Whispers, Issue #18

volume 3 | issue 6 | FREE

contents

northern canada collective society for writers president Dawn Booth

1

editorial

Kitty Cochrane

secretary Theresa Wells

2

community report

Kiran Malik-Khan

treasurer Jenny Berube

3

whispers

Nicole Hernandez

public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan

3

midnight mists

Barbara Madden

4

careless whispers

Theresa Wells

e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com

5

hallway whispers

Kianna King

web www.northwordmagazine.com

5

hush

Barbara Madden

6

bird's eye view

Liana Wheeldon

7

don't listen to the voice in your head

Alix Anthony

9

forest whispers

Liana Wheeldon

9

winter raven

Liana Wheeldon

10

rain and giants

Chris Bowers

10

whispers from beyond

Briana Collins

12

chekhov's whisper

Jenny Berube

13

where the whisper comes from

Veronica Ephgrave

14

the whisper inside my head

Sherry Duncan

18

marginalia

Douglas Abel

20

contributors

21

boreal twilight

Trish Collins

21

whisper

Lara Mehrab

This Issue: Volume 3, Number 6 Spring 2018 ISSN 1920-6313 cover Carol Breen design & layout Rachel White-Murray issue editor Kitty Cochrane managing editor Jane Jacques president emerita Jennifer Hemstock

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

call for submissions NorthWord Volume 4, Issue 1

deadline Apriil 30, 2018 theme Say What You Mean northern canada

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

guest editor Liana Wheeldon

We’re always looking for prose (3000 words or fewer, fiction or nonfiction), poetry (50 lines maximum), excerpts from current projects, and visual art. please submit as a microsoft word or image attachment to: The Editors, northword@hushmail.com for advertising and business inquiries, contact northwordmagazine@gmail.com

volume 3 | issue 6

editorial 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

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

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.

by kiran malik-khan Public Relations Director 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

Here’s what the ladies had to share on why they stepped

contributors and have been active supporters from the

up to join the team. “Poetry allows us to capture historic

start. Every board member brings a fresh perspective to the

moments in time like no other art or literary form of

magazine, and I'm looking forward to seeing NorthWord

storytelling. NorthWord is vital to our community. I’ve

change and grow under their leadership.”

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.

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

"I am delighted to join the board to ensure the future

NorthWord events. Suzanne has been a trooper for us, and

success of the magazine. As one of the only literary outlets

she will always have a special place in our hearts.

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.

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,

For Jenny Berube, the literary journal holds multiple

and art to northword@hushmail.com. All names will be

meanings. “I was excited to find NorthWord after moving

removed, and only alignment with theme matters.

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,

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.

2

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

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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 3

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

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 meaning-

less) 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.

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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 5

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

bird's eye view by Liana Wheeldon

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volume 3 | issue 6

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 night-

light 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 sad-

ness 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.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

My mom greeted me in the entrance near the parking

remember the second his horrid, disgusting face walked

my dad died. I knew she was trying to be brave for me

had messy hair and he looked as if he was still drunk. I

lot with the same fake smile she’d been smiling since

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

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.

truck. She’d been wearing his sweaters and spraying

He slammed his gavel on the podium, and it felt like a

and bought his favourite cereal, that she hates, and

Knowing justice was not served and that this man, this

them with his cologne. She went to the store last week 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

strike of thunder into the hearts of everyone in the room. 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.

killer, to appear. It was intense; there weren’t many

It was cold and dark, colder and darker than the beige

grandparents, some distant friends of my dad’s and his

we traded two hundred dollars cash for a Mossberg 500.

people in the room. Just some family I barely knew, my work colleagues. The judge came in, and we all stood

until we were told to be seated. Then in walked John. I

8

through the doors of the courtroom. He was untidy, he

room. I met a frightening man in his apartment where

I’ll spare you the gory details, but justice has been served.

volume 3 | issue 6

forest whispers

by Liana Wheeldon

winter raven

by Liana Wheeldon 9

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

rain and giants chris bowers

One of my earliest memories is of you holding me one

Time has gone by and I now live a world away from

around us flailed in the wind, groaning and thrashing

moment, I lock myself in an empty room and wait until I

summer during a thunderstorm at the lake. The trees all 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 drum-

ming on the roof, the smell of bread baking in the oven

you. I’m at work when I finally get the call. In a hurried 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.

and the soothing hushed tone of your voice. Even today, these memories make me feel happy, safe and warm.

whispers from beyond briana collins

Whispers can mean more than just a motion some-

to a song or seeing a picture. Whispers can make you

also be more than the sound the wind makes when it

can push you towards a future you never knew you

one makes when they are trying to tell a secret. It can 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 10

drawn to somewhere you have never been before. They

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

volume 3 | issue 6

I think relates to whispers well. This is the type of whis-

truck window. They told her that things were not look-

a song on the radio… When I was younger, we lived in

as soon as possible. By the time we had arrived in Geor-

per you feel when you look at an old photograph or hear 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.

ing good so it would be best if we could both get there gia, 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.

