a literary journal of canada's north
Artist’s statement for cover artwork by Currie Dhawan Sharma
My art is an expression of my personal journey, where emotions and life’s challenges are transformed into vibrant paintings. Drawing inspiration from my experiences as an immigrant, a mother, and an artist, I use color and texture to convey resilience, healing, and the beauty of overcoming obstacles. As a self-taught artist, I embrace the power of creativity to tell stories and connect with others.
alone by Gwenna Cochrane Halinda
we forgot by Anna Pottie
cover artwork: tiger by Curie Dhawan Sharma
secretary
Halinda
editorial
Our harsh northern climate can be alienating. Isolation is hewn into the very geography and the cycle of seasons. On a global scale, the advent of social media, now in its teen years, turned out to foster barriers, borders, and walls just as much as it promised to bring us together. Vitriolic commentary and parasocial relationships take the place of face-to-face connections and debate. There is also the continuous act of cultivating digital avatars - an exercise in fantasy and virtual vanity meant to dispel any feelings of isolation. The word itself comes with a largely negative connotation. We fear and oppose being solitary, and loneliness is something to be pitied.
And yet, the truth is we often seek our solitude. We joke about plans made with best intentions melting into joyful exuberance when they break and a block of "me time" blooms with possibilities. We often shrink into ourselves when grieving or feeling hurt. People cultivate entire morning routines to ensure a moment of individual peace and quiet before the demands of the day begin. Isolation can be as much a tool as it is a state of being.
Having grown up in the alienating and isolated north, I wanted to explore the idea of being (read: feeling as though you are) on your own from as many perspectives as possible. Perhaps in gathering to tap into our collective isolation, we can see it as a shared experience. Perhaps we're not all quite as alone as we thought.
Steve Reeve | issue thirty-one editor
the cabin
melinda finlayson
As the crisp autumn wind begins to blow, Vibrant leaves put on a dance show, The outside noise fades away, In nature’s silence I will stay.
In a cabin beside a lake of glass, That mirrors surrounding beauty unsurpassed, A kaleidoscope of colors as day and night intertwine, A breathtaking canvas, always one of a kind.
Abundant nature sounds surround me, The wind, leaves, birds, and critters never off-key, A symphony for the heart and soul, All part of the magic that makes me feel whole.
As the outside world fades away, My inward song begins to play. I dance with hope and dreams untold, As healing and growth begin to take hold.
Here I grow in ways the world cannot see, With sated senses, I find strength to be me, Decompressing in the magic of this place, My soul is renewed by nature’s sweet embrace.
In the surrounding stillness I find peace, In the cabin’s cocoon worries cease. As the seasons shift, my spirit grows, From chaos to calm the journey flows.
What the soul needs, the heart echoes, This is truly the best medicine I know.
south of fort chipewan
marty rempel
I was alone once on an ice road South of Fort Chip along the Delta, The Northern lights danced in electrical elegance to a static background, like the birth of the universe resonating in shades of green and pink.
My clumsy Sorels crunched the soft new snow. My spit crackled and froze before reaching the ground. I walked a few paces away from the warmth and security of the truck then heard the wolves sing their night lament, my long exhale hung heavy in the air.
Like a Jack London short story, on instinct for survival the dog left the man to freeze to death.
Tired and cold I moved slowly back to the Ford idling over the frozen wetlands and Delta land along the Athabasca.
The most beautiful place I had ever seen I vowed wherever I lived, no matter how far, I would drive this road once again on a night just like this.
the island in our head
scott meller
John Donne wrote that “No man is an island,” but I am not sure of the accuracy of that statement. Setting aside the inherent exclusivity of the statement and amending it to “No person is an island,” it still seems as though it is merely a caption of a much larger picture. As humans, we are all necessarily interconnected. Everything that a person does will affect every other human in their proximity on some level. The thought that one is an individual who operates within a vacuum and that everything that one may have accomplished or achieved is because of solitary efforts is demonstrably false.
Yet, even so, I have only ever experienced the world from my perspective. I have only seen with my eyes, heard with my ears, and tasted with my tongue. If I have made a connection to another consciousness, it has been through some sort of intermediary: a book, music, visual or performance art. These too, though, are coloured by my perspective and my interpretation of them. No matter how specific the conveyance of language, and no matter how connected I feel, I really am only ever knowing my thoughts.
The sum total of my knowledge and experiences amalgamates to a series of electrochemical impulses in a too-fragile organ atop an ungainly body in a hostile environment surrounded by billions of other creatures who, no matter how similar their own knowledge and experiences are to mine, have a slightly distinct perspective to mine.
There is a line of hope in this isolation, though. Our species’ constant pursuit of connection means that we are incrementally refining our ability to transmit and receive the content of our thoughts, and one day (perhaps) we will really be able to plug in, turn on, and drop out of our reality in a truly communal exchange of thought. For now, though, we are islands and our minds stand alone.
even a cactus needs a hug
j. e. schmitz
It’s almost like i have caught an infectious disease,
So many people just love to avoid me
They think i don’t notice,
When they see me, they cross the street
Maybe i have a prickly demeanor,
Am I as intimidating as a cactus?
Must you avoid contact with my entire being?
Even if i attempt to soften my appearance
I am like an ugly book whose cover you judge I feel like i'm quarantined in an unconsensual ward
Maybe it's the colour of my nails, hair, or eyes
I don't want to be confined to these racial stereotypes
I would prefer be judged for the person within
Rather than be isolated by just the shade of my skin
solitary
scott meller
No one should be observed held alone, kept in isolation.
Solitary.
We are not homogenous, singular things.
We are nuanced, we are complex, we are interconnected.
Where we start, where we are, where we end.
These are moments on our arc, our trajectory of being.
