POETIC JUSTICE NEWS FOR JUNE 2014: ‘For a good time’, visit www.poeticjustice.ca to see what we’ve got planned for Sunday afternoons in New Westminster. Poetic Justice, founded in 2010, meets most Sunday afternoons, 3-5 pm, in the Back Room at the Heritage Grill. This location is at 447 Columbia St., one block west of Columbia SkyTrain station. Come early to the Heritage Grill for lunch with music, usually jazz. Excellent breakfasts are served till 3 pm. Stay for supper and music again, Irish and more. In addition to features, we have an open mic session. We encourage your donations ($5 if you can) to support our poets. Everyone is welcome. Please help our generous host location as well with your orders. We close most long weekends and in July and August. Over the summer, you might enjoy Poetry in the Park, Wednesday evenings, 6:30 at the band shell in Queen’s Park. Visit us on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/poeticjusticenewwest/?fref=ts https://www.facebook.com/groups/162882397108759/?fref=ts Remember to check at www.poeticjustice.ca for our features’ bios. Franci Louann, Coordinator for Poetic Justice flouann@telus.net 604-522-7613 604-837-7613
Lee Johnson/ Susan McCaslin/ Russell Thornton May 25, 2014
June 2014 @ POETIC JUSTICE View Calendar and Bios at www.poeticjustice.ca Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/groups/poeticjusticenewwest/
LOCATION: The HERITAGE GRILL, BACK ROOM 3-5 pm Sunday Afternoons—three features and open mic 447 Columbia St, New Westminster, near the Columbia Skytrain Station CO-FOUNDER & BOOKING MANAGER—Franci Louann flouann@telus.net RCLAS Director/Website & FB Manager/Photographer—Janet Kvammenjanetkvammen@rclas.com
June 1 Sunday 3-5 pm Poetic Justice Featuring Candice James/ Kyle McKillop/ Diane Tucker Host: Janet Kvammen
June 8 Sunday 3-5 pm Poetic Justice Featuring Angel Edwards/ Manolis/ Lilija Valis Host: Deborah Kelly
June 15 Sunday 3-5 pm Poetic Justice Featuring Jaz Gill/ Heidi Greco/ Sho Wiley Host: Alan Hill
June 22 Sunday 3-5 pm Poetic Justice Featuring Dominic DiCarlo/ Navaro Franco/ Franci Louann Host: Deborah Kelly
June 29 Sunday 3-5 pm Poetic Justice Featuring Sonja Grgar/ Deborah Kelly/ Janet Kvammen Host: Alan Hill
SYNN KUNE LOH, artist, musician, poet at Renaissance Books - May 3, 2014
Synn Kune Loh, of China, Toronto, Vancouver, New York, Washington, D.C., Paris, England, Mexico and other places he forgot to mention, gave a talk featuring slides guiding us on his artistic journey spanning almost 40 years. His paintings have inspired both his poetry and music, some of which we got to hear, too. A vivid soul journey, through color, shapes, sound and philosophy: My house was struck by lightning all my windows now are open to the outside... His invitation: You can come to my house in the shadow of running water... His aim was to "send the light from the center of my heart" and he did just that!
RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC - May 4, 2014 A night of high energy (I didn't notice who drank what), music that made us all move and lyrics that expressed what we would like to say but usually don't or never will, but we did shout out with enthusiasm this night, under the guise of someone else's words. Art can free us from ourselves! And it was such a relief! Freedom was our theme and it ran through the work presented, serious musings and humorous takes on our relationships. Ken Ader did the videos and that's where this report will end. Thanks Ken! - LILIJA VALIS
Photos Courtesy of Lilija Valis
RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC - May 11, 2014
On Mother's Day we drove down to New Westminster Quay, found some empty benches and sang our songs. CN trains squealed and whistled by a Hovercraft tore apart the calm river water on its way to wherever. It was very enjoyable, but I couldn't tell you what the songs were about.
Lilija Valis Visit the RCLAS Songwriters Group on Facebook or www.rclas.com for updated venue information. Weekly challenge words:
https://www.facebook.com/groups/150810881784465/
RCLAS SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC - May 18, 2014 The challenge word: hovercraft. Songwriters' hovercrafts took us to Zanzibar, England, the Andes, Stanley Park, a downtown hotel, and that popular location – Nowhere! In the company of Freddie Mercury, Pauline Johnson, a broken-hearted woman, a burro carrying books as well as Love, Danger and Dreams. Where else can you travel so widely in such good company in only a couple of hours and be home before midnight?
Lilija Valis
ANNOUNCING WRITE ON! CONTEST WINNERS 2014 Poetry Judge: Jonina Kirton POETRY WINNERS Poetry First Place (LitFest Gala Showcase): AIDAN CHAFE – PAPI THUNDERCLOUD Poetry Second Place: Max Tell – The Kid Who Hid His Head In A Box Poetry Third Place: Vanessa Winn – Western Bleeding Heart: Dicentra Formosa
Non Fiction Judge: Corey Levine NON FICTION WINNERS Non-Fiction First Place (LitFest Gala Showcase): KYLE MCKILLOP – THREE DAYS OUT OF UYUNI Non-Fiction Second Place: Karen Faryna – Tomorrow is a New Day Non-Fiction Third Place: Donna Terrill – Etched On Stone
Fiction Judge: Antonia Levi FICTION WINNERS Fiction First Place (LitFest Gala Showcase): CLARISSA P GREEN – NORTHERN NEIGHBOURS Fiction Second Place: Kyle McKillop – Amid Ravens, A Reader Fiction Third Place: Elizabeth Schofield – Tango, Solo Congratulations to all the winners! Honourable Mentions will be featured in our September issue. *** Copyright remains with the author. All rights reserved. Do not publish or use in any form without the author’s permission.
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 First Place Winner Non-Fiction Three Days Out of Uyuni Š Kyle McKillop
March 22 Seven of us leave the Bolivian town of Uyuni, our bodies folded into a Land Rover with luggage on the roof. Beside the local driver is Victor, a silent Frenchman with hair more gray than brown. Jorge and Rebecca cuddle on the middle bench, her Kiwi accent sliding into his Spanish, and I share the rear with my brother, Scott, and his friend Matt. We cross the plain, watching debris blow across the flat open space. Alongside the unpaved road, llamas graze near brown-green bushes; two vicuĂąas bolt elegantly away. Heat mirages reflect doubled buildings and mountains as we drive. The salt flats shine in the distance and then we are upon them, the ground sparkling like snow. In a settlement of salt block houses, the toilet is the true attraction amid exploring tourists from twenty Land Rovers. Wheelbarrows wait amid cones of gathered salt to haul loads for processing. Leaving the village, we pass stranded tourists, their driver hitchhiking to fetch help. The salt is thick on the ground and little huts, like those used for ice fishing, sometimes materialize. White shades flash underfoot to the horizon and white clouds ring the plains, confusing the eye by sharing colour with the snowy Andean pinnacles. At thirty-seven hundred metres above sea level we bump along, almost snowblind as light reflects from every surface. Jorge eats crackers.
The salt plain seems endless, the ancient seabed’s crystallized remains covering ten thousand square kilometres under a crown of blue sky. Our speedometer is stuck at zero as we pass trucks. The windshield is cracked and two football ornaments hang from the mirror. The driver, whose name I did not catch, plays old-fashioned pop. The salt is rippled as if by tide and our movement feels waterborne, the slow monotony of islands unspooling along a calm coast. Ahead hunches a volcanic outcrop, cactus-covered and broad, known as Isla Incahuasi. We walk its spinal path, stones piled into tourist-shepherding walls. The giant cacti show gouges from bugs and birds and Matt is breathless from the altitude. Before leaving, the driver sets a feast: truckside, atop a green tablecloth on white plastic plates, he serves alpaca steaks, quinoa, cucumbers, tomatoes, and potato chips. We make land again in the shadow of another cactus-dabbed hill. Beside a bar in the town of Villa Candelaria, a woman in a lawn chair rests in shade. At the hotel, a hovel of salt blocks, we cannot find the town on any map. We walk the few streets, a child laughing as his friend throws handfuls of dirt from the road. With Victor, I hike out of town to explore the brush. We do not speak: he knows no English and I have exhausted what I remember of French. Walking at this elevation drains our lungs of their strength. Two donkeys on the hillside scramble in shrubs to avoid our approach. Climbing, we find a leg bone on the ground, fur still attached. We scale a loose rock wall and find the rest of the corpse, a twisted donkey stripped of flesh. Even the ears are missing. Rib bones show tooth marks and there are no bullet holes. We retreat. At the schoolhouse, my brother is playing football with teenagers and gringos, his tattoos peeking from his t-shirt. I play briefly but cough in the thin air. Our hotel room is carpeted with an inch of salt and the lights do
not work; Scott wires the connection, revealing the salt blocks used for box springs. We lounge after dinner and, when the hotel cuts the electricity, brush our teeth in the dark.
