i’m looking out the window at the trees and birds, from my favourite writing spot, a large early 1900s oak table. It’s not perfect nor polished. It probably once was, but in the last century it has been used, a lot. This was my grandmother’s table, where we ate roasted chicken on Sundays. Grandpa would sharpen the knife and ceremoniously carve. We’d fight over who got the wings and skin. There were pickled onions and creamed corn and Yorkshire pudding.
My grandparents are gone now, but they’ve been whispering lately. I discovered more family that we didn’t know about, and I’ve been on a hunt trying to figure out who and where these people are. The journey has taken me through many generations and the history of Canada. I’ve been digging through records of immigration and migration. It’s the story of needing to find a better life, a story of hope and starting in a new place. It’s a story of women struggling to have an identity and choices of their own. It’s about loss and how people survive that, somehow, and start again. And it’s about what it means to love. As I read and listen, all the people past and present speak their stories, and I hold them.
That’s what the pieces in this issue represent. Whispers of wishing and wanting. Judgement, self-doubt, anger and loss. Strength, endurance, renewal, hope and love.
I hope you enjoy this issue, and all its fascinating voices.
Kitty Cochrane | eighteenth issue editor
by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director community report
We have a new board. Thank you Dawn Booth, our newly elected President, Theresa Wells, Secretary, and Jenny Berube, Treasurer for stepping up to help with new beginnings. Jane Jacques, our Managing Editor, and I are honoured to continue with our roles.
Here’s what the ladies had to share on why they stepped up to join the team. “Poetry allows us to capture historic moments in time like no other art or literary form of storytelling. NorthWord is vital to our community. I’ve been part of the Society as a member-at-large since its inception. I understand how important it is to keep the literary arts living and breathing in the Wood Buffalo region,” noted Dawn Booth.
"I am delighted to join the board to ensure the future success of the magazine. As one of the only literary outlets for writers in our region. I look forward to working with the board and with fellow writers to showcase the talent and skills of writers in the north. I believe NorthWord's best years are ahead of us as we continue to share the written work of a variety of authors and look to the future,” shared Theresa Wells.
For Jenny Berube, the literary journal holds multiple meanings. “I was excited to find NorthWord after moving to Fort McMurray almost eight years ago. I love the opportunity given to those who put the effort of expressing their thoughts, vision, or a stories. I'm excited to be part of the board, and I want to see NorthWord grow and prosper, to the encouraging of new and more-established writers,
inspiration to others and enjoyment of all readers.”
Our Managing Editor, Jane Jacques welcomed the new members. “I'm delighted that these three creative and hard-working women have joined the board of NorthWord this year. Dawn, Theresa, and Jenny are all frequent contributors and have been active supporters from the start. Every board member brings a fresh perspective to the magazine, and I'm looking forward to seeing NorthWord change and grow under their leadership.”
Speaking of leadership, we thank Suzanne McGladdery, our outgoing president/co-founder for her support through the years. There have too many times to count when Jane, Suzanne, and I were the only ones organizing, and running NorthWord events. Suzanne has been a trooper for us, and she will always have a special place in our hearts.
We hope you enjoy this issue, and submit to our next one, Issue 19. Liana Wheeldon, Executive Director, Arts Council Wood Buffalo is our guest editor. She picked the theme “Say What You Mean.” Deadline is March 30, 2018 at midnight. You can send original poetry of no more than 50 lines, prose, fiction or non-fiction, 3000 words maximum, and art to northword@hushmail.com. All names will be removed, and only alignment with theme matters.
NorthWord is available free of charge at MacDonald Island, River Station Arts, Chez Max, Jamaican Restaurant, Blue Mountain Bistro, Keyano College Bookstore, Keyano Reception (front desk), Keyano Library, Points North Gallery, and Thickwood YMCA.
For real time updates, like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ northword and follow us on Twitter: @ NorthWordYMM.
Left Photo: Outgoing President Susanne McGladdery Right Photo: The New Board. Front row (left to right) Jenny Berube, Treasurer, Dawn Booth, President, & Theresa Wells, Secretary. Back row (left to right) Jane Jacques, Managing Editor & Kiran Malik-Khan, PR Director
whispers
nicole hernandez
Such a lovely word.