The string that binds us to our fellows, to our motives, to our being.
psyche
devon sereda goldie
To live is such a lonely endeavour
That I must find joy in it in order to survive
I create spaces around me where community and love can flourish
So I don’t feel so alone
I read so as not to be alone with my thoughts
They frighten me and take me to places I dare not go
So I think with others instead - to dark places I choose to go rather than am unwillingly led
To have autonomy of choice over my own chaotic mind
I feel as though I’m trapped in my corporeal form
My limbs frozen
Unable to move to take down the thoughts
That fly through me at terminal speeds
moon over earnscliff crescent
alisa caswell
The Hunter’s Moon loomed bright over the east side of the city. It was almost full - one night to go. She dragged herself up from the top step to the asphalt path. The wolves were still howling below.
Yes, she knew now it was wolves. Not the coyotes that were warned about on the posters peppering the park. Definitely – wolves. Because the one who attacked her tore off her left shoe and one of her toes with it. Her shoe was gone, and she was bleeding all over the Earnscliff Steps.
Less than a half hour ago, she’d skipped down her front porch, turned left, and took the park path, as she had many times before. Traffic was a light trickle on the street. People were making casseroles, taking their kids to hockey practice, doing homework, doom scrolling after a hard day.
The first half of her running path was bright, cheery, set alongside the row of large estate homes overlooking the river valley. The second half of the path veered off the road and ducked in behind some bushes in the park. No one in the damn city had thought to brighten it with some solar LEDs and so she ran in the dark for another kilometer.
She didn’t mind running alone, craved it, now that they lived in the city. She could clear her mind. Back in their small northern town in the forest, she ran in a group. Skyscrapers and lines of cars, sirens and helicopters – the sounds of civilization – these were all welcome background noise.
And just a few weeks ago, when it was warmer, the path was bustling with dog walkers, runners, bikers, e-scooters. Only the die-hards kept using it after mid-October.
She had a half-marathon to run in two weeks in Banff. The stairs were perfect for her wind sprints. There were 75 down towards the steep bank to the river trails. She counted them every time she descended in the summer.
Tonight, she hesitated at the top. Instinct? Nah, she thought, laziness, and pushed on.
She ran down quickly, turned and started back up when she heard the first growl. She made the mistake of looking back. Four sets of green eyes stared back at her from the low alder bushes, still half covered in yellow leaves.
Coyotes. She knew not to sprint back up or that would trigger their chase instinct. She stared straight ahead and reached for her bear spray, which she carried for the possibility of coyotes or creepy men.
She slowly backed up the steps holding one rail. Once she was under the streetlight at the top she’d run towards the houses, and they’d back off.
One of the figures slid out from the trees. He was huge, dark grey. It wasn’t a coyote. Wolf screamed in her head, but it couldn’t be. Stray dogs she corrected herself. He was growling and drooling, and her stomach flipped upside down.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied a dead branch below the rail. She bent down to grasp it. He lunged. She fumbled with the bear spray in her right hand but dropped it when he barrelled at her arm. She swung the stick towards him. He caught the blow on his jaw and backed down a few steps. Three more bodies slunk from the bushes.
She turned to run. Another one pounced and grabbed her left foot. She kicked at him while trying to stay upright. He got a shoe in the face and bit down hard. The shoe came off and that gave her a split second to break free. He fell back and she turned and ran full speed up the steps. She tripped on the top one and crashed to the asphalt. Her knee smashed the ground, and she thought she heard a crack.
She rolled over and tried to stand but couldn’t. She was still twenty feet from the street. She saw a Skip driver carrying an orange bag back to his car after dropping off food.
She tried to yell but nothing would come out. She waved her hands frantically at him, but he was looking at the next order on his phone and closed the car door without glancing her way.
She could hear nothing on the steps. Yet. Her phone was zipped in her waist band, and she fished it out. It was cracked after her fall. She needed to crawl towards the street.
Then she heard them, footsteps, coming up the stairs. Human. Runners. Sneakers. She let out her breath.
Soon she saw several heads with toques padding silently over the top step. Three turned onto the running path, engrossed in their run, loping effortlessly back up the trail. She raised a hand and beckoned to the fourth. They seemed calm. Had they not seen the creatures?
He turned her way and started towards her. She tried to stand but her calf wouldn’t work.
He stood above her and looked down. She held up a hand and he lowered his to take it. That’s when she saw the fur and his glowing green eyes. This time she screamed full out.
among glaciers
jon lai you alone glide under the chairlift passing overhead, shadows from the seat where you once sat, as momentum builds up from under your feet, velocity increases as the body continues riding down the slope—a space emerges for flow and tranquility in rarefied air
times but few
j alfred thomas
There are times
when I wish that I had left you on the gallery wall and the wind had kept you aloft and our footsteps never rippled the Fall and your voice hadn’t whispered so soft and nothing of the sun had blessed your lip and no clock hand betrayed us and it was just a wish to your fingertip and no fool’s game ever played us
But they are few
tineesha mckay
No prison quite like the mind Thinking about all the injustice, that is left behind
feat of instinct
dawn booth
I feel it in the flocks, flying above me.
I am mesmerized by their wing flaps moving in rhythmic motion.
I take flight in their solitude, their one direction, their one and only plan.
The thought that their journey could be mine, some days, I wish it were.
One direction, one plan strikes as terrifyingly simple.
Never questioning instinct seems worth the danger.
antidote to isolation
linda burtch
In the brilliant clear light of early morning I raise the blind.
The turning tide moves slowly and gently back up into the inlet; its surface pierced by a reflected world of tall firs and shoreline flora dangling upside down in water – weightless as thought.
From beyond the curve in the shoreline, and old pines and Garry oak overhanging the edge, a parade of sparkling iceberg shapes drift silently into view.
As if arranged by an unseen director, they appear stage right and take their places.
Sea foam, snow-white, rides light and easy in the gentle flow ~~~
All manner of shapes and sizessmall bits and balls, domes, blocks and pinnaclessilhouettes shimmering underwater.
One large and majestic dome, clearly the lead player, captivates.
Mesmerized, I watch from my solitary balcony seat across the bank.
A Cooper’s hawk glides in and alights briefly in a gnarled old Garry oak before realizing she’s in the wrong seat and flies off.
The waterway continues its gentle flood while the sea foamations move …
S l o w l y s l o w l y in the eddy at the far shore, sometimes toward one another or travelling together, sometimes in motion or bobbing in place.