March 23 At seven o’clock, llamas block our way when we try to back out. “Attention. Attention. The truck is in reverse”, our vehicle warns in Spanish. To our left is a lip of plants and the salt flats. Flags are flying for Dia del Mar, the holiday that commemorates the war lost to Chile, costing Bolivia its coastline. The Land Rover chews a bumpy road as the salt fades, low bushes invade, and dust creeps inside. The way is lined with homemade fences of bush and wire. Tipped-winged birds dart under the already-hot sun. At a grocery store in San Juan, a calendar of half-naked women is nailed to the wall. A little boy in blue punches Scott in the ass before hugging him. His father stops him from taking money from the cash drawer. Rutted by wheels during rain, a sprawl of dry mud lies ahead. In a dustbowl, a herd of thirty llamas stands alert. We stop in badlands and chase viscachas, which resemble a cross between rabbits and chinchillas: long ears, long tails, badger walks, and kangaroo leaps. A semi-active volcano bastes in the distance, its caldera surrounded by clouds. Hills spread, green illusions forming where sparse bushes align. We race on to Laguna Chiarkota. One hundred flamingos shift down the lake to avoid us, a mass display of bashfulness, and our shoes cake with mud and guano as we watch. Fluorescent green lichen splatters the ground where Scott gets an altitudinal nosebleed, his hands slowly drenched in red. A brief rain patters, followed by snowflakes that disappear amid the balls of grass. At a
wider lake, its blue surface slicked with white, the sun returns for lunch. A green lizard skitters as I explore a low retaining wall. Heat returning, the next lake wavers in the distance. Flamingos dot Laguna Colorado, its surface streaked with white sulphur. The birds troll for food, placid with distance as the driver explains that a particular microorganism shades the dark lake red: flamingos consume the organism and their plumage takes the colour. Bored, we throw pebbles at Jorge and Rebecca as they snuggle between boulders. Later, in a town, our driver has booked no beds but we end up in a room not made of salt and therefore loved. Laughing, I walk with Rebecca and Victor over soil and moss toward a far-off lake. In a stream bed, sulphur and guano squishing underfoot, Victor sings in French about San Francisco and waiting. We turn back: the football tore open his toe yesterday. After dinner, Scott and I repack. Matt, cold and ill, lies in bed. His second brain tumour is in remission and I ask him about the operation to remove it. They placed a catheter which is drained via a needle to the brain: “There’s incredible pressure going in and stars when it comes out.” He lay in a room-sized machine, bombarded with radiation beneath a speciallyfitted mask, and again beat the tumour. He turns to sleep. I tiptoe to the lounge to play cards. When I beat Scott, who hates losing as much as I do, we go to bed.
March 24 We are woken at four o’clock. I am the last outside. Earth is black and cold but a million stars froth the sky. Someone points out Scorpio. Our acceleration is slow: the high beams are on and aquatic alien shapes loom as timid black shadows dart away. The dashboard glows like a submarine instrument panel.
At sunrise, we stop at a hot spring, ice rimming the neighbouring lake, and then barrel on through valleys of boulders. The Rocas de Dalí, hoodoos named for the surrealist, linger like dinosaurs in slow migration as a solitary vicuña poses. At Laguna Verde we rest. The lake is said to change colour in heavy winds: today it is creamy. Four and a half kilometres above sea level, we sit and stare at it as if it were a Picasso. Skimming on through a long flat valley edged by dirt hills, our Land Rover blows a tire. “Rueda?” asks Jorge. The driver says nothing, his movements abrupt. Searching for a hidden spot to pee, Rebecca walks across the gravel surface until she is a speck. Few vehicles pass. Our driver puts on coveralls and spends fifteen minutes loosening his spare from the undercarriage, kicking and spinning on his back to pry the tire over broken threads. Jorge helps, asking questions in Spanish while the rest of us sit and watch them crank the jack with a pair of pliers. The sun blasts, undercut with a cold mountain breeze. Waiting, Jorge flashes his calf seductively at a passing truck and a giggling family of five stops to check on us. After an hour, the tire is replaced. With the spare on, the driver eases his constant push. A borax deposit, bulldozed, scars the land to our left. A bleached rib cage sits amid moss beside a mountain stream. We eat cold rice and tuna in Villa Mar; we are impatient as hundreds of flies bombard us. On dusty roads we wind, storm clouds towering gray on the horizon, and Scott yells a farewell to a herd of llamas. After three days, our driver bounces us back into Uyuni’s dusty streets unscathed. We pay him and say goodbye without ever learning his name.
Kyle McKillop https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3bAWJGjh6g
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 First Place Winner Poetry Papi Thundercloud Š Aidan Chafe Watching the weatherman highlight the incoming forecast of fog in your life, you turn to tell me your father was a hurricane that swept your mother off her Chilean heels and dropped her somewhere in the middle of Canada. And you, you were the South American sun that kept your mother warm during cold Prairie winters. You, a young girl, waking up to watch the wind blow their weathervane relationship in opposite directions. How you felt a storm in your mother's wrists whenever Papi came home. How sometimes your father’s mouth caught rage
and his hands became thunderclouds that drowned the house for weeks. How your mother absorbed too much lightning from those bottles he drank. How he would keep you up late at night with overnight fury, whipping his fists onto the roof of your head, leaving you a misty silhouette in the morning, leaving well before you cleaned up the pieces of your heart that burst because your barometer could not withhold the pressure of his tornado. I understand now. The reason you always cry watching the weather channel. Why I want to be all of the buckets you fill up with rain. Aidan Chafe https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_5PqylQJc4
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 First Place Winner Fiction Northern Neighbors © Clarissa P. Green “Hi Allyson, it’s Howie.” My brother-in-law. I sit down. Look at my watch. It’s 0730. I don’t even have my makeup on. “Hey, what’s up?” “It’s about your email. This fish. The one you want me to create to live in Sackville, New Brunswick. With your buddies Maggie and Alan.” His voice curls with sarcasm. I walk into the bathroom, open moisturizer. “Yeah, so what about it?” “Well, I’m figuring out where it needs to be. No fish would choose to live there. Who lives in New Brunswick anyway? And, where is it, eh? Probably next to the Arctic Circle. Maybe you should find an artist who does polar bears.” He guffaws. “This garden fish will be in a back yard, Howie,” A breath. I know better than to bristle at Howie about his art. Or Canada. He lives in the U.S. He doesn’t get anything about Canada.
Silence. Slow breathing. I know this sound. He thinks I’m withholding, wants details. “The fish will live in a back yard. A half-acre. Trees all around. A path through the middle.” I’m making all this up. It was January when I visited Maggie and Alan. Cold, forty-below-zero. Cold beyond anything I knew. Outside their dining room window, a white lawn sliding into a white sky. In the middle, something black on a pole. It looked like a crow, but didn’t move. I squinted. A fish. That was when I offered to ask Howie to create another fish. Maggie and Alan were delighted. I know Howie will refuse if my garden description isn’t detailed. He’ll ask for pictures. His attention to specifics ties my brain in tiny knots. Until he’s satisfied, he waits, mule-like. Howie’s pen scratches. Good. My shoulders relax. “You mentioned there are already fish in the yard?” “Yes, a shark. Maybe a barracuda.” I smooth foundation on my face. “Which?” The word punches out. “Is it important?” I close my eyes. How wrong this question is. “Of course.” No inflection.
