NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 3, Issue 1

volume 3 | issue 1 | FREE

contents

Fatima Mian

Real Estate Professional

780-880-9800

northern canada collective society for writers

2

editorial

Will Gibson

president Suzanne McGladdery

3

#game on

Kim Rizzi

treasurer Joanne Hlina

3

about the cover art

Sophie Graine

4

letter from the board

public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan

5

beyond the mountains

Sarah Foss

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com

6

it’s a dog’s world

Patricia Mary O’Neill

web www.northwordmagazine.com

8

being a good sport

Veronica Ephgrave

11

a ball (ode to a sphere)

Veronica Ephgrave

11

forget the glass slipper

Dawn Booth

12

chased

Patricia Mary O’Neill

13

cricket chronicles

Kiran Malik-Khan

14

the puzzle in the game

Kevin Thornton

16

number 9

Jordin Kolmel

17

exorcising

Dane Neufeld

17

i can... no you can’t

Angie Gordema

18

queen 1 - mad hatter 0

Cathy Yard

21

table tennis

Buffy Close

21

the madness

Natalie D’Souza

22

penalty kick

Kristel Rensmaag

23

buzzer beater

Kiran Malik-Khan

24

marginalia: a column

Douglas Abel

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contributors

info@fatimamian.com www.fatimamian.com

call for submissions northern canada

collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.

NorthWord Volume 3, Issue 2 deadline October 30, 2015 theme What's in a name?

We’re always looking for prose (2000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts

from current projects, and visual art.

This Issue: Volume 3, Number 1 Summer 2015 ISSN 1920-6313 cover Sophie Graine design & layout Rachel White-Murray issue editor Will Gibson managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock

Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W

please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors,

northword@hushmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact northwordmagazine@gmail.com

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

volume 3 | issue 1

editorial

Welcome to #Game On!, a very special issue of NorthWord produced to commemorate

the 2015 Western Canada Summer Games coming to Fort McMurray this summer.

In the same way that the games will showcase the 2,500 athletes competing in 18

different sports, this issue provides a platform for the literary talent in our region

to demonstrate their gifts with words. At the heart of sports is competition and our contributing writers and poets tackle this theme in #Game On!

Some of the short stories and poems celebrate sporting triumphs in their work in the tradition that started with the lyrical poet Pindar chronicling the champions of

ancient Greek Olympiads. Other submissions in this issue tackle the competition in

other realms, from sibling rivalry to dogs fighting over a bone to the inner competition

between body and mind in climbing a mountain or squaring up to take a penalty kick.

There is joy in some of the submissions and agony in others. Those emotions are a

#Game On; two small words that hold boundless interpretations.

To the Western Canada Summer Games 2015 Wood Buffalo, #Game On fosters everything we do.

To us, #Game On means collaborating with this inspiring community to harmonize the most positive experience for our athletes August 7–16, 2015.

In planning for 2015 Wood Buffalo we put ourselves in the mind of an athlete, we

imagine the rush they would feel before a race, a game, a match, to motivate our efforts.

part of competition, whether it’s sport or other areas of life, which are captured by

The Western Canada Summer Games 2015 Wood Buffalo is humbled by the

On the subject of pain, the lone regret of this role is being forced to limit the number

This issue exemplifies our region being #Game On!

NorthWord’s contributors.

of submissions due to space constraints. Winnowing down the submissions was

not easy and the difficulty of this exercise demonstrated the literary community in

collaboration with NorthWord magazine for this #Game On issue.

Kim Rizzi

| general manager, 2015 wood buffalo games host society

the region has bench strength that rivals the Showtime-era Los Angeles Lakers or Manchester United’s 1999 Treble winners. I hope the writers whose entries were not selected continue to submit their work and, above all, keep writing.

I hope you enjoy these works as much as I did. Just as the athletes of the 2015 Western

ABOUT THE COVER ART

Canada Games inspire us with their speed, strength and skill in their events, so too do

The cover image was created using a technique called relief printmaking, where the

beautifully crafted words.

away. Then a layer of ink was applied to the block, and paper pressed onto the ink,

I hope the writers and poets in this issue of NorthWord stir the people who read their Yours in sport and literature,

Will Gibson |

thirteenth issue editor

image was drawn onto a rubber block, and all of the parts to remain pale were carved

leaving the impression behind. Additional colours were added with watercolour paint.

When I was asked to create the cover artwork for the Western Canada Summer

Games issue of NorthWord, I knew immediately that I wanted to feature the boreal

landscape. For me, the best part of living in Fort McMurray is the Birchwood Trail

network through this forest. I visit almost every day—walking, sketching, running, skiing, or biking.

For the Game On theme of this issue, I chose to depict a lone runner within this

landscape. Why alone? Whether we are world-class athletes or just starting a new

exercise program, the game is always with ourselves. We may be supported by our

friends, families and teams, but it is up to us to put in the hours and to push past our own limits. Whatever your game this season, Game On!

Sophie Graine

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| www.twohootscreative.com

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

message from the board Ever since June 2011, when the Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo won the bid to host the 2015

Western Canada Summer Games, the residents of Fort McMurray have been preparing for company.

Venues have been built, accommodations have been readied, and ceremonies have been planned. We at NorthWord have been preparing as well, and now we’re proud to welcome you to Fort McMurray

with the #Game On issue of our magazine. In this edition—the thirteenth since our inception—we’re

featuring poems, short stories, essays, and visual art that reflects the theme of games in our community, in our country, and around the world.

NorthWord: A Literary Journal of Canada's North has been published by the Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers since 2009. It was created to showcase the artistic and literary talents of Northern Canada, which are rich and diverse and underrepresented in literary publications. The first print run was 500 copies, and we have grown over the years to a standard print run of 1000, with the occasional

re-print. We are very grateful to the municipality and to the 2015 Western Canada Summer Games to have the opportunity to reach 15 times as many people.

We couldn't have printed these 15000 copies if it wasn't for the support from the Games committee,

and our advertisers. Special thanks to Cindy Amerongen, Director for Culture, Ceremonies and Protocol,

volume 3 | issue 1

beyond the mountains sarah foss

New roads

New opportunities

We never know what lies On the other side.

Joy at what may come

Sorrow at what is left behind

Mountains of our passions and fears Loom in the distance.

Storms brew overhead Winds of hope beckon

Clouds of uncertainty rumble The battle of the mind.

To go ahead,

Or stay back?

2015 Western Canada Summer Games, and Kim Rizzi, General Manager for the Games, for seeing the

I urge you, dear reader

happen: Fatima Mian of Remax Realty, Keyano College, Royal LePage True North Realty, and the always

Let all that tries to hinder you fall away.

importance of this collaboration. Our amazing friends, our advertisers, made this #GameOn issue supportive Dawn Booth of Media Booth. We’re also grateful to McCallum Printers for offering us a partial discount. We couldn't have done this without all of you. We are the voice of the literary arts in the region, and we continue to thrive with our community's help.

Speaking of community, we launched the "Surprise" issue on February 26, 2015 in King’s Lounge at

Keyano College. Guest edited by Russell Thomas, the magazine featured cover art by visual artist and

photographer, Erin Stinson. A cozy gathering saw readings, live performances, and lively discussions.

Thank you to everyone who attended; we were pleasantly "surprised."