The way it rolls off the tongue
The way each syllable hangs in the air.
The word has an awe of mystery,
As if every secret murmured over each century were confined in the definition itself.
Even after the secret keepers fade away their truths are locked in whispers.
When autumn leaves rustle in the wind
When shores bend and break
The secrets can be heard.
In the dead of night when the silence seems to speak.
When phantom thoughts creep into the mind.
Promises of love in the breaths of those who loved.
Vows of revenge in howling storms.
The stories of millions hidden in the sounds of the earth that can only be deciphered if one listens closely.
So listen.
Listen to the ancient tales of those who’ve thrown skeletons out of their closets and into the wind
So that the whispers may guard the truth of their ferocious hearts.
Because the whispers are sentries of the earth, sea, and sky
Loyally serving the daughter of time.
For the goddess of truth hears all confessions
And sets the teller free.
midnight mists by Barbara Madden
careless whispers
theresa wells
It was far simpler hundreds of years ago. Back then, women whom society considered suspicious—the widows, the spinsters, the elderly, the ones with too many cats—could simply be deemed witches. A quick (and meaningless) trial after some torture, and poof! They were gone, those troublesome women whom society deemed as not “fitting in”. But it’s not so simple in 2017.
You see, these women still exist and society still finds women who choose independence suspicious; but instead of burning at the stake as witches they are burned through careless whispers of innuendo and gossip designed to damage their integrity—and diminish their strength.
It is, to be frank, just a modern form of misogyny, one practiced against strong and independent women who have chosen to not tie themselves to a man. Without a man to protect them, perhaps they are seen as vulnerable; without a man perhaps they are seen as dangerous. However it happens, there is no doubt it is real, and almost every strong and independent woman I know has experienced being the target of whisper campaigns focused on their personal lives and integrity.
We are, as a society in general, obsessed with sex. It dominates almost everything we do, and it is often the hidden undercurrent in our every form of entertainment. And when it comes to independent women, the obsession tilts into overdrive as speculation on the who, the when and the how mounts.
As a woman who has chosen independence, it is both wearying and disheartening to hear these whispers with your name attached. It speaks to how far we have come since the dark times of the burning of witches and yet how very far we have to go if we cannot distance ourselves from engaging in rumour, gossip and cowardly accusations said not to the face of those accused, but as whispers in dark corners. It is like fighting cobwebs, wisps of nothingness silently waiting to capture their prey so the spider can descend. One can empathize with how women of the witch-burning years must have felt, hearing the whispers about them grow and knowing how they imperilled them.
Why are we still so uncomfortable with the idea that women (and men, for that matter) choose independence? Are we fearful, resentful or perhaps even jealous of their freedom?
The witch hunt still exists. The target has not changed: women, of course, and particularly women who have chosen to explore life solo. But unlike our sisters from hundreds of years ago, we ultimately face not a wall of flames but a war of words, and woe betide any who think we will bend, break or fall under the sword of mere whispers. While others whisper, we will roar; and our strength and integrity will only grow as their whispers fade into the nothingness they—and those who speak them—deserve.
Long live the modern day witches: the bold, strong and independent women who challenge the norms of society and who choose to live life their way. It would be good to remember that history now looks fondly on the witches, and not so kindly on the witch burners; and it is good to remember that history tends to repeat itself, even when it comes to careless whispers.
hallway whispers
kianna king
Whispers they come at a moment you think not
Their sound is so subtle, so quiet, so discreet
They remind you of things that you once all but forgot They are quiet in nature, until they make your heart beat.
They happen in corners, in hallways, in stairs
You go about your day, focused and alert
Until those whispers make life seem unfair
And cause nothing but heartache, disappointment and hurt.
Whispers can carry secrets, both joyful and sad
They can carry great news, information and more
They can carry the hurt that makes you nothing but mad
They can carry the wounds that makes your heart sore.
Whispers can come to steal joy in the night
If this happens to you, just remember your light.
hush
barbara madden
Hush, said the otter to the mouse
Eyes a glimmer, whiskers twitching
Tails poised, keening with anticipation
As all the while the waves whispered stories of long forgotten glories
Wild and windswept tales of ships lost and moonlit dancing
A twirl within the light
A lap against a leg
A lip brushed hollow on a long arched neck
Swirl
Turn
And Sway
Rippling, gurgling, glitter
The crash sounds far away, long ago and yesterday
Swish
Sway
Lapping, slickly listing, whispers
bird's eye view by Liana Wheeldon
don’t listen to the voice in your head
alix anthony
“I still remember the day we buried him.”