Over time, the beat of the tide’s journey quickens, the sea foam players move on as one, as quietly as they appeared.
Filled with wonder and gratitude, I feel a sense of relief and reassurance.
My heart is eased, and in this singular moment, I am at home.
buttered chicken
marty rempel
He looked at the buttered chicken casserole with vacant eyes.
I was supposed to go before she did. What am I going to do now?
Today, out shovelling his drive we faced I with few words he with less looked at each other "I'm sorry for your loss" was all I could muster "I know it sounds trite, I don't have the words... If it were me I have no Idea... "I know, he said, “she was my life.”
just maybe
jenny price
“Every family has one mommy and one daddy,” he proclaimed.
He left the room with the doll and Jersey never saw it again. Her favourite one. She didn’t know what she had done wrong but she knew that she didn’t want her daddy mad at her.
Jersey knew she was… different from her sister at a young age. She remembered playing house with Janet at 3 or 4 years old. Janet always insisted that their Ken doll play the role of “daddy” while the two girls took turns playing “mommy.” Jersey was fine with this for the most part but soon got bored of the Ken doll.
So one day, when it was Jersey’s turn to be “mommy”, she brought out her prettiest Barbie and said, “Look Janet! Isn’t she pretty? We can have two mommys today.”
That was when the girl’s father swept into the room, snatched the beautiful doll out of Jersey’s hands and tried to set Jersey straight as to what exactly constitutes a family.
Sometimes, late at night, the girls would hear their parents shouting. When it was loud enough to wake them up, Jersey and Janet would just listen quietly as they looked at each other from opposite sides of their bedroom. Mostly, they couldn’t hear exactly what was being said but they sometimes caught snippets.
One night they heard, “It’s not right and you shouldn’t encourage it!”
“Jake! She’s your daughter. She is who she is and it’s our job to love her!”
“Not if she chooses an… unnatural life it’s not.”
They could hear their mother shush their father and then heard no more that night. The girls stared at each other for a long while afterwards before Janet finally turned away.
By the time Jersey was 10 and Janet was 11, their family had split in two. Jersey and her mom left and set off to create their own safe haven together. Janet chose to live with their father.
For the first several years Jersey went to stay with her father and sister often. These visits became increasingly difficult as it became clear that Jersey could never be what her father expected her to be.
At first, when she started to develop crushes on her classmates, her dad took delight in teasing her, “What does this boy look like? Is he handsome like me? You should invite him over so we can have a little chat,” he chuckled.
Jersey would groan and hide her face or run off to her room. Until one day the newest crush was Laken, the new kid at school.
Jersey’s dad gave her a look, “Funny name for a boy.”
Jersey was absent-mindedly doodling Laken’s name in her homework book at the kitchen table.
“Da-ad! Laken’s a girl!”
Jersey cut her stay with her father and sister short that time, returning home to her mother three days earlier than planned. By the time Jersey was 16, she asked her mom if she could stop staying with her dad altogether.
As for Janet, she idolized their father and thought the world revolved around him. Throughout their teenage years the sisters had many arguments centered around their dad and his opinions. Opinions that their mother did not share. Within a year of Jersey ending her visits to their father’s house, Janet also stopped visiting their mother. And Jersey.
The last time the sisters spoke was over the phone. Jersey calling Janet to wish her a happy 21st birthday quickly devolved into an argument about Jersey wanting to attend the party with her new girlfriend.
They did see each other briefly 15 years later, at their mother’s funeral, but Jersey was with her wife and their 7 year old daughter so Janet kept her distance. Their father wasn’t even there.
Now he too was gone.
Jersey might never have even known except for the phone call from her father’s lawyer.
“Can you come right away? You and Janet are co-executors of the estate. There are a lot of details to discuss,” he said.
So, 25 years after that phone call and 10 years after a brief glimpse of each other over the coffin of their mother, Jersey and Janet sat in their own little bubbles in the lawyer’s office, exchanging uncomfortable glances and shifting in their seats.
Janet broke the silence, “Where is, what was her name again? Lana? Your daughter?”
“Lane. She’s at home. I wouldn’t bring her here.”
“Ah.” Silence. “How old is she now? 16? 17?”
Jersey looked at Janet incredulously, “Why do you care? It’s not like you know her.” An awkward pause. Then, “Want to know how her other mother, my wife, is doing?”
Silence.
Mercifully, the lawyer chose that moment to enter. They spent the next hour reviewing the details of their father’s estate.
At the end of the meeting Jersey couldn’t help but ask, “Did he leave anything else? A letter? A note? Anything?”
The lawyer shook his head, “No, just the official documents. Why?”
“To be honest, I’m wondering why he named me an executor at all. We haven’t had any contact for over 20 years. And even before that, we weren’t exactly close,” said Jersey.
Janet made a little scoffing noise in the back of her
throat, “I’m wondering the same thing. But here we are. So we better get on with it. The sooner we start, the sooner we can go back to our own lives.”
“Fine by me,” said Jersey.
The next day the sisters met at the house to begin sifting through their father’s possessions.
Jersey seemed even more distant and agitated than the day before.
Janet could tell that Jersey was upset about something, but thought to herself, that’s her problem. She hasn’t needed me for decades. Why would she need me now?
Jersey seemed to be struggling with something. Finally she said, “I think we should donate the money from the estate sale to charity.” She couldn’t help adding, “At least our father will have had some positive impact on the world then.”
Janet was shocked, “Excuse me? He did plenty of good! Not that you were around to see any of it. Anyway, he wanted the money from his estate to go into trusts for each of his grandchildren.”
“You would think that was a good idea, wouldn’t you. You always thought everything he did was perfect and right.”
“What are you talking about?” Janet looked incredulous, “This benefits Lane too! Why are you so against it? You always had to push back against whatever dad wanted. Why can’t you just go along for once?”
“Why can’t you see that he wasn’t always right? Mom certainly understood that! Why can’t you?”
Jersey was beginning to turn red.