“What’s in a name?” is the theme of our next issue. Will Shakespeare wrote, “that which we call a rose/

by any other name would smell as sweet.” Romeo and Juliet were enemies by name, lovers by choice.

Names of things, people, and places play many roles; they can be empowering, symbolic, subversive, evocative, cryptic.

Press forward, don’t give up!

Linger not in the rain of self-doubt

Nor let the boulders of fear block your path.

Thirst for the adventure of the unknown

Beyond the mountains await new life, dreams!

Shedding of the old dreams, awakening the new.

You may pause in the shadows of these mountains, But only to shake your fist at the storm

The fight between what inspires and what holds you back.

Look bravely into the face of your opponents, And say to these mountains: “Game on!”

Submit your stories, fiction or non-fiction (2000 words maximum), and verse of up to 50 lines to the editors at northword@hushmail.com. The deadline for the next issue is October 30, 2015.

NorthWord can be found free of charge at Keyano College, Macdonald Island Park, Frames and More, the YMCA and more. Visit our website at www.northwordmagazine.com to read past issues.

Like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/northword and follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

it’s a dog’s world patricia mary o’neill

I swear these two mutts, a Malamute cross and a Shih Tzu something or other, get along like two teenagers.

I’m house and dog sitting while my friends vacation in Europe (lucky dogs). I’ve

known the Malamute (Treble) for several years and got to meet the Shih Tzu (Rocky) last year, so we’re well acquainted.

Here’s the story. A few days ago I gave both Treble and Rocky a bone—well, not really a bone but a reasonable facsimile thereof. Anyway Treble, being the larger of the two

got the bigger while Rocky got the smaller one, a generous size for a little dog (the

bone, not the dog). Treble went outside and without ceremony devoured hers. Rocky, on the other hand, took his treat to his bed and spent time with it.

Two days later there’s little evidence of any attempt to consume it.

Treble became obsessed with that bone and Rocky seemed to have realized this. It became a game of cat and mouse, with the bone being the mouse.

Rocky’s sole interest in that bone seemed to be his desire to keep it from Treble. On

more than one occasion I had to warn Treble away as Rocky had walked off and left it unguarded. After all, it was Rocky’s and Treble had eaten hers. At one point I even put the bone up on the counter to keep it from her.

Well, yesterday both Rocky and I had fallen short of our vigilance. I turned to see Treble walking off with the bone in her mouth.

“Treble?” I called in my ‘what are you up to’ voice.

She looked over at me, sheepishly and halted.

“That’s not yours,” I declared. “Give it to me.”

It was apparent from the look in her eye if I wanted that bone I was going to have to retrieve it myself. Treble wasn’t going to give it up voluntarily.

I walked over and with some effort took it from her clenched teeth. I returned it to Rocky.

“Here you go, Rocky,” I said, patting him gently on the head. He took it demurely and walked off.

I could see that he was delighted, not just with the return of the bone but with my scolding of Treble.

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That was the beginning of Treble’s intention of making

that bone her own and Rocky’s intention of making sure that I did not allow that to happen.

I was further convinced after a few Treble takes—I

retrieve—Rocky reclaims that the bone’s only real interest for Rocky was to keep it from Treble.

So the game continued. No matter where Rocky was, in the living room on his cushion, in the rec room on

to say, ‘so you finally figured it out’.

I turned to Rocky to get his input but he stayed back. The jig was up and he knew it.

“I think I’ve made a mistake,” I said to Treble, stroking her silky ear. “Perhaps this was your bone all along.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said with her eyes.

his other cushion, on either one of the couches that he

Rocky seemed to have a smirk on his face that said ‘I

nearby. Sometimes she was so close she could easily

giving it back to me”. I’d been played.

alone could claim, it didn’t matter where, Treble was

have snatched it, were it not for Rocky’s low growls of warning.

As amusing as it was to watch, somewhere along the line, perhaps after I took the videos of their back and

forth hijinks, I became convinced that Rocky was playing us both for his own amusement. Several times

Treble managed to get the bone and several times I took it from her reluctant mouth and chastised her.

I examined the bone again and noted no further attempt on Rocky’s part to eat it.

Just an hour ago, the same scenario repeated itself and suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps I had given

would’ve been happy to give it up days ago but you kept

I opened the door, Treble walked out triumphant and

Rocky turned tail and headed back to his bed, looking smugly satisfied with himself.

I’ve learned a lesson or two from all this. The first is, these dogs have a rocky relationship (pun intended) and that’s fine—no different than most siblings. But the biggest lesson is that Rocky is a player. Behind those

oh please love me thirteen year old puppy eyes is a con-

niving, manipulative, Napoleon of a mutt who has all manner of strategies to get love and attention (and food) while all Treble can do is hang out on the periphery and hope to get a little for herself.

Rocky the wrong bone. I remember the one my friend

I feel sorry for Treble, I really do. After all, she was here

one.

rules changed. You can see the resignation on her face.

had given him last week. It was much thinner than this

first. Then Rocky showed up a few years ago and all the

Could it be that I had given Rocky one of Treble’s bones—

Rocky took possession of all but one of her beds, gets to

How else to explain the lack of gastronomical interest

days, to keep him from pacing all night while my friends

that Treble was simply taking what was rightfully hers?

in this bone that seemed too big for such a little dog with dental challenges?

Twenty minutes ago Treble regained possession of the bone, yet again. This time she walked toward the door to

be let out. I walked over to her. Rocky was close behind but stopped just short of us.

“Is this your bone?” I asked Treble. She looked at me as if

sit on laps, is petted endlessly, sits on couches and these are away, he gets to sleep on my bed, whereas Treble is forever relegated to the hard, cold floor. Poor thing!

Small dogs have all the advantages, not unlike their human counterparts, the baby of the family.

In this household it’s a mutt’s world and Rocky is definitely top dog. The rest of us, well we’re all his menial malleable minions. Try saying that ten times! 

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ued to loudly chant, "Take me out to the ballgame! Take

going to do that was different; everyone had jerseys,

"Joey, we're seeing a football game." He stopped to

football, where one looked to be trying to toss it to the

me out to the game!" I scrunched up my face, saying, look at me. "So? I don't care." He ran away, leaving me shocked. For a five year old, he was pretty sassy.

being a good sport

Eventually I got to eat chili. It was really good, espe-

cially my mom's; I was sure she would win. I ate chili for the whole first half of the game, paying no heed to

veronica ephgrave

"It's not fair. All of your photos get more likes than mine, and you don't even use hashtags!"

"Followers. The more you have, the more likes you'll get."

and go start the van?" The book was down out of my other brother's face and he went to start the vehicle.

I rolled my eyes as my older sister turned to go into her

"I got my jersey!" my dad called as he came down the

about our numbers on social media websites. Of course,

worry about that now? Did you grab the ladle?"

bedroom. Though it was quite stupid, we often argued

there wasn't much to argue about; Miranda always got

more than I. That particular afternoon was the after-

noon of the well renowned Super Bowl, a huge football event, which held no specific value in my mind whatsoever. Of course, every year the church held an event

stairs with a Capitol's jersey. "Really hun, do you have to

"No, I'll go get it." My dad was probably the one most

excited about the game, other than my younger brother.