I only spoke to break the awkward silence that filled the room. It was a beige room with no colour, no paintings, not even a white baseboard, like the first snowfall of the year where everything is white and cold. Only it was beige, not white and somehow the room was colder, much colder and although the lights were on, it was dark. Almost as dark as the first time your mom takes the nightlight out of your room. It's inevitable, ain’t it? How everyone’s light eventually burns out. He interrupted my depressed thought to ask me a question.
“Do you miss him?”
What kind of question is that? I thought to myself. Of course I miss him, it has only been two weeks. He is, he was, my dad. He was killed by a drunk driver and all I do is want to kill the man who killed him. I miss him every day.
“Yes,” I responded.
It was hard to say exactly how I was feeling because I knew Dr. Vandel wouldn’t understand anyway. The things I have thought, the feelings I have felt, I wouldn't wish them upon my worst enemy. I felt anger more than sadness and I wanted revenge more than peace. I wanted my father's murderer, John Luke, dead.
“Do you ever feel his presence?” he asked.
Sure I did, I felt his presence every time I searched for ways to kill. I felt his presence every time I wanted to buy a gun. I felt his presence whenever the dark side of me came forth. My dad, he was like a guardian angel, always trying to keep me from committing a crime. The next thought is how to tell the man in charge of my prescription dosage that I was hearing and seeing my DEAD father. So I answered quickly and without hesitation.
“No, I’m not crazy.”
I listened to him talk about how it isn't crazy to hear someone who's passed talk to you. I almost told him a few times, but I bit my tongue because my circumstance was different, I wasn’t hearing him when I was cooking breakfast, I was hearing him when I was planning on killing.
“Well, I don’t.” I spoke defensively.
He asked a set of questions that I have heard many times before, and then I left. I walked out the beige room in a panic. That’d been happening a lot lately, panicking. When I went down the elevator to the main level of the hospital, I ignored my dad's voice asking me why I lied. I didn’t answer him because I didn’t know. I wanted to say that I was embarrassed and ashamed and I felt like a freak, that’s why I lied, dad.
My mom greeted me in the entrance near the parking lot with the same fake smile she’d been smiling since my dad died. I knew she was trying to be brave for me because as if she hadn’t been struggling enough, she also had a psychopathic son, too. Needless to say, the past two weeks for my mom and me had been harder than most. We were struggling to cope and to move on with our lives. My mom was pretending that it didn’t happen, by cooking meals my dad used to and driving my dad’s truck. She’d been wearing his sweaters and spraying them with his cologne. She went to the store last week and bought his favourite cereal, that she hates, and then I watched her eat it. I didn’t bother to say anything because this is her way of grieving, and it was somehow less pathetic than my way. Instead, I watched the clock as it counted down the seconds until my father’s court case. There is one day left, 24 hours, 1440 minutes, 86,400 seconds until justice is served.
I waited impatiently in the courtroom, holding my mom’s hand in one hand and the ghost of my father’s in the other, while we waiting for John Luke, my dad’s killer, to appear. It was intense; there weren’t many people in the room. Just some family I barely knew, my grandparents, some distant friends of my dad’s and his work colleagues. The judge came in, and we all stood until we were told to be seated. Then in walked John. I
remember the second his horrid, disgusting face walked through the doors of the courtroom. He was untidy, he had messy hair and he looked as if he was still drunk. I had to hold myself in myself in my seat by curling my fingers around the edge of my seat and gluing my feet to the ground. I wanted to kill him.
“This case will be dropped and later assessed, as the police officer that was on scene is… sick,” spoke the judge.
He slammed his gavel on the podium, and it felt like a strike of thunder into the hearts of everyone in the room. Knowing justice was not served and that this man, this awful, terrible, sickening man, was going to be free for another couple of months. I could not say anything because a distraught sixteen year old boy’s opinion means nothing in the face of the law. I heard my father say to me that it would be okay, that eventually justice would see the light of day. I ignored him. The looks of despair and disappointment filled the room. This was my new motivation. I was going to kill John Luke, for everyone in the room.
