volume 4 | issue 4 | FREE
volume 4 | issue 4
northern canada collective society for writers president Dawn Booth
contents 2
editorial
Hanna Fridhed
3
community report
Kiran Malik-Khan
4
darkness in light
Chris Bowers
5
anomaly
Kiran Malik-Khan
6
missing the calm before the storm
Dawn Booth
7
high in the north
Ryan McCaan
8
dual understandings
Veronica Ephgrave-Wood
10
untitled
Stacey Northcotte
10
good. thanks.
Kiran Malik-Khan
11
the wool over his eyes
Travis Hoyles
managing editor Jane Jacques
13
voyager
Travis Hoyles
president emerita Jennifer Hemstock
13
anomaly?
Jennifer MacMullin
14
spiders
Maggie Britton
14
outside
Scott Meller
15
brief distraction
Desirée Samuelson
16
dinosaur bones
Alisa Caswell
17
marginalia
Douglas Abel
20
contributors
21
transformation
Alan Reeve
22
anomalous us
Kevin Thornton
secretary Warda Syed treasurer Sundas Shamshad public relations director Kiran Malik-Khan e-mail northwordmagazine@gmail.com web www.northwordmagazine.com
This Issue: Volume 4, Number 4 Spring 2020 ISSN 1920-6313 cover Allison Dakin design & layout Rachel White-Murray issue editor Hanna Fridhed
Proudly published in Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada 56°44’N | 111°07’W
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
editorial a·nom·a·ly /ə΄näməlē/ Something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected. It has been an honour to be the guest editor of the 22nd edition of NorthWord Magazine. The
submissions took me on surprising journeys; some made me laugh, others left me speechless, and some made me teary-eyed and soft-hearted. Poetry and prose invites us in, it allows us a
glimpse of the author’s deviation from the standard, their normal, and sometimes what we are shown is more than a little unexpected.
The most anomalous concept is that of “normal,” as it changes and breathes and morphs
around us. Accepting the fact that what you once considered normal is no longer available to
you, that it has transformed into something you don’t recognize – like looking at your face in the mirror, not knowing the person staring back at you – can be difficult and terrifying. But within
that anomaly, that new normal, lies growth and new adventures. There is possibility in change,
and when we try to understand that which is different, a whole new universe can open up to us. Embrace the adventure in your anomaly!
Hanna Fridhed |
2
issue twenty - two editor
volume 4 | issue 4
community report
by kiran malik-khan PR Director
poetry lovers gather for northword’s puzzles issue #21 launch With a zestful open mic, and spirited recitations – North-
Word literary journal’s Issue #21 featuring a theme of “Puzzles” was launched at Points North Gallery on
September 27, 2019 during Alberta Culture Days. The pub-
lication was guest edited by local musician Dave Martin with an exclusive cover created for us by local visual artist Carmen Wells of Ponderosa Studios.
Alberta Culture Days is an “opportunity to discover, expe-
rience and celebrate arts and culture through local events and activities across the province…and is part of National
Culture Days, which includes 300 communities from coast to coast,” as per the official website.
Dave Martin and Carmen Wells at our launch event.
The event started with a perennial favourite – a conversa-
tion with the outgoing and incoming guest editors. The
guest editor for our next issue is Hanna Fridhed, local
“I’m proud to live in a community that continuously
ing “Anomaly,” as a theme.
Alberta Culture Days is that it unites us all, no matter our
actress and Keyano Theatre Publicist. She shared on pick“Anomaly for me is this sense of accepting what was no
focuses on literary arts, and the one thing I love about method of art expression,” she said.
longer normal after 2016, and finding pieces that fit into
“As for our Puzzles launch, Points North Gallery was the
munity you are in. Just because it’s not normal, it’s not
for artists to showcase, and sell their masterpieces. Listen-
a mosaic – whether it was your personal one, or the com-
wrong, even though it might feel wrong, or others might perceive it as wrong. It’s meant to not fit the pattern,” said Fridhed.
perfect place to host as it is the community's central hub ing to others share their written words, surrounded by all
the beautiful painted and crafted pieces, amplified our event’s mood and setting.”
With launching two issues per year, NorthWord aims to
NorthWord is available free of charge at MacDonald Island,
community’s literary arts focus — in April to coincide
Suncor Energy Centre for the Performing Arts, Campbell’s
host their events during times that match best with the
with National Poetry Month and in September with Alberta Culture Days.