Sports usually got him going, spirited to run around uncontrollably as if he was on the field.

where they would play the Super Bowl on the projector

Eventually we all made it into to the car, buckled up

which my parents entered every year.

rest of us simply waited as we drove to the church. I

screens. On the side, there was also small chili contest, "Hana, hurry up, we're going to be late!" My mom

called from downstairs. I rolled my eyes; the last thing I wanted to do was go to the church to watch a stupid

football game. With my cell phone in hand, I made my

way downstairs. My brother had his face drowned in a book, and my youngest brother ran around the house yelling "I'm a monsta truck!" while my parents franti-

cally poured chili into a crock pot. Miranda had followed me, though she had her headphones in, blaring. I could hear her music even though she was a foot behind me.

"Hana, could you please hold this?" A hot crock pot of chili was plopped into my hand.

"Mom, this is heavy." I said, as she pulled my youngest brother, Joey, into the entrance way. She started to

pull his boots on. As she forced them onto the squirm-

ing child, she managed to say, "It's only for a minute.

8

Nathan, could you please get the keys from dad's coat

and ready to go. Dad drove, mom held the chili and the had the sickly feeling it would be a long evening. Set up would take an hour, because they had to pray for the evening first, and then set up the chili contest, the other

snacks and the projectors. And then, they usually had

little incentives; the year before, at the halftime show, they had held a dance off. I hated dancing, but Miranda had rocked it out and won. I decided, maybe this year, I should win something. I might not be a huge fan of the

sports on TV, but I didn't mind a good competition. If I could have the chance.

I hid away upstairs while they set up. I didn't see a point in participating in the setup of an event that was unfavourable in my mind. Putting in my own headphones, I

listened to some music. I watched Joey run upstairs and go back and forth through the hallway. He seemed to

be shouting. I took out my headphone and called out, "What was that, Joey?" He didn't answer, but he contin-

and hats, and crazy faces. I saw two of the boys with a

other. I looked over at Nathan, who quietly sat reading

his book. He was wearing a football hat. "Hey, Nathan, may I borrow your hat?" I called over. Startled, his head shot up. "What?" I walked over to him. "Your hat; do you need it?"

the men in red, blue and white running on the field of

"No." He handed me his hat and dove straight into his

were sitting on opposite sides, cheering when their

his eyes were not usually fixed on anything else other

green. Everyone seemed to enjoy it; the opposing teams

team scored and booing when the other did. For me, this wasn't too entertaining, but I braved through. It was

half time when things got interesting. The person who

was organizing the mini contest, Steve, had stepped

onto the stage. "Test, test." he murmured into the mike; his voice was heard throughout the building. "What a

wonderful evening, to gather and see the game!" He gestured to the screens and most of the people clapped and cheered. "Now it is time for our mini contest; how

many of you are into the scary and complicated web called social media?" Most people raised their hands, or

clapped. I raised my hand, curious to see what this was going to be. Steve smiled and continued to explain, "This

book. I knew Nathan was into the riveting thrillers; than one of his books. With my hat I began to pose for a selfie. Then, I had it.

In the background, I realized that, behind me, there was

a bust: a bust of Jesus. I had an idea, and it seemed like a great idea. I approached the bust, hoping that this

wouldn't be insulting. It wasn't my intent. I was at a church, people were watching football; why not include

the very reason church existed? I put the hat on Jesus, and took a nice picture. Nothing silly, or weird, just nice.

I hashtagged the church's hashtag and also #nohateonlylove, in hope that people would see that this was something nice.

year we will be giving out a twenty-five dollar gift card

I went into the sanctuary, where most people sat.

out his phone, faced it to himself and said, "Take the

doing nothing productive, as usual. "So, Hana; my selfie

to the mall as a prize for who can..." he quickly pulled best sports-selfie!" He clicked a picture of himself, and his camera flash blinked. I also blinked a good couple of times. A selfie contest? "All you have to do is take a selfie that looks or feels sporty and hash tag this tag right

here." He pointed to the screen and '#148sportsselfie appeared on the screen.

At this moment, about a dozen teens from the crowd

rose, each of them scurrying off in different directions.

A couple of adults also began posing for jersey portraits.

But I didn't know what to do. For me, this wouldn't be a

walk in the ballpark. Plus, I assumed that Miranda had

a good one finished and tagged already. Then I thought, Who cares? It's time to beat Miranda. I'm going to win.

I walked around the building. I had no idea what I was

Miranda took a seat beside me. She was on her phone, has twenty likes already."

"So?" "And yours only has eighteen!"

"Thanks for the update, sister dearest." I mumbled as I turned away from her. It was just like Miranda to push

this in my face. She ditched me to go and chill somewhere else, and I did something weird. I watched the game.

I actually tried; no pessimist comments or cynical judgements of time wasted, I just watched. Time no

longer existed; it was no longer the slow turtle sauntering down the track, it ran with the pace of my racing

heart. I became one with everyone else; we cheered, we 9

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a ball (ode to a sphere)

booed. And then, before I knew it, the game was over.

up and, for a moment, there was silence in the room.

team was even from, but they won. It felt good, for some

The winner is..." He took a pause for dramatic effect,

veronica ephgrave

winner is Hana Moore!"

A force inexplicable

According to it, life

Its journey is nothing

About the grass and air,

"Yes! We won!" I yelled excitedly. I wasn't sure where my reason.

I decided that even if Miranda won the contest, I didn't

care. I had learned something interesting today; football isn't so bad.

During my musing, Steve went back on stage. He called out, "You all have one minute to go to the church hashtag and like your favourite selfie! While you do

Then, Steve jumped and said, "Ok, ok, no more likes!

and I almost fell off my seat in dramatic effect. "OK, our

My eyes almost fell out of their sockets. Me? The winner?

I walked up to the front, but I didn't realize that it was actually happening. As I walked back to my seat, I saw

Miranda, whose face had gone real white. I couldn't help but grin slightly to myself. I had won.

that, I'll announce the chili winner this year; our judges

That evening, as we drove home from the event, I looked

ulations, you have been awarded this coupon for a free

time. My mom tried to be accommodating; "Honey,

have decided that the winner is... Pablo Garcia! Congrat-

meal at Millie's Chili house!" Pablo went to the front to

receive his prize as Steve pulled his cell phone out. "Ok; and, hold to your seats ladies and gentleman, I can see some of you are still liking photos." He held his hand

over to my sister. She hadn't spoken to me the whole it's ok, you can't always win, mom and dad didn't win

Sends it rolling; But short lived.

Yet, it causes an

Unintentional inspiration; It didn't have any idea

That its mundane course Could bring cheers or

Laughter, tears or fists.

The hand and the stare.

After all, it was only a ball,

And though at times it was dull, It was by its sweet lull

That many watched and took care;

They dreamed hard, and they would dare.

either." I nodded and, aside, I made it my point to say, "All you can do is be a good sport about it!"

Forget the Glass Slipper

10

Was about rolling.

Photo Credit: Dawn Booth

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chased

cricket chronicles

patricia mary o’neill Raymond peeked out from under the rotten foliage. He hadn’t heard footsteps for quite some time. Nervous as

he was, he knew he must get out from under the stink before he gagged.