It was cold and dark, colder and darker than the beige room. I met a frightening man in his apartment where we traded two hundred dollars cash for a Mossberg 500.
I’ll spare you the gory details, but justice has been served.
forest whispers by Liana Wheeldon
winter raven by Liana Wheeldon
rain and giants
chris bowers
One of my earliest memories is of you holding me one summer during a thunderstorm at the lake. The trees all around us flailed in the wind, groaning and thrashing about like wild animals from so many stories read. The sounds and sights of the angry sky above gave me such a fright and shook me to the very bone. I cried. But you held me in your rocking chair and gently whispered that you loved me and that there was nothing to be afraid of; the thunder was just the sound of giants bowling in the clouds. A smile crossed my face, the chair began to rock back and forth and you sang me a lullaby until my eyes dried and grew heavier, and heavier still until finally, I was floating in a dream.
That was so long ago, but the memory is still fresh in my mind. I can remember the crash of thunder, the rain drumming on the roof, the smell of bread baking in the oven and the soothing hushed tone of your voice. Even today, these memories make me feel happy, safe and warm.
Time has gone by and I now live a world away from you. I’m at work when I finally get the call. In a hurried moment, I lock myself in an empty room and wait until I hear the voice on the other end. The voice belongs to you but it is a shadow of what it was. Words start to tumble out of my mouth but I don’t know what I am saying. I’m making no sense. I stop. Tears start to roll down my cheeks and I close my swollen eyes; I hear the raindrops drumming on the roof above me. I begin to rock back and forth on the cold concrete floor. The rain is coming harder now; a gentle roll of thunder, and I begin the same lullaby you sang to me all those years ago. As the song ends, I manage to whisper “Sleep well, Grandma. I love you.” This is my last memory of you. The phone goes silent, and I am now left with the sound of rain and giants bowling in the sky once again.
whispers from beyond
briana collins
Whispers can mean more than just a motion someone makes when they are trying to tell a secret. It can also be more than the sound the wind makes when it is gushing through the trees. A whisper can be a look someone is giving you. An interaction with someone whom you have not seen in ages. It can be the thoughts you have in your head, the ones you never speak out loud. A memory that pops into your head after listening
to a song or seeing a picture. Whispers can make you drawn to somewhere you have never been before. They can push you towards a future you never knew you wanted. A future you never knew you could have. What I mean by this is that the topic of whispers can mean a variety of things to a variety of people.
I am going to be telling you a story from my past, which
I think relates to whispers well. This is the type of whisper you feel when you look at an old photograph or hear a song on the radio… When I was younger, we lived in Newfoundland. My dad was a transport truck driver so he had to spend a lot of time away. I hated this. He drove all over North America and I wanted to go with him every time. I could not go the majority of the time because I had to go to school and my mom had to stay with me. But when the summers came around, we would get to go along with him.
For the most part, I do not remember the exact locations we visited or where we stopped along the way because I was so little. But there is one trip that I have not forgotten. The most memorable trip was when we all drove to Texas. I remember watching “Dora” in the back. I remember the horrible gas station food. But most of all I remember my green cowboy hat along with that truck stop. I remember stopping at a truck stop one day somewhere in Texas. It was really hot outside and I was wearing a green cowboy hat. My dad was fixing the load on his trailer and then we went inside. When we went inside my parents made friends with an old man. This old man put money in my hat because he thought the hat was cute. Me being super young was very excited by the fact that he gave me a dollar.
Sadly, that was the last trip we took as a family. We drove back home to Newfoundland because I had to go back to school. When we got back my dad got a call that he had to leave again. He said his goodbyes and took off on a drive to Florida. He called us every night once he had stopped in some little town to get some rest. But then one night, there was no call. My mom seemed a little worried. I tried not to pay attention to it so she would not worry more. Early the next morning my mom got a call. The call came from a hospital somewhere in Georgia. They were calling to tell her my dad was in the hospital and in a very serious condition. He had been in a car crash and was thrown from the
truck window. They told her that things were not looking good so it would be best if we could both get there as soon as possible. By the time we had arrived in Georgia, it was too late. My dad had passed away. My mom and I headed back home to tell everyone the news. We had a really nice service for him and everyone was very sympathetic to us. The sympathy never seemed to stop, even for years afterwards. Losing my dad will always stay with me. Memories of him whisper back to me constantly.