“Don’t talk to me about Mom and Dad's relationship. You’re the one who destroyed it!”
Jersey froze, “What did you say?”
Janet looked uncomfortable but plowed on, “You heard me. If you could just have been normal, they wouldn’t have fought so much and they could have stayed
together.” Janet continued, “Why do you always have to make things so difficult?”
Jersey looked as though she had been slapped across the face, “Difficult? He was the one who made things difficult. He’s still doing it now!” Jersey paused for a moment, seemingly unsure. A look of resolve crossed her face, “I figured out why he wanted me to be co-executor of his estate so badly when I re-read the will last night.”
Whatever Janet was expecting, it wasn’t that, “What do you mean?”
“Figure it out for yourself. I’m done.” With that, Jersey walked out the door.
Janet stewed for hours at home that night. How dare Jersey accuse their father of being the one to make things difficult? It was all Jersey’s fault, wasn’t it? She was the cause of the divorce, she was the one who stopped visiting their father, she was the one who created the divide between the two sides of their family. And what was she talking about with the will?
Finally, Janet picked the document up and read it again. And again. And again. It was exactly as she remembered it. Jersey seemed to be upset about the trust funds for the grandchildren.
Janet went to that section again.
Oh… oh! But surely not. He wouldn’t have done this on purpose.
Or would he? She remembered a game of house long ago.
The next morning Jersey woke to a text from her sister. Could they meet for breakfast? Janet would come to Jersey’s hotel. Warily, Jersey agreed. That was how Jersey and Janet came to be seated at a table for four in the hotel’s restaurant, mugs of coffee in hand and half eaten pancakes drenched in syrup in front of them.
After the awkward small talk, Janet got down to business, “So I read through the will again last night.” Jersey peered at her over the top of her coffee mug. Waiting.
“I read the part that stated that a trust fund should be set up for any biological or adopted children of either of Dad’s daughters… and their husbands.”
Jersey cleared her throat, “That’s what it says, yes.” She paused, “You know that Lane was already born to my wife and I when he wrote this will, right?”
“I know,” said Janet. The sisters stared at each other. Each looking for something in the other’s eyes.
Janet broke the silence, “Look. I think we should talk to the lawyer. I’m sure that can’t be legal.
There must be a way around the wording…”
“No,” Jersey interrupted. “Those were his wishes. Let him have them. My wife and I can take care of Lane well enough without his money.”
Janet hesitated, “Are you sure? There must be a way…”
“I’m sure.”
Silence.
“Listen, maybe I didn’t always see clearly what was going on.”
“How could you? You were just a child. Now, though…” Jersey shook her head, “I have a flight home this afternoon.”
Janet smiled tentatively, “Let me give you a ride to the airport?”
“No need.”
“Jersey, please. Let me?”
There was something in her tone that made Jersey hesitate, “Why? You haven’t helped me once in my life. Why now?”
Janet looked at the ground, “Maybe it’s time we fixed that. Just… maybe.”
Jersey peered at Janet for a moment, “Okay.”
The ride to the airport was not some miraculous journey of healing and reconciliation. The sisters did not confess
all their sins and grant each other absolution before breaking down in dramatic tear-stained embraces. But they did talk. More freely than they had since they were children just trying to navigate a broken family.
“Call me? I’d love a chance to talk with Lane too. Get to know my niece a little bit?” asked Janet as they parted at the airport doors.
Jersey gave a small smile and walked away. Before she reached the airport entrance, she turned to look over her shoulder at Janet. “Maybe,” she said with a smile.
Just maybe
enjoy the sun
graeme tennant
I don’t need a turn of phrase to know the winters are long
Chasing shadows
In the dark watching sunsets from an office cubicle
Grandpa always said talking about the weather lets others know you care
Enjoy the Sun I should be out soaking it up each and every sunburn a badge of honour
Counting months like pennies measuring daylight in short shallow breaths
The length of the season marked by the waning tide of snow outside my window
Enjoy the Sun
Somedays I can’t tell where my white-walled apartment ends and grey skies begin
Keeping company with old memories and regrets, walking past the places we used to sit
New fallen snow fills up old footprints leaving a blank canvas for fresh memories
Enjoy the sun
harsh
carolyn lambrechts
“Harsh. It’s so harsh. Nobody wants me.” The words seem to whisper over her tiny bottom incisors. Her breath is surprisingly sweet.
I raise my gaze to her large doe eyes. “Tell me more about that, Mary.”
“They told me to call my son and his wife.” She picks up the TV remote control. Her sparse eyebrows scrunch together as she examines the various buttons. “Oh, it’s no use. He doesn’t answer when I call.” She waves her hand in the air and drops the remote on her bed. “Come bring a chair, dear.” She pats the side railing. “Can you help me sit up? I can’t see outside. Who did you say you are?”
“I’m Susan. I’m a hospice volunteer. I’ll get the nurse, and we can get you comfortable.” I duck out of the room. “Oh, hello. Mary isn’t comfortable. She wants to sit up and look outside,” I tell the nurse.
“Oh, I forgot. I was going to adjust her bed. I’ll be right there.”
I return to Mary’s bedside. “The nurse is coming,” I tell her as I lift her delicate speckled hand and note the contrast to my sun-warmed skin.
The nurse and an aid come in chattering like magpies. “Let’s spin her around.”
“O.K. I’ve got this end. Here we go.” They spin the bed on the diagonal facing the courtyard, crank it up, and tuck some pillows behind her back. “There you go, Mary.” The nurse briefly caresses the side of Mary’s face, then flits out.
That’s all the time she has? What if I wasn’t here to remind her? Mary would lie here all day facing the wall? I suppose I shouldn’t be judgy—only two nurses on the floor today and so many patients.
Pulling a chair alongside Mary’s bed, I lift her hand again. “Your hand is cold.” I notice her dainty fingernails and long slender fingers as I gently massage them.
“I’ve been here for days and days. There’s nothing to do. Nobody wants me. What can I do?”
I continue caressing her hand. “You can just be here. Be here for me,” I reply.
“Who did you say you are, dear?