Plus, there was something under the leaves with him, he could hear it squirm. With each passing minute the

panic grew. A song played itself over and over in his head, “I don’t like spiders and snakes” and in Raymond’s case, most anything that crawled.

If he didn’t get out soon, he would give away his location, especially if whatever was squirming close by decided to

“There he is, get him, boys,” a voice from behind ordered.

“Cut him off, Bruce, before he gets to the clearing” the same voice called.

“I got him, I got him,” the figure by the tree responded.

“Hurry or he’ll get away,” “No he won’t.”

Just then Raymond could feel something brush his left

side but he neither looked nor stopped. He just kept running, his heart racing, and his lungs heaving.

make contact.

“You idiot, Trevor. Stop him.”

He pulled himself forward by inches, stopping fre-

But it was too late, Raymond had outrun them all.

quently to be sure no one was around.

A branch cracked to the left. He halted, held his breath and waited. More minutes passed. No other sound.

Like a sloth he moved forward again. Despite the stench, he was grateful the leaves were soaked; otherwise, every movement would be accompanied by a cacophony of crackling leaves.

He felt nauseous, wanted to heave, but willed himself to control the impulse.

Suddenly voices were coming at him from several directions. From his position in the gully he could see two

figures on the ridge, one by the large oak, and could

“Safe,” Raymond screamed triumphantly touching the gate post.

“I made it. I made it.”

He jumped up and down, his hands waving back

and forth above his head like an orangutan. Raymond laughed uncontrollably as each of his friends approached, looking dejected.

“Told you I could do it, now pay up Kevin! You owe me a toonie.”

Disgusted, his best friend yanked out the shiny coin from his pants pocket and tossed it at Raymond.

sense more than see the others behind him.

“Bet you can't do that again,” Kevin said.

He knew if he didn’t move now, he would be a goner.

“Bet I can.”

With all the strength he could gather, he jumped to his feet, and with a quick burst took off straight ahead without once looking back.

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kiran malik-khan

Cricket is an emotion. If you are from Pakistan, India,

ber being surrounded by my maternal grandparents,

New Zealand, Zimbabwe, or West Indies—you know

hugs, the screaming—it was a wondrous and deafen-

Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, England, South Africa, Australia, exactly what I mean. For the rest, let me take a shot at explaining (pun fully intended).

It begins with electric excitement and nervousness. It's

uncles, mom, and sisters. The applause, the jumping, the

ing celebration, as the entire building reverberated with

the same emotions. We had won. We had defeated the inventors of cricket. The memories still make me smile.

#GameOn personified! You want your team to win. And,

Cut to 2015. And, as I sat down with my parents, sons,

responsible—to lose, and to lose badly. As the first over

same emotions came rushing back. Mom and I talked

if your team has been eliminated, you want the team

begins—each consisting of a ball thrown at a batsman

six times, the exciting nervousness gives way to adrenaline. You keep score through the 50 overs, you will the

two batsmen to run faster to secure the required score, or create a high score. They hit the ball hard, and that’s

called a shot. Simply put, a four is scored when the ball

goes beyond the boundary, and even further out is a six, or sixer, garnering the team, you guessed it, six runs.

And, this goes on for about eight hours. There are multi-

day test matches too. I didn't say it was a quick game.

You find yourself yelling at the television, simultaneously getting angry, happy, euphoric, depressed, and

eventually angrier, or happier. See, it is a conglomeration of all emotions, and then some.

and husband to enjoy Cricket World Cup in March—the about 1992 during every game. Heck, Pakistanis even

revamped (read botched) the 1992 theme song “Who Rule the World,” by Kasey Carlone. We used to sing it every day in school. Eighth grade memories. It was all so beautiful.

Much to my chagrin, and heartbreak, my boys, who are

14 and 11, don’t understand cricket. “How come it’s so

long?” “Why are they throwing the ball like this, running like that?” The queries drove me up the wall despite

my explaining that there are two innings, or halves.

And, the ball is thrown a certain way, because it’s hard, and leather covered. Every game has rules, and so does cricket. Sadly, they aren’t impressed. Interested, but not interested enough.

I vividly recall experiencing all of this as Pakistan went

However, little do they know, I haven’t given up yet.

hear the silence across the apartment building - Karachi

school. I’m working on enrolling them in the local cricket

up against England in Cricket World Cup 1992. You could

was watching the final match happening in Melbourne, Australia. The match was tense. However, eventually

Imran Khan (no, we aren't related, but every Pakistani

wishes so) then team captain led the Pakistani team to victory. As he kissed the beautiful world cup trophy—the

After all, I was captain of the girls’ team in elementary

league. And, if I have my way they’ll soon know how

to hit fours, and sixers; and, to feel the same emotions.

Maybe not from the get-go, but eventually.

How’s that for a good shot?

iconic scene would stay with all of us forever. I remem-

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the puzzle in the game kevin thornton

This story was handed down to me as part of the records of my great-grandfather John Watson, M.D. It has never yet seen the light of day, mostly because it is not really a

detective story. However in celebration of this great sporting event here in the North of Canada in 2015, I have been persuaded to relate it, hopefully in the same pleasing manner as my venerated ancestor.

There is some argument as to when the Select Detecting Club was formed. Some trace it back to the first meeting of the Grand Members, but others argue that as the

Father Brown paused while the footman served drinks to the men. Then he reached down and extracted four slim leather-bound volumes from his bag.

“I have a different challenge for you. All the answers you

seek are in these books, yet I warrant that you will not

be able to come to the correct answer.” He turned the books over and the others saw that they were identical.

“The Football Association Rules Laws Handbook 1936-

1937,” said Wolfe. “What trickery is this Brown? We are

not for games, the likes of us. This is trivial buffoonery.”

two youngsters were not yet detectives this was merely a social occasion. Others

“Impetuous, Nero,” said Sherlock. “You get that from

ies and the priest was not much younger. The general conclusion then became that

before and has even caught us out. It will in any case be

opined it was some fifteen years later, but by then the Brothers were in their eightan informal gathering of the group evolved at some point into a select joining of

the minds. If the originators were oft seen to be past their prime, the formalizing

of these members into the aforementioned club at least allowed their descendants

to continue to commingle and to pool their collective resources for the benefits of humanity.

They met twice a year; London in the spring, New York in the fall. It was a society

founded on the friendship of five men: The brothers Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, Holmes’s son Nero Wolfe, the Priest Father Brown, and the then Lord Peter Wimsey, later to become the 17th Duke of Denver. The Belgian was also invited but to every-

one’s relief he turned them all down. “He’s a smart man.” Lord Peter had whispered to Mycroft, “but he’s too European.”

“And therefore boring,” the older man had replied, tact never having been his strongpoint.

It was the spring of 1938, near Mayfair, and the members were settled into one of

the back rooms of the Diogenes club—the private ones where speaking was allowed.

Unsurprisingly among this group of great detective minds, shop talk was the order of the day, but after a while the conversation foundered and it was Sherlock, using his keen powers of observation, who ended the lull.

“Come Father Brown, out with it. It is fairly obvious you have a challenge for us.

Twice since we came in you have looked at your valise under the table. Unless there

is a bomb in there, and you are hardly an anarchist given your propensity for forgiveness, then you wish to challenge or titillate us.”

“Yes, Padre old sport, do tell,” said Wimsey, while Wolfe and Mycroft grunted their ‘ayes’ as assenting assonance.