A few years after my dad had passed, my mom got a job in Alberta so we packed our things and moved to Fort McMurray. We still go back from to visit sometimes and when we do it is like nothing has changed. Everyone still remembers and everyone still feels so bad for us. If someone gives me a look I know they are whispering sympathy towards me. Seeing a green cowboy hat makes me remember the trip to Texas. It makes me think of that truck stop where I got a dollar given to me in my hat. But most importantly the hat whispers back to that trip and the time I spent with my dad. The last trip we took together as a family. Sometimes when I am driving to school a song by Tim McGraw comes on. This song is called “Keep On Truckin’.” Every word of this song makes me think about my dad. This song is a whisper for me. Maybe even a whisper from my dad that he is still with me. In our living room we have a picture of me and my dad standing outside his truck in our driveway, back home in Newfoundland. Every morning I have to pass by this picture. And each time I do it whispers so many things to me. The most important whisper the picture gives off to me is that my dad will always be with me. For a matter of fact, all of the things I listed above whisper that to me. My dad will be with me no matter what and these whispers are just his way of communicating it. These whispers are connecting me to him even though he is not around anymore. And they always will.
chekhov’s whisper
jenny berube
It’s a boisterous party
People crowding, drinks in hand
She slides around the noisy groups
Heading already planned
Strangers smile into her eyes
She glances fast away
She came to do just one thing
She didn’t come to play
She wends her way to the door
Second one on the right
Slips inside with no backward glance
And then turns on the light
From her coat she pulls the gun
And lays it on the floor
Pushed under the desk to show
The butt and nothing more
Then get to the door again
To slip quietly away
They hadn’t cared to hear her words
Nor the truths she’d tried to say.
When there are those who still refuse
To hear a scream or shout
Sometimes a whisper from a gun
Might make the facts come out!
where the whispers come from
veronica ephgrave
Every day I would hear her voice inside my head. She warned me not to speak of her to anyone, or they’d think I'd gone mad and we’d be separated, so I never told a soul. I would lose my mind if I had to do without the lilt of her soft whispers. She filled my emptiness every night with her voice, with her song. Her name was Rebecca.
One night, when I was lying in bed, she awakened in my mind and spoke softly, “I wish you’d come home to me, I would love for you to see my beauty.”
“Where do you live?” I thought in response. Rebecca could hear my thoughts. She did not respond directly, saying, “Come, to where the whispers are from.” Indignantly I replied, “Rebecca, I cannot go anywhere, I’ll lose my job.” She sighed. “If you do not come, you may never know me again; I have been away from home too long.”
I suddenly sat up, having the innate desire to polish off the bottle of brandy I’d been drinking. I ambled down the hall to find I’d left it out from earlier that night. “Drink up Johnny Boy, there’s a journey ahead.” Rebecca murmured excitedly. I swished the brandy slightly, replying aloud, “I never said that I was going anywhere.”
I took a sip. It was strong, the way I like it.
“We must hurry, I have to leave.”
“Rebecca. Let me finish my drink.”
“Open the window.”
I took another sip and reluctantly set my bottle down to open the window. I looked down to the ground ten stories below onto the bright, busy street. It was full of people, of cars and things, but all I sensed was emptiness. I turned to get another sip, but she stopped me. “Sit on the edge. Look up into the sky and I will show you my home.” Without much thought, I cautiously crawled onto the ledge, turning myself slowly into a sitting position. I looked up into the sky to see the gray clouds of night roll over to reveal a land of wonder, of radiance, of milk and honey and sunshine. I was enticed. “Rebecca, how do I get there?”
“There’s only one way; to fly.”