Howie works as an appliance repairman, but his passion is garden art. He carves fish out of wood, seals them to withstand rain, snuggles them atop metal poles, nestles them amongst tulips and trees. His art is colourful, frisky. But he relates to his fish with a concentration parents don’t even offer their children. “OK, a shark,” I say with conviction. “Huge teeth. Beady eyes.” “Hmmmm.” A long silence. “Where in the yard?” I have no idea. “Back among some trees.” Eye shadow on one eye. A puff of air. “God. The king of sea predators.” A scratch of pen. “What kind?” “Birches. A few fruit trees. Apple.” More silence. Second eye done. Why did I answer the phone? I am a free-lance consultant. I can’t afford to piss my time away. I thought a fish would be a creative thank-you-for-putting-meup present. I probably should have sent chocolates, maybe a couple of good books. “Come on Howie, what’s the problem here?” “We have dynamics problems here, Allyson!” he shouts. “Sharks are heavy duty! Why do these people have a damned shark in their yard anyway? What kind of people are these New Brunswick friends of yours anyway? Where did you meet them? Are they, like, good friends? How long have you known them? What kind
of trouble has this beast caused since they adopted him? Or her? Yeah, is it a male or female? That makes a difference.” A pause. Then, quietly, “Who the hell sold them a shark? No garden artist makes sharks. Not even a sadist.” Howie’s breath is ragged. I put my hair brush down, sit on the tub, drop my head in my hands. I really want to tell him to screw off. “OK, OK,” he says. “do you want a fish who will take on this … shark? A fish who can hold his own? What do you want going on in that garden? That’s your call.” “Howie! We’re talking about wooden fish on poles stuck in a garden! All I want is a fish! Make me one stupid fish!” Silence. “Now that is where you are wrong, so wrong. What do you know about garden fish?” I imagine his jaw, tensed, his neck muscles, tight. “Not much.” “Not much, well now ain’t that the truth, Miss Know-it-all. If the truth were known, you know nothing! When you get your PhD in garden art, then we’ll have a real conversation about garden fish dynamics. Until then, keep your silly girl opinions to yourself.” Then, a whisper: “I can’t stand talking to the ignorant.” “I’m sorry, Howie.”
“Thank you. I accept your apology. Now, do I have the Queen’s permission to continue?” “Yeah. You go for it. I’m hanging on every word, Howie.” I look at my watch. I will miss my first appointment. I walk to my computer, tuck the phone into my collarbone and send an email: I can’t start my car, have called BCAA. I’ll be an hour late. “OK. Got it. Howie’s voice is charged. “Yup, no doubt about it. I’ll make a school of fish. This isn’t just any garden situation. Trees around a rectangle, space in the middle – do you have any idea how much a shark would love that?” “No.” I don’t want to know. I want to scream. Slam the phone down. But that will cause uproar with both Howie and my sister, who admires her husband’s attention to detail. “OK, Howie, go for it; send me the bill.” I hear his pen. “Smart choice. OK, I know what to do.” Click. I listen to the dial tone for a while. Ten days later, I’m watching The Office and drinking red wine when the phone rings. “Allyson, it’s Howie. The fish are ready. These puppies will put that shark in his place. Or hers. You still don’t know the sex of the shark, do you? Doesn’t matter anymore, these guys are ready to take their place in New Brunswick.”
“Oh God, what did you do?” “Like I told you, Allyson, a shark isn’t just any garden playmate. I called my buddy Gerry in Fort Myers who makes southern hemisphere fish. He’s terrific with fish dynamics. But, just as I thought, it’s complicated to figure out fish relationships.” He sucks in. “Anyway, the school of piranhas kick ass.” “A school of piranhas? In Sackville, New Brunswick?” “Yuppers, ten of the little suckers. I might add two more. Gotta talk to Gerry again. Anyway, tell Maggie and Alan to place them back in the trees. Piranhas need to be behind sharks.” “Yeah?” I imagine grey-haired Maggie and Alan in sweaters, listening to Mozart in their book-lined living room. Outside, a back yard of piranhas. “Absolutely. Trust me. And they have to be within three feet of each other. Piranhas travel in packs, need eye contact. It allows them to feel their power when a shark bullies them. You, of course, wouldn’t know all this, but sharks are pigs when they’re unchallenged. Merciless, every one of them: sand sharks, great whites, hammerheads, all of them. If your friends separate the piranhas, they’re toast.” Howie is on a roll. “I can’t be responsible for the outcome.” “Sure, Howie. By the way, what colour are the piranhas?” “Yeah. Yeah! Getting to that. They’re a foot long and almost as wide. Neon orange, black, purple and silver. The coolest glow-in-the-dark paint. Wild,
bloodshot eyes. And teeth, oh Allyson, their teeth! Jaggedy, pointed like needles, ferocious! Perfect to keep that blasted shark in his – or her – place.” Deep breath. “Shame on your friends for welcoming a predator. Especially in that neck of the woods, wherever it is, for God’s sake.” I can’t stand it. “New Brunswick is on the eastern coast of Canada, Howie. It’s a province. It is not north of the Arctic Circle or even close. Get out a damned map and look it up!” I bite my lip, force myself to be calm. Begin again. “When the piranhas are dry, Howie, send them my way. The fish will be safe until I go to New Brunswick next month. Thanks for the time, effort, research and obvious skill you put into my request.” I don’t ask him how much a school of piranhas will cost me. “Yeah, Allyson. But there’s one more thing.” “Yeah?” I check the time, scowl. The Office is almost over. “Piranhas don’t do well at forty below. Tell your Eskimo friends to bring them inside during winter. Before the first frost. A heated basement is best. Outside, they’ll turn nasty. Piranhas hate snow. They’ll swim toward the house, head for the kitchen, get friendly with the family dog, if you know what I mean. Is there a dog? Doesn’t matter anymore. My fish should go back out in the spring after the last frost. Easy. In before the first, out after the last. Got it? Piranhas were
the only choice.” He pauses. “Tell them to send me a video. I want to see the action.” Clarissa P. Green
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Second Place Winner Non-Fiction
Acha nu neen chi ami—Tomorrow is a new day © Karen Faryna
I stared dumbfounded at my reflection as the Japanese hairstylist unwound the pink towel from my head. My friend, Masaki, had brought me to the salon for a little “pudding head” maintenance (an affectionate term for dark roots). Up until this point in our friendship, our time had been light-hearted fun, drinking cocktails in dark wine bars while gushing about the current men in our lives. That ended when the cotton candy towel came off and I saw the long, brassy locks lying like lumps of yellow fin sashimi atop my head. My mouth dropped open. Masaki raised his eyebrows. The stylist flicked a switch on the blow dryer, drowning out the chatter and Japanese pop music. My hair blew around at high speed while I pursed my lips, wispy strands obstructing my vision. When he turned off the blow drier, I asked Masaki through clenched teeth, “This isn’t the final colour, is it?” “No, it can’t be,” he said, face expressionless. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, one hand resting against his chin. “Please, ask him,” I said.
After a year in Okinawa, I knew enough Japanese to get around Naha and to read a menu in romanji. What I could not communicate in words, I did so in pantomime. This, however, was not the time for charades. After months of flailing around, trying to navigate my way through a very different culture, I was only recently beginning to recognize pieces of myself again. The last thing I needed was the worst hairdo of my life. I watched intently, trying to understand the words Masaki spoke to the stylist, his voice calm and musical. The stylist’s response, on the other hand, was short and tight. I recognized dame desu which meant “bad” and gaijin which meant me. Masaki turned to me and said hopefully that the stylist would add ash streaks to make my hair less bright. “He says you’ll look like a TV blonde. What do you think, Karen-chan?” He plucked at his lips with his right hand fingertips. TV blonde? I hesitated, glancing at the stylist—thirty-something and handsome with a faux-hawk. His hands rested on his hips as he waited. “He’s a professional,” Masaki said. I took into consideration that this place was Masaki’s recommendation: he always looked as though he’d stepped out of an Armani advertisement. Doubting the colour could get any worse, I nodded. Masaki listened again to the stylist, pausing a moment before turning to me. “He also wants to know if you’d like him to dye your eyebrows,” he said, quirking his head to the side, looking from the stylist to me. “There’s no way.”