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your Mother. Let the priest speak. He has done this an intellectual test of sorts.”

“The third occasion of the World Cup,” continued Father

Brown, “will take place in June this year in France. There

is much interest in the competition as it may very well

ning speed-reading his way to the end. Wimsey meanwhile tossed his copy on the table.

“I know the rules and it can’t be done,” said Wimsey.

“Dash it, I played the bally game at Oxford, and every time you score the opposition has to kick off.”

“What about own goals?” said Sherlock.

“You still have to pass the ball to someone else at kick-

off,” said his brother, reading from the book. “Even if

you were to turn round and kick the ball into your own net just to try and win this quest, the referee would disallow the goal as a dead ball and award a corner to the opposition.”

“Likewise at your own kickoff,” said Wimsey. “You have to pass the ball to another person at the restart. I’m sorry Padre but it’s just not on.”

“And yet it is,” murmured the little Priest.

be the last one for a while if that Hitler keeps rattling

Nero, having finished reading, had closed his eyes and

its rules for the tournament and as I am friends with

starting his Lordship with the deepness, “because the

his sabre. itlerHThe Football Association has updated the secretary of the Association, he gave me some

copies to peruse for moral ambiguities. I found none

but he told me an interesting jape.” He paused as he saw Wolfe’s brow furrow in puzzlement. “My apologies

Nero. In your country our football is known as soccer.

We have not hijacked your American form of football yet, a trying trial of violence.”

“I have never understood the logic of sport,” said Wolfe.

“Anyway, pray continue Father. You have given us the rules to the game. What then is the quest?”

“It is possible for one player in a legally constituted game to score three goals without anyone else touch-

ing the ball. Describe how that could be so? I must

confess gentlemen, that it beat me and I had to be told

the answer by my friend from the rules society. Now, pray see what you can do.”

The two Holmes’s, always ready for a challenge, began

to peruse the books, while Wolfe started at the begin-

seemed asleep. “There is a way of doing it,” he rumbled good Father Brown would not present it otherwise.”

They batted it about for another twenty minutes or so, four-fifths of the greatest detective minds in the world

becoming more vexed while the fifth sat quietly, reading from his breviary.

The footman was serving the next round when Wolfe, the youngest, sighed in exasperation and said, “He has beaten us again. There is no way to score three goals in

such a manner, yet there must be or else we would not be under the gun so.”

“Oh but there is,” said the Footman, and the group

turned to look in astonishment. It was a club rule that the servants never, ever spoke. The footman didn’t seem troubled by his transigence, and before anyone could protest Father Brown raised his hand to silence his friends.

“I heard the question when I last served you drinks,”

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said the man. “It can be done, but it takes a ruthless man to think of the answer.”

“Tell us then and if you are right you shall save your job.”

“Well,” said the footman. “This is my last evening so I do

not fear for my employment. This position was a filler for me between Fettes and the Navy. I’m for Dartmouth and Officer’s training in the morning. But here, let me

tell you anyway. The player scores an own goal. Then

retrieves the ball from the net and takes it in with him.

It is still untouched by anyone else. The second half starts with our player kicking off again, with a repeat

dane neufeld

no one else has touched the ball.”

Short arms wrench the cable through the wheel

of the events of the second goal. Three goals scored and The room was silent as the five greatest puzzle solv-

ers the world had ever seen silently acknowledged that they had been taken to task by the tall, strapping young lad off to join the navy.

he picks up the ball, runs to the centre spot and at the

“Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I must away to

to anyone, and it is strange behaviour, but it is within

not like to be kept waiting.”

restart kicks the ball way up-field. He hasn’t passed it the laws. As he reaches the penalty area he is fouled and the referee calls for a penalty. Our player grabs up

the ball, still untouched by anyone else, places it on the penalty spot and scores from there. That’s two.”

“And then?” said Mycroft gently.

“Then,” said the footman, “it’s halftime and our player

exorcising

meet my sponsor at Blades. Commodore Messervy does

He had just about reached the door when Lord Peter

Then collapse around the chair—the clap of steel, A blood-surged moment as the ceiling reels.

The long mirrored walk, in the corner of an eye An image of a man, proud and startled shy By ironic glances eager to imply:

Monstrous maybe, brazen, or at least untrue— That woman wildly curled on his neck tattoo!

How strange the things some people do!

Wimsey called out, “Wait. Pray tell us your name, young

Gently this Samson rubs his wrists,

you.”

He builds into his body all the moments missed

man, for I do believe this is not the last we will hear of “My name is Bond,” he said. “James Bond.”

Shuddering, he knows they just can’t resist.

—Sinews pulling tight a tough, aging frame,

Shouldering a world that far too quickly came

Then went, comes then goes, swelling a name That someone chose to struggle with the fate Of a body it outgrows; indifferent, it awaits Endless configurations on an empty slate.

Back to the machines—its abs, arms then chest

number 9 jordin kolmel

The puck goes skidding across the ice as the arena roars my name

players passing back and forth and steals during the game.

My team skates far down the ice

as the puck got stuck in the corner then a body check from behind another penalty for number 9.

—Every repetition registers a test:

Muscle burned bridges bordering the blessed Who ease among the pillars mindless of his pain,

Certain they’ve outgrown their little brother Cain As if a man cut down were not a brother slain.

i can… no you can’t angie gordema

Nathalie: I can jump higher than you.

Nathan: No you can’t.

Nathalie: I can sing better than you.

Nathan: No you can’t.

Nathalie: I can dance better than you.

Nathan: No, you can’t.

Nathalie: I can eat better than you.

Nathan: No, you can’t. Let’s see who is going to be

number one to finish dinner. Game on little sister!

Nathalie: Mom! Mom! Nathan is bugging me.

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a paper person, always had been and always would be.

Marion wouldn’t share her source let alone a small

fingerling of the coveted tuber. He had considered an involuntary donation, even snuck a look in her winter

storage area in the garage, at the stacked crates of care-

queen 1 – mad hatter 0 cathy yard

Somebody had to stop her. It wasn’t the garish display of glossy white first place ribbons fluttering, layer upon

layer, pinned to her vest until she resembled a puffed

ostrich caught in a snow storm. Yep, that was Marion:

long scaly legs topped with a chunky midsection, skinny neck creased and age-spotted. Protruding eyes

blinked against the sunlight, her body topped off with a golf ball-sized head, a frizz of slate-grey bristles as if

she had just inserted her finger in a light socket. Look-

ing all modest and humble, she wasn’t fooling anyone, especially him. It was the smugness held in her tilted chin that tipped him over the edge. That and the piercing level her voice attained in the Community News TV

interviews—aimed directly at him. At the Fall Fair the previous August he had picked up the invisible lavender

glove, stained fingers and all, thrown at his feet; com-

mitted himself for the first time in his life. Committed himself to the task of taking the Dahlia Queen down.

The following winter relentlessly ploughed on, snow

scrabbling against the eaves, filling in the front walk-

way—knee high, thigh high—forcing him to use the back door on the lee side of the house. Not much point

in wasting time shovelling the front walk, visitors were few and infrequent. Between sips of scalding, bitter coffee, he plotted, and ignored the fact that Marion had

for over forty years slept with one of the judges and was best friends with another. He scribbled endless lists of

what ifs and possibilities scrawled across the back of emptied envelopes, the margins of books—knowing

full well it was against library policy—and the flipside

18

of past-due bills collected in piles throughout the house.