I looked down to the life I knew, the life I hated. I looked up to the sky to the land of exoneration. I hesitated. I could feel my legs dangling over, chains of gravity pulling my weight down. She must have sensed my apprehension, as she whispered, “I will be with you.” Then, I felt a hand in mine, and I knew it to be hers. I closed my eyes and jumped off the ledge to fly, fly to where the whispers are from.
the whisper inside my head
sherry duncan
The loving whispers inside the head of 4 year old me
the loving whispers of my mom and dad
You are beautiful I am beautiful
You are loved I am a happy person
You are always happy I am funny
You are clever I am smart
You are smart I am loved
You are loved I am a good person
You are such a good person
The whispers inside the head of 10 year old me
The careless whispers of my classmates I am beautiful your mom died-your mom is dead (repeat)
I must be a sad person
My dad is not enough you just have a dad Am I a funny person
I am laughing at you x 1 I am slow you can’t run very fast x 1 I am not good enough (repeat)
You are last x 1
The sad whisper of my dad I love you Dad, speak up I can hardly hear youI am a loved
The isolated whispers inside the head of 13 year old me
I am alone
The manipulative whispers of the 1st abusive man
You are alone x1 I want to be ugly
You are beautiful x1 No one will believe me I am unlovable
Don’t tell x1
The worried whisper of my dad Dad, I can’t hear you I love you
The desperate whispers of 16 year old me
The berating whispers of the abusive boyfriend
Love me love me love me
I will love you
I am fat (repeat) if you just lose some weight you would be beautiful x 10
I am stupid (repeat)
You aren’t very smart x10
The distant whisper of my dad Dad, did you say something? I love you I am alone
The yelling whispers inside the head of 22 year old me
I am unlovable
I can fix you
The deafening whispers of the abusive man
No one else will love you (Repeat)
Your are broken (Repeat) He won’t hit me again you are stupid and worthless (Repeat)
I am stupid and worthless
You are ugly, no one wants you (Repeat) My dad is trying to ruin my life
Your dad is trying to ruin your life (Repeat)
I wish I were dead (repeat)
The silent whisper of my dad Dad, I can’t hear you I love you
At 27, I secretly whisper in the ear of my child My child’s inner voice
I love you more than my own life x 1000
I am loved
You are so smart x1000 I am smart I am so lost (repeat) don’t cry mommy
I need to be strong
The unheard whisper of my dad I love my children I love you I support you
Leave Run
Escape
The constant whispers inside the head of 30 year old me
The strong voice of the new man who becomes my husband
I am unlovable I love you x 1000
I am fat
You are beautiful x 1000 I am stupid
You are the smartest person I know x 1000 I am weak
I am not a very good mom
You are strong x 1000
You are a great mom x 1000
Dad, did you say something?
The emerging whisper of my dad I am proud of you I love you I support you
The hopeful whispers inside the head of 35 year old me
Maybe I am lovable
Maybe I am beautiful
Maybe I could be strong
The conviction in the voice of my husband for the next 18 years
I love you x 10000
You are beautiful x 10000
You are strong x 10000 I’m an OK mom
The healed voice inside the head of 53 year old me
I am loved
You are a great mom x 10000
The snuggling night time whispers of my Grandchild as we lay in bed
I love you Nana I am pretty I have your eyes Nana I am smart You are the smartest person I know Nana I am creative Tell me another story Nana You are my favorite person You are my favorite person Nana
The whispers of my dad, long since dead, lingers inside my head and now again at long last I can hear his voice
You are beautiful You are loved You are smart I support you
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marginalia
The Subtle Sound
A column by douglas abel
A whisper is the most acoustically simple, and yet the most subtle, of speech sounds. It can be the most secretive utterance. The most insinuating. The most insidious. The sexiest. The scariest. It is a sound of seduction. Of suggestion. Of suspicion. And of sedition.
All this complexity and variation from a sound which is just a notch more elaborate than the simple sound of breathing.
I called a whisper a speech sound, but there are of course whispers, or whisper-like sounds, in nature. The gentle wind whispers1. Ocean wavelets whisper as they roll onto and expire against a sandy shore. That shore itself can whisper when rivulets of sand slide down the slope of a dune. The rustle of leaves moving on their branches is a kind of whisper. So is the tumbling of fallen leaves along the ground as they are pushed by the autumn wind. So is the just-audible rush of air past flapping wings, as birds soar south before winter settles in.