The stylist, not seeming to notice my annoyance, added more paste to my head. His face showed no emotion. After another rinse, he revealed the second indistinguishable colour. I sat agog, then looked to Masaki for reassurance when the stylist began haphazardly snip-snip-snipping my hair. Masaki’s eyes widened but he remained stationary with a quizzical expression on his face. The Karen I was pre-Japan would have jerked her head away but this Karen, too immersed in the culture, did not want to create a spectacle. I poked Masaki in the leg. “Did you tell him I wanted a haircut?” He shook his head, raising a hand to cover his mouth. I saw him make a small motion to get the stylist’s attention, but then took a step back instead. I stared at Masaki, teary-eyed, trying to understand his inability to stand up for me. This stylist clipped and snipped as though he had a plan, a vision. A wad of wasabi was wedged in my throat. I surrendered to the vertical chopping, endured the rising fear growing in my chest. He set down the scissors and picked up the blow dryer. He grabbed a kerchief from his back pocket and offered it to me. Masaki reached out for the white cloth and dabbed my cheeks lightly. I could tell by the large chunks of hair strewn on the white tile floor that I would have to get used to a very different appearance. I closed my eyes to the vision of Hulk Hogan’s limp, stringy, bleached bits. Then the image morphed as the face of my new love interest entered the internal horror show: Hitoshi, the fighter pilot with eyes that crinkled at the corners when he
laughed. The beginning of a budding romance was an inconvenient time to undergo a makeover. Or, in this case, a “makeunder”. I lifted my lids. “This can’t be the final colour,” I said, trying to hold back more tears. They exchanged words and Masaki looked back at me all features straining to remain steady. “Yes, this is the colour.” “What? Oh my God.” I stared at the light canary yellow base and greyish-brown pickup sticks lying atop my head and down my shoulders. “This,” I squeezed out of a thick throat, “is not TV blonde.” Masaki looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or both. He listened to my pleas, then told the stylist I was not satisfied, asked if he could make it more natural looking. The stylist scrunched up his smooth face and sighed. He vigorously stirred a third colour, slup-slup-slup-slup, and began to dab it on my head without telling us what he was doing. This mixture burned my eyes and scalp; bleach fumes seeped into my mouth and stuck to my tongue. Another employee wandered over and the stylist whispered to him. The words I could make out were baka, gaijin and kami: stupid, foreigner, hair. All the sucking down of emotion, all the appearances I was trying to maintain to fit in were wasted efforts. After a short silence, I asked Masaki what was happening. “Sumimasen,” Masaki said to the stylist and the rest of what he spoke sounded soft and apologetic. He turned to me. “He said he’s putting in dark yellow.” Masaki began biting his thumbnail. Looking at my friend’s calm appearance and hearing his tone made me angry at all the “sumimasens” in this culture—all the apologies to people who didn’t deserve it. “Dark yellow?”
My gut twisted up. The stark lighting and gleaming white interior of the salon began to feel like an asylum. The stylist pointed at his suede tan shoe and said something in a staccato tone. “He says it’ll be the colour of his shoe.” “His shoe?” The heat rose through my face, tears welled up. The stylist rinsed the third colour and dried it. Masaki’s grimace confirmed how awful it looked. It took every ounce of hope I had left to look. “This isn’t the colour of his shoe,” I said, dabbing the corners of my eyes with my fingertips. Masaki’s hands were now in prayer, held in front of his mouth and nose. “No, it’s not. Oh my God, I can’t believe it.” The stylist spoke to Masaki; hand on hip, motioning with a comb in front of his eyes. My friend nodded, and then touched my shoulder gently. “He’d like to know what you’ve decided about your eyebrows.” I had no words. I got up out of the chair, unhooked the cape from my neck and grabbed my purse. I heard Masaki having a low conversation with the stylist. It was important to save face in Japan and I was not doing it very well. I reluctantly paid for the disaster, for the time the stylist spent trying to redirect the storm. I handed over the equivalent of $120.00 to the counterwoman who would not meet my eyes. Once outside, I looked at my friend’s drooping shoulders and could sense his regret even if he did not speak it. I gave him a quick good-bye hug, politely declining his offer to take me to another salon the next day. I already envisioned myself with dark hair to cover this choppy mass
of sun-bleached grass and would do it at a different place, with my broken Japanese and animated gestures. I put my head down and trudged back to my apartment, grateful it was night; not because of my appearance, that would fix itself in time. The dark empty streets seemed to suspend time. I wasn’t the gaijin teacher expending reserve energy to entertain students; I wasn’t the stand out in a crowd; I wasn’t the awkward foreigner making up for my lack of communication skills by being a buffoon. I was just me, piecing together the broken parts of the person I was with the person I was becoming. Not all parts would necessarily fit but hushed moments like these in the velvet allies, were a reprieve from the constant disarrangement. Keeping my eyes lowered, I checked my footing over the uneven sidewalk, the result of annual typhoons and earthquakes, and when I glanced up, the streetlights and signage of lines and squiggles were one fluorescent blur.
Karen Faryna
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Second Place Winner Poetry The Kid Who Hid His Head in a Box © Robert “Max Tell” Stelmach Brother Bro feared all things, Spider webs and bee-type stings. He had a fear of falling rocks, So hid his head inside a box. He cut two holes to fit his eyes, He feared the faces of surprise, As he walked from here to there, Even up and down the stairs. Mother worried, fretted so, Spied on every to and fro. "Dr. Dr., do you think . . . ?" Father questioned Dr. Shrink. Every effort, ever tried Little brother pushed aside. Until Sis cured his dread With a bucket on her head.
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Second Place Winner Fiction Amid Ravens, a Reader Š Kyle McKillop They would come in the night, like ideas, slipping in for interrogations and leaving shadows in the morning. When they departed, other things vanished too: documents gathered in boxes; evidentiary clothing; a somnambulant father or well-studied aunt; a small oppositional lineage; and, just once on this particular street, a daughter on the eve of her eighteenth birthday. When the visits began, neighbours became elliptical, children more alert, and sleep less sound. Mr. Ledger pretended not to notice. In his inherited brownstone house, in one of the two shabby pink wing-back chairs by the radiator in the sitting room his father had converted into a library, Mr. Ledger read the books he could no longer find elsewhere. He knew of only one or two other such sanctuaries, with so many lost volumes on walnut shelves. The curtains drawn, tea steeped, and his fading body warm in his chair’s familiar embrace, he worked his way through the stacks of books that he kept on a pedestal table between the chairs. On the night they came for him, he was lost in a sun-faded paperback copy of Catch-22, the plot unravelling in spins. After midnight, at the line everything but England was in the hands of mobs, mobs, mobs, he heard a shuffle of footsteps down the hall on the front stoop. His breath stuck. Only they would come at this hour. What drew them here? The conversation earlier, coming home from the bank, when Mr. Mann next-door, his son gone to the camps, had almost ran away when Mr. Ledger tried to discuss the dearth of real science in contemporary detective novels? These writers are
solving everything with accidents and shakedowns, Mr. Ledger had called to the bowed back as it fled. Now voices shivered outside and he heard the mail slot mew at a peeking eye. Maybe they were here because of his stories: his publisher declined all he sent, though his writing had sold well before the war. The inheritance sustained him, as did the little he made freelancing nonsense for newly jingoistic newspapers. Though knowing it unlikely, and possibly even egotistical, he thought that perhaps his literary reputation had been maintained in some secret office. More probably, however, an acquaintance had reported him. He had neither the prestige of Mr. Jones, the retired soldier who lived on the corner, nor the bonhomie of the baker Mr. Huelsmeier. He knew that few people appreciated his particular vein of conversation, his plot summaries, authorial praises and recollections of old ways. Though most were bemused, a few avoided his gray-haired approach and no one borrowed books any more. A fist thumped on the bolted front door. The knock was loud, even commanding; its shadow of voices, though murmured, was coercive. The pages rustled in his hands, like mice scurrying for cover. He waited in his chair, frozen. Within moments came another knock. A thin line of sweat ran down his side, bleeding his nerves, and anger struck him: no. Let them try and come. There were thirty-six pages left in the book, this book with more power than they could imagine, and he was going to finish. He managed another page before they broke the door down, flashlights cutting through the entryway’s toothy gap. It’s after curfew. A cold draft filled the house as in single file they breached the threshold. They are going to put you in jail. Defiant, he ignored them as his heartbeat thundered to the protagonist’s fictional climax. On his floorboards, the punch of boots echoed into the kitchen and then scuffed through the library, past the high back of the very chair he
occupied. Let them keep looking, he thought, if they are fool enough to miss me. The footfalls split: some descended into the cobwebbed basement and more climbed the carpeted stairs to his bedroom and office. A surge of clatter and voice accompanied each penetration. He kept reading, words moving through his head as the figures lit his house. There was nothing he could do to save himself. Empty-handed, annoyance audible, they began to gather in the hall. Mr. Ledger did not notice the form behind him in the library until it gave a crisp feminine summons. He read as the searchers gathered behind the chair, his head secreted under its wing. Only in the back of his mind did he hear her sending her crew back to the cupboards and closets and crannies where a homeowner might hide. One blank-faced man, unshaven, came across to examine the careful arrangement of armchairs. Mr. Ledger kept reading, his breath paused: the invader looked behind the curtains, checked the chairs in a glance and, satisfied, walked back down the library, pulling at shelved books as if to check for secret entrances. I really do admire you a bit. The draft ruffling his thinning hair, Mr. Ledger exhaled in a long slow choke. He risked an uncertain look back along the bookcases as the man wandered into the kitchen. Only the woman remained in the library, feathered by the dark corners as she examined a novel. The movement must have drawn her attention – she swivelled and looked across the room into his eyes. She made an astonished sound and he, stubborn, turned in his chair to continue: These are very critical times. She shouted for assistance as she ran across the room, skidding on the rug in front of the chairs. She stared at him; she turned to the other chair; her young face flushed and she gaped. Her colleagues appeared in shady clumps. “What? What did you find?�
She gestured at the chairs. “He was here. He was right here.” Her changed eyes made a grid search of the library. I’d like to take him outside and shoot him. A sturdy man, raven-nosed, sank to his knees to check beneath the chairs: “He won’t be under there,” she said with ice, shaking her head and reaching forward to pat the chair anyway. Mr. Ledger shivered as he read, feeling her hand pass through his abdomen like fingers through the pour of a faucet: he was the flow. It takes my mind off my troubles. She stepped back, a mask settling. Sending half of the men to continue the search and the rest outside for boxes, she leaned against a wall of poetry to think. He was wide-awake, and he knew he was a prisoner in one of those sleepless, bedridden nights that would take an eternity to dissolve into dawn. Mr. Ledger paused to imagine the black vans outside. And to consider in panic: why did they not see him? Or feel him? But this young woman had seen him, had shouted and then lost him. An experiment formed in his mind, the way a plot sometimes could. Returning to the book, he rose from the armchair as he read. He found excuse to caress the wound with his fingers again and again to convince himself of his own courage. His striped socks were light on the parquet floor as he crossed and stood beside her. Still reading, he cleared his throat. She sprung to the side, driving her eyes around the room. He read as she willed herself into deep breaths. Shoulders square, she called out, “I know you’re here, Mr. Ledger, and I know we’ll find you before long. Save me some time, please, and show yourself.” And something came to him: that voice. And he lifted his eyes from the page to truly see her, formidable in black and yet clear in his memory. Her eyes seized on his sudden form. “Mr. Ledger. Stay where you are.” Five paces separated them.