Keyano College, Points North Gallery, Mitchell’s Café, Music, Blossoms YMM at the Tattered Bookshop, and the Thickwood YMCA.
NorthWord’s President Dawn Booth explained how it
Like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/northword
gives everyone more reasons to celebrate.
website: www.northwordmagazine.com.
maximizes, not only the public engagement, but also
and follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM. Visit our
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
darkness in light chris bowers
She looked up at the night sky, shivering as the wind picked up and the tall, thin trees around her began to groan like giants awakened from a long slumber. A soft whisper turned into a loud hiss and the cold autumn air threw
brown crisp leaves down at her in an effort to bring her attention back to
the ground, but it wasn’t enough to break her upwards gaze. She crossed her arms to fend off the chill, took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing a dancing swirl of mist which quickly disappeared into the emptiness above. Empty. A deep gravelly voice boomed in her head and her eyes darted from each
flickering light in a panic. There was nothing between her and those stars: no walls, no ceiling, no shield of any kind. Her hand stretched out as if she could pluck them from the sky but, despite her lengthy arms, she found they
were just out of reach. Her breath caught and she gasped for air. Her pulse quickened and sweat rolled over her forehead. Laughter. Her eyes dropped to the light coming from the shallow stone pit nearby. The
gentle pop and crackling of tree sap coming from the logs on the fire in front of her caught her attention. Unfamiliar faces illuminated by the soft warm glow slowly began to come in to focus as she blinked in an effort to clear
her weary eyes. She was sitting in a circle with them. She remembered now - this was her first time at camp. The girls around her were clapping their hands and singing; each one of them smiling, cheeks red from the icy air.
She shrank back into herself, bringing her knees up to her chest and once
again wrapping her arms around her. She shuddered. The singing continued
to ring out around her, becoming more and more muffled as her eyes got lost in the flames. She watched peacefully as the amber glow swayed back and forth.
“You ok?” the girl next to her suddenly asked, nudging her with a sharp elbow.
Once again, her gaze did not break. A small grin appeared on her face and her lips slowly parted to speak.
“Have you ever wondered what keeps the fire going?” she asked in a quiet
voice. “There is wood. There is heat. There is light. But what is it? We can see it but we can’t touch it. It has no substance. Where does it come from? Does it
even exist at all? Is it a ghost?” her voice wavered as she squinted at the light. The laughter and singing stopped. The faces were staring now. The only sound filling the air was the crackle of the fire which, in itself, seemed to be
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getting brighter as the silence around them grew. She
tried to avoid making eye contact with them but couldn’t help noticing them giggle and gawk at her. The moment seemed to last an eternity, but eventually the singing
slowly started again and all sets of eyes slowly shifted away from her. Except one.
The girl sitting next to her was still staring. Her face was one of concern. After a time the girl slowly nodded her head.
“What’s your name, friend?” the girl asked. “My name’s Emma.”
She looked at the Emma blankly, the reflection of the flames still dancing in her eyes.
“Ann. Ann Amalie,” she answered in the same voice as before.
Emma turned for a brief moment to the still crackling fire, trying to see what Ann was seeing. The coals were begin-
ning to glow a deep orange and, as she continued staring into the fire pit, something caught her eye. She squinted
and leaned forward, trying for a closer look. For a moment
she thought she saw…no. No. The light was playing tricks. She shook her head and turned back to Ann.
anomaly kiran malik-khan The only anomaly in life
is the absence of disillusionment – Wait
for
it.
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
missing the calm before the storm dawn booth
To be stuck in the usual tranquillity,
I wish I could have stayed there longer.
I wish I could have remained in the still, calm, set place. Because what came next, all of its instability;
It was almost unbearable, almost unmanageable – almost un-everything. Until it wasn’t. The presage (unbelievably unpredictable);
If I had only fast-forwarded through the presage that ripped my heart out and almost kept it from beating – almost. If I had only overlooked the warning. I wish I overlooked the warning.
Because it crept up on me, and it crept hard. Hard, and long, and it was agonizing. I could have dealt with the shock, the surprise.
Instead, I got a ten-second calm, followed by ten months of chaos. A ten-month presage to what may now last my lifetime.
Always a warning with nothing to follow-up, just more follow-ups. Nothing to predict, just more potential predictions. Stuck in-between the calm and the storm; And, only wanting the calm.