Not all the whisper sounds in nature are soothing or peaceful. A surprised animal’s hiss of warning is a whisper, as is the menacing rattle or scuttling across rocks of a startled snake. Perhaps the most unnerving “natural” whisper is the just-audible rustle in the grass or the undergrowth, especially at night. When we humans hear that sound, all our instincts instantaneously warn us, “Beware! Possible predator, preparing to pounce!” As with all meaning-full sounds, the message of each whisper is unique and is determined by its particular context. And nowhere are the possibilities for meaning more varied than when whisper sounds become the building blocks of human speech communication.
I mentioned above that a human whisper is, initially, only slightly more complex than a simple human breath—if human breathing can be considered a “simple” process! But there is a significant difference between the two. At its best and most natural, human breathing is automatic and instinctive. The body breathes itself, and us; we do not have to think of doing so, or send conscious instructions to the breathing mechanisms. In contrast, a human whisper is conscious and deliberate. There is an intention to whisper, to shape the breath into recognizable speech sounds, and string those sounds together to convey information to an individual or individuals. At the same time, there is a conscious decision to limit the target, and the target area, of the communication. This limiting intention is in fact the distinctive feature of a whisper. A message is sent that, for all kinds of different reasons, is specific and restricted. Certain people are definitely supposed to receive the message, other people are definitely not supposed to get it. A whisper simultaneously includes and excludes, and who is “out” is as important as who is “in.”
This dual function of the whisper makes it perhaps the most interesting form of human communication. Normally, the function of speech is to formulate and send a message so as to ensure that it is both received and understood2. Focus on your audience and make sure they get the message, and then get the message. With whispers, the focus is as much on preventing as on ensuring communication. The intention is to distinguish between, and separate, an in-group of receivers and an out-group of non-receivers. This balance—or tension—between inclusive and exclusive intentions is fascinating.
Take the case of two lovers, whispering endearments to each other. The words used are very open-and-gentlesounding, as much like pure sighs (vocalized breaths) as they can be. The intention is to make the exchange as intimate as possible—no one in the world but you is destined to hear my vows of love, my love. Restriction of scope is matched by depth and intensity of feeling. That restriction may even make the intensity more profound. And whispers make the ability to release and commit, to give oneself over to “terms of endearment,” much stronger. No one but the beloved can hear, so there are no restrictions on what can be said; no one else can doubt or deride. The diminution of sound creates a lovers’ universe where, for the shared moment, only the two whisperers exist.
If the lovers are engaged in an illicit or forbidden affair, however, the secret situation is much more complicated. Then whispering becomes a necessity to avoid discovery. The lovers may want to shout or laugh or moan out their love. But even in the throes of passion, whispering may become a dire necessity; exposure could produce humiliation, punishment, even death in the great romantic tragedies. Here whispering, secrets and survival go hand in hand. If Romeo and Juliet had decided to bellow out their vows of love in the night garden, Shakespeare’s play would have been considerably shorter.
The need for secrecy similarly informs the whispers of spies, conspirators and prisoners. It is vital that information be shared; it is equally vital that it be shared only with the intended recipients. Others want the informa-
tion, and will use it against those who send it. A “leak3” into the wrong ears can be fatal. When secrets are exchanged in this conspiratorial fashion, the sound level is small, but the tension is immense. Exclusion is a function of self-preservation. The walls have ears, attuned to whispers. What may seem like a trifle, if “let slip” . . . .
Then there are the kinds of whispers where exclusion is the point.
Such is the case with most gossiping, backbiting, and verbal bullying. When you whisper to exclude, the power to prevent others from hearing becomes a pleasure in itself. The goal, for whatever reason, is to create “us” and “them,” and to make sure that those who are excluded know that they are, and that they somehow deserve to be. They may or may not be allowed to know exactly why they are out. The pleasure of letting them know, and the pleasure of preventing them from knowing, can be equally powerful. Here the threshold of hearing becomes crucial. The person or persons excluded should hear the whispers behind their back, or behind a hand, but should be unable to decipher the specific messages. The victims can only speculate on what is being said amongst others but hidden from them, on what damage is being done. Uncertainty produces dread. The effect is truly insidious. It is the rustle in the grass transformed into psychological assault.
The whispers of nature can give comfort, or warning. But only humans, in all their complexity, charm, inventiveness and perversity, can deliberately turn the simplest of speech sounds into vows, promises, plots or threats.