For the most part, I do not remember the exact loca-

A few years after my dad had passed, my mom got a

because I was so little. But there is one trip that I have

Fort McMurray. We still go back from to visit sometimes

tions we visited or where we stopped along the way 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

job in Alberta so we packed our things and moved to and when we do it is like nothing has changed. Every-

one still remembers and everyone still feels so bad for us. If someone gives me a look I know they are whis-

pering 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 morn-

ing 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.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

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!

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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.

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

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 not good enough (repeat)

You are last x 1

I am slow

you can’t run very fast 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

The manipulative whispers of the 1st

I am alone

You are alone x1

abusive man I want to be ugly No one will believe me

You are beautiful x1

I am unlovable Don’t tell x1 The worried whisper of my dad Dad, I can’t hear you

The desperate whispers of 16 year old me

I love you

The berating whispers of the abusive

boyfriend

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volume 3 | issue 6

Love me love me love me

I am fat (repeat)

I will love you

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

He won’t hit me again I am stupid and worthless My dad is trying to ruin my life

The deafening whispers of the abusive man No one else will love you (Repeat) Your are broken (Repeat)

you are stupid and worthless (Repeat)

You are ugly, no one wants you (Repeat)

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

I am so lost (repeat)

don’t cry mommy

You are so smart x1000

I need to be strong I love my children

I am smart

The unheard whisper of my dad 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 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 You are strong x 1000 I am not a very good mom You are a great mom x 1000 I am unlovable

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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

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

The conviction in the voice of my husband for the next 18 years 35 year old me

Maybe I am lovable

Maybe I am beautiful

Maybe I could be strong

I’m an OK mom The healed voice inside the head of 53 year old me

I love you x 10000

You are beautiful x 10000 You are strong x 10000

You are a great mom x 10000 The snuggling night time whispers of my

Grandchild as we lay in bed I am loved I am pretty I am smart

I am creative

I love you Nana

I have your eyes Nana

You are the smartest person I know Nana

You are my favorite person

Tell me another story Nana

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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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

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” whis-

per 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 mean-

ing-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.”

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volume 3 | issue 6

This dual function of the whisper makes it perhaps the

tion, and will use it against those who send it. A “leak3”

mally, the function of speech is to formulate and send

exchanged in this conspiratorial fashion, the sound level

most interesting form of human communication. Nora 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-gentle-

sounding, 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

into the wrong ears can be fatal. When secrets are

is small, but the tension is immense. Exclusion is a func-

tion 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, inventive-

ness 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.

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

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.

with the intended recipients. Others want the informa19

northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North

contributors

has been writing for pleasure ever since. Her work ranges from

douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, and voice and speech

stories to a newspaper column and a novel she wrote twenty

teacher. There is a quiet rumour that he is a master of the stage

years ago that sits on a shelf waiting to be rediscovered. Some-

whisper.

times the hardest part of writing is the first line .. so start with the

alix anthony is a seventeen year old girl, attending her final year

second sentence and go from there.

of high school with perseverance to become a nurse. She loves

Though veronica ephgrave is attending Keyano College as a

music and writing and is grateful for the opportunity presented

Bachelor of Education student, writing is the passion she strug-

to be in NorthWord magazine.

gles to fulfill. In a world of chaos she is held together by a good cup

jenny berube was born elsewhere, and hence lives in Fort McMur-

of coffee and God’s grace.

ray by choice. Originally from Australia, she loves the Canadian

nicole hernandez writes, “I was born in Venezuela, but was raised

north country and enjoys the diversity of cultures in Fort McMur-

in the town of Fort McMurray. I have a passion for writing and hope

ray. A financial advisor, and accountant in her other life, she writes

to hone my skills in the next few years to see where it takes me.”

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.

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

carol breen spent her formative years in Canmore Alberta at the

to be an artist in residency for the Municipality of Wood Buffalo in

foot of the Three Sisters Mountain. After completing her diploma

2017. She finds inspiration in the whimsy and wonder of the world.

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 coun-

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.”

terpoint to illuminate her love of nature, explore the dynamics of

theresa wells is a communications and media relations profes-

colour, extract images from her surroundings and weave them into

sional who believes the written word has the power to inspire,

tapestries that juxtapose the art of nature with the nature of art.

compel and change lives. In addition to authoring the “McMurray

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 20

children’s musicals, short stories, magazine articles, and children’s

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.

boreal twilight on lac le jeune by Trish Collins

whisper by Lara Mehrab