direction. And when I am too uncertain, too flustered by my own ability to not manipulate the whirl of the rippling waves, she raises her arms, leans back, beckons me to share the burden, to pass her the paddle to right our tip in the chosen direction, all the while celebrating my tiny trail along the rocky shore.
rottery
shaylean gladu
My older self corrects my younger self
Again Be grateful
Use manners
That's the wrong word
Don't be so free
Do better
You're wasting it
You're wasting your youth
Take better care of yourself
You're going to regret this one day.
Let the kid just be a kid, Mom.
But my young self didn't know
I was old beyond years
A lifetime in each breath
Small tragedies with the rise
And fall of my chest
Pounding, knocking, beating
One day at a time
One step at a time
One thing at a time
And from an early age
I began to lose sleep.
Let the kid just be a kid, Mom.
scott meller
Aristotle knew.
I stare up into the ceiling
Cascading into old feelings
Right now there is quiet
Sleep comes if I try it
If I keep my eyes shut
It will be okay
It's just a nightmare
Forget the fights
Holes in the walls
Beer in the sink
Money covered in blood.
Let the kid just be a kid, Mom.
Now I feel it, the rotten wood
Decaying too quickly
I'm not that old to feel this way
An aged house
Falling apart
I didn't waste it
I didn't waste my youth
It was never mine.
I carry myself up to bed.
"I'm tired,
And I want to sleep."
Let the kid just be a kid, Mom
Emotional constipation has no laxative. The only way past it is through it, and that’s gonna hurt! Without it, though, the humours are out of balance, so hydrate, meditate, and evacuate! Katharsis demands it.
marginalia
Emotional Enema, Anyone?
A column by douglas abel
1 In Classical Greek society, women did not come into the picture at all.
2 I.e., not foreigners, slaves or, again, women.
3 I have sometimes stated this idea as the fact that it is hard to fall out of a basement window.
Of course the Greeks had a word for it. Catharsis. Sounds a bit like a Peloponnesian sneeze. “Catharsis!” Followed immediately by “Theós se euloge¯to!” Bless you!
In fact, catharsis was a technical/medical term. It meant “purgation,” expulsion from the body. Whether this purgation took the form of an emetic or an enema was not specified by the word itself. The purpose, however, was to rid the body at one end or the other, of “bad stuff.”
Whatever it might have been in the minds and practice of Greek physicians, it became clear in the hands, or minds, of Plato and then Aristotle, what the “bad stuff” was: emotion. Emotion was dangerous, even destructive. It was to be eliminated from the body, or the soul, as completely as possible. And the most dangerous emotions were pity and fear.
As Plato saw it, a man under the influence of emotion, even under divine inspiration, like a poet, was quite literally out of his mind. Emotions like pity and fear made men1 weak, and undermined their powers of rationality. Citizens2 could not be impartial and just rulers, or brave soldiers, under the influence of feeling. Pity interfered with justice, fear with fortitude and courage. Plato’s solution was banishment and suppression. Anything that tended to generate harmful emotions—poetry, drama, music not of a strictly martial kind, was to be forbidden in the ideal state. Plato had seen what unbridled fear had done to his teacher, Socrates: Athenians frightened of his ideas had put him to death. Plato was determined that in the ideal republic, emotions would simply not have such destructive power.
Aristotle’s thoughts were more moderate or, at least, more complex. He linked the question of emotion to the arts and, specifically, to drama—which, in its tragic form, he described as the highest form of poetry. He found that poetry, in itself, was not necessarily bad. Instead of banning such forms as tragedy, he gave them a noble and constructive purpose—a medical or curative function in the moral sphere. If well-written and well-performed, tragedy would summon up in an audience the dangerous emotions of pity and fear, but would then generate a catharsis, the elimination of those emotions. Those who had had the experience of tragedy would leave the theatre cleansed, ready to go about their family, civic or military duties without excessive fear, or excessive favour (pity).
For both Aristotle and Plato, however, the idea of art generating emotion simply for pleasure, or for its own sake, was not acceptable.
When Aristotle was “re-discovered” during the Renaissance, his theories of drama were taken as “gospel.” In fact, his descriptions of what tended to work were transformed into the rigid “rules” of drama. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century theorists focussed specifically on the two emotions Aristotle
had examined: pity and fear. The philosopher had stated that tragedy acted through pity and fear, leading to a catharsis of these emotions. Scholars pondered whether the “and” in the statement was significant. Did tragedy have to generate both emotions? Or could there be tragedy based solely on pity, or solely on fear? And, if the answer was that both emotions were necessary, did these emotions always have to be generated together, or at the same time? Could one, instead, have some pity, then some fear, then some more pity, etc.?
A great deal of ink was expended (wasted?) arguing these questions.
Then came the eighteenth century, and a whole new way of looking at emotion, and art, and the cause-andeffect links between them.