It came to him, the name her parents gave her: “Callie.” As her limbs kicked into attack, her face dark, he lifted his warm book and began to read again: Yossarian felt his heart stop, then pound so violently he found it difficult to breathe. She shouted and it did not matter: he was gone. Her rushing arms grabbed air. Reading through the last pages of the novel, Mr. Ledger walked the room until by touch he recognized a certain spine. Somewhere in his mind, behind the story, played the image of a girl, the neighbour’s daughter who had disappeared like a ship at sea. He remembered her books, their conversations and trades. He paced the library, pages lamp-lit, oblivious of her exit and the posting of a guard. I’m very frightened. Dark shapes carried evidence to vans. His free hand released the desired book from the shelf and that independence buoyed his sagging shoulders. It proves you’re still alive: the last lines unwound under his tracing finger, his mumbling mouth, and he held the first page of the freed volume beside it, eyes flowing from one text into the next. He sailed from home, the words ready to alter states: Now I shall tell you of things that change, new being out of old.
Kyle McKillop
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Third Place Winner Non-Fiction Etched on Stone © Donna Terrill
I pull up to the curb in a midnight-blue Kia hatchback rental. “So Budget imports cars all the way from South Korea with General Motors just down the road,” my father, Arthur observes, cynically. He grips the shiny, metal cane that supports his slight frame with both age-spotted hands. “Not so different from driving the only Ford in the GM employees’ parking lot, eh, Dad?” I chuckle as I remind my father of his stubborn rebelliousness. Thirty years of working on a General Motors assembly line didn’t change his opinion of Ford’s superior product. I leave the engine idling in the loading zone in front of the seniors’ apartment building, now my parents’ home, and help Arthur, my 89 yearold father settle himself into the passenger seat. The sinewy muscles in his diminished upper arms grow taut as he hoists his geriatric walking shoes and cane into the compact car and fumbles to find his seatbelt. His pale blue eyes soften with approval as he admits, “Lots of foot room, though.” Even after two years of forced ‘passenger’ status Arthur still fumes at the unfairness of losing his drivers’ license after his heart valve replacement. He obsesses about his responses when, during a drug-addled state in the post-surgery recovery room he may have sounded confused. I commiserate with him but don’t point out the obvious – the weakness in his legs alone would make him a safety hazard on the road. My mother, Anna does all their driving now, rarely beyond a twenty kilometer circumference from home.
“So, Dad, be my navigator – where is the hair salon?” We drive the few blocks through the tree-lined streets, past red brick, gingerbread- iced century homes, heading towards the downtown shops. My mother has a standing appointment at ten am Fridays at Helen’s Cut ‘n Curl, a necessary indulgence as her sleep apnea head-gear wreaks havoc with her thinning hair. Anna can’t be blamed for her hair vanity -- losing her former lush brunette crowning glory was a much harder adjustment to old age than varicose veins or blood pressure medication. They pass Morrison’s funeral home with the sleek, pewter-toned hearse parked in the circular driveway, the stretch limos lining the street and a cluster of somberly dressed mourners spilling out of the chapel. “There goes old George Lowry. Died in his sleep the day after his 90th birthday. We went to his visitation yesterday. He used to court your Aunt Norma but he was never good enough for her. I’ll bet it burned her up when his farm sold for well over a million a few years ago. Your mother says we should sit down with the funeral people ourselves and make some plans – someday when we get some time.” Arthur points an arthritic finger towards the hair salon. “We’re lucky, there’s a parking space right in front and there’s my sweetie, waving us down. She always feels so good after her hair-do.” Anna, in her pastel Tan Jay pant suit has pink spots of colour on her cheekbones after her turn under the dryer hood. We admire her comb-out as she climbs into the back seat of the Kia. Her freshly coiffed silvery-white head of lacquered curls were strategically arranged to reveal only a little of her shiny pink scalp underneath. Anna’s hair stylist is a miracle worker -the foyer of her shop is often crammed with aluminum walkers belonging to octogenarians in search of Helen’s restorative powers. Arthur directs my route out of town by way of the back roads that run through farmland and forests. A traditional feature of my semi-annual visit
with my parents is a field trip to a rural cemetery, this time the one where Anna’s parents and siblings have been laid to rest. We take the scenic drive along the shore of Lake Ontario, the rolling green acreages inhabited now with mostly ‘gentleman’ farmers, riding stables surrounded by sparkling white, wooden fences and lavish retreats belonging to moneyed Torontonians. There is a rumour that one of the properties belongs to Conrad Black and Barbara Amiel. We always try to guess which one it is – could it be the place flying the Union Jack or maybe where golden palominos graze in the pasture? “Is it too early for the hollyhocks to be in bloom?” I wonder. My mother’s favourite part of this drive is the stretch of road bordered by a row of multi-coloured hollyhocks that seems to expand along the fence line farther each year. We are not disappointed – around the next curve in the road the pink, fuchsia, yellow and coral blooms on tall, slender stalks come into view, a surprisingly homey touch in this well-heeled neighbourhood. “They’re biennials, you know. They’ll probably out-last us all” Anna explains. Our cemetery visits always begin with a stop at Tim Horton’s for coffee and sandwiches, then on through the open cemetery gates towards our ‘family section’. This is one of those gracious, old-style burial grounds that still allows tall monuments and planted flower beds at the gravesides. I drive slowly along the meandering graveled roadway and stop as close as I can to the Harrison plots. My mother had twelve siblings with only four remaining so it is a sizeable section. We unload ourselves and our lunch. I have my favourite headstones. Uncle Jo’s has a chiselled fiddle in the polished granite, a tribute to his musical talent. Cousin Herb’s stone depicts an etched drawing of him riding his tractor with his head turned towards us. The likeness is staggering. Anna installs Arthur on the ‘Harrison bench’ and bends down to deadhead some marigolds at her brother-in-law’s grave. Her sister Mae would
do the same for her. She says “Let’s sit with your dad and have lunch before our coffees cool off.” The commemorative bench, formed from durable plastic wood was donated to the cemetery in memory of my grandparents. It sits under a maple tree. We look out on the lush, green lawn and the grey and ebony granite markers. We finish off the sandwiches and sip our coffees in companionable silence. Strangely, it is not eerie or morbid. The cemetery visit has become a comfortable custom. Anna gathers up the empty cups and bags and announces, “Now, just wait until you see our surprise.” She points to a new gravestone in a soft dovegrey granite, not far away. It has a sleek, modern design and I gasp at the stylized printing across the top – HARRISON . “We finally did it! Do you like it?” Anna asks with a big grin. “It’s…it’s…” I sputter. My parents’ full names and birth years are chiseled into the smooth stone with a hyphen, then a blank space awaiting completion with the years of their deaths. Then “Oh my God, my name is there too!” I say as I read the bottom line. “Loving parents of Louise, Donna, Brenda and Jay! It’s...it’s nice...but why?” Arthur looks at Anna. They both smile with a sense of satisfaction on the completion of their project. They are pleased with themselves and unafraid of the inevitability of it all. Arthur says, “One less thing for you bunch to worry about and this way we get the one we want!”