“I’m Susan,” I point to my name tag. “I’m a hospice volunteer.”
“Nobody wants me. It’s so harsh. There’s nothing to do, and I’ve been here for days and days.”
I kind of doubt it. I’m here once a week, and she wasn’t here last Tuesday. Perhaps her perception of time is off. The notes in the volunteer log say she has dementia.
“They told me I should call my sister. Oh, what can I do?”
“You’re missing your sister, then?”
“Yes, its so harsh—so harsh. Are there others like me, dear?”
My mind flashes to others I’ve met in the short time I’ve been volunteering here: the 93-year-old who continually scanned my face with her one good eye, trying to discern whether I was someone she knew, the lone 70-year-old who begged me to pray for her life to end, the 64-year-old man who had just died—alone—back flat on bed—nose pointing to ceiling.
“Yes, Mary, there are.”
“Oh, it’s so harsh.”
“I know, Mary.”
A young man with a hair net arrives with a tray. “Lunch for Mary,” he chirps.
“Do you have the right Mary? There’s more than one Mary here today.”
He compares the card with the name on her chart. “Yup, I got the right Mary,” He plunks the tray down and turns to leave.
“Oh, take it away,” she waves her hand at him. “I don’t want it.”
He whisks the tray away. I’m surprised at his quick retreat. Is Mary simply a tray to be delivered or retrieved?
“There’s no use. Nobody wants me. It’s so harsh.”
I look in Mary’s eyes and wonder about her dementia. Are people visiting and she doesn’t recall? I scan the room for cards or flowers. Nothing.
I recall a lovely patient that I met last month. He had no cards or flowers in his room. His daughter told me her dad was a minimalist—didn’t want things cluttering up his space. I recall how his warm spirit seemed to fill his room. No such feeling in Mary’s room.
“Let’s look at the flowers in the courtyard, Mary. Look, the sun is lighting up those pink petals.”
“Yes, they’re lovely, dear. I like looking outside.” A slow,
even exhale flows from her thin body. “You’re the only one, dear. The only one.” She pats my arm as she gazes through the window.
The near noon sun is flooding the courtyard with brilliant light. A lone chickadee pecks at a suet cage hanging on a poplar tree. A humming bird lights on a feeder for one dazzling moment, then departs. The pink petunia petals flutter in the breeze.
My mind flutters back to my mother’s patio. She once had a basket of pink petunias. My heart sinks as I recall the phone call. It came just as I was boarding the plane. Susan, it’s too late. The hospital called. Mom is gone.
I should have known. I should have booked a flight the day before. Never mind that—I never should have moved up north.
Mary’s hand twitches in mine.
“Have you had your lunch, dear?”
“No, not yet. It’s not time yet.” I’m aware that my shift is nearly over. I don’t want to leave her. I continue stroking her hand. I should have been holding my mother’s hand.
“Have you had your lunch, dear? I don’t want to keep you from your lunch.” Perhaps this is her way of saying she’s tired. Perhaps she senses that I’m no longer present for her.
“I guess I should go and have my lunch,” I tell her as I release her hand, place it at her side, and take my leave.
My head feels clouded with petunias as I make my way to the volunteer office. What should I write in the log book? Her family doesn’t care? Her family won’t make it on time? I really shouldn’t judge. I really can’t judge.
I sit down. I open the log book. I write: Mary is lonely and appreciates company. She likes looking outside.
I turn the page to the list of friends and family who have visited.
Blank.
“Harsh,” I whisper into the air. “It’s so harsh.”
and still i see you daily
robin elson
And still I see you daily, Always present in my mind’s eye I love you, but please leave me be I need your memory to die.
What we were, what we are And what was truly meant to be Has been forever lost And it causes pain to me.
I need to find the blackness, A way for your light to dim Please, memories of mine, Find a way for all this to end.
impossible by Anna Pottie
alone
zach wood
I live here
Within my fear
Trapped by uncertainty
On the outside of modernity
Voice, screaming like a gale
Mind as weak as shale
Trapped by my mistakes
As love forsakes
I live here
Within my fear
In the dark room
That was to be my doom
As a moth to a flame
Only I am to blame
The bell strikes its final chime
Defeat, not this time
Isolation within my mind
Is what made me unwind
through the window, inside these four walls
alexander k.
As I close my eyes, yet another day goes by.
My one wish to see, what is truly outside. I believe in the sky, so mighty and high. Why can’t I see?
Through the window, Inside these four walls.
My vision is clear, but the sight is so blurred. I pray for my future, though my terrible past has occurred.
We wish to move on, we feel stuck and trapped. Why can’t we see?
Through the window, Inside these four walls.
So over it, so through. You want to feel free?
Yeah, me too.
The time has come!
Through the door, Outside these four walls. grape without the g
tineesha mckay
Recognizing Abuse hidden Physically and psychologically Embodying dangers of isolation
zach wood
A sheep without a flock
The breeze with no sun
Rain absent of clouds
Soul without a body
Alone amidst the crowd
Upon my heart a dark shroud
i'm pure
nathan berube
You tell yourself you keep making the same mistake. You think you’re someone… just because somebody said so. You do not recognize You as you. “I am,” you say. Is this arrogance? To be unflinching in the demand sounds arrogant, doesn’t it? You would say that, if anybody else claimed your spot. You would be angry, of course. Who wouldn’t want rage under threat?
You and I will always find this field, to do battle. We must find out the facts of the case. The known unknowns… the universal sea where the sages brush against unseeing I’s. It will be dark here, with points of light. A point of light. Just one—brilliant and indivisible. Now, many. Innumerable fireflies—and Night, which is eternal. These split infinities.
So, what is an explosion? Is it many things? Is it the molten… the shrapnel… the ejecta…? Is it the heat and light…? Or is it the damned cold, where burning hulks smolder silently…? T’is an oscillation—the way the material mind sorts between ‘Is’ and ‘Isn’t’. A blinding spark that creates the darkness that is the bed, for children of Light. There is no Light without Darkness… and yet: there is no Darkness without Light. And the two… being paradoxically at once of the same and the un-same substance, achieve at-onement through effort, and patience (that is to say, ‘discipline’). Imagine ice in a glass of water, that—owing to ambient temperature and the passage of time—becomes icewater. The substance is identical, but the state is antithetical.