For eighteenth-century philosophers, critics and artists/writers, emotion was not something to be feared; it was something to be nurtured, encouraged and developed. Humans were basically good, and were in effect, defined, by their ability to feel emotions, particularly sympathy and empathy for others. The stirring up of such emotions was linked to the development of virtue. Virtue was akin to fellow-feeling, and the more we were able to feel, the more virtuous we could be. If we saw, in comedy or tragedy, the perils and sufferings of others, we would be moved positively toward those characters, and hence be impelled to acts of kindness in real life. Sentiment and tender feelings were the stuff and, indeed, the purpose of art, certainly the purpose of drama. Far from being a means of eliminating emotions, tragedy and comedy became a means for practice in “tender” feeling. Emotion, positively directed and refined with use, was more important than cold reason in human action.
With this change in the idea of emotion in drama came a change in the type of characters and situations presented on stage—or page. Aristotle had asserted that tragic characters must be of a certain social stature— “kings and princes,” as the Renaissance would have it. If a fall was to generate pity and fear, it had to be a fall from greatness.3 Characters who had nothing to lose, or
who lost little when they fell, would not move us, and no catharsis would be possible.
From the eighteenth century until today, however, the opposite view of character has come to dominate writing and performance. If we are to empathize/sympathize with characters, we can do so most strongly with those with whom we have most in common, those who are most like us. The fall of a great person, who is distant from us in fortune and status, and even in life experience, may not move us in any positive way. That fall may not even move us to cathartic pity and fear. Instead, the fall of a great one may generate a kind of smug satisfaction: he thought he was so great, and look what happened. Serves him right!
So, for the generation of positive emotions through drama—even pity and fear!—the characters who make us feel must be people like us, people we could meet, people we might even know. Oedipus the King or Macbeth becomes Willy Loman or Jimmy Porter. Clytaemnestra becomes Hedda Gabler. The tragedy of the fall of a kingdom becomes, it is to be hoped, the equally moving, and equally instructive, tragedy of the destruction of a family. And that family might well be ours.
In this new dramatic world of “people like us,” where drama presents a “slice of life” as we might experience it, plays and playing can take on a new dramatic function. Instead of catharsis, the purgation of emotions, the experience of drama gives us praxis—practice in feeling. We can experience, vicariously, emotions in “tragic”situations— death, disease, romantic loss, reversal of fortune, physical disaster—so that we become stronger, and better able to deal with those situations if and as they occur in our own lives. In this sense, plays truly become play, as in childhood: we have “safe” experiences which teach us to become more human, and better humans.
So drama might well have a dual function, generating the expulsion of negative emotions and the reinforcement of positive ones. We become less afraid, stronger, and more positively tied to our fellow humans.
Out with the bad, in with the good.
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre historian and voice and speech teacher. Work on his novel about Christopher Marlowe continues to continue. Douglas thinks Plato was really a failed playwright who became bitter when his plays were rejected in Athens.
chris bowers is a writer and actor who is proud to have called Fort McMurray home for the last fourteen years. His passion for writing is fuelled by his experiences living in the north, as well as the landscapes and people that surround him. You can read more of his work on his website, the cjbuzz.com.
melinda finlayson is a mother to two amazing girls, Madison and Mackenzie, and a wife to her supportive husband, Trevor. Melinda is rediscovering her love of the written word after a long hiatus. She is currently working on a series of children’s chapter books. Melinda encourages everyone to enjoy life and celebrate the tiniest victories at every opportunity.
shaylean gladu is a multifaceted First Nations artist of the Nehiyawak people, with a focus on self-expression and healing. Shaylean's poem 'Drymeat' was placed 1st in the Wood Buffalo Regional Library's Words in Motion competition of 2025. "I have been told that my poems have an air of hope, amidst profound sadness, and being able to articulate poetry this way... I want my words to find someone that needs to know that they are not alone." Shaylean believes that everyone has something inside of them; a gift, a vision, and wisdom that is meant to be shared.
Born and raised in Nistawâyâw, stacey grant is a proud Métis mother of two and a multidisciplinary artist focused on traditional beadwork, writing, and storytelling. Through land-based teachings and cultural arts, her practice holds space for grief, love, memory, and quiet transformation.
barbara madden is on an expedition of sorts, exploring the world through painting, illustration and modest
musings. Inspiration is everywhere, usually a little below the surface, each idea an excavation through layers and interconnected tunnels branching out into sparks and wonder.
ashley makey is a multifaceted artist residing in Fort McMurray who enjoys theatre arts, literature, as well as fine art crafts. She recently introduced her beautiful daughter Saoirse to the world in 2024, whom she enjoys spending time with alongside her wonderful husband, Eric. During her free time, you can typically find Ashley catching up on a new book, playing video games, working on a new craft, or snuggling up with her cat, Bilbo.
ana manderson once jumped out of an airplane, got married after 4 months of dating, ate 3 Big Macs in one go. Two are truths and one is a lie.