Donna Terrill
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Third Place Winner Poetry Western Bleeding Heart: Dicentra Formosa © Vanessa Winn She plants her bleeding heart in the garden, fingers rooting six inches under, freed from unforgiving constraints, returning amidst dirt and ashes and dust. Pendent flowers hang suspended arched over silver lace leaves: the freshly worked soil, done. The crusting skin of earth waits She can feel the rhythm embedded pulse under hands and feet downtrodden. The hum of homeward traffic, oblivious chattering birds, covers her heart’s faint tattoo But it is there still, beating Resting among roses, barbed markers of the seasons, weathering each winter’s rages, shorn The dead-headed narcissus
spent over the site, trumpeted golden youth truncated by sunny self-adulation The tulips’ song must fade to echoes, mouths falling slackly open in annual subliminal slumber But she takes heart from the iris standing sentinel, pointed blades impervious to the gathering heat of the sun Blue eyes form under lids, watchful, a silent witness to grave renewal
Vanessa Winn
2nd Annual RCLAS Write On! Contest 2014 Third Place Winner Fiction Tango,solo © Elizabeth Houlton Schofield
A serene presence in a sea of lesser beings, Antonia is Audrey Hepburn in dark glasses and a large hat, wafting a faint air of Chanel No.5. Reality is ruder than her fiction. Nothing about Antonia’s progress from the budget parking lot to check-in bears any resemblance to her dream of airline travel. Rude humanity does not part for her, her cart goes sideways and close study in a plate glass door reveals a woman wearing silly clothes and too much make-up. Antonia has been thinking about how she might entice him for weeks, ever since he mentioned Montreal. He said, “Let’s go on a romantic getaway. I want to enjoy you in peace.” Rosy with pleasure at the thought of him, Antonia pictures kissing and conversation, cuddling and cocktails while she wanders around their hotel room in her new silks. She is besotted, has been since they first met.
Already anxious, she’s resolute that this fledgling romance will not go the way of all her others. Their rendezvous have all ended the same way, hurried fumblings in the car or her apartment. Antonia, knowing that he is going home to his arid marriage, he told her so, returns to her solitary bed. Now, they are going away for a few passionate days together. Antonia’s heart beats just a little faster as she conjures herself in his arms. A couple well ahead of her in the line-up for the restaurant are parting. Antonia’s lover is the traveller. His wife leans into him as they walk to their table. That couple are arguing now. Antonia can hear every word they’re saying, she can’t help but glance over. She wants to see, as all women would, what his wife looks like, how she dresses, what she’s saying. The wife is speaking, “You’re always going on these business trips,” her tone wheedling, disagreeable. “I don’t see why I can’t come with you some of the time, not every time, of course—the children.” “You’d be bored witless. All that time alone, and the dinners, the godawful dinners with clients.” He takes a long draft of his beer, looking
past his wife in Antonia’s direction, he sees her. Antonia, blushing, turns away, or tries to. Ill at ease she shifts in her seat, fiddling with the dessert menu. “I’d like the opportunity to be bored,” the woman’s tone is petulant now, “I have to stay home with your children ...” “You’ve always said it would be incredibly disruptive to take them out of school,” he says, “No, I meant now that they’re old enough to be left, I could come with you. We could practise our dancing.” Antonia is all ears, what kind of dancing? “Just because you bought tango lessons for Christmas, doesn’t mean I’m bloody enjoying it. That’s the last thing I want to do after a day’s work.” His wife looks as if she is about to cry, “I thought you liked it. You are always ready early on a Tuesday. She likes to pick you to demonstrate. You
stay behind at the end for extra practice, while I go to let the babysitter go home.” Antonia is leaning forward now, anxious to catch the rest of the conversation. The husband, her lover, gets straight to the point. “I just don’t think that a business trip is any place for intimacy,” he says. The wife gets up from the table and dashes for the washroom. Antonia, horrified at his revelation, looks at the husband; he looks directly at her. She shies away, blushing furiously, the colour creeping up from her chest onto her neck, then into her cheeks. She thinks, I should be able to find a good man, a decent man, I deserve that. Her change of heart does not linger. Even before the check can arrive, Antonia is already considering her outfit for dinner the following day, the dinner that she wants to be the zenith of her up to now less than stellar romantic career. Antonia floats down the staircase, poised, smiling secretly. He’ll be captivated, studying her all evening as they eat; sharing forkfuls of food, he’ll be whispering in her ear. Then, sliding his hands up to the tops of her
stockings, he’ll gasp with pleasure as his fingertips brush the bare skin on her inner thigh. Later, he will watch with darkening lust as she slowly undoes the buttons on the silk crepe. It slides noiselessly to the floor. Then he’ll say, “Antonia, I love you. I love only you. Will you be my...” “Thank you ma’am, will there be anything else?” The waiter smiles down at her. The couple stand ready to leave. Antonia rushes out after them, making her way at a discrete distance to the security gate. She joins the end of the long lineup behind them. Their physical proximity makes her feel like a voyeur, uncomfortable, naughty. Suddenly, it dawns on her! So suddenly that a little gasp of horror escapes from her lips. Whoa! Tango Tuesdays are Team Meeting Tuesdays. Instead of moving forward with the line she stands perfectly still, her cheeks blazing, not with embarrassment, but with raw anger at herself, her stupidity, her sad desperation. He’s lying to her, as well as to his wife.
Antonia never gets to see him on a Tuesday; he’s says he’s busy with his team at work, or now, as she finds out, with his wife or his tango instructor. The man that never does anything with his wife any more. The man who isn’t loved or understood by his wife at all. He tangos on a Tuesday? Now she is consumed by fury, at herself, at him, at his wife for putting up with him for all these years. Why did she, Antonia, not see him for who he is? The bastard has the audacity to take his leave of his wife in front of his lover at an airport bar, and she is stupid and wretched enough to let him. They are both stupid, silly women to let him. Antonia, forcing back the tears that threaten to cascade down her cheeks, bites her lip, fights a rising tide of nausea. As she turns away, he is kissing his wife. It isn’t a chaste peck on the cheek, but a long, smouldering kiss. He is looking over the woman’s shoulder at Antonia. He winks. The sleazebag winks.
Measuring the situation, despite the nausea, Antonia works hard to calm herself. She forces herself to face him. His wife is walking away. He smiles at Antonia and winks again, a practised lecher. It takes all her selfcontrol, all her resolve, but she smiles back. He crooks his finger at her, a gesture of possession. She smiles vaguely in his direction, determined to avoid eye contact, but failing. He taps his watch at her; he means her to hurry. Antonia smiles at him, again. The line-up behind her moves in front as she deliberately opens her bag, fiddling for a long time with the zipper. Extracting a lipstick and pocket mirror, Antonia carefully applies a new coat of lipstick. He grimaces at her from the other side of security. He is turning, desperate, straining to catch a glimpse of her. Antonia puts away her make-up. His bag is on the conveyor to the x-ray machine. She takes out her cell phone. She sends a text. He turns to face her, before being shoved firmly through the metal detector. Antonia
points to her phone, waving it at him. On the other side of security he reads her text. Enjoy yourself, learn to Tango solo. Turning, she walks briskly out of the airport concourse, into the clean, unsullied mountain air.
Elizabeth Houlton Schofield
Copyright remains with the author. All rights reserved. Do not publish or use in any form without the author’s permission.
2014 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS Non-Fiction Winners KYLE MCKILLOP, a poet and teacher who grew up in Victoria, BC, has travelled in 28 countries on four continents, living in Ireland, South Korea, and Trinidad along the way. His published writing includes poetry and travelogues, and he is a member of the Royal City Literary Arts Society.