He was an expert at lists. However, following lists to

completion or for that matter accomplishing one slen-

der item escaped him. Sometimes he boldly crossed off entries just for the hollow satisfaction.

It was no longer about whose dahlias were better; it was about reigning for more than thirty years, about

relentlessly wearing away any competition, about fair-

fully sorted tubers. Nestled in peat moss and shredded

along Marion’s empty beds, knowing full well that by morning the telltale ice would have melted. He stopped when the ice went out on the lake. Thought about

buying ice cubes from the 7/11, but by now his sleepdeprived eyelids twitched and his back complained loudly and regularly.

newspaper and labelled with her spidery hand. He

One Wednesday morning he spied Marion on hands and

handed him the extension cord he didn’t need.

of empty dahlia beds. She scribbled in a notebook, then

hadn’t had enough time to really look before Harold In late February, as winter wound down, an envelope appeared taped to the front door. It was the storm door banging with every gust that alerted him. He looked

down the walkway at faint indents partially drifted over and yanked the envelope free, taking with it a

knees inserting a thermometer probe into the long rows frowned and re-checked the gauge. Her frown turned perplexed and she chewed her lower lip, stood up, and

then disappeared into the garage. It took another week

and a warming wind before he saw Marion lugging the crates from the garage. It was time for phase three.

small square of green paint. Great, another chore for his

Under cover of darkness he continued covert operations,

the envelope over, seeking clues as to previous owner-

bed, hoping for tuber rot. He lugged buckets of lime

to-do-list. Back in the warmth of the kitchen he turned

dragging his hose over the fence; he over-watered the

ship: nothing, just a slightly tattered plain envelope

that he quietly scratched in around the plants, attempt-

fully ripped the end open, tipping the contents onto

the plants. It took a lot of coffee and dedication but

He unfolded the edges revealing five seeds lying atop

dahlias shot up, strong and healthy. Leaves unfurled

and squinted. It’s time. Your turn. Time for what he won-

ing the merits of borax over bleach for his next attack,

They looked like dahlia seeds. Who would give him

her dahlias were doing this year, best year ever—some-

down to the basement where his potting table and

put her finger on. Someone or thing had been in her

with something bulky inside. He shrugged and care-

ing to alter the soil’s pH. He even took to urinating on

the table. A square of folded paper towel stared at him.

he managed. In spite of, or maybe spitefully, Marion’s

of four blurred words. He nudged the seeds to one side

and stems stretched. While in the grocery store debat-

to find his personal favourite, the much coveted Mad

dered? My turn? He rolled the seeds under his finger.

he overheard Marion talking to Becky about how well

or the chocolate tipped petals that drew him to the

dahlia seeds? A burp of excitement caused him to head

thing different about her garden that she couldn’t quite

grow lights performed their pre-season magic.

garden moving her tools and hoses around. No, Harold

ness, about smugness. He was the only one left to stand up to her. He grudgingly conceded that Marion’s dahlia

collection was beautiful, perhaps superior to his modest collection. Maybe. Rich jewel tones, some bigger than

dinner plates while others were thumb-sized clusters of sheer delight. For years he had searched the catalogues Hatter, to no avail. He wasn’t sure if it was the name

teacup-sized dahlia, spiky petals underlain with burgundy and gold. The wine-stained, saw-toothed leaves only enhanced the plant. Impossible to ignore, the Mad

Hatter reminded him how he felt the morning after over-indulging in the chokecherry wine he bottled every

year. Wine, now there was a grand idea. The world was always a better place with a tumbler of wine within

easy reach, reflecting promise in the ruby glow, and if not promise, at least forgetfulness. As a last resort he’d humbled himself and asked his nephew to search the

internet for the elusive tuber. It was hard to swallow the condescension and even harder to ward off the pressure

to accept an old laptop. He explained, again, that he was

April finally rolled around and it was time to put his

winter’s research into action. He looked down at the

denied it. Becky suggested a motion sensor light. He slid the bleach bottle back onto the shelf.

paper scraps on the table, searched for the notes about

By late June the ladybug order finally arrived. Impatient,

the forms for his annual order of ladybugs, and after a

ing the aphid boxes under his jacket. Wandering about

tainers of aphids. He briefly wondered why the organic

throughout the plants while keeping a close eye out for

aphids, earwigs, powdery mildew. Carefully he filled out

he made up a plausible excuse to talk to Harold, stuff-

bit of page flipping filled in the numbers for two con-

the garden he tapped out the bugs, spreading them

company sold aphids and who bought them.

Marion, who by his recollection should be at the library

For the next two weeks, every night between 2 and 4

a.m. he hauled sacks of ice from the lake, dumping them

meeting. Harold appeared from behind the garage and startled him into almost dropping the boxes. Harold

looked at him thoughtfully. After a stilted conversation

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

about nothing in particular, he excused himself and

tion opened to cut and bundle his beauties. There was

when he set about to release the ladybugs amongst his

set in. He fired up the old lawn tractor and hummed as

scurried home. It wasn’t until later in the afternoon underdeveloped tomato plants he discovered the green

masses of aphids clustered to the boxes` insides. He felt sick.

By mid-July the first wave of blooms opened and Mar-

ion’s back garden was awash in colour. Vibrant dahlia heads bobbed and swayed in the breeze, alight in the sun they glowed as if lit from within. In desperation he

started hurling slugs over the fence. He hunted down and captured earwigs and launched them. His own neglected garden suffered, the tomatoes never recovered from an aphid onslaught and for some reason unknown to him, his stunted dahlias had a bad case of powdery mildew.

The only bright spot in his garden, his crashed hopes, were the five mystery dahlia plants sectioned off behind burlap wrapped stakes in the corner near the

garage. The burgundy saw-toothed leaves had unfurled

and tight buds were considering opening any day now.

Positive it was the Mad Hatter, he couldn’t believe his luck, and spent long afternoons sitting on a folding lawn-chair observing his plants. He knew he should

pinch back the early buds to enhance the later flow-

ers, the flowers the judges would see, but he needed

to see the first bloom, the confirmation of his dreams:

that there was still a chance, though slim it might be, to topple the Dahlia Queen. Three days later a blossom opened—spectacular—the Mad Hatter cross-bred with

Godzilla. He’d never seen such a bloom, thought about his acceptance speech, how to appear humble while victorious. He felt the slickness of the white ribbon fluttering against his shirt, the scratchy gold letters under his thumb. Two more weeks. Fall Fair Day.

The morning of the fall fair he was up as the sun cleared the horizon, promising a hot day ahead. Watering, trimming, picking the odd wilted, sun-scorched leaf, he

fussed like a teenager on the first day of high school.

Butterflies clustered in his belly. He forced himself to wait another three hours until just before the competi20

volume 3 | issue 1

time for one last cut of the front lawn before the heat he sheared widening circles on both sides of the front

walk, carefully leaving a spiralling tuft between laps. By

the twitch of Marion’s eyebrows and the flat line of her lips he knew his untidy design drove her nuts. It confronted her every time she used her driveway. Backing

the tractor carefully, fully aware of the close proximity of

the burlap tied stakes, he stopped and switched off the key. It was time. In the silence August’s leathery leaves

rustled, magpies squabbled awake the day and Marion’s

back door slammed. He stood and peered over the fence.