This is why purity is an irresistible and impossible pursuit. Purity, in any case, has no human expression. A society that requires purity for a minimum predicts its demise… and, sooner than later. Light cannot be divided and apportioned. It desires to be shared.
I begin solitary confinement, when I insist on the existence of me in opposition to You. When I say to myself that You merely being present represents an existential threat to me. My struggle is not with You. I know it’s only me… misunderstanding me… ignorant of me… seeking to know where me fits, within the body of Us… a human thing, that has to tell the whole truth eventually.
isolation
scott meller
I carry the stories of others deftly balanced with my own, and every day I’m smothered with the weight of being shown atrocity without number, calamity without end. Compassion’s ceaseless slumber has empathy for a friend. All of this technology keeps us so connected, as all of this sociology has the unexpected, and the broken, and the strange. It keeps us all collected and alone all the same.
It took me years to realize I am not a hermit I am an empath I feel depleted after meeting people because I give them all of myself or nothing at all when I am empty I succumb to the cocoon of myself and retreat to the dark halos of my being to recharge so I can shine brighter the next time around.
john donne was wrong
kevin thornton
I can’t remember why, I first stayed home alone. The days and weeks passed by While I lived on my own.
When months became a year Then two, then three, then four. My friends, once of good cheer Departed from my door
My family all but fled Which fitted with my wishes “I’ve all I need,” I said, “sustained by Skip the Dishes.”
And then the world went mad And I for one was glad.
jamal-e-fatima rafat
smile
zach wood
Goodbye
Smiling seems like a betrayal
Face my fate
A life worthwhile
I cry
Wait to die.
The only one i wished to regale For you i wait
With saddened heart I'll try to start
With a smile
decay
juleus ghunta
My grandmother made filling from nutmeg nibs. Sometimes I gargled rum to numb the ache. When there was no toothpaste, I brushed with salt. For years, I chewed on the left or swallowed hard foods whole. The day I had the tooth pulled, I visited my father, who stuffed ice cubes between my teeth. My sister fetched painkillers in the rain. With him, everything was pain. Six years before, when I first searched for him, I had forgotten his face. On the beach where he worked, I called a stranger, dad. Ashamed, I spat my surname into the sea –even now, whenever I hear it, a part of me drowns.
i have no magic
j alfred thomas
Perhaps I sparkle for you like a dozen or more
But I shine no brighter than any before
My facets are few and you caught one just right
Yet mine is a failing and imperfect light
A few ages past, before my colours ran dry
Is when chance should have introduced you and I
For I have little to give, and far less to share
Just the ink on my tongue and the clouds in my hair
So be gentle and kind, and set yourself free
From the dreams where I keep you, and where you keep me
when silence speaks
jamal-e-fatima rafat
Sometimes the moments that are the quietest are the ones that speak the loudest they speak of truths that many are too deaf to hear that I am too scared to admit the truth the hushed stillness shares are facts my heart already knows well
tineesha mckay
A scene that no one can see
Being told this is how it's meant to be Unseen and unheard
Scared to say a word
Empowered by trying to save another Damaging truths waiting undercover
transkei soil
kimlyn stanyon
Is someone listening? I would like to think there is. To think all of this matters to someone other than me. I’m not sure why this is so vital. Vital enough; I feel it in my core. Sometimes I close my eyes for a second and everything shifts so drastically. It’s almost as though there isn’t a single moment that holds importance. Did you know that dogs check if you’re breathing? If your breathing changes in the night they will put their face close to your mouth and make sure that you’re still alive. I woke up to my dog doing this once. I wonder if he thinks about death as much as I do. I spend many sleepless nights pondering who will take him if I don’t wake up. Would my Mom ship him back home to be with her? Would they ship my body back too? Back to the Transkei soil. A funeral here would be comprised only of four women. It’s partly my fault for building a temporary life with for-the-moment people. It’s easier this way. To fully rely on myself means to never be disappointed, rejected or abandoned.
I made the mistake of going online earlier. There was a while where everyone was getting married, and now they are all starting to have kids. I smiled widely as I looked through the reels. I am not jealous of them, I am grateful that their lives have been this full of love and security. I am grateful that they all chose and have been chosen in return. However, I am sad when I lock the phone and look around my empty apartment. I used to wish, hope, beg and plead to be chosen. I used to read Jane Austen and Nicholas Sparks. I used to be a good accommodating girl on top of all her duties. Still my father left me wounded and the man I spent over a decade with, rubbed in a whole lot of salt. Now I just hope someone looks after my dog.
waiting
harley hearn
I lay here, all day, waiting.
For someone that won’t come.
Alone, that’s all I am.
Stuck by myself in my bed.
Like a truck stuck in the mud.
I refuse to get up, I refuse to leave.
I have hope that that person will come.
But I know they won’t.
They’re gone.
What good is waiting now?
Stuck in a loop.
I lay here, all day, waiting.
Lost in my mind.
Hoping, praying that it was all a dream.
ounce
gwenna cochrane halinda
An ounce in the ocean
A star in the sky
So small, unimportant… …unwilling to die.
creating in isolation by Barbara Madden
marginalia Desert Islands
A
column by douglas abel
No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. John Donne, “Meditation XVII.”
Donne’s assertion of our essential connectedness, or commonality, is so well known as to be (almost) a cliché. But if it is overused, it is because it expresses clearly and strongly an important truth that takes the form of both a “fact” and an aspiration. On the one hand, Donne is asserting that we are, in fact, joined in a shared humanity. On the other, he is reminding us that we need to seek, acknowledge and affirm such membership in the human whole. We must not let our commonality be eroded or washed away. Not only can I not be an island; I should not be one.
Donne’s words, then, are both a denial of, and a warning to avoid, human isolation and its attendant negative emotional state, loneliness.