KAREN FARYNA is a lower mainland high school English/Art teacher and 2014 graduate of SFU’s The Writer’s Studio. In her late twenties, she lived in Okinawa, Japan for three years where she worked, traveled and wrote extensively. This experience became a major influence in her desire to become a writer and is the basis for the memoir of short stories she is currently writing. She is also finishing the second draft of her first fiction novel which explores contemporary themes involving identity, social media, and the selfhelp industry. Karen resides in Richmond, BC with her husband and two sons.
DONNA TERRILL has had a varied career ranging from writing and delivering environmental education programs for the regional government to managing and training sales teams for an international company. Born and raised in Ontario, she moved west in the ‘70’s, making her home in the Slocan Valley of the West Kootenay region and in Vancouver. She has attained degrees in psychology, social work and education and more recently, participated in many creative writing courses throughout the lower mainland. For 5 years she hosted regular shows on women’s issues on Co-op Radio, researching topics, writing copy and conducting on-air interviews.
2014 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS Poetry Winners AIDAN CHAFE is a poet and teacher. He has moonlighted as a journalist and currently enjoys performing his writing at various venues around Vancouver and the Lower Mainland. When he’s not marking papers he can be found chasing hockey pucks or waxing on the current state of the public affairs.
Award winning songwriter for kids, Robert "MAX TELL" Stelmach, dubbed "The International Troubadour" and "BC's answer to Dr. Seuss" has been delighting young audiences with his songs, stories, and poems since 1986. He has seven world tours and six acclaimed CDs to his credit. Ten of his songs and stories have received Honourable Mention in national and international competitions, including The Australian Songwriters’ Association Competition, The West Coast Songwriting Competition, and The International Songwriting Competition. His song "Cat in My Hoody" was a first place winner in the 2012 Great American Songwriting Contest, in the children’s lyric category. "Sasquatch" received his most recent Honourable Mention in the 2014 American Amateur Songwriter Contest and is to be published in the May-June issue of American Songwriter. http://www.maxtell.ca/ Born in London, UK, VANESSA WINN lives in Victoria, BC, where she received a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature. Her debut novel, The Chief Factor’s Daughter, was long-listed for the ReLit Awards, runner up for Monday Magazine’s “Favourite Fiction” award, and a finalist for Heritage Group’s prize for new voices in Western Canadian culture. The novel has been a course text for British Columbia History at SFU, and an English course at Vancouver Community College. Vanessa’s non-fiction has appeared in Monday Magazine, and her poetry has been published in Quill’s Canadian Poetry Magazine and Island Writer. She is currently working on another historical novel, set during colonial union after the collapse of the Cariboo gold rush. Beyond her love of the written word, she finds inspiration in dance and teaches Argentine tango. http://vanessawinn.com/
2014 RCLAS Write On! Contest BIOS Fiction Winners CLARISSA P. GREEN’s memoir, fiction and poetry draw on her years as a family therapist and focus on family relationships, aging, and how memories are transformed by time. A Simon Fraser University Writer's Studio graduate, Clarissa’s latest publications are in Untying the Apron and in Animal Companions, Animal Doctors, Animal People.
KYLE MCKILLOP, a poet and teacher who grew up in Victoria, BC, has travelled in 28 countries on four continents, living in Ireland, South Korea, and Trinidad along the way. His published writing includes poetry and travelogues, and he is a member of the Royal City Literary Arts Society.
Like the Beatles, ELIZABETH HOULTON SCHOFIELD was born in Liverpool. As the old saying goes, you can take the girl out of Liverpool... She has been fortunate to have been published by The Globe and Mail, Drunk Monkeys, Barebacklit.com, The Bareback Press and The Surrey International Writers Conference. Stories have also received Honourable mentions with The B.C. Federation of Writers and Room Magazine’s Readers Choice Awards. Elizabeth is currently working on two themed short story collections, Venn Diagrams and Ambigrams and outlining her first novel in the series The Imperial Trilogy. She lives and works in Pitt Meadows, B.C., and is an avid coffee-drinker and frequenter of coffee shops, where many of her stories originate.
View VIDEO here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qvTcoAqUei8&list=U UPAG0nJHE1Tb44U75Z3HplQ
Above: Councillor Bill Harper Bob Robertson & Linda Cullen
Leanne Ewen Organizing Committee Chair
WORKSHOP VIDEOS BY KEN ADER WATCH HERE: http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL97yrIHWs_bT4 kWgp0lF5P_Bs5Gf3AgCe
Marketplace Tables
Margo Bates and Sylvia Taylor
RCLAS Contest winner Donna Terrill, Marketplace participants, Ronsdale Press, Lois Peterson, and publisher’s Kitty Lewis and Richard Olafson
New West Public Library
Author Guy Allen with his wife, Geri Allen with his new novel, AMYOT
Friends and Family – Daniela Elza, Lilija Valis, JJ Lee and son, Skye West and Enrico Renz
Good times! Mike Kvammen & Max Tell at Volume of Authors. Margo Prentice visits the Marketplace. Jacqueline Maire and Franci Louann have some fun!
Candice James, Richard Olafson, Max Tell, Lois Peterson, Ken Ader (the video guy)
RCLAS Marketplace table with Janet Kvammen and Deborah Kelly. Lara Varesi, Bella and Janene White check out our display, books and cards. It was a wonderful day. Thanks to everyone who came by our table that day.
LitFest New West Photos By Janet Kvammen ------------------------------------ April 26, 2014
Candice James with Richard Olafson, Eileen Kernaghan, Open Mic audience.
Renee Saklikar and Andree St. Martin. Artist, Don Portelance and wife, Marilyn. Renee performed with John Oliver in the Gala Showcase.
Janet’s Journal By Janet Kvammen LitFest NewWest 2014 Congratulations to the Arts Council New Westminster, New West Public Library and to all the volunteers who helped to make it a great success. We had a wonderful experience. Friday evening April 25 my husband Mike and I attended the LitFest Opening Night at the NWPL with entertainment by comedy duo Linda Cullen and Bob Robertson followed by a lovely reception. Saturday morning, April 26 RCLAS Secretary Deborah Kelly, Mike and myself set up the RCLAS table at the marketplace. Many took apps and expressed interest in RCLAS membership, events and workshops. Our raffle for a free membership was won by Colleen Lunde. Many people stopped by to inquire more about us. It was a little quiet while the workshops were going on but would get busy very quickly when they all came out. Deborah and I took turns at the marketplace table and were joined by RCLAS members Robert Hirzer and Guy Allen and his wife, Geri. I took photos throughout creating a nice
document of the day. Ken Ader attended workshops making videos with workshop emcee Candice James. I wish to congratulate everyone on a job well done. It was good to see that so many of the workshops were packed! “Volumes of Authors” and the Open Mic at the Amelia Douglas Gallery hosted by Ariadne Sawyer started off the evening events. Open Mic was a great success this year. All lead up to the LitFest New West 2014 Gala Showcase. Everyone was happy to have our three first place winners of the 2nd Annual Write On! Contest featured on the stage of the Laura Muir Theatre once again. Deborah Kelly did an awesome job presenting the award certificates and cash prizes to Kyle McKillop and Aidan Chafe as well as reading an excerpt from Clarissa P. Green’s winning story. Way to go, Deborah! See video here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v= qvTcoAqUei8 A fabulous showcase bursting with talent! Bravo to everyone!