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high in the north ryan mccaan
When I finally tried it, it was love at first sight
Thought to myself, where it had been all my life
The puzzling thing is that all my friends were in that room Ten years later, total isolation, crippled with doom
I was without a doubt the black sheep, standing out in the crowd The reality was, just wanted to make my father proud
But the road that I chose, was dark and lonely to say the least Each and every day I would battle that enormous red beast I did not live each day like the others
As I watched them perish, those men were my brothers They were dropping like flies, and I thought I was next
That one night in the woods, got ready to send that last text To my family, and my friends, it was all just too much
Felt like a man with no legs, trying to walk without a crutch In my mind I disagreed the way I was going
But I couldn’t control it, I was in a boat but wasn't rowing Those paddles, they had sunk deep down below In the fires of hell, that hot lava, it would flow I managed to escape after 20 years of torture
but let me tell you this, it sure was a scorcher
with all those life experiences, I stand here today
to help other people who have also lost their way to be free, to be happy, isn't it what it’s all about
I want them to find peace, and not to carry any doubt
about who they are inside, even if you think you're strange I am weird too, all the best, and don't you ever, ever change
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
dual understandings veronica ephgrave-wood
I: PHENOMENON CRITIQUE OF PURE REASON. This was scrawled across the cover of the book being read by the man sitting opposite me. I read the title, then sat, blank, eyes fixated on the meaningless words.
In one ear, there is frantic typing, the keystrokes sounding as a heavy
rainfall. In the other, there are teen girls giggling in the DVD section to my right. Report… The word crept into my mind, and I leapt up in my seat.
RIGHT. My eyes rolled down to look at the blank word processing document on my screen. This was all I had so far to hand into my virology professor
tomorrow. That page is worth 30% of your grade. As unsettling as the thought was, I couldn’t find an ounce of motivation to ramble about my findings
regarding viral structures. I had half a mind to take the fifty pound book to my right and hit my forehead with it. Instead, I went for a little stroll.
I found myself wandering between high shelves of assorted adult fiction. I paused to peruse over the bindings, reading the titles. “How long has it been?” I heard myself murmur.
Growing up, fiction was labeled “a waste of time.” My dad forced me to
read my science textbooks from school, look up science books in my reading level, or above. I used to sneak home fiction and slip it into the larger books.
He didn’t even know. As I was about to pull a book out, I saw someone appear. It was as if she had materialized right there against the wall, from
nowhere. Giving her a quick glance, I realized she was staring at me.
Caught in her gaze, I could see that her dark eyes were inhumanly deep, like two large black hole pupils boring into my soul. “He-he-hello?”
The stutter embarrassed me, but I quickly set the emotion aside for the anxiety welling up in me. Her neutral expression lightened a little. She
whispered, “Hiiii.” My whole body spasmed in response, sweat building up on my forehead. She stepped toward me, her legs almost pushed behind
her in an awful sort of way. She looked down, up, smiling, and placed her hand on mine.
Her ghoulish pale skin clashed with my dark pigment. I couldn’t say a word, 8
volume 4 | issue 4
I don’t know what came over me, the sweat dripped
down my cheek, my teeth clenched. I couldn’t breathe.
Her mouth opened into a voracious grin, her eyes wider,
II: NOUMENON It has been a long time waiting.
bright. I thought she was about to laugh, but as her eyes
A long time since I last had risen from the comfortable
Without warning, she whipped her hand away, covered
apart the bonds that tie me here.
moved in the direction of our hands, her smile faltered. her ears and screamed, so shrilly I thought my brain exploded. “Wha-”
Gone. Mid scream. Totally disappeared. “What…” A
young woman stepped into the walkway, looking at the “L” authors. I cleared my throat. “Sorry.” Startled,
she whipped her face towards me. “Oh… for what?” She sounded shy. “Oh, uh, the noise…”
“That’s ok, I didn’t even know-” She stopped, as if confused, then left the aisle. No explanation. No form of logic could provide reasoning for this occurrence.
I know that I am sane.
flames, they tug at me as I push through atoms, pull
I know out there is a constant night, outside the rays of
the corona I flare from. All the hours pass against a void backdrop of nullity, speckled by brethren of all colours and temperaments.
Equal to zero is this system’s irregularity, revolving, selfinvolved, unable to detect my annual observation.
My understanding does not reach a conclusion to how we connect, but its blue green presence calls to every molecule of my being. Something alive.
If I focus, I can hear it. I can hear the voices, and the
diversity of communication emanating from the rock. Something alive.
An interruption of the natural order, perhaps?
One voice explains,
A blip on the screen of my interpretation of reality?
“In simplest words, the anomaly is the angular distance
I took the book off the shelf I had planned to read, packed up, and went home.
I decided, just maybe, science isn’t for me.
from a planet to its point in its orbit that’s closest to the sun.”
Yes, Earth. That is its name. I will not forget this time.
I absorb the voices, the conflicts, the language, until it
passes, and once again I sink back into the hole, where I belong.
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
untitled stacey northcotte It matters not
the direction of the wind. A gust to the east
with you I still bend. We share the same soil for both of our roots.
If the earth were to shake I’d tremble with you.
Yet, an anomaly is what is seen
when they spot the pale birch tree.
How it stands with arms tangled and wide among a glorious forest of emerald pines.
good. thanks.
kiran malik-khan Don’t break the pattern Don’t surprise them
The correct answer to “how are you?” “How’s it going?”
is not your sob story
Not the saga of your worries
Not you waiting on a medical indictment Afraid for a loved one’s future Not any of the above
Just say “good,” “thanks” And move on. Good.
Thanks.
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volume 4 | issue 4
the wool over his eyes travis hoyles
In this barn we will stay for the next few months. It is bad, but outside, outside it is cold. Out there, trees are
bent to a great degree, branches practically touching the iced earth. Through a hole in the wall one can see an old
trough that has shards living between the split wood. Just below the trough, a poor squirrel exists, petrified as
a consequence of its hunger. Overhead, the pale device of the sun hangs low and bitter, each solemn ray cast of iron. And yet, despite the horrendous environment...I
wish to be out there. In here, in this barn, I am too much. The rest are together. I am alone.
If tomorrow is anything like today (or yesterday), I will
be shunned. There are forty of us - well, thirty-nine of them, one of me.
I was born within this herd. My mother and father both of normal colour. They were chosen well before I could
ever sensibly question them about my wool. What a shame.
I remember the first time I heard about the Shearing. Our keepers come and remove our wool? I really couldn’t wait. They came, them in their strange skins, with funny
things on their heads and rubber feet indifferent to the
swallowings of puddles. One by one they lead the others
in. Twenty left, fifteen left, eight left, three left. One left. Everyone else was naked, yet I was the subject of laughter. I wept.
Two weeks have passed. Where others gain refuge and
snugness among their kin, especially when the night throws out its cover, I lay lonesome, breaking my breath
upon the dirt. Yesterday, a lamb stopped next to me and began to lay out. His ears grazed the floor for nearly a
second before he realized that I was not his older brother.
His eyesight was poor. My heart, for that brief moment, was rekindled, but as I spied him taking his place next to his sibling, a fierce air came into my chest that quelled
any uprising flame. I could only close my eyes. Close my
eyes and dream that my wool was like theirs. White. A month in now. Outside grows harsher still. The frame-
work of our abode is often shook and shoved. But good news! Yesterday I made a friend. Larry is his name. Larry
the mouse. He told me that he came in through a small crack at the southern corner. He is missing half of his
little tail, the poor soul. From what he tells me, he fell asleep two summers ago after eating a stupendous
apple that was cast off from a tree and was woken by the slashing of claws. He cried as he told me. Larry managed
to make an escape, but not before the nasty tabby got
his teeth around his tail. How he must have squirmed and squealed! Anyway, he survived the ordeal and now he is here, and I suppose for that I owe the cat a basket
of thanks. It might be OK this winter. Larry is fun. Larry doesn’t seem to care about my colour.
What a wonderful day today was! There was no end
to the laughter that Larry and I let forth. Two or three times I had thought him missing, only to discover that
the little rascal had scampered to the top of my head, or had covered himself with hay and was waiting to leap
out and startle me. Even Eli, an old sheep who is particularly grumpy, gave a snort once. I now wish that this
Winter could stretch an eternity! How sudden things can change. No doubt, no doubt, no doubt. Larry is currently off with a set of small twin lambs, showing them
jumping tricks and weird, silly faces. Maybe he can put in a good word for me.
Larry didn’t sleep with me last night. Usually he rests
atop my head, a whiskered ornament rising and falling in rhythm with my breathing. He wasn’t there when I
shut my eyes, and when I awoke just a few hours into my sleep, I half-expected him to be there, letting out those sweet, miniscule snores that soften my ears against
the howling racket outside. But no, my crown was bare, and my ears went on, vexed to no end by the ungodly
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
commotions of deep winter. And as to what he is up to
every bit of two-feet deep and his snowshoes had broken
with them. Accepted by them. Well now, here he comes.
drying when his wife opened said door with promi-
today? Oh, he is with them. Laughing with them. Playing It didn’t come as a surprise when Larry told me that he didn’t want to hang around with me anymore. He had
a look on his face that was caught between guilt and eagerness. Guilt, because I believe that it truly did hurt
nent gusto. There wasn’t enough clearance; the door destroyed the shoes. Henry surveyed the barn through
clumped lashes and took his first step. Just as laborious as he imagined. He pressed on.
him to play the part of ill messenger, but eager, because
The handle of the barn door bit through his cotton
watched him go to them. It nearly slew me. I have to get
not manage. Down here, the snow was three feet. All
he also couldn’t wait to return to his new fellowship. I out of here. I don’t care how cold it is out there.
------------------------------------------------------------------It was just about seven o’clock in the morning when
Henry put on his heaviest coat. It was a rather horrid old thing, with patches of stiffness sewn-on from years of farm labor and buttons dangling from thread running slender. But, however grim it may have looked, it made
up for it with warmth, and he had need of it that morn-
ing: it was thirty-five below. It was also his turn to check on the sheep. Henry went outside.
Henry surrendered two small breaths to the frigid morn-
ing. They hung in front of his face briefly before letting go, becoming one with the absolute ivory of the surrounding landscape. The snow en-route to the barn was
12
last week. He had left them beside the door over a duct
glove. He tried to pull the door open, but simply could Henry had to do was clear just enough of the snow away so that the door could swing outward. There was no
shovel about so he went to his knees as curses passed his
chapped lips. After a dozen painful scoops he tried the door. Still not enough. He went at it again, but stopped
when he hit something hard (there was just enough
feeling left in his fingers to let him know). Henry stood
upright and gave a few kicks. The force behind them knocked-off enough snow to reveal what he feared...a sheep. Bending down, Henry sacrificed the remaining
comfort of his hand to brush off a three-inch layer of
powder. Looking up at him through frozen eyes was the only black sheep they ever owned; a beautiful strand of night trapped within the long pale of morning.
volume 4 | issue 4
voyager travis hoyles
December thirty-first, two thousand fourteen. Everybody celebrates the EarthFireworks, gunshots and kisses.
From my clouded helm, a lonesome viewing.
I move faster and at once: darkness and forgotten light. Cold rocks collide outside my spacecraft And scatter debris that forever journey.
Tears develop in front of me and remain there, suspended. I put my helmet back on and engage.
December thirty-first, three thousand fourteen.
A lone vessel enters the atmosphere and burns, descending With a crash a crater is formed,
Nobody left on Earth to discover it. Inside, a ravaged suit lay still
Hosting the yellowed skeleton of the first voyager.
anomaly?
jennifer macmullan Anomaly, abnormally, astonishing, astoundingly amazing. Adorning, admiring, affirming, appreciating adaptability. Affectionate, adventurous, amiable, agile aloofness. Ageless, analytical, amusing, artistic, approachable. Anomaly? Absolutely!
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spiders
maggie britton Weaver of dreams
You make beautiful webs
Constructed partially from fantasy And partially from the past
You draw your prey into your artwork Where they taste the ecstasy
Of freedom and communion with the divine But when they wake
The realization of where they are And why
The façade It hits
Arise: loneliness, excuses, misalignment Between thoughts, words, and actions Coming down
To the heaviness of truth And as the fog clears
They see you unhealed
Passing your pain and spreading it In an attempt at escape From yourself
outside scott meller I live among you
not fitting into your mold you live without me
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brief distraction desirée samuelson Monotonous.
Ring of an alarm. Morning commute. Screen of a computer. Return home. Stale take-out. Bad TV. Sleep.
Repeat. Days go by unnoticed - a never ending loop.
Watching reruns of once favourite TV shows. The words and punchlines falling flat.
Ring of an alarm. Morning commute – “What are you reading”
Brown hair, green eyes, curious smile.
- Screen of a computer. Illuminated phone – something funny; laugh. Dinner uptown. New shows. New bed. Dynamic.
Time passes – each new moment belonging to you.
Ring of an alarm - smile. Meet at our favourite café. Embrace you before I leave. Morning commute. Screen of a
computer. Counting down the minutes until brown hair, green eyes, moist lips. Return home. You await my arrival, perched outside my apartment door. Something’s wrong. “I’m sorry” (Forgive me)
Brown hair. Red eyes. Quivering lips. Alone.
Ring of an alarm. Morning commute. Screen of a computer. Return home. Stale take-out. Bad TV. Sleep.
Repeat.
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dinosaur bones alisa caswell
At one time, horses grew in the big yellow field behind
Orchard Hill Park. Big, muscular draft horses. Friendly
horses that came running for apples we would pick from the old orchard trees in the overgrown wood. The
air smelled of hay. It felt like we lived in the country, even
its origins. We had many discussions.
“A cow!” someone would say. That seemed the obvious answer.
though our suburban houses backed right onto the field.
“Maybe a mammoth?”
There were large, overgrown birch trees in the hedge-
“Or a dinosaur!”
rows separating the east and west fields and we would climb up into their low limbs. We played King-of-theCastle and taunted the kids who remained below.
We built forts among the ferns and fallen logs. The girls
would build forts from the natural walls in the clearings
For days we dragged over new kids who hadn’t seen them yet.
I thought about them often that summer. What were they?
by sweeping the leaves away from the forest floor. The
One day we dug them out and dragged them through
and nails.
halfway between the hedgerow and home.
boys would build structures up in the trees with wood
the field. They were heavy and we had to drop them
One day, we were climbing in the great birch tree with
I asked my father what they could be. He said it was
peculiar peeking out from beneath the leaf rubble.
his theory into consideration.
the split trunk. From up high, I noticed something
Something white, glinting in the sunshine. We rushed down to inspect. Bones! It was the pelvis bone of some large animal. It lay partially exposed under the tree. Why we hadn’t discovered it earlier I don’t know.
16
It was partially buried. We left it there and mused about
“probably a farm animal” when he came to look. I took “Maybe.”
They remained a mystery. There was no way to confirm, after all, what type of dinosaur they had really belonged to.
volume 4 | issue 4
marginalia
The Little Speck of Dust on the Photo
A column by douglas abel
Anomaly. A curious word. It is certainly in my “passive” vocabulary, and I
have read it a number of times. I can and will tell you what it means. But I don’t recall ever deliberately writing it before now, or even using it in con-
versation. It seems that the word is almost “anomalous” in my linguistic experience.
I say “almost,” because an anomaly is more than just an unusual event, observation or fact. An anomaly is an ultimately significant irregularity
or inconsistency, an abnormal deviation from an accepted pattern, order, form or rule. An anomaly definitely does not “fit” what we know, believe, or
expect. It is not just inconsistent; it is incongruous. Because it challenges the
rules, an anomaly can be unsatisfactory, even unacceptable. It must either
be explained away, or explained. As an outlier, it can be judged as an outlaw, deliberately breaking the established order. Its Greek roots point to the effect
that an anomalous event can have. An anomaly is “an—homalos,” “not even;” it is a dangerous bump or pothole in the smooth road of established belief, which can force us to go off course, change direction—or rebuild the road.
Yet the word itself has such a beautiful sound, gentle and peaceful. It’s all
vowels, nasals and liquids, unbroken, flowing. There are no sudden stops, no explosions (plosives), no harsh friction sounds (fricatives). We wouldn’t
expect, while speaking those sounds, that the phenomenon this lovely word denotes can explode established ideas, bring easy assumptions to an abrupt
stop, and act as grit that causes damaging friction in the gears of existing thought systems.
An anomaly is more than just an extreme instance. It is not just a relatively
“unlikely” point on a graph, one of the end points on the familiar bell curve, for example. An anomaly is off the curve, and frequently off the chart. Its existence can force you to go into uncharted intellectual territory, and to redraw the map of what you know, and how you know it. Anomalies are dangerous. Anomalies are annoying. Often the initial reaction is to dismiss the anomaly, to attribute it to some
extraneous factor, or to simple human/experimental error. For one very significant astronomical discovery—that of the once-planet Pluto, as I
remember—initial evidence of a very small object that “shouldn’t be there” was dismissed as a probable speck of dust or grit on the photographic plate. Similarly, the discoverers of cosmic background radiation in 1964 were look-
ing for something else, and were perplexed by the odd buzzing sound that was interfering with their experiments. They were searching for micro-
waves, but didn’t expect to find them absolutely everywhere they looked. They initially dismissed that annoying anomalous “noise” as probably due
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
to pigeon droppings on the surface of their radio tel-
existence of an exception proves that the “rule”—prin-
or to submit to easy explanations. In each case, it led to
what the definition of a “rule” is; the second really makes
escope. In both cases, the anomaly refused to go away, radical rethinking of established scientific thought.
no sense.
If anomalies cannot simply be brushed aside, like specks
Anomalies, however, are not just “exceptions that prove
made to make them fit into the existing rule or theory
rule, and very often “disprove” it. If the rule is correct, the
of dust or pigeon leavings, an attempt is then often by slightly modifying the theory. The Ptolemaic view of the universe, with the earth at the centre, worked very
well at explaining the motion of the stars the sun and the moon. But the motion of the planets was anoma-
lous. Increasingly complex models of “spherical” motion around the earth were manufactured, each one leading to more complexity, requiring more spheres with
more erratic rotations, as well as retrograde (backwards) motion, until it became apparent that the geocentric concept did not and could not work. It was necessary to
“start from scratch,” with the sun at the centre. And with that change, created by anomalies, an entire system of
medieval thought had to be torn down and rebuilt. It was, to be replaced by the Copernican/Newtonian laws
of motion, which worked extremely well, until anoma-
lies in the 20th century—particularly the observed fact
that the speed of light was an “impossible” constant— led to relativity and quantum mechanics—and a whole new set of anomalies and paradoxes.
Are anomalies simply “the exceptions that prove the rule?” To answer that question, we first need to under-
stand what that odd phrase means. It is actually a legal concept, going back to Cicero (!), and referring to a case
where a specific exception is made to a general rule or
law. The need to make a specific exception, points to the
existence, and to the force or validity, of the general rule; otherwise, there would be no need to make an excep-
tion! The crucial point is that the exception has been consciously made. More general, non-legal usage seems to imply that every rule has an exception, or that the
18
ciple, precept—is right. The first assertion casts doubt on
the rule.” They are exceptions that “prove,” i.e., “test” a
anomaly cannot be there. If the anomaly is there, then
the rule cannot be correct. As a result, anomalies become
crucial reminders of what “rules” or “laws” of science and nature are. They are not edicts, or pieces of enforceable
universal legislation. Laws of nature are useful generali-
zations that describe how things usually seem to work: either generalizations derived inductively from a large body of observations, or generalizations deduced logically from other “laws” or principles. In either case, these
laws are subject to further “verification” through obser-
vation and experiment, and are taken as valid only until
an inexplicable anomaly appears. Hence, anomalies tell us that scientific laws are “best guesses” based on the
evidence—logical or observational—that we have at any
particular moment. They remind us of the limits of our understanding, and of our perceptions, and urge us to keep striving to understand more.
Anomalies are annoying, frustrating, exasperating, because they are humbling. They bump us off the smooth path, reminding us that we are never as clever as we think we are. Like Douglas Adams’ infamous number 42, they point out that the unsatisfactory answers we
may get are the fault of the unsatisfactory questions we have asked.
Remember the sound of the word, anomaly. When you
encounter one, its name lingers in the air and speaks to you, gently, saying, “I’m here. You can’t deny me. I won’t go away. And neither of us will be satisfied until you explain me.”
volume 4 | issue 4
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northword: A Literary Journal Of Canada’s North
contributors
jennifer macmullin writes, “ I moved from Cape Breton to Fort
douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, and voice and speech
expressing creativity through writing, making cards, and painting.”
teacher. He has just completed a World War 1 video documentary, Yours, Lovingly. He finds none of these activities anomalous.
kiran malik-khan is the communications manager for the Fort McMurray Public School Division. She's a TEDx Fort McMurray
dawn booth is the Editor-in-Chief of YMM Parent Magazine and
speaker, a freelance journalist who loves sharing stories about Fort
Associate Editor of Your McMurray Magazine. As a local freelance
McMurray, and a social media specialist. The co-founder and Public
journalist and owner of the communication service, Media Booth.
Relations Director for NorthWord , she's also the co-founder and
She has actively worked in the Wood Buffalo region's media indus-
president of World Hijab Day Fort McMurray, a committee that has
try since residing in Fort McMurray in 2007. Her passion is writing
brought the conversation about the Islamic headscarf front and
poetry and puts it at the forefront of the community through her
centre in our region. Kiran has been in Fort McMurray for 19 years.
volunteer work as the President of NorthWord Magazine. Most
Happily married, she has two beautiful boys.
important, Booth puts her family of five first, which includes her husband Ryan and their three children, Landon, Dawson and Tessa.
ryan mccann writes, “I am 38 years old living in Fort Mcmurray with my wife, two kids, and dog. I have a passion for writing, and
chris bowers is a writer and actor who has lived in Fort McMurray
I am currently working at putting together a novel about my life,
for the last 7 years and is proud to call it home. You can read more of
living in Northern Alberta.”
his work on his website cjbuzz.com. He is currently a Kennel Supervisor at the Fort McMurray SPCA and is passionate about helping rescues and finding them homes. maggie britton is an outdoor enthusiast and human being. alisa caswell has lived in Fort McMurray for twenty years. She is an engineer, a gardener, and mother to two teenagers and a bunny. She enjoys writing about energy and the environment on her blog,
Originally from Drumheller, Alberta, scott meller has now called Fort McMurray home for more than 20 years. A fixture at Campbell’s Music, Scott also supports all of the Arts with his colleagues at ACWB, and by working on a personal mission to positively impact the world through music. When not championing arts, Scott can be found spending time with his wife, Natasha, and daughters Emelia and Evelyn, exploring the world and pursuing happiness.
“Confessions of a Dandelion Anarchist”. She also enjoys writing sci-
stacey northcotte is an artist living in Fort McMurray. Stacey
ence fiction and small-town mysteries.
draws inspiration for her poems and short stories from her obser-
allison dakin grew up in Fort McMurray, Alberta. She earned her
vations of the wilderness and urban life around her.
Bachelor of Education from the University of Alberta in 2008. The
alan reeve is a retired police officer from Ontario and has resided
next several years were spent expressing her creativity through nur-
in Fort McMurray since 2005. Alan is an avid nature photographer
turing the imaginations of children in her classroom. After taking
and when he took this picture his first time poem came to him.
a break from teaching to care for her two young children, Allison moved to Spruce Grove where she rediscovered her first passion— art. In February, 2017 she received her first international award in colored pencil for Colored Pencil Magazine’s Monthly challenge. veronica ephgrave-wood has little of a social existence outside of the confines of Keyano College, and would prefer to otherwise stay silent on this matter.
20
McMurray over 9 years ago and am happy to call it home. I enjoy
desirée samuelson is a 25-year-old born and raised in St. John’s, Newfoundland. She is currently living in Fort McMurray with her fiancée Travis and their wonderful family. Her passion for creativity extends into the world of poetry, story writing and reading. kevin thornton has won one Buffy and been shortlisted for the Arthur Ellis Crime Writers Awards seven times. He is a founding member of this magazine, the secretary of the Writers' Guild of
travis hoyles writes, “Born and raised in Newfoundland, Canada.
Alberta, a director of the Crime Writers of Canada and a member
Currently residing and working in Fort McMurray, with my lovely
of the Keys, the Crime Writers Association, the Mystery Writers
fiancée Desirée. In my spare time, I enjoy writing prose and poetry,
of America and the International Thriller Writers. Oddly he also
as well as reading as much as possible. A couple of my favorite
belongs to the Mesdames of Mayhem and Sisters-in-Crime. He
authors are Haruki Murakami and David Foster Wallace.”
attends a lot of meetings.
anomalous us kevin thornton
It’s a wonderful word, anomaly.
northern canada
collective society for writers statement of purpose: To publish and support the work of writers in northern Canada.
According to the dictionary its meaning in astronomy
is the distance from a perigee
call for submissions
(I think it does, I hope it might).
deadline May 20,2020
of a planet or a satellite.
NorthWord Volume 4, Issue 5
Elsewhere it’s an oddity.
theme Solstice
“Incongruous,” you say? I do.
We’re always looking for prose (3000
A single inconsistency.
A quirk or freak occurrence too. A variation, rarity,
or strange peculiarity. To be divergent, different, odd, is unacceptable, per quod. Conform instead. Society eschews irregularity.
Preferring bland, analogous. Boring, disingenuous..
Conformity’s the road we seek?
Fuck that I say. Forswear the meek. Embrace all abnormality.
Be the difference, you and me.
I hope what’s truly anomalous is each and every one of us.
guest editor Florence Weber 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