Whatever its physical aspects, isolation is a human situation or condition. You cannot effectively be isolated from the physical world, from matter. ‘No matter’ how far away you are from civilization, there is ground beneath you and there are things around you. Isolation is not simply distance; it is distance from others. As such it has physical, psychological and emotional components.
The psychological and emotional implications of the “physical” fact of isolation tend to be negative. Someone who is isolated is not simply alone; he is also very probably lonely. Isolation is a state to be countered or struggled against, not pursued. A few may consciously seek isolation. Holy hermits or saints take themselves away from people to be closer to God. They find, in their spirituality, that they “never walk alone.” Misanthropes may flee society, but they are still defining themselves in relation to others. Their goal is to be as far away from all the rest of us as they can possibly be. The human others are the reference point; you cannot be misanthropic without people to avoid.
Misanthropes and hermits can perhaps be alone without suffering loneliness. For the rest of us, however, prolonged states of being alone, isolated, are steeped in a loneliness that we struggle to counter.
The loneliness that accompanies isolation explains why physical separation from others can be used as an effective—and insidious—punishment. The debilitating effects of solitary confinement in penal systems are well documented. Religious communities have used “shunning,” treating individuals as if they simply were not there, as a powerful tool for both punishing the individual shunned and cleansing the community. Exile—often to remote islands!—separates the person exiled from his cultural and emotional ‘home continent.’ The exile is far away from those who matter to him.
In fact, psychological isolation does not even require physical distance. It involves a lack of meaningful emotional attachment to those around you,
however close those others may be. One of the major themes in twentieth-century literature is the aching loneliness of the urbanite alone and lonely in the city, surrounded by millions with whom he has no real human connection. It is seen as worse to be isolated within a civilization than it is to be lonely physically far from that civilization. If physical distance is the only problem, you can move closer; but if the barrier is somehow emotional, what ‘moves’ can you make to break it down?
To the extent that isolation brings loneliness, the desperate longing to be “a piece of the continent,” it is a physical, psychological and emotional state to be avoided. Isolation goes against our humanity, our inherently social nature. Why is it then that so many of us deliberately, if not exactly consciously, seek out isolation and its attendant sorrows?
I am pointing to the isolation we inflict upon ourselves through our use of screens, through our blocking of the actual physical and human world around us with our ‘smart’ phones, our tablets, our laptops and desktops. We deliberately isolate ourselves through the meagre replacement of actual voices and faces and human shapes by bunches of coloured dots and discrete bursts of sound.
We can laugh at the more extreme effects of such selfisolation, when we see—usually on screens!—examples of people walking into walls, or into traffic, or off the edge of subway platforms, because their devices have made them blind and deaf to both the physical and the human world around them. The effect of our everyday ‘screening’ may be less dramatic, but can be equally harmful. A Zoom smile is not a substitute for human warmth; it has a delay and a distortion. Staring at a screen image, even if it ‘moves’, cannot be the same as face-to-face contact. Pixels can only create an illusion, a simulacrum; they have no pheromones. When a person is actually close to us, we can physically feel it, as they come into our real, our physical and emotional, space bubble. No such feeling is generated online. A touch screen cannot provide a true sense of touch.
Screens are useful for a host of things, but true ‘socialization’ is not one of them. In many ways the term, ‘social media’ is an oxymoron. If the interaction is electronically/ digitally mediated, it is not and cannot be fully social.
The other day, on my way to a tai chi class—real, not virtual—I noticed three boys, probably about ten years old. They were sitting side by side, shoulder to shoulder, on the steps of the community centre. In real, physical terms they were as close as they could possibly be. And yet each of them was staring ahead and down, separately, silently, at his own phone screen. Potentially they could not have been closer; in fact, they were far apart. Three small islands, floating in isolation. I found the picture both sad and frightening.
There has been an interesting experiment this fall across much of our country. In many jurisdictions cell phones have been banned, partially or completely, in schools. There was much concern about the move, and almost a sense of panic among administrators, teachers and students. What would happen to those students if they were severed—for hours on end!—from their cyber world? If they could not communicate constantly through electronic media, would they feel that they had ceased to exist? And could they cope without the barriers that shielded them from the person sitting next to them?
What happened was perhaps unexpected, but was definitely positive. Students started paying more attention in class, relating more clearly and directly to the actual physical and human world around them. And they started . . . talking to each other. Face to face.
It is perhaps frightening, even terrifying, to put down the screen that shields us from those around us, and to look un-mediated into the face of another. How easy it is to cut contact with someone, if the link is online. Instantaneous ending. How much more difficult it is to do the same thing when you have to walk away, step by step, each step taking actual seconds. Seeing or hearing the consequences of your action in ‘real time’.
No man is an island—unless he CHOOSES, by lifting and activating his screen, to insulate himself.
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre historian and voice and speech teacher. His novel about Christopher Marlowe is still still [sic] progressing. He is a relatively judicious user of screens, but much prefers actual company—depending upon the company.
nathan berube writes, “I was born at a very young age, and grew up in a family of two parents, one sibling and a succession of doggos. I decided I liked reading stories when I was six, and writing them when I was nine. Here’s why I write, as explained by Terence McKenna: “The artist's task is to save the soul of mankind; and anything less is a dithering while Rome burns. Because of the artists, who are self-selected, for being able to journey into the Other, if the artists cannot find the way, then the way cannot be found.”
With an extensive background in journalism, dawn booth has written various articles and poetry throughout her career, some of which have earned her recognition, including the 2018 Wood Buffalo Excellence in Arts Awards from Arts Council Wood Buffalo (ACWB). Dawn's expertise extends beyond her own writing, as she has served as a judge for numerous poetry competitions throughout the province of Alberta. Dawn is the President of the Northern Canada Collective Society of Writers and a board member for ACWB. She lives happily in Fort McMurray with her loving husband and three cherished children.
linda burtch lives on the Gorge Waterway in Victoria, one of many places in the city which inspire creativity. She is an active member of a Nature Writing group that meets monthly to share their writing and support each other. Linda loves spending time in the natural world and exploring the words this world evokes.
alisa caswell is a retired engineer, gardener, and a writer. She grew up on Prince Edward Island, and now calls Alberta home. Her short pieces have appeared in NorthWord magazine and Blank Spaces. She is a member of the Writers’ Guild of Alberta. She writes
short stories, small town mysteries, and science fiction. She also pens a blog called “Confessions of a Dandelion Anarchist.”
robin elson has lived in Northern communities for most of her life and enjoys all that comes along with it. Along with a passion for her family and community, she enjoys reading, writing and painting.