charlie 'c' masear is a high school student residing in Fort McMurray, Wood Buffalo. When he's not writing (or procrastinating), he's probably coding or running around with his friends. He doesn't have an official portfolio (yet, at least—so keep an eye out in the near future), but if you wish to contact him you can email charliemasear.0@gmail.com.
anastasia meicholas writes, “My name is Anastasia Meicholas, a queer visual artist. My exotic colour palette and subjects are strongly influenced by my Bahamian heritage where constant sunshine and the bright blue ocean was never far away. The miles of forests and the wilderness of my home in Fort McMurray, Alberta, have also had a strong influence on the direction of my work. Art has always been my outlet to cope with the stress and uncertainties of everyday life. At the same time, I use art to express some of my deepest joys. Art provides me with a safe and comfortable place to express myself. As I am constantly trying to interpret my world, exploring different ways of presenting my observations and interpretations, I don’t limit myself to one medium, one style or a single process, I am constantly evolving. The pieces I create are drawn from inspiration, experiences and lessons learned, sprinkled with influences from the land of my birth. If anyone takes the time to peruse my
work and pauses long enough to be stirred in some way, to wonder, to question, to simply feel… then I have succeeded in my work.”
scott meller (he/him) is a father, a multi-disciplinary artist, and Musical Instrument Repair Technician who has called Wood Buffalo home for more than 25 years. When not expanding his knowledge and exploring the world with his family, he is championing the arts and working to keep artists expressing themselves.
hira noor is a local mixed media artist & illustrator. Her immersive artwork blends acrylics, oil pastels, and textured mediums, drawing viewers into the emotions and experiences reflected in her tactile pieces.
kimerica s. parr is an author, poet, composer, singer, and teacher. She teaches voice and pedagogy at the University of Alberta and is currently completing a Doctor of Education in arts and leadership. Her creative and academic work explore the intersections of art, story, and expression. She currently resides in Alberta with her husband, and a little Maltese dog named Row-Z.
jeffer louwie salvante peralta writes, “Born under Philippine skies, I'm a nurse and journeyed to Canada with a single dream, to honor my roots and make my family proud. When homesickness whispers, I turn to sketching and writing, guided by the quiet strength and encouragement of my nephew, JM. All l am, I owe to those I love: Mama Winda, my late Papa Luna, Ryan, Honey, Rushel, kuya Zeth, my love Macky and to my Pascual Family. I'm all about blending heart, art, and purpose in everything I do.”
ruth perry lives and practices her artwork in Treaty 8 Territory. She was asked to submit one of her recent works on Catharsis.
bea price needs us safe. First Creative submission. Now passion ignites
jamal-e-fatima rafat, a local poet based in Fort McMurray, AB, started compiling her poems while stuck at home during the pandemic and produced a published copy by November 2020. She won the Wood Buffalo Excellence
in Arts Awards, the Buffys, in the literary arts category in 2022. In November 2024, her second poetry book, The Lavender I Lost, was launched, partially funded by the Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo grant. Her work explores personal stories, her memories from childhood and adolescence, and highlights her lived experience as a woman of colour in Canada. She describes her writings as a journey through healing.
j.e. schmitz writes, “I have always have enjoyed reading and writing all forms of written art. I am awkward and I am an aspiring author, with a TBR that I know I can never finish before I perish. I have a pet axolotl named Natsu named after an anime character.”
curie dhawan is a visual artist whose work merges surrealism with emotional depth, creating pieces that invite viewers into dreamlike worlds of introspection. Through her evocative use of color and symbolism, she explores the complexities of the subconscious mind and the human experience. Her art has been featured in several exhibitions, offering a space for dialogue between the viewer and the unseen layers of the psyche.
natalie wilson hails from North Bay in North-Eastern Ontario and has published short fiction and poetry in a variety of print and online publications. She began her writing career by winning a short-story contest in a local newspaper when she was 17, and has continued her creative journey ever since. A mother of four and grandmother of five, she is married and shares a busy home with her partner Beth, her youngest daughter Vivian, and an assortment of furry friends.
zachary wood writes, “I have the privilege of working for FMPSD, where my passion for helping others fuels every aspect of my work. I find deep fulfillment in making a positive impact, and it is through my role that I am able to truly connect with and support those around me. Poetry, for me, is more than just an art form—it's the language of my soul. It allows my deepest emotions and inner thoughts to come alive in a way I cannot express through any other medium, giving voice to the parts of me that yearn to be heard.”
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose:
To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
call for submissions NorthWord Volume 6, Issue 3
deadline October 30, 2025
theme Plastic
guest editor Emma Carter
We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art. For future submission calls, visit www.northwordmagazine.com
please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword.magazine@gmail.com
for advertising and business inquiries, contact: For future submission calls, visit www.northwordmagazine.com
Extended submission guidelines are on our website: www.northwordmagazine.com/about-2
by Anastasia Meicholas
creative catharsis by J. E.Schmitz
the ones who whisper back by Ruth Perry