Primly she inspected and removed the odd bloom here

and there, gently depositing the selected few into the

water-filled bucket at her feet. She moved along the row, closer to the fence line, forehead furrowed in concentration, blissfully unaware of his presence. He should have quietly sat back down. Should have minded his own

business. His cheery, and a little too loud comment, startled Marion and she slashed half the lemon yellow petals off the platter-sized bloom she had selected. It

was, in her estimation, the winning bloom this year— her best ever.

table tennis buffy close We play

This game

of Table Tennis

Words volleyed over an unseen net

Nouns smacked against the walls

with the force

of a strong right hand the upper hand

the lower cause until one of us cries foul

and paddles are flown across the table until we play again

This game

of Table Tennis

the madness natalie d’souza

My eyes are closing as the lights turn dim and Freedom fades to black

I yearn to stumble onto the worn out pavement My bruises bathed at last With burning sunlight

She cloaks the mask I wear Where

To hide myself?

From the caged beast inside my head

It wasn’t the language that erupted volcanic, molten

The strength to fight him is no more

worse; it was however, unusual coming from a wom-

All those fallen to the floor

lava splattering, blistering, that upset him, he’d heard

an’s mouth, Marion’s righteous one at that. For a brief

moment he thought she was going to clear the fence, scissors flung open and aimed for his vitals. That wasn’t what upset him. It was the intensity, the bald truth of the woman’s opinion that caused him to collapse on the

The same way as before

Said swallow the key and lock the door Swallow the key and lock the door Swallow the key and lock the door You cannot win this war

tractor seat and jam the key into the start position. As

all the possible rebuttals swirled and collided behind his teeth he cranked the gear shift lever and stomped on

the accelerator. A sharp jerk backwards alerted him that he had overshot Drive. He jammed on the brake. Too late

to save his Mad Hatter as the burlap, stakes and bur-

gundy saw-toothed stems ground under the tire cleats, mashed into the soil. He sat opened mouthed, vibrating, and too infuriated to consider how Karma was such a bitch sometimes—her and her big snapping teeth.

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penalty kick kristel rensmaag

The game has come down to a penalty kick in the last seconds of play The stadium is crowded with cheering spectators Young and old alike watch with enthusiasm Eyes wide open, sipping on their sodas

If the ball makes it into the back of the net the game is tied and overtime is inevitable If the ball is shot wide, high, or is saved the game is ours.

Standing 12 yards away

I am face to face with my opponent

I block out the rumbles from around me Focusing on my one and only purpose Standing on the line in anticipation

I await the blow of the referee’s whistle

Without even thinking I shuffle to the left and leap into the air I bring my hands together to form a ‘W’

The impact of the ball against my gloves is surreal I grasp it tightly, bringing the ball into my chest I tumble towards the ground Never letting go

Just as I get to my feet the ref blows the whistle to end the game I stand in disbelief for only a moment

My team rushes towards me in excitement Arms wrap around me in a group embrace The game is ours We did it!

Knees bent, legs slightly wider than shoulder width apart Fingers spread, arms out wide

Protecting my domain between the white posts

Heart racing, palms sweaty as I watch the eyes of my opponent

Her eyes wander amongst the 24 feet wide and 8 feet high goal posts My eyes do not leave hers as I predict where her shot will be directed The wait for the whistle seems like an eternity But I never take my eyes off my opponent I stand on the balls of feet

Waiting for that moment to make my move

I repeat the phrase “this is yours, you’ve got this” Over and over again

The ref brings his whistle to his lips

And with determination blows into it

My opponent takes a few steps back, lining up the shot She moves swiftly towards the ball

Planting her left foot beside the ball and swinging her right foot The ball travels towards the left top corner with authority

buzzer beater kiran malik-khan

Even my soul smiles with pride

watching my boys bounce, shoot, jump—giving it their all “Ma—ball is life!” My handsome 14-year-old says often Already five feet 11 inches, his words make me smile The adorable 11-year-old copies him

Pushing his little body as hard as his older brother

Jumping, running, he aims, he shoots, and he scores But, sometimes they miss—both of them

Only to attack the ball again—doing their best Unbeknownst to them—

I’ll always be on the sidelines Cheering them on—

My infinite prayers for their success, in all they do Will always be the buzzer beater!

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marginalia

Keep Playin’ Those Mind Games

A column by douglas abel

volume 3 | issue 1

when we think of sports and games, we almost inevitably think of physical prowess—muscular strength or bodily skill. The OED defines an athlete as “a competitor or performer in physical exercises or games,” or as

“a person who is physically strong or fit by training and exercise.” The Olympic motto is Citius—Altius—Fortius, Faster—Higher—Stronger, and Olympic

competition glorifies moving with extreme speed, leaping or soaring to great (for humans) heights, lifting immense weights or throwing—things or people—with incredible force. Sport finds the physical limits of human beings, and then finds ways to go beyond them. There is a record of time

or distance; that record must be broken. As idealized in the Classical Greek

statue of the Discus Thrower, the athlete becomes a model of physical power, beauty, harmony and grace.

This is not to say that games and sports are mindlessly physical. Especially in team sports, there are both strategic and tactical considerations, and in every sport there is a strong psychological component. Athletes “psych themselves

up,” and get into a winning “head space,” where they can play an “inner game” and then “psych out” their opponents. Sports psychologists are as important

to a team as physical trainers. As Yogi Berra is (in)famous for declaring about baseball, a game is “ninety percent mental. The other half is physical."

But there is a different team of competitors. The mental gymnasts. The highly-skilled players of mind games.

The late Sir Terry Pratchett was such a player. And by any standards he was a

champion. He excelled at a double game; he played inside his own head, and

then used what he found to play in, and with, the heads of his millions of

readers. He was both the definer and the master prractitioner of “headology,” the psychological art perfected by his iconic character Granny Weatherwax.

Headology is magic in its purest and most potent form.

Sir Terry’s playing field was the fantasy genre but, like any great athlete, he redefined the game. “Traditional” fantasy is serious, even sombre. At its best it can be movingly tragic; at its worst, pompously self-important. Sir Terry

rejected all that, asking the simple but game-changing question, “Why can’t fantasy be fun, and funny?”

So he waved his magic imaginative wand, with the spell that asks, “What

if?” and fantasy became both funny and fun. Side-achingly so. I have never

And that’s when, and how, he got in to play with your

Sir Terry’s wit was amazingly funny, but it was not

answer. Then you’d think about it. And then your head

He used the ridiculousness of his fantasy worlds to rub

head. He’d ask a question. You’d accept the “what if?” would start to explode.

For example, Sir Terry imagined the figure of Death, complete with scythe, glowing blue eyes set in a naked skull, and apocalyptic charger (Binky). He posed the

question: “Death is serious, frightening, terminal, but

calm. How would you write down his words to create

that effect?” The answer? Write in capital letters, with no

exclamation marks. Makes . . . sense. But then he’d ask,

“So what do words written completely in capital letters, with no exclamation marks, actually SOUND like?” And

he’d leave you to sputter and ponder, as he went on to the next mind-disturbing question.