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.
juleus ghunta is a Jamaican poet, Chevening Scholar and children’s writer. He is pursuing a diploma in social work at Keyano College. His poems have appeared in The Missing Slate, Moko, Wasafiri, Anomaly, Chiron Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, and other journals. Ghunta won the Catherine James Poetry Prize in 2017 and was shortlisted for the Wasafiri New Writing Prize in 2022 and the Small Axe Poetry Prize in 2015 and 2016. He is the co-editor of two issues of Interviewing the Caribbean (UWI Press). His picture book Rohan Bullkin and the Shadows was published by CaribbeanReads in 2021.
devon sereda goldie is a theatre and visual artist, writer, and activist, as well as the Programs Coordinator at Wood Buffalo Pride. She holds an M.A. and B.F.A. in Theatre and is deeply passionate about creating and sharing stories through various artistic mediums. Having recently made Fort McMurray her home, she is excited to share her work in NorthWord for the first time.
gwenna cochrane halinda is a student and artist from Fort McMurray. Currently studying at Keyano College, Gwenna hopes to grow as a writer while learning more about queer and feminist advocacy. She hopes to plant roots of accurate and diverse representation in media—and also encourage conversation on creating compassion and understanding in cis-het dominated spaces. Aside from writing, Gwenna enjoys painting,
illustration, sewing, photography, baking, and watching ‘Survivor.’
harly hearn writes, “I am a sixteen year old girl who has lived here in Fort McMurray my whole life. Throughout the years I wasn’t a big fan of writing or poems but I’ve recently found a liking for them and decided to submit some of my own literature work.”
alexander k. is an East Coast-born writer whose work is deeply inspired by the natural world, the complexities of human connection, and moments of quiet reflection. Drawing from a love of storytelling and vivid imagery, Alex's poetry seeks to evoke a sense of wonder and introspection.
jon lai (he/him) lives on Treaty 6 territory in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. His previous poems have been published in Boyle McCauley News, NorthWord Literary Magazine, and Capital City Press Anthology Vol. 4. Jon believes all persons have creative abilities.
carolyn lambrechts loves to paddle her kayak, walk her big black poodle, and play with words. She also enjoys reading and growing vegetables. Carolyn is grateful to live on the ancestral territory of the Snuneymuxw First Nation on beautiful Vancouver Island with her partner, John.
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.
tineesha mckay is an interdisciplinary artist and was recently the guest editor for NorthWord Issue 29, focused on resilience. Her work draws inspiration from her experiences, heritage, and the profound connections she shares with her two daughters and different facets of life.
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.
anna pottie has been playing with the written word since she could hold a pencil—everything from little poems, stories or sayings in her notebooks, to published articles and press releases in her career. Always in awe of how language can be used to evoke feelings and imagination, Anna hopes to eventually write a book one day —she just has to figure out how not miss deadlines.
jenny price is a local arts champion and a familiar face within the local theatre community. She is also a closeted writer who enjoys teaching creative writing and inspiring a love of storytelling in our community's youth. Jenny wants to thank her loved ones for their honest feedback and support.
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. In November 2024, her second poetry book, The Lavender I Lost, was launched. Her work talks about stories, memories from childhood and adolescence, and lessons learned in life. She describes her writings as a journey through healing.
marty rempel, now retired for the fourth time, has been an educator in many capacities and places, serving as a teacher in Germany, Kuwait, and the Bahamas; Special Education Co-ordinator in Northern Alberta with Cree and Dene students; and principal in Jinhua, China. Last June he retired as principal from a private school in Markham, ON, which caters to students from mainland China. Now he spends his time reading the news while drinking dark coffee on his balcony, solving world problems, writing, and planning his next trip with his lovely wife.
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.”
kimlyn stanyon is an indie author, who lives in Fort
McMurray. Her debut novel won an award for originality and is available for purchase from her website www.kimlynstanyon.com. She is currently working on a romantasy series which will be released in June of next year.
graeme tennant lives and works in Whitehorse Yukon, Canada. He has had several short stories and poems published. He loves to write, but still has a day job.
j alfred thomas grew up in a small BC town that became big… so he moved to another small BC town. He builds, he writes, he teaches. He is content.
kevin thornton was born in Kenya, and has lived or worked in New Zealand, Namibia, South Africa, Swaziland, England, Dubai, Afghanistan, Ontario and now Fort McMurray. He has been a soldier, a contractor for the Canadian military, a forklift driver, a columnist, writer and a magazine editor. He has been a finalist seven times for the Crime Writers of Canada awards (he never won), but he does have a Buffy. He has had poetry
published in several anthologies, and short stories in more than twenty-five books, mostly about murder. He is or has been a member of the KEYS, the writers group founded by Ronald Knox and G.K. Chesterton, as well as the CWA, SMFS, CWC, ITW, WGA and MWA. He was one of the founding members of NorthWord, and he is rather proud of that.
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.”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 2 deadline April 30, 2025 theme Catharsis guest editor Greg Halinda
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@hushmail.com
for advertising and business inquiries, contact: For future submission calls, visit www.northwordmagazine.com
The arts are the heartbeat of Wood Buffalo, all are welcome to experience, celebrate, and participate.
Join us in building a thriving community through the arts Learn more at www.artscouncilwb.ca
Thank You Wood Buffalo Artists
Alberta Foundation for the Arts appreciated connecting with you at Inspire & Create: A Networking Event, hosted by our Community Connector, Hanna Fridhed. Together, we’re building stronger connections in Alberta’s arts community.
Find arts funding opportunities at affta.ab.ca.