Human voices make the billing and cooing sounds of lovers lost in each other, or the “curses, not long but deep” (V, iii, 29) that haunted Macbeth.
Start with a breath. Then a whisper. And a wonder.
1 And if you’re Jimi Hendrix, it whispers, “Mary!”
2 Unless, in many cases, you are a politician—or an academic . . . .
3 Which often has a whispery, hissing sound.
contributors
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, and voice and speech teacher. There is a quiet rumour that he is a master of the stage whisper.
alix anthony is a seventeen year old girl, attending her final year of high school with perseverance to become a nurse. She loves music and writing and is grateful for the opportunity presented to be in NorthWord magazine.
jenny berube was born elsewhere, and hence lives in Fort McMurray by choice. Originally from Australia, she loves the Canadian north country and enjoys the diversity of cultures in Fort McMurray. A financial advisor, and accountant in her other life, she writes to find out what happens next.
chris bowers is an actor and writer who has lived in Fort McMurray for the last six years and is proud to call it home. You can read more of his work on his website cjbuzz.com. He is currently the Kennel Supervisor at the Fort McMurray SPCA and is passionate about helping rescues and finding them homes.
carol breen spent her formative years in Canmore Alberta at the foot of the Three Sisters Mountain. After completing her diploma at The Alberta College of Art (Calgary) where she majored in textiles and painting, Carol embarked on her journey as a visual artist. This journey has taken Carol to many places both geographically and spiritually. Currently, Carol’s studio is located on the edge of the great northern Boreal Forest in Fort McMurray, Alberta. Carol’s affection for the forest generally, and her own garden specifically, is carried over into her paintings. Carol uses the concept of counterpoint to illuminate her love of nature, explore the dynamics of colour, extract images from her surroundings and weave them into tapestries that juxtapose the art of nature with the nature of art.
briana collins is a grade 12 student at Holy Trinity Catholic High School. She is looking forward to graduating and pursuing a career in nursing.
trish collins has called the Fort McMurray Boreal Forest home since 2001. Originally from Victoria, B.C., she makes the pilgrimage to Vancouver Island twice per year, and enjoys these opportunities for capturing the diverse landscapes in between with photography, sketches, and acrylic painting.
sherry duncan wrote her first short story at eight years old and
has been writing for pleasure ever since. Her work ranges from children’s musicals, short stories, magazine articles, and children’s stories to a newspaper column and a novel she wrote twenty years ago that sits on a shelf waiting to be rediscovered. Sometimes the hardest part of writing is the first line .. so start with the second sentence and go from there.
Though veronica ephgrave is attending Keyano College as a Bachelor of Education student, writing is the passion she struggles to fulfill. In a world of chaos she is held together by a good cup of coffee and God’s grace.
nicole hernandez writes, “I was born in Venezuela, but was raised in the town of Fort McMurray. I have a passion for writing and hope to hone my skills in the next few years to see where it takes me.”
kianna king is seventeen years old and attends Holy Trinity High School.
Born and raised on the west coast of Canada, barbara madden has lived, worked and created in Fort McMurray since 1998. She has participated in a number of painting exhibitions, recently completed writing and illustrating a children’s book, and was delighted to be an artist in residency for the Municipality of Wood Buffalo in 2017. She finds inspiration in the whimsy and wonder of the world.
lara mehraban, currently working at Syncrude as Associate Chemist, writes, “I am originally from Iran and immigrated to Canada in 2001. I have been writing short stories and short & long poems since the age of fifteen. My poems and stories are usually about love or social issues. I write in Persian and some of my works are translated in English.”
theresa wells is a communications and media relations professional who believes the written word has the power to inspire, compel and change lives. In addition to authoring the “McMurray Musings” blog for almost six years, she also contributes freelance work to several local publications. She always has time to listen to a good story, cuddle a stray cat or admire a pair of fabulous shoes.
Emily Carr College of Art and Design graduate liana wheeldon has been living in Fort McMurray, AB since 2009. Her work is very influenced by popular culture and the world around her. Liana works primarily in drawing, painting and mixed media. Since moving to Fort McMurray, Liana has been an active volunteer in the arts community and is currently the Executive Director of Arts Council Wood Buffalo.