He’d give you an image, and then grin wickedly as its

implications leapt from his fantasy world to your “real” one. His Discworld is a flat realm, supported and rotating on the backs of four immense elephants, who in turn walk

in a circle on the back of an even more immense cosmic turtle, who swims between galaxies through unmeas-

ured space. Sir Terry asked us, “Where is the turtle going, and what happens when it gets there?” And by asking, he prodded you to wrestle with the conundra2 we face with our more rational “scientific” theories: if there was a big

bang, what triggered it? If the universe, which is . . . universal, is expanding, what is it expanding into? Something

more . . . universal? And if the universe started, will it . . . stop? Will it bang again? And will the bigger infinite thing into which it’s expanding . . . bang too?

And Sir Terry would stand inside your head, and nod, and say, “Kind of makes a Cosmic Turtle seem a little less ‘fantastic,’ doesn’t it?” He could wear you out with laughter and then wrestle you into mental exhaustion.

“nice.” He was an angry man, and a scathing social critic. our noses in the stupidity and cupidity of our own. He

pilloried government, bureaucracy, economics, business

large and small, science, philosophy, and every possi-

ble cultish formulation of religion. He attacked racism, sexism, ageism, superstition, upper-class pretentious-

ness, lower-class venality and middle-class smugness.

He mocked fine art, poetry, movies, opera, rock music and folk music. There is no crueller parody of Academia

than his institution of magic, Unseen University, full of wizard-professors who are self-righteous, over-

fed, underemployed, self-serving, treacherous, ineptly lecherous, conniving, arrogant and, blessedly, almost

completely ineffectual. His Librarian is a haunting figure for any professor (or ex-professor): a wizard turned by

a magical accident into an orangutan, who decides he prefers his simian self to the scholar he was. Sir Terry’s

“funny” pen could be a deep-slicing sword, or a bruising club. Funny? Almost always. Nice? Almost never.

It is an irony too cruel to be truly Pratchett-esque, that Sir Terry was cut down by early onset Alzheimer’s. I’m sure that made him angry, like a champion athlete per-

manently sidelined by injury. But I cannot picture him, as some have, waiting patiently on the ebony sand

until bony, black-clad Death appears and invites him to “WALK WITH ME,” as he invited so many denizens of the Discworld. Instead I see Sir Terry striding purposefully

ahead, with Death panting behind and complaining that he “CAN’T KEEP UP,”3 while the champion mind-

game player growls, “Come on, let’s go, we’ve got lots more icons to clast!”

Faster, higher, stronger. Smarter. Let such games continue.

laughed so hard as I have laughed at, and with, Sir Terry. I can remember lying in bed, at one in the morning, and roaring with delight at one of his

notorious nests of footnotes. And this was the second time I’d read the book 1

in question! Sometimes you saw the punchlines coming; sometimes you

were whacked over the head with amazed delight. In either case you were in thrall to his wit.

24

1 I believe the record was four: a footnote on a footnote on a footnote on a footnotea.

a And I just couldn’t resist the temptation to do this* . . .

* Twice . . .

2 Sir Terry would have loved the sound of that form.

3 Perhaps even with an exclamation mark (!)

25

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors

jordin kolmel has been recognized through 'Poetry in Motion'

douglas abel is writer, actor, director, ongoing student of French

in the arts with a variety of athletic pursuits including hockey,

and Italian, and novice digital documentary maker. He loves

baseball, swimming and riding his bike. Jordin is a creative artist

laughing in bed.

with a current interest in cartooning.

With a background in print journalism, dawn booth has made

kiran malik-khan is the Director of Stakeholder Relations at the

it her lifestyle to be actively involved in the Wood Buffalo media

United Way of Fort McMurray. She's a freelance journalist, poet,

community since she moved to Fort McMurray in 2007 from the

and social media consultant. She contributes to many local print

Ottawa Valley in Ontario. Known for her past work as editor at

media outlets, and loves telling community stories. Fort McMur-

the Fort McMurray Today and general manager of snapd Wood

ray has been her home for over 14 years. You can follow Kiran on

Buffalo, Dawn loves calling Northern Alberta home and is hap-

Twitter via @KiranMK0822.

Why advertise in NorthWord?

dane neufeld writes, “I recently moved with my family from

First initiative of its kind - NorthWord is Wood Buffalo's first literary magazine, privately funded by local residents comprising the social profit group, Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers (NCCSW) - this means we need your support today!

pily raising a family with her husband, who's a life-long resident of Fort McMurray.

Toronto to Fort McMurray. I am completing academic studies

natalie d’souza is a young university student and avid enthusi-

in theology while working as a minister in the Anglican diocese

ast of instant noodles, caffeine and public transit... By choice. Just

of Athabasca. It is exciting to be surrounded by so much forest,

not her own.

and we are looking forward to exploring the region by foot, bike

veronica ephgrave, who hasn’t been receiving any usher shifts,

and canoe.”

struggles to write at any time other than random occurrences of

patricia mary o’neill says, “I love to play with words. No old

spare time. She’s been writing for a long time and is pursuing a

typewriter or pen and paper for me. My laptop allows my fingers

career in writing.

to fly and my mind to soar. It may be the closest I'll ever get to

After 15 years, sarah foss is proud to call Fort McMurray home.

an out-of-body experience.”

She has been in love with poetry ever since she was a young

kristel rensmaag says, “I am originally from Maple Ridge, BC and

girl, and has been writing her own for just as long. She is most

have lived in Fort McMurray the past 9 years. I have seen the

inspired by nature, the arts, and when people overcome obsta-

world of sport flourish and become a defining feature here. My

cles to make their dreams come true. Sarah is currently following

wife and I grew up playing soccer and both have experienced

one of her own dreams by spending a year abroad volunteering

"the penalty kick." My hope is that all children can experience

in Eastern Europe.

the excitement of playing a sport, learning perseverance and

angie goredema was a scholar at the Global Young Leaders Con-

teamwork. #GameOn!”

ference (GYLC) which took place in the United States in 2006.

Raised in a squatter’s shack perched on pilings above the chilled

She is currently participating in the Leadership Wood Buffalo Pro-

waters of Burrard Inlet, cathy yard learned early to forage in the

gram. She is a mom of two beautiful children: Nathan & Nathalie.

forests and can be spotted chewing questionable leaves and bark

Angie holds a Team Lead position with HIVN Society and is a part

even today. She fled Vancouver at age of 17, swallowed by the

time shopaholic who is also into scrapbooking and writing.

remoteness of the Cariboo where she continued to live rough on

sophie graine says, “I make sketches, hand-coloured relief prints and paintings of my adventures in wild places. I love cabins, sunlit forests, sticky black ink and vast blue skies over mountain passes.

Mostly self-taught, I have experimented with many mediums, but my love of the natural world is always present. By making art, I get to relive my adventures and share them with you.”

26

and really enjoys the creative process. Jordin balances his interest

the land. Migrating northward to Fort St. John and various points in between forty years later she settled in the temperate Cowichan Valley on Southern Vancouver Island, only to be uprooted and once again on an adventure to northern Alberta where she currently resides. Cathy’s stories can be found in several literary magazines and anthologies including Canadian Stories, Island Writer, Verse and Vision, and Portal.

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