janetkvammen@rclas.com
RCLAS – Royal City Literary Arts Society Website www.rclas.com e-mail secretary@rclas.com
POETIC JUSTICE - Sundays 3:00-5:00 PM (every Sunday except holiday weekends and closed in July/August) The Heritage Grill, BackRoom , 447 Columbia street, New Westminster near Columbia Station. View schedule of Featured Poets here www.poeticjustice.ca ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- -----------------------------------------------SONGWRITERS OPEN MIC NIGHT - Join hosts Enrico Renz and Lawren Nemeth EVERY Sunday eve 7-9 PM - Write it! Bring it! Sing it! The venue is currently subject to change. Find them on their Facebook page “RCLAS New Westminster Songwriter Open Mic” where you can check the venue for that week as well as find the Weekly Word Challenge. www.rclas.com -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------SHORT STORY OPEN MIC NIGHT - Host Margo Prentice – every Second Wednesday of each month) 7:00 to 9 pm. The Renaissance Bookstore, 43 – 6th Street, New Westminster. Bring your short stories. Read from your book, journal, essays. Story tellers welcome. Come to listen, Bring a friend. Enjoy the beverages and snacks from the Renaissance Coffee Bar. http://www.renaissancebookstore.com/ 604-525-4566 WORDPLAY - Once a month, First Wednesday of the month in the Back Room of the Heritage Grill, 447 Columbia Street (half a block from the Columbia Skytrain Station), New Westminster BC. Check out www.rclas.com to confirm. Wrap your mind around the writing prompts we provide. Try your hand at generating some fabulous first drafts, and free your poetic heart! WordPlay is the (free!) monthly poetry-generating drop-in series of each month. Bring your writing tools and paper. This is not a critique group. Let’s have some fun! Next session June 4, Wednesday 7PM with Guest Host, Carol Shillibeer who will be using tarot card prompts. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------THE POETRY WARS: a study group – host Carol Shillibeer - next session Saturday June 21, 2014 - 4:00 to 6:00PM. Third Saturdays of the month in the Back Room of the Heritage Grill, 447 Columbia Street (half a block from the Columbia Skytrain Station), New Westminster BC. Check out www.rclas.com to confirm. Not for the faint at heart, the poetic arts in Canada roil with snark and tendentious commentary. What this study group will do is explore our literary environment (aka the poetry wars), read poems, reviews, texts, commentary. Think about it. Discuss it at the once-a-month study-group meetings. There will be a closed-group blog to enable us to comment out of meeting times and to post links and reading material discovered in our private study. The goal: to understand; to be better poets. Your investment: the group is free of monetary expectation, but investment can also be in mental anguish and sweat. Expect both of the last two. Inquiries: shillibeer@tailfeather.ca
POETRY IN THE PARK – Host Candice James presents featured poets and open mic 6:30pm - 8:30pm every Wed night during July and August at the Queens’ Park Bandshell in Queen’s Park, New Westminster. ***Rain or Shine. If it rains we will be in the Arts Council Gallery space at Queens’ Park Gallery/Centennial Lodge. Look for the totem pole just behind the bandshell. Starts Wednesday July 2 and runs through the summer until August 27. Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/groups/162882397108759/?fref=ts
RCLAS – Royal City Literary Arts Society www.rclas.com
LIFESTORY WRITING : Finding the Extraordinary in the Ordinary - Host Sylvia Taylor June 17, 2014 6:30 – 8:30 PM at the New Westminster Public Library 716 - 6th Ave. From cave walls to computers, humans have been sharing the stories of their lives. Everyone has a LifeStory worth telling and it’s never too late or too early to tell it. Whether it’s a whole-life autobiography, or slice-of-life memoir, for family and friends or the publishing world, our lives take on greater meaning as we contribute to a legacy of history, heritage, and understanding. Free Workshop -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------HAIKU AND BEYOND – Host Terry Ann Carter – Saturday June 21, 2014 2:00 – 4:00 PM. Explore the history of this Japanese literary form, with opportunities to listen to classical (traditional) haiku and contemporary poems from some of the top haiku poets in North America. Learning specific techniques, you will be invited to write and share haiku on various themes: the city, the moon, eroticism, the seasons. Facilitator: Terry Ann Carter is a poet, book maker, and collage artist. The author of Lighting the Global Lantern: A Teacher’s Guide to Writing Haiku and Related Literary Forms, she has taught in China, Singapore, Malaysia, Bahamas, Canada and the U.S., and is an activist for the Tabitha Foundation (Cambodia). Her nine collections of poetry include haiku and longer forms. Terry Ann studied poetry at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, Colorado and is President of Haiku Canada. Location - 737 Sixth Street, New Westminster, Free parking behind building. Enter from the rear
entrance. Members $10, Non-members $20. Seating is limited. Pre-Registration required email secretary@rclas.com Payment http://rclas.com/events/haiku-and-beyond-terry-anncarter-writing-workshop -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WADING INTO THE SWAMP: Getting messy with writing – host Daniela Elza Tuesday July 15, 2014 6:30 – 8:30. Participants will write, share, listen (individually or in groups depending on the numbers) and we will discuss the importance and the messiness of this generative process of writing and its discoveries. Location: New West Public Library, 716 - 6th Avenue. Free Workshop
RCLAS – Royal City Literary Arts Society www.rclas.com
CREATIVE WRITING FOR THE FAINT OF HEART - Host Fran Bourassa Tuesday Aug 12, 2014 6:30 – 8:30 New Westminster Public Library. 10 minute prompts will be given to write on and writers will be asked to read out loud what they write. These workshop prompts may evoke ideas for memoirs: This kind of ‘free writing’ is good for all age groups and levels of writers. With short time limits and evocative prompts, this process bypasses the "editor" in us. Each prompt lets the writer go deeper and take risks. Writing this way generates ideas. It removes blocks and inhibitions. Getting words out, getting them down on paper, sharing memories and feelings with others,making people laugh or making something beautiful out of pain - these things are life enhancing, life affirming and foster empathy and compassion. Location: New West Public Library, 716 - 6th Avenue. Free Workshop ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------SENSES AND CREATIVITY – Host David Blinkhorn Monday Sept 15 6:30-8:45. Journey through the five senses as you search to open doors to free your imagination and find your greater creativity within. workshop will examine the various ways to use the five senses to unlock new attitudes and fresh opportunities for your work. Learn to silence your inner critic and acquire ways to open your eyes to the possibilities and options for your artistry. This course is suitable for all writers including poets. David Blinkhorn is Executive Director of The Federation of BC Writers and a teaching instructor at The Fraser Valley School of Writing. Location - 737 Sixth Street, New Westminster, Free parking behind building.
Enter from the rear entrance. Members $15, Non-members $30. Seating is limited. PreRegistration required email secretary@rclas.com ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------MEMBERSHIP DRIVE – Saturday Sept 20, 2014 1:00-4:00 PM – Features Richard Olafson, Carol Sokoloff, and mystery guest followed by open mic. Our regular membership fee of $28 per year will be reduced THIS DAY ONLY to $20 for a year’s membership. Renew early to take advantage of this perk, or buy a membership for a friend. Reduced rates this day are for in person attendees only at the membership drive, so c’mon out, save some money, enjoy the entertainment and open mic and support RCLAS! Location Heritage Grill, 447 Columbia St., New Westminster BC ( beside Columbia SkyTrain Station) Check out www.rclas.com closer to the date for updated info.
Paul Minhas, Owner (Photo Credit to The Heritage Grill Website) http://theheritagegrill.com/
WORLD POETRY “Life Celebration of Chief Rhonda Larrabee’s Mother” June 25 Wednesday eve 6:30 – 8:30 pm New Westminster Library, 716-6th Ave, New Westminster Open mike. Raffle & Refreshments. Coming events: June 21st – Come as your favorite poet at the Britannia Community Centre
Find out more here http://worldpoetry.ca/
FEEDBACK & E-ZINE SUBMISSIONS
Drop us a line – Janet Kvammen,
RCLAS Director/ Newsletter Editor & Design
janetkvammen@rclas.com
Deborah Kelly secretary@rclas.com
Open Call for Submissions - RCLAS Members Only Poems, Short Stories, Book excerpts & Songs are welcome for submission to future issues of Wordplay at work. RCLAS Members: Please send us your latest news, feedback on our newsletter and any ideas/suggestions that you may have. Would like to write a feature, a review or an article for the newsletter ? Feel free to submit your ideas. Next issue: September 2014 featuring RCLAS Write On! Contest Honourable Mentions View past issues of our E-Zine on Issuu http://issuu.com/rclas/docs
VOLUNTEERS NEEDED! We wish to welcome Sonya Yuen to our team. Sonya is our new RCLAS Volunteer Coordinator. If you would like to participate in a single event, or make an even bigger contribution, please contact our volunteer coordinator.
http://rclas.com/opportunities
RCLAS Book Reviews Call for Submission: Submit your book to Royal City Literary Arts Society Box # 5, 720 Sixth St. New Westminster, BC V3L 3C5
for review in our new monthly review section of our magazine
Wordplay at work.
SPONSORS
Arts Council of New Westminster Wayne Wright Chuck Puchmayr The Heritage Grill Poetic Justice Poetry In The Park Saddlestone International Silver Bow Publishing
June 2014
Wordplay at work
ISSN 2291-4269
Contact: janetkvammen@rclas.com RCLAS Director/ Newsletter Editor & Design