NorthWord Literary Magazine - Volume 5, Issue 2

Alisa Caswell

Malik-Khan

Meghan Carty

Alfred Thomas

Patricia Mary O'Neill

Patricia Mary O'Neill

Katherine Koller

Alfred Thomas

Marty Rempel

Owen Erskine

D. Roadhouse

Marty Rempel

Paul Cooper

Liana Wheeldon

Danielle Q. Lee

Scott Meller

Lasha Barbosa

Douglas Abel

Tineesha McKay

editorial

space. place. setting. I am one of those readers who enjoys a slow lead into the story where the author describes the physical spaces in considerable detail.

Space can be personal—for the past couple of years, we certainly were tested there. Some of us found ourselves in cramped quarters, trying to carve out a piece of space for ourselves in which to create. Others felt isolated by the vast distance between themselves and loved ones.

In the north, we tend to be hyper aware of space. We have unobstructed views of the entire universe most nights of the year. We are engulfed by a vast ocean of boreal forest. And other times, we wish we could pop into warp speed to melt away the miles on our highway.

When I was asked to pick a theme for this issue, it was during the long dark of our winter. I sat in a cozy chair with my pen and notepad, listing the possibilities. When I took a pause and looked out my back window, the stars and moon in our bright sky clinched the idea.

As a student of science, and a nerd, I have been obsessed with the themes of Space since childhood. I devoured movies, TV series, and books, which brought alien craft, space travel, weird worlds, and tales of “others” landing on earth.

Space, what is out there, holds great mystery for us. When we look up, it forces us to contemplate the meaning of everything. Why are we here? Who else is out there? Where might we go in the future? We feel it all—fear, awe, excitement.

I was captivated by the incredible array of writing and art that were submitted! In our lifetime, we certainly will only get to a few small corners of our wonderful universe. However, when you explore the art, prose, and poetry in this issue, I think you will see we are not alone – because, space, it seems, connects us all.

Enjoy your voyage into these rich worlds!

Alisa Caswell | issue twenty six editor

by kiran malik-khan PR Directorcommunity report

northword launches issue 25 virtually— now available at the airport

A beautiful, spirited theatre monologue, and a string of fabulous poetry—NorthWord: A Literary Journal of Canada’s North launched its 25th issue virtually on April 23, 2022 with a house full of literature lovers. The theme was Attachment, guest edited by Hope Moffatt, Early Childhood Consultant. The lovely cover art is by Sherry Duncan, local artist.

Hope shared the editing process.

“I got all the submissions at once from Jane (manag ing editor) and read them several times before starting to select, thrilled that we had about 40 submissions to choose from. When I got to the selection stage, I didn’t discard any, but rather started two lists, a ‘for sure’ and a ‘maybe’ column. I chose submissions that particularly appealed to me as well as those that I thought would provide a variety of responses to the theme Attachment. I remember being happy when Jane said there was space for a few more poems, so I could add more from the ‘maybe’ list.”

Dawn Booth, President, Northern Canada Collective Society for Writers, publishers of NorthWord said “it was wonderful to hear from the published artists and have our guest speakers talk about other local literary arts programming. Poetry and art are strong here in Fort McMurray. We live and breathe with creativity, each day. Another published edition of NorthWord magazine is the finest proof.”

“We would also like to thank our community spon sors because without them, putting this issue together would not be possible. Our Society is a small group of dedicated volunteers and the financial support to pub lish our magazine comes from people who, like us, believe in the importance of literary arts,” Dawn added.

Speaking of the importance of literary arts, Scott Meller, our new guest editor has always amplified them in our

region. He dubs himself a local practitioner of literary and other arts and is our long-time friend. He has picked Intensity as the theme for our next issue.

What is Intensity, or lack thereof to you? Share original poetry/prose/art: northword@hushmail.com. Deadline is October 30, 2022. Midnight. Short stories or excerpts from current projects, fiction, or non-fiction (3000 words maximum), verse of no more than 50 lines, along with anything original and inventive can be submitted to the editors at northword@hushmail.com.

Free copies of NorthWord are available at Mitchell’s Café, Keyano College, Prestige Jewellers, Suncor Energy Centre for the Performing Arts at Holy Trinity High School, the Redpoll Centre, Urban Market and Avenue Coffee. Thanks to the Fort McMurray International Airport— YMM, for being our new distribution spot. Grab a copy of our publication while you are travelling and take a few with you to share with family and friends.

For real time updates, visit our website at www.northwordmagazine.com, like us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/northword and follow us on Twitter: @NorthWordYMM.

Issue

Attachment digital launch event.

being in the in-between

meghan carty

A northern star burning brilliance too sacred for soil. The sky is in your eyes: my son.

A wildflower blooming in foreign earth and born to drift in your ocean eyes: my fire baby.

Your sweet marshmallow cheeks feed the flames of my soul, keep me grounded here, low enough to see: the in-between.

Here, we drive past barren wheat fields, melting with a home on the horizon, lined crosses stand firm as we fly, God’s paintbrush on the open sky, and his hand’s in mine.

Nature bursts through forged fences, claiming its captor, refusing to be caged. But do we travel blindly, when the cost to see is free? From a fate of fear wrapped in chains. The sun plays peekaboo through mountains and mist, pure joy shines in laughter, transcending space, soaring through, then, here, thereafter.

And people rush past, rush now. Slow down.

lambent

j alfred thomas

We lay on the grass immersed in peerless night and gaze down upon our unwanted bodies How did we leave us to become this ascendant thing, this creature of immaculate dissolution? Surely, there was a moment when our selves were separate; a discernible two where now one abides We blue stragglers rain our meteor self into the ground like any backroad high school benediction You and I are of the sky now; we become the stars, blanketed in light, and the stuff of us tickles the earth

the bell island boom

patricia mary o'neill

What I’m about to tell you is so outlandish, so preposterous, you will think I’m putting you on, or that I’ve lost my mind, but I swear, neither is true.

On the afternoon of April 2, 1978, on the part of Bell Island known as Bickfordville, there was an ear-piercing blast followed by blinding orbs of light that circled the area for several seconds.

Afterwards, people had unexplained injuries, animals were found dead, and property was damaged. To this day, no one seems to know what happened there, or, if they do know, they are not telling the truth about it. But I know, and now I’m telling.

I remember it was a hot muggy afternoon that July 22 when I returned to the island, three months after the event. Lightning lit the distant sky as dark clouds amassed offshore. I told my father about my intention to visit the site.

“Stay away, Patsy,” he warned. “No good can come from going there.”

“Dad, don’t be so silly,” I scoffed. “I want to see it for myself, maybe take a few photos, then I’ll be right back.” My father just shook his head and walked out of the room.

Stories from childhood came to mind about fairies and strange encounters on the road, and bizarre, bloodcurdling tales of ghostly apparitions in the woods, all of which became part of local lore. As I grew older, and became less gullible, it became clear those stories were intended to keep children in line.

When I arrived at the site, it was difficult to see evidence of anything unusual as summer yielded thick grass etched in clover. Further along though, peculiar indentations, which emitted a faint smoky odour, appeared. I squatted for a closer look and touched the scorched earth.

Suddenly, I felt a terrible pain in my head. It was like my eyes were on fire. My tongue seemed to swell. I had trouble breathing, and the pressure inside my head was so intense, I thought my head would explode. All I could think was I’m going to die. I fell to the ground and passed out.

When I woke, it was pitch black. A dim blue glow caught my eye. I reached for what turned out to be my watch. The glass was shattered, and pieces were missing. The second hand spun erratically and came off when I touched it, but the mechanism still turned.

Slowly, I got to my feet and staggered to a nearby stump. Everything hurt. I stayed there for several minutes until my vision cleared.

I walked to where I parked but my car was gone. I reached into my pocket and what I pulled out was a glob of metal and plastic melted together, my car keys.

Because I was disoriented and in pain, it took more than three hours to walk the five or so miles back to the house. When I arrived, the door was locked. I knocked. No answer. Then I banged on it. A bedroom light came on overhead and the window squeaked open.

“Who is it?” my father whispered.

“It’s me, Dad, Patsy. Why’s the door locked?” There was no reply. I heard his footsteps heavy on the stairs. The door opened. He stood there, pale, wide-mouthed, a look of shock on his face.

“What?” I said, taken aback by his appearance. He looked as though he’d aged ten years since I saw him earlier. He grabbed hold of me and squeezed tightly.

“Patsy, you’re alive. Oh my God girl, where have you been?” He released me. “We didn’t know what happened to you.”

“I’m not sure either,” I said as I walked past him into the

living room and dropped onto the sofa. “Someone stole my bloody car. I feel like I’ve had the crap beaten out of me. I had to walk all the way here.” I was hurting, and I was angry.

“Your car is in the back yard,” he said. There was a peculiar look on his face. What was going on, I thought.

“How did it get there?”

That’s when my father told me I had been missing thirty-seven days. My car had been reported abandoned. The police searched the island but could find no trace of me nor had anyone seen me get on the ferry and leave the island.

None of what he was telling me made sense. I couldn’t think straight. I was exhausted. All I wanted was a hot shower, but all I could manage was to haul myself up the stairs, fall into bed and surrender to sleep.

That night was the beginning of my hellish nightmares.

I dreamt I was held in place, suspended, in an upright position, bound somehow by my ankles, wrists, waist and shoulders. The only part of my body I could move were my eyes. When I lowered them, I could see a device covering my nose and mouth. Something ran along my tongue and down into my throat. I struggled to dislodge it but gagged instead.

I closed my eyes for a minute or two to calm myself and breathed deeply against the rising hysteria. This is not real, I kept repeating over and over in my mind.

When I opened my eyes, I scanned my surroundings to orient myself but could not determine the depth or the dimensions of the space. My vision was obscured by a thick, swirling haze. It was hot but inside I was chilled, and terrified

A noise, like the drone of a fan, was all around me. A stench emanated from the haze. I felt sick to my stomach.

The noise grew louder as something moved towards me. I could not determine what I was looking at; I had

never seen anything like it before. Slowly it moved closer. As it neared, I became more terrified.

What was happening? What was this place, and what was this, this thing? I felt helpless. I wanted to scream, but the effort was beyond me. Though I could not move my body, I trembled.

The creature was hideous. Its eyes drooped in sockets of syrupy slime. The flesh at its apex was flaccid and pocked, as was its entire body. Tube-like projections traversed its length and each of them quivered.

The noise I heard was coming from them. In the opening at its centre was a slanted, squarish, oozing configuration from which tentacle-like appendages, muddy grey in colour, waved back and forth like underwater sea plants.

A tentacle touched my abdomen, the pain was excruciating. I closed my eyes and wanted to die. It touched me again and I passed out.

When I came to, more creatures surrounded me. The air was fetid and damp. The droning noise was amplified. The creatures seemed agitated. Again, I was touched, and again I passed out.

This seemed to go on forever, until finally, there was nothing. I lingered in this nothingness for a very long time. When I finally came to, I screamed, and this time my scream had sound.

“Help me, help me, please...”

Someone was holding me down and calling my name. I opened my eyes expecting to see my father, but instead I looked into the eyes of a stranger.

“It’s okay, calm down, Patricia, you’re safe,” he said.

“Where am I? How did I get here? Who are you?” My arms and legs were in restraints. “What’s going on?”

“It’s okay, you’re safe. The restraints are for your protection.”

I yanked at them.

“Please be calm. I’m Dr. Wilmot,” he replied. “You’re in hospital, at the Health Science Centre in St. John’s. You’ve been…”

A man in a military uniform cut him off and ordered him out of the room.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I screamed. Nothing was making sense. The doctor looked at me for several seconds but didn’t say a word. He shook his head, almost apologetically, turned and walked out of the room.

“No, don’t go, please…” I struggled against the restraints and screamed, out of fear and frustration. Minutes later, the door opened. A nurse walked in.

“For God’s sake, tell me what’s going on,” I pleaded. She ignored my pleas, emptied a needle into my left arm and left. I lost consciousness soon after.

The following day, still drowsy, I was flown to Ottawa and quarantined at the National Defence Medical Centre where I remained, against my will, for the next several months, undergoing extensive physical and psychological testing. I was told I had been struck by lightning, but no one would tell me why I was at a military hospital.

I overheard one of the doctors say some of my body parts were missing—my spleen, appendix, uterus, fallopian tubes, part of my liver, and a section of my gall bladder.

Multiple sites on my torso showed evidence of recent incisions, but today there isn’t a blemish, let alone a scar.

I was asked a myriad of questions about what I remembered from those missing days. I told them

the truth, that I had no memory of any of it. I did not, however, tell them about my nightmares.

Because of pressure from my family and the provincial government, I was finally released. I returned to Newfoundland but never stayed on Bell Island more than a few hours, just long enough to visit my father. Fear kept me well away from Bickfordville.

Eventually, I moved west, never telling anyone about my experience. I remained convinced my dreams revealed what had really taken place during those thirty-seven missing days; I had been abducted by aliens and used as some kind of guinea pig for their experiments.

For a few years, when I doubted it ever happened, I wondered if I must have had some kind of mental breakdown. Then an anonymous letter showed up and pointed me to an online group known as Encountered, a community of people who have had similar experiences. I no longer doubt myself.

But skeptics are not so easily convinced, especially since I can’t show them any physical evidence to back up my claims. You see, every organ that was removed eventually grew back. I wouldn’t believe me either. But the fact remains, it happened.

Chances are, someone you know has gone through something similar and they’re not speaking about it because they know they won’t be believed, or maybe they’re afraid of worse repercussions, like being abducted again, but this time by their own government.

The truth is, none of us know what’s out there, lurking in the darkness beyond the night sky or in the depths of the oceans, watching, waiting. For what? Who can say?

What I do know is this, they’re out there, biding their time.

s p a c e

patricia mary o'neill

Exterior and interior spaces have much in common

Both subject to the whims of currents or emotions

Elemental forces—sometimes unpredictable Systems that can be either fair or foul.

On the open prairie, the vastness of space is astounding

The endless horizon portends the unknown

Like a cluster of cumulous clouds, seemingly innocuous Can twist itself into a tornado and change the landscape.

My interior landscape, that vast unknowable space

Where thoughts swirl around, subterranean Can snatch me up without warning Taking me to places I’d rather not go.

Those unsettled currents within me

Where past and present collide

Where uncertainty and insecurity take shape Linger on the horizon of my mind, agitating.

on how long

j alfred thomas

Seasons of navigation, and rotational velocity

Bring the Sisters into sight, ‘tis Galileo’s curiosity

No uniform dispersion, yet a hint of nebulosity

It was of you Kiedis wrote, in your azure luminosity

body of the moon

katherine koller

one point five inches further away from earth every year

by instinct i give you more eye timeless one while my moments under the dome wane

catch me in your cuticle hold me in your thin smile cradle me like a half cantaloupe fingerprint me my searchlight

mirror me loonie moon in round communion fill me up then gracefully fade me away like u

the day the magic died

marty rempel

On a dark and blustery day my granddaughter asked

“Grandpa where is the car parked?” “I think in a distant galaxy far far away.” “That’s just silly, where is it really?”

I think the day the magic died was the day silliness was in question, no more monsters in the closet, no more night lights, soon no more bedtime stories. Tentatively I asked, “When you are a teenager will you have time for me?” “Don’t be silly grandpa, that depends on what my friends are doing.”

making space

owen erskine

I look to the stars

I look to the sky

Try to occupy space

With a twinkle in my eye

At times like stars

The light can fade

Or be bright and BANG

Creation made

We take up space

Beside each other Invading Space

Harming the Mother

If earth is ours

Our space to share

Not leave it bare one star

Let’s plant and grow

lori d. roadhouse

You blink at me from a billion miles away

I am captivated stopped in my tracks

The night sky closes down focussing on one pinpoint of light

I stare back at you my gaze unwavering wonder if a billion miles away someone sees the twinkle in my eye

miniature astronauts

marty rempel

I glance up at a crescent moon in the pale morning sky, I hear dog barking and ravens cawing as I make my walk to school. It is a cold, yet soothing journey. I recall spring mornings in Ontario where and when three young boys, brothers I think, walked up the hill past my house on their way to school, often lingering to pick up branches from the forest floor to use as swords and walking sticks. Most mornings, getting ready for work slowly sipping my second cup of coffee in front of the fireplace, I watched the boys on their way to school, into the woods, playing tag, follow-the-leader and any manner of child-like games. I marveled that they ever reached a destination, delayed each day as they were by innocence and curiosity. On one winter morning they passed by looking like miniature astronauts with giant life support “backpacks” walking stiffly and rigidly with little flexibility allowed by their bulky snowsuits. I watched as they tried to climb a snow bank at the end of my driveway and then as they meandered slowly and disap peared up the hill. I didn’t think of them again until, driving to my own school over the same route I no longer see, wishing all the while that I was a child astronaut with a long wooden walking stick strolling the lunar landscape aimlessly.

the last putt

j. paul cooper

Felix Mackenzie was standing at the ninth hole, looking out at the Atlantic Ocean. It was a golf course near his home in Halifax, Nova Scotia. He felt a light breeze, as he watched the waves crashing on the rocky shoreline. In the sky above, seagulls drifted on the air currents under a blue dome. He sighed and sunk the ball. “End simulation.”

“Would you like me to save this simulation?” a pleasant female voice asked. “Don’t bother,” Mackenzie replied.

The Captain could have told the crew what he suspected, that they were about to die, but decided against it. It was better to keep them busy, pretend as if it was another tight spot that they’d get themselves out of again. Besides, there was always the possibility that he was wrong, that headquarters would find a way to restore control to the ship.

Mackenzie stepped out of the ship’s rec room, and headed for the nearest ele vator. Moments later he walked onto the bridge. No one snapped to attention, this wasn’t a military vessel. The Vagabond was a deep-space freighter and it was off course.

Francine Jefferson, the Communications Officer looked up from her console as MacKenznie entered the bridge. “Captain.”

Mackenzie nodded his acknowledgement and sat in the command chair. No other place in the universe felt so right; it was where he belonged. He glanced at Arnold Shipley, the Navigator. “Has anything changed?”

Shipley shrugged. “Sorry, Captain, the Vagabond has stayed on the same course. Everything is locked.”

“If this was a mining vessel,” Mackenzie mused, “we could use explosives to stop the Vagabond the old-fashioned way.”

“Wouldn’t that hurt?” Jefferson asked. Mackenzie smiled. “Sure, but only for a second.”

“Look on the bright side,” Shipley added, “at least your parents would get the insurance pay-out from the company.”

Jefferson looked at Mackenzie. “What about your command codes? Have you tried them all? You’re the Captain, you can override anything.”

“Usually I can, as long as it isn’t a direct override by headquarters. But, since we haven’t heard from headquarters, I doubt that’s the case. They’d have to advise me they were initiating an override; dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s, to make sure everything is legal.”

The Captain shrugged. “I was hoping that if I took my mind off the problem for a short time, I’d come up with something we’d missed. Nothing clears my mind like a round of golf.”

“Did it work?” asked Shipley. “Well, I came to a final conclusion; there’s nothing else we can do on our end.”

The Captain turned his attention to Jefferson. “Any replies?”

“From your wife?” she asked. “Which one?” Shipley asked, turnng to Mackenzie. “Aren’t you working on your third marriage, Captain? This life is hard on relationships.”

Mackenzie laughed. “Isn’t that the truth. You can buy a beautiful home after a couple of trips, just don’t expect anyone to be waiting for you.”

Shipley sighed. “It’s been so long since I’ve talked to my sister, she probably thinks I’m dead.”

“What about the company?” Mackenzie asked. “Nothing from Headquarters,” Jefferson replied, “but, I have heard distress calls from several company ships. It seems they’re also being re-directed back to Earth.”

“I wonder,” Jefferson continued, “if the company has declared bankruptcy. You know, and the creditors are using some override code to bring us back. It’s not like the company tells us everything.”

“That’s a good guess,” Shipley added. “If I was a creditor, I wouldn’t want some rogue captain taking off with a ship. Except, it isn’t just company ships, it’s everything.”

“Could you be more specific?” Jefferson asked. Shipley moved his hand across his console, and the stars on the main viewscreen were replaced by a diagram showing hundreds of bright dots. “All of these, freighters of every description, cruise ships, mining vessels, are con verging on the same course. They all have two things in

common, they’re Earth-registered, and they’re heading home at maximum velocity.”

“I’ve been listening to the chatter, and I’m getting some weird reports,” Jefferson added. “Some lost control before us, some after. It’s as if they’re all coordinated to arrive at Earth, at the same time.”

Jefferson stared at the screen. “The Earth Defense Council could be expecting a surprise attack by the Sileen and are pulling all these vessels back to Earth, to protect them.”

Shipley looked Jefferson. “You may be right. The disputes we’ve had with them over mining rights have become tense. If it was one incident, it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve sent del egates to the Universal Trade Commission. There’s been talk of war for years.”

Jefferson shrugged. “Maybe it’s because we’re too much alike. We breathe the same type of atmosphere, we eat similar foods. Of all the alien species we’ve encountered, they’re the most like humans. We need the same type of planets to expand our colonies; it’s as if we were destined to butt heads with the Sileen.”

Jefferson glanced back at Mackenzie. “What do you think, Captain? Do you think there will be a war with the Sileen?”

Mackenzie sat forward, with his elbows on the arms of his command chair. He put his thumbs together and placed his chin on them. “Not the kind of war you’re talking about. Our home worlds are too far apart. Sending a fleet would be incredibly expensive. A surprise attack would be out of the question; no matter how good your stealth technology is, you wouldn’t be able to hide vessels over that distance. Something would give them away.”

“So, there won’t be a war?” Shipley asked.

Mackenzie sighed. “There’s going to be a war. I’m afraid that it’s already started, and we’re in it.”

“But Captain, you just said….” Jefferson started.

“Do you remember what they taught in Earth History classes, about the development of autonomous vehicles,

back when self-driving cars were the next big thing?”

Jefferson shrugged. “It put a lot of drivers out of work; taxis, delivery vehicles, long-haul transports…. There were riots, suicides.”

Mackenzie looked at Shipley. “What at about you, Shipley, remember anything?”

“People had a hard time trying to get their heads around AI taking control of their vehicles. They were scared the cars might be hacked by terrorists, but it didn’t happen. It was like the paranoia over how computers would react to the year 2000.”

Mackenzie leaned back in his chair. “Well, it’s happening now.”

“Are you suggesting the Sileens have hacked the comput ers of every Earth-registered vessel?” Shipley asked.

“That’s impossible!” Jefferson struggled to control her voice. “We all use quantum encryption to protect our com puters, the same codes as the Earth Defense Council….”

“That’s right,” Mackenzie replied, “we all use the same codes.”

“But like I said,” Jefferson insisted, “the Earth Defense Council uses quantum encryption.”

Mackenzie shrugged. “Analog. Digital. Quantum. If we can understand them, so can the Sileen. What if they’ve gone one step further? That’s all that’s required for them to break our codes and take complete control.”

Jefferson’s shoulders became slack and her hands slid off the console. “Are we really that screwed?”

“There have always been emergency overrides to protect investors,” Mackenzie continued, “just in case something serious happens. A virus, a radiation leak, a mutiny, what ever.

These vessels take years to build in space docks, and are worth billions of dollars. It’s written into every contract, a failsafe to ensure a ship can be recovered if necessary. Let’s say the crew was wiped out by a virus; you remove

the bodies, the ship is disinfected and new crewmembers step up, ready to sign contracts.”

“The money is good,” Jefferson said.

Shipley nodded in agreement. “No doubt about that.”

Jefferson glanced at the Captain. “You said ‘remove the bodies.’ That makes sense if there’s a virus involved, but if it’s a mutiny, there would be survivors, and they would be arrested.”

Mackenzie smiled. “Maybe. You have to consider how much money is involved here. If you’ve invested billions in a vessel, would you want an angry crew sabotaging your investment? You might lose everything. So you….”

“Turn off the life-support,” Jefferson finished.

The Captain nodded a silent agreement.

“That explains,” Shipley said, “why the temperature has been dropping.”

Mackenzie pushed a button and a virtual console appeared in the space directly before his eyes. “The strength of the plasma shields is increasing, and life sup port is decreasing. The plasma shields protected us from space debris, and now the plasma shields will allow Vaga bond to punch a hole through Earth’s atmosphere.”

Jefferson whistled. “Thousands of vessels crashing through the atmosphere at one time; that’s going to be quite the light show.”

Shipley stared intensely at the screen, as the dots started blinking. “Emergency beacons! “They’re running out of air,” replied Jefferson, “just like we’re going to.”

“Shit!” Shipley cursed. “I don’t want to die! I’m not ready to die!”

“We all die sometime,” Jefferson said. “Even the superrich, who can afford multiple DNA renewal treatments. One guy in Toronto, who was one hundred and ten, spent two billion dollars on DNA renewal, and the next day fell down a set of stairs and broke his neck.

Fortunately for his wife, who was ninety-seven, but

looked twenty, she got a very substantial insurance set tlement. That will pay for even more DNA treatments.”

Shipley smiled. “Breaks my heart to know she won’t get to spend all that money.”

The Captain choked as the air continued to thin.

“So, Captain,” Shipley asked, “what would you do, if you had some more time left?”

Mackenzie took a deep breath. “My next wife would be a Sileen, just to hedge my bets.”

Jefferson coughed. “With yellow pupils, and orange and purple skin?”

“I’d get used to it,” the Captain choked.

“Captain,” Shipley wheezed. “Are you going to tell the rest of the crew they’re going to die?”

The lights died, plunging the bridge into darkness.

Mackenzie gasped for air, shaking violently from the dropping temperature. “I think they may have guessed.”

corvus

by Liana Wheeldon

the god lottery

danielle q. lee

“So, Susan, what would be your first act if you were chosen to be the next God?” The interviewer smiled, pen hovering expectantly over his clipboard.

The woman’s gaze slid away from the interviewer and up to the balcony where a gallery of angels watched and listened—and judged. She swallowed loudly. “I would end poverty…and war.”

“Mmm, thank you.” The interviewer took note of her answer. “And what about you, George? If you were made God, what would you do first for Earth?”

George crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. “I’d rid the place of evil. Ya know, all them politicians and thieves and the like—and mother-inlaws.” He gave a loud guffaw, nudging Susan with his elbow. She scowled in response.

The interviewer scrawled across his clipboard. “Thank you, George.”

He turned his attention to the next. “Steve?”

Steve’s face bunched up in concentration, and then he finally replied, “Well, after I tried out my super powers— like flying and making lightning bolts and stuff—I guess I’d grant all the prayers and wishes. Heal a bunch of people who are suffering. Especially the children.” He gave a surreptitious side-eyed glance to the gallery.

“Janet?” The interviewer directed his query at the woman standing away from the group. She was examining the various paintings hung about the room. “What would be your first act as God?”

Janet didn’t reply.

Susan shook her head and clucked her tongue. George rolled his eyes over a grunt of disapproval. Steve just twirled one of his hoodie’s strings.

The interviewer rose and set his clipboard onto the seat of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me.”

His footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he approached Janet. While he could have simply flown over, he didn’t like to startle the humans. He’d interviewed over nine trillion people so far for the position of God, enough to know that new arrivals were often skittish at just the sight of his wings, let alone fully extended.

“Janet? Did you wish to join us?” he asked calmly.

Janet was absorbed by the artistry before her. “This is a Van Gogh, yes?”

The interviewer nodded and joined her in quiet reverence of the painting.

“I’ve never seen this one before,” she said, puzzled. “I thought I’d seen all his paintings, you know, before I died.”

He nodded again. “You are correct, he painted this after his death.”

Janet moved closer to the image, peering at the swirls of soft blue, the hazy yellows and muted greens. “It’s beautiful, but it’s all wrong.”

The interviewer tilted his head. “Why do you feel that way?”

“It’s too…perfect.” She turned and offered the interviewer a gentle smile, adding, “Nothing.”

“Pardon me?”

“That would be my first act as God? Nothing.”

“I’m sorry, are you telling me that if given the opportunity to have boundless powers over all of

humanity—over the whole Universe—you’d do… nothing?”

Janet just smiled.

The interviewer paused, glanced up at the gallery of his peers, and then leaned closer to Janet. “Why nothing?”

Janet took a few steps towards Van Gogh’s tormented self-portrait, the one with the mustard-coloured hat. “His eyes—they’re so haunted. So lost and alone. You can feel his desperation, his search for meaning.”

The interviewer examined the art and agreed. He could indeed feel Vincent’s angst conveyed through the paint.

“And in this one—” Janet led him towards the one with the human skull abandoned in a desert of sand, “he is capturing the loneliness and harshness of death.”

The interviewer nodded. “Yes, but why is that important in your decision?”

“Being human on Earth is hard—so very hard—but without suffering, without war, illness, and despair, we’d never grow. Never evolve. We’d never strive to be better, to find the beauty amidst all the decay and horror, because we would always know there was a way out. Life there has to appear…dire. Hopeless.”

“What about death?” Susan said bitterly, clearly having heard all that had transpired from her seat at the table. “We should be able to live forever. My family misses me. I can feel their pain. They don’t believe in this place.”

Janet gave a sad smile. “Flowers can’t bloom forever. Death is part of the beauty. If life never ended, we’d have no appreciation—no respect—for it or anyone else.”

The interviewer pondered this. “But why not make it a paradise? Take away sin, sadness, suffering, see what they do with it. Make it perfect.”

Janet smiled sagely. “It’s always been perfect. It can be a Heaven or a Hell. They just have to choose.”

The interviewer glanced up at the gallery of angels, his peers, and they gave a united nod.

For the first time in five billion years, a new God had been found. The last God they’d chosen had decided to start fresh. Wipe the slate clean and start with a brand-new Universe. It wasn’t their place to judge the acts of God, only to choose the soul they felt best suited for the job.

The lights dimmed and the gallery of angels went dark for the first time in an eternity. The interviewer ushered his guests out of the hall, thanking each of them for their interest in the position.

On his way out the door, George mumbled under his breath, “Should at least get rid of all them politicians— and mother-in-laws.”

As he started to close the door, the interviewer realized Janet was still inside. She was standing in front of an empty frame, for a painting yet to be displayed.

“Janet?”

“This one,” she said, her voice hushed. “This one is my favourite.”

The interviewer tilted his head, puzzled. “But…it’s empty.”

She smiled. “Yes, but just imagine what it could be.”

the promise scott meller

My sister-in-law told me that when her granddaughter was born, it filled a hole in her heart that she didn’t even know was there, and I believe it.

A hole. A void. A great space that grew into being without her noticing. I know because I feel it too. I notice mine. I notice the gaping silence of a phone not ringing. I notice the deafening pauses, when a friend or family member searches for a word, or name, or memory that they know is just out of reach. I notice the stacks of losses and empty heartaches when another dear friend or family member dies. I feel that space inside me growing. I feel it filling with blackness and feeling heavy. I notice. But then I notice the night sky. It too is black and filled with infinite space and the weight of worlds, and it is beautiful. I notice the black earth, and the fresh promise of renewal that waits there in spring. I notice the universe in my children’s eyes, as I stare deeply into the space behind that smile and see tomorrow.

Perhaps the hole in my heart is not a void, but a space that is promised to the infinite possibility that is to come.

a celestial body by Lasha Barbosa

marginalia

Absence of Absence?

A column by douglas abel

Space: the final frontier. Can you hear the music building in the background?

Space. Awe-inspiring in its vastness. Intimidating in its infinite expansiveness. We gaze with wonder into the night sky, into the ‘emptiness’ of space, and are fascinated by the billions and billions of objects, events and states in it. Perhaps we gaze with terror, perhaps with joy. But there is a problem. Space, as an emp tiness into which things are put, or in which things (not space) occur, may not in fact exist at all. Increasingly, the developing ‘laws of physics’ insist that such sheer emptiness simply (?) cannot occur. Logically and mathematically, space cannot be void; perhaps it cannot even . . . be. Space is somehow the absence of absence. If it is not that, then there is no ‘it’ for it to be or not to be. In this concep tual world, “nothing” is logically “impossible.”i

In physical theories often glaring in their mutual incompatibility, we are told that space (not void!) is infinite but somehow bound—which poses the ques tion, “If it goes on forever (infinite), where and how can there be a boundary?” Well, we are told, there just is; the equations ‘prove’ it. We are told that space is curved. That there are curves within the curves, as ‘spacetime’ does its gravity dance. That space is somehow flat. Or that it is curved and bounded and flat all together and at once. That it is infinitely huge (i.e., can’t be bigger?) but getting bigger. Or getting smaller while remaining infinitely huge. Or that there are an infinite number of these spaces which are not empty—an infinity of infinities.

Faced with these logical and conceptual challenges, it is amazing that any of us can ‘move through space’ at all, that we can set foot outside our door, or even set a foot down. To do so would be to break any number of unbreak able, universal laws.

This kind of physics tends to mess up our heads, because it messes up our common sense. We are not wrong to feel ‘messed up.’ When Carlo Rovelli declares that “Reality is not what it seems,”ii he is not (I hope!) chastising us for being stupid. He is not telling us that we are misled or misguided. He is pointing to a disconnect, rooted in our very human nature, between what we can think on the one hand, and what we can feel, sense or perceive on the other. Our sense of seeming is not “wrong”; that very seeming is what got us, as a species, to the point where . . . it may seem wrong!

On a day-to-day basis, we live in a 3-dimensionsal space—or a 4-dimensional

i James Owen Weatherall, Void: The Strange Physics of Nothing, (New Haven; Yale University Press, 2016), p. 11.

ii Carlo Rovelli, Reality is Not What it Seems: The Journey to Quantum Gravity (New York: Riverhead Books, 2016).

one if we add the (infinitely) problematic dimension of time. To all intents and purposes we can and must per ceive the world in this 3-dimensional way, as we see, hear, touch and taste, and then interpret those sensations in our brains. We have evolved to experience 3-space automati cally. We ‘define’ three physical dimensions, length, width, and height, because we can move forward and backward (with reference to sternum and shoulder blades), from side to side (with reference to symmetrical arms or legs), and up and down (with reference to head and feet). Movement in those three dimensions allows us to seek prey, avoid predators, find mates, defend ourselves, rear children, and generally survive as long as possible. We are also aware that things somehow change as ‘time passes’ during our movement through perceptual space. We are somewhat perplexed that we can ‘go back’ in space, retrace our steps, but that we cannot go back in time.

We also perceive/sense that there are things—objects, people, other creatures—in the ‘space’ that length, width and height define. These objects may be useful or dan gerous; we may seize them, avoid them, or destroy them. But we place them in the 3-d space that ‘makes sense.’

This ‘vision’ of the world has developed as our species has developed, and has been essential to our evolution. Threedimensional space, moved by or through time, is built into us as human beings.

And yet, somehow, sometimes, we can see, or think, or imagine beyond this built-in space-time reality. For the same process of evolution has given us intellects which allow us to transcend the existential limits of our ‘real’ world.

Many years ago I was in a linear algebra class taught by a Prof. Gullickson, a tall, almost wistful Norwegian in love with mathematics. One day he said to us:

Of course, like you, I can see easily in three dimensions. And I’ve worked so that I can visualize just as easily in four

iii Christopher Marlowe, 1 Tamburlaine, II, vii, 24.

iv George Harrison, “Within You, Without You.”

dimensions. I’m still working on seeing in five dimensions. I’m having some difficulty.

I was flabbergasted. I wanted to sputter out, “No wait, that’s not possible, there’s nowhere to put the fourth and fifth axes!” I think I decided at that moment that I would not be a mathematician.

But the incident points to the fact that there is a difference between the space we live in and the space we can think in and think of. Three-space is perceptual. N-space, curved space, flat space and multi-space are all conceptual. They do not register through our everyday senses. And yet we can—sometimes, somehow—do something like ‘seeing’ differently. We can visualize concepts in a way that goes beyond ordinary, practical vision. Extra dimensions do not ‘fit’ into 3-space because they do not exist there—in an ‘existential’ sense. The professor who could ‘see’ dimen sions 4 and 5 was not ‘seeing’ in the same way that I was. His space would ‘look’ very different from mine. But how interesting it would be to ‘see’ through his eyes!

Our perceptual space is extremely useful (essential) and overwhelmingly practical. But, perhaps ironically, it has allowed us to develop to the point—in both time and space—where some of us can go far beyond 3 or 4 dimensions. A place where, by using intellect and imagi nation—that simple, magical ‘What if?’—we can both understand universes with multiple dimensions and, in a sense, create them. Our ability to see, hear, feel and move in the ‘real’ world has brought us to a place where we can ‘see’ much more. When perception and cognition are linked by imagination, we find ourselves

Still climbing after knowledge infinite,iii

in pursuit of . . . understanding.

Yet there is another dimension to all these dimensions: there is the whole world of emotional or psychological space. Our feelings of psychological distance relative to other human beings, and our emotional motions relative to others, may have a chemical or electromagnetic com ponent. In fact, like almost everything in the universe(s) they undoubtedly do. But emotional space and time seem

to generate a reality linked to, but independent of, either perceptual or cognitive space. Psychological spaces seem to ‘have a life of their own.’ Our emotional experience of ‘physical’ space under an Alberta big sky is not objectively measurable; but it is real, and is different from the feeling of a walk down a crowded street in a tunnel of skyscrapers. The resonant emotional distance between us and another individual can change utterly with the uttering of a single word, even though neither of us has moved an inch. And time can stretch or contract drastically depending upon the emotional state of the ‘perceiver’ of its passing. These sensed emotional differences go beyond or beside any mathematical descriptions or objective physical measure ments. They are in a reality of their own.

We were talking about the space between us all,

And the people who hide themselves behind a wall

Of illusion.iv

When comparing the 3-space in which we move, the n-space we can conceive, and the emotional space which we ‘really’ feel, we have to ask, “Which is (are) the reality? And which are (is) the illusion?”

Ultimately, space is a “thing to make you go ‘hmmm?’”

If, of course, you are allowed to call it a ‘thing’ at all . . . .

love

contributors

douglas abel is an actor, director, writer, theatre historian and voice and speech teacher. He shares a surname with the famous 19th-century mathematician, Niels Henrik Abel. There is no other resemblance.

lasha barbosa writes, “Celestial Body represents the raw power, and beauty, of a star exploding—creating a new solar system!”

meghan carty is a mother, wife, teacher, writer and runner in Fort McMurray. She is working on living in the in-between, as she soaks in the beauty of her family, community and the province where she resides for now.

j. paul cooper has a Bachelor of Arts (Political Science.) His articles, short stories and essays have been published in magazines, anthologies, literary journals and newspapers. Hunting Teddy Bears, his science fiction eBook, is available through online bookstores and some libraries.

owen erskine writes, “A born and raised Northerner. Also a husband , father and entrepreneur. Looking to let out a inner voice ’cause being a famous rapper didn’t work out.”

katherine koller writes for stage, screen and page. Her books include Voices of the Land (plays), Art Lessons (novel) and Winning Chance (stories). Stories have also been published in Very Much Alive, Polished(ed), Grain, Room, Epiphany, Alberta Views and Edify, and poems in Prairie Journal and Poetry that Moves online.

danielle q. lee is an award-winning, best-selling author of eight novels, as well as a playwright, publisher, and former editor for two magazines. She resides in Central Alberta with her husband and two children.

jessie levesque is a self-taught watercolour and acrylic artist. She has restless hands that tend to create plenty of painted daydreams. Jessie is inspired by the natural world around us as well as the legends and stories we tell each other.

Fort McMurray based since 2012, tineesha mckay is an interdisciplinary visual, performing and literary artist. After performing and teaching dance for most of her life, Tinee sha originally found artistic inspiration through movement. The evolution of her work has been inspired by her diverse

heritage and adverse life experiences. Through writing, pho tography, design, and dance, Tineesha uses art to connect with herself and others.

Originally from Drumheller, Alberta, scott meller has now called Fort McMurray home for more than 20 years. Scott is a proud Champion of the arts with his colleagues at Arts Council Wood Buffalo, and an ever seeking student of new, interesting, and fulfilling artistic practice. When not cham pioning arts, or learning new expression, Scott can be found spending time with his wife, Natasha, and daughters, Emelia and Evelyn, enjoying every nuance the world has to offer, and pursuing happiness.

patricia mary o’neill writes, “I joined my first writing group in 2007. I recommend it to anyone who writes but has what’s called the imposter syndrome. If you tell stories on paper, guess what? You’re a writer whether you get published or not. It’s a gift, enjoy it and share it with others.”

marty rempel writes, “I am currently a principal with Metro International Secondary Academy in Toronto but in my spare time I enjoy writing poetry, essays and short stories. My wife and I spend our times out doors often staring at the night skies and wondering about the origins of it all!”

lori d. roadhouse is a Calgary poet and writer. She is involved with the Writers Guild of Alberta, the Alexandra Writers Centre Society, and is on the Board of the Single Onion Poetry Reading Series. She was the Poet Laureate for the 2015 Peter Gzowski International event for Literacy, and has been pub lished in numerous anthologies, journals and magazines and has performed in public, on radio, and on a CD.

j alfred thomas grew up in a small BC town that became big… so he moved to another small BC town. He builds, he writes, he teaches. He is content.

Artist liana wheeldon has called Nistawâyâw Wood Buffalo home since 2009. Her work is inspired by the natural beauty of the region and the creatures that inhabit it —particularly the abundant, intelligent ravens. Liana often features these magnificent creatures in her fine art and creates drawings under the brand Ravenous Comics to celebrate their playful ness and obsession with fast food. Follow the antics of Joe Raven & Friends on social media: @Ravenous.Comics on ins tagram or Ravenous Comics on Facebook.

Interpretation & Translation Services

Translation Services

We translate documents for individuals and businesses in over 45 languages. We can translate documents for legal, medical, business, personal, technical, education, material and more!

Visit mcawb.org/translation

more information

Interpretation Services

Community interpreters assisting individuals and businesses in over 25 languages, either face-to-face or overthe-phone. 24 hour interpretation with certified interpreters is available.

Visit mcawb.org/interpretation

